Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kingslayer be king. With the empty throne waiting far away, Mydeimos leads his people into the golden city of Okhema—the Kremnoan detachment, now not in its original glory. With five names that he will never forget, written deep in his heart, Mydei is at a crossway, standing alone. The loneliness is almost as it has always been before, for nine long years… except now his decisions will shape the fate and future of his people.

Mydei would die for them. Mydei has died for them. Mydei will die for them many more times.

As if dying for them could ever be enough.

‘Mother, why can’t you say more?’ Mydeimos asks himself sometimes. (He asks himself at every dusk when he wakes from the repeating dream.) It’s the same every night—it’s the same crossway, leaving the decision, heavier than anything else, on one man’s shoulders.

Some time passes, and even though he is often away with his warriors to be the mercenary blade of Okhema, Mydei finds a home that could never really be home… Yet, it brings along people who Mydei considers close enough, that he would try to say goodbye to them if he were to leave one day.

Leave—to do anything to end Nikador’s corrupted madness. To pave the way for Kremnoan history to continue.

Mydei talks to people and creates meaningful connections. He makes a promise to bake an apple pie. He stops when children recognise him—he even plays with them (and when he thinks no one can see how he allows a girl to put a flower crown onto his head, no matter his heavy heart, because ‘Mydeimos, you are our King, you should wear your crown,’ laughter accompanying the request that Mydei obeys, benevolent), always leaving with words that motivate the youth to lead a healthy life with purpose. And so on and on, a talk here about armour, another on sweet dessert, some less welcomed ones with ignorant historians, this and that, yet…

To be surrounded by so many, yet to retreat to his chambers every night, utterly alone. Many little conversations—yet not one where Mydei would feel he could have a reason or a chance (as if he could, maybe, he can’t) to talk about things that live at the bottom of his heart, locked away. (Why would he even need to talk, the almost frustrated thought crosses his mind.)

Mydei tells himself that the Kremnoan language should not have words for some of the things he feels deep down—his emotions should not be more than fleeting melancholy of long-forgotten nights, spent by a campfire, singing, surrounded by friends and warm companionship.

Grief and anger over the losses and the bloodshed-covered tragedy of his homeland slowly burn inside at the bottom of his soul—but Mydeimos keeps his feelings to himself, buried, transformed, and redirected.

One day, starting with a ten-day-long sparring match that neither of them wins, Mydei is granted new company in the face of a warrior, a fellow Chyros Heir, the man who is destined to be their Deliverer.

Mydei knows and Mydei sees—a bright young man with a dark past, a heart almost too big to carry the expectations and weight of the prophecy, tainted with doubts, fears, and insecurity.

Maybe there aren’t enough Kremnoan words to help Mydei phrase how exactly he feels—but through rivalry, challenges, fights versus the evil minions of Nikador, their blood left on the battlefields from where they walk away together (Mydei would rather die a thousand times than to ever let any friend stay while he gets to leave, alone), and nights spent together while drawing closer and closer, Mydei finds company—and love—he didn’t think he might have had one more time in life—no matter how long that may become.

Time passes as they await the sign that marks the next step on the Flame-Chaser journey… but if the other side of Mydei’s bed stays cold, then both sides are, while they spend the night in Phainon’s chambers.

Mydei thinks that maybe, if one day he decides to ever speak of five names and the base of his fears of the future of his people, feelings he should not have, then he may tell of the past to the man who sleeps by his side, his white hair falling over Mydei’s bare shoulder.

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Chapter Text

The Everday’s light warms Mydei’s chest as he stands on his balcony, watching the faraway statue of Kephale. So many years since he last returned to Castrum Kremnos…

So many years since he drew his spread through the chest of King Eurypon—his Father. The King who got corrupted. The person who threw his infant son into the Sea of Souls… and the one who killed his wife when she tried to fight for their son. Not like he remembers—these are only facts.

Mydei wills the recollections to fade back into the waves of his thoughts that emerge in his mind like enormous tides—the waves that rise and fall… but only as long as Mydei lets them. Keeping precise governance over the inside of his mind is not just a need but a must—a skill that Mydei has perfected a long time ago.

The day he has been waiting for so long might come tomorrow. It must.

His anger and desire to bring justice for the bloodied and corrupted land he still thinks of as home, are burning deep. Mydei has been ready for this—and tomorrow simply cannot come soon enough.

Mydei’s eyes are on the perfectly blue sky and the shining, tall statue of Kephale—but what he sees is the blood, the fear, the treachery, and the lost way that have poisoned Castrum Kremnos. Mydei sees the black tide and Nikador—the Titan who once was the guardian of Amphoreus. The queller of the Strife is also the Strife… except Nikador fell.

Grief and anger boil at the bottom of the ocean of Mydei’s soul—yet the surface is unbothered.

Mydeimos is in control. He has always been. He always had to be.

Approaching footsteps guide back Mydei’s attention to the present. Phainon walks across Mydei’s bedroom, then joins him on the balcony, leaning at the railing. On the rare occasion, he comes without words—neither of them needs to say what their minds are at now. A few moments later, turning his head towards the Kremnoan, Phainon takes a thorough look, then redirects his sky-blue gaze back at the statue of their omnipotent God.

“Do you trust the Outsiders enough that they may accompany us tomorrow?” Mydei asks in a flat voice, his hands crossed in front of his chest. His tall frame towers over Phainon’s leaned-down form, his amber gaze still trained on Kephale. There is so much at stake.

Everything is at stake. Yet...

Mydei already suspects with enough certainty that he would dare to say he knows that no more Chrysos Heir but he and Phainon can go to Castrum Kremnos tomorrow. Okhema—the citizens—must be protected. Mydei would never disagree with this…

…and it’s not like it matters to him if it’s only the two of them—he would even go alone. Mydeideimos wishes he could go already. He hasn’t felt the tingle of restlessness deep in his bones this much in a long time, not since he fought evil by the side of old warriors who left to the other side, one by one.

Before Mydei’s mind could go down a hole he does not wish to visit, the answer comes already:

“I do,” Phainon says, sincerely, not skipping a beat. As the sound of his words dies away, he straightens up and turns back towards Mydei—the matter is important enough he makes sure his gaze meets the Kremnoan’s.

It is one thing that Mydei knows Phainon cares deeply—then it’s another to see his resolve and the indestructible will and belief he has. For their cause—and also for Mydei.

(Not believing anymore would destroy Phainon and send him back to become the shadow of a person he once was before the prophecy found him and gave him a second chance after his destroyed homeland. Phainon has faith—in everything but himself.)

There could be so much to say but no words could make Mydei think less about the day he has waited almost his entire life to happen. They should be getting rest but even the idea of sleep feels impossible—and seeing the almost hectic light in Phainon’s eyes, Mydei thinks the younger Chrysos Heir is also way too eager to go. To go, finally. To take the first big step on their road.

Throughout the years they spent together, it has been Mydei who has indulged Phainon in his challenges and rivalry, and also in the explanations and hard truths once it was impossible to deter Phainon’s mind from a particular matter. Throughout the years Phainon has learnt a lot… and tonight he indulges Mydei in careful ignorance to not press over the topic and talk more.

Mydei thinks about kissing Phainon and acting on his desire when the younger man steps forward and slides a hand to the small of Mydei’s back—this is the only invitation and confirmation Mydei needs to proceed with the rest. A night spent together may be the best way to bring some sleep to both of them.

A trip down his memory lane, unavoidable—all the while as they walk through the remnants of Castrum Kremnos. The corruption and the pain etched into these walls clenches Mydei’s heart and makes him wish he could somehow just bear all this alone—as if this could ever be enough to take away the suffering of everyone.

Sometimes, his rejection at Death’s door and the hell (that Mydei would never admit out loud) down there he has lived through almost sound like mockery—no matter his father’s actions, the black tide did not spare even the mighty Nikador.

Rivalry and bickering, the now it’s all-familiar rhythm Mydei falls into after Phainon’s proposal—it is practical and speeds up their way but also it gives Mydei the chance to keep to himself while strolling through corridors he once knew, even if only for a short time. Phainon would never offer him time alone while mentioning Mydei’s personal reasons… but he does through the ways they know. Mydei only hopes Phainon is aware he is grateful.

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Their battles with monsters lead to the fallen Titan and a fight, then…

As Nikador revives, the next step to do now calls Mydei like destiny.

For a fleeting moment, it crosses Mydei’s mind that Phainon may disobey him and argue… but then his trust and faith in the younger Chrysos Heir smoothes out the rippling waves and brings back Mydei to the calm acceptance that is fueled by his will, anger, and wishes, threatening to erupt like a volcano.

Eventually, Phainon and the Outsider leave.

One more time—with the same eagerness he had before—Mydei walks towards the corrupted wretch that Nikador is and the neverending fight that goes between two immortals begins with the first clash of weapons. It takes Mydei less than sixty seconds to endure his first death: Nikador drives his lance through the middle of the Kremnoan Heir’s chest, impaling him with a powerful move Mydei hasn’t seen him use before.

Mydei’s body gives up and he ceases to exist—then the underworld ‘welcomes’ him, wordlessly letting the thick Sea swallow him whole… only to be rejected one more time.

Still in pieces, not everything fully repaired, yet having learnt how to deal with the immense pain and let adrenaline help to fully ignore it so he can go on, as soon as Mydei is back, he jumps up again and drives his spear through Nikador’s chest akin the way his God had just moments ago. This time it is the Titan’s momentary defeat—but before Mydei can do much more, Nikador also springs back to life.

What horrid creatures they both are…

Mydei dies for the second, the third, then the fourth time… Then the sequence is followed by his fifth, sixth, and seventh deaths.

He stops counting after the thirty-eight one.

Gutted, his lungs punctured, his brains flowing out of his skull, his shoulders dislocated, his ankles broken, his femur and shin bones shattered into pieces… This and that, all types and kinds of pain Mydei welcomes almost as friends.

Except unlike other times, no matter how well he does and how fast he springs back to life and to action—as fast as his body physically allows him, as fast as his tissues connect just enough that his body functions on the biomechanical level—Nikador matches him in his freaky way of defying death.

The more Mydei tries to strategize and infect a wound on Nikador that interrupts the Titan, yet doesn’t send him to death so it can’t heal and return to full strength, the more Nikador imitates his methods. It causes Mydei to almost (but he does not) wrangle and wither like a worm while he is pierced to the ground by the Titan’s lance, driving through Mydei’s leg, his bones and flesh mixing in a reddish pulp. Nikador holds his arms so the Kremnoan Prince cannot wield his blood-made weapons to end himself for a rebound.

It is wicked and witty and makes Mydei plaster a grin on his face that almost tells of insanity.

Theirs is a two-sided failure: while Nikador must chain Mydei to the ground to cause him more pain and deny him death, the Titan is also tied to Castrum Kremnos and cannot go to prevent Phainon and the Outsider to find a solution that undoes the immortality of the fallen God. Their fight is a clash of wills, made in poetic cruelty—neither can die, and neither intends to give up.

