Work Text:
Phainon stirred in his sleep, the dream a memory of bright light - soft, clinging, impossibly warm. It wasn’t the kind of light that blinded. Instead, it beckoned. Gentle and golden, it streamed through the seams of his slumber like morning sun diffused through gauze. And within it, laughter, muffled and bright, like joy overheard behind a door left ajar at midnight.
Ah, he thought. Of course, this dream again.
Voices bantered, youthful and careless, caught between something he couldn’t quite place. Beneath the sound of them echoed a rhythm so familiar yet also somewhat unfamiliar to him. The merry clang of metal against metal, the thud of fist meeting flesh. They were sparring, perhaps? Phainon could feel the phantom heat of movement and the echo of his own pulse. It sounded almost whimsical, like music from a life unlived, or half-forgotten.
And through it all, a figure. Blurred, indistinct but so deeply, dearly missed.
Golden hair kissed red at the ends flickered like fire in wind. Glimpses of golden eyes, catching light just so. No face. Just flashes. A name caught on his tongue, shouted by his dream-self into the void. Alas, nothing was heard as his voice came back as silence.
Then, just before the light gave way to dark, he heard himself.
“It’s a date, ███████. ”
Three syllables. Or was it two? The sound swallowed before it reached him.
His voice landed like a whisper carried from lifetimes ago, gentle and reverent. Phainon’s soul trembled as the dreamworld began to dissolve around him. No, not yet! Let me see your face! Let me hear your voice!
But the light faded. The figure slipped beyond reach.
Phainon awoke with a jolt, breath hitching, chest tight. The ache was immediate. Fierce. His eyes stung. His heart felt hollowed, scraped raw by the shape of a grief with no name. It wasn’t imagined. The pain he felt was real and rooted like a wound carried too long in silence.
The light outside his window had softened to that dull golden wash of early morning as a reluctant sun filtered through overcast clouds and dust on the glass. Phainon sat up slowly, his breath shallow, his ribs aching. The remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs, delicate and stubborn. He wiped his face with the sleeve of yesterday’s shirt, not surprised to find it damp.
He drew in a long breath, held it, and let it out slowly. Once. Twice. Again. When the sting behind his eyes dulled, he gave his head a small shake and patted his cheeks, not harsh as to punish, just enough to to anchor himself in the now.
Enough dreaming, he told himself. It’s time to begin the day.
He moved through his flat in silence, familiar motions and sounds grounding him. Boiling water for his morning tea, the metallic clink of keys, the soft click of the door as he left – those, he found solace in.
Downstairs, his shop waited in quiet dignity. It was nothing grand, just a narrow space tucked between a coffee shop owned by an elderly couple and a florist who always greeted him with polite smiles. The sign above the door to his shop, weathered but proud, read: Curious Curios. A cute name, his mother had said once, amused.
He unlocked the heavy wooden door, the bell overhead giving a delicate chime like the laughter he still couldn’t place. Inside, the scent of sandalwood, rusted metal and old paper welcomed him. Dust caught in the morning beams like spirits mid-dance, shelves brimmed with the strange and storied, from war medals to forgotten rings, broken pocket watches that still ticked, and books bound in leather that had long faded.
People brought him oddities, and he saw more than their surface. Inherited, he would say, this strange ability. But the truth was, his family didn’t know where it came from. Just that the boy had once held a chipped goblet at a distant cousin’s wedding and whispered, “This remembers grief.”He was six. They never asked him to explain. Now, older, outwardly composed but inwardly adrift, he waited behind the counter for customers who rarely came early. When none did, he reached beneath the till and pulled out the worn paperback he’d been revisiting. A simple black cover with gold lettering.
See You at Sunrise
By The Crimson Prince
His fingers lingered on the name, thumb brushing the title like it might vanish. He had read it at least three times. The first time, he wept. Uncontrollably. Not for the tragedy, though it was tragic, but for the ache it left behind. An ache that felt older than it should be.
It wasn’t the story, no, not just that. It was the way it tasted in his head with something akin to golden honey and pomegranates with a hint of citrus. Like laughter through tears. Of steady streams of flowing water, secrets whispered behind curtains, glimpses of something sacred, glances stolen in passing, conversations that slipped from memory like dreams after waking...
The author never revealed their name. Just The Crimson Prince. And yet, Phainon felt as though he’d known them. Or should have. He opened the book to his favourite chapter, the one he always returned to when the silence stretched too long. He loved how the ink smelled faintly of old gardens.
