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Chants and song fill the halls of Castrum Kremnos welcoming the victorious army and their god-king home. Amidst the revelry, one place remains silent. At the heart of the palace is a beautiful garden, its verdant foliage and gorgeous flowers out of place within the fortress-city’s imposing walls of white stone and cold metal. It is to this place that the triumphant god-king slips away, leaving behind the halls of laughter where the wine flows freely.
Stepping into the lush garden, the world descends into a peaceful hush, the only sounds the melodious trill of birds and the susurrus of butterfly wings. The verdure forms a circular court, a magnificent tree at its center, its branches nearly covering the glittering night sky. A slender man works beneath its boughs, weaving his alchemy at a mahogany desk. He doesn’t look up on hearing steps on the path, nor does he pay any attention to the demigod that takes a seat at his table since he is not a hindrance; Mydei stays clear of his work area and remains silent. Anaxa had been surprised when Mydei, of all people, had observed the rules he set down, finding irony in the thought that the god-king would be one of the few to be respectful of his work. He continues his experiment for another quarter hour before deigning to speak.
“What are you here for? Go bother those companions of yours if you wish to carouse.”
Upon arriving, Mydei had set a bucket of ice and two red crystalline goblets on the table. On such a day, the two bottles in the bucket were naturally pomegranate juice and goat milk.
“They’re soused. Last I saw, Perdikkas and Leonnius were under the table.”
“How envious.” Anaxa remains focused on his task, a touch of sarcasm in his bland tone.
Mydei leans in, forearm braced on the table, the motion causing his crimson wrap to slip, further baring a toned torso and sanguine tattoos.
“Anaxagoras,” Mydei says. There is a faint scent of intoxicating wine and sweet juice on his breath, a lingering aura of bloodlust that stirs up an unappreciated response in Anaxa. “Won’t you share a drink with your king?”
That was Mydei’s stipulation for giving him refuge within Castrum Kremnos walls—for Anaxa to become his vassal. The request was not unreasonable. Though they can’t compare to Mydei’s raw power, Anaxa-Cerces still hold a Coreflame. The Bough of Rift is a different kind of threat, the divulgence of information, in many cases, can be more dangerous than a blade. Ultimately, Mydei’s condition was preferable to being trapped in that woman’s golden threads.
“In the tradition of your tribe, upon a triumphant return, the commander drinks with the subordinates who marched with him. I haven’t left these walls; it has nothing to do with me.”
“It was your inventions that enabled many of our soldiers to return home,” Mydei counters. “I’ll tell you how the bronze detonators fared in battle.”
“You’ll tell me anyways,” Anaxa says, but he tidies away his experiment with an internal sigh. The fastest way to get Mydei to leave is to humor him, and while Anaxa doesn’t perform any of the obeisances of a vassal, doing this from time to time… isn’t abhorrent.
Mydei fills one glass with ice and pours the juice, no milk, handing the drink to Anaxa. “The old-timers grumbled about dishonorable methods, but no one wants to see their comrades consumed by the Black Tide, lost to madness. They’ll get over it.” He glances at Anaxa. “The component of skill you added to deploying the explosives mollified them by half.”
That the Kremnoan veterans would accept it at all is a consequence of having lived through Nikador’s madness, a calamity which had nearly devoured their city. The casualties had been immense, made more tragic by the fact that most had not fallen beneath the sword but rather succumbed to divine-induced Blood Madness.
During this catastrophe, salvation arrived in the form of the exiled Crown Prince. Mydei executed the covetous King Eurypon and his treacherous advisors, exposing their unforgivable crime: defiling their god’s soul and stripping their divinity while Nikador’s attention was fully occupied with protecting their world from the unseen, locked in relentless battle with the Black Tide. The despicable act had outraged and horrified the populace.
