Chapter Text
The high of saving the world lasts only a year before Phainon finds himself pacing Okhema’s alleys in the new, true night, restless energy itching at his skin from the inside out as he searches for something to do.
But there isn’t anything to do. There’s nothing to patrol for, no real threats left. The Tide is gone, refugees trickling out as they tentatively return home, and the fields are producing food in abundance. Even thieves are scarce for now. So really, there’s no point in Phainon being here. No point in him being anywhere.
He grits his teeth in frustration and makes his way to the Marmoreal Palace training grounds out of habit more than anything; there may not be war, but he has to do something with this energy, or he’s going to crack entirely under the weight of feeling useless. Might as well stay ready for action, in case...well. Just in case.
Mydei is already there when Phainon reaches the training grounds, perched cross-legged atop a supply crate, sharpening his gauntlets in the silvery moonlight. He nods by way of greeting as Phainon enters.
Phainon’s tense jaw relaxes immediately, his lips quirking into a grin. “Mydei! Care for a spar?” Mydei hasn’t denied him once since Phainon did whatever he did that brought about Era Nova. None of them can really remember the details, even Phainon, and Hyacine seems to think it may be for the best.
Whatever happened, Phainon is here, Mydei is here, the rest of the Flame-Chasers are here and alive and varying degrees of less-cursed, and the Tide is gone. And that, as far as Phainon is concerned, is a good enough foundation for Era Nova, as long as he can figure out something to do with the rest of his life—because truth be told, he never imagined a life after fulfilling the purpose of the Deliverer. And he’s losing his fucking mind. Carrying groceries for the seniors can only make him feel so useful after years of putting his life on the line to protect people.
Mydei’s gauntleted fingertips suddenly embed themselves in Phainon’s shoulder, a brutal grip, and Phainon hisses as he’s dragged out of his head with grounding pain.
“I’d say yes,” says Mydei, smearing Phainon’s golden blood into the fabric of his jacket, “if I thought you’d present any kind of challenge. But you’re in your head, Deliverer. Your spars haven’t been up to par for a month now.”
Phainon pries Mydei’s fingers off one by one. He swallows as he glances away. “My spars have been fine. They’ve been—”
Mydei grips Phainon’s chin, the pointed fingers pressed to tender flesh, forcing Phainon to meet his eyes. “I’ve won twenty-four of the past thirty, when we’re usually evenly matched. Tell me what’s stealing your attention, or I’ll find another sparring partner from among the Kremnoans.”
Phainon gasps, only half in mock-affront. “You wouldn’t dare. None of them would hold a candle to me.” His spars with Mydei have been a rare distraction these days; he couldn’t bear to lose them.
Mydei grins. “True. I might have to fight a few at a time for the same effect, but don’t think you’re completely irreplaceable on the training grounds. I trained before I met you, and I’ll find a way to make do if you continue to be a disappointment.”
Phainon can’t hide the instinctive flinch. Disappointment. The word tastes worse than being handed one of Mydei’s purposefully burnt honeycakes.
“What’s the point?” he says bitterly, twisting his head away from Mydei’s grip. “There’s no more Tide. No more fighting. No more need for—for spars. For training. And that’s the fucking problem. I should be happy now, not...not fucking hollow.”
Mydei crosses his arms in Phainon’s peripheral vision. “Deliverer, you’ve never cursed so much in all the time I’ve known you. Sit.”
“But I—”
“Sit peacefully, or I’ll put you on the ground myself.”
Phainon sighs but relents, sitting on the storage crate Mydei previously occupied. He kicks at the dust, the ever-growing frustration a tight knot inside of him.
“You need something to do with yourself,” says Mydei, crouching so that Phainon can’t avoid him without making it incredibly obvious it’s what he’s doing.
Phainon grimaces. “Obviously. Any bright ideas? ‘Guy with sword’ is a dwindling career prospect now that most of the refugees are home safely.”
Mydei lifts his chin thoughtfully. “Refugees.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Phainon’s not quite sure what to do with it.
“Refugees? Yes, the ones that the Council’s been trying to get us to boot out for years? Mydei, you haven’t hit your head recently, have you?”
Mydei ignores his sarcasm. “There are refugees whose city-states were completely destroyed,” he points out. “And some that wanted to stay regardless.”
“...yes?” He’s not really sure where Mydei is going with this.
“Give them a home of their own,” suggests Mydei, heaving himself onto the crate beside Phainon, their knees knocking together. “Your home.”
“They’re already here, though.”
Mydei snorts, looking up at the stars. “Your real home. The one with the wheat. Aedes Elysiae.”
Phainon swallows, his throat tight. “There’s no wheat there. There’s not anything there. Not anymore. You know that.”
Mydei nods. “That’s the point. All that fertile land, plenty of space. Perfect place to give some of these refugees a place where they don’t have to live with the Council breathing down their necks. Take some people there. Rebuild it. Should keep your hands full.”
Phainon inhales slowly, letting the idea sit. He’s never considered rebuilding Aedes Elysiae; it’s always been scorched earth in his nightmares, haunted by ghosts and the memory of his own helpless rage. A place of the past, taken by the Black Tide, so isolated and meaningless on a worldwide scale that it would be the last place on anybody’s list to rebuild, even if there were other survivors.
