Archive of Our Own

Phainon had reacted on instinct. He was forged in the Wastes and later by Aglaea and by experience. When the enemy had gotten too close, he had swung his sword, and he cut away the part of the man’s plague doctor-like mask, beaked and harrowing.

Then he froze.

The man who stood in front of Phainon was too familiar.

Hair the shade of leaves in spring, blackened at the very tips, like winter was coming, still tied in a tail that laid over his shoulder. He wore dark colors, like usual, but his entire body was covered up, as if afraid to have even the slightest bit of skin seen, and his clothes were far more frayed than Phainon had ever seen them before, more like a bunch of ghostly rags. He wore armor, too - silver greaves that went up to his thighs, that ended in bird-like talons at his feet, his arms in matching, clawed gauntlets.

He was a professor, after all, not a warrior. Things caked in blood and dirt didn’t fit him.

They weren’t supposed to, at least.

His gun, so carefully taken care of over the years Phainon had known him, more teaching tool than weapon, was smoking from the shots he’d fired in Phainon’s direction. He remembered it being deep emerald and bright gold, but it had rusted over, painted sepia by time’s brush. The barrel was worn from use, steel scratched from battle.

Phainon had recognized him on sight, really, but he had denied it. He loved this man - even if Phainon could never lay a finger on him, even if he learned to suppress his feelings. He’d yearned for him and his affection for ten years and counting, and he could never mistake the shape of his soul for anyone else. His expressions, too, were burned into his memory, because he couldn’t ever look away from the professor’s face. His sharp nose, his hawkish eyes, thin lips; he’d complain about fools, but oh, how those features would soften with pride whenever Phainon answered a question correctly, how his voice would fill with endearment.

To think he hurt the man he loved with all of his might, was…

Even now, as they both stood still, staring at each other in a dazed shock, Phainon knew how warm he should feel if Phainon could just reach out and touch him, how his hands fit against his. Perfectly, like puzzle pieces.

He breathed. He swallowed a scream.

This wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Professor…?” Phainon said, and his heart sank, now finally realizing what this all meant.

Professor Anaxa, clad in similar garb to the Reaver, seemed to smile. Phainon had only managed to cut off a portion of his mask - enough to show one of his eyes and half of his mouth, and the cracks snaking across his skin like he was broken porcelain. He looked proud, in a way, and almost apologetic.

“Good work,” he said, and his voice was terribly hoarse, as if he’d been breathing in nothing but fumes for years. “I should’ve known I’d be no match for you, Phainon. You were always rather clever in combat.”

Stop.

Stop, Phainon begged. Don’t say such things. Not when wearing that, not when holding the Coreflame of Reason in your other hand, not with that sorrow, shame, regret in your eyes.

Things weren’t supposed to be like this.

Another shot from a gun - the bullet flew past him - this one came from behind Phainon-

“Phainon, get out of the way,” Professor Anaxa said, his Anaxa, the one he loved- one he could never touch-

Reaver Anaxa dropped the Coreflame - the professor had blasted off a finger. Yet his expression grew fonder, as if his counterpart had answered a question. “Ah. I should’ve expected you to be here.” He turned to Phainon. “That’s good to see… You’re not alone.”

Phainon shivered.

Reaver Anaxa raised his bleeding hand. There was a golden string of Mnestia tied to his ring finger, wrapped around it like a wedding band. “Fortunately,” he said, “neither am I.”

He pulled it taut with his teeth.

A sudden gust of wind.

“Phainon! Behind you!” Professor Anaxa shouted, leading his rifle-

Phainon raised his blade just in time, when the Flame Reaver, a large, ghostly apparition with the strength of an army, slammed him with his sword.

He went flying, and landed roughly right before his professor. Anaxa knelt down before him, his gun still aimed at the Coreflame stealing pair, “Phainon, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Phainon said, he wasn’t, but his body was. He could still fight.

He got up, and stared at the two in the distance.

It was a mirror image.

The Reaver - it was him, it could be no one but Phainon from another time, another world, another try, who would hover around his beloved so protectively, holding him against his chest, hunched over and growling, a dog with his favorite owner. Anaxa, clad in black, held his hand. A golden string connected their two fingers.

Phainon felt an intense surge of jealousy. Disgusted at himself, he looked away. They were fighting for Coreflames, yet all he could think about was how this other form of himself could hold his Anaxa all he wanted, yet he couldn’t lay a finger on his professor.

