Chapter Text
When Phainon was a child frolicking the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae, he dreamed of being a hero that made everyone he loved happy. It was as idealistic, as black and white as a child's dream could be, glossing over the how's and what's of achieving such a thing.
He dreamed of leaving his village to visit the ever moving fortress of Castrum Kremnos to become stronger, to learn the ways of the sword that he couldn't really grasp as a farmer boy behind his house swinging a crudely made wooden blade.
It was all for naught in the end, a childish dream killed prematurely by the bloodied blade of war.
War had come to Aedes Elysiae, the only reason for it to be pillaged and massacred and razed to the ground was that it just happened to be in the way, caught in the crossfire of warring city-states.
The first time Phainon killed a man it was in defense. He'd panicked, his breaths too quick and loud in his ringing ears, his palms sweaty against the smooth wooden body of the rake. He swung it violently, managing to take the soldier off guard for just a moment but that was enough for the sharp teeth of the rake to dig into the soft insides of his eyes. The soldier had screamed, holding his face blindly before falling into a burning pile of debris.
It wasn't really a murder, manslaughter maybe, but arguably in defense.
The second time and the third and the ones after weren’t necessarily that case. They were done so in fury and vengeance.
When he saw Cyrene's lifeless body he didn’t think twice. Everything had turned red, a heady madness burning up his insides as he tore his throat raw from his screams. He doesn't really remember much after that, only that his madness surged two fold when he'd seen the charred remains of his parents.
In the end, the fury was just as useless as his idealistic dreams.
At the end of it all, he stood there all alone surrounded by the ashes of the wheat fields, with vivid red blood seeping from his cuts mixing with the mucky black blood of the vile soldiers he'd killed and the people he failed to save.
After the embers had died down and he pulled the splinters of wood from the broken rake off the soft skin of his palms, he dug their graves. He first carried the bodies of his loved ones. Cyrene was light in his arms, looking so much like she was merely asleep except for the gaping wound that ran from her chest to her torso. Next came his parents, their charred flesh raspy and tender against his bleeding palms, the smell of burnt meat stinging his nostrils as he laid them to rest. Next came Pythia, the village teacher and then it was his friends, Livia and Piso; after that it was the hunter, Galba, who gave him an extra rabbit when he came to barter at the beginning of every week during Entry hour. He buried them all.
He laid the village to rest, stepping on the crumbling remains of their Patron God’s statue uncaringly as he made sure to mark every grave with a rock. What use did he have for a God that failed to protect his village?
He didn’t stay for long.
He looked at the mounds of freshly dug earth on barren land that used to be a field of wheat for just a moment before he turned away. He walked, mindless of the countless cuts sluggishly bleeding and the bruises painting him blue and green. He didn’t have a destination in mind, his footsteps guided by the sussuring of a brook that ran past the village and emptied into the sea. He didn’t even realize he was already by the sea until he felt cool water nipping his ankles and the smell of salt. The sea beside Aedes Elysiae was quiet, its waters running a little too dark…a little too still. The fishermen preferred to fish in the brooks and rivers nearby but never the sea, its quiet serenity a little too ominous and unsettling.
To Phainon it was grounding, calming. It was the only thing that had stayed the same, its surface still glassy and black, its water still icy cold. He walked further in till the water reached his ankles. He wondered if it would douse the flames he could still feel burning up his insides, he wondered if it would welcome him into its arms if he walked deeper into its embrace. The water now reached his thighs. It was cold, bitterly so, enough to render his toes numb despite the boiling of his blood. It was now up to his waist.
If there was no God in this world that looked favorably upon him at least this sea would take him into its embrace.
The water was cold. So…so cold. It doused his hate and hardened it to apathy, quenched his anger and molded it into acceptance. Perhaps his place in this world was not one of a hero’s but at the bottom of this sea. Whispers filled his ears when his body had finally given up on holding its breath, the seawater greedily rushing into his gasping mouth.
And maybe even the water was a lie because it burned in his lungs, it seared the tender flesh of its innards as piercing pain ripped through his body like a flesh flower in bloom. His eyes stung as they stared into the darkness, wide open as he refused to close them. Why must he allow himself that luxury when none of the people of the village were given that choice?
His conscience was quickly fading, the short interim of pain nothing in the face of meeting his loved ones again.
Just when he had thought that this was the end, that now he could meet his mother and father and Cyrene again, he was proven wrong.
Something wrapped around him, firm around his limbs as it pulled him towards something, the ferocity of its grip reminding Phainon of the river rapids he was told to avoid. By the time the thing that had held him had let him go, his body was numb. His brain was hazy, his sight too blurry to make out anything. He could tell it wasn’t dark anymore, however, blobs of golden and red bleeding into each other and reminding him of the sun setting by the golden wheat fields in a place that didn’t exist anymore.
