Chapter Text
They reconvene at Phainon’s home (because Khaslana has just taken to sleeping in the woods and on rooftops and such across his many cycles) and sit across from each other like some sort of ironic mirror.
“Okay. Let’s brainstorm.” Khaslana starts, crossing his legs and gesturing towards Phainon, because while he knows himself, he cannot claim to always know himself at every point in time. The Phainons of each cycle are different in their own ways, hence why the regression of each Chrysos Heir happens differently in every cycle, though they come to resemble certain greater trends over time. “What do we know about Mydei?”
Immediately, Phainon perks up, sitting up straight and raising his hand. “That he likes you! Me? Us!”
“What, no—” Khaslana gives him (himself?) a scathing scowl, looking around immediately for something to lob at this significantly less depressing version of himself. “Focus, will you? He doesn’t like either of us right now!”
“Okay, so he’ll come to like me. Us. Me, I guess. Just like your Mydeimos does with you!”
Again, Khaslana is forced to sigh. Think about the past too much, and you lose your grip on the present. If he’s allowed to consider what it means to be liked by Mydei, what it meant to be loved by him, he won’t be able to stop the cracks from forming on his body, and he’ll reveal the empty gold hidden beneath.
Khaslana has learned a few things about this crumbling body. If he loses his will to the Destruction, his form will start to shatter. Such is the nature of a body holding the weight of thousands of thousands of coreflames.
If he starts to consider the past, his body will start to crumble. This, he concluded, is due to the fact that a body with more than one cycle attached to it will start to lose its claim to reality if the wielder desires to inhabit that of a single cycle. One cannot desire to be one version of themselves when they are an accumulation of many, or else the body conflicts with the mind enough for entropy to take over.
But Khaslana can’t really help it. He can’t help the way his form starts to disintegrate at the fingers when he sees the way Phainon absolutely lights up. Khaslana remembers it, briefly, barely, the way it had felt to fall in love with someone as beautiful as his Mydei is, was.
Like holding the weight of the World wouldn’t be so difficult if he could just grasp Mydei’s hand for a second, even after a lifetime of chasing after him.
“Let’s not talk about my Mydei.” Khaslana redirects gently, hiding his hands in his lap. “We’re focusing on yours right now, so go on. What have you learned about him so far?”
“He’s strong.” Phainon rambles immediately, index finger drawing imaginary shapes into the wooden table between them. “Way stronger than anyone else I’ve ever fought. I guess it’s a given, seeing how he’s led his people here, but by Kephale, the way he moves! He doesn’t have a single second of useless movement, believe me, I’ve tested it! Every choice he makes just flows into the next and it’s… wow, I mean, there’s no other way to describe it.”
“Like water?” Khaslana suggests, laughing gently, although these are not his words. This is what he’s heard travelling poets and bards use to describe Mydei across the many cycles. “With the grace of a well made blade through air. Like his body itself is the weapon.”
“Yes, yes exactly!”
“And?”
“And?” Phainon repeats, laughing, delighted. “I could go on and on. Do you want me to?”
“It’s not a matter of wanting. I just think that you should.” Khaslana picks up a stray pen and pulls a pad of paper nearby. “Go on.”
They come up with this:
Mydei is 1) the most beautiful prince of Kremnos to have ever been born, skilled in all things battle, yes, but also deft in the ways of the kitchen knife and the baker’s hands.
He is, 2) blunt to an extent, and while bold on the battlefield, quite introspective, with a tendency to gravitate towards more quiet places, like the library, or the gardens, late at night.
“So what did you say to him in the gardens the other day?”
“You were watching?!” Phainon groans, hands on his head. “I just said he might benefit a bit by spending more time getting to know Okhema instead of staying cooped up all on his own.”
“And you thought that would be flattering? Mydei enjoys his time alone.”
“Who would have guessed that? Just look at him!”
The two of them go quiet.
True, someone with a body and mind like Mydei’s should be paraded. It’s only right.
“Anyway.” Both of them say at once, Phainon clearing his throat while Khaslana loosens the collar of his cloak.