The Reaver scholar stared at the fallen Deliverer, before his eyes (eye, if he was still missing on in this form) went to the Coreflame that laid right between the two versions of Reason and Worldbearing.

Professor Anaxa did not move an inch. He stared down the other version of himself, as if daring him to go for it.

The Reaver swordsman nuzzled his Anaxa with deep affection. Even with his voice transformed, now that Phainon knew who he had to be, he could recognize his own inflection.

“Anaxa, dearest,” he said, and Phainon felt another pinprick of rage, “Reinforcements incoming.”

His Anaxa answered, “We can take the Coreflame and leave before they arrive.”

“Too risky. You’re already hurt.”

“Hmph.” His Anaxa let out a sigh. “One would think you care about me more than the Coreflames.”

The Reaver didn’t respond, only held him tightly. He grabbed his cape, and drew it over his Anaxa and himself with one smooth motion.

And they were both gone, shadows in the wind.

Professor Anaxa held his guard for a long moment, surveying the area, before he let out a held breath. He walked forward and picked up the Coreflame of Reason.

“Phainon,” He started, a tad hesitant, before the reinforcements arrived - Castorice, and the Trailblazer, and Trianne - and they both lost their chance to speak, swept up in questioning.

Phainon wouldn’t stop fretting over his lost finger.

“It’s fine,” Anaxa said, ripping off a part of his black cloth to stem the golden bleeding. “I can replace it.”

“But, Anaxa…” Phainon whined through his steel mask, holding him tightly and still nuzzling him. His embrace was the warmest place in the dungeon that was their home. Tools and furs were haphazardly strewn about, with makeshift furniture, built by hand, making even a former prison feel lived in and welcoming. Upon the table was a cup of tea, flavored to Anaxa’s preferences.

Phainon tried to speak, as Anaxa relaxed and laid against his chest, deeply satisfied, like a cat who found a sunbeam. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve-”

Anaxa took off Phainon’s mask, suddenly. His face was scarred, white as chalk, the cracks matching Anaxa’s own breaking body. But his eyes still held love and care, and Anaxa kissed his husband, the one he swore to die with. They would be buried together, in the end.

The golden thread shone brilliantly in the dark, tying them together.

“I shouldn’t have gone ahead.” Anaxa said, gently caressing his cheek. “Forgive me. I was impatient.”

Phainon kissed him back, with the passion of a thousand suns. “No, no, there’s nothing to forgive, I love you, I was…”

Anaxa laughed brightly. “I love you too. But nothing to forgive, I see. I’ll continue to be reckless, then?”

“I-” Phainon held him tighter, burying his face in his shoulder. “Please be careful.”

“Mm.” Anaxa hummed, inspecting a large piece of sun-dried clay that fell from his husband. “I should be saying that. You’ve lost a few more pieces today. Remember not to push yourself.”

“It’s okay, I don’t-“

Anaxa looked at him, eyes sharp as knives, daring him to finish his sentence.

“I…” Phainon looked away, shyly pleased at how much his professor loved him, reminding him how much he cared for him. “I matter. Right. I’ll be careful.”

“Please.” Anaxa said, and he kissed him on the forehead, before getting up. “Come on, then. I’ll put you back together, and you’ll help me with the prosthetic. Fingers are difficult to make when you’re missing one of them.”

Mydeimos had ripped off one of his feet in a previous cycle, and fixing that wasn’t too difficult, since he had Phainon to keep him steady on the chair as he installed its replacement, but damn his own good aim - losing an index finger was an inconvenience.

But it wasn’t the ring, so it was fine.

“Of course, love. Anything you need,” Phainon followed, holding onto his hand as they both went into the workshop.

They were together in this grim mission, at least. That was all they could ask for.

Anaxa had been pacing about the Chrysos Heir neighborhood for about an hour. He’d meant to speak to Phainon as early as possible - but between speaking to the families of the bereaved, and dealing with politics, and trying to put his thoughts into proper order considering the mountain of implications he had to sift through - he’d lost track of time, and had put off their meeting for days.

Even now, as he saw Phainon’s home (small, austere and simple) within walking distance, he couldn’t think of what exactly to say.

Himself, as a Coreflame stealer.

Anaxa could see himself as that, if pushed to the very brink. He could imagine how painful the decision must’ve been, and the wear and tear on his being told him that he’d been at this for a long, long time.

