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Chapter Text

“Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, I want a divorce.”

As Phainon bursts through the door, he takes in the way Anaxagoras’ head snaps in surprise at his direction; his gaze, incredulous. The stunningly beautiful yet frail looking man is sitting at the far end of his study, away from his work. It is a strange sight. Not finding his husband in his usual spot is a rare occurrence that almost does not happen— after all, Anaxagoras is a workaholic. 

And yet, in an area normally reserved for partaking in tea and snacks during breaktimes, Anaxa holds neither a cup nor a simple treat.

Instead, the healer who can be found kneeling next to his husband, flinches at the sight of the young lord. He quickly withdraws his hands from Anaxagoras’ being and bows deeply with his head pressed to the floor. A thin silk handkerchief falls to the floor from his husband’s wrist from the movement.

Phainon eyes the handkerchief. Its presence must mean that the healer was taking Anaxagoras’ pulse right before he entered.

The three men freeze in place— all of them are unsure as to what they should make of this situation.

Until finally, Anaxagoras finds his voice.

In the same deep-toned, knowledgeable and scalding way Phainon recognizes as his usual manner of speaking, his husband firmly asks, “Are you sure?”

Determined, Phainon steps forward to give him his answer.

“I—”

“Not you.” Anaxagoras cuts him off with a distant look in his eyes, “I’m talking to him.” He turns his frigid gaze upon the healer.

The poor man makes a terrified noise under the immense pressure of garnering their attention. He apparently understands what Anaxagoras means. It is both a question and a threat; one wrong word and his life might be forfeit.

He looks up at Anaxagoras briefly, and then at Phainon, before bowing deeply once more.

“Y-Yes, Your Grace. I am extremely certain.”

The green haired lord inhales sharply and withdraws his arm from the table to rest in his lap. It is then Phainon observes another strange occurrence— Anaxagoras’ brow furrows and his expression fills with a rare emotion.

Uncertainty.

The healer’s nervous yet confident words, invokes the exact opposite in his husband.

At the sight of an omega that clearly needs some reassuring— his omega— Phainon almost forgets the reason for his rude entrance into Anaxagoras’ study. A sense of unease steadily rises within him, for his husband is never unsure.

“You may leave us.” Anaxagoras states coldly with a wave of his hand. The healer acknowledges his dismissal with a simple ‘yes’ and quickly gathers his equipment; still bowing as he exits the lord’s study.

Now finally alone, Phainon watches as his husband rises to face him. Anaxagoras is a picture of elegance with his slow, calculated movements; hands pushing off thigh and seat as he stands.

“Now it’s your turn. Why?”

Phainon chews his inner cheek at his husband’s questioning and looks away. If he says that his desire for a divorce is an act of love, will Anaxagoras understand him? Or will he, as always, simply call Phainon a hopeless fool?

His gaze flicks back to the green haired lord after a moment of ruminating.

“I’m tired of this marriage of convenience.”

“Oh?”

Of course not. Anaxagoras is the love of his life. Their marriage may have started under the pretext of bringing prosperity for both of their kingdoms, but in the few short years they have spent together, Phainon has come to love and cherish his husband deeply.

Yet as time passes, a saddening realization strikes him: Anaxagoras does not feel the same. And the young lord’s heart cannot bear to keep his love imprisoned by his side.

Phainon clenches his fist and determinedly pours gasoline on the fire, “I’m especially sick of your sullen face. The way you speak like I’m beneath you or a child to be berated.”

He tries his best to hide his anxiety as he looks at Anaxagoras’ lithe figure and calm demeanor. His husband who is perfect in his eyes in spite of all his thorns.

And lies spill forth over and over again.

“Not to mention the way you always feel like mere skin and bones underneath my touch. It’s disgusting.”

(That’s not true. I know that it is the neverending governance of both kingdoms that makes you so frail. Your pale skin, where scarred, houses unspoken determination and radiance.)

“I do not wish to share your bed any further.”

(But if not yours, then nobody else’s.)

“I wish to look for another more suited to my liking.” 

(My first and final love.)

(Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, I am yours.)

As the final sentence lands, he sees that the other lord’s hand has curled into a tight fist. Phainon closes his eyes and looks away— barely able to bear the destruction that he has single-handedly caused. Of course. He wouldn’t take kindly to being rejected by the likes of me. In doing so, he misses the way Anaxagoras’ eyes flash with hurt, and how his remaining hand moves to cover his abdomen protectively.

After an eternity, Anaxagoras speaks up. His voice is strained, “Unfortunately… for someone like you, who is an equally disappointing spouse, I will only agree to the divorce under the following conditions.”

“One, it is to take place only two months from now. I need time to settle the various matters of state.”

“Two, you are to fulfill your marriage vows and carry my wretchedly thin frame across the threshold of our private quarters every night. Just as you did on our wedding night.”

“And three, you are to agree to every single one of my requests for the next two months, until the divorce is finalized.”

In spite of the way Anaxagoras spits out the conditions, none of it seems impossibly difficult. Phainon finds himself in equal parts relieved and disappointed. A part of him desires for the brilliant Anaxagoras to see through his ruse and place unachievable conditions upon the both of them. Maybe even something ridiculous like “when the chimera has caught every last bit of fish in the sea” or “when the dromases have threaded both Aedes Elysiae and the Grove of Epiphany to the ground”. 

Something— anything that will save them from his own dumb plans and their deteriorating marriage.

But his husband does not. And so, Phainon supposes that this is for the best.

“As long as your requests are within reason, I agree to all the conditions you’ve laid out.”

“Then we are in agreement.” Anaxagoras walks past him; his normally sweet scent now sour, displeased and partially unrecognizable. Phainon resists the primal urge to reach out to grasp the omega’s slender waist and pull him into an embrace. He desperately wants to scent him and make everything better. Deep within, instinct repeatedly tells him that he should fall to his knees and take back his words.

As this man’s alpha, he should tell Anaxagoras that in life, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae will always be his person and in death, he will be nothing but his husband’s ghost.

To keep, to hold and hopefully to cherish.

Anaxagoras notices that the young lord has frozen in place. For the first time in their marriage, he does not immediately inquire about Phainon’s wellbeing. All Phainon hears is the sound of his husband’s dispassionate voice cutting through the suffocating room:

“Leave, Phainon. Before I actually lose my temper and get the guards to evict you.”

It is as he deserves.

.

…

.

When Phainon returns to their private quarters late that night, he finds Anaxagoras patiently standing outside the door as promised.

The sight leaves him speechless. He is lying if he says that his heart does not skip a beat. Judging by the way his husband’s aqua colored eyes peer at him once before immediately glancing away, Anaxagoras is equally speechless.

Unfortunately, Phainon knows their similar reactions belies differing thoughts. 

Anaxagoras does not share his excitement or nervousness. If anything, it is more likely to be annoyance and disbelief.

There is nothing left to be said, so the young lord moves closer to gently pick his spouse up in a bridal carry. Phainon adjusts his grip more than once— secretly terrified of dropping his fragile love. Anaxagoras’ hands reach up to wrap themselves around his neck and Phainon almost panics.

He prays to Kephale that he is not sweaty or disgusting to the touch.

It has been…a while, since they were last intimate. Between their busy schedules and Anaxagoras’ unpredictable health, the excuses begin to pile up like layers of snow. It blankets them; suffocates them, and freezes them in a perpetual, barren winter. 

The young lord takes a few steps before he adjusts his grip once more. He briefly feels at a loss as to where he should be putting his hands.

It is such a silly notion. They are married, are they not?

Phainon swallows hard.

His dilemma does not go unnoticed by Anaxagoras, who tells him in a curt voice, “Do not drop me.” And then, upon hearing Phainon’s sharp inhale, the man adds a nervous “please”.

It really is his fault. Anaxagoras seems to have little confidence in his ability to complete the simple task of moving his mate from one spot to another, and it definitely has to do with the way he keeps hesitating.

Yet the constant misunderstandings and his own ego stack on top of each other. And Phainon starts to feel irrationally upset about the way he is spoken to. Why does he always do this?

His husband often speaks to him as though he is a mere child. A bane from the fact that Axanagoras is a couple of years older than him.

Are they not supposed to be equals?

In one swift movement, they reach the bed and Phainon drops the green haired man unceremoniously. The man’s body only bounces once on the soft mattress before it lands gently in place; yet for some odd reason, this scares his husband— Anaxagoras’ eyes widen the moment he is released and he immediately curls with both hands wrapping around his body like he is trying to protect himself.

The normally brilliant older man panics, and forgets that he could have simply held onto Phainon by his neck.

Anaxagoras checks himself over once. Twice.

Whatever the initial reason for his panic, it seems to Phainon that all is well. His husband’s beautiful features scrunch up in impending anger, and in another rare occurrence, Anaxagoras raises his voice at Phainon.

“What were you thinking?! That was incredibly reckless even by your standards!”

“Reckless? I merely placed you on the bed.”

“You could have hurt our—!” Anaxagoras stops short. He nearly bites his tongue in a bid to hold back yelling something at Phainon. His agitated husband takes a deep breath to calm himself and continues his accusation, “I could have been injured.”

Phainon frowns. He remains unconvinced.

“Nothing happened. I dropped you onto the bed, not the floor.”

“So you do admit that you dropped me!”

“... …”

“I can’t believe this… Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, when have you become so incorrigibly rude?”

The insults, while nothing worse than any that he has ever had the misfortune to listen to, still hurt when it comes from someone he holds dear to his heart. He plainly understands that he is in the wrong, yet Anaxagoras’ dramatic reaction to being unceremoniously dropped onto a soft bed has him reeling a little.

Phainon stays silent in hopes that he will not accidentally say something that he does not mean.

The two of them glare at each other with unspoken anger bubbling just beneath the surface. They do not speak of the disappointment hidden behind that anger either.

To save their relationship— or whatever is left of it— Phainon storms off.

Thank Kephale.

Any longer and Anaxagoras might also notice the way his lower lip trembles just slightly, and the awful, desperate side of him that constantly begs for his husband’s love and attention in all the wrong ways.

Maybe Anaxagoras is right.

He is an incorrigible child.

.

…

.

He returns past midnight, having taken the opportunity to have a quiet bath.

Aside from having to cool off after their impromptu fight, Phainon specifically does this because he knows that Anaxagoras can be quite particular about hygiene. It does not matter that his husband will be fast asleep when he returns— the young lord commits to this habit for both of their sakes.

He gives himself a quick sniff. Fresh. It feels nice and comfortable too.

As he slips into their marital bed, Phainon takes a moment to caress Anaxagoras’ cheek gently. The man stirs but does not wake. He finds himself lamenting the fact that he is able to approach his husband comfortably, only when the man is asleep.

Unable to shake the feeling that he is undeserving (at least, not after everything that has happened earlier today), he refrains from hugging Anaxagoras.

But he does bend over to whisper, “I apologize for making you mad earlier.”

Then, having now made amends in his own small ways, Phainon pulls their shared blanket over himself. He imagines that his husband might become angry if he wakes to the sight of Phainon’s face, so he reluctantly turns away to face the opposite direction.

He does not know that Anaxagoras— now awake from the feeling of someone creeping into his bed— has heard everything. The foolish young lord also does not know that the equally foolish Anaxagoras was waiting for Phainon to return.

The soft scent of Phainon’s pheromones is now mixed with the smell of soap.

The older lord thumbs his abdomen absentmindedly. In comparison to his state earlier in the afternoon, he is already feeling much better. His husband’s pheromones permeate the air surrounding them and provide him with a familiar sense of comfort and security.

He nearly forgets the reason for their conflict.

Oh…

At the memory of the young lord bursting into his study to demand a divorce, Anaxagoras’ mood sours. He curls up further.

On the first night leading up to their upcoming separation, the lords of Aedes Elysiae and Grove of Epiphany unwillingly fall asleep with their backs against one another.

The next day, Phainon wakes to an empty bed.

Disappointment sets in as usual, and is quickly calmed by the realization that Anaxagoras is probably in his study pouring over the many reports pertaining to their lands. When it comes to governance, Anaxagoras handles it all singlehandedly. On the other hand, Phainon is in charge of matters pertaining to their military.

The Lord of the Grove of Epiphany is strategic planning and reason, while the Lord of Aedes Elysiae is destructive might and deterrence.

Still, one thing does intersect: they often meet and handle foreign delegates together. They also gather twice a week to discuss any matters that might require both of their attention— personal or impersonal.

Though, to Phainon’s chagrin, it always seems to be the latter.

A maidservant enters the room. She bows with a bowl of clean water in her hands and towel draped over her arm. He recognizes this as a daily occurrence.

Phainon beckons to her and she nods while moving closer. The maidservant politely updates him as he washes up, “Lord Phainon, as usual, Lord Anaxagoras has arranged for your breakfast. He says that you should have some before heading off to the barracks for your morning sword practice.”

Anaxagoras? He did this?

“Must I? I’m not fond of exercising with a full belly.”

“Lord Anaxagoras has mentioned this as well. He has ordered for breakfast to be light and less oily. We are to ensure that it is not insufficient to last till lunchtime, and not too heavy that it gets in your way.”

