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a soul divided | mydeimos

born to be a spy in castrum kremnos’ ranks, your heart quickly learns that war and love are too severely entangled to extricate yourself from mydei in any way that matters. (28k words) (yeah idk either i went crazy)

content/content warnings: before you start reading this take my hand…. did you take it… okay good…. now promise not to spit in my face bc i know only the barest of details about amphoreus lore bc i’ve been skipping through the game like crazy ever since v3.0……….. Yeah…….. anyways i tried to read up as much as possible and some of the plot is inspired by mydei fanfics i’ve read Go Easy On Me yall pls, PLS, i’m sorry. okay now, also if mydei feels too ooc for you you’re legally obligated to stab me through the tenth thoratic vertebra, reader’s faith and city-state ladon is reminiscent of the tale of the garden of the hesperides, hesperia the goddess is inspired by the dragon ladon who guards the golden apples, ladon and hesperia is implied to be athens/athena-adjacent so it mirrors castrum kremnos ares-/spartan-adjacent lore (enemies to lovers am i right) (i think homer just turned in his grave), arranged marriage situation (mydei has become part of eurypon’s court to kill and usurp him), reader doesn’t know mydei is a chrysos heir or that he’s immortal, forced proximity, allusion to sex and some descriptives but no actual sex scene, murder attempt, reader is stabbed (no major character death), Idk . i’ll update this as i go LMAO

Hesperia guide you, because you have no idea how to kindle her light when your life is so completely enveloped by the threat of darkness.

You can still hear the growl inside your mother’s voice as they had broached the plan in the council meeting for the first time, the unusual anger that had tainted the usual decadence of it. It was a beautiful voice, clear and strong, strengthened by her faith in the goddess your home worshipped. It was said that Hesperia’s calls herself had been so loud it had shaken the earth and the seas, which is why the shallow sandbanks around Ladon stretch for miles before they deepen into the ocean. The only easy access one gained was through the terratic way to the north, symbolic for how Hesperia had to fly with the north’s winds to return home after fighting in the war against the looming darkness.

This is how they try to comfort you as they tell you about your duty to the country you call home: you’ll only be taking after the goddess, Hesperia, after all. And isn’t that the greatest blessing one could ever experience as a mortal being, to walk the path of gods?

Even as a child, you could taste the lie in the sweetened words. It was as clear in the water as the fish in the sea, the many eels you used to catch with your friends for entertainment in the lazy afternoon sun. And even if you hadn’t realized it, your mother’s angry disposition cleared up the situation at hand pretty quickly.

This was not an honor. This was the Golden Council throwing you the wolves, before they scented the blood and wounds the city of Ladon was already nursing.

It’s an easy lie, embedded in the fact that Ladon bleeds at the edges of this planet’s universe. Commerce and trade came often, but didn’t stay long, not interested in the wisdom of the city, and the luscious mountains did not provide any specialties that you couldn’t find anywhere else. There was a particular interest by the city-state of Okhema in the pearls the Ladonians harvested from its’ sea, due to its mythological connection to Hesperia as a daughter of light, a cousin to the Dawn Device’s creator. But aside from that, the fact remained that it was a ripe city, lush for the taking, and for Castrum Kremnos, whose existence depended on the import of life-saving goods, even a simple flourishing agricultural situation as Ladon’s was enough for them to covet Hesperia’s pearlescent city.

The water way is irrelevant when the terrain in the north is perfect for a march on the safe haven of Ladon.

They are here on the Golden Council’s cowardly invitation, of course. This conflict has been spanning on for even longer than you remember, older even than the crown forged for your mother as she ascended to the throne beside your father. You are not truly Ladonian, at least not in the Golden Council’s eyes, because your mother is only a “borrowed bride” from the shores of the wealthy city of Pyria. They do not recognize your mother’s authority, nor your claim on the throne. So when the time comes to work out a solution against old King Eurypon’s threat, they quickly suggest a marriage as “succesful as King Atlaion’s with the queen mother”.

Translated, they want you to go and become what they always feared from your foreign mother. A snake in the Castrum Kremnoan’s gardens. A dagger at the only prince’s throat.

If Atlaion had still been alive, the council would have been turning on a spit for the fire to roast as soon as the afternoon sun would have set on Ladon. You remember your father in the few times where you let yourself, when the memory doesn’t hurt. A melodious voice, a roughened palm that seemed as protective as your own skin. Your father hard always been praised for his big heart, too gentle for a throne. But also too weak for it. The council had verbally torn him to shreds for his decision in marriage, always claiming he’d been tricked by Pyria, always arguing that Aeolia was the true hand behind the throne. A fact that did not sit easy with a council as vying as this one. And a fact that had made them point their blaming fingers at the queen mother’s family, the one they accused to be hungry for Ladonian treasure.

Pyria had long been swallowed by the black tide then, but that wasn’t anything they wanted to discuss.

And anyways, your father is gone, and his assassins are still free. There is no universe for you except this one, where you bend your head to the borrowed authority of a council that refuses to crown any head but your future’s son’s, still hiding in your womb. Metaphorically, of course. If you hadn’t been unmarried, unwidowed and unchanged, they would never have been able to broker this pact with the mad king of Castrum Kremnos.

Eurypon had wanted an excuse to leash his son, and the Golden Council had wanted an excuse to press you for an heir. And if you threw in a few Kremnoan secrets that would help free Ladon of the title of a vassal state, well, that was only good and fair. So they raise you to be a sword, ready to cut anything down: to sneak. To spy. To steal.

Slyfooting is not part of a queen’s education, but it becomes a part of yours. You become a royal deceiver, a living lie. The Golden Council files your venom-containing teeth and puts its hands together for a prayer, a prayer for a future where Ladon becomes an empire again, reborn in the dawn of light. They dream of holding the Dragon banner high, to devour their enemies whole.

You, on the other hand, dream of a quick death.

As you walk the causeways of Ladon’s only defense ring to the north, you can see the detachment of soldiers come nearer and nearer. It restricts the air in your chest, strangling you to the bone. An entire decade ago, this had been the sight you glimpsed from your apartments as Castrum Kremnos first drew closer to beat Ladon into submission. Eurypon himself had headed that army then, eager for a fight against the noble Atlaion, of whom he’d only heard about his golden-coated words and his shying back from a warrior’s valor. He had wanted a fight, and had almost burned the city to the ground when he thought Atlaion would rather hide than face him. A good king would go to his death willingly, if only to uphold his city’s honor and the people’s pride. Little did anyone know that good, old, noble Atlaion had been murdered in his throne room, the beheaded corpse still seated on the throne. He’d been readying himself for peace talks. The banners of surrender had already been prepared to be flown. The surviving soldiers of the Kremnoan invasion instead found the banners stuffed into the mouths of the murdered royal guard, drenched in blood. A fitting image for a situation so totally beyond salvation.

You, however, had to live with the sight of your father’s beheaded corpse forever. They found you shaking the body, crying for him to wake up and face you, your own face streaked in tears and blood. You didn’t see the face of the assailant, but you had found the weapon. Despite the extensive investigation, no culprit had ever been found, and the dagger was to be locked away and sealed forever. In case the murderer would ever be found. In case anyone woule be ever able to identify the owner of the weapon.

In the end, King Eurypon had made your mother sign away the future of Ladon. This, too, became a weapon the Golden Council brandished against her. Here sat this foreigner, who’s only been crowned queen because she seduced a soft-hearted king. And she dares to hand away Ladon’s future just like that. You hadn’t been present then, confined to a prison that was supposed to serve as a hiding place. Not that Eurypon was unaware of you. But the hope was still there that he wouldn’t take notice of you. His own queen had made him a widow, and no one knew what the king would do. All morality had seemed to have fled him in the days after the loss of both of his son and queen. After long-breathed peace talks which had felt like a particularly calm siege, King Eurypon and his army had finally withdrawn, one city-state richer.

Back in the present, you stare at the advancing army and think of the commander leading its charge. You wonder how you are supposed to marry a man whose only inheritance was blood and violence, when you had been supped on wisdom and gentility.

Hesperia herself had been a strategic queen, a clever woman. The faith of the Hesperian gardens practices patience, meditation, self-reflection. This city alone had been born out of Hesperia’s wish to reunite with her family, her song rising steadily in volume until all her sisters had come rushing home. The seas had dried and opened a way for her sisters to place their feet upon, so they could rush to Hesperia’s waiting arms. In their reunion, they had planted a golden-leaved tree bearing fruit of the same color, forever a symbol of their love, community and perseverance. Nowhere in that picture does the Kremnoan urge for patricide and warmongering fit.

And yet here he marches, Mydeimos of the noble blood of Gorgo. Ready to become part of that picture, against his will or not.

The winds carry the salty scent of spilled blood, though you can’t be sure if that’s actually true or just a product of your fearful imagination. But it also carries something else: a spiced perfume that settles in your chest, like a cozy blanket thrown over your shoulder. You turn and see Queen Aeolia approach, a heavy-mantled cloak she must have stolen from your father’s closet hastily thrown over her shoulder. She must have seen you climb the causeways and went to join you. “I knew I’d find you here,” she says when she has drawn near enough, although the wind swallows some of her words eagerly, as if it too cannot contain the yearning for her wisdom in the same manner as your father had. “Though I do wish you wouldn’t have come. I wished to spare you this sight.”

To that, you can only answer with a sigh. “Mother, I’m supposed to marry him. It’s not like I can avoid this army forever. I’ll be marching with them to my new home, after all.”

“It won’t be your home.” Your mother’s voice is steady, firm. She’s always been your bedrock, the foundation of your life. Silently supporting you always. Helping you stand steady. “No matter what that blasphemous council says, your home is here with me.”

“What, you don’t believe they speak with the voice of Hesperia?” you ask sarcastically. It should have come off as a quip, a joke with which you had intended to ease the tensions. All it sounds like though is bitterness. This is your mother, whom you do not have to hide anything from. So you cannot find it in yourself to pretend to be alright. “I don’t really care whether the gods are with them or not. The Golden Council means nothing to me. But I don’t want to turn my back on father and all he’s done for this country, and I cannot deny that an alliance with Castrum Kremnos, no matter how it came to fruition, is something that could benefit the people. We’d never have to worry about an invasion again.”

Your mother musters you warily. It’s the look you give someone when you know they aren’t being quite honest with themselves, but you cannot deny them, either. So she says, “And I love you for that. But do not forget that an heir to the Ladonian throne is only a forefront. What those vipers truly yearn for is a Castrum Kremnos they’d be able to control.”

You roll your shoulders, still focussed on the troops as they transform from indistinguishable dots to the silhouettes of real, blooded men. The distance is closing steadily. It feels like they might be running to you, and the panic, which had nestled itself on your tongue in the past few days, has finally travelled into your blood and is beginning to seep into your bones. It will live with you there, forever perhaps, or until your golden-soled boots crushes Castrum Kremnos in the name of Ladon. Neither solution seems realistic. “I will bear it,” you say, and then, as if to convince yourself, “I can do it. Hesperia is with me.”

Your mother’s hand goes to your head, brushing over the elaborate hairdo. The hairpins you have studded inside the coiffure are wrought in the image of Hesperia’s dragon appearance, an image of bravery from which you are trying to draw strength from. “The light of Hesperia be with you, daughter,” your mother sighs in turn. Then she straightens up, for both her sake and yours. The time to mourn and grieve is over. The battle has just begun. “Now come with me and get changed into that other gown. I’ve heard this prince favors the color pink.”

You think in truth your mother might be trying to distract you from what you perceive as your impending doom (really now, what Kremnoan prince would like the color pink? or perhaps that just pertains to the lovers he is attracted to? Maybe he likes it when they wear pink?). But you grasp at the opportunity to be a daughter again, just one last time. For now, you are still princess of Ladon, daughter to the Sunlit Throne. And you are safe in your childhood chambers, laughing with your mother, unworried abut anything. You are present. You are here. And you are loved.

In the glint of the jewelry your mother holds up to your ears, you briefly wonder what her marriage was like. You’re not familiar with Pyrian marriage customs, had only been schooled on what a proposal to you might look like. Not even this marriage to the Kremnoan prince was usual. His own traditions outlined different approaches, and the arrangement itself was unusual for their royal house. As far as you were aware, the proposed to partner was carried away under the cover of night, with the proposed to partner giving consent ahead of time. In fact, it lies in the will of the proposed-to party to set the meeting and location, being fully in control of everything up until the marriage bed. There, a Kremnoan marriage served but a single duty for the rest of its duration: the production of an heir.

Your mother had paled in reaction when she had first heard the terms. After a long-battled discussion, both royal families had finally come to the agreement that Prince Mydeimos was allowed to carry you off, but he had to come and do it in the light of sun, where Hesperia could see. And you had to be allowed to say goodbye to your loved ones, to fulfill the celebrations on the shore of your old home. After this marriage, your home would be Castrum Kremnos. Only time would tell how that would work out.

They find you just as the sun reaches its zenith in the sky, the young noon bathing you in its stinging heat as the lady’s maid that will accompany you knocks at the door. “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she speaks, her voice tentative. Perhaps she fears for her own future, as well. “The prince is here.”

The prince.

You gather your skirts and rise, feeling deceptively light. Maybe that’s because you are about to be cut free. This had been your childhood kingdom, but also a gilded cage in the claw-fingered hands of the Golden Council. You knew next to nothing about Prince Mydeimos: not about his behaviors, not about his personality. He is said to be the most skilled warrior alive, more walking death than man. His enemies scream in terror at the mere mention of his name. His blood-soaked shadow has been said to swallow entire battlefields whole; in fact, his armies always prepare for celebrations ahead of the battle because of the surefire certainty they have in him. He may not be accepted by his father, but he is his people’s pride. You try to be comforted by this, but all you can think of is blood and violence and murder.

Mydeimos. Prince Mydeimos. You roll the name around your tongue in silence as your mother walks you to the throne room.

Yet when you see him, you can’t make heads or tails of him.

Prince Mydeimos of the Castrum Kremnoan dynasty is a tall, impressive man, of a muscular and broad stature that seems to tower above his peers and the emissaries of the Golden Council who have come to welcome him. He is painted in the colors of his home; honey-dew hair, pomegranate eyes, bloody whorls on his chest and arms which you cannot decipher. It’s nothing you’ve read about in the history books which were supposed to lecture you about your groom’s city. You suppose he might the very picture of a Kremnoan ideal. On another woman, that might have made a lasting impression: he’s attractive, after all, and you are not blind. But his appearance only turns the syllables of his name to ash in your mouth, a fresh batch of anger welling up inside you. If he had never accepted his father’s terms and asked for your hand, you might have been free from this fate. When Prince Mydeimos eyes’ finally find yours, they look as if they know exactly at what you might be thinking.

“Prince Mydeimos,” comes your mother’s loud address, cutting in over a particularly nasty councillor who had once compared your mother to a slow-working poison. The sneer that presents itself on his face only seems to imbue your mother with more strength, as if his envy only spurs her on more. She approaches Mydeimos with a polite smile, leaving you to remain where you stand. Indicating with her hand towards you, she says, “My prince, I am pleased to introduce you to this humble island’s only princess. This is my daughter and your bride.”

Mydeimos respectfully inclines his head at your mother. The motion makes your mother’s eyes flash with surprise, an emotion she cannot hide as quickly away as she usually does; Ladon was but another colony in Castrum Kremnos’ repertoire, smaller than most of the treasures King Eurypon had acquired. Eurypon had never bowed his head, nor made any over effort to grace your mother with any kind of respect that would befit her station. “Queen Aeolia, I thank you for welcoming us so graciously in your home,” he speaks then, and his voice is a lion’s roar. Not because it sounds threatening, or because he speaks particularly asserting. It’s in him, you realize, that natural inclination to command authority. No wonder his troops seem to adore him. “You will forgive me for joining you so late. As I am not old enough, I still sleep in the barracks with the men who serve me. We intended to settle in quickly so I could meet your daughter as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Your mother has reasserted her own grip on her politics. She is quick that way, more skillful than you are. You are going to have to mimic her when you are married. Mydeimos’ odd decision to bunk with his barrack mates has already been reported long before he set sail for Ladon, a matter your mother privately worried about. Kremnoan women do not live with their husbands for the entirety of their military service, and she fears in your future lonely days and even lonelier nights. In truth, you could not care less. This was a marriage for duty, not for love. “If there is anything you or your men might ask for, do not hesitate in doing so. The city is yours, my prince.”

“Yes,” he quietly affirms. “That I know. But I thank you for your hospitality.” It’s an arrogant comment, a statement that sets your blood to a boil even though he doesn’t mean it with any bad intent. His eyes are devoid of his father’s hostility, but they are still his father’s eyes: war-driven and impulsive. When they find yours again, you have carefully built up a wall in the same manner as your mother has done, steeling yourself against this lion-born nightmare. Mydeimos thus passes by your mother and approaches you, and the room grows quiet at that. You warily watch as Mydeimos comes to a halt before you, wondering if he will approach you like this when he discovers your true intentions before he murders you for your crimes. He upturns his palms, each finger ensconced by his gauntles. He hasn’t even bothered to disarm himself as he proposes to you. The thought settles in your already upset brain as Mydeimos asks, “Chosen princess of Hesperia, in the eyes of the golden-eyed dragon and the sunset mountains, I ask for your heart and your faith. Will you accept me as your groom?”

You stare up at him, stunned.

These are not the words your advisors have prepared you for. They are your words: your traditions as you had reminisced about just an hour earlier. Kremnoan marriages do not seem to glorify the process, keeping to a very simple ‘marry me’ and a ‘yes, I do’ to bring it to a close. There aren’t even any priests to preside over the wedding that will be held, and so you hadn’t had any hopes for this proposal, either. It was all dictated upon, anyway, your hand practically already given away.

You do not know what to make of this. You do not like the fact that these words are coming out of his mouth, and yet, a small corner inside your heart breathes out a sigh of relief since you aren’t abandoning your father’s ways entirely. Unsure about Mydeimos, and still in awe at the reunion with a part of your culture before you are torn away from it, you answer, placing your hands in his, “In the spirit of Hesperia’s faith and devotion, I accept you as my groom, Prince of Castrum Kremnos. In the eyes of the golden-eyed dragon and the sunset mountain, I vow to become your wife.”

There are no rings, no other significant symbols of the engagement. But as you look into this prince’s eyes, you feel that vow wash over you as dizzily as the future does - forceful and unstoppable. The metaphorical lock has clicked into place. The gleaming metal of his armor is sun-warmed and smooth. It feels like touching a human heart. Mydeimos presses your fingers and releases them.

You are a captive of Castrum Kremnos now.

Mydeimos is still staring at you as you hesitantly put your hands into another, fumbling with your fingers nervously. You cannot tell what he’s thinking; he seems to be more statue than man, and he strikes the same fear in your heart as he does in his enemies. You are glad that you never have to face him in earnest on a battlefield, but then remember your duty, and you lower your eyes. This makes Mydeimos clear his throat, and the moment passes. He turns towards your mother again, leaving you to your inner turmoil. “If not to your offense, I would like to retire with my men now. The days have been long, and our exhaustion has made us weary. We are quite eager to partake in the celebrations you have prepared for this evening.”

The councillor at your mother’s side, who apparently has had enough of your mother’s spotlight, speaks up almost immediately. “Understandably so, Your Highness!” he rushes to assure Mydeimos. “But perhaps you’d like to attend this evening’s assembly before you attend the revelries? You still have not told us when you would like to leave, and when the marriage is supposed to be held.”

“That will be at my bride’s discretion.” Mydeimos nods once at the councillor, the only sign displaying that he seems to have listened to the puny man, then directly addresses your mother again. “Queen Aeolia, if you’ll excuse me. I will withdraw now.”

And so he flaunts his cape behind him, leaving the throne in his wake.

The councillor, in the face of naked disrespect, stares after the Kremnoan prince in what seems to be open indignation. Over his shoulder, your mother’s lips break into an uncharacteristic grin, an expression she so rarely employs. You tentatively smile back at her, your relief making you sag back into a more comfortable stance. You still don’t know what kind of man Mydeimos is, but he’s at least proven to possess a better set of manners than his father does. Although this is his vassal state, and his army is large enough to destroy the city without breaking a sweat, he went out of his way to to treat your mother with the respect a queen mother of the prospective bride should be treated with. If anything else, it bespeaks diplomacy.

You watch that lion’s back be swallowed up among his men, disappearing in the throng of human bodies. Of course he’s diplomatic, you think to yourself, the magic of the situation disappearing in the same moment as your tiredness returns. He’s going to steal you away from here and keep you like a particularly special treasure. You do not rattle a toy beyond repair without ever having played with it first.

You’re only moments away of becoming a bride in earnest, and yet you already shrink back from the responsibilities that await you. As you inspect your fingers, you realize Mydeimos’ gauntlets have already drawn first blood. This is how it starts.

(Back in the comfort of your chambers, as your mother watches your personal attendants slip you into another dress of your choosing, she falls trap to mistaking what this entire farce is about. She says, “He might not be such a cruel husband as I thought. Well, I don’t know. He might also just be trying to put on a good face here so I’ll let you go without a fuss, but it did feel like he’s was trying to make an effort to be different than his father. You don’t earnestly look into someone’s eyes like that. I really do hope he would make a good husband to you, if only politically.”

“Oh, mother.” You had raised your arms higher as the maid tried to feed you through the dress’ opening, feeling as though you were prostrating yourself in front of a weapon that was coming to swing down. “It doesn’t matter if he’s a good husband. I’m not there to actually be his wife.”

She doesn’t say anything after that.)

Hesperia’s embrace begins to bathe Ladon city in the feverish warm light of the dusk while you hide out in a hallway right before the Great Hall. The festivites are already in full swing, an entire group of musicians having travelled here to sing your father’s childhood songs and reminisce about a life on Ladon. The homesickness grips your chest like a sickness, like you might keel over and begin to vomit everywhere. It’s a confusing feeling. You are standing inside the bones of your father’s home, surrounded by the only buildings you’ve been raised in. And yet you already feel so, so far away. The thought saddens you.

“Not feeling festive enough to join the proclivities?”

Your head snaps up, alarmed. You are a pacifist’s daughter, unused to the ways of war. That doesn’t mean you’re entirely stupid, though. Most times, sneaking up on you is not the easiest feat - the sounds of a servant’s steps, of wandering councillors searching for an excuse to eavesdrop, have become a steady rhythm you were attuned to so that you could maintain your privacy. Amidst all these instincts you’ve honed, Mydeimos has managed to surprise you.

He’s found a chink in your armor.

In what seems to be a lazy manner, he begins to lean on the side of the wall you had been turning your back to. You straighten up, your royal tutelage not allowing you to make him see past that careful face you maintain in the schemes of politics. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” you tell him, the lie tasting disgusting already. However were you going to do this, when you’re married and shipped off? “I was just thinking about my father. I have always been told, by my mother and old friends of his alike, that he had a particular knack for dancing during Ladonian celebrations. It seems that talent has evaded me. I was just thinking about what sort of excuse I might dish up in case you were wanting to take to the dancefoor.”

At the mention of fathers, a dark shadow passes of Mydeimos’ eyes. You do not know what to make of that. You know of the rumors surrounding his mother’s death and the own fate he seemed to have suffered in the loss of his homeland, but you know not what is rumor and what is truth. You do not want to poke at a lion before you ever step into the lion’s den. Mydeimos himself does not address it, instead pouncing on the ‘dancing’ part of the sentence. “I assure you, no lie is necessary,” he says, gesticulating with his arms at the parade of his own company as they stream into the grand hall. “If you do not wish to dance, I will not make you. I myself have not felt the urge to. We Kremnoans are raised to the dance of swords, not the dance of partners.”

We Kremnoans. Rather soon, that will include you. The thought makes you twist the rings adorning your fingers rather nervously. Mydeimos’ eyes pick up on it, then watch as you still your fingers as to not reveal your fear. “I’m sure my prince jests,” you try to joke, but you have none of your mother’s grace. The joke, like your tone, falls flat. “I’m sure there are some dances you partake in. After a successful battle, perhaps.”

“You ought to call me Mydei.”

You stare at him, mystified. “Your pardon?”

Mydeimos draws himself up, staring at you with an indifferent gaze which reveals nothing. He is the mask of a human, as part of the masquerade as you are, even though he does not know what your actual endeavors for this marriage are. “Mydei,” he repeats, this time a little louder. “Mydeimos is the name the subjects of the crown or strangers use. But we are to be husband and wife, and I tire of formalities rather easily. Call me Mydei. It does not have to imply any intimacy between us.”

You grip your rings again. This time, you don’t twist them, but the bite of the cold metal keeps you steady as you look at him. Use this chance, a voice whispers in your mind, the personification of the Golden Council digging through your brain, sifting it with a sieve until all your thoughts become hateful. Get close to him, and then carve out his heart. “Mydei,” you echo with a faint voice. He reaffirms the action with an approving nod. “I will do that. But, my lord, I cannot so easily slip off the bonds of my house’s teachings. I will try to be less formal, but please understand when I slip back into these habits, because even in their restriction they offer a kind of comfort.”

The words settle into the air as Mydei takes them in. “I understand, my lady. Then I do suppose I might have to insist on a single dance with my bride, for formality’s sake.”

Which is how you end up on the most powerful man of all Amphoreus’ arm, led in under the gawking gaze of a gossiping, scavenging court. For all his talk about not knowing the rules of dance, Mydeimos - Mydei - leads you into the center of the room and then faithfully takes up his position. As you face each other, Mydei raises his hands to mirror your own, and thus you begin to twirl around each other, beginning the dance.

It’s not comfortable, or relaxing. But it does loosen up some of the tension that’s been holding you prisoner, and you let yourself fall back into the familiar rhythm of the circling partner dance your mother taught you in your father’s stead. One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Mydei’s eyes, still steeled over to hide the truth below them, never once leave your face as you dance, though you try not to be intimidated by it. In the artificial light of both Kephale’s devices and the more natural one as the flickering candlelight, his image does not frighten you into visions of a doomed future as they had this noon. You decide to break the silence then. “I am quite sure this makes you the liar after all, Mydei, and not me. It seems like you dance as though you’ve been born to it. I have encountered more unfortunate men who kept falling out of the rhythm, or stumbling into me without meaning to.”

His golden eyes seem darker than earlier. The shadow hasn’t quite left them yet. “It was my mother who taught me,” he answers, turning in time to evade a stray couple which proves your earlier point of the common fail-at-dance attitude at your court. Your chest feels tight at the mention of Queen Gorgo; you hadn’t meant to steer the direction of the conversation there, but now that he’s speaking about her, the interest does begin to spark up. You wonder what of that woman’s traces have remained in Mydei. He seems to have become the epitome of his father’s Kremnoan ideology. “She was always of the opinion that dancing and fighting are not so different. I did not share that opinion, but given the nature of how my father and her came to be married, I suppose she might have been more right than I previously assumed.”

You remember the tale, of how lion-braving Gorgo almost managed to best Eurypon himself. In turn, he married her. Just as violence was the key to the throne, it seemed it was also the key to stealing a Kremnoan’s heart. “I see,” is all you manage to voice. This isn’t what you wanted. You hadn’t wanted to be perceptive enough to recognize how this man was talented enough to reveal no weakness, and yet his tone had significantly gentled. How he must have cared for his mother. You will betray him. You are going to eradicate his dynasty. There is no time for niceties. “My lord,” you say, making his honeydew eyes flick towards you again, and your voice feels very far away as you speak your next words. You are making yourself walk onto that path you can never return again from, afraid that the longer you seek to suspend the moment, the more it will hurt when the sword finally swings down. “This was celebration enough for an engagement, and for my taste. If it does not bother you, I would wait for a full week so that your army’s strength might be restored, and then leave for Castrum Kremnos so we might be married.”

Although Mydei has looked passively polite the entire day, his face now visibly puzzles up in confusion. Your actions and behaviors aren’t matching up; you’re sure that your lackluster face hadn’t been able to support the forced enthusiasm of the words you had spoken. It’s no matter. You cannot seem to rip yourself free of that assembly inside your mind, how they had poured poison into your ears, equipped with you so many lies. It will be so easy to charm him, don’t worry about it. All you have to do is write a few letters. You might naturally even be inclined to tell us, after all. They are so terrible, it won’t even raise suspicion for you to report about it.

And if you can kill him, then do it swiftly enough that we can still extract you.

You swallow the memory, and Mydei’s eyes follow the motion. “It will be done,” he concedes, but his voice has lost the melody it had taken on earlier, the way he had spoken about his mother. You thought it had made him seem more human.

(You forge your first lie that day, in the same manner as a sword-smith completes his very first order to prove his efficiency and skills. When your mother asks what exactly made you want to quit the shores of Ladon so quickly, you find yourself forming the words, without thinking about them too much: “I can’t lie properly if I’m still surrounded by the home in which I always could be my most true self. I need to leave, or I’ll never able to.”

That exact statement helps you understand why the best lies contain a kernel of truth. You see that kernel hit your mother straight into the heart, the way her lips turn down to form that heartbreaking expression you as her daughter cannot bear. But she needs to hear it, now, before her seeds of betrayal bear fruit and result in an altercation with the Golden Council. “Strength and wisdom, my daughter,” she only answers, the ancient words a promise. She wishes for Hesperia to be with you, but where you are going, that goddess cannot possibly follow you to. You nod and accept the blessing graciously, because the alternative would be to break down crying and tarnish that very first good lie you taught yourself to speak.)

Your soon-to-be husband, apparently, does possess a sense of humor. It’s just so dry that you cannot make sense of it.

When he passed by the guard who was supposed to feed you into the chariot so he could help you himself, you almost snapped at him out of reflex (you don’t have to do that, this is an arranged marriage, don’t pretend to care about me). Then the anguish made you pliant (don’t make this any harder for me). You took his hand without words, letting him handle you inside, the gauntlets as startling on your skin as the day he met you. It felt like he was reaching right through the chiton, below even the flesh of your human body and right into your traitorous heart, weeding out the lies before you could even get started tossing them at him. You look into his eyes to reassure yourself he can’t actually do that, and find him already looking at you. Mydei truly is quite unsettling. You cannot even imagine the sight of those righteous-fury eyes through the visors of his war helmet. “You should get comfortable,” he advises you. “The roads to Castrum Kremnos are as unforgiving and winding as the descent into Tartarus. It might take us an actual month to reach it.”

You gape at him, feeling the startledness resonate in your mind like a scream into the void. “Truly?” you sputter out, feeling your entire perception of time shift. How would you survive out of a chariot for an entire month…? “I …had not known. I promise to be a courteous and patient traveller.”

Mydei stares at you for a very long time … quite so long that you feel awkward beneath his gaze, like an insect inspected through the scope of a magnifying glass. And then, as wondrous as the first flashes of brilliant light in the morning dawn, the corners of his lips jump. Barely there. Not even enough movement to call it a twitch. But you recognize it for what it is: the ghost of a smile. “What a faithful bride they have given me,” he says, slipping back into his tonedead diction, something you begin to recognize he employs to guard his true feelings. “She hangs on to my every word. In fact, I give you my word I will not use it for my own personal entertainment.”

“Oh,” comes your embarrassed reaction. And then, because you cannot bear the shame and your lady’s maid of all people begins to chuckle, you place your head on the heavily armored shoulder of his intimidating back and turn him away. This oak tree of a man, whose reputation makes him out to be an unstoppable force, turns at the lightest of your touches. Mydei actually lets himself be pushed away. “I suggest you leave before I hit you with my fan for the deception.”

“I do think that would be entertaining still, my lady,” Mydei retorts. “But I accept your command. You are, after all, my bride.”

Your hands fall from his shoulder as he begins to skirt away, returning to the position he has been given as the commander of this company. You hastily clamber into your seat, not wanting to see him go. Not wanting to see him in general. You clench your hands into fists.

When they first told you about how you were going to be a bride to a foreign king, you had tried to conjure up an image, to try to fit yourself into that equation. It was all smoke and mirrors, anyways, the attempt like sifting through sand to find a treasure that has long ago disappeared. But from what you’ve known about Kremnoan culture, about the tales that had proclaimed Mydei to be a god-killer, how his father’s cruel blood ran in his veins, you had expected something more monstrous. Something akin to honorable Nikador, succumbing to baseless violence and madness, losing grip on His divinity. You meant no disrespect to Nikador, as you had been raised to respect all the gods in equal measure, but you certainly were no Mnestia. You couldn’t think of yourself as a noble lover, sacrificing everything to try to steer Nikador back into his true place at your side. That wasn’t the nature of this arrangement, anyways. Even without Eurypon’s and the Golden Council’s scheming, this marriage would still only serve the survival of the Kremnoan line. Marriage is for reproduction. It had no room for love, at least not in the traditional sense that you were raised into. Perhaps you would have been able to come to accept Mydei as an amicable business partner, but that, too, would only survive so long as any son of yours would grow into maturity. That future is as invisible to you as the one that you are actually walking towards. But something about the shape of the smoke has changed distinctly.

You hadn’t expected Mydei to view his father through the same critical eyes the rest of the world seemed to look at him with.

Here he is, walking with common men, accepting their hands. He nods in the same rhythm as their laughter; although he can’t share their bellows and jests, he makes an effort to be present, to acknowledge their camaraderie. He doesn’t cull their cheers, only heeding them to stay in formation, and everyone does so without complaint. At one point, they break out into a coordinated yell, startling your lady’s maid from the careful slumber she’s been nursing while at the same time trying to remain upright at your side. “The son of Gorgo will be crowned in blood!” they chant. “May his sword always strike true and his back reflect the illumination of our future! Long live the prince!”

You are at a loss for words. You recognize the words in passing, of course; the clever dichotomy of them. Gorgo, his noble ancestor, shares a name with the mother who has given birth to him. They are honored both in that chant, whether consciously or unconsciously. But they didn’t say “long may he reign”, the usual phrasing for a prospective monarch such as Mydei. They wished for him to live. And you see the effect it has on him: Mydei straightens up, becoming the shield and mirror they wish for him to be. The sun sparks across his shoulders like stars, making him seem more mythical, a prophecy having become flesh and bone.

They love him. You cannot find a better fitting verb that would encompass their culture more accurately, so you scramble to your own terms. This is what Atlaion had always dreamed of. Mydei is a king already in their eyes; they have given him their loyalty.

The thought rains a dangerous shower of goosebumps down your back. No wonder his father wants him dead.

The truth of Mydei’s joke (if that can be actually called a joke…) reveals itself after a steady, continous trek that stretched out for three nights and four days in total. On the afternoon of the fourth day, the glorious city of Castrum Kremnos has begun to claim the entire horizon as you stare at it. You hadn’t realized how pompously giant it was. Ladon is an ant in comparison to its size. The soldiers have begun to yowl in relief as they recognize the walls of their home, and this time Mydei doesn’t scold them. In fact, he’s headed straight for your chariot, and without waiting for it to stop, he jumps inside, with the same slinking grace as a predator going for the killing strike. Ignoring your lady’s maid quickly-smothered squeak in reaction, he settles into his seat as if nothing out of sort has happened. “As you can see, my lady, we will reach Castrum Kremnos shortly. I have sent a rider ahead to inform them of our coming, which is why I am here to warn you of what greetings will await us when we pass the city’s borders.”

(You find yourself forced back into the memory of the day you had left Ladon. Those customs, as shrewd as they were, had seemed to you more like a funny tale than an actual literal activity to be done. But Mydei, without even blinking or shying away from it, had lifted you up as one might pick up a doll; with the clinical neutrality of a healer, his hands had found the hollows of your knees and the space in-between your shoulder blades to lift you up. Your head had fallen at his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat had surprised you into wordless compliance. As though you had become part of his army, when he told you to hold on to him, you had obeyed and wrapped your free arm around his shoulder as best as possible (he was impossibly broad…), then used the free hand to wave goodbye to the people gathered. Mydei’s pulse had over-toned even your mother’s laughter, which in retrospect almost seems sad because of how rare it was for her to laugh in earnest. Your father’s death had eaten at her in a way that made her untouchable to most, even to you. You couldn’t help it: the sound of Mydei’s steady heart had soothed you, because in the end, he was a human being just like you.)

You take in the words, thinking about them. Will there be a riotous celebration for the prince’s return, then? Or do they condemn the crown’s choice in their bride, and have come to proclaim that rejection? You sure hope his deadly literacy will not make you carry you inside the city, then, because you would need your hands free to be able to defend yourself. “I see,” you say. Today, your nervous fingers are hidden beneath the swathes of your chiton. You specifically chose this one for its ruffles, intending to look as polished as a prospective bride, but also wanting to don some kind of armor of your own. Mydei, however, looks down at your hidden hands as if he can tell exactly what you’re doing. During the celebrations at home - Ladon, you chide yourself, that place is no longer your home, not for a long time - you had already taken note of how perceptive he was. You needed to kill your habits now, or you’d never live to be called a spy (you have to actually spy on something to be considered one, don’t you?). “So what will our day look like?”

“Your hands,” Mydei says though, immediately throwing you off course again. Does he always ignore questions so impolitely if he doesn’t want to answer them? But you’re too distracted to take offense. You feel shocked that he’s decided to call out the weakness himself. “I think that if you fold them together and then hide them in your lap, it would make you seem more like a blushing bride. Then you’d have the comfort of holding on to something, but also not having the danger of someone sniffing out your fear. Try it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or sob. Here this man sits, the object of all your future sins, teaching you how to betray him. But only an idiot would reject advice from the most talented commander in all of history. You intertwine your fingers, then lay the conjoined hands into your lap. They still seem to twitch, something you cannot identify whether it’s actually happening or is just an illusion of your overworking mind, but Mydei nods in approval. You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you say, not knowing how to handle the situation. Everything is already going so much differently than what the council had outlined. “Was it so obvious?”

He cocks his head at you. You try to find any sign in his eyes, of mockery or contempt or bemusement. You find nothing. “Not to the unlearned eye,” Mydei tells you then, and you can’t decide if he’s saying it to soothe your nerves or whether that’s actually true. Your own people had never taken any notice. Or maybe they just hadn’t bothered to tell you. “I would think that leaving the only country you’ve ever known, especially for marriage, would be daunting to anyone. And you are handling this in your own way. You’ve never once complained, or anything. I did not mean to offend you or your manners.”

“No, do not worry. You didn’t.” You press your fingers together. “I am not afraid of marriage. Or at least that’s what I think. I mean, the Sunlit Throne cannot be sat on by a queen alone, so I’ve always known that I would need an heir whom I could crown for the future of Ladon. And that entails a political marriage. I am just not … I mean… Ladon is not exactly similar to Castrum Kremnos.”

“No,” Mydei agrees. “You will quickly realize that. When we get home, they’ll fit you with a weapon of your choice for the wedding. At dawn, the wedding will be held in front of a few witnesses, including my father.”

“A weapon? Of my choice?”

Now there actually is a tint of amusement inside his sunny eyes. The color, although just a regular golden, seems to melt and rearrange itself depending on his mood. Quite disorienting. “I trust you know what a dagger is? Didn’t Queen Hesperia fight with one?”

“I know what a sword is, thank you,” you interrupt him impatiently. The insult, although harmless, paints your cheeks in an unwilling blush. His gaze zeroes in on it, and you try not to squirm under his gaze. For all his complacency, he still doesn’t have the courtesy not to disrespect your home and upbringing. Just because your father was a pacifist, it does not mean he raised you to be an idiot. “I just don’t know what relevance it possesses in correlation with our wedding. I was told there would be a simple procession, where no priest is necessary to reside over the rites, and we will be sharing a cup of wine that is supposed to represent our union. Your emissaries have specifically asked for a barrel of the finest Ladonian wine we had so they could mix it with the type that is produced here in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Quite right you are. What your teachers have neglected to foretell though, is that we have to cut our palms to bleed into the cup and sweeten it this way. The Kremnoans of old have always advised to consume blood, so it strengthens us in battle.”

You blink at him, all finely court manners forgotten. You’re sure that even your lady’s maid mouth has dropped open. “You drink blood?”

Mydei leans back against the chariot’s seat, spreading his legs to sit more comfortably. You ignore it. “No, of course not,” he says. “Do you think us brutes? We enjoy pomegranate wine, though I prefer to take mine mixed with a good cup of goat’s milk.”

“Goat’s milk?” you squawk. It doesn’t make any sense at all. His lips twitch, in that aggrevating almost smile that makes you want to stomp your feet. Heavens above. This man is a test from Hesperia herself. So annoying! Every answer he gives creates a thousand more questions, clarifying nothing!

Your lady’s maid carefully taps your hands. “My lady,” she cautions. When you look down, you’ve realized your careful arrangement has reasserted itself into clenched fists. You quickly loosen them, abandoning your hands for now. You’ll try to work on that habit later. “Alright,” you huff then. “I’ll just follow your lead, my lord. I’m sure it will work out.”

“Certainly,” Mydei answers. “They’ve given me a queen that is as wise as her father herself. You’ll do fine.”

He doesn’t sound sarcastic. In fact, this is the most earnest he’s sounded during the entirety of the conversation. You want to ask what he means, to have him clear up the confusing clouds looming above your head, but Mydei has already vaulted himself back over the chariot again. It seems like you will brave the citizens of Castrum Kremnos alone.

When the gates of the city swallow you up and spit you back out onto a long passageway leading into the inner walls of the urban life, you’re not sure what to expect. But the people’s faces are smiling, if not singing. These are songs you don’t recognize, songs of return and bravery and honor. Their hands stretch out to touch the soldier’s shoulders, and you hear a passerby applaud the guard near your own chariot for not returning on his shield, although you don’t understand what he means. The guard knocks her shoulders against the passerby’s, laughing and joking about how if she couldn’t return from a simple retrieval of a bride unharmed, than she did not deserve to be part of the royal household’s infantry. “Honor to Castrum Kremnos!” he tells the guard in answer, and that’s that. You continue walking, leaving the man behind.

From your vantage point, you can only see the tops of Mydei’s shoulders and his head. His own hands are situated firmly at his sides, and no one reaches to touch him, but they honor him in his own way. The jubilant chant belonging to the Son of Gorgo follows him into the endless maze of his city, and before long, the castle bids you welcome as you leave the cheerful masses behind.

As before, Mydei himself waits below the chariot to help you down. You cast a quizzical look at him, one that he doesn’t catch. Why bother? you think, and then, as always, Don’t make it any harder for me. Stop being courteous. Stop. But you give him your hand. His metal-cold fingers carefully wrap around the wrist he could easily break before it writes down any tales about the Kremnoan court. The architecture outside of the palace had involved a lot of humongously large pillars, stretching so far that even the craning of your neck did nothing to erase the intimidation they had evoked, and an intricate connection of block-like facades incorporated into siege-surviving walls. But the inside was as familiar to you as the passageway to the Ladonian castle, a sight that took hold of your frail heart and made you want to collapse with grief. You already missed your home. Despite your aversion to the young prince, you find yourself grateful for the support of his hand, feeling as unsteady as the reeds in the wind. “I had not expected such a warm welcome,” you admitted to Mydei. Somehow you knew you wouldn’t have been this honest towards him if you weren’t so shaken by the loss of Ladon. “They were all so happy. I assume that is because they saw you rather than me, but it was still a relief. The city of Ladon historically has been a thorn in Castrum Kremnos’ eye, so I was preparing myself for the worst.”

