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“Name one hero who was happy.”
The sudden question took Mydei by surprise, and he turned his head to look at the one who asked. Phainon, ever enigmatic, remained staring off into the distance, towards the statue of Kephale, eyes unfocussed. They were sitting in the gardens of Marmoreal Palace, taking a rare moment of respite whilst waiting for Nikador’s trial to reopen. There had been a lull in the conversation—after all, how does one respond when you’ve shared stories about homelands set ablaze and companions lost to the Sea of Souls—when Phainon asked him that question.
“What?”
“Name one hero who was happy.” Phainon tried again. Despite a lazy smile playing on his face, his voice was flatter, more resigned, a stark contrast to the brash, competitive tone he held mere hours ago while escorting the bathers home.
Mydei almost scoffed. How absurd of him to ask. The Flame-Chase is a journey of constant loss, among which even life itself holds little value. It’s a truth the Heirs had come to terms with long ago. Finding an answer to this riddle was impossible.
First, he thought about himself, letting out an exhale that was almost a chuckle. His life had the makings of one of the Okheman tragedies they’d write poetry about and historians would debate over centuries later. His father threw him into the Sea of Souls out of sheer paranoia and cowardice; he watched each of his closest friends get killed off as he, the Undying One, was forced to push forward, his so-called gift never allowing his body repose among them. Even in the present, he was burdened with the cries for the Crown Prince, Mydeimos, despite his wishes to simply exist as Mydei . In what world, he thought, would someone like me be happy?
He quickly turned his thoughts elsewhere.
He thought of Aglaea, tasked with leading the Chrysos Heirs, whose own golden threads wove a new ‘her’; a cold caricature of her former self.
He thought of Tribios, a girl with a soul split into a thousand selves, destined to bid farewell to each of them, one by one over a thousand long years.
He thought of Castorice and her black touch, her mere presence an ever-looming shadow in the eyes of others, unable to connect lest they get too close.
Anaxa, Hyacine, Cipher, Hysilens, Cerydra, even the Chrysos Heirs of the millennium gone by—all victims of a shared, cruel fate. All people, human beings, whose lives were corrupted not only by the Black Tide, but also a Grand Legacy.
And Phainon—beautiful, broken Phainon—who, to most eyes, is by far the happiest of the Heirs, greeting each passing day with a smile just a little too big, too perfect, rivalling the eternal Sun of Okhema. And yet, is the Heir who aches the most inside, carrying enough trauma to last a thousand lifetimes. Phainon, who had his life, his family, his whole world taken from him too soon in a storm of blood and flames. Who’s forced to bear the weight of a new one on his shoulders. Who smiles because it’s the one thing he can afford to do to conceal his burning, insatiable anguish. Because after all, what is he if not the shining, flawless ‘Deliverer’ of the prophecy? Mydei sighed to himself. As much as he loves using that nickname on him, he sincerely wishes it didn’t have to be true. No , he thought. Phainon—that grieving man who wears a cracked mask of charisma—he would never be happy in this lifetime.
“You can’t.” Phainon’s voice pierced through his thoughts, breaking him out of his stupor.
“...I can’t.”
“I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He leaned forward, normally bright eyes now drenched in melancholy. Mydei inexplicably had the urge to reach out, brush his finger against the other man’s cheek, as if brushing away his pain.
How sentimental. “Cut to the chase. Why are you asking me this?”
Phainon turned to face him. “Because I’ll tell you a secret.” Suddenly he was aware of the sheer proximity between him and Phainon, hands able to brush with the slightest movement. It felt much too close and much too far at the same time.
“Since that day , I’ve never known what true happiness is. And I never will. I’ve long accepted that fact.” He shifted towards him slightly. This was dangerous territory now. “And yet… at the same time, a selfish part of me wants to grasp at some semblance of it.” At that moment, strong yet delicate hands found their way into Mydei’s, fingers intertwining like Mydei would vanish lest they let go. And the infinitesimal yet vast distance between them closed instantly.
“And so I will. Swear it.”
Swear it? The request felt odd. “Why me?”
A pause. “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.”
You’re the reason.
Mydei couldn’t stop his heart from hammering, and all he wanted to do was sink into Phainon. Melt into him. Close that distance even more. Except Phainon acted first, leaning forward so their faces were inches apart. At this distance, Mydei could pick out the almost inaudible laboured breaths that escaped Phainon. That simple request was one wracked with nervousness. Swear it. And from the shaking in his voice, it sounded like a plea.
How heavy has your heart grown over the years, Deliverer?
“Deli—Phainon.” Mydei breathed out. A hand crept upwards, cradling Phainon’s cheek like he wasn’t a stalwart, hardened warrior but the delicate, fragile human being lost beneath. At his touch, Phainon froze—as did the world around them.
“I swear it.”
And he didn’t know how but suddenly Phainon’s lips were on his, feather-light and tentative, yet the contact was enough to set Mydei’s head spinning, any semblance of space between them now nonexistent.
Phainon pulled back, eyes wide, anxious as if he wasn’t the one who initiated. His breaths came out shaky, and they remained in this awkward stillness for just a few seconds until a trembling laugh found its way out of Phainon’s mouth and his face melted into a poignant smile.
“I swear it.” He echoed, barely a whisper and they were kissing again with a newfound conviction, giving in to this fleeting indulgence as they forgot all but the plush softness of the other’s mouth. Mydei, awestruck, forgot what to do with his hands until he felt fingers carding through his hair, and he responded by wrapping his arms tight around Phainon’s waist, holding his body close with the weight of a thousand promises he grew determined to keep. I swear it.
Mydei let his tongue roam the seam of Phainon’s lips, which readily parted as their tongues met, causing a breathy yet melodious sound to escape Phainon’s throat. Maybe, had the winds of fate shifted ever-so-slightly, they might have met under different conditions, no journey that tore happiness from the core of their beings until it was but a distant memory.
Phainon’s hands travelled downwards, and wherever his deft fingers would trace—over the sculpted ridges of muscle, across his tattoos—lightning followed. Maybe, had the winds of fate shifted ever-so-slightly, a bliss like this could last.
Slowly, reluctantly the two pulled away, eyes locking. Phainon’s eyes were wet, filled with a sorrowful love, a window to Mydei’s own soul. Yet the winds chose to blow in this direction. And they had no choice but to follow its pull.
As if tired, Phainon slumped into Mydei’s hold, head on his shoulder. “Can we…stay like this for a while?” Mydei didn’t need to say anything. He just let his arms settle on Phainon and held him. Until he felt shaking in his arms, and he thought it was crying until Phainon let out an exhale that was laughter. A bittersweet sound, but laughter nonetheless. Mydei couldn’t help himself. He let himself laugh too.
No, it would never be happiness. But if they had to claw and tear their way through despair and anguish to get as little as a taste, so be it.
No, it would never be happiness. Tomorrow, he would be the one taking Nikador’s Trial of Strife. Tomorrow, they would take yet another step on an arduous journey towards an out-of-reach goal.
No, it would never be happiness. But it was the damn closest thing they could get.