i go by the name eni here online. my most used pronouns are she/they, but i actually lean more towards being agender so really any pronouns are okay with me! last i checked, my mbti is infj, but i have heard of things like that changing so don't quote me on that. i am a '01 liner, so you do the math on how old i am lol
i write for a few different fandoms, all of which can be found under the tag #eni's fandom list
all of my writing can be found under #enihkwrites and the main masterlist for all my work can be found under the line
i also use AO3 to post most of my longer, multi-chapter works using the pseud enihk (2871) if you want to see what else i have
there are no rules in terms of requests, anything goes as long as it's not nsfw/smut though asking for dead-dove-do-not-eat darker content is okay, i will still vet through and avoid what i am uncomfortable with. something to note is that i am very slow to update so do take that in mind if you want to send in a request
other tags i often use are #eni's small talk corner for talking about anything and everything. the tag #enihkposts is more for shit-posting or for updates for my wips, keke it's like russian roulette
bye-bye and see you when i see you âĄ
LONG-FORM FICS
đ¸íě°ęˇí | Return of the Blossoming Bladeđ¸
[thunder bolts in a clear sky] â UPDATING
mhdd!chung myung x afab!she/her!reader (QUEER-PLATONIC)
[what comes after] â MOVING + UPDATING
pbss!chung myung x tang bo (EVERYONE LIVES AU)
đđĺçĽ | Genshin Impactđđ
an outlander's field's notes : PART 1
[tales of a coffee shop in another world] â WIP + MOVING
everyone + ambiguous!she/her!reader (CHARACTER STUDY)
an outlander's field's notes : PART 2
[a sinner's ode] â WIP
old teyvat + afab!she/her!reader + fem!OC (WORLD BUILDING)
ONE-SHOTS, DRABBLES AND OTHER SHORT-FORM FICS
đ¸íě°ęˇí | Return of the Blossoming Bladeđ¸
[homecoming]
pbss!chung myung x gn!they/them!reader
[i got my red dress on tonight, dancing in the dark, in the pale moonlight]
baek cheon x afab!she/her!reader
[PART 01 â PART 02]
princess cyrene being trapped in a tower but when sheâs finally saved by a fully armored knight she lowkey thinks to herself that she would prefer the dragon to a man WELL THAT IS UNTIL the knight takes off her helmet to reveal a beautiful woman who had grown tired of the incompetency around her and decided to just save the princess herself instead of waiting for someone else to do it
I just realized that you wrote a CM x TB, CM x reader and the only TB x reader is not exactly one :( bc u said all roads lead to yaoi... My dear writer, this is unfair for me! I haven't seen a Tang Bo x reader in a while now and I'm greedy for crumbs. If it's not too much to ask or work for you, may you write one? Any genre! I'll be fine with it as long as he's not gay for one day đ
every day I learn bot comments on ao3 are stooping lower and lower
anyway if you get a comment like this, chances are that they are bot and their goal is to do whatever it takes to get you to delete your work, most certainly (from what Iâve heard) itâs because they want to âsafelyâ steal your work, use it to train their ai without you being able to rightfully claim ownership of your work since âthereâs no proof that the work was stolen/was posted elsewhere first by youâ because the original source has already been deleted.
THEY ARE ALL BOTS. at first it was âao3 is deleting fics and your entire account will be affected unless you delete the fics yourselfâ then it was âthis work contains contents that are illegal and they have already reported you and your fic to the policeâ (yes, thatâs how desperate these bots are), and now itâs this.
report their comments to ao3 for spamâin this case, specifically, I think you may be able to report them for harassment tooâand donât pay attention to them, most importantly donât delete your works, donât feel discouraged by their comments. remember that they are bots and they mass comment something like this on peopleâs works at random to get people to delete their works. (or even if theyâre not bot, they are still pathetic bullies who donât deserve your time or attention.)
MORE ABOUT BOTS AND SCAMS PLAGUING AO3âS COMMENTS SECTION HERE
[03] - now initiating : forced restart for user [xxx]
â prev â index â next â˘
content warning: this chapter is not beta-read so the only content warning i can think of right now is that this one is either trippy as fuck or just weird bible-inspired surrealist writing
[PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY TRIGGERS CAUSED BEYOND THIS LINE]
so much for going out with a bang.
she wakes up in the middle of an unnaturally long and empty corridor. it was painted white, from the floor to the ceilings â everything was shrouded in a blinding light, yet it did not hurt her eyes, strangely enough. there seemed to be no shadows cast in this corridor, everything felt airy. how curious was it that she felt more alive here, on the other side, than she had ever did when she was yet to pass on.
it seems the only thing she could do was to walk along the path shown to her.
with her hand supporting her, she lifts herself up to her feet. her body felt shapeless. if she focused long enough, her physical form materialized in the same form she had back when she was alive â but focus was a hard thing to come by in this realm. eventually, she gave up and let her figure dissolve into nothingness.
she was there, she was not there. what a strange phenomena.
down the corridor she goes, breezing past the disfigured doors groaning as they creak their last on the hinges they still hung on. she does not recognize the faces in the melting portraitures. there were no people in those frames. there was no canvas. faster and faster she goes down the corridor. something screeches in the distance. she will not look back at it. she will not entertain the anxiety numbing the soles of her feet! she was almost out of this place. there was a light shining at the end of this monotonous corridor. she tumbled and falls into the light as it swallows her whole, drowning her inside it's infinite belly. she twirled her body to face the direction she came from â shut eyes peeled open to see that there was nothing there anymore. the air around her ears build up suddenly and she feels her head just might explode from the pressure. what was going on? what was going on? what wasâ
a phone rings.
the shrill noise goes on for a short while until it was silenced by a soft click as someone picks up the receiver, listening patiently to the mumbled words of the other end, small hums interjected into their response.
i see, thank you for informing us about her arrival⌠yes, i will let the team know about this as well⌠yes, i'll phone the manager and the boss to keep them updated⌠yes, we will let you know when we receive her here⌠alright then, thank you so much for you hard work.
the voice was soft yet unsettlingly strange, like a multitude of people all speaking at once. some were gentle, some were brash, most were in differing languages â the someone, or something itself was a faceless, fog-like entity. they seemed to have eyes, yet it was always appearing and disappearing into the fuzzy haze of it's being, it's centre opened up to a hallow darkness whenever it spoke. it didn't have a malignant presence, though it didn't seem benevolent either. the fog entity sat in their swivel chair, their translucent essence cascading onto the ground in waves like thick hair. attention focused on the work in front of them, clicking away incessantly.
this place was a regular office, surprisingly enough. the layout was neat and tidy, it was illuminated by rows of dingy florescent lights, there was even a pantry at the far corner. sounds of the printer whirring clashed with the clacks of the keyboards at various work cubicles, the bitter smell of burnt coffee permeated the stale air just like any other office. though the same cannot be said for the employees working in there.
the fellow all the way at the end, for example, the one standing by the printing machines? it was a ball of hands. it looked like the way it sounds â arms of various origins all entangled and intertwined around and within each other as though it were a ball of yarn. the mass held up by the singular pair of hands, palms laying flat on the floor, acting as the entity's ⌠feet. the hand-feet were wearing gloves, probably trying to soothe the painful callouses that had surely formed from moving around in that manner.
looking around the office, it grew rather obvious that every worker there was an apparition that related of a part of the human body. there was the one who was a wheel of feet, always running up and down the aisle with documents and other items secured on them, making stops at the cubicles that needed their services. there was the bag of eyes that hung on the highest corners of the office, acting like surveillance cameras. the sight of the workers in their cubicles was a spectacle in itself. computer screens with human mouths attached to the sides as it called out the words on the screen â
the woman has seen much in her lifetime, though none enough to prepare her for this⌠oddity.
she shifts on her feet, heel hitting the ceramic surface of the potted plant appearing out of thin air right next to her. the sound was practically inaudible, but that was all it took for everybody in the office to swivel their attention onto her. she might not have a visible form, but she was still quite conscious of her appearance.
oh godâŚ
the fog-like entity sighs, the once flowy mist cascading down it's being now spiking up in agitation. this was an unexpected development, their guest wasn't meant to see all the office workers like this. how troublesome.
the woman watched the entity stand up, it's sudden movements causing the paper and pens on their desk to clutter onto the floor. she didn't even get to process how it's height towered over her figure â it's head touching the ceiling that seemed to grow further and further upwards, before a heavy blanket is dropped on top of her, bringing the woman down to her knees.
quickly!
hushed whispers urging the other to hasten their movements floated all around the office as the staff tired to rectify the situation. there was only so much time they could buy from the little blanket trick they pulled. when the chaos settled and everyone was back in their previous positions, with the furniture and stationeries all tidied up proper too, they went about their work as though nothing had happened. the office was once again filled with the smell of bitter coffee and the sound of the printer whirring noisily amid the increscent ringing of the landlines and clacking keyboards.
it took the woman a great amount of effort to pry the blanket off her, it's always a pain to get out of a tangled mess, isn't it? especially after a good night's sleep after a long, hard day and it's raining outsideâŚ
the woman gets up on her feet and smoothed out the creases on her clothes â
wait.
hold on.
since when did she materialize a body? clothed, too? she had so much trouble trying to maintain a physical form just a short while ago? and what's this? she can feel the flex of her fingers when she clenched and relaxed her fists? has her senses come back to her too? what about this? or that other thing? orâŚ
her head began to spin and hurt as the unanswered questions piled in her mind.
at least her bodily functions are working fine so far.
gathering herself, the woman straightened her back. the same way she had been taught to long ago. her gaze pointed and straight, her posture perfect as ever and with her feet planted onto the ground, she walked up to the receptionist's desk. the fog-like entity that was once there was now an innocuous-looking front desk manager. their hair was long and wavy and soft and fluffy from how thick It was.
how may i help you miss?
the former fog entity's voice no longer felt as though it were multiple people speaking at once â rather, it had a raspy undertone, as though they were just about to cough up something. the woman tried not to stare at the receptionist's mismatched eyes, ill-fitting face and their thin lips hiding a row of rotting teeth. she tried not to think about how it looked as though the entity was wearing an outfit they had haphazardly put on. come to think of it, when she peered past the receptionist to look into the office only to see that all the grotesque amalgamations had now been replaced by humanoid figures that resembled regular run-of-the-mill office workers.
a cough breaks her out of her thoughts.
miss? how may i help you?
the receptionist asked once again, wrinkled fingers tapping on the desk surface impatiently. the woman, now flustered, clumsily asked where the exit was. she had almost forgotten that she was supposed to find a way to leave this place. an office usually had an exit door, right? a quick glance to the back of the room â
a wall.
uhm⌠may i know where the exit is?
tongue darting out to wet her dry lips, she fidgeted in her spot. she's never been one to do well in structured, rigid settings like these. that's why it was so easy for her to leave the alliance back then.
there is no exit here. well, not a visible one, anyways. state your name and i'll run you in our records then send you to where you need to go if we have a match. otherwise, you'd have to wait over in another room until when you get called to leave. any other questions?
the woman shakes her head.
alright. name?
it's [redacted]
oh. so it's you.
the receptionist remarked, the perfectly drawn-on eyebrow raising at the end of their sentence. a wrinkled hand reached over to pick up the receiver, dialing a few numbers as they muttered under their breath about how some people just didn't know how to do their job properly, or how they have no self awareness⌠whatever that meant.
the ground below the woman starts to shake. a circle of light appeared around her, and before she even had a chance to open her mouth and ask about it â the receptionist waves her off with a closed eyed smile, muttering a good luck, as they send her off to the unknown.
she wondered if they heard her screams.
the journey to the next area was really shitty, and that was her being generous. these folks better feel lucky that they didn't have a review page, or she might have blown it up with paragraphs upon paragraphs all airing out her grievances with the customer service of the afterlife office⌠reception⌠information desk?
barely a full sentence into her wandering thoughts, she finds herself once again falling through the ceiling and out the familiar circle of light that had just swallowed her whole, the transportation tract she had been vomited out of was beginning to fade away â it's job of sending her here now done.
ah⌠senior wings⌠the little wing ten is hereâŚ!
the voice belonged to a sheep-like child, their darling curls framed a delicate face and their small, plump lips pulled into a smile, with none of it's mirth reaching the child's eyes.
hello little wing ten⌠i am sechs. your senior wing numberâŚ
and i am un. the first, and eldest wing.
the sheep-like child snarled in the direction of the one who had cut them off mid-sentence. the so-called eldest only shrugged off the child's insignificant stare, pretending they didn't exist. the atmosphere between the two grew sticky with tension â the others cold only shift uncomfortably on their feet, hoping against hope that those two wouldn't start another fight. lord knows how the last stand-off endedâŚ
it certainly wasn't a pretty end, that much was for sure.
wing⌠wings⌠right. hers had been ripped off, all six of them gone just like that. her back throbs in a timely reminder at the memory. these⌠wings⌠if that' s how they call themselves, and what they've called her as well were gathered here, then were they also wielding the same powers as she did?
if she asked, would they tell her all that she had struggled to know her whole life? perhaps not.
the tenth wing, what does that title mean for her? no doubt it was another shackle that chained her to some larger-then-life entity. before, there was another entity she had died to escape from, but here she was again â when, when⌠when will she be free? free from all thisâŚ
her head throbs, her sleeping and senseless moving body had begun to wake, the prior discomforts of her passing seeping into a very much alive flesh that her consciousness was housed in. the first wing's sharp voice pierced through the fog of her pain, the cloud that settled in her brain lifted in the brief intermission where they spoke.
number ten⌠hm, perhaps we should call you yeol.
ah⌠i hate it! i don't like what you picked! i'm calling our little number ten⌠shi! take that you stinky number one!
⌠sechs.
the first frowns and sighed, rubbing their temples to null their growing annoyance at the sixth wing's constant childishness. interrupting them mid-speech, what a mannerless child.
you may call me however you wish⌠esteemed senior wingsâŚ
the woman's quiet voice breaks through the discomforting silence, and the other wings secretly let out a sigh of relief â a crisis had been adverted, unknown to the newcomer. oh⌠she a keen one, it's better to have someone like her around for a long time⌠a very, very long time, this time.
my darling, could you tell us what name you used with the humans? perhaps that could give us a suggestion on how we should call you? isn't that right un?
yes, i suppose that it will.
the first looks away, giving up on winning the rest over. they shuffled over to the end of the room, sitting on an empty seat as far from the commotion as possible. there, they sulked in their chair much like a temperamental child, poor old first wing must have been the centre of attention at one point before the other wings came along.
darling? could you stand up for me please?
the woman turns to the voice calling her darling sweetly, watching the unknown wing walk over with a lightness in their step. while the first wing was covered from head to toe in what could be described as a priest's robes â this wing however, was donned in cloth that draped lightly around their figure, the woman averts her eyes instinctively. it's not that she was a prude, it's just that she would rather observe at a distance further than her arm's length.
darling?
the cloth-draped wing asks, their brows upturned in concern over the woman's unresponsiveness. her blank stare reflects off their iridescent eyes â once again lost in thought.
tsk! don't use your other powers on the newbie you creepy old hag!
the wing gasps, a hand over their heart, feigning hurt from the words directed at them. nobody was buying their act though, this one's already pulled that stunt enough times to bore the rest of them.
ugh. cut it out.
the same voice from earlier yells out, with a chorus of hums sounding in agreement.
just then, a loud bang echoed across the space. from the top of the room, the ceiling perhaps, a young wing's silhouette, maybe around the woman's physical age emerged from the bright opening that had formed. as they descended down towards the others, their footfalls heavy against the solid surface of the spherical room they were all encased in. it felt like an eternity's wait as the party fell silent, listening to the figure coming closer. it was just her lonesome breathing, the echoing thumps, and golden pupils catching the light's rays that kept her breaking sanity some company within the continuous walls of the spherical room. [1]
so.
the latecomer walks up towards the woman, a temper brewing up behind their sharp gaze. they look up and down her slumped form sitting on the ground â she only noticed now that none of the wings had bothered to help her get up to her feet. embarrassed, she stumbles to her feet, tripping over the words in her head she tries to introduce herself.
iâ
you're [redacted], former captain of the fourth division for the I.G.A.P's security department. you fucked up and got executed, and unfortunately our new tenth wing.
oh, god. that was rude. her life was much more than that short introductory sentence. but was it really?
and you're also unfortunately my partner. i'm the ninth wing, and that's all you need to know about me. as your senior, for any and all of our future assignments you will be listening to my instructions and guidance. so no more of your quote-unquote serving justice or the sword will punish you bullshit you've been doing, even though it's part of our rituals, i would like to kindly request that you respect your origins and customs from now on and not do things so willy-nilly.
the woman was stunned into silence. the ninth wing's crude imitation of her chants, their chants, had garnered low giggles from the others. clearly she was at the bottom of their social rank for some reason, and nine was very much on a power trip right now.
her chest stirs.
it was angry. that heart of hers, it was never really meant to be hers but this and that happened and she got it transplanted into her body as a kid and that heart, the one that wasn't hers always seemed to have a mind of it's own, defying all scientific logic and acting like the person who it used to belong to. the woman had never met the owner of her heart, but she's sure in her gut that this previous owner sure has something to do with why she was who she was.
her abilities, her convictions, her memories. how much of it was her own and how much of it belonged to that other person? the line had been blurred for so long, she wasn't even sure where the truth lied anymore.
agnes
what? what was that?
it was a small voice in the woman's head. calm and tired, unlike anything she'd heard before. somehow, she knew just who it was. she's waited her whole life for that voice, that answer she once desperately looked for.
ag..nesâŚ
the woman repeats the name under her breath. and the spherical room falls silent. the wings all snapped their heads in her direction, all eighteen golden eyes stared down at her intently. it was as though they wanted to drown her in their bright abyss. they know something, and from the looks of it, she wasn't meant to know about whatever it was.
how do you-!
who told you about her?
i've always known something was off about you!
thief! thief!
the brief silence broke into a myriad of accusatory voices all coming at her like daggers, it's blades sinking and embedding itself into her very spirit. she was only a child when she gained these abilities, with no one to lean on or tell her what she was supposed to do and yet all this time there were nine others like her and even the original tenth one who were all gawking at her amateur attempts, none of whom ever had the mind to reach out a had to help her. much less talk about protecting her from all that she went through.
they aren't human, after all.
not like she couldn't say the same of herself.
silence, everyone.
the first wing commanded, and all was still again.
with slow, calculated movements, the first leaves their seat, coming up towards the woman. as they took a step forward, she took one back, one foot behind the other until she was sure she was going to tilt off the edge of the floor and fall off into the bottom of the spherical room.
i thinkâŚ
the first starts, their voice low and grim.
i think, that we should take agnes back. and put her back into her rightful place.
agreements from the other eight came back like ringing church bells, as though they've all came to a divine conclusion. yes, they said, we miss our dear agnes! oh how very much so!
and as for this⌠imposter we have here.
the first continues, their gaze locked onto hers, a deep pool of gold and a centre of a pure blue so unblemished and untainted by any other hues, and she looked past those eyes only to be met with the first unravelling mid-way into their true form â six pure white wings emerging from their back, a halo of cross-shaped daggers with the hilt of eyes all blinking and widening as the multitude of fragmented reflections of her figure stared back at her and it's tri-coloured rings were hypnotising; blue-red-gold blue-red-gold blue-red-gold blue-red-gold blue-red-gold blue-red-gold blue-red-gold blue-
her heel drops over the edge.
and the first wing places the tips of their fingers on her chest. with a twist of their wrist, she sees their hand, then forearm and then all the way to their elbow enter impossibly deep into whatever crevices of her so-called body, trying and reaching for something inside of her.
ah. there it is.
just like that, the first takes their hand out and lays it on her chest. a soft pressure at first grows into a harder push, and she finds herself trying not to fall over the edge.
as the oldest wing pushed her backwards further from safety and into an endless abyss, she feels something deep within her crack apart. two perfect halves â each an incomplete soul. the saintly wings finally managed to push her over the edge, and for the first time she sees her husk. it's wings restored to it's glory and carried into the other nine saints arms.
rejoice! they sing. for the true tenth wing hath returned to thine holiness' arms!
she thinks as she falls past the skies, that when the saints cast the physical manifestation of her humanity out of the cradle of her god's service, they had already begun to walk on to a path beyond salvation. though she cannot think of the reason why. well, the chosen tenth kept her infinite wisdom while she picked up the scraps of her morality. the tenth had kindness, she was given apathy. the tenth will live on forever, and sheâŚ
she'll have to see when she gets into a body of her own.
her fall from heavens grace was supposed to be terrifying and painful. and yet she has landed on a field of blooming wildflowers. a tiny bundle, swaddled tightly to protect herself from the cold spring air. she realised her new form was not yet old enough to fend for itself. has she been abandoned?
the small body that had yet to know it's own name feels it's little heart well up in incredible sadness â fat tears escape the infant's eyes as it cries out, unable to vocalise the words they wanted to say.
a familiar scent wafts past it's nose. no. the scent was overpowering, it surrounded the helpless little bundle. the halved soul of the former officer knew this smell better then anyone. what bad luck.
turning it's head to the side, the little baby's eyes saw a woman lying next to them on the fields.
mom�
the words felt foreign. but this woman was no doubt the mother of this body. how long have they both been lying in those fields for the woman's corpse to start decomposing? if it had been that long, then⌠the original owner of this child's body⌠oh. it was too heavy a revelation for a newly reincarnated person like her to bear.
cooking a phainon x reader for halloween based on a few classic horror novels but i also want to make a mydei x reader uni au based on my own lore about the situationship i had when i was still studying in architecture which like really fucked me UPPPPP!!!!!!
cooked and served that phainon x reader and now im ready to deliver you mydeimos situationship realness in the next fic that might come out november-ish lmao im flying overseas for three weeks soon so no internet for me... :((
summary: something has been lurking in the shadows and waiting.
[BETTER READING EXPERIENCE ON PC]
content warning: (non-canon compliant timeline) both phainon and reader are implied to be in their mid-to-late 20s // reader was an ass to phainon (for a very good reason) // phainon breaks up with reader // slight ooc!phainon for the sake of the plot // implied talks about how marriage for women is a prison (loss of the woman's individuality and autonomy) // sleep paralysis (irontomb) // (nsfw) fingering // (nsfw) penetrative p-in-v sex (phainon) // (nsfw) creampie (phainon) // depictions of vision and auditory hallucinations (irontomb) // something is wrong with this house (irontomb) // descriptions of an eldritch entity (irontomb) // mentions of the devil (irontomb) // uncanny valley (irontomb) // reader might be the problem // (minor) references to numerology and tarot cards // reader's vulnerabilities and fears coming true (the loss of autonomy) // (nsfw) reader and irontomb!phainon fuck nasty crazy style kinda // intentional blurring of settings and events to reflect reader's mental state // reader beats the shit out of irontomb!phainon
word count: 8.10k
author's note: was inspired to write some phainon horror after reading the fic promtheus complex (yall know which fic im talking abt, if you don't, please read it like right now im so serious lock in on peak) listened to the whole EDAABP album and 2000s club music on repeat writing this and uhh after im done writing this im going to try and beat that stupid boss from chapter 4 from fuckASS Limbus Company AGAIN and if i fail AGAIN FOR THE 13TH TIME I WILL KMS. also yes, i drew that floorplan of the house because autocad is fucking expensive like im not joking it's crazy ex and my company just happens to have a license so of courseeeee im going to use it for my own stuff duh!!!! but lol also can you imagine being an old jaded man working in construction and so close to retirement and you look over to see your new-hire architect writing full blown phainon smut during lunch on the work pc...
references: main thematic inspiration/references â Silent Hill f, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, including the 2018 miniseries by Mike Flanagan of the same name, the light novel/manga The Strange House by UKETSU and the webnovel/webtoon Welcome to the Rose Mansion by Lee Daran. // other minor study materials (writing style, narrative voice, books i wanted to recommend just because) â Butter by Asako Yuzuki, Tokyo Sympathy Tower by Rie Qudan, The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.
[18+ NSFW CONTENT BELOW, MINORS DNI]
[PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY TRIGGERS CAUSED BEYOND THIS LINE]
âââââââââââââââ
the four-pointed star.
the compass rose that guides one home, always pointing northwards even as one's feet leads them to where the west wind ends, the ever faithful compass will point north to navigate you home.
this compass, embellished in gold with intricate patterns painted on its surface in sky blue enamel, much like the colour of your ex-lover's eyes, was the final gift he had given you before the both of you had parted ways. it had been amicable, at least it was to the eyes of the holy city.
but behind closed doors, it was another story. for a child who has never not known love like he did, how could he ever understand how you could have been so apathetic to his devotion? he had cried as he said goodbye, how he still loved you, about how it hurt him to keep loving you because it was, in his words â as though i was throwing rocks into a bottomless pit that could never be filled up.
for the deliverer of all people to say that, phainon must have been at his wits' end with you.
with that, he had left, taking all that was his away with him. your home, once warm and full of life, was now left in its bare bones, emaciated with only the most basic of furnishings still standing.
you sit at the foot of your once shared bed â staring past the open doors towards the long, empty corridor. though the holy city has never seen the night, the sun's rays gently flitting past the thin gaps in the walls and hanging tapestries to cast languid shadows across the marble floors did little to ease that uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
exactly eight years ago, when you and phainon had begun making plans to start living together, he had brought you to a viewing of this place. the ride there had been pleasant, though you noted how the roads leading to the house had been oddly quiet, a rather uncharacteristic trait despite it being located within the holy city. your lover had teased back then that the desolation made it perfect for the two of you, for whenever certain curtain-fall activities transgressed, and he was pushing you to be more vocal.
you, of course, had hit his arm for his shamelessness. gods know how embarrassed out of your mind you were then. only to have him chuckle at you lovingly in response, leaning over to kiss you on the apple of your cheeks apologetically.
the address of the house was stated as such:
816, 15th Street, Eternal Holy City, Okhema, Amphoreus (81303)
at first glance, one would be reasonably led to believe that the property was auspicious â after all, if one were to draw a straight line linking every historic monument of the titan kephale, this very house would be right smack in that path. and especially for phainon, wouldn't this bring about more blessings for his future duties as that very god's successor? though when you had asked phainon about it, he had grown bashful, scratching his cheek with his finger and doing his best to not look into your eyes.
actually i was hoping this would be the our forever home... you know after the wedding and maybe a few kids...
our... your eyes grew wide. oh phainon, you swooned at his shy confession of wanting to start a family with you. it was at that moment that you felt your life was finally made whole.
by this point in time, you had already achieved every milestone an okheman woman of your age should reach. first was a world-class education at the grove where you graduated at the top of your class. after which you worked as a humble entry-level mid-rank civil servant at the council. gradually gaining more accolades over time. you would meet phainon through a particular work event afterparty and after many lunch outings and late night drinks, perhaps even a few risque moments that transpired in-between. you eventually started a loving and enviable long-term courtship with the chrysos heir himself.
and now you had entered the final stages of that list of milestones, all that was left was the engagement announcement, preferably done in fall, following that was a fashionable waiting period of maybe two winters at most. and then, the actual wedding preparations will begin in earnest, and you would go from being his fiancee to being his wife before the end of the the following year's spring.
< and when you become his wife, it won't be long before you would be expected to leave that cushy job and that hard-earned position in the council, and settle into becoming his obedient little housewife that he has at his beck and call. >
huh. what was that?
you could hear a voice whisper in your ear for a moment, snapping you out of your reverie. your lover was off to your side, enjoying the passing view and was most certainly not talking to you. the air was still, with nary a breeze passing by. and yet. that voice had to have come from somewhere. you weren't stupid enough to mistake the thoughts in your head with whatever this was.
the dromas promptly came to a halt in front of an unassuming iron gate. the numbers eight-one-six engraved on a metal plate hanging above the gate's arch glinted dully against the ever-present sun. you were at the right address, that's for sure.
phainon, ever the gentleman, hopped off from the mount and jogged over to your side to help you down. you giggled at you lover's antics, hand finding solace in his fluffy hair as you ruffled it affectionally. he whined in faux sadness, grumbling about how his hair was all messy now, and yet he still smiles as he peppers your face in soft kisses as he settles you back on your feet.
so, what do you think?
he holds your hand as he gently leads you towards the gate. from where you stood, the house looked... unusual. the entry façade, for one, was not designed in the traditional okheman style of white limestone blocks neatly stacked into rectangular blocks two to three stories tall, four if the owners were more wealthy. this... house if you were being liberal looked more like an abandoned temple.
shall we go in?
the iron gate creaks open, the screeching sound echoing through the still air ominously. phainon holds out his hand towards you, gesturing at you to follow behind.
and right away, the moment your foot passed the threshold to the property, you could feel a chill run up your spine. you had looked over to phainon, alarmed by the sensation. yet your lover remained ever so unperturbed. if anything, he seemed to not even know what just transpired.
is something wrong?
he asks, a boyish smile laying easy on his handsome face. as usual, he never held a twinge of worry on his expression â even when you knew very well that the duties he held would more than not have kept him up at curtain-fall hour.
no. nothing's wrong.
you reply, keeping your answer curt. you had decided early on in the relationship that if this man would only let you skim at the surface of who he was, you will not pry. you had trusted that one day he would open up, he would let you into his world instead of keeping you at a metaphorical arm's length.
< how long has it been since then? oh you poor thing! you and him will be engaged soon but he still won't open up to his future wife? >
your arm link with his, stepping carefully on the barely visible paved road that had been covered under the overgrown grass â so tall that it was almost at the level of your chest. phainon chuckled at the sight, amused at how you'd almost looked like you were about to drown into your surroundings.
with a soft, excuse me, he lifts you into his arms. like a groom would his beloved bride, as his long legs carried you across the front lawn right towards the ornate marble staircase leading up to the house itself. this house, built as though it were a temple, was elevated by a mere three steps that wrapped around the perimeter of the structure. tall, towering stone columns flanked the sides, at a distance of what you assumed were approximately four arms length apart, held up the simple marble roof high above your heads.
a door made out of thia wood served as the entry point into the building, and it stood at a reasonable height â something you found a little surprising, given the massive scale of this structure otherwise.
from the doorway looking back, you could see the overgrown grass, yellow from the dry spell of this past month, bowing it head and swaying it's body to the non-existent breeze sweeping across the lawn. it was almost like you were looking at a field of â
wheat fields... like the ones in aedes elysiae...
beside you, phainon murmurs under his breath. his face wistful, eyes gleaming with a longing so desperate you wished that you had been chosen to as a chrysos heir that would one day inherit oronyx. maybe then, you could have turned back time to bring your lover back home one more time.
ah... nevermind. shall we go look inside?
can't you tell me more about aedes elysiae?
of course you just had to go off and do it. you had sworn to never pry into your lover's past and yet what did you do? you felt panic settling into your bones, wondering if it was too late to play it off as a slip of your tongue.
and yet, phainon smiles down at you as he caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. eventually leaning down to place a kiss against your furrowed brow.
sure. i'll tell you more next time.
there it was. that dreaded phrase.
it was always a next time when you tried to grow closer to him. it was never a sure i'll tell you more now. it was never your chance to learn more about your lover. how long has this been? eight years? how could you have let this go on for so long?
sometimes you wonder if phainon had decided to draw a hard line between his time before arriving at okhema and the day he picked up the mantle as the deliverer. or that he had drawn that line between the man he was before and after meeting you. and if that were so, were you a fool to hope that you were more than just the woman he goes home to at night?
back in the present day, you swing your feet off the bed and stood up. you were getting thirsty, and besides, it wasn't yet time for that to happen. taking one last glance at the door, you finally make your way out of the bedroom.
this house, or rather, this temple. yes, you have finally decided that this accursed structure was that of a temple that housed some nameless god or perhaps it housed something that was not a divine being at all â seeing how that lives under this roof together with you as well.
feeling the ridges and bumps on the wall, you exit to the right of the bedroom, down the short steps to an enclosed corridor. you walk down along the path where the arched doorway led into the next room â a modest storeroom that used to house the artifacts your ex had collected over the years. of course, it was empty now, he had been meticulous to leave nothing of himself behind.
the room after held a long oak table, mismatching chairs littered around it's edges. in it's heyday this room would be the centerpoint of lively gatherings that he would host for his fellow chrysos heirs, food and drink aplenty as your lover's arm hung loosely around the shoulders of the prince, probably annoying the poor man with his drunk ramblings as he usually does in the day.
phainon was no longer your lover. it was still hard for you to make that change. the almost ten-year-long labour of love all down the drain just like that, was there anyone who could move on that quickly?
past the dining room was the first kitchen, and just behind it was another kitchen. you had mostly used it as a pantry, even if it had been equipped to work as a dry kitchen. you were too peeved by what lay inside, one wall over.
anyone would be peeved. if they too knew what comes out of that little square room every night.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
one week after setting in â with the furniture set up, and belongings put into their proper places, you had decided to take a nap in the new bed you and phainon had went to pick out together. the mattress dipped under the weight of your knees as you climbed up towards the array of pillows you had carefully laid out.
the bedroom was built in a way that made it completely enclosed towards the rest of the house, anybody looking in from the outside won't even catch a glimpse and the ones in the room won't even have a clue to whatever happens beyond the room's walls.
sleep came easier than it had the previous nights. from the day you had stepped into the threshold of the property, there were eyes from countless directions boring into your being, watching your every move. at least you could have brushed it off back when it was the house-viewing. who could have thought that your lover would have settled all the arrangements and signed the deed to the property?
without even asking me about it?
you asked him, incredulous, and frankly â you were hurt that he hadn't made this life-altering decision with you. was it something that you did to lead him to act on his own? but no, the phainon you knew would not have moved on his own on something that involved you as well! yes, that explains everything.
yes, you concluded. that it was simply not phainon. that it had been someone else who made that decision in his place and making him act weirdly lately. yes, that explains everything.
< oh, but does it? >
you awaken to pitch darkness, flat on your back with your face facing up and your limbs slightly spread out, as you try to lift your hand to your face it occurred to you that you could not move. your body felt numb and heavy, save for the tingling sensation at the tip of your fingers. your eyes dart around helplessly, as though finding out were you were could ease your racing heart â pounding as though it would jump out of your ribcage at any moment.
and then you felt something cold on your ankle. no, it was on your thigh now, you can feel the shape of five distinct fingers splayed across your flesh, the thumb rubbing circles as though trying to soothe your flighty nerves.
this was not phainon.
phainon's body usually ran hot, and his hands were warm and calloused from the years he spent training and fighting on the battlefield. this imposter, whose hands were far too soft and smooth and whose skin on yours felt akin to the ice in aidonia. and yet! it was the unmistakable shape of his digits â sculpted perfectly to be long and of an adequate thickness, with the skin sitting on his bones unblemished and taut.
this imposter, with their ice-cold hands that were far too smooth and too similar to you lover's started moving up your thigh, under your robes and closer to your hips.
you shiver, from dread or from the cold, who was to say?
those same ice-cold fingers slowly made their way down the dip of your pelvic bone towards what lay between your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin in its wake.
it stopped just short above that sensitive bundle of nerves, now burning and begging to be touched. it was terrible! and by gods, you were so ashamed of yourself. soaking wet with want from just a little touching from an unknown figure that was not your lover, you willed yourself to stop for everything to stop.
< hm, poor girl, keening to be touched... >
the cold that touched the tip of your clit had you choking back a cry. the smooth pads of its fingers slowly rubbed circles into you, setting a languid pace, slow enough that you began to wish that it would go faster and get you off properly.
< patience is a virtue, did no one teach you that? >
the voice spoke lowly in your ear, without so much as an exhale. a second, equally cold hand came up to cup your breast â the little nub that was your inverted nipple getting pinched and pulled and rolled in between its thumb and index finger with nothing but the sheer fabric of your negligee as a barrier, the fingers on your pearl now moved down the curve of your nether regions coating itself with your slick. a middle finger traced back up your slit, before ultimately prodding at your entrance. never pushing inside completely, always stopping at the first knuckle before pulling out and circling around the rim in featherlight touches.
you needed more, you wanted more. so please, put that damn finger inside already â
ahn!
you awoke, once more, this time with the sun's rays pouring in from the skylights in the ceiling. or perhaps there were small gaps in between the walls and the roof. it was hard to tell from down where you lay.
right next to you, with an arm under your head and the other slung over your waist was your very much topless lover, fast asleep. your head fell to the side to look at his peaceful expression, ever so youthful and handsome â was this a blessing of the titan kephale or was this just how he was naturally?
shifting closer, you bury your face into his voluptuous chest, finding solace in the warmth melting away the cold in your bones. he smelled like the first rays of sunlight and the fading scent of dried wheat carried in by the west winds. it was homey and for a moment you let yourself fall deeper into your lover's embrace.
mmh...
phainon stirs, and your hand finds itself cupping his cheek as his arm on your waist pulls you closer, enough where you wonder if he could feel the dampness between your legs from the remnants of last night's incident.
hm... g'mornin my love...
soft kisses fall on the crown of your head, and on your palm cradling his cheek. he pulls you up from where you'd buried your face in his chest to level with his face. to which he then peppers your face with another barrage of kisses and then some on your lips â once, twice, thrice perhaps even till a tenth or more, though you surmised you might have lost count.
hello gorgeous, fancy seeing you so early in the morning.
there was still a slight rasp in his voice, as he greets you yet again. you let a huff of laughter escape you, still feeling shy from his generous compliments even after all these years.
it wasn't long before the innocent kisses grew heated, his thick hand heavy on your hip moves to grind his palm against your bare cunt, already soaked once again from a reignited desire. you could hardly hold yourself back as you gasp into his kisses, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as he dips a finger inside you, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing against your soft gummy walls, trying to find that spot.
you know.
he mummers, a thumb circling around your clit as his two fingers now thrusted in and out of your hole sloppily, an obscene squelching accompanying his movements. you whine helplessly, opening your legs wider and grinding down into his fingers, trying desperately to chase your own high.
when i came back home last night, i think i heard you having a rather naughty dream about me. you were so whiny and restless... oh sweet girl, did you miss me that much?
you nodded, leaning in to kiss him.
phainon chuckles giddily as your lips met his, the arm under your head curling up to keep your head in place as he picked up the pace. his fingers now went in and out of you rapidly, scissoring you to open wider. the roughness of his movements had your mouth gaping open as you let out silent cries of pleasure. this, this was what you just needed after that stupid dream from last night.
with one final push inside, his fingers curling, knuckle pressing on that sweet spot so deliciously you instantly gushed around his fingers, vision growing white as the tight coil in your abdomen finally snapped loose.
shh... it's okay love... i got you. i got you.
your lover kissed away the fat tears sitting on your lashes, tears that you didn't even know had started to form. you hiccup as you tried to form words, but gods, that might have been the most intense orgasm that phainon's ever pulled out of you so far.
you loosened your grip on his shoulder, wincing a you saw the deep crescent indents on his skin. he only smiled and told you he was more than happy to carry battle scars of this kind, so happy in fact he might even show it off â whatever that meant.
well, let's get you cleaned upâ
aren't you forgetting something?
confused, phainon looks back at you. you pointed your gaze downwards and raised an eyebrow. the tent in his pants only seemed to grow larger at the attention.
he sputters, embarrassed and growing increasingly flushed at the revelation. this was not the first time either of you had a morning romp in the sheets, but something about seeing you come undone more than usual had the blood rushing to his dick. he flips you on your back, gaze unfocused and hazy with the immense lust he was feeling at that very moment.
please, can i...?
you nod, arms wrapped around him, pulling him in for another kiss, this time deeper with your lips parted wide enough for his tongue to prod and curl against yours. in a swift move he pulls down his pants, his cock springing free â his thick and heavy length slapping against your bare thigh, precum already leaking from his tip and smearing onto your skin.
his lips left yours, travelling across your cheeks and along your jaw before latching onto the thin layer of skin behind your ear, earning him a series of shivers while you gasped lightly at the contact. his hands were just as busy, riding the hem of your negligee up your torso so that your entire lower half was completely exposed to him.
he lifts himself off to take a good look at you â having to hold back a groan at how turned on he felt looking at you lying on your back with glossy eyes and disheveled hair, a thin sheen of sweat forming on your skin from the heat, legs pushed apart to reveal your glistening pussy and throbbing hole, just begging for him to get inside.
phainon wraps a hand around his dick, swiping his tip across your sensitive bud, flicking at it sideways, ecstatic at your whines for more! more! and yet never letting up on his teasing. so mean in fact, he would even slap that heavy cock of his against your leaking hole until you were crying, begging, your back arched off the bed to hopefully catch the tip of his length in your entrance somehow.
phainon clicks his tongue at your desperation, one hand pinning your hip against the bed as he finally lines himself against your opening, pushing it all in one go. you were sure you had gone crazy then, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, ankles locked on his lower back â your lover only laughs as he kissed up your neck, wet and sloppy just like the way your bodies slapping against each other at his every thrust did. your walls clenched around his cock, never getting used to his size no matter how many times you had sex with phainon.
the large hands palming your ass, lifted you a little higher and then â right there! you could feel him thrust even deeper into your cervix, the dull head of his penis rubbing against that spongy spot over and over again, your tummy felt hot, that familiar coil growing tight in your abdomen.
phainon... phai...
he kissed you, smiling.
are you close my love? it's okay, it's okay i got you, yeah? ah... shit... i think i'm cumming too... hold on a little longer for me? let's ah... let's come together? please? can we do that?
your walls clamped down even harder in response to his request, making him hiss as a whine escaped his lips. his head buries into the crook of your neck, nibbling and sucking on whatever skin his mouth could reach. he thrusts grow more ragged, shallow. his dick started twitching inside you, the telltale sign he was close.
but, even in your haze of immense pleasure, you couldn't help but notice that the door at the foot of your bed had creaked open. and even though you know that there wasn't anybody there, you could have sworn you saw a hand peaking out â
and waving at you.
your thoughts broke when phainon thrusts into you, harshly, your ass slapping against his hips. you could feel the thick ropes of cum fill up your womb, the sudden warmth had your walls spasming around his length, your clear fluids mixing with his release, the translucent and viscous blobs of cum overflowing out of your pussy and down onto the sheets. and somehow, phainon was still rock hard and twitching while slotted snugly inside you. you giggled and placed a kiss on his nose, already knowing what he was going to ask next.
oh phainon...
