Chapter Text
There’s things that just line up a little too well. This Phainon meets his Mydeimos at the scales of Talanton as well, wagers a card under the name of the ‘Deliverer’ against Mydeimos’s signet ring. Even the blows exchanged are similar.
“You’re offering… a card of all things?” Mydei speaks, head tilted in that way of his.
The past rumbles. Khaslana remembers that his Mydei had said: “Your offering is... a card?”
“Yes, a card is my choice. Know that its name is the ‘Deliverer.’” Phainon yells back across the gilded scales.
And back then, Khaslana had responded similarly: “Yes, a flimsy little card. That is my choice. Just know that it's called the "Deliverer."”
“Interesting. Very well — if you can beat me with this card, then that's what I'll call you from now on!”
“It’s a deal.”
“It's a deal.”
This Phainon spars for eleven days with Mydeimos at the gates of Okhema, just like how Khaslana had sparred for ten days. Sometimes, it goes on for an entire month. Other times, a single bout is enough for them to bear arms at each other’s side.
This Phainon learns about pomegranate milk and immediately goes to try and purchase the ingredients needed to replicate the taste in the style of Kremnos, mirroring how Khaslana had ran through the marketplace and fought with the aunties to try and procure the ripest of fruit in order to gift Mydei something to remind him of the glory of his home.
This Phainon writes sonnets to Mydei, brash and wordy, clumsy at the ends of the phrases and ever earnest at every flick of his pen as he jots down sentences that Khaslana sneaks into his own study to reread, murmuring letters that he himself wrote to his beloved in the first cycle.
Khaslana watches, legs slung over the eaves of a nearby rooftop as cycle 530520’s cycle as this Phainon courts Mydei, awkwardly managing to snag a date in the Okheman night, a stroll through the fields on the outskirts of the city that ends in playfighting in the long grass.
“Mydei, stop— that’s low of you, you know that I can’t stand it when you—” Khaslana laughed as he’s bowled over by Mydei’s hefty form, tumbling through the weeds and fronds as they rolled down the hill.
“Warriors must withstand all techniques on the battlefield.” Mydei retorts, pinning both of Khaslana’s hands back, braid falling free from his face, golden band dangling. Khaslana laid entranced, eyes flying from the lock of hair that he so yearned to run his fingers through to those bright eyes and wicked smile that he’d far fallen for. “First to make it to the bottom of the hill, and that—” Mydei extended his leg, making sure that his foot brushed against the grass at the foot of the hill. “Makes for 3-1 in my favor, Deliverer.”
“And your reward?” Khaslana murmured, grinning despite his loss. “Do you have something in mind, Mydeimos?”
Khaslana knows the ending to this, especially when this cycle’s Phainon is so similar to his own cycle with Mydei. He’ll lean close, lift himself as far as he can to revolt against those strong arms pinning him down, flip their positions by sweeping Mydei’s legs out from under him, yes just like this Phainon is doing, and their faces will come near, the distance will short, just enough for a ki—
Except this cycle’s Mydei rams his forehead into Phainon’s, rendering the Deliverer useless for a few seconds. Some harsh words are exchanged, and Mydei stands up, arms crossed as he scoffs, turning his cheek and making his way back up the hill. Phainon calls after him, holding his hands out in desperation and seeming apology before darting off into the distance to follow him.
Is he… stupid? What could have possibly gone wrong? What could he have possibly said in order to ruin such an intimate moment? Khaslana briefly wonders if he could be that foolish, and comes to the conclusion that well, yes, he could have made a similar mistake.
So Khaslana starts to write letters to Phainon. Not particularly long ones, just… little advice columns for what a poor man in love might be able to do in situations where the object of their affections seems entirely unattainable. Completely unsuspicious, really. They go something like this.
Dear Phainon,
It has come to my attention that you may be having difficulties courting. Prince Mydeimos does not enjoy being compared to a candle, a flame, or any other form of physical warmth, for comparison as such are usually insults in the Kremnoan language because fires can be put out. Please stop using these in your poetry and declarations, especially in public. I understand your sentiments, but please study Kremnoan culture. ‘Krenmos, War, and Strife, an Anthology’, is a spectacular read, and I suspect that it would be helpful.
