Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

and i’m still hurting.

The golden stalks of wheat swayed in the gentle breeze. Cool water lapped at his bare feet as he turned the ring over and over in his hand.

“They all needed a moment to breathe,” said the golden figure next to him, warm and gentle. A little on the small side, Phainon thought, but then—they'd been made by a young boy who didn't know a whole lot about the world beyond his golden wheat fields. “To process the weight of five million lifetimes.”

“Thereabouts,” Phainon absently said, staring at the ring in his hand. There was the stamp of Strife’s symbol, and the word always etched in Kremnoan. “Five million, three hundred and twenty-seven.” He breathed in, then out.

“Are you all right?” asked the golden figure, the gentle dream of hope.

“Did you know,” said Phainon, casually, “that I’d gotten married?”

“Oh?” the golden figure said, eyes sparkling brightly. Phainon laughed a little, and nodded. “Oh! That’s good, I’m so glad for you. He must’ve been someone really special.”

“He was,” said Phainon. “God, he was.” He wiped at his eyes, tried to breathe through his stuffy nose, then said apologetically, “I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s okay,” said the hero, kindly, and put an arm around him and held him tight. Phainon had not thought of his dreamed-up hero in years, but he fell into the embrace anyway and wept, felt a warm hand pat his shoulders. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” said Phainon, “it’s all I’ll have left of him. I can’t keep the ring or he’ll know that I’m important to him and I—” His voice cracked, not from the Coreflames now burning him up from the inside, charring him to ashes, but with the sheer grief that threatened to drown him. “He’ll hesitate,” he said. “He can't hesitate. Not with me. I can’t let it out, I can’t let it go.” If he let this wound heal closed, what would be left of this cycle?

The golden figure breathed sadly out, and patted his back. “All right,” he said. “Then use it—remember him, always.”

Phainon breathed in, then out, then reluctantly pulled away. “You know what my answer is,” he said. “I will bear this burden.”

“You always say that,” said the golden figure, so sad and quiet.

Phainon nodded. “I’ll be the Flame Reaver of this life,” he said, “and keep my promise to Cyrene. I’ll stop Era Nova, no matter what I have to do—fight Destruction with Destruction, and steal the Coreflames, until this body like all the rest burns to ashes. I’ll find the next me, and he will promise the same thing.” Then his shoulders slumped, and his fingers closed around the ring. “I just have one question.”

“Ask,” said the hero. “I think I know what it is.”

“Mydei,” said Phainon, and if his voice had cracked before, now it felt like a husk of itself. Mydei grinning at him on the rooftops of Okhema, wooden sword against golden gauntlet. Mydei bringing him into a tent with his friends and all of them granting their blessings for their wedding. Mydei in the dim light of Styxia surrounding them, tilting his head at him and saying, Another Kremnos festival? I’ll think about it.

Mydei, bleeding, turning back to face the executioner coming inexorably after them as Phainon ran towards the Vortex. Go. Do what you must. I love you. I love you always.

“Will I ever see him again?” Phainon asked, now. “Not—Not my Mydei, I know he’s gone, I—” He, the Flame Reaver, had killed him. Mercifully quickly, yes, but. Still. He was gone, now, with all the rest of that cycle, and lived on only in memory. No matter what, though, he’d hold on to the vow they’d made to each other, and to his promise to Cyrene. “Just. Mydei. I’ll see him again, right?”

“You always do,” the hero reassured him, gently, voice a low rumble. “Whether as Phainon or as the Reaver, you and Mydeimos always meet.”

Phainon breathed out. Then he said, “Okay. I can live with that.” He grinned at the hero, even as tears blurred his vision, and for a moment he thought he saw golden hair, tipped with red. “You know, I got really lucky. Five million, three hundred and twenty-seven cycles, but this is the first one where the two of us got married,” he said.

“That really is lucky,” said the golden figure. “You loved each other so deeply that you’ll carry it forever.”

“Yeah,” said Phainon. He stood up, and kissed the ring that Mydei had once slipped onto his finger. “Goodbye, Mydei,” he whispered into the wind, a prayer to a god not yet born, a god long-dead, a god who once had been a man who loved him. “You were the brightest part of this ashen life. I’m so sorry, for what I’ve done and what I will keep doing. I promise—I will love you always, and I will make your sacrifice worth it.”

Then he held his hand above the water, and let go of the ring.

“Are you going to be all right?” the hero asked him quietly.

Phainon shut his eyes for the last time. “Give me the sword and dagger,” said Khaslana, when he opened them again, firmly resolved. “And let me step across the ashes of the old world and burn.”

--

now i’m getting somewhere.

If Mydei ever saw Leonnius again he was going to strangle him and chuck his body over the walls of Okhema. Probably. Maybe. Surely, Perdikkas could run just as fast as him, right? Or that cat burglar from Dolos, the one named Cipher. There was a thought. Though he figured he would have to pay exorbitantly for her services.

Phainon, recently named the Deliverer of Okhema, and not too long ago just some upstart soldier who’d brawled with Mydei in the dirt for days on end, sat across the table from him, picking at his sleeve. Beyond them, a band, clearly hired by Aglaea, played a rapturously romantic melody that Mydei just knew Peucesta was responsible for writing. That little shit.

Torture. Torture for all his brilliant and terrible friends. He would start with subjecting Peucesta to the worst poetry he could find in the Grove. Peucesta could take it.

