- she/they. also an artist but don't post art often. I'm open if anyone want to have a chat with me whatever is that, don't blame me if I haven't replies to it fast/didn't open this app tho. I often use harsh words and might be mean, if u're uncomfortable just block me.
My Interest!
-Genshin Impact, HSR, CRK, Killer Peter, Study Group, Lookism, No Home, TGCF, ORV, TCF, GSGW, AlienStage, LITC, Death Note, Saiki. K, To Your Eternity, Moriarty T.P, Inuyasha, Black Butler, Dr. Stone, Mairimashita Iruma, straight to just reading manga/hwa/hua, watching anime/dramas/movie, listening to music, drawing, gaming.
About Acc
- This is just a dump acc, talking about my interest, fandoms, life stuff, relatable things, random interaction with people, vents, might ragebait, and more.
Summary~ A potion, a task and a darkness you leapt into. Will you complete the task at the expense of someone's safety?
Word count~ 4.5k
Warnings~ horror element, might be unsettling for some people, blood, mentions of death.
Masterlist , dividers from @createdbydomino
You've been working in this forsaken company for about seven months now. Part of a E-Squad, you had managed to clear ghost stories with exceptional talent and skills which is why you are, now, considered the spectacular employee of the squad. Though, your lack of experience halted your promotion but regardless of it— everything was going smoothly.
Today turned out to be different, your superior— Squad leader told you that you are called in by Section Chief Kwak Jaekang, otherwise known as the mad-scientist. You couldn't fathom what the man wants from you; a low grade squad's employee.
He is known to use the low-grade employees as experiments in darkness. Nothing good would come out of being involved with the man. Why would he call for you? The situation is maddening. You wish it would be a mistake of sort or something. You braced yourself to refuse whatever he would offer.
Putting away those thoughts, you entered the lab. The man had lurched forward upon seeing you, seemingly very pleased to see you. Despite his warming demeanor, an unsettling feeling settled in your chest. The man gleamed, “Oh, I had been waiting for you!”, he exclaimed joyfully.
A joy that didn't really seem to radiate off him, you swallow hard. This seems suspicious.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir”
You replied in a polite manner befitting of a junior. You didn't wish to stand out to him, you have never heard pleasant things surrounding him. I need to tread carefully and make sure I don't offend him.
He beamed waving off with his hand, “No worries at all!”
He started going on random rant about how it was alright and how amazing of an employee you are and so on… it seemed to drag on for no particular reason. It was driving you crazy how he keeps beating around the bush.
You exhaled deeply, “Um, the reason you called me in was..?”, you chose your words carefully as not to get on the bad side of the man in front of you.
His demeanor shifted at your question, he reached out to grab a file and hand it to you along side a cylinder object filled with shining liquid sloshing inside. The sparkling liquid seemed to be a potion, but for what purpose you didn't exactly knew.
“This is..?”, you examined the material holding it out in front of your eyes, taking a better look at the shining material. It seemed beautiful shining under lights of the lab.
Your gaze flickered back to the mad-scientist in front of you. He is looking at you with skeptical gaze.
Ah.
It definitely isn't a regular potion. You figured.
Why he handed to you was the question now. And the file? It seemed to be a brief on a darkness. Likely the one he is assigning you on for whatever reasons he might have.
The man started speaking as you had finished looking at the material in awe. His voice low as he spoke.
“It's a potion that highlights a person's weakness making them more prominent for others to notice and gauge out.”
He explained pointing to the liquid in your hand. Your breathe caught in your lungs.
It does what?
The man continued seemingly uncaring of your reaction, “You will be filling in the spot for the newly formed elite Squad-D alongside it's Supervisor— Kim Soleum.”
Your mind reeled back to the newly formed elite team. If you remembered correctly, it's team in which that 'Monster rookie' is and definitely the person you'll going in with.
Ugh, no more insane people. This job already consisted of enough weird insane people, your E-squad was somewhat fine. You knew that the new rookie has to be some kind of lunatic like the man in front of you.
“You need to go into the darkness with him, make him drink this potion— Use any excuse you deem fit as per situation and guage out his weakness.”
Your eyes widened at the task, isn't this invasion of privacy or workplace harassment? Your mouth opened to speak— to decline the offer but he spoke before you could.
“Of course, I'll compensate you fairly”, he held out a regenerative potion in front of you, “You need it, don't you? I promise 100,000 points along with it. Or maybe you need more? I think this should be enough to satisfy you low-rankers.”
You swallowed the cursed that threatened spill over at the man in front of you. The insult tugged at your chest, you gritted your teeth. He just sees you as a way to achieve his twisted goals and probably doesn't even sees you as a human but rather a source to extract information. There was no telling that he wouldn't harm you or anyone you knew if you refused the task.
However, yeah, you needed that potion was true. And desperately too.
Your colleague had lost his right arm in the previous darkness and that potion could regenerate it to it's original form. It was.. worth a shot. Not like you had anything against the new rookie but, more importantly, why does this lunatic wants to know the weakness of a rookie? No, no, it was better to not engage in such questions.
The man in front of you doesn't care about you, he just wants his work done. Yeah, as long as you fulfill the task he wouldn't have anything against you. Plus, he is compensating you handsomely, it would be stupid to refuse.
“So? Not a bad deal, right?”
You nod in response, exhaling, “Yes sir, I'll do my best”
That night, your chest felt heavy. Was it okay to do this for your own benefit? Your move could put that rookie in a bad spot later on, probably getting his weakness exploited in various ways. That mad-scientist seems to hold a grudge against him, he wouldn't leave him alone.
You let out a sigh that wasn't something you need to worry about, probably. The new rookie doesn't seem like a normal person so there wouldn't be any need for sympathy..
Next day,
Wednesday, 10 am.
You walk into the office space of Squad-D. With the potion from yesterday securely kept in your pocket. You wonder what kind of insane man Kim Soleum would be? And what did he do to get on the bad side of that mad-scientist? Apparently, he is the reason why the D-squad has become an elite squad as well. He seems to have accepted Director Cheong's offer.
As you enter the space, a handsome man is standing in the center.
Is it Squad Leader Lee Jaheon? You had heard rumors of him being exceptionally handsome and good-looking. The man standing in front of you fits the criteria but there was no telling.
You approached the man— dark haired, dark eyes, his work suit clinging perfectly to his structure. Something stood out about his appearance; he looked sharp witted and cool-headed. But that was not all, what stood out the most was a pink plushie nestled safely in his pocket— small and cute.
His gaze flickered up to you, his form straightened as you approached. “You must be the person filling in for today, right?”, he spoke with calmness.
You nod in response, “Yes, and you are..?”
He smiles faintly at you extending his hand for a handshake, “I'm Kim Soleum. Nice to meet you. You can refer to me as Roe Deer”, he introduced himself.
Your eyes widened at the name, fists clenching at your sides, the potion in your pocket felt heavy upon hearing his name.
He's Kim Soleum? No way.
His appearance differed from your imagination of a cruel looking man. He looked sweet and yet unwavering man. Your resolve was flattering. He doesn't look like how you imagined him to. He is much softer and good-looking than you thought he'd be.
“Nice to meet you too. I'm y/n, you call me C/n.”, you shook his hand.
Kim Soleum looks up at the woman entering the D-squad office room. Honestly, he has already seen her profile sheet so he knows what she looks like and what's her name. Their eyes met, he straightened his body and greeted her.
She somewhat looks like a sane person.
[ Oh! Is she the one you'll working with today? She seems like a wonderful person! ]
Braun chirped from his pocket.
Ah, yeah. Definitely better than those elite squad assholes.
He is glad he has to work with someone sane unlike those insane elite Squads. They are a bunch of lunatics and he has to be careful around them which makes exploration difficult.
Her gaze keeps drifting to Braun— a plushie in his pocket. Guess, it's weird for employees to be roaming around with such things. But she doesn't seems to be judging, in fact, she seems a bit on the edge. Is it because we are an elite team now? He needs to break the ice between them.
He puts on a smile and introduces himself, after completing introductions.
“Did you went through the manual for the darkness?”, he asked softly and calmly.
Exhaling deeply, you compose yourself. Don't be deceived by his looks. He might be as scoundrel as you had thought. You need to tread carefully. This is not the time to be awed by his handsome features. He's an elite team's supervisor. That's enough to set him apart.
For some reason, that calm demeanor of his seems to irk you. Your shoulders stiffened.
Ugh.
This is crazy.
You nod, “Yes, sir”, replying polite. You don't want to be on his bad side. Who knows what kind of crazy he might be? You had to be careful. Now, you had to be careful with one more damn person.
This is maddening.
It was difficult working with elite team's for this exact reason. You had only worked once with them in the past and it was a disaster. Continuously being used as a bait and being thrown into compromising situations. A chill ran down your spine as you recalled the moments, cold sweat dripping down. You just want to run away, these elite squad lunatics don't even see low-rank squad members as people.
He must be the same. Even if newly formed, they must share the sentiment, right? That's why it's an elite team now.
His gaze softens up as he speaks, “You don't have to be so polite. We are at the same position, aren't we?”, his smile small and soft.
The words should've made you feel relaxed but they stirred up more problem. Yeah, you and him share the same title of Supervisor but for different teams. The difference being he is an elite team and you in a low-rank team. How could you leave all formalities and talk casually?
The words stuck in your throat but you had to reply, “Uhm, it's alright. I would rather be.”
You continue.
“Even if we..”
Fuck, don't say it.
“Are on the same position..”
That's enough, don't make him mad.
“You are in an elite team..”
Ugh, this habit of yours is going to make today's task difficult. Definitely.
“And that makes all the difference, sir”
Oh, damn. She is conscious of the fact that we are an elite team.
A sense of tread flickers through his eyes before he masks it away with softness.
He softens up further. He knows those elite Squad bastards can throw away your confidence even if you're an amazing person. This alone proves it. She is one of the best employees, not a named character but her record tells him enough. A supervisor in seven months? That's generous.
[ Seems like it's going to be difficult for you, friend! She isn't trusting you ]
Braun comments from his place. Soleum sighs inwardly, yeah, she is not opening up at all. He tries to appear as friendly as possible.
You fucked up. Now, he is going to be mad at you and the darkness is going to be more difficult for you. Besides, you need to make him drink this damn potion as well! How are you going to do that now?
His gaze flickered with something for a moment then disappeared as soon as it came. “You don't have to be on guard. I— we, D-squad don't obsess over such things”, he says reassuringly but your mind doesn't seem to believe it.
They say it but never mean it. You have experienced it firsthand.
Silence stretched on between you and him.
Then, he sighs running a hand through his dark hair.
Oh no, you forgot to reply.
“Have you worked with an elite team or member before?”, he asks gently.
You nod, “Just once, sir”, at least he is not angry!
“Haa.. figures. Try to relax.. but I guess words don't mean anything.”
Your eyes widens at his words, his words— they seem genuine and kind. Why is he a damn nice person? That makes your task difficult! If only he would be a fucking lunatic. You wouldn't feel bad to gauge out his weakness but, now the weight of your task is crushing beneath it's heaviness.
“If you say so, si— oh oops!”
A small chuckle leaves him and you. The idea of doing something so bad to this man makes your heart wrench. He is genuine, sweet, kind and sharp.
Not the kind of devil you imagined him to be. How is this going to turn out now? You definitely can't do this— no, wait. It's still too early to label him as a nice man. What if his attitude changes when you get in the darkness? Yeah, of course. People's attitude change in dire situations! He is no expectation.
He is definitely a devil. Definitely. Hiding beneath that handsome facade.
11:30 am.
After preparing and gearing up, you both entered the darkness. Your body is now, in a dark, dimly lit manor. The metallic scent of blood hits your senses. The walls have blood stains and hand prints soaked in blood all over but they looked old. The old, weary looking, and covered in blood stains manor made your stomach churn at the sight. You knew it would look like this as it was mentioned in the manual but still seeing the actual thing made your heart drop.
You exhale deeply, “Huu..”, you look over your shoulder to meet Kim Soleum's gaze which is unwavering and unflinching.
Does it not unsettle him?
Soleum's gaze rakes over the grotesque interior of the manor. Fuck, seeing this in real is unsettling. A cold shiver runs down his spine.
His memory was hazy but he remembers this story vividly. He wishes his pop socket was working so that he could check but he lets the thought simmer down because there was no helping it.
============================
Dark Exploration Records / Ghost Story [Unlocking door]
: A ghost story featured in
: Daydream Inc. identification code – Qterw-E-■■
It's a looping ghost story in which a person suddenly ends up in this grotesque manor. The only exit is the main entrance. It's a like ghost story game in which the player has to collect all the parts of the key to leave.
No one can leave from any other places, that would result in death. There is a couple and a butler in this manor. You mustn't get noticed by them, you'll be eradicated or eaten alive by them. You must avoid them at all costs.
No matter how many times you die in this story, you'll end up at the start again.
============================
The only safest way to leave is to collect the parts of key and use it to unlock the entrance door.
Soleum exhales deeply trying his best to appear calm and collected but internally he is screaming from the sight of this manor. Searching every part of this place is going to give me a heart attack.
[ This is such a filthy place, friend! ]
Braun says with disgust. Yeah, sure is, Soleum thinks.
The E-squad member looks at him, “Uhm, do we split up to go looking for the parts? Or stick together? What do you suggest?”, she asks with a gaze that screams ‘Please, let's stick together’.
Of course, Soleum has no intentions of splitting up. It's fucking scary! And he doesn't want to be alone in this goddamn manor.
He calmly speaks, “Let's stick together”, her face beams up at his suggestion for a moment before being replaced by stoic-ness. He wonders what's going on in her mind.
Your eyes beam with happiness as he suggests sticking together but then, you recall the moments in your previous exploration with an elite team and why they suggested sticking together. So, that they could sacrifice you or use you as a bait if the situation asks for it.
Stiffness in your muscles came back. You prepare yourself mentally for any sort of similar things that he might do.
Ugh.
Then a realization hits you, the potion! You have to make up an excuse to make him drink that. Ah, another headache amidst all this. Plus, doing this to him just feels wro—
Your head is spinning, you force your reeling mind to blank out and focus on the task at hand.
Both of them started making their way to the closet room to them— living room. The corridors is long and uncanny, filled with various things like organs, bones, blood stains, massive amount of blood on the floor, chunk of hair.. wait, hairs? Ugk— eww. The sight made Soleum want to throw up but he resisted the urge the best he could.
With light footsteps, Soleum and she got till the living room. Dimly lit under chandelier which looks like it might fall off at any second now. A rug at the center where the sofa is placed which is made of flesh?! Soleum's heart could burst out right now at the sight. The grotesque setting was something he could hardly take.
Endure it—
He chanted in his head, the table in front of the sofa had a plate set, he avoids looking at it's contents.
And then— he hears the footsteps.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Heavy against the wooden flooring— probably of a man. He instinctively grabs her wrist and guides her to hide behind a wall. The man; one of the couples walks in and settles on the sofa.
His appearance is nothing short of a nightmare. Messy hair, sunken three pure black eyes, there's no white part in his eyes, a stitch running through the end of his lips to his sides, parts of arms and legs stitched together at weird angle, an enormous tongue sticking out, bloody torn clothes. Yeah, that's the theme— putting things together here.
A gasp leaves from the woman beside him, he doesn't blame her. It's unsettling, he covers the lower part of his face to keep himself from throwing up.
You look to your side, Soleum is covering his lower face with his hand. He points to towards the corridor which goes to the inner of the manor with his other hand. You nod, walking by his side and leaving the living room. You exhale deeply as soon as you have walked a bit out of range, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of you.
Light footsteps against the floor, you and he tread deeper into this filthy, uncanny and nightmarish manor. You both walk in silence not wanting to attract any of the ghosts in the manor.
Step, step, step.
You step on something squishy, you felt the soft object beneath you. Instinctively, you look down to check the object you had stepped on— a blood stained heart. “Eek—”, you try your best to not scream. The man by your side who is trying to maintain a neutral expression but is also disgusted by it.
Sighing, you both move forward. Reaching the doorway of the kitchen, you peek inside from behind the wall.
Inside was a woman; second ghost from the couple. Her body stitched together in similar eerie method. Her hand twirling the ladle in a large sized pan, blood oozing out of the edges, remnants of what used to be a person’s body is scattered around the countertop. You hold back the urge to throw up. You instantly flinch back to your position.
Soleum looks at you and then moves to peek inside, you reflexively grab his forearm halting him in his movements and point towards the corridor. He doesn't question you for the reason and moves along with quiet steps.
Next, you both reach the grotesque bedroom which is at least bearable for the time being.
You exhale softly looking around. At least, it is bearable. Unlike the living room or kitchen. The set of rules on the manual run in your mind.
[ Rule 1 — Don't get caught by the couple and butler in the manor ]
Which you both have been managing with great difficulty.
“Phew..”
[ Rule 2 — Never lock the doors of the room you are in ]
Keeping the rule in mind, you both left the door unlocked. Though, you wonder if this rule is even necessary, it wouldn't matter if you locked it, right?
[ Rule 3 — Don't try to get out of the windows or other places, it will result in death ]
You sigh, this is difficult to deal with. All while you have to come up with an excuse to make him drink that potion.. would he even believe you and drink it if you were to give an excuse? And what excuse can you even give in this situation?
You and Soleum look through the room in search of a piece of the key.
“You know, we might have to look through the kitchen as well..”
His voice cuts through the silence. You flinch at the thought of entering that grotesque space. And looking through that mess? It's impossible.
“Um, but the woman was there and it looked so— just thinking about it makes me want to throw up”, you reply as steadily as possible.
You start going through the vanity table and bed to search for the piece and Soleum starts looking through the cupboard. You hear him sigh, “Yeah.. but we might have to check through it”, you hear him rustling through various things as he speaks.
Your hands stop mid-air at the words, is he going to use me as a distraction to get that ghost out of the kitchen? You wonder. It wouldn't be weird if that idea crosses his mind.. not at all. You knew your fate as a low-rank squad member. Still, the thought made your stomach churn.
He is the same, exactly same, “Would you like me to be..”,
Why am I saying this?
“the distraction and get that..”
It's fucking crazy, why would anyone want to do it?
“monster out of the kitchen?”
Silence fell over the room. He halts his movements and you still staring at the materials inside the drawer, your hands paused mid-air.
“Even if I had that idea I wouldn't want you to do something like that, c/n.”
His words feel hollow, there's nothing to actually keep them afloat. Humans are hypocrites and it applies to him as well.. last time you entered the darkness with an elite team, your co-worker lost an arm.
Just when you're lost in thoughts, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.
Step, step, step.
You turn to look at Soleum and he points towards a narrow spot between the side table and the cupboard— a perfect hiding spot. Was it constructed like this to hide? You didn't know, no, you didn't care.
Hurriedly, you cross the the distance and crouch down, hiding at the spot. Soleum is just behind you, you can hear his breathing, and feel the warmth radiating off him.
Step, step, step.
The footsteps grow closer, you hope that the ghost just passes by the room and doesn't enter here. But the dim lighting probably wouldn't give you two away either. Your heart pounds in your chest.
Thump, thump, thump.
You hear the ghost entering the room, fuck—
You couldn't make out the features when you saw the woman in the kitchen, but now that you look at it, it doesn't have eyes or nose! But surely does have ears and mouth. A gasp almost leaves your mouth before you feel a hand clamped over your lower face— soleum’s.
Uh-oh.
No words are exchanged between you and him. The woman sits in front of the vanity table as if matching up her makeup. You relax slightly, but the hand over your lower face remains firm.
That's when the woman ghost makes a grotesque sound.
Kekekekeke
Ugh- your stomach churns.
The head of the woman stretches as if it were out of a nightmarish ghost story. The face scans the room, though, it doesn't have eyes. It still scans the room.
Someone is here!
The woman’s voice echoes. Suddenly, the face comes right in front of you, just a few centimeters away. You back off instinctively, your back pressing against soleum’s structure, your hand gripping his forearm in terror. The hand against your mouth presses firmer than before to keep you from making any sounds.
He instinctively wraps his arm around your waist pulling you back against himself to keep you and him from getting caught.
The ghost scans around for any sound, finding none. It makes a disappointing sound and returns to it's original state. You both remain planted in your place until the woman finally leaves the room.
When the ghost is finally gone, you relax. His hands pulls away, you exhale deeply, “That was a scare. Thanks, Roe”, you look down at your hands still trembling.
It gave you a fucking heart attack, almost.
You and Soleum rise from your positions. “It’s alright. Let's get back to searching?”
“mhm”
You both continue the search and managed to find 4/5 pieces of the key. Excitement courses through your body, you're almost done, just there. You both have searched every nook cranny for the last piece but unfortunately, were not able to find it yet.
Some rooms were locked even, you wondered why. Nothing was mentioned in the manual regarding them, so you didn't pay much attention to them.
Between this all, you had forgotten about the potion and your actual task, almost.
“Should we go check the second floor?”, you ask him stuffing your hands in your pocket.
Your fingers came in contact with the material inside your pocket, and the realization dawns upon you. The potion! The task!
How are you supposed to do it right now? No, the point is — do you want to anymore? He is genuinely kind, and nice. He didn't throw you into any sort of situation that might be dangerous for you and he even helped you.
