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Mydei was going to get married. To someone who wasn’t him.
The phrase echoed in Phainon’s mind like a hollow reverberation in an empty canyon, bouncing off the walls of his skull with unnecessary cruelty. The Deliverer of Okhema felt like a raw recruit who had just had his sword confiscated. He had never been ambitious regarding his feelings for the prince; he was content just sharing space in the training grounds and the hot springs. The mere thought of sharing his bed as well felt like a delirium.
Until a few hours ago, Phainon was firmly certain that he would rather take that secret to the grave—a very deep grave, sealed with heavy stones and an army of dromas on top—rather than put Mydei in the embarrassing position of having to reject him. He imagined the scene with masochistic clarity: the flash of discomfort in Mydei’s eyes as he struggled to find the right words to save their friendship. Yes, he would definitely rather die. He was absolutely sure his love was a monologue without an audience.
There were two specific situations that served as irrefutable proof of this judgment of his.
The first occurred last week, during a training session that Phainon now remembered as the pinnacle of his stupidity. That day, Phainon felt especially capable. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like liquid fire as he traded blows with Mydei. Hours had passed—three, to be exact—of a frantic dance of steel against steel. Phainon was covered in dust, sweat stung his eyes, and he had a throbbing cut on his left calf that stained his boot red, but he didn't care. He was lost in the rhythm of battle, in the perfect feint, and in the dangerous need to prove to the prince that, on this occasion, victory was indisputably his.
In a move that could only be described as suicidal genius, Phainon risked his right flank, let Mydei’s sharp gauntlet pass millimeters from his neck, and used the momentum to strike. The crash of bodies colliding against the sand was music to his ears.
There they were: Phainon over Mydei’s chest, pinning him to the ground with a leg between his and the tip of his sword brushing the royal throat. Phainon panted, hair plastered to his forehead, a smug and brilliant smile lighting up his face. It was the smile of someone who had hunted a god. He wanted to boast; he wanted Mydei to admit defeat; he wanted him to look at him with that spark of respect he so craved.
However, time seemed to freeze.
Mydei remained so still that Phainon actually thought he had scared him to death. An eternal minute passed where the only sound was Phainon’s ragged breathing. The prince didn't laugh, didn't offer a silent congratulation, didn't even rant about the risky moves that had earned Phainon that deep cut on his calf. He simply stayed there, like a marble statue under the sun, eyes fixed on Phainon’s, seeing something Phainon couldn't see.
Suddenly, with cold, mechanical force, Mydei grabbed Phainon by the shoulders and threw him off his lap as if he were a nuisance.
—I have duties to attend to. I will see you tomorrow—Mydei said.
His tone carried a glacial chill that even the midday sun could not warm. He left without another word, leaving Phainon sitting in the sand, alone. Clearly, his physical proximity was repulsive to the prince. What else could it be?
It was not, to the detriment of Phainon’s mental stability, the first time they had ended up in a posture that defied any manual of military decorum. Throughout their months as companions, the inertia of their combat styles had left them more than once with their faces too close or their bodies tangled in the sweat of the arena. Phainon had grown accustomed to the static electricity of those accidents; however, this time felt different. This time, Phainon hadn't pulled away immediately. He had stayed there, allowing himself the luxury of weighing down on Mydei, feeling the vibration of his lungs beneath his palm, and offering that bright, proud smile that was, in reality, a surrender disguised as victory.
But it seemed, judging by the tense, hot body Phainon had felt just seconds ago, that only he saw it that way. Heat still tingled in his palms, while his throat tightened with guilt for having ruined the sparring session.
The second proof was older, a memory Phainon had stored in the back of his mind as a trivial fact, but which over time had become his greatest torture.
It happened long before Phainon and Mydei were close, at one of those endless Chysos banquets where diplomacy was served in golden cups. Back then, Phainon saw Mydei as a prince who was far too proud, with a righteousness that made him want to yawn. Aside from formal greetings, Phainon wanted nothing to do with him.
At some point during the night, amidst wine and forced laughter, Aglaea made a joke about Kremnoans and love. Mydei, with that doctoral calm so characteristic of him, replied without hesitation:
—For Kremnoans, love has never been a priority—he had said, crossing his fingers elegantly.—And if we do seek it, we tend to find it in our own roots. Nikador knew no lovers, mortal or immortal, and we follow his example.
Phainon, who was merely bored at the time, let out a yawn and retreated to the balcony to look at the sky, thinking: What a boring guy.
What Phainon didn't know then was that Kremnoans were, in reality, very passionate, but in a way that differed from those known by the rest of the territories. They found love in battle, great attraction in strength, and paid homage to the ideal of equals. Since they were the strongest nation, the best warriors tended to be found among their ranks, and their culture stood out above all others; it was no wonder Kremnoans tended to prefer their own people in matters of the heart. In conclusion, Mydeimos got out of the Love Goddess’s predicament in the most dignified way he could.
