Chapter Text
He doesn’t think he’s going to last this cycle.
He can barely move, and he can’t… think.
There is something driving him (Cyrene. He made a promise to Cyrene. He made a promise to save the world—) and he refuses to forget that. Refuses to forget, cannot forget, the fire burning him up from the inside (two hundred forty six million, seven hundred sixty seven thousand, and fifty two fires. He has never lost count, cannot lose count). And so he will move. He will step through the lands of Amphoreus, following the Chrysos Heirs until they have collected what he needs. And then he will take it, for there is no evidence in this cycle of their true Deliverer, and show the young, so young, version of himself what will happen and begin anew.
But he can barely move.
He is not going to last this cycle. A thousand cycles ago he had to drape himself in an old cloak taken from the ruins of Aidonia to hide the worst of the damage he has done to himself. A hundred cycles ago he shattered Dawnmaker, and has not had the capability to forge it anew. Fifty cycles ago he picked up a set of armor from the ruins of Castrum Kremnos to hide the state of his face. Forty nine cycles ago he gave up convincing Aglaea and Cerydra and Tribios on who he was under the armor and cloak and fell back to the only plan he had left, the one he knew would always work.
Last cycle, the Lance of Fury almost tore his body into pieces before he could take the final coreflame.
And so now he is here, following the young version of himself. They are close to the end, just before the mission to Styxia and a few months before the final advance on Aquila that heralds the death of light, of hope, of everything. But he is not going to last this cycle.
Not unless he tells this Phainon, this Khaslana, everything.
The young Phainon laughs, his snickers bouncing off the walls of Castrum Kremnos as the Crown Prince glares at him. He, he who holds the flames of fury in his breast, aches. He remembers those times that he got to walk with Mydeimos, holds them close to his chest but not so close they’ll burn. These two are as close as any versions of them can be, which is why Aglaea didn’t stop Phainon from sneaking out of Okhema to visit when they received word of the floating city moving closer in its elliptical orbit around the safe center of Amphoreus.
He listens as Mydei snaps back at Phainon, and Phainon only laughs harder. He watches as Mydei’s stance softens, seemingly completely involuntarily, and as he steps into Phainon’s space. The scant centimeter Phainon has on their beloved crown prince is obvious here in the way Mydei glares just a little upward, in the way Phainon tilts his face down, still grinning like a loon, in the way Mydei leans forward and takes what he wants, what is freely given.
His heart aches. He needs to act, and soon, but he will give them tonight.
Phainon doesn’t exactly remember when Mydei convinced him to stumble out of his broken throne room and into a nearby bedroom, but he’s not complaining. Somehow his picnic basket has followed them, which means he doesn’t even need to leave to grab the food he brought. Mydei rolls his eyes, but doesn’t object as Phainon plucks a grape off the cluster and holds it to his open mouth. He chews slowly, lazily, still basking in the comforting ache of using his body for pleasure rather than a fight. Phainon traces gentle fingers across his cheekbone, then proffers another grape. “Really?” Mydei asks (although he does take it).
“I haven’t gotten to pamper you in months,” Phainon pouts.
Mydei sighs and rolls over slightly. Phainon is suddenly aware they’re both still naked, and Mydei has put himself on full display. So it’s not his fault his eyes drift downward. “Did you come just to be lecherous?”
Phainon startles, heat rising in his face. “No!” Then he sees Mydei’s teasing grin and pouts again.
Mydei reaches out and plucks another grape from the cluster. Phainon almost doesn’t take it, distracted by the small, fond smile on Mydei’s face. “I missed you too. The night out here is… long and endless.”
Phainon would roll closer, were Mydei not already practically nose to nose with him. Instead he shifts to tangle their legs together, desperate for whatever more contact he can get, and kisses him on the bridge of his nose. Mydei blinks at him. “All you have to do is call me, and I will come help. Even if Aglaea doesn’t want me to.”
Mydei narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare, Deliverer. I won’t deny it is good to see you, but you have your duties and I have mine.”
“There is nothing that would keep me from you, if you needed me.”
Mydei sighs. He reaches out with gentle fingers and traces them against the tattoo on Phainon’s neck. “I know. And that is why I will not ask.” They stare at each other for a long, long minute. Phainon knows, deep in his heart, that Mydei is right. There is nothing out here that Mydei cannot handle, right down to the Flame Reaver. He knows that his own duties lie elsewhere. (He knows that he will be the only one to see the new dawn.) He sighs and leans forward, tucking his face into Mydei’s collarbone. “Still. If—if you should ever need me, all you must do is call.”
