Chapter Text
As he and his countrymen approach Okhema’s gates, he expects a squadron. Several squadrons, even. Despite the looming end times, the holy city is not without manpower, and it is bountiful enough in resources to feed an army. And it is only logical that an army would be sent to meet the Kremnoan exiles, which by now are known throughout the lands for their endless conquest and the trail of bloodshed they leave behind with every voyage into Amphoreus’ wilds.
Instead, what currently bars Mydeimos’ path through Okhema’s gates is not an army…but a lone youth.
With his pure white hair and silver-white garb and armour, the young man stands in stark contrast to his surroundings, the holy city’s torches casting him in an almost ethereal glow. It is an image so out of place in the darkness of Amphoreus’ evernights, for the man is so radiant, so beautiful, so seemingly untainted in innocence, and so unlike the horrors and atrocities that Mydeimos has borne witness to during the time he's spent roaming the world. He is certain he would be captivated by the sight, if not for the greatsword the man is holding, as well as the piercing stare from those bright—yet empty—blue eyes.
Those hollow eyes alone, the eyes of a true warrior, speak of great hardship and years on the battlefield, and they tell the crown prince all he needs to know about this person—that though he is no army, he may as well be one.
He feels his people stirring. “What should we do, Lord Mydeimos?” one of them asks, already priming his spear. The soldier is a strong warrior in his own right, but age has begun wearing on him, and an old injury to his leg has relegated him to the rearguard of most of their skirmishes. In fact, many of the Kremnoans behind him don’t fare much better, their unending nomadic lifestyle taking a harsh toll on their bodies and spirits. Even so, they look to Mydeimos as their leader, their last hope, and he knows that it is his responsibility to answer those hopes.
The prince holds an arm out before any of them can step forward and glances back. His golden eyes glint in the limited light as he makes his orders clear:
“Do not interfere in this battle, no matter what happens.”
The Kremnoans do not argue with his command. They know the strength of their prince better than anyone, having seen it firsthand during their many campaigns. As a single body, they withdraw, leaving Mydeimos to step forward and address the young man who has been silently observing them this entire time.
“What a surprise,” Mydeimos drawls. Though there is quite a lot of distance between them, the prince’s powerful voice carries over the battlefield, audible to all. “I’d have thought that the Okhemans would greet us with an army, but they only sent out a single soldier? They are either very brave…or very foolish.”
The young man doesn’t reply—doesn’t take the bait—and only continues to watch Mydeimos carefully. It’s almost a little unnerving. He feels as if those eyes are attempting to see right through him, searching for any chinks in his metaphorical armour. Unfortunately for him, the only person who knows Mydeimos’ weakness is Mydeimos himself, and the notion emboldens the already brazen prince. He slowly begins circling his new foe, and the young man mirrors his movements, constantly watching, constantly waiting.
“You know who we are, don’t you?” Mydeimos asks, his voice deep and dangerous, never once taking his eyes off the other man’s. They have both paced a quarter of a circle around each other by now, and the white-haired warrior still hasn’t said a single word. “You should know the folly of standing in our way. We Kremnoans think little of cowards who flee in the face of conflict, but just this once, I will make an exception and applaud you for your wits if you choose to submit.”
Still, the white-haired warrior doesn’t make a sound, and the prince catches himself wondering whether he simply can’t understand the common tongue. If that’s not the case, he’s made his stance clear: he has no intention of answering, and Mydeimos figures that that will make things easier in the long run. He, too, stops bothering with trivial conversation as both of them slow to a halt. They have now walked in a perfect semicircle, trading their original positions—Mydeimos with his back to Okhema’s gates, and the other man standing before the Kremnoan army. The stand-off continues in silence for several long moments, the tension in the air thick enough to slice through with a knife. Not a single soul dares to breathe; even the wind seems to have fallen still, as if the Titans themselves wait in bated breath for the outcome of this fateful encounter.
And then, Mydeimos lunges.
He pushes off the balls of his feet with such ferocious strength that he kicks up a squall of dust and stone, blazing across the barrens in a flash of gold and crimson. With that burst of speed, he crosses the distance between himself and his adversary in an instant, bringing his fist down upon the white-haired warrior, as fast as a strike of lightning.