Everything good that once Nikador represented burns and fuels Mydeimos—while in front of him, against him, there are the same virtues, fueled by the corrupted, misled, despicable evilness of the black tide that steams and propels the Titan.

Fighting, dying, reviving—a never-ending circle.

Mydei finds a way to end himself while Nikador holds him down so they can restart… until a few deaths later they arrive at the same turning point that leads nowhere, just puts them stationary.

Completely losing his sense of time and life becoming only the record of the heavy thickness of the Sea of Souls or the white pain and red fury of the fight, Mydei goes against Nikador over and over again and does not give up.

Time passes in the infinitum of clashing blades and the neverending agony of dying. At one point, Phainon and the Outsider return, alongside Castorice and a pet-like creature—later Mydei learns it is called Mem.

With a solution from the past (Mydei almost even can’t imagine how it could be to walk Castrum Kremnos before it fell—his memories of the past part-time being vivid, while also shaded with blood and grief that turns everything grey) Nikador’s immortality is now gone… and they defeat the Titan together. The Strife’s last attack is stopped with the help of Aglaea and Tribios.

Mydei is alive and his body is mostly in one piece—at least it holds him up. After his last rebirth, he finally could start to fully become one piece again… Yet after so many deaths and the extent of all damage that could never fully heal before he touched the black surface of the Sea of Souls again, this time it just takes so much longer.

His vital organs heal first and his body becomes structurally stable enough that he can stand and rush back to a fight—the next step is when bleeding at all his remaining wounds stops and his skin closes, markless. Mydei may look fine very soon after a rebirth, but it can take his body many more hours until every structure inside is fully repaired—the pain of the healing and the phantom pain of the wounds lingering around until Mydei manages to sleep it away and cut the all-too-familiar feeling of hurt out of his mind.

As Mydei once said to Phainon, his strength isn’t due to his training… but it is the result of his capability to endure pain.

Sometimes, Mydei almost wishes he would have kept Phainon in blissful ignorance—but then even the sheer idea feels wrong because they don’t lie to each other, not when it matters, not like this… nor has had Mydei any reason to hide things from Phainon. Throughout the decades he walked this land, Mydei has learnt to handle himself (very early, he did) and he had never thought the topic would end up concerning Phainon—except it does because the younger Chrysos Heir cares more about Mydei’s hurt than Mydei himself.

Still, Phainon would never take away Mydei’s pride.

No matter his bloody state, when they all speak about Nikador but Mydei speaks of Castrum Kremnos, it is Phainon who replies and gives Mydei a chance to turn the conversation back to business. If Mydei would want to continue with his sentiment, he easily could. Mydei is obvious to Phainon’s doing—and ever since they arrived in Kremnos, this hasn’t been the first instance.

Mydei’s gratitude is in the smallest of changes in his tone—he is now sure Phainon notices and understands. With the Coreflame in front of them though, the rippling waves of Phainon’s insecurity shift the mood of their conversation.

Although Phainon hasn’t mentioned Mydei’s state yet, he makes the mistake of doing so now—not meanly, but with intention, Mydei uses this as a hold to press Phainon into touching the Coreflame. It must be his destiny… as Mydei refuses to make it his own. Maybe Phainon is right and Mydei knows (deep down, at a place that Mydei doesn’t touch, at one where the horror of his possible corruption and repeating history is too big and something Mydei does not intend to bear—the first and only thing his whole life he refuses) it should be him…

But for now, urging Phainon through this is the only way. Nothing much happens once Phainon connects with the Coreflame—he does try to keep his cool but his relief is written all over him. Mydei admits to himself that the sight also fills up his chest with calmness, the strain of his injuries and the burning pain of healing feeling a little less intense and easier to bear.

With a heavy heart, Phainon bids goodbye to the Outsiders. No matter his previous lies to Aglaea and Tribbie, the fake confidence he managed to muster disappears as soon as he turns the first corner on the corridors that lead away from the main area of the Okheman bathhouse.

Phainon thinks of his homeland—he thinks of the past these days more than he has done in the time before, ever since the prophecy saved him from the wretched, empty state that the destruction of everything important left him in.

Some days, Phainon tries to reason with himself, and he almost believes he did his best. These days are easier because he can focus on the future and what he can do now instead of getting lost in things he cannot change.

Then, on other days, Phainon can’t stop thinking about what more he could have done—even if this means he would have died with everyone else. Maybe, the evil and most insecure part of Phainon’s mind says, that would have been the best.

A part of him wishes he could slap himself on the face because his presence and existence are important parts of the prophecy and he is here because others believe in him and he is destined to fill up his role… But at the same time, the other part of him—the meanest, most self-deprecating side—tells Phainon that if he had died, then maybe the prophecy would have assigned someone better. Someone more competent.

Someone who wouldn’t hesitate about the Coreflame trial.

Someone who could feel he is worthy to bear the Strife—even more deserving and capable than the Kremnoan Heir.

Deep in thought, Phainon allowed his legs to lead him wherever… and as his thoughts arrive on Mydei, he finds himself in front of the door of the Kremnoan Prince’s chambers. A sigh and a grimace-like smile escape Phainon before he can control his expression (at least there is no one there to see) as it seems even his subconscious likes to play at his weaknesses without showing any mercy.

While being torn over his thoughts about the trial itself and whether or not he is worthy, Phainon’s heart also splits in half because of Mydei. Having spent so many hours being worried so much about the man he loves—because Phainon had seen Mydei die and he knows that no matter Mydei’s expressionless way of handling things, he does feel the pain—then later witnessing him as a bloodied mess as he has never been before…

If Phainon was worried earlier and he thought that feeling cannot be matched then his mind proves him wrong again.

The unknown of the capabilities and limits of Mydei’s healing—having seen some of his wounds shine with fresh-looking red wetness when the Kremnoan bid them farewell after they arrived back to Okhema—fills up Phainon’s heart with unease. Even though his conscious mind knows Mydei can’t die, the sheer idea that he had been pushed to a personal low and the tangible insecurity of this place and its possible meaning make Phainon’s heart tear and explode.

Mydei’s company, loving him, and receiving his love have been among the highlights of what happened to Phainon in the past years. Phainon has enough insight on Mydei (even though the Kremnoan doesn’t often say nor does he go into detail—but Phainon had learnt to read the subtleties where no more elaborative words come) that he knows with utter certainty: the visit to Castrum Kremnos, the defeat of Nikador, and the future of the Coreflame are between the most important and most personal things of Mydei’s whole life.

Phainon wishes—he desires it so badly—that he can find and see Mydei tonight. The sooner the better. Phainon wishes he can be there for him—if Mydei decides he needs Phainon.

Even the paradox of this idea makes Phainon smile as he sways on his feet from one side to the other in front of Mydei’s door. Phainon knows: Mydei can handle himself and he doesn’t need the support of anyone—let alone someone who can’t even trust himself. Someone lost in his own head, thinking too much about the past, questioning his integrity.

Yet Phainon wishes Mydei would allow himself to maybe be a little less strong and to just…

To just…

What even?

The realisation hits: Phainon doesn’t know. Mydei is the strongest person Phainon has ever met.

After a few prolonged inhales and exhales while Phainon tries to make at least a sublime order in the utter mess that his head is right now, he decides he will ‘just go’ and act as usual around Mydei as he otherwise does. The vivid images of the many bleeding wounds on the Kremnoan Heir fill up Phainon’s heart with unease and he almost slaps himself on the face—because how dare he think Mydei cannot handle himself and needs anything from him.

Making a temporary deal with himself that he knows he will (he only hopes he won’t) fail, Phainon musters the fake confidence about the upcoming Coreflame trial that he showed to the other Chrysos Heirs earlier. With a temporary clarity and his worries about himself pushed aside, Phainon quietly opens Mydei’s door and lets himself into the Kremnoan Heir’s private chambers.

Not knowing what to expect, and the last thing he wants being the accidental disturbance of Mydei’s peace, Phainon walks into the main room with the quietest steps he can muster. From here, spotting Mydei’s form in his bedroom or at the small bathing place can be easy without making any noise. Phainon almost feels he is sneaking as his footsteps are almost fully silent… and the sight that welcomes him makes him bless his decision in the next moment.

Under a light blanket, Mydei is asleep, lying on his bed—the sheer knowledge that he didn’t wake up (unlike any other time in the past where he always had) makes Phainon’s heart clench. For a fleeting second Phainon’s heart races as the past’s horror washes over him… then seeing the rise and fall of Mydei’s chest resolves the heavy weight that came to sit on Phainon’s chest, threatening to suffocate.

Feeling so utterly stupid and anger sparking in him—because how can he be so absurd to think this way—Phainon allows himself a few more seconds, and then he leaves Mydei’s chambers the same quiet way as he came.

Trying to reason with himself, Phainon decides perhaps all he needs is some fresh air to clear his head. (Phainon hates to admit it to himself, but maybe he is happy Mydei was asleep—looking as fine as one can while covered with a blanket—because he isn’t sure what he would have done if Mydei saw the uncontrolled fear creeping up deep in his veins, the terrors of the past still too livid inside.)

Chapter Text

Mydeimos dreams.

For once, it’s not the usual.

Mydei is an infant child again—lost at the bottom of the sea, alone, lonely, drowning.

Sinking deep—over and over and over again.

The blinding pain, rippling through waves of anxiety of a kid, as the water fills up his lungs… and then the hurt of the first new breath—only so it can repeat.

First, it’s just the thick black water and the accidental ice-cold brush of rotting limbs of the dead who Death allows to cross while he sends Mydei back. Every single time he does. Then, eventually, what Mydei touches is the slimy and scratchy skin of the evil things in the Sea of Souls, those that harass fishermen, tethering the borders of realms, causing harm.

There isn’t much that Mydei understands of the world yet—but he hears the wailing of souls that mix into his own until eventually he doesn’t cry anymore. Once he is bigger and stronger, he suffocates the vicious creatures that capture crying souls or wound the living, his tiny limbs now longer and up to the task—only so that Mydei brings one creature with him at his next death, making it a good one.

He hasn’t learned the word ‘curse’ yet, but as Mydei’s death helps a passed soul cross the river to the other side, he thinks the bad (‘tragic’—another word he doesn’t know) side of his immortality may be the blessing of others. If only he wouldn’t be so tired…

His still chubby arms curl around his torso as Mydei drowns one more time.

After nine years—every month, every week, every hour, every minute spent dying, fighting, reviving—the Sea spits out Mydei.

Then comes: rotten blood, his homeland, and leaving it. Loyal-to-the-King Kremnoans call Mydeimos a deserter—yet Mydei still turns his back to all that could have been his home. His adoring, loyal group of people follow him into battle as they go and deal with the corrupted evil.

Five friends and a good time spent by a campfire—but ten better (the best) years pass too soon. Growing older, dying in battle, submitting to illness… Mydei finds himself alone by the campfire soon.

