in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?
wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.
there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.
it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.
you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.
but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.
the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.
marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.
servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.
you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.
dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.
“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.
“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.
“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”
it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”
you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.
the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.
is he drinking... blood?
your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”
flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”
you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.
for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.
the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.
his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”
you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.
with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”
you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.
“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.
“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”
that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.
you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.
yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.
ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION
over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.
you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.
you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.
all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.
(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.
there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.
it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.
as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.
the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.
"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"
ah.
well at least he has jokes..?)
or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.
(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.
so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?
you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.
"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”
well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.
“and… your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”
and that certainly didn’t make it any better!
you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.
you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)
either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!
today will be different.
failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.
so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.
you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.
but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.
perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.
pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—
a sudden force slams into your back.
the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.
it’s deeper than you thought.
icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.
as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.
the next thing you feel is warmth.
your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.
you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.
his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.
for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.
did he jump in after you..?
“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.
your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.
it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.
he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"
the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."
his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.
“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."
mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.
your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.
a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—
a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.
“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”
sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.
“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.
his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”
there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.
he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”
and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.
somehow, it fits him too well.
ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR
once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.
held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.
and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.
the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.
within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.
mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.
the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.
phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."
mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.
“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”
phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.
alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.
exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”
but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.
the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.
“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.
mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.
“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”
“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”
“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.
mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.
the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.
and yet, here you are.
as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.
“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.
“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.
he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.
something tugs at the edge of his mind.
you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.
so why do you still look at him like that?
his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.
“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.
you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.
you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.
“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.
but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.
“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”
“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.
he freezes.
he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.
but his darling wife doesn’t know that.
and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.
your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”
you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.
for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.
ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS
"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.
the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."
you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.
phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.
you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."
phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."
you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"
to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.
—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."
the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.
you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.
“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”
your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?
“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.
beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.
but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”
“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.
the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”
she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”
“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”
her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.
and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.
your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.
a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.
you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.
mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.
with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.
a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.
“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”
the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”
“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.
“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”
“y-your highness, i only—”
mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”
the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.
then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.
phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”
but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.
with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.
“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”
he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”
you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”
ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?
his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”
phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.
mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”
he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.
the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.
it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.
the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.
at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—”
“mydei.”
…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?
(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)
you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.
“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”
he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.
he looks good like this, you think.
with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”
a half-truth, at best.
your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.
a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.
could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.
but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”
mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.
"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."
mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.
warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.
you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”
mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.
"especially when they were a gift from you."
and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.
ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART
it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.
it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.
“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”
he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."
mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"
phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.
“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"
the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.
“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”
ah. that does it.
mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.
phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.
“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.
phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.
“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”
“i’m not mad i—”
“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”
mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.
phainon smiles. “then tell her.”
mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”
the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.
you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.
right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.
phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.
because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.
“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.
phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”
he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”
you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.
“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”
he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.
you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”
phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”
narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”
“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”
there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.
still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—
only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.
just your luck.
mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.
and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.
did he just—?
heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.
phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.
“the prince has a sweet tooth.”
for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.
all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.
mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—
your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.
you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.
phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.
the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.
seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.
you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.
before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”
mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.
(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)
you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.
rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.
it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.
…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.
so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.
still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.
as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.
you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”
you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”
phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”
you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.
oh no.
“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”
you frown. “phainon—”
he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”
he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”
“huh?”
"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.
you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.
"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"
“that’s enough.”
both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.
phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”
the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.
“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”
a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.
even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.
his gaze is so unbearably soft.
after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.
you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.
(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)
ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION
the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.
all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.
from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.
the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.
the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.
and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.
you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.
with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.
nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.
so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—
only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.
without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.
you blink, momentarily startled.
warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.
it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.
and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.
you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”
he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.
“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.
you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?
“... and i wanted one today.”
“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”
as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”
his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.
it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.
you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”
honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.
“if it’s for you,”
his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“i’d do anything.”
ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS
from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.
ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.
your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.
the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.
you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.
the crowd cheers for violence.
warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.
and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.
the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.
because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…
is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.
the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.
the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.
the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.
for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.
then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.
for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.
“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.
he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.
the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.
a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.
and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.
in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.
with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.
"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.
you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.
“you came back to me,” you murmur.
he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.
“i always will.”
you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.
at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.
EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER
the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.
mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.
“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”
you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.
“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.
he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”
the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.
you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”
he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”
you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”
with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.
you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”
“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”
he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”
you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.
“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.
the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.
his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.
"i love you, [name]."
and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.
thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3
your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave
word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss
before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering
commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly
You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.
On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.
You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.
Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.
Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.
It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.
Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.
So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.
Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.
You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.
Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:
If not for Janusopolis, then for me.
Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.
But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.
You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.
But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.
It stings. You don’t flinch.
Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.
How ironic, you almost want to say.
Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.
He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.
The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”
Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.
—————
Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.
“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.
“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”
“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.
You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)
“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”
“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”
Oh.
Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.
There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.
“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”
“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”
You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.
But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.
“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.
Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.
There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.
“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)
“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.
But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.
“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”
“But—”
“Unless that is your wish, of course,” he adds.
You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”
“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.
“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”
He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.
Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.
“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”
He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”
You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”
“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”
You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.
“The left,” you murmur.
“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”
With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)
“Goodnight,” he mumbles.
“Goodnight,” you huff in return.
“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”
“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”
He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”
────────────────────────
One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.
At least, it is for you.
You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.
The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.
Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.
“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him.”
“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”
“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”
“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”
“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”
“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.
“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”
Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.
“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.
You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”
“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”
“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”
“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.
This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”
“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.
“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”
“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”
“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”
That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.
And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.
Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”
“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”
“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”
“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”
His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.
Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.
“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”
His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.
“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)
“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.
“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”
“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”
“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”
Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.
And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.
“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”
“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.
It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”
And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.
You will have nothing of the sort.
You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”
He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.
Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.
“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”
You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.
“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.
“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.
“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”
And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.
“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”
—————
Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.
Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.
“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”
“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”
Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.
“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”
“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.
Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)
“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”
“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”
You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.
She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.
(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”
You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.
After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.
“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”
“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)
In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.
Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.
Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.
“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.
It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.
“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.
“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side
He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”
“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”
“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”
You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.
Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.
The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.
It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”
“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”
With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.
You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.
So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.
That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.
“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.
“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”
“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”
“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”
“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”
“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—
He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”
“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.
Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.
“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”
He cuts you off again.
“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”
His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—
“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”
The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.
And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.
A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.
“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”
“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”
You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.
“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”
“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”
“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.
“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.
You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.
With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.
“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”
He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”
“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”
“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.
You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.
“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”
By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.
Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.
“Ready to return home?” He asks.
You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.
Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.
────────────────────────
After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.
That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:
Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.
You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?
I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.
Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?
Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.
It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.
“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.
You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”
“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”
It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)
“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)
“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.
At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”
“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”
His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.
The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.
“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”
“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.
“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)
And you cave.
Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.
“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.
You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.
—————
It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.
You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)
Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.
“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.
Silence. Perfect.
Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.
But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.
You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.
“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.
He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.
“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”
“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”
“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.
“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”
“Mydei,” he corrects.
“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”
“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”
“But you are using it,” you all but whine.
“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.
That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.
He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.
Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.
“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.
“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.
You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)
“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”
“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”
“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”
“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”
“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”
“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.
And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”
You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”
You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”
He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”
He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.
You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.
“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”
────────────────────────
In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.
But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.
“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”
“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”
He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”
“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”
“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”
“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”
It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.
Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”
And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.
You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.
Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”
He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”
“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”
“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”
“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”
This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.
You blink in surprise.
“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.
“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”
“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.
“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”
“They have,” he nods, agreeing.
Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.
It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.
“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”
“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”
“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.
“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”
“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?
“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”
“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.
“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”
Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”
—————
Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)
You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.
“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”
“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”
“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.
“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”
“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)
“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”
“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”
“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”
“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”
“It is getting late—”
“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”
He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.
“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”
“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)
“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.
He melts for a second, on instinct alone.
And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”
“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”
“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”
You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.
“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”
“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”
“But—”
He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”
“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”
He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”
—————
In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)
You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”
“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”
“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.
“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”
(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)
────────────────────────
It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.
He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.
You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.
It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.
He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.
Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.
He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.
At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.
“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.
He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”
“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.
“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”
“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”
“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”
“I am not—”
You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.
“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.
“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)
Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”
“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”
For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”
“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.
You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.
And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.
“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?
Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”
“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”
His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.
“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”
He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.
“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”
“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”
You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.
“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”
“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”
“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”
“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”
His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.
He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.
“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”
“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”
“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”
“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”
His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.
“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”
“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”
“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.
You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.
“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”
“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”
You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.
“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”
“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”
He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.
He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.
“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”
“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”
And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.
“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”
With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.
“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”
“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”
“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”
His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.
“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”
“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”
When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.
And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”
He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”
“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.
Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.
────────────────────────
The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.
You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.
After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.
“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.
“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.
Then, he walks.
As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.
“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”
“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”
“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”
“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”
That only seems to irk you more.
“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.
“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”
“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.
Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.
“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”
“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.
Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”
“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.
You blink in confusion. And then—
Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.
Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)
“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.
He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”
You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”
“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”
“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”
“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.
“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”
“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”
Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.
“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”
“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”
“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”
“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”
“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.
“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.
Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.
“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”
“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”
He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.
And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.
“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”
“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”
“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”
“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)
His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—
“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”
Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.
“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.
“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”
He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”
You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”
———————
Mydei does, in fact, return to you.
Except, it is not in the condition that he left.
He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.
“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.
You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.
“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”
“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”
“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.
“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”
“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”
You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.
———————
It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.
“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.
“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”
“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”
“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.
And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”
One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.
“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”
He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”
“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”
“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”
“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”
You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.
But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.
And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.
“Do you not have any faith in m—”
“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”
“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”
“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.
“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”
“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.
“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.
“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”
“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”
“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”
He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”
“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.
“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.
“The sun,” you murmur.
He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”
Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.
“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”
“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.
You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”
He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”
WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.
It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.
It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.
First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.
Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.
Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.
Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.
Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.
For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.
Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily
hello! may i have one where reader brings home those cat cakes for hsr men/could you write their reactions? thank you!
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluff, established relationship
blade thinks its stupid. why would you want another companion when you already have him? he shrugs it off before he realizes how much of your attention is occupied by said cake.
one day you just find that he and your new buddy are having a staring contest before you set dinner down on the table. just two silent beings watching to see who's more strong.
"...are you two done yet, can we eat?" - "it has earned my respect. you may keep it."
mydei is very... very wary of the animal dessert thing. tries to intimidate it but it only gets the cat cake to like him more.
"my love, you better get this thing off of me." - "'dei... he just wants to spend time with you! he's harmless!"
he squints his eyes at the thing, and in response the small thing meows happily. you can tell he gives in by day seven when he's just lightly petting it on the head with reluctance. "i thought y-" - "shut it." it's a funny scene to see mydeimos defeated by a simple cat cake that sits upon the throne called his chest.
anaxa thinks they're ridiculous. "hah! you really think this cake deserves to live with u-" when he feels the sharp glance on his back. "that is our son, you can't be mean to him!" - "...okay."
as much as you think he might hate the little guy, he actually gets all into teaching kitty cake everything about algebra and anatomy at the same time. figures out kitty cake speaks an actual language too.
