Chapter Text
Bathing every street and corner with its light, the midday sun cascaded evenly over the city. It fell over the two heroes with their clashing blades—the movements rhythmic and incessant, wholly unpredictable and to the untrained eye far too quick to follow. Crossing the sky high above their heads a black feathered bird spread its wings like an omen.
“C’mon! How come you are so slow today?” His focus entirely on the fight, Mydei didn’t dignify Phainon with an answer. “Are you going easy on me or are you just getting soft?”
Mydei huffed, “you will be begging for mercy once I’m done with you.”
Skillfully dodging a fatal blow, Phainon smirked, “is that a promise?”
Step back. Step forward. Swing and block. Keep your balance right and your eyes on the opponent. Don’t leave yourself open to any attacks. Feint. Strike now. Step to the side and go for the opening. Block.
Some would be horrified by the clicking of blades, calling it senseless violence against an ally—admittedly, those who would question them were the scholars and anyone too soft tempered to pick up a sword. However, to them it was a familiar song and dance that they’d performed many times together for and against each other—with the intent to disarm, protect, save, and kill, to train and challenge. This time it was the latter.
More specifically, it was an unceremonious challenge. A battle of strengths and wit with a simple premise: Two rounds that would go for as long as they required, each of them encompassing one of their expertises. First was sword fighting, second hand to hand combat.
The loser had to clean the other’s weapons and armour; on the other hand, if it ended in a tie they would solve it with a classic javelin throwing challenge, rope someone else into deciding the winner and hope for the best—which could mean many things ranging from not breaking someone’s window to actually reaching the intended target.
It was a rite where they knew all the right steps to the right dances, flowing as did water and as destructive as such, their motions carved in the thread of time that made up their usual training spot.
Immortal warrior Mydeimos held his sword and maneuvered with deadly aim as another powerful strike that threatened to break the blade itself went in Phainon's way.
What a sight. Truly.
Tapestries would one day be decorated by countless motifs to the man and his prowesses, Phainon knew it. And how could they not be?
Mydei’s long hair reminded him of a lion mane, proudly displayed and disheveled in all the right ways. Unlike his own manoeuvre, more trained and flowing, the kremnoan’s grip of the sword was unmatched, every slash was untamed and timed—blocking the demigod’s strikes was like intercepting thunder, the push back a thousand stampedes crushing his body. The movements of his body—crowned by red tattoos that thoroughly carved his skin like mortal blood pumping in his veins—were a wild fire unleashed in a breathing forest.
How thrilling to have the honor to challenge a phoenix. One misalignment of the ground and he would get burned with no looking back, thrown into the Styx without mercy.
Then it happened... A single mistake. A tragic misstep. Phainon’s confident blade found opposition, found it in a way it only did when sealing the fate of unfortunate casualties.
A faint sound of shredding tissue as the sword penetrated skin and cracked bone made lighting strike in Phainon’s very core. As inertia pulled Phainon forward, he saw amber eyes change from blaze into ash; they widened full of life for a moment before going cold—the restless, wild flame of life that burned bright died in the blink of an eye.
Mydei’s sword clattered against the floor, forgotten, sounding akin to death bells. That cocky grin died as blood suddenly painted his lips with a choked gasp.
Phainon tripped backwards as a body as big as his own fell on him with all its weight, pulled by gravity. His free hand instinctively reached to hold it—its weight feeling heavy as the world—, the calloused skin of his hand on the side of his victim.
His voice trembled, “Mydei…?”
Blood trailed from the wound to his hand—still gripping the murder weapon—his knuckles turning white. Sticking out Mydeimos’ immortal body was the other side of the sword.
Phainon sat up, his hand clinging to Mydei for a moment, hoping it would keep the soul from parting, the shock soaking in oceans of despair. It felt hard to breathe—whether the culprit was the crushing weight or the fact it felt agonizing to do so Phainon wouldn’t be able to tell.
Before he was able to think clearly, second nature took the next step and pushed to get the dead body off him.
It fell with a thud, rolling to the side and facing the sky. Unblinking despite the blinding sun, limp like a fabric doll thrown down the stairs by a careless child. Blood pooled under the body and he couldn’t look away. Feeling his breath fasten and an impending headache Phainon reached to his own face; his fingers were wet by something thicker than water, he gasped as blue eyes stared down at his murderous hands. Had the blood been there before or had he stained his face with that motion? The corpse’s face was tainted by its own blood, perhaps it had splattered on his face.
How many seconds had it been already?
Locked behind his ribs, his heart began to rush like it was trying to reach out for Mydei's dead heartbeat. Unable to look away he reached to the other with shaky hands. What had he done? Did it hurt? Mydeimos’ face had contorted with half pain and half shock at that last moment. Mydei’s eyes had looked into his—like he was trying to etch his features into his soul in case this was actually it—and his lips were parted, yet it was impossible for him to utter a single sound, dying before he hit the ground.
“Mydei! I’m-” He stumbled to his friend's side, unable to get on his feet. “Oh, titans, no. I didn’t- Mydei!” If nothing else the fates had a sense of humor, as the seconds stretched like millenium. Phainon reached to hold the body, resting his hand on the face of his victim—it felt warm but it would not be for long.