Would it be okay to do this to him?
As you're pondering on such thoughts, you both have ascended the stairs to the second floor and walking into the corridors of the bizzare second room. You both walk in silence, when you see a figure parallel to you both.
You froze.
It’s the butler!
A/n~ Thanksie so much for reading! Sorry, not sorry for the cliffhanger. Will be uploading part-2 soon!
summary ⟡ A wounded knight finds sanctuary with a witch.
contains ⟡ 17.1k wc, female reader, witch reader, knight phainon, (temporary) amnesia/memory loss, yandere?, phainon is mentally unhealthy here, moral ambiguity, blood and violence (not very graphic but it is there), minor character deaths (yes. deathS!), slow burn-ish, some fluff
note ⟡ it’s here!!! it’s finally here!!!! 😁 after two long months, i can finally share this fic with all of you hehehehe. also i changed the title last minute bc i realized from eden fit much better with what i was going for in this story than like real people do!! i also dedicate this piece to @elysiumae for sending me the art that inspired me to write this in the first place. i hope you come to love this just as much as i do <3
also posted on ⟡ ao3
extended author’s note here!
𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃
Steel clashes against steel. The air is thick with smoke and the copper tang of blood, and Phainon—commander of King Nanook’s vanguard—stands in the heart of the chaos. His black helm marks him as a beacon, and enemy spears and arrows alike seek him out. Around him, his men falter, their shields splintered, their cries swallowed by the roar of advancing foes.
He bellows orders, cutting down another soldier that charges, but the tide is against them. The line collapses. War banners fall to the mud. One by one, his comrades vanish beneath the enemy’s press until Phainon realizes he is the last.
A spear grazes his helm, and agony bursts white-hot across his skull. His vision reels, the world washing red. Blood spills hot down the side of his face, searing his eye. He staggers back, fighting only to keep his legs moving.
The battlefield is lost. To stay is to die.
He turns and runs. Through smoke, through brambles, through the jeers and shouts of pursuit, he forces his battered body onward. Each step is heavier than the last; each breath feels like fire. The enemy’s shouts echo behind him, but the forest swallows him whole, branches clawing at his armor as he crashes deeper into the shadows.
The forest is deep and strange—the deeper he runs, the quieter the world becomes, as though the trees themselves conspire to swallow sound.
He is alone, save for the thundering of his heart and the wet drip of blood from his helm. His sword slips from his hand, forgotten. The world tilts and Phainon collapses onto the forest floor.
His vision blurs, and just before the darkness takes him, he hears the soft crunch of leaves close by. Then, a gentle meow.
And, nothing more.
𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇
He wakes to silence.
His eyes open slowly. A wooden ceiling looms above him, beams dark with age, the air tinged with the scent of herbs. He doesn’t recognize it—doesn’t recognize anything.
More than that, he doesn’t remember who he is.
His chest tightens as he searches the fog of his mind for something—a name, a memory, a place—but it’s like reaching into smoke: everything slips away before he can hold it.
He swallows against the dryness of his throat. He’s in a bed, blanket heavy on his chest. Around him, there are shelves sagging with jars and bottles, books are stacked haphazardly, and there are strange trinkets laid out everywhere. None of it sparks recognition.
He sits up too quickly. The room tilts, his skull throbs, and he grips the blanket bunched at his waist until the dizziness fades.
A sound draws him out of himself. Meow.
He turns his head. An orange cat sits on the windowsill, its yellow eyes fixed on him, tail flicking lazily. They regard each other for a long moment, as though the creature expects something of him. Then, without ceremony, it leaps down and pads out the door.
His body protests as he pushes the blankets aside, muscles stiff and uncooperative. He staggers when he stands, catching himself against the bedpost. His legs are heavy, but the need to follow propels him forward. Each step is unsteady, but he manages, trailing the soundless paws through the narrow hall and down a creaking stair.
The cat doesn’t wait; it moves with a purpose, leaving him to stumble after, forcing his pace to match.
At last, a door yawns open onto light. He blinks against it, squinting as the cat pads outside. He follows, and he emerges into air crisp with pine and soil.
What he sees makes him stop in the doorway.
You stand at the heart of a small clearing, bathed in the dappled light that falls through the trees. Birds perch on your shoulders and fingers as though you were a branch. A fox lingers at your feet. Rabbits, a deer, and a dozen other forest creatures circle you in attendance. Your lips move, and though he can’t hear the words, he knows you are speaking to them.
The orange cat trots toward you and lets out a sharp meow. You turn at the sound.
Your gaze meets his across the clearing. For a moment, the world holds its breath. His heart lurches in his chest, stuttering in a rhythm he doesn’t understand.
The animals scatter at once, startled by his sudden presence. Birds lift onto the trees, the deer bounds into the shadows, and rabbits vanish into the bushes. In their wake, only you remain, standing alone at the center, the cat padding to your side.
Your hands lower slowly, and then you turn to face him fully.
“You’re finally awake,” you say. “That’s good. You’ve been unconscious for two weeks. Actually…” You tilt your head, frowning faintly. “Why are you here? You should be in bed still.”
The words are simple yet he barely hears them. His heart stumbles against his ribs, as though it recognizes something his mind cannot. He can’t look away from you. He doesn’t know who he is, but standing beneath your eyes, he feels anchored, as though some missing piece has found its way back to him.
You stride towards him with quick steps. Before he can speak, your hands press lightly against his arm, his shoulder, steering him back toward the house. The touch makes him jolt more than the cold air outside, small and unassuming but somehow enough to stir heat into his chest.
You push him gently through the doorway and into the living room with the small couch. “Sit,” you insist, ushering him down.
He obeys clumsily, lowering himself into the cushions. His body sinks into them, but his gaze drifts back to you, searching, wondering.
“I followed your cat,” he says at last, voice rough with disuse. The words feel inadequate, almost foolish, but they’re all he can manage against the pull inside him.
“Ah, yes,” you call from the kitchen. A moment later, you return, a glass of water in hand. You press it into his grasp and he accepts without protest.
“His name is Mydei, short for Mydeimos,” you explain, settling opposite him. “He keeps an eye on you when I can’t.”
As if summoned by the mention, the orange cat leaps onto the low table between you. Mydei sits with practiced elegance, tail curling neatly around his paws.
“Oh. Thank you?” he says, though the words sound uncertain, like a question.
Mydei blinks slowly, then offers a soft meow, as if in reply.
You hide a faint smile. “Aside from disorientation, what else are you feeling? Is your head aching? Any nausea? You lost a great deal of blood.”
He takes a long sip of water, letting the coolness ease the dryness in his throat before lowering the glass to his lap.
“My head…” he hesitates, pressing a hand to his temple. “It aches, yes, but not… unbearably.” His brow furrows as he tries to chase the thought further. “Everything feels… heavy. Like my body isn’t mine yet.”
He falls quiet, eyes dropping to the glass in his hand. A moment passes before he adds, “I don’t remember much. Hardly anything at all. Not even my name.”
“Hm… how inconvenient,” you say, thoughtful but not unkind. “That means we have no way of knowing how you came into my forest looking as though you’d just walked away from a battlefield.”
At the word battle, something stirs in him—sharp, jagged pain flickering behind his eyes. He winces, a hand lifting instinctively to his temple. And just as quickly as it comes, the ache fades, leaving only the echo of something he cannot grasp.
You watch him carefully, noting the shadow that passes across his face, but choose not to press. Instead, your voice softens, “But I do know your name.”
His head lifts, hope in his eyes.
“Your broadsword carried an engraving,” you continue. “Phainon. I believe that’s your name.”
The name strikes something inside him—a resonance, like the toll of a bell. He mouths it once, tasting the syllables, then again with more sound. “Phainon…” The word feels both foreign and familiar, like a garment he once wore but has long since outgrown.
“I had a little trouble carrying your sword back with me,” you admit, a faint crease forming at the edge of your brow. “It’s a good thing Mydei was there to help while I carried you.”
Phainon blinks, gaze sliding toward the orange cat perched on the table. Mydei is calmly licking a paw, utterly unconcerned.
A cat—carrying a broadsword. He can’t wrap his head around it. The image his mind conjures—this small, sleek creature dragging a weapon nearly as tall as he is—strains against reason.
“What a strange thing,” Phainon mutters.
You tilt your head at his remark, an amused smile flickering at your lips. “Strange as it may be, but it’s true. Mydei has his ways.”
Then as fast as it came, the smile on your face vanishes, replaced by a more solemn look. “Listen… you’re still in no state to be wandering. You’ve lost too much blood and your memories are—” you hesitate, choosing the gentlest word, “—foggy.”
“Foggy,” he echoes.
You nod, and continue, “I have room here. Stay—at least until you’ve recovered your strength. Until your memories start to return.”
The offer hangs in the air. Phainon looks at you as if the world had shifted beneath him.
“You want me to… stay?” he repeats. “And that’s fine with you? I… I’m a stranger.”
You nod once, and the corners of your mouth lift into a reassuring smile. “Yes. Stay.”
Something flickers across his face—relief perhaps, though he’s not sure himself. With quivering lips and a shaky breath, he says, “Then… thank you.”
Mydei hops down from the table, tail swishing, and curls up at your feet as though sealing the agreement.
𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘
He learns the days by the way the light moves across the floor. Morning begins when the window fills with golden light, when the air smells faintly of herbs and boiling water. Evening comes when the shadows stretch long enough to touch his bedpost.
At first, he only watches.
You move through the house with quietness and certainty, hands always busy with something—stirring, pounding, pouring, stitching. He studies the rhythm of your motions, how even your smallest gestures seem to have purpose.
He tries to mimic that quiet. He sits when you tell him to rest, eats what you place before him, drinks the bitter teas you prepare without complaint. But still, there’s a restlessness under his skin. His body remembers movement, command, duty—even if his mind has lost the names for them.
Sometimes you catch him standing by the doorway, staring at the forest beyond. His hand will twitch faintly at his side, as though reaching for something that isn’t there. Other times, he startles when you enter a room too quietly, muscles tensing before he realizes it’s only you.
Once, you find him outside before dawn, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s been trying to split a fallen branch with a knife far too small for the task. The effort leaves his hands trembling.
“You should be in bed,” is what you say as you approach him from behind.
He freezes mid-motion, then turns to look at you—like a child caught stealing bread. “I thought… I could help.”
“You’ll help by healing,” you say, taking the knife gently from his hand.
He hesitates, then nods, slow and obedient. When you turn to leave, he follows you back without another word.
After that morning, he still rises early. But now, when you catch him watching the light through the window, he stays seated—if only for a little while. He tries to rest, but rest does not come easily. His wounds are healing, and his memories remain unsteady, yet idleness feels wrong to him.
Before long, he begins to move again.
He knows what it is to serve—to repay debt with labor—so he volunteers for small tasks.
At first, you refuse him. You tell him he’s still healing, that his hands should hold nothing heavier than a spoon. But the more you insist, the more it seems to ache in him. One morning, he follows you out to the clearing, eyes earnest.
“Let me help,” he says. His voice trembles with something close to pleading. “I can’t just sit here while you work. Please—give me something to do.”
You study him for a long moment—the way his shoulders hover between tension and apology, the way his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides as though already reaching for a task. Finally, you sigh, gesturing toward the axe resting by a stump.
“Fine,” you relent, “If you insist, start with that. But take it slowly. If you reopen your wounds, I’ll make you drink every bitter tonic in this house.”
He nods—too eagerly, too grateful—and moves to take the axe. When his hands close around the handle, his posture shifts into something almost reverent. He runs a thumb along the grain of the wood as though it was something more than a tool of work.
The first swing is clumsy. The second lands better. By the fifth, the rhythm begins to find him. And though sweat beads at his temple and his breath comes hard, there’s certainty in his motions, like something dormant has remembered its shape.
When the pile at his feet grows, he looks toward you, expectant and seeking approval. And you only nod, smiling faintly. “That’s enough for now.”
But later, when you find the buckets by the well filled to the brim, or the latch on the cupboard newly repaired, you don’t comment. You only notice the way his shoulders ease when you pretend not to notice.
And soon it becomes habit—his way of contributing, his way of belonging.
However, he is not alone in these routines.
At first, he thinks it’s a coincidence—the way Mydei always seems to appear wherever he goes. The cat follows him everywhere, always just a few steps behind.
Even at night, he’s there.
The first evening, Phainon nearly trips over him on his way to bed. Mydei is already settled on the doorway, tail curled neatly around his paws.
“Are you keeping watch?” Phainon asks, but the cat only blinks.
The next night, it’s the same. On the third, Phainon tries again. “You don’t have to guard me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Mydei’s ears twitch, but he says nothing.
Phainon sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Right… You only respond to her, don’t you?”
The cat tilts his head slightly. Then he curls into himself, and the glow of his eyes fades in the dark.
After that, Phainon stops trying—he lets the silence stay between them. So now, when Mydei pads after him at dusk and settles in his usual spot, Phainon simply lets him be. There’s a strange comfort in that quiet surveillance, even if the cat doesn’t feel like opening himself up to him.
And eventually, the days fall into rhythm.
At dawn, he shoulders the axe, splitting logs until the ache in his arms feels almost right. His palms blister, but he swings as though they’ve blistered a thousand times before. At midday, he hauls buckets of water from the well, stride steady but gaze far away. In the evenings, he mends what he can: roofs, fences, tools. His fingers fumble over the smaller work, but when they curl around a hammer’s grip, they fall into familiar certainty.
The quiet is a kindness, but also a cage. The hush of the forest presses in on him, and though the air smells of pine and earth, he feels his muscles twitch for an enemy that never comes. His hands ache not only for work, but for the heft of a blade, for the moment of strike and counterstrike.
At night, he lies awake staring at the broadsword propped in the corner of his room. You had cleaned it for him, oiled the leather of its grip, and even polished the steel until it caught the sunlight in sharp glimmers during mornings. Beside it rests the armor you had stripped from him when he first stumbled into your care—dented, scarred, but whole again after your diligent scrubbing.
The sight always stirs something in him. He cannot recall the battles that scarred that armor, cannot name the men who might have stood by his side, but his body knows. The urge to stand guard through the night, to patrol the forest, to protect this small house and the one who sheltered him—it thrums in his chest as if written into his blood.
Perhaps he was a knight once. The thought explains much: the impulse to serve, the hunger to protect, the restlessness that drives his muscles even in peace. Yet the longer he gazes at the steel, the heavier his chest grows.
A knight without memory is little more than a stray dog—trained to bite, yet wandering without a master to serve.
One evening, over the simple fare you’ve prepared—stew and bread—he sets his spoon down. “You never cook meat,” he observes. “Do you not care for it?” His tone is casual, but his eyes search for you carefully, as if gauging whether it’s want or scarcity that keeps it from your table.
“I could hunt for you,” he adds after a pause, almost eager. The thought of the chase, the draw of the bow, the kill—it would give his restless muscles something to do, something they know.
But you decline immediately, shaking your head. “No. Thank you, but I don’t eat meat or poultry.”
He frowns faintly, confused. “Why not?”
“Because land animals are my friends,” you say simply. “I will not ask one to die for my plate.”
The words settle heavily between you. His shoulders ease, and though the hunger for action still coils within him, he swallows it down.
“I see,” he murmurs, glancing down at his hands—hands that probably (surely) once lived by killing—and does not press further.
Sometimes, like today, he pauses, standing in the clearing with the axe poised above the wood, and the thought comes unbidden: I could split a skull just as easily. And the image lingers too vividly in his head.
His grip tightens on the handle. Then, something flashes behind his eyes.
He’s no longer in the forest, no longer holding an axe. The weight in his hands is heavier. The air reeks of smoke and oil, and the light is wrong—it comes from fire, not sun. Around him, armored figures move through around a narrow room. There’s a table overturned, and he hears a child crying; a woman’s voice is pleading from somewhere behind the door.
But Phainon’s eyes are fixed only on the man before him—kneeling, trembling, faceless. Then, his arm moves before he can think. The blade arcs down.
Then the vision is gone.
He staggers, and the axe is heavy in his hands again. The forest is quiet and his pulse hammers against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.
He doesn’t notice at first that Mydei has been watching from the fence post. The cat’s yellow eyes never waver, tail flicking. And when Phainon grips the axe too long, when his breath grows heavy, Mydei meows, and it pulls him back.
Phainon exhales, and then he goes back to work.
The pile at his feet is already enough for weeks, but he keeps swinging, each crack and thud a way to drown out the darker images that slip too easily into his thoughts. For a moment, he grips the axe too tightly, staring at the blade as though it might turn on him.
Slowly, he sets the tool aside. For a long while, he just stands there, palms raw, trying to shake the violence from his body. He wipes his hands from his tunic, as though the gesture might wipe away the images too.
“Phainon.”
Your voice pulls him away from his thoughts. He startles slightly, caught off guard, and he turns toward the sound of you.
“You’ll wear out both axe and arms if you keep at it like this,” you say, walking toward him. “The forest can only give so much.”
His expression falters into sheepishness. He wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, then rubs at his neck. “Sorry. I just… want to be useful.”
“You’ve split enough to last me a month,” you reply. “There are better ways to be useful.”
He blinks. “Like what?”
“You can come with me to town today. I haven’t gone in some time—too busy making sure you don’t fall apart under my roof.”
His brows rise. “Town? There’s a town nearby?”
An amused smile makes it way to your lips. “Of course. Where else would I get fish and flour? You didn’t think I pulled them out of thin air, did you?”
“I thought…” he hesitates, “I thought you just made them appear. You are a witch, aren’t you?”
That earns him a laugh. “You’re a funny one, Phainon. Yes, I am a witch, but I don’t conjure what I can craft and gather. I could, but I’d rather make things than have them simply appear.”
“Sorry. It’s just—” Phainon shifts awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck again. “You’re probably the first witch I’ve ever met.”
Your smile tilts, and almost teasingly, you say, “Probably? We wouldn’t know, would we? Not with your memories still fogged over.”
Before he can answer, you turn briskly. “Come on, then. To town. My apprentice is likely wringing her hands by now, wondering where I’ve gone again.”
He hesitates. “Wait—what about the house? Won’t you need someone to guard it while you’re away?”
“Mydei can handle it,” you say, as though it’s obvious. Right on cue, the orange cat slips from behind your skirts with a little meow, brushing against your legs. Phainon blinks at him, incredulous.
First, the creature can drag around a broadsword. Now he’s expected to stand sentry over a house?
You catch his expression and suppress a laugh. “Mydei is a magical cat. He can do anything a person can do—sometimes even better.”
Phainon gives the animal another long look, but Mydei only flicks his tail and yawns.
“And besides,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “this forest is spelled. Anyone with ill intent who tries to cross the border won’t make it far.”
His brows furrow. “What happens to these people?”
“They get lost,” you answer, too calm, too uncaring. “Until the forest swallows them whole.”
The words echo long after you’ve spoken them.
Phainon can’t quite shake the thought of the forest, and of those who would enter it with dark intent. And what it might do to him, should the forest ever decide his heart was not so clean.
Even as you set off together, the sound of your voice lingers in his skull, heavy as the axe he left behind. The path out of the woods is easier beneath your lead, but he cannot help glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see eyes in the trees.
By the time the trees thin and the road spills into a village, the shift is jarring. Voices rise and tumble together—market cries, children’s laughter, the thud of cart wheels on earth. Smoke curls from chimneys, and the scent of bread and roasting meat hangs heavy in the air.
It should feel safe, yet Phainon’s chest stays tight. There are too many people—too many voices overlapping, too many faces he doesn’t know, too many bodies moving in patterns he can’t predict. In the forest, it was simple: just you, him, Mydei, and the animals. It was a world he can hold with his hands.
Here, everything is too much and too loud. A child darts past, laughing, and he tenses. A shopkeeper calls out prices, and his back straightens. Someone jostles his elbow in passing, and his hand twitches and aches for something akin to a weapon.
He keeps close to you, shadowing your steps as though your presence alone is a tether. You are the only familiar thing in this sea of strangers.
You lead Phainon toward a quaint shop draped in hanging plants and vines. When the two of you step inside, something white blurs past the shelves and barrels toward you. It collides with your chest in a soft, squeaking impact.
Phainon reacts instantly: his hand shoots to his back, grasping for the familiar weight of his broadsword, but only air greets him. His other hand curls into a fist as his shoulders tense, but you lift a palm to still him. A subtle shake of your head halts his instinct.
There’s no enemy here.
His jaw tightens, though his stance relaxes slightly. He lowers his hands, still watching the odd being as though it might bite.
There’s… a creature nuzzling against your neck. Plump and round, with soft white fur tinged in pink and turquoise, its tiny wings flutter uselessly against your shoulder. It makes a plaintive, piping sound, halfway between a whistle and a squeak.
“Yes, yes,” you murmur, your hand smoothing over its mane comfortingly. “I’m back now. You can stop crying.”
“What… what is that?” Phainon asks.
“This is Little Ica,” you reply, tone far warmer than it had been earlier in the forest. “They’re a pegasus and my apprentice’s familiar. Speaking of…” You glance around the shop, scanning the shadows beyond shelves. “Where’s Hyacine?”
As if on cue, the sound of hurried steps come rushing through the backroom. Then a voice, light with relief, exclaims, “You’re back!” Hyacine rushes, her curls bouncing with each step. She stops short when she sees Phainon, but her worry swiftly overtakes her surprise.
