(⁠◔⁠‿⁠◔⁠)

:P

[azurebright]

heaven is out of reach.

Under his King's orders, Phainon and his soldiers capture the bordering kingdom's Princess—you—for ransom. A kingdom for a daughter. It should have been a fair trade.

Pairing: Phainon / Reader

Word count: 16k

Contents: alternate universe, knight! Phainon, princess! Reader, first kiss, unprotected sex, hurt/comfort, kidnapping, period-typical sexism, pining, guilt, angst, minor character death, detailed descriptions of blood and violence.

.

You were a princess no more. 

At a glance, you might have been taken for one among a hundred other young women in the village—pretty, certainly, but unremarkable. Just as you had been ordered to appear.

Your crown had vanished into this Kingdom’s coffers alongside your silks, velvet, torque and jewels. In place of your dynasty’s pilfered finery, you wore a dress of coarse linen, the color of unbleached bone. It sat too large on you, sagging where it should have draped, breaking into creases where it ought to have flowed. Beneath the skirt, you wore trousers borrowed from Cyrene, cuffed awkwardly at the ankle.

Your hair did the most to unmake your identity. What had once fallen in long tresses—combed, sculpted, and pinned into ornamental styles—had been cut to your chin in a single, unsentimental stroke. Thick curls took to wildness, billowing outward, overwhelming your cheeks. You often found yourself touching the new length, trying in vain to smooth it down. Other times, you seemed to do it unconsciously as a means to soothe yourself.

Despite nearly a month spent in foreign land, you still only rode side-saddle. You sat straight-backed like you’d been born to formal posture—which, hell, you had. You didn’t complain. That, more than anything, made you hard to look at. You bore it well, with only a slight tremor in your chin.

The road narrowed as the forest crowded in like it meant to throttle its travelers. Pine needles slicked the ground. Old roots buckled the dirt and forced the horses to pick up their steps. Phainon walked alongside his steed instead of riding like he always did when the pace was slowed by terrain like this. It kept his hands free and his head clear. When your mare stumbled on a hidden root, you gave a small, startled gasp and fell against the animal’s neck, reins gripped tightly in hand. Without a word, Phainon reached up and steadied the horse with one hand.

The Land’s banner that usually flew above you had been stowed away. The King had departed with a small contingent of his most reliable men, leaving Phainon behind with orders that replayed in his skull with every step he took.

She doesn’t leave your sight. Not even for a moment. Until a deal is struck, the King’s—her father’s men will be searching every village and taking every road.

The words left a bitter taste in Phainon’s mouth. Being left behind wasn't punishment or demotion. It wasn’t personal, he had to remind himself. His Lord was negotiating for their future. He was making the bet of a lifetime on what the King would ransom for his precious, only daughter. In truth, Phainon had the most important task of all: Keep the leverage. Protect the leverage.

You passed the first keep by midday. It was too small to be considered for shelter. Nothing left but a stone carcass, roof burned out, banners rotted into colors no one remembered. The men didn’t slow. Someone whistled. Someone else jeered. Others laughed.

Phainon watched the men’s hands. Their curling mouths. The way their eyes slid towards the princess like marbles rolling along a slanted table.

Most of them treated their captive gently. Others soured against you. Those who, in a former life, suffered greatly under the thumb of your father’s rule. After one too many of the princess’s retellings of her ‘kidnapping’ and rhapsodizing about how she leapt from her bedroom window and was caught by a Knight on his steed, their resentment rankled into outright hatred and they took every opportunity to be cruel. 

Phainon moved closer to your mare. When one of his raiders drifted too near, he shifted nearer still, broad shoulders squared, posture settling into the silent warning he used before correcting another man’s stance. No words were needed.

By afternoon the forest thinned, opening onto a long stretch of road. With distance from the capital, the formation loosened. Riders strayed ahead or lagged behind, confidence creeping back into their gait.

“Princess,” Phainon said, keeping his eyes forward.

“Yes?” You turned in the saddle like you were being addressed in a hall, not on a forest road with a bunch of rough knights.

“Some of the men were talking ’bout passing you around.”

Your breath caught. “I don’t quite know what that means,” you said carefully, “but I fear I’m beginning to understand.”

He ground his teeth. “Take it seriously. We might be special but when our King isn’t around, we’re just a bunch of men. Some of us, terrible.”

You shook your head, quick and certain, like you were correcting a tutor. “I overheard your commander said it’s a kidnapping only in appearance. He would never let me come to harm.”

Phainon didn’t harbor any particular grudge against royalty, nor did he have any fondness for their ilk, but it was only too easy to be harsh with you. Coddling such softness in this world would only open the door for worse cruelties. He snorted. “Yeah, well, he isn’t here.”

“I know that. He doesn’t need to be,” You said. “His word is enough. The lot of you remind me of loyal mutts—following his orders without another thought.”

Phainon scoffed.

At that, your noble countenance faded and your face scrunched up. “Why do you laugh?“ 

Phainon didn’t answer.

You frowned at him then. “I know my father is a despot,” you said quietly, as if admitting a flaw in an heirloom. “But this is a political maneuver. I am not totally ignorant of the world.”

“Never said you were,” Phainon muttered.

“Then why warn me?” you asked petulantly.

“Because you’ll have to learn this part eventually. Men measure things by what they can take. Men are greedy, they take all they can hold in their hands and then when it seems they can’t take any more, men start imagining that their hands are bigger. I’m not just talking about taking treasures. Could be people too.”

You stiffened in your saddle, your knuckles whitening against the reins. “Please, enough.”

He shook his head, eyes narrowing as he stared ahead. “You ever once ask yourself what happens after? When our King gets what he wants from your father—kingdom handed over all peaceful-like.”

“Then the land will have a just ruler. I suppose.” you say.

"And you?" Phainon pressed.

You put on a brave face.

“No,” he said flatly. “That isn’t how these things work. You’d be sent away. That’s the deal. Our Lord gets the kingdom and you go back to your father.”

The color drained from your face. Your small hands gripped the reins tighter.

“Sir Phainon, I’ve already prepared myself for exile. I’m at peace with it.”

.

Two weeks passed in the abandoned monastery they’d claimed as their temporary refuge. Stone walls with blank arches where stained glass had once filtered light were patched with canvas and animal hides. The men settled into a restless routine, waiting for word from their King.

Phainon found himself perpetually in your orbit, the task of guarding you fell to him and him alone. You sat quietly in the old dormitory, mending your clothes or reading the tattered books someone had found for you. Ever so often, Phainon caught you staring into the distance. Something about your quiet dignity gnawed at him.

“Look at Phainon, following the princess around like a lovesick hound,” his comrade drawled, leaning against a crumbling column. “Remember how you used to glare at Mydei like he pissed in your porridge? Now it’s her royal highness getting the same treatment.”

The other men nearby snickered. The muscles in Phainon’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the treeline beyond the monastery walls, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

“It’s the same old song and dance," he continued, his voice carrying through the drafty hall. “All contempt on the outside, but we know what that really means, don’t we?" He sauntered closer, a crooked smile twisting his features. “First the warrior, now a sweet little dove."

Phainon turned slowly. The abbey seemed to darken around him as he fixed the other man with a stare that had made better men cower. “Say another word.”

“What’s the matter? Worried our King might not approve of you mooning over the woman—who’s the flesh and blood of our enemy?” he pressed, his voice dropping to a stage whisper.

In one swift motion, Phainon seized him by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall. The impact sent streams of dust cascading down from the crumbling mortar. His feet dangled inches above the ground, his face reddening as Phainon’s forearm pressed against his jaw.

“I told you to shut your mouth.” The main hall had gone silent, every man suddenly finding interest in the floor or the ceiling—anywhere but the confrontation unfolding before them.

The loquacious man struggled against the iron grip, but managed to force a smirk despite his predicament. “Hit... a nerve... did I?” he managed to choke out.

Phainon drew his fist back, ready to wipe that smug look from his face. The man’s eyes widened slightly, but the corner of his mouth remained upturned, as if this was exactly what he’d been angling for.

“Phainon, stop!” Cyrene implored as she rushed between them. Her face was flushed with urgency. “Both of you, come on. Not now! The princess is waking up—she can hear everything!”

Phainon’s gaze flicked toward the chamber where you had been resting, its tattered curtain stirring in the draft. He released his grip, letting the other slide down the wall until his feet touched stone again.

“Lucky for you the princess needs her guard dog,” he wheezed, massaging his throat.

Phainon heard Cyrene’s voice rising behind him. “What's wrong with you? She’s under our protection! Do you want his highness to hear about this when he returns?”

He pushed past the tattered curtain without caring to hear more. The dormitory was lit only by a single oil lamp that cast long shadows across the stone walls. You sat stock straight on the edge of a makeshift pallet, a worn woolen blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Your eyes were wide, face flushed with embarrassment.

“Is everything alright?” you asked.

Phainon stood awkwardly, suddenly aware of how he towered over you. “Everything’s fine,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “Just some ugly guy running his mouth again.”

Before you could continue, Phainon nodded toward the small stack beside your pallet. "So, uh, what are you reading?"

The question hung between you. Phainon figured his attempt to shift the conversation had been too obvious. But you looked pleasantly surprised, as if no one had asked about your reading habits in a long time. You reached for the topmost volume, a leather-bound thing with frayed edges and yellowed pages.

“Not much of a selection, I’m afraid,” you mumble, turning the book over in your hands. “Mostly old swordplay manuals. This one describes forms for combating multiple opponents. I've never seen such detailed illustrations for acts of bloodshed.”

Phainon sighed. “A whole lot of good a book’s gonna do in a fight.”

Your eyes linger on him. “Don’t you think there might be something useful here? Even for someone as skilled as you?”

Phainon crouched down to look, his brow furrowing. The manual was open to a page of stiff practitioners with their limbs arranged in perfect angles that bore little resemblance to the chaos of real battle.

“Nice pictures,“ he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “But if you’re about to die, you don't have time to remember what some book told you about where to put your feet.”

You looked puzzled. “That’s strange. Father once mentioned that he learned a lot from these. He’s read all the combat treatises.”

Of course your father could learn from books. It was like you were trying to piss him off.

You turned a page, revealing an illustration of a swordsman facing three opponents, his blade positioned to create a wide arc. “What about this? The text says this stance can help maintain distance.”

Phainon snorted. “By the time you got your sword like that, you’d already have the second guy circling around to your back.”

Your fingers traced the lines of the illustration. “I trust you in that of course, but doesn’t the theory seem sound? It says here that by positioning yourself thus, you force your opponents to crowd each other, limiting their movements. Is that true?”

Phainon looked at the page again, studying the angles more carefully. The stance wasn’t entirely useless, he supposed. He could almost see himself executing the move, his blade carving through the air fast enough to create the defensive arc shown in the illustration. His reach would cut wider arcs than the drawing suggested. He’d be faster, harder to predict. With his strength and speed, he could make it work. He kept that assessment to himself. No sense in giving book learning more credit than it deserved.

“Maybe,” he said finally, standing back up. “Could try it sometime, I guess.”

Your face brightened, as if his small concession was some kind of victory. “I could mark the pages that seem most practical,” you offered, already leafing through the volume with renewed purpose.

“Please don’t, princess.”

He thought about telling you that he was born with a sword in his hand but thought better of it when he imagined how you might take it literally and how many questions that would spawn.

“Forgive me. I haven’t been sleeping well and I might’ve grown a bit restless. I’ve been reading these to pass the time,” you admit, closing the book carefully. “And perhaps... to better understand you.”