Mydei guides your hands toward his bicep. The emissary who was supposed to be your chaperone steps away and melts back into the shadows instead of taking offense. Even at his father’s court, where he is supposed to be surrounded by enemies at all sides, they defer to him as naturally as one might require air. The Golden Council would never. They never squandered any opportunity to flaunt their disrespect into your mother’s face. Mydei feels unnaturally hot beneath you, and your fear-cold fingers curve around his muscles on instinct so that they might warm up. If that bothers him, he doesn’t address it. Courteous as always. Perhaps it’s not so wild to believe that he might be his father’s doppelgänger, but it is his mother’s nature which guides him. She had been a warrior, too. A more welcoming concept of a warrior to your Hesperian beliefs than Eurypon is. “I will not lie to you. There might still be some folk which cling to their old hatred of the Ladonian revolt. But Kremnoans take pride in their values: strength, glory, victory. Castrum Kremnos has already called Ladon to heel, and you’ve been a loyal subject ever since then. No one likes to grovel over past grievances when there is victory in other places still to be secured.”

You nod, although the logic doesn’t appear that sound. You’re in no inclination to pick apart his arguments. Instead, the ruby-red halls of Castrum Kremnos begin to busy all your senses; there hangs the scent of their favored pomegranate wine, there the loud clang of soldiers being led through a series of drills by their drillmaster. Hanging around the stairs to a courtyard with a pond embedded in the middle of it you even spot a gaggle of children, busying themselves with flicking stones across the pond’s surface. The children look as trained to the bone as their soldiers do, but as you search their faces, not one looks dissatisfied. Their grins are as familiar to you as the expressions of the children at home; youthful, mischievous and happy.

After a long series of stairs (which tire you, while Mydei seems to remain unbothered, darn athlete) you come to a stop before a with wood carvings adorned door. “This is to be our sleeping quarters,” he informs you, gesticulating for you to open the door. You remain where you are, wiping a drop of sweat from your forehead. “I thought you were sleeping in the barracks,” you reply, forgetting your manners.

Mydei raises his eyebrows at you. “Did you think Kremnoans stayed celibate until marriage?”

Oh. Well, of course that settles it. It doesn’t matter if he slips into your chambers to … produce an heir, as long as he returns to his own bunk in the barracks by the end of the night. Prude of you to consider otherwise. Foolish of you to think that the elders of the Golden Council were actually right in claiming that being his bride would require no effort at all. You think of blood soaking a blanket, seed taking root. “Your pardon,” you hear yourself say. You wish you could let go of his arm.

The silence stretches on for a long time. When you look up, wondering what the matter is, Mydei’s eyes look at you in what seems to be his attempt at smothering pity. “Listen,” he says, sounding awkward. He even has to clear his throat before continuing. “I won’t be … consummating the marriage. But we have to keep up appearances, which is why I will sometimes come and sit with you. You won’t be bothered by me, I assure you. I’ll sit on the bedroom bench and read.”

“Why would you do that?” You don’t understand this man. He was acting all pliant to his father’s wishes, so intent on the marriage. For crying out loud, he’s been carrying out every custom to the exact letter. Does he not … maybe he doesn’t desire women? You are at a loss for words. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to consummate a loveless marriage? Maybe he thinks this won’t hold, and he’ll be free to take a partner he loves when he ascends the throne?

Mydei disentangles your fingers from where they were holding on to him, but it doesn’t feel like an insult or rejection. He respects my boundaries, you think, the realization like a lightning strike. He’s only been following what he thinks is proper in the sense of this arrangement. It makes you uncomfortable. He’s going to make this as hard for me as possible. He’s making sure that any betrayal on my side will hurt. “If you wish to consummate the marriage, I will,” he clarifies, although that makes your stomach twist in disgust. “But I do not feel comfortable with the thought of forcing that upon you. I may appear thick-headed to some, but I am well aware that this is a marriage of convenience. My father has told me if I do not marry, the Council of Elders will strike me off the line of inheritance. I need an heir. But I won’t be breeding at their every wish and whim. I am my own person, and their future king.” At those words, his face tightens in what you interpret as anger. For making himself seem so calm in front of you the entire time, you feel like his true fury makes him less scary than his faux-peacefulness earlier. This is what you were expecting at least.

Well, how good for him. Mydei’s already proven himself to be your better. Where you had bent your head like a shameful commoner, Mydei has found a way to assert himself in front of an over-reaching council. Perhaps it’s better you wouldn’t be able to ascend the Sunlit Throne. It feels bitter to admit to. “Thank you,” you murmur. “I don’t … I mean no disrespect, but I don’t feel comfortable with immediately consummating the marriage either. I will find a way to entertain you during your visits to our chambers.” At his quiet chuckle, you find yourself blushing again, and this time, instead of pushing down the instinct as you did in the chariot, you actually stomp. “You know what I mean, Mydei. I just meant that we’ll find some board games or something to pass the time. I’m quite mean at chess.”

“I will be quite pleased to crush you decisively in chess, then,” he answers, dropping your hand. Mydei opens the door to your bedroom for you, ushering you inside and watching you go. You turn to look at him standing on the threshold of the door. “I am a strategist after all. And quite competitive. But I look forward to seeing you try.”

He actually looks like he means it.

As he nods at you in a simple goodbye and makes sure to acknowledge your answering wave, the door then clicks decisively in its lock. You immediately find your way to the bed and crawl beneath its covers, feeling both in and outside your body. So many liberties, so many cages. The image of your marriage undergoes constant metamorphosis. It’s better if you stop expecting things to happen, in the same way as when you told Mydei in reference to the Kremnoan welcome you wouldn’t, and just start letting them happen of their own accord. It seems like you process things better that way.

Now that you’ve come to know the heir of Nikador’s strife a little better, you try to adjust the way you think about him. You are still bothered by his arrogance, although he’s given you no reason to - it’s kind of infuriating how he just exudes it, because of the Kremnoan attitude of how victory and glory are always certain. Defeated warriors have no place in their society: they are fed to Nikador’s wrath as appeasement, stricken from their country’s historical records. Aside from that, he’s made every effort to become the amicable business partner your mother had tried to envision for you. You don’t know what to think about that. It would have been easier if he could have made you hate him. Perhaps he will give you reason to when you are actually married.

But at the moment, you just don’t know how to go behind this man’s back without the guilt crushing you in his fists’ stead. You are aware of the Kremnoan attitudes to enemies who strike a Kremnoan’s back to defeat him; they are deemed honorless, and unworthy. You crawl deeper below the covers, hoping the shame will swallow you whole.

Your mother would have never wavered like you did. You are a disappointment to all.

This is how you remain as the sun steadily climbs the sky. You watch her travels from the little window that opens up the sight to the clouds above, training your eye at the passage of time. Perhaps you should have freshened up or something. Or maybe Kremnoans find honor in endurance like this. Whatever the case, not one of the attendants comments on your state of being when they come to knock on your door. You let them in with a sigh. As they come to surround you, you scan their faces with a wary glance, but don’t bother taking note of possible foes or allies. Inside this castle, every person is your enemy.

Your lady’s maid Hemera joins you a little while later, out of breath from the household inspection. She’s supposed to be in charge of you, as you take charge of Mydei’s household as his wife, your only task in this marriage. Aside from that, you will be freer than any Kremnoan woman to walk this city, not even mentioning the helots it employs. That is the single aspect you focus on as Hemera makes an effort to catch you up with her newfound knowledge. “My lady, I’ve already informed the kitchens to draw you and Mydei up a dinner after the wedding. They don’t exactly have our golden apples, but dire times demand dire solutions, so we’re just gonna have to make do with regular red Kremnoan ones. Do you think His Highness might be averse to them? The cook has told me he’s not allergic, but maybe he doesn’t like them? He couldn’t exactly tell me a lot of His Highness’s preferences.”

“Hemera,” you patiently interlope. The lady’s maid seems to be more fraught with nerves than even you are. Strangely, that helps you come to terms with your own anxieties. No wonder your mother liked to surround herself with attendants when she herself was dealing with an unquiet mind. “We’re not in Ladon anymore. I appreciate your attempt at trying to bring me comfort in a strange land, but this is a Kremnoan wedding, not a Ladonian one.”

“But my lady.” Hemera sounds strangely sad. “You are Ladonian. It would only be fair to at least share both your countries’ traditions, would it not? I apologize for my indiscretion, but I do believe His Majesty, your father, would have liked for you to feel like a Ladonian bride.”

Your throat constricts. (Don’t think about father, don’t think about him right now.) Hemera has always been the gentlest of all your maids. Her fellow attendants had scorned her when your mother decreed for her to become your lady’s maid, feeling as though she didn’t put in enough effort to actually deserve the task. But Hemera has always, unswervingly and faithfully, served you well. Your mother had gifted you with an anchor that would steady you as you braved the Kremnoan court. “No apology necessary,” you rush to tell her, and she smiles in relief at that. “And I’m sure you’re right. My father has always told me to take pride in my Ladonian ancestry. We should not disregard his wish just because I am marrying a man of a different dynasty. I trust you’ve told the cook to serve the apples with the freshest cream he could find?”

Hemera’s smile is down-right radiant. In another life, perhaps she would have been the princess you would have been doting on. “Yes, my lady.”

That radiance warms you to the very core of your existence as she guides you into the palace gardens. True to the fibers patterning Castrum Kremnos’ banners, the sky has been streaked blood-red with the last shoots of dawn’s light, reflecting back in the armor across Mydei’s chest. It’s different than the one he usually tends to wear, adorned in designs that are identical the ones embedded into the garment of your own wedding garb. The garden itself has been readied for the occasion, and your heart rejoices in the fact that although beauty is not celebrated here, at least they have incorporated it into the venue. Decorational bows and flowers line the greenery, and the witnesses are holding rice to be thrown when the wedding vows have been exchanged. You can’t discern the colors of your surroundings due to your own choice of dress; the red veil which has hidden your face has tinted your sight. It is lifted by King Eurypon himself, and his hand feels much coarser than his son’s as he hands you off like a trinket to be gifted.

Under the watchful gaze of Nikador’s sky, you turn to face Mydei as a fiancée one last time. With your hands free at last, you accept the weapon you were supposed to prepare ahead of the ceremony from the attendant who carried it for you. She places it on your palms, with the guard of the weapon removed already. At the choice of your jeweled dagger, the only ornate one out of the collection of weapons to be presented, Mydei’s eyes flash with mirth. Perhaps he’d wagered you’d choose that one, favoring beauty of practicality. The pommel of the dagger was decorated with the depiction of a lion, but its choice of diamonds and glittering rubies had evoked the light of Hesperia in your eyes. “Mydeimos,” you speak, and then revel in the shock that your voice had come out unwavering. You’d have expected to stutter with all the faux-pas you’ve been stumbling into today. “I take you as my husband, now and forever more.”

Simple and succinct. This is what your councillors had drilled into you for when Mydei came to ask for your hand.

You draw the sharp blade over your unscarred palm, not being able to hide the wince that flashes across your features. You’ve never been wounded in a serious manner, not touched by a weapon except for those which had been strictly decorational. Although Mydei continues to do the exact opposite of what you assume, it still surprises you when his warrior hands come to steady your own, hiding the tremor of pain from the sight of the witnesses. Though your entire body remembers that this is a man you have been raised to recognize as an enemy, it inadvertently relaxes under his touch, taking comfort in it. His eyes never stray from your face as you raise your hand, taking his with it, and then obediently bleed into the presented cup in Eurypon’s hands.

The king looks like he wants to guffaw at the spectacle. Given he’s the only one aware of the full truth, you don’t think he’s taking this seriously. Mydei, though, with all the somberness of a priest, deftly changes the positions of your fingers so that now your hand cradles his own as he moves to cut his own palm. It feels oddly intimate, but you don’t draw your hands away. You recognize the act for what it is. Just as he supports and boosts his troops’ morale, Mydei has tried to uplift you. “Bride of Hesperia,” Mydei says, using the polite form of addressing you, “I take you as my wife, now and forever more.” You watch as the blood wells from the clean cut he has made, the blood pearling like a clam’s treasures. It drips as assuredly into the cup as your own.

“Children of Kremnos!” Eurypon bellows then. In comparison to his son, he has nothing to hide. The schadenfreue in his eyes is as easy to discern as the stars in the nightsky. “Take the cup and be united, in both body and soul. May your marriage be timeless and eternal.” When Mydei accepts the cup and turns away from the sight of his father, Eurypon grins at you. It looks like a monster flashing his teeth at the prey he’s caught. You shudder and turns towards Mydei.

Mydei himself looks unbothered by his father’s antics. You press your hands above his own as they carry the cup, smaller than his, but as certain as his own in their grip. You are going to do this: you are determined. It almost seems like Mydei’s headstrongness has permeated through his skin and infected you. For better or for worse, you are partners in crime now.

He keeps watching you as you take the first, strong swallow. It tastes like salt and corruption.

Your own fingers help tip the cup towards his mouth as Mydei makes his own gulp. The witnesses have begun to cheer as soon as the goblet touched Mydei’s lips. He truly is beautiful; every feature, precise an artist’s rendition, contorts as he drinks, but it does not lessen his beauty. If the mixture tastes strange to him, he certainly doesn’t comment on it. Eurypon leads the applause as you begin to trade the cup back and forth, like nursing a cup of nettle tea when you have fallen sick, and then the king leaves you to your drink to meld back into the masses. His voice booms over all else, louder even than the encouraging smack he gives an advisor, who in turn flinches.

“Eyes on me, my lady,” Mydei breaks you out of your thoughts. He hands you back the cup so you can take the last swallow, and you scrunch up your nose as you look at the last lap of liquid at the bottom of the goblet. “Nothing to turn your nose up at. The last swallow is the easiest.”

“Easy for you, perhaps,” you throw back, intending for it to sound teasing. You want to let yourself be wrapped up in the cheerful atmosphere before you turn into the scheming bride. The witnesses have already begun to mingle and laugh amongst each other. “I don’t really enjoy the thickness of blood enough to swallow this without complaint.”

Mydei raises his hands. One hand - he’s not wearing gauntlets, you think with a note of appeasement you can’t crush - he places just below your jaw, the fingers there guiding you into position. It doesn’t feel forceful. Instead, like the instinct you had given into when he had carried you off from Ladon, you let your head be tipped back, steadied by that powerful hand. You hope he doesn’t see the way your nervous swallow grips your throat. His touch doesn’t feel that revolting. In fact, it leaves a shiver of sparks in its wake. The other hand cradles the cup as he takes it from you, then lifts it to your lips. “Come now, wife,” he says, and you feel like he’s laughing at you, but not because he’s being demeaning. More like two companions, in on a shared inside joke. It makes you smile. “One more toast to your health.”

You open your mouth to receive the last of the bloody liquid, then lick your lips when the goblet is put away. You don’t miss the way Mydei’s lips curl into an actual smirk. Cocky bastard, you think. The thought lacks its usual heat. You are too busy trying to ignore the flips in your abdomen at seeing the expression. “Alright, enough of the jokes at my expense,” you announce. “I think I’d like a tour of the gardens now.”

“A tour of the gardens?” Mydei snorts.

You blink at him, slipping into the role of naivety. Tomorrow, you’ll don the mask of deception. But today, you are a bride as any other. If nothing else, then at least this will be a joy for you. Perhaps there are still small acts of rebellions you can live out against the Golden Council, small victories of your own. Honor and glory, as the Kremnoans proclaim. “Yes, exactly.”

Mydei shrugs, offering you his arm again. As if you’ve done this a thousand times before, you hold on to it. “As my wife desires,” he says, and for now, it doesn’t sound like an insult.

It almost sounds like a term of endearment.

The small garden was a place of retreat for Queen Gorgo. Her handiwork is reflected in the patterning of flowers embedded in the earth. A particular exotic flower whose name you don’t recognize was brought here after her marriage to Eurypon, in recognition of her valor. It was imported from Styxia, and is said to grow from the blood of fallen enemies. The meaning is gruesome to you, but you find comfort in the fact that it was an attempt of honoring her. Even your own mother Aeolia had sung Gorgo’s praises, comparing the queen to Hesperia, who had been a queen in her own right. You may not agree with the Kremnoan way of battle, but both your cultures recognize the necessity of warriors. The flower thus cheers you. When you ask whether you would be permitted to pluck one, Mydei goes ahead and pulls the stem from the earth, putting the flower in its entirety into your hand. With Mydei in one, and the flower in the other, you continue to weave in and out of the crowd. Here he explains the relevance of a particular statue, and here he shows you a Kremnoan inscription on the steps that lead into the garden. They are said to be magicked to light the path to victory. Concerning your inquiry into whether that’s actually true or just make-believe, Mydei shrugs and says, “Well, it did bring you here so I could become your husband”. You hurry to switch the topic, and Mydei lets you.

The night continues in that manner. Eurypon himself interjects your tour only once to shake your hand once more. This is your actual partner in crime, one you’ve made against your own will. His secretive little laughs only serve to irritate Mydei further, and when Eurypon states, “I do believe you shouldn’t tire yourself out with a stroll already, you’ve got the entire night still in front of you!”, the prince clenches his fist. As his father throws his head back to laugh, you notice that he misses Mydei’s unwilling reaction. You move to cover his hand with your own, intertwining your fingers before Eurypon can see. “You’re quite right, Your Majesty,” you tell him, not looking Mydei in the eyes. “I do believe it is time for us to retire.”

“I’m sure it is!” Eurypon guffaws. He just cannot help himself from delighting in his son’s humiliation. The court itself rearranges themselves to look away from the sight. Perhaps they don’t share their king’s taste for degradation, but they also don’t do anything to stop it. You bow and take your leave when Eurypon gives the permission, stopping you only once to remind Mydei to return to his barracks after “he’s finished” (that is underlined with His Majesty’s mocking laughter, too). You try not to let your own shame soften your spine, instead remaining rigidly upright as you lead Mydei away. This time, it’s him who turns pliant, only taking charge when you find you do not recognize the way and need him to guide you back to your apartments.

The hallways seem much spookier at night. The moonlight, like cobwebs, bathe the rooms in a mysterious aura. “I apologize,” Mydei finally speaks after a long time of walking. He hasn’t let go of your hand yet. “I’m afraid my father delights in cruelties like these. I did not mean for you to have to bear them.”

You wave the concerns away, concentrating not to stumble over the length of your gown as you begin to climb the stairs. “No need to worry over me,” you state. “I’ve had my fair share of bothersome councillors. Meaning no disrespect towards your father, my lord. I just meant to imply that this isn’t the first time I’ve been the subject of these kinds of jokes. They may be harmless, or not. It does not mean anything to me. If you were wondering, I was actually already busy conspiring a strategy to beat you with on the chessboard.”

You can’t see his face, but you’d like to imagine his lips are turned up in that almost-smile that he can’t bring himself to finish. Maybe it’s been too long for him, in the same manner as it had been for your mother. Some lose the ability to experience joy in the face of so severe grief. But his shoulders roll back, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Although I am asking myself how that can be possible without us having moved a single piece on the board, it remains irrelevant,” he shoots back, in his voice the lazy undertone of his usual arrogance. “I will deal with you as swiftly as with any enemy of Castrum Kremnos.”

You ignore the spark of fear inside your abdomen. You will learn how to live with it inside your bones, nibbling at your marrow. “Most certainly not. Prepare to be utterly crushed, Prince Mydei, because I will be the one teaching you humility.”

“Hah!” Having arrived at the door of your chambers, he quickly opens it and beckons you inside. As you finally glimpse at his face, you’ve realized that he’s looking at you with pure bemusement, none of the explosive anger he’d been carrying inside at his father’s words. You sink back down on the bedroom bench, disoriented. You hadn’t realized how important it was to you that he wouldn’t remain angry. It was your wedding night, for crying out loud. “I’d like to see you try.”

(You spend the night not only eating the prepared apple slices, their relevance explained to Mydei and accepted quickly when he had realized what it meant to you, but also your words. Sitting in that maddeningly stance that he’d been employing in the chariot, muscled legs spread wide open and arms crossed over his chest as he stared at you in triumph over the board, you had allowed yourself to cuss in front of him in the same manner as you would in front of any other friend. You’ve actually thrown a rook at him the third time he put you in check, not wanting him to speak the checkmate out loud. For a man who’s been hit in the shoulder with a chesspiece, he had only declared with the graciousness of a victorious leader that you’d lost fair and square, so he’d like some recompense for your lies now. When you pointed out that he had lied first on the dancefloor, you were rewarded with a returning throw of a bishop of his own, which had made you burst into laughter. Mydei, mystified by the sound, only stared at you, so you hastened to challenge him again.

You lost twice more. When you rose to rain your fists on his back because you were a sore loser, he had only taken your hands into his and said with a deadpan expression that your attempt at violence was pathetic. If you wanted to actually learn how to inflict pain, he promised to take you to the courtyard to drill you properly in the ways of war. You, distracted by the way how fascinating the muscles in his back had felt like, had hurried to shake your head before he could get any more ideas. Hesperia forbid if you ever picked up a weapon in earnest.)

That is how you continue to spend the remainder of the next few nights. Although you don’t beat him once, you at least get better in chess. Your mother had been evenly matched with you, so sparring across the chessboard had most times just resulted in friendly draws. With Mydei, not only is your patience heavily tested, but your nerves are, as well. It seems to amuse him to no end how quickly you are roused to anger, or to embarrassment for that manner. When he had suggested guiding your hands since you couldn’t be trusted to play accurate strategies on your own, he’d earned himself another chess-piece to the face. Your attendants have come to the stupefied realization that Mydei has begun to duck in preparation when you pick something up, and Hemera secretly asks you if you’re being violent with your husband.

“Me?” you echo, incredulous. “No, of course not. Does he look scared to you, Hemera? The man is the embodiment of blood and death.”

“Well, no, Your Highness, but it does seem puzzling, to say the least, to see him hurrying to avoid your throws … perhaps you’d like to adjust the way you treat him.”

The next night, Mydei asks you if you’ve swallowed a frog or something since you’re so quiet and reserved. You resume with throwing chess pieces.

That’s the crux of it, really. Your mother’s wish, intended to be harmless, has turned into a curse upon your existence. It’s just too friendly with Mydei. You bicker like children about the littlest of things - his hubris concerning all things in life, his pokes at your home life in Ladon, his stupid winning streak. You’ve even forgotten to keep up appearances because of how smoothly your interactions go, and you are shocked when Hemera makes the absentminded comment that your sheets don’t contain the slightest splatter of blood, so perhaps the prince is being particularly gentle with you? You hurry to tell her yes, of course he is, you are quite happy with him. You are glad when Mydei announces that same night that at least for now, the game of charades is over, as he is expected to leave for another skirmish at the Kremnoan borders in a fortnight.

You blink at him, unsure of how to respond. “Don’t return on your shield,” you say. You remember hearing them in passing, when the passerby who recognized your guard on the march to Castrum Kremnos had spoken them. You thought they were meant as a blessing, in the same manner as the people in Ladon told one another “may the light of Hesperia be with you”. Mydei, however, in response begins to sputter. You belatedly realize that he’s actually trying not to laugh.

“Do you even know the meaning of what you just said?”

You glare at him, crossing your arms in front of your chest in a protective manner. Guarding your heart. “No,” you deadpan. “Forgive me for trying to be a supportive bride who only wishes the best for you. Why yes, I would personally light the beacons of hope inside Nikador’s temples for you if you let me. Of course I don’t know! I was making an effort here.”

Mydei puts a hand to his mouth, the mirth in his eyes coloring them in the image of honey today. They are soft and warm, an expression so unusual for someone who usually has the same charm as a stone. “The proverb goes ‘either with it or on it’”, he clarifies, his tone gentling in the same manner as it did when he had told you of Gorgo. You wished you wouldn’t know him well enough to recognize it happening. You wished he wouldn’t turn that gentle tone on you. “It means that as a Kremnoan, you are either expected to return victorious or carried home as a corpse on your shield. If you’ve been defeated, you do not return to grace the city with your shame. Return victoriously with the shield, or dead on it, so you can at least be buried with dignity since you tried to return victorious.”

“Oh.” What a crude belief. There was no shame in a retreat. It could be quite tactical, really. Ladon itself was known to survive on sieges, the soldiers fleeing towards the comfort of the inner city’s walls as it steeled itself against the outside world. You feel like it would be disrespectful to voice these thoughts, though, since Mydei is still the prince of the city, and these are the values he’s been brought up with. “Then I do hope you return with your shield. I’d make an awful widow, but a beautiful one. I think I look quite nice in black.”

“I’m sure you do.” He doesn’t sound flirtative; instead, it sounds like he’s stating a fact. Distracted by what sounds like an earnest compliment, you don’t notice the way he unsheathes his dagger until he’s grabbed your hands and placed the weapon inside. As you stare at him with a quizzical look, he clarifies, “You may be a beautiful widow, but I won’t be. And I’m not sure I’ll find another bride whose anger rivals my own. So make sure you won’t make me a widower.”

The implication is clear. Mydei is wary and suspicious. Maybe not of his own men, but very clearly of those who are loyal to his scheming, brutal father. You enclose your fingers over the weapon, certain you will never be able to wield it, but taking it all the same. Perhaps it gives Mydei some kind of peace of mind if he at least knows you’re in possession of a weapon. “Hide it inside the sleeves of your chiton,” he tells you, and you do. Listening to his commands as always. Another habit you should break. “And don’t cut yourself on it. Seeing as to how self-destructive you are on the chessboard, I shudder to think what you could achieve with this.”

You make sure to stomp on his boot as hard as you can. Fully knowing that violence to him is like a kiss given, as seen in the way his mother had fought her way into his father’s heart, you turn your face away with a pout when the only response you earn is a grim smile. You have become husband and wife in earnest.

Watching his enormous frame grow smaller and smaller as he disappears, you ponder what to make of Mydei. You hadn’t expected for married to life be so … well, unbothered. It almost feels like cohabitation. You are two animals to be experimented on by your respective courts, interacting with one another like two variables. But no matter how friendly he is, you cannot let yourself forget what you are truly here for.

Under the cover of darkness, the first dove containing your first report of intelligence is let loose. You try not to think about what will happen if your spywork were to be discovered. You won’t even get the quick death you were hoping for.

You wonder if Mydei himself would become the torturer.

When Mydei returns from his campaign (victorious, of course, what did you even expect), you find yourself greeted by an entirely different sight than the one you were provided with the day you arrived here to become a bride. After having loosened another dove under the pretense of wanting to message your mother, but not meeting anyone who would dare question your decisions, you had decided to walk through the palace to at least maintain the charade of appearing busy. Like wildfire, word had quickly spread that the army had returned, and you made your way to the place where you would expect them to be. Standing still at the railing so you can have a better vantage point of the courtyard that opens up into the palace, you peer down to watch Mydei about to be crowned with a laurel signifying his success by a gaggle of children who have surrounded him. Unbecoming of his station, he bends his head as low as his seated position on the ground allows, and their tiny hands struggle to place the wreath of leaves atop his sandy-colored hair. The blond in his curls looks molten in the sunlight, framing his face like a saint in a mural.

And he’s smiling. In a way he’s never been able to with you, or anyone else for that matter, his lips are turned into a fond expression as he interacts with the children, accepting their curious hands as they pat his shoulders and flood him with a torrent of questions. The rest of the world seems to have stolen away, and Mydei’s face looks like he’s entirely swept up in their conversation, answering earnestly and promptly. The children clap in satisfaction when the answer is to their liking. When it isn’t, they hurl another torrent of questions at him. Anyone else would have lost their head at this rapid-fire way of interviewing a person, but Mydei isn’t deterred, seemingly taking the time to answer every single one properly.

You are lost in thought. This is supposed to be the warrior who turns into a beast on the battlefield, eating the hearts of men for sport. All you can think of is whether perhaps he’d delight in having children of his own, how perhaps he’d avoid his father’s methods of raising a child like a pig to slaughter. The consideration of that hurts. It actually manages to tear at your heart, when all you’ve been doing this entire time is try to guard it against Mydei’s influence.

You think of the way you eavesdropped on the Council of Elders, how quickly you had penned that treacherous letter before you could think better of it.

“Excuse me,” you call to a passing female attendant, carrying a heavy box of scrolls. She rushes to attend you almost immediately, and you wince, thinking of the weight of that box. “I apologize for disrupting your work. I was just wondering whether this was a common occurence.” And you point down at the spectacle.

The woman follows the line of sight your finger points out, then erupts into polite laughter. “Oh, yes, the prince is popular with the children of the city,” she proclaims, her voice tinged with pride. Beloved Mydeimos, you think. “He often takes some time in the week to train and spar with them. When they do exceptionally well, he rewards them appropriately, and they love to be taught by him. He’s quite patient, much like noble Krateros, who was his mentor before. And he does have quite the hand with children, doesn’t he?” She drops a wink at you, her gaze only briefly flickering to the stomach guarding your womb.

Almost like an afterthought, you move to cradle your stomach. Right, you’re supposed to be expecting soon. Or at least try to be. “He does,” you confer, your voice soft. Your eyes drift back to where Mydei still sits with the children, their childhood-softened voices detailling something to as him as he listens attentively. The attendant snickers and leaves you to it, probably busy with delivering whatever that box contained. If you’d been a cleverer spy, you would have used the opportunity to steal one of those letters, perhaps feign interest in them and see what she would reveal. But your eyes remain glued on Mydei.

When you finally descend to join the throng, the children quickly disperse to make way for you. Mydei’s eyes flicker up to meet yours, then return to rest on the children. “This is my wife,” he introduces you to them, sweeping with his gauntled hands towards you. There’s a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” that makes you smile. “Be kind, or there won’t be any water balloon fight come next morning anymore.”

“No!” comes the indignant response from one of the children, a boy that looks to be the oldest out of the three of them. “Of course we’ll be nice. My name is Antonus, but you can call me Toni!”

“And my name is Lydia! Please remember it! I like the way your hair looks!”

“Lydia!” The third child sounds horrified at Lydia’s extroverted compliment. “You can’t just go around giving people compliments about their hair! It could be rude! I apologize, Your Highness. My name is Lycaon, and I’m Lydia’s older brother.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright, Lycaon,” you assure him, voice purposefully gentle as to not startle them. You lower yourself to the ground so you are on the same eye level as them, which puts you below Mydei. He stares at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes, but you’re busy shaking each tiny hand as somberly as you can, and they giggle at being treated like political officials. “I thought it was quite nice to be complimented. And I was just going to compliment Lydia’s braids. They’re beautifully done. Did you braid them yourself?”

“Yes!” The girl beams, pleased at having her efforts recognized. Her hands go to her braids as if to reassure herself that they’re still there, then pluck up the bundle of hairs so she can show you the intricacies of it. “It wasn’t difficult, you see! It’s very easy once you get the hang of it. My mother told me this was called a fishtail braid, and they’re quite fond of it in Okhema, so I begged her to teach me and she showed me. I like popular things!”

“It looks extraordinary.” You nod earnestly. “You must teach me some other time.”

“I will!”

“Alright.” Mydei offers you his hand, and you allow yourself to be pulled up. The children surround you again as you stand, their upturned faces reminding you of puppies scrambling for attention. You almost laugh. “That’s enough attempts at stealing my wife, you rascals. I’ll see you tomorrow, without her.”

“But we’ve barely gotten to talk to her! Lydia was hogging up the entire conversation.”

The girl in question nods, quite satisfied. You move to stifle your laughter with your hand, not wanting the boys to feel mocked. “I promise I’ll come talk to you another time,” you vow, which makes their eyes light up in happiness. At Mydei’s annoyed expression, you snicker and add, “with my husband’s permission, of course. If you can convince him.”

“We will!”

“Shoo, you,” comes Mydei’s response. “We’ll see about that tomorrow.” He turns to watch them go, his gaze soft. You like that look on him. You don’t like that you like that look on him. When he faces you again, you bite your lip in an attempt to smother the well of emotions that has poured up in you. You feel like your insides might be on fire. “What, did you enjoy watching me squirm like that?” he questions you, sounding gruff.

He might actually be pouting.

You dig your teeth into your lower lip so you don’t actually laugh at him. His eyes, matching his armor, harden over as they trace the way you release the lip to put on a polite smile, the kind you use to entertain ambassadors of foreign courts. “Well, of course I do. It’s not often I get to see my mighty husband crumble at the whim of children.”

“No one’s crumbling. You might be projecting.”

“Oh, truly? Then perhaps I also imagined the conversation with the maid I had just now, where we commented upon how truly lovely your smile looked when you interacted with the children? That would be quite odd. Perhaps you ought to fetch me a doctor to help with these mental ailments.”

Mydei crosses his arms, unimpressed. He does not blush as easily as you do, nor is he perturbed by the mention of the chink in his armor you’ve found now. A well-seasoned warrior who’s trained to reveal nothing, even as he suffers. “What was that about a lovely smile?”

Ah, well, he’s got you there. Slip of the tongue.

You lean back as Mydei begins to tower menacingly over you. And it truly takes no effort. The man is a living statue, perfectly sculpted in the images of the gods, every muscle cording into the other in a flawless pattern. You can even see the veins that rise above his skin from the countless hours of training he endures. Your frame merges with his shadow, becoming part of him. You’ve never met a man as well-endowed as Mydei. “I’m sure you’ve misheard,” you tell him. A meager attempt at evasion. “In the same manner as I must have misheard you talking with the children. What an odd day of auditory and visual hallucinations.”

“I assure you I’m quite sane. Do elaborate on the judgement you’ve passed on my smile, dear wife.”

“Ah,” you breathe out shakily, stepping back. Your heart has begun to race now, steadily climbing in speed. It wishes to escape your chest and run, although this isn’t true fear. More intimidation. And maybe anticipation. Only a liar or a blind person could close their eyes to the truth; seeing as you were the former but quite inept at it, you were forced to face the fact that Mydei was the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on, and that was not an exaggeration. Seeing him care for children so tenderly only seemed to accentuate that. “Oh, then, maybe it’s me who’s delirious. You must excuse me, husband, so I can lie down and recover from this tenuous ailment. I am losing all grip on sense and meaning, it seems, and my words evade me…”

“You seem to be talking just fine.” And for the first time since the night you were married to Mydei, he consciously reaches out to touch you. His hands, wrapped in the gauntlets you’ve been steadily cursing from preventing a skin-to-skin touch, come to rest on your waist, pulling you closer like an anchor rushes to meet the seaground. You fall against him without any fight. For the first time, the feeling of the sharp metal threatening to rip your skin does not feel disrespectful, but rather… enticing. You look up into a heated gaze that gives you a dizzy spell, melting down like actual gold as you become trapped in the yellow of Mydei’s eyes. “My smile, wife. What did you call it?”

“Lovely,” you exhale with great exertion. Mydei seems to delight in it.

“And you liked seeing me with the children?”

“Perhaps.”

His fingers, each tip of the gauntlet sharpened to resemble the claw of a wild animal, dig in. Not enough to hurt you. Just enough to caution. It feels exhilarating. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes,” you hiss at him, the anger finally catching up with you now. If only you had a chesspiece … but the closing distance between you feels so achingly nice, and this is the first real human contact you’ve had since leaving Ladon. You hadn’t realized that though he looks like a beast from the distance, being in his proximity felt like residing in a safe haven. Your hands curl into fists on his chest so you don’t actually grab him out of desperation. “Yes, I liked seeing you with these children. It pleased me to see you interacting so gently and carefully with them. Does that please you?” You had meant it as a jab, to return the insult. He’s the one whose put you into this humiliating situation, after all.

His answer is as blunt as his expression. “Yes, of course it does,” he tells you, cutting to the quick. Straight and direct. You blink at him, shocked. “What man doesn’t delight in pleasing his wife?”

Oh. You are going to explode after all. Your fingers, your ever-betraying fingers, twitch inside their prison, and you clench your fists harder. You can’t seem to look away from Mydei. He, in turn, looks at you as though you are behaving stupidly for ever thinking otherwise. But this is a marriage of convenience, you think, grasping for the safety ring of that excuse. I am going to sneak and spy and deceive you. I might even kill you. This doesn’t matter to me. Your senses, immune to the logic inside your thoughts, are thrumming with desire. You are hungry for any kind of intimacy, any scrap you can get.

You stand up on the tips of your toes, slowly approaching Mydei’s face with your own. His eyes screw shut as you place your lips to his cheekbone, kissing him there. The kiss lingers as you press yourself against him, and his fingers are on your spine, and your nerves are alight with sensation. As you lean back again, his eyes have taken in the color of the burning sun. “There, that’s how much I liked it,” you tell him. You’re actually shaking, vibrating in his hold like a twitching instrument. “I am pleased. Your wife is pleased.”

Now you’re both blushing.

That night, neither of you speak as you play chess. No chess-pieces are thrown. You are staring at the board, never at each other, but the heavy erotic implication of your fixation on the other’s fingers looms above you. Something has changed within the nature of your relationship, loosened the boundaries. All the armor you’ve clung to is beginning to fall from you in a steady rhythm, and you are afraid that when you are finally as exposed as you can be, naked as the day you were born, it will divide you forever as you overturn the kingdom Mydei has fought and bled and struggled for. So you continue staring at his fingers, never once saying anything, and Mydei doesn’t say anything either.

He loses for the first time, though even you realize that this was entirely the fault of your distracting kiss in the afternoon rather than a rise in skill on your side. He hands you his king, palm up, and you try to focus on the outstretched hand as you move to take it. His fingers wrap around yours the moment you try to grab it. Startled, you let the chesspiece fall. Instead of leaving with a courteous bow as he always does, Mydei’s head drops to your hand as he kisses the fingers there, his lips somehow feeling as sharp as his gauntlet’s claws even though you knew that was just your mind playing tricks on you, and your heart expands in your chest. “For a win well-earned,” he says, relinquishing your hand. You cradle it to your chest, as if it were wounded, and he says nothing more as he stands up and leaves the room.

You are unravelling, coming undone. Hours later, the scent of his perfume still hanging in the air, you drag the palms of your hands against your eyes so you can stop thinking of the way he looked, his eyes darkening like pooling blood, his fingers possessive and strong. The bed feels hot and uncomfortable. You twist and turn until exhaustion claims you, and even then, you do not go easy; your hands tear at the memory of Mydei, dragging him into your dreams. He is all-encompassing, warm, firm against you.

Perhaps he’ll be the death of you, instead of the other way around.

(In your dreams, he tastes rather sweet than salty. Still drunk on his kisses, you never realize when the dagger comes stabbing down.)

Mydei begins to visit you more often then, as if the lure of another kiss beckons him. That was something you hadn’t once considered; that as soon as you kissed someone in earnest, the possibility of it happening again lingered over every interaction. It remains at the forefront of your thoughts, making you nervous around Mydei, and making Mydei restless in turn.

He finds you in Gorgo’s garden, enraptured in your weaving. The festival of Hyacinthia is closely approaching, a celebration that was considered to be among the most important of the Kremnoans. It was tradition to prepare a chiton as an offering to the hero who has been lost, his name swallowed by the erosion of history. The memory of his identity is long forgotten, but his honor and glory remain. To keep at least that in tact, the celebration, representational for all efforts of victory, centers around communal prayer, drinking, sharing meals, and giving offerings. As wife to the youngest prince, it would not do if you didn’t partake in it as well.

Most importantly, though, the rite of weaving a chiton feels reminiscent to you. In Ladon, too, the people offered clothing and the like to Hesperia, although for a different reason. Since Hesperia had yearned for a home to protect, and a home is where a family feeds, clothes and nurtures you, the men prepare a meal to feast entire armies for days, while the women work on preparing clothing for Hesperia to wear. Another common denominator that binds you a little tighter to Castrum Kremnos. You glide your hands over the expensive material the servants brought you, touching the stitches. You had used the familiar traditions to write another letter, this one encoded. There were men gathering under the light of moon, whispering, conspiring. You hadn’t been able to discern exactly what they were speaking about, but it bespoke dissent, dissatisfaction with the king. You imagined the Golden Council would be ravenous for a piece of information like that, scenting weakness like a shark scented blood in the water.

“I wasn’t aware you were quite this talented in weaving.”

You set the weaving fork down. The light of the morning sun is too bright already, and you are feeling tired from your menses, which is why you only shrug in response. When Mydei sits down beside you, his knee leaning against yours, you finally muster up the energy to formulate an appropriate answer. “It’s not truly a talent, but it’s better than doing nothing. And I don’t quite have the strength for anything else today. I have my menses, so you’ll sadly have to inform the Council of Elders that I do not carry an heir yet.”

“I don’t imagine that’s any of their business.” Mydei takes up the weaving fork, twirling it around his fingers. It looks beautiful to behold, the quick trick of making the wood disappear and appear again. Maybe you’ve just grown too entranced by Mydei. Now that you know what these fingers feel like on your skin, you cannot trust your sanity anymore. Or your judgement. When he looks up, his face looks entirely open, almost vulnerable. “Are you in a lot of pain? I’m not too familiar with the bodily processes during the menses, at least not in a satisfactory way. I’ve been taught what it is like and what it does, but I have no knowledge of personal experience. I’ve not grown up encountering it.”

You tuck your hands under your butt, sitting on them. You don’t trust your restraint when it comes to Mydei. You almost cradled his face just for his adorable expression for inquiring about your wellbeing. You’re a snake in his bosom, you scold yourself, but it sounds ridiculous. You’re an evil spy. Get it together. “Yes, it hurts,” you tell him. “Sometimes it hurts so badly I cannot even leave the bed without collapsing or passing out. Sometimes it’s barely noticeable. It’s different for me every month, but also different for every woman.”

Mydei stares at your hands. “How cruel of the gods, then, to test you so strenuously. But I admire with which strength you braven these trials and try to face the day. It is an admirable feat.”

That makes you stare. You don’t need any reassurance from a man, mind you, especially not concerning such a matter as this. But the way he says it, devoid of any tone and delivered completely earnest, offsets you. “Thank you. It means a lot.” You gift him a rare smile, the kind you used to reward your mother with if she made a particularly funny joke.

The way Mydei stares at that smile hits you right in the chest. As if stripped from all his usual masks and reserves, his eyes contain only fondness. He’s letting you see beneath his usual calm and collected demeanor, deeper than you’ve ever dared to peek behind his facade. Your heart is racing.

“Prince Mydeimos! Your father is asking for you.”

Mydei’s head snaps back, breaking apart the connection. You breathe out in relief, although you don’t understand why. It felt like his gaze had kept you captive, but you hadn’t been an unwilling prisoner. More so a willing participant. There was an active decision there your unconscious had madefor you. The wish to look further. To see more. To want more. As Mydei looks back at you, you carefully try to school your features in a way that doesn’t reveal those wishes of your heart. “I’m afraid I’ll have to go now,” he says, as if you hadn’t heard the servant yourself. Either way, you nod. You understand the scramble for a return to formality. The safety aspect of it. “But I’d like to see the chiton when it’s finished. It truly does look beautiful.” With this, he leans forward and drops a kiss on your cheek. More careful, less lingering than yours had been. But still decisive. Like he wanted you to feel the kiss down to the marrow inside your bones, to recognize it by his name.

You raise your hand to your cheek, watching him go. You are playing with fire, and mistaking the warmth of the flame with a safe kindling, when the reality of it is threatening to swallow you whole.

(You’re not able to join the celebrations after all, which is why you ask Hemera to bring the chiton to the marketplace, where they have decided to hold celebrations, and offer it there in your stead. She returns with the cheeky news that Mydei has cut into several conversations to point out the magnificent gown his wife had made, and to give a closer look to the intricate details in-laid in the weaving work. You complain to Hemera how that man has no sense of propriety and humility at all, but secretly, you want to explode in happiness. Of all the things Mydei can take pride in, he decides to do so in you. His weaving wife.)

(The night passes with you dozing in and out of sleep, the soft sounds of laughter and singing waking you every few hours. It’s a relaxed rhythm of consciousness and unconsciousness. Floating gently on the clouds of dreams, you notice too late that someone has come and gone out of the room. You reach for the carefully folded letter you find tucked under the plate where a slice of chocolate cake has carefully been arranged around an array of golden-sliced apples. Ladonian apples. You rub your sleep-blurred eyes, then rub them again for good measure as you come to understand what is written. Your heart feels as light as a feather.

