(⁠◔⁠‿⁠◔⁠)

19 year old flop

[sconesss]

careful what you wish for.

Unrequited love is a quiet kind of agony—until a twenty credit worth antique twig promises to fix it. You makes your wish: Make him love me. It works, but not without a catch. Life is full of surprises, after all.

fanart by @/ieririr on x

Pairing: Phainon / Reader

Word count: 13934

Contents: inspired by Obsession (yikes), yandere! Phainon, toxic co-dependency, mentions of suicide and self-harm, psychological horror, guilt, animal death, murder, coercion, dubcon, unprotected sex, missionary, extremely unsettling behaviour from Mr. Aedes Elysiae

... .- ...- . / -- .

I. The Weight Of Unsaid Words

The fluorescent lights of the video and record rental shop hummed with a low, steady vibration that you had long since learned to tune out. It was a Tuesday afternoon, slow and quiet, the kind of day where time seemed to stretch out like warm vinyl.

You stood behind the counter, holding a stack of returned indie films, but your eyes kept straying to the glass front doors. Every time the brass bell above the threshold chimed, your heart did a brief, involuntary leap—only to settle back down into a dull ache when it turned out to be a casual customer or a lost tourist.

You were waiting for Phainon.

You had been waiting for Phainon, in one way or another, for nearly eight months.

It was absurd, really. You worked together twice a week. You shared the same circle of friends. You spent hours sitting in cramped booth seats at the late-night diner down the street, nursing lukewarm coffee while Mydei babbled on about music theory or local drama. Yet, whenever Phainon entered the room, you felt like a novice diver standing at the edge of a high cliff, terrified of taking the plunge.

"You're doing that thing again," a voice called out from the back aisles.

You blink, pulling your attention back to the stack of cases in your hands. Cyrene emerged from Row four, balancing a box of newly cataloged foreign films against her hip. She threw you a knowing, sympathetic look.

"What thing?" You asked, attempting a tone of total innocence as you began sliding the cases onto the display rack.

"The staring-at-the-door-like-a-victorian-heroine-waiting-for-her-sailor thing," she said, setting the box down on the counter with a thud. "He’s thirty minutes late for his shift, [Name]. He probably got caught up with his designs, again. You know how he gets."

"I wasn't staring," you murmured, though your cheeks warmed instantly. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, focusing intently on organizing the plastic cases by genre. "I was just... checking the time."

"Right. And the clock is conveniently mounted right next to the front door," Cyrene teased, leaning her elbows on the counter. Her expression softened. "Why don't you just tell him?"

You froze, your fingers resting on a worn copy of a French drama. "Tell him what?"

"Oh, come on. 'Phainon, I think you're incredible. Phainon, I've had a massive crush on you since the day you showed up to practice with grease on your chin and played the most beautiful melody I've ever heard.' Something like that."

"It wasn't grease, it was bike chain lube," you corrected automatically. She let out a soft, defeated sigh and sat down on the high stool behind the register. "And I can't just tell him, Cyrene. You know how he is. He’s... guarded. He keeps everyone at a subtle distance, even Mydei, sometimes. If I say something and he doesn't feel the same way, I lose everything. I lose the friendship, the quiet afternoons here, the way he looks up and smiles when I walk into the room."

"Or," Cyrene countered gently, "you win everything. Have you considered that? The guy looks at you like you hung the moon, [Name]. I watch him when you aren't paying attention."

You shook your head, a familiar wave of self-doubt washing over you. "That's just how he is. He's polite. He's a gentle person. He treats everyone with this quiet reverence... well, except when he's arguing with De about... which of them has the bigger biceps."

You reached down, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the smooth, dark surface of the disc.

"Besides," you added softly, looking down at your hands, "I don't even know how to bring it up. Whenever I try to steer the conversation into something more... personal, my mind goes completely blank. I get so guarded. I end up talking about movies or asking about his dog."

"Snowy," Cyrene smiled. "How is the little monster, anyway?"

"Phainon said he’s been acting strange lately. Eating weird things, hiding under the sink. He said he was going to set out some pest traps because he noticed rats, but he’s been so stressed with his final design portfolio that I worry he’s forgetting to take care of himself."

Before she could reply, the bell above the front door chimed sharp and clear.

Your head snapped up.

Phainon walked in, brushing a damp strand of dark hair from his eyes. He was wearing his usual faded jacket over a charcoal sweater, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked exhausted—dark circles smudged beneath his sharp, expressive eyes—but the moment his gaze met yours, the tension in his shoulders visibly melted.

"Sorry I'm late," Phainon said, his voice carrying that familiar, low, resonant timbre that made your pulse flutter. He walked over to the counter, setting his bag down on the wooden surface. "Traffic near the campus was an absolute nightmare, and Mydei took twenty minutes just to choose a sandwich at the deli."

"It's fine," you said, offering him a warm, soft smile. "Cyrene was just keeping me company."

"I was actually just leaving," Cyrene said with a dramatic wave of her hand, grabbing her shoulder bag from behind the register. She flashed you a subtle, deliberate wink before turning to Phainon. "Don't let her work too hard, Phainon. She’s been re-sorting the foreign section for an hour just to keep busy."

"I'll take over," Phainon promised, giving her a small, polite nod as she headed out the door.

Once the bell chimed again, a comfortable, heavy quiet fell over the shop. Phainon stepped behind the counter, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the back room door.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. Every detail of his presence was intoxicating to you—the faint scent of rain and cedar that followed him, the careful, deliberate way he moved, the slight furrows in his brow when he was lost in thought. You wanted so desperately to reach out, to smooth those lines away, to tell him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"How was your morning?" Phainon asked, pulling a stack of return logs toward himself.

"Quiet," you replied, leaning your side against the counter so you could face him. "Not many people coming in on a rainy Tuesday. Did you finish your rendering for the project?"

Phainon groaned softly, resting his forehead against his palm for a brief second. "Barely. My professor gave me a hard time about the structural proportions of the entryway. I stayed up until four in the morning redesigning the entire facade. It's still shit."

"You work too hard, Phainon," you say, your voice dropping into a tone of soft, genuine concern. "You need to rest. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

He looked down at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense focus that made your throat catch. "I sleep fine," he murmured. Then, a rare, playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I'd sleep better if Mydei stopped calling me at two in the morning to pitch lyrics that sound like they were written by an angsty middle schooler."

You laughed—a bright, genuine sound that seemed to light up the dim corners of the shop. Phainon’s gaze lingered on your face, watching the way your eyes crinkled, his expression softening into something so tender it made your breath hitch.

Say it, a voice whispered inside your head. Tell him right now. Tell him you want to be the one he calls at two in the morning. Tell him you love him.

You swallowed hard, opening your mouth to speak, but the courage vanished as quickly as it had come. The fear of ruining this—this perfect, fragile closeness—paralyzed you.

Instead, you gestured to the record racks. "Are you... fine being on your own later? I'd like to leave a little earlier, too. I've got... stuff."

"Yeah," Phainon said, his tone shifting back to its usual measured composure.

For the next two hours, you worked side by side in a harmony built on months of shared routines. You organized tapes, chatted about trivial things, and laughed over absurd movie plot summaries. To anyone looking through the shop window, you looked like two people completely in sync.

But beneath the surface, you were drowning in everything you couldn't say.

You looked at him while he reached up to place a tape on the top shelf, noticing the slight strain of his muscles beneath his sweater. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to rest your head on his shoulder. You wanted him to look at you, not just as a reliable coworker or a sweet friend, but as the only person he wanted.

Tomorrow, you promised yourself, clutching your skirt until the edges pressed firmly into your palm. Tomorrow, I'm going to tell him.

.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--

II: A Gift of Dust and Promises

The rain had settled into a steady, persistent drizzle by the time you had left. The streets downtown glistened under the amber streetlights, reflecting the neon signs of the late-night stalls and old bookstores like smeared watercolors.

You pulled your coat collar tighter around your neck as you walked down the cobblestone side street. Your mind was racing, your thoughts caught in a dizzying loop of anticipation and nervous energy. Tonight was supposed to be the night. You had spent the last two hours at the register rehearsing a simple, honest confession over and over in your head until the words lost all meaning.

“Phainon, I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

It sounded too plain.

“Phainon, you’re the most important person in my life, and I want to be more than just your friend.”

It felt too dramatic.

You let out a breathy sigh, a pale cloud of vapor rising into the cool air. He likes simple things, you reminded yourself. Directness. Authenticity.

Hence, you opted to navigate the narrow (and creepy) alleys instead of heading straight home. Phainon had a quiet, almost childlike fascination with old things—tactile remnants of the past that held history within their grain. His apartment was filled with vintage brass compasses, mid-century architectural blueprints, and worn leather-bound notebooks.

If you were going to tell him how you felt, you wanted to ground the moment. You wanted to give him something meaningful—a token to anchor the memory, to show him that you truly paid attention to the quiet details of his life.

