Chapter Text
Mydei doesn't know what kind of rotten luck he has to have to find himself in this situation. He stares at the invitation in his hands, not quite believing what he sees. It's written in Aglaea's obnoxious golden script, the envelope complete with a butterfly-shaped stamp that shows it was delivered by an Okhema Nymph. Which in turn, means that his eyes do not deceive him; there truly is a gala two days from now. Much to his chagrin, Aglaea has just about enough spite left in her to write that it is compulsory for all Chrysos Heirs to attend. It isn't hard to figure that Mydei himself detests social events, not because he particularly dislikes people, but because he finds them boring and completely and utterly useless.
So, to some extent, he understands.
Yet he still has to attend all the same. No matter of understanding can make him feel better about this. No matter how much he stares at the piece of paper in his hands, left eye twitching madly, that fact will not change. It won't simply magically disappear in his hands. Skipping this isn't a luxury that he can afford, or at least, not this time. Now that Nikador has fallen, his Coreflame surrendered to Phainon, all that is left to do is celebrate, and with his people indebted to Okhema's kindness for taking them in, denying the people of their happiness wouldn't simply be unjust, it would be cruel. And as a Prince who vowed never to let his people fall into the hands of baying blood and homicidal traditions, he has to uphold that promise; regardless of whether that means he has to learn how to dance.
In two days.
"The things I do for these people..." Mydei huffs with a sigh, sitting up on his bed. For the time being, Tribbie was kind enough to lend him a room to stay before he returned to Castrum Kremnos (or what little remained of it), and it wasn't too shabby. Not quite to his tastes—too much gold, too much water, too much sunlight, but it sufficed to meet the rest of his needs. The only problem was that Phainon's room was right next door. To some extension, he was sure Trianne must have had a part to play in this, given she enjoyed his pain more than she enjoyed eating honeycakes.
He crosses the room in a few, quick strides, peeking right around the doorway to check if Phainon can hear his mindless ramblings—
The adjacent room is completely empty and... oddly sterile? Mydei frowns almost instantly. He takes one step, cautious. Two, heedful, his casting gaze wary. By his third step, all ensuing prudence has completely disappeared, and Mydei is entirely, triply, completely sure that Phainon isn't home at the current moment. Of course he isn't. The sound of running water (or lack thereof) indicates that he's not in the shower, and had he heard Mydei's earlier trifle, he surely would have spoken up about it at the time. Something along the lines of "The great Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, struggling to dance? Now that's something you don't see everyday!" The worst part is that Mydei can imagine every contoured line of his face, the dimples on his cheeks, the bright, cerulean blue eyes staring up at him in jest.
He can see Phainon in his mind's eye, and somehow, that makes his absence hurt all the more. He can confront that man later, when the time comes.
For now, he stretches, groaning in satisfaction when he hears a bone pop and crack somewhere below his spine. And then he walks back to his own room, sits down and scrolls through his teleslate for any good teaching videos.
Contrary to what the citizens of Okhema whisper behind his back, he is not a clumsy, mindless oaf. Learning is not something that is beyond his grasp, and while it is true that he is only much good for slaughtering in their masses, he's not entirely incapable of being gentle, dare he even say elegant?
Thirty minutes pass, and still, he feels no immediate sense of improvement. Sweat has begun to drip down his neck, which might have served him some form of entertainment were he not so frustrated in his apparent ineptitude. Exactly why he is struggling with something so piteously punitive escapes, he hardly knows. It isn't as if the instructions on the teleslate are difficult. Perhaps it is mererly his own nerves at the idea of stepping into a realm previously so unknown to him. His savage, almost desperate style of fighting would be a good excuse as to why his skills in that particular arena didn't transfer over into something like... this. It's tiring to always be on the qui vive. Perhaps it is because he is keenly aware of how utterly moronic he looks; dancing alone in his chambers.
It is fine. He is fine. He would figure this out. Eventually. Maybe never. Existential dread begins to creep up his shoulder, and it's so unbecoming of a warrior's pride that he even contemplates asking Phainon for advice. Wherever the Deliverer was, he would surely come running if he sent him a message on his teleslate. Yet, tempting as the offer appears, Mydei internally shoves the idea down, as far down as it can go in his chest. The insufferable man would hardly help, anyway. Even with his eerily innate talent for dancing, he would only laugh at Mydei's pathetic efforts, and then at his own, half-hearted attempts to play the part of the female—not that dances were strictly bounded by that kind of tradition. And if there is something that Mydei simply cannot deal with at the present moment, it is that fatuous, overtly bubbly laugh.
It isn't that Phainon was a particularly awful teacher. In fact, the real situation is quite the opposite. His mind simply isn't mallable enough for Phainon to bend to his liking. Mydei is rigid. Solid. Unlike the children that the future Chrysos Heir of Strife is very much used to having dealings with.
And if that isn't already enough on Mydei's plate, Phainon would then ask who he wanted to dance with.
That's not a question he can outright give an answer to.