I hate that nothing can motivate me to work out and go to the gym because I will never be better than I once was so I have to sit here watching my muscles soften and checking the scale every so often expecting that it’ll be fixed on its own and every time I go to the gym somehow I’m astounded by how little I can do as if this isn’t entirely my own doing and my lack of effort if the problem ahaha
hey metal fusion tumblr can someone give me some pointers? (long ahh ryuga post beneath the cut)
so im writing a quick section on Ryuga in some fic about Yu in the Dark Nebula, and i started writing it with Ryuga having an affitinity for fire, and getting taken over by the shadow he casts, whatever. dramatic shit ensues. but then i realize that doesn't feel particularly right. so i restart, having him not be posessed, but have his humanity stolen with each victim he consumes. i like this one, i still do, but it still not right for his character, and i think i finally pinned down why, but im not sure what to do with it.
ryuga is a character that in metal fusion especially (and keep in mind, right now i have only watched metal fusion and... about thirty episodes of metal masters) that seems to be completely, inexcusably, assured in what is clearly "evildoing." He can't plead possession like a lot of characters in beyblade's later seasons. he cant say he was being manipulated, and if he was, said maniupation was clearly mutual- Ryuga would be Doji's chained beast for a bit, and Doji would bring him victims. He's so obviously evil, but at the same time, its made clear that he deserves empathy, not because of his actions, but because of the creature he willingly became.
Ryuga, so far as ive been watching, has not been given an "out" by the writers. We were not given his reasons for keeping L Drago, nor were we offered what insecurities it plucked at to get a reaction from him. We know little to nothing, but we pity him anyways, because even though it was his actions that lead to him getting possessed in season 1's final battle, he was still used. and by me giving him "oh, he got posessed by L Drago", or was dragged into the shadow of the flame he wielded, or any other bullshit reason i could come up with, it gives him an excuse he both doesn't need and shouldn't have. L Drago is a catalyst, not a reason, but the energy causing it, and i just dont know what the reason is.
like sure, power. lets go with that. why do you want power? why are you convinced this is the only way to get it?
and its difficult for me to write a charactre wielding such a different moral compass than me, because surely, at some point, we started out with the same compass? Soemthing must have pushed him to something moraly recomphrensible or whatever it's called, and then that became something he was willing to do, and so on and so on. but i keep giving Ryuga "outs" because some part of me believes, on some level, that he must have a reason. That he's not a singleminded character- he has nuance. He likes Yu Tendo, hes gentle with the kid- so there must be more to him than to blindly follow some creature's promises.
But hes not some tragic villain... not in the way im used to seeing, anyways... and it just feels like i dont have all the pieces.
i dont know. i could be talking in circles. hes just giving me a hard time right now. has anyone had experience writing him?
I haven't written Ryuga in Fusion. ( I mostly have written fury and post fury) I think the interpretation of Ryuga being a bad person given a second chance. As in he was the one that wanted power but why? Here is where is left for us.
In metal fury Ryuga is angry at Doji for manipulating him, we can assume that Ryuga was in Dark nebula as a child and didn't know any better. That's still partially an excuse.
In the manga Doji founds Ryuga(who in the manga is like 1000 years old) under a cliff. He wants power to prove himself (or the dragon clan, his parents) that he is powerful enough to survive the world. idk but it could fit in a way.
Now in fusion we see Ryuga with the help of Doji being calculated about feeding L-Drago. Ryuga is greedy for power (we know this bc of his actions in seson 1 and 3). That is what in the finale the possession of losing his calculated self to his on greed that then becomes Ldragos goal.
The "reasons" for evil-doing I interpret as situation that caused him to make the decision to want power and to believe to be the chosen one for L-Drago. (he could have chosen differently, of course)
i know this may have not be the answer your looking for but i hope it helps.
joker and akechi persona 5 are beautiful to me because its like akechi will go "i hate you i despise you" and "thats just the sort of brainless sentimentality id expect from you" but hes like a traumatized shelter cat who only lets joker near him without biting because he's never experienced someone genuinely liking him for his real self before because he spends all his time lying and also his real self is a serial killer and all around bitch and joker is a normal nice guy with everyone else but hes got this weird codependent attachment to akechi because he's got a weird thing only half explained by getting arrested where he hides his real emotions all the time and makes himself as palettable and helpful to others as possible so they don't ask about any of his real feelings except akechi who inexplicably gets his freak and also tried to murder him multiple times
Prison labor is a problem we need to address soon.
Convicts in prison should have to work like the rest of us.
You mean like slavery?
No, we’re giving them 3 meals and a bed, at our expense, while they just sit around and watch TV. They should have to work!
Right. Like slavery.
It’s not like slavery!
Can they leave?
No.
Can they refuse work?
No.
So how exactly isn’t this slavery?
We DO pay them!
Do we pay in accordance with labor laws?
No. We pay them between 33 cents and $1.41/hour with a maximum daily wage below $5, then take up to half of that as room&board fees and victim compensation.
Right. So like slavery.
BUT.
No.
Image then links to this url.
Prison wages come up again and again in the context of prison conditions and policies. So, we found the most up-to-date information for each
Below URL image reads “fun bonus fact: enough of our labor market currently relies on labor at these depressed rates, that it has a substantial downward pressure on both wages and job availability in low-skilled sectors. Immigrants aren’t taking your jobs. Slavery is.
End description.
