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“We require an audience with the king.”
Krateros halts in front of the marble statue of a younger Eurypon. Facing him stands a group of soldiers clad in white and gold, the colors instantly evoking memories of smoke, powder, and blood. The war with Okhema only ended a few months ago, and its remnants still consume his muscle memory. His dagger is safely tucked against his chest, in the inner pocket of his coat, rattling against his heart — ready. He crosses his arms.
“The king’s time is not so worthless for him to grant it to the first snivelling peasant.”
The speaker’s round face colors an offended crimson.
“Peasants? We are an official delegation from Okhema. Lady Goldweaver expressly sent us—”
“—To deal with matters not important enough for her to come in person,” Krateros interrupts. The young man’s eyes narrow. The soldiers flanking him exchange a wary glance. He’s right. “So tell me, flagbearer,” Krateros continues. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
The man bites his lower lip. Its side is scarred by a long, flesh-colored line crossing at the edge of his scowl. Okhema, as strong as it is — almost as much as Kremnos: a tall, sturdy land carried by the pride of its people, and a once worthy rival — now stands defeated, humiliated. Weak. In no position to bargain. He’s come seeking help.
“We’ll tell it to the king,” he defiantly continues. “And to the king only. Not to his lackey.”
Krateros laughs. “The king is too busy to concern himself with such drivel.”
“Drivel! You would dare—”
“—So I will take care of this matter on my own. If this lackey does not satisfy you, then you are free to return to your Queen… Empty-handed.”
The younger man hesitates. It must feel like a second surrender to him, coming here to ask for help from the very same people who threw his land into disarray. Word has been sent of rebels lurking in their forests, plotting for a revolt, and Krateros will take any sign of anger from him as treason. The shine in his eyes is hard like one of a precious, unpolished gem. His jaw tightens, molars grinding like quarried stones, and for a moment Krateros believes he’ll turn heels.
“The recent battles have left our farms ruined,” the soldier admits. “It will take months — maybe years — for the land to heal anew. We already lost people to Kremnoan steel. We cannot lose more to famine.”
Krateros understands, but does not apologize. Losses are to be expected with the war, and they’ve had their own share of men dead and missing.
He only knows farms from a distant time where he was raised on one, when he was a kid who did not wield weapons yet. He’s grown into a man who only sees them as tiny squares on maps and of resources to be pillaged; still, he promises the delegation that Kremnos will take its part of responsibility in the destruction, and even haggles an amount of weekly supplies until the Okhemans’ scowls lift, satisfied with their compromise.
They leave with a paper doused in the royal seal’s wax and the reassurance Kremnos will ensure their citizens will not starve, and already a second hurdle presents itself. A graceful silhouette draped in white leans against the castle marble pillars; a shadow who once carried a crown. He bows.
“My Lady.”
“Krateros.” His head dips lower, the sound of Gorgo’s voice bending his spine: cutting and regal like the finest blade, and distantly he remembers being knighted by her, and the steely weight of her sword baptizing his shoulders. “Seeing you manage farm supplies rather than soldiers surely means I should prepare my mourning gown?”
She’s smiling, yet the question stabs right under his rib. He’ll undertake all the castle’s administrative tasks and more if only it could lift her burden, with her husband stranded between life and death and her son now missing — but he’s aware it’s not enough and will never be, not until both a cure and Mydeimos are found.
“My Lady,” he repeats, using her title as an apology this time, since he has nothing else to offer her. “I’ve failed you. If I could trade my life for his—”
Her smile softens. “Your life is invaluable, Krateros,” she says, but Krateros would gladly trade it and many others for the royal family to finally know peace. Mydei’s crowning has just happened. Whispers have been traded in hallways, talks of coups and plotted treasons now that the kingdom is at its most vulnerable, and once friendly smiles have turned skewed and sly. An old, sick warrior makes for a weak ruler, and the new king’s lengthening absence is bound to be noticed. They’re short on time. He’s aware, and Gorgo is, too, her posture straightening up more each day, readying to bear the weight of her husband’s crown in her son’s stead.