“You were gone so long! I thought maybe you’d forgotten to eat again.” Her gaze flicks over you, searching for signs of weariness. “You didn’t, did you? You always lose track when you’re mixing stuff, and—oh, never mind, at least you’re safe and alright.”
Her eyes soften further when they land on the pegasus nestled against your shoulder. “And Little Ica found you first, hm? No wonder I heard them crying.” Then her eyes fall on Phainon again, who’s all tall and stiff behind you. “And you’ve brought someone with you. You never even come to town with Mydei, yet here you are—walking with another man.”
Hyacine’s voice takes on a teasing tone, and you sigh at once. Her words, however, make Phainon’s head tilt curiously.
Another man? Is she hinting at someone else in your life? But he has never seen another soul in the forest besides you, Mydei, your animal friends, and himself. Who is Hyacine talking about?
“He’s a stray I picked up not long ago,” you answer lightly. “He’s the reason why I’ve been absent.”
Hyacine’s brows lift with interest. “Are you taking him in as an apprentice too? Ica and I wouldn’t mind another friend!”
“Oh, no,” you say quickly. “He’s only here for a short while.”
“Aw, that’s too bad.” She juts her lips, pouting. “What brings him here with you today then?”
“A change of scenery,” you reply. “He’s been shut away in the forest for days. I thought the bustle of town might do him some good—help clear his mind. He’s lost his memories, you see.”
Hyacine’s face softens. She glances at Phainon, expression turning gentle, almost pitying. “How awful. What happened to him? And how did you even find him?”
“Mydei found him actually,” you explain. “Just at the edge of the forest. He said Phainon looked like he was running from something. But whoever—or whatever—it was, they’ve probably already lost their way.”
“Oh, Phainon? Is that your name?” Hyacine tilts her head toward him.
He shifts slightly, before giving a curt nod. “Apparently.”
Her lips twitch, and a small giggle escapes. “Well, it suits you. Lucky you stumbled into our forest. Not all who dwell in the woods—witch or not—are half as kind as my teacher.”
“Are you speaking ill of Anaxa again?” you ask with an amused smile. “You know you would’ve been his apprentice if Ica hadn’t liked me better.”
Anaxa. A man’s name, and it snags in Phainon’s mind. Is that the man that Hyacine must be hinting at? The other man?
Hyacine huffs. “If I’d known you were such a stubborn and neglectful teacher, I would have accepted Mr. Anaxagoras’s offer instead!”
“Of course you would.” You shake your head, smiling faintly as though you’ve had this argument before. “But enough of that. I didn’t come here just to banter. I brought new wares for the shop.”
At that, Little Ica finally detaches from your shoulder, wings fluttering as they drift toward Hyacine. You lift your hand, and with a casual flick of your fingers, the air beside you ripples. A pocket of space yawns open, and without hesitation, you slide your arm inside, as if reaching into another world.
Phainon stiffens, heart thudding hard at the sight of your hand disappearing into nothingness. He surges forward, hand shooting out to seize your shoulder before the void can swallow you, but before he can touch you, your free hand lifts and presses lightly against his chest. The touch halts him more effectively than a command.
“What are you—” His voice is harsher than he means it to be, the tension audible.
“Relax,” you murmur. “It’s only a space pocket. A safe place to keep what I can’t carry on my own.”
The warmth of your palm lingers through the fabric of his tunic, and he finds himself frozen there, caught between embarrassment and the urge to insist you step away from the rippling darkness.
He swallows hard, forcing himself to still. His eyes, however, don’t leave the pocket of space that devours your arm with casual ease.
A moment later, you withdraw, arm still intact and holding neat bundle of herbs and jars. You brush the dust from your hands as though you’d done nothing more extraordinary than fetch something from a shelf.
You hold the things out to Hyacine, and she stretches her arms to take them. Phainon lingers behind, watching the exchange.
“You could have used me to carry them for you,” he says.
Because he would have. He would have if you had only asked. For you—his savior, the one who let him stay even though he had nothing to offer but a name he didn’t even remember and a sword he can’t quite recall how to wield—he would carry far heavier things. That’s what a knight does, isn’t it? They pay their debts with their own body, their own service, their own small pieces of loyalty chipped away until they belong entirely to the one who spared them.
A knight serves. A knight owes. And what is he now, if not a man shaped to serve?
“You’re still recovering,” you answer. You don’t even look at him as you say it, which makes it worse, as though the matter is already decided and he doesn’t get a say. “You shouldn’t even be chopping wood at all, but you insist on chores. You are a very hardheaded patient.”
At that, Hyacine bursts out laughing, her curls bouncing as she hugs the bundles to her chest. “Finally,” she says, bright and teasing, “you’ve met someone who can go toe-to-toe with your stubbornness!”
You roll your eyes, but Phainon blinks at the words, tilting his head slightly, as though he’s unsure whether to feel stung or proud or both. His mouth opens like he might protest, then shuts again. He looks away instead and curls his fists, as if silently promising himself next time, he’ll carry the burden before you even get the chance to deny him.
When the two of you finally leave the shop, you guide him through the streets toward the wet market. The air is damp and heavy with the smell of fish, blood, and mud, and there are voices calling out prices and children darting between stalls.
Phainon notices the eyes—not just glances, but lingering looks that follow wherever you walk. And he hears whispers too, words he cannot make sense of but knows must be about you, because they never started until you appeared.
And you don’t say a thing. Maybe you don’t hear it, or maybe you’ve grown used to it—so used to it that it slides right off you. But Phainon can’t let it slide; it scrapes against him like grit in an old wound.
Why do they look at you like that, as though you are something to be feared and mocked all at once? Why do they whisper with so little care, as if you aren’t standing right here among them? And the vendors—the boldest of them all—jeer openly when you pass, muttering under their breaths as though you were powerless, as though you weren’t a witch, as if you’re less than them when he’s certain it’s the other way around.
It builds in his chest—that hot, bristling urge to step in front of you, to bare his teeth, to silence them all. And he almost does, but you just keep moving, intent on the stalls, so he forces himself to match your pace.
At a cart piled with pale cabbages and spotted apples, you pause. He leans down close, words caught between clenched teeth, low enough that only you can hear.
“Why do they behave like this toward you?”
You’re turning an apple over in your hand, examining its bruised skin. “Because I don’t belong here,” you answer simply. “They’re always like that. Just ignore them.”
“But how could they be so… crude?” His voice carries the disbelief of someone who still doesn’t understand how people can bite the hand of someone who has never even done them wrong.
“That’s just how ordinary folk are,” you murmur, putting the apple back with a faint shake of your head. You mutter something about the fruits not being fresh, before moving on to another stall. “It’s not as though they can do anything to me anyway. This is the most they can do—whisper, sneer, look away when I pass. I’m fortunate enough to even set foot in their home. And if they did try to drive me away…”
Your voice tilts, even quieter, “Well. They’d lose the one thing I can give them that they need most—which is medicine.”
Phainon frowns. “They don’t have doctors here?”
“No.” You shake your head. “This town is poor, though it may not look like it at a glance. They have too many mouths, but not enough coins. They would all be dead if not for me.”
You say it so easily, so matter-of-fact, that Phainon almost misses the weight of the words. His frown deepens; he wants to say they should be on their knees before you for that. That they should build shrines to your name if you’re the reason they’re even breathing.
Instead, you add, “Hyacine helps too, of course. She knows how to heal, how to prepare salves and teas. But she’s still learning, and I won’t let her rely on magic for curing sickness.”
Phainon tilts his head. “Why not? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
You shake your head again. “Because magic can fail, or worse—it can hurt if used carelessly. Herbs, remedies… those are reliable. A cure has to last longer than a spell. Hyacine is clever, but she still has much to learn before she can craft medicine without error.”
You turn another piece of produce in your palm, and mutter something about rot and poor harvests again. Phainon doesn’t say anything anymore, because he’s thinking about the eyes that lingers, the whispers, and the jeers circling endlessly in his mind.
He shadows over you as you move from stall to stall. And though he’s silent, his hands keep twitching at his sides, as though itching for a sword—or something, anything—that could cut sharp enough toward anyone who dares linger too long in their staring.
The walk back is quieter.
The sun hasn’t moved much—still hanging somewhere between noon and after—but the streets are emptier now, and the voices from the market have faded into the distance. The air smells of pine again, of damp earth and dust.
Phainon walks a step behind you, carrying the bundle of things you bought: produce, cloth, jars, and even the small pouches of salt and spices you insisted was light enough to carry yourself—until he looked at you as if you’d insulted him just by suggesting so.
You’d argued, of course. You’d said, “I have a space pocket. It’s far more convenient and easier.” And he’d said, “But you told me earlier there were other ways to be useful. This is me being useful.”
You’d gone quiet after that, lips pressing thin before you muttered something under your breath that sounded a lot like stubborn man. So now, here you are, walking through the road that leads back to the forest while he shoulders all the weight like it means nothing.
“You know,” you say all of a sudden. “You behave so much like a knight sometimes.”
Phainon blinks, caught off guard by the sudden remark. “In what way?”
“Apart from the sword you carried and the armor you wore when you came here, I can also sense it in the way you can’t sit still,” you answer, looking straight ahead. “You always need to be doing something. Helping. Chopping. Fixing. Carrying things that aren’t yours to carry. You get anxious when you’re idle. You want to be useful.”
He huffs a small laugh through his nose, not because it’s funny, but because the words land too neatly in him. “That sounds accurate.”
“I thought so.” You tilt your head. “You’re like a dog, really.”
The word hits him like a strike. He stops walking.
Something moves behind his eyes—a flicker, a flash, a sound. A voice, deep and cold and too familiar though he’s certain he’s never heard it before.
My knight.
My beast.
My hound.
The words echo through his skull, and the world seems to lurch with them. The road blurs, and for a moment, he isn’t standing on dirt beneath the dappled light of the noon sun. Instead, he’s kneeling on marble, head bowed low, and wearing his armor—he also feels a hand, heavy and pressing, resting on his head as though he were some animal that needed taming.
The weight of that imagined touch burns through him.
He sucks in a breath, and his shoulders tense. The bundle in his arms shifts, jars clinking faintly. His skin has also gone cold, yet his pulse races like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat.
You notice instantly. “Phainon?” you call his name, stopping in your tracks as well and turning to him. “What’s wrong?”
He swallows hard, but the words don’t come right away. His mouth is dry. The memory dissolves quickly as quickly as it came, leaving only the echo of the words lingering like an aftertaste.
Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough, “Don’t… don’t call me that. I don’t like it.”
You blink. “Like what?”
“A dog. I don’t…” His throat bobs. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”
You study him for a moment—his pallor, the way his knuckles whiten around the things he’s carrying, the faraway look in his eyes, the strange stillness in his face as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
“Alright,” you say, softly, kindly. “I won’t call you that again.”
He exhales, a small, uneven breath that sounds like it’s meant to be a thank you but gets lost somewhere before it reaches his tongue. The silence that envelops between you is fragile—like something that could break if either of you spoke too loudly.
When you start walking again, he follows, though quieter than before. His mind hums with the ghost of that voice, that hand, the word that shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.
Once you arrive back at your home, Mydei is the first to greet you.
He’s waiting on the porch, tail curled neatly around his paws. The moment he spots you, a soft meow slips from his throat. He rises and stretches, then pads down the step to brush against your leg. His fur carries the warmth of the afternoon sun.
“Missed us, did you?” you murmur, stooping to run your fingers through his coat. Mydei purrs, low and content, circling your ankles once before glancing up at Phainon.
His gaze lingers. Then, with a flick of his tail, he turns and follows after you as you step inside the cottage. He doesn’t brush against Phainon.
Behind you, Phainon lets out a short huff that sounds like laughter. “He still doesn’t like me,” he says. “So I don’t think he missed me as much as he does you.”
“Yes,” you agree without a second’s hesitation.
Phainon stares at you, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he can’t decide whether to feel offended or amused. “That was very quick.”
“Well,” you shrug, “I wasn’t going to lie. Cats can be quite territorial, you know.”
He hums, pondering. “He must think I’m going to steal you from him.”
You laugh, sudden and melodious—one of those bright little sounds that seem to catch him off guard every time, as though he hasn’t quite learned you’re capable of making it. And maybe that’s because you don’t laugh like that often. Most days your amusement comes out quieter; just a small puff of air through your nose paired with a smile, the kind of understated warmth one only notices if they’re paying close attention.
But this one—this clear, unguarded laugh of yours—is rare enough to feel like a gift. So rare that Phainon goes absolutely still for a moment, as if unsure whether he’s meant to hold it, treasure it, bow to it, or simply let it wash over him.
“Now I wouldn’t go that far,” you say. “Mydei is just protective.”
“Of you?” he manages to ask, feigning neutrality.
“Of the house. Of the forest,” you say, trailing off. “And yes, perhaps of me, as well. He’s like the guardian of this forest. He protects everything and everyone here.”
“Even me?” he asks.
“Yes. Even you.”
The words hit him strangely—like something heavier than reassurance, lighter than a promise, and yet somehow both. Phainon rubs the back of his neck as if trying to hide the warmth gathering there.
He thinks back to all the times Mydei has stalked behind him (which is always, really). The soft pad of paws trailing a few steps behind, the quiet little huffs of breath, the occasional meow when Phainon’s thoughts spiral too far into places they shouldn’t go.
He remembers the nights when he would sit up in bed, palm pressed to his ribs, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and Mydei would hop onto the foot of the bed and simply stare at him.
Stop, the stare always seems to say. Don’t think of it. Don’t think about anything at all.
And somehow, it works. It helps. He helps. Though Phainon doubts the cat does any of it out of affection; more likely, it’s obligation. Or maybe, just like you said, it’s out of territorial instincts. Or maybe… the cat thinks he does it out of protection of you.
Protection from what? From whom? From himself?
That possibility feels uncomfortably plausible.
He wouldn’t put it past himself to hurt someone. He has the hands for it, the instincts for it, and the memories—though he could only recall half of it. But you? No. He could never deliberately hurt you. Not you—not the one who pulled him from the edge of death, the one who gave him a home before he even remembered who he was.
You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t feel stained.
Maybe Mydei is indeed magical like the way you claimed. You’re a witch; you produce pockets of space out of thin air and murmur words that make plants grow faster. So why not a magical cat? Why not a cat that can drag broadswords through forests or curse intruders or—he snorts quietly to himself—transform into a person if he wanted to?
The image almost makes him laugh. He can imagine it: Mydei as some unimpressed, sharp-tongued man, flicking his tail in human form.
“I really still can’t see how Mydei can do so much with his tiny body,” Phainon says, chuckling.
You smile. It’s the kind of smile that looks like you’re hiding the punchline to a joke the world isn’t privy to. “You have no idea.”
Your smile lingers for a heartbeat too long. And his gaze lingers on you for two heartbeats longer than that.
The house is warm behind you, with the smell of herbs drifting through the open doorway. The trees sway lazily, and Mydei sits between you both, tail twitching, as if monitoring the entire conversation.
It’s peaceful enough that Phainon’s shoulders lower without him realizing. Peaceful in the way a wounded animal might exhale when it recognizes that, finally, it will not be hunted today.
You turn first, heading toward the cottage, Mydei following suit. And Phainon trails after you—the same way he trailed after you into town, the same way he trails behind you whenever you lead the way.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the memory of the moment on the road when you called him a dog and he froze flickers. But now, in the warmth that follows you both toward home, that memory slides off him like water. It’s not gone, but it has dulled—tucked into a corner of his thoughts where it can’t bite.
He catches his reflection in a window: tired eyes, longer hair, and face still bruised at the edges. But then he looks at you again, and the heaviness in him eases.
He wonders if that is magic, too.
𝐈𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃
Days with you slip by almost unnoticed.
Phainon wakes each sunrise to the same rhythm: the scent of herbs steeping, the air filtering through the windows, and the distant chatter of birds gathering near your porch as if waiting for you to come greet them.
He falls into that rhythm without thinking, the same way a stray animal falls into step with the one who feeds it.
He still chops wood every morning. You tell him the pile is large enough already, that the shed won’t fit another log, but he keeps at it anyway. It’s habit. When he’s not swinging the axe, he’s repairing what needs fixing—the latch on the gate, the crack in the basin, the cupboard that hasn’t loosened in years. Sometimes, you suspect he breaks things just to mend them again. And he still carries water for you. Always insists on two buckets at once, even when you tell him the well isn’t going anywhere.
(And always, there is Mydei, watching.
Always, there is you.)
But lately, he’s begun to do other things too. He helps you tend to the herbs in the garden—kneeling awkwardly in the dirt, too big and stiff for such delicate work, yet careful, almost reverent when he’s handling the leaves. Sometimes he forgets how gentle he has to be, snapping a stem or bruising a sprig, and he looks so stricken you can’t help but laugh and tell him it’ll grow back.
(He notices, too, how you laugh more now. He remembers the early days when your laughter had been quieter, almost like you weren’t sure he could handle too much warmth at once. But lately—ever since that day the two of you first returned from town—your laughter has been different, looser. As if being beside him no longer requires caution. As if something between you both unlatched itself without either of you speaking about it out loud.
And perhaps he notices more than he should. Because now, whenever he fumbles with a sprig or accidentally uproots an entire seedling, you laugh openly and he tries to pretend it doesn’t strike him straight in the chest. He ducks his heads, pretends he’s checking the soil, pretends he’s not memorizing the way the sound curls around him like the light from the sun.
He doesn’t understand why it affects him so much. He only knows that he could grow addicted to it.)
He helps you cook too, though “help” is generous. He cuts too precisely, stirs too rigidly, like he’s following orders no one gave. He asks if he’s doing it wrong, and you tell him he can do whatever he wants as long as it’s still suitable for cooking.
He goes to town with you every now and then—to visit Hyacine, to restock your supplies, to carry the heavy things you insist aren’t heavy. The villagers still whisper when you pass, and Phainon pretends not to hear them. He doesn’t realize that sometimes, his silence is more of a comfort than his anger could ever be.
And then there are the forest animals.
At first, he only watched from afar as you fed them—the foxes, the deers, the flock of birds that perch on your arms as though you’re just another tree. Now, he feeds them too, though never alone. He says he’s afraid he’ll scare them off. You tell him the creatures like him, that they sense his good intentions. He doesn’t quite believe you, and the doubt sits quietly in his chest.
He knows what still sleeps inside him. The thirst. The edge. Whatever part of him remembers blood and command and killing. He fears that if he ever lets his guard down, if he ever reaches too fast, too hungry, he’ll harm something—someone—you hold dear. So he never feeds the animals without you.
When that fear starts whispering too loud in his head, Mydei is always there. The cat watches from afar, silent, orange, and unblinking. Never close enough to touch, but close enough to pull him back to himself. It’s strange—it’s been over a month, and the cat still hasn’t brushed against him. Not even once.
It doesn’t hurt him—at least that’s what Phainon tells himself. It’s just something he’s noticed. Especially since the forest animals seem to like him well enough when you’re near. Rabbits nibble on his boots, and once, a bird landed on his shoulder. He stood frozen for a full minute, afraid to breathe in case he startles it.
When he told you about it later, you only smiled and said, “See? They trust you.”
He thinks, sometimes, this must be what peace feels like. Not the grand kind—the kind the bards sing about—but something smaller and quieter. A hand brushing against his when you both reach for the same jar. The sound of your soft laughter spilling through the house when he hits his head over something. The faint smell of mint that clings to the sheets.
He catches himself watching you too often. The way your sleeves slip down when you knead dough, the small wrinkle that appears when you read, the way you hum to yourself while tending to herbs. It’s not that he means to stare; it’s that everything about you catches his eyes. You’re steady, like gravity, and everything about you feels natural. He doesn’t know when it started, but your presence has become the thing his mind drifts toward whenever it goes quiet.
Once, when you handed him a bowl of stew and your fingers brushed his, something in his chest stuttered—like when he first saw you after waking up from his injuries. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. Gratitude was what he felt when you saved him. Now, this was something else.
The stray in him is beginning to settle, to rest its head.
He realizes, with a sort of frightened tenderness, that he’s been dreaming of this for a long time—long before he met you, maybe even before he lost his memory. The dream of belonging somewhere. Of having someone to come back to, to protect not out of duty but out of want.
But the dream has edges.
Sometimes, while he works, something flashes behind his eyes. A street, narrow and cold. The taste of hunger. The sound of a girl’s laugh, light and tired all at once. He sees her—his sister in everything but blood, small hands clutching a loaf of stolen bread. Her smile when she splits it in two.
He always shakes it off and keeps chopping. But the memories always return like waves, merciless.
He remembers the guards’ shouts. The blur of armor. The day he was caught with his hands full of the king’s silver. How strange it was, to kneel before a man so terrible and live.
The king had looked at him and smiled. Said something about sharp eyes and quick hands. Said he could use a creature like that.
And so, Phainon became what the king wanted—a hound that learned to bite on command.
He was fed, clothed, and trained. He rose through the ranks not out of pride, but out of survival. Each order he carried out, each throat he cut, each village he burned—he told himself it was for her. For the girl who still called him brother. For the one who deserved better than hunger.