His jaw was forcefully opened, something hot and sweet poured down his throat. There was so much of it that he gagged, his body too weak to put up any sort of trouble beyond that. He had promptly passed out right after, the scent of ripe pomegranates following him into his dreams.
When he’d woken up next he was in a bed much too soft to be anything from Aedes Elysiae. He’d opened his eyes to three children with bright red hair and a lady with sightless green eyes with a gaze that looked like she knew everything about him.
He’d woken up in the Holy City, Okhema.
***
Phainon was not a hero.
He did not make his loved ones happy, he did not save the world.
However, he was stronger than he used to be. Strong enough to take down the armies responsible for the demise of everyone he loved. If he couldn’t be a hero for them at least he could avenge them, he could light the way forward for all those small villages caught in the crossfires of powers bigger than them, burn fiercer than the sun with all the hate he had festering inside him.
When he had woken up in Okhema, he was told that he was found by the docks of Styxia with a blood red cape wrapped around his shivering body. The person who found him was one of those red haired children. They were called Tribios, a person that had split themselves into a thousand people at the cost of regressing into a child.
They had brought him back to Okhema, dragged him as much as they could with their tiny body, using a foreign power that transported them between the cities in an instant. He’d learnt later that they were called a demigod and that their power was from communing with a God.
A God…The word left a bitter taste in Phainon’s mouth. He had no love for them. The Gods had closed their eyes to the bloodshed their blessed had caused in their name. They looked away while people begged and pleaded while their homes burned.
So if he could kill the Gods themselves…if he could kill them and save a few villages, if he could make up for his sin of being the only survivor of Aedes Elysiae then he would do it.
Aglaea had tempered his rampant fury into a sharp blade. She too was a demigod, one for the God of Romance. He’d thought she was rather cold for that at first but he’d learned later that her passion for what she wanted to do was romantic in itself. Cyrene did tell him a long time ago that romance wasn’t strictly one of love as we know it. He was just too young to understand it at that time.
The demigod of Romance had taken his declaration to kill Gods in stride, simply acquiescing and saying she’d help rather than calling him crazy. She said that a prophecy had foretold of his coming, of a boy that bled gold on the shores of a city that was subjected to the madness of a God. It didn’t really make sense to him, the prophecy or the golden blood or the status of being a demigod. But one thing was enough for his adolescent mind mired in hate— He could kill Gods.
Phainon was not a hero.
But he’d like to think he was not a child driven purely by vengeance anymore.
He was still sure of his goal of killing Gods but after he’d slain a handful of them, his mind achieved a clarity it didn’t have before. These creatures they call Gods…they were vain and childish, using their powers carelessly without a care for those weaker who were caught in their whims of innocent cruelty.
The first one he'd killed was a God of war. He'd grovelled at his feet when he realized that a human was succeeding in killing him, stripping him of his divinity with every swing of his greatsword. And perhaps it was easy to become a God one prayed to for war because the next few Gods he'd slain were also ones that hungered for war. It felt almost like a mockery to see all these Gods crumble as soon as they crop up, the crazed devotion of desperate people in times of war giving birth to things that only make their plight worse.
It was only after his third kill did he learn of the divine hierarchy.
Dozens could rise to become fledgling Gods but only a select few were ones that were deemed untarnished and untouched. Select few that drove whole citystates into madness as they ripped into the flesh of their brethren. While the Godlings new to their power crushed their followers beneath their feet without remorse, the ones in the heavens— the Ancient Ones—were cold, uncaring, only willing to spill their golden blood into the mouths of people they chose to preach their will through. It was what happened to Aglaea and Tribios, to others who have already perished from the madness the blood offered.
The ones he met in Okhema chose to fight against that fate that was forced upon them, each fighting an affliction in return. For Aglaea it was the erosion of her humanity, an ironical curse considering her patron God. He was told he was a demigod too, that only demigods bled gold like the gods, their red blood engulfed by divinity. He'd been turned into a demigod against his will, the sea current that had dragged him to the shore forcing blood down his throat to make sure he didn't die with his brethren.
He will never forget the taste and feel of it. It was sweet on his tongue and scalded his throat. The ghost of its taste still lingering on his tongue after all these years.
To be turned into a…thrall for the very thing he hated. It made him furious.
(It made him curious to know more about the thing that had saved his life.)
Begrudgingly, however, him being a demigod only made his crusade for vengeance easier. He was called the White Calamity—an omen that appeared on the eve of war.
Men would just watch helplessly as Phainon tore into the flesh of their gods, helpless and on their knees when he finally left after he'd had his fill.
It was a lonely and gruelling process, something that fulfilled and frustrated him.