“It’s only been a few days,” Krateros says. “If you’d allow me a week before summoning the council…”
‘I swear I’ll find him,’ he can’t allow himself to finish, unable to make more empty promises. Gorgo’s nod is so small he barely sees it, the barest tilt of her chin. Hope slowly wilts from her gaze, turning from a mournful mother’s to a vengeful queen’s.
“One week,” she says. Her voice is clear-cut amongst the halls and the armored statues. He remembers her two decades ago, before she bore child, on the battlefield and surrounded by men who would die for her, Krateros being one of them — and he remembers the fear that crept up the whole world’s spine then. “Not a day more.”
Mydei’s lungs screech in agony with each breath he takes, the oxygen struggling to pass through collapsed ribs. His hair sticks to his forehead, dirty with the same blood and mud caked under his fingernails — and it rains, and it never stops. It drags his body down, wet clothes adding extra dead weight he doesn’t need, and it gets in his eyes, raindrops he can’t wipe away, clumping his eyelashes, blurring his sight. He’s lost, and he might be dying.
It’s a strange thought. He’s drunk poison from slanted cups and been stabbed countless times, yet his body has always mended itself back to its initial state, save from a few scars he now proudly wears. Now, he feels the sharp pain of the blade lodged in the middle of his spine, his one and only weak point, with every inch he crawls forward, the skin of his elbows ripping away as he does, and he realizes he might die here, to an ambush on foreign land. Pathetic.
His horses have fled and his men are dead. He’s alone, and his wounds bleed freely. The world drifts in and out, its colors greyed, and Mydei wonders if this is simply the result of his own cockiness; if he should have gone to the temple before warring; if he should have heeded his mother’s warnings. His mother. Blood swims in his mouth, gums drowning in iron and salt, and he claws at damp soil to anchor himself to the earth. He must return. He must survive. See her again. Move forward.
Leaves rustle. He freezes. There’s movement to his side; perhaps one of the horses if he’s lucky, and if he’s not, he can only hope it won’t be too big or too hungry of a beast. His dagger hangs at his side, bloody just like the rest of him, but his fingers shake when he goes to grab it. Three of them are broken.
The sound grows closer. Mydei blinks. There’s a silhouette amongst the trees. A man; tall and lanky. White-haired. “Hephaestion,” he mumbles, tongue lolling out.
He tries reaching out. Hephaestion hasn’t seen him. He’s walking through the woods, searching for something, Mydei most likely, and Mydei tries again to get his attention but his tongue is as heavy as a corpse, uselessly struggling against the coffin that became his mouth. He groans, silently cursing, and Hephaestion speaks in a language that isn’t Kremnoan, and Mydei freezes again.
This man is not Hephaestion.
Blood drums against his temples. The man takes a step in his direction. He’s still rummaging through thick bushes, but he’s moving this way, and Mydei is there, defenseless and wounded. Pain flaring in each muscle and tendon like hellfire. The closer the stranger gets, the taller he becomes: a menacing shadow looming over Mydei like death. He thinks of his mother. His father. His kingdom. He thinks, silently muttering an apology to god, or to whoever will accept it, that he has no choice.
Death feels like the sea. Cold waves on winter mornings. He’s been told over and over that, for the Kremnoan royal lineage, there is no afterlife: only a quiet surrendering as their being merges with Nikador, and their immortality floods into the veins of their descendant. Mydei hopes it flows backwards; returns to his father’s blood to grant him health again. It’s a painless end, after the countless battles and injuries, but not one without regrets. He supposes he’s failed. The dimming part of him that is used to constant fighting beckons him to rebel, to open his eyes — but he’s tired. So tired. Death comes in the shape of nothingness, a silent lull, a starless sky and the myriad of worlds beyond he won’t get to explore — and then of two large hands, cradling him gently.
He embraces it.
Mydei wakes up to a name that isn’t his nor Nikador’s. A name that isn’t even Kremnoan; that sounds like nothing he’s ever heard, really.
Phainon.