Phainon shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders back with a sigh. His shirt lifted up, and Mydei saw a peek of—of tanned skin, and cut hips, and a faded scar, and, oh horror of horrors, Mydeimos the Undying, the Last Prince of Kremnos, squawked.

He saw the cleverly disguised man over at the other table snicker, and decided that if this didn’t work out he was going to make Hephaestion man the kitchens at the Marmoreal Palace. Wait, on second thought, that was a bad idea, Hephaestion had that deceptively wet-eyed look that sent Okhemans all aflutter. He’d recruit more people into this insane campaign.

“So,” said Phainon.

“So,” said Mydei, wondering how badly it would hurt if he jumped off this second story. Surely not that bad. He’d died in worse ways. Phainon was sitting right there with his—his blue, blue eyes, watching Mydei with deep intent. “I suppose we can give this up as a wash,” he said, doing his best to seem as dignified and regal and aloof as ever. “If the Lady Tribios was truly as free as Hephaestion said they were, one of them would’ve shown up by now.”

“Yeah, I mean, weird, right,” said Phainon, resting a cheek on the palm of his hand. “Tribbie’s usually pretty punctual. I wonder what’s keeping her.” His eyes were still fixed on Mydei, and he had a funny little smile on his face, the corners of his pretty mouth turned upward. This smile wasn’t the charming, friendly smile the Deliverer of Okhema wore to greet refugees from far and wide. This was smaller, softer.

Hangings. Hangings for all his friends. By the ankles. They could take it, they’d hazed each other worse for kicks when they were all stupid teenagers.

“No point to waiting for her if she’s not going to show up,” said Mydei, getting to his feet.

Phainon reached out his hand, fingers catching onto Mydei’s, and sparks went up Mydei’s arm as Phainon’s sword-calloused fingers brushed over his and lingered. “Hey,” he said. “We got all that food coming our way soon, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

“I ordered none of it and neither did you,” Mydei grumbled, but sat back down because he loathed wasting good food. His friends knew it, clearly—they’d gone ahead and ordered not only his favorites, but also a few dishes that, when the waiter had read them out to him and Phainon, made the city’s beloved Deliverer light right up at the sound of their names. Which meant the fuckers had been plotting this for a while and had talked some of Phainon’s friends into this too. Malakas, all of them. “Why are you staying here? You must’ve figured out their scheme already.”

“Yeah, by the time I made it to the restaurant I’d kind of figured out the shape of it at least,” said Phainon.

“Kind of,” said Mydei. “Do you really win debates hedging your bets like that?”

“We’re not in a debate,” said Phainon. “I can hedge. But hey, Mydei.” He tilted his head to the side, his manner more serious and thoughtful as he did so, and said, “You know you can tell me if I’m bad company, right? I know I’m the one who starts our competitions, but if you ever don't want to hang out with me you can just say so.”

Mydei stared at him in shock, unable to quite believe what Phainon was saying to him. Did he think he was bad company? Him? Mydei was well aware he himself could be abrasive and hard to talk to, and he was just fine with that, but Phainon was always the sort of person who got along with damn near everyone. He’d seen that from the start.

Because he’s holding back, some tiny part of Mydei pointed out, and Mydei—couldn’t really argue with himself, there. Since he and Phainon had first met, he’d come to find out that Phainon was particularly good at reflecting what other people wanted to see back at them. He was also incredibly bad at saying what he, personally, wanted. Mydei only knew his favorite foods because he’d kept a close watch on what Phainon liked to get from the kitchens.

“Mydei?”

“You’re not bad company,” Mydei said, realizing—damn it, he’d gotten distracted, staring at Phainon’s neck.

“You want to leave,” Phainon said.

“I do,” Mydei acknowledged, “but you hold no fault. I dislike being set up on a date with someone who may not hold the same regard I have for him.”

Phainon had gone still, and was blinking rapidly at him now. “Wait,” he said, “hold on. What?”

“I know, all right, Deliverer,” said Mydei. “You have a job. You’re here to make nice with the Kremnoan detachment. If Aglaea’s told you that you ought to keep an eye on me—”

“Um,” was Phainon’s eloquent response.

“—then trying to be kind about it isn’t necessary,” said Mydei.

Phainon coughed. He said, “That’s. Wait. You think I’m just keeping an eye on you?” There was a hurt note to his voice, like he hadn’t quite realized that, and now Mydei looked at him, really looked at him, and saw that he was wearing a much nicer, far less worn cape than his usual. And come to think of it he wasn’t as armored as he typically was. “I’m. Oh, no. Mydei, I’m not keeping an eye on you, I’m trying to hang out with you because I like hanging out with you.”

Mydei’s jaw dropped, slightly. “What,” he said.

“We fought for ten days!” Phainon said. “I thought, hey, that's a Kremnoan thing, right? Your people like that in someone they’re courting! I asked Peucesta and everything and he said so. I thought…” He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes briefly downcast, a flash of vulnerability that twisted Mydei’s heartstrings around before he looked back up and reassumed the Deliverer’s persona. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s fine. We’re friends, right? You said you hold some regard for me.”

Mydei stared at him, and said, “Back up. Courting? Have you been flirting with me the whole time?”

“Have been for months,” said Phainon.