I’d also like to add it’s not just private prisons. It’s also private detention centers where ICE keeps the immigrants.
a hefty chunk of items with that ‘made in america’ sticker are in fact made by prison labor
at the very least anything that is a product of prison labor should be required to have a similar sticker to inform consumers they are taking part of this system, which is difficult to track because prison made manufactured goods include almost the entire uniform of a US soldier, road construction in most southern states, and agricultural goods sold in most stores
(Just to clarify, I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just giving you more information because you’re right, and I like your blog, and I want you to have sources in case you need them.)
It’s not even covert. It’s blatant and overt. It’s even called slavery in the constitution.
“Slavery is illegal except as punishment for a crime.”
SECTION. 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, sh
Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.
People just don’t care because they think it’s all murderers and rapists, despite the fact that the number of violent criminals in jail is so small it might as well be negligible.
As of September 30, 2009 in federal prisons, 7.9% of sentenced prisoners were incarcerated for violent crimes,[39] while at year end 2008 of sentenced prisoners in state prisons, 52.4% had been jailed for violent crimes.[39] In 2002 (latest available data by type of offense), 21.6% of convicted inmates in jails were in prison for violent crimes. Among unconvicted inmates in jails in 2002, 34% had a violent offense as the most serious charge. 41% percent of convicted and unconvicted jail inmates in 2002 had a current or prior violent offense; 46% were nonviolent recidivists.[46]
It’s literally slavery, just dumbass racists and capitalists don’t care enough to figure out why we’re calling it that.
Also… even if someone has committed a violent crime, enslaving them is… ya know… still a fucked up thing to do? How is that even in question?
The whole discourse of “well they’re not even all violent offenders” has this weird undertone of ‘if they’re good people they shouldn’t have to be slaves’ that horrifies me. Even if 100% of them were violent, Slavery. Is. Wrong. All humans have rights.
i would highly recommend “American Prison” by Shane Bauer. it’s a sickening read, by a journalist who went undercover as a prison guard and the things he saw and was made to do and did voluntarily. but extremely good, and in many ways necessary. he has some articles that are basically abridged versions as well, if you don’t want to or can’t read the whole book
This is the kind of thing I mean when I say “everyone deserves human rights, even the people you don’t like.”
I don’t like murderers and rapists. But I also think it’s absolutely heinous to lock someone in an 8x6 cell 23 hours a day, 7 days a week.
I don’t like pedophiles, but I also think it’s wrong to allow “prison justice” to run rampant.
I don’t like violent crime, but I also think that guards shouldn’t allow violence to be visited on those who commit it.
And, especially, just like I think that any persons outside prison should be able to live without being forced to work, something I feel very strongly about because I am disabled, I also think that people who commit any crime, including murder and torture, shouldn’t be forced to work against their will, and if they do work, they should be paid accordingly.
Every Trip is a Quest (Except When It's Not), ft. The Silver Pegasus
Key Concept: When a character goes on a trip, pay attention to what they learn about themselves.
What's this? Read the series intro post.
A seemingly innocuous trip in media can, if analyzed through this lens, reveal insight about a character's growth and motivations. In order to see how, you have to understand that every quest has 5 defined components:
The person going on the quest (obviously)
What they hope to achieve (May or may not be a tangible object. Think of it as their "Holy Grail" so to speak)
Their stated reason for going on the quest.
Obstacles that make the quest difficult (terrain, other characters, personal flaws, etc)
The most important part: The real reason for going on the quest. This must be different from the stated reason, and is the thing that grants your desired insight on the character.
In the episode The Silver Pegasus, Gingka returns to Koma Village after losing a battle with Ryuga at the Dark Nebula Headquarters. Hokuto then tells him of a shrine in the village which may have an upgrade for Pegasus and might thus help him gain the power needed to defeat Ryuga. Gingka goes on a fairly obvious quest in this episode, but for the purposes of recap and the analysis, let's break it down into its components.
The Quester: Gingka himself
The Holy Grail: A sacred text, which may upgrade Pegasus's strength
Stated Reason: Get more power to defeat Ryuga
Obstacles: Snow, ice, avalanches, and Gingka's shattered self confidence
The real reason: I'll get to this in a second
As 1-3 are pretty straightforward, I'll start by discussing the obstacles on Gingka's quest. These obstacles can be internal or external, but as you will see as we go along, dividing them is pretty arbitrary.
The harsh terrain poses a challenge physically but isn't the primary thing that is hindering Gingka in his journey to get to the mountain shrine; the wind and snow are merely representatives of the internal struggle taking place. His preoccupation with defeating Ryuga gives him motivation to keep going in the beginning of his quest. Note that this is his stated reason for going, and this makes sense. The reason he is consciously aware of is what provides him with the fuel to persist through these initial challenges.
Of the first of these dangerous obstacles in his quest are icicles which fall from above. These don't seem to faze him at all, though. With a cry of rage, he unleashes Pegasus and shatters them all mid air.
However, when the ice is gone and the danger is passed, Gingka realizes he is still screaming. His face softens into a look of deep sadness. To me, this foreshadows how using his pain to drive him forward is only going to hurt him in the end, leaving him hollow. The prolonged screaming shows that if this is how he chooses to drive himself forward, he will only continue to struggle and feel pain even after he has no reason to.
Driving this point home is the next shot: Gingka proceeds into a dark cave, seeming very small against the backdrop and very notably alone. If you listen carefully, you can even hear the echo of his footsteps before the scene cuts away
Though this scene is short and the obstacle is, at the end of the day, pretty trivial (he had no issues getting past it after all), it's the first sign of the emotional backdrop of this quest and the feelings weighing heavily on Gingka at this point in time. Remember that during the battle with Ryuga, we see Gingka in a rage unlike any we've seen before, and any we see again in the future
As we see in this part of The Silver Pegasus, though, this rage isn't good for him. In L-Drago Awakens it directly leads to his defeat, and similarly, The Silver Pegasus shows that it only leads to isolation and continuation of his grief.