Your eyes fixed on Phainon’s sword with open curiosity.

“Sir Phainon,” you started cautiously. “Might I… might I see it more closely?”

He glanced down at the blade, then at your hands. “It’s heavy,” he warned. “Imagine what I’d have to tell the others if it landed on you.”

“I know. I’ve seen knights carry swords in processions all my life, but I’ve never actually touched one.”

Phainon drew the blade partway and angled the hilt toward you, keeping one hand firm against the flat side to steady it. You stepped nearer, as if approaching something that could strike you dead if you didn’t show the proper respect. You extended your fingers and laid them against the metal. The cold startled you. You traced the length of the blade, staying close to the fuller, avoiding the edges, following the nicks and notches where other weapons had met it in earnest.

“It is… scarred,” you murmured.

“It’s well used,” he corrected.

Sudden agitation crawled up Phainon’s spine as he watched you. “You’re so damn helpless, you know that? After all this, you have to learn to handle a blade. Even if it’s just a knife. I could show you the basics.”

You looked up at him with alarm. “Oh heavens, I could never. Even if I were a man, I don’t think I could lift a blade against another person.”

For a moment, Phainon was flooded with all the reasons you were wrong. Mercy can’t stop an arrow. High-minded ideals can’t break a siege. The world would grind you down for thinking that way. But when he saw the utterly sincere look on your face, any mounting arguments fell apart in his mouth.

He snorted instead. “You’re weirder than Mydei.”

Your brows knit together, that small frown that made you look younger than you were. “Oh?” you said, a touch of wounded pride creeping in. “Pray tell, how is Lord Mydei so weird?”

Phainon scratched at his neck, eyes sliding away. He didn’t have the words. He never did. These people and their shining convictions, their belief in something beyond survival. He loved that about Mydei, even as it carved a distance between them he could never bridge. You had a bit of that light too, just a softer kind. Maybe you two were truly meant for each other. Wait—what? The thought left Phainon feeling small, clumsy, outclassed in a way no battlefield had ever managed.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said at last. “Some people are just… different. He was born special.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Sir Phainon… may I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”

He paused. “Just ask.”

You folded your hands in your lap, fingers worrying at one another. “Do you think… people are born wanting great things?”

He snorted. “Probably not.”

That surprised you enough that you looked up. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“You're asking me. That's what you get.”

You nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something you had long suspected. “I never wanted to be a queen,” you confessed. “Not once. Not even when I was a child. I find all this terribly frightening but also… quite the relief.” 

You hesitated, then gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “Please, don’t tell another soul. I—I couldn’t bear for them to know.”

Phainon shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t... it isn’t my business.”

Seeing your distress, he added gently, “I will not.”

Relief washed over your face. You looked down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.

“Thank you. Despite that, I want to... be something. I will be a good queen, if I’m called to be.”

.

Night fell upon the monastery. Somewhere in the dark, a rafter complained with a noisy creak.

Phainon’s hand went to his sword hilt before thought had time to intervene. He turned his head, listening and quickly ruled out timbers settling into their age or the pressing of November gusts. The sound progressed with confidence. A weight placed, then withdrawn, hastening.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the chamber’s shadows. The darkness beyond the single oil lamp suddenly seemed alive with possibilities. He stepped toward the wall with a practiced stealth.

Through a gap in the crumbling stone, he caught the faithless gleam of metal—a sword blade reflecting moonlight where no blade should be. Then another. And another.

“Shit,” he breathed.

Phainon’s jaw set as he counted the moving shapes. His mind raced through the options. They were already outnumbered, outflanked, and they were scattered throughout the monastery grounds.

A soft rustling behind him made him whirl around. You were stirring on your pallet, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the heel of your palm.

“Sir Phainon?” you murmured, voice drifting through the darkness, soft with sleep. “Is something amiss?”

He crossed the chamber in four long strides and clamped a calloused hand over your mouth, his other finger pressed to his lips. Your eyes widened, confusion giving way to alarm.

“Shut up,” he whispered, his breath hot in the shell of your ear. “They're here.”

He released you slowly, watching the terrible understanding settle in your eyes. A sudden crash shattered the night’s stillness—the abbey door exploded inward, wood splinters flying like deadly shrapnel. Shouts erupted from every direction.

A man’s voice rang out from the monastery’s decrepit bell tower, clear above the chaos. “They’ve come for the Princess! From the east ridge!”

Phainon drew his sword from its hanger, positioning himself between you and the door. 

The curtains of your chamber tore away and three soldiers in royal livery burst through, swords drawn.

“There she is!” One shouted, pointing at you with the tip of his blade. Steel caught the lamplight as they advanced.

Phainon didn’t hesitate. He swung his massive sword in a wide arc that caught the first man across the chest, nearly cleaving him in two. Blood sprayed across the stone floor as the body crumpled.

“Behind me! Now!” Phainon barked, already pivoting to meet the next attacker. 

You scrambled behind. Your breath came in short, terrified gasps. “How did they find us?”

“Doesn't matter now,” Phainon grunted, driving his blade into the second man's shoulder. The soldier screamed, his sword clattered to the stone floor.

More soldiers rushed in. Phainon met them with a savage swing, his blade connecting with two swords at once, the impact sending sparks flying in the dim light. One tried to circle around, making for the Princess. You ducked under Phainon’s cloak and wrapped your arms around his waist in a noose-like grip, your face pressed against his broad back, trembling.

“Hold tight,” he snarled and swung his sword in a wide arc. Blood splattered across the stone floor, slick under his boots as he backed toward the far wall. You whimpered as your naked feet patted wetly through his wake.

The narrow doorway worked to Phainon’s advantage, forcing his attackers to come at him one by one. He backed up steadily, keeping you sheltered underwing. The weight of you dragging down his waist was nothing compared to the burden of protecting your life. 

A crossbow bolt whistled past, embedding itself in the wooden beam above. Splinters rained down as he sidestepped, yanking you along with him as more soldiers poured through the doorway. The room was becoming a death trap. Through the cacophony, Phainon could make out Mydei’s voice calling for a retreat. Good. They knew what to do. Take to the fields, where their victory was assured.

His sword swept wide arcs that kept the soldiers at bay, but they were pressing closer, coordinating now, trying to flank him. Behind him, moonlight spilled through a low window. It faced an old storehouse they had converted to makeshift stables. He could hear a frenzy of untethering horses. If he could get you to them...

“When I say go,” he muttered over his shoulder, “you climb through that window and run straight for your horse. Don't look back.”

A soldier lunged at his left. Phainon pivoted, cleaving through the man’s shoulder. Another came from the right. He kicked that one back.

“Go!” Phainon ordered, wresting your arms away and thrusting you through the window frame in one violent motion. You tumbled through with a startled cry.

Pain ripped along his left side as a blade slashed through leather and found purchase in his flesh. Liquid fire sheets down his ribs. His tunic clung, sticky to his skin. The man who landed the blow grinned as he wrenched his sword free, red glistening along its edge. 

“Bleed the bastard!” Someone shouted.

Pain gathered at the core of him the way a storm focuses the sky. Heat flooded his skull as his vision tunneled, the edges dimming to shadow until only the men before him remained. His mouth peeled back from his teeth as he set both hands on the hilt. The soldiers hesitated. Without conscious thought, his body shifted, sword positioned like a scythe before the harvest.

“Come on, then,” he mumbled.

The yard had dissolved into chaos. His men rallied with superior horsemanship, hooves thundering against the packed earth. Swords flashed in the moonlight as they cut down the royal soldiers like wolves falling on routed sheep.

“Princess!” The cry tore from his throat, raw and desperate. Panic clawed at his chest—a foreign sensation he hadn’t felt since—

A soldier rushed him from the side. Without breaking stride, Phainon swung his blade in a low arc that severed the man’s legs at the knees. The man collapsed with a shriek, but Phainon had already moved past him, eyes scanning the chaos for any sign of the Princess.

Then Phainon saw you.

Your slight form bounced atop your white mare. Your face shone pale beneath the moon, hair wild as a leaf eddy in the autumn sky. You were seated properly astride the horse, not perched side-saddle as you’d always insisted before. Two of his comrades rode close at either side, swords drawn.

Relief surged through Phainon with such force that his knees nearly buckled. Even from this distance, he could see your face twist with concern as you scanned the field. The mare wheeled beneath you, restless and wide-eyed, hooves pawing at the churned earth while you tugged at the reins, trying to steady her.

Then your eyes met across the battle-strewn lawn, and your features transformed. Your arm shot up, finger extended toward him as you shouted something. The men nearest you turned sharply in their saddles, following your line of sight.

“He’s hurt,” you insisted in a litany the whole way over.

“Later,” Phainon managed, forcing the word out between breaths.

Another group of men moved to meet you. One opened his mouth, caught the look on Phainon’s face, and thought better of it. Another reached for the reins. Phainon waved him off with a short motion.

“Get a fire ready,” he said. “And hot water. Clean cloth.”

The man nodded and ran.

You slid from the saddle. Your feet struck the ground unevenly; you swayed and caught yourself against Phainon’s arm before you could stop. He went rigid at the touch—more reflex than discomfort. What little energy he possessed he used to resist the urge to shove you off.

“I can walk,” you said, flustered.

“Whatever, just follow me,” he replied, already scanning across the flurry of action at camp. Every sound scraped at him—the hammering of tent stakes, the rasp of flint, the low murmur of voices. His pulse beat loud in his ears.

You reached the open storehouse together. Phainon ducked inside first, eyes sweeping the dim interior before he gestured you in. He set his sword in the corner, angled just so, where his hand would find it even if he slumped. Only then did he allow himself to lean heavily against a wooden beam.

You hovered at the entrance, then stepped fully inside, clutching your cloak closed in a fist at your throat. Light from the hanging oil lamp illuminated Phainon and made him squint. You sucked in a sharp breath. He looked down and saw a red smear spreading along his side.

“Oh, Sir, Phainon. Please sit down,” you said in a trembling voice.

“You sit down first. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

You fell to your knees by a low stool, looking at him with huge, anxious eyes.

He obeyed then, not particularly compelled by the weight of one little princess’s expectations, but because the world tilted unpleasantly when he tried to stay standing. He lowered himself halfway down to the stool and fell heavily the rest of the way onto the seat. With some effort, he pulled off his blood stiffened armour and tunic. You averted your eyes. Stripped to the waist, Phainon shivered at the way his skin cooled in the night air even as his muscles started to ache. He looked over the damage. Blood had gone tacky and dark along his ribs. The cut was shallow but long. Another welt bruised his shoulder from where he bashed against the window frame.

Someone arrived at the doorway with water and rags which you leapt up to collect. When the canvas flap fell back and the sounds of the camp dulled Phainon let his shoulders sag, his gaze lifting to the slivers of moonlit sky that peeked through gaps in the roof. He exhaled noisily through his nose to slow the laboring of his breath.

You flitted around him like a nervous little bird unsure of where to land. Your sleeves were already rolled, forearms as pale as swans greeting the dawn. You had washed your hands; he could smell the sharp bite of vinegar beneath the steam rising from the linen cloth you carried.

“May I?” you asked, though your hands were already moving, hovering just shy of his skin.

Phainon braced himself. “Do whatever you want.”

You dabbed first. The cloth came away red, then pink. You swallowed but did not stop. The amber light caught the scars that mapped him. Old slashes that healed into crooked, pale lines seemed to startle you more than the fresh wounds. 

“I think this will sting,” you said apologetically, and pressed the soaked cloth along the cut.

