Chapter Text
“Rise and shine!”
Phainon knocked on the door to Mydeimos’ chambers for the third time in as many minutes. He was considering whether it would be impolite to open the door and make sure the Kremnoan was alive when the door opened abruptly from the inside.
“What?”
Mydeimos stood in the doorway, eyes bleary and hair mussed, looking less like a prince and more like a cat that had gotten stuck in a bush. Phainon stared.
“Did you sleep at all?”
Mydeimos glared at him and refused to answer. The question didn’t really need an answer anyway, so Phainon shook that thought out of the way, moving on to the reason he’d come.
“Come on, let’s go get breakfast.”
It had been nearly a week since Mydeimos’ arrival in Okhema, and the Kremnoan was faring no better than Phainon had in the beginning. Well, besides the fact that Mydeimos had Phainon to make the burden of adjusting to a new city—and a new circadian rhythm—a little easier. Phainon had taken it upon himself to be Mydeimos’ unofficial guide, having been in the same position just about a year ago.
…Had Phainon really been here a year? The time had passed so swiftly, Phainon’s mind spun at the realization of how much time had passed inside the game. In any case, all the things he’d had to learn on his own, Phainon passed on to Mydeimos in turn.
Phainon hadn’t had anyone to rely on in the beginning, and he was resolved to not let Mydeimos feel as overwhelmed and adrift as he had.
Despite this, Mydeimos was adjusting…poorly. Phainon saw it in the bags under his eyes, in the pallor of his skin that he wasn’t sleeping well, if at all. Phainon asked about it as they passed through Marmoreal Palace, Mydeimos remaining silent for a moment before answering.
“I’m not used to sleeping alone.”
Phainon’s head whipped over to look at him. “You—”
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Mydeimos bit out before Phainon could blurt out the assumption that had popped into his mind. “I’ve…it’s just… Never mind.” Mydeimos looked as if he regretted saying anything and shut his mouth. Phainon pressed anyway.
“What?”
Mydei glanced over at him, as if studying his face could allow him a glimpse into Phainon’s inner thoughts. Finally, he let out a short breath, stopping fully, so that they were both standing in the middle of the corridor.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a room to myself. For most of the last year…I slept in a tent with—” Mydeimos stopped abruptly, something like pain passing over his face before he recovered, beginning again. “With the others.”
Phainon was curious. “How many?”
“…Four.”
“Sounds comfortable.”
“It was cramped,” Mydeimos shot him a look, “and stuffy. But I didn’t mind it. Everyone else slept eight to a tent, so we were lucky.”
Phainon considered. “I could share with you.”
The words surprised Phainon. He hadn’t known the words were coming, hadn’t planned on saying them, but as the words left his mouth he found he meant it.
Mydeimos paused at that, looking over as if trying to read Phainon’s face. “You don’t have to force yourself,” he said finally.
“I’m not.”
Mydeimos didn’t say anything, only scoffed. Whatever argument he planned on bringing up was interrupted by a head of pink hair rushing around the corner, only to immediately bump into Phainon’s chest.
“Lord Phainon! I’m so sorry!”
Phainon reached out to steady the very harried Hyacine, who looked up at them both only to notice Mydeimos for the first time. “Oh—you—”
“Hyacine, this is Mydeimos,” Phainon interrupted. “I don’t think you’ve met yet.”
“I—no, not yet.” Hyacine’s expression was curious as she glanced at the two of them. “It’s lovely to meet you, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Just…Mydeimos is fine,” said Mydeimos, brow pained. “There is no need to be polite with me.”
“Of course! Apologies, but I’ve really got to get to the infirmary, so let’s talk later? Nice to meet you, Lord Mydeimos, and goodbye, Lord Phainon!”
“I really don’t think you’ll be able to talk her out of it,” Phainon commented as Hyacine hurried away, pigtails bouncing with the movement.
Mydeimos only sighed, staring at Hyacine’s back as it grew smaller in the distance, finally disappearing behind a far corner.
