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I. CALCINATION
Lord Anaxagoras,
Dear friend, I was most elated to see that a letter penned by your hand has arrived to this lonely and isolated tower I have called a 'home' for the past year. In my solitude, I find that your quick-witted quips are what keeps me sane during my labors.
Let us not waste time. I will tell you about what is important to the both of us. A battle was held recently near my laboratory, in Jericha—well, not that near, it took almost a day to arrive there, but I knew that was the perfect time to finally gather subjects for our work. I contacted your friend in the military, the head nurse Hyacinthia, and she has been gracious enough to allow me to roam the battlefield to look for parts. She did not ask questions, though she seemed rather curious—a possible associate, perhaps? But that is a discussion for another day.
I have found many exemplary specimens in Jericha. Strong young men, as we've both discussed. Among them, I have acquired a strong back, a lean torso, a pair of long, sinewy legs with nice sturdy thighs, two well-shaped feet, and, oh, Anaxagoras, the head I've found… A young man, no older than twenty-three if the teeth are anything to go by, beautiful like a prince from a fairytale. An elegant brow and a straight nose, such as our Amphorean ancestors used to possess, and the biggest, most expressive blue eyes I've ever seen; his tears were frozen on his face, and that moved me. The very picture of war, wouldn't you say? A healthy boy, immortalized in sorrow. Gorgeous. The face of this boy… is indeed the face of my creature. Perhaps there is a way to preserve those cold tears…
All that being said, I am dissatisfied with the state of the creature's arms; you'd be surprised, but among all the hundreds of dead, I have only found one arm (yes, that is one singular arm, not a pair) that was to my liking. A long limb with all of its fingers, with powerful biceps and well-built wrists, yet only one, not two as is needed. I am thinking of contacting nurse Hyacinthia soon. Perhaps she will be keen to acquire a fitting arm for me.
Until then, I have started assembling the creature, bit by bit. Right now, it lays behind me on the table, half finished—looking at it, sleeping in death and with its back cut open, I am being reminded of the image of a babe in its mother's womb. It is beautiful, Anaxagoras, and yet I am seized by grief as well. All these poor young men… No matter, I will give them new life.
To end this very long letter, my friend, seeing as I am running out of ink and I am worried about boring you with my babbling, I would like to say: the true work begins now, and it will soon be finished. Your presence will be required. This could not have been possible without your generous patronage; it is as you have promised, dear Anaxagoras. Your wealth knows no bounds, and so neither does my gratitude.
Your loyal associate,
Lycurgus
P.S: On the battlefield, I've met a soldier. He was nearly half-dead and a rat was eating from his thigh, yet he seemed to know no pain. I think he might be a Kremnoan, if his complexion is anything to go by. His handsome faced captured me, though it was the look in his eyes that truly moved me. He looked at me with such burning hatred, as if I were the man that did this to him. When he saw me, he went for his weapon, and though he failed, I was incredibly impressed. I could see the fire of life reflected in his eyes. He wanted to live, and so I've given him that opportunity and taken him as my assistant. He's not much of an assistant right now, though, seeing as he passed out shortly after our meeting, and has yet to wake up. He sleeps for now, in my bedroom. I am telling this to let you know: I will be in need of more money from now on, seeing as I will be eating for three.
P.S.S: Though I am writing a letter for Castorice as well, in the event that it does not arrive, please let my dear daughter know of this development in the experiment. And let her know that she will be needed dearly by my side. Teach her our arts well, Anaxagoras.
II. SOLUTION
You are small, very small, and you are scared. There is darkness, oppressing and deep, and there are fragments of memories all around you; a sea of them, broken mirror pieces, a different face reflected in each of them.
You are five years old and you scrapped your knee. Your mother kisses it better and now the ache is back, bone-deep and familiar, and yet there is no mother to kiss it better. Not anymore. You don't know this but when you died, alone in the battlefield, you had a failing kidney; perhaps the soldier that did you in blessed you with a small kindness. You were forty-one.
Your wife is beautiful on your wedding day. Her luminous face, her dark curls—you try to find them in the darkness, in the visage of the man that killed you. You find the barrel of a rifle instead. You lay on the cold hard ground for two hours before you die. It's agony. You were thirty-two.
There is not much life to speak of here, not much experience, no thrilling romances or grand adventures. You were eighteen and you died scared.
You will never see your child again. A bullet lodges in your stomach. Her little face, sun-tanned and freckled, is all you can think about. Her toothless smile. Her small hands. In your last moments, her name escapes you. Her mother is a laundress. They will starve without you. Even in this darkness, the thought brings despair. Despair is all you will ever know from now on. You were twenty-four.
You are nineteen and twenty-eight and forty-four. You are tall and short, skinny and fat, cruel and good; you are everything at once and yet right now, you are nothing at all. The profane embryo born from a corpselike mother, rotten flesh slipping off her bones in long strips. You catch them with your underdeveloped mouth. You have no teeth to chew with, but you are so hungry. You are so so hungry. You could devour the world, swallow it whole, choke it all down and suck out its marrow and it wouldn't—it wouldn't be enough.
You are nothing. Less than—mere space occupied. Nebulae colliding. Stardust. Small particles woven to flesh, you are the very child of the Universe, unloved and unknown.
You are nothing. Threads of sinew tangling around each other like snakes. Soft meat cut open, swollen and weeping and wanting. You know those hands and you detest them. They are not gentle when they crack open your skull.
You are nothing. Rats. Mice. Flies. Parasites. Cockroaches. Worms. Maggots. A thousand eggs a mother centipede lays an average of sixty-tree eggs when they hatch she offers herself up as sustenance the body devoured the first and last most glorious display of love. are you loved? who loves you? who will eat you?
WILL YOU EAT THEM?
eucharist is the cannibalization of gods. they exist to bare their soft bellies to us, to YOU, the most perfect of amphoreans, the tapestry of every beauty belonging to one hundred men. you do not know your god yet, but he knows you and he hates you and in this darkness you learn to hate him back. to hate a god is to love a god. to hate a man is to love a man.
—(in your hometown, golden wheat fields. hazy sunsets. the barking of a dog and the warmth of days spent in the sun. homemade honey and crooked smiles.)
You are not alive but you feel every toe and every finger. You feel the cold scalpel on your back. You feel every rod in your lymphatic system. You are dead. You are alive. You sleep.
Darkness, all around you. You swim in it. You exist in it—you exist. you exist. you exist.
Darkness and then, all of a sudden—
Electricity.
LIGHT.
III. SEPARATION
The first thing Mydeimos does when he wakes up is assess how much he remembers. The second thing he does is groan, because he does not remember much at all;
He remembers his name is Mydeimos, that much is clear. In his distant recollection, there's—well, it's less of a memory, and more of a sensation, but in this sensation there is a woman. And he feels that she might have been beautiful and kind and lovely like the sharp end of the blade. Her hair might've been sunny-blonde, or perhaps strawberry-blonde, and her eyes might've been brown and knowing. And in this memory, this sensation, he is very small and she simply calls him 'Mydei'. He does not know her name or the features of her face, but he ascribes her the title of 'Mother'.
He remembers he was a soldier—he supposes he still is, in a way. His tagmatarchis, a sour old man called Krateros, told him as such on his first day in the army—he said, "You'll put down your weapon one day, boy, but you will never stop being a soldier. You will never stop fighting." He does not know what he fought for, but it must've been important and noble and glorious, for even now his heart soars at the thought of it. It must've been a grand ideal.
He remembers being cold and wet and buried in the mud. He remembers a dull ache in his sternum and his left shoulder. He remembers tiny rodent teeth chewing on his thigh.
He remembers rage and hatred. He does not remember who they were directed at; the entire world, perhaps?
As he was lost in his thoughts, Mydeimos' eyes glazed over where they were fixated on a particular spot on the ceiling; he wills them back to focus, and then he realizes—
This isn't the medical tent.
This is not the medical tent and there is no nurse Hyacine coming to tut at him disappointingly. 'Got yourself hurt again, Mydeimos, is that so? You are far too reckless. You'll lose your nuts fighting like this!' she would say, and then she would smile and tend to his aching wounds.
This is… As he cranes his stiff neck around to take in the room, Mydeimos reckons it must be a bedroom. Small and chilly, though not unhomely—rather, it is simple. The floors are old and wooden, the wallpaper is five years overdue for a replacement, and the furnishing is minimal. A bedroom not very lived-in —or slept in— and more of a necessity than a luxury. Still, there's a quiet, odd coziness to it. The bed is soft and the blankets, which are drawn all the way up to his chin, are warm. The pillows are filled with goose feathers and God, when was the last time he slept on an actual pillow, rather than his jacket bundled up under his head?
Mydei has not realized until now just how much his body aches. How much it has been put through these past… months? Years? How long has it been? What year is it? There is not one bone in his body that does not hurt. His organs feel like they are about to burst from the exhaustion. He closes his eyes, slowly, and feels the pressure lift from him like a dead man's soul leaving his body. It's warm and toasty and soft all around him. All he has known… for so long… Trekking through the rain, mud up to his ankles, hearing the man behind him slip and fall and crack his femur in two. Picking him up and carrying him on his back for twenty more miles until they were safe to set up a medical tent; mud is nasty because it is dirty. By the time nurse Hyacine peeled back his pants, she found the flesh of his wound green and weeping yellow. She tried for four hours until she threw her hands up and declared that the whole thing must go. Mydeimos held him down back then as she sawed off his leg, as he screamed and thrashed and cried, and when it was over—he still died a few days later, in pain and feverish. His name was Leonnius.
He tries to sit up and finds that he is unable to. He feels oddly off-gravity, like one side of him is made of lead and the other of feathers. All he manages to do is shuffle higher up on the pillow, enough to rest his back on it and his head on the bed's board. The door creaks open, and a tall, lanky girl carrying gauze and water walks in.
By her clothing, she's a serving maid of some sort. She wears a simple dress, once white but now yellowed, frayed at the hem. A dirty apron is tied around her waist. She is beautiful, heartbreakingly so, with sorrowful black eyes and a head of thick, long black hair, loose and wild. Her skin is brown, darker around her eyes and her mouth. Her lips are a pretty dusky red. When she sees him, her face colors with a deep blush, her mouth opens over a gasp, and she drops the pitcher she was carrying. She steps back and, at her reaction, Mydeimos startles as well. He thinks something must be wrong. His left hand goes for his weapon, but he does not find it, does not find anything at all.
He leans away from her, unsure of what scared her, and at that same moment, she takes a tentative step forward. Her head craned, her hands in front of her body as if wanting to reach for him. He retreats further into the bed.
Then, she speaks, her voice low and gentle like a swan's. His ears start ringing at the sound, and he only catches half of what she's saying.
"...wake up... Are you alright?"
He blinks. This is not the Amphorean language, not at all, yet still he recognizes it. His body knows this tongue, knows it in his bones and in his heart, and so he opens up to allow the sound of it, sweet and familiar, to enter his brain and fire all of his synapses. Slowly, on his face, recognition—he understands it, and it is his.
"Yes... where am I...?"
The girl laughs, short and sweet, face twisting into joy, and then she scurries to him like an excited cat. Takes a nice place on the edge of the bed.
"You speak Kremnoan," she whispers to him, in Amphorean now, and Mydeimos nods absentmindedly, "You are from Castrum Kremnos, then, just like I guessed. I suppose you must be, if you speak the tongue."
"I think I am, yes. Are you Kremnoan?"
"Not by blood, though I've lived there in my youth with my family for a few years," her eyes go wide all of a sudden, "I'm sorry, did you say you think you are?"
"I… don't remember much. I don't really remember anything."
"Ah…" the girls hums, "The master must be informed of this. Did you hit your head, perhaps?"
"I don't know—The master?"
The girl blinks. "Yes," she says, "Lord Lycurgus. My employer."
"Who is that man? Where am I?"
"Lord Lycurgus is a famous surgeon, and you are in his… um… well it is a tower, though I've heard him call it a laboratory sometimes."
"What am I doing here?"
She shrugs shyly. "I'm not sure, mister, um…?"
"Just Mydeimos is fine."
"Mydeimos! I'm not sure what you're doing here, but you've been asleep for some five days. Master Lycurgus went to the battlefield in Jericha almost a week ago, I don't know why, but he brought you back, and—"
Jericha. That's it. That was it. Panic surges through him like a dark wave, from his stomach and up his throat until it gathers like thick bile in his mouth, acrid to the taste and acidic, and then keels over in a frenzy and—just in time, he cranes his neck away from the girl and to the floor, where he throws up nothing but murky water. The girl gasps and leans towards him, a small gentle hand rubbing his back, as he retches whatever little contents his stomach had.
Jericha, that's right, they were—they were trying to liberate Jericha, from—from the Skyfolk, and then he—there was this man, blue-eyed and painfully handsome, he shot Mydei in the shoulder and somewhere in the chest—and then he, he fell.
Hard.
"Jericha—" he croaks out, through his vomit, "J-Jericha, did we—Did we take Jericha?"
"I'm sorry…" the girl whispers, "I don't know."
After a few more seconds, Mydeimos straightens himself. Wipes his mouth of its bitter taste.
"There, there…" the girl says, a bit awkwardly, as she squeezes his shoulder. "All that matters is that you're alive and well, yes? I've taken care of you for these past few days, um, fed you milk with honey to keep you strong."
"Thank you, and I—I apologize, I made a mess—"
"That's alright," she smiles, showing her pretty crooked teeth, "I'll clean it up, don't worry, don't you worry at all…" she hums, a little sing song, as she rises to her feet and gathers up her skirts. She puts the gauze aside on the nightstand, walks to the doorway and picks up the water pitcher she dropped—then, she looks at him, all smiles.
"I'll be back in a second, alright? You just wait here, yes?" and the girl goes to leave, her back to Mydei.
"Yes, but wait, I—I didn't catch your name."
"Oh," she turns around to look at him, "It's Cyrene."
She leaves, and comes back some ten minutes later, carrying a bucket and an old scrubbing brush. Mydei watches in shame as she lifts up her skirt and gets on her knees to scrub the spot on the floor where he emptied his stomach. She stops every once in a while to wipe her brow and dip the brush into the bucket, filled with soapy water. It gets to a point where his embarrassment overwhelms him, and Mydei goes to get up and help her. Then, a painful shock runs through him, shoulder and sternum and leg, and he falls back with a groan.
"Oh, no, no, you mustn't move, Mydeimos!"
"I can't simply let you do all this work because of me…" he mumbles. In response, Cyrene just waves her hand around.
"It's quite alright. It's what I'm paid to do."
"Do you enjoy it?" he asks instead.
"Not at all," Cyrene sighs, "But it's the only work a girl like me can get during wartime."
Mydei cocks his head. "Ah… I understand."
"Here, all done," she says a bit later, putting aside the scrubbing brush. She rises to her feet and pats her apron of dust. "Now, if I may, can I look at your arm?"
He blinks and offers her his right arm, to which Cyrene tuts and gently pushes it aside. "No, ah, your other arm—let me…"
She starts to unbutton his sleeping shirt with deft hands and Mydei flushes deep all over, down to his chest. He grabs her wrist, gently. "Cyrene, please, this is not appropriate—"
The girl smiles coyly. "It's quite alright, really, I've, um, I've taken care of you for these past few days… I've even bathed you, you see…"
"That's—" something ugly tightens in Mydei's chest. "That's horrifying."
"No, not really. You were unwell and master Lycurgus had me check the surgery site to see if it is healing well."
"S…" Mydei leans in closer to her and frowns. "Surgery? I've had surgery?"
Cyrene blinks at him as if struck dumb. She gapes for a bit, like a fish, then clears her throat. "…Yes, have you not… noticed? Your left arm… Here, let me—"
She unbuttons the rest of his shirt, drags it open to reveal his chest and bares his naked shoulders to the chilly air of the room; suddenly, he feels entirely way too cold, and a small shiver runs through him. Cyrene touches his left shoulder, then lower down, and it's—it's a strange feeling, because she's touching something but he cannot tell what. It is not his arm, certainly, because—
Mydei looks. He sees his strong shoulder and his eyes drag lower down to—nothing. There's nothing else there. A small nub stands in place of where his bicep should have been, and the rest of his arm is gone as if it never existed. Fear seizes him all of a sudden and he spooks like a bad horse, reeling back from Cyrene with a gasp and beholding what's left of his left arm with horror.
"My—my arm! Where is my arm?!" he asks, desperate, feeling the room spin around him. Cyrene approaches him tenuously, hand stretched in front of her, eyes filled with something too close to pity for his liking.
"Master Lycurgus had to remove it when he brought you over…"
"H—how?! Why?"
"I apologize, I'm not sure—"
"Do you know ANYTHING?!" he barks at the girl, the sound of his deep voice reverberating from the walls of the room and landing square into her. With the way she winces she steps away from him, one would think she was struck across the face. Guilt bubbles up in Mydei's gut, but his fury overwhelms it, and he ends up huffing like a mad dog.
Mydei takes another look at the nub of his arm, eyes blown wide open like twin sun, golden like the boiling point of magma and full of—rage, fear, sorrow. He whimpers, and his other hand—his only hand, now—comes to run down his face, stopping to cover his quivering mouth.
"I am just a maid," Cyrene says, finally, "I do not know much of my master's dealings…"
He sighs, bits down his tongue, and tries very hard to stop the tears. The surgery site is a terrible thing to Mydeimos, flesh bunched up like the mouth of a sack tied closed, scrunching into the bone like a puckered mouth. The more he looks at it, the more he feels faint, like the ceiling is about to crash down on him and put him back to sleep.
Mydei takes some very deep, slow breaths, then quietly, he speaks again.
"He's crippled me. He's made a cripple out of me, he—"
"Mydeimos…" Cyrene mumbles, "If he had to remove it, perhaps it was for your own good."
"Leave," he says, "Leave, please, I need to—I need to be alone, I—"
"…Of course," she approaches the door with timid steps, "I will let the master know you've woken up. He will want to speak with you, I think..."
Loneliness for a few hours. Mydeimos sits in the bed with his eyes fixed on a certain spot on the wall next to his head, there where he sees the groves in the wood twist around twist around themselves, deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper into a spiral, deep so deep, deep like the waves—there are waves crashing outside his window where is he? is he near the seaside? the sea, he has never seen the sea, his father always too poor for the trip, his mother—his Mother, oh, what was her name again? what did she look like was she kind? she must've been, right?
was he kind? was anyone, in this war? what was he fighting for? why were they fighting the sky castrum? a civil war? why?
Mydei feels himself pulled into the wooden spiral, swallowed by it, chewed out by it, spat out like the miserable Kremnoan he is, a cog in this grand beautiful noble machine, WAR as the poets would call it, and and—
Silence.
Darkness.
Then—a door creaking. Night has set outside his small window and a thin flash of yellow light pours of out of the crack. Somebody steps in, holding a lamp, and Mydeimos is too tired to react, too tired to fight it. He cranes his neck to look.
A man, older than him but not that old, perhaps hovering around his mid-forties. He is not ugly but not handsome either, rather he sports an entirely unremarkable face. His brown hair is short and slicked back, well-kept and shiny, and his brown eyes point downward in a doleful expression. A weak chin and a prominent Adam's apple are the last grand accents of this mediocre painting. He is well-dressed, visibly wealthy yet not opulent; rather, he is tastefully modest in the way rich men like to be. A waistcoat, a well-tailored pair of slacks, and nice black shoes; all the things Mydei does not possess.
Mydei blinks at him. The man cocks his head and smiles.
"My girl has told me you are called Mydeimos," he speaks, and his voice is weak and shrill like a dying bird's song, grating on the ears. He talks as if sounding out the words is physically painful to him.
"Your girl…?"
"Cyrene, yes, you've met her, have you not?"
"Ah, yes, I have. She—she took care of me."
"Yes," the man chuckles, "Yes, she has, good girl that one, good good girl—and beautiful too, no?"
"…I suppose she is beautiful… Are you, uh, master Lycurgus?"
The man's face lights up, upper lip rolling back to reveal perfect white teeth. "Yes indeed, that is I, Lycurgus."
Mydei sighs, tries to rise up on his elbows and falls back to the bed, due to the fact that he only has one elbow to support himself now. He groans in frustration.
"Ah, that... That will take some getting used to, Mydeimos, though rest assured, for I am quite the surgeon and—"
"Cyrene told me as much," Mydei interrupts him, "Why? Why did you do that to me?"
"Mydeimos, I understand that you might be in shock, and an amputation is a life-changing event, certainly, so do believe me when I say I understand your feelings, and please believe that it was medically necessary. It was either the arm or your life."
"What happened?"
Lycurgus sets down the lamp on the nightstand and pulls the chair from the study to the bed, next to Mydei. He sits down on it and crosses his legs.
"When I found you, your arm was crushed under a dead horse. It was unsalvageable."
Mydei frowns and squints at the man. He's all narrow shoulders and long legs, and there's something about the way he carries himself that he deeply dislikes. "A… dead horse? That's not possible. There was no cavalry in Jericha."
The man tilts his head, the corner of his lips twitching ever-slightly higher, and Mydei catches a small, almost imperceptible arch of his eyebrow. "My girl told me you were having issues with your memory, yes? She said that you can hardly remember anything."
Mydei chews on the inside of his cheek. "…I don't, but no, I don't think—I don't feel like there were horses at Jericha."
"Truly? Not even to draw the light artillery?"
…He cannot argue against that. There were indeed horses drawing light artillery, and it is not ridiculous to believe that one such horse might've spooked, escaped, and fallen over on him. Mydei looks away towards the window. "I hear the sea," he says, "Where are we?"
"You are in a tower, somewhere on the coast of Odestris. Where exactly is inconsequential."
He can do nothing but exhale shakily at the information. Odestris. Doubtless a beautiful island, yet far, far away from Castrum Kremnos. The thought of his limp body being transported across the Yonian sea, rocking gently with the waves as he slept in death's arms, discomforts him.
He is not on the mainland. An understanding hangs in the air between them, silent—
He cannot get away.
Not without a boat, and not without the drachma to pay for it.
Mydeimos is stuck here, until Lycurgus sees fit that he leaves. If he ever does, that is—though that does not mean Mydei is going to take it laying down.
He shifts under the covers. Flexes his neck.
"I can feel it," he whispers, "My left arm. I can still feel it. Every finger."
Mydei touches his thumb to each finger on his left hand. He feels the rough, calloused pads of his digits, feels his palm flex and his tendons tighten. Yet, when he looks—nothing still.
Lycurgus laughs a little bit. "Mm. That is normal. The brain is a powerful liar. You will get used to it, yes, though it will hurt—Ah, I almost forgot—"
"It doesn't hurt, if that's what you wanted to ask," Mydei turns to him, "What do you want from me?"
"Mydeimos, I simply want you to get better—"
Mydei whips his head around to look at him, fixes him hard and deep with his gaze, dark furrowed brows and pupils swimming in molten liquid. Their gazes meet, and Lycurgus' mouth falls open over a small gasp and a shaky exhale. Mydei swears he can see him blush.
('This is it,' Lycurgus thinks, trying to stop the tremble of his hands, 'The look from the battlefield. So hateful. So beautiful.')
"What do you want from me," he repeats, and continues with emphasis, "In return."
The shifting emotions on Lycurgus' face unease Mydei; he watches as the man turns from awe-struck to bemused. "I need an assistant, a strong man to help with things Cyrene cannot. She is just one person, you see, and—"
"You need a servant, then? Or a slave?"
Lycurgus laughs. "What is a servant but a slave you keep buying? Rest assured, you will be paid."
"And if I wish to leave?"
The man's eyebrow cocks in defiance. "Leave? And go where?"
"Home."
"Where is home?"
Mydei stops breathing.
"Home to Castrum Kremnos, disgraced in war as you are? Home to your parents? To your wife? Your children? Do you even have a home anymore, or did the allies of the Skyfolk graze it down? What is your mother's name? If you saw her walking down the street, would you recognize her?" Lycurgus leans in very close. Mydei reels back. A cold, pale hand comes to rest on his cheek. "Mydeimos, what year is it?"
He grabs his thin wrist and shoves it aside, which only seems to delight Lycurgus more. "I am doing you a kindness. Not many will employ a Kremnoan, especially not a crippled one. I am doing the you a kindness."
"And if I refuse your kindness?" Mydei fights back, proud and defiant.
"Do not misunderstand me, dear Mydeimos—you can leave any time you like. You can leave right now, mm, of course, but I am worried, yes, of what will become of you if you do. The amnesiac, one-armed Kremnoan, waddling through Odestris, lost and alone. What will you eat? And with what money?"
Mydei has heard just about enough, and so shoves forward and grabs Lycurgus by his collar, awkwardly trying to maneuver his right arm. He pulls him towards himself harshly, violently, and almost knocks him off the chair. Lycurgus stumbles forward and groans, arms coming out to support himself on the edge of the bed and stop his fall. They look at each other for a moment; Lycurgus half-drunk, Mydeimos bemoaning the loss of a fist to pummel him with. Pain radiates through his trunk like the sting of a scorpion, pulsing hottest on his shoulder and sternum. He grits hit teeth so hard he feels them vibrating in his skull, all to muffle the groan that tries to tare its way through him.
Lycurgus looks as though he saw a starry sky for the first time, pupils blown wide and mouth agape. "You should not do that," he whispers, "You are still wounded. And quite helpless, too. Accept my help. You have little choice."
Mydeimos very badly wants to say no and his mouth opens to form a curse, a "Fuck you" or maybe a "Fuck your whore mother", but in that moment he catches a glimpse in the corner of his sight; from the slightly ajar door, peeking like a timid mouse, Cyrene's dark eyes are watching them, wide and scared. His grip on Lycurgus eases, and he grinds his teeth hard inside his mouth.
Weirdly, Mydei thinks, 'If I leave, I have to take her with me.'
"…You said I will be paid?" he says instead, fully letting go of Lycurgus, who falls back into the chair with a huff.
"Naturally."
His eyes flit back to Cyrene.
"Fine."
Lycurgus' face lights up with odd glee. He grins and shakes Mydei's hand, then fixes his collar where it's been rumpled. "Wonderful, wonderful, mm, we have much more to talk about, Mydeimos, yes, but for now—get some rest."
When Lycurgus leaves the room, taking the last bit of light with him, a coldness sets all over Mydeimos, deep in his bones. Frustration leans over him like a predatory bird—frustration over the helplessness he was forced into, over his feebleness, over this peculiar man whose house he is now prisoner in. He wants to cry, yet feels his tears frozen somewhere in his throat, and in the absence of catharsis, Mydeimos rolls over and tries to sleep.
IV. CONJUNCTION
Rest comes to him in bouts and fits of wakefulness and unconsciousness. He wakes once, scared and gasping, stuck in between the reality of a stranger's tower and the dream of Jericha. He reaches for his rifle instinctively and finds nothing, nothing at all, because he is left-handed and now has no left hand at all.
He wakes another time, bladder uncomfortably full, and realizes he does not know where the bathroom is. He decides to go back to bed and if he pisses in Lycurgus' bed, well, the man deserves it.
Mydeimos wakes a third and last time. He reckons it is well past four, with the first strands of dawn breaking through the darkness of night. There is a hollow sound ringing all throughout him, haunting and long, and Mydei can sort of make out the fact that it's coming from the pipes. Something loud and angry is banging on them, making them sing like a horrific instrument, and he can see them tremble and shake with the force of it. It goes on for a while, some fifteen minutes or so, and then it stops abruptly. Mydei squirms and twists until he can get himself into a standing position. He watches the wall, aimlessly, waiting for more of that sound—what he catches instead is the creaking of his door.
Cyrene slips in like a shy ghost, holding a tray of food. He sees soft boiled eggs, four sausages, sliced bread, and a small block of cheese on it. She looks at him for a moment, and none speak, until one does.
"I brought breakfast," she says, moving to set the tray down on the bed.
"Thank you, Cyrene. You wake this early?"
"I do, to make breakfast for myself and the master, and then I have to start my daily chores."
Mydei nods and reaches for an egg. It is peeled and soft to the touch.
"Have you eaten yet?"
"No, this is also my breakfast."
Yet she does not sit down to eat. Mydei makes a broad gesture, inviting her, and she timidly takes a place on the edge of the bed. Cyrene breaks a bit of cheese and eats it on a slice of bread.
"What was that sound?" he says a little later, taking a bite out of one of the sausages.
"…Ah, you heard it too?"
"It's hard not to. It sounds like it's coming from right underneath me, or rather from all around me."
"Honestly, I've been hoping that sound… all those sounds… are all in my head," she chuckles pitifully, gaze cast downward. "It's true then, ah…"
"What is it? Rats?" Mydei asks, completely oblivious to her discomfort, and then Cyrene's shy gaze sharpens with fierceness and shoots towards him. She is frowning, though not unkindly, and her mouth is twisted downwards.
She looks to her right and to her left, conspiratorial, and then she leans in very close.
"It's—" her voice drops to barely a whisper, "There is something in this house. I don't know what it is, but there is something in this house…"
A secret, Mydei thinks sharply, yet his mouth is faster than his thoughts. "…There's something in this house?" he repeats dumbly, loud as he is, "Is it… alive?"
Cyrene clicks her tongue and shushes him desperately. "Yes, there's—" she looks towards the door, then back "There is something downstairs, and indeed I believe it is alive."
"…Is it an animal?" Mydei whispers back.
"I don't believe so. And furthermore," another desperate glance at the door. She scoots closer to him, nearly in his lap, and she speaks even lower. "I do not believe it is anything that God's hand created."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mydei nearly scoffs at her, "I don't understand."
"I've seen—Ah, nevermind, forget I said anything at all, I'll be taking my leave now—" and she tries to leave the room, but Mydei catches her by the wrist and pulls her back.
"No, no, I want to know. I apologize, I did not mean to sound as though I do not believe you, but you are saying some very… peculiar things."
Cyrene sighs and runs a hand over her face, stops to rest it under her chin. "Last week, master Lycurgus left for Jericha. He was gone for a day or two, and then, when he was back, he was… different."
"Different how?"
"Erratic, energetic in a way. He moved as though animated by a weird vigor, devilish almost. He did not sleep, and if he did, he slept upstairs," and she points with her dark eyes towards the ceilings, "I am not allowed upstairs. Never have been. It's his laboratory, though I do not know what he studies. He did not leave it for nearly a week. He would have me leave food at the bottom of the stairs for him, though oftentimes I'd find it spoiled or eaten by rats."
Cyrene shits on the bed, sitting cross-legged, and pats down her skirts. "Though, at night… I would catch glimpse of him out of the window… Sometimes he would leave the laboratory, carrying these big heavy sacks. He would go to the beach with them and throw them into the sea."
Mydei cocks his head. "That is pretty strange indeed, Cyrene, but scholarly men like him are very strange. What does that have to do with the sounds?"
Cyrene looks off into the distance, at nothing in particular, her gaze faraway and distant. "Two days before you woke, there was a thunderstorm, the likes of which Odestris has never seen. The wind was so strong I thought it would lift this entire tower away and throw it into the sea. The next morning, I saw master Lycurgus sitting on the staircase. He looked exhausted but pleased, and he simply looked at me and said… It is finished."
She looks back at him, "That's when the noises started. Not every night, but most nights. Most of the times, it's this banging on the pipes, but sometimes… Whatever it is, sometimes it groans. It has a voice, and, Mydeimos—it sounds an awful lot like a human's voice."
