Chapter Text
The sun never sets in Okhema. With an ever-bright Dawn Device meant to replace the sun, people rely on clocks to find their pacing throughout daily life. It took humanity a long time to get used to nightless skies, or so history records say, because for most people, the benevolent Titan Kephale has shouldered the Dawn Device since ancient times.
Eternal daylight. Pleasant breeze. Bustling streets, distant chatter and carefree laughter. A vendor calls out his wares. A stringed instrument plays somewhere out of sight. A smithy's toil rings out on the streets. Several food stalls lure people in with tempting aromas. A passing dromas slowly drowns out all other sounds with its heavy hooves and deep groan, before they slowly resurface with its passing.
Peace and prosperity. On the surface, at least.
Mydei finds himself with much free time on his hands, so he idly makes his way to an all-too-familiar rooftop that, conveniently, is secluded enough to grant him solitude and peace, while also offering a good view overlooking other city-states in the distance, and the Titan Kephale.
The sight always brings to mind the Titan that Castrum Kremnos worships.
Nikador, God of Strife and Lance of Fury, once sacrificed themselves for the sake of Amphoreus by fighting on the frontlines, holding off the unrelenting attacks of the Black Tide monsters that poured in from all corners of the lands. Thus, Nikador plunged themselves into the heart of every corruption node that sprang to life and threatened to swallow entire city-states, and they were revered as the Guardian of Amphoreus not only by Castrum Kremnos, but the entire land.
However, their heroic deed cost humanity a great price that they were not ready to pay for. Nikador fell to the corruption that was slowly eating at their sanity, which turned them against the very subjects that worshipped them and that they sacrificed everything to protect.
And just like Nikador, Kephale too is said to have sacrificed themselves for humanity, overtaking the duty of Aquila in lighting up the world. The giant Titan shouldering the Dawn Device, with their gaze cast down protectively upon their subjects, might just be the last beacon of hope for humanity, fending off the encroaching darkness of the Black Tide outside of Okhema, the Eternal Holy City. How long will this city stand in the face of fated world destruction?
Mydei leans against the roof tiles of the building that shields his presence from prying eyes, slowly sliding down, sitting with his legs stretched out and back pressed against the cool shingles of the building. He gazes long into the distance, inattentively turning a fallen flower petal that landed on his lap, gaze unfocused. He is not used to this type of peace, doesn't know what to do with himself when past memories of loss and strife take over his mind. He hates being idle, for this idleness never brings him comfort.
If—no, when Okhema eventually falls, where would he go next? Where would he be needed next? Who will be there left to protect? Will he be the last man standing with nothing left to lose and no one left to fight for?
No, Okhema cannot fall. He will make sure of it.
The sound of laughter pulls his attention down to the streets beneath him, where children chase each other down a smooth marble path without any worry. That puts a faint smile on his lips. Children shouldn't be wielding weapons and learning how to take a life. They should be protected in their ignorance and innocence, for it is a fleeting thing that one never regains after it is lost.
He lets out a sigh. His eyes wander beyond the horizon again. He himself isn't sure what he is gazing at, or longing for, but the uncertainty of tomorrow does not allow him the luxury of peace of mind, or much rest.
After what feels like an eternity of useless pondering, he sits up, dusting his pants off, but just as he is about to turn around and let his restless legs wander off aimlessly, a familiar head with silver-white hair stands out among the crowd in the corner of his eye, on the streets below.
Phainon. What is he up to this time?
He studies the man with mild curiosity. He seems to be making light conversations with the citizens that are most likely just looking to snatch any amount of time they can get with the perfect hero that is always willing to listen to everyone’s pleas and fulfill their wishes to the best of his ability.
The Deliverer.
A cruel title for a man desperate to honor it, clinging to it as if it is the only thing that gives his life meaning. Not once does he stop to think how some people—as it is always in humanity’s nature to be greedy—strip Phainon of everything he has to offer until there’s nothing left to give.
Phainon—usually cheerful and very much a chatterbox with anyone—has been extremely avoidant in the past two weeks, and no longer bothers Mydei with the most random topics or stupid challenges that get them both in trouble.
For all their camaraderie and trust in each other, Phainon’s sudden avoidance is an insult to Mydei’s character and their kinship. Whatever plagues his mind, he’s making sure to hold all of it to himself, as usual. A stubborn idiot.