Whispers of eroded, corrupted, and rotting souls and the last look of his father that he cannot forget. An empty throne, a fallen crown—yet Mydei does not sit down, nor pick it up. He could never—because staying could never grant the survival of his nation.

Whispers and reluctance—against the undying resolve of an undying man.

Only the wind, the blood, a few shed drops of tears, now forgotten, that no one else could ever see, and the slightly lingering pain of yet another rebirth from the night before remain as Mydei leads the Kremnoan detachment to Okhema for the first time.

The abyss of Mydei’s mind sucks him—next, he again stands in Castrum Kremnos.

Dying, fighting, withering and suffering while Nikador denies him the next death… but when Mydei touches the black water of the Stix again, he is once again a tiny child, helpless. One who only tries to break out from the circle of dying and taking his first breath… and not one who is about to go back and fight Nikador again.

What if he fails? What if he isn’t strong enough to hold back the corrupted Titan?

What if everyone he now cares about will die…?

…only because he couldn’t handle a fight and a few deaths fast enough.

Thick fog sitting in his mind, the past, the present, and the future meet and mix; Mydei sees Nikador dying. The Coreflame calls his name and Mydei touches it before he knows—his biggest fears he has hidden deep in his heart come alive at once, pulling him deep into the thick black sea, paralysed.

Bloodshed and the wronged and twisted ways of once glorious tradition… The unimaginable power that an immortal God holds—one who may get corrupted and cause the demise of the whole of Amphoreus. Power and title, all for nothing because the Kremnoan traditions continue and his people’s blood now paints everything red on the day he sits on his throne.

‘The son of Gorgo will be crowned in blood!’

Crimson sea and piles of bodies, then the mental picture switches: Mydei is a child again, drawing in the black water, stuck and sinking and dying and fighting…

The wheel of time spins and Mydei keeps dying; existence hurts, unspeakably, his flesh tears apart, his bones break, his organs bleed inside, his head feels it will explore, his lungs burn and the dark water fills them up every time he goes under for a rebound.

Then… Eventually, Mydei is an adult again with power in his hands that no one has ever had… and the black tide comes. The waves—however non-existent, not really water-like—are high, threatening to collapse and leave nothing but destruction behind. They take Mydei’s sanity and make him become another of the evils he has tried all his life to fight against, causing an almost endless circle of pain as Mydei has died many thousands of times over to stop enemies and not let innocents suffer.

Madness surging in his veins—Mydei is a child again. The warm light of the Everday long gone, he drowns again in the black water of the Sea of Souls. He is tiny, too small and useless, his mind showing him the ruckus he caused while he doesn’t have a way to escape, to change, to turn things back, to prevent the disaster that Mydei isn’t even sure happened, yet his mind plays for him as if he would still stand of the Castrum Kremnos he killed.

Dying and rebirthing, his mother’s words he could never actually hear playing in his mind, rejected by his father and even by Death, helpless, lonely, suffering, trying and failing, dying, the wheel of time spinning and the crimson frenzy of the future with everything dear to him lying motionless at his feet, Mydeimos wrangles and withers and drowns and rebirths and screams and takes his nth first breath and—

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With a big gasp, as air fills up his lungs, drenched in cold sweat, feeling feverish and his whole body hurting so much that he sees white, Mydei wakes up from one of the worst nightmares he had in the past decades. Involuntarily, he sits up, but the healing ribs and muscles on his torso make him feel like he just got pierced through by Nikador’s lance again, the torment almost sending him falling back to the soft pillows. If only the lance went just a little astray and hit a certain point…

Breath catches in Mydei’s lungs—he would rather suffer another thousand, even a million, deaths than leave prematurely to rest, letting others down.

Grabbing onto the sheets, only due to the millennia-long control he has exercised over himself, Mydei stays upright—but he needs to take a few big breaths and exhale slowly so he is able to blink the black spots and all the crimson redness away from his vision.

He had died almost an infinite amount of times during his life… Yet he hasn’t died this many times in such a short time, one death after the next—not since he could stop drowning in the dark water of the underworld’s Sea. And even that experience was better: all he did as a young child was to drown…

…while the fight with Nikador had him in pieces, over and over again, without having the chance to heal. To fully recover, just to have himself mostly as a whole instead of being a pierced, shattered mess who returns to the fight and gains his next death—Mydei didn’t get to experience this luxury.

Now, even after the countless fights and hurt he has gone through, and despite welcoming all kinds of pain like long-lost friends, Mydei experiences a new type of personal hell he has to deal with until his immortal body fully repairs the remaining damage.

After giving himself a half minute, Mydei manages to get up and sit in the spacious bathtub of his private chambers. He starts the water when he enters the room—he takes his time to then walk back to the chair on the side without anyone’s eyes privy to his pathetic, limping form. By the time Mydei takes off his bloodied pants and the golden, Kremnoan jewellery that he couldn’t bear to shed before he submitted to the warmth of his bed, the tub is halfway full with almost scalding hot water.

Mydei throws a handful of ironic salt into the water that can also help his body to recover faster, then he just leans back to the wall of the tub with eyes closed as he waits for the water to fill up to the edge. Some of his wounds still bleed (especially where fabric got stuck that is now ripped off as Mydei left his bed and took off all his clothing) and the hot, salty water bites at these places—but this sharp new pain only gets lost in the cacophony of hurt his body is going through now.

The worst places are where Nikador held him down with his lance crushing all types of tissues into a mess, denying a death—or where the Titan repeatedly stabbed Mydei, sending him onto his way before welcoming him back.

Still, if Mydei would need to jump to his feet and fight, he could. No pain could keep him from protecting Okhema and its citizens, continuing the Flame-Chase journey if there would be a new sudden mission requiring his presence, or from fighting for his people and what he believes in. His body long trained to ignore the pain and not prevent him from doing what he’s best at, Mydei is always ready.

Admitting to himself, though, Mydei is thankful he is given the chance to just rest now—the dark thought of the future and the shiny form of the Strife playing in Mydei’s mind, the threat of the upcoming Coreflame trial looms over ‘freedom’ of this short time.

Mydei had learnt: taking the chances to care for himself is the best course of action because this is the way that ensures he can give his best at the next important moment. The hot water, like flames, encompasses his whole body; Mydei is covered to the level of his collarbones, his right hand grabbing onto an inner edge of the tub so it is easier for him to sit upright due to the lessened load on his healing ribs and muscles of his chest.

The remnants of his cruel nightmare that replaced the usual—now all familiar, almost comforting (comforting despite its unfinished end and the frustration as neither does Mydei know what to do, nor does his mother tell him so) and melancholic—dream Mydeimos has every night still slowly mixes into Mydei’s thoughts of the what’s next. (The Coreflame trial, Phainon, the possibility that he fails and Mydei has to step up, his people and their future, the fears—that should never exist—in Mydei’s heart, all things too serious for one man’s heart to bear.)

White steam and the metallic smell sneak out of Mydei’s bathroom when Phainon enters for the second time tonight. Akin to his former visit, he opens as quietly as it is humanly possible—up until he smells iron.

It takes his mind a few seconds and witnessing the white mist of the hot water to understand this is the usual smell of the bath salt Mydei uses—instead of his blood.

When the Phainon’s village was killed off, the reeking smell of burning corpses and blood was permanently writte—carved—into his memory, deeply sewn into his soul, never-healing wounds by the seams left behind. Mydei has explained to him before the benefits of various bath salts and how they could help with hot water to ease pains after rigorous training—yet this couldn’t be Phainon’s first thought.

His attempt to get fresh air ended with a mostly honest (more honest than the one with Aglaea and Tribbie) conversation with Castorice… Only to leave Phainon with even more guilt as his badly mustered fake bravado and confidence over how some thinking will help him now feels like just another lie and an unfair way to treat Castorice—another person who would rely on Phainon.

Like everyone does—but what if he is not enough…?

His throat constricting, Phainon swallows hard—as his legs bring him closer to Mydei’s bathroom, the now even more prominent ironic smell helps to forget the smell of blood at his homeland, the Coreflame trial, and his lies.

Despite his efforts to rationalise the situation for himself, a part of Phainon’s mind doesn’t let him be at ease, not even temporarily, because ‘what if’... He can’t control himself well enough so the hurried steps and rushed way of how he opens the door is unlike to stay hidden from the initiated ears—Phainon is sure Mydei notices nuances like this. Still, Phainon must hurry and see. That the smell is only from the white fog and not from Mydei lying in his own blood, and—

“You are loud,” Mydei speaks—his words quiet, his voice a little tired, yet his tone kept flat—just when Phainon finally pushes the door in.

They both know Mydei doesn’t mean the words literally.

The hot steam rushes into Phainon’s face; the foggy whiteness encapsulates Mydei’s form, turning him into a ghost. Closing the door so the almost hellishly high temperature that the Kremnoan Heir prefers stays in, Phainon begins to bridge the distance towards the bathtub so he can see Mydei from up close. Phainon carries a basket of goods that Mydei prefers—he thankfully had enough brains to figure Mydei is unlikely to leave his chambers now, while he might appreciate food or a drink—that now he lifts up for Mydei to see as he approaches.

“I fetched you some things from your favourite vendor; bearing my loud entrance is the price you have to pay this time—though, I apologise,” Phainon says with a smile and all fake cheerfulness he can muster to come any close to his usual self… but his expression freezes and his face falls when the air turbulence from the now closed door pushes back towards them and clears the fog away from Mydei.

To say Mydei looks bad—compared to his usual self—is an understatement.

Maybe, some people wouldn’t even notice there is a change. If not for the water around the Kremnoan having redness—blood—mixing in, maybe the other signs couldn’t give him away… but not to Phainon. Not the man who has witnessed Mydei up close and has seen more of what’s below the neutral or apathetic mask he wears even when others would scream in his place, curling up on the ground while Mydei can simply stand straight. Despite Mydei must have heard the light noise of the clinking glass bottle from Phainon’s basket and he could figure out the content, he still sits in the water with his eyes closed, motionless, his right shoulder facing Phainon.

Sweat rolls on Mydei’s forehead from the hot water—but Phainon guesses, it is from the pain too. Mydei sits straight, yet this is not how he looks when his muscles are only as tense to keep himself upright—he misses the authoritative relaxedness his body language otherwise carries. Mydei’s expression is kept flat—but Phainon sees the subtle way the muscle of his jaw contracts, telling enough that the younger Chrysos Heir knows, Mydei is clenching his teeth to gain more control.

Phainon has seen Mydei die a few times—also as Mydei came back to life and how he dealt with the aftereffects. The present must feel the worst out of everything Phainon had seen—while he witnessed Mydei being impaled and having his guts on the ground before.

Just knowing that he can’t even imagine or empathise with Mydei’s state now—nor can he help—breaks Phainon’s heart, irreversible.

What if they found the answer to kill Nikador sooner? What if there was a way to figure it out even before going to Castrum Kremnos—they just overlooked it and this resulted in the immortal fight Mydei had to take…? What if—

“You are still loud,” Mydei sighs, the words leaving his mouth quietly. As he speaks, he finally opens his eyes—his amber gaze is now dull, selling him out while his expression is kept reactionless.