Phainon pauses. The attention to detail is astounding.

He wonders why he has never noticed that his schedule and mornings are inexplicably smooth. It turns out that it is all because of Anaxagoras’ intricate planning. Somehow, in the hustle and bustle of daily life, he has missed the signs and in turn, taken it all for granted.

The young lord observes his unlikable reflection in the water.

And pray tell, what has he done for Anaxagoras in return?

The memory of him bursting into his husband’s study while Anaxagoras is no doubt getting a rare health checkup; demanding for a divorce, floods his mind. 

Now frustrated with himself, Phainon drops the towel into the water to dismiss his reflection. An uncomfortable feeling creeps up his back and curls its fingers around his neck; it tightens its grip until the smallest breaths he takes become a chore.

He might just be the worst husband in the world.

And now he misses Anaxagoras.

.

…

.

When night comes, Phainon carries his husband to bed once more.

This time, it does not take long before he realizes that Anaxagoras has become quite thin; even more so than he usually is. He clutches the love of his life tightly to himself and murmurs, “Have you eaten properly today?”

A momentary silence.

The man in his arms shifts uncomfortably before admitting, “I… I may have skipped lunch in favor of settling some matters.”

“Anaxagoras…”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have.”

“Your health has never been the best. You need to take better care of yourself.” He gently chides the man in a way that he has not done so in a while. It is soft, affectionate and attentive. Even Anaxagoras is taken aback by the stark contrast between their conversation from a day before and right now.

The young lord huffs. If Anaxagoras is bad at taking care of himself, then he will just have to do it for him.

“From now on, we’ll have our meals together so that neither of us will forget.”

A pleasant scent drifts by, and Phainon turns slightly to see his husband still lowering his head shyly. Anaxagoras may avoid his gaze, but the way he tightens his arms around Phainon’s neck and his happy scent gives his mood away.

Happiness and a sense of contentment so pure, blooms within the young lord.

He almost kisses his husband on the forehead.

Almost, because he still tries his best to hold back from forcing his feelings onto Anaxagoras.

That night, nobody is unceremoniously dropped onto the bed. No argument ensues and neither of them storms away in anger.

On the second night leading up to their upcoming separation, the Lords of Aedes Elysiae and Grove of Epiphany fall asleep— turned inwards and facing each other.

.

…

.

A few nights pass, and Phainon notices that Anaxagoras’ frame grows ever thinner.

In spite of their multiple and regular meals together, his husband does not seem to be putting on any weight. The young lord mulls over the events earlier in the day: his husband has not been eating well and throwing up quite often. He asks Anaxagoras if he is feeling ill and requires another visit from the healer. 

To Phainon’s chagrin, the older man shakes his head and refuses. He claims that it must be the changing of the season or that he must have eaten something bad. (“An odd proclamation.” Phainon thinks— since the both of them have been consistently eating the same meals.) 

He insists that he will feel better soon.

Still, Anaxagoras’ discomfort bothers Phainon. He tries to remedy this by bringing his husband different types of fruits and herbs recommended by the healer. The jittery looking old man also advises him to quietly release his pheromones more when he is alone with his omega.

And so Phainon does.

For some odd reason, this somehow does help with stabilizing Anaxagoras’ condition. They are not yet mates, but perhaps this is something common between spouses? His husband is elated. After a rough couple of weeks, this newfound stability in his health and relationship is much welcomed. Phainon’s increased attentiveness is also apparently the icing that completes the cake.

And speaking of pursuing happiness…

Upon seeing that his presence and pheromones do help with Anaxagoras’ sickness, Phainon begins to sleep with his arms wrapped around his husband— openly spooning him every night. As a small reward for himself, he takes subtle sniffs at Anaxagoras’ scent gland when he does, and buries himself in his nape under the excuse of helping by scenting him. 

Surely Anaxagoras will not notice?

Phainon is extremely careful about not alerting his husband to all these tiny, greedy and possessive acts of his. If the man has noticed anything, he has yet to voice his unhappiness about it.

Still, the young lord figures that it is better to check.

“Are you…comfortable?” He nervously asks one night. Anaxagoras, perhaps already halfway into dreamland with his back pressed up against Phainon’s chest, nods and whispers back, “What about you?”

“Yeah. This feels nice.”

More pleasant and overjoyed pheromones pour out from the omega. Cold, slender hands come up to grasp his, and Anaxagoras entangles their fingers together. His husband guides their hands to the small raised bump of his abdomen— the only part of him that seems to be pudgier now.

Phainon frowns. Is this even healthy? Why does his body distribute his weight so unevenly?

Oh well. At least one part of the omega is flourishing. Better than none, when they really stop to think about it.

The warmth from his large hands seems to please his husband further.

And Anaxagoras lets out a contented exhale.

“Good, then it’s time to rest.”

.

…

.

With the passing of seasons, the weather gets colder.

Unlike the Grove of Epiphany, which tends to be green all year round, Aedes Elysiae gradually moves into autumn. And eventually, winter. This is something that Anaxagoras once struggled with when he first married Phainon.

On a particularly cold day, on his way back from the training grounds, Phainon meets Aglaea the Goldweaver of Okhema. She has just finished a meeting with his husband. And upon catching sight of him approaching from the opposite direction, the close friend of his starts to fervently insist that Phainon bring his husband a warm, fur-lined coat. 

It is only during then that the young lord realizes his tropical-country-dwelling husband might have forgotten the changing of seasons once more.

Under her behest, Phainon heads to Anaxagoras’ study with their thickest fur coat draped over one of his arms.

When he gets there, he finds the green haired lord standing by the shelves and pouring over some scrolls. Anaxagoras is a picture of intelligent beauty with a scroll in one hand, and the other absentmindedly thumbing his belly. Phainon greedily drinks in the sight for a couple of seconds before finally speaking up:

“Is your stomach upset again?”

As soon as his voice catches Anaxagoras’ attention, the man quickly stops the suspicious gesture, “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve thankfully been able to remain seated for the full duration of my meetings today. No throwing up or the sort.” Sensing that Phainon is about to continue his line of questioning, Anaxagoras adds, “I might have been doing it subconsciously because I’m a little cold.”

So Aglaea was right. Phainon politely thanks the Goldweaver in his mind.

He hurries over and wraps the fur coat around his husband. When Anaxagoras turns around in surprise, the young lord takes his hands into his own larger ones, and blows warm breaths onto pale skin.

“You’re freezing, Anaxagoras.” He rubs their hands together so that the gentle friction will create some warmth, “I’m sorry that I didn’t come earlier.”

“...It’s alright.” The older man responds; the corners of his lips now subtly tilted upwards.

His husband’s rare smile captivates Phainon. Oh, he seems happy.

When offered something so precious, it does not take long for the young lord’s concern to become protectiveness, and even quicker for protectiveness to become over-protection.

“Why is your study so cold anyway? Are the servants withholding coal from you?” Anger rises in Phainon’s chest as Anaxagoras’ obvious suffering starts to sink in. He looks around and only one small stove is kept ablaze in the corner of the large room. 

Someone will have to pay for inflicting this undue distress on his husband.

“It’s not their fault. I’m trying to cut back on our expenditure since it is nearing the end of the year. I didn’t expect the weather to get so cold so quickly.”

To placate Phainon, the man lovingly cups his face like one would with a puppy. It is both effective in catching his full attention and placating him.

“Do not be angry. I’ll simply be more careful in the future.”

Anger instantly melts like snow in springtime.

Phainon gives him a small smile, now thoroughly tamed, and relishes in his husband’s touch. He nuzzles into it a little too eagerly, and the two men fall into silence of the slightly awkward kind. An improvement from the tensions previously but still not quite with the ease of a married couple.

Eventually, Anaxagoras releases him to put his scroll aside.

“Come with me for a walk? I wish to fetch some scrolls from the library on the other side of the palace.”

Phainon nods; definitely happy to assist. It is a good opportunity for them to spend more time off together. Before their departure, he gives the fur coat keeping his husband warm one last look-over. One cannot be too cautious, after all.

And for a good reason too. 

The weather is gloomy and damp when they step out of the study. The normally golden fields of Aedes Elysiae are not much to look at during this time of the year. In the distance, barren-looking snow covered farmlands stretch for miles. Yet all of this is merely a temporary lull; the beautiful and lush gold will eventually return to the earth when spring comes around.

Phainon knows that it does.

If only their relationship is similarly straightforward.

The two of them walk side-by-side, chatting about official matters pertaining to the kingdom. To Phainon’s slight disappointment, Anaxagoras fails to mention anything personal. Is he the only one who thinks that it is a good time for the both of them to get to know each other better?

Not to mention, his husband has been rather silent on his progress in settling matters for their divorce.

The reckless decision gnaws away at Phainon. He hates that it has come to this.

And yet, knowing that Anaxagoras is still visibly distant towards him, he cannot convince himself that it is not the lesser of two evils. It is better for him to suffer in silence than to deprive the love of his life from the chance of finding true happiness of his own.

They take a couple of instinctive turns along the corridors.

As they cross stone pavement after pavement, Phainon notices that some surfaces have become somewhat slippery due the passing of time and the unpredictable weather. The stones, where once rough and sturdy, are now much smoother.

A falling hazard.

Recent memories flash through his mind: Phainon distinctively remembers Anaxagoras’ request to not be dropped on the first night they started their odd little routine.

The young lord stops. Anaxagoras’ who has been keeping step with him, turns to his husband, bewildered.

Phainon slowly holds out his hand, “It’s getting a little slippery. And it might be worse ahead, so take my hand?”

The words come out in a stutter and terribly awkward but he manages to get his point across. Anaxagoras looks at his hand hesitantly, as if unsure what to make of it.

“I’m not sure how I feel about both of us falling together.”

The lack of disdain over having to hold the young lord’s hand strikes him, and Phainon is pleasantly surprised. He chuckles in response; if that is the only thing that bothers his husband, then he is more than happy to reassure him.

“In the event that happens, I will shield you with my own body. So come on. It’s safer this way.”

This answer seems to please Anaxagoras greatly, so he reaches out to take Phainon’s hand in his.

“My bones are brittle and I only have one set of them. So please do not let me fall.”

Secretly overjoyed, the young lord pulls his husband into his arms and holds him tight. At the same time, Phainon bursts into laughter at Anaxagoras’ effort to crack a joke. 

It is a light and carefree sound that captivates the lord of the Grove of Epiphany.

Like a promise, he tells him:

“Never.”

.

…

.

That night, Anaxagoras looks up at Phainon for the first time while in his arms. 

When it happens, they are both carrying out the silly little duty that the man has set for them— the one that requires Phainon to carry him across the threshold to their bed every night.

As their eyes meet, Phainon remembers the way Anaxagoras looked at him when he first uncovered his wedding veil. Now, many years into their marriage and on the verge of a divorce, his breathtaking husband offers him the same look.

And it is full of emotions that Phainon does not understand. 

There is a desire to lean in and kiss his spouse, but Phainon resists it as he always does. He packs away his feelings the best he can before any of it can spill out.

I’m in love with you, Anaxagoras.

It is not the easiest marriage and they are both imperfect beings constantly struggling to understand each other better. But Phainon personally does not desire for it to be any other way.

If only Anaxagoras felt the same about him. 

But as of now, the more his feelings for his love grows, the more he wants him to be happy— even if it is not with him.

When they finally reach the bed, Phainon gently bends down to place the omega on the soft mattress and Anaxagoras releases him. They stare at each other intently. Phainon barely breathes as he drowns in aqua colored orbs. It feels like they have been transported back to their wedding night once more.

Anaxagoras smells heavenly.

He swallows hard. The silence between them is now overwhelming.

Right when Anaxagoras seems to have gathered the courage to say something, Phainon quickly interrupts him, “You… That is, go ahead and have a good rest first.” He tries to leave, but is instantly thwarted by a hand grasping his arm.

“Phainon, I—” Anaxagoras pleads softly, now sitting up and holding onto him. 

He is evidently reluctant to release his grip on the young lord; preferring for Phainon to remain with him. But Phainon nervously tries to tug himself free.

“There’s something that requires my attention. I’ll be back in a short while to keep you warm for tonight.”

“Phainon, listen to me. There’s something important we need to talk about.”

Oh no. It must be about the divorce.

Phainon is unsure of what he wishes to hear regarding the matter. Neither the thought of going ahead with it nor cancelling it brings him any joy. Anaxagoras tries to get off the bed and in his own nervous state, Phainon fails to see how delicately his husband is handling himself.

Yes, the man has one hand firmly gripping onto Phainon’s biceps, but his remaining hand moves to cover the almost unnoticeable small swell of his abdomen protectively.

It is about the divorce. It must be.  

He wants none of this. The young lord decides that he has to run. He has to physically remove himself from the room.

Things have been getting better recently, so why must they discuss that depressing issue right now?

“I’m sure we’re both tired. Let’s talk about it another day.”

“Phainon!”

