Chapter Text
“Can you take me to your library again?”
“...my library has no locks. The key was placed in your hands the moment our promise was made.”
And thus they went.
After, of course, the fiery blush that had scorched its way across Phainon’s face, courtesy of Mydei’s open declaration and the half-triumphant, half-scandalized gasp from the Trailblazer, had finally cooled.
Mydei wasted no time in inviting Phainon to immediately visit the library. His partially concealed excitement stirred a warmth in Phainon’s heart. The machinations of physical travel across large distances within the Eternal Page are strange, but Mydei had led them forward with confidence. And that left Phainon with time to think.
Mercifully, Mydei had not interrogated the “again” in his request. Of course ‘he’, the Phainon of the thirty-three millionth, five hundred and fifty thousandth, three hundred and thirty-sixth recurrence, had never witnessed the grandeur of Mydei’s library. But when Phainon thinks of the concept of Mydei’s library, memories, at once his own and not his own, slip into his mind like shadows in twilight. Ash. Fire. Crumbling stone, burnt paper. More than once on their journey to the library, Phainon has to shake the phantoms of lives he both had and had not lived out of his mind. They’ve won. They have their peace. Mydei is safe, and he’s taking Phainon to visit his library. Phainon repeats the mantra in his head, over and over, losing track of their winding path through the memory mazes of the Eternal Page, until finally, Mydei turns a corner and….
Phainon sucks in a breath at the majesty before him.
The Grand Library of Garbaniphoro is easily one of the most impressive buildings Phainon has ever seen. Okhema is home to dozens of towering architectural marvels, of course, but something about the silhouette – a Kremnoan spire, militaristic in shape but bursting with a raw beauty – stirs awe in Phainon’s heart. It is regal, sharp angles of sunlit stone cutting against the clear sky. It fits the man walking beside Phainon.
“It’s so beautiful,” Phainon blurts out, unbidden.
Mydei chuckles. “And you’re not even inside yet.”
He is wearing his usual attire, but has forgone his armor, leaving it back at the Vortex. His arms are bare and his dark pants are a heavy contrast to his red and gold robe. It’s a little disarming, Phainon realizes, to see Mydei without his armor. To see him relaxed and at ease is certainly strange, but wonderful as well. To see him unarmored, unguarded is…a drop of dark ink on an empty canvas, sinking into the veins of the parchment. Phainon swallows and shakes away the memories of a shattered Dawnmaker in his hands. They’re safe. They’re safe….
They reach the doors, hewn of ebony dark wood and inlaid with gold filigree in the shape of the emblem of Castrum Kremnos. Mydei simply gestures towards the thick handles. Phainon feels a warmth bloom in his heart — there are, indeed, no locks — and then grasps the handles and pushes the grand doors apart. With only a mildly creaky protest, they swing open.
If the exterior of the library is an exemplary piece of imposing sculptural architecture, the interior is a masterwork of making the grand look intimate, like a warm home on a cold night. Phainon’s footsteps echo on the marble floor, inky dark with flecks of gold iridescence, as he walks inside. There is no foyer; grand bookcases flank the entry and cover every inch of the walls not occupied by ceiling-high stained glass windows. The light from outside, painted the colors of sunset by the glass, coats the room, casting the dark woods and countless books in a warm, amber hue. The smell of old books fills Phainon’s lungs. Pillars, draped in deep red silk, divide the room into quarters. At the far corners of the hall are arched entryways that must lead to even more rooms.
Phainon lets out a long whistle. It has to be one of the most beautiful places he has ever seen in his whole life.
Except…he’s seen it before, hasn’t he? Many times.
Faintly, like it was somehow far in the distance, Phainon hears a soft chuckle, the door closing behind him, and Mydei walking closer.
Those many times, he was always alone. All the times he had walked through those grand doors, it was always in mournful silence. Despite the city around it lying in ruins, the library was always in near-pristine condition, as if Mydei had been tending to it just days before. Days before he’d meet his inevitable end. He’d try, in vain, to read just one of the hundreds of works lining the shelves, only to see parchment shriveling and blackening through his ash-choked vision. He’d stand then, as still as stone, as fire claimed the last legacy of King Mydeimos.
Phainon’s breath starts to come faster and faster. The red fabric draped around the nearest pillar sways slightly in the breeze through an open window, and suddenly it is no longer luxurious silk but flames winding up the pillar. Fire crawls across the marble floor, up the bookcases, through each and every precious book. Flames that he had set. Accidentally, usually. Sometimes, on purpose, a pyre to his grief.
A grief so immense that it wells up within him again, crushing his lungs, his throat, his heart—
A pair of strong but gentle arms wraps around Phainon’s shoulders, and Phainon is powerless to stop the jolt that runs through him. Powerless to hold back a wet sob.
“Phainon?”
Mydei is in front of him at once, brow pinched in concern. The flames and smoke are gone.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon chokes out.
Mydei shakes his head. “Don’t, just tell me what’s wrong.”
But that is what’s wrong. It’s not just grief in his heart, it’s hatred, directed inwards, overflowing. A part of him, terrified of the spectre of his past, wants to run from the library. But Mydei’s grip on his arms is strong. Not painfully so. Just grounding. Mydei’s image blurs as tears well in his eyes.
“I…I’m sorry.” It’s all he can bear to say.