Knowing the shock would not be enough to force the majority of Kremnoans into full retreat, Mydei had instead ordered them to withdraw from the range of influence of the corrupted god, holding the line at the outskirts of the city. He had then sought aid from his fellow Flame-Chasers.
The Kremnoans had been stunned anew to receive assistance from their long-time rival Okhema, which provided provisions, supplies, and armaments. From the Grove of Epiphany came Hyacine with a cadre of healers from the Twilight Courtyard whom worked tirelessly with Perdikkas to formulate an elixir to counter the Blood Madness. Anaxa, though not a healer, was an expert in matters of the soul and had also contributed to the creation of the elixir. The counteragent was not a complete cure, but had allowed the Kremnoans to hold on long enough for Mydei to slay their god who had succumbed to depravity.
Lastly, Anaxa had constructed the artifact Mydei used to broadcast the final words of Nikador, Titan of Strife and Master of Legions, through the City of Might.
King of Kremnos, grant me an end befitting a warrior and fulfill my sacred mission: use my Coreflame to fuel a roaring blaze and continue the fight against the Black Tide!
After these successive rude awakenings, the Kremnoans, young and old, had become more tolerant of the foreign methods they had once scorned. They made grudging peace with Okhema for their aid, as bitter a pill as that was to swallow for many, and turned their blades instead against the ultimate adversary that even Nikador could not fell.
For these reasons, though the Kremnoans continue to make a show of dragging their feet, they are receptive to Anaxa’s inventions, respectful of his status as Hyacine’s teacher and the role he played in resolving their plight.
Anaxa takes a sip of the juice, sweet and tart on his tongue, watching Mydei adulterate his own glass with milk. “I didn’t add the mechanism for such a trivial reason. It was in the original design. This information is irrelevant.”
“Mm.” Mydei accepts Anaxa’s denial and gives him a rundown of the live testing of the detonators on the battlefield—average range, how strongly it affected the creatures of the Black Tide, and other requested specifics.
“There are improvements to be made,” Anaxa decides. “I’ll have them ready before your next campaign.”
Business settled and drink imbibed, that is Mydei’s cue to leave, but the king continues to dally in the garden. Anaxa leaves him be and recommences his experiment. It makes no difference whether he has an audience or not for his alchemy and no one wants another mad god. From what he has observed, Cerce’s garden has a calmative effect on Mydei when his bloodlust overflows, unquenched by the battlefield.
Eventually, Mydei bids him goodnight, and takes his leave.
**
The visits become a recurring phenomenon and Anaxa decides to allow them. Mydei isn’t too disruptive and he reports useful data from the field, sporadically bringing interesting artifacts or valuable samples.
On one such visit, Anaxa asks about Nikador’s Coreflame Trial.
Of the demigods, Anaxa is the only one who hasn’t undergone the divine trial. The Coreflame of Reason had been directly implanted into his heart by Cerces during the Grove of Epiphany’s Black Tide crisis. After the disaster, the surviving scholars reclaimed and rebuilt the grove. However, Anaxa-Cerces could no longer reside there, not with the Flame Reaver still suspected to be alive. Having experienced the power of the Reaver’s blade, they knew they could not best him. To remain in the grove would be to invite calamity into their home again. Before parting, Cerces had imbued her power into the core elements of the Grove and imparted her final guidance to the Sages, who fervently promised to care for the legacy their deity left to them.
In seeking refuge, Anaxa-Cerces had two options. Okhema, the Eternal Holy City guarded by the demigods of Janis and Mnestia; and Castrum Kremnos, the Capital of Might ruled by Amphoreus’ most powerful demigod, the Lance of Fury. Cerces had no opinion, leaving the choice to Anaxa, but neither was what he would consider a palatable option.
At that time, Mydei had extended his hand without Anaxa needing to ask. His terms were tolerable, his invitation genuine and unpatronizing. Anaxa had accepted. On receiving the missive, Mydei had prepared a lavish garden for the Sage, but it had been nowhere near the vision of Eden it is today. Within a few days of Anaxa’s arrival, this utopian garden had flourished into being around the Bough of Rift.