He turned to the page with the lightest touch, the paper soft at the corners from frequent reading. Chapter thirteen. The one that always found him when he felt most alone.
It was the hour of parting. A lone hero, silhouetted against the horizon, prepared to set out on a journey no one could follow. The path ahead was harsh: a trial of body, of will, of spirit.
But it wasn’t the hardship that carved its mark. It was the stillness before the first step. The breath held between two souls, knowing something was ending, though no one dared to name it.
In that fragile pause, the hero turned. Just once. Not to stay. Just to see. To carry with him the last glimpse of the one he couldn’t bear to forget. A friend, perhaps. A companion. Or something almost more. Someone dearly beloved but never called so aloud. The kind of love too sacred and too tender to risk with words.
No vows were spoken. No hands held. Only a promise, carved in silence and strung between two aching hearts, written not in ink but in soul.
"If not in this life, then another."
And though the hero, Deimos, walked on, each step carried the quiet weight of what had never been said. An ache for a final look. A longing to turn back not for romance, but for something deeper. For a bond that had never needed naming to be true.
"See you, Kronos."
Phainon sighed, fingertips lingering on the page. That kind of love, the kind that lived in silence, he knew it well. Perhaps that’s why the chapter always hurt. Even now, even after three readings, the ache did not lessen. If anything, it deepened because every time he read it, it felt like the book was remembering something for him. Something he had once lived. Something he had once lost. Something he promised to find.
“But how do I find you if I don’t even know your name? Or your face?”
For years, ever since he’d left his hometown and moved to New Okhema, Phainon had been searching. In streets. In strangers. In the broken things others left behind. He did not know the face he sought, only the ache they left behind. But he believed, with the quiet certainty that lived in his bones, that when he found them, he would remember.
And until then, he would ache.
The bell above the door chimed, soft and silver-toned, jolting Phainon out of his reverie. He looked up from the book, eyes adjusting as the morning light shifted. A man had stepped inside, tall, broad-shouldered, the sort of presence that carried itself with discipline. He wore a dark red coat creased at the sleeves and carried a small velvet pouch in one gloved hand. Something about him was… careful. Measured.
“Good morning,” Phainon offered, marking his page and rising from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
The man nodded and stepped closer, placing the pouch gently between them. “I need this appraised.”
Phainon reached for it, fingers brushing the worn velvet. “Of course. May I ask your name?”
The man hesitated just a breath too long. “Krateros. My name is Krateros.”
Phainon nodded politely, though the slight stumble didn’t go unnoticed, perhaps trying to mask his slight foreign accent. “Mr. Krateros. Let’s take a look.”
He loosened the pouch and tipped its contents into his palm.
A signet ring.
Gold, weighty, its face engraved with a design that caught immediately in Phainon’s throat. Engraved on the widest surface was a circular pattern like tree rings or ripples in water, and at its heart, a spiked, almost claw-like symbol, elegant, but unsettling. It was a mark that looked as though it had once belonged to a forgotten era.
Phainon blinked, heart stuttering. He knew this symbol. Not from life, not exactly. He knew it from a myth he’d once devoured in a dusty library back in his hometown, a footnote in a book of ancient rites and half-remembered faiths.
He swallowed. “This is… very old,” he said quietly, turning the ring between his fingers.
Krateros exhaled, visibly tense. “It belonged to my master. Years ago. It was lost in a fire. We all thought it was gone for good.”
“And you just found it?”
“Last week,” Krateros replied. “Being sold by a private collector in Neo Styxia. I haven’t told anyone yet. Not until I’m sure.”
Phainon tilted his head. “Sure of what?”
“That it’s real. If it’s a replica, I won’t risk giving it back. My master, he’s had… too many ghosts offered as comfort.”
Phainon studied the ring again. His thumb traced the grooves of the engraving, the golden spiral catching the morning light, the symbol at its centre glinting like a half-buried star. He felt like he was holding a piece of myth in his hand. It should have felt like coincidence, but it didn’t.
He’d read See You at Sunrise enough times to memorise the pivotal moments, but one always stayed with him more than the rest.
There was an exchange where Deimos, the war-weary prince, handed his mother’s signet ring to his loyal advisor. That, had been full of firelight and final words, of command dressed as comfort. “You shall tread the only path out,” Deimos had said. “Carry my voice into a new world.”
It was the second time the signet ring was mentioned in the novel, the first was when Deimos had lost it, yet it was not those scenes that had moved Phainon. No, the one he remembered came later. A quieter, more poignant moment passed between Deimos and Kronos, just before the parting that neither of them would name in the thinning space between what was felt and what could never be said.