Mydei’s fingers trace from his neck to his hair, tracing gentle circles into his scalp. “All I need is the knowledge that you and our people are safe. But come, for I will not taint tonight’s respite in the tide with further strife. Let us indulge, for once, since the Seamstress hasn’t seen fit to call you back yet.”
Phainon snorts. “And how would you like to indulge? Shall I feed you more grapes?”
Mydei rolls him over on his back. There’s a hungry smile on his face, but Phainon doesn’t think it’s for grapes.
Mydei blinks. For a moment he’s confused, wondering why he’s woken. The Black Tide still is sluggish, not yet at the point he must send Phainon back to Okhema for his safety. Indeed, Phainon is asleep beneath him, chest dusted in faint bruises and a smile sneaking into the corners of his lips. But there’s something… something. Something nearby. Something in his city.
Across the room, both their teleslates vibrate.
The thing in his city drips with… desperation.
Mydei pushes himself up, reaching for his teleslate before he realizes Phainon’s still inside him and jolts to a stop with a bitten back noise. Phainon, ever the light sleeper, stirs. “De?”
“Something’s wrong.” He reaches for his teleslate again, but only manages to knock it off the table. Growling under his breath, he finally lifts himself off Phainon, who lets out a sleepy, overstimulated noise (Mydei has to bite back his own. He enjoys falling asleep with Phainon still in him, but normally by the time they wake up Phainon’s slipped out in the night. Right now all he feels is incredibly oversensitive). He squats and reaches for his teleslate, and at the same time reaches out toward the bits of his divinity that drive the Titankin of Strife. Someone will be able to tell him what’s in his city.
Phainon blinks sleepily at him, then wakes as Mydei finally gets his fingers on his teleslate. “Wrong?”
“Something’s here. My Titankin can’t find it, but I can see traces of it. Did you see anything on your way here?”
Phainon frowns, shaking his head. “I wasn’t watching too intently, especially when I got up here, but I don’t remember anything. Maybe my little honor guard picked something up I didn’t? Oh, but you’d know before me in that case.”
Mydei unlocks his teleslate to a blinking message from Aglaea. Mydeimos, Phainon, our scouts have picked up the Flame Reaver in the vicinity of Castrum Kremnos. I know you two can handle much, but I am sending Castorice with Krateros and a contingent of Kremnoan soldiers.
“Fuck,” Mydei mutters.
Phainon raises an eyebrow. “Oyphu?” he sounds out, “Haven’t heard you use that one before.”
I can sense him here, Mydei sends back. Don’t let them come close. I’ll protect Phainon.
“Mydei?”
Mydei takes a deep breath. Clothes. They need to put their armor back on. Damn it all to Thanatos, the one time he lets himself indulge… “Put your armor back on.”
Phainon, to his credit, stands and immediately goes hunting for where in the room they dropped his pants. “You still haven’t said what’s wrong.” Mydei stays silent, too busy sliding into his own pants and beginning to buckle his armor back on. “Mydei.” Mydei finishes the buckle on his right greave and moves up to ensure the perimeridia is fastened correctly. “Mydei!”
“Deliverer,” he growls, “put your armor on.”
Phainon huffs and steps in front of him. “Mydeimos,” he starts, then stops, halfway through shrugging into his coat. Mydei looks away. “You’re scared…” Phainon breathes.
Yes. Mydei is terrified. They barely beat the Reaver last time they faced him, and now he’s here, and the most important person in Mydei’s life is staring at him, half clothed and so, so vulnerable when compared to himself. “Phainon…”
“It’s the Reaver, isn’t it.”
Mydei nods.
Phainon finishes shrugging into his jacket and grabs his pauldrons with a determined look. He takes his teleslate when Mydei hands it to him, skimming through the message exchange. “Okay. What’s the plan?”
“The plan?”
“Surely you don’t expect me to just turn tail and run.” Mydei’s silence is telling enough that that was the plan, as Phainon slaps the last buckle into place and turns back toward him with a frustrated look. “Mydeimos.”
“You almost died last time! Trianne and Professor Anaxa did!”
A pained look flits across Phainon’s face. “All the more reason we should take him down.”
“I’m not risking you.”
“My—“
“Only one of us is immortal, Phainon!” Mydei punctuates his statement with a frustrated hammer fist on the stone wall. “Why are you so insistent on staying!”