In answer to his inquiry, Mydei says, “The trial of Strife is to face the greatest fear in your heart.” He hasn’t spoken of it to anyone, but he is willing to satisfy Anaxa’s curiosity. “You can think of it like a vision or a delusion, one that is indistinguishable from reality. The longer you are immersed in it, the more you burn with Nikador’s rage and bloodthirst. Thus, the more distorted your thoughts become and the harder it is to remember why you’re there.” The curl of his lips is humorless. “Sage, do you want to know what it is I fear?”
“Not particularly. The details are not necessary.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that when the heart and mind are so closely entwined with one’s soul.”
Anaxa says nothing, watching him silently.
Mydei recounts his story. “The god-king valiantly persisted in his battle against the Black Tide but ultimately succumbed, mind and divinity corroded. Like his predecessor Nikador, he descended into depravity, plunging his city into madness along with him. Castrum Kremnos once again turned its blade away from the Black Tide and upon the citizens of Amphoreus instead. I then watched my friends die by my command, one by one, at the hands of our compatriots,” he narrates dispassionately. Tipping his goblet, he watches the swirl of sanguine liquid inside. “When I was the last of my people standing, the nightmare would begin anew. No matter what I tried, no matter what extreme actions I took or how radically I changed the course, their fates remained the same; I couldn’t save a single soul.”
Anaxa expresses no sympathy, nor does he deride Mydei’s sentimentality. He simply asks: “How did you break the cycle?”
Mydei’s gaze rises to meet Anaxa’s, his words heavy and measured:
“I killed them all with my own hands.”
The slight widening of Anaxa’s eyes is deeply satisfying; he is difficult to perturb and even more difficult to impress.
“First Leonnius, then Perdikkas, ultimately Hephaestion, every last one of my dearest companions and people until I alone remained.” His pulse is steady, his breaths even; the detached, temperate bearing of the divine, his mortal agitation discarded.
“Then, with no fear left in his heart, the god-king immolated himself in the Black Tide, and I awoke.”
The end of the tale is met with silence, the sage’s cold regard held fast by the king’s ferocious leonine gaze.
“Hah.” Anaxa is the first to look away. “No wonder your people follow you so devotedly. A course of action befitting the one to embody Strife.” It reminds him of a saying he had once heard: Should you meet God on your path, kill God. “Slaying your fears along the path to divinity, an ascension crowned in blood.” It is paradoxically suitable and ironic for this god-king who, of all the Kings of Kremnos, had been the most reluctant to drench his hands in the blood of his kin. Yet he had nonetheless risen to the task when the survival of the Kremnoans depended on it, ascending to heights his predecessors could only dream of.
The Kingslayer who committed patricide and accepted the crown still holding reservations, the Godslayer who committed blasphemy and became the God of Strife harboring doubts.
Thwarted or not, Anaxa doesn’t believe that Mydei could completely rid himself of his forebodings; the king’s sentimental heart is poorly hidden, the most mortal part of his being. Anaxa’s fingers tap unhurriedly against the desk as he considers Mydei. “What you fear may yet come to pass.”
Mydei inclines his head. “I’ve accepted the possibility. It may even be inevitable. I will take what measures I can to prevent that tragic fate from befalling my people. However, first and foremost, the divine duty of the Lance of Fury is to drive back the Black Tide. Understanding the Tide and preventing its corruption of the soul—I entrust this to those more suitable to the task.”
Anaxa is not pleased to have this burden cast upon him. For whom is more suitable to solve this quandary than Reason?
“Your arrogance is beyond the sky if you think I would devote my efforts to you.”
“Not to me, but to Amphoreus. What truth is left to pursue if the Black Tide overruns our world?”
Anaxa huffs. “On occasion, you do make sense.”
