Chapter Text
"The Crown Prince wishes for you to attend the deipnon," Hephaestion says cheerfully.
Phainon stares, trying to stay still as the Kremnoan healers move around him. One dabs at an open cut on his chest with a towel moistened with something distinctly medicinal. The sting is enough to make him hiss. The healer clicks their tongue, a harsh sound in the large tent, and Phainon stops.
"Sorry—what?" Phainon says. After ten days and ten nights of dueling the lion prince of Castrum Kremnos, he can be forgiven for not being the most verbally astute, can't he?
Hephaestion smiles. He has a pretty smile, with a dimple in his left cheek that makes Phainon shuffle his feet. "Since you insisted on leaving for Okhema at first light tomorrow, Mydei wants you to attend the deipnon tonight." Hephaestion lifts a parcel wrapped in cloth. "I've prepared some evening wear for you, if you require it."
Aglaea's curated ensemble, custom-made for him and hence one of its kind, was a ripped, bloodied heap after ten days of nonstop fighting. Perdikkas had whistled sympathetically before cutting the rest away with his scalpel, leaving it a sad pile on the floor. It was subsequently removed and discarded during Phainon's bath by a stealthy aide. There is no hope of retrieving it, let alone restoring it.
Perdikkas himself looks up from his poultices to squint at Hephaestion. His eyebrows jump at the parcel in his hands. "Evening wear, eh?" Perdikkas drawls, his warm, low voice a balm to Phainon's rising nerves.
"If Lord Phainon wants to use them," Hephaestion says. His eyes twinkle. "Of course, if he doesn't want to, he is welcome to wear what he brought."
"I do," Phainon says quickly. "I mean, I don't have anything else. I can't show up like this, right?" He gestures to himself with a weak laugh. With the exception of a very strategically placed loincloth, and his leather choker, he is exposed for all and sundry while the healers go about their work.
Hephaestion's smile twitches at the edge. Perdikkas chuckles, but there's a rough edge to it. Neither of them look away from Phainon's face.
"No," says Hephaestion, smooth as marble. "You cannot, unless you want to raise quite a furor."
Phainon thought Kremnoans had less reservations about showing their bodies, but he supposes there is room for exceptions. He is more naked than when he goes to Marmoreal Palace for a bath, only because there had been no going around the healers' orders.
Kremnoan etiquette for a deipnon, on the other hand, probably leaves no room for an Okheman of all people walking around with only a loincloth on for modesty. If it can even be called that.
"No," Phainon agrees. "That's the last thing I want." The opposite, actually. When Aglaea had sent him out to treat with the detachment, her exact words were, "We are aiming to make friends, Phainon, not start a war."
The fact that he's still alive and standing should be proof enough that the Kremnoans are willing to discuss terms with Okhema, isn't it? He will have to write Aglaea a missive as soon as the deipnon is concluded.
"There is no need to be worried," Hephaestion says, soothing. He must have seen trepidation cross Phainon's face. "We witnessed your valor on the battlefield. Standing your ground against our prince for ten days is no small feat. Tonight, we will celebrate."
Perdikkas dismisses the other healers with a nod and studies their work approvingly. "I'll bind the worst of your wounds so you don't chafe. Try not to move too much tonight, unless you wish to be more sore in the morning."
Phainon winces. Even the shortest hair on his head aches, scrubbed hard during his bath to remove thick layers of blood, sweat, and dirt. "Will I even be able to move tomorrow? I have to ride back to Okhema as soon as I can."
Perdikkas snorts. "If you say so, you'll be able to ride whenever you want."
"Hush," Hephaestion says, smacking Perdikkas in the shoulder. "Pay him no mind, Lord Phainon. When you're ready, I can help dress you."
"Oh, you don't have to," Phainon says, startled. The idea of Hephaestion draping soft cloth around his bare body makes his cheeks warm. "I can do it myself." It shouldn't be too hard if Kremnoan clothing is anything similar to Okheman, right?
Hephaestion studies him for a moment, then shrugs. "Let me know if you need any help later, then. And you," he addresses Perdikkas sternly, "stop smirking and get on with it. The others will be waiting for us."
Perdikkas groans, but he doesn't sound too put-off. "Yes, yes. Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to be helpful?"
"Actually, I'm going to sit," Hephaestion drawls. True to his word, he sinks delicately on a nearby kline and folds his legs under him. "I have strict instructions to personally escort Lord Phainon to the deipnon. Can't have him getting swept up by the rest of the detachment."
