Chapter Text
For as long as Dawn existed, Evernight stood opposed beyond its borders. The prevailing light which burned as brilliantly as a Titan's coreflame was a refuge sought out by the mortals of Amphoreus. And so long as it persisted, the fate of all who lived could hold a tentative inkling of hope.
For as long as Kephale shouldered the weight of the world behind their back, mortal life shall persevere for just another day more; for as long as their burden was carried, Amphoreus will march toward the pre-destined path long paved ahead.
The black tide was a ceaseless thing, an unknown force with a mind poised for destruction. Its monsters were fierce and abundant, rampant and indiscriminate, for the souls corrupted within had long lost all sense. Were it not for the eternal Dawnlight keeping the rising tides at bay, Amphoreus would have long fallen to its knees.
Well, both the Dawnlight, and the efforts of a nameless swordsman.
They stood amidst the sea of monsters, cloaked in black, bathed in blood, with a greatsword in hand. Their fight was just as ceaseless, just as fierce, without pause for respite since the beginning of time. And yet, through their countless battles across the stark Evernight encroaching upon lush lands, not a single mortal soul had managed to catch a glimpse of this strange swordsman. If anything, during the ensuing panic of destruction, most might mistake them for being a part of the black tide itself.
They would be mistaken, however, for the swordsman's mark had never once strayed from the minions of the Abyss.
As the last of the tide-eroded fell by their blade, the swordsman scoured the battlefield for any strays leftover. Rare was the sight of victory claimed without retaliation, so precious that they allowed themself a moment to breathe.
Are you tired?
A rare smile crept upon their face. "Never."
They could imagine the sound of laughter in response, but what they received was silence instead. They lifted their greatsword with ease, grazing their fingers along the flat of the blade. Not a speck of dirt, nary a splotch of blood, ruined the pristine steel which reflected their face.
"What about you?" they asked, if only to carry on the lighthearted chatter.
They waited, and waited, and waited for a response. Patience was a given for a being as eternal as they. Moments could pass before that voice would return, or even days, or months. Oronyx held no authority upon their minds. None could predict it.
Eventually, of course, the swordsman heard the familiar whisper from their blade.
I am.
"Oh?" What a strange surprise. "I had thought a sword would lack the capacity for exhaustion. What has brought this on?"
The voice was never shy, nor was it ever tactful. It spoke with resolution, bearing nothing but cold truth within its words. It was but a voice, after all, one without a heart. But throughout the millennia spent forging their bond, the swordsman had yet to hear it speak with such... desire. It was fascinating, and they could not dare to smother that curious spark.
I grow weary of my purpose.
Was that so? "Surely, that cannot be all."
Their reflection shimmered underneath Evernight's glow. Standing amidst a field of corpses was hardly conducive for a moment as precious as this, yet the swordsman refrained from disturbing their blade. They asked, and waited, with a tone as gentle as they could muster, "Do you wish for something more? A greater purpose than your fate? Tell me."
Fate is inevitable, and my purpose is unwavering.
"Then, do you yearn for meaning? A drive to further temper your resolve?"
No.
"No?"
Silence returned, and the swordsman's chest nearly bubbled with frustration. How a greatsword could cause them to lose their composure was beyond them, yet their eyes narrowed with burning curiosity, seeking out answers which lied within their most trusted companion.
Until they heard its next words, just as poised as always.
I wish for a body like yours, Khaos.
A body... A human body. A living, breathing body of flesh and blood, one that could walk, breathe, see, and feel... Was that its deepest desire? Fascinating. How utterly, inconceivably fascinating...
"Then, I will forge you a human body." A wish like that was but child's play for them. After all, the coreflame which sustained the swordsman's very existence carried the authority of Worldbearing, of Creation. Their blade need only ask, and its wish shall be granted with utmost care.
For the first time in millenia, the swordsman did not rush toward the next battlefield. Instead, they'd strolled past the carnage lying in their wake, turning their attention to their greatsword as the scene gradually shifted from Evernight, to Dawn.
Life flourished once again, where the land was lush and the streams flowed with crystalline waters. The swordsman sank to their knees before the current, surrounded by trees which rustled in the breeze. On their lap was their most dearly beloved blade, soon to be given new form.