Not only that, after losing and telling Kenta about the death of his father, Gingka disappeared to Koma Village without any notice. He abandons his friends and can't bear to share the burden he is carrying. It's only emphasized further by his small frame against the gaping, empty mouth of the cave.
Still, though, Gingka moves forward. His journey isn't complete yet.
The next obstacle he faces is a wall of ice in his way. He deals with it similarly (launching Pegasus at it, as one does in Beyblade), but notably, on his first attempt he isn't able to break it. Gingka is visibly irritated, and when he tries again, he tells Pegasus to "crush it to pieces".
Again I feel this drives home the rage currently fueling him, and while this allows him to brute force his way through this tougher obstacle, it doesn't come without consequences. Immediately following this, an avalanche threatens to crush him.
It's not explicitly stated that the avalanche is caused by the force used against the ice block, but given that it occurs without a break to show what his friends are up to in Koma Village (as all the other obstacles in this episode do), I think it's fair to read it that way.
The show does tell us that the avalanche represents Gingka's feelings about Ryuga, though. You could say the floodgates have opened, and Gingka is forced to confront what is driving him forward.
He remains steadfast in his stated goal, though; above all, he is concerned about beating Ryuga. Nothing else is on his mind.
When he clears the avalanche, though, it is quiet once more, and Gingka is once again painfully reminded that he failed to beat Ryuga when it mattered. He even questions whether the upgrade to Pegasus is waiting for him at the end at all, demonstrating the doubt that plagues him the further along he goes.
The final obstacle in Gingka's path is a snowstorm, weather that reduces his visibility down to zero. Gingka's confidence now has deteriorated fully, and he is at the hardest part of his journey to the top. This is represented by the low visibility in the storm: Gingka has quite literally lost sight of himself and the path before him. In the snow, he imagines Ryuga laughing at him and insulting his father, and though this fills him with just as much rage as before. He raises his launcher in bitter retaliation, but his spirit is broken: he is unable to launch Pegasus, and it falls uselessly from the launcher just as it did when he attempted to battle Osamu a few days prior.
Gingka sinks into the snow, defeated, his confidence in himself truly shattered. Ryuga's laugh still rings out in his ears and he apologizes once more to his father, but this isn't enough to get him back on his feet. His rage and grief were never enough to sustain him, and he is forced to reckon with that fact now, at the final obstacle of his quest.
Importantly, Gingka is only able to get back up and continue onward once his motivations shift away from grief and revenge.
Only the thought of his friends gets him to reopen his eyes and face Pegasus again after his failure. This is his reminder that he isn't fighting alone, and is the first step in understanding what the real purpose of Gingka's quest is.
Pegasus glows in response to Gingka's words, as if in agreement.
This is where he realizes that his friends are behind him, and that Pegasus is beside him. He was never in this journey alone, despite what he may have believed. He pleads with Pegasus for its strength, and sharing the burden with his partner, his bey, is what allows him to get up and continue on.
Here we see the path to his goal open before him amidst the snow, symbolizing the beginning of his understanding. Of course, change isn't instantaneous; the persistent snowstorm represents the continued struggle against the emotions that have been holding him back up to this point. Now, though, Gingka has found it within himself to move forward, and he is willing and able to take that path.
Now, all that is left for Gingka to do is retrieve the upgrade to Pegasus, and go challenge Ryuga again. Right?
Except there is no upgrade. There is no sacred text. There is no easy way out for Gingka.
I almost forgot to mention. More often than not in a quest, the character will fail to achieve their stated goal. Whether they fail on the path or, in this case, the Holy Grail simply doesn't exist, there will usually be something that causes the initial reasons for the quest to be a failure.
This doesn't mean the quest is a failure, though. In fact, the inability to achieve the desired goal is what causes the self reflection necessary to move forward. The character's action when confronted with this failure is what reveals the true reason for the quest at all.
The Silver Pegasus actually tells us this point explicitly:
In fact, the true reasons for Gingka's quest are told to the audience as well: Reaching the shrine shows that he was never as weak as he believed himself to be, and that so long as he believes in himself and his bey, he can persevere through any challenges. He is then able to see his loss to Ryuga for what it is-- a setback, not an abject failure or a reflection of his ability.
Gingka exits the shrine to light shining on his face and the snowstorm gone. This is symbolic of his restored confidence and the hope he now has going forward. He smiles, and declares his belief in himself.
At the bottom of the shrine, his friends are waiting for him. They could not follow him on his quest, but this is confirmation to him that when he needs them, they will always support him. They have been there for him all along, even when he fled from the promise of their comfort.
Again they are all bathed in light and Gingka holds Pegasus up to the sun, another declaration of hope, confidence, and belief in himself and the people (and bey!) who support him.
Gingka concludes the quest then, having restored his spirit and grown as a person. From the beginning, the show hammers in again and again that one's spirit is what determines the outcome of a battle. This episode is Gingka's first recovery from a major setback, and the quest he goes on foreshadows how he will overcome similar setbacks later in the series. It puts into play this core principle of the show in a way that is easily digestible, and one that will resonate with the audience even if they don't consciously realize when it comes up again later on. In essence, Gingka's quest here encapsulates his future character arcs and is even mirrored by others' in the series (such as Kyoya a few episodes prior, when he realizes Leone was by his side all along; he fails to defeat Gingka that episode, but is able to let go of the bitter resentment he held toward Gingka as well as the relentless need to solve everything alone-- but that's an essay for another time). You could go as far to say that it spoils the rest of the show.