It takes Mydei a single glance at Phainon to see the depth of his soul—Phainon feels his mind is being read. His fears, thoughts, insecurities, worries, and anxiety about the trial, the fate of the Strife, and Mydei’s state now must be obvious to the Kremnoan Heir. Despite his former attempt to keep his face straight, Phainon’s brows knit, his eyes almost well up, and he has to clench his teeth so the corners of his mouth don’t turn more downwards.

Mydei takes a long look at him, then averts his gaze before he closes his eyes again. Phainon can’t miss the slow inhale Mydei takes as he thinks about what he should say—neither how shallow his breath is due to his hurting body.

If Phainon felt horrible before now a new wave of guilt waves over him and buries him under—he came here because he cares about Mydei and because he would like to help him in any way he can… But the basket of goods is now held almost limply as Phainon realises, he is no use for Mydei—more so, it is Mydei who carefully considers how to help Phainon.

Inadequacy burns Phainon alive.

“Mydei, I…” Phainon starts, but his throat feels too tight to continue. But… what even? Would his apology mean anything? Would Mydei even want to hear his talk again about the Coreflame while he has been so clear he is not willing to take it? Why can’t Phainon just keep his anxieties hidden enough that Mydei doesn’t feel obligated to try to help Phainon figure things out in his mind? Why can’t he just… be better? Stronger?

Anything more than the mess he is right now.

“Why did you come, Deliverer?” Mydei asks, his amber gaze on Phainon now. He could ask this mockingly—even if he would never say it with menace—but he doesn’t. The question is open-ended and genuine—even though he must know the answer.

Mydei likely does—yet gives Phainon the chance to say it. To start a topic that is not about the chaos in Phainon’s mind… even if Mydei definitely doesn’t want to spare words on his own state now.

In the past, Mydei has allowed Phainon a few times since they became lovers to just be around after gruesome battles and a few deaths he acquired—even though just letting Phainon be near and allowing him to hold Mydei while the Phainon’s mind raced with hidden thoughts (that Phainon would never admit, maybe not even to himself, but hugging Mydei alive was something Phainon needed so he could tell himself over and over again the man in his arms cannot die on him like others) could be not easy for the Kremnoan to do.

The twisted irony of the extent of Mydei’s wordless care and love slaps Phainon on the face: in the past, even though he came for Mydei, it was about Phainon. And so far tonight has been the same while it should not. Phainon knows Mydei is strong and can handle himself… but the urge to just make it slightly better or easier and to do something for the man he loves lights up Phainon’s soul and allows him to push back the dishevelled madness of his mind, even if only for a short time.

With Mydei’s amber gaze now heavy on him, taking longer than he should have, but eventually Phainon manages to answer:

“Would you like to eat something? Or get a drink?” He asks, lifting up the basket again so Mydei can see better without needing to move away from his current position. The light smell of freshly baked Kremnoan-style bread mixes in with the metallic smell of the hot air in the room; his reaction in response to the smell of food is subtle, but recognition is written on Mydei’s face.

Yet, he goes, “No, thank you.”

Phainon’s heart falls. He knows the reply is not against him or his offer—the most subtle upturn of the corners of Mydei’s mouth seconding this—yet the Kremnoan’s response still feels like rejection. Opening his mouth to answer, there are many things Phainon would like to say or ask.

(‘Are you okay? What hurts? Do you think you can eat this later? Should I bring you something else that you won’t name on your own, yet if I were to ask, you would just politely refuse anything more? Would you like to talk about your homeland? You look pale and exhausted. Am I bothering you? I just hope you can rest and recover. Should I bug you as I do otherwise because that is what we both are familiar with? Or should I keep quiet and try to thread new lands because you are too tired now and I am too big of a mess…? Why do I care more about you being in pain than you…? Why do you trust me more than I trust myself…? Mydeimos, I…’)

Patiently, his gaze not pressuring, Mydei waits—yet eventually, Phainon just closes his mouth and averts his eyes. His sky-blue gaze falls onto the pile of Mydei’s bloody clothes on the chair in the corner and the uncharacteristically negligently placed Kremnoan jewellery Mydei took off. Phainon resists the urge to lean down and pick up the chest piece that almost fell to the ground, hanging in the air—but he decides against the action as it somehow feels infantilizing.

Despite the lack of Phainon’s reply, Mydei doesn’t break the silence—it grows heavy, then heavier until it feels as thick as the steam in the bathroom. Holding the basket of goods, his eyes trained on a blue gem on Mydei’s necklace, Phainon’s thoughts about tonight and tomorrow start to tornado-like sweep up rationality in his mind.

When he almost thinks he should just leave, a splashing sound of water as Mydei moves pulls back the younger Chryos Heir to the present.

“Phainon,” Mydei starts, this time his voice serious and a little authoritative—yet kind.

The sound of his name makes Phainon’s head snap back up, almost (or not just almost) with desperation. Turned slightly and now holding onto the edge of the bathtub with one hand, his grip way less relaxed than he is trying to sell it, Mydei now faces Phainon.

Eyes shinier than they should be and his teeth clenched together, Phainon looks at Mydei, waiting for more—but whatever else Mydei could start saying now would lead to a long talk where Phainon either lies (as if Mydei wouldn’t be obvious to that) or talks about his fears… while he isn’t even able to word his insecurities to himself aloud. His pulse surging, the hot air of the room feels a little suffocating. His cheeks lighting up in shame of inadequacy, Phainon feels his emotions are written on his face, making him become an open book for Mydei to read.

Yet, Mydei’s all-familiar amber eyes soften, and he doesn’t press. His brows slightly raise, and Mydei doesn’t say, yet his gaze tells in his place: ‘You should rest.’ He wears the same expression that sat on his face every single time he suggested Phainon should care for himself—training hard, eating healthy food, and sleeping enough being the cornerstones of a healthy, strong body that leads to a healthy, strong mind.

Mydei’s care has always been hidden in subtle advice, hard truth with explanations he spared only for Phainon, or in actions—all the way without a single time making Phainon feel any less.

Wordless kindness burns Phainon—he did not come with the basket of food to pathetically let Mydei be the one who keeps the two of them together. Phainon can’t imagine how much Nikador’s death could mean to the Kremnoan Heir and how much—many things Mydei refuses to explain for now—might swirl in his mind under the wet strands of hair that stick to his skull in the hot bath.

With his newly-come resolve helping him to push down his problems, Phainon goes straight back to why he is here, forcing himself to ask a question that he already knows is unlike to be appreciated—yet not saying anything would make Phainon feel worse, guilt consuming him whole:

“What can I do for you then?”

His honest question hangs in the air for a long second before Mydei’s expression hardens.

“Why would you need to do anything for me?” Mydei asks back. He isn’t unkind and he doesn’t snap at Phainon, yet his voice makes it clear this question crossed an invisible line—because why would any Kremnoan warrior need anything after a battle? Before Phainon could accidentally choose to elaborate and thread to lands Mydei clearly doesn’t wish to go now, the Kremnoan Heir adds more, his tone kept flat, “Don’t you have more important things to tend to now?”

Even though Phainon knows this doesn’t come from a bad place and Mydei doesn’t speak with menace, a single question opens the gate and all Phainon’s thoughts crash back at him at once, leaving him crushed, gutted, his arms limply hanging by his sides.

A soft exhale leaves Mydei’s lips and he releases the side of the tub he has been holding onto, wiping off the sweat from his face with a slight rub. For a few seconds, as if maybe he is waiting for an answer without the pressure of eye contact, Mydei leaves his hand on his face and leans into his palm, two fingers pressing hard enough at his temple that it almost feels like Phainon’s dilemma has given him a headache. (Maybe, it did—the mean voice in Phainon’s mind speaks.)

Despite Phainon trying to find an answer, only straight-up lies come to his lips—maybe he could tell these to Aglaea and Tribbie, but he cannot to Mydei. Especially not here, tonight. The silence stretches, then…

Sweeping away wet locks from his face, Mydei lets his hand fall back under the water and looks towards Phainon only as he speaks, turning his gaze away the moment he is finished:

“Just join me, then.”

If there is a peace treaty and a middle ground between them right now, then this is it—with a nod (that Mydei can’t even see, Phainon realises only later), the younger Chrysos Heir accepts.

Without thinking much, Phainon just puts away the basket to a corner and he methodically sheds this still fight-dusted armour and clothes. (He does pick up the almost fallen Kremnoan necklace, placing it onto a flat surface, secured.) Despite the weight of their battles, he could walk away unscathed—everyone could, except Mydei. Phainon clenches his fists and grits his teeth for a moment, thankful that Mydei cannot see him now, then he finishes shedding his last layers.

This isn’t the first time they share the spacious bathtub (as they indulged in evenings well-spent in here), but this is the first when Phainon leaves a little space between them and comes in with much care not to touch Mydei.

(He has touched Mydei everywhere many times… but the closest to tonight has been a few times only where Mydei was left a little battered after fights for a few hours and Phainon carefully scooted closer and hugged the man he loves, fighting the stupid fears in his mind that losing others in the past cast on the present.)

The light pink of still-leaking blood surrounds Mydei. As Phainon disturbs the water while he sits, the surface of the water scatters, making the pinkness disappear as the colour mixes into the whole tub. The ironic salt doesn’t really colour the bath—even though Phainon doesn’t look on purpose, the purple, livid bruises and still-raggedly-looking scars of healing skin cover Mydei in way too many places.

Phainon is sure: Mydei is doing his utter best to seem relaxed… but in spite of all, the tense way he sits and the strain that sneaks into his features make Phainon almost scared. He has never seen Mydei this obviously (however subtle it is) being in pain before—and sitting next to him and seeing his face from up close, the sight is only clearer, the meaning unmistakable.

On his way of Phainon’s overthinking and him being lost in the ‘what’s next’ question, maybe (definitely) Mydei knows they won’t progress anything tonight with stupid back-and-forth talks or bickers unless he takes up the lead, for a while at least—and so, Mydei bridges the last inch between them.

Moving and leaning closer, the Kremnoan Heir lets his body lightly rest against Phainon, shoulders touching. Welcomed, warm weight presses carefully onto Phainon while a content, tiny, almost inaudible sigh leaves Mydei’s mouth as the action allows him to take off pressure from another part of his bruised back and torso.

Staying silent and feeling the best and more stable in mind in the past many hours, Phainon does not move. His eyes trained on the water, his sky-blue gaze is still drawn at an uneven, huge wound which shows on Mydei’s thigh where his armour has been partially destroyed before—Phainon can’t even imagine what could happen during the fight and how Mydei’s leg could look like if not even metal could stop Nikador’s attack.

Phainon also wonders how Mydei could walk on that so soon after they finished slaying the corrupted Titan. Phainon would never ask, but his mind wonders how much it can hurt as it heals. With feelings overtaking his heart, before he can think it through more, Phainon allows his hand to move, gently touching the uneven edges of the healing wound.