Their fingers traced the intricate carvings etched into the golden guard.
"A body like mine..." they mused aloud. "Your prayers have been heard, my sun. You will receive that which you desire; a body of flesh and blood, a mortal vessel for your soul, and my blessing. You will experience all that you have yet to experience and forge your own path ahead.
"And I, dear sun, will remain by your side until the very end."
Creating a body was no different to tempering steel, and fitting one for the purpose of housing a soul was a task unfamiliar to the Worldbearing Titan.
Yet, they persevered, for as long as it took to create the most perfect vessel. They spared no expense, not even a moment to rest. With the eternal Dawn shining upon them like divine judgement, the swordsman fashioned his blade a brand new sheath. They had poured their ichor, shared their flesh, and divested a portion of their strength as a blessing.
It was through blood, sweat, and tears that gifted them a body to cradle in their arms, soon to be inhabited by a familiar soul. It would be a reunion, yet also a reintroduction, to meet the greatsword who will become human.
As the body grew warm with a beating heart, as ichor began to flow through its veins like the streams rushing downward, the swordsman gathered their blade and soon melted its very being into pure, radiant light.
It flowed unto the newly forged body like liquid gold, pooling over every crevice of its carefully sculpted muscles, yet never spilling off. Within the molten gold revealed crimson markings over bare skin, adorning the torso, arms, neck, and cheek...
The body began to breathe. It began to stir. Life sparked like clashing flint and ignited to a healthy fire. Golden eyes bearing a resemblance to the blazing flame caught sight of the swordsman looming overhead with a tender smile.
"My sun... So we finally meet." A gentle hand shaded those newly-crafted eyes from the light, casting a shadow over them as they affixed themselves upon the swordsman.
The body's lips trembled, unused to forming words without the convenience of telepathy. "Y-you... You are... Khaos?"
"I am, indeed." To hear their name spoken aloud was an unfamiliar experience. Excitement welled up like a brand new dawn, stretching their smile to an ear-to-ear grin. "How are you feeling? Please, take your time."
The body's face twisted, unused to shaping expressions through emotion just as with their words. "You feel... different. Your body is not the same."
How interesting for a blade to notice. "But of course. I couldn't stand to forge you a human body without altering my form, as well." The swordsman clasped their partner's hand, their calloused fingers encircling soft flesh. "I will walk with you on this earth. You shall never be alone. That is my vow to you, Mydeimos."
The newly-forged body hummed, testing the words on its lips before speaking once more. "Is that my name?"
The swordsman chuckled. They lifted their lover's hand towards their lips, sparing a moment of worship before presenting a golden band, a signet ring, inscribed with a symbol of his devotion. "It is. Mydeimos, my dearest sun, my partner, my lover, given form." An identity gifted to bless its very first breaths. "And I shall be Phainon. What do you think?"
To ask a blade for its opinion was a foolish habit, yet that was no longer the case. A body that could see, that could hear, that could feel was a being capable of answering such a question. And indeed, it was not long before their partner focussed its eyes upon them—upon him.
He, who slipped the golden ring onto his lover's finger, who watched as Mydeimos curiously studied the weight of his blessing.
"Phainon... What a strange name. It suits you."
"Here, my love." The swordsman known as Phainon took the hands of his blade, grasping him gently, yet firmly, as he urged him onto his feet for the first time.
"Your new body weighs a little lighter than your previous form, but starting now, you shall have to carry yourself."
He was sweet and kind, patient as a sagely oak tree. He brought Mydeimos' knuckles toward his lips as he wrapped an arm around his waist. Slowly, the swordsman took a cautious step forward, nudging his lover's foot to follow his lead.
The time it took to teach Mydeimos about the wonders of mortal legs was inconsequential. After all, such a trial was arduous, especially for a weapon that had existed for millenia. There were far too many things to pick up. Becoming inundated with sensations wholly new to his soul… It must be overwhelming, exhausting, exhilarating. Phainon could spare an eternity to ease Mydeimos into his new life. In fact, he would ensure that all of Amphoreus will stall its pre-determined fate for the sake of his lover.
