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“Deliverer?”
“Yes?”
“Could you make me cry?”
Mydei approaches Phainon one evening with a very odd request.
“What.” Phainon remains where he sat on the stone bench, staring bewilderedly at the prince who stood before him. His words kept circling in his head, echoing like the slow, stubborn chime of a temple bell.
With the Month of Cultivation approaching, Okhema’s thoroughfares became tighter and busier, filled with thrum of restless preparation, seeds and tools changing hands, field hands and volunteers travelling from end to end. Phainon had spent a good chunk of his day swept up in that tide, darting from street to street, citizen to citizen, offering his aid where needed, settling an odd dispute here and there, cooling down tempers before they ran too high to manage.
By the time Parting Hour had started to settle upon them, dousing the city with a coat of orange gold light, Phainon had whisked himself away from the streets and to the Garden of Life, deciding to catch his breath watching the groggy chimeras curl around the trees and bushes for their naps. Until the heavy, familiar tread of Mydei’s footsteps broke the silence, the glint of gold from his hair and pauldron marking his approach.
“I want you to make me cry.” Mydei repeats, bringing out a small, palm-sized clay pot filled with soil, “Lyra – that child – her plant died and I want to grow a lily for her.”
Lyra? Oh – one of the young Kremnoan children in the city. Bright eyed, her sandals always caked with mud, more often than not seen dangling off Mydei’s arm.
Mydei sits beside him on the bench, his bearings unusually subdued. The odd hesitation that he held himself with was not a common sight – seldom was Mydei a man who would stride into spaces and look like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in there.
“She's one of the kids you play with.”
“She is.” the prince hums.
“…And why do you want to grow a flower for her?”
Mydei turns towards him, a frown tugging at his features and Phainon coughs into his fist. He hadn't phrased that well – his question laced more with incredulity than curiosity.
“I meant – it's not like the treats you usually give the kids. Flowers are…perishable.”
Mydei traces the clay rim of the pot with a finger, flicking away at a few loose lumps of mud on it.
“She has been trying to take care of one on her own for months.” he explains, “From finding the soil, to painting the pot-” he lifts the one in his hand for emphasis, “-to planting the sapling and raising it.”
"…"
"And not a single one survives more than a few days. She found the last one withered today as well, and did not stop crying during her playtime with the other children."
Phainon hums thoughtfully. Sometimes, no matter how perfectly each step was followed, things simply did not come to fruition. Some people just had poor fortune with certain pursuits - like Phainon and his taste in clothes, if Aglaea and Anaxa’s occasional comments were to be believed.
“Her parents…” Mydei continues and then clicks his tongue, "They have not been very keen about it. Consistently telling her to cease such meaningless pursuits. Telling her that the frailty of a flower does not go well with the resilience of Kremnoan blood. She has been rebelling against that all this time…until today.”
“She's giving up?”
Mydei gives a slight nod.
“And she also conceded that it is indeed her Kremnoan blood that brought upon such an ill fate.” Mydei keeps his eyes on the pavement, drumming his foot on the tile, “That her hands were always designed to be incapable of handling anything delicate.”
“You don't like that.” Phainon states, quietly – the frustration in Mydei's gait was obvious. His attention shifts to the front, to the garden before them, at the pair of chimeras lazily wrestling on the grass.
Mydei's tears could grow lilies. Scarcely has Phainon seen the man shed any and in the incredibly rare instances where he has, never has he seen him allow the drops to drench the ground.
Mydei, by principle, was a man who despised crying. For tears were an acknowledgement of his heart being wounded enough for it to happen. A surrender to the pain that had cracked something in him. And Mydei…did not like confronting his own vulnerabilities, did not like facing his own hurt directly. He obstinately carried himself like a perpetual pillar of strength and resilience.
And yet here Mydei was, with a child’s grief tucked in his hands.
“Mydei…” Phainon reaches out, brushing his knuckles along the golden braid resting on his shoulder, “You do realise you are asking the worst possible candidate for help in this, right?”
“…”
His hand travels upward, thumbing the curve of his jaw, “You wished to cry and you decided to approach the last guy on Amphoreus who would wish to see you cry, let alone be the cause of it.”
“Interesting, isn't it?” Mydei huffs, looking away but not before Phainon catches the flicker of something soft in his eyes, “That also makes it the reason why I approached you of all people.”
Phainon retracts his hand, feeling a warm flutter in his chest. Mydei wasn't wrong about that – Phainon also was the only one who made him shed those walls of strength.
“…And you know my answer shall be no.”
He sees Mydei's brows slightly twitch.
“I can't…hurt you like that.”
Mydei lets out a soft breath – between a scoff and a sigh.
“I didn't know you saw me to be so delicate , Deliverer.”
“That has nothing to do with it. You could be the toughest man in this world – and that you are – and that doesn't change the fact that if it grieves you, that is enough. I don’t care if you can take it in stride, if you carry it like it’s nothing. I can’t see you wounded - I will not see you wounded, even if I have more faith than you would that you shall stand back up, Mydei. I can't hurt you enough that you break and cry.”
