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Kremnos, swallowed by mist! City riven between chaos and war! The blood of patricide flows through its royal line, and its god bears the title of calamity.
***
It is bright when Mydei wakes, and for a moment he stays there, suspended. He knows it is morning; the quiet reverence of it washes over him in gentle, golden dawn.
He turns to the window to find that the curtain has not been drawn shut.
Memories come back to him, slow as molasses as he studies the slice of sky outside, the sway of the fig tree branches, the slow moving clouds, and the distant figure that carries the world on his back.
“Your Highness,” comes a voice from beside him.
Right.
Mydei blinks the last of sleep away. He is no longer in Castrum Kremnos, nor any of the camps that they had ended up at after the scourge's devastation and the fall of Eurypon.
They are finally in Okhema.
The holy city kissed by the Dawn.
“Krateros,” he says groggily as he sits up. “Good morning.”
“There is breakfast in the western wing,” Krateros tells him.
Mydei nods and watches Krateros’ back disappear behind the door of the communal sleeping space. Then, he gets up to follow, walking past empty cots before going through the door himself.
Mornings in Okhema are different. Mydei spent half his remembered life in the Grove of Epiphany, as Aglaea and Tribbios sent him there with the other Chrysos’ Heir to gain knowledge. In the Grove, mornings were marked by a loud reveille, signaling the start of the classes. Scholars walked like little ants to classes and libraries, carrying a stack of scrolls and slates in their arms. It was always so busy.
Here though, as Mydei finds his way to the western wing, there is nary a soul to be seen. Okhemans sleep, unaware of the dangers lurking outside the Goldweaver’s protection.
“Your Highness!”
Mydei lets out a small, surprised breath as a child runs up to him, hugging him from the side.
“Your highness, look!” the child points to a long table that has been set up in the hall.
It is by no means a feast, yet all the same, it is more food than what they have seen following the fall of Castrum Kremnos. Bread and olives, salted fish and sliced cheese.
The Goldweaver’s hospitality for his people will be remembered.
Mydei smiles. He crouches to be level with the child. Oibalos, Mydei recalls—his parents placed him under Krateros’ care before they went out to fight the swarm of Black Tide’s twisted creatures for the last time.
“Then, go eat. There will be plenty more,” Mydei tells him gently.
“Will you eat, too, Your Highness?”
“I will,” Mydei says.
“Let’s go!” Oibalos grabs his hand and pulls him to the table.
Mydei lets himself follow the momentum.
***
Mydei wants many things.
He wants Eurypon to be freed of madness. His homeland to be rid of the scourge, and the children lying in their own blood to be returned to their parents. He wants to remember his mother’s face.
He also wants those peaceful mornings in the Grove to last. Selfishly. Quietly.
“Dei?”
Mydeimos hums.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Mydei says. He turns away from the Deliverer, rustling the sheets covering their bodies. It’s morning again. Only the second day of his return, and Mydei has to get used to it once more—to wake on a soft bed and silken sheets instead of cold, hard ground, to not jump at every sound and movement, because here, under the looming figure of the World Bearing Titan, Aglaea’s threads remains ever steady and watchful.
“Hey.” He feels a weight pressing on his side, soft hair brushing against his skin.
Phainon’s arm snakes around Mydei, his head resting on top of Mydei’s shoulder. The warmth of his body enveloping Mydei’s back.
For a moment, Mydei sinks himself into it. He closes his eyes. The scent of blood, the warm flow of life as Eurypon breathed his last. He takes a deep breath and pushes the memory aside. Then, his palm presses against silk. He takes stock of the present—the slightly musty scent of sex, the light of the dawn painting the room yellow, the man behind him, who is always so infuriating, yet also rescues him from himself most of the time. Phinon is desire, distilled into a small vial that ignites him, each time he turns that impish smile on Mydei.
“I’m fine,” Mydei repeats, twisting his body to dislodge Phainon.
Before Phainon can pout though, he faces the man. Catching him unaware, he leans forward to kiss Phainon, cradling the side of his face with one hand.
Phainon freezes just for a second, before he kisses back, parting his lips to take in the full taste of Mydei. It is easy to get lost in it, Mydei thinks—this gentle moment that feels like still waters, seemingly safe until you sink ever deeper into the unfathomable depth, finding no purchase to hold on.
“Hmm. Round two?” Phainon asks with a grin after they part.
Mydei doesn’t say no.
He sinks and sinks. There is no coming back from this, he thinks, and maybe that is fine, because as he left Castrum Kremnos that day—with a gaggle of children and the old and the wounded, and with Eurypon’s blood on his hands…
He had hoped then… that there was a life here–for himself and for his people.
“Mydei,” Phainon calls him again, voice low. “You seem… distracted.”
Mydei shakes his head.
“It’s alright. Just come here, Deliverer,” he says and kisses Phainon again.