"One last question," Deimos had murmured, voice low with the knowledge that partings can be forever.
"Go ahead," Kronos replied, a half-smile ghosting his lips. "You better not leave any regrets behind."
There had been a pause. Then, "Did you tell the blacksmith about the ring?"
Kronos had tilted his head, gaze flickering with mischief and something softer, sadder.
"Who knows?"
That was all.
No grand declarations. No confession, but no denial either. Just a trace of mischief, of affection never named and two people orbiting around what was almost love but never spoken.
Now, in the hush of the shop, the ring sat in Phainon’s palm, warm, solid, real. And he could feel it. The pause before a farewell. The trace of a hand never held.
The ache of something unfinished, both in fiction and in him.
Maybe it had only ever been a story. Or maybe it was memory, disguised in print. And maybe, just maybe, he had once been the man who answered with a smile and said, "Who knows?"
Had he said that line before? Had he once worn that same melancholic smile?
Phainon curled his fingers around the metal one last time before setting it down carefully. “This symbol,” he said slowly, “is sacred. Ancient. It predates most written history. It’s tied to a deity of old and I doubt you’d find it just anywhere.”
Krateros looked startled. “You’re saying it’s real?”
“I’m saying it seems like something that was never supposed to be found if ever lost,” Phainon said, voice softer now. “And yet, here it is.”
He looked up, eyes steady. “Yes, Mr. Krateros. It’s real. And more than you know.”
Phainon laid the ring gently back onto the velvet cloth, fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Then, he added, “The craftsmanship, the history, even the wear... it all checks out. It’s not just authentic, it was cherished.”
Krateros exhaled, visibly relieved. “Thank you,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “How much do I owe—”
“Actually,” Phainon interrupted, hesitant, “before we settle that, may I ask you something a little odd?”
Krateros raised a brow, amused. “Go ahead.”
Phainon gestured subtly toward the book still resting, half-open, beside the register. “This may be a strange question, but... have you ever heard of a novel called See You at Sunrise?”
The reaction was immediate, not shock, but something gentler. Recognition lit in Krateros’ eyes, followed by a wry smile.
“I have,” he said, chuckling. “Quite well, in fact. My master wrote it, under the pseudonym The Crimson Prince, I believe. It was something he’d written a while back, fresh out of college.”
The world paused.
Phainon’s breath caught, something tightening low in his chest. Of course. Of course it couldn’t be just a coincidence, and yet…He tried to sound casual despite the thrumming in his chest. “May I ask his name?”
He paused, then backtracked quickly, hands half-lifted in vague apology. “Only if you’re allowed to say, of course. I understand if it’s meant to be private. Pseudonyms are sacred things for some writers, and I’m sure you’re under all sorts of confidentiality—”
Krateros let out a quiet chuckle and waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. He never cared much for secrecy. Said if anyone really paid attention, the book gave everything away anyway.”
He straightened slightly, voice soft with a kind of reverence.
“His name is Mydeimos.”
The name fell into the space between them with the weight of something ancient. Familiar. Holy.
Phainon went still.
The syllables struck something unguarded in him. A resonance. As if his very soul had stopped mid-step to listen.
Mydeimos.
That was it. He didn’t know why he felt so sure about it, but that was, without a sliver of doubt, the name of the faceless man he had only ever seen in his dreams. Phainon was sure that he had dreamed that name, had woken with it on his lips and a grief he couldn’t explain hollowing out his chest.
And now, suddenly, it wasn’t just a dream.
It was a man.
Living. Breathing. Writing stories Phainon had once believed were only fictions.
His mouth went dry. “How… curious,” he murmured, fingers curling slightly at his side to stop them from trembling. Phainon hesitated, eyes still fixed on the name as if it might dissolve if he looked away. Then, tentatively, he asked, “Is he… I mean, is your master still writing? Does he still go by The Crimson Prince?”
Krateros gave a knowing smile, reaching into his coat. “He’s still writing. Always. Though not just fiction these days. Philosophy, mythology, a few treatises no one asked for, but he insists someone, someday, will need.”
He pulled out a small cream-coloured card and placed it gently on the counter.
“We run a library now. He opened it a few years ago, well, more of a private collection, but with a lending service and a quiet little café in the back. It’s called Kremnos, not sure if you’ve heard about it. You’d be very welcome to visit.”
