Chapter Text
Tales from The Page:
2 months after Irontomb’s defeat
Eternal Recurrence #32,200,226
Aidonia’s blizzards are infamous for the countless lives they claim each winter.
The cloaked swordsman does not raise his head as he sets one foot in front of the other. Wind howls, screeches across the stretch of land covered in nothing but white. The snow is bright enough to blind curious eyes; the beast does not care to close his own, staring at the black boots dragging him forth. Crunch, crunch, crunch. His coat whips around, broken wings trying to take flight yet failing miserably, chained to the pile of crumbling bones dragging them along.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crack.
There’s a frozen lake here.
He blinks; his milky vision swims, though the reflection of his masked face meets him still.
Do you still remember her, Khaslana, the one who won’t reach the dawn?
She who had spoken of binding blades to her feet and gliding across a pond with outstretched arms, trying to keep her balance – how sad the smile on her face was, recounting the story and wishing she could’ve held the other children’s hands while they played on the ice?
Crack, crack, crack.
The beast’s icy blues drift, unable to cling to the snowflakes flying past, melting on his coat, merging with the lake.
There’s a flicker of warmth in the distance.
It’s instinctual, this hunt.
Waiting. Pursuing. Consuming. Waiting. Dying. Rising.
Ugly beast, ichor spills from between your teeth – you’ve drunk your fill again and again, but swallow more each chance you get.
Why?
The beast inhales the biting wind.
Temperatures clash in his charred vessel, the agony sharp, leaving his chapped lips in a rough exhale.
Because dawn is still beyond reach.
The coreflame gives off a glimmer of light, pierces through the blizzard, hums to a frequency only he can hear; he’s forgotten how he even ended up here. His thoughts are jumbled, a mess of sentences clashing into one another – his brows furrow, trying to recall what he’d been doing prior to wandering around Aidonia’s icy tundra.
‘Century Gate, open!’
Ah.
Of course.
His sigh wafts up into the grey sky in a cloud. His lips are blue. Icicles have begun to form on his mask, on his coat, the snow soaking through the rough cloth, reaching pale skin. It melts immediately, drips down his back, then rises as steam.
Sending him so far… was suicide.
One less Tribios to slay by hand, the beast supposes.
Crack, crack, crack, crunch.
He’s back on snowy land again.
He should teleport closer to Ohkema.
The beast ceases walking, blinking at the coreflame, a beacon of light, of warmth.
Although he cannot feel his legs anymore, he knows this body will not stop until it reaches the end once more, knows he won’t remain here forever, a reaper in white.
But for this moment in time, he sinks to the ground.
Khaslana lays on his back, staring up at infinite grey. Specks of white drop onto his mask and melt, flowing like the tears he cannot spill.
In his chest roars the endless fire, warms him with each breath he takes, melting the snow around him bit by bit until he sinks.
A bed of snow. A nice resting place, a good grave.
He slowly shakes his head. He won’t die here.
For the flames know no weariness, and dawn is still beyond reach.
There, he burns, that fire at the end of the long night, never extinguishing, never ceasing his dance atop that cliff, goblet in hand, spilling ichor over his fingers, drunk on the taste, drunk on a crazen hero's wish.
—Get up.
There’s still more coreflames to collect.
His coat is drenched, though he pays it no mind, unfeeling of the cold clinging to him, the wet thump of his boots as he walks through the woods by the east of Ohkema.
The light of the Dawn Device dries him up over time.
Khaslana is staring at the sky.
The passage of time eludes him; the only indication of change is the blazing heat in his veins, stronger than he remembers – his milky gaze drifts across the horizon.
A distant, loud screech reaches his ears. Aquila’s authority is being seized.
Automatically, he gets to his feet, orienting himself to the flickering light of the Trickster.
His face remains impassive behind the mask as she screeches and whines and makes him chase her through the ruins of Styxia. Each quip and insult and yelp is worn out in his memory, empty to his ears, hollow in his brain. Dawnmaker rests in his hand, weightless despite its stain, corroded just as he, a beastly weapon for a monstrous hero.
Hah. Hero.
Strangling Cipher now, Khaslana struggles to believe such a word still applies to him.
He’s no longer in the deadly blizzard of Aidonia, and yet his heart's still so cold.
Cipher is choking. She is gasping, clawing at his sleeve, eyes losing focus, blood rising to her face.
He tears out her coreflame and leaves her to die.
He doesn’t turn to look, to listen to her delirious speech aimed at a random bug.
In the back of his mind, there’s a tiny voice, repeating the oath every iteration of Phainon, Khaslana, NeiKos496 has taken: I will destroy my own body, flesh and soul, to save this world we so deeply love.
Dirt crunches underneath his boots.
“May you… breathe freely… in that new world, Cifera.”
His voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper, words carried away by the breeze. The scent of death hangs in the air, clings to his coat, his tongue.
He begins making his way toward Ohkema, toward Dawncloud.
“You seem tired.”
Khaslana stares at Hyacinthia. Beyond the Eye of Twilight, the sky roars, flashes of lightning interrupted by ripples of black flames. Mydeimos lays dead on the staircase leading up to Kephale’s divine body. The Dawn Device is broken. The end nears.
“You… can’t even see my face,” he rasps, tightening his grip on Dawnmaker.
“I don’t need to. I’ve seen you walk up to me.”
He huffs, sharp, taking another step toward her. “Why does it matter to you?”
“I’m a healer,” she states, clutching her wand. Although his vision is blurry, he knows her expression is determined, even if she tries to hide her anxious tremor by tensing up all over. “And a healer worth their salt won’t turn away a patient in need.”
The beast snorts. His lip splits open with his smile, mirthless and bordering on cruel.
“There’s no need… to try and fix me, Hyacinthia. This vessel… doesn’t deserve treatment.”
His bitter hiss is sharp enough to make her flinch. Regardless, she shakes her head adamantly.
“No! You do deserve it, Lord Khaslana!”
A vessel without flaw needs no fixing. It is perfectly hollow. He’s unsure if he said it out loud – not that it matters. Hyacine’s face is pale. Gold spills from her fatal wound, flows over the platform like a river.
The sight invokes absolutely nothing.
Khaslana wakes curled up in Mydei’s bed.
The prince quietly snores; for a long, long moment, all Khaslana does is stare at him sleep. There’s a void in his chest, expanding from his heart, bleeding out, out, out.
When Mydeimos’ face begins to contort into the beaten, bloodied faces of the past, he turns away, catching sight of the notebook lying on his bedside table.
Right. That therapist from Twilight Courtyard suggested he write his thoughts in it to process things better.
He raises an arm, tingling from sleep, aching like he’s been trashing, and grabs it, slowly sitting up. Mydeimos sleeps like a rock beside him; he clicks the fountain pen open and settles the tip on the first free page. Until now, all he’s drawn in it are swirls and lines upon lines, a chaotic mess that bled through the other side oftentimes.
A slither of silvern moonlight spills in through the gap in the blinds, aids his glowing eyes.
He swallows, hovers the pen, sets it down, hovers, sets it down until a clear, precise thought slashes through the fog.
My capacity for destruction for the sake of protection is limitless.
A near soundless, deep breath escapes through his parted lips.
Perhaps that should scare me. How far I would go. In that regard, I really am just like him – the ends justified the means. Does my guilt absolve me of the blood I've spilled? Does it wash my stained blade clean?
I've heard about it. Some outsiders are terrified of me. Consider me becoming real a threat to the cosmos. And I can't even disagree with them. I've not caved to the call of mindless Destruction, but the power in my veins is undeniable and persistent, cultivated by my hand, my blade, my flame.
You still flinch whenever I graze over your tenth thoracic vertebrae. Cipher still scratches at her throat whenever I come close. Hyacinthia’s shoulders hike up when I call out to her. Perhaps out of kindness, out of courtesy, they have not brought it up with me – how they remember their deaths, if they see me in nightmares, cloaked and masked and endless in my pursuit.
And still, you invite me, pull me into this bed, dine with me, spar like nothing’s ever changed between what we were originally.
But I can't forget. And I know you cannot either.
I'm not scared of myself. Even though grief and agony accompanied me every step of the way, I do not regret saving you all.
You said to me that even if you had to go through hundreds of billions of cycles again, you would still entrust your weakness to me. And I
He pauses, glances over to the prince, his face squished on the pillow, hair spilling over, cradling his serene expression.
would kill you, everyone, all over again, if I had to.
In comparison, thinking of lifting my blade against anyone that isn't those I love seems so inconsequential. That Ravager… no battle has ever felt so euphoric. And that part almost scares me. That rush of elation, pure bloodlust and rage… For the first time in millions of years, I actually felt in control. It's a rush like no other. So easy to get addicted to.
You understand, don't you? Bloodlust looks good on you. Though you've always had a tight grip on self control. Restraint.
I don't think I have the same ability to hold back.
Perhaps one day, that'll make a mess.
Will I scare you off, then?
After everything… Yes, that is the only thing I am truly afraid of. Not to lose myself, but to lose you. To scare those I love.
Staring at the page, he almost begins crossing it out in its entirety.
But then…
“Mrgh..”
A hand slides over the mattress, lightly grabs hold of Khaslana’s thigh.
Khaslana inhales, sharp; it trembles in his ribcage. He closes the notebook and puts it back on the nightstand, taking Mydei’s hand in his own.
Mydei lets out a contented, dreamy sigh and falls right back into a deep sleep.