"meow!" - "very well said, son. i'm very proud." when you check back in from the kitchen, serving them new desserts you just learned how to make; "seems like you two are enjoying yourselves." - "mm. our son has learned logic."
caelus has interacted with them before, but questions how you ended up finding one and taking it home. doesn't really mind it though, just let it do what it wants, feeds it, give it water... if that's what they need.
"babe? are... oh." you walk into the the room, placing your coat on the rack nearby. taking a seat beside your boyfriend, you lean your head against his shoulder. "hey." he rings an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer.
"do you wanna name her?" tossing a piece of popcorn into is mouth, he leans his head on yours too. "we could do... like, kiwi?" - "perfect."
kiwi just continue to hop around in a circle.
sunday thinks its adorable, immediately scoops it up and sits all three of you down as if to formally welcome him into the family. for a man who would usually be neutral about most matters that didn't concern your wellbeing...
"must we name the little darling?" petting the soft fluff on his head, he places a kiss on your cheek before settling down beside you on the sofa. "only if you wanna, ruan mei gave her to me as a gift." you only fell pleased seeing how well they got along <3
your favorite thing to see was how the adorable little cat dessert would be seated beside the stove while he cooked you breakfast.
ashveil is a very welcoming father, honestly has just accepted the fact that he is a father to one now, feeds the cake whatever his diet is too. you find them just relaxing on the couch together, number one dad over here...
"hey! baby, look. i got him a little suit, matches mine. you like it?" he has the little guy in his arms when he's already got him draped in a coat.
they really bond over small talk. talks to the cat cake like its an actual kid, as if it were your kid before he got with you.
cw: anaxa is kinda crazy he puts his gun to reader, possessiveness, mentions of violence, fluff, not proofread im so tired :')
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
phainon
phainon was one to pride himself on his natural charm, he was a very easy going guy. the stark contrast between him in battle and off was admirable.
though as much as he hates to admit it, sometimes the warrior takes over his instincts. for instance, right now as he watched the droma’s caretaker openly flirt with you.
it wasn’t just the flirting—though that was annoying enough—it was the way you laughed, the way your eyes softened, the way you didn’t immediately pull away. phainon knew you weren’t his, not in the way that would justify this sudden surge of possessiveness. but logic had never been good at taming instinct.
his fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years of battle. the part of him that thrived in combat, the part that didn’t hesitate when faced with a challenge, whispered at him to act. it would be so easy to step in, to slide an arm around your waist, to make it clear to everyone in the room—especially to the man standing too close—that you weren’t available.
but that wasn’t his place. not yet, at least. so instead, he forced himself to take a breath, to unclench his fists, to remind himself that he was phainon—charming, laid-back, not the type to pick a fight over something so trivial.
“phainon, this one likes me!”
his stoic expression softened when he realized, in fact, you were talking about the loving dromas and not that man.
phainon smiled gently at your joy, “i can tell, he sure does like you a lot!”
there was a certain edge to his voice that could’ve been missed by onlookers. you gave him a concerned glance, one which he smiled at and didn’t question further.
and yet, when the caretaker let out another laugh, explaining the most basic knowledge of dromas ever, his hand brushing against yours, phainon found himself smiling again. it wasn’t a friendly smile.
“having fun?” he asked, voice smooth but carrying an edge beneath it as he finally approached the two of you.
“yeah—!” you were quick to respond only to look up at phainon and realize his attention wasn’t on you. “phainon..”
“yes my lovely spouse, who i treasure more than any riches and i’d also kill for?” now his attention was focused on you, his smile bittersweet.
the thing with phainon is whenever he looked at you, there was always such intensity.
“don’t start, i’m okay i promise.”
there was a joking tilt to your voice, but it was enough to calm him down.
“now, come over and feed the dromas with me! this one’s name is castor, very sweet we should take him home!”
phainon let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "my love, as much as i would adore bringing castor home, i fear he would not fit through our door."
you laughed, reaching out to pet the dromas, who nuzzled into your touch affectionately. "we could make it work," you teased, "build a bigger door, you're strong enough. or, you know, just let him live in our backyard."
phainon hummed in thought, stepping closer until he was right beside you. "tempting," he mused, reaching out to pet castor. "but then i’d have to compete for your affection, and i don’t think my heart could take it."
you rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. "oh, please. you already know you’re my favorite."
his grin softened into something more genuine, his blue eyes filled with something tender. "good. because my dearest, you are mine." phainon swears the dromas narrowed its eyes at him (the caretaker did too but phainon was too busy enjoying the memoment with you to get mad all over again).
you burst into laughter as the dromas let out a soft sound, clearly pleased with itself. "maybe if you were as cute as them, you’d stand a chance."
phainon clutched his chest. "wounded. utterly wounded."
but despite his theatrics, he leaned in closer, his hand brushing against yours as you both continued to feed the dromas together, the warmth between you as steady as ever.
...
"y'know, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to take one home, then we wouldn't have to come back here. i can't believe that vile man had the nerve to even look at you..!"
"phainon, my dear, we are not actually going to take one home."
"...i like the name kevin, wouldn't you agree, [name]?"
the rest of the day was spent with phainon in your ear.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
anaxa
the carefully crafted lunched in your hands was the least of your worries as a soft click was heard from behind you followed by a pressure being applied to the back of your head.
just to think; you went out of your way to bring lunch to your oh-so-kind boyfriend and this is how he greets you?
you would say you're surprised but... this isn't the first time something like this has happened.
"do tell me, what's the foul mood for now?"
he didn't appreciate the snarky comment as the gun pushed against your head even more.
"my [name], you seemed to enjoy yourself outside with that man. would i be correct to assume so?"
so this is what he's mad about.
you exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "if you must know, i was just making conversation. you know, something normal people do?"
the gun pressed harder against your skull in response, the warning clear. anaxa hated being mocked.
"careful," he murmured, voice quieter now, more dangerous. "i'm already being generous by allowing you to explain yourself. do not test my patience."
you tilted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. his expression was unreadable, but his grip on the gun was steady—too steady.
"allowing me to explain myself?" you echoed, amusement creeping into your tone. "and here i thought my oh-so-loving boyfriend would trust me a little more by now."
anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose, but he said nothing. the silence stretched between you for a few moments before the pressure at the back of your head finally disappeared.
anaxa let out a low hum, his voice smooth yet laced with something sharp—jealousy, possessiveness, something only he could wield so effortlessly. "you know how i feel about you entertaining the company of other men," he said, tilting his head slightly. "and yet, there you were, laughing as if you had no care in the world."
you sigh, "i promise you it was a very brief interaction. i even told him i was visiting you for lunch."
anaxa looked away in faux annoyance as he gently took the lunch from your hands.
"thank you, [name]." anaxa was genuine in his thanks, he understood how troublesome it could be to reach him in the grove of epiphany.
you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "i'd say 'you're welcome,' but i'm not sure you deserve it after that stunt."
he sighed dramatically, setting the lunch down on his desk before taking a seat. his movements were as measured as ever, graceful even in something as simple as this. "you wound me, truly," he drawled, undoing the buttons of his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up. "but i suppose my cruelty knows no bounds, does it? threatening my beloved over something as insignificant as a passing interaction."
"so you admit it was ridiculous?" you quirked a brow, leaning against the edge of his desk.
anaxa leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with a gaze so heavy it felt like an unseen weight pressing against you. "i admit nothing," he corrected, voice as smooth as ever. "but even the most brilliant minds are prone to… lapses in judgment."
you let out a small scoff, shaking your head. "right. 'lapses in judgment.' is that what we're calling your absurd jealousy now?"
he exhaled through his nose, as if considering your words, before finally opening the meal you had brought him. "call it whatever you like, my dear," he said idly, plucking a piece of food with deliberate ease. "but tell me, if i were to flirt so freely with another, would you be so composed?"
your mouth opened, but the words died on your tongue. anaxa watched your hesitation with something akin to satisfaction, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.
"i thought as much," he said smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his food. "jealousy, my dear, is a universal affliction. i am simply more… expressive about mine."
you huffed, looking away, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. "you're insufferable and lucky i have the patience for you," you muttered.
he let out a soft chuckle, low and indulgent. "patience," he mused, reaching out to brush a gloved finger against your cheek, slow and deliberate. "such a rare and commendable virtue. though i must wonder..."
his touch trailed lower, tracing the curve of your jaw before finally resting under your chin. with the lightest pressure, he tilted your face ever so slightly upward, forcing you to hold his gaze.
"how much longer will that patience last, i wonder?"
you swallowed, refusing to look away. "depends," you said, barely above a breath. "how many more times do you plan on pulling a gun on me?"
anaxa’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, but his eyes flickered with something softer—something dangerously close to fondness.
"ah," he sighed dramatically, finally releasing you and leaning back into his chair. "a fair question. but, my dear, you wound me. surely you know by now that i only threaten the things i cannot bear to lose?"
you stared at him, feeling both shocked and flustered.
you huffed, shaking your head as you finally relented, letting the conversation settle into something resembling peace. and despite everything—despite his absurd possessiveness, his impossible nature, his maddeningly smug demeanor—you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.
because somehow, against all logic, against every ounce of reason—anaxa was yours. and that was something even he, with all his sharp words and sharper wit, could never deny.
☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★
mydei
mydei always found himself in petty competitions with phainon. whether it was who could pick the most apples to who could slay the most enemies, phainon always knew how to push his buttons.
though he might’ve pushed them a little too far..
“afraid you’ll lose? i would’ve never guessed that the great mydeimos was scared of talking to a girl. or are you scared [name] will end up liking me more?”
“deliverer,” mydei said with a scary amount of joy in his voice, “tell me, do you enjoy being humiliated by a kremnoan heir?”
“so is it a deal?”
“if that’s what you wish to call it, we’ll start now. try not to make an utter fool out of yourself. you won't even be able to touch them."
there was absolutely no way mydei was going to even let phainon breathe the same air as you.
phainon grinned, entirely unfazed by mydei’s sharp tone. “oh? possessive already? my, my, what will [name] think of this? surely they've noticed your crush on them by now.”
mydei exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “they will think nothing of it because you will not get the opportunity to so much as look at them.”
phainon laughed, tilting his head with an almost lazy confidence. “bold words. i wonder if you’ll still be saying that once they’re hanging off my arm instead.”
the barely restrained fury in mydei’s eyes was almost comical. “you delude yourself.”
“and you’re stalling.” phainon shrugged, already turning on his heel. “come now, mydeimos. unless, of course, you are afraid?”
mydei scoffed, stepping forward with an air of unwavering confidence. “i fear nothing—least of all a fool with an overinflated ego.”
the competition had begun.
mydei was the first to find you. he's always remembered the places you often frequented, the bathhouse being common among them.
mydei found you tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the bathhouse, steam curling through the air in delicate wisps. he approached silently, his footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floor.
he had always been observant—perhaps more than you'd realized. no matter how much time passed, he never forgot the places you sought comfort in.
"i thought i'd find you here," he murmured, his voice low and steady, cutting through the gentle trickle of water. "it's peaceful here," you said softly, returning your gaze to the water, watching a rubber duck float by.
after a long moment, you glanced at him, the tension in your chest easing just a little.