At the end of a dimly lit alley, tucked between a closed tailor shop and a shuttered bakery, sat Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios. It was an obscure, unmarked antique store you had passed a dozen times but never actually entered. Warm, dim light spilled from its dusty bay windows, illuminating shelves packed with bizarre glass bottles, stacks of parchment, and tarnished silver frames.

You pushed open the heavy wooden door. A brass bell overhead gave a dull, metallic clink, and the sharp scent of cedar, dried lavender, and aged paper immediately wrapped around you.

"We're closing in ten minutes," a dry voice echoed from behind a high wooden counter near the back.

You looked over. Sitting on a tall stool was an older woman with sharp, observant lavender eyes and brown hair swept under a huge hat. She was polishing a small bronze pocket watch with a velvet cloth, her movements deliberate and unhurried.

"I won't take long," you promised politely, offering a gentle smile. "I'm just looking for a small gift. For a friend."

The woman gave a short, imperceptible nod and returned to her watch, leaving you to wander through the labyrinth of crowded narrow aisles.

You browsed slowly, your fingers lightly skimming over the smooth brass surfaces of vintage pocket knives, intricate mechanical gears, and hand-carved wooden chess pieces. Everything was beautiful, but nothing felt right. A fountain pen felt too formal; an antique magnifying glass felt too novelty.

You turned into the rearmost corner of the shop, where the shadows hung heavier and the air felt curiously still. On a velvet-lined display shelf resting beneath a glass dome, something caught your eye—not because it was grand, but because of how starkly simple it was.

It was a small, minimalist box made of smooth, unpainted white paperboard. It sat entirely alone on the shelf, completely out of place among the ornate brass and dark mahogany surrounding it.

Curious, you reached out and carefully lifted the glass dome. You picked up the box, turning it over in your hands. Printed on the front in thin, charcoal-gray typography was a single phrase:

ONE WISH WILLOW

Break with intention. One use only.

Wishes do come true. Be careful what you ask for.

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. A wishbone made of wood. It was absurdly poetic—the exact kind of whimsical, slightly melancholic oddity that Phainon would find fascinating. He would probably place it on his desk next to his architecture sketches, wondering what to wish for every time he looked at it, and in extension he would think of you.

You slid open the top cover. Inside, resting on a bed of dark green velvet, was a single, thin willow twig. It was pale, delicate, and looked utterly fragile, as if a single press of a thumb could snap it into dust.

"I wouldn't linger on that one," a voice spoke softly from right beside you.

You nearly jumped, holding the box close to your chest. The shopkeeper had moved with impossible quietness, now standing at the end of the aisle, her sharp eyes resting heavily on the box in your hands.

"Oh," you said, steadying your breath. "Is it an antique? It looks... remarkably modern compared to everything else."

"It isn't modern," the shopkeeper replied, her tone flat and measured. "It's old stock. Older than this building. People buy things like that thinking it's a game or a clever conversation starter for a coffee table."

"And isn't it?" You asked with a faint, amused smile.

"A wish isn't a game," the woman said, stepping closer. The dim overhead light cast long, dramatic shadows across her face. "Intent is a dangerous force when given a physical form to break. Most people who buy those come back eventually, looking for a way to mend the wood."

You looked down at the delicate twig resting against the dark velvet. The shopkeeper's dramatic warnings felt like part of the store's theatrical charm, but there was a quiet, chilling sincerity in the woman's eyes that made your throat go dry.

"I'm not buying it to use it," you say softly, your thumb tracing the clean edge of the box. "It's a gift for someone special. He appreciates... unusual things."

"Someone special," the shopkeeper repeated, her gaze narrowing slightly. "A man?"

You felt a faint warmth climb up your neck. You nodded slowly. "A friend."

The shopkeeper stayed silent for a long moment, watching you with a look that felt less like suspicion and more like deep, weary pity.

"Twenty credits," the woman said abruptly, turning her back and walking toward the register. "Consider it a fee for curiosity. There won't be any refunds."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden transaction. The shopkeeper wrapped the box in a layer of brown butcher paper, tying it with a simple piece of jute twine.

You hesitated. It was absurd. It was superstitious nonsense. You believed you were a rational archivist, and you spent your days indexing factual historical data. Magic twigs in velvet boxes did not alter human emotion.

Yet, as you remembered Phainon’s polite, distant smile from earlier that afternoon—the agonizing distance that separated you even when you stood inches apart—your hand moved to your coat pocket for your wallet.

"I'll take it," you whispered.

"Remember," the woman said softly, sliding the package across the counter. Her voice lowered to a harsh, quiet whisper. "Desire makes people foolish. If you ever break that twig, make sure you are prepared to live with the exact words you utter. The universe has a cruel sense of humor when fulfilling a desperate heart."

.. / -- / ... --- .-. .-. -.--

The rain drummed heavily against the glass of your apartment windows. The flat was quiet, lit only by the soft orange glow of a floor lamp in the corner.

You sat on the edge of your bed, the lacquered box open on the table beside you. The willow twig was in it. After the ominous warnings, and your insomnia blurring your head, you felt it unsafe to gift Phainon such a thing. You could try using it, just to conclude it's genuine.

You simply wanted to satisfy your own burning curiosity.

You picked it up. The wood was cold—colder than the ambient temperature of the room—and surprisingly heavy for its size. Its texture was slick and unnaturally smooth, free of any natural grain or bark imperfection.

"This is ridiculous," you murmured into the empty room. "I am a twenty-four-year-old adult sitting in my living room holding a stick."

You made a move to toss it back into the box, but stopped.

Phainon’s face flashed in your mind. His calm, pale eyes. The quiet precision of his voice. The maddening barrier of his absolute self-control. What if you didn't have to spend years waiting for him to notice you? What if you could just... melt the ice?

You squeezed your eyes shut. You brought the white willow twig up between your thumbs and forefingers.

You pictured Phainon clearly in your mind: standing under the soft warm light of the archive lamp, looking at you not as a quiet colleague or a pleasant acquaintance, but with affection. Love. You wanted to be his priority. You wanted him to love you.

"I wish Phainon loved me more than anything else in existence," you mumble, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You applied pressure.

CRACK.

The snap was loud—far louder than a twig of that size should have produced. It sounded like a sharp whip crack echoing through the small apartment.

A sudden blast of frigid air swept through the closed living room, causing the flame of the corner lamp to flicker violently. For a split second, you felt a bizarre sensation of weightlessness, as if the air had been vacuumed out of your lungs.

Then, silence returned.

The rain continued to hit the windowpanes. The lamp flickered back to a steady burn.

In your hands, the willow twig was broken cleanly into two jagged halves. The wood inside was strangely dark, almost charcoal-black at the point of the fracture.

You sat frozen for a long moment, waiting for... something. A sign? A revelation?

Nothing happened.

You let out a long breath, a self-deprecating laugh escaping your lips. "Stupid. Absolute scam."

You tossed the two broken pieces into the trash bin beneath your bed, shut off the lamp, and went to bed, thoroughly embarrassed by your own desperation.

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

III: The Unraveling

The next afternoon, you arrived at the shop ten minutes earlier than your shift. The morning air was crisp, and the sky had cleared into a pale, brilliant blue.

Phainon was already there.

He wasn't working. He wasn't sorting the discs or checking the morning delivery. He was simply standing beside the door, his hands clasped loosely together, staring intently at the empty space where you usually sat.

"Phainon?" you call, startled as you hung your coat on the rack. "You're early today. Is there an issue with the morning delivery?"

Phainon turned.

The moment his eyes locked onto you, you felt a strange, electric shiver run down your spine. His expression wasn't his usual serene, polite mask. His eyes were wide, unnervingly focused, his pale irises bright and sharp.

"No issue," Phainon said. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a subtle, breathless cadence. "I just... I couldn't stay at home this morning."

"Why? Did your heating go out again?" You asked, walking over to the desk and setting down your bag.

Phainon didn't step back to give you space as he usually did. Instead, he remained standing right beside your chair, his gaze following your every movement with absolute, unwavering tracking.

"No," he said softly, his eyes sweeping over your face, taking in your eyes, your lips, the movement of your breath. "I woke up at four in the morning, [Name]. And the only thought in my mind... the only thing that felt real... was that I needed to see you."

You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke or teasing. But Phainon’s face was entirely severe. There was no amusement in his eyes—only an intense, singular focus that made the air between you feel terrifyingly thick.

"Phainon... are you feeling alright?" You whispered, your heart beginning to pound against your ribs.

"I have never felt more clear," Phainon replied. He took a single step closer, closing the distance between you until his knees brushed against the side of the desk. He reached out slowly, his fingers hesitating in the air before gently, reverently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingertips were cold, but his breath was warm against your skin.

"I thought about calling you this morning," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetism that made you forget how to breathe. "I thought about walking to your apartment in the rain just to see you. Then, I remembered you'd come to work today."

Your head reeled. A heady mixture of disbelief, wild euphoria, and a faint, subtle prick of fear rose in your chest.