Several weeks later, the Kremnoan detachment arrived in Okhema. Mydeimos had traveled to the Holy City alone, only telling Krateros, his second in command, where he had gone, since a horde of Kremnoans showing up outside Okhema’s gates unexpectedly would surely be a recipe for disaster.
At that point, the Okhemans had been informed of the price of recruiting Mydeimos to the Flame Chase, but it didn’t stop them from being unhappy about it. Phainon saw how eyes narrowed in suspicion as the troops filtered past the city gates, how guarded their expressions became as dozens of Kremnoans waltzed into their city.
Mydeimos had stood beside Phainon as they awaited the detachment, with Krateros leading the head of the party. When they finally reached the gate, Krateros hopped off his horse and clapped Mydeimos on the shoulder, looking at once upset and relieved to see Mydeimos alive and well.
“I should have you whipped for that,” Krateros pulled away and gripped both of Mydeimos’ shoulders, looking him over as if searching for any sign of harm.
“I didn’t actually desert, you know,” Mydeimos said drily, but he squeezed Krateros’ shoulders in return. Krateros’ voice shook with laughter, and he pulled away.
“Just as well. I’m glad to see you again, my friend.”
“As am I, Teacher.” Mydeimos bowed his head. “Any deserters?”
“None.” Krateros shook his head. “But I’m sure some of them considered it.”
“And yet they’re here,” Mydeimos said, watching the troops pass beside them.
“Because they trust in you.”
“Maybe some, but I’m sure the others felt they had no choice or else be called a coward,” said Mydeimos. “How often is it your prince leads you to the home of your ancestral enemy as if lambs to the slaughter?”
“You don’t believe that,” Krateros glanced over at Mydeimos.
“No. But I’m certain some of them do.”
Phainon stood close by to hear but kept his gaze forward, not wanting to intrude on their conversation. The two of them caught up for a while and then eventually fell silent, and they watched the troops pass.
With all the excitement between Mydeimos’ arrival and preparing the city for the detachment, Phainon had barely spared a thought towards the System and his Main Quests. Now that things had somewhat settled down, Phainon finally had the time to check his Main Quest progress on the System interface in his chambers, but what he found made him frown.
His Quests page still looked the same as before, with nary a new quest to be seen.
Quests—Main Quests. Unlocked: 4/?
(1) Make your way to Okhema, the Holy City
(2) Join the Chrysos Heirs
(3) Recruit Mydeimos, Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos to the Flame Chase Journey
(4) Await Mydeimos’ arrival in Okhema
Well, shit. Was he missing something?
“Hey System?” Phainon asked. “Why isn’t my next Main Quest unlocked yet?”
[User Phainon has not fulfilled all the requirements to progress the Main Story. It is recommended that the User try completing Side Quests and keep exploring Amphoreus! However, if the User gets stuck, Hints are available for purchase in the Points Shop.]
Phainon sighed. Thirty seconds later, he was 55 PP poorer—now Phainon knew the shop prices were bullshit, given that the last one had only cost 40 PP—and one Hint richer.
[User Phainon has acquired a Hint! Activate now?]
Phainon hit [Yes] before the System’s query had finished scrolling across the screen.
[Hint: Aglaea has something to ask you. (^_−)−☆]
It just so happened that Aglaea had asked him to come by when he had a spare moment, so Phainon supposed he could have gone to Aglaea’s office directly and saved his points—but it wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to spare, with over eight months’ worth of PP saved up from all the side quests he’d completed while waiting for Mydeimos to arrive.
Whatever. Phainon dismissed the System and made his way to Aglaea’s office.
Aglaea was in a meeting when he got there, so he waited outside until the door opened and several people left, and Aglaea’s voice floated through the open door.
“Come in.”
Aglaea always looked the same, the elegance of her features never betraying signs of age or weariness, and today was no different. “Sit,” she beckoned, motioning to the chair opposite her desk. Phainon sat, waiting patiently.
“Are you interested in undergoing the Trial of Strife?”
Phainon was taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting that.
“I… Aren’t we still searching for the Coreflame?”
Aglaea looked amused. “Mydeimos brought it with him.”