For how cut-and-dry this episode is, it provides a lot of insight into Gingka as a character, both now and in future arcs. Quite frankly I wasn't expecting to glean that much from this; I thought the concept of the quest was shallow until I tried applying it for myself; only after I started writing did I realize just how much was going on underneath the hood.
It was a lot of fun! I look forward to doing more of these as I keep reading the book. The next chapter is about communion, so I'll have to review which episodes have characters eating together.
If you are writing anything about IPC, I can't recommend Wynn-Williams's "Careless People" enough. It's a memoir of Facebook's head of international policy and it's full of, uhm, inspiration.
Our international offices have had “visits” and “raids”—armed and unarmed—in Brazil, Korea, India, and France. I usually hear about these when a phone call or email arrives from our local head of office. (“Hiii! There’s a man with a gun here wanting to know when we’ll be paying taxes in Brazil.”)
Or the "go convince Myanmar junta to cancel the law banning facebook. Don't come back until you do that" chapter.
Or the "there’s an open arrest warrant for Mark Zuckerberg, let's send someone else from upper management to see if they arrest them first" chapter.
“We need a body to arrest.”
“To call their bluff.”
“See how serious they are.”
It’s breathtaking to me, how casually leadership speaks of employees being jailed. As if it’s a fact of life like taxes (though of course that’s something they try to avoid). Everyone starts calling this a “mitigation strategy”—even though the mitigation in this case is to find a “body” to be arrested.
Or this gem (telling her boss that they can't just set up a social network service for organ donation):
She turns to me, indignant. The edge in her voice is unmistakable.
“Do you mean to tell me that if my four-year-old was dying and the only thing that would save her was a new kidney, that I couldn’t fly to Mexico and get one and put it in my handbag?”
Facebook won a lawsuit forbidding the author to sell the book but it's on libgen (mirror). Also it's a hilarious and genuinely horrifying book even if you are not writing fics for a gacha game.
EVERYONE(!) I’m blazing this post because at this pace we might barely hit 1,000,000 signatures—or just fall short. PLEASE reblog this post, no matter where you are from, so we can reach as many EU citizens as possible and end this horrible practice!
summary ⇢ phainon was no fool. he’d seen the way mydei looks at you, and—being the good, charitable, loyal friend he is—he was determined to help mydei win you over.
alternatively, five times phainon tried to ease mydei’s heart, and one time he didn’t have to.
pairing ⇢ mydei x fem!reader
contains ⇢ fluff, 5+1 things, friends to lovers!au, phainon in his matchmaking era—please let me know if i’ve missed anything!
word count ⇢ 4.6k | art credit ⇢ ma_mori74 on x
V. MARMOREAL MARKET.
It had taken Phainon ten minutes to convince Mydei to join him for a walk. Ten minutes that, if Mydei had had his way, he could’ve spent sparring with some of the Okheman soldiers instead. But Aglaea had thought it was a wonderful idea and that the Chrysos Heirs could all do with a bit of a break, and so, Phainon had hauled Mydei by the arm and dragged him out of his chambers.
“No one—not even the prince of Castrum Kremnos—can refuse an order given by Lady Aglaea,” Phainon reasoned. “Don’t look so glum, my friend! We’ll head to the bakery first, and buy a basket full of those golden honeycakes you like so much.”
“I don’t like them that much,” Mydei muttered, his brows furrowed low as they walked through the sun-warmed square, passing beneath a colonnade dusted in peach blossoms. His cape, lined with embroidered laurels, swayed with the rigid force of his stride. He marched even when he was on a break.
Phainon only smiled. “Forgive me, Your Stoicism. I must’ve mistaken the way you inhale three of them in one go for something resembling pleasure.”
He caught the faint twitch of Mydei’s mouth, but didn’t comment. The sun crept higher as they wound through the marble streets of Okhema. Vendors called out in sing-song voices, peddling pomegranates, olive oil, and silk dyed the colour of dusk. The marketplace smelled of fig jam and roasted almonds, with the faint scent of incense wafting from a nearby shrine. Children laughed somewhere behind them, chasing each other in between the columns.
It was a wonderful day to spend outside—but none of that mattered to the warrior from Aedes Elysiae.
No, Phainon had only one goal today. A mission, as sacred as any undertaken by the Chrysos Heirs: to help Mydei get over himself and talk to the person he so obviously liked.
Despite his scowl, Mydei’s pace slowed when they neared the familiar bend in the road where pale stone gave way to ochre tiles and the air always smelled faintly like cardamom and burnt sugar. Phainon didn’t miss it. He turned his head, grinning in the way of a conspirator up to no good.
“There,” he said, pointing ahead. “The sanctuary of your soul. The oven-borne paradise of your most secret cravings.”
Mydei rolled his eyes but didn’t correct him. His scrutiny had already slipped towards the storefront. Phainon followed his gaze and spotted you through the open arch of the bakery’s awning, standing behind the counter with your sleeves rolled up and and your cheeks dusted in flour.
You were frowning over a tray of pastries, fussing over their arrangement. When a breeze swept through the open market street, a lock of hair fell loose from the knot at your neck, and you pushed it back absently with the back of your wrist.
