Chapter Text
and i’m still hurting.
The golden stalks of wheat swayed in the gentle breeze. Cool water lapped at his bare feet as he turned the ring over and over in his hand.
“They all needed a moment to breathe,” said the golden figure next to him, warm and gentle. A little on the small side, Phainon thought, but then—they'd been made by a young boy who didn't know a whole lot about the world beyond his golden wheat fields. “To process the weight of five million lifetimes.”
“Thereabouts,” Phainon absently said, staring at the ring in his hand. There was the stamp of Strife’s symbol, and the word always etched in Kremnoan. “Five million, three hundred and twenty-seven.” He breathed in, then out.
“Are you all right?” asked the golden figure, the gentle dream of hope.
“Did you know,” said Phainon, casually, “that I’d gotten married?”
“Oh?” the golden figure said, eyes sparkling brightly. Phainon laughed a little, and nodded. “Oh! That’s good, I’m so glad for you. He must’ve been someone really special.”
“He was,” said Phainon. “God, he was.” He wiped at his eyes, tried to breathe through his stuffy nose, then said apologetically, “I’m sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay,” said the hero, kindly, and put an arm around him and held him tight. Phainon had not thought of his dreamed-up hero in years, but he fell into the embrace anyway and wept, felt a warm hand pat his shoulders. “It’s okay. Let it out.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” said Phainon, “it’s all I’ll have left of him. I can’t keep the ring or he’ll know that I’m important to him and I—” His voice cracked, not from the Coreflames now burning him up from the inside, charring him to ashes, but with the sheer grief that threatened to drown him. “He’ll hesitate,” he said. “He can't hesitate. Not with me. I can’t let it out, I can’t let it go.” If he let this wound heal closed, what would be left of this cycle?
The golden figure breathed sadly out, and patted his back. “All right,” he said. “Then use it—remember him, always.”
Phainon breathed in, then out, then reluctantly pulled away. “You know what my answer is,” he said. “I will bear this burden.”
“You always say that,” said the golden figure, so sad and quiet.
Phainon nodded. “I’ll be the Flame Reaver of this life,” he said, “and keep my promise to Cyrene. I’ll stop Era Nova, no matter what I have to do—fight Destruction with Destruction, and steal the Coreflames, until this body like all the rest burns to ashes. I’ll find the next me, and he will promise the same thing.” Then his shoulders slumped, and his fingers closed around the ring. “I just have one question.”
“Ask,” said the hero. “I think I know what it is.”
“Mydei,” said Phainon, and if his voice had cracked before, now it felt like a husk of itself. Mydei grinning at him on the rooftops of Okhema, wooden sword against golden gauntlet. Mydei bringing him into a tent with his friends and all of them granting their blessings for their wedding. Mydei in the dim light of Styxia surrounding them, tilting his head at him and saying, Another Kremnos festival? I’ll think about it.
Mydei, bleeding, turning back to face the executioner coming inexorably after them as Phainon ran towards the Vortex. Go. Do what you must. I love you. I love you always.
“Will I ever see him again?” Phainon asked, now. “Not—Not my Mydei, I know he’s gone, I—” He, the Flame Reaver, had killed him. Mercifully quickly, yes, but. Still. He was gone, now, with all the rest of that cycle, and lived on only in memory. No matter what, though, he’d hold on to the vow they’d made to each other, and to his promise to Cyrene. “Just. Mydei. I’ll see him again, right?”
“You always do,” the hero reassured him, gently, voice a low rumble. “Whether as Phainon or as the Reaver, you and Mydeimos always meet.”
Phainon breathed out. Then he said, “Okay. I can live with that.” He grinned at the hero, even as tears blurred his vision, and for a moment he thought he saw golden hair, tipped with red. “You know, I got really lucky. Five million, three hundred and twenty-seven cycles, but this is the first one where the two of us got married,” he said.
“That really is lucky,” said the golden figure. “You loved each other so deeply that you’ll carry it forever.”
“Yeah,” said Phainon. He stood up, and kissed the ring that Mydei had once slipped onto his finger. “Goodbye, Mydei,” he whispered into the wind, a prayer to a god not yet born, a god long-dead, a god who once had been a man who loved him. “You were the brightest part of this ashen life. I’m so sorry, for what I’ve done and what I will keep doing. I promise—I will love you always, and I will make your sacrifice worth it.”
Then he held his hand above the water, and let go of the ring.
“Are you going to be all right?” the hero asked him quietly.