That explained why the Chrysos Heirs had never been able to find it. Phainon had been subjected to many fruitless meetings regarding the Coreflame, the Heirs reasoning it would probably be easier to retrieve than that of Sky, hidden far above in Aquila’s forbidden domain, or Time, which, truthfully, could be anywhere in Amphoreus and they’d be none the wiser. Even the Earth Coreflame had been pushed aside in favor of searching for the Coreflame of Strife, buried deep within the earth as it was. At least the Strife Coreflame had to be somewhere above ground.
Short of flying up to the floating city of Castrum Kremnos itself, the Heirs had searched nearly every inch of Amphoreus for the Strife Coreflame, when all along it had been sitting safe behind fortified stone walls.
At least this explained why they hadn’t been able to find it.
“…Ah.” Phainon wasn’t sure what to think. “Why are you asking me, and not Mydeimos?”
“Mydeimos refused,” Aglaea said. “And you might just be Strife’s fated owner. Your fighting skills have improved immensely in such a short period of time, and you are not only ambitious, but also courageous and passionate. Strife could only dream of finding a better home. Perhaps this is the Coreflame you are destined to bear.”
Phainon thought about it. It was tempting, and maybe this was the path that the game was trying to lead him on, but something deep inside Phainon rejected the notion that he was fated for Strife, of all things. He’d had enough of death and destruction in this damned game.
“I…don’t think it’s right for me,” he said cautiously, not wanting to offend. If he was given the choice—which he was, since clearly this was not something mandated by the game, or else it would be in his quest log—he did not want to bear the Coreflame of Strife. He wasn’t anxious to try bearing a Coreflame that resembled all of his darkest nightmares.
He’d had enough of those for a lifetime.
Aglaea studied him. As if reaching a conclusion, she stood from her chair, and Phainon stood with her, unsure what her judgment would be.
“All right then, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. Perhaps you are not meant for Strife, but we’ll find a place for you yet,” Aglaea said, her voice light and unbothered. So he hadn’t upset her. Phainon wasn’t really used to refusing things, wasn’t in the habit of it, since he used to think he could manage anything as long as he got paid at the end of it—long hours and dirt cheap pay, the crappiest treatment known to man—anything, as long as it kept a roof over his head.
Now he had the choice, the choice to embody Strife or to reject it, and he did not want to dip his toes into those muddy waters ever again. Not that he’d ever been given the choice before, so he was even more eager to take his comfort into his own hands.
Aglaea dismissed him, not deigning to escort him to the door, but right as Phainon stepped out of her office he heard her voice call him back.
“Oh, and Phainon?”
Phainon peeked his head back through the door.
Aglaea looked at him strangely, as if trying to stare right through him. “Do see if you can manage to change Mydeimos’ mind.”
“All right.”
Phainon left.
Mydeimos was in the sparring ring when Phainon found him, where he had trained every day since his arrival. Right after breakfast on Mydeimos’ second day in the city, Mydeimos had promptly asked where he could train, and Phainon had let out a shocked laugh.
“Don’t you even want to rest first?” he had asked, to which Mydeimos only glared at him, so Phainon had relented and showed him the way to the training grounds, where Mydeimos had breathed a sigh of relief as he nearly raced to the weapons rack.
(Mydeimos didn’t run to the rack or anything, his noble provenance showing through even then, but Phainon had learned to read the glimmer of excitement in his eyebrows, the pinch of his mouth. Mydeimos was excited to train, and Phainon watched Mydeimos lift weapons assessingly with no small amount of entertainment.)
Phainon had watched Mydeimos practice every day since, whenever he could spare some time. Mydeimos didn’t seem to mind, the glint of swords and spears and studded gauntlets catching the light of the Dawn Device as he moved, the forms flowing easily into one another until Phainon felt almost dizzy.
Today, Mydeimos was practicing with a greatsword, and Phainon felt a little flicker in his gut as Mydeimos handled the weapon with far greater ease than Phainon ever did. The weight of his gaze must have caught Mydeimos’ attention, for after a while of sweeping thrusts and cuts he stopped, turning towards Phainon.
“Spar with me,” said Mydeimos.