Love,
A friendly townsperson
This works for a while. Phainon, dutifully albeit in great confusion, does indeed go to the library to study Kremnoan language. It then promptly backfires, as Phainon then uses that information to challenge Mydei to a language contest in which Phainon is to write a sonnet in Kremnoan, and Mydei in Okheman. Perhaps this was to prove his mastery over the language? They get the letter judged by various townsfolk, and while Mydei’s poem is met with chilling silence from Okhemans who are all too quick to let their distaste towards Kremnoans show, Phainon was met with boos from the crowd of gathering Kremnoans, who all agreed that rhyming beautiful with the word for olive in the Kremnoan language was not a stint of creativity and rather an insult to their work.
The poems make it to Aglaea, who reads both, folds both, and silently hands the both of them a volume of classic Okheman literature.
And such, comes the next letter.
Dear Phainon,
Your talents do not lie in sonnet writing. Stop doing that. It won’t get you anywhere, although I’m sure Mydeimos will come to find it quite endearing. There are better ways to court a prince. It would be wise to show off your strength in battle and your mastery of strategy.
Love,
A kind passerby
Phainon tries again, which Khaslana commends him (himself?) for. This time Phainon challenges Mydei to a spar in the bathhouse, which other bathgoers immediately complain about. Said spar then quickly dissolves into a contest to see who can stay in the warm baths for longer, which then ends up roping in multiple other participants who all have to be carted out to the infirmary, and when Aglaea gets involved once again, there leaves little time for romance.
Khaslana rolls his eyes as he watches. How could he be so hopeless?
Khaslana doesn’t dream. Not really. Not anymore, with his data corrupted and his synapses bled dry and made golden with memories that reign so ever present that he can’t escape them even when he closes his eyes. His face freezes into plaster, skin corroded into ash and stardust, and yet all he can remember is how the last Son of Gorgo’s fingertips felt when they grazed his face for the first time.
“Deliverer.”
“Is my name so hard to say?” Phainon laughs, held down by nothing more than sheer pride and a desire to win at all costs. They’re in the Hero’s bath, swathed with steam. This time is a private affair, a challenge for the two of them, since Aglaea was not happy last time they dragged onlooking civilians into their competitions. “I’ve always wondered. Or do they call everyone by titles in Castrum Kremnos? Is that how it is according to your culture? Shall I start calling you Son of Gorgo too? Demigod of Strife? Or do you prefer another name? Winner of Bathwater Trials, or perhaps, Conqueror of the Warm Waters of the Hero’s Bath’s Leftmost Pond. How’s that?”
“Tch. Nothing good comes out of your mouth anyway. Forget I even bothered to ask.”
A competition like no other. Just the day before, they had competed to see who could collect more chimeras, with or without the use of food. One turned the other way at the last moment and decided that it did not like the flair with which Phainon was waving, and chose Mydei at the last second. As punishment, Phainon walked around the rest of the day shirtless, and promptly realized that he should not be teasing Mydei at all about any sort of shame when the Demigod of Strife walks around half naked daily.
Water erupts from between them as Mydei rises, towering over Phainon as he sits with a snide grin on his face, relaxing as he swirls a goblet of ambrosia between his fingers. “Giving up already? I always knew you were the type to take on battles that you couldn’t possibly win. Not that it matters, because even if you decided to persevere, I would still be the one to—”
A finger, emboldened by the claw of a golden gauntlet, lifts his gaze up. Phainon is left baring his neck, throat tight with anticipation, but no more thrilled by the closeness of the embodiment of divinity that braces his other arm against the edge of the bath behind Phainon’s head.
A tactical method of surrounding the enemy. A forced enclosure. Phainon only has to inhale briefly to catch the scent of warm pomegranate and coppery blood all at once as Mydei’s breath fans across his face, his mane of beautiful hair falling forward so that the braid brushes the side of Phainon’s face and grazes his ear. Ecstasy, excitement, endearment, they all swirl in the Deliverer’s already dazed eyes, subjecting him to the pleasure that is Mydei’s presence.
“Mydeimos.” Phainon purrs, laughing gently as his eyes trace the line of Mydei’s neck, gaze caressing the red marks that adorn his chest and sides. “Son of Gorgo, keeper of my heart, what are you doing?”