If he had stayed at the banquet a little longer, with his current knowledge, he might have noticed how Mydei was folding a napkin in his lap so tightly that his knuckles were white with pure nervousness.
Phainon, who hasn't a single drop of Kremnoan blood in his veins, felt the world collapse again as he remembered that, so he couldn't help but curse his lineage a little. If Mydei spoke of "roots," the conclusion was so obvious it hurt: his future wife would undoubtedly be a Kremnoan beauty of impeccable lineage, a warrior of marble and discipline. Or, perhaps, it would be a political marriage to an Okheman noble, a perfect diplomatic move to seal the peace between their peoples.
Besides, Mydei was a prince. A prince for the love of Kephale.
Phainon raised his third jar of wine with the solemnity of one holding a holy grail. He stared at the bottom of the vessel, lost in an existential reflection: what could he offer a prince of Nikador’s lineage?
Phainon had won the title of the best swordsman in his village and the second-best in wheat harvesting. But it wasn't really comparable, was it?
—A prince—Phainon growled to the air, taking another long swig from his cup.—A prince, for Kephale's sake! And I... I'm the second-best wheat harvester. What a fucking perfect match Phainon!
But hey, if his destiny was to be a spectator at the royal wedding of the century, he would at least say goodbye to his dignity in style. He set the empty jar on the table and stood up. Why not have one last gesture of rebellion? Mydei’s private baths were a sanctuary of steam and silence. Because why not? he told himself. If Mydei was going to get married, Phainon would at least usurp his tub one last time before a soft-handed noblewoman claimed the territory. If he was going to die of a broken heart, he would at least do it clean and drunk.
When Mydei returned to Okhema, the dust of the road had barely settled before his teleslate vibrated. Aglaea’s message was brief but imperative: an immediate meeting to discuss "matters of grave importance."
As a prince, Mydei walked a constant tightrope. He knew the elders of his people watched him, criticizing every concession. The integration of his people into Okhema was a tectonic shift. Recent altercations in the markets—where simple haggling had ended in a request for a duel—had only fueled the locals' reluctance. Mydei sighed; he knew Aglaea was not calling him for tea, but to extinguish a political fire.
The meeting dragged on until the shadows grew long. The Council of Elders demanded a bond, a marriage that would anchor Kremnoan loyalty to Okhema once and for all. Mydei listened in silence until she finished speaking. Only then did he impose his sole condition.
—I will accept this commitment—Mydei said, his golden eyes shining with a dangerous determination—, but only with one person. I will not accept any noblewoman imposed by the council—my people will not respect her—and tradition dictates they must be strong enough to be considered my equal. I will marry the Deliverer of Okhema, or there is no deal.
Aglaea did not seem surprised. She knew the glances Mydei thought he hid.
—It is a masterful choice, Mydei—she admitted.—Phainon is the Hero of Okhema. He is the only one who can match you on the battlefield and, most importantly, the only one who has proven he can defeat you. That will silence the Kremnoan elders. However...—a threatening look met his—...only if he accepts.
—Of course. Do I have your approval?
—You have always had it, Mydeimos, but you must know you carry one of my most precious people. Treat him well. Oh and... —Aglaea paused, a playful, almost feline glint dancing in her eyes as she leaned back in her seat.— You should hurry and take a bath in your private thermal springs...
Mydei blinked, slightly caught off guard by the sudden domestic suggestion. He was still mentally reviewing the legalities of the marriage contract, and his mind was miles away from soap and water.
—A bath? I didn't think I looked that disheveled, Aglaea—he replied, his voice laced with princely confusion.
—Oh, it’s not about your appearance, Mydeimos. It’s just that... let's say the stars have aligned in a rather peculiar way over your quarters tonight. —Aglaea traced the rim of her golden cup, her smile widening.— You should hurry up, I have a feeling you’ll find a very particular kind of "offering" waiting for you in the water. One that has been marinating in finest wine for quite some time now.
Mydei frowned, his mind still occupied by the weight of the council's demands.
—An offering? I prefer them delivered to the study—he replied, his tone dry and clinical.
Aglaea let out a soft, delighted chuckle and waved a hand dismissively.
—Believe me, this is one gift you won't want to send to the study. Though I’d be careful if I were you; this specific treasure tends to be quite... prickly when intoxicated. Don't let it drown in its own sorrow, will you?
Mydei simply gave a perplexed nod, failing to see the punchline of her cryptic humor.
—I will take your word for it. Goodnight, Aglaea.