He blinks. His body feels small, compressed, compact, like he’s been squeezed into a tiny box. His field of view is narrow, and the first thing he sees are tall wooden pillars stretching to support seats. Chairs — He’s inside. The second is two pairs of shoes. A woman and a man. The third is two orange, bandaged paws. His.
“Phainon,” a female voice says. Mydei looks up to her, his eyes narrowing into a scowl. He’s not used to craning his neck to look at people, especially people as short as her. She’s pointing at him without proper manners, as if he wasn’t a prince, her lean fingers emerging from large leather sleeves. “What is this?”
“That’s Figstew,” the person named Phainon says. Mydei recognizes his voice, and the clump of snow-white hair on top of his head: it’s the man who found him in the forest. Phainon stands in a tiny kitchen, rummaging through cupboards. Mydei takes a careful look at his surroundings. The walls and furniture are mostly made of dark wood. He spots fruits he’s never seen before and colorful flowers dangling on windows ledges; writing he can’t decipher on books edges, and he understands he’s someplace that is neither Kremnos nor Okhema.
“Figstew,” the girl repeats. She throws Mydei a wary glance. “And Figstew is…?
Mydei interrupts his scouting to hold her gaze, scowling that she even dares to lay eyes on him. I’m the rightful ruler of Kremnos, wench! he says. His mouth opens and he goes, “Awoo!”
“Just Figstew,” Phainon replies in his stead, mistranslating. “I found him in the woods. He was injured.” He’s cutting uneven slices of bread he slathers in what looks like jelly.
Mydei doesn’t know what is worse: that he was found in such a state, that the boy decided to give him such a ridiculous name, or that he has no way of communicating other than these stupid cries he does. It’s been a while since he’s turned into a chimera. As a child, he used to play tricks on his mother using this appearance, or sneak into castle corners his growing body wouldn’t have allowed him to. With age, spears and fists proved more useful to him than tiny claws and blunt fangs, and he almost forgot he was capable of transforming. Plans cycle in his head — He needs to figure out where he is, escape, and return to the castle, ideally in human form.
His spine prickles. The wound hasn’t fully healed, and he realizes that not only he’s stuck in his chimera form, he’s also painfully mortal.
Phainon leaves the kitchen, walking towards Mydei and crouching to his level with sliced bread on one hand, while the other, free, rises towards Mydei’s head. Mydei’s heart stops. Up close, Phainon’s hand looks big enough to crush him effortlessly; large and calloused from farm work, and Mydei feels his tiny ears flatten in humiliating fear.
“You shouldn’t touch him,” the girl warns. “He could be venomous. Look at his tail.”
Phainon’s hand freezes and retreats. He considers her words, peering at Mydei’s tail, which glows moss green at the end. The most he can do with it is his uselessly swat at air, but he uses the opportunity to defend himself, pointing its rounded edge at Phainon like a stinger. That’s right. Fear me.
“He doesn’t look dangerous to me,” Phainon replies. Ignoring the deadly threat and the infuriated miniature ruler in front of him, he pats Mydei’s head. His fingers crook, scratching between Mydei’s furry ears before pulling away. Mydei’s mouth hangs open, too stunned to react. “He’s too cute to be dangerous.”
Cute! Mydei nearly chokes. The son of Gorgo is not cute. He’s killed thousands, and his enemies all live in fear of his shadow, and massive statues have been erected in his glory — and Phainon doesn’t care, cooing at Mydei’s deadly glare. He tries to push the sliced bread into Mydei’s open mouth, which instantly sews shut — it’s covered in slimy, blue blobs of jelly, and the smell is all but appetizing. Mydei turns away.
“Aw,” Phainon says. “He’s picky.”
“He has good taste,” the girl says. “I wouldn’t eat that either.”
Phainon pointedly ignores her in favor of trying to touch Mydei’s ears. Mydei tries to headbutt his hand away, but his fearless charge is pointless: he hasn’t been graced with horns. “You’re so cute I could eat you,” Phainon continues. Mydei freezes. Is that why the boy called him Figstew? And is that the weird jelly’s purpose? Is he being seasoned?
“You’re scaring him,” the girl scolds. “Also, you said you found him in the forest, right? That’s close to the border,” she ponders. “And look, his face… He has the same red markings Kremnoans bear.”