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
six months into living at the temple, you and phainon had been going at it almost everyday and every hour since that morning. it drained you, really. you were no superhuman demigod chrysos heir like your lover was. there was only so much stamina you had. and yet, when phainon would look at you pleadingly for a quick session, you would fold and let him take you there and there â it didn't matter if that was on all fours in the baths, hanging off the kitchen counters, bent over the dining table, on splayed on the floor of the study or even out on the corridors pinned against the round towering pillars. phainon never seemed to mind where he had sex with you as long as he could make you cling onto him as the both of you came over and over again until it would all spill out of you and onto the marble floors below.
and bless his heart, he would always take care of you after. giving you something to eat and drink, washing you clean and spoiling you rotten with kisses, though he would still slip his fingers into your cunt to clean the cum out properly.
it was strange, you note.
it was strange that you and phainon were having this much unprotected sex and you weren't even pregnant yet. there was no way you were infertile. you had regular checkups with the twilight courtyard, and you were always cleared with a clean bill of health!
the only respite you had from phainon was when he was out and about in okhema to fulfill his duties. or when you went to work.
actually. when was the last time you clocked into work? you had been calling in sick so often in the past month you would be surprised if the council hadn't fired you yet.
< you are already on your way to leaving your old life behind for this man. >
you shake your head. no! you were not going to become one of those women who threw themselves into servitude at their husband's feet. were you? truthfully, you doubted yourself, your actions so far, is it not like the women you condemned in your mind? will you too be cursed to live out your days like they did?
the reflection you caught of yourself from the bronze cutlery was not pretty. a haggard visage, you looked like you'd aged ten years in the past six months. a heavy weight on your shoulders and in your eyes, a deep tiredness laying waste in your bones.
you looked away, unable to bear that image any longer.
when your lover came home that night, you sat him down, intending to have a serious conversation about your life, your lives, an actual solid roadmap about your future with him. that you cannot give up on your job, that you were really, really scared about a forever with him and what it would look like in a worst-case scenario. but the thoughts in your head jumbled together and confused you, overwhelmed you so much that the only sentence that tumbled out, one you managed to string together wasâ
i'm going back to work tomorrow.
phainon blinks, suprised that you'd been acting so serious over something like this.
yeah oaky! do you want me to take you therâ
no! no... that's...
you retorted, louder than you'd wanted, wincing at your own volume. fustrated that he was not getting your point. that he had thought that you were being this agitated over something trivial. ugh! frown deepening, your hands find their way to your head, pulling at the roots violently, trying to get yourself to focus. when did you become so dull? the voice of your father, ever so distant, sounded in your ear. you mother's voice comes in not far behind, it's because of all that debauchery she's been taking part in. your fingers tighten around the strands even more, practically ripping them out of its roots. you could hear a dull noise in your ears but you just weren't there to â
hey, hey! stop it! don't do that, please... my love? won't you at least look at me, please? oh, my sweet love...
phainon, the poor man, his voice cracked in sorrow, beating himself up over not knowing what caused your inherent distress. he was now on the ground where you had curled into a ball, his hand under your forehead, keeping you from bashing it into the stone floor, while the other was gently tugging your fingers out of your hair â in a snap of a finger, you came back to your senses, almost as instantly as you had lost them. the fog in your mind cleared up, and you were now sitting upright as you looked over at a kneeling phainon, terror filled your eyes, horrified by your own behaviour.
phainon... i think there's something wrong with me.
your feet slipped and you tumbled out of the outhouse and onto the dirt floor beneath. visions of the past long gone dissipating into a mist around your peripherals.
the one man you had loved was no longer by your side.
he was no longer by your side, and it was all your fault!
pained cries, low and guttural ripped from your throat as your hands found anchor in your sea of matted tresses one more, nails digging into the scalp deep enough to draw blood, the roots of your hair getting pulled so hard it was ripping off. your body curled into itself, your forehead pounding against the dirt, over and over again â except that this time, there were no warm and loving hands to shield your self-inflicted onslaught.
you were going to burn this damn house down, even if it was the last thing you'd do! damn it all! damn it all! damn itâ
< my love >
your head snapped up. wild eyes searching for that disembodied voice mocking you, mocking your lover. how dare that imitate him, after all the torment that had put you through, the gall of it all!
behind the outhouse was a hill, it's slope gentle enough for one to walk down it easily. though it was a different story for those that wished to climb up of it. the fence at the edge of the drop was all but completely gone, numbs of what used to be there remained, wards of an unknown origin broken down and fraying. at foot of this hill was an empty field. and tonight, that field was filled with white, luminous five-petal flowers in full bloom, the sweet cloying scent carried by a breeze of no origin brushes past you. you gagged, though it had no real substance behind it.
it was not phainon that stood among the flowers.
it was that, wearing your lover's skin and flesh like a coat, letting it sit comfortably on it's bones as though it were that's own. and yet, it could not sit right. it would never sit right. how could it? how could your lover's likeness ever sit well on anyone other than himself?
the dullness of his snow-like hair, the smile that wasn't pulled at the right angles, and of course there was no way you could mistake that for phainon. not when phainon had sky-blue eyes and that's looked like the red of a world coming to an end.
yet, as the imitation of phainon stretched out his arms to the sides, beckoning you to come running into his arms, you still willed your feet to move â tumbling down the gentle slope of the hill, across the flowers, bare feet kicking up dust as you ran, still so hopelessly in love, right into the arms of a creature that wore the face of your beloved.
the imitation calls your name in his disembodied voice, still just as loving as the original had sounded. you laugh, that had learnt about your beloved's mannerisms rather well, it seems. your face buried into his imitation uniform, the body cold and stiff, nothing like the real phainon who was so full of life and so full of love.
oh love...
you rasp, cupping his cheeks, cooing at the way those not-blue eyes gazed down at you.
won't you kiss me, please?
with a practiced ease, he cradles the back of your head, leaning down to capture your lips in his. it was chapped and thin, nothing like the full and plump lips your phainon had. still, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling that deeper into the kiss. something cold began to fall out of his face, as though the void behind that layer of skin had finally seeped out. the sensation enveloped you, as his face melted onto yours, as that's body began to morph, tugging you closer to the swirling abyss within.
you no longer had the energy to make sense of the situation. body growing lax as your legs were dragged into the void that opened up in that's chest. the numbness eating you up from the tips of your toes then up your ankles and calves, ticking up your thighs finally stopping at your hips. he falls to his knees, your upper torso falling backwards and landing on the flowers, hard. enough that you felt the air knocked out of your lungs, but his lips never once left yours â if anything, the kiss deepened and your arms clung to his neck even tighter at the intensity. somewhere in the madness, your robes were taken off your body and discarded off to the side. the hands cradling your head now moved to your waist keeping it still in a bruising grip as your body was moved in and out of the gaping void of his chest. each thrust rough and fast, making you cry into his mouth at how hard your breasts were bouncing from the movements.
as numbness gradually gave way, you groaned, the tantalizing sensation of your cunt being stuffed full with what you'd assume was his cum, as your clit was continuously getting stimulated, a wet tongue-like appendage spread your pussy open wider for a second round.
you were flipped to your front, your face now eating the dirt beneath you, arms folded in an odd angle, your breasts pressed down under the weight of your body. his hand took position back on your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh as your body began to move backwards once more into the void. except this time, you could feel everything that was going on in there.
a dull tip pushed past the ring of your cervix, the sheer size of that's member was inhumane, threatening to rip you in half yet somehow, you were able to have it fit in you, filling you up so well that the every thrust had your toes curling in pure bliss, your walls spasming and gushing all over repeatedly. without missing a beat, he pulled your body up, your back flushed against the cold void behind you. his hands found new grip on your plump breasts, fingers twisting and flicking at your inverted nubs, palms guiding your mounds in circles as you were continuously pushed down to take that in over and over again.
you've lost count on how many times you were taken by him. though he mustn't have stopped or took a break with you once, seeing as how you had been brought back into the house from the flower fields. past the very corridors and rooms you once inhabited with your beloved. the searing memories came flooding into your mind, tears falling down your face in utter regret and immense heartbreak.
you hadn't meant to let things end the way it did, you knew something was wrong with you, yet somehow no medical professional was able to pin down a diagnosis.
they always told you to rest more, or get more fresh air, or go lose weight, or quit your job! even phainon had begun to parrot their suggestions. he once told you to just stay at home, just let him take care of you. but you had been indignant and detached yourself from him, refusing to listen to his pleas. poor phainon, he never managed to come to terms mourning the loss of a living, breathing person.
for the first time in his life the golden boy of okhema had no solutions to his conundrum. he could not save you, his beloved from your own mind and in an act of uncharacteristic selfishness, he left you all alone in the very house that had heralded all this suffering.
it's your fault.
you hiss, pulling on the imitation's hair, the line between you lover and that blurring in your mind, you blamed your lover for abandoning you to fend for yourself against a mind you could no longer control or understand, for trying to help but failing anyway, for even being stupid enough to buy this damned house without asking you once.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
ever since you stepped foot in this place you could feel eyes following your every move, no matter the time of day and no matter what you did there was something watching your every move. you could be eating and feel a presence walk behind you only to turn and find nothing there. or you could be in your study and books would fall over. worst was either during baths when you're alone and your head would be shoved under the water only to come up and find no one there or at night when phainon wasn't home â you would feel eyes boring into your sleeping figure, and you, terrified out of your mind at every creak or shuffle that was not your own.
once, on a full moon, you awoke to the doors at the foot of your bed swinging on it's hinges. someone having opened them, yet again. the moon illuminated the otherwise dark corridor, the silvery light flitting in through the thin gaps of the walls onto the walkway.
this corridor was a complete dead end. you did not know if there was an opening there in the past that got the person into the kitchen or the baths. but now this corridor was sealed off from the outside world completely.
the four pointed star, ever the guiding light shimmered at the end of this corridor. in your sleep-addled state you had not questioned much about why it had led you to follow that shimmering light.
it was stupid of you to bend over to peep through the tiny hole carved into the wall, the peepholes lining up to show you the view of the flower fields behind your house. and oh! it was breathtaking. beautiful luminous white flowers blooming across the expanse, bobbing their little heads in the breeze.
and a lone figure standing in the middle of it all.
you gasp and moved away from the hole. the image of the figure, all skin and bones standing as tall as a four storey building and without a head â in it's place instead, was a glowing red four pointed star.
you steeled to take one more look. just to make sure.
a single red eye stares back at you from the other side of the peephole.
you fell back, a silent scream forming in your throat, feet kicking against the floor you scrambled back up, tripping over your own feet in the mad rush to run back into the safety of your bedroom.
the door slammed behind you and you tumble into the sheets, pulling your blankets over your head, burrowing into the warmth of your pillows â
your fist connected with his face.
your hands hurt, your knuckles had grown bruised and blue from the continuous barrage on his face. you were not one to retort to violent of this caliber, and yet you felt a thrill you'd never felt before â every punch you landed on the imposter's face, the more convinced you were that you could rip the skin of this crude imitation off with your bare hands.
what a scene.
your bare, naked, used body still leaking with that's fluids, looming over him manic with a desperation to pay it all back. that lay beneath you, utterly still and devoid of life and yet not dead. that took your hits, no protests no fight-backs. and as one punch landed, crack! the sound of his nose broke, red blood unlike the gold ichor of a chrysos heir gushed out and pooled around his head. another punch landed and, crack! something in his skull gave way.
you are not him, you are not him!
a shallow laugh escaped the imposter's lips, cracked and bleeding from the injuries you just bestowed upon it.
< and yet you wished that it was him beneath you now, don't you? >
the imposter sits up, not caring for the blood dripping onto his imitation clothes. his hands wrap around you and pulled you in lovingly, just like the real phainon would have. rubbing your back as though to soothe what he deemed as your temper tantrum.
< don't worry my love, you will have everything you want here. >
the disembodied voice of the imposter finally managed to start sounding like your beloved. the hold he had on you tightened and you felt it getting harder to breathe. the scent of almonds and rotting flowers permeated your nose, almost knocking you out cold, the imposter smiled against your shoulder, his low voice humming a long-forgotten lullaby as you finally feel yourself slipping into unconciousness.
you hadn't been keen on moving into this house.
phainon wished he had noticed your apprehension earlier. the morning after his abrupt move, he wakes up from the couch he had slept on, graciously given to him by mydeimos after crashing into the other man's abode for the night.
phainon missed you terribly, he hated that he had been so brash at your apparent distress. he wished he had been more patient with you, it wasn't true what he said to you in the heat of the moment â that loving you had felt like throwing rocks into a bottomless pit that could never be filled up.
but, when he goes to find a ride to the house on fifteenth street, all the dromas handlers gave him a puzzled look. there was no such street, they all say. he posits that perhaps everyone was a little confused today, and decides to go look for the house himself.
and yet, no matter what turn he took. there was only ever fourteen streets. no hidden alleys he missed, no secret doorways he couldn't pass through that would have blocked him from that fifteenth street.
snowy, okhema never had fifteen streets, ever!
the little red-haired seer furrowed her brows, deep in thought. racking through her thousands of years of memories in the chance that she might have thought wrong.
snowy, i think you're not feeling well. you should go back home.
defeated, phainon drags his feet back to his friend's house, only to find the said man waiting for him at the doorway.
you know she's not here anymore right?
huh?
phainon could not believe his ears! just till yesterday, he had held and kissed you so what did mydeimos mean that you were gone? you were gone, and had been gone for the past year, and he had been moving things out of your house because it pained him to live in a place that still felt like you were alive. that's why he was crashing on the other's couch, don't you remember? ah, one year. the exact time the both of you had lived in that house! it did not make sense, had his fellow heirs not come over in droves to feast with him in that house? had he not glanced at you over all the food and haze of alcohol during those night?
what face did you wear?
what even made him sign the deed to that house on fifteenth street?
he recalled you offhandedly mention how the house looked like a temple, a temple with overgrown dried grass in it's lawn almost like the golden wheat fields of aedes elysiae.
fifteen, the devil. this card represents the darker inner world of the one who pulls this card, most times it's something out of one's control but not something that will take over your life, unless of course you fall into the devil's taunts and charm. in it's reverse, it's a good thing that means the person is fighting back!
in the non-existent fifteenth street, the stood a tall white temple. it was a house, but it sure did not look like it. the place was empty, cleaned out of the previous owner's belongings. if one were to walk past the entryway and enter the bedroom via either side to the openings, they would find a long corridor with a dead end. upon closer inspection one would see a hole in the shape of a four pointed star carved into the wall. looking through it one might first notice that it is an enclosed square room. and if one were to look through the second peephole at the opposite end of the wall, one might catch a glimpse of the beautiful white blooms littered across the empty field behind the house.
be careful when one moves to leave. in case a foot accidentally kicks over or steps on a compass lying nearby, though somewhat bloodstained, it is brilliantly embellished in gold with intricate patterns painted on its surface in sky blue enamel, much like a certain deliverer's eyes.
cooking a phainon x reader for halloween based on a few classic horror novels but i also want to make a mydei x reader uni au based on my own lore about the situationship i had when i was still studying in architecture which like really fucked me UPPPPP!!!!!!
summary: it's not weird for an old man over eighty stuck in a twenty-something-year-old's body to go through a super cliche coming-of-age moment.
word count: 1.15k
author's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHUNG MYUNGGGGG!!!!!! i can't believe i finally finished the birthday fic i had in my drafts since like 2023 or something that's so fucking crazyyyyy!!!!! anyways i would suggest listening to the song "rock'n'roll, morning light falls on you" by asian kung-fu generation while reading or you can listen to the bocchi the rock cover of it, tbh that was the version i was listening to while writing this. also this fanart for chung myung's birthday was part of the inspiration.
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he's not a hero.
has never been nor will he ever be one.
at least, that's what he tells himself. he isn't stupid, he didn't keep his eyes or ears closed to the world. he knows of the praises the people around him sing at his name. and the reverence they hold for all that he has done so far.
he loves it as much as he loathes it.
he feels good about himself in those moments, he can feel his heart race at the acknowledgement, somewhere among those voices he hears the ones of the people he missed the most in the world â all of them telling him he'd done a good job, and how proud they were of him.
he never really believed he's done enough to make them proud. he didn't really do that when they were still alive. all that's left for him to do now was to repent and regret for what could have been.
so he keeps pushing on. breaking his body, his mind, his soul because he's come to believe in the truth that it is he who must bear the weight of this world.
maybe then would a god almighty will bring down salvation that will save his beloved home. maybe then would the rain that wash away his sins pour down on him and he will finally be welcomed into the arms of the people he had missed so dearly.
âââââââââââââââ
most nights were spent thinking over and over again every little mistake, and every little misstep that resulted in his failure to reach cheon ma faster. to end the war earlier. to save the lives that he wanted to save.
chung myung-ah, it's not your fault
no, it was. he'd say to the winds that carried his message to the heavens. it was his fault for being so flippant when he shouldn't have been. he shouldn't have wiled away his youth thinking he had all the time in the world. such was the arrogance of youth.
but you were only a child.
so what if he was? he still should have known better. all of his past life's what-ifs and should haves were the reason he pushed himself so hard. there was no room for another mistake, he cannot fall or falter ever again. his kids right here in this moment needed him.
his mornings were now spent training in his lonesome, different from the past when he relied on his natural talents to get by, but still in his solus all the same.
if one were to witness him in that moment, they would see how his sword swings down with purpose, each step of his foot dancing across the dirt in certainty. because never again will he let the petals that bloom on top here face the fate his absence had brought the first time.
the next time he's gone, not now but when that time comes inevitably â the roots would have grown deep enough that nothing can uproot them.
âââââââââââââââ
he can't find it in him to cry. as much as he longs for all that's never coming back, all that time had taken away from him. he has become accustomed to existing side by side with the misery of grief permeating his bones and running in his veins. he thinks he's begun to call it like an unwanted friend that came knocking on the doors of his deeply wounded, ever-unhealing heart.
feverish skin of his that comes into contact with the cold night air would have had a certain someone go dizzy from worry.
oh, the invincible sword-saint was not immune to the ails of a malady. much less a puny little lizard they call the divine dragon. if only he were here, he would know how to make him better.
and yet by some sheer miracle, a small part of him was left behind on this earth, not quite the same â but still a piece of solace he had found on this unfamiliar time, nonetheless.
it was warm.
this affection that seeped through the vague figures that came to him in his half-conscious.
âââââââââââââââ
trying to be better than the you of yesterday was not an easy feat. sometimes one finds themselves falling three steps back before moving two steps forward.
and yet you must still try.
the training he put the others through was grueling, he can admit to it. but he still did it anyway, not for them as much as he did it for himself. or so he says.
he waits atop the highest peaks for the others to reach him, the sun had yet to rise, the lands below still shrouded in sleep and darkness. he wonders what lives there live in those huts dotted in the landscape that never seemed to end.
with the first rays of the new dawn shining it's light on yonder, he hears the noisy chatter of his new family growing closer to the mountaintop. tsk. he clicks his tongue in faux annoyance. clearly he has not tired them out enough this morning.
oh sword saint, ignorant on how deep one's love runs.
âââââââââââââââ
memories are a fickle thing, always living on the edge, ready to disappear into the abyss of forgetting.
he does not recognize many a thing of his past the longer he is alive in his present times. he worries that he might one day wake up and find his memories that he had held onto so fervently thus far slip through him like sand in his fingers.
does growing up mean he becomes somebody else? or does growing up mean that it was a result of all he held dear shaping his soul? it was impossible to stay the same and never change, he wasn't god.
maybe, it wasn't that the memories running away from his mind, but rather the feet of time moving him forward and away from a past he could not return to.
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nothing matters when death comes to one's door. after all there is nothing one can bring along at the end of the road.
he moves along where the flow of fate leads him, like a rock falling down a hill and never letting the moss settle on his being for this was the life of a swordsman in the jiangshu.
there are other rocks rolling alongside him, some have lost momentum, some haves slowed and had been left behind. but still he must roll down the hill, across that grassy moss and perhaps even further than he'd ever done before.
chung myung-ah!
the young man turns at the sound of his name.
there he sees the kids calling out to him, telling him to hurry up. he huffs. children these days don't know what patience means anymore. and yet, his feet moved towards them instinctively, as though it knew that they were the new home he's grown to love.
summary: the newest third-grade disciple's greatest quarter-life crisis was having to choose between supporting her crazy sago's romantic preferences or having to put an end to the woman's "pursuit" of her current romantic interest â tang soso's very own father?! but little does the poor girl know...
content warning: ooc tang gunak (bcs i wrote this on horndog brain) // suggestive content towards the end (not explicit)
word count: 2.65k
author's note: totally notttt inspired by the countless times ive witnessed my teachers and friends veryyyy obviously hit on my HAPPILY MARRIED father THAT I HAPPEN TO LOOK LIKE A 1-ON-1 COPY OF BY THE FUCKING WAY. and the irony of experiencing this first-hand and still being a fictional dilf chaser isn't lost on me LMAOOO. anyways here is the promised gonner dilf chaser reader x tang gunak fic ENJOY YALL
[NON-EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT BELOW, MINORS DNI]
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[ 01 ]
it was a lovely morning atop mount hua, the sun was warm that cold morning, and the disciples had just come back for a quick meal before another round of training. it's a rare peaceful start to the day, and nothing could â
you what?!
it was a peaceful start to the day, interrupted by the loud shouting of their newest entry to the sect. the kids continue to shovel down their breakfast, no time to waste on being a busybody and wonder what their samae was losing her mind over when the demon that trained them to the bone expected everyone to be back in one hour, on the dot. latecomers be damned, he was going to give those kids hell... nobody wants to be a part of the hell chung myung is creating up on mount hua. nuh-uh.
yu iseol pries the pot of tea away from her junior sister's hands. the poor girl had been so astonished by what she just heard that she did not notice how the cup of tea she'd been pouring had overflowed out and onto the table.
tang soso takes in a shaky breath.
sago... you... you're joking... right? please, please please tell me you're not serious right now!
you only shrugged nonchalantly at her disbelief, reaching over with a towel in hand to wipe of your junior's mess. summer was coming soon and that means ants would be having a field day with any spilled foods. now that would be a bother.
sago don't ignore me.
of course you don't answer.
the girl wanted to know about everyone's crushes and gossip a little before the next training period. and of course the discussion had included you as well.
so, you told her.
problem wasn't the apparent age of the man you had set your sights on, it was the relation he had to your new samae.
tang soso puts her head in her hands, feeling as though she's going through the five stages of grief all at once.
my father? sago, you like my father?
yeah? i thought i made that clear just now.
the young woman could only cry out in exasperation. there was no way this was happening to her right now!
âââââââââââââââ
[ 02 ]
tang soso had steeled her resolve to introduce you to other romantic options other than her father. even if she had to sacrifice one of her own brothers for her cause.
hey, sago...
yeah?
you were carrying some old blankets from the dorms to the main storage, not really paying attention to your junior sister's words at that moment.
sago, what do you look for in a lover?
uh... nothing particularly comes to mind.
you respond absentmindedly, watching your steps as you two went down the stairs.
come on... something has to be there!
you put down the blankets in their designated place, you frown as your brain racked for a answer. tang soso shuffled on her feet, growing impatient with the lack of answers.
i guess i would like if they were older.
well that ruled out all of the third grade disciples.
i think it'd be nice if they were handsome.
oh her poor brothers... tang soso felt she had to apologise to all of them later for thinking of them like this.
and i guess i would like if they were mature.
the junior sister's ears perked up â could this mean that there's still some hope?
also i would want them to have their shit together.
baek cheon sasuk...! not him too!
you watched the pained expression flashing across your samae's face. as much as her performance was interesting to watch, you still had a job to do. excusing yourself, you left the storeroom going off to finish your other chores.
noticing you were escaping away, tang soso calls out after you, she wasn't done with you! how could you sago!
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[ 03 ]
tang soso was going to visit her family for a short overnight stay, she's asked her favourite senior sister to come along, and then the two of them could have a girls night all alone together... the possibilities had the maiden going about her following days with a hop in each step. nothing in the world now was going to dull her shine! not even the devil atop mount hua!
on the day she was to set off, tang soso spots yu iseol standing by the front gates where they were to meet up. and together with her beloved senior was â
why is she here.
wah... this samae is being rude again...
yu iseol's eyes dart between the two, she really didn't mean for this to happen, she had assumed it was a short trip with friends and you were her friend... soso was also her friend...
no fighting.
her stoic voice cuts the tension between you and your samae. the two of you step back and look away like children being scolded by their teacher, tang soso was even pouting from being scolded by her beloved iseol-sago.
no more fighting or i'm not coming along.
yu iseol puffs her cheeks cutely and you just can't help but remember the scruffy little girl the sect leader had entrusted under your care all those years ago.
iseol-yah, don't be upset okay? we're not fighting.
you rub the younger girl's head, ruffling her hair playfully trying to get her to smile. it works and your junior sister finally loosened up.
tang soso looks at the both of you, appalled. it was so unfair that you got to touch the yu iseol so casually without the other stiffening up from awkwardness. why did that only happen with her? why can't she have a friendly relationship like the two of you? ah... it's so unfair...
the three girls bid their goodbyes to the others and headed down the mountain with promises to buy their friends souvenirs from sichuan when they came back.
the brown-haired girl grumbled to herself, purposely within your earshot with the hopes to piss you off even more.
you know, soso...
keeping up with the annoying senior sister act, you lean down to whisper in the other girl's ear.
you're not slick and you're shit at flirting. just so you know.
eh?
you smile serenely at your samae, waving her off as you skipped over to your little sister's side calling out her name in a sing-song voice.
eh?
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[ 04 ]
the trip home was supposed to be tang soso's long-awaited alone time with her beloved iseol sago, only for a bothersome someone to intrude and be the cockblock the whole time.
you shrug off the girl's daggered glare, pointing out another food stall that would surely pique yu iseol's interest â and you not-so-subtly pushed the girl away from your other samae.
oh so you're trying to be funny, huh? when all three of you were in her house, and you ever tried to make a move on her father, she's sure as hell going to let you know what it's like to be absolutely hilarious.
sagoâ
iseol-yah! say ahhh, i got us some choushou!
this fucking cockblock of a senior sister.
tang soso bites her bottom lip and looks up to the heavens, will any of her ancestors up there take pity and help a poor love-sick girl in her time of need? all she wants is to spend some time, maybe even a little date with her crush?
she glanced over, only to be met with your unblinking eyes.
jumping back with a quiet screech, she shivers as all the hairs on her body stood up. the passers-by all looked at her with judgement, what weird girl, they all thought. but tang soso could only grimace from the embarrassment. god, why were you such a creep!
soso-yah~ come here~ don't stray too far and get lost~!
lost? get lost? in her own hometown?
tsk.
clicking her tongue, tang soso reluctantly drags her feet towards her two travelling companions. the three of you weren't expected to arrive at the estate until sometime later in the evening, and it was only noon right now. there was still too much time to spare.
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[ 05 ]
arriving at the familiar gates of her birth home has never filled her with such joy before. finally, she had a fighting chance to shake you offâ!
the imposing doors swung open and the attendant on the other side rushed out to greet the girls.
oh my goodness! come in quickly! you there!
the attendant points to one of the younger servants.
go tell the aides that the young lady and her sect sisters are here!
the old attendant barely managed to finish their sentence before the patriarch himself appeared at the other end of the courtyard. tang gunak walked so fast, his eldest son trailing behind had trouble even keeping up with the hem of his changyi flowing back.
ah! father!
soso perks up, she's always been close to her father â being his only daughter and all. growing up, he's always doted on her. at times it was so much that it felt a little suffocating. but they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and being away from home for months and years at a time did make her miss her family on lonely nights after another exhausting day of training.
the now energetic girl runs over and jumps into her father and older brother's arms â the two men barely catching her properly, all decorum thrown into the air as they fuss over her, bombarding her with questions like are you eating well? you look so thin, your cheeks are so hollow! when it's dinner you better not go to bed without finishing at least three bowls of rice!
tang soso wriggled out of their tight grasp, giddy and just happy to be home, far away from that mad demon they left behind in mount hua.
oh right!
she gestures at the her two sect sisters to come closer.
i brought some company this time, i hope you don't mind that father...
you know i wouldn't mind... you silly girl.
tang gunak smiles down at his daughter, gloved hand resting atop her head. truly she hasn't changed much from childhood, always doing whatever she wants. he was confident he'd been used to it by now.
ah father-! dont do that, you'll mess up my hair!
the girl whined, swiping her old man's hand off her head. stepping back she clears her throat, introducing him to her special guest, and the freeloader that decided to tag along.
i brought home iseol-sago with me! i'm sure you remember her father, we've gotten real close since i joined mount hua!
yu iseol, bows her head awkwardly.
and... this is my other sago... she came along with us too... i guess.
you bowed respectfully, arms out with a fist in your palm.
greetings to the tang clan patriarch, and greetings to the tang clan young master. though i believe this isn't the first time we've met? is it mr. patriarch?
hey. wait a minute. what do you mean it wasn't the first time you've met her father?
yes, it isn't our first time meeting. though i wasn't able to catch your name that time, regretfully.
huh?
huh?
tang soso, aged twenty eight feels like her whole world had just been rocked upside down.
and what were you doing? smiling politely at her father as you told him your name while his gaze was focused on you? what was that glimmer in his eye?
tang soso thinks she's going to have a stroke.
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[06]
dinner came and went, the girls had a nice long relaxing bath in the large tub specially prepared for all three of you. and when that was done, you excused yourself and left your youngest samae in yu iseol's care.
stepping out of the warm confines of the guest house, you shivered as the cold air of the second month hit you. wrapping the borrowed sleeping robes tighter around you, you wondered if all noble ladies were dressed this lightly all the time?
walking under the sheltered walkways, your footfalls land quietly against it's polished wooden floorboards. step by step you followed the path until you reached a pavilion â it sat atop a small, man-made pond. the cold air made colder no thanks to the still waters around you.
as you were slowly getting lost in thought, a warmth suddenly envelopes you, and a sigh of content escapes your lips.
you're early.
his voice whispered lowly in behind you. giggling, you spin around to meet face to face with your secret rendezvous.
the tang clan patriarch looked softer in his nightwear, his hair tied loose over his shoulder with a few strands hanging over his head.
your hand reached out, tucking the flyaways behind his ear.
tsk-tsk. shouldn't the tang clan patriarch be more mindful of his image?
you chastised playfully.
i could say the same to you, shouldn't a proud disciple of the great mount hua sect be more mindful of catching a cold?
tang gunak chides as he helped you put on the thick changyi that was draped over your shoulders earlier.
his hand reached for yours and you took it, interlocking your fingers togethers while leading you to sit on a bench overlooking the pond.
your acting earlier was something. pretending like you didn't catch my name when you said we've met before...
your head rested against the older man's arm, taking in his deep scent of aged pine and oak as your thumb rubs the back of his hand absentmindedly.
...i'm sorry my love. though it is true that i did miss out on your name that first time we met, didn't i?
he placed a chaste kiss to the crown of your head apologetically, like he'd always do whenever you got a little upset.
yes. and then you'll forget to ask me again for at least half a year...
but i did eventually got your name, didn't i? and besides didn't you also say you liked the way i call out to you whenever we have sâ
your hand quickly clamped over his mouth, your eyes darted around to check if anyone heard what he was about to say.
the older man only laughed, amused by your embarrassment and your hands fall to your side in the process. taking the opportunity, he cups your face in his hands, lifting it as he leans down to kiss you properly.
and just like that you forgot just what you were so vigilant about.
his tilts your head, kissing you deeper and you feel his tongue prod at your lips, asking you to let him in and you do, gasping into his mouth as it wraps around yours, one hand already on your lower back as he pushes you down with your back flat on the bench.
tsk. you crazy old man.
shall i take this somewhere private then?
âââââââââââââââ
[07]
when morning rolled around, tang soso's first order of action was to burst into your room â with a groggy yu iseol in tow.
she had been so sure she was going to catch you in the act of something, she didn't know what it was but she knew. she could feel it in her bones, you did something last night.
but alas, there you lay in your bed, fast asleep with a leg hanging over the edge without a care in the world. blankets and pillows in places they were expected to be, things in the room still in their place and your bag still hung in the place where you left it last night.
tsk.
tang soso looks down at your sleeping face, feeling her rage boil even more in annoyance. god, you pissed her off. did you even know she couldn't even sleep properly last night? did you?
summary: is there anything more painful than a love that comes much too late?
content warning: slight inaccuracy of in-game events //canon-compliant violence and descriptions of blood and gore // detailed descriptions of monster transformations // descriptions of maladaptive daydreaming // complicated relationships // first love // semi-toxic codependency // they fell first he fell harder // unrequited love // one-sided love that was once mutual attraction at some point
word count: 2.26k
author's note: first of all i haven't written anything properly since like 2023-ish so my writing style is like superrr ughh and all over the place and not that good now.. secondly, i promise to my moots i WILL come back to write my rotbb fics.... i promise I PROMISE I WILL FINISH MY GOONER DILF CHASER READER X TANG GUNAK FIC LOWER YOUR WEAPONS PLEASE PLEASEEEEEE I PROMISEEEEEE đđđđđđ I PROMISEEEEEEEE đđđđđđđđ
[PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY TRIGGERS CAUSED BEYOND THIS LINE]
âââââââââââââââ
i'm sorry for hating the person you love most in the world.
though he had said it in a low, uncharacteristically quiet voice, perhaps to soften the impact he knew it would've had on them â it still stung, nonetheless.
there was a beat of silence that hung in the air before they muttered a soft, i know.
phainon has known them most if not perhaps, all his life. has he ever known a moment where they didn't exist? he doubts that it'll ever happen.
he thinks about that day. the day when the dreaded black tide finally reached the gates of an idyllic aedes elysiae, the day the world phainon thought he knew ended. that day, right before his very eyes he saw the filth and corruption of the dreaded black tide turn the once golden wheat fields into a sea of red â he could hear the pained cries of the village children he had grown up with fill the air, their fates forever sealed as their limp bodies swirled and clumped together in the viscous black liquid. hopelessly he tried to look for his friends, catching a glimpse of a familiar head of pink hair in the distance like a bobbing anchor in this sea of chaos, no doubt the other wasn't too far off nearby. he didn't even let that thought settle in his mind before his legs moved on their own, running with his feet pounding against the dirt path, he was almost there and once he gets there he's going to grab them both and the three of them will leave this wretched place together. just a little more, just a little moreâ
kechk...
it all happened so fast that phainon wasn't even sure if it happened at all, even now as he thinks back to that very moment. the tip of the sword glinting with her fresh blood, the gold ichor dripping down the length of the blade and onto the dirt floor beneath. the girl's small body lifted up in the air, her feet dangling and kicking desperately trying to get away as though she wasn't already fatally impaled with the weapon going through her body.
cyreneâ!
take them with you! go!
there to his left they stood, frozen and frightened out of their minds. phainon had no time to think, no time to waste. chocking back on his tears he grabs the hand of only person he had left and bolted towards the crumbling gates of the village. images of his parents, the village children, the blacksmith, the shopkeepers, the farmers flashed in his mind as he ran, images of their bodies contorting and scratching in inhumane angles as their skin melted and burned and hardened all while their heads would burst open with their molten brains dripping down their now monstrous bodies.
phai... non... help... help me...
he did not recognize which villager it was that was staggering towards him. well, they were less of a human and more of a creature now, almost indistinguishable from the very monsters that had invaded his beloved hometown.
the grip on the handle of his sword tightened. it was no matter anymore, he come to understand in the hours since the invasion started that there was no hope for anyone who had been transformed into a creature of the black tide, and if...
and if in the slim chance that someone was still gripping tightly to their remaining humanity, then he will be kind and end their suffering. at least in their final moments one could still die a human.
kechkâ!
the monster cried like a scared child as it body disintegrated, calling out for their mother pitifully in that hollow voice of theirs. it was haunting, and it haunted him in turn for much of his sleepless nights for years to come.
phainon...
they call out behind him, squeezing his hand that held theirs. he doesn't turn back. not now, not when they're going to see the despair on his face and will no doubt have comforted him in the middle of all the carnage happening around them.
it's nothing... let's get out of here, yeah?
phainon manages to say without letting out a sob, he wipes away the tears falling out of his eyes and sniffs. he's got to be brave now. if not for himself, than he has to for them.
âââââââââââââââ
when phainon was little he had dreams of travelling the world as a trio with him, cyrene and them. he dreamed of walking across the vast rolling fields of the grasslands, sleeping under the stars at night and huddling together under the shade of a tree as cyrene told stories of tales she'd heard before.
phainon had dreamed of seeing a world outside aedes elysiae, but not like this. not in this way. not as two young, prepubescent children that were the only survivors of their little village ravaged by a calamity nobody could have seen coming.
the two had spent days walking god knows where, maybe to a place anywhere far enough that was safe from the black tide coming after them? perhaps. neither of the children spoke a word to the other, the silence stretched between them only grew louder as it went on â breaking occasionally when one or the other needed to stop for a break. hands still clasped together tightly as though letting go would cause the other to disappear.
it wasn't until a caravan heading to the grand city of okhema picked up the two that the children felt a vague sense of a goal forming in the horizon. phainon with gold in his veins had known from legends past he would one day have to stand at the forefront of something that would change this world. he knew not much of prophecies, nor that of fate but he knew the shape of their smoother and softer hands in his calloused ones. if he stopped knowing this fact, he thinks he might as well wonder if the world had turned upside-down.
phainon?
their voice, scratchy from a recovering cold, called out to him. it was in the middle of the night, the merchants that the two travelled with were fast asleep a distance away. the fire that was ignited to keep everyone warm had now been reduced to mere flickering embers.
the dying light danced in the reflection of their eyes, its orange tint somehow making this moment much more intimate than he'd thought it would be. after all, when one was huddled under a blanket with another, their bodies were bound to touch weren't they? and that warmth and tiredness from the morning muddled his thoughts into a thick, translucent sludge. he didn't know half of what was even real anymore.
all he could see were their chapped lips moving, and boy, it looked soft. what were they talking about? he couldn't hear a thing, but the ringing in his ears grew louder as he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of their mouth.
ah...!
he watched with a sobering clarity how their eyes once drooping in sleepiness blew wide open in shock, mirroring his own reaction.
wait... i... i didn't...
can you do that again? please?
âââââââââââââââ
okhema was just as grandiose and awe-inspiring as one could imagine. there was so much to see and so much to do â markets bustling with a never-ending line of customers spilling out of the stalls and onto the paved stone roads, small gardens and alleys tucked away in between the limestone houses waiting to be discovered, though who could forget? the grandest place in all of okhema, the marmoreal palace?
from it's polished cream-coloured gold flaked marble tiled floors, to the towering waterfalls gushing with phagousa's final blessings that the people bathed and enjoyed themselves with. the famed marmoreal palace was an architectural feat in itself that has lasted for thousands of years since the imperator's time and perhaps will last for another thousand more.
and within these walls were those who had been awaiting their arrival, or more specifically, awaiting phainon's arrival. in the garden of life where the two children were brought to there stood a weaver and a childlike seer.
his fate was always set in stone long before his life began, phainon of aedes elysiae, the chrysos heir of the worldbearing coreflame who will one day reshape this world and bring a new dawn to everyone.
or so says the three little seers.
âââââââââââââââ
life in okhema was peaceful. at least it was for them, a regular civilian with nothing to their name other than as the childhood friend of the new youngest member to the chrysos heirs.
people were curious as humans often were, about who phainon was. and as much as they tried, they could not truly outrun or hide from the masses trying to get the latest scoop.
maybe we can ask agy for help!
the oldest of the three little seers said, one hand shot up in the air as though she were a diligent student answering a teacher's question during class.
but, why were the three little seers here?
we got bored sitting at home!
we wanted to play with snowy but he's in the middle of training now...
so we came to play with cloudy!
the trio answered in a chorus one after the other, which was cute, nevermind that the trio were thousands of years older than them. but, cloudy? was that the nickname they've been given? but, why? nevermind the why, phainon was snowy, and the lady goldweaver was agy? but of course, they remembered hearing about the trio being older than the lady and was even her teacher at some point.
wahhh! cloudy your head is going somewhere else again!