Phainon blinked, carefully picking up the card embossed in gold leaf:
Kremnos Library
Krateros H.
Operations & Collection Services
A phone number. A street address not far from the old city district of Old Okhema.
Krateros continued, friendly but composed. “We’re always happy to take book recommendations, especially rare ones. Mr. Mydeimos has a fondness for titles people tend to overlook.” A pause, then, “If you have any old volumes you think belong somewhere loved, do bring them by. We’ll pay you handsomely for them.”
Phainon nodded, fingers tightening slightly around the card.
“I… might do that.”
Krateros smiled again, softer this time, then reached for the velvet pouch and the ring, now returned to it with reverence. “Thank you, Mr. Phainon,” he said, pocketing it. “This will mean more to him than I can say.”
And with that, he turned and left. The bell above the door chimed one last time as the late morning light spilled in behind him.
Phainon stood still, card in hand, heart hammering. And a name, Mydeimos, ringing like a vow he couldn’t remember making.
“It’s a date, Mydeimos.”
Excerpt from See You at Sunrise, Chapter 23 – “The Falling Light”
Deimos staggered backward, the nameless swordsman relentless in his pursuit, a shadow that mirrored him move for move, yet faster. Sharper. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He could barely feel his fingers now, heavy with exhaustion and inevitability.
Then, a breath too late —
steel met flesh. A clean thrust. Deep.
Right through the place he could not afford to be struck.His knees buckled. The ground met him with a dull thud, dirt and ash against his palms.
So this was the end.
Not with ceremony. Not with crowns or banners.
Just a fallen prince, broken beneath an indifferent sky.
And yet, he did not fear it.
His thoughts, scattered and soft, drifted not to victory or legacy… but to a man with beautiful blue eyes and a quiet smile.
Kronos.
The one who was prophesised to save the world, who never asked for power but carried the weight with resolve through all the sorrows. The Saviour. The Deliverer. Let it be you, Deimos thought, the words blooming like prayer. Let you be the one to lift the darkness of this world.
He tasted pomegranate on his tongue, sweet and bitter, and saw, just for a moment, warm sunlight on a worn wooden desk, a crooked smile beneath a lowered gaze.
In our next life, he thought, as blood pooled under his dying body. Let us meet again. No blood. No fire. Just time. Just joy. Let us be happy.
Become the dawn… Deliverer. And I’ll see you at sunrise.
Then everything went quiet.
That night, Phainon dreamed.
He stood in a garden radiant with life. Sun-warmed stone paths curled between wild blossoms, petals fell like lazy snow in the breeze. The air smelled of blossoming flowers and crushed grass, of something ancient and unburdened. Laughter of children rang through the golden air, high, bright, unfiltered.
And in the centre of it all stood a man dressed in gold and red.
He was radiant, not in the way of kings, but like sunlight filtered through silk. With how regal he was, he looked a tad strange amidst the chaos of play. And yet he wasn’t out of place. Not here. Not in this garden. Clearly beloved by the children who were tugging at his hands, their arms full of marigolds and crown daisies, nimble fingers weaving blooms into tangled halos. He tried to protest gently with a mock-scowl and a patient shake of the head, but they wouldn’t have it.
When they finished, they placed the crown of flowers upon his head with triumphant giggles. It sat crookedly, half sliding down over one eye.
And the man laughed.
A sound like clear bells. Like spring breaking through winter.
Phainon couldn’t breathe.
The man turned toward him. Although the dream blurred his face, his presence was unmistakable. “You’re late,” he said, soft and teasing, plucking another daisy and holding it out. “They made this one for you.”
Phainon reached out, but the dream was already fading, light dissolving at the edges. The garden dimmed. The laughter ebbed into silence. The warmth slipped through his fingers like mist.
And when he woke, heart aching and hands empty, he whispered the name like a prayer he hadn’t realised he’d been keeping.
Mydeimos.
It took Phainon three days to convince himself it was just a visit.
A professional courtesy, really. Krateros had mentioned they were building their collection and what better reason to drop by than to offer a few rare volumes from his private reserve? He’d even packed them carefully. A few early editions, a slim poetry volume with marginalia too beautiful to ignore, and, ahem, tucked just beneath the others, his well-loved copy of See You at Sunrise. It was worn at the spine, its pages soft from rereading. A quiet part of Phainon dared to hope for a signature or a conversation if luck was on his side.
Or maybe, just maybe, for something he didn’t have the courage to name.
