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Castrum Kremnos is quieter than it has been in a long time, the roaring of the black tide fading into the veil of eternal night, even if just for a brief moment in time amidst the eternal battle.
In this rare silence does Mydeimos bask, muscles genuinely relaxing for the first time in what may as well be an eternity as his eyes flutter closed. He lets out a breath, slow and steady, as the welcome aroma of a familiar oil drifts through the air. Like a warm blanket cast over where they are, warm amber rises above earth and metal, the faintest hints of a floral mix lightening the air as what is unmistakably vanilla lends its sweetness to the remains of what had once been the royal gardens.
The Titan of Strife has no need for such delicate life, not when unyielding metal and resolute stone lie in abundance; goblets of crimson blood offered to his Blade of Fury and hymns sung over the wails of the sacrificial tribute in honour of Nikador’s might. Or so the texts say .
Few know of the truth—of the wildflowers that bloom in abundance far out of sight, a fragment of the man Nikador, or rather Gnaeus , had once been. A garden of life born from the glory of strife, where meetings had once been held with those closest to his heart and laughter and chatter brought vibrancy to these walls of stone and endless battle. After all, all things exist in a fine balance. And even the great Guardian of Amphoreus is not without humanity.
In fact, in order to protect humanity, perhaps it is he who had to be the most human of all; embracing the very strife that forges the flames of life.
Mydei’s discovery of such a place had been completely coincidental, just as many of the other such similar findings in what had once been his home had been. But who could blame him for wandering the endless halls of the once-glorious fortress during the lulls in the black tide’s onslaught?
Down a quiet passageway largely untouched by the ruin had Mydei gone early in his homecoming, following an invisible thread that eventually guided him to the garden as resplendent as one could be in the shadows of Evernight—the will of the wildflowers still blossoming despite the circumstances commendable.
For much of his time, the garden had been where Mydei had returned whenever he could. Working through to shape it into as presentable a state as he can, pulling at weeds and rearranging crumbled marble about. Now, it is with another that he shares the space, looking out toward Kephale’s shadow and the world below.
A hand cards through Mydei’s hair, soon followed by the dull press of a comb’s teeth in a rhythmic caress tinged with hints of hesitation the further along fiery strands they get. Almost as if in wonder, a section is lifted, slowly slipping free between fingers.
“What is it, Deliverer? Do you not remember how to do another’s hair after all this time?” The words leave Mydei’s lips easily, softened by the sweetness of the pomegranate juice whose bottle now lies half-filled between them.
One of the many offerings the man had brought in his impromptu visit, Phainon having walked through the front door of Castrum Kremnos as if it were the Marmoreal Palace, bag in hand even as he raised his greatsword and fell into his place by Mydei’s side to join the dance to finish off the creations of the black tide that had gathered.
Pomegranate juice, loaves of bread, fragrant oils… the very same things offered to his name each time the thief star sailed across the skies, joined by not prayers but the most mundane details of one day. Now, the very same items are presented before him once more. Alongside the very person whose voice had reached him each day without fail .
“Of course not! It’s just that…” Fabric rustles as Phainon shifts, warm breath puffing across Mydei’s cheek as a scoff leaves the other’s chest, and Mydei is sure that, should he deign to open his eyes, bright blue orbs would be meeting his own with a heatless spark of indignance.
But Mydei does not do such a thing, waiting for Phainon to continue his words though he knows what fills both their minds.
A calloused finger continues its trail down the line of Mydei’s spine as the strands of hair Phainon had been letting slip from his grip are left to freely flow back into place. The touch simmers upon his skin, warmth spreading with each vertebrae passed, every tender caress to his body that has not felt such in a long time now.
“...Your hair is so long now.” Phainon comments, an almost wistful tone weaving its way into the voice that had been so confident just moments ago when he spoke of how the Kremnoan Detachment have been in Okhema, so proud as he had explained the reason for his coming to Mydei over the clashing of his blade against stone.
The Flame-Chase will soon reach its conclusion. Come the next action hour, Amphoreus’ Deliverer would set off to reclaim Kephale’s coreflame.
Such bravado is nowhere to be found as Phainon supposedly marvels at the length of Mydei’s hair, much like a chimera far too curious as he runs his fingers through it over and over. Amusement bubbles in Mydei’s chest, threatening to burst free through the cracks of the smile that helplessly curves across his lips.