Mydei turns towards him.
“You know there will be no malice in your actions, right?”
“I know.” Phainon sighs, “It's for a little kid – I know . I am the weak one.”
He is not ashamed to say it but giving voice to it still felt like pressing on a bruise.
"…"
"Can't you…think of something sad? Something in your life that you should have cried for, but refused to do it?"
"I numbed myself to those memories, Deliverer.” Mydei’s lips flatten into a line, “Perhaps I did shed tears then, but I have grown too jaded to be crying over past tragedies."
"So what were you expecting me to do, when you planned to ask?"
Mydei pauses.
"Well…” he huffs, “-initially I was considering having you punch me till I cried."
Phainon already knew the futility of that endeavour the moment it left his lips.
"Mydei – I have seen a Praetor crush your leg in battle and all you did was grunt and keep beating the shit out of it as if it was nothing. I could have even agreed to it had I not been so sure it would be an entirely lost cause."
"…Well, the second was that you break my heart. Devastate me emotionally, say things you never would."
"And I answered that already." Phainon agrees, "My lips can spill nothing but words of ardent affection for you, Mydeimos."
"And I recall being called a 'half-naked showoff' by you only the previous week."
"That - ahem, that was just another expression of my affections! In a language only the two of us can understand!"
"Balls."
"I said it beguiled by the spirit of competitive banter!"
That earns Phainon another, irritable snort from Mydei.
"HKS…. Hah, I already tried thinking of my friends." Mydei mutters, shaking his head, "…But I have long grieved them and moved forward. I miss them still but the pain is not unbearable enough for me to shed tears anymore."
"So old tragedies don't work." Phainon hums.
"…"
"Wait – what about onio-"
"Onions don't work either. I mean – the tears caused by that don't make a lily grow."
"… Nothing's easy for you, huh."
Mydei smiles.
"Don't you think that for an undying lily to grow, there needs to be some unimaginable agony and suffering that must be experienced beforehand?"
Mydei’s voice travels easy and idle, as if it was just a passing thought that he had decided to say out loud. It is Phainon who is burdened with the gravity of it. And he betrayed his thoughts too obviously once again; Myde’s stare clung to him until Phainon looked away, and a short, dry burst of laughter immediately followed.
"Hah – that left you silent, you flimsy HKS."
"Well, I wanted to say cutting onions is unimaginable agony but…hm."
"What?"
"…That's how you too came to be as well, right? You became Mydeimos the Undying…because of unimaginable agony and suffering."
Mydei’s fingers pause where they trailed on the pot.
"…Are you likening me to an undying lily?"
Phainon shrugs, "Well, you at least are as beautiful as one."
Mydei throws his head back laughing again, rough and unfiltered and alarmingly loud in the silent garden.
"You – HAH – you scoundrel. I ask you for help with a flower and you decide to flirt instead!"
Phainon grunts, a little indignant but still fond. Before he could retort, he feels Mydei's clawed fingers curl around his nape and drag him into a kiss. A chaste kiss that Mydei refuses to break; he holds him in place, his lips firm and greedy against his. It makes Phainon whine a little; partly from the abruptness of it, the need of it, and the fact that they were still in public.
"Tch…you know what Aglaea has said about this, Mydeimos." he complains ( but not from the heart ) immediately afterwards.
"Stop acting so endearing in front of me then, Deliverer." Mydei whispers, pressing another peck against his lips.
Phainon shakes his head, staring at Mydei's hand that now idled on his thigh, drawing innocuous circles on it. The flowerpot now sat between them on the bench.
"Why do you want Lyra to have an undying flower of all things?"
Mydei tilts his head in query.
"Some people…just have terrible luck with plants, you know.” Phainon adds, slow and deliberate, “What if she eventually tries to grow other flowers and they all wither? Would you not be promising her a false hope?"
"Would it truly be false?" Mydei returns, "I simply don't want her to give up on it. There might be several unfathomable reasons behind her failure. But I do not wish for her to give up while believing it is her lineage that stops her. I…do not want any child to grow up thinking they are not meant to covet some things because their fate, their blood decrees so."
"…"
"I want her to fail. And I want her to get up, look at that lily, and still find hope in her heart. And can we ever truly say that things will remain absolute? That there won't come a day where a flower doesn't truly bloom from her labour?"
There it was again. That steady gleam in Mydei's eyes, a determination that no frigid seas could douse. A determination Phainon would see in the most dire of battles, in trials where hope hung on by a thread and Mydei refused to let it snap.
The perseverance that Phainon could only ardently admire as a spectator, wondering if he could ever display anything close to it.
"I see." Phainon doesn’t push it further. Mydei’s sigh escapes slow, softening the set of his shoulders.
"Well, I…shall think about something then."
Phainon’s eyes follow as Mydei gets to his feet, the pot sitting snugly in his palm.
"Are you sure?"
"As much as I hate to admit it…" Mydei falters, "I am still human. There will be something in the world that breaks me enough."
"Of course.” Phainon stands up as well, gently nudging at him with his elbow, “You are human."
What unfeeling monster would go through such lengths to give a child an abstract hope?