Through it all, Mydeimos listens intently, nodding every now and then to spur her on. And when she is done, all he can do is lean back with a heavy exhale of his lungs. He looks out at the window, at the beautiful calm sea outside, then at her, at the worried furrow in her brow. What she is saying is nonsensical, yet she says it with such pathos that it cannot be anything but not true—whether true to reality or true only to herself, he cannot yet tell. Whatever it is, though, is troubling her.
"So…" Mydeimos tries, "What do you think it is?"
"A Titankin."
"Pardon?"
"My family—we were traveling merchants, you see, we lived in a place for a few years then moved to the next. This time, we stayed in Janusopolis for a while, long before the war started. I bough a sheep from this old woman and she told me this story about how two hundred years ago, the Holy Maiden of Janusopolis created a man out of marble. She carved a word in the Old Tongue on his chest and the statue came to life and protected them from evildoers. She said the Titankin still protects them, even though his creator died, and that's why there's never been a war in Janusopolis in two hundred years."
Mydei blinks at her. "…What are you trying to say?" For some reason, this makes her groan.
"I'm trying to say he's made something like a Titankin. A man unmoving, and then brought to life."
"That is not possible. That is not something that can happen."
"Then what else can it be?"
Mydeimos thinks very hard. He runs through every possibility that comes to mind, and they are not many at all. "A pig? When pigs squeal, they sound like people."
"We have pigs on these grounds," she says firmly, "We have a sty. It is not a pig and even if it were, why keep it downstairs?"
Why indeed. Mydei has the decency to blush as he comes up with no other possible explanation. "…But it can't possibly be a man."
"Why not?" she scoffs, "He is a surgeon educated in a college in the Grove by the best doctors of our time, he is reasonably wealthy yet still requires the founding of a richer man for whatever it is that he is doing here. He has this daughter that I've met recently, while you slept. A beautiful but sad girl. She spoke of strange things. Alchemy and sorcery. One time, master Lycurgus showed me a pendant with a dark red gemstone and said it was gifted to him by a warlock. Only God can know what unorthodox things these people are dealing in!"
Mydei's head is swimming in all of this information, and it overwhelms him spectacularly. He has just lost most of his memories, the face of his dear mother and of his first childhood love, the name of his favorite horse and the sound of his comrades' voices, and now this strange girl is telling him about Titankin and warlocks. And the way she is saying it—it's starting to convince him.
"Why do you stay?" is all he can manage, "Why do you not leave? What of your family?"
Cyrene gives a sad, small smile. Something terribly fragile, so slight that a gentle wind could shatter it. "The Titankin did not protect my family, unfortunately."
His eyes widen, and Cyrene continues.
"We were in Dolos when the war broke out" she says, quietly, "Some soldiers entered the town and opened fire on all that they saw, they even entered houses and dragged people out to execute them. They entered our home, and—My little sister was three, she could hardly walk, so they shot her easily. I grabbed her and I ran as fast as I could, ah…" she shakes her head in a half-shrug, "I tried to get her to the doctor in the next city over, but I was not fast enough, so I found a patch of wildflowers and I left her there. When I returned to Dolos the next morning, well—" she clicked her tongue, "They killed everyone. Torched Dolos to ashes. Nothing was left. Mydeimos, nothing. Corpses were piled up taller than me. Old women and children and the boy that brought me milk every morning. My father, my mother, all of my brothers and my sisters. They came, destroyed everything, and then… simply left. Whether the soldiers were allies of the Sky Castrum or of Castrum Kremnos, I cannot tell, but… "
Cyrene makes a vague, awkward gesture with her hands, "Anyways, I left Dolos. I was alone on the road for a few days, just me and whatever I could salvage from the remains of our home, though it was not much. That is when Lycurgus found me, on the side of the road. He said he will employ me as his maid and take care of me, that he'll pay me too. So I am here, under his employment, and it's been almost two years now. He said that for me, for a girl during wartime, it's either this or prostitution. And though I am not keen on this, I am less keen on prostitution."
Mydeimos makes a soft sound. He reaches for her with his left hand, realizes that it is gone, and then reaches for her with his right hand. He touches her wrist, softly. "We could leave together," he says, "We could figure it out on the road."
"Two wanderers, a woman and a cripple, all alone in the midst of war. They will eat us alive. We are poor and coinless. I've no skills to speak of except those pertaining to the household and you, well, you I reckon can only shoot a rifle—and now, one-armed, you cannot even do that anymore."
In the back of his head, somewhere distant, he hears the a loud, repetitive sound. It's high pitched and rings rich throughout his cranium, and yet Mydeimos does not find it grating, rather—comforting. Familiar. His eyes squint over the sensation of what was once lived and true; somebody is beating something into submission, a thick rod of red-hot metal, yes, that is it. Thing of metal line the walls of a shed, shining silver-bright, and his small hand, his left hand, is reaching for a horseshoe, touches it and when he brings it back to his nose—the smell of the metal is strong and pungent, and Mydeimos can now taste it in his mouth. It tastes like blood.
A man sits crouched in a small chair. His hands are brown and calloused and dirty with ash under his fingernails, but they are not unkind, and when he sees little Mydei frown at the smell of the horseshoe, he laughs and gives him the hammer. Teaches him how to shape the metal into the form of a garden fork. Mydeimos does not catch much of his face, except for his mighty black beard and his shirtless chest. The man's smile is big and crooked, yellow gaped teeth, and his eyes are tired but gentle. He tells him something then, but Mydeimos can only catch glimpses of it, "…are life…"
Iron, he thinks all of a sudden, all neurons shaking with excitement in his brain. The metal—it was iron.
"My father…" he says, dizzy, drunk, "…was a blacksmith. He made… bowls and cauldrons… Chains… buckets… Horseshoes and… farming equipment."
'Steel and iron,' his father had told him once, and now he remembers, 'are life.'
A little unsure, he continues, "He taught me…" and then with more certainty, "Yes, he taught me. I know how to work metal."
Cyrene's eyes crinkle with a smile, and Mydei can swear he sees tears blurring them. "I see," she says, "Do you think you can smith with one arm?"
Mydei blanks. "…I was left-handed."
"Just my luck," she laughs bitterly, and then it ends abruptly.
Cyrene grabs a fistful of her skirt. "My current situation displeases me, and I detest servitude, though that is not where my true fears lie. My master is living in sin, swimming in it, and the very walls of this house are cursed and haunted also. I fear that whatever sin he is weaving, he will pull me into it and Hell will take us both," she smiles sardonically, "And I do not mind Hell as much as I mind spending an eternity with him."
"Cyrene—"
"I really must go," she says, getting up and straightening her skirts, "I have to start on his breakfast and the rest of my chores. You get some more rest, and don't get up and go about. Let your wounds heal. And, Mydeimos—" she leans in close to him. "Do not speak of what I told you here, please. Forget if you can, and learn to ignore the sounds."
Her voice leaves no room for protest, and indeed the best thing seems to be turning a blind eye to all that is happening here.
Cyrene leaves and, thankfully, sleep finds Mydeimos again.
The following two days are spent in a blur of sleep, ointments, and wound-dressing. Cyrene comes with breakfast early each morning and they talk, though not about the Titankin underneath them. She talks about her family a lot, all of the places they traveled to, all the wonders she saw. He finds out Cyrene was well-off, being a merchant's daughter, and oft supped with lords. Her family did not employ servants although coin was abundant, so the household still fell on the girls and their mother. She weaves a tapestry of beautiful things for him, the soldier that can only remember mud; the marble walls of Okhema, the Palace of Sabany carved into a mountain, the Blessing Grounds of Aidonia, where in ancient times the Maiden of War would bury her beautiful dagger into the hearts of brave men and send them as sacrifice to Thanatos, the golden-lined streets of Carmitis, where every home was encrusted with precious jewels, and many, many more.
Mydeimos does not have many stories, does not have any memories at all. He tells her of the little he remembers, of his father's smithy, of his mother's curls. He tells her about the Blade of Fury, how it stands grand in the center of Castrum Kremnos, and she laughs sweetly and says she remembers seeing it when she lived there. But he has other stories that she does not know of.
"I had a friend in the army. His name was Ptolemy, true country bumpkin that one. He was young and skinny and a little frail. They must've been really desperate if they drafted him, but the boy was smart and he was good at artillery. So we parked him there, let him aim the big guns, had some other kid help him load the heavy shells. He was eager for his first battle. He was eager for the second. By the third, he… was hollowed out. Shaky… jumpy. By the sixth, he—his ears started to bleed. He didn't want to leave the guns, he didn't want to leave the munitions, the artillery, he was too scared. I don't know where he slept. I don't know if he did. And… A few months after he arrived, it became evident that he had gone deaf. He would yell all the time, incoherent, and we couldn't calm him down. Couldn't get him to leave the artillery. Then, one day, he stopped yelling. He just sat still. Very very still. He disappeared that night and we—it's been a long week. It just started to snow. Food was scarce. We were tired. I thought well, he must've ran off, which in Kremnos army it warrants a fate worse than death. Twenty years of hard labor. Which usually means death anyways. A few more days passed and we had to move out."
Mydeimos pauses.
"They found him tucked in the munitions storage. I wasn't there. They wouldn't let me see or tell me what happened. But everybody became very particular about wearing our helmets and killing every rat we see."
They stop sharing stories after that.
The noises come and go. Some nights are silent—the others, he's woken up by his pipes shaking so hard he's afraid they might bust. He does not think of it. Therefore, it is unimportant.
Lycurgus does not bother him at all.
On the third day, he feels well enough to stand. Cyrene helps prop him up and she lets him lean on her. The girl leads him to the small bathroom down the hall, where there is a bathtub. She runs him a hot bath and lets him soak. Comes back some thirty minutes later asking if he needs any help or if he wants her to wash his back or his hair. Mydei, flushing deep red, politely turns her down.
Everything becomes infinitely harder with an amputated arm, let alone when said amputated arm is the dominant one. Mydei is reasonably ambidextrous, though not terribly so. He can't write well with his right hand but he can get by; it was beaten into him during his brief schooldays. As for the rifle, well, shooting right-handed was also beaten into him, though with even less success. His aim was always spotty. No wonder he ended up where he is.
Cyrene comes to him with a fresh change of clothes. Trousers and a blouse and—
"That's—" Mydei chokes, "My uniform jacket."
Cyrene sighs, "I know. Master Lycurgus insisted. He had me clean it and patch it up and pin the left sleeve. He wants to have dinner with you tonight. Wants to talk about your employment details."
"Great. Do you know what he will have me do?"
"Take care of the animals, most likely," she shrugs, "I'm awful with animals. Getting eggs every morning is a nightmare," and to make her point, she shows her arms covered in chicken scratches, "And we never have fresh milk though we have cows, because they keep wanting to kick me. He probably wants you to chop wood for the fire as well. My arms are too weak. He might want you to deal with the garden and the vegetables as well? I have a knack for killing every green thing I touch."
"That… doesn't sound awful."
"Cleaning his house and cooking his meals and taking care of him as though he is a baby grown tall didn't sound awful to me either but, Mydeimos, trust me—you're going to hate it."
"That's very encouraging, Cyrene," he chastises, to which she only laughs and shakes her shoulder.
"I'll leave you to your clothes. Rest until dinner—I have to start on the cooking anyways."
After he dresses, Mydeimos approaches the small, blurry mirror in the corner of the bathroom. It stands propped up on a chair and it is an old, scratched thing. Still, he grabs it and holds it up in front of his face—the man that he finds staring back frightens him.
He has grown gaunt in such a short time, cheeks hollowing and eyes sinking in. His hair has lost all luster and where once it was strawberry, now it is straw. His skin is pallid, its brownness yellowed, and when Mydei puts the mirror back and pulls his lower eyelid down, he finds the flesh beneath nearly white. His lips are cracked and peeling, and the circles under his eyes are frightening.
He is the ghost of the soldier he used to be. He is the empty shell that once housed something. He is the disgraced son of Kremnos, without a home, without a past and, seemingly, without a future either.
To throw himself off of this tower into the Yonian sea below, what bliss.
Mydeimos loses track of time, staring at his reflection in the mirror, eyes distant and glazed over, not really looking at anything, not really thinking either.
Cyrene finds him an hour later. She gasps when she sees him, rushes over to shake him awake. It does not work. Everything is heavy. His limbs. The tongue in his mouth. Every twitch of his eye. He looks at her, and she is so worried, the poor thing. "Mydeimos, have you just been standing here?"
"Yes," he says, quiet, weak.
"Oh, dear, tsk…" she shakes her head. "Dinner is ready. Lycurgus is waiting for you."
Ah. The dinner. That's right. Mydei nods absentmindedly and allows her to lead her to the dining room. He absorbs nothing of his surroundings; it all looks the same. Wooden. Clean. Nice-smelling. An endlessly stretching corridor. She opens the door to a luminous dining room. When the sun hits his face, he squints and reels back. Somewhere far away, a man laughs.
"Thank you, Cyrene, my sweet girl," the man says, and Mydei watches as he grabs Cyrene's thin wrist and pulls her to his chest. The embrace is crushing and she does not return it. She squirms uncomfortable in his hold, yet does not pull back, rather lets him take what he pleases. When she is released, Cyrene is breathless, embarrassed even, flushed deep-red and frowning. She scurries off without saying another word.
Mydeimos would've punched him if he were present enough and, seeing as he is not, he just takes his place at the dinner table. Looks down at his plate. In this daze, the food looks like nothing at all. Colors blurring together into a shit-brown hue. Moving as if it were breathing on his plate. Foul-smelling. Every twitch sounds like the banging of pipes.
"Mydeimos," Lycurgus speaks, cutting through him like a rusty knife, "Does your meal displease you?"
"I am not hungry."
"Very well then. Truth be told, neither am I."
A sharp sound, grating against the table. Lycurgus pushing his plate away.
"You must have a lot of questions. I am ready to answer them."
Mydei slowly lifts his head and turns it to the man. He is sitting with his finger entwined. There is an expectant glint in his brown eyes, and Mydeimos struggles to meet them. "Questions?"
"About the world around you. The war. Anything, really."
Mydei grinds his teeth.
"Did we take Jericha?"
"Yes."
A sigh. "That's—" his voice trembles, "That's good."
Silence. Lycurgus cocks an eyebrow at him.
"Why did we want to take Jericha?"
The man's lip curls cruelly, as if this was the question he was most excited for.
"I think a more fitting question would be why are we at war, mm, Mydeimos? What do you think?"
He thinks he is so tired he could crawl into a hole and go to sleep forever.
"…Sure. Why are we at war?"
"After a campaign in Penacony some ten years ago—I'm not going to bore you with the details, dear—a young lady called Seliose was named supreme commander-in-chief and Minister of Warfare of the Eye of Twilight. You seem surprised. Indeed, a woman, leading the second biggest army in our nation. And, well, since then, The Eye of Twilight has been internally locked in a power struggle between its' army and its' leading government. The government wants to build relationships with the outside world, it wants to start trade, it wants to make friends and profits—all of that to say, it wants to make the army passive and useless. A thing of the past. Seliose was not happy with this and, two years ago, there was a coup. Violent. I have seen the photos. I've seen children wade through blood up to their ankles in the streets. Men hanging from buildings with bags over their head. The women, well, you can imagine."
Lycurgus takes a bite out of his steak. Blood drips down his chin. "Martial law is instated, though you are probably familiar with that and it is not so appalling to you. After all, martial law is always instated in Kremnos. Do you remember? The King of Kremnos is also its, oh what do you call it, its Polemarch was it? Its general. Anyways, I digress. Lady Seliose then announces her plan to annex the rest of Amphoreus' city-states to the Eye of Twilight, and she has powerful allies behind her. Aidonia. Landon. Corinth. Bulsa. All dogs that were promised scraps of the kill. Okhema does not like this at all, and so she calls on her favorite guard dog—that's you, love. Naturally, you turn down the call to stop the tyrant. There's quite a famous speech your Polemarch gave about this; he said 'Let war come to our shore and show the Eye of Twilight that the Lion of Kremnos is made of steel. We will not chase it without reason'. And who can blame you for biding your time? There is little to win from fighting in defense. Okhema knows this, and Okhema has some sweet words for you. A reason, you might say; she promises that whatever you can conquer, you can keep."
Lycurgus leans in, slinking like a naked snake, his poisonous mouth poised to strike. Delight dances like will'o'wisps on his mundane features. A smack of his teeth. A cruel smile only grows crueler.
"So, to answer your original question, beautiful boy—Jericha is rich in oil."
Oil.
Oil a bullet hole the size of his fist oil a woman's head is holding on by a tendon Oil he pulls down his friend's boot and the skin comes off with it oil they are eating stray cats Oil a man's teeth hurt so much he pulls them out in the night oil the sky is alight red with artillery Oil a naked child wanders into the battlefield oil a cry such as amphoreus has never heard before Oil fingertips turning black oil his friend is begging for death Oil he puts him out of his misery oil his rib has never quite healed right Oil the stench of corpses permeates oil the order is to burn it all down Oil he misses his mother oil he wants to go home Oil he is pissing red oil he dreams the smoke smothers him Oil he's disappointed when he wakes oil a teenager barely past boyhood found in storage his face purple his eyes open and bulging Oil his comrades are playing culling games oil a child is worth ten points Oil he tells them all to stop oil none of them listen no one ever does Oil a house is emptied of its inhabitants mid-day breakfast on the stove oil he counts the puppies in the litter Oil someone makes a comment about bitches oil he stops listening Oil he counts and counts and counts adding one for every gunshot behind the house oil the fig trees cut at the base and their fruits are soft as flesh underfoot Oil he tells himself it's figs oil he tells himself it's water Oil women pregnant with bastards oil were they at Dolos? Oil were they at Dolos? oil WERE THEY AT DOLOS? Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil Oil oil
"Oil," Mydeimos repeats.
Laughter.
Laughter, fading out, distant, unkind. Laughter like canon balls. Laughter like trench foot. Laughter like the stained dress of a little girl. Laughter like a stillborn pup. Laughter like tar.
Then—silence.
Darkness.
V. PUTREFACTION
They do not speak of that day in the dining room. Not him, not Lycurgus, and not Cyrene who was doubtlessly eavesdropping. It comes and passes like a hushed breath. It is unimportant. It does not exist.
The work starts, and thus the work continues. It is as Cyrene said; animal husbandry, which Mydeimos enjoys, and gardening, which he enjoys less. He spends most of his time outside. Salty sea water sprays his face and reminds him he is alive. Alive and tender and raw. A hairline fracture. It is unimportant.
He makes friends with the cows and the pigs. They listen to him cry. Lycurgus wants beef for dinner. He slaughters them. There is a calf that Mydei likes to pet. Cyrene doesn't approach it because she is scared. She is scared of many things, most of all—
—the sounds in the night.
He has been moved to a room in the servants' quarter, across the hall from Cyrene, and one level lower than his previous arrangements. Naturally, this means that the sounds are louder now where he is, pipes rattling above his head like a child's toy. Whatever it is, it's strong, and Mydeimos oft thinks that the Titankin below them is going to, one day, rip out the pipes and flood them all. And maybe they will all drown, and maybe that would be better.
Mydeimos does not hear it groan, however, though he listens for it every night. It is just the pipes, but one time, it bangs on the its ceiling —Mydeimos' floor— and makes the floorboards jump. It makes him shiver, too, thinking that the Titankin might smash through the floor and come to drag him down.
A week passes. And then another week. Every day is the same, and every day grows bleaker. It starts to snow on Odestris, though not a lot and not enough to settle. Mydei remembers there was snow on Jericha, soft and burning under his body. He watches the snowflakes melt on his jacket.
On the third day of the third week, it happens. It happens while he's leaned in his hard bed, head propped on his forearm, half-asleep and freezing in his boots. The hour is past midnight. It's quiet.
Until it isn't.
First, it is a small sob, so quiet that Mydeimos thinks, for a moment, that he's imagined it. Then, a sniffle, just like a child crying; this stops him in his tracks, and makes him check if he's the one crying. Silence comes for a moment and then, long and haunting like a banshee—the yowl of what could be a man, but could also be an animal.
A dam breaks—the pipes start rattling and, alongside them, a symphony of sobbing and moaning. Cyrene was wrong—the Titankin doesn't groan, it cries, and it cries powerfully. They are doleful, pathetic sounds, like the dying yelps of a trapped animal, a pain prolonged, too weak to gnaw its leg off. Its sobs are haunting, eerie, as if they echo off of the walls and straight into Mydeimos' head. Sometimes they shrink into a whimper—other times, most times, they rise up in strength, and they became yells.
It is screaming now, and Mydei cannot tell if it is out of pain or anger. He also cannot tell what compels him out of his room, lamp in hand, boots soaked with mud. When he passes by Cyrene's room, he leans his ear against the door, and hears her sobbing silently. It does not stop him, not at all, and thus Mydeimos finds the door that leads downstairs—doubtlessly into a basement.
It is unlocked, which strikes him as strange; if he were to keep an unholy creature as a pet, he would at least lock the door to its cage. That, also, is not enough to turn him back.
Mydeimos opens the door and goes down the stairs.
And he goes down the stairs.
And down.
And down.
And down some more.
And by fifteen minutes of nothing but walking down the stairs, Mydeimos starts to ask himself some questions, such as 'what?' and 'how?' and 'why?'. It is, still, not enough, because his curiosity and the creature's cries are a more potent motivator than his common sense is a detractor. His boots clink against something as he reaches the bottom. He brings his lamp down; terracotta, gray-blue with age, arranged in scales, broken in some parts. The scales shift against each other as he steps on them and towards a small hatch. He opens it, finds a small ladder, and climbs it down to what is irrevocably, undoubtedly—
An attic.
An attic. Full of all the things that attics have, such as a tilted roof and a big round window, and a clutter of objects and tchotchkes—and, oh Lord, were the terracotta scales rooftiles? He looks around. There is old furniture. Paintings of people he does not recognize, but they look wealthy. Jars of pickles and radishes and bottles upon bottles of old brandy. It is an attic. It cannot be anything but an attic, and so that means—this is a house underneath the tower and, God, it must be some thirty or so feet underground.
The house shakes with the strength of something being thrown, something big and heavy, and it snaps Mydeimos out of his rationality and back into his madness. He continues further, down from the attic, into a hallway—and if nothing before cemented that this was a mansion, this certainly does. A hallway like any other, guarded by myriad rooms.
Insanity looms over this entire place. It is nonsensical like a paradox. The deeper he goes in, the less logic reigns supreme. He sinks deeper.
Mydeimos follows the sound of the crying. He opens a door and finds himself at the precipice of a cliff, staring down into the abyss. He opens another door and is met with a wall of soft black soil. He touches it, finds it moist against his palm, and then it takes a breath. He slams the door shut.
Stairwells leading to nowhere, just up to walls and ceilings. Stairwells leading down into dark black holes. Rooms that go into other rooms and then back into the hallway. Rooms filled with strange things; jars of unusual fetuses, non-human but not recognizably animal either, glass pipes and bowls with big bottoms, a chest full of solidified shit, hard as stone. A bathroom that is nothing but sinks and tile. A room entirely made of mirrors, each of them facing each other, repeating Mydeimos' reflection infinitely, smaller and smaller, like so: Mydeimos, Mydeimos, Mydeimos, Mydeimos, Mydeimos, somebody else, Mydeimos.
He finds a real stairwell, finally, and it leads to a lower floor. He thinks the crying is coming from there, or perhaps lower still, but either way—down.
That seems to be the ground level of the mansion. A beautiful welcoming hall with twisting pillars and mosaic on the floor that once showed the image of Theseus and the Minotaur, yet now is so washed out that only the monster's anguished face is showing clearly. The crying is coming from here, without a doubt, and to be more precise—it is coming from a side room.
Mydeimos approaches with bated breath. He does not try to make sense of this house, of the rooms, of anything that is happening at all. The crying grows louder. A double-door with windows, beautiful wood. Inside, from what he can see, a lounge room or a living room, well-decorated and holding up surprisingly well considering it is an abandoned home tens of feet under the ground. He does not see anything else, however, and if the Titankin is inside, then it has tucked itself somewhere.
There is no other way—he has to go in, and Mydeimos has come too far to back up now. He does not know his way back, anyways, and so the only way is forward. He sets his lamp down. Opens up the doors. Picks up his lamp.
And steps inside.
Mydeimos thinks at first that it is a great white horse or a silver dragon. Something colossal and pale, gangling with long, strong limbs, sitting crouched on a windowsill, its knees pulled to its chest. It shivers with quiet sobs, violent and painful, its hands working over its face in uncoordinated movements, and there is a childlike fury to it, Mydei reckons, but also an adult tiredness in its shoulders. It lifts its face from its hands when it hears him enter, baring a cheek, the curve of a nose, and then—
Its eyes, brilliant, doleful, wet with tears, peeking over its forearm, fixing Mydei under its gaze and it's—
Good God, it's intelligent. There goes that sparkle in its eyes, irrevocably human, irrevocably alive, like embers fanning a flame. It unfolds itself from the crouch. First its long limbs, then its torso, and so it stands unfurling, growing taller and taller, and Mydeimos has to crane his neck to see it. It must be standing at seven feet tall, perhaps taller still.
Mydeimos drops the lamp and steps back until he hits a wall. The sound of the lamp clattering makes the Titankin reel back in fear with a shout. They stand there like that for a moment, both of them breathing hard, Mydei willing his legs to run and failing. Then, it looks back at him, and… And…
These are feelings that Mydeimos has buried a long time ago. He has learned to look the other way and disciplined his body to not react. To not want. To not desire. He has tried everything. Praying. Sleeping with women. He remembers now just how much he cried. Nothing worked, save for abstinence, and during the war… All those fleshy, naked bodies, lonesome and cold and wanting. It had been hard. But he had restrained himself.
The Titankin is naked, though not entirely. Its body is beautiful, sculpted as though from marble, strong stomach and broad shoulders. An elegant neck, big hands, stable feet. His legs seem to go on and on, and those are not clothed but rather bandaged tightly, and through the bandages he can see his powerful thighs rippling with strength. A tapered waist. Sharp hipbones. Its left arm is bandaged as well but, judging from the right arm, he can see it is well-made too, like a hero from old myths.
Its face is—oddly familiar, in a way that Mydeimos can't quite place. That, too, is sculpted by clever hands. Harmonious like a choir. A proud browbone and a straight nose, sharper at the tip, manly, and then its lips, curved at the Cupid's bow, womanly in contrast. Its eyebrows are thick, expressive, its cheekbones high and graceful. Thick eyelashes guarding clear blue eyes, such sad little things, and even its ears are perfect. A head of white hair, nape-long, though it grows in different shades of white; some sections yellower than others, nearly blonde, some more dusky, grayer.
It's—it's beautiful. He's beautiful.
Most of beautiful—and strangest—of all are the stitches running all over his body, at every joint, down his chest, over his hipbones. As his heart settles from the shock, Mydei notices that he is not entirely maggot-white, and there are parts of him that are a light, pallid brown. His right leg. One of his pectorals. His neck. It is a bloodless and deathlike color; he is a bloodless and deathlike thing, yet now he moves, coming closer.
Mydei tries to retreat closer into the wall, as if it were possible—as if any of this that he is seeing right now is possible. He cannot bear it; he looks away, eyes screwed close, sweating like a sinner in church. He is afraid. He has not been afraid for a long time.
The Titankin steps lightly when he walks, and he walks with odd curiosity, head tilting. One of his arms rises. Comes to Mydei's face.
He presses delicate fingers on the wall next to him, drags them closer and then closer still.
A cold finger touches his cheek, and Mydeimos makes a sound that he's never made before; he whimpers. He also nearly throws up. The Titankin steps back, and Mydei is not brave enough to look at him.
"…You are… scared…" he says, with difficulty, his voice raw as if it is the first time he is using it. His right arm is planted on the wall, not enough to cage him in, but rather—to support himself? To measure the distance? Mydeimos sneaks a look at his face, but just a brief one.
"Are you going to hurt me?"
"…Hurt…" he repeats, a hollow sound that means nothing to him, and then—the heat of his body is gone. Mydeimos can breathe again, and he does find his breath in heavy, rapid pants. The Titankin leaves him, turns his back to him—more of those stitches there, more pallid brown meeting rot-white. There is a library in this room, Mydei noticed now, wall to wall with books. The man picks one with awkward hands and he goes through it.
"Hurt…" he repeats, squinting at a page and bringing it closer to his face, "To c-cause pain or injury…"
'A dictionary,' Mydeimos thinks, enraptured.
"…Pain… Uh…" he browses through the book some more, "Highly unpleasant… phy-physical sen-sa-tion caused by illness or… injury. Injury…" he goes to look through the dictionary again, and Mydei, dumbly, finds courage.
"It's when somebody hits you and it feels… like it's fire. A little swollen too. Or when you are cut by a knife? Or when you uh. Fall on your knees?"
Mydei chastises himself for being stupid enough to define a word by bringing up world experiences that a Titankin trapped in a madhouse has certainly never had. What an incredible idiot, and now he's gotten the Titankin's attention back onto him. He's looking at him with big eyes, parted lips, a small breath.
"Oh," he says, "Then… I know pain. What is unpleasant?"
Something tender breaks in Mydeimos' chest. He sighs, runs his hand over his face, and straightens himself. He tells himself the Titankin is gentle. That this is alright. He approaches carefully, and the other man does not waver.
"Something unpleasant is something you do not like—oh, um, when you like something, it means you want to see it more. Or feel it more. And if you do not like something and want to never see or feel it again, that makes it unpleasant."
The Titankin nods sagely. "Pain is indeed unpleasant…"
'Yes,' he thinks, holding his breath, 'It is.'
He puts the book back on the shelf, carefully. "Then… I am not going to… hurt… you."
The Titankin hums. "So… if some things are unpleasant… Does that mean that some are… pleasant?"
He blinks, stunned, then huffs a little laugh. "That's—that's smart. Yes. Some things are pleasant, and pleasant is the word that unpleasant was built on."
The Titankin's brows furrow and he chews on his bottom lip. His eyes squint, irises moving side to side. "Then… does 'un' mean 'not'?"
He laughs, and that makes the Titankin laugh as well. Mydeimos cannot tell why this is so delightful to him, but it is nonetheless. "That's right. 'Un' is the same as 'not'."
"Then… why not say… not pleasant, instead?"
"Hmm…" Mydeimos considers it, "That's a good question. Maybe it's faster?"
"Faster…" he mumbles, and repeats 'unpleasant not pleasant unpleasant not pleasant' under his breath over and over for a while. "…I suppose… it is faster…"
He turns to the books again. Picks one out, and presents it to Mydeimos. It has a thick hardcover book, leather-bound, and on the cover there is a bird drawn with golden paint, its eyes precious blue jewels. "This book… is pleasant to me…" he opens it up for Mydei, "Because it has… pictures… of birds…"
The book indeed has hand-drawn illustration of birds, inked and painted in vibrant colors. It is a thick tome, thicker than any book Mydei's held, and it seems like every bird on the planet is in it. There are some small blurbs with the bird's scientific name, as well as it's folk name, and a bit of information about them. "This is called an encyclopedia," Mydei says, though he's only heard of them from his comrades in the army.
"En… Ency—That word is unpleasant to me..."
Mydeimos laughs, full chested, and the Titankin laughs in tow, though he seems unsure of what they are laughing about.