Mydei tenses again. He still doesn’t know who they are other than for the boy’s name, nor does he have any idea of where on the map this place is. He’s been careless. They don’t dress nor talk like his enemies but they could very well be allianced, or worse, stragglers looking to scavenge the battlefields and loot the corpses, and they might not figure out his identity but they seem poor enough to try and sell him off at a market for coin. Has word of his disappearance spread yet? He discreetly tries to push his claws out, preparing to fight. His paws remain pitifully soft and round.
“You think so?” Phainon asks, an excited lilt in his voice. The girl sighs.
“Phainon. You could stand to find a better role model than these barbarians.”
“You’re saying this because you don’t understand how skilled their swordsmen are,” Phainon retorts. “Their blacksmiths forge the finest blades in the country, and-”
“Okay,” she cuts in, a smile heard in her voice. It seems it isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Fine. All I hear is that you still want to visit Castrum Kremnos.” Phainon sheepishly smiles. There’s a silence, and then the smile in her voice turns into doubt. “Wait, this isn’t why you picked up Figstew, is it? To have an excuse and go visit Kremnos?”
Mydei’s heart skips. He carefully studies the boy’s face. Perhaps his underhanded way of thinking could be his ticket back home.
“Cyrene,” Phainon says, shaking his head. “Is that what you think of me? No, I was simply thinking I could keep Figstew here. Until he’s healed, at least.”
Mydei almost audibly groans. Cyrene, who he finds he likes more as she unknowingly advocates for him, argues. “He may already belong to someone.”
Phainon waves the argument away. “You haven’t seen the state he was in when I found him. Anyone who leaves their pet like this deserves to have it be taken away from them.”
Cyrene glances at Mydei, who’s still covered in bandages, and gives in. “I guess you’re right,” she concedes. “And to such a cute chimera, too.”
Mydei decides he doesn’t like her anymore.
“Brother,” Cyrene continues, observing the two of them, not entirely won over by Phainon’s arguments. “Just— Be careful, okay? We don’t want to get in trouble with Kremnos or their people. They have an army. We don’t.”
Phainon turns to her and smiles. “I know, Cyrene.” He laughs. “I promise you no war will be waged over this little guy.”
Cyrene doesn’t look entirely convinced. Mydei isn’t either.
Hephaestion returns to Castrum Kremnos, and Krateros’ hopes flare and die as quickly as a starving fire when he realizes the prince’s best friend walks alone.
“I’m sorry,” Hephaestion says before Krateros can even speak. His cheeks have turned sharp from hunger and worry, and his skin pallid. His lower lip is covered in tattered skin from biting it too many times, and Krateros, who was fully prepared to scold him for failing his mission, can’t find the anger in his heart anymore.
“You’ve done what you could,” he says. Part of him wants to rush to the stables, ride the fastest steed and scour the country himself, until the king is found. His absence is like a hole in his side. Krateros has been Mydei’s guardian, teacher, and family, and lately he keeps dreaming of the young prince affectionately calling him Uncle Krateros, and his hands shake at the thought of having to dig Mydei’s early grave. “Go find some rest,” he tells Hephaestion. “And do not lose faith.”
Hephaestion nods, but his gaze is haunted. “Nikador watches over you,” he prays.
“And over him,” Krateros replies. He should have gone, too. He’s grown too proud of Mydei, too confident, and let him venture in the wilds with too few knights. “Hephastion,” he turns and calls. The young man pauses to face him again. “The men who ambushed you…”
“White and gold,” Hephaestion replies. His face has darkened, a somber desire for revenge animating his sickly frame. “Okhemans.”
Krateros only nods.
Phainon always wakes up before dawn. He presses some strong-scented herb to the wound at Mydei’s spine, then heads outside, where he swings his sword into a poor lump of wood until the sun fully rises without fail, and Mydei, still passing as a chimera, observes him from the kitchen’s window. Phainon’s footwork is clumsy and his moves full of opening, yet what he lacks in talent he makes up for in determination: he doesn’t complain nor make excuses, steel-blue eyes clear and focused as he goes through his self-imposed training more rigorously than a soldier would. Once he’s done, he returns to the house and tries cooking something Mydei would like, lamenting over his lack of knowledge for chimeras’ diets, unaware nothing he can come up with will ever come close to Jiaoqiu’s fine cuisine.