Eat up. I asked around on what food the women in the household like to eat when they have their menses, and I have been told that chocolate is not only a craving, but also beneficial for one’s health. I made this myself, so I hope it is to your taste.

Mydei.)

A warrior, a cook, a drillmaster, a caretaker, a husband.

So many roles that you begin to associate with Mydei.

In the discovery of those roles, you come to know his favorite colors, the types of activities he favors. You even find out he has a habit of sleeping like a felled bear, after a particularly long night of learning more about the other person. With wildy pointing hands and as many adjectives as you could, you had tried to explain what living in Ladon felt like, how the waves were just the right temperature to bathe in, but still refreshing enough to cool you after a warm summer’s day. How you had learnt how to ride in the sweeping hills to the north where his campaign had led him towards the city and back to Castrum Kremnos. Tales of the father you knew, not those you’ve been told about after his death. And Mydei, in turn, rewards you with a gift of his own: his soft but demanding voice as he tries to make you understand what it had tasted like to cook a proper dish on his own, how it felt like making magic despite it being the most normal of human activities. The thrill of battle, even though its ugliness continues to scar you long after the blood has been shed and the enemy in front of you has fallen. What his mother had smelled like in his earliest memory, a disorienting perfume of earth and wood and flowers, as spicy as cinnamon. You read each other like books, flipping open pages you want to know more about, re-reading passages just to make sure what you have heard was correct. He asks you about the Ladonian summers, and you ask him about Kremnoan pomegranate wine. When he asks about the athletic games you hold every winter, you in turn want to know everything about the race they hold in Nikador’s honor, a marathon where they pass the flame of Nikador’s strife from one hand to the other until the last runner reaches the walls of Castrum Kremnos again. Neither of you tires of questions. Neither of you tires of the other’s company.

The days turn into weeks, stretching into months. You barely notice the time pass by. Twice more, the city holds celebrations, once for the summer solstice, a second time to honor Nikador’s homecoming. It’s supposed to be like his birthday, you suppose, but in actuality the Kremnoans celebrate the day they think Nikador descended from heaven to defend the city against the cruel enemy tearing down the gates. This marks the birth of both the Titan and the empire. Thrice more, Mydei goes to war.

The third time, he returns with Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

Mydei has told you about the knight long before you came to know him, claiming him to be a ‘good-natured idiot’. Seeing as you would describe Mydei in a very similar way, you had only cocked your head at him and took him at his word. If it were otherwise, then you’d learn about it soon enough. Now the opportunity has risen for you to discover yourself what Mydei’s friend is like, and Phainon in turn is very enthusiastic about you.

“It is so good to finally meet you!” Phainon proclaims as he takes your hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm. You see the flash of annoyance in Mydei’s eyes come and go, a sight that makes you want to raise your eyebrows in curiosity. He has a very short temper, and often times can be described as quite hot-headed, but this is still a first. Perhaps because Phainon is such a close companion? “I’ve heard so much about you, friend, so it feels like I know you already. You must know how often I have complained to Mydei about the fact that he’s hidden you away like some jealous dragon guarding a treasure. Or perhaps it’s you that’s the dragon in question? I hear you are Ladonian.”

You grin at him, happy at the mention of your country. Aside from Hemera, your grip on the memories of your home continue to slip away from you. Slowly but surely, Mydei has started to replace them with Castrum Kremnos: accompanying you to the temple, showing you the city, taking you out for boat rides and street markets and food festivals. He’s even let you watch him drill the children now, although he still scolds them for trying to steal his wife away from him. You, uncertain about your relationship, have stopped interjecting a long time ago. “Why yes, Phainon, I am. But I am a dragon in a very well-kept cage, and it’s not often I get to meet Mydei’s friends. How did you manage to change his mind?”

“It was easy. Seeing as it’s his birthday soon, I simply had to come attend the celebrations. It’s the least I could do after he fought with me, even though he’s taken out a lot less monsters than I have.”

“Rubbish.” Mydei scoffs, then sidesteps around Phainon. In a quick motion, he’s tugged your arm out of the confines of Phainon’s and instead wraps it around his own, his familiar bicep fitting around your fingers like a wedding ring. The strength of his grip doesn’t elude you; if you didn’t know any better, you’d assume he was acting possesive. Phainon drops a knowing wink at you, then turns back to Mydei as he speaks again. “I am the better fighter out of the two of us. The proof lies in the countless bets you’ve already lost against me.”

“Well, but you rigged those competitions.”

“Are you a sore loser?”

“No, but I’m guessing you are. Do you not like admitting defeat when it’s necessary?”

“Ironic, since you’re the one who’s doing that right now!”

You watch them bicker back and forth like a particularly angry debate in the city hall, the sight of it curling a smile around your lips. It makes you happy to witness, but also sad. With every day that passes, the reminder that although you are learning more about Mydei, the fact that you continue to deceive him with your every breath becomes more unbearable. Hemera herself isn’t even aware of all the details. How you broke into the royal treasury to secure a report. How you listened in on assembly after assembly after assembly. The many doves you’ve had to intercept just to see who Eurypon was contacting, your fingers covered in the wounds procured in the fight against the dove’s claws. You are wracked with guilt, weighed down by the existential dread when you will be figured out.

For Mydei’s birthday, all matters of planning and organizing had fallen to you. You were in charge of his household, after all, the matron of the house, and even though there were no heirs running around yet, the servants deferred to you in the same manner as Mydei. A mother of the Kremnoans, with or without a womb carrying the newest monarch. You’ve been faithfully speeding around the palace, amusing even Mydei, who’s started to grace you with the same smiles he gives his own children, the students of battle he entertains on Sundays where is not off to make war in Eurypon’s name. The necessary nobles have been invited, the decorations prepared, and even the kitchen has started to dance to your tunes. Although you are quickly shoved out of it due to Mydei’s own hobbies being cooking and baking, you manage to fire off a series of commands concerning the rest of the cooking staff, and they fall in line immediately. Only Mydei, who thinks you’re making a big fuss out of nothing, refuses to listen to your requests, so you’ve had to make him.

(At one point, letting his stubbornness get the better of him, Mydei flipped you over his shoulder like one might carry a sack of potatoes and carried you away from the market. You’d been telling him to point at anything he would like, since his obstinacy made him insist in you not getting any gift for him at all, and Mydei, who was always of the opinion that actions spoke louder than words, had put an end to it. You remember the way you had to claw at the small of his back in an effort to stabilize yourself, and his only response had been to not excite him further before he decided he’d want you as a gift.

In an effort to turn the tide on him, you had asked whether he was actually able to handle a gift like you. You were a dragon, after all, capable of eating lions. Mydei had laughed so loud that even the people on the street had turned to watch the prince walk by as he carried his wife home. As if this were just a regular occurrence during his daily schedule. He never laughed, and not this genuinely.

“Sweetheart,” he’d said. “I was born to handle you. Otherwise I should not be permitted to call myself your husband. You’ll regret asking me that.”)

You are torn back to reality by someone’s careful fingers in your hair. They gently tug at the root of the strand to gain your attention, but also take care that it does not actually hurt you. Your gaze goes to Mydei automatically. His features are schooled into an expression of puzzlement, a singular arched eyebrow raised in question at the lack of the attention you seemed to display to their show-off. “Where did your mind wander off to? I was beginning to worry.”

“What, does my prince have to bask in my attention all the time?”

“He does.” The answer comes to him as natural as breathing, delivered with the straightest face one could imagine. Phainon, much more expressive than Mydei, gives a dramatic gasp and places his hand above his heart, then grins at you over the top of Mydei’s shoulder. That makes you laugh.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I promise you have my undivided attention. My mind was just occupied with the memories of my home, since Phainon brought up their recollection, but I promise I am here now. A flash of nostalgia, that was all.”

“My apologies,” Phainon cuts in. His face, suddenly somber, seems to reflect the exact same melancholy yours does at the thought of the sunny shores of Ladon. Perhaps he too has a home that he yearns for, but cannot return to. Mydei’s eyes too have softened at your demeanor, although more imperceptibly than Phainon’s obvious expressional change. “I did not mean to upset you, my lady. Does it ache to think of Ladon?”

You lean your head on Mydei’s shoulder. As the time has progressed, you and him have come to an understanding that seems to satisfy both your needs for intimacy. You still haven’t shared a marriage bed, but small affections like these don’t seem to matter. A kiss goodbye, a press of the fingers. Even now, as you lean your head on the strong shoulder that has become a home akin to Ladon to you, his gauntled fingers go to brush over the strands of your hair that have tumbled loose from your chignon. A slight touch, barely there. But enough for your heart to recognize that he is appreciative of your trust. “No, it is my mistake for phrasing it that way. Against all odds, my husband has made Castrum Kremnos a home for me. It feels odd to me now not to wake up in the baked sun and breathe in the dry air.” Your lips curl into a mischievous smile at your slight nudge at the climate of Castrum Kremnos, but Mydei only rolls his eyes. Not taking the bait. “But it does make one reminisce about the place of childhood. I sometimes think I miss the memory of Ladon more than I actually miss the place itself.”

You will sneak, spy, and steal everything that kingdom has to offer. And when the time is ripe, you will either cut his throat, or make way for us to do so.

As Hesperia returns home to her family, so shall you return to us with the crown prince’s head.

Phainon hastens to reassure you that he understands completely, but your strength for niceties and politeness has left you. Mydei, recognizing your mood, brings the conversation to a stop and then informs Phainon that he’ll accompany you to your chambers, then rendezvous with him at the training grounds. While the white-haired knight nods at you in understanding and continues to wave goodbye as you leave, you try to your best to reciprocate the earnest goodbye. You will see him this evening anyways, when the festivities for Mydei’s birthday are scheduled to happen. “I apologize for clouding your birthday, Mydei,” you tell the prince in question, still waving as he makes you turn the corner to begin climbing the stairs towards the wing of the palace that contains your chambers. “I am not truly upset. Just distracted. I think I’m nervous you’re not gonna like the celebration.”

Mydei, whose hand had been positioned on your lower back to propel you forward, moves to take your hand. Although he cannot intertwine his fingers with you with the heavy armor scaling his skin, the touch still makes a rush of blood quicken your pulse. He truly has a considerate heart. Not many see it, due to the way he carries himself: his Kremnoan pride, his gunpowder temperament, his prowess in battle. In part, it is exactly because Mydei wills it so that he is perceived so scarily and menacingly. But on the other hand, the truth is as clear as the Ladonian sea. He cannot hide his Gorgon heart. “You are truly senseless if you think your mood is less important to me than some celebration I hadn’t even expected. At any other time, the day would have gone by unceremoniously. It is you who has made it special.”

That makes you stop in the middle of the stairs. Mydei, who had been focussed on the long train of your garment so you wouldn’t trip and hurt yourself, stops immediately after, as attuned to you as the songbirds to the sunset. My Mydei, you think to yourself, and that is perhaps the worst lie out of every single one you’ve ever told. He will never be yours, not truly. “But it is a special day,” you insist. “And you are special to me. As much as I wanted to find a gift that will enrapture your heart, it is you who has become a true gift to me. Your attentiveness, your caring attitude even though you loathe to address it. You know, in the Hesperian faith, one can only hope to ever share even the slightest of steps Hesperia has taken. But you have given me her entire path. You have given me belonging.”

The words burst out of you before you can take them back. After all the poison your lies have inflicted on you, it feels freeing to tell the truth for once, to rid yourself of their nasty influence. Mydei’s eyes, which you have learned to interpret as surely as the signs of the gods, for once are wide open in surprise and reveal nothing. Your heart beats too quickly in your chest, and a sweat has broken out on your skin, one you are certain has nothing to do with the actual heat and everything with the way Mydei is staring at you right now. “I’m sor…” you hasten to apologize, but then you are actually falling, once again tumbling against that familiar chest. Like you’ve done so many times before.

This time, Mydei’s fingers angle your face up towards the sun, and then he’s kissing you so deeply you think you can feel it in every cell of your being.

Your very soul melts in the constraint of its vessel. You throw your arms around his neck, molding your shape to the curve of his sinful body as he bends to kiss you. He dedicates himself to the act like a devotee faithfully, rigorously throws himself into prayer: his lips, fervent and passionate, perfectly fit into your own, a heart that’s been divided slotting together to create a full. You feel so complete that you find yourself sighing into the kiss, lips parting as you do, and then your long-lost dream finally becomes true as you taste Mydei’s tongue for the very first time.

He tastes simply divine.

It seems your roles have reversed. It is you who becomes the ever-devouring beast, your blunt nails creating crescent moons on the naked skin of Mydei’s defined back. They seek purchase as his tongue learns to dance with your own, the action as unfamiliar to him as it is to you, but you are chasing after an instinct that has born under your skin and there are no lessons necessary. As surely as Nikador and Mnestia had been fated to be together, your tongue embraces Mydei’s as he explores your mouth, butterflies exploding on the tip of your tongue from the sensation. Where your fingers seek refuge from the pleasure, his own touch gentles: the hands cradling your face as he kisses you turns reverent, the fingertips of the gauntlets becoming more and more careful as he traces the shape of your jaw, your cheeks, the curve of the back of your head. You melt against Mydei as he tucks you closer, intending to close the distance as much as possible.

If you could crack your chest open and let him inside, you would.

When your lungs feel like they are going to burst and the need for air in your lungs makes you release Mydei’s lips with a shuddering gasp, his own lips continue to chase you, feathering across the skin of your face. “You idiot,” he tells you, but from his mouth, the insult feels like the most beautiful compliment you have ever received. Like a lion teasing its cub, he bites into the curve of your throat, not breaking the skin. Just nudging you, teasing you for a reaction. You squeak and angle yourself away, cocking your head to hide the skin his teeth had been grazing. There’s a lazy smile on his face that feels reminiscent of the grimaces he sports when he is trying to get under your skin, but this one is so radiant with genuine, explosive joy that you can’t help yourself but smile in return. You’ve never been this blissful, not once in your life. “Did you really think you were the only one who felt that way? Why exactly do you think I was being so pig-headed about not needing a gift from you? I’ve got everything I need already.”

“You mean me?” Your eyes are wide, hanging on to every word.

“Of course I mean you, you foolish woman.” The words are as tender as his kiss, so languid it makes your insides want to rearrange themselves in exultation. Everything, including you and your body, wants to jump in joy. Even his gauntlets seem dear to you now, the shape of them as familiar to you as the features of his face. They glide around the curve of your waist, protectively, possessively. You definitely weren’t imagining that tang of jealousy that had hung over your conversation with Phainon, and the realization makes you want to laugh. But you are still intently focussed on every word his heavenly mouth speaks. “Aren’t you a blessing from Hesperia herself? My entire life, I thought I had to build myself up like a castle, to guard the inside of it from anything and everything that could penetrate it. There was only dust, and sorrow, and darkness, and I thought it would remain that way for the rest of my life. There was dimmed candlelight, and flashes of lightning, from the single moments in my life that brought me joy… and then you came, endowed with the power of Hesperia herself, and you broke open the gates so that each and every facet of myself could feel the warmth of the sun again. You have broken me open. You have made me vulnerable.” The words feel like an accusation, but they are spoken like a caress, like his hands in your hair, on your skin, on your heart. “And I want it that way. There’s nothing you can do to change that, now or ever.”

You are brimming with emotion, shaking apart. “Wow,” you can only say. “That is the longest assortment of words you’ve ever spoken to me.”

Again, Mydei rolls his eyes, but this time there’s a curving smile underlining the sting of his actions. “There you go ruining the moment again, my lady,” he grumbles, pulling you in for another kiss. You giggle against him, then lean your head over his as he hides his face in the crook of your throat. “Does that mean you don’t like my words?”

“Oh, I like them alright. But I have something I think you’ll like even more.” He goes still in your arms. Preparing himself for the worst. You grin and place your lips to his ear, lips brushing over the sensitive cartilage. “Prince Mydeimos, son of Gorgo, I have given you my heart. I love you.”

(Do you remember his claim of him being born to handle you? Yeah, me too.)

…

(He never does make it back to meet Phainon for sparring before the celebration. You, however, learn exactly how Mydei feels like under all that armor, and for ruining his romantic speech, you learn to appreciate every single wag of his tongue, for better or for worse. You don’t think you’ve ever wept that much from simple bodily pleasure; how your soul seemed to separate from your body and comes apart on his tongue as Mydei feasted on his birthday present early. You also find out the exact reason why he always has to spread his legs so far to sit comfortably: you are spread open for that exact same reason, split open by it. You never knew how much the borders of agony and pleasure could seem to blur, and even though you cannot walk for a while right after, you don’t regret a single thing. Mydei, lounging on your marriage bed, his face cradled by his own hand as he rests his head on it, seems bemused by your attempt to stand, and you end up falling into his arms again pretty soon.

You do it all over again. And again. And again.

Turns out you two like the consummation part of a marriage much more than you would have thought.)

(Phainon, of course, spends the afternoon gossiping with an attendant he always visits in the kitchens when he visits the Kremnoan palace. He snickers at the attendant’s shocked expression as he recounts the gloomy look on Mydei’s face when Phainon had tried to make him jealous on purpose. He’s gotten sick of Mydei’s endless pining after you during campaigns, and his ears have started bleeding from it, so he was determined to make that visit to Castrum Kremnos count. This marriage was going to become real, damn it, or he would never be able to call himself ‘Phainon, the talented matchmaker’ again.)

Hours later, the attendants are invited in and treated to the sight of you guys still naked in bed. They have the common decency to avert their eyes, a feat that Mydei hasn’t been blessed with. With his arms behind his head, leaning back against the headboard with his entire chest exposed down to the muscled curve that is feathered with a happy trail you’ve found a happy ending to, he watches shamelessly as Hemera detaches from the group of attendants to help you up. You are naked still, your throat covered in the evidence of your coupling, some bruises on your thighs leaving remnants of the clawed hands that had kept you open until you had positively crushed Mydei’s head between them. “Good evening, Hemera,” he says then, voice as dry as the desert.

Your poor lady’s maid nervously turns her head to the ceiling as she robes you, fully intent on not breaking any rules of propriety. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Don’t mind him, Hemera. He has no manners.”

“I thought that was the part you most liked about me. It certainly sounded like it just an hour ago.”

“Mydei!”

He remains as he is while the servants surround you and prepare you for the birthday celebrations. When you look like a fully polished jewel, sparkling enough that you could be in-laid in the Kremnoan queen’s crown, you dismiss everyone but Hemera and sit down next to Mydei as you plead for her to prepare your hair. Mydei, sitting up, careful to keep himself covered for the most part, reaches for your hands and presses them to his lips. “Are you excited?” he asks, meaning the party.

You shrug minutely, careful not to disrupt Hemera’s ministrations behind you as she weaves the comb through your hair. Mydei hands her a strand of hair dangling in front of your eyes, and she quickly incorporates it in the braid she’s begun. “I guess I am. It’s the first birthday I’ve ever celebrated with you,” you answer, grinning at him. He returns the smile, tentative but real.

In truth, there’s been a cold spot inside your stomach that you’ve been nursing for almost a month now.

When they asked you for Mydei’s head, you had ripped the letter to shreds before you could think otherwise about it. They hadn’t even bothered sending a coded letter through your mother: this missive came straight from the Golden Council itself, the scrawls so angrily imprinted onto the letter that it tore through the creamy paper in some spots. You had expected a reaction like this when your intelligence grew scarcer and scarcer. Eurypon was not your king, so you hadn’t cared about spying on him. But the longer you remained in Castrum Kremnos, the more you realized that he was not even the people’s king. There was a deep-reaching unhappiness etched into the souls of the people here, dividing them in their soul and loyalty. When they turned their souls towards Mydei, that unhappiness turned into hope. You couldn’t find it in yourself to crush that hope, remaining Atlaion’s daughter whether you wanted to or not - so you tore your metaphoric spy’s teeth out, the ones the Golden Council had been filing for more than a decade, and turned quiet as the grave. What little information slipped from your fingers was always in dismissal of Eurypon, never Mydei himself.

But the Golden Council had never wanted Eurypon. They wanted Castrum Kremnos.

All your life, they had been a roaring group of fools pretending to be dragons, exerting their influence over both you and your mother. Now they had grown silent. It scared you more than anything you’ve ever endured in your life, because your thoughts keep circling back to your mother, the way her letters told you not to back down from your courage, to not regret anything. How those letters had ceased. How they’d been replaced by that one, unforgiving order.

“Will you teach me how to pin her hair up, Hemera?”

You look up just in time to see Hemera hand Mydei the hairpins, the ends of the pins adorned with both lions and dragons, an effort to incorporate both the cultures that have moved and changed you. Glittering red and golden, she gently lifts up your hair and tucks it in place in mock fashion of how Mydei will have to do it, and your heart lurches at the concentration in his eyes, the determination to do this right. His fingers are light in your hair, lighter even than your feather heart, and when your hair has been affixed, his fingers remain. Hemera quickly stands up and leaves the room, and Mydei bends towards you to kiss you one last time, hot and slow and mind-curdling. Speaking the words directly against your lips, straight into the very core of your existence where his name has begun to imprint itself over the shape of your soul, he whispers, “You are more beautiful than anything this world has to offer.”

And because he doesn’t want to ruin your prepared, polished appearance, he lets himself be pushed down to be ruined just one last time before he has to go get ready himself.

The memory of the bedroom haziness still hangs over you as you make your way to the ballroom, but there’s a certain sweetness, as well, a pep in your step and a giggle in your mouth. Mydei pinches at your waist and cheeks, but he can’t find himself to be bothered by your quiet happiness, not when this is the prettiest birthday celebration he’s ever had, not went you went out of your way to prepare his favorite dessert even though you never knew how to cook. The honey-cakes are slightly too doughy, and the cream a little bit too sugary, but he scarves it down like it’s his last meal before the expected execution. Just to see that prideful look in your eyes, to reward your efforts in the only way he can.

You watch him socialize with military officials you don’t recognize, the expression of joy permanently etched into your face now. You just can’t get rid of it. Phainon, whose decided to glue himself to your side while the crown princes mingles with potential enemies and rubs shoulders with potential allies, raises a glass for you to clink yours to. “Seems like you two finally got down and dirty. Thank god. I was getting real sick of his lovelorn puppy behavior.”

“Oh, shut up.” The pearling laughter his joke illicits from your mouth makes Mydei turn and look for just a second, his own mouth twitching into that almost-smile you had to grow accustomed to at the beginning of your marriage and now only have grown fond of. “I know you since, like, yesterday. I feel like there has to be a certain passage of time before you get to comment on my sex life.”

“Yesterday? My dear, I feel as though we’re best friends already. He’s only been talking my ear off all summer long about you!”

“You exaggerate, I’m sure. Mydei? Talking?”

Phainon crosses his arms, pouting at your disbelief. “Like you wouldn’t believe. But it was always this angry kind of groveling, like he wanted to talk about you and didn’t at the same time because he never talks this much. I barely got in a word myself. And I love talking!”

“I can tell.” You knock your shoulder against his, grinning at him like you would at a brother. Perhaps in another life, he would have been. In a life where the black tide didn’t threaten families and countries whole, swallowing them without leaving a trace. But in this one, you make sure to make him feel as at home as Mydei did, even though he disliked admitting that he did. Your eyes go back to your husband in question, having lost sight of him during your chatter with Phainon. Not seeing him anymore, you scan the crowd for his pretty face.

And then lose grip of your glass.

You can barely hear the sound of Phainon’s complaint, the way it transforms into worried inquiries. The whole world has fallen away. If you listen closely, it even sounds like your heart has stopped in its chest, like a clock winding down, dying, freezing time. They’d stopped all the clocks in the palace when they found Atlaion dead: stabbed by the same dagger you were staring at right now.

You’d recognize that dagger ANYWHERE.

You break into a sprint. At your shoulder, without you having noticed, Phainon has pressed a worried hand to try and break your trance. You shake the hand off, its touch feeling as intangible as dream, swallowed whole by the nightmare in front of you. You dig your way through the crowd, losing sight of the dagger, not once, but twice. And then you see Mydei’s back - the wide, strong back that only his soldiers saw as he protected them and guided them towards victory, the back that was lined in the illumination of the future of Castrum Kremnos.

The same back a fellow Kremnoan would never stab, taught as they were that a backstabber is a coward, never a true warrior.

You should scream, direct Mydei’s attention towards you, but the fear keeps your tongue captive. Some animal instinct clawing its way out of your brain tells you that you need to guard that back, the wide expanse of it specifically, you NEED TO. You push through a mass of bodies, reuniting with the sight of that dagger, all breath in your lungs evaporating like the dew in the morning sun.

You think you see the dragon guarding the apple tree open its mouth wide, ready to incinerate you for your sins. You’ll be too late. You won’t reach him. You won’t.

(Mydeimos, my Mydeimos - I always knew I was going to die for you. I just didn’t realize how relieving it would feel. Better me than you. Better me.)

You slam against the one person in your life you can never betray, that strong body that’s been holding you up this entire time without complaint while you were struggling not to drown. The dagger goes in, scarily deep in, blighting your nerves. You think you’ve been struck by lightning, the way the agony sears your nervous system alive. Perhaps it actually was Hesperia herself coming to burn you for your treason. It tears and tears, cutting you free like a puppet on strings, and then you finally lose all grip on reality, returning to the darkness.

You wonder if this is how your father had felt.

Gentle Atlaion, dragon-born Atlaion, soft as the golden dragon’s wings. Unfit for the throne. Unfit for the Sunlit Garden.

You are not in the throne room, but somewhere else entirely. This is not your ocean. But as your feet sink into the surf, you’re not sure whether it matters. Like a tree, your roots reach deeper than the earth, deeper even than anything you’ve ever been taught.

And your father is here.

Atlaion of the House Hesperia looks much younger than the father you came to knew. His face is not yet burdened by worry lines, his spine more straight than ever. This Atlaion hasn’t learned how to bend yet. This Atlaion wasn’t aware what it meant to balance himself on a throne.

He is blissfully, unworriedly, completely happy.

“They came for her, you know,” he tells you. He never turns his face from Aeolia, not once. She is all he sees. Her laughter is louder even than the waves itself, and as you cock your head to take in the sight, you begin to realize what she looks like. Like Hesperia herself has come to level the earth again. Love personified. “I’ve always known my council consisted of traitors. But this was my father’s throne, and his father’s before him, and I thought that as long as we remained in Hesperia’s light, we would be able to vanquish the threat together. Aeolia supported me, and guided me, and protected me. She wasn’t a queen consort. She was my queen. That’s why I ruled together with her, instead of over her. I thought it would please Hesperia, too, if she knew why I had done it. I thought I could keep them in line.”

“Papa,” you whisper, the word like sand in the wind. Drifting apart without ever taking shape. Weightless in the echoes of time. He smiles at the sound, mellow and bittersweet, like the word pleases him.

“That, too, I thought would still their hands. I was too foolish to realize that their hatred was not for the throne itself, but for the competent women that would replace them atop it. That council may have called itself as golden as Hesperia’s apple itself, but the inside of it was rotten to the core, failing at its function long before consumption. Do you understand, daughter? It’s not your fault.”

“But they tried to kill him, Papa.” Your voice cracks. After all this time of wishing you’d be able to open your chest like a closet so the entire world could see the truth, the key in its lock turns to reveal your heart whole. It’s scabrous and poison-riddled and dead, but it beats despite it all, beats for the lion-haired prince with the lamb heart. “If I had recognized your assassin, if I had done away with the council, they’d never have supped themselves on an authority that was never theirs to begin with.”

“My dear daughter.” Although unwillingly, Atlaion’s eyes leave Aeolia to her dance in the ocean. You cannot bring yourself to face your father, instead concentrating on the graceful figure sweeping in the water, cutting through the sea. The dances of her childhood she never got to teach you. “We may wish to become Hesperia’s image, but we should not allow ourselves to become blasphemous in our wishes. Do you truly think you could become as omniscient as a god? Do you think that is the purpose of humanity? Why have them create humanity in the first place, then?”

Your lips crack into an unwilling smile, the begrudging kind he always used to laugh at when your father had still been your teacher and guide. Clever Atlaion, caring Atlaion. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me. You always knew better, father.”

When he laughs, he sounds as if he never died in the first place. The sound is sweet and clear as a bell, like the first bite of a Hesperian apple, comforting and nurturing both. The wind rises, blurring the sight of both your parents, like the gently fading edges of a photograph. You wish to brush your fingers over it just once, before the memory drifts away and leaves you behind. Father, father. “My sweet daughter,” he says. “Of all the things I’ve taught you, I’d have imagined this was the one your mother and I imparted the best. Fate has brought you to the one your heart calls home, after all. Does it matter how that has happened, or what obstacles it will bring? Isn’t it the nature of humanity that has sustained you all this time?”

On the third day of Mydei’s vigil at your bedside, the guards at the gate of the palace bring him new tidings. If he’d been a tyrant like his father, he’d have sent them away with a head lesser. Murder now, ask later. But Eurypon is rotting in an unmarked grave, and Mydei is not his father, so he tells them to come in and keep their distance from your comatose body.

“If it’s another emissary from any country, send them away. I haven’t decided on Castrum Kremnos’ fate yet. If it’s a Chrysos Heir, then have them sit in the reception room in the east wing and tell them I’ll join them shortly.”

“Your Majesty,” the left guard, who looks less nervous than his compatriot, speaks up. His voice is more betraying than his face. Though he looks more composed, his words are shaky. “You don’t understand. It’s the queen’s mother.”

He stares at both guards, hard. They stare back. When no one laughs or slaps their knee, and Mydei does not get the excuse to beat them for their lies, he presses your hand one last time before he rises to stand. “Have Hemera come and sit with the queen in my absence,” he orders the soldier that’s been standing guard in the room. The man nods and silently slips outside to search for the lady’s maid in question. Then, with a sigh, Mydei turns back to the gate guards. “Alright. Have her brought to the reception room.”

To leave you feels as painful as to watch you be stabbed again. He can’t erase the image, no matter how hard he tries. It’s burned on the back of his eyelids, tattooed on every fold of his brain. The way the blood had drained your face immediately, a surefire sign of deadly blood loss. Your immediate collapse to the ground, the coldness of your limbs as he caught you before your head could crush against the unforgiving marble stone. For one scarily long minute that might have been the worst minute of his life, you had ceased breathing, your pulse giving way to silence. With the help of the healer, he’d been able to resuscitate you, but then the panic was clouding his brain and he’d begun yelling and punching the wall, stabbing the next pillow he came across. He’d never been this afraid in his life, not once, not even when the cold waters of the river of souls had closed over him. At least then, the spirits’ soothing whispers had told him he wasn’t alone, and though they were dead and gone, they still had been able to guide him to safety.

As he looks at your pinched, deathly pale face, he fears to be alone for the rest of his life. The loss of you will be the one thing he will never be able to overcome.

He feels the distance growing between the two of you like an invisible string drawn taut. It doesn’t hurt as much as watching you rescued from the brink of death did, but it hurts nonetheless. At least he’d have some good news if you woke up. When you woke up. His traitorous word choice in thoughts has him gasping for air, clenching at his chest, and he momentarily stops in the hallway to try to remember how to breathe.

When you wake up. When you wake up. When you wake up.

Your mother looks just as destroyed as he does. At least here now sits someone who shares his mental state, who looks as half-crazed as the image in the mirror. Her emerald-green eyes, which had sparked with mirth and intelligence when she first introduced him to you, have grown dead, their light diminished. “I assume it’s King Mydeimos now,” is all she says in greeting. Although it would be considered disrespectful in any other setting, she remains seated. Mydei, who couldn’t give less of a shit about formalities at the moment, remembering the way they used to give you comfort, settles in the chair. “Do I offer congratulations?”

“I suppose you should. Your Golden Council’s spying and scheming presented the golden opportunity for me to finally rise up against my father and take my place on the throne.”

Mydei watches as the words wash over her and result in nothing. Not a single muscle in her face twitched at the knowledge that he was aware of her country’s treason, and what it might mean for her that she delivered herself right into the Kremnoan justice’s hands. “So you knew what she was,” your mother croaks, the only sign of her fear. For you. Not even for her. “And you married her all the same? Why?”

“My hands were bound. I understood that this was my father’s way of leashing me, and it worked.”

“But she would have been fair game the second you knew about her spywork. You could have exposed him in front of the Council of Elders. The marriage would have been nullified then. And I knew you did not consummate it; she told me. So I ask you, son of Gorgo… Why?”

Yes, why?

He remembers your small, fear-stricken face when he had come to ask for your hand. The many times he’d left the barracks to come visit you and then stopped in front of your door due to the sound of heartbreakingly grief-stricken sobs, imagining the way you were falling apart and building yourself up every night. The letters he’d intercepted, the crude refusal you’d dished out to your mother, the woman you might worship more than even Hesperia herself. I love him. I choose him.

He thinks of the happiness you’ve returned to his life with just a simple joke, a small gift, an affectionate action here and there. The way you listened and listened and listened. Never judging. Always curious for more. The way you told stories, hands sweeping and eyes alight. Your habit of knocking into doors and objects when you try to sneak up on him.

Your face, as bright as the sun in the sky.

“You know,” Mydei finds himself speaking. “I don’t really care if you believe this. If you’ve even heard about the Chrysos Heirs. But the gods, in their mercy as my father turned me over to the depths of the river of souls, have made me immortal. I can die, of course, but every time I do, I find myself back on the shores of Styxia, the river of spirits at my back, the safe haven of the land in front of me. I’ve braved that river so many times, I could dig my way out of it eyes closed. And I was always searching for something. In the beginning, I think it was for Castrum Kremnos. When my mother died, I prayed for a reunion, always hoping to see her face at least once as I died. But something changed. While I was drowning, I began to hear your daughter’s voice on the shore. Singing so unbelievably loud, you’d never believe those tiny lungs were even capable of breathing those kinds of melodies. The spirits sighed and quietened, and the waves themselves seemed to gather a path, guiding me back home. To her. Always to her. I stopped looking for the light guiding me towards Styxia and have started chasing after the sound of her songs. She is my home. I love her.”

Your mother gapes at him, painted in the colors of disbelief. In a slightly comical way, her mouth has even dropped open. “Hesperia’s light,” she whispers, the closest thing to cussing she possesses. “So she chose you. And you chose her.”

“I’d choose her in every life time,” Mydei shoots back. It sounds like a vow, but it feels more significant to him. You are the manifest of his existence. “It doesn’t matter to me what she did. She stayed. She saved my life. I wasn’t in any real danger, of course, but she didn’t know that. For that, I’d die a thousand times over.”

In the end, Mydei does not pass any judgement at all. His father is dead, the country is his, and his people are waiting for his call. He doesn’t even know if they will be able to remain here, not if the black tide continues to rise. It has already swallowed Ladon whole, the city immortalized in your memory now forever. And Aeolia is his mother-in-law. After having lost a mother already, he does not want to lose the chance to connect with another. Nor does he want to be responsible for taking away yours.

At the moment, her hand is intertwined with yours, her gaze fixed on your sleeping face. The dream of recovery. The illusion of return. She fears, just as much as him, that the river of souls will claim you. But then Aeolia raises her hand to place it on his arm, the touch so motherly that he allows himself, for a brief moment, to feel like a son again. “You are a good man, Mydeimos,” she says, sounding like her daughter. In the echoes of her tone, he can only find you. “My daughter has proven that to me now. And it is the pride of any mother to have her child follow in a goddess’ footsteps.”

Mydei swallows his tears. “She is the only faith in my life.”

In the past, your father guards Ladon as steadfastly as he guards you, his gentle smile watching as you grow into your throne. In the future, a prophecy in Okhema is about to be fulfilled as you and Mydei try to protect your Kremnoan people, the only children you will ever have.

But in the present, the sun has risen, the wind is cool on your skin, and Mydei is here.

Breathing in too deeply hurts. Breathing in too shallowly hurts, as well. Everything hurts. But what hurts the most is how Mydei’s hot tears splash over your hand, searing into the skin there. For years after this, long after the threat of the titans has been vanquished and you are the only one holding on to the hope that your husband will return home, you will remember what this feels like. Swear that those tears will actually have brand-marked you. Point out the shape of the drops as they scattered over your skin, like pearls skimming over the ocean’s surface.

You smile, tired from the pain, tired from all the lying. “I’m guessing I’m in trouble?”

“So much trouble.” His voice comes out a growl.

You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your chest, transforming into a cry. Mydei moves too steady you, but then shrinks back trom it; the fear in his eyes hurts, too, so you make yourself go still, not wanting him to worry anymore. “Sorry,” you whisper. “I’m fine. Where were we?”

“I was going to kill you for scaring me that badly, actually.”

“Wouldn’t that be counterproductive, after I just took a knife to the back for you?”

Mydei glowers at you. The anger in his eyes is stifling, murderous and real. But it’s not directed at you, not really. All he has for you inside his eyes is love. It looks the same as that dream you had of your father, his gaze on Aeolia, the one you cannot tell whether it was a vision or a memory or something else entirely. “You’re awful,” he says. “An awful spy and awful bride and awful person. I thought I was going to lose you forever. The thought was so crushing I thought I was going to die right alongside you in that bed.”

“But you love me?” you try. The joke, like always, doesn’t fly. It seems to whoosh right over Mydei’s head.

But then his hand is in your hair, gently disentangling the knots. He looks as if he is holding the most precious treasure. “Yes,” Mydei confirms. “I love you. Titans help me, I love you more than anything.”

“Even more than your wish to kill me?”

“Even more than that.”

“Enough to give me a healing kiss?”

“Don’t get too over-hasty.”

That makes you laugh, and this time, you cannot hold it back. It resounds in your chest, a multi-melodied symphony of pain, and sorrow, and endurance, and joy, and love. It almost makes the gentle scolding he gives you worth it as your husband leans over to kiss your forehead, each kiss separated by another warning of how you were never going to do that again, the next kiss on your nose bespeaking how he’s going to tie you up and sit on you so that you’ll stop running head-first into danger, and then his lips are on your mouth and no one’s saying anything at all because your soul has never felt this whole and it’s singing to Mydei’s in enough words for the both of you.

The future may divide you, but this moment is entirely yours.

Hesperia sings, lighting the way home. Your love, the lighthouse on the sea, continues to glow, now and forever, even when the black tide rises against Okhema.

But that is a tale for another day.

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 5 days ago

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Trouvaille Masterlist

Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader

Genre/Themes; Hybrid!AU, themes of the supernatural and the occult, paranormal themes, religious themes, violence, hurt/comfort, horror, romance

Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is advised.

In a world where hybrids are both the hottest commodity and largely exploited, a recent shortage of hybrids nationwide due to the wealthy adopting for sport hunting dominates the news headlines. More than ever, stray hybrids are whisked off the streets and taken into shelters to meet the demand. Mistreated, neglected, forgotten – in a notoriously disreputable hybrid shelter in a pocket of downtown Boston, seven “aggressive” hybrids await their inevitable fate of being sold for sport.

After years of trying to distance herself from her mystical past and upbringing, Y/N finds herself quitting her emotionally-draining job and is forced to face past mistakes. While accompanying her friends looking to adopt a child hybrid into their newly-formed family, Y/N inadvertently finds herself face-to-face with seven hybrids doomed to die. In a spur of the moment epiphany, Y/N decides to change the course of fate for the better; though bringing seven aggressive hybrids into her life and the darkening spiritual energy of her old home is trickier to navigate than she originally thought.

Ko-fi 💜

MAIN STORY;

Find Trouvaille on Ao3 and Wattpad, too!

Chapter One posted 2.7.23; 20.4k words

Chapter Two posted 3.7.23; 20.8k words

Chapter Three posted 3.20.23; 21.5k words

Chapter Four posted 4.7.23; 20.6k words

Chapter Five posted 5.7.23; 20.5k words

Chapter Six posted 6.7.23; 20.9k words

Chapter Seven posted 7.7.23; 22.3k words

Chapter Eight posted 8.7.23; 23.4k words

Chapter Nine posted 9.7.23; 21.8k words

Chapter Ten posted 10.7.23; 21.9k words

Chapter Eleven posted 11.7.23; 20k words

Chapter Twelve posted 12.7.23; 16.6k words

Chapter Thirteen posted 1.9.24; 16.9k words

Chapter Fourteen (M) posted 2.8.24; 22.3k words

Chapter Fifteen (M) posted 3.10.24; 21.3k words

Chapter Sixteen (M) posted 4.8.24; 20.5k words

Chapter Seventeen (M) posted 5.7.24; 25k words

Chapter Eighteen (M) posted 6.8.24; 17.4k words

Chapter Nineteen posted 7.11.24; 16k words

Chapter Twenty posted 8.17.24; 17.2k words

DRABBLES;

WIP REQUESTS PAGE

"My boys" posted 9.1.23; 2.2k words

Valentine's Day special posted 2.13.24; 1.4k words

Male receiving oral (M) posted 8.21.24; 409 words

Namkook x Reader Halloween ghosthunting! Posted 11.19.24; 3.4k words

EXTRAS;

Trouvaille playlist

My Pinterest

Mood boards - Seokjin . Yoongi . Hoseok . Namjoon . Jimin . Taehyung . Jeongguk . Y/N

Style boards

Reference pictures

Individual playlists for each hybrid

Trouvaille Inspirations (coming soon!)

Things readers have created for Trouvaille

Teaser to Chapter One

PREQUELS (coming soon!);

Something Kind of Fantastic Hoseok, coming soon!

Fire, Walk With Me Yoongi, coming soon!

Midnight on a Moonless Night Taehyung, coming soon!

Almost Doesn't Matter Jimin, coming soon!

Same as it Always Was Seokjin, coming soon!

You See Them... They See You Jeongguk, coming soon!

Truth Beyond Our Own Namjoon, coming soon!

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 19 days ago

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The Boss’s Heart

Chapter II: Murphy’s Law

Summary: You’ve found your rhythm working for Apollo. Now, the challenge is meeting the boss of Onychinus… and running into some unexpected trouble.

This chapter does contain sensitive content so please read with caution!

Warnings: Violence, cursing, blood, reader gets mugged.

Series masterlist Ch. I

Second chapter out :) as always feedback is appreciated and I'd love to hear any ideas you guys have.

“Hey Y/n, I need those two fully automatics we just got in.”

“Very back of the second aisle, bottom shelf, silver cases.”

“What about the ammunition with the armor-piercing rounds?”

“Those are locked in the storage room. I’ll grab them for you in a few minutes.”

“One of the clients asked if we could erase the serial numbers from his firearms.”

“Tell him to find a Dremel and get to work, if they wanted us to do it- that should’ve been discussed during negotiations.”

After about 3 months of working in the warehouse, you were able to figure your way around. Apollo had taken you under his wing in showing you the way he does things. Thanks to his training, you were able to familiarize yourself with the various tasks around the warehouse. It was a lot to learn- and you still are learning, but at least now you’re able to get by.

One of your biggest concerns was working in a male-dominated environment. However, the guys didn’t pay too much attention to you in the beginning. You thought they’d resort to teasing or sexist comments- but instead, they just gave you the cold shoulder at times. Now, you’re happy to say they have started to warm up to you. Since Apollo ran the place and trusted you, it made the others understand no real malice or harm was coming from you. You were just a girl who needed a steady paycheck.

The main people you see and talk to during your shift are Tony, Freddy, Carl, Will, and of course, Apollo. There are others, but these are the guys you’ve managed to create a nice work relationship with.