“Was this,” said Mydei, gesturing wildly to the band, the restaurant, the food, “your plan?”

Phainon shook his head. “My plan,” he said, “was to bring you somewhere quiet and just ask you out there. I swear to you I didn’t know what Tribbie and your friends got up to until I saw the restaurant.”

Mydei thought of how much of his time and money and very self Phainon gave to the Flame-Chase, how he’d dedicated himself to fighting for this dying world to have a brighter future in the Era Nova, how he had stepped up to the role of Deliverer with a bright smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. As if doubt still clouded his heart, over whether it was a role he could perform well. And being the Deliverer, destined to bear the weight of the world, demanded a performance in public—everyone seemed to want his time, his help.

“Come with me,” said Mydei. “We’ll come back for the food later—but I want to talk to you in private.” No masks, no personas, no performance.

Phainon went, and Mydei swore he saw the man’s shoulders relax with relief as the two of them vacated their table, heading towards the restaurant’s rooftop. It was a bright and sunny day as ever, but by Mydei’s estimation it was likely late evening outside the ever-lit holy city of Okhema. Up here, there were no eyes fixed on them, just a rooftop garden in full flourish.

Mydei stalled for a moment, touching a particularly green lettuce leaf.

Phainon said, “Aglaea told me, actually, not to provoke you at all. When we first met and she assigned me to greet you and the detachment.”

Mydei blinked at him. “And how long did that resolve of yours to follow that particular order last?” he asked.

“Crumbled the first moment you asked who the hell I was to speak to you,” said Phainon. “But hey, you’re the one who started the fight.”

“And the one who won it,” said Mydei.

“Absolutely the fuck not,” said Phainon, jabbing him in the bicep with his index finger. “But—yeah, I’ve been trying to court you, ever since. It’s not—If I really did want to just keep an eye on you, I wouldn't be trying to get close to you. I like you.” Now he stepped back, scuffed at the floor with the toe of his shoe, and said, “But if you don’t want me to—”

Mydei stepped forward, grabbed hold of Phainon’s arm, and pulled him flush against his chest to kiss him, forceful and sure. He scraped his teeth over Phainon’s lower lip, and Phainon nearly smashed their noses together trying to outdo him on getting the best angle possible. After a moment, he pulled away and said, “I want you to. Deliverer. Phainon.”

Phainon leaned in to nibble at the shell of his ear. “Mydei,” he said, breathy, full of wonder, a fire in his eyes, and Mydei thought: I’m going to marry you.

--

i didn’t know you had to go so soon.

“Mydei!” Phainon called, relieved to see his husband inside the Marmoreal Palace. “Oh, thank god, you’re—” Then he stopped right in his tracks, and saw the blood in his hair, the bruises, and the Century Gate closing just behind him. “Mydei…? Where—What happened?”

“Hephaestion shoved me into the Century Gate and said he and the others would hold off the Reaver as long as they could,” said Mydei, all but falling forward into Phainon’s arms. “We have—hours, maybe just minutes, before the Reaver comes for us both. You’re headed to the Vortex now?”

“Yes,” Phainon said, and helped Mydei steady himself. He looked like shit. He looked like he’d been fighting for—god, too long. Had he seen his friends fall? Phainon wanted nothing more than to whisk him off and hold him tight, reassure him that they would see each other again in the new world as Anaxa had said, but they didn’t have time. “Are you all right?”

“I’m healing,” Mydei grunted. “Keep moving. If I slow you down, leave me behind.”

“Not fucking happening,” said Phainon, and he got an arm around Mydei’s waist and helped him up, and together the two of them ran like hell. “We’re going to the Vortex together and you’ll—you can see Era Nova with me.”

Mydei laughed, a little. “We’ll transcend prophesized fate together, is that it?” he asked. “How hopeful of you, Phainon.”

He didn’t feel very hopeful. Everyone was gone, all because of the Flame Reaver, and the only thing left to do was to deliver the last Coreflame and bring forth the new dawn. But Mydei was here, and alive, and holding on to him tightly, and that was enough to keep Phainon going. “I made a promise when we got married,” he said. “Remember? If our battles are one and the same, so are our victories.”

Mydei breathed out slowly, then hissed in pain. “Think that’s a rib,” he muttered. “And we both promised to see Era Nova through, no matter the cost. Are you scared of a prophecy now, Deliverer?”

“We will,” said Phainon. “Only—fuck, you’re in pain…”

“I’ll live a little while longer,” said Mydei, wry. “But you and I know the Flame-Chase supersedes all else. Even our own vows.” His hand found Phainon’s, slick with blood and sweat, and gripped it tightly. “I need you to promise me this,” he said. “Do not stay with me, if he comes. When he comes. Go and bring new light into this world.”

“You can’t ask me that,” said Phainon, “you can’t—don’t tell me to leave you—”

“I’m ordering you,” said Mydei. “As the last king, as the demigod of Strife.”

“You don’t give me orders!” Phainon snapped, furious now even as they more or less staggered together towards the last Century Gate Trinnon ever opened, waiting for them in the once-beautiful baths of the Marmoreal Palace. Now bodies floated in the waters, and Phainon swallowed bile as he spotted the faces of people he had once known.