Mydei leans forward, a breeze stirring his hair and making golden strands curtain his eyes that crinkle with the soft smile that forms on his face.
"Thanks. For listening."
Phainon sweeps his gaze over his face – inhaling the curve of his lips, the fond shimmer that glazes his eyes and lets the warmth of it cocoon the inside of his chest.
"I could listen to you all night, Mydeimos."
Mydei blinks. Narrows his eyes. Dives in for another kiss. And then another, until it becomes several.
"Mydei–!" Phainon squawks at the kisses the prince presses over his cheeks and mouth, "Stop – mmph! What did I say about doing this in public ??!"
Mydei’s mouth only follows him while he tries to lean away, "What did I say about you setting off my affections?"
"Oho!" Phainon scoffs, rolling his eyes, " Setting off your affections , is that it?"
Mydei chuckles, resting his forehead against his. They bask in it for a beat, their breaths mingling, their hearts peacefully thumping.
"…What would you do without me, Your Highness." Phainon teases, his heart full.
Mydei falters. Blinks slowly, as if he was trying to search something on his face but also gazing somewhere else at that moment.
"What shall I do without you…" he echoes, more to himself than Phainon.
༺☽⚘°.𓆩𖤓𓆪.°⚘☾༻
A week passes, thick with noise and work and hustle. Days bleed into one another, packed edge to edge with work. And Phainon, as the Deliverer, is naturally swept into it from head to toe. Handling the influx of labour-
“Lord Phainon! A dispute near the north-east gates! The farmhands from the Janusopolis refugee segment claim they were promised double rations for the overtime tilling hours, but the foreman Petros claims no such agreement was established.
“An agreement is unnecessary; supplementary rations are a mandatory provision for overtime hours. Let Petros be reminded of the labour regulations; if he dallies too much, the Heirs will finance the extra rations for the time being and collect our dues later.”
“Alright, Sir Phainon.”
“With interest. Mention the interest to him – should make him more cooperative.”
Redirecting patrol routes and repositioning guard stations to handle the new movements-
“We can dispatch units 14 and 16 of the Guard to the western checkpoints – I’ll circle them in the map.”
“Aren’t those low risk areas, Lord Phainon? Incoming strengths are negligible.”
“Which is what smugglers fancy, don’t they?”
Coordinating supply operations and deliveries coming in from beyond the city walls-
“We are short six crates of fertilizer, seven bags of wheat and fourteen meters of tarp, Lord Phainon.”
“Strike off the wheat – those got rerouted to the refugee stations. The fertilizers will be here by the end of Parting Hour; there was a cave-in incident on the usual route that caused the delay. As for the tarps – were they not accounted for yesterday?”
“Yes – but a few pieces went missing today.”
“…Did you see any fur near where they are stored?”
“Fur…? I think one of the workers mentioned some greyish hairs there – it was probably a chimera, they said.”
“…Don’t worry about it then. I’ll send a note to Lady Goldweaver.”
All of it on top of his usual duties of handling the threats that Okhema could face.
Phainon sees Lyra with her friends in the baths once, sullenly holding onto another flower pot, with a dried flower stem pitiably hanging off the edge.
The sight hits him with a pang of pity – for even the pollen-sweet winds and the Georios-blessed soils did not suffice to grant her a flower that did not wilt. It reminds him of what Mydei had been wishing for, though he wasn’t around the kids like he usually would be.
In fact, Phainon didn’t get to see Mydei much that week – not in their usual sparring spots, at the food streets, at the Garden playing with the chimeras. Most of what he got were scattered glimpses of him around the city streets, wisps of that familiar sunset golds and reds, busy with his own end of duties. Their usual routine frays, missing the everyday spars, the evening baths, the little strolls they took together under the pretense of patrolling and all the squabbles and contests that came in between.
When reports of a black tide invasion a few kilometers away from Okhema come in, Aglaea assigns Phainon to handle the situation and the evacuation operations, but Mydei wasn’t coming along.
"Mydei is already out of the city for a separate mission.” Aglaea mentions, not looking up from her desk, her quill moving in steady, tireless loops across the page. Just one page out of the mountain of paperwork that she was buried under. “You and Hyacinthia shall have to see this through."
Phainon has no problem agreeing to it. He was the last person to underestimate such invasions, but he has handled plenty such crises alone and worse and always returned. And Hyacine’s presence always made such missions far simpler to handle.
If anything, Phainon would get something new to boast about to Mydei.
They set out before dawn, surveyed the lands and houses swallowed up by the tide. Little Ica takes no time locating the survivors who had sought shelter in the underground tunnels. A minor invasion meant casualties were fortunately low and morale remained intact enough for Hyacine to capitalize on, rousing the able survivors to help with the evacuations and emergency medical procedures.
Phainon remained at the frontlines, holding the lines with the Okheman soldiers, getting rid of the scattered monsters at the perimeter.
By the time the sun begins to sink behind the hills, the last of the civilians have been loaded into the carts and dromases, ready to be transported to the city. The mission went just as well as Phainon expected.