3) In this cycle, Mydei tore his way out of the Sea of Souls earlier than the others, and declared himself the last Prince of Kremnos, thus ending the tradition of murdering one’s father by starting by setting an example himself. Eurypon was dethroned and sentenced to a year long exile, which he completed. Mydei’s father now spends his days being ambushed by Gorgo, who has taken to making sure that the family stays in top combat shape. It is said that Gorgo terrorizes him quite often to make him suffer for throwing their son into the Sea of Souls.
“And Mydei is just… okay with that?” Khaslana tilts his head. It’s not the first cycle that Mydei’s parents both survive, but in most of these cycles, Mydei leaves Castrum Kremnos to participate in the Flame Chase, or is otherwise estranged from his family.
“He seems to be. I didn’t get to ask, but I’ve seen him have tea with his mother and father before.”
“What do they do? Talk?”
“Throw javelins and arm wrestle mostly.”
“Ah.”
“Queen Gorgo often wins.”
“Ah…”
4) In this cycle, Mydei seems to respect his mother, and holds… maybe begrudging acceptance towards the presence of his father? Winning over both of them seem topical to attaining Mydei’s respect, and his respect is important because:
5) Mydei wants someone to be his equal. There is no word for love in the Kremnoan language, so culturally, adoration is expressed differently.
“Did you study what I told you to?” Khaslana lectures, scribbling down notes as Phainon excitedly pulls out books on Kremnoan culture and courting rituals.
“I did! I even asked some Kremnoans who worked in the palace to figure out how royalty court each other! Did you know they play games of chess, and for each chess piece lost, they slice off their own fingers to prove their seriousness?”
“... are these sources trustworthy?”
Phainon blinks innocently. “Oh.”
6) Mydei ties his braid every day. Phainon knows because the gold band lies in a different spot relative to his shoulder. Sometimes it’s on the left, but most times his braid lies to his right, so Mydei is left handed.
7) According to Kremnoan culture, being able to grow out one’s hair is a sign of strength, because it indicates that one can still be mobile and victorious in battle despite being hindered. Because hair is so precious to Kremnoans, only family, close friends, and lovers can tend to one’s hair.
8) Phainon wants to be someone who receives the honor of braiding Mydei’s hair—
“Don’t write that!” Phainon gasps, reaching for the paper, to which Khaslana quickly pulls it away.
“Why? It’s good to know our goals.”
“I have more goals to share than just that then!”
Khaslana raises an eyebrow. In response, Phainon starts rambling.
9) He wants to have a spar with Mydei that comes out with a clear winner. No trickery. No limits. No spectators. No eyes wondering if the Deliverer and the Prince of Kremnos are truly equal.
“Is that the only reason why?” Khaslana stares pointedly.
“Uh.” Intelligently, Phainon keeps his mouth shut, then decides against it. “A half-naked showoff like him shouldn’t be able to bask in the attention that he wants.”
“No one mentioned anything about him being half naked.”
“Right.”
They look at each other.
“Anyway.” Khaslana continues. “Are there others that Mydei considers his equals?”
“He has a group of friends, yes!”
“We’ll start there.”
Word on the street is that Mydei has a close group of friends. They’ve dined with each other, competed with each other, and seem to spar with each other every third day of the week. When they’re seen in public with each other, they’re noted to be quite touchy, with that Hephaestion character being the closest to Mydei, so that they’re always touching. The others are also comfortable with laying on top of each other and casual touch, which makes both Phainon and Khaslana both raise their hackles in defense. How are they to compete with this?
Not a problem. Not really at least. Khaslana opens up their notes, and Phainon peers over his shoulder as they hide behind a bush to watch as Leonnius drapes his arm over Mydei’s shoulder and Ptoloemy mixes a drink for the two of them.
- For Kremnoans, one must dine with each other often. It is better if the meal is home cooked, with ingredients gathered by one’s own hand.
Khaslana glances up to find that Peucesta has carried a bag of groceries to the table, and Perdikkas has already begun appraising the ingredients, murmuring something gently to Mydeimos about tonight’s dinner.
Okay, so they’ve completed one step.
- One must best the one they are courting in a battle that lasts at least a day and night. At the very least, one should be lovers on the battlefield.