Khaslana sniffles and lies back down, coming to cradle his hand against his chest, that gaping wound which aches, yet no longer bleeds.
Stepping out into eternal daytime two days later, Phainon spots Castorice and Hyacine huddled over something, sitting on their large picnic blanket. Anaxagoras is off to the left, feeding a dromas. His attention is drawn by Hyacine’s chuckle – when he looks back, Hyacine catches his eyes over Castorice’s shoulder and breaks off, hurriedly whispering something in her ear.
His jaw tightens, though he smiles lightly, greeting them now that he’s only a few paces away.
“Good morning, Lord Phainon!” Hyacine pats the empty spot beside herself. “You can sit over here. Aglaea is bringing the tea, she should be here soon as well.”
He nods, settling down beside her, Castorice rummaging around the picnic basket, strategically avoiding his gaze.
The next day, he accidentally steps on Ciphers tail – she yowls dramatically, stroking the tip of her tail with a pout, asking for monetary compensation. He laughs it off like any other day, though he can't help but notice the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor of her voice as they continue speaking.
The following day, he comes by Tribios’ workshop. She perks up, flipping over a scroll with a sketch he couldn't decipher in time, tinkering with some device. He leans against a shelf, arms crossed. Tribios asks if he's been sleeping okay, noticing the rings under his eyes. He nods, not wanting to make her worry. She accepts it, though her smile falls a bit.
And although they're just tiny moments in overall fine days, his brain can't stop repeating each interaction until they all turn sour. There's always something – a flinch, an awkward chuckle, avoiding his gaze, stepping back, pushing something away.
They forgive him. They understand. He's their friend. Student. Classmate. Comrade. Deliverer.
But is that really all there is?
The existence of the Executioner, whatever his reasons may have been, isn't erased simply because he achieved his goal.
Those memories – millions of times where he's killed them – he has dreams about it. There's no way they don't.
Even while awake it resurfaces in his mind from time to time, sequences triggered by mundane things, as simple as a word, a phrase, a movement. For them, he must be a source of memory too. – He is. He knows this. They often tell stories of past Recurrences, hoping to process them better that way and as a form of bonding. And it's nice to sit by the fireplace and listen to all the funny anecdotes and interesting glimpses into their lives, and yet he cannot help but think of the end point of each one: with their blood on his hands, his sword buried in their flesh.
Are they just taking pity on him by never bringing it up? To keep up the appearance that everything in this Page is perfectly fine, a paradise as a reward for all their suffering?
Should he keep pretending too?
Do they want him to?
The questions that've been looping in his head all night press down on his tongue, sealed behind his lips. The air in his lungs burns from holding back.
“Are you alright?” Mydei asks, and he blinks, swallowing it down.
Coward.
“Yeah. I just… haven't been sleeping well.”
It's not a total lie. Just an omission.
Mydei regards him in silence, reaching over the table to caress the back of his hand, squeezing it lightly.
He offers a small smile, turning his hand around to squeeze back.
After breakfast, they make their way to the holy baths.
It's nice.
And then, Mydei leaves, coming home during late parting Hour.
And it's fine. They have lives outside each other.
But when Mydei falls into bed with a huff, mumbling something about leftovers if Phainon wants some for dinner, something inside Khaslana withers.
…You said we'd watch a movie together.
Leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, Phainon chews on his lip and bids him goodnight.
Walking to the kitchen to warm up a portion for himself, his brows furrow, hands in his pockets curling into fists, scratching at his palms.
…Do I thrash in my sleep? Maybe I'm waking him up as well with my recent dreams.
When he wakes up the next morning, the mattress beside him is empty.
There's a small note on his bedside table.
Good morning, sleepyhead.
I made a batch of bread earlier, take as many as you want.
See you at our training grounds at Action Hour ♡
“Should we go to the baths?” Phainon asks, leaning against the cool wall made of stone on the sidelines, offering Mydei his flask of water.
Mydei takes a swing.
Phainon watches the sweat gleam on his skin, droplets of water escaping, running down his throat, dipping into his jugular notch.
Mydei checks his teleslate and presses his lips together, giving him his flask back. “Yeah, but not as long as usual.”
He tilts his head, corner of his lip twitching. “Duty calls?”
“Hah. Something like that.”
Reeling Mydei closer and kissing his neck, Phainon feels Mydei’s fingers sink into his drenched hair. There’s a satisfying weariness in his bones, and the warm water does wonders to soothe the ache of his muscles. He roams his lips across the wet, flushed skin, watching water droplets run down Mydei’s adam’s apple.
Mydei hums, tilting his head to give him more access, caressing Phainon’s back and sides, settling on his waist at last. Those strong fingers dig into the flesh there, work the remaining tension out his body until he grows lax in his hold. Phainon guides Mydei so his back meets the tiled wall of the pool; it’s quiet here, the only sound next to their breathing the quaint running of water. His touch lingers below the surface, tracing the red markings he knows blind.