It is the ambush that hits them en route to the city that devastates more.
Had it not involved civilians – terrified children, weak elderly and injured survivors – perhaps things would have been different. Had it not involved areas so ill-suited for proper combat – the narrow, uneven terrain they had been passing through – perhaps Phainon could have dealt with it all far more smoothly.
But life as the Deliverer, as the flawless Chrysos Heir did not leave any space for such excuses. The only thing for Phainon to do was defend and eliminate and endure, no matter the cost.
“Hyacine, prioritise healing the civilians. Guards – protect them at all costs. Do not move unless I fall.”
“Phainon, there are too many -!”
“Someone has to stand and fight!”
Even if it meant taking that tone with her that he hated , ordering her to stop aiding him despite her protests.
Even if it meant charging into the fray alone.
Even if there were too many.
Way too many.
Wherever he could see, there were monsters and titankin viciously pouring out of shadows and crawling out of the cracks in the earth, as if they were shaped out of nightmares and sought fear to feed on.
Phainon was not immortal like Mydei to afford such a decision. His body was human, painfully so. There was no death that he could return from, no blood that would flow back into his veins, no pieces of him that he could put back together.
But Phainon wields his sword and fights like he could.
Even when the first wave collides with his lone form like a landslide, claws tear through his shoulders, arrows sink into his sides, Phainon’s blade does not lose the deadly precision that cleaves through them.
Even when his arms break and talons rake through his back and when the spear that went through his leg should have left him unable to walk, Phainon still lunges into the swarm shaping devastating arcs with his sword.
The beasts keep coming, in dozens and dozens and more, Phainon keeps fighting, keeps unleashing torrents of their filthy blood around himself.
Even when his lungs fill with blood and something burning, his organs left pulverized, his ankle crushed and forcing him on one knee, he drags himself back into the violence, steel driving through crunching bone and cartilage.
Even when gold blurs his vision, the hilt of his sword slips in his bloodied palms, when his breaths came out in wet, sickening bursts and waves of agony bloom from every inch of him, Phainon doesn’t scream, channeling the excruciation into the enemies he brutalises.
Even if each second made the possibility of survival smaller and smaller, even if the destination remained an abstract rather than a reachable reality, he does not turn back. Even if he was nothing but a wildfire that devoured itself to stay alive. Even if every second was a gamble against death, akin to murky, marshy soils that he had to claw his way out of to meet the sun. Phainon does not relinquish his sword.
༺☽⚘°.𓆩𖤓𓆪.°⚘☾༻
The mission leaves Phainon in a state of near-death.
He finds his eyes open only in Okhema, in the healer’s quarters in the Garden of Life. His entire body was wrapped up in gauze and salve, broken and unrecognizable underneath. Each breath felt like blades scraping the inside of his lungs, each nerve was set alight with white-hot pain.
With his eyes half-shut with swelling, Phainon barely makes out Hyacine sitting beside him eyes red and lidded as she monotonously grinds medicine in a mortar, the usual cheer in her demeanour washed out into obscurity. Little Ica wasn’t in their usual chirrupy and bouncy mood either; they remained subdued and meek, curled up beside Phainon’s pillow like a deflated balloon.
“Hya…Hyacine.” he croaks. It makes her jump, just slightly, and then look up from her bowl and towards him. Her cyan eyes momentarily widen, still red and then glistening with something that she doesn’t let him see, for she immediately turns away, squeezing her palms into them.
Within his pain-drenched consciousness, Phainon feels guilt sink in his chest like a cavity. Hyacine shouldn’t have seen what she did; she was strong , she has seen things so much worse in her years as a doctor under the growing relentlessness of the black tide and yet she didn’t deserve to see it. Deserve to see him – not just any patient, but a friend, an ally who stood and fought beside her – get swallowed by the monsters and drag himself out of it torn and at death’s door while she could do nothing.
“Lord Phainon, you are awake…!”
The fact that she tried to weave that lightness, that optimistic cheer into her tone, her voice trembling nonetheless, combined with the forced smile that didn’t reach her eyes – it only made it worse.
“Sorry…” it makes Phainon rasp because that was all that his conscience could make him produce. The smile slides off Hyacine’s face, leaving only that slight tremor in her lips and stiffness in her jaw behind. She does not reply, fixing him with a long look before returning back to her medicine.
They both pretend he said nothing.
…
Aglaea comes to visit some time later. And Phainon immediately asks about the mission.
“You wish to know about the survivors.” The demigod repeats, her green eyes blank as they always were, but also sunken with obvious exhaustion. Aglaea’s workload had already been titanic, and now with Phainon out of the commission, it was clearly wearing her down even more.
“Did they…make it back?”
“After you collapsed, the Trailblazers arrived at the scene and oversaw the mission until they made it back to the city.”
Phainon sinks a little more into his pillows from relief.
“That’s…that is good to hear, Lady Aglaea.”
Aglaea doesn’t answer and her face remains carved with that unreadable calm. A few threads weave around his bed, adjusting his blankets and fluffing up his pillow, but her stare remains locked on him, tired and waiting.