The arena was empty for all but them, so Mydeimos’ words were easily heard. Still, Phainon stared at him in shock.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Mydeimos said, irritated. “Get over here.”
Phainon scrambled up from where he’d been sitting against the walls of the barracks, nearly tripping over his feet as he met Mydeimos in the ring. Mydeimos sized him up, resting the point of his sword in the dirt.
“Get your sword, then.”
Phainon obliged, grabbing one of the spare greatswords from the weapons rack. His sword was in his chambers, delightfully useless in this unexpected situation. No matter—it wasn’t as if Phainon was unfamiliar with the other swords, having been forced to train with all manner of weapons whenever he trained with the city guard.
He tested the weapon’s weight in his hands, gauging its heft before deciding he was satisfied, and then returned to stand across from Mydeimos.
“Ready?”
A thrill pulsed through Phainon. “Yeah,” he said.
Mydeimos struck. He was fast, lighter on his feet than Phainon had been expecting. Phainon dodged, digging his sandals in the dirt to thrust at Mydeimos’ exposed side, but was blocked by a screech of metal.
Mydei’s face was determined, set. Phainon broke their blades apart and feinted, sweeping his sword in hopes of catching Mydeimos off balance, but Mydeimos was too quick, countering with a cut of his own that had Phainon stepping back, feeling the swing’s power disturb the air between them.
Step, slash, cut, dodge, whoosh—that was a swing that nearly nicked Phainon’s forearm—thrust, parry, feint, return.
Phainon had lost track of how long they’d been at it when Mydeimos finally tossed his greatsword in the dirt, his face flushed.
“A break.”
Phainon nodded, collapsing onto a bench. All he could do was breathe heavily for a while, until the adrenaline from the spar finally caught up with him and he was laughing.
Mydeimos looked over at him from where he stood, removing his gauntlets. “What?” he asked, tone irritable.
Phainon couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbled out of him. Gasping, he tried to speak in between struggling breaths.
“It—haha, it’s—ha!” Phainon couldn’t do it, and dissolved into giggles. Mydeimos only looked askance at him and let him laugh until Phainon’s lungs threatened to collapse with strain.
Finally, after Phainon’s breaths had returned to normal and his eyes ceased their tearing, Phainon looked back at Mydei. He felt his smile break across his face, but crooked, as if all that laughter had messed with his muscles.
“We should spar more often,” he said.
“And risk having you choke on your own spit from laughter?” The reply was harsh, but the corner of Mydeimos’ lips tugged upwards.
“I wouldn’t mind, if it meant I got to fight you again,” said Phainon.
“You weren’t half bad yourself.”
Phainon’s chest expanded with the praise, and he felt a hint of laughter rise back up through his throat, but he squashed it with a cough. “Who knew you’d be such a fun sparring partner?” he asked, raising his gaze to the bright blue sky, the sun still visible halfway down its descent.
“I’ve sparred with countless opponents and yet not one of them called sparring with me fun,” Mydeimos said.
“Well, they clearly weren’t good enough to make it so,” said Phainon.
“That may be,” said Mydeimos, and Phainon felt something different in his gaze, something Phainon didn’t know how to read. He pushed it away.
“Anyways, I didn’t really come to spar with you—although now that we’ve started, you have to keep sparring with me,” Phainon said, at once worried this was a one time thing, worried that he might never feel anything close to the exhilaration and glee of sparring with Mydeimos ever again. Immediately Phainon sat up straight and looked over at Mydeimos, needing him to acknowledge it, needing him to say I felt it too, I had fun.
Mydeimos said none of those things. Instead, he said, “All right,” and it was enough anyway.
Phainon sighed in relief, his body drooping back as he rested upon his arms, only to twist itself ramrod straight as he shot back up.
“Oh! That’s right,” he said, having forgotten and then remembered again his original purpose for seeking out Mydeimos. “How come you’re not doing the Trial of Strife?”
Mydeimos paused from where he was sitting down beside Phainon on the bench.
“Did Lady Aglaea ask you to change my mind?”
“Yes. How come you’re not doing it?”
Mydeimos sighed. “I’m…considering it.”
“Considering what?” Phainon turned his body to face Mydeimos, curious.