He hissed through his teeth. His muscles jumped beneath your fingers.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said. “Hurts less than it looks.”

You didn’t seem to believe him. After cleaning, you reached for the small bowl of thick salve. Honey to keep rot away, followed by grease to protect the wound. You frowned, concentrating. Phainon almost admired the effort; he doubted you’d even made your own breakfast before. You reached for the linen bandages and pressed the first length gently against his side to hold the salve in place. Your fingers were warm. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and stared hard at the wall.

Then you began to wrap. 

Phainon held himself rigid, afraid that if he moved at all he’d knock you off balance. Every turn of the bandage seemed to pull you nearer. Your body pressed against him apologetically, slim shoulder brushing his chest, bushy hair tickling his cheek. He was acutely aware of how small the Princess was, and yet how carefully you tried not to rest your weight on him.

You reached around him again, fingers grazing his spine as you searched for the end of the wrap. His jaw clenched. His hands curled uselessly at his sides, unsure where they were supposed to go.

“You should sleep soon,” you said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

You also clearly had no conception of what ‘a lot of blood’ was. He’d lost more blood when he first joined the knights.

“Can’t,” he answered. “I’m taking the first watch.”

Your hands paused. “You can’t be up all night like this.”

“Never bothered me before,” he replied. 

You touched his bruised shoulder, then hesitated. “May I at least say a prayer for you?”

He shrugged, too exhausted to say otherwise.

You bowed your head, lips moving soundlessly. It was not as courtly and refined as Phainon would’ve expected, but something halting and earnest. Your fingers rested on his arm as if to press pure, unadulterated, divine love inside of him. You thanked God for him.

When you finished, you looked up, eyes wet, bright in the lamplight. “And thank you for protecting me, Sir Phainon,” you said.

He shifted, uncomfortable. “Sure.”

Your movements were steadier when you gathered the rags, rinsed them, folded them again.

“Try to sleep,” you said softly. “At least a little.”

He watched you step back, the lamplight catching the rough linen of your dress, the wild curve of your hair.

“I’ll rest,” he said. It was easier than arguing.

You nodded, satisfied, and sat back down on the ground. You looked like a pilgrim at his feet. Phainon sat there a moment longer, listening to the camp breathe, the bandage warm against his skin where your hands had been.

“You’re a nice woman,” he said abruptly. 

You tilted your head.

“You’re a decent person. I hope you’re queen someday—” He paused, scowling faintly. “I mean, if it means marrying someone who will treat you okay. Otherwise… I hope you’re not queen at all. On account of not wanting to be.”

You blinked, surprised, then smiled. “Thank you. I only hope I might be made a friend of yours after all this.” You glanced down at your borrowed clothes. “I may not look like it, but I think I’m much like you. I would lay down my life for my dream.”

Phainon huffed. “No. Better than me. I wouldn’t go this far for no dream.”

He didn’t say the rest aloud. I would die for my brotheren. For them only. There is a difference.

“Of course you would say that,” you replied gently. “You protect people, Sir Phainon.”

“For the coin,” he shot back. “It has nothing to do with chivalry.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Why do you argue every time I try to praise you?”

“Because I’m nothing like you. I’m not a good person… at all.”

You seemed to consider that. “You are your Lord’s most trusted knight. There must be good in you. Only someone who cares about goodness worries so much over whether they have it.”

Before he could answer, you spoke again, quieter now, as if to yourself. “All of the people who fight beside you believes in you, so I will as well.”

The words struck Phainon, more jarring than the wound in his side.

You studied him, your head still tilted, those eyes far too perceptive for someone who’d spent her life behind palace walls. “Do you doubt his judgment of you?”

“No,” Phainon answered softly. “I believe I don’t deserve it. Either way—I don’t want to be a knight. It is of little importance.” The words escaped before he could stop them, rougher than he intended.

Your eyes widened slightly.

To be remembered when absent—it was a strange kind of existence Phainon had often experienced.

“Yet you truly believe in his dream.”

“Yeah,” Phainon said.

Your gaze dropped to his cloak, to where the badge was pinned, frayed and bloodied. “I want a badge of my own.”

A short bark of a laugh escaped him. “You’re not as spoiled as I thought, I’ll give you that. One day, I’ll get you your badge.”

Your eyes lit. “You promise?”

“No,” Phainon said. “I don’t make those.”

Your mouth fell into a small, wounded pout.

He looked away. 

“But I will, Princess,” he added. “I will.”

.

Phainon startled awake from a deep sleep he couldn’t remember entering. His body hardened at once, his hand already closing on the sword hilt before his eyes had fully opened. Darkness pressed around him, the night still deep. Something was wrong. 

“Princess?” he called, keeping his voice low.

You didn’t answer. He didn’t see you anywhere.

A coldness took hold. He rose without sound and searched the small interior. Your cloak was missing. Your roughshod boots stood where you’d left them, side by side near the hay.

“Damn it,” he muttered, gathering his shirt and cloak.

Then he heard the soft sounds of weeping.

He chased it out to the ruined doorway and found you at once, huddled just outside with your legs drawn tight, forehead resting on your knees. You were wrapped in your cloak like it was the last thing left to you.

“Princess! Fucking hell, scared me half to death,” he admonished even as relief flooded him.

You looked up with a face full of shame, like a child discovered awake after hours. Then the look fell apart, and what you had been holding back gave way.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It was only a nightmare.”

“Get back inside,” he said brusquely. “You can tell me about it there.”

You rose, reached for his arm, and didn’t release it as you returned to your blankets over the unbaled hay.

Phainon leaned back against a beam. You stared down at your feet curled in the straw.

“Please don’t do that again.” Phainon said gruffly. “It freaks me out.”

You wiped your eyes.

Phainon considered being a little softer. “So, a… nightmare?”

“It was about Danae. I keep thinking I hear her voice,” you said at last, wavering. “She was more than my handmaid. She was my closest friend and I miss her… so much.”

“Huh… I’m sure you’ll see her again one day, at that country house of yours.”

You shook your head. “She’s dead, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon stared at you, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Dead. He’d assumed maids went forgotten in the chaos of the abduction. No one had said anything to him about casualties.

“I didn’t know,” Phainon said quietly.

Phainon lowered himself to one knee, bringing his face level with yours. The bandages pulled at his wound, but he ignored the pain.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of your dress. “My father discovered the deception I had done—and that she had helped me with it. He had her hanged before the court like a traitor. They—they said he was in a rage unlike any they’d seen before. He wouldn't even allow her a proper burial. So, I’m sure you can understand, I’ve come to hate my father.”

Phainon placed a heavy hand on your shoulder. It was all he could think to do.

You didn’t look up at his touch. “Everyone who comes near me dies.”

It was as if the ground had dropped away beneath him.

“Death has followed me since I was a child. My mother died when I was so small I can barely remember her face. Last year, my great uncle and dear cousin, murdered in their own chambers. And then my instructor, taken by that terrible fire!” You looked up at him, tears streaming down your face. “I’ve brought a terrible curse upon my house! I’m truly—”

“Stop it,” he interjected, his voice coming out rougher than intended. “You are not cursed.”

The taste of guilt on his tongue, Phainon pulled away from you, unable to bear the touch. His hands felt stained. The final moments of your family flashed behind his eyes. He saw the terror in their face, meeting death in those darkened chambers. How many losses had he inflicted on this girl who now looked to him for comfort?

“How can you be so sure?” you asked, your eyes wide and desperate for reassurance.

Phainon gave a bitter laugh. “Because it's my fault. I'm the bad omen. Always have been. Whatever curse is on your house started when we first came to your kingdom, because I was with em.”

Outside, ravens cawed and croaked in the night fog. He stood abruptly and paced the small space like a caged animal. The wound at his side pulled with each step, but he welcomed the pain. It felt deserved.

“I’m sorry,” Phainon said, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. “I got too close… to my men, to you... to everyone. And you think you’re the one at fault? You aren’t.”

You rose from your place in the straw, the cloak falling away from your shoulders. You reached out, catching his arm as he turned to pace back. The touch was light, but it stopped him as surely as if you’d thrown a rope around him.

Phainon looked down at your small hand on his forearm, at the delicate fingers that had no business touching someone like him. He wanted to pull away but found he couldn’t.

“I’ve misjudged you terribly,” you whispered, your eyes searching his face. Dampness still clung to your lashes, your lips quivered. 

Your hand slid to his wrist. “Phainon…”

Phainon heard the exhaustion in your voice and realized too late that he should’ve put distance between you. 

You reached up, your lips brushed his cheek, then pressed again, trembling, like you were waiting for something to happen to you.

Phainon froze.

Some highly man would still bed this woman one day, wouldn’t he? Phainon never dared to imagine it before: the thoughts made an ugly impulse rise up. He almost jerked away from it, but it had already made its home in his blood. He kissed you as hard as he could.

Your gasp was suffocated as Phainon pressed forward like this was proof that he could stand within another’s dominion and not vanish.

Too long had Phainon stood upon the scales, awaiting the measure of his worth. In the ancient days, souls were weighed against feathers. You probably belonged to that bygone era. Nowadays, souls are weighed against iron, and every other hellbound defiler skirts their own devouring. His heart would always be a profane thing, no matter what was set against it.

You moaned against his mouth, a sound so unintentionally arousing that Phainon felt himself falling deeper into his haze. Your fingers clutched at his arms, as if you’d been waiting for this—for someone, anyone, to show you that passion existed beyond courtly words and distant promises.

No. That wasn’t quite right. Your strength might’ve been feeble, but you were… pushing him away.

He jerked back, a rush of air filled his lungs like he’d been drowning. You echoed him with your own starving gasp. Your eyes fluttered open, wide and stunned. A flush spread across your cheeks, turning your skin the heated color of dawn. You touched your parted mouth with trembling fingers. 

“Princess,” he started, his voice rough as gravel. The word hung between you, incomplete. What could he possibly say? That he’d kissed you in defiance of a man who wasn’t even here?

Phainon took a step back, putting distance between you, unable to look at your flushed face. “I’m at fault here.”

He turned away. Shame moved through him, slow and venomous. The kiss lingered on his lips and he wished he could spit it out. This treason against all kings. Worse, this mundane betrayal of a good and gentle woman.

At that, your cheeks colored. “No—no, I... I need certainty,” you breathe moments after, looking down and away from him.

A soft hand is placed on your cheek, making you look towards him.

“I want to touch you,” Phainon admits, with no amount of shame present in his voice. He likes the way you tremble at the timbre in his tone, so he plants a soft kiss on your shoulder, “I want to do a lot of things, to you.”

You look down at him, elevated as his hands find themselves beneath you. 

“A lot?”

Phainon nuzzles his nose beneath your chest, nodding as he looks up at you. 

“A lot.”

You look at him like some sort of apparition. And that is no good. No good at all. Because then it will lead to Phainon overthinking everything about you: your delicate fingers scratching at the skin on the back of his neck, the way your chest rises up and down, the haze in your eyes telling him you want him too. 

“Okay,” said Phainon. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Undress for me. As far as you want.”

He watched with ardent interest as you unlaced the side of your kirtle and stepped out of it, a pool of deep navy settling by your feet. And then—to Phainon’s surprise—you reached for the bottom of your chemise and lifted it up. “Please treat me gently.”

Obeying your request comes just as easily. 

Phainon meets your mouth in a clash of teeth. Soft lips melt into his, and he explores every crevice of your mouth with adept dexterity. His hands bunch at your thighs, and you whimper—resting your chin on his broad shoulder when you pull away for air.