The next day, Phainon goes out to watch them spar, and trudges home with a downtrodden expression, reporting to an equally depressed Khaslana about how he waited for hours, and had yet to see the end of their battle royale style matches.
So the group is close enough to spar intimately. Mydei and Phainon have sparred in this cycle as well, and for ten days, no less! Sure they’ve yet to renew that battle, but still!
They go out to scout for information. At one of the bars, Khaslana places a finger to his lips as he tilts his head towards a table on the side of hooded characters playing cards. Their blades have the Kremnoan insignia on them, so they must be from the detachment.
“I’d do anything to get a chance with Prince Mydeimos!” One figure bemoans, sounding like he’s stifling a cough. Or possible, choking.
The other figure swats him across the head. “And how are you going to do that? Don’t you know the story? Prince Mydeimos has had not one, but five competent lovers. He dated all of them in a row, and no one with a good head on their shoulders dares to even try with Prince Mydeimos after hearing that. I hear they’re all still on good terms, can you believe that? I bet there’s a good chance he’s still dating all of them at once, wouldn’t you say?”
“I know that, but I could always make it six lovers.” The other figure gushes, earning him another smack on the head. “What?! It’s true! Prince Mydeimos has always been open to romantic relationships, and we— I mean, the beautiful group of beautiful lovers could always use a sixth that’s big and strong and maybe holds an important place in Okhema so that we can have some political leeway, with a name that starts with a P and ends with a N…”
Now this conversation was getting weirdly specific. Phainon looks at Khaslana in confusion, who shrugs. Maybe Kremnoans are so stressed from their recent move to Okhema that they take to babbling and making up stories when they’re drunk? Still, the information seems solid enough, so the two of them make plans to challenge all five of Mydei’s lovers.
Leonnius is the first that Phainon approaches. The racer has a bright personality, but seems to be easily distracted, since Leonnius keeps stretching and jumping and shaking out his wrists as Phainon declares his undying love for Mydei, Khaslana watches with an increasingly tight jaw as Phainon fumbles through his research about Kremnoan courting, only for Leonnius to cut in.
“I want a race!” Leonnius declares, removing his cape. “Win, and I’ll tell Mydeimos of your feats, and I’ll personally vouch for you!”
Then, as if it’s an afterthought, “I was Mydei’s third boyfriend, so let’s do… three rounds of the Okheman outskirts. Surely you can do that much!”
The second Leonnius describes the route around Okhema, Khaslana runs off to clear the road of blockages, removing carts of groceries and convincing market sellers to move their booths slightly over while Phainon distracts Leonnius by telling stories of the racing routes in Aedes Elysiae. This way, when they finally race, Phainon is able to take shortcuts that Leonnius avoids because they’re usually busier, granting him a close victory and an eager Leonnius who quickly schedules more races.
The next is Ptolemy, who stares at Phainon with a scathing glare before immediately quizzing him on Kremnoan history and culture. In response, Khaslana finds a better hiding spot in the library between some bookshelves, and mouths answers to a fumbling Phainon. It’s quite lucky that while Ptolemy is a haughty bookworm, he doesn’t seem to be very aware of his surroundings, allowing Khaslana to quickly read through textbooks for answers while Phainon stalls for time with flowery, meaningless fluff during the quiz. They learn much about Kremnoan customs during the three hour long session, but both of them leave with sweaty palms, reminded of exam season at the Grove.
Perdikkas challenges Phainon to a potion concocting contest, to which Phainon flounders and immediately asks to go use the restroom, tag teaming with a waiting Khaslana, who strides up to the crafting table and makes a potion that promptly goes up in smoke. Khaslana, shamefully, asks once again to go to the restroom, this time with the excuse to wash up, and Phainon gives him the most devastated, confused look before going back out there and trying again. Through sheer luck and some equations that he remembers Professor Anaxa drilling into him, Phainon is able to create a decent potion that dissolves the poison that Perdikkas drops into the vial.