Phainon shut his eyes for the last time. “Give me the sword and dagger,” said Khaslana, when he opened them again, firmly resolved. “And let me step across the ashes of the old world and burn.”
--
now i’m getting somewhere.
If Mydei ever saw Leonnius again he was going to strangle him and chuck his body over the walls of Okhema. Probably. Maybe. Surely, Perdikkas could run just as fast as him, right? Or that cat burglar from Dolos, the one named Cipher. There was a thought. Though he figured he would have to pay exorbitantly for her services.
Phainon, recently named the Deliverer of Okhema, and not too long ago just some upstart soldier who’d brawled with Mydei in the dirt for days on end, sat across the table from him, picking at his sleeve. Beyond them, a band, clearly hired by Aglaea, played a rapturously romantic melody that Mydei just knew Peucesta was responsible for writing. That little shit.
Torture. Torture for all his brilliant and terrible friends. He would start with subjecting Peucesta to the worst poetry he could find in the Grove. Peucesta could take it.
Phainon shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders back with a sigh. His shirt lifted up, and Mydei saw a peek of—of tanned skin, and cut hips, and a faded scar, and, oh horror of horrors, Mydeimos the Undying, the Last Prince of Kremnos, squawked.
He saw the cleverly disguised man over at the other table snicker, and decided that if this didn’t work out he was going to make Hephaestion man the kitchens at the Marmoreal Palace. Wait, on second thought, that was a bad idea, Hephaestion had that deceptively wet-eyed look that sent Okhemans all aflutter. He’d recruit more people into this insane campaign.
“So,” said Phainon.
“So,” said Mydei, wondering how badly it would hurt if he jumped off this second story. Surely not that bad. He’d died in worse ways. Phainon was sitting right there with his—his blue, blue eyes, watching Mydei with deep intent. “I suppose we can give this up as a wash,” he said, doing his best to seem as dignified and regal and aloof as ever. “If the Lady Tribios was truly as free as Hephaestion said they were, one of them would’ve shown up by now.”
“Yeah, I mean, weird, right,” said Phainon, resting a cheek on the palm of his hand. “Tribbie’s usually pretty punctual. I wonder what’s keeping her.” His eyes were still fixed on Mydei, and he had a funny little smile on his face, the corners of his pretty mouth turned upward. This smile wasn’t the charming, friendly smile the Deliverer of Okhema wore to greet refugees from far and wide. This was smaller, softer.
Hangings. Hangings for all his friends. By the ankles. They could take it, they’d hazed each other worse for kicks when they were all stupid teenagers.
“No point to waiting for her if she’s not going to show up,” said Mydei, getting to his feet.
Phainon reached out his hand, fingers catching onto Mydei’s, and sparks went up Mydei’s arm as Phainon’s sword-calloused fingers brushed over his and lingered. “Hey,” he said. “We got all that food coming our way soon, it’d be a shame to waste it.”
“I ordered none of it and neither did you,” Mydei grumbled, but sat back down because he loathed wasting good food. His friends knew it, clearly—they’d gone ahead and ordered not only his favorites, but also a few dishes that, when the waiter had read them out to him and Phainon, made the city’s beloved Deliverer light right up at the sound of their names. Which meant the fuckers had been plotting this for a while and had talked some of Phainon’s friends into this too. Malakas, all of them. “Why are you staying here? You must’ve figured out their scheme already.”
“Yeah, by the time I made it to the restaurant I’d kind of figured out the shape of it at least,” said Phainon.
“Kind of,” said Mydei. “Do you really win debates hedging your bets like that?”
“We’re not in a debate,” said Phainon. “I can hedge. But hey, Mydei.” He tilted his head to the side, his manner more serious and thoughtful as he did so, and said, “You know you can tell me if I’m bad company, right? I know I’m the one who starts our competitions, but if you ever don't want to hang out with me you can just say so.”
Mydei stared at him in shock, unable to quite believe what Phainon was saying to him. Did he think he was bad company? Him? Mydei was well aware he himself could be abrasive and hard to talk to, and he was just fine with that, but Phainon was always the sort of person who got along with damn near everyone. He’d seen that from the start.
Because he’s holding back, some tiny part of Mydei pointed out, and Mydei—couldn’t really argue with himself, there. Since he and Phainon had first met, he’d come to find out that Phainon was particularly good at reflecting what other people wanted to see back at them. He was also incredibly bad at saying what he, personally, wanted. Mydei only knew his favorite foods because he’d kept a close watch on what Phainon liked to get from the kitchens.
