Chapter Text
— Administrator Console —
>>> 33550336. Divide it by 16 three times over. No remainders; we have three zeros. Divide it by 16 three times over again; you will find that there will be a remainder of 15 three times. Now — and humor me for a moment — in hexadecimal, the letters A through F correspond to the numbers 10 through 15. This gives us three F’s. At last, we have built a string of characters: FFF000. What, pray tell, is the color this corresponds to? Why, it is none other than gold.
“What’s your favorite color, Mydei?”
This is not the first time that he’s asked such a question to Mydei, and it will certainly not be the last.
The moment the absurd question reaches Mydei’s ears, he sighs. It is not one of the heavy sighs laced with unspoken nostalgia, nor is it the sigh of exasperation Mydei often uttered, tired from the day’s trials. It is light.
It suits Mydei, Phainon thinks, especially in a time like this, where the Flame-Chase Journey is ever at the forefront of the Chrysos Heirs’ thoughts. A time for themselves to walk the streets of Okhema, passing by the Marmoreal Market on a leisurely track back up to the baths in the Palace… Compared to the harsh clashes of steel against steel, the faint rush of water and idle chatter of people passing by is much more favorable.
Just when the silence stretches long enough for Phainon to consider moving on from the question as if it had never been asked, Mydei speaks. “Where is this question coming from, Deliverer?”
“Deliverer” is still a title that feels foreign to Phainon’s own lips, but his unease evaporates upon hearing the title uttered by others. Despite his own reservations of being called as such, he gladly takes on the accompanying responsibility. Nevertheless, it feels as natural as breathing when Mydei says it. Phainon utters a laugh, similar in its lightheartedness to Mydei’s sigh. “Call it curiosity. Any in particular you favor?”
Of course, Phainon’s words, especially when exchanged with the kindred soul he sees in Mydei, are never that straightforward nor lighthearted, although there isn’t much of an ulterior motive to this particular question. There was a time where Aglaea had assigned him homework on color theory after he had gone out in an outfit so hideous even Chartonus couldn’t bear to look (for the fifth time as well). Phainon, at the time, did his work dutifully but — for the fifth time? Seriously? Aglaea didn’t even see his clothes that time. If what he had done was such a grave misdeed, then why wasn’t there a Titan of color harmony smiting him where he stood?
…Upon further reflection, he supposes Mnestia’s dominion would be the closest to such an area.
Mydei would not have heard of this transgression against fashion, thankfully. Truthfully, Phainon had a hard time believing that Mydei would have committed any such offenses of his own — not with how at home he looks in his own garb everywhere he goes. They walk a little more along the streets of Okhema before Mydei answers. “I’m fond of red,” he says, in more of a grunt than actual articulation.
“Red?” Phainon echoes. He makes a show out of eyeing Mydei up and down, eyes purposefully lingering on those crimson markings that adorn his upper body, on the robe draped over his torso and skirting around his legs. It is only when Mydei is practically in front of Phainon that he realizes that his pace has slowed to a standstill. Judging from the Kremnoan’s frown, it is clear that he is unamused at Phainon’s antics. Clearing his throat, he continues both his walk and train of thought. Blood rushes to his cheeks, creating a deep gold flush that stands out on his pale skin — he meant to tease Mydei’s rather blunt answer, yet he was the one who ended up flustered. “I guess you do like red.”
It is rather bizarre to think about, the fact that this sort of banter, this comfort in interaction is a norm for the two now. Even a year ago, this would not have been the case.
Despite his back being turned, Mydei having fallen behind Phainon’s abrupt walking speed, Phainon can still feel when Mydei’s gaze narrows, following his back. “You asked a question, and I answered it,” he grumbles, almost begrudgingly taking the rather obvious jab. More silence follows, yet Phainon merely waits for Mydei to elaborate.
Mydei matches Phainon’s pace so swiftly it feels almost natural. “Red is the color I grew up with,” he continues. “The color of the edge of the campfires we would gather around. The color of the flag Kremnos flies.” There is a faraway look in his eyes, not quite wistful but not quite mournful.
Phainon hums in acknowledgement. “It’s a vibrant color, indeed.” Often said to be the color of life, red is courage to Phainon. It is the color of vitality, of Demetria’s apples and pomegranates, of forges and armor. Despite these thoughts, he adds, “It reminds me of Lady Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon.”
Red is among the scarcer colors in Okhema, where the vast blue sky stretches out like a seemingly endless canopy, streaked with the whites that cloak the golden light of Kephale and the Dawn Device. Where pouring water in the Marmoreal Palace meets the pristine marble architecture and luscious green vegetation, red stands out as a uniform, as cloth for dromas, as torch fire. Perhaps that is why Phainon has a subtle appreciation for the color; while blues and whites are among his favorites out of their natural abundance in his daily life, red is acknowledged in its scarcity, for him.
Or, just maybe, Phainon would rather forget the blood red of the half-sun hung in the sky, and the sea of flames that engulfed his hometown.
He thinks he sees a smile tug at the corner of Mydei’s lips at the mention of the Demigod of Passage. “It is a very noble color.” The image of the elder Kremnoan, Krateros, crosses Phainon’s mind.
In that transient moment, Phainon wonders. How many Okhemans would assume Mydei likes red for its connection to strife, to senseless battle and patricidal strength, as the prince of Kremnos? Rather than the simplicity of the crimson that swirls in his goblet…
“I favor gold more personally, though,” Mydei adds, staring Phainon down much in the same way Phainon had just a few moments ago in some silly twist.