He manages to wrench himself free of Anaxagoras’ increasingly hesitant grip, and quickly turns away to leave at a brisk walking pace. The young lord nearly breaks into a full sprint for the door— stopping himself from doing so, only because it will become irrefutably obvious that he is running away. 

And as Phainon does, Anaxagoras’ gaze follows him from their bed at the far end of the room, as if lamenting wistfully: 

“Why?”

With two weeks away from the deadline, Phainon fails to have a conversation with Anaxagoras about something extremely important that night. 

Something aside from their impending divorce.

And this failure is something that he will eventually come to regret.

Chapter Text

Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany is rumored to be an incandescent beauty.

More divine than all of Phagousa’s brews and Celestial Ambrosias combined, and certainly more mysterious than the Hand of Shadow, Thanatos, Phainon’s husband-to-be is untouchable in more ways than one. Many have constantly reminded him of it.

There are also whispers that the representative of Cerces (Reason) bears an unyielding heart; filled with enough righteousness to impress Talanton (Law) and a deep seated fury that can rival Nikador (Strife).

These are all things that both impress and terrify Phainon. 

How can a young lord like him, from the small kingdom of Aedes Elysiae, ever compare? What if their marriage is an awful compromise for someone so perfect? 

And yet on their wedding night— when he lifts Anaxa’s veil to observe him for the very first time— Phainon discovers that somehow…

His new husband is also blessed by Mnestia (Romance).

They are blessed by Mnestia.

In that instant, his breath is taken away.

With Anaxa in his arms, the journey to cross the threshold between their room door and bed had been torturous. He prays to every single Titan available that he does not mess up by accidentally dropping his new spouse. And still, it scarcely measures up to anything he feels when their eyes finally meet. Anaxa’s aqua colored irises, intermingled with the hues of a sunset, sees through his very being and a strange feeling grasps his heart firmly.

“The color of the sky…” Anaxa comments absentmindedly, and Phainon snaps out of it.

“Pardon?”

“Your eyes are the color of the sky. It feels like one can drown in it.”

The young lord shifts his weight from one foot to another, “I’ve never seen anything quite like yours as well.”

Anaxa laughs softly, “An odd color with an unnatural red taint?”

“No, it’s like seeing the sunset between the trees. A quiet stillness settling upon the world like a blanket.”

His husband goes speechless and Phainon worries if his answer is offensive. He quickly adds, ““A human who is the same as their shadow is the most beautiful and tranquil thing.” …A long time ago, my mother told me that I have to learn to settle; to adopt calmness. And that in this world, it is better to have calmness than movement.”

“I guess I never really understood it, until now.” He shifts on his feet once more.

A smile fills Anaxa’s features, “So is this your roundabout way of saying that you like them?”

“O-Oh—” Phainon splutters at the thought. Must he put it out in the open so blatantly? He does not reveal that a part of him has already started fantasizing about a pup who runs around laughing through the halls of Aedes Elysiae, with the same exact shade of eyes.

“Phainon.”

“Y-Yes?”

“Does this marriage please you?”

“Of course.” He wishes to disappear behind the cover of his own hands, but he resists it at the very last moment. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae is about to become someone’s husband and has to live up to the part. “How could it not?”

“Do I please you?”

The young lord’s face flushes a deep red; his heart beating fast, “Yes.” More than I can ever deserve, actually.

Seemingly satisfied with his answers, Anaxa takes his hand in his. And as though reciting a spell that will bind them forevermore, he murmurs:

“Then I hereby list my vows: 

One, I wish for you, my husband, to live a long and blessed life. 

Two, I wish for my own health to flourish so that I can accompany you forevermore.

And three, I pray that the both of us can be like the swallows on the beams…”

As his words slow to a close, Phainon feels a tug that brings him to his knees by the bedside. Anaxa’s aqua colored orbs sparkle with bliss and contentment as he leans in to seal their promise.

“...together, year after year.”

Their lips meet; Phainon closes his own eyes to taste Anaxa who is truly sweeter than the Nectar of the Gods.

On a cooling spring night, with an endless field of gold wheat swaying in the breeze outside their window and the blessing of Kephale…

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae marries the love of his life.

.

…

.

Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany is rumored to be a damaged omega.

A rebellious outcast of the Grove of Epiphany. A man who does not know how to ‘play nice’. His attitude is eccentric at best, and his gaze is cold. And his tongue— sharper than any sword— is more than likely to lash out at anybody who comes within his vicinity.

Anaxagoras is full of flaws, and a small political sacrifice to Aedes Elysiae. After all, why should a large kingdom like the Grove of Epiphany send their best to marry a young, unestablished lord from the countryside?

Many constantly remind Phainon of it, but none of these things bother him.

After all, he knows his Anaxa best. 

He has married the most perfect person in all of Amphoreus. The most loving spouse. Phainon does not desire for anything more.

And yet, people are truly vile. Problems begin to rear their ugly heads when one day, someone abruptly proclaims in a diplomatic meeting that they do not wish to have economic ties with Aedes Elysiae.

Because “who knows if the land is as barren as its omega lord?”.

As the offending sentence lands, Anaxa is outwardly calm and still like a shadow as always, but Phainon notices the way his shoulders immediately stiffens. The radiance that normally emanates from his Anaxa dims, even if slightly.

Quietly.

Subtly.

The sight of someone diminishing his other half is too much to bear. Anger rushes to Phainon’s head like rivers of blood pouring across the normally unassuming fields of gold.

That day, the world learns why the young lord was once considered to be the next representative of Nikador, in place of the crown prince of Kremnos.

.

Still, it does not stop the rumors.

Anaxa’s loving accompaniment, once proudly viewed as a strong sign of matrimonial bliss and monogamy between him and Phainon, is now a blight on their kingdoms. Some say that the young lord of Aedes Elysiae is not virile, while others blame the sickly Anaxa instead.

“How cruel! Surely the Grove of Epiphany has already known about this from the beginning?”

“Now Aedes Elysiae will perish without an heir.”

“Does it matter? It’s just a small kingdom out in the countryside.”

In the second year of their marriage, he finds his beloved Anaxa on the floor of his study; eyes red and puffy for some reason, surrounded by scrolls strewn about like they have been knocked over by a herd of dromas.

Voice constricted and beautiful aqua eyes averted, Anaxa asks him:

“Phainon… have you ever thought about having children of your own?”

The young lord thinks back to their wedding night, and the promises it used to hold of a pup with Anaxa’s breathtaking aqua colored eyes— running and laughing through the halls of Aedes Elysiae.

A small smile forms on his lips and he hugs his beloved close.

Anaxa.

Silly Anaxa. 

My heart that lives outside of my body.

Phainon kisses Anaxa on his temple.

“Not really. I’ve never cared for it.”

Chapter Text

All good things come to an end.

They have taken two steps forward and then three steps back.

After a disastrous night where nothing was communicated to his alpha, Anaxagoras awakes to entertain a visit from the healer; Phainon is up early and away at the military barracks when he arrives. The old man takes his pulse and carefully measures his waistline with some help from a maidservant, before counting the days in his head.

With a grave expression, he tells the Lord of the Grove of Epiphany that he has to make a decision soon or the resulting fallout might be detrimental to his health.

He offers him a vial that contains a dark brown colored liquid. A form of medicine for his troubles.

“Y-Your Grace, when you have decided, take this medicine. Remember to call for me just before you do.”

As he receives the vial from the healer, Anaxagoras absentmindedly places a hand over his belly once more; fingers circling the fabric covering the area, and eventually sighs. 

“What happens after I do?”

“It will hurt for a couple of days while your body gradually rids itself of…the issue. I will keep you under observation and on bedrest. Eventually, we will start you on tonics and other forms of medication to stabilize your health.”

“And… what of the future?”

The healer pauses. He is clearly unwilling to offer false promises or mislead Anaxagoras, “The future is always uncertain, but as long as we are careful with recovery, I’m sure this one incident will not pose a problem.”

Anaxagoras falls silent. In the eyes of the healer, he is evidently crushed by the choice he has to make.

“I-If I may, Your Grace. I strongly feel that Lord Phainon should know about this before you decide.”

He sighs once more, “I doubt that he cares. And with the divorce looming closer, I fear that this will only complicate things for the both of us.”

Exhausted, Anaxagoras makes a small wave of his hand, “That will be all for today. You may leave. And tell the maidservants on your way out that I need a couple of minutes to myself.”

The healer bows deeply as excuses himself.

Dangerously-looking vial in hand and finally alone, Anaxagoras leans back on the pillows. He thinks back to how Phainon obviously wanted nothing to do with him last night. It felt like a good time to resolve matters that have been hanging in the air between them for a while— everything from the divorce to Anaxagoras’ little issue.

But Phainon had rejected him and left.

Increasingly, it does seem like the young lord is fully intent to see the divorce through. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae does not love him or has any remaining interest in their marriage of convenience. As Phainon has very clearly put forth: Anaxagoras inspires only disgust in him and he wishes to find another more suited to his liking.

The scholar closes his eyes in resignation.

If so, who is Anaxagoras to deny him?

The Crown Prince of Kremnos is in Aedes Elysiae for a quick visit.

Anaxagoras stumbles upon him while on his way to the study. Dressed warmly in an abnormally thick and ugly coat for once, Mydeimos looks very much like a muscular snowman that someone has left out in the snow. It is anybody’s guess who has decided to bundle him up in such a manner.

At the ridiculous sight of Mydeimos, the Lord of the Grove of Epiphany momentarily forgets all of his worries and bursts into soft laughter.

The man hears the laughter and turns his attention towards its direction. 

Mydeimos’ gaze softens once he realizes that it is Anaxagoras who is standing some ways away. Unlike the other nobilities in Amphoreus, being the object of ridicule neither fazes nor angers him— with a regal countenance, he simply shrugs it off. As he comes over to greet Anaxagoras, the green haired lord tries to stifle another laugh.

“You’re practically waddling, Mydeimos.” Anaxagoras points out as his lips tremble. The hilarity of the situation is akin to seeing a large dromas engage in a wrestling match with a tiny chimera— only for the dromas to be mercilessly tossed by the tiny creature. It is quite possibly the most insane thing he has seen all day. 

“Why are you dressed like this?”

“The flames of Strife burn hot but not hot enough.” The prince grimaces; now somewhat embarrassed, “Krateros warned me that the weather in Aedes Elysiae is as unpredictable as its young lord.”

At the reference to Phainon, Anaxagoras’ smile fades. The man becomes a little more subdued.

“I suppose that’s true.”

Sensing that he may have spoken out of turn, Mydeimos tries to cheer Anaxagoras up with a small, helpless wave of his hand— the Kremnoan takes full advantage of the fact that he still looks ridiculous. It succeeds, and this draws a small, affectionate smile from the omega.

“I’m afraid that Sir Krateros is still not as accustomed to dressing someone for winter. Why don’t you come over to my study later to get changed? You can borrow one of Phainon’s coats since you’re both so similar in physique.”

Mydeimos nods, “Only if it’s alright with the both of you.”

“It’s just a coat. One of Phainon’s many possessions. I’m sure he won’t miss it.” Just like he won’t miss me. Anaxagoras’ lips tighten into a thin line. He hurriedly snaps out of his unhappiness before the prince can notice— after all, Mydeimos is not Phainon and he definitely does not have the emotional quotient of a scarecrow.

“And I certainly wouldn’t mind.” He continues, “You’re a walking hazard at the moment— both to yourself and others.”

The Prince of Kremnos attempts to fold his arms the best he can. He fails.

He gives Anaxagoras a helpless look.

“In that case, I am very much obliged.”

They fall into silence. Not the kind that often plagues the older lord and his emotionally distant husband, but something that resembles a comfortable pause in dialogue. An intended opportunity to rest and breathe.

“How have you been, Anaxagoras?”

I’m with child— a long-awaited one— and my husband has expressed his desire to divorce me.

Anaxagoras exhales deeply; almost like a sigh. He puts on a self-depreciating smile.

“Fine. …It’s been fine.”

“You look thinner than before.”

“It’s not Phainon’s fault. We’ve been having our meals together but the weather has been quite dreary and I’ve been unable to keep any of it down.”

“I’ve yet to say that he’s at fault.”

Anaxagoras pauses; now clearly caught red handed and laid bare for all to see.

“... …”

When Anaxagoras does not reply, Mydeimos tilts his head knowingly and the older lord catches the scent of a worried alpha. Golden eyes, similar to the color of dawn and the fields of Aedes Elysiae, peer at him from above.

“Is it dire?”

Sigh. 

In the same way one might nurse a headache, he grasps his forehead with one hand and the other hand moves to rest on his hip in obvious frustration.

“...I’m with child. It is Phainon’s flesh and blood.”

Mydeimos nods. The Kremnoan prince has already guessed as much.

“You’re not surprised?”

“The both of you are married. It is only a matter of time.” The rumors about Anaxagoras being barren have been widespread and vile, but Prince Mydeimos has never subscribed to any of it. Even among the few foreign dignitaries and friends who visit them often, the young lion has always been a steady ally with strong convictions. 

Mydeimos is a reliable person whose heart never wavers or changes.