Phainon had eyes, too. But more importantly, he had sense—and he’d seen the way Mydei looked at you when he thought no one was looking. He looked at you with a stubborn sort of reverence, like someone studying a scripture and attempting to understand the words.
Well. That wouldn’t do.
“Look at that.” Phainon slowed and clapped a hand to Mydei’s back. “The bakery’s survived another day without you looming over it like a stormcloud.”
“We’re here for pastries,” said Mydei.
“You’re here for pastries,” Phainon corrected. “I think I’ll go admire the fruit stand across the square. Alone. Without my imposing, sword-wielding companion towering beside me.”
“Phainon—”
But Phainon was already backing away, hands clasped behind his back, whistling some song that Mydei was sure was some great, romantic ballad. Mydei let out a slow breath. He adjusted the drape of his cape, then approached the stall.
You looked up when his shadow crossed the counter.
“Oh,” you said, straightening. “You’re here.”
His gaze dropped quickly. “Phainon wanted pastries.”
Your smile came a second later, soft and uncertain. “Well, lucky him,” you said. “They’re fresh. I just pulled them out of the oven.”
He nodded. Then, realising you were waiting for him to say something else, cleared his throat and tried again. “They smell good.”
“Thank you.”
There was silence, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mydei shifted from one foot to the other. He thought about what Phainon would say in this situation. Probably something clever. Something witty. Something that would fluster both you and him if it were to slip past his lips. You reached for a basket and began lining it with a square of waxed linen.
“How many would you like today?” you asked. “Six? Or—”
Mydei hesitated. “Seven.”
“Seven?” you repeated, looking up at him.
“Just…” He nodded again, firm now. “In case Phainon drops one.”
You laughed—a quiet, breathy sound, like you hadn’t meant for it to escape. You looked away quickly, but he caught the way your smile lingered at the corner of your mouth.
“I’ll pack eight,” you said under your breath.
Mydei blinked. “That’s—”
“In case you drop one,” you added, looking up again, a little more confident. “Or in case you decide you like them more than you’re letting on.”
He stared at you for a moment. Then—quietly—he said, “I already do.”
You froze for half a heartbeat, hands stilling over the basket. A faint flush crept into your cheeks. Instead of answering, you focused on arranging the honeycakes, carefully and methodically placing them in neat rows.
Mydei shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that he had.
Phainon’s voice saved him.
“Have the Titans blessed this day with the sweet scent of ambrosia and gaucheness?” he declared. He draped himself over the edge of the counter, eyes dancing. “Tell me, Y/N—have you discovered a way to bake silence into your pastries? Because my dear friend here seems to have swallowed his vocabulary.”
You covered your laugh with your hand. “Don’t tease him.”
“Would I ever?” Phainon said, looking as innocent as a fox in a henhouse. “I’m simply here to collect our spoils and drag this poor, tongue-tied soldier off to see the rest of Okhema before sunset.”
You handed him the basket with a faint smile, then turned back to Mydei.
“Come by again,” you said quietly. “If you want.”
“I will,” Mydei said stiffly.
You smiled in farewell as they turned to go. Mydei didn’t look back—but his fingers brushed the edge of the basket where you’d tied the ribbon, and he didn’t let go until Phainon took it from him.
“Well?” Phainon said as they walked. “Anything you’d like to say?”
“...She added extra.”
Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “And you managed to remain calm! Incredible. At this rate, you might even ask her to dinner by the next century.”
“Don’t push it,” the Kremnoan grumbled.
“Oh, I plan to.”
IV. GARDEN OF LIFE.
Phainon hadn’t meant to stumble into the Garden of Life with Mydei again—but when they cut through the southern colonnade, they saw a few members from the Council of Elders crowding the forum steps, arguing over something trivial with Aglaea and Tribbie. It was a situation neither he nor Mydei wanted to deal with, and so, they took the longer route and let the scent of citrus and blooming oleander guide their way.
He didn’t mind. It was a pretty place. Calm, and peaceful, with a few straggler Chimeras who were slacking off work hiding behind the laurels.
What he did mind, however, was the way Mydei froze beside him, his entire frame tensing like a drawn bow.
Phainon followed his gaze, and—ah. Of course.
You were there, kneeling by the pond at the garden’s centre, sleeves rolled up and hands dusted with soil. You were tucking sprigs of rosemary into the earth next to the lilies, lips parted in concentration, a woven basket of herbs placed beside you. The sun caught the edge of your profile, golden and soft, and a smear of green streaked across your forearm.
Phainon blinked.
“Well,” he said, half-grinning, “fate certainly enjoys its comedy.”
Mydei didn’t reply. His jaw clenched once, twice, like he was recalibrating the entire concept of movement.
“I didn’t know she gardened,” said Phainon, crossing his arms over his chest. “How wonderfully poetic of her. Maybe she recites odes to every sprout. Maybe—”
“Deliverer,” Mydei said in warning. “Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Phainon said, already walking ahead. “But since we’re both here, and you look like you might sprint in the opposite direction if left unsupervised, I’ll do the civil thing and say hello.”
Mydei grumbled something that sounded like traitor under his breath, but followed.
You looked up when their footsteps approached, blinking once before your expression lifted in slow, pleasant surprise.
“Hello,” you said. “You two again.”
Phainon pressed a hand to his heart. “You sound so thrilled.”
“We saw each other just three days ago,” you said, lips curving upwards. “I didn’t expect company.”
“Neither did we,” Phainon said, nudging Mydei forward a step. “We were merely passing through, but it felt as though Mnestia herself was summoning us.”