‘Sorry’ nearly slips through Phainon’s lips but he bites that back. He is inexplicably unsure what exactly he would be apologising to her for, at that moment.
…
“I know it burns Snowy…but you need to have it.” Trinnon says softly while Trianne blows into spoonfuls of soup and feeds it to Phainon.
A strangled wheeze escapes his mouth as he swallows. Phainon doesn’t clearly recall what the hell kind of hit he had taken on his throat but he was clearly suffering the consequences for it.
“If you finish your soup, you’ll heal faster!” Tribbie chirps down at him, flying in little circles around his bed.
“Nghh…” he tries to force out a smile.
“De’s returning from his mission soon too! Snowy won't be alone, then!”
The smile cracks. Phainon scarcely ever ended up in such a state between the two of them, even if injuries were as common as buttered bread in his life. It had always been Mydei, shoulders squared to meet and endure the worst of the blows, the bleeding wounds. It had always been Phainon biting his lips and feeling his psyche fray at seeing him stand back up for it like it was nothing, like nothing would stop him from seeking those near-deaths again.
Having those circumstances reversed, to have Mydei see him in this state, sat uneasily in the corners of Phainon’s mind.
༺☽⚘°.𓆩𖤓𓆪.°⚘☾༻
When Mydei returned to Okhema the next day, Phainon was still bedridden, still wrapped in bandages. Hyacine had been relentlessly pouring her healing on him, but Phainon’s regeneration couldn’t be enhanced beyond a certain limit.
Because Phainon wasn't Mydei.
Even if he triumphed on an impossible battlefield like Mydei did, he was still human. He did not have the body of the prince; his bones couldn’t fuse themselves back like welded steel, sealed shut by scarless flesh, to achieve such a feat.
When Mydei comes to visit him, he stands in dreadful silence over his bedridden form, the air made even heavier with the biting scent of antiseptics and medicines. The two were alone; the others had quietly left the moment Mydei had stepped in.
The dim lanterns illuminate his form – his blond hair disheveled and falling over his eyes, his braid nearly undone, sweat and grime clinging to his bare skin. It was as if Mydei had entered Okhema and marched straight up to him without pause. His amber eyes did not look as sharp and alert, but filled with something unnervingly blank and heavy on the verge of breaking.
After looking at him in such a state, Phainon does not feel the things he expected he would.
The mission was successful. He should have at least felt pride. Victories did not feel like a cold weight pressing down on his chest.
But what was he feeling instead. Guilt? Fear? Shame? Frustration?
Because Mydei's demeanour fills him with unease. The blank stare, the torturous silence stretching with it. The lack of anger, the rebukes, the clipped taunts that carried more meaning than what the words simply conveyed.
No – that wasn't a surprise. Mydei was not the man to make his feelings so blatant. Of course he was in control of them. He wasn’t going to sit by his side and give in to the worries, fussing over him.
That is what Phainon wants to believe.
And yet, the silence hurts. Mydei is sitting on the chair beside him, schooling a look that tells him nothing and makes his stomach churn.
"Ta…lk…" Phainon grunts.
"…"
Phainon's throat burns but forces the words out again.
"Talk….to me."
Mydei blinks, so slowly, so dazed. As if he wasn't really there. As if he was surfacing from somewhere far away. And then his eyes move. Taking in Phainon's body, the bandages, the splints and then finally settling on his face.
It was something.
And then Mydei leans in. Phainon breathes, breathes in the sweat coating his skin, the faint scent of his soap.
His golden hair spills over his face and tickles his cheeks, like the heaps of sun-baked straw Phainon used to sink into for afternoon naps as a child.
Mydei's lips press against his forehead.
So soft, so weakly felt, as if the touch might shatter if he indulged too much, as if it was Phainon who was the frail flower beneath him.
"You made it." Phainon barely hears it, like it was a wisp of wind that only blew through one's hair once, "You are here, Deliverer."
And that was all.
Mydei gets up and leaves with nothing more to say.
༺☽⚘°.𓆩𖤓𓆪.°⚘☾༻
Hyacine comes back again, an hour later, for another session of healing.
For some reason, Phainon makes far better progress in regenerating compared to the previous sessions, taking away the burn in his throat and lungs and much of the agony that had been racking him till then.
Hyacine screeches out profanities from the times of the Skyfolk's glory when Phainon gets up from bed immediately after she removes his splints.
"I'm sorry, Hyacinthia." he whispers, truly and genuinely from his heart at the angry woman before him, "But I truly–"
"I had you near- DEAD in my arms out there – do you KNOW what it was like until the Nameless arrived?!"
"I…I know–"
"NO YOU DON'T ! You were out COLD , Phainon! And do you KNOW what it was like to see you before that? When they all swarmed you, when they kept brutalizing you, when I could hear your bones BREAK and I don’t know what scared me MORE! The fact that they nearly killed you every single second or the fact that you didn’t STOP and you weren’t going to stop fighting even if they did!"