“The tainted blades of the titankin are hardly suitable tools for managing one’s vanity.”
Without missing a beat, laughter bubbles into the air, bright and clear, as Phainon eases behind him—hands stroking across Mydei’s sides as they follow the paths of blood-red tattoos. “I suppose so… Good thing I’m here to help then!”
Vanity is the last thing one should worry about on the battlefield, and Mydeimos is no stranger to such circumstances… or the craft such bare circumstances called for to make do. But the lightness that returns to the other’s voice is a comfort, even partly jesting as Mydei may have been.
Partly only because once, many years ago, his younger self had attempted such a thing when the length of his hair had grown too troublesome in battle, tangling his limbs and blinding vision in a time where instinct and the will to survive had been all he relied on. Going on until Hephaestion had discovered and offered a more suitable, and certainly less crude, alternative, though not once had he touched a hair on Mydei’s head himself.
“One’s hair is a sacred thing to the Kremnoan people, not to be carelessly touched under any circumstances by others. Like a lion’s mane shall it shine with glory; like a crown should it adorn one’s head. To allow another such an intimate act as to brush another’s hair is an act saved for one’s spouse.” — So had Mydei been taught by the whispers of his mother’s soul amidst the ever flowing tides of Styxia, her fingers running through his unkempt mane and setting it in place.
“I trust your future spouse will take good care of you, my beloved son. May their heart burn with the same fire as yours, and their blade strike through in battle for your heart. May their eyes behold your true self, and their hands hold you tight for eternity and more.” The rambling words of a fragmented soul drifting across the tides, but even in death had Gorgo held his hand and guided him back to life’s gates time and time again, fuelling his will to hold on. For himself .
And maybe this can be counted. For rarely does Mydei allow himself to indulge in between the endless fight. But just this once…
“You are hardly ‘helping’.” Mydei huffs, brows furrowing as he hears Phainon shift once more, grass crunching and glass clinking against stone as what he assumes had been the bottle of oil from before is placed down.
“Patience, Mydei.” Phainon returns, settling behind Mydei, teasing tone surely joined by that smile of his that was about as charming as a dromas’. Vaguely, Mydei’s thoughts drift to Kokopo III, remembering of all things the time Phainon’s prayers had come to him in the midst of the action hour.
With almost hilarious dramatism that caused a red crystal to miss its mark against a titankin, Phainon recounted his attempts to work with Kokopo and how the prideful dromas picked at the Chrysos Heir’s hair and challenged his words with firm stomps. Only settling when Phainon eventually found a bond with it over speaking about none other than Mydeimos himself and offered a bowl of pomegranate juice mixed with cheese.
It does not take long for the comb’s trail to rejoin Phainon’s fingers as Mydei’s hair is brushed and parted, the humming of a quiet tune filling the quiet as an arm around Mydei’s chest urges him to lean further back.
“I do not believe such a position will help with your task.”
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing. Just sit tight and rest.” Another gentle nudge, fingers toying with the strands of hair that end just by his chin as lips come up against the shell of his ear, “Let me take care of you.”
What is Mydei to say to that when this is hardly their first? And so into Phainon’s warmth does Mydei allow himself to melt, back pressed into the firm plane of Phainon’s chest that rises and falls with each breath, heart thumping a steady rhythm against him. Phainon is warm, nicely so, in a way Mydei very much welcomes despite himself.
Indeed, this time is far from the first time Phainon had toyed with his hair and his heart in such a way. The first, their true first , had been at the very end of their battle with each other that lasted for ten days and ten nights, clearing a respectable area even far out past Okhema’s walls while they had been at it.
Covered in gold, Phainon had knelt above him. “H–Hold on, Mydei. Your hair—” He spoke between wheezing breaths, something Mydei would have teased him for if not for the way Phainon reached forward before he could do so.
A gloved hand ran through fiery strands that seemed to glow in Kephale’s light, even coated in dirt and ichor as they were, metal clinking by Mydei’s ear before whatever it was (or, rather, had been) was picked up and held before his eyes. Mydei truly couldn’t care less just what Phainon held, though he had a good guess as to just what Phainon held in his hands if the way said hand tidied the very much undone strands of his braid almost guiltily.