His protest is cursory. What conclusion could Mydei make that Anaxa had not already thought of? And, by providence, countering the corrosion of the soul is not a digression from his life’s work but a complement. From the time of his arrival, he has already incorporated this conundrum into his research.
**
Life and soul smelted in divine flames, Anaxa’s body is not living; it is an alchemical creation. Despite the peculiar state of his body, it is a functioning vessel that mimics his organic form. That is to say, he still has basic needs—ones that he forgets to tend. Even before that grand experiment, he would frequently forgo meals or sleep in his dedicated pursuit of knowledge. After his form had been changed, the natural human drives of hunger and thirst were rendered near nonexistent, exacerbating these unfortunate habits. In the Grove, Hyacine had been the one to fuss over him, bringing him meals and urging him to rest. Within this fortress of stone and might… it is the city’s King.
Mydei does not send sustenance and reminders to Anaxa through his attendants as would be appropriate. Those, Anaxa could disregard.
Instead, when Anaxa misses more than two meals, Mydei will show up with two portions, one for himself and one for Anaxa, and seat himself at the table with his arms crossed, silently refusing to eat until Anaxa joins him.
Ignoring him is impossible. For one, the gurgling protests of the brute’s stomach could wake the dead, and Mydei isn’t embarrassed in the slightest by it. As for enduring hardship, this person was cast into the Sea of Souls as a fledgling and has died a thousand deaths, it doesn’t even need to be mentioned.
With great displeasure, Anaxa inevitably sits down to eat. He isn’t one to perform self-defeating actions and his appetite improves after considering it from a different perspective—that this muscleheaded king is serving him. He certainly seems to have an excess of time, stopping by the Garden to leave pitchers of water and tantalizing platters of snacks and fruits. It gives Anaxa the bizarre notion that he is being treated like a plant that needs to be regularly fed and watered.
The sum of Mydei’s visits is infrequent, staying well below the limits of Anaxa’s tolerance for unsought company. The tactic shouldn’t be effective, yet he finds that he may, perhaps, be starting to look forward to these visits, just the slightest bit.
He is not oblivious to Mydei’s intentions. He knows what these overtures suggest but, for once, he is uncertain. Uncertain of his own sentiments, uncertain of what he wishes to do.
**
Mydei isn’t the only person Anaxa interacts with in Castrum Kremnos. Though Anaxa keeps to himself, he is not an obligate recluse, unlike some of his colleagues in the Grove of Epiphany. He walks through the halls when his thoughts begin to stagnate, a change of scenery to stimulate the mind. In time, he discovers that there are individuals in the Capital of Might capable of holding their ground in an intellectual debate, a pleasant surprise.
He becomes more acquainted with Perdikkas, the Kremnoan he is most familiar with after Mydei. Their fields of study are disparate, both researching the soul corrosion of the Black Tide from different approaches, but Perdikkas’ knowledge base is broad. His theories are worth considering and their discussions often end in stirring debates.
When he has need of references, Ptolemy can be found ensconced in the Grand Library. An affable man, Ptolemy is always glad to be of help, and a walking catalog of the Library’s texts besides.
And the most baffling is Hephaestion, Mydei’s fiercest warrior. Their kind should have no interest in a feeble scholar like himself, but Hephaestion is bizarrely insistent on dragging Anaxa out of his grove to spar, wittering and bemoaning something incomprehensible about “It’s just not proper” and “I can’t fail Her Majesty”. What does Queen Gorgo have to do with any of this? He can only conclude that perhaps Hephaestion has been struck one too many a time in the head.
It isn’t that Anaxa is opposed to training; the world they live in is not a peaceful one. He prefers to keep his skills sharp and Hephaestion’s efforts saves him the headache of finding a willing sparring partner. No, the real problem is how every time he intends to refuse but ends up standing across from Hephaestion, his gun facing off against the warrior’s sword with no understanding of how they arrived there.