By the time he reached Kremnos, the afternoon sun had dipped low enough to cast the old city streets in long shadows. The library stood just past a stone archway, its windows glowing softly in the amber light. A discreet sign hung above the door, gold lettering on dark oak: Kremnos Library.
He pushed the door open. A bell chimed, gentler than the one back at his shop, but no one answered. Phainon stepped inside, books cradled against his chest. The scent of aged paper and musk hung in the air. Bookshelves lined the walls like sentinels, interrupted only by alcoves filled with armchairs and low lamps. The silence wasn’t cold. It felt... resting, as if waiting for something or someone.
Then, he saw it. Tucked near a wide window, haloed in soft afternoon light, sat a man. Not a ghost. Not a dream. A man. Hair the colour of gold in autumn, falling in loose waves just a little past his shoulders, a small braid on one side. A simple maroon sweater beneath a draped beige cardigan. One leg tucked beneath him as he read, utterly absorbed, long fingers curled around a porcelain cup. Though the flower crown was absent, Phainon knew.
He knew.
It was him.
Not just the name on a card.
Not just a line in a dream.
His heart stuttered. Something in his chest pulled tight, then unfurled all at once, his grief and awe and longing blooming together like a field of wildflowers after rain. This was the man he had seen in golden light, wearing a crown made by laughing children, reaching out with a daisy and a smile.
The man he had yearned for without ever knowing why.
Phainon’s breath caught, and he did not yet speak.
The man by the window, Mydeimos, looked up.
His eyes, golden and steady, met Phainon’s across the stillness. A flicker passed over his face — not quite surprise, but something quieter.
Remembrance.
He smiled and stood up, fully facing Phainon. “You’re late,” he said.
The words were gentle. Familiar. They rang like an echo from another life and perhaps from somewhere that still bled gold and red and blue.
Phainon’s breath caught. For a moment, he stood frozen in the threshold, the books in his arms suddenly too heavy, or were they too light? He wasn’t sure anymore. His lips parted, but no words came.
And then, a memory.
“If there’s a next life, you should come visit my library.”
Mydeimos set his book aside. He stepped out from the window’s golden frame with the same grace he had carried into war, into memory, into fiction. But there was no title here. No armour. Just a man, real and warm and near.
Once again, Phainon opened his mouth to say something. Anything. But all the words caught in his throat. Every clever line, every question, everything he had rehearsed folded into silence.
It was Mydeimos who closed the distance.
He didn’t ask. He simply reached out, arms slow and open like someone who’d been waiting a long, long time. Phainon let the books slip from his hands. One hit the rug with a soft thud , the rest a quiet clatter.
And then he was in Mydeimos’ arms. He was right. He felt not the embrace of strangers, nor the shy politeness of acquaintances meeting for the first time. It was something else. Something remembered, familiar and sorely missed. Phainon didn’t know when he started crying, but he did. He did, silently, helplessly, like a child who had finally found the way home after being lost for years.
And he was sure he wasn’t the only one. Mydeimos' shoulders trembled against his, breath hitching once, just once, before the quiet returned. Phainon held him with a kind of reverence, as if anchoring himself, as if confirming that the man in his arms wasn’t a dream.
For a long moment, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The library watched on in stillness. Some reunions didn’t come with fireworks or final lines. Some came in the form of held breath, warm skin, and a heart that had ached across lifetimes finally… finally, being heard.
They stayed like that for a while, holding, breathing, remembering.
And when they finally pulled apart, it was not with reluctance, but with the calm that comes after a storm has passed, when the sky is still damp but the air feels new.
Phainon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, laughing shakily. “I didn’t even say hello.”
Mydeimos smiled, voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t need to.”
Light from the window spilled across the floor in slow golden lines, warm and steady. Outside, the world carried on as it always did. But inside this library, the hours felt rearranged. Time folded in on itself. Names once spoken like myth were now spoken like truth.
Neither of them said finally, but both felt it.
They had found each other, not in battle, not at sunrise, not at the end of the world, but here, in a library, on an ordinary day.
And still, it felt like dawn. A new one, the kind that arrives without fanfare.
Phainon looked at the man before him, flesh and memory, story and soul, and thought, “Maybe this time, we get to stay.”
In the light of their new dawn, nothing needed to be said.
It was enough that they had arrived.
From the final page of “See You at Sunrise” .
“And if time is kind, and memory faithful,
then somewhere beyond the veil of war and forgetting,
you will find me again.
Not as prince, nor a ghost, nor a name lost to myth,
but as I am.
Yours.”