âââââââââââââââ
once upon a time, now long lost to the darkness, phainon watches in his mind's eye how they always seemed to be dreaming in the daytime. a telltale faraway look in their eyes as they talk to themselves, sometimes they'd pace around up and down the dirt paths picking up in speed when the plot in their heads gets equally exciting. sometimes, they'd get so caught up in that other world that they'd trip and fall or once they fell head-first into the lake after walking off a platform edge.
phainon often had to keep an eye on them together with cyrene back then, but ever since they came to okhema â
well, he'd tell himself, i was busy.
from the day they first stepped foot into the holy city, the two had been set off on different paths â the deliverer and a b-rate novelist. paths far enough that they wouldn't see the other for months on end. and yet at night they would still return to the same house they now called home, courtesy to the lady goldweaver.
he's come home to the place enveloped in darkness, the door leading into their room locked shut, not a sound nor movement that betrayed their presence ever permeated past that space.
with a sigh, phainon would promptly enter his own room right across theirs and lock his own door behind him. but does he know how their door would open just a crack when he leaves just so they could look at his locked door? perhaps he might never do.
and yet, on the anniversary of the massacre, he'd find himself in their bed, tangled in their sheets like lovers do even with the both of them still very much fully clothed. it was easy to ignore how they haven't talked to the other for so long, it was easy to forget about how he had pushed them away that night under the stars as they huddled under the blanket.
he'd never apologized for that time, and they never pushed for an answer. it was just, well, forgotten.
forgotten until days like this came around, and only then did he cling onto them and let the heat that settled in between melt away the cold walls they'd both built up thus far for this one night.
by the next morning, he'd be gone and they would wake up to find his side of the sheets cold and empty.
âââââââââââââââ
snowy, do you like cloudy?
phainon coughed, startled by the sudden question. he was here to give a report to lady aglaea and lady tribbie not get ambushed with personal questions like this!
yes...? why wouldn't i like my childhood friend?
mmh... but tribbie isn't asking if you like cloudy, tribbie wants to know if snowy like-likes cloudy!
teacher, i think that's enough teasing for today.
aglaea cuts in, holding back an amused smile, clearly finding joy in seeing the usually put-together young man squirm and scramble in his boots at the rather innocuous question.
though if the demigod of romance were to be honest, she believed that the deliverer was already a little too late.
âââââââââââââââ
i think i love you.
he had let it slip once as he tugged them closer to his embrace, his lips in their hair as he murmured it aloud. he was sure of it, he was sure that all this time, he did love them back.
sure he had been so, so cruel and so terrible that time. how could he forget telling them that he couldn't love the person they loved? that he couldn't love himself therefore he could not love them? what kind of convoluted logic was that? he loves them! he loves them! he always had and he always will so please â
Synopsis: You are given a body by your professor and told that if you ever want to work in his lab, you must accomplish the impossible: bring that beautiful, very dead man back to life.
HSR Masterlist | References + Additional Notes
Pairing: Phainon x F!Reader, you will wish it was Mydei x F!Reader but no he just gets traumatized
Word Count: 11.8k
Dividers: @/thecutestgrotto
Content Warnings: the concept of khaslana as frankenstein's monster and basically any generally weird/gross warning you can think of with regards to him being the eventual love interest and reader being a substitute for frankenstein (although !! it is not romantic until he is alive I PROMISE), light smut (it's actually really barely there but i guess this implies cw monsterfucking and mdni please!), casual references to a corpse/body, reader is like . very strange and becomes emotionally dependent on aforementioned corpse/body (the beginning of frankenstein's monster you could say), lowk we gotta save mydei he is a victim, anaxa is ooc (he has ethics), science treated like fantasy idc, 80% second person narrative / 20% journal entry + additional media split (don't let the hook fool you i swear)
A/N: the weird ass halloween fic is here .. do i know how to write horror NO do i know how to write smut NO but one thing i do know is glazing tf out of phainon and at least AT THE VERY LEAST I ACCOMPLISHED THAT anyways as for the rest of it.....mea culpa T_T â¤ď¸ thank you for reading anyways if you happen to !! and i can only hope you do not think lesser of me after reading this I PROMISE I AM NORMALLY NOT SO FREAKY ..
01 OCT 79 â Professor Anaxagoras has given me a body of uncommon beauty and proportion. I do not dare ask him where it is from or who it once was; he does not take kindly to questioning, and so, henceforth, for the sake of simplicity, I will refer to it in my records as âSubject Kâ â short, naturally, for âSubject Killedâ, an idea which did not come from me, I confess, but from the mind of a dear and trusted colleague.
Subject K was once a man, a laborer if I am to guess, for he has that sort of a constitution, hearty and hale yet a touch underfed. His hair is pale and his eyes, upon inspection, are a blue shade not unlike veronicaflowers; I am sure that in his life, he must have been quite admired. Ah, what a pity, then, that he died so young! My own heart does pang when I look upon him, but I cannot afford to be so distracted by the feebleness of my empathy. The good professor does not take kindly to delinquency, either.
How slowly the time did pass in Professor Anaxagorasâs class â even you, ordinarily so fascinated by the theories he described, found yourself frequently bored by the mundane, frigid monotone of his lecturing. It was worse for the others, you supposed, many of whom only attended out of compulsion, not choice, and thus could hardly remain focused as he rambled about the concepts of Nousporism. Abiogenesis, he would tell you all, and at your side Mydei would yawn, though he tried very hard to hide it, covering his mouth and giving you one of those gentle, hapless looks of his. âLifeâ was once ânot-life.â
Occasionally, someone might raise their hand, might ask him to clarify meaning or vision, but inevitably they were met with the same response: a blank, pinched look, the professorâs lips pursed into a frown, his singular eye narrowed as he considered the inquiry carefully. By the time he mustered up a response, it was well past the time for anyone to care what it might be, and besides, he spoke in such a winding, insufficient manner that one was only ever left with more questions, anyways.
âI donât understand what interest you find in Nousporism,â Mydei said to you once, after a particularly dry session in which Professor Anaxagoras had explained the construction of the gaseous compounds he had used in his most recent experiment. âThereâs far more exciting research to be done in Helkolithy, and far better professors, at that.â
âYouâre only saying that because it is your own discipline, and so you are bound to convert as many promising candidates to its pursuit as you can,â you said. He gave you a sheepish grin, and you rolled your eyes. âYouâre better off persuading someone else.â
âItâs not persuasion if Iâm only pointing out the truth,â he said, holding open the door to the dusty lecture hall for you, waiting for you to wave at Professor Anaxagoras as was your custom, though he never reciprocated. âI canât fathom anyone more deserving, more dedicated, but the only Nousporist lab is Professor Anaxagorasâs, and everyone knows he doesnât accept assistants. Youâre wasting your potential, thatâs all. It doesnât have to be Helkolithy, butâŚyou know.â
âThank you,â you said when he trailed off with a shrug. âI appreciate it, Mydei, really I do, but itâs alright. Studying Nousporism has been my dream since I was young, even if it is a slog at times, and I am willing to wait if that is what it takes. I will wait years upon years if I must, but I shanât be dissuaded, not by your good intentions or the professorâs bad temper.â
âWell,â he said, patting you on the shoulder. âLet us hope it does not take nearly that long.â
Had he shown any continued skill at prophecy, you mightâve told him to become a Venerationist, but unfortunately this was his one and only divination, in that the very next day, when the two of you made to leave as you always did, Professor Anaxagoras looked up when you waved at him. Then, slowly, with a twisted sort of comprehension dawning upon his sallow face, he held out his hand and motioned for you to wait.Â
âYou can go, Helkolithist boy,â he said to Mydei, who had paused when you had. âI only wish to speak with her.â
Perhaps you mightâve been excited, but indeed all you could think was that you had done something wrong, that you had acted overfamiliar or otherwise offended he who had such peculiar sensibilities. Your stomach dropped, and you glanced desperately at Mydei, as if he could do anything but look at you in return, as bewildered as you were anxious, before you nodded at the professor.
Nousporists did not believe in gods, but you found yourself praying to some unknown entity as the door shut behind Mydei and you were left alone in the great, looming cavern of the lecture hall. It was an entity which was not exactly a deity but would, if you had to guess, resemble one, should you give further thought to the matter; as it was, however, you could only repeat your frantic pleas in your mind and wait, frozen, for Professor Anaxagoras to speak.
âIt has come to my attention that you have some notions of becoming a Nousporist in full,â he said. When you were silent, he raised his eyebrows. âDid I misinterpret you? My hearing is keen, but I suppose advanced age catches up to us all.â
âNot â not at all, sir!â you said. âYes, it was â it is my dream. Ever since I was very young, Iâve wanted to be a Nousporist. Thatâs the entire reason I came to this university, youâve always â I mean, I really admire you and your work, is what Iâm trying to sayââ
âEnough,â he said, mercifully cutting you off before you could continue to stumble and worsen what was no doubt already a poor impression. âVery well. Come with me.â
He was a long-strided man, walking with a clear and distinct purpose, and you felt rather like a little chick toddling after its mother as you raced to keep up with him through the winding, candlelit halls of the university. Even after so many years in attendance, you and Mydei frequently found yourselves lost in the twisted mazes of the academic buildings â sometimes together, mostly apart â but Professor Anaxagoras navigated them with such a haunting, careless ease that you were impressed, having never expected it from him of all people.
âWhat do you know of the principles of Nousporism?â he said, cutting through the silence with the dulled knife of his voice. He was livelier now than he ever had been in his lectures, and for a moment you were simply taken aback at the thought that these two aspects were of one and the same man.
âVery much, sir,â you said, eager to impress him now that he was giving you the chance. âThe foundation is the phrase âlifeâ was once ânot-life.â All of Nousporism stems from it.â
âGood,â he said. âThen, assuming the theory is correct, there must be a natural process for âlifeâ to be born of ânot-lifeâ, wouldnât you agree?â
âYes, itâs true,â you said. âThough no one has ever managed to learn what it isâŚâ
You entered a small, dark room, a flickering lamp in the corner serving as the only source of light. When your eyes adjusted to the bleakness, you found that it was all but empty save for an operating table in the middle, upon which a single form lay, the length and breadth of it covered by a white sheet.
âWhat makes âitâ different from you and me?â Professor Anaxagoras said, gingerly rolling back the sheet to reveal a smooth, handsome face, its expression frozen in repose. You gawked at it for a moment, unable to entirely comprehend what you were looking at, and when you understood, you flinched backwards. ââItâ was once a âheâ, after all. In this way, death is the inverse of Nousporism.â
A million questions brimmed in your mind â whose body was it? How had Professor Anaxagoras come across it? How was it preserved in such flawless condition, untouched by decay and rot, as if it were merely trapped in slumber, not kissed by death? But one glance at his firm, cautious expression made you falter, for suddenly you recognized this for what it was: a test. If you showed any fear, any uncertainty, then you would prove yourself unworthy of the designation of Nousporist. So, swallowing down your hesitation, you banished your alarm and nodded at the professor.
âDeath is âlifeâ becoming ânot-life,ââ you said, and when he smiled â only slightly, but surely â you were heartened to continue. âThatâs why âitâ is different from âusâ â it isnât alive. It canât think or feel or understand, not anymore. Itâs no different than a statue.â
âVery good,â he said. âSo what would it take to restore it to its original condition? That is the basis of the experiment I want you to take over for me.â
âWhat?â you said, because everything was moving so fast and you could hardly comprehend it. A part of you â and not a small part, either â was still on the first floor, leaving the lecture hall with Mydei, unacknowledged by the professor yet again. So what did it mean, this entire concept of taking over his experiment? What was he saying?
âMake âlifeâ from ânot-life,ââ he said. âThat is my condition, if you are serious about Nousporism and wish to join my lab. Resurrect this corpse, and turn âitâ into âhimâ once again; only then will I accept you as worthy of working alongside me.â
âWhen we no longer look at an organic being as a savage looks at a ship, as at something wholly beyond his comprehension; when we regard every production of nature as one which has had a history; when we contemplate every complex structure and instinct as the summing up of many contrivances, each useful to the possessor, nearly in the same way as when we look at any great mechanical invention as the summing up of the labour, the experience, the reason, and even the blunders of numerous workmen; when we thus view each organic being, how far more interesting, I speak from experience, will the study of natural history become!â (Ruan Mei, The Origin of Species).
âHe wants you to bring a dead body back to life?â Mydei said incredulously. Of course, to he who was so interested in the study of anatomy and physiology, Helkolithist as he was, the very thought must have been nothing short of blasphemous, but you could only shrug in the face of his shock.
âNousporism is that kind of a field, after all,â you said. âI know you must view it as a sort of desecration, but thatâs not exactly the case. The body is being used for advancement and progress. Isnât that something that its ownerâs spirit should be proud of?â
âThatâs not what Iâm worried about,â he said. âHow are you supposed to manage that? Such an impossible condition heâs givenâŚyouâd almost think he doesnât want you to succeed.â
âHe would never do that,â you said immediately, in what he would, if he knew, likely dub a reflex. âWhy would he go to all of that trouble in the first place? He could have just as easily ignored me. I donât argue that this is meant to be a test of the utmost difficulty, but certainly it is possible. He would not have asked it of me if it werenât.â
âIf it is possible, then why hasnât he done it himself?â Mydei challenged. You sighed, because he always was such a contrarian. It had been optimistic of you to expect him to take this victory at face value, not when he was so prone to this â this â this arguing, this fault-finding.
âPerhaps he is simply too busy to dedicate the proper time to research,â you said. âSuch undertakings are not light, after all.â He opened his mouth to argue again, but you gave him a withering glare, cutting him off before he could. âYou might be happy for me, if you were so inclined.â
âI am,â he said. âReally, I am. Wasnât I the one who said you deserved it, before the professor even took note of you? I just didnât expect it would come about in such a manner.â
âI didnât, either,â you said. âBut this is a rare opportunity. I cannot let it go, even if it isnât the most favorable. Professor Anaxagoras has extended me his hand, and so I must endeavor to take it.â
âAlright, alright,â he said. âI wonât speak against it anymore, so donât be angry. Tell me about this dead body of yours.â
âYouâre incorrigible,â you said when he burst into a fit of laughter right afterwards, ruining his contrite image entirely. âItâs quite strange, actually. I canât figure out what mustâve happened to it; itâs in entirely perfect condition, at least based on my preliminary examination.â
âIs it a man or a woman?â he said.
âA man,â you said. âOh, Mydei, youâd gasp if you saw it. I can hardly believe how beautiful it is. He mustâve been so charming when he was still alive.â
âBeautiful isnât exactly the first word Iâd use for a corpse,â Mydei said, wrinkling his nose. âOr the second. Or the third.â
âI didnât think I ever would, either,â you admitted. âBut like I said, this one is odd. Iâve never seen anything quite like it, dead or alive. It belongs in a painting or a story, not an operating table or lab. Actually, it makes me quite sad whenever I happen to glance upon it; I donât think he was any older than you or I when he died. What a horrible life he mustâve led, to end up like that, without a single person there to mourn him.â
âItâs a shame,â Mydei said. âWell, maybe his second life will be better than the first.
âSecond lifeâŚâ you said, trailing off in thought before giving him an earnest, worried look. âSo you think that I can do it, is that what you mean?â
âNaturally, I donât think anyone can do it,â he said, but then his brow furrowed into something sweet and pondering. âIt violates the very basics of Helkolithy, wherein that which is dead must remain dead. But, if it is possible, if it can be doneâŚthen the one to manage it will definitely be you.â
07 OCT 79 â I cannot quite fathom where to begin in the resurrection of Subject K, so I have instead thrown myself into the careful and methodical categorization of the body. Perhaps this is ultimately an exercise in redundancy, but at least it wears the guise of productivity, and so I do not feel nearly as guilty as I wouldâve, were I wasting my free time simply reading textbooks.
It is dead and yet undying at once, which is an inexplicable thing to say but is true nonetheless. Sometimes, I can delude myself into imagining the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart beneath my palm â but, then, the skin of the corpse is cold and it is motionless in a way no man ever would be. I have never heard of anything like it, not in all my years of study, and none of the books I reference describe such a phenomenon. Ruan Mei, Ratio, Screwllum, YangâŚif none of these great minds have encountered something like this, what does that mean? Doubtless Subject K is special; I wonder if Professor Anaxagoras understood this when he chose the body, if that was why he chose it, or if it is a mere and happy coincidence.
Without fail, you would cough upon entering the lab where Subject K â as Mydei had jokingly dubbed the corpse â was kept. It was dark and dusty and matched Professor Anaxagorasâs dour countenance exactly, but for someone like you, who was not yet used to such conditions, it was a valiant fight to accustom yourself. Yet you persisted, for if you could be vanquished by dank air and dim corners, then how could you ever consider yourself a proper researcher?
It was eerie, being alone in that room with only a body to keep you company. You liked to pretend that it was a sleeping man instead of a dead one, for it comforted you a little to think that there was someone other than mice and spiders huddled in floorboards alongside you as you pored over the various journals Professor Anaxagoras had left opened on the desk he had bequeathed you in the handing over of the lab. Once or twice, you considered begging Mydei to come and sit with you, you even came close enough to asking him for a favor with that intention, but at the last moment you grew wary and simply told him to make dinner for you, if he was not opposed.
What would the professor think? How could he accept an assistant who clung to a Helkolithist out of fear of her own experiment? Subject K was yours, so you ought not to be frightened of it, and you doubly ought not to be so reliant on someone whose philosophy was so opposite to your own. You had to learn to stand by your merit, and so you did not dare ask Mydei to stay by your side, knowing he would relieve you too well and thus would stunt your development too thoroughly. So, instead, to ward away the complete and total seclusion of the lab, you took to speaking with him: Subject K.
âGood evening,â you would say when you entered, smiling at the table through your coughing fit, a stabbing pain in your throat and lungs, tears welling in your eyes. âI hope you have been well in my absence, Subject K.â
Of course he did not answer, he very well couldnât, but you imagined he might, if he had the capability, say something like this: I have been well, yes, albeit a little lonely. And what of you?
âHm,â you would say, and then youâd launch into a recounting of your day as you settled in your chair, lighting your lamp and arranging your things around you. âToday was not so horrible. Mydei said he would leave dinner at my house for me, so at least I have one less thing to worry about and can spend longer here. I am near to a breakthrough, I have complete faithâŚdo not worry, you will be back soon, and then Professor Anaxagoras will be forced to acknowledge me.â
Sometimes, you would complain to him, for few were as sympathetic of listeners as he was, and even fewer could keep secrets quite as well as he could. Perhaps no one in the world existed like that, and indeed there was a sort of freedom to this: you could speak as you wished without fear of judgment or reproach, and you abused the privilege, laying every petty grievance at his feet as you updated your records.
âProfessor Anaxagoras has asked after my progress again,â you said once, punctuating it with a particularly harsh stroke of your pen. âI donât know what to tell him. You are the same as ever, which in and of itself is a mystery, but one I am no closer to solving than I am to bringing you back to life.â
He continued his slumber, that pale-haired figure, unwitting of your distress, and with a sigh you got out of your chair and began to pace. What would it take? What were you missing? You could still hear Professor Anaxagorasâs clipped voice ringing in the back of your mind â ah. Not done yet? Such a pity. A disappointment, that was what you were, though he had not said as much. You had been entrusted with such a task, and instead of proving yourself capable, you had only served to fail repeatedly. How could you ever become a Nousporist now? If you were Professor Anaxagoras, you would never accept yourself, not after so many botched attempts, not after so many chances left unfulfilled.
âWhat if I ruin you?â you said, a new fear striking you as you pulled Subject Kâs covering down his torso, taking his limp hands and moving them so that they were folded over his stomach. Such large hands he had, the skin worn and rough, littered with cuts and callouses, but arranged in such a way, they seemed princely and fine, as if clasped in wait. Despondency rolled over you in waves the longer you stared at him, imagining him rotting away, lost forever to worms and flies because of your own ineptitude. âI might ruin you. Oh, I will ruin you, I will ruin this experiment and you will become just another mound of dirt in the ground â I never shouldâve accepted Professor Anaxagorasâs offer, I never shouldâve believed I could do it â how you must hate me! If it were him, if it were anyone else, you might already walk amongst us once more, but instead you are here, trapped with me as your only hope.â
You did not know when the first tear fell, only that suddenly, you were kneeling with your face in your hands as you began to bawl, heaving and fitful. You could not do it. You could not do it. Why had you ever dreamt of becoming a Nousporist? It was too difficult, it was too difficult, you did not know how anyone managed, you should have given up long ago. You shouldâve listened to Mydei, you shouldâve become a Helkolithist â well, you still could, couldnât you? But the thought of going to Professor Anaxagoras and telling him you were giving up was the most agonizing thing you could conceive of, so you allowed yourself only one more minute of tears, and then, wiping at your face, you straightened, brushing off your knees and arms.
âMy apologies,â you said, adjusting your clothing so that it sat just so, professional and gathered once more, as if nothing had happened, nothing at all. âLet us continue, then, shall we?â
âThe Lament for Khaslanaâ by Sunday Oak
Work Type: Painting  Â
Medium: Oil on canvas
Measurements: H 182.9 x W 155.6 cm
âThis picture shows the dead Khaslana from Amphorean mythology. He is surrounded by lamenting sea-nymphs. His mother, the tailor Aglaea, made wings out of wax so that she and her son might escape from the island of Okhema. But, overcome by pride, Khaslana flies too near to the sun, the wax melts, and he plunges to his death. This is Sunday Oakâs most famous picture. He belonged to the generation of Penaconian artists that was influenced by Belobogian Impressionism, but Oak devoted himself to the historical and literary themes of Lushakan artists such as Mikhail Char Legwork.âÂ
There was something held under his tongue. You found it many days into your research, when you had given up hope and resorted to simply gazing at his face, willing him to give you some answer, some clue, one hint or several about what you had to do â if not the entirety, then at least the next step. His face belied nothing, not at first, but the longer you stared at it, the louder that persistent nagging in the back of your mind grew, that insistence that something was off, something was wrong about him. It took you a while to realize what, but then, in a flash of clarity, you understood: his mouth, his pretty mouth, curved into an unnatural crescent, just shy of a smile.
âForgive me,â you said, smoothing his hair back from his forehead, your fingers itching with discomfort before you took his cheeks in your hand, prying his jaw open slowly, cringing back as you prodded about in the dry cavern, trying to remember to breathe so that you did not faint. You were somewhere else. You were a Helkolithist. You were in the library with Mydei. You were anywhere but here, doing anything but this. âForgive me, please, forgive meââ
There it was, a stone the size of your thumb, gleaming crimson with an intrinsic fire that no ruby or garnet could ever hope to possess. You did not dare pull it from him, not when you recognized it immediately from the illustrations in one of Professor Anaxagorasâs journals: a philosopherâs stone, which did not, as was claimed in the myths, grant eternal life, but which did, according to the professorâs research, have extraordinary preservative properties. You did not yet understand how it worked, but you were sure, as you gently nudged his mouth closed, that this was the reason why he remained in such perfect, pristine condition.
But for him to be exactly as he was at the moment he had died, the stone wouldâve had to have been placed right then, pressed under his tongue with precision at the very second he passed away. What did it imply? You didnât want to think it, not of a man you had always so admired, but you could not stop your mind from ending up at that natural conclusion: Professor Anaxagoras had â he had â Professor Anaxagoras had â
You could not even make it to the wastebasket by the door; you threw up on the floor, hunching over as your stomach spasmed, gripping the edge of the table for stability. You counted to five â one, two, three, four, five â and then you pushed yourself up, wiping the corners of your mouth and your fingers with a handkerchief you produced from your pocket.
Then you retrieved a mop from the corner and began to clean the sick up, scrubbing at the stone until your hands were raw, as if that could do anything, as if this was something you could ever possibly hope to efface. Â
14 OCT 79 â âSubject Kâ is such a clinical name, is it not? It feels so detached when I am speaking to him and must refer to him as that. And to think it is short for âSubject Killedâ...such a cruelty, poking fun at his unfortunate state! I ought to have chided Mydei my colleague for the suggestion. No, no, it cannot do. I will give him a different name, a better, more apt one.
He is like a tragic hero from old. I am quite sure, now, that there was some foul play involved in his death, foul play that Professor Anaxagoras no doubt had a hand in, but I do not dare confront anyone, not as of yet. I am frightened, and besides the philosopherâs stone, I do not have enough proof â only a strange feeling, a protectiveness over his body, as though by bringing him back I can defend him from whatever happened to him in the first place.
Mydei My colleague did suggest, upon learning of this experiment, that perhaps his second life would be better than his first; that perhaps I could, in this way, save him from his horrible fate. How did he end up in Professor Anaxagorasâs clutches, anyways? Maybe it is that he was once like Khaslana, flying too close to a sun meant to burn him, always meant to burn himâŚ
Khaslana. Yes, that name is familiar to me, I saw him in a painting once, his golden, winged form, his fine, seraphic features. Ah, now that I think about it, he was not so different from Subject K, was he? Well, perhaps it is fate, then, that even their names begin with the same letters. Henceforth I will know him as such, as Subject Khaslana â or, if I may be so informal, as simply Khaslana, like I would if we were close and particular friends.
âI worry for you,â Mydei said, and then you felt it, the ghost of his palm against your cheek, traveling to your shoulder and shaking you until you awoke, blinking up at him and wondering when you had ever fallen asleep in the first place. âWhen was the last time you slept for an entire night?â
âHm?â you mumbled, your mind slow and groggy from exhaustion. âI donât know.â
âWhat do you mean, âyou donât know?ââ he said.
âThe night is the only time I have to myself,â you said. âThus, it is the only time I have to spend with him.â
âHim?â Mydei said. âWho? Do you â have you been courted, really?â
âCourted?â you said, and now it was your turn to give him an incredulous look. âWhatever do you mean? I speak of Khaslana â er, Subject K, as you know him.â
âKhaslana?â he repeated. âYou meanâŚyour dead body has a name now? And you are losing sleep because you areâŚspending time with it?â
âI donât know why you act like heâs a puppy Iâm raising,â you said. âItâs a genuine scientific undertaking. Professor Anaxagoras has already asked after my progress twice, and each time, Iâve had nothing to show for it but a few textbook articles that I thought might be of some relevance. Of course I have to spend time with him. How else will I figure out how to bring him back?â
Suddenly, it was as if every bit of compounded exhaustion you were feeling was suddenly thrust upon Mydei, leaving you light, leaving him overburdened. He raised his hand as if he might touch it to your brow, but then he did not, he only ran it through his hair and closed his eyes, like you were some great disappointment he could not understand how to fix.
âVery well,â he said. âIf this is what you think is the best path, then of course I will believe you. Shall I leave dinner in your room once again?â
âIf it doesnât trouble you,â you said, and he did not seem angry, but you could not help wanting to tip-toe around him anyways, for although you had never once seen Mydei snap, that did not necessarily make him incapable of it.
âIt doesnât trouble me,â he said. âBut in exchange, please promise you will rest.â
âI canât promise that,â you said, which made you feel pitiful, but you could not bring yourself to lie to him, to give him that empty reassurance. His face fell, and how peculiar it was, that you were growing more and more tenured to Professor Anaxagorasâs dismay, but Mydeiâs still brought you to fumble for an explanation. âHe only has one body, Mydei, so I have to proceed with the utmost of diligence. What if I ruin it?â
âYou are the one who is still alive. There will be other corpses, there will be no shortage of them, but there can neverââ Mydei broke off with a heavy exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. âNever mind.â
The callousness was so unlike him that you were visibly taken aback, which caused his eyes to widen, too, but he did not move to reassure you as he once mightâve. He only waited as you gathered your thoughts and your things, carefully placing each book in your bag before clearing your throat.
âThere may be other corpses, but they wonât be his,â you said. âHe is the one I have been trying for so long to resurrect. I donât care about the others, Mydei. He is the only one I want to bring back.â
âGrandfatherâs funeral was today. Mama has been crying and crying since we left the parlor, but when I looked at him in his casket, I was just a little curious. He didnât look any different than when he would sleep on the sofa-bed at home, though when I tried saying that, Papa told me to hush. It made me very angry that he did that, but Mama was already close to tears, so I decided I would be good this time and listened very quietly.
âWhen we got home, I asked my uncle why it is that dead bodies resemble sleeping ones so greatly. He is always more willing to answer my questions than Mama and Papa alike. Both of them are so unreasonable, I am cross again thinking of it! But my uncle is different, he always tries to think over my questions and answer them seriously.Â
âHe said to me, âDarling, it is because death is not separate from slumber â rather, it is a form of it, the eternal kind.â So I asked him what eternal means, and he said it was some vast quantity beyond my imagination. I said â greater than one million? He nodded and said â many, many times greater.
ââSo if death is only a form of slumber,â I said to him, because of course this new fascination he has introduced only made me more curious, âSo if it is a form of slumber as you say, then could you not bring someone back as easily as waking them up?â
âHe squinted at me, can you believe it? The thought of me confusing him! Well, he squinted at me, and then he sighed out his response the way Papa might, which wouldâve made me cross again but it is not as offensive, coming from him: âYou sound like a regular Nousporist.â
âA Nousporist! I have never heard of such a thing, and I tell him as much. He pats my head and tells me that of all the people in the world, only a Nousporist would ever ask as many questions as I do â although they are praised for it, where I am scolded.
ââYou would make a right proper Nousporist, thinking of it,â he said, and now I am entirely taken with this idea of a place where I can ask as many questions as I want without Mama crying or Papa yelling or my uncle sighing at me. So I will be a Nousporist, then! It is settled, and in truth I feel a little relieved to have this plan for my future, since I have been unsure until now.â (Unknown Author, âA Girlâs Diaryâ)
âKhaslana,â you said. âThis is what I have named you. Are you opposed to it? Do you know the story? Itâs an old Amphorean myth, so there are nearly as many versions as there are stars in the sky. I guess you may have heard it, but heard a different version than the one I know.â
You moved your chair so that you were sitting beside him, propping your journal in your lap and continuing to take notes as you spoke idly, boredly. It was comfortable, the easy conversation, and more than a little unfamiliar, too, for you were used to your audiences cutting you off before you could complete your thoughts. Khaslana never did anything like that; he listened to you kindly, silently, without coldness or boredom with your rambling, winding ways.
âI suppose the story doesnât matter as much as the ending, which is always the same,â you said. âHe flies too close to the sun, and then he falls to his death. What a fool I have named you after! I am sure that is what you must be thinking to yourself, but that is not why I have dubbed you as such. Well, really, itâs a silly reason, Iâm almost embarrassed to tell youâŚâ
Khaslana did not say anything, and when you glanced up from your notes on one of Dr. Veritas Ratioâs papers, you found him as he always was, smiling slightly around the philosopherâs stone tucked away under his tongue, his body cold, his face set.
How had Mydei done it the other day? You extended your hand, patting Khaslanaâs cheek, skimming it along his neck so that you could take him by the shoulder and shake him. Gently, barely, afraid of hurting him as you were, but you still did it, you still shook him as Mydei had shook you, out of some childish hope that maybe, maybe it would be enough. Maybe you had wasted your time thus far, maybe the secret really was just this, maybe all you had to do was beg him to wake up until he did.
But Khaslana did not stir, and eventually you gave up. Heat flushed your face, and you shrank back into your chair, hugging your journal to your chest and laughing miserably, wretchedly.
âHow could you have allowed me to do that?â you said. âNow I look a greater fool than Khaslana himself.â
What would his laugh sound like? You figured it would be a handsome noise, musical and rich, befitting his stature and expression. You wished that you had already succeeded, that you had already brought him back to life, so that you could make these jokes and listen to his amusement in full, instead of relying on your imagination, which could never properly capture reality in any meaningful way.
âI donât think Khaslana was a fool, though,â you said finally, your voice meek and downcast. âWho amongst us would not keep going, were we in his place? How could he ever be satisfied with the mediocrity of the clouds when the grandeur of the sun was within his reach? I cannot imagine which is a worse fate, failing in the pursuit of that greatness or contenting yourself with mediocrity. Well, I donât know. If it were me, I would never accept either option.â
You paused, looked up at Khaslana, and then smiled yourself, your lips forming the same crescent-curve as his own mouth. Perhaps you were biased in loving that old story, when the rest of your classmates had preferred more romantic myths, but it was not such a bad bias to hold, or so you thought.
âThey said he was terribly beautiful, which is why in some myths he was the sunâs lover, instead of just its victim,â you said. âThey paint him as they paint angels; there is no other symbolic meaning for why I gave you this name. It is only because you are the only man I have ever met who comes close to resembling him.â
21 OCT 79 â Something of an idea is forming in my mind. I must consult some papers which our university does not hold copies of, so I have sent mail orders and eagerly await their arrival. Until then, I must continue as I have been, with what materials I have had access to thus far. Of course, I am too nervous to do anything to Khaslana himself, not when he is so delicate, so rare, and so I have resorted to finding little dead birds to experiment on. There is no small amount of these creatures, they are perpetually running into windows and doors and finding themselves in such a mess! I apologize to them when I find them, and then I cradle them in my hands and bring them to the lab.Â
I must work quickly on the little birds, because they do not have the philosopherâs stone preternaturally slowing down their decay as Khaslana does, and so they go bad quickly. Thus far, I have not managed anything, but I think that I am growing closer and closer to a potential solution, although I am loath to write it down in case it does not work and I am left looking like something of an idiot.
Maybe it is a strange comparison to make, but in a certain manner, Khaslana reminds me of those little birds. The bones of his face are exactly as fragile as those of their wings; the strands of his hair are as soft as the down of their chests; the slope of his nose is not unlike their beaks, just as straight, just as small. I wonder what he would look like with the wax wings of his namesakeâŚ.if only I had the time, I might fashion a pairâŚbut alas, the day is only so long, and I spend much of it in the lab as it is. I have other priorities, that is to say, and so I will have to content myself with picturing the âLament for Khaslanaâ and pretending that it is him in that heroâs place.
âWait,â Mydei said when your lecture was dismissed and you shot out of your chair, preparing to hurry to the lab, to walk down the hallways you had long ago memorized, your feet traversing them without reliance on your mindâs commands. âHey, wait!â
You had not realized he was talking to you until that second dictation, barked out with a sort of desperation. Furrowing your brow, you turned to look at him, because you could not fathom why he might be asking you to wait for him, and when you saw how crestfallen he looked, you did falter.
âYes?â you said. Your response seemed to embolden him, for he moved so that he could stand beside you â you had not realized until he did how long it had been since you last walked like this, and somewhere deep within you, something like sadness brewed. You buried it, though, because what did you have to feel sad about?
âWhy do you keep running off?â he said softly. âIs that body so important to you?â
âHe is,â you said promptly, because of all the halfwitted questions he had ever asked, this was the most halfwitted of all. Was Khaslana so important to you? He was. Undoubtedly he was.
Mydei shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, like he was steeling himself against something, and then he took a deep breath. You watched him curiously, passionlessly, finding yourself unable to understand what he might mean by.
âAm I allowed to see it â him?â he said.
âWhat?â you said, and his encouraging grin felt akin to the first peek of sun through cloudcover, a dawn breaking through the fog of your mind. Momentarily you thought to yourself, what am I doing? Really, what am I doing? But you pushed these thoughts aside, because if you gave in now, when you were so close to the end, then you would never forgive yourself.Â
âI want to see what youâve been working on,â he said. âYou donât tell me much when I ask, but Iâd like to know. This experiment is important to you, and youââ
âOkay,â you said, surprising even yourself. Professor Anaxagoras had never explicitly forbidden visitors, and anyways the lab was under your jurisdiction now, so his opinions mattered little, but you had never considered taking anyone to meet Khaslana. For one, you were not so beguiled as to think that another person might not be appalled by him; for another, the thought of anyone else coming near him made you feel distressed. You wanted to keep him in the lab forever, safe from that cruel world which had killed him once, which would surely, if given the chance, kill him again. But Mydei was not anyone else, was he? He had always known the truth about the experiment, the body. Mydei did not want Khaslana to die again, not anymore than you did. So you did not mind as much, not if it was him, and you nodded to affirm this to the both of you. âYes, I can show you, and explain it if youâd like.â
âAs long as you are willing,â he said.
âI want to,â you said, and you meant it genuinely. You really did want to. âItâs not so complicated, really, but you have to understand a little more than just the basics of Nousporism that we discuss in lectureâŚâ
You spoke the entire way to the lab, explaining the things you had written in your journals, what you had read and reviewed and pored over for the past few weeks, the minute details of Khaslanaâs body and even the philosopherâs stone under his tongue. Mydei took it all with a level, quiet calm, interjecting with questions only when he truly did not understand. It was nice, and you wondered if this was how it used to be, if he really had always been so straightforward without your noticing.
âHere we are,â you said, opening the door for him, feeling a sudden and girlish nervousness. What would Mydei think? You did not know, and you werenât sure if you wanted to know. What if he told you that you had been dramatic in your recounting? What if he considered Khaslana to be painfully average? You could not bear the former, and the latter might shatter you. Still, you led Mydei in after you, and you decided that this once if never again, you would trust him.
âI can hardly see anything,â he said, and on your left, he began to blink rapidly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. You lit the lamps for him with a soft chuckle, and in the candlelight, he appeared all but spectral, shadows flickering over the planes of his face, deepening in the angles and paling along the edges. Then you motioned him over to the desk; he tiptoed towards you, taking each step carefully until he was peering over your shoulder at the flock of birds propped up neatly along the wall.
âIâm still too worried to do anything to him,â you said. âSo whenever I have an idea, I test it on them first, just in case. Good thing, too, because as you can see, I havenât been very successful yet.â
âWhere do you find them?â he said.
âAh, just around,â you said. âTheyâre not exactly in short supply.â
âI see,â he said.
âBut youâre not here to look at birds,â you said. âYouâre here for him. Khaslana.â
Mydei did not move from his place by the desk as you swept over to the center of the lab, where the table and the body were as undisturbed as ever. You murmured your typical greeting under your breath, for you did not think Mydei would take kindly to it, and then you removed his covering with as much tenderness as the brusque motion allowed, revealing him to the world once more.
âCome closer,â you said, beckoning Mydei over. He had gone white, whiter than usual, but still he trudged over, though he remained nervously behind you, looming over your back like an enormous shadow as he looked upon Khaslanaâs still figure for the first time. âIsnât he the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen?â
âI didnât realize how dead he would look,â Mydei said, his voice turbulent with unease. âI mean, heâs really just a corpse, isnât he?â
âHeâs not dead,â you said, looking up at him, stroking his arm to soothe him â and then you were overcome by how warm he felt, his skin blushing beneath your petting in a way Khaslanaâs never could. âHeâs just sleeping, and I will be the one to wake him up.â
He looked rather like a puppy, his eyes large and trusting, an agreeable tilt to his head as you continued to hold onto his arm, because you could not bear to let go of his heat just yet. So animated was he, a furnace in the cool of the lab, and you looked at Khaslana even as you clutched Mydei, wishing that it was him who had this vitality, wishing it was him who stood beside you.
âDo you want to touch him?â you said, and you did not wait for Mydeiâs response, your palm moving from bicep to forearm to wrist, interlocking your fingers over his and guiding him to lay his hand against Khaslanaâs cheek, holding it there in a gentle caress.
For a moment, none of you moved, and you began to shiver, because you could feel the blood spiderwebbing beneath Mydeiâs skin, his pulse, every minute twitch of his muscles, the sound of his breath and the fever-pitch of his hand in your own â yet it was not him you were so consciously aware of. It was Khaslana you attributed these things to, Khaslana whose ardor you could suddenly conceive of with an aching closeness. Khaslana, Khaslana, he was alive, you could sense him begging to be freed from the confines of his slumber, Khaslana was waiting for you to save him from that which had been done unto him. There was no one else, there was no Mydei, there was only him, only Khaslana, you could feel it. You could feel it. You could â
Abruptly, Mydei wrenched his hand away from you, and without another word, he turned and left the lab. For a moment, you did not react, did not even comprehend what had happened, but then you startled, spurring yourself into action and racing after him, calling his name over and over.
âMydei! Mydei, come back, please, Mydei, I didnât mean to scare youââ
There was no answer. Mydei, who had always waited for you; Mydei, who had always listened to you; that Mydei, he did not respond. You stood in the doorway for you could not say how long, and then you closed it after you, collapsing into your chair and hugging your knees to your chest.
âYou are the only one I have left,â you said to Khaslanaâs slumbering form. âPlease wake up soon. I am so lonelyâŚâ
âAbiogenesis, the idea that life arose from nonlife more than 3.5 billion years ago on Earth. Abiogenesis proposes that the first life-forms generated were very simple and, through a gradual process, became increasingly complex. Biogenesis, in which life is derived from the reproduction of other life, was presumably preceded by abiogenesis, which became impossible once Earthâs atmosphere assumed its present composition.â(Veritas Ratio, Encyclopaedia Intelligentsia).
You stared at the small thing in your palm in complete astonishment, tears welling in your eyes the longer you gazed upon it. The bird blinked at you, and then it chirped, ruffling its wings cheerily as it hopped about before pecking you slightly, ostensibly famished as it was.
âYouâre alive,â you breathed. The bird chirped once more before pecking at you again, a little more demanding this time; you ignored it in favor of clamping your fingers over its wings and tearing off towards Professor Anaxagorasâs office, taking the steps two at a time in your haste.
You had done it. After all of the meetings he had called you to where you had had nothing to show, you had done it, you had resurrected this songbird, and soon would be Khaslana. Khaslana! He would be alive, he would be a person again, he would be yours and you would never be as lonely as you were now, as you had been for some time.
âProfessor Anaxagoras!â you said, bursting into his office, out of breath from how fast you had run, hardly even remembering to knock. He was sitting at his desk, a pair of glasses low on the bridge of his nose, and he hardly looked up from the papers he was grading to greet you.
