Chapter Text
It starts, as it often does, with the Trailblazers.
And it starts, as many things of this sort of nature often do, right in the middle of Marmoreal Market where anyone and everyone can hear them. Though, this detail won’t hit Mydei until much later like the Astral Express careening into Amphoreus’s sky and crashing a hair-length away from Okhema at the start of Era Nova.
Mydei is handing over payment for a jar of honey when he first hears it: Stelle’s unmistakable voice carrying over the bustle of the market square.
“—reminds me of the whole classical antiquity metaphor, you know?”
Then Caelus, gentle and airy, with a note of panic: “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about it in public?”
“That was just Dan Heng’s suggestion,” Stelle says. “I didn’t hear Cas and the others complaining when we were in the baths. I just think the potential makes it a little funny. Though, with all their lore and histories, doesn’t it make you wonder?”
“No it doesn’t,” Caelus insists, “and keep your voice down, do you want us to get in trouble?”
Foreboding crawls down Mydei’s back. He nods to the vendor, who is craning his neck toward the source of the conversation, and strides across the square.
They’re standing near a fountain that overlooks the lower grounds, two baskets of produce at their feet. The morning crowd is giving the two a respectful berth, but more than a few people are glancing over their shoulders with curious looks. The twins’ backs are facing Mydei as he approaches, and he notes a pomegranate in Stelle’s hand.
Stelle scoffs. “Uh-huh, and who almost got into a fight with that scholar from Dolos because he didn’t agree with Dan Heng’s translation of the Kephale texts?”
Caelus rears up, suddenly unaware of how his voice starts to project. “That guy was misreading the secondary clause on purpose! It didn’t say ‘Kephale could carry within the seeds of creation,’ it said, ‘were the Sky Father to will it, creation would answer’. Dan Heng was right, there’s a difference in the implications!”
“What does the difference matter if there’s only so many books that even mention it?” Stelle waves the pomegranate. “Speaking of, why is that? You’d think more people would discuss it if it was so important.”
Caelus shrugs. “It’s like Cas said. The idea of that happening to Kephale was probably weird to some people.”
“How can it be weird? Wouldn’t it be part of the job description? They’re the Worldbearing Titan, aren’t they?”
Mydei says, “Were the Worldbearing Titan.”
Stelle jumps. The pomegranate goes flying. Caelus twists around so fast he topples to the cobblestones. Without missing a beat, Mydei catches the fruit in one hand and raises a brow as he regards them. “What was that about Kephale?”
“Mydei,” Stelle says, high-pitched, at the same time Caelus croaks, “Nothing!”
He crosses his arms—just so, the way Phainon once teased made his chest and shoulders bulge in a rather threatening manner. A small shame the basket of honey and fruit dangling on his wrist rather offsets the intimidation factor, but no matter. “I’ll ask again once and only once, what was that about Kephale and Worldbearing?”
Caelus, striking a faux-casual pose on the ground, laughs too quickly. “Nothing serious. Just some light theoretical discourse, right, Stelle?”
“Ye-ep,” Stelle pops the p, rocking back on her heels. “Just a friendly debate between curious minds, is all.”
“Mm.” Mydei turns the pomegranate over in his hand. “And this is the inspiration for said debate?”
Stelle glances at her twin, who frantically shakes his head. She gives a strained smile. “It’s mostly metaphor. Symbolism. Hypothetical stuff!”
“Caelus almost got into a fight over hypothetical stuff?”
Caelus’s next laugh edges on nervous. “You heard that part too?”
“I won’t be surprised if they heard you in the Grove,” Mydei says dryly. “So. What’s the metaphor?”
They stare at him wide-eyed. He tilts his head, challenging. “I am no stranger to scholarly debate. Maybe I can provide some insight.”
Stelle says consideringly, “Actually—”
“No,” Caelus hisses, then squeaks when Mydei glances at him, “I mean, it might be a little… Silly. And a bit ridiculous, to be honest. Probably not something worth bothering you with, Mydei.”
“A scholarly debate about Kephale isn’t worth my time?” Mydei drawls. “Have you forgotten who I’m married to? Stop beating around the bush. Tell me.”
Caelus makes a little choking sound. Stelle jumps in. “It’s more about metaphorical rebirth—seeds of potential, fruit of creation! That sort of stuff.”
Odd. These two are usually more forthcoming. Mydei’s jaw flexes as he tries for another angle. “Stuff that is weird, in your own words, to some people?”
“I personally don’t think it’s weird,” Stelle protests. “If anything, I think it’s mythologically consistent!”