"Phainon," you stammered, your voice trembling slightly. "You... you've never spoken to me like this before."

"I know," Phainon admitted softly, his thumb lightly stroking your cheekbone. The gesture was tender, but his grip on himself seemed remarkably fragile, like a dam holding back a violent flood. "I was blind before. I wasted so many months treating you like background music in my life. But when I woke up today... it was as if a veil had been torn away. You are the only thing that matters, [Name]. Everything else is just noise."

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

The transition from Phainon’s quiet admiration to complete, total fixation did not take months or weeks—it took less than forty-eight hours.

Phainon was everywhere. When you stepped out of your apartment building at eight in the morning, having skipped breakfast to catch a train to your college, he was already waiting on the sidewalk, holding a cup of coffee, wrapped in his dark wool overcoat against the morning chill.

"You didn't need to stand out here in the cold," you told him on the third morning, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck.

"I didn't mind," Phainon said smoothly, taking your satchel from your shoulder without asking and slinging it over his own. His pale eyes searched your face with a quiet, hungry focus. "The apartment felt hollow after five. Waiting here is the only part of my morning that feels real."

You smiled, brushing your shoulder against his as you walked toward the train. "You slept poorly?"

"Not well," Phainon admitted, his gaze drifting from the cobblestones to the side of your face with a steady, unblinking intensity. "But it doesn't matter much anymore. Exhaustion is a small price to pay for a proper start to the day."

You shook your head, a soft, amused sigh escaping your lips. "You're melodramatic, you know that?"

"How about this? I know what it feels to spend most time counting down the hours until I see someone again," he replied smoothly, stepping closer so his shoulder brushed yours with every synchronized stride.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the approaching autumn and the rich aroma of the roasted coffee beans from the corner shop he frequented. As you reached the bustling station platform, the rhythmic clatter of the incoming commuter train drowned out the morning chatter of students and office workers.

Phainon guided you gently by the elbow—a polite, habitual gesture by now—steering you away from the edge of the platform toward a pair of surprisingly vacant seats near the center carriage. His fingers lingered against yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled away to take the seat beside you.

"What are your plans for the afternoon?" he asked, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watched you take a sip. "Your schedule usually frees up by two, doesn't it?"

"It does," you said, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. "Are you planning to wait outside my lecture hall with a sandwich this time?"

A faint, self-aware smile touched the corners of his mouth, softening the sharp angles of his features. "Only if you forgot to eat lunch. Though... I was actually hoping you might want to visit that bookstore near the station. You mentioned needing a new textbook last week, and I found the registry."

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

Cyrene pulled you aside near the breakroom kettle the next week.

"Okay, what happened?" Cyrene whispered, leaning in close. "Did he drink something strange? Did he join a cult? Six days ago, he barely said three words to you without clearing his throat, and now he looks like he'd jump in front of a moving train if you accidentally dropped a pencil in the street."

You stirred your tea, your gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. "He's just showing how he feels, Rene. You were the one telling me he had feelings for me."

"I meant he had a crush, not that he was preparing to commission a marble statue in your likeness!" Cyrene hissed, casting a wary glance toward the open breakroom door as if expecting Phainon to materialize from thin air. "There's normal romantic interest, and then there's whatever... that is. The man memorized your class schedule. I saw him checking a color-coded laminated planner yesterday, and I'm eighty percent sure it was yours."

You stirred your tea again, watching the small whirlpool settle. "It's not laminated," you muttered defensively, though you had to admit the planner detail was a bit much. "He's just thorough."

"He's a golden retriever with the soul of a Victorian poet," Cyrene corrected, crossing her arms. "Just... keep one eye open, okay? Make sure he has hobbies outside of orbiting you."

"He does," you said, though you struggled to name a single one that didn't involve you as of lately.

Cyrene arched a single brow, waiting.

"He... reads," you offered weakly.

"Right. And what does he read? Historical accounts of people who stared at doors until their objects of affection walked through them?" Cyrene sighed, uncrossing her arms and patting your shoulder. "Just set some boundaries, alright? Before you wake up and find out he's legally changed his name to match yours."

Before you could defend him further, the kettle clicked off with a sharp snap, and the door swung open. Phainon stepped inside, his dark coat dusted with a light morning mist, his pale eyes instantly locking onto yours with the absolute gravity of a compass needle finding true north.

"There you are," he murmured, his expression smoothing into a soft, devoted smile the moment he reached your side. "I brought you that pastry from the bakery across the street. The one with the raspberry filling you like."

You glanced sidelong at Cyrene, whose expression was a masterclass in polite disbelief.

"Thanks, Phainon," you said, taking the small white bag. "You really didn't have to."

"It's no trouble," he replied smoothly, already reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "Nothing is, as long as you're having a good morning."

.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.

Phainon feels like he's drowning. Everything is muddled. It's like he's floating. But he's not. He can feel it. The scream bubbled up in his chest. 

Get out. Get out. Get out.

He sees it all through the eyes of another. It's his voice, but it's not. It's not his movements. He couldn't.

He screams inside his head. He pounds harder. He needs to get out. 

.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.

IV. The Glass Shatters

Loudly, you gasp and swoop down—frightening Phainon only a little—to smooth your hands over his dog's white fur. "Puppy!" you're borderline squealing in glee, and that's a new sight for Phainon, "So big!" You encourage the dog to pounce onto your lap with quick taps against your thighs.

"Snowy," Phainon clarifies (as if you could forget), leaning over your shoulder to scritch under Snowy's chin, grinning when he starts barking in your coddling hold. 

"I love you, Snowy," you whisper to the dog, and Phainon sits on the floor beside you after figuring the dog won’t be moving on from you anytime soon. You’ve been looking forward to this since he'd promised to take you to his place, and somehow all your expectations have been exceeded. "Didn’t know you liked dogs so much, [Name], I would’ve introduced you sooner."

"He looks like you," you keep your voice low as if raising it could startle the dog off, "And his fur feels so nice."

Phainon feels nauseous. His whole chest is tight with this unpleasant curdle. Quickly, he decides that he hates this feeling and wants it eradicated as soon as possible. Subconsciously, he must believe the solution is you because before he can really think about it, he’s lugging you off the floor and towards his room. He lays you on his bed and falls into your side with his dog now locked outside the room. He wanted you to touch him like that. Rather than link his hand with yours like usual, he splays your fingers into his mess of white hair.

Turning your head so your cheek meets the feather plush of his pillow, you find Phainon's eyes boring into yours. You blink at him with your hand limp over the side of his head, "Do you want me to pet you?"

He nods, crimson overtaking his cheeks and sweat beading over his palms. "Okay."

You card your fingers through his hair, gently prying loose knots apart over your knuckles before tenderly dancing your nails along his scalp. He presses his head closer, cheek now smooshed on your shoulder and eyes flickering shut.

Shakily, he raises an arm and lays it across your stomach. You can sense his hesitation in how the weight of his arm is so light it's imperceivable, then you press your hand flat against the back of his head and pet there, too. His arm relaxes, fully settling the weight on your gut.

This feels right. Crushed and warm.

Everything is right in this instance, in this world. But he's not sure he wants to. But not wanting to isn't exactly his job. His job is to make you happy. "I’m going to kiss you."

You go limp in bed and allow Phainon's hands to wander. He sits up and untucks your top before gliding his hands under those and resting over your midriff. He clears his throat and finds a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, he tries blinking the fire away but it only makes the pain worse.

The vicious pain in his chest bites up to his head. "I don't want to..." Phainon's hands peel off from your body to stow in his lap. You shrink into yourself, shoulders coming to your ears as red-hot shame climbs up your neck, "What?"

"This isn’t it," he leans back with his arms outstretched behind him on the mattress. Hotter and hotter the burning grows until it's all wet, stinging heat in his eyes, "You’re not into it…" he looks around his room and tries finding anything out of place (he was sure he made it perfect). The blinds are drawn. His door is locked. He sniffles and looks down, hoping you don’t notice the flooding along his lower lashes.

What if you finally do have sex and realize you never wanted him at all? What good is he doing then?

The statement comes off more monotone than intended, but you read in his everything: the slight twitch of his brow, the light sweat starting to form on his forehead, the way his sight flickers to your neck and eyes for half a millisecond. 

You furrow your eyebrows at the way he tilted his head, and the slight anguish painted on his features. "I need you to shut up." He breathes, desperately, but does not relent when your hands dig into his shoulders. "Okay."

.. / .... .- - . / -- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.

That night, you tried to establish boundaries.

You let him walk you home, but insisted on sleeping at your own apartment alone, refusing his offer to stay the night. Phainon had agreed without argument—his absolute devotion meant he complied with your every command, even when it clearly pained him.

"If that is what you wish, [Name]," he had said on your doorstep, his voice strained and hollow. "I will wait outside."

"No, Phainon. Go home to your apartment. Sleep."

"I will try," he said softly.

At 2:00 AM, you woke up with an unsettling prickle of ice along your spine.

The bedroom was silent. The city outside was drenched in a low, gray fog.