“He almost stabbed you in the vertebra!” Phainon yells back.
Mydei stares at him. Phainon looks down at his shoes. “I don’t… remember that.”
“You were busy dealing with those ghostly copies,” Phainon mutters. “One of them had knocked you back and injured you pretty badly. It took your regeneration a bit to catch up. The real one was behind you. And he… I couldn’t confirm where he was aiming. But I knew. And I—I think he did too.”
“…I told you that in the Vortex of Genesis. No one else was there. I only told Aglaea what the prophecy said, not the exact spot. No one else should know.”
Phainon looks up helplessly. “I don’t know, Mydei. I don’t know how he knew. But my sword was the only thing between you and a permanent death. I don’t—I don’t want to—Mydei—“ his voice breaks. Mydei steps forward, pulling him into a gentle hug. Phainon goes willingly, curling into his neck. “I’ve lost so many people,” he croaks, “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”
“You won’t. I promise. Now that I know he knows, I can mitigate the risk.”
Phainon sniffs. “You’re still going to make me leave?”
“Needing to protect you will make it harder to protect myself.”
“Oh please,” Phainon huffs. “You of all people, oh Lance of Fury, know what I am capable of.”
“Deliverer, I can’t—“ Mydei cuts himself off at a tingle up his spine. A Titankin near his throne spots a flash of a dark cloak. He loses connection to another. “No time. Come on, we’ll meet Krateros at the gates and get you back to Okhema.” Going through the throne room is the easiest, but maybe not the best idea considering where that Titankin just was. The soul forging zone will take them to one of the lowest points in the city, but it’s far too easy to get cornered… through the arena? Yeah, that’ll work.
Phainon flinches as a thunderbolt breaks the silence of the ruined city. “Titans, warn me before you start spouting off bolts.”
“Sorry, had to tell Krateros where to meet us.”
He opens the door, looking both ways even though he’s pretty sure he knows the general direction the Flame Reaver is from here. He gestures Phainon after him and sets a pace that isn’t quite running. Phainon falls into step next to him, Dawnmaker in hand, and Phainon’s usual honor guard of Titankin fall in right behind them. Phainon glances back at them. “Achilles, Patroclus, can you sense the Reaver?”
“We are not as connected to our kin as His Majesty,” Achilles rumbles.
“Oh. Good point. Mydei?”
Mydei snorts, vaguely amused that Phainon managed to forget that his ‘honor guard’ follow him around outside Okhema because they’re Mydei’s Titankin. “Last I got a sense of him he was nearing the throne room.”
Phainon frowns. “That’s fairly close. Maybe—“
Mydei grabs Phainon and throws them down a cross corridor. Patroclus is mid turn already, bow raised and firing. Achilles swings their greatsword up, blocking the damaged sword of the ghostly copy from hitting Patroclus. “Move!” Mydei barks. He slams a fist backward behind him and red crystals of blood sprout between them and the Flame Reaver. He knows it won’t hold for long, but every second the Flame Reaver has to take is one more they have to get out of Castrum Kremnos. Achilles grabs Patroclus just as Mydei grabs Phainon, and they run. He turns them through a smaller side corridor, harder to maneuver in but easier to spot their pursuer. The thwack of an arrow hitting stone echoes behind them. Phainon pulls from his grasp to turn, bringing Dawnmaker up, but Mydei’s already seen the problem. He dives to the ground and the ghostly copy of the Reaver swings through where his back just was. Dawnmaker slices it in half; Mydei’s fist meets the copy trying to hit Phainon’s ankles. He pushes to his feet and punches back toward where they came once, twice, three times, building a wall. “Deliverer!”
“Right!” Phainon starts moving, following Patroclus while Mydei and Achilles stay just behind him. Patroclus follows the route Mydei would take, given they’re part of him. It’s as straightforward as they can make it, aiming for the ruins of the grand arena and the pathway down beyond it. Mydei builds crystal walls behind them every opportunity he can, filling every cross corridor at every junction to slow the Reaver down just a little bit more. Another copy makes it through; Achilles turns and rams their greatsword through its chest. Mydei builds another wall, watching through the eyes of his Titankin as he loses another, and another, closer and closer to the arena but they’re almost there, he can get Phainon out of here and they burst into the arena—
The Flame Reaver is already there.
Phainon skids to a stop. Mydei steps in front of him, arms raised, crystals of blood coalescing in his hands. Achilles and Patroclus raise their weapons. Titankin from all over the city begin to converge, and even those far beyond turn their attention toward their king. Above them, slowly, ponderously, the Blade of Fury moves. “Flame Reaver!” Mydei growls, “You know how this ends. Leave, lest you feel the wrath of Strife.”