"you always find me."
mydei's crimson eyes softened, a rare hint of fondness breaking through his composed exterior.
"of course," he said quietly. "you're worth finding."
mydei had a huge advantage over phainon; everything that came out of his mouth was genuine.
you felt your body heat amplifying from his intense gaze, the steam from the bath worsening your situation.
the air between you two felt thick with unspoken words, the steam in the room only adding to the intensity. mydei’s crimson eyes were locked onto you with an unwavering focus, as if trying to read something deeper than just your expressions.
“you know, you really don’t make this easy,” you muttered, trying to divert your thoughts, the heat rising in your chest feeling like it might burst through your skin.
he raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving yours. "make what easy?"
you shifted uncomfortably, the faintest of blush creeping onto your cheeks. “this... this tension.”
mydei tilted his head slightly, the smallest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. “tension?” he repeated, his voice smooth and calculated. “i’m simply speaking the truth.”
you shot him a glance, his words echoing in your mind. you’re worth finding.
it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard him say such things before, but this time, it felt different. There was no teasing, no veiled sarcasm—just the raw sincerity that mydei rarely offered.
“you never do anything half-heartedly, do you?” you said, a small sigh escaping your lips.
mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence looming like a silent promise. His gaze softened as he spoke, but there was still a quiet intensity behind it.
"only when it’s worth it," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but it still hit you like a wave.
your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
he moment hung between you two, the weight of his words settling deep within you. mydei’s presence was suffocating in the best way—an intensity that seemed to radiate from him, the kind that made it impossible to think of anything else but him.
you opened your mouth, but the words stuck. something about his steady gaze and the closeness between you left you speechless, your heart thudding in your chest.
“mydei…” you whispered, almost as if testing the air, "would you like to join me in the bath? i'm sue it'll help relieve any sores you might have?"
mydei's gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, the quiet intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a curious, almost amused glint. he took a step closer, the space between you two shrinking even more.
“you offer me company in the bath?” he asked, his voice holding a hint of surprise. “how… bold.”
you could hear the teasing undertone in his words, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. there was something more… tender in the way he spoke, something that made your heart flutter despite the calmness of the moment.
“i only thought it might help you relax,” you replied, keeping your tone light, though your pulse quickened slightly under his steady gaze. “and you’re always so tense. even the crown prince needs to rest now and then.”
mydei let out a quiet chuckle at that, the sound warm and soft, like the fleeting warmth of the bath. "i’m afraid i’ve never had much time for relaxation," he murmured, his tone shifting again, darker, but with an edge of something more vulnerable. "but perhaps you’re right. it’s been... a long time since i allowed myself the luxury."
there was a pause, and you could see the weight of his words settle over him, like he’d just made a decision. his eyes softened, and he took another step closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he gently took your hand.
"then, i’ll join you. for once, perhaps i could allow myself this."
as mydei settled comfortably next to you in the bath, he couldn't help but wonder where phainon had been all this time.
and there was a small voice in the back of his head, saying 'if phainon found you first, would you have invited him into the bath with you?'
he glanced sideways at you, his gaze unreadable for a brief moment as he tried to suppress the discomfort he felt at the idea.
as he took in your relaxed face, mydei realized how important such moments were to the two of you. this was just the start of many more scenarios he would spend with you.
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someone else is entering the picture and they're not happy.. how do they react?
ft. phainon, mydei, dan heng, blade (separate)
PHAINON
as much as he tries to hide his negative emotions, jealousy is written all over his face any time someone tries to flirt with you. That's the curse of having such a gorgeous girlfriend, unfortunately. He leaves you to wander around the restaurant buffet area for like 2 minutes, and next thing he knows some handsome fellow is trying to sway you. This time, his heart physically stings when he sees you smiling. Smiling back at the strawberry blond guy with the red tattoos when he offers you a glass of something.
When you eventually make a beeline back to the table, he's already glaring daggers at the glass in your hand, still full to the brim. 'Don't worry, I didn't take a sip.'
'Still. Do you know him?'
'No...' You notice the sharpness in his tone and it makes you flinch a little. 'I'm sorry, I.. I just didn't know how to turn him down, like I couldn't just walk away while he's talking-'
'Why not?' it comes out harsher than he thought it would.
You look away and Phainon immediately regrets everything. He always knew socialising had been a bit of a struggle for you, and sometimes you simply didn't know how to draw the line out of fear of causing a scene. Besides, he should've stepped in to help you instead.
'Hey,' he lifts your chin with a finger. 'I'm sorry for sounding angry. I was just worried coz I don't want anyone trying any funny business with my girl, y'know?' His voice is sincere and low, much gentler now. You nod and touch his wrist.
'I'm still sorry though.'
'Don't be. You're alright baby.' He gives you a loving smile and takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. 'It's late anyway, how about we head back to my place?'
MYDEI
for mydei, silence is a huge indicator that something's amiss.
You’re at a cafe with him ordering matcha. When you collect your order you notice some permanent marker writing at the bottom corner of the cup. Before you can even read it, your boyfriend grabs the cup and squints at it.
'Is that... a phone number?' He frowns and turns to the counter. One of the baristas must've done this. He's not mad, though. He's more... upset? curious maybe? He thought it was obvious enough that you two were together. Who would try to sneak their contact info to a girl if they see another man's hand already on her waist?
You brush it off and tell him it's no big deal before you both continue on your way. Still, eventually you notice he's being unusually quiet and hasn't spoken much since you left the cafe.
'mydei, are you still thinking about the number?'
He looks down at his now empty cup. 'mhm.'
'Silly boy, I already threw my cup. And I wasn't planning to add it to my contacts anyway. You know I'd never do that, right?' You nudge him playfully and he can't help but crack a small smile.
'yeah, you're right. But from now on, we're not going back to that outlet.'
DAN HENG
dan heng was no stranger to your guy friends. They're inevitable, and logically speaking, it'd be ridiculous if he made you stop talking to all of them. He had a couple close female friends too, which you'd approved of. Trust was something he saw as very much vital in a relationship. And of course, you both trusted each other a huge lot.
But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel uneasy whenever he sees you having a particularly... exciting conversation with another man. He can't help but notice whenever you start laughing a little too hard when sunday or welt are talking to you. In these cases, he just reminds himself that there's truly nothing going on; the feeling will pass, and you always reassure him that they're merely platonic friends. Valid.
But there's also a line.
And that line gets crossed when you're with the group one day and sunday pats your head, for some reason your boyfriend wasn't paying attention to.
dan heng clears his throat, interrupting the chatter as the room falls silent. 'I'd appreciate if you keep your hands off her, please.' He narrows his eyes at the silver haired man, who apologetically moves a few inches away from you. The tension in the room says enough; dan heng wasn't having it.
Let's just say, from that day on, any guy who's not dan heng always ensures there's ample distance between you two whenever you hang out.
BLADE
Blade gets touchy for several reasons. Sometime's he's feeling extra affectionate, sometimes he just wants to annoy you, but sometimes it's also a sign that he's jealous.
You discovered this one night while you're texting a guy from your class- yuan jing? or jing yuan. He can't remember. Either way he's not too happy about how engrossed you are at the moment. The bedroom is silent, save for the sounds of your keyboard clicking as you discuss what time to meet tomorrow to work on your finals project.
You're so focused on the screen that you're taken by surprise when blade's warm hands snake round your waist, long hair tickling your neck as he peeks at your phone. 'this the white hair dude in your group again..?'
'yeah.'
He squeezes you and nuzzles his face in your shoulder before pulling you down backwards so you’re now lying on his chest. You let out a yelp in response and he tangles his legs with yours. 'does he know you have a sweet, loving boyfriend who cuddles you every night? hmm?' He’s trying to divert your attention, wanting you all for himself coz he’s had enough of you entertaining that white haired prick.
'yes! blade, he has a girlfriend.'
he breathes deeply into your hair, inhaling the scent of your floral shampoo before flipping you onto your side so he could spoon you.
'good.'
a/n: aaaand that’s the last of my drafts for now! :b
Mydei! definitely gets cuteness aggression especially towards you.
"If I bite you, would you still let me kiss you after?"
"... Impulsive thoughts?"
"A genuine question... "
He just wants to takes a nibble— no that's a lie he wants to bite! Not enough that it hurts just enough to leave a mark. Only with your consent of course, he doesn't want to make you uncomfortable.
If biting isn't for you then he'd like to squeeze you in his arms instead.
"Only if it doesn't hurt, I'll think about it"
He hums, his fingers twiddling with your own.
"How about hugging you? Very tightly"
"I can work that"
And then he proceeds to wrap you in his arms and aggressively rubbing his cheeks on your head like a cat in both cuteness aggression and just to tease you a little.
note: mydei def ooc but I just need more cute moments with him where he doesn't feel like aura farming all the time but that's just me. Will proofread and edit later for grammar sake. Hope you still all enjoy it tho.
You promised me your forever, and forever I shall be with you. Through every tribulation, even if the sun were to engulf me within its flames, I will persevere and return to you. For you are my everything, and I am eternally yours. Aka ; your (cute) crown prince takes his childhood promises very seriously.
feat. crown prince!mydeimos & f!reader
content : fluff, minor angst but w a happy ending (mydei can't catch a break), minor character death, descriptions of injuries + blood, unfair punishment to children, historically inaccurate royalty au, historical in the sense of manhwas lol, noncanon castrum kremnos, childhood fiancés to friends to lovers, royal politics and lore that i made up, yearnful mydeimos, ooc mydeimos bc he has a proper support system (you).
w.c. : 12.6k
note : originally, this was supposed to be just pure fluff. but i had too many brainworms wiggling around and i had to act on them... which means more plot than intended rip. that doesn't mean it's a serious fic tho, just saying! i'm so nervous posting this bc i've never written for mydei before AND i'm still not used to writing so much orz however, i did have fun brainstorming the outline and jotting down ideas before they could slip away from me. thank you so much for malorant for listening to me yap your ear away and developing my plot while u just wanted to kiss zuko and leon LOL love u pookie muah.anyways, please enjoy my silly mydei fic and let me know what you think !!
DAWN.
All you've known is solitude.
The fate of a noblewoman is to live under the shadow of your husband; whatever you do affects his honor, positive or negative. If you perform poorly in front of other nobles, you're disgracing your husband's name and become a shame, a significant stain, to his family honor. And yet, every good that you achieve falls under your husband's name and gives him grace and recognition regardless of if he had any part in what you did.
The same cannot be said for you, for every positive thing your husband does remains in his name and every shameful thing he will do is blamed on his wife. A noblewoman's duty is to serve her husband and maintain the family honor, both in her name and her husband's; this has been taught to you from the moment you were old enough for lessons on proper etiquette.
You would've been alone in this world, fighting to survive this wretched life you were forced to live simply because you were born a girl of noble blood.
But, in a world where your every movement is monitored and every act is criticized beyond compare, your heart finds comfort and freedom in the strangest things, like the golden ichor of the sun that finds its home in your fiancé's eyes.
Your only ally.