“Consistent with what?” Mydei says, seizing the opening.
“Stelle,” Caelus says weakly.
“Well,” Stelle answers, voice crisp and clear in its non-discernment, “with whether or not Phainon can get pregnant.”
“I am sure,” Aglaea says in the most placid tone Mydei has ever heard, “that there is a very good reason why Mydeimos crystallized half of Marmoreal Market and blocked off all the central roads when we are still in the middle of rebuilding Okhema.”
In the past, she only ever called him Mydeimos when she was teetering on the precipice of patience, the visage of Garmentmaker hovering over her shoulder. On those rare occasions, Phainon also knelt in supplication beside him, but Mydei can’t even try to put half the blame on him this time.
Aglaea clears her throat.
He is not afraid, because Kremnoans fear nothing and he is Strife incarnate and the only equal to the Deliverer of Amphoreus—but he wisely keeps his eyes on the floor. At his sides, Caelus and Stelle shuffle awkwardly on their knees.
“Aglaea,” Hyacine starts, ever the long-suffering witness and brave arbiter.
“No, no, let them explain themselves,” Aglaea says sweetly. Gold threads weave into view around her hands.
“I will cover all expenses and make amends to the people,” Mydei swears.
Aglaea says, unmoved, “I never doubted you would. I wish to know why such an act happened in the first place. My threads can no longer tell me such details, as you well know, so I must continue to pry like this. It is not like you to lose control, unless, ah.”
She trails off. Hyacine giggles, covering her mouth.
Unless where Phainon is concerned, yes, Mydei knows. He has already accepted that long ago. Why else did he marry him?
“So it does have something to do with Phainon,” Aglaea muses when he fails to reply, sounding thoughtful but not surprised. “Shall we fetch him, then? Surely he is awake at this time and can shed some light on this matter.”
It certainly has something to do with Phainon.
Phainon, who is sleeping in, a rare luxury in all the years and cycles Mydei has known him. Sprawled across their kline, limbs tangled in the sheets and still bearing the marks of Mydei’s mouth from last night. His braid loosely in place because he’d drifted off before Mydei could comb it out.
Phainon, curled on the left side of the bed—his side, because it’s closest to the balcony that overlooks Okhema and catches the first blush of morning light. One hand curled over his belly, as he’s been wont to do more often lately, like he’s anchoring himself in the warmth of his own skin.
Phainon, still healing slowly, who deserves this quiet, unbothered morning. Who would, without question, stir at the first sign of a summons, bleary-eyed and dutiful, even if confused as to why it wasn’t Mydei slipping into bed beside him to coax him awake as he’s done every morning since the First Dawn.
Mydei blurts out, “The Trailblazer thinks Phainon can get pregnant.”
Hyacine gasps. Aglaea freezes.
“He means Stelle,” Caelus says immediately.
“You also think it!” the accused yelps, her voice echoing in the Hero’s Bath. “You were the one who wanted to finish the whole translation of the book that Cas and the others found!”
“I wanted to finish it for Dan Heng’s data bank, but you kept bringing up the world-bearing translation. I didn’t even think about actual pregnancy until you mentioned it!”
The two are on their feet now, pointing at each other. Mydei warily leans away, not in the mood to get caught in the orbit of a stray flaming lance or baseball bat.
“But you don’t deny that you thought about it?”
“Who can’t think about it when you and Dan Heng and the others won’t stop talking about it?”
“Don’t you even start, I know you like it when Dan Heng talks—”
“Like you aren’t the same when Jing Yuan or Aventurine or Dr. Ratio—”
“Ohh now we’re listing names huh? Well a little birdie told me about seeing the fireworks on Penacony with—”
“Most distinguished heroes,” Aglaea says, just silken smooth enough to hide the threat underneath. “I believe that is a conversation best held elsewhere. Mydei, you may stop inching away and stand. The floor cannot be that comfortable.”
Mydei complies, willing his face to cool down. “Now you understand what I had to put up with earlier.”
“Indeed,” Aglaea says mildly. “I can imagine it was a great shock to hear if Phainon can bear children.”
“Because he can’t,” Mydei says. “It’s a ludicrous idea. Whatever the Trailblazers may have heard or read is simply folly. There is no precedent for such a thing. It’s impossible.”
Aglaea tilts her head. Her face is as unreadable as ever.
His throat tightens. For a reason he cannot name, tiny pinpricks run down his arms. Heat rises to the back of his neck, the palms of his hands.
“I told you so,” Stelle mutters, to which Caelus snaps, “Stop or we’re gonna get crystallized again. Look, he’s starting to glow.”
