Work Text:
“That’s enough,” Mydei declared and ripped Dawnmaker free from Phainon’s hold. The greatsword clattered into the dirt of Okhema’s private training grounds with a heavy thud that had dust mushrooming in a cloud around their knees. “There is little point in sparring when your attention is elsewhere.”
Staring at his fallen sword and the way light refracted off the blade, Phainon’s stare was wide-eyed and unfocused. Not in horror but in disconnect. As if struggling to figure out when his grip had loosened enough for the weapon to leave it or how, exactly, Mydei had managed to disarm him.
His eyes flicked from the ground to Mydei’s crossed arms. One finger curled, pressed into his arm the way it always did when the Kremnoan was beginning to lose his patience. At least he wasn’t tapping yet. That typically meant he’d lost his patience entirely. “What?”
“You’ve been distracted since you arrived.” The tone was one of exasperation and annoyance. “Not only did you skip your stretches but you’ve been ignoring openings too. This entire spar you were on the defensive. Why?”
This was enough for Phainon to drag his gaze up the rest of the way.
Mydei’s scowl met him, unrelenting.
Except, maybe it wasn’t just a scowl. There were flickers of something else behind his eyes. Combined with the crease in his right brow, and the thin press of his lips, he’d even dare to say that he was concerned.
Trust Mydei to figure out that something was wrong not from the force of Phainon’s smile, or the dimming of his eyes, but rather in the strikes of his sword. Or, well, in the lack of them.
“I’m not that distracted,” he said, trying for his best smile. It was a wavering thing, unable to bear the weight of Mydei’s unimpressed stare. “Really, I’m fine.”
“Fine,” Mydei repeated and intentionally tilted his chin to look - quite theatrically - at where Dawnmaker now lay, unclaimed in the dust.
Any other day, Phainon would’ve applauded him for the timing of such body language, in the excellent use of it. Today, he simply crouched down and retrieved Dawnmaker. The hilt was cold in his hand. The sword itself felt heavier than it had ever been. Maybe it was the weight of what it signified. Or maybe it was just him that was different. Who was heavier than usual.
In mind. In body. In…
“Absolutely fine,” he said, forcing a bit more pep and cheer into his voice. “It’s nothing. You’re simply on the top of your game today, my friend.”
Phainon stood. He smiled.
And proceeded to convince Mydei of absolutely nothing. “Try again.”
“Try… again?”
“Your lies are usually better than this, Deliverer.” The words weren’t said with malice and yet Phainon jerked back regardless, smile dropping in favour of a wince. “So try again.”
Phainon opened his mouth. He wavered. And then, for lack of any quick response, he closed it again.
All the while Mydei stood in silence, watching him. Patient and waiting. When Phainon met his eye, he simply raised an eyebrow as if to ask, ‘Well?’
Disbelief wracked through his core. It was hard to know whether to be offended or not at how easily he’d been read. “Am I truly that obvious?”
“Yes,” Mydei said.
Hm. That was no good. Best to try and salvage what he could from the situation and lean into avoidance.
He flashed another smile, this one so forceful it was blinding and, with a chuckle that sunk low in his stomach, he asked, “Would you be willing to ignore the distraction and pretend it’s nonexistence?”
“No.”
…Of course he wasn’t.
Mydei wasn’t exactly someone who ignored his problems. That was one of the many interesting things about him, after all. The way he always faced his issues head on, unwavering and resolute. It was admirable, actually. Just not when said resolution expected the same from him.
Sighing, Phainon sheathed Dawnmaker. It was clear that their competition was no longer a work in progress. The spar had ended with little hope of revival and Phainon had not just lost physically but now, with an impending discussion on the horizon, he was faced with an emotional loss as well.
“It’s nothing, really,” he lied, shrugging. “Just—”
The ground was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. The odd ant scuttling to and fro. A fallen piece of lint from someone’s clothes. His boots, in desperate need of polish.
He didn’t want to say it, but there was no other way, so Phainon said, “It’s Cyrene’s birthday. Or, well, it would’ve been. If she hadn’t—”
If she hadn’t been stabbed through the chest by the Flame Reaver's sword and left, motionless, in a pool of the very blood she’d spent her final moments choking on.
“Cyrene…” Mydei repeats, slowly, as if trying to place the name. It was difficult to blame him for not immediately recognising it - it wasn’t often that Phainon brought her up. In fact, it was rare if he brought up anything regarding Aedes Elysiae. “Your… childhood friend?”
“She would’ve turned thirty today,” Phainon nodded, because somehow, saying ‘yes’ was harder. “If she’d—”
He cut himself off. Shrugged.
Sighed.
“Well,” he murmured. “You know. If she were still around.”
It had been over a decade since Cyrene’s death and yet his grief felt just as fresh as the day it had happened. Maybe it was because he’d spent so long trying not to think of what happened that day, or maybe the wound would’ve always festered regardless. He’d simply grown used to pushing the memories away each time the fondness began to transform into a bone deep ache.