He became his king’s favorite, his lapdog, his executioner. And with every life he took, his own slipped further away.
He doesn’t remember when the love of his sister’s laughter turned into pity of what he’d become for her sake. Only that he kept going, because stopping meant she could starve.
Now, when he dreams, he hears the king’s voice again. And in the dream, the voice follows him home.
Not your home, not your house, but theirs. The one he built long ago from stone and spite and blood, where the walls gleam faintly of red, as if still remembering the men he felled to pay for them. A house bought with his master’s coin, built from the bones of his enemies, yet raised with love for her—for his sister, his tether to what little of him remained human.
The door is open when he arrives at their home.
At first, he thinks she’s sleeping. The way she lies on the floor, hair spilled like ink across the floor, one hand curled loosely as though still clutching a dream, but then he sees the blood seeping beneath her.
His body moves before thought does. He falls to his knees beside her, calling her name—Cyrene. Cyrene. Cyrene!—until the sound breaks. His hands are useless against the stillness of her body. He doesn’t know where to press, what to hold, what to fix—all he knows is how to strike, what to break, what to snap. There is too much red, but none of it are his or his master’s enemies.
When the fire from the hearth flickers, he looks up and knows exactly where to go.
He storms through the marble halls of the palace, sword still strapped on his back. Guards scatter like birds before a storm, for even they know better than to bar the way of the king’s beast. The throne room yawns open, and the king is there, as he always is—calm, immaculate, cruel.
“Your Majesty,” Phainon rasps. “Someone murdered my sister. I need your leave to find them. I—”
The king doesn’t even look surprised. He only tilts his head, voice as smooth as oil. “There’s no need to look. I gave the order myself.”
Phainon stills. At first, he doesn’t understand. He only stares, chest heaving, waiting for the jest that never comes. Then, he asks, “What do you mean?”
“She was a distraction,” the king says, amusement curling at his lips. “A hound does not need a sister. A beast does not need a home. You are mine, Phainon, and I am your master. You will serve me until there’s nothing left of you.”
The memory shatters there.
He wakes drenched in sweat, heart hammering, half expecting to find blood on his hands. But when he sits up and looks around, it’s only the faint glow of the candle on his nightstand. Only Mydei’s eyes, glowing yellow in the dark. Only your soft breathing from the other room.
And the contrast between the two worlds—the one he lived and the one he’s living now—gnaws at him. Because here, in your small house at the middle of the forest, he’s learning what gentleness feels like again. He’s learning to speak softly, to hold things that break easily. He’s learning what it means to be seen as something other than a weapon once again.
And every time you smile at him, every time your hand brushes his shoulder, he feels something bloom that he cannot name. Something that hurts and heals in the same breath.
He wonders if this is what redemption looks like; not a cleansing, but an illusion—fragile and fleeting. He wonders how long he’s allowed to have it before the world remembers what he is.
Afternoon comes, and you’re both in the garden, knees dusted in soil. Phainon’s fingers, broad but careful, move between the roots as if he’s afraid of breaking them. He’s learning how to tell weeds from the herbs now, though he still hesitates sometimes, glancing toward you for confirmation.
There’s peace in it. The small sounds, the rustle of leaves, the buzz of insects, the distant lap of water somewhere. And you hum under your breath, something tuneless.
Then he stops. Abruptly. A stem snaps between his fingers, hanging limp. His shadow falls over the patch of rosemary.
“What if my memories return,” he speaks, sudden and quiet, “but I don’t want to leave?”
You blink, turning towards him. His eyes are somewhere far off, and there’s soil in his cheek, a smear like paint that doesn’t belong there.
You don’t think before you answer. “Then don’t leave.”
He breathes out a small laugh, half disbelief, half something else. “Really? You’d let me stay? Even though my stay was only meant to be temporary?”
“Yes,” you say simply. “And honestly… I’ve grown quite fond of you.”
The words drift out like a sigh, unplanned and unpolished, but they catch in the space between you and hang there. It’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t need an echo out loud to still reverberate.
Phainon doesn’t move for a long time. He only stares, as if your words were something he needed to memorize before the air could take them away.
I’ve grown quite fond of you.
It isn’t a confession, not really, and he knows that. You said it like one might admit the sun’s warmth or that the rain falls where it wishes. Simple, natural, true. But gods, it’s close enough to make something twist in him.
The words dig in, take root, and the warmth that spreads through his chest feels almost unbearable. Because if kindness could be fatal, it would sound like that. It would sound exactly like you.
He turns back to the soil before you can see the way his expression softens—because if you did, you might realize that those simple words have already undone him. The ache in his chest isn’t the old kind anymore; it’s gentler, the kind that he doesn’t want to fade.
He works in silence after that, slower this time. You get back to work too, humming once again. And though nothing else is said, he feels the shape of your voice in his head—circling, settling, steadying.
Then don’t leave.
He won’t. Not if he can help it.
𝐕. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆
“Go and take a break.”
From the soil, Phainon stares at you like you’ve just cast him out. His hands are still half-buried in the dirt, wrists streaked with soil. He blinks once, twice, as if trying to understand a language that shouldn’t apply to him.
“Why? I’m not tired. I can still help—”
You shake your head, shushing him before he can finish. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… you need to go outside every now and then, Phainon. Don’t be a hermit like me.”
He blinks again. “Outside? But aren’t we—” He gestures vaguely at the sky, the trees, the garden that is quite literally outside. "—already outside?”
He’s pouting. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
You sigh, pulling off one glove. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean. And our trips to town don’t count. You need… enrichment time.”
“Enrichment,” he says flatly, as if it’s a punishment. “What do I even do while I’m on break?”
“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging. “Take a walk. Lie in the sun and pretend to be a rock. Anything that doesn’t involve heavy lifting or chores.”
He exhales a small sound that’s almost a whine. “Then I’ll take a walk.”
“Lovely.” You clap your hands in delight. “Get back before sunset.”
He lingers a moment longer, as if waiting for you to rescind the order. When you don’t, he dusts his palms on his trousers and straightens, a little stiff. He hesitates, opens his mouth like he might say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he nods once and turns towards the trees.
The forest receives him the way it always does—too quietly, as though listening. He walks without direction. The world is still; only the sound of water in the distance, a bird calling, and the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots can be heard.
A break, you said. But rest feels foreign, like a word from a tongue he’s forgotten. His hands itch for work, for something to hold, something to guard. The axe, the bucket, the rhythm of doing—those are easy. This, the wandering, the having-nothing-to-do—it gnaws at him.
He keeps glancing behind him, half-expecting Mydei to appear, silent and judging, but the cat is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you’ve sent him to make sure Phainon really does rest. The thought makes him huff, amused despite himself.
The path slopes upward until he finds himself on a small ridge overlooking the glade. The air here smells different—warmer and faintly of wildflowers. He sits down, awkwardly at first, like a man trying to remember how to sit. He closes his eyes.
It feels like he can hear the forest breathe. He hears the wind through leaves, a frog croaking by a creek, and even his own pulse, slow and steady for once. For a long moment, he lets himself sink into it.
Then he hears something crack—a branch somewhere behind him—and instinct surges before thought does. He’s already on his feet, shoulders squared, gaze snapping toward the sound. There’s no sword, but his stance remembers one.
He prepares himself for an attack, but when only a doe comes out from behind a tree, blinking at him innocently, Phainon exhales shakily. He forces his body to ease, hands unclenching one finger at a time.
“Sorry,” he mutters, voice softer than he expects.
The animal watches him a while longer before flicking its ear and turning away. After the doe disappears, Phainon stands still for a moment longer. He exhales slowly, then straightens, scanning the woods. He decides to keep walking.
You had said to take a break, and he supposes walking counts as rest if he pretends hard enough. Besides, the forest is vast and he’s still learning its edges. If he means to protect this place, he should know its bones as well as his own.
He moves deeper into the forest. The air grows cooler the further he goes, the light dimming where the trees thicken. He marks the way as he walks—fallen birch, hollow trunk, crooked pine—and imagines how a blade might catch there, how a man could vanish behind that ridge, how once could defend this place if it ever needed defending.
He doesn’t notice the sound right away. It starts fainly: metal against metal, faint and stuttering. He stills, listening. Then comes another sound: the low murmur of men’s voices.
His breath catches. Phainon turns toward it instinctively.
The forest dips ahead into a narrow clearing, and between the trees, he glimpses movement—a cluster of figures in armors gathered around a small fire.
Knights.
He recognizes their bearing even before he sees their faces. The stance, the way they hold themselves, how their swords rest close to hand even at rest.
He should leave, he thinks. But curiosity—or perhaps the ache of recognition—roots him in place. He edges closer, silent as he can be, until he can see them clearly.
Five men, all armored in the same style. The sigil painted on their breastplates is faint, scraped by battle and time, but the mark is unmistakable—a lone tower wreathed in flame. The paint has peeled away in places, yet the shape endures: proud, ruined, unyielding. It is the symbol of the king’s dominion. The brand of the beast he once served.
His throat closes. That symbol burns behind his eyes, familiar as the weight of a sword hilt.
Phainon doesn’t remember their names, but he recognizes their faces. He’s seen them before—fought beside them, maybe. Bled beside them even. Before he can decided whether to step forward or vanish back into the woods, his voice betrays him.
“Who are you?” he calls out, and his tone is sharper than he means it to be. “Why are you here?”
The men jolt up at once, startled. Hands fly to hilts, blades drawn with the rasp of steel. For a moment, the clearing brims with threat. But then, one of them speaks. His voice cracks around the edge of disbelief. “Commander?”
Another lowers his sword, eyes widening. “Sir Phainon—by the gods—it is you!”
The rest follow, faces lighting with something between awe and relief. They drop to their knees before him, blades pointed down in salute.
Phainon doesn’t move. The sound of his name—his title—rings hollow in his chest. Commander. The word fits him like an old wound reopening. “I…” He swallows, searching their faces. “Do I know you?”
The question makes their joy falter. They look at one another with confusion. One of them—a younger man with a scar beneath his jaw—takes a hesitant step closer. “Of course you do, sir. We’re your men.”
Phainon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks at them—these ghosts of a life he’s certain he doesn’t want back. “I remember your faces,” he admits. “But not who you are.”
The men exchange uneasy glances. Then one of them speaks again, almost reverently, “Commander, we’ve been searching for you for weeks. We thought you’d died.”
Another one poses a question, tentative. “None of our other comrades had made it when we came to check the battlefield. How did you survive? Have you been living here all this time?”
Phainon doesn’t answer. The question hangs in the air, unanswered, because the truth—that he woke beneath a witch’s roof—feels too strange to speak aloud.
When he stays silent, another knight fills the space with words. “The king sent us to find you,” he says. “Dead or alive. He said the kingdom couldn’t lose its hound just yet. You were his best, Commander. His right hand.”
That word lands like a blade. Hound.
Phainon feels his pulse stutter. Images flash in his mind—marble floors, cold as stone. Then a gloved hand pressing down on his head, forcing him to kneel.
My beast.
My hound.
My creature of war.
He inhales sharply, and the forest tilts back to normal.
“I’m not his anything,” he finally says, low and certain.
The knights exchange uneasy glances once again. Then one speaks first, laughing, as if to cut through the tension. “Sir, surely you jest. We can return together—tell His Majesty you’re alive! The king will be overjoyed to have you back.”
Phainon’s gaze snaps to him, sharp enough for the smile to fade. “No.” The word startles them. “I’ve seen what he is. What he makes of men. I’m not going to kneel to that beast again.”
Their faces harden. “You… would defy His Majesty?”
Phainon doesn’t flinch. “I will no longer serve him.”
There’s a pause, before one steps forward and draws his sword. His voice is strained, almost pained. “Then you leave us no choice.”
Another shakes his head, eyes full of regret. “You taught us loyalty, Commander. You told us a knight without his king is a blade without purpose. Don’t make us turn ours on you.”
Phainon huffs, almost amused. “Then perhaps I taught you wrong.”
The knights exchange one final look, grim, before they raise their blades in unison.
“Then you must die for such treachery,” one of them says, and the sentence carries all the weight of a verdict.
For a moment, neither side moves. The forest waits, silent and breathless. Then the first knight lunges. Phainon ducks the first swing, feels the wind of it graze his cheek, and moves instinctively. He grips the knight’s arm, twists, and bone cracks beneath his hands. The man drops his sword, but Phainon doesn’t bother picking it up.
Another charges—younger, faster, but clumsy with fear. Phainon sidesteps, grabs the back of his neck, and drives his face into the earth. “You shouldn’t hesitate,” he says, too calm. “Did no one teach you that?”
Someone shouts something—an order—but it’s drowned in the sound of metal striking bark. The next blade skims across Phainon’s ribs, opening a shallow line that burns hot and wet. He hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowing.
A third swings high. The tip catches his cheek; though shallow, it paints his mouth red. He tastes iron, laughs low and breathless. With the back of his hand, he wipes the blood from his lip and smears it across his jaw.
“Did I train any of you?” he mocks. “None of you move like your lives are on the line.”
They circle him, three blades catching the light. He moves through them like shadow and muscle—less a man than a reflex. He takes a blow to the shoulder, catches another’s wrist, and wrenches it back until steels clatters to the ground. He drives his knee into a stomach, his fist into a jaw. He hears the crunch of something breaking, and something in him exhales in relief.
This, his body remembers. This is what I was built for.
But even as the fight unravels into chaos, another thought threads through him. He isn’t doing this for the king, or the crown, or the memory of command. He’s doing it for something smaller, gentler, kinder. For the quiet house in the woods. For the one who said then don’t leave.
A knight swings wildly at him, and Phainon catches the blade barehanded. Blood spills between his fingers, but he only smiles. “You should find a new master,” he says, shoving the man back, voice low and rasped with laughter that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’d actually care whether you live or die.”
The knight staggers, gasps. “And you? Who do you serve now?”
Phainon’s grin fades, eyes darkening. Someone worth dying for, he thinks, but what leaves his mouth is far different— “You should worry more about your lives.”
The last two come at once. He meets them head-on. The world blurs into motion and noise—boots slipping in mud, armor crashing, the hiss of breath through teeth. He drives an elbow into a throat, hears the wheeze, feels a blade glance off his arm.
By the time the silence returns, it’s thick with the smell of iron and pine.
Phainon stands alone in the clearing, chest heaving and hands slick and trembling. The fire the knights have set is still alive and crackling. His knuckles are raw and his tunic—torn. This is what his hands are made for; what the king carved into him. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he’s learned how to use that curse for something good.
He wipes his mouth again, smearing the blood across his face again, then he starts back toward home.
You are waiting outside the cottage, entangled in conversation with the birds and a bold red fox who refuses to mind his manners. The animals cluster around you as if you are a tree with fruit, and the fox keeps yipping—short, sharp sounds, tail swishing as he tries to startle the songbirds from your shoulders. They scold him in return, fluttering just out of reach, and you laugh softly at their quarrel.
Then the heavy scrape of boots over leaf sounds through the forest, and everything stiffens. The birds that were on your shoulders flutter once and go. The fox tucks his tail and runs off. Even the rabbits that had been lackadaisical in the grass bolt into the bushes. They do not scatter because of you; they scatter because of him.
Phainon steps into the clearing like a thing that has been pressed through a grinder. He is all torn cloth and the smell of iron. There is a thin line across his cheek where the blade kissed him; the corner of his lip is dark. His eyes are wide, lit at the edges with something like hunger. For a moment, the look is almost feral—it is the look of a man who has found what his hands were made to do and will not stop until they are still.
You don’t recoil from the stench of iron or the hunger in his eyes. You only watch as the animals skitter away, as the clearing empties itself of gentle things.
He halts a handful of paces from you and breathes, long and ragged. His fingers flex at his sides, as if still aching for more.
“What happened to you?” you ask. “You scared away my friends.”
He exhales. The sound is brittle. “Your spell isn’t very effective against people who change their minds.”
You pause, humming. “Hm… I suppose you’re right. Is that what happened?”
His answer is simple: “I killed them.” The words are delivered without flourish, like he hadn’t just admitted he committed something immoral. Then he drops to his knees, head lowering toward the earth in a soldierly bow. He doesn’t look at you as he asks—asks as if testing, “Did I do a good job?” There’s a faint, needy tremor in his voice, a whine dressed up as obedience.
There is a hand on his head before he can taste the mercy of your reply. It lands there the way it once had, long ago, by a different hand—heavy and owning. For a moment, the past flashes behind his eyes: a gloved palm, a crown’s amusement. But your touch isn’t the same. Your fingers are softer, and the pressure doesn’t claim him.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t balk. He allows himself that small thing: to be steadied by the one who steadies him. Instead, he folds into the touch.
“You’re acting quite like a dog right now,” you murmur, fingers combing through his hair as if you’re ruffling the coat of an animal. “You told me you don’t like being compared to a dog. And yet here you are.”
For the first time since he arrived, the edge in his eyes melts. Adoration pours in like warmth. He lifts his head and looks at you, and the feral light in his eyes shifts into something gentler, more worshipful. The hand on his head trembles; he wants—wants so small, wants so large—to kiss it, to press it to his cheek and seal the gesture there. But he fights it, fingers curling just enough to catch your palm without taking it.
“Yes,” he says, earnest and raw. “But if it’s you, then I don’t mind.”
You let the silence make itself then, and he drinks the sound of it. And when you draw your hand away, he instantly misses your touch. It’s visible in the slump of his shoulders—in the small twitch of longing at his lips.
“Stand up,” you say at last. “Show me where you left them.”
He rises, obedient as a man trained to obey. Though he lingers. “Why?” he asks, the eagerness leaking back into his tone. “I can dispose of them myself. Just say the word.”
You shake your head, slow and certain. “I would like to bury them properly.”
He hesitates, incredulous and almost petulant. “Even when they tried to kill me?”
“Yes.” You tuck a stray curl behind your ear. “I believe giving them a proper burial would be their last and greatest mercy.”
His mouth opens to retort, but then closes it immediately. He nods his head just slightly and, without another word, turns toward the path that leads away from your cottage and back to the clearing he left.
Phainon’s footsteps drag heavier the longer he walks, as though the earth itself is trying to pull him down. His breaths are shallow and he keeps his eyes on the ground, like he’s ashamed of letting them rise.
It makes no sense.
You’re not angry. You didn’t recoil from the sight of him returning, with blood on his face and running down his arms, chest heaving with the aftermath of killing, and eyes blown wide from the adrenaline. Yet the silence between you gnaws at him—it burrows into the hollow places inside him like something alive.
He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s done wrong.
And he has. He definitely has.
The forest doesn’t judge him. You didn’t judge him. But he judges himself.
He killed people—men who once followed him into battle, who once trusted him enough to put their lives at his back. Even if he can’t fully remember their voices, even if their names are like dust in his mind, their faces still tug at something buried deep within him.
He slaughtered them with his hands.
And the worst part is that some part of him felt relief when it was over. Relief that the violence had someplace to go; relief that the hunger in him had been fed, even for a moment.
Phainon has always been hungry. The kind of hunger that isn’t for food, but for survival. For purpose. For something to strike, to break, to destroy before it destroys him.
He remembers stealing bread for his sister with shaking hands. He remembers stealing coins from the king, and how that single act shaped the rest of his life. He remembers the moment the king looked at him and saw not a boy but a weapon.
His guilt began there; and it only grew sharper, heavier, uglier. But today it feels different.
“It’s up ahead,” he says, voice strained.
You keep walking until the trees open into a clearing.
And there they are—five bodies, scattered where they fell. Their armors are dented and darkened with drying blood, and their swords lie discarded in the ground.
Phainon stops at the threshold of the clearing, breath caught in his throat. You step past him, skirts brushing the grass.
Watching you walk toward the bodies—toward the carnage he caused—tears at him. He watches the way you kneel beside the fallen men, brushing dirt from their armor, and straightening their limbs with gentle hands. And something in him collapses. Because now, watching you give them the tenderness he never could, something new forms inside him—
Shame.
Not for killing them—that part he understands, that part he can justify—but for how quickly and easily he did it. And for how you treat the dead better than he ever treated the living.
Is that why his guts twist? Is that why his throat feels constricted?
The thought coils tight, tighter, until it hurts to swallow, to breathe.
Would you have shown him the same mercy? If he had died out here, would you have buried him too? Would you have cared?
If he hadn’t killed them, they would have killed him. And then they would come for you. They would have torn through this forest, through your home, through you, without hesitation. And he can’t—will not—imagine that.
You are the only thing in his life untouched by blood. The only salvation he has left. The last thread tying him to the person he wants to be instead of the creature he was made into.
So why—why are you burying them? Why do you give them peace when they came here to retrieve him? When they didn’t hesitate on killing him for breaking his oath to the king? Why do you care enough to kneel beside their corpses?
The questions claw at him until they finally break free from his mouth, “Why are you doing this?”
You pause. “Doing what?”
“Showing mercy,” he says. “To men who tried to kill me.”
You brush soil from the gauntlet of one knight, studying the cracked metal with dried blood. “Because death is still death and they were still human,” you reply softly. “Someone raised them. Someone will grieve for them. Even if they came here with violence in their hands… they still deserve rest.”
Phainon stares at you like he’s seeing you in another light. His throat bobs almost painfully. “If I had died that day when you found me…” His mouth feels dry. “Would you have buried me too?”