“Lord Mydei.” Hyacine approaches him with hands up as if soothing a startled dromas. “Please take some deep breaths. Kephale’s Worldbearing title has many translations and has been stylized in a number of different ways. Such an ability would certainly be noted somewhere in our histories. This is likely just a big misunderstanding.”
Mydei lets out a relieved breath. He can always count on Hyacine being a reliable voice of reason. But… “What do you mean by likely?”
The wide-eyed glance from Hyacine to Aglaea feels like a spear through his stomach.
“Likely,” he prompts when neither speaks up, the blood starting to rush again in his ears, “a grave mistranslation, or a jest made in poor taste by some immature scholar or acolyte, right? Kephale never got pregnant or bore children.”
Caelus raises his hand politely. “But didn’t They bring life to the first beings of Amphoreus? Isn’t that technically giving birth?”
“The origin stories of the past Titans are not meant to be taken that literally!”
Aglaea opens her mouth but Stelle pipes up instead, “Maybe there hasn’t been a chance for it to happen to Phainon?”
The brief icy silence that follows is damning.
“What,” Mydei says, low and rough, as Caelus tries to smother Stelle’s mouth, “does that mean?”
Stelle raises a brow, holding Caelus back with one hand on his face. “It’s been, what, a month since the start of Era Nova? Phainon’s only had his divinity for a few weeks max. What if, you know, there hasn’t been an opportunity?”
No opportunity? There are no words for how much Mydei wants to refute her statement.
There were three whole days after the First Dawn that he and Phainon were unaccounted for. Did she think they spent all that time holding hands and whispering tenderly to each other?
They did, eventually. But that was after they had lain together, again and again, beneath the swirling stars of the Vortex of Genesis until their divinities resonated so fiercely that a new constellation flared to life in the sky.
But there’s absolutely no world in which he’s saying that aloud.
Not with Hyacine of all people in attendance, her innocent face scrunched up like she’s trying to solve a math problem. Not with Aglaea, someone Phainon considers mother and mentor and dear friend, watching him like a bird of prey. Not to mention the blaring target he’ll paint on his back if this conversation gets back to Anaxa, who is currently researching the mysterious origin of said constellation.
Mydei counts to five and says, with deliberate calm, “Opportunity is not the factor we should be questioning.”
It is the plausibility—or rather, the irrefutable improbability—of child-bearing, should be obvious and goes unsaid. But Stelle, who is quickly destroying Mydei’s hopes for an amicable resolution to this fiasco, just shrugs.
“Maybe it is, since we don’t know how you two,” she makes a shameless hand gesture that makes them wince. “Or vice versa? I don’t know if Phainon can handle that yet. Or maybe I’m wrong and you guys are doing a dry run, but knowing you and him…”
The air gets heavier, sewn tight by the sharp sensation of lightning, of an incoming storm. Caelus has gone pale. Mydei resists the urge to wipe the sudden sweat on his forehead. Strife. Aglaea is going to kill him, then Anaxa will arrive from the Grove and patiently stand over his limp body until he revives before stringing him up and using him for target practice. He will never be able to look Hyacine in the eye again after this.
Aglaea, decidedly not killing him yet, says, “Go on, Mydei. We are all adults here.”
That is up for debate, he thinks as Stelle and Caelus shout-whisper to each other while gesturing at him, but seizes the lifeline that the Goldweaver deigned to throw to him.
“Not that it is anyone’s business,” he says, every drop of decorum in him balking at publicly insinuating at his and Phainon’s bedroom affairs, “but there have been plenty of chances. Abundantly so.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Aglaea says wearily at the same time Caelus says, “Now that’s a thought—Path of Abundance,” he adds when they stare at him.
“Ahh,” only Stelle says after a long moment, nodding sagely.
Another pause. There is the gentle sloshing of the baths. Below them, the distant sounds of people going about their day.
Phainon will be waking soon. Mydei realizes, belatedly, that he hasn’t even started breakfast yet. There’s no doubt that Phainon will say he doesn’t mind, that Mydei doesn’t need to go through all that effort every morning. He’ll brush it off with a smile and suggest they eat instead at one of the many stalls outside, calling it his treat as if they do not share the same purse for everything.
But he knows Phainon likes to break fast in their room, just the two of them, a moment in each other’s company before duty calls. The balcony window opened wide to let in the sunlight and fresh air. Their private bath drawn just below cool, with tiny glass bottles of fragrance oils resting on two folded towels.