That morning, when Phainon had pulled himself out of bed, he’d been reminded of the morning when Cyrene — on her final birthday, turning seventeen — had woken him by stealing his blankets and declared that he, two years her junior, was still naive to the ways of the world.
Naive, of course, because he’d thought he’d been successful in planning a surprise birthday feast without Cyrene ever catching on.
With this memory in his head, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the reminder had sunk deep into his ribs. Because yes, Phainon had been naive. Not because he’d tried to plan a party behind Cyrene’s back but rather because he’d assumed that the following year, on her next birthday, he’d manage a successful party that she’d know nothing about.
Now, Phainon was twenty-eight and Cyrene should have been thirty but she was not because she would forever be stuck at seventeen.
And the grief was not simply that of acknowledging that he was now older than her. If it had simply been that, perhaps Phainon would have been able to move on with his day, sad but no more than usual. Instead, the day seemed to be coloured with it. It had accumulated in all the tiny moments that they had never gotten to share.
Most were easy to shake off.
But not all.
He was still unable to stop thinking of the walk towards the training grounds when, strolling through the Marmoreal Market, his gaze had fallen upon a stall selling various party decorations, attention stolen by soft pink bunting and silver thread. It had reminded him so much of Cyrene that he could hear her laugh on the wind and he’d been halfway to buying it before remembering that she was not around to see them.
“Come with me,” Mydei said, tearing him from his grief, and his thoughts of the little paper flags that he’d wanted to purchase but hadn’t.
There was no reason not to follow, so Phainon did.
Mydei directed them to the edge of the training grounds, to the benches where students and warriors alike settled to watch spars and briefs on daily training routines could be issued. Sparsely filled, a small group of soldiers took up one of the benches, maintaining their weapons following a fight, but that was all. Late in the day as it was, most had left training behind for a chance at relaxation.
They made their way to one of the benches far enough from the soldiers and sat, staring out at the now empty grounds. It was always sort of lonely, how empty it became by the end of the Action hour.
After they had settled, Mydei said, “Cyrene. What was she like?”
Of all the things he’d expected to be asked, this hadn’t been high on his list. Though, honestly speaking, Phainon should have expected it.
He tilted his head and sighed. “I don’t really remember. Playful, I guess? Everyone always called me the troublemaker but Cyrene was always the one cheering me on and daring me to do things.”
Mydei looked at him from the corner of the eye. “I hadn’t thought you were the type who would ever need prompting.”
“Hah.” The laugh that bubbled from his lips was a dry and somewhat bitter sound. “You and half of Aedes Elysiae. Which… halfway true. But Cyrene, she found it fun to get me into even more trouble. She was real devious like that. Found it funny to get us into situations and then point a finger at me and say ‘Khas pulled me into his shenanigans again’. And you couldn’t really be mad at her for it, because most of the time it was funny. And the punishment didn’t really matter.”
Mydei had straightened at his words, but settled on listening. The lack of any comment had Phainon’s lips curling with the bud of a smile. Nowhere near blooming, but it was there. Equal parts nostalgic and grieving.
“Like… one year,” Phainon continued, “when I was fourteen we had the heist.”
“The heist?”
“A heist to steal back Cyrene’s confiscated divination cards from Miss Pythias.” He paused. “Miss Pythias was our teacher. I don’t exactly remember what we’d done to get them taken away. Probably distracted our classmates with readings to get us through our exams instead of studying like good students were meant to, or something like that.”
Mydei snorted.
“Either way, they were confiscated. The why doesn’t matter.” And yet, a part of him felt grief at not remembering. At being unable to turn to his friend and double check. “What matters is how we snuck out halfway into the Parting hour, using our blankets as capes and broke into the school in an attempt to steal the cards back.”
They’d not had an easy entryway into the school.
In the absence of a key to the main doors, they’d climbed in through one of the windows in the back classroom. Or rather, Cyrene had climbed through one. Phainon had caught his foot on the frame, fallen in and proceeded to bring the entire frame crashing down with him.
The window had shattered as if it had been waiting since its very creation to ruin their attempt at stealth.
And very suddenly, their heist had transformed into a jailbreak from the school.
It should’ve been an easy task, considering how the school was made up of two classrooms, a storage cupboard and the playground. And yet, by the time they’d managed to climb back out of the window, they’d already been surrounded by alarmed neighbours and one very irate Miss Pythias.
“After the initial scolding, it was actually pretty funny,” Phainon admitted. “Cyrene got so mad about it. Used to have this thing when she got mad where she’d puff out her cheeks and pout like a chipmunk. All she did for hour was whine. ‘You promised you wouldn’t break the window, Khas’ she said, as if she’d seen it coming. ‘You promised we’d get my cards back and instead you broke. The. Window.’”
Mydei simply looked at him and raised a brow, the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips.
They continued.
At least a quint passed. Phainon offered half-forgotten stories of his best friend and pseudo-sister, of the quiet life he had once lived back before Aedes Elysiae had burned. Through it all, Mydei sat beside him, quietly listening, taking it all in.
Eventually though, they lapsed into silence.
A comfortable one filled with little expectations. It was an easy thing, sitting in silence beside Mydei. While Phainon enjoyed filling it with words there was never a need to.