“Phainon,” Mydei urges. His eyes, concerned, scan over Phainon. “Are you hurt? What’s—”
The concern Mydei is showing, for him, is all too much. Phainon leans forward and buries his head on Mydei’s shoulder, hands curled in the front of his robe. He feels Mydei stiffen for a brief moment, before one hand lays across his shoulders and the other nestles in his hair. Those gentle hands rub slow, soothing patterns as Phainon cries his heart out onto Mydei’s shoulder. Uncontrollable tremors wrack him, but Mydei holds him tighter through it, steadying.
He cries until he runs out of tears. Only then, drained of energy but still so full of grief, does Phainon speak again. Raspy, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Mydei is quiet for a moment, a silence that stirs an old fear within Phainon, but soon enough Mydei whispers to him, “What are you sorry for?”
The question almost confuses him, at first. He’s never had to explain the pain before. The grief has remained unquestioned for so long. There was no one left to tell.
Until now. Until the final page, at long last, turned not to the beginning, but a new ending.
“I…” Phainon swallows thickly, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I burned this place. Your library. In every cycle.”
Somehow, Mydei’s hands do not stop their gentle circles. His embrace neither stiffens nor retreats, like Phainon is expecting.
It’s comforting enough that Phainon finds the strength to continue. “I’d…I’d kill you. And then come here. I’d try to read, to remember you, but the flames, my flames were too strong. Sometimes I’d start the fire on purpose. But it burned all the same. I killed you and burned your library…every…single…time.”
Mydei shifts his grip slightly, and Phainon feels the soft press of lips to his temple. The gentleness sends another tremor through Phainon.
When Mydei speaks, his voice is low and even. “This journey has given all of us wounds that will not heal easily by words or time. Nothing will change what has happened. But I will only ever tell you the truth. This library is still, and forever, open to you. And I forgive you.”
Forgiveness does not fit into Phainon’s mind. It cannot. Not for him. He wants to tell Mydei to take it back.
“How can you say that so easily?” Phainon asks instead.
“In the prison you had crafted for yourself…did you hear our words? Myself, Castorice, and Cipher?”
Phainon swallows around the lump in his throat. Yes, he had. He’d been so entwined with Irontomb by that point, black poison seeping through his very soul, that he could hear every creak and groan of the Scepter, every whisper from the army of ships arriving in the system.
He nods.
“Then you know that I would entrust my greatest weakness to you without hesitation. That is not something I say lightly, Phainon. Nothing will make me turn from you.”
Phainon feels a soft tug at the curve of his jaw. Mydei’s hand gently guides him to lean back, his shoulders and neck straightening, until he can see the warm amber of Mydei’s eyes. Mydei’s expression is serious and firm, in the way that Mydei so often just is, but there is a softness in his eyes, reflected in the tender slide of his fingers along Phainon’s jaw.
“I said I would show you this library, if there was a chance in the next life. We’ve been granted that chance. And wherever our paths lead now, I’d walk it with you. If you’d have me.”
The ache of grief still burns bright in Phainon’s chest. But Mydei’s words are a piercing shot through it. There are still millions and millions of years of pain and hurt weighing upon his soul. But Mydei’s warmth is a balm for it. The memories still claw at him, still whisper that he is still capable of all those terrible things. But…Mydei is here. They’ve made it this far.
Phainon leans into Mydei’s palm. “Always.”
“What do you need?” Mydei asks.
At that, Phainon leans forward into Mydei’s arms again. Not in grief, but in need. He curls into Mydei, head resting on his shoulder, arms slung around his shoulders and waist. He presses so close, it’s as if every part of him needs to be touching Mydei. “You,” Phainon answers. “Just you. Stay close to me. Please.”
Their slow shuffle across the main hall to a softly lit reading nook is nothing but awkward, and Phainon wouldn’t change it for the world. The entire time, Mydei never lets him go.
Unlike the main hall with its soaring, arched ceilings, the alcove’s ceiling is low, dark paneled wood giving the space an intimate air. Light filters in through a simple, circular window. A wide kline, draped in deep reds and golds, sits across from a marble fireplace, set into one of the few sections of wall without a bookshelf. With a snap of his fingers and a controlled flicker of lightning, Mydei has a fire blooming within the hearth, and at these flames, Phainon does not flinch.
They settle on the kline, still pressed together. Their legs are tangled, and Phainon can feel every breath Mydei takes, chest brushing against his own. One of Mydei’s arms is slung around Phainon’s waist, and the other rests at the nape of his neck, idly playing with the ends of his hair.
It brings to mind another memory. This time, a memory of a dream. A wish that had felt like a rebellion, for all its impossible nature. One Phainon long, long believed would never become real.
Phainon whispers, “I had dreamed about resting in your arms again…for so long.”
Mydei’s gaze softens even more at that. He leans in, crossing the tiny distance left between them, and captures Phainon’s lips in a kiss. Slow, and oh so sweet. As Mydei pulls back, Phainon’s breath leaves him in a contented sigh.
“We’re safe here,” Mydei murmurs. “You can rest.”
Phainon fights the call of sleep at first, however. He wants to watch the firelight paint the angles and curves of Mydei’s handsome face for hours. But, eventually, the warmth of the fire against his back and the warmth of Mydei against his front envelope him in an all too tempting haze of slumber. Phainon closes his eyes and lets the crackle of the fire and the steady thump of Mydei’s heartbeat carry him to sleep.