“HKS.” Is the response that Mydei gives, predictable and simple at all once as he leans in, lips brushing against Phainon’s brow. They don’t speak of it. Neither of them do, but exchanged blows are not too different from the whispered adorations and fleeting kisses traded in the heat of battle when they lay sprawled out across each other’s bodies. Worship does not differ too much between the battlefield and the bed, and it’s always Mydei who skirts the line between the two forms of devotion the closest, demigod of war, conquest, and ardor as he may be.
“You hide something from me.”
“You cannot say that you don’t know of my feelings for you. I’ve always been clear about how much I’ve wanted you.” Phainon whispers, leaning in to tease at Mydei’s ears, which are steadily turning red from the hot water.
“I don’t mean that.” Mydei snarls, splaying his hand across Phainon’s collarbones to trace the bones.
“Cyrene, she—”
“A lover?” Mydei hisses, leaning ever closer, lion eyes unflinching albeit the way his body tenses.
“What? No, not at all, like a sister to me.” Phainon amends, shaking his head and cradling Mydei’s face in his hands in a form of appeasement. The heat simmers, and the waters grow increasingly uncomfortable to stay in, but Phainon braves the distasteful warmth to bask further in Mydei’s embrace, fingers tracing his favorite red marking that adorns Mydei’s right cheekbone. “She left Aedes Elysiae long ago to— well, that’s not important right now. But I just know that she would have told me that I’m being stupid right now.”
“You’re deflecting then.”
“I’m not!” Phainon laughs. “It’s just…”
“You fear my response?”
“There’s nothing about you that could ever be frightening.” Phainon laughs, tracing a fingertip between the markings on Mydei’s chest, drawing his hand down between his generous pecs, down to his stomach, stopping before his navel. “Nothing at all, except perhaps, your inadequacy when it comes to courting. Were you really unaware of my feelings?”
“I suspected. Between leading my people to Okhema and the Flame-Chase Journey, neither leaves time to ponder useless things like the feelings of a simple farmer boy.”
“Even if this simple farmer boy desires you like he desires none other?” Phainon murmurs, lifting his eyes to Mydei with a lazy drawl, gaze flicking between Mydei’s beautiful face, the way his mouth snags at the corner in an unhappy downturn, and the way his tooth sticks out when he bites on his bottom lip thinking too much. Would it be so much to ask for his lips to meet Phainon’s? To capture that plush bottom lip between his own and lave appropriate adoration onto that supple skin, bite it until it burns as red as Mydei’s markings, and delve his tongue into the warm cavern of his mouth until they can taste nothing but bathwater and each other’s essence? “Because I, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, humble farm boy and the one you call Deliverer, desire you like no other, Mydei, Son of Gorgo, Prince of Castrum Kremnos, Winner of Battles Won in Bathwaters that include those of the Hero’s Bath and Those of the Normal Baths—”
“Enough.” Mydei growls, forcing his head backwards roughly until his neck hits the edge of the bath, head tilted back to expose the sun engraved upon his neck. “Enough, Deliverer. You speak nonsense. It is unlike you to use your feelings to distract from the fact. What is it that you keep thinking of?”
“Me?” Phainon plays coy, shrugging his shoulder.
“You.” Mydei answers, voice lower as he leans in. “Keeper of my heart.” A barely there kiss, pressed to his forehead. “Ruler of my soul.” Another kiss, this time between his brows, gentle and fleeting. “My companion, my partner, my equal. Rivaled by no other.” A kiss to the tip of his nose, sweet and gentle and slow. “Phainon. You.”
And how is he ever to win against that? Mydei voice, sultry and velvety, the very same timbre that commands battalions and wins wars, murmuring his name, Phainon’s name, like it might mean something between them that’s far too sweet for the fate that they’re condemned to, be it may how it’s uttered in only moments cradled close between them like this. “You said my name!”
“I am capable of pronouncing your name, yes.”
“That’s not what I mean, come on, Mydei, say it again.”
“I will not.” Mydei’s mouth quirks up at last, and he moves forward, but not without flexing those muscles that Phainon goes to sleep dreaming about, rippling under his hands. “But, in the case that you tell me what’s on your mind, I may consider it.”