"…"
“And you – then you had the audacity -” Hyacine’s fury builds and her shoulders jerking with each ragged breath, “-to tell me not to help you, like I wasn’t watching my friend nearly die . And you…you used that tone with me too – the civilians could have lived anyway! They were stable, they could have held on, but I wasn’t allowed to help you because you decided the only thing worth saving is everyone else !”
It was difficult to see her this way. Seeing her so affected, her face hot and angry, her eyes welled up with tears. Phainon easily stands tall above her petite form, yet he felt smaller than he ever had in years.
And then a spot of red appeared in his vision – Tribbie was tugging at the healer's skirt. At her feet sat a neatly wrapped parcel of food.
"…Let him go, Cinny."
"Lady Tribbie – you know he's not-"
"There is someone he needs to see." Tribbie turns towards him, her violet eyes carrying that unsettling, ageless wisdom that would sometimes replace the childish glint, "Agy told me De is on the roof right now."
“…Thank you, Lady Tribios.” Phainon’s eyes briefly land upon Hyacine, her head bowed as she brushes a quick hand across her eyes, refusing to look at him.
Slowly, guilt needling at his heart still, Phainon trudges out of the small medical quarters.
Sees the small flight of stairs leading up to the roof.
Craning his head a little upwards, he sees the shadowed silhouette of Mydei, against the pale wash of the moonlight. Unlike his usual tendency of staring up at it, the prince’s golden head remains lowered.
Climbing up the stairs is a slow, arduous process but this was nothing. Phainon's body burns and protests, just-healed bones threaten to crack again with each step but he persists.
After all, he had only experienced once what Mydei had endured countless times.
And yet Phainon finds that the knot in his gut does not loosen.
He is afraid, even though Mydei was up there and alive, to see him, wary of the sight that he will come across.
When he finally makes it up, Phainon sees what he dreaded.
Sees Mydei on his knees, folded in on himself, his whole body racked with tremors, each breath fractured and shallow, resembling smothered gasps more.
And then the prince turns, slowly looking up at Phainon, who had only set one foot on the tile.
The moonlight traces the wild shape of his sunset hair with silver, glints off the dampness of his cheeks, highlights the single tear that slides down his face.
And falls upon the lilies growing on the roof tiles, gently swaying with the wind.
And Phainon's fears come true after all.
That he had done the one thing he had staunchly refused when Mydei had asked.
Become the reason Mydei cried.
Phainon takes a step.
And falls on the tiles, barely upright on his hands and knees.
After all, his body was still weak, still bruised and fragile.
Phainon was frailer than those lilies that bloomed a few feet away.
His palms ache, his fingers burn from where they clutch onto the tiles. He hears the scrape of boots on wood as Mydei scrambles over to him, swearing and yelling out all the things that Phainon knows he would say but couldn't fully hear.
He feels Mydei gather him in his arms (Mydei), about to lift him up when Phainon presses his nose against his wet cheek (’s so warm, so alive, so solid, so painfully human his chest feels like it's about to splitMydei smells like home, like bread, like steel and blood, like grass and sweat after a bout in the garden, like lilies and pomegranates), his lips gathering moisture as they graze along its length.
"Stay…" he rasps.
And Mydei, already left with so little resilience, complies.
…
Mydei sits on the roof again, beside the lilies. Phainon was slumped on his lap, cocooned in his arms. His face did not look as stricken as it did when he had turned to see him, but a tear fell from his eye again. Probably the last one. Phainon kisses it away.
Mydei doesn't speak. He only stares out, his hands not even daring to hold Phainon too tightly or trace the shape of his arms or draw patterns on his legs. His breaths were still a little erratic, but gradually steadying. He doesn't return Phainon's kisses but leans in for more regardless.
And then, after a stretch of staticity, Mydei turns. His wet lashes tickle Phainon's cheek, making him pause his kisses.
"…Mydei?"
Silence. But at least he was looking at Phainon now. Tear marks still stained his cheeks but his golden eyes looked steady once again. If Phainon had been a crueler man, he might have thought Mydei looked beautiful like this.
"Won't you say something?"
"What do you want me to say?"
Phainon hadn't been expecting a reply.
"What can I say, Deliverer.” Mydei continues, “Do you think I have any words in mind?"
"…"
"You weren't supposed to see this." he leans close, his nose butting against his cheek. One hand moves tenderly to brush his hair away, tracing the bandage wrapped around his forehead. Mydei’s hand is warm, contrasting the chill from the gauntlets that lay discarded on the roof beside them.
"…I wasn't supposed to make you cry either." Phainon leans into his palm, pressing a quiet kiss against the rough yet familiar skin.
"But you did." Mydei blinks and the lashes tickle his skin, "You ended up being the one to make me cry after all."
Phainon doesn't know what to say, does not have any words that weren't so deeply infused with his own guilt and he knows Mydei doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to hear him assume responsibility for his own emotions.
"Don't look so kicked, Deliverer. I did not say what I did to make you feel guilty about that."
"I would have felt the same even if you said nothing, Mydeimos."
"Hmph. Of course, seeing the way you're licking at my tears."
"I – I am not licking at your tears; I'm kissing you!"
Mydei lets out a smothered chuckle, though it looked like even the mildest expression of mirth was painful for him.