Mydei tightened his grip, and pushed his forehead against Phainon’s as his other hand grabbed hold of Phainon’s shoulder, to turn him so they were facing each other. That hand then pushed into his hair, and Mydei kissed him—soft, gentle, tasting like copper and salt. “Then I’m begging you as your husband,” he said, when the kiss broke. “I’ve seen my friends fall to his blade already. Please. Don’t make me see you fall, either.”

Phainon shook his head, said, “I saw everyone else die, please, Mydei, please, I just—”

“Phainon,” said Mydei, “my dearest. My love. These past years have been the brightest part of this battle-scarred life.” His hands pressed against the sides of Phainon’s face, and he smiled. Oh, god, he smiled, that last, sad smile of a man who knew he would never see him again. Phainon’s vision swam with his own tears, and Mydei laughed, a little sad, and shook his head. “Find me again,” he said, “in the next life. And I will bring you to my library, and we’ll just read until the candlelight fails.”

“Please—”

“Your heart was the home I felt the safest in,” said Mydei, and pushed him towards the Century Gate as the space just ten, fifteen feet away tore open, the jagged edge of the Flame Reaver’s sword sawing through the fabric of space and time. “Now go. Do what you must. I love you. I love you always.”

Phainon didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave Mydei to his fate, facing the monster that had slaughtered their friends, their family, everyone they had ever loved. Wanted to rush to him and protect his back as he always had. Instinct screamed at him to go to Mydei, keep him safe, turn away the sword aimed at his husband’s spine.

But his husband had begged him, and so Phainon, with a ragged, grieving cry, turned away and ran through the Gate towards the Vortex, carrying Kephale’s Coreflame all the while.

Behind him, just as the Gate was closing, Mydei laughed. “Come and face me!” he shouted. “Martyrs, behold—the final Kremnos Festival has begun!” The Gate slammed shut as Phainon looked back, and Phainon caught only a final glimpse of Mydei’s back, the crystals shimmering into existence around his fist.

Too late for Mydei to hear him, Phainon whispered, “I love you.”

Chapter Text

what tomorrow’s bringing.

“You cheated!” Phainon shouted, bursting into the dining hall and pointing a finger at Mydei, who’d been eating breakfast with Ptolemy and Krateros.

Ptolemy choked, and turned shocked eyes onto Mydei. “What did he just—”

“Oh, no, don’t worry, he’s just being theatrical,” said Mydei, as his lover of an entire month marched over to the table to grab a hold of his tunic. Krateros nearly startled to his feet, but Mydei shook his head. “And no, Deliverer, I didn’t cheat.”

“Yesterday!” Phainon said, trying to shake him. “The chimera competition! It went to you, and you said it must like you better, but I just found out from Hyacine you’d been bribing them all for a week.” He wagged his finger in front of Mydei’s face, and said, “So you cheated! In advance, somehow!”

“Or maybe,” said Mydei, maintaining his poker face as he sliced off some ham, “you’re being paranoid. Try some ham.”

“Oh,” said Ptolemy. “Oh, it’s about your competition—okay!” He laughed, relaxing now.

Krateros narrowed his eyes at Phainon. “You would impugn the honor of the prince of Castrum Kremnos over your petty competitions?” he growled.

“Yes,” said Phainon, insolently. Then he paused, and added, “Because I’m right, and Hyacine wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I have been feeding the chimeras for some time,” said Mydei, “but you’re a fool who needs his head checked if you think I somehow saw the future and decided to use such foreknowledge to cheat one of our competitions.” He took a sip of his juice. “How dare you.”

“You goaded me into that specific competition!” Another jab to his bicep.

“You’re very easily goaded if a simple suggestion was enough to convince you,” said Mydei, amused. “Krateros, put your hand down, it’s fine. He’s just being a dramatic fool for attention.” He nudged Phainon’s side, then scooted over on the bench to make room for him. “Get your own food,” he said, shielding his ham from Phainon’s greedy fingers.

“I already ate,” said Phainon.

“Ah,” said Ptolemy, heaving a sigh, “young love. Look, Krateros! Like Alkeides and Megara of the myths of old—uh, before Alkeides went insane.”

“I’ve read that play,” said Phainon, and Mydei’s heart skipped a beat when he realized what that meant—the story of Alkeides and Megara was a Kremnoan tragedy, where the madness of Nikador had seized Alkeides and led him to slaughter even his own kin. Most Okhemans thought it was too brutal and violent and heavy-handed to even bother to read it. “It was heartbreaking. I came in thinking I’d hate Alkeides but I left realizing that all the odds had been stacked against them from the start—I just felt awful for the both of them, even when they were so happy. Maybe because they’d been doomed from the beginning.”

“You missed the subtlety of the play,” Krateros huffed.

Ptolemy shot Krateros a Look and said, “You read it? You should watch it sometime! Mydeimos can take you, right, Your Highness?” He grinned smugly at Mydei, still proud of himself for his part in helping set the two of them up. Mydei briefly entertained a fantasy of hanging his best historian by the ankles over a pool of circling piranhas, then sighed and let it go.

“Ignore him, you’re probably busy,” he said to Phainon. “I won't take you from your duties to the Goldweaver.”

“No, I wanna watch it,” said Phainon. “Krateros is right,” and he nodded to a slightly gobsmacked Krateros who had not been expecting an Okheman guard turned Deliverer to say that, “just reading the pages isn’t enough. If I want the full experience I’ll have to actually watch it on stage.” From anyone else Mydei would think he was trying to get in good with Krateros, but he knew Phainon and he knew the man meant it. “As for my duties to Aglaea, well, we’ll call it diplomatic outreach.”