How many must he slay until there is peace? How many until he was sure he avenged his village? How many until he killed a true God?
A question that no one had an answer for, not even Aglaea. Not that he ever shared such a thing with her. She believed him to be the one demigod without flaws who could bring even the Ancient Ones to their knees, the one to usher them into a new Era. She never explicitly said it but if there was one thing Phainon was good at after his time in Okhema it was reading in between the lines.
He didn’t want to disappoint her with his weary resignation.
To calm his turbulent mind he usually sought the whispers of a rushing brook, the crashing of ocean waves or even the quiet stillness of a pond.
It reminded him of a time long past, of a day when he'd almost been welcomed by the embrace of death only to be pulled to safety by something with the torrential temperament of a river rapid. Something that left behind a crimson robe, now discolored with age. Something that made him part god.
He carried it with him always, a reminder of his death as Khaslana of Aedes Elysiae and his birth as Phainon of Okhema.
He still thinks about that creature, that blur of red and gold. Was it perhaps a siren that had escaped the grasp of the maddened dying god of the ocean, Phagousa and had ascended to godhood in their place? Was it the currents that pulled ships to jagged rocks? Or perhaps a being who cared and offered the bounty of the seas to whoever needed it?
“I wonder sometimes if you were but a figment of my imagination,” Phainon murmured, leaning against a tree as he gazed at the shimmering surface of the lake.
He was resting after accomplishing his mission and preparing to return back to Okhema after he'd killed the sprouting God of War from Ladon before they'd begun to properly wreak havoc.
He'd set up camp after following the call of the water, opting to rest against a tree and stare at the murky depths of the water whose surface twinkled with light borrowed from the stars. It had become a habit to have one-sided conversations with the creature that saved him. He'd regale it with tales of god-slaying or about his latest antique acquisitions. Sometimes he'd just ask one question. Ask why it had saved him, saved some useless boy from a village long gone. Sometimes that question would come out too bitter, spoken quietly into the night after seeing a happy family or just people surrounded by people they love.
He would get nothing in response and he'd chosen to take comfort in that, laughing dryly instead at the silence that was only broken by the burbling of water.
This time was a little different, felt different. The lakeside was quiet as it usually was but something was amiss. Or rather something tugged at his heart, called to him and let the longing that was locked under layers of apathy to slip out. He got to his feet in a daze, his heart beating loud enough to ring in his ears as he followed where the tug of longing led him. He stopped at the edge of the lake, realizing that unlike what he had thought earlier, there was something on the surface hidden tantalizingly under the gossamer curtains of fog. He waded into the cool waters of the lake, the water now up to his waist from how deep he had traversed in search of that tug of longing. His breath caught in his throat when his longing had condensed into a haunting hum he could hear, the deep cadence of it pulling him forward by the collar wrapped snugly around his throat. He could see a shimmer of gold now.
His breath caught when he finally got to witness the creature hiding in the mist.
A man was sitting on a rock—Phainon shook his head, feeling delirious. Would a man have the tail of a fish?
A creature was sitting on a rock, neither man nor fish. It sat on the rock with its ruby coloured tail wrapped around the jagged edges, its shimmering scales iridescent in the evening light. It was combing its long golden hair with a pearlescent comb.
Its body was pale but built like a warrior with broad shoulders and thick biceps. Crimson markings swirled around its muscles, cupping the generous size of its bosom and its dusky nipples. It was hard to relegate it to just being a creature when it had a face that looked so devastatingly beautiful. It had strong eyebrows and pretty cat like eyes with lashes that were long and clumped with moisture, the irises a little too big to be like that of a human’s with pupils that were thin and vertical. There was a crimson marking under one eye like the swipe of a makeup brush, pretty and elegant. Its nose was sharp, its jaw angular, the soft plushness of its glistening lips contrasting rather attractively with its sharper features.
He didn’t realize the humming had stopped.
“I would hope that you are not trying to drown yourself again,” The creature said, continuing to comb its hair. Its hair was long, long enough to spill off the rock, the golden bleeding into carmine at the tips.
“...You,” is all Phainon could manage to say. This close he realized the tail wasn’t entirely red. It had veins of gold running through it, making the creature look more ethereal and unapproachable. It finally stopped combing its hair to look up at him, its constricted pupils expanding as it took him in.
“I see you’ve grown into an indomitable warrior. Have you come to kill me?” The creature said, its deep voice soft but rough and jagged like it didn’t make it a habit to speak. The comb in its hand melted into water, its now free hands pushing against the rock it was sitting on to lean closer to where Phainon was standing. Its jewellery clinked with the movement, an eclectic mix of pearls and shells and corals embellished in gold adorning its neck and waist and its finned, fan-like ears. There were even pearls braided into its long golden hair. It smelled like the ocean but it also smelled like ripe pomegranates, its beautiful form a mix of things that shouldn’t go well together but against all odds they did.