Phainon doesn't quite know what he means by that last part. The detachment has been, well, not welcoming, but cordial enough. By the end of the tenth day, when Mydeimos had declared their duel a draw, the crowds had even cheered. Men and women clasped him on the shoulder and pounded his back in congratulations. The children tugged on his hands and chattered in rapid Kremnoan. It had taken the last remaining bit of strength in him to not stagger under their attention.
Even Krateros, the old grizzled commander who didn't move from his post at the edge of the arena for ten days, had given Phainon a sole firm, approving nod.
But Phainon remains a stranger here, with no authority or desire to pose a threat to any. So he stays quiet as Perdikkas says something in Kremnoan to Hephaestion, who tosses his head back and laughs.
"Suit yourself," Perdikkas grumbles. "Arms up, Lord Phainon. I have to make the wrapping snug, but let me know if it gets too tight."
"As you will," Phainon says, knowing better than to question a healer.
Perdikkas employs a steady touch, making quick work of the wounds Mydeimos's gauntlets had left on Phainon's arms and legs. The gash across his broad chest is better than it looks, but Perdikkas still wraps it carefully twice over. When Perdikkas steps closer to fasten the knot, his breath fans over Phainon's skin.
Phainon inhales through his teeth. This close, he realizes Perdikkas' eyes are a darker blue than his own, and his hair falls in silky waves. He's handsome. All of Mydeimos’s inner circle share that quality.
Over Perdikkas' shoulder, Hephaestion meets Phainon's eyes and tilts his head in curiosity. Long strands of hair fall around his face, framing it in a rather pleasing way.
Phainon glances away, willing his face to stop burning. He is here to foster relations between Okhema and Castrum Kremnos, not to ogle the Crown Prince's closest friends and advisors.
“There,” Perdikkas declares, tying off the bandage with a flourish. “If you bleed through during the deipnon, let me know and I shall change it for you.”
“You’ve done more than enough,” Phainon protests as Hephaestion stands and pads over gracefully. "If you could lend me some bandages, I can do it myself.”
“Nonsense, you are our guest.” Perdikkas huffs. “Unless you find my work to be unsatisfactory?”
Phainon sputters. How does he explain that he is long accustomed to bandaging his own wounds? That even Hyacine can only keep him down long enough for her to scold him before he's absconding from the clinic with a grateful wave and supplies in hand?
“Don’t tease the poor man,” Hephaestion scolds, lightly pushing Perdikkas out of the way. “Here, Lord Phainon.” He unfolds the parcel, revealing a stack of folded clothes. "Pick what is most comfortable for you. There will be many bonfires lit tonight, so it may be warmer than what you are used to."
Phainon runs tentative fingers over the clothes. The fabric feels soft and sturdy, not too thick so as to make the wearer sweat, but also not too thin or fine so as to mimic sleepwear. But it is the colors that stand out the most, that make Phainon stop in his tracks: almost every piece boasts rich shades of red and gold, hemmed in midnight-black and shot through with patterns of fire.
Expensive colors and vibrant patterns, requiring expensive dyes that are often difficult to source in the wilds. He can hear Aglaea's voice and Professor Anaxa's lecture in back of his head—such things are more appropriate for nobility, if not royalty.
Mydeimos had worn such designs when they fought, but he wore them well as befitting his station. Someone like Phainon cannot possibly do the same.
"I cannot accept this," he says, pulling his hand back. He gives Hephaestion a beseeching look. "It's much too fine for a soldier. Do you have anything simpler?"
"His Highness picked these pieces out himself," says Hephaestion, sounding amused. "For the first man who could match him on the battlefield. Do you still think yourself a mere soldier?"
Phainon's breath hitches. The Crown Prince selected these for him? Is it out of courtesy after a good fight? The dye alone from a single hem of any of these clothes could purchase a crate of food and medicines. Supplies that the detachment surely needs. He can't imagine Mydeimos would allow a stranger to use something so precious out of mere courtesy.
"Go on, Lord Phainon," Perdikkas says with an encouraging smile, leaning against the table. "If Mydei said you could take your pick of these, then he means it. No need to stand on ceremony."