Over their heads, like a mock, the immortal sun shone bright on the sky.
He had seen Mydei slaughter monsters like they were mere cattle countless times, he had witnessed him do impossible deeds. How come he was so easy to kill after a single oversight? How come his flesh felt as soft and tender—as mortal—under his hands as lamb’s skin?
The familiar sight felt unreal, like a memory of a time he had thought was left far behind.
Mydei was dead and it was because of him. Phainon, hero of Okhema. And he had no motive to exonerate these actions with.
Devouring all and clouding his judgment the void in his chest expanded, dragging everything like whirlpools did ships, and expanding with the precision of a knife, inspecting his insides. He couldn’t close his eyes yet what he saw was blurry and consumed by poison—a venom he knew all too well began pumping in his insides like a malignant whisper.
How many seconds had it been? Last time, he hadn’t stayed back to count them, nor the one before; he had known it was futile to wait for Mydei to resurface from his ashes. Maybe this time it was the same, Phainon didn’t have the strength to inspect where the wound had hurt him.
Everything seemed to fade into a hue of black and purple, the only bright colors red and dead amber. Like a void that was about to shallow him, he feared looking down—looking away from the man—, feared raising his eyes to find an ever consuming nothingness, or even worse a clear sky. He felt the intrusive fingers of death get under his skin, slimy and firm, clutching his head and sneaking into his brain through his eyes. Dizziness overtook him for a moment, his breathing shallow, head pounding; his hands cramped as he felt golden bleed from the corner of his eyes and expand like a veil.
Then he heard a noise over all the ringing, screeching and static. He heard coughing. The still liquid blood propelled and splattered like dust on his face—almost by instinct Phainon attempted to back off. As a reignited flame, Mydei’s eyes came back to life and focused on his face—they were once again honey being stirred or clouds during golden hour. “Well, Deliverer,” his voice came out slightly different than most days—rougher and more choked—, “that was humiliating.”
Phainon felt himself letting go of the air that oppressed his chest, the heavy weight that threatened to break his ribs lifting. “You’re back!”
“Of course I am, who do you take me for?” Mydei bit back. “Let me just…“ he sucked in some air in between his teeth and sat up, then stretched. Tentatively, Phainon gave him space, watching with intent his every action. After taking a look at where the wound was—a deep cut, bad but nothing to worry about when talking about Mydeimos’ body—, then at the mess of blood that was on his clothes. Mydei murmured with annoyance: “I’m not looking forward to the washing.” Finally, he turned to look at Phainon, lazily blinking as if to clear his sight. “Are you okay? You are looking at me funny.”
“I- Yes! Of course.” He offered a hand to Mydei, who took it and they both got up. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.” Stretching again Phainon heard Mydei’s joints crack, sending a shiver down his spine. Mydei breathed in and out deeply, taking then a moment to once again check the remnants of the killing blow, carefully prodding to calculate depth and length, probably considering how long it would take until he was in perfect shape again. Whatever the result was, it wasn't long enough to warrant a reaction; yet Phainon couldn’t look away in agonizing, morbid curiosity that neared fascination how blood kept spilling still—inspecting the scarring of the wound he had inflicted.
“We should clean the blood once we are done,” Mydei said, “the last thing we need is for anyone to think this is a crime scene.”
“It almost was,” Phainon joked, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
Mydei picked the sword from the ground. “I suppose killing me makes you the winner of this round.”
Phainon humorlessly chuckled, trying to keep his composure, “yeah.” The kremnoan didn’t seem too preoccupied with what had just happened, yet the doubt still crept in his mind. How many seconds had it been? Collecting himself piece by piece, Phainon took a step forward to his friend, an attempt to keep the confidence he felt slipping by all too quickly. “It is just me or did that take longer than it should. The reviving and all that jazz, I mean.”
“Maybe?” He shrugged, keeping his eyes away from the sun—since Mydei wasn't looking at Phainon, he had no way of noticing how the leftover blood in Phainon’s face threatened to dissolve as salty water accumulated in his blue eyes. Not one tear fell. Instead, Mydei was more focused on making his wrists move as if to make sure the blood flow didn't stop. Yet because he knew him all too well he said: “You have nothing to worry about, Deliverer. I'm fine”
His jaw tightened then nodded. “I know.”
Mydei sighed and finally spared him a look, if he saw any signs of Phainon’s hesitation he didn't acknowledge them. “We should leave sparring for the next time.” Then he seemed to pause, as if trying to find the right words “I-” Mydei cleared his throat, “I'm fine, I promise. It hurt, I died, I'm back. Same as always.” He then smirked, “just feel proud you killed me by accident. Not many can say that, and it won't happen again.” Phainon couldn’t help but mirror the gesture. “We can finish the bet another day, you look pale and I’m not about to fight an unworthy opponent.”
Phainon scoffed and crossed his arms, feigning indignation. “Do you think so little of me?”
“Apparently.”
“Next time I’m killing you twice.”
“Looking forward to it.”