Phainon exhaled sharply, stepping closer as if he were in a trance. This close he realized there were iridescent scales smattered across the creature’s cheeks and shoulders.
“To meet like this so suddenly…how…?” Phainon said, his silver tongue now struck dumb.
The creature cocked its head, the fanned spines that framed its face reminiscent of ears twitching as it leaned even closer.
“You pray to me during all your god-slaying journeys. Is it so wrong of me to see how my demigod is doing?”
Phainon clenched his jaw, conflicted by emotions of anger and resentment and the wildly opposite emotions of curiosity and longing. He was close enough now to wrap his hand around that creature’s neck and so that was what he did. Those feline golden eyes widened and a clawed hand held his wrist but that was all it did. It didn’t fight back even when Phainon squeezed its throat, its long eyelashes fluttering and its lips parting to show slivers of its knife sharp teeth.
“I didn’t ask to be a demigod, nor did I ask you to save me.” He bit out, a simultaneously familiar and foreign feeling of burning hunger gripping him when he pressed his fingers into the delicate skin of the siren's throat. Its pretty eyes flickered, the golden of its irises mesmerizing. Its soft lips spread into a grin that bared its knife sharp teeth.
“Oh? So you would have preferred rotting in the bottom of the ocean? Have you not killed gods and stopped nonsensical wars? Is my demigod truly that ungrateful?”
Phainon grit his teeth in a poor attempt to stop the flare of anger and annoyance in his gut, pinning the creature against the rock with his body and tightening his grip around its throat.
“I am not your demigod.” He hissed, ignoring how warm the siren under him was and how it smelt sweeter up close.
“The strength that flows through your veins is because you’ve consumed my blood. Like it or not, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. You are mine.” The God said, his face solemn and unbothered by the hand wrapped around his neck.
His voice resounded with something ancient, powerful enough to make the hair on Phainon’s nape rise, his presence larger than the vessel beneath Phainon. He couldn’t fool himself and call the being beneath him a mere siren. Gills fluttered against his fingers making him flinch and step back, his eyes wide as he called upon his greatsword. The god simply raised a brow as he slid off the rock he was sitting on rather gracefully, his long hair spilling behind him like liquid gold as he slithered towards Phainon, his sunset coloured eyes half lidded and his teeth sharp.
He was dangerous and so devastatingly beautiful. A clawed hand settled on Phainon’s thigh. He swallowed.
“If that was the case…why haven’t you punished me? I aim to kill every god.”
Phainon rasped, a traitorous frisson of heat running up his spine when he looked down at the god below him, pretty and dressed in jewellery that clinked with every movement and nothing else. He had a fish tail so Phainon doubts it’s the same as being naked but the bare skin of his torso and his wet eyelashes were scandalous enough. The god blinked at his question before he cocked his head, looking too much like a curious cat with his feline eyes.
“Why would I punish you when you have only faithfully followed my bidding?” He said, his claws dragging down Phainon’s thigh.
“...Your bidding?” he asked, a little flabbergasted. He slipped his fingers into the god's golden hair and pulled in warning when the claws on his thigh kept gently stroking it.
“I don’t appreciate you touching me so casually.”
The god laughed at that, the sound reminding him of crashing waves in a sea storm.
“You wrap your hand around my neck only moments after we exchanged a few words and then you complain about me touching your thigh whilst pulling my hair.”
He swam closer, rising to his full height. He dragged his claws up his torso and rested them against the sunburst on the side of Phainon’s neck, uncaring of the tightening grip on his hair. His long eyelashes fluttered when Phainon pulled his hair in warning.
He glittered up close, the scales and jewellery refracting light.
“That’s not the same thing.” Phainon retorted weakly, distracted by the proximity. The god scoffed, stroking his sunburst gently despite having his hair pulled rather demeaningly.
“Is hypocrisy a human trait?”
Phainon sighed, letting go of the god’s hair.
“I will not apologize for what I’ve done. I could have skewered you like the fish I had for dinner but I chose not to.”
“Oh? How Magnanimous. I find it adorable that you think you can defeat me so easily.”
The god said with a mocking smile, not even flinching when Phainon positioned his blade behind him.
“You don’t know anything about me to make that–”
“But I do know about you, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. Of your many triumphs and your strength.” He murmured, looping his arms around Phainon’s neck.
“I have taken part in your journey by slaying the gods out of your reach in the heavens, quenched by the blood you’ve spilt below. But it hasn’t been enough, the older Gods remain untouchable and I alone am not enough.”