It is odd—oddly simple, oddly warm, and so oddly delightful that Mydei does not mind the absurdity of it, the impossibility of it. The man pieced together. The maze-like mansion, a madhouse in and of itself. The Minotaur's pained faced on the floor. The war. Oil. For a few hours, it is all unimportant. He allows himself this, selfishly. The room is warm and well-lit, which makes no sense, but none of this makes sense. He sits on the floor and the Titankin joins him with a pile of his favorite books.
The man is gentle. He is kind and curious. He has many questions. He asks Mydei if he has ever seen a bird, to which he answers yes, and then he asks him if he has ever seen a pig, to which he answers yes again, and tells him that there are pigs upstairs on these very grounds. That seems to please the Titankin as his eyes get big and his grin gets equally as big.
Mydei has some questions as well.
"Have you ever seen another person?"
"…Yes… My creator… Lycurgus…" the Titankin answers, though he seems uncomfortable with it. He shifts where he is sitting.
"Is he…" Mydei studies his face, "Unkind to you?"
"…Unkind… Not kind, I suppose… Yes, he is unkind."
"Is that why you know what pain is?"
"That is true… He was unhappy because I could not read or speak as well as he wanted to…"
Mydei quirks an eyebrow. "But to me, you speak and read well. Most people do not read at all. I only learned how to read two years ago."
The Titankin shrugs. "I do not understand it either."
"Does he… feed you? Do you eat?"
"Are you asking if I am hungry? No… not often, I feel hunger only once every few days. Maybe… if a week is seven days… Then I am hungry once a week, and Lycurgus does indeed bring me food…" he turns to look at Mydeimos, "I have noticed something… About you."
"Go on."
"Lycurgus and I are the same… I mean, we are built the same. When I look at you… I see that we are similar as well… but you are missing an arm, and I am not… Why is that?"
"Oh," Mydei's hand goes to pick at the peeling skin of his lip. "That's—it's a long story."
"I would like… to hear it."
"Do you know what… war is?" he asks, careful, and the Titankin picks up one of the books from the pile.
"Indeed I do… I have read about it in this book… It is when many men in different camps kill each other for a reason… or for none at all…"
"That's—well, that's correct enough. I was in one such war and I got injured. I was going to die, but Lycurgus picked me up and… took care of me, I suppose? My arm was badly injured and it had to be removed."
The Titankin cocks his head. "Why?"
"Well, I was asleep when it happened, so I am not sure why exactly, but—something similar happened to one my friends in the army. Usually, it is because an infection has spread and the limb has to be removed or it kills you. Uh, an infection is—" Mydeimos stumps. Looks at the ceiling and clicks his tongue. "I am not sure what it is, actually. But it is bad. And it kills people."
The Titankin huffs a laugh. "An infection is… when bacteria… which are little organ-isms you cannot see… invade your body through a… wound. And they make you feel… sick."
"Alright, since you seem to know everything, what am I still here for?" Mydeimos says, hoping the sarcasm gets across, punctuating the jest with a laugh and a playful shove.
It does land, God willing, and the Titankin laughs and shoves Mydeimos back—hard. Hard enough to topple him over. Mydei goes down with an 'ouff', which alarms the man.
"I am sorry! I did not mean to… hurt you…"
Mydei raises up, propping himself on one arm. "You haven't, don't worry, but you are a strong man and you do not seem to know your strength."
The Titankin flushes. Looks away, flustered, embarrassed. "Indeed… When I grab things… Sometimes they break…"
"You have to grab them more softly," Mydei says, straightening himself, and he reaches out.
It is madness, madness and a deep-seated desire that he wants to not speak of. It is entirely greedy, and it is unorthodox—Mydeimos reaches out and grabs the Titankin's hand. Gently. Softly. A touch that is barely there, fingers grazing. The Titankin's hands are cold, but not overly so, and it is not uncomfortable. It is indeed pleasant to hold another man's arm. The beat of Mydei's heart quickens, and doubtless there is a flush spreading on his face. He looks up at the Titankin, and the Titankin looks back.
His lips are parted, breathing softly. His pallid face colors a dim pink. He is the most beautiful thing that Mydei has ever seen, and restraint is slipping from him quickly, too quickly, and yet—he does not let go. He does not want to.
"Like this…" Mydei whispers, "You should grab things like this, and they will not break."
"This touch…" the Titankin whispers back, as if it was mimicking Mydei's tone, "It is pleasant…"
It becomes entirely too much all of a sudden. Mydeimos politely take his hand back, trying to be as gentle as possible. His heart is beating so fast he's afraid it might break out of his chest. The Titankin watches him strangely, softly, with a fond glow in his eyes. It is—unbecoming. Inappropriate. Mydei tries to tear his gaze away, to look the other way, but finds that he is unable too; perhaps, even unwilling.
"Do you…" he asks after a moment of silence, during which the Titankin has not stopped looking at him. "Do you have a name?"
"…A name…" he repeats, his eyes fliting down to his hands.
"My name is Mydeimos," he continues. The Titankin's gaze returns to him, slowly from under its lashes, his head remaining bowed.
"No name… I am… nameless…"
"Alright," Mydeimos swallows thickly, "My friend Cyrene said you might be a Titankin. A man made of marble and brought to life. Is that what you are? Do you even know?"
"Marble…? No, I am made of flesh… But I do not know… for sure what I am… I know I am not like other men… I was not born of a woman… or grew as a child… I woke up like this…"
"Alright," he says again, dumbly, "Then—I will call you Titankin for now, would that be alright?"
He watches as the Titankin grows visibly more agitated. His eyebrows twitch, his hands shake, and when Mydei brings his hand to his shoulder, the man slaps it away. He gets up from where he was sitting, throws his hands up in frustration, and groans. Slowly, he goes back to the windowsill where he was sitting. Back into his crouched position, far away and closed off, knees to his chest, face buried in his arms. Mydei's heart breaks for him.
"I apologize," he says, "I did not mean to… upset you."
The Titankin only snorts in response, hiding his face more. Silently, under his breath, he mumbles, "You may call me… Titankin…"
"Then I will do so," Mydeimos lifts himself to his feet and grabs his lamp, "I should go, but…" he looks back where he came from. The maze of horrors that he'd traversed to get here.
"You do not know your way back…" the Titankin finishes for him, "I do… Come…"
The Titankin approaches, grabs the lamp from him and offers Mydei his hand. Mydei takes it, unsure, and then they go.
The Titankin knows his way well around this mansion. Mydei does not question it as he's pulled from room to room, up staircases, down some more into twisted hallways. The house seems like it has no end. They pass through three rooms that are identical. They pass through a room full of cages, each cage housing a small pile of animal bones. He sees more of those glass pipes and bottles with big bottoms, an entire interconnected mechanism of them, in a room with big dusty tomes and drawings on the floor.
In the end, they reach the ladder to the attic.
"You go up from here… then up again…"
"I know, this is where I came from," Mydei says, "Thank you for leading me."
The Titankin blinks at him, then looks away bashfully as he hands him back his lamp. "Will you… come again?"
He takes a deep breath in. 'No,' he should say. 'No' and put this whole madness to rest. Never think of it again. Let it die in the confines of his memory, each day erasing it a little bit more, just like it erased his childhood home and his mother's face.
"Yes," he says instead, "I will, and soon. But… I do not know how to find you again. I might get lost."
"Call for me…" the Titankin says, "And I will come…"
"…Yes, I will do that," Mydeimos suddenly feels bashful as well. "I will go now, alright? I'll see you soon."
The man just nods, a little unsure, and then he turns back and leaves. Mydei watches him go until he disappears behind a door—and then, he is alone.
Well. It's time for the long trek back to the surface. Mydei puts the lamp between his teeth and he starts climbing.
After an eternity of going up, he sets down his lamp and opens the door to the servants' quarters, only to be met with Lycurgus' smiling face.
For the second time that night, Mydeimos gets startled half out of his skin. He jumps back and instinctively goes to hit, but Lycurgus ducks out of the way with.
Mydei looks at him for a moment, breathing hard, both from the scare and from the effort of going up the stairs, and then he feels a fury boil in his chest, rise up until it cooks his brain.
"You—" he says, teeth gritted, "You! That man! The man downstairs! What is he? What have you done to him?!"
"Ah…" Lycurgus chuckles, "So you have seen it… My ridiculous creation."
He cannot stand this anymore—cannot stand him or his smug face. Mydeimos drives forward into Lycurgus, pinning him against the wall. He hears Cyrene yelp and stir inside her room. He presses deeper, as if trying to crush him like a bug, and Lycurgus coughs in response to the pressure against his chest.
"What are you? What are you doing? What have you done? What is he?!"
"That thing…" Lycurgus starts, speaking with difficulty, "Is my prisoner, and my Philosopher's Stone."
"Phi—Philosopher's stone? What the fuck are you talking about?!"
Lycurgus laughs, and Mydeimos has no reason to keep this folly up. He is tired, impossibly tired. He does not understand anything anymore. He steps back, lets him go. Leans his head against the wall.
"Are you going to leave, now that you have seen it?"
"…No. But I will save up my coin, and I will leave."
"Very well. Until then, I suggest keeping away from the creature. It will only bring you sorrow."
Mydei does not answer. There is nothing to answer. Words do not mean anything anymore; the world and everything he has known about it are rendered meaningless, too. All the laws of physics. All the laws of life and death.
'No, I will not leave,' Mydeimos thinks, and another thought forms in his head: 'Not without Cyrene AND the Titankin.'
VI. CONGELATION
The visits continue, nearly daily. Mydeimos forgets to sleep. During the day, he works and during the night, he ventures into the underground and calls upon the Titankin.
"Titankin!" he shouts, and he waits, and soon enough, the man appears, corpselike and beautiful. He leads Mydei by the hand to his lounge, there where his books are, and they spend most of their time reading together.
Mydeimos teaches him some things, such as grammar and new words. The Titankin teaches him some new things as well, things that he's read in books. Strange, esoteric things. He shows him a book written in a foreign language, gibberish to Mydei's eyes, illustrated with animals that could not possibly exist; unicorns and krakens, werewolves, dragons, six-limbed monkeys and flying whales. A Bible as old as the Lord Himself. Children's toys made out of mother-of-pearl and rings with stones as big as quail eggs.
They laugh together a lot. Mydei feels as though he can truly be himself, as though it is alright, normal and natural, to reach out and touch the skin of another man. And, thankfully, the Titankin loves touch, craves it as one might crave water. He leans his head on Mydei's shoulder, grabs his hand and brings it to his cheek and nuzzles deep into his palm. He runs hot, very hot, just like his father's furnace once did.
Their favorite pastime is wrestling, and they are evenly matched, all things considered; the Titankin has the size advantage, but he moves much slower than Mydei does. Mydeimos, by comparison, is quicker, more slippery. They keep track of their tussles' results in an old notebook—the Titankin has won thirteen times, and Mydei has won fourteen. Truth is, Mydei just likes feeling his body pressed up against him, warm and strong, likes to see the Titankin pinned underneath him, and equally likes to see him loom over him with a cocky grin on his face as he pins Mydei down.
Their second favorite pastime is reading erotic books, of which there is an abundance of in the old library. They range from tame bodice-rippers starring highborn ingenues and the rough-handed men that steal them away, to disgusting, perverted pornography with whips, bodily fluids, and hairy armpits. Some of them are even illustrated, beautifully drawn curvaceous women getting fucked every which way by gentlemen with twisted mustaches. One of them has a young princess riding an unicorn's horn. The other, imported from the East, has a woman laying down with an octopus.
Mydeimos and the Titankin spend their nights pointing at hairy genitalia and giggling like schoolboys until they are pink in the face. They read these books aloud, and they like put on little performances too, like so:
"Sir, no, you must not~! We are in public… what if my father sees us~?" Mydei pitches his voice up, imitating the young heiress protagonist.
"I do not… care… for I desire… you!" the Titankin is a less than stellar actor, but he still talks in a gruff, raspy voice as he plays the lustful pirate king. It only makes Mydei laugh harder and, God, he cannot remember the last time he laughed this much—or at all. There was little to laugh about in the trenches.
One night, Mydeimos picks up a book that catches his eye; a green hardcover and, painted in gold, a man and a women are embracing. The title reads 'Romeo and Juliet'. The prose proves a bit too difficult for the Titankin to act out, so it falls to Mydei to narrate the writing. They are seated on the floor like so, with Mydei sitting between the man's spread legs. The Titankin is holding the book, arms snaked around Mydeimos' side, and he angles it up so Mydei can read and they can both see the occasional illustration. He peers at the book from over Mydei's shoulder, and the more he reads, the more the Titankin's heavy head rests against his.
"Why is it written… like this…?" The Titankin asks at some point.
"It's supposed to be a play," Mydei answers, "That means people acting it out on a stage. Now be quiet and listen."
He turns the page and clears his throat, "Romeo says, If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, and he grabs Juliet's hand—"
The Titankin exhales, and Mydeimos allows himself to think it is wistful. His free hand twitches at Mydei's side, then slowly he lifts it up, and finally brings it to rest on top of Mydei's. It is a gentle, bashful touch, and the Titankin hides more of his face in Mydei's locks. He can feel like breath against his neck, and Mydei swallows thickly, perhaps trying to swallow down his treacherous heart.
"My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender k-kiss… Uh, Juliet says, Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this, and she presses her palm against Romeo's," Mydei continues, and he does not recognize the soft sound that leaves his lips when the Titankin does just as Juliet did, turning Mydei's hand over and pressing his cold palm against his. Mydeimos dares to sneak a look, just a quick one, at the man by his side—all he sees is that shock of white hair as the Titankin nuzzles deeper into his shoulder. Mydei realizes, dumbly, that this is a sort of odd embrace they have found themselves in and he realizes, horrifyingly, that he does not mind at all being held by a man, especially if it is the Titankin.
He turns back to the book. "For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Romeo says, Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? And Juliet says, Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer," Mydeimos stirs in his seat when he feels the Titankin press deeper into his back, and something else stirs too, in his stomach and in his chest. "R-Romeo says, O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."
"Are they… going… to kiss…?" the Titankin mumbles into his side, and Mydei feigns annoyance. "Shut up," he says, "Just listen."
Mydei clears his throat. "Juliet says, Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake, and Romeo says, Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take, and he—he kisses her indeed, and then he says, Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged."
The Titankin hums at his back. He moves his head to look at Mydei, and when Mydei looks back, he sees the look on his face raw and vulnerable, a little embarrassed. He is pink to the tip of his ears, and there is heat emanating from his cheeks—and for what? This is not the first time they have read about people kissing, though this is by far the tenderest of kiss—even Mydei is pink-faced with it, though perhaps the man can be to blame for this. The Titankin puts down the book, and his strong arm comes around Mydei's waist, squeezes it and pulls him closer. He allows it, though he does not have to—he allows it before he likes it, because the Titankin is so beautiful tonight, and he is so, so lonely.
Mydei breathes very slowly, suspended in the place where their eyes meet. He blinks—the Titankin blinks back at him, and then he speaks.
"Mydeimos… These past few weeks… Since we have started reading, I… have been thinking…"
"That's no good," Mydei whispers, playful, and it makes the Titankin huff a laugh.
"We have been reading about… men… kissing women… But I do not understand… Because I think about kissing women… and I feel nothing at all… but…"
He squeezes Mydei closer to him. Rubs his cheek against his. "There is this drawing here… A naked man… drawn in a circle… I have spent… many hours looking at him… And whenever I see him… there is a tightness in my stomach…"
Mydei's mouth goes dry, and dread sets over him like snowfall over Jericha. The right thing to do here is to politely part. To sit the Titankin down and explain why desire between two men is wrong, unholy, and unnatural. He ought to leave him innocent, unstained by sin unlike he. His hands are dirty, dirty with men, their blood—their arousal, too. A youth spent sinning. The Titankin, on the other hand, is born new and pure, an adult man without any of the things that make adult men evil. He is looking at Mydei with big wet eyes, blue and gleaming with life, and Mydei does not know how to tell him that out of the two of them, he is the corpse while the Titankin is life.
Mydeimos blinks slowly. He feels his heartbeat in his stomach. He should leave. He has to leave, if he has any scruples.
He stays instead.
"…Go on," Mydei prompts, and the Titankin blushes deeper. His ears are so red and so cute.
"I understand why that is of course… I understand… desire… and arousal… I have memories… of laying with people… though I do not know where they come from… But I do not understand… Why I do not desire women… and I desire you, instead…"
"M-me?" Mydei croaks out, and his body temperatures rises so high and so quickly that he worries for the well-being of his brain.
"When we read these books… I wish to do… what the man does to the lady… to you… and nobody else…"
Mydeimos tries to mask his embarrassment with a nervous laugh. "C-certainly that is only because I am the only man you know, Titankin…"
"No… You are not the only man I know… I know Lycurgus as well…"
"Well, yes, but he is like your father—"
"Indeed… but… the men from the books… I like them, yes, but if they were real… I would not like to lay with them… I would only like to lay with you…"
"That's—"
"I see… in my dreams… Memories of sleeping with women… and with men as well… and when I wake—"
"I got it!" Mydei stops him there because he cannot stand it anymore. He squirms and stirs until the Titankin lets him go, and he shuffles away to put some healthy distance between the two of them. The man looks like a kicked puppy, big eyes and pouty lips at all. The room is all of a sudden too hot for Mydei, and he starts to unbutton his heavy jacket. He pushes it aside and runs a hand over his face.
"What exactly are you asking me?"
"I am asking… why I desire men… you, most of all… and not women…"
He should tell him. He should tell him that it is a desire born of sin. That it is wrong, deeply wrong. He should tell him to bury these feelings deep and never think of them again.
Mydei's indecision and cowardice must be written on his face, because the Titankin falters and pulls back. He does that thing he always does when he's upset, curls into himself and hides his face in his arms.
"You are looking at me strangely… There must be… something wrong with me…"
'Yes,' he wants to say, 'Yes, there is, so stop it,' he wants to say it very badly. Wants to drag him down with him, somewhere in the pits of hell, somewhere cold and damp and miserable.
And yet, when Mydei looks at him, he finds something sincere and genuine and very, very beautiful. Something honest and earnest and timid. Something that grows upwards proud and straight, not crooked like he. And he sees this, all of this, this soft and tender beast, and his heart fractures.
"No, no, there is—there is nothing wrong with you, not even the nature of your being, you are—" Mydei swallows, "You are perfect. Some people… simply are like that. It does not mean it is bad. Just… not common."
The Titankin peeks at him. His eyes are bloodshot where tears have gathered in them. "And you… are you like that… too…?"
Mydeimos chokes back a sob. They cannot both be crying right now—he has to be strong where the Titankin is not.
'No. I am not. Please leave me alone. Never speak of this. Never speak to me again, for that matter. I never want to see you again.'
"Yes," he says, feeling the weight of the world lift from his shoulders, "I am. I have always been."
His hand goes to cover his mouth, and Mydei is biting his tongue to stay the tears, but then he feels warmth on his cheeks and thinks—this is not working. This is not working, and the Titankin's eyes study him closely, too closely.
His voice is quiet when he speaks, "…Am I not… comely enough… for you…?"
Mydei can't help but laugh.
"You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen."
The Titankin gifts him a small smile. Something delicate. "Then…" his eyes flit to the book, there where Romeo and Juliet both laid forgotten on the floor, "Can you… kiss me…? I would like if you… kissed… me…"
Mydeimos is not sure of what happens next. There is a blur of motion and the sound of floorboards squeaking. There is the impossible warmth of a body against his. Strong hands on his waist. He blinks, and finds himself with his back to the bookshelf and the Titankin before him, his arm wrapped around the man's neck. His hand finds the soft, fine hairs at his nape, and when he caresses them, the Titankin shakes and shivers. His pretty mouth opens around a soft sigh and he leans nearer, nearer into Mydei's space, until their lips are so close they're breathing in each other's mouths. The look on the man's face is intense and burning, as if he can see nothing but Mydeimos—and he sees him entirely too well. Suddenly, Mydei feels naked and small, and he hates that he loves this feeling, this vulnerability, this rawness.
Mydei pulls him by the nape. The Titankin comes willingly, and then presses closer, closer still until he is slotted between Mydei's thighs, and then—
Whatever distance is between them disappears.
The Titankin's lips are chapped but not unpleasant. His breath is sweet-smelling and his mouth is even sweeter. Mydei grabs a handful of hair, pulls him deeper into the kiss, as if he could unhinge his maw and swallow him whole. A wet and needy sound. He is not sure which of them made it—he does not care either, because the night is warm and beautiful, and he is kissing a handsome man.
The Titankin breaks the kiss first. He reels back just a centimiter, enough for his eyes to find Mydei's ravished face, the wrecked expression on it. One of his hands cradle his cheek, thumb swiping across his cheekbone, and Mydei recognizes this as a move from one of the books they have read. He laughs. The Titankin laughs as well. His long neck cranes to dip back in.
He is not sure of how long they kiss, but each time they break away, Mydei is utterly breathless. He chases after the Titankin's lips like a thirsty man chases after water. He gives him a peck, chaste, then a million more, until the Titankin is giggling. Mydei has something else to show him—
Greedily, he deepens their kiss, licks across his mouth with a clever tongue and bites down his bottom lip. This is a move he learned from one of the books. It makes the Titankin moan, loud and unrestrained, and Mydei can feel his hardness against his thigh when he grinds it against him. The man grabs his face, pleasantly forceful, hooks a thumb into his mouth (that is certainly not something out of their books) and opens Mydei's jaw like that, all so he can lean in and lick into his mouth. He finds the slide of tongue against tongue, and then the little imp catches Mydei's tongue between his teeth and bites down.
It is Mydei's turn to moan and squirm now; little 'ah's and 'oh's. In this, the Titankin is oddly experienced, and Mydei wonders if it might be something about his past life. He also finds out that he does not care.
He is not sure how long they kiss for. An eternity, maybe, but Mydeimos is the one that puts a stop to it; going any further now would be too much.
They look at each other, simply, both of them expecting the other to speak up first. Mydei is still finding his courage when the Titankin's voice breaks through the silence,
"Was that… good…?" he asks, and Mydei smiles at him.
"Yes," he says, going for another kiss, "It was."
VII. CIBATION
Mydeimos and the Titankin become something like husband and wife, or rather the profane imitation of such a communion.
He spends hours tracing the odd lines of the man's body, running his hand over every stitch, laying his palm heavy against his hard stomach. He likes seeing him squirm and jump, and so he likes kissing his lovely neck, long and sensitive, and the underside of his ears.
The Titankin is a soft lover. They do not fuck, but Mydeimos cannot say they are far from it, either. One night, the Titankin requests that Mydei take his clothes off, so that he may see him nude as well. Mydeimos complies—of course he does—and with some help, he takes off his heavy jacket, his undershirt, his boots, and finally, his trousers.
He stands naked in front of the Titankin, baring a soft underbelly and ugly flesh. Scars from old bullet wounds. Scars from old childhood injuries. And most vulnerable of all, the site of his amputation. Mydei touches it anxiously.
"It is not pretty to look at, is it?" he asks, feeling the nub.
The Titankin blinks. "It is part of you… It is indeed… pretty to look at… Can… can I touch you… May I…?"
Mydei does not answer—simply grabs his hand and brings it to his chest, so the Titankin may feel how fast his heart is beating. He smiles, lets himself tumble into his arms, and he breathes sweetly against his lips as his hands start to wander.
("I think… I am… in love… with you…" the Titankin had said one night, drunk on Mydei's kisses, and Mydei replied, "I think I am in love with you, too." )
Mydeimos is spellbound. Hypnotized, even. He does not eat, he does not sleep, he works until his back breaks and spends his night tangled up with the Titankin. He realizes, vaguely in the back on his head, that there is something wrong about all of this—the underground mansion twisting like a hellish maze, the man in his arms stitched together. Mydei does not find the strength to care anymore. The truth, whatever it is, is world-breaking, and he has had enough of world-breaking truths. It is unimportant. All the strange things in the mansion, Lycurgus, the Titankin's off-color body parts. They are all simply beautiful, to him.
The closer him and the Titankin get, the more distant Cyrene grows. She evades his looks, slips away from his attempts to strike a conversation. She always seems to have the perfect excuse on hand. During the day, she is working, and at night when he returns, she pretends to sleep. He know it is a lie—he sees the dark circles under her eyes every morning.
One day, he has had enough. The absence of Cyrene's friendship is like a cut in his side. After feeding the cattle, he barges into the tower's small kitchen, where he finds her washing the dishes from Lycurgus' lunch.
"Cyrene," he says, trying to be authorative, but it is not enough to move her attention to him.
"Mydeimos," she replies in much the same tone, "I am busy."
Mydei huffs at her, frustrated, and he bullies his way to her side. "Alright then, let me help you." He grabs a plate, sets it aside, turns on the faucet, and starts running it under the water.
Cyrene huffs back. "You can hardly wash the dishes with one arm."
"I'll manage," he bites back, now feeling particularly prickly.
They go on like this for a while. Her washing the dishes, him doing something like washing them next to her. When all the plates are sparkling and Cyrene tries to sneak away out of the kitchen, he stops her.
"Cyrene, what is this? Why are you mad at me?"
She cannot bear to look at him, Mydei knows that, sees it in the way she cranes her neck away from him. Cyrene sighs, "I am not mad at you, Mydei, I am… scared. Of you. For you."
"You are scared of me? Why?"
"Not of you, not really, rather—" she sighs, throws down the wet rag she's been holding. Cyrene gestures broadly, vaguely. "I am scared of what you are doing. Every night you go downstairs and—God only knows what you are doing! For hours at a time! With that thing!"
Cyrene breathes out deeply. Evens out her voice. "You are under a spell, Mydeimos."
"Reney, that's ridiculous—"
"You do not eat. You do not sleep. You've lost weight. You do not answer when I call you, have you even realized that?"
"I…" Mydei looks away. Blushes. "You would not understand."
"Make me understand, then. Please."
He shuffles on his feet. Cannot bear to meet her gaze. "That… thing, as you call him, he is… different, Cyrene, he is good. Good in a way few men are nowadays, he is—gentle and kind and so curious about everything. He is pure and… untainted by sin. Around him, I feel unburdened. I feel as though I can be myself."
Cyrene looks to him. Studies his face deeply, her eyes gazing upon every inch of his visage. She squints, then she takes a step back, and breathes out. "God," she sighs. "You are in love with him."
Mydei swallows, crosses his arm at his chest. "And if I were? Would that be so awful?"
"To be in love with another man? No. You would be surprised as to how common it in in the circles I ran, those libertine merchants' sons. But Mydeimos, you are not in love with a man—you are in love with… Whatever he is! Not a man at all!"
"He is a man!" Mydeimos insists, "And better than any other man I have ever met! Cyrene, if only you met him—"
"Are you suggesting I go down with you?"
"I… yes, I am. I have been talking to him about you, and he is excited to meet you. He is… excited at the prospect of a little sister…"
"A little—Am I the little sister?"
"He only knows of human relationships from books, and from what I've told him about you, well, he seems to think you fit the archetype of a little sister and he is…" Mydei sighs, a little defeated, "He really wants to see you, Cyrene."
Cyrene looks at him, incredulous, mouth agape, and then—her expression breaks like dawn, and she laughs, wild and unrestrained. "Me, the little sister archetype, oh—Oh, Mydei, this is ridiculous! This is all so ridiculous!"
"Will you come with me? Tonight?"
"Hah… Haha…" Cyrene's laughter dies down. She wipes her eyes and looks at him, serious as stone, "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I have stayed my curiosity for so long," she explains, "And I have stayed good and far away from everything that is happening here. And if I indulge in my curiosity, the dam will break, and then I will not be able to stop pursuing the truth."
"…I don't understand. Do you not want to know?"
"I do want to know! Desperately so! That is exactly the issue—if I start, I won't stop, and I think I am better off not knowing!"
Mydei scoffs at her. "Nonsense. You are better off here, all alone, working endlessly for a man that you despise? Who knows what we might find downstairs, Cyrene. Perhaps, with the help of the Titankin, we will be able to run away. Perhaps we will find something wonderful and exciting!"
"Since when are you a person that cares for excitement?"
"Since I've met that man. Cyrene, come on. You would love him."
She sighs. Runs her hands through her thick black hair. "Mydeimos, you are tempting me, and you are making some very good points as well. Cease at once."
Mydei smiles, slinks over to her and grabs her arm, gently. "Come on…" he coos, "Come on, you want to, I can see it on your face."
"Of course I want to!" she hisses, "Of course I do, you idiot, you—Ugh! Alright! Fine! I will come with you tonight! And you better hope that your lover behaves!"
Mydei laughs, wraps his arm around her and lifts her up, spins her around. Her hair swooshes around them like a dark blanket and, when he puts her back down, she is breathless and laughing as well. "You will enjoy it, I promise," he says, and Cyrene just tuts at him and shoos him away.
That night, before they venture downwards, Mydeimos briefs Cyrene on everything she has to know about the underground mansion.
"An underground mansion," she repeats, "Tens of feet under the tower, roof and all, filled with empty rooms, stairs that go nowhere, and weird artifacts."
"Yes, that is all correct."
She crosses her arms. "Right, of course. The underground mansion that is tens of feet under the tower, filled with empty rooms, stairs that go nowhere, and weird artifacts. That is like saying, water is wet and the sky is blue."
"I know it sounds strange—"
"It does not sound strange, Mydeimos, it is strange. It is a madhouse! It is folly!"
"Why are you surprised? Did you not say yourself that you met Lycurgus' daughter, and she talked of sorcery and alchemy?"
"…Bored wealthy people love talking about the occult! That does not make it true!" she throws her hands up, exasperated, and he is starting to feel equally exasperated.
"Well, it is true," he says, and now he realizes that they are arguing in front of the door to the basement, which just makes this all the more ridiculous, "Are you going to go down or not?"
"…I've made it this far," she grumbles.
Mydei takes that as an enthusiastic 'yes', and he swings the door open.
Halfway through the first descent, he hears Cyrene breathe out deeply next to him. Sees her shoulders relax and the hold on the arm go lax. By the time they reach the attic, there is a familiar hazy look on her face.
"Do you understand now?" he asks, quietly, and she nods absentmindedly.
"I do. It is charmed."
"Are you scared?"
"Terrified," she answers, "Yet still, I cannot stop."
By the time they climb out of the attic, Cyrene is dizzy on her feet. She sways and holds onto his arm. "It smells so good here…" she mumbles, "Like rose oil. Do you not think so? "
Mydei has never smelled rose oil before, but he sniffs the air nonetheless—it does smell faintly rosy. "I suppose it does, a little bit."
"My father used to sell rose oil to ladies… " Cyrene sighs, wistfully, "Nevermind that. How do we find him? Your beau."
He flushes. "I will call for him and he will come. He will lead us deeper into the mansion, to this lounge where we read books."
"Read books…" she laughs, faraway, "How quaint."
Mydei clears his throat, inhales deeply, and calls out for him—"Titankin!" he shouts, and he feels Cyrene startle next to him.
It takes the Titankin a while, it always does. But after ten or so minutes pass, Mydei hears the sounds of his heavy footsteps. His heart starts beating in his throat, pleasantly so, making him as giddy as a blushing maiden. Heat rises to his face. Next to him, Cyrene stirs. Breathes heavily. "Cyrene," he whispers, "He does not look… as a regular man would. Please do not be afraid of him."
It does not seem to do much to comfort her. She presses closer to her side, nearly hiding behind him, and—
The Titankin always does this. He peeks his handsome head from behind a corner first, and only when his face lights up with recognition at Mydei's form does his body follows. He does this now, too, and so he stands in front of him and Cyrene, glorious and corpselike. His lack of clothing makes his nature all the more obvious; the parts of him stitched together, colorful like a calico cat, white in some parts, pallid yellow-brown in others, and the rest, an eerie light lavender.