"Whatever it is – these emotions are my own."
"I know."
"Losses are imminent in the Flamechase Journey." Mydei's jaw tightens, the harshness directed at himself, not Phainon, "I joined the cause knowing so. It is on me to steel myself for it."
"…I know."
"Losing you…the possibility of it is also something I must…" Mydei trails off, his face briefly twisting and Phainon shakes his head.
"Stop."
"You know…You know what I wish to say Phainon-"
"I know – but you are not admitting what you truly wish to say." Phainon says, muted, "You don't have to admit what it is and you don't have to keep up this front. Put on this show of strength."
Phainon stretches his leg a bit. A lily petal grazes his bare foot and he tenses, staring at the white bloom shaking peacefully under the breeze.
"…"
"…I always thought I would be the one to die first." Mydei confesses, soft and barely controlled, "And I got comfortable with that thought. I let myself live with the reassurance that I…would not have to grieve you."
Phainon's eyes widened at the honesty, the crack in that armour that he had not expected him to hand to him.
"Nothing short of a cowardly reason to accept my own death and now – even now , that's all I can fucking think about." Mydei inhales, strained, "All I can think about is how that reassurance is now broken and will never be put together again. Like a goddamn coward who doesn't deserve a shred of the glory he is given."
"Mydei–"
"Do not debate this, Phainon. I don't speak from a rational place."
Phainon waits, letting the silence engulf them, letting his palm feel the uneven rise and fall of Mydei's chest. His eyes flicker to his face; Mydei had his eyes squeezed shut – what he usually did to rein himself in. What he had said wasn't unbelievable to Phainon but taking it in demanded a pause regardless. He wants to say something, but unsurity still grips at him. Part of him squirmed, as if Phainon wished what Mydei had said remained unsaid.
“You better apologise to Hyacine, by the way.” Mydei maunders after some time, as if trying to fish for something else to fill the silence with, “I heard her yells – rarely does a woman of her tenacity and mental strength crack like that. You clearly gave her the fright of her life, you scoundrel.”
“…I know.”
“And Aglaea, hmph. I can tell you have already concluded that she is so worried because your injuries have left her with less hands.”
“I – hey, I never said anything like that!” But even as the words left him, Phainon knew Mydei was right.
“When in truth, she looks so spent because she worries for you, because she is wondering if it was an err in her judgement that led you into an ambush.”
Phainon squirms but Mydei’s grip holds him steady. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go – he fought out there the way he did so he wouldn’t let her down, let everyone down, not because he wanted to blame-
“Lady Tribios has been all chipper around you all this while but she stops smiling after she steps out of your ward.” Mydei continues on, mercilessly, “And Castorice has been pouring over her desk, drafting letters of well-wishing to send to you, bothering those Trailblazers to help her with it.”
“…”
Each word Mydei says was a deeper press into the guilt bruising Phainon all over.
“And Cipher…I don’t know – she mentioned some tarp she will return to you to ‘lessen your troubles’ or something.”
“…”
Phainon inhales. He wants to resent Mydei for putting it all out in the open – it was easier to handle his guilt if he put inconvenience to the others as the reason for it.
Not…this. Phainon doesn’t know how to deal with this, not without the deflections, not without the denials.
“My point was.” Mydei didn’t look like he was done yet, “Everyone worries for you, Deliverer, everyone cherishes you as something more than what you are as an Heir. It’s not…it is not just me.”
Phainon narrows his eyes.
“Looks like you are trying to offload your misgivings about baring so much by scolding me, Mydeimos.”
Mydei snorts and leans in, brushing his lips against Phainon’s and staying there.
“And you made me see you in this state – you made me hear about it from someone else.” He whispers against his mouth, “You deserve every bit of it, you reckless hyena.”
So much for not wanting to make him feel guilty about it. Phainon huffs to himself.
But that was what made Mydei so human – the harsh resolve he set for himself being violated by his own humanity, a sight only Phainon got to see, a side that made him so deliciously his.
When Mydei relaxes against him, Phainon finally decides to say what he had been stewing over, "…I won't be able to put it together for you. That reassurance you spoke of. Nothing I do could ever."
"…"
"But I still made it…" he grabs Mydei's hand, trembling with exertion as he presses it against his own chest, "I took on a challenge that a man of my constitution – that no warrior of any constitution save for yours could handle and I still crawled out of it alive. It was a challenge with the hope only being something abstract, something near unfathomable and I still made it."
"…"
"And I won't make it everytime . But I always could , it is possible and that…" Phainon pauses – his throat still hurt and his lungs did not hold as much breath as he would have liked.
Mydei huddles closer against him.
Phainon feels the lilies tickle his toes again.
"I won't be undying like those lilies…but I definitely can be as resilient as one, don't you think, Mydei?"
"…"
No answer.
"…Mydei?" Phainon frowns up at him, while the prince fixes him with a stare that was somewhere between stirred and exasperated, blending into fondness.
"Only a HKS like you would not only have the gall to nearly die out there, but also return and have the audacity to phish for compliments."