The food would be arranged bathside: Mydei had been planning to make a platter piled high with tagēnitēs drizzled in rich honey; a jug of pomegranate juice and a goblet half-filled with fresh goat milk; bunches of bright purple grapes nestled next to thick slices of bread spread with savory olive relish, Phainon’s favorite to eat and Mydei’s least favorite to feed him because of the crumbs, but he does anyway.
At some point, the rising sun would slip into the room and drape Phainon’s bare skin like fine gold silk. Bold like a lover’s embrace—the sheer nerve of it.
Mydei couldn’t fault it. Not when he understood the feeling so very well. Still, he’d make his claim known, pulling Phainon into his lap mid-ramble and kissing him thoroughly. The dazed, incredulous look Phainon always gave him after was a victory in itself, one he never tired of earning.
Longing unfurls. Curls up tight in his chest, around every rib.
He tells Stelle, resolute, “To answer your question from before, no. I don’t think Phainon can get pregnant, whether because of Kephale’s divinity or by any other way.”
I would know, he thinks. If it were possible, I would be the first to know.
Caelus gives him a complicated look. Stelle tilts her head. He wonders if he can see a glimmer of the Stellaron in her eyes when she smiles and says, “Okay, Mydei.”
“You shut down the markets?” is the first thing Phainon says when Mydei bursts into their room with a tray in hand.
“Why do you assume me to be the instigator,” Mydei grumbles before the words catch and dry up in his throat.
Phainon is reclining on their kline with nothing but a thin sheet covering his lower half. One hand holds his teleslate, the other rests low on his abdomen. A breeze through the open balcony window tousles his hair, lifting the loose ends of his braid. His neck is bare.
The front door had been left slightly ajar, as if Phainon had been anticipating his arrival. Mydei thinks, not for the first time, that it was an excellent idea to claim the private wing in the Heirs’ apartments.
There is no risk of some oblivious passerby or Chrysos Heir wandering the halls outside to accidentally witness Phainon like this. The man is shameless enough to pad around their rooms without a chiton, without his underclothes, without anything sometimes. The audacity. Mydei has no desire to share even a glimpse of him in this state with others.
Mydei exhales when he feels the tray beginning to bow under the grip of his fingers, and releases the metal carefully.
“Caelus and Stelle can’t summon red crystals, can they?” Phainon points out, waving the teleslate at him, oblivious to how the motion makes the sheet slide down. Strife and calamity. The fine taper of his waist is ludicrous, but the curves of his hips and thighs frankly need their own warning signs.
Not that anyone but Mydei will ever see them, feel their warmth under their teeth, know the way they shake and yield under both gaze and touch.
He made sure of that when he finally took Phainon to hearth and husband.
“Mydei.”
“Yes.” Followed by, “What, again?”
Phainon snorts and puts away the teleslate, tugging up the sheet for a more respectable coverage. “Come here, you. What are you standing there for?”
He drags his eyes up to meet Phainon’s grin. “I have to go back to Marmoreal Market in a quint.”
“I know, Hyacine gave me a heads-up.” He winks. “I negotiated with Aglaea for three quints. You’re welcome.”
Negotiated, he says. As if Aglaea would be able to say no to those big blue eyes after everything that has happened.
The extra time is a blessing, nonetheless. He secures the tray by the bath, shucks his robes and gauntlets, and slides into Phainon’s waiting arms. The kline creaks but holds as they shift to curl around each other. The sheet stays bunched up between them as he settles on top of Phainon with a low sigh.
“My, that sounds heavy for this early in the morning.” Steady fingers card through his hair, pulling gently at the roots. The intimacy of it, hard-won and long awaited for, makes him bury his face in Phainon’s neck and breathe deeply.
Sun-dried linen and labdanum, with a hint of olive resin, and fire. The scent sinks familiar and heady into his bones. If the divine power inside him were a lion, it would be purring loud enough to shake the walls, content in the presence of its mate.
“Not so early anymore,” he says, nosing along the divots of Phainon’s collarbones where his smell is strongest. “It’s almost Ascent Hour. What have you been doing all this time?”
“I fed the chimeras and read the news. Imagine my surprise when I saw your face plastered all over the front page.” A playful tug at the end of his braid. “I also got the strangest message from the trapeza letting me know that we have a hundred thousand balance coins credited to our account. Tell me, are we paying that in full or in installments?”
Mydei groans. They had to spend thrice that for their official wedding, but it is still no small amount. Aglaea truly never goes back on her word, or the words of others. When he gets his hands on the Trailblazers, he’s going to shake them for all they’re worth, their many admirers across the Cosmos be damned. He can take on all of them.