Still in his clothes, Phainon manages to tug his chausses down along with his boxers to his mid thighs, revealing his sturdy manhood. You moan into his mouth when the hot skin presses against your inner thigh. 

“Phai—Phainon, please,” you mewl so sweetly, gazing down at him with stars in your eyes. 

The very sight of you, held by him like this, would probably send him to purgatory. It’s debauched in every sense of the word. 

Phainon sighs, rubbing the head of his manhood over your slick folds that twitch and cream over it.

He rests his head on your collar, as you wrap your arms around him and bury yourself in the crook of his neck—a pliant and soft mess for him. 

“Phainon, Phainon” You cry, small tears escaping your eyes as he pushes you further down his cock, “Feels—Feels good.”

Sweat runs down his forehead, and your moist body presses against his. He kisses at your chest, which only makes you arch your back and press him further into you. Phainon’s thrusts grow more intense, wanting to take you away—wanting to have you all for himself. A warm hand goes down to tease your clit and when you tighten around him, he sees stars. When the familiar band of pleasure reaches him, something he had not felt in years, his thrusts grow more rapid—with a strong want.

“Phainon—l’m going to—,” You mewl, and he grips tighter onto your hips.

“I have you, I have you,” He grunts, driving further to make you reach your high. You hiccup, and Phainon can feel a few tears fall down and touch his skin when you pull away from his neck to meet his lips as you come around you. He comes shortly after, clutching onto your malleable frame tightly, afraid that if he were to blink you would disappear.

When he comes back down, you lay next to him. You collapse into his chest, and he hums, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. He still feels a bit high, especially as you coddle him. The moonlight paints the room in a soft glow—painting over your skin.

You prop yourself on his chest, and Phainon lets himself pet your cheek. 

“I am really glad you were born into this world,” you murmur, lids drooping—threatening to close. He rubs your cheekbone with the knuckle of his finger, pushing your cheek—urging you to rest.

.

Dawn broke over the camp in a wash of pale gold. When the scouts reported their King’s approach, relief washed through the camp like a fever breaking. Men straightened their postures, checked their weapons, brushed dirt from their cloaks.

Phainon stood apart from the others, arms crossed over his chest. The wound at his side had begun to itch, a sign of healing that irritated him more than the original pain. He scratched at it absently, watching the tree line.

His Highness rode at the head of his contingent, regal with the crown that costed a fortune. Behind him, the rest of the soldiers spread out in formation—Mydei’s dark silhouette recognizable among them, Chartonus’ massive form unmistakable.

Men called out greetings, some rushing forward to hear the news. You took a half-step backward, then stopped, composing yourself with visible effort.

Phainon stayed where he was, watching as his Liege dismounted in one fluid motion, handing his reins to a waiting servant. His eyes scanned the camp, taking in everything at once—the defensive positions, the state of the men, the provisions. When his gaze landed on the captive Princess from the other lands, his face hardened in a way Phainon had seen only rarely, a genuine hatred that made something twist inside him.

The men took their cue, backing away to give their commander a wide berth. Yet their eyes darted toward their commander and the Princess when they thought no one was looking. Phainon didn’t pretend. He watched openly.

You approached the other with small, hesitant steps. The distance between you closed like a wound healed. When you met, he took your hands in his, bending slightly to speak to you in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Your face fell.

Phainon leaned against a tree, arms still crossed, the bark rough against his shoulder blades. He felt the weight of his own presence, heavy and intrusive. He should turn away. He knew he should. But his eyes refused.

You parted. His King said something and you responded with a nod, then walked to where the others waited. You excused yourself with a small curtsy—a gesture that seemed absurd in your peasant clothes—before turning away, walking with newfound hurt toward the returning soldiers.

Something cold and leaden settled in Phainon’s stomach. He looked away, then forced himself to look back. This was the dream made flesh and then lead to the block. He had no right to flinch from it.

One thing was clear. His commander returned victorious. The deal had been struck.

.

As Phainon turned from the last of his junior comrades, you caught him by the arm with a firmness that brooked no evasion. You walked him back several paces from the others, set your heel, and pivoted you so his back was to the campfire. Your shadows stretched long across the frost-hardened earth, reaching past the tethered horses, which stamped and breathed pale steam into the morning air.

Close up, in the slanting light, you finally saw how different Phainon looked.

The planes of his face seemed sharper, casting shadows that weren't there before. A darkness pooled beneath his eyes, lending his gaze a bright, fevered clarity. His charm remained, but it had taken on the austere cast of a carven bust.

You had meant to greet him proper—as you should have, and then press your concern privately as a loyal confidant. Instead, the words broke from you unbidden.

“I’ll carry that promise with me into the grave.”

Peals of laughter erupted in the distance, followed by the clang of a kettle overturned and a chorus of friendly shouts. The noise rolled through the camp like a cleansing surf. You stepped closer, until he could smell the road dust on Phainon’s cloak, narrowing the space between you so your words wouldn’t carry.

Phainon looked affronted at first but then his eyes gathered into a winter storm. “Now is the time you choose to question the worth of his highness’ word?”

You released his arm, and broke down. “You feed me promises like I’m some invalid.”

“He’s won his kingdom,” Phainon said, authority settling into his voice. “He preserves his Knights. And one day, I swear he shall restore you to your rightful place. Which of these charges would you have me answer for?”

“So you really are sending me back to a murderer," you frowned, stepping closer until he could see the fine lines of exhaustion etched around your eyes. “Right back to the man who had the girl dressed as his own daughter hanged.”

“A king would not harm his only heir."

“Yes, except he isn’t a fucking king anymore, is he?” you pressed. “Please, just tell me it weighs on you. Tell me your conscience is tearing you apart. Please.”

If there was agony toiling within Phainon, it had submerged beyond sight, but his voice rang hollow like bones without marrow. “I can’t do that.”

You nearly cry. “But you can kiss me like that? Let me believe? That’s just cruel. I love you, you know?”

Phainon took a step back, putting distance between you, unable to look at your face. What could he say to you when court decorum was immaterial?

“Please, Sir Phainon. Do I still have my honor?”

“Of course you have. You did nothing—without our King to lead us, we’re just a bunch of men, remember? Me included.”

“I regret that this outcome causes you pain, truly. But it’s settled now,” Phainon said as though he’d already lost his knightly stature before the reign had even begun.

“Phainon, I’m exhausted,” you confessed at last. “After all this, I’ll have an even greater need of—”

He cut you off with a flustered sound halfway between a curse and a sigh and turned away. He was tired too. He felt empty.

“For what it’s worth, Princess—”

“You’ve done well.” You cut him off.

Phainon didn’t feel the swell of pride that usually came with your praise.

.

The men had drunk themselves into contentment, reassured by their leader’s presence as dogs are reassured by the return of a master long absent. Fires guttered low. Horses were sent to pasture to graze in peace. Men shuffled to their tents in a haze of dreamlike bliss.

Phainon was awake. He turned onto his back and stared at the canvas above him, where firelight breathed faintly through the weave.

He knew where you had retired for the night. A separate tent had been given over to you. A place no one would disturb.

Phainon shut his eyes.

Phainon imagined the lamplight dimmed to amber, shadows sliding along canvas walls. Pale bodies unburdened in private.

The thought came unbidden and would not be dislodged. Phainon pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes until sparks flared behind them. He felt like a stray in a stranger’s camp.

Your hands were soft. You would lift them to his brow, smoothing the line of strain there without fully knowing the gift you gave. You would rest your palm on his chest as if to reassure yourself his heart still beat. When you spoke his name, it would carry the same hush you used for prayer.

Would he draw you close? Offer you consolation before exile? You would not refuse him if he did.

In the far distance, a lone wolf’s howl carried thin and hungry over the plain.

Phainon listened to it with a dull ache in his chest. He hoped for the wolf to find him. Lead the whole pack into his tent. Finish what their distant kin had failed to do. Their teeth in his throat would be cleaner than the slow agony of rotting away in this yearning. This awful regret.

.

You had spoken of your summer residence more than once, describing a place half-remembered from childhood. It lay beyond the low hills, in a state of disuse, given how few were left now to occupy it. Laid down by your forefather, before the wars, built of pale gray stone veiled in ivy, its slate roof pitched steep against the weather. Cypress trees stood in dark rows along the garden walls, and winter grass had gone wild between the flagstones. The road to it was narrow and seldom used. The kind of place meant for comfortable retirements. The former King would be sitting there alone, amongst the dust-coated furniture. Awaiting your arrival.

Phainon accompanied you to the edge of camp. You stood in mutual silence, your cloak drawn tight and hair pinned plainly at your neck. You looked like someone who had stepped out of a storybook and found the world terribly unfamiliar.

With the old man’s abdication, the deal was all but sealed. You were to be moved like a piece cleared from the board. Secreted away like a pawn to join her disgraced king.

“You’re a nice woman,” Phainon said lamely.

“Sir Phainon,” you whispered.

He placed a hand over yours. “Please, take heart. The countryside will suit you. There will be gardens. Peace and quiet. Time enough for your needle arts.”

You nodded, clinging to every word. “Will you—when will you come?”

“I am sworn to never again entreat the former king. But I will come as before… as soon as possible.”

Phainon’s hand lingered a moment longer over yours. Then, with surprising reluctance, he released you. 

“I’ll be departing soon,” you said, bowing your head to him. “Thank you… for all you’ve done, Phainon. And I’m sorry. For the times when I was a burden.”

Phainon frowned, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “You of all people don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry, for everything I put you through.”

He hesitated, then reached up and tugged at his cloak. The pin came loose with a soft snap of metal. He pulled free the badge.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into your hand. “Don’t let your Pa see it. He probably knows what it means.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh—but this is yours,” you said quickly. “What will you do without it?”

“Just take it.” He waved it off.

You held the metal like it might vanish if you loosened your grip. For a moment you only stared, lips parted, as though you’d been given something sacred. Looking at your joy, it was easy to imagine himself in his boyhood, picking wheat stalks from the ground, turning them over in his fingers as if they were signs left just for him. Like he’d found breadcrumbs to heaven before ever looking up.

You slipped the badge into the bodice of your dress, close to you heart, and wrapped your arms around yourself. A small, involuntary sound escaped you, almost a coo, full of comfort and ache in equal measure.

Handing you a piece of your hero, extracted from his own cloak was a strange feeling. Something twisted in Phainon’s chest and suddenly, the gift felt like a reckless mistake, as though he’d given away a precious resource without knowing its true worth.

When it was time, Phainon helped you into the carriage. You looked back once, hope pressed to your heart like debris packed into a wound.

Phainon tried to smile at you. You equally failed in the attempt. You started to cry, softly, no longer able to keep anything hidden. 

The horses rallied, the wheels turned and the road pulled you away. Phainon watched until the carriage vanished beyond the hills into obscurity. 

“So long,” he says your name, just to feel its sound inside his head.

Then he mounted his horse and rode in the opposite direction to rejoin the others, toward the future.

The wind rattled the empty clasp on his cloak and Phainon wondered how many things could be lost without ever being claimed in the first place.

.

P. S. The “best” ending isn’t the one where they run off into the sunset—because Phainon’s character is built on the iron-clad tragedy of his loyalty. If he betrays his King, he loses the very thing that shapes him into who he is: his unshakable core.

[azurebright]

co-worker! Phainon gets distracted at work :p

This was pitiful, Phainon thought, he was pitiful.

... and it was especially pitiful because he knew he was being kind of annoying.