Phainon lets out a laugh at the thought. “We can both agree on that, at least,” he says, though he has a feeling it extends beyond the simple colors on their clothes. “Gold reminds me of the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae. Our harvest celebrations were always the happiest times of the year.” If there is one thing that Phainon knows, out of the innumerable unknowns of the world, it is that gold offers warmer memories than red.
A brief pause passes between the two Chrysos Heirs. Mydei’s hand, clothed in his gauntlet, reaches up to touch the necklace that lays against his bare skin. “The entryway to Castrum Kremnos was drenched in that color before its fall. Ornaments, accessories, even the stairs had golden outlines.”
Phainon sees himself in Mydei, sometimes, and wonders if that is the reason behind their current relationship. No matter how far they may stray, or how much distance may separate them, their fondness for their “home,” wherever that may be, will always remain.
Mydei halts for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. His mouth opens, but it takes a few seconds for the words to come out. “You once asked what it felt like to call upon the power within me, to truly feel that embodiment of ‘Strife.’”
“That feels like so long ago,” Phainon admits with a chuckle.
“The crystals that form my ‘Lance of Fury’ are without a doubt red,” Mydei states, “but the divinity of Strife has always been golden. Take the form of Nikador, for example. Perhaps that is why the blood of the Chrysos Heirs is gold.”
It is now Phainon’s turn to sigh, this one heavier. “Gold is a reminder of our responsibility, after all, isn’t it?” he remarks. “Like the threads Aglaea weaves, or the dawn to come.”
What Phainon does not say is that gold, similar to Mydei’s view, is a feeling for him as well. It is what he feels when Tribbie lights up upon seeing Phainon alive and well, it is what he feels when he clashes with Mydei, it is the color that fills his face when he is flustered, angered, excited, tired.
“Gold is also a noble color,” Mydei says, eyes fixating on Phainon. “It is the color the ones who came before us have bled and died for, and it is the color we now live for.”
Phainon nods, meeting Mydei’s gaze. Were his eyes always that yellow? His irises, too, are in the shape of a sun; a detail he couldn’t believe he never picked up on before.
The discussion comes and goes, like a fleeting whisper in the wind. Such a small exchange, with relatively few words exchanged compared to the more humorous banter between the two, and yet it remains in Phainon’s mind, arguably for no particular reason, in the numerous days to come. It is only as the Coreflame of Worldbearing hovers in front of him that he realizes—
Gold is the color that brings Phainon to life. It is what makes him feel human.
That was the first time he had that conversation with Mydeimos. He will not know if it will be the last.
When Khaslana peers at the golden blood trickling through his fingers, that same hue as his bath in the ichor of his comrades, he can no longer recognize a man in its reflection.
Gone are the blue and white; gone are any trace of his parents in the “self” he is. All that remains on him is gold, and all that his eye can see is red.
Gold is not just responsibility. Gold is desperation and tenacity, it is the sheer willpower to keep oneself together. It is gold that thrums through his chest, threatening to spill out with each motion he makes.
Red is the rage that throbs behind his head, the halo of light simultaneously unworthy yet all too deserving of such a “worldbearer.” It licks the edges of his vision, culminating as tears from the burden of a myriad of Coreflames consuming him from within that will never threaten to shed.
Gold is the hero within. Gold is a shackle, yet one he embraces — for what else should he do?
Red is wrath, rising up unbidden in his throat, his lungs, from the tips of his fingertips to the core of his heart.
Do you still remember him, Khaslana, the one who won't reach the dawn?
All hail Mydeimos, the greatest conqueror, the mightiest protector, the strongest of all. The dying lion, eyes blazing, the king with no kingdom.
Tell me, if Kephale never forgets — how many scars have you already carved on him? How many vertebrae have you shattered? How many times did you drive your blade through his back?
How did the Library of Garbaniphoro fall to flame? What color was the destruction of the last Kremnoan?
You pitiful jester, fit not only for singing, dancing, and jests, but also for treachery that walks the razor's edge.
Go on, veil your folly with the weight of the world, then adorn your fratricide with it — just to savor the taste of tragedy.
Red is the color of the tips of Mydeimos’ hair, vibrant against his skin.
Gold is the color staining his blade, staining his hands, staining the back of the man before him.
And Khaslana laments. Despite the death match between the two — truly valorous death before glorious return — the face of his comrade is not the last thing Mydeimos sees. Instead, it is a blade slick with gold, protruding out of his chest, having impaled that critical tenth thoracic vertebra.
What expression was on Mydeimos’ face as Khaslana ran him through? Those deep yellow eyes that carry the sun in them — did they widen in surprise, or crinkle in defiance?
Mydeimos slumps to the ground, the defiant human soul that challenged the authority of gods having left his body already. The Demigod of Strife has fallen.
That was the first time Khaslana killed Mydeimos. He will not know if it will be the last.
Thirty-three million, five hundred fifty thousand, three hundred thirty-six.
He will not lose count. Even as the world blends together, as the hues leak from his body until all that is left is the torn grays of the Flame Reaver, he cannot lose count, even if he will never know if the next cycle will be the last.
He stares up at a being that seems galaxies away, yet all too clear. All too familiar.
The being stares back. Its singular exposed eye seems to narrow. Out of wariness, surely not — more likely out of amusement, watching him roll the same boulder to the top of the same hill, despite the futility of it all in this sick Sisyphean hellhole of an existence.
Nanook’s gaze is golden. All Khaslana sees is red.