Peucesta is the next, who peers upon Phainon with an interest that seems almost childish, wide eyes and hope for all. He strums on his lyre, murmuring sweet phrases about a warm spring gracing the Kremnoan family after a winter or something like that, Khaslana can’t really hear from his hiding spot. The bard assigns Phainon to write a song, and jots the prompt down on a sheet of paper that Phainon dutifully brings back to their home. For three days and three nights, Phainon and Khaslana write poetry (neither of them are good at that), and translate it into song (which neither of them have studied). Their phrases are awkward and don’t resolve properly, and don’t get better despite the sleepless nights that the Deliverers spend figuring out what they should rhyme ‘pomegrante’ with.
They decide narrowly (through many awkward sessions of singing to each other), that Khaslana has the better voice between the two of them, and so Khaslana mournfully grabs the sheet of lyrics that they’d painstakingly wrote and begins his journey to the market.
One embarrassingly painful public performance later, Peucesta trots up to them, silently nodding with an adoring expression and giving Khaslana a double thumbs up. Without a single word exchanged, the bard runs off, leaving Khaslana to wonder if the public humiliation was worth an ambiguous answer from the bard.
Hephaestion is the last, and the most difficult. Seeing as how Khaslana hasn’t… exactly been the most helpful during the trials, the two of them, utterly battered and beaten by exhaustion and stress, decide who will undertake this final task with a noble game of rock paper scissors.
Phainon wins.
Khaslana argues that the winner is supposed to be the one who gets the honor to win over Mydei’s best friend.
Confused, Phainon heads out. It takes him five minutes to realize something’s wrong until he stomps back in and shoves Khaslana out the door.
Khaslana finds Hephaestion lounging about in the gardens.
“I was Mydei’s first boyfriend, and dare I say, I think Mydei likes me the most.” Hephaestion grins, tilting his head as he appraises Phainon. “I won’t say I can stand up to Okhema’s precious Deliverer, but I think I could put up a good fight at least. What makes you think you have the right to be with our Mydei?”
“Your Mydei?” Khaslana gasps. He knows how people like Hephaestion work. They poke and prod at a person’s weaknesses until they expose something they normally wouldn’t have ever done, and at that point, you’ve already lost.
“Our Mydei.” Hephaestion corrects, shrugging. “He’s dated all of us at this point, so it only makes sense that he’s ours, right? We figure that eventually, he’ll pick one of us to be prince consort.”
Khaslana bristles. Talking about Mydei like he’s some prize to be won! What kind of friend is this Hephaestion?
“State your challenge.” Khaslana continues, glaring. He’s met people like Hephaestion before. Besides those he cares for, which often happen to be a small few, Hephaestion is the type who enjoys playing mind games and schemes on even the most uninteresting of passerbys just to satisfy the boredom that comes with being a trickster.
“Simple.” With a sigh, Hephaestion sits down across from him. Khaslana follows shortly. “Just three questions.”
“Go on.”
“One! What is Mydei’s weapon of choice?”
“His fists.” Khaslana responds in confusion. This is easy enough.
“Two, what is Mydei’s favorite drink?”
“Pomegrante milk.”
“Correct again! You’re smarter than you look!” Hephaestion sings, grinning. “Lastly… what do you like about Mydei?”
Ah. So that’s what this is all about. They’re in a crowded tavern, and people have taken to staring at the Deliverer and the Prince of Kremnos’s right hand man, caught in what appears to be an argument. Too many people are paying attention to back out now. Refuse to answer, and the Kremnoans will think him spineless, and the Okhemans will think his love to be fickle. Kremnoans are too proud to accept a prince consort who isn’t bold, and Okhemans are too nosy to let news of the Deliverer’s romantic escapades go unheard.
Hephaestion is basically forcing him to confess his love for Mydei publically.
It’s true, Khaslana has been thinking about this throughout all of his lives. What he adores about Mydei, what he admires about Mydei, what he loves about Mydei, those are all questions that swim in the background of his mission to reave all of the coreflames.
In some way, Khaslana has been rehearsing for this his entire life.
“How do you come across all the suffering in the world and still choose to come out of it with kindness?” Khaslana asks instead, lifting his eyes from his hands so that he can stare Hephaestion in the face.