“And does she think this relationship is also diplomatic outreach?” Mydei asked.

“She wishes,” said Phainon. “Is it being staged right now?”

“No,” said Krateros, “and thank Nikador for that.”

Ptolemy jabbed Krateros in the side and hissed something that Mydei knew was almost certainly be less hostile. Then he said, “It’s currently in rehearsals. However, if you ask Peucesta, he’ll charm tickets out of the actors, I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll be sure to do exactly that,” said Phainon, squinting at Krateros with some worry.

He didn’t say anything throughout the meal about the man, but later, when Mydei had tugged him along with him to watch a courthouse dispute, Phainon scuffed the floor with the toe of his boot and said, “Is there anything I can do so Krateros won’t hate me anymore?”

Mydei blinked at him. Did he really take Krateros’s suspicion that closely to heart? Wait, no, this was Phainon, he had a sensitive heart and he cared deeply about what other people thought. Of course Krateros’s wariness hurt him. “Unless you can somehow contrive to be born in Castrum Kremnos, no,” said Mydei.

Phainon winced. “Aedes Elysiae, actually,” he said. “Which is…it’s far from Castrum Kremnos.”

That was a surprise. “You’re not a native Okheman,” said Mydei.

Phainon shook his head, heels drumming against the walls of the house. They’d decided to sit on a roof near the dispute being settled, to keep from being dragged into the argument—so far as Mydei could tell it was a conflict between merchants over alleged sabotage, which, while serious, was nowhere near their fields of expertise. “No,” he said. “I just…had nowhere else to go, too.”

“You’ve assimilated well, though,” said Mydei, neutral.

Phainon flinched, but nodded. “Okhema’s…quick to judge, and wary of outsiders,” he said. “I…can’t say it’s unjustified, but I also think the extent that quite a few people take it is extreme. In some ways I got lucky because Aedes Elysiae isn’t really famous—it’s not in any histories or epics, it’s just a little fishing village on the coast—but people will still find you wanting, if you weren’t born and raised in Okhema.”

Mydei couldn’t call it unjustified either. He’d read about its history, he’d seen just how often Castrum Kremnos had besieged the holy city. And just as the Okhemans found him and his people barbaric and uncultured, he knew Krateros had found Phainon wanting for the simple reason of not being born in Castrum Kremnos.

“You and I haven’t fallen short of anything,” said Mydei, now. Well, that was an oversimplification, there were plenty of things Mydei knew he was falling short of. “Krateros will come around in time.” And also after Mydei yelled at him, possibly.

“He’s important to you,” said Phainon. “And—I hear it, you know? When people say we’re moving fast. I don’t think that, but…I worry for you.”

They weren’t moving that fast, in Mydei’s opinion. They nominally had separate bedchambers, for all that Phainon had taken to sleeping in his bed more often, and they hadn’t yet broached the topic of a future past the next mission on the horizon. The shape of this relationship was something they were still feeling out, together, hand in hand. Moving too fast, his ass.

“You don't have to worry about me, Deliverer,” said Mydei. “I’ll be fine. I’ve borne worse wounds than some rumor-mongers’ best efforts at scratching my pride.”

“Somebody has to worry about you, Mydei,” said Phainon, and something about his earnest words warmed Mydei’s heart something fierce. Something about the sincerity in his eyes had Mydei swallowing down a lump in his throat. “Well, besides Perdikkas, and I think he’s more focused on the physical side. I just—I don’t want to break your heart, or move this along at a pace you don't agree with, or—”

“You’re overthinking this,” said Mydei, catching his hand and squeezing once. Phainon went still, in response. “If I don’t want anything, I will tell you without delay. It’s as simple as that.” Then he paused, realizing who he was talking to, and added, “All I ask, in return, is that you do the same.”

“I don't want to burden you with something I could handle on my own,” said Phainon.

Mydei knocked his knuckles against Phainon’s shoulder, hard enough that Phainon yelped. “We’re courting,” he said. “Your burdens are mine, my battles are yours. Let me help you.”

Phainon scrunched his nose up, as if mortally offended by what, to the two of them, was little more than a tap on the shoulder. Then he sighed, and nodded, which—wasn’t exactly what Mydei was hoping for, but this was Phainon. He wasn’t the sort of person to open up that easily.

So he said, “You need not worry about Krateros, or my people. Most approve of you, in fact.” Even the most begrudging elder had admitted that Phainon wasn't a half-bad match, since he was one of the few people who could give Mydei a real fight. “What you do have to worry about is how you’ll be able to sit through tomorrow’s play.”

“Wait, tomorrow?” Phainon said. “How d'you know that? I thought it wasn’t being put on for a while?”

“Peucesta has his ways of charming his fellow thespians,” said Mydei. “A fair warning: we Kremnoans do not shy away from depictions of violence in our stories. The tale of Alkeides and Megara is not one for the faint of heart.”

Phainon hummed. “I read the play already, I’ve got an idea what to expect,” he said. “Besides.” Something heavy flickered in his eyes just then, and he said, “I don’t think there’s anything the story can do to me that I haven’t already done.”

Mydei tilted his head, and said softly, “What happened to your hometown?”