You looked at Mydei then—properly—and his shoulders visibly pulled tighter. “You’re not usually in this part of the city,” you said.
“I’m not,” he agreed.
Phainon supplied, “He didn’t know you’d be here.”
“But if he had?” you asked, raising a brow.
Mydei’s mouth opened. Closed.
“He might’ve worn nicer boots,” Phainon answered for him.
You laughed. Just once, but it was enough to make Mydei glance down, as though he was actually checking his boots, then quickly back up like he’d been caught.
“Do you help tend to the garden often?” he asked, surprisingly steadily.
“When I can,” you said. “My uncle oversees some of the Chimeras here. I bring him pastries sometimes.”
Mydei cleared his throat. “You have… dirt on your cheek.”
Your hand flew up and you swiped blindly.
“Other side,” he amended gently.
You blinked, then tried again, slower this time. He nodded. You smiled. “Thanks.”
The pause after was short but warm, filled with birdsong and the murmur of water in the stone channels. Phainon knew there was something—something blooming, something tentative. He rocked back on his heels and made a show of stretching.
“Okay, then,” he said, already backing away, “I think I’ll go find something blasphemous to do near the reflecting pools. You two—talk about dirt. Or gardening. Or destiny. I don’t care.”
“Phainon,” warned Mydei.
“Gone already,” he called, disappearing behind a laurel hedge. He found himself looking down at a pastel pink-coloured Chimera. It blinked up at him with wide eyes. He bent low and patted its head.
He could now hear the murmur of your voices, indistinct but undeniably warm. Your laughter came again, softer now, almost shy, and Mydei—Kephale help him—responded in kind.
It was rare, hearing that from him. So rare that Phainon stood there a moment longer than necessary, not to spy, but to witness. Something tender was taking root. A thread had been pulled taut between you, and it was holding.
He smiled to himself. Victory, he thought, is sweet and golden.
If he listened a little longer—just long enough to hear you say Mydei’s name again, and for Mydei to say yours in return—well. That was no crime.
III. OVERFLOWING BATH, MARMOREAL PALACE.
“Did you know, Mydei,” Phainon began, “that there is an ancient saying in Okhema that says: ‘You can lead a Dromas to water, but you can’t make him drink’? I think it applies to you.”
The bath chamber shimmered with steam, its marble walls veined with gold and silver, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns suspended from the domed ceiling. Water lapped gently against the edges of the vast pool, its surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple from the ornate fountains shaped like sea nymphs.
Phainon lounged in the water, submerged up to his chest, the heat loosening the knots in his shoulders. He tilted his head back, letting the steam envelop him, and then turned to regard Mydei, who sat rigidly on the opposite side, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on some indeterminate point on the far wall.
Mydei frowned. “I’m not a Dromas.”
“True,” Phainon conceded, “but the metaphor still stands. Here you are, in a bath designed for relaxation, yet you sit there as tense as a bowstring.”
“I find these indulgences… unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary? My dear prince, even the most stoic warrior needs respite. Or are you planning to wage war against relaxation itself?”
“I prefer to keep my guard up,” the Kremnoan grumbled.
“In a bathhouse?” Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Unless you suspect the loofahs of treachery, I think you’re safe.”
Mydei did not reply, so Phainon leaned back, letting the water buoy him, and said, “You know, she was asking about you.”
“Who?” Mydei’s gaze snapped to him.
“The pretty baker,” he answered. “You remember. The one with honey on her hands and sunlight in her hair. I visited Marmoreal Market again this morning. She makes exquisite milk pies, did you know?”
“Yes,” Mydei breathed out, and looked away, the tips of his ears reddening. “What did she say?”
“She wondered if the famously stoic prince ever smiles when he’s with others,” Phainon said, watching him closely. “I told her I’d seen it once, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.”
Mydei didn’t speak for a long time. The steam gathered on his eyelashes. His hands, resting on his knees, clenched, then relaxed.
“She shouldn’t ask things like that,” he said at last.
“Why not?”
“It implies something.”
“Yes,” Phainon said, amused. “It implies that she’s curious. About you.”
“That’s the problem,” Mydei replied. “She shouldn’t. I’ve done nothing to invite it.”
“You think attraction waits for an invitation? Mydei, please. You’re not a fortress. You can’t control who looks at you, or why.”
“I am heir to a kingdom where sentiment is seen as weakness,” the prince said. “I was raised to command, not to… to stay in gardens and smile at girls who bake bread.”
Phainon leaned forward, the water sloshing gently as he moved. “Yet, you stayed, and yet, you smiled.”
“It’s dangerous,” Mydei said, looking away. He looked troubled. “I wish I could tell her that. I may be immortal, but I won’t be here all the time, not if—not if fate has its way with me.”
“She isn’t asking for divinity, my friend,” said Phainon gently. “She’s only asking if you smile.”
Mydei’s gaze dropped to the water again. He didn’t answer, but his expression softened—imperceptibly, except to someone who’d known him long enough to notice.
After a while, Phainon leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Just something to think about, Mydei. No pressure. But if you do decide to bring her a flower sometime, may I suggest anything other than hemlock?”
Mydei scowled again and glared at the white-haired warrior. Phainon reached for a fig from the platter placed behind him and shrugged, eyes dancing with mirth. “Hks,” Mydei muttered, but his posture had eased—shoulders no longer braced like shields, hands no longer tense on his thighs. The prince looked away, but his expression had gone distant in a different sort of manner.
As if, perhaps, he was thinking about someone.