But Mydei’s right—the climate and land in Aedes Elysiae are ideal for farming staple crops, the harbor offers fish and trade, and the forest provides hunting and forage. Most of the village’s foundation stones are likely intact, and it’s possible that some necessities could be salvaged from the ruins.
It’s an idyllic place to live, ready to be shared with anyone willing to go through the effort of rebuilding. And Phainon, truthfully, has nothing better to do than go home and sweep away the ghosts.
The only problem is that without Mydei, Phainon would be as lost as he is now, no matter how big the project at hand. He can’t imagine going back to a life without Mydei after a decade of spending their meals, their baths, their missions, and their training time together. The only thing they don’t do is sleep together outside of sharing a tent for the occasional overnight field mission—and frankly, Phainon wouldn’t exactly mind if they did.
Mydei knees him to get his attention. “What’s your objection?”
Phainon summons a too-tight smile. “No objection at all! It’s a fantastic idea. Though I’ll have to handpick the first batch of settlers. Tradespeople first, and once we have housing and food production in place, we can invite a wider variety of families.”
Mydei makes a small noise of approval as he stands. “Get some sleep. We’ll put together an application process for the first round tomorrow, and Aglaea can help us get word out. We’ll be watching wheat sway before you know it.”
Phainon grabs Mydei’s wrist before he can leave. “We?’”
Mydei nods slowly, as if Phainon might, perhaps, have hit his head a little too hard in a recent spar. “Yes, Deliverer. ‘We.’ Don’t tell me you thought I was letting you do this alone? Somebody has to make sure you don’t trip over a pitchfork and die.”
Phainon’s joyous laugh bubbles up instinctively, unable to be suppressed. Mydei, coming with him? Mydei didn’t even go back to his own home after abdicating. Krateros left with most of the Kremnoans to rebuild Castrum Kremnos eight months ago, and Mydei never deigned to follow. And yet, despite that choice for himself, he plans to come to Aedes Elysiae with Phainon.
“Can’t bear to be apart from me?” he teases. “Mydei, I’m touched. What’s got you so sentimental?”
Mydei flicks Phainon on the forehead with his free hand and pulls the other free of Phainon’s grip. “Dead farmland won’t expect me to rule a nation. It’s that simple. Don’t get full of yourself.”
“How could I not be full of myself when a prince just offered to come home with me? It’s quite romantic.” He’d spent so much time dreaming of going to Castrum Kremnos as a child, and now their very prince, his immortal best friend, is coming to his home. His childhood self would have swooned, and Cyrene probably would have written a picture book about it.
Mydei grunts as he pauses in the archway of the training yard. “If you absolutely must speak of romance with someone, save it for our chat with Aglaea. Dawn tomorrow. Get yourself to sleep, Deliverer.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving Phainon to process the enormity of the choice he’s made—and the relief that Mydei will be there to see him through it.
By dawn, his restless energy has hardened into resolve, and he throws himself into planning and negotiating with a vengeance.
Aglaea’s support isn’t a surprise. She’s supported Phainon since he was a teenage ball of rage boiling over in her training yard. What is a surprise is the Council’s support, though he suspects it’s because so many of them are still xenophobic elites snooty about the refugees remaining in their city.
He wheels, he deals, and he turns on his full, practiced Deliverer charm. By the end of the day, the Council members have all but convinced themselves that donating a hefty sum of supplies and balance coins to a Deliverer-led rebuilding effort is the most surefire way to get most of the remaining refugees out of their hair, and the experience has convinced Phainon that he’s going to be much happier far as far away from Okhema as possible.
Phainon takes three baths that day—the usual two with Mydei, and a third to rid himself of the stink of schmoozing with the Council. It’s worth it when he sees the donation tallies: enough balance coins to cover supplies for the thirty or so workers they’ve decided to bring at first, and then some. Timber and stone will mostly be harvested on-site, but these funds will secure tents, bedrolls, food, seed, tools, rope, and more.
He vanishes into historical records and ledgers for a week in the Grove before deciding on the skills he’ll be looking for in the applicants. Primarily construction workers in this first round: builders, roofers, masons, and a carpenter. A handful of manual laborers to procure stone and wood. A pair of healers that double as herbalists and foragers, both of whom should know how to wield a bow so they can hunt as they forage. A basket weaver and a potter, to provide essential storage for food, supplies, and water. And a crucial few that will be dedicated to cooking for the workers and beginning to clear the fields, although most of the farmland won’t be cultivated until construction is complete.
Phainon worries himself to the verge of illness over the final asked-for composition before Mydei snatches the scroll from his hands and turns it in to Aglaea, muttering some Kremnoan maxim about doubt in a warrior’s heart. Aglaea draws up the applications and posts the notices to the populace—and then they wait.
They give it a month before they go through the applications, Phainon reading books on civil planning to pass the time. Anxiety gnaws at him, banished only when sparring with Mydei. He’s not quite back to his old self—he still loses more often than he wins, though it’s nearer to their typical 50-50 split—but the planning and the haggling with merchants for supplies keep him less agitated than he was before.
Builders are in short supply with all the other city-states rebuilding as well, but they somehow manage to fill most of the positions with experienced workers. The remaining few slots in those areas go to younger people with only brief experience, to be instructed by those who are more practiced. Most of the other positions are filled easily—a surprising amount of them going to Kremnoans that stayed in Okhema when Krateros left, even though application decisions were made without knowing the individuals’ names or city-states of origin.