Will, the first gentleman you’ve had the pleasure of encountering when you first arrived, was a very nice man. Sure, he held you at gunpoint, but that’s just because he’s had to keep his guard up his entire life. This is his first steady job since being released from prison. Like Apollo, he’s got a beautiful wife and they’re expecting their first child soon. A baby boy.

Tony was an older man with slicked-back grey hair. He didn’t have a family of his own, instead, he had various women keeping him company throughout the weeks. Tony was a bit of a player and very old-school. Sure, he’d flirt every now and then and even throw you a shitty pickup line, but he’s a sweetheart. He even claims if he was fifteen years younger, he’d be able to sweep you off your feet.

Freddy and Carl were both around your age, somewhere in their twenties. While goofballs at times, they’re very hard workers. Freddy was more the shy type; a quiet kid with a pair of glasses that he breaks at least once a week. Carl was the complete opposite, he was an active guy who loved making inappropriate jokes at the wrong times that Freddy even joined in on. Together, they add the humor and lightheartedness of the job.

It’s just past midnight when Apollo receives a call that interrupts your conversation. He doesn’t say anything, but the ominous vibrations of his phone leave him flustered. He quickly leaves without a word, scrambling into his office and shutting the door behind him. You turn to Carl, who simply shrugs his shoulders in response.

“Sylus must’ve called him.” A large thunk makes you jump. You turn around to see Will setting down a case of ammunition on the work table.

“Sylus?”

“The boss… ya know, leader of Onychinus?” Freddy butts in. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”

Umm, you haven’t actually. At least not his first name. Everyone here always refers to him as ‘boss’.

“Nobody makes Apollo nervous like the boss. You know how mellow he normally is, but once he gets a call from the boss, he’s a nervous wreck.” Will adds.

“Is he that scary?” You ask. The only things you’ve heard about the leader of Onychinus was that he was some mean old guy with a talking crow apparently- but those rumors were all from the streets anyways so you never gave them much thought.

“I heard he took out a group of four assassins after him with just a snap of his fingers.”

“Woah, really?” Carl takes out a cigarette and places it between his lips. “Did you know those two guys that are always with him tried killing him too?”

Will and Freddy both turn to him in shock.

“Those two guys with the crow masks? Don’t they like to worship him?” Freddy asks.

Carl shrugs his shoulders. “They do now. I heard he only hired them so he can see if they’ll succeed one day.”

You start to fade out of the ongoing conversation, your attention drifting as your gaze fixates on the heavy, closed door of Apollo’s office. Its surface, marked by time, seems to hold secrets of its own. Just then, as if he were drawn to your curious stare, the creaky metal door suddenly swings open, revealing a wide-eyed Apollo who steps out with an unmistakable urgency. Instantly, the animated chatter around you comes to a standstill, and every pair of eyes shifts toward him, the atmosphere thickening with anticipation.

“Well?” Freddy asks.

Apollo swallows hard and repeatedly clicks the ballpoint pen locked in his grip. “I guess the boss wants to pay a visit.”

All of your eyes widen at his words and there’s a pregnant pause of silence and a nervous exchange of looks.

Will clears his throat, “Did we fuck up?”

“The opposite,” Apollo lets out a shaky chuckle. “I guess the boss likes the numbers recently, and says we’ve been meeting our quotas faster than his other locations.“

Silence follows.

“He asked what we were doing differently, and I told him we hired Y/n.”

God, you can sense the weight of every gaze in the room turning towards you, and a rush of warmth floods your cheeks. You haven’t even had a chance to meet the boss yet, yet the anxiety churning inside you matches the tension in the air.

“I guess he wants to drop by tonight and check things out.”

You were pretty sure if someone dropped a pin, you’d hear it. The silence is honestly terrifying how a random trip from the big boss can result in these big brawny men becoming nervous wrecks.

“He wants to come here?” Carl asks and blows out the last bit of smoke from his cigarette before crushing the butt into an ashtray on the table.

“Uh-huh.”

“Tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Well, shit…”

———

The energy in the room has completely shifted in the last hour. Not even Carl hasn’t said a word in a while. He’s been assembling different rifles for the past twenty minutes in complete silence.

Was the boss that intimidating? It’s not like you guys didn’t do your jobs, in fact, Apollo even said the boss was impressed with the work being done.

“Y/n.” Apollo says and gently grabs your shoulder, leading you away from the others.

“Hm?”

“I need you to be sharp tonight, okay?” He tells you, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m not trying to lecture you at all cause you’re a grown-ass woman, but you haven’t met Sylus yet. He can be…”

“…scary?”

“Yeah.”

“So I’ve heard.” You answer with a tight-lipped smile.

“Now he’s interested in meeting you.”

“Wait, you’re saying he wants to talk to me?” You start to chew on your lip.

Apollo is silent for a moment. “Just be confident and respectful with your responses, okay? No sassiness either. This isn’t break time with the boys, understand?”

You nod. “I understand.”

“Good.” He pats your shoulder and walks up the metal stairs to the second level. “Boys, the boss doesn’t need to see your fucking candy wrappers on the floor! Pick it up, now!”

You’ve never seen Apollo this worked up in the three months of working with him.

———

About an hour passed after the candy wrapper fiasco. Everyone has calmed down a little bit since then. Freddy wondered if the boss had gotten caught up in another assassination attempt and wouldn’t be stopping by tonight.

That hypothesis went straight into the trash when the headlights on a fancy car pulled up to the warehouse. Will, the acting doorman, was the one who alerted everyone and now the tension has slowly increased once again.

Carl was still assembling the rifles stiffly. Freddy busied himself by tweaking the silencer on a pistol, while Tony was unloading the newest shipment onto the shelves.

Grabbing your clipboard and pen, you walked over to Tony to count the inventory. He nods at you and gives you a small smile.

“Don’t worry, kid. If you can win Will over, the boss is nothing.”

You only give him a nervous chuckle.

“Okay, we got six cases of ammo. Four scopes for the rifles...”

——

Apollo exits from his office and up the metal stairs to the mezzanine platform of the warehouse.

Will opens the door for the boss, the heavy door creaking in response. The boss’s large frame is revealed and he stands eye to eye with Will.

“Sir.” Will lowers his head as he passes, beginning to close the door.

“Don’t shut the door on Mephisto.”

Will pauses and the crow caws as a warning before flying in and landing on his owner's shoulder.

“Mr. Sylus.” Apollo nods his head, hoping his boss didn’t just see the bead of sweat drip from his forehead and fall to the floor.

“Apollo,” Sylus’s voice drawls out calmly, yet his tone leaves no room for anything other than business. “I’ve been hearing good things recently.”

Apollo clears his throat as if to shove away the last of his nerves. “Yes, sir. Our numbers have been exceptionally well and so far- the best we’ve seen.”

Sylus hums in contentment.

“Shall we discuss the numbers in my office?”

——

“Was that a bird?” You ask, looking away from the clipboard as Tony unloads the last of the shipment.

Tony wipes the back of his neck with a rag. “Yeah, the boss has this robot raven thing he built. It’s pretty cool.”

You hum, “So it’s like a pet..?”

“Pet, secret murder weapon, an annoying little thing he is.” Tony counts out on his fingers.

“Wait, it’s a murder weapon?” You lower your voice and step in closer, curious.

Tony nods. “I think so, I heard he shoots laser beams out of his eyes and he has a razor-sharp beak.”

Your mind fills with all the stories you’ve heard on the streets again. “Woah, that’s crazy.”

“Living here… it’s necessary. You should know, sweetheart. That can of pepper spray will only take you so far.”

“Lucky to say I haven’t even needed to use it.” You respond.

“Not yet.”

“Tony,” you warn and raise an eyebrow.

“I’m just saying, you’re a pretty young thing and humans are sick creatures. It wouldn’t kill you to let us teach you how to at least shoot a gun. Hell, I’ll even get you a pink one if you’d like.”

You give him a small laugh and start scrawling notes on your clipboard. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll let you guys know when I’m ready.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay.”

“But you were saying I could get it in pink, right?”

——

“How are Laura and the kids?” Sylus asks, picking up the small photo frame.

Apollo looks at Sylus, confused for a moment but slowly relaxes. “Uhh, Laura’s good. She just got a promotion at her firm. Nora just got into that preschool we were looking at and David won his soccer tournament.”

“Good, good.” Sylus walks around and picks up a rubber band ball on his desk. He tosses it in the air a few times. “You guys were able to pay off your debt, correct?”

“Yes, sir. As of last month. Now we’re just saving for college.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When Sylus met Apollo, he was nothing more than a drug addict in severe debt. He was hired by the previous manager on the spot when Onychinus bought out the warehouse. Laura was only his girlfriend at the time and their relationship was hanging by a thread. Apollo had a rather nasty attitude at the time, as one would when their life was falling into pieces. He said the wrong thing at the wrong time when Sylus came to visit and Apollo earned himself the beating of his life.

Though it sounds cruel, Apollo says it's the wake-up call he needed. He moved Laura out of the N109 Zone when he had saved up enough money and worked on staying clean. Throughout the next few months, they worked on their relationship, family, and stability.

Sylus paces Apollo’s office. His eyes drift to the computer sitting on his desk, the security feed open.

“That’s her?” Sylus asks as his sharp crimson eyes lock onto the young woman holding a clipboard.

“Yep, she’s picked up things relatively quickly and it leaves me more time to handle our clients. An extra pair of hands is always nice, didn’t know it would help so much.”

“So she’s reliable?”

“Oh, a hundred percent. She gets along with the guys pretty well, too. Luckily, a lot of the stuff we do here is routine so it was easy for her to learn.”

“Even with Will?”

“Even with Will.”

Sylus hums, a bit surprised.

“And her background?”

“Well, she worked at a bar before,” Apollo says and shifts from one foot to the other.

“A bar?”

“Mhm, her boss was just a piece of shit. I thought it would be better to get her out of there.”

“I’m surprised in you, Apollo.” A smirk hangs lazily on Sylus’s face. “I wasn’t aware you picked up strays.”

“I wouldn’t call her a stray,” he chuckles nervously. “Just lost in a way. It sucks seeing someone so young stuck down here.”

“Does she at least shoot well?”

“Well, she’s never actually held a gun before.”

Sylus raises a brow. “She does know she works in weaponry, correct?”

“Yes, sir. She’s aware.” Apollo gives a nervous chuckle. “I just have her handle the inventory and idle paperwork.”

“Just be careful, Apollo,” Sylus warns and stands up straight and heads for the door. “You know this business is risky and dangerous. She’s a sitting duck out there. I know you want to play the savior to help her, but if anything happens, her blood is all over your hands.”

Apollo’s eyes shift down, staring at his scuffed work boots. There have been some minor incidents over the years, but luckily nothing too fatal.

“I understand, sir.”

Sylus nods and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll be in touch. Teach her how to defend herself.”

It’s an order.

“Yes sir.”

——

Your brain wracks through the listed supplies of inventory. It’s not adding up.

“Dammit.” You shuffle through the papers one last time and mentally count the boxes you’ve received.

“What are we missing?” Tony asks and peeks over your shoulder.

You huff in frustration. “A case of bullets, the ones laced with the neurotoxins.”

Tony quickly scans the inventory and your paperwork as well, and he visibly stiffens. “That’s not a mistake. We’ve had our stuff tampered with before.”

“You think it’s shady?” You ask and start to chew your lip.

“Look where ya workin’, sweetheart.” Tony sighs heavily and hands you back the clipboard. “Best go tell Apollo.”

“Umm, isn’t he with the boss right now?”

“Best he hears it, too.”

Your eyes lock onto Tony’s deep brown ones, a pleading look on your face as he laughs, the creases in his eyes scrunching up.

“Go on up, kid. It’s about time you know who you're working for.”

You force your feet to move and follow Tony’s command. The palms of your hands are starting to sweat at this point and your mind runs over the conversation from earlier with the boys.

I heard he took out a group of assassins with just the snap of his fingers.

“Maybe I should wait to tell him,” you wonder aloud quietly as you approach the opening door.

You didn’t react quickly enough, your instincts catching you off guard. As you turned the corner, you collided with another person, a startled gasp escaping your lips. The unexpected force knocked you back, and you felt your waist connect sharply with the cold metal railing behind you. The sturdy barrier wobbled but held firm. For a moment, you were caught off balance, heart racing as you took in the stranger before you.

“Shit, I’m so sorry.” By the time your eyes focus on the person, you know you’ve messed up.

The man raises a pointed eyebrow at you, a visible frown on his face. Cold eyes bore into your skull, and you feel a burning heat rush to your face as your wide eyes lock onto his.

The man towered over six feet tall, exuding a commanding presence. He wore a luxurious silk shirt that shimmered faintly in the light, and you vividly recalled the sensation of it brushing against your cheek when you accidentally bumped into him. Draped casually over his shoulders was a tailored blazer, the fabric hugging his muscular frame perfectly. His hair was meticulously styled, a striking blend of pale milk and ashen hues, with a few rebellious strands falling just above his intense crimson eyes, which seemed to glow with an intriguing mixture of fire and intensity.

In every way, he defied the rumors that swirled around him. Far from the decrepit figure one might expect, he looked only a handful of years older than you. Moreover, he carried an allure that was impossible to ignore; he wasn’t just handsome—his features were striking, with sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jawline that added to his undeniable charm.

“You must be the new girl.” The man’s husky voice is calculated as he scans over you.

You swallow hard, trying to find some moisture in your mouth to properly form words. “Uhm, yes, sir.”

Your hand stretches out to create more distance between you two and you tell him your name.

“Sylus.” He shakes your hand.

“Y/n.” Apollo’s voice calls out from behind Sylus. “Everything okay?”

Blood flows through your cheeks again as both men now lock onto you.

“Tony and I were going through the shipment and we noticed something missing. I wouldn’t normally bug you about this especially while Mr. Sylus is here, but it’s the case of bullets with neurotoxins.”

Apollo cursed and ran his hand through his hair. Sylus’s eyes shift away from you, seemingly lost in thought.

“Hm.” Sylus strokes his chin. “There was another location report missing items, too, but this might be more of an issue than I realized.”

“I’ll be in touch, Apollo.” His eyes meet yours again and you feel a swirl in your tummy. “Keep an eye out for me, Y/n. I hope to see more of you in the future.”

You nod and smile politely.

He turns around and calls something out behind him. A black blur zips out of Apollo’s office and lands on his shoulder.

So that’s the bird.

You can hear the mechanical gears whirl and shift as the bird's head turns to stare at you; its bright scarlet eyes matching its owners. The bird's head cocks to the side before cawing as Sylus walks out of the building.

——

The walk home was the same as any other night. You kick dirt up as you walk the old and empty road.

Apollo said the meeting went well with Sylus after he left. He likes the numbers, the work ethic, and the team. Aside from you bumping into him, which the guys teased you to hell and back over, Apollo told you that you did just fine.

However, you can see where the guys are coming from when they say Sylus is scary. Just one look had your palms sweaty and mouth dry.

Apollo had also informed you it was time they start training you, which you politely declined. You appreciate the guys looking after you, but you just didn’t feel comfortable.

Then your mind wanders to the missing case of ammo. Those are deadly bullets. While any bullet can be deadly, the neurotoxin-laced bullets are essentially coated in a substance that will either paralyze you or slowly poison you no matter the point of entry. Sylus said something about it possibly being something more than just a coincidence, especially with the other location missing their cases too.

The large buildings and towers now surround you as your feet step off the dirt path and onto the chipped sidewalk.

A sudden caw catches your attention. Curiously, you look up and see a bird perched on the head of a street lamp. The familiar scarlet eyes glimmer under the moon's light. What is Sylus’s bird doing out here?

Just a few more blocks.

Pieces of crumbled paper drift through the street from the chilling breeze. Cars were honking at each other a few streets over, which made you start to pick up your pace.

Continuing with your trek home, you feel something off in the energy surrounding you. With a glance over your shoulder, you miss the hand coming out of the alley and grabbing you by the back of your jacket.

On instinct, you release a scream, but the person is quick to cover your mouth. Your back is shoved against the jagged brick of the building and the person draws out a small revolver.

“Empty your pockets.” The gruff voice orders and clicks the safety off of the gun.

With shaking hands, you struggle to pull out your things.

“Faster!” He orders. “Or I’ll pull the fucking trigger.”

Your throat tightens up and tears blur your vision, making it even harder to see in the dark alley. Once your phone and wallet are visible, he snatches them quickly and opens your wallet. Cards, your ID, and even coins litter the ground as he rifles through.

“That’s it, no cash?” He shakes the gun, the metal rattling slightly. “You have to have something else.”

“I-I don’t, I swear. That’s all I have.” You choke out, forcing yourself to heave in a big breath as the tears mercilessly fall.

The man curses again and shoves you against the wall, the force knocking the wind out of you. "I can always get another form of compensation, sweetheart."

The back of his hand traces down your cheek and you whimper.

You grimace and choke out another sob as you grab the can of pepper spray hidden in the other pocket of your pants. Without another moment, you press down on the red trigger.

"Fuck!" The man hisses, his voice laced with anger and disbelief as he instinctively recoils, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the stinging spray of liquid that drips down his face like hot wax. The acrid smell fills the air, mixing with the adrenaline surging through your veins. Seizing the moment, you thrust him off you with all your strength and dart past him, heart pounding in your chest. But before you can escape, he recovers quickly, grasping your wrist with a vice-like grip that sends shockwaves of fear coursing through you.

"Little bitch!"

He raises his hand and strikes your face, your head snapping to the side as ringing echoes in your ears.

Through red tears, he reaches for the gun again, struggling to get a hold of the piece.

Before he can properly pull on the trigger, a caw rings out.

A black blur of mechanical feathers swoops down and swipes at the man.

"Ah-!" He cries out as a deep gash runs across the side of his neck, the blood leaking from the wound like a waterfall.

The bird lets out another caw before attacking the man again. Its beak continues to peck and pierce at his face, eventually bringing him down to the ground. During the scuffle, the bird briefly pauses to stare at you and caws again, as if urging you to run.

You understand the message and use the rest of your adrenaline to run the rest of the way home.

----

The next day before work, you used the best of your makeup abilities to cover the bruises on your face. Luckily, the guy didn't give you a black eye, just bruising and minor swelling on your cheek.

Your phone and wallet were still gone, too. You'd have to dip into your slowly rising savings account to afford a new one. Even after you've been so careful not to touch it.

You keep your head down as you clock in and don't greet any of the guys as you walk in. The second they see you, it's going to be countless 'I told you so's,' and you just weren't in the mood to deal with it. You couldn't even get any sleep last night, too scared to keep your eyes closed for long which only added to the fatigue on your body.

"Y/n?" A hand is placed on your shoulder, making you jump.

"Woah, sorry, kid," Apollo says. "You okay?"

"Uh, yeah I'm fine, sorry." You respond, keeping your head down as you turn slightly.

"Then look me in the eye."

Shit.

"No, the floor looks pretty good right now."

"Y/n." Not the dad voice. "I already know."

Hesitantly, you turn around and meet Apollo's eyes. His expression is stoic as his eyes quickly scan over the poorly covered bruise on your cheek.

"C'mon, kid." He throws an arm around your shoulder and leads you to his office. You notice the others quickly glancing in your direction, but quickly looking away when your eyes meet theirs.

Tony was muttering some choice words, while Freddy and Carlos hushed their words as you walked by. Will remained silent, bowing his head as you passed him.

How the hell do they already all know?

Apollo shuts the door of his office behind him and gestures for you to sit.

You take a seat on the chair across from his desk while he reaches into the mini-fridge underneath the cabinets. He pulls out an ice pack and hands it to you.

You swallow hard and take the frozen block from him, carefully pressing it against your cheek.

Apollo sits across from you. "You want to tell me what happened?"

You bite your lip and beg for the tears not to come again. You've already spent so much time crying last night. Slowly, you shake your head.

"Okay." He nods. "Can you just tell me one thing?"

Your eyes meet his concerned ones.

"Did he..." Apollo trails off, not wanting to finish his sentence.

"No." You quickly tell him, already knowing the question. He lets out a sigh of relief.

There's a pregnant silence in the office, safe for your sniffling.

"H-how did you find out?"

"Mephisto."

"Who?"

"The boss's bird."

"Oh."

Why was Mephisto there last night? Was it simply the right place at the right time?

"Listen, you're more than welcome to take some time off if you need to. I'm really surprised you still came in, I tried to call you earlier-"

"My phone was stolen." You cut him off. "My wallet, too."

"Go home," Apollo tells you. "Get some rest, get yourself situated."

"But-"

"No."

"I'm not one of your kids, Apollo."

"The hell you're not." He challenges.

You stay quiet.

“Look, we just want you to take care of yourself mentally,” Apollo says before his phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and frowns. “Hang tight, kiddo. Keep the icepack on your face.”

“Mr. Sylus?” He answers, placing the phone to his ear and pointing to the runny ice pack that you had placed in your lap. You grumble and place the icepack back onto the tender skin and turn slightly in the chair as a way to give him some privacy, only picking up bits and pieces of the conversation.

“Yes, sir, she’s with me.”

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Got it, okay, I’ll let her know.”

Apollo places the phone back on his desk, the sound knocking you out of your thoughts. “Sylus has your phone and wallet. Mephisto picked them up after the guy bled out.”

Your eyes widen.

“He’s dead?”

“Would you rather him not be?”

"Well, I just thought..." Your words trail off. Did you want him to be dead?

Yes, no, maybe so?

The man was seconds away from taking your life, why would you feel bad someone else took his?

"I think you're forgetting who you work for, Y/n," Apollo tells you. "Sylus doesn't tolerate an attack on anyone who works for him. When I said we look out for each other, I meant it."

Slowly, you nod your head.

"How can I get my stuff back?" You ask and pull the icepack away from your bruised face, the cooling sensation beginning to irritate your skin.

"Sylus asked that you meet him at Onychinus's base. He wants to begin your training as soon as possible."

——

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 24 days ago

Text

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Self Defense

(part one and part two)

synopsis: Cast away by your father, the King of Linkon, you find yourself starting a new life at the palace in Tarus City, the capital of Onychinus.

content: sylus x afab!reader; use of Y/N; slow burn; use of derogatory words (whore); brief mentions of war; mentions of injury; suggestive flirting; pretty angsty at the end, sorry; mostly proofread

word count: ~4.3k

a/n: surprise! struck by inspiration, i was finally able to finish this part! as always, thank you so much for your continued support and please enjoy <3

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Your ears were ringing.

You couldn’t hear what Sylus was saying to your father. Your father who had just said he had no intention of bringing you home. Your father, the man who had shown you nothing but love your whole life, was abandoning you in the hands of his greatest enemy.

Oh but you did hear what your father said, loud and clear.

“If my daughter has chosen to whore herself to another kingdom under my nose, then she must deal with the consequences.”

Whore yourself to another kingdom? Was that what he thought you were doing? How could he think such a thing? What had you ever done to deserve your father speaking about you in such a shameful manner?

Unbeknownst to you, Sylus went rigid and his gaze turned menacing. “That’s no way to speak about your own daughter, Your Majesty,” he all but growled. “I can assure you that is not the reason she is here.”

“I haven’t done anything, Father!” you shouted. “How could you think that of me?”

Your father shot you a look so scathing, you felt like a slap across the cheek. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to all these years? Well, congratulations, you’ve gotten what you wanted, Y/N.”

“Father please! You misunderstand, please just let me explain!”

He ignored your pleas, instead focusing on Sylus. “Your assurances mean little to me.” He held up a hand when Sylus opened his mouth. “I don’t care for an explanation, as I’ve said, you’re free to do with her as you wish.”

Desperate, you slipped off the horse, landing hard on the ground. You were numb to the pain as you rushed for your father’s retreating horse.

This meeting was, apparently, over.

“Papa?!” you cried out. You hadn’t called him that since you were a child. “Papa why? Why are you doing this to me?”

Sylus caught your waist, keeping you from running after the man who’d just renounced what felt like your entire existence.

“Papa?!”

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t once look back at you, his only child.

His whore of a daughter.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, your voice growing hoarse as you screamed after him. You collapsed in Sylus’s arms when he faded from view, the truth settling like a stone in your gut that he truly left you.

Sylus carried you back to the horse, lifting and placing you so you rode side saddle. He settled behind you moments later, cradling you against his chest. Your hands fisted in his shirt, and you just sobbed. During the ride to the encampment. In Sylus’s arms as he walked to his tent. On the cot, your face buried in his neck.

And he comforted you through it all.

This man was a stranger to you and yet he held you, stroked your hair. You didn’t have the capacity to wonder why, your heart too shattered, in too much pain to do anything more than cry.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Sylus eased you onto the cot and out of his arms, making sure you were asleep before slipping quietly out of his tent.

Luke and Kieran, his two most trusted and loyal soldiers, fell into step beside him as he strode toward the war tent.

“What’s the plan, Boss?” Kieran asked.

While the two always donned masks, Sylus had long since learned how to tell the twins apart.

“I’m going to stop playing nice and decimate the King of Linkon’s army while you escort Princess Y/N to the palace,” Sylus answered.

“But shouldn’t we be on the battlefield with you?” Luke questioned.

Sylus stopped and faced the twins, his expression deadly serious. “I don’t trust anyone else to ensure her safety, so you’ll take her. Am I clear?”

“Of course, Boss,” said Kieran.

“You can count on us,” said Luke.

They both fidgeted, a classic tell that they had more to say.

Sylus sighed. “What?”

“We’re just wondering…why?” Kieran asked on both their behalves.

Sylus averted his gaze, looking instead in the direction of where you lay sleeping in his tent. “Because she deserves to live her life on her own terms.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The palace was massive, much bigger than the one in Linkon or any others you’d stayed at throughout the years. Made of dark stone, it stood high above the city proper of the capital of Onychinus, Tarus City.

You couldn’t help but marvel at the grand architecture as your carriage navigated the streets, inching closer and closer to what would soon be your new home.

Sylus was by your side when you woke after crying yourself to exhaustion.

“Hey, sweetie,” he murmured, smoothing the hair out of your face. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” you rasped.

He huffed. “Yeah, that’s understandable. How would you feel about Luke and Kieran taking you to my palace?”

“You aren’t coming?” you questioned.

“I’ll be right behind you, I need to take care of a few things here first.”

“You mean fighting.”

“Yes, I mean fighting.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you hoped Sylus would rain hellfire upon your father’s soldiers.

That was about a week and a half ago.

You’d become quite acquainted with Sylus’s right hand men, Luke and Kieran. They were actually pretty funny, and regularly poked fun at their King.

You learned they were twins that had been abandoned when they were very young. They learned to survive on their own and, one day, decided to set their sights on the King in an attempt to usurp his throne. Rather than kill them for it, however, Sylus saw their potential and managed to recruit them not only into his army, but into his exclusive inner circle. The only other member of said circle was named Mephisto, but you had no other details on this mysterious third person.

Though you were curious, you’d decided not to ask about their masks, feeling it too intrusive and a potential risk to the friendship brewing with them.

“All right Princess,” Kieran said as the carriage rolled up to the drawbridge at the palace entrance, “boss-man sent word you were coming so you’ll be treated with the outmost care from here on out.”

“He did?” you asked, more to yourself than to him.

In the moments not spent getting to know the twins better, you were left to wonder why Sylus was going out of his way for you. Despite your ribbing, he had never been outright cruel to you in the days you spent within his encampment, and now rather than tossing you aside—or worse, killing you—he was allowing you into his home, not as a prisoner but as a welcomed guest. Did he have some sort of ulterior motive? Or were his intentions pure? You hoped to uncover this once he returned.

The twins shared a look but the meaning was lost to you thanks to their masks. And you didn’t get a chance to ask because the moment you stepped out of the carriage, you were whisked away by a flurry of servants. They waved goodbye as the servants led you through the palace and into a bedchamber far grander than the ones you’d previously called your own.

You stood in front of a massive mirror, your clothes swiftly discarded, and your measurements taken before being ushered into the bathing suite where you were scrubbed head to toe, leaving no trace of your travel behind.

A young woman, around your age, with a short brown bob strode into the bathing suite as the servants helped you out of the tub.

“Thank you ladies,” she said in a cute, high pitched voice. “I can take it from here.”

The servants handed you a towel and bowed, then quickly saw themselves out.

“Princess Y/N, it’s nice to meet you, my name is Tara and I’ve been asked to be your handmaid during your stay at the palace.”

“Oh, um, it’s nice to meet you too.” You nodded. “Tara.”

Tara tilted her head, smiling. “You seem surprised.”

You wrapped the towel around your body, clutching the fabric tightly. “I just wasn’t expecting all this.”

“We were given explicit instructions to make you feel at home here, straight from the King himself,” Tara explained, coming up beside you and gently leading you back into the bedchamber. “The seamstresses have taken your measurements for a custom fitting wardrobe, but for now we’ll have to make do. I had the servants go out and get you things to wear in the meantime.”

“A custom fitting wardrobe really isn’t necessary,” you insisted.

Tara shot you an incredulous look as she went to the armoire beside the mirror. “You are a princess, and you shall be treated as such.”

You couldn’t wrap your head around any of this. In Linkon you had a custom wardrobe, sure, but your father kept you rather isolated. No handmaids, servants who only helped clean your bedchamber, you’d done almost everything on your own. What Sylus had done for you felt more apt for a queen than a measly princess like yourself, at least based on your upbringing.

“Sorry,” you muttered, fixing your gaze on the floorboards. “I’m not used to this kind of treatment.”

“No need to apologize, Princess,” Tara said, her cheerful tone never wavering. “Now drop your towel so I can dress you. Then I’ll take you for a tour.”

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You really liked Tara.

As the days turned to weeks, she was a constant presence by your side, helping you adjust to your new life in Onychinus. She became more of a friend than a handmaid, something you’d never really had before. Between her and the twins, you were hardly ever bored, whether it was exploring the palace or city proper with Tara, or being strung along with the many schemes the twins came up with. But throughout it all, Sylus was never far from your mind.

It was how, in moments of solitude, you found yourself in the palace library. You were ravenous for any information you could find about the King, so you scoured the shelves. There wasn’t much to come by, however, the most you found being a family tree. The Qin Royal Family was written across the top.

Qin.

Sylus Qin.

You were worried about him. You had no right to be, you knew that, but you couldn’t help it. He was doing what your father was too cowardly to do himself: fighting alongside his soldiers. But that meant he could get hurt, or worse, killed. Why you even cared, you had no idea, it wasn’t out of concern for your own safety, that much was certain.

For yet another night in a row, you forwent the custom made nightclothes in your armoire in favor of the shirt you’d stolen from Sylus’s chest on that fateful day. His scent still lingered despite being washed several times over, and wearing it made you feel safe in the still relatively unknown world you found yourself in.

“Princess!”

The twins banged loudly on your bedchamber door and, after throwing on a pair of loose pants, you hurried over to open it.

“What?” you demanded as you yanked it open. “Do you two have any idea what time it is?”

“Boss is back,” Kieran said. “He wants to see you.”

Your annoyance instantly vanished. “Take me to him.”

They led you to his bedchambers, a route you’d memorized during your many palace tours with Tara in his absence.

“Boss, it’s us,” Luke announced as he knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Luke opened the door and Kieran pushed you inside.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, helpless as they slammed the door shut in your face. “Should’ve known they were up to something.”

You turned, exasperated, then your heart stopped the second you laid eyes on Sylus.

Time suspended as you stared at each other.

Sylus drank you in, some unnamed emotion tightening in his chest seeing you wearing the very shirt you’d taken from him. He was brought back to that moment when he’d walked in on you, legs bare in only that damned shirt. He hadn’t been able to help himself, admiring you, and he found himself doing the same now (at least this time you had on pants).

It wasn’t as though he’d forgotten what you looked like, it had only been about a month since you’d last seen each other, but somehow you were more striking than he remembered.

You were just as memorized by him, standing there without a shirt, his muscles on full display. He seemed tired, but no less handsome from when you’d parted. All this time you’d been anxiously anticipating his return and now face-to-face with him, you found yourself struck stupid by his appearance alone.

A slash of red along his ribs snapped you back to reality.

“Sylus, you’re hurt,” you gasped.

You rushed to him, now noticing he had supplies laid out on the edge of the bed.

“I’m fine,” Sylus grumbled, still a bit flustered.

You turned him by the shoulders, the heat of his skin searing into your palms. There was a decent sized laceration that stretched from his ribs to his back. It looked to be healing though, so at least he’d taken care of it.

“Sit, I’ll bandage it for you,” you instructed, swatting at his shoulder.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, Princess,” Sylus protested.

“The tail of the wound on your back looks noticeably worse off than the rest,” you said firmly. “Now sit.”

With a sigh, Sylus sunk onto the bed, putting you at eye level. He found himself fidgeting with the hem of your shirt—his shirt—as you began cleaning his wound. It didn’t hurt much anymore, and it certainly hurt less knowing it was your hands tending to him.

“Why are you wearing this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You glanced at him, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “It’s comfortable.”

“I have a whole wardrobe custom made for you and yet this is what you choose to wear?”

Your own cheeks heated. “I only wear it to bed.”

Sylus’s fingers stilled. “I see.” After a brief but tense silence, he asked, “Has everything been to your liking in my absence?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, it has. I’m treated better here than I ever was in Linkon.”

“Why is that funny?” Sylus questioned.

“Because you’re my country’s sworn enemy, and my father likely thought you’d kill me.” You smoothed salve over the laceration and secured a bandage over it with care. “But instead you offer me sanctuary. Luxury. A life fit for a princess.”

“You are a princess, sweetie,” he drawled.

Your lips quirked upward. “Not here I’m not.” Sylus frowned and looked like he was about to protest but you cut him off, asking quietly, “Did you accomplish what you set out to do?”

He sucked in a breath. “Yes,” he answered on the exhale. “For now, at least.”

“Good.”

“Good? Not the response I was expecting.”

“Is it wrong that I was hoping for this outcome?” you questioned, averting your gaze.

Sylus grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes back to his. “No, it isn’t. You have every right to feel that way after what happened.”

You swallowed. “Thank you,” you managed, “for everything.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you done tending to your patient? Satisfied that I’m alive?”

You cracked a smile at that. “Yes, you need to make sure you have someone other than yourself take care of that wound. You don’t want to end up with an infection.”

“Yes, Princess.” He rose from the bed and tugged on a shirt. “Let me escort you back to your bedchamber.”

“That’s not necessary, Your Majesty, I know the way.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Memorized it while I was gone, did you?”

You shoved his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

He laughed, and you went still, staring at him with wonder. You hadn’t heard him laugh before. It was a rich sound, smooth like his voice, and it made your heart squeeze.

“What?” he questioned.

You shook your head. “Nothing, lead the way.”

The walk to your bedchamber was made in comfortable silence, your arm brushing against Sylus’s with every other step. You were relieved he was here, and more importantly that he was okay. The restlessness you’d felt during the month apart had eased, you felt settled.

Sylus, for his part, felt similarly. You hadn’t left his mind the entire time he was away, not when he was in the midst of battle, or when he was pushing his army to the limit on his way home. There was an undeniable connection between you two, he’d felt it the moment he met you fourteen years ago, and being in such close proximity was making it incredibly difficult to ignore.

You came to a stop in front of your bedchamber door. “Um, thanks for walking me, and…I’m glad you’re back, it’s about time the twins find someone else to bother.”

His lips twitched. “You’re welcome, Princess, though I can’t say I’m as thrilled as you are to become the twins’ target. It was a nice respite.”

You scoffed. “I’m sure.”

Sylus cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward. “Sleep well, Princess, and thanks for bandaging me up.”

Something came over you as he turned away, and you grabbed his hand. You surged forward, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Sleep well, Your Majesty.”

You retreated into the bedchamber before he could speak, leaving him stunned in the corridor.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

He was playing a dangerous game, being so close to you.

Sylus felt more like a lost puppy than a king, following you around the palace whenever he had a free moment to spare. He couldn’t help it, he was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. A puppy to a treat.

It didn’t help that you didn’t seem to mind his presence at all. In fact, Sylus was quite sure you enjoyed spending time with him. Your eyes would light up whenever you saw him. You laughed more freely when he was around. The tension in your shoulders eased in his presence.

He was playing a dangerous game indeed, but couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Where are we going? And why did you ask me to dress like this?”

You trailed behind him as he led you to a part of the palace you’d yet to explore. He’d sent word with Tara to dress you in comfortable clothes you could move around in, so you were outfitted in what you thought were riding clothes, but he wasn’t leading you to the stables.

“I was informed you often travel into the city proper, and while I can guarantee your safety within the palace grounds, I cannot say the same for outside of them. So, I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself in case you ever find yourself in trouble.”

“Defend myself?”

He glanced sidelong at you. “The laws we enforce here are very different than what you’re used to in Linkon. There’s a lot more…freedom, if you will, which means you need to be prepared for any possibility.”

This freedom he spoke of was more akin to lawlessness. You’d noticed early on that the city proper was not something you were used to, or frankly, well equipped to navigate despite always being accompanied by either Tara or the twins.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, Your Majesty,” you said, nudging his arm playfully.

Sylus’s lips twitched. It would be a lie to say he didn’t enjoy hearing you call him that. “I brought you here, it’s my job to ensure your safety, Your Highness.”

He took you to an outdoor training area, complete with racks filled with wooden weapons and a sand pit.

Hand in yours, he led you onto the sand pit.

“Okay, sweetie,” Sylus said, “show me your fighting stance.”

You tilted your head in faux innocence. “My what?”

He shook his head. “What did they teach you in Linkon?”

“A princess surrounded by guards has no need to defend herself,” you huffed.

“A princess who regularly snuck out with none of those guards present surely needed to know,” he retorted.

You rolled your eyes and sketched a dramatic bow. “Fine, fine, teach me Oh-Wise-Majesty.”

Sylus scoffed.

You stiffened as he moved behind you, yelped when he kicked your feet out with his own. “A warning, perhaps?” you snapped, glaring at him over your shoulder.

“I’m going to position you how I want you now, Princess,” he drawled with a smirk.

Heat blazed up your neck and across your cheeks. His words sent butterflies flying through your stomach. Sure, maybe you’d fantasized a few times about what his lips would feel like on yours, it wasn’t like the man was ugly by any means, but you truly had not thought of Sylus in such a sinful manner. To hear him say something like that out loud was positively mortifying!

His warm, large hands found your waist, your body becoming pliant under his touch. He felt the shift. Felt how easily you moved under him, allowing him to rotate your hips, lifts your arms, and raise your fists. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, willing himself to maintain his composure, but gods you made it so difficult for him.

Swallowing hard, he stepped in front of you. “They’re no hidden tricks to combat. Good eyes and a ruthless fist are more than enough to knock out most people.” Sylus raised his hands, palms facing you. “The rest’ll depend on what you can pick up yourself during training.” He nodded to your fists. “Let’s see how hard you can hit.”

You blinked several times. “You want me to hit you?”

“Yes, sweetie, I need to know what I’m working with here,” he said.

“Right. Okay.”

Quick as an asp, you struck, throwing your weight into your punch with perfect form as it made contact with Sylus’s palm. His eyes widened in surprise, and looked you over with renewed interest.

“I should’ve known you had a trick up your sleeve. Where did you learn how to do that?”

You grinned, thrilled to have pulled one over on him. “I didn’t spend all my time frolicking in flower fields during my escapades.”

“Clearly not. I’m sorry I underestimated you.”

“Apology accepted.”

The next few hours were spent learning different techniques to defend yourself from an attacker and how to disable them in order to get away. By the end, you and Sylus were out of breath and in desperate need of a bath.

“All right,” Sylus said, pushing his hair back, “that’s enough for one day.”

His guard down, a wicked idea formed in your mind, so you seized on the opportunity to end this training session as the unofficial victor.

You kicked out at his shin, knocking him off balance. You grabbed his arm and yanked, twisting it behind his back as he fell to a knee.

“Hah! The student has surpassed the teacher!” you exclaimed in triumph, bracing your other hand on his back.

Sylus peered at you over his shoulder. “Not bad. You’re able to quickly apply what you’ve learned.” He huffed a chuckle. “So you have the skills. However…”

One second he was prone in your grasp.

Then the next you found your back against the ground, staring up into his smug face as he pinned you down.

“The closer you are to victory, the more you should stay on your toes,” he whispered, breath fanning over your face. “You still have a lot to learn, Princess.”

“Good thing I have a kind teacher to show me,” you murmured.

Your gaze betrayed you, flicking to his full, parted lips.

Sylus’s sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of every part of him that was touching you. Heat seared through his veins, and he glanced between your eyes to your lips then back to your eyes again.

As though in a trance, his face inched closer to yours but rather than shy away, you found your eyes fluttering closed.

If my daughter has chosen to whore herself to another kingdom under my nose, then she must deal with the consequences.

Your father’s words rang loud and clear in Sylus’s mind. He froze but a hair’s breadth away from your lips. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be responsible for your father’s words coming to fruition. You deserved better than that. You deserved to live a life free of judgment.

Sylus jerked back and climbed off you. Your eyes flew open in surprise, not expecting his sudden retreat.

Without looking at you, he offered his hand. “We’re done for the day,” he said gruffly.

You took his hand and he wrenched you to your feet then strode past you out of the sand pit without so much as a glance in your direction. You hurried after him.

“Sylus, is everything okay?” you questioned.

“Everything is fine,” he answered, clipped. “I’ll send for Tara, she’ll meet you in your bedchamber to help you bathe.”

“Sylus wait—”

But he didn’t stop, even though you did, staring at his back as he walked away from you.

Anxiety blossomed in your gut. Did you do something wrong? You could’ve sworn he was the one leaning in for a kiss. Maybe you’d imagined it. Maybe you’d completely misread the situation and scared him off. He was King after all, a fact you seemed to forget whenever in his presence.

You stood, watching until Sylus disappeared from view, worried that something irreparable had just taken place between you.

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 26 days ago

Text

Ikigai, Part 8

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

The walk to Sylus’ room is reminiscent of one to the gallows. You’ve seen those walks in people’s souls, how each step makes their throat tighten more and how they seem to mentally wait for each heartbeat to come. Like every step or every breath or ever beat is going to be their last.

That’s the only way you can think of to describe how you feel right now. A place that once meant safety and comfort to you has been tainted. It’s been warped, smeared, and destroyed in a way that a you from a few weeks ago would’ve never imagined.

Because now, you’re walking there with fear. Fear of Sylus of all people. Your partner in crime. Your confidant. Your closest friend. Your Morana.

You don’t want to think of him this way. Far from it. But Miss Hunter’s words, her shaky tone and fidgety hands, make you this way. The chaos of emotions in her threads make you this way. Everything about how she was when describing her time with Sylus make you this way.

Modification of her Evol.

You know very well what those words mean. You know what it looks like, feels like. You know all of this because it’s woven into her soul.

And her own soulmate tried to do that to her. Tried to split her open. Try to warp her and smear her and destroy what makes her her.

Rage and betrayal and whole other slew of emotions boil up inside of you. Each step makes you wonder when you’ll explode, when you’ll break from all of this.

You try to combat this with each breath. Each deep, hard-fought, breath. You try to embrace a wave of calm, to tamper down the craziness and be who you normally are: in control.

Nothing helps. Nothing works. And before you know it, you’re knocking at that accursed bedroom door.

Since when am I so polite with him?

A weak laugh escapes your lips. You stifle it down the moment the door begins to open.

Sylus is disheveled, an odd sight for someone who can look put together even in the middle of a gun fight. He just stares at you. His eyes refuse to leave yours, as if you’ll vanish if he so much as blinks.

It’s awkward, strained. An uncomfortable atmosphere that hasn’t been between you two in years. You can’t stand it.