Unlike someone. Anaxagoras scoffs internally.

And with the way he is gently broaching the topic, it really is a mystery why Mydeimos was ever picked as the representative for Nikador (Strife). 

Anaxagoras shifts on his feet, “I’ve also been informed that he wishes to annul our marriage.”

The young prince freezes in place.

“Impossible.”

“It’s true. I have no reason to lie to you regarding a matter of such importance.”

“I’m not saying this as empty words of comfort, Anaxagoras. It really is impossible.” Mydeimos regards him with a stern look, “That fool is capable of everything, except for one. And that is to choose to leave you.”

He gestures to Anaxagoras’ still-flat abdomen to emphasize his point, “Additionally so if you’re with child. Anybody in Amopherus will have to pry the both of you from his cold dead hands. And perhaps even then it might be difficult.”

What? Anaxagoras falters at the admission, “You exaggerate.”

“Have I ever been the type to boast or exaggerate?”

Mydeimos says it all like he is stating an irrefutable fact in the universe— that, just as the sun will inevitably rise and fall every day, Phainon reveres Anaxagoras in a way that exceeds common sense. The prince says it as though Phainon might actually love him— (No, to his husband’s credit, things were great right after their wedding.)

The other man says it as though Phainon is still in love with Anaxagoras.

He thinks back to the various ways Phainon has subtly rejected him or when he first brought up the topic of divorce. “I’m tired of this marriage of convenience.” Phainon declares before he additionally delivers a scathing barrage of insults regarding Anaxagoras’ shortcomings.

One of us is definitely wrong.

He places a hand over where his child rests and gently clutches at the fabric.

“If it helps, he doesn’t know about the pup.”

Mydeimos raises an eyebrow, “For now, or…?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anaxagoras.” The young lion warns in a tone deeper than usual, “I’m unsure what has occurred between you and that fool but keeping something so huge from him is ill-advised. If not for your sake, then at least for the pup.”

The reprimanding, although gentle, is the final straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Something in Anaxagoras snaps.

“And what then? For him to choose to stay because we’re now bound by obligation once more, and not love?”

The outburst catches Mydeimos off-guard, and the alpha shrinks a little in face of an irritable omega. It must be the hormones. Anaxagoras, while increasingly ashamed of his own erratic behavior, rides on newly acquired courage and anger to proclaim the following:

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae has made it very clear that he disdains me. And I am not one to remain where I am not wanted. Nor do I wish for my child to have a father that potentially hates them as well.”

His husband has mentioned in the past that he does not care for having a child of his own. It is possible that Phainon might have said it back then to comfort him after they’ve failed to conceive, but it is also equally possible that there is some truth in it.

And if Phainon already detests him, how will the alpha feel about any spawn that crawls forth from his misshapen and sickly womb?

Whenever he entertains this particular question, the answer that comes to mind is always horrifying.

Aside, the young lion of Kremnos has gone dead silent.

For the first time ever, Mydeimos looks at him as though he is shocked to find that love can make one so blind; that it can dull the senses to such a devastating point. He does not articulate his thoughts but they are clear as day: “Where is the wise and calm Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany that I know?”

He opts to ignore the prince’s disapproving gaze and dismiss it as ignorance— after all, Mydeimos does not understand or know of everything that has transpired between him and Phainon. He has not seen the way Phainon is constantly so uncomfortable around Anaxagoras, and the way that his own husband has to try so hard to keep up the pretense of ‘love’.

Frustration, along with helplessness, builds up inside of Anaxagoras’ smaller frame. And months of unhappiness bursts at the seams. His abdomen throbs in slight discomfort.

“This pup will grow up beloved. And if it cannot, then I will at least prevent it from enduring a lifetime of suffering.”

Having now said his piece, the dignified Lord of the Grove of Epiphany turns around with a swish of his long coat and leaves.

What was that saying again? 

“Don’t wake up carrying yesterday’s troubles”? If only. 

After panicking and leaving their room, Phainon returns late at night to find that Anaxa has fallen asleep with the blanket wrapped around him in a cocoon. A small rush of guilt fills him at the realization that his love might have been feeling cold again. He would have returned earlier, but a selfish and scared part of him procrastinated in fear of having to face Anaxa’s anger and disappointment.

Now, like a child, he desperately tries to spoon his husband’s cocoon as he slips into their bed, but each touch or movement has Anaxa stirring in discomfort.

He stops before he accidentally wakes his spouse.

Maybe… Just maybe, being simultaneously wrapped by both the blanket and the warmth of my body is too much to bear. He reasons with himself.

Like a fool, he fails to recognize that they have spent every night before this wrapped in each other’s arms with the blanket pulled over. Phainon’s warmth is the last thing that his husband will reject.

But how will he know this, when he does not even understand a much simpler fact: that Anaxa actually loves him? 

Loves Phainon of Aedes Elysiae in his entirety. Loves him beyond common sense.

And so, the young lord spends the night away from his beloved; unable to indulge in holding him close, and stripped of the comforts of a blanket.

It takes a while to fall asleep this time, so he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling.

It is really cold. He thinks to himself.

I should have come back earlier. He repeats once more.

I shouldn’t have left in the first place. He then berates himself.

All of this, including Anaxagoras’ lonely and curled up form beside him, makes Phainon resolve to do better the next day.

.

…

.

He has to head to the military barracks in the morning to make some necessary arrangements, but thereafter, Phainon is once again seen heading to Anaxagoras’ study at lunchtime. He hurries along— coat flapping in the breeze with a warm coat in one hand, and a bouquet of Lily of the Valley flowers in the other. 

He will try to make amends this way; the goal is simple— keep his husband warm, feed him and protect him from slippery surfaces. It worked the last time, didn’t it? These small things pleased Anaxa. The young lord adjusts the coat on his arm happily as he thinks of his husband.

Again, like a fool, he fails to realize that resolving the bigger issue at hand will do much better than pointless acts of appeasement.

Anaxa. Phainon calls out in his heart as he nears his destination.

Yet as he approaches the door, his distracted smile falls.

Concerning, muffled voices ring out from behind it and Phainon distinctly hears someone who might be Aglaea raising her voice to say, “Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany, you are a selfish and reckless fool.”

He thinks of waiting for their conversation to be over, but the scent of distressed omega catches his attention.

Anaxa. The alpha realizes, and immediately his invisible tail stops wagging.

Phainon swings the door open hard enough to almost rip it from its hinges. As he bursts into the room, he sees Aglaea standing with her arms folded while Anaxagoras mirrors her from behind his desk. 

“—Phainon has the right to know before you make any hasty decisions by yourself.” 

Her voice dies off right as they both turn to face the intruder, but not before she gets one last suspicious sentence out. The sound resulting from his forced entry causes them to stiffen in surprise.

“What is it that I need to know?”

As Phainon steps into the study, Anaxagoras avoids his gaze with a sour look present on his peerless features. Algaea is noticeably alarmed at the realization that Phainon has overheard some of their conversation, but she quickly collects herself. 

Before addressing Phainon, the Goldweaver takes one last look at the unrepentant Anaxagoras. She must have seen something in his expression— something that evokes a sense of pity or mercy— because she ultimately relents and shakes her head.

“...Anaxagoras is attempting to draw up a new risky trading agreement with Okhema. I have advised him to speak to you before proceeding.”

Oh.

Phainon relaxes at the reasonable explanation. It is a pretty small issue and really no cause for alarm.

“I trust Anaxagoras implicitly when it comes to matters of governance. He doesn’t need my stamp of approval for things like new trade agreements.”

Tsk. A click of the tongue. Aglaea is evidently unhappy with his answer. She takes a step towards him, and is about to protest when his husband finally speaks up, “You heard my husband, Aglaea.”

She stops in her tracks and offers Anaxagoras a death stare. In spite of her elegant features, the stare is so condemning that anybody else will have already shrunk away and withered. And yet, the green haired lord stares back, unfazed.

But Phainon is taken aback. 

He has long been aware that the both of them occasionally do not see eye-to-eye, but this level of hostility is still rare. Nevertheless, the Goldweaver holds her tongue and settles for silence even when there is clearly something left unsaid.

She exhales sharply.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. You are seriously too lenient with this man.” Having had enough of the both of them, she starts making her way to the door, “You ought to keep him on a tighter leash before something terrible happens.”

The door slams shut.

Finally alone, Phainon redirects his attention to his husband with a frown, “Is there something I should be worried about?”

As expected, Anaxagoras is all frigid ice and a familiar off-putting attitude as he replies, “Not really.”

Phainon clutches the bouquet of white flowers close to his chest. He swallows the feelings of hurt as quickly as they rise in his chest and throat. His husband is understandably still mad at him about last night, and now everything is exacerbated by the quarrel they just had with Aglaea.

The young lord wants to placate him, so he tries.

“What was all of that about then? Is it something that I can help with?”

Still refusing to spare a glance at Phainon, Anaxagoras moves to take a seat. He is breathing a little hard; perhaps due to the adrenaline from earlier. His husband tries to steady himself as he places a hand on his abdomen.

“I’m simply trying to do as much as I can before our divorce is finalized.”

The word ‘divorce’ lands between them with a thunderous boom, and Phainon has an epiphany: The two months requested by Anaxa are almost up. He staggers a little, and is unsure of what to say.

“Right. The divorce.”

“Why are you here anyway?”

“I…”

The other man eyes the items in his hands, “I’ve brought my coat along today. And those flowers are giving me a headache.”

Oh.

“If they displease you, I’ll get rid of them shortly. As for the coat, maybe I can leave—”

Anaxagoras flinches before he can finish his answer. At the sight of his husband experiencing some sort of acute pain, Phainon immediately tosses the bouquet and coat onto the desk and rushes over to his side. 

But when he reaches Anaxagoras, the omega pushes him away.

Rather than allow Phainon to comfort him in his arms, his husband sits with his frame curled up slightly. It is a heartbreaking sight— Anaxagoras forcibly props himself up with one arm against the desk and the other covering the source of his discomfort.

“It’s just stress-induced gastric. I’m fine. If you want to be useful, call for the healer right now and leave me be.”

“Please, Anaxagoras. I wish to stay.”

“You’ll just make things worse. Leave, Phainon.”

There is the hurtful realization that it is true— his presence will only make things worse for his spouse. Of course. It’s stress related after all. If Anaxa has 100 problems, then at least 99 of them can be traced back to Phainon. Still, he is reluctant to leave when Anaxa is in so much pain.

As Phainon dwells in his hesitation, Anaxa slumps against the table. His increasingly pale face touches the mahogany wood as he begins to beg, “Phainon… please. Call the healer right now.”

Oh no.

Without a second thought, Phainon scoops his love up into his arms and runs. They leave behind the roughed-up bouquet of flowers that pleased nobody, the unhelpful coat that no one needed…

And a small red stain on Anaxa’s chair.

“HKS!”

Phainon hears Mydeimos before he sees him.

He turns, and barely a second later, golden gauntlets punch him in the gut. Though he tries to steady himself, the young lord of Aedes Elysiae is sent flying backwards with his feet sliding a couple of meters.

“What are you doing here when Anaxagoras is unwell? You should be by his side!”

So that’s what this is about. Phainon thinks to himself as he shakes off the attack; sword in hand.

A day before, his husband was struck by a sudden and acute gastric attack that has left him bedridden. Phainon has tried to remain by his side for as long as possible, but immediately removed himself from Anaxa’s presence when the healer conveys that he has stabilized. 

It is Anaxa’s wish after all. 

Not to mention that having him around only serves to further stress his husband out and make things much worse.

Not that Mydeimos is convinced, because the Crown Prince of Kremnos snarls at him. Phainon stares him down. The way that the man is mad at him for Anaxa’s sake feels somewhat invasive, and the young lord does not like how Mydeimos might be on the verge of crossing a boundary.

“You’re a horrendous husband, HKS. The worst of your kind.”

Possessiveness takes hold of Phainon.

“Oh?” He hears himself, voice distant and cold— reflecting a side of him that has been sealed away for the longest time. “And you’re telling me this, why?”

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae snarls back in a way that Mydeimos does not recognize.

“Because you think you could have done better if you were his husband instead?”

At the offending accusation, the young lion angrily moves forth to strike him once more, and Phainon raises his sword to parry the heavy gauntlets. Red blooms from where they connect, and strife reaches for Phainon in the form of red crystals. He shatters them easily.

“You will do well to hold your tongue! It is an insult to me and Anaxagoras!”

“And you will do well to not covet what’s mine!” Dawnbreaker swings in a wide arc that connects a little too intentionally with Mydeimos’ golden gauntlets, and the man easily throws Phainon off to the side. The young lion stands up straight and folds his arms; confident that he will be able to react and parry his opponent’s attacks even with a disadvantage.

“A divorce? Don’t make me laugh. I see the depths of your depravity, HKS. Nobody else will ever measure up to Anaxagoras in your heart. Nobody ever has.”

Phainon straightens himself as well.

“I don’t intend to remarry.”

“And what of Anaxagoras?”

This question actually gives Phainon pause.