The healer openings present a bit of a problem, though. Healers are in incredibly high demand, and they’re not usually known for their skills with a bow—but Phainon refuses to leave without not only one, but two, in case disaster befalls one of them. He’s in charge of these people, and he won’t let them die of something completely treatable in the case of illness or injury. And hunting aside, he wants them to be able to take care of themselves in a fight, in case a beast attacks them while foraging.
They relax their requirements the slightest bit, and secure two applicants that fit their needs closely enough: a Kremnoan battlefield medic with limited foraging knowledge but extensive experience in wound treatment, and a Grove-educated midwife and healer recommended by Hyacine that wields not a bow, but an alchemical gun like Professor Anaxa. Close enough in the end.
Phainon sinks into his chair with a groan after signing off on the last applicant, the weight of so many denials weighing heavily on him.
Mydei squeezes Phainon’s shoulder so briefly that it might have been his imagination. “There will be other rounds,” he reminds Phainon. “You’re preparing the way for the ones you couldn’t accept, and the careful selection now means those other rounds will happen faster.”
Sometimes, Mydei says something that reminds Phainon that ‘prince’ isn’t merely a word tauntingly thrown out during a duel. Something that reminds him that Mydei, too, was once expected to bear the weight of a people. Words like this make Phainon imagine that Mydei has been in similar situations before.
He nods, exhausted. “Those weaver twins are coming as soon as we start producing or importing fibers for them to work with. And a few of the ranchers, when we have the infrastructure to support sheep or goats.”
“We’ll need a teacher in the first group that has kids,” adds Mydei. “And a smith as soon as we build a forge—we can’t rely on imported nails with so many city-states rebuilding at once. Prices are going to fluctuate too much to account for properly.”
“You’re right,” agrees Phainon. “We’ll make the forge a priority. We can send word to Aglaea to find a smith for us and send them soon. Should have accounted for that already, honestly. An entire month of planning, and you didn’t think to bring that up once?”
Mydei snorts. “No point in one yet. They’d be twiddling their thumbs as we raised the houses, because housing has to come before major projects like a forge. You made the right call leaving a smith out of the first group. Trust your intuition—it’s on point, if clouded by doubt. Chew that doubt up and move forward without regrets, Deliverer. Every time I’ve seen you do that, you’ve pulled a miracle out of your ass.”
Phainon laughs, but the praise settles so warm and bright in his chest that he might serve as a forge in a pinch.
Phainon knew, of course, that despite their ship’s arrival during the Month of Cultivation, the fields wouldn’t be golden with heavy, drooping heads of wheat as his childhood memories insist they should be at this time of year. But he hadn’t realized that the place wouldn’t be the lifeless shell he left it as, either.
It’s been over a decade since he last saw Aedes Elysiae, and it’s no longer the place that haunts his nightmares. The bodies were all buried by him years ago, the Tide-twisted corpses of his neighbors and family laid to rest as a trembling teen. The ash has been swept away by the wind, blown out to sea, and the rains have cleansed the soot from the ruined stonework. Hares and squirrels flee the ruins as they approach, scattering into the forest by the temple of Oronyx, and greenery spreads unchecked, vines sprouting from the grassy ground to climb the charred, rotted beams of his burnt childhood home.
Nature has reclaimed Aedes Elysiae, which serves Phainon just fine—he’d rather fight nature than constant reminders of loss.
He nods at the temple, raising his voice to be heard by all. “We set up there. Sturdy stonework, open courtyard. Most of what’s inside should either be salvageable or something we can clear out easily. We’ll use it as covered storage for weather-sensitive goods, and stretch sailcloth over the courtyard as a shaded rest area and makeshift housing.”
The workers push past, their words an indistinct but eager murmur as Phainon sets his pack down and rummages through it. Mydei stops beside him, arms crossed as he surveys the ruins.
“Small.”
Phainon shakes his head as he triumphantly extracts Aglaea’s golden thread from his pack. “It’s not as small as it looks. This is just the town center. Buildings were clustered to keep people close to their farmland, with each family having several generations’ worth of housing and whatever facilities were required for any non-farm jobs in their cluster.”
He points into the distance. “The tanner, cobbler, and tailor were over that hill, along with fields for flax and sheep. Bordered the forest for hunting. Their sandals were better than any I’ve found in Okhema.” He moves his finger along the horizon. “The families to the east kept goats and cows. We traded wheat with them for butter and milk, and the cobblers traded for leather. The miners and smiths were further afield, closer to the deposits, and the potters were on the far side of this main area, bordering the forest. The soil by the river is good for clay.”
He shrugs as he unwinds the golden thread, watching as it stretches and shimmers into nothingness in the air. “The system works, but I see why it seems small to an outsider at first glance. Especially someone more familiar with Kremnos and Okhema.”
Mydei grunts. “Sounds efficient enough. You planning on recreating that layout?”