The Flame Reaver stays silent, but also doesn’t move. All he does is, seemingly, stare. Phainon adjusts his stance, settling in, Dawnmaker held in both hands before him. “Guess we don’t have much of a choice now, huh.” Mydei nods, battle plans flickering through his head, messages to Krateros forming to write into thunderbolts, his Titankin shifting in anticipation of a good fight. He meets Phainon’s eyes. Phainon nods, shifting his weight—
“Khas…la…na…”
Phainon freezes. Mydei hears the hitch in his breath, the stumble in his step. He turns, just slightly, enough to keep both the Flame Reaver and Phainon in his sight. “How?” Phainon whispers.
“Deliverer?”
“How?” Phainon repeats, louder this time, “How do you know that name?” Mydei blinks at the sudden horror on Phainon’s face. It twists into rage as his stance lowers. “How do you know that name?!”
“Khaslana. Listen… to me.”
“No! Have you not taken enough from me, Executioner? I will not let you tarnish the memories of the past more than you already have.”
Mydei doesn't know what’s going on, but he does know that shift of Phainon’s weight. He slams a fist upward and blood crystals engulf the Reaver from below. Phainon charges with a roar that Mydei has never heard from him. And Mydei can do naught but follow.
The Reaver breaks free with a loud crash of shattered crystals. Phainon is already on him, swinging Dawnmaker down in a powerful slash that the Reaver barely blocks. Mydei is on his other side, punching forward. The Reaver steps backward, and then there are ghosts screaming down from the heavens for them. Archers, Mydei barely has to think, before his legion is firing from crumbled rooftops. Half the ghosts disappear into whisps. Phainon yells, sweeping his sword through three of them at once. Mydei knocks back two more with powerful punches. He’s ended up back to back with Phainon as more and more ghosts surround them. Achilles steps forward, and with them comes more of Mydei’s legion. Mydei can’t help the grin on his face.
This is a fight.
Phainon grunts behind him and a fleck of golden blood flies through Mydei’s vision. He still has the energy to yell, though, so Mydei’s not too worried about him. In fact, he seems to be advancing. Mydei punches another clone, yet misstimes his sidestep and gets a slash of that crescent moon blade across his chest. He sucks in a breath, punches another ghost. The wound is nothing. He backhands another, then brings up a wall of crystal to give himself a moment to turn and check on his compatriot.
The real Flame Reaver is hovering just out of Phainon’s reach, drifting backward with every step Phainon takes toward him. Phainon is growling under his breath, hacking through ghosts with precision. Patroclus is by his side, shooting down ghosts that try to reach him from above. But there’s something… off. Something about the Reaver’s tactics that doesn’t quite make sense. Well, he can either wait and see what the Reaver is scheming, or deal with it directly.
“Deliverer! Clear me a path!”
Phainon jerks his head in a semblance of a nod. Mydei kicks another ghost, then looks up at the Blade of Fury. No, not yet, not with Phainon so close to his target. What he needs to do right now is keep the Flame Reaver in place. Behind him, the crystal wall shatters, but Achilles and a warrior-type are in the way of the advancing ghosts. He has the time to concentrate. Not that he truly needs to. He is Strife, feeding off the flames of war around him, on the echoes of his people that still haunt Castrum Kremnos, on the thousands upon thousands of lives he has sacrificed for this world. “Heroic souls of strife, heed my call!” A bright blinding light fills the arena, just as it did in Kremnos Festivals of ages past. Mydei is barely aware of his power manifesting behind him, the wings of blades reaching toward the heavens as he holds out his hand for his eponymous lance.
He is not facing the Flame Reaver. The Flame Reaver is facing him.
Phainon, wisely, moves as hundreds of arrows rain upon the Flame Reaver and his ghosts. Crystals sprout from the ground and fall from the sky. Mydei moves. The Flame Reaver ducks, but can’t dodge the full might of the Lance of Fury. It spears through his shoulder, drawing the first sound of pain Mydei has heard from the creature. He swings again, punching crystals upward, but this time the Flame Reaver is ready for him, blocking his lance with its broken sword. He lashes out with the sickle-blade, but Mydei catches it on a gauntlet. Crystals shoot upward, trapping one of the Flame Reaver’s feet. Mydei lunges, twisting with a roar. His lance spears through the Reaver’s other leg, pinning him. With one last look to make sure Phainon is out of the way, Mydei leaps backward.