The warrior’s eyes have gone from a practiced innocence to sharp. “Is that your answer?”
“Not all of it.” Khaslana responds. “I always think this. What Mydeimos do if he was in my place. He’d be kinder than me definitely, if he were the Deliverer. He’d be more decisive than me, faster than me, stronger than me, and deliver to Amphoreus the dawn that it deserves. He’d be gentler than me on the battlefield, and faster than me in the Flame Chase.”
Khaslana laughs, shaking his head. “Really, if Mydeimos were here right now, confessing his love for whoever it is that’s lucky enough to finally hold his heart, he’d probably give a better explanation. He’d talk about their merits, their strengths, and their prowess to stand next to him as an equal, but I’m not as eloquent as Mydeimos, so I can only talk about how I fall short, because I know that Mydeimos softer than I am, stronger than I am, more sure than I am.”
“You know me as the Deliverer.” Khaslana continues, lowering his voice so that the prying eyes of Okhemans preying on his success don’t hear. “But Mydeimos knows me first as Phainon. And I want to become a man who is worthy enough to stand beside him.”
Hephaestion is silent. His expression has gone slack, flat all the sudden without the forced cheer that he always exudes.
Finally, he scoffs, standing up and kicking the chair back into place. “We’ll see each other again, Deliverer.”
Later, Phainon bounds up to him, eyes wide with admiration. “You… that’s exactly how I feel! How did you know? Or… how did you do it without, I don’t know… stumbling over your words? That Hephaestion guy is just too much, I can’t believe you just— and everyone was like ‘wow, this guy is really serious’! I even heard a few people gasp! What did you say at the end?”
Khaslana lets his shoulders sag at last, laughing weakly. “I just told him what we both know. We want to be Mydei’s equal. That’s all.”
“Mydeimos?” Gorgo hums, sheathing her blade. “I told him to come and pick up my signet ring so that he’ll remember home while he’s out on the battlefield.
Khaslana stands there awkwardly. This is the final test. Phainon and Khaslana had worked for another week to try and secure an audience with the Kremnoan royal family, despite Mydei’s reluctance.
“I can deliver it to him!” Khaslana blurts, eager to be of service. “If that would be helpful at all! I promise I won’t lose it.”
Gorgo takes one look at him, appraising him like Kremnoans do their opponent before a fight to the death.
Then, she takes off her signet ring, and in one fluid motion…
… hurls it off the balcony and into the lake sitting below.
Khaslana all but flies to the railing, watching as the signet ring plops into the water, disappearing almost immediately.
“Look at that! I still have a good arm on me!” Gorgo laughs, holding a hand up to shade her eyes from the simmering sun. She searches the waters for a while next to Khaslana before grinning at him. “Tell Mydei to pick it up for me? That boy should spend more time with his family.”
“Wha—” Khaslana turns around to face the Queen as she returns to the tableside. “With all due respect, Prince Mydeimos doesn’t have the time to be… looking for a ring that his own mother threw into the waters just to get a bit more time with him—”
“He won’t turn down a request from his mother.” With a lazy shrug, Gorgo lifts her glass of pomegranate wine.
Khaslana blinks, fingers tight. So this is what it’s like to be tied down by the politics of royalty. No wonder Mydeimos spends most of his cycles estranged from his parents. He reads the click of Gorgo’s fingers against the tabletop and the languid slope of her shoulders and reads the markings of a predator all over her.
Queen Gorgo is testing him.
“I…” Khaslana tightens his grip on his hands behind his back. “I will fetch the signet ring for Mydeimos.”
“Smart boy.” Gorgo grins., all teeth “Run along then.”
The earth gives beneath his hands. Khaslana finds comfort in it, hiking up his pants over his knees to wade into the water.
For days now, Phainon and Khaslana have been searching in the lake for the signet ring. It seems to be an impossible task, and they’ve gone through heaps of dirt and mud.
On the third day, Phainon leaves to find them tin pans so that they can sift the dirt, leaving Khaslana to wander the lake on his own.