Had it been any other person, the battle would have ended right then and there. Many a past foe had fallen to Mydeimos’ unpredictable pre-emptive strikes, a tactic he particularly favours against enemies he can’t get a read on.
But rather than flesh and bone, metal sings in a dissonant chorus as a blade greets Mydeimos’ gauntlet. The swordsman had raised his claymore in the nick of time, stopping Mydeimos’ blow from taking his head clean off his shoulders. His reflexes are ungodly fast, faster than any other warrior that Mydeimos has met, but the man is still unable to hide the split-second shock, the way his eyes widen a fraction, the way his grip on his blade has been jarred loose by the impact. Like a lion on the hunt, Mydeimos zeroes in on his prey’s momentary weakness. He throws punch after punch, each more powerful than the last, unrelenting in his assault and giving no chance for his opponent to retaliate.
If Mydeimos can’t force the youth to yield, he will aim to triumph over him with sheer power. He already knows that none can best him when it comes to physical strength and endurance—
—and yet, to his growing surprise, the swordsman is able to block every single one of his blows.
The intricacies of the other warrior’s fighting style becomes clearer as the bout continues. Though he struggles to maintain his balance in the face of Mydeimos’ overwhelming might, his precise footwork allows him to regain some of his footing, his well-placed heels compensating for the ground he loses with every blow—and no matter how fast the punches come, he always manages to angle his blade so that Mydeimos’ gauntlets merely glance off of it, redistributing and lessening the force of each impact.
And his eyes, those mesmerizing blue eyes, no longer bear that hollow look, instead burning intensely with nothing more than the desire to overcome the foe before him. Those eyes never once falter despite the tremendous pressure the man is under—
—and they glint the moment they notice an opportunity, and Mydeimos reacts too late, playing right into his opponent’s hands.
The moment they lock in their next stalemate, the other man suddenly gives way, and Mydeimos loses his balance. The blow that comes after is blindingly fast, like a snake’s strike, the white-haired warrior throwing his entire weight into a full-body tackle, slamming his shoulder into Mydeimos’ sternum with the force of an avalanche. The pain that lances through his entire body is dizzying in its suddenness, forcing a strangled gasp from the prince's throat as he stumbles back.
It’s the first direct hit on a combatant in this battle, and Mydeimos had been the one to take it.
And the white-haired man appears eager to ensure that it’s not the last. Now the aggressor, he closes in quickly, swinging his sword in a wide arc, and it’s all Mydeimos can do to block the strike with his gauntlets. Even so, he feels the strength behind the swing, even before the force lifts him off his feet and knocks him back several more paces. Their positions now reversed for the second time, the swordsman continues in hot pursuit, bearing down on Mydeimos mercilessly with attacks that are both powerful and honed by years of training. The sword tastes his flesh once, twice, thrice, but the weapon never truly meets its mark, leaving only superficial flesh wounds behind—but his golden blood spills onto the ground nonetheless.
The sting from the wounds is followed by the agony of muscle and sinew stitching itself back together in his body’s unnatural defiance of death, but it’s pain that sharpens his focus nonetheless. So when the swordsman’s blade comes down upon him once again, Mydeimos reacts more quickly, slamming both of his palms against its blunt edges and catching the weapon between his hands as it falls towards him—halting it in its tracks.
The swordsman’s eyes widen in shock as the prince grins. He only gives his foe a split second for his new predicament to sink in before he yanks the blade towards him. As the white-haired warrior stumbles forward, Mydeimos delivers a devastating kick to his abdomen, sending him flying. Unable to right himself in time, he crashes to the ground, tumbling across the wastes, and Mydeimos has no intention of giving him the chance to recover, descending upon him with a fiery fist.
The impact sends a powerful tremor through the entire field. Okhema’s stone walls tremble at the might, and even the warriors in the Kremnoan detachment struggle to keep their balance. There’s a small crater where Mydeimos had plunged, now obscured from view by a veil of sand and dust, leaving the spectators to ponder the outcome of the seemingly decisive blow.
But Mydeimos knows the result already.
That’s because his fist had struck empty ground.