“You know how to build stuff, Goldfish?” He started, as soon as you took the seat next to him one Tuesday morning — with an intention to fix his printer. He uncapped his water bottle and took a sip, regretting asking in the first place. Of course you knew. Why else would you be here?

“Mhm.” You place your bag down onto his desk and Phainon moves to take a peek. All you have is your bag is a pile of books that are on the verge of ripping, and there's a series of sticky notes on the top of them — he knows he shouldn't, but he reads a few.

There's a few about restocking some supplies, and even more about various design plans. He thinks you put an awful lot of work into a position that technically isn't even something you're interested in. And then, his eyes land on his name — in pink pen that stands out on the yellow paper, 'Phainon Of Aedes Elysiae' is scrawled on with a myriad of stars and circles and squiggles surrounding it. He blinks, half expecting the message to vanish. It doesn't. This was the effort you made to remember his name, which means you regularly thought of him, or maybe he was just being pitiful.

“Why does everyone call you that? Uh — Goldfish.” You frown from where you squat in his cubicle, as you pull the cartilage out of his printer. “I have bad memory. And also because I believe people think I'd make a good house pet. Boss Man (ahem) says I'm low maintenance and resilient,” You furrow your brows in confusion, as you didn’t even think he remembered, especially due to his preoccupation during the conversation in which you’d reminded him.

What were you even on about? Not only have you invaded his dreams for the last two days, and not only have the been the only thing he thought of in the last three hundred hours, you had also been the first person he could picture himself with, in his entire lifetime of twenty-nine — every time he rested his eyes, which was disturbing to say the least. Dreams are a two-sided sword. Phainon convinced himself you'll save him from his misery or, you'll utterly destroy him to the point he cannot fix himself, ever.

His palms are warm and his whole body seems to radiate heat. It is winter. The skin of his hand is rough and calloused, tad dry. In this moment, in this cubicle, complete with the yellowed lighting of the rare, and much appreciated sun coming through the glass windows and the blocks of color to represent the various company prototype posters hanging on the walls. It's a crude imitation of reality, but a piece of you and a piece of him, and he thinks that makes it beautiful.

Artists often draw people they like, either because they find them pleasing, have a personal connection with them, or are drawn to their unique features, which can manifest as finding someone attractive or interesting to capture in their artwork. However, Phainon wasn't exactly an artist, per se — he wouldn't call himself one, but he was human.

To his defence, it was your fault — or being so pretty, being so focused, for his sake. Sweaty forehead, lazy eyes with nothing behind them. He wishes you'd stay just like this. Wishes to meet you in places other than dimly-lit cubicles in work hours. Wishes he could punch Boss Man's stupid face, because he does not deserve to keep someone so brilliant as a subordinate who would follow his orders. Wishes he could be your seat mate on that stupid train, so you won't hurt yourself. Wishes you'd give him a chance to lend you his shoulder. Wishes he could visit your apartment — the one you've been telling him you've been renting ever since graduating. Wishes you'd visit his, someday, and not because of work. Wishes he can live a normal ordinary life with you — away from the scrutiny of his career. Wishes you'd let him think these stupid, nonsensical rhetorical fantasies out loud.

Wishes he could so proudly show how you've burnt into his soul, his eyes bulging out at what he has been doing — caught doing, the evidence displaying itself to him and yourself. “Is that me?”

Oh. He would go jump off a cliff, alright.

He slumps back in his seat, covering his burning ears with his hands, as you fiddle with the mouse — zooming to get a better look at his masterpiece, you, his art dainty and unique, and you're a little taken aback by how beautiful you could be. Maybe it was just Phainon. Maybe there really were stars in your eyes. Maybe there weren't. But you were beautiful, nonetheless. In this moment. To him, at least. “You drew me.” He thinks he's done a pretty good job of cooling himself down until your hand is on his forearm. The contact feels icy against his hot, flushed skin and it sends a shiver down his spine as he turns to meet your gaze again. “Are you... alright?”

This isn't the first time you've left him speechless, but it's the first time you've witnessed just how potent your effect on Phainon really is. You smile at him, he would have missed it if he wasn't staring so intently, before leaving him be, continuing to fiddle with his printer while he recuperates.

You thought it was his way of paying back. He'd rather you think that way. Phainon would rather die than admit to you that he found you so beautiful he wanted to rip his heart out of his chest and bear it into your hands. He would.

You must've changed him, he thinks, or at least brought out a part of him that he'd long since forgotten had existed. Because now, on this very moment with you still staring at him with tired, yet starry eyes — he thinks he sees it, too, in a way that he thinks you might've been trying to get him to see from perhaps the very beginning.

He sees himself, as an artwork. And he sees you — the artist.

[azurebright]

How big the hourglass, how deep the sand.

You run away with Phainon—leaving behind your old lives to set off on a perpetual chase for greener grass.

Pairing: Phainon / Reader

Word count: 14.6k

Contents: alternate universe, romance, angst, mutual pining, recovery, longing, unprotected sex, fingering, mentions of blood, war, violence etcetera.

.

The wagon had been rumbling over the wide roads for the past two days. Compared to your last few weeks on horseback, the wood should have offered a welcome respite, but the carriage jostled violently as the wheels groaned over the stray rocks and the uneven gravel, which had shaken loose from the paved footsoldier’s path running parallel to the road. You couldn’t close your eyes for longer than seconds at a time—let alone sleep. Your body refused to doze, a strange falling sensation always jostled you awake.

You remembered the cliffs, and the river below. The fever, the knights just outside, the hushed susurration of their chainmail. Your hand flew to the scabbard at your belt. When the rest of your senses are attuned to your surroundings, you find nothing but the mountains sloping high above.

It was absurd. If you thought about it for too long, you might burst into tears.

How were you here? You’d taken the seat closer to the awning of the canvas cover so you could look outside, reluctant to sacrifice any vantage points—and yet found yourself distracted by the tall grass swaying in the breeze. Had the hills always been this green? They must’ve been; you had never noticed, until now, how the valleys trapped the sunlight so that it rolled off the cracked dirt road, how the bees circled around the bold purple asters and moved shyly with their tender disc florets before the flowers swelled up to meet them.

How you were here with Phainon, who was leaning against your side and dozing peacefully like a cat in the afternoon sun? It wasn’t even raining outside. You had expected mud, or at least a harder road, but now you were sitting here sweating in your boots, the outsoles clean.

Your driver, a round-cheeked boy with shrewd eyes, had already stopped a few hours back to feed and water the horses, but it was so hot that they still sagged with malaise. They stumbled over another bump; the front wheels of the wagon careened violently upwards. Beside you, Phainon stirred awake.

In his half-wakefulness, before his thoughts had any time to scoalesce into true existence, he almost looked like a young man. As he should have been, if he had gone through life without the constant stress of oscillating between ruin and survival; if, you thought, the two of you had met not as comrades but simply as a man and a woman.

“What was that?” he murmured. In seconds his brow had already creased with fear.

“Nothing,” you say. You rest your fingertips at the nape of his neck, brushing the hairs that had begun to grow long enough to brush his shoulders in an uneven mullet. He rested his cheek against your shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

His eyes roved over your face doubtfully, but it only took a fragment of a moment for his trust—or simple exhaustion—to win him over, and he sank into your side again. You shook your head in fond exasperation. You’d never seen him sleep so deeply, certainly never on night watch, when the risk of enemy ambush hung in the air like smoke over your scattered campsites.

You studied his face for a long moment. The boy was right in front of you. Focused on the road he may be, but even after all these weeks you still felt like someone might be watching, even when you and Phainon were traveling alone.

He leaned out front and called out to the boy, “How much longer till we get to town?”

“Just this morning,” he said, and then he glanced back at him from the corner of his eye to surreptitiously study his face before adding, “Sir. Should be there by mid-afternoon at the latest if the roads stay well.”

The roads already weren’t well, you thought dourly.

Bandits often lay in wait on the better-known trading routes. Although you both had chosen this road precisely because it was less traveled, the cliffs still offered vantage points from high above. Anyone could look down on you and map out their route.

“It rained a few days ago,” the handler explained. His hands tightened on the reins as he guided the horses around a spot where the dirt that had sunk deep into the earth, like a bowl.

“We might have to take a detour if the mudslide hasn’t cleared yet. I heard there was a flood somewhere up ahead.”

That news did manage to fully rouse Phainon, although it only put more stress on the crease between his brows. You rubbed your thumb sympathetically across his cheek.

By contrast, the handler sounded completely unruffled. He couldn’t be older than sixteen, with the kind of self-possession only found in teenagers who had spent half their lives working tirelessly.

Phainon, still bleary-eyed from sleep, leaned out to say to the boy, “How bad is it?”

A flood. So many crops, so many livelihoods, all wasted just before the harvest. Some villages would say God had punished them.

“Well, that’s all right,” you said absently. “I’m happy to take the reins from you if you need.”

The boy gave you a long, considering look, but what you had said wasn’t an insult to his pride at all and he was sensible enough to see that.

You had already moved to stand up, but Phainon caught your elbow and pulled you back to your seat. You protested under your breath, but it was no use once that frown had creased his brow. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but the frown on his lips had already gone tense. The air between you was thick with the scent of sweat-damp linen and crushed wildflowers clinging to his clothes.

The boy driving coughed pointedly ahead; another dip in the road sent a jolt through all three of you.

As the landscape continued to roll idly by outside the wagon, the conversation had dropped off into a comfortable silence. You knew Phainon well enough to know he was already half-asleep again, but his fingers still played idly with the hem of your shirt.

“Say,” the driver said suddenly. “Your companion there carries such a strange sword—it is a sword, isn’t it?” Dawnmaker was lying flat on the floor of the wagon, skillfully concealed under layers of fabric and positioned diagonally so as to distribute its weight as evenly as possible. When Phainon was silent, he ventured, “Are you lovers?”

“Been a handler for long?” you ask instead.

He was good at not taking offense. You could almost hear the thought in his mind; not old enough to have seen many marriages, but old enough to know a thing or two.

“Going on a full year now, yes. I was supposed to help out on my father’s farm. This was my brother’s job but he was injured last year, and it wasn’t like my little sister could take this on. The horses don’t like her.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug, but you could tell it had piqued his curiosity. As he guided the wagon around a wide bend, he glanced backward again from the corner of his eye.

His next words were cautious but frank: “Say. You’re not, right? Married, I mean.”

Outside, sunlight dappled through oak branches overhead as they swayed lazily against an otherwise empty road.

“No.” Phainon shifted but did not speak, only leaned unconsciously into your touch. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose and muttered under your breath: Proper. As if either of you knew what that meant anymore.

.

At the gates of the town, Phainon tried to pay him for his silence.

The boy had taken to driving the wagon with surprising efficiency and even a small degree of pride over the last few hours. You could tell he wasn’t used to being treated as something fragile and soft, and his shoulders had set stubbornly back when Phainon extended his coin purse.

But despite the bravado he was only sixteen, after all. He looked down at the glint of silver in his palm.

When he spoke again, there was an edge to his tone: “I don’t want your money. I just think it’s a shame, that’s all.”

“At least take some extra for your family, then,” he bartered. “Buy your little sister something. These coins will be useless to us in the next town over anyway.”

The boy glanced back at you, his expression softening just a bit in spite of himself. He took the extra coins and stuffed them into the inner pocket of his vest.

When the wagon was out of sight, you handed Phainon his knapsack and asked, “What was that about?”

When he spoke, he did so in a tight, clipped voice. He sounded both angry and strangely lost. “Nothing.” he said. “What if he told someone? About us.”

