isn't it insane though how schizophrenic people are viewed as violent and dangerous by the majority of society when in reality schizophrenic people are nearly 14 times more likely to be on the receiving end of violence than to be the perpetrators...
1) schizophrenia hardly ever causes people to be violent so schizophrenic people aren’t more likely to be violent than anyone else
2) schizophrenic people’s autonomy is often taken away from them because of their schizophrenia. because the authorities and mental healthcare providers often automatically assume schizophrenic people to be violent, they’re more likely to immediately react to schizophrenic people's symptoms with violence, without even knowing for sure said schizophrenic person was going to be violent. all of this causes schizophrenic people to be more likely of being victims of violence and abuse. schizophrenic people also have a harder time getting out of abusive households because of the risk of their autonomy being taken away. if a schizophrenic person’s relative or partner is abusive, often the schizophrenic person has no way out of the situation, both because our disconnect from reality can result in us being easier to manipulate, and because the system is built in a way that it takes away our autonomy because of our condition.
also schizophrenic people and psychotic people in general, please do a lot of research before picking a provider for your own sake, and if they try to treat your psychosis in a way that you think is harmful then don’t hesitate to switch providers. your safety and wellbeing should be a priority over everything else.
pairing: Phainon x Fem!Reader
summary: A painfully ordinary healer is transferred into the worst possible workplace scenario: direct proximity to the literal sun in human form—Phainon, the Deliverer you have been secretly, responsibly, and catastrophically worshipping from afar.
Between overflowing infirmaries, impossible odds, and a boss who thinks throwing you at the Chrysos Heirs is “character building,” you must keep people alive and keep yourself from combusting every time Phainon smiles, laughs, or unforgivably, comes back just to see you.
This is, let's say, a comical story about accidental closeness, professional boundaries being obliterated, and the terrifying realization that the man you admire from a safe distance might be looking back… and finding you hilarious.
status: Ongoing
一 PART I: Safe Distance? Obliterated
一 PART II: Discount Day: Enter at Your Own Risk
一 PART III: Hello, My Name is Embarrassment
一 PART IV: A Healer's Guide to 'How to Lose Your Chill in Front of the Sun God' 101—Yet Again
一 PART V: One Healer, Five Chrysos Heirs, and a Funeral for Existing
一 PART VI: A Tale of Two Dummies (One Divine, One Ghost)
一 PART VII: Don't Call it Clinging, Call it Intimate Resolution
一 PART VIII: Anaxa's Provisional Title Has a Colon. Of Course, It Does
She’s the go-getter with a “I don’t know what impossible means” kind of attitude. Alya rushes forward to get what she wants, not letting anyone drag her down!
Her mother, a relatively famous cook, supports Alya’s dreams and helped her apply to Chevalier-Dupont.
One day, she wishes to be a renowned journalist.
And she isn’t afraid to trick some people into getting ahead. But most of all, Alya is loyal to the people she loves, and can’t stand those that hide the truth.
Most days, Alya has to finesse her way out of babysitting her younger sisters, or god forbid bringing them along on one of her stakeouts. Her elder sister, Nora, is kickboxer and is usually the one Alya shoves them onto. A girl’s gotta have priorities, y’know?
—
Alya Cesaire
Age: 16
Birthday: March 26th
Interests:
Never leaves her house without her phone or a notebook.
Listens to investigation and true crime podcasts.
Occasionally uses a police scanner to find new stories before anyone else.
She’s taking the criminology and journaling courses at Chevalier-Dupont.
Has hundreds of notebooks fill with investigative work.
She likes the idea of superheroes and what they represent. Huge Ladybug fan.
Runs an anonymous blog called “The After-Hours Archive.”
Works part-time at the Cafe Atelier, a late-night coffee shop owned by a sweet old lady name Dorothy Joe.
A connoisseur of different coffee mixtures. Will try to make one of her drinks the “Drink of The Day” at work. It doesn’t usually go up.
Has a headstrong attitude, which doesn’t translate well with most people. She either comes off pushy or insensitive, which has caused her to be more of a loner.