Obsession clouds his instinctual response, so he overrides it by attempting to remain level headed. He wants to say that Anaxa will be free to marry another mate of his own choosing and to bear that person's pups— but the words do not leave his mouth. Just the thought of someone else touching Anaxa makes him want to retch internally. 

And the thought of another man’s pup growing inside of Anaxa…

Phainon barely suppresses a dark, violent urge that rises from within. Again, he tries to shake it off; identifying this urge as his tendency as an alpha to want to protect and possess what he views as his.

He calmly reminds himself that his husband is not an object, but a person with his own volition.

“Of course, you can always choose a successor from any of the families in Aedes Elysiae. Retire anytime to a quiet life on one of your many farms. None of this is of any consequence to you, right?” Mydeimos gestures vaguely to the air around them, “Everything about your marriage is a joke to you.”

“You don’t want him to leave but you won’t treat him well either. You make me sick.”

The accusations strike hard and true. Incensed but unable to retort, Phainon stabs Dawnbreaker in Mydeimos’ direction. He parries the attack with a swing of his gauntlet and scruffs the young lord as Phainon loses his balance.

The Prince of Kremnos tosses him onto the floor and pins him firmly with his forearm.

As Phainon struggles, Mydeimos uses his own body weight to press him down further. He leans in and concludes:

“It was a mistake for Anaxagoras to have married you. When your divorce is finalized, I will make clear my intentions to pursue him.”

As the boundary is crossed, something snaps inside of Phainon. Eyes the color of sky grow wide at the proclamation.

…And from within, a spark of gold reveals itself.

Mydeimos watches as his statement succeeds in tipping Phainon’s anger over the edge. They swap places— Phainon pulls him downwards with inhuman strength and pushes himself off the ground. A pure gold, like the coming of a new dawn, dyes the young lord’s eyes and hair thoroughly.

There is barely time for shock or shame on either of their parts.

Mydeimos laughs breathlessly, for the air has been knocked out of him by a mere shove. And now, an unrecognizable Phainon has him immobile with only an arm’s strength.

“So this is the real you. This is why you were a candidate for Strife.”

“... …” 

Phainon eyes him silently with the knowledge that his secret is out in the open and that they are past the point of no return.

“To think that the War God of yore, Khaslana, was among us all along.”

He closes his eyes in resignation. Phainon has not been called by that name in so long. After the War to end all wars, and having slaughtered more than half of Amphoreus, Khaslana the Deliverer vanished. Many reaped the benefits of the New Dawn that he had brought about, but only Phainon knew the actual amount of sacrifice that it took.

He could have remained and be revered by everybody, but all he wanted to do was vanish.

Maybe even die.

It is only by chance that his parents had arranged for a marriage with the Grove of Epiphany and meeting Anaxa saved his life. As they slowly settled into their loving marriage, Phainon thought to himself: Finally…

Finally he can live freely as Phainon. And that Khaslana can be dead to the world.

…Or so he thought.

“Tell me, Deliverer. How does it feel to play house in the countryside? To masquerade as someone’s innocent, foolish husband while being an incarnation of Death, far worse than Thanatos?”

Mydeimos is relentless even when he is helpless against Khaslana’s strength. It is not an exaggeration to say that Phainon has him gripped by the throat and pinned immobile like a kitten. The man grabs Phainon’s forearm in an attempt to move it, but it barely budges.

“Of course your marriage is falling apart. Anaxagoras does not even know the real you.”

Khaslana’s grip tightens.

“So how is he supposed to know that you love him?”

The Prince of Kremnos struggles against the heavy grip and Phainon tries to relax it before he accidentally kills the man. He decides that he will allow Mydeimos to get all of his thoughts out for all of their sakes.

“Have you ever wondered, for a singular moment, about what would happen if he were to have a pup with golden eyes? All the ignorant parasites will gossip that Anaxagoras has been unfaithful to you. He won’t care for it but that will be the instant he realizes that your entire marriage is built on a lie.”

“Deliverer, you are a coward and thief.”

“You’re divorcing Anaxa because deep inside you don’t believe that anybody has the capacity to love a monster like you. You think that he will be happier without you because you don’t believe you’re capable of making him happy.”

“But you also wish for him to stay because you yearn for his love.”

“You’re the biggest fool I’ve ever had the misfortune to befriend.”

A pause. Mydeimos seems to be done.

“I…” Phainon starts in a deep voice very unlike his own, “Only in front of Anaxa, I don’t want to be the Golden Dawn.”

“To be the Golden Dawn of Amphoreus is to be bathed in rivers of blood. I’ve done it for so long that every part of me is now dyed an accursed color.”

Memories of their wedding night flood his mind. Anaxa had been mesmerized by his eyes that were the color of the sky.

“I don’t want him to look at me and think of how much destruction it took. Only for him and him alone, I wanted to be an untainted sky blue.”

“I wish to leave it all behind. That’s why I kept it from him. But now it seems like nothing has changed.”

“Everything that I touch, I will destroy."

“You idiot.” Mydeimos groans, “Is your head filled with only air? You’ve been married for so many years and you barely understand your own husband. Anaxagoras is not weak. He won’t run away, and he is not too fragile for the truth.”

“I don’t even know if I’m human.”

“Of course you are. You bleed all the same.”

“I’m definitely not an alpha either. It might explain why we have struggled to conceive for so long.” Enigma, the healers had called it.

“Oh for the love of— what else are you keeping from him?”

“Nothing else.” Sensing that they are both much calmer now, Phainon releases Mydeimos. The young lion eyes him warily as the gold in his irises gradually fade.

“As your friend, I highly recommend you speak to him sooner than later. Call off the stupid divorce you’ve talked yourself into, and tell him everything.”

Exhausted, Phainon falls back to sit on the ground with his arms draped over raised knees. For a difficult conversation, somehow Mydeimos has managed to make it bearable. Another thing that he has to be grateful to the young lion about.

Or maybe we are even, since he did make those remarks about courting Anaxa earlier.

“How did you realize that I’m Khaslana?”

“You may not remember, but that one time someone had the audacity to demean Anaxagoras in your face, you beat them within an inch of their life. And during that moment, I thought I saw a flash of gold.”

Mydeimos stands and dusts his clothes off.

The Crown Prince of Kremnos then tosses an empty vial at Phainon’s feet. In spite of his confusion, the Deliverer moves to pick it up. Inside the small bottle, remnants of various herbs and a strange brown liquid can be observed. For some odd reason, the sight of it sends chills down his spine.

“What’s this?”

A look of regret flashes across the young lion’s normally proud features.

“An abortifacient. Do what you will with that information.”

Phainon stares at the dangerous concoction— or what is left of it. Somehow, Anaxagoras’ discomfort from a day before comes to mind. It is the way his husband clutches at his abdomen as he slumps over the table and begs for the healer, that strikes him.

Everything flashes through his mind like a slideshow.

The healer being by Anaxa’s side on the day he first asks to annul their marriage; how he is barely able to keep his meals down due to nausea; the way his thin frame struggles but his abdomen is increasingly pudgy; how he is constantly terrified of the cold…

…and how Anaxa often worries about falling over.

It starts off slow; eventually picking up speed until it hits him.

“Mydeimos…” The Deliverer speaks through shallow breaths like he has forgotten how to breathe. His heart shrieks as it is mercilessly torn to shreds. “Mydeimos. Mydeimos…” 

Phainon scrabbles at the dirt ground and manages to grab ahold of the man’s red coat.

“What have you done?”

“Me?” The prince scoffs, “You should be asking yourself that question instead, Khaslana.”

“It seems you have been judged…”

“...and you have been deemed unworthy.”

Chapter Text

“It’s a baby boy with golden eyes— the most beautiful color of dawn.”

Cerces touches his abdomen lovingly one day as she murmurs the prophecy into being; her closed eyes clearly seeing something in his empty womb that he does not. Each time he dreams of this pivotal moment, he imagines that he was also touched by Oronyx herself— unwillingly blessed by the Titan of Fate, Anaxagoras still feels the warmth of Cerces’ palm against the fabric of his clothes like it was yesterday.

This is a memory from long ago; one that precedes his marriage to Phainon or even before he meets his first love.

Anaxagoras does not immediately respond to the words. The Titans are as mysterious as they are annoying, and this is just a regular Tuesday for him and the Titan of Reason.

He does, however, slap her offending hand away.

Cerces retracts her hand with a small laugh and returns to her default pose of having both arms elegantly crossed in the front. “Getting feisty will change nothing. Mnestia is overjoyed, and says that it’s as though we’re becoming grandparents.”

He scoffs.

“I was not aware that Titans are susceptible to showing signs of dementia.”

The Titan of Reason ignores his barbed reply. In front of her usual seat at the Luminary Throne, she looks to the sky. Cerces peers beyond the veil— far, far into the future or perhaps into another plane of existence completely— and she ruminates silently for a brief moment.

“Humans are often too short-lived and short-sighted to understand the mysteries of the universe. I had thought of you as someone different, Anaxagoras.”

This is bait. The man thinks to himself. Something she says just to incite anger in me. And so, he does not grace her with an answer.

Cerces turns to him and smiles, “Will it please you to know that the baby is very chubby in spite of your small stature? Adorable little thing.”

“... ...”

“Although, because their father’s genes can be somewhat overwhelming, they’re on the larger side for pups. Your pregnancy and delivery will be difficult but it’s nothing you cannot handle.”

“... …”

“In fact, Mnestia and I have a bet going—”

“Are you quite done?” He rudely interrupts her rambling before she has the chance to curse him further. The Titans’ Prophecies are the bane of his existence. Most people do not realize that nothing good ever happens from hearing about them; they are like shackles that bind a person’s freedom of thought while clouding their mind.

In short, one is cursed with stupidity.

And Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany wants none of that.

“Oh?” However disobedient he might be, Cerces is visibly overjoyed at receiving a response, “But I do think that this next part will greatly please you.”

“I disagree.”

It is her turn to ignore him as she forcibly spills more secrets belonging to the universe, and as always, all against his will.

“Mnestia has seen your threads of romance. She is convinced that fate cannot be changed, but not in the way one might think. It’s not that you cannot, but that you will not choose a different love from the one fate has in store for you.”

“When your paths finally cross, you will gravitate towards cherishing him more dearly than anything else in this world.”

“And through all the trials and tribulations, you will choose him.”

“Over… and over…”

“And over again.”

A dangerous thing to say. Because if there is anything that Anaxagoras is quite known for, it is his desire and ability to constantly work against the machinations of the Heavens. They will never be able to make him yield to another being’s choices— even if it is one of a higher power.

His life belongs to only him. 

From behind her closed eyes and soft brown locks, Cerces regards him with seriousness. She is acutely aware of this. After all, Anaxagoras’ disdain for the Titans is not a secret; it is telling enough with the way he constantly blasphemes against her.

Nevertheless, the Titan of Reason is strangely fond of him and she consistently tries to make it known.

She lets out a small chuckle, much like a mother giving in to the whims of her child.

“However, I know you, our stubborn little Nousporist. You will find a way to prove her wrong, even to your own detriment.”

“So my gift to you, my child, is a bet.”

“Mnestia believes that our little grandchild will have golden eyes the color of dawn.” Cerces takes a few steps forward, passing by Anaxagoras and repositioning herself to better perceive the sky beyond the shelter of the Sacred Tree. There is gentle sunlight pouring through the canopy above, and the land is peaceful for once. 

It flourishes in the embrace of breathtaking blue.

The Titan of Reason is full of hope and conviction as she blesses him with the next few words:

“I, however…”

“Am fond of the vast blue of a limitless sky.”

Anaxagoras’ first love is a mysterious man in a mask.

He descends from the sky one night when the Grove of Epiphany is under siege. Someone in the scattering crowd yells in a terrified panic, “Neikos! It’s Neikos! He’s here!”

Fully clothed in black and gold, and with a cloak that is torn and burnt at its edges, Neikos arrives— a large sword and crescent staff in hand. At the sight of him, the various scholars of the Grove flee in the opposite direction. And then, like ants, they are crushed beneath the falling debris of the crumbling structures and burning branches.

“Neikos the Executioner is here for us!”

Executioner? Anaxagoras remembers thinking to himself. He’s not even looking at any of you.

Neikos is more wraith than man as he glides in the direction of the armies that are currently laying waste to the Grove. He merges the large fragmented sword and crescent staff into one weapon. Deep purple, haunted-looking flames begin to pour from the newly accursed blade, and Neikos rushes forward to set the nearest regiment aflame.

It is then that Anaxagoras learns it is true— Neikos is an executioner.

He simply was not pointing his sword at the scholars that night.

…

As the flames of war begin to die down, Anaxagoras loads his gun and heads out into the open battlefield.

—Or at least, what remained of it.

None of their aggressors are left— the dark wraith looming over the area made sure of that. Those who were lucky enough to be able to escape, managed to do so with their skin barely intact. As he nears ground zero, he sees an exhausted and injured Neikos holding himself up with only the fragmented sword. His crescent staff is nowhere near to be found.

Gold seeps through his black outfit and drips onto the dirt floor.

So the beast does bleed.