His other self had no illusions. He was ready to fight destiny until he expired.

But it was that golden string that Anaxa had been hung up on - and he had no doubt that Phainon couldn’t keep his mind off it either.

Since Phainon was avoiding him.

Well, they were both avoiding each other, but Phainon had started it - after questioning, he told Anaxa to rest, and he had practically vanished into thin air - even though when he and Anaxa used to meet after months long semester breaks, before Phainon’s graduation from the Grove years ago, he couldn’t keep his hands off of him, teasing him, asking him if Anaxa had missed him. 

Anaxa had missed the affection. Phainon had missed giving it, evidently.

And now they couldn’t even speak.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Lost in thought, are you?” said a calm, female voice, cutting into his thoughts and his mood like a knife. Anaxa turned to Aglaea and glared.

Lady Aglaea, Demigod of Romance, clad in white with trappings of gold, did not meet his gaze. Though, since she could feel the emotions of everyone around her threads, she allowed herself a small little smirk at Anaxa’s expense. The Garmentmaker to the side of her held something within its hand.

“What do you want?” Anaxa said, and Aglaea’s face turned deeply neutral again.

“Phainon won’t speak to me.”

“I see. I might as well do the same.” Anaxa said, and he turned on his heel. He’ll talk to Phainon tomorrow morning-

“He keeps muttering about a golden thread.” Aglaea said, a small concession. “Might you know something about this?”

Anaxa stared at her. What was she playing at?

“A reminder that I care little for your personal business.” Aglaea said, and Anaxa took a distinct look at the threads that spidered across every inch of Okhema. She ignored his jab (though her tone was noticeably annoyed) and continued. “What I do care about, however, is Phainon’s capability to fight. He was torn up after returning from the Grove years ago - I assume you were the one who broke his heart. There’s no one else he cares about as much as you, after all.” Not letting Anaxa react to her statements, Aglaea kept speaking. “And now he's in a similarly abysmal mood, just like back then. What am I supposed to think happened?”

Anaxa clicked his tongue. He hadn’t expected things to spiral so. “I hear a lot of assumptions.”

“Yet I don’t hear a clear denial.” Aglaea said. She snapped her fingers, and the Garmentmaker offered Anaxa a spindle of golden thread, the kind spun at weddings, tying a groom and bride together for eternity. “You should clean up your own messes. Please have him be ready to defend the Coreflames in case of an attack, since there’s a thief roaming about.”

Anaxa took it, and Aglaea did not grace him with a goodbye, letting her steps do the talking instead.

He hated how he agreed with her. He should clean up his own mess.

The spindle radiated with divinities, and he grimaced.

“There are two,” Anaxa said, after a moment, and Aglaea stopped in place. “There were two thieves.”

A small concession, for a small concession. Now they were even.

Aglaea then continued walking, as Anaxa turned his way to Phainon’s home, thread in tow.

Phainon stared at the ceiling. He knew there were things to be done, and yet he couldn’t force himself to move.

They were married. He and Anaxa were married.

And they were after the Coreflames.

One was surely, surely much more important than the other, but he couldn’t get his mind off that golden thread that bound their ring fingers.

It wasn’t supposed to be magical in nature, and it wasn’t for most - but sometimes, the Mnestian thread tied together a pair of souls so tightly as to be inseparable. Across time and space, and countless eons, if it was true love.

It was just a fairytale - that thread would survive beyond even death, even across the River of Souls. And in your next life, when you inevitably find each other in new forms, even though you were strangers here, you would fall in love, and things would be just like they were before.

A memory. Anaxa looking at the marriage thread he offered on the eve of his graduation.

His sad, sad smile, and the shake of his head.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Phainon felt a tear fall down his cheek. He was supposed to be over him. Over what could’ve been. Aglaea had comforted him, even if she hated his choice of a partner, saying that perhaps, it just wasn’t meant to be.

But the thread. It was so brilliantly gold. What else could that possibly mean? Weren't they perfect together? Soulmates, in every way, shape and form? Didn't they complete each other?

And yet, Anaxa, he…

A knock on the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Phainon said, and he hadn’t realized how tired his voice sounded, how awful he looked. He opened the door. “Hi, did you need…”

It was Professor Anaxa. He looked worried.

“Something…?” Phainon continued, and his voice turned breathless, when he saw the golden thread in his hands.