Phainon nods as he takes out his teleslate, confirming connection to the World Wound Web. “If the foundation stones for the buildings are sturdy, no sense in prying them out of the ground and taking them elsewhere. But if we grow beyond the size it was when I was a kid, or attract professions that didn’t exist before, we adapt. Build elsewhere as needed. Aglaea and the professor sent a few texts on city planning.” He jots off a quick text to Aglaea to let her know they’ve arrived safely.
Mydei grabs his wrist as he starts to walk off. “You holding up? There was an awful lot of nostalgia in all that description.”
Phainon laughs softly, rubbing nervously over his sun mark with his free hand. “Well, I can’t deny it’s a lot to take in. But it looks...better than I remember it last. The Tide is gone, and the past is the past. There’s no point leaving Aedes Elysiae as a forgotten tomb when it could provide new lives for so many people.” He swallows, glancing across the town square to the makeshift cemetery he’d created before he left. “It’s what my parents would have wanted.” He smiles wryly. “Pity I can’t show you the wheat fields, though. Best part of the place.”
Mydei drops his wrist and falls in by his side as they begin to walk. “One day at a time. Shelter first, and food supply.”
Phainon nods, something hopeful unfurling in his chest as they head to the temple to organize the first day of work.
The group’s first order of business is to clear the entire village out. Nothing can be rebuilt where ruins stand, and salvaged goods from one building may be key to helping rebuild another. Phainon divides the laborers into two groups: one half to scout the forest, forage, and set fish traps, and the other half to sift through wreckage, organize the finds, and move debris.
He tackles his old house himself. It would be easy to let another do it, to avoid as many intimate reminders of his past as possible, but he needs this. He needs to salvage what he can of the boy he used to be, just as he did when he arrived in Okhema and took up the mantle of Deliverer.
The roof has collapsed, and the wind chime lies broken beneath a charred beam, its glass shattered on the stone edging of his mother’s flower garden. He picks the metal pieces up carefully, setting them aside; it’s possible it could be restored someday.
He works methodically, shifting beams and debris to carefully dismantle and clear out each room one at a time while minimizing the risk of structural collapse. Deteriorated wood goes to the town square to be burned or mulched, and melted bits of iron go to the resources pile. Shattered pottery lies everywhere, carefully gathered and taken to a junk pile that they’ll have to figure out what to do about later.
Most of what remains is broken or worthless, but he’s able to salvage a few things: his grandmother’s cooking pot, passed down to his mother. The blade of his father’s sickle, only needing a new handle. A few amphorae that miraculously survived, though they’ll have to be cleaned carefully before being used to store food.
He doesn’t stop long enough to let grief catch up to him. He can’t. There’s too much to do. He rests only for lunch, complimenting the workers on their quick work throwing out the temple’s tattered fabrics and sweeping the courtyard clean before scarfing down fish cooked on a makeshift, salvaged grill. He doesn’t see Mydei—gods know where he’s ended up, but at least Phainon can trust that wherever he is, he’ll be doing something productive.
Phainon spends the afternoon clearing the final debris from his old home, saving the cellar for last. The cellar door is intact, as is much of what was inside. The food has long decayed, but there are usable tools and vases, spare wagon wheels, and even a trunk of garments woven by his mother. He runs his fingers over the linen, trembling as he realizes that his father’s chitons will probably fit him these days. He’ll donate the rest to the settlers.
The very last thing in the house is a heavy chest with its seam wrapped in linen, beeswax dripped over it to form an airtight seal. He slices the linen with his dagger and curiously unwraps the cloth.
He lets out a choked sob at the sight inside, bracing his back against the wall. The chest is heaped high with wheat seeds, golden and intact, untouched by insects, moisture, or rot. He’d thought the Elysian strain of wheat extinct now; he’d taken a small sack of seeds with him to Okhema that Hyacine had planted in the therapeutic gardens of the Twilight Courtyard, but those had burned with the Grove.
That had been the end of Elysian wheat fields, the final loss of a piece of his homeland—and yet here lies enough seed to see his family’s farm sown for multiple years, stored away for an emergency.
With this, he can show Mydei the golden fields. Not a pale imitation of them, sown with wheat from Okhema, but the real thing.
A joyous laugh bubbles up, and Phainon carefully closes and rewraps the chest. He wrestles it up the stairs and sets off for the temple, grinning like a madman.
As Phainon arrives, Mydei pushes through the foliage at the forest’s edge, a massive boar slung around his shoulders. His muscles ripple as he straightens under the weight, and Phainon goes breathless, nearly dropping the chest.
Mydei catches him staring. “Found a boar spear,” he shrugs. “Figured I should find us a boar.” He drops it in front of the campfire, handing herbs from his belt pouch to the wide-eyed cooks. “Rosemary and thyme for our welcome feast. Boar ran right into ‘em. Efficient.”
Mydei stalks into the forest to retrieve the spear while Phainon moves the precious cache of wheat seeds into storage, carefully resealing it with melted wax. He’s itching to plant them, but construction has to come first, and proper preservation is essential in the meantime.
Phainon grabs a pair of towels and meets Mydei at the temple’s archway, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Bath time. Day’s almost over anyway, and there’s blood running down your back.” It’s sticky against his arm, slowly drying in Mydei’s hair. It’s going to be a nightmare to wash out if they don’t get to it soon, and it’s been days since they took even a single bath together, much less their usual two. Phainon has been incredibly deprived.
He nudges Mydei toward the nearby pond and drops the towels on the dock, beginning to strip.