He lifts his gun and points it at the Grove’s masked savior.

Neikos eyes him like a wounded animal through painful sounding pants— equally hopeless and defiant. The scholar is no fool; he does not drop his guard in spite of the man’s heavy injuries. Anaxagoras knows that if given the right opportunity, the executioner still has the ability to snap his neck cleanly within seconds.

“Why did you defend the Grove?”

“... …”

When Neikos does not respond, Anaxagoras fires a shot.

It hits the lone soldier behind the wraith, who has a spear raised and was poised to hurt him. The scholar moves the barrel of his gun towards Neikos once more, and the wraith’s posture seems to relax slightly in spite of the reassurance that Anaxagoras will make good on his threat. Does he not believe I’d shoot him?

“Tell me. Is it because killing is fun? Or are you not as mindless as they claim for you to be?”

After another minute of silence, the executioner finally replies him in a deep and hoarse voice, aged beyond his years.

“I wanted to protect the place.”

“Why?”

“This world burns, and I, along with it. Even so, I wish that some of the innocents can be spared.”

Neikos’ speaks like he is out of breath. Anaxagoras wonders if this is due to his injuries or that he is indeed not of sound mind. He muses over the possibilities; intrigued by the fact that the man displays no hostility towards him.

“If you want someone to owe you a debt, the Grove is the worst establishment you could choose. The stubborn old creatures at the top will manage to twist it in a way that results in you owing them instead.”

Neikos shakes his head.

“Not my intention.”

Anaxagoras sighs. Just a fool, then.

He lowers his gun.

“Neikos. Is that your name?”

The executioner nods this time, and Anaxagoras heads over to his side to help support him. Neikos is surprisingly docile and curious while watching the scholar squeeze himself between the large sword and his sturdy torso. He drapes the astonishingly muscled arm around his own frame and checks that the man can safely lean on him before tugging lightly.

“Let’s go.”

They take a step or two before he speaks up once more.

“You may call me Anaxagoras.” He utters with a strange softness growing within his heart. It must be because the man has just saved countless lives. Anaxagoras is not heartless after all.

And maybe it is his imagination, but Neikos’ frame curls around him just a little more at that gentle introduction.

They move at a snail’s pace, causing Anaxagoras to woefully acknowledge that this is the result of him being way less sturdy than the battle-hardened Neikos. He sighs. The thought of seeking help crossed his mind earlier, but the sight of Neikos still covered in his mask and black outfit might be a little too much for the average civilian. 

Nobody else will be willing to come drag a lumbering beast known for feasting on humans. Hyacinthia might, but she’s probably busy treating injuries at the moment.

It takes forever, but they do reach the Murmuring Woods eventually.

They are about to exit the area when Neikos looks up like he has just heard a whisper. His usual proximity to Cerces also causes Anaxagoras to freeze in understanding of its words.

It is a Titan.

“Child of Calamity…”

The Hand of Shadow gazes at them. Or more accurately, it gazes at Neikos.

Most likely drawn to the terrible aura that follows after him, it reaches out a cold, clammy hand from the afterlife in an attempt to touch them both. Whether or not this is done with malicious intent, Anaxagoras does not know. Yet something from above obviously catches the executioner’s attention.

The scholar makes a blind guess that it must be something dangerous— for Neikos seems to react with urgency. He decides that his body is currently too mangled to move at an inhuman speed, so he attempts to shelter Anaxagoras’ smaller frame with his own. Then, for some unknown reason, he quickly changes his mind at the last minute…

And makes a split second decision to push him aside instead.

Both of them fall to the floor at the same time. The pale skin on Anaxagoras’ exposed palms and arm is violently scraped by the harsh surface. Despite the pain, he soon realizes that he is getting off lightly in comparison— aside, Neikos is crushed by a fallen branch that’s easily the size of a stone column.

The executioner is now unconscious with golden blood pooling underneath him.

He reaches out in a panic.

“Neikos!”

So much for not having to call for help. He hurriedly whips out his phone, calls Hyacinthia, conveys his exact location…

And tells her to run.

.

…

.

Dromas are the best. 

Dromas are friendly, wonderfully shaped and more helpful than humans.

A dromas is also the only help he had— alongside Hyacinthia— while rescuing Neikos from underneath the large, heavy branch. As per his earlier expectations, the humans around the grove were of no help at all. Some fled at the sight of the executioner laying immobile while most simply stood by and hoped that he would die.

Anaxagoras seethes.

When Neikos is feeling better and he has more time on his hands, one of the rooms in the Grove will surely explode in retribution.

A small, chemical mishap. An accident with alchemy, perhaps.

Not like the ignorant fools will need any of their books. Years of studying at the Grove and it has taught them nothing of actual value. None of them have learnt what it actually means to be human or displayed even a shred of gratitude towards the person who singlehandedly saved them from genocide. All endowed with a disappointing lack of character.

On the nearby bed in Anaxagoras’ study, Neikos stirs.

Upon catching a glimpse of movement, he moves over to check on his patient. The executioner’s injuries are immense, but they are lucky to have Hyacinthia who constantly heals like she is performing miracles.

The now-unmasked man opens his eyes, and Anaxagoras catches sight of sky blue. It is docile and restrained; with the light in them having been snuffed out. In spite of that and all of his facial and bodily scars, Neikos is, for lack of a better word, extremely attractive. 

…Not that it matters to anybody. (And certainly not to Anaxagoras.)

Alright, maybe a little to Hyacinthia who gasped at the sight of him and kept glancing in her professor’s direction. Her eyes sparkle in anticipation as if she just knows that Neikos is exactly his type.

Ludicrous. Not to mention, shameless.

He will have to speak to her about this in the future. In the meantime, he grows increasingly concerned that Neikos is still feeling off, and so he reaches out to touch the man’s arm gently.

(In the capacity of a caretaker, of course.)

“Awake?”

Neikos eyes him cautiously for one second before a sense of relief overtakes him at the recognition that it is Anaxagoras who stands by his bedside.

“Anaxa.” Unexpectedly, his voice now sounds younger and is no longer hoarse. Huh. Isn’t Hyacinthia’s healing a little too strong? At this rate, perhaps she might be able to unlock the key to everlasting youth and immortality.

Neikos gets his name slightly incorrect, but the scholar lets it slip this time, “That’s good. At least you’re able to recognize faces. What about touch? Can you feel my hand on your arm?”

A nod.

“It’s warm…”

“It’s because you lost quite a bit of blood. I’m much warmer than you for the time being, but it’ll get better soon.”

“Mmm…” Neikos covers his face with the back of his hand and frowns like he is currently experiencing a migraine. He’s probably still hurting. Anaxagoras notes.

As he does, something abruptly strikes Neikos and this causes the man to sit up quickly; only to fall back with a groan. It does not take a telepath to read his mind— this is about the mask that he often dons. Sensing that he better offer an explanation before Neikos hurts himself further, Anaxagoras moves to grab the creepy thing off the nearby bedside table.

He offers it casually to the injured man.

“Looking for this?”

Neikos retrieves it and practically scrambles to put it back on; yet Anaxa simply tells him to not bother, “Nobody can recognize you in the Grove without your mask. It’s in your best interest to leave it and just rest well.”

The silvery-blue haired man goes quiet, evidently deep in thought.

Stubborn fool. Anaxagoras shakes his head and decides that he has to make up a convenient reason on the spot.

“It’s such a shame to hide that handsome face of yours anyway.” Hyacinthia’s words, not mine.

Neikos stares back at him, deeply confused and unconvinced, “I have scars on every available surface of skin.”

“Did I stutter?”

The man flushes a soft red at the response. It pushes him off the metaphorical fence he was sitting on, and he shyly puts the mask aside.

Anaxagoras keeps up his stoic countenance, but his heart is beating wildly fast at the adorable reaction. He was not aware that the blood thirsty executioner from last night was capable of making such an expression.

He folds his arms and masks himself perfectly.

“Good. Now get some rest. Hyacinthia and I will come check in on you later.”

.

…

.

The next few days pass in a blur. 

It is during this period of time that he learns Neikos is not as dangerous or aggressive like many have claimed him to be. He is more like an unpredictable puppy: eager to please, unteachable, stubborn and occasionally unruly.

And adorable. Imaginary-Hyacinthia adds with a giggle. Don’t forget adorable.

After resting for the first couple of days, a restless Neikos tries to be helpful to Anaxagoras by attempting to move heavy scrolls around his study for him. The scholar catches him in the act and immediately flies into a rage.

“Are you trying to waste mine and Hyacinthia’s efforts?!”

He spends at least thirty minutes lecturing the executioner on respecting the time and effort that people have put in to make him better. Yet in the exact same timeframe, Anaxagoras pats the man down and lifts his arms to check if any wounds have reopened. The worst thing that can happen is for Neikos’ injuries to become permanent. 

When he confirms that the stubborn fool is fine, he goes on to tell him that he is inconveniencing others this way; figuring that it will work better than begging him to take better care of himself.

And it works.

Because Neikos is apologetic. Not to mention quite repentant as well, because he never engages in that unhelpful act ever again.

…Instead, he starts disappearing for random amounts of time and comes back with flowers or herbs for Anaxagoras. They are often bundled messily and obviously picked somewhere around the Grove. This puzzles the scholar greatly. One day, curiosity overflows and he decides that he is not beneath posing questions.

“Why are they all green?”

People normally offer more colorful varieties of flowers. He…doesn’t happen to be colorblind, does he?

“They reminded me of you. I thought you might like them.”

Oh.

He takes the bouquet from Neikos and gently looks over its contents. To his pleasant surprise, some of the plants can be used as medicinal herbs and might even help to ease Hyacinthia’s job.

“Are you angry?” Sky blue orbs land on Anaxagoras as the man shifts from one foot to the other nervously.

The tentative question causes Anaxagoras to soften his expression in response. He lifts his gaze to meet Neikos’ and pats the fully-grown Angel of Death standing in the middle of his room on the head.

“No, this is useful. Thank you.”

For a split second, it looks as if a small spark of light returns to Neikos’ empty eyes. He leans into Anaxagoras’ hand further like a touch-starved stray, and smiles in contentment.

“I’m glad.”

…

In the daytime, Anaxagoras spends most of his waking hours with Neikos in his study. 

He cuts and feeds him fruits while he pours over his work. It is a habit that once resulted in a hilarious mess: Neikos had silently allowed a distracted Anaxagoras to feed him too much too quickly. His mouth ends up so stuffed that when Anaxagoras finally turns to ask him a question, the resulting answer causes bits of fruit to fall onto the floor.

The scholar watches in disbelief as the silvery-blue haired man slowly works to pick the apple bits off his once-pristine floor.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that I’m going too fast?”

“I didn’t want to break your concentration.”

More disgusting bits of apple fall onto the floor.

“Ah—”

He makes a small sound of surprise and a third batch of fruit splatters on the ground. Anaxagoras immediately moves to cover the man’s mouth with his palm, and persists even when he feels intimate, warm breaths brushing over skin. Innocent sky blue orbs meet stern aqua ones.

“Neikos.”

“Mmmfff?”

“Stop talking.”

…

More days pass, with Anaxagoras discovering through various occurrences that Neikos’ awkward innocence is more genuine than one might expect.

For example, there was that one time where Neikos was found fighting with Coconut Beagle over a chimera cookie. The tiny grey chimera had been a visiting guest from Hyacinthia’s last trip to the Eternal Holy City, Okhema. On the other hand, Anaxagoras had given Neikos a chimera cookie the day before in order to reward him for patiently resting in bed.

…And that was the beginning of all his troubles.

When he finally arrives in his study the next day, a frustrated Neikos is having an early morning showdown with Coconut Beagle. The chimera has the upper hand— cookie already firmly held in his mouth— while the man growls threateningly at him.

“Give it back! That’s a gift from the Professor!”

Ah. Right. Anaxagoras places a hand on his forehead exhaustedly. He has also taken to calling me ‘professor’ for some reason. Most likely this is an unexpected by-product of hanging around Hyacinthia for way too long.

Coconut Beagle narrows its eyes at Neikos and makes a few noises in quick succession. Anaxagoras has no idea what it might be saying, but the barking tone makes it sound like unhappy insults.

To his surprise, Neikos seems to understand the tiny little thing. He is aghast. The insults must have been much filthier and vulgar than one could have anticipated.

“Thief! Scoundrel! HKS!” He hisses back.

Anaxagoras catches everything except for the last word. It sounds like the Kremnoan language. Is Neikos from Castrum Kremnos then?

The tiny chimera adopts a wide stance, flattens its ears and arches its back. It snarls at Neikos who looks ready to summon his sword. Standing by the door, the scholar cleverly identifies the crux of the problem: there is unfortunately only one chimera cookie and this fight is destined to end in bloodshed.

And the destruction of his study.

Coconut Beagle barks something that potentially sounds like ‘come and get it if you can! I’ll beat your ass so hard that your ancestors can feel it!’. 

The tension in the room intensifies. He can see that the moon staff has appeared in Neikos’ hand.

That’s it.

“Okay, stop!” Anaxagoras yells; now finally out of patience.