Huge RnB fan, and is always listening to Allegra de Angelis when working.
She’s allergic to dogs, unfortunately. But she looooves Marinette’s cat, Madame Tarte.
Overall, she’s a dreamer, and is more than willing to climb through mud to achieve her goals!
Alya and her Dad share the same vision of revealing the world’s secrets, but he’s lost the passion for it.
You know him, you love him. Presenting the golden boy: Adrien Agreste!
He’s known throughout the world as the handsome, mysterious son of Gabriel Agreste. You’ve probably seen him on billboards or in a few (hundred) commercials. Adrien is a renowned figure in the celebrity space, yet it’s rare to actually see him interacting with others. The few times he appeared at huge events, like the Met Gala, he was flanked by a giant bodyguard and his Father.
The real Adrien, though, is much different.
Behind closed doors, in the comfort of his room, Adrien is a massive dork.
He’s a massive fan of comics, anime, and the typical nerdy stuff you see in movies. Aside from his figure collection, Adrien has over a hundred video games, as well as many different PCs. Some of them even customized or limited edition.
It’s rare that Adrien can be found outside his house unless incentivized to.
And even when he IS outside, it’s for heavily-monitored photo shoots or fencing practice. Gabriel keeps him home almost all of the time, as the man himself never seems to leave his house either. You’d think that would mean Adrien and his Father would be close, but—*loud incorrect buzzer*
Adrien hasn’t experienced many of the things that normal teenagers have by his age. But all this is changing, as well as his entire world view. After going behind his Father’s back, Adrien applied and was accepted into Chevalier-Dupont Academy!
Y’know, just THE school where his own Father has influence and graduated from.
Oh yeah, this is Adrien’s year. For sure.
—
Adrien Agreste
Age: 16
Birthday: October 13th
Interests:
Video games, video games, video games! He dominates pretty much any competitive game he plays with ease. That side of the internet knows him as “croissantcat”, as reference to his favorite cartoon— Steven Universe.
On the days when he has nothing to do, Adrien fights boredom like it’s a Boss Battle. If he’s desperate enough, he’ll bust out the DDR and Just Dance to keep himself moving.
Sometimes he sneaks out to run around the city, usually to get junk food or some kind of limited edition game or other.
Aside from the “hobbies” listed under his profile on the internet, Adrien likes trying out all kinds of things. Though his favorite has to be gardening in the mansion’s greenhouse. He can spend hours out there playing games, doing those old people crossword books, pretty much anything.
Cooking isn’t his strong suit, neither is baking. The times he’s tried ended up with something on fire, so…
He doesn’t take many pictures of himself, but the ones he does have are old. A certain framed photo sits on his desk, one that depicts him, his twin, his Mom and his Father.
Adrien can listen to just about any kind of music. And, yes, he has played Hatsune Miku songs on his piano before.
His biggest dream is to attend one of the Comic-Con events, and cosplay his favorite characters.
Adrien has little interest in actually making outfits, and if it were up to him, he’d wear basically anything. But the idea of cosplaying is amazing to him.
Many afternoons are spent at fencing practice, with some kind of music playing in one of his earbuds.
His Mom passed away a few years ago, and his twin brother was sent away soon after. Although he’s barely kept contact with his brother, Adrien still cares deeply for his family. He just wishes that they could all be together.
If you were to ask him about Chat Noir, it’d sound like:
“Yeah, he’s pretty cool, right? Funny, too.”
If you were to ask Adrien about Ladybug, it’d sound like:
“She’s amazing! The way she saves the day with Chat Noir is, like, awesome! Ha, yeah, who doesn’t like Ladybug, y’know?”
A Miraculous Ladybug Re-Write (or an attempt at one anyway)
-
Marinette Dupain-Cheng
Marinette is, to put it kindly, a mess.
Her parents own a small-time bakery that doesn’t often get business. She thrifts most of the clothes she wears, and often makes custom designs for a little extra cash.