You got out of bed, pulling your shirt down to hide your skin from the chill, and crept into the dark living room. You walked over to the bay window that looked out onto the street below.

Standing directly across the street, beneath the amber glow of a flickering streetlight, was Phainon.

He wasn't wearing a coat despite the biting wind and cold drizzle. He stood completely motionless, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets, his face angled upward toward your second-floor window.

He wasn't pacing. He wasn't checking his watch. He was simply standing in the freezing rain, staring up at your darkened glass, waiting for the precise moment you would re-emerge.

You gasp, pulling back behind the curtain, your heart hammering wildly in your chest.

You ran to your front door, unbolted the lock, and threw it open. You sprinted down the two flights of stairs in your socks, burst through the glass front doors of the building, and ran into the empty street.

"Phainon!" you screamed through the cold night air.

He stepped out from under the streetlight, his hair soaked and clinging to his forehead, his skin pale and translucent under the wet light. As soon as he saw you, a soft, beautiful, terribly broken smile appeared on his face.

"You came down," he murmured, walking toward you with quick, eager strides. "I knew you would."

"What are you doing?!" You cry, grabbing his trembling, ice-cold arms. "You've been standing out here in the freezing cold for hours! I told you to go home!"

"I tried," Phainon whispered, looking down at you with pure, unadulterated adoration. "I got to the end of the block, and my body wouldn't move any further. Every step away from you felt like ripping my own flesh open. It was easier to just stay here and look at your window."

"Fine," you choked out, wiping a tear from your cheek. "You can... you can sleep on the couch. But do not come into my bedroom, Phainon. Do you understand me?"

Phainon looked up, his smile returning—bright, desperate, and empty. "I understand. I'll stay right there. I won't move an inch."

-.- - .. ... ... / -- .

V: The Anatomy of a Caged Bird

You did not sleep.

You lay in your bed with the bedroom door locked, the duvet pulled up to your chin, listening to the absolute, suffocating silence of the apartment.

Around 4:00 AM, you heard the faint sound of floorboards creaking outside your door.

You sat up instantly, your body locking with terror. You watched the narrow gap at the bottom of your door where the hallway light flickered.

A shadow blocked the light.

Then came a soft, rhythmic sound. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Phainon was pressing his forehead gently against the wooden door panel from the outside.

"[Name]?" his voice drifted through the wood, paper-thin and hauntingly calm. "Are you breathing?"

You held your breath, tears streaming down your face in the dark. What the fuck?

"I can't hear you breathing through the door," Phainon murmured softly. "Please just make a sound. Just let me know you're still alive in there. If something happened to you... I wouldn't have a reason to wake up tomorrow."

"I'm alive, Phainon!" You sobbed out quietly. "Go back to the couch! Please!"

"Thank you," he whispered back, his shadow remaining fixed against the bottom of the door. "I'll stay right here so I can hear you."

You buried your face in your pillows, trying so hard to catch the sleep that had completely evaded you.

-.- - .. ... ... / -- .

You'd asked him to go home the next day. "For Snowy," you tried to negotiate.

He called in an hour or two.

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. When Phainon finally spoke, his voice didn't sound like his own. It was hollow, flat, and completely devoid of inflection, carrying an eerie, mechanical weight that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

"[Name]," he whispered quietly. "Snowy died."

The words hung in the space between you, heavy and unnatural, bleeding through the speaker of the phone with a strange, muffled resonance.

"[Name]," Phainon repeated, his voice dragging across the syllables like dry paper. "Snowy is dead."

For a long moment, you could only stare at the dark wallpaper of your bedroom, the shock of his behaviour last night instantly colliding with this cold, terrifying piece of news. Your breath hitched, your throat tightening as your mind struggled to bridge the gap between his earlier dismissal to your privacy and this sudden, tragic vulnerability.

"Phainon... what happened?" You asked, your voice trembling, all thoughts of your own humiliation washing away under a wave of sudden, aching concern. "I... I'm so sorry. Was he sick? Did something happen while you were here?"

On the other end, there was a long, suffocating stretch of silence. Phainon stood in the center of his dimly lit apartment, the cool glow of the refrigerator casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor. He stared down at the small paper bag resting at the bottom of the kitchen trash bin.

He didn't tell you about the pest control pellets he had scattered across the baseboards after coming home, entirely consumed by his spiraling thoughts of you. He didn't tell you how he had found the small white dog curled rigidly on the cold bathroom tile, his jaws slightly parted, or how the bitter realization of his own jealousy had hit him with the force of a physical blow. He didn't mention the numbing efficiency with which he had wrapped his small body in a towel and disposed of him, burying his own guilt beneath a rigid wall of silence.

"I... I don't want to talk about it over the phone," Phainon said finally, his tone flattening into something dangerously controlled. "Can you come over? Please. I... I just need someone here."

The vulnerability in his voice—so rare, so stripped of its usual guarded armor—shattered whatever hesitation you had left. His rejection to have sex with you from a day ago felt like a distant, irrelevant memory.

"I'm coming," you said immediately. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

When you arrived, you let yourself in with the spare key Phainon had given you months ago—a gesture that had once felt like a quiet milestone in your friendship. The apartment was uncharacteristically dark, save for a single lamp glowing dimly in the living room.

Phainon was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. His hair fell forward in disarray. He looked hollowed out, drained of color and energy.

"[Name]," he murmured, not looking up as the front door clicked shut.

You hurried across the room, dropping your bag on the floor, and knelt down right in front of him. Without a second thought, you reached out, gently placing your hands over his cold, rigid fingers.

"Phainon, I am so, so sorry," you whispered, your voice thick with empathy. "I know how much he meant to you. You don't have to go through this alone."

Slowly, Phainon lowered his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were wide, dark, and hyper-focused. There was no grief in them—not the kind you expected, anyway. Instead, there was a raw, burning intensity that made the hairs on the back of your arms stand up. It was a look of absolute, desperate fixation, as if he were a drowning man who had just broken the surface of the water and locked eyes with his only lifeline.

"You came," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

"Of course I came," you said softly, offering a sympathetic, reassuring smile as you squeezed his hands. "You called, and you're hurting. I'm always going to—"

You didn't get to finish the sentence.

Phainon moved with sudden, startling velocity. He leaned forward, catching you by the back of the neck and the small of your back, pulling you directly against him. Before you could process the movement, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn't a tentative or gentle kiss born of a mutual, unfolding romance. It was fierce, possessive, and suffocatingly desperate—driven by a manic undercurrent that felt less like affection and more like an anchor thrown into a storm. His fingers tangled frantically in your hair, pressing you closer, as if he were trying to physically melt you into his skin to fill the cold, hollow space left behind by his own catastrophic mistake.

You froze for a fraction of a second, your heart leaping into your throat. His behaviour over the many months—subtly stating that he didn't feel that way about you—flashed violently through your mind.

He doesn't like you, a small voice whispered. He didn't feel that way.

Yet, here he was, kissing you with an intensity that bordered on frantic, trembling as though the world would end if he let go. The confusion was dizzying, but the warmth of his mouth, the familiar scent of his sweater, and the overwhelming desire you had harbored for months eroded your resistance. Your eyes fluttered closed, and slowly, hesitantly, you kissed him back, lifting your hands to rest against the solid wall of his chest.

When his shirt pulled free and up over his head, you ran your hands along the broad slopes of his shoulders and down dips and angles of his chest. He was cut, here and there. "What happened to you?"

His belt dropped and you hooked your legs around him, pulling him closer. His body pinned yours to the table. "I fell." When his hands found your back, you slid your legs apart, letting your dress scrunch above your waist. You quivered when his cock brushed heavy against you. "That's from a knife, Phai. What the fuck?"

He was rough and quick inside, and you arched into him, finding his mouth once again. His hands were at your back, your hips, your thighs and you felt something uncoiling inside of you. Something deep in your belly that made you clutch back at him as desperately. So long had you ached for warmth, for touch, for the tightening of your body against his.

Snowy died. And Phainon was hurting himself.

You came trembling around him, and he pulled back to watch you as you did. You laid back onto the table, open to him, his eyes locked on everywhere your dress no longer covered, even has he pushed into you over and over.

And then he pulled away.

"What the fuck? Get away from me," Phainon whispered, his voice breaking entirely as he stood up, and moved back, sliding down against the side of the wall until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He didn't look at you anymore. He couldn't bear to meet your eyes.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs, staring down at the man you loved—now curled in a heap of self-loathing and terror on the floor. The warmth of the room was gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute cold.

.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-

VI: The Fracture in the Archive

Saturday morning arrived without sunrise, drowning the city in a dense, leaden fog that pressed flat against the glass of Phainon’s apartment windows.

Inside, the silence was absolute—heavy, atmospheric, and terrifying.

Last night was one way to lose your virginity. The absolute worst.

You stood at the threshold of his bedroom, your hand trembling as you slowly turned the brass doorknob. The lock disengaged with a sharp, mechanical click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.