Despite previously suffering a direct hit from Mydeimos himself, the white-haired youth had been able to recover quickly enough to roll out of the way, barely avoiding what should have been a fatal strike. He stands again, his posture a little hunched as he clutches his ribs with his free hand, but his grip on his claymore remains firm nonetheless.
And those eyes of his… Something has definitely ignited with them, filling the void that had been present before. The empty look has been replaced by a bright blue blaze—as if he’s hungry for the battle to continue.
In that moment, Mydeimos wonders briefly if he has found a kindred spirit.
But he gives neither himself nor his opponent time to ponder the answer. He pounces again at the exact same instant the swordsman lunges towards him, parrying the oncoming swings of the sword with his arm guard and throwing his own punches in return. Their deadly dance proceeds unabated, the two warriors weaving around each other’s attacks and retaliating the moment they see the slightest opening, their movements so blindingly fast that they can be barely tracked with the human eye.
But Mydeimos soon tires of their stalemate, and decides to take a bolder approach. As the edge of the claymore zeroes in on him once again, he sidesteps, allowing it to glance off of his side. The swordsman is carried forward by inertia, but before he can put distance between himself and Mydeimos again, the prince quickly grasps his wrist and forearm with both of his hands in a deathly vice-grip. He can tell just from the way the young man’s muscles seize under his hold that he will not be able to snap his bones and render him incapable of holding his sword so easily—so instead, Mydeimos pivots on his heel and flings him as if he weighs nothing. The man’s surprise is evident on his face as his body sails helplessly through the air, and Mydeimos is already chasing him before he even lands, ready to strike him before he can recover.
He won’t escape this time. Or so Mydeimos thinks.
His opponent defies his expectations once again and suddenly flips midair, righting himself as he descends. He plunges his claymore into the ground, dragging it with him as the power from Mydeimos' throw forces him further back. As he grinds to a stop, he uses the hilt of his weapon as leverage to take advantage of the remaining momentum and swings his entire body around it, aiming a swift kick at the approaching Mydeimos. The prince has no choice but to cut his attack short, bringing his arms up just in time to stop the heel from colliding with his jawbone, the sheer power behind the strike traveling through his arms and knocking him to the side.
Both warriors find themselves needing a moment to collect themselves. The white-haired youth has once more planted both of his feet on the ground and retrieved his sword, while Mydeimos shakes his tingling arm off. As they slowly lower themselves into their fighting stances, their eyes meet again in a wordless exchange, a silent acknowledgement of each other’s strength.
And then, they launch themselves at each other once more, and the skirmish continues.
The first night passes in the blink of an eye. Mydeimos has scored ten hits on his opponent, and the white-haired man has scored ten hits on him. Neither warrior has tired. They are still completely evenly matched.
...
The second night passes. The battle continues, the prince and his adversary still going strong. There are no signs of the fight stopping.
...
The fifth night comes, and the battles are beginning to wear on the two warriors. Mydeimos feels the telltale burning of overworked muscles, while his opponent is beginning to lose some of the previous finesse in his movements. However, both sides still refuse to yield, clashing again and again.
...
By the seventh night, their focus has shifted. Rather than attempt to overwhelm with power, they are now engaged in a battle of attrition, both warriors waiting for the other side to give out. Neither of them do.
...
The end of the tenth night comes.
The swordsman’s arms and hands tremble as he attempts to maintain a strong grip on his weapon, his eyes unfocused, and his pure white clothing marred with dirt and stained with blood. Meanwhile, Mydeimos knows he’s not holding his stance as straight as he usually is. Sweat mats his hair, and his breathing is laboured, but still, it isn’t enough to stop him. He’s been through far worse than this, experienced pain and exhaustion that spanned the course of his first nine years on this world, and he is prepared to keep going.
And then, all hostility suddenly falls away from the swordsman’s shoulders as he straightens out and lowers his weapon.
“Well now… I think that’s quite enough.”
Mydeimos raises his heavy head, more surprised than anything to hear him speak. Indeed, this is the first time in ten days and ten nights that the young man had uttered a single word. “...Oh? What’s the matter?” he asks, his lips curling into a sneer that masks his fatigue. “Should I take this to mean that you concede defeat?”