âWhat is it?â he said, and to anyone else, even to you on another day, it wouldâve seemed unnecessarily curt, but as it was, you were too dizzyingly overcome with intoxication, too inebriated on your own success to care
 You held your hands out before you proudly, brandishing the bird and waiting for him to say something. He narrowed his eyes at it, took off his glasses, narrowed his eyes even more, rubbed his shirt along the lenses as if to clean them, and then put his glasses back on, poking the bird in the chest before leaning back.
âYouâve brought me a bird,â he said. âWhy have you done that, exactly?â
âNot just any bird,â you said. âA dead bird.â
His countenance shifted; suddenly, it was dark, malevolent almost. âWhat?â
âI did as you asked, sir,â you said. âI have resurrected this bird. I have made âlifeâ from ânot-lieâ â now, I only have to replicate the same experiment on Khaslana â on the body you gave me, and thenâŚâ
âVain girl,â Professor Anaxagoras hissed, and then he was snatching the bird from your hands, holding it up fearfully to the light. âVain, arrogant, imprudent girl, you were never meant to succeed!â
âWhat?â you said. âBut you said that if I didnât, you wouldnât allow me to work as your assistant?â
âIt was a test!â he said, and then he opened the window and cast the bird from it without even waiting to see if it could fly. You shrieked as it fell and he began to pace the length and breadth of the room, his face in his hands. âA test, you simpleton, I wanted you to accept your failure. I wanted you to learn from it!â
âBut isnât it better that I have succeeded instead?â you said, genuinely confused at his reaction.Â
âWho are we to decide who lives and who doesnât?â he said. âWho are you to go around bringing people back from the dead at your whim? No, itâs not any better. Itâs worse! I only wanted to see how you might react when faced with an impossible task. The moment you accepted that it was too difficult for youâŚI wouldâve taken you as my assistant then and there. Irresponsible, mindless, laughable girl!â
âYou ought to praise me!â you snapped, struck by a sudden flash of irritation. So many nights you had spent laboring away, so many days you had wept, all out of fear â fear of him! Professor Anaxagoras, who had held your dreams in between his careless fingers, who had dangled them above you like bait on a fishhook, and now he was saying it was for nothing? Now he dared to say that there had never been any risk, that you had never needed to care about him or Khaslana or any of it? âWhat I have done is impossible, and you â you ââ
He grabbed you by the shoulders and glared at you with such frightening intensity you almost cried out, though you knew that no one would hear you and, even if they did, they would not dare venture into his office to see what was the matter.
âIt is impossible for a reason!â he said. You shoved him away from you, and he stumbled backwards, though he remained uncowed. âDo you think there arenât people I wish to bring back? But we cannot go about acting like death is unnecessary, like we are the ones who allow it or donât. You have to understand that!â
âYou say that I cannot resurrect people as I will,â you said. âBut how am I any different from you, professor? I know what you did to him.â
âAnd what, exactly, do you mean by that? Pray tell,â he said.
âThe man in the lab,â you said. âI found the philosopherâs stone under his tongue. You killed him, and you preserved his body at the very moment he died. How can you say that I am in the wrong for restoring life, when you take it away for nothing but an experiment that was never supposed to succeed in the first place?â
Professor Anaxagoras did not say anything for a long while, before, all of a sudden, he burst into laughter. You watched him warily as he cackled and cackled, tears streaming down his face, the sheerest joy that you had ever seen lighting up his demeanor as he howled without acknowledging you until, finally, he exhaled in defeat.
âOh, you really are an imbecile,â he said. âI went to the hospital and asked the head nurse which patient was the closest to death. She took me to the room of a laborer sick with consumption and told me it was him; I asked the man if he cared what happened to him once he was gone, and he told me no. So I instructed the nurse to place the stone under his tongue as soon as he died, and to call me afterwards. I didnât kill him â he was already dead.â
âI will bring him back,â you promised. âI will not fail him.â
âYou will do no such thing,â Professor Anaxagoras said, and there was no hint of humor left in his expression, not any longer. His grip grew gentle, but his words grew steelier as he took you back by the shoulders, impressing his seriousness upon you through the force of his hold. âListen to me. Promise you will destroy that body tonight. Destroy the body and your research and never speak of any of this again. I will take you under my wing, I will teach you everything you need to know about Nousporism, but you have to promise me you will do that.â
âVery well,â you said, your tongue heavy with lead and lying. You did not know if he believed you, but you continued anyways, even as he took one step backwards and then another, incredulity etched across his face. âAs you wish, Professor Anaxagoras.â
28 OCT 79 â Professor Anaxagoras is waving Nousporism in front of me as if it is some great incentive. He tells me he will teach me, but what is left for me to learn? I have made âlifeâ from ânot-life.â I have touched the philosophyâs core, and I have come back unscathed. He cannot take this from me. He cannot take Khaslana from me. Khaslana, who is the only one I have leftâŚI will do it. I will bring him back to life. This I swear, here and now: I will definitely do it.
He is larger than a lark, so I will have to adjust the measurements. That accursed professor! If only he had not cast that bird from the window, I couldâve been exact and precise in my work. But as it is, I must estimate using the birdâs brethren. I do not think I have much time before the professor grows suspicious and comes to check on me â I am not as much of an idiot as he claims. I know he didnât believe me when I swore I would destroy all evidence of my research, so I must work quickly and bank on his continued underestimation.Â
I would like to practice on a few more of the smaller creatures before daring to touch Khaslana, but again, I do not have the time for it. Even now, I write this in haste, for I am ever wary of the professorâs impending approach. I must simply have faith in my theory, in my experiments, in him. He will wake up for me, I am sure of it. He will wake up for me, and I will never, ever be lonely again.
Khaslanaâs eyes, when he opened them, were no longer the same shade of veronicaflowers that they had been in his death. It was the first thing you noticed, that where once there was blue, now there was gold, as warm and incandescent as lamp-light, framed by the black flutter of his lashes. His hair, too, had darkened with the stain of alchemy, the pure white soiled by the resurrection, softened into a glistening cream shade. Yet beautiful he remained, and if anything, he resembled that mythical Khaslana even more now, forever touched by the eternal sun of his undoing.
âThereâs something under your tongue,â you said when he gave you a wide-eyed, panicked look. You tried to sound reassuring, so that he did not shy away from you, and you must have succeeded, because instead of flailing about he simply waited for you to continue, watching you while taking fast, sharp breaths. âCan you open your mouth? I can remove it for you. You wonât be needing it anymore.â
He dutifully obliged, parting his lips and allowing you to press your middle finger against his tongue, nudging it out of the way and pinching the philosopherâs stone between your index and thumb. Carefully extricating it, you held up a glass of water to his lips, pouring it down his throat and watching to ensure he swallowed each drop.
âAre you able to speak?â you said. He scowled in thought, but you waited, giving him the time to consider it until, finally, he coughed and rasped something out.
âWho are you?â he said. The words came out slow and unhurried and scratchy, but now that he was alive, you had all of the time in the world to do with as you pleased, so you did not rush him.
âIâm the one who brought you back to life,â you said, offering him the glass of water. He took it in shaky hands, the contents sloshing about as he raised it to sip on, but the more he drank, the steadier he became, until he could hold it without wavering in the slightest. âThatâs all you need to know.â
âBack to life?â he said. âI was dead?â
âFor at least a month, yes,â you said. He lifted his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally, blinking at the way they bent and then straightened again. âDo you remember any of it?â
âNo,â he said. âItâs as if Iâve just awoken from a long dream, the contents of which I can hardly recall. Even my life from before is growing dim, and I think I am soon to forget it entirely.â
He took your hand and held it to his cheek, which was so warm you nearly sobbed, running your thumb along the firm bone without worrying about whether it might shatter. Closing his eyes, he leaned into you, and this did make you pause, because you hadnât expected it â though it wasnât unwelcome, exactly. The sweet kiss of his breath against your wrist made you feel unreasonably flustered, so, tentatively, you used your other hand to comb your fingers through his hair, trying to distract yourself but ultimately only worsening the effect.
âYou arenât distressed by your amnesia?â you said. âDonât you miss the people you used to love? Donât you wish you knew who they were?â
âI cannot miss what I donât know exists,â he said, and the unimpressed flatness was your first indication that he was lacking something a bird would never have in the first place, your first indication that you had not brought âhimâ entirely back, whoever âheâ had been before his death. âI should, right? There are people in the back of my mind, begging to be remembered, but yet I cannot manage it, and it does not hurt me as it should.â
âYou were a laborer,â you said. âSick with consumption. That is all I know.â
âA laborer,â he repeated. âI know nothing of it, but it seems a miserable existence, if I died so young.â
âIt was,â you said. âI am sure it was, but you will never have to go back. I will take care of you. Your life is mine, my greatest experiment, and I will defend it from the world if that is what it takes. I promise you I willâŚKhaslana.â
âKhaslana? Was that my name?â he said.
âI donât think so,â you said. âBut it is the name I gave you in the absence of any further knowledge, and I have grown used to it.â
âThen it is better,â he said. âI will keep it as a gift from you. Khaslana.â
âWe should leave,â you said, because suddenly the blankness in his eyes made you more nervous than awed. You had brought back something, but whether he was a man or not, you were not quite certain, and leaning towards the negative â which begged the question of what exactly had you created? âKhaslana, the professor may yetââ
âCanât it wait?â he said. âI have only just stepped into this realm of living for the second time, and I am so numb to it all, itâs like the world doesnât exist â except for you. Your hand is the only warmth I have felt since you roused me from my slumberâŚeverything else is freezing, and I am so unsureâŚâ
Before you could reconsider, you embraced him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding that shell of a man â because now you knew for sure that he was not whole, that you had only managed a partial success and left the greater piece of him to rest, either in peace or in agony â close to you, his bare chest against the material of your shirt, his hair silky where it grazed your neck. With a soft, nearly inaudible whimper, he wound his own arms around your waist, clinging to you tightly as the gooseflesh along his back finally faded.
âWhat have you done to me?â he whispered. âI wasnât supposed to come back like this, was I?â
âI donât know,â you said. âI was going to run more trials before I attempted anything on you, but Professor Anaxagoras commanded me to destroy your body and my research alike, and Khaslana, I could not bear it. I could not bear the thought of discarding you like that, and so I gambled, and I supposed I lost. I brought only this piece of you back, butâŚâ
âBut?â he said, nuzzling against the hollow of your throat in a manner that felt like an instinct more than a proper and conscious decision.
âBut some of âyouâ is better than none of âyou,ââ you said. âEven if it was the smallest fraction of âyouâ, I could not bring myself to regret it if it meant I could have that fraction with me forever.â
He lifted his head only slightly, batting his eyelashes at you, and then his arm snaked from your waist to your chin, which he held without any real force, gazing at you contemplatively. You did not dare move, and anyways his other arm was still around you, so you waited to see what his next action might be, finding that that aspect of unpredictability was nearly as exciting as it was agitating. You did not know what he would do; you did not want to know, either. You just wanted him to do it.
For a while he only studied you as you had once studied him, carefully, methodically. Then, with a brazenness that could only come from someone so overeager and long-deprived, he brought his lips up to meet yours, the hand on your chin moving to your neck. He tasted a little like how you imagined death might, but this was not a bad thing â it was coppery and minty and sweet, so sweet you did not ever want him to pull away, although of course eventually he did.
âI am a little more alive now,â he said as he caught his breath, and then he kissed you, again and again and again. âAnd still more, and even more.â
You had been standing before him, but he pulled you into his lap so effortlessly you forgot how weak he had been mere minutes ago. It was gone, all concept of that earlier man, who had been debilitated and puny. Now he was neither man nor decrepit, and when you adjusted your position as best as you could in the midst of his searching, searing lips and their quest for your own, you brushed onto something hard that drew a gasp from the both of you.
âI didnât know you could stillââ you began, which only made the pink of his face darken until his cheeks resembled twin apples. âI mean, I wasnât expecting it to â to feel soââ
You broke off, because you found no value in continuing, and instead ground into him again. And perhaps he had lost his soul in death, but he could still understand pleasure and shame as well as any other man, so he did hide his face in the crook of your neck even as his hips bucked up into yours in response.
âIâm sorry,â he said in an endless refrain as he continued almost frantically, like he might wither back into death if you made him stop. âIâm sorry, is this â is this what itâs like to be alive, it feels so wonderful, thank you â thank you for bringing me back, thank you for letting me â Iâm sorry, Iâm sorryââ
You wanted to tell him that you should be the one apologizing, but how could you? When he was bare save for the thin sheet his body had been covered with and he was so intent on proving his existence, how could you not allow him? You had never felt this way, and briefly you thought â might it have felt nearly this nice if it had been Mydei against you? Your old friend, who had not spoken to you in so long, was surely frightened of you now, there was no other reason for the continued avoidanceâŚyou wondered if it would have been anything like this with him, with a man instead of a monster beneath you.
Then Khaslanaâs fingers sought permission just below your navel, helping you out of your pants, pulling aside the lace of your undergarments when you did not resist, and any thoughts of Mydei, of anyone or anything, were all forgotten. You did not care that Khaslana was a monster of your own making when he pushed inside of you, too overcome by the size of him; you did not care that his eyes were gold and empty, that his hair was stained and he tasted like death. You did not care for any of it, you only knew that he was alive and he was inside of you and he was yours. He was yours and he always would be, he groaned as much against you, and you â you did not say it aloud, but you could not deny that you thought about it until you could think no longer, the world turning as white as the sun when you came around him and collapsed into his waiting embrace.
âKhaslana, my Khaslana, how beautiful you are; how tender is your flesh, warm and flushed with vigor; how golden is your blood, now that it flows unfettered; and how terrible you are, too, a man â if you can even still be called that â returned from the dead without soul or mind, a heartless husk of a thing. Oh, Khaslana, how you frighten me so! Yet I love you, I am sure of it, for whenever I do think of destroying you as I ought to, I find I am unable.â (Unknown Author, âLetter to a Cherished Experimentâ).
Synopsis: In the ruins of Okhema, you fall in love with a man you can never keep.
HSR Masterlist
Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader
Word Count: 3.2k
Content Warnings: spoilers for 3.5, set entirely in 3.5, angst, mydeimos the lance of yearning, vague mentions of body horror wrt the soul-splitting ceremony??, mydei probably is ooc sorry idgaf he is being a good boy for the (nonexistent) plot, krateros glazing, eurypon is a good dad as he canonically Was in that one cycle, coping mechanisms and relationship dynamics many would considerâŚinterestingâŚ, light smut (not really described but theyâre basically naked in like every scene so mdni please!), the majority of this was written on a vibe so itâs very incoherent and plotless
A/N: hi the posts about the soul splitting ceremony haunted me too much i had to get my thoughts down somewhere . donât expect greatness or comprehensibility okay thank you <33
Krateros liked to tell you that Okhema was once the heart of Amphoreus â a Chrysos Heir in its own right, as stalwart and gleaming as the ones who loved it â but now, it was little more than a witching town, empty and devoid of life barring those few remaining ghosts that steadfastly defended the formerly holy city. He was one such ghost, heâd often remark to you and Mydei when the three of you would break bread together, and then heâd wince, because inevitably Mydeiâs gentle expression would fall at the reminder that of you and Krateros and his parents, not a single one had his vitality, his eternal, golden-blooded youth.
It was the king who fell first, that lion-maned man who resembled Mydei so greatly. You remembered how proud he had been when the Kremnoan Legion marched into Okhema, his wife at his side and their prince behind him, how assured and incredible he had seemed, how certain and levelheaded. His back was to the sun, to better disguise the shadows and lines already gathering in the hollows of his face, for it was not their manner to falter, and so he did not until the very end, when he keeled over with an arrow in his heart that was meant for Mydeiâs back.
He had come to you that night, Mydei, although he did not cry. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall in silence, and you waited for him to move, to tuck himself into your arms or beg for you to comfort him, but he did no such thing. He just sat there, and then, with a hollow laugh, as empty as Okhema itself, he shifted, ever so slightly, and smiled at you.
âMy father always told me,â he said, âthat if I am to weep, lilies will bloom from my sorrow.â
âIs it true?â you said, too frightened to touch his face as you mightâve, were it any other time. He shrugged halfheartedly.
âI do not allow myself to weep, so I cannot say,â he said. âWhat is the use? Mourning is not our custom. We bury our grief on the battlefield and kill it before it can kill us.â
âBut you cannot outrun it forever,â you said, and somehow, you mustered the strength to place your hand on the place where his undying heart still beat, would forever beat, long after the rest of you had departed. âIt will catch up to you eventually, wonât it?â
âThen I will fall, just as my father did,â he said. âAnd how glorious it will be.â
His expression was so terrible, so serious, that before you knew it you were leaning forward and embracing him, your cheek to the curve of his neck, your tears slipping freely, readily, cold against his warm determination, hot against your frigid horror. You didnât want him to speak of such things, of glory and grief and lilies and dying, and you told him so in a tremulous, wavering voice.
It was then that he pressed his lips to your hairline, and it took you by enough surprise that you paused. There had always been something between the two of you, a small, quiet, blooming thing, but you had never really expected anything to come of it, and based on the way he stilled against you, you doubted he had, either. How could it? In these dusty remains of the Marmoreal Palace, surrounded by the meager resistance that he was the only one left to lead, there was no time for these lingering thoughts, which were as prone to souring as overaged honeybrew. There was a danger to the way he kissed you again and again, along your face and against your mouth, a bell tolling in that old refrain from the Okhema of before â a farewell, a countdown, a warning.
He held you to his lap that night, tender yet unyielding, and then he did as his people always did, burying his grief deep within you. His breaths came harsh and ragged as his forehead fell to your collarbone and he whispered secrets against your skin, fervent and feverish, making promises he could never keep while the bells in your mind kept ringing and ringing and ringing in an unceasing clamor.
When his mother died, that sweet, vicious queen who could only be cowed by the combined efforts of an entire wave of the foul tide, he came to you again and told you about Styxia, which had fallen just as Gorgo had, to the Black Tide and its commander. Then there was salt on your tongue and you wondered if the drowning taste resembled that famed, bloody sea; his eyes were wild but his touch along your jaw was kind when he told you to spit it out so that you did not choke on it. You supposed that meant it mustâve.
Nobody ever asked you what you meant to the prince, not even Krateros himself, though you could tell he always wondered. But it was the closest thing to kindness that he could muster, always sitting with his scarred eye facing you, so that he could pretend he did not see the shattered bone of Mydeiâs hand holding onto your own as though he might be lost without it. He was silent in his own way, dear Krateros, and you did not know what he made of it, of you, except that in his blindness â feigned or not â he never found cause to chide his charge, and on those nights after particularly difficult campaigns, he forbade the rest from searching for him until it was time to don their armor and take to their spears once more.
âI wish I had known you before,â Mydei told you, the evening before he would set out again, as he always did, as he always would. His armor and his lance leaned against the door to the dim room, but beside you he was bare, save for the red ink curling around his muscles and marking him as a warrior. âI wish I had known you in the Imperatorâs time, or even earlier.â
âIn the Imperatorâs time, you would still have been the prince of Kremnos,â you said, âbut I would have been any other girl from Okhema. We wouldnât have met, let alone known one another.â
âWe would have,â he said, rolling over onto his side so that he could brush your hair away from your face. âMy father wouldâve sent me here to learn the ways of that tyrant, and I wouldâve ran from the palace to meet you on the rooftops instead.â
âKrateros mentioned that Okhema once had a market,â you said, fighting back a snicker at the image of the infamous and long-dead Imperator doing something so domestic as fostering another kingdomâs royalty, especially a royalty such as Mydei, who was as mild-tempered as she was known to have been cruel. âIts merchants sold everything, even goods we cannot hope to imagine anymore. Maybe we mightâve met there, then. If you are so determined to believe that we wouldâve.â
âYes,â he said. âI wouldâve bought you something. I wouldâve bought you anything, if it was what you wanted.â
âHm,â you said, nuzzling closer to his chest, because suddenly you wanted to hide and you could think of no other place but him, your blanket high over your shoulders, your eyes closed and your breathing slowing to match his. âYou wouldnât have had to buy me anything.â
âI know,â he said. âBut I still wouldâve. If it were you, I wouldâve.â
Yet this was not the Imperatorâs time, and Okhema was a witching town. The rooftops were treacherous at best, the tiles slick and crumbling without anyone to maintain them, and there was nothing for Mydei to buy when there hadnât been a market in over a century, so his words meant little. Soothing and pretty and sweet, yes, but ultimately and completely meaningless. Still, you kissed him for his efforts, and then you told him that if Cyreneâs stories of the Deliverer and their cycles were true, then surely there had been at least one where the two of you had done exactly as he described.
After Kraterosâs death, word came from Mydeiâs beloved Sage, Anaxagoras. It was cryptic even to you, but Mydei seemed to understand, for he folded the paper and set it aside, nodding to himself with the sort of certainty that made your heart leap to your throat. You blinked from where he had wrapped you in his blankets, the scent of him overwhelming, dizzying, and you waited for him to explain, but for a while he did not.
âMydei?â you prompted when he remained so still. He did this every time, he retreated into his mind and buried his grief with callousness; you were sure, suddenly, that one day, maybe even today, he would bury himself and his own eternal heart along with it. And how glorious it would be.
âIt will be done,â he said, as if he were your king and you, his subject. âTomorrow.â
âWhat will?â you said, and then your stomach dropped. âIs it what Trianne warned you against?â
âYes,â he said. Trianne, the little prophet, who had as of late been distraught, bursting into tears whenever she looked upon Mydei â you had asked her what it meant, but she told you she wasnât allowed to say, nor could she dissuade him. âAnaxagoras will arrive in the morning. We have delayed long enough.â
âI donât understand,â you said. Finally he turned, and his expression was just as his fatherâs had been, with the light to his back so that he could better disguise the sickly, rancid terror rolling off of him in waves, so evident despite his calm.
âI will become a titan,â he said. âIn this world, which has no use for Strife, I will take up the mantle of that great fury in the sky, and I will â I will ââ
âWhat will he do to you?â you murmured, but he was resolute, his chin tilted up and his jaw clenched. How fierce. How proud. You almost told him the king would admire him for it, but you knew better than to speak of the Kremnoan dead, lest they haunt you for the rest of whatever life you had left to live.
âI will defend our forsaken city,â he said. âWith everything that I am, with every piece of me that is left, I will defend it.â
âMydei,â you said, and then you cast aside the blankets, standing and taking his hands in between yours, looking up at him as beseechingly as you could. âThe Sage. What will he do to you?â
âIt was my own idea,â he said, closing his eyes. âI only took his counsel to ensure it was possible, and he said it was.â
âWhat is it?â you said, guiding his palms so that he was holding your face, clutching his wrists so that he could not escape as you knew he wished to. He sighed through his nose and then leaned forward, forward, until his lips nearly brushed against yours and he became the one holding you in place.
âHeâll split me apart,â he breathed, and you could all but taste him, sweet like pomegranate and fiery like pepper, impossible to escape either way. âA five-pointed star, one for each corner of Okhema, the final to remain in its center and defend it until my bitter end.â
âYou donât meanââ
âI do,â he said. âHe will cut me along the seams of my body, so that his scalpel may reach the lines of my soul and cleave it into the fragments of Strife. It will leave me in the eternal agony Trianne is so saddened by, but it matters not. Pain I can endure. Pain I can become.â
âHe will cut you,â you said, and you were horrified into a sort of numb blankness. You could not fathom it, the indomitable Mydeimos stripped so savagely, his strong, perfect body rendered into sparkling little puzzle pieces, into the golden shards of a man-turned-titan. âHe will cut you, that wretched, despicable Sageââ
âYou mustnât blame him,â Mydei said, cutting you off with a swift press of his thumb to your lower lip. âDidnât I tell you? It was my own idea. This is the best way for all of us.â
âHow can that be? You said it yourself â you will suffer eternally!â you said.
âBut maybe you will live,â he said, and he always spoke so simply, straightforward and honest as he was, but unlike every other time when you considered it a blessing, today you cursed him for it. âMaybe Amphoreus will survive until the Delivererâs return. The suffering of one man is meaningless to that.â
You knew, then, why Trianne had said it was futile to convince him. His mind was made, and if Anaxagoras agreed with him, that finicky blasphemer, then this really was the only way forward. It would be done, then. Tomorrow. The Sage would arrive and he would take that body you had learnt so well, for so long, and then he would cut it, he would rip it and rip it until Mydei turned into something far beyond recognition.
He took your hand, then, holding it up to the candlelight and admiring it before placing it on his right shoulder, allowing your fingertips to skim along the slope of his arm, the arc of his muscle. The entire time he watched you, but you pretended you did not notice, because you were consumed with this old knowing, this new memorization.
âThe first,â he murmured, his voice low in the back of his throat. âCourage. And the second will be the left. Honor.â
He took a step forward, bidding you to sit on the edge of the bed, and then he allowed you to lean your cheek against his stomach, your nails digging into his hips as he stroked your hair in that way of his, so idle and careless that it could only be orchestrated with the utmost of consideration.
âTenacity and Sacrifice,â he said. âA leg each. And the finalââ
âEnough,â you said. âEnough, I donât â you are not yet a titan, so lie with me as Mydeimos, as Mydei, donât let them cut you apart before you must ââ
He fell atop you then, graceless and relieved, and you wanted to tell him that he ought to cut you apart, too; you mightâve, if you thought it would inspire anything but disgust in him. Pull me into pieces, you wanted to beg as his nimble fingers worked through laces and ties and fabric, too much fabric, pull me and tear me and let me bury my grief in you.
You would never be used to him, to that weight heavy within you, to the silken locks that brushed against your skin, to the burning fingertips which maneuvered you and toyed with you easily, so easily. You loved him, that was what it was, you would love him in the Imperatorâs markets or on the Goldweaverâs rooftops or even here, in this palace left for witches and waifs, silent save for your pitiful, helpless whining.
âI wonât be afraid,â he said when he lay his head against the swell of your breasts, though it was hard to believe when his voice was so choked with something entirely foreign, entirely unlike him. âI will face it as my mother and father taught me to.â
âYou can be afraid,â you said, combing through his hair with your fingers, your own tears long since dried and gone and ensconced somewhere far. âI should not judge. Who would? If anyone in the world can be afraid, it is you.â
He pressed impossibly closer to you, for once the one hiding his face from the world. âBut thatâs not true. I more than anyone must remain unafraid, and so I will stay on my feet until the end.â
âYou donât have to.â
âI will. And I wonât cry, either.â
âOkay,â you said, because you were far too exhausted now, far beyond arguing with him. âYou wonât cry.â
âYou shouldnât, either,â he said. âIâm luckier than most. This âdeathâ is not the end for me; it isnât even a death in the first place. I will still be with you. I promise that as well.â
âBut not like this,â you said, a stubborn prickling along the back of your eyes rising once more, curious and detestable and impossible to win against. âNever like this. You wonât be Mydei.â
âNo,â he said. âI suppose I wonât be.â
You will be a titan, not a man. You will be a five-pointed star, not a prince. You will be Striife, not Mydeimos. I will love you and you will not even know me. I will love you and you will love the world more, and never can I blame you for it.
You did not know what more to say, what else to say without sounding achingly, consumingly selfish, so you were silent, and you supposed at some point you mustâve fallen asleep, for when you next awoke, the pillows and blankets were arranged neatly around you how you always preferred, and there was a letter written in a childâs handwriting on your bedside, right next to a vase of white lilies.
Friend,
Dei asked us to write to you, because he canât anymore and we are the only ones left who can understand the tongue of the titans. Itâs funnyâŚhe still sounds so similar, still speaks the exact same, the way any good Kremnoan might. We wish you could talk to him yourself, but since you canât, this will have to do.
He has taken on the Coreflame of Strife, and the Soul-Splitting Ceremony is complete. Courage, Honor, Tenacity, and Sacrifice have left for the four corners of Okhema, where they will make their stands against Lygusâs forces. We made sure to light his way; we promise that as long as there is some of us left, his every path will be free of obstacles.
Oh, he is as impatient as he was when we were his tutors, in those memories little Reney showed us. We are writing too much for his tastes! He wants you to know that he apologizes, but he could not help himself from his weakness, and that he hopes you do not think less of him for this proof of his mortality, when he is meant to be invulnerable. He did not weep, he maintains this, but in the end he did lie on his side instead of standing as his parents had taught him, and he hugged his knees instead of facing Anaxagoras in the way of a warrior king.
But he also wants you to know that in exchange for this promise which he has broken, there has been another that he has kept, that he will continue to keep: his final fragment does not march forth to the battlefield alongside its brethren. Here it remains, in Okhema with us. With you.
âI am not Mydei,â it says. âI am only his heart, his Reason â but I will stay with you. In this empty city, even if there is nothing and no one else left to defend, I will stay with you.â
There was once a great garden on the roof of the Marmoreal Palace. Nothing grows there anymore, but we are sure that if you look for him where the lilies used to bloom, you might find him waiting.
summary: âthereâs something going on,â he says. âa chain of robberies, not random. itâs clean, professionalâin and out in under four minutes. iâve been watching them hit warehouses all across marmoreal. whatever theyâre after, itâs coordinated. and i canât keep up on my own.â
in which spider-man enlists the help of his favourite detective to uncover a series of robberies in new okhema city.
contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, fingering), action, slow burn, one-sided enemies to lovers, spider-man!au. profanity, violence, injuries, blood, etc.
word count: 19.5k
a/n: reposted from my old blog because this, along with my jinu reincarnation!au fic, is my favourite out of all the fics iâve ever written :â) thanks for reading! (divider credit)
song rec: like real people do by hozier
Phainon thinks heâs a pretty good guy.
Okay, maybe not, like, great. Heâs not out here winning humanitarian awards or remembering to replace the Brita filter before it turns green. But still. He flosses most nights, and tips well on the rare occasions he orders pizza for dinner. He saves cats from trees, catches robbers in the middle of getaway attempts, and makes a decent grilled cheese when the mood strikes. In the grand cosmic scale of morality, he figures that puts him somewhere between a broke college student and a D-list superhero with a heart of gold.Â
Which is why, as heâs currently being pursued across rooftops by New Okhemaâs most persistent detective, Phainon feels the situation is a little unfair.
âI donât deserve to be chased like this!â he yells over his shoulder, breaths short, voice muffled through his mask as he narrowly avoids tripping over a pipe. âIâm a pretty good guy!â
The boots pounding behind him donât slow. âYouâre obstructing justice!â
âYouâre harassing a concerned citizen!â
He vaults over a low vent and instantly regrets it, the rooftop pitching sideways beneath him as he skids and catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting into a rusted-out AC unit. Graceful. So graceful. Just like the comics. His heartâs doing the worst kind of cardio in his chest, the kind that feels like guilt and adrenaline and that specific brand of dread that only ever shows up when youâre behind him.
Because if thereâs one thing Phainonâs sure of, itâs this: you hate him.
Maybe not, like, hate-hate. Maybe not enough to tase him out of the sky. But enough to chase him across rooftops with the hopes of finally arresting him for good.Â
He can live with that. Heâs been hated before. (He just wishes it didnât make him kind of want your approval.)
âYouâre breaking at least three laws just by standing there!â you shout as he swings up and over the next building.
Youâre getting closer. He can hear it in your voiceâless winded than his, more focused. Heâs not sure if heâs impressed or terrified. Probably both.
âDo you ever take a break?â you snap as you land behind him with a clean, practiced roll.
Phainon whirls around, arms raised. âDo you ever let anyone live?â
Your eyes narrow like youâre imagining the paperwork it would take to make his disappearance look like an accident.Â
âOkay, okay! Truce! Five minutes.â He backs up, hands still in the air. âNo chasing or tasers. Please.â
You donât answer, which means youâre at least considering it. Heâs getting good at reading your silences, which is probably not a good thing. He should stop doing that. He should stop noticing things about you at allâlike how you always pull your sleeves down when youâre thinking, or how you furrow your eyebrows when youâre about to disagree with someone but donât want to start a fight.
âLook,â he says, tone dropping, just a bit. âThis isnât about me dodging patrol or stealing snacks from that convenience store on 14th Streetââ
âYou stoleââ
âBorrowed,â he corrects quickly. âWith intent to pay.â
You stare at him. The wind rustles your coat. Somewhere, a siren wails and dies out.
âThereâs something going on,â he says. âA chain of robberies, not random. Itâs clean, professionalâin and out in under four minutes. Iâve been watching them hit warehouses all across Marmoreal. Whatever theyâre after, itâs coordinated. And I canât keep up on my own.â
He expects you to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or say something sharp and cutting thatâll make his stomach twist in that way he hatesâbecause youâre usually right.
âI think theyâre watching me,â he adds, quieter now. âI think someone knows who I am.â
The wind blows sharp across the rooftop, carrying the tang of rain and smoke and summer dust. It scrapes over the worn brick under Phainonâs boots and rustles your coat, but you donât move. You just look at him, your face unreadable in the way that always makes his stomach knot a little too tight. Itâs the kind of stillness that unnerves himânot because he doesnât know what youâre thinking, but because he wants to. More than he should. Phainonâs chest rises and falls, just a little too fast.
âThatâs a bold claim,â you say slowly.
Yeah. He knows. He also knows youâre not brushing him off, which is scarier than if you had. Youâre listening, evaluating. That furrow between your brows is your tellâheâs seen it before, in passing shadows and glimpses from across precinct crime scenes. The way you tilt your head slightly to the left when youâre filing pieces together in real time.
âYou have proof?â you ask.
Phainon knows you wonât move without proofânot a whisper, not a theory, not a gut feeling scraped together from caffeine and paranoia. But he doesnât have clean lines or neat bullet points. What he has is scraps; disconnected threads; a slowly closing hand around the back of his neck every time he turns a corner too sharp. And that feelingâthat awful, skin-tight certaintyâthat something out there has started moving towards him, not away.
âI donât have anything concrete, but⌠Iâve been tracking the hits since the first one three weeks ago,â he says, starting to pace now, in small, tight circles, just enough movement to bleed out some of the nervous energy crawling up his spine. âTheyâre too clean. Like, unrealistically clean. No alarms triggered, no broken doors, no fingerprints. They even bypassed the retinal scanner at one of the biotech labs. Who does that? And for what? Theyâre not stealing cash or valuables. Theyâre taking very specific thingsâequipment, hard drives, chemical canisters.â
âShow me,â you say. Your eyes donât leave his face. (Well, the mask. But he swears youâre looking through it.)
He blinks. âWhat?â
You cross your arms. âThe footage. The files. Whatever youâve got. If youâre serious about this, I need to see everything.â
âOh.â Phainonâs voice pitches up an octave in surprise. âCool. Okay. Should we, like, grab dinner? I know a good deli down at Kephale Plaza. Best dill pickle sandwiches on this side of Okhema.â
Phainon didnât lie. Chartonusâ Deli, tucked between a laundromat and a building thatâs had a For Sale sign tacked onto the door for fourteen years, does serve the best dill pickle sandwiches in New Okhema City. The fluorescent sign above the deli flickers intermittentlyâCHART NUSâ on a bad night, HARTONUS DEL when itâs feeling generousâand the inside smells like mustard, old fryer oil, and vinegar.
Heâs perched in the booth furthest from the window, under a buzzing ceiling light that flickers every now and then. The vinyl seat squeaks every time he shifts, and the table has a wobble. Thereâs duct tape across the far corner of the laminate, and someoneâpossibly Chartonus himselfâhas carved NO CRYING IN THE DELI into the tabletop.
Phainon has his mask pulled up just past his nose, letting the cool air hit the sweat still clinging to his neck. His hairâs damp, and thereâs a tear in the seam of his left glove he only just now noticed. His sandwich is halfway demolished, crumbs gathering on the dark fabric of his suit, pickle juice already soaking into the paper wrapper.
He looks across the table at you. Youâre the only person in here not eating, only sipping from a chipped ceramic mug of what Chartonus had claimed was coffee with a shrug. Your coatâs slung over the back of your seat, and your badge is tucked out of sight, but everything about you still screams copâstraight spine, steady eyes, the way your fingers twitch every time the door jingles.
âI told you,â Phainon says around a mouthful of rye and mustard. âBest sandwich in the city.â
âThis is where you wanted to debrief?â
He shrugs. âThey know my order here.â
You roll your eyes and pull the folder Phainon had handed you on the rooftop from your bag, placing it on the table between you. âYou said these started three weeks ago?â you ask, flipping it open.
Phainon nods, brushing crumbs off the table. âWarehouse on Little Thorn. Then a lab two nights later. Then another warehouse. Then the lab again, but a different wing. Theyâre hitting specific targets, looping back, almost like theyâre refining their technique.â
You glance up. âAny pattern to what theyâre taking?â
âThatâs the thing.â He leans in, placing his half-eaten sandwich on the paper wrapper. âItâs weirdly⌠modular. Like, theyâre not emptying vaults or swiping entire systems. Theyâre taking parts. Pieces. Very specific ones.â
He slides a finger across one of the printouts. Itâs a manifest list from the Little Thorn warehouse, half the lines redacted, but a few still visible.
Carbon-neutral polymer casings
Fiber-optic microarrays
Refrigerated storage containers, Class III
Unknown compound, biohazard sealed
âDoesnât scream smash-and-grab,â you say, studying the list.
âExactly. This is purposeful.â
You turn another page. âThe camerasââ
âLooped,â Phainon says. âEvery time. Not just disabled. The footage looks uninterrupted, except for this weird flickerâlike it skips half a second. But the timestamps donât change.â
You sit back in your seat, fingers drumming on the edge of the table. He watches you thinkâsees the line between your brows deepen, the way you press your lips together when something doesnât add up. He likes watching you think. Thatâs a problem.
âDo you think theyâre testing something?â you ask. âOr building it?â
âThatâs what I was hoping youâd help me figure out. Detective Brain and Spider Legs. The dream team.â
âNever say that again.â
He gives you a one-shouldered shrug and returns to his sandwich. âCanât make promises I donât intend to keep.â
You shake your head and go quiet again, flipping slowly through the rest of the folder. Pages rustle under your hands. The old man behind the counter mutters something unintelligible to the deep fryer. Outsider, a police cruiser drives by without slowing.
When you speak again, your voice is lower. âYou said you think someoneâs watching you.â
Phainon freezes with a piece of pickle halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lowers it back to the wrapper. âI donât think,â he says. âI know.â
You look up.
âTwo nights ago, I was tailing one of their runners. Lost him. That shouldâve been the end of it, except when I got homeâŚâ He hesitates. âMy apartmentâs locked down. Triple bolted, windows sealed, motion sensors in every hallway. And yet, my closet door was cracked. My spare suit was missing. Nothing else.â
Your expression hardens. âDid you call it in?â
He snorts. âYeah, sure. Hello, 911, someone stole my crime-fighting spandex, I think Iâm being haunted by a bunch of dudes with attitude problems.â
You donât laugh.
âSorry,â he mutters. âDeflection. I know.â
âYou shouldâve told someone sooner,â you say sharply. âIf someone has your gear, they might have access to yourââ
âThey wonât,â he cuts in. âThe techâs locked down. Biometric, failsafes, the works. But it means they were inside. Not watching from across the street. Inside. And that⌠thatâs not normal.â
You nod. âYou think itâs connected to the thefts.â
âI think Iâve been getting too close,â he says, quieter now. âAnd someone wants me out of the way.â
You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. The cracked TV in the corner flickers, playing a rerun of some late-night court drama with the volume turned down low. A door slams shut somewhere in the back. The deli is empty now except for you two.
âThen we need to get closer,â you say.
Phainon blinks. âWaitâwe?â
âThis is serious,â you say simply. âAnd if someoneâs watching you, they might come for me next. This is bigger than your usual masked hero antics, Spider-Man. So, yeah. We.â
Heâs staring again. He knows he is. He should probably say something witty or obnoxious, but his throatâs dry and his heartâs doing that thing again. âCool,â he says finally, and it comes out a little too quiet. âCool cool cool cool cool.â
You push the folder back towards him, then stand and grab your coat off the back of the chair. âTomorrow night,â you say. âBring everything else youâve got. We set up a timeline, match it to police records. I want this mapped out by morning.â
He gives a mock salute. âAye aye, Captain.â
You pause at the door, just long enough to glance over your shoulder. âWash your suit,â you say. âYou smell like mustard.â
The bell jingles as the door swings shut behind you. Phainon stays in the booth for a while, finishing his sandwich in silence. The TV buzzes in the corner. The ceiling light blinks once, then steadies.
The alley off Cortland Street feels shadier than it is in the almost-darkness. Every step Phainon takes echoes just a little too sharply off the damp brick walls, the soles of his boots scraping against cracked pavement slick from the afternoon rain. The air is thick with the tang of gasoline, rotting leaves, and whatever chemical sludge is leaking from the storm drain at the corner. Itâs the kind of place you walk faster through on instinct, even if youâve got super reflexes and unnatural strength.
But for once, heâs early.
The wall behind him is papered with maps: big ones, small ones, some he stole from news kiosks and the city library, others he scrawled himself in the middle of the night, half-asleep and hunched over his kitchen counter with a sharpie in his mouth. Heâs patched them together like a spiderweb, the red and black marker lines bleeding over each other, looping through neighbourhoods and dead ends. Itâs messy, barely legible in some places, but it serves its purpose.
