It has gotten longer. The tips of strawberry blond strands reach below the line of strong shoulders, thick and silky with the care the Deliverer showered it with daily. As he gathers all of it to the back, so he can get all the knots out and stimulate blood circulation in the scalp with a wooden comb, Phainon couldn't help but wonder if this is what his mother's hair would have looked like.
Gorgo, a proud Kremnoan queen, held her son briefly before the mad king tossed him to the River of Souls without any remorse, and yet -- it seemed all of her values and looks were imprinted onto him. At least, that is what Phainon likes to believe from the stories he's been afforded to hear.
Halfway through combing his hair out, he abandoned the comb beside him to gently massage the tips of his fingers into his scalp. Light pressure was applied through circular motions, a smile gracing his features, content that another day had passed in which he could do this for Mydeimos. It is a victory that he mentally scratches off.
"Don't cut it yet," He eventually murmurs, fingers descending down his nape, then smoothing out along his shoulders before beginning to braid his hair. A quiet request between them, hoping the Crown Prince would entertain him, if only briefly. He knows that the longer it is, the more of a nuisance it would be on the battlefront, but he wants to enjoy one more evening of this before he ultimately cuts it for him.
"Do you want me to add flowers to it?"
Conflict changed the passage of time; when he fought each moment coalesced into a series of expeditious movements and when they were idle they grew stagnant, unreasonably prolonged. It makes sense that his hair would have grown, the insistent flow of time, no matter how he perceived it, remained unchanged. It was in moments like this, however, as those deft hands untangle his tousled blonde hair, that their time feels unjustly short. Knowing that taught them how to savour it, belonging in the moment even in the absence of lancing adrenaline.
Mydei was quiet, perhaps neither of them had spoken for some time; the gentle lull of the sequestered bath appeasing as it tempers the silence. The golden crescent of his lashes caresses the tips of his cheeks as he indulges, Phainon’s touch is alleviating in a way that defies the lingering ache that has settled in his very bones. For calloused hands so prone to battle to also be capable of such tenderness… his eyes slowly open to gaze down at his own hands. Even now, as the undulating water effaces the noticeable traces of battle, he can envision them soused in blood with terrible clarity. If given the chance he would like to reciprocate this, easing his own hands through the deliverer’s hair, those silver strands that scintillated like starlight lost to the city that harbors them. Even that, such an uncomplicated yearning, holds the weight of an impossible dream.
“ You’re demanding that of me ?” He asks, rightfully incredulous albeit he’s done nothing to deter him, unless he is to mistake the reflexive tensing as a warning. Phainon’s gaze was more acute than that and this docility of his, however temporary, was a traitor to any severity his question held. It wouldn’t be long until the mercurial wind lashed it back and forth even whilst laden with blood. Mydei let out a breath, the impression of laughter interspersed between them. “ How brazen.”
Having caught a glimpse of his reflection as they returned from the battlefield, etched into the gilded surface of a shield, he had recognized her. Standing in a blaze of wildly billowing flaxen hair, her eyes both fierce and kind; Mydei had begun to resemble her more of late. He had stared at it for a moment, reminiscence caught between his aching ribs, before willing his feet onward. He won’t cut it, even if it becomes a hindrance; fiercely preserving her memory. Having been drawn into that memory he had left the deliverer’s offer to settle between them, undisturbed until he conceded. “ Yes, I would like that.” The response he would have given, brusque even if tempered by amusement, had been rescinded, granting him a chance at vulnerability, however fleeting. “ You had already chosen one.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement which led to an inquiry. “ Well, what was it ?”