“The Kremnoan Prince knows how to bargain! Is that it?”
“It is, indeed. Accept or decline.”
“Decline, and I disappoint the Kremnoan prince.” Phainon whispers, wrapping his arms around Mydei’s waist, fingers digging into the dip of muscle around his hips. “Accept, and I lose face in front of the prettiest man in the world, let alone Okhema. What to do, what to do…”
“You’re stalling.” Mydei rumbles, boldly reaching up to knead at Phainon’s pecs, brushing the muscle until it glows red.
“I can’t help it if it gets me a few more seconds of being able to look at you.” Phainon’s gilded tongue lies easily. “I choose the former.”
He lowers his voice conspiratorially, sweetly. “Mydei, in truth, I… have been considering how to make you my betrothed.”
Mydei’s face falls slack, fingers freezing on the nape of Phainon’s neck. “A… marriage alliance between Kremnos and Okhema does not pose any necessary benefit at the moment.
“And you think that I would be thinking about cost and benefit in such a situation?” Phainon leans forward, the bridge of his nose brushing against Mydei’s jawline, tracing the bone with his face until he settles his lips against the space beneath Mydei’s ear, teasing at the sensitive skin with his tongue. “Mydei, you wound me. When has anything been transactional between us.”
“Deliverer.” Mydei warns as his hands trace Phainon’s spine, sending delectable shivers across Phainon’s body, so much that he shudders with the intensity of it. “The truth.”
“This is the truth.”
“Not when your voice trembles.” Mydei murmurs, pulling back to look Phainon in the eye, stern. “Not when you try to distract me with your touch.
In truth? Phainon worries that the weight that Kephale bears will destroy him inside it out. Phainon believes that his measly body cannot withstand the divinity nestled within the Worldbearing Coreflame. He wants to flee, wants to tear everything down for the chance at a normal life, wants to dig through past, present and future to reave a solution that might be able to bring back the gilded wheat from his childhood home long past.
“This is the truth.” Phainon repeats, smiling brightly at the one who knows him best. His beloved, his equal, and yet still he cannot bear to share the truth of the troubles weighing down on his soul. “Call me Phainon again.”
Mydei hesitates, and that tells enough between them.
After this letter fails, Khaslana comes to a conclusion as he wakes. It wasn’t until they had known each other for years that Khaslana had allowed himself to bare his ardent feelings for Mydei. Months of sparring and fighting back to back on the battlefield had led to intellectual bouts and simple competitions had fostered a bond between them.
One… cannot be pushed into lessons that they are not ready to undergo. He’d been, admittedly, trying to accelerate the relationship between this Phainon and Mydei who had just met. Perhaps some part of him even believed that by guiding the Phainon in this cycle, the one that was so similar to Khaslana, he might be able to prove that with guidance, he could have provided Mydei with a gentler, kinder romance.
But there was no one there for Khaslana. Not in the first cycle, when he blundered through all of his relationships, squandered his friendships on petty fights and devalued his love because of the overwhelming loom of his responsibilities.
Khaslana looks up to the sky, watching the fake sky and its fake clouds and its fake warmth. If nothing changes in this cycle, he’ll be forced to reave all of the coreflames again.
They might as well be happy for a little while. There is time left before the black tide approaches Okhema. This is what Khaslana thinks as he walks through the Okheman courtyards.
Except Khaslana bumps straight into Phainon when he turns the corner, ramming into his shoulder and almost sending the antique vase that Phainon was carrying into the wall,
“I’m sorry! I wasn’t watching where—”
Khaslana’s hood falls, revealing his snowy hair, blue eyes and starred irises.
Phainon freezes.
Khaslana freezes.
“You’re…” Phainon mumbles at the same time Khaslana quickly responds. “You from the future! I’m you from the future! Oronyx guided me here!”
“What, no, I was going to say you might be some version of me from a parallel universe? Castorice handed me one of those books a while back, what was it… ‘I’ve transmigrated into a body from a thousand years ago and now there’s two handsome dukes who want to marry me!’ or something.” Phainon blinks, confused.