“I didn’t mean it, I swear!” Phainon had muttered as he watched Mydei’s face quickly approach the shade of red that tipped his hair, unfortunately unknowing as he had been back then as to just what he had done.
Silence had hung between them as tension pulled taut, flames raging just beneath the surface. For the following ten days after they had returned to Okhema, while Phainon had not seen Mydei once at all, he certainly had felt his presence in the purple-grey bubbling mix of something that was not quite solid nor liquid that greeted him each mealtime.
“The jewellery worn by Kremnoans honours their ancestry, every golden piece passed down through the family. The hairpiece, in particular, holds special meaning.” This much, Mydei had explained to Phainon as he held a hand out to the man who lay smiling at him from the ground even covered in golden blood as he is—the training ground lying in destruction around them.
Guilt had flashed through those eyes, and if Phainon had the ears and tail of a chimera surely they would be sulking in sadness. So with a sigh had he reassured Phainon that it was alright, that he didn’t know, that the piece broken held little sentiment than being but a scrap picked from drifting through the river of souls. That perhaps it was better off broken anyways. But if Phainon so insisted to make up for its loss…
Taking Mydei’s hand, Phainon had promised with all his chest and shone like the sun itself. “I’ll make you a new one, I promise!”
A proclamation that would have garnered scandal for what it implied had any of the other Kremnoans heard. But Mydei found he did not mind at all… not when their bond may as well already be as such.
The order was most certainly out of place. Though, in a way, the battle for his hand may be sufficiently considered completed in those ten days and nights spent. There is no doubt in Phainon’s worthiness, this is undeniable.
The memory brings a faint smile to Mydei’s lips. Simpler times those had been, or at least as simple as times could get for those with golden blood flowing through their veins and the weight of Amphoreus’ prophecy bearing down upon their shoulders the moment that fateful star had crossed the skies and called their names.
A low moan slips past Mydei’s lips as Phainon’s hands massage his scalp, breath hitching as they work down the curve of his neck, over the line of his shoulders and pressing firmly into muscles tense from being broken and rebuilt over and over again. Oil lends smoothness to the slide of skin against skin, scent wrapping around him and urging him further into relaxation, bringing focus to nothing else but the world the two of them currently sit in—two yearning souls in a garden of meetings, of reunions, of love .
Maybe it is a blessing that Phainon cannot see Mydei’s face from the position they are in, for the redness of his cheeks could surely rival that of back then. A flame further fanned by the intimacy of the situation and the knowledge that whispers in the back of his mind of ancient Kremnoan tradition, and Mydei is thankful for the openness of the space that allows the chilling wind to wash over him and soothe his burning heart.
In a small mercy, Phainon says not a word in response to the sound he most definitely heard if the slight stutter in his movements was anything to go by, simply continuing his ministrations, working in familiar movements until Mydei’s body gives way to his touch. But keeping quiet has never truly been a trait of Phainon’s.
“This immortal body of yours sure is something, you’re giving my hands a workout here.” Phainon murmurs, voice rumbling in his chest and spreading through Mydei with how close they are. “Though it’s nice to see that you’re still the same after all this time.”
‘I've missed you’ hangs in the air, all too palpable.
And it is with a shuddering breath that Mydei dissipates it, wills it away even as he holds it all the more closer to his heart. To say it out loud would be to shatter the fine line they tread on. Bring cracks to the resolve they both hold so firmly. “Few things that can happen to me here. Whatever your foolish mind may be conjuring is not one of them.”
Mydei knows Phainon can see the darkened lines painted across his skin, the gold-filled cracks in his body that remain, the inevitable wear to his armour, and the second meaning of the statement is not lost on him as he brings an elbow back to meet Phainon’s abdomen.
The black tide will not claim him yet. Even if Mydei’s body may fail, his will will not. Not when he has fought his way out of Thanatos’ grasp time and time again for so many years.
Most importantly of all, he has a promise to fulfil .
“ Ow — What was that for?!” Phainon yelps, faltering.
“Stop thinking so much.”
“But— Ah —” Another jab, and Mydei resists the urge to level the other with a glare. Perhaps another spar while they can will do them both well, let off some steam and settle the Deliverer’s wandering thoughts.
“All this time and you are still the same. Spare your thoughts for during battle.”