Trapped between the two Kremnoans, Phainon has no choice but to carefully take the stack of clothes from Hephaestion. There are a variety of options—chitons, chlamyses, exōmidēs, and chiridota with long decorated sleeves. Each is dazzling in its own way, and far too much for Phainon to feel at ease wearing. He's about to beg Hephaestion for a plain chiton when he finds something at the bottom of the stack.
It is similar to a peplos—a long, rectangular cut of cloth that falls to just above his knees when unfolded. The fabric is fluffy and smooth, a telltale sign of cotton make, with a quilted texture that glides over the skin. And it's a beautiful creamy white, with the only color being its red-and-gold hem.
"This one," Phainon breathes, before remembering his manners. "I mean, if that's okay?"
Hephaestion and Perdikkas glance at each other, then Hephaestion turns to Phainon with a growing grin.
"Do you know how to wear it?"
Phainon looks back at the cloth. He's never worn a peplos before. Aglaea had been quite particular with his wardrobe ever since he came to Okhema, though his parents had advised him not to argue with her on that specific matter. This cloth has no sleeves, no necklines, no obvious folds or flaps.
"I think," he says slowly, "I may require your assistance after all, Hephaestion."
Hephaestion bounces over with no small amount of glee. His enthusiasm is curious, but Phainon is more grateful for the help as the man expertly tucks and wraps the fabric around him, pinning it in the side with what Phainon suspects is a fibula.
The garment leaves his collarbones and shoulders bare, but is soft and loose enough to walk around comfortably. The only thing is that—
"It has a slit?" Phainon exclaims. He shuffles, gasping as air brushes over his bare thigh through the opening in the bottom part of the fabric. Then—"two slits?!"
Perdikkas covers his mouth and looks away, shoulders shaking with mirth. Hephaestion presses his lips into a trembling line. His eyes are bright as he takes in Phainon twisting around to double-check that yes, there is a slit on both sides. "A phainomērídes quite suits you, my lord. Have you never worn one before?"
Titans above and below. His knees, his calves, his ankles are on full display. The slits come nearly all the way up the sides of his thighs.
"One good gust of wind, and I'll be the kind of exposed my mother would say only marriage could excuse," Phainon bemoans, instantly clapping a hand over his mouth, but it's too late.
Perdikkas chokes, laughing so hard he has to brace himself on the table. Hephaestion snorts then dissolves into giggles, clinging to the healer for support.
"Don't—don't say things you don't mean," Perdikkas wheezes.
"I… don't?" Phainon frowns when Perdikkas only sinks to the floor in wheezy guffaws. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No, Lord Phainon," Hephaestion says, wiping at his eyes. "You said nothing wrong. Our sense of humor can be quite unusual for an outsider. Forgive us. Perhaps it is the hunger that is making us look so foolish in front of you."
Phainon shakes his head, stupefied. "I don't mind at all. But if you're that hungry, then perhaps we should go to the deipnon?" There's no point in changing now if it makes his hosts wait. He will just have to make do and hope his bottom hem doesn’t catch the wrong draft.
"Yes," Hephaestion agrees, planting a hand on Perdikkas' head to straighten himself up. "Yes, we should. Perdikkas, we will see you there?"
Perdikkas, still gasping for breath on the ground, only nods and waves them off. He managers to utter something in Kremnoan to Hephaestion, who smacks his shoulder with a reply that makes the healer chortle again.
"We won't wait for Perdikkas?" Phainon asks as Hephaestion leads him to the tent entrance.
"He'll need a few minutes to get ready," Hephaestion says, amusement still thick in his voice. "Besides, the others are eager to see you again sooner than later." He pushes aside the pelt covering the entrance and gestures for Phainon to step outside.
Warmth. That is what Phainon first registers, his eyes fluttering at the sensation. Warmth carried in a wave of heat like a billow from a forge. It douses him head to toe, tinged with the rich smokiness of firewood and spices and oils that make his mouth water.
The rhythmic rumble of distant drums makes his eyes fly open. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust, but the sight that becomes clearer makes his breath catch.
Beyond the reach of the Dawn Device, the detachment's camps are lit up with bonfires under the vast, eternal night sky. The glows of the fires throw great shadows against the ground, woven through with the silhouettes of people dancing as they laugh and sing.
What they're singing, Phainon can't make out. The Kremnoan language is harsh in some areas and dulcet in others, a world away from Okheman, and even more so from the cadence of Elysiæn.
But it is beautiful, nonetheless.