The Blade of Fury fires downward into the grand arena of Castrum Kremnos.
Mydei is no stranger to the might of the Blade of Fury. He has used it himself, blocked its attacks as Nikador wielded its blade, even been almost immolated by it during his endless fight with the mad god. But he doesn’t remember it being this hot. It’s like everything around him is on fire, burning a blinding gold-white that drowns out the Dawn Device in the distance. Achilles grabs Phainon and shields him from the heat behind their bulk. Mydei stares into it, unwilling to yield until he sees the Flame Reaver’s ashes settle to the ground.
As the light dissipates, Mydei strains to look, using his Titankin as well as his own senses, looking for proof—
A sharp pain slices through his chest. He chokes on blood. “Mydei!” Phainon screams. Something slides out of his back, followed by something wet and visceral. His spine, cut, can no longer hold him upright. He collapses in a heap, blood welling in his lungs that he can’t cough out. Phainon’s shouting, somewhere, but Mydei’s senses are slipping fast.
Mydei drowns in his own blood.
He is far too familiar with drowning. The River of Souls surrounds him, wailing figures wishing desperately for release. It is cold, lifeless, and sucking. The realm of the dead wants him desperately to stay. Mydei pushes himself to the surface and gasps for breath, even though he is not corporeal at the moment. “Damnit!” he roars once he has a semblance of breath back. He knows why he’s here, remembers the awful feeling of something sliding out of his back and taking chunks of organs with it, the blood choking his lungs like nine years of deathly water.
Mydei drags himself toward the shore. His fist slams into the sand with another roar of frustration. How could he be so stupid? How did the Flame Reaver dodge that? Between his Titankin and himself and Phainon he should have had some idea of what was happening, but— hang on. He is not trapped in the River of Souls. He is not a wailing, lifeless spirit. He’s not… dead. Well, not permanently.
What?
Given everything Phainon had told him, it is highly likely that the Flame Reaver knew exactly where to strike to make him not a problem anymore. So why didn’t he? Why is Mydei here, able to pull himself out of Thanatos’s embrace? Did he just miss? Was it on purpose? And if so why?
Something else clicks as he looks down at his gauntlets. The Flame Reaver had defended itself from Phainon, but never truly attacked him. Never tried to kill him. If the Flame Reaver, as it seems, is so set on stopping the Era Nova, then why not try and kill the prophesied Deliverer? Why not try and kill Phainon?
Khaslana. Listen to me.
How do you know that name?
“Khaslana,” Mydei whispers to himself, picturing sapphire eyes and snowy white hair. Chaos, he thinks, if he translates it to Kremnoan. It must be Phainon’s name, or was long ago, before tragedy and the Flame Reaver stole everything from him. A reminder of a past that hurt, too much to stay under its name. The Flame Reaver had wanted Phainon to listen to him. Listen to what? What would he want his mortal enemy to know?
He has to get back there. He has to get back now. He knows a wound like that will take him a while to regenerate, but he just needs to be mobile, even semi-functional, to get back to Phainon and protect him from whatever the Flame Reaver has planned.
Castorice hurriedly picks her way down the half-destroyed road. Castrum Kremnos isn’t that big, but the destruction it has been through creates obstacles for their advance. Mydei would probably like to fix them, but every obstacle for them is also an obstacle for the Black Tide. She turns slightly, keeping an eye on her companions. Krateros, the closest, is looking up at the sky. The others are behind them to various points. Some of them, she notes, keep getting distracted by the ruins of the city. She can’t blame them. A single Titankin of Strife, a troupe type, shadows Krateros. The Titankin had met them at the gates, but has been content to follow Krateros since.
Krateros notices her looking back and angles toward her. “Are you doing alright?”
“Of course, Lord Krateros. I may not be as strong as Lord Mydeimos or Lord Phainon, but I am perfectly capable of keeping up with them when I need to.”
Krateros smiles. “I assume that’s why the Goldweaver requested you accompany us. The stories Lord Phainon tells the children about your fights with the Flame Reaver leave much out, but I’m certain there are few who could match his prowess.”
Castorice furrows her brow, looking back up at the Blade of Fury. They had just managed to get onto the floating city when it fired down at something in its own city. When Mydei fired it at something. And it can only be one thing. They haven’t seen or heard anything since. “Indeed. I have a feeling that, were Lord Phainon not already here, she would simply have sent a warning to Lord Mydeimos, rather than sending any more troops.”