At least Hephaestion doesn’t complain about his methods whether he uses alchemy or devices—and Anaxa does need them, every advantage he can obtain. Hephaestion is a terror to fight, swifter than the strike of lightning and, despite appearing as slim as a scholar, hits harder than those useless iron boulders rolling around Castrum Kremnos. Anaxa still has no thoughts of rousing the Titan resting within, he has no need of divine aid, but Hephaestion goads and nettles him about her until he calls her out just to shut that jabbering mouth. Annoyingly, it does turn out to be beneficial practice for both Anaxa and Cerces, testing how to combine their strengths and wield the Coreflame in battle. Best of all, when Anaxa tires of it, he can leave the headache to Cerces, who has taken a liking to the spirited young warrior.
Spirited is an apt descriptor for much of this city, but noisy as Castrum Kremnos can be, Anaxa doesn’t find it more unpleasant than the holy city. Though fierce and boisterous, the Kremnoans are also rigidly disciplined, nothing like the chaotic mob he had initially expected.
Anaxa prefers the quiet life of the Grove, the sounds of intellectual debate over the clash of swords, but life in Castrum Kremnos isn’t bad. It isn’t bad at all.
**
Returning from an expedition, Mydei goes to the Garden as has become his routine. Today, upon reaching the heart of the grove, he is greeted by a resonant dual-toned voice.
“Strife. It has been some time.”
“…Cerces.” The Titan sleeps deeply within Anaxa and only wakes when called forth. Mydei surveils the area and vaguely recognizes a soul alchemy array beneath where Cerces-Anaxa rests against the trunk of the great tree, cradled between its roots. “An experiment?”
Cerces lips curve. “You’ve become a bit more clever since I last saw you.”
Mydei is curious what they are doing, but if Anaxa wishes to tell him, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t pry. “It can’t be helped,” he jokes. “Proximity to Anaxa does that to a person.”
Cerces chuckles. “Come, have a seat. Tell me of your conquest.”
Though Cerces is rarely conscious, when she is awake, she will always seek knowledge, the Black Tide being a topic of particular interest.
“What would you like to hear?” Mydei asks, settling himself at the edge of the array. She can be strange to talk to, but he likes her sharp wit and sense of humor. For all Anaxa’s complaints, Mydei is certain he does as well.
It is a long wait until Cerces closes their eyes, and Anaxa rouses, but Mydei doesn’t mind. Sitting beneath their boughs always soothes the agitation of Strife in his mind.
**
Mydei slays the Flame Reaver. For good this time, or so he hopes, but he has an unsettling premonition that the creature may rise again with the Tide. Even more reason he can’t afford to die here.
But the Flame Reaver had done something to him with that crescent blade. Perhaps, he thinks dizzily, it had reaped part of his soul. Golden ichor oozes from the wound on his chest, divinity leaking out with it. The sounds of his dear friends’ frantic voices are muted as if he is underwater, his vision blurring.
He has a vague impression of being carried on Hephaestion’s back, and then he is in the Garden lying beneath the great tree, Anaxa’s pale face and Perdikkas worried mien hovering over him. The crescent blade had pierced him near his fatal flaw. It feels as if his soul is dissipating along with his divinity, only held together by whatever lunacy Anaxa and Perdikkas are performing. The eyepatch is off, the galaxy beneath alight with azure flames.
Perdikkas brow is beaded with sweat, his hair damp, but he remains focused, stalwart and undeterred by the inherent terror the blazing opened pupil invokes.
Mydei can faintly sense the same dread, but mostly, he just finds it—
“Pretty.”
Anaxa always is, but especially now, a rare intensity in his pinched expression and pale eye. There is something important he is forgetting, but Mydei is distracted by the graceful hands poised above his chest, giving him a tantalizing view of that exposed patch of skin on Anaxa’s forearm, the mesmerizing tattoo. He has wondered how far the pattern extends, wants to trace it with his fingers. Despite his many grand achievements, Mydei hasn’t dared to do what he desires the most. Is he going to die without doing this simple thing? Anaxa would forgive him, wouldn’t he?