“It’s not hot like you prefer,” he warns, pulling his undershirt off. Mydei grunts acknowledgment, slipping into the water, and submerges himself completely as Phainon divests himself of his pants. The sight when he glances back up is breathtaking—Mydei with his head tipped back, water cascading down his glorious back muscles as he works the blood from his dripping hair. The dappled light of the setting sun through the trees lights him in a golden glow, gilding him like a mural of a god.
Phainon, audacious mortal that he is, ever eager to touch the sun, slips into the water after Mydei. He cups water in his hands and pours it over Mydei’s hair, rubbing at it to rinse the blood away.
“I found something today, Mydei,” he starts, the smile audible in his voice. “Something big.”
Mydei cracks an eye open, his breath steady under Phainon’s touch. “Mm?”
“Wheat seeds,” grins Phainon. “A whole chest of them. From my family’s fields, no less.”
Mydei nods, exhaling as Phainon shifts the clean hair to the side and rubs his thumbs over Mydei’s shoulders, rinsing off the sticky blood and massaging the tension out. “When are we planting them?”
Phainon thumbs the last of the blood off and steps away, beginning to scrub at his own skin. “Spring, if I can wrangle it. Aedes Elysiae is beautiful with the fields as a backdrop in the fall. You’ll love it. But I’m doing this task by myself—ancestral pride, and all.”
Mydei snorts. “No, you aren’t,” he asserts flatly. “One man that hasn’t farmed since he was a child, with zero agricultural training, using a stock of seeds that may not even sprout—doing all that by yourself on top of the additional tasks of clearing the fields, preparing the tools, and overseeing the rest of the construction? You’re an idiot.” He shakes his head. “Obviously, I’m helping.”
Phainon inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Acceptable. But I’m still targeting spring planting.”
Mydei shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. Always do.”
Phainon grins. “World of difference between fighting the Black Tide and germinating wheat. But yeah, we’ll figure it out. Always have. Always will.”
Phainon spends the rest of his evening taking reports on work done and damages to be repaired, thoroughly recording everything in notebooks and ledgers. Mydei helps the cooks, scavenging a long piece of metal from the ruins to use as a spit and ordering the night guards to rotate the boar every half hour.
The moon is high in the sky when Phainon finally takes the last reports, his mind racing to formulate preemptive plans for tomorrow. The makeshift barracks courtyard is already filled with bedrolls by the time he returns from relieving himself in the forest, and he’s resigned himself to sleeping without cover before he spots Mydei beckoning him to a corner of the courtyard, Phainon’s empty bedroll already set up beside him.
Phainon drops gratefully onto it, letting out a long breath. He leans over to Mydei and whispers. “Thanks. Thought I’d be sleeping with the boar.”
Mydei flicks him on the forehead. “That can still be arranged if you wake the workers up. Go to bed, Deliverer.”
Phainon does, the proximity to Mydei making it feel more like one of their old duo missions sharing a single cramped tent, rather than the open courtyard that it is. Exhaustion strikes quickly and drags him under into darkness.
He eats breakfast with Mydei while sitting on the dock, legs dangling into the water as they watch the sun rise.
“Still weird,” mutters Mydei. “Knowing it’s a real dawn. Not sure I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Pretty though,” says Phainon, rinsing his bowl in the water. “Warmer than the Dawn Device, in a strange way. Not hotter, really, it just...”
“Feels more real,” Mydei agrees. “It’s not bad. I’m just not sure I’ll ever get used to good.”
Phainon laughs and flops onto his back on the dock, breathing in the salty air. “I feel that. When you hauled that boar in yesterday, I couldn’t believe the forest gave up a bounty like that first thing. Can’t wait to dig in tonight. Nice find, by the way.”
“Put up a good fight,” admits Mydei. “Almost gored me while I was driving the spear in. Spirit of a warrior in that one. Perfect eating for a village just digging its heels in. Respect that spirit, and it’ll share that tenacity.”
“Huh!” Phainon twists, propping his head on his hand as he looks at Mydei. “So that’s how the Kremnoans think. The Elysians also had that belief, even if most in Okhema have abandoned that line of thought. Guess maybe our cultures aren’t completely different after all.”
Mydei snorts and leans back, looking up at the sun. “You’re excited about wheat,” he says flatly. “Raving mad about it. Our cultures are different enough.” He glances down at Phainon, his braid whipping in the sea breeze. “You move lighter here though, Phainon. Like you belong. Better than when you were stalking the Okheman streets at midnight, at any rate.”
Phainon’s heart skips a beat. It’s been happening more often as of late, but hearing ‘Phainon’ from Mydei’s lips instead of ‘Deliverer’ will forever be as strange as the new dawn to him. A gift just as precious, as far as he’s concerned.
“And you?” He nudges Mydei’s shin lightly with his foot. “Why didn’t you go back to Castrum Kremnos, even as a citizen? Afraid they’d ask you to take over despite your abdication?”
There’s no response at first, and Phainon thinks he’s asked too invasive a question. One that Mydei won’t answer. But just as he’s about to apologize, Mydei speaks. Not a jest—or at least, Phainon thinks they’re jests—about ‘fear’ not existing in the Kremnoan language, but something surprisingly heartfelt.