Phainon kisses a path up Mydei’s neck, reaching his jaw, and Mydei smiles, leaning in for a proper kiss. He gladly opens his mouth for the prince’s tongue when it swipes across his bottom lip, enjoying the feel of Mydei’s fingers in his hair.
He deepens the kiss, slotting himself flush against him, though Mydei pushes him back a little, leaning their foreheads together to get rid of Phainon’s subsequent disapproving whine and kisses him again. Light, but no less sweet. He runs his teeth across Phainon’s lip and sucks it into his mouth before pulling away.
“Mydei…” Phainon huffs, a blush rising to his cheeks. His own hands are busy kneading the muscles on Mydei’s lower back, tenderly tracing the lines of his tattoo.
Mydei merely smirks and ducks his head to latch onto his sun marking; it’s a rare occasion for Phainon to be without his choker, after all.
Ahem. Phainon may have taken it off to entice Myde and sway him to stay a little longer, but that was neither here nor there.
Mydei applies suction, successfully pulling Phainon from his thoughts, and he lets out a soft groan, feeling the prince’s teeth scrape over the fresh hickey. He licks over it, traveling lower, running his tongue along the golden lines etched into his being. A shudder goes through Phainon; Mydei chuckles into his skin. The sound rarely fails to make Phainon’s eyes droop. With a sigh, he tugs hard on Mydei’s hair and claims his mouth, inhaling his scent, the herbs of the bath forming a rather irresistible mix.
After letting Phainon indulge for a few wonderful minutes, Mydei gently pulls him back and holds him by the chin, swallowing his taste. Licking over spit-slick lips, he grants Phainon a final nip of his teeth.
“Khaslana…”
Phainon whines playfully. “Can it really not wait?”
Mydei rolls his eyes, brushing fingers through Phainon’s drenched hair. “Just because we're stuck here indefinitely doesn't mean we can disregard time completely, Deliverer.”
Phainon pouts, giving his best impression of a sad dog left out in the rain.
Mydei grumbles, though his tone is fond. "Don't give me that look.”
He sighs, dropping his head on his shoulder, grasping him by the waist underwater. “Fine…”
Mydei kisses his temple, embraces him too, and it's easier to breathe, here, enveloped in his scent, feeling his warmth.
“I'm sure you'll find someone else to bother, hm?” A hand caresses his face, pinches his cheek softly.
Phainon hums noncommittally, blinking away the condensation, meeting Mydei’s eyes.
But I wanted to spend time with you.
He wanders a bit aimlessly after that, rounding the whole Page twice before Anaxa calls out to him and drags him along to the section he's arranged as a laboratory for himself. Hyacine is also there – her head peaks up from behind a shelf stacked with books brought from the Grove.
Hours pass, and it's nostalgic, filling out charts and reading through experiment records with her while Anaxagoras tinkers about on a table so cluttered it's a miracle he's not spilled ink over important documents.
At last, Anaxagoras pours the elixir he's concocted onto the cabbage lying in the control zone. Phainon and Hyacine stand off to the side, about two paces away.
BOOM!
Smoke fills the room, and the sound of the cabbage rapidly expanding reaches his ears, yanking Hyacine back by the wrist on instinct when she steps toward it and calls out to Anaxa. She cries out in pain, and he lets go as if he’d been burned.
The giant cabbage has completely taken up the space where they'd been standing.
Finally, the smoke disperses, and from the other side, they hear coughing.
Anaxa is waving his hand around. “Dont just stand there, Phainon. Open a window!”
Glad to have something to do, he moves to do just that, catching Hyacine holding her wrist from the corner of his eye, skin reddened in the shape of his grip.
He's lying on their bed in the late afternoon when he hears the front door open and Mydeimos shuffle in.
It's quiet; he hasn't turned on any lights, he can see in the dark just fine. His notebook lies on his belly, hands tracing the ridges of its spine, a few more pages filled with his heavy thoughts.
A shower turns on.
He listens to the pitter patter, zoning out, returning when the sound stops.
There's a sigh, a grunt, a zipper being pulled, the shifting of clothes, the tap of Mydei’s feet on the soft wooden floorboards.
He swallows.
Maybe he'll talk now. When Mydei rounds a corner and finds him in bed in the dark, blue eyes piercing through the shadows. Maybe then. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
The light in the hallway turns on. It illuminates Mydeimos as he reaches the bedroom, brows raising at the sight of him.
Air gets caught in Phainon’s throat, an invisible weight pressing down on his chest.
“Headache?”
Phainon nods. Coward.
“Should I leave you alone?”
He shakes his head, raising a hand to grab at the air.