“The Black Tide took it,” said Phainon, and wasn’t that a familiar refrain. What was unfamiliar was what he said next: “A black-clad swordmaster killed my closest friend right in front of me. The rest of my village…” He went quiet then, and pulled a knee up to his chest, his blue eyes distant and haunted by the ghosts of his little fishing village. He didn’t finish his thought, but he didn’t need to—Mydei knew exactly what he meant, exactly what he must’ve done.

The Black Tide corrupted all that it touched. Living, breathing human beings who fell into its embrace came out as twisted monsters with no thought to anything but destruction of everything in the tide’s path. Mydei had, more than once, been forced to kill even his own men when they had fallen to the Black Tide’s embrace. And he had been a seasoned soldier by then.

Phainon must’ve been young, so damned young, when he lost everything to the Black Tide and this dark swordsman. Mydei thought back to what he’d said about Alkeides—perhaps that was where Phainon’s sympathy for the man in his madness had come from.

He reached for Phainon’s shoulder, squeezed gently. Phainon jerked his head up towards him, as if surprised by the touch, before he smiled a little and leaned against Mydei’s side.

For a long time, neither of them said a word, but Mydei basked in Phainon’s warmth, pressed against his body, and counted himself perhaps the luckiest man alive.

--

a moment comes to life.

Castrum Kremnos had been a thing of wonder once. It still was, to some degree, being a moving fortress that they had just barely been able to finally track down to take the Coreflame of Strife from Nikador, but it was also just…ruins, by then. One day, Phainon knew, whatever kept it moving would finally run out and it would simply collapse into the ground, crumbling into dust and ashes. But for now—

Well, for now he would find his way in, the ring on his finger guiding him inexorably to Mydei’s location.

Mydei was sitting in what had once been the throne room, the grand hall where King Eurypon and Queen Gorgo had first met and dueled, where people once gathered from all over Amphoreus for the beginning of the Kremnos Festival. Now it was little more than a shattered, debris-filled mess, with a giant hole in the wall that had been somewhat hastily patched. Mydei was sitting on one of the stairs off to the side, a pensive look in his eyes, elbow resting on top of his knee.

“Sweetheart,” said Phainon, and Mydei snapped out of whatever reverie he’d been in, blinked at Phainon in surprise. “Mydei! What’s been distracting you lately, hm?”

Mydei smiled tiredly at him, then scooted over to let Phainon sit down next to him. He didn't say a word for some time, just burrowed into Phainon’s side and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Mydei?”

“You know,” Mydei quietly said, “I would love you even if you killed me, right?”

Phainon blinked at him, taken aback by the sudden swerve into territory he generally didn’t think about too often. “I—What? Mydei, are you all right?” This was…a worrying tangent to start off on, and he found himself trying to subtly check Mydei’s eyes for any trace of the Black Tide, his hand resting over that single spot on Mydei’s back that only he knew about. “I’m not going to kill you unless you fall to the tide, you know that.”

“I know,” said Mydei. “I know you wouldn’t. But you must know: I would welcome it, at your hands. To fight, to die at your hands—I would consider that a good way to finally go.”

Phainon shook his head, and said, “Love? Is there…Is there something I should know?”

Mydei looked at him for a long moment, some war playing out behind his eyes. Then he let out a breath. “I’m all right,” he said, which wasn’t an answer. “I’d gotten some bad news, that’s all. I worried for you.”

“Aglaea,” said Phainon, and Mydei nodded after a moment. “I…I would’ve come to you sooner for advice, but there was so much to do. There was the investigation, there were the arrests, Caenis tried to retaliate and nearly took out a chunk of the market—it’s been awful.” He ran a hand through his hair and said, “Your people are doing fine. They’re figuring out a way forward, if a little slowly.”

“Good,” said Mydei, sounding more than a little relieved. “I’d worried.” Then he let himself slump sideways into Phainon’s side, which spoke volumes about how exhausted he was, because it took a lot to tire Mydei of all people out. Especially now, with Strife’s coreflame burning within his ribcage. “How are the others?”

“Hephaestion’s fine,” Phainon reported. “Perdikkas started him on a new line of medicines and he seems to be doing okay now. Leonnius met a girl, they’re getting engaged soon—he hasn’t told anyone but I caught him looking at rings. Peucesta and Ptolemy and someone from the Grove are having some kind of feud over translating Sappho of Lesbos. The other heirs…” He hesitated. “We’re managing,” he said. “It isn’t easy without Aglaea and Trianne, but—we have to.”

Mydei started, and said, “Lady Trianne—what’s happened?”

Phainon let out a breath. “The Century Gate drained her too much,” he said, and Mydei went still, shock clear in his eyes as if he hadn’t expected to hear that. “She opened three in one day, when Hyacine and I went to rescue Professor Anaxa from the Reaver. The responsibility for the gate has now fallen to Trinnon, but everyone worries about her now—I came here on a dromas, before you ask, took me ages to track the fortress down.”

“What of Lady Tribbie?” Mydei asked.

“She knows what's coming,” said Phainon. “Tribbie’s putting a brave face on, but…a few days back she asked me to help her put two more baskets together. I think she knows the worst will come soon.” Because it would, her prophecy had said so: one day the last of her fragmented soul would wither away, far from home. There would be emergencies requiring the Century Gate’s use, and then—

Mydei snagged their hands together, fingers laced with his. He’d taken off his gauntlet, so Phainon felt the warmth of his skin, a touch hotter than it used to be now that he bore Strife’s coreflame. “She would give her soul gladly, you know that,” Mydei said.