Something clatters to the floor. Cyrene drops the lamp. Her knees go weak and buckle next to Mydei, and she falls down, her hands coming to hide her face, to shield her eyes from the sight. She screams.
"Aa… AHH!!"
At this, the Titankin spooks as well. He moans loudly, stretched out, and he topples backwards, his back hitting a wall—he, too, shields his face, and his movements are almost uncoordinated. He buries his head in his arms and folds forward into himself, trying to make himself small and nonthreatening.
This is a disaster. First, Mydei crouches down next to Cyrene. She's sobbing into her hands, quietly. "Cyrene…" he whispers, rubbing her back. "Cyrene, it's alright—"
"N-no…" she hiccups, "This death—This death frightens me!"
"Titankin—" and Mydei turns to him, "You can come."
"I… frightened… her…" he mumbles, raking his hands through his hair as if he wished to pull it out.
"No, no, it's not that, it's just—you are different, and sometimes, things that are different are a little scary at first," Mydei leans into Cyrene's space to whisper, "Cyrene, please, just look at him—he means well, and he is good-natured."
He hears the floorboards creaking under a heavy weight, and the heat of the Titankin's body approaching—the air is nearly suffocating. He crouches down, low to where both Cyrene and Mydei have fumbled on the floor, and he watches her, silent, holding his breath. Cyrene whimpers, tries to retreat more into the floor as if she could melt away through the wood and into the lower levels.
"Cyrene…" Mydei whispers, "Look at him. Please, just look at him."
Through the dark curtain of her hair, her black eyes seem as though they were polished onyxes, shining brilliantly with tears, blurred like a watercolor painting. She rises her gaze and looks—onyx to blue, her face to the Titankin's. Her lips part over a small gasp, her eyes widen and then, as if spellbound, she twists around to get a better look at him. "God, Mydeimos, you were right," she mutters, "He is beautiful…"
She reaches out first. An unsure hand, pointed stretched out. The Titankin mirrors her movement, leaning closer, and when their fingers touch in the middle, when the distance disappears—they both pull back as if burned, startled. Cyrene cradles her hand to her chest. The Titankin does the same.
Then—laughter. Sweet, stumbling, trembling. Cyrene shivers next to Mydei with giggles, her grin wide and bright, tears streaming down her face. "Look at you…" she murmurs, both with fascination and with fondness, "You are…"
She shifts to get a better look. The Titankin does not seem to know what is happening, and so he pulls back a little and looks at Mydei for confirmation. Mydeimos just nods at him, curt, and the Titankin eases up. Puts his guard down, and allows Cyrene to look.
"Mydei, he is…" her hands hover over him, unsure of where to touch first, tears streaming down her face, "Horrifying. A mutant, but… Titankin, you are a miracle…"
"A… miracle…?"
"You!" Her eyebrows shoot up, "You really are intelligent, you are—"
Her hands land square on his shoulders, feeling the strong muscle there. "You are alive," she says, full of wonder, "You are alive."
"I am… alive…"
"You think… your limbs have coordination… You speak too, and Mydei has told me you read as well!" she laughs, but weirdly enough, she cries even harder. "This is horrible. This is wonderful!"
The Titankin seems ever more confused with her. He looks back at Mydei, as if Mydei has any answer. He just gestures broadly and mouths, 'she's just like that'.
"I hear you cry, Titankin," she says, "I have heard you cry every night since you opened your eyes. I have imagined you many nights. Curiosity has eaten at me until I was left as nothing but bones… Yet even in my wildest imaginations, I could have never imagined you like this."
The Titankin blushes, looks away bashfully, "Like… this…?"
Cyrene runs her hands down to his elbows. "I imagined you… mighty and powerful, yes, and you are those things, but I did not imagine you so—timid. You have gentle hands, though they are cold, and your existence is a miracle and a sin as well. That makes you more man, I think."
"I do not… understand…"
"Us humans are born bearing the original sin of Adam and Eve. You do not bear that sin, for you are not made of woman, yet…" she crooks her head, "You bear Lycurgus' sin, an original sin of your own. So, you are just like any other man."
"I have… sinned…?"
"You have not sinned. You are innocent, but your forefather has sinned, and we bear our forefathers' sins," she looks at Mydei, knowingly—this pawn of war, "We are alike in that. Every birth is a miracle but also a sin. God almighty! You are a man!"
He smiles at her, nervous, unsure, "I… am…?"
"Man," she says, "Why do you cry at night? Why do you bang the pipes?"
"I…" his expression sours, drops down into dolefulness, "I… feel… an emptiness in my chest…" His hand rests over his heart, "A painful… emptiness… and it hurts… and it makes me… Hnggh… I do not know how else… to get rid of it…"
Her eyes soften. She lurches forward and presses her head against his chest. "In your chest, I hear… a beating heart, though beating faintly… And in your eyes I see," she looks up at him, "Oh! An ocean of sadness! Poor thing, you—" she locks into a particular spot on his forearm. Cyrene grabs it and pulls it forward, twists it so she can get a better look. "You are hurt!"
Mydei can see it now, too. He grabs the lamp from the floor and approaches, casting the three of them in yellow light. There on the Titankin's arm is a bruise, new and red and furious—it is big, stretching nearly from his elbow to his wrist. The Titankin wrenches free from Cyrene's hold. The bruise must be tender, painful, and yet Mydeimos also thinking that he looks ashamed.
"Titankin," he says, approaching him, "Who did this to you? What happened?"
The man moans and shuffles away, trying to hide himself. Mydei follows—he always does. "It's alright," he murmurs, trying to comfort, "You can tell us."
Cyrene hurries up to them. She grabs the lamp from Mydei and that frees up his only hand—he uses it to touch the Titankin's hair, then his cheek and, finally, the side of his neck. The touch proves useful—it grounds him, calms him down enough for him to talk. The Titankin wipes away his pretty tears.
"…Lycurgus…" he mutters, "I dropped… a barrel of rose oil… and he… he became very mad with me, so…"
The Titankin holds up his arm, showing off the bruise more.
"That man!" Cyrene huffs, "That despicable man!"
Mydei could kill Lycurgus, he really could, and by the looks of it, so could Cyrene. Her comely face is streaked with a deep frown, and her hand trembles where it's holding the lamp. "Here," she says, grabbing Mydei by the shoulder and pushing him closer to the Titankin, "Mydeimos will kiss it better!"
"Kiss it… better…?"
"When somebody you care for kisses your wound, it eases the pain," she clarifies. The concept of that seems to amuse the Titankin, a small smile spreading on his face, and he holds up his arm for Mydei.
Mydei, well—what kind of man would turn this opportunity down? He cranes his neck and presses his lips to the Titankin's bruise, leaving a small, chaste kiss there. It makes the both of them giggle, and the Titankin is so pretty when he laughs. He then holds out his arm for Cyrene.
"My turn?" she fakes a gasp, leans down, and—"Mwaaaah!"
She makes a loud, exaggerated wet sound. It makes the Titankin laugh even harder.
Mydei is glad, and impossibly fond.
VIII. SUBLIMATION
Cyrene and the Titankin get along like bread on butter, surprisingly so, and they do fall into a dynamic akin to something like siblings—though, Mydei reckons, Cyrene is more of a big sister. The Titankin does not seem to mind, though, and he plays the part of the perfect little brother—endlessly annoying, he is prone to teasing her and pulling on her pigtails. Literally pulling her pigtails sometimes, making her twist around in anger and playfully slap his hands away. She chases him around the lounge, both laughing wildly, while Mydei watches and smiles—when the tides turn and it's the Titankin's turn to chase her, suddenly the game is a lot less fun for her.
She seems endlessly fascinated by the Titankin—by his being, by his goodness and, more silently, by his creation. The Titankin, too, shares much of the same fascination with her. He plays with her hair, asks her questions about a lady's life, about her travels throughout all of Amphoreus. Cyrene is different from Mydei; she laughs easier, carries herself with more confidence, more boldness. She is quick-witted and prone to jesting—she brings novelty to the Titankin's monotone life.
Cyrene teaches the both of them how to dance. She used to be a merchant's daughter—this means that she has been trained in some ladylike arts, for the sole reason of keeping up appearances in high society. She tells them of the time her father had her cook breakfast, lunch, and supper the entire day and, at night, she had to dance and play the harp for a viscount. She is a graceful dancer, swift and elegant yet still athletic. The Titankin and Mydei on the other hand, well… Mydei has regained some of his balance since his amputation, but that does not change the fact that he has two left feet. The Titankin is no better—he is as tall as a young pine tree and as awkward as a newborn deer. He does not waltz, he stomps, and most of their dance lessons end up with Cyrene pink from laughter and the men pink from embarrassment. The Titankin steps on his foot hard one time during this folly and Mydei limps for two days.
With her around, they do not read books anymore; instead, they listen to her storytelling. She tells them tales of kind old wizards and pointy-eared elves, of evil dragons that talk and the brave men that defeat them. She tells them of magic princesses that change the fate of the world, of a ship that sails through the sea of stars, of innocent maidens and sweet romances. Fantastical realms where justice reigns supreme, beautiful Fairy Queens of the Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter Courts, and knights with armors so polished an entire field of flowers is reflected into them.
She is equally talented at tragedies—men that tried to touch the sun, sorceresses taking revenge on their husbands by slaying their own children, doomed romances, warriors that go mad and slaughter everything they loved, kings and their self-fulfilling prophecy. Her stories often make the Titankin laugh until tears, but just as common is the sight of him weeping silently in sorrow. His favorite tale is of Theseus and the Minotaur. The first time he heard Cyrene tell it, he kindly asked her to change the ending. Now, the story ends with Theseus rescuing the Minotaur and sailing away together to a kinder, happier life.
All in all, nights pass sweetly in their company. Cyrene does not spend as much time downstairs as Mydeimos does, but she does not stop him from going, either. He wishes she could stay down there forever, always in that warm embrace—Cyrene, on the other hand, is more resistant to the beckoning of the manor. She remains suspicious of it and she upholds her belief that it is charmed in some way, that it is under a spell that attracts people and traps them in sweetness.
Thusly, at her behest, the three of them venture out into the mansion, where they see strange and stranger things. Ungodly things. Melted black candles wrapped in leaves, a cat's head connected by wires to its body, threads of fine gold. An aquarium filled with sour-smelling piss. Several wooden planes, tall as a man, showing the inside of the human body—on one of them, the nervous system, on another, the blood vessels, and on the third, organs. When Mydei touches the liver, he finds it soft and warm. No less than seven petrified, two-headed human fetuses, arranged in a circle.
"This house…" Mydei mumbles on one such adventure, "It's very strange, is it not?"
"…I have not known any other house… And so, I cannot tell if it is strange or not… It is quite normal to me…"
"Well, of course," Cyrene says, "But still, do you not feel it is evil?"
"Evil…?"
"Evil is—" she starts, but the Titankin cuts her off.
"I know what evil is… I am… thinking… Evil… hmm…" The Titankin chews on his lip as he ponders it; he does that a lot. "I do not believe it is evil… I believe it simply is… Though it is enchanted... and a conduit, too."
Mydeimos drops the tome he was holding. "Enchanted?" he says, and at the same time Cyrene asks, "A conduit for…?"
"Ah… Too many questions… at once…"
"Alright, one at a time," Cyrene clears her throat, "What is it a conduit for?"
"Magic… and… alchemy…"
Mydeimos tries very hard to keep his composure. When he feels his knees go weak, he leans against Cyrene, and he tries to breathe out evenly. "Right," she says, trying to sound as normal as possible, "What do you mean by that?"
"It has been… for many, many years… a place of power.… And thus, the power seeped into its very walls… Because of that… this house… makes sorcery and alchemy… more potent…" he says, and then hums thoughtfully, "It has been… hundreds of years, maybe even more… since the man that built this house… laid the foundation of sorcery within it…"
It is all too hot all of a sudden. Mydei starts to unbutton his jacket. Next to him, Cyrene shivers. Says a small prayer under her breath and clasps her hands at her chest.
"Who is that man?" Mydei prompts.
"He is called… Anaxagoras… and he is... eternal… He is my creator's friend…"
"That's—" Cyrene's eyes widen, "That is Lycurgus' patron. The man that funds him!"
"Perhaps so…"
Mydei looks at Cyrene. She looks back at him, just as dumbfounded—then, she turns back to the Titankin. "How do you know this?"
"A young woman visited me… after my awakening… She had brown hair… and told me things… Though, I think she may have been… talking to herself… I do not think she knew I could understand…"
"Were her eyes green?" Cyrene grows more and more agitated.
"Green… Yes… Indeed, they were green…"
"That's—" she snaps her fingers and tugs on Mydei's sleeve, "Castorice, Lycurgus' daughter. It must be!"
"This is too much," Mydei declares, and he pulls out a wooden chair to sit on. "It would be better if we just stopped—"
"No," Cyrene says, equal parts frightened and determined, "Titankin, you said it was enchanted. How so?"
"The green-eyed girl… She came down here to enchant the place… And she talked to me, then… She seemed very… melancholy… as if she did not want to do this…"
"I knew it," Cyrene breathes out. She leans heavily against an old nightstand, rattling and knocking down the tchotchkes on it, "So, she enchanted this place. She is a sorceress, or a witch. What did she do? Do you know?"
"She was mumbling to herself… She said… she wanted this to be a gentle place of rest… One that I might enjoy… I do not understand what she meant…"
Mydeimos has never sweated this much before in his life.
Him and Cyrene share a look.
"I called it—did I not call it? When I first came down here, I told you, it is charmed."
Mydeimos sighs, long-suffering, and entirely too exhausted for this. "You did, Cyrene, you did," he concedes, throwing his arm up.
She looks at him with an intense fire in her gaze; something equal parts scared and enraged. "So? What do you think?" Cyrene asks, and he wonders if it is a rhetorical question.
"My entire world and my understanding of what is possible and impossible is being upheaved right now, so I am not thinking of much," he responds, "What do you think?"
"I think," she straightens herself and pats down her skirt, "That we both desperately need a good night's sleep. Titankin, would you be a sweetheart and lead us back?"
Mydeimos feels like he can breathe only once he is above, back into the twisted safety of the tower. He is tired down to his, his mind is blank, his back hurts—everything hurts, his head most of all. When he tries to go to his room, quietly and without saying goodbye, he feels Cyrene's hand grab his arm. She pulls him back, forces him to look at her. Her gaze is soft. Apologetic, even. Her eyes are kind, doe-like, pretty, and her eyelashes are wet with unshed tears.
"Do you think that…" Mydei looks down at her. He feels his hand tremble. Only one question haunts his mind, "Do you think that my feelings and your friendship for him are not genuine? That it is the result of some spell?"
Cyrene takes a moment to answer. She hums thoughtfully, averts her gaze to the walls as though they could hold the answers. Then, sharply, it is back on him.
"I believe they are genuine, actually," she says, "I do not believe the spell affects your feelings like so, rather… Perhaps, it is an enchantment of the senses. The house makes one not want to question its existence, that much is clear. The spell puts a veil over your eyes. And when you leave, you are so drained that you hardly have the energy to ask questions. Have you not noticed?"
Mydei looks back at the door leading downstairs. "I have, but…"
"You want to see him."
"…I do."
"That has a simple fix, then," she says, smiling sharp as a fox, "We take him upstairs."
IX. FERMENTATION
Cyrene has a plan, that much is clear, but she does not share it with Mydeimos—and by God, does he try to wrench it out of her. She simply tells him to wait, because the 'weather needs to be warmer'.
"Cyrene, why are you hiding it from me? This is ridiculous," he asks her one day, pulling her aside into the pantry.
"Because I do not trust you to keep it secret from the Titankin, and I fear that if we tell him now, he will either be overly excited and do something foolish or that he will be frightened and do something foolish. And, not to mention, I want it to be a surprise."
She talks as if she's chastising him, as if he is a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Mydeimos huffs, proud and stubborn. "I will not tell him," he says, and he tries to sound imposing, but—
Cyrene laughs in his face, short and sweet. "Even if that were true, allow me to indulge in some mysteriousness. Trust me, please. You will both love it. Just wait a month or so. That's all."
"A month," he repeats, incredulous, and he does not wait for her to explain further—he storms off. There is much work to be done.
Mydeimos wonders, as he's struggling to shovel cow shit, if Lycurgus knows of all of this, of his relationship with the Titankin and the recent addition of Cyrene. He had told him to stay away and Mydeimos stubbornly defied his advice, pig-headed as he's always been, but—
He never actually sees Lycurgus, except for when it is time to receive his payment. Cyrene does, she tells him as much; she's the one that wakes him every morning, that picks his clothes for the day, that serves his food. She also tells him, however, that Lycurgus rarely talks to her, other than barking out orders. He spends the entire day on the highest floor of the tower, the place that he calls his laboratory. He sleeps there, and only comes out eat—and, seemingly, to torment the Titankin.
'Carrying barrels of rose oil…' he thinks absentmindedly, remembering what the Titankin has said to him. Mydei pours down some more feed for the cows and leans against the barn's wall. He looks at one of them, at her pretty brown eyes framed by eyelashes.
"What do you think is going on here?" he asks her.
The cow moos at him.
"Yes, I thought as much," he says while grabbing a short stool. "Now be good, I have to milk you."
Winter melts into spring, slowly. Life blurs together into brown muck. Wake up at five. Help Cyrene with breakfast. Eating is optional. Pick fresh eggs every morning. Feed the cows. Milk the cows. Feed the pigs. Feed the chickens. Tend to the garden. Pick the vegetables. Rake the soil. Sow spring seeds. Shepherd the sheep. There is no dog to help him—listen for the cries of wolves. The days are getting warmer, longer too. Shear the sheep—do it one-armed. Do everything one-armed. Clumsy. Drop things often, shatter them against the floor. Learn how to exist with only half of you. Look at the scar. It grows bigger everyday, uglier. It looks as it is going to swallow you whole. There is something wrong about this entire situation. There were no horses at Jericha. There were no horses at Jericha.
NOT EVEN TO DRAW THE LIGHT ARTILLERY?
Maybe. Maybe. He does not remember. He remembers fields of snow, biting cold, blood in the white wonderland. He remembers hateful blue eyes. The exploding fire spreading through his body from his stomach and his shoulder. He remembers the bad smell of death and the squeaking of rats. But he does not remember horses.
He remembers—fragments of life. Deep, unending shame. His mother's kind eyes and his father's calloused hands. A boy he loved. A shared kiss, and then more, and—naked women. He cries after fucking them. 'She is so nice,' the voice of an old woman tells him, 'She will make a good wife for you, Mydeimos.' He is drafted—no, he signs up for war. Hopes that it will kill him before married life does. He thinks about retreating to a monastery, but God does not accept those such as he into His house. Blood on his hands. Men's bodies piling up like mountains. The end of his rifle moans when he pulls the trigger. The smell of gunpowder embeds himself so deep into his nostrils he cannot smell anything else for months. Scars. A friend presses into his side at night, huddling for warmth, and Mydeimos pushes him away with viciousness.
He leaves his body for a moment. Watches himself through the eyes of a hare as he forces a dozen men to their knees, hands tied behind their back. He is dressed in red, they are dressed in blue—this warrants a death sentence. Mydeimos the Hare looks on with fear as Mydeimos the Man brings his pistol to the back of their heads and shoots. ("Just think of them as meat," the old tagmatarchis told him once.) The meat dies scared and crying.
Mydeimos lives only in the manor. He gasps and he is there, and the Titankin is holding up a drawing, and—that's right. Cyrene taught him how to draw today. Bleary-eyed, he looks at the drawing. It is crude, but not childish at all. He drew the three of them in a field of purple flowers, an entire sea of them. They are holding hands and, seemingly, dancing the hora. The moon above them shines bright.
He looks at Cyrene's drawing—she is much more talented than the Titankin is. She has drawn a fairytale princess, brown-skinned and pink-haired, wearing a beautiful white dress with billowy sleeves and a pointy headdress. She sits delicately as she rides an unicorn. The beast's horn is mighty and dipped in blood, its face twisted into a snarl. Beneath them lays a dead dragon, stabbed through the heart. The unicorn lays a triumphant hoof on its body.
Mydei looks down at his own drawing. He measures it as childish, though not crude. The back of someone's head, scribbled and messy, black hair clipped short. The background is untouched. He cannot tell whether the person is standing up or laying down. 'He should have a helmet,' he thinks, but he does not know where to draw it.
"That is a… good drawing…" the Titankin tells him, "I like it…"
He looks at Cyrene. She looks back at him. No words pass between them, but she still reaches out and squeezes his hand.
March comes with the smell of spring in tow. Small flowers bloom across the pastures.
Cyrene lays lounging across both of their laps like a spoiled child empress. She supports her head with her hand.
"Say," she starts, and Mydei recognizes the playful tone in her voice, "Titankin is not much of a name, is it?"
"It's not…?"
"No, no, it is not a true name! It is more, well… It simply describes what you are, not who you are."
The Titankin blinks at her. His hand is playing with her long locks. He hums to himself, then says, "I suppose… that is true…"
Cyrene gets up with a groan and bullies her way between him and Mydeimos. "Mydei, why did you not give him a proper name?"
"I, uh…" Mydei blanks, "I did not think of naming him. I simply thought of something to call him in the spur of the moment."
"Tsk," she clicks her tongue, "Titankin, say, out of all the books you have read and all the stories I have told you, has there been a name that has caught your eyes?"
"…I did not know I should have been paying attention to… the names…"
Cyrene blinks at him. "You're impossible," she says, "Mydeimos, tell him he's impossible!"
"…You're impossible," he echoes, hollowly, and what he means is, impossibly beautiful, impossibly good.
"I'm… impossible…!" the Titankin says triumphantly, raising a victorious fist. He laughs, and Cyrene laughs as well, and so does Mydeimos.
The search for a name commences.
Cyrene starts them with the Bible. They go through it, front to back, several times. Mydeimos and the Titankin read it aloud while Cyrene writes down the names that seem interesting or fitting. At the end, they go through that list.
"What about Lazarus? Lazarus would fit…" Mydei muses, and he feels the Titankin draw away from him.
"No, I… I do not like that… he was dead… I am not… like him…"
"…Of course not," Mydei says, and he cannot rests the urge to kiss him. He presses a soft kiss on his shoulder, gentle and silent like a bird in winter. The Titankin, in turn, turns his gaze to him and brings a soft hand to Mydei's head. He caresses his ear, thumb swiping over his helix, and Mydei lets his eyes falls closed. He breathes in the warmth of him, the smell of him; since Cyrene mentioned it, Mydeimos keeps smelling rose oil on him. It smell rich, fresh, delicious. Is he perfuming himself? The thought of that makes him huff a small laugh. Mydei nuzzles deeper into the touch, chases after it, and—
Cyrene clears her throat. "Alright, not Lazarus, but what about Solomon?" she asks. The Titankin hums.
At the end of the night, all of the names on the list are crossed. Cyrene sighs and puts the Bible away. "No Bible names, then…"
On the next night, they start with the names of Titans; Kephale, Nikador, Mnestia, Zagreus, Cerces, and the rest of them. The Titankin turns his nose up at all of them.
"No… None of them feel right… They feel too… grand… They feel like… responsibility… A burden…"
Fair enough. Another night passes fruitlessly. Cyrene starts writing down the names of heroes; Achilles, Herakles, Theseus, Perseus, all demigods that have shined brightly and burned away quickly.
"Their fates… are sad…"
"…Yes, they are," Cyrene sighs, "No heroes then. I was going to list protagonists from tragedies next, so I won't bother."
On the third night, while perusing the manor's library for more inspiration, Cyrene finds a small book. She takes it off the bookshelf with vigor and cradles it in her hands. Mydei, who has been busy staring at the crook of the Titankin's neck for the past five minutes, finally tears his gaze away and fixes it at her. She looks at the two of them with sparkles in her eyes.
"What did you find?" he asks, and she simply holds out the book for all to see, as if it were the newborn Jesus presented to the three wise men.
"The Orphic Hymns!" she exclaims, overflowing with giddiness, "I used to love them when I was a girl! Oh, Titankin, would you like to look through them?"
These past few nights have done nothing but disappoint the Titankin. The concept of a name has given him hope and, In turn, their failure to find a fitting one has thwarted that hope. Now, he simply looks dejected, drawn in on himself, shoulders tense. He sighs, long suffering, and runs his hands over his face. A small, silent whimper tears out of him, and that is enough to convince Mydeimos to cross the room over to him.
"We will find you a name," he states, "Stop worrying so much. You will get wrinkles if you keep frowning."
It only makes the Titankin pout more.
"Mydei…mos…"
God, he sounds miserable. The Titankin stretches his arm towards him, pleading with big wet eyes, and Mydeimos groans. "You are so spoiled," he tuts, but still he takes his hand nonetheless. Mydei lets the Titankin pull him into his arms, press him close against his heated chest. He nose buries in the crown of his head, and he inhales deeply.
They stay like that for a while, the Titankin crushing him in his embrace and Mydei trying to hug him back to the best of his ability.
"Ahem, if you two don't mind—" Cyrene speaks up, "I've found a hymn you would like, Titankin."
The Titankin looks at her with curiosity, and it gives Mydei enough leverage to squirm out of his hold. He is red-faced with heated cheeks; he hates doing this in front of Cyrene, but the Titankin has no shame! Mydeimos indulges him far too much, but when the man is this beautiful, how can he resist?
The three of them huddle together like they usually do. The Titankin sits in the middle with Cyrene and Mydei on each of his sides. Cyrene cracks the book open to a particular page, close to the beginning, and hands it over to the Titankin; he angles it a bit to his right, so Cyrene may see the words and be able to read.
She clears her throat.
"To Protogonus, or the first-born. The Fumigation from Myrrh."
Cyrene cracks her neck, opens her mouth, and reads.
This girl has an electric quality about her, something that draws you in, a presence that demands silence and utmost attention. Words flow out of her mouth like rivers from a spring, like birds chirping—like nature, the blowing of winds, the birth of fauns. Her voice has the quality of honeywine, sweet and smooth and syrupy. It could nearly lull Mydeimos to sleep, and she could make even birthing records sound like a thrilling adventure or a touching tragedy. She has complete command over the tone of her voice, over the intonation, she knows when to soften the words and when to speak with more pathos. She makes poetry sound sacred, and she make hymns sound earthly.
"O Mighty first-begotten, hear my pray'r, two-fold, egg-born, and wand'ring thro' the air, bull-roarer, glorying in thy golden wings, from whom the race of Gods and mortals springs. Erikapaios, celebrated pow'r, ineffable, occult, all shining flow'r. From eyes obscure thou wip'st the gloom of night, all-spreading splendour, pure and holy light. Hence Phanes call'd, the glory of the sky, on waving pinions thro' the world you fly. Priapus, dark-ey'd splendour, thee I sing, genial, all-prudent, ever-blessed king, with joyful aspect on our rights divine and holy sacrifice propitious shine."
When she is done, Cyrene simply takes the book from the Titankin and shuts it. His hands remain stuck in the shape of holding it for a few seconds, before he blinks himself back from his stupor. Slowly, carefully, he cranes his neck to look at her. Mydeimos does the same, peeking from the other hand of the man. The look on her face—she could not be more proud, big smug smile, eyes crinkling.
"Well, dear, what did you think?" she tilts her head.
"That was a… beautiful story…"
"Naturally, all the Orphic Hymns are beautiful, but what do you think of the name Phanes?"
"…Phanes…" he echoes, mouth unsure over the sound, and then again, "Phanes…"
"He is a deity born from the egg of the cosmos, before anything else existed in this world… Hence, he is called the first-born," Cyrene leans her head against his stiff shoulder and brings a delicate hand to his face. She traces the shape of his cheekbone, and the gesture is so loving that it pulls at Mydei's heart. Her eyes are full of adoration—her dear little brother. With that same hand, she brushes a strand of light blond hair out of his face and tucks it behind his year. "You, too, are the first born of your kind. Phanes birthed all that we know now, all of the Titans, and them themselves were a deity of goodness and light…" Cyrene smiles like rays of sunshine breaking through a window; her face blinds with luminosity. "To me, that sounds much like you…"
"…Goodness… and light…" the Titankin repeats, and his gaze falls down to his hands. Then, he looks at Mydeimos, and there is a silent question in his eyes; a need for validation.
Mydei nudges him a little bit. "I think that sounds like you, too."
The Titankin hums to himself. He thinks for a while, a long while, looking at nothing in particular. Then, he speaks up.
"I like this name… but… I do not wish… to be named… after another person…" he draws his knees to his chest, "I want a name… only of my own… But I do like Phanes…"
"How about you build on Phanes then?" Cyrene suggests, "You can come up with a name that's all yours."
The Titankin leans his head back, gazes up at the ceiling.
"Phanes… Pha… Pha—ah… Phan… Hmm… Phai…? Phai… Phain… Phainoh… Ohn… Phai—Phainon…"
"Phainon?" Cyrene tilts her head.
"Phainon…" Mydeimos tries. The word is… strange in his mouth. Made-up. New and kicking and wailing for breath. In that way, it is just like the Titankin, first-born, first-begotten. It tastes sweet on Mydei's tongue, like candy or, perhaps, like freedom. "That is a fine name, Ti—Phainon." What remains unsaid is: That is a fine name, and I would love to scream it.
Phainon blushes, looks down bashfully and then peeks at Mydei through his eyelashes. He brings his fingers to his mouth to chew on his hangnails and fingers. He laughs, a little shy on unsure, and he's looking at him with such adoration that Mydeimos finds it unbearable.
"Cyrene," he says as if possessed, "Do you mind if we—"
"By all means, go ahead! But be quick, I have something else to talk to you about."
She gets up to put the book back on the bookshelf, then continues to circle around it by pretending to look for something else.
Mydei grabs Phainon by the naps and pulls him forward, closer and closer until their foreheads are touching. Their eyes meet, gold to blue, and there is such a familiar feeling in his gut about them—he swears that he has seen them before, but cannot say where or when. It does not matter anymore. They are here now, and his name is Phainon, and he is devastatingly beautiful. "Phainon…" Mydei whispers, just for the two of them, "Phainon."
"Mydeimos…"
Mydei cranes his neck and kisses him square on his pretty mouth. Phainon groans against him, tries to deepen it with a lick, but Mydei makes it short and chaste. When he pulls back, he finds Phainon blushed and dazed, looking nearly drunk. His hands grab at his jacket, trying to pull him closer.
"…Phainon…" he mutters, "I like that name… I like it a lot…"
Mydei is so overwhelmed by affection that he does not know what to do with it. So, he does what his first instinct tells him and he loops his arm around his neck and twists them around until he has him into a headlock. Phainon thrashes and grunts—then, seemingly with the strength of a bull, he rises up and makes the both of them tumble backwards onto the floor. Mydeimos scramble to rise up, but he finds it nearly impossible while missing an arm. This gives Phainon an opening to straddle him and go for a punch, which Mydei blocks with his arm.
"What in God's name are you doing!" Cyrene shrieks, "Why are you fighting?!"
"We aren't fighting," Mydeimos says, breathless, and he uses the moment Phainon is distracted to push him back hard. His back meets the wooden floorboards and it knocks the window out of him, giving Mydei enough space to straddle him. He, too, goes for a punch and Phainon, too, blocks it with his arms. "We're playing."