Somewhere between it all, Phainon had come to hold Mydei in an awkward embrace, arms crossed over his chest and head resting on top of Mydei’s from how he had risen to his knees to avoid the ‘attack’. A pout rests upon those lips that speak however and whatever they like, far too endearingly so, and Mydei steels his resolve to not look back. Not even once. Even as his hand reaches upward to pat at the top of Phainon’s head.
“Now look what you’ve—” Phainon begins, almost a whine as his voice is muffled by Mydei’s hair. But then Mydei turns his head just the slightest bit, brow raised, and that is enough to ward him off from completing the sentence. “Alright, I get it.”
“Somehow I doubt you do.”
“Then I’ll prove it to you. After I’m done with your hair.” As if to emphasise his point, a hair cuff gleams under the cloudy light, held in Phainon’s hand oh so tenderly despite the tune of their banter just moments before.
A delicately carved blue gem sparkles at the centre of engraved gold, twisting patterns and ancient script daintily decorating the cuff. In the peaceful nature of the Garden of Life, well past the curtain-fall hour, had Phainon given him such a gift on what marked the second time.
With Kephale’s everlasting light as their witness, Phainon had revealed to Mydei the hair cuff kept in a box far too ornate for its purposes. Several other pieces of jewellery rest upon velvet, all bearing the same motifs, and Mydei’s traitorous heart skips a beat before he can remind himself once more that this is certainly just a gift.
Even if everything hints otherwise. Even if his heart wishes to acknowledge the greater meaning behind such a gift.
“I guess now’s as good a time as I'll ever get to give you this.” Phainon’s eyes had lit up as a smile, a true smile so rarely seen , took its place upon his lips. “Take this as my promise to you from back then fulfilled.”
As seemed to be a trend whenever he was in Phainon’s presence, Mydei had found himself speechless. Looking between the hair cuff and Phainon’s hopeful gaze as if it cannot be real.
But it is. And whatever way Mydei would have gotten out of the situation would most definitely lead to Phainon looking like a kicked chimera—a truly inappropriate sight considering how one of said creatures peered up curiously at the box from where it lay in Mydei’s lap.
Though it is not like Mydei would have ever said ‘no’ anyway.
So had Mydei accepted the hair cuff, the weight of it in his palm far heavier than it physically was, before handing it back to Phainon.
“Help me put it on?” The words were all it took for the partially withering Phainon to brighten up once more, rivalling even Kephale’s light as he placed the box to the side and took the final step closer to Mydei. His warmth burned, perfectly so, as he slot in place before Mydei.
With endearing focus, Phainon unravelled Mydei’s braid, taking a moment to comb through the strands. Tongue peeking through from lips reddened by pomegranate juice, each and every section had been tenderly neatened, brushed through, and parted once more into three neat sections. Over and over, those fingers worked, knuckles briefly brushing against the curve of Mydei’s cheekbone, his jaw, the side of his neck, as they followed the line of the braid down to where fiery red faded to gold.
And it is at this place, just by his collarbone, that Phainon slides the hair cuff in place—blue gem brilliantly shining in Kephale’s light, the claim standing out starkly against the red, not at all out of place if one would ask Mydei what he thought of it.
(As for the third time Phainon had laid a hand on his honour…)
Such is the very same way Phainon does Mydei’s hair once more, brushing the rest of Mydei’s hair over the opposite shoulder as an arm reaches over to weave the strands of what is to be his braid together. Hardly the most convenient position, but Mydei cannot quite find it in himself to complain as he rests in Phainon’s embrace, and for the briefest of moments it is like they are back there in the Garden of Life—two souls simply enjoying each other’s presence the most they can, raw and true.
Those hands that fight so valiantly now hold his hair like the finest, most precious silk; behold the flaming strands like a most precious treasure as they work down the length of them. Roughened knuckles dance across his skin, touch like a butterfly’s as they flit about to weave the braid with practiced grace despite the time that has passed.
For longer than necessary do they linger, every line of the braid brought slowly, preciously, without a care in the world as to time for they have more than enough in this moment alone. There is no need to rush. No desire to rush.
A moment savoured and stretched out for as long as they can until Phainon’s arm presses against the plane of his abdomen where it is wrapped around him to hold the end of the braid in place as he reaches for the hair cuff.