“May I come in? I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Sylus says nothing. He looks deeply uncomfortable. It’s subtle, something most wouldn’t notice. But you’ve known him far too long. The slight flicker in his eyes down to the way he walks tells you everything. He’s off. He’s lost.

Not that you’re much different. Your tone earlier was cold, professional, and distant. Entirely lacking the usual playfulness or joy you’d have from simply interacting with Sylus.

You quickly step in his room once he moves aside for you. You don’t spare Sylus a glance. Any further looks would just deter you from your task.

This cannot go on.

Sylus’ treatment of Miss Hunter weighs on you. If you thought it was bad before, it’s far, far, worse now. Experiments? Changing her Evol? Scaring her so much she subconsciously rejects her own soulmate?

It’s arguable the worst start to any love story you’ve ever heard or seen. And you have more experience with that than anyone. You see them in every thread. You hear them in every soul.

All except mine.

You stare at Sylus’ empty bed to distract yourself from that rabbit hole of emotions, one you’re familiar with. You walk towards the bed. But you don’t sit on it. Rather, you just trace mindless patterns into the sheets to calm yourself.

Eventually, you turn to face the man whose room you stand in. Sylus stands with his back on the door. The lock is turned shut. And his arms are crossed, as if he’s shielding himself from you.

Since when were you two like this: weary and afraid of one another? After the argument today? After the one a few days ago? When Miss Hunter arrived? Or was it always there, brewing silently beneath your soft touches and charming smiles?

Whatever the case, you’ve never quite felt such distance from Sylus. You stand in the same room you two have shared for god knows how long, looking right at each other. And yet, you couldn’t be farther apart.

You tap your fingers on the bed like you did the night before Miss Hunter arrived. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s the only sound that fills your ears until Sylus finally speaks.

“Can I explain now?”

To anyone else, his tone would be calm, demanding, and dripping with that usual hint of arrogance that he has. To you, he practically begs. Screams, even.

He only does that rarely. Like earlier today during your argument after your collapse. Which, given that specific context, made sense. Sylus was out of rhythm. His emotions were chaotic. He does care for you, after all. And you had just screamed your lungs out and passed out in front of him.

Who wouldn’t be shaken by that even a little?

You think over your next words for a moment, pushing that memory of your mind. What is there to explain? You’ve heard everything from Miss Hunter. You know what he tried to do.

Old wounds open up the more you think about it. The pinpricks of needles. Your home becoming a revolving door of doctors when you had no sign of a soulmate by age 10. The increasing prevailing sense of something being wrong with you the longer it went on.

They’re phantom pains, echoes of a past that only emerges when you sleep. They’re ghosts you tell no one about. They’re wounds that only you have ever dressed.

What was done to you was done in good faith. Much like what Sylus did. You could see it in his soul, see it in his thread. And it told you he wanted her to remember. He wanted his sorceress back at any cost.

But you wanted here his words. His interpretations and thoughts from his own mouth.

“Go ahead,” you gesture with your hand.

So Sylus does explain. Just not what you thought he would.

He goes into detail about his deal with Miss Hunter. About the brooch. About her search. About the twins and their pranks. About everything.

You look at him with scrutinizing eyes. You don’t search his soul; you have no need to.

In him, you find the truth and only the truth. You find no deception, no hidden meanings, nothing. It’s probably the most honest he’s been with you since Miss Hunter’s arrival.

“I never even had the brooch on me,” he chuckles a bit before he continues. “I don’t know why she ever thought I did.”

“Then where is it?”

“In your favorite book. On page 70. You know the scene.”

You absolutely do know the scene. It makes you smile even in this moment.

“Seriously? How on Earth do you expect her to know anything about my taste in literature?”

“You two spend so much time together I figured you were “besties” by now,” he says the words a great amount of sarcasm that makes you relax a bit.

It’s not much. But, you lean into the familiarity.

“Besides. Even if she didn’t know the significance of the book, I thought I’d do her a favor and introduce her to something good to read. She claims to be bored during her time here, and I wanted to be a more gracious host.”

You snort at his comment. Sylus tilts his head at you.

“What?”

You want to say, ”A gracious host? After kidnapping her and threatening her and almost turning her into a lab rat for the second time in her current life?” But you shake your head and say nothing.

Sylus seems to brush it off. His eyes soften and he takes a step towards you. When you don’t move away, he comes even closer, standing beside the foot of the bed while you stand in the same position next to the head.

“That’s all there is to what you saw. It wasn’t,” he pauses for a moment, searching for the words. “It wasn’t anything like you thought it was. Just a series of… interesting events.”

You just nod once more, turning your head to the bed again. You go back to tracing patterns in it, trying to rally yourself for the real conversation.

“Gamayun?”

You give him a quiet hum, but you don’t look up at him. You trace words into the bed, words from the scene of the book he placed the brooch in. They comfort you.

“Say something?”

You say nothing.

“What’s got you so quiet? Normally you talk my ear off, even when I’m being a fool.”

You make a hasty drag against the sheets, and the irritating sound that follows shocks both of you.

“Because I’m not here about what you just talked about and you know it.”

Or, at least, he should know it. He should know that him taking Miss Hunter to Philip is why you’re here. He should know why you’re so angry about him doing that. He should know.

He should know because he knows you were the one to find the twins. Two boys in agony, one covered in crystals. Children suffering because of selfish adults. Just like Sylus did. Just like Miss Hunter did. Just like you did.

The logical part of you knows that his goals for what he did weren’t anything like the ones that got the twins in that state. But, the other part of you, the one that made you come here, won’t listen.

That part of you remembers all those doctors. It remembers the padded rooms and the repeated cycles of accusations. It remembers the fear. It remembers the pain. And it remembers when you finally decided to run from all that.

That part of you is loud. It’s loud, it’s obnoxious, and it wants to cry. It wants to shed vicious tears and wretched sobs. But it doesn’t. It can’t. Because it wasn’t listened to in the past.

Why would this time be any different?

Because Sylus isn’t them, you remind yourself.

He’d listen to you. He has to listen to you. Sylus is a flawed man, not a monster. He’s a desperate and flawed man who just wants the love of all his lives back. He’s a desperate and flawed man who made a mistake.

And he has to know that, right?

“Than why are you here right now, my sweet Gamayun? Surely not to repeat the earlier interesting series of events? Or maybe go even further?”

“You’re deflecting,” you say immediately.

His usual jokes don’t make you flustered. Instead, they make you angrier as he avoids what you need yet again.

“That’s not an answer, sweetie.”

Something in you snaps. Maybe it’s the use of an old nickname. Maybe it’s due to another deflection. Maybe it’s both.

Either the case, you finally address the dreadful elephant in the room, “Why did you bring her to Philip?”

You ask because you want him to admit it himself. Hearing him say the words, the man you’ve loved for over a year, rather than Miss Hunter, the soulmate of said man, will makes things clearer.

Maybe it’ll undo the knot in your stomach and the dread that courses through your veins. Maybe his explanation will make the phantom needles go away, and drown out the screams of your precious boys.

Part of you knows that neither will happen. The other, more optimistic and the one that clings to your love, begs for something otherwise.

All that hopes drains away when you see the color leave Sylus’ face. His color seeps away at the same pace as your fleeting hope.

Oh God, what did you do, Sylus?

Miss Hunter didn’t give you any details. You can only speculate. But with this severe of reaction, especially coming from Sylus (who’s done a lot of questionable shit that he knows you’d never judge him for), you’re not sure you can handle the answer.

Miss Hunter avoiding your questions and looking apprehensive to tell you anything is one thing. Sylus doing it is a whole other can of worms. You steel your heart for whatever happens next.

“We weren’t resonating. I thought there was a problem with her. There isn’t, so we left.”

It’s about the same thing she told you. Enough to give you the gist. Enough to explain her fear and her discomfort. But not enough to explain Sylus’. Not nearly enough, given everything he’s seen and been through in both of his lives.

So you push, “Did you two rehearse your excuses, or did you both conveniently give me the same nonsense in hopes I wouldn’t press? Whatever the case, you ought to practice lying to me better.”

Sylus appears unaffected by your words. You, of course, know better. The slight knit of his brows, the way he holds himself and leans a tad more to one side. He’s so obvious to you that it’s painful.

“You really going to lie to me again, Sylus? After what happened last time?”

That full on makes him flinch. Your heart wavers as a result. That was a low blow. You both know that. And yet, you can’t back down. Because all you can see in your mind’s eye is the twins.

Luke trying to claw at his face, to etch in the same scars his brother carries. Kieran forcing himself to grow up even more as a result of that instability. The way they would both duck from mirrors, or even flat out shatter them, during those first few days.

Dozens and dozens of memories like that just sit in your mind. A weight unlike any weight you’ve ever carried. It festers there. It seeps into your veins, into your heart, and into your words.

You can’t escape it.

“What exactly are accusing us of, sweetie? Be specific. You how I hate to beat around the bush, and waste time.”

You do. And that’s exactly why you’re the negotiator of this business and not him.

Soon, she will take that place. Soon, I’ll need a new role in a new place.

“Is there anything in particular I should be accusing you of?” You counter.

“Not in my mind,” he glances you over from head to toe. “But that seems to be the case in your mind.”

A smirk crosses his lips. It’s not one of humor.

He words hit you to the core.

“That’s not an answer,” you shakily manage to get out.

“Well, if my answers aren’t satisfactory, maybe you can give me a direct question? As you say, it’s harder to avoid something if there’s no room to do so.”

That stupid smirk is still there. His eyes are still cold, colder than you’ve ever seen them directed at you.

“Did you or did you not hurt her?” You tone gets firmer the more you speak.

Sylus’ expression changes again. Not to one of humor or playfulness or anger like you expected. No, the Sylus before you was none of those right now.

He was betrayed.

“Who exactly do you think I am?”

“I don’t know!” You finally raise your voice despite all efforts not to. “I don’t know… why do you think I’m here? I need answers, Sylus. I need conformation that I’m missing something and that you didn’t do what I think you did.”

You pause for a moment, choking on your own words and emotions, “I need the truth from you. Please. I need the truth about this at the very least.”

Sylus says nothing for a moment. And you worry that this’ll be a rehash of your first fight. The fight that broke you. The fight that drove you away.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

Suddenly, you feel sick. But then, Sylus finally says something and you chase that nausea away, kicking it down with your professionalism.

“I want her gone,” he says with an odd amount of levity. “She isn’t worth the trouble she’s causing, so I pushed my plans forward ahead of schedule.”

You don’t entirely know what to say to that.

“Pardon?” You laugh a deranged laugh. “You brought her here. Why ever would you want her gone now after no progress on what ever it is that you need from her?”

“Like I said: she isn’t worth the effort. And I refuse to waste my time on useless things.”

“Useless? You have the gall, the absolute audacity, to call her useless?”

You aren’t yelling, despite how much you want to be. And that want gets stronger the amused Sylus appears.

“Why do you care so much about her, sweetie? She’s my guest, not yours.”

”Because she’s your soulmate. Because she’s the key to your happiness,” is what you want to say.

Instead, what comes out is, “Because I’ve become quite attached to her. And I find your attitude towards her appalling.”

“Of course you would, sweetie,” his voice gets quieter and softer. “Of course you would.”

Sylus gets close to you, putting his fingers beneath your chin and tilting your head upwards. You don’t resist; in fact, you embrace the small touch as much as possible.

“Because you have such a bleeding heart.”

You roll your eyes at him. Normally, Sylus says that to tease you. Like on negotiations where you spare the business partner in question. Or when you talk him down from simply killing his opponent and into seeing their usefulness. Or any of the numerous times you’ve brought in a stray animal and nursed it back to health.

He always says it in a teasing tone, almost mocking. But now, he says it with fondness.

Or love, your delusional and desperate brain says.

As soon as that thought cross your mind, you take a step back. Sylus immediately releases his hold on your chin, disappointment flashing across his face. Or, at least, that’s what you think you see.

“My heart aside,” you say to calm yourself and get your heart to stop racing. “That doesn’t change the fact that your behavior towards her has been reprehensible. Deplorable, even.”

“Why are so obsessed with her, Gamayun? Should I be jealous? She’s been tearing us apart just by being here. Don’t tell me she’s gone even further…”

He says it with jest and usual nonchalant attitude. But something in you tells you there’s more to it.

“Because of my bleeding heart, as you say,” you smile a bit before going back to a more serious expression. “And the fact that you two seem to hold so many secrets that I’m not privy too despite your less than stellar relationship.”

Suddenly, something in Sylus changes. You can’t quite put your finger on it, other than the fact that you strangely feel like prey. Like he’s hunting you or something like that. You’re on your guard. You’re waiting for him to strike.

Sylus lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re not being truthful with me either, sweetie.”

That makes you pause.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” He takes a step closer to you, the smirk on his lips thinning and his expression shifting to a more softer one.

You don’t know exactly what’s in that smirk. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt?

Hatred? Annoyance? Grief? your thoughts whisper before you can shut them down.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sure, sweetie,” he’s surprisingly genuine and not sarcastic with his tone. “Sure it isn’t.”

“What in the world are you going on about this time?”

Fear drips into your words. You hope it isn’t noticeable. But judging by Sylus’ face, you didn’t succeed.

I’ve lost my touch.

Being so utterly emotional for the past few days has done this to you. Made cracks in your armor that show more and more with every passing second.

Sylus reaches for you again. And you, again, accept the touch. He cradles you head, hands delicately cupping your face, thumbs rubbing your cheeks in a way he knows soothes you.

Foolish man and his foolish tenderness when you’re supposed to be angry at him.

“Your obsession with her. I’ve never seen you act this way.”

You’ve never seen me try to mend the bond between someone I love and their soulmate before. But, hey, there’s a first time for everything?

“I am not obsessed. I do not do obsessed.”

Sylus frowns. You’re the one doing the deflecting now. You’re the one using humor as a distraction now.

“Than what you call all this?” He keeps stroking your cheeks with a featherlight touch.

“Care? Empathy? Because, as you know, I have a bleeding heart.”

It’s getting harder to keep your tone light. You hope that your voice never wavers. You pray that Sylus doesn’t notice how your skin warms from embarrassment or how fast your heart rate is.

You can’t even look him the eyes. And you struggle with all your might not to squirm.

“Your bleeding heart has never gone this far. Nor made you this mad at me,” the chuckle he lets out at the end of his sentence is bitter, but his eyes are still as sweet as ever.

Every statement Sylus makes feels like he’s ripping you open more and more. Like the claws of the fiend he was has made their way around the individual bones of your ribcage and is slowly but surely prying them open. It’s like he wants to expose your heart to the world.

Your brain is beginning to fog. Your mouth is beginning to dry. And the urge to run from here is getting heavier and heavier. Your feet are glued to the ground, and at the same time, they feel like they want to take flight.

When was the last time I felt this way? When I was still back home? At the jewelry store? Or maybe my old bar job?

“Well, most people I deal with are people of the N109 Zone. They’re far more secretive and, how do you and the twins put it, murderous than little Miss Hunter.”

You speak in hopes of cutting off your own horrible train of thought. It doesn’t work very well.

So you keep talking, “Speaking of Miss Hunter, I’m no closer to having an earthly idea of why she’s here. And whatever plans you have with her seem sloppy for your standards. I’d give them negative reviews. Maybe that’s why you didn’t share them with me?”

Another crack in your armor shows with your final teasing question. A crack that Sylus sees judging by how he takes his hands off your face and a step away from you.

“Than I’ll share my ideas with you to get some feedback for a better showing next time.”

You consider your words. Because this is your chance. Your chance to be in the know. The chance to know the truth. The chance to hear from Sylus’ own lips about why he brought this woman here.

But, you’ll also have to hear about their connection. Their past. And their future as soulmates.

You couldn’t hear that. You can barely think about it and see the proof with your own eyes everyday. Hearing it… well, that’s another story.

If he had offered this before their bond, you would’ve taken it. Jumped for joy, even. But you can’t now.

I can’t hear you say that you two are soulmates. I can’t hear you talk about your destined love and what that means for your future. I can’t.

Because hearing that means I can’t lie to myself any longer.

Hearing Sylus’ conformation means you take away that last layer of protection you have, that last bit of lies you tell yourself. Because you’ve know for years what the threads you see mean. You’ve confirmed it several times since you first saw them at age 7.

But, with Sylus, sometimes you cling to thought of being wrong. Of not seeing what you think you’re seeing. His words are all that it would take for that temporary peace to come crashing down.

Who in their right mind would do that to themselves?

“No. After all, I’m just a lowly actress in this show of ours. I’m no director.”

“Oh, you are no actress, Gamayun. If anything, you’re my director and writer. I’m merely here to finance whatever your heart desires to create. So, let us discuss our visions for Miss Hunter, and draw up a new episode this season.”

“I’d rather you consider this my resignation from that role into a new one. Because acting is starting to sound more appealing.”

Sylus pulls back. His face falls, and lets out a deep sigh that shakes you to your core.

“Than what do you want from me, Gamayun?” He pulls you close again, your head resting on his chest. “I’m so tired of fighting with you over something, someone, so trivial.”

Tired.

That one words carries so much weight. It seeps into your lonely soul.

It’s exactly how you feel. How all that’s happened recently has made you feel. How all the secrets and the soulmates and the unrequited love has made you feel.

You’ve been tired for years. For so long you no longer know what “rest” really feels like.

Tired of loving a world that would reject you in a second. Tired of holding it together. Tired of lying.

And maybe that’s why you did what you did. Maybe that’s why you hurt Sylus. Because you’re tired of always being the one to run.

People in your life drifted from you, yes. But it was always you that had to put the final nail in the coffin of your relationships.

So maybe that’s why you’re so tired. And maybe you wanted to make Sylus tired. Tired of you. So tired of you and your shit that he just turns his back on you permanently.

Tired.

“I’m tired too,” is all you can muster at the moment.

You pull back from Sylus. But not for long. As soon as you slip out of his embrace, you sit on his bed and pat the place beside you. He sits down immediately.

The way you two sit, facing each other and knocking knees together, reminds you of the position you and Miss Hunter sat in not too long ago. It warms you heart in an ironic and bitter way.

But you chase those thoughts away to focus. Focus on Sylus and focus on what you need to do right now. You take his hand, giving it light squeeze, before you look him directly in the eyes and begin speaking.

“I’m sorry,” it’s hard to get the words out, not out of pride, but out of pain. “For pulling away. For being so hostile earlier. For saying… no, threatening to leave you. And for not trusting you.”

For hurting you, and doing that so you’d chase me away. For making you believe I could just abandon you. For being jealous of you finding your destined love. For acting like a complete ass. For being hurt by some silly words.

I’m so sorry, my Morana.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For?” You press him, despite the discomfort on his face.

“For the lying. For what I said when you confronted me. For not telling you about my plans to bring Miss Hunter here. For not telling of my plans with—“

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

The shock on Sylus’ face is evident. Even if he doesn’t completely show it.

“I’m not entitled to every little thing in your life. Just as you aren’t mine. We both need to learn to be okay with that.”

You pause before continuing, “And we both are entitled to space whenever we want and for however we want. Just as long as we communicate things.”

Sylus just nods. He squeezes your hand tighter. His eyes have his signature glimmer back. One so uniquely Sylus you don’t know how to describe it.

My selfishness dulled that glimmer.

As you and Sylus just talk for a bit, you think to yourself about your new plan.

I can’t just leave. And even with Miss Hunter as my replacement, I need a better idea for my departure. Somewhere away from the two of them, but with ties to my current life so that there’s no suspicion._ An idea hits you: Onychinus has many connections, many of which you forged yourself.

Kai did always want to recruit me. Maybe I’ll finally take her up on the offer?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: Do you prefer long chapters or short chapters? This story will be pretty long regardless, i just want to see what people prefer.

3rd Author's Note: Ikigai, Fun Fact = I originally was going to make this a one shot (and then plot ran away after breaking my kneecaps) and one where Reader didn't realize they were dating the entire time (but I wanted Sylus to suffer more, so I just made them very touchy, but with a line in the sand).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 29 days ago

Text

doesn't take a genius

you're stuck in a time loop and the only thing that keeps changing is ratio and his actions....3.1k w.count

a/n: full disclaimer, this is entirely based on a dream i had about ratio soooo i'm pretty much 103% certain this may end up feeling a bit ooc for our silly yet stoic dr. that and i have NOT sat down to do a good character study for him hnng ;n; regardless, i had to try and put it into words bc the images in my head wouldn't let me rest until i did orz

[no warnings to mention! just fluff (●'◡'●) also g.neutral reader!]

You sit outside the museum on a nearby bench. There's a crowd of people holding excitedly onto brochures, leaflets, and flyers all broadcasting the newly opening exhibition featuring a full model replica of a certain doctor-professor combo you know- although about 3 times his actual size.

Despite the buzzing atmosphere of excitement- with a touch of giddy from those who find said scholar a nice piece of eye candy- you did not feel the same. Not anymore- anyway.

Sitting with your back hunched over so your elbows rest on your legs, your hands cup your cheeks, and you stare out into the road of passing cars and pedestrians alike- all of which you recognize.

Although this section of the museum is brand-new, and ‘never before seen’, so says one flyer, you have in fact already seen it. So many times. Not that anyone else knew.

In fact, this is about the 84th time you’ve seen it.

You’re stuck in this town that seems so mundane only filled with puzzled irritation on why the hell you’ve been stuck on the same day 84 damn times. You watch the little boy running ahead of his parents' trip on a brick not completely settled in the sidewalk- you stopped trying to catch him around loop 15. You listen to the echoes of an alley-cat fight that lasts approximately 20 seconds; you stopped attempting to separate or prevent that one after loop 4.

The cyclist throwing a newspapers at a parked car- loop 24. The worker coming out of a nearby bakery to flip the closed sign to open only to get clipped in the shoulder by a reckless jogger- loop 32. The baby stroller left shamefully unattended long enough that starts rolling down the pavement towards you-

-you stick your leg out to stop the stroller and baby from getting too far. You probably won't stop doing that one- despite it being the 84th time of lecturing the guardian when they come to collect the stroller with its passenger.

The same things happen as usual every loop and you huff as you wait for the very second on the clock when the staff member of the museum opens the door. Slipping outside to announce the opening of the new exhibit inside with clear instructions on how to get there and a firm reminder to mind your manners and remember that everyone in attendance is here to view it.

As the crowd starts shuffling in, you let out another sigh before pushing yourself to your feet. Placing yourself among your fellow museum goers, you get ever closer to the entrance before you dig out your admission ticket you had purchased when you had the chance. With the familiar scan of the ticket and same professional greeting from the ticket window operator, you're on your way.

You’ve been in every inch of this museum by now. Some loops you didn’t even go into the new section you had originally planned this whole excursion for. Instead, you made your way to the less populated and quieter sections you hadn’t been before.

Now though?

Well, it has been 84 times you’ve been inside. You could walk around blind if someone asked you to.

Having nothing better to do, you stroll inside and siply follow the masses. Overhearing the same conversations and complains about the crowds- and seriously? It’s the debut of a new place with new things. What else would someone expect? An attendance of none other than them? Please.

As you glance bored along the walls of new paintings and art pieces, you wonder if you should try turning around and wandering someone else again. But then, why would you? It would still all be the same no matter where you go.

You’ve tried leaving the museum entirely before since nothing is quiet interesting anymore- but for some reason you just can’t bring yourself to. You can get as far as the exit, but something in you makes you stop and hesitate everytime only to bring you back in as if anything could be different.

It never is.

Well, maybe that isn’t the whole truth.

There is one thing that changes almost every single loop. One variable that is never the same.

That variable's name is Veritas Ratio.

Being the special guest for the entire event, it isn’t a surprise that he’s present. In fact, his presence is the key factor in why you even decided to show up yourself. Ratio is someone you can look up to and admire- in more ways than one. With his intellect, he’s willing to teach and (although rare) learn pretty much any and everything he can. That coupled with his hobby of sculpting and consuming different arts, he really had no reason to turn down the entire event.

He is your constant change in every loop.

The way that Doctor Veritas Ratio interacts with you is the only change you get from your ever-nonchanging weekday.

The first loop, it felt normal. He greets those he must, including you. Finding you in the crowd as you congratulate him on his contributions and praising him for going through with showing up. He speaks with your mundanely and when the sculpture is unveiled, he’s ushered away by camera flashes and notepads with waiting pens to document any and everything he says. He doesn’t see you again after that on the first loop.

The second loop, you go through the motions of your day with intense deja-vu and find solace in his difference in approach. Finding you earlier in the day and striking conversation with your first, conveying his appreciation for coming- which you feel flush at since his praise is usually something you have to strive for. When you tell him about how you feel like you’ve lived today once before, he simply begins delving into the background of deja-vu and the subconscious.

It’s interesting to listen to and entertaining to see him in scholar mode.

By the 10th loop, you seek him out first freaking out- justifying of course. You’ve lived the same day to the letter 10 times! Locating him, you practically yank his arm out of place as you find a secluded place to tell him about your plight hoping he doesn’t drag you to a hospital to get your brain examined. He doesn’t. But he also tells you to calm yourself down and that it must be a coincidence. You don’t buy it as you frown and whine that he clearly doesn’t take you seriously.

What kind of coincidence happens 10 times in a row?

By loop 27, you try telling him about it again. By now you’d started losing your sense of reality and felt like you really were going crazy. On this loop, Ratio finds you first. Seeing your distress upon meeting you, he guided you swiftly away from the crowds and into a private room set up for him as a VIP where you once again expressed your woes and anxiety. This time he wasn’t quick to dismiss you but instead listened diligently. You don’t actually remember if he offered you any advice then or not. But it was 57 loops ago and they tend to blur together.

Since then, it was all sorts of different occurrences. Meeting you first. Seeking him out. Having full conversations and advice. Telling stupid jokes he rebuttals with lazy flicks of his wrist. Seclusion from others. Surrounded by the crowds. Theres even times he hardly says anything, just occupies your space. And you still have no idea why he’s the outlier.

You still don’t even know why you’re looping at all!

As you venture further into the museum, you slip away from the crowd and go directly to the area in which the statue of Ratio himself rests until a large, pure white sheet. Hiding its stone carved glory until the hour to unveil it arrives.

Technically, no one is supposed to be in this vicinity quite yet, but you know your way around the security by now. And it wasn’t like you were here to vandalize.

Slipping past all the blind spots and guards posted on corners to keep the event going smooth, you make it to the exhibition’s main event area. The massive, covered statue stands in front of you. Raised on a podium about as wide as a dining table and as high as your shoulders.

It truly is a marvel at how big this thing actually is.

Looking up at the white sheet, you sigh before you plant yourself on a bench across from it. Reading the plaque with the name of the sculpture in your head, you reread it out loud to yourself next. Not loud enough for anyone to catch wind that you’re in here, but enough to fill the silence for a single moment.

“Mold of Idolatry.” You scan the words beneath it briefly. Just your average ‘about this piece’ spiels and how long it took to sculpt. You feel a tad guilty that you don’t really care about all the little details at this point.

You’re not sure how long you sit there just staring at white sheets, golden plaques, and pristine floors. But it was long enough that when you zone back in, there’s a distant murmur or noise.

Of a crowd.

“Ah damn,” you hiss. Getting up, you stretch before looking for a way to slip out and mold back into the crowd like you’ve been there the whole time and totally not technically trespassing without permission in a closed off area.

A door to your right slams open and you screech.

Slamming your hands over your mouth, you whip around and see none other than the man of the hour himself. Veritas Ratio.

Dropping your hands harshly back down to your sides with a bit of an attitude, you twist around fully to look at him across the room. Maybe it was because your heart was in your throat, but you didn’t really notice the different look in his eyes this loop.

“You scared the hell out of me!” You whisper aggressively in his direction. Ratio only squares his shoulders and marches towards you without a word. Feeling sweat gather on your nape, you take a step back and think about bolting. Before you can though, his long strides close the distance between you both in a blink. His momentum never stopping.

Grabbing onto your arm, he starts pulling you along beside him. His grip around you wasn’t tough, or aggressive. It was firm but telling.

“Come with me.” He leads, as he continues pulling you. Before you can ask where he’s taking you, he walks around his overly large, hidden duplicate of polished stone and stops behind it. With the large pedestal in which the statue stands, it casts a perfect shadow behind that can easily conceal two bodies.

Ratio pushes your back against the raised piece and holds your shoulders to keep you in place. Even though his actions every loop have been different, this one felt exceptionally so. He hasn’t been this bold or unexpected with his actions before.

“Ratio, what-”

His hands from your shoulders slide up to rest delicately on either side of your neck. His thumbs brush along your jaw and threaten to pull down on your lip and open your mouth. His face comes closer; his nose barely touches yours. You squeal as he invades your space.

“Quiet.” He tells you, making eye contact you can’t bring yourself to break. You feel your skin heating up and you wonder if he can feel it under his hands despite the gloves he wears over his palms. “I need to think.”

“Think?” You barely get the word out from how quiet you say it, obeying his command easily.

“Yes. Think.” He speaks in clipped words. Like he isn’t interested in carrying conversation right now. As if he’s pressed for time for a deadline only he knows about.

“About what?” You still whisper, but your words aren’t nearly as broken this time. You catch him almost roll his eyes. You wonder if his thumb is close enough to your mouth after all so you can bite him.

“What actions I need to take this time.”

“What does that-”

“I suspect, after all this trial and error, the direct approach is all I have left. From a certain point of view, it might seem a bit abrasive, but you’ll simply have to understand. Pardon me.”

You want so desperately to utter another confused ‘what?’ as if he’s answered any of them so far in a way that didn’t make you more confused. You can’t though. Since his apparent abrasive approach was in the form of covering your mouth with his.

Your breath halts and you wonder if you're breathing at all as his lips slot over yours. His eyes remain open, as do yours as he stares into you like an art piece. Examining your eyes and everything they have in them until your certain he can see right into your soul.

His lips are warm. Smooth. Not at all chapped and you can smell a very faint hint of mint- like he put on chapstick not too long ago. Or maybe lip oil? Chapstick isn’t usually this glossy feeling. Or maybe… sticky is a better word. Whatever it was, it wasn’t unpleasant.

You think maybe you got lost in your own head, because it’s like you blink and he wasn’t kissing you anymore. Instead, he was back away from your mouth, nose to nose with you, and tapping your neck with his fingertips. His blunt nails gently tapping against your skin in short and long patterns.

.-.. --- ...- .

Your eyes blink like a camera shutter before your mouth moves again.

“Uh-” you unconsciously lick your lips and taste the mint that was on his mouth. Definitely glossy. Much less chappy.

Ratio’s eye twitches. “Don’t do that.”

“Huh?” Your brain isn’t fully caught up yet it seems. One of his hands moves from your neck to cover your mouth with his palm. The fabric of his glove and the warmth of his hand under it permeate your skin. With this other, he lifts a finger to his lips, hushing you as if you had a chance to speak at all this whole interaction.

“If we leave, we’ll be seen.” You nod. “I wish to avoid that.” You half expect him to step away and abscond. Maybe even drag you out with him before the crowd comes in with all their hustle and bustle. He doesn’t do either.

Doctor Veritas Ratio keeps exceeding your assumptions. Stepping half a stride closer, his feet between yours, knees pressing against your body and his hand that had shushed you before moves once again. His arm supports his body on the area behind you that’s behind used to hold you up since your legs feel like they may have gone numb some time ago. He’s invading your space so intimately, you place your hands on his arm and chest to try to both steady yourself and also gauge where to put them at all.

The hand on his chest quickly gets repositioned by the man himself, sliding it up to his neck until he's cupping his hand over yours, so your touch feels his racing pulse beneath his skin. Theres not a shiver or rack of gooseflesh on his body. But his blood is racing and despite the shadows, you wonder if the skin of his ears looks pinker than usual.

“Ratio?” You call softly. He hums short. “What was that? This?” You look away from his eyes just for a second to look down to his toes then back up again as a means of gesturing to all of him.

“The direct approach.”

“Yeah,” you smile, breathing out a humoring air through your nose, “that doesn’t answer anything.”

“Do you know morse code?”

“You know I don’t.”

“I’ll teach you.” He taps over your hand he keeps pushed against his pulse point in the same rhythms as before on your neck.

.-.. --- ...- .

“Was that morse?”

“Indeed.”

“What does it spell?”

“Would you like to guess?”

“Will my answer be for a grade?” You’re proud of yourself for a moment for cracking a joke despite feeling lightheaded. His forehead drops onto yours and he takes a calming breath. His hair is soft and fluffy against your skin. His ears are pink.

“It will not.”

“Then, I’m not guessing.”

“Stubborn.” He smiles though. Before he kisses you again. Veritas Ratio continues indulging in your lips despite the doors opening into the room and the crowd of event goers all compiling in. But he knows the two of you won’t be seen here.

He’s investigated this blind spot thoroughly.

The sounds and actions of Ratio’s direct approach is drowned out, even as the sheet comes off his overly large stone copy. Even as the creator drones on about how the doctor himself could not be here due to last minute appointments he simply could not overbook. And it is where the two of you remain even after the crowd thins.

“I think this loop is going to stick with me for a while,” you mutter to yourself, knowing he wouldn’t know what you mean. His thumb swipes under your lips, past the corner of your mouth and up to the apple of your cheek to hold it gently. “Number 85 is going to be a doozy,” you lament. Knowing that when you wake up in tomorrow's today, you’ll be a mess.

“Tomorrow will be tomorrow.” He says. You just nod, thinking that he’s trying to once again reassure you like he has in previous loops. But you're too far jaded to the looping that’s haunted you to care for his words. You don’t deny or accept them, just let them wash over you.

You close your eyes to take in the moment, not seeing the point in having a proper conversation about whatever this is since he’ll forget it when the day resets.

Ratio soothes you. Rubbing your shoulders and spreading his warmth to you while he pulls you into his chest as he rests his chin against your crown.

“Tomorrow will be tomorrow,” he promises once more. He slips out with you that evening, taking you home personally. You almost convince yourself to stay awake and watch as the clock hits midnight only to tick back to the same day instead of proceeding.

But it doesn't. The next day comes. You get to wake up the next morning.

Turns out, it doesn’t take a genius to confess one's admiration to another.

Just a borrowed curio, a mundanite, and 83 loops of botched practice.

a/n pt.2: imagine being such a loser you have to borrow a curio from your part-colleague doll lady's space station just to confess smdh

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 1 month ago

Text

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.)

12.8k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and threats of sexual violence (none from Mydei). Mydei also seems quite terrible to you at first, but this is all unreliable narration; he is actually very kind to you for the entirety of the story. MDNI.

Author's note including discussion of themes, ancient Greek influences, canon lore (including the multiple timelines), and a list of characters and terminology for my non-hsr readers lol. dividers by @/strangergraphics!

They find you at the altar.

The Sons of Gorgo are a cruel people. Their hands are smeared with the blood of your fallen temple, staining the ivory silk of your chiton as they drag you outside. Chaos roars around you: the streets are strewn with corpses, the olive trees are devoured by flames, the sky is filled with ash. The city is screaming in its death throes. The Kremnoans jeer at you, at your humiliation. High priestess of a weak god, they say. Prophetess turned slave. They’ve heard that the hiereia of your temple are required to be virgins. You won't be a holy maiden anymore, after they're done with you.

They argue over who gets to rape you.

You do not cower. You are sitting on the temple steps, surrounded by the corpses of acolytes and worshippers alike, but you remain impassive. You refuse to give the invaders the satisfaction of seeing your tears, and anyway, they are much too small to intimidate someone who speaks to the Titans. They bicker over who is more deserving of the valuable plunder of your body—who has killed more people, who has captured more slaves, who has burned down more homes—and you feel disgust, rather than fear. They're closer to animals than men.

The hoplites fall silent when their leader comes. His hair is fire and gold; his eyes gleam like the sun. He cuts a terrible figure—the shape of a man who feasts on strife and fear. Just like the rest of his army.

Just like Nikador himself.

“What’s happening here?” he says, harsh and oppressive. His gaze is sharp on you, but you do not tremble. “Who is this?”

A soldier speaks proudly: “She was the high priestess of this temple,” he says. “But now she’ll be a slave.”

The men laugh.

“We were fighting over who should get to keep her,” another says. “But I think it's clear as day who's most deserving, eh?”

“The fiercest among us should get the greatest prize,” someone else says. They cheer and bark like hyenas. Their general does not smile. He only looks at you, eyes burning. Outraged. How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their leader to glare at you like this.

“Fine,” he says. “I'll take her, then.”

They grab you with their red hands. Push you toward an encampment, a tent. Laugh in delight and bloodthirst. About time our Crown Prince shows interest in a woman, they say. We were starting to think you were a eunuch, Your Highness! It wouldn't do if he were. In the wake of victory, Kremnoans are meant to take all the glories and treasures they can. That includes all the peoples they've conquered. Our mighty general needs to enjoy his spoils of war!

When they finally reach his tent, they throw you onto the ground, and the pain slams through your bones. You are left alone with the Kremnoan general, glaring up at him from your place on the floor. His eyes are less sharp now; rather than burning on you, they merely seem cold. He will kill me, you think, he will kill me like he has killed my city, but then he kneels down. A hand extends toward you, reaching, pilfering, violating—

You spit in his face.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you snarl, and the general jerks back, surprised. Your hand darts out as he falters, grabbing a dagger from his hip, swift and deadly.

The sharp metal of his gauntlet snaps around your wrist before you can slash open your throat.

“What are you doing?” he snaps. Your brow arches.

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?” you ask, scathing. “I'd rather die than let a Kremnoan touch me.”

His mouth twists. “I have no intention to do such a thing,” he says, and the bark of laughter you let out is so cruel that you hear in it the echo of the soldiers who dragged you to your doom.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” you hiss. “That’s what your people do when they win wars. What the Cult of Nikador does to the women they enslave.” The blade is pressed against your jugular, and you feel its edge when you swallow. “Or will you instead bleed me dry and drink my blood from your chalice? That's what your god demands of you, isn't it?”

His eyes narrow. “Foolish. I was going to help you up, but I suppose you prefer being on the ground.”

You watch him, wary, unconvinced, but he turns away. As if utterly disinterested in you, he crosses the threshold to rummage through his personal effects. You spot a golden winecup in his hands when he turns, and he snorts when he catches you looking at it suspiciously. “You have no need to worry,” he says dryly. “Kremnoans prefer pomegranate juice to blood.”

“If only they preferred to be humans rather than beasts,” you retort, and the general’s eyes harden as he pours himself a drink. You wonder, for a moment, if he will strike you, but he seems to temper himself as he takes his draught.

“I hope you prefer living to dying. If you should, then you won't leave this tent tonight. Doing so would mean throwing yourself to those beasts.”

“I'm already in the presence of one.”

His nostrils flare. You can sense his fury, but his voice is taut and restrained when he says, “Better to contend with one beast than twenty, don't you think?”

Your captor walks over, his boots heavy against the ground as he kneels before you. You expect to feel his hands on your neck, or the weight of his body crushing yours into the earth, but instead you are presented with his winecup, half empty.

“Take it,” he says. When you don't move, merely glaring at him, he frowns and sets the drink next to you before rising again. You're left staring at the nectar, and—unbidden—you see the rivers of blood on the temple steps, lacerations in your holy ground. Smell the copper stench of slain men, hear the sorrowful cries of your goddess through the Evernight Veil. Your captor misinterprets your grimace: “You just saw me drink from that yourself. It isn't poisoned.”

You glance at him, uncomprehending.

“...you mean for me to drink this?”

“Yes. Pour some on the sheets, then drink the rest.”

He turns away, as if to leave. You swallow, disbelieving.

“And then?”

“And then you may do whatever you wish, so long as you don't leave my tent. I have a war to wage, so you'll need to entertain yourself for the rest of the night.”

Entertain yourself. Your city is aflame, your temple is desecrated, and he wishes for you to drink pomegranate juice and amuse yourself until he has the time to rape you. As if you can't hear the screams and cries of your city. As if you can't smell the charcoal and death through the fabric of the tent. As if you will be content to lie back and wait for him to cleave you open once he returns.

How much the Kremnoans must hate your people, you think, for their prince to be so cruel to you.

You imagine rushing toward him. You envision grabbing his knife, lodging it into his back, in the soft space between his vertebrae, a path into his heart—but you hold yourself back, because you have no doubt he’ll easily overpower you now. No—if you wish to kill him, you will need to do it while he's unguarded. Likely when he's asleep, or perhaps even inside you, depending on how stupid or drunk he’ll be when he rapes you.

You will need to humour his whims until then.

“How much?” you ask when he is about to leave the tent. When he glances back at you, you add, uncomprehending, “How much do you want me to pour out?” And why?

He shrugs. “However much makes sense to you.” The general glances back, thoughtful, and says, “I’ll see to it that someone else cleans up in here tomorrow,” and then you understand.

You drink half of what remains in his cup, and then you pour out the rest.

Your goddess sends you visions that night, dreams of the past, present, future. You peer upon a child drowning in the sea, a poisoned woman with a golden dagger, a mad king cleaving a statue into fifths. You dream of burning villages, fallen idols, a father slain by his son. Aquila closes his eyes; Georios drowns in shadow; monsters roam the earth. A great fortress looms before you, dark and decrepit, and the young king seated upon its throne is covered in blood. He reeks of the corpses of a thousand temples, of your temple. You cannot see his face, but you recognise the shape of him, mighty and terrible—a man who feasts upon strife and fear. You are lying at his feet, wounded. Your chest is heavy, aching, and your heart bleeds in the hand of Nikador, scarlet dripping through his fingers.

You are crying when you wake up.

You do not need to look outside the tent to know that your city is gone. Aurelia is silent, bereft of life—its buildings gutted, its people slain, its treasures stolen. Death has settled over your home, and in its wake, the Kremnoan legion prepares to leave.

The soldiers sent to disassemble your captor’s tent all bear white caps. They must be helots, the children of slaves; you have met a few of them during your time as an acolyte, watching them trailing after the rare Kremnoan master who would sometimes seek supplication at your temple.

You used to pity them for their station; now, they pity you.

The helots give you sorrowful looks as they strip the bed of its red-stained sheets. They speak gently to you when they give you water to wash your face and thighs. They try to counsel you, tell you that Prince Mydeimos is the best person who could have stolen you. He is just for a Kremnoan warrior, they whisper, show the soldiers grace and you'll see, and then they put you in chains.

You do not show the Kremnoan army any grace. You glare at every hoplite who lays eyes on you, and you refuse to bow your head for any of them. On the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, they study you like you are an animal. Some of them look at you with wonder—for you are a divine oracle in the flesh—some with shameless curiosity—for it has spread like wildfire that you have been defiled by the Crown Prince Mydeimos, who has never taken a woman as his plunder—and some with unadulterated glee. They pester you and the other prisoners-of-war, and you recognize them as the animals who sacked your temple and burned your olive groves.

“Has Prince Mydeimos given you a Kremnoan welcome?” they ask in their dialect, mocking. Has he told you what your life will become? Do the men behind you know that their priestess has been ruined, or are they too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?

“HKS,” you retort, and their faces fall. They look at one another, aghast.

“What did you say?” one grits out the Aurelian dialect, and you cast him a cool glance.

“HKS. I called you a hyena—or are you too stupid to understand the Kremnoan tongue?”

You do not expect to be struck. A hand cracks across your cheek; the pain is blinding. You are on the ground, knees in the dirt, reeling. The prisoners behind you are crying for their priestess; the memory-ghosts of the acolytes behind you are screaming for help; the olive trees behind you are turning to charcoal and dust; the city behind you is burning, burning, burning. Oronyx will never let you forget this, nor any other memory.

“What is this?” a voice snarls, and time freezes.