Phainon was sitting on the floor directly outside the door.

He hadn't slept. He hadn't moved to the sofa. He sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his back resting against the wall, his eyes fixed on the exact spot where the door met the frame. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands hanging over his forehead, and his sweater was wrinkled. Yet his posture remained remarkably erect, devoid of the natural slouch of fatigue.

As soon as the door swung open, his gaze snapped to your face. A violent, brilliant flicker of relief flooded his expression, as though he had spent eight hours underwater and had finally broken the surface.

"Good morning, [Name]," he said. His voice was raspy from disuse, but his tone was smooth, almost melodious.

"Phainon... did you sit here all night?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. You kept your distance.

"Yes," he replied simply, leaning his head back against the wall to look up at you. "I wanted to stay close so I could hear you breathing."

"That isn't staying close, Phainon. That's... you sat on the floor outside my bedroom like a dog."

Phainon didn't blink. He offered a small, serene smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "A dog is loyal because it knows no other reality. I sit here because there is literally nowhere else in this universe I wish to be. Is that so shameful?"

He pushed himself up off the floor with effortless grace, stepping toward you. You instinctively took a step back into the room, but Phainon stopped at the doorframe, respecting the boundary you had drawn, though his pale eyes drank in every detail of your face, your messy hair, your tired eyes.

"I made coffee," he murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. "And I bought fresh pastries from the bakery three blocks down."

You blinked, surprised. "When? I didn't hear you leave."

"At six in the morning," he said. "I ran the entire way there and back so I would only be gone for five minutes. I didn't want you waking up to an empty flat."

The sheer, terrifying efficiency of his devotion made your stomach turn. It was terrifyingly calculated—every action, every thought, stripped of self-preservation and redirected entirely toward serving your existence.

"Phainon, what the fuck? We can't not talk about your dog dying! And we had sex! And then pushed me away like I forced myself on you! Not to mention you've been slicing at your skin for God knows how long—"

"I didn't mean to scare you," he stammered, his usual composure shattering into raw, desperate panic. He sank to his knees right there in the center of his living room, clutching his head in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, [Name]. Please don't hate me. If you hate me, I'll kill myself. Just tell me what to do. I'll do anything to make you happy!"

.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-

Monday morning arrived with the suffocating weight of an impending storm. The air beneath the Grand City Archives was colder than usual, smelling faintly of damp limestone and stagnant rainwater that had seeped through the ancient brick foundation over the weekend.

You stood at the bottom of the iron spiral staircase, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. You hadn't slept in nearly two days. Every time you had closed your eyes over the weekend, the image of Phainon kneeling on his apartment rug—his pale eyes wide, empty, and entirely focused on you—had burned behind your eyelids.

He was already there.

Phainon sat at his long oak desk, surrounded by towers papers. But he wasn't reading them. He wasn't cataloging, writing, or cross-referencing. He sat completely still, his hands resting flat against the dark wood, his head angled toward the staircase as if he had been tracking your approach long before your feet had touched the stone floor.

When your shadow fell across the archway, his entire posture shifted. The terrifying, flat stillness melted away into a expression of sheer, desperate relief.

"[Name]," he breathed, rising from his chair so quickly that the heavy oak legs scraped sharply against the stone.

He stopped barely an inch away, his presence immediate and overwhelming. The sharp, clean scent of cedarwood and faint rain drifted off his coat. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just shy of your sleeve, as if he were exercising every ounce of willpower not to pull you into his arms.

"You're four minutes late," Phainon said softly. His voice lacked any reprimand; instead, it was laced with a quiet, breathless panic. "I thought you had taken a different entrance. I thought... I thought you had decided not to come."

"The train was delayed, Phainon," you said, keeping your voice as flat and measured as possible. You forced yourself to step past him, setting your coat and bag on the desk. "It's fine. It's just four minutes."

"Four minutes is two hundred and forty seconds," Phainon replied, turning with you, his eyes tracking every movement of your hands. "Do you know what happens in two hundred and forty seconds, [Name]? A person's heart beats over two hundred times. A thousand thoughts pass through a mind. And every single one of mine was wondering if you were abandoning me."

You felt a cold knot form in your throat. You looked up, searching his face. There were faint, dark shadows beneath his eyes—proof that he, too, had barely slept over the weekend. Yet his skin was unnaturally pale, almost luminous under the warm desk lamps, and his eyes burned with an intense, unblinking focus.

"Phainon, you need to step back," you whispered, looking nervously toward the main reading room. "Mr. Anaxa will be here any minute. I only came because you said you needed me to be supportive."

"Let him come," Phainon said instantly, without a moment's hesitation. "Let the whole world come. They mean nothing to me. If Mr. Anaxa rids of me today, I will sit on the front steps of your apartment building until you come out. It makes no difference where I am, as long as I can see you."

"Stop it!" You hissed, grabbing his forearm and pulling him into the shadows of the alcove. Your fingers dug into the fabric of his suit jacket. "Do you hear yourself right now? You are a scholar, Phainon! You spent four years getting your degree, you have three published papers, you care about this project more than anyone I know! You can't just throw your life away!"

Phainon looked down at your hand on his arm. A small, chillingly beautiful smile touched his pale lips—a smile devoid of all his former pride and intellectual dignity.

"I didn't throw it away," he murmured, leaning down until his forehead almost rested against yours. "I traded it. I traded a meaningless life of paper and dust for the only thing that actually matters. You gave me a reason to exist, [Name]. Why would I care about ancient history and arts when my entire universe is standing right in front of me?"

Before you could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.

Mr. Anaxa—a severe man with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses—stepped into the central hall, holding a thick Manila folder. Behind him came the head architect, who carried a stack of catalog cards. The moment they saw you standing so close together in the shadows of the alcove, his eyes widened in deep concern.

"Phainon," Mr. Anaxa's voice boomed softly in the quiet vault. "A word, please."

Phainon didn't move. He didn't even turn his head. His pale eyes remained locked on your face, completely ignoring the head of the department.

"Phainon!" Mr. Anaxa repeated, his tone sharpening. "The board reviewed your quarterly report this morning. Or rather, the complete absence of your quarterly report. It was due on Friday afternoon. This is entirely unlike you."

You gently nudged Phainon's chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Go," you whispered frantically. "Please, Phainon. Just go speak to him."

Only at your command did Phainon finally tear his gaze away from you. He turned slowly, his expression shifting in an instant from desperate adoration to an icy, deadened indifference that made Mr. Anaxa freeze mid-step.

"The report is unfinished," Phainon said, his tone entirely flat.

Mr. Anaxa blinked, taken aback by the complete lack of professional deference in his most senior assistant's voice. "Unfinished? Phainon, that report dictates our funding for the entire wing! You’ve had three months!"

"Then revoke the funding," Phainon replied smoothly, stepping out of the alcove with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "I am no longer interested in managing the wing."

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the archive. You gasped softly, your knuckles turning white against his hand gripping yours. Mr. Anaxa stared at Phainon as if the younger man had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.

"Are you out of your mind?" Mr. Anaxa managed to say, his face darkening with anger. "If you walk away from this project, Phainon, I will have no choice but to place you on administrative leave immediately!"

"Then place me on leave," Phainon said without a single second of hesitation. He didn't sound angry, or defensive, or sad. He sounded entirely unbothered, as if Mr. Anaxa were discussing the weather. "I'll pack my desk now."

"Phainon, no!" You cried out, stepping forward, unable to contain yourself. "Mr. Anaxa, please, he isn't feeling well today—he's been under a tremendous amount of stress—"

"Do not apologize for me, [Name]," Phainon interrupted gently, turning to look at you with that terrifying, radiant warmth returning to his eyes. "If I am on leave, I don't have to spend eight hours a day doing useless art. I can spend all eight hours taking care of you."

Mr. Anaxa looked between the two of you, his expression morphing from anger to deep, unsettled pity and confusion. "Phainon... step into my office. Now. [Name], stay here."

"No," Phainon said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously firm. "She stays where I can see her. I am not entering any room without her."

.. / .... .- - . / -.-- --- ..-

By noon, the disaster was complete.

Phainon had been formally suspended pending a psychological evaluation—a directive he had accepted with complete, terrifying serenity. He had packed his few personal belongings into a single cardboard box within ten minutes, spent another five minutes waiting while you tried to compose yourself, and had ultimately been escorted out of the building by security when he refused to leave without you.

You spent the rest of your time in a state of quiet shock. You couldn't focus on anything; the letters blurred into dark, meaningless scribbles. Every few minutes, your eyes would dart toward the heavy iron doors at the top of the stairs. You knew, with absolute certainty, that he was standing right outside on the rain-slick pavement, waiting for you to come out.

"He's still out there," Mydei said softly, walking up to you with two cups of tea.

He set one cup down in front of you and took the seat beside you. The usual sharp, sarcastic energy that he carried was completely gone, replaced by a quiet, brooding concern.

"How long has he been standing there?" You asked, your voice raspy.