Mydei huffs, corner of his lip curling into a smirk. “Okay.”
Phainon smiles back as Mydei climbs into bed, setting the notebook down on the nightstand to pull Mydei onto his chest instead.
Mydei heaves a sigh, relaxing into him, and Khaslana wraps his arms around his sides, inhaling the scent of his freshly washed hair. It tickles his nose.
And for a moment, it all feels alright again.
Phainon chews on his lip. He's sitting perched on the haybill on the sidelines of the training grounds, staring at the door that doesn't open. He fidgets with his coat, smoothing the sides over and over, twisting the buttons and tugging at the straps. He glances over to his teleslate; no new messages.
Mydei was supposed to show up an hour ago.
There's no threats here in The Page. At least, back in Ohkema, whenever Mydei missed one of their dates, he had a really good reason.
But what could have possibly happened for Mydei to not only not show up, but not respond to his texts either?
Did he forget his teleslate at home?
Should I check?
Should I wait?
Should I go look for him?
…What if he doesn't want to be found?
What if he's not forgotten his teleslate, and he's just ignoring me?
…Mydei's been distant lately. Always busy.
He's holding the teleslate hard enough the screen cracks, a tiny splinter forming on the side.
Gritting his teeth, Khaslana gets up.
Maybe he'll find him in the Courtyard. Maybe he's gotten wound up in something with his friends from the Kremnoan Detachment.
As he walks through the corridors through the Page, no Mydei in sight, he barely notices his steps speed up, hands buried in his pockets, scratching at his own palms over and over.
With every door that turns up empty, the void in his chest grows heavier, expands more and more.
After his fruitless search, he returns to Mydei's homestead in Ohkema. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights – Mydei’s not here either.
Dejected, he takes off his shoes, wanders until he finds himself sitting curled up on the couch in the living room, chin resting on his bent knees. He's staring at the black screen of their television.
The movie.
We wanted to watch a movie.
Is that when he started getting distant?
His mind spins in circles, repeats the past few days, turning each memory inside out.
Hours pass, with no message from Mydei either – he later finds his phone on the kitchen counter, face down and on 3% battery. Pressing his lips together, he takes it to the bedroom and starts charging it.
It lights up. Shame burns in his stomach at all the notifications from himself.
He flips it back over and returns to wallowing on the couch.
By now, he's certain that something is definitely off. Wrong. Mydei isn't a secretive person – yeah, it takes a while and a lot of trust for him to open up about his vulnerabilities and feelings, but he's not afraid to speak his mind. If Phainon did something wrong, he would've told him to cut it out.
Unless Mydei isn't bringing it up to shield Khaslana. Maybe he considers it too soon to bring it up?
“Urgh.”
He drops his head on his knees with a dull thump.
Maybe Mydei just needs some space.
Khaslana could hardly judge him; he'd also disappeared without a word or text some days where it all got too much in this fake paradise.
He sighs, long and drawn out, squeezing his eyes shut.
Mydeimos skipping training… that's just unheard of. That man showed up to their spars despite being sick with fever millions of times.
Even after they’d suffered casualties on their latest missions. Even after getting back to the city after weeks of harsh conditions. Even after they had argued.
He hugs himself tighter, a shudder going through him; it's strange to feel cold all over after burning for so long.
It's evening by the time the front door opens.
Khaslana is still on the couch.
He listens to the rustle of his clothes, the thump of him taking off his shoes, the quiet sigh he lets out. He listens to him walk toward the kitchen, not noticing Khaslana in the dark.
Khaslana gets up.
He watches Mydeimos set a box onto the counter.
“There you are.”
His voice is hoarse, a hollow quality to it, dipping into a slightly hostile rasp.
Mydeimos flinches and turns to look at him.
It's familiar.
Different place, different time, same movement.
Khalsana’s arms are crossed as he leans against the doorframe and tilts his head.
Mydeimos momentarily stares at him like a deer caught in headlights, taking in a tiny, sharp breath. He clears his throat and fully turns, nervously wringing his hands.
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know.” He says it like he's already bored of their conversation. “Maybe the training grounds.”
Mydei’s face drops. “Fuck. Sorry, that totally slipped my mind.”
“It’s fine.” He juts his chin toward the box. “You went out to eat?”
“Uh, yeah. Hephaestion dragged me along.”
Khaslana hums. “Then I guess you’re not hungry?”
“...Not yet.”
Mydeimos fumbles with the bottom of his shirt; it's a strange sight, seeing him so nervous. Strange for such a big man to appear so small – the shadows lean down on him, envelop him, cradle his pretty face.
Khaslana takes a deep breath, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Cipher’s grilling right now. I’ll just go alone, then.”
“Wait– huh?”
“It’s fine, really, Mydei. You look tired anyway. Go get some rest. I’ll join you later.”