Watching silently from his spot on the rooftop, Mydei belatedly realizes he must’ve been staring and flinches ever so slightly when Phainon—sensing a pair of burning golden eyes boring into him—meets his gaze, their eyes briefly locking across the distance.
Phainon’s cerulean blue eyes never fail to portray him as some sort of divinity—when he is anything but. Always aloof when alone, when he thinks nobody is watching. When his mind wanders far away, they always carry a tinge of sadness—or perhaps melancholy—that betrays his usually composed, annoyingly cocky and bright attitude that draws others in.
Phainon is painfully human, as he is always reminded with each wound sustained from battles won. A vessel meant to house divinity, but which Titan he would inherit, nobody knows yet.
The Dawn Device, casting divine rays of warmth and light down upon Okhema, seems to love Phainon more than it does anyone else. The light itself seems eager to frame his sharp jawline and silver-white hair as it shines behind him, casting a holy aura and glow. And when Phainon basks in that light while facing it, his eyes seem even more holy than any divinity Mydei could name.
Phainon's eyes widen in surprise at the sight of Mydei frowning at him, recognition flickering across his face before he schools his expression into something more… neutral. It doesn’t work, not when he gives Mydei a sheepish, almost apologetic smile accompanied by a hesitant hand wave before swiftly turning away and leaving without a word, his blue cloak fluttering tauntingly behind him.
Yeah, this is not like him at all.
But Mydei knows himself all too well—knows he is not good with words, knows he would be unable to offer comfort to another soul when he himself can't find his own peace despite recently becoming the bearer of the Strife coreflame. If only ascending to godhood could unlock some new insight on life and reveal the secret behind flawlessly navigating through hardships. But even gods aren’t omniscient.
Another sigh escapes his lips, and this time, he frowns at himself. When did he start sighing so much? Thinking can only solve so many issues—which is to say, Mydei only feels more frustrated and confused now with the confirmation that the Deliverer is acting so out of character lately.
Restraint. Just look the other way.
He decides to take a stroll between all city gates to check up on the stationed guards, or to simply patrol the outskirts of Okhema, scouting for any possible incoming danger. He’s not sure what the goal is, but he’s a man of action and sitting idly makes him antsy and annoyed.
Phainon feels like he’s going to lose all of his sanity soon enough. He walks in long, purposeful strides toward Aglaea's office. No matter how much he wants to stay in control of his ever-growing insecurities, today he finds himself hopelessly restless.
He has tried training by himself but found it utterly unsatisfying, tried helping out the citizens of Okhema wherever he could—perhaps a bit too eagerly—only to feel deflated when they had little work to push onto him, and busied himself with reading old records found in ruins from past expeditions that he previously never had the luxury of time to read…
Today, he wants to go out and relieve some stress by killing Titankin.
Letting out a huff, Phainon straightens his outfit's collar as he lifts his hand to knock on Aglaea's office door.
The hesitation creates a rapidly-expanding pit of anxiety in his stomach, and he’s suddenly unsure of how he’s going to convince her that he’s ready to go out again. Despite rehearsing his grand speech all morning, the words suddenly escape him as he stands before her front door. But he’s pulled out of the pit when he hears her voice from behind the closed doors.
“You may come in, Phainon.”
Phainon grimaces, then sighs to somewhat calm down his nerves. Right, Aglaea can sense nearby people; those golden threads of hers tell her everything she needs to know about her surroundings. He runs a palm across his face in frustration, feeling unnerved and exposed with how he can't hide anything from her. Not his presence, not his wavering emotions.
With a sharp inhale, he steps inside and heads straight for her office, finding her sitting at her desk and sipping tea, her Garmentmaker dutifully at her side.
“Would you like some tea?” Aglaea offers as she gestures toward a chair in front of her desk.
Phainon shakes his head without even considering the offer, muttering a shy, “No, thank you.”
The idea of having tea when he is in such turmoil that he can't sit still sounds almost funny enough to make him laugh if he wasn’t in the presence of the leader of the Chrysos Heirs and someone he personally respects. Locking eyes with the Goldweaver, Aglaea—holding him with a knowing look—bids Phainon to speak his mind. “How can I help you, Phainon?”