“Mydei?”
“You’re not bad company,” Mydei said, realizing—damn it, he’d gotten distracted, staring at Phainon’s neck.
“You want to leave,” Phainon said.
“I do,” Mydei acknowledged, “but you hold no fault. I dislike being set up on a date with someone who may not hold the same regard I have for him.”
Phainon had gone still, and was blinking rapidly at him now. “Wait,” he said, “hold on. What?”
“I know, all right, Deliverer,” said Mydei. “You have a job. You’re here to make nice with the Kremnoan detachment. If Aglaea’s told you that you ought to keep an eye on me—”
“Um,” was Phainon’s eloquent response.
“—then trying to be kind about it isn’t necessary,” said Mydei.
Phainon coughed. He said, “That’s. Wait. You think I’m just keeping an eye on you?” There was a hurt note to his voice, like he hadn’t quite realized that, and now Mydei looked at him, really looked at him, and saw that he was wearing a much nicer, far less worn cape than his usual. And come to think of it he wasn’t as armored as he typically was. “I’m. Oh, no. Mydei, I’m not keeping an eye on you, I’m trying to hang out with you because I like hanging out with you.”
Mydei’s jaw dropped, slightly. “What,” he said.
“We fought for ten days!” Phainon said. “I thought, hey, that's a Kremnoan thing, right? Your people like that in someone they’re courting! I asked Peucesta and everything and he said so. I thought…” He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes briefly downcast, a flash of vulnerability that twisted Mydei’s heartstrings around before he looked back up and reassumed the Deliverer’s persona. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s fine. We’re friends, right? You said you hold some regard for me.”
Mydei stared at him, and said, “Back up. Courting? Have you been flirting with me the whole time?”
“Have been for months,” said Phainon.
“Was this,” said Mydei, gesturing wildly to the band, the restaurant, the food, “your plan?”
Phainon shook his head. “My plan,” he said, “was to bring you somewhere quiet and just ask you out there. I swear to you I didn’t know what Tribbie and your friends got up to until I saw the restaurant.”
Mydei thought of how much of his time and money and very self Phainon gave to the Flame-Chase, how he’d dedicated himself to fighting for this dying world to have a brighter future in the Era Nova, how he had stepped up to the role of Deliverer with a bright smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. As if doubt still clouded his heart, over whether it was a role he could perform well. And being the Deliverer, destined to bear the weight of the world, demanded a performance in public—everyone seemed to want his time, his help.
“Come with me,” said Mydei. “We’ll come back for the food later—but I want to talk to you in private.” No masks, no personas, no performance.
Phainon went, and Mydei swore he saw the man’s shoulders relax with relief as the two of them vacated their table, heading towards the restaurant’s rooftop. It was a bright and sunny day as ever, but by Mydei’s estimation it was likely late evening outside the ever-lit holy city of Okhema. Up here, there were no eyes fixed on them, just a rooftop garden in full flourish.
Mydei stalled for a moment, touching a particularly green lettuce leaf.
Phainon said, “Aglaea told me, actually, not to provoke you at all. When we first met and she assigned me to greet you and the detachment.”
Mydei blinked at him. “And how long did that resolve of yours to follow that particular order last?” he asked.
“Crumbled the first moment you asked who the hell I was to speak to you,” said Phainon. “But hey, you’re the one who started the fight.”
“And the one who won it,” said Mydei.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” said Phainon, jabbing him in the bicep with his index finger. “But—yeah, I’ve been trying to court you, ever since. It’s not—If I really did want to just keep an eye on you, I wouldn't be trying to get close to you. I like you.” Now he stepped back, scuffed at the floor with the toe of his shoe, and said, “But if you don’t want me to—”
Mydei stepped forward, grabbed hold of Phainon’s arm, and pulled him flush against his chest to kiss him, forceful and sure. He scraped his teeth over Phainon’s lower lip, and Phainon nearly smashed their noses together trying to outdo him on getting the best angle possible. After a moment, he pulled away and said, “I want you to. Deliverer. Phainon.”
Phainon leaned in to nibble at the shell of his ear. “Mydei,” he said, breathy, full of wonder, a fire in his eyes, and Mydei thought: I’m going to marry you.
--
i didn’t know you had to go so soon.
“Mydei!” Phainon called, relieved to see his husband inside the Marmoreal Palace. “Oh, thank god, you’re—” Then he stopped right in his tracks, and saw the blood in his hair, the bruises, and the Century Gate closing just behind him. “Mydei…? Where—What happened?”