For Mydeimos, he will do anything.
"You must learn to ease your grip," Phainon teased. "I'm afraid you will leave impressions on my flesh if you squeeze any harder."
For a man who has only recently begun to breathe his first, Mydeimos possessed an incredible degree of strength—blessed by his lover, of course. However, his control was quite lacking. He seemed to confuse the swordsman for a crutch to be grasped—or perhaps he was merely unused to commanding his own strength.
Mydeimos hummed and did as asked, but his leverage against Phainon slackened, causing his legs to bear too much of his weight too suddenly. The swordsman was quick to catch him, sweeping him off his feet in a gentle carry in his arms.
"Khaos—Phainon."
"Yes, my love?"
"I'm tired of walking."
Laughter spilled from Phainon, loud and hearty as the eternal Dawn shining upon them. "I suppose we should rest. There is much else to learn, after all. We have all the time in the world."
A strange emotion shadowed golden eyes. "But the black tide will not stall."
"We are not the only ones fending it off," the swordsman assured. He started towards the forest in the distance, deeper into Dawnlight where they may find ample shade. "My love, I did not grant you your wish just for you to return to an existence solely for the battlefield. You desire something greater, do you not?"
"Hmm."
What a silly thing. Phainon almost missed the brutal honesty his blade once spoke with. Now, Mydeimos possessed the capacity to hold secrets. He no longer spoke his mind so bluntly. It'll be a tricky thing to grow accustomed to.
The grass beneath the swordsman's feet was damp. He stepped over a fallen tree trunk and ducked from a low-hanging branch. The foliage thickened, as did the boisterous ringing of wild crickets.
"You can be anything you could possibly imagine. Your life need not be of endless slaughter at the hand of your wielder; not anymore," he said.
"Unfortunately, I lack knowledge of such possibilities."
"Be patient, my love. We have time to discover them yet."
Titans knew not of the lives led by mortals. They knew nothing of their daily wishes, their beliefs, and their plights. A weapon was no better. Even if Mydeimos were to smother himself with the human world, it would probably take no less than a century to acclimatise. After all, a greatsword did not belong in a quaint village, just as a king served no purpose in a throne of hay.
Days may pass with idle chatter, hours spent together in a brand new way. Companionship had never been more intimate, and Phainon's chest had begun to ache from the constant fluttering of his heart.
Whenever Mydeimos grew weary of using his legs, Phainon was ready at the helm to carry him in his arms. It was a familiar feeling, bearing the weight of his sun; only now he had a face to tease in response to every empty complaint. His lover was taking well to his new body regardless. He learned to relax his limbs and recognise Phainon's voice—along with his own. Mydeimos took to humanity like a blade to its sheath. He even allowed his curiosity to run ahead of his composure.
"What is this?
"What is that?
"Where are we?"
Questions flowed like a river, all of which were answered to the best of Phainon's abilities. Though it pained him to admit ignorance to some, he was happy to indulge his lover's insatiable curiosity to what was once incomprehensible.
Of course, their aimless journey was not endless. Time eventually came when they saw the inklings of civilisation off in the distance. Rooftops amidst a field of swaying wheat, cradled by wisping smoke and the ocean breeze. If Phainon were to strain his ears, he may catch the muffled bleatings of sheep in their pens.
"Look, my love." He tugged at Mydeimos' wrist to steer his eyes. "Do you want to see the locals?"
"Perhaps." Strangely, his lover sounded quite hesitant. "Must we prepare offerings for intruding upon their land?"
Laughter ran past Phainon at that. "I believe the mortals refer to such exchanges as 'taxes'. They place their faith toward Talanton's authority in keeping balance of their livelihood. Should we need anything, we may barter with what we have. The Law Titan shall see that the exchange is equal."
"And what is it that we have?" Mydeimos asked.
Oh, what a good question. Regrettably, the swordsman found himself unable to answer. They had little more than the clothes on their backs—and obviously, Phainon had swaddled his lover in his cloak since his very first steps—but upon closer inspection, he supposed they might look suspicious.
"Do they speak our language?" Mydeimos asked as well.