The way he frowns in disdain at the floor as he takes a seat might just make it gain sentience and start crying in fear under his feet. Frustration seems to be freely pouring out of his skin, felt in the way his fists clench so tightly before he forces himself to relax when the sting of blunt nails digs into flesh too hard.
He tries speaking. “Aglaea, please. I... I need…” He forces himself to look her in the eyes, unsure if she can see his hopefully determined gaze. “Send me on a mission. Anything! I can't... I can't sit here anymore. I need to get back into action!”
Her vacant eyes offer no comfort. Phainon is confident in his debating skills and steering conversations, but when Aglaea’s face looks this unimpressed, bordering on disappointment, his confidence crumbles to dust that is quickly carried away by the wind and out the slightly opened window that leads to the bustling city below.
He hopes that the scowl on his face speaks of his determination and readiness for battle, that it may convince her, or himself, or both. Frankly, he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck it up again somehow, but he’s tired of ‘recovering’ from his last injuries.
There’s not even a twitch of a muscle on her face, as if she expected this. Him. His restlessness. She takes another sip of her tea, her relaxed and elegant posture speaking of the complete control over her own emotions; or lack thereof, from the curse as the bearer of Mnestia’s coreflame, the romance Titan.
Phainon almost wants to sit up, turn around and leave after a torturous amount of silence. But finally Aglaea sighs, seemingly having decided on a proper reply.
“Phainon, there is nothing for you to do at this moment. I know you are restless and eager to prove yourself, but I cannot send you out there yet. Aside from Teacher who is scouting and gathering information about the next coreflame, we have no pressing matters that require our attention, much less the presence of a Chrysos Heir of your importance.”
‘...of your importance’ Phainon grimaces at her words, feeling tension build up in his body. He almost wants to bark out a disgusted laugh, as if he was just told a very sick and twisted joke that he somehow still finds funny despite everything. He tries to recompose himself with a huff when he feels his nails dig hard into his palms again.
She paused for a moment as if waiting for Phainon to protest. When she is met with silence, she continues, “...What’s happened between you and Mydei? I can listen, perhaps even offer some advice.”
If Phainon didn’t know any better, he’d guess she enjoys cleaning up after their messy fights, competitions and arguments—despite scolding them every time with exasperation. As if reading his mind, her usual impassivity turns into a half-smile as she seems to recall what Phainon hopes isn’t currently compromising his chances of getting a favor.
He hangs his head low and says nothing for a moment, carefully considering every word lest he says something stupid. When his brain doesn’t produce any useful excuse and the silence stretches on for too long, he blurts out whatever comes to mind just to break the silence.
“Ah… he is busy, and… Well, I... I do not wish to bother him.” Well, so far he’s not convincing anybody with that uncertainty in his voice, and Aglaea has never been one to be deceived anyway. He just hopes she will spare him from further questioning.
Aglaea hums in response. Phainon knows he’s not impressing her with such a childish excuse of a lie, but he can’t bring himself to discuss this matter. Not with Aglaea seeing right through his stories and half-truths.
“How long is this… situation going to last between you two?” she continues, “His birthday is coming soon, I thought you would be the most excited one to spend time with him. What happened between you two during your attempt at the Strife trial?”
And there it is, the cold and merciless question he prayed to not hear. Phainon tenses even more. This is the last thing he wants to think about, much less verbalize the events that transpired within Nikador’s trial. As if the mere act of voicing what already happened inside would solidify the events even further. It's stupid, he knows he cannot undo the betrayal, but—
“I apologize, Aglaea, but I do not wish to talk about it yet. I still haven’t sorted out my thoughts properly… And quite frankly, there’s not a lot of details that I remember after…” he gnaws his bottom lip, eyes trailing off into the corner of the room, clasping his shaking hands together to steady them, “after losing myself to rage…”
It’s not exactly a lie. Just a half-truth. Enough to not disturb the threads surrounding them. Hopefully. He measures Aglaea’s expression when his eyes snap back to her, hoping for an indicator that his answer passed as believable. But she doesn’t give any information away.
She takes another sip of her tea that no longer lets out steam. Phainon already overstayed past the time he had hoped to spend under her knowing gaze.