Most days are spent hurrying around the bakery, helping out where she can, and barely passing her classes. Marinette dreams of attending the Chevalier-Dupont Academy, the school that specializes in letting their students flourish in a specific interest. Many famous celebrities graduated from the academy, like Gabriel Agreste and Audrey Bourgeois!
Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be a successful alumni…
But anyway!
Marinette’s biggest priority is managing her responsibilities, while also welcoming her younger cousin, Marc, into the house. Add that to babysitting multiple different kids during the week, one of them being the daughter of Nadja Chamack—just THE news reporter of Paris. No big deal.
Lately, though, Marinette’s been feeling off. As if something big is about to happen. That’s silly though…right?
—
Marinette Dupain-Cheng
Age: 16
Birthday: March 9th
Zodiac: Pisces
Interests:
Ballet, she loved it as a kid. Mari still has her old ballet shoes in a box beneath her bed, along with some photos and awards.
Drawing, which leads her around the city to doodle different people or landscapes.
Fashion design/Thrifting. Sunday mornings are her designated shopping days when she gets low on fabric or ideas.
Baking, though it’s more of a way to de-stress. Nights before big tests are typically spent in the kitchen, stress-baking cupcakes.
Marinette can’t decide on a favorite food, but she DOES really like mochi! Any kind, honestly. The convenience store down the street is visited often, and its mochi is always raided by a craving Mari.
Cozy video games, visual novels, and life simulators. Some of the top games would be Minecraft, Animal Crossing, Stardew Valley, Fields of Mistria, etc.
Marinette loves collecting cute stationary and plushies. When she’s out of the house, you’ll probably find her at a crane game or in an arcade trying her luck (and failing) at a Gachapon.
Along with her thrifting hobby, Marinette loves revamping small toys, and is quite the collector! You’d probably see one of her customized dolls or toys being carried around by kids at the park!
Mari doesn’t often go all-out for her birthday. She’d prefer if her parents just forgot about it altogether.
If you look closely, you’ll spot a cute bracelet that never seems to leave Marinette’s wrist. When asked about it, she’ll dodge the question or answer with “an old friend made it for me.”
Around two years ago, Sabine (Mari’s Mama) rescued a stray kitten in the alley behind their bakery. Marinette rues the day that little cretin showed up. Madame Tarte, the cat’s name, is now known as their token “Bakery Cat.”
Marinette’s biggest problem is the fact that the stupid kitty ruins her chances of getting a hamster!
If you were to ask Marinette what she thought about Ladybug, it’d sound like:
“W-Whaaaat? Ladybug, who’s that?”
If you were to ask Marinette about Chat Noir, it’d sound like:
“Chat Noir? He’s…noisy. Immature, but dependable. Irresponsible. Annoying. Ugh, don’t even get me started on—”
—
If any of this interests you, then look forward to the fic I’m writing called Fortune Saga! It’ll be posted soon, so if you’d like to read; my username is skullsand_33!
in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?
wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.
there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.
it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.
you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.
but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.
the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.
marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.
servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.
you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.
dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.
“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.
“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.
“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”
it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”
you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.
the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.
is he drinking... blood?
your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”
flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”
you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.
for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.
the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.
his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”
you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.
with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”
you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.
“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.
“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”
that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.
you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.
yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.
ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION
over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.
you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.
you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.
all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.
(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.
there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.
it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.
as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.
the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.
"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"
ah.
well at least he has jokes..?)
or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.
(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.
so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?
you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.
"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”
well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.
“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”
and that certainly didn’t make it any better!
you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.
you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)
either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!
today will be different.
failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.
so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.
you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.
but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.
perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.
pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—
a sudden force slams into your back.
the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.
it’s deeper than you thought.
icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.
as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.
the next thing you feel is warmth.
your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.
you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.
his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.
for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.
did he jump in after you..?
“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.
your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.
it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.
he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"
the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."
his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.
“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."
mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.
your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.
a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—
a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.
“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”
sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.
“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.
his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”
there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.
he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”
and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.
somehow, it fits him too well.
ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR
once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.
held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.
and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.
the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.
within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.
mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.
the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.
phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."
mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.
“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”
phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.
alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.
exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”
but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.
the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.
“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.
mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.
“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”
“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”
“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.
mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.
the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.
and yet, here you are.
as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.
“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.
“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.
he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.
something tugs at the edge of his mind.
you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.
so why do you still look at him like that?
his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.
“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.
you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.
you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.
“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.
but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.
“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”
“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.
he freezes.
he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.
but his darling wife doesn’t know that.
and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.
your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”
you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.
for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.
ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.
the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."
you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.
phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.
you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."
phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."
you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"
to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.
—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."
the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.
you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.
“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”
your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?
“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.
beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.
but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”
“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.
the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”
she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”
“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”
her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.
and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.
your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.
a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.
you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.
mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.
a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.
“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”
the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”
“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.
“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”
“y-your highness, i only—”
mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”
the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.
then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.
phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”
but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.
with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.
“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”
he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”
you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”
ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?
his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”
phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.
mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”
he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.
the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.
it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.
the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.
at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”
“mydei.”
…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?
(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)
you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.
“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”
he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.
he looks good like this, you think.
with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”
a half-truth, at best.
your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.
a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.
could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.
but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”
mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.
"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."
mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.
warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.
you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”
mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.
"especially when they were a gift from you."
and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.
ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART
it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.
it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.
“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”
he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."
mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"
phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.
“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"
the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”
ah. that does it.
mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.
phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.
“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.
phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.
“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”
“i’m not mad i—”
“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”
mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.
phainon smiles. “then tell her.”
mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”
the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.
you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.
right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.
phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.
because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.
“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.
phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”
he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”
you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.
“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”
he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.
you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”
phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”
narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”
“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”
there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.
still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—
only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.
just your luck.
mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.
and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.
did he just—?
heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.
“the prince has a sweet tooth.”
for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.
mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—
your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.
you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.
phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.
the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.
seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.
you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.
before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”
mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)
you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.
rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.
it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.
…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.
so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.
still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.
as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”
you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”
phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”
you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.
oh no.
“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”
you frown. “phainon—”
he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”
he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”
“huh?”
"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.
you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.
"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"
“that’s enough.”
both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.
phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”
the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.
“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”
a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.
even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.
his gaze is so unbearably soft.
after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.
you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.
(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)
ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION
the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.
all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.
from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.
the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.
the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.
and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.
you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.
with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.
nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.
so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—
only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.
without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.
you blink, momentarily startled.
warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.
it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.
and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.
you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”
he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.
“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.
you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?
“... and i wanted one today.”
“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”
as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”
his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.
it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.
you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”
honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.
“if it’s for you,”
his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“i’d do anything.”
ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS
from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.
ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.
your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.
the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.
you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.
the crowd cheers for violence.
warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.
and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.
the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.
because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…
is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.
the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.
the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.
the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.
for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.
then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.
for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.
“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.
he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.
the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.
a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.
and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.
in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.
with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.
you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.
“you came back to me,” you murmur.
he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
“i always will.”
you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.
at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.
EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER
the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.
mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.
“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”
you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.
“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.
he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”
the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.
you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”
he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”
you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”
with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.
you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”
“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”
he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”
you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.
“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.
the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.
his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.
"i love you, [name]."
and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.
thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3
"Don't say your character growled, he isn't an animal!" okay but have you considered that i am intentionally drawing that parallel for a reason. he is dangerous, he is feral, he is ready to attack like a dog or a jungle beast. words have these things called connotations that allow them to carry layers and layers of meaning that would otherwise take sentences to convey--sentences that wouldn't do it as well as "he growled." i say this as an english major and as someone who has been writing for over ten years: "growled" is a valid word choice when you want your readers to know that your character fucking growled.
i do NOT write for myself i write for the eleven year old girl walking circles on the playground making up stories in her head and muttering the dialogue out loud. i see you girl. that stick you found DOES look like a cool dagger.
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! / side story [i]
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 ❤️