“Bah, what you need against the Flame Reaver is more troops. He can’t kill all of us.”
Castorice frowns. “I apologize if this sounds offensive, but what do your troops provide that the Titankin of Strife do not in this situation? They are more numerous than the Kremnoans, and Lord Mydei has a direct command to them. And, they will not be lives lost in the same way one of yours would be.”
Krateros’s eyes narrow. “I will forgive the slight, seeing as you do not know what that sounds like in Kremnoan. Our people would gladly give their lives to protect our home and our Prince. The Flame Reaver puts all of us at risk.”
Castorice frowns. “Still… I have seen much in my time, Lord Krateros. The Flame Reaver is beyond anything I have known.”
“Perhaps—“
The ground shakes.
Castorice stumbles, wide eyes meeting Krateros’s for a moment before a blinding light bursts and she is forced to close her eyes. A deafening crash follows, like a million glass goblets shattering to the ground. And then… nothing.
She half expects to see the city falling out of the sky when she opens her eyes. But all is as it was beforehand, minus her and her companions splayed out on the ground. Castorice levers herself up and looks around. “What…”
“I don’t know,” Krateros grumbles. “That must have been His Majesty somehow, but I don’t think that was the Blade of Fury.”
Castorice opens her mouth to respond, but stops when she sees the Titankin picking itself off the ground. Something about it seems smoother, more present. It looks at them with its eyeless face. “His Majesty requires your help.” Castorice and Krateros look at each other, then start running.
Mydei gasps awake, hacking the last of the blood out of his lungs. He manages to roll over and starts trying to take stock of what’s happening, but is quickly distracted by the tableau before him. Phainon and the Flame Reaver are in the center of the arena. The Flame Reaver is kneeling, his broken sword on the ground out of his reach and cape torn off. He’s facing away, but Mydei can see the back of his head crumbling like stone. But even that isn’t what has Mydei’s attention.
Phainon has the Flame Reaver’s crescent blade in his left hand. He’s bloody and battered and his face is twisted in anguish and Mydei swears he’s crying. And as he watches Phainon thrusts that blade forward, into the Flame Reaver’s chest.
The world explodes in light and sound, a cacophony Mydei has never experienced before. There’s glass shattering, the heat of a million fires, golden light so blinding Mydei has to close his eyes lest they burn off. He instinctively curls into a ball, a nearby Titankin (Achilles?) moving to shield him. For a moment he swears one of his Titankin sees two wings within the glowing light and Kephale’s symbol burning brighter than even the glare.
And then, just as abruptly, it’s gone.
“Phainon!” Mydei yells mid-uncurling. There’s a white lump just visible from his spot on the ground. Mydei scrambles to his feet, dashing for Phainon. His breath catches in his throat. Phainon is sprawled on his side, but it doesn’t hide the blood seeping from the gaping wound in his chest. It’s deep, deep enough it must’ve hindered Phainon’s ability to wield a sword. There’s more blood streaming from a cut on his brow, staining his hair golden, and various smaller places including one right through his sun tattoo that looks like it came very close to cutting open an artery. His jacket is in tatters, and his shirt is mostly ripped from his body, and somehow through all this he’s still clutching the Flame Reaver’s crescent blade.
Mydei drops to his knees next to Phainon and tears his half-destroyed chiton off. That gash needs to be covered, he needs to get Phainon help—touching Phainon feels like touching the sun. He recoils on instinct. “What the hell?” He forces his hands back on Phainon’s chest. Phainon needs pressure on that wound. His Titankin contract into a protective phalanx around them while Mydei tries desperately to stem the blood flow.
When he pulls a hand away to tear more of his chiton, his palm is burned.
Mydei jolts as an eerily familiar cry echoes through Castrum Kremnos. One of the great lions of the Black Tide stalks through the gates on the other side of the city, and Mydei can see the crest of a wave just behind it. If he doesn’t stop it, that wave is going to roll on toward Okhema. But he can’t leave Phainon. Where’s Krateros? Right on cue, the titankin part on one side with precision granted by his divinity. Krateros and Castorice run through, stopping with wide eyes. “Lord Phainon!”
Krateros steps forward and doesn’t even get to touching Phainon before he’s pulling back. “By Nikador. What happened?”