“I do,” said Phainon, “I do, it’s just…” Losses were a constant on the Flame-Chase Journey, he knew that, he had lost so much already because of it, but—it still felt too soon. Tribbie had long been a constant presence, as had Aglaea, and now Aglaea was gone and Tribbie would join her soon. “I had thought we had more time.”

“A foolish notion,” said Mydei, blunt as ever, but his hand squeezed Phainon’s once, twice, a comforting pressure. “You and I are Chrysos Heirs. Every moment we live is one we steal away and fight for, knowing one day we’ll run out. Lady Trianne and the Goldweaver knew that, and they gave their all for the new dawn.”

“I know that too,” Phainon said. “But I always thought…”

“That they'd be there,” said Mydei. “I did too.” He was silent for a time, before he asked, “When’s the funeral? I’m assuming that’s what you came here to talk to me about.”

“Next week,” said Phainon. “For Aglaea. We already held Trianne’s—you can visit her in the courtyard, her doll form is in a basket.” Poor Trianne. Phainon thought of Tribbie and Trinnon, carrying on as much as they could in the face of their loss, and wondered how they could manage it: the sudden loss of another part of themselves, the quiet space where Trianne used to be. “I would've come sooner and brought you, it was just…one thing after another.”

“I’m not angry,” said Mydei. “Not about being unable to attend Trianne’s funeral. It’s enough to visit her.” He breathed slowly out, and then squeezed Phainon’s hand again, this time taking strength as well as offering it.

The triplets had looked after all of the Chrysos Heirs, from the very beginning of the Flame-Chase. Trianne had wormed her way into Mydei’s affections easily, with her bright grin and wild ways. Despite his words, Phainon knew damn well that Mydei was mourning her, too, and Aglaea as well—the leader he’d learned the most from. Titans knew Eurypon wasn’t much of a king by the end.

“Trinnon and Tribbie will be happy to see you again,” Phainon said now. “How long can you stay?”

“Just long enough to hold a vigil and see the Lady Goldweaver off,” said Mydei. “Then I’ll have to come back here.”

Not long enough. Not long enough at all. Phainon swallowed the selfish hurt that sparked inside his heart, because damn it, he and Mydei both knew why he couldn’t stay long in Okhema. His duty to the Flame-Chase as the demigod of Strife superseded all else, just as Phainon’s own duties were his highest priority. Still: “I’ll try to take some time to help you,” he said.

Mydei let out a breath. “Okhema needs you more than I do,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m your husband,” Phainon said. “I get to worry about you. Somebody has to.”

“Phainon,” said Mydei.

“What if something gets you and I’m not there to watch your back?” Phainon asked. “What if something gets lucky? What if that swordsman finds you again and—I don’t know how he knows, but he knows, and I can’t—You can’t be alone with him.”

Mydei shook his head, and said, “If he finds me, if he finds me, then I’ll take him on. Do you think I can’t handle one man? Even one who seems to know where to strike?”

“It only takes one lucky shot,” said Phainon. “I know, all right, I know what you’re going to say, I shouldn’t—take off from the city when it needs me the most, and I won’t, I just…” I miss you. I love you. I’m scared of losing you too.

Mydei reached for his hand, rubbed a thumb over his wedding ring. “This ring is a promise,” he said. “I’ll come back to you, always, no matter what I must do. If that’s in this life or in the place where the west wind ends—I will find you again.” He huffed out a breath, and said, “I know that’s not exactly what you wanted.”

Did it matter what Phainon wanted? What either of them wanted? They had both made vows to a cause bigger than themselves, and the Flame-Chase Journey was one marked by loss and heartbreak. Phainon—had to remember that. Had to keep that in mind.

But Mydei’s eyes were fixed on him, and he could see no hint of softness in them, only the conviction of a man hell-bent on seeing his promise through. “Always,” said Phainon, now. This was the best they could do, with the end of the world approaching, Era Nova on the horizon. “I’ll—I’ll hold you to that, Mydei.”

--

you get to be happy.

“—and they say that on that day, she married a young man named Schmuel,” said Peucesta, inordinately proud. “There you go, that’s the tale of the impossible dress!”

Mydei sighed. “Every time I hear it, your accent for Schmuel somehow gets worse,” he said, kicking lightly at his dear friend’s ankle. “You somehow went from Kremnoan to Aidonian to Ladonian in the span of a sentence, it’s a truly impressive feat.”

“Mydeimos, my prince,” said Peucesta, with great cheer as he brandished his lyre at him, “I can very easily start talking about that time when you and Hephaestion got your hands on a dragonbone bow right out of Styxia and decided to shoot apples—”

“Absolutely not,” Mydei yelped. “Don’t listen to him, Deliverer!”

Phainon, who was tending to the stew pot over their campfire, said, “I like your accent for Schmuel.”

It didn’t even sound like a lie, and Mydei had been courting the man for long enough that he was able to tell when Phainon was lying. Which meant, damn it, that he was being sincere with his compliment. “You have no taste,” he said, wearily, as Peucesta lit right up with the bright grin of a poet who’d just been told that his work was the voice of a generation.