“That’s part of it.” Mydei’s gaze is unfocused as he looks out over the sea. “Sure, some idiot—probably Krateros—would get it in their head to ask me to take up the throne. But Kremnos isn’t my culture. Not really. I didn’t grow up there, and I didn’t spend much time there. My Kremnoan friends were outcasts, and even the Detachment only followed me because of my strength and bloodline.” He sighs. “Even Hephaestion asked me to take up the kingship on his deathbed. Eats me up that I didn’t, but I think he’d get it if he saw what the world’s become.” He skips a rock over the water, bitterness seeping into his tone. “Being their prince didn’t mean I was one of them. Not really, not like it would have been if I’d been raised there properly.”
Phainon hands him another rock to skip, shivering as their hands brush. He can’t say he’s ever heard Mydei sound bitter before. “Okay, so...no Castrum Kremnos. Easy enough to understand. But why no Okhema either?”
The second rock skips so far that it disappears before Phainon sees it fall, and Mydei shrugs. “It’s a new beginning for you. I needed one too. And the Kremnoans that came here applied without knowing I’d be involved, so at least I know they’ll let me live my life—whatever it ends up being—in peace.” He stands, grabbing his bowl with one hand and reaching for Phainon with the other. “Come on, Deliverer. Work to do. Can’t stare at the sea all day.”
Phainon lets himself be pulled along, mulling over Mydei’s words.
Perhaps, if all goes well, they can make Aedes Elysiae a home for Mydei, too.
As before, the refugees split off to work on separate tasks for the day. The village isn’t yet clear enough for most to perform the more specialized tasks they were chosen for, but shelter and food are still the goals. Phainon organizes them into teams: some forage the forest, some fish, some cook, some clear and sort debris, and some set themselves to the task of providing proper bedding.
Phainon and Mydei are among that group. While some of the less hardy group members cut grasses and stitch together flour sacks to make mattresses with, Phainon and Mydei work with the carpenter to make simple bedframes from salvaged wood brought over from those sorting debris. They manage fifteen frames by the end of the day, each made for two people, and haul them into cleared-out houses, some rooms holding multiple beds due to being in better shape.
A separate group moves the mattresses in as Phainon and Mydei take their turn eating their fill of the boar—delicious, and a welcome treat after so much lighter fare. The roofs are covered in sailcloth to keep the elements out temporarily, the mattresses covered in hide or bedrolls to provide padding and prevent grass from poking through uncomfortably.
The refugees seem to heave a collective sigh at being offered private space again—places to change clothing, use the chamber pot, and sleep without scrutiny. Phainon, though, isn’t sure how he feels, facing down the concept of sleeping in the shell of his childhood bedroom with the object of his very adult affections.
It’s not as though he and Mydei don’t sleep together—in a very literal sense—all the time. But it’s always been in a tent or barracks, stretched out on bedrolls, and not sharing a single bed that Phainon is now realizing is possibly built a tad too small for two men as strapping as they are.
Mydei sets his gauntlet and greaves on the floor, since there’s nothing approaching a functional shelf, table, or counter. He strips his exomis next, leaving him in only his trousers, and Phainon nearly hyperventilates as he realizes that Mydei must prefer to sleep topless when not in public or liable to be attacked by monsters.
“I’ll just—one moment—” His voice breaks, and he leaves the room, mortified.
Phainon strides into the ruins of the kitchen, breathes deep to compose himself, and descends into the lightless cellar. He fumbles in the dark until he locates the chest of textiles that had survived the fire, and rummages until he finds the light wool blanket at the bottom. He follows the wall back upstairs, stumbling only a bit, and when he reaches the bedroom again, Mydei is still there, lounging topless on the bed with his rolled-up clothing cushioning his head.
Phainon holds up the blanket like a peace offering, but really, he just needs to cover Mydei so he stops craving what he can’t touch.
“Blanket?”
Mydei nods, and Phainon takes off his jacket and crawls onto the bed beside him, unfurling the blanket over them both and folding his jacket for use as a pillow.
The bed is definitely too small for them. With both of them on their backs, Phainon has to choose between plastering himself against Mydei’s side, leeching his heat, or half-falling off the edge. They both turn, adjusting, and face each other—golden eyes meeting sky blue in the low light, the closeness damning in how it makes Phainon’s body yearn.
Phainon has desired Mydei for years. It’s no secret to him, after the nights spent sleeping in the field, the endless baths, the bubbling tension during spars. There’d been a spark even in their first duel, and while Phainon doesn’t believe in love at first sight, he does, perhaps, believe in kindred spirits recognizing each other early on. For all of Mydei’s deflection, for all of his bluntness, Phainon would choose no other.
But it’s never been the right time to address the tension. First, they were saving the world—too busy for matters such as intimacy. And then they saved it, and Phainon was too busy straightening his own head out to consider whether Mydei might feel the same. Perhaps by the time they’re done rebuilding, Phainon will have a clue whether he does.
Right now, though, there is only this: Mydei’s startled eyes, Phainon’s held breath, and the minuscule space between them. Phainon’s cheeks go warm, and he clears his throat.
“Found the blanket in a chest in the cellar. My mom’s. We’ll put it back in the chest every morning. I don’t want bugs eating it before we get a proper roof over our heads.”