"Since twelve-thirty," Mydei replied grimly. "It's pouring rain, [Name]. He doesn't have an umbrella. He's just standing by the fountain, staring at the basement window. Anaxa threatened to call the police, but Phainon didn't even react. He just told Anaxa that the police couldn't legally keep him from standing on a public sidewalk."

You buried your face in your hands, a jagged sob catching in your chest. "What have I done... Oh God, De, what have I done?"

Mydei leaned in closer, his brow furrowed. "What do you mean, [Name]? This isn't your fault. Phainon has completely lost his mind. He’s acting like a textbook stalker. I don't know what happened to him over the weekend, but he is dangerous right now. You need to go home with me tonight. You can stay at my place until he gets help."

"I can't," you whispered through your fingers. "You don't understand, Mydei. If I go to your place, he'll follow us. He won't leave your doorstep. He'll ruin your life, too."

"Then we call the police."

"The police can't fix this!" You pulled your hands away, your eyes wild with terror and guilt. "You don't understand what's wrong with him!"

Mydei stared at you for a long moment, sensing the deep, incomprehensible panic in his friend's eyes. "Then explain it to me, [Name]. Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like a man who snapped overnight."

You opened your mouth to tell him—to tell him about the antique shop, the lacquered box, the willow twig, and the terrible, irreversible wish you had made in the quiet of your room. But as you looked into Mydei's practical, sensible eyes, you realized how insane it would sound. To the rest of the world, Phainon was experiencing a sudden, tragic psychotic break. Only you knew the horrifying truth: Phainon wasn't sick. He was cursed. And the cursed entity controlling his mind was your own foolish desire.

"I have to leave," you say abruptly, pushing your chair back and grabbing your coat.

"Wait, [Name]! Don't go out there alone!" Mydei called, rising to follow you.

"Stay here, Mydei! Please!" You pleaded, your hand on the staircase railing. "I need to fix this. I'm the only one who can fix this."

You bolted up the stone stairs, pushing through the heavy oak doors into the cold, rain-drenched afternoon.

The moment you stepped outside, you saw him.

Phainon was standing in the center of the stone courtyard, entirely soaked through. His silver-gray hair was plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off the tip of his nose and chin. His dark suit jacket was drenched, clinging to his broad shoulders. Yet he wasn't shivering. He stood as straight and still as a marble monument, his pale eyes locked onto the main entrance.

When he saw you, his face lit up with that dark, breathtaking radiance.

"[Name]," he called out, his voice cutting clearly through the roar of the rain. He took long, sweeping strides across the courtyard toward you. "You came out early. I knew you would."

You didn't run. You stood on the top step, watching him approach like a ghost in the storm. "Phainon... look at you. You're freezing. You're soaked to the bone."

"It doesn't matter," Phainon said, reaching the steps and looking up at you with complete, terrifying devotion. "The rain doesn't matter. The cold doesn't matter. Nothing hurts when I'm looking at you."

He reached up, taking your trembling hands in his ice-cold fingers. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, his breath hot against your skin.

"Where are we going now?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours with a pleading, childlike absolute trust. "Your apartment? Or somewhere else? Wherever you go, I will follow."

You looked into his eyes, feeling the crushing weight of your own guilt pulling you down into the abyss. "We're going to a shop," you whispered, your voice breaking. "We're going to find a way to fix you."

…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .

VII. The Echo of the Antiques

The rain turned into a blinding downpour as you dragged Phainon through the narrow alleys on the edge of the city.

Phainon walked beside you obediently, matching your pace perfectly. He held your left hand in a grip so tight it left red marks on your skin, but whenever you tried to pull away, his fingers would clamp down even harder—not out of cruelty, but out of a desperate, instinctual refusal to let you create a single inch of distance between you.

"Is this where you wanted to walk?" Phainon asked quietly as you turned down the narrow street lined with vintage storefronts. "It's dark here. We should go back to your apartment. I can lock the doors, and we can stay inside where it's safe."

"Just two more minutes, Phainon," you breathed, your chest aching from the cold air. "Just two more minutes."

You slammed your hand against the wet glass of the shop window—Mire & Memory: Antiquities & Curios.

The shop was dark. The stained-glass lanterns were off. hanging in the small glass pane was a wooden sign flip-turned to red: CLOSED.

"No... no, no, no," you gasped, grabbing the brass door handle and rattling it frantically.

The heavy oak door was locked tight. You leaned your face against the wet glass, peering into the shadowy interior. The velvet displays, the antique clockwork, the dried herbs—everything was still inside, but there was no sign of the woman in the big hat.

"It's closed," Phainon noted calmly from behind you. He pulled you gently away from the glass, his large hands resting on your shoulders, drawing you back against his wet chest. "It doesn't matter, [Name]. Whatever you were looking for in there, you don't need it. You have me."

"I need the shopkeeper!" You screamed at the door, hammering you fists against the wood until your knuckles ached. "Open the door! Please! Open the door!"

"Hush," Phainon murmured softly into your hair, his arms wrapping around your waist, locking you in an embrace that felt less like protection and more like a gilded cage. "Don't yell, my love. It's just an old shop. Let me take you home. You're wet, you're crying... it hurts me to see you like this."

You sagged in his arms, your forehead pressing against the cold, wet wood of the shop door. The bitter truth washed over you like the freezing rain soaking through your coat.

Even if the shopkeeper were inside, what could she possibly do? The warning had been written on the typed card in plain, unyielding English:

Wishes granted without condition cannot be revoked.

There was no magical counter-curse. There was no secret ritual to un-break the willow branch resting at the bottom of your apartment trash bin. You had asked the universe to alter a man's soul, and the universe had obeyed with absolute, indiscriminate precision.

Phainon gently turned you around in his arms. His face was inches from hers, his pale gray eyes shimmering with an intense, unholy clarity in the dark alleyway.

"Look at me, [Name]," he commanded softly, though his tone was entirely tender.

You slowly lifted your eyes to meet his.

"Why are you so afraid?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away a mixture of rain and tears from your cheek. "I haven't hurt you. I will never hurt you. I exist entirely to protect you, to love you, to give you everything you could ever dream of. Isn't this what you wanted?"

The question struck you like a physical blow.

Isn't this what you wanted?

You had pined for him for nearly an year. You had laid awake at night wishing he would look at you with passion instead of polite professional courtesy. You had wanted to be the center of his world. And now you were. You were his god, his ruler, his sole anchor to reality—and in making yourself his entire world, you had destroyed the man he actually was.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice hollow and defeated. "This is what I wanted."

Phainon smiled—a radiant, beautiful, terrifying smile that did not reach his cold eyes. "Then stop fighting it. Let me love you."

…. . − / −. .. … − / −. .

By midnight, the rain outside your apartment had settled into a steady, rhythmic tap against the glass.

The living room was dark. You sat on the center of the sofa, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. You stared at the small wooden coffee table in front of you. Resting on the polished surface were the two broken halves of the One Wish Willow, retrieved from the trash bin and placed side-by-side like a corpse waiting for a burial that would never come.

Beside the table, kneeling on the carpeted floor, was Phainon.

He had changed out of his wet suit into a soft gray sweater and dark trousers. He didn't look tired. He sat on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs, his head turned slightly toward you. His eyes remained fixed on your face, tracking every rise and fall of your chest, every flicker of your eyelashes.

"You should sleep, [Name]," he said softly, his voice a low, melodious hum in the dark room.

"I can't sleep," you murmured, your voice stripped of all emotion.

"I can sit right here all night," Phainon offered, reaching up to lay his hand gently over yours on the blanket. His skin was warm now, but his touch carried the immutable weight of an iron chain. "I won't close my eyes. I will keep watch until the sun comes up."

"And tomorrow?" You asked, looking down at his hand on yours. "What happens tomorrow, Phainon? You don't have a job anymore. You don't have your research. You're going to get evicted from your apartment if you don't pay your rent."

"I'll sell my books," Phainon replied smoothly, as if discussing buying groceries. "I'll sell my furniture. I don't need an apartment, [Name]. I can move into your living room. Or I can sit on your balcony. As long as I am near you, material things have no meaning."

"And your friends? Your family? What happens when they come looking for you?"

Phainon’s expression flickered with a brief, chilling detachment. "If they try to separate me from you, I will remove them from my life. It is very simple."

You closed your eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

You looked at the broken willow twig on the table. The dark, charcoal-like core of the fractured wood seemed to stare back at you—a silent, permanent reminder of your own hubris.

You reached out with your free hand, picking up the two broken pieces of wood, and pulled them into your lap beneath the blanket. You had wished for his unconditional love, and you had received it in its purest, most monstrous form: an affection stripped of reason, humanity, and choice.

"Phainon?" you whispered.

"Yes, my love?" he answered instantly, leaning closer, his eyes shining in the dark.

"Did you... Did you kill Snowy?"

The apartment seemed to hold its breath. The steady, rhythmic tap of the rain against the window glass was the only sound left in the world, stretching out the silence between them like a tight wire.