Featherlight fingertips trace the gracious line of Mydei’s quadriceps that blooms in purple bruises, the patterns connecting back to the middle part where not even the outer level of the injury could yet fully recover. Oddly fascinated, his heart swelling and breaking at the same time, Phainon’s soul is full of childish wishes that if only he could make this go away.

Mydei keeps still all the way… yet, when Phainon’s fingers travel back up again for the second time, his inhale is just a bit faster and sharper than it should be—the reaction snaps Phainon out of his ministrations. Hurting Mydei or making it harder for him are the last things he would like to do tonight.

The apology is on Phainon’s lips but as he looks up to say the words, there is a wordless, guttural request in Mydei’s eyes that makes Phainon swallow back his sentence and not mention anything about the topic now. Instead, Phainon’s hand travels under the hot water, finding Mydei’s own—the Kremnoan matches him as their fingers intertwine, sliding into a loose hold.

Gratitude written into Mydei’s amber gaze, he blinks once slowly before he leans just a little more into Phainon and closes his eyes to rest the same way he did when Phainon came in. With the lightest, smallest motion, Phainon’s thumb brushes along the back of Mydei’s hand once.

Knowing the message was delivered and understood, he also closes his eyes, relaxing, letting the metallic smell of hot air fill his nose while the warm weight of Mydei and the soft sound of his breathing override the bloody memories of the past.

Chapter Text

Tranquil peace settles over the steamy bathroom, only the occasional dripping noise of the tap and the rhythmic breathing of Phainon and Mydei break the silence.

Minding his body’s reactions, yet allowing himself to just exist, Mydei takes a deeper breath and then slowly exhales. Sitting so close to Phainon and even bodily feeling the warmth and care he has for Mydei makes the Kremnoan’s heart beat just a little funny—it’s been long since Mydei’s norm was to share intimate moments like this, but…

…it is nice.

Phainon’s heart is so big and he has so much to give that Mydei appreciates how the younger Chryosis Heir holds back for Mydei’s sake—because maybe all of it at once would be just too much.

Maybe yes, maybe not—if yes, then only in the sense of unfamiliarity. Thankfully, Mydeimos has always been willing to walk new paths.

Despite the deep-etched pain of his injuries that rules Mydei’s body and tries to take over his mind, Phainon’s presence, kindness, and wordless love are more comforting than anything else could be—even if Mydei isn’t fully ready to accept anything more from the ocean-wide adoration Phainon has for him. (Simply because: why would he need any? Mydei has been going through this all alone for the longest time—and Mydei stood tall all the way.)

Slowly, but as time passes, with the hotness of the bath enveloping his body, and with Phainon’s hand relentlessly holding Mydei’s own (occasionally—when Mydei breathes just a little different—Phainon’s thumb lightly brushes on the Kremnoan’s hand) the agony of the aftermath of fighting the corrupted Nikador eases.

Most lightly, but still, noticeably (of course, Phainon would catch everything like this), Mydei’s index finger returns the gesture, stroking Phainon’s hand as a wordless way to say, ‘Thank you’.

In content, nonverbally agreed on peace, the mist in the bathroom slowly subdues a bit and the water gets a bit colder—it is still hot, just not scalding anymore. Burying feelings deep enough that Mydei’s mind doesn’t care to name them, the Kremnoan Heir enjoys the company with narrowly opened eyes now… as closing them paints his nightmare and the past onto the canvas of the back of his eyes.

There is no need to make this night any harder for himself—and so, Mydei doesn’t. However…

As time passes, it is impossible to not notice the growing feelings in Phainon. He keeps his hand to himself, holding Mydei’s own, yet through the veil of his lashes, Mydei can still see in the shadows of the water—on top of feeling his body that the Kremnoan rests against—how Phainon turns his head even to observe the full result of the fights with Nikador.

Options of what to say cross Mydei’s mind:

‘You cannot change the past, don’t think more into it.’

‘I am fine, Phainon. Some bruises won’t stop me.’

‘Deliverer, you can look worse than me only because you were reckless in a fight.’

‘Care about your trial tomorrow, not me.’

Mydei knows Phainon cares and he can understand why his sacrifice to die many deaths can be upsetting (Mydei tries his best to see an outer view of himself but his own). Yet Mydei doesn’t know how to simply deter Phainon’s mind away from the topic without pressing too hard on things that are rather not helpful to mention. At least not now, not when Phainon’s mind is likely about the upcoming trial anyway.

His pain is his own. Existence now might be a sore experience, but Mydei cares nothing of the consequences. The knowledge that he saved friends and people (unlike in the past) burns with a high flame inside that leaves no room for cast shadows.

‘Allow me to do what I am best at.’

Mydei considers the new option… but Phainon holding his hand tenderly deters himself from this alternative too—Mydei deems it a bit too harsh. His unsaid thoughts and having exchanged a few words with Castorice, knowing more about what happened while Mydei fought Nikador alone…

A sigh escapes Mydei’s mouth—just a half moment later, Phainon follows suit. Maybe Mydei’s reaction was the last drop, but now the glass of his emotions overflow, and Phainon can’t hold it in any longer:

“I was so worried about you.”

If Mydei had any hopes that they wouldn’t end up at this conversation tonight, now all of these are gone. Phainon involuntarily holds Mydei’s hand just a little tighter before he catches himself and releases the pressure. He is motionless all the way as Mydei wills himself to open his eyes fully before replying something to such an open start.

Blinking a few times to adjust to the light and changing his position a little to be more comfortable—yet not pulling away from Phainon—with all calmness and flat apathy Mydei can muster, he finds Phainon’s gaze then answers, “But why? You know I cannot truly die.”

Mydei doesn’t mean bad—and Phainon must know. Still, his bright blue eyes shine a bit more at the mention of ‘dying’ and Phainon fails to keep control over his overall expression too. His brows knitting, the line of his mouth hardens—the sight makes Mydei wish he could just kiss the worry away from the face of his lover. Phainon is a brilliant man with a big heart and even bigger expectations for himself that are too enormous for a single soul to bear. Mydei understands deeply the loss Phainon had—he would never wish him to relive the ghosts if it is possible to avoid them.

After a few seconds, Phainon gathers himself to answer, “You are immortal and you come back, but…”

Trailing off, he doesn’t say the rest, but looking at his face, Mydei can hear it all anyway: ‘But you suffer. You feel the pain others couldn’t even fathom. You are so strong and you are strong on your own.’

“Why would that concern anyone but me?” His voice quiet and serene, Mydei interrupts before the unsaid could be spoken or Phainon could add more.

It is a simple question that Mydei means literally—not to belittle how much Phainon loves him, but to let him know, this is not something that affects others. They both know Mydei can handle himself, yet…

A newly come fire lights up Phainon’s sky-blue eyes, his lips pressed together tightly, his face serious. Phainon speaks the content of his heart while he turns towards Mydei, now holding the Kremnoan’s hand with two of his own:

“Why wouldn’t it?” Phainon asks, his voice a little sharper than he intends. He doesn’t question Mydei’s authority, yet somehow his stubbornness raises the same in the Kremnoan, too.

Before Mydei could interrupt, Phainon adds more, “When we left you there knowing you would go through unimaginable…” Trailing off again, Phainon even averts his gaze for a moment—the sight becoming painful on its own because he truly cares this much.

Too much about an immortal.

Then, as Mydei still stays silent, forcing himself to look back at the Kremnoan, Phainon finishes: “Every minute we spent not hurrying gave you so much pain… Why should I not care—how should I not care, Mydeimos?”

Oh, this man is going to be ‘the death’ of him—the thought (bittersweet in a warm way) crosses Mydei’s mind, almost drawing a smile to his face.

“HKS…” Mydei exhales the word under his breath, fond of Phainon and appreciative of the bonfire-like love. Their gazes intertwine, and neither of them lets go—Phainon’s feelings almost burn Mydei. (And it feels good. It’s warm. Yet it stabs him in his heart, and it’s not-so-easy to endure because of the past.)

Phainon is crossing lines he doesn’t exactly know about yet. Mydei almost promised himself in the past that he wouldn’t love close—then, of course, he did, because the pain of possible loss is his to bear.

However, now… Phainon’s love steaming high, a newly found frustration sweeps deep into Mydei’s bones: seeing Phainon so worked up while Mydei is still here—alive, ‘well’, healthy in a half day or two—grips Mydei’s heart in a new, different way. His pain and deaths are only his to carry.

If he could make Phainon stop feeling so much empathy for him, Mydei would—then of course, even the thought boils low anger in Mydei’s stomach because controlling the person who loves him so deeply could never be a task he accepts and approves.

Unable to answer fast enough—thinking about how to make Phainon not go further to a place Mydei doesn’t wish to talk about tonight (or maybe he cannot, even, but Mydei wouldn’t like to even think about whether or not he is able because it surely means he must force himself to overcome as other options aren’t allowed for him because he can overcome, he knows)—Phainon is faster to continue.

“Just how many times…” Openly sad sky-blue eyes look deeply into Mydei’s amber ones. “How many times did you die while fighting Nikador?”

The question almost comes like a slap.

Still sitting ever-so-close, hand in hand, now Mydei wills himself not to pull away and sit up more so he can tower over Phainon to make him forget the matter as it shouldn’t be his concern—but it would be useless to do. Phainon’s upper lip trembles and he grits his teeth as he bears Mydei’s gaze—from experience, the younger Chrysos Heir is not about to give up on this. The sight both warms Mydei’s heart but annoys him deeply.

After a long moment of silence and keeping his breath in his lungs by control, Mydei exhales slowly.

“You answer me with questions and push topics you know I wouldn’t like to go to. Would you like to hear the true answer to this?” Tilting his head in the slightest, Mydei asks, his tone flat. “What good will this knowledge do to you?”

Mydei’s amber gaze, like liquid iro,n burns Phainon.

‘Why would you like to feel worse and think about things you cannot change? It doesn’t matter how many times I suffered.’

As if Mydei hasn’t always satisfied Phainon with the truth before about how he stopped counting deaths a long time ago, the sudden question baffles the Kremnoan. Still not pulling away—repeating to himself that this conversation is not about him, but truly it is about Phainon—Mydei keeps his face flat and waits patiently, no matter how hard this is.

Phainon doesn’t disappoint—his determination now channelled into loving Mydei, now with an almost childish edge and bullheadedness, he goes on, subconsciously holding Mydei’s hand a little tighter:

“What good would it do me to indulge in lukewarm half-truths or stay in blissful ignorance?”

Huffing, Mydei closes his eyes for a few seconds, his hand lying limply in Phainon’s own. As much as Mydei came to learn how to enjoy the banter and back-and-forth push and pull he always plays with Phainon, this isn’t something where he’d like to come back to these methods—however well-known and comfortable this can be for them.

‘You could just let this go and spend the night with me in peace.’