They simultaneously look over at the same time. An incensed Neikos relaxes at the sight of him so Coconut Beagle takes the opportunity to escape by running between the scholar’s legs and making a break for the door.

“You—!” The executioner leaps after the tiny chimera and Anaxagoras grabs him by the scruff of his shirt right as he tries to squeeze by. Neikos makes a gagged sound, and Coconut Beagle shoots him a victorious look before absconding.

“What are you, a child?”

“But Professor, he’s getting away!”

“Then let him! It’s just a cookie.”

The man visibly deflates, “It’s not just a cookie. It’s something you gave to me.”

Oh. Is that what this is all about?

He sighs and pulls Neikos upright. “I could always give you another one. All you have to do is ask.”

Even with Anaxagoras’ attempt to placate him, the silvery-blue haired man folds his arms unhappily, “That doesn’t make the first one any less important.”

The small pouting tone draws a fond chuckle from the scholar, “This is unexpectedly sentimental of you.”

Sky blue eyes fill with uncertainty at the comment.

“Do you dislike it?”

“No.” He goes to his drawer and pulls out a second chimera cookie to place in the man’s large palm, “It suits you.” 

Neikos finally breaks into a smile at the sight of his prize.

He bravely tugs at Anaxagoras’ wrist until the scholar nods in consent. Neikos then pulls him in for a warm embrace that fully engulfs his tiny frame. He does not need to see the man’s face to know that he is still smiling.

“Thank you, Professor.” He whispers happily.

Anaxagoras reaches up to hold him a little closer.

Having a second prize doesn’t make the first one any less important, huh…

Neikos is visibly satisfied now, yet somehow his words from earlier continue to ring in the scholar’s mind. Although slightly dismissive of it at first, Anaxagoras thinks that he understands.

Perhaps foolishness is contagious.

Because for some odd reason, the more time he spends with Neikos, the more he indulges in the same sentimentality.

…

That night, in order to further appease Neikos after his traumatic encounter with Coconut Beagle, Anaxagoras allows him the comfort of laying his head in his lap. They unwind together on Neikos’ bed in the study— with the man laying on his back, and Anaxagoras sitting upright; one hand holding a book while the other absentmindedly cards through silvery blue locks.

The scholar is immersed in his reading when the man softly inquires, “Professor, do you think you can read your book aloud?”

“Hmm? Why?”

“I’m interested in your reading material.”

Anaxagoras is mildly pleased. He is not against fulfilling the request. After all, the curiosity and desire to pursue knowledge is one of the most outstanding virtues one can have. The scholar clears his throat.

And begins reading:

This is the indisputable truth

Know that the Essence of all things is one

One becomes two, two begets four

Thus life thrives in the endless cycle of this world

Just as Night and Day give birth to one another —

The roots of "Reason and Intellect" repel and separate

The threads of "Love and Beauty" attract and bind

Thus all things are constructed in this dance of union and division

The four may form the foundation of all things, behold —

Aquila's wind feeds Kephale's flame

Georios's soil nourishes Phagousa's springs

Thus all things are constructed from these Elements—

He is barely done with one page when Neikos stops him. There is a grimace present on his features.

“I-It’s okay, Professor. You can stop now. I think you should conserve your energy and protect your voice.”

Upset at being interrupted, he pinches the man on the cheek, “Why? Am I boring you?”

“Ow- Ow- Ow- Professor please—”

The initial yelps of pain slowly melt away into laughter as Anaxagoras eases on the pressure. Neikos’ persistent struggle to escape his grasp (and continued failure) also draws laughter from the normally stern scholar.

When the laughter fully dies and they finally settle, Anaxagoras thumbs the side of Neikos’ scarred face— thoughtfully staring into sky blue eyes. Why do they look so bright? It’s as if one can drown in them. Silence befalls them, and the man in his lap also seems to grow ever more captivated by something that he sees on his end.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like your eyes, Professor.”

“Hmm? An odd color with an unnatural red taint?”

“It’s so beautiful. Like seeing the last vestiges of sunlight coming through the trees.” Neikos reaches up to brush aside a stray green lock so that he can view them better, “Your eyes are like the comforting twilight; a quiet stillness settling upon the world like a blanket.”

The scholar reels a little at the comment. So he has this side to him as well. The unabashed confession pushes an embarrassed Anaxagoras to give Neikos’ scarred cheek one final squeeze.

“What a glib tongue. I’m sure you have coaxed many unsuspecting victims with it.”

The famed executioner of Amphoreus gives him a pleased grin in response.

“Not many. Just one.”

.

…

. 

Neikos disappears upon a full recovery.

His bed simply turns up empty one day. True to his wraith-like behavior, he vanishes without a word or trace.

As Anaxagoras places the basket of fruits on the nearby table, he understands with disappointment that the lack of light in Neikos’ eyes is not a by-product of his injuries. Rather, it is merely the way he is— a man who fills himself with torment as he goes from battlefield to battlefield slaughtering millions to protect the remaining.

A man who, for some odd reason, behaves as though he is tasked with bearing the weight of the world.

He looks out of the window in the direction of Kephale, and wonders.

How long more will the world continue to suffer?

How much longer must Neikos continue to suffer?

In his heart, Neikos is like a bird in constant, frantic flight. He flies in a direction unknown to anybody— to his own version of a utopia— through storms, blizzards and man-made horrors beyond anybody’s comprehension.

He flies without stop, and with no home to return to.

His wings have never known rest because there is no tree to support or shelter him.

In the corner of the room, Cerces watches him intently without any unhelpful quips or advice. She does not have to say anything, because the scholar already understands his own heart.

Now, when Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany thinks of Neikos the Executioner, he desperately desires only one thing:

To be his shelter and home.

.

…

.

When they next meet, Neikos is once again on the verge of death.

He drags himself to the Grove of Epiphany like a cat crawling to somewhere important right before it dies. Drawn in by the commotion outside at the Serene Court of Learning, Anaxagoras appears right on time.

When the executioner sees him, the horrifying mask that he always has on falls to the ground and cracks into half. A look of relief washes over Neikos as he reaches out to the scholar. Finding him must have taken less time than anticipated.

“Professor…”

He reaches out with one arm and Anaxagoras is already running.

Loud, urgent footsteps ring out as the scholar runs with his heart in his throat. When Neikos collapses a mere second or two later, Anaxagoras is by his side and hugging him close. He grabs hold of the outstretched hand and buries his face in Neikos’ feverish neck.

Golden blood once again paints the floor and the both of them in an ungodly color.

“I wanted to see you.” The man whispers tiredly.

“Don’t say it like you care. You only think of me whenever you wish to give me problems.”

Neikos laughs and gold spews from his lips.

“It’s true…”

Anaxagoras rubs the man’s chest gently in an effort to soothe him, “Don’t talk anymore. I’ll get you somewhere safe and ask Hyacinthia to take a look.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late this time. I don’t intend to survive these injuries.”

“What do you mean you ‘don’t intend to survive these injuries’?” He hisses, “Now stop talking nonsense and come.”

“Anaxa.” Neikos moves to embrace him under the gaze of the entire Murmuring Woods, “I know that the heart of a monster is not much of an offering…”

The man falters as his world spins. Then, amidst it all, he presses on.

“But I wanted you to know that this useless heart is yours.”

“It has always been since the day we met.”

As his last words land, Neikos’ body goes limp and he collapses fully. Anaxagoras struggles to hold him upright while crushed under the full weight of the man’s muscular body. When he finally succeeds in steadying himself, he tries to check on Neikos once more.

A terrible, chilling sensation creeps into his bones. He readjusts his palm against the man’s chest more than once in order to confirm the issue.

Something’s wrong.

Neikos’ heart isn’t beating.

…

He drags Neikos’ body with him like a man possessed, to his study.

When they arrive, Anaxagoras leaves the executioner by the door while he rushes in to grab a piece of chalk. He pushes every single piece of furniture to the edge of the room in order to create as much space as possible, and begins scratching an alchemical formation into the floor.

It takes less than a minute due to experience and his own desperation.

Once it is complete, he quickly drags Neikos into the middle of the formation and digs into his palm with a letter opener. With the newly opened wound, he places his hand, palm-down, and inks blood onto the circle.

“I hereby exercise the prayer of formation.”

Golden runes begin to glow and slowly expand with his words.

“Ubiquitous earth, flowing water, refining fire, fortifying wind.”

He curls his fingers shut and lifts his fist into the air; golden blood still dripping and supplementing the necessary fuel to empower the spell.

“Traverse the thirteenth, worldly, and hundred and thirty-fourth passage.”

“Unyielding soul, remain in the mortal realm, take this gift of equivalent exchange—”

I, Anaxagoras, hereby offer my left eye and a part of this body’s health for the one chance that you might live.

“And fulfill thy pact! Sages of Old, witness my grand endeavor!”

The runes explode and a pillar of light bursts through the roof. Neikos is bathed in the most beautiful sea of glittering gold as Anaxagoras tries to physically resist the impact of the blast. An aurora begins to form above.

He feels his body gradually weaken from the exchange he just did— left eye going dark, a lightness from a lower blood pressure and a feeling like his womb is being scraped violently from the inside with a barbed spoon.

The pain threatens to shred him into pieces; yet throughout it all, the scholar keeps his eye on the unconscious Neikos.

“I feel the same.” He says as the spell finishes itself and the blasphemous light fades, “So won’t you live for me?”

Shit. He is growing increasingly lightheaded.

Anaxagoras slumps onto the floor; thoroughly exhausted. Only time will tell if it worked.

…

He wakes hours later in Neikos’ arms.

Sky blue eyes are already filled with tears when he peers at his love— Anaxagoras has never seen him so distraught. The executioner is covered in scars from top to bottom, but he assumes that none of it has ever drawn even a single tear.

“Hey.” The scholar greets him feebly.

“Professor.” Comes the mournful response.

“Oh come on. I’m still alive. Stop crying...”

He attempts to lift his hand, and Neikos catches it to press his palm to a scarred cheek. Oh… So this is how it feels. He remembers how the man once commented on his warm touch during their first meeting. Now it is his turn to feel the joy of another person’s warmth.

“Anaxa…”

“Promise me that you will stop turning up at my doorstep on the cusp of death.” He shifts tiredly, “I don’t think I have enough left in me to cast another spell like that.”

“You shouldn’t have done it.” Neikos protests but Anaxagoras quickly silences him with a shake of his head. Regretting is useless. And even if he was given the chance to redo things, he still would have made the same decision.

“Then stop putting me in situations where I will have to.”

Neikos cries even more. Who knew that a man who has seen so much bloodshed would be such a crybaby?

“I’m sorry, Anaxa.”

“Don’t be.” He wipes the tears away with his thumb and gestures for Neikos to hold him closer. Like an obedient pet, the executioner does what he is told and now Anaxagoras is comfortably propped against his chest in a sitting position.

“I also think that the heart of a blasphemer is not much of an offering.” As his strength gradually comes back to him, he angles Neikos’ face in a way that allows sky blue to meet aqua. The scholar smiles helplessly and guides the man to close the distance between them.

“But I get it. I’m also a fool who is deeply enamored with you.”

Their lips touch.

Thereafter things become a blur. But one thing is for certain— Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany allows Neikos the Executioner to take him for all that he is worth. 

And during their desperate, frenzied state, Neikos fills him with so much of himself before sealing the act with a knot. Love overflows. It gushes forth from corners of his heart that he has never known existed. It pours out over and over again; making a mess of both the blue haired man and himself.

As their bodies melt in a way that proclaims them as one, Neikos palms his slightly distended belly with desire and need.

Anaxagoras instantly understands.

“Do you want it?”

“Yes,” Neikos admits shamefully, “More than anything else.”

“A boy or a girl? How many?”

“Doesn’t matter. As many as you’re willing to give me.”

They continue to ride the waves of pleasure breathlessly, and an obsessed Neikos leans into the small of Anaxagoras’ neck where his scent is the strongest.

“As long as they look like you.”

.

…

.

After that night, Neikos disappears once more.

Anaxagoras, now used to being abandoned for the greater good, pulls the blanket close. Although his chest feels hollow from Neikos’ absence, he smiles when he realizes that it still smells like the alpha.

He curls in on himself; one hand on his flat abdomen, with their conversation still fresh in his mind.

It will be nice if his seed from last night takes. Maybe he can scare the man with the sight of their pup when he comes back to visit months from now. The thought of the famed executioner of Amphoreus cowering in front of a small baby that looks exactly like him, makes Anaxagoras chuckle.

Whilst allowing his imagination to run free with the wonderful fantasy, the scholar laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs some more, until the false joy fades into bitter silence. It is all wishful thinking. After performing such a devastating spell, his body is most likely no longer capable of bearing children. He smothers his face into the blanket once more and inhales sharply.

But it is alright. It’s all worth it because he has protected the person who is most important to him.

However difficult the journey might be in the future, or however painful…

Neikos lives, and for as long as he does, his beloved Anaxa will live along with him.

.

…

.

Neikos continues to visit him after that— only enough times for him to count on both hands.

