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While fear was not in the Kremoan language, it was in the Okehman language Phainon speaks. It is not an emotion Phainon expects in the aftermath of Mydei getting Nikador’s Coreflame.
He is proud, of course. Proud for his friend who conquered the Lance of Fury’s trial while he could not. In the fight against the Flame Weaver, Phainon loses count of the times he looks at Mydei in awe as he sends out waves of red crystals with a flick of his finger.
He is happy for him, too. The Kremnoans have their god back, even though Mydei has renounced the throne. But he has found a future for his people, something that has troubled him for too long. Phainon witnessed this worry first-hand, etched on Mydei’s furrowed brow and with anxiety in his eyes. He is happy that his friend is now free of this pressure.
He has grown and matured in the past few days. That is true. But there is something distinctly different about him. And it scares Phainon to the deepest depths of his heart. He cannot discern how much the Coreflame has changed his friend.
Has divinity taken you away from me?
He looks the same, mostly. His hair is still a shagged blonde that fades to red as if dipped in blood. He still lets Trinnion braid a strand that rests against his collarbone. His pale body is still chiselled with hard muscle and flesh. Beautiful is not the word, no, that is not befitting for a warrior, now demigod like him. Majestic is more accurate, not that Phainon will ever tell him that.
But his eyes are different. The yellow irises remind Phainon of lions more than ever, less human. They seem to be lit from within, even when there is no sun to catch their light. His presence is different, the power of the Coreflame of Strife shines from him, unmistakable, keen as an unsheathed blade.
The power made Phainon excited at first. His hands itch for a spar with his friend’s new-found divinity. Algea forbids it. It’s for your safety, she said. Phainon protested, but Mydei kept silent. His expression was blank, and he nodded solemnly, as if accepting a sentence.
Phainon was disappointed, but felt even more disappointed by Mydei’s lack of disappointment. It makes him feel like a child, who has not outgrown their spars as if they were childish games.
That does not stop Phainon from pestering him, almost begging him on his knees. But he shakes his head, not even with the annoyance that Phainon is so used to.
“I would kill you.” He says. Not boastfully, simply states a fact. They are no longer equals.
Once, a cat knocked over pomegranate juice on his mother’s signet. It did not last long, but his rage made his divinity slip from its usual confines. It made Phainon tremble at that moment. He still trembles when he thinks back to it, the feeling Nikador’s blade touching his skin. He has not asked to spar since.
Cerces calls him ‘Nikador’ as if addressing an old friend, and Mydei responds to her call. When he speaks to Alagea now, Alagea regards him differently, as a demigod, just like her. Their conversations require more context and start making less sense in his mortal ears. Phainon gives up on eavesdropping; he does not have their divinity, not yet.
“Why so quiet? I thought divinity would wash away some of your sentiment.”
Mydei scoffs. “Do you truly feel as carefree as you seem? Or…is this just a facade you wear?”
“…You know what? You sound just like Aglaea at this moment.” Phainon laughs to hide the fear inside his ribcage. “But you’re not off the mark…I thought that putting on a nonchalant front for this occasion might help us preserve some dignity.”
“I can see through your deception even without the power of mind-reading.”
Phainon laughs hollowly. It’s not a pretty sound. ‘Am I really that terrible at controlling my facial expression?’
Mydei crosses his arms, his eyes narrow like an unimpressed cat. “So, spit it out.”
Are you still Mydei? But he cannot say it. Phainon is too prideful for that.
So, instead, he says, ‘Does your heart still beat even after you’ve become a demigod?’
His eyebrows lift, and he regards the Deliverer with his eyes, yellow like the setting sun. He is utterly still, the type of quiet that Phainon thinks can not belong to humans, a stilling of everything but breath—like a deer, listening for a hunter’s now. Phainon finds himself holding his breath.
Then something shifts in his face. A decision.
“Yes,” He says. He reaches out an armoured hand and takes Phainon by the wrist. His clawed fingers gently prickle Phainon’s skin beneath his leather bracer. The sun reflects the bronze surface, making the sharp ends shine with white light. Before he can register what is happening, Mydei places Phainon’s hand on his bare chest, right over his heart.
Mydei’s skin is warm, like stones baked in the afternoon sun. His tattoos are blood red, but up close, the shade is closer to Redstone. They paint over groves of hard muscle and faint bumps of countless scars you can barely make out. Underneath, Phainon feels the beating of Mydei’s human heart. It beats slowly but strongly, reminding him of Chartonus hammering a sword in the distance and leaving him in awe.