“Charge half of that to Stelle and Caelus,” he says. “Don’t let them leave Okhema until they pay up. With how much they hoard, it shouldn’t be an issue.”
Phainon laughs, his broad chest shaking under Mydei’s cheek. “You’ll have better luck getting the money from the Verax Leos. Caelus already went back up to the Astral Express. Stelle is on her way to the Grove.”
“Aglaea sent her?”
“No, apparently there’s a project she’s been working on for a while with Professor Anaxa.”
Mydei begrudgingly admires the twins’ frightening efficacy in finding the best ways to avoid him. He and the rest of the Chrysos Heirs have an open invitation to visit the Astral Express anytime, but Caelus would definitely hide in Dan Heng’s room, which is a line Mydei refuses to cross.
Likewise, he has no desire to deal with Anaxa’s thinly veiled half-threats about treating Phainon carefully, what with the state of his body after ushering in Era Nova.
He can’t quite wrap his head around it. The man approved their union then acts as if Mydei has turned into a different beast who ravishes Phainon on the daily. He has it on record that he is the more careful one—their three days of reunion aside.
Warm lips brush his forehead, effectively diverting his thoughts. “So, mind telling me what was so serious that warranted everyone in Okhema getting a public service announcement?”
The pomegranate in Stelle’s hand appears in his mind. An inexplicable tension starts in his lower back, shot through with something he cannot name. It feels like the shape of the word want.
He shakes his head of the thought and tightens his arms around Phainon. “Nothing. The Trailblazers just caught me off-guard.”
“Those are two different statements,” Phainon says lightly. “You haven’t lost control of your thymós like that in a while. Did they challenge you to another one of their speed-running contests again?”
His nails, trimmed short, scratch up and down Mydei’s back. Mydei arches into the touch, letting it soothe him. “All they challenged was my patience. Don’t worry about it. You should focus on yourself first.”
“You’re deflecting,” Phainon whines. “I’m not going to break apart. It doesn’t look like it much, but I am getting better. Give me your hands.”
He does. Phainon guides them down his chest and flanks, around his back, over the worst of his fracture lines.
Rhimágmata, is what Anaxa and that Herta woman decided to name them—the deep and wide scars lacing Phainon’s body, filled with starlit divinity like aureate ichor and sealed over by embroideries of translucent threads.
Marks of Destruction that will never fully heal or fade. Phainon will carry the ache of each discontinuity for the rest of his life. It is the price he pays for the Miracle of Genesis, for the backlash that Era Nova wrought on the Cosmos.
Mydei maps every inch offered to him and can only feel a quiet, deep reverence.
“I think this one is getting smaller,” Phainon is saying, brushing the edge of a particularly long cicatrix that cuts through his hip. “The ones on my face are also better compared to last week.”
Mydei goes there next with curious fingertips—over Phainon’s clavicle and the mark of the sun, inlaid with shimmering gold of divinity; up the slope of that deceptively strong jawline, which he nips and is rewarded with a laugh; then, then to the soft curves of Phainon’s cheeks, heating up beneath his touch and scrunching up as Mydei cups them for a better look.
The harsh rhimágmata that once ran jagged across his face have closed into thin glimmering lines, like veins in crystal. Mydei skims over them, noting with no small amount of pride at how quickly Phainon relaxes into his hands. “How much do they hurt?”
“They don’t—” Phainon says, quelling when Mydei looks at him with a raised brow—“hurt as much as before.” He nudges his chin against Mydei’s palm with a disarming grin. “Not since I had this very handsome man taking care of me, cooking me the best meals, giving me the most tender loving care.” Waggles his eyebrows. “Do you think he’ll let me return the favor when I get better?”
“… You are the most embarrassing HKS I have ever met,” Mydei says. “Get away from me.”
“You're the one still holding me,” Phainon sing-songs. “So, as you can see, I am doing just fine. Well enough to help you with the clean-up later.”
Mydei frowns, releasing Phainon’s face and pushing himself up on his elbows to properly look at him. “I can handle it by myself. You’re supposed to have another session with Hyacine. You needn’t trouble yourself with my consequences… what?”
Phainon is smiling at him, momentarily quiet. His cheeks are flushed a light attractive pink, the mark of the sun on his neck and chest glowing. Fingers dance up Mydei’s forearms, his shoulders, over thick cords of muscle until they come to rest on his nape. He says, matter of fact, “It’s exactly because they’re your consequences that I trouble myself with them. Your fight is my fight, remember?”