Phainon wraps his arms around Mydei's waist and surges forward with a mighty groan, sending the both of them backwards—Mydei hits his head on the floor hard, says 'ow!' out loud which is perhaps the most embarrassing thing he has done in the past two months. A struggle of strength ensues; Mydei tries to gain the upper hand again, Phainon tries to keep him pinned down.
Cyrene groans and stomps over to them. She delivers a swift blow to both of their heads. "Alright, that's enough, knock it off! We have something else to get done tonight!"
Phainon stops and gets up first. He hooks his hand under Mydei's armpit and brings him up to his feet, lifting him as though he weighted nothing.
"That being?" Mydei rubs his head where it hurts.
"Well, since Phainon has been named, does this not mean he has to be baptized?"
"…Baptized… I know what baptism means… It requires a basin of water…" Phainon plays with his hands anxiously, "But… only babies are baptized…"
"That's not true," Mydei interjects, "Adults are baptized too if they were not baptized before."
"Oh… I understand… But where are we going to get water from…?"
"We could simply bring it here from upstairs, but…" Cyrene smirks. She has that mischievous glint in his eyes that Mydei knows. "But… Phainon, what if we went outside?"
Mydei huffs a laugh. That sly fox—that has been her plan all along. That is why she needed to wait. The weather simply had to be warmer.
"Out… outside?" Phainon's eyes widen into saucers. "But—But I'm not supposed to… go outside… Lycurgus said so…"
"Fuck Lycurgus," Cyrene spits, "Just once. I want you to see the real world. There is a beach nearby. The sea is beautiful at night, albeit a little chilly…"
"I—I don't…" he looks to Mydei, and Mydei wonders if it is permission he is seeking from him.
He comes up next to Phainon, takes his hand in his and smiles up at him. "You will love it. You are allowed to go outside. Every man has that right."
"Every man…" he repeats. He looks at Cyrene. "We can try… but—"
"If it is too much or you hate it, we'll go back," Cyrene completes with him. She stands proud and smiling, hands on her hips.
"…Alright… Let's… try…"
Mydei could kiss him right now, his brave boy, but he abstains. He can feel how anxious and worried Phainon is next to him.
Before they leave, Cyrene sets out some ground rules; he has to be very, very quiet as they walk, and he is absolutely not allowed to stomp around the tower as he usually does. When they walk out of the manor and into the servants' quarters, well, Phainon does not have much of a reaction—the tower is very similar to the manor after all.
"The air here… seems much cleaner…" Phainon points out. It might be so.
Phainon walks carefully and quietly, perhaps in an exaggerated manner, but it is enough to get them across the tower without alerting Lycurgus. It is only when they reach the grand entrance to the tower that Phainon stiffens next to him. He whines low in his throat and squeezes Mydei's hand so hard he nearly breaks his fingers. He takes a few steps back, shaking his head, afraid and anxious. Mydei follows after him.
"You can do this," he tells him, voice hushed, "You are allowed this."
"I-I am…"
"It's alright to be scared," Cyrene says, fishing in her maid's apron for something. She pulls out a big, rusty ring of keys, holds it up for the both of them as though it were a prize. "But, Phainon…"
She twists around and slots the key into the lock. She turns it once, twice, and then—
The cold night's breeze hits both of them in the face, making Phainon reel back and shield his face as if fire was licking at him. Cyrene has opened the door wide, welcoming in the chill of spring. She turns to face them. "It's so much better to be brave."
Cyrene steps aside, leaving a clear pathway for Phainon. Mydei, too, gives him a small pull forward, anything to embolden him.
Their hands untangle, breaking from each other as Phainon takes the tiniest step imaginable, so slight that he hardly moves with it. He is swaying a little bit where he is standing, his eyes fix, enraptured, by the view beyond the doors. 'He is so close,' Mydei thinks, 'Just a few steps.' Cyrene beckons him closer with her harm.
The air is salty with the breeze of the sea—Phainon must notice that, because he makes a face when he catches a whiff of it. Doubtless he can taste the smell in his mouth. Mydei can't hold back a chuckle as he watches him stumble towards the door. He walks on unsteady legs, a little newborn deer, and every once in a while he throws a look back at Mydei as if to check that he is still there; that this is all real.
He is nearing the threshold. One step, then another, and a third, and—
On the fourth step, both of his feet are planted firmly over the threshold, on the cold cobblestone that makes the pathway up to the tower.
Phainon, for the first time in his life, is outside.
The polychrome tapestry of his back is something that Mydeimos will never quite stop marveling at. It is a powerful sight, the way all of those muscles slot against each other as though they were made by God to fit, though Mydei suspects—really, he knows, but does not want to admit it—that the reality of it is much different. It is no matter. Phainon's back ripples with strength as he lifts his arms up towards the sky. Every one of those muscles shifts, contracts, and tenses. A sculpture come to life, carved specifically to take Mydei's breath away. The coloring of Phainon's back is dizzying. On the right side, white, and on the left, yellow-brown. Down the center, however, following the curve of his spine, his skin is a stripe of pale lavender. It lingers from his nape to the base of his buttocks, there where the flesh dimples. All Mydei can see in it, in that odd-colored flesh, is the trail that his tongue ought to follow.
Phainon is a pale wisp against the dark background of the night sky. Cyrene slinks over to him and gives him a gentle push forward. He goes with half a mind, so taken by whatever he is seeing that he, probably, does not know he is moving at all.
"Mydei, come," Cyrene says, and she jiggles the keys, "I have to close the door."
He does come, joining Phainon at his side. His arms are raising ever higher, and Mydei follows their trajectory with his eyes. He looks at what Phainon is looking and—oh. That's right.
The stars.
It had been so long since Mydei had looked at the stars. In the trenches, when the enemy is in front of you and behind you and, one time, underneath you, there is very little reason to look up. Tonight, however, he does.
It's simply beautiful, and beautiful in a simple way as that. Their ancestors before them looked up and saw the same sight; doubtless all the dumb animals of the forest and the sea did too.
The night sky reminds Mydeimos' of a wealthy lady's cloth, now pulled over the dome of the sky. Velvety and soft and of a rich dark-blue, nearly inky black in hue. It is a cloudless night. The air in Odestris is much cleaner than the air in Castrum Kremnos and so the stars shine with a brilliance that is as new to Mydei's eyes as it is to Phainon's. The stars are much like freckles on skin, he thinks, the way they are dotted tightly close together and, God, there are so many of them! They are so small and delicate as though they could be gobbled up and swallowed, they are so—
They are so bright, and they are so many, and they glow many different colors! They nearly cover the blackness of night with their brilliance, and they do not shine only white as diamonds, but also purple as amethyst and blue as sapphires! The sky beneath the stars—or is it above them?—seems to shift and move with every ripple of the wind, giving the illusion of a wild dance of little fairies.
There must be at least a hundred stars out for a walk this night or, perhaps, even two hundred! Mydei does not realize his jaw has fallen slack and his mouth is gaping. All he is thinking of right now is whether stars are actually small enough to fit into the palm of your hand or if they are actually very big and just far away.
Phainon is moving his hands, waving them around above his hand as though he were trying to fish down the stars and hold them. Behind him, the click of a door closing. Cyrene joins them.
"What are you boys doing?"
"The… stars…" Phainon murmurs, his breath stolen away.
"They are very beautiful tonight, are they not?" Cyrene chuckles.
Phainon gives a shout and it snaps Mydei out of whatever reverie he lost himself in. "The—" Phainon gaps, "T-the moon!"
His finger points at it and, indeed, the moon has joined them on this night as well. She is full and fat tonight, looking like a bright pupiless eye hung above them. "I can't believe… the moon is truly real…"
"Idiot," Mydei scoffs, "Why would it not be real?"
"Don't call him that!" Cyrene chastises him and she grabs onto Phainon's arm to start leading him away, towards the sea.
"I heard… the moon… is a woman…" he says and, God, he is so taken that he does not even look at where he is going. His gaze follows the moon as he walks.
"Indeed she is," Cyrene chuckles, "And this is what I like to do when I see her. I say, hello, Moon~ and I go like this,"
She presses her lips to her palm and blows a kiss towards the moon. Phainon laughs at her side, and Mydei catches up to them in no time. "Wait, hold on, Phainon—do you want to see the cows?"
"The c—" Phainon sputters. His knees buckle under him and he would've toppled over if it weren't for Cyrene holding him up, "There's cows?"
"And pigs, and sheep, and chickens," Cyrene adds.
"I want to s-see… See the cows… Cows… Real cows?"
"Real cows," Mydei laughs and he grabs his other hand. First, he leads Phainon to the chicken coop, and it doesn't go over great. The hens are unhappy about being woken up and the rooster is feeling particularly prickly today, probably because of the intrusion of a new stranger. God knows that thing almost took out Mydei's eye the first time he came to collect eggs. Why do they even have a rooster? He should have Cyrene cook it. Even now, being faced to face with a seven foot tall man, the rooster puffs up its hackle feathers and tries to jump up and maul Phainon. It goes without saying that it is unsuccessful, though it does manage to make Phainon giggle.
Next, he shows him the sheep pen. Some girls are up and standing, peacefully nuzzling the scarce grass beneath their feet. There is even a lamb there and Phainon gets so excited that all he can do is point at it. Mydeimos gets the idea. He jumps over the fence and shushes its mother while looping his arm around the lamb. He brings it to Phainon, tells him how to hold it without hurting it, and hands it over to him. Phainon nearly sobs and he buries his nose in its soft, curly wool. "It is so… soft…" he mumbles through mouthfuls of lamb fluff, "It smells so… good…"
"…Does it? Let me see." Cyrene approaches and sniffs the lamb's head. "Eugh, no, not at all!"
Mydei coaxes the lamb out of his arms and brings it back to its mother, who shows her gratitude by huffing unhappily in his face. So much for respecting their shepherd.
Mydei takes them to the pigsty. Phainon tries to jump in, but both him and Cyrene hold him back and stop him. The sty is downright disgusting, so Phainon is forced to watch from afar as eight fat pink piglets nurse on their bored mother.
"I like… their curly tails…"
"Their curly tails are great," Mydei agrees.
Cyrene grabs onto a lock of her own hair. "I wish my hair color was like their little bellies…"
Finally, the moment Phainon has been shaking with excitement for; the cows in their barns. Mydei unlocks the door and is nearly knocked down by Phainon as he rushes inside. The man quite literally squeals in excitement, and he is successful in waking up the cows and annoying them. Mydei takes his arm, gently, and shows him a particular cow that he is especially fond of. He has named her Mnestia, and she's a grumpy old hag, but she lets him pet her and hug her so Mydei loves her.
Mnestia huffs and puffs but she remains still and sweet nonetheless. Mydei pets the side of her neck while Phainon falls to his knees in front of her.
"Hello…" he whispers.
Mnestia moos loudly in his face, hot cow breath getting all over him. He throws his head back as he laughs, and grabs the sides of her face. He leans in and plants a big kiss on her wet nose. And then another one. And on the third, Mnestia's had about enough, so she turns around and shows them her ass, which is very classy of her. The swats at Phainon with her tail.
"Don't we also have geese, hm?" Cyrene looks at Mydei.
"We do, but… The geese are bastards and I don't want to see them tonight."
Cyrene stifles her laughter, "Right, of course. Phainon, come! We have to get to the beach."
"The beach…" Phainon can be so obedient when he wants to be. He gets up, dusts off his knees, and holds onto the ends of Cyrene's hair as she walks.
Everything is new to him. Mydei has always known that, intellectually, but seeing it is entirely different. They halt every inch of the way to the sea. He stops to smell the flowers—and is often disappointed to find out that most of them do not smell like anything at all—, he stops to shake every tree he sees, to gather their leaves. He runs his hands up and down their bark. The buzzing of insects fascinates him, and he spends a good while trying to find the cricket that is singing. From time to time, he looks up up at the sky again and squints his eyes, shielding them with his arm.
"What, too bright?" Mydei teases, and Phainon just nods as a reply. "Wait until you see the sun."
"The sun…"
It takes entirely way too long to reach the beach, what with Phainon stopping them every few feet to look at something new. Mydei does not find it within himself to be frustrated; he thinks, instead, that perhaps he should also stop and smell every flower he sees. Phainon comes back from wherever he ran off to with three small white flowers, one for each of them. He gives one of them to Cyrene and another to Mydei. "Here, let me show you something," Mydei says and takes the third flower out of his hand. He tucks a strand of Phainon's hair beneath his ear and places the flower there, too. "Look at you…" Mydei mumbles on the tail-end of a sigh.
Phainon flushes and chuckles nervously, which is exactly the reaction Mydeimos was working towards. How beautiful life can be sometimes, and how simple, too.
The tower is built on the precipice of a cliff, and so they have to go all the way down to reach the sea itself. The sound of waves crashing announces the sea's presence like war drums announcing a band of warriors. It hits them long before they see the sea itself, but when they do—
Mydeimos thinks that whatever injury he sustained to his head must have also dumbed him down significantly, because how has he never noticed how beautiful it is before? The sea is a sight to behold too, just like the stars, just like the small white flowers growing around the tower. He is starting to think that everything around him might be beautiful, and that he may be allowed to look upon them and rejoice.
She is vast as the eye can see, not tempestuous but still broiling with anger. She sends her waves to the shore and where they meet, the sound is akin to a million tambourines rattling. From his feet to the horizon, she stretches wine-dark and black like an old bruise, and so reflective she is that on this starry night, her waters are alight with the stars above. Mydei is pulled along by the sleeve, Cyrene's doing, and the closer he comes, the more he thinks that this must be like bathing in the sky itself.
Cyrene orders them to strip, and so they do. Phainon does not have anything to take off anyways, so he remains in his bandages, but he does help Mydei take off his jacket and his boots. Soon, he is left shivering and naked in his underpants. Phainon then helps Cyrene strip, undoing the knot that holds her apron and the many buttons of her dress. She slips out of her clothes and her stockings as well, kicking them away with her foot, and so the girl is also left standing naked in just her undergarment—a simple cotton shift, ugly and unbefitting of her beauty.
Phainon takes unsure steps into the sea. When his feet fit touch the heavy wet sand, he laughs and wiggles his toes, burying them there. "Ugh, I hate wet sand," Mydei comments and Phainon ignores him, for he is far too taken with everything the world has to offer. The tide rushes forward then and washes his feet with its cold water. It startles poor Phainon at first, who stumbles back with a groan, and then it happens again—it must tickle him, because he huffs out a small laughter. The third time the tide hits his ankles, he is positively pink with amusement. He laughs and chuckles and leans down to grab a handful of wet sand. Mydeimos watches him in silent appreciation. Everything is new to him, yes, and still he is unafraid. He is brave, curious and full of wonder. Easy to laughter like somebody that has never known struggle and evil—poor Phainon has known both, and in great abundance, though he probably does not realize it.
But his face is handsome and manly when he laughs, his chuckles are deep-set into his chest, and his eyes glint with all the colors of the stars above. Mydeimos thinks that, even if evil does exist in his life, it has no place here, in this moment, in his heart. It does not matter, nothing does anymore, not when the cool spring breeze is mussing up his off-color hair, when his fingers are all muddy with the remnants of the wet sand. This is how it should always have been like. The three of them under the real sky, frolicking on a beach. Under his feet, the sand glitters like stardust and above him, the stars glitter like Phainon's eyes. The sky is black like Cyrene's hair, the air crisp and chilly like her voice. He wonders what part of nature he is. Perhaps the frogs croaking in the distance, or the watchful crow preying on a corpse.
He feels a tug on his hand, small warm fingers in his. Cyrene's lovely smiling up at him. She does not say anything, does not need to—together, they trudge forward into the sea.
They walk into the water until it is about waist-deep for Cyrene, though it only comes up to Phainon's hips.
"So, do we baptize him now or—"
A spray of cold salty water hits him in the face, gets him right and square in the eyes and it stings like a bitch. He grunts and groan and keels over, rubbing the salt out of his eyes, fuck, it burns. Through his blurry vision, he sees the pallid form of Phainon covering his mouth to hide snickers.
"Son of a bitch," Mydei barks, "You splashed me!"
Phainon howls a laughter that seems ripped straight from his stomach, and that riles Mydei up more than anything. Fury surges through him like dragonfire, and with an arch of his arm, he sends forth an arc of water towards him. His aim is a little off, however, and he gets Cyrene instead, soaking from hair from top to bottom.
"Ah, no! You bastard!" she screams, and thus comes her vengeance—hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, or something like that. With swift motions of her arms, she gives him three entire splashes, not as big or as strong in intensity, but they possess a hunter's accuracy. One of them gets him in the face again, and the others land on his side and back due to his turning around to avoid the onslaught; a soldier has to know when he is facing a stronger opponent, and this could count as a tactical retreat. The girl has technique, Mydei has to give her that.
In the periphery of his eyes, he sees Phainon laughing so hard he has to wipe tears from his face. "Oh, you think this is funny?" Cyrene breathes heavily in his directions, "Motherfucker, I'll give you something to laugh about!"
The battle begins between the two of them, now, water flying in every which direction. Mydei often finds himself as the collateral damage of this clash. At some point, she got him fully subdued, and now she's climbing on his back to pull at his hair and slap his cheeks. They are playing, Mydeimos can tell, and so can Phainon—he seems endlessly amused. He has never heard him laugh this much before, nor this sincerely. He shakes great shoulders and that makes Cyrene slip, but he catches her before she can truly fall off of him. Phainon gathers her smaller frame into his arms and simply holds her there, cradling her as though she were a precious princess of very noble birth, rubbing his cheek against hers.
Mydeimos' attention is draw to the water around him. Its coldness has turned warm against his skin, comforting like the embrace of a lover—like Phainon's embrace.
This sea is truly like a mirror, and Mydei can hardly believe it. All around him, stars shiver with every gust of wind. They tremble and they dance, they beckon him deeper and deeper into the hold of the sea. There, next to his arm, a star shines brightest among all. He gazes upon it with bathed breath—how beautiful, he thinks, how ephemeral. With his hand, he cups this Lucifer, holds it up for his eyes to see better and, as he does, he instead watches it disappear between his fingers and return back to the sea. 'Like soldiers on a field,' the thought echoes in his head, enraptures him and seizes him. He breathes out, slow and unsteady through his nose.
Phainon slaps his big wet hand over his back.
"Alright," Cyrene says, breathless from extortion, red in the face, "Let us baptized him. We really do not have all night."
"Who won?" Mydei asks, smirking, and Phainon puffs up his chest victoriously.
"I… did…"
"It was hardly a fair fight. He's nearly two feet taller than me!" Her hair is sticking to her face. She pushes it aside and claps her hands together, "Come on, we have to do it."
"Right, we do. How?"
"Phainon," she turns to him, "Lay down in the water, just let yourself float."
The man does as he is told, leaning backwards and allowing the water to hold him up. He is, fortunately, not heavy enough to sink, though that is what Mydeimos has expected. "Mydei, come here, hold him by the back of his head, yes, just like that," Cyrene instructs. "Phainon, we will submerge you in water for a little bit, alright? And when you come back up, you will be baptized!" Phainon nods eagerly, and she smiles at him.
They do as she projected, both of them at the same time slowly lead him down until his head is under the water. This is where they encounter some difficulties.
"Cyrene, are we not supposed to say something now?"
Silence.
"Reney?"
She sucks in a sharp breath and screws her eyes shut. "…We are. I forgot to check."
"You—You forgot? You had nearly a month to prepare!"
"Well, I did not expect him to find a name so soon!"
"Are you serious—"
Phainon starts to fail and squirm in their hold and, good God, they're drowning the man. Quickly, they lift him up. "Is it… done…?" he asks between coughs.
"Uh, no. Sorry, just one more time, alright?" Cyrene says, feigning confidence.
"…Oh, alright… But do not leave me under the water… for so long…"
"No, no, of course, not—alright, here we go, Mydei!"
They submerge him once more and this time, Cyrene plays her role as a priest much better. "Uh, in the name of the Lord, I—we baptize you as Phainon!"
"In the name of the Lord…" Mydei repeats, and then they bring Phainon back up.
"Done…? Am I… baptized?"
"You are indeed," Mydei tells him. With rapt fascination, he watches as the man's face lights up into a million colors, the sparkling blue of his joyful eyes, the blush across his cheeks, his beautiful purple lips. He smiles with all of his perfect white teeth, two entire straight rows of them. His nose scrunches up, his eyes wrinkles, and he gives out a mighty shout that might be heard from here to Castrum Kremnos. "I am… baptized! Like any other… man!"
"That you are, Phainon!" Cyrene claps and hoots, then nudges Mydeimos to do the same. He cannot clap, but he does holler.
The night comes alive with the sound of their celebrations.
They spend more time in the water than they should have, but it is fun and neither of them have had this much fun before. Phainon just kind of floats around like a log, but Cyrene swims up to Mydei like a deadly shark. She rises, water dripping down her body, and leans in to whisper all conspiratorially in his ear. Mydeimos grins at the plan—he likes it very much. He takes a big gulp of air and goes down.
"Aah~" Cyrene screams, and it's so painfully fake, "I'm drowning! Is there no big strong man to help me~?"
Phainon eats it up, of course he does, and so he runs against the waters to get to her and grab her up from under the armpits. That is when Mydeimos emerges from the waters like a predator, hooking his arm and one leg around Phainon, toppling him over like a column of marble and downwards into the sea with him. Cyrene cackles so hard that she must be scaring the fish away, entirely way too pleased that her plan has worked out.
The first rays of dawn start to make their presence known, painting the world a lazy, lighter blue. Phainon swims up to him and wraps his arms around his waist—Mydei finds that he is too exhausted, too happy, and too content to stop him. He allows himself to linger in Phainon's wet embrace.
"Mydeimos…" he groans into the crown of his head, and to that, Mydei simply responds—"I'm here."
"Sometimes… I feel such affection towards you… that I can hardly think…"
Mydei stifles a chuckle, and simply lets his cheek rest against his hot chest. Phainon's hand grabs his chin delicately, tips it upwards until their eyes meet—the look on the man's face is hazy and glazed over, though not lustful. Rather, it is a softer, gentler thing. Adoration. Love, even. The same feeling is reflect on Mydeimos' own face; he realizes, now, that Cyrene was right. That whatever spell was cast on the manor did not affect his heart—that even outside, he loves this man just as much.
Phainon cranes his neck downwards and Mydei extends his upwards. They meet in the middle where Phainon presses a kiss to his brow, then to his eyes, the bridge of his nose and then, finally and rich like velvet, to his lips. Mydei allows himself this, too, though he dislikes doing it in front of Cyrene but, oh, in this moment, there is just the two of them, the sea, and the raising sun. He kisses him back, turns obedient and pliant in his arms, and when Phainon looks to deepens the kiss, Mydei simply lets his mouth fall open with a moan and invites him inside. He does not stop him, does not want to, when a wanting tongue licks against his lips, his teeth and then his own tongue. In response, he thrusts his chest deeper against his, his arms snaking around Phainon's back to—
"Yahoo, boys!" Cyrene yells from very, very far away. Mydei turns to look. The girl's all the way to shore now, waving at them from the beach. "We must go!"
"You heard her," he says sheepishly into Phainon's neck, and Phainon just groans unhappily. "Come on, none of that. You are a man baptized now."
They get their clothes from where they've forgotten them on the beach. Mydei is unhappy about sand getting all in his pockets, but he is happy about anything else, and life is beautiful. So he does not complain. Instead, he lets Phainon help him lace his trousers, and they both help make Cyrene look presentable. Phainon ties and buttons up her dress while Mydei tries to untangle the knots in her hair with his fingers.
"I must wake Lycurgus up any moment now," she sighs, "He will wonder why I am wet and smell of the sea."
"Will he? Simply say you went for a dip."
Phainon is next to speak up, "Tonight has been… pleasant… I want to see.. the outside… more often…"
"Rest assured, Phainon. Cyrene and I will show you the entire world."
Cyrene hits him on the arm. "Stop lying to him," she whisper-yells.
"What do you mean?" Mydei blinks, "I am not lying. We will do so soon."
"Soon? Are you out of you mind?" she grabs him and pulls him aside. "Do not give him false hope, Mydeimos, that is cruel."
"I really don't understand what you're on about, Cyrene," he huffs.
"Don't make him think he can leave."
Mydei turns stiff as a corpse. He frowns. "He can leave. He will leave, we will all leave."
"We can't. Are you out of your mind? The three of us, out in the world. Me and you, we're bottom of the barrel, but at least we're regular bottom of the barrels. He, on the other hand—"
"I will not hear this coming from you. He is just like any other man."
"His heart and his soul are like any other man, yes, I agree, but you cannot tell me that he looks regular. People will be scared of him. They will want to hurt him, or worse, steal him away to be studied."
Mydei hates this, and he hates it because she is right. He is different, broad and tall and lumbering, sewn together from mismatched parts. Cyrene and Mydeimos have found him beautiful, yes, but Cyrene and Mydeimos are mad. Not many will want to look past his exterior. the thought of that makes him want to kill something, but still he stubbornly clings onto his hope. "We will figure it out," he says simply, "But we cannot stay here. Not anymore."
"Why not? There is food on the table and yes, very little of it, and there is a roof over our heads, and—" she gestures wildly, "We can keep him here and bring him outside every once in a while and he will be happy. It is all he has ever known!"
"Cyrene, Lycurgus mistreats him. He beats him, and God knows what else he is planning to do with him. To him. You and I, we may have lived our lives in cages but God, Cyrene, I want more for him. I want more for you and, I suppose, for me as well. Freedom is worth the hardship."
She backs off. Chews down her bottom lip, and then her hands come to run through her thick hair. She holds her head like that for a second. "…You are right, but—"
"You're scared."
"I am scared! I am scared of what may happen to us, to him most of all. I am a woman unwed, unprotected by law, you are a cripple, and he is, to the eyes of many, a monster."
Mydei sighs and thinks very carefully. "I will marry you if I must and of Phainon, we will say he has been gravely wounded in the war."
"…You are a homosexual! And the infirm cannot marry in most cities anyways, Mydei!"
Mydei reels back at that word, and decides to ignore it completely. "Then we will go to a city that allows it. Simple as that."
"How will we even get off the island?"
"We will swim if we must."
"You are being ridiculous!"
Phainon walks up to them. "Are you two… arguing…?"
Cyrene takes a moment to fix her face, and she gives him one of those smiles that do not reach her eyes. "No, dear, no, not at all! We were simply talking, isn't that so, Mydeimos?"
"…Yes," he concedes. Phainon is none the wiser.
They start the long trek back to the tower with Cyrene leading them up the hill. The sky starts to break with the coming of daylight. The world brightens up with every step.
Phainon is looking around at all that is around him, now taken with the chance to see his surroundings in the early morning's light. Cyrene is looking ahead, upset and carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Mydei, as always, is looking at Phainon.
And from the tower, from a window on high, Lycurgus looks down at the three of them.
X. EXALTATION
Spring in Odestris brings with it heavy rainfalls. The island is sent into a rampage of thunderstorms, nearly from dawn til dusk. This makes Mydeimos' life—and job—significantly harder. At the beginning of the rain season, he's done some remodeling to the animals' sleeping arrangement. The pigs are now locked tightly in their sty, so are the chickens in their coop, and the sheep are sleeping in the barn with the cows—thankfully, they do not have many sheep at all. The geese… God will have them in His watch, for Mydeimos will not.
He weathers the rain every morning to feed them and then spends most of the day helping Cyrene with her duties. Mostly cleaning, but he does attend her in the kitchen as well. Everything becomes a lot more scarce; whatever crops they did have before the storms are ruined now. Most of the food goes to Lycurgus and they are left with the scraps, which they share with Phainon anyways.
After a week of constant raining, Mydeimos wakes up early in the morning to go tend to the animals. It is not raining, not right now, and he holds off hoping that the storms are over. As he passes by a window, he catches a sight in the corner of his eyes; a figure down on the beach, standing still as a statue. It is small as an ant, but he could recognize that black hair blowing wildly anywhere.
Cyrene.
What is she doing outside, so early and on such bad weather? He sighs and decides to trail after her.
Mydei finds her a little later, in the same spot where he's first seen her. Her figure is a stark contrast against the gray backdrop. She is barefoot at the edge of the sea. Her black hair flies like wisps of smoke with the passing of wind. She does not move. Mydei is not sure if she breathes.
He approaches, slowly as if to not spook her. "Cyrene? What are you doing outside?"
His arm outstretches to touch her shoulder, but she turns to face him before he can reach her. Her face is… Streaked with tears, downright miserable. She is crying so hard her chest jolts with every sob, and she is hiccuping silently. When she sees him, all she does is moan, primal and long suffering.
She goes to fall down. Mydei catches her in time and straightens her back to stand. "What is wrong?" he whispers, desperate, "Reney, dear girl, what happened?"
Her dark gaze averts down to something she is holding in her hands. Mydei looks as well.
The man's face is bloated beyond recognition, both recognition as an individual person and as a person at all. At first, the head looked to him as though it were some fruit but now he sees clearly. In her hand, gripping it by the hair, Cyrene undoubtedly holds the head of a man.
His eyes are swollen shut by the bloat of seawater, so are his cheeks inflated as though he were holding two big melons in his jaws. His skin is a sickly gray-green and in some places, it is bruised too. His mouth has nearly disappeared into the swell of his flesh, and his hair has thinned to show the ribbed white skin of his scalp.
The smell hits him then all at once. It is the same smell that has violated his senses back in the army. It cannot be described—it simply smells like rotting manmeat and nothing else is like it. sour and acrid, Mydei can taste it in his mouth. He gags and nothing comes out. Just dry heaving. The scene makes Cyrene cry harder, who is now repeating hushed little 'nonononononono's over and over.
"Stop—" he manages, "Stop holding that, let it—let it go!"
He slaps the head out of her hand. It goes rolling on the beach, further and further away.
"I knew it," Cyrene gasps out, "God, I knew it, I knew it, I've always known, when he went to Jericha and went back, the sacks—" a shaking hand outstretches and point, "There is more in the sack. A leg from the knee down and a hand—"
"Cyrene—"
"I knew!" she shouts and collapses entirely against him. "I knew but I did not want to know and so I ignored it, God, God, how could such a thing—"
She is snot-faced and inconsolable. There is drool dripping down the side of her mouth. Mydei would like to wipe her face for her, but he has no free arm to do so with. Cyrene doubles over, head hanging low, the ends of her hair brushing the sand below, and from her chest, from her very being—a mighty scream, the likes of which would put even banshees to shame. The crows that have gathered around the remains fly in a flash of black feathers.
"I can't take this anymore!" she wails, "I cannot! I don't want to—no, no, NO, I don't want to do this anymore!"
"Cyrene, breathe—"
"No, no, no, no!"
His grip on her falters and she falls down at his feet. On her hands and knees, she rocks back and forth. "I remained blind willingly, God forgive me, for the truth was in front of me and I did not want to see! And now I see, and I cannot look away!"
He gets down with her, "Cyrene," and he cradles her head, and she comes to him willing, wrapping her skinny arms around his neck. Her breathing is frantic against him. "It has all shattered," she whispers, "The illusion. I kept telling myself lies. I knew Phainon was a man since he awoke and when I saw him, I knew he was stitched from other men. But I would tell myself pretty lies, that perhaps he is simply one whole man brought back to life, sickly and simply weird looking, not a creature built anew."