He shifts on the overturned milk crate heâs using as a seat and pulls his mask halfway up to breathe properly. The flickering streetlight above him hums like a dying bee. Thereâs a smear of mustard on his glove from the sandwich last night. He tries not to think about how long itâs been since heâs properly showered.
He hates waiting. But heâd never admit that heâs anxious. Especially not for you.
Your footsteps break the quietâsharp, sure, even. The same way they always sound when youâre walking up behind him like youâre about to read him his Miranda rights.
He doesnât turn around immediately. That would be too obvious. Too eager. âI was starting to think you ditched,â he says instead, flipping a page in the notebook balanced on his knee.
âYou said nine,â you answer. âItâs eight fifty-nine.â
He smiles, just a little. Canât help it. âWow. A punctual cop.â
You walk past him, wordless, and he catches the faint scent of your shampooâclean, sharp, maybe citrus? (He needs to stop.)Â
You step up to the wall of maps, arms crossed. The light glints off the corner of your badge, half-tucked beneath your jacket. You tilt your head to the side, the same way you always do when youâre processing too many things at once. God, heâs noticed that too many times.
âThis is a mess,â you say flatly.
âOrganised chaos,â he corrects.
You shoot him a look, then kneel to examine the clustered marks around Marmorealâs industrial sector. Your fingers trace a wide red loop that sounds four separate Xs.
Phainon hops down from his crate and joins you, dropping into a crouch beside you. âThose are the first confirmed break-ins. They form a pretty clear arc if you connect the dots. Started on the western edge. Theyâre moving clockwise.â
âSo whatever theyâre after is in the centre,â you muse.
âBingo,â he says, tapping the innermost circle. âAnd guess whatâs smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing?âÂ
He holds up a photo of a nondescript warehouse, overgrown with weeds, one wall tagged in massive purple spray paint that says I HATE BEES. Itâs ugly. You frown and say, âThat place?â
Phainon nods. âUsed to be a government R&D site during the old tech boom, but it was supposedly shut down after an acid leak took out the foundation. Now itâs just a lot with a locked fence and shit ton of asbestos.â
âWhy hasnât anyone investigated it?â
âBecause itâs boring,â he says. âThereâs no power running to it. No reported disturbances. No reason for patrol to bother. But if you dig deeperâlike, old permit records and city zoning logsâthereâs a basement thatâs sealed off. No blueprint access since 2013.â
Your silence stretches. Phainon watches the gears turning in your head and realisesâagain, and with an unfortunate amount of clarityâthat he likes watching you think. He really, really shouldnât.
âSo theyâre not just building something,â you say. âTheyâre hiding it.â
âOr staging it.â
âWeâll split up,â you say. âTonight. You take the chemical plant on Fifth. Iâll hit the battery storage facility near the docks. If either of them gets hit, we regroup.â
âCopy that,â he says lightly, brushing the dust off his gloved palms as he stands beside you. âThough I think you just want to get rid of me.â
âI want to get results,â you correct, already scanning the nearest cluster of notes on the map again. âAnd weâll cover more ground this way.â
Fair, rational, efficient. So typically you. Phainon swallows down the inexplicable disappointment in his throat and tries to focus. âThe chemical plantâs been shut down since the fires in March, but Iâve seen movement thereâshadows mostly, heat signatures. And one of the power boxes was tampered with last week. Could just be squatters, butâŚâ
âBut this group doesnât leave power boxes half-cut,â you finish, glancing at him. âThey donât miss steps.â
Exactly. He doesnât say it out loud, but the tension in his shoulders eases a little. Youâre starting to see what he sees.Â
You turn back to the wall, fingers brushing one of the maps again, slower this time. Your brows are furrowed, the crease between them deeper than usual. âIâll have to log this in quietly. My teamâs not going to love me going off-grid again.â
âYour team doesnât know youâre chasing me around rooftops?â
âThey know. They just donât know why,â you say. âWhich is probably for the best.â
He huffs out a half-laugh, kicking lightly at the cracked asphalt near your foot. âFlattered.â
âYou shouldnât be.â
âStill. Thanks for not turning me in.â
You shrug. âYou havenât made it worth my while yet.â
He wants to tease you for that. Wants to say something dumb and stupid about buying you a terrible coffee from a 24-hour diner or bribing you with Chartonusâ sandwiches, but instead, he asks, âYou have a burner?â
You nod. Phainon reaches into one of the hidden pouches sewn inside his suitâpast the web cartridges, the crumpled snack wrapper, the broken-off pen cap he meant to throw away yesterdayâand pulls out his own cracked phone. The screenâs a mess of spiderwebbed lines, the plastic casing half melted at the edges from some accident involving an exploding rooftop generator last week.
You raise your brows. âThatâs a phone?â
âTechnically,â he says, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a new contact. âGive me your number. Iâll send coordinates if I catch anything tonight.â
You rattle off a sequence of numbers, and add, âBurner ends in zero-nine. Donât call me unless itâs urgent.â
âDefine urgent.â
âExplosion. Gunfire. Alien invasion.â
âSo⌠brunch?â
Phainonâs lucky day starts with a pigeon dive-bombing his head, continues with a missed web shot that sends him careening into a fire escape, and somehow still manages to improveâbecause you said yes to brunch with him.Â
Or, well, with Spider-Man, which is still him, but in that weird, glass-wall kind of way. You donât know what he looks like beneath the mask, donât know his name, his address, his real voice, or the fact that he thought he was going to be late because he tried to hand-sew a rip in his suit and pricked his thumb seventeen times.
He tries not to make a big deal out of it. He really does. But the truth is, itâs been 36 hours since the last robbery attempt, he hasnât been chased across a rooftop in at least two days, and now youâre sitting across from him at a sunlit table in a tucked-away cafĂŠ where the chairs donât match and the menus are handwritten in cursive chalk. (And you ordered pancakes. That alone feels like a sign from the universe.)
Phainon takes a sip of his burnt espresso, after pulling his mask up to let it rest on the bridge of his nose. He leans back in his chair, letting the sounds of the cafĂŠ fill the silenceâcoffee machines hissing, silverware clinking, someone arguing gently in French at the counter. Itâs the kind of place that feels too warm for a conversation about conspiracy rings and illegal tech trade, which is probably why he chose it. Something about soft pancakes makes even the worst theories easier to digest.
You flip through a manila folder with highlighter streaks and dog-eared corners, diagrams of circuits, and what look like stolen security camera stills, all stacked and filed with precision. Heâs seen you interrogate a guy in less than five words before. Watching you cut a pancake with that same level of intensity is kind of terrifying.
Also: kind of hot. But thatâs not relevant.
âSo,â he says, because the silence is beginning to grate at him, âhave I won you over with my sparkling personality yet, or are you still planning to arrest me after this?â
You hum and reach for the syrup. âI canât decide if youâre more irritating in daylight or when youâre dangling upside down on a fire escape at 2 a.m.â
Phainon takes a sip of espresso, squinting through the bitter taste. âWhy not both?â
You glare at him.
âIâm trying to be helpful,â he says, quieter now. He leans in a little, lowering his voice in case someoneâs listening. âI know Iâm not the most traditional source, and Iâm aware Iâm breaking, like, a thousand chain-of-command rules just by talking to you, but Iâve been watching these people for weeks. And Iâve never seen anything like this. Theyâre too clean. Too prepared.â
You nod. He can tell youâve already connected the dots. Youâve probably connected ten more he hasnât even noticed yet. Your eyes are sharp, alert, focused in that laser-sight kind of way that makes his skin itch under the mask.
âI went by the Marmoreal site last night,â you say. âDidnât go in, thoughâjust circled. But there was movement in the back. A truck with no license plate.â
âSame model from the Fourth Street hit?â
âCouldnât see,â you admit. âBut the sound was the same. The engine was too quiet to be local, so it was clearly modified.â
Phainon exhales slowly. âSo theyâre still active.â
âVery.â You stab at a piece of pancake and glance up at him. âYou sleep at all?â
â...No,â he mutters, sheepish. âBut I took a power nap at a bus stop for twenty-seven minutes and dreamed I was being eaten by a vending machine, so that counts.â
âHealthy,â you deadpan.
He shrugs. âYouâre one to talk. When was the last time you took a break that wasnât⌠this?â
âIâm not the one with a possible concussion and jam on my mask.â
âI like jam,â Phainon says.
You shake your head, but he catches the faintest hint of amusement in your face, quickly hidden behind your coffee cup. He doesnât say anything; just watches as you lean back in your chair, face finally relaxing into something that looks a little less like a detective building a case and a little more like a person enjoying a few minutes of peace.
Thatâs when it hits him: this is the first time heâs seen you still. Not mid-chase, not interrogating, not tearing through evidence. Just you, and pancakes, and a soft patch of sunlight warming your sleeve.
Heâs in so much trouble.
You glance at him, then, like you can feel it. âWhat?â
âNothing,â he says quickly, fiddling with a sugar packet. âJust thinking.â
You narrow your eyes. âDangerous.â
âExtremely.â
âWhyâd you bring me here?â
He looks up. âWhat?â
âThis cafĂŠ. Itâs nice. Quiet. You couldâve picked anywhere.â
Phainon hesitates. He wants to say itâs because itâs his favourite. Because the coffeeâs bad but the people are nice. Because the chairs donât match and the chalkboard menus always misspell something. Because it feels safe. Because maybe, somewhere in the back of his idiotic brain, he wanted you to like it.
Instead, he shrugs and says, âThought youâd appreciate the pancakes.âYou study him for a second longer. Then, finally, finally, you smile. âDonât make a habit of being right, Spider-Man,â you say, spearing another bite.
It turns out that Phainonâs theory is, horrifically, right.Â
One week. Thatâs all it takes.
Seven days of split patrols and encrypted texts, of cataloguing movement and double-checking routes, of scribbling half-mad notes in the margins of maps and losing sleep trying to figure out what the connection is. Heâd hoped, stupidly, that the quiet meant progress. That maybe, maybe theyâd spooked whoever was behind it. That maybe the worst thing waiting for him that week would be another broken web-shooter or a pigeon with a vendetta.
Youâre okay. That should be enough. It should settle the spike of cold panic in his chest, should anchor him where he stands, balancing on the lip of a lamppost on 39th Street. But he rereads it again. Then again.
His fingers tighten around the edge of the lamp. The city breathes below him, neon-drenched and unaware. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren howls. Closer, a car door slams and someone yells about a parking ticket.
Phainon jumps.
The wind is sharp against his skin as he swings, the air slapping his cheeks even through his mask. Heâs faster than usualâmore desperate than smooth. Itâs a graceless sprint across rooftops, the kind that leaves him barely clearing ledges, boots skimming waterlogged gutters, lungs burning. He doesnât know if youâre hurt. You said youâre okay, but âokayâ is such a vague, terrible word when it comes from someone who faces dangerous situations for a living.
The warehouse by the docks comes into view fast, hulking and silent beneath the sodium lights. Thereâs a scorch mark across the landing bay door, the acrid scent of melted insulation still curling up into the air. Two squad cars are parked askew outside the chain link fence, but the cops are gone, or inside, or too distracted to notice the figure scrambling onto the roof with shaking hands.
Phainon crouches low and peers through the skylight.
Youâre inside, standing near a bank of empty battery casings and shattered glass, a radio pressed to your shoulder. Youâre not limping. No visible blood. His heart slows half a beat. He taps lightly on the glass. You look up fast, instinctive, already half-reaching for your weapon before you register him. Your eyes narrow, but only briefly. Then you jerk your chin towards the fire escape.
He meets you on the second floor, slipping in through a side window. Youâre alone in the room, save for the mess of forensic markers, scorch marks, and the bitter ozone of post-explosion cleanup.
âIâm fine,â you say, even before he can speak.
âYouâre not fine,â he snaps, more sharply than he means to. âYou said crossfire. Thatâs not, like, a stubbed toe.â
âIt wasnât aimed at me.â
âThat doesnât help!â
He hears his own voiceâtoo loud, too worried, echoing off concreteâand he turns away before you can see the guilt settling between his shoulders. He runs a hand over his head, dragging his glove against his scalp like he could rub the fear out through friction alone.
You step closer. Your boots crunch over a piece of broken casing. âSpider-Manââ
âWhat happened?â he cuts in. He needs to focus, needs to understand it before he spirals into full-blown panic. âWalk me through it.â
You sigh, but nod. âI was watching the south entrance. Nothing for over two hours. Then, just past ten, the sensors I set up on the west wall tripped. I saw three figures, all masked. One of them had a disruptorâfried the cameras before we could catch a clear face.â
âLithium?â
âGone,â you confirm. âThey knew exactly where to go. They broke open the storage lock, took one unit, and left the others untouched.â
âOnly one?â
âOne. And Spider-Manââ your eyes meet his again, steady now, seriousââthey werenât just fast. They know how to fight. They looked trained for this kind of shit.â
He exhales through gritted teeth. âYou think theyâre building something.â
âI think they already have,â you say grimly. âAnd theyâre just waiting for the right battery to turn it on.â
Phainon shifts his weight and finally asks the question thatâs been sticking in his throat like a splinter. âDid they see you?â
âIâI donât know. Maybe,â you say.
âMaybe?â His voice rises again.
âI lost one in the dark. I think they doubled back. Iâm not sure.â
Phainon wants to scream. Or punch something. Or grab you and teleport you somewhere far away where no one has disruptors and no one bleeds on cold warehouse floors. But he canât do any of that. He can only stand there, vibrating with a kind of fear he doesnât have the vocabulary for.
âI should have been there,â he mutters.
âYou were across the city.â
âThatâs not an excuse.â
You step into his space, close enough that he can hear your breath. âSpider-Man. Stop. Iâm not dead.â
âYet,â he says.
âIâve been trained for this,â you say. âI know how to handle myself.â
He doesnât doubt that. Not even for a second. But he also knows what it feels like to arrive too late, to find a scene thatâs already stained with the blood of his loved ones. He drags a hand down his face. âYou need backup.â
âIâve got it,â you say, your voice firm. âIâve got you.â
Itâs not meant to do what it does, but those words dig into him deeper than any bullet could. He stares at you for a beat too long, every possible response crashing into each other like waves in his skull.
Finally, he says, quietly, âYeah. You do. Can I take you home?â
Phainon expects you to disagree. Instead, you let your shoulders slump with relief, and say, âYes, please.â
The wind cuts sharp along the docks when he leads you out, the air heavy with the smell of brine, old smoke, and burnt copper. Thereâs a metallic haze still lingering over the scene, but you donât flinch from it. You walk steadily beside him, chin up, even if your hand hovers just a little closer to your holster than usual. He doesnât miss that.
The streets are quieter now. Most of the cops have cleared out. A few plainclothes agents hang back to assess the scene, but they barely glance up when he web-slings both of you onto the nearest rooftopâlow enough to keep out of view, high enough to get some space from the mess below. You donât complain. You never do. Even now, when your knees must ache from crouching in dark corners, when your head probably pounds from the tension of nearly being caught in open fire, you simply follow him, like itâs normal. Like you trust him.
Phainon keeps his hold light but steady around your waist, one hand braced just beneath your elbow. Youâre warmer than he expects, heat leaking through your jacket into his gloves. Every time he movesâshoots a string of webs, pulls you forward, steadies your landingâhe feels you adjust to match him. Fluid. Familiar. (He shouldnât like that as much as he does.)
Your buildingâs only three blocks away, and you whisper the directions into his ear. Phainon doesnât want to rush it. He doesnât want to leave you alone, not yetânot while your jaw is still set a little too tight and the adrenaline hasnât fully drained from your bones.
When he finally lands on your fire escape, he lets go reluctantly.
You ease away from him, brushing your hair back, your expression unreadable as always. âYou donât have to walk me all the way up.â
âI know,â he says, already crouched on the rail. âI just⌠wanted to be sure.â
âThanks.â
He nods and tries to act casual. Tries not to stare too hard at the soft light spilling out of your apartment window, or the way your fingers fidget at your sides like youâre still half in the fight. He wants to ask if youâre okay again, wants to tell you that the word âcrossfireâ nearly gave him a heart attack. But youâre already halfway to the window, unlocking it and ducking through the frame.
âSpider-Man?â you say, just before you disappear inside.
âYeah?â
âDo you, uh, want to come inside?â
He blinks. Of all the possibilities that had been ricocheting around in his headââstay safe,â or âthanks for the ride,â or âyouâre worrying too muchââthis had not made the cut. Not even close.
It stalls him, mid-perch, one gloved hand gripping the rusted iron railing of the fire escape, the other resting loosely on his knee. The mask hides his face, but heâs pretty sure his surprise is obvious anyway, just in the way his breath catches or how still he suddenly goes.
Your silhouette is soft in the glow of your apartmentâs light. Youâve already kicked off your boots inside the window, standing barefoot on the wooden floorboards, one hand holding the window open, the other resting lightly on the frame.
âI mean,â you say after a second, brows furrowed. âOnly if you want to. You donât have to or anything. You probably have rooftops to gallivant across andââ
âI want to,â he says quickly, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and tries again. âI meanâyeah. If youâre okay with it.â
Your mouth curves, not quite into a smile, but something close enough to make something twist behind his ribs. âYou literally carried me three blocks through the air. I think weâre past the point of stranger danger.â
He huffs out a short laugh and swings one leg over the windowsill. It takes a bit of maneuvering to avoid smacking his knees against your desk, and heâs painfully aware of every scuff his boots leave behind on your floor. The space smells like laundry detergent and something warmâcoffee grounds, maybe. Or cinnamon. The kind of smell that makes his shoulders start to relax before he even realises it.
Your apartment is small but lived-in. A stack of case files teeters on the kitchen table next to a mug. Your precinct jacket hangs over the back of the couch. There are photos pinned to the side of the fridge with mismatched magnets: city skylines, a blurry shot of you at what looks like a precinct holiday party, someone in a ridiculous Halloween costume posing like a superhero. Phainon feels something tug deep and stupid in his chest.
âMake yourself at home,â you say, heading into the kitchen and flipping on the kettle without needing to ask. âIâve got tea or instant coffee. No milk, though. Sorry.â
He stays standing for a second longer, then slowly pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his belt. His mask stays on. He lifts the bottom edge just past his mouth, enough to breathe easier, but not enough to riskâwell, anything else.
âTeaâs good,â he says.
You nod, moving with a kind of efficiency that reminds him again that youâre still running on fumes. Thereâs a scrape as you grab two mugs, the clink of metal as you stir one without sugar. You hand him the other without ceremony.
He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours. âThanks.â
âNo problem,â you return, then gesture to the couch. âWe can sit. If youâre staying a few minutes.â
He is. He knows he is. He follows you to the couch and lowers himself into the corner, stiff at first, like his body hasnât caught up to the fact that heâs safe here. With you. Thereâs a blanket balled up on one side and an old remote wedged between the cushions. You move them without thinking and curl one leg beneath you, facing him.
âSo,â you say. âDo you want to talk about it?â
Phainon frowns. âThe break-in?â
âNo,â you say, looking at him squarely. âYou. You were⌠panicked tonight.â
Phainon goes still. Itâs not immediateânot sharp like a flinch, but a quiet kind of freezing, like someoneâs gently pulling the emergency brake in his chest. He doesnât look away from you, but he doesnât answer either. His tea cools between his fingers.
You shift forward a little, your voice low. âLook, Iâm not asking because Iâm nosy. Or because I want some dramatic unmasking moment sort of thing. I justâŚâ You pause, exhale. âI got lucky tonight. Thatâs what it was. Luck. If I hadnât ducked at the right second, if theyâd come around the corner just a little fasterââ
âBut they didnât,â he says quietly, cutting you off.
âThatâs not the point.â
Youâre sharper now, sitting straighter, your knee pressed to the cushion. Your eyes flashânot with anger, but fear, the kind you donât let people see if you can help it. But he sees it. And worse, he knows it. He recognises it in the widening of your eyes, the way your fingers curl against your palm.
You swallow. âIâm scared, Spider-Man. I know youâre helping. I trust you. But thisâthis thing weâre chasing⌠if something happens to youâI wonât even know your name. I wonât know who to look for. Or if I should look at all. Thatâs not just reckless, thatâsâcruel.â
He flinches at that. You notice.
âI just want to know whoâs standing next to me,â you say. âThatâs not so much to ask.â
âI canât,â he says, before heâs even fully processed it. âIâm sorry.â
âThatâs not good enough.â Your voice isnât raised, but thereâs a new edge to it now, sharper than anger. Hurt, maybe. Disappointment. It slices straight through his armour. âYou trust me with your life out there. Every night. You trust me not to shoot you in the back, or get in your way, or blow your cover. But you donât trust me enough to know who you are?â
âItâs not about trust,â he says quickly, too defensively. âItâsâGod, you think I donât want to tell you? You think I donâtâdonât lie awake wondering what would happen if I did? I think about it all the time.â
âThen whatâs stopping you?â
He looks at you, then. Youâre not angry. Youâre scared. Scared of whateverâs coming next. Scared of losing control, of losing him.
âYou donât understand what that means,â he says. âIf you know who I amâreally knowâit changes everything. You donât get to walk away from that. You donât get to un-know it if something happens. If someone finds outââ
âIâm a cop, Spider-Man. Iâve seen worse things than secret identities.â
âItâs not just mine,â he says. âItâs everyone around me. You knowingâyou become a target.â
âIâm already a target.â
âNot like this,â he bites out. âIf someone traces it back to youâif they think you matter to meââ
âI do matter to you.â
You suck in a breath like you didnât mean to say it that way. But you donât take it back. You sit there, across from him, eyes steady and hurting and unshakably honest. And all Phainon can think is: Shit.
âYou do,â he says, barely audible. âOf course you do.â
âThen why wonât you tell me?â
He closes his eyes, and rubs a hand over the edge of his mask like he can somehow erase the pressure building behind his skull. âBecause the second I do,â he says, âyou stop being just a cop with good instincts and better aim. You become mine. And that makes you vulnerable in a way I donât know how to protect you from.â
You shake your head, frustrated. âYou donât get to make that decision for me. Iâm not asking for your social security number, or something. Iâm asking to know whoâs at my side when the bullets fly. When the lights go out. When itâs 2 a.m. and I canât sleep because I think I saw someone watching my window. I need more than a voice behind a mask. I deserve more.â
He doesnât argue. He doesnât tell you youâre wrong, because youâre not. But still, he stays silent.
You stare at him for a moment longer, and when itâs clear he wonât budge, you get up. The mug of tea still has steam spiralling out of it as you walk to the sink and set it down, the sound softer than your next words: âI think you should go.â
Phainon doesnât try to stop you, or ask you to reconsider. He simply nods, and stands. Thereâs a strange heaviness in his limbs as he pulls the mask down over his face, tugs his gloves on with fingers that feel numb. He moves to the window but pauses with one foot already on the sill.
âI do trust you,â he says. âMore than anyone.â
Itâs not that youâre avoiding each other.
Itâs that youâre both avoiding each otherâwhich, in practice, amounts to the same thing.
Patrols become asynchronous: silent intel dumps in the encrypted folder, maps updated with colour-coded marks that speak more than either of you will via text. There are no more late-night debriefs on rooftops, no post-mission walks home, no casual banter about who has the worst taste in energy bars. When you text, itâs clipped, tactical. When he replies, itâs mechanical.
(âWest dock checkpoint cleared. No sign of activity.â
âCopy. South alley tripwire still intact.â)
Phainon doesnât know what hurts more: the silence, or the fact that itâs entirely his fault. Maybe he was right. Maybe the secret is safer kept. Maybe you are less of a target this way.
But God, itâs lonely.
Thereâs a rhythm to the city that used to make senseâpulse and swing, fire escapes and antenna towers, the rough percussion of tires against potholes. But now it all feels flat. The rooftops are colder. His landing sticks a little less clean. Even the pigeons donât heckle him like they used to.
Itâs been two weeks. Two long, aching weeks, until, at 3:37 a.m., Phainon receives a text from you, and it takes him less than a minute to reply.Â
He doesnât stop to think, or worry if this is a trap, or a joke, or worseâif youâre still mad at him. When he lands outside your apartment, the windowâs already cracked open. Inside, the lights are on low, and thereâs a corkboard spread across your living room wall now, half-covered in photos, schematics, lines of red string and sticky notes scrawled in tight, impatient handwriting he recognises from your field memos.
You donât greet him. You just hand him a folder, your eyes dark with something between fear and exhaustion.
âBiotech division out of Theoros Labs,â you say. âIt used to be focused on adaptive immunotherapy, but they lost funding three years ago and went dark. The shell company they reopened under is tied to a private security contractor out of Styxia. And guess what their latest research files are tagged under?â
Phainonâs already flipping through the pages. His gloved fingers still. His stomach drops.
ARACHNID-BASED ENHANCEMENT TRIALS â SUBJECT 33550336. MODEL NAME: FLAME REAVER.
He looks up. âTheyâre trying to replicate me.â
âNot just replicate,â you say, shaking your head. âWeaponise.â
Your voice is thin, dry, like it costs you something to even say it aloud.
âTheyâve been pulling data from old surveillanceâfight footage, patrol patterns, even the way you move. You know how we assumed they were looking for high-density batteries to power a device?â You tap one of the diagrams on the corkboard, the spine of it shaped like a human thorax with branching nodes along the shoulders. âTurns out itâs a synthetic neuromuscular system. And thisâthis lithium coreâitâs the ignition switch.â
Phainon stares at the blueprint. Itâs rough, unfinished, but horrifyingly clear: a bipedal unit, modelled after him. Spinal cord wiring where his web shooters would be. Photoreactive visor instead of eyes. Muscle clusters designed for explosive vertical leap. Neural sync modules buried in the wrists and calves.
A Spider-Man, stripped of the man.
âWhy?â he says, voice hoarse. âWhy build this?â
âI donât know yet,â you admit. âBut someone out there sees you as more than just a vigilante nuisance. They see you as a prototype. A formula. Something to replicate, mass-produce, and control.â
He sinks onto the edge of your couch, folder open in his lap. The diagram stares back at him, accusatory and unforgiving. Itâs him. The curve of the stance, the wide-set shoulders, the way the unitâs balance favours its left side, just like he does when his kneeâs aching. They didnât just study him; they dissected him.
âHow long have you known?â he asks quietly.
âA few days,â you say. âI wanted to be sure. Didnât want to come to you with a hunch and nothing to back it up.â
âAnd you texted me anyway.â
You meet his gaze across the room. âBecause itâs you, Spider-Man. Look, I know you think hiding your identity keeps people safe. But this? This proves it doesnât. Theyâre coming for you whether or not I know your face. They already have your gait, your voice, your power levels. Theyâre not trying to figure out who you are anymore. They donât care. They just want to turn you into something they can sell.â
He sets the folder down. His hands wonât stop shaking. âHow⌠did you find out about all this?â
âDonât get mad.â
When Phainon doesnât say anything, you sigh and look away.Â
âI visited the old R&D site. Alone.â
âAre you serious?â Phainon gestures so wildly that his web cartridge knocks against the back of your chair. He stands abruptly. The folder falls from his lap, papers scattering across your rug. âYou went alone. To Theoros. To Styxia-backed labs that specialise in high-risk bioweapons. Without calling me.â
âI called you when I had proofââ
âYou shouldnât have gone in the first place!â he explodes. âWhat the hell were you thinking? Do you want to get dissected? Shot? Replaced with one of thoseâthose thingsââ
âYou werenât talking to me!â you shout back. âWhat was I supposed to do? Wait until they raided another warehouse?â
âI was trying to protect you,â Phainon grits out. âAnd instead you threw yourself into a place that couldâve had armed personnel, pressure sensors, live prototypesâanything.â
You throw your arms out. âAnd what was the alternative? Sit on my hands while they build a weaponised version of you? Wait until thereâs a second Spider-Man crawling up government buildings with a built-in kill switch? I donât know how to sit still, Spider-Man. Not when Iâm this scared.â
âYou think Iâm not scared? You think I havenât been replaying every second of that night at the docks? That I havenât imagined a dozen versions of how it couldâve gone wrong? You think Iâm not scared every time I donât hear from you for a few hours?â
âThen why didnât you say any of that? Why did you shut me out?â
âBecause if I said it out loud,â Phainon spits, pacing again, hands flying to his head, âthen it would be real. It would beâyou would be real. Not just someone chasing me on my patrol route. Not just someone whoâs helping me out. Youâd be a person Iâd have to lose.â
You blink, thrown. âYou think youâre going to lose me?â
âI know I could,â he says, almost like it hurts. âBecause itâs already happened. Every time I get closeâevery single timeâit ends the same way. Either they die, or I leave first. Because thatâs the only choice I ever get.â
He doesnât even hear how loud his voice has gotten, doesnât notice how heâs gesturing wildly, storming back and forth across your living room.
âI canât protect you from this. I canât protect you from them. I canât even protect myself. You want me to give you a name, but thatâs the one thing I canât do. Because once you have that, itâs over. Youâll look at me differently. Or worseâyouâll stop looking at me. And I canâtâGod, I canât stand that.
âDo you know what itâs like to see yourself turned into a blueprint? To see a file full of numbers and heat signatures and recorded footage and realise someone out there has broken you down into a fucking algorithm? That they donât see a personâthey see a weapon?
âI didnât sign up for this shit! I didnât even sign up to be Spider-Man. I just⌠was. And now theyâve taken that and turned it into something else. Something that walks like me and fights like me and could kill you without thinking. And the worst part is that if youâd died at that lab, Iâno one wouldâve even known. Youâd just be another casualty they scrub from the recordsâand that wouldâve been my fault.â
His voice has dropped to a whisper. His hands are trembling.
He doesnât realise until you doâuntil your eyes go wide, and your breath catches like youâve been sucker-punched.
His mask is gone, not pushed halfway up, or nudged for a sip of tea. Gone. Somewhere in the middle of that breakdownâwhile he was talking too fast and breathing too hard and tearing at his suit like it was suffocating himâhe took it off.
His hairâs a mess, flattened by the fabric, and his face is flushed, mouth parted slightly as he sucks in breath after breath. Thereâs a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and a cut healing just beneath his chin. He looks young, with silvery-white hair and bright blue eyes that are rimmed with the redness that comes with exhaustion and caffeine.
â...Oh,â Phainon says, stunned. âShit.â
You blink, slowly, as though grounding yourself in reality again. âYou took your mask off.â
He starts to lift a hand to cover his face, instinct kicking in too late. Gently, more carefully than anything else thatâs passed between you tonight, you reach up and take the mask from his hand. Your fingers brush his knuckles, and he flinches, but he doesnât pull away.
Phainon drops his hand and lets out a shallow breath. âI⌠didnât mean to.â
âYou didnât mean to,â you echo. âJesus.â
Phainon canât say anything, so he simply stands there, feeling as naked as the day he first stepped onto a rooftop and dared to believe he could protect anyone. His heart pounds loud in his ears. He can feel it in his throat, his fingertips, his teeth.
âCan Iâ Will you tell me your name?â you whisper.
He wets his lips, and says, quietly, âPhainon.â
You nod, once, and say it back. âPhainon,â you repeat, like itâs a truth youâll guard with your life. âOkay. Iâm not afraid of you. And Iâm not leaving. So either you let me help, because you asked me to, or I break into another lab and do it anyway. Your call.â
Phainon stares at you: you, with your voice barely holding steady; you, standing in your living room full of maps and stolen schematics and caffeine-fueled desperation; you, tired and stubborn and loyal enough to make him fall to his knees.
âOkay,â he says quietly.
You reach out, then, and Phainon thinks youâre handing his mask back to him, but instead, you wrap your arms tightly around his torso and pull him into you.Â
He doesnât move at first. Youâre pressed to him, arms wrapped tight around his torso like you mean to hold the pieces of him together before they scatter to the wind. Your cheek rests just above his heart, right where it beats too loud and too fast, thudding like itâs trying to break free from his ribs. His hands hover uselessly in the air for a second, fingers twitching, stunned by the contact, by the way you came to him so easily, so willingly, after all of it.
He exhales. The air leaves his lungs like itâs been caged there for years. His shoulders drop an inch. His spine slackens just enough for him to bend down.
He lifts his arms slowly, like heâs learning how to move again. His fingers brush your back, light and unsure, but you donât flinch. You donât pull away. So he lets his palms flatten, one at the curve of your spine, the other curling loosely over your shoulder.
He breathes in.
God, itâs you. Soap and smoke and citrus shampoo. A hundred times heâs seen you crouched beside him on rooftops or hunched over a laptop, bathed in the blue glow of surveillance feeds. But this is different. This is you, pressed to him like you belong there, like the world outside can wait.Â
His grip tightens, no longer tentativeâarms looping fully around you now, hands grasping like he needs to keep you tethered, like if he lets go, youâll disappear back into a nightmare or a lab or a headline with your name misspelled. His chin tips forward until his face rests in the hollow of your neck, and itâs instinct, not thought that guides him there. His breath stirs the hair at your temple. He swallows hard.
(Itâs you. Itâs you, and youâre warm and safe and alive in his arms.)
Phainon closes his eyes and pretends like everything else in the living room doesnât existâthe weaponised duplicate in the file folder, the surveillance footage broken down to frames per second, the machine built in his image but stripped of everything human. He forgets about the mask you dropped, crumpled on the floor, and the voice in his head screaming that heâs made a mistake, that youâll leave once the shock fades, that nothing good can come of this.
Instead, he listens to your heartbeat. He memorises the slope of your shoulders beneath his palms, the soft way your hand has fisted in the fabric of his suit like youâre afraid he might vanish, too.
It comes to himâterrible and quiet and so obvious it aches.
He could be in love with you.
Not the kind of love he can shove into the seams of his second life. Not the safe, armâs-length affection that lives behind jokes and shared intel and the occasional brush of fingers across a coffee cup. No, this is the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you stupid. The kind that makes you soft. (The kind that makes you want.)
He wants a future he doesnât dare picture. He wants to walk down the street with you in broad daylight. He wants to take off the suit and be Phainon, just Phainon, and know youâll still look at him the same way.
(His hands tremble. You hold him tighter.)
Itâs that simple. You donât push. You donât speak. You just breathe against his chest, steady and unwavering and constant, like you always are. Phainon presses his mouth to your hair. His eyes sting, but he doesnât cry.
Itâs five in the morning, and Phainon is walking down a cracked sidewalk beside you with his suit half-zipped, his mask stuffed into your hoodie pocket, and a buzzing under his skin that heâs trying really hard to ignore. Youâre beside him, arms crossed against the early chill, leading the way like thisâwalking, togetherâis something you do all the time.
Itâs not a date, he tells himself. Itâs really not.Â
But you mentioned waffles. And your voice had been tired but warm when you said it. And he hadnât wanted to leave yet.
So here he is. Not skipping, because heâs got some dignity, but definitely walking with a little too much bounce for someone who found out heâs being reverse-engineered into a murder bot a little over an hour ago.
The cityâs quieter than it ever gets during daylight, the kind of hush that only exists in the space between the last bar closing and the first train running. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around traffic lights and benches and empty newsstands. Itâs eerie, maybe, but not unfriendly. Like the cityâs holding its breath right along with him.
Phainon doesnât know what heâs supposed to be feeling. Dread, maybe. Paranoia. Existential terror. But instead, all he feels is this weightless hum in his chest, the kind that makes you walk a little taller, swing your arms a little looser. The kind that makes you forget youâre still half in your gear and probably look completely insane.
You glance over at him as you cross the street, the corner of your mouth twitching like youâre trying not to smile. âYouâre doing that thing again.â
âWhat thing?â
âStaring at me.â
Phainon stumbles on a crack in the sidewalk. âIâm not,â he says, too quickly.
âYou are,â you say, not unkindly. âLike Iâm going to vanish or something.â
Phainon rubs the back of his neck, grateful for the relative darkness. âWell. I mean. You did break into a lab by yourself, so I wouldnât put it past you.â
âOkay, fair,â you concede, nudging him lightly with your elbow. âStill. Youâve got that face on. The one that makes me feel like Iâve got, like, a mysterious smear of radioactive ink on my forehead.â
âI donât have a face.â
âYou do have a face,â you say. âThatâs the problem now, remember?â
Phainon huffs out a laugh and looks away, suddenly all too aware of the morning air on his skin, of the fact that heâs not wearing his mask, of how easy it is to joke with you. Heâs not sure what scares him more: being turned into a weapon, or feeling like this.
You walk in comfortable silence for a block or two, hands tucked into your sleeves, your breath fogging slightly in the chill. The sky is bruising lavender and gold now, the edges of dawn beginning to soften everything.
Phainon chances a glance at you. Youâre watching the sky change colour like itâs a magic trick only you know the secret to, your expression soft and unreadable. Thereâs a crease between your brows, faint, but it smooths a little when a breeze picks up and rustles your hair. You look tired, not just from the lack of sleep, but from the kind of exhaustion that sinks into a person when theyâve seen too much, done too much, but still canât stop moving.
The diner sign glows into view at the end of the streetâwarm yellow and flickering red, letters half-burnt out so it reads INE R & GILL if you squint. Thereâs a figure leaning against the counter inside, wiping down the same spot with a rag thatâs probably older than both of you, and the place smells faintly of grease and syrup.
You pause in front of the glass door, one hand on the handle. âThis place okay?â
âItâs perfect,â Phainon says before he can stop himself.
You smile and push open the door. The bell on top jingles, and the waitress glances up from the far end of the counter. She gives you both a once-over, raises a tired brow at Phainonâs boots and long sleeves, and gestures to a booth without asking questions. Thatâs the nice thing about New Okhema City; nobody cares too much.
You slide into a booth with a contented sigh. Phainon sits across from you, knees knocking against the underside of the table. The vinyl squeaks under his weight, and the Formica is sticky, but he doesnât care. His hands feel strangely clean without gloves. The menu sticks to his fingers when he flips it open.
You donât even bother looking at yours. âWaffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns. Extra syrup.â
âThat specific, huh?â Phainon says.
You shrug. âGotta know your diner defaults.â
The waitress arrives with two glasses of water and a notepad. âYou kids look like youâve been up all night,â she says, though she canât be more than a few years older than you and Phainon.
âWe have,â you say sleepily, âbut we cracked a supervillain conspiracy, so it was worth it.â
The waitress doesnât blink. âCoffee?â
âYes, please,â you say, and Phainon nods too, grateful. She leaves without another word.
Silence stretches between you again, but itâs easy now, filled with warmth. The sky outside shifts more boldly into gold and peach, casting long shadows against the window. Phainon leans back into the booth and lets himself exhale slowly, deeply.
Your foot brushes against his under the table. He freezes. You donât move it.
He looks up, and your eyes meet his over the rim of your water glass. Thereâs something quiet there, soft around the edgesâexhaustion, sure, but something else too. A kind of trust heâs not sure he deserves. (Still, itâs there.)
Phainon thinks about how this shouldnât be possible. How the night started with fear and screaming and blueprints of his body, and somehow ended with this booth, this silence, this person across from him.
[18:04] Detective Brain: Spidey-lookalike broke into storage depot by Kephale Plaza. Iâm already on scene. Itâs not you, right?
[18:05] Detective Brain: Phainon. Please respond.
Phainon is already out the window by the time your second text comes through, barely bothering to latch it behind him. His fingers fumble for the web shooter at his wrist, and his heart is a fist hammering against his ribs. He almost misses the first jumpâlands hard on the ledge and has to steady himself with a rough palm against brick.
He doesnât even suit up properly. His gloves are half-fastened, the zipper of his suit stuck one-fourths of the way up his spine, but thereâs no time to care. Phainon swings hard across the cityâs mid-rises, momentum jerking through his shoulders, his aim slightly off with each launch. It doesnât matter. Heâll take a bruised wrist if it gets him to Kephale Plaza thirty seconds faster.
Kephale Plaza is a glass-and-steel monstrosity, flanked by wide loading docks and a security perimeter that no longer seems to matter. Phainon can hear the distant thrum of police radios as he swings into the industrial district, following the echo of sirens. Squad cars line the street outside the storage depot, lights flashing in fractured red and blue across the cracked pavement. Officers are forming a perimeter, but thereâs no crowd. Theyâre keeping it quiet.
He lands on the roof of an adjacent building, crouched low as his eyes sweep the scene.Â
He finds you posted just outside the warehouseâs side entrance, pacing like youâre trying not to burst out of your own skin. Your bulletproof vest is cinched tight, and your standard issue sidearm is still holsteredâbut your fingers are twitching near it, like youâre weighing every possible outcome of the past ten minutes. Your hairâs tied back, but loose strands stick to your face from the sweat already clinging to your skin. Heâs never seen you look so still and restless all at once.
He leaps down from the rooftop, landing in a crouch just behind a darkened patrol vehicle. No one sees him yet. He keeps to the shadows as he makes his war towards you.
The second you hear the shuffle of his boots, you whip aroundâand relax just as fast.
âJesus,â you exhale, taking a step forward. âOkay. Okay, thank God. I wasnât sure youâd even seen the message.â
âI left the second I did,â Phainon assures. âWhatâs the situation?â
Your lips tighten, and you turn, nodding for him to follow you a few paces away from the rest of the officers. Behind you, the front entrance to the warehouse stands yawning and dark, a single loading dock shutter half-raised.
âIt showed up fifteen minutes ago,â you say, pulling out your phone and flicking to the security cam footage. You angle the screen towards him. âTook out the motion sensors, and walked in through a window on the north side. No sign of forced entryâit knew exactly where to go.â
The footage is grainy, flickering, but the figure is unmistakable.