II. KEPHALE PLAZA.
Kephale Plaza was a marvel of architecture, its wide expanse paved with sun-kissed limestone that glowed warmly under the afternoon sun. The plaza was framed by colonnades of ivory marble, each column entwined with flowering vines that added bursts of colour to the pristine white.
Phainon wished he could say that he’d come here to marvel at the scenery. Unfortunately, Aglaea had received a report about a thief who was on the loose, filching bracelets and coin purses alike. Castorice was busy, and Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon were otherwise occupied. That left Phainon, who, in truth, didn’t mind the assignment.
What he did mind, though, was the way he’d caught sight of you and Mydeimos walking together beneath the arch of blooming bougainvillaea and promptly forgotten what, exactly, he was meant to be watching for.
He loitered near one of the shaded stalls, pretending to inspect a display of carved wooden figurines, though he only caught every third word of the merchant’s well-practiced sales pitch. His attention was fixed on the way Mydei leaned towards you slightly, his usually unreadable expression tinged with something that might’ve been—Kephale help him—softness.
You were speaking quietly, gesturing with one hand as you walked, and Mydei nodded along, occasionally offering clipped replies. Even from a distance, Phainon could see that Mydei wasn’t just listening; he was listening—brows faintly drawn, head tilted in that particular way he reserved for things he wanted to understand but couldn’t quite name.
Phainon narrowed his eyes. This wouldn’t do.
With a slow inhale, he pushed off the marble column and approached. His footsteps were light, but he made no move to hide his arrival.
“Fancy seeing the two of you here,” he announced cheerfully, slipping into step beside you easily.
Mydei faltered, immediately shifting half a step away from you. “Phainon.”
You blinked up at him, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t know you were on patrol today.”
Phainon shrugged. “Technically, yes. I’m in pursuit of a nefarious criminal. But more importantly, I’m here to rescue you from the silence this one—” he nodded at Mydei— “can’t seem to escape. He’s the definition of a man of few words.”
“We weren’t silent,” Mydei groused.
“No, no—I’m sure it was romantic!” Phainon acquiesced. “If Y/N here is into hulking, brooding men.”
You laughed which was, frankly, unacceptable, because you were supposed to laugh at Mydei’s jokes, not his. Mydei look exasperated, but his cheeks were dusted red, which Phainon considered a personal victory.
“Actually,” you said, smiling at Mydei, “he was telling me about the coastal patrols in Okhema. They’ve been—”
“—more diligent than usual,” Mydei interrupted quickly. “Nothing worth reporting.”
Phainon raised a brow. “Not even to your dear friend who has spent the past hour avoiding elderly vendors who insist I’d make a fine husband for their granddaughters?”
You looked like you were about to say something sympathetic, but he pressed on. “What I am interested in,” he said lightly, “is how long you’ve both been here, because if you saw anything suspicious—like, say, a person darting between stalls with more rings on their fingers than they started with—I could finally do something productive.”
“We just got her not long ago,” you said, shaking your head. “I haven’t seen anything strange.”
Mydei only said, “No.”
“Of course not,” Phainon sighed. “Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose I’ll deputise the both of you. Consider this your invitation to join me in chasing shadows across the sunniest place in Okhema.”
“Are we being drafted into service?” you asked, smiling.
“Yes,” he said promptly. “It’s terribly official.”
Mydei looked like he might object, but you nudged him gently with your elbow. “Come on,” you murmured, and just like that, the faint stubborn line in his brow faded.
Phainon didn’t miss it.
As you began walking again—now with Phainon very deliberately between the two of you—he leaned closer to Mydei and said under his breath, “You know, if you plan to pine in silence for much longer, I’ll be forced to intervene.”
“I’m not pining,” Mydei muttered.
“Oh?” he said. “So you weren’t giving her a lecture about border patrols as a thinly veiled excuse to spend time with her?”
Mydeimos said nothing, which said everything.
“You’re terrible at this.” Phainon grinned. “Just so you know.”
“Good,” the prince said shortly. “Then you won’t give me advice.”
“On the contrary. I’ll give you too much of it.” He glanced over at you. You had paused ahead to admire a display of ornamental silks. “You don’t want to wait too long, Mydei,” he said quietly. “The world doesn’t always give you second chances.”
With that, he strode ahead, catching up with you and saying loudly, “Now, if I were a thief hiding in plain sight, I’d disguise myself as a merchant selling outrageously overpriced scarves. Shall we investigate?”
You rolled your eyes but let him lead you away with a grin. Behind you, Mydei stood still for a moment, his expression hard beneath the bright sun—then slowly, he moved to follow.
I. HALL OF RESPITE, MARMOREAL PALACE.
The Hall of Respite was aptly named—a haven tucked away in the southern wing of Marmoreal Palace, where golden afternoon light filtered through tall arched windows and dust motes danced lazily in the air like sleepy fireflies. Columns of white stone held up the ceiling, each one wrapped in trailing ivy and blooms enchanted to stay in perpetual spring. A small fountain burbled in the centre. Plush divans and velvet-cushioned lounges lined the walls, draped in silks the colour of champagne and cloud.
Phainon was draped across one such divan, a chilled goblet of pomegranate nectar balanced in one hand, the other idly stroking the embroidery of a nearby cushion. He looked every inch the picture of languid nobility—except that he was not—save for the fact that his gaze was locked on the entrance, waiting.
When Mydei finally entered, Phainon perked up immediately.
“I was beginning to think you’d taken up permanent residence in the training grounds,” he said by way of greeting.