It is a struggle to raise his weakened arm, but he manages it. Anaxa’s skin is soft, though there is something odd about the texture, and cold as a corpse as he had expected.
“Remove your hand,” Anaxa demands, voice tight.
Reluctantly, Mydei complies. “I’m dying. Am I still not allowed?” Anaxa hasn’t ever forbidden him from touching—it was something that didn’t need to be said.
“If you’re dying, then behave like a dying man and be silent.”
“Your Majesty, please don’t interrupt Anaxa.” Perdikkas expression is now two parts worry and one part very disapproving, producing an odd effect.
The corners of Mydei’s mouth pull down. He’s dying. Why does it still count as taking advantage?
Belatedly, Mydei recalls what is vitally important—that Anaxa had cast his life into flames to be smelted before, had once torn apart his soul like it was just another alchemical ingredient. “Don’t use your soul,” he says urgently, reaching. “’Naxa, don’t.”
Perdikkas catches his hand, guiding it back down. “Mydeimos,” he says, pained, “please don’t make me gag you.”
“That would be unwise in your king’s current condition, child of humanity,” a dual-toned voice counsels, joining the conversation.
Cerces is here?
“You’re helping him,” Mydei realizes, astonished. He can’t imagine what kind of undertaking would require both Anaxa’s brilliant intellect and the Titan of Reason.
“Hush, Strife,” Cerces speaks while Anaxa concentrates. “This prickly child beseeched my aid on your behalf. If you understand the gravity of the situation, then let him work.”
He had thought Anaxa would rather die than ask a Titan for help. Anaxa’s rigid stance on refusing the aid of gods has relented in increments after getting to know Cerces, but allowing to help is not the same as asking. Not to Anaxa.
Anaxa asked… for him?
Mydei watches the flare and flicker of the beautiful blue flame, mind and gaze drifting. The rings on Anaxa’s hands are broken, he notes absently. He watches until he can’t anymore, Hypnos dragging his consciousness into slumber.
**
Mydei recovers before Anaxa does, the majority of his stripped divinity returned from the crescent blade Hephaestion had brought back with them.
Both Anaxa and Perdikkas are evasive about Anaxa’s condition.
“I will recover in time,” Anaxa says, except he isn’t lying comfortably in a bed. He rests against the great tree, blankets and cushions nestled between the large roots as bedding. His voice is weak and his lid droops with fatigue.
“Is there anything I can do?” Mydei asks, seated on the ground in front of him. “I’ll call Hyacine—”
“Don’t.”
Anaxa doesn’t want Hyacine to see him like this, doesn’t want to worry her…
“It’s that bad? Is this ‘time’ needed to recover counted in months, years, decades?” Mydei tamps down the volume of his voice, trying to rein in his temper.
“My, my, why didn’t you say centuries?”
“Cerces,” Mydei says, as stunned by her presence as her words.
Cerces is always respectful of Anaxa’s privacy. If she is here, it’s not by her choice—it’s a reflection of how damaged Anaxa’s soul is. Moreover, when they’re both awake, she manifests a form to draw a distinction between their identities.
Are they so weakened that she isn’t able to do that much?
“Shut up!” Anaxa hisses. “I did not permit you to speak.” His face twitches in a tiny wince, regretting his words. Closing his eyes, he holds his forehead.
Mydei has never seen him struggle to regulate his emotions like this.
They must have reconciled internally because it is Cerces who says, speaking with Anaxa’s mouth, “I should not have said that in jest. Be at ease, Mydeimos, the time is measured in decades. It is not so long.”
“Not so long for a god maybe.”
“There is a solution.”
Mydei straightens. “What is it?”
Anaxa sighs, his expression irritated. His mouth says, “A communion between demigods.”