Silently, Khaslana wades deeper, fingers running through muddy waters. Fish escape through his fingers, and bits of glass prick his hands as he searches for the signet ring. In the distance, the thrum of the ever moving Kremnoan capital rings out, causing the ground to shake ever so slightly.
Khaslana wades deeper. The water reaches up to his waist.
Khaslana wades deeper, until the water reaches his ribs.
Khaslana wades deeper.
“What are you doing?”
Mydeimos. Mydei. When was the last time Khaslana was able to talk to Mydei, outside of their brief interactions whenever he reaves a coreflame? When was the last time he said anything other than a declaration of battle? When was the last time he said anything other than a goodbye?
With a practiced smile, Khaslana turns around, ditzy act in place as he takes Phainon’s place as a clumsy boy from Aedes Elysiae eager to court the grand prince of Kremnos. He knows what Mydei loved about him. His naivete, his earnestness, his eagerness to be something more than a farm boy ever could, and the way in which those qualities combined with his stubbornness to train to become someone worthy of the title Deliverer.
His Mydei loved his clumsy charm, his competitive streak, and the way he’d soften after competitions where there was no clear winner. His Mydei loved everything in the distance between ‘Phainon’, and ‘Deliverer’.
“Fishing, obviously.” Khaslana dons the facade of Phainon, rising at the waist to wave Mydei closer.
“In full uniform.” Mydei deadpans, taking off his gauntlets first, then his greaves, followed by his boots.
“It helps to build muscle!” With his hands on his hips, Khaslana makes a show out of stretching out his back and waist, as if he’d been fishing for multiple days. It’s not too far from the truth anyway, and it helps to motivate Mydei into throwing his armor aside to wade into the water himself.
How can someone embody war and still wield a touch so gentle? Khaslana freezes, rendered completely still as Mydei’s bare fingers, so rarely free of their gauntlets, grace the sensitive skin of his neck. How does he even start to react? Would Phainon have shivered? Shuddered, perhaps, under the weight of the way that Mydei unclasps his cape, folding the damp fabric in half before tossing it safely to shore?
Maybe Phainon would have been more shy, would have batted his lashes shyly and muttered something quaint about how a warrior should ask before undressing someone in broad daylight, but where Phainon is meek, Khaslana is desperate.
His eyes glance downwards to that pretty cupid’s bow, the curve of Mydei’s bottom lip, caught under his canine as the prince struggles next to remove Khaslana’s pauldron, murmuring something about how high grade armor shouldn’t be treated so harshly. Khaslana has no idea, busied instead with watching the way Mydei’s mouth and tongue glide against the words, made stiff and harsh.
“It’s as if Okhemans know nothing about the preservation of their equipment. No wonder the quality of wares in this city is shamefully low.” Mydei mutters, patting Khaslana’s shoulders down with a nod. “There. Now you can resume fishing.”
“Surely, not without you, right?” Khaslana grins widely, injects hope into his eyes and eagerness into his tone.
“I have more important things to do than to fish with you.”
“Surely, not so important that you’d leave me alone in the cold like this, right?” Khaslana gasps, staggering forward and making a show of falling into the water clutching his head in a mock show of pain. “It’s freezing, and I’ve been out here for days.”
“Just to fish?” Mydei responds, incredulous, looking Khaslana over.
“Even better.” Khaslana quips. In another life, Khaslana fished Gorgo’s signet ring out of the Sea of Souls over the course of three months, using a compass that Chartonus bestowed upon him to detect the pure metal within the rubble. In comparison, searching for three days in the water, which neither burns nor screams, is much easier.
It’s no surprise when his hands, having flown towards the first visible glint of light, finally wrap around a golden signet ring.
He gasps dramatically, standing up. “Would you look at that! A treasure like no other! I wonder what it’s worth?”
Mydei’s eyes widen, but when he grasps for it, Phainon pulls back, leading the two of them into deeper water. He swipes his foot, kicks up the unsteady murk beneath them, and the land tumbles forward until the prince slips, forcing Mydei closer so that he has to stare up at Khaslana.
And just like that, Khaslana grasps Mydei’s waist, capturing the wonderfully slim curve in his arm as he pretends to steady Mydei. “Ah? I didn’t know Kremnoans were so clumsy on their feet.”