Mydei pets her hair and tries to shush her. It does not work. "I have seen the cruelty of man. They humiliated the people of Dolos. They cut off my father's cock and stuffed it in his mouth. My older brother was beaten blue and purple before they killed him. Every bone in his body was broken. My little sister was three, three years old when they shot her and she just started to talk, she was a little delayed, you see…" she wipes her nose on her jacket, "But Mydeimos, this trumps it all. This wickedness is—"
He pulls her face back so she might look at him. Her face is swollen with the force of her sobs. "Cyrene, we must leave."
"…I know."
"I have saved up my coin. The rest, we will figure it out. We keep this secret. We pretend like nothing ever happened. Then we get our bearings and we get Phainon, and we leave."
She wipes some of her tears, as much as she can manage. Cyrene has calmed down, though she is still crying. "He must have records of these. Of this… experiment."
"That's possible, yes."
"If we…" she sighs, "If we get them, we could go to the police with them. They could arrest him."
Mydeimos nods as the idea settles in his mind. "…We could do that. Where do you think he would keep these records?"
"Upstairs. In his laboratory. But—he practically lives there, I… I don't know how to get him out of that damned place!"
"Listen," Mydei leans in, "Leave it to me to figure it out. Tonight, I will distract him. I do not know how yet, but you will know when it comes. Later in the afternoon… Perhaps at supper. Make sure you are by his side. I will make it so he leaves, and you will get the records, and we will—we will show Phainon. He will want to know."
Bleary, slowly, Cyrene nods. "Yes, we do that, and—when do we leave?"
"Next week. We get paid next week." he grabs her shoulder, "Cyrene, you have to be brave, alright? Be brave."
"Brave…" she echoes, distant. "I will do my best…"
Raindrops start falling on their skin—the sky tears open to form a storm again.
It rages on until late afternoon, at which point the storm settles into regular—albeit annoying—rain, with the occasional thunder and lightning. Cyrene is in the middle of setting down Lycurgus' supper. His eyes linger on her, reminding her much of a hunting dog locking in on his prey. This is usual for him, and normal for her. She sets down his silverware, gives him a small bow as he's instructed her to every time she takes her leave, and starting going for the door. He stops her with a raise of his arm.
"Mmm, Cyrene, dear girl?" he calls. Her hands ball into fists. His voice, the way he speaks to her, everything about this man makes cold shivers run down her spine. She despises him. Despises the way he looks at her.
And still, she depends on him. That, she hates the most. Cyrene turns back towards him, hands folded neatly on her lap. "Yes, master Lycurgus?"
"Tell me honestly, girl, have you done anything lately, anything at all, that I would… disagree with?"
Cyrene grits her teeth. Her nails dig small crescent moons into the meat of her palms. She imagines, for a brief moment, how blissful it would be to grab the knife off of the table and stab it through his beady little eyes. She tilts her head and smiles. "No, not at all, master, why do you ask? Have I done anything to displease you?"
"Mm…" Lycurgus' lip curls into a smile, baring his pink gums and his straight white teeth. His gummy smile, his wandering hands, the way he walks up behind her and 'accidentally' brushes against her, that awful glint in his eyes; all things that she wishes she could destroy, perhaps to unhinge herself at the jaw and swallow hole and shit them out, shit him out, until there is nothing left in the world of this Lycurgus.
He seems to be considering his words. "That Mydeimos is not, mm, to be trusted," he finally says, "I dislike the way he looks at you. Say, girl, is he bothering you?"
"Mydeimos? No. We hardly talk, except for matters regarding the househo—"
"Is he fucking you?"
Her eyes go wide and she gasps. "What? N-no, Master Lycurgus, that is not—that is not happening at all!"
His gaze measures her from top to bottom. He seems suspicious. God, he knows. He knows. Perhaps, he has seen them or, even worse, saw them, maybe on that night on the beach—but how could that be true? She had made sure he was sleeping, even slipped some valerian into his tea, quite a lot of it too. No, no, it failed. It failed, he knows, and he's going to thwart it; freedom is slipping away from her, and she has tried so hard to be brave.
The knife on the table. If she is fast enough, she could do it. That would stain her hands with blood, but let them be stained, the price of guilty conscience is small for the reward of ridding herself of him. One more moment. One more step. Be brave just one more time, Cyrene—
"Master Lycurgus!"
The rich, deep voice of Mydeimos' shout echoes throughout the dining room. His broad figure appears in the doorway, and he is red in the face with exertion. He looks as though he ran a hundred laps around the tower, breathing hard, hunched over. "There is a fire," he says through pants, "The barn… A lightning struck it, and it caught on fire!"
Lycurgus gets up at once. The plates and the silverware clatter. "Show me," he commands, and lets Mydeimos lead him outside. His voice betrays nothing of his anxiety. Before he goes, he says "Cyrene, telegraph the fire department at once!"
She bows dutifully. Mydei hangs back a little, just enough to look back at her and nod.
This was it.
Once she is sure they are outside, Cyrene hurries to the grand hall. There stands a great big staircase, wide as the entire wall, decorated with ram heads and she knows that this leads up. Up to Lycurgus' laboratory. Up to the truth.
She takes a big deep breath, steadies the shake of her arms, and decides to be brave.
Cyrene goes upstairs.
Mydeimos only realizes that he's set fire to the barn all wrong when he is not met with the small flames he intended, but rather with a blazing inferno. He was so sure the rain would temper it, keep it contained, but it must have—it must have eaten at the hay and thus grown stronger. He did not mean for the entire barn to be engulfed.
The animals are screaming. It sounds like the souls of the damned, all wailing at once. The smell of burning flesh is all around him. One of the walls of the barns collapses and a black shadow rushes out, doubtless a demon sent from hell.
The shadow approaches, big and hulking and on fire. It bucks its hind legs up and Mydeimos can see pretty eyes framed by thick eyelashes, now blown wide open in fear. It lets out a haunting howl.
Mnestia collapses at his feet, charred to a husk, dead.
"What are you doing, boy?" Lycurgus screams at him, "Grab a bucket and get water from the well! Now!"
A similar fire, a lifetime ago. Back then, he simply watched as well. At his feet, charred meat. That was the order.
Mydei grabs the bucket.
They fight with the fire until it is well past midnight and, truly, it is not Mydei and Lycurgus' efforts that put it out; the barn simply burns down to ashes, and the soil is too damp for it to catch on the grass. The animals that have survived are running amok wild, and the ones that have died—Lycurgus finds time to make a joke about having Cyrene cook him beef for lunch tomorrow.
The fire department never came.
At the end, Lycurgus claps him on the shoulder. "I suppose it is done," he says with a sigh, "Get some, mm, rest, dear boy, though I believe you will not rest at all, will you?"
Mydei gives him a hard look. "Whether I rest or not is none of your concern, as long as I do my job."
The man barks a garbled laugh. "This is why I like you, Kremnoans, you make good beasts of burden. You big, mad savages, ha! Do away with these bodies then, perhaps butcher them or something, or else let them rot in the field. I care not anymore. The fire is out, and I am going to sleep."
Mydei watches Lycurgus go, simply stands there next to Mnestia's crackling body until he sees the man disappear into the tower. The rain soaks him to his bones. He waits ten more minutes, for good measure. Only then does he follow inside, deep into the towers, and straight to the servants' quarters. He swings open the door to Cyrene's room.
He finds her sitting quiet as a mouse on her bed, swinging her legs a little. In her arms she is holding a big dark leather bag.
"Did you get them?" he asks, and she looks at him as though in a daze.
"I… I have, yes."
"What's wrong? Why are you like this?"
She shakes her head. "Mydeimos, his laboratory… The things I saw…"
"Certainly they cannot be worse than the things you saw inside the manor downstairs."
"I suppose not, but…" she bows her head, "The floorboards were stained red with blood, and there was this big contraption, this… crucifix, almost. The smell was awful, it… So much blood, to seep into the floor and change its color like that… I—"
"Cyrene," he stops her, "It's alright. It won't be long now and we will be out of here. Did you look through the records?"
"No, I… I did not want to see them before Phainon did."
"Good," he pulls her up to stand, "Let us go."
When they reach Phainon's lounge and relate to him everything that has happened this past day, he simply sits there looking up at them and blinks.
"I… must think…"
He gets up and, for a few moments, he walks around the room, humming thoughtfully to himself. He stops abruptly, looks up at the ceiling and mouths something, then turns to them.
"Since I… woke up… I have seen in my dreams… all of these visions… which could not be from the life of a single man… They were very… different from each other… But what I remember best… are golden wheat fields… The warmth of summer… A big white dog… Other things as well, too…" Phainon walks up to them, "I have never understood… why it is I saw these moments in my dreams… and I would like to… understand now… So yes, please… I would like to see the records…"
He holds his hands out, a silent plea in his eyes. Cyrene opens the bag and takes out a big stack of papers. She hands it to him, Phainon takes them, and he goes to his windowsill to read them.
He reads them for a long time—there are a lot of them. Each page that gets read, gets discarded on the floor as well. Mydei bends down to pick them up, to sate his curiosity as well. The first thing he notices is that every page has a photo staple to it, and the second thing he notices is that the photo is not of a man's face but, rather, of a body part. An amputated leg, a lone torso, sometimes just an organ or simply a tendon. Lycurgus has worked meticulously—no two parts from the same body were used. Every muscle was picked individually to assure the healthiest, strongest, and most beautiful of results. In that, he succeeded.
The notes themselves are nothing to gawk at. They are short, usually comprised of a few sentences, detailing which body part was used and how. Cold, impersonal, as the subjects were merely construction materials for a grand mansion. 'Heart removed from subject and successfully attached to the creature. Strong, healthy, without suspicions of cardiac issues' reads one of the notes. Another is as such, 'Pronator teres, flexor carpi radialis, palmaris longus, flexor carpis ulnaris all removed and attached to the creature'. The rest of them follow the same formula. All call Phainon 'the creature'; that sits unwell with Mydei.
Phainon stops on a particular page and he draws a quick, painful breath. A low grunt rumbles in his chest.
"I am… a graveyard… a mortuary…" he mutters, "I have, perhaps… always known as such… But I wanted to believe… the truth to be different… I am not a man… I am one hundred corpses… stitched together…"
"Phainon—" Mydeimos takes a step forward.
"Do not try… to comfort me… It is not comfort I seek… rather… the truth…"
He hands the page he was reading to Mydei.
The photo is of—well, it's of Phainon. That is the most harrowing discovery of all, considering that in this photo, his head is decapitated and laying on an operating table. The expression on his face is serene, gentle, peaceful. It looks as though he is in a deep slumber. Mydeimos can see, through the graininess of the camera, tears frozen on his cheeks. The spine is still connected to his neck, long and sharp like the venomous tail of a scorpion. The sight is surreal. Phainon or, at least, his head still and unmoving and dead, when Mydei has only known him warm and alive. He wonders what this man was like, what hopes and dreams he had, what his favorite food was. What his name was, and whether that name tasted as sweet as 'Phainon' did on his tongue. He wonders if he was as good as Phainon, as gentle, as funny.
'Head, brain, and spinal cord removed from subject and successfully attached to the creature. The spine is in perfect condition, without any lesions or signs of scoliosis. Brain is in perfect condition, though it cannot be checked for hysterias or mental disorders. Teeth are straight, healthy, with no rot. Face is devastatingly handsome and expressive, with no impurities.'
Mydei looks at Phainon's face and finds it wrecked by doubt, eyebrows furrowed, lips bitten raw.
"That might all be true," Mydei says, "But I don't care. You are alive now and that is all that matters. All of us are… wrong, in some way. I have killed men for no reason at all. For—for oil. I am alive right now. They are not. That is all."
Cyrene is silent where she's retreated into a corner. Phainon measures him with his gaze, and then turns back to the papers.
He reads more. Pages fall to the ground and cover the floor like snow upon Jericha. Muscles that Mydei does not recognize, internal organs, limbs.
When Mydeimos handed Phainon the papers, he had expected a great, dramatic reaction. He did not get it at first, but when Phainon reaches the very last of the papers, Mydei gets what he expected. "N-no!" His entire body trembles and shivers, and he nearly throws himself off of the windowsill. He finds his footing on the floor, unstable and unsure, and he backs straight into the library. His eyes show more fear that Mydeimos has ever seen before in him, pupils small and constricted and lost in the blue. His hands shake. "This is… far too terrible… No, no… Not this, it is—Myd—Ah!"
Phainon crumbles the paper in his fist as a yell tears through him. He folds over on himself, stomach tensing and drawing taut, chest constricting with every beat of his heart. Whatever this is, it ravages through him like a wild beast, tearing him to shreds. His hands grab fistful of his hairs and pull, taking with them clumps of silver strands. Cyrene tries to get to him, but Mydei is faster. He puts an arm on his back.
"Phainon, what is it? Let me see."
He reaches for the page, but Phainon pulls it out of reach. "Phainon…" Mydei whispers, low, comforting, "Come on, show me, let me make it better."
"You will… hate me… for it…" he moans through hiccups.
"No such thing shall ever happen. Nothing can make me hate you."
Phainon peeks at him through his eyelashes. The tears in his eyes are identical to the man's in the photo. Mydei swipes them with his thumb and resists the urge to taste their saltiness. Doubt dances across Phainon's fine features, but Mydei can tell that he is really, really thinking about it. He gives him another encouragement; a shy smile. That seems to do it, because Phainon ends up handing him the page.
Mydei takes it and straightens it from where it's been crumpled up. He holds it up, and reads.
The room starts to spin around him and the floor slips from under him. He stumbles sideways but something—someone?—props him up and keeps him upright. He reads it again. And again. And again. He combs through the words on the page several times until they mean nothing to him anymore, until they are just sounds repeating over and over in his mind; meaningless. Nothing at all.
Distantly, a man speaks. It might be him, or it might be the Devil.
"Phainon," the voice says, terribly far away, "Unbandage your left arm."
Deep-seated dread settles like led in his bones. He is unseeing, his thoughts are muddled, his mind dizzy as if drunk on liquor. Phainon obliges, though he seems unhappy about it—no matter, Mydei has many more reasons to be unhappy in this moment.
The bandages fall apart like strips of flesh from him. They are dirty, a little yellowed, and they pool at his feet. Not long after the command is given, Phainon stands before him with his left arm naked and bared.
"Good God…" a woman mumbles near him, though he cannot tell who it is.
It all rises through Mydei like black bile, from his stomach up his throat and out his mouth. Everything. All of it. The war, the filth, the death, the culling games, the fire. The men he has killed and the men that tried to kill him. Oil. The sorcery and alchemy and occultism of the manor. The impossibility of a fractured reality, of laws violated. The exhaustion of the past two years is upon him at once and he feels heavy like a dead man sinking to the bottom of the sea, rocks in his pockets. Sweat sticks to his skin and to his clothes. He is in the trenches again and his life is at risk, but right now, he is not so sure he wants to live anymore.
Mydeimos doubles over and vomits, dry-heaving, throwing up all that he must have eaten in the past two months; which is not much at all. He does not stop for a good long while. The taste in his mouth is acidic and his throat burns as it is clawed open.
"That's m'—" he manages, wiping his mouth, throat raw from exertion. "That's my—That-that's my arm!"
It is, there is no doubt. Pallid and yellowed by death, lighter than Mydei's own complexion is but still unmistakably brown—however, that is now how he recognizes it as his own.
It is the tattoos.
They are a cultural staple of Castrum Kremnos, though quite an old-fashioned tradition by now; yet, his father had them, and his father before that, so Mydeimos got them as well. Red streaks swirl around the arm, accentuating every curve of the muscles and bringing out the strength in the arm for all the enemies to see. He had gotten those tattoos simply because they were beautiful, and he had cherished them deeply. He had loved tracing them with his fingers, and often imagined someone else, a handsome young man, tracing them for him—this one shameful dream came true in Phainon, who spent hours dragging his hands over every inch of red.
Mydei could have never imagined that the hand that caressed him sweetly was his own.
Madness strikes him. Fury, too. "Son of a bitch," he spits out, "You took—you took my arm! You took my fucking arm! Give it back, give it back!"
He lunges forward at Phainon, who instinctively shields his head. Before the hit can land, someone wraps his hands around his middle and holds him back with surprising strength. Cyrene.
"Mydei, you are not making sense!" she says, throwing herself in between the two, "Please, let's just go! Let's go!"
Mydei does not think about the last look Phainon, the sheer, cutting betrayal on those fine features. He does not think about the way he tries to chase after them until Cyrene explains that 'he just needs some time alone'. He does not think about the way he cries out his name, over and over until Mydeimos simply blocks out the sound.
The respite of the servants' quarters feels as refreshing as a splash of cold water. Cyrene leans heavily against the door, and then she gives a small sob. Mydei does not think he has the patience for this.
"Mydeimos, I'm sorry, that is—that's just terrible… Oh, it's terrible…" she stifles her cries, but there are tears streaming down her face. Mydei looks at her. His tongue feels like cotton. Dry.
"Those boys…" she continues, "Those poor boys, exploited in life and now not even in death can they rest… These rich men, all they can do is—is take and use and—"
She buries her face in her hands.
"…It's alright," he tries, but the words come out slurred. He is Mydeimos the Hare now, somewhere far away in the fields of Aidonia being chased by a wolf. "It gave us Phainon. That is worth it enough."
"Are we just meat to him? To all of them?"
Meat…
"…Yes, we are."
"Mydeimos, I am so sorry that he… He mutilated you, I—"
"It's alright," he repeats, "It gave Phainon an arm. Better me than him. That is… worth it."
"Mydei—"
"I cannot do this right now, Cyrene, I apologize. I want… I have to sleep."
He sinks into the bed with a weight that he did not know he possessed. He closes his eyes, thinks of nothing, and tries to sleep.
Mydei fails on all fronts, of course, because he cannot stop thinking and sleep will not take him either. His head rushes with thoughts, his chest swells with emotions. He finds it hard to name what exactly it is that he is feeling. Anger, certainly—at the Polemarch of Castrum Kremnos, at tagmatarchis Krateros, at his mother for birthing him, at his father from raising him. At Lycurgus, of course, for uprooting his life with, seemingly, no reason at all. There were certainly other arms in the fields, but that man wanted this one, and Mydeimos was powerless to oppose him. He was taken and cut open and split apart with ill-intent and cruelty.
'Left arm removed from subject and successfully attached to the creature. Arm is healthy, in good condition, flexible and with strong bones. Subject is alive, but comatose. Will be monitored over the following days.'
What horror, and what cruelty. He is just a body, a sack of flesh and misery, fated to be used and abused—and, really, has he ever been anything else? Anything other than a body for the Kremnoan war machine to throw into the grinder and torture until it is beyond recognition? Is the loss of an arm worse than the loss of his dignity? Of his morals? Of his innocence and of his peaceful conscience?
Such questions have no answer. His hand goes to touch the nub.
It is not so terrible. He has gotten used to it. The phantom feeling of his arm still being there has lessened, and he has found creative ways to go about his life with five less fingers. He could learn how to smith with only his right hand, and even if not, he is a strong man, stronger than most others that are whole.
They could find a small village to live in. Mydeimos could make toys for children and Cyrene could write books. Phainon, well… They would accept him. Mydei would make it so they did. Cyrene, though she is no priest, could marry them. They could build themselves a small house next to Reney's and she could bake warm bread every morning for them while they give her jars of fresh honey. It would be in a warm and sunny place, somewhere where the people are kind and always smiling. Perhaps somewhere off the inland coast, far away from both Castrum Kremnos and the Sky Castrum. Him and Phainon, they could house orphans, have an entire hoard of them, not to mention all sorts of animals. At night, they would lay boneless in bed and hold each other until they fell asleep. They could grow old together. They could grow right together. They could let time wear them down until all those rough edges were smooth and they fit together perfectly, like wind does to mountains and the ocean does to glass.
That would be nice.
It is not strange that Mydeimos finds that he is not cross with Phainon at all, nor does he truly blame him for the loss of his arm. Whatever he said back in the manor was out of anger, nothing more than a folly of his emotions. Now that his fury has simmered and dissipated, it has been replaced by deep, searing guilt. How could he have said such things to Phainon? His Phainon? His dear man?
What is strange, however, is how the thought of Phainon's blood pumping through his arm heats his cheeks and makes warmth coil tight in his stomach. This is a thought better left unspoken.
Mydeimos turns to his side and tries, again, to sleep. Whatever horror he has gotten himself into can wait until tomorrow. Just as sleep is about to take him, he hears the pipes rattle.
And then suffering, drawn-out, eerie and heartbreaking, the unmistakable sound of Phainon's crying.
'Just like that first night,' he thinks as he props himself on his elbow. It was a beautiful night, that night—terrifying, yes, and also slicked with insanity, but beautiful. It was the night he met Phainon, so of course it had to be beautiful, and of course everything that led up to it was worth it.
Phainon's sobs beckon him like a siren. Mydeimos does not even realize he is walking out of his room until he is met with Cyrene's sleep-swollen face. She rubs her eyes. "Are you going to him?"
"Yes, I am," Mydei answers.
"Do you… want me to come with you?"
"No, I—I want it to be just the two of us. Just between us."
She nods and retreats back into her room without saying anything else.
Mydei goes down the stairs two at a time. He does not even grab his lamp—he does not need it anymore. After all the times he had come down here, seeking Phainon's company and his mouth, Mydei would know the way to him blind.
It usually takes Mydeimos twenty-five minutes to get to Phainon's lounge; tonight, he makes it in ten.
He finds him as he did on their first night, curled in on himself on the windowsill, weeping loudly into his arms. The sound of the doors opening startles him.
Phainon looks at him. Mydeimos looks at Phainon. Time itself is suspended.
Pet names do not come easy to them, they do not come at all ,for Mydeimos finds them frivolous and embarrassing—but right now, they feel more correct than the laws of heaven and earth.
"Sweetness…" breathes Mydeimos.
"My love…" Phainon breathes back.
Mydeimos crosses the lounge to Phainon in two strides, and then it all crashes into them at once like the great waves of the Yonian sea.
Mydei finds purchase in the soft silvery-gold locks of Phainon's hair, pulls him forward with such force that he nearly falls off the windowsill, and kisses him with fierceness.
Phainon can hardly keep up with Mydeimos' indomitable desire, but he had denied them this for far too long. He moans and groans into the kiss, and Mydei gives him no ground to stand on, to respite. His hand wanders all over his mismatched body. The cant of his hips, the taper of his waist, his strong abs and then, finally, the soft swell of a breast.
"Mydei-mos…" Phainon grunts through it and then he whines high as a fox. Suddenly, Mydei is much taller, and he realized—ah, Phainon has picked him up, picked him up as though he weighs nothing at all. His back hits the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him—it leave him in the form of a moan. His feet are dangling off the floor and, by instinct, he wraps them around Phainon, pulls him closer into him, deeper into where is most needful.
His arm loops around Phainon's neck for support; Phainon, too, helps him stay stable by grabbing his hips with bruising strength. He is pinned to the wall, unable to move, unwilling to move too. The man rocks up into him, grinding his cock against his thigh and oh, he is already so hard; Phainon, his eager man, always so easy to excitement, so quick to lust. He is uncontrollable, moaning and whimpering against his mouth, his breath smelling sickly-sweet. Mydei, too, finds it hard to restrain himself. He nips his bottom lip and makes him keen, pulls on his hair, shifts his hips just so, finding the right angle to press hardness to hardness. He wants to get his fill of Phainon. Wants to show him how much he desires him.
"Mydeimos…" he moans, and has a sound ever been sweeter? "I am… sorry… Hah… your arm…"
Mydei pulls him into a mighty kiss, lips to lips, teeth to teeth, tongue to tongue. He licks out and finds his mouth already parted and pliant and warm—all perfect and good, because he does not care to control himself anymore. He fucks his mouth full of his tongue, finds Phainon's tongue responding in kind, rolling against each other, swirling around the tip. Mydei catches his tongue between his teeth and bites down, causing Phainon to whimper and his hips to stutter.
"It's alright," Mydei breathes out, feeling wrung dry already, "You can have it. It is yours. I would do it a million more times if it meant that I got to meet you. I would lose a thousand arms just to—just to look into those eyes, God, where have I seen them before?"
"I do not—"
"Shut up," Mydei grasps his hair, "Kiss me instead."
Phainon is obedient and eager to perform. Their lips crash again, teeth clinking, pain erupting, and that is all fine, that is all good, that only serves to fan the flames of Mydei's desire. He gives a brutal thrust upward, rubbing against him in the best way, catching the spot where pleasure is sweetest. Starburst erupt behind his eyes, and Mydei lets his jaw falls slack over a moan, head thrown back against the wall. Unknowingly, he bares his neck and his jawline to Phainon—Phainon takes advantage of this. He surges forward to kiss and nip at his jaw, to lick a stripe down the long of Mydei's neck, to suck a small bruise there.
Mydei allows him this, all of this, and he is so drunk on it that he does not mind anything anymore, not the way he is growing painfully hard in his trousers, not the way he is wet and leaking and desperate. Phainon quickens the pace of his thrusts to a maddening pace and he, too, is so desperate, so hot, so wanting that he is trying to fuck into Mydei over his clothes.
His hands have moves from his hips to grab his ass, that sly old dog, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh there. From this position, pinned to the wall and floating about with only Phainon keeping him up, he has no leverage to thrust back, and though the lack of control is delicious—Mydei wants to fuck Phainon back.
"Put me down. Put me down," he orders, and Phainon breaks from him with an unhappy growl. "None of that, Phainon," Mydei chastises, giving him his handsomest smirk. Phainon obliges, sets him down gently.
Mydei takes this opportunity to lick across his collarbones and give them a hard bite. "Mydei!" Phainon gasps, trembling on weak knees. "More… more of that…"
"You want more?"
"Y-yes…" he grabs him again, tries to grind against him. Mydei puts a hand on his chest and stops him.
"Calm down, then. You will burn too quickly, and that is no fun," he grins and runs his hand alongside his arm—his arm. Desire overcomes him, softer now, and he rises to his tip-toes to kiss Phainon. It is gentler this time, calm like Mydei has demanded of him, lips working against each other tenderly and lazily. Phainon pulls back just an inch, just to press their foreheads together and look deeply into Mydei's eyes. He is full of love. He is full of worship. Mydei is, too.
Phainon reaches behind his own ear and rubs there for a second, then brings his fingers behind Mydei's ear. He feels them slick and smelling faintly sweet, faintly rosy. Rose oil, he realizes, and Phainon is rubbing it on the back of his ear.
"Oh? You are sharing your perfume?"
Phainon smiles at him, coyly, boyishly handsome.
"My dear… Mydeimos… I-I want to… have you…"
"You have me already. Do you want me another way?"
"…Yes…"
Mydei brushes their noses against each other. "How?"
"I want to… fuck you full of me… I want to lay a mark so deep within you… that not even you may reach it…"
His voice is deep and dark with desire, pupils blown black and open, and his words are filth—Mydei is scandalized, stunned in the face of this, gaping a bit.
"That is not from any book we have read. Lover, do you even know what you are asking for?"
Phainon huffs a laugh. "I do… I have told you… I remember.. laying with both man and woman… I know… what I am asking for… What I want to do to you… God should not hear…"
Desire erupts in Mydei's chest, volcanic and violent, and he does not care to muffle his groan. When has he ever been wanted like this? When has he wanted like this? Never. Never. Arousal spikes through him like an earthquake, and he brings out his hand.
"Come here, then, dear man."
Phainon follows like a moth to flame. Their lips find each other again, could probably find each other in darkness and in plight, and Mydei cannot hide how much he needs this. How much he needs this oppressive heat of Phainon's body. Phainon groans against his mouth, deep in his throat, and then he shifts and—brings his knee up, hard, straight into Mydeimos' crotch. He seizes and pulls back with a yelp of pain.
"Asshole! Why did you do that!"
"S-sorry, Mydeimos…" Phainon's worried hands come to his face, "I wanted to—you understand… My k-knee… between your legs…"
"You have to account for how tall you are, you idiot! You hit me!"
"…Heh, I apologize…"
The son of a bitch does not look all that sorry at all. Mydeimos scoffs up at him.
"Enough of that. Take off those ridiculous bandages, God, we really need to get you some real clothes!"
Phainon obeys like a good dog. Lord, he is beautiful, and so well-built, so harmonious, as if everything about him is as God intended, as if it is natural. Everything moves together and fits so well—he supposes that was exactly Lycurgus' point. Through the horror and the massacre, he has to thank him for bringing this sight before him; Phainon naked and blushed, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, bangs sticking to his proud brow. His cock sits hard and heavy and flushed at the tip, beading precum and leaking onto the floor. He clasps his hands behind his back, juts out his hip, and presents himself.
"Is this… to your liking?" he says, and he has that shit-eating, cocky grin on his face. That mischievous twinkle in his eye winks at Mydei.
"It is," Mydei rasps out, "Very much so. Lay—Lay down."
And he does lay down, gets comfortable on the old carpet, resting heavy on his elbows. Phainon spreads his legs with a quiet moan, reaches in between his thighs to grab himself. He thumbs back his cockskin, gathers precome from his tips and slicks it down his shaft with two tight strokes.
He glistens in the light of the lamb, his cock most of all, and Mydei quite literally gets dizzy at the sight. He does not recognize the soft, needy sound that leaves his lips. His mouth is cotton. He is so aroused that his vision goes blurry with him. Phainon is so weirdly confident with it.
"Have you… done this before?" he asks him, dumbly, and Phainon barks a laugh.
"I have told you… many times… that I have… Or rather… the men I used to be… have…" he moans loud as his thumb presses into the underside of the cockhead. "And I have… touched myself, too… I am no child…"
'No,' Mydeimos thinks, 'Of course not.'
"Mydeimos… strip… You are still… clothed…"
Ah. That he is. Mydeimos starts to peel off the layers of his clothing, hands shaking—Phainon watches him as he does, stroking harder and faster, the grip on his cock lock-tight. Soon, Mydei stands before him in his underpants.
"Your tattoos… I adore them… and selfishly…" he turns to look at their left arm, "Selfishly, I adore… that I have… them too… A part of you…"
"A part of me…" Mydeimos echoes, "Attached to you, forever. Your blood pumping through my veins."
He moans. The thought is far too erotic, far too depraved. His vision glistens with tears. "Mydeimos… Take off… your underwear… You are so… Hah… hard…"
He is. He is. He is painfully hard, painfully in love, painfully ashamed. Mydeimos hooks his fingers around the waistband and pulls his underpants down until he, too, is naked, flushed, leaking and so swollen he could burst.
"Come… to me…"
Mydei thinks, in this moment, that his feet were made to walk up to Phainon, that his arm was made to embrace him, that his mouth was made to kiss him. He kneels over him, straddling his strong thighs. Phainon keens and thrusts upwards. "I want to… fuck you…"
Mydei leans over him, sucks kisses into his neck, makes him squirm. He inhales the scent of him. Rose oil. "Not today," he says, "Another time. I promise."
"Then…?"
"Let me show you," he kisses his sweet lips, catches the bottom one between his teeth and pulls, "I have, ah, so many things to show you, my love—"
"Show me… Show me…" he shivers, hands coming to Mydei's middle, kneading his muscular waist.
"Spit," Mydei orders, holding out his hand, and Phainon complies.
Finally, finally, Mydeimos touches himself, wraps his calloused hand around his cock, needy and throbbing for attention. The first point of contact is delectable, sending jolts of electricity through his body. He keens, not recognizing his voice anymore, and he strokes just twice, just enough to slick himself up with spit and precum.