It moves like him. Too much like him. In the footage, the figure slinks down the hallway with the same kind of gait Phainon sees in himself. Every footfall, every pause, every angle of entryâitâs like watching him pace through a mirror.
Only this version is sleeker, meaner. Its limbs are thicker with muscle plating, and its suitâif you could even call it thatâis matte-black with streaks of purple circuitry flashing along the ribs and spine. Thereâs no emblem, no mask markings, just a blank, silver faceplate that reflects the ceiling lights like a shuttered camera lens. One blink and itâs gone, vanishing into the blind spots of the camera feed like it knows exactly where every pixel falls.
Phainon swears under his breath. âThey built it,â he mutters. âThatâs Flame Reaver.â
You glance up. âYou sure?â
He nods. Heâs gone through your stolen documents so many times that it feels like theyâve been branded into his skull. âPositive. Same proportions, same gait. But itâs not scanning the building. Itâs buying time.â
âFor what?â
Phainon doesnât answer at first. Heâs too focused on the still-looping footage. The moment the prototype slips out of view, he sees itâa flicker of something. It wasnât raiding. It wasnât looking for intel. It walked into that depot like it had a schedule to keep.
The realisation hits him like a slap to the sternum.
âWait,â he says sharply. âWhereâs your radio?â
You blink. âWhat?â
âYour radio,â he repeats, scanning your hip and vest and frowning when he sees the wire coiled but your earpiece missing. âYou always keep it on.â
âI took it out for a second. There was interference on the line.â
âNo.â Phainon turns, scanning the scene again with a new sharpness in his eyes. âNo, thatâs wrong. Thisâthis whole thingâitâs not a distraction. This is the distraction.â
âWhat are youââ
His head whips around, eyes scanning the perimeter. You were just here, right beside him, one step behind. Your breath was fogging the air. You were talking.
Now youâre gone.
Phainonâs heart lurches.
âWhere is she?â he hisses aloud, and suddenly heâs on the moveâscrambling up onto the nearest shipping crate, trying to get height, trying to see. The precinct lineâs holding firm around the building. Thereâs no breach. No one has come or gone.
Except you. Except whoeverâor whateverâcame for you.
He swings to the rooftop in seconds, breath tight in his lungs, wind clawing past his ears. His eyes sweep the blocks below in sharp, jerking passesâalley to alley, rooftop to ground, looking for anything that feels off.
On the north side, nestled between two disused factories and a rusted chain-link fence, an unmarked van idles in a narrow alley, almost hidden in the dip of a service road. Its brake lights pulse once, too soft to draw attention, but deliberate. A second later, the engine stutters and dies. The door clicks shut. Phainon stills.
From this height, the sounds of the city thin into a muffled hush: sirens echoing somewhere far behind him, police radios buzzing with disjointed chatter. But that alley, that vanâitâs too smooth, too clean. Thereâs no urgency to it, no panic. Just the slow, mechanical precision of something following protocol.
A figure steps away from the van, heading down a side street without looking back. Their stride is steady. Familiar.
Phainon freezes.
It looks like you: the same jacket, same utility belt, even the soft sway of your hair against your collarbone. Your badge glints faintly under the streetlightâyour badge. Not a replica.
Except itâs wrong. Youâre not there.
You wouldnât leave the perimeter without backup, wouldnât ditch your squad without a word, or abandon the very scene that had triggered every instinct in your body just ten minutes ago. At least, not without telling him.
And whoeverâor whateverâthis is, itâs walking away like it knows the exact timing window itâs working with. Like it wants him to follow.
âTheyâre splitting us up,â Phainon breathes, the words ripping themselves from his throat. Suddenly, the air feels thinner, sharper. His lungs burn.
He doesnât hesitate, doesnât even think before launching himself off the rooftop with a grunt, webline snapping out, slicing through the fog-damp air. He swings low, barely clearing a lamppost, and lands in a crouch beside the van. He can smell petrol, faintly.
Phainon yanks the door open. Itâs emptyâno driver, or equipment. Just the sharp, sterile scent of plastic and ozone. Itâs a burner vehicle, then. One they didnât plan on keeping.
âDamn it,â Phainon curses under his breath. He spins on his heel, already movingâuntil he hears a faint crackle. The buzz of a police radio. Your police radio.
He follows the sound, weaving between crates and dumpsters until he skids to a stop at the mouth of the alley, and finds your comm unit on the ground. One of the earbuds still dangles loosely from the coil, blinking a faint blue every few seconds. The rest of the radio is scuffed; not broken, just discarded deliberately, placed just far enough from the van to suggest you followed something willinglyâuntil it was too late.
A boot scuff mars the concrete nearby. There is another drag mark next toâa toe, maybe. Someone shifted. Or struggled. Phainon crouches low, brushing his fingers across the ground. His mind races through probabilities, scenarios. None of them are good.
It wasnât just a prototype in the warehouse. That was the shell, a puppet to get the cops talking, to trigger an investigation. Something visible, something obvious.Â
But this was the play: lure him in with the decoy, use it to lock the precinctâs attention, then send the real threat to steal what they really neededâyou.
Phainon grits his teeth as he stares down at your radio. His mind flashes to the schematics youâd shown him on your wall. Neural mimicry, behavioural mirroring, photo-accurate masking. It wasnât a bluff. They had footage, voice samples, enough to build a close-range approximation of him. Theyâd studied him down to the limp in his left knee.
Of course they had enough on you. You were the officer who was most often assigned with the task of tracking him down, after all.
He thinks of your laugh; the way you tilt your head when youâre about to argue; the furrow in your brows when youâre thinking too deeply. If theyâve copied thatâyouâdown to the way your voice hitches when you say his nameâ
His stomach flips.
âThey took her,â he says aloud, more to steady himself than anything else. âThey took her.â
Phainonâs fingers twitch, curling tight into fists. His web shooters press firm against his wrists. His gloves are still half-fastened. He fixes them now, fastens every strap, zips his suit the rest of the way up roughly. The breath in his chest is shallow and burning, but his hands are steady.Â
He swings back up to the rooftop, lands in a three-point crouch, and bolts across the ledge without a second thought. Every muscle in his body knows where heâs going: the old R&D site, the remnants of what used to be the government-sanctioned Theoros Labs.
Itâs a twenty-minute drive through the industrial corridor to get there. Heâll make it in seven.
Every swing feels sharper now, each launch of webbing tighter, more exact. The buildings blur past him, and his breath comes in hard, rhythmic exhales. He canât afford to be wrong. Canât afford a detour. The further they pull you away, the less chance he has of reaching you before whatever they built decides it doesnât need you alive.Phainon lands on a rooftop, skids into a roll, fires another web and propels him back into the air. Hold on, he thinks. Please, just hold on.
The air near Theoros Labs smells like ozone and old metal.
Phainon lands hard on the broken rooftop of a utility shed just outside the main building. Itâs darker here than it should be. The outer perimeter lights have all been shut off, either manually or by remote override. Only a few flickering emergency bulbs remain, casting a jaundiced glow over the facilityâs skeletal frame. Ivy creeps up the cracked walls, half-swallowing faded corporate logos and biohazard signs. The chain-link fencing has been torn down in places and rusted through in others.Â
Itâs too quiet.
He moves carefully, sticking close to the shadows as he approaches the main entranceâwhatâs left of it. The glass doors have been forced open, one of them dangling from its hinges. Inside, the lobby lies still and cold, floor tiles coated in dust. But someoneâs been through recently. Fresh boot prints disturb the grime, overlapping in frantic patterns. You were here. He follows your footprints past collapsed hallways and rusted biohazard doors. Most of the rooms are strippedâjust empty labs and decaying workstationsâbut the deeper he gets, the cleaner it becomes. Dust thins. Wires appear. Lights flicker to life as he passes.
Theyâve reactivated the lower level. Phainon descends a wide staircase lined with old safety tape. The sub-basement has power. Soft white fluorescents hum overhead. The floor is concrete, sealed and buffed, with clean drag marks across it. The walls are lined with black server towers, cords feeding into sealed doors.
Phainon stops mid-step; thereâs a tingle in the back of his neck. Someone else is here, too. His muscles go taut, fingers curling half-ready near his web shooters.
âAh, Mr. Spider-Man,â a voice drawls, drawing out the vowels. âOr should I say⌠Phainon?â
Thereâs a hiss behind one of the sealed doors to the left. A vent releases a thin ribbon of steam.
âDonât be shy. Youâve already made it farther than most,â the voice says, and this time, itâs accompanied by footsteps echoing against the polished concrete, slow and confident. âI imagine you have questions. Thatâs good. I admire curiosity. Itâs a very human trait.â
The man who steps into view is tall, lean, draped in a sleep lab coat far too pristine for a place like this. His shoulder-length hair is slicked back, and most of his face is covered by a visor. His ID badge is clipped to his chest, name and clearance codes etched in a crisp black print.
Lycurgus smiles like heâs greeting an old colleague. âThis facility was never truly abandoned, you know. That was just a convenient myth. Theoros was⌠restructured. Privatised. Reoriented towards more ambitious pursuits.â He gestures to the space around him. âWelcome to our prototype cradle. Or, as we researchers like to call it, Stage Zero of Irontomb.â
Phainonâs voice is low, sharp. âWhere is she?â
âYour detective, yes?â Lycurgus says. âShe is safe. Unharmed, though mildly sedated. Sheâs being prepped for mapping. Itâs better if she doesnât wake up mid-scanâthe sensory feedback can be unpleasant.â
Phainon steps forward. âYouâre going to let her go. Now.â
âOh, Iâm afraid thatâs not going to happen.â Lycurgus tilts his head. âSheâs far too important. As are you.â
He moves towards a glass-paneled observation window. Behind it, a dark chamber pulses with slow, blue strobe lighting. Machines hiss softly within. Something looms in the shadowsâtaller than a man, hunched forward, hooked into a loading rig like a sleeping animal.
âI know what you think weâre doing here,â Lycurgus continues. âMass production. Automation. Violence. And, to be fair, yesâwe are building weapons. But not just weapons. Weâre building evolution.â
âYouâre building copies,â Phainon corrects.
Lycurgus lets out a chuckle, quiet and indulgent. âFlame Reaver was a crude iteration. Incomplete, too reliant on mimicry. It served its purposeâchased its prey, gathered its data, misled your little precinct. But Irontomb⌠Irontomb will do more than chase. It will predict, integrate, override, think.â
He turns back to Phainon. The placid smile fades, replaced with something hungrier.
âWeâve spent years reverse-engineering your every decision. Every rooftop sprint. Every moment of hesitation. Every kill you didnât make. We mapped your instincts, modeled your reflex latency, simulated the split-second calculations behind your webbing patterns. All of it.â
He taps the side of his own head. âBut it wasnât enough. Something was missing. Something the data couldnât replicate.â
âYou mean her.â
âYes.â Lycurgusâ smile returns, tight and reverent. âYour control variable. Your compass. We needed to understand how a creature like you formed attachments, what altered your judgement. What humanised you.â
Phainonâs voice is a growl. âSheâs not a variable.â
âSheâs your pivot, Spider-Man. The reason your risk matrix fluctuates. The reason you pause before you strike. She made you less efficient, and, therefore, more valuable. Which is why we modeled her too. Her responses, her patterns, her tone modulation, her biometric data when sheâs afraid. Itâs poetic, really. We used her to finish the algorithm that began with you. The perfect balance of speed and restraint.â
The lights behind the glass pulse brighter. The figure in the chamber stirs. Itâs not the Flame Reaver. Itâs something else.
Its silhouette is bulkier than his, but it looks wrong. It has slender limbs with plated joints; a split maskâhalf red, half mirrored black; a narrow torso fitted with impact dispersal panels. Something that looks like a spine runs down its back, glowing faintly green. Phainon doesnât recognise the material, but he can feel the heat rolling off it through the glass.
âItâs a neural sync model,â Lycurgus says, not even trying to hide his pride, âcoded from your reflexes and her empathy thresholds. Itâs capable of piloting independently or under network command. It doesnât hesitate. It doesnât panic. And, most importantly, it doesnât forget.â
Phainonâs heart hammers. His blood feels like itâs gone cold. âYouâre trying to make a Spider-Man that doesnât need a person inside.â
Lycurgus meets his eyes. âExactly.â
The machine twitches, then steps forward. Its footfalls are silent. Too smooth.
âYou two were only ever reference material,â Lycurgus intones. âAnd now that the templateâs completeâwell. All we need are the final scans.â
âWhere is she? Where is she?âÂ
Itâs all Phainon can do to stop himself from ripping Lycurgusâ throat out. The scientist merely adjusts the sleeve of his lab coat, as if the demand were a mild inconvenience.
âSheâs nearby,â he says coolly. âLower containment. Cell B-4, off the neural calibration wing. You wonât get far without triggering lockdown, of course. And even if you doâby the time you reach her, Irontomb will already be online.â
Behind the glass, the machine lifts its head. The sound it makes isnât mechanical. Itâs worseâsoft, distorted, like the playback of a familiar voice through cracked speakers. It twitches once, then again, shoulders rolling into a combat stance eerily like his own.
Phainon doesnât wait. He fires a webline directly at Lycurgus and yanks. The man stumbles, but Phainon slams him against the server wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Wires clatter. A tower crashes sideways.
Lycurgus laughs, even as Phainon pins him in place. âYou think youâre here to save her,â he says, breathless, âbut youâre too late. Sheâs already part of it.â
âI swear to Godââ Phainon hisses, pressing the heel of his palm to Lycurgusâ throat. âI swear to God, if you touched herââ
âI didnât have to,â the man croaks. âShe volunteered. Not knowingly, of course. But those scans she took from our systems? They included a compressed tracer file. As soon as she opened them, our systems opened her. The sync began the moment she pieced it together. Everything she knowsâtactical behaviour, voice modulation, interrogation strategyâitâs all feeding the AI as we speak.â
âYou fed off of us.â Phainonâs grip tightens. Lycurgus grunts.
âYes,â the scientist says. âAnd you should be proud. Irontomb wonât just replicate your choicesâit will refine them, strip away all the guilt, the softness. It will be cleaner. Smarter. Perfect.â
Something shudders behind the glass. The observation lights dim.
A low thrum starts up from behind the glass, like a heartbeat filtered through static. The strobe pulses once, then again, casting the chamber in a deep, electric violet. Inside, Irontomb lifts its hand with unsettling grace and slowly curls its fingers into a fist. The joints click into place with too much precision. A webline ejectsâthin, metallic, laced with a crackle of electric currentâand shoots into the rafters. It latches onto the ceiling brace, and just like that, the chamber is empty.
The reinforced door behind Phainon slams open with a hydraulic hiss. He whirls around. Lycurgus barely has time to flinch before Phainonâs hand closes around his collar and hurls him to the ground. The scientist crashes into the wall beside a rack of servers, skull cracking against plastic. A second later, the emergency klaxons explode to life, screaming overhead in jagged bursts.
CONTAINMENT BREACH. HALL A-7. PRIORITY UNIT ACTIVATED.
Red warning lights flare to life, pulsing in harsh rhythm. The sterile corridor floods with shadow and noise. Phainon bolts.
Thereâs no time to thinkâhe fires a webline into the open mouth of the elevator shaft and dives. Wind roars past his ears. He drops three floors in seconds, catches himself on a rusted support beam, and slams down onto the concrete sublevel with a bone-jarring thud. His boots hit the ground hard enough to rattle the pipes overhead.
The lower corridors are not like the rest of the facility. Thereâs no dust, no decay. These halls are clean, too cleanâlike the world above was only a façade. Bright, artificial light hums from the ceiling. Every footstep echoes.
He sprints forward, ducking under support beams and sliding past corners. NEURAL CALIBRATION â, the wall tells him. He follows the signs, pulse thundering. Every flicker of motion at the edge of his vision makes him tense. Every blinking light feels like a red eye watching.
Phainon skids to a halt in front of a door labelled Cell B-4.
The door is solid, made of reinforced steel with a flat-panel biometric reader. Thereâs no handle, or keypad. Phainon swears. âCome on, come onââ
From the other side, something shifts. He hears a voice, muffled and strained. â...Phainon?â
He chokes on relief. âIâm here.â
Youâre alive.
He scrambles to his web shooter, fingers flying over the dial. He adjusts the pressure valve, toggles it to maximum discharge, and fires at the scanner from point-blank range. The panel erupts in sparks. Circuits shriek. The door eases open, exhaling sterile, recycled air into the hallway.
Youâre inside, strapped to a containment recliner, limbs limp but intact. Wires trail from your temples, your clavicle, your pulse points. A monitor nearby is still running diagnosticsâwaveforms still climbing and falling in time with your heart. Your eyes crack open, bleary, and your head lolls to the side.
âHi,â you whisper, voice thin as gauze.
âHi, yourself,â Phainon says, crossing the room with long strides. His voice breaks.
His hands go straight to the leads, fingers trembling as he tears them free. Adhesive snaps off skin. Electrodes clatter to the floor. He moves gently, cradling your jaw to keep your head upright as he removes the final lead from behind your ear.
He lifts you from the chair. Your body sags against his chest, legs folding beneath you. You groan softly as your feet try to hold your weight, but he doesnât let them. He tightens his grip until youâre fully anchored against him. You smell like static and sedation. Like cold metal and something scorched.
âIrontomb,â you breath, half-slurred. âItâs awake. It⌠used me. Ran simulations. My voice. Myââ
âI know,â he murmurs. âI know. Weâre getting out of here.â
You lean heavier into him with every step he takes away from the chair. Your breathing is uneven, shallow. But Phainon can tell youâre coming backâyour pulse steadying, your fingers twitching where they rest near his collar. He wants nothing more than to get you out, to break every wall between here and the surface, to make you forget this place ever existed.
But the walls hum. The lights tremble. Heâs not fast enough. The reinforced door behind him explodes inward.
Irontomb barrels through in a burst of silver and red. The strobe overhead flickers with the force of its entry, casting the scene in freeze-frame shadows. It doesnât look like a machine as it charges. Phainon spins, turning his back to the blast to shield you. Debris pelts his shoulder as the room shakes. Irontomb stops, silent and still, in the doorway. Its mirrored mask splits slightly, revealing a narrow gleam of green light that pulses in rhythm with the lithium core humming somewhere deep inside it.
The voice it speaks with is your own.
âPhainon.â
The blood drains from his face.
You stir weakly in his arms. âThatâs notâthatâs not meââ
âI know,â he whispers.
It tilts its head, mimicking the motion exactly. âYou hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when sheâs within ten feet. Your aim skews left. Your heart rate spikes.â
Phainon doesnât respond. He adjusts his grip around your waist, gently easing you towards the floor behind him.
âYou always protect the variable, even when the variable is hunting you down,â Irontomb says. âThat makes you predictable.â
Phainon doesnât wait for it to move. He fires. A blast of webbing snaps towards the machineâs legsâbut it dodges, not quickly or instinctively, but perfectly. It anticipates his angle, catches the web in midair with one mechanical hand, and yanks hard.
Phainon is ripped forward off his feet and slammed into the wall hard enough to fracture plaster. He recovers fast, flipping up and sticking to the ceiling. His shoulder throbs. The moment Irontomb lunges again, he launches, meeting it midair. They clash in a whirl of webbing, steel, and bone. Irontomb fights like itâs studied him for yearsâand it has. It parries his kicks, reads the tension in his arms before he swings. It knows where heâll move before he does.
Every strike Phainon throws is met with a calculated block, every dodge answered with a counter-blow. The machine is faster. Stronger. But not desperateâand Phainon is desperate.
âThe server room!â you shout, and Phainon sees you staggering up to your feet, still valiantly trying to fight whatever they injected into your bloodstream. âTake it to the server room! Follow me!â
Phainon doesnât hesitate. He hears your voiceâunsteady, but clearâand thatâs all he needs. He spins midair, flips back onto the ceiling, and fires a pair of quick weblines towards Irontombâs shoulders. They stick, just barely. The machine lunges to rip them off, but Phainon yanks hard, using the momentum to slam Irontomb face-first into the far wall with a screech of metal on metal. The moment the machine hits, Phainonâs already moving.
âGo!â you shout again, breath ragged. âDonât fight it hereâthey control the lithium core from the server room!â
Phainon tears towards you, lands beside you, and sweeps an arm around your waist to stabilise you just as you start to buckle. Your skinâs cold with effort, sweat sheening your forehead, but your grip on his suit is firm.Â
âCan you run?â he pants.
âCan you carry me?â
He grins through bloodied teeth. âAlways.â
He hooks one arm under your legs and lifts you effortlessly, pivoting towards the corridor just as Irontomb peels itself from the wall. The lights in the hallway ahead flash red with the alarm, casting everything in pulses of warning. Phainon doesnât look back. He runs.
You clutch at his shoulder as he barrels down the corridor, webbing the corners ahead of him to pivot faster. Irontombâs footsteps are thunder behind youâprecise, mechanical, relentless. It doesnât rush. It doesnât pant. It just follows, its gait perfectly even as it absorbs every new piece of data from your movement, your trajectory, your speed.
âItâs learning again,â you murmur.
Phainon grits his teeth. âTell me where to go.â
âLeft!â you gasp, pointing weakly down the branching corridor as you cling to his shoulder. âThe blueprints said the server room was by the freight lift, and IâI stole Lycurgusâ key card before he sedated meââ
Phainon veers sharply, feet sliding for purchase on the slick floor as he swings you into the left hallway. Behind him, Irontomb adjusts its trajectory instantly, recalibrating mid-chase, its movements eerily silent save for the low whir of its servos and the electric buzz of its core. Every footstep lands with surgical precision, not wasting an ounce of energy.
He finds the lift shaft up ahead, the gate already torn off its hingesâsomeone had passed through here in a hurry. Phainon doesnât stop running. He fires a webline to the upper scaffolding and swings both of you through the open shaft.
The moment youâre both airborne, Irontomb enters the shaft behind you. You hear it climbing. It doesnât need webbing. Itâs fast, powerful, climbing straight up the walls like a spider. A cold burst of static prickles the back of your neck as you look over Phainonâs shoulder and see its split-face mask glowing faintly with that same green hum pulsing in time with your own heartbeat.
âDonât look down,â Phainon mutters through clenched teeth.
âYou mean donât look up,â you reply, voice tight.
He doesnât argue. Two more floors. Thatâs all you need.
Phainon angles towards the next levelâs opening, yanks hard on the web, and swings both of you clean through it. You hit the ground hard, momentum rolling you both across the floor in a rough tumble. He absorbs most of the impactâshoulder first, then hipâbut keeps you tucked in his arms the whole way.
The server roomâs door looms ahead, sealed with thick glass and reinforced by a biometric panel.
âCan you override it?â he asks, already placing you down on your feet.
You stagger once, then nod. âIâI can try.â
Phainon presses a palm to your lower back, steadying you as you stumble towards the wall-mounted keypad. You swipe your stolen access cardâLycurgusâ clearance still hot in the systemâand slam your hand against the override scanner. It flashes yellow, then green.
The second the server room door hisses open, Phainon knows itâs wrong. The air is too clean, too still, not like a hospital, but lifeless, like the room itself doesnât care if he walks in or burns alive. Server towers stretch in columns across the floor, blinking. The lights arenât just white, theyâre clinical, buzzing just above his pain threshold. Everything smells like copper and static and scorched plastic.
At the far end, housed behind reinforced glass, is the core. It pulses, like a heartbeat, except itâs not alive. Itâs lithium, itâs electricity, itâs something that was never supposed to breatheâbut it is, somehow.
He doesnât like it.
He crosses the threshold, half-dragging you with him. Youâre a weight he doesnât mind carryingâyouâre grounding, real, a reminder that not everything in this godforsaken place is synthetic or made in a lab.
âIâll buy us a minute,â he mutters.
You donât respond. Youâre already goneâmentally, physicallyâmoving with purpose even though you can barely stay on your feet. He wants to help you, wants to make you sit down, but he doesnât. Youâve always been like this: stubborn, focused, razor-sharp under pressure. He admires it even when it scares him.
He stations himself at the door, arms braced and knees bent. His ribs hurt. His headâs still ringing from the last slam against the wall. But adrenaline is louder than pain.
The wall explodes. He hears it before he sees itâthe thrum of Irontombâs feet, the deep thunk-thunk-thunk of heavy footsteps.
âPhainon,â it says again, in your voice. âYou hesitate at a 3.2% deviation rate when sheâsââ
âYou said that already, dipshit,â Phainon snarls, hurling himself forward.
He slams into Irontomb. The impact jars through every vertebra in his spine, but he doesnât stop, doesnât give it time to recalibrate. His shoulder clips its chest hard enough to knock them both off balance, and they go crashing through a row of server towers in a spray of sparks and shattering plex.
Irontomb hits the floor, skidding, its limbs flailing for a fraction of a second. Phainonâs already on it, knee to the chestplate, webbing its arm to the ceiling in a single fluid movement.
âYou donât get to use her voice,â he spits, voice hoarse, hands shaking as he fires again. Webs stick to its mask, its joints, anything he can reach. âYou donât get to be her.â
Irontomb doesnât flinch. Its head tilts again, that creepy mimicry sparking rage like gasoline in his chest.
âShe is a variable,â it says, still in your voice. âAll decisions lead back to her. All risk converges.â
He grits his teeth. âShut the fuck up.â
It wrenches its arm free from the ceiling and drives a knee into his ribs. Something cracksâhe doesnât have time to find out what. The air is knocked out of him, but he rolls, using the momentum to web-sling up to the overhead rigging.
He fires a line down, yanking hard. Metal groans, and a rack of exposed conduit tears free, crashing down onto Irontombâs legs. The machine stumbles, crushed under the weight for a beat too long. Enough for Phainon to dive.
He hits it again, fists slamming into metal, fury blinding him. He doesnât have a plan anymore, doesnât need one. He just needs to keep it away from you. Even as he fights, he hears the beep of the console across the room, feels the glow of the core intensify.
Youâre doing it. Youâre actually doing it. Irontomb knows.
It shoves him back with unnatural strength. Phainon hits the wall hard enough to dent the steel. Before he can stand, itâs already halfway across the room, limbs unfurling, shoulder joints clicking, webline primed to fireâ
âNo,â Phainon croaks. He pushes himself up, panting, every inch of him burning, and fires. Web meets Irontombâs leg. The pull is immediate. But instead of resisting, he yanks himself towards itâinto itâslamming shoulder-first into the side of its neck just as it raises an arm to fire at you.
They crash to the floor, grappling, fists slamming into one another like machines. Except Phainon isnât one. His body gives, bruises, bleeds. Irontombâs doesnât.
âYour biology is compromised,â it says. âYou are inefficient, slower, in pain. The variable will not survive long without augmentation.â
âYouâre not her,â he spits. âYou donât even sound like her.â
Out of the corner of his eyeâthrough the haze of painâhe sees you rise to your feet, the console spitting warnings in every direction. Your hands hover over the control screen. One more step, one more commandâ
The core behind the glass begins to scream, not audibly, not to the ears, but inside his skull. Irontomb shudders beneath him. Its limbs jerk erratically, the green glow from its spine flickering. Sparks burst from the plates along its back.
You did it.
Phainon throws himself back just as Irontomb seizes violently, crashing to the floor, limbs twitching. Its mask fractures. Smoke pours from the base of its spine as the lithium core begins to destabilise.
He doesnât exhale until the lights stop flickering. Heâs already moving before the sound fades completely, his muscles sluggish, overworked, body bruisedâbut moving. His chest is burning. His lungs taste like copper and ozone. His ribs feel cracked. But none of it matters.
Youâre still on your knees, hunched over the console, and for one horrifying second, youâre not moving.
âHey.â He drops down beside you fast. âHeyâhey. You good? Talk to me.â
Your head lolls towards him, eyes glassy with exhaustion but alert. You nod and he catches your weight as you say sideways into his shoulder.
âIâm here,â you say, voice like sandpaper.Â
âYeah,â he breathes. âYeah, you are.â
He pulls off his mask and folds one arm around your back and steadies you against him, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck, just to prove youâre really here. Still warm. Still breathing. Your heart thuds weakly through your shirt when he presses his other hand to your chest, just fast enough to reassure him that the nightmare hasnât reset.
You lean into him more fully, your head tucked under his jaw, like youâre afraid to look at the room behind you. Good. You shouldnât have to. Heâll look for both of you.
The servers are smoking. Irontomb is a heap of metal now, sparking quietly beside the remains of a shattered cabinet. One of its hands is still twitchingâreflex, probably. Not real. Not alive.
Still, Phainon keeps you close.
You shift, barely enough to get your mouth near his collarbone. âYou okay?â
Phainon lets out something halfway between a laugh and a groan. âGonna need twelve years of physical therapy. Minimum.â
Your breath catches on a tired laugh. It sounds like a miracle.
âYou look like hell,â you murmur, slurring a little now, like the adrenalineâs finally wearing off.
âYeah, well,â he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. âYou shouldâve seen the other guy.
Itâs three in the morning, and the sky is the colour of soot.
The city below doesnât sleep so much as it holds its breath. The clamour of traffic has thinned to a distant hush, streetlamps stutter, and a single train rumbles across a bridge miles away. Sirens have long gone quiet. No engines scream. No horns beg for way. The night is still, but not gentle.
Itâs a stillness born of aftermathâsharp-edged and hollow, as if the concrete itself remembers what happened.
Phainon hangs upside down from a rusting fire escape three storeys above your apartment window, legs hooked neatly over a bar that groans faintly under his weight. Heâs perfectly still, suspended in gravityâs indifferent hold, his fingers hanging loose above the cracked sidewalk below.
This is how he thinks best lately: inverted, half a world away from the one that keeps asking him to play hero. The metal is cold through his suit. The air smells like dust.
Heâs grown used to these late hours. Heâs begun to need them.
After Lycurgus vanished off the grid, escaping into whatever black-market pipelines recycles men like himâscientists with messiah complexes and fingerprints scrubbed cleanâPhainon finds his pulse only slows in those long hours between dawn and dusk.
He watches your window. Itâs open again, just slightly. It always is now. Heâs never asked you why.
The official line is a âbiochemical systems breach.â Itâs what the public got. But the real reportsâclassified, sealed, redacted in wide black strokesâtold a different story. Theoros Labs didnât just go rogue; they were funded, sponsored, protected. There was infrastructure behind Irontomb, names buried in layers of clearance, strings running all the way up into the gut of the government. Someone had authorised the prototypes. Someone had approved neural mapping. Someone had known what they were doing.
Youâve testified three times already. You come home each time stiff-backed and silent, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, your voice quieter than usual like youâre still somewhere inside the sterile halls of the oversight committee. You never tell him the details, but you donât have to. Heâs seen the files. Heâs seen it in person. He knows what Irontomb made of your voice, how it pitched your laugh, how it whispered his name. He knows what it did to you.
You both have nightmares now.
Sometimes itâs Irontomb itself, eyes burning green behind a mirrored face, moving too perfectly to be real. Sometimes, itâs worse: itâs you, only not. Itâs him, only cold. Versions of yourselves that werenât forged in kindness or fear, but in numbers and algorithms, in prediction models and nerve signal scans. He wakes choking, palms clenched, sweat cold on his back.
Thatâs when he comes to you, climbing through the window, silent and unmasked. You never greet him. You just shift in bed, roll slightly toward the wall, and make room beneath the blanket without opening your eyes. Some nights he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. Others, he faces you. Sometimes your fingers find each other under the sheets and tangle in that uncertain, half-asleep way that makes the silence easier to bear.
Phainon stares at your open window, at the way the curtain ghosts inward on the faintest breeze. The world looks soft from up here, but his world is down there, just beyond the windowsill.
He drops from the fire escape without a sound.
The thud of his landing on the balcony is soft. His boots press against the worn stone for half a second before he steps toward your window, one gloved hand brushing the glass as he ducks inside.
Your apartment is dim, lit only by the sleepy spill of orange streetlight filtering through the curtains. The air is warmer here, touched with the faint smell of cinnamon and coffee roast, and the remnants of detergent in your sheets.
Youâre curled up under the blanket, spine facing him, shoulders rising and falling in that slow rhythm heâs memorised. He doesnât know if youâre asleep or pretending. It doesnât matter. You always know when heâs here. You always leave the window cracked just enough.
He toes off his boots quietly, then strips off the top half of his suit, the fabric sticking to sweat-damp skin. His body aches with something deeper than bruises, like fatigue. But it fades the moment he lowers himself into the mattress behind you.
(Heâs in love with you, heâs pretty sure.)
âDo you want to date me?â
The question startles Phainon so much he almost drops the wire heâs threading back into place, and nearly slides off the metal railing altogether. He catches himself with a clatter, boots locking tighter to the beam, arms splayed for balance.
â...Sorry, what?â he calls down.
Youâre standing several feet below him, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expressionâequal parts brave and vulnerable. You donât repeat the question. You just lift your chin a little, eyes steady.
Phainon blinks at you from his upside-down perch, hair hanging towards the concrete, the city stretching behind him. Heâs in his suit, sleeves rolled up, mask bunched around his neck, grease on one knuckle, a thin wire looped loosely around his fingers. The early evening air is warm, golden light pooling along the skyline.
âYouâyou mean date-date?â he asks dumbly, like thereâs another kind.
You nod once, not smiling. âYeah. Date-date.â
Phainon stares at you, the wire still slack in his fingers. The sunlightâs catching on the edge of your cheekbone, painting it gold. You look so certain, so calm, like you havenât just thrown his entire nervous system into a tailspin.Â
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a bit of grease across his jawline. âOkay. Thatâsâjust to be clear, youâre asking me if I want to date you. Like, go on dates, hold hands, maybe make out a little? Eat food together that isnât waffles at five in the morning?â
âYou make it sound so romantic,â you say dryly.
âIâm hanging upside down in my Spider-Man suit with wire cutters in my hand,â he says, voice rising an octave. âYou kind of caught me off-guard.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou want me to come back when youâre right-side up?â
Phainon laughs, but itâs strained, caught somewhere between breathless and disbelieving. He shifts slightly on the bar. âNo,â he says. âNo, donâtâdonât go. I justâŚâ His fingers curl loosely around the railing. âYou really mean it? Like, seriously?â
You shrug, but your voice softens. âWhy would I joke about that?â
âI donât know,â he says. âI mean, have you met me?â
You walk a step closer, now standing directly beneath him. âYes. Thatâs kind of the point.â
Phainon stares at you, still upside down, still blinking like he hasnât quite caught up with reality. His breath stutters, shallow through parted lips. The last of the sun has dipped below the horizon, and now the city is painted in deepening blue, rooftops etched in sharp lines against a sky the colour of cobalt ash.
You, however, are still golden; still lit from the inside out, like the question didnât cost you anything, like you didnât just tip the entire balance of his world in six words flat.
He swallows hard.
âI want to,â he says. âI want to date you.â
You nod, just once. But the tremble in your exhale betrays you. âOkay.â
You shift a little closer to where heâs hanging. The wind tousles your hair. You squint at him.
âCan I kiss you now?â you ask.
Phainon opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
His brain is screaming, Yes, God, yes, obviously, what do you think Iâve been dreaming about every night for the last year? But what actually escapes his mouth is an undignified, âI meanâyeah. If you want.â
You smile, small but warm, and step forward until youâre close enough that he can see the flecks of light in your irises. His pulse pounds at the base of his throat.
âHold still,â you say.
And PhainonâSpider-Man, night-patroller, rooftop-skulker, awkward wreck of a man in loveâholds so, so still.
You reach up, slowly. Your hand is warm as it cups the curve of his cheek. He flinches a little, not because of the touch, but because of how gentle it is. Heâs not used to being touched like that. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, dragging across the grease-stained skin. He forgets how to breathe.
Then, you lean in and kiss him.
Itâs awkward, at first. The angleâs all wrong. You have to stand on your toes, and he has to tilt just right, his body swaying slightly with the breeze, but none of it mattersânot when your lips touch his, not when the world goes so achingly, impossibly quiet. Itâs soft, firmer than he expects, and yet not rushed. You kiss him like youâve wanted to for a long time, like youâve thought about it, like the moment had already existed somewhere in your mind long before you asked the question.
Phainon melts. He doesnât move for the first few seconds; just hangs there, lips barely parted, letting you take the lead because heâs terrified that if he so much as breathes, youâll disappear. But then something in him sparksâan ancient, quiet wantâand he kisses you back.
He moves slowly, deliberately, meeting you where you are. His lips are dry and chapped from hours in the wind, but heâs warm beneath them, and his breath hitches in that small, helpless way that always happens around you. He tightens his grip on the bar, as though holding himself in place is the only way to keep from falling for real.
Eventually, you pull away.
His eyes open slowly, lashes low over dark, dazed pupils. His lips are parted, red and kiss-bruised.
âThat wasâŚâ He clears his throat. âWow.â
You smile, head tilting. âStill want to date me?â
âI want to marry you,â he blurts, then immediately flushes crimson. âI meanâhypothetically. Not now. Obviously not now. Iâm hanging upside down. Iâve got wire cutters in my pocket. But you get the idea.â
You laugh, and he grins.Â
âCome down, you idiot,â you say, still smiling. âBefore your brain floods and I have to explain to emergency services that Spider-Man died because he let his blood rush to his head.â
âYes, maâam,â he mutters, already adjusting his grip. With a practiced motion, he swings backward once, then forward, and flips cleanly down onto the concrete beside you in a crouch, landing with a thud and a soft grunt. He straightens slowly, rubbing at the back of his head.
When he looks up again, youâre already walking towards him. You grab the front of his suit, tug gentlyâand then kiss him again, properly this time. He melts into it, hands hovering at your hips. You take the initiative again, stepping closer, your fingers sliding up his chest to cup his face as your mouth slants against his. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, less careful.
When you pull away, you donât go far. You rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing hard. His hands settle around your waist now, not hesitant anymore, not unsure.
âYouâre sure about this?â he whispers.
âIâm sure.â
âOkay,â he says. âOkay.â
He kisses you again, because he can, because he wants to. Because thereâs no machine looming over his shoulder, no countdown, no artificial voice running simulations on how to hurt you best.
Thereâs only this: you, and him, and the golden hour dimming into twilight. Phainon lets you pull him back into the world right-side up.
Phainon thinks heâs a pretty good boyfriend.
Okay, maybe not, like, great. He has a running tab of things heâs fumbled: texts left on read for six hours because he was halfway across the city chasing someone with rocket boots, half-finished promises to pick up groceries, laundry thatâs been folded but never quite put away. Date nights sometimes fall through. Movie plans get postponed. He loses track of time a lot.
But he always comes home. He always makes you laugh, even when you pretend to be annoyed with him. He never forgets the dates that matter, and never lets you go to sleep without hearing that he loves you, mumbled or whispered or scrawled on a Post-It if heâs back late. Heâs trying. God, heâs trying.
And right now, looking at youâmessy-haired, breathless, flushed and sprawled across the mattress like you belong there, like you belong with himâhe thinks maybe heâs doing alright.
Phainon kisses down your ribs, trailing his mouth across your stomach. You shift beneath him, a little restless, a little expectant. He likes thatâyou trusting him enough to be open like this. It still hits him sometimes, like an aftershock, that you let him touch you like this. That you want him to.
He exhales slowly as he nudges lower, one arm curled under your thigh. His lips brush the inside of your hip, the softness of your skin, and he feels you shiver. Gently, he moves lower, and flicks his tongue over your clit.
You gasp, hand threading into his hair, and he smiles against you, slow and lazy and a little smug. He likes knowing he can do this to you. Likes knowing exactly how your breath hitches when he moves just right. He doesnât rush. He never does with you. Every motion is measured, learned, almost reverent. He listensâto the catch in your throat, the flex of your fingers, the little half-sigh you try to swallow and canât.
His grip on your hips tightens as you shift, as your thighs close around his shoulders, and he groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly between you.
âPhainon,â you whisper, voice thready. He loves the way you say his name. He hums again in response, and the way you respond to thatâyour spine arching, your mouth letting loose a litany of moansâmakes him want to give you more.
When he finally slides two fingers into you, careful and deep, you let out a sound that makes him smile. Phainon exhales against your thigh, the sound shaky with restraint. Your muscles flutter around him, every inch of you wound tight. He watches you fall apart in incrementsâyour fingers twisting in the sheets, your jaw slack with pleasure, your chest heaving.
âRight there?â he murmurs, half-teasing but wholly focused.
You nod, or maybe you donâtâyouâre too far gone to speak, but your body answers for you: the way your hips shift, the way your leg curls around his shoulder, the soft whimper that escapes your lips. He presses in again, just a little firmer, curling his fingers the way he knows you like.
His mouth trails slow kisses along the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. He never rushes. He never wants to. Not with you.
âPhainon,â you breathe again. âOh, fuckââ
He presses his mouth back to your folds, his fingers still working inside you with the same care. Heâs mapping you like heâs been doing since the beginningâlike every sigh is a star to chart by, every moan a signal flare. Heâs learned to read you in a language no one else gets to learn.
Youâre shaking now, your whole body strung tight as wire beneath his mouth. Your nails bite into his shoulder and you donât even seem to noticeâdonât seem to careâbecause youâre so close, teetering at the edge of your orgasm, sharp and sweet and inevitable.