“You really do look Kremonan,” he starts, the third day of Mydei observing his practice. He dares thumb at the red markings coiling under Mydei’s eyes, and Mydei flinches at the quick touch, unprepared for the sudden warmth but now used to it. Phainon lights up. “Did you know? They hold a huge tournament each year, where the best warriors in the continent can participate for a chance to prove their worth to the king.”
Of course Mydei knows. He’s got a front row seat each year, at his father’s side, watching as foreign warriors try and fail to dethrone Krateros from his position as the King’s hand, and next year, it will be for him they fight over.
“Cyrene says it’s stupid of me to practice,” Phainon continues. “I’m only a farmer, after all, and I can’t participate anyways, because it takes place right during harvest.” He hands Mydei a green, peach-looking fruit. Mydei takes a sniff, a tentative bite, and scrunches his nose in disgust. It’s sour. “Aw. Sorry. I just-” He hesitates for a little, looking into the distance and then back to Mydei with a bright smile. “I just think it’s admirable. Pledging your life to protect something, or someone? I wish I could do that. Become strong enough to protect Cyrene and the whole village, you know? Like the Castrum Kremnos’ king.”
The boy’s voice is honest and admiring, and Mydei smiles without realizing, because he, too, looks up to his father, the army he’s trained; the lands he’s conquered; the people he’s helped. An iron gauntlet with a careful grip. He strives to be as good of a ruler, now that his time has come.
“This is a secret, okay? Don’t tell Cyrene.” Mydei nods without thinking. “You’re so cute,” Phainon adds, a finger brushing against Mydei’s cheek. Mydei bites, but the boy’s hand has pulled away already, too quick for him to retaliate. Mydei readies himself to lunge, and Phainon holds his hands up in surrender — but harm is done. No man alive can boast calling the rightful heir of Kremnos ‘cute,’ and Phainon has done it twice now, thrice if Cyrene counts, which Mydei decides it does.
He glares. He’ll find a way to get his revenge once he’s fully healed.
Eurypon’s breathing has worsened, as if worry had managed to slip through his slumber from his wind pipes to assault him in the land of dreams too, and Gorgo can do nothing but squeeze his hand as she watches his chest rise and fall and prays it'll continue doing so. She hasn't cried ever since she was a young girl, tears of frustration and rage because she was so close to winning the tournament that would have bestowed her the honor of being the king’s knight, and she thinks it must be something like fate, crying over the same man twice.
“Can you see the fields, Mydei?” Phainon asks.
Even a blind man would see them, he’d say if he could, but he’s still a chimera, perched on Phainon’s broad shoulder, so he goes ‘Awoo.’ “This is my home,” Phainon continues. “Aedes Elysiae.”
Tiny thatched houses freckle the horizon, and the fields are beautiful, golden and swaying in the southern wind. Mydei misses Gorgo, an ache at his chest that no bandage will stop. He’s almost fully healed now. He should have returned home earlier, but there was something in the boy’s quick, gentle touches, and in the way he confided in Mydei, that made him relax. Lower his guard. Stay.
Above the endless wheat, far into the distance, ash-grey smoke rises. His eyes widen. He recognizes this signal. It’s war coming: the prelude to blaring horns and raised crimson flags. He must return.
Part of him is saddened, inexplicably. The boy will be fine. His tastes in food are questionable, and his footwork can be largely improved, and yet— Mydei doesn’t know why he wavers. Maybe because it’s been a while — forever, in fact — since he’s had something that resembled companionship, let alone with someone his age. His time is spent with Krateros or his parents, unable to trust anyone else, having too many weaknesses and secrets to conceal. Phainon has healed him — saved him, and showed him peace could be found somewhere else than on battlefields’ aftermaths. It’s harder to consider parting when Phainon is showing him his hard work and his hometown, and all of the dreams he otherwise keeps to himself.