The procession has come to a halt. The hoplites are suddenly children, caught red-handed with a broken toy. The offending soldier swallows, and you feel some semblance of glee. The Cult of Nikador is famed for their obsession with order and with glory. It is taboo among their people to touch another’s spoils, and suicide to try it with one’s superiors. Killing the slave of the Crown Prince would be the same thing as stealing his belongings or breaking his sword—acts of impudence punishable by death.

He stutters: “She—the priestess… she was out of line, Your Highness, mocking us—”

“And you were not out of line for touching her?”

The offending soldier looks at the ground beneath him. Sweat beads his temple. “I… forgot myself. I apologize, Your Highness.”

Your captor is not placated. His gaze roams the bystanders, scalding. “Should any other man be foolish enough to strike the priestess,” he booms, “I will cut off his hand myself. I have claimed her as my war prize, and no one else shall touch her. Do you understand?”

The yessirs are immediate. Unanimous. The general is restless still. He turns to you, the edge of his voice now muted, but still present. “Can you stand?”

I will slit your throat someday, you think as you look up at him. “Yes, my lord,” you reply demurely. “He merely struck my face. The rest of my body is untouched.”

“Then you will ride upfront with me,” he declares. “I will not have my spoils within the reach of anyone else.”

You end up next to him in his chariot, which makes you want to claw off your skin—to be so far from your worshippers, and so close to your captor. You turn your cheek to him, throbbing and bruised, but he deigns to speak with you anyway.

“Tell me,” he asks brusquely, “do you have a death wish? Or are you just a fool? Though even fools usually know when to hold their tongue.”

“I know too many tongues to hold them all, I'm afraid,” you reply neatly in the Kremnoan dialect, and your captor gives you an incredulous stare. You pointedly look ahead, eyes unwavering on the winding road to the City of Strife. “I am the High Priestess of the Aurelian Cult of Oronyx. I will not be cowed by a gaggle of idiots.”

“You are very proud for someone currently wearing chains,” the general remarks.

“And you are very cruel for someone who will someday wear a crown.” You pause then, thinking of your dreams before gambling: “Though a man who plans to kill his father could only be cruel.”

Your captor falls silent. You glance at him, mouth curling in satisfaction as you catalogue his reaction. His features are stoic, and someone with a lesser eye for expressions—someone not practiced in the art of telling fortunes and giving counsel—might miss it, but it's clear as day to you: your captor is ungrounded.

Disturbed.

“I know not what you mean,” he says coolly, and you raise a brow.

“It’s no use lying to me, you know,” you bluff. “Have you somehow forgotten that your war prize is an oracle? That is why your men were so obsessed with staking their claim on me.”

The prince remains composed despite your goading. “...so the rumours of your visions are true.” He studies you. “There were almost children or elderly in your city when the walls fell. Nearly no women. And the Aurelian soldiers… it was as if they knew all our plans.” At your silence, he concludes, “It was you, wasn't it? You foretold our attack and warned them.”

“It seems that the future king of Kremnos is a clever one,” you say dryly.

“And the High Priestess in his hands is a fool.” His jaw clicks. “I am trying my best to keep the wolves away from you, but you seem determined to throw yourself at them.”

You bare your canines with a smile, and you try dangling your newfound leverage over his head. “If I were you,” you reply, “I would be more worried about the wolves who would hunt for you, Your Highness. I’ve heard that King Eurypon and his council threw you into the sea as a baby; I am quite sure they would do the same to you now—unless you kill them first, of course.”

A great deal of being an oracle is guesswork. Oronyx sends you dreams, visions, echoes; people give you hints, gossip, microexpressions. Together, you can get a fairly good grasp on a man’s circumstances. Your captor is no exception: from the way his brows knot, you know that you've guessed true.

His eyes narrow, and he glances back at the rest of the Kremnoan procession, who are too far behind to hear anything. “Keep quiet,” he commands. “Don't think I won't kill you if you are a liability. There are limits to my patience.”

You snort. “I won’t give you away”—not yet—“but it won't be out of fear of death. Kill me if you'd like; I will not cower.”

Your captor makes a noise of displeasure. “I have never met a person so eager to die.”

“Haven’t you?” You arch a brow at the perplexed look he gives you. “Valorous death before glorious return. That’s your way of life, isn't it? You’ve burned my city and destroyed my temple—I will never see a glorious return. By the laws of your own god, there is now only one path left for me.”

You turn your wrists, let the iron chains sing. It occurs to you that you had been dead in your visions—slain by King Mydeimos—but you had not been shackled.

Castrum Kremnos is a prison.

Never have you been anywhere so strange nor frightening. The walls of the fortress climb high enough to eclipse the sun; the streets are crawling with soldiers carrying spears and shields. Every man and woman carries a sword; every child play-fights with a wooden one. Each one of them cheers as their army returns from its campaign, and nearly all of them eye you curiously—the war prize chosen by their famed Crown Prince.

During your long procession into the inner city, all you can hear are the whispers and jeers of the crowd. It is the warriors who are the loudest—the ones who did not put Aurelia under siege and are disappointed to have missed out on the glory of its destruction. They speak about you, about what you must look like beneath your bloodied robes, about how they cannot blame General Mydeimos for capturing you. Any Kremnoan man would want to fuck the High Priestess of their long-time enemy, and that is only truer now that their leader has staked his claim on you. All of them want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince.

Your own face remains unmoving, but Prince Mydeimos’ eyes darken. “Hyenas,” he growls, and you have to stop yourself from snorting at the hypocrisy.

The king is said to be senile and half-mad, and his queen died some years back of illness, so the homecoming warriors are greeted by a high statesman, General Krateros. You have heard many tales of him: legendary strategos, shrewd politician, the right hand of King Eurypon. The Seaside States once launched an offensive on Castrum Kremnos and was met with Krateros’ Goldshield Brigade; every enemy soldier was either put to death or bound in chains.

Chains just like yours.

General Krateros gives you a thoughtful look when he meets you, eyes locked on your iron cuffs. “I had a great hand in raising you, Prince Mydeimos, so I know you well,” he says. You’ve heard tell that after Prince Mydeimos was thrown into the Sea of Souls, General Krateros spent years searching for him at the request of his mother, eventually finding him years later in some fishing village. Krateros has ever since served and counselled the Crown Prince—perhaps poorly, for he says, “I did not take you for the type of man to capture a woman as your bounty.”

“Nor did you raise me to be the type of man to throw an innocent to the wolves,” your captor replies evenly, and you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

No, you think, you are only the type to put a holy maiden in chains.

Your face must give away your disdain, for General Krateros studies you carefully. “Innocent or not, you may do whatever you wish with her, Mydeimos,” the strategos says, his eyes keen on you. “A predator need not worry for his prey other than how to keep it for himself.”

The message is clearly for you—know your place—but your captor appears to take the words to heart. Keeping you for himself is exactly what he does: rather than sending you to the slave’s quarters or some courtesan house, Prince Mydeimos has you stay in his room and orders that no one—aside from his appointed servants—should be allowed an audience with you.

Thus begins your life as the war prize of the Crown Prince.

If you were a different sort of person, you might enjoy the position. The Aurelian soldiers who fought to protect you are likely chained in iron and performing hard labour; the older women who were accosted in your temple are likely being forced to do menial work; the younger ones may have been ushered into brothels. You are instead placed into a beautiful, private chamber, and you are given robes of silk. Your wrists are manacled like every other slave under Kremnoan law, but the chains are gold. You are told to bathe in fragrant water, and the scent of flowers is ever-present on your skin.

You don't mistake any of this as kindness toward you. It is clear that you are not meant to enjoy this opulence; you are part of the opulence. A thing for the Crown Prince to indulge in, a treasure stolen from Aurelia. The time will come when you are raped, and the time will come when he bores of you, and the time will come when you will be killed at the foot of his throne.

All you can do is face your fate with dignity.

An entire moon passes, and your fate does not befall you.

You are unsure why your captor does not hurt you. Perhaps he is busy with making war; the servants say that he stays at the barracks every night rather than coming home. He might be expected to fuck you anyway, but he visits you only once a day for half an hour, and he only ever stays long enough to ask you three questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone?

For an entire month, your answers are single words: Yes. No. Nothing. You sit as far away as possible from him, though you do not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear—you always meet his impassive gaze, your own hard-edged.

Sometimes he tries to speak with you: Are you comfortable? Are you bored? Do you want anything? But most days, he leaves as soon as he can, his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something that edges on discomfort. You start to wonder if he finds you too unattractive to touch, if he is debating whether he should kill you instead of fucking you. But regardless of his intentions toward you, it is clear that he does not care for you.

So it surprises you when your captor one day says, “You have not been eating.”

You give him a long look, wondering if you'd misheard.

“No,” you eventually reply. “I have not.”

“Why?”

Your brow arches. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why?” His expression becomes puzzled—and it aggravates you. You point out, “You are a Kremnoan prince. It should not matter to you if a slave is starving. Or are you worried that I'll waste away before you can fuck me?”

His eyes narrow, and you think you see that hint of discomfort again. “I am worried you will starve to death in my care.”

Your nostrils flare. “I am not in your care. I am your prisoner.”

“I see to it that you are fed and clothed and bathed. Is that not care?”

You snort. “A man who took my home away from me cannot care for me. He can only torture me.”

His jaw tightens. Your captor’s voice measured, but his frustration is palpable: “He can also keep you alive—even though you seem determined to die.”

“Death is a mercy. I would much prefer it to being raped.”

“I thought it would be clear by now that I do not wish to touch you,” your captor says, frowning, and the bark you let out is so loud that he startles.

“Do you think I'd be stupid enough to believe that lie?”

“I think you'd be smart enough to see reality for what it is.”

“Yes,” you reply, voice bitter, “I am smart enough to see the reality of what you have done to my city. And I am smart enough to know the reality of what happens to women after they are captured by the enemy.”

Prince Mydeimos inhales sharply. His eyes flicker with—with something. Something you don't care to identify. Something you quickly decide is disdain.

“Believe whatever you want. Either way, I want to keep you alive.” His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Is it that you want to die? Is that why you aren't eating?”

You give him that fanged smile again. “No, Your Highness, I do not wish to die. I wish to stay alive so that I may someday slit your throat.”

Prince Mydeimos disappoints you when he does not react in kind. “Fine,” he writes off. “You are free to kill me as many times as you want, so long as you eat.” You give him a strange look; he ignores it. “Now, why haven't you? Surely you must want to, if your goal is to live long enough to kill me. Is the food not to your liking?”

A frown. “I don't understand why you care.”

He nods. “So it isn't. Very well.”

You open your mouth, countless questions on your tongue. What do you mean? Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? But Prince Mydeimos leaves, and you are alone again in your prison—untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

Your conversation with Prince Mydeimos leaves you feeling strange. Perplexed. Nervous. The longer you think of it, the more you wonder why he is taking so long to torture you. You'd been dragged into his tent, fully expecting to be either mauled or violated; over a month later, the worst that has happened is that you have been served unappetizing meals, and that you have spent your days so idly that you have grown bored.

But even if you are idle, you are not unharmed. You still dream of the night of your abduction. You dream of the cries of your worshippers, of the stench of burning flesh, of your olive groves turning to ash. You dream of being pushed to the floor of your captor’s tent, of golden gauntlets cleaving open your legs, of pomegranate-red stains on silk sheets. Sometimes the dreams are so vivid that you wonder if they are actually visions from Oronyx—echoes of a future yet to be played out, or a past that you’ve somehow forgotten.

Whenever you wake from these dreams, you crawl under the bed and spend the rest of the night there, and you spend your day afterward untouched, unnerved, unbalanced.

You are in one of these tense moods the next time you speak at length with Prince Mydeimos, after his usual questions: Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do yesterday, while you were alone?

“I am trapped in your room, so I did nothing but read your books,” you reply bluntly, picking idly at the chicken on your dinner plate. “Don't you have anything other than war histories, by the way? I should like a romance novel or two. I'd even take a philosophical dialogue over this. Kremnos must surely have a few thinkers who do not write solely about war.”

Your captor stares—perhaps surprised at your sudden chatter, though not displeased by it. Though he does seem perplexed.

“You are not ‘trapped’ here,” he points out, frowning. “I gave you leave some time ago to wander the grounds, so long as you are accompanied by one of the guards I have assigned you.”

“So you say, but not a single one of your guards has thus far dared to let me out.”

Prince Mydeimos frowns. “Why?”

You give him a strange look. “Do you not know the rules of your own land, Prince Mydeimos? Helots are given free movement, and even trusted slaves have some autonomy, but prisoners-of-war are not allowed to wander anywhere except in service of their given task. And my given task is…”

You gesture to the bed, and the prince’s mouth tightens.

“I see.”

You note the displeasure on his face—genuine, a sign of true oversight. “Why would you expect that I'd ever be allowed to roam around as I please?” you ask. “You paraded me around on your chariot as you returned home from war, and you announced me as your plunder to the entire city. Everyone knows I am your prisoner, and everyone treats me accordingly.”

“I have never kept a personal slave, let alone taken one for my spoils,” he says evenly. “I did not think these laws would supersede the orders of a Crown Prince.”

You snort at the sheer absurdity of his answer.

“The Crown Prince of Kremnos has never kept a slave? Your esteemed father has at least half a hundred of them in his personal service, I'd wager.”

“And my late mother did not allow any of them to serve me. She disliked the practice.” His voice is terse, belying something that turns your stomach. You look away, not wishing to think of it.

“Does that matter?” you deflect. “Your Highness, if you wish to ascend the throne and follow in your father’s footsteps, then you'd better get used to keeping slaves. Castrum Kremnos is built on them.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a hard look. “I will not be the kind of king that my father is,” he says bluntly.

His words carry weight. Suppressed anger. You watch him keenly, interested—suddenly wondering if there is more to Prince Mydeimos’ plans to commit patricide other than self-preservation.

“And why would that be?” you ask.

He raises a brow. “You are an oracle. You haven't seen what he's done for yourself?”

“If I could see whatever I wanted at will, do you think I would be sitting here right now?” you ask dryly, and his brow twitches. His expression is otherwise impassive, but his eyes give away his alarm, and you exploit it immediately: “Worry not, Prince Mydeimos. Whatever secrets you've let slip are safe with me, so long as you do not touch me.”

“I thought it would be obvious by now that I have no wish to touch you.”

“And I thought it would be obvious by now that I am not stupid enough to trust you.” You laugh when he frowns. “No need to pout, Your Highness. You don't need my trust to keep me under control.” You shake your chains. "These are all you need."

He glances at your manacles, his eyes narrowing. “Controlling you is not my aim.”

“Then you are a fool and will make for an idiot king.”

“Surely no more of an idiot than the prisoner calling their captor a fool.” He contemplates you, his eyes suspicious. “...have you truly seen my future as a monarch?”

“No,” you lie. I hope you suffer every moment you sit on that throne, you think, remembering how Nikador will reach into your chest and close his hand around your heart, how you will bleed to death at the feet of King Mydeimos. You have no intention of giving him foreknowledge of his victory over you: you remain quiet, unyielding under his shrewd gaze.

The prince eventually relents, though clearly unconvinced. “I'll see to it that the guards and servants allow you some movement,” he says as he turns to leave. “I will… convince them to overlook the laws.”

His hand is on the door when he hesitates, glancing at the full dinner plate on the table.

“Do you still not like the food here? I had it changed after our conversation some time ago.”

You default to your usual answer: “Does it matter?”

He makes a noise—one that almost sounds displeased. “So it still isn’t to your taste.”

“No. I find the Kremnoan palate disagreeable.”

“Well, then, what should change to make you agree with it?”

You come very, very close to laughing in his face. “You could serve me a dish cooked by the Goddess of the Hearth herself, and it would taste like ash in my mouth because I am a prisoner.”

He sighs, closes his eyes, and you suspect he is silently counting to ten. “...I cannot blame you for your misery,” he finally says, “but you haven’t been eating, and I would prefer it if you didn't starve to death under my care.”

“Why?” Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

His voice grows quiet: “Because I do not wish to see any harm befall you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. There is no hint of deception in them, nor in his eyes—which flicker with something that looks so much like pain that even you, with your practised skill of reading expression, find yourself thinking that he feels sorrowful for you. That he feels guilty over you. That he wants to see you safe.

You marvel at what a good liar he is.

Because he must be lying. This must be some kind of manipulation. Perhaps he is afraid of your prescience, or perhaps he plans to use it for his own gain, and this is his way of appealing to you. Or perhaps he wants you to be willing when he fucks you. Some men do prefer that to outright rape; their egos demand it.

There is no other reason for him to come to your room every night and ask if you have been eating, ask if you are well, ask what have you been doing while alone. No other reason for him to say, “You barely touched your food yesterday, nor the day before that. Surely there is something that could be done to make you eat.”

You decide to play along for now. If you will die eventually, you may as well eat better in the meantime.

“More spices,” you say neatly, “and better olive oil. At minimum.”

“Of course,” he mutters. “The oil. I knew it.”

He leaves before you can ask him what he means.

The next day, you are served honey cakes with safflower, grilled fish salted to perfection, and wheat-bread with an olive oil so fresh and thick that you know it can only be an import from the south. The servants deliver to you five texts: three romance novels and two Socratic dialogues. Kremnos has no great storytellers nor philosophers, an unsigned note reads, so you will need to make do with these works from the Grove of Epiphany.

Prince Mydeimos does not visit you, and you find yourself in bed the whole night, three questions echoing in your head.

For whatever reason, Prince Mydeimos continues treating you well. The food is better—you’d even call it mouthwatering, at times—and new books are frequently delivered. He makes fewer stops by your room, possibly because he is busy or perhaps because he is growing disinterested with you. You don't care to ask why.

But as it turns out, he has been trying to find some way around the laws about your movements. He has been failing, too—quite miserably—and his way of compromise is driving you mad.

On the first day you are allowed outside your room, Prince Mydeimos is leading you, taking you for a walk on the palace roofs and parapets. For the first time since being abducted, you feel sunlight and wind on your skin—and you are too annoyed to enjoy it.

“This is your way of allowing me some freedom? Taking me out so you can walk me like a dog? I won't bark for you, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos clears his throat, pointedly avoiding your stare. If you didn't know better, you'd call him embarrassed.

“Because you are a prisoner,” he explains tersely, “I have been strongly advised against letting you wander the grounds unless it is to fulfill your assigned job as my companion.”

“You mean, as your whore?”

Prince Mydeimos looks so offended that you nearly laugh. “As a concubine.”

“Use whatever word you want—a slave you fuck can't be anything other than a whore,” you point out evenly. Your captor gives you a look of mild pain, but it is gone before you can unravel it.

“Well, then, it is a good thing that I will not be touching you,” he retorts. “Regardless, I cannot let you wander without drawing undue attention to myself”—a poor idea right before a regicide, you infer—“but I may eventually be able to let you move freely without me if we are able to convince people that you are serving me willingly. Not as my prisoner, but as my lover.” His mouth slants. “This would require you to give the impression of enjoying my company, however.”

“Then I suppose I will be trapped forever in your quarters,” you reply instantly. When his expression sours, you add, “Worry not, Your Highness. I do not much like the sights of Castrum Kremnos anyway.” Your eyes flick over the strange innards of the city—the high walls hiding open skies, the stone paths barren of any flowers or shrubs, the constant thunder of marching hoplites and proud salutes. The sword of Nikador hanging over the fortress gates, sharpened by the souls of countless slain Kremnoans.

This city runs on war. Hungers for it. It makes your heart pound, has you hearing the screams of your worshippers as the Kremnoans flood through the gates of Aurelia. Gone forever are the musicians who strung on their lyres every morning and night; gone are the streets of laughing children who would always ask you to fix their toys; gone are the olive groves full of birdsong and gossiping women.

Gone is everything that you love.

“You might like it better within the city,” your captor tries to reason, “or if I can someday take you beyond the walls and into the settlements—”

“—then it will still never be home.”

Prince Mydeimos has the grace to stay quiet, for which you are glad.

“...your home,” he says eventually, “what was it like?”

What was it like, before I took it away from you?

You shrug, feeling a dull ache in your chest that you'd rather die than show him.

“Peaceful. Kind. The people were nicer. The music was lovelier. The food was better.”

You remember the flavour of the dishes that the women in the neighbourhood always made for you, the figs and apples and olives that the farmers always brought to the temple, the simple but sweet breakfasts that you would have with the other acolytes—eat up, my love, the older ones would always laugh, eat your fill!—and then all you taste is ash in the sky and copper between your teeth and the acrid, nauseating stench of human flesh burning, burning, burning.

You close your eyes to the looming walls of Castrum Kremnos—a prison from which there is no escape.

“None of it should matter to you, of course,” you add lightly.

Because no matter how much Prince Mydeimos denies it and no matter how gently he treats you, you are just a bed-slave—and Castrum Kremnos does not care about its slaves. The burning of your home will become naught but ink in their war histories—a paragraph if you are lucky, a footnote if you are not. You are merely one massacre in a thousand years of them. Your death will be one casualty in hundreds of millions.

But you return to your quarters later that night, and you see another book delivered—an Aurelian play, wildly popular a few years back—and you notice a lyre on the nightstand, and your meal tastes just like the ones the grandmother next door always brought over to share. You realise that your captor must have sought out an Aurelian helot or slave to make it, that he must have gone out of his way for it. You ask silently: Why does this matter? Why aren't you using me? Why aren't you hurting me? And you answer for him: He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me.

But you eat your entire meal anyway, and then you crawl into bed and cry.

A fortnight later, Prince Mydeimos discovers that you sleep with a knife under your pillow.

It is a harmless thing, sharp only enough to cut the steak that you'd been fed. It brings you comfort nevertheless. After seven days of your mantra—he is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me—you couldn't help but take it. If he is stupid enough to touch you, you will use it to make it as painful for him as possible.

The Crown Prince is sitting on a chair when you return from the bath. He is playing with your little knife, spinning it a hand. His expression betrays neither anger nor displeasure—though there might be a hint of disappointment. Why, you would not know.

“You are afraid of me,” he remarks.

“No,” you lie. “I do not fear you. I abhor you. All the books and Aurelian dishes in the world cannot change that.”

It is slight, but Prince Mydeimos nods. His shoulders bear a heavy weight suddenly, and you avert your gaze. You don't want to see him looking weak, looking human. He is your captor and nothing but your captor: the man who laid waste to your home. He is the heir to a millennia of Strife.

Fortunately for you, he soon returns to his usual, stoic countenance. “You really expect to hurt me with this?” he asks.

“I would try my best,” you say tersely, “if it came to it. I would hurt anyone who tried to touch me.”

You nearly shift under the weight of his gaze, but you manage to contain your discomfort. You return his stare coolly—you don't scare me, Son of Gorgo—until his hand drifts to his waist. He reaches for a sheathe dangling from his belt, and you recoil immediately, expecting the sharp kiss of his blade. But there is no blow, no knife across your neck nor lodged within your heart. He merely holds the weapon out to you, presenting its golden hilt.

“Take this,” he offers. At your hesitation, he adds, “This is not some trap. I am gifting this to you.”

Even as you snatch it, you ask, “Why?”

“Because I think it's wise for you to have some kind of weapon—a real one, not an eating utensil.” He glances at the door. “The palace is full of guards and soldiers, and now that I have begun taking you outside, some of them have seen you and grown… overly curious about the High Priestess of Aurelia.”

Anyone would want a turn with the war prize of the Crown Prince himself, you remember them saying.

“But I am yours,” you point out, and when Prince Mydeimos looks at you, startled—or disconcerted?—you add, “your slave, I mean. By law, I belong to you. They cannot touch me without facing the wrath of the crown.”

He scowls. “If only the men here were so easy for me to control. Then I would not need to keep you here and worry about…” The prince's brow knots as his voice drifts off, and then he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

You don't want to know what he had been about to say. You don't want to hear him pretend to feel concern over you. You do not want to think that he may be keeping you here for any reason than to fuck you. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me: this is your mantra as you study the blade. It gleams in the candlelight, gold like his hair in the fire of the invasion, and its weight is familiar—the weight of the dagger you tried to slit your own throat with, you realise.

It is light, you notice now. The blade sits easy in your fingers, moves for you too gracefully. You should not be able to hold the weapon of a grown man so easily. “This was made for a woman,” you realise. “And not a very strong one.”

“Not strong in terms of brute strength, no. But she was swift. Deadly.”

You are neither strong nor swift, but you can imagine waiting for the right moment to strike—when he's drunk or sleeping or inside you. You'd run this across his neck. Bleed him dry before he can bleed you.

“You're not worried about me attacking you with this?” you ask, and he snorts.

“Would I be afraid of a kitten with sharp claws?” At your sour look, he either mocks or consoles you—you cannot tell which—“Don’t feel too poorly. Most people in this world could not touch me; I am invulnerable.”

“Invulnerable?”

“Immortal,” he clarifies. “Any wound I take heals without a scar; any death I die reverses without fail.”

“Ah… because of the Sea of Souls, I presume.” You remember the child in the waters of the Styx, the way he cried and cried and cried—and you push away the memory. How many babies have wailed as the Kremnoans marched on their homes? Countless. Countless in Aurelia alone. Your goddess has shown you enough memories for you to know, and sometimes the images blend with the massacre of your worshippers.

A massacre that your captor led.

“So there is no way to kill you,” you remark, voice now subdued.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Something in your captor’s eyes flickers, something that makes you look away again. He is lying to me, he is manipulating me, he wants me willing when he rapes me. You cling onto all the visions that your goddess sent you: King Mydeimos is seated on his throne of blood; the claws of Nikador are cutting into your heart. Aurelia is still burning, burning, burning. As long as Oronyx is alive, it will never stop.

No olive oil, spice, nor book will ever change that.

Prince Mydeimos leaves for a time. Okhema—the greatest enemy of the Kremnos—has launched an assault on the city, and it is his duty to defend it. You can hear the distant cries of war from your room, the thunder of marching troops and the roar of terrible men. You hide in the sheets and try not to think of dying Aurelia. You pray for every Kremnoan soldier who invaded your home to perish, to receive the valorous death for which they long.

You play no songs. You receive no books. The food tastes like shit.

For a single night, you think you have been granted your wish. There is a breach into the city, and the bells toll in emergency. The guards tell you to stay in your room no matter what—any Okheman soldiers would desire you, would defile you, and there will be no hope for you if they steal you away, the prized concubine of their greatest foe—and then they leave to join the fighting.

You hide under the bed. You clutch the golden dagger that Prince Mydeimos gave you and you hold it to your breast. You think of all the hands on you as you were dragged from your altar from the Kremnoans, the way they jeered at you and threatened to violate you. If the Okheman soldiers do the same, Prince Mydeimos will not be here to save you—

Save you?

No, he didn't save you. Your captor merely stole you for himself. He is slaughtering the enemy soldiers right now, massacring them the way he did your people. He is taking prisoners of war. He will feed them nicely and send them beautiful novels and texts. He will lie to them, manipulate them, and wait until they're willing.

Or he could be dead.

Of course he's not dead, you idiot, you tell yourself, as soon as you have the thought. He will live long enough to kill you like in the visions, and anyway, he is immortal.

There is no use hoping he is dead—for that is your hope. That he will someday be gone from this world, and that he can never again take away someone's home. That you will have the chance to slit to his throat at least once before he kills you. That you will have the satisfaction of seeing him die before Nikador takes your heart.

There is nothing else you are allowed to hope for.

The fighting ends a few nights later, and your captor returns soon after the bells of victory toll.

Prince Mydeimos is invulnerable, but he looks worse for wear. His armour is scuffed, shattered in a few places. His hair is a mess, sweat and dirt matting it, dulling the gold. The whole of his body—from his legs to the bare expanse of his chest—is covered in a thin layer of soot.

His shoulders relax when he sees you, and you try your best to ignore it.

“You won, then?” you ask. You are in bed, seated in the far corner. The sheets are pulled up to your neck, hiding away your chest and bare arms. The handle of your knife is warm in your palms, comforting.

Prince Mydeimos does not miss the way you clutch it.

“Yes,” he says, voice heavy. There's a tinge of fatigue marring his stoicism when he replies, “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” His eyes flick to yours, belying a surprise that you decide to kill: “I am an oracle. I knew you would not perish in this battle.”

“...of course.” He closes his eyes, counting to ten again. You study him as he tempers himself, wondering why he has returned to you when neither of you enjoy each other’s company.

“Why are you here?” you ask. “Shouldn't you be taking a bath? Enjoying libations with the other soldiers? Toasting the king?”

“I will join the others later,” he says. “I came here first for the same reasons as always.”

Are you eating? Are you sick? What did you do today, while you were alone? The prince stands at the threshold as he asks his three questions, watching you carefully. It occurs to you that he must have just come from battle, that his first desire afterwards was to check on you, and you drop the sheets but you also look away.

“I am not ill, and I reread some of the books you sent me,” you reply, because you would rather die than tell him that you hid under the bed. “And as for the food…”

Prince Mydeimos glances at the untouched slop on your plate, then frowns.

“My apologies,” he says. “Now that I've returned, I will be sure to make you proper meals. I know the servants here do not make food to your liking, so—”

“What do you mean, you'll make them?” you interrupt. At his blank stare, you say, “Isn’t it the helots who cook all the meals here?”

“They cook for most of the palace. But for your meals, it has nearly always been me—ever since I noticed you were not eating.”

You stare, wondering if you've somehow misheard him. “But…” You swallow, and it feels painful. You don't want to look at him. “That can't be true. There have been Aurelian dishes—it must have been an Aurelian who made them. A slave, or maybe a helot…”

“I learned the recipes myself,” he says simply, “though I did ask an Aurelian to sample it first, an old woman who sells spices in the city. She made sure the flavour was right.”

You want to laugh—or cry? The thought of the Crown Prince of Kremnos bent over a cookbook, sweating at a stove, is so absurd that you don't know what to make of it. “Why would a master cook for his slave?

He shrugs, though you don't miss the way he clears his throat. “I enjoy cooking, and I prefer to make my own meals. It is simple enough to cook for two instead of one.”

“You enjoy cooking,” you repeat flatly, staring.

“Is that so strange?”

“Yes.” He’s not meant to be human. He's an animal who feasts on strife and blood. He lies to you, manipulates you, waits until you're willing. But now you are imagining him going out of his way to find southern olive oil, or thinking on which cut of meat to buy from the butcher’s, or squinting at an Aurelian recipe and wondering where to get cassia, and he isn't supposed to be human but monsters don’t enjoy such quaint things.

“Why would you even know how to cook?” you ask—weakly. “You were raised to be a soldier, a king.”

“I learned as a child, before I returned from the sea,” he explains. “A fisherman’s wife taught me how after I saved her husband from the Sea of Souls. Though they banished me from their home after they learned I was Kremnoan.”

You can't look at him anymore, after that.

A few days later, you are served milopita after dinner.

It is well-made. Prince Mydeimos was generous with the cinnamon, and the apples are fresh. The yogurt is thick. The olive oil is that expensive, southern variety, the one that the old Aurelian woman in the city likely picked out for him. It comes with a cup of pomegranate juice and a bottle of goat’s milk, which you don't touch—paired with the cake, it is too sweet.

You catch yourself thinking that Prince Mydeimos must have a sweet tooth, and then you kill the thought.

The prince comes to visit, which he does not often do nowadays. The Chrysos War has entangled Kremnos into so many battlefronts that he is now always in demand as a general, and all the meals have gone back to being untouchable. But the books keep coming, and now there is sheet music as well. You are slow to read the music and your fingers are even slower on the lyre strings—you have not played much since you were a child, when you were taught as part of your training as a hiereia—but it is enough to occupy you.

You'd been wondering if you would be left alone forever when you received the cake.

He comes to you at night. Steps inside as always, closes the door to block out any listening ears. Leans against the wall, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. This is a constant habit of his; you briefly wonder if he does it so as not to make you feel threatened, and then you kill the thought.

You try not to look at him.

“You ate the cake,” he says, in a calm but distinctly satisfied way.

“Yes. It was quite good.” Sweet on your tongue, nothing like bitter copper between your teeth. You can't believe how sugary the apples are. You can't imagine this cold prison of a city, this home of warmongers, having anything like an orchard—yet they must exist here, for Prince Mydeimos to have gotten fruit so fresh and ripe.

Are the orchards here as peaceful as the olive groves back home? The cake was certainly as good as what you had in Aurelia—something close to what the grandmother next door would make for you. She would serve hers with tea, though, and you'd sit outside her quaint home and watch the children run by, playing. Be careful, my loves, she would say to them as they ran up and down the street. Take care not to fall.

Your heart aches as you think of her.

“I have not had any sweets in a very long time,” you say, trying not to let your voice sound tight.

“Nor have I. It has been too busy for me to bake, and I generally avoid desserts—they are unhealthy—but I made them today.”

“Why?”

“Well”—Prince Mydeimos looks away, clears his throat—“I have not been by in quite a while. I could hardly come empty-handed.”

He is mannered, you think. He wants to show you hospitality. He is treating you as if you are an esteemed guest, as if he enjoys your company, and perhaps that is why he didn’t make you into his personal attendant or a labourer; it is because guests aren’t meant to work in the palace, and—

—and now you're killing the thought.

You must kill these thoughts. You are not his guest; you are his slave. He is not a human; he is your captor. The only reason he hasn’t assigned you any menial tasks is because he wants to make it clear to others that you only have one purpose here: to be a hole for him to fuck, and no one else.

He conquered your city. Sacked your temple. Ruined your home. He will ruin your body too.

“I am a slave,” you murmur. “You do not need to come with anything for me.” You should not be giving me things. You should be taking everything from me. “There is no need to treat me so graciously.”

“What, would you prefer that I torment you?”

“I would prefer you to be honest about your intentions.”

He raises a brow. “And what are my intentions supposed to be?”

You finally take a sip of your pomegranate juice—red and tart and sweet, it tastes like the night you were stolen from your temple—and then you rise from your seat.

Prince Mydeimos is startled when you make your way to him, slow but sure. You have never gone to him willingly before, it occurs: you have always been taken to him by force, dragged by Kremnoan men or compelled by chains. Perhaps he is taken aback by it, or startled by the look you give him—the one you use on worshippers who have incurred the wrath of the Titans—for he presses himself even further against the wall.

There is little space between the two of you when you stop. His face is impassive as ever, but you can hear his breath hitch.

“You like your women willing, don't you?”

His face creases. “What?”

“You like your women willing. The freedmen and the slaves alike, I'm sure. You think that if you ply me with gifts and treats, you will also be able to ply open my legs.”

Your captor watches you in alarm, in discomfort. Probably startled at being found out. “...that's not—”

“It won't work, you know. No matter how kind you are to me, you will always be the man who burned my city and sacked my temple. You will always be the beast who dragged me from my altar and into your bed. If I ever spread my legs for you, it will only be because they are held open by chains.”

His jaw tightens. “You've misunderstood my intentions.”

You laugh, light but cruel. “What, are you waiting for a better time to kill me instead? I know you Kremnoans like to hunt people for sport. Are you toying with your prey right now?”

You see it in his eyes when he snaps.

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply wish to treat you well?” he grits out. “That there is at least one person in Kremnos who finds senseless violence disagreeable? That a Kremnoan man could see an innocent woman about to be torn apart by hyenas and wish to save her? Or do you see us all as mindless animals?”

“I am sure there are some of you who behave like humans, but I don't think they would include the Crown Prince of all people. You lead a nation of warmongering beasts—you ride into battle at their helm.”

His nostrils flare. “My people depend on me. It is my duty to protect them from all those who want Kremnos fall.”

“And protecting your city means massacring cities? Sacking temples? Dragging holy maidens out from their temples to be raped?” Your captor falters, but you are too angry to take any joy in it. Too angry at the hypocrisy, at the golden chains, at the city that is forever burning behind you. “If you were really so kind, why would you even have come back to Castrum Kremnos in the first place? Even if you were a child, surely you knew you were going to be joining an army of monsters.”

“Because I wanted a home,” he snaps, and his voice is so harsh that you flinch. He breathes sharply as you step back, and you watch as he struggles to control his—rage? It must be rage. It can't be hurt.

It can't be grief.

“...a home,” you repeat.

“Yes, even a monster like me would desire a home. I spent my first seven years drowning in the Sea of Souls and the next several being cast away by countless families simply because of my heritage—do you think that was an existence I enjoyed?”

You don't know how to reply. You wish to recall the memories of your burning city, your visions of being slain, but all you can remember now is the baby you saw in your dreams—the one who was tossed into the sea, drowning, drowning, drowning. Is Prince Mydeimos forever being dragged into the tides, just as how you are forever being dragged from your altar?

Does Oronyx force him to remember, too?

Prince Mydeimos does not wait for your response. He walks back to the door, terse. Cold.

“If you are so aggrieved by my presence,” he snaps, “then I won't torture you with it any longer.”

He slams the door on the way out.

You and Prince Mydeimos do not see each other for a fortnight after that.

The moons behave strangely while he is gone. Night is always odd in Castrum Kremnos—too long and too inconsistent, as if Oronyx is struggling against something volatile, a presence that is not Aquila. Still, you can usually see at least one of her two moons—one gold and one red, one always waxing while the other wanes. But for an hour, they blink out of existence entirely, and your blood chills at the sight. At the omen.

Prince Mydeimos, you think immediately, is he dead?

Of course he isn't dead. He will live long enough for you to slit his throat as many times as you wish. He will live long enough to kill you afterward, to give you your valorous death without chains. He will live long enough to offer your heart to Nikador, who will devour it and drink your blood.

But every time you imagine it, all you can hear is his voice in your head, irritating and persistent every night—

Are you eating?

Are you sick?

Your home, what was it like?

I wanted a home.

I worry for you.

You tell yourself to kill the thought. You must kill all these thoughts. You must not believe that he worries for you, even though you are practised in the art of reading faces and all you can ever see in his is plain honesty. You are not allowed to hope that you are right, let alone hope that he is alive.

The only thing you are allowed to hope for is to someday slit his throat before he kills you.

The morning after the moons disappear, Prince Mydeimos returns to you. You are surprised when he walks in—he has never visited you so early in the day—and immediately, you want to say something to him.

But you don’t know what.

The both of you stare at each other, and he seems to struggle equally with his words. All you can think about is your last encounter, and he is likely doing the same.

“Why are you here?” you finally ask—not unkindly. Prince Mydeimos startles at your voice.

“I…”

He hesitates. His eyes, gleaming in the morning sun, are underlined by darkness. They're bloodshot, too. He has not slept, you realise.

“Did something happen last night?” you guess, remembering the two moons and how they flickered out like dying flames.

“Perhaps.”

Prince Mydeimos’ expression falters. You want to look away, but you know now the movements of his face well enough to understand what you should not believe—

I worry for you.

You think of the bells of victory tolling, how soon he came to see you thereafter. “Did you come to check that I was alive?” you ask softly.

His voice is quiet, too: “Perhaps.”

You stare at the stack of books on the table, which has grown so high over the past two months that you always wonder if the whole thing will collapse. The war histories are at the bottom of the pile, read so long ago, but you remember them well—the facts alongside the propaganda. The Kremnoans like to perpetuate the myth that they are incapable of fear, but you think that Prince Mydeimos is failing to maintain this illusion.

“Was what you encountered as frightening as the Okhemans?” you ask.

Were you worried that it would harm me?

“...perhaps.”

Your brow arches. “Is that the only word you know now, Your Highness?”

His uncertainty disappears, replaced by a usual annoyance, and the tension finally breaks. “There is only so much information I can share with a prisoner of war.”

“You have already given away your plans to commit patricide—I do not think any information could be more sensitive than that,” you say flatly. He frowns.

“Oronyx told you what I will do, not me.”

“You could have lied or played dumb about it, at least.”

“Why would I try to lie to an oracle? You said yourself it would be meaningless.”

“Plausible deniability in case anyone overheard. You simply could have written me off as mad had I tried to reveal your plans, you know, it's happened before to oracles who foretell tragedies…” Your mouth slants. “You are not very skilled in the art of manipulation, Your Highness. You won't survive the court for very long after you ascend the throne, at this rate.”

“I can survive it well enough,” he says curtly. “I'm alive right now, aren't I? Though I'm sure that disappoints you constantly.”

“No, I'm glad for it.” He blinks. “If I am going to slit your throat, you will need to live long enough for it to happen.”

He snorts. “Of course. I look forward to the day.” Prince Mydeimos looks at you then—scrutinizing. “You will need to stay alive too. Have you been eating? Have you been healthy? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“I have been eating, and I am not ill. Terribly bored, but not ill.”

He frowns. “Bored? What could you possibly want for, with all that I have given you?”

You give him a long look, sensing an opportunity. “Well…”

He scrutinizes you. “What is it? Better food? More books? Another instrument, or a sharper weapon? I have an entire library at my disposal, plus the royal armory. Name whatever it is you want.” His voice is impatient, but his shoulders are relaxed, weightless. You can't it in yourself to deny the truth: he is relieved that you wish to demand something from him.

It makes you want to crawl under the bed.

“No,” you say, subdued. “I don't want any of that.”

“Then?”

Why do I matter to you?

Why aren't you using me?

Why aren't you hurting me?

“I want answers.”

There are no temples dedicated to Oronyx within Castrum Kremnos.

It is unsurprising. All citizens in Castrum Kremnos worship Nikador, and they war with other gods as often as the Strife Titan himself does. Nevertheless, the main palace has a few shrines dedicated to Oronyx. As much as the Kremnoans like to wreak havoc in the cities of other gods, all deities have their uses, especially Oronyx. It makes you bitter; the Goddess of Time sends enough visions for you to know that the use of her powers is painful for her, and you are certain that Kremnoans do not recompense her with any blood sacrifices.

You do, though. The Aurelian Cult of Oronyx has always honoured its goddess well. If Prince Mydeimos had brought you to a temple, you'd have also asked for a goat and sacrificed it. But as it is instead only a shrine, the only thing you can offer is your own blood.

At night, while the torches are burning low and the windows let through the dim light of the red moon, Prince Mydeimos takes you to the largest shrine of Oronyx. Her altar there is waiting for you—an alcove of cobalt and gold holding within it an azure light, its glow otherworldly. The Crown Prince is startled when you pull out a dagger and steady the blade over your hand; he reaches out and grabs your wrist, stopping you before you can wound yourself.

“What are you doing?” he says tersely. At his alarmed stare, you give him a blank look.

“I am about to appeal to Oronyx for her wisdom,” you explain, “and I will offer my blood in return.”

He gives you a dubious look. “Oronyx demands blood sacrifices?”

“No, but my temple provided them to honour her.” Your brow arches. “Don't tell me that this disturbs you. Your god not only gains strength from every Kremnoan death, he also demands blood sacrifices from other people. Don't think that the world has forgotten your tradition of drinking the blood of your slain enemies."

“We no longer engage in that practice,” Prince Mydeimos retorts immediately. “And in any case, what the Cult of Nikador does is entirely different.”

You squint at him. “What, so blood sacrifices are only acceptable when you do them?”

He sighs. “I only mean… if the god you follow does not demand violence outright, then I would not wish to see you inflict it upon yourself needlessly.”

You look at him, flabbergasted. “You cannot expect me to believe that a Kremnoan would be so averse to a little blood.”

“It isn't the blood that's the problem.” He sounds irritated. “It’s that it's your blood.”

You stare, watching his eyes for some tell of a lie—but you can find none. “You’re being serious,” you realise.

“Yes.”

“You really don't want to see me hurt.”

“Truly.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Not even by a single hair.”

Part of you is aggravated—this is shameless hypocrisy from a man who led an army into your city—but mostly you’re bewildered. You shake your head, turning away.

“I can't believe I ever thought you'd drink my blood,” you mutter, wresting yourself from his grip. “Your Royal Highness’ delicate sensibilities will need to tolerate this. Prophecy isn't cheap, you know.”