It’s been far too long for Khaslana to ever remember doing something as leisurely as reading a transmigration book, let alone something with such a frivolous name, but he does smile. “That does sound like something Cas would enjoy, yes.”
“Right, I was—” Phainon’s eyes catch onto the letter in Khaslana’s hands. “Wait, that’s…”
Khaslana immediately puts his hands behind his back. “It’s not—”
“Were you writing me those letters?” Phainon blurts, rounding Khaslana to grab the letter. “I knew there was something weird going on, I just didn’t think that it’d be me writing. And about Mydeimos, no less. Do you know he still calls me a new recruit sometimes? I’ve long graduated from the low ranks of the Okheman army! Just because he’s from Kremnos, doesn’t mean he—”
“He’s not like that.” Khaslana sighs, cutting him off and snatching the letter back. “Mydei is—”
“Mydei?” Phainon laughs, appalled. “What happened to Mydeimos? We become close enough that you’d call him by something so sweet?”
“You of all people should know how we feel about Mydei.” Khaslana counters.
Phainon flushes immediately, stuttering. “What, that… that cocky, presumptuous prince who thinks that he can just walk right into Okhema and demands that he just— just, what, is allowed to assume a high ranking position in the army? We sparred blow for blow in front of the gates, and he hasn’t even proven himself yet!”
“And yet you still adore his eyes when he’s close to winning a fight.”
“That’s regardless!” Phainon bemoans. “Anyone would!”
Khaslana stays silent, staring pointedly.
“Anyone would.” Phainon repeats, more unsure.
“Right.”
Then, Phainon grins, snapping his fingers. “Then do it for me.”
“What?!” Khaslana hisses, appalled as he covers his heart with a hand, shaking his head.
“Court Mydeimos for me.” Phainon repeats, eager. “Or coach me, help me, something, I don’t care! I can’t mess this up with him!”
“He’s not— that’s your Mydei, why would I—”
“You want to though, right?” Phainon peers at him, grinning. “Aw, are you blushing? That’s how I look when I blush, huh? Kinda weird to be seeing it from this point of view—”
“Not— what, no, I can’t just… waltz into your life and take your place!”
“Why does it matter? If you know Mydei like you claim to, then we must be together, right?”
Khaslana swallows. How does he even begin to tell Phainon everything? Phainon, a version of him without the memories of the previous cycles, a version of him who has the chance to experience everything Khaslana already has, blissfully for at most another year before Khaslana has to don the responsibility of the Flame Reaver again and reset everything that will come to pass.
A million times over, a hundred million times over, Khaslana hopes for an opening, a change, something, to come and shift the axis that Amphoreus has been rotating on just by a degree, just for the chance that something might save this cycle's Phainon.
If not, then the next.
If not, then the next.
As long as one day, a Phainon, a single Phainon, will be granted a normal life, and finally render the suffering of all the Phainons before him worthwhile.
What’s there to fight for if not for the happiness of one of the versions of him?
“We…” Khaslana murmurs, smiling weakly. “We become very close, yes.”
If Phainon notices Khaslana’s faulty misdirection, he doesn’t say anything. Khaslana catches it, the lowering of his eyelids, the way he hides his hands behind his back and immediately straightens, assuming a tone that’s used to console stray animals and kids stealing bread at the market. “Maybe that’s enough. The chance to get to know each other better.”
It hurts. Khaslana is reminded of why he doesn’t do this, why he never gets involved in these cycles, because it hurts to know that his blade will pierce Mydei’s back, that this Phainon will further reave all of the thousands of coreflames from Khaslana’s own chest and assume his position once again.
It’s faster to just reave all of the coreflames when it comes time and enter the extrapolation again. It’s easier. Simpler, far simpler.
But Khaslana can’t stand it. The monotony, the sameness, the futility of it all burns him as much as the coreflames sitting inside his soul do. He can’t just do nothing.
And because Phainon is curious, in the most deadly of ways, he continues. “Do we… I mean, are we happy? With Mydei?”
Khaslana laughs gently, because this is one he knows the answer to. “Yes, more than we’ve ever known.”
Phainon brightens like a star. It’s too bad that both their bodies are eternally meant to carry the weight of the sun.