“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to rot.”
His chest tightens so sharply he almost mistakes it for pain. He stands rigid, and for a moment, he looks less like a warrior and more like a man who’s been struck by something he never learned how to guard against.
You lift your head. “Will you help me dig?”
He nods before he can think. His body moves clumsily at first, as though the guilt has made him heavy. You step back from the bodies, life your hand, and with a small twist of your finger, your space pocket emerges into existence. From within the pocket’s glow, you reach in and draw out a shovel. You offer it to him readily.
Phainon stares at the tool, then at you, still bewildered by how easily you conjure magic like it was as natural as breathing. He takes the shovel, his fingers brushing yours, and his heart stutters. He doesn't dwell on it too much; instead, he walks to a patch of soil near a tree and thrusts the shovel into the earth with a thunk.
He doesn’t speak anymore the moment he starts digging. The soil is loose near the roots, but the deeper he goes, the heavier it gets, and you can hear how strained his breathing is. He keeps wiping at his face with the back of his wrist, but he doesn’t stop working.
You don’t speak either. Somehow, it feels wrong to make any noise.
He keeps going until the grave is deep enough. You help move the first body, slow and careful. He barely looks at the faces. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he can’t.
You both place them on the ground. Then more dirt, then another grave, and another.
Phainon doesn’t rest. His shoulders shake sometimes, but he doesn’t stop. His hands are bleeding a little from gripping the shovel too tight. You try to take it from him once, but he jerks away like the touch seared him.
“…I can do it,” he mutters, voice rough and low. He’s not angry. Just… tired.
So you let him.
By the time the last mound of dirt is in place, the sun is low. The light is soft and warm and it hits the graves in long strips. Phainon stands there with the shovel planted in the earth, head bowed. When he finally lifts his head and turns to you, he’s pale. Too pale.
“Let’s go home,” you say.
He nods, but it feels like he barely hears you.
You walk side by side, though he drags a little behind you. His steps are slow and heavy, and sometimes you hear his breath stutter. You keep glancing back, checking to see if he’s still upright. He is, but it’s like he’s walking because he doesn’t know what else his body should do.
No animals cross your path. Everything is silent.
When the house comes into view, something changes in him. Maybe it’s the relief of seeing it. Maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up. But when he steps up into the porch, his foot catches a little and he stops completely right in front of the door.
He stares at the wood, and then his knees give out.
It’s like watching a tree slowly tilt and finally topple. He catches himself with one hand on the knob, but they tremble badly. His breath is shaky—like he’s trying not to let it turn into a sob.
“Phainon—” you rush to him, grabbing his arm before he can fall forward. “It’s alright. Come on.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused, staring down at the ground beneath him. Dirt sticks to his palm and his clothes, and there’s blood drying on his knuckles.
You slip an arm around his back, trying to steady him. “Let’s just go inside.” You guide him in slowly. He leans heavily on you, and you can feel how cold his fingers are.
Inside the house, it’s dim and warm. You lead him to the couch and ease him down. The moment he sits, his shoulders sag, and he looks like he’s sinking into the cushions without meaning to.
You kneel in front of him, brushing dirt off his hands with your thumb.
“You’re okay,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”
For a second, his mouth opens like he wants to say something, but the only thing that leaves him is a shaky exhale. Then he lets his head drop forward. Not onto the cushion, but onto your shoulder.
You don’t leave.
𝐕𝐈. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐏𝐓
When Phainon finally wakes, it’s slow—like surfacing from deep water. His body feels heavy, almost numb, and for a moment, he isn’t sure if he’s really awake or just stuck somewhere between dream and memory.
The first thing he sees is the ceiling.
He knows this ceiling now, but his mind still does that small, confused stumble, like it’s trying to compare this moment to the first time he opened his eyes here.
Back then, everything felt new. Confusing. He had no name, no anchor, nothing to hold onto. He remembers sitting up too fast, gripping the blanket, and the world spinning while he tried to make sense of anything.
It feels weird thinking about it—like remembering something from someone else’s life. Like it was a whole lifetime ago, but also kind of like yesterday.
He blinks a few more times, trying to clear the fog of his mind and in his eyes. His wounds don’t hurt as much now, but his body still feels like it’s been squeezed dry and left in the sun.
He turns his head, and there he is.
Mydei.
Perched on the windowsill again, in almost the exact same spot he was the first time Phainon saw him. Light behind him, tail curled neatly around his paws, and staring at him with those bright yellow eyes like he’s been waiting for this moment.
Phainon doesn’t say anything. He just laughs, though nothing is funny. Something inside him loosens at the sight, something warm and kind of embarrassing. He didn’t realize how much he missed that little face until right now.
Mydei blinks once, slow. Phainon blinks back. It feels stupid, but he does it anyway.
They hold eye contact for a while. Then Mydei lets out a meow, before hopping down from the sill. His paws barely make a sound as he lands. He gives Phainon one last look and then pads toward the door. He slips through the gap like he always does, tail swaying behind him as he disappears without another sound.
Phainon watches the doorway long after the cat is gone. He breathes out and sinks deeper into the mattress. He lies there for a while before the room starts to feel too quiet without Mydei in it.
It’s silly, he knows that, but the silence presses at him in a way he doesn’t like. So he pushes the blanket off and sits up.
He regrets it instantly.
His whole body aches—like his muscles are reminding him that he hasn’t used them like that in a long time. Not since before he came here. Not since before… everything.
He presses a hand to his side, where the knight’s blade had caught him. The wounds have closed, thanks to your care, but the memory of the fight still thrums under his skin. That sudden burst of violence—after weeks of calm, of chores and menial tasks—had knocked him. He’s not used to being idle, and though his mind aches for it, he’s also not used to being that monster anymore, either. His body feels caught between two selves.
He stands anyway.
He steadies himself on the bedpost, like he did the very first time he woke here. It’s strange how easily the memory returns—how he remembers the spinning room and the ache in his skull.
And how he had followed that same meow down the hallway.
“Mydei…” he murmurs, more to remind himself that he’s not dreaming.
He steps forward. His gaut is uneven, but Mydei is already waiting in the hall, sitting like he knew Phainon would follow. When their eyes meet, the cat flicks his tail once and turns around, walking ahead.
Phainon huffs a weak laugh. “We’re doing this again, huh?”
Mydei doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He just keeps going, trotting ahead with that almost smug walk of his.
So, Phainon follows. Down the hallway, down the stairs. Each step is familiar but also feels new because he’s remembering the last time. But this time, the uncertainty isn’t there. There’s only that soft ache, the echo of what he used to be and what he doesn’t want to return to.
The sunlight spills in from the the door just like before. Mydei pads out into the clearing without waiting for him. Phainon stops in the doorway, and it’s exactly the same.
You’re standing there again—in the clearing, surrounded by animals. Birds are perched on your arms, a fox is pressed against your leg, rabbits are scattered around your feet. A deer lifts its head when it sees Phainon, as if acknowledging his presence, but it doesn’t run. None of them run this time.
And somehow, that makes his chest feel even tighter.
You’re smiling at something one of the birds is doing; he can see your lips move as you speak to them even from where he is, and it makes the whole scene looks unreal—like it’s been pulled straight out of some dream he once had. He feels the same sudden stutter in his chest that he felt the first time he saw you like this.
His heart jumps, but it’s not painful—just… loud. Like it’s calling out to something. Like it remembers something even if the rest of him doesn’t.
He thinks back to that very first moment, when he stood here confused and disoriented, and you had turned toward him. How his breath had hitched without him knowing why. How something inside him had reached out.
Maybe it had been a sign.
Maybe his heart had already known back then—when he didn’t yet know his name, when he could barely stand, when everything was just fog—that he would come to love you. Maybe that’s why it reacted the way it did. Maybe it was already trying to tell him something.
Maybe falling for you was always going to happen, no matter what path he took.
His fingers curl lightly against the doorway. His legs feel unsteady again, but it’s not because of exhaustion or his wounds this time.
And then you turn—hearing Mydei’s meow, or maybe you just sensed him like you always do—and your eyes meet his.
His heart jumps again. Just like before. Just like it was always meant to.
And then you smile.
Not the polite ones you give to the townspeople even when they sneer at you. Not the teasing one you shoot him whenever he messes up a chore. Not the fond one you save for Little Ica when they fly into your arms every time. No, this one is different—like something you kept tucked away, something you didn’t think anyone would see. Something only he gets to see now.
And Phainon doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that hits him. It’s sudden—like warmth blooming in his chest and running all the way up his neck until his ears throb.
This time, he moves first. His feet carry him before he even finishes thinking about it. Last time, it was you who approached him first, walking toward a stranger who couldn’t even remember his own name. But now he remembers enough to choose.
And he chooses you.
You, who he’s decided is the safest thing he’s ever seen.
You, who he thinks looks even more beautiful when your eyes are on him and only him.
He’s so focused on your face—your smile—that he forgets to watch his step. His heel catches on a root, and he stumbles. He braces himself for the impact, for his knees to hit dirt, for humiliation, but he doesn’t hit the ground.
Instead, you catch him.
Your hands come up quick, holding him by the arms just like the first day—except it feels different this time. He’s no longer a stranger with your hands pressed against him as you lead him inside your home. He’s just… Phainon. A grown man tripping over nothing because you smiled prettily at him.
He feels stupid. He feels warm.
“You should be in bed,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.
It’s the same thing you’d said the very first time too—except now there’s a faint laugh in your voice, like you know exactly what you’re referencing. Like it’s an inside joke the two of you have shared for weeks. And Phainon can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of him.
“I followed Mydei here,” he says, almost breathless. His face is still burning, but the words come easily. Like they’ve been waiting.
You shake your head in amusement. “Of course you did.”
He huffs another laugh, rubbing the back of his neck even though your hands haven’t let go yet. “It’s becoming a habit, I think.”
“It is,” you agree. “Every time you’re not where you’re supposed to be, I find out you’ve wandered after that cat.”
“Well,” he mumbles, eyes lowering before lifting again—slowly, shyly, wanting desperately to keep looking at you, “he usually leads me to you.”
You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity of his words. Phainon seems to realize what he’s said only after it leaves his mouth; his hand lifts to rub self-consciously at the back of his neck again.
“…Oh,” you murmur, and it comes out far too soft. You clear your throat quickly, trying to smooth the fluster from your voice. “Well… he does have a talent for finding me.”
Phainon watches you, puzzled by the sudden shift in your demeanor. You avert your eyes, looking at everywhere else but him.
“You must be hungry,” you say. “Let’s get you inside.”
You slip an arm beneath his, steadying him at the waist with your other hand, and his breath stutters—not from pain, but from the shock of contact.
You help him upright, guiding his weight with ease. His body leans into yours without resistance, as though the simple act of touching you turns his bones to water. For a moment, he stands there, closer than he normally allows himself to be. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric. Close enough that when he lowers his head, he can smell the faint scent of herbs clinging to you.
But then you step back.
The moment your hands leave him, Phainon deflates. You pretend not to notice, though your eyes soften imperceptibly.
“Come on,” you say. “Inside. You should sit before your legs give out again.”
He nods, but the stiffness in his jaw betrays him. He tries to straighten his posture, tries to pretend he didn’t melt the second your warmth left his skin. His hand hangs awkwardly at his side, fingers twitching once, as if resisting the urge to reach back for you.
Mydei meows and pads ahead, trotting toward the house with the confidence of a small prince. You turn toward the cottage as well, and Phainon follows you instantly.
Not because he’s weak, not because he needs to be led, but because following you feels right in a way nothing else in his broken memory does. Because he feels steadier with you in front of him. Because the ghost of your touch still lingers on his arm like something he already misses.
The forest closes behind him, peaceful and green.
The house waits, warm and familiar.
And Phainon trails after you through the door, shoulders relaxing the moment he steps inside once again—as though he hasn’t just returned to shelter, but something else entirely that is close to belonging.
Phainon wakes in the middle of the night that same day.
For a long moment, he lies there, staring at the ceiling. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed.
Moonlight spills across the floorboards, guiding him to the corner where his old life rests—the armor you cleaned for him when he was still unconscious, and the broadsword propped beside it like a soldier.
He crouches slowly. His fingers brush the cool metal.
It should feel familiar. It only feels heavy.
Phainon stays like that for a while, hand on the breastplate, and staring at the blade that once answered every command except his own.
He huffs a quiet breath. Then he hears a meow. Phainon turns.
Mydei is awake on the windowsill, body a small silhouette against the moon. His golden eyes are open and fixed on him, unblinking.
Phainon lifts the armor slightly, voice low. “Sorry for waking you.”
Mydei’s tail flicks once.
Phainon gestures toward the door with a nod. “I was just about to go outside.”
The cat doesn’t move, nor does he make any sound. Then, as if his attention drifts, his head dips, eyes flicking to the armor in Phainon’s hands.
Phainon lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, this?” He turns the breastplate a little. “I was thinking of burying it, that’s all. I have no need for it now.”
He pauses, then adds lightly, “Do you want to come with me?”
Mydei yawns—a long and slow yawn that nearly splits his tiny face in two. Then he curls his tail around himself and settles back down, closing his eyes like the affair is beneath him.
Phainon smiles. “Okay then.”
He tucks the armor under his arm, takes one last glance at the sleeping cat, then quietly slips out the door and into the cool night.
Phainon steps off the porch, careful not to let the armor clatter in his arms. The cottage behind him glows faintly with the warm candlelight from your room—the only star in the forest that never seems to dim.
He heads deeper into the forest, barefoot in the grass, toward a place where the forest breathes differently. Where you once told him the land grows thick with roots.
It just feels right to go there.
The armor in his arms feel heavier now—not because of the metal, but because of the memories it drags with it. The weight of commands. The weight of kneeling. The weight of everything he did because someone else told him to.
He sets the armor on the ground.
For a long time, he just stares at it.
On any battlefield, it would have marked him as something to be feared—something deadly. Here, under the rustle of leaves, it looks small and lost. Like a relic of a life that no longer fits him.
Phainon exhales slowly. He kneels, digs his fingers into the soil, and begins to carve out the first handful of earth.
It isn’t burial like one does for a corpse.
It’s burial like one does for a curse.
When the pit is deep enough, he rests back on his heels. For a moment, he hesitates, fingers brushing the sigil painted on the breastplate. The mark is faint, shaped by years of blood, years of being the hound of another beast.
“…But not anymore,” he murmurs.
Then he slides the armor into the earth.
Metal thuds softly as he settles it into the ground. For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just stares, half expecting the armor to glow with some remnant of his past—rage, violence, loyalty that tasted like rust. But there’s nothing; only silence.
Phainon releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
He covers the grave with slow motions. Soil over steel. Dirt over duty. Earth swallowing a past that nearly swallowed him. And when he finishes, the mound looks like nothing more than a soft rise of ground.
There’s no marker—no trace, no legacy.
He sits back, knees bent, arms resting loosely over them.
For the first time since he woke in your house, he feels… light. The kind of lightness that makes his chest ache. That makes his eyes sting. It makes him almost laugh at the strangeness of it.
He tilts his head back. Above him, the stars blink at him. And for a brief moment, Phainon feels the forest shift around him—like it, too, recognizes what he’s done. Like the earth has finally accepted the weight he has carried for too long.
Then he stands, wiping dirt from his palms. When he turns to walk back home, the cottage glows faintly through the trees.
end note: the “man” hyacine was talking about is mydei; she knows mydei can shift into a human. i didn’t write a scene where he reveals himself to phainon as one bc i feel like it wouldn’t match with the vibes or whatever i was going for in here, but he was in his human form when he carried phainon’s broadsword :3 ALSO I DID NOT MEAN TO MAKE THE LAST FEW SCENES SO SOFT AND FLUFFYSVDJEBFJD the fluff writer in me just had to make an appearance ig 😔 it may have ruined the vibe i was going for a little but at the same time it felt as if the last act was begging for me to write some romantic shit so there’s that. this fic was self-indulgent anyway (just like the rest of my works tbh) so pls no bashing 😣 /lh
anyway! writing this was so fun and even though i struggled a little with it, it was still such a wonderful experience! i mean, what’s writing without a little challenge, right? i usually don’t like most of the things i write because i always feel like i could’ve executed them better, but i honestly think this might be my magnum opus LMAO. it still needs improvement of course but i really like how this one turned out yk!! it’s also the most i’ve ever written for a one-shot! and even though it took me a while before i could finally post this fic, i’m pretty proud of it :’]
if you’ve read some of my works, you probably know i often stick to fluff and whatnot, but i really really REALLY enjoyed writing phainon in a different light this time. he’s such a versatile character and in a way, this fic just made me love him even more hahahaha. though yes, i did still write him like a fool in love but i love it when he’s silly
i apologize for the yapfest!! i hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you so much for reading ❤️
Your new beginning starts with eyes that reflect the endless seas; aka, a country boy cheers you up from your city blues.
feat. farmer!phainon & gn!reader
content : fluff, non-canon au, puppynon, neighbors to friends to lovers, kind of a slowburn.... like 10k words of yearning LOL, ooc phainon bc nothing bad happened to him, happy trail jumpscare, entirely self-indulgent boohoo.
w.c. : 10.4k
note : i saw this fanart of phaicham and i was possessed by the stardew/rune factory/harvest moon demons. i've been working on this for a while bc school and life have been kicking me, so i'm sorry if i was constantly teasing everyone with this orz but now he's here! and ready to kiss all of you! i hope you enjoy silly little moments of a country bumpkin cheering up a sad city dweller.
Autumn.
Fields of golden grass shimmer underneath the glow of the afternoon sun and make the small town before you glow. The tranquil breeze dances through the foliage of aureate trees, making their branches sway with each push. It's quiet, only the sounds of the ocean waves gently washing up against the shoreline and the distant sound of birds singing their songs to one another as they fly across the blue skies can be heard.
Children weave through the meadows of wheat, giggling with excitement as they play their games while the adults are busy at work on the fields surrounding the village, fishing on the wharf just on the outskirts of town, or simply living. It's lively despite the small number of people, but it's a noise that you don't mind.
No raised voices filled with anger and impatience as people shout at each other during the rush of transportation to and from work, and definitely no endless demands from a prickly boss with pay that barely covered your living expenses. No rush for any deadlines and no one yelling at you for wasting your time on your dreams, just patience and peace in the life around you.
This is Aedes Elysiae, a remote seaside village and your new beginning.
The old wooden door of your new home creaks open, revealing a quaint kitchen big enough for a small dining table and a living space to the right. There's a staircase leading up to rooms that you can only assume were sleeping quarters and a washroom. This old cottage was used and quite dusty, but it was much bigger than your measly apartment while living in the lively and busy city of Okhema.
With some dusting and decor that you've brought with you, you're sure you can make this place a home.
However, as you place your luggage by the staircase, three knocks come from your aged door. Curiosity paws at your mind; you aren't expecting anyone to greet you the day you move in and yet…
"Welcome to Aedes Elysiae, neighbor!"
You're greeted with the sight of two older folk smiling with a warmth that you had never experienced living in the city. A sudden visit that you don't find yourself dreading.
"Sorry for the sudden visit, you're probably unpacking and all from just moving in," the woman says, her golden eyes filled with sympathy from interrupting your peace. She's holding a wicker basket of various fruits in her arms—apples, pears, persimmons and pomegranates. Her silver hair is tied into a ponytail that rests above her right shoulder, a beautiful contrast to her golden irises that shine with kindness and youthful mirth. "But we never get any visitors, let alone a new neighbor so we couldn't help ourselves."
"I'm Hieronymus, and this is my wife Audata. We have a son as well, but he's off running errands for us. He's a charming boy, but such a slacker when it comes to finishing his tasks. I apologize in advance for his shenanigans if you ever bump into him," the man introduces himself, reaching out a hand for you to shake. And you do.
His hand is rough from years of farming, you presume. It is firm and strong, but it's not one of intimidation; you would know. With blond hair that rivals the gold of the field of grass surrounding the small village and eyes a pale blue, he looks quite youthful. But his eyes crinkle as he smiles and give way to years of experience of life that you have yet to know yourself.
You give your own name and their smiles grow brighter. "Thank you for dropping by. I would offer you both a meal for welcoming me with such excitement but…" Your eyes trail to the empty home and lack of both furnishing and food.
Hieronymus laughs heartily. "Don't worry about hospitality just yet; you're a new face. It would be rude of us to demand anything of you on your first day here."
"Instead, take this as your first gift here in Aedes Elysiae," Audata chimes in, handing you the basket of fruits. The weight is hefty in your arms and you wonder just how strong your neighbor is for her to carry this with ease. "If you need any help with moving around or getting around our small town, don't be shy to ask us."
—
The morning is chilly as the sun rises up over the golden, grassy horizon. The breeze that pushes through the small village is brisk and nips at your skin; it's a cold that you don't mind even as it bites with every gust. There's nothing about a brisk morning walk by the seaside that can't put you at ease. The village is already awake as everyone begins their day; if the sun is up then everyone is, save for the young children catching up on their rest before their busy days of youth.
The dirt pathway crunches underneath your feet as you walk above the shoreline of Aedes Elysiae, gentle waves wash up against the sand below you. The sound of the ocean and wildlife brimming with life is comforting and you inhale the salty sea air to embrace the new era of your life that you've walked into.