Prince Mydeimos finally relents; he crosses his arms as he watches your ritual. Your blade—his blade—presses into your palm, sinks into the flesh and glides along your heart line until scarlet is welling around it. You bear the pain silently; it is nothing compared to what Oronyx must feel whenever her powers are used by force.

Your blood drips onto the altar, and its cyan light flares violently. It is brighter than the golden moon, maybe even brighter than Aquila’s sun, when you begin your incantation. Titan language sounds strange, beautiful but unnerving to human ears; you are unsurprised when Prince Mydeimos shifts in the corner of your eye, uneasy as he listens to you.

O Titan of Time and Night, you say aloud, tell me what my path to freedom is, and show me the true nature of the man who has taken it away from me.

It takes a few moments for the visions to come, but they flash like lightning when they do. You are in the darkness of a decrepit shrine in Castrum Kremnos, standing next to your captor, then—

Daytime. You are somewhere beautiful, with a warm sun above your head and limpid pools everywhere, bathers laughing in the sun. There's a woman with golden hair and sea-glass eyes; she smiles at you, all-seeing even though she is blind, and then—

Nighttime. There are no moons in the sky, and the stars are faded. The city is dying, and you listen to the screams as you watch an unnatural darkness fall upon it. Something is encroaching the palace walls—a dark plague that corrupts all that it touches, a black tide that has been sweeping across the lands. You wish to stay, to lose yourself to it, but the Crown Prince grabs your hand. You can make out his words, just barely: ████ with me to ██████, he says. ███ ██ save you. And then—

Daytime. It is painfully bright where you are now, idyllic. You are watching Mydei. An amicable looking dromas has lowered its head to his palm to eat the feed in his hands. You made Mydei try this—giving the docile beast a treat. You're laughing as you watch him; he looks so startled, out of his depth for royalty. A group of children are spectating as well, giggling uncontrollably at their Crown Prince. You hear yourself: ██ ██ cute… then—

Nighttime. The golden moon is out tonight. You are tired, so tired; you have buried someone, you don’t know who. Mydeimos looks haunted. Your palm is pressed against his cheek, cradling his face in your hands. Your wrists are bare, you notice. His voice is quiet: █ ██ remember ██ ███ ███████ touched ██ ████ this… now, finally—

The end. You are bleeding out at the feet of King Mydeimos. You cannot see his face, but he is malevolent, terrible, and strife runs thick in his ichor veins. Your chest hurts even though your heart is no longer in it, and you are crying, crying, crying—I will ████ you soon, ██ ██, you weep, and now—

It is nighttime, and the torches are burning low in Castrum Kremnos. You are on the floor of a shrine, gasping, your cheeks wet with your grief. Your captor is crouched next to you, his hand on your back—touching you gently, too gently for the man who sacked your city, too gently for the king who will kill you and drink your blood. You pull away from him, terrified, and your captor backs off immediately.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You were—you collapsed, and I only wanted to check what was wrong.”

“I'm fine,” you gasp. “I'm fine. It's just—what I saw, through the Evernight Veil, it was—” Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What? What was it?”

“My future. Your future. I wanted”—you don’t know why you're telling him this, you don't know why you were standing next to him in a beautiful city with a group of joyous children, laughing as he fed a dromas—“I wanted to know if I could trust you.”

“And?”

Your captor stares intently. His eyes burn in the light of the palace torches, in the light of the blazing olive groves, in the light of the golden moon.

It is easy to lose sight of time after peering into the Evernight Veil, for the past, present, and future to blend together. Easy for you to reach out to your captor in Castrum Kremnos, easy to instead see Mydeimos grieving after a burial. He stares at you as you touch his cheek, cradling it. Something is flickering in his eyes, something so painfully human that you cannot bring yourself to ignore it. You can hear him talking to you in the future.

“You can't remember the last time someone touched you like this,” you repeat. At his startled look, you add, “That's what you're thinking, right?”

He jerks back, as if your fingers are scalding. “How did you—”

“That's what you'll say to me,” you say simply, “eventually.”

Prince Mydeimos swallows.

“Does that mean you'll come to trust me, then?”

Now you're at the foot of his throne again, bleeding dry for him—bleeding more than you ever have for your goddess or your city or your people. Your heart pulses in the hand of the Strife Titan, and you close your eyes forever.

“No.”

End Part I

notes: oh my god when I tell you all the suffering I went through trying to write this shitass chapter slfjslfksdfjalsk. between navigating the nightmare of canon lore and a trope that is absolutely out of my wheelhouse, I truly suffered for this story. and I don't think the end product was even that good. regardless, please let me know if you liked it. LOL

as an aside, I'm not sure how obvious it is to people who are reading this blind (as opposed to my followers who've been witnessing my shitposting lol), but mydei is absolutely not into the sexual slavery stuff. he sees you in those golden bdsm chains and feels so uncomfortable that he leaves the room asap. my man is taking immense psychic damage from this situation rip he just wants to make sure you're safe but his palace is forcing him into this wattpad fic situation (i am forcing him into this wattpad fic situation)

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 1 month ago

Text

LEVIATHAN I: ECHOES IN A SHALLOW BAY

Series Synopsis: The sea spits you out at Phainon’s feet and tells him to save you. You wonder if he will ever regret that he falls to his knees and obliges.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Phainon x F!Reader, Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 9.9k

Content Warnings: it’s me again writing for amphoreus baddies despite being like an eighth of the way through 3.0 AT THE MOST, fantasy au (amphoreus?? i hardly KNOW us), i make up lore + magic because i can, i world build also because i can, random luocha relevance fsr, amnesia trope, love triangle (we are not getting both at the same damn time i fear), violence and blood and whatnot most likely, screwy timeline bullshit, screwy spatial bullshit (this makes no sense but it will), an ending i personally would not consider angsty but some might, don’t ask me who’s endgame i oscillate sm it’ll probably just be left vague, wherever you think this is going it definitely isn't, slapping that ooc warning on here because who even am i without her (it's really bad this time though SLDKHF sorry)…

A/N: guys i thought i knew fear posting part one of threefold but no THIS is fear LMAOAOA i'm subjecting you all to my slop T_T...i don't love this by any means in fact i on the whole despise it but whatever sometimes you just gotta post anyways #enjoy farmer phainon 😭 I WILL LOCK IN FOR LATER PARTS I PROMISE

Sand slipped between your fingers as you scrabbled for purchase, dragging yourself out of the vicious currents which clawed at your legs, wailing and trying to pull you back to where your certain death awaited. Your side screamed in protest, and with a low groan, you pressed one hand to the weeping wound in an attempt to silence it, your stomach roiling from the sticky sensation of blood gathering at the site of the frayed, greening flesh.

With only one arm left free, you continued to pull yourself up the shore, but you made it a scant few paces before your trembling wrist gave out entirely, leaving you to collapse, your cheek pressed to the rough, crumbling bits of shell that littered the coast. The tide licked at your ankles victoriously, and you were dimly aware of tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as they fluttered shut and the great song of your doom filled your ears, echoing somewhere deep in your bones like an army’s march.

Each pump of your heart was fainter than the last until your pulse all but crawled to a stop, and although the roar of the beast was in a foreign and guttural tongue, you understood what it was saying anyways: end. Your end was here, and there would be no one to witness this demise, no one to cradle your body and decorate it with anemones so that you were suitably beautiful for your journey to the underworld.

“Hey!”

You wanted to tell the man that he should leave you to die, that there was no need for him to run when there was nothing he could do to change this outcome, but his voice was so sweet and dear that you could not stop the burst of inspiration which compelled you to push yourself up and watch him as he sprinted barefoot across the beach towards you, his alarm palpable even from such a distance.

“Who are you?” he said as he knelt by your side, shielding you from the sun and the sea alike. The clamor surrounding you quieted when met with the heaviness of his vast, boundless irises, and as the rest of the world darkened into nothing, everything you had ever known dissipating as readily as mist in the morning, you focused only on the skies contained in his worried gaze.

“How beautiful you are,” you said, and then you were coughing and he was gasping and you were saying words that you were sure did not belong to you but to someone else, someone many years older and some measures wiser. “Forgive me…I have kept you waiting for so long…”

“No, no, please don’t die, please don’t — who are you? What happened to you?” he said insistently, taking your face in his large, warm hands. Your eyelids drooped as he shook you, and you did not feel as frightened anymore, your dread fleeing in the consolation of his panicked embrace.

The last thing you felt was the weight of his palms upon your heart and the heat of his mouth against your own as he begged you to come back, to answer his many questions and stay with him in the realm of the living. Perhaps you might’ve, but you succumbed to the bleakness of finality and were met with a blissful emptiness not too dissimilar to sleep before you could attempt to; then, it was all you could do to lie there and think to yourself how wonderful it would be if you spent the rest of your existence exactly like this, freed from trials and tribulations and terrors alike…

You awoke with a sharp inhale, half-expecting to be met with the biting sting of sand on your skin — yet to your surprise, you were in a bed, feather-stuffed pillows propped behind your neck and a pale blue quilt tucked neatly around your shoulders. Furrowing your brow, you stared at the white ceiling for a moment, and then you sat up, casting aside the pillows and quilt in a flurry of activity, swinging your legs over the mattress and planting your feet on the wooden floor.

Only a second later, your knees buckled and you found yourself in a heap on the woven rug, the flowery patterns dyed into the wool mocking you with their cheery brightness. You lay there for a while, finding no merit in attempting anything but motionlessness, and then slowly you extended your arm, tracing the bleeding edges of the red petals that were now at your eye level.

Dimly you grew aware of a thudding that was becoming progressively louder, and the thought crossed your mind that you should perhaps be worried, but whoever was approaching had not hurt you while you had slept, so you felt that it was fair for you to ignore it. Anyways, what would you do even if they did mean you harm? There was no sense in caring, so you remained sprawled on your side, stroking along the carpet and wishing the stems of the flowers might manifest into reality so that you could braid them together into thin, spidery plaits.

The door banged open, and you gave the entrant the grace of lifting your chin, as much out of your own curiosity as in polite acknowledgement. He did not notice you at first, his shoulders tense as he scanned the room, and when he realized the bed was empty, something like a scowl formed on his kind, lovely face — though it was not anger but despair that drove it, or at least that was how it seemed to your untrained eye.

“Oh, you’re awake!” he said, his eyes widening and a slight smile replacing his frown when he finally noticed you peering up at him. “Though, why are you on the floor? Never mind, I suppose it doesn’t really matter now that you’re there. You really are proving to be a lot more troublesome to take care of than a lamb, you know that?"

In a swift movement, he hooked one hand under your knees and cradled your neck in the bend of his other elbow, lifting you with a surprising ease and then depositing you back on the bed. It might have been impressive to some, but now that he had drawn the comparison, all you could think of was that he did not view you with anything more than the dutiful responsibility of a hound to its flock.

“I was just about to come and change your wound’s dressings, so it’s good timing, anyways,” he said, reaching for your waist before pausing, an odd, delicate pink shade blooming at the tips of his ears. “Ah, I’m sorry. You were asleep, so I never asked permission…”

“Whatever for?” you said. Your voice came out scratchy and burnt, remnants of something acrid sticking to the back of your throat, and you coughed to clear it, prompting another frown from him. Shaking his head, he sighed and tugged at the hem of your shirt, which hung off of you so awkwardly that it must’ve been his and not yours at all.

“I have to lift it a bit,” he said. “Not — not immodestly or anything, I swear! I had the neighbor’s daughter come to bathe you and change you out of that torn dress you washed up in, but your wound is so deep that it requires attention more frequently than I can justify calling her for, and I have some experience, you know, with the puppies and the foals and whatnot, so I’ve just been doing it myself…”

“Is that what you’re fretting over?” you said in amazement. “Why, I should not complain. You may think of me as a lamb or a puppy or a foal, if it eases your mind, but all you have done has been in the effort of saving me, I am sure, so whether you consider me a woman or a beast, I do not think there is any need for guilt regardless."

“If you’re sure,” he said, the shirt bunching around your ribcage when he pushed it up and leaned closer to the covered wound, the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he peeled away the white gauze from your skin, bit by excruciating bit.

“So — so you must be fond of animals, then?” you said, biting back a hiss as the cool air dug into where tendrils of infection laced along your exposed, gouged-away skin. “No, do not apologize; please tell me of them, so that I may be duly distracted.”

“Yes, there’s not much else to be fond of around here,” he said. “Here being Aedes Elysiae, if you didn’t know; we are terribly isolated from anything of note, and the sheep outnumber the people by far, so what choice do I have? It’s a dull, sleepy place, this village, but no one ever leaves it, perhaps because there is a certain charm to a home and a livelihood so secluded from the mess and bustle of the capital.”

As he spoke, he patted down the packing in your wound, wiping away the excess blood spilling over the sides with a tenderness that belied the clinical nature of the task. Of course it still ached, but you were quite sure that if it were anyone but him, it would’ve been ten times worse, so in thanks you stayed as still as possible and allowed him to work without complaint.

“My name is Phainon,” he continued. “I’m only a shepherd, to be honest with you, so all of this is a bit strange to me — I’m not really the kind of person that this sort of thing happens to, if you understand what I’m saying. I was just chasing after a stray ewe that day, but then my dog got to barking and led me straight to you.”

“I don’t remember a dog,” you said. “Though I don’t remember much of anything, so I suppose that’s a bit meaningless. ”

“He didn’t want to go near the sea. It’s odd, because he’s normally so fond of swimming, but that day all he could do was whine and paw at the sand like he was waiting for me to do something,” Phainon said, winding a pristine roll of bandages around your torso methodically, with the mindlessness typical of accustomization to an everyday task. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“No,” you said. “When I try to think of my past, I come up with nothing. Nothing, that is, but you.”

He pursed his lips, and then his fingers brushed over your navel, tying the strips of dressing together in a cross. You didn’t know if it was intentional or an unconscious, fidgeting habit; you thought it must’ve been the latter, given that he did not dissolve into a fit of apologies for daring to touch you, but then again you did not know him well enough to say for certain. Either way, it was so quick that you did not mind and would not have mentioned it even if you did; then he was adjusting your shirt and stepping away, clasping his hands together like he was gathering his thoughts.

“It hasn’t healed any,” he said. “I was hoping that when you woke up you would be able to tell me where you’re from, or at least what happened for you to end up in such a manner. I might be able to treat you better if that’s the case, but as it is, I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“My apologies,” you said, bowing your head. “I owe you my very life, and yet the only repayment I can afford you is further distress.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t thinking of repayment when I found you. I wasn’t thinking much at all, really, just that you were there and you were dead, or soon would be, and I couldn’t accept it.”

“You couldn’t accept it,” you repeated. “Why, because you’re the one who found me? Do you feel some measure of duty to me for it?”

“It’s not just that,” he said. “I don’t know. I can hardly explain it to myself, let alone someone else…but I thought I would have to stay and breathe for you until the tide grew low and the crabs came to mock me, and strangely enough, I would’ve done it. If that was what was necessary, I would’ve.”

You narrowed your eyes, scrutinizing the man who had played as your heart and your lungs until such a time that you could do so on your own. He was a striking figure, albeit unassuming at first glance, his taste in ornament and dress detracting somewhat from the imposing nature of his presence. Taller and broader than any shepherd had the right to be, his eyes were shimmering and clever, his hair carelessly mussed and pale as the moon, the silvery strands framing his appealing face in such a fine way that you almost could not believe he was real, that he was not some empyrean figment of your imagination.

“I see,” you said finally. “Whatever your reasoning might be, I’m indebted to you.”

“Oh, um…anyways, now that you’re awake, I guess the only thing to do is to take you to the village proper, where we can see an actual healer,” he said, wrinkling his nose, clearly unused to praise being lavished upon him, especially such a great, generous amount. “I was too frightened to jostle you about so much while you were unconscious, but I don’t know that we have much of a choice anymore. I’ve been treating your wound as one would treat an abscessed hoof, but this may be a few orders of magnitude more serious.”

Unbidden, your knuckles pressed into your aching ribs, and with a wince, you chuckled. Phainon’s face fell, his eyebrows drawing together and the corners of his lips curving downwards, and this for some reason prompted a sinking sort of disappointment in you.

“It may be,” you said. “But I am sure that with proper medicine, it will heal and be as if it never happened.”

Both of you knew you were being unnecessarily and unrealistically optimistic, but he did not say anything to correct you, only nodding, perhaps needing the reassurance as much or more than you did. After all, wouldn’t it be worse to know that despite everything he had done, you had still died? Wouldn’t it hurt more now that he had brought you into his home than it would’ve if he had simply left you on that beach, rotting amongst the stinking seaweed?

With the help of your grip on Phainon’s proffered forearm, you managed to stumble down the stairs to his kitchen, though it was an exhausting endeavor, and you would’ve fallen several times over if it weren’t for him. You knew from the set of his mouth that he didn’t approve of your attempts at independence, but he was not the sort to argue, nor the type to gloat when you settled in a chair at his small table with a sigh.

“I don’t have much,” he said as he opened and closed the doors of his cabinets, pulling out various preserves in glass jars, weighing them in his hands before putting half back. “It won’t be anywhere near as nice as you’re used to, I’ll bet.”

“I’m not ‘used to’ anything,” you reminded him, craning your neck so you could watch him as he crouched, muttering something about needing to go to the market again soon.

“Ah,” he said, turning and blinking at you nigh-owlishly, his lashes surprisingly dark as he batted them at you. “Right. Sorry, it’s just that you’re so proper and beautiful and — I mean, not beautiful! Wait. Yes, you are beautiful, but that’s not why — I just — ugh, my mother always told me I was well-practiced at shoving my foot in my mouth, but until now I didn’t understand what she meant by that. Here, I hope this is acceptable.”

He slid a plate of something or another over to you, and then he turned on his heel and busied himself with tidying the already-spotless counters. You admired him as he wiped over the grainy wood, in the meanwhile cutting your food into pieces with the fork and knife he had given you, taking the smallest bite and then humming in approval.

“It is more than acceptable,” you said. “However, need I remind you I’m in no position to complain either way? I would eat even if you only gave me pig slop.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” he said, dropping his rag and brandishing his index finger at you. “Do you really think — you’re joking.”

“Yes,” you said, laughing despite how it hurt, thinking that there might be some remedy to be found in this version of pain. “I am only joking.”

“I can’t quite understand you,” he said. “You speak like one of those Helikan tax collectors, but you have the sensibilities of any ordinary girl.”

“Is ‘Helikan tax collector’ the worst insult you can fathom? I am duly offended, though you really ought to improve your creativity for the future,” you said.

“You’re joking again,” he said flatly, and you could not even deny it, your continued laughter betraying you. “I’m not trying to insult you, I’m simply telling the truth. It’s an honor if anything; being associated with Helike is high praise here.”

“Why is that?” you said. He handed you a mug filled to the brim with a warm drink that had a sweet, unfamiliar aroma wafting off of it, and then he sat across from you with his chin in his hands.

“It’s the capital of the region,” he said. “The most powerful city on the coast. Aedes Elysiae and the other villages like us are technically part of the Helikan state, though for the most part they leave us to our own devices, as long as we pay our taxes and don’t cause too much trouble.”

“Do they lend you protection in exchange?” you said.

“They’re supposed to,” he said. “But the city itself is much too far, and we are of much too little consequence for them to care, especially since that Lord of Swines took over and let the countryside fall to chaos.”

“What sort of a place is this, to be ruled with such a loose fist, and by a man called the Lord of Swines, no less?” you said incredulously. “Have I found myself in some strange fiction? I can’t quite believe it.”

“He’s not actually called the Lord of Swines,” Phainon said, clicking his tongue impatiently. “And officially, he’s not the ruler of anything but his temple. Helikan politics are a bit of a complex situation, but you shouldn’t pay any mind to them. Focus on getting well and remembering where your actual home is. I’m sure there are people who are missing you.”

“Right,” you said. “If I have a mother and father, they must be worried…or siblings, if I am so privileged as to have a brother or sister or both, then maybe they are searching for me…and friends, surely I have friends, right? Do you believe they think of me in my absence?”

“Of course they do,” he said. “They will be overjoyed when you return, I’m sure of it.”

“It is such a difficult and delicate thing, to mourn a life and love I do not know,” you said, chewing contemplatively in the ensuing silence, continuing only after you had swallowed. “I am sad for what I have lost, but I am more sad for those who have lost me. My suffering is only bodily and can be treated, or at least alleviated, but what recourse do they have?”

It was a rhetorical question, and thus he did not try to answer it, but you could tell by the softening of his eyes that he pitied you. Perhaps you should’ve found it condescending or infuriating, but it was only heartening to think that he understood, that he, too, shared your sorrow, or at least held sympathy for it; so, reaching out, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and held his hand against your eyes, smothering your tears before they could come.

Outside of Phainon’s small home stretched endless fields of grass, green and gold in turn, sheep dotting the landscape like small, fleecy clouds. A tan hound lounged by the dirt path, a pink tongue lolling out of his black muzzle, and when he noticed you had come out, he beat his tail against the ground, sending up plumes of dust into the air. You smiled as you passed him, remembering that Phainon had mentioned it had been his dog who had led him to you and wondering if this was the very one who had done it.

“He’s been moping about ever since I brought you home,” Phainon said, as if he could read your mind. The dog got up with a deep exhale, trotting along behind you with his tail still wagging, though he broke off eventually to chase after a pair of wayward rams. “You may think it fanciful, but I do believe he was worried.”

“How helpless it is, to be a dog in a world meant for people,” you said. You meant it as a rumination, an earnest contemplation on the nature of these things, but Phainon only snorted, tightening his grip around your shoulders as you rounded the corner of a stone barn and came up to a white-fenced pasture where a pair of horses grazed.

“You’re funny,” he said. “Maybe you used to be a court jester.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, furrowing your brow. You had no frame of reference for it, but the very title felt uncomfortable and wrong, settling on your shoulders like a mismatched cloak. He glanced at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling before he took a halter over the taller horse’s head and led it out of the field behind him.

“Yes, probably not,” he said. “I’ve not met any jesters, but from what Natasha has told me of them, you wouldn’t fit the role.”

“Who’s Natasha?” you said, sitting on a bale of hay and observing him as he bustled about, readying the horse for the trip to the town center.

“She’s the best healer in all of Aedes Elysiae,” he said. “Actually, she’s from the capital, but something happened in her family a few years ago, so she moved out here and has remained in the village ever since. It’s a lucky thing, really — she knows how to treat maladies most of us have never even heard of, and I’m sure she’s saved more lives than I count just because of it.”

“You’re taking me to see her, then,” you said. He nodded.

“If there’s anyone here who can figure out what’s going on with your wound, it’s her,” he said. “Like I told you, I would’ve taken you to her earlier — I should’ve, I know I should’ve — but —”

“You mustn’t upset yourself like this,” you interrupted before he could continue. “You have done the best you could. I do not blame you, so do not blame yourself; how could you have known that it would turn out to be such an abnormal case? Anyways, you may have done the right thing after all. I am still alive, and who knows if that would’ve been the case had you been hasty? Enough with your worrying, for I cannot continue to reassure you in this way. You must be certain that you were correct and understand that even if you weren’t, you cannot undo what has already been done. The only thing left for both of us is to continue onwards with the situation as it is.”

He gawked at you for a moment, like he had not been expecting you to say that, and even you were taken aback, for you, too, were surprised by the gravitas in your voice, the stern, cold nature of it. An awkward silence descended upon you both with a swiftness, and it was only broken when his horse huffed, pawing at the ground in an impatient reminder that he was still tied and half-tacked.

Phainon cleared his throat and busied himself with the buckles of the saddle, clearly embarrassed. “Right, I’ll do that.”

“I am sorry,” you said.

“Don’t be,” he said. “You spoke correctly. There’s nothing that can be changed now. All we can do is go to Natasha and hope it was enough.”

The ride to the village center was not terribly long, or at least you did not think it was, for you spent most of it with your cheek between the bony blades of his shoulders, drifting in and out of sleep, although you had just awoken a few hours earlier. It must’ve been a symptom of the decay festering in your ribcage, for the weariness felt unnatural, forced, a fog over your mind that combined with the lack of your memories to lull you into a blank motionlessness, your failing body weighed down as if by stones shoved in your pockets.

To call Aedes Elysiae a village was generous; it was a cluster of homes wound through with a few cobblestone streets, a small square lined with shops the closest to a center that they had. Wood-painted signs declared each merchant’s wares, but Phainon led you past all of them, ignoring the staring townspeople who whispered as you walked by and halting before a grey-walled house with flowers blooming in the windowsills.

“Here we are,” he said, helping you off of the horse and tying it to a wooden post. You reached out and took one of the blossoms between your fingers while he did so, stroking the velvety petals with a slight frown, though you could not say why they brought such distress, why your stomach dropped as soon as you saw the steadfast blooms. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” you said, startling at the sudden address, the flower falling from your hand and drifting to the ground, where it was promptly crushed under the horse’s hoof. “Yes, yes, I’m alright. I was just surprised.”

“By the flowers?” he said, far more discerning than you would’ve expected from someone who had been kind to the point of near-naivete up until this point. When you nodded hesitantly, he frowned. “I don’t know what kind they are. They don’t grow around here; I think she brought them with her from Helike or something.”

“Anemones,” you said, the name materializing like the ghost of a person you once knew but had long ago lost. “I…they mean something, I think, but I can’t say what. Of course.”

“Do you think that once your injury is cured, you’ll be able to remember everything again?” he said, knocking on the blue door, cocking his head slightly while he waited for a response.

“I would like to believe so,” you said. “But it feels overly hopeful, so I will refrain for now. It’s better not to have expectations at all, right?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But isn’t it also important to have faith? I mean, what else even is there to be had?”

Before you could muster a response, the door swung open, revealing a slender, willowy woman with an oval face and dark hair tied at the nape of her neck, loose tendrils falling in her eyes and white ribbon trailing down her back. When she noticed you and Phainon standing there, she frowned slightly, but it was concerned, not disdainful, and nearly maternal in quality, although she could not have been more than a few years older than either of you.

“Phainon? Who’s this? Is everything alright?” she said, and the calm, steady cadence of her voice was enough to set your heart, which inexplicably had begun to race, at ease. Here was a woman who understood things, who might understand you, despite the sorry fact that you could not yet understand yourself. She ushered you in without even waiting for Phainon to explain, taking over the support of your limp weight as easily and naturally as breathing — which, to a healer, such a task really was so ingrained, you supposed.

“I found her on the beach,” he said, and although she did not require any assistance, he hovered at your side with the worried air of a mothering hen, like he could not bear to relinquish the care of you entirely. “She washed up in a wad of seaweed, bleeding all over the sand from this horrible wound in her side. For a while I was sure she would die in my arms, but then miraculously she began coughing and breathing on her own, without my help, although she did not wake up for some time, and the condition of her wound never improved. Ah, that’s actually why we came to see you, Natasha, if you don’t mind looking…”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she chided him, as if he had been a fool to ask her in the first place. “Just wait outside. I’ll bring her to you when I’m done.”

“Okay,” he said, but it was drawn out and long, like he was hoping by the end of the word she would change her mind. His reluctance was obvious, and with every step he took away from you, your heart squeezed a little tighter, which meant that he was not alone in the feeling — but who were you to argue? She was the one who knew best, and so you had no choice but to follow her directives.

Natasha waited until the door was well and fully closed before she turned to you, clearing her throat and folding her hands in her lap. You had been expecting her to immediately take to inspecting the site of your injury, so you were surprised by the reaction, and even more so by her subsequent scowl.

“Was he telling the truth?” she said.

“Huh?” you said. She nodded towards the window, where, presumably, Phainon stood in anxious wait, unable to do anything of merit but unable to leave, either.

“Phainon,” she said. “Did he really find you under such…altruistic circumstances? I don’t want to believe it of him, he’s always been so good, so wonderful, but neither do I wish to presume. So, I ask you again: is he telling the truth?”

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are you suggesting that he could be the one who hurt me?”

“In a sense,” she said, the air suddenly growing fraught and thick with tension. “Or, perhaps, that in your current condition, he might have—”

“No!” you said, and it burst out so vehemently that your hand clapped over your mouth immediately afterwards. What cause did you have to defend him so staunchly? You did not know him, not well and not at all, and what Natasha was saying was not baseless. It would not have been difficult for Phainon, not with how you were at present…but you could not fathom it, you rejected it, you knew it wasn’t the case. He wouldn’t have, he could not, you were so sure, and your certainty was frightening, it was frightening and confounding and should not have existed in the first place, least of all in such a great quantity, but it was there nonetheless.

“You’re quite convinced?” she said, and you nodded, because, although you could not remember much, you did recall the day he had found you, for it was in a sense a second birth, the rest of your life a dark blur up until the moment you had opened your eyes to him. Him and the deep punctures in your side, which were blackened around the edges and wept red onto his turmeric-stained tunic; him and the kelp tangling around your throat, which crumbled away as soon as his palm lit upon the firm bone of your chest; him and the brine at the corners of your mouth, which dribbled down your chin as he pinched your nose shut and pressed his lips to yours, breathing life back into a sodden, weary heart that had no choice but to accept the offering.

“I am. He saved my life. I — well, to be fully honest with you, I have found myself without much if anything in the way of memories, but there are some things that exist in the back of my mind in the way some words exist on the tip of one’s tongue, just out of reach but maddeningly close, and this is exactly such a thing. I can’t explain how or why, but I can tell you unflinchingly and calmly that I would be dead if it weren’t for him. Perhaps many times over; perhaps in ways that he himself cannot know; perhaps in a manner that the explanation for does not yet make sense. But I would be dead without him, I assure you. He has saved my life, and I won’t — I won’t hear anything to the contrary!” you said.

“Alright,” she said. “Please do not misunderstand; I am relieved to hear it. I did not want to think of him as anything less than what I do now.”

“And what may that be?” you said, removing your shirt at her indication and raising your arms so that she could begin to undo Phainon’s attempts at bandaging.

“A boy who is meant for more than shepherding cattle,” she said, and the answer was simple, practical, yet the kind that spoke volumes for its abstractness. “Oh, dear girl, what happened to you?”

“He said it hasn’t improved any. He’s been treating it as best as he can, but he did not want to take me into the village until I was awake — you mustn’t tell him he was wrong, even if he was, I think it will crush him — although it is clearly more serious than anything he has ever seen,” you said.

“I’ll say,” she muttered, and then, to your surprise, she only rebandaged the wound exactly how it had been, not even addressing the site with anything more than a sad look. “Put your shirt back on. I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good, and I think it’d be best if I tell both you and Phainon at once, to save you from having to repeat it. If I know him, I know he’ll take it worse than anyone, perhaps even worse than you yourself, and I wish to spare you this singular torment, for it is within my power to do so.”

Phainon swept in as soon as Natasha opened the door, and he did not even greet her, returning to stand before you, taking your hands between his and searching your expression like he could tell everything he needed to know just from the reflection of it in your irises.

“You should sit,” Natasha said to him.

“I’ll stay standing,” he said. The with her remained hanging in the air, unsaid but known by you all, and to it she could only exhale heavily, like she had expected as much but had wished most fervently for a different response.

“I can’t do anything for her,” she said. “As far as I can tell, the depth of the wound isn’t the main issue, although it’s definitely aggravating it; it’s that it’s poisoned, and that this poison is spreading, which is killing her slowly. But if it really is a poison, then it’s one unlike anything I've ever seen, and I don’t want to use medicine on it for fear of accidentally causing a reaction that’ll exacerbate her suffering further. The kindest thing we can do at this point is give her a comfortable place to live until she finally succumbs.”

“What?” he said. You supposed you should’ve felt equally as indignant as him, but you had been half-expecting from the moment you had awoken that your fate would be something like this, so the only reaction you had was the fleeting thought that even this much was a blessing. At least now you could die somewhere peacefully, happily, buried amongst flowers in those green-gold fields that Phainon and his dog watched over, defended with the same zeal that they defended their flock, instead of left to be pecked at by carrion-birds on the unforgiving shore of the stony beach. “How am I supposed to just accept that? How am I supposed to just — just — just watch her die, like she’s some ailing cow bound for slaughter? She’s a person, not livestock, doesn’t she deserve more than that?”

“There is one other option,” Natasha said, silencing Phainon’s tirade as quickly as it had begun.

“Why didn’t you start with that?” he said in exasperation. “Well? What is it?”

“You won’t like it, and it’s not a guarantee. The answer may not be any different, and you’ll have put both of yourselves through undue stress for nothing if that’s the case,” she warned. He rolled his eyes, and although he had dropped your hands about halfway through his rant, clearly overcome, he now brought his right to rest protectively on your shoulder, like he could tether you to the world, to him, with just that one point of contact.

“I don’t care about whether I’ll like it or not. Just get on with it,” he said.

“Take her to the capital,” she said. “Bring her to my former master, Luocha, who is perhaps the most learned medic in the world. Surely he will be able to better diagnose her malady.”

“You don’t mean Helike, do you?” he said.

“I can’t recommend it,” Natasha said. “The journey will be riddled with difficulties. The road is not safe on the best of days, and as for that wound…no mere accident could’ve caused it. Do you know what that means? Someone or something is, or at some point was, trying to kill her. You may be safe for now, if they believe they were successful, but what do you think will happen when they realize she lives? They will surely hunt her down, and no matter how talented of a swordsman you are, Phainon — and you are, I acknowledge that much — you can’t defend both yourself and a woman on the brink of death from a being that is hellbent on her end.”

“It’s her choice,” he said finally. “No one else’s.”

“Yes,” Natasha said, and then she turned to you. “It is. How about it, then? Knowing everything, what do you say?”

“Phainon,” you said instead of answering her immediately. “Will you stay with me?”

It was suddenly imperative that he answered that. For the first time but not the last, you wondered if you had met him before, to trust him so intrinsically, to need him so instinctually. What other explanation was there? Logically you knew it was not so, or else he would have recognized you, but you could not help it, could not help that nagging sense of familiarity, could not help that whining desire to be nearer and nearer to him.

“Until the very last,” he said, so solemn, so grave. “All of the way until Helike, if that’s what you ask.”

“Then I will go,” you said. “Even if it is not guaranteed, I want to live a little longer. Even if it is more painful, I don’t want to accept my death without first trying as hard as I can to fight it.”

Natasha clearly did not approve, but she did not seem particularly shocked, either, her lips pressing into a thin line as she nodded slowly, sadly, before standing and telling you she would return in a few moments if you did not mind waiting, please. So you and Phainon stayed in that empty room, and for a while neither of you spoke, lost in your own musings, until finally you gathered the strength to ask him the question that was newly weighing on your mind.

“Did I know you before?” you said.

“What?” he said, blinking rapidly, like he was waking up from some long dream, shaking his head and giving you a polite, confused smile. “No, I’m quite sure you didn’t. I’d remember you if we had ever met.”

“How can it be? You say I am a stranger, but who does this much for a stranger? And if I truly did not know you, then why…” you trailed off, because in face of the befuddled furrow of his brow, you did not dare complete your thought: why is it that I feel so much for you? Why is it that I have, in the span of hours, found myself so enthralled? If you are a stranger, then does that make me a fool? I cannot be so weak. I cannot be so hapless. My body has failed me and my mind has failed me, my heart cannot as well. It cannot, and so you cannot.

“I can’t answer that,” he said, and he sounded so contrite you regretted even bringing it up in the first place. “Of course, I wish I knew you. I wish you weren’t a stranger, so that I could fill in the gaps of your memories, so that I could tell you about the entire life you had led up until the point you lost it. I would remember each detail, you know, and I wouldn’t withhold even the most mundane of them — I’d tell you about every single breakfast you ever ate with me, which jams were your favorite and which you turned your nose up at, the flowers you loved and those which distressed you, whether you preferred to play with the sheep or the ponies or the dogs — you would find me tiresome and boring to listen to, I think! But anyways, you are not the type of person who would be found doing such unimportant, silly things, so it’s irrelevant. Can you really believe yourself to be from Aedes Elysiae? We both know you aren’t, which means that you really must be a stranger to me, who has never left this place.”

“If only I were,” you said. “Girls from Aedes Elysiae are not poisoned and hunted and drowned very often, are they?”

“No,” he said. “They have their own problems, but those are not amongst the most common. Whoever did this to you, they are a special kind of monster, the sort that most people are lucky enough to never encounter in their lives. We only have to worry about wolves and ordinary bandits in these mountains.”

“Natasha didn’t seem to think so,” you said.

“Well, the road to Helike is dangerous,” he acquiesced. “And the city itself is a separate entity altogether. Who knows if we’ll even manage an audience with Luocha? He is a busy man, and not the generous sort, who might hear our urgency and make an exception. She’s right to be against us going.”

“But you think it’s a good idea,” you said. “You didn’t say as much, but I could sense it.”

“I hope I didn’t sway your decision,” he said. “You’re right, though. I do think it’s worth it. If we stay here, then your death is assured, and I will always regret that I did not do the best I could to prevent it.”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking,” you said. “Don’t worry. I arrived at the conclusion of my own volition; if I am to die, I do not want to just lay down and accept it. It would drive me mad to spend my days with that anticipation, especially knowing that there was something I could be doing in the meantime. I could not manage such an arduous journey alone, but if I can have you with me, then I will go to Helike and demand that this Luocha sees me.”

“I already told you I would go,” he said. “I’ll deliver you to the capital, and until we can find out who you truly are, I will remain by your side and fulfill the role of every person it occurs to you to miss.”

“What if he cannot do anything for me?” you said, giving voice to that which had been quivering between you, massless and amorphous until you forcibly acknowledged it, affording it credence and shape. “Then you will have to lay me to rest in Helike. I will be an unnamed body amongst the many others who die everyday in such a large place, another unmarked grave amongst a sea of the like. It sounds so sad and lonely, I don’t — I don’t think I want that—”

“You can’t think such things. Focus on getting better,” he said.

“But I must consider every outcome carefully. There’s a chance that this entire matter will end in such a way, after all, and not a small one, either,” you said. “Can you do me a favor? Please, if it comes to it, ask them to burn me, and then take what’s left to the most beautiful place you can imagine. I know that’s a lot to ask of you, given that we have only met so recently, but I have no one else…”

“I meant when I said I will be everything to you,” he said. “If that’s what you really want, then it’ll be done — but it won’t come to it in the first place. You will live, I promise. Those in the capital will know how to fix you.”

After that, he placed his hand on the top of your head, which was more than you needed but less than you wanted, and there you stayed, yourself on the bed and Phainon standing between you and the rest of the room, until Natasha returned with a few more sets of bandages and a bundle of clothes and a letter for Luocha, as well as a final warning to be careful before she sent you on your way.

Instead of returning directly home, you went to Phainon’s neighbor’s house, for if he were to accompany you to Helike, there were affairs that required settling. The animals he tended would still require feeding and watering and looking after, and he told you in a fond, level voice that there was no one he could entrust with the task better than the neighbor’s daughter, who was some years younger than you but possessed, in his words, the sort of determination that lent her far more reliability than mere experience might.

She was a vivacious girl, answering on the first knock and beaming when she saw you, the crescent moon of her grin splitting her freckled face nearly in two. Shoving aside Phainon, she threw her arms around you, and although you were taken aback by the affection, you were also warmed by it, by what she must have intended only as politeness but which came across to you as an offer of sincere friendship.

“You’re awake!” she said by way of greeting, and in the back of your mind, you vaguely recalled Phainon telling you he had called upon her to strip and bathe you of the filth of the beach. Maybe you might’ve squirmed, but she was the sort of person that was so guileless it seemed impossible to be uncomfortable around her, for she really was as wide-eyed and harmless as the lamb toddling around her feet. “You look much better now.”

“Do I?” you said dubiously. “I’m told I don’t.”

“This one,” she said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper as she motioned towards Phainon. “Would you believe he’s the hero of the village? He’s such a bumbling clown when you meet him that it’s easy to forget.”

“Don’t fill her head with silly stories,” Phainon said, but his cheeks were pink, and it was obvious he was trying very hard not to boast about what he may have done to attain the designation of hero. “Where is your father? I need to ask him for a favor.”

“I think he’s out collecting eggs with my mother,” she said. He stared at her expectantly, but she only jut her chin out and stared back with her hands on her hips, her foot tapping impatiently against the tiled floor.

“Can you go fetch him?” he said finally, slowly, like he was talking to an impertinent little child.

“You know where he is, and you always tell me you’ll do it when you come, so go on, then! What’s different this time?” she said, and you coughed to disguise your snicker at the glitter of her eyes darting between the two of you. Phainon frowned, opening his mouth to argue before clamping it shut and mumbling something under his breath, ducking past you both, ostensibly in search of her father. As soon as the door swung shut behind him, she sobered, her grin dropping as quickly as it had come. “You know, you’re lucky he’s the one who found you.”

“Hm?” you said.

“Like I said, he plays the part of the bumbling clown all too well, but that couldn’t be further from the truth of who he really is,” she said. “Phainon’s different from the rest of us. It’s as plain as day; my parents talk about it sometimes, I’ve heard them, so it’s not just me saying that, mind you! Just a few years ago, when I still went to the village for my lessons, there was an attack by a group of bandits. They were intent on holding Aedes Elysiae hostage until delegates from Helike could arrive, after which they planned to use our lives as the bargaining chip for what I can only assume would have been large sums of money.”

“How frightening,” you said, and you meant it entirely. “It’s abhorrent to think that they would attack such a defenseless place."

“It was frightening,” she agreed. “I was walking home already, as my teacher had suddenly grown ill and dismissed me early that day, so I escaped their notice, hiding in the trees as they corralled the townspeople in the square. When I judged them to be well and fully distracted, I began to run, and I did not stop running until I was banging on the door to Phainon’s home.

“He answered almost immediately, and he did not joke as he usually does. He knew as soon as he looked at me that something horrible was happening — I’m not particularly good at hiding my emotions, and he has a talent for reading even the best-concealed expressions — and he went with me to the village, and then—”

“And then?” you prompted when she suddenly fell silent.

“And then I told her to stop embarrassing me with these exaggerated accounts of events,” Phainon said. You turned to see him with a wiry man who resembled the girl most greatly, a cross look on his face, which was so at odds with the geniality you had come to expect that it seemed all but comical. “Please don’t take her too seriously. It’s true that there was a bandit attack that I helped fend off, but it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“Now, son, don’t be too humble,” the man, his neighbor, said, giving you an affable nod in greeting. “My daughter isn’t exaggerating that much. Phainon here really did take the guardsman’s sword and slay all the bandits that held weapons in their grips, sparing those who had nothing and bidding them to spread the word that Aedes Elysiae was not to be touched. He is undoubtedly our savior, so it only makes sense that he’s the one who found you — who else would?”

“He’ll protect you well,” his daughter added, her voice a lark’s chirp as she hefted her lamb in her arms, holding it before her like a peace offering, which was promptly denied by a playful scowl on Phainon’s part. “You won’t have to worry about a thing if he’s with you! Like I said, you’re lucky to have him.”

“He tells me you have business in Helike,” Phainon’s neighbor said, and although it was not a secret, necessarily, you found you were still grateful that Phainon had not told him what that business entailed.

“Yes, that’s correct. He has graciously offered to accompany me,” you said. It was a credit to everyone in the room that they did not laugh at the notion of Phainon’s presence being a gift you could have denied. One did not need to look at you more than twice to know you were helpless in the wake of this poison, this half-death, but all three of them allowed you to keep your pride and did not point that out, Phainon’s neighbor even grunting in assent.

“Why, he’s always been the type. If there’s problems, he’ll be the first to try and solve them. I’m not surprised in the slightest,” he said. “But there’ll be trouble if you try to go like this.”