Communion—that means—
“No,” Mydei rejects the option immediately, and Anaxa stiffens. “Anaxa wouldn’t want that.”
Anaxa’s gaze flits to his in startlement before moving away again. “Do not presume what I want,” he mutters. “I can speak for myself.” His tone turns acerbic. “The communion of souls, she means, not the communion of bodies.” He cuts Mydei a derisive look. “You would enjoy that too much.”
“I would,” Mydei admits frankly, and is rewarded with minute signs of discomposure—a flutter of lashes, the bob of Anaxa’s throat. “What do I need to do?”
“Your part is simple. You merely need to place your bare palms with Anaxagoras’ and allow him to access and utilize your Coreflame.”
So… hold hands with Anaxa and let him muck about with his soul. Cerces sense of humor isn’t appreciated at the current moment. It’s Mydei’s turn to swallow.
“Alright,” he says. He doesn’t know why his agreement turns Anaxa’s expression hard and forbidding.
“You’re an imbecile. You have no idea what I could do to you.” Anaxa exhales heavily, head jerking in a refusal—arguing with Cerces.
Sensing that Cerces is winning the argument, Mydei contributes, “You’ve already done as much when you were repairing me.”
Anaxa looks at him coldly. The corners of his mouth pull up in an unkind smile. “Very well. I will consider it if you answer me this: Who was the last person you slew in Nikador’s trial before you martyred yourself in the Tide?”
Mydei stares at him, stricken.
He draws in an unsteady breath.
“It was you,” he admits, voice hoarse.
It’s as good as a confession. Anaxa was the person it was most difficult to raise his sword against, even after having inured his heart from the previous killings.
From the way Mydei had deliberately told his tale, he doesn’t know how Anaxa had guessed.
“How shallow your sentiments are,” Anaxa sneers. “We hadn’t interacted more than a handful of times by then.”
It was more than a handful, but there’s no use arguing that with Anaxa.
“Some things are not subject to reason,” Mydei says quietly. “But it’s true I didn’t know you well then. Not like I know you now.”
Anaxa’s lips thin, the rise and fall of his chest agitated.
“Anaxagoras. There is no logical reason to refuse,” Cerces words are unsparing, but her tone is gentle. “If you think Mydeimos so senseless as to offer this to any pretty face then you are only fooling yourself.”
After a long silence, Anaxa sighs and sags back into the tree. “Cerces will convey the method to me. Then, we can discuss the risks.”
**
Anaxa dumbs down the explanation for Mydei, but it is beyond his comprehension. He suspects the only person in Castrum Kremnos that might understand it is Perdikkas. Something about borrowing power, synchrony, and augmentation. He does catch one thing though.
“The Coreflames have to be compatible? How do you know that Reason and Strife are compatible?” It doesn’t make sense.
“My Coreflame is compatible with Mnestia’s. Mnestia, through an, ahem, accident happened to discover that their Coreflame is compatible with Strife,” Cerces answers evasively. “Therefore, my Coreflame should be compatible with Strife’s as well.”
The butterfly and the battle-obssessed warrior?
Mydei and Anaxa trade an amazed glance unable to imagine a scene with the two interacting, much less a situation where something as intimate as their Coreflames being in contact might occur.
“…What kind of accident?” Mydei asks with a newfound burning desire for knowledge, but no matter how much he and Anaxa cross-examine her they are unable to pry the story out.
It must be an extraordinary tale, or incredibly embarrassing, or both.
Mydei is possibly going to expire from curiosity, demigod or not, but Anaxa reluctantly moves on to enumerate the risks, a list of considerable length which Anaxa and Cerces argue over.
Mydei’s answer won’t change but he still listens attentively and gives it careful consideration before reaffirming his desire to proceed.