‘We should be talking about your fear and anxieties about the trial. But should I ask? Could I, without making everything worse for you?’

With all options feeling more or less wrong, Mydei settles with a straightforward approach. His gaze finding Phainon’s again, Mydei tones down his frustration so his voice doesn’t have an edge, his words coming out as if he were to state facts in the form of a question:

“Will you stop asking questions tonight if I tell you I lost count of my deaths while I fought Nikador?”

Said with only the best intentions, yet the truth still strikes at a critical point—seeing the hurt on Phainon’s face (because he believes Mydei, of course, he does, he would never question if he speaks the truth or not) twists something in the Kremnoan’s heart.

Old words echo in Mydei’s mind: ‘Do not shed tears for me.’

Even though Phainon isn’t crying, Mydei sees the reflection of his own pain from the past on the face of the man he loves… and it cuts so deep. Phainon worries and his heart is hurting—only because he loves Mydei so bottomlessly that Mydei’s pain and many deaths can never be his own alone.

Mydei wishes Phainon wouldn’t speak of these sentiments, not tonight, maybe not later, never—the younger Chrysos Heir cannot know of the friends who left Mydei, and how such words would… How they could…

What even? Mydei doubts he would have adequate means to answer.

And so, instead of going down a path that he cannot finish walking, before Phainon has the chance to recover and respond, Mydei raises a stake that is worth the same—or, a lot more—than Phainon’s:

“You are foolish, Deliverer. Castorice told me what you considered doing during the trial of Oronyx.”

Only with love and care in his heart, yet now Phainon visibly flinches at Mydei’s words as if he truly took a hit in the face. A part of Mydei almost waits for Phainon to take his hand back to himself, pull away, and leave—after all, why would he want to stay when he brought food and drink and Mydei is only upsetting him so deeply? Mydei could always understand if Phainon would change his mind.

Kremnoans are tough people—they also love hard. Especially Mydei. Blissful ignorance could never win over hard truths—not when they truly serve a purpose.

Taken aback, trying to blink the shiny light away from his eyes, Phainon thinks so hard about an appropriate answer—but there is none, they both know it well. The ‘betrayal’ (with the best intentions) of a friend is written on the younger Chrysos Heir—even if Castorice had only spoken a few words out of care on their way back to Okhema.

Yet, despite all these, Phainon stays motionless. A part of Mydei scoffs at himself: how could he think Phainon is about to walk away now?

‘Are you out of your mind facing the Titan alone? I’m staying too,’ Phainon said before Mydei could make him leave—the scariest thing is that Phainon would never walk away. Not on his own. The knowledge makes Mydei’s heart race a little faster while it stabs him too with the sheer level of its reckless foolishness.

Thankfully though, Phainon listened. And if he wouldn’t, Mydei would have made him listen with fists—but Mydei couldn’t be there when Phainon considered a sacrifice at the trial of Oronyx.

Their trust holds power—they may lie in front of the other, bare, defenceless, at mercy.

Just like Phainon does now.

Phainon’s action is uncovered and he has no explanation—staying still in the bathtub and willing himself to not look away, he’s almost as if he awaits judgment from Mydei.

To think what he risked… Mydei, of course, considers the Flamechase Journey that needs Phainon to be a key element—but Mydei also knows of the wrecked ghost Phainon has been before the prophecy reached him, offering a way out from the dark veil of his past. Anger boils in Mydei’s veins: Phainon seriously considered exchanging so much only so they found an answer sooner and Mydei could die fewer times.

With the sheer love Mydei’s heart holds for Phainon, and with his unbreakable will to convey a message and make sure nothing like this can happen ever again, not raising his voice yet Mydei speaks as it is almost like a command, in an authoritative tone he has, barely, if ever, used with Phainon:

“Don’t you dare ever think about something like this again only to spare me from things you think I cannot handle! You shouldn’t decide what I am capable of, nor belittle me thinking it is less than the reality,” Mydei pauses, breathing in slowly as his healing ribs ache and burn so much after the force of his speech—even though it wasn’t even that much.

Mydei knows this isn’t exactly about what he can bear—but how could he call out Phainon’s heart when its only fault is to be too big for a single person to endure the weight of his feelings, the fear of his past lingering in the way he is reckless, the adrenaline giving him an escape from the weight of his new duty…?

Phainon is but a statue with gritted teeth and shiny eyes: he respects Mydei enough to listen without interruption and let the Kremnoan finish.

More quietly, the sharpness of his voice gone, almost softly, sentimentally, Mydei adds, “Phainon, I just die. And I come back. You cannot. Others cannot either. Let me do what I am good at and give me the peace of mind that neither of you is taking stupid risks that could cost you more important things than your life—or endanger our mission.”

Phainon must understand: Mydei is not mad. The Kremnoan Heir disagrees with his decisions—yet no one can change the past. Mydeimos learnt to always look to the future.

The truth is hard—even though he hasn’t heard anything new, Phainon is rendered blank under the weight of the facts Mydei has said. Ever since they’ve worked together, times came when they disagreed—logic and well-organised points could always work on them until either admitted defeat…

And tonight is Phainon’s loss.

Mydei watches the hurtful way Phainon’s expression changes in the slightest while he works through facts and puts all away into well-guarded places in his heart—a tough duty for someone who loves so much. Reassuring, Mydei holds Phainon’s hand in his own now a little more firmly.

Phainon’s brows cross and he shuts his eyes with force, leaving them closed while his white lashes brush under the soft skin of his cheeks. Mydei wishes he could kiss the hard expression away already. Swallowing, Phainon’s Adam’s apple bobbles, then he takes a really slow, but as deep breath as his lungs allow.

Gently, Mydei’s fingers curl on Phainon’s hand—and the gesture is returned now. With the next exhale, Phainon wills himself to open his eyes again and face Mydei’s unshakeable, unrelenting, compassionate, and caring gaze: Phainon knows the Kremnoan Heir is right, and he tries his best to accept the reason why—even if this hurts him so much.

Blinking a few times, now Phainon’s eyes shine a little less. He opens his mouth to respond, yet closes it—with a sigh, he averts his gaze for a moment and shakes his head. When he looks back up, bittersweetness rules his features, deeply carved into the tiniest parts of his expression. His voice slightly trembles as Phainon fails to keep his feelings out of it:

“I won’t apologise for caring whether or not you are in pain, even if I know well you can handle yourself,” he starts, a light laughter that isn’t real and almost feels wet escaping his throat with the sentence. “I do understand your point and you are right,” Phainon continues, swallowing one more time, fighting himself a bit to finish for now.

Still, relief fills Mydei because the sky-blue eyes with sadness etched into them don’t lie—yet Mydei wishes Phainon wouldn’t be so concerned.

As if he could read the Kremnoan’s thoughts, Phainon adds more: “But your pain matters as much as anyone else’s.”

If there is a sentence that makes this case not closed then Phainon has just said it—but Mydei understands feelings aren’t to be written over and he has faith in Phainon he would make the right choice next time. For everyone’s sake, with an understanding of his position in the Journey, Phainon must.

‘You are a fool,’ the words are on Mydei’s lips but he ends up staying quiet—but still, Phainon reads him either way.

“Call me foolish again if you want to—but it does matter to me, still,” Phainon says, his sky-blue eyes radiating with warmth. He is brave and he loves deep enough he stands Mydei’s forcefully neutral gaze. Then, quieter, now not matching the Kremnoan’s eyes as much, Phainon adds, “At least to me, it does.”

‘It does more to you than to me—and this is your task to overcome,’ Mydei thinks, but doesn’t say.

Bare at his heart, Phainon now squeezes Mydei’s hand for a moment and he gives Mydei an honest smile—it is full of love and sadness, the mixture tugging on heartstrings almost like nothing else.

Mydei sighs and looks away, then sinks lower into the water, dipping his head back to rest it on the edge. He still leans into Phainon, his relaxed muscles being much nicer than the hard surface of the bathtub; the newly found comfort of the position—as different bruises are being pushed now—along with the knowledge of just how deep Phainon’s love fill up Mydei’s heart in ways it hasn’t been since those nights he spent by the campfire in good company.

‘Thank you for caring about me.’

‘You needn’t worry for me—your mind should be on your upcoming trial instead.’

‘I hope you understand I would die as many times as I need so I can save others’ lives—this is my duty. I’d choose the same every single time.’

Sometimes—one more time tonight—words are hard and nothing Mydei can think of feels adequate enough. Mydei knows and accepts that Phainon cares and loves—once he is fully settled, content, his eyes closed, now Mydei squeezes Phainon’s hand for a moment.

“I assume you will not be leaving me alone tonight?” Mydei asks at the end. It’s not even a real question, more like a peace offering and a hoped-for closure of the topic.

To love an immortal who bears no scars, can die many times, and only feels the pain of these all… Mydei knows in the opposite case, he would care, too. One cannot just shrug and ignore—not when they love. Even though Mydei can handle himself and has been through this so many times, Phainon’s company is welcome and nice.

Bless his reluctance, Mydei thinks, Phainon answers him anyway, his voice clear and even:

“Unless you make me leave, I’d like to stay. And help you with your wounds however I’m able.”

Even though his eyes are closed, Mydei feels Phainon move and he knows the still leaking wounds and bruises on his body are being observed. Mydei wills himself not to sigh again. Of course, Phainon would like to help and do something—Phainon has been like this with everything. He must act so he feels the weight of the prophecy and fate less, keeping his anxieties at bay, his goals in front of himself.

“I will heal anyway,” Mydei starts, looking back up at Phainon again. Now his lowered, more sunken position makes Phainon tower over him—but with this man, Mydei would never mind the sight.

Seeing the rebuttal coming, Mydei continues to set hard lines he won’t allow Phainon to cross, his voice not heated, rather quiet, yet a little stern, “Before you’d even think about it, I won’t bother the healers. They have more than enough to do after the recent attack on the city.” Mydei could never take away the attention from others when this is nothing but pain for him.

Thinking for a moment about how not to refuse Phainon and maybe give him a real way to satisfy his heart that can get his mind off the matter, the best—a practical—reason (one that helps Mydei too to see this as something useful) comes to Mydei’s mind:

“I suppose… Just to avoid blood on the sheets that the cleaners would have to wash, you could tend to the wounds that still bleed.” His mind always on the logic and application of things, Mydei thinks of the sheets he surely bloodied earlier—and how a new set would end up the same way (as, if Phainon stays over, Mydei will surely get fresh ones). “I’d be grateful for that. If you meant this under ‘help’.”

Phainon did—and he also meant so much more. Things that are Mydei’s norm to ignore—out of convention, suitability, and habit. These make no difference—Mydei has reasoned with himself, spending his time and energy on different things instead.

Wordlessly, Phainon just agrees.

For the first time since the younger Chrysos Heir came, maybe only temporarily (because their conversation about the Strife will happen, Mydei is sure) like before, yet with real resolve and consensus over things, they both relax, the hot water with the irony smell washing away tension from their muscles, sitting by each other, hand in hand.