“Trouble?” you said. “Whatever do you speak of? What’s wrong with how I am now?”

“It’s not you, actually,” he said. “The clothes Natasha lent you are Helikan in origin; even if hers do not fit you well, she sent some from her mother that will surely work, so you should have no issue blending in. I’m more worried for Phainon…”

“Me?” Phainon said. “I see no problems with what I’m wearing. This is how I always dress.”

“Right,” his neighbor said, which brought Phainon to turn to you as if for reassurance. You cringed, for you could not come up with anything positive to say about the yellow tunic nor the pants, which were an inexplicable and blinding shade of violet that would not even suit a king in full regalia. In fact, the combination was all but offensive to the eye, the sin of it multiplying by how the swathes of fabric marred his comeliness, the muddy ochre tinting his skin sallow, the looseness of the drape folding over and concealing every line and angle of his body from view.

“Perhaps it is better suited for guarding sheep than visiting the city,” you suggested, attempting to soften the blow as best as you could. “He is right. From what you have told me of the Helikans, should they see us as peasants, then I am doubly sure they will not grant us an audience. If you do not speak, and wear handsomer clothes, then you will easily be believed as someone of import, and although you are not an authority on the matter, you did mistake me for a Helikan earlier, so I think that I can also manage. But where shall we find that sort of attire, such that you are convincing enough to pass through without question?”

“I would have kept silent in the first place if I did not have something,” his neighbor said. “My brother once tried to pass the exam to be one of the guards of the Temple of Cygnus, you see, and he made it far enough to receive a uniform, though he fell in love with a singer before he could actually take the role. He left it here with me, along with the rest of his belongings, before running off to become a traveling musician.”

“The guise of a Temple guard! You think my current dress will draw attention, and that won’t?” Phainon said.

“Well, they have a certain reputation,” his neighbor said. “Even the most fearsome of bandits would not dare incur the wrath of the Temple. It will grant you a safer passage…and anyways, if I am correct in my estimations, then the Temple is your end goal, is it not? It will serve you well there, too.”

“Fine,” he said reluctantly, though only after casting a sidelong glance at you, his lips pursing when he did. “You may be wrong, but if you are right, and if this uniform brings us before Luocha even a moment sooner, then how can I say no?”

Based on how averse Phainon had been to it, you had expected the garb of the Temple guards to be something practical but near to hideous, perhaps even fearsome, grotesque and twisted and hiding his shining visage from the world. Yet when he returned to you, self-consciously adjusting his white shoulder plates, you found you could not have been more wrong, for he was beautiful, so beautiful, awkward and shy though he was, the pearly threads of the long coat and the gold of the fastenings suiting him so well it was as if he had been born to wear them.

“You’re crying!” he said, and it might’ve been humorous, how he all but wilted, if he weren’t also right. “Do I really look that bad?”

For you hadn’t noticed until he had said it, but you really were weeping, and upon the realization, you could only bury your face in your hands in the effort of abating your senseless lamenting, wishing that your eyes would not sting so horribly and your throat would lose its humiliating swelling.

“I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” he said when you did not say anything. “I’ll go and change now, don’t worry—”

You shook your head, wiping at your face as quickly as you could, blotting away your tears despite how they came back twice as strong with every press of your palms against them. You knew he was confused, he must have been, for you were, too, and you hated that most of all, hated that your own actions were a mystery to yourself. But there it was regardless, your heart, your traitorous, jealous heart, which kept the remnants of your many secrets locked away from the rest of you, singing and singing as you clenched your fists to prevent yourself from reaching for him.

“Don’t change,” you said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what overcame me. You just looked so familiar for a moment that I could not help it, but — but no, you don’t look bad, not at all.”

“You are a picture!” his neighbor said, clapping his hands together. “Truly, you suit it much better than my sorry old brother ever did. This must have been what Luocha envisioned when he designed them; I don’t think there’s been a guard more striking than you since the Temple of Cygnus was founded!”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Phainon said, nudging his neighbor away as the man tried to reach up and ruffle his hair. “You’re certain it won’t be too much of a burden for you to watch over my home while I’m gone?”

“After all of the help you’ve given us, I would never dream of calling you a burden. Take your time and worry only about your pretty girl here,” his neighbor said, nodding his chin towards you. “We will pray for her health and your safe return the entire time you’re gone.”

“Thank you,” you said, ignoring Phainon as he began to sputter indignantly at what was unmistakably only said to provoke that exact reaction from him. “I appreciate it, and I am eternally grateful for everything that you have done for me. For the rest of my life, however short or long it may be, I will remember you all, who saw a stranger by the sea and found it in your hearts to save her.”

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @itseightamineedsleep

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 1 month ago

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Sylus x Non!MC Reader: Soulmate AU

Link to 1st part of full length fic

In this story, everyone has a soulmate. Everyone except you that is. And while you pretend otherwise, that's always stung a bit. You don't have this destined perfect love that everyone raves about. You're just you. Lonely, jaded, sarcastic, you.

So... let's say you're a negotiator for Onychinus (Sylus found you and gave you job and your whole history is a story for another time). You were given this position for your unique talent: to see, what you call, the threads of fate. You don't just see someone's connection with their soulmate, you see their very soul.

You can imagine this makes you great in the business world. Able to discern lies from the truth, as well as make impossible deals possible. So, you and Sylus always had a great working relationship. He trusts you and tends to you everything. After all, how could he think to hide anything when a simple glance at him will tell you oh so much (including the pain from his past life as a dragon he tries so hard to hide)?

Now, enter MC. She rocks your world in more ways than one: Sylus didn't tell you about her, his own thread of fate is linked to her, and—and this is what makes you so intrigued by her—she has multiple, glitching threads. They sometimes become more visible when she's near certain people, but over all, you're just baffled by this girl. So you study her like the nerd you are.

(Or maybe that's just an excuse. A cover to hide how your heart hurts and how much you hate this girl. Because she has so much of the one thing you cannot have: true love. Because she has all this love in the world, so why, just why, did she have take the one you wanted?)

(You hate her and you love her. She's so kind, and smart, and beautiful, and everything you'll never be. Maybe that's why she has so many soulmate links while you have none? Because you're plain and boring and bland and lonely and...)

And who knows, maybe something good might come out of it?

Edit: anyone who wants to be tagged when I release this, comment below! I’m currently writing down those I see, so even if I didn’t reply, know that I’m being sure to make note.

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 1 month ago

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Ikigai, Part 1

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

You sit on Sylus' bed, restless despite the exhaustion that clings to your body. It’s like a noose with every second that goes by. Yet, you know rest will never come to you. Not for some time at least. So, you pass the time with tapping.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Broken nails tap uselessly and frequently against the expensive sheets. No amount of this makes the ire in your blood burn any less.

"Sylus," you call out to the man in question, who merely hums your name in response. "Have I ever told you that you're the biggest fool I've met?"

Sylus stands in his bathroom, door wide open as always. He stopped showering or tending to his wounds with it closed long ago. You can't quite remember how long. It's just how it is. Has it made for some embarrassing moments where he teases you with a towel barely around his waist as you struggle to keep your eyes solely on his (and not his chest that you want to run your hands on or his neck you want to bury your face in as you drift to sleep)? Yes.

Would you want it any other way? No.

"Is that so, sweetie? I must've gone deaf the last few hours, and missed it. Mind repeating yourself so I can etch it into my mind for future reference?"

"You're the biggest fool I've ever met."

He chuckles. The rich laughter makes your heart flutter and you almost immediately march over to help him.

"May I remind you that you work for this fool? What does that make you?"

"What indeed…"

The pair of you sit in silence except for the sounds of Sylus digging into his own skin to remove a bullet that seems to be giving him particular trouble.

"Be a dear and help your boss out, sweetie."

Part of you wants to give in, as you've done so many times. Sylus' tone gives away that he knows that too. Even without seeing his face, you can imagine the smug smirk it has. Oh how you want to kiss that smirk away so badly.

And that's exactly why you can't comply with his request. You need to put your foot down. Maybe being belligerent will help quell these annoying feelings. Sylus isn't meant to be yours, after all.

"No thanks."

You stare at his thread of fate. It shimmers the same red that everyone else's does. That red used to alarm you as a child. Now, all you see is him. Him and his beautiful red you wish to burrow yourself in forever.

Now that red helps not give into him. Helps you remember that if you want him to meet his soulmate in one piece, you couldn't keep letting him do this.

"Seriously?"

"Yep. My foolish boss did this to himself, so he should pay the price."

"And what price is that?"

"The price of spending who knows how long digging bullets out of his skin."

"Of course. Whatever you say sweetie. A far better price than what… hmmm… what was his name? George? Jarold?"

He's teasing you again. The drawl in his voice told you as much. He didn't even bother to hide the slight chuckles he let out at your tired sigh.

"James," you reply.

"Yes, Jake," now he was just fucking with you. "The price he was demanding for such mediocre business was… appalling. I much prefer this."

You snort at your boss, "Just keep telling yourself that bossman."

"I will, sweetie."

Silence engulfs the pair of you. For you, it sits on your chest, swims in your blood, and chews on your skin. The quiet gnaws at you, a steady and annoying and repetitive peaking reminiscent of Mephisto.

You hate it. But you must maintain it. Even when Sylus glances over his shoulder at you. You're sure to avoid eye contact with him. One look is all it would take for you to storm over to him and tenderly take the bullets out of his skin.

Not this time. This time, you had to be firm.

Your mind drifts back to the meeting. There wasn't anything special about this particular one. Hell, it wasn't even a weapons deal. Rather, James was apparently an old friend of Sherman's with a vinyl collection. The stupid man had gone off the rails recently.

Was it surprising that he did? Not in the least bit. It did make for a good laugh over diner one day though. About how this man thought he could take you two down. Sylus and his faithful companion with a silver tongue, one that seemed to speak to very depths of your soul.

Taking down Sherman wouldn't be difficult. Nothing ever was with you two being the well-oiled machine you are together. But, you never liked being unprepared. You're cautious to a fault. And Sylus wanted to easy your worrying, or nagging as he called it.

Enter James: a connection to Sherman you dug up. One with a pension for vintage music and antique jewelry. It should've been an easy deal. Especially once you saw his thread.

James' thread was a dim red. A red you hadn't seen for quite sometime. A red you didn't expect from someone like him.

A dead soulmate. You could hear the deceased man's faint screams. You could see their final hours together as illness wracked the poor boy. God, they must've been about 16; James had to be at least in his mid 30's now. He still clings to his soulmate all these years later, a simple tattoo over his heart to symbolize the love that was lost too early.

You pitied the man. He wasn't a good man, with countless lives lost at his hands and many loves cut too short because of his actions, but the loss of a soulmate is something no one recovers from. It's one of those things that immutable in this world.

So you used that to crack through his icy exterior. Peeled it back layer by layer until his soul danced in the palm of your hand. James was at your command. Until your boss shattered that.

"Why are you so mad at me, my sweet Gamayun?"

You can't help it: you look up and are immediately greeted by your boss' smug face. And you're angry at falling for his trick. For a moment.

Then you lock eyes. Deep, deep, crimson, so similar yet so unlike the threads of fate you see so often. His red is a good red. His red is the red of your love rather than everyone else's. Sometimes you wonder if his red eyes are your thread of fate, that they're your soulmate connection.

Any other day, you'd soak in the attention of that red. You can't right now. Because in a fraction of a second, you see it. You see the hurt he's trying to cover. You see in his soul how his wounds ache and how he wants your forgiveness, how he wants to make you smile (for some reason).

It's all you need to move from his bed and approach his back. He still looks at you, smirk gone and expression soft with something you can't place. You ignore it. He turns around so that his bare chest faces you. You struggle to not let yourself be flustered.

”It's nothing you haven't seen before. It's no big deal. You're just business partners and companions. Nothing else.”

"Gimme your gauze."

Your tone is sharp. Maybe because you hope to cover how weirdly intimate this feels: your boss basically naked and unguarded as you try to tend to his wounds.

You focus your eyes onto his hands. He holds his bandages in them. You reach for them, but he moves his hand away. You reach again, and Sylus raises his hand above his head, and raises an eyebrow at you.

You can't even be mad at him when he does.

"Why, Gamayun?"

There’s that nickname again. It carries so much. His trust, his affection, and his heart. Just not in the way you hope.

Gamayun carries false dreams, fantasies that haunt you as you sleep at night. Gamayun is a fake promise of a love you'll never have. But it was yours, so you gladly take ownership of it.

"You're pathetic…"

"Because my foolish Morana apparently can't clean up his own messes."

"Ah, but that's why I have you, my sweet, beautiful, and kind Gamayun."

Your hands tremble as you pull back on the roll of gauze. You think Sylus laughs at you, but you can't hear it over the pounding of your heart.

"Stop it," you want to tell him. "Stop giving me hope."

It doesn't take long for you to finish. You help Sylus dress, despite knowing he doesn't in any way, shape, or form need you help. He stopped you when you tried to leave after finishing his bandages, so you figure you wouldn't even bother for now.

"Sylus, what're you—"

"Sylus? Who's Sylus? Since when did you know a Sylus?"

You roll your eyes at him.

“Have you suddenly become a decrepit old man without my noticing?”

"No," he then lifts you into your arms and forces you to meet his eyes.

He stares into your eyes; you stare right back, praying that you give nothing away. He walks towards his bed, still looking at you.

"You must be really mad at me if you're calling me by my name right now."

"Don't be so dramatic you big baby. I called you by name earlier.”

Sylus pays no heed to words. In fact, he takes them in stride, placing you slowly onto his bed. His movements are slow, precise. Almost as if he's afraid to hurt you. But that’s ridiculous; he could never hurt you.

"Are his injuries still causing him problems?"

You keep that thought in mind in order to not trick yourself. In order to not gaslight yourself into believing that there's something more behind his actions. Sylus and you have always had an intimate relationship. Closer than most ever will be. Best friends. Partners in crime.

"This means nothing."

You try to get out of bed, to run away to wallow in your sorrows, but Sylus plops down next you and wraps an arm around you.

"Sleep. We'll discuss this later."

A protest builds up in your throat. It’s pushed back down when his arms tightens around you and his breathing evens out into soft puffs. He’s not asleep; you know that, and he knows you know that. But you play along anyway.

Turning in his arms to play with his hair, you think more about what happened earlier. At how Sylus kept trying to get between you and James when you guys got closer. At how Sylus seemed more passive aggressive with the man the more you two talked, forgetting that there was even someone else in the room. At how Sylus would subtly move you away from James when a crack in the man’s facade would appear at your words.

He got worse when you reciprocated. Of course, you always did on these missions; it’s a great way to build rapport. Today was different. Today was real. You really felt for James. You really wanted to reach him. As someone who also understands of the pain of being without a soulmate—soulless, as society would call you.

But you were different. You didn’t lose your soulmate. You never had one. All you could do was watch as others loved and lost, doomed to never experience the same.

Things exploded when James asked if he could see you again. A normal request from clients and prospective/current business partners alike. But you never quite clicked with them the same way you had with James, a man whose heart was so hurt, much like your own. You hope the poor man is still alive.

Sleep begins to creep up on you as you remember the vigor in Sylus protest. Honestly, it was kind of hot; you rarely get to see him lose composure. Even less so during business exchanges. You burrow into his embrace at the thought. Of the way his face contorted with rage. At the way his Evol thrashed out at those around you.

You use that to cover what you truly remember: the gentle way that same power carried you to safety (he was always weirdly protective of you because of your lack of Evol; strange, considering what you’re capable of). The worried way he asked if you were alright. The kind way he treated you despite your anger.

But, why were you angry? Why are you still angry? Because he once again used violence when it wasn’t needed? Because he didn’t listen when you told him to back off? Because he got himself hurting protecting you? Because this showed that deep down he doesn’t trust you?

No. Never.

Sylus trusts you with everything. And you, in turn, trust him with everything. Well, except one thing: your heart. Maybe that was why you were mad at him. Because when he does things like that, it makes it so hard to let him go.

I previously posted a blurb/preview of a soulmate AU with Sylus and a Non MC Reader. Here is chapter 1 of the full length fic. Hope you all enjoy because there's more fics to come with this man from me (he has me in a goddamn chokehold; I already have so many drafts 😭).

Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @madam8, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

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a-fallen-rose-from-afar · 1 month ago

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Second Chance

(Ex- Husband Sylus x reader)

WC: 6k EXACTLY

Warnings: mentions of drugs, drinking, black market, slimy nasty men (tsk, tsk), divorce

AN: I know i haven't been too active lately but I've been prepping for exams but (not to brag) I cranked this all out today in like 3ish hours hehe also lmk if yall want a pt 2

Your fingers curled against the glass in your hand, the amber liquid shimmering in the harsh lights of the auction house. You were standing on an upper deck, watching the dirty men on the floor, young pretty things on their arms, clad in as little clothing as possible.

You had yet to take a sip of your glass, unsure of what was in it besides the alcohol. The auction house was dangerous, especially for a lone woman. Drugging someone’s drink was the nicest thing that could happen to you.

The dress you were wearing was relatively simple, and quite modest compared to the mere scraps of fabric the young women wore.

You were not here to find a rich man, you were here to make a deal.

Your boss, Rafayel, was a black market art and goods dealer and recently, he had made connections with some powerful people, powerful enough where it would be too risky to actually show up, which is why he sent you.

He had given you dozens of warnings, don’t drink, don’t eat, don’t talk to people unless you knew 100% you had the upper hand and wasn’t being poisoned.

Still having roughly a half an hour til your deal, you decided to wait up here, able to see all of the exits and all of the dirty scumbags.

It might be an auction house in name, but it was really a black market. Valuable weapons, information, and technology were all being discussed, as well as the young women attached to the men’s arms, freely traded to the highest bidder.

Luckily, there weren’t many people on the upper deck, most choosing to dabble in the illegal trades and bartering going on downstairs.

Tonight was supposed to be simple. You’d wait until 9:38 then slip into one of the locked doors along the hallway where you’d meet a group of private art collectors and dealers who would seek to buy a dupe of a famous painting from Rafayel, stealing the real one and replacing it. They’d underestimate you easily, only interested in your body, distracted as you scammed them out of their money.

The dress you chose tonight was perfect for it. Black, short, tight, with a low neckline and a slit in the side, showing just enough skin to tempt but not enough to bore. Perfect to distract men enough to scam them out of information and their money.

Not many people had approached you in your many adventures here. No one would to a lone woman. You could be a prostitute, or more likely poor, which was far worse to the men here.

But now, a presence sidled up next to you. You refused to look at them, not going to give in. But then, his voice, smooth, rich, and all too familiar slides through the air like a serpent.

"Now, now. I didn’t expect to see a kitten at the auction."

Sylus.

Your jaw clenches involuntarily, instantly recognizing the voice. It was the same voice that lured you in years ago, when you were much softer, much more naive. You fell for his attention, his sweet words. You shined as bright as a star, soaking up all of the luxurious life and the comfort he brought you. Sylus had taken you in, took you to all those fancy balls and meetings and let you humiliate yourself each time. Each time letting you fend for yourself and leave you out to bleed at the sharp verbal weapons of those slimy, powerful men and their jealous young women. He let you believe you were special, that he’d protect you, he was just showing you what his life was like. But it went on, even after you were married. He’d take you out, poke at all your weaknesses, publicly, showing your emotions, your makeup smudged, you looked weak? All unacceptable. He turned you cold, unfeeling, locked in your own skin.

He had confused you. In public Sylus acted cold, leaving you to your own devices, but in private, he was tender, gave you anything you asked. Each time you came back from an event, you were mentally and physically exhausted from the verbal sparring and the torturous clothes and heels. You’d collapse on the couch, sighing, Luke and Kieran giving you pitying looks. You ended that marriage, walked away. You were a star that had been extinguished out, too cold to burn any longer.

And you weren’t going to fall for the same trap again.

Sighing, you turned around, scanning him with cold indifference.

Sylus stands there, just as you remember him. A sharp black suit hugs his frame, all power and danger wrapped in elegance. His red eyes glint under the low light, the same look of charm and menace that always lurked beneath the surface. His hair glinting in the light of the fluorescents, the silvery strands casually waving, framing his sharp face beautifully. He hasn’t changed. His face was built of such cruel beauty that it hurt to look at, no, he hadn’t changed a bit.

“Well I wasn’t planning to see a past mistake here,” you say coolly.

A smirk tugs at the corner of Sylus’s mouth, his gaze roving over you just as you did to him.

"A mistake, huh?" he mocks, his lean frame moving closer, his presence as imposing as ever. "And here I thought I was the best decision you ever made."

You arch your brow, carefully adjusting the strap of your dress, “Which ended how again?”

He stops in front of you, the scent of him familiar and unwelcome all at once, his red gaze pinning you in place. Sylus lets out a low chuckle, his words tinged with cruel delight. "Oh, you know how it ended. With divorce papers and a lot of tears, if I recall correctly."

Shrugging casually, you play indifferent, “All temporary.”

His smile sharpens, his gaze narrowing on her. He steps closer, nearly invading her space. "Temporary?" he scoffs. "Divorce tends to be a pretty permanent thing, sugar."

“I sure hope so.”

His smirk grows, his eyes turning impossibly colder. His eyes that you once got lost in but now only reflected how damaged he left you. It was ironic, his eyes, the color of life, had shattered yours.

"Oh, darling," he says, his tone almost mockingly sweet, "you don't sound too convinced. Hoping I’ll come crawling back, begging for another chance?"

It was your turn to scoff, a hint of anger in your voice, “You’d never so much incline your head, much less lower yourself to that.”

He leans in closer until they're nearly nose-to-nose, the air between them crackling with tension.

"You're right," he whispers, his voice a mixture of arrogance and mockery, "why would I beg for something I had in the palm of my hand once before? No. If I wanted you back, I'd make damn sure you'd come back."

You bared your teeth, eyes narrowed as you spat, “Glad we’re on the same page then.”

He raises a hand, his finger lightly tracing the line of your jaw, a possessive gesture that feels more like a threat than a caress, his other hand taking the alcohol out of your hand and placing it on a nearby table, his fingers sliding underneath yours.

"Oh, we're on the same page, alright," he murmurs, his gaze locked with yours. "You've made it clear that you're never coming back to me. But I wonder, do you ever lie awake at night, dreaming about what could've been? About the power we could've wielded together?"

“You flatter yourself,” you say, tone smooth and emotionless again, “Quite bold of you to believe I think about whatever fragments of our marriage ever existed.”

A scoff of disbelief escapes him, his gaze hardening. "You underestimate me, sweetheart," he shoots back, the edge in his voice sharpening. "You might think you've put me in the past, but you're wrong. You might not be heartbroken, but you're sure as hell haunted."

You scoff, “Only thing I miss is your money.”

He grins, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Oh, sugar, I know you missed more than that." His hand drops from your jaw, sliding down your neck and resting on your waist, tugging your closer against his body with a force that speaks of a familiarity they both deny. "You used to burn for me, didn't you?"

Glaring at him, you dig your nails harshly into his arm, “Things only burn for so long.”

The sharp sting of her nails into his arm only seems to fuel his arrogance, his hand on your hip tightening. He leans in closer, his breath hot against her ear.

"Oh, you were always full of fire and sparks," he murmurs, his words a mix of taunt and memory. "Too bad it never quite burned bright enough to keep me satisfied."

You flash him a sharp smile, tearing his arm off of your waist, “I’m sure you’ll find another thing to ruin.”

He lets her go, his expression hardening. His gaze locks with yours, a strange mix of irritation and something like regret flashing in his eyes.

"Ruin? Or perfect?" he replies, his voice smooth as silk. "I always had a knack for finding things, and people, in desperate need of a little... refinement."

You laugh, the sound harsh and cold as you take another step back, “Not everyone wants to be perfected,” you spat with fury.

His gaze sharpens at your reaction, his own annoyance flaring.

"Oh, sweetheart," he drawls, his tone as smooth as ever, "everyone needs a little direction. A little... guidance. And let's face it, you were a raw gem when I found you. I just added a bit of polish."

“You tried to polish it too much and ended up breaking it,” you said, jaw clenched with quiet fury.

For a moment, his mask of confidence slips. He looks stung by your words, his face betraying a hint of vulnerability. But just as quickly, he composes himself, the smirk back in place. "Break you? Or bring out the best in you?" he counters, the words half-mocking, half-defensive. "Sometimes, a few cracks are worth it for the masterpiece that remains."

You look at him, gaze shuttered, “I’ve really been feeling my best self I guess.”

The sarcasm hits him harder than he expected. The smirk on his face falters again, replaced for a brief moment with a flash of guilt or shame.

But he quickly shoves it aside, his expression hardening.

"You always had a mouth on you," he mutters. "A mouth that used to be good for more than just smartass comments."

Your expression flashes with disgust, partially at his words and partially at yourself, “I guess I know where your priorities lie. I’m sure there’s enough other people willing to suck your cock,” you spit, turning on your heel and walking down to the auction floor.

He watches your walk away, a mix of anger and something like regret tightening his jaw.

"Damn it," he mutters, his gaze tracking you until you disappear into the crowd, your words and presence leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Sylus stands there for a moment, but after a beat, he shoves his hands in his pockets and follows you.

He weaves through the crowd, the auction already in full swing. The room is filled with a buzz of chatter, the air thick with tension and excitement. Fat, old, balding men eagerly eyeing the women walking around or glaring at their other rivals.

He spots you easily enough, standing off to the side, gaze fixed on the various items up for bid. Sylus moves through the crowd until he's standing behind you, his presence an unignorable force. He doesn't speak; he just stands there, watching you with an intensity that's almost unnerving.

His gaze roams over you, taking in every detail. The curve of your neck, the way your dress hugs your figure, the determined set of your jaw. He should walk away. He should leave you alone. But he can't.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and rough. "I remember the way you looked at me the night of our wedding, you know. So full of hope and excitement. You looked at me like I was your goddamn world."

“And yet I needed to be ‘perfected’,” you say quietly, your voice bitter and cold.

"You were inexperienced, naive," he retorts, his voice hard. "The world we live in doesn't care about hope and innocence. You needed to be toughened up. I was trying to make you stronger."

Your eyes didn’t leave the items, refusing to look at him, “Great job.”

His fingers itched to touch you, to force you to look at him. But he resisted, knowing it would only fuel the flames of your anger. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from your ear.

"I did my best to prepare you," he murmured, his voice dark and deep. "But you were never really cut out for the life I live."

“Then why have you been following me all night?” You spat, studying a priceless glass piece in front of you.

His eyes narrow at your words, a mixture of irritation and something else that he can't quite place coursing through him. He takes another step closer, invading your personal space, his presence overwhelming.

"Curiosity, darling. Call it a lingering fascination with all those flaws and weaknesses I know you have, begging to be exploited."

Your lips purse with disapproval and disgust, “Of course.”

His gaze darkens at your disapproving expression, his arrogance and ego itching for a fight. "Naturally," he repeats, mimicking her cool tone. "Or would you prefer I say I couldn’t help myself? That you looked too damn good in that dress, and I just had to follow you?"

You scoff, jaw clenched, “I’d prefer if you left.”

He can't help but scoff as well, his irritation growing.

"Right," he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Leave you alone at a high-end auction, surrounded by criminals and shady characters. That sounds like a brilliant idea."

“Isn’t this what you were ‘perfecting’ me for, huh?” You spit, finally turning to glare at him, “And besides, this isn’t the first time I’ve been here.”

You weren’t lying, you had been here dozens of times on your bosses account. Sometimes small jobs, simply observing other deals taking place but sometimes having to play the part of a naive little girl to appeal and extract information from the men there.

You can see Sylus’ expression flicker to one of surprise, “I never brought you here.”

“I know,” you say simply, glancing at the clock.

9:35.

His brow furrows with suspicion, “And why would you ever come here?”

“To make connections,” you say simply.

His frown deepens at your words, his gaze hardening.

"Connections, huh?" he repeats, his tone flat. "You do realize the kind of people you're making those connections with, right? They're not the warm and fuzzy type, sweetheart.” He studies your face closely, his gaze calculating.

He scoffs. "And what kind of business are they offering you, hmm? Are you making friends or just looking to fill the void I left?"

Your expression turns cold, narrowing your eyes at his audacity, “Throw all the insults you want, but don't think I'm out here whoring myself about.”

He clenches his jaw at her words, the implication sending a wave of unwanted emotion through him.

"I didn't say you were," he retorts, his voice low and tight. "But let's not pretend there isn't a certain... appeal, shall we say, to the kind of attention you're likely getting here. You were always a damn good looking woman. It's not a shock that men would take note."

You scoff, brushing past him, “Excuse you, I have a meeting.”

He feels a twinge of irritation as you brush by him, his hand shooting out to grip your arm, pulling you back towards him.

"A meeting, huh?" he repeats, his voice edged with something akin to anger. "Care to let me know with who?"

Baring your teeth, you speak in a condescending tone, “Information isn’t free, you should know that, Sylus.”

And with those words, you disappear in the locked door with the number 036 on it and gears whir as it locks behind you.

Sylus’ eyes narrow with frustration and sits down in a chair near the entrance, picking up a glass of liquor and downs it, eyes locked on the door that swallowed you up.

He wasn’t concerned, no not at all. He wasn’t concerned that his ex-wife was becoming more involved in criminal activity than he was. Of course not.

The lies he told himself didn’t stop him from waiting on you, eyes locked on the door and glaring at anyone who dares to approach him, he had no time for distractions.

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As you stepped into the meeting room, your eyes fell upon the familiar sight of Rafayel’s discussion room. A long, mahogany table was centered perfectly with a mini bar in the back, expensive whiskeys, rum, wine, and brandy were laid out on the table, already opened and poured.

You took your seat at the head of the table, leaning back and crossing your legs, not bothering to fix the way your dress rode up. It was all calculated and just like clockwork, several pairs of eyes flew to the newly exposed skin.

A drink had been already poured for you, not like you’d drink it anyway. It was only a prop, something to add to the suspense and to increase the tension in the room.

One of the men narrowed his eyes at you, or more of at your chest, “Are you Rafayel’s escort?”

Smoothly, you leaned forward, folding your hands on the table and ‘accidentally’ giving him a better view, “Something like that. I will be his representative tonight.”

He fell into your trap, eyes darting downward with more intensity, oblivious to the straining of the buttons of his shirt.

With much more of this, they’ll go flying across the room, you thought dryly.

Yet you held still, no matter how much your skin was crawling from his gaze. You would not flinch, nor shy away.

The man with a receding hairline next to him cleared his throat, passing a folder to you with classified papers inside. He was skinny, almost alarmingly so and appeared to have no weapon. No threat.

You opened the folder, descriptions of certain paintings and locations and prices jotted down along with names and times. You leaned back, pretending to look over the folder and offers, propping it up with your crossed legs. In reality, you were letting the hidden camera behind you capture every detail, Rafayel no doubt peering through.

Each man looked at you expectantly as you scanned the information. The bracelet on your wrist vibrated each time you turned the page. One buzz for yes, two for not a chance, and three was telling you to negotiate a higher price.

It seemed you’d have a lot of negotiating to do.

It didn’t matter in the end. If you didn’t come to a consensus before 10:15, then you’d leave unless they changed their minds.

Clearing your throat, you set a few of them down, “These are do-able but not for that amount.”

The few men paying attention frowned and started to argue but you held your hand up, silencing them with a simple gesture.

“Do you want a realistic dupe or not?” You asked, voice calm but commanding.

Now you’d never admit it but you were channeling your inner Sylus. Watching him through all of those deals and meetings certainly paid off in this business. Walking in and commanding the attention, reading people’s body language and the art of temptation were all things you learned from him.

Over the next 20ish minutes, the men were tripping over themselves to try to settle on prices, desperately trying to please whoever they were sent here by.

You practically didn’t have to do anything, only watching them up the prices astronomically, oblivious to how little profit they’d be making later.

One of them started catching on though, but before he could stop them, you raised your hand again, “Done.”

The men let out a sigh of relief, glad they had made the deal, unaware of the scam.

You stood, folding the papers in the folder and left without a word, they could find their own way.

Closing the door behind you, you sighed, satisfied and proud.

As you exited, you saw Sylus sitting in the chair in front of the door. He smirked, tilting his head and standing up.

“You seem awfully smug, sweetie,” he drawled, “I assume it went your way?”

You didn’t even have to answer, the door opening again and the men came out, looking slightly shocked and irritated, their expressions widening as they saw Sylus, darting back to you, looking a little scared.

Sylus’ face grew cold, looking at them with disdain as he took a step closer, right behind you continuing to glare at them until they were out of sight. Safe to say, none of them looked at your body.

After they left, he spoke again, “You got what you wanted?”

“I did,” you say, a hint of pride in your tone, lips curving into a satisfied smile.

He cocks an eyebrow at your words, curious.

"Did you now?" he says, his voice low. "Care to share what it was you wanted? If it's good enough to leave that lot looking so upset, it must've been worth the wait."

“Information isn’t free,” you repeat, taking a few steps away to hand the folder to your boss.

Rafayel quickly scans the documents and gives you an approving smile, “Your money’s already transferred.”

And with that he vanishes.

When you turn back around you nearly slam into Sylus’ chest. He looks down at you with an amused expression, but his eyes are sharp, “Who was that?”

“My boss,” you say simply, stepping around him to sit on the couch, grabbing a glass of alcohol from one of the trays, checking it thoroughly again.

“Why are you doing that?” Sylus gestures to your examination.

You shrugged, “I ain’t getting drugged.”

He watches you laugh, a mix of irritation and familiarity flitting across his face.

"And why do you think that, huh?" he mutters, his tone a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "You just assume every bastard here is out to drug you?"

You look at him condescendingly, “Sylus I just came out of a meeting with some very powerful people who look very angry about the outcome, what do you think?”

"I think you're being paranoid," he retorts, his voice edged with irritation. "You think every high-powered person here has time to mess with you?"

“When they know who I work for? Hell yeah,” you say, tilting back your head and downing the glass.

He watches you down the glass, swallowing hard as his eyes linger on your exposed neck.

"And who do you do business for, then?" he asks, his voice low and a hint of curiosity in his tone. "You seem to have connections here, sweetheart. I'd like to know who exactly you're in bed with."

You frown, clearly irritated, “I already told you, I’m not whoring myself out to the highest bidder.”

His mouth quirks into a bitter smile at your irritation, his gaze hardening.

"Right, right. You're just here making connections out of the goodness of your heart, are you? You think I'm dumb enough to believe that?"

There's true anger in your eyes as you glare at him fiercely, “I think you're dumb enough to believe I’m a slut.”

His eyes narrow at your words, his own irritation flaring up. "Oh, don't play the victim here, sweetheart. Don't act like I don't have a right to be concerned" he snaps, his grip tightening on your wrist once again, pulling you up to stand. "You're out here, making deals with God knows who, putting yourself in these situations. What am I supposed to think?"

“And why would you care?” You spit out, tearing your arm away, not missing the crescent shape craters in his arm from earlier.

His hand closes on empty air as you tear your arm away, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

"You think I don't care?" he says, his voice sharp. "Sweetheart, don't be naive. I may be many things, but I have never stopped caring about your stubborn ass."

“Then you should know better than to think I spread my legs for whomever pays,” you hiss.

He scoffs, clearly not believing her. "Oh, I know better, do I? Well, forgive me for having doubts, sweetheart. You've been making a lot of new friends today, haven't you? Who's to say these friends aren't expecting something in return?"

“They can’t lay a finger on me,” you snarl.

He narrows his eyes, his expression hardening even more.

"Oh, really? And what makes you so sure about that, huh? Are they just sweethearts, these new friends of yours? Or do they have a different way of paying debts?"

You roll your eyes, “Sylus, I can handle it, I’ve been doing this for a while.”

He crosses his arms, a scowl on his face, “Well are you trying to get yourself killed or what? People will target you now.”

“And you think they wouldn’t if I was your wife?”

He pauses at your words, his irritation fading for a moment.

"No one would have even dreamed of touching you if you had stayed with me," he says, his tone low. "But you were the one who left."

“Because I didn’t appreciate being humiliated and lied to daily,” you grit out.

He scoffs at that, his irritation returning once again.

"You call it being lied to, I call it keeping information from you to protect you. There's a damn difference, sweetheart"

“Sylus, I’ve been doing this since we started talking about divorce, I’m doing fine.”

His eyes narrow at your words, the irritation flaring up again. "And when exactly were you planning to tell me that, huh?" he says, his voice sharp.

You shrug, “Well I wasn’t planning to see you here, much less talk to you. So probably never.”

He scoffs at your indifference, his expression hardening even further. "So, you were just gonna go on and keep this little secret from me, huh? Even though you damn well know this isn't the life you're meant for?"

You bare your teeth, pissed, “What about my potential? Isn’t this why you tried to perfect me? So I could be strong?”

He scoffs, "There's a damn difference between trying to perfect you so you could be strong and watching you throw yourself into danger you aren’t equipped to handle."

“Well too damn bad for you,” you hiss, “I’m not some science experiment you can change and test to fit your liking.”

He sneers at your words, his irritation turning into anger. "You think I wanted to change you? You think I wanted to shape you into something you're not? I was trying to toughen you up, sweetheart. Make sure you could stand up for yourself in a world that'll eat you alive."

You cross your arms, voice cold, “Well I guess you got what you wanted.”

His jaw clenches at that, anger flaring even further. "You think this is what I wanted? You think I wanted to see you put yourself in danger? You think I wanted you to throw yourself headfirst into the exact damn life I was trying to keep you away from?"

“Look Sylus, I’m done arguing. You can either leave or shut up,” you retort, sitting back on the couch.

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I'm gonna stay right here and watch over your stubborn ass," he snaps.

“Then drop the conversation,” you spit.

He grinds his teeth, irritation etched into every facial feature. "Fine," he mutters. "But this ain't over, sweetheart. We're not finished discussing this." He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall as he studies you. His expression is still a mix of anger and irritation, but there's something else swimming in his gaze that he's doing his best to conceal. It's almost like... concern.

You just pick back up your drink, trying to pull your dress down to cover your legs.

Sylus watches you sit down, his irritation fading slightly as he notices the effort you're taking to avoid exposing herself too much. He can't help but feel a pang of protectiveness.

He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his tone flat, "You're going to draw attention, sitting like that. And judging by the way men are looking at you it won’t be the good kind."

“It never is,” you mutter, sighing and sitting more proper, more calculated, putting on a facade of comfort.

He watches as you shift, adopting a more calculated and formal pose. He recognizes the facade you’re putting on, the same one you used to use whenever they went out together.

He feels a pang of familiarity, mixed with a hint of guilt. This is what he made you into.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his irritation transforming into something mischievous. "You're doing it on purpose, aren't you? Trying to drive the other men crazy?"

You sigh, crossing your arms, “Well first of all it helps with business. They see what I want them to see, a pretty little girl that can be easily manipulated. It helps them underestimate me and gives me an advantage. Secondly, I enjoy seeing them get pissed when they realize they can only look and not touch.”

"You're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart. You shouldn't have to use your body like that just to get what you want."

Sighing, you just take a sip of your drink.

He studies you, his concern growing. "You've changed, sweetheart. You used to be so innocent, so pure. Now look at you, using your body to get what you want, drinking like there's no tomorrow..."

“Wonder what happened,” you mutter against your glass.

He meets her gaze, his expression serious. "Don't act so surprised, sweetheart. I know damn well that I played a part in who you are now. And I'm not proud of it."

“Hmm, surprised you’d admit it,” you say bluntly.

He grimaces, his irritation mixing with some kind of bitter sense of acceptance. "Yeah, well, I guess I'm just full of surprises today, huh?"

He notices your hands holding the dress shut. Sylus wonders if it's because you feel vulnerable for some reason or maybe it's because you know how much the damn dress is showing off.

“What?” You hiss at him, “What am I supposed to do?”

He studies you, his amusement fading, pushing off the wall, taking a few steps closer, his gaze fixed on you.

"You're acting like a goddamn blushing virgin, trying to cover yourself up like that," he mutters, his tone a mix of irritation and something else.

You glare at him, clearly uncomfortable now that you don’t have any reason to show off.

He sighs and tosses his jacket in your lap, sitting down next to you and throwing his arm over the back of the couch, glaring at the wandering eyes.

You fix the jacket so it covers your lap, now able to sit comfortably without having to worry about anyone.

Sylus takes you in, his gaze lingering over your body covered in his jacket. He can't help but feel a mixture of pure satisfaction and affection bubbling up inside of him. It's a feeling he thought he had buried and forgotten, but somehow it's resurfacing faster than he can handle.

You aren’t paying attention to him, only sipping on your drink and scanning the room.

He observes you, your gaze still focused on the room around them. He can't help but feel a pang of loneliness at her disinterest.

He clears his throat, trying to get your attention.

“Hm?” You ask, turning to him.

He straightens, relieved that you’re looking at him. “Nothing," he mutters, his voice gruff. "Just wanted to see if you were paying attention."

You hum, “Well you have it.”

He lets out a scoff, his irritation dissipating slightly, "About damn time."

You frown and take another sip of your drink.

Sylus watches you take a sip of your drink, the frown on your face making him feel a pang of guilt. He clenches his jaw, his irritation morphing into something else. "You shouldn't be drinking that much," he grumbles, his tone slightly softer than before.

“It’s only my second,” you correct.

"That's still too much," he mutters, his tone more concerned than irritated now.

You raise an eyebrow as you bring the glass back up to your lips, taking another small sip.

He scoffs again, irritation and concern warring with each other. "You really shouldn't be drinking that much," he grumbles, his tone firmer now.

Grinning, you take another sip, mirth swimming in your eyes.

He scowls at you, frustration replacing concern. "Damn it, sweetheart, you need to stop drinking or you're gonna mess something up," he snaps, his tone harsh.

At his tone you frown, gingerly setting the glass down on the table, the temporary happy mood gone.

He freezes, noticing your expression change. His frustration fades into remorse as he realizes he's ruined the brief moment of playfulness. "Sorry," he mutters, his tone more gruff than sharp.

You don’t look up at him, expression betraying your disappointment, though it doesn't show on your face, he can still sense it. You were having fun, and he ruined it, just as he'd done so many times before.

Your hands toy with each other, staying quiet.

Sylus stills beside you, his gaze locked onto your hands, specifically the shiny ring on them. The engagement ring he gave you years ago, just moved onto a different finger.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, half hoping he didn’t hear it.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetie,” he says softly, his tender voice feeling like a shot to the heart.

Sylys stands up, gently pulling you up, his hand tugging your dress down, covering you up.

“C’mon, let me take you home,” he says gently, tilting your chin up and settling his jacket around your shoulders.

You let him lead you outside, maybe you were tired, or slightly tipsy, or just still missing him, but you don’t protest, not when he hands you a helmet, or drives you home on his bike, or how he cradles you in his arms.

All you do is relax in his arms as he gently takes your key out and unlocks the door, helping you take your dress off and remove your makeup, putting on your skincare and getting you into sleep clothes, some shorts and one of his old shirts. It was as if nothing happened, like you were still together, like everything was still okay. If he was surprised you kept his clothes, he didn’t show it, only tucking you into bed like you meant something to him, like you meant everything to him.

You were half asleep by the time he finished, head lolling against his shoulder as he laid you down, smoothing back your hair and kissing your forehead.

“Good night, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he was gone.

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In the morning when you woke up, you almost believed you had dreamed of it all, but the heavy black coat near the door proved the opposite.

He had hung up your dress and put away your shoes, a crisp envelope on your dresser with your name on it.

Sweetie,

You can come return my coat at 11:30. Be on time.

Yours, Sylus ♡

(Also the twins miss you.)

So there might be a good chance you’d be out for the day.

Actually, there would be a 100% chance.

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