The ceremony hall is filled with hushed whispers and quiet chatter as your small legs walk down the aisle. Your shoes pad softly against the pristine, white rug that runs through the center and leads you to the altar where the priest and your future fiancé await you. The room and people within are so huge compared to your little body; the large space sends a wave of unease down your body and yet you trudge on until you're face to face with the boy you're to be engaged to.
Mydeimos is not much older than you: he's around your height, prepubescent with the baby fat still clinging to his round cheeks, strawberry blond hair pulled back into a ponytail with a plait into the side of his head, and a clean, white suit adorning his little body. With the way he's dressed so proper, you're shocked that his eyes, molten gold as if the sun had given up its light to his irises, pierce through you in a stare that seems too mature, too weathered, from an 11 year old boy.
Intimidation seeps into your bones, sending a wave of cold dread through every nerve in your body as reality hits you—you are a stranger in territory that is foreign to you. There is no family for you to run back to, no familiar aides or maids to find comfort in. No friendly smiles or voices calling for you, beckoning you back to safety.
You are alone in the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos.
The advisors of your home have warned you about this before; that this engagement is necessary for the kingdom and it is your civil duty as the daughter of one of the most prestigious families to continue the royal bloodline and familial relations between your family and the royal family of Castrum Kremnos. You don't have to get along with your fiancé, you just have to tolerate him for the rest of your life and hope that he is indifferent to you at worst.
You know that this union between you and the young boy with unmoving eyes is strictly for business, that you two are supposed to start off as strangers and end your lives as acquaintances if all things go accordingly.
And yet, anxiety solidifies your blood into lead as you stare into the stoic face of your soon-to-be fiancé.
"I promise to remain by your side until the day that we wed and forevermore," Mydeimos says, his voice curt and stoic, reciting the promises that were tradition for engagements in the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos. His eyes never leave yours—you don't know if it's a good or bad thing.
"I also promise to be by your side, to always take your side no matter the consequences or conditions, as your lawful fiancée," You recite yours after his.
And with rehearsed movements, you slip on the golden bands over each other's ring fingers.
"Until death do us part," the both of you iterate as the ceremony comes to a close and the priest before you signals the end of your vows. The voices and chatter begin to pick up in volume now as hushed voices grow louder and the praises for the future of Castrum Kremnos echo through the giant ceremony hall and successfully deafen the impending cynical whispers that have already begun to swirl around you.
The remainder of your engagement banquet is a blur that you don't remember. There were too many faces to greet and too many voices that rung in your ears that slowly they all merged into each other. You didn't bother to differentiate them at one point of the night as you quickly realized they all said the same thing: wishful thoughts for the longevity of Castrum Kremnos and nothing but the best for you and your fiancé.
Thankfully, your speaking was to a minimum as Mydeimos thanked everyone with that terse tone of his before guiding the both of you away from others.
The maid attending you slips off your engagement gown with ease; the white silks are quickly gathered up as a soft nightgown is fitted over your small frame before you dismiss her for the night. As she bows and takes her exit, you can hear the heavy door of your chamber close with a quiet thud.
And you find yourself alone again.
Your bedroom is large, much too big for a small child like you to have to yourself. And yet, even with the expensive furniture and decorations that settle in the room to welcome you in for the first night, the reality of finally being alone in a foreign city settles heavily on your tiny, young shoulders.
Your feet pad softly against the tiled floor and you peer out the large curtained window; the beautiful scenery of the castle gardens greets you. Lush shrubbery line the outskirts of the garden with flowers blooming at every inch. Their petals are colorful and bright against the various shades of green foliage, bringing a splash of life to the quiet gardens. There's a trail leading within the gardens that leads to a marbled gazebo hidden between the bushes yet sits clearly in view from your window.
It's beautiful, you cannot deny that.
But this is a place you do not know and that terrifies you. Something sharp strikes through your chest as your eyes begin to burn with tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. The voices of your advisors echo in your mind reminding you of the duty to your people and that this decision was for the greater good.
You don't know how much time had passed until you feel a hand on your shoulder. The sudden touch shocks you with such an intensity that a shrill yelp leaves your lips and you jump a near meter high; your heart races rapidly against your chest as you turn to look at the culprit.
Those piercing golden eyes peer back at you, wide with just as much surprise from your sudden reaction. Mydeimos is dressed down from the prior event, his nightshirt a tad bit too big for his young frame and makes him look smaller than before. His blond hair has been undone now, falling over his shoulders in a sea of messy gold save for the plait that falls at the side of his head. It's neat, much neater than the rest of his appearance.
"Um…" He begins. There's something different in the way that he's speaking to you now; his tone is much quieter, much softer as if anything terse would scare you away. It could be because you're both alone in this large space together, or because of the state he had found you in. Either way, the change is something that comforts you.
"You didn't hear me the first time I check in on you," Mydeimos speaks, his eyes glancing down for a briefly before meeting your gaze again. "Mama always had the maids make pomegranate juice when I was sad."
It's only then do you notice he's holding something in his hands: a small cup filled most of the way with a milky, maroon hue. He places it on the table beside you before reaching up to wipe away your tears with the sleeve of his big shirt—his movements are uncoordinated and a bit awkward, fitting for a boy his age.
"I apologize if I made you cry. Mama said I'm not the best when it comes to other people," Mydeimos confesses, pulling his hand away from your face. "She says I'm too 'rough around the edges', though I'm not quite sure what that means."
"…No it's okay. I appreciate the effort." Your own voice is quiet, a little hoarse from crying mere moments before, but audible enough for your fiancé to hear. "Thank you."
He doesn't leave your side, rather chooses to silently sit with you while you drink the cup filled with pomegranate juice. The tartness of the fresh pomegranate juice leaves a sour taste in your mouth but the addition of milk lessens the bite with a creamier texture, and you find your heart slowly being mended by the bizarre mixture of flavors.
"Milk?" You ask, setting the porcelain cup gently down on the table. "I've never had juice with milk before."
"It tastes good together," Mydeimos responds almost immediately. There's a small twinkle in his eyes, perhaps illuminated from the small lamp lit in your bedchambers or because of the excitement of sharing something special with you. "It's my favorite drink; Mama used to always make it for me until she…"
Your fiancé trails off for a brief moment and you catch in real time the twinkle in his eye fading as he casts his gaze elsewhere. In the dimly lit room, Mydeimos looks way smaller than he did in the hall earlier that evening. His larger nightshirt drapes over his small frame and emphasizes just how tiny he is. Underneath the gentle glow of the moon, his young features are highlighted: big, eyes that shine golden in the light, chubby cheeks that seem to get rounder when he angles his face downward, and thin, lanky limbs that seem uncoordinated with the rest of his body. There's a splash of faint blue dyed on his skin, but the large sleeves of his nightshirt cover it when he shifts.
Mydeimos, no matter how intimidating he may seem to you, is just a small child. Just like you. You wonder why fate has been so cruel to make the both of you pawns to the elders in this way.
Your finger twitches, an innate urge to ask the young boy what was wrong begins to bubble in your chest. But what do you know; you're a stranger that was barely welcomed into this new country. Why would he share private matters with you on your first night in his palace?
"Mama said that you would be lonely here," Mydeimos begins again, breaking the heavy silence and changing the topic with a few simple words. His little fingers twiddle in his lap and his eyes remain cast downward. Hesitation eats away at his posture, that you can tell clear as day, but when his golden eyes lock eyes with yours, his gaze never wavers.
Sincerity in the form of aureate pools.
"I meant what I said in the ceremony earlier. I'll take your side, always." The strawberry blond boy raises his hand up, sticking his small pinky up; an oath. "So, don't cry. You won't be alone here, I promise."
You link your pinky with his—his skin is rougher and more calloused than a young boy his age should ever have—but his words, his vow dedicated to you, plants the seed of hope in your small chest.
—
It doesn't take long for the norms of Castrum Kremnos to be ingrained in your head. The customs here are much different than your own; for one, society here focuses more on skills related to combat regardless of if it's fighting experience or a strategist. There wasn't a week that went by where you didn't hear whispers of some underground ring where citizens, nobles and commoners alike, would test their limits with on another with only one victor who won nothing but some gold coins and honor for the week.
Even the young aren't exempt from this, you know this well enough by now. Not because you became subject to the societal norms of a foreign land, but because your fiancé is the face of the nation.
The moon has long risen high above the sky, surrounded by the stars that gleam and glimmer around it. The empty heavens above are filled with the light shared between the cosmos, illuminating the earth underneath in its silvery, cool light. The evening breeze is brisk and bites against your cheek as you stand in the windowsill of your bedchambers.
Alone.
Your fiancé would have arrived long before the sun had completely set; every evening since you got here was spent with him because he promised that you wouldn't be alone so long as you stayed in Castrum Kremnos. And, now knowing him better than you had before, you realize that Mydeimos is a man—boy—of his word.
The gentle chirp of crickets in the gardens below and the occasional 'hoot' of an owl nearby are the only things you hear aside from the quiet clicks of the ornate clock on the wall of your chamber. One chirp, two… Where could Mydeimos could have gone?
Quietly, your small feet pad gently against the tiled floor of your bedchambers until you're met with the large, gilded door leading to the grand hallway outside. It would be quicker to call for a maid to check on your missing fiancé, but there's always a chance that they wouldn't even listen to you; they could easily lie to you and say Mydeimos was simply asleep in his room and usher you back to your bedroom.
You had to see for your own eyes.
With a quick tug of the large door, you're out and into the empty hallway before you know it. It doesn't take long to find Mydeimos' door. Despite the daunting size of the large halls, you find his door with ease; his chambers are not far from yours and, with the lack of any aids roaming the halls, you're able to slip easily into your fiancé's bedroom without so much as a creak from the door.
And you're met with the sight of something so heart wrenching for a young child to ever witness.
Drips of blood taint the tiled floors of Mydeimos' bedchambers, leaving a trail of ruby droplets from the door to the bedside. There, laying haphazardly on the bed with barely enough of his small body on the mattress, lay your fiancé with scratches and scrapes littering his poor body from what you can see. His blond hair is a mess over his head; the tousled strands cover his face and are matted in some places from dirt and sweat. He's breathing heavily with his eyes closed, as if it were hard to get any sort of breath into his small frame.
One step.
Two.
Your body moves on its own before you could will it, the only thought in your mind being to get to his side.
"Crown Prince." Your voice is barely a whisper, fear bubbling at the edge of your throat as if anything louder would break your fiancé into a million pieces. "What happened to you?"
He doesn't respond.
Your hand, small and unblemished, gently brush aside his hair from his face. Dirt and blood cake his skin and the source of the blood on the floor comes from his nose. With caution, you slowly turn Mydeimos to the side as to prevent the blood from going back up.
Your small heart hammers against your chest as you frantically glance around the room for anything to help the small boy curled up at the side of his bed. In the state of your panic, your legs lead you to the washroom where you grab a spare towel stored in the cupboard and quickly dampen it before returning.
With the limited supplies that you had, you manage to clean up the wounds that litter Mydeimos' skin. Luckily, no wound was deep enough to cause any worry and were majority scrapes, minus the nosebleed that scared you half to death. As your eyes scan over your fiancé's small frame, you prepare to leave his side for a brief moment; though you trust your judgement for his wounds, there's no harm in a second opinion from someone who knows the human body better than you do.
However, as your body begins to slip off the side of the large mattress, a hand clings to the end of your nightgown.