And what another good question. Mortals unfortunately lacked the sense to comprehend the language of the Titans. What a predicament.
"It will be fine," Phainon assured. He was not unfamiliar with basic human gestures. Surely, that will suffice. "We shall take a stroll around the hamlet and decide from there. I'm certain the humans will be welcoming toward us."
"Hmm..."
Somehow, someway, the swordsman sensed an air of doubt in his lover's sigh, but no matter. Should the circumstances shift unfavourably, there was nothing he won't spare for Mydeimos' safety; even if it meant razing an entire village to the ground.
At least for now, the mortals had his goodwill.
Not once did Phainon stray from Mydeimos' side.
Not once did he remove his hand from the small of his lover's back. His eyes were sharp, his smile a placid mask, and his steps were with purpose. He guided his lover into the fray, passed the rotted signboard tied to a fencepost. He did not care to read what was scribbled onto the plank. Instead, the swordsman continued his strides onto the dirt path that cleaved through the golden grass.
The houses were modest and sparse, every building erected with wood, stone, and straw. A charred scent permeated the salty air of Phagousa's ocean, along with a distinct heat billowing out from every chimney.
A flock of children ran past them, raising noise as they waved their crooked wooden swords. Just nearby were the harsh clangs of a hammer against iron, of a woman yelling atop her lungs as she brandished a tin of muffins from behind her doorframe...
Mydeimos pressed his lips to a thin, flat line. He narrowed his eyes just as much whilst inching closer towards Phainon.
"Is something the matter?" the swordsman asked.
His lover furrowed his brows in confusion. "It is... loud," he mumbled as he fixed his gaze at his feet. "The noise is ringing in my ears."
"Alas, that is the nature of human civilisation." Mydeimos was accustomed to an eternal silence within the cold rigidness of his sword vessel. It was only recently when he was introduced to walking the earth with a body so painfully mortal. He was still easily overwhelmed by even the slightest influx of sensation. One could understand his plight.
"We shall not linger, then," Phainon assured, keeping mind to lower his voice to a murmur. They need not draw attention to themselves. This was but a temporary stop to explore as they pleased. There was no harm in moving along should Mydeimos be in discomfort.
Although, despite the somewhat inconducive environment, the swordsman couldn't help but slow to a pause before a building just like all the rest. There was an open window granting a view of what was inside, caged by thin wooden panels to keep out naughty hands. The light spilling in displayed a few crude straw moulds resembling the human form without their heads; and they were dressed in loosely-fitted garments that looked quite appealing to Phainon's eyes.
Thin, white fabric which swayed with the ghosts of idle wind, sewn with fine thread to hang comfortably on the body. The garment was paired with a long, flowing shawl that seemed to weigh lightly on the dress form's shoulders.
How fascinating.
"Phainon?"
"A moment, my love." The swordsman squeezed Mydeimos' hand for reassurance, for he now had a new mission to see toward. "Come, Mydeimos, let's see what this place has to boast."
"Oh, alright."
His lover was a darling to oblige. Mydeimos allowed himself to be tugged through the door which startled a bell hung overhead. The air inside carried a strangely sweet fragrance, masking the earthy musk of old pine. Shelves lined much of the walls, holding bolts of fabric of varying colours. There were tables strewn about, a counter by the windowframes, and a plate of berries pinning down a mess of papers.
Perhaps this was a workshop of sorts. A frail, old man seemed to emerge from the other room. If Phainon must guess, he was likely the garmentmaker responsible for this abode.
"Ah, new faces, I see." The man's voice was warm and inviting, ripe with age and rich with a peculiar accent. His smile was merely one out of the many wrinkles on his face. "Come in, come in! Are you looking for some garments fit for the road? You two seem to be travellers from afar."
Phainon returned his smile, yet he refrained from speaking. He instead went on to browse the offerings already made. He approached one of the many dress forms and ran his fingers down a thick tunic made of fine leather. The sleeves hung loose, just as the belt sat unclasped around the waist. The swordsman tipped his head aside and hummed, before moving on without another glance.