He leans deeper to Phainon space and presses their cocks together, trying—and mostly failing—to wrap his hand around the both of them. Phainon reacts immediately, moaning low and canting, rubbing up against him.
Mydei looks at his pretty face wracked by pleasure already—brows furrowed tight, kiss-bruised mouth parted open, cheeks flushed and sweaty. He is loud, keening and mewling and moaning, and sensitive all over.
Mydeimos exhales deeply, and loses himself in it.
They find an odd rhythm in their frottage. Mydeimos thrusts into his fist carefully, but Phainon? Phainon is insatiable—he fucks against Mydei with vigor and with passion, whimpering and whining so loudly he is so sure even Lycurgus can hear them (this line of taught makes Mydei's stomach tighten, makes his balls draw up). He rubs against Mydei's cock roughly, selfishly, jostling him up and making him bounce with every movement. Mydei nearly loses his balance twice, but by God, he will not lose this spar—he tightens his thighs, feels them deliciously sore, and Phainon's hold on him tightens, too.
The room fills with the sound and smell of them. Whining and whimpering and grunting and moaning. Mydeimos cannot which sound belong to who; they mix together into this off-tune harmony. Phainon's voice, like everything else about him, is beautiful in the peaks of his arousal. The drag of skin against skin is delirious. At some point, Phainon's hand comes to their joined cocks and covers what Mydei's cannot; he squeezes, hard, sending Mydei into a fit of shakes and broken moans, ah ah ah.
The warmth of Phainon is impossible. His vision blackens at the edges. Here is what he likes most about his dear man; his extremities are cold, freezing even, but the more you explore his body, the warmer he gets. The center of his chest is where Phainon is hottest, burning up like a small sun. Mydei leans over him to place a wet, sloppy kiss there, swirling his tongue between his breasts. He moves, then, dragging his tongue along, to a pink nipple, perky an inviting.
Phainon jolts beneath him. "M-Mydei…"
Mydei loses his mind; has lost it long ago, perhaps. "Beloved, you are so, ah, you are hot, you are burning me up—" he babbles through grunts, nearly incoherent, hips stuttering, "Can you-can you feel how hot I am, Phainon? Can you?"
"I can…" he whines, "I can…"
He captures his lips; it is not much of a kiss. Rather, they simply move their lips against the other, breathing hot inside each other's mouths, tongues coming out to swirl occasionally. He feels Phainon's hand leave his waist, ribs up his side, and lands on his breast. His nail scraps against a dusky dark nipple, pinching it, grabbing it, pulling it; rough and uncouth. Mydei tenses and chokes on his gasp.
"Are you… sensitive… here?"
All he can do is nod and keen. He is sensitive everywhere. His skin is on fire and he is falling apart, flesh off the bone. His face is flushed in peachy tones, up to his ears, down to his chest. His cock aches with desire where it throbs against Phainon's. His hand is cramping, his thighs are shaking, and he cannot, possibly, get enough of this. Does not know how to get more of Phainon, how to consume him, how to merge himself with him—
His arm.
Mydei's eyes flit to it. Brown, streaked with red, straining with effort. Every muscle bulges, once his, now Phainon's. Mydei follows the line of his bicep up to the shoulder, where he sees the healed scar of stitching, where it has been taken off of him and gives to this man. Something ugly twists in his gut; jealousy, sorrow, arousal. How horrible this all is. How terrifying, for the both of them. What incredible unfairness. Warmth drips down his face.
"You are… cry—"
"Keep going," Mydeimos breathes out through a sob, "Don't stop."
He presses his forehead to Phainon's. Looks deeply into those eyes. Clear, blue, full of love, blurred by tears. He has seen them before, but cannot tell when or why or even if he did at all. Perhaps, he was, once, one of his comrades—perhaps, he was one of his enemies. It does not matter anymore; he is Phainon now, his dear man, his beautiful boy, gentle and coy, yet arrogant when he wants to be. What an infuriating creature, and how wonderful he is, as well. The world quiets around it. He knows these eyes. He knows these eyes. He knows these eyes. He does not remember. It is on the tip of his tongue. His brain does not have enough information.
Phainon quickens the pace of his hand and places a kiss to his brown. Mydei's mind blanks. He goes blind, and he lets it go. Whatever this feeling is, wherever he has seen those eyes before, it is unimportant. They are here now, warm and alive.
Mydeimos comes so hard his ears ring and he collapses onto Phainon. His mouth sings high-pitched moans, an entire symphony of them. Phainon's hand comes to his back and, after a few more pumps, he too is shaking and shivering and grunting with his release.
He cannot tell how long they stay like that, unmoving and panting heavy, trying to regain their breath. Phainon is the first one to stir, gently moving Mydei off of him and onto his side; he lets his head of golden locks rest on his bicep, on his own arm. All Mydei can do is sigh contently and crack his eyes open.
Phainon looks at him with all the adoration in the world written on his face.
"Was that pleasant?" Mydei asks, half-teasing, and Phainon chuckles.
"It was… indeed… pleasant…"
He kisses him, lazy and chaste. "Phainon, I want to say—" Mydei sighs, "I apologize for yelling at you earlier. For leaving you like that…" his hand touches his sweaty cheek, "I cannot imagine how it must have felt for you, to—to see all those men, to read those pages…"
Phainon closes his eyes and nuzzles into the palm. "It is… no matter… My creation may have been sinful… but you and Cyrene have baptized me, have you not? I am… clean now… and happy… and it is not… my fault…" he trails off, "What Lycurgus has done… is not… my fault… And though I wish… the men that make me could rest… I also wish… to give them a new, kinder life, as well…"
He gives his palm a kiss, stops to think, and then continues, "I am… of course… unhappy that I am not born of woman like other men… That I am… different… and terribly so, at that… But… you and Cyrene have given me your friendship and companionship… And you, Mydei, have given me… your love… That is more… than most men born of woman have… And so… I consider myself lucky… And if I could, I would not… change anything… for if I did… I may not have met you… or Cyrene… I have been… lonely… ravaged by woe and sorrow… before you came to me… my angel… I have been confused… about the memories I have and the… visions… from my dream… I have indulged… in my rage… and my hatred… Hatred… for Lycurgus… and the world I read of in the books… yet was not allowed to see… Hatred inherited from the… lives of the men I used to be… Which I did not understand but felt nonetheless… Hatred for myself, most of all…"
Phainon looks up at him, bright-eyed, honest as the bruises he sucked into his collarbone. "But you have given me… clarity… and more than I could have ever imagined… You are my lover but… most importantly… my first friend… I am thankful for that… You have called me 'man' and Cyrene has… baptized me… It has all been… worth it… And I would do it… a million times over… if I got to experience just a fleeting moment… of that night on the beach… again…"
"I love you," Mydei blurts out, so quick that he cannot clamp down on it and stop himself. Phainon smiles.
"I love you… too…"
His hand plays with Mydei's hair, with the lobe of Mydei's ear, it brushes against his lips and his eyelashes. "Sleep here… beautiful…"
"I want to, but you have no pillows."
"Heh… Use my chest… instead…"
Mydei has no strength to complain. He shifts so he can rest his head against Phainon's chest, and Phainon's arm comes to wrap around his shoulders. His heart is beating and, yes, it is, as Cyrene said, beating faintly—but beating nonetheless. He looks deep into his eyes, Phainon stares back. His breathing has evened out, and his soft breast makes for a good pillow. Love—what an odd concept that is. In this room, in this moment, he is safe; they both are. There is no Lycurgus. There is no oil. Mydei stretches up for a quick kiss.
Everything is warm and calm and good. "My deathling…" he murmurs into his skin, tasting its saltiness on his tongue.
He is nearly asleep when Phainon speaks up.
"I have… something… to show Cyrene…" he says.
"Oh? A surprise?"
"…Not a good one, I fear… I have been keeping… a secret… from the both of you… I apologize but I did not know… that what it is… was wrong… And now that I do… I understand it's quite serious…"
Mydeimos tries to rise, but Phainon does not let him. "What is it? Is it bad?"
"Is anything in this house ever… good? Indeed it is bad, but I do not wish to tell you now… It concerns Cyrene and her alone… I wish to tell her first and foremost… Show her… You have said, Mydeimos, that you have seen my face before… I, too, have seen hers before… In this manor..."
"I mislike the cryptic way you speak."
"I apologize… I wish to make you understand… that this is a serious matter… but I do not wish to tell you without her here… Forgive me, love…"
Mydei sighs. "Way to ruin a perfect night. Fine, I will get her tomorrow—and I forgive you as well. Let me sleep, I beg. You fucked me to exhaustion. Try not to look so proud of it."
Phainon does, still, look very proud of it, but in his warm embrace, Mydei forgives that as well.
The beating of his heart is lulls him. For the first time in two years, Mydei sleeps restfully; in Phainon's embrace.
XI. MULTIPLICATION
When he tries to sneak back into his room in the servant's quarters the next morning, deliciously exhausted by his orgasm, Mydeimos is instead accosted by an alarmed-looking Cyrene—this is worrying, for two reasons. One, because he has been very obviously fucked, showing up with mussed hair, bruised lips, and marks all over his neck and collarbone. Two, because if Cyrene is alarmed, then something must have happened.
"Is something wrong?" he asks like an idiot, because of course there is something wrong. There always is.
"Lycurgus asked that we both see him in ten minutes at breakfast. He did not tell me what this is about. God willing, he is about to fire us," she says, gesturing dismissively with her hands.
"I doubt that."
She sighs. "You are probably right," and then she measures him with her eye. Her gaze stops at a particularly bad bruise on his neck. "You two are impossible. In the mood for fucking, huh? When a dead body has washed on the beach? God, you and Phainon are insufferable."
Mydei grits his jaw and looks away. "Cyrene," he pleads, "It's not—"
"Spare me. I would really rather not know," she stifles a chuckle, "Make yourself look presentable, will you? Pop the collar of your jacket, or something."
She goes to leave, but Mydei catches her wrist. "Talking about things that need to happen," he coughs to clear his throat, "Phainon was talking weird the other day—"
"When is he not?"
"No, seriously this time. He said he has been keeping a secret and he needs to… show you? That it pertains to you? He wants to go, uh, tonight."
Cyrene immediately goes pale as a mollusk. She takes a step back. "You have the social skills of a snail," she mutters, sounding almost awed, "Why would you tell me this now and not later, when the time to go is closer? Now all I will do is worry myself sick over it."
Mydei inhales sharply. He had not considered that. "…You are right. I apologize. I, uh, take it back."
"You cannot take it back, you fish! Nevermind, I will deal with it, as I deal with everything else—"
"Cyrene," he stops her, "Thank you."
She blinks at him. "What? For what?"
"You have been kind to me."
"…You are easy to be kind to, Mydeimos, though you infuriate me. You and Phainon have been a light in this blasted tower, and you, specifically—well, you have given me courage. Courage that perhaps, I, too, can change things. That I can do something, you understand?"
She gives his arm a playful pinch. "Go get yourself ready, now."
They meet Lycurgus shortly after. He is eating his breakfast and not looking at them at all. There is an old box sitting in front of his plate.
"Mydeimos, Cyrene, I have something important to discuss with you," he says while dipping his bread in egg yolk, "A good friend of mine, Lord Anaxagoras, will be visiting tomorrow. This visit is, mm, of utmost importance. I need both of you to be on your best behavior, and I need both of you to be presentable—mostly you, Cyrene, for Lord Anaxagoras and I will sup together and you will serve us, of course. He is fond of lamb, so cook some for us."
"Master," she says, trying her best to not show how irritated she is. Mydei, however, knows the telltale signs, the tension in her jaw, the clench of her fist. "A lot of our livestock has died in the barn fire. How am I to procure lamb?"
"Mydeimos," Lycurgus looks at him, "Are there any lamb still left alive?"
"…Just one, master."
"That will be enough. Slaughter it today and keep it in the freezer."
"One lamb is not enough for an entire dinner," Mydei protests, and he does not even know if that is true. He simply does not want to kill the lamb.
"It will be enough. Lord Anaxagoras is, mm, a light eater," his voice leaves no room for questions. He takes his knife and taps the box with it. "This is for you, dear girl. Have a look."
Cyrene looks at Mydei first, confused and unsure, and he can only shrug in reply. Slowly, walking on light feet, she approaches the table and takes the lid of the box off. From it, she pulls a beautiful silken dress, terribly fashionable and undeniably belonging to a wealthy woman. The color is vibrant and blindingly bright, beautifully golden, with embroidered white floral accents. Cyrene's hand runs down the front of it, and she lets out a small sound of awe.
"Master, this is…"
"It belonged to my lady wife. Her favorite dress, mm…" Lycurgus looks down at it with disgusting longing. Something possessive and ugly.
As soon as she hears that, Cyrene drops the dress and gasps. "I want you to wear it when Lord Anaxagoras comes," he continues, seemingly ignoring her clear discomfort. He does not even look at her.
"This is… not appropriate attire for a servant," she argues.
"I will not have my friend see how frumpy you are, Cyrene. I want you to serve us in this dress. I want you to look presentable for once."
Mydei thinks, now, that he could simply kill Lycurgus and most—all—of their problems would be solved. The man is frail and weak and even one-armed, Mydei could subdue him. It would certainly be cathartic. Cyrene might want to get a hit in, too—they could even call Phainon up for it. He could kill him bare-handed. No rifle or knife needed. He could simply bring his mighty fist down his head like so, and crack it open like an old watermelon. His palm itches with the desire to see what the inside of his skull looks like. He takes a pensive step forward, ready to strike.
In a rare moment of self-reflection, Mydei stops and actually consider the consequences of his actions. For one, he has a friend coming over. If Lord Anaxagoras finds him dead or missing, he would sound the alarm and the two of them, Mydei and Cyrene, would certainly be suspected. And two, well, this entire place is fucking bizarre. He does not know or understand what sort of power or sorcery or alchemy—or whatever bullshit word he does not understand—Lycurgus has over these lands. What if he dies and the entire tower collapses on them? By all means, that is something that could happen.
Restraint. Restraint. Behind Lycurgus' back, Mydei bites his fist in an attempt to stay his hand.
"I…" Cyrene whimpers out, "Of course, master Lycurgus. I will do as you request."
Only then does Lycurgus actually turn to look at her. He smiles, toothy. "That's a good girl, Cyrene. Take it."
She does. Cyrene picks up the dress and places it back in the back. Lycurgus sighs wistfully. "You know, I do wish you just cut that clump you call 'hair'. A nice bob would suit your face more, do you not think? It is quite fashionable nowadays, mm…"
She blinks at him. "I-I see… I will… think on it?"
Lycurgus nods curtly, as though he has solved a very complicated issue. He turns back to his place. "Mydeimos," he calls, "You are a truly dour thing to look upon. Though you are very handsome, you always have a sour look on your face. I want you out of sight tomorrow."
"I will do so with pleasure, master," Mydei says, voice dripping with sarcasm. It makes Lycurgus scoff in amusement.
"That is all," he says, waving his hand. "You are dismissed."
Cyrene takes the box and disappears with it into the kitchen. Mydeimos goes outside to slaughter a lamb.
Since the fire, the animals are just… around. The barn is destroyed, two of its walls turned to ash, so there is no way to actually keep them contained anymore. They are obedient and gentle things—save for the geese— so they do not stray far from the tower. Mydei finds the flock of sheep with ease and he calls over the little lamb. The little boy bleats happily and skips over. Mydei has helped birth him. He leans down and pets his fluffy head, scratches under his chin, massages his big ears. He reminds him so much of Phainon with the way it bleats pathetically and jumps around. Mydeimos smiles a little bit.
This is the difficult part. One might simply grab the lamb and slaughter it, but that is not an option for Mydei. He takes the knife out of his pocket and puts it behind his teeth, then straddles the lamb and traps it between his thighs. The poor things thinks they are playing, as they often do, and tries to nudge his leg with his hand.
Mydei takes the knife from his mouth and, with deadly accuracy, slits the lamb's neck.
It screams and kicks for a few moments before it goes completely limp. Mydeimos watches his beautiful white wool staining red with blood.
The other sheep spook and flee, except for his mother, who comes running up to them. Mydei takes the lamb away to skin it before she can see.
Lycurgus barks orders at them for the rest of the day. He has Cyrene start on so many courses of food (so much for Lord Anaxagoras being a light eater) that one might think Christmas and Easter are happening on the same day. When she is not cooking ten different sorts of sauces, she is cleaning every inch of the tower—every inch. He has her go over the floors with a small scrubbing brush and he demands that every single window is washed until they shine as bright as the sun. He wants the floor varnished. He wants all the chipped furniture painted over, and Cyrene does as told, going over them with a tiny paintbrush. Every inch of the tower is swept several times, and then she goes over with the mop, and then with the scrubbing brush just in case. Lycurgus wants the floor varnished. Of course! The floors must be varnished! Cyrene varnishes the floors, though she has never done it before and, when she admires her work, she can tell that she has, undoubtedly, fucked it up. But they are varnished nonetheless and smelling of chemicals and gleaming bright.
Delivery men come and go the entire day. Milk, vegetables, fruits, cigars, beef, pork, chicken breasts, lamb (why even ask Mydeimos to slaughter the lamb, then?), an entire gramophone, and several tools that she does not recognize but can tell that they are meant to be medical. She is suspended more than twelve feet into the air, legs shaking on the world's tallest and most unstable ladder, sweeping the ceiling and getting all the spiderwebs, when the bell rings; God forbid master Lycurgus answers his own door! She climbs down, gets whatever bullshit he ordered, climbs back up. When the ceilings are done, she checks on the brisket she put in the oven. Lycurgus wants it so tender the meat falls off the bone—it should take around twelve hours. The smell of gas in the kitchen makes her light-headed. When Lycurgus asks that every bed sheet be changed and every piece of clothing be washed, that is when Cyrene starts to question whether Lycurgus is, quite simply, fucking with her or not. Does he plan to bed Lord Anaxagoras, or else what need does he have for clean bedsheets—which he already has, because she already changed them the previous day! Orders are orders, however, and thankfully, Mydei helps her wash the clothes in the small creak by the woods.
On his side, Mydei is ordered to, firstly, clean the rotting animal carcasses in the field. They have been sitting there since the fire, and though at first Lycurgus suggested they could be used for meat, one quick look at them proved him otherwise. They were already decaying from the moisture of the rain. Thus, they have been left there for the earth to claim them. Now, Lycurgus wants them gone. Some of them, the smaller ones, are already nearly bones, so Mydeimos simply puts their remains into sacks and the sacks into the wooden cart. The cows, on the other hands, are almost nearly whole. This proves an issue. They are too big for him to lift up and simply place into the cart. The only solution that Mydei finds is spending his entire morning and noon chopping away messily at their limbs and their bodies, cutting them into smaller parts to the best of his ability. The flesh is soft and rotten, so they fall apart easily. Seven hours are spent butchering them, putting as many in the cart as it will fit, and then starting the gruelling walk towards the small, meager woods nearly four miles away from the tower. Have you ever dragged a cart full of cow remains? Have you ever done it one-armed? This trek alone takes most of his time, and Lycurgus should be thankful that Mydeimos is stronger than most men and he does not simply collapse from exhaustion—though he is close to it.
Lycurgus also wants a new pen for the animals which, alright, of course! New pen, in a day! It is doable, because Mydeimos is an übermensch. The storms have ruined their reserve of logs, not that any of them would have worked for this, either. After disposing of the last batch of animal remains in the woods, Mydei finds a young juvenile tree, and chops it down. He gets around… four and a half small, skinny poles out of it, which is not enough but it will have to be enough. He hammers them into the floor, leads the animal inside, and ties rope around the four poles, thus connecting them. It will not hold for long, but it will hold for a day, and the animals are good so they will not try to escape either.
"That is not much of a pen!" Lycurgus yells from out of a window.
"It is enough of a pen!"
"Do not talk back to me, boy, or I will have you whipped! Do it proper! Get some logs to make a fence! Hammer them to the poles!"
Whipped? What is he, a lordling's unruly son?
"Pray tell, master," Mydeimos yells back, "How am I to hammer logs into the poles and make a fence, when I have but one arm? I am afraid I cannot hold the hammer and the log at the same time in one hand! Come help me, if you want a fence!"
That shuts Lycurgus up for a good while. The man seems to think and then he, intelligently, declares: "I will send Cyrene down to help you with it!"
When Cyrene joins him, she is sweaty down to her very bones, hair tired up in an awful bun that is half-falling apart, hair sticking to her forehead. Heavy breathing, a hunch to her bag. "I will cut come wood and get logs," he tells her, "You just… rest for a bit." When he returns with a cartful of chopped wood, they get to work to make a proper fence for the animals. It ends up being the ugliest pen Mydei has ever seen, but it is fenced, so it will be good enough. Cyrene returns to her duties, and so does Mydeimos—Lycurgus wants him to fix things around the house that he has absolutely no idea how to fix, on top of assembling his new gramophone. Well. Orders are orders.
He keeps piling up duties until Mydeimos is starting to think that Lycurgus gets some sort of sick enjoyment out of watching them labor. By the time both of them are done, the big grandfather clock in the tower's lounge strikes four hours and thirty minutes. In the morning, that is.
Cyrene runs them both a bath to clean the sweat and filth of the day. First she washes herself, then lets Mydeimos do it. As she dries her hair with an old rag, Mydei wipes the caked mud off of his boots. "We should go see Phainon, now."
"Ah," she blanks, "I have forgotten. The thing he wants to show me. Here I thought I could actually get a few hours of sleep before I have to wake up and check on the brisket."
"I can tell him we will do it another day, if you want?"
"No, I need to see it tonight, or else it will drive me crazy."
Downstairs, Phainon approaches them with uncharacteristic awkwardness. He hugs each of them when he sees them, kisses both of Cyrene's cheeks. Mydeimos gets a delicate kiss on his lips, then another one on the bridge of his nose. Phainon then grabs Cyrene's hand.
"Cyrene… Has Mydeimos told you… that I need to show you… something?"
"He has," she says curtly, "And nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. What is it?"
"I have… seen you… before… here… Your face, rather…"
"That is not possible, silly," she says fondly, "We have only met last month."
"No… it is… the… The body…"
Her grip on his hand tightens. "The body?"
"The body in the… eastern wing…"
"Does she carry a likeness to me?"
"She does…"
"…So? Who is she?"
"I believe… she is… Lycurgus' late wife…"
Cyrene takes a deep breath. "I wish I could say I am surprised to see that there is a body here, but I am not. Nothing can phase me anymore. You wish to show me this? Why?"
"I do not… understand… why she is here… And I though, perhaps, that you may know…"
"You were simply curious then, is that it?" Cyrene runs a hand down her face. "Knowing you, Phainon, she probably does not look like me at all!"
"N-no! She… she does…"
"Explain to me, I beg, why this is so important to you?"
Phainon is silent for a few seconds. He bites down his lower lips and looks away. "I simply… have a bad feeling about it… in my stomach… The way her body is… treated… I understand now… it is not the way that the dead should be handled… I believe there is something… nefarious… behind it… She is—"
"You know what," Cyrene rises her hand to shush him, "Just show me."
"…Of course…"
Mydei thought that they have seen every room and nook and cranny the manor has to offer during during Cyrene's earlier investigations a month ago. They were wrong, but it was impossible for them to be right, anyways. That is because, in order to get them to the eastern wing, they have to take a goddamned secret passage. Phainon walks to a completely looking normal wall, grabs it by the edge where it turns the corner, and simply pulls. It opens before them like a sliding door and reveals a squat, narrow tunnel. It is old, clearly, and does not even have true walls—just poles and rods of wood holding up the low ceiling and staying the dirt from overflowing. Cyrene fits comfortably in it. Mydei, not so much. But Phainon? Phainon has to bend nearly in half to fit through.
"This is… where he asked me to… carry the barrels of rose oil…"
Mydei stops to smell the air. It does, indeed, smell faintly rosy and, the more they approach the entrance out of the tunnel, the stronger the smell is. When they squeeze themselves out, they find themselves into… A room, as old and bizarre as any other in the manor. It is a pantry or storage room of some kind, holding bottles of old wine and pickled vegetables.
Phainon leads them deeper, holding out the oil lamp and lighting their way. This eastern wing is as twisted and maze-like as the rest of the manor, and nothing they see seems of importance of strangeness to Cyrene and Mydeimos anymore. The only thing, Mydei notes, is the smell of rose oil. Though rose oil smells pleasant, it is so strong here that it becomes unbearable. At one point, he has to cover his nose to stop himself from getting dizzy. He feels rose oil in his throat. It burns as it goes up his nose and into his cranium, seeming almost acidic to his exhausted brain.
Finally, Phainon stops in front of a inconspicuous door. Simple, brown, of average height. "This is… where she rests…" he warns before opening the door.
The smell of rose oil hits him like a bullet to the brain, so pungent and despicable it is that Mydeimos reels back and gags. It is making Mydei downright dizzy, as if he has just downed three bottles of wine. Cyrene in is no better shape—she is sent into a fit of coughs.
"God!" she exclaims, "What is this?"
"Is it… so bad…?" Phainon seems unfazed. He smells the air a little and shakes his head. "Perhaps I am… simply… used to it… Come…"
The room is covered in barrels of rose oil from wall to wall. There is a small table in the far right corner with a jar on it, but Mydeimos is not looking at that. Mydeimos is looking at the big great casket in the middle of the room. It is see-through, perhaps made of crystal, adorned with fresh golden roses and filled to the brim with pink rose oil.
Inside, a beautiful woman floats, naked and peaceful as though sleeping.
Phainon was right.
This woman is the splitting image of Cyrene, so much so that it is downright uncanny. They are more identical than twins born of the same womb would be. Every feature on Cyrene's face is reflected on the woman's, down to the shade of her skin, the curve of her nose, the dip of her lips, and the mole on her neck.
There are, however, some differences. The woman is clearly older, in her early or mid forties, and although precautions have been taken against wrinkles, her face bears the telltale puffiness of injectable fat fillers. Her hair is different from Cyrene's, too. Whereas Cyrene has a wild mane of thick black hair, long enough that the ends of it touch the middle of her back, this woman's hair is cut short and styled in a fashionable bob. Though the roots are as black as Cyrene's, the rest of her hair has been bleached and dyed blonde.
The woman's body has been entirely stripped of hair, except for her head and eyebrows. She is as smooth as a child. No hair on her arms or legs and, from where her arms are slightly raised to fold her hands on her chest, no hair under her armpits either. Mydei's eyes follows the line of her nude body and stops at her crotch—even her mons pubis is bare.
Lycurgus has done a good job preserving her body. Mydei cannot even tell how long she has been dead for, but she looks alive and beautiful and merely asleep—he expects her to blinks her eyes open any moment now and raise from her crystal casket. He has, however, not been able to preserve her perfectly.
There are signs on her body that worry Mydeimos. A long stitched wound wraps around her forehead, just shy of her hairline. On the right side of her head, behind her thick hair, another stitched wound, this one crescent in shape—if he looks at her from above, he can see that her skull is caved in slightly. A third stitched wound extends down her forearm, from her wrist to her elbow. Mydeimos recognizes this as the consequence of surgery done to fix a nasty fracture.
Mydei realizes, quickly, that both of these surgeries were performed after she has passed, because the wounds have not scarred over. The stitching thread is still there, and it is fresh, perhaps a few days old. Her body, now dead, lacks the capacity to heal wounds. She has been "fixed" after death, that much is clear to anyone.
He looks at Cyrene, and cannot imagine what she might be feeling. If he saw an older reflection of his dead body encased in rose oil, he would thrash and scream and vomit, but she… She simply looks. The emotions on her face are unreadable, though not cold, and Mydei can swear he sees a glint of fondness in her dark eyes. She is cool and calm and reserved as she walks up to the casket. Her hands come to rest against the edge of the lid, and her head cranes to rest it against the lid, right above the woman's own face.
Cyrene looks at her for a long while.
Blinking slowly, breathing evenly. Her hands do not shake. She does not cry. She does not startle.
Mydei thinks that, perhaps, he should allow her to have this moment, and so he steps back. His attention turns to the small table in the corner. There is only one thing on it—the jar. He approaches it.
The jar holds a brain, but that is not unusual for the manor. There are many brains in as many jars here. This one, however, is different, because this brain is alive.
It is submerged in saltwater—Mydei can tell by the faint salty smell it gives off—and attached to wires that disappear into the wall. Every few seconds, a jolt of electricity runs through it, making it jump and twitch. It shivers where it floats. Pale pink and wrinkled and terrible. Mydeimos has to look away.
He hears Cyrene inhale softly, and hears her shoes squeak as she backs away from the casket. Mydei looks at her. She is as composed and serene as ever. Utterly unreadable. Nothing on her face betrays her emotions.
"Thank you for showing her to me, Phainon. I am truly grateful," she starts, eyes not leaving the woman in the casket. "I know you brought me here so that you may gain clarity on the situation, but it is actually I who has gained clarity. I understand everything now. Why he looks at me the way he does. Why he touches my hair and insists on brushing against me when he walks past. Why he has even employed me in the first place. I have always been saddled with the duties of my father's household, yes, but I am not a professional servant and cook at all. I have always wondered why me, of all people, when he has enough wealth to hire several servants, good chefs and housekeepers. I see why now."
Her hand brushes against the lid of the casket. "He wants me to be her. No, he does not wish to marry me and mold me into the image of his wife. He wants her in my body. My younger, healthier, warmer body. My living body." She turns to them and smiles with every muscle in her face, eyes creasing, eyes twinkling.
"To him, we are just bodies. We are simply... meat, Mydeimos has told me as much... Meat meant to be used and abused to his liking. We are not people in his eyes, yes, that much has always been clear, but now I see... We have less value than even animals. Just sacks of fat and flesh and shit awaiting struggle and strife and exploitation. In life, he works us to the bone, and in death, he wishes to cut us open and take the only thing that is ours; our personhoods."
She steps away from the casket, grabs both Mydei's and Phainon's arms, and brings them closer to her. She holds their hands as she continues. "Phainon, let me elucidate you on what is going on here. You are the sketch predating the masterpiece, simple as that. You are the trial run. He has made you simply to see if it is possible. You simply exist as you are to make sure my future butchering is finer, devoid of scars, more beautiful. I am sorry to tell you this, darling. I think that you were never meant to live for long at all, and I think he resents the fact that you do," Cyrene runs her hand down his cheek.
"To him, I am simply the vessel that will bring his wife back to life—his favorite subject to torment, perhaps? It is clear now why he so obviously desires me. I was unlucky enough to be born looking like a woman twenty years my senior," she shrugs, "I suspect he's killed her, if her wounds are anything to go by. Broke her arm, perhaps in an argument, and hit her over the head, slaying her. One could argue he feels guilty and that is why he wants to bring her back to life, but I believe him incapable of guilt. She simply slipped from his control and he wants her back. She has escaped his abuse in death, and he cannot suffer to part with his toy. That is all there is to it, I believe."
She turns to look at Mydei. "As for why he took your arm yet did not kill you after, Mydeimos... It is hard to tell. My gut instinct is telling me that he simply just wanted another person to order around, to... exert power over. To control. You are feisty, Mydei—maybe he wanted to prove to himself that he could break your spirit? Maybe he was simply too taken with you, and thus could not bring himself to slaughter you," she chuckles and smiles, "Who can say? Maybe you were just a happy incident, a young man who simply happened to be on the wrong battlefield."
Cyrene lets go of their hands and walks past them to the jar housing the woman's brain. She grabs it with careful, delicate hands, and runs her thumb over the length of it. "I do not know what else to say," she mutters, and in one mighty swoop, rips the wires out of the jar.