It was nice.
Comforting.
The closest feeling that came to ‘home’ that he’d experienced in a long time.
And then Mydei had to go and break it by asking, “Khas?”
Phainon jolted.
His childhood nickname felt like a burn from Mydei’s lips. Natural as it sounded, it had still been years since he’d heard it spoken from anyone outside of his memories.
“Huh?”
“You keep referring to that name,” Mydei said. “Khas.”
Phainon fell quiet. He wrung his hands, fidgeted, and generally found himself wanting to disappear into nothingness.
He knew, of course, that if he made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, then Mydei would not press him. All he needed to do was shake his head and he’d be given ample space to squirm away from this question and pretend it had never been asked.
Mydei knew when to stop pushing, after all. When not to ask. Unless he wanted to share, no one was going to make him. He could keep ‘Khas’ dead and buried alongside the rest of Aedes Elysaie. Phainon knew that.
And yet… he could not deny that he felt better, having spent time talking to Mydei about Cyrene. It felt therapeutic. Like a weight was being lifted. Perhaps this weight could be lifted too.
Past that too, was a simple truth: It did not feel right to speak of Cyrene while pretending that her partner in crime, her little brother Khaslana had never existed.
…That was his answer then, wasn’t it?
Phainon tilted his chin up and focused on the sky. No louder than a whisper, he said, “Khas. That was what Cyrene used to call me.”
Mydei hummed.
He did not ask for any further info, simply took what was mentioned and gave Phainon the space he needed to decide whether he wanted to share anything more.
“Cyrene liked nicknames,” Phainon continued. “And I refused ‘Lana.’”
Golden eyes slid across empty space and settled on him.
“I mean,” he said, shakily. “Of the two, Khas is clearly better, right?”
“Right.”
“So it had to be Khas.”
“Of course.”
Phainon fell quiet.
They returned to silence.
And still, Mydei did not ask. Even when Phainon stopped staring at clouds and met Mydei’s gaze, expectant, the words were not asked.
“You’re not saying anything,” Phainon said, finally.
“Am I supposed to?” Mydei asked.
It was difficult to say. To know. Phainon wasn’t sure whether he wanted Mydei to ask so that he could brush the question aside and claim it was forbidden knowledge, or whether he wanted him to stay quiet and never ask at all. He didn’t know how exactly he felt about letting Mydei know.
And yet, there was a part of him that wanted to be known. To have someone know the person he had once been, to accept that side of him. To be known as the boy he had once been and not the Deliverer he was now known as. And if he were to tell anyone, then obviously, it made sense for it to be Mydei, didn’t it?
“...I—” Phainon paused, uncertain. It was hard to steel himself. To prepare himself to be truthful after years of running away from said truth. “Aren’t you going to ask?”
“Am I allowed?”
…If anyone were to ask… then it should be that of an equal. And if he were to answer said question…. then who better than Mydei?
“...Yeah,” Phainon murmured, eventually. “You’re allowed.”
There was a beat, a moment of levity between them where the words could be withdrawn. He did not rescind them.
And so Mydei asked, “Your name. What is it?”
If they were being totally honest, Mydei had probably already put the two nicknames together and come to some sort of conclusion on his name. But here he was, asking Phainon to divulge it for himself. Asking as if he’d had no previous clues and that the decision was solely Phainon’s.
Phainon — no, that’s always been something of a fake name hasn’t it? — sighs.
“Khaslana.”
Mydei tilted his chin towards him as if in greeting. Then, he said, “It suits you.”
Did it?
His surprise must’ve shown on his face, because the curve of Mydei’s smile widened and he let out a huffed snort.
“It does?”
“Mhm.”
“Wha— really?”
Mydei flashed him a look that could be read entirely as ‘I will not repeat myself a third time’. Wisely, Phainon shut his mouth and did not ask again.
“And,” Mydei continued, planting his hands on the bench and pushing up to his feet, “you were right. Khas is a much better name for you. It fits you better than Lana.”
At this, Phainon snorted. “Sure. I’m glad you’re on my side on this, Mydeimos.”
A half smile graced Mydei’s lips. He said, “I have fought many spars with you as the Deliverer and as Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. If you would allow it, I’d like to fight Khaslana. If, of course, you are capable of doing so without any more distraction.”
Phainon — no, Khaslana, — hummed. He stood, fingers wrapping around Dawnmaker’s hilt. It still felt heavier than usual, but the weight no longer felt quite as daunting. “I’m not sure if you’ve realised, but back when I still went by Khaslana, I was far more competitive.”
“Oh trust me, I’ve realised.” Mydei began walking towards the centre of the grounds and Khaslana, grinning, followed after him. “You mentioned as much in some of your stories.”
“Then I hope you’re ready, Mydeimos.”
“I’m always ready.” Mydei’s lip curled in anticipation and a smile. Khaslana retrieved Dawnmaker and Mydei readjusted his gauntlets. Then, he raised his hands into fists, readying for the beginning of their spar.
“Show me what you are capable of, Khaslana, best friend of Cyrene.”