For however long it took, he studied each garment with an easy smile gracing his expression. He swept through everything there was to see, nary a second wasted when he decided that a piece was unsuitable. And fortunately enough, the old mortal man was content to leave him be, even if Mydeimos eventually grew weary of the seemingly endless search for invisible treasure.
He shuffled his feet towards his lover, tugged at the swordsman's sleeve, and bore some of his weight against him. Phainon needn't hear his voice to understand, but he needed just a moment more...
"This one," he mumbled. "Mydeimos, won't you try this one for me?"
This, being a crimson chiton adorned in shimmering gold accents. The fabric itself was as light as gossamer over the swordsman's curious hands, so thin that even his callused fingertips threatened to crease the fabric to their shape, rather than glide across like silk. The weft was made of differing shades of red, from that akin to freshly-spilled blood to the wild, vibrant roses strewn across Amphoreus' lands. Despite the outward layers weighing less than a mild breeze, there was a heavier, sturdier undergarment which gave the garment its structure.
Phainon turned his gaze towards Mydeimos. However, he received an inkling of hesitation when he met his lover's eyes. "Why must I wear it? I am already clothed. Is that not enough?"
"I would rather you not don my cloak," Phainon chuckled so sweetly as he brushed his lips against his lover's temple. "Though you make for a pleasant sight, I find myself wanting to clothe you in something more suitable instead; something cleaner. Your body is still new, Mydeimos. It would be poor of me to have you wear anything soaked with the blood of our enemies."
Golden eyes blinked once. "I am not unused to blood."
"Please, my love..." What a silly man. Phainon could only sigh and plead his case, "humour me this time, will you? I want to stand your birth with some ceremony at the very least."
"That is unnecessary." Mydeimos brushed him off with such apathetic cruelty. Although, a single glance to a pitiable face quickly guilted him into a compromise. "Very well..."
Phainon brightened up at once. He even dared lay a kiss upon his lover's cheek. "You have my deepest gratitude."
Words need not be spoken to usher in a request to fit the garment. The old man was well-accustomed to silent guests, and he did not dally to remove the chiton from its dress form before leading Mydeimos toward a mirror by the well-lit wall. The curtains were drawn to keep out prying eyes, and Phainon had insisted on stepping in.
He was the first to place his hands on Mydeimos' shoulders, tugging off his cloak to reveal beautiful, flawless skin. His lover was bare underneath, yet there wasn't an ounce of shame in his eyes. If anything, Mydeimos relaxed under the swordsman's touch. He did not fight over the chiton being fitted over his head, either.
The garmentmaker watched on silently, the sole audience to this strange pair who spoke no words and held eyes only for each other. It was as if the greater world was lost to them; it was as if Phainon was utterly entranced by his mortal lover who bore divinity within his veins. He allowed no other man's touch, nor did he allow their gaze. Phainon had stepped closer to shield Mydeimos from those same prying eyes, even if they belonged to a skilled tailor.
A silk sash was wrapped around Mydeimos' waist. A golden laurel was pinned to his sweetly-blonde hair. He was smothered in fabric which hung off his frame, the very hem of the chiton reached past his ankles and brushed along the floor.
Beautiful, radiant, exquisite... All that and more was whispered to his ears, and the man dressed in red could do little more than hum as he observed his reflection.
"Why, I would dare say it fits you perfectly," said the garmentmaker.
Indeed. Though Phainon had known his blade for millenia, these past few days had brought him an abundance of emotions he had rarely ever felt. Adoration, rapture, love... They were directed toward his lover, and him alone. Nothing else mattered.
The reflection in the mirror seemed to be in awe, if only because there lacked any other expression to properly describe it. Mydeimos had yet to see himself in full view, without the distortions of a flowing river marring his image. He ran his fingers through his hair whilst leaning closer to stare upon himself. His eyes were wide, his lips parted with fascination, and the draping sleeves of the chiton bunched at his elbows to reveal markings emblazoned onto pale flesh.
Phainon had half the mind to sweep his lover off his feet, for he could not bear to imagine Mydeimos stepping out onto the dirt and staining the hems of that beautiful chiton. His amusement was clear as the eternal Dawn, received with fondness from a pair of sharp, golden eyes.