**
Mydei and Anaxa sit facing each other crosslegged beneath the boughs of the great tree, knee to knee in the center of a large array. Anaxa’s eyes are closed in concentration, his cold palms resting on Mydei’s. As he does something, the Coreflame in Mydei’s chest flares up, a raging inferno burning him from the inside out. Breathing harshly, he glances down to confirm that the effect is internal—that he isn’t searing Anaxa’s hands.
The touch of Anaxa’s soul is cool, like liquid silver, not particularly gentle but not harsh either. As for the sensation of having his Coreflame manipulated—it can only be described as indescribable. It’s both uncomfortable and not, the feeling of something being moved in a place only palpable to his divine sense.
The process is long and arduous. Acclimated to the feeling after an hour, Mydei finds himself nodding off despite his best efforts.
“Mydei.”
Mydei jerks out of his drowse. “Sorry.” The apology comes out automatically.
Anaxa is giving him a strange look. “You can sleep through this?”
“I guess so,” Mydei says, sheepish.
“We’re not even halfway through.” Anaxa eyes him speculatively. “There are sequences of the restoration that cannot be interrupted. If you can’t stay awake, then rest against the tree.”
Mydei does some rapid mental calculations but there are only a few ways that could work.
“Is this too complicated for you?” Anaxa inquires judgmentally.
“No…. I’ll move.”
Removing his boots and putting aside the remaining pieces of metal armor, Mydei goes to sit on the bedding, leaning back against the trunk. He watches Anaxa go around, adjusting the array elements. Once rearranged to his satisfaction, Anaxa comes over and settles against Mydei. Mydei’s thighs are to either side of Anaxa, hands resting on top with his palms offered up. Placing his cold hands in Mydei’s, Anaxa relaxes, lying back on the firm chest.
“It’s comfortable,” Anaxa mutters under his breath, sounding puzzled.
Knowing he wasn’t supposed to hear that, Mydei keeps his mouth shut.
Anaxa laces their fingers together—to make sure Mydei’s hands don’t fall to the side. “You may sleep now,” he informs him. Closing his eyes again, he begins his work, not seeming to think much of their position.
Mydei tries to calm his racing heart, wondering if Anaxa can feel it against his back.
He is wide awake now.
**
When Mydei wakes, night has fallen. Anaxa is in his lap, head resting on his chest and breathing softly. Their hands are still entwined. Anaxa looks younger like this, his stern features softened in repose. His thin lips are slightly parted, silken hair trailing down his chest, his form slight but solid against Mydei.
For a while, Mydei watches him sleep, memorizing the feel of Anaxa in his arms in case he doesn’t get another chance.
Then, he whispers, “Cerces?”
Anaxa slumbers on peacefully.
“I know you’re there.”
Cerces-Anaxa sighs, a sound of deep disappointment. “You two were having a sweet moment. Why did you have to ruin it?”
“It’s not quite the same with a witness,” Mydei says dryly. “Is this… uncomfortable for you?”
“Oh no, you’re very comfortable. This child’s body is always cold, and you are very warm.” She seems to mean it, voice drowsy.
“This is alright?” Mydei asks uncertainly.
“Hm? Ah, you mean Mnestia. If she were here, she would want to alight on your shoulder, chattering to me from her perch.”
Mnestia is a butterfly and Cerces a tree. Recalling that, the situation is suddenly a lot less awkward.
Cerces chuckles. “You still think like a mortal. Perhaps that is for the best, this child does as well. Mnestia and I,” her tone turns wistful, “we have never been mortal.” She squeezes his hand lightly. “You needn’t mind us. Anyways, I believe I will be slumbering for some time. The restoration went well; Anaxagoras’ soul is whole and well on the way to being healed.”
“Thank you,” Mydei says, quiet and sincere.
“You are most welcome, Strife,” Cerces replies sleepily, their chest moving in the slow cadence of repose. Her presence becomes faint, and she doesn’t respond again to his call.
“Good night,” Mydei murmurs to them both, and holds them until dawn.