“I came to Okhema to break away from my father’s legacy. I wanted to lead my people away from Strife and towards a new way of living,” Mydeimos said. His voice was low, unsure. “But part of me thinks that this could be another way. To take the Coreflame and resist the temptation to raze, to destroy. To cleanse that ambition into what it once was—using destruction like a forest fire, to burn away the excess to keep our kingdom healthy, not use it for such selfish reasons as to wage war or steal from the very people we were sentenced to protect.”
The words at the end were nearly spat out, Mydeimos’ jaw tightening in anger. As if realizing how worked up he’d gotten, Mydeimos exhaled, turning his face away from Phainon.
“I just…don’t know. I don’t want to repeat my father’s mistakes.”
“You won’t.”
“How would you know?” Mydeimos turned his head to glare at Phainon. “What would you know of ruling, or living with your father’s choices?”
“I don’t,” Phainon said. “You’re right. But I still think you would do things differently.”
“You can’t know that.” Mydeimos was almost glowering, as if upset by the very suggestion that he could do better than his father.
“No, but neither can you,” retorted Phainon. “So what if your father made shitty choices? It doesn’t mean you’re destined to follow in his footsteps.” Phainon hated, hated the idea that the future was written in stone. As much as he’d struggled in the real world, even in this one, some part of him deep down felt that there was always a way out. Always a choice.
You can’t choose what happens to you, that hidden part of Phainon seemed intent on believing. But you can choose how to get yourself out.
Mydeimos’ gaze was intense on Phainon, his anger still present but set aside, not the driving emotion at the moment. After a few moments of Mydeimos not saying anything, Phainon began to feel uncomfortable, and stood up from the bench, needing to escape Mydeimos’ stare.
“I’m not saying it’s impossible, you know,” said Phainon, facing away from the bench. He could feel Mydeimos’ eyes on his back, and he shivered. “Just that you can choose what you do with that power. If you want to use it differently than your father, if you want to make things better, then you can.”
A few moments went by without an answer. Finally, Mydeimos’ voice floated from behind Phainon. “All right.”
Phainon turned, apprehensive. “All right?”
“I’ll do it,” Mydeimos said. “The trial.”
“All right,” Phainon said. Then he didn’t know what to say, feeling rather embarrassed, so he stood there awkwardly, staring at the dirt at Mydeimos’ feet.
The dirt moved, disturbed by Mydeimos standing up. Phainon lifted his gaze.
“You’re interesting for an Okheman,” said Mydeimos.
“I’m not an Okheman,” Phainon said. “You know I’m not.”
“Yes,” Mydeimos said, his brow furrowing. “I suppose I forgot.”
Phainon felt the need to explain. “I know I’ve said it myself, before, but it isn’t true. It’s just the closest thing I’ve got to a home now.”
Mydeimos didn’t respond, only looked at Phainon with that crease in his brow. Phainon rushed to fill the silence.
“Anyway! Can I call you something else? Mydeimos is kind of long to say all the time.”
That startled Mydeimos. “...Something else?”
“A nickname, or something. It’s okay if not, I get it—” Phainon waved his hands frantically to convey how unattached he was to the idea of calling Mydeimos by a nickname, even though it was a lie—the Kremnoan’s name was entirely too long to think in its entirety for how often Phainon thought of him.
Not in a strange way, just because they were friends now.
Right?
“Oh Titans, we are friends now, right?” Phainon burst out, interrupting whatever Mydeimos had been about to say. “This better not be a one sided type of thing, it’s just—well, we get along so well, right, and since you asked me to spar with you—argh,” Phainon cut himself off in frustration, the possibility of Mydeimos thinking they weren’t friends rising with every single word out of his mouth.
Before he could even begin to think of a way to reclaim some dignity, Mydeimos spoke.
“You can call me Mydei if you want.”
Phainon stopped his mental clawing of his hair and snapped his gaze up to Mydeimos’. The words took a moment to process.
“Really?” The word, embarrassingly, shook coming out of his mouth.