That coaxes a laugh out of Phainon and also immediate regret – his ribs definitely were not in the mood for any of it.
"I meant to say – ack!" Phainon groans and Mydei frowns down at him, "I understand what you wanted with Lyra. To make her keep chasing after the abstract hope, to not give up on the impossible. Even if it may not exist at the end of it all…to keep persevering."
"And it required you to end up like this, even." Mydei sighs and Phainon smiles.
"I suppose an undying will requires unimaginable agony and suffering to come before, Mydeimos."
༺☽⚘°.𓆩𖤓𓆪.°⚘☾༻
Lyra stares at the little flowerpot Mydei holds out for her. The marketplace carries on in its usual rush and bustle of everyday life without pause, blissfully ignorant of this little exchange between prince and child, and the long path that had culminated into it.
To whoever spared a glance and Lyra as well, what Mydei held out for her was just a simple white lily, its petals serenely swaying under the breezes and drafts from the movements around them, quietly radiant under the sun. Conveying not a sliver of what had been endured to see it flourish.
"Your Highness…thank you so much, but-"
"What buts , kid – take it and care for it." Mydei interrupts, his voice gruff as always but those familiar enough with the prince knew to recognise the inflections that betrayed the affection underneath.
One of them naturally being Phainon, who was currently leaning against the trunk of one of the garden trees, watching their conversation unfold. It was the last week of the month of Georios, so he was fortunate that there wasn’t as huge a pile of work waiting for him after his recovery as he initially feared.
The girl fidgets nervously, "This will get weak and start wilting too…just like the others."
Mydei gently pushes the pot into her hands, "And whether wilts or continues to bloom will never fully be in your hands. What matters is the dedication you show in tending to it."
"What – and what if it dies, your Highness? It's a gift from you, I couldn't possibly-"
"So what if it dies? Everything must see an end one day." and Phainon winces at that. Mydei…as much as he had a way with kids, he also had a tendency to convey the message in way too stiff a fashion.
Lyra's eyes widen with shock, only for that to buffer when Mydei ruffles her hair to ease the tension.
"I know it sounds scary right now-" Mydei crouches on the ground, to match her eye level, "-and…I shall be honest with you; that won't fully go away even when you grow up. You shall always fear things to end, things to fail, things to fall. You will always fear that it will never be the same again. Each flower that you grow will always be different from the previous one that wilted."
"…"
"But they still lived. You saw them bloom and you felt happy. You believed it was the fruit of your own labour, even if it didn't live that long. What you felt was not some meaningless, false hope. There was something real to it, even if it was short – it meant you had it in you to keep seeking it, even if you failed several times along the way."
Lyra blinks at Mydei and Phainon catches the small flash of doubt in the prince's face, like he was suddenly starting to suspect his lecture was too complex for her age.
"Lyra." he steps forward, crouching down beside Mydei, who looks at him with a slight frown, "Don't just stick to his flower, alright? You should be growing many more than this."
The child pouts, as if she wished to protest but was also unsure about it.
"You were sad because you saw so many flowers wilt." Phainon presses on, "But did you not see as many bloom , as well?"
Lyra frowns, and then stares down at the lily that glowed like a gentle white moon in the pot.
"…It does look pretty."
"It will look prettier with some companions." Mydei adds, resting his arm over Phainon's shoulder. He gives him a sideways look, smiling when he sees the blonde more at ease.
"Even if it ends up alone…?"
"It will be up to it to survive until the next ones come along." Mydei returns.
"And the new ones will always bring that spark of happiness for it." Phainon adds, "Even if those sparks feel tiny compared to everything …they still mean something. Sometimes those sparks can mean everything ."
"I don't really understand what you adults say sometimes." Lyra complains and jumps when Mydei laughs suddenly.
"That's alright – even some adults here struggle to understand it fully."
"Oi." Phainon mutters under his breath. But Mydei turns, his smile subtle but radiant like a moonlit lily placed under the sun and the rest of his complaints die down in his throat.
Lyra gives the flower a once-over as the two men push themselves up.
“So…you really don’t mind me keeping this? Even if it never ends up living that long?”
Mydei nods with quiet insistence, “I would like for you to take care of it.”
“Mydei!” Phainon hisses into his ear, “Use your ‘Crown Prince’ card!”
“My what.” Mydei returns drily. Lyra’s puzzled gaze shifts from one to the other, while Phainon winks back at him. Mydei blinks and then he stiffly turns to look down at the child.
“…Take care of the flower. That…is an order coming from me, your prince.”
Lyra turns her face to alternately look at them both, rolls her eyes and then runs off to show the pot to her friends. The two Heirs remain standing there, lost in their respective thoughts. Phainon breaks out of his reverie first and looks at Mydei again. Not that he was exactly smiling, but the usual austerity on his face had also relaxed, painting a gentle picture beneath the morning sun. A gust of wind plays with his golden hair, making it flutter with the elegance of petals waking to sunlight.
Like an undying lily finally kissed by the dawn and basking beneath it – no longer living beneath the transient moonlight, clutching onto borrowed, abstract hope.