His first instinct was to slam the door. He was not ready to see-

Anaxa blocked it with a leg and an arm. “I know you rather well, still, it seems,” he said, though it took him a lot of effort to keep the door open, since Phainon was double his weight and bigger in frame. “I knew you’d try to run.”

Phainon suddenly remembered that Reaver form of him, bleeding, finger blasted off by his own self, and froze.

He hurt Anaxa once already.

Phainon backed off.

“Am I allowed in,” Anaxa said, and the golden thread in his hand remained pristine. “Or should I pester you tomorrow?”

“And,” Phainon said, tentatively, “If I don’t let you in tomorrow…?”

“I’ll come the day after.”

“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me outside of a professional context?” Phainon said, repeating what he’d been told, a long time ago.

“Is that what I said?” Anaxa said, as if trying to hit himself a few years back in the past. “…I only make trouble for myself.”

“What is this about, professor?” Phainon snapped, and he was surprised at how cold he sounded. He didn’t know he could talk like that to the man he loved the most in the world. Anaxa too, stared at him like he got slapped.

Shit. Shit, calibrate, Phainon. Don’t scare him, not when he came all this way.

With a golden thread in his hand.

Keep your expectations low.

He rejected you once before.

Anaxa looked at the floor, uneasy.

“I, um.” Phainon fumbled. “Come in. You should sit down.”

“Right.” Anaxa said, quietly, and he followed him inside, sitting down at a small dinner table with only two chairs. He looked around Phainon’s home, and he had no doubt Anaxa was gaping at how empty the place was. There was a trophy case, filled up, high on a shelf, and other than that, there was no signs of life. Like no one lived here at all. Furniture dusted over.

If Anaxa asked, “what did you do after you graduated?”

Phainon could only say, “Mourn.”

No sign of life, except that blue dromas plush next to the trophies that Anaxa gave him after a debate. Phainon kicked himself in spirit - he should’ve hid that thing years ago.

But it made him think of Anaxa and it gave him too much joy whenever he looked at it, with its little sun mark and blue cape that resembled his, even when it hurt.

Phainon placed a pot in the middle of the table, and placed a cup each before himself and the professor.

Anaxa thanked him, before taking a sip, and he froze in place. “Black tea,” he said, voice lilting upwards at the end like a question. “You remembered.”

“With bergamot, and a teaspoon of honey.” Phainon answered, as he sat down. Neither of them looked at each other.

They both stared at the dromas plushie instead, as if anointing it the judge of their relationship. It only kept smiling in a dopey way, unaware of how much it meant to the two of them.

Anaxa breathed. He’d finished his entire tea, and Phainon refilled it without asking, just on instinct, like he used to back at the Grove. It seemed that their bodies had fallen back to their routine, even when their minds were warring. “Thank you,” he said again, and speaking just one word seemed to give him a bit of courage. “About… what happened back at the Grove.”

“You might have to be a little more specific,” Phainon said, and he wanted to slap himself again. His tone was bitter and mocking. What the hell are you doing, when you love him so much? “When at the Grove?”

Maybe he was like this because he did love him, uncontrollably so.

Enough to drag him down to the ends of hell itself, as a Coreflame stealer.

Drag, he’d said. As if Phainon could ever force his professor to do anything. Then, wouldn’t that mean Anaxa loved that version of him just as much? Enough to jump after him into the abyss, willingly?

But what does this one feel about me? That’s the important part.

With the way you are, how is he supposed to feel about you? You look like you want him to go away as soon as possible.

Phainon swallowed thickly.

But if he got up and tried to leave, you’d chase after him.

Look at him.

Anaxa was hunched over his cup of tea, as if making himself smaller, looking down at his reflection within it, shame on his face.

You both know that. That’s why he’s still here.

“I know you rather well, still, it seems,” he’d said, when he first came here.

With a golden thread in his hands, that he was holding onto for dear life under the table.

Just like when Phainon had proposed to him, all those years ago.

Don’t hurt him, said a voice, deep within his soul. He’s your beloved.

Phainon sighed, and then he got up, and dragged his chair so he sat to the side of Anaxa instead, so there was nothing between them, too close to hide anything. The professor stared at him, eyes wide.

Still cute, Phainon thought, fondly. “What did you…” he made sure his voice came out gently. “What did you want to talk about?”

“When I rejected you,” Anaxa started, and that statement hit him like a brick through a window, but he managed not to interrupt him. “That… wasn’t your fault.”