In.
Out.
In.
Bark.
…What?
The soft pitter-patter of paws against the dirt road and the sudden shout of warning alerts you of the incoming danger rapidly approaching. Your head turns towards the direction of the bark, merely catching a glimpse of snow white fur before there's a sudden weight slamming into you. You're knocked off of your feet with an 'oof!' and the world spins before you're looking at the sky from the floor with an eager fluffy dog licking the side of your face.
"Snowy! Oh, I'm so sorry about this!"
The furry creature is lifted off of your body and suddenly you're face to face with the bluest eyes you've ever seen. They twinkle with light like the ocean reflecting the sun as it hovers above and you find them to be the most beautiful shade of blue you have ever seen. His white hair, fluffy and pure like the clouds drifting across an endless sky, is tousled in an effortlessly messy and boyish way that fully complements his eyes.
The sun has branded itself onto the skin of his neck; golden and bright as if inked by the golden ichor that drips from the core of the blazing star. His arms are… honestly, quite big and muscular. It's hard to hide his broad chest underneath the plain white shirt and, quite frankly, you find it difficult to look anywhere else.
He's a pretty man, but one that you aren't ready to encounter in the countryside.
You don't realize you've been staring until the handsome stranger says something that you aren't able to catch, but his outstretched hand and worried demeanor gives enough context for you to answer what you didn't hear. You take his hand, calloused and firm, in yours and you're pulled up with such ease; just how strong was he?
"I'm alright. If anything, I'm happy to be the victim of something so cute," you reply. In response to your words, the big cloud of fluff barks in response and grins at you with a huge dopey smile. "I didn't quite catch your name, I just moved in so I've yet to meet everyone."
The stranger gives you a boyish grin and it nearly takes your breath away with how he's practically glowing with the sunrise just behind him, emulating a halo around his head. Was he blessed by the Titans or something…?
"Phainon, I'm Phainon. You must be the new neighbor my parents talked about the other night," the blue eyed stranger introduces himself. He lifts the pup in his arms and you notice that they both smile in a similar way. It makes your lips pull up into a smile of your own. "And this is Snowy! He's friendly, I promise. He's just very curious and excited."
Ah, is this Hieronymus and Audata's son? Getting an even better look at him, you notice that he's a perfect reflection of his parents— you recall his mother's pure white hair and his father's clear blue eyes as they stare right back at you. Hieronymus is right; he's charming indeed, and you have a rising suspicion that he shouldn't be here by the shore so early in the morning when there are fields of wheat in need of harvesting.
You tell Phainon your name and he repeats it.
"Well, neighbor. Since you're new around Aedes Elysiae, how about a tour? I know this village like the back of my hand," Phainon suggests to you with such excitement that you feel yourself wanting to agree just by the brightness in his smile. "Unless, you're busy that is."
"No," you respond with a shake of your head. "I would love a tour."
The seaside village of Aedes Elysiae is truly small; it doesn't take the full day to explore everything Phainon's hometown has to offer. Everything from the open oceanic view from Voyager's Wharf to the cobbled pathways of the Sacrament Courtyard and the forested areas beyond were all within a walkable distance. All the townhouses and family owned markets or businesses congregate into a compact town square and with a population of only a handful of people, everyone knows each other quite well. As you walk through the quaint village, many people greet Phainon with a smile and a wave and he returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.
The older folk free of any responsibility reside in the heart of the village with the young children as they run through the old, cobbled streets with no expectations on their shoulders. And yet as you and your two white haired companions make your way closer to the center of it all, the children begin to ease their gait and the older folk speak in hushed whispers.
Curious eyes follow you around, an unfamiliar face is something rare for anyone in Aedes Elysiae to see. And slowly, like grains of sand trickling through an hourglass, you've become swarmed by children and old folk alike.
"Hello, how's the city like?"
"What made you come here?"
"Is it true that droma are everywhere in the holy city of Okhema?"
"Do you have a partner?"
Huh?
The questions swirl around you like a dizzying tornado; before you're able to answer one question another is quickly pelted at you. Small hands gently tug at the hemline of your shirt or grip your arm to grab your attention; you try to answer everyone to the best of your ability. Those who had no questions to ask were playing with Snowy—his delighted barks mix in with the clamor of the sea of curious children.
But it's a bit overwhelming and by the tenth question you can feel Phainon gently pull you aside to shield you from the swarm of eager people who have yet to venture past the golden fields of Aedes Elysiae.
"Alright, let's give our new neighbor some room to breathe," he announces with arms outstretched to gently herd them away from you. "I'm sure they'll be glad to answer all of your questions another time." You hear the collective groan of everyone, but eventually one by one they bid their farewells to you and you finally have the space to think. Snowy whines softly at the kids saying their goodbyes but quickly rejoins yours and Phainon's side; his furry tail gently whacks against your legs.
You can hear the soft chuckle from the man beside you and your gaze is immediately redirected towards his direction. Phainon is smiling at your frazzled appearance, eyes twinkling in amusement as you try to recalibrate yourself and catch your breath from the sudden attention.
"Hard work being the celebrity in town, huh?" Phainon teases you gently and you sharply exhale at his jest. "Sorry. Again, a new face always gets everyone in high spirits."
"No need to apologize. Though, I guess I shouldn't have trusted my tour guide to protect me from my new fans," you shoot back. Phainon blinks in surprise at your jab, clearly not expecting you to match his energy. Your hands reach down to pet Snowy; the large, fluffy dog seems to appreciate the attention and gives you a big dopey smile with each gentle scratch to his fur. "I'm just not used to the attention."
"Someone from the big city not used to this many people? That's a surprise," your white haired companion comments as he leans down as well to bury his hand in Snowy's white fluff. "Shouldn't this amount of people be normal to you?"
You can tell he's merely curious and that none of his words hold ill will to them; how could they when his eyes hold a sincerity that was never shown to you in the city of Okhema.
A pure blue.
"There's many people, sure," you begin with a heavy heart, as if the words you speak take a toll on your spirits the more you recall the memories before moving here, "but everyone's so busy with life that no one has time to enjoy life. We work to live over there, and it gets so lonely the longer you stay."
"It was so suffocating, I hated every living second of it," you continue to pour your heart out to your newly acquainted neighbor, something you normally wouldn't do but maybe it's something about his friendly demeanor and the fresh ocean breeze filling your lungs that's letting your small heart open for the first time in a while. "But the people living here are different, in a good way. I just need to get used to being around such friendly people welcoming me to their home."
"Well," Phainon begins with a warm smile that catches your breath, "Aedes Elysiae is known for showing hospitality to any and all guests. I hope you'll find your new home here, neighbor."
You don't know exactly why Phainon chose to listen to you ramble about your city life, but you appreciate the small gesture as you finally unload the little weight on your shoulders. Your heart swells with a feeling you haven't experienced for a long while, but you don't find it discomforting. If anything, you embrace this new beginning with open arms and you hope that it is kind to you in return.
Winter.
Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. The color of the wheat fields that surround the land of Aedes Elysiae fade into something more muted as the weather begins to cool down. But, like the undying flame that flickers within the heart of the sun, even the dead of winter cannot subdue the sea of golden grass that brings life to this isolated town.
The creeping cold of the winter months does not seem to deter the townspeople either; most continue on their day tending to the domestic farm animals now more than ever since crops are difficult to grow in the frosty air. The distant sounds of livestock mix in with the merry chatter of the excitable youth and working adults keep the town thriving and alive.
With each rise and fall of the sun across the horizon of Aedes Elysiae, Phainon has greeted you nearly everyday during your stay in this fishing village that he calls his home. It has come to the point where it's rather odd to not see that familiar tuft of white hair outside your cozy cottage or those ocean blue eyes that you've come accustomed to peering back at you when you're walking around Voyager's Wharf.
He's always where you least expect him to be—on your doorstep with another wicker basket filled with today's harvest from his parents' crops, bumping into you while taking a stroll on the dirt paths surrounding the ocean side with Snowy galumphing beside him adorning his signature dopey grin, by your side as you help the elderly in the village's small town square with their own errands or tasks for the day.
And even now as he helps carry and move your furniture inside your small home in Aedes Elysiae.
Your eyes follow the taller man as he pushes your couch into place in your living room; it's the last piece of furniture that you've brought back from Okhema and now your home is beginning to finally feel and look like, well, home.
There's a small, wooden dining table placed in the middle of your kitchen with a knitted tablecloth draped over the top. The designs of sunshine and wheat are delicately threaded together and bring a little brightness to your home; a handmade gift from Audata. Various pots and pans and other dishes now fill your cabinets—you hope one day you'll have enough ingredients and plates to host a thank you dinner for Phainon and his family for being so kind to you.
In your connected living room, Phainon is draped over your old, beaten up couch that he himself had lugged into your home and shoved into place according to your directions. The cool azure has long faded into a dimmer shade, but that doesn't take away from the comfort that it still offers. The fire in the hearth of your stone fireplace crackles with warmth, the embers encasing your home in an intimate glow as the sun begins to set across the ocean's skyline.
Your friendly neighbor is just as worn as your couch after lifting and pushing around your heavier furniture pieces around your quaint home. His chest heaves slightly as he catches his breath and his skin has a sheen of sweat that makes him glow golden from the warmth of the fireplace before him. His snow white hair is messier than usual from laboring in your home; white tufts sticking out in places you didn't know they could and you resist the urge to flatten them down.
You thank the Titans for gracing you with Phainon as your neighbor; had it been anyone else less handy or friendly you're not sure you would've been able to find your home in this place anytime soon.
"Thank you for helping me move all my stuff in," you thank your neighbor with a warm mug of hot cocoa pressed to the side of Phainon's face. His body perks up at the ceramic on his skin and he turns from the fireplace to face you, gratefully accepting your act of gratitude with both hands and a bright, boyish smile.
The one that you always feel your heart fluttering at.
"You really didn't have to."
"But I wanted to."
His reply is simple, and you know that he means it sincerely.
"I'm more surprised you know how to brew hot chocolate, being from the city and all. Are you sure this isn't poisoned?"
Oh, he wanted to play this game?
Your eye twitches at his dig and you reach over to snatch away the ceramic mug from Phainon's hands. Unfortunately, his reflexes are quicker than yours. His arms lift up higher than you had aimed for and, not expecting the sudden movement, you find yourself toppling over the back of your well-loved couch and flopped over onto the plush cushions beside your white haired neighbor. He's looking down at you with an amused smirk and you so desperately want to wipe it off of his pretty face.
"Give me that back, jerk. You don't deserve my gratitude anymore," you huff from below him. You lean over his lap, an arm outstretched into the space in front of Phainon's face while your other hand flattens itself on his thigh to leverage yourself up. Your fingers graze the ceramic mug and you almost snatch away the warm liquid away from the grinning madman above you.
But Phainon is quicker than you are. His long arms extend to its full length high above the both of you and far out of your reach and you can hear his soft, airy chuckle as your determined expression falls.
There it is again; those pristine pools of azure that reflect the wavering flames of the hearth peering back at you. They're filled with mirth and delight at gaining the upper hand in this situation and seeing you seethe below him, but your blazing anger dwindles down as you stare into the endless sky above you. His tufts of fluffy, messy white hair frame his face, seemingly soft to the touch and your fingers twitch. From this angle, he truly resembles his pup and you wonder if the texture will also be similar.
Phainon is hot, his heat emanates from his body and consumes you from the proximity of your body to his. Compared to the heat of the hearth, it's like the sun has found its home in his soul, embracing you in its gentle yet searing warmth. He's closer to you than you had anticipated and there's nowhere to hide from those twinkling eyes as they gaze down at you—and he cannot hide from you either. You're close enough to count how many pure, white lashes line his eyes, the places on his skin where the sun has kissed and left its mark in the form of faint freckles that are invisible from a distance, and the faint blush that runs across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
You wonder if you have anything to do with that, or if it's just a matter of being to close for only being neighbors.
Probably because you're just neighbors.
As you open your mouth to fire another quick and snarky remark at your smug companion, your stomach grumbles in place of your voice; a low, gurgling growl like the rumbling of a wildcat. There's a thick silence between the two of you as you both digest the sudden noise that erupted from the deepest pit of your stomach.
And then Phainon is laughing; a deep, hearty laugh that comes from his gut and you can feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment. There's a wide, jovial smile that spreads from cheek to cheek; so boyish and charming that you want to wipe it off of his face but can't find it in your heart to do so. He sets down the warmed mug of hot chocolate on the small table by the side of your worn blue couch and helps you sit upright so that you're no longer leaning on his lap, eye to eye with his mirthful gaze.
"That reminds me, my parents invited you for dinner tonight if you're up to it." You can see the corners of his eyes creasing even more as his smile widens. "Though, I think your own stomach gave away your answer before I could even ask you."
A light punch is thrown to his arm and he's laughing again, this time more subdued. Gentler.
Phainon stands up from your worn blue couch, dusting off his trousers with gentle pats. Then, he offers his hand to you, palm side up and a delicate smile that you can't refuse. And with bated breath and a heart that skips a beat, your hand slides into rough palms and Phainon is pulling you up.
His ears remain a dusty shade of pink, but you don't bring it up.
—
Dinner was as decadent and filling as usual; Audata's cooking never ceases to to amaze and comfort you to no end. Every bite of meat is so tender that it melts on your tongue and the vegetables are roasted and seasoned to perfection that pairs so perfectly well with the main course. Despite wanting to be a courteous guest and only eat one plate, every time you finished a portion of food you would find it replaced with another portion and Audata or Heironymus smiling at you with such familiarity and affection that it's difficult to turn down their offers.
"You need to eat well in this weather. Wouldn't want you to fall ill, neighbor," Audata talks to you with such tenderness, as if you were her own, and it completely melts away at your resistance and you let her fill your plate again and again.
Until you're full to the brim of a pleasant home cooked meal with some leftovers in a covered wicker basket to take back home, courtesy of Audata herself.
The winter wind is cruel on your way back home, especially after sundown, nipping at any exposed skin like barbed wire whipping at your body. It is unforgiving as it blows nothing but dry, cool air to your exposed face until your cheeks and nose are cool to the touch and numb of any sensation. Yet, with nothing but frigid air greeting you as soon as you exit Phainon's home, your heart is tender and warm from the loving dinner served to you with amicable company.
And warm from the person who followed you out of his own home and now walks side by side with you in the night, your basket of leftovers held in his hand and an embroidered lilac scarf around his neck.
It's silent between you two with only the distant sound of the sea lapping up against the shores of Aedes Elysiae and the crunch of the dirt underneath your shoes filling the the space between you. Quiet, but not awkward in the slightest. Although the walk to your home isn't far, you appreciate his effort to escort you in the night.
"Sorry for my parents," Phainon's words break the comfortable silence, his voice quiet to match the surroundings of the night. "They can be a bit much, but they mean well. And they like you."
You exhale sharply, a soft laugh, and your lips curl upward in a smile. Your head turns to look at him; Phainon is bashfully looking at you, a timid smile on his own lips and his free hand rubbing the back of his neck in his embarrassment.
It's cute.
"Don't apologize," you begin, "I'm not used to this type of affection from family, but I don't hate it."
There's a flash across Phainon's expression. His eyes widen slightly and his brows fly up for only a millisecond; there's a question on the tip of his tongue but, thankfully, he doesn't press any further.
"Good, my parents have so much love to share. I'm sure they won't mind letting it overflow into you," Phainon continues the conversation with ease. "Not that you have a choice. They're fond of you, you know?"
There's a certain tenderness in the way he looks at you, like even he reflects the endearment of his own parents. His blue eyes are warm, reminiscent of the sea by sundown when the remaining rays of light cast the gentle waves in a golden light.
Affectionate and inviting; does he share the same sentiments? The question is on the tip of your tongue, but the cold freezes your mouth shut.
You take a wrong step forward and your hand brushes against Phainon's. For a second, the warmth of his hand seeps into your skin like an invitation to wrap yourself around it to flee from the chill of winter. Instead, an apology slips through your lips in a soft murmur and you pull your hand away.
The warmth of Phainon's body seems to melt into you as his hand darts forward, enveloping yours in his with one swift movement. The heat from his palm pressed into yours melts away the frigid air surrounding you two and you can feel your heartbeat pick up in tempo; an accelerando that you can't control no matter how much you try to calm yourself.
You don't pull away.
"How was winter in Okhema like? Livelier than Aedes Elysiae, I presume," Phainon asks. "Did you get to spend it with your family?"
You shrug your shoulders. "It was lively and enjoyable when you had the people to share the season with. Often times, my friends would be spending winter with their own families so I wasn't able to spend many winters with them."
You take a breath recalling the memories of your family. "But whenever my family was able to visit me in Okhema, those winters weren't too bad."
A weight seems to float off of your shoulders as the recollections of your winters in the city begin to resurface. Not that any of them were too remarkable; often times they would be lonely as your family chose to stay home for the colder season or the weather was too rough for either of you guys to go and visit one another. But the times that were good felt so good and comforting that you couldn't help the warmth flooding to your chest as you begin to recall them.
You tell them all to Phainon, who is eagerly listening to every word you say; every tale of family or friend back in the city is met with an attentive nod and a gentle tug of your hand when you're too invested in a story to notice the rock in your path.
Before you know it, your small home is in sight—a yellow tulip hangs by your door with wind chimes dangling at the bottom of the wooden green stem dances in the wintry winds, a gentle tinkling melody sings through the night. For once in this new life of yours, you don't want to go home just yet and leave the comfort that you find in this intimate moment shared with a man you never would've expected to grow fond of. But the destination is inevitable and you're standing face to face to your white haired neighbor outside the front door of your humble home.
"Sorry, I was talking so much about myself and Okhema. You should've told me to be quiet." The heat rises to the back of your neck and your free hand reaches up to bashfully rub the burning skin. "I'm sorry if I bored you with all that."
There's a gentle squeeze to your hand; your eyes flit up to meet his and you're met with nothing but the softest smile grazing Phainon's lips.
"Don't apologize for something like that," he begins, with a tilt of his head. From this angle you can see those azure eyes of his so clearly—lustrous and kind, twinkling with something you can't quite decipher just yet. "Why would I stop you from sharing a part of your life with me?"
You don't answer, letting the calm winter night do the answer for you.
"…I have a friend living in Okhema now, actually," Phainon brings up as the silence finally settles between you two, effectively breaking it with a new conversation with a smile so gentle it could soothe the swirling winds coming from the sea.
"Oh? A friend… or something more?" You gently nudge him with your shoulder and Phainon chuckles softly before shaking his head.
"No, just a good friend. She grew up with me in Aedes Elysiae and only left recently for a new job opportunity," Phainon continues with gentle smile. "I'm happy for her, and of course I supported her decision in leaving."
He pauses briefly, taking a deep breath as the memories flow like a movie behind his eyes; a movie you can't see but, from the warmth that seems to grow in his visage, you didn't need to witness it all to know they were cherished and dear to him. "But things have been lonely without her, I won't deny that."
Something sombre twists in Phainon's expression; your body instinctively urges you to try and comfort him in the way that he comforted you in the small moments leading up to this. But the fear of overstepping a boundary you aren't sure of freezes your body in place and all you can do is listen to him.
And yet there's a certain fondness in his eyes that turn such a cool shade of blue so warm when he looks at you that stirs your heart; it skips a beat and your breath hitches at an unfamiliar but not unwelcome feeling.
"That's why… I'm glad that you've moved here. Having a new face to welcome in has really made this small town feel less small, despite the said person being so small." Phainon's words would have moved you greatly, but you gently shove him again with your shoulder after hearing the gentle diss at your height. He laughs heartily, filling your chest with something tender. "There, a part of my life shared with you in return for sharing with me."
There's another pause in the conversation; not awkward, but one fitting of the amicable atmosphere shared between two friends. A cool breeze rushes past you, chilling your body to the bone. Your body stiffens in response and a shiver travels up through you from head to toe—there's a sharp exhale of laughter in front of you.
"You should head inside now, it's getting late, neighbor," Phainon tells you, letting go of your hand in the process. There's a pang in your heart at the empty space, but you don't dwell too much on the feeling.
Phainon's nose and the tips of his ears are rosy, nipped by the frosty winter air. Yet, there's not a hint on his face that indicates that winter is even present. He's grinning from ear to ear with stars dancing in his eyes; mirthful and joyous as he is nothing but spring incarnate and you are the sole victim to wintry winds.
Through delicate, quiet chuckles, your messy white haired neighbor unravels the knit scarf around his neck and drapes it over your shoulders; the lilac yarn is soft as it touches your skin. It's still warm from absorbing Phainon's body heat and the scent of the sea breeze and fresh linen fills your senses as he wraps the scarf twice over your neck—you want to bury yourself into it and get lost in the newfound comfort he seems to bring you.
Spring.
Luckily, the dreary winter season seems to come and go in the blink of an eye and, before you know it, your days begin to stretch a bit longer and the sun starts to warm the earth with rays that kiss the surface at the break of dawn and don't disappear until the moon has decided it's her time to soothe the busybodies of Aedes Elysiae. Even the cold surrounding the small town of Aedes Elysiae seems to brighten up, not that it ever was dull in the winter, but the changing seasons bring a change of mood and a new harvest.