Hephaestion leads him toward the central clearing. The detachment spreads out in strategic concentric rings with domestic tents clustered close to the protective middle of the circles. Interspersed throughout are campfires shared by families, radiating heat and the rich aromas of meat and vegetables cooking, though Phainon notices that no one has started eating yet.
The crowds get thicker closer to the central clearing, the pulsing thrum of dancing and singing almost a tangible thing. The Kremnoan people, whom Phainon has thus far seen stoic or battle-focused, greet him with open arms. He is almost pulled into a group of dancers if it isn't for Hephaestion stepping in, his quick words making them groan and reluctantly release Phainon with light-hearted slaps to his tender back.
Hephaestion winces in sympathy, but Phainon shakes his head. It is better for the Kremnoans to welcome him than turn him away. Especially at this critical point in his mission.
One minute of walking, another, then they're in a wider area of the central clearing. Large woven pallets have been unfolded on the ground, piled with cushions and surrounded by low-lying trapezai. Huddles of people have taken to stand beside the pallets, lifting their kylikes with loud greetings as they part for Hephaestion and Phainon. Their trapezai are empty of any platters or bowls, and they seem to be waiting for something.
Hephaestion suddenly stops in his tracks. Phainon nearly bumps into his back.
"Nikador's lance, I knew it," Hephaestion says, almost laughs.
"Knew what?" Phainon says. He follows Hephaestion's gaze.
There, in the middle of the clearing where the largest of the communal cooking pots and roasting spits are arranged, stands Mydeimos.
Only, it is not the Mydeimos that Phainon knows—the indomitable lion-prince who met his blade for ten days and ten nights in the wreckage of an arena; Mydeimos the Undying, shaking off golden blood with a vicious grin that gleamed with teeth; the heir to Kremnos' throne whom Aglaea silently, desperately needs to win over to the Flame-Chase, and the one person Phainon must win over for Okhema.
No, it is Mydeimos in a soft white exomis, its hem worked with shades of red and gold that match Phainon's own attire. Mydeimos with amber firelight dancing on clean, flawless skin and freshly washed hair. A neat braid slides over the breadth of his bare shoulder as he leans over a pot. He lifts a spoon to his lips, and the simple act casts shadows across vivid red tattoos coiling over corded muscles.
His hands are bare, Phainon realizes with a sensation akin to dizziness.
"Honestly," Hephaestion is saying somewhere in his periphery, "I just knew he would insist on doing things himself. Lord Phainon, let's—Lord Phainon? Are you well?"
"Of course," Phainon hears himself say automatically.
Mydeimos pushes the spoon into his mouth. A look of satisfaction, almost indulgence, spreads over his face as his eyes flutter shut. Phainon sucks in a breath through his teeth.
Delicious. He can almost hear that now-familiar rough, low voice.
When Mydeimos's eyes open again, they find Phainon's at once. No searching, no hesitation—as if he had known exactly where Phainon would be.
Slowly, Mydeimos pulls the spoon out. It gleams, wet.
Unfamiliar heat blooms in Phainon's gut. His heart thumps hard against his ribcage. His feet refuse to move. Can't move, except to curl his toes in—in what? Anticipation? What is he anticipating?
No, that is a dangerous question to ask, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.
Hephaestion mutters in Kremnoan and marches toward Mydeimos. As if yanked by an invisible string, Phainon's body kicks into gear and follows, though his thoughts continue to tumble over themselves.
Phainon can feel the Kremnoans watching them as they come to stand before Mydeimos. The dancing and singing slow down, tempering themselves. Sweat breaks out on his neck, his back.
"Mydei," Hephaestion says, then continues in Kremnoan. He sounds exasperated, gesturing around them as if trying to make a point.
Mydeimos crosses his arms as he listens, still holding the spoon. It makes for a slightly amusing sight, the utensil comically small in his large hand. A hushed laugh escapes Phainon despite himself.
Golden eyes flick to him, then slowly widen as they drag down his body, taking in his bare collarbones, lingering on his knees and calves before darting to his feet, laced in borrowed sandals. Not once do they blink.
That unfamiliar heat swells, making Phainon clench his thighs together. When he first intercepted the detachment, he was in full armor, pristine and gilded in Okhema's colors. The Deliverer coming to bear a message from the Goldweaver.
What must Mydeimos be thinking, to see him like this? Unarmored and unadorned, gowned in supple white with slits going up his thighs?