Each time he does, they indulge in each other both emotionally and physically. He comforts the constantly exhausted Neikos; grounds him with his presence, and the man makes love to him with almost unbearable yearning and adoration.

And yet.

Yet…

Neikos does not show any indication that he wishes for them to become mates.

A full year comes and goes. The Grove remains evergreen under the blessing of Cerces and the protection of the wraith-like executioner, Neikos. Everything and everyone around him continues to flourish. However, the same cannot be said for the Grove’s most famous scholar.

His health wanes, and loneliness and worry eat away at him daily. These are things that Anaxagoras is able to hide from everyone but himself.

A fully stacked cake of misery. And at the very top, a cherry to complete it:

True to his own expectations, his womb remains barren and does not swell with child.

.

…

.

The constant wars have ended and Amphoreus finally embraces a new dawn.

Khaslana the War God has prevailed. The price to pay had been steep, but now the world will no longer shed tears or blood in pointless conflict.

The Titan of Reason, Cerces, looks upon the wind on a bright sunny day— gasps softly in understanding…

…and proceeds to inform Anaxagoras that Neikos is dead.

The news comes to him so abruptly that it causes a headache-inducing ringing in his ears. The world goes silent save for the sound of his heart audibly cracking into pieces.

Anaxa stumbles, and in his attempt to steady himself, knocks a stool down. His outstretched arm accidentally swipes a table full of research papers off onto the cold floor. A chill passes through his body like Death’s apathetic caress.

With no one to catch him, he falls with a painful thud along with the papers.

“You lie.”

Cerces eyes him intently, “And to what end, Anaxagoras?”

“... …”

“If you do not trust me, then all you have to do is wait. Time will prove my sincerity to you— the man you’ve grown so attached to is not coming back.”

His chest is constricted by something; lungs probably collapsing in on themselves. It is getting difficult to breathe. He does not want to believe her but Cerces has yet to lie to him.

So…

Everything was futile. His love is gone.

A new dawn has been ushered into the world but with not a single mention of Neikos. The masses will laud Khaslana the War God as the savior and Deliverer of Amphoreus, but refuse to acknowledge a merciless executioner. Nobody saw or took time to understand the real Neikos, so as far as they are concerned, he is simply a statistic; an unfortunate and necessary casualty for the sake of stepping into the new world.

Nothing of value is lost when a monster dies.

“Ah…” When he finally finds his voice, it cracks in a way that he does not recognize.

In his pain, he splays himself across the floor and crawls just slightly— to where he knows Cerces is watching him in silence.

For the first time in his life, Anaxagoras the Blasphemer prostrates himself like a dog towards the Titans of Amphoreus.

Humbly. Pathetically. 

Desperately.

Like a child who has been punished for his transgressions, he grasps at the hem of her dress.

“Please…” He begs to all the Gods that will listen, while the Titan of Reason begins to drip gold from her closed eyes, “Please let him live. I will never speak rudely to you again. I will never speak ill of the Titans for as long as I live.”

“Cerces–!” Anaxa cries out and Cerces’ golden tears, like acid rain, fall upon the stone floor. It barely misses him, and yet Anaxa does not flinch. If taking on any form of punishment right now can change matters, then he is more than happy to do so.

The much more gentle and emotional Mnestia is nowhere to be found. They must have known that this would happen. They both knew.

“Anaxagoras.” She coaxes him softly like a mother would, “It is as foretold, and none of us can do anything to change it.”

He buries his face into her dress and wails in anguish. It is not loud enough to be heard by anybody other than Cerces but the way his body trembles tells a different story of his pain.

Neikos is dead. And the world refused to offer him even a sliver of mercy by returning his love’s lifeless body to him.

There is nothing to bury.

Unable to collect himself in time, Anaxagoras shatters.

He shatters into a million pieces. He dreams of his broken self as fragments of stars that the Titans can casually toss into a quiet night sky. Darkness, like the arms of a long-gone lover, wraps around him. Embraces him. It whispers promises of love, pups that look like him and an Amophereus that is free to decide its own destiny.

Someone once said, “No matter how persistent and dark the night is, dawn will eventually come.”

But it is in this new dawn that the once-famed Anaxagoras abruptly drowns and disappears–-

Never to be seen again for a subsequent number of years.

After Khaslana’s ascent to practically godhood in the eyes of the public, they often hold celebratory banquets in his honor. 

Of course, as he does with everything after the final War, Khaslana neither cares for it nor attends. Instead, various lords, princes and nobilities of the sort are gathered using his name, for the glorified mingling session. Some do it in order to network and form alliances, while others take the opportunity to find partners with good marital prospects.

Today, a rare guest is present.

He casually swishes the small amount of Phagousa’s brew around in his cup. As the new Lord of the Grove of Epiphany, Anaxagoras was not in a position to decline. Cerces made sure of it.

It is during this tiresome celebratory banquet that Anaxagoras meets Mydeimos, the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos. With a red mane like the burning fires of a battlefield and a beautifully sculpted face that can rival the most alluring of Titans, Mydeimos is truly a sight to behold.

And yet, even when they are standing close enough to make physical contact, the only thing that really catches Anaxagoras’ attention are his golden eyes.

“It’s a baby boy with golden eyes— the most beautiful color of dawn.”

Even with his womb now barren, Mnestia’s prophecy rings out like a curse in his mind.

Mydeimos is all sincere gaze and gentle demeanor as he places a hand over his heart to greet Anaxagoras.

“I’m Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos. You are?”

He eyes the man in front of him, and a pleasant scent drifts by. An alpha.

And not just any alpha— Anaxagoras is not blind to the way Mydeimos eyes him in the same curious and earnest way that Neikos used to. An interested alpha.

He lets out a small huff of air through his nose as he smiles in disinterest. It is unfortunate. Because between Neikos’ passing and the prophecy of a golden eyed pup, the scholar wants nothing that Mydeimos may offer.

“I am Anaxagoras, the new Lord of the Grove of Epiphany.”

“Lord Anaxagoras.” The young lion acknowledges, and the man immediately decides that maybe he is not so bad. Anaxagoras likes polite people.

Now his continued opinion of him will depend on Mydeimos’ next few words.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself?”

“...do I look like I'm experiencing any sort of euphoria to you?”

Mydeimos stares at an old man in the distance. Dressed very much like a gladiator with a red scarf, he is enthusiastically communicating with another one of the banquet’s distinguished guests. From the style of clothing and Mydeimos’ long suffering look, Anaxagoras presumes that they are related somehow.

“Yeah, me neither.”

“You could always wash away the frustration with some of Phagousa’s brew.” He helpfully suggests.

The crown prince of kremnos folds his arms and gestures at the cup in Anaxagoras’ hand, “And how’s that working out for you?”

Aqua tones gaze down apathetically at it and Anaxagoras barely manages to resist the strong urge to toss the damn thing at the organizer of the banquet.

“You’re right. It’s terrible.” he places the cup on a nearby table instead. Anaxagoras then lifts his gaze to look straight at the color of accursed dawn in a bid to firmly excuse himself. A pang of guilt hits him when the scholar sees how Mydeimos’ eyes widen a little in surprise and anticipation.

Sorry. Perhaps if it were under different circumstances…

“I think I had a little too much to drink. I will take my leave—”

He pauses. 

Something catches his attention at the very last second: in a corner of the large hall, hidden within a very secluded spot and almost unnoticeable, a flash of soft silvery blue hair.

His mouth falls agape as he stares hard. He blinks; assuming that he might be seeing things. Once. Twice.

Thrice.

The man in question pops a nice little dessert into his mouth and smiles openly; brightly. Whoever it is, he looks exactly like Neikos but without all of his facial scars or introverted demeanor. Like a skinwalker, the mysterious guest roams around that small dessert table with no care in the world; relishing in his newfound stash of delicious treasures.

He glances around, hoping that nobody has noticed his greedy little escapade, and sky blue lands on Anaxagoras’ confused aqua ones.

It’s not Neikos. The scholar thinks to himself as his heart beats so hard that it nearly bursts from its cage. It’s not him. He repeats once more.

Neikos is dead, remember?

There is no recognition in sky blue eyes, yet Anaxagoras is increasingly convinced that he has spent enough time staring into them to know that they are the very same pair.

From beyond the grave, an all-encompassing love holds him tight in its embrace. His breathing slows in both disbelief and relief. 

There is light in them now, but it is unmistakable. 

“Neikos…?” He whispers.

Mydeimos redirects his gaze to whoever has Anaxagoras looking so captivated, and a messy young man around his age comes into view. With his mouth full of food and crumbs covering his cheeks, the young lord of Aedes Elysiae tilts his head at a 45 degree angle in confusion.

“Huh?” Phainon makes an embarrassed sound at being found by the two of them, and bits of food drop onto the floor in a disgusting manner. “Oh shit—” he mumbles to himself and more of them fall out unintentionally.

Mydeimos grimaces at his friend.

But it is too late. When he turns back to Anaxagoras, the Lord of the Grove of Epiphany is absolutely smitten; so much tenderness fills his eyes that the young lion is taken aback.

On that day, the new lord meets both Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, and Lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

And at the end of the banquet, the Grove of Epiphany receives exactly two marriage proposals: One from a disgruntled old man representing Castrum Kremnos, and one from a pair of worried parents representing Aedes Elysiae. 

Both state that while the contents of the proposals can be negotiated, only one thing is non-negotiable: the bride-to-be must be Lord Anaxagoras.

Just as the elders are grumbling and complaining over how it is an impossible task; that Anaxagoras is the last person in the Grove of Epiphany who will ever accept an arranged marriage— they receive stunning news. 

In an odd twist of behavior unlike the usual him, Anaxagoras agrees to be a pawn for the Grove of Epiphany in a political marriage. 

All they have to do is agree to one caveat of his:

He will be the one to decide which of the two he is to marry.

When Phainon of Aedes Elysiae lifts his veil on their wedding night, Anaxagoras is greeted by a sky blue so familiar that it makes his heart ache. 

Neikos’ unscarred and handsome face comes into full view as Phainon bends down to peer at him. The bride holds his breath in nervous anticipation— now that they are much closer in proximity, Anaxagoras notices all the little ways in which Neikos and Phainon are so similar and yet different. 

“The color of the sky…” He comments to his new husband absentmindedly, and the man snaps out of it. The young lord shifts his weight from one foot to another (a familiar gesture) and says something that he would have never expected in a thousand years:

“I’ve never seen anything quite like yours as well.”

Anaxagoras laughs softly; weakly, at the immediate sense of deja vu, “An odd color with an unnatural red taint?”

“No, it’s like seeing the sunset between the trees. A quiet stillness settling upon the world like a blanket.”

He is speechless. Anaxagoras has to remind himself once more that Phainon is not Neikos; this is a different man that he is about to marry. To alleviate his guilt, he tries to confirm with Phainon that this marriage is something that he wants, and not something fueled by Anaxagoras’ insane, one-sided obsession.

The young lord flushes a deep red. Phainon is evidently shy but he does not hesitate when it comes to expressing his desire to marry Anaxagoras.

Cerces’ benevolent face comes to mind as she utters words of hope for him:

“Mnestia believes that our little grandchild will have golden eyes the color of dawn. I, however…”

“Am fond of the vast blue of a limitless sky.”

There will most likely be no child resulting from their union. But if this is truly destiny, then he thinks he will accept for once. And so, when Anaxagoras next recites his vows, he does them with enough feeling and sincerity for both Phainon and the long-departed Neikos:

“Then I hereby list my vows: 

One, I wish for you, my husband, to live a long and blessed life. 

Two, I wish for my own health to flourish so that I can accompany you forevermore.

And three, I pray that the both of us can be like the swallows on the beams…”

As his words slow to a close, Anaxa gives Phainon a tug to bring him closer; he holds back the  onset of tears that threaten to overflow. Memories of his time with Neikos during the most chaotic period of Amphoreus flood his mind— the way the broken man finds peace only in his arms and how it sounds when he softly calls him “Professor”.

Having a second prize doesn’t make the first one any less important.

Anaxagoras’ heart breaks and is pieced together once more.

He does not want anything else. He just wants his next love to stay this time.

Drawing comfort from Phainon’s hope-filled eyes and unabashed display of happiness, he leans in to seal their promise.

“...together, year after year.”

That night, Phainon holds him close and they make love in a way that takes Anaxagoras back to the period before the wars ended— to the moment in time where he once experienced happiness beyond his wildest imagination. As the Lord of Aedes Elysiae knots him, he finally puts aside all his worries regarding the Titans’ prophecies.

On a cooling spring night, with an endless field of gold wheat swaying in the breeze outside their window and the blessing of Cerces and Mnestia…

(Though not yet aware…)

Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany marries the love of his life.

…

Outside the window, a golden butterfly takes flight.

The leaves of Aedes Elysiae’s oldest tree rustle.

And the happy whispers of two Titans can be heard drifting on the wind:

“When your paths finally cross, you will gravitate towards cherishing him more dearly than anything else in this world.”

“And through all the trials and tribulations, you will choose him.”

“Over… and over…”

“And over again.”