The words of their vows, vivid and grounding. Sudden shivers burst and spread over Mydei’s skin, racing through his nerves. His tattoos begin to emit telltale scarlet light, his thymós stoked by proximity and promise. “Cleaning up smashed vegetables and rubble is hardly a worthy fight.”
“Still, you’ve chosen to take it on,” Phainon says. A mischievous glint enters his eyes. “What, think I’ll do a better job than you? Tell you what, I’ll stay in bed to give you a head start. I won’t even get dressed yet—though, knowing you, I’d wager that might have the opposite effect.”
“You,” Mydei declares, trying to sound more incensed than he feels as he leans down, “will need that head start more than me.”
Phainon is laughing when he meets Mydei in the middle. It's a brush of the lips more than a kiss, brief and sweet. A peck, Phainon likes to call it. A childish word, but it makes him smile when Mydei says it, so it’s acceptable.
One more peck, then twice again, before Phainon sighs, tilting his head to better the angle. Several languid moments pass like deep sips of honey brew. The sunlight on Mydei’s back. Phainon’s arms winding around his neck. Their legs sliding, trying to instinctively move into familiar positions, barred only by thin fabric.
It is still novel, this exchange of lips and breaths and hands sliding under cloth to caress bare skin, over scars new and old. Before, there had been moments somewhat similar to this, but brief. Uncertain. Dancing the blurry lines between competitor and companion, friend and lover. Those moments were as fleeting as time for rest, stolen between endless battles that wearied the heart and body.
It is better, now.
Phainon lightly bites Mydei’s lower lip, followed by licking into his mouth in a long, sensuous stroke. Mydei grunts, pleased. A familiar heat simmers to life under his skin.
Another lick, sliding over his tongue. His hips buck down before he can stop them. A sudden push, and he’s flipped on his back as Phainon plants himself on top. Arousal thrums low, makes his toes curl hard. This is one of their favorite ways, among many. Perhaps because it is so reminiscent of their first time.
“You’re going to make me late,” he rasps, not ashamed to admit he’s already straining against his pants, pleased to feel Phainon’s own desire hot against him. They start to rock together, inevitable. One hand finds its way to Phainon’s hip; the other to his neck, urging him down so Mydei can take his mouth again.
“We don’t have to take long,” Phainon gasps when he breaks away, lips wet and red-bitten, well-kissed. He steadies himself over Mydei’s chest, squeezing lightly. His braid falls from behind his ear to dangle between them. At the end, a golden clasp gleams.
(“I will take you as you are,” Phainon vowed, voice rising with the light of a new world, smiling as Mydei sealed the clasp, “and give you me, as I am—”)
Mydei takes the end of Phainon’s braid and brings it to his lips. “I would take my time with you,” he says, “husband.”
The sheet slips away. Phainon’s eyes are so very blue, shining with joy. Daylight crowns him in a resplendent veil.
Let the world wait, Mydei thinks. It will not collapse in their absence. Let us have this just a little longer.
“It’s a good thing,” Phainon says breathlessly, boldly, as he settles on Mydei’s lap like a royal consort on his rightful throne, “that we have three quints, don’t we?”
It is the middle of Parting Hour by the time Mydei heaves the last of the rubble onto the cart. The citizens move around the cordoned off area, giving him sympathetic smiles. They must have read the second public service announcement, the one that specifically outlined his mistake from this morning and the promise he made to Aglaea.
Breathing heavily, he lifts a hand to acknowledge them. Some well-meaning civilians come close, looking eager to help, but he waves them off like he did all the others.
Aglaea had made it very clear he was to finish this part of the markets on his own. Not that he was planning to do otherwise, his current bet with Phainon in place or not.
Demetria is waiting with a basket when Mydei approaches her. She smiles and dips her head. “Finished, Lord Mydei? That was quite fast. I have yet to receive word on Lord Phainon’s progress in the north district.”
“No need,” he says, trying to keep his tone level and not as smug as he feels. “I shall go see him myself, and collect my prize in person.”
It looks like he has come out triumphant, as expected. Phainon may be recovering well enough, but his strength and stamina are nowhere near what they were before. Hauling heavy marble and stone must not come with the same ease he enjoyed when he was able to yank Aquila out of the sky.
Perhaps their earlier indulgence hadn’t done Phainon any favors either. Like with all their intimate encounters, Mydei had made certain to leave his husband boneless and undone more than once. The time limit had not been an issue. If anything, it only spurred him to make the most of it. When Phainon was able to crawl out of bed was hard to say.