The markets and businesses that make up the small town square slowly fill with life as more and more produce begins to sell and seeds for future harvests are displayed for the local farmers to get their hands on for the welcome of spring.
The welcome of a new season.
Phainon's family's farm isn't too far from your own home, you know this quite well from one too many trips to his place for dinner; his mother always had the excuse of making too much and that leftovers were a hassle to deal with and how could you ever say no to her. Audata and her son were truly one and the same with their ability to utilize such a pitiful expression on their faces and team up on you to stay for a meal or two.
Though this time, you're offering something for once; the same wicker basket used to carry goods from Phainon's household to yours and back filled with a warm lunch that you've prepared yourself. It isn't much, but it's something homemade and made with love that you hope would be enough to convey your thanks for being so kind to you since day one.
Phainon's farmhouse peers above the dirt road as you approach it; the distant sounds of the farm life awake in the early afternoon are evident signs that the whole household is busy at work. You spot Phainon's mother first; her silver hair shines brilliantly in the sunlight and her golden eyes seem to brighten up more than they already are as she recognizes your figure at the entryway of their farm. She is carrying a large bundle of hay near the front of their home, a small group of lambs tail behind her as they try to steal some of the dried grass before the rest of them can. Their own mother nips at the little rascals even though she's clearly stealing a couple strands of hay here and there as well.
"Oh, greetings neighbor!" Audata chirps, throwing the dry grass in one of the nearby bins before turning to you with a smile brighter than the sun. "What brings you here, dear? My son, perhaps?" She sends you a playful wink and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks at her teasing.
"Not really? I made you guys lunch as thanks for taking care of me so many times." You meekly hold up the familiar wicker basket and Audata's smile melts into something more endearing. "I thought that this was the least I could do… for a friend and his family."
The wicker basket is taken from your hands accompanied by a knowing gaze from Audata, but she doesn't tease you any further. "You're such a sweetheart. I'm sure the meal you've prepared for us is going to be delicious. I'll call my husband inside since he's near, but my son is a bit farther away into the fields. Would you be a dear and call in Phainon for me?"
The trek into the fields of their family farm is a bit daunting; the sun is bright and high enough into the sky to illuminate everything in your path, but the fields seem to be continuously rolling in every direction that you're worried you'll either get lost or not be able to spot your neighbor. Or perhaps it's intimidating because you'll have to see your neighbor, your handsome and charming neighbor that never seems to fail in making your days brighter even through the darkest times in winter.
Is it excitement that's thrumming in your chest? Your stomach is flipping, but you aren't sure of the reason why. Maybe you missed seeing those messy tufts of silver and those beautiful, crystalline eyes that never seem to stop glimmering when looking at you.
Yeah, that's all.
As your eyes scan the field to your left, you're met with a familiar body hunched over green bushes. There's a large wicker basket strapped to his broad back filled to the near brim with orange carrots and a straw hat resting on his head to block the sun from his face. Your heart skips a beat when he stands to his full height; a loose gray-ish shirt cut off at the sleeves that allowed his built arms to be on display, the collar of said shirt dips low enough to show his collarbone and the muscular chest that teases you just enough, and his blue eyes hazy from the labor and heat of being on the field. His tattoos, a golden sun on the base of his neck and shoulder and a ring that crosses his chest, shine in the sun, almost as if his skin was inked with the golden ichor of the gods.
A gloved hand reaches for his collar, pulling it up to wipe away the sweat accumulating on his face and you catch a glimpse of his navel; small tufts of white peek through for just a moment before his shirt falls again and you're met with those familiar, those gorgeous seas of blue as they twinkle like sunlight reflected off of the sea at the mere sight of you.
"Neighbor!" Phainon calls out to you with a boyish grin spreading across his lips. You've seen this cute smile one too many times; you've grown used to his charms and how he seems to get even prettier with the sun shining on him directly. But seeing such a sweet smile in contrast to the appearance of his body stirs your heart in a way that you can't quite determine whether or not feels good.
Your scrambled thoughts are quickly shooed away as your neighbor saunters over to you. With every step he takes, his sculpted body and sweat-stained skin are even more prominent and you send a quick prayer to Kephale in hopes of keeping a sane disposition in front of him.
The shade of his straw hat cannot hide the excitement of seeing you on Phainon's face—if he had a tail like Snowy you're sure it would be wagging so hard that it would be sore tomorrow. Upon closer inspection, you notice some streaks of dirt on his face. He must've made the mess from wiping away his sweat throughout the day.
You pull out a small, folded cloth from your pocket and hold it out to him; a small blue handkerchief with a small purple dromas embroidered into the corner. Phainon peers at down at it with curiosity before he leans down closer to your height, to your surprise.
"What brings you here?" Phainon asks, closing his eyes with a flutter of his white eyelashes. They're long and beautiful, much to your dismay—must he always be blessed in every which way? You slowly unravel the small handkerchief from your hands and reach over to gently wipe away the sweat dripping from his forehead and the dirt smeared across his cheeks.
His face is soft under your touch—a contrast to the roughness of his hands, you mentally note. With every graze of your fingers against his skin, Phainon leans closer to your touch.
"I-" You begin, but your voice cracks from the nerves threatening to leap out of your skin. You clear your throat and try your best to ignore the heat spreading from your chest to the tips of your trembling fingers. His eyes open; he's already peering down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as an affectionate smile sprawls across his lips and the handkerchief nearly slips from your fingers.
He's looking at you like you hold the life of the planet in your hands and your heart thumps against your chest, threatening to leap out the longer you bask in Phainon's warmth. Can he hear the simple beating of your heart? You hope not.
"You…?" He trails after you, no hint of pulling away from your hands that rest comfortably on his cheeks. If anything, he looks right at home resting in the palm of your hands with his beautiful blue eyes twinkling with nothing but mirth at the mere sight of you. The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit more and he scrunches his nose in response to your eyes trailing on his visage; cute, but you don't tell him that,
"I brought some lunch over. Your mother told me to call you in to eat together."
His smile seems to grow at your news. "Will you be joining us for a meal?"
"I only made enough for you all. Besides, I've already eaten lunch before heading over here. I couldn't possibly stay for more than I need to," you explain.
"Aw, shucks. That's unfortunate. You'll break my ma's heart…" Phainon's expression seemingly falls, the metaphorical ears and tail that were upright and wagging before now drooping as his expression melts into something more pitiful. With his face still in the palm of your hands, it's dastardly how a mere pout from him could tug at your heartstrings in such a way.
With a heavy sigh, your shoulders slump in defeat and you don't even need to look at Phainon's expression to know he's perking up at your demeanor. Your finger and thumb pinch at his cheek, his punishment for taking advantage of his mother and himself to manipulate you into whatever he wants to do. "Fine, but only this once."
"You said that the last fifty times we've invited you to a meal at- Ouch!"
You're already walking away from your neighbor at this point, escaping his teasing words by creating some physical distance. But his feet carry him right by your side in a few easy strides like they always do.
—
Aedes Elysiae seems to be bursting with life as Anthos Day, the day celebrating the Spring Solstice, looms just beyond the corner. The children eagerly whisper to one another as the hours of light begin to get longer and the season begins to warm; allowing for more playtime in the evening before the sun sets to signal the end of the day. The elderly talk amongst themselves, brainstorming of what dishes to bring to celebrate Anthos Day and share with the other townsfolk; your ears perk whenever someone mentions something that piques your appetite and you send a silent prayer that they follow through with their promises.
The younger adults are busy with their own harvests as well, preparing the most bountiful crops and animal products to share with others or flowers to decorate the quaint village with. There are eager teens helping their parents paint eggshells for the annual egg hunt hosted for the youth; the bright pastels of each painted shell are decorated with delicate designs and soft palettes and you take a mental note to snatch at least one during the hunt.
The morning is cool, but the rising sun encases Aedes Elysiae in its creeping warmth as a new dawn begins. Birds begin to wake with a song to greet the break of day with the gentle waves rolling along the shorelines of your small town as the harmony supporting their interwoven melody of chirps and tweets.
Phainon is sitting beside you, his knee bumping into yours occasionally as the two of you hunch over your kitchen table. The white and blue gingham tablecloth is littered with various wildflowers and golden stalks of wheat which would occasionally be picked up by deft or unskilled fingers alike. As the season of Spring makes its grand appearance in Aedes Elysiae, it's tradition for wreaths of flowers or wheat alike to be adorned by all in celebration of Anthos day.
Your fingers aren't as adept to weaving strands of plants together as your neighbor is, even with his careful advice and guidance, your wreath isn't as… grandiose as you would like it to be. With the flower stems weakly braided into place and empty patches scattered here and there, your wreath looks more like… a sad, rope of flowers tied together with a knot, especially in comparison to the beautiful golden wreath that Phainon has woven in the midst of your pleasant conversation from earlier.
You try not to bring any attention to your little attempt at weaving, but your silence from the conversation is enough for your neighbor to notice. As blue eyes peer down at your lap, a sympathetic smile grows on his lips.
"You're… not quite good at this, are you?" There's a playful lilt in his tone and usually you would attempt to fire back anything in response, but the embarrassment of your limp and measly wreath overpowers the need to punch him.
"I mean… I tried? Maybe I'm just not built for this. I could always buy one-"
"Hey, come on now. You shouldn't give up just like that," Phainon interjects with a gentle tone. All playfulness has melted away into something much more tender and caring as he scoots his chair a little closer to you. "Here, I'll help you. See this? You'll have to make a knot here and then loop it…"
Phainon's fingers have taken a hold of your flimsy wreath, gently weaving and braiding the flower stems into the correct way in order for the wreath to form and take shape. They lightly brush against yours as he guides your own fingers to follow his directions. Although his teaching is clear and concise and with the additional hands-on learning, you're sure to get the weaving by the end of it. The only issue is…
You're aware of his proximity to you; how close his body is to yours, his rough fingertips grazing along your skin as the wreath slowly gets braided, his warmth seeping into you as his thigh presses against yours. The smell of fresh laundry, the sea breeze, and light, clean citrus intermingle with your senses and it's all you can think about as your neighbor's arm brushes against your own.
His voice is gentle, so sweet and calming, as he instructs you through the process of weaving a wreath and you find it almost addicting to listen to. Not that he didn't have a nice voice until now it's just… maybe it was the changing of seasons that's affecting your hearing and your senses.
Phainon is just a friend, after all. A friend who happens to be so kind to you and be attractive both in physical appearance and in regards to personality.
Honestly, the old grannies of Aedes Elysiae were right in their desire to have him as their future grandson-in-law; he's always so helpful to the community in this small village. Even when he's playing hooky with his parents, he would never turn his back to the people around Aedes Elysiae that need his help. He's never far behind in aiding the older women carry their groceries or harvests back home or playing with the cheerful children running amok along the dirt roads.
It just so happens to be that he's charming in his appearance too.
You wonder what his future partner would be like; would they get along with his family as well? Would they be just as beloved in this small village as he is? Would he be showing the affection that he shares with you to them as well? Or perhaps he would stop it with you altogether so that they wouldn't feel weird about your relationship? Would they also share meals with his family and be invited over for meals? Would they get to see the cute smile Phainon always shares with you when he meets their eyes?
Would he stop being your friend if they asked him to?
You know that wouldn't be the case; Phainon isn't one to ditch his friends for a loved one. At least… you hope that he isn't.
The thought of being distant with your dear friend because of a future significant other pains you, the thought of no longer being welcome to his family alone strikes your heart with a grief you didn't know could hit you.
"You listening, neighbor?"
Yet, when Phainon calls your name to bring your attention back to the importance of weaving wreaths, the anxieties eating away at your mind seem to ebb away. Like a lighthouse guiding the ships to the safety of their docks, Phainon has become your safe haven. You didn't realize how much he affected you and your daily life.
Just a call of your name and suddenly the fog of winter has cleared and spring has emerged to guide you to its warmth.
"Y-yeah, I am."
The wreath of flowers have come to fruition with the aid of Phainon and the colorful blooms are so beautiful woven into one another. If you had compared it to the flimsy one you had made earlier, you wouldn't have believed that that turned into something so pretty.
"I can't believe we made this…" You whisper in disbelief, holding up the braided flora in your hands. Phainon chuckles softly, a large hand holds onto your wrist so can he gently push the wreath away so he could see you. Twinkling sapphires meet your own, playful mirth swimming in every hue as the corners of his eyes crinkle with his beaming smile.
"No, you made this all on your own. I just helped you a little bit." His voice is just as warm as he is, like the sun had melted away into one with his soul. You wonder if he would entertain you if you told him that you'd want to listen to it forever.
"Oh, please. I couldn't have done this without you, Phainon," You counter back with a quiet laugh. The morning sun's rays shine through the window, casting a bright and homey glow into your kitchen. The blues and yellows of the flowers of your wreath pair well together; they remind you of someone. Blue like the vast ocean that holds the world's beauty in every wave and yellow like the golden sea of wheat that billow in the wind; each a reminder of your new life built in this small fishing village that you never would've expected to love so much.
Blue and yellow, like the wildflowers that grow on the grassy meadows near the forest bordering Aedes Elysiae—forget-me-nots, as Phainon had once told you before—and the ones woven into your beautiful wreath. Remembrance and connection.
Blue and yellow, like the colors that always bring you to peace. Blue and yellow, like Phainon.
Your hands raise the wreath once more, high enough to reach over your neighbor's head until it's placed gently on top a sea of fluffy white hair. Your fingers brush against the tufts; soft, just like Snowy's. He's looking at you with wide eyes, surprise etched into his expression and the softest dust of pink along the tips of his ears—was it getting warmer already? He looks like a prince of the forest with the braided wildflowers on his head; the perfect example of elegant beauty, a person blessed by the gods.
"But if this is all mine, then allow me to gift this beautiful wreath to someone worthy enough for it."
Phainon chuckles at your words, light and airy, before he lifts his own golden wreath. The stalks of wheat rest on your ears as his fingers gently place them down, calloused fingers softly brushing against the side of your cheek as he pulls away from your face. "Then, allow me to do the same."
With a bright smile, you spritely turn your head from side to side to model the golden wreath sitting on top of your ears.
"What do you think? Won't we be a pretty sight at the festival with these?"
"Yeah."
His breathy, quiet response to your playful question catches you off guard. Your eyes flit up to meet his and you're met face to face with the most tender expression Phainon has ever given you. His eyes are half lidded, smile barely curled up into something sweet, and, with the sunlight hitting him at just the right spot, he's glowing with something you can't quite put your finger on. He's made of starlight, and you fear you've become addicted to the warmth of his radiance.
As his eyes, that beautiful shade of blue that you've come to find your solace in, gleam at the sight of his golden wreath of wheat stalks shining brilliantly in your hair, you've come to a realization all on your own.
You like Phainon. You like him a lot.
—
You aren't exactly quite sure how you got here adorning a pair of borrowed overalls and some worn out boots as you crouch down in the golden grass. The woven straw hat sitting on top of your head blends you in with the surrounding flora and your slow movements could hardly be heard through the hot breeze that sifts through the field of grass.
Well… Correction. You do know how you got here. One cute neighbor requesting your help and taking advantage of his pretty face; how could you ever turn him down? Maybe you've grown too much of a soft spot for him. Who knows what kind of shenanigans he'll get you to do, like hunting down the baby chicks that happened to escape the coop right before the sun has set. Luckily, by the time you've got there, Hieronymus had managed to capture some of the little rascals.
Chirp.
Chirp. Chirp. Tweet.
The sound of tiny, little tweets catches your attention and your head snaps to your right. A handful of small, plump feathery chicks are bundled up beside one another hidden beside stalks of golden grass. It seems like a majority of the missing ones are here, thank goodness. But figuring out how to snag all of them without losing sight of any…
You inch closer, careful not to make any sounds or sudden movements. A hand slowly reaches outward with fingers stretched to hopefully scoop them all in one go and-
"Hey! Get back here!" You exclaim as you lunge forward. Two chicks have successfully been captured, but the other two have scattered off in two different directions. The captured duo seem to chirp and squirm within your grip and luckily the pocket in your overalls is deep enough to comfortably hold them so your hands could remain free.
Quick on your feet, you dash towards the escaping babies with clumsy grace; your city body isn't quite used to running around in boots and trampling through golden grass but here you are doing so anyways.
The chicks are faster and much more agile than you are clunking around in clothes you're unfamiliar with. But, thankfully, you've outsmart the young chicks and with one more jump forward, you've collapsed to the ground with heavy breaths, the remaining baby chicks squirming in your hands and the other two chirping incessantly in your front pocket.
Phainon greets you with a whistle as you return to the coop all rustled up; four baby chicks tweet and wiggle and writhe in your pocket. There's a smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips and his eyes rake over your body to take in every detail—your hair is a mess, there's dirt everywhere on your clothes, and you're sweating profusely from chasing around little chicks amidst the farm. Truly, you're the definition of beauty and grace at this very moment.
"Babies gave you a rough time, neighbor?" Phainon teases you, following your movements as you trudge forward and drop off the little fluff balls into the coop. They chirp incessantly before huddling into their mother's bosom after a shrill squawk.
"Yeah, all thanks to you," You grumble. You wipe away at the sweat on your forehead with your arm, causing a small chuckle to arise from the man beside you.
"Here, you're making a mess of yourself." A familiar small, blue handkerchief with a purple dromas embroidered in the corner is handed to you; correction, your own handkerchief is handed to you.
You take it, narrowing your eyes at the grinning man before you. "I was wondering where that went. You stole it from me?"
"More like keeping it clean and safe for you," He says with a simple shrug of his shoulders. "You're welcome, by the way."
It smells like him, you notice as you unfold the little handkerchief and hold it to your face—the all too intimate scent of ocean breeze, clean linen, and faint citrus flood your senses as you gently wipe away the sweat and grime of the day off of your face. When you meet his gaze again, he's giving you that look again; his head tilted at a slight angle, eyes softening at the sight of you, and smiling like you have all the answers he has been looking for.
It sends your heart racing.
"You missed a spot, neighbor." Phainon's voice is gentle, tender in all of the right ways as he raises his hand closer to your face. You flinch initially when his finger brushes against your skin, but his warmth is an addictive feeling. Fingers calloused from years of experience working as a farmhand wipe away the remaining dirt from your cheekbone; a delicate touch, as if he were handling the most precious porcelain. "There, pretty as always."
His words strike a chord within you, one so consonant that the overtones ring through every part of your heart. His compliment is small and yet your chest is so light, it feels like you could fly.
"So you think I'm pretty?" You jest, a feeble attempt at calming your nerves.
"I do." And he crumbles it all with two simple words. Warmth floods your cheeks, burning you up from the inside. You hope that he's joking, but your heart skips a beat seeing the sincerity gleaming in his eyes. His gaze never leaves yours; if anything, the seem to glow brighter at your reaction to him. His thumb brushes against your cheek again as his palm rests against your jaw to hold it—you can't hide your expression from him now.
"I really do think you're pretty."
"You shouldn't say things like that. People will get the wrong idea." Your gaze falls to anywhere but your neighbor. Phainon can most definitely feel the heat radiating off of your face at this point; your heart is hammering so hard against your chest, carrying the blood to the apples of your cheeks and the tips of your ears. You want to disappear and, at the same time, melt into his touch.
"That I like you?" He asks, a lilt to his voice. "They wouldn't be wrong then."
"Is it okay to kiss you?" Phainon's voice is barely above a whisper, but they're louder and clearer than ever to you. Your eyes finally meet his when he calls your name; endless blue takes your breath away. It's like a melody to your ears the way your name falls so easily from his lips—he has called it countless times but in this very moment it falls with a perfect cadence.
You nod your head.
When his lips finally meet yours… it's honestly quite clumsy. As the nerves eat the both of you alive, Phainon leans in a bit too fast and crashes into your lips. Your noses bump, your teeth clack against each other in an awkward way and, in shock, the both of you pull away with wide eyes and parted lips before hearty laughter fills the space between you two.
"I'm sorry, let me try that again."
His lips press against yours in a sweet, yet simple kiss. It's one that shares the months of yearning shared between the two of you in these months of rebuilding your life in Aedes Elysiae; soft, affectionate, and sentimental. When you begin to pull away, thinking it was over, Phainon's strong arms pull you back in for another kiss. And another, with his confessions of love murmured to you in between each kiss.