“Hephaestion shoved me into the Century Gate and said he and the others would hold off the Reaver as long as they could,” said Mydei, all but falling forward into Phainon’s arms. “We have—hours, maybe just minutes, before the Reaver comes for us both. You’re headed to the Vortex now?”
“Yes,” Phainon said, and helped Mydei steady himself. He looked like shit. He looked like he’d been fighting for—god, too long. Had he seen his friends fall? Phainon wanted nothing more than to whisk him off and hold him tight, reassure him that they would see each other again in the new world as Anaxa had said, but they didn’t have time. “Are you all right?”
“I’m healing,” Mydei grunted. “Keep moving. If I slow you down, leave me behind.”
“Not fucking happening,” said Phainon, and he got an arm around Mydei’s waist and helped him up, and together the two of them ran like hell. “We’re going to the Vortex together and you’ll—you can see Era Nova with me.”
Mydei laughed, a little. “We’ll transcend prophesized fate together, is that it?” he asked. “How hopeful of you, Phainon.”
He didn’t feel very hopeful. Everyone was gone, all because of the Flame Reaver, and the only thing left to do was to deliver the last Coreflame and bring forth the new dawn. But Mydei was here, and alive, and holding on to him tightly, and that was enough to keep Phainon going. “I made a promise when we got married,” he said. “Remember? If our battles are one and the same, so are our victories.”
Mydei breathed out slowly, then hissed in pain. “Think that’s a rib,” he muttered. “And we both promised to see Era Nova through, no matter the cost. Are you scared of a prophecy now, Deliverer?”
“We will,” said Phainon. “Only—fuck, you’re in pain…”
“I’ll live a little while longer,” said Mydei, wry. “But you and I know the Flame-Chase supersedes all else. Even our own vows.” His hand found Phainon’s, slick with blood and sweat, and gripped it tightly. “I need you to promise me this,” he said. “Do not stay with me, if he comes. When he comes. Go and bring new light into this world.”
“You can’t ask me that,” said Phainon, “you can’t—don’t tell me to leave you—”
“I’m ordering you,” said Mydei. “As the last king, as the demigod of Strife.”
“You don’t give me orders!” Phainon snapped, furious now even as they more or less staggered together towards the last Century Gate Trinnon ever opened, waiting for them in the once-beautiful baths of the Marmoreal Palace. Now bodies floated in the waters, and Phainon swallowed bile as he spotted the faces of people he had once known.
Mydei tightened his grip, and pushed his forehead against Phainon’s as his other hand grabbed hold of Phainon’s shoulder, to turn him so they were facing each other. That hand then pushed into his hair, and Mydei kissed him—soft, gentle, tasting like copper and salt. “Then I’m begging you as your husband,” he said, when the kiss broke. “I’ve seen my friends fall to his blade already. Please. Don’t make me see you fall, either.”
Phainon shook his head, said, “I saw everyone else die, please, Mydei, please, I just—”
“Phainon,” said Mydei, “my dearest. My love. These past years have been the brightest part of this battle-scarred life.” His hands pressed against the sides of Phainon’s face, and he smiled. Oh, god, he smiled, that last, sad smile of a man who knew he would never see him again. Phainon’s vision swam with his own tears, and Mydei laughed, a little sad, and shook his head. “Find me again,” he said, “in the next life. And I will bring you to my library, and we’ll just read until the candlelight fails.”
“Please—”
“Your heart was the home I felt the safest in,” said Mydei, and pushed him towards the Century Gate as the space just ten, fifteen feet away tore open, the jagged edge of the Flame Reaver’s sword sawing through the fabric of space and time. “Now go. Do what you must. I love you. I love you always.”
Phainon didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave Mydei to his fate, facing the monster that had slaughtered their friends, their family, everyone they had ever loved. Wanted to rush to him and protect his back as he always had. Instinct screamed at him to go to Mydei, keep him safe, turn away the sword aimed at his husband’s spine.
But his husband had begged him, and so Phainon, with a ragged, grieving cry, turned away and ran through the Gate towards the Vortex, carrying Kephale’s Coreflame all the while.
Behind him, just as the Gate was closing, Mydei laughed. “Come and face me!” he shouted. “Martyrs, behold—the final Kremnos Festival has begun!” The Gate slammed shut as Phainon looked back, and Phainon caught only a final glimpse of Mydei’s back, the crystals shimmering into existence around his fist.
Too late for Mydei to hear him, Phainon whispered, “I love you.”