And of course, there soon came the issue of exchange—payment, as the garmentmaker referred.
"Factoring in the costs of materials and labour, the price is unfortunately on the higher end compared to the rest of my works."
Unsurprisingly enough, Phainon understood only half of what was explained. He simply crooked a finger underneath his chin as he pondered over the scales placed on the counter. The cost was heavy, weighing down one dish whilst the other bore no counterbalance. Mydeimos stood by his side, having lost interest in the discussion where he was uninvolved, and he directed his attention to fiddling with his new sleeves instead.
Phainon was at a loss. How amusing. Were he to reveal his status as a Titan, he was fairly certain that the price to be paid would be all but void. However, doing so brought a sour taste to his tongue. It would be unfair to factor in his divinity whilst bartering with a helpless mortal. He was reasonable, at least. Perhaps he could—
"Is something the matter, sir?"
Phainon looked up, only to catch Mydeimos placing his ring onto the dish. The rusted scales squeaked as they shifted, swaying till it favoured the blessed golden band instead.
His heart dared skip a beat.
"Ah, it appears that your offer is far too much," the garmentmaker stammered. "Perhaps there is something else you can place for Talanton's judgement? I cannot possibly accept this in good faith."
"Mydeimos," his name was uttered through a whisper as the swordsman furrowed his brows. "That ring is worth more than the entirety of Amphoreus. Surely, you cannot be offering it up for a mere garment..."
But his lover hardly passed him a look. "Material objects serve little purpose. Your sentimentality robs you of objectivity."
Even still! That ring was forged with the Worldbearing Titan's ichor. It was a gift to celebrate the birth of his lover's new life. How could Mydeimos think to give it away so easily? And why did he speak as though rationality was the sole factor in his decision?
Rather than revoking his payment, Mydeimos turned toward the other offerings laid upon the shelves and displays. He gestured a hand upon a few more items, to which the garmentmaker chuckled and indulged his silent request.
It was an exhausting ordeal—one that dawdled on for too long—but by the end of it, both parties had eventually settled on agreeable terms, without Phainon's input.
"May Kephale light your travels, gentlemen." Though the old man would see his customers out from a shop significantly less-stocked, he seemed happy to bid them farewell as Dawnlight shone upon them once again.
Without anyone to overhear them now, Phainon allowed his voice to carry a little louder as they walked. The satchel Mydeimos had also bargained for was heavy with a few new clothes for the road, and the soles of his boots clacked against the odd stones on the pathway.
"Are you truly certain? Paying for mortal goods with a divine blessing is quite the bold decision," Phainon chided, even if his tone lacked any true vitriol.
For his lover's benefit, he supposed he should commend him for his resourcefulness. At least they now appeared to blend in with the locals of this land—and Phainon shall concede that his lover looked more comfortable with a proper pair of sandals.
Mydeimos was carrying his own satchel—if a little more awkwardly than Phainon. He had slung it over his shoulder and wrapped his arms around the bag itself, much like a rucksack filled with one of many essentials.
"You need not complain about blood-smeared clothing any further," he said.
"I suppose..." Perhaps it had not occurred to Mydeimos yet that humans did, indeed, tend to launder their garments every so often. Phainon could admit that shedding his old cloak and armour to don fresh linens was a wonderful breath of fresh air. Now, "We still have little to our names, but this temporary stop has proven to be interesting. You are far more brazen than I initially assumed."
And before Mydeimos could smile upon that remark, he was nudged gently by his arm. "Do not mistake it for a compliment, by the way. It is imperative to recognise the value of all we possess. Our exchange earlier could never have been balanced by mortal means. It was only through our mutual agreement that the trade was deemed lawful."
"Are you unsatisfied?" Mydeimos asked, before he shook his head and frowned, "No—or are you... disappointed?"
Well, Phainon was not above that. He was not above anger or frustration, either. It was a shame that his lover lacked any concept of those emotions; perhaps he would have thought differently before acting otherwise. Alas, it was but a fleeting moment. The Worldbearing Titan did not possess the power to return to the past, nor did they think the whole ordeal to be blasphemous.