He turns without looking back, hands in his pockets, telesalte face down on the couch, ‘forgotten about.’
Fucking coward. But I guess that makes two of us.
The scent of burning meat wafts up to the eternal sky. Phainon sits by the grill, staring at the flesh slowly turning crisp and zones out, barely paying attention to Cipher’s conversation with Castorice and Hyacine.
Eternal Recurrence #6,550,218
When Khaslana steps into Castrum Kremnos and Mydei identifies him as Phainon, he does not correct him.
Usually, Mydeimos is incredibly perceptive. One look is enough for him to narrow his eyes and say “You're not Phainon. Who are you?”
But this one – this Mydeimos, Demigod of Strife, Guardian of Amphoreus, seems a little out of it.
Exhausted from battling the black tide, no question.
Relieved to see Phainon visit him, ceasing his endless fighting to pull the Deliverer into his kingdom.
“You seem stressed.”
Mydei barks out a laugh, placing a hand on his hip. “No shit. So, are you here to do something about that or just annoy me further?”
Khaslana just smiles, stepping into his space until Mydei's back grazes a white pillar, and sinks to his knees. This close, even his weakening senses pick up on Mydei's breath hitching.
Glancing up from between his lashes, he hums, shamelessly nuzzling into his crotch, fingers hooking into his waistband.
“Does that answer your question?” He asks, the rasp in his voice aiding him in appearing seductive.
It's highly effective; Mydei groans under his breath, rocks forward, restraint waning in his current state.
The coreflame of Strife sings within him, holy body miraculously untouched despite the musk of exertion sticking to his clothes. Khaslana inhales it greedily, sinking into the scent once so familiar to him.
Hands grab him by the hair, send ripples down his spine. Humming in approval, Khaslana undoes his fly with his teeth, freeing the Demigod’s twitching member, filling out just a bit further at Khaslana’s hot breath.
“You– you came all this way to…”
“Do you not want me to?” Khaslana, Phainon, asks, blinking up at him as he wraps his fingers around the shaft, marked by the same red covering his upper body.
The cock throbs, bumps against Khaslana’s throat.
Mydeimos swallows. His voice comes out rough. “Don't you dare stop now.”
A small smirk graces his lips. He hums, kisses the tip, flicks his tongue into the slit, licks a circle, reaching beneath the sensitive foreskin. Mydei curses above, the fingers in white hair gripping tight.
Good. Tell me I’m good.
His mouth is unnaturally hot, though Mydeimos doesn't seem to mind one bit, moaning low, pushing Khaslana further onto his cock.
Khaslana opens wide without resistance, swallows him down in one go, letting him hit the back of his throat.
“Oh, fuck, just like that, Phainon…”
He hasn't been Phainon in so long. Still, his body shivers, saliva coating his tongue, keep his mouth nice and wet for him.
Mydeimos rolls his hips, grinding onto his tongue with a groan. Khaslana swallows around his length, and the last bit of hesitance submits to the pleasure luring the Demigod in – he begins rocking in and out, holding Khaslana’s head still to properly fuck his mouth.
He shudders, going slack in his hold, fixated on the sensation of his cock driving in and out his swollen lips. Working his throat and flicking his tongue into the slit every now and then, Mydei further loses composure, thrusts growing quicker, harder. Pulses of pre cum spill onto his tongue, bitter and warm, and he swallows with an encouraging hum, lightly dragging his teeth across his shaft.
“Fuuck, Gods your– mmh, mouth, Phainon… oh, it’s been too long since we…”
Khaslana nods, making Mydei break off his barely-cohesive murmur in favor of ramming into the back of his throat, hard. A muffled whimper vibrates against the tip of his cock, has him grab another fistful of white, strangely brittle hair.
The heat wrapped around his cock draws more and more sounds from the Demigod, and Khaslana can tell he won’t last long, restraint slipping with each swallow, each swirl of his tongue.
Spit drips from the corner of his mouth, lips pursed and spread, pressed up against pulsing flesh, golden blood rushing just below reddened skin.
Mydeimos groans deep in his throat, head tipping forward. “Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart, fuck, you’re perfect. So fucking good.”
It doesn't absolve him of anything. He soaks it up anyway, those praises addressed to a Phainon that's not him.
It's better that way – Phainon is good, that's no lie.
The Phainon this Mydei calls out for is not yet tainted by the sin Khaslana carries.
And so he'll let him believe, let him come on this tongue, let this moment remain a memory forgotten by all but the one on his knees.
Mydei's eyes are as warm as he remembers, looking down at him with flushed cheeks and glossy lips, parted as he breathes and grunts.
Beautiful.
His scent is as heady as he remembers, musky with sweat and godly aura, sweet beneath.
Dirty. Lovely.
It's only when Mydeimos hisses and pulls him off his softening cock that Khaslana is pulled from his trance, swallowing the last burst of cum.