A long breath, smile pressed over the curve of his shoulder, and Phainon seals his work. Once again marking Mydei in a way only he will know.
“Done.” Lips press against his exposed nape as the cuff is set in place, its weight settling at the end of the braid now longer than before, and it is then that Mydei finally chooses to turn around properly.
Wide eyes like the crystal blue sky he has not seen for a while now meet his own as Mydei brings a hand upward to cup Phainon’s cheek, thumb tracing the line of his jaw just as Phainon had done his. Hand trailing down the line of Phainon’s neck, hovering over the golden sun there before trailing downward, palm held over Phainon’s chest at the spot where his heart thunders within his ribcage.
Just as then, as is now. And here, in Mydei’s homeland, within the very gardens he had tended to himself… their bond has been sealed once more.
Perhaps one day he will tell Phainon the significance of what he had done. Offer him in return a much grander gift as is deserving of his equal. Let his heart spill forth and set them both aflame.
But for now Mydei simply leans in, smiling in amusement at Phainon’s held breath, before finally allowing their lips to touch, a hand buried in Phainon’s hair when the other responds in turn, guiding the dance that is their kiss with a hunger that threatens to fray the final string of Mydei’s self control.
They kiss. A sweet, tender thing, withheld for far too long. A gentle gift and soothing exchange speaking without words. A promise that crosses languages and tradition.
When they finally part, neither look away. Sharing a smile that speaks more than words as their hands rest upon each other. And, just for a bit longer, they remain like that. Sitting in each other’s light until the heat fades.
“I… should get going.” Hesitation hangs heavy in Phainon’s voice when Mydei finishes the last of the pomegranate juice he had brought with him, lips tinted red. His head hands the slightest bit, shoulders slumped even as his hand continues to rest wrapped around Mydei’s waist, fingers pressing into firm muscle from his grasp and gloves lying abandoned by the side.
“ Phainon .” Mydei begins, because surely Phainon cannot mean to do such a thing. The call of the other’s name is enough to bring Phainon’s attention back once more, stilling as he waits for what Mydei will say next. “Stay. The curtain-fall hour has long passed, your return to Okhema can wait… can’t have this world’s Deliverer keeling over by the roadside before he can carry out his mission.”
This much is the truth. After all, the roads are most treacherous at the time before Zagreus’ thief star sails across the sky. Not that Mydei doubts Phainon’s strength.
“Do you have so little faith in me, Mydeimos?” Phainon asks anyway.
If I did not have faith in you… I would not bear your mark on me. Would not wear the jewellery you made for me with those hands of yours. Would have long since broken those hands of yours for stealing the very human heart still beating in my chest this very moment.
Foolish Deliverer, if I did not have faith in you… I would not have fallen in love.
“In your fashion sense? Yes. I cannot deny that you bear Mnestia’s curse for what fool thinks blue jewellery would match a predominantly red wardrobe.” Mydei says instead, finger curving beneath the leather band around Phainon’s neck.
A smirk, and Phainon leans into the sharp tip of a metal claw. “Says the one who clearly hasn’t taken off the jewellery I’d made myself.”
“It would be rude to deny a gift.”
“If you want me to stay then just say so.”
“...”
Mydei does no such thing. Instead, he takes a lone wildflower blooming most brilliantly—one of a vibrant red like the fabric of his royal garb—and places it in Phainon’s hair.
Gathering a few strands that brush against Phainon’s neck, Mydei works them over each other, weaving a fine braid as far as he can. Around it does he then wrap the wildflower’s stem around Phainon’s hair before securing the wildflower in place, its blazing red stark against the snowy backdrop.
For now, this will have to do.
- ✧ -
One’s hair is a sacred thing to the Kremnoan people, not to be carelessly touched under any circumstances by others. Like a lion’s mane shall it shine with glory; like a crown should it adorn one’s head. To allow another such an intimate act as to brush another’s hair is an act saved for one’s spouse.
… The jewellery worn by Kremnoans honours their ancestry, every golden piece passed down through the family. Unsurprisingly, the hairpiece, in particular, holds special meaning.
For when two souls seal the bond between them, seeking mnestia’s blessing, it is at this time wherein the pair exchange hairpieces of their own making. By this ceremony do they mark each other as equals , a word describing the closest bond one may have with another in the Kremnoan language .