Hope not! Phainon screamed inside, but then that same, deep part of his soul forced him to relax, an angel on his shoulder. His professor was a deeply earnest person, sweet and kind, but rather clumsy when it came to feelings. Let him find his footing before you pull the rug out from under him.

“I was…” Anaxa took the cup into his hand, as if the warmth would help him think. Or perhaps it was the smell that he was looking for. “I was a coward. Forgive me, Phainon. I was scared - that I would… distract you.”

“Distract me?”

“You are the Deliverer.” In this world, at least. Right now. “And while I am the one chosen to inherit Reason, I still disagree with the Flamechase on principle. I didn’t want you to be torn between your duties - to be forced to choose between me and destiny.”

The Coreflame stealers, Phainon and Anaxa, so deeply in love, lying in each other’s embrace. Could you imagine? Spitting upon destiny’s face, just like that?

Together till the end of time, and even after?

“I… I didn’t want to hurt you.” Anaxa said, painfully. “But I… in a vain attempt to make you give up on me, I… said awful things I did not mean.” I wish to keep our relationship strictly professional. Now that we are no longer mentor and student, we can only be Reason and Worldbearing. Nothing more than that. “You are brilliant, Phainon. My greatest student, even now, looking at you fills me with pride.”

“Why didn’t you just…” Phainon trailed off.

“No one had ever gotten so close to me, before. I had never allowed it. No one had ever tried. But you -” Anaxa let out a frustrated noise, as if mad at how ineloquent he was being, “You slipped past my defenses so easily. You could read my expressions, you teased me without angering me, you knew me too well. Being with you was… dare I say, fun. I trusted you. I still do…”

“I trust you with this.” Anaxa offered him the spindle of golden thread, flustered and red. "And if... if you don't want it back, then... I would understand."

Carefully, Phainon took it out of his hands, and inspected it. Only then he realized that this spindle was older, and a little more worn than most. The wood of the spike was made from the trees back in the Grove of Epiphany, being a deep, dark shade of brown, radiating with a slight divine power from Cerces.

Phainon had begged Aglaea for this. She had given him the golden, Mnestian thread, wrapped tightly around a spindle made of normal, pale Okheman wood. “Go and pray before the Titan of Reason, then,” she said, “If they approve of this union, so will I.”

And when Phainon had prayed before the throne, he had heard an amused little chuckle, and the spindle had transformed.

And then Anaxa had turned away from it.

Phainon had returned the spindle to Aglaea in tears. “I’m sorry,” he’d said, “He said no.”

Professor Anaxa gently wiped away a tear from Phainon’s cheek. “Forgive me,” he said again, a whisper. “I hurt you because of my own cowardice. Forgive me.”

“Why now?” Phainon said, and he hated how he just started to sob. “Is it because you saw them? You needed proof that we could be happy together, my word wasn’t good enough?”

Anaxa panicked, and he came closer, brushing away Phainon’s tears off his face with both hands. “I’m sorry. I overthought things, when I should’ve simply accepted your feelings and mine. Our desire was mutual, and yet I still ran, terrified of the unknown. This is all my fault, Phainon, hate me if you wish-”

“How could I…” Phainon cried, his hand over Anaxa’s, “How could I ever hate you, professor? I just love you so much. I still do. I want to take care of you, but you keep pushing me away, and-”

“I know,” Anaxa said, choking up, as he held Phainon against his chest. “I know. I won’t push you away anymore.”

“I never got over it.” Phainon said. “I kept thinking about what I did wrong. Because…”

Because we were in love, weren't we? I didn't hallucinate the last ten years of our relationship, right? But you turned away, and-

“You did nothing wrong, Phainon, nothing at all.”

“If only you’d said something…”

“I should have. I’m sorry.” Anaxa leaned down and kissed Phainon on the forehead, and smiled. “Could you ever forgive me? Do… Do you still want me? Could you still take me as your bride, when I’m like this? I will hurt you again. I know it. By being reckless, by being careless with my words, by ignoring you, by prioritizing my own pride over your heart. Frankly, I... I don't know why you like me the way you do. I see nothing worth so much care, when I look in the mirror.”

“Professor - I knew-” Phainon kissed him lightly on the lips, in between desperate sentences, “I know you, professor. I knew what I was getting into when I proposed, of course I still want you. I want you so badly I could die.”

Anaxa chuckled, softly. “Try to survive till our wedding, at least.”