“...What are you trying to say?” Phainon asked, his voice soft from how close they were standing. The god being pretty didn’t help one bit.
“Must I speak more plainly? You must get stronger, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.” The god said, idly playing with the short strands of hair on the back of his neck. Phainon scoffed, the sound coming out more bitter than he had intended. He let his broadsword disintegrate into a fine golden mist, hanging his head in shame.
“Are you telling me to beg for more of your blood because I’m just as weak as I was all those years ago?” He asked bitterly. His hands hovered over the creature's back, unsure and confused by how docile he was being in front of the creature who had turned his life upside down. The god looked up at him in silence for a moment, his pretty feline eyes tracing the features of his face before trailing back down to the sunburst on his neck.
“...You are not weak, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. My blood merely awakened what was already in you.”
“Is this an attempt to pacify your demigod?” Phainon said, looking just as surprised as the creature after what he had said. His spiny ear-fins fluttered as he frowned something fierce, his claws digging gently into the soft skin of his nape. To think he had resorted to teasing a creature he’d sworn to kill almost instinctively was a little unsettling to say the least.
Almost like he’s done it before.
“I am not coddling you. I am merely telling you of your potential.”
Phainon cocked his head, mimicking what the god had done a few moments ago.
“Then what do you propose? How do I reach the heavens? Sink my teeth into your flesh and have my fill? Are you offering, siren?”
The god’s half lidded gaze widened in surprise, his arms tightening their hold on Phainon’s neck.
“Siren? To call me such a thing is…” He began before shaking his head, his brows furrowing again as he glared at Phainon.
“Did you hit your head during one of your many endeavours?”
Phainon simply hummed, caught off-guard by how…human this god was. He wrapped the god’s pretty pearl adorned braid around his finger as he leaned closer. The god’s breath hitched, its originally narrow feline pupils now wide and dark with only a sliver of gold around it.
“You hum a hymn I’ve only heard in Aedes Elysiae. You have a face hauntingly pretty enough to cause shipwrecks. Is that not enough of a reason to think you are a siren?”
The god’s pupils trembled looking a little lost like he hadn’t expected Phainon to behave the way that he did. He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back and removing the arms around Phainon’s shoulders to move away only to be stopped by a hand on the small of his back, right where his tail’s scales began.
“...I’ve been a poor guardian. I failed to notice your head injury.” He said wryly when Phainon made no move to release him. There was something mysterious about this god, strangely familiar in a way he shouldn’t be. Phainon wasn’t going to let this fish slip away when he’d been seeking it out for so long.
“To become stronger…what must I do, siren?” He asked, amused by the irritated twitch of his spiny ears.
“I am called Mydeimos. I am not a siren.”
He sighed, resting his hands against Phainon’s chest, his claws digging through the cloth where Phainon’s heart was beating.
“You must perform a ritual. Drinking blood would simply make you a slightly stronger demigod. That is not enough for your lofty goals.”
Phainon absently traced the god—Mydeimos’ spine, feeling him shiver. He studied the god’s flickering eyes, his pearlescent scales and his soft lips.
“A ritual? Must I sacrifice myself to attain immortality? Spill my tainted blood to make you stronger?”
There was a cold silence for a moment like Phainon had misstepped, the air heavy with something. The hands on his chest pushed him away, making him stumble in the water with widened eyes.
“You are a fool.” Mydeimos’ said quietly, the expression on his face fierce for a moment before it shuttered and turned cold and unreadable.
“...Or perhaps I am.” He muttered softly. Phainon had barely caught it, feeling like he was missing too many pieces of a puzzle.
“You must have me on the altar of my temple. My…priests will do the rest of the preparations.”
He continued, his words spoken so nonchalantly that it took a moment for Phainon to register what he had said.
“Have…you? As in partake in your flesh or…or to take you on the altar?” He asked, his voice cracking mid sentence. Mydeimos simply shrugged, moving to untangle his braid that had gotten a little dishevelled from Phainon playing with it.
“That is your wish, human. If you want to consume my flesh, do it. If you want to pleasure yourself with my body, then go ahead. Though I must say, piercing me with your manhood rather than a blade will yield better results.”
Phainon spluttered, his ears and cheeks burning with embarrassment and mortification and something else he didn’t want to name.
“You…would lie with a human? And even…bare yourself to me…?”
The god looked away, his cold facade cracking as a pretty flush spilled over his features, his claws digging in the rock behind him. He had retreated back to where he had been sitting after he had pushed Phainon away as if to put distance between him despite not wanting to part with him just moments ago.
“I would suggest eating my flesh to be a better alternative. While your powers will not be as strong, you will be indomitable with flesh as strong as steel. It would grant you endurance to chip away at the—”
His breath hitched when Phainon had made his way to him, pinning him to the rock.