A few more strokes and sucks and licks have you coming for himâarching, gasping, crying out his name. When the aftershocks start to fade, he eases off, kisses the softest parts of your skin as you tremble under him. His fingers slip from you gently. He brushes a hand over your thigh, up your hip, until heâs sliding over you again, kissing a slow trail back up your ribs and chest until heâs beside you.
Your eyes are closed, lips parted, still catching your breath. He watches youâeyes half-lidded, lashes damp, chest rising and fallingâand then you blink up at him, a smile tugging at your lips like youâre not quite sure how to speak yet. Your skin is still warm, flushed in a way that makes Phainon want to memorise every inch of you all over again.
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek in that way he does when he doesnât know what to say. âStill in there?â
You blink once, then smile with that crooked little grin he loves. âAsk me again in five minutes.â
He huffs a soft laugh and shifts to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand trails lazily over your stomach, fingers smoothing across the soft skin just above your hipbone, drawing idle shapes.
âNot bad for a guy who forgot to buy milk this morning, right?â he says.
You laugh and shove his shoulder. âPhainon!â
âI mean, I mightâve failed you on the breakfast front, but I like to think I made up for it in⌠other areas.â
You scoff, but itâs half a laugh, and the sound curls like a ribbon in Phainonâs chest. He watches the way your face softens when youâre amusedâhow your eyes crinkle at the corners, how your mouth fights not to smile wider.
âThatâs debatable,â you say, rolling to face him fully.
âOh, come on,â he says. âYou sounded pretty convinced a few minutes ago.â
âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â Phainon grins, and leans forward to bump his forehead against yours.
He feels like his heartâs trying to claw its way out of his chest, not in the life-threatening, nine-storeys-up, villain-hurling-him-off-a-building kind of way, but the kind where itâs just him and you, tangled in sheets, skin flushed. The kind of moment that makes his brain go a little fuzzy and his chest go tight, because heâs pretty sure this isnât just a good dayâitâs the day. The one people write songs and poems and stupid rom-coms about.
(Youâre right there, inches from him, breathing the same air, and all he can think is: I hope I never forget this.)
He tries to play it cool, like heâs not falling apart from something as small as the curve of your smile, the way your fingers brush along his jaw like youâre trying to memorise him right back. But itâs a losing battle. Heâs smiling too hard, the stupid kind that tugs at his cheeks.Â
âYouâre staring,â you say.
âYeah,â he says, without even pretending otherwise. âI know.â
His hand is still on your waist, the tips of his fingers tracing small, slow patterns into your skin. He wants to tell you a thousand thingsâabout how heâs never felt safer than he does when heâs beside you, about how it doesnât matter if the world ends tomorrow so long as he got to know what your laugh sounded like when it was just for him. But the words get stuck somewhere behind his teeth.
You roll your eyes at him like you always do when youâre trying not to smile. âWhat are you thinking?â you ask.
Phainon opens his mouth to say something clever. He doesnât. Instead, he says, âThat I like you.â
âYeah?â you say teasingly. âI had no clue.â
He smiles. âSometimes I think this isnât real. Like Iâm gonna wake up in some busted rooftop vent or in the middle of a car chase, and all thisâll just be some nice dream I had when my brain was low on oxygen.â
âItâs real,â you whisper. âDo you want me to kiss you like real people do? Because I will. Donât test me.â
(Phainon kisses you first, just to prove heâs real enough to do it.)
Summary: A thing greater than despair, a feeling much deeper than love. Few in this world can name it. Yet through every battle and hardship, you have come to know its face. It is obsession.
Warnings: fem!reader, yandere!Phainon, medieval au, theyâre both knights!, slightly suggestive scene, toxic interpersonal relationships, manipulation, vivid descriptions of injuries, blood and violence, controlling behaviors, unhealthy dependency, mentions of death, mentions of having children, attempted kidnapping, whump, asphyxiation. || wc: 16k
Tranquility is something youâve come to appreciate deeply. After all, there was never much peace in your life â so, the slow moments served as a repose. Close your eyes underneath the shade of a weeping willow. Feel the sun encompassing your skin with its warmth, and allow small butterflies to prance happily on the bridge of your nose.
Itâs silent. Once, you asked your mentor how it is possible for nature to remain still. The old man merely shrugged, continuing to polish the steel, and he said: the trees are quiet, because the rocks are listening. And you laughed at his nonsense, for it seemed like muttering of someone already too senile.
Despite him being your authority, you never took him with much seriousness. Others would mock him too, talking about how the years upon years of constant fighting managed to dement his mind. Youâd nod along, chuckling without an ounce of guilt.
Death touched your mentor little time after. He passed away honorably, doing what he cherished the most â crossing swords with the enemy.
For some unknown reason, it moved you in an unexplainable way. Youâve grown to understand serving the King isnât merely to grant oneself honors, and live lavishly as a landholding knight. It is loss. It is grief; it is coming to terms with the fact that none stays forever. Reaper shares the back of your horse with you.
And he wonât go away.
With a huff of exasperation, you quickly wiped at your eyes, getting rid of the rain that slicked your vision and turned the world into a spinning mess of mayhem and mud. You needed to focus, desperately so, but the forces were overwhelming. The stench of blood was everywhere, metallic and sharp, clinging to the back of your throat even over the smell of sweat.
You stood ankle-deep in churned earth, boots sinking with each step you took. The sword in your palm seemed heavier than before, making your whole arm ache unbearably, trembling with hours of fighting. Your knees threatened to give out, but you forced yourself to stand tall.
Everything was going wrong.
This battle was never meant to be an easy one â truthfully, none of them ever were. Still, the chances of winning it were becoming thinner by the second, and you were awfully aware the end might be near.
Conflict dragged behind your kingdom since always. Wars, unending slaughter and struggle. Death. Disease. The King wasnât a reasonable man, everyone knew that, but what else should you do in the eyes of such tragedy? You grew up in the knightly order. There was no other path for you in life, and even though you took pride in it, youâd never get used to this massacre.
Across the field, the banners hung tattered, their golden lining soaked and darkened by gore. Men groaned in the mud, crawling in whichever directions, uncaring. Some of them called out for help. Others already took their last breath.
And you? All you could do was stand there, heaving and praying for at least a single small mercy.
Then, a shape moved past your side. Startled, you turned, half-ready to strike whoever dared to ambush you. But it was him. A familiar face youâve grown to know, but never on a personal level.
Phainon.
His breastplate was dented, one of the pauldrons gone entirely, exposing the chainmail beneath. The twins of blue appeared pale in the gloom surrounding you, and the manâs locks seemed scarlet just from the sheer amount of blood coating them. Phainonâs gaze fixed on you, but there was no trace of his usual mirth in it.
âOn your left,â he rasped, voice exhausted from shouting over the clamor. Then he was gone, stepping past you to split the skull of enemy who creeped in through the thick veil of rain.
The breath in your chest hitched as you observed Phainon fight. He did it so effortlessly, as if all traces of hesitation got pulverized from his body. Knights were honorable, but they still feared death â with that, the fights were often more desperate than anything. You donât want to take another life. You canât make peace with how your blade slices through, light disappearing from those eyes that just stared at you with terror.
But he was different, and you didnât know what you should make of it, though you were well aware you had no other choice but to push forward, still.
Suddenly, a hornâs call cut through the loud clash of steel. It wasn't your horn. It was the enemyâs.
Panic stirred anew at the bottom of your stomach, and you instinctively looked at Phainon, who seemed equally distraught. You were surrounded.
And so, you and him fell back together. You felt his taller form press against your back as you circled in a loop, boots dragging trenches in the mud. Skies continued to weep, rain obscuring the faces of friend and foe alike.
A spear lunged rapidly, its sharp point nearing your thigh. You reacted too slowly, and if not for Phainon who caught the shaft with his sword, wrenching it aside, youâd have to bid farewell to your mobility. Before you could even catch a breath, another weaponâs shadow loomed over his temporarily unguarded silhouette â so you swung your shield up hard, feeling it rattle upon the taken hit. The impact sent shivers through your poor shoulder and spine, almost making you wobble.
Alas, the pressure didnât relent. More onslaught of attacks pushed in, causing your head to swirl with the multitude of glinting steel and shouting and despair. It was terrible. For a second, you were certain Kingâs orders were deliberately sending you to your deaths. There was simply no way to overpower this riptide dragging you behind.
Hopelessness threatened to crush your resolve, but the face of your mentor appeared in the eye of your mind. He always sputtered nonsense. When he said strength doesnât come from physical capability but our indomitable will, you had to stifle a sneer.
But maybe listening to the old manâs words for the last time wonât prove your doom.
You slashed low at a pair of approaching legs, forcing the enemy back, while Phainon struggled against another, his gauntleted fist driving into a jaw. Once he got that man sprawled out, you jumped to each otherâs sides again, moving around in a way that didnât leave any gaps to exploit.
Mud clung even to your greaves now, and you didnât think much. Your brain fell into a state where all external distractions dissipated, allowing you to swing your sword against the burning ache in your muscles. Time passed. Somehow, you managed.
Unfortunately, it didnât take long for the remaining majority of your company to break and flee. Blaming them wasnât in your capability, no. Anyone with their psyche still intact would retreat, for their lives were probably of greater value than winning.
Nevertheless, it still worsened your situation significantly. In the short pause between onslaught of attacks and spitting blood, Phainon turned to you, expression unreadable.
âWe run.â He said.
You bit back a bitter laugh. âIf we run, we die.â Heavy breaths ripped from your chest as you answered. âWe hold. Someone will come.â
Retreating was never in your nature, though you donât know the reasons why. One of the knights asked you once, how it is you can risk your life when the scales arenât tipped in your favor. You responded with a simple: I rarely feel like yielding.
And you dearly hoped help, or any sort of assistance would arrive. But none did.
Rainfall turned into a thunderstorm, and hours blurred, shifting into a dark visage of dead bodies and swinging steel. Screams were barely audible through deafening thunders. In the chaos, you had the chance to reposition behind a broken cart â the enemy force ventured elsewhere, leaving enough lull to catch your breaths.
Soon after, their commander was killed. They withdrew.
By miracle, you were still standing. Injured, alone and shivering amidst the dozens of corpses. But you survived.
You let the sword slip from your palm, and it hit the ground with a dull sound of wetness. Phainon didnât say anything, but water washed his hair, and when the weak sun rays peeked from between gray clouds, you could swear he appeared like an otherworldly being.
Exhausted, he looked at you and smiled. It was a feeble thing, a solemn sign of triumph that got easily obstructed by the great loss you suffered. Despite everything, you smiled back.
There was something undeniable flickering by your wordless gazes, and you couldnât understand it fully. Like a silent way of saying: itâs over. Itâs over, and we are one of the few that lived.
With a heavy exhale, you swung your arm around Phainonâs shoulders, allowing him to do the same. Both of you dragged your trembling bodies forward, slipping on the mud and gore, barely keeping your balance.
War is cruel. It is the deepest sin of humanity, a force so destructive it leaves none in its wake. Most of the time, you were facing it alone. Now, the additional weight on your side felt like a relief.
The mournful wails continued to echo in your ears as you leaned on your sword like a crutch, calm breeze of the passed thunderstorm allaying your distraught mind. A shaky breath slipped past your lips. Phainon stood beside, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain. The two of you mustâve looked seconds away from fainting, because people kept sending you pitiful looks, muttering between themselves.
By the time you staggered into the war camp, night already managed to darken the sky. Torchesâ flames flicked in the wind, casting warm lights and shadows over the wounded, sprawled out on the ground. Healers continued to rush by, their arms stained red up to the elbows. When the remnants of adrenaline seeped away from your system, you felt like puking, the horrid stench of battleâs aftermath rendering you dizzy.
Groaning, you lowered yourself on a bench outside one of the tents, wincing at how awfully your joints cracked. Phainon sat down as well without even asking, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Apparently, he deemed himself your comrade in arms now. Not that you minded, though.
For a while, you said nothing. It was a little unusual, because you had the chance to watch Phainon before â well, he thoroughly enjoyed working his tongue. But honestly, you canât blame him for remaining silent. He mustâve been equally shocked.
A medic passed by, glancing at you both, and kept moving. You snorted dryly at the dismissal. Phainon set his rather handsome sword down and leaned forward, tired eyes narrowing at your dented pauldron.
âThat strike almost took your shoulder.â He remarked, a good-natured lilt in his tone.
You winced at the memory, suddenly recalling how the enemy struck you, their heavy weapon practically drilling into your form.
âIt did not, as you can see.â
Phainon huffed, reaching for the strap of your armor. Surprised, you pulled back slightly.
âI can see to it myself.â You protested, eyebrows narrowing in weak indignation.
âYou can.â A smile grew on his lips. âBut why should you, when I have two hands unbloodied?â
Certainly, he got rid of his gauntlets in the brief moment where you stopped paying attention to your surroundings. Before you could even react, Phainon was already unbuckling the leather. He took the pauldron, studying it with a pensive gaze, and proceeded to insistently try bending it to its previous state.
Upon his struggle, a small chuckle left you. âYouâve wounds of your own.â
âThey can wait.â Answered Phainon, somewhat frustrated.
You studied his face in the dim light. The set of his jaw, the way he wouldnât look at you, as if the armor demanded his full attention. It was a bit frivolous, but you found yourself relaxing, horrors of the battle slowly swimming away from your tormented mind.
When Phainon gave up on the pauldron, you said nothing. Obviously, it would be impossible to mend it without proper tools, so you had no right to blame him. He fastened it back into place with an apologetic smile, his hands lingering a bit longer than needed.
âYouâll have to get it fixed for the next fight.â The man sighed, eyes flickering toward the starless sky.
The thought of it caused your stomach to churn uncomfortably, but at the end of the day, you knew thereâs no other way. Your lives were reduced to just that. Fighting.
âLet us hope it comes not too soon.â You muttered.
Somewhere beyond your reach, the conflict continued to rise. Groans of the dying reverberated across the camp. But here, with Phainon beside, the world grew strangely small, as if nothing else carried much significance.
His bare palms were bruised and worn. The sight of them made you realize you were cut off from the good, but in that accord, you were closer to those who had to shoulder the same burdens as you. Perhaps, you can carry on just fine.
Time passed, and truthfully, you didnât expect Phainon to stick by your side any longer. In your opinion, he initially did so because of the circumstances you were in â fresh after a gruesome battle, shaken and desperate to cling onto the one who saw it unfold next to you.
Except, your judgement turned out wrong. Phainon seemed hellbent on accompanying you anywhere, like a lost dog begging for a bone. If he could, maybe heâd crawl into your tent and argue he needed to share it. Itâs not like it bothered you, though, so you allowed Phainon to stay tethered close by. Surely, company was better than struggling through the day alone.
Against your reserved nature, you came to enjoy his presence. He was kind, and surprisingly considerate toward the duty of knighthood. You appreciated such qualities in men. Perhaps it was foolish to admire someone simply because of their fidelity, but at some point, you stopped caring.
The decoration came soon after the battle. Once your wounds closed enough to regain proper mobility, the court summoned you. Your names were spoken in a great hall, the sound of them reverberating through the tall walls, bouncing back and coming as an echo.
Due to nervousness, or something completely else, Phainon bowed too deeply. You remember having to stifle a laugh at his boyish grin. When the medals were hung over your chests, you caught Phainon looking at you, as if he forgot where his eyes were supposed to belong. Certainly not on your face. The ghost of a smile bloomed on your lips before you nudged his side in a silent reprimand.
But memories of the hall were fast to disperse. By nightfall, you were back amongst the bonfires. The familiar stench of heavy smoke filled your nostrils, wind carrying it straight into your eyes. Were you not used to this by now, youâd probably retch.
People greeted you as you strolled past, though none really asked for much. Honestly, you expected your curious camaraderie group to smother you with questions of all sorts. Still, it was for the better. Youâd rather relax now instead of being herded into a corner by intrigued men.
Unfortunately, the second you sat down, Phainon started his usual whining. No rest for the wicked, as they say.
âGodâs mercy, [Name], I nearly choked there. Those nobles⌠Can all they do is make you squirm with their frigid looks?â
A faint laugh escaped your lungs as you observed him pace around, fingers catching in the disheveled locks. For someone who has been in the order for the majority of his life, Phainon appeared quite uncomfortable with all the newly received attention.
âYet you did bow as though you were born to the royals.â Another chuckle. âA fine knight indeed, you are.â
Phainon grinned, showing off a row of straight teeth. For a while he kept quiet, halfway drawing his sword from the scabbard and observing the way it reflected light.
âAnd you?â He queried playfully. âYouâre fond of the halls?â
As if. Ever since you were but a young girl, those places where nobles pranced without a worry made you sick to your stomach. Envy wasnât a word to describe the feeling. More like disgust. Sending innocents to slaughter while they can sip on their oversea tea blends and go hunting. Pitiful, really.
The man laughed once he noticed your dismayed expression. You rolled your eyes.
âWhy ask when you know the answer.â A smirk formed on your lips as you scoffed. âIâm not, no.â
A flicker of something mischievous passed through Phainonâs face. âCome, then. Let us put their mindless talk aside and see who is stronger.â
Sparring wasnât what you wanted to do now â why waste your energy when you can finally rest those weary bones? Still, Phainon looked too excited. Your muscles yearned to lie down, but the heart urged you to will yourself upwards. With a sigh, you stood, lifting one eyebrow.
âBold of you to think Iâd ever refuse.â You said, knowing it was exactly what you wanted to do.
His smile widened in satisfaction, and he stepped on the open ground between bonfires. Phainon swept his sword free with a flourish, as if trying to wind you up. You merely sighed, drawing your weapon with much more patience, the way your late mentor urged you to.
Before you could even open your mouth to snap out a witty remark, Phainon rushed forward, surprisingly fast. The first strike was heavy. Somehow, you managed to catch the blow, though it pushed you back as if you werenât fighting with a human, but trying to overpower a literal bull.
A sharp hiss slipped past your lips as your boots dug against the ground. âGoodness, your armâs like iron!â
Clashes rang out again and again, probably stirring other people from their peaceful conversations. Slight ire arose in your guts as you had to parry quicker. Even then, the manâs strength drove you further back, and at some point you were certain he wished to mess with you.
But itâs not like you were appalled by the show. Quite the opposite â soon your chagrin got overshadowed by joy, and you felt your stressed mind ease down. The decoration was no more. Right now, you were sparring, and nothing really mattered. Thatâs what you belonged to; steel and the sound of your swords kissing repeatedly.
You twisted aside, barely avoiding his lunge. A gasp tore from your chest, but you still grinned, not ready to yield.
âDo you mean to split the earth open?â You panted. âOr my skull?â
With faces mere inches apart, your blades locked once more. His hot breath fanned against your cheeks, and the strain trembling through your arms urged you enough to be more alert. For a moment, neither of you gave out. Then, with a swift turn, Phainon wrenched the sword from your hand and sent it clattering into the dust.
It was to be expected, but you sent him a halfhearted glare nonetheless. Must your fun always come to an end so quickly?
Phainon lowered his steel, smiling as his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. âWell fought. Few last so long against me.â
You bent down, picking the weapon up. âYouâre too proud of yourself. One day someone will humble you.â
The man shrugged, sitting down with a sigh, apparently sated. âThen I hope itâll be your very self.â
Despite the remnants of weak exasperation, you smiled back, shaking your head. Phainon was not someone you could best. Were your mentor to see you now, heâd be more than eager to mock your struggling. Alas, heâs not here anymore.
When a beat of silence passed, Phainon patted the place beside him. âSit with me, [Name]. Was I too zealous?â
The slightly apologetic tone of his voice caused you to chuckle. Of course heâd worry. No matter if Phainon was one of the most revered knights, he always seemed troubled by displays of his own strength. Sparring was a thing you did often â so you donât know why he was so insistent about cooing at your defeated self. Itâs not like youâre a fragile animal, broken by a few hits.
Still, you sat down. Phainonâs expression lightened up, the side of his head moving to bump against yours, and only then you realized how close you were.
Maybe it was wrong, but after enduring what you did, and spending every waking moment together since, you found yourself growing attached. And then, you no longer cared. Why should you? There isnât much sweetness in your life. Knights rarely live to their fullest, surviving until old age and passing peacefully.
Itâs a little funny to think about, but natural death is a luxury. One which you cannot afford. Every day may be your last, and instead of planning where youâd wander during spring, you have to pray youâll get to see the flowers bloom again.
Actions and words do have their consequences, but in the cage of your doom, veiled as a glorious excuse of knighthood, nothingâs important enough.
âWe could leave together.â It slipped out before you could stop yourself.
Phainon stirred, enough to jostle your body. His blue eyes locked on yours, almost hopeful, but before he could answer, you laughed dismissively.
Thereâs no point. The cage is all you know.
War rages on, that much is obvious to everyone. Itâs been a week since the last fight you endured, and three months since the massacre. Surviving through them was easier when you had someone to protect your back, though it also carried its weight.
A life given in turn for yours never appeared like a pleasant option. Unsurprisingly, Phainon dismissed your worries.
This current predicament was, after all, exactly the result of his carelessness, and a good reminder why you always kept your distance from others.
Perhaps you should have scolded him that night, when the air grew cold, and he began to slip. You ought to get berated for your foolishness, too. Be it the exhaustion, or low temperature, but it didnât take much for you to start clinging together. Like shivering birds, practically glued to the bonfire, you pressed your side into his. And he didnât oppose it. He merely draped his cloak over your bundled form, smiling warmly, akin to the sun you missed everyday.
I can fight for you, he said then. You thought he meant something entirely different, so you nodded, letting your head slump against the crook of his neck.
The way Phainonâs arm encircled your shoulders rendered you weaker than you swore to be. His laughter. Eyes. How he spoke to those who needed encouragement and kindness. It made you let your guard down. Walls around your inner self softened, lowering.
Thatâs not how a knight should be, accepting offers of such nature. What came of it? Another accident you could have easily avoided, were you more mindful.
âMake way!â You shouted, desperation leaking into your tone.
Horses thundered into the camp, the sound of their hooves immediately alarming everyone. At that moment, all you could think of was holding Phainon upwards â you leaned low in your saddle, one hand gripping the reins, the other scrambling to keep him seated as his Thessalian stumbled beneath him.
Even with the shock, you can recall it as clear as a day. The way he jumped in front of you, outstretching his arm in such an unfortunate manner the spear pierced through the blank point of his armor. And you know if not for Phainon, youâd probably meet a worse fate. The weapon was aimed deliberately to your throat.
By miracle, you eluded death, but at what cost?
His arm hung limp, blood dripping excessively from between the metal plates of his shoulder. The spearhead was still there, probably broken. Guilt gutted you alive, and if you could allow yourself, youâd shed real tears.
Two squires rushed towards you, grabbing Phainonâs reins before his poor pony could falter any further. With no hesitation, you jumped down and dragged at his weight as he slipped sideways from the saddle. You managed to catch him. Another knight ran up to your side, supporting Phainon as you both dragged his boots through the mud. He was heavy. So, so heavy, and you felt like fainting from the exhaustion and fear, but you gritted your teeth, pushing forward.
You lowered him on the ground. Phainonâs breath hitched, face eerily pale, but somehow the bastard forced a grin once his eyes found yours.
â[Name],â he rasped, âyou live. That is all that matters.â
Fury obscured your need to stay gentle with him. âFool! You nearly lost your life!â
The man probably wanted to respond, but healers arrived, knives cutting at all the excess material getting in the way. His arm buckles got torn open, and air filled with the awful reek of blood.
Phainon groaned as rough palms pressed to the wounds on his armpit. A brief flash of panic appeared in his misty eyes, for the healers were rarely careful or considerate.
âHold him steady,â one of them said, knowing how it usually went.
Quickly, you knelt beside him, both hands gripping his gauntlet. It wasnât easy, but you masked your fear with the harshness of your tone.
âStay awake, Phainon. Youâll not die tonight.â
He looked at you, metal-clad fingers barely squeezing you back. Trying to play brave, as always. âOf course not... Not while youââ
The healers pulled the broken spearhead free, earning a strangled cry from Phainon, his legs kicking up. Blood spurted in a river of maroon from the wound. You nearly howled along with just how tightly he clenched your bare hands, but forcibly held it back.
Torn muscle tissue got dressed with â thank God â a clean cloth, and soon the man eased down, taking steady breaths of air. One of your joints reached to swipe the fringe from his sweaty forehead. Phainon smiled again, though the gesture seemed more coy than before, all remnants of pride gone.
âIâm sorry.â You muttered, but the sound got lost in the chaos of the war camp.
It didnât take long for a couple of other knights to relocate Phainon into his tent. Still worried out of your mind, you trailed behind like a stray, observing his dirt-stained face and the way it continued to twist in pain.
The bleeding stopped by now, most likely, and adrenaline seeped away from Phainonâs body, causing him to snap in and out of consciousness. This absolute fool, risking his life for yours â how will you look at him, once he wakes up?
A longer while passed as you knelt by the makeshift bedding, watching Phainon breathe. He mumbled something. You felt a sting in your eyes, but willed it down, quickly getting up from your position. There wasnât much you could do, so you retrieved a basin with some water and a fairly fresh cloth.
Then, you started taking off his armor, piece by piece. It was not an effortless work. Phainonâs body was uncooperative, limbs heavy and motionless. After wrestling with the metal, you settled yourself down again, gently washing his face.
His cheeks and locks were soiled. When he took the hit, the immediate blood loss soon caused him to stumble face-first into the mud. It wasnât uncommon to slip during fights, but the sight terrified you nonetheless â the helplessness of struggling to get up from unstable ground, with the enemy still looming above. Itâs nightmarish.
As carefully as possible, you dabbed the cloth over his features. Nose, brow, chin. Phainon must have fallen asleep at some point, because his face relaxed into a docile expression, now devoid of the pain. The sight of it was, perhaps, more brutal than all the injuries he sustained.
Seeing a person in such a state messed with your mind, always. Others perceived you, Phainon â everyone â as playthings they could set on a chessboard and send to war. What they donât see is how innocent people are at their core. Once stripped from armor and weapons, you are no longer a warrior, but just another soul in this sea of corruption.
So you stayed there, by Phainonâs side, counting the rises of his chest. Dawn came soon, the faint noises of life outside of the tent stirring you awake from your restless slumber.
It would seem they woke him as well. Phainon shifted briefly, breath catching as he tried to sit. You gently urged him down.
âLie still. Youâve lost enough blood already.â Your voice was soft as you spoke, hand moving to check his temperature. It was high.
The man observed you for a short while, as if trying to remember what occurred a few hours ago. Then, he smiled weakly. Admitting it wasnât in your capacity, not usually, but the way his lips stretched now brought you a sense of relief.
His gaze seemed utterly tender for someone so adept at killing. And yet, at the same time, you could see something remarkably determined lying underneath.
âForgive meâŚâ Said Phainon, his tone brittle. Still, he somehow managed to force out a laugh. âI swore to fight for you, to guard your lifeââ
âAnd you did.â You cut in, firm. âBut that is not what I ever agreed to.â
Slight surprise bloomed on Phainonâs face, as he was apparently taken aback.
âIf harm touched youââ
A feeling akin to irritation arose within you. âDo you not value your life? You must deem yourself lesser than me, then.â
He opened his mouth, eyebrows drawn together, like he wanted to answer but the words died in his throat along the way. Resigned, Phainon bit on his lower lip. Reluctance swam in his eyes as he evidently had no good argument to undermine your words.
For a moment, it was silent. A sigh escaped him before he spoke again.
âI saw your face on that vast field. It was the only thing I thought of.â
You shifted uncomfortably, vision flickering between Phainon and the ground. Solemnly, you realized you couldnât understand him, for why would anyone dedicate so much of themselves in favor of keeping another safe?
But maybe you knew. One of your hands instinctively reached for Phainonâs, grabbing it without strength. He chuckled, oh-so quietly, and weaved his fingers between yours, giving you a gentle squeeze. When you looked into his irises of blue, you knew that he knew, too.
âRest, Phainon. Youâre feverish.â
Without protest, he closed his eyes. âBut youâll stay?â
A smile grew on your lips against all the conflicted feelings swarming in the depths of your exhausted mind.
âI will.â
Recovery did not take long for Phainon. With months passing over your heads, everyoneâs wounds healed, closing and changing into normal scars.
And time flew. Battles continued, war seemingly endless. You fared well. Phainon managed better.
Truth be told, both of you were still young. Knights of such tender age are rarely treated with much respect or seriousness, though that didnât seem to be the case for him. The man was like light, or at least in the opinion of your comrades. Guiding and strong. An old soul, someone who didnât know Phainon said, and you had to stifle a laugh.
He was far from things wise or profound, but perhaps that is significant in itself â being able to gain favor without forcibly tearing it from others by intimidation or false speeches.
And Phainon fought like he had something to prove. You often saw him on the battlefield, for he never strayed far from you, always keeping close enough to jump in if you needed help. It was as if a foreign power was driving him further. Inhuman, almost. Determination or desperation, whichever it may be, he swung the blade with fierceness. By the time Phainon was finished, his vision ventured to yours. Always, without any exception. Heâd look at you, breathing heavily before heâd lock weapons with the enemy again.
It was an odd habit, maybe even dangerous due to the distraction, but you found yourself doing the same. Your eyes seeked him out. Once, your mentor said sunflowers turn their middles toward the sun, because they miss it in the same way we humans do. You are no flower, but thereâs sense in their actions.
Phainon was strong and respected. The fact heâd receive an eventual promotion was quite obvious.
What you didnât expect is for it to come so soon. And what you certainly couldnât oversee is the position heâd take on.
Kingâs household guard.
When you first heard it, you nearly choked on your spit. It was simply unbelievable â he was not born high, nor did he have any connections with the court other than being a simple, humble knight. The likes of you are sent to death like ants. Your lives are insignificant.
And yet, you could not deny it, as now you stood in those halls you hated so much. A couple of other knights from your squadron were beside. Subconsciously, your fingers clenched around your tunic, and youâd tear it if you could.
Those despicable nobles looked down at Phainon as he knelt before the dais, head bowed low with his sword laid flat across his palms.
The king was in the middle of this charade. One of his hands rose. âSir Phainon of my fields,â he said, âyou have shown valor, and you have shielded your brethren with the gallantry you harbor.â
Morosely, you willed your jaw away from clenching so hard. You were not jealous. Yes, you were not, so what was that ugly feeling grasping at your ribs and threatening to spill over?
âRise then, and take your place among my household guard.â
A squire stepped forward, draping a mantle around Phainonâs shoulders. It was of a deep cobalt, with prestigious golden lining, and you found yourself thinking he looked beautiful. Applause reverberated through the hall. Your guts still churned.
Phainon rose, and his eyes swept over the crowd, skimming past the nobles and knights until they caught on you. Then, he smiled.
He has the face of a royal, you mused, and perhaps the promotion was for the better, for such a prepossessing visage did not belong in the mud nor gore.
Later, in the courtyard, the fresh nightâs air was cool against your skin. When was it not? The temperatures in your kingdom were rarely warm, bitter sting of coldness seemingly ever-present.
You leaned against a stone pillar, watching how the light of a nearby torch danced across the mossy cobblestone. Quiet footfall cut through the silence, forcing you to look up.
A weak smirk grew on your lips as Phainon approached, the mantle still dragging behind him. âSo it is true. You belong to the court now.â
The manâs voice was light as he spoke. âThe court may claim me, yes. But my place is still with you.â
Something told you he was telling the truth, with just how honest his gaze appeared. Still, you shrugged, arms crossing over your chest.
âNot as it was.â You shook your head. âNo more sparring, no more chatter during night. You are of their world now, Phainon. And I shall remain in mine.â
At your words, he winced a little. But soon after Phainon reached for your hand, forcing his expression to remain as mirthful as possible. His palm was warm around yours. It was a pleasant change, but in the same vein, youâll miss it when heâs no longer with you during the night watch.
âBut Iâll always be with you. Wherever I go, Iâll see to it that my road crosses yours.â
You scoffed faintly, holding his gaze. Then, you slipped your hand free, stepping back to create some respectable distance between you.
âWe will see.â
Phainonâs smile faltered. With his eyes downcast, he adjusted the mantle, tugging it tighter around. You observed how his shoulders curled inwards, and turned away after a beat of silence, walking off.
As you retreated, you could still feel his vision boring into your back. And maybe you should feel bad, but the bitterness at the bottom of your stomach rendered you unwell. Sick. Yes, you felt sick.
Not because Phainon rose higher above you. The reason was much simpler. You just couldnât bear the image of enduring battles and the horrors alone. But whatâs done is done, and you already let yourself get attached â you managed fine earlier. What changed now?
Perhaps everything.
The conflicted thoughts still lingered in your mind a few days later, as you stood beneath the chandeliers, surrounded by music and laughter that felt more foreign than any battlefield.
Well. Celebratory balls were thrown every so often, so maybe it was to be expected. You just didnât think Phainon would drag you here.
As of late, he was seldom in the camp. And you tried to shrug it off, pretending like his absence did not bother you anyhow. Alas, the truth was different. Coming to terms with the fact Phainon would never go back to what you once shared was dreadful, and for those few days of separation, you felt miserable.
Sometimes you wondered â if you could, would you turn back the time, and avoid him? Would you desperately try to change the course? Perhaps itâd hurt less if you didnât have to look at him now, carrying all those memories.
Phainon didnât seem elated at the news of a ball. Yet now he stood there, surrounded by all those women tugging at his arms and praising his prowess, smiling and chuckling sheepishly at their flattery. He no longer donned the armor. It got replaced by fine garments, that characteristic mantle still seated heavily on his shoulders. Youâd say Phainon appeared quite distant. Was it really the man you sparred with during cold evenings, and the one whose feet you had to drag through the mud?
More often than not, you found yourself looking up at the starless sky. For some reason, it was always like this. Overcast, dark. And as you gazed into the firmament, you imagined Phainon sitting beside, regaling you with humorous stories. The brush of warmth coming from the bonfire was similar to his, but were you to truly remember the feeling, youâd have to dip your whole hand into the flames.
Music continued to swell through the hall. You shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the gown you were practically forced to wear. There were a few knights you knew, though you still felt utterly isolated. Of course you didnât belong here. All the nobles seemed natural in the way they carried themselves, conversing with ease and grace. You, on the other hand, barely knew how to move in that long dress. Whenever you tried taking a step, the material caught on your shoe, causing you to stumble inelegantly. It was lighter than armor, certainly, but in a sense you thought of it as heavier.
Minutes passed â hours, maybe, you didnât know, but it felt like it â and you simply stood there, completely aimless. Ladies and lords were sending you curious looks, yet none dared approach. At some point you even got mad at Phainon for inviting you there in the first place, for what was the purpose if all youâre going to do is linger idly?
The man kept on being dragged into new circles. People swarmed around him, in the same way bees would cling to flowers. And it seemed like Phainonâs words were pollen, because everyone appeared drunk on the syllables leaving his mouth.
Not wanting to watch it any longer, you cast your eyes on the ground. Honestly, you expected to be left for yourself, but soon after, a pair of familiar-looking shoes invaded your vision. You lifted your head. Phainonâs smiling face immediately loosened the nerves swelling in your body, though at the same time, you had half the mind to punch him.
âYou seem to be having fun.â A brittle laugh rose at the back of your throat as you muttered, crossing your arms.
Phainon coughed awkwardly. âQuite. And how about you, [Name]?â
Godâs mercy, why was he acting so politely with you? Did those nobles already manage to muddle through his thoughts? Or perhaps he received some etiquette training, and now deemed it necessary to be all coy with you? Soon heâll start calling you a âDameâ, if thatâs how things stand.
âThe opposite.â You said, deciding to remain honest. âI am near puking. Everyone here is so⌠arrogant, and shallow. And this dress?â
Huffing, you gestured at the gown spilling low toward the floor. Then, a solemn sigh escaped your lips. ââŚI look silly, donât I? The truth.â
âNo.â Phainon smiled, stepping a little closer. âYou look very lovely.â
His almost reverential tone caused you to flush slightly, cheeks heating up. âReally?â
A chuckle. âSure. Far better than those noble girls crowding around me.â
You couldnât understand why Phainon was complimenting you so much, but it still caused your heart to swelter. It was different now. Were he still situationed in the war camp, heâd be praising your fencing skills and foot work. Maybe you would be polishing your steels together, or competing on who will saddle up a horse faster. Yet now, Phainon was talking about how beautiful your attire was.
Once you didnât respond, the man pushed on. â[Name]. Why donât you ask someone for a dance?â
Still flustered, you swatted your hand dismissively. âIâve no need to frolic around.â
The music suddenly lifted around you, and when Phainon offered his hand, you couldnât help but panic. After a prolonged pause, you placed your palm atop his, wondering whether he genuinely wished to humiliate himself in front of others. It was the first dance. Wouldnât it be more appropriate to ask someone more suitable? Why you, out of all those people?
Still nervous, you swallowed thickly. âPhainon, it is not a bright ideaââ
âWhy not?â He beamed, leading you toward the centre as the crowd shifted to make space.
A multitude of couples already began to move in practiced steps, neat and precise, skirts twirling as they spun around. Your eyes jumped, skimming over the nobles. There was no way youâd be able to replicate this dance.
You shrugged, stiff. âI justâŚâ
âDo you not know the steps?â
âNot at all.â
Phainonâs expression softened as he glanced down at you. âThen we shall stumble together.â
His words caused you to chuckle quietly, and he guided your hand to his shoulder, taking your other in his. Carefully, you tried to follow the pattern of the dance. It was not easy, and you found yourself constantly stepping on Phainonâs shoes, which only gained you amused laughs in return. Your heavy gown tangled between his legs. Once, you bumped into another pair.
Slowly, though, you found the rhythm. Perhaps it wasnât so different from fighting â you need to control your feet and remain coordinated with your mind. Phainonâs grip grounded you. His movements, previously sharp and a little clumsy, turned into a somewhat smooth glide.
âI feel foolish.â You muttered, voice muffled out by the music.
âDonât.â Replied Phainon. âIf you ask me, we are doing excellent.â
He pressed you to himself closer than needed, and for a second, you were frightened he might feel the intense pounding of your heart. Then, you risked looking up.
The way Phainon gazed at you was almost overwhelming. Certainly, the amount of emotion in his eyes could smother a living person with its fierceness. Your breath hitched, and you faltered in the steps.
That is not how a man should look at his comrade. More like⌠a lover? You have never met your parents, and the concept of romance was very much foreign to you, yet perhaps Phainonâs expression was the prime example of it. He observed you as if you werenât a simple woman but something to worship. The twins of blue crinkled in the corners, stretched lips causing the apples of his cheeks to swell with warmth; and you had to look down, else youâd stumble. It was suffocating, almost.
You continued to move slowly, your shoes out of time with the music. Despite the nerves in your chest, you clung to Phainon, not willing to let go, for it was, perhaps, your last shared moment of peace.
A brief laugh escaped you suddenly, and it sounded surprised. âItâs unlike us to be so carefree.â
Phainonâs fingers clutched tighter around yours. âLet us. Weâve nothing to lose.â
With another clumsy turn, you felt the hall melting away, replaced only by the familiar presence. There were no nobles around. No war. No sound of whispers thrown your way, nor the terrified cries of pain that sometimes still rang in your head.
When the music slowed, you stopped moving along with it. Both of you were reluctant to let go, but as the final notes faded, your vision snapped back into reality, forcing you to step away.
The weight of it all returned at once. You may never see Phainon again, because at the end of the day, you are far now. Thereâs distance between you. With how merciless the battles are, you could die soon, and he would not even know. Same goes for Phainon â the two of you can lose your lives easily, for the throes of danger are ever-present.
At least you had this dance.
âHave you ever yearned for something, sir?â
Your mentor looked at you from beneath the bushy brows obscuring his eyes, an amused twinkle lighting them up. Truth be told, you rarely asked such sentimental questions. It must've been odd to hear something so wistful falling from your lips.
âThat, I did.â Answered the older man with a chuckle. âFor five months and five days â exactly, mind you, my dear [Name] â I coveted after that fine liquor from our neighboring land.â
âAnd?â
âAnd I got it, by the Lord!â He bellowed proudly. âYet, you know what happened once it fell into my hands?â
You shook your head, shifting a little in your seat by the fire.
âIt slipped.â Your mentor said, clicking his tongue in dismay. âRight then, as I was about to pour. Shattered on the ground, everything gone. I was near lapping it up, although some sense stopped me, else Iâd make a fool of myself!â
A genuine laughter escaped you, and you cackled at the both mirthful and bitter story, clasping your hands with entertainment. People from around joined in.
How fickle things we cherish are, present in one second, disappearing within another. Nothing stays. Itâll run through your fingers, and only the feeling of having it once will remain.
And right now, you were more certain of it than any time before. A year passed. A year without Phainon, a year of fighting alone and losing your comrades to the bloodied battlegrounds. Three hundred sixty-five consecutive days of war.
You never saw him since the day of that ball, though sometimes you heard of Phainonâs name falling from the lips of other knights. They missed him â and they praised him. Word has it that heâs doing well in the household guard, excelling above the potential he could eventually develop on the fields. Heâs useful. Heâs appreciated.
Nothing would make you stop wishing after him, unfortunately. But the days passed, and you thought the visage of Phainonâs face will remain buried in your mind forever. Not once to be seen again. Resting there, sometimes flickering when the enemyâs blade slices a bit too close home, making you taste death on your tongue.
Then, completely unexpectedly, you were summoned to the captainâs tent. You walked in there, tentative. What should you expect? Something like this never really happened before, and though youâve gained some good reputation, you couldnât understand why you would be called by your very captain.