A kiss or two to celebrate a new love, and a new beginning.
i love it when the celebrity is the one deep into a parasocial relationship, not the fan.
in this case, it's successful, young, and attractive streamer phainon, more commonly known by his online alias neikos496, whose streams always have an average of 100k+ concurrent viewers. nowadays his live chat needs to have slow mode turned on from the amount of people wanting to spam every second, and he's always getting sponsorship offers from gaming brands, down to the snacks he consumes on stream. he attends gaming events, makes an appearance at conventions, and once even joined an e-sports team for his favorite game. the latest talk that surrounds him is that he'll soon enter the modeling scene; not hard to imagine with a killer face and body.
however his beginnings were much, much humbler.
a country bumpkin who decided to stay in the city after graduating with a (supposed) useless degree. a young man who spent his last credits to buy a low-quality mic, together with his second-hand gaming pc and obs webcam, he took his chances at breaking through the intimidating world of streaming.
he begins with sandbox games, long chill streams late at night after he was done working his ass off at his daytime corporate job. there were no viewers, but he can't fault in that when the frontpage of the streaming site are all well-established bigshots. it's difficult to find something new when one is so used to the sense of familiarity that their favorite streamer carries.
phainon tries flash games next, making fun of all the silly, borderline fetish art of beloved animation characters, but all that brought him were bots that got his hopes up, only to be cruelly let down when his chat was filled with nothing but advertisement spam.
well... third time's a charm.
phainon tries horror games. he plays the faces of the genre like resident evil, silent hill, amnesia. etc. to the short, obscure indie horror that he only heard through word of mouth in online forums. paired with his usual schedule of late-night streaming and a newly purchased better-quality mic, he feels like it'll get him somewhere this time.
this proves to be true when he gains his first ever viewer in the middle of him shooting down monster enemies. the loud ping from his chat entirely breaks his focus on the game, head swiveling to face the corner of his monitor where he can view the chatbar.
he reads your username out loud before your message, " "what are you playing right now?" oh! i'm playing resident evil 2! the remake, to be specific."
he grins at his webcam, all coy when he asks, "wanna keep watching? i'll be worth your time, i swear!"
when a handsome man with big, puppy dog eyes asks that of you, it's nearly impossible to say no. so type in the chatbar once more,
"sure, why not :)"
to your surprise, this streamer you found out in the wilderness of your recommended page, jumps up from his chair and fistbumps the air in glee. the suddent action makes you laugh. it makes him laugh too, his cheeks are dusted with pink by the time he sits back down. he clears his throat and resumes the game as if nothing ever happened.
you'll definitely be here tomorrow.
the first couple of months in phainon's streaming career, his only viewer was you. it feels less of a livestream and more of a videochat on discord with your friend with how often he refers to you while playing a game. he's moved on from horror games; now he's trying random ones each day.
before beginning a new game, he'll ask without looking at the chatbar, "you ready?" and then promptly calls your username. when he gets jumpscared or chased, he'll look at the chatbar and asks for you to come help him. during puzzles, he'll give his best puppy look as he fully expects you to solve it for him.
his viewers exceeded one (1) when phainon was one of the first ones to play an indie game that would soon blow up in popularity. he had found the game through the developer's social media account, added it to his steam wishlist, and played it on the day it came out.
the second time he streamed that indie game, he was awed at the whopping 2000 live concurrent viewers on his stream. he thanked everyone that was currently watching before his eyes zoned in at the chatbar, eyes sparkling as he called out your username, "are you still there? a-are you seeing this right now!?"
you laughed, pride blooming in your chest to see the once unknown streamer you've been watching for a while now take his first steps onto the grand stage of stardom. your fingers tingle in excitement as you type in,
"yes!! welcome everyone, phainon is an awesome streamer, i promise ^^"
another viewer typed, "phainon? is that neikos496's real name?"
oops. you forgot it's no longer just you and him in his livestreams anymore. before guilt could form in your guts, phainon laughs and waves his hand around.
"you're right about that, friend." he mentions your username. "they've been a long-time viewer of mine, you see. we're practically online friends now!"
he winks at his camera. "isn't that right?"
username.
there's a pattern to be found in how, as phainon's fame grows, so do his reliance on you. while before, his behavior of constantly paying attention to you was to be expected, seeing as you were his only viewer at that time, it tends to come off as odd now that his number of viewers is increasing day by day. he still retains old traditions by specifically calling out for your username and checking if you were ready before starting the game he was set on playing that day.
not to mention how he always singles out your chats, always making it a priority for him to read first amidst a sea of emote spammers and other people trying to grasp his attention. even the ones who paid for superchats are inherently stuck in second place the moment you send something to the chatbar.
sure. that's fine. loyalty and routine are good traits to have on a person, right? this just proves that despite his rising fame as a streamer, phainon is still the same man you met back then by staying to his roots. but it begins to slowly suffocate you with how much phainon demands from you, becoming bolder and bolder as his channel grows.
one time, you felt like lying back and observing him for the entirety of the stream, so you hadn't felt the need to type in anything to the chatbar. but an hour into his stream, he's still not playing any game.
after taking gulps from his water bottle, his blue eyes focus on his (newly acquired) second monitor, "chat, chat," he calls out, eyes skimming through the strings of text from different people pouring in. he says your username, "are they here yet? in the stream, i mean."
albeit confused, his viewers tell him no, having believed you weren't there yet with the lack of your usual chattiness. he visibly deflates into his gaming chair. "really? aw, well, we can wait for them before i start playing."
his chat bursts into confusion, spamming questions marks and many complaints to just begin the damn game already beginning to pop up. yet phainon remains undeterred, leaning back on his gaming chair with a slight frown on his face, fingers toying with his water bottle cap.
you straighten up, hurriedly typing in an effort to do damage control from the angry mob.
"heyyyy!! i've been here since the beginning TT TT start the game, neikos!"
akin to dangling a dog treat in front of a puppy, phainon excitedly leans in close to his screen and exclaims your username.
"you've been here all this time! why didn't you say anything? i was about to be sad, you know?" he pouts, bottom lip exaggeratedly jutting out. you nervously laugh, already imagining the curses thrown your way from his viewers.
"srry.... was quite drained from work today ^^;;;; so i didn't feel like typing much..."
then you hurriedly add, "but it's ok now!! let's get this party started .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·. "
phainon hesitates for a moment, seemingly wanting to say more. but then he blinks and returns his focus back to the game he was supposed to play.
in a quieter voice, he mutters, "next time, don't leave me waiting like that, okay? i was scared something happened to you..."
that's... (odd) fair. it must have shaken him quite a bit, being used to you so present and vocal in his streams.
so you go ahead and reassure him, "got it (●'◡'●)"
it's passed off as jokes at first; his fanbase online has an ongoing inside joke wherein phainon is dating you in private. it's not an unreasonable conclusion, and it'd make sense to an outsider just peering in from outside, but when phainon mentioned your username in a fanmeet event, the line between jokes and genuine belief is blurred. a shipping culture is born, and the flames are fanned further when a fan posts a screenshot of their profile being followed by phainon before it quickly gets unfollowed.
from a supposed friendship in the eyes of his many viewers, it quickly becomes uncomfortable for you when other fans begin mentioning you in the chatbar, asking for confirmation during phainon's livestreams.
you turn a blind eye to the best that you can. a deranged fan dming you, claiming to have spotted you and phainon out on a date, is quickly blocked. all variations of your shipname with phainon are muted from your timeline, and the accounts related to it are blocked as well.
but even that's not enough. eventually, you decide that it's best to forget this streamer altogether; you stopped attending his livestreams, you moved accounts, you changed usernames, and you wished him the best of luck with his career. not that he needed any if the rumors of him being invited to gamescom held an ounce of truth.
not even a week later, you wake to a dm request on your new account from a burner,
"hello, i didn't mean for the entire situation to quickly turn sour. and i am so sorry for dragging you into this mess when i should've been at the forefront defending you from harassment and hate. i understand that you're not quite ready to reveal our relationship to the public just yet, and i fully respect your decision.
my only wish is for you to go back to watching my streams, just like old times? i really miss you, and i find myself having difficulty playing when you're not there to cheer me on. my personal cheerleader, in a way :) they don't have to know it's you, i know you changed your username, after all. we can keep it secret. i can ignore your messages (but just know i read them and keep them close to my heart), i'll pretend that i'm not paying attention to you, anything.
i just miss you so much. come back to me soon. please, (y/n)?
i love you.
yours,
phainon."
... that's not your username he's typing. it's your real name that you never revealed to anyone online - not to him.
and what does phainon mean by keeping it private? you're not even dating - not once have you even met up with him in real life.
this guy... this beloved, worshipped streamer, one that you used to look up to with so much admiration, is absolutely deranged.
i love it when the celebrity is the one deep into a parasocial relationship, not the fan.
in this case, it's successful, young, and attractive streamer phainon, more commonly known by his online alias neikos496, whose streams always have an average of 100k+ concurrent viewers. nowadays his live chat needs to have slow mode turned on from the amount of people wanting to spam every second, and he's always getting sponsorship offers from gaming brands, down to the snacks he consumes on stream. he attends gaming events, makes an appearance at conventions, and once even joined an e-sports team for his favorite game. the latest talk that surrounds him is that he'll soon enter the modeling scene; not hard to imagine with a killer face and body.
however his beginnings were much, much humbler.
a country bumpkin who decided to stay in the city after graduating with a (supposed) useless degree. a young man who spent his last credits to buy a low-quality mic, together with his second-hand gaming pc and obs webcam, he took his chances at breaking through the intimidating world of streaming.
he begins with sandbox games, long chill streams late at night after he was done working his ass off at his daytime corporate job. there were no viewers, but he can't fault in that when the frontpage of the streaming site are all well-established bigshots. it's difficult to find something new when one is so used to the sense of familiarity that their favorite streamer carries.
phainon tries flash games next, making fun of all the silly, borderline fetish art of beloved animation characters, but all that brought him were bots that got his hopes up, only to be cruelly let down when his chat was filled with nothing but advertisement spam.
well... third time's a charm.
phainon tries horror games. he plays the faces of the genre like resident evil, silent hill, amnesia. etc. to the short, obscure indie horror that he only heard through word of mouth in online forums. paired with his usual schedule of late-night streaming and a newly purchased better-quality mic, he feels like it'll get him somewhere this time.
this proves to be true when he gains his first ever viewer in the middle of him shooting down monster enemies. the loud ping from his chat entirely breaks his focus on the game, head swiveling to face the corner of his monitor where he can view the chatbar.
he reads your username out loud before your message, " "what are you playing right now?" oh! i'm playing resident evil 2! the remake, to be specific."
he grins at his webcam, all coy when he asks, "wanna keep watching? i'll be worth your time, i swear!"
when a handsome man with big, puppy dog eyes asks that of you, it's nearly impossible to say no. so type in the chatbar once more,
"sure, why not :)"
to your surprise, this streamer you found out in the wilderness of your recommended page, jumps up from his chair and fistbumps the air in glee. the suddent action makes you laugh. it makes him laugh too, his cheeks are dusted with pink by the time he sits back down. he clears his throat and resumes the game as if nothing ever happened.
you'll definitely be here tomorrow.
the first couple of months in phainon's streaming career, his only viewer was you. it feels less of a livestream and more of a videochat on discord with your friend with how often he refers to you while playing a game. he's moved on from horror games; now he's trying random ones each day.
before beginning a new game, he'll ask without looking at the chatbar, "you ready?" and then promptly calls your username. when he gets jumpscared or chased, he'll look at the chatbar and asks for you to come help him. during puzzles, he'll give his best puppy look as he fully expects you to solve it for him.
his viewers exceeded one (1) when phainon was one of the first ones to play an indie game that would soon blow up in popularity. he had found the game through the developer's social media account, added it to his steam wishlist, and played it on the day it came out.
the second time he streamed that indie game, he was awed at the whopping 2000 live concurrent viewers on his stream. he thanked everyone that was currently watching before his eyes zoned in at the chatbar, eyes sparkling as he called out your username, "are you still there? a-are you seeing this right now!?"
you laughed, pride blooming in your chest to see the once unknown streamer you've been watching for a while now take his first steps onto the grand stage of stardom. your fingers tingle in excitement as you type in,
"yes!! welcome everyone, phainon is an awesome streamer, i promise ^^"
another viewer typed, "phainon? is that neikos496's real name?"
oops. you forgot it's no longer just you and him in his livestreams anymore. before guilt could form in your guts, phainon laughs and waves his hand around.
"you're right about that, friend." he mentions your username. "they've been a long-time viewer of mine, you see. we're practically online friends now!"
he winks at his camera. "isn't that right?"
username.
there's a pattern to be found in how, as phainon's fame grows, so do his reliance on you. while before, his behavior of constantly paying attention to you was to be expected, seeing as you were his only viewer at that time, it tends to come off as odd now that his number of viewers is increasing day by day. he still retains old traditions by specifically calling out for your username and checking if you were ready before starting the game he was set on playing that day.
not to mention how he always singles out your chats, always making it a priority for him to read first amidst a sea of emote spammers and other people trying to grasp his attention. even the ones who paid for superchats are inherently stuck in second place the moment you send something to the chatbar.
sure. that's fine. loyalty and routine are good traits to have on a person, right? this just proves that despite his rising fame as a streamer, phainon is still the same man you met back then by staying to his roots. but it begins to slowly suffocate you with how much phainon demands from you, becoming bolder and bolder as his channel grows.
one time, you felt like lying back and observing him for the entirety of the stream, so you hadn't felt the need to type in anything to the chatbar. but an hour into his stream, he's still not playing any game.
after taking gulps from his water bottle, his blue eyes focus on his (newly acquired) second monitor, "chat, chat," he calls out, eyes skimming through the strings of text from different people pouring in. he says your username, "are they here yet? in the stream, i mean."
albeit confused, his viewers tell him no, having believed you weren't there yet with the lack of your usual chattiness. he visibly deflates into his gaming chair. "really? aw, well, we can wait for them before i start playing."
his chat bursts into confusion, spamming questions marks and many complaints to just begin the damn game already beginning to pop up. yet phainon remains undeterred, leaning back on his gaming chair with a slight frown on his face, fingers toying with his water bottle cap.
you straighten up, hurriedly typing in an effort to do damage control from the angry mob.
"heyyyy!! i've been here since the beginning TT TT start the game, neikos!"
akin to dangling a dog treat in front of a puppy, phainon excitedly leans in close to his screen and exclaims your username.
"you've been here all this time! why didn't you say anything? i was about to be sad, you know?" he pouts, bottom lip exaggeratedly jutting out. you nervously laugh, already imagining the curses thrown your way from his viewers.
"srry.... was quite drained from work today ^^;;;; so i didn't feel like typing much..."
then you hurriedly add, "but it's ok now!! let's get this party started .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·. "
phainon hesitates for a moment, seemingly wanting to say more. but then he blinks and returns his focus back to the game he was supposed to play.
in a quieter voice, he mutters, "next time, don't leave me waiting like that, okay? i was scared something happened to you..."
that's... (odd) fair. it must have shaken him quite a bit, being used to you so present and vocal in his streams.
so you go ahead and reassure him, "got it (●'◡'●)"
it's passed off as jokes at first; his fanbase online has an ongoing inside joke wherein phainon is dating you in private. it's not an unreasonable conclusion, and it'd make sense to an outsider just peering in from outside, but when phainon mentioned your username in a fanmeet event, the line between jokes and genuine belief is blurred. a shipping culture is born, and the flames are fanned further when a fan posts a screenshot of their profile being followed by phainon before it quickly gets unfollowed.
from a supposed friendship in the eyes of his many viewers, it quickly becomes uncomfortable for you when other fans begin mentioning you in the chatbar, asking for confirmation during phainon's livestreams.
you turn a blind eye to the best that you can. a deranged fan dming you, claiming to have spotted you and phainon out on a date, is quickly blocked. all variations of your shipname with phainon are muted from your timeline, and the accounts related to it are blocked as well.
but even that's not enough. eventually, you decide that it's best to forget this streamer altogether; you stopped attending his livestreams, you moved accounts, you changed usernames, and you wished him the best of luck with his career. not that he needed any if the rumors of him being invited to gamescom held an ounce of truth.
not even a week later, you wake to a dm request on your new account from a burner,
"hello, i didn't mean for the entire situation to quickly turn sour. and i am so sorry for dragging you into this mess when i should've been at the forefront defending you from harassment and hate. i understand that you're not quite ready to reveal our relationship to the public just yet, and i fully respect your decision.
my only wish is for you to go back to watching my streams, just like old times? i really miss you, and i find myself having difficulty playing when you're not there to cheer me on. my personal cheerleader, in a way :) they don't have to know it's you, i know you changed your username, after all. we can keep it secret. i can ignore your messages (but just know i read them and keep them close to my heart), i'll pretend that i'm not paying attention to you, anything.
i just miss you so much. come back to me soon. please, (y/n)?
i love you.
yours,
phainon."
... that's not your username he's typing. it's your real name that you never revealed to anyone online - not to him.
and what does phainon mean by keeping it private? you're not even dating - not once have you even met up with him in real life.
this guy... this beloved, worshipped streamer, one that you used to look up to with so much admiration, is absolutely deranged.
♡ - Akito x reader drabble, fluff, night summer time, I CANT GET HIM OUT OF MY HEADD, this is a little bad 😞😞 i just want to sleep with this off my mind lmao
You felt the sweat on your forehead. Even though your boyfriend had stopped cuddling you —since he was sleeping on his side to avoid burning you alive— there was still sweat on your forehead while your heart beated fast. You had a pretty bad nightmare...
"Akito..." - You murmured a little guilty of trying to wake him up, but you needed a hug badly. - "Akito!"
You kept poking his back and repeating his name until he woke up. He groggily grumbled, turning slightly to see you.
"What...?" - He asked, it seems he didnt wake up totally from his slumber.
"...You know i love you, right?"
"What? Yeah, i do...why?"
"Its just— i love you, dummy..."
He huffed, turning to look at you with bored eyes, glaring directly at you. But he took the hint and decided to cuddle with you— even though earlier, you had been grumbling about the warmth he gave you. He got offended because wdym youre rejecting his natural warm hugs!
"You woke me up only for something i know...? Go back to sleep, babe...unless something happened."
You leaved a shaky breath and murmured to him - "its just— i dreamed that Tsukasa and Rui kidnapped you!"
"WHAT?" - Your Akito woke up shocked and scared! Now he's the one who's gonna have nightmares probably...
Bonus: You will have to cuddle with him all night now! No excuses, its not like he's scared of course...he just needs you close!
May I req Toya, Akito and VBS Miku (separately) with a reader who likes to draw them a lot? Like to the point they have a whole seperate sketch book dedicated to drawings of them ^^
Have a nice day and remember to take care of ur self!!!!!!
ur so kind what the flippy flap- honestly thank u for ur kindness it literally makes my day!! I swear I turn into a literal iPad kid whenever I play pjsk it’s not even funny😭
Toya, Akito, and VBS Miku with an artist reader who draws them a lot
VBS Miku:
She always knew you liked drawing, you drew all the time. There almost wasn’t a time where she didn’t see you draw.
You often went to Sekai to get inspiration for your art, coincidentally she’d always be in the area when you’d started sketching.
Sometime later she gave into her previous curiosity and straight up asked you what you were drawing.
You stared at her with hesitant(or what she could only assume), but soon got over it and shyly turned your sketch book around to show her what you drew.
It was a simple sketch of her chatting with Meiko while she was sipping on her coffee, she almost thought it was the finished draft because of the detail. The hanging zipper from her jacket, the reflection of the sun in Meiko’s sun glasses, and the shadows of a bickering Len and Rin in the background.
“Whoa Y/n, this is incredible. Didn’t know you admire me so much!”
She spoke in a teasing tone, she started to flipping through past pages and saw just how many pictures you drew of her. Of course, it wasn’t only her, pictures of Meiko, Len, Rin, Kaito, and Luka were littered throughout the sketch book. But none had appeared as much as she had.
There was a warm feeling that spread through her heart as she stared at the many sketches, for some reason she felt loved in a sense. She did before of course, but that made her feel all the more loved.
She quickly pulled you in for a tight hug, just for a moment before realizing what she did and gently let you go.
After that she’d randomly start posing whenever you entered Sekai, just to give you ideas for your next drawing.
Shinonome Akito:
Being the noisy prick he is he’d find your sketches of him quite easily.
He knew you draw, he’s even taken the liberty of calling you the groups “Ena.”(bc she draws and like ykyk😭)
So on that one fateful day, you just were sketching the said noisy prick, he was in the midst of singing but suddenly saw how you subtly kept eyeing him then returning back to your drawing.
Literally had the audacity to stop practicing and ran straight towards you to see what you were up to.
“Hey Y/n! Whatcha keep staring at me for- oh? Damn…got my good angle and everything.”
He grabbed the book from the table and started flipping through it despite your efforts to take it back.
Started to actually rate each of them through 1-10 on how good his outfit was that day.
After his searching he proudly slammed the search down on the table and ruffled your head aggressively kindly.
He told you next time you draw him and he wasn’t wearing a good outfit to just come up with one and pretend he’s wearing that.
Aoyagi Toya:
Didn’t find out until you accidentally left your sketchbook out on the bar counter.
Listen he’s a man of respect so he’s not like a certain ginger who just digs through your belongings.
He was watching the An and Kohane practice for an upcoming concert for the 5 of you, still being aware that you were in the same vicinity as him. He asked you why you weren’t practicing with them but you just said it was too early to sing and continue to doodle in your sketchbook.
He’s always wondered what you drew in there, but he never asked because he doesn’t want you to get embarrassed or something.
But suddenly you just told him that you had to use the restroom and ran off…with your sketchbook open.
Now I know I said he’s a man of respect and won’t dig through your belongings but the page was literally right in front of him. He could see it as a whole. The drawing was a man, a man with a jacket, oh wait that looks like him.
Never confronted you about it, when you got back from the restroom he just snapped his head the opposite direction of the sketch book.
You still don’t know that he saw it, but that night he definitely kicked his feet and giggled like a girl(istg)