Mydeimos—Mydei—laughed at that, a short, warm sound that lit Phainon up from the inside. “Yes, if you’re that desperate not to say my full name.”
“It’s not that it’s difficult, it’s just—long, and hard to say…” Phainon’s voice trailed off as his cheeks burned in shame. “I mean, it’s not that having a long name is bad, per se, it’s just it feels nice to shorten it, but like—take my name, for example. What could you even shorten it to? Some names are just better for nicknames.”
It occurred to Phainon while speaking that he really didn’t have any idea what he was prattling on about, and by the twist of Mydei’s mouth, it seemed that the other was clearly struggling to contain a snort or something similar.
“Anyway,” Phainon said, chagrined.
“Are you just going to keep saying anyway when you can’t think of anything else to say?”
Phaino glared at Mydei. “Maybe.”
“Ha,” said Mydei.
“Whatever. Don’t I get a nickname now?”
“Why do I have to give you a nickname? I gave mine to you, now it’s your turn.”
“I don’t know!” Phainon cried out in desperation. “If I had one already, wouldn’t I have already said it?”
Mydei didn’t say anything to that, the silence stretching on long enough that Phainon thought maybe he had gotten bored and the conversation gone stale, but just as Phainon was about to change the subject Mydei spoke again.
“Deliverer.”
Out of anything Mydei could have said, this one surely would have surprised Phainon the most. “What,” he croaked out, voice suddenly hoarse.
“Like the card you carry with you,” said Mydei.
The card. The Deliverer card, the one Phainon had carried with him all the way from Aedes Elysiae, the one card of Cyrene’s he’d managed to save, the card that had slipped out of his pack when he met with Mydeimos in his war tent all those months ago.
“How…” How did Mydei remember that? How did Mydei know Phainon still carried it with him, that to this day he still couldn’t bear to leave it at home? That every time Phainon leaves, he checks to make sure it’s still there, pressed up against his heart.
How did he know?
“It looked just like you, you know.” After leaving Phainon with only these startling words, Mydei left, and all Phainon could do was watch.
Phainon was still in a daze when he returned to his chambers, his internal processing already at max capacity, so he didn’t realize something was wrong until he closed his door behind him and bumped into someone’s chest.
Phainon looked up. His heart rate picked up.
“I thought I imagined you,” he said.
The hooded figure who had cornered him in the alleyway months ago—the man who warned Phainon to get it together, or else—that man stood in Phainon’s chambers, as if he’d been waiting for Phainon to return.
“Hmm,” the man sneered. He wore a black cloak this time, face still obscured by his heavy hood. Phainon stared at him defiantly and tried not to feel scared. “As if we could get out of this that easily.”
“What do you want?” Phainon demanded. “Tell me, and then get out of my room.”
“What I want,” the man mused, stepping closer to Phainon, causing him to take a step back, “is to get out of this Titansforsaken mess, but you’re not really helping in that area, are you?”
“What are you talking about? I told you—”
“You’re different,” the man said. “At first I thought you’d just forgotten, or that something had messed with your head or something, but you’re really not him.”
Phainon couldn’t stand this anymore. “Not who? What are you talking about?”
“Phainon,” the man said, “of Aedes Elysiae, Deliverer, Chrysos Heir. Friend to all, and yet known to none.”
“How…do you know me?”
Distantly, he thought there might be a reasonable explanation for it—as a Chrysos Heir, his identity wasn’t exactly private, but the way this man said his name, the way he seemed to look through him made it seem like that wasn’t all there was to it.
“You’re not him. Well, you are him, just not him. The Phainon you used to be, at least.”
The more the man spoke, the more Phainon’s head spun. “…What?”
“You know, I’d love to stick around and help you through this little crisis, but I really don’t have time for that. I’ve got things to do, and you’ve got memories to recover, Deliverer.”
With that, the man snapped, and the pressure in Phainon’s head rose to an alarming degree. Phainon cried out, clutching his head as he felt himself drop to his knees, the pain at once overwhelming and incredibly far away, yet all he wanted to do was yell, scream, cry out for answers, anything.
But in between one blink and the next, moments before his vision finally blacked out, Phainon looked up to see the man was gone.