“He killed the Reaver,” Mydei answers. “But he—“ Mydei huffs, looking down at his burned hand. “I don’t know what that heat is. I think it’s lowering, but at the rate it’s going he’s going to die of blood loss before anyone other than me can touch him. The problem is he needs help that I can’t give, and the Black Tide is rushing into the city. The Flame Reaver must’ve been holding it back.”
Castorice pulls her teleslate from a pocket and starts tapping buttons. Krateros takes over Mydei’s attempt at ripping more makeshift bandage. Mydei leans his weight back on Phainon’s chest. “I can barely get signal here,” Castorice frowns. “I managed to text Lady Aglaea, but a call to Miss Hyacine is not going to go through.”
“We need to get him back to Okhema.”
“I agree.” Castorice puts her teleslate away and looks down at Phainon. Mydei can feel her radiating worry. “Lord Mydei. You need to take him. Miss Hyacine won’t be able to help if she can’t touch him. But you can.”
Mydei hesitates. He looks down at Phainon, the sallow paleness of his skin, the gold staining his face, the too-fast pulse under his hands and the shaky breathing. Amphoreus is nothing without their Deliverer. But their Deliverer is nothing without Amphoreus’s people. “The Black Tide—“
Krateros snorts. “Do you forget what we fought for so long, Your Majesty? We can handle the creatures of filth for as long as it takes for you to bring His Highness back to Okhema.”
Mydei is a little sidetracked trying to figure out why Krateros is saying he should bring himself back to Okhema, before he realizes that His Highness, in this context, is Phainon. The instinctive ‘he’s not my consort’ doesn’t come out because, well… he is. Krateros, who has fought Mydei on every decision he’s made for Kremnos since he refused his father’s crown, is affording Phainon the respect he’s due as Prince Consort. And that alone tells him that Krateros is deadly serious. He and the Kremnoan Detachment beyond the circle of Titankin will fight to their last breath to keep the Black Tide from encroaching any further.
“I shall stay as well, Lord Mydei.” Castorice pulls her scythe out with a determined look. “The Black Tide will not get past us.”
“…Alright. My Titankin will be here, but if I am not paying attention they will not have as much coordination. If you need to give them orders, Pallas will be your mouthpiece.” He nods toward the troupe-type that has stopped just outside of the circle with the rest of the Kremnoan contingent.
Krateros eyes the Titankin with the gaze of a general. “They have names?”
“They always have. Castorice, can you tell Aglaea and Hyacine to meet us at the gates?”
Castorice nods and pulls her teleslate out again. Mydei ties one last bandage around Phainon’s head; the red is instantly stained with gold. Then he shifts, kneeling so he can slide one arm under Phainon’s neck, the other under his legs. Phainon is still burning; Mydei is vaguely glad the back of his jacket is providing at least a little insulation, or Hyacine might end up having to cut Phainon off him. Mydei stands; Phainon makes a small, pained noise as he’s moved. Mydei has to pause for a moment and hold him close, whispering “You’ll be okay, my dawn.” Phainon settles. Krateros eyes Mydei with a knowing, paternal look Mydei hates being on the receiving end of. He steadfastly ignores it.
“They are on their way to the gates,” Castorice reports. “And they’ve been telling people to expect a very loud noise.” Mydei bites back a sigh. Aglaea knows him too well. Either that, or someone has noticed the Blade of Fury rotating toward Okhema. “Be safe.”
“I should be saying that to you. Fight well. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Mydei closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The destructive power of Strife courses through his veins, surging with heat and fury and he is the Blade of Fury, gripping his cargo tightly as he takes a single step. The ground beneath him cracks with the force of his landing, the blast radiating heat and noise and fury outward.
“Dramatic as always, Mydeimos.”
Mydei rises from his crouch. Aglaea walks down the last of the ramp, Hyacine and Tribbie and Trinnon at her heels. Aglaea’s lips purse as she senses Phainon’s shallow, wheezing breath. Tribbie’s hands rise to her mouth as she sees the amount of blood. “Oh, Snowy…”
“Hyacine.”
Hyacine nods, determined. “Come, we can go to the new Twilight Courtyard. It’s closer than the Garden.”
Mydei marches forward, pace quick. Hyacine has to practically run to keep up with him, while Tribbie flies ahead, yelling at people to get out of the way. Aglaea and Trinnon trail behind, offering reassurances and promises for an explanation in a few quints to the people of Marmoreal Market. Mydei hears the cries of concern at the state of their Deliverer, the fear and panic and concern ripping through the Market like a storm. He pays it no mind, apart from the fact that it helps Tribbie clear a path. Soon enough Tribbie is pushing open the door to the Twilight Courtyard’s complex. Mydei marches in, placing Phainon on the bed one of Hyacine’s assistants directs him to. Hyacine reaches for one of the bandages around Phainon’s chest, but hisses and draws her hand back. “By Aquila.”