"Is it to your liking?" asks Mydeimos. His voice rolls over Phainon, like sinking into spring water at the height of summer.
Phainon realizes both Mydeimos and Hephaestion are watching him now. Hephaestion stands with hands planted on his hips, lips quirked up in quiet amusement. Mydeimos has fully turned toward him, arms uncrossed.
"What?" Phainon says. Aglaea's voice rings sharp in his mind, scolding his lapse in etiquette. "I mean—pardon me, your highness. Might you repeat that?"
Mydeimos frowns. "That phainomērídes. Is it to your liking? I had other clothes sent."
"Oh." His fingers curl over the bottom hem of the garment, trying to tug it down in a motion he hopes goes unnoticed. "Thank you. The other pieces were lovely, but I prefer this one more. I appreciate the great courtesy."
Mydeimos's frown deepens, though he looks more bewildered than upset. "Why are you speaking like that?"
Phainon blinks. "Like what?"
"Silver-tongued, like an old statesman." Mydeimos scoffs. "I recall no such eloquence in our contest."
Phainon flushes, gripping the hem. Words had been needless in their duel, yet the arena had not been silent: guttural, heavy grunts of exertion, ragged gasps for breath, and the ring of his blade upon Mydeimos's golden gauntlets—together echoing like a hymn of war, each note rising and resounding as song.
"I'd rather you speak plainly," continues Mydeimos, "if we are to make this alliance with Okhema."
Phainon perks up. Any man would when the fruit of his efforts is suddenly dangled within reach. "You're willing to discuss terms?" he asks, unable to hide his eagerness.
Mydeimos and Hephaestion exchange a look weighted with meaning that Phainon can’t parse. But he doesn't feel like an intruder, or a threat, when Hephaestion inclines his head and backs away, giving them some privacy. Not when Mydeimos's stance remains that of a man relaxed, at rest even without his trusted shield-bearer. Strange.
"We are willing, but not tonight," Mydeimos says. He turns to a nearby trapezai and sets the spoon aside for a beautifully sculpted kantharos. He lifts it with both hands, the movement slow and deliberate, and faces Phainon with a quiet intensity that makes Phainon's pulse quicken.
Mydeimos steps close, and the air between them vibrates against Phainon's skin like a private, dangerous current. He raises the kantharos in a toast before tilting his head back to take a deep draught. His throat bobs with each swallow.
Scarlet tattoos on his neck and clavicle shift in a sinuous line. A droplet escapes, leaving a rosy trail down his cheek. Phainon's lips part, his mouth suddenly parched.
The clearing erupts and shakes with exultant cheers, a jarring wave of sound that reminds Phainon they are not alone. This night is not just a celebration, he realizes. It is a ceremony, a rare invitation to glimpse their ways and partake in them himself.
He wavers, torn between the relief of politely looking away and the perilous desire to keep watching. Without Hephaestion to turn to for a hint, he wishes to be aware of some rule, some wisdom to guide him on which choice might earn the Kremnoans' approval and keep their wrath at bay.
Mydeimos spares him the choice. He lowers the vessel and swipes a forearm across his glistening lips. When he lifts the kantharos to Phainon, its contents slosh a dark violet-red. Golden eyes pierce into Phainon and effectively pin him in place.
"Tonight, we will celebrate our fight," says Mydeimos with a distinct tone of satisfaction.
In a burst of daring, Phainon asks, "Is it common to celebrate fights that end in draws?"
To his surprise, Mydeimos smiles, close-lipped but genuine. The sight strikes him with more force than any blow they exchanged before, something inside him shuddering beneath its weight.
"No," says Mydeimos at last. "The last time was nearly twenty years ago, at the last gladiatorial tournament in Castrum Kremnos."
There is a pause. The way Mydeimos speaks, lingering on the words with a faint, rueful cadence, suggests a history that Phainon can only dare to imagine.
"A special occasion, then," says Phainon. He reaches for the kantharos, careful to take it by the stem. His fingers brush against Mydeimos's as the crown prince yields his hold. The touch is light, fleeting, sending a shiver curling down Phainon's spine—a dangerous sensation that must be pushed down with effort.
The kantharos is cool, but Mydeimos's warmth clings to where their fingertips had met. Phainon lifts it to his lips. The tartness of wild pomegranates bursts on his tongue, and he closes his eyes to savor it.
Above the mighty roar of the Kremnoan people, he hears Mydeimos say, "Special indeed."