There was only one thing which bothered Phainon enough to confront his lover about, "You claimed that material objects served little purpose. Was that belief spawned out of your previous existence as my blade?"
"I harboured no particular sentiments during then. My duty, my purpose, was ingrained from the moment I was forged. And yet..." Mydeimos slowed to a stop at that, as if he had forgotten his legs. His eyes were cast off to the great distance, yet he did not comprehend the view laid out before him, "with each life I claimed through slaughter and bloodshed, I became dull and blunt, and slowly lost sight of my duty. Perhaps my flaw as a living soul with the body of a sword ultimately led me to desiring more."
Sentience was a gift, after all. It was simply a shame that Mydeimos had to endure such a miserable existence for so long.
If Phainon could have his way...
Actually, he could.
"You will never face the battlefield again." It was a vow uttered between his lips, solemn and resolute for the man he so loved. He laced his fingers through Mydeimos' own and captured his warm hand to bring him close, to steer his attention back to the present.
Phainon steeled himself as he weaved determination behind every word. The whispers of the Titans' tongue resounded through the air like ripples in stagnant water.
"Your hands shall never have to grasp the hilt of a sword, Mydeimos. You shall never face the cruelty of battle, nor will you ever know fear. From this day forth, only I shall protect you with my life."
The swordsman knew well the weight of his vow. His divine authority shackled his soul to bearing the fate of Amphoreus' entirety; yet this... This was a selfish burden he would greedily steal. No other soul will ever touch Mydeimos, for his purity may never be sullied by the mud of mortal hands.
Like a polished blade forged for battle, but never drawn out of its sheath.
Mydeimos had nothing to say to that. It seemed he was unphased by his lover's proclamation, for he lowered his gaze once again, this time to study the firmer grip on his limp hand. He raised no arguments, pulled no particular expression, and remained as still as a marble statue; till his lips inched toward the ghost of a smile.
"I will hold you to that, Phainon."
Amphoreus was a vast, sprawling world. Travelling on foot would lead them through valleys and forests and oceans unknown, without signs of civilisation for days—even weeks—on end.
And yet neither Phainon nor Mydeimos complained, for this journey of theirs had no destination in mind. They simply wandered wherever they pleased, explored the world at a leisurely, lazy pace. The eternal Dawn was ever bright, lighting their path onwards without direction or purpose. It was an existence fueled by the purest whim, and Phainon had never been happier.
The first time rain descended upon them, Mydeimos had refused to take shelter in favour of experiencing rainfall on his person.
The first time a sprawling field of flowers greeted their eyes, Phainon had swept his lover into his arms and settled them on the highest branch of a tree to overlook the gorgeous view.
The first time Mydeimos had tripped and fell into a lake, Phainon had spent countless hours teaching him how to swim once the shock of the incident had quelled.
And the first time they were accosted by strangers amidst a beautiful, serene woodland, Phainon had taken to his duty and stepped before Mydeimos.
There were men in full armour, bearing shields and swords whilst poised on the defense. They seemed unwilling to leave. In fact, they seemed to have found their target, if the unarmed woman draped in fine gold was anything to go by. A strange one, she was. She and her men were not of the black tide. Phainon could recognise a familiar presence, yet he could not recall ever seeing a face like hers.
"Greetings, travelers," even her voice was regal, trailed by a divine timbre despite her cold, unseeing stare. She spoke with dignity and grace, "I am Aglaea, bearer of Mnestia's coreflame and leader of the Chrysos Heirs residing in Okhema."
Her title meant nothing to Phainon, nor did the implications regarding the Romance Titan's authority. He was much more curious about her confrontation, for the tension was bubbling like water under high heat.
He said nothing. He admitted nothing. Surely, he and Mydeimos were not trespassing, were they? Or was there something else this strange woman sought?
Aglaea tipped her head aside ever-so-subtly, as though she had caught the whispers of something invisible. However, she next raised her voice a little louder, with a little more gentleness to her tone, "At ease, travelers. We come to you not with hostility, but invitation instead. I have personally come to receive you two, and to offer you entrance to Okhema as esteemed guests of the holy city.
"Will you join us on our Flame-Chase journey, oh fellow Chrysos Heirs?”