“He’s just a child,” Your heart ached; you’d spent two days on the road with him, and you hadn’t even gotten his name. “No one would believe him anyway.”

Vendors were setting up for the evening market. Hawkers strode through the snarled streets to peddle everything from silver jewelry to jars of elixirs and jams, the wooden wheels of their handcarts clattering over the cobblestone. Merchants from faraway villages had come to assemble their booths, boasting sweet white peaches and globe-shaped cantaloupe from the morning’s harvest. They knelt, their sleeves rolled up to the elbows, to arrange large inked scrolls advertising their wares.

“The sun’s about to set.” Solemn-faced officials were already lighting the braziers.

You, distracted by the flurry of color just beginning to stir, stood rooted to the spot. A maypole, wreathed in green garlands and vibrant multicolored ribbons, stood beside the town hall. You point. “What is that?”

Phainon squinted. “Oh. That. A lot of towns have that. Usually couples will dance to welcome midsummer. I saw a few last year.”

“Did you dance too?” The image was so endearing it made you smile, remembering what he had promised you on the day you’d decided to leave.

“No, I did not.” He shrugged. “From what I’ve seen it’s mostly a dance for couples.” His voice tapered off as he considered.

As you made your way through the market, you became distinctly aware of the proximity; you could feel Phainon’s knuckles brushing your own as you walked. You found yourself wishing, stupidly, that he would take your hand, even if the passersby happened to see.

You tore your eyes away from his bandaged hands and said, “I think this is the furthest I’ve ever been from home.”

“When you say home,” Phainon said, with an open, earnest curiosity that you still had trouble reconciling with the hardened warrior you’d first come to know, “Where do you mean?”

With the band, of course. The answer came as quick and natural as a heartbeat. There was no stretch of land you could have called home, not when campaigns and the threat of ambush meant frequent relocation. Safety lay simply in the company of your mercenaries. Even now, you were still fugitives. You rarely ever stayed in the same town for more than four nights in a row at most; the risk of recognition was too high, when they had eyes as far as the sky had stars.

“It doesn’t matter,” You said, willing yourself to believe it. “I’m here with you now. And look! Have you ever seen strawberries that red?”

“We really should find somewhere to stay first,” Phainon protested.

“Nonsense.” You wave him away with an ease you weren’t quite sure you actually felt. “We never stay in one place for long. We have to make the most of it while we’re here.”

“But there are visitors from all over the place today, the rooms will all fill up—”

“Phainon,” You said with a laugh as you realized, “You’re overthinking it. You’re acting like me.”

“Well, now you’re acting like me,” He said stubbornly.

You shook your head. “I’m hungry from all that time we spent on the road. Aren’t you?” You knew you’d won when he only pursed his lips in reluctant consideration. “Let’s go while we still have first pick.”

This time you didn’t allow yourself to curse your own cowardice: impulsively grasped his hand and laced your fingers together. The weight was shockingly familiar, and only then did you realize that the last time you’d touched like this—deliberately, with bold intention—was by the lake, the first and only time you’d ever slept together. It seemed like so long ago. A secret, distant dream. You thought about that day often—was distantly ashamed, even, of the frequency with which you remembered what he had felt like inside you, how he’d gasped when you gripped tight. His warmth. His softness, which had so assured you when Phainon first offered it. Sometimes you wondered guiltily if he would ever want you like that again.

Sleeping beside one another in your tent, side pressed to side, had been almost tortuous. Every night you were acutely aware of Phainon’s presence beside—the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest. What he smelled like, what he felt like.

Phainon only squeezed your hand and allowed you to lead him to the merchant’s booth. You didn’t let go even as he spent a long moment pondering the baskets of fruit before selecting one, not even when the cheerful merchant’s smile faltered with faint confusion when he saw your joined hands. Coins changed hands politely enough, but afterwards he hastily led you to a bench on a secluded cross street, shaded by elm trees and tucked away from the frenzy of the main square.

“What’s the rush?” You ask. Phainon heard you biting back a smile. “Oh, I think I know. Took so long to decide back there I think the fruits must have rotted by now.”

“These will be sweeter than whichever ones you were looking at.”

“Is that so? And how would you know this?”

“Who, between the two of us, was raised on a farm?”

“Years and years ago!” You scoff. “Somehow I’m still doubtful. They all look the same to me.”

“Try one first and then we can talk.” He picked one at random, plump with black seeds pressed deep into its scarlet flesh, still shimmering with chilly dampness from a recent rinsing. “Alright, give it to me.”

“Well?” He asked. Heat had risen in his chest just from the sight of you, and he bade his pulse to settle. This is ridiculous, you thought. “Your verdict?”

You took another thoughtful bite. “This is the sweetest I’ve ever had!” you declare. “I must have been a fool to doubt you.”

Phainon only smiled at you, as if he already knew.

“You know what,” You say finally, “You have a point. We, um, really ought to go look for that inn.”

.

The proprietor scrutinized you for several moments longer than you thought strictly and professionally necessary. His suspicious eyes passed over your short-cropped hair and tabard and the hunting knives on your belt, then lingered on Phainon—his height and bulk, the dull blade concealed and strapped to his back, the faded scar across his cheek and his expression, which to strangers always seemed grim.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he said finally. “I do have one room left.”

You almost collapsed with relief. All the other inns you’d tried had turned them away; perhaps a regular occurrence near festival days, but you’d begun to worry you might have to find yourselves back on the road a few days ahead of schedule. “Oh, thank you.”

The proprietor looked doubtfully between the two of you. “It’s got a window,” he said. “Nice view of the square. There’s one bed if you don’t mind that, but if you’d like I can see what I can do for an extra.” He inclined his head towards Phainon. “He’s tall, is what I mean. I’ll see what I can do about space.”

You exchanged a brief questioning glance. “That’s all right,” he said, and you nod in agreement. “You’ve gone to much trouble for us already.”

“All right,” the innkeeper said. He passed the keys to Phainon. “Five doors down the left, at the end of the hall. Come out to the main room at six if you’d like breakfast.”

Just as he had promised, the room’s singular window overlooked the square, the last of the evening sunlight casting a soft glow to the polished wooden floor. You drew the curtains closed and set your bags down on the low writing table next to the bed. Phainon closed the door to the room behind him. He tested the lock; it clicked twice, reassuring you of your privacy.

You lit the candles, and waited for him to speak.

“Do you feel,” Phainon murmured, “that people in this town don’t take too kindly to people like us?”

“What do you mean?”

“We visited four other inns. I don’t think those other ones were truly full. They barely glanced at their room logs before turning us away, didn’t you notice?”

You thought about it. “I suppose.”

He laughed without humor. “It’s ridiculous. They’re so afraid of us. It’s not even that they recognize us for who we are, it’s just because we’re—we’re—”

But there was no word for what you were.

You raised his hand and pressed soft kisses into the small valleys between his knuckles. “It’s okay, Phainon. We know who we are. Does anything else matter?”

“I guess not,” he murmured. He was so tall he had to crane his neck down—and down, and down—to press his lips against your cheek, hesitant and soft.

A question lingered between them, unspoken. At last you asked, “You’re not tired, are you?”

“No,” Phainon answered. He undid his belt and shed his plain tabard. He left it neatly folded on the seat of the chair, then knelt down to unlace his boots.

You approached then, your steps less confident as you crossed the room to sit beside him; the mattress sank beneath your combined weight. You smoothed down your skirts and tucked your hair back behind your ears, as if to steel yourself, before you leaned in.

When your lips met, you couldn’t remember what you’d been so afraid of. Phainon was patient; he let you lead the kiss, his mouth following the shapes that you made. You’d been so careful that first time, but tonight you were swept up in a newfound intensity. Now that he knew what it was like to be denied your taste, he kissed you greedy to store the feel forever in his memory so he would never forget. You opened your mouth; you made a soft sound of surprise when you felt his tongue prod between your teeth, and you panted, his arms wrapping around your midsection to pull you down on top of him.

“You know, on second thought, the market’s just outside,” you said in a weak attempt at a protest, even as you leaned back to bare your neck so Phainon could kiss you there. “And we did come all this way...”

“It’ll be quick,” he promised. His teeth grazed the pulse in your throat as he spoke. “The dancing’s tomorrow anyway. Change of plans, yeah? Is that okay?”

Your stomach clenched with want. “Yes.”

“I will say,” Phainon sighed, and the admission slipped too easily, as if he hadn’t meant it to: “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Really? I thought you’d never ask me again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

Only when Phainon’s brows lowered in confusion did you realize how much you’d truly admitted. As you hovered over him, you bit your lip, considering; you didn’t miss the way his eyes drew down to inspect the movement, then dipped lower, where the neckline of your tunic had fallen away from your skin to reveal a glimpse of cleavage, before guiltily snapping back up.

“I mean I’ve been thinking about you like this,” you explained. “About having sex with you. A hundred times, you said.”

“Oh.” Despite your traitorous trepidation, Phainon only smiled faintly as he began to understand. “I think I actually said a thousand.”

“Better start now then,” You kissed him again, softly this time. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

“And you never asked me! Whose fault is that?” At your glare, Phainon only laughed. “I would have said yes, you know. I was waiting for you to ask me, but you never did. You’re not very subtle.” Before you could protest, “All right, let me sit up. And this...” He tugged at the hem of your chemise. “I… can I? I want to see you.”

You nod, and Phainon sat back to give you space. You took it off and discarded it by the writing table. His hands moved lower, brushing the bruised slit on your skin from the knife that had nearly taken your life.

When he froze, you circled your fingers around his wrist. “Hey,” You say calmly. “I’m here. Feel this?” You laced your fingers together. “We’re here together now. We’re safe. The danger’s in the past.”

Phainon grasped your hand back, nodding to himself. “We’re here,” he said, and again with more conviction: “You’re here with me now. I don’t want to think about the past—about everything we had to do just to get here.”

You offer him a smile. “Neither do I.”

“What do you want, then?” He was openly eyeing you again—a good sign, you thought, that there was no longer any trace of guilt in that ardent gaze.

“I want you,” you murmured, “to take off all your clothes.”

A pretty blush rose in Phainon’s cheeks, and he didn’t move. He hesitated for long enough that you almost retracted your statement—until he nodded uncertainly. He began to lift the fabric, but his hands froze. You realized he must be having one of those days again, when he didn’t quite agree with his own body; even now Phainon was subconsciously curling in on himself in an attempt to make his shoulders seem smaller, less threatening, more generous with space. All the treatment you’d gotten earlier in town must have only worsened the feeling, and all he wanted was reassurance from the one person he trusted to give it to him: proof that he was still loved.

“I still want to do this with you,” He said. “I just—I don’t know. It would make this easier for me. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” So you had come off too strong.

Phainon’s shoulders slackened with relief. Hopeful anticipation returned haltingly to his eyes. “Will you let me touch you?”

“Of course. Say, what feels good for you?” You asked. Last time he seemed to like being inside you, but today that seemed too overwhelming. You’d have to relearn Phainon again, from the very beginning.

“Oh. I’m not sure. This feels nice, though—whatever you’re doing.”

You were not, in your own opinion, doing much of anything right now, outside of simply holding him. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“Doesn’t it all feel the same?”

“What? No. At least to me it doesn’t. There are spots that feel better than others, for me.”

Phainon looked at you skeptically. “You found that out just by doing it to yourself?”

“What?” You faltered. “I—of course I did! Why do you think I take so long bathing sometimes?”

He wasn’t even teasing; his genuine question required an honest answer. Thinking of all those nights you’d stolen for yourself made your face heat with embarrassment. “Are you telling me you don’t?”