.

.

.

Time flies, the steam disappears, and the water truly starts to get cold. Mydei only exists—his healing body giving him all kinds of painful sensations while Phainon’s warmth brings companionate comfort that Mydei could do without, yet as he has it, he deeply appreciates.

When Phainon breaks the stillness of the water by sitting up, and suggests they leave, even though a part of Mydei would like to reply with something a little witty, just to get back to the usual tone of their conversation, nothing good comes to his mind. Maybe he is really just too tired now. And so, Mydei just nods and complies—Phainon only gives him a tiny smile that is more in his eyes than reaches his mouth this time.

Phainon clearly tries so hard—reading him feels as easy as breathing for Mydei (which, considering his hurting ribs, is actually harder to do now)—to keep to their previous agreement and not to bring up the topic again, yet his expression betrays him right away as Mydei attempts to stand.

It’d be a lie to say moving is easy.

With the heat of the battle and adrenaline gone, the slowly mending parts of his wounds and the effects of the healing itself are now settled deep into Mydei’s bones—the hot water simply couldn’t wash everything away. Mydei can keep a straight face, yet the sound of a tiny, sharp inhale escapes him as it takes a lot more of his strength than he expected to just push himself up from the almost viscous-feeling hot water.

For a moment, the feeling of the black water of the Sea of Souls plays in Mydei’s mind but he brushes the thought away—he isn’t dying now.

Shades of red and purple litter most of Mydei’s chest, back, and stomach with additional blotches around his shoulders, on his arms, and on the leg that Nikador previously smashed into something that was certainly not shaped like one.

Before Mydei can manoeuvre himself out of the tub—stepping over the tall edge and having all his weight on the formally broken, now deeply bruised leg feeling almost like a challenge—wordlessly, an arm is offered to him.

Looking up, Phainon’s sky-blue eyes are pure and he keeps silent. Mydei’s amber gaze meets Phainon’s—Mydei keeps himself from rolling his eyes and saying something as a jab, a fake bite without any real edge. He could—and Phainon wouldn’t judge him for it as it is their playground to do.

Yet, Mydei only blinks once, then looks down at the arm again and accepts the gesture. He isn’t used to such luxuries like this… but it comes from the right place and it would only be useless, stubborn, and irrational pride to push a helping hand away. Along the same reasoning, Mydei keeps his comment to himself because he knows Phainon means his gesture deeply and it matters to him.

With his breath still shallower than normal from the pain of bruised ribs, when the splashing sound of the water fills up the room, Mydei murmurs a ‘Thank you’ under his breath and leaves it to Phainon to decide if he wants to hear the words or not.

Maybe this is what Phainon takes as an invitation for more: before Mydei knows it, still dripping wet and naked, Phainon reaches for the soft towel Mydei likes the most and he wraps it around the Kremnoan with a smooth motion that leaves Mydei within the fuzzy warmth of the towel without the need to overextend his chest and he puts the fabric around himself.

Phainon could be infantilising, but he is not—he would never do that to Mydei. Neither would Mydei ever allow it—even though the younger Chrysos Heir’s love sometimes feels close to an enthusiastic puppy’s, and Mydei couldn’t truly fault Phainon for it.

However, when Mydei just thinks this is the line where Phainon stops, his lover has already dried himself off quickly by the time Kremnoan just patted his chest and arms dry, and now Phainon stands in front of Mydei again, only a half step between them.

“Can I…?” Phainon asks, hesitant, quiet, his expression bright with his will to help—yet without a trace of pity. He extends a hand towards the edge of Mydei’s towel as if to signal, and when Phainon isn’t sure his message has been clear enough, he adds, his voice even, “To help you dry.”

Eyes narrowing, an eyebrow darts up slightly on Mydei’s face, ‘What kind of a question is this, Deliverer?’

Yet, just after taking a look at the younger Chrysos Heir for a fleeting second, Mydei knows the answer and seeing Phainon’s pure eyes makes it impossible to say no. Still hesitant—because this has never been offered to Mydei before—and feeling strangely distant while Mydei is present, he gives Phainon a nod of consent.

Methodically but quickly, Phainon gets to work—no matter how many times they’ve been together chasing the high at night, now Phainon’s motions even around Mydei’s manhood are intimate, yet not sexual. They may—and they do—love each other with hot kisses, bonfire-like, but this here, is love too. And it feels warm like the long-lasting ambers of a campfire.

Once finished—it barely takes a minute—Phainon reaches for a clean chiton Mydei wears to sleep from the shelf of clean towels and sleepwear, and he holds it up around ankle height so all Mydei has to do is step into it before Phainon slides it up to his hip level first. His brows crossing, Phainon observes the wound on Mydei’s chest that still bleeds slowly, then the shape of the chiton’s one-shouldered upper part, before he decides the fabric won’t get bloody so he offers Mydei the hole at the arm as well.

The sight is… strange. Yet utterly endearing.

Mydei slides up the shoulder loop over his clavicle himself, then seeing Phainon’s content expression, Mydei submits to the urge: reaching towards Phainon’s half-dry, fluffy hair, Mydei ruffles the locks at the top a little.

‘Silly man, I can dress myself up,’ the words are on Mydei’s lips, yet he cannot will himself to say them—from the look of Phainon and the smile that spreads onto his face, he can likely read Mydei’s mind anyway.

Mydei lets his hand fall—before the silence between them could grow uncomfortable, now put-together and practical, Phainon continuous with the course of their evening:

“You should sit, I will get gauze.” The sentence is almost nonchalant in its shortness as if this would be the norm—it isn’t, but this is what they agreed on. Phainon waits for Mydei’s nod, then disappears to the tiny adjacent room where Mydei stores different types of supplies.

The wondering thought comes: just how long has Phainon been aware of everything’s place in his chambers…?

Left to his own devices, Mydei takes a single look at his shedded clothes and the Kremnoan jewellery neckpiece that Phainon must have replaced on top so it is put down safely, with respect to its origin, then Mydei limps towards his bedroom, to his bed. He allows himself to care not much about the looks of his walk. Mydei could take the pain and walk more normally, but it wouldn’t help him heal faster—and also, neither could he fool Phainon who certainly hears his footsteps across the room and would notice also if they sounded too normal.

The act of sitting down is just as bad when he had to stand, but Mydei keeps an almost straight expression, barely flinching—as always, out of habit. Even if there is no one to see him. Slowly, Mydei outstreches his bruised leg and he lets his shoulders slump to make breathing easier.

Soon enough, Phainon comes back with gauze and a bottle of ointment—he doesn’t ask again or make Mydei say anything more before he gets to work. With Mydei sitting on the low bed, now wearing a chiton for sleep too, Phainon kneels between Mydei’s legs to have good access to the injuries he intends to care for.

Mydei watches Phainon’s precise motions as he tends to a wound that the hot water and time couldn’t yet steal on Mydei’s free shoulder. The concentrated face of Phainon is… just a beautiful sight—but Mydei wishes he could dissolve the tiny wrinkles from Phainon’s forehead as his worry, sheer empathy, and how much he feels for Mydei are written on him a bit too much. Phainon’s touches are very gentle, too—it’s again something that Mydei is now used to. He isn’t in this context.

‘You can’t break me, I hope you know. It is alright if the ointment and the pressure hurt.’

‘You try so hard to meet the expectations you set for yourself—don’t you think you should treat yourself with the same kindness you are showing to me now?’

‘Phainon, do not worry. And… thank you.’

Deep in thought and his work, when Phainon slides down the shoulder piece on Mydei to get better access so he can apply the ointment and proper bandage to the wound on Kremnoan’s side, instead of saying any of his thoughts, Mydei interrupts the silence with something else:

“Undressing me already?”

His tone kept flat, yet his amber gaze gleaming with a hint of playfulness, Mydei’s attempt to lift mood and lighten the atmosphere is obvious… Yet, Phainon doesn’t fall for it now; instead, he stays serious.

Stopping in his tracks, Phainon meets Mydei’s eyes with a solemn expression before he leans down to kiss the edge of Mydei’s collarbone at the point where bone meets the knotted muscles of the shoulder.

His breath hot on Mydei’s skin, quietly, yet with newly found determination to meet the anticipations everyone and he has for himself, Phainon answers, “The next time I will undress you, I will stand in front of you as an ascended Demigod.”

Next to the wound he tended before, Phainon lays another soft kiss on Mydei’s bare skin… then just in a span of a second, before Mydei can react to his former sentence, the tower of his confidence trembles under itself and Phainon’s head drops, hanging low.

Only with his overconfident lie, Phainon breaks himself.

His head lightly pushes onto Mydei’s upper arm, almost tickling with his hair, while Phainon’s arms go limp, one hanging by his side while he lets the other fall next to Mydei onto the bed—even now, Phainon pays detailed attention to not hurt Mydei on accident.

Mydei knows: Phainon has tried so hard to keep his worries to himself and not let his loud anxieties take over his mind—yet it took only one too-confident sentence to have his facade broken, leaving him unable to even look up. Many words swirl in Mydei’s mind—too many for his conscious mind to even comprehend—yet neither feels just right to say. Not as comfort and encouragement at the same time, anyway.

For the second time tonight, Mydei reaches up with a hand to touch Phainon’s head.

It’s just one, simple motion—an attempt to comfort with more clarity than what words could offer. For a long moment, Mydei leaves his hand, his fingers lightly brushing into fluffy, white hair. This is to give confidence, to support, to help insecurities wash away without starting a conversation that can make it all worse.

Mydei isn’t sure if speaking or keeping silent is the better option—not yet.

“Phainon?” He asks instead, his voice even, not using ‘Deliverer’ on purpose.

But as if the comforting motion and the mention of his name would feel bad, Phainon pulls away—his haunted look tells the story in his place: he doesn’t even feel worthy of this. Insecurity drips into Phainon’s features, tainting his expression; his gaze meets Mydei’s but it takes effort. Formerly kneeling, now Phainon sinks and sits back on his heels. His mask in shattered pieces, he averts his gaze when the quiet words finally come:

“Mydeimos, this is your legacy. The Strife belongs to you and I should not be taking it away.”

His head hanging low, Phainon awaits for rebuttal already—he is well aware of Mydei’s opinion. He doesn’t see how his sight makes Mydei question himself for a second whether or not it is rightful that he pushes the only person towards his beliefs—Mydei admits to himself he has worries about Phainon being able to claim the Strife. Yet his worries co-exist with the trust and faith he has for Phainon.

Closing his eyes for one very long second and trying to think where to go with this, Mydei exhales slowly. He has his very deep reasons for not wanting the Strife. He doesn’t want to hurt Phainon any further or make this weight harder to carry, yet, Mydei must be very clear about what he wants. Simply, taking the Strife is not an option for him—it isn’t because of his people.

“Stand up,” Mydei asks, kindly—yet it is a command.

Swallowing hard and taking a moment for himself, with his own control lost, Phainon submits and obeys; raising to his feet, he is forced to meet Mydei’s eyes even with a hanging head.