“Not at all. I’m quite happy to keep going,” the other man replies airily. “But you and I are very busy people, I’m sure. We both have more important things to take care of than continuing these endless bouts, don’t we?”
As he speaks, his gaze travels over Mydeimos’ shoulder, settling behind him. The prince follows his eyes to where the Kremnoan detachment still loyally awaits his return. The battle has given them a chance to rest from their long journey, but with their progress stymied by the lone Okheman warrior, they must be running low on resources by now. Mydeimos clicks his tongue, his mind racing with what to do next, before the swordsman speaks up again.
“Why not stay in Okhema with your people?"
Startled, Mydeimos’ head snaps back towards the white-haired man, wondering how he’s able to maintain such a breezy countenance in spite of his absurd proposal. “...What? Is this a joke?”
“I’m being completely serious, friend.”
“You must also be completely out of your mind, then. Are all Okhemans as senseless as you are?”
“Is it really so strange for me to extend an olive branch to people in need?” The man’s expression turns grave. “I’m sure you’re already aware, but we’re in the midst of the end times now. This is no time for humanity to be fighting amongst each other. Doing so would only hasten our demise.”
While there is logic in that statement, Mydeimos still finds the swordsman’s idea to be preposterous. His disbelief must show on his face, for the swordsman starts speaking again, as if to clarify his stance.
“Don’t get me wrong. We’re no pushovers. Okhema will repel any and all forces that mean to bring its people to harm,” he says. “But the holy city also accepts anyone looking for refuge from the black tide—no matter what their origins. So if you can promise that you won’t stir trouble from within, you and your people are more than welcome to live within its walls. In fact, the one in charge seems to be quite interested in you, and I’m sure she’d love to have a chance to speak to you. That’s why she sent me out alone to greet you in the first place."
“...Hmph.” Now certain that the man poses no more of a threat to himself or his people, Mydeimos lets all killing intent roll off of his being as well, standing up straight and crossing his arms. “If you wanted to convey such a message, you should’ve done so from the start.”
“You kind of attacked me first, though?”
…Well. Mydeimos certainly can’t deny that. He is a reasonable man, after all. But the swordsman’s proposal leaves him with a new epiphany.
The only home for Kremnoans is Castrum Kremnos. That’s what his fellow countrymen believe. But if even Castrum Kremnos has rejected them, then what recourse do they truly have?
The prince’s eyes drift from the white-haired man to the soldiers behind him. Many are able-bodied still, but many more are struggling. If hostile parties from the other city-states or the black tide don’t kill them, the long journey most certainly will.
So he turns back to the white-haired man and delivers his ultimatum for all to hear.
“We’ll stay in Okhema for the time being, and we swear not to sow strife within its walls,” he declares. “But do not mistake this temporary truce for an alliance. We Kremnoans will never belong to any city-state but Castrum Kremnos.”
Years later, he would find himself pondering the statement he had uttered at that very moment, faced with his obligations to his people, the trial of the Titans, and the Flame-Chase Journey.
But now, he focuses only on the white-haired youth in front of him, and the way he chuckles softly at Mydeimos' words, his gentle laughter ringing like the soothing chime of a soft bell.
“Haha… You certainly live up to the tales they tell about you,” the other man replies. “Very well, then. We weren't expecting anything in return to begin with. Kephale’s grace extends to everyone.”
He turns and begins walking back, but he keeps his distance, and his posture remains guarded—a subtle message that he does not trust Mydeimos just yet, and that he is prepared to retaliate if he attempts to attack him. Mydeimos is caught between feeling insulted that anyone would ever assume that he would resort to such cowardly, dishonourable tactics…and being exhilarated at the prowess of this white-haired warrior.
That exhilaration wins out in the end, and he calls out to the man before he can take another step.
“Wait.” Mydeimos stares hard at the back of the swordsman's head, as if willing his eyes to sear a hole through him. “Tell me your name, warrior.”
“Oh. How rude of me. My apologies.” The young man turns around and flashes a dashing, yet shallow, smile. Despite knowing nothing about this person, Mydeimos can sense that that casual charm is a carefully cultivated mask to obscure his truest self from the world.
“My name is Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae,” the white-haired man finally says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”