A hand comes down, holding his chin instead, massaging his aching jaw.
Considerate. Gentle.
Khaslana doesn't deserve such treatment.
He stuffs Mydei back into his pants and rises wordlessly, settling his hands on his waist a final, selfish time.
Khaslana leans in until their foreheads touch. Half-lidded blue gazes into dazed amber, pupils blown, glowing like polished gems. “There. I know I won't be able to stay for longer.”
The taste of Mydeimos is still potent on his tongue. He catches the Demigod’s eyes drop to his lips, plump and swollen from sucking his cock.
“So… Don't die too much, Mydeimos.”
It's a request Khaslana knows he won't be able to keep.
It's a request Phainon will always ask of Mydeimos, no matter what.
Mydei, still winded, huffs out a laugh and kisses him.
“I'll try. And now get out of here, Deliverer.”
Khaslana nods, stepping back.
He can't help himself. – Before he turns and leaves, he meets his eyes again.
Mydeimos smirks knowingly. “Good boy.”
The sharp smile he offers in return is a true one. Something different from the flames of divinity crackles in his stomach, bright and warm.
Only for you.
Months later, he hangs around Castrum Kremnos, clad in his dark coat, vessel crumbling far too much to show his visage to anyone but his distorted reflection in water.
He dodges the spears hauled his way whenever he's spotted, only to come back later like a stray dog.
He misses the refreshing coldness of Mydei’s gauntlets when he had cradled his face. He misses the weight of his gaze, of his length on his tongue, the taste of him, the lovely ache branded into the back of his throat.
Memories flicker, tug on heartstrings he believed to have burned to ashes long ago.
A part of him is comforted by the revelation he can still want, can still mourn – in a trance, he finds himself returning to Castrum Kremnos over and over, having to witness Mydeimos grow weary, coming back to life slower and slower each time.
Regardless, Mydeimos is anything but weak. He chases Khaslana away without fail. Their fights remind him of past battles, wooden sword against brass gauntlets, whirling sand and blinding light warm on their skin.
Staring at the Coreflame of Strife’s light dimming from the corrosion of the Black Tide, he sighs, lifting Dawnmaker once more.
Mydeimos’ eyes are glazed over. There’s a subtle tremble in his bones, and his steps are heavy, like he needs to push them into the ground to keep on standing.
His breath is ragged. His lips are parted, tongue peeking out.
Khaslana remembers how it felt, being kissed by him again.
“You don’t have much time left, Demigod,” he growls, and Mydei reacts, just barely, dull amber drifting to where he stands opposing him in this corridor. “It won’t be long until–”
“I know.”
Mydeimos forges another spear with his own blood, the crimson hardening into crystal. He doesn’t attack, not yet, merely rams it into the tiled floor, leaning some of his weight into it.
“I still won’t surrender to you.”
You were always stubborn in sickness, Khaslana thinks, air leaving his lungs in a rush, crackling like wood held into flames. “You’re hiding it from the others, aren’t you?”
There’s no reason for him to prolong this pursuit; there’s no reason for him to speak at all, to do anything but summon a shade and ram it into Mydeimos’ back now that he’s got him in a moment of lethargy.
Mydei swallows. His throat bobs, and his brows furrow, staring at him in silence.
Khaslana dematerializes Dawnmaker. In previous Recurrences, this is when Mydei goes all out – where he cages him in crystal, pierces him like skewermeat, dropping his act.
This Mydeimos… does not move.
It makes Khaslana curious.
He begins walking toward him until they’re standing face to face. This close, the light of the coreflame is clearer than ever, calling out to him, pulsing in time with Mydei’s heartbeat.
He lifts his clawed hand, cups the Demigod’s chin.
He’s close enough to hear his sharp intake of air. A flicker of awareness lights up in amber, and Khaslana hums, tilting his head. His neck cracks with it. “Is this… not surrender?”
A twitch of his eyelid – his vision swirls. Khaslana is shoved against the wall, crystals coming to bind his wrists onto the stone, fixing him in place.
Mydei’s hands are gripping him by the forearms, and he’s panting, breathing hard, fogging up Khaslana’s mask. He’s leaning forward, pressing his weight into him, though Khaslana suspects Mydei is mostly using it to not lose balance.
“I’m still standing, aren't I?”
“Barely,” he taunts, and Mydei scoffs, ripping his mask off in one clean slash.
“What the– Phainon?”
“Close, but no,” he says, resting his forehead against Mydei’s one; usually, the Tide’s delirium makes Mydeimos unpredictable and reckless, a whirl of crimson that hunts until it falls apart, shattered by the same spear it forges if Khaslana is not the one to take him out directly. This Mydei is different – dazed, like the Tide is sapping away his fighting spirit. Khaslana hopes it’ll be an outlier; as much as he’s grown sick of burying Dawnmaker into his spine every Recurrence, the idea he’ll have to do it while Mydei is barely responsive, not even putting up a good fight during it fills him with dread. “Not yours, anyway.”