Kings don’t do sentiments. Mydei decides to leave at nightfall.
When Phainon wakes up, Figstew is gone, and so is one of his horses and one of his favorite outfits. One spoonful of blueberry jam has been dug in a determined circle from its jar, which sits half-opened on the kitchen counter, and a handful of medicinal herbs have gone missing. He frowns and scratches his head.
“I’ve returned, Mother,” Mydei says, tired, human again -- and back home, safe.
The queen’s eyes light like gorgeous stars as she crashes into Mydei’s arms, and he’s happy, even though she squeezes right against his ribs, where it still hurts a little.
“My son,” Gorgo says, over and over in a quivering chant. Mydei wipes the tears from her eyes before they can spill, murmuring an apology into the crown of her hair that only she can hear.
“How is he?” he asks, voice quiet, fearing he might be too late. The relief washing over him when she nods is unmeasurable. He still has some of the herbs he’s borrowed from Phainon, the very thing he secretly went hunting for in the forest, stashed against his belt. He hugs her tighter, embracing as well the familiarity of their height difference, now that he’s grown bigger than her — now that he isn’t a chimera anymore, he thinks with a chuckle. “It will be okay.”
He reunites with Hephaestion too, who he doesn’t tell about the herb — Not yet, not until he’s sure they work, but he knows as soon as his father is cured Hephaestion will be also, and Mydei’s heart sings at the thought.
Krateros welcomes him back with a stern face, but his worries slip through his scolding about leaving with proper escort and personal safety.
“A word from you,” he starts, grim, “And we’ll grind these Okheman traitors into ashes and dust.”
“A word? Retreat,” Mydei replies, and he laughs when Krateros stills in his shock. “Let the men rest, and let us savor this reunion.”
Krateros relents, yet still advocates for a knight dedicated to Mydei’s service only, instead of being surrounded by, ‘good-willed but weak-bodied men,’ and Mydei resists the urge to squeeze him hard. “You’re right,” he says, beaming. They’ve had this talk a million times when he was a prince, except Mydei always refused having a knight at his service, believing it would be only one more blade threatened to plunge into his back; one more burden.
Now he reconsiders: he needs protection, a friend, and a cure for his father, and he might have found all three at once. He thinks, almost fondly, of the soft-spoken boy from Aedes Elysiae who mended him back to health, dreaming of strength he already partly possessed; then thinks back on the two (three) times he’s been labelled cute; of the feeling of Phainon’s trained fingers scratching against his scalp; and of meeting again only to enact his revenge and see the look of surprise on Phainon’s face once his human form is revealed. He grins.
“Fine. I’ll pick a knight. We’ll hold the tournament earlier this year,” he decides. “Before monsoon.”
“Your Highness?” Krateros asks, puzzled. Mydei’s smile only grows.
“Consider it a King’s favor.”
Phainon stands in the middle of the arena, hair dirty with dust and grime, panting and victorious. He must have trained hard in these past few months, to have become this strong. From his platform seat, Mydei’s heart swells with pride, as if he’d trained Phainon himself.
“You favor him,” Eurypon notices. Color has returned to his face and weight to his belly, yet he’s considering a proper retirement; enjoying his last few years away from the battlefield, perhaps walking down the royal gardens hands in hands with Gorgo. Lady Goldweaver extended them an invitation to Okhema, and Mydei’s parents have been entertaining visiting the baths they’ve heard so much about.
“I do,” Mydei says. He nods to his parents before opening the curtains separating the royal lounge to the arena below. He walks up, showing himself to Phainon and to the crowd, his lips stretching into a smile as surprise dawns on the boy’s face. It’s a good look on him: red and pink from exhaustion, wide-eyed from wonderment. “You’ve fought well,” he commends, voice booming throughout the coliseum. Phainon swallows, blushing, gaze fixated on Mydei’s face and the tattoos running there, and then he lights up with understanding:
“Figstew.”
Mydei grins, teeth sharper than chimeras’ fangs, and lazily leans forward on the balcony.
“Awoo.”