He turned to leave, his cape swirling behind him. Aglaea watched him go, shaking her head in amusement. —The greatest mind of Kremnos,— she whispered to the empty room, —and yet, he couldn't spot a drunken hero in his own bathtub if his life depended on it.—
Mydei crossed the threshold of his quarters with weary shoulders. Upon entering his baths, he stopped dead. The scent of sweet wine floated in the air. There, reclining with a breath-taking languor, was Phainon.
An involuntary smile softened Mydei’s harsh features. It wasn't the moment he had planned, but Phainon’s vulnerability made his heart shrink.
—Deliverer—Mydei uttered, his voice echoing.—I thought I told you that drinking in my baths was forbidden.
—And if what I'm drinking is pomegranate juice, Your Highness?
—Is it?—Mydei asked as he removed his gauntlets.
—It’s quite similar… After all, it is a special occasion that must be celebrated.
Mydei undressed and slid into the water. The heat of the spring rose up his torso as he closed the distance toward the other man.
—Oh?—Mydei let out, with a note of genuine curiosity.
—You’re getting married, aren't you?—Phainon didn't look at him; he kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, though his white knuckles around the cup betrayed his agitation.—Tell me... have you seen her yet?
Mydei went cold for a microsecond. How had he found out?
However, observing Phainon’s melancholy face, Mydei understood the situation at once. The Deliverer was completely blind to reality. Phainon had no idea that the "future fiance" was himself. A spark of Kremnoan cunning lit up the prince’s gaze. Let’s see if he can recognize himself, Mydei thought.
—Yes.
—Is she beautiful?
—The most beautiful in the whole city, and perhaps in all of Amphoreus.
Phainon let out a soft laugh, a sound that broke at the end. —Sounds like you approve. Good.
—Of course I approve—Mydei replied.—I demanded her hand myself.
—Ah, so you already knew her…—Phainon swallowed hard.—Do I know her?
—Not as well as I do, Deliverer. But yes, you know her very well. In fact, I doubt there is anyone in Okhema who is unaware of her existence at this point.
Phainon let out a snort. The idea that Mydei had such a close relationship with someone without him knowing was the final insult.
—Ah… how could I have missed it?—he murmured.—Is it… Castorice?
He finished the entire cup in one gulp.
—No.—Mydei tilted his head, watching as a drop of wine slid down Phainon’s chin. He reached out a hand and wiped it away with his thumb.—It’s not her. Your aim is failing today, Deliverer. Keep asking, go on. I thought you would recognize the person who has captured my thoughts every night?
Phainon slumped his shoulders.
—I don't wish to know anything else—Phainon managed to articulate.
—No?—Mydei’s voice vibrated against Phainon’s skin.—Don't you want to know what she looks like? The color of her hair, her eyes? Whether she’s strong? Whether she’s exquisitely irresistible?
Phainon’s breath caught. He stood up abruptly, water cascading down his body, the cloth at his waist barely holding on.
—No, Mydeimos!—he cried out, eyes watering again.—I don't want any more details. If you didn't bother giving them to me when I thought I meant something to you... I don't want them now. Keep your perfect fiance!
He tried to step out, but he slipped. Before he could fall, a firm hand pulled him back down, forcing him to sit directly on the prince’s lap.
—Ah, but I believe it concerns you— Mydei whispered, his arms encircling Phainon’s waist like iron chains —, so I will tell you anyway.
Phainon tried to struggle, but Mydei held him firm, his breath brushing against the sun tattoo on his neck, sending waves of static down his spine.
—She is brave, though she is an impulsive idiot— Mydei began, tenderness in his tone. —Her mere presence makes any Okheman melt; they adore her as if she were the sun itself. The Kremnoans respect her because she is absurdly strong. She has some self-sacrificing issues that drive me crazy, but that only makes her more attractive if you ask me.
Mydei shortened the distance, his nose brushing Phainon’s ear. Phainon had gone stone-still, heart hammering against his ribs.
—Her pale hair looks like starlight filigree under the moon— continued Mydei, his hand moving up to tangle in Phainon’s light locks, forcing him to turn his head. —And her eyes... her eyes are my favorite shade of blue in all the cosmos. And you know what, Phainon?
Mydei caught those blue eyes, now dilated with surprise and alcoholic confusion.
—He is the only one who can beat me in a fight. The only one who has knocked me down and made me want to stay on the ground if it meant having him on top of me for just a second longer.
Phainon turned his head with a gesture of pure confusion. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. The gears in his mind finally clicked.
—Oh—he finally let out, his voice barely a whisper.
—Oh—Mydei repeated, his smile widening as he cradled the drunkest and most heroic fiance in Amphoreus against his chest.—I’m glad the best strategist in Okhema has finally reached a conclusion.