"Don't leave me," Mydeimos whispers out quietly. "Please."
And so you do, remaining by his side while his hand gently grasps the edge of your nightgown. It's quiet; not a word or sound is heard from either body in the room.
"Could I ask what happened?" You break the silence, turning to look over at the boy who lay beside you. When he doesn't respond, you continue to speak. "If you want to tell me, that is. I will not pressure you."
Mydeimos averts his gaze from yours; this is the first time since you've come here that he has willingly shied away from your eyes. There's a hint of pink that threatens to burn at the tip of his ears and a gloss that shines over his golden eyes. "My father said there's no such thing as empathy in the ancient Kremnoan language. I'm a failure to him for fearing death, and I will gain nothing by having kindness in my heart.
"I'm not fit to be Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos."
His words shatter your own heart, not because they hurt you but because who could say that to anyone, let alone your own son. You can hear the tears fall from his face before you could see them; the break in his small voice was enough to tell you everything.
"…There might not be any words in ancient Kremnoan to describe empathy," You begin. Your hand slowly reaches over to hold onto Mydeimos' in an attempt to comfort whatever you could. A wave of relief washes over you when he takes it into his own—the rough callouses on his palm tell a story you could never imagine living through. "But there are in mine.
"We're fiancés, aren't we? What's mine is yours, and if the Kremnoan language cannot offer you the comfort you seek, then please find it in mine. We made a promise to be by each other's side, did we not?"
Aureate seas finally meet your gaze and for the first time you're really hit with the reality that Mydeimos is only a few years older than you. He is a child grieving that he will never live up to his father's expectations no matter how hard he tries and a child forced to endure severe punishment for simply living.
You made a promise to yourself that night as Mydeimos cried holding your hand in the large expanse of his mattress—to return the oath he made to you until the day the two of you willingly part ways. He will not suffer alone so long as you remain by his side.
NOONTIDE.
The flowers have bloomed, opening up their beautiful and bright petals and stretch towards the sun to let its golden rays warm up their stems and bring them life. The birds have woken from their slumber by now and sing merry songs that fill the brisk morning air as if they, too, were celebrating this day.
Spring welcomes the birth of Mydeimos with flora and fauna alike.
To honor his 18th birthday as the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, King Eurypon has thrown a coming-of-age ceremony. In the name of the royal family, King Eurypon had ordered it to be the grandest of this century for the Sun had blessed the day Mydeimos was born. Thus, the palace has been in a state of hectic panic; maids bustle back and forth as they clean and polish every nook and cranny while butlers and aids double check the inventory for decorations and place them where they deemed fit.
You barely have time to even see your fiancé in passing; whatever little time you had already with him has dwindled down to quick greetings in the halls before Mydeimos is called elsewhere for lessons on etiquette or meetings about the kingdom's politics or perhaps another training session for the young prince.
Luckily, your evening meetings in each other's bedchambers remain untouched. No matter how high the moon hung in the sky, as soon as Mydeimos finishes his laboring schedule, he would always find his way to your chambers with two glasses of milky pomegranate juice to share as the two of you wind down for the evening, divulging in one another of the day's drama or news.
The night of Mydeimos' birthday banquet is barely beginning and yet the palace has never been in such a frenzied state; every body residing in the main palace scurries to get all the finer details set in place while the ones in your annex rush to get every clothing and accessory pinned to your body before it is too late for the guests expecting you.
Eleni, one of your handmaidens, cinches the the back of your dress, pulling the ribbons that cross your lower back taut to accentuate your waist. Her hands, worn with use despite her young age, are deft and skillful as they dance across the silks that drape over your body.
"My apologies, My Lady," she says in a soft voice when she tightens part of the dress a little too tight.
Angeliki, another of your handmaidens, brushes soft creams against your skin to accentuate the beautiful features already gracing your face and to ensure that you will be the most beautiful flower blooming beside your fiancé tonight. Her own weathered hands treat you with such tenderness, as if you would wilt if she pressed the bristles of the brush too hard into your skin.
"You'll look most precious tonight, My Lady," Angeliki coos as she coats your lips in a beautiful hue of pink. "The Crown Prince will awe at your radiance tonight."
"Do you think?" you ask curiously, peering down towards the shiny silks being tended to by Eleni. "I think I'll be quite plain next to my prince. Nothing catches his gaze besides a sharp sword to play with during training."
"Nonsense, my lady!" Eleni pipes in, standing up almost immediately. Her emerald eyes gleam with determination and you're taken aback by the fire blazing in her soul. "Have you not seen the way the Crown Prince gazes at you?"
"Like I'm a nuisance?" You jest, but that only fires Eleni up even more.
"Don't say that, My Lady! I see the way the Crown Prince looks at you; it's nothing but-"
"Eleni," Angeliki interjects sternly. She shoots the younger handmaiden a sharp look , a warning, and Eleni closes her mouth.
"My apologies for yelling, My Lady. But I will stand by what I said. You're most magnificent tonight."
When you finally look in the mirror, you can hardly recognize yourself. Staring back at you is a completely different woman. Your hair is tucked neatly into a loose bun with strands cascading down the side of your face to frame it delicately. A branch of golden laurel sits behind your head, emerging from your bun like a ray of golden sun peaking through the horizon.
Red silks drape over your body in an elegant dress; the sleeves begin off of your shoulders and cascade down your elbow in a beautiful sea of crimson satin and the skirt falls from you waist like a deep ruby waterfall. There are gold accents lining the edges of the refined fabric as if painted with the brush of a skilled calligrapher.
In short, you look fitting to be Mydeimos' betrothed, the fiancée of the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos. For tonight, at least.
As Eleni and Angeliki finish the final touches on your outfit for the evening, there's a firm knock at your door and a voice that you're way too familiar with announces his arrival. With hurried steps, Angeliki rushes to open the door, and you're met with your fiancé face to face.
He's much taller than he was when he was a child; his height now towers over you and his body has grown much broader as he continues to hone his skills as a Kremnoan warrior. His usual messy blond hair is tied back neatly, the hair that usually frames his face is plaited back and pinned by a golden laurel that resembles your own and leaves his handsome features open for everyone to see.
Crimson fabric adorns his body, matching your shade in every which way; it wouldn't be hard to connect two and two together when you walk in with clothes that complement one another. Despite the grace of the exquisite cloth over his skin, it serves as a nice contrast to the defined muscles, pure proof of his discipline as the Kremnoan prince, hidden underneath.
And eyes of amber that you could recognize anywhere in a sea of unfamiliar faces settle on you and only you.
"Excuse my intrusion, My Betrothed," Mydeimos speaks, the timbre of his voice already brings you comfort to the nerves beginning to spike as the birthday banquet grows nearer. "But it's time for us to part."
He holds out his hand for you to take it.
And you do.
As Mydeimos guides you through your annex and into the main palace, your hand clings gently to his strong arm as your heels clack against the cobblestone beneath your feet. His bicep is firm underneath your grip, and your mind wanders elsewhere; how did he get so big before your own eyes? He couldn't have grown in his sleep had he?
A hand, large and rough from years of swordsmanship and combat training, settles over your forearm, grabbing your attention.
"What's on your mind?" Mydeimos asks, his voice carrying the soft tone that's always present when speaking to you.
"Nothing much," you muse with a soft smile. "It's just hard to believe you're already coming of age, Your Highness."
"How so?" You don't have to look, but you know his gaze is on you. You can feel the tender smile that gradually grows on his lips, only widening when hesitance dances on your tongue.
"It seems like yesterday you were the size of a measly shrimp. Tell me, how'd you get so big?" You gently squeeze his arm to emphasize your point. "Though, in my eyes you're still that scrawny little boy who comes into my room with new scrapes for me to tend to."
Mydeimos chuckles softly beside you, bumping into you in response to your teasing words. "Funny. I don't recall you ever changing. You still look at me as if you're about to cry like when we were younger."
You roll your eyes with a scoff. "Please. At least I'm pretty now, aren't I?" You bat your eyelashes at the end of your sentence to emphasize your statement. His expression doesn't move, and instead you're met with the soft exhale of his breath and a hand that gently fixes the stray hair that flies from your head.
"You always have been."
Expecting him to continue your lighthearted banter, his quick and earnest reply shocks you. Yet, all you see is the gentle, sincere sea of gold peering back as if urging you to wade deeper into them. Heat rises to your face but before you could say anything in return, the doors leading into the banquet hall open and you're thrust into the clamor of the party.
It doesn't take long for you to be separated from Mydeimos the moment you stepped into the banquet hall. With many nobles desperate to get a good word in from your fiancé, they clamber over him and when push comes to shove you're pulled away from your one anchor of safety.
The hall is beautiful and pristine; the maids and butlers did a wonderful job ensuring that its beauty truly shone through. The grand chandelier hangs gracefully above the center of the hall with its crystal like charms stretching across the ceiling like the web of a spider. The thousands, if not millions, of candles cast a warm, sparkling light below where other nobles chatted among themselves or dance in the arms of another.
As butlers and maids scamper quietly here and there to refill any snacks or drinks where the refreshments were, a small chamber orchestra made of primarily strings fill the hall with their sonorous harmonies. There's chatter among the guests; most are lighthearted and others drunk off of their minds, laughing boisterously at the unfunny jokes the older nobles tell.
And there are some that whisper behind your back. As expected of someone of your current standing, your position is only temporary and not quite protected by law. Fueled by spite and jealousy of being betrothed to the one and only Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, of course poisonous words would drift through the crowd and into your line of hearing.
"How did she remain as the Crown Prince's betrothed?"
"Isn't she the daughter of an unnamed noble family? How embarrassing."
"I would do better as the Crown Princess, wouldn't you think?"
"What a hideous Princess we have."
Princess. The name settles into your skin like toxins flowing into your body, making you shudder. It's all bark and no bite; at the end of the day you remain the fiancée of Mydeimos and they are not. But their words hurt no less.
Your palms begin to clam up from the unwanted attention and you squeeze your fingers on the skirt of your dress in hopes of appearing calm and poised. You will not stoop to their level, not yet.
The melody sung by the violins begins to soar, reaching the highest crescendo as it signifies the climax of this waltz and the curious eyes belonging to a stranger that happen to catch yours from across the hall. There's a glimmer in his gaze that unnerves you; a chill shoots down your body and the hair at the back of your neck prickles almost immediately. You quickly avert your attention away from the unfamiliar man in hopes of losing his interest.
Yet, fate laughs hysterically in your face as he strides over with confidence overflowing in every step and your heart drops.
"My Lady," he greets you, bowing with a gloved hand on his chest. As he lifts his head, there's mischief dancing in his eyes. It does nothing to stop the pit from growing in your stomach. He tells you his name, but behind the string orchestra and your nerves frayed beyond compare, it flies over your head. "It's a pleasure meeting you." He reeks of alcohol.
"As is mine," you reply tersely. Apprehension seeps through your bones as the unfamiliar man offers his hand to you. Not causing a scene is your biggest priority here, but to have your first dance with a man that isn't your betrothed and to ignore every fiber of your body yelling at you to get away from him was another story.
But before he could even muster his dreadful question, a hand you're way too familiar with wraps around your own. He tugs you behind him and all you can see now is the broad expanse of your fiancé's back as he stands between you and the stranger from before.