“What would you prefer?” He asked. The god looked shocked like Phainon had grown two extra sets of arms and an extra head.
“...My preference does not matter, human. My body is immortal so you having your way with me will not kill me.”
The god said evenly, his voice low and his eyes wary. He seemed more like a stray cat than the untouchable immortal he had first seen.
“But you do feel pain, do you not? And pleasure, I assume. I’ve killed enough gods to know they feel pain. I have not bedded one so my knowledge in that area of expertise is rather poor.”
Mydeimos bit his plush lower lip, his eyes lowering their gaze, his wet lashes dark against his flushed cheeks. The moment of soft unsurety passed in the blink of an eye, the god looking back up again now to glare at Phainon, baring his knife sharp teeth as he grabbed his lapels, his biceps bulging with the movement as his grip on Phainon’s coat turned white-knuckled.
“Cease your meandering. What is your answer, human? It is unlike you to dance around the subject so much. Wield your tongue as you will your blade!”
He growled, his ear-fins flaring. Phainon simply cupped his cheek, brushing the pearlescent scales on his cheek in a daze. This god…he felt so familiar. A hazy memory came to him, unbidden of a dark and still sea and of Galba warning him of its dangers. He remembered that he didn’t heed his words and remembered the small hand in his grip, cold and clammy.
He remembered a smear of gold and red.
“Have we…met before?”
Mydeimos’ eyes widened, something soft and vulnerable in his gaze for just a moment before it was gone. He looked away, his grip on Phainon’s lapels loosening before letting go.
“No…you are mistaken. It is your mind trying to rationalize you joining forces with one of the beings you loathe.”
He said softly, his demeanor too honest and forward to properly disguise the lie he was saying.
“That hymn you sang…there is no way you could have known it.” Phainon murmured, stepping back this time in acquiescence when the god pushed him away.
“...but I will let you keep your secrets, Mydei.”
The god’s eyes flickered again when he heard the bastardization of his name, his lower lip trembling but ultimately saying nothing in response to Phainon’s words.
“...Should you wish to go through with the ritual, go to the temple on Styxia’s shores. Wear something comfortable and bring food and drink for the priest who will attend to us. It is the least we can do for them.”
He simply slid into the waters without another word, leaving nothing behind except for a pearl, a small one that had fallen from his golden braid. Phainon absently thumbed at the pearl, standing motionlessly in water that ran waist deep.
***
That night when he was back in Okhema, he had a dream.
He was teaching someone the hymn that Cyrene had composed for their patron God, humming clumsily and singing gibberish to cover up his poor understanding of the lyrics. It would have been around the time when he was ten and Cyrene was thirteen. She had been an excellent wordsmith and young Phainon was always in awe of her poems so he naturally was enamored by her song. He’d listen intently to when she’d sang to their Patron God every start of the week and memorize the rise and fall of her voice. The words were long and complicated, their meanings lost to his young mind but he tried his best to mimic how they sounded.
He was worried he’d mess it up but from how the boy beside him was enraptured he decided he was doing something right. He wasn’t sure why the opinion of the boy beside him mattered so much.
“Ok! Your turn!” Phainon said, looking expectantly at the boy.
“...” The boy seemed a little unsure if his silence was any indication. At least he assumed he was unsure. For some reason he couldn’t clearly make out the boy, his blurred vision annoyingly similar to when one gets water in their eyes.
Phainon held the boy’s cold and clammy hands, uncaring of how abnormally sharp his nails were. He sang the first few lines slowly, squeezing the hands he was holding in assurance. They were small, the wrists fragile. He wonders if he should steal some honeycakes when mama isn't looking. He’s sure she’ll understand if she saw how starved this boy looked.
The boy began singing, his words even clumsier than Phainon's, his voice cracking here and there like he was unused to speech.
Phainon felt his lips pull up into a smile, trying to harmonize with the boy’s clumsy attempts.
The song didn’t sound as pretty as when Cyrene sang it but there was something about the way they leaned close and sang while holding hands, the feeling in his chest aching and melancholic. They sat in silence when the last refrain faded away, a soft silence ensuing in its place.
“Khaslana,” The boy said, breaking the silence. His pronunciation was a little off but there was something sweet in the way he said it that it didn’t really matter.
“Khaslana,” he repeated, leaning close. He smelt like the ocean and fresh pomegranates. Water dripped from strands of blond hair and dampened his chiton. The hypnotising clink of shells and pearls rang in his ears, his gaze captured by sharp golden eyes with constricted pupils.
“Khaslana, do you wish to be a hero?” the high reedy voice of a child morphed into the deep voice of a man with grit in his cadence like salt against skin.
A warm weight leaned against him, a chest pushing against his as wet hair brushed his bare skin.