Mydei nods, his eyes reflecting a sliver of the moonlight that peeks through a slight gap in their makeshift sailcloth roof. “I’ll ask the foragers to keep an eye out for cedar and lavender while they’re out. Good moth repellents. Won’t hurt to keep some in the chest, just in case. And I’m sure others could use them too.”
Phainon grins. “Knew I brought you along for a reason.”
“Yeah, because I suggested this.” Mydei kicks Phainon’s shin lightly. “Go to sleep. You’re thinking too hard. Makes my head hurt.”
“As you wish, prince.”
Mydei kicks him again, and Phainon laughs himself to the verge of tears before eventually calming and falling asleep.
The next morning, Mydei follows him into the cellar, his gaze lingering on the few preserved objects and the garments in the chest.
“How’s it feel?” he asks abruptly. “To be home?”
Phainon closes his eyes, letting out a breath. He opens them again, a wavering smile on his lips. “Lonely,” he admits. “I’m the only one who knew it as it was. But it’s not as painful as I’d feared. I think it will fix up nicely with some effort.”
Mydei nods, then inclines his head at the chest. “Those chitons—they look your size. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear one. Saw you give away a few meant for women and children, but not these. That mean these are for you?”
“I’ll try them eventually,” he says evenly. “But I’d rather not tear them. Administrative work only.”
“Then do some today,” orders Mydei, his hands sliding beneath Phainon’s jacket to urge it off. “Titans know you’ve got enough to organize.”
Phainon complies, hearing the ‘I want to see what you look like in one’ buried beneath Mydei’s words. And whatever Mydei wants, he’ll get. His jacket comes off first, followed by the undershirt. He hesitates at the waistband of his pants, but there’s no part of each other that he and Mydei haven’t seen, so he lets them fall, stepping out of them unashamed.
Mydei’s hand closes over the fabric first, and he steps close, wrapping the soft linen around Phainon. It drapes, light and airy in a way Phainon is no longer familiar with. Mydei leans back, glancing over the box, and retrieves a sun-shaped golden fibula from a shallow tray Phainon hadn’t noticed in the back. He pins the chiton at the shoulder and secures it with a cord around Phainon’s waist, his proximity and the intimate touch making Phainon’s pulse race as Mydei pulls the fabric above the belt and lets it drape properly. The gauzy fall of the chiton, bordered by a pattern of grapes on a golden vine, ends at Phainon’s knees, threatening to expose his growing hardness.
Mydei scrutinizes him. “You look good,” he admits, sounding almost reluctant to give praise. “Aglaea’s tailoring does you favors, but the Deliverer is a costume, not you. You needed out of that city as much as I did.”
Phainon doesn’t answer the accusation. He can’t, because there’s nothing to say; Mydei is simply right. Here he stands, dressed in clothing made by his mother, wearing his father’s pin, in his childhood home, and it is still, after all this time, where his heart yearns to rest. Especially so with Mydei here.
“I’ll wear it today,” he relents, his cheeks warm. “But only for today. There’s still plenty I can catalogue, but I don’t want people thinking I consider myself above the grunt work.”
Mydei studies him and nods slightly. “Consider wearing them to sleep, at least. They’ll be more comfortable than the whole...” He gestures at Phainon’s Okheman clothing on the floor. “Savior ensemble.”
Phainon can’t really argue with that either. And truth be told, his old garb is starting to stifle.
As always, Mydei knows him best.
Phainon slips into bed beside Mydei that night, the chiton’s weave light against his skin. He falls asleep easily, lulled by Mydei’s deep breathing beside him—
And in his ease, he lets his guard down, forgets to do the relaxing meditations Hyacine taught him, and sinks too far.
The Black Tide’s flames lick at the walls of Aedes Elysiae, Livia and Piso screaming in the background until they go ominously silent. Phainon hefts a pitchfork, the smoke and tears stinging his eyes, and points it at his mother’s Tide-twisted form.
The tines strike true at her heart, the jarring feedback of the blow radiating through his arms. He pulls back with a wet squelch, sobbing, and drives it in again. For each of them he kills, it takes multiple blows to sever the link to whatever power puppets them—and Titans, he wishes he had a proper sword, wishes he’d been old enough to receive the fruits of his labor in the practice yard. At least then, it wouldn’t feel this personal.
But all he has is this: stabbing like a madman until he weeps, until his mother falls a second time, until the tines of the pitchfork break and he seizes another to continue cleansing his village of filth. And in the end, when he is the last thing left standing, he falls too—not to die, as much as he may want to, but to cradle the corpse of what used to be his mother and scream and sob, tears falling hot from his eyes as his throat goes raw.
“...non. Phainon!”
Mydei’s sharp voice tears him from the nightmare, and Phainon jolts awake. His face is buried in Mydei’s shoulder, his jaw aching as if he’s been clenching it, his nails embedded in Mydei’s hip. He barely swallows down a low, instinctive whine as he forces himself to relax, to roll over onto his sweat-soaked back, to take a deep breath.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Sorry, I—”
“Take your time. Talk, or don’t.”
Phainon heaves in another breath. Lets it out, staring at the sailcloth ceiling. “You already know what it was.” Mydei’s not stupid. He’ll know that the ghosts Phainon has been pushing away for days have caught up to him. “I need air. Not sure when I’ll be back—morning at the latest. Don’t wait up.”