Phainon didn't blink. His dark eyes remained locked onto yours, completely devoid of the hesitation or shame that usually accompanied a shameful secret. The terrifying purity of the wish held him in a state of absolute, unbending transparency before you.

"Yes," Phainon answered, his voice smooth, quiet, and disturbingly casual.

A cold shudder rolled down your spine, despite the thick wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You stared down at the two halves of the Wish Willow resting in your lap, their jagged edges pressing against your palms.

"Why?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the dark living room. "Snowy was your dog. You loved him. How could you just... how could you do that?"

Phainon shifted slightly, moving closer until his knees pressed against the edge of the sofa. His touch was tender, yet it carried the chilling weight of absolute detachment from everything outside of his singular focus on you.

"It was the day after you came over," Phainon explained, his tone conversational, as if he were recounting a minor inconvenience on his way to class. "I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to focus on my design layouts, but my mind wouldn't quiet down. I kept thinking about you. I kept thinking about how easily you slip away when the day ends—how you go back to your own house, how other people get to talk to you, how much of your life is spent entirely out of my reach."

He paused, his thumb softly stroking your knuckles.

"Snowy kept whining," Phainon continued, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen as though he could see right through the walls. "He wanted to go outside. He wanted attention. He was loud, and he was taking up the space in the room that should have belonged entirely to the thoughts of you. He was a distraction from my purpose."

You felt a sickening knot twist tightly in your stomach.

"That, and you liked him," Phainon scoffed gently, looking back up into your eyes with an unsettling, beatific smile. "Everything that demands my attention away from you, and yours away from me, is an obstacle. That afternoon, I had left those pest control pellets on the counter. It took only a moment to crush a few into his food bowl and mix it with some meat. He ate it without hesitation."

He spoke of poisoning his own pet with the same chilling indifference one might use to describe throwing away a piece of trash.

"And when he died?" you asked, your voice trembling as hot tears prickled behind your eyelids. "Did you feel anything at all?"

Phainon tilted his head, considering the question honestly. He reached up, his warm hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear that had slipped down your skin.

"I felt nothing," he murmured softly. "Except a sudden, wonderful quiet. The apartment was finally silent. And I could think only of you."

You pressed your eyes shut, the horror of the confession washing over you in heavy, suffocating waves. You looked down at the broken willow in your lap, realizing with terrifying finality that the monster sitting before you was entirely your own creation—and there was no waking up from it.

... .- ...- . / -- .

VIII: The Weight of the Room

Three months elapsed in a heavy, unnatural rhythm.

Autumn had settled over the city, striping the trees along the boulevard in shades of rust and decay, but inside your apartment, time had ceased to move. The days no longer possessed distinct boundaries. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator, the rain washing against the double-paned glass, and the perpetual, motionless presence of Phainon.

He had given up his lease entirely by the end of August. He had not gone back for his belongings; he had simply allowed the landlord to declare the unit abandoned, leaving behind his extensive personal library, his heirloom furniture, his winter coats, and the framed photographs of his family. None of it held any reality for him anymore. His entire physical universe had shrunk to the four walls of your apartment.

"You need to take a few steps, Phainon," you said quietly, your voice sounding raspy from disuse. You sat at the dining table, staring down at an untouched plate of toast. "You’ve been standing by the hallway arch for four hours."

Phainon turned his head toward you. His movement was fluid, yet eerily deliberate, like a clockwork mechanism that had been freshly oiled. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark trousers—clothing you had ordered online for him because he refused to leave the flat even to buy garments.

"I am perfectly comfortable, [Name]," he replied smoothly. His voice was low, devoid of any harsh rasp despite his near-total silence throughout the day. "From the archway, I can monitor the front door, the fire escape window, and the table where you are sitting. If I move to the armchair, my line of sight to the hallway is obscured by three inches."

"No one is coming through the hallway, Phainon," you whispered.

"We cannot know that with absolute certainty," he said, taking two quiet steps toward you. He stopped precisely at the edge of the rug, his pale gray eyes searching your face with that wide, terrifying clarity that had never once dimmed since the day you snapped the twig. "And as long as there is a fraction of a percent of risk to your peace, my vigilance is required."

He knelt beside your chair, placing his long, cool hands over your knee. The gesture was outwardly affectionate—a posture of deep, reverent submission—but the pressure of his fingers was firm, an immovable anchor binding you to the spot.

"Eat your toast, my love," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against your fabric. "You’ve lost weight this month. I counted your calories yesterday. You are three hundred calories below your recommended intake."

You felt a cold prickle of sweat trace your spine. "You're counting my calories?"

"I keep a log in my notebook," Phainon said, gesturing vaguely toward the small leather pad resting on the sideboard. "Your sleep cycles, your water consumption, your temperature, the number of times you cry when you think I am in the bathroom. I record all of it. It allows me to anticipate your needs before you even experience them."

You stared at him, a sudden wave of suffocating vertigo making the room tilt. "Phainon... that isn't care. That's... that's a inventory."

"It's love," he corrected gently, leaning up to press a lingering, soft kiss against the side of your neck. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of mint and iron. "A inventory implies I intend to trade you. You are my absolute. One does not trade an absolute."

... .- ...- . / -- .

The quiet was shattered at 2:00 PM by the sudden, abrasive buzzing of the apartment intercom.

The sharp sound cut through the silence like a blade. You flinched violently, knocking your knee against the table.

Phainon didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet, his body shifting into a low, predatory posture between you and the hallway. His gray eyes narrowed, all warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by an icy, deadened hostility.

"Stay behind me," he said. The instruction was not loud, but it carried a terrifying, absolute authority.

"Phainon, it's probably just the building manager—"

"Stay behind me," he repeated, his hands coming up to guide you gently but forcefully into the corner behind the dining hutch.

He walked to the intercom wall unit, pressing the button with a single, clinical movement. He didn't speak. He simply held the line open, listening.

"[Name]?" Cyrene's voice crackled through the cheap speaker, tinny and distorted by static. "[Name], are you in there? Please pick up. It’s been three weeks since you called in sick. Boss officially filed the termination paperwork yesterday, but I don't care about the job—I'm worried about you. Your phone is disconnected. I brought the building super up with me. If you don't open the door, we're going to use the master key."

You gasped, taking a step toward the hall. "Rene—"

Before you could reach the speaker, Phainon’s hand locked around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute—like a steel vise padded in soft leather. He pulled you back behind his shoulder effortlessly.

"Phainon, let me talk to her!" You pleaded in a desperate, panicked whisper. "She has the manager with her! They’re going to open the door!"

Phainon looked down at you, his expression entirely calm, almost beatific. "They won't open the door."

He released your wrist and stepped over to the entryway closet. He opened it quietly, reaching up to the top shelf where you kept a heavy brass tool set. He selected a heavy six-inch steel deadbolt bar he had purchased online two weeks prior, along with a cordless driver.

"Phainon, what are you doing?" You breathed, horror mounting in your throat.

Without a word, Phainon walked to the heavy oak front door. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he positioned the steel bar across the frame, alignment perfectly straight, and drove three heavy masonry screws through the steel bracket directly into the door jamb. The sharp whir-click-click of the power tool drowned out the sound of key turning in the lock outside.

From the hallway outside, the sound of a key sliding into the tumbler echoed sharply.

The lock turned. The door shifted inward a fraction of a millimeter—and then slammed brutally against the newly installed steel barricade.

"What the...?" the building manager’s voice muffled through the wood. "The safety bar is thrown from the inside! Hey! Is someone in trouble in there?"

"[Name]!" Cyrene screamed, pounding her fists against the heavy oak. "[Name]! Speak to me! Is Phainon in there with you? Did he do something to you?!"

You opened your mouth to scream, to cry for help, to tell them to break down the door—but Phainon turned to face you.

He didn't brandish a weapon. He didn't make a threat.

Instead, he slowly lowered himself back onto his knees right in front of the barricaded door. He took a small, silver folding knife from his pocket—the one he used to trim loose threads from your sweaters—unfolded the thin blade, and held it vertically against his own throat. The sharp point rested directly over his carotid artery, pressing just hard enough to draw a single, pinpoint bead of crimson blood.

"Phainon!" You shrieked, your hand flying to your mouth.

"If you call out to them," Phainon said, his voice entirely sweet, calm, and conversational, "if you tell them to break this door down, I will press this blade three inches into my neck before they can clear the frame."

"Phainon, please! Put that down! Put it down!" you sobbed, dropping to your knees a few feet away from him, your hands raised in absolute terror.

"I am not threatening you, my love," he explained gently, his eyes shining with an intense, crystal-clear devotion. "I am simply informing you of the physical realities of my existence. My mind, my heart, and my body only function to serve your sanctuary. If they breach this door, they will take you away from me, or take me away from you. In either scenario, my existence ends. The knife is merely a formality."

Outside, the manager was kicking the bottom panel of the door. "I'm calling the police! We're getting the fire department up here with an axe!"