And you find yourself relieved.
At the sight of your betrothed, the strange man steps back, stammering a half-hearted apology before scampering away to the other side of the hall where he would be farthest away from the two of you. When the coast was clear, you could see Mydei's posture relax for only a mere moment before he turns back around.
The first thing you see are his golden eyes sweeping over your body as if surveying for anything the unknown man could have inflicted on you in his absence. When he finds you unscathed, he finally meets your gaze again. Contrition swims in the endless seas of gold and sends a wave of warmth cascading over your skin. To know that he cares this much is a surprising feeling.
But it isn't unwelcome.
"Forgive me, My Betrothed," Mydeimos begins, stretching out his hand to you in a pose you're all too familiar with. "Can I redeem myself for being late with a dance?"
Your fiancé leads you through the exuberant, upbeat tempo of the polka played by the string orchestra. His hand is bare against your own and every callous is felt underneath your skin. It's rough, evidence of every single weapon he has learned under the direction of his father, but they are nothing but gentle and careful when pressed against your palm.
Both of your feet move quickly to the cut time of the music; left foot forward, then right follows, stepping back with your left, and then repeat.
"Shouldn't you focus more on your dance partner?" Mydeimos murmurs in front of you as the polka comes to its final cadence, and it was only then do you realize that your eyes were locked on your feet rather than the man dancing with you.
"Oh, I apologize. I was so focused on not making a fool of myself that I may have neglected you," You say quickly, bowing your head. Your betrothed hums in response, taking your hand in his when the chamber orchestra begins their next song; a slower waltz.
As your fiancé guides you through the andante of the next dance, your eyes meet his and it's hard to ignore the glimmer in his own. Was it from the lustrous chandelier twinkling above you or from something you don't want to recognize, you don't know and you don't plan to.
"Are you alright?" Mydeimos inquires, his gaze never leaving yours as the two of you sway gently to the soft lilts of the waltz. The music swells up and Mydeimos swings you away from him, only to pull you back when the strings settle back at the downbeat. There's a gentle squeeze to your palm and your heart lurches at the feeling.
"Nothing, just," You take a breath before responding, "Just a bit overwhelmed."
Your fiancé doesn't say anything, only opting to watch over you as if reading through the thoughts in your mind. A couple beats of rests, and like an anacrusis pivoting into the final phrase, he asks you one simple question.
"Why don't we leave after this dance?"
—
The night air is cool and it nips at your skin as you rush down the winding halls of the main palace. It's a bit dark, only a few candles here and there illuminate the never ending halls with barely enough light to see where your feet are stepping. The ethereal glow of the moon shines through the sheer curtained windows of the halls as if guiding you to your destination.
There's nothing but the quiet steps of your feet against the rug lining down the hall; the chatter of the party a mere memory now with the distance created. And yet, even as the chill of the night brushes against your cheeks, you're nothing but warm from both the exhilaration of escaping the stuffy banquet hall and from the hand holding yours through it all.
Your uneven breaths seem to catch the Crown Prince's attention, only then does he begin to slow down for your sake. Your fiancé's pace matches yours with ease and as you loosen your grip from his hand, the fear of being left behind in the dust now dissipating, his grip doesn't.
And it never does until he finally leads you to a small room on the higher levels of the main palace. It's especially quiet now with only your breaths filling the emptiness of the hall. The door is a bit older than the rest of the main palace, perhaps a forgotten storage space because of how isolated it was from the main bustle of the building. The wood has seen better days and it creaks to life once your fiancé opens it with ease.
Mydeimos helps you into the room, warning you of the step to get in. The room is dark and a bit cramped; piles of old books clutter the floors of the old room alongside two aged, leather chairs in the middle beside a low coffee table. There's a laced doily decorating the table and a vase with a small bouquet of white flowers resting within. Despite the timeworn appearance of the finer details, the room seems well taken care of.
Approaching the white blooms, your fingers gently graze the petals that fade to a soft pink hue.
"Cretan tulips," Mydeimos breaks the silence as he steps beside you. "My mother's birthday gift for me."
"How is she faring?" You inquire, pulling your fingers away. "Last I heard, she was bedridden and couldn't make it to your banquet."
There's hesitance in your betrothed's movements. He doesn't say anything at first, lips parting as his eyes glance downward deep in thought. His eyes trail to one of the aged chairs in the room; the leather is worn with use, but even you could tell the memories it holds in every crease.
"She's not well, truthfully," Mydeimos begins. His voice is small, an unfamiliar timbre. "I worry she won't make it to the next spring."
The news is heavy as it settles over your shoulders. Your hand reaches over to hold Mydeimos' once more; you squeeze his gently in comfort. There's something somber swimming in his eyes, one that you know you will never be able to chase away no matter how much you try.
Alone and scared, like he was all those years ago trembling in his room.
"I still mean what I said when we were younger," you tell him in the quiet of the night. Your voice, small yet deafening at the same time. "I'll be by your side until forever. Your worries will be mine to share as to alleviate the weight on your shoulders."
Mydeimos doesn't say anything and instead offers you a smile; it's not one that reaches his eyes, but it's enough to show the sincere gratitude for your comfort.
"Forgive me, I did not bring you here to sully the mood," Mydeimos tells you. With a gentle tug of your hand, your fiancé pulls you through the homey clutter of the room and to the window built into the stone walls.
As your eyes gaze out into the horizon, you're met with the most significant view. Outside lay the entire city of Castrum Kremnos; the city sprawls across the horizon where life bustled beyond what they eye could see. The lights of city life twinkle vibrantly, rivaling the endless sea of stars that dance above you.
"It's beautiful," your words are a mere whisper as you stare in awe at the exuberant city life below you.
"Isn't it?"
Turning from the window, you're met with seas of gold peering back at you, unmoving yet shining with something you can't quite put your finger on. His gaze flits around you, dancing on every inch of your face as if unsure of where or what to look at. Whatever he was trying to convey makes your heart flutter and you're the first to break away from his stare.
"That reminds me," you begin as the warmth floods your chest and face, "I got you something for today." Your fingers pull out a small, velvet box and hold it out for your prince. He takes it in his own hands and, with gentle fingers, he opens it.
Inside lay a pair of earrings; gold shaped in the form of a diamond encasing a deep, azure sapphire and golden streams dropping below the blue gem. It's beautiful and shines brilliantly even with just the soft light of the moon glowing through the window.
"Happy birthday, Mydeimos."
With delicate movements, your betrothed lifts up one of the sapphire earrings. "May I?" Confusion eats away at your expression, but you give a slight nod and Mydeimos is moving with slow, calculated movements. His fingers brush against the skin of your jaw as he quickly fastens the earring to your right ear. When he's finished, his fingers trail down the drop of the earring until it slips from his fingertip.
"So that I will be reminded of who has my other half… Thank you, I will cherish this birthday forever, Princess."
Princess. The word echoes in the chamber of your mind and does little to settle the accelerando of your heartbeat or to the heat that threatens to reach every inch of your body.
You don't mind the way it sounds coming from him.
—
The day Mydeimos' mother passed was a depressing day. It seemed like even nature itself was mourning the life of Gorgo, the late Queen of Castrum Kremnos, for the sun did not shine for a whole week and rained through most of it as if shedding tears over her passing. The kingdom was oddly quiet; the bustling city life now dwindled down to nothing but quiet streets and hushed chatter winding through twisting roads.
The entirety of Castrum Kremnos was grieving, and yet your fiancé did not receive that luxury.
You witness this in real time; the way King Eurypon glares at his son with unabashed hatred. His regiment becomes more difficult and physically taxing with the excuse of 'political tension' and 'coming of age.' Mydeimos rarely has time to visit you at nightfall due to his unbearable schedule and on the few chances that he did come to visit you, the once vibrant seas of gold that twinkled in delight at your mere presence have dulled significantly.
His punishments have also grown in intensity; meals have been cut for any minuscule mistake whether it be not addressing another noble correctly or missing an opening during combat training. When the servants pity the poor prince, word would reach the King and they were swiftly dealt with; you don't remember the last time you saw Angeliki.
It happens early into the evening in the midst of your evening routine. The sun is barely setting over the horizon and casts your room in its warm, golden hue. It's rather peaceful as the day, for you at least, ended on a good note. With a book Mydeimos had recommended for you at the table by your window and your nightgown draped loosely over your body, the evening was sure to end with no conflicts and, hopefully, a late night visit from your fiancé.
Until the door of your bedchambers slams open and the young Eleni runs in, frantic and unkempt. Her eyes are wide open and strands of her curly hair stick out of her bun in every which way. If it were any normal circumstance, you would poke some fun at her for her disheveled appearance. But the worried expression on her face holds you back.
"Forgive me, My Lady," Eleni begins, her voice breathy, "but this is dire!"
"What has gotten you in such a panic?" You ask her, approaching the young handmaiden as she catches her breath. It takes her a few gulps of air but she eventually stands straight once more and meets your gaze almost immediately.
"My Lady, The King is planning to throw the Crown Prince into the forests," Eleni announces in all seriousness. "Tonight! With no weapons to bear as punishment for something asinine."
The news makes your heart drop to your stomach. Your eyes glance away for a second towards the sun rapidly sinking below the horizon outside your window; it will be dark tonight with the moon barely beginning to wax. Being out there would be a death sentence regardless of whether or not he is armed.
"Please, you have to stop him, My Lady! The Crown Prince will not survive if he goes; the forests at the outskirts of the kingdom are treacherous at night. Who knows what will be out there to get him," Eleni pleads with you, her voice growing more exasperated as seconds pass by.
"Help me get dressed, Eleni. Quickly."
The wind rushes past your ears as your feet pad rapidly against the cobbled floor leading into the main entrance of the main palace. As the heavy, ornate doors swing open, you're greeted with the knights restraining your fiancé by the arms. He looks worn, most likely from a training session that went beyond his limits along with further punishment from his father. His strawberry blond hair is a mess as it dangles messily in front of his face.
And yet you can see the gleam of his gold eyes behind the bloodied, matted tresses, warning you to leave him be.
As if.
"Your Majesty," Your voice shakes in fear, but it is unwavering for your devotion to your fiancé, "if I may, isn't this punishment too much?"
King Eurypon towers over you, glaring down with unfamiliar dark eyes. Despite the chill that runs through your spine, you lift your chin higher. No fear, you have to show no fear. With a deep breath, you continue.
"This is your son you are punishing, your own flesh and blood. Do you not worry that he will die out there? He is unarmed and night will fall."
The King looks at you as if you were a mere bug in his way; his glare is unmoving and his frown only deepens at your words. You hate how small you feel. "Are you aware of who you are speaking to?"
There's some rustling coming from where your fiancé was restrained. You could hear your name being said, but you did not falter in your conversation with The King.
"Yes, Your Majesty the King," You continue, "which is why it's pertinent. Is the Crown Prince not your sole heir to the throne? It would be futile if you punished him with a near death sentence."
"You would know best to not speak to me that way," King Eurypon's voice is low, a deep and powerful timbre that could swallow you whole if you made one wrong move. "A woman has no place in having authority over me. Send her back to her chambers, this conversation was useless."
"Your Majesty-!"