A parchment lay on the table, bearing the royal seal. Upon unwrapping it, and reading its contents, you felt as if someone knocked the air out from your lungs. Stunned, you looked around, but no explanation came to the rescue.
Your station was to be moved, away from the camps, into the city. Closer to the King. Closer toâŚ
Even if given no reason for the relocation, you knew all too well why, and you quickly rolled the parchment, practically tearing out of the tent. Breathless, you scanned the camp. Mud. Dead torches. Distant chirping of the birds.
Then white hair, cobalt mantle, that familiar smileâ
Your pace quickened. Phainon looked the same, and yet so different. Simultaneously healthier and more wrung out of life, as if the hearty meals along with comfort of life did nothing but drain him. He mustâve noticed you, because the twins of blue widened in some foreign emotion, and he rushed to your side.
You thought he forgot about you. No, you were almost certain of it â and yet now, all the resentment and bitterness evaporated as you barely skidded to a stop, smiling so widely it hurt.
âPhainon,â a gasp tore from your chest, and you mindlessly threw your hands around him, pulling into a tight embrace.
With a laugh, Phainon squeezed you, his hand patting against your back. He seemed a little surprised; perhaps he expected you to dismiss him coldly, for he left you alone. And you did not, which surprised you, too. But well, every negative feeling got obscured by the mere sight of his face, rendering you unable to anger. You reunited. After such a long time of separation, you were together again, and in the eyes of such predicament, even those of big restraint would crumble.
The man pulled back slightly, settling his palms atop your shoulders. â[Name]⌠Godâs mercy, I thought a year might dull the memory of you. But you remain unchanged.â He smiled ruefully. âNot a day older.â
Youâd smile at the tender-hearted words, if not for how much different Phainon appeared from up close. He seemed⌠worn. Yes, the grin was still plastered across his face, although it matured. A few scars on his cheeks, running deep. The blue of his eyes didn't exactly diminish, but it no longer burnt with the same ferocity.
People change, everything does. One is unable to step into the same river twice. It was logical to you, yet at the same time, you wanted for Phainon to never lose himself.
Just what happened to him?
âYou look⌠well.â
At that, he laughed, apparently seeing through your half-truthful compliment. Still, he didnât comment on it.
âI pleaded for your relocation. Are you glad, [Name]?â
Of course Phainon would do something like this eventually. Itâs your fault for doubting him. So you nodded, stepping back to create some respectable distance between you.
âI am, though I alsoâŚâ You sighed, looking around the crowd of knights bustling through the camp. âIâll not fight with my own anymore. How could I possiblyââ
A flicker of emotion passed by Phainonâs irises. Quiet detachment, like your words were some nonsense to him, akin to how insects buzz in the tall grass. Unworthy of hearing out. Of understanding.
âMovement of your station means youâll be safe.â Interrupted Phainon, the corners of his lips shakily stretching upwards again, as if he willed himself to do so. âNo more filthy ditches, no more death in the mud. You deserve better than that.â
Unsure, you bit into your lower lip. Escaping this nightmare was your dream since always, but the vision of leaving your comrades behind definitely marred the imaginary visage of some utopia within the cityâs walls.
Once you didnât provide any answer, he pushed on. â[Name], I cannot fight knowing you are out there where I cannot watch you. I have eaten from the kingâs table, worn honors I never coveted after. And none of it mattered. None. Do you know why?â
You shook your head, shifting underneath the sheer desperation of Phainonâs voice. He sounded despaired, almost.
âBecause you were not there.â The man said with sudden intensity. âEvery day stretched like a punishment. I thought⌠I thought this year would kill me, [Name]. So Iâll not lose you.â
Sighing, you allowed yourself to scout the area with your eyes for the last time. Your fellow knights of the fields will be left without your aid now, and it is probable youâll not see them again. Yet ultimately, you felt the same as Phainon. That loneliness gnawed at you alive, threatening to finally swallow, and drown you in its sorrow.
Truth is, he could be the only in your life who touched it â who looked at you, and saw someone worth saving. Evidently, Phainon needed saving too.
âSo be it. Weâll have it your way.â
Upon your agreement, Phainon exhaled with relief, a genuine smile splitting his face in two. The action caused the scars on his cheeks to stretch slightly. If you could, youâd somehow smooth them over, bringing out the younger version of him. But it was impossible.
At the end of the day, you felt guilty, though it's not like youâd have the chance of refusing. Obviously, you wanted to stay closer to Phainon. You missed what you once shared, and now it was your time to rekindle the old feeling. Looking at how his eyes practically soared with elation, it wonât take you long.
Except, that very refusal is something which troubled you, still. Because deep down, you knew it was not your decision to make. Not with him. Never with him.
Phainon and his stubborn, dependent nature would make him drag you there, even if by force.
And, dear God, would you let him?
The relocation did not take long. Getting used to the barracks did not take long. Compromising your old habits with the new lifestyle did not take long.
What cost you a lot of time, though, is understanding what Phainonâs role in the household guard was. Previously, you were certain it came down to protecting the royal family. After all, the King himself recognized Phainon as someone worthy of keeping around.
Alas, no. How wrong you were â youâd curse yourself for remaining so oblivious and deeming he mustâve been leading an amiable life.
In the barracks, the knights spoke of borders, patrols, and the endless war. It was simple work. Predictable. But Phainonâs job completely contrasted with the almost agreeable nature of yours as a simple knight of the city, meant to merely provide security.
His duties were different. Youâve never heard the orders, only saw the way he left: alone. Heâd return days later, sometimes weeks, his gauntleted hands still stained. Once, you caught the smell of smoke on him; not the characteristic smell of bonfires, but something acrid, as if he walked through a village still burning. Phainon never really explained. You did not ask for the details.
They called him guardian, but you couldnât tell whether he guarded the King, or the Kingâs secrets. Spilling your own blood over such despicable individuals never sat well with you, yet it is what youâve been doing for the majority of your life. You couldnât protest on Phainonâs behalf.
So now, your chest tightened as you watched the blue roan approaching you in a tired canter, evidently hurried by its rider. You stepped left, coming into the path of the horse. The Thessalian stopped upon your action, neighing, and you caught its bridle, placing a palm on the animalâs nose. It snorted at your steadying touch, grateful.
âYou look as though youâd rode to your death.â The quiet comment fell from your lips as you petted the horse, appreciating its beautiful crescent blaze marking.
âIt was near this time.â Phainon laughed hoarsely.
Your eyes rose to assess his form. Phainonâs cobalt mantle was replaced by a dark hooded cloak, heavy with rain and other filth. It hid most of his face, and you only saw a glimpse of it when the man angled his head.
Phainonâs hands kept the reins, but his posture sagged. He mustâve been awfully exhausted, yet at this point it surprised you little. With a morose sigh, you took the reins from Phainon, throwing them over his ponyâs head and starting to lead the two of them forward. You walked slowly through the darkened twilight, aiming for the stables. The weight of him looming above seemed heavier than the armor you donned, and for a second you considered telling him to get off the horse. Then again, his legs were probably too sore to carry him properly.
His boot slipped from the stirrup. You adjusted it for him wordlessly, and for a while, silence stretched between you. Then, you spoke:
âYou should not take these missions alone.â
âAnd you would rather I took you with me?â Phainon huffed humorlessly with a grim smile you could barely see from under the hood. âStraight into the Kingâs dirtiest errands⌠No. Iâd better bleed than you.â
Ire arose in your gut. This man could pull at the leash of your chagrin so effortlessly â by now, he must perceive you as some startled, wild bird. Not the knight that once accompanied him to the countless battlefields, shielding his sides from the onslaught of attacks.
âYou cannot keep me safe by pushing me away.â The sharp tone of your voice made Phainon flinch slightly. Good. âDo you think I have not bled already?â
Silence was your answer, and it told you everything you needed to know. With a frustrated breath, you pushed the stableâs door open, listening to the Thessalianâs rhythmic hooves. Phainon finally lifted the hood from his head. The fair locks appeared dusty now and his eyes were sunken, probably by the lack of sleep.
After you secured the horse, ready to help with unsadding, he bent down. Phainonâs gauntleted hand brushed against yours.
âIf you knew what they send me to do⌠you would not ask to follow.â
A frown overtook your expression. âAnd if you knew how it feels to get left behind, you would never depart anywhere.â
At your words, Phainon jumped off the animal heavily, his boots thudding against the ground. He whipped around, the black cloak swiveling with the rapid movement.
Apparently, the negative emotions he awoke within your breast were mutual, for it seemed like youâve angered him. You took a step back. Phainon took one forward.
âYou must think this is easy for me.â He rasped, eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of defiance and woe.
Your spine hit against the wooden door, rattling them, yet you didnât flinch. Heâd not intimidate you â not the man who once blushed at any praise, and yelped whenever his pony threw a tantrum, bucking and kicking him off. And definitely not the one who cradled you close to his side during the cold winter nights, holding your fingers tightly to share their warmth.
â[Name], by Godâs sake,â Phainon continued, âI ripped my own veins out before those sick nobles so theyâd finally take me into their foul graces! You deem your relocation a miracle I suddenly commanded, and everyone around thought to grant me this one mercy without doubt?â
Disgruntled, you shot him a warning glare, though there was no real fire in your eyes. That year has changed Phainon. He was still the same, in a sense, but only at times when air stood calm and you bent to his whims.
And despite everything, you never stopped thinking of him as precious. None saved your life but him. None was this caring and kind, and certainly no one in the knightly order would open their heart before you in such a raw way.
Phainon was lonely â much lonelier than he let on, maybe even more so than he ever realized. Your ache for him was stronger than your anger, for loneliness bloomed in both of you, and only a person who experienced the same misery would be able to snuff it out from another oneâs being.
Carefully, you placed your palms atop his shoulders. You didnât wear gauntlets, and underneath Phainonâs cloak was armor. The only thing you felt was a frigid chill and hardness. Still, he mustâve taken it as some sort of a sign, because he soon exhaled, calming down.
A wistful smile grew on Phainonâs lips, weak and mirthless. âI miss you everyday.â He murmured, shifting closer.
âBut I⌠I am right here.â You stammered.
The man scoffed, as if he understood something that you did not. âRight. Yes, you are right, [Name].â He reached for your jaw, curling his metal-clad fingers around it. âThen, will you swear to stay by my side?â
His touch, even if reverential, was rough nonetheless, and you could smell something vividly akin to iron. Perhaps you should have pulled away. Every thought in you told you so, but instead you found yourself leaning in, heart hammering against your ribcage.
The kiss came suddenly, just like a blade from behind oneâs back. Phainonâs mouth pressed to yours with a desperate force, as if he sought to claim back all the moments between you which got lost during the year of separation. It was not sweet, nor gentle, and you could feel the way his cold fingers dug in. Into your cheeks, into your waist, pressing the chainmail uncomfortably against your skin. But what else did you expect? You were fighters. Battleground is ultimately all you know; and thereâs no benevolence on it.
It was salt and blood, ashen tar. Was it actual affection? Maybe, but tender in the way bruises are, hurting and bursting with wine-red colors. In another life, were you to be born into a kinder world, you wouldnât have to practically wrestle for air, teeth knocking against each other in a clumsy display of âloveâ. Perhaps Phainon would lay you softly on the grass, and smile between the kisses. Youâd cradle him, and heâd cradle you.
It would be simpler, certainly.
Feeling the lack of oxygen, you tried to pull away, but he just wouldnât let you. You slammed your hands against his shoulders, yet Phainon seemed hellbent on practically devouring you whole, tongue licking against yours. His body pressed flush to your chest. If not for the armor he donned, maybe youâd be able to feel the way his heart pounded, just for you. Always for you. Phainonâs being was, after all, only focused on what was most important â and it would not change, for the way he almost suffocated you seemed neverending. A cathartic testament, of sorts.
Dizziness took way, your pulse hastening in its panic. Only when you bit down on the manâs lip hard enough to draw blood did he pull away, whining with dismay, as though smothering you alive was enjoyable. Still, you did not scream. You did not thrash.
Phainon chuckled ruefully, his grip lessening, forehead falling to rest in the crook of your neck in that clingy manner.
His breaths were harsh as he spoke, voice low. âIf you leave me, there will be nothing. Do you hear? Nothing.â
And of course you knew. You knew that for a long, long time now.
âYouâve grown fierce in my absence, Phainon.â A brittle laugh left you, weakened by the earlier air refusal.
Upon your words, he finally raised his head, carrying the expression of a pitiful, starving dog. Hungry for more, maybe. Unsure of what to do in order to satiate his covet, you carefully swiped his fringe to the side, wondering where did that sweet boy disappear off to.
Things change, and time doesnât wait for anybody. As of late, you seem to be forgetting this simple, obvious fact.
Days passed, then months. The cold was ever-present still, and war continued to mercilessly reap the souls of innocent people. That remained a constant, one you dearly despised. Alas, your world seems to relish in the symmetry of your â everyoneâs â anguish, and so, the despair drags on.
Though, you must admit, living in the city is certainly better than in the depths of war camps. Itâs slightly warmer within the tall walls, where the vicious wind canât reach. The smell is nicer, too. Lighter. You see citizens smiling and leading normal lives. During your patrols, they greet you kindly, ushering you to take a look at their wares. Fruit, skins, bread. Children run around, occasionally bumping into you, only to get scolded by their troubled parents. Cats and dogs prance freely.
When Phainon doesnât have any duties weighing down on his shoulders, he takes you out, either to drink or stroll. Those moments remind you that despite everything, he is still himself. Not to mention, the manâs reputation greatly exceeds yours; if you were to assess just how beloved Phainon is, youâd probably deem him as everyoneâs darling. Either his charisma or conspicuous looks, but they worked on people like magic. Free food got handed to you, if he was by your side. Citizens sang him praises. Sometimes, you couldnât reconcile the Phainon you knew with the Phainon that presented himself to the public â but it didnât matter. Nothing does, you found yourself thinking as of late.
In your free time between the patrols, you enjoyed looking after horses, or seeing if the pages were getting their proper training. You got used to it. To the current life you had, simple and yet so oddly fulfilling. No longer were the battles or blood staining your palms as you dragged your comrades back to the camp, praying they wouldnât release their last breath in your arms. Then, you stopped feeling guilty about leaving them behind. And you understood this is probably the highest mercy youâll receive, so you dared not defy against the comfortable state of things.
Right now, you stood on the training grounds, happy with the way your sky wasnât completely overcast for once. Some of the clouds dispersed, letting bright sun rays through. How long has it been since the last time you saw the real, unobscured sun? Perhaps a few months.
The clang of wooden practice swords rang dully against the vast field. A couple of pages stumbled through their clumsy swings, awkward, their laughter reverberating against the cobblestone walls surrounding you. With your arms crossed and a keen eye, you observed them, occasionally pointing out some mistakes.
Beside you, your companion for the day chuckled. Roderick was a rather revered knight. Full of prowess and valor, appearance already marked by the countless battles he mustâve endured. As one of the young boys slipped due to his unstable footwork, you couldnât help but shake your head in resignation. Still, once he looked at you with his wide, innocent eyes, you only smiled.
âTheyâll not last long if they keep stumbling around like newborn fillies. You should show them a thing or two, [Name].â
Shrugging, you glanced at the man, somewhat amused. âI will. For now, let them stumble. They are mere children.â
âVery well.â He said humorously. âI will trust your judgment. Your eye was always sharper than mine.â
A smirk tugged at your lips. âNot to mention, those falls will beat some endurance into them. And patience. Perhaps once they get enough bruises, theyâll learn not to charge like maddened animals.â
Roderick laughed, the sound of it bellowing and genuine. You still kept on smiling. One of the pages ran up to you â the one who often delivered messages to your barracks, always so full of youthful energy â and started to whine about how other boys were acting unfair, clinging to your hip as he did so. With a sympathetic croon, you comforted him. Others who trained the children with you often pointed out that you are too soft on them. You wondered whether they couldnât grasp the basic concept of compassion, especially toward those who needed it the most.
Then, the sound of footfall. A familiar voice smoothly cut through the lull, startling you a bit.
âWould you look at that,â hummed Phainon, smiling widely. âIâve not seen such fine swordplay in a long time.â
You turned, watching him confidently walk up to the scene, his cobalt mantle in place. The pages straightened at once, some trying to bow, others grinning with nervousness that you were so familiar with by now.
âYou flatter them, sir Phainon.â Roderick chuckled. âTheir feet still tangle.â
âThen may they learn swiftly.â Answered Phainon, fondly tousling the hair of that page who stood close by your side. The boy beamed, blinking up at the man.
A faint smile stretched your lips as you observed them interact. It was peaceful. Normal. But after a beat passed, Phainon looked at you, leaning into your space so that none other would hear his words.
âThey look at you as though you were the very sun.â He sighed, eyes flicking between your face and the row of children. âTell me, do they like you better? Or Roderick?â
Slightly surprised, you glanced at your companion, but Phainonâs words seemed to elude him. âIt is not about who they like most. They train, because they must.â You said softly. âAnd they wish to become worthy knights.â
âWorthy, yes⌠Definitely worthy of being trained by you and that man as though you were their caretakers. You must be enjoying yourself, [Name].â
You barely held back an appalled gasp. The twins of blue crinkled in the corners, yet at the same time, you could see the underlying tension in them â thunderstorm that never seemed to leave.
âDo not twist this. They are only children.â
Phainon laughed quietly, his hand brushing against yours discreetly. A small, almost possessive touch. âChildren. Strange, how a man can see a whole future in anotherâs son.â
Before you could answer, he stepped back from you, grinning at the pages again. âCome now, boys, put more fierceness into those strikes!â
They giggled at Phainonâs energetic yell, swinging their wooden blades with renewed fervor. He nodded to Roderick briefly before sending everyone the last, dazzling smile, and swiveled on his foot, walking away. Consternated, you observed the barely noticeable poise of his shoulders.
âExcuse me. Iâll be back.â You muttered apologetically, jogging after Phainon.
With a huff, you yanked at his mantle, stopping behind a turn. The man paused his hurried stroll instantly, head snapping in your direction. While he was still smiling, you could easily spot the meek twitch of his brow. It was not a good sign.
âWhatâs wrong?â The question fell from your lips before you could think of something more suitable to say.
âAll is well.â Said Phainon, tone flat. âI was simply glad to find you accommodating so much to this⌠life.â
You didnât grant him a response, only folding your arms over your chest, for he was obviously lying. Understanding that you will not bend to his false narrative, Phainon finally sighed, allowing something bitter to crack his carefully constructed mask of indifference.
â[Name], can you really not see?â He practically whispered. âJust howâ how wrong all of this is. Those pages. Children. Their eyes bright, their arms too small for the weight they are prepared to carry. And you give them your patience, your careââ
âWould you rather I give them cruelty?â You cut in, one eyebrow lifting.
âI would rather,â Phainon swallowed, the look on his face crestfallen. âI would rather they were ours. Our sons, our daughters. Not some lordâs pawns trained to die in a war they do not understand.â
âPhainon, Iââ
âDo you know what I see every time I look at them?â The man interrupted. âA life stolen from me. From us. It tears me apart, [Name], for they will all perish like dogs anyway, and what can I do to stop this?â
Not knowing what to say, you shut your mouth, eyes locking on the tips of your boots. What Phainon said confounded you. Of course, you shared some sort of a bond, forged through trauma and suffering and the simple attachment of a lost person. There was always affection between you. Perhaps not pure like those tales your mentor spurred by the bonfires, of princes and princesses who defy cruelty of fate. No. Yours was the exact opposite of it. Both you and Phainon seemed to ultimately bow before the pain.
Except, he never mentioned wishing for a family. It shouldnât have surprised you, truly. He was just a common man at heart â all of them can dream. But in this state of the world, a peaceful life is a mercy granted for those who pulled a lucky hand at birth. Not for the likes of you.
And Phainon appeared so convinced those pages you trained would pass away in war. Why? They were mostly children of the revered individuals, high in the societal hierarchy. People such as them can freely manipulate who dies, and who lives. Surely, they wouldnât let their own kin perish for nothing.
But there was this unshakeable conviction in his eyes, as if he already knew what awaits everyone. So this, unfortunately, caused you fear. The King let him on closer â closer than any knight you spoke to. Phainon must be aware of something, and he must feel betrayed by the empty promise of a good life which was supposed to be granted for him.
As the silence stretched unbearably, he finally let out a resigned breath, turning around. You watched Phainonâs mantle whip as he stepped away, head cast low, like the weight of your current situation was too heavy to bear.
Solemnly, you returned to Roderickâs side, willing your lips into a feigned smile. The sky was overcast again now, sun long hidden behind the silver clouds. Wind picked up. Someone told you something, but their voice got swallowed by the insistent buzzing of your mind.
Your life here is a good one, you had to remind yourself. A better one will not come. Thereâs not much you can do.
The waterâs surface rippled as you bent over the wellâs edge, slowly hoisting up a filled bucket. It was dark. No matter how much you squinted, you couldnât see your face in the reflection, and the bottom appeared like an endless maw. When true winter came, things seemed to get more miserable than before.
Unease shook everyone. Whispers swarmed between their mouths, tentative and grim, as if speaking such words out loud was a crime. It touched you as well. You listened to the paranoid murmurs, heart clenching with trepidation. Still, life went on. People, even if gripped by some sort of looming threat, managed to find reasons to celebrate their days. To be happy.
So you hauled the bucket of water, shoulder aching. Your fellow knights decided to steal some liquor today â and you knew if someone were to find out, youâd be doomed. At the same time, the thrill of it all calmed you down. It pushed the concerns to the back of your mind, and you found yourself uncaring. Living in obliviousness was better.
You turned toward the barracks, and just as you were about to come inside, a shape in the corner of your periphery caught your attention. The silhouette hovered by the wall, stumbling against it somewhat loudly.
Curiosity flared in your chest, so you set the bucket down, stepping closer. What you saw should not have been surprising, for you knew he ought to return soon, and yet the sight caused the air in your lungs to go heavy.
âPhainonâŚ?â
The man wobbled forward, his black cloak hugging his frame loosely. You noticed the ends were burnt, dragged through the mud and soiled, and you wondered what must have caused this to happen. Phainon lifted his head slowly, and in the night, you could notice something dripping â tap, tap, tap â falling quickly from beneath the hood. The reek of iron filled your nostrils before you saw its source.
A startled gasp tore from your throat when the sharp visage of fresh scars appeared in front of you, Phainonâs left side of the face a ruin. Angry lines, flesh torn by steel and kissing bone. His hand gripped over the injured eye, now weeping blood instead of tears.
âGod above!â You nearly yelled, running up to close the distance between you. Phainon whimpered quietly when you caught his arms, fingers clenching around the metal of his armor. âWhat have they done to you?â
At the sound of your breaking voice, he laughed roughly, sniffling. âSomeoneâ something⌠I silenced what I was supposed to silence. And it left its mark.â
Feeling your heart almost burst, you reached your hands for his torn face, not daring to touch it. Everything was going so, so wrong. His once beautiful, flushed cheeks were now slashed through, iris of blue gone. All you could see was red. Everywhere red.
âW-what? You should be with the healers!â Shocked, you stammered profusely. âNot standing out here!â
Phainon heaved, shaking his head. âNo healer can mend this.â The man said softly, tone strained. âOnly you.â
Tears welled up in your eyes. Then, he caught your wrist, holding it with more strength than you expected. His fingers were shaking.
âPlease, youâre bleeding⌠Sit. Please.â
With a groan, Phainon obeyed, half-collapsing against the barrackâs wall. Still, he did not release you from his grip. You followed after him, wrangling your limb out of the manâs joints, and tearing a piece of your tunic. It was washed just yesterday. Certainly, itâd be a better solution than using Phainonâs cloak as a way of stopping the bleeding. So you pressed it against his face, hard, gaining another strangled sound of pain.
His good eye fixed on you with sudden intensity. âThe war turns, [Name].â Rasped Phainon, urgent. âI see it in the Kingâs gaze. I hear about it everyday in his court. He bleeds us â me â dry, day by day, and still it is not enough. Something is coming, Iââ
âWhat do you mean? What have you heard?â You interrupted before you could stop yourself.
Apparently, your concerns werenât baseless. There is a bigger threat on the horizon. One that caused Phainon to snap at you back then, when you were training pages. Perhaps it dragged on his conscience long before it. He often looked at you weird, as though carrying a burden and wishing youâd shoulder it with him, yet simultaneously restraining himself from saying a word.
âOnly that I cannot lose you to it. Not you. They can send me again and again, rip the flesh off my bones, and I will endure. But if they take you from me,â his voice cracked, âthen I am already dead.â
Your chest tightened, torn with the ache of pity and dread. Between your palm and Phainonâs butchered face, the cloth already soaked heavy with blood, the warmth of it seeping on your skin.
And you knew he must have been afraid out of his mind, having lost sight in one eye and bleeding out rapidly. Dizziness probably overtook Phainon by now, his breaths rapid. You attempted getting up again, and leading him to a healer â heâd have to get the wounds cauterized, no doubt. But he only clung to you harder, not letting go.
Unable to do much, you swung your arm underneath his armpit, holding him upward so he wouldnât topple over. âSpeak plainly. What is coming?â You questioned, carefully letting Phainon lean against you.
âPlainly?â He almost barked, scowling in pain. âThe king, heâ he bargains with his own demented mind, it would seem. He speaks of sacrifices, of⌠the fire toâŚâ
Phainon nodded off, snapping into consciousness upon you jostling him, sharp. A hitching breath tore from his throat. It was bad.
âSacrifices?â You echoed. âDoesnât the King remember that massacre from almost two years ago? We have lost half the order then. What more does he mean to take?â
A bitter laugh left him. âAll of us, if it suits him... To him we are pieces on a board. And Iââ Phainonâs jaw clenched tightly, scarred face twisting. âI am his favored one.â
The piece of cloth you tore from your tunic was now completely drenched. Even in the darkness of the night, Phainon appeared awfully pale, the sickly shade of his skin contrasting with rivulets of maroon trickling down.
âThey will break us, [Name],â he pushed on, his good eye unfocused. âIâve seen theâ the maps, the letters⌠The tide turns against us, and the King, he⌠speaks as though victory was in our hands. He liesâŚâ
âIf that is so, then why stay? Why bleed for him?â
His blue iris flickered toward you briefly, the corners of Phainonâs lips twitching up. âI can allay this hell if I do as they please. Andâ and you? Youâll be safe.â
Gritting your teeth, you nodded slowly, trying to make peace with the fact that he sacrificed pieces of his mind to keep you from danger. Protection was not something you needed. It never was, even if you sobbed in those dirty ditches of mud, clutching your steel close to your chest as though it was a silly toy. Youâd manage. Youâd always do whatâs in your power to shove through. Phainon, even if he deemed himself important enough to covet after the idea of being with you â keeping you close, starting a family â apparently couldnât understand such a fundamental part of your identity.
But itâs not like you could get angry about that now. Certainly not while he was bleeding out before your very eyes. So, with a deep breath, you hauled Phainon upward, knees trembling under the culminated weight of his body and armor. He stumbled inelegantly, shoulder smashing against the wall. You kept him upright.
âHold on. Weâll head for the healer.â
Phainon took a wobbly step, barely coordinated with yours. âThree days...â
âWhat?â
âThree days.â He repeated, voice a brittle rasp. âMeet me at the stables. At nightfall.â
Questions upon questions pushed themselves on your lips, yet you said nothing, deciding to save him breath. With a curt nod, you began to walk, staggering and heaving with the additional pressure on your shoulder â and once you reached the healer, you were honestly amazed neither of you fainted from the exhaustion.
The space reeked of bitter herbs, and when the man inside saw you, he nearly yelped in shock. No wonder. Youâd be terrified too, to see a person resembling death, with blood-matted hair and gashes running from brow to jaw.
âDear Lord⌠sit him down.â
And you did. You eased Phainon down on a chair as he swayed, gripping onto your hand for support.
âItâs nothing.â He practically wheezed, not even registering when you took his hood off. âIâve had worse.â
The healer snorted humorlessly, bending over the fireplace. âWorse? Youâd be dead then, boy.â
A thin iron glowed ominously in front of you, its tip red from the sweltering heat. Of course, stitches wouldnât hold skin like that. Still, the intimidating sight did little to calm Phainon, as his eye widened in poorly contained fear. His hand clenched on you harder. You held him still, closing your eyes.
Then, the hiss and that awful smell of seared flesh. Desperately, you pressed your eyelids shut tighter, ears ringing from the deafening cries of pain. The worsening war Phainon spoke of; it sounded exactly like this. Tormented wails and screams. Loud thunders. Steel clashing against steel. Fire. Smoke. Stench. Mud. Blood. Death, death, death.
Within the safe walls of the city, youâve already forgotten what it truly felt like. How hilarious youâve been, thinking all would be well if you hid your claws and turned a blind eye on everything.
It rendered you weak, and yesterday you dreamt of apple trees. The orchard was so vast, but at first you wanted to escape. Then you understood everything was there â why would anyone wish to leave the bountiful garden?
During those three days, you have not seen Phainon once.
What you heard and experienced ate at you alive. Rest eluded you by now. The snowfall seemed to only dampen your mood, the high blanket of white soon changing into a muddy, gray mass of filth. You were never fond of it. Snow meant death and hunger and definitive dangers. Perhaps merely children found joy in it, as fleeting as it was.
When the third night came, you decided to go. Phainon either truly wanted something from you, or he simply blabbed nonsense upon his blood loss induced delirium. If it turns out the whole farce was for nothing, youâll not be mad. Actually, you might be quite relieved. Youâve had enough bad stuff happening to you in the past few days, or perhaps even weeks, so any more would drive you insane.
Huffing, you dragged your boots through the mixture of mud and snow. It was especially filthy around the stables. Horsesâ hooves beat around the dirt, causing everything to emerge upwards, and creating a rather unpleasant sensation of sloshy ground.
Still, you dared not complain. After wrestling with the road, you finally found your way to the stables, pausing for a second to steady your breaths. It was cold, and you were not dressed for the weather appropriately. Only the light armor with some coat one of your acquaintances lent you. Certainly, it was not enough to ward off the biting chill stinging at your throat.
From your right, you could hear the hooting of an owl. They resided here, often perched atop the stableâs rooftops, scaring the life out of you when you least expected it. Not to mention, owls had this odd tendency to tangle into your hair. It was never a nice experience, so you braced yourself in case it wanted to soundlessly fly down and catch onto your locks.
Silence dominated the place, except for the occasional snorting of horses. Then, the wooden doors suddenly snapped open, causing you to nearly gasp in fright.
Phainon.
The man was already here, clad in his black cloak. As of late, youâve seen him don it more often than that beautiful mantle the King gifted him. Was he about to depart on one of his missions? If so, then why call you?
âAh, you startled me.â Sighing, you let the words fall from your lips. âWhatâs happening?â
Phainonâs good eye fixed on you, and you almost winced at the dimmed sight of his scarring burn marks.
âWeâre leaving.â
A longer stretch of silence passed before you registered his words. In order to process and understand them, you had to take another pause, eyebrows narrowing in confusion and shock.
Blinking, you spoke, voice unsure. âLeaving? What do you mean?â
Urgency sharpened Phainonâs tone as he stepped closer. âThe knightly order will send us both to slaughter. The war is already lost, [Name]. And they all know it, the King knows it, though these cowards will not speak of it aloud.â He spat. âIâll not watch you die. So we ride.â
No matter how intently you listened to him, the sense of it seemed to elude you. Yes, the war might doom you. It might doom everyone. What makes you above those people, to betray and retreat when things get tough? You left your brethren of the fields once. Should you do it again?
âRun? Abandon the order, the vows we swore? PhainonâŚâ You breathed, expression still disbelieving. âYou cannot mean this.â
âI do.â The man said, unwavering. âI have given blood, flesh, my very face and sight to their cause. And what have they given us in return?â He paused. âNeverending graves. False promises. Iâll not be their hound a day longer.â
Unease swelled in your chest uncomfortably, as though threatening to crack your ribs in half. Maybe if you let it, itâd spill over from your mouth and stain everything black.
âYou speak of betrayal. Both you and me would be hunted. Do you think I can turn my back so easily?â
Phainonâs jaw clenched, and he reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. Briefly, you noted he was not wearing any armor â only the beautiful steel by his side, secured closely. So, he really wanted to go.
âI think you must. For me, for us. [Name], there is nothing left here but death!â
At the rise of his voice, you flinched slightly, a frown blooming on your expression. Phainon apparently noticed that, and perhaps it surprised him, for you have never cowered before anyone. His grip on your hand remained steady, yet it loosened.
âDo you remember the camps?â He asked, tone softened now, as if he was taming a wild animal. âThe nights after battle, when weâd sit by the bonfires with no one to bother us?â
âThose days were harsh, Phainon.â You muttered.
The man gave a faint, rueful smile. âYes. But Iâd take hunger and cold again if it meant being together, constantly. The way it was once. Seeing you laugh when I did something foolish, or curse when the stew tasted bad.â
Silence hung heavy over you. Despite wanting to say anything, your tongue seemed tied in a knot, unable to move.
Upon receiving no answer, Phainon continued, a little desperate. âWe could have that again. Better. Away from these cold walls, from the Kingâs leash. None would know our names, none would dare toââ
Frustrated, you pulled your hand free, interrupting his speech. âOne can keep dreaming. They would come for us.â
Apparently your defiance only managed to irritate Phainon further, his scarred face twisting in a mixture of dismay and ache. âLet them come!â He yelled. âYou think I wouldnât be able to take them? You and I, weâve overcome death before. Why not now? Why not together? Is it really so hard to choose me?â
As you listened to those words, the image of your mentor suddenly flashed in the eye of your mind. Once, you asked whether you could leave. The older man merely shook his head with a wistful smile, something almost melancholic flickering in his gaze.
Deserters are not forgiven, he said. They are hung in the gallows, their corpses a grim example for everyone with similar ideas. Those who leave the knightly order on their own accord are usually found. Sometimes it takes long, sometimes not. Eventually, all of them will share the same fate, for shamelessly turning your back on the King meant death.
And you remember how terrified the tale of your mentor made you. Cold fingers of fear clenched around your heart, squeezing it, holding in an unrelenting grip. That is why you rarely thought of fleeing. Were the idea to bloom in your mind, then you surely wouldnât be able to overcome it. You did not want to die this way. No one did.
Even if Phainon was strong, stronger than anyone you knew, he was no longer in his prime. And you? You let yourself go. That prowess you took pride in softened around the edges with the passage of time. Duty in the city wasnât demanding. Why would you put energy in training yourself when you could use it on something else?
Perhaps if Phainon offered his plan a year or two ago, youâd agree. Without hesitation, even. Both of you would leave the horrors behind and escape the cage, if only for a short while. And surely, those moments of fleeting freedom would be the most beautiful in your whole life.
But it was no more. Youâve changed, and the trepidation your mentor planted within your brain came back tenfold.
âPlease, listen to yourself.â You spoke, voice low. âThere is nothing waiting for us beyond these walls. Only the endless pursuit, only the noose.â
The manâs face remained set in a burning conviction. âYou deem me blind to the truth? I see it clearer than any of you. They will use us until nothing is left. I would rather die on my own terms, with you, than rot under the Kingâs sole.â
Groaning with arising ire, you shook your head. âAnd you would enjoy dragging me into this as well? Youâd see me hunted and stripped from any honors. This is not your twisted sense of safety, Phainon, this is folly!â
With evident desperation, Phainon stepped even closer, eyebrows drawing together. âBut you would be safe.â He retaliated. âAlive. Not cast onto this senseless battlefield because a King commanded it. I cannot⌠I will not stand there aimlessly while they steal you from me.â
Silence.
âPlease, I beg you, [Name]âŚâ He pushed on, voice cracking. âOur horses are already saddled. I have packed everything we need. Just listen to me!â
No. You simply wouldnât let him. Phainon can plead all he wants, but you will not bend to his idea of life.
And although knightly order is only an accumulation of suffering and pain, it is still dear to you, and you will defend it â for this cage, even if frigid, cradled you since you were cast away from your parents, straight into this world of anguish.
Slowly, your hand reached for your sword. The characteristic sound of steel leaving the scabbard reverberated through the otherwise quiet lull. You raised your blade, stance firm despite the heaviness in your chest.
âIf you mean to take me, youâll have to cut me down first.â
Phainon froze instantly, eye widening at the sheer anger in your voice. His breath hitched before it caught completely, evidently shocking him deeper than anything youâve said previously.
â[Name]âŚâ He whispered hoarsely. âNo. Not youâŚâ
You shifted on your feet, gaze unwavering. âThen put aside this madness. Say you will stay.â
The manâs hand hovered over his own hilt, noticeably trembling. His face twisted in pain, lips parting, as if the challenge you cast was crushing him down.
âI cannot.â Answered Phainon, tone shaky. âHow could I ever bring you harm?â
For a moment, he stood unarmed, as though clinging to the hope you might lower your blade and cease this charade. But as your resolve held, his shoulders hunched in turn. With a shudder, Phainon drew his sword, the action so slow youâd think it caused him pain.
âForgive me.â He choked out, sounding utterly broken.
Heart nearly dropping, you began to circle him, knowing this fight was probably futile, yet unable to throw away your pride. The muddy snow underneath your boots crunched. Phainonâs good eye was devoid of any hatred or malice, instead filling up with grief.
Gathering courage, you gritted your teeth and lunged, your blades crossing in a harsh exchange. He shoved you back, his own feet grinding in the slush. Due to the impossibly strong impact, you stumbled inelegantly, then surged forward again â your steels kissed repeatedly, but Phainon seemed to get more and more ferocious with each clang. When he pressed too close, you drove your forehead against his with all your might.
The headbutt cracked against his brow with a dull, heavy thud. Phainon staggered, balance faltering. It was your chance. And it pained you terribly, but at that moment, blinded by despair and fear, you saw no other option. After all, you were never the one to retreat. You swung your sword, aiming to end it, but then he dropped low, the edge of your blade whistling over his head.
During the second of your disorientation, Phainon shifted, flat of his steel hooking behind the back of your knees. Its sudden pull ruined your stance, forcing you down.
Still, even if the ache flared, you didnât fall. In a bout of panicked desperation, you bent forward, twisting, and began driving the bone of your elbow into his back. Once, twice, thrice. The impact soared through your whole arm, but instead of relenting, Phainon only tightened his grip.
With a burst of strength, the man heaved you up and over his shoulder. The world flipped. You hit the ground hard, air punched from your lungs, the stinging cold of the snow biting at your cheek.
Before you could rise, Phainon came down with you, and you rolled in the filth, blades forgotten as you grappled like crazed dogs. Mud and snow got into your mouth. Your fingers clawed at him while his bare hands wrestled with your wrists, attempting to render you unmoving.
Finally, after what felt like eternity, Phainon managed to pin you down. Now, with your arms tightly pressed above your head, you still thrashed, bucking and trying to shove him off.
â[Name]âŚâ He whispered, tears welling up in his eye of blue.
This single word caused your breath to hitch, and the sight of him nearly weeping above you seemed almost hopeless.
Suddenly, you remembered an old memory. Distant, one which you have buried deeply underneath all the others.
When you were younger and still lived in the war camps, you and Phainon enjoyed disappearing off into the faraway hill. It was high, snugly surrounded by a birch forest.
And up that hill, you lay one day, with him pressed against your side, head resting atop your stomach. A big battle awaited you the next day.
Phainon seemed more anxious than normally for whatever reason, so you carded your fingers through his fair locks, muttering: âHave no fear. One day, we will be freed from this.â
He looked at you through his long lashes, smiling widely. Happiness spread across his unscarred face, cheeks flushing a little. One of his arms tightened around you.
Beneath the shade of birches, you could see a vast, overcast sky stretching before you, and even though clouds surrounded the sun, its intensely gold rays managed to peek through.
I shall stay with you, Phainon, you thought in that memory, and I shall love you.
A singular tear dripping down from above stirred you into presence. He was there. Still pinning you down, still unrelenting. But the strength seemed to disperse from your body, and any need to fight suddenly vanished into thin air.
The instant you saw him, youâd forgotten your urge to kill.
Slowly, your muscles went lax. Phainon blinked rapidly, evidently surprised by your pliant motion â and he let out a shuddering laugh, sniffling.
â[Name], do you remember what you said to me long ago, when we came back from our decoration?â He asked, lowering his head. âYou said⌠you said we could leave together.â
Absentmindedly, your eyes rose toward the night sky. For the first time in your life, you saw no clouds there. Only stars. Countless of shiny, glimmering points.
âAnd you laughed then, but those words got forever stuck in my brain, in my thoughts, in my body, heart â they lodged themselves there like a splinter. I could never tear them out, no matter how hard I have tried. Never. Do you understand?â
Of course. Once a bird sees a vision of freedom, it will not forget. Even if it appeared for just a split second.
Upon no answer from you, Phainonâs expression fell further, the scars and burns snarling with dismay. He let out a frustrated groan, roughly twisting your form aside. A pained sound fell from your lips as Phainon shoved you into the ground, hard, knee drilling into your back as your chest pressed against the cold snow. Panting, he tugged your arms backwards, tightly holding them bound together on your spine.
âSo now, [Name],â
The manâs breath felt burning against your neck, and when you craned your head to look into his eye, you saw a field of blue so deep it swallowed you whole.
âYou will learn that words do have their consequences.â