"[Name]! Answer me!" Cyrene wept through the wood.

You looked at the single drop of blood trailing down Phainon’s throat. You looked into his pale, serene eyes—eyes that held no fear, no doubt, and no humanity, only the absolute, unyielding execution of your own wish.

You swallowed your own scream, strangling the voice in your throat until it died.

You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiped your tears with the back of your hand, and stepped up to the door.

"Cyrene!" You called out, your voice unnaturally loud, tight, and rigid.

The pounding stopped instantly. "[Name]?! Are you okay?! Is he hurting you?!"

"I am fine, Rene," you said, staring directly at Phainon’s unblinking eyes as the knife remained pressed against his neck. "I... I am completely fine. I am not sick. I am not being held against my will."

"[Name], your voice sounds terrible! Let us in!"

"No!" You shouted, your voice trembling slightly before you caught yourself. "No... please. Go away. Phainon and I... we just want to be left alone. We don't want to work at the archive anymore. We don't want visitors. If you call the police, I will tell them you are harassing us. Please... just go away."

A long, agonizing silence descended on the hallway outside.

"[Name]..." Cyrene's voice was broken, small, and filled with a profound, terrifying grief. "...what did he do to you?"

"Nothing," you whispered against the painted wood of the door. "He didn't do anything. I asked for this."

Footsteps slowly receded down the carpeted hallway. The sound of the elevator doors opening and closing echoed faintly, followed by absolute, suffocating silence.

Phainon waited five full minutes after the hallway fell silent.

When he was certain they were truly gone, he folded the silver blade with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket. He reached up with his index finger, dabbing the single droplet of blood from his throat, and looked at it with mild curiosity before wiping it onto his shirt.

He rose to his feet, stepping over to where you remained collapsed on the floor, your cheek pressed against the cold hardwood, your body shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.

"You were wonderful," Phainon whispered, crouching down beside you. He gathered you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly from the floor and carrying you toward the sofa.

He sat down, placing you in his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist, and resting his chin atop your head. He began to rock you gently, back and forth, back and forth, with the slow, rhythmic cadence of a pendulum.

"Now no one will disturb us," he murmured into your hair. "No friends. No jobs. No archives. No opinions. Just you and me. The world outside can burn away, [Name]. We don't need it."

You didn't pull away. You didn't have the strength left to fight. You lay limp against his chest, listening to the heavy, steady, unhurried thrum of his heart—a heart that beat not out of life or passion, but as a mechanical clock counting down the endless seconds of your self-inflicted sentence.

You looked across the dark room toward the small side table.

Sitting on the velvet cushion of the open lacquered box were the two broken pieces of the One Wish Willow. The charcoal-black center of the fractured wood seemed to glint faintly in the gray afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

You realized then that the horror was not that Phainon had become a monster. The horror was that he was still Phainon—his voice was still smooth, his touch was still gentle, his face was still exquisitely handsome—but the soul inside him had been replaced by a singular, unyielding directive.

He loved you. He would always love you.

He would love you when the food ran out. He would love you when the electricity was cut off. He would love you as you sit together in the pitch-black living room, surrounded by steel deadbolts and sealed windows, watching each other fade into nothingness.

Phainon leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath cold and sweet.

"I love you, [Name]," he whispered, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, bottomless light that would never go out. "Tell me you love me too."

You closed your eyes, letting your tears soak into the gray fabric of his sweater.

"I love you, Phainon," you whispered into the dark.

And as his arms tightened around you—locking you so closely against his chest that you could barely draw breath—you knew that you would be saying those words forever.

…. . . -.. .–. / — . …

Additional matters I'd like to address:

Yes the shopkeeper is Madam Herta. How she got her hands on the one wish willow is a story for another day </3

I was contemplating making Phainon kill either of Mydei or Cyrene (but we don't follow canon storyline of course (get it?)) and settled for Snowy in the end (not funny)

He off screens Cyrene for attempting to invade on y'all though (CANON)

It would make sense either way: Phainon using the wish on you or you on him because the former wouldn't be likely I feel like. Phainon's definitely not that type of guy in my opinion (I learnt nothing from watching the movie. In all seriousness, Nikki's behaviour is valid /j)

All breakers (?) are morse code for the real Phainon crying for help because I decided to be a little extra!

[sconesss]

in careful what you wish for, if you don't mind answering, what happens outside of phainon and reader? like mydei and cyrene.. readers and phainon family.. all that stuff

RIP Cyrene (I mentioned this at the very end! Phainon settles scores because she came for us and he didn't like that :/) And then Phainon goes to jail :( Reader most probably would voluntarily seek therapy, and would even go as far as to prefer solitary confinement, desperate for some ISOLATION (lmao) after... y'know. Reader's family visits her from time-to-time... as for Phainon's, I think they'd have a really hard time making peace with the fact he changed so much. I think they'd leave town for a bit. They don't want to see him. He doesn't want to see them either. He's probably plotting ways to take out the security so he can escape his way back to reader.

Mydei gets spared! For the time being, at least.

[sconesss]

i think about heaven is out of reach often. i've reread it at least 8 times now but i cant seem to drop. i'm so down bad 💔 i feel like reader waiting for phainon to keep his promise to see her with how i yearn for this fic until i am able to read it (again)

That's so sweet of you!!! I'm super glad you enjoyed my not so finest work so much 🤍 so sorry for replying after months anon TwT

[sconesss]

i feel really bad for phainon :( did he ever actually like us in the beginning?

I left it unaddressed so you can assume anything you see fit! But I personally like to think he did not. He's just a guy working his ass off to settle and stuff, so he didn't have time for romance blah blah BUT if you pay super close attention, he never was repulsed to mc, just freaky-phainon (yes) so maybe he might've grown to like the mc after all... but welp.

[sconesss]

heaven is out of reach.

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

Pairing: Phainon / Reader

Word count: 16k

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

.

You were a princess no more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phainon scoffed.

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

Phainon didn’t answer.

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

“Never said you were,” Phainon muttered.

“Then why warn me?” you asked petulantly.

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

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

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

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

"And you?" Phainon pressed.

You put on a brave face.

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is everything alright?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please don’t, princess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is… scarred,” you murmured.

“It’s well used,” he corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused. “Just ask.”

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

He snorted. “Probably not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

“Shit,” he breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bleed the bastard!” Someone shouted.

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

“Come on, then,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

Then Phainon saw you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man nodded and ran.

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

“I can walk,” you said, flustered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phainon braced himself. “Do whatever you want.”

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you whispered.

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

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

Then you began to wrap. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never bothered me before,” he replied. 

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

He shrugged, too exhausted to say otherwise.

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

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

He shifted, uncomfortable. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widened slightly.

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

“Yet you truly believe in his dream.”

“Yeah,” Phainon said.

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

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

Your eyes lit. “You promise?”

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

Your mouth fell into a small, wounded pout.

He looked away. 

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he heard the soft sounds of weeping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wiped your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand slid to his wrist. “Phainon…”

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

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

Phainon froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A lot?”

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

“A lot.”

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

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

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

Obeying your request comes just as easily. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face fell.

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A king would not harm his only heir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what it’s worth, Princess—”

“You’ve done well.” You cut him off.

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

.

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

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

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

Phainon shut his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

“Sir Phainon,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just take it.” He waved it off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

[sconesss]

How big the hourglass, how deep the sand.

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

Pairing: Phainon / Reader

Word count: 14.6k

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

You thought about it. “I suppose.”

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

But there was no word for what you were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach clenched with want. “Yes.”

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

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

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doesn’t it all feel the same?”

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

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

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

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

“I—sometimes I do. Sometimes.”

“And nothing feels particularly good?”

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

“Why not?”

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

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

From You?

“It’s okay,” you say.

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

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

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

“Oh, shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

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

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

“No?” Phainon murmured.

“I… want to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You kissed him again, too giddy to speak.

“I have something else to tell you.”

“Go on.”

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

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

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

“Tell me what you want, then.”

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

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

Instead you leaned down and said, “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“What did you like?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want some water?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally you opened your eyes. “Breakfast?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Phainon demanded.

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

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

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

“It’s bread, yes.”

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

“Seems like this town is full of surprises.”

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

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

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

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

You blinked out of your stupor. “Huh?”

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

“No, it’s not that. It’s just...”

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

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

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

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

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

“What might not last?”

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

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

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

“Do I need a reason?”

“What?”

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

“You always say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not afraid of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They made their choice. We made ours.”

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

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

“Don’t you?”

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

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

“I’m not asking you to go back.”

“Then what do you want?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” said Phainon. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just being honest.”

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

“That’s for you to decide.”

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

“Something along those lines,” He concluded indulgently.

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

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

“Oh. This again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know. Home.”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

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

“What happens when they go back?”

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

“And?”

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

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

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

“I don’t regret leaving with you.”

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

“No, Phainon.”

“No?”

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

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

“A little,” You admitted groggily.

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

.

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

This time you didn’t let go.

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

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