“I was training,” Mydei replied, as if the comment had any need of clarification. He was still in his tunic, sweat-darkened at the collar, his hair slightly damp. Even his gait carried the stiffness of someone who had just disarmed three men in a row.
“Of course you were.” Phainon gestured to the chaise opposite him. “Sit down. Hydrate. Pretend, for a moment, that you’re not forged from granite.”
Mydei did not smile, but he complied, lowering himself onto the edge of the chaise.
Phainon said, “I ran into Y/N earlier.”
“Oh?”
“She was near the reflecting pools,” he went on. “Feeding crumbs to that flock of silver-throated sparrows. You know the ones. She was humming, too, a sweet little tune—something old, sounded Kremnoan.”
Mydei’s eyes flickered. “Her mother used to sing to her in Kremnoan. She told me that, once.”
“Did she now?” Phainon blinked, momentarily wrong-footed.
“She said she doesn’t remember the words, only the melody. And how warm her mother’s voice was. Like a hearth fire.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“She also said that she was thinking of asking me to accompany her to the festival next week,” Phainon said, attempting to recover. “Something about needing a partner for the moonlight procession.”
He glanced sideways, hoping to catch a glimpse of jealousy.
But Mydei only tilted his head, thoughtful. “She would enjoy that.”
“...Would she?”
“Yes,” said Mydei, softly. “She likes the sound of drums, and the lanterns—she called them tiny captive stars. She’d probably spend half the night asking about the legends behind the constellations.”
“You know her very well.”
“She listens when you speak,” the prince said, as though that answered everything. “Not because she’s curious—though she is—but because she values what you have to say. That’s rare, and so I try to do the same for her.”
A breath of silence passed between them. Phainon blinked.
“She also makes that face when she’s trying not to laugh,” Mydei added suddenly, and there was a hint of fondness in his voice. “One side of her mouth curls first.”
“Wow,” said Phainon, trying to disguise the dryness in his throat with a sip of his drink, “aren’t you just the veritable poet.”
Mydei said nothing, but the corners of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile he so rarely offered.
Phainon sat back with a sigh, glaring up at the ceiling. “Remind me never to try and make you jealous again. It’s bad for my pride.”
“You tried to make me jealous?” asked Mydei, sounding genuinely surprised.
The warrior groaned. “Forget it.”
“I do think she’d prefer your company to mine at the festival,” Mydei said, standing to leave. “You could always offer her a poem, too. She might keep it.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve been told,” he said, and with a nod, Mydei strode out of the Hall, leaving Phainon staring at his back, utterly defeated.
The fountain continued to burble. Somewhere in the gardens beyond, a sparrow sang.
O. PATH OF PARTING.
The Path of Parting curved like a river of stone through the eastern gardens, its flagstones pale and smooth from centuries of reverent steps. It was said that this was where lovers, friends, and comrades once walked when farewells had to be made—with flowers blooming along either side, as if to soften the grief. Today, the air was still and fragrant, golden with sunlight, and the blossoms were at their brightest: starblush vines spilling from trellises, yellow cypress roses nodding in the breeze.
Phainon hadn’t meant to take this route. He’d been wandering—well, brooding, if he were honest with himself—thinking vaguely about nothing and everything.
He rounded a bend and stopped dead.
There, further up the path, you and Mydei walked side-by-side.
You moved in that unconsciously mirrored way people did when they’d grown too close not to. Your shoulders tilted towards his just slightly. His hand hovered near yours by instinct. Your voice—he could hear it, low and laughing—drew out the kind of smile from Mydei that Phainon had never seen once with the Chrysos Heirs or the sparring ring.
He watched as you leaned in to whisper something. Mydei’s reply was inaudible, but whatever he said made you laugh softly, eyes shining.
Mydei reached up, unthinking, to pull a stray petal from your hair, his fingertips brushing over your temple with the kind of tenderness that could only come from a hundred small moments before this one.
Phainon stood rooted. “Oh,” he said aloud.
He hadn’t meant to say it, but the realisation bloomed sharp and fast, like a candlewick catching light.
Oh.
This wasn’t something that had just begun. It was something that had always been—quiet and steady, like the tide, like the stars shifting across the sky one inch at a time.
Phainon felt something between awe and exasperation fizz inside his chest.
“Gods,” he muttered. “I’m an idiot.”
He’d spent all this time trying to provoke a reaction from Mydei—jealousy, flustered affection, anything—when Mydei had already won the war without even playing the game.
And you? You hadn’t been some wistful maybe, some distant crush. You’d chosen him. You loved him.
Phainon drew a breath, long and slow, and stepped backwards, letting the ivy shadows swallow him. He didn’t interrupt. Not this time. Instead, he turned on his heel, hands shoved into the pockets of his cloak, and started back towards the palace with a huff and a half-laugh.
“Five times I tried,” he murmured to himself. “Five. And not once did it occur to me that they were already—” He waved a hand in the air, at no one. “Of course they were.”
He glanced up at the sky, as though expecting the Titans to be laughing, too.
“I hope he writes you sonnets,” he said aloud, mostly to the wind. “I hope you make him eat too many honeycakes and teach him how to dance.”
Phainon was smiling now, rueful but fond.
“Stars above,” he sighed. “You were never going to pick me, were you?”
He walked on, leaving behind the sweet scent of the flowers and the sun warming his back.
a/n ⇢ the names of the various places are actual locations taken from the okhema map, though their descriptions have been changed to fit the story. thank you to @lotusteabag for beta reading and making the gorgeous header for this fic! thank you for reading!
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