“Ah, but of course, you do not have to force yourself to talk about anything uncomfortable. Just know that I am here if you wish to speak about what is weighing on your shoulders. Or perhaps I can connect us with Mnestia’s golden threads and you can let your emotions speak where words will not allow you to.”
The suggestion makes Phainon tense, and his heart slams against his ribs so loud that Aglaea mercifully retreats her offer. “I was joking,” she comforts with a small smile.
Phainon shifts in his chair, adopting a more relaxed posture. He leans on the backrest, balancing on the back legs of the seat. Belatedly, his brain registers the first half of Aglaea’s previous subject. “I did not know his birthday was approaching… When is it?”
Aglaea gives him another one of her rare faint smiles, as if she had hoped he would eventually ask. “Tomorrow.”
“Ugh…” The sound escapes his mouth involuntarily before he can stop it, and he’s sure his face isn’t neutral either.
She sits up slowly, moving toward one of the windows overseeing a good part of Okhema, her back turned to Phainon now, as if to signal that their conversation is soon coming to a close. “I expect you to fix whatever issue plagues your friendship by then.”
Great.
Perhaps sensing his inner turmoil, she continues.
“We may all be Chrysos Heirs united by the Flame-Chase Journey, but despite his seemingly rough demeanor, it seems to me that he considers you his closest friend. Is that not true for you as well? I know he does not wish for a gathering, or to celebrate; but at the very least, you should offer him some form of company.”
He knows Aglaea is right, of course she is. The fact that he just now finds out about his birthday despite their several years of camaraderie suddenly irks him. The Flame-Chase robbed them of mostly all other priorities in life, and cheerful celebrations have never been a common commodity for Chrysos Heirs. And while they had celebrated anniversaries before, Mydei never wished to share his birth date with anyone when asked, claiming it was a waste of time. “I know, Aglaea. You’re right. I should be there for him.”
How did Aglaea find out anyway? Was Cipher digging up old secrets again in her relentless search for treasures in the forgotten ruins of Castrum Kremnos’ royal grounds? Not that it mattered much, but finding out any secret that the crown prince wanted buried was no small feat. He jumps to his feet and quickly makes his way to the door, only slightly turning his head to speak over his shoulder, “...Thank you.”
Aglaea hums and nods approvingly, looking out the window with her back still turned to Phainon. She might have done him a favor by giving him something else to focus on, because he finds he has no desire left to destroy Titankin with this new knowledge. Mydei might be a man of few words and interactions, but he will always be at the top of Phainon’s priority list.
Phainon quietly steps out of her office, slightly defeated and with bruised pride, and despite the desperation being replaced with something new, it is no less suffocating.
He does not want to face Mydei anytime soon, but he can't possibly leave him alone for his birthday. Phainon knows how broody Mydei can get despite putting on a tough front. He can tell that Mydei's cold demeanor is a form of self-preservation, and even though he did not want people celebrating his birthday, Phainon cannot simply pretend he didn’t learn this important piece of information.
He recalls Mydei opening up to him about his past, about how he had lost his five best friends during the war, one by one. The names play out in his head with Mydei’s voice…
‘Perdikkas, Leonnius, Ptolemy, Peucesta, Hephaestion…’
Each name is spoken with a tinge of grief that Phainon has never seen on the crown prince’s face before—like a prayer, like a bittersweet memory. Phainon especially recalls the way Mydei’s brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed as if pained to speak the last name, Hephaestion. Was that someone who held a special place in Mydei’s heart? Was it camaraderie? Regret? Love? Guilt? Perhaps they had been friends since childhood, blooming into something more along the way.
Would Mydei rather be grieving on this special day? Did it hold a different meaning to him, or had something happened on one of his anniversaries? How much space did these names occupy in Mydei’s heart, and how much space was left?
If misfortune hadn’t befallen all of Mydei’s friends in such a cruel twist of fate, he and Mydei would never have met. Perhaps Mydei would have been a gentle prince, loved by all, surrounded by his friends and family.
And Phainon? He would have been a farmer boy with little to worry about. With Cyrene always scolding him for slacking off somewhere, or teasing him for being a crybaby whenever he clumsily tripped and fell and scraped his knees and elbows.