Khaslana licks his dry lips; Mydei’s eyes slowly follow the movement, then rise to gaze into icy blue, pale skin breaking apart, splitting open by his right temple.
“Why aren’t you killing me?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Khaslana murmurs, and Mydei’s eyelashes flutter, another wave of exhaustion coursing through his veins.
Mydeimos sighs.
It tingles on his pale skin. It’s been so long since he’s been this close to a Mydeimos; so long since he’s breathed the same air as him, close enough to brush their lips together if he raised his chin just a bit.
You need this too, don’t you? He doesn’t ask, gazing at Mydei’s anguished expression, fighting and losing an internal battle.
“On your knees.”
“...Huh?”
The Demigod of Strife has opened his eyes again, amber burning with newfound conviction and a playful mischief that crushes what’s left of his heart to tiny little pieces, mends it together when Mydeimos chuckles, low and rough, connecting their lips. “You heard me.”
“—You knew?”
Mydei raises a brow, no longer holding onto his arms, sliding them up to his shoulders, grasping his neck. The gauntlets are refreshingly cold against his burning flesh; he groans, pressing into the touch.
“I had my suspicions.”
Khaslana snorts. “And now you miss my hot mouth?”
A considerate hum. Mydei tilts his head, leans in for another kiss, and this time, Khaslana properly reciprocates. It’s strange, senseless, full of a yearning neither can explain.
“Matter of fact, I do,” Mydei breathes when they part. “And you?”
He smiles, easily breaking through the binds and settles his hands on his waist, tugging him forward. “Would I be this behaved if I didn’t?”
For a moment, they merely grin at each other.
Khaslana sinks to his knees. Mydei braces his hands on the wall.
“Gods, this is so fucking stupid.”
Khaslana shrugs, already fumbling with Mydei’s waistband. “If I make you come in under a minute, you owe me a real battle, Mydeimos.”
The Demigod breaks off into a wheeze, though his body rolls into his touch.
“Hey. Am I always this easy with Phainon?”
He looks up, icy blue far more aware than he’s been this entire cycle.
“More or less.”
Mydei snorts, shaking his head with a lopsided grin. “I’m just a particularly impulsive one, hm?”
“Yes.” He pulls his dick out of his pants, stroking it a few times, leaning in to run his lips along the shaft. “Perhaps that’s why I’m so… curious about you. Like, how you trust a beast that’s tried to kill you to not bite off your dick.”
“Tch, fuck off.”
“Hah, see?”
Regardless, Khaslana places a kiss on the tip, applying some suction before running his tongue along the head, listening to Mydei’s breath hitch.
“You wouldn’t.”
He pulls back with a pop. “I could.”
Fingers sink into his hair, yank him forward again. He laughs; it’s the most genuine one in hundreds of years.
“That got you hard?”
A growl. “Phainon.”
“Khaslana,” he corrects, though swallows him down as the Demigod wishes, feeling an odd weight lifted off his shoulders, replaced by the warm weight on his tongue, sliding to the very back until his nose meets Mydei’s happy trail.
The Demigod above groans, tightening his grip on his hair. “Khaslana?”
Khaslana shudders. He hums an affirmative, sliding to the tip, taking him whole once more. Arousal swirls in his stomach, the sensation foreign; it’s been so, so long, since a Mydeimos has known him by name.
He swallows around a sob, earns himself an honest moan.
And how strange it is, to need someone even after discarding your entire personhood.
To be wanted, no matter how much humanity you've lost. No matter how much blood is on your hands.
Tears threaten to well up in his eyes while he looks up at Mydei, face wrought in pleasure.
“Fuck, fuck, Deliverer, ah–”
Will there ever come a day where we do not want each other? Where one of us walks away forever?
Khaslana swallows every last drop, keeps bobbing his head until Mydeimos grunts and physically pulls him off.
— Somehow, that thought hurts more than anything else.
He's panting now, too, tongue hanging out his mouth, the back of his throat scratchy – the ache of his jaw and the bitter taste of his cum a pleasant reminder that remains even as he stands gazing down at Mydei’s corpse, absorbing his corroded coreflame and purifying it as it merges with his being.
Phainon sniffles, staring at the flames dancing in the midst of their get together. Cipher is talking with Castorice animatedly. Hyacine is feeding the leftovers on her plate to Ica.
He wipes at his eyes and takes a deep breath, pulling himself together.
He’ll stop being a coward. He'll get Mydei to speak.
He’ll be good, so good, that Mydei won’t be able to avoid him.
Yeah.
That's what they need.