He rolls out of bed, pulls his boots on, and closes the restored front door softly as he leaves.
The moon is full and bright, casting a clean, silvery glow that illuminates the town square. Phainon stoops to gather a handful of forget-me-nots where they break through the fallen rubble of the statue of Oronyx, and continues to the graveyard. Not the main one further afield, where centuries of Elysians were cremated and interred, but the makeshift one he’d put together himself just before leaving, dug with a broken-handled shovel. The graves are marked with stones, but not with names—there hadn’t been time to chisel details. Still, Phainon remembers them all.
He lays a flower over each grave, naming them as he goes. He kneels in front of Hieronymus and Audata, kissing each flower before he places it.
“Mom. Dad. I’m home. I did it, can you believe it?” His voice cracks, and he wipes away a tear as it threatens to fall. “Saved the world, but I don’t remember a lot of it. It’s a little scary sometimes, forgetting that much, but worth it, especially if it means that what rests here isn’t Tide-twisted. I hope it granted you peace.”
He sits on a rock nearby—the very one he’d said his goodbyes on so long ago.
“There’s a lot I could tell you about. About Okhema. About my travels. The woman who took me in, she designed some real nice clothes for me. You’d have loved them. I’ll come show you sometime, but look at this, would you?” He plucks at the fabric of the chiton, smiling. “Big enough to wear your clothes now, Dad. And there’s this guy, Mydei, he—”
Phainon’s head swims. How to begin describing Mydei? He glances back, making sure he wasn’t followed. “To start with, he likes how I look in this, so thank you for leaving it. And you know how I was always going on about training in Castrum Kremnos? Well, Mydei’s their prince. Was, at least—he’s given up the job, not that I’ll stop teasing him with the title. Anyway, he’s my best friend. My sparring partner. Helped me save the world. And...” He leans in conspiratorially, whispering to the graves. “I’m...well, Mom would call it being sweet on him, but I don’t know that anything about us is what you’d call ‘sweet,’ exactly. He’s special to me, though. Followed me all the way here, and I’d go anywhere for him too.”
He sighs, looking up at the moon. For minutes, only the distant waves and the soft ambient noises of the nearby forest break the silence. When he speaks again, his voice comes out rough, slightly cracking.
“I found the seeds you guys saved. And I came here to promise: I’m going to do my best to make these fields shine gold again. Not just for you or for me, but so Mydei can see them. His life has been...” He makes a soft noise, tilting his head back and forth as he considers his wording. “Devoid of aesthetic comforts, let’s call it. I want to show him what it’s like to feel at ease somewhere, as much as I want to feel it again myself. And if any place can do that, it’s Aedes Elysiae at its best.”
He stands, brushing dirt from the back of his chiton. “So...wish us luck rebuilding. And I promise it won’t be another decade and a half before I visit again.”
Phainon’s heart is lighter as he makes his way back through the village. It’s good to be reassured that he hasn’t forgotten any of them. To know that later, when the initial hustle and bustle of rebuilding dies down, he can give them proper grave markers. Knowing that he’s survived past the Tide, that they’ll be remembered in stone, makes the tenuousness of being the last survivor less haunting.
Mydei is still awake when Phainon returns and slips back into bed.
“Have a good walk?”
Phainon turns onto his side, facing away, giving Mydei space. “Good chat with some ghosts, actually. They’re not all bad.”
He shifts backward, realizing he’s about to fall off the edge of the too-small bed, and presses against the soft heat of Mydei’s front, the lines of their bodies aligned.
“Sorry, I’ll—”
“You’ll what, exactly?” Mydei’s breath is warm against his neck. “The bed’s only big enough for one and a half of us. Any further forward and you’ll fall off, and the wall’s in my face if I move over too far.” He tangles his legs with Phainon’s, wrapping an arm around him. “This okay? A bit more secure.”
Phainon nearly passes out. Mydei’s chest, the object of so many of his fantasies, is pressed against his back, and there’s so much bare skin brushing together at the edges of their clothing. He bites his lip, willing himself not to pop a boner when Mydei’s hand could shift the slightest bit lower and discover it.
“It’s not bad—” he manages to choke out after remembering how to breathe. “But I should be the big spoon. I’m taller.” It won’t make hiding an erection any easier, but at least he’ll be able to control what parts of Mydei’s body are pressed against him. Maybe that way, he’ll actually be able to sleep.
“By two centimeters,” grumbles Mydei, but he turns nonetheless.
Phainon slides one arm beneath Mydei’s head and wraps the other over his stomach, pulling him close. Mydei relaxes slowly into him, and Phainon hums, resisting the urge to kiss his neck. He buries his face in Mydei’s hair instead, inhaling his natural musk, and shifts so that his half-hard cock isn’t in danger of pressing against Mydei’s back as he waits for it to go down.
“This alright?” murmurs Phainon, truly hoping it is, because it’s the most relaxed he can remember being in living memory—aside from his unfortunate biological betrayal.
“It’ll do.” Mydei half turns, nodding at him brusquely. “Get to sleep. We’re chopping wood all day tomorrow. Best to be well-rested.”
Phainon follows that advice, sleeping better than he has in years as he holds Mydei close.