With his mother still spoiling him despite his age, preparing yet another meal that Phainon would surely love. His father proudly patting his shoulder after a good spar, growing weaker every season while Phainon grew stronger with each one, then dragging him into the fields to help harvest another bountiful year of golden wheat.
Somehow, his mind always returns to what he's long known to be his most important person. Despite Mydei doing his best to cover his kindness with blunt words and a scowl or impassive expression, he is the most compassionate Chrysos Heir out of all of them. Does he see that soft heart as a weakness?
When people spread false rumors about him, Phainon makes sure to clear his name. Nobody will be allowed to drag Mydei’s name through the mud while he breathes.
To Phainon’s surprise, even some of Mydei’s own people talk about him behind his back—although very few ever dare to. He always found himself freezing in place at the mention of Mydei's name, sneaking away to listen in, even before he’d realized his own feelings for the crown prince went beyond mere friendship or physical attraction. It was always along the lines of ‘cowardly prince’ and ‘fleeing from duties’, although Phainon could never catch the entire gossip as their cautiously hushed voices fell silent at the slightest noise around them.
Phainon would beg to differ. It takes a lot of courage to rally people out of their homes and march toward an unknown life in a city that shuns them. Even to this day, Kremnoans are discriminated against simply because they’re Kremnoans.
Castrum Kremnos has a history written in blood, a floating stronghold built on a foundation of corpses and bones. And at the top of so many sacrifices sat a so-called tyrant: Mydei’s father, King Eurypon.
So when Mydei returned home to slay his corrupt father to free Okhema from Eurypon’s siege, he gathered all the people who were willing to follow him. Soldiers, elders, civilians. Mydei had warned his people that the Black Tide was coming. He had hoped to save as many as he could, to offer them a new chance at life even if far from home.
But Kremnoans are prideful. Too prideful. Valorous death before glorious return, they believe. He knows Mydei does not believe the same. Mydeimos is very proud, yes, but his heart fights against this bloody tradition—denies it.
Phainon sighs deeply as he looks toward the sky. He runs a hand through his hair, lost deep in thought.
They all lost so much, but Phainon is often reminded how similar his past is with Mydei's own one. All the people they mourn—families, friends, homeland... But Phainon puts on a facade and acts friendly, almost cheerful and stress-free. Mydei, on the other hand…
Perhaps Mydei also fakes being an unwavering warrior, but not like Phainon. Phainon hides behind lies and fake smiles. Mydei is just solemn and contemplative.
Maybe that's what always draws him in, he thinks. Mydei is not afraid to frown at people—ignoring their opinions with that stern face Phainon finds so endearing and tempting to tease, not entertaining anyone's stupid ideas except Phainon’s—no matter how it affects his image. He probably does not even care about his image, despite being a proud warrior.
And his words? Short and precise, as sharp as the deadliest knife for anyone with a weak heart. He does not mince them, nor is he expected to be some hero or knight in shining armor. Mydei is a man of very few words—much less words of encouragement or comfort. And that is where Phainon complements the grumpy crown prince’s poor social skills so well, making them two halves of a whole.
Despite Mydei's few words, they’ve formed this… camaraderie. This friendship masked as rivalry. Someone Phainon won't easily lose, thanks to Mydei's immortality. Mydei calls it a curse, but how can it be a curse when it is Phainon's most comforting reassurance, to know there will be a friend he won't have to bury or mourn?
He often acts bothered whenever Phainon pesters him, rolling his eyes as they begin their bickering once Phainon starts pushing his buttons. Aside from how Mydei is a very fun person to tease, Phainon also uses the crown prince’s short temper to distract him when he becomes too lost in the past, too haunted by ghosts Phainon would rather not share Mydei with.
His feet drag him to the Garden of Life while lost in thought. His face lights up and his smile almost reaches his ears when a chimera paws at his boot, asking to be acknowledged with a cute “Awoo” that he translates as demands for pats and ear scratches. And who is Phainon to deny this cutie what it wants?
Gently, he kneels and picks up the fluffy creature, tucking it close to his chest before retreating under the shade of a tree in the grass. If Phainon looks really carefully, the orange color of this chimera's fur reminds him of a certain someone, although the chimera is far less grumpy.