“I don’t know what’s causing it,” Mydei answers the unspoken question. “It’s going down, but I’m probably the only one that can touch him right now.”
Hyacine glances at his blackened, blistering arms. “Mydei—“
“I’ll heal quickly. You won’t. Tell me what I need to do.”
Hyacine looks at him for a moment, then down at Phainon. “Okay.”
The next forever bleeds into itself. Mydei doesn’t know how long he’s there, following Hyacine’s instructions on making sure Phainon’s lung hasn’t collapsed, stitching him up, cleaning his wounds and noting fractured bones. Mydei hadn’t even noticed the swelling in Phainon’s foot until he tried to get Phainon’s boots off near the end. Hyacine passes him ointments which melt into uselessness as soon as he tries to apply them to the wounds. “At least it’s probably impossible for him to get infected with anything,” Hyacine mutters. By the time Hyacine pronounces there’s not much else they can do for him, Phainon’s temperature has significantly lowered. Hyacine touches his forehead to try and use her magic and still comes away burned. It’s not blackened like Mydei’s hands, though, or the wooden bed they had to swap out for a stone table partway through. “Well,” she sighs, sitting back, “I think he’ll be okay. I’m concerned about the amount of blood he lost, but I can’t help with that until I can make skin contact for some length of time.”
They stare at Phainon in exhausted silence. Aglaea steps back into the room and leans against the door. She looks similarly exhausted. Tribbie and Trinnon flutter anxiously next to them. “Are you alright, Dei?”
Mydei blinks at them. “I’m fine.”
“You’re covered in blood…”
Mydei finally actually takes stock of himself. His own blood is still caked onto his back, while both his and Phainon’s flakes off his chest. There’s a line of blisters and charring where Phainon had lain against his chest. His hands are blackened and blistering; his arms are healing, slowly for him but faster than anyone else. “It’ll be fine. I must get back to—“
“Mydeimos, you are not leaving here until I wrap your arms. Even you will benefit from burn salve.”
Mydei acquiesces, mostly because he knows if he just lets her do it he’ll be able to get back to Castrum Kremnos faster. (He also, although he’s loath to admit it, is reluctant to leave Phainon.) Hyacine holds him gently, dabbing green paste onto charred flesh. “Mydeimos,” Aglaea starts, slowly, like she has to drag the question out of her exhausted mind, “are you sure you don’t know what happened to cause that heat?”
“It must’ve had to do with the Flame Reaver. Nothing else makes sense. Some form of… parting gift.”
“Do you know how he did it?”
“With the Flame Reaver’s own blade.” He pauses. How much should he tell her? How much should he tell her here? “Aglaea. There was something… I don’t think the Flame Reaver tried, at any point, to kill Phainon. At the end, right before that explosion… it almost seemed like the Flame Reaver offered himself up. Like he wanted to die, but it had to be Phainon to kill him.”
Aglaea frowns, sightless gaze drifting in the direction she knows Phainon is in. “Strange. Perhaps of no matter, since he is gone, but…”
“Done.” Hyacine ties the last bandage on his left hand. “I’d tell you not to put your gauntlets back on yet, but you’re not going to listen to me.”
“Thank you, Hyacine. Keep me informed.”
“We will!”
Mydei has the decency not to strap his gauntlets back on until he steps out of the Twilight Courtyard. He shakes his hands out, testing their feel. Good enough. And so he takes a deep breath, and lands in the middle of his city, one more crater in the arena. Castorice is off to his left, slashing through two gangly black masses. Krateros is to his right, stabbing a shape with a sword. Mydei feels his Titankin perk up, reform their lines with precision, both those in the city and not. Achilles and Patroclus are back at the gates of Okhema. His scouts in a circle around the Holy City report on incursions, his commanders trickle in casualty reports and enemy numbers. Pallas drifts from Krateros’s side to him, and Mydei knows the situation within Castrum Kremnos immediately: despite their best efforts, Castorice and his people have not managed to hold the Black Tide. It rushes through the city in spurts just as it does all around the circle of safety he’s been keeping open.
Very well. His turn then. He is fear, he is anger, he is hatred, he is fury. He is Strife. And he is not going to let the Black Tide any closer to his family than it already is.