Your words are cut short as the guards pull you back and the last thing that you see before those doors were slammed shut in your face were tumultuous golden skies that only looked at you.
Even as minutes turn to hours and hours to days, nothing could soothe your nerves as thought after thought races through your mind of what could happen to Mydeimos out there in those forests. And when it came back to the scene with King Eurypon, you could feel the anger in your chest rising. The heat sears through your body, blinding your thoughts as King Eurypon's words echo in your mind.
'A woman has no place in having authority over me.'
Pitiful, that's what you are, and there was nothing you could do to make up for it. For The King was right, no woman would ever have the authority especially over him and your chest burns knowing this society could never let you have the freedom and power you so craved. Your eyes sting, and for the first time in a long while, you let your sobs rack through your body in frustration and anger for how useless you were in protecting the one person you promised to stay beside.
It couldn't have been more than a couple days when there was a loud noise outside of your bedchambers. The moon has long risen above the sky, barely turning into half of the crescent it was when Mydeimos was sent to his demise.
With quick steps, you make towards the entrance of your chambers. Opening the large, gilded door of your bedchambers, there's a body slumped on the floor. Blood soaks his clothes and there are undoubtedly wounds hidden underneath; how deep and severe they were was the true question. He's breathing haggardly, barely even conscious, and yet he musters the strength to glance up at the opened door.
You would have screamed if it weren't for the familiarity of gold peering into your own.
"Mydeimos!" You exclaim, kneeling down to his height. Your shaking hands push back the hair covering his face; it's sweaty and caked with liquid iron but at this point you truly do not care. Grabbing a hold of his face, you're careful in your inspection of your fiancé. He is careworn, exhaustion set deep in his gaze. And yet, when his eyes match your flitting eyes, his hardened stare seems to easily melt away and you're met face to face with the man who stood beside you from the first day you met him. "Oh Aeons above, you're alive…. What are you doing here of all places?! Did the infirmary reject you?"
Mydeimos parts his lips, chapped and dry from the forests, and his voice responds in a coarse whisper. "Forgive me. You were the first place I thought to go to."
"Are you mad?" You want to shake the life out of him for making an idiotic choice, but sincerity is laced in his words and you find you don't have the heart to, even when frustration eats away at every single nerve in your body. Despite the dire state that he's in, there's no fear evident on his face. Rather, he looks relieved to see you. "You definitely are, what am I saying."
"If it's madness to visit you first, then, please, call me insane."
You sigh, lifting your fiancé's arm around your shoulder in hopes of moving your wounded Crown Prince into the safety of your room. He's heavy, that you will not deny, but luckily Mydeimos retained a bit of strength to help alleviate his dead weight from your shoulders.
"Don't joke around with me right now," You hiss next to his ear. "Not in this state."
He collapses into one of the loveseats near the center of your room. In the brighter light, you're able to fully examine him now. There are multitude of wounds littering his body; most of them seem to be scrapes save for a larger laceration hidden underneath his shirt. You pray to Nikador that nothing was severely infected. If anything, the biggest concern was his hunger and dehydration.
"And if I'm not joking?" Mydeimos asks as pools of golden ichor trail after your body when you leave his side. You quickly return to him with a cup and jug of water. He eyes it, but doesn't move a muscle when you lift the fragile porcelain to his lips.
"Then I will plea insanity for your sake," You respond. Your fingers tilt the cup in a deliberate motion, careful not to overwhelm your fiancé with the fresh water. Seeing Mydeimos' throat bob as the water enters his system does wonders to alleviate your nerves and as he finishes you move to pour him some more.
"You haven't been sleeping," Mydeimos comments as you lift the cup once more. This time, his hand, large yet gentle, pushes your arm down and his gaze pierces through you. "Why is that?"
Setting the cup down, your fingers reach up and press gently into the puffiness of the eye bags that hang. Granted, his visit was a surprise to you so it wasn't like you had the time in the world to pretty yourself before seeing him. But you're sure you look a mess currently with the anxieties plaguing your thoughts and the tears of frustration that did not cease night after night.
"Care to take a guess?" You scoff lightly, not to be rude but to state the obvious.
Mydeimos does not answer immediately. Instead his hand encases your own and he tilts his head towards you. Truthfully, you do not want to meet his gaze. Despite his sincerity, you know deep down that because of your weakness to stand up against his father, he was in this position. But there's a squeeze of your hand, a whisper of your name.
And the walls that you've tried to hold together so desperately in front of him crumble down.
"You were gone for nearly a week, you know," You begin slowly, squeezing the hand encasing yours. He pulls you closer to him and you're now standing in the gap between his legs. His thumb rubs gentle circles across your hand and, as comforting as it is, it only tears your walls down even further. "And every passing day I wondered what I could've done to help you.
"I regret not being there, not being strong enough to fight against your father. Would you have not dealt with this if I had done anything else?" You take a shaking breath before you continue. There's the familiar stinging in your eyes, but you will yourself to not let them fall. Not yet.
"I failed you, My Prince," Your voice falters. "I couldn't do anything to help you and I feel so ashamed. And here I am, complaining about my measly feelings when you've come back from a near death experience as if I have any room to whine right now?"
His hand reaches up to your jaw; you don't move even as your betrothed wipes away the tears that have now shed without your knowledge. "You're hurt because of me, and I am so sorry. Please don't forgive me."
The tears sting the corner of your eyes and your hands meekly come up to wipe them away. But the Crown Prince is quicker than you are. Both of his hands delicately cup your face and his fingers brush away the crystalline tears that seem to never end. Your fingers wrap around his wrist as a feeble attempt to push him away; he doesn't move.
"My Princess," Mydeimos begins, his voice matching the tenderness of his gaze, "you have never hurt me. I cannot forgive you for a crime you did not commit."
A sob wracks through your body and something flashes across his expression, as if your cries alone were hurting him more than the wounds on his body ever could.
"Do not cry, I am alive, am I not? I promised to never leave your side." His voice is soothing, washing away your worries slowly with one word at a time. Maybe it's the way he speaks to you with a tone so soft and gentle, filled with nothing but his sincerity to comfort you. Or perhaps it's the way he's holding you like you're fragile, like you're cherished and adored. "As long as you're alive, then so will I. Do not shed tears for something as trivial as this punishment."
"Nothing is trivial when it comes to you, Mydeimos. Please never say that."
As your weeps echo in around your chamber, your fiancé remains by your side, even as the moon bids her farewell and the dawn greets you for another day. Every tear is swiftly wiped away and every apology is greeted with silent comfort. And yet, even as the grief strikes through your core, the worries that have plagued you before seem to dissipate with Mydeimos' mere presence by your side.
—
Your peace does not last long. Shortly after Mydeimos' return from the forests, the political tensions between Castrum Kremnos and the neighboring city of Okhema have grown. It does not take long before the pressure rises enough for war to be declared, courtesy of King Eurypon.
And with the cost of war comes with the price of men drafted to fight for the name of The King. Even your fiancé is not safe, especially as the Crown Prince.
The declaration of war unsettles the kingdom of Castrum Kremnos deeply; there are frantic whispers as people sit in their disbelief while others calmly accept their fate. A Kremnoan is not one to back from a fight, even if it is one they are not prepared for. The citizens are restless in their anxieties, and the castle is no less.
Due to the war preparations, Mydeimos' training has increased tenfold. Alongside his fellow knights and warriors, the Crown Prince has trained night and day to the point where you never did see him anymore. The glimpses you would catch would be during his sparring sessions if you so happened to walk past the training grounds within the palace.
And the one time you did catch him, exhaustion is etched in every crevice of his face. For a poor boy who had barely come of age, the pressures of his father and this oncoming conflict seemed to have aged him even more; it shows in the darkness of his eyes and unmoving frown carved into his skin.
But hope blooms in your chest when your gazes meet and the all familiar gold returns to his eyes as if it had never left. A beautiful, crystalline geode hidden within a rugged exterior; your childhood friend and ally underneath the mask of the Crown Prince.
On the night before the expedition, Mydeimos arrives outside your bedchambers at the usual time you used to meet. You're surprised to see him, honestly; with the send off being so close, you did not expect to see your fiancé so soon—if at all. Luckily, he's not dressed for training and has cleaned up before visiting you; his white nightshirt now fitting for his body and flowing loosely over his torso.
His hair is undone; the usual braid that drops at the side of his face is loose and his strawberry blond hair frames his face beautifully. His sapphire earring, the one that matches yours, dangles by his ear. It's radiant, luminous as it reflects the candlelit room like the eternal embers of the hearth of life. There's still a hint of fatigue sewn into his expression, like a permanent scar on his otherwise perfect tanned skin, but it immediately melts away upon seeing you at the other side of the door. Like the warmth of spring melting away the frigid winter snow, you've brought life to him with just your presence alone.
For a second, you get a glimpse of the bright eyed small boy he used to be and a sharp pang strikes through your heart.
"Is it too late to come and see you?" he asks you, his voice much deeper than the last time you remember it. His timbre rumbles low, almost the purr of a big cat.
"You don't have to ask, Your Highness." And, like clockwork, he walks in.
There's a comfortable silence between the both of you as you sit at the table near the window. Usually, there would be a glass of milky pomegranate juice for you to share, but tonight is different. Even the world itself knows this with the usual chirps of the crickets outside now a hushed melody and the moon hangs low in the sky with her light barely radiant as if she was too heartbroken for the next dawn.
"Do you really have to go?" You break the silence with a question, voice a mere whisper in the quiet of night. Your eyes remain locked to your lap where your fingers twist and fumble with one another.
And your heart sinks, heavy with reality, when he speaks again.
"Of course I do," Mydeimos replies, his voice alone is enough to calm you but the context of the conversation stirs the emotions in your heart. "Both as my duty as my father's son and as my pride as a Kremnoan."
There are a million thoughts that run through your mind; what if this worthless pride of his gets him killed or what if there's the chance he won't come home at all? What if the Okhemans take his life during their victory? And how much trouble would you be in if you knocked him out and ran away with him, far past the outskirts of this kingdom and away from this?
The Crown Prince exhales softly, a quiet laugh and your mind snaps back to this moment.
"Your worries are written all over your face, Princess," he speaks. You can hear the warmth dripping from his tone; there's a smile so evident in his voice and you feel your face flush from embarrassment. With that same timbre, he speaks your name as if he has known it for lifetimes. "Look at me, won't you?"
And you do.
All you can see are those endless pools of golden ichor peering back at you, molten aureate seas of candor and sincerity beckoning you to melt into them; to do nothing but have faith that you wouldn't drown in them.
"Do you remember what we vowed to each other?" he asks, gaze unwavering as he leans in closer to you.
"To always be by each other's side until the day we wed," you recite to him.
"And forevermore," Mydeimos finishes for you. "I intend to keep the promise. I'll come back victorious and meet you once again."
You bite your bottom lip as unease eats away at your nerves. Of course, your heart yearns to trust his words for he has done everything in his power to take your side in the years you've shared with him. But there will always be unprecedented circumstances that could always happen, experiences where it will lie out of both of your hands.
The thought of losing him forever terrifies you to your core.
But his eyes are unmoving and perhaps that is enough to let you fully trust him. It grounds you, reminds you of how much your fiancé has changed from the frail, thin boy who now towers over you with shoulders broader than your own. Even the loose nightshirt could not hide the expanse of muscles evident underneath and how they flex with every movement he makes.