“I—sometimes I do. Sometimes.”

“And nothing feels particularly good?”

He looked away. “Mostly I try not to do it.”

“Why not?”

“I was waiting for you,” Phainon said, “to say that you wanted me.”

So that was it. You had always found it odd that Phainon had apologized for getting hard, the first time you’d had sex. As if that was something to be sorry about—as if you hadn’t been hoping to elicit that exact reaction from him! Was the shame rooted so deeply? Did he feel dirty? He constantly denied his own needs; he believed his body was a machine with issues that needed fixing, and arousal was only a distraction. If he touched himself, it was likely less of an indulgence and more of an inconvenient necessity. He was afraid to learn his own body—afraid to uncover the history there, or afraid to discover all the different ways he could still desire? Your eyes roamed Phainon’s face, but he refused to look at you. Did he not feel allowed to desire? Was he waiting for permission? From who?

From You?

“It’s okay,” you say.

You resolved to draw it out. No wonder Phainon said it would be quick; for him, it always was.

You moved clumsily. You wrapped your hand around his shaft and moved it up, then down, then paused because he had already begun to sweat and there was too much unpleasant friction and Phainon was quite aroused enough for this to feel as nice for him as you hoped it would.

“You really have been thinking of me,” you tease.

“Oh, shut up.”

And you did fall silent—but only because you were holding your breath. You shut your eyes when he felt under your chemise and skimmed his hands up your thighs, pinching and massaging the flesh there. Your lips parted when Phainon touched your clit, but still you made no sound. You twitched, almost involuntarily, when he pressed two fingers to the underside, and again when he fondled your scrotum.

Was that a good sign? “Did you like that?”

“Yes,” You sigh. Even like this, he still managed to grin roguishly up at you. “Very much.”

You tried to remember what Phainon had liked before—gentle touches, sweet coaxing, all those precious rarities of slowness that mercenary life denied.

Holding his arm flush against you made your chemise ruck halfway up your thighs, exposing the tip of your clit. Instead Phainon studied your expression, struck again by the innocence of your beauty. What a shame, he thought, that you had once hidden behind helmets and armor and rage. How could you not see it—the grace in your own body? You writhed in bed as your body sung with sensation, opening up to pleasure instead of denying it.

“How do you feel?” Your thumb stroked circles around Phainon’s tip, and finally—finally!, he thought gleefully—a soft moan.

“Good,” He managed. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “Could you do that again?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

He groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillows. “Don’t do this to me.”

You stifled a laugh. So rarely did Phainon ever grant you a chance to see him like this: all thoughts fled from his mind, his calls for attention bordering on desperate. A finger ventured down to brush across your hole experimentally, but you winced and shook your head.

“No?” Phainon murmured.

“I… want to.”

Your mind was beginning to wander again. To pull you steadily back into the present, Phainon prodded, “You thought of me too?”

“You’re everything. How could I not?” You say indignantly.

“Yeah? What did you think of?” When you only dropped your eyes in an embarrassed silence, Phainon rephrased, “I want you to tell me, pretty.”

“I thought about you inside me,” You confessed. “I remembered how much you liked it, and I guess I just wanted to know again for myself, and—ah, never mind.”

Phainon looked at you incredulously. “You mean you want me to—?”

You groan, turning away. “See, this is why I didn’t want to say anything—”

“I didn’t mean it that way! I’m glad. I want to do it again. Whatever you want.”

You kissed him again, too giddy to speak.

“I have something else to tell you.”

“Go on.”

“I think,” He admitted lowly, “that I was about to come back there.”

“Ah.” You stare at him blankly for a moment, unsure what to do with this information. You floundered, then settled on, “Do you want to?”

Only after you had asked it did you realize the absurdity of your question, but Phainon didn’t seem to care.

“Tell me what you want, then.”

He licked his dry lips. “Please,” he begged, “Please let me touch you.”

The declaration gave you pause. All your bravado evaporated when you registered that he had called out for you specifically, that there was no one else he wanted—only you. You were so thrown that you wanted to make a joke, to backpedal and laugh it off. But Phainon’s eyes were blown wide, his cheeks flushed red with arousal, and finally he was looking at you, pleading with you, and you knew that you would shatter the moment, and Phainon’s precious hard-earned trust, if you did.

Instead you leaned down and said, “Okay.”

He felt it then, how your clit swelled and twitched tellingly in his hand. I am not helpless, he reminded himself as he slotted one of his legs between yours and grinded against you. You responded frantically, raising your hips to meet Phainon’s. I’m doing this because I can, because I want to, because she wants me to, and I know this because she told me. I’m making love to her—to the woman I love.

You lifted yourself up on your elbows to kiss Phainon, panting into his mouth when your hard clit slid against his clothed girth. Your nails dug into Phainon’s bare shoulders, pulling him closer. You tried to hide your face in his neck, but he ducked down and mapped kisses up your throat instead; your eyes slipped shut, your lips parting to admit a silent moan.

Phainon surged forward and fit a hand between you again, and you bit down hard on your lip as Phainon pumped you faster, so as not to make any sound. But he leaned in close and whispered by your ear, “It’s okay. It’s just me. Relax.”

What else might draw out those sweet sounds of yours again? A sense of duty propelled you now that Phainon had told you what he wanted. What did you even like? Then—belatedly—he realized that you had already told him.

He brushed his thumb between your lips, parting them slowly. You made a sound: a soft whimper.

He held it there as he pressed his tip flat against your warmth and rubbed circles into it. Your breathing grew labored, your back arching off the bed as your tongue darted against the pad of Phainon’s thumb. He didn’t know where to look. His eyes landed on yours, then the wall behind you, then dipped lower to watch your breasts sway as you moved, then slid closed again as his body relaxed and gave in. Your thighs shook with the effort it took to keep your legs open; your toes curled into the sheets beneath, seeking purchase as he stroked you faster.

Your body coiled tight when you came. You looked so sweet like this, so open and vulnerable, your face twisting almost desperately as it learned how to express a new kind of pleasure. Phainon’s frantic eyes sought out yours again, seeking out the one familiar sight as his body crashed through unfamiliar motions. You reached for him with a silent plea, and Phainon understood; he held your hand until the waves passed you over, and all was calm again.

Afterward you lay back down with your legs still spread, the fabric of your chemise stained where you had finished. Phainon listened as your breathing waned back to normal. You kissed up his neck, his cheek, the old scar across it.

“How was that?” Phainon asked. He pressed a kiss into the corner of your mouth; at the contact, he felt the corner of it lift in a smile.

You opened your eyes. “Very nice,” You murmured. Your orgasm had left you pliant and relaxed, but cold and vulnerable; this time you reached for Phainon with both arms, silently asking for him to hold you. You settled on your sides, Phainon with his chest pressed to your back. “I didn’t know it could feel this way.”

Phainon rubbed soothing circles into your side. He wished he’d thought to bring skin creams for you, and ruefully thought about the way your skin would feel when your sweat dried. “In a good way, I hope.”

“Mmm.”

“What did you like?”

Phainon expected you to mention what you had physically enjoyed, but instead you mumbled, “When you spoke to me. It’s reassuring. I get… nervous, sometimes, when we do this. But that always reminds me that it’s still just you.”

“What, like when I tell you what to do?”

“Exactly like that,” You agree. “When you talk to me like that, it’s not so different from what I already know. And then I don’t feel scared anymore.” Then you turn to look at Phainon over your shoulder. “What about you? Do you want me to—?”

Playfully he closed his teeth over the lobe of your ear. You inhaled sharply; Phainon, surprised, filed his suspicions away for later. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Maybe some other time. I’m too tired for anything else right now.” He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder. Bewildered at the truth of the admission, he added, “I’m happy.”

“This must be what it’s like,” You agreed.

“Do you want some water?”

You didn’t respond. From the way your breathing had begun to even out, Phainon recognized with sudden clarity that you were about to fall asleep.

“Oh no you don’t,” Phainon groused. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

But your exhaustion had already seeped through to your bones, and you couldn’t extract yourself from it; you made only a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat. At this point it was hopeless trying to convince you to let him bathe you, but at least you still had enough energy to allow him to wipe you down with a damp towel, then pat you dry.

Phainon found a clean white slip among your belongings. He turned away to give you as much privacy as possible in the small room when you changed, but you said, “It’s fine. You can look. If you want to.”

You seemed uncertain, not quite ready to believe that Phainon might want to see you naked again, despite your sexual activities only moments before. So Phainon only grinned and said, “I’d be honored. Sit up and let me help you with it.”

“I wish everyone could feel like this,” You mumbled sleepily as you rested your head in the scarred skin below Phainon’s chest. “I promise I’ll try for you too.” Then you dozed off, your breathing peaceful and even.

Phainon was gone when you woke in the morning. You stretched an arm across the bed and found only a rumpled mattress beside you, still warm from Phainon’s body heat; he must have left not too long ago.

.

Sunlight pleaded with the still-drawn curtains for entry. Outside in the square, the clock tower chimed dutifully: once, twice... You counted six chimes. Distantly you wondered when he would return, but you were too drowsy to follow the thought. You rolled over, haphazardly kicked off the covers, and let the summer heat lull you back to sleep.

When you woke next, the blinds were half-drawn. Phainon was mapping the back of your shoulders with gentle kisses, leaving your skin fluttery and goose-pimpled in the trail of his lips.

“Phainon,” you murmured, arching into your lover’s touch, “What are you doing?”

“Good morning,” He whispered. “What does it look like? I’m waking you up.”

“The clock tower beat you to it. Already woke up this morning when you left around six.”

“Did I wake you that early?” Phainon paused to rest his chin on your shoulder. “I didn’t mean to. I went downstairs to get us breakfast.”

Finally you opened your eyes. “Breakfast?”

“So that’s what gets you interested.” There was a smile in Phainon’s voice. “Noted.”

He’d left a tray on the table laden with thick cuts of bread, several types of cheese, and a bowl of potato and leek potage. Two mugs of tafelbier had left damp rings on the wood. Beside those, a basket of fresh strawberries.

“Had to do my best with my farming expertise,” Phainon said with a knowing grin as he followed the path of your gaze.

“Stop trying to seduce me,” You admonished, your voice lilting with laughter. “It’s too early. Could you bring that over for me?”

Phainon rolled his eyes. “Still so bossy,” he muttered, but before you could respond he had already brought the tray over and balanced it carefully on your lap. His brow creased with concentration to make sure nothing spilled, and he was so earnestly focused at the task at hand that you fought to stifle another laugh.

“What?” Phainon demanded.

“Nothing.” You shook her head. You took a sip of tafelbier; it was lukewarm. Phainon must have left it sitting out as he waited for you to wake, then woken you up when he realized the ice had already melted. You watched with interest as Phainon absently tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “You’re very attractive.”

Phainon’s face, which had always seemed so stoic and grim on the battlefield, softened with bashful uncertainty. “Stop that. Can’t you just say thank you like a normal person?”

“Thank you. And you’re very attractive. And clever, even if I used to think you weren’t—I’m sorry, don’t look at me like that, I said I used to!—it’s just, sometimes you act without thinking and that scares me. And—” Something in the corner of your eye caught his attention. “Is this bread?”

“It’s bread, yes.”

The soft wheat flour tore so easily; you offered a piece to Phainon, who accepted. The golden brown crust crackled under the pressure of your hands. “How did you even get this?”

“Seems like this town is full of surprises.”