Their eyes meet, sunset yellow against clear sky blues. Mydei’s expression is serious, but there’s a softness to his usual piercing gaze that only belongs to Kremonans. ‘It still beats just like before.’ He says sincerely, low as a lion’s purr.
I am. But Mydei will not say it. Vulnerability is not in the Kremnoan language, as he has mentioned many times. But Mydei tries to speak it; a demigod, the Lance of Fury, the God of Strife, attempts to be vulnerable for Phainon. The tattoos on his neck climb to spread a flush of redness on his cheeks. He is flustered, but his eyes are unwavering. He will not tear his gaze away until Phainon does. A silent competition. He always makes everything a competition and is so stubborn to win. The familiarity blooms warmth and relief in Phainon’s chest.
Lucky for him, Phainon can never resist a competition, and he will not lose.
Phainon leans in and trails his free hand to the back of Mydei’s neck, guiding him forward. Rare is the Kremnoan caught by surprise. When Phainon presses his lips to his, he makes a sound, almost like a surprised chirp. The Deliverer feels his clawed hands dig panickedly into his wrist, pressing five pinpricks of pain into his flesh that’s felt even through the layers of clothing. He can break the bone in a moment if he wishes, and Phainon opens his eyes in a panic.
But the grip tenders, and his surprised chirp settles quickly into a low, pleased rumble that Phainon feels reverberating throughout his body like thunder. Mydei lets his eyes flutter shut, and he leans into the kiss, angling slightly to better slot those shapely lips against his. Relief washes over Phainon like waves lapping at his feet. He closes his eyes and drinks Mydei in.
The warmth of his sweetened throat pours into him, so the Lance of Fury tastes like nectar; how ironic. Mydei smells like dry leaves and the earth and pomogranate; his scent fills Phainon’s lungs, he gasps, and yearns for more. Armoured hands raise to cup the other’s jaw, and the metal cools against Phainon’s skin. He tastes the metallic tang of blood when Mydei’s fangs catch on his lips. He does not question that the Kremonan is more capable than ever to tear him apart if he does not hold back. But Phainon does not care. He finds Mydei’s hair between his fingers. He grips it and tries to clutch him closer, pressing his lips to wine.
Mydei is dishevelled and flushed when they pull away, with his pupils blown wide. He pants heavily as if he had just exited a battlefield, like a mortal. It makes Phainon surge with triumph and makes his embarrassment more palatable. He wins.
“What’s so funny?” He growls.
“Your face. It’s red, like an apple.”
“Like you are any better.” He retorts and slaps him on the arm like a child. Divinity certainly does not take away his childish banter, and it never will.
They bicker and tease a bit more, the familiar birdsong. Mydei asks him to take care of the Kremonan warriors in his absence. Phainon agrees and says he will find out whether the Kremonan language is really missing that many words while he’s away. This earns him a punch to the rib. “The Kremnoan philosophy cannot be encapsulated in a mere dictionary.” He huffs.
“But…” his voice softens, “if there’s a chance in the next life, you should come visit my library.” He pauses and looks to somewhere in the distance. Phainon follows his gaze and sees Krateros leaning against a pillar in a shady corner, watching, judgingly.
Embarrassment spikes in Phainon. The old warrior has seen everything. He expects Mydei to look away in shame. But while he is distracted, Mydei leans forward and kisses him on the corner of his lip, where he had drawn blood earlier. It is a swift kiss, like a fawn’s hoves touching the ferns while it skips away.
By the time Phainon turns around, Mydei’s back faces him, and he prepares to leave as if nothing happened. But his silence is thick with smugness. He always needs to have the last laugh. Usually, Phainon feels irked, but today his heart sings.
“I’ll be on my way, Deliverer.” He says finally, serious. “Reminder to stay alive till the final act.”
Phainon’s throat is still dry. It takes him embarrassingly long to say, “Same goes for you. Don’t die too easily. May triumph always be yours, Mydeimos.”
He nods but does not look back. He walks away. And halts after a few steps.
“Oh, right. One last question.”
“Go ahead. Don’t leave any regrets behind.” Phainon says cheerily.
“Are you the one who told Chartonus about the signet ring?”
Phainon stills. He smiles and turns around so Mydei has no chance to see him. “Well…Who knows.” And he walks away, too.
He feels Mydei smile behind him. Warm, same as the first time he smiled at him.