"May she rest in peace, for I will not give her my body."
She raises her arms above her head, and brings them down with fierceness as she throws the jar on the floor. The glass shatters, the brain unfurls, and finally, it stops moving.
Cyrene turns to them. Determined, fierce.
"We leave this night."
"Why not now? Why wait?" Mydei asks.
She cocks an eyebrow, "Because Lycurgus is going to wake up soon and, if he sees us gone, he will sound the alarm. He has a telephone in his laboratory that he could use to call the authorities or his more twisted connections. He could accuse us of theft or robbery, and our word would be weak against his. We need to leave in the night, when he sleeps—that way, we get a head start."
Phainon sucks in a breath. "If it is… Lycurgus… that you are worried about… I can simply… kill him… I am strong… It would not take much to—"
"No," Mydei stops him, "No. You must not sully those hands with the blood of man, do you understand? It is far too terrible a fate for you. If we do have to kill him, for any reason, I will do it. The two of you, I… I want you to remain pure."
Wordlessly, Phainon nods and grabs his hand. Cyrene does not react at all.
She walks to the door and stops there, just on the threshold. She looks back at Mydei and Phainon.
"You know, I desperately want to lay my eyes upon this Lord Anaxagoras."
XII. PROJECTION
Cyrene was right—Lycurgus, does, indeed wake up soon after.
They hardly have enough time to get their bearings before he rises. Once they make their way back from the eastern wing of the manor, through that tight tunnel, they stop to gather his records from Phainon's lounge; the plan to get him arrested seems more and more unlikely the more Mydeimos thinks about it, but he is willing to at least try. Cyrene swears she will keep them safe in her room.
They say their goodbyes to Phainon and promise that they will get him later this night and leave together. Once Cyrene goes upstairs to prepare herself, Mydei lingers for a little while longer with Phainon.
He walks up to him and cradles his face. "Look at you, my beautiful man…" Mydeimos coos, "I mislike the anxious furrow in your brow."
Phainon turns away, bashful. "Though the prospect of… leaving… makes me happy… it also… frightens me… I have never known… anything else… but this manor…"
Mydei smooths his thumb over his furrowed eyebrows, making Phainon grumble deep in his chest. "That is understandable, dear man, and quite normal, too."
"I am… worried… that other men… will not accept me… for I indeed… look very different… from them…"
Mydei scoffs at that and forces his eyes to meet his. "They will," he whispers, "They will."
"But what if… they do not…"
He sighs and steps closer to Phainon. Presses his body against his—Phainon reacts to this immediately, wrapping his arms around Mydei's middle, pulling him flush and close. "Let me tell you, my heart, what I envision for you," he whispers, "A small, sunny village, somewhere close to the sea. Somewhere warm and safe and a little hidden away, where Lycurgus could never find us. We could be a little family, just the three of us. You, me, Cyrene. We could build our houses next to each other and trade gifts every morning. There will be no pain and no sorrow and no damp, dark, manors. It will be something… simple and a little boring," he leans up, kisses him, "The people of the village will accept you, and if they do not, I will make them accept you. Using force, if necessary."
He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against his. "I want to have children by you, darling. I want to grow old with you and be buried next to you."
From Phainon's chest, a small sob. Quivering, small, scared. Warm tears run down Mydei's fingers, and he wipes them away with his thumbs. "Do you think… that is possible… for a man such as I?"
"Yes," he breathes out, "Especially for a man such as you. Good men are few and far between."
Phainon is silent for a moment. Breathing slow against Mydei's chest. In here, Mydei admires the long lashes on his eyes, his beautiful lips, his strong throat. He places a chaste kiss to it, just over his pulse point, feeling it stutter when his mouth lingers there.
"…We could… raise cows… together…"
Mydei has never imagined one could be so fond of another man. His heart swells with Phainon, with his raw voice, with his gentle hands. He is holding the very Sun in the palms of his hands.
"Yes," Mydeimos laughs, "We could."
"What would… Cyrene… do?"
"I would never let her leave our side. She could marry, if she wanted to. There are no shortage of men—" he stops himself, "People that would want to love her as I love you. I was thinking she could write story books, or she could be a professor. She could do… whatever she wanted to, yes. Free of servitude, free of… burden… I imagine she would spend most of her days under the cool shade of a tree, scribbling away in a notebook, humming a song. Occasionally, we would bother her and annoy her—hah, does that not sound good? She could sleep over at our house any time she liked, right in-between us two, telling us stories until the sun raised high on the sky…"
Phainon buries his head in the crook of Mydeimos' neck and inhales him deeply. His hands snake upward to his shoulder blades. With a brusque movement, he pulls him even closer to his body, impossibly close, as if he were trying to merge them together into two.
"I want to… marry you… I want… children… I want Cyrene to be their godmother…"
Mydei feels the pinpricks of tears stinging his eyes. He huffs a weak laughter. "That would be wonderful. We could… we could do all of those things." He does not have the heart to tell him that that is all, really, impossible, that it is not legal or permitted. No matter. Mydei will make them possible.
Phainon groans into his shoulder, muffled by his jacket.
"Aedes… Elysiae…"
"Aedes Elysiae…" Mydei echoes, "I like the sound of that…"
They kiss all the way to the door, small, desperate kisses. Neither of them wants to part. It gets to a point where Mydei is halfway up the stairs and Phainon is still kissing him, nipping at his bottom lip, kneading his waist. "I—have—to—go—" he chuckles through kisses. In response, Phainon grumbles unhappily, but stops.
They do not let go of each other hands as Mydei starts climbing the stairs until it is physically impossible for them to hold onto each other's fingers anymore. Even when they do break apart, Phainon still watches Mydei go and Mydei, too, looks back at Phainon until he disappears from sight.
In her room, Mydei finds Cyrene all dolled up. Her hair has been brushed until it shone like onyxes and she is, indeed, wearing the dress of the dead woman. In it, she looks gorgeous, but melancholy as well. "Are you alright?" he asks her.
"Do not kid yourself, Mydeimos. I just saw my doppelgänger dead in a casket."
"Ah… I'm sorry…"
Cyrene shrugs. "It's alright. I spoke to Lycurgus and took care of his breakfast."
Her sharp eyes zero in on Mydeimos.
"Lord Anaxagoras will be arriving shortly."
The man that visits them is a pale and sharp thing. Lord Anaxagoras looks as though a warlock ripped from folk stories, tall and skinny and thin of waist. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sunken in and sitting high on the apples of his face. One of his eyes is covered by an ornate eyepatch, and the other is an eerie magenta color. He is beautiful, the way terrible things often are. Mydeimos watches, hidden behind a corner, as Cyrene greets him inside and curtsies politely before helping him take off his heavy coat. Even Lycurgus bows his head to him.
They begin a polite conversation, carried entirely by Lycurgus.
"Lord Anaxagoras, my dear friend, it is so good to finally see you, my Lord."
"Indeed it is, viscount." Anaxagoras' voice is calm and weak, clearly weathered by many ages. Phainon's words echoes in his head. Anaxagoras is eternal.
"How are things in the Grove?" Lycurgus continues, clasping his hands together.
"As well as they have always been."
Anaxagoras takes off his gloves and hands them to Cyrene dismissively. Mydei spots, for a brief second, a burning red tattoo on his right hand; in the center of that hand, a red crystal sits embedded. On one of their first days together, Cyrene told him the story of Lycurgus' dark red gemstone pendant, "gifted to him by a warlock". Understanding settles over him.
His eyes flit to Cyrene. She stands prettily with her hands folded neatly at her front, smiling beautifully and nodding. The smile does not reach her eyes. In the dress of a dead woman, she is luminous and exquisite, the gold shining against her brown skin—but she is also sad, melancholy. Like a bird trapped in a cage.
Lycurgus puts his hand on Anaxagoras' back and invites him for a tour of the tower. He leads him away, dismissing Cyrene before whispering something to her, and the last thing he hears Lycurgus say is, "How are my daughter's studies going?" as he trails off.
Cyrene hurries past him without seeing him, but Mydeimos catches her by the arm and startles her. She barely muffles her scream.
"What is wrong with you?!"
"I did not mean to scare you."
"You were told to keep out of sight! What are you doing here?"
Mydei frowns. "I did not want to leave you alone with them. Where are you going?"
"I need to finish the cooking."
"Let me help you…"
Cyrene cocks an eyebrow. "Do you know how to cook?"
"I was something of a chef in my days in the army. Please, let me."
She concedes to her request and they go to the kitchen together, where they slave over several courses of food for several hours.
"Is Phainon ready to leave?" she whispers to him as she decorates a plate of light snacks.
"Yes, he is. I talked with him."
"Good. I need to get these to them. Make yourself useful and figure out a way to go after we leave. We need supplies as well, so," she gestures vaguely, "Figure that out, too. I will handle Lycurgus and the warlock on my own."
She leaves, and Mydeimos is left in a kitchen scarce with food. Lycurgus is wealthy, which means he does not bother himself with non-perishable foods like the rest of the flock. He looks and looks and finds no no cans of beans or pâté or fish. All he has are ingredients. Well, Mydeimos is not above stealing. He scours the tower, avoiding Lycurgus and Anaxagoras on their tour, and finds a big leather sack in Lycurgus' wardrobe. Mydei takes it, alongside a bundle of clothes for Phainon. A simple brown cloak, not large enough to cover him completely but good enough to obstruct his face, a pair of pants that he hopes will fit, an undershirt, and a jacket. He also finds a ballpoint pen and a stack of old paper; Mydeimos, weirdly, thinks he will need those, so he takes them as well.
He shoves everything into the sack, then sneaks downstairs into the kitchen and, quite literally, takes everything that he can see. Meat, vegetables, stale bread, blocks of cheese, and six glass bottles. It is enough to last them for… a while, though not a long while. Phainon only needs to eat once a week, and Mydeimos can get by without food or with very little food for a long time. Cyrene, on the other hand, is not used to hunger. She will need to eat at least a meal every day.
Mydeimos hears Lycurgus and Anaxagoras seat themselves in the faraway lounge to smoke cigars and converse, and takes this opportunity to steal away through the front door. First, he stops to fill the glass bottles with water from the well.
He starts to map out the escape route. If there are any hidden exits to the tower, Mydeimos does not know of them, so they will have to leave through the front door which is… not preferable, but perhaps the only way. Then, they only have one way to go; downhill. The tower is built on the precipice of a cliff, and there is only one road that leads to it—Mydei knows it like the back of his hand, thankfully. Their safest option would, probably, to go through the woods. It is a small and young forest, but not entirely devoid of danger. He has heard wolves howling there before, and he cannot rule out the possibility of mountain lions. Their only other option is to go around it, through the main road, but that is less preferable. They cannot risk being spotted at all, in case Lycurgus starts looking for them, which he most certainly will. So, forest it is. Mydei simply shrugs as he draws a sketch of the forest, figuring out that Phainon is strong enough to fight off any animals that dare approach them, if they do at all. Given his nature, they might be scared of him.
In the distance, he can see a town, though he does not know the name of it. It is not on any maps that he has seen, and he has seen many maps. They cannot, under any circumstance, stay in the town. That will be the first place that will be alerted of their absence, which means they have to be out of the tower and past the town in the same night, taking back roads and unbeaten alleys. None can see them. They must be as shadows are.
He does not know where they are exactly, but he knows that they are on the coast of Odestris. To the north, following the coastline, stands the great city-state of Styxia, which has remained both neutral in the war and a save haven for refugees. It houses nearly two million inhabitants. They would not be so easily spotted there, especially if Phainon veils himself. They could pay to ride a ship from Styxia to the mainland; they could even ask about this Aedes Elysiae place while they are there. It is not the safest bet, given that one might look for fugitives in a large city and that it follows a straight road from the tower, but it is their safest bet. Mydei's second idea is to walk across the entire of Odestris to the other coast and see if they find any luck there. He throws the idea away as soon as he gets it; Odestris is mountainous and they would have to pass through the largest mountain range in Amphoreus. It would not be a trip that Cyrene—or really, any of them—could survive, considering that human settlements are scarce there. Styxia it is.
This is the best he can manage. After drawing a crude map, he sneaks back inside the tower and tries to find Cyrene. He spots her with her ear to the lounge door, eavesdropping. She gestures for him to come over and listen as well.
He hears the voice of Anaxagoras and Lycurgus talking, but it is impossible for him to make out what they are saying. The issue is not that they are talking in a different language, rather they are talking in gibberish. Their voices are garbled and scratchy, with a weird drawn-out breathiness to them, almost as they were a broken record, playing music backwards.
Mydei slowly turns to Cyrene.
"What the fuck?" he whispers, and she nods quickly.
"I know, right?" she whispers back, "I believe Anaxagoras cast a spell so their voices will not be understood. I wonder what they are talking about…"
"Nothing good, certainly," he grabs her and leads her away. Once they are out of earshot, he says, "I figured out an escape plan."
"Truly?"
"We will go to Styxia, and from Styxia, we will take a ship to the mainland."
Cyrene nods, "That is good enough. Go to my room and take my coin pouch from my drawer. I do not have much coin saved up, but I have some. I will… grab us a weapon from the kitchen."
He does as he is told, grabbing his small coin pouch too.
Nothing else happens until suppertime, when Cyrene swings open the room to his door. "I have served Lycurgus and the warlock their dinner, and I have been dismissed for the day. I suggest we get some rest and sleep. I was thinking we should sleep in the manor, with Phainon."
"What if Lycurgus calls on us?"
Cyrene clicks her tongue. "That is a good point, hm…" she thinks, "He will not call on you. You go sleep in Phainon's lounge, get him ready to leave. I will sleep in my room, and if he has need of me, he will know where to find me," she sighs and sits down in bed next to him. "Anaxagoras said he will sleep over. This unsettles me."
Mydei grabs her hand, but she continues. "When they are asleep, I will go down and find you, alright?"
"Yes, I'm going now. You should carry the records, just in case anything happens to me."
Cyrene cocks an eyebrow. "And if anything happens to me?"
"…Good point. I will take half of them, then, and you take the other half."
"Deal."
They split Lycurgus' records between the two of them, and Mydeimos goes down to Phainon's lounge with them and the bag of supplies. He finds him sleeping peacefully and curled on himself like a cat, his chest rising and falling slowly. Mydei's chest crumbles with affection, and he crawls down on the floor next to him. He touches his soft hair, his handsome cheek, leans down and places a soft kiss on his temple. Phainon stirs awake, cracking his clear eyes open, looking fizzy at Mydei.
"Mydei…mos… Darling…" he mutters through the heavy blanket of sleep.
"I came here to take a nap with you, Phainon," Mydei whispers into the shell of his ear, making him squirm. "When we wake, we will leave."
"Leave…"
"Mhm," Mydei hums, and he presses his lips to his shoulder, the side of his neck and, in the end, his jawline. That makes Phainon twist around just a tad, enough to lean up and capture his mouth in a lazy, sleepy kiss. Mydei groans into it, presses down against Phainon harder, and is the first to pull away.
"Sleep," he reminds him, looping his arm around Phainon's waist and nuzzling his nose in the back of his head. Phainon just grunts in approval, grabs his hand to pepper one, small kiss to his palm, and lays his head down.
It does not take long for Mydei to fall asleep, exhausted as he is after the past two days. All he thinks of as he slips into unconsciousness is how well his and Phainon's bodies slot together, as if they were made for each other like puzzle pieces. Phainon's back fits perfectly into the curve of Mydei's stomach. The slop of his nose seemed fit to be completed by Mydei's hooked bridge. The empty spaces between his fingers are just the right size to house Mydei's fingers, intertwined.
He is surrounded by Phainon. His warmth next to his body, his smell all around him, his kindness in his heart. Mydei thinks, a bit deliriously, that this must have been fate, and that fate is kind.
Some hours later, though he does not know how many, Mydei is shaken awake by Cyrene. She looks well-rested, but terribly worried, and she is still dressed in the dead woman's clothes. The room is a little colder. He tries to blink sleep away.
"Time to go?" he mumbles.
"Yes, but—" Cyrene looks at him, frowning. Her eyes are deadly serious.
"Mydei, where is Phainon?"
He sobers up instantly, stripping the daze of sleep off of him like an old shirt. Mydei looks to his left side. "Phainon, he's right here—"
He's gone.
Phainon is gone, and so is the bag of supplies.
Mydeimos jumps to his feet and immediately panics. His jaw locks. "He was here," he tells here, "We were sleeping. He fell asleep in my arms."
Cyrene pales instantly. She looks like she is about to faint.
"He would not have left without telling me," he continues.
"Lycurgus," she breathes out, "The eastern wing."
"How are you so certain?"
"I feel it in my gut. He took him there. Mydei, we have to—we have to go to him, now, we have to find him!"
"Yes. We do."
Mydei straightens himself. Clears his throat. Grabs Cyrene hand.
And runs faster than he has ever before.
As he pulls her through the rooms of the manor towards the narrow tunnel, it is clear that Cyrene cannot keep up, and she is not running as much as she is simply letting herself be dragged behind him. She stumbles at some point and falls down, but that is not enough to make Mydei stop or let go of her; she gets dragged on the floor for almost two feet before she finds the strength to get back up.
They find the wall to the tunnel, push it aside, and crawl inside. The disgusting smell of rose oil returns to assault them, but all Mydeimos can feel is the acrid taste of bile in his mouth.
On the other side of the world, the eastern wing emerges. First, they check room with the woman's casket, and find it untouched. Her brain is decaying on the floor, where Cyrene left it.
They split up and check every room they can. Mydei is nearly blind, and he cannot tell whether he is crying or not, but he has not been this focused since he was hunting enemies in the trenches. He still finds the restraint, somehow, to not swing doors open and barge into rooms. He listens for sound, cracks the door open a pinch, and checks inside. He finds nothing, nothing, nothing.
He does not panic. He does not despair. He rages, simmering quietly in his stomach, like a dragon about to spit fire, and yet he remains calm like a wolf on the hunt; and Mydeimos is, right now, on the hunt.
He vaguely registers Cyrene searching just as wildly as he in the back of his head, but his mind is full of Phainon, Phainon, Phainon. He does not allow himself to think of the worst scenarios that hit him like lightning. Phainon dead on the floor. Phainon disassembled and screaming in pain. Phainon irreversibly changed into something unlike himself, something more hateful, something that does not love Mydei—something that does not love at all.
They check every room on this level, and then Cyrene finds a staircase going down; how far does this manor stretch? They descend the stairs quietly, on the tip of their toes. The smell of rose oil is replaced by something more acidic, something chemical and clinical. An antiseptic, Mydei realizes. He has smelled it before in nurse Hyacinthia's medical tent.
Surgery, this means. A surgery is being performed.
His boots creak on cold, white tile.
The floor that opens before them is identical to a hospital ward. Sterile colorless walls, plain tile stretching far into the darkness, swaying double doors. Cyrene grabs into the loose sleeve of his jacket, there where an arm does not exist. They are both as disoriented as fish out of water. Mydei looks around, trying to find a path to take. Cyrene just looks tired, breathing heavily through her nose but trying to stay quiet.
Somebody whistles.
At first, it is one simple, shrill note. Then, another one, and another, and so, it becomes a tune. Someone is whistling, almost absentmindedly. He nudges Cyrene and nods with his head towards the source of his sound. Gestures for her to follow, and to stay quiet.
They walk like rabbits in the snow, light-footed. He leads and Cyrene follows. The whistling grows louder. They turn a corner, and then another one.
A huge double-door stands before them. Undoubtedly, this is where the sound is coming from and, undoubtedly, it comes for Lycurgus. Cyrene opens the door just an inch, just for their eyes to have enough space to peek.
There are two surgical tables inside, and Lycurgus is worrying over one of them. On each table, a man—
Phainon, awake, strapped down tightly and struggling to break free. Next to him, Anaxagoras, unmoving, unbreathing, peeled open like an orange. The skin and meat of his torso has been cut open and is held back by hooks. From where is standing, Mydei can see Anaxagoras' ribcage.
Lycurgus is elbows-deep into him, squelching around with his knife inside him, wearing surgical latex gloves. He twists, puts the scalpel aside, returns, and pulls out—
What comes out of Anaxagoras is small and shriveled and black. By the shape, it could be a stomach or a liver. It fits entirely in the palm of Lygus' hand, so tiny it is. Lygus puts it aside into a bucket of similarly looking organs, piled high into each other. Mydei can make out a heart there, a lung, a kidney, and many others underneath. All of them unnaturally minuscule, inky black or dark blue, and dripping with strange liquid. The same liquid that is pooling under Anaxagoras' nude body on the table, running down onto the floor. It is something like a… thick sludge. Dark burgundy red, with the consistency of syrup—almost blood, but not really. More like… a paste made out of red roses, streaming out of his body like a waterfall. The smell of it is sickly-sweet, like a rotten corpse.
He is called… Anaxagoras… and he is... eternal…
On this surgery table, Anaxagoras is dead.
Lycurgus steps back and takes off his latex gloves. His face is obscured by a cloth mask tied around his back, but his eyes are focused and sober. He puts another pair of latex gloves on, runs his scalpel through rubbing alcohol, and steps up to Phainon.
The tears in his eyes glisten with the reflection of nothing but pure, unadulterated hatred. No fear, no cowardice, no confusion. Hatred. Burning like a blaze, scorching like sea fire, and set on lighting Lycurgus ablaze.
Lycurgus seems none the wiser, and if he does notice, he does not care. He brings the scalpel soaked in alcohol to Phainon's shoulder, and cuts deep and long down to his sternum.
The scream of pain Phainon lets out makes Mydeimos see black in front of his eyes. What happens next is out of his control.
He barges into the room with a grunt, eyes affixed on his prey—Lycurgus. That bastard. That despicable man. The worst that the world has to offer. He drives into him hard, forcing him backwards, throwing the both of them into a cabinet. Its glass wall shatters, shards flying wildly, cutting Mydeimos and embedding themselves deep into his hands. He has him by the throat, his skinny pale throat—under his palm, his thumb spikes and oh, oh, Mydei likes that. Likes how afraid he is. He tries to fight back, he struggles and writhes like a worm, but he is unable. Mydei grips his throat harder. Brings his head forward. And slams it down one of the cabinet shelves.
Again.
Warm blood drips down his hand. He thinks it could be oil. He thinks he, too, bled when Lycurgus took his arm. Again. Lycurgus whimpers and chokes under him. He goes limp. Aga—
A moan. Small, broken.
Phainon—Phainon.
Mydeimos unhands Lycurgus, steps back shakily. Breathing heavy. The synapses in his brains are frazzled. He walks back until he feels the warmth of Phainon's body. "Pha-Phainon…" he chokes out, "My boy, my—my dear man, what has he—"
He sighs. The sight of Phainon bleeding and unable to move is unbearable. He gets to work to unbuckle the straps, but his hand—his hand is trembling, and it is difficult with just one, and he is so distraught that he can hardly see and where the fuck is Cyrene?
"Cyrene!" he calls out, "Help me!"
She does not come. She does not come. Where is Cyrene?
Lycurgus has strapped Phainon down good. There are at least a dozen straps holding him to the table. Mydeimos tries to be quick, he really does, he almost has them all, he released one of his hands and now Phainon can help him with the rest where is Cyrene—
Glass shards stir behind him. He is too distracted to hear them.
A small explosion, the sound of which makes him go deaf for a moment. The acrid odor of smokeless gunpowder. All of those familiar, in the trenches, in Jericha, in the snow, but most of all—the burning aching of fire spreading through his thigh, not painful but rather numbing. His leg bucks and gives out, sending him straight to the floor.
Mydei collapses on himself, barely stopping his fall with his arm. He wrenches around to look—across from him, Lycurgus, alive but shaking and losing blood, holds a revolver in his hand. Aims it at him, and pulls the trigger again. He manages to duck out of the way, through only by the skin of his teeth. The bullet hits the floor next to him.
"What…" Lycurgus breathes out, unsteadily rising to his feet. He takes a step forward, "What do you think you are doing, boy?"
"I am—I am putting an end, argh! To your madness—This sorcery alchemy occult bullshi—"
A jolt of pain runs through him as his brain finally receives the signal for agony. He props himself up by the table and he, too, begins to stand. Phainon is still fiddling with the straps, but his hands lack their usual finesse and coordination. He's scared, terrified.
Where is Cyrene?
Lycurgus approaches him. He is faster on his feet than Mydeimos. He cocks it and brings it up again—
As if materializing from shadow, Cyrene lunges from behind him. Her hand raises in a fierce arc and she lodges something into his back; a meat cleaver, Mydei sees, before his vision goes back from pain. Lycurgus groans and drops the revolver—she kicks it away with her foot. "Sorry, Mydei, I'm-I'm sorry, I had… I had to be brave, I…"
"Help me," is all he can say. They work together to free Phainon, just three more buckles and he is getting up and standing and—poor thing, he is hurt, truly hurt, and bleeding from his chest.
Mydei stands on half a leg. He tries to walk, but fails; Phainon catches him before he can fall, loops Mydei's arm around his shoulder and, with the other, he grabs Cyrene. To the sound of Lycurgus screaming in frustration, they run—limp, rather—away.
"Alchemy and sorcery," Lycurgus shouts. He is trailing them, "Are not about magic tricks and sparklers, they're about power!"
A gunshot sounds. It chips away at a wall near them.
"The power to manipulate and transform!"
"The tunnel!" Cyrene gasps, pointing.
"No…" Phainon pulls her away. "There is… another door… enchanted…"
He wrenches the both of them the other way, strong like an oxen. Lycurgus follows in tow—they are all heading for a particular door, opened wide, inviting, dark as sin.
"The power to—attain control over your body, your environment!" A bullet scrapes Phainon's side, and he grunts and buckles, nearly sends the three of them rolling.
They squeeze through the door, desperate like fish in a net, and they walk for no more than five feet—
Light.
They find themselves in the grand hall of the tower. Mydei tries to blink away the whiplash; Phainon carries them towards the front door, it is so close, big and growing bigger by the foot.
They try the door. Locked.
"Cyrene, keys!"
"I-I don't have them, I-" she pats herself down wildly, "I must have d-dropped them when we ran!"
A bullet shatters the glass panes of the door and in quick succession, another blasts the expensive marble at their feet.
Lycurgus emerges, face drenched red with his own blood, eyes wide and wild. He is breathing heavily, wavering and wobbling. 'A nine round revolver,' Mydei thinks quickly, 'Three more bullets.' They both know this, now.
"They are no more unholy than a plow or a bomb," Lycurgus grins like a madman, "They are the fleshbound hands that hold up the world and you—" his teeth clench, "You idiots could not possibly fathom the ways in which this world has been shaped by these forces. By these hands."
Lycurgus brings up his revolver, "You bite the hands that tend the garden!"
He pulls the trigger, and shoots. Two bullets. He is only aiming for Phainon now—furious and determined, but lacking accuracy.
Phainon throws the three of them out of the way, then stabilizes them and himself before they can fall.
"The laboratory!" Mydeimos breathes, looking backwards at the great staircase. Phainon nods, lowers the hold he has on Cyrene and Mydei. He grabs them from under the buttocks, gripping them tightly with his arms, and he lifts the both of them as if they were children who weighed nothing. Mighty. Powerful. He backs away, unwilling to turn his back to Lycurgus, then with a surge of strength—he bolts up the stairs.
"Are you returning to your womb, beast?" A bullet lodges itself into one of the stairs. One bullet.
Phainon takes the stairs two at a time, but he is heavier than Lycurgus is, even wounded. He is not far behind them.
Cyrene was right—the floor of the laboratory is stained red with blood. An odd detail that Mydeimos notices through the heat. Phainon immediately bolts to the imposing, gigantic stained glass window that adorns its wall. It shows Theseus fighting the Minotaur.
Phainon breaks the latch with his forehead, steps up on the windowsill, bringing Cyrene and Mydeimos up with him.
The water is wrathful and vengeful tonight, crashing into the side of the cliff like it wanted to smash it apart and bring down everything into her terrible maw.
"Are you this upset when a worm becomes a butterfly? When a field must be lain fallow? You mourn the cattle but refuse to starve! Like children, running through a workshop, breaking everything in sight—ARGH!" A jolt of pain runs through him, sending spasms through his back. He drops the revolver.
They stand shivering and cold on the windowsills, scared, breathless, and hurt. Cyrene weeps silent, small tears. Mydeimos tries to go for the revolver, wills his legs to move but he cannot—he cannot feel them. He, too, seems to be crying; from frustration, from helplessness. He tries to move again, yet he knows he cannot possibly be fast enough. Phainon squeezes the both of them closer to his chest.
Lycurgus falls to one knee from the pain. "Let us discuss this," he says, calmer now, "Cyrene, Mydeimos, I will let you go and I will speak none of this, but that thing must stay."
"No," Mydeimos answers immediately, craning his neck to look at him, "We will not do such thing."
"You… Look at you!" he limps forward. "A cripple, a simpleton, and a… A… A filthy, whorish temptress, yes—you, Cyrene! That is what you are! What you have always been!" He bends for the revolver.
"You do not understand that there is a hierarchy of ownership. You possess less intelligence than a cattle, for even a cow recognizes she belongs to the slaughterman! Let me make this clear to you… some people… Me… Lord Anaxagoras… My tender-hearted daughter and yes, even that woman I loved, are tasked with the terrible duty of holding up the world! I am… the bottom of the pyramid. Castorice stands above me, of course she does, she's been carefully bred for this—that is why I married that Goldweaver lybbestre! Even she was better than me, more powerful than me, more attuned to the forces! And yet… and yet…"
He is babbling. They turn to face the Night and the Sea.
The Sea spirals like a whirlpool beneath them, black and ghastly and cold. There are no Stars in the sky tonight. There is no Moon.
"Above us all… Lord Anaxagoras… Eternal… Godlike…" Lycurgus grabs the revolver.
The Sea invites them to her, promises safety and reprise, promises the wide world unbound by shackles.
"He needs you, beast! You are the farm for his organs!" Lycurgus cocks the revolver.
It is a haunting, vast thing unkind unwelcoming and yet are there any other choice but to gnaw your leg off when clamped and trapped? He holds onto Phainon Cyrene holds onto Phainon Phainon holds onto the both of them. He is rubbing their backs and shushing them. I love you someone whispers and two voices respond I love you too. None want to take the first step yet all know the first step must be taken. The sound of the waves is artillery fire, is Jericha, is oil, is Castrum Kremnos and Dolos and a litter of puppies. It is relief and love and married life and peaceful farm it is Cyrene's stories and Phainon's kisses it is the warmth in his chest which he thought gone for long. It is nothing and everything and the Sea keeps spraying water into their faces.
"I am beneath them all… but still… Beneath me, there are many!" he raises the revolver, "You! You are beneath me! In the chain of food, I eat you! I own you all!"
Dawn is breaking. The Sun is rising.
"It is only natural that your betters stay your betters, you fucking imbeciles—"
Lycurgus pulls the triggers.
They look at the tempestuous waters below—
—And they jump.
The clear blue sky blanketing the world like a gentle mother. Nightingales nesting in thickets, swinging sweetly every morning. The smell of fresh flowers and pomegranates and cottage cheese. Warm, heavy days where the world refuses to move, lounging in lazy stillness. Puppies with chubby bellies chasing each other in a courtyard. Laughter, copious and generous. And, stretching as far as the eye can see, rolling gently with every gust of wind—
fields
of
golden
wheat.