Without a word you quickly rise from your seat, maneuvering around your chambers until you get to your nightstand. The wooden drawer slides open with ease and your fingers wrap around the white cloth inside. When you return to your betrothed's side, you realize his gaze has never left your body.
"I was hoping I wouldn't have to give this to you," you begin with bated breath. Your fingers gently play with the soft cotton of the cloth before handing it out for Mydeimos to take. "It's a little rough, but an embroidered handkerchief is considered good luck for warriors, isn't it?"
There's an accelerando in your heartbeat as a large hand gingerly picks up the unstained cloth. He unfolds it, letting the handkerchief spread open. In the corner were three embroidered elements; one golden sun and two maroon pomegranates basking underneath it.
"Of course, you don't have to keep it if it's not your cup of tea," you ramble on as your heart leaps to your throat at his silence. "I just wanted you to feel safe even when you're out-"
A whisper of your name, quiet enough to blend into the comfortable silence of the room but deafening to your ears. Your gaze snaps up to meet his and you're met with a sunset that showers you in its warmth, a heat so calming and serene that all of your worries seem to dissipate.
Gold melting into halcyon days.
"Thank you. I'll cherish it on the battlefield."
There's a moment of reprieve, a second of tranquility. And it does little to calm your now racing heart over a feeling that is far from anxiety.
DUSK.
My Princess,
How have you been doing? Has my father treated you the same? Poorly? Let me know so I can return immediately. I hope that your days have not been as busy as mine. I apologize for breaking our oath to stay beside each other, but I promise you that I will return after this war and go straight to you.
My journey has not been long, but I miss you already. The nights do not feel the same without you by my side and I always wonder what you're doing while I'm on the front lines. The only thing that brings me comfort is the handkerchief you embroidered for me, and the fact that we remain under the same sky every day.
I'll see you soon. Wait for me.
Mydeimos.
—
My Princess,
This war has been…rough for me. I promise that I will fight until my very last breath. Not because I am the son of King Eurypon and Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, but because I am your betrothed and we have made an oath together.
I wish to see you again, you are my only hope in this wretched war. Like the sun's rays, you will guide me back home… back to your side.
I will not fall in this war, I promise I will return to you. So do not shed any tears for me. I hate seeing you cry, and I hate it even more knowing that I am the reason.
Wait for me, I promise I will see you soon.
Mydeimos.
—
My sole Princess,
We have finally breached enemy lines and I guarantee that by the time you've received this letter we will come out victorious. I can finally put an end to this useless war and save the lives of more innocent men forced to fight for the name of their king. I've seen many disturbing sights while on this treacherous journey, and I wish you to never see them.
It will not be long before I return to you, my Princess. How has life in the palace been? It has been years since we last seen each other, will you remember how I look like? Have you changed?
Please wait for me, you will be the first person I greet when I return.
Mydeimos.
—
Four years have passed since your fiancé was sent off to war and declared victory of the war between Castrum Kremnos and Okhema. When the victory was announced, there was a moment of silence before the entire kingdom bursts in cheers loud enough that you were sure Nikador could even hear of the celebrations. But most importantly, the relief was tangible.
No more innocent lives thrown away due to a selfish and ignorant king.
News of the Crown Prince being the one to end the final battle spread like wildfire among the citizens and whispers of praise echo through the winding streets of the main city. Mydeimos is a hero in the eyes of Castrum Kremnos, and he will return with nothing but endless celebrations to commemorate the honor of victory.
The main palace is bustling with life once more as Mydeimos' celebratory banquet thrives with excited chatter and boisterous laughter. It's a happy event, much more pleasant than the previous event held in the grand banquet hall. The chandelier above remains an endless web of crystallized light and the servants are busy winding in and out of the crowd of guests eager to finally catch a glimpse of the returned hero.
"My Lady, what an honor to see you!"
"Aren't you proud of your fiancé? His honor as a Kremnoan will bring pride to us all."
"Will the wedding be held soon after this?"
"Marvelous party, My Lady. Give thanks to The King for hosting such an event."
An event you planned, but you let the empty pleasantries slide. Your hands are full entertaining guests and greeting other nobles as they crowd you with vacuous comments and hollow small talk.
Lost in the cacophonous and draining chatter of nobles you don't seem to care for, your attention is away from the announcement of a name you're all too familiar with and it isn't until the crowd surrounding you explodes in cheers that you realize who has entered the hall.
Mydeimos is much broader than the last time you saw him; though you didn't think that could be possible. He's adorned in white cloth draped over his body held in place with belts and buckles made of pure gold; a crimson cape drapes over one of his shoulders like blood smeared across a canvas. They're loose on his body, yet do nothing to hide what lay underneath. A wreath of aureate leaves sits on top of his head; a physical reminder of his status in the room and his future role as King. The blue sapphire you gifted him drops down from his left ear, sparkling as if announcing who he belonged to.
Tendrils of red ink decorate his tan skin. They're the mark of heroes, a badge of honor that only few in Castrum Kremnos get to have. Deep crimson ink make trails leading up his arms, over his chest, and dip underneath the fabric of his clothes—wherever they lead to on his body piques your curiosity. They're ethereal on him, a wonderful contrast against his otherwise perfect skin.
And your heart lurches at his eyes that are locked only on you.
The clamor of the banquet grows distant as soon as you step out into the connecting balcony and shut the large, paned door behind you. With the endless night sky above you as your only company, you finally have your moment of reprieve away from the perpetual mindless chatter of nobles and other guests. You walk towards the railing of the balcony and look over the palace gardens; paved cobblestone winding between green bushes blooming with white blossoms and a fountain built right in the center of it all.
It's beautiful, simple and peaceful with only the muffled celebrations from the banquet inside as your white noise.
"I thought I'd find you here." A familiar voice calls out to you and you turn away from the gardens to meet his gaze.
The blazing sun.
And you're burning underneath his rays.
"To think I spent all these years in war, and I didn't get a single greeting?" He's much less intimidating up close compared to the banquet hall with thousands of eyes on him. However, it could be because he's alone here with you. There's a twinkle in his eye and a small smile curls at the corner of his lips. Handsome and boyish. "Did you forget me already?"
"How could I ever?" You respond back with a smile of your own. Heavy footsteps walk towards you and you find Mydeimos leaned against the railing beside you. He's close enough where you can catch a whiff of his scent—clean, floral with hints of musk and bergamot— and feel his elbow bumping into yours. He's warm; you are too, but you're beginning to doubt if it's because you're naturally warm.
Or because he's here.
"I'm glad to see you again," you tell him as you cast your gaze back up into the night sky. The evening breeze brushes past the two of you, cool and brisk, and Mydeimos takes this moment to remove the scarlet cape and drape it over your own shoulders. His scent engulfs you; his warmth a residue of his own body over yours.
Your heart thrums against your eardrums.
"I thought about you everyday, you know," Mydeimos confesses beside you and your breath hitches.
"How so?" You stammer out, words nearly toppling over one another. "Like how I used to cry over silly things?"
"In a way," Mydeimos agrees and you frown at his response. "But more so because I missed you, and I hate seeing you cry especially if I know it's because of me."
Normally, his honesty would barely phase you, but something in the way that he speaks to you sets a storm of butterflies free in your stomach. perhaps it's from the buzz of the banquet or because you've finally reunited with him after all these years waiting for his return.
Or maybe it's because he's so close to you. When had he leaned down to hear you better and when was his face so close to yours?
"Would you hate me if I asked for a kiss to celebrate?" he asks, voice low and quiet but never has he been so clear.
Your heart beats wildly against your chest, an accelerando that has gone way too fast way too quick and you cannot stop your eyes from staring at his lips only mere inches away. You nod.
His lips find yours with ease and all of the feelings you've built up from the moment you first met seems to bloom, melting into the kiss. He feels so comforting, everything feels so perfect and so right when it comes to him. He feels like your home, your only place to be free. And you don't ever want to leave.
When he pulls away, there are no words spoken. The only sound filling the silence are your quiet breaths intermingling with one another. Molten gold peer down at you, half lidded and taking in your every movement. There's residue of your lip stain on his lips and your fingers reach up to wipe it off.
A large hand encases your wrist, holding it in place while Mydeimos turns his head and presses another kiss to the palm of your hand. Heat blooms in your chest; your heart is soaring across the heavens above and you're worried it'll never come down if he continues this.
"Mydeimos… My Prince, I think I have fallen for you." Your voice is breathy and light, almost in disbelief at the words you've just spoken.
At first, Mydeimos doesn't say anything. Instead, his brows furrow as confusion etches itself across his face. "We've been engaged for over a decade and will wed soon."
Your face flushes at his words. "I-I know! It's just… I never realized what I was feeling towards you until now."
Your prince laughs softly, a chuckle that is carried off into the wind like a melody only you are meant to hear. He releases your wrist, only to reach up and brush away a strand of hair that has gone astray. He's warm, and basking in his unyielding attention makes you warmer.
"Then the feelings are returned. For you've ruined me, I cannot go a day without thinking of you. And now that we're together again, I never wish to be apart again, my wife."
His words echo in the chambers of your mind as he leans down once more to kiss you again underneath the light of the moon. And you're reminded again and again of the love you hold for him as well as the affections harbored for you through the lifetime that you've known one another. His hand cups your jaw, holding you as if you were his last drop of moonlight in the depths of an eternal night.
For you are his eternity, his solace, and he is yours.
you’re a mermaid in distress and he’s here to… save you? | featuring: phainon, anaxa, and mydei x mermaid!reader | fluff, alternative universe, bullet-form narration, pirate!mydei, knight!phainon, scholar!anaxa, i mean he somewhat already is, mentions of blood and wounds, fem!pronouns are used for the reader, not proofread | wc: 4.7k
note — today i had a beautiful dream of pirate mydei thus this was born, and gosh it got long my head hurts… (500 words each character, i said, it will be short, i said)
PHAINON; FREEDOM TASTES LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR LIPS
The first time he sees you, you are listless—a ghost of salt and scales drifting in a gilded cage. Your fingers press against the glass, searching for a current that isn’t there. The expression on your face is etched into his mind, haunting him like a madman on his trail. You were clearly uncomfortable, restless, unable to adapt in the new environment you were forced to be in—who would? Your glass tank was nowhere similar to your home. The water reeks of chemicals, not brine; the fake corals are a mockery of the reefs you once knew.
In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.
The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.
As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.
A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly.
Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.
But surely there should be something, right?
Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.
Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.
You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.
And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.
From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.
He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.
You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.
However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.
The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.
When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.
“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender,
Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.
(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)
The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”
You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.
And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.
This was fine, it was fine.
You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.
ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101
Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite.
He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you.
His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.
Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."
Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.
You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.
He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."
You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—”
“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.”
He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”
And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.
You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.
Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.
Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.
Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.
“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”
"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?
While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.
For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”
“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”
“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”
He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.
And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart.
Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.
MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS
In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.
You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief.
What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.
One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”
You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.
You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.
“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.
For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.
This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss.
He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying, you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.
“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”
But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.
He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.
Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.
They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.
They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”
It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat.
Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.
Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.
But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”
Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”
Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.
Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”
He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.
Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”