“Oh my,” Demetria giggles. She covers her mouth, but her eyes twinkle with a knowing mirth. “The stakes must be quite high for you to smile like that, my lord.”
He firmly schools his expression, but Demetria only laughs and shakes her head like a scolding grandmother. She pushes the basket into Mydei’s hands. “Take these as a token of my thanks. No, no, you must accept them. The honeydew and herbs are fresh from today’s stock, and I’m sure you will find a use for the fig syrup.”
Mydei’s eyes widen at the weight of the basket. It is not uncommon for Chrysos Heirs to receive gifts or trinkets from the public. Demetria herself long had the habit of piling fruits into his and Phainon’s arms whenever they visited her stall. But what she has given him can supply days’ worth of meals, and some of the plants are ones he has never received before nor used in his cooking.
His confusion must break through his steel face because Demetria clicks her tongue. She points to each one as she lectures sternly, “That one is moonmender root, good for returning vitality to the blood. This is cremni pear—boil it with apple peel and you’ll have a tonic that helps minimize muscle cramps. Ray fennel is bitter if eaten raw but you won’t find a better plant for sleeplessness. As for Phoros pollen, I would add it to a mild soup or tea for a boost of energy during the day. For Lord Phainon, I recommend a pinch or two. No more, or he won’t be able to rest comfortably at night.”
His head is spinning. Hyacine would have loved this kind of conversation, but it’s all Mydei can do to keep up. “I see. Thank you, Demetria.”
Her smile turns wistful. “Things must be difficult on Lord Phainon’s body. It hasn’t been much time at all since the First Dawn. I can’t imagine he’s not aching in some way, in his state. You’ll see to his comfort in the coming months, won’t you?”
“Of course,” he replies without hesitation, because it is the truth. “I will be at his side, always.” It warms him to know that Demetria, a trusted and reliable figure among the people, continues to think about Phainon’s well-being. He is not alone in his regard for their Deliverer even after the start of Era Nova.
Demetria instantly looks misty-eyed. She pats his arm and shoos him away. “Go on, now. Find your husband and get him started on those herbs. I expect an update when you stop by next time!”
Mydei bids her farewell and heads toward the northern side of the markets, the area Phainon claimed for himself in their little competition. Along the way, citizens pass him in clusters. Some are heading home, others rushing to the baths or diners. More than a few whisper to each other as he walks past, looking excited.
Perhaps there is a new event elsewhere in the city, or some fresh batch of gossip has made its rounds among the youth. Mydei chooses not to dwell on it. He’s dirty, sore, and hungry after hours of labor. The sooner he and Phainon can bathe and have dinner, the sooner they can bed down for the night.
He quickens his pace. It doesn’t take long to find Phainon under an awning of a fabrics stall, a half-full cart of rubble nearby. Mydei halts mid-step. Ice-cold sensation runs down his back.
Phainon is seated awkwardly on a bench, shoulders hunched, his hands moving over his knees. A small crowd of people hovers around him. Although he masks it well, Mydei can see it clearly: his husband’s face is tight with pain.
A blinding flash of scarlet. Mydei is at his side before he registers moving. The crowd parts with a collective exclamation as he drops the basket.
“What happened?” he asks sharply, kneeling and reaching for Phainon. “Are you hurt? Let me see.”
“Just a muscle strain, is all.” Phainon offers a small smile. He sounds exhausted, the vigor from this morning dimmed. Mydei knows from experience that were he to check under Phainon’s tunic, his rhimágmata would be glowing a painful, angry red.
“I’m fine already,” Phainon continues. “No need to look so fretful. I heard you already finished your side. Seems like I’m on the losing end today, eh? Want to have another go? I think the east side of the market is still unfinished.”
Mydei bats away Phainon’s hands, replacing it with his own. The muscles and tendons beneath are warm and slightly swollen. He squeezes just a bit, testing.
Phainon flinches with a hiss.
Mydei lets go and sends a message on his teleslate, scanning the almost immediate response. “Congratulations HKS, you’ve won yourself another round of bed rest. Come, we’re going to Hyacine.”
“Have you picked up a new habit of overreacting? I’ve had wounds much more grievous than this little sprain. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right as—Mydeimos!” Phainon shrieks with newfound energy as Mydei scoops him up with ease, adjusting him before grabbing the basket too. “You will put me down!”
“Stop squirming and this will go by faster,” Mydei says, nodding to the now silent, wide-eyed crowd as he strides past them toward Marmoreal Palace. “How can you expect your condition to get any better if you keep overextending yourself?”