Mydeimos was upon him in the blink of an eye, his lower half pinning Phainon in place, his fish tail curled lazily around him as he looped his arms around Phainon’s now broad shoulders. He was no longer a child.
His breath caught in his throat as he looked up at the God in his lap with wide eyes, uncaring of the seawater seeping into his chiton.
“I-” he began, voice stuck in his throat as Mydei looked expectantly at him, his wet lashes and soft lips dizzyingly close.
“...I'm no hero,” he finally said, raspy and quiet.
Mydei simply cocked his head in response, cat-like and oddly endearing.
“That is not what I asked,” He said matter-of-factly. He cupped Phainon’s face before he could protest, his palms damp but warm and soft. He leaned even closer, the flecks of orange and red now visible in his vivid irises, his soft lips pink and enticing. Phainon swallowed. He couldn’t look away.
“I…have lost my chance to be one.” He finally said, quietly. Mydei studied his face before sighing. He butt his forehead against Phainon’s like an affectionate cat, his long lashes brushing against the demigod’s skin like shy butterfly kisses.
“Haikas.” He said, sounding oddly exasperated. Before Phainon could question it, soft lips brushed against his. His mouth had been open as he was going to speak so Mydei’s tongue had slipped in without protest, a sharp burst of copper and something sweet making him gasp in surprise.
Mydei broke the kiss to lick the corner of his mouth before he leaned his cheek against Phainon's, his wet hair tickling his face.
“A little gift for my Demigod,” He murmured, his arms tightening their hold around Phainon’s shoulders. Phainon was a little too dizzy to formulate a proper response, the proximity and the lingering sweetness on his tongue rendering him unable to speak or move. It took him a moment to realize that it was not just the lightheadedness from the kiss that was making his vision fade…he was also losing consciousness, the only thing remaining vivid and sharp being the sweet coppery taste on his tongue and the smell of pomegranates.
“Be prepared for tomorrow.” The god whispered.
Phainon woke up, groggy and confused, his teleslate loud in the serene silence of the Entry Hour. He absently brushed his lips, trying to chase the taste of sweetness that was rapidly fading away on his tongue. He paused, trying to make sense of his actions.
Was he infatuated by the Siren-god? Besotted after glimpsing his pretty face and alluring scales?
He remembered the feel of small clammy hands in his and the smell of the ocean.
…Or was it something else?
He shook his head to snap himself out of reverie and answer his teleslate, a little confused as to why he’d be getting a call at this early of an hour right after a long mission.
“...Phainon.” Aglaea said, sounding oddly apologetic. Hearing the fellow demigod this early in the morning cleared any vestiges of sleep that had remained. He sat up straighter, wedging the teleslate between his ear and shoulder as he made to get off the bed and get ready in a rush. Aglaea calling this early never boded well.
“Aglaea…is something the matter? A new godling has already appeared?” He asked, wincing when he heard how raspy his voice was and how it cracked mid-sentence. He cleared his throat subtly and willed away the flush of mortification that accompanied it.
Aglaea chuckled drily, her elegant voice tinny over the teleslate.
“Nothing of that sort, do not worry,” She assured him. Phainon wasn’t very assured.
“...But something has happened and I require your presence.”
Phainon hastened in his mission of wearing clothes that wouldn’t make Aglaea frown, cursing quietly when the teleslate almost slipped out of its precarious position.
“...Whatever for?” He asked.
Brief silence ensued before Aglaea sighed.
“It truly isn’t anything bad, Phainon. But I would advise you to make haste.”
And so Phainon’s first morning back to the city after his campaign in Ladon was spent in a hectic rush to make himself presentable and to stumble out of his quarters to the Marmoreal Palace.
He’d say he was rather quick to reach the palace in one piece considering the sudden summon, begrudgingly thanking the golden blood that ran in his veins.
His thoughts about golden blood had inadvertently reminded him of the siren he’d met. The god in the lake…his god. He recalled molten gold eyes and wet lashes, soft lips and sharp teeth, iridescent scales and swirls of red on supple flesh; the smell of pomegranates and the ocean.
He recalled the god in his lap and a hot mouth, recalled the sweet taste on his tongue and the narrow waist beneath his hands. Phainon swallowed, biting the insides of his cheek to distract himself from thinking about Mydeimos: An exercise in futility.
Fortunately, he spotted Aglaea rather quickly, her usually impassive face subtly bewildered in a way that only spelt doom.
Aglaea was never bewildered. She was always prepared, even for the most egregious of scenarios. So her being dumbfounded was simply not possible. Or at least he thought that was the case until today.
“...I must ask once more if we have a crisis on our hands.”
Phainon said, understandably worried. Aglaea sighed, shaking her head.