Phainon laughed, and he took the spindle of golden thread. Anaxa offered his ring finger, still red and flustered, and Phainon wrapped a couple rings of gold around it until it solidified into a wedding band of perfect size.

Anaxa did the same, until Phainon got a matching band of his own.

There was a magical thread, connecting the two rings, and it shined brilliantly. Anaxa flushed and looked away, electing to drink his tea rather than commenting on it. Phainon kissed him on the cheek, and he put the Cerces-blessed spindle next to the dromas plush on the shelf.

“When should we marry?” Phainon said, “Tomorrow?”

Anaxa choked on his tea, and coughed. “That fast-?”

“I’ve been waiting ten years, professor,” Phainon whined. He could act a little spoiled with his beloved. “If I could, I’d marry you right now, but I’m pretty sure Dan Heng and Caelus are asleep.”

“Ah, your new friends?” Anaxa said. Phainon remembered that, right, Anaxa probably hasn’t spoken with them at length yet. “And besides, wouldn’t organizing a wedding take a while?”

“Professor,” Phainon smiled brightly. He spoke with the tone of a man with a hammer, his title being something he could slam plenty of nails with. “I’m the Deliverer. And I know Aglaea. We can get married tomorrow. It’s not like you’d want a big one, right? I know you.”

Anaxa took another sip and did not answer.

“We’ll have food and water and enough cake for maybe ten people tops. Ceremony that goes on for an hour. Nothing fancy, just the way you’d like it.”

Anaxa blushed harder. His professor was probably feeling rather raw and exposed.

He saw a little opportunity to tease.

Phainon walked back towards his professor, and he leaned down, as if pinning him to the chair. “After that,” he purred, predator-like, “we can consummate our marriage.”

Anaxa gulped, and when Phainon tried to back away, he said, “I…” his voice was a little quiet, and shy. “Right. We should wait until… our wedding night.”

Phainon flushed hard at that.

Did he… want to do it right now?

Anaxa suddenly got up. They almost hit each other in embarrassment, but Phainon managed to react in time to give him some space. He thanked him for the tea, and started heading out the door.

Running. He was running for the door.

Phainon froze for too long to catch him, so he just shouted, “Meet me at the plaza at ten tomorrow? We can submit the paperwork at the hall, and then we’ll get married at noon!”

He was pretty sure his professor gave him an “mmhm,” and not much else, before slamming the door.

Phainon picked up his teleslate, and he wrote to Aglaea. “He said yes.”

Garmentmaker typed quickly. Aglaea was probably too busy with paperwork to write out her own messages. “Finally. I booked a hall and ordered a cake this morning. Will the wedding be tomorrow?”

“At noon?”

“I see.” After a pause, another message came. “Congratulations.”

And then another one, as if Aglaea had to think for a moment. “Your bride dislikes me. Am I invited to the wedding?”

Phainon smiled at his teleslate, and wrote, “I’ll send you a slice of cake?”

He could imagine her sigh. “I suppose that will have to do.”

He was getting married to Anaxa tomorrow.

Phainon felt his beloved stir in his embrace, as they slept in their hand-made bed. “Phainon,” Anaxa mumbled, sleepily. “I can’t rest when you keep marking my neck…”

“Forgive me, love,” Phainon said, leaving another hickey. “I can’t hold myself back. You’re too pretty.”

Anaxa, his entire body littered with cracks like a fallen, marble statue, his right foot and his entire left leg replaced by prosthetics, along with a newly made finger, smiled at him. “Even when I’m like this?”

“You’re gorgeous in every form, beloved.”

Anaxa chuckled, breathlessly. “And you’re very eager. Are you still not satisfied?”

Phainon laid him upon the sheets, and kissed up his chest, leaving scorching marks that stung, but not hurt. “It’s not enough…”

“So insatiable.” Anaxa said, heat-laden. “We’ve been together for so long, and still you take me every night, like we’re newlyweds.”

Phainon nuzzled his neck, letting out a pleased rumble, and Anaxa pulled him up, making sure his husband slid in between his legs, and kissed him deeply. Still so warm, so hot to the touch. Anaxa couldn’t get enough of him either. Not in this life, or the next.

“Well?” Anaxa said, with a grin. They were already naked, after all. “Go on. I’m all yours.”

Phainon purred, and he made him his, again.

The golden thread gleamed, tying them together, never to be separated.