“I didn’t realize pulling a few muscles counts as overextending,” Phainon snarks, wrapping his arms around Mydei in a way that suggests he’s one jostle away from turning them into a noose around Mydei’s neck. “Or justification to be hauled about like a sack of potatoes.”
“The sack would be better behaved,” Mydei mutters, which earns him a sudden indignant bite on the cheek. “You! What are you, a human or an animal?”
“Technically, I’m a demigod like you, so—”
They stay like that all the way up to Marmoreal Palace. For the whole duration of Hyacine’s exasperated examination and lecture to get some rest. All throughout dinner as Mydei stands sentinel while Phainon grumpily drinks all of the cremni pear tonic, and a quick bath, until Mydei dumps his freshly-toweled infuriating hyena of a husband into their kline, minding the two chimeras already curled around each other at the foot of the bed. He clambers in beside him, slotting himself along Phainon’s back and listening to him ramble sleepily.
“—and so, in a metaphorical yet not necessarily but also not excluding metaphysical sense, you and I and everyone else could be considered both human and animal.”
“You’re delirious and have no idea what you’re saying.” Mydei slides his hands around Phainon’s waist and up the lines of his chest, appreciating the subtle flex of muscles. He finds the pulse of Phainon’s heartbeat, steady and sure under his palms.
“That’s Kremnoan for, your words are too big for my brain but you’re absolutely right, as you always are, Phainon, my love, my dear,” Phainon tries to mimic Mydei’s voice. It comes out slurred and lazy, tired, nothing like him at all.
Affection crests inside Mydei like a tide. “That is an awful imitation,” he says, the criticism far too dampened to be taken seriously. “If I didn't know any better, I’d have thought you were doing it on purpose. Are you trying to insult me?”
“I’d like to see you,” Phainon yawns, “try to do better.” His hands cover Mydei’s, heavy and grounding, thumbs gliding along vein and tattoo. The modesty of the gesture does not rob it of its intimacy. “Bet you… can’t.”
Mydei buries his face into the warm slope of Phainon’s neck, the curve of his smile hidden but close enough for Phainon to feel its shape, and know it’s just for him. “Mark your words. We shall see who is victorious in the morning.”
Night wraps around them, soft and unintrusive. Mydei has left their balcony window open, the distant sounds of the Holy City long quieted in welcomed repose. Outside, the wind rustles, and moonlight spills across the floor in silver streams.
Mydei is nearly asleep when Phainon stirs and speaks, barely audible and slowly, as if revealing a painful secret. “Mydei… I don’t want to go on bed rest again. It’s more painful to just lie here and do nothing. I want to be outside—” He cuts off, and says no more.
There was a time when Phainon would never have admitted such a thing, would have let it build up and fester inside him until the inevitable end of a cycle when it shattered along with the rest of the world, to be left as a ghost in a forgotten past.
Mydei endures the ache that steals through him and presses a long kiss to the mark of the sun, which flickers faintly. A soft red glow like candlelight bathes the kline as his thymós sleepily responds to its partner’s vulnerability.
“Then rest well tonight, so you have enough energy to keep up with us tomorrow.”
“What are we doing tomorrow?” Phainon’s voice is worn, on the edge of sleep, but also threaded with unspoken tension. It is like this most nights. They are learning to work through it.
“Anything,” Mydei promises. “We can do anything.”
He speaks of visiting the dromases with Castorice, or a long overdue visit to the hometown of the Holy Maidens of Janusopolis. A day trip to Akashic ahead of their annual Georios ritual, with potential for an overnight stay. Perhaps, if Phainon wants and Mydei has enough time to brace himself, the Grove to see Anaxa and meet the newest batch of scholars; the latter option would at least give Mydei a chance to chase down Stelle and demand recompense while Phainon kept Anaxa busy.
Somewhere in the middle, Phainon turns over. His hands find the strong line of Mydei’s spine, counting each vertebrae with practiced ease. They stop where he alone is permitted to touch, shielding, reverent.
Mydei continues to murmur in his ear, and the tension in Phainon soon slackens. Within heartbeats, his breathing deepens and steadies into a peaceful rhythm that Mydei knows only comes when he feels truly safe.
He follows his husband not long after, content.
And so Amphoreus turns, flipping the page of the world to a new day, the stars tilting on their axis. When dawn breaks over the horizon, it carries a message on the wind: a whisper sparked by those witness to circumstance, kindling fast, taking shape in the minds and mouths of many. Interpretations multiply, meanings diverge, yet one truth rises above all—
The heir, it proclaims, the heir is on its way.