“I apologize for making you worry but considering everything…I’d say this is the opposite of a crisis,” she said cryptically as she led him to the hall they usually use for tedious meetings with the Elders of the city. Phainon chuckled uneasily.
Nothing would have actually prepared him for what was beyond the door.
There was a familiar man waiting for them with crossed arms and a scowl, flanked by soldiers who looked stiff with tension, their war helms obscuring any unease that was probably displayed on their face.
“General Krateros of Kremnos…?” Phainon found himself saying before he could process it, his disbelief plain as day. He winced, looking straight ahead when he felt Aglaea’s sharp sightless gaze on him.
“You should close your mouth and refrain from looking like a bamboozled child, Deliverer.” Krateros said with disdain. Phainon was a little lost. Did he upset the man in some way? He cleared his throat and schooled his expression instead of rising to the bait, his lips stretching with a diplomatic smile he reserved for things of political nature.
“...Apologies. I was merely surprised to see a decorated war veteran within the walls of the Marmoreal palace,” He said, watching Krateros raise a brow.
“You wish to know how and why we are here, do you not? Did that witch not tell you?” He said, making Phainon furrow his brows. Before he could come to Aglaea’s defense, the woman herself spoke.
“I thought it would be more appropriate to hear it from you rather than me, General. After all, this involves him and not Okhema, does it not?”
Krateros scowled in response before sagging with a sigh, looking like he aged a few years at that moment. He cleared his throat before straightening his stance again. It was rather frightening to see the fierce General of Castrum Kremnos look like a tired grandfather.
“...We’ve come to Parley.” He said gruffly. Phainon’s eyes widened.
“I…beg your pardon?” Phainon said, unsure if he’d heard the old man right.
“I will not repeat myself.” He said, looking positively murderous.
“No, I urge you to do so. If it involves me then I would like to know how and why a Parley is being proposed.”
General Krateros was a decorated soldier from Castrum Kremnos, a city-state that has always been at odds with Okhema. While the city-states don’t necessarily engage in battle with each other in recent years, territorial dispute has always been an ongoing issue. He’d met the General years ago during a border skirmish, awed by how he’d directed his soldiers and by how he’d made sure to leave any civilian caught in the crossfire unharmed. While he respects the man, he knows for a fact that he would rather die than wish to Parley with Okhema, so Phainon truly could not be blamed for being confused by the turn of events.
Krateros looked like he wanted to protest, his complexion turning from red to green and back to red rather comically. But he surprisingly gave in.
“Our Crowned Prince wishes to seek an Alliance with Okhema…With its Deliverer in particular.”
“Crowned Prince…?” Phainon asked, his eyes so wide he worried they’d fall out of his skull.
The Mysterious Crowned Prince of Kremnos was something that almost felt like a myth, considering no one had ever seen him. His people were fiercely loyal and never spoke of how he’d looked, only of how he defeated the tyrannical King Eurypon and led Kremnos into a period of prosperity. It was rather strange that someone he’s most certainly never met would seek to ally with him.
“He wishes to join forces with you and aid your God-slaying journey. He sees that you are…faithful—” the word was said with distaste. “—to Okhema. So the Alliance extends to them. Should your allegiance falter…he says you are welcome to rule Kremnos by his side.”
Phainon gaped at that, his ears burning in response to the implication of what could only mean marriage.
“Did…His Highness specify why?” He asked, wincing when his voice cracked.
Krateros sighed again, sounding very tired, exasperated even.
“He simply wishes to see you succeed.”
Phainon blinked, his throat feeling too tight to formulate a response immediately, the foreign feeling of warmth in his chest rather strange.
“...I see,” He managed, his voice soft. He felt Aglaea’s gaze upon him again.
“...Do you accept?” Krateros asked, the atmosphere now muted and awkward after Phainon had fallen silent.
“I…don’t see what His Highness sees in me but I appreciate any ally we gain against the Gods,” Phainon managed to say after a moment, hoping the smile he offered wasn’t wobbly and uncertain.
“Very well. The Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos formally invites you to our floating fortress. He—” Krateros clears his throat. “—says you are free to explore the Garbaniphoro library during your stay.” He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon but he nodded to one of his soldiers who offered a scroll sealed with wax to Phainon. He took it blankly, the surprise and confusion rendering him speechless.
“We will now take our leave.” Krateros said, not wasting a moment with pleasantries.
“This is not something I ever accounted for but I welcome it regardless,” Aglaea had said a moment later when Krateros had left the premises. Phainon had been mutely staring at the scroll in his hand, at a loss for words.
It is only later when he had retired to his bedchambers did he remember Mydeimos’ words from his dream.
“Be prepared for tomorrow.”
He wonders if the Siren-God had anything to do with this.
***