They’d been sent off, just the three of them, to help evacuate a little village on the outskirts of what had once been the city-state of Corinth. When they’d gotten there, only a few survivors had remained, so now they were headed back to Okhema with a little band of traumatized farmers in tow. They were all asleep now, huddled together for safety, and in the morning Mydei would set them back on Kokopo and they’d make their tired way towards the rendezvous point where Trianne waited.

For now, Mydei was staying up late to watch for any threats. He had meant to take this duty alone, but Phainon had sat down next to him, set up a cooking pot over the fire, and started working on a stew that he claimed his mother had once taught him. “One of her rare non-salad dishes,” he’d said.

Peucesta had floated over when he caught a sniff of the scent. He claimed to Phainon’s face that he was merely thinking up new tunes for an as-yet-unwritten play about Cerydra the Imperator, but Mydei knew the truth—Peucesta was still awake for the same reason Mydei was. They were both, after all, Kremnoans.

Danger was something they learned, from an early age, to always be on the lookout for.

“Don't insult your lover’s taste, Mydeimos,” Peucesta said, singsong, “or I’ll scoop him up instead.”

“That's nice,” said Phainon, amused, “but unfortunately I’ve only got room for one Kremnoan in my heart and in my bed, so.”

“Tragic,” Peucesta said, patting Phainon on the shoulder. He scooted closer to Mydei and murmured, “Nothing coming up from behind us. You and Phainon ought to take a rest, you know? You spent the entire day fighting and scouting.”

“We’ll take a rest later,” Mydei muttered back. “I don’t trust this place and neither does he.” Besides, he’d had sleepless nights before, they both did.

“Hey, I don't trust this place either,” said Peucesta, “who knows what’s lurking in a forest? But even you, Mydeimos, should take a break every once in a while. Almost a demigod you may be—”

“I’m not going to take the Coreflame of Strife, we’ve already gone over this,” Mydei said, aggravated. “I will not be a replacement god that repeats Nikador’s mistakes.”

“So you’ll let Phainon do it?” Peucesta asked, crossing his arms and nodding to Phainon, who was tasting the stew and adding a pinch more salt.

“He wants it,” said Mydei.

“He doesn't have the fortitude to hold it,” said Peucesta, and the hell of it was, he was kind about it. From Krateros, such an assessment would rankle, would’ve raised Mydei’s ire. Still did even here, but he knew Peucesta wouldn’t say such a thing just because Phainon wasn’t from Kremnos. “I like him and I believe that he would make for a good consort, but Strife’s Coreflame is a different beast altogether. Nikador and their martyrs would drown him in a sea of blood, Mydeimos.”

“Do you doubt his strength?” Mydei asked.

“Not his strength nor his will,” said Peucesta. “He’s a fine and capable warrior. But it isn’t down to his bones, and you know that.”

Mydei restrained the urge to snarl at him, to point out that Phainon had, over and over, proven himself an equal to Mydei and the other Chrysos Heirs. His fingers twitched, and Peucesta held up his hands.

“I know,” he said, “I know. But this holding off—you know the songs, my friend. You know that fate won’t be held off for long.”

“I know,” said Mydei, “but there has to be a different destiny for our people besides a valorous death. Maybe if he claims the Coreflame…”

“Maybe,” said Peucesta. He picked up his lute, and called to Phainon, “I’ll go check on Kokopo! He must be starving by now, poor fellow.”

“Mydei already fed him,” said Phainon with a laugh, ladling out a bowl of stew. “But sure, go and spoil him if you’d like. After today, he deserves it.”

Peucesta waved him off, then sauntered away, as casual as anything. Mydei came back over to Phainon, sitting down next to him on the log as Phainon carefully poured him a bowl of stew. “When we find them,” he said. “Nikador. Or whatever is left of them.”

“I’ll take the Coreflame, but we can iron out who gets the final blow,” said Phainon. “It’ll be me, I’m much faster than you.”

“You say, carrying around a greatsword taller than the Goldweaver,” Mydei huffed. “I’ll get the last blow, I’m stronger than you are.” But his heart wasn’t in their usual back-and-forth, so he leaned against Phainon’s side and said, “Deliverer.”

“Yeah-hm?”

“I would be honored if you were to take the Coreflame,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Phainon gave him a tired half-smile. “I know,” he said, and prodded a few logs deeper into the fire underneath the pot. “I would be just as honored to claim the authority of Strife.” But there was something simmering under his calm, some quiet doubt that Mydei could tell still lingered. Uneasily, he wondered if that was what Peucesta meant, earlier.

He let it be for now, and together, they ate their stew in silence, watching the contents of the pot bubbling up. Eventually, Mydei finished off his bowl and said, “Should you fail—”

“I won’t,” said Phainon, but he wasn’t looking right at Mydei just then, his eyes fixed on his bowl. He was eating slower than Mydei was, as if in deep contemplation.

“—I know, but should it happen anyway despite our best efforts,” Mydei said, reaching over so he could turn Phainon’s head towards him, “you need to know, you must know: I would still have faith in you.”

Phainon’s eyes met his, naked shock clear in those blue eyes. He was breathing very shallowly. “I will never break that faith you hold in me,” he said, and it sounded like a promise, sounded like a prayer, sounded like a wedding vow, solemn as his voice was. Almost desperately so.

Mydei leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Perhaps—tonight, they could rest together.