“Do you wish to entertain me with a pointless argument tonight about whether or not this is my legacy?” Mydei starts. His voice isn’t harsh, yet this is a border he is not willing to cross—his reasons are his own and Phainon must know. Mydei is sure he does. The potential threat he could mean for Amphoreus has to be a fact Phainon must see—he may also know enough of the Kremnoan history to understand some of why having the Strife would only push Mydei to take up a crown he doesn’t want, leading his people to annihilation.

But however about Mydei’s reasons—this is about Phainon’s refusal.

Before Phainon can reply, Mydei adds more to clarify, “I made up my mind about it and even if you step back from the Strife, I will not take it.” His tone is now strict and stern—Mydei is willing to take zero arguments on the matter. The muscle on Phainon’s jaw protrudes as Mydei’s unbendable will burns in his words.

Then, about Phainon… Now kinder, with less sternness, Mydei continues, “But you also must know there isn’t anyone else but you who I think is capable enough. I couldn’t think of anyone else I would allow to take Nikador’s Coreflame.”

His amber gaze burning like molten iron, Mydei puts all his trust into his sentence: “It is you, and only you, Deliverer.”

The corner of Phainon’s eyes well up—he blinks quickly a few times, trying his best to compose himself. Mydei wishes he could hug and kiss the man he loves—and he will. Just not yet, because he has still a bit more to add.

“You know the prophecy as well as I do… but even without those words, only because I know you, I would believe in you. You fought by my side for many years now and if you trust my judgement,” raising a hand to not let Phainon interrupt—because he is upset, because this could never be a question—Mydei asks for silence so he can finish, “then you must not question me when I say I trust you to pass the trial.”

Mydei doesn’t lie: he worries, yet, he knows Phainon’s strength and he believes with his everything that if Phainon gets himself together, then he can defeat the shadows of the past.

Swallowing hard, Phainon’s Adam’s apple bobbles in the motion—of course, he would never question Mydei… and so, if he still believes in Mydei, he must believe in himself now. The tiniest nod is the only answer he can muster—but it is enough for both of them. For now, it is.

Mydei moves to stand up slowly—like before, Phainon offers a hand that now Mydei takes without hesitation, his reaction changing the pained expression that formally sits on Phainon. Even if it is unusual to accept such gestures, the way it makes Phainon feel useful grips Mydei’s heart—he knows this brilliant young man he loves is so much more than pain, revenge, duty, and faked confidence.

Once their eyes are on the same level, while still holding Phainon’s hand and not letting go, now much quieter and softer, Mydei says, “I believe in you.”

Phainon’s eyes widen and he just nods a little. He is trying to look strong and also believe in himself.

The remnant of the distance between them is only a half-step—Mydei closes it and he pulls Phainon into a hug. Not too tight—but tight enough that Phainon can feel his care without a doubt. It’s for a long moment then Mydei draws back and leans into a quick kiss—after a moment of hesitation, Phainon meets him in the middle.

With his sky-blue eyes a little bit shiny, yet bright, calmness slowly filling up his heart again, Phainon holds Mydei where he has the least amount of bruises and he kisses back.

It’s not too deep and not too long—yet it speaks of love between them. They also don’t last long because the day has been way too long, and they both are utterly exhausted. Mydei also admits to himself even though he would like this and more a lot, his body would protest and he couldn’t enjoy things at their best.

Maybe, in the future, on a similar occasion, more words could be said—but for tonight, gestures are enough.

Phainon suggests eating, bringing the basket of goods to Mydei’s bedroom but the Kremnoan Heir declines—Phainon doesn’t push him. While Phainon finishes tending the wound he started before their talk, eventually, deeply appreciating the thoughtfulness, Mydei settles with a glass of pomegranate juice in the end that he drinks very slowly—after he had his guts punctured and his insides out, it is always a strange feeling to drink or eat first after organs and tissues are mended once again.

They just sit by each other, similarly to how they’ve done in the water while Mydei sips on his cup; eventually, Phainon finishes the bittersweet juice so not a single poured-out drop goes to waste.

No talk is needed to proceed: once the cup is empty, Phainon finds where Mydei keeps his spare sheets (he doesn’t even have to search) and without a question, he changes the blood-soaked ones Mydei slept in before. Then he closes out the light of the Everday and joins Mydei in bed, now both settling in for the night in a proper way.

Just lying isn’t so easy for Mydei with this many bruises and healing wounds; of course, Phainon doesn’t bother Mydei about holding each other—yet Mydei pulls closer and they end up in light contact, limbs intertwined. Phainon prompts Mydei to have his bruised leg on top of his own while Phainon’s shoulder and the crook of his neck serve as a headrest for the Kremnoan.

While it could be so hard to fit well, somehow, they still do it with ease, as comfortably as it’s possible for both. With most things settled, Phainon eventually wraps an arm around Mydei—his other hand finds and holds Mydei’s free hand that lies between them.

‘This is nice,’ Mydei thinks—he holds Phainon’s hand a little tighter for a moment before the sheer exhaustion of the day’s events takes him out and the dark vines of unconsciousness welcome him once again.

This time, despite having spent so much time with the corrupted Nikador, no nightmare finds Mydei—he dreams of the talk with his mother he otherwise does every single night.

.

.

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Unbeknownst to Mydei, Phainon lies awake for the longest time, barely sleeping anything—yet, just being there with Mydei and listening to his breathing puts his mind at ease much better than anything else could. Phainon’s mind echoes Mydei’s words about belief all night, slowly overcoming the crawling monster of doubt that has taken a place in his heart, poisoning his blood.

Barely drifting away to sleep, Phainon still remains motionless.

When Mydei wakes and the voice of his mother quiets in his mind, he can tell right away that Phainon is awake—yet his worries and anxieties aren’t palpable anymore like before.

With the remnants of his dream fading away, Mydei exhales slowly and pushes a little closer to Phainon’s warm body—in response, faking he’s just waking up, Phainon moves as well. Mydei lets him get away with the wordless lie.

It is likely for the better: when Mydei pulls away to sit up, despite many hours having passed, his body is still not healed enough. No wounds bleed anymore and the bruises faded significantly, yet Mydei’s bones and muscles ache deep within. In his momentary surprise at the agony—as by now, he is usually in a much better state—Mydei flinches before he takes control of his expression.

Of course, Phainon notices—this gives him the best excuse to ask Mydei to stay back and not come to the trial. Big sky-blue eyes ask Mydei, almost pleading, wordlessly, to accept—and so, Mydei does.

Leaving the Kremnoan Heir to sit in bed alone, Phainon quickly disappears towards the bathroom to find his clothes and dress up—he only comes back to bid wordless goodbye. After nodding to each other, Phainon turns; he is almost out of the door when Mydei calls after him, letting him go with a few last words:

“I don’t wish you good luck because I know you can pass the trial. See you later, Deliverer.” ‘My heart is with you. May the strength of Nikador—and their original goodness—carry you on your way today. The power of Strife is also the queller of strife.’

Chapter Text

The trial goes wrong—the waves of emotions about his people’s fate, his fears of the future and possibilities, and his worry for Phainon overlap above Mydei’s head and bury him deep. He is expected to stay level-headed, so he does—it’s like a drill, the result of religious training and control over himself he acquired through a lifetime.

Old—dead—friends, his mother’s mentions, and new allies turning on him… Nikador’s trial knocks Mydei out of his emotional balance, and for moments, he slips.

Mydeimos never loses control—except Nikador sees to the most hidden corners of his heart, prodding and chewing on his deepest anxieties.

Amidst a fight, with his back bare, suddenly comes Phainon: even though he cannot know just how crucial and fatal it could be if Mydei is not fast enough, the relief that Phainon is here, stronger than any worry or care Mydei could ever have for himself, for nearly dying. Permanently this time.

“Found you,” Mydei exhales with a slightly bloody rasp, his side bleeding where Phainon’s blade reached him—but no pain could ever prevent him from holding onto Phainon’s hand with his own, dreading the moment when he has to let go.

Mydei might have had an ‘unconventional’ childhood—sometimes, this makes him think this is why he is so easy to ‘set up’ with stubbornness and childish rivalry. Unworthy of the leader he is, yet when time and the lack of a new fight allow, Mydei indulges in whatever insanity of a challenge Phainon has for him, his blood not letting him stay calm and say no. If he knows well (or he hopes) that there is no way Phainon comes out as a winner, then the stubborn suffering of their new fight and then the eventual victory taste even better.

Hot water, a mildly passed out Chrysos Heir… and the eventual mess they make and clean up—for them, this is the intro to a conversation where they spill the depth of their souls like they’ve never done before.

It is one thing to assume things about the person you love—and a completely different one to hear about the tragedies of his life, falling from his mouth, word by word. It’s rare when Phainon’s sky-blue gaze doesn’t search for Mydei’s; knowing of the reason, the Kremnoan makes no comment, and listens with every fibre of his being, hoping that even without confirmation, Phainon knows this.

Mydei has never talked about the five friends he lost, never like this—Phainon’s raw honesty and all these years of fighting and loving him loosen Mydei’s tongue as not even the sweetest, most seductive and dangerous wine could.

Trusting Phainon has been natural for a while—yet when his formidable search for a new path to the future becomes clear to Mydeimos, he knows the time has arrived when he has to trust the man he loves with the last and most hidden piece of himself. Something that no one else could be worthy of.

Phainon is Mydei’s insurance—if there was another reason why Mydei would not want to go down this road, then it is the inevitable ending that must wait for them one day.

One day, Mydei will die, and Death will reject him no more.

He’ll be given the easy way.

Mydei had learnt that death doesn’t hurt those who die and leave—it burdens and tortures the ones who stay. If there were a way he could save Phainon from this and the weight that he might have to put Mydei down like a rabid animal, then Mydei would give anything to switch places and bear this burden on his own instead. Yet…

All he has is hope. Hope against the calculating logic that has been moving Mydei to work with his kind heart and create a better future, rebelling—but it is futile. Vain as fate is not his to decide, and hope is illusionary—yet making being strong more effective as once he’s a demigod, the Flame Reaver is defeated, and Mydei leaves Okhema to submit himself to the corruption of the black tide, the hope gives him the resilience to fight it even better.

Maybe, if Mydei really wants it… Maybe there is a way, a possible future where he can hold off the black tide while keeping his sanity. Maybe, there is a timeline when even though Phainon knows how he could end Mydei, it doesn’t have to happen because, against all odds, the Guardian of Amphoreus managed to stay lucid enough, and the Flamechase Joureny ends sooner.

Maybe…

If only…

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‘But… if there’s a chance in the next life, you should come visit my library.’

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The rainy afternoon brings a salty breeze into the small house by the seaside through the barely opened window of this warm, late spring day. Hugging closer under a cosy blanket, with a few old books from the library around, this Saturday is the perfect time for Phainon and Mydei to rest.

Found. Together. Loved. Happy. Forever in this life.