“A cheap trick.” Mydei scoffs, one hand on Khaslana’s shoulder to regain his balance. Khaslana feels just about the luckiest man in the world, having afforded not one, but two touches from Mydei.
“For you.” Khaslana murmurs at last, laughing gently as he drops the act, one hand on the back of his neck as the other presents the signet ring towards Mydei, opting for a half truth. “I intended to ask Queen Gorgo for her expertise on Kremnoan fighting techniques, but she told me that she’d lost her ring, and that she’d make you look for it, and, well… I couldn’t just… I thought I’d be able to help. You’ve been busy with relocating the Kremnoan detachment.”
Mydei sighs, taking the signet ring. “At times, I feel as though there isn’t enough time for leisure when the black tide looms so close.”
“It’s true, our shipments of flour haven’t been on time for the past few weeks.”
Mydei’s expression hardens at the implication. “I don’t recall sharing that I baked for leisure with you..”
It slips. The mask slips. Khaslana knows everything about Mydei, knows things that some Phainons didn’t even get the chance to learn about, given the respective cruelty of their cycle. Too eager, Khaslana is, to progress things with Mydei and Phainon. Who wouldn’t be, knowing that their time is limited?
That’s just the issue, isn’t it? Neither of them know. Neither of them will know until the end that time itself lies within the scythe that Khaslana keeps concealed in his cloak. Reset the cycle, and the tragic cycle between the Deliverer and the Prince of Kremnos once again comes to an ending filled with suffering, cursed to repeat again.
To those who lay beyond the sky, when will you gaze upon our eternal struggle?
Again, Khaslana smiles without allowing a single second of uncertainty to show on his face. He’s suddenly treaded upon a battlefield full of traps, and he’s faced far more battles than necessary to learn how to keep his head cool under duress. “Peucesta told me! All of your past lovers have been quite kind to me.”
“I’ve never dated.” Mydei responds simply.
Khaslana freezes. Phainon’s mouth falls open from his hiding place.
---
“Who,” Mydei starts, barging into his friends’ weekly card game session. “Decided to dupe the Deliverer this time?”
“It wasn’t me!” Ptolemy scoffs, lounging back as he throws his cards on the table, having lost spectacularly once again to Perdikkas, “When I heard the boy had challenged Leonnius, I figured it was his idea. I’d never be your ex.”
“I was the first!” Leonnius cheerily raises his hand, nudging Hephaestion, “But our pretty boy Hephaestion orchestrated everything, I swear! I just happened to be the first!”
What a headache, his friends are. “What did you do this time?” Mydei grumbles, sitting down next to Hephaestion, who gives him a languid grin, slinging an arm over his shoulders.
“The Deliverer seems to adore you.” Hephaestion sing songs. Peucesta, ever the enterprising musician, immediately harmonizes on the latter part.
With his hand, Mydei shoves Hephaestion’s face away from him. “Drivel is the only thing that comes out of your mouth.
“You can keep him all to yourself!” Leonnius teases as he loses once again to Ptolemy. Peucesta takes his place and starts playing with a different deck while humming. “He’s not quite my type anyway.”
“This is not about—” Mydei cut himself off, sighing. “Just… stay out of trouble, all of you. The Kremnoan detachment will start thinking that we’re all here just to… partake in senseless games. We have work to do with relocating the others.”
“Yes sir.” Ptolemy salutes lazily, lounging about. “Tell that to Hephaestion. He’s planning on making the Deliverer sing and dance next time.”
“You made him sing?”
Peucesta nods serenely, playing a winning hand. Perdikkas reshuffles the deck and slams it down on the table to demand a rematch. “He was very earnest. More voice cracks than verses, but sweet nonetheless. I’m surprised. He said a lot about your strength and perseverance, and the way your eyes go soft when you see something kind. I thought he was going to sing more about your body with the way he looks at you.”
“Don’t start.” Mydei deadpans, while Hephaestion laughs. “He told me he heard that I was open to dating from some Kremnoans in a tavern. Was that you?”
Hephaestion winks. “Who knows?”