He chuckles to himself at the thought of a grumpy chimera Mydei hissing at him only to reluctantly lean into his touch eventually. A deep inhale fills his sense of smell with a powerful but pleasant fragrance, and the sight of so many colorful flowers pleases his eyes, doing wonders to calm his racing mind.
He absent-mindedly cuddles the chimera, thoughts drifting far away again. His brain always circles back to the same person, though he no longer panics at the realization.
Mydei is a formidable and mysterious individual. There is an endless stream of stories told about his deeds from a time Phainon was not present in his life. Some are documented in old journal entries and history books lining the library shelves, and Phainon eagerly reads all of them to know more about this mysterious Mydei that he never got a chance to fight alongside of.
From Ladon, through Aidonia, to Aenionus, he returned from death time and again, leaving towering infernos of war in his wake. In the infamous battle of Aenionus, the undefeated Klytius raised his massive axe as thousands of arrows darkened the sky behind him. Yet, when the smoke cleared and fire rose from the blood-soaked ground, the warrior’s fist struck like a spear, tearing open Klytius’s throat.
Phainon frowns. How many deaths did Mydei suffer already? He is afraid to know. He’s even more afraid of ever witnessing it firsthand. Mydei is immortal, but for how long? Is Mydei’s immortality tallied? Is there a limit to his many lives? His mind slowly spirals out of control as dread clutches his heart in its sharp, cold talons—as if Aquila themselves threatened to crush it. If one day he will also lose Mydei, just like everyone in—
The fluffy chimera leaps out of his arms, disrupting his thoughts. It runs off to its other chimera friends to play, the warmth quickly fading away with the vacancy. Phainon forgot he was in the Garden of Life, caressed by the artificial sunlight, with a cute chimera in his arms. For a while, Phainon was just a terrified and helpless child, choking on ashen air, with death surrounding him.
He sighs, his breaths shaky. “Then, I best get going as well. I should get some sleep.” he mutters to himself with a soft smile.
He gets home before he knows it, and deems a bath appropriate. A hot bath always calms his muscles and his nerves—helps him sleep. Without a second thought, he undresses and gently lowers himself into the perfectly hot bath. Not scalding, not lukewarm.
At first, he sits there, dazed. Past memories begin to flow unprompted whenever he sits idly in silence, but he fights against this sinking sensation threatening to claim him. He gathers water into his palms and splashes it onto his face, pressing lightly and lingering there as if it could prevent his mind from reeling again.
He sinks deeper into the water when he feels his bare shoulders burning and ash brushing his damp skin.
No, I’m right here.
The water embraces him, protects him from the invisible ash that threatens to cover him up, to bury him. His eyes sting, so he submerges under the water completely for a few good seconds.
When he emerges above the water surface, the crackling of fire engulfing buildings and bodies fades away. The screams stopped. His trembling hands are clean.
Still, still. He grabs a cloth and scrubs himself desperately, as if there’s filth imprinted into his skin.
He startles when he sees a string of blood drifting in the water toward him. His breath quickens, and he realizes he’s gasping for air. He closes his eyes, squeezing them shut tightly. “It's not real, Phainon,” he tells himself out loud to fill the silence.
When he opens his eyes again, there are bodies floating in the bath with him. Some are face-down, some look in his direction, confused. He knows these people, who they used to be. Before—
‘Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?’
His breath hitches, his heart pounding in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen and terrified, without blinking, but when he does, they’re gone. The water is clean, his hands are clean. He resumes breathing, labored and shaky. He feels cold despite the hot water.
No, I’m fine. Aedes Elysiae cannot haunt me forever.
He slaps his cheeks hard. They sting.
Good.
The pain tethers him to this world. Whatever horrors his mind produces, this isn’t how things happened.
His senses slowly return when he exercises breathing evenly, just like how Hyacine taught him, his body slowly remembering the warmth of the water again.
He suddenly feels dizzy with the tension now seeping out of him again, turning his muscles into jelly. The steam rising to his face makes him drowsy. He gets out of the bath with half-lidded eyes, barely able to stay conscious. He wants to cry, or scream, or throw up. Maybe all of them.
He doesn’t care enough to dry his hair, desperate to cling to this sudden serenity—or exhaustion. He quickly throws a bathrobe on, crashing on his soft and comforting bed, curling into himself, and sleep embraces him immediately.