“We used to bring hard biscuits with us on campaign,” You said. “And those mutton cuts, do you remember, only we always had to salt it? If we even had salt. They only ever gave bread like this to the nobles. To people like the ministers, or—”

“Don’t,” Phainon said gently, “I don’t want to talk about the Nobles. Let’s eat. The soup’s already getting cold.”

Compared to what they had eaten on the run, you felt as if you were indulging in a feast.

“Is it not to your liking?” Phainon asked.

You blinked out of your stupor. “Huh?”

“The food,” he explained. “I thought you might like to try something new while we’re here, but if you don’t like it—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just...”

You sighed. Would saying it cause him any pain? You knew Phainon had had a plan: traverse the countryside alone, better learn himself and his swordcraft, find something of his own he could lay claim to.

Falling in love with you had upended all of his plans. Didn’t Phainon ever resent you for it?

You shifted and, with effort, lifted your eyes to meet his worried gaze. “Last night you told me you were happy. If something’s... changed,” you managed, your voice strangled, “I need to know.”

“It’s not that I’m unhappy! No, not at all.”

You considered him for a moment, unconvinced. Your scrutiny unsettled Phainon. You set down your spoon and continued, “I’m just worried this might not last.”

“What might not last?”

“This. You and me. I didn’t know I could live like this until you showed me. All my life I’ve been someone’s daughter, or someone’s soldier, but now that we’re here and I’m your—your companion, your—”

“I’m your lover,” said Phainon, a little uncertainly.

“Yes,” You nod, relieved that he had said it. That note of doubt in his voice almost broke your heart; you rushed to affirm him. “It’s different. You’ve never made me feel like I belong to you. You always ask me what I want to do and indulge me when I suddenly have new ideas and you’ve been so kind to me for absolutely no reason—”

“Do I need a reason?”

“What?”

“I mean can’t I love you just because I can?”

“You always say that.”

“Because I mean it!” Phainon clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I meant it then and I meant it now. You’ve been kind to me. I thought I’d always be alone, that there was no one else in the world who would ever understand me and so what was the point in trying? But you showed me that it was worth so much—more than I can even tell you. I won’t give it up, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I won’t.”

“Doesn’t it hurt you to be with me?” You aak. Before he could respond, you went on, “We’re lucky that at least the wagon driver didn’t say anything, but last night none of the other inns would take us in. Haven’t you noticed? There’s something about us they don’t like and we can’t hide it.”

Phainon sat back on the pillows. For a while he only looked at his hands. Then he mumbled, “Is this about what we did last night?”

“No, that’s—” For a moment You could do nothing but gape at the complete non sequitur. “I don’t see how that’s even related.”

“It’s just that it seems like you’re ashamed!” Phainon accused. “Of me. Of us. No, look at me—” The maypole outside had stolen your attention, but at Phainon’s words you startled and met his eyes. He looked so hurt.

You reached out to touch his shoulder, then thought better of it and pulled back. But it was too late: he had already fixated on the hesitation in your movements. He said, “Why are you so afraid of me? Are you afraid you’ll like what you see, is that it?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You are. You’re afraid to look at me. You’re afraid to touch me, at least when we’re not alone. Whenever someone asks, you always say we aren’t lovers.” He took a deep breath. “Is something wrong? We are, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Phainon. I told you already. How could you ask me such a thing again?”

“I told you I would stay with you. If you’re happy, why do you keep trying to leave?”

“I’m not trying to leave! Is that really how you feel?”

“Sometimes the way you act makes me worry. The things you say make me worry—”

“No!” You shouted with such vehemence that Phainon flinched away. You took a steadying breath and lowered your voice. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not that. I am scared, but not for the reasons you think. You’ve made me so happy that I don’t know what else to do with myself.” Phainon looked back at you then, his eyes softening. You took his hand, this time with no hesitation, and sat still as he tentatively laced your fingers together. “It’s just that I miss them. Everyone I left behind. They were all I had once. I’m happy with you. I really am. But how is it possible that we’re here together, and they’re still wherever they are?”

“They made their choice. We made ours.”

“Can you say that? You were one of them, too. So many of those men had hopes and dreams of their own.” You reached up and cradled the side of Phainon’s face with your free hand. “Just like you and me.”

“Maybe,” He conceded. “You really miss them?”

“Don’t you?”

Phainon did not, you knew all too well, tend to linger on the past. It had been easiest to hate him for his careless impulses; to charge forward, to act now and think later.

So you weren't surprised when Phainon said, “I can’t go back. They were my family too—but they expect me to be someone I’m not, and I can’t be that person, even for them.”

“I’m not asking you to go back.”

“Then what do you want?

What did you want? Leave it to Phainon to ask you what no one else had before. It still frightened you to hope; you had no capacity left for herself.

He waited patiently, his thumb drawing reassuring circles into the back of your hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” You began, “we could settle down somewhere, you and me. I know we talk about a cottage sometimes, but I want to do it, I mean really do it. We could build something just for the two of us.”

“You want to build a home,” Phainon realized, “with me.”

“Of course it’s you I want. Who else?”

You’d imagined it. If your memory stayed true, no cottages lay on the outskirts of the small town you had agreed on, but you supposed you and Phainon could learn to build one together. True, you both had plenty of experience destroying and little experience building—and yet who could dictate that it was too late? If you had learned anything during your travels with Phainon, it was that you both had time. You were still so young. There was still so much you didn’t know, and what a blessing that was: to know that you could look forward to discovery.

“Okay,” said Phainon. “Sure.”

“Really?” You ask skeptically. “That’s it?”

“What else is there to say? I’m not opposed to it. I like the idea.” He curled into your side again; “I’ve wanted to share my life with you for a very long time now. If this is what you want for us, then I’m happy.”

“No questions again?” You were still offended, somehow; you knew you often mistook Phainon’s flippance for a lack of heart, though in actuality his trust was simply so whole that he didn’t often feel the need to pry.

“Well, I guess—what about work? We’d stay in one place for so long. What will we do?”

“Funny thing is, I actually hadn’t thought that far yet.”

“No plan from you?” A low whistle escaped from between Phainon’s teeth. “That’s a first. I really must have rubbed off on you.”

“Well, I had to make sure you agreed first!” You countered. “Otherwise what’s the point? I guess I do have some ideas, though.”

“Do you really?”

“Ask me properly. I like it when you ask me.”

“All right, tell me your grand plan for what we’ll do when the two of us settle down somewhere.”

“We could start our own garden,” You began. “Raise livestock for ourselves. I could be an apprentice of some sort. Maybe I could learn from a blacksmith—or maybe a carpenter.” The idea took hold in your mind. “Carpentry’s not a bad thought either. Do you think I’d be good at that?”

Phainon smiled fondly at you. “If your time as company commander was any indication, you could do anything you want. Remember who you used to be? Imagine if she could see you now.”

“I guess so. You know, as a child, I always thought there was nothing beyond my village. That if I stepped out of its boundaries for even a second, bandits would find me and I would simply disappear and no one would look for me.” Your voice trailed off as you remembered.

“What would she think, if that girl could see me now?” You murmured. “Now that I think of it, I’m not even sure I know who she was.”

“She’d be happy that you’re happy, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose,” You conceded. “I think it would have been easier, back then, if I’d known this was waiting for me in the future. Strawberries! And I met you.” Your thumb traced patterns in the skin of PhInon’s cheek, just below his eye. “Younger me would be ecstatic that I snagged someone like you.”

“Stop going off topic,” Phainon chastised. It saddened you, that he had grown up so unaccustomed to affection that it took as little as a compliment to rile him up; “Only you would ever think that.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“And what am I doing,” He deflected, “in this plan of yours?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Phainon considered this, then said, “Well, someone’s got to tend to our garden, yeah?” He studied his palms. “Don’t think I have much of a green thumb yet, but with time I could learn. I did pick up a few things from Castorice. She taught me how to grow flowers. I could start from there. And I could learn how to grow all sorts of crops as the seasons change.”

“Something along those lines,” He concluded indulgently.

“Who knew a big brute like you could be so thoughtful?” Phainon laughed, though it turned into an appreciative sigh when you ran your hands down his arm to holding them.

The unspoken hung in the air. You felt your mouth twist into a frown, but still you made yourself say, “You really want to? Will you be alright?”

“Oh. This again?”

“I just want to be sure,” You insisted. “I don’t want you to do this just because I want to. Be honest with me.”

You knew how much it hurt to lie about who you were. Phainon’s was a different hurt, but a familiar to your own.

Phainon rolled over to lay on his back. His eyes roved over the cracks in the ceiling. “I’ll be fine.”

“If we do this, we’ll move around a lot less. I know there were still other places you wanted to see—other places you wanted to show me.”

“They can wait. The sea will always be there if you want to see it. It’s not going anywhere. We can always meet it another time.”

“The sea?” You asked with interest. You were touched—that Phainon had seen something so vast and magnificent and thought of you.

“Oh, yes. With waves so loud they sound quiet. You’ve never seen it, have you? And these great sand beaches….”

“And these waves—with all that commotion, where do they go?”

“I don’t know. Home.”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“No, I’ve decided. Listen: They’re going home. They try for the sky but then they start feeling lonely on their journey, being so far away from the rest of the sea—where they came from—so they go home.”

“What happens when they go back?”

“Well, I suppose they’ve changed,” Phainon mused, “Now that they know what the wind feels like. That just means they’ll have more stories to tell back home, though.”

“And?”

“That’s what we’ll have too. Somewhere we can always return to when we feel lonely. Or if we feel like we don’t belong.”

You rested your cheek on his chest and pulled him close again, lacing your fingers. “I like your stories,” you said sleepily. The familiarity of his voice and the warmth of the midmorning sun lulled you to calm.

“Don’t believe me yet,” Phainon said ruefully. “I promised you so much, and the rest of Okhema couldn’t deliver—”

“I don’t regret leaving with you.”

“I made you feel alone. Like all you had in the world was me.”

“No, Phainon.”

“No?”

“No. Trust me. You always said you trusted me. You showed me all of it and asked me what I wanted. I could have chosen to stay at any old town, or wherever, even, but I didn’t. Think about it: Why am I even here now? If I’m staying with you, it’s because I want to.”

Phainon squeezed your hand, as if to solidify a pact. He looked down at you dozing on his chest and asked, “Are you tired?”

“A little,” You admitted groggily.

Phainon huffed a laugh; you felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, a soothing cadence. “Rest, then,” He advised. He ran a finger through your hair; when it snagged on a tangle, he set to work unraveling the strands, as deft as he had been with the laces on your dress. “I’ll wake you before the festival.”

.

In the end you were late. Phainon, lulled by the weight of your head on his chest, dozed off himself, and when you both startled awake it was already late afternoon. A lifetime of traveling had caught up to you, and now your bodies took any chance to catch up on years of missed rest. When it became clear the festivities would begin without you no matter how quickly you rushed, Phainon said, What the hell, and so you indulged in a few more minutes laying half-awake together in bed before he finally got up to plait your hair back in place. You meandered through the four or five blocks leading towards the town square. In many shops the lights were off and doors locked for the evening, and since there was no one watching you took Phainon’s hand as you walked.

This time you didn’t let go.

None of the dancing pairs looked like you: one man and one woman dressed in their finest, pressed trousers and colorful embroidered skirts twirling as they spun around the maypole, the tempo of the music so rapid that your eyes couldn’t even follow the footwork. But you hadn’t been born for any specific purpose. Much of life had no rhyme or reason to it.

You leaned back against Phainon’s chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist, and together you swayed, to a slower tune of your own.