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At the centre of Okhema’s commerce, Marmoreal Market had remained unchanged since its construction. The vendors came and went as some retired, sometimes passing their stores onto their trusted family and friends, or found their business no longer profitable and found work elsewhere in the city.
Always essential but never quite constant. They were the blood thrumming the heart of the holy city’s and sun-bleached stone streets, and that morning it raced with new vigour.
A recent excursion against the black tide had brought a new influx of refugees to the holy city. It was a preemptive evacuation of the towns and villages along the borderlands. Still untouched by the corrosion of all life for now, but the black tide was surging quicker along the borderlands than Mydei and Aglaea had anticipated. The progress tracked between prior excursions had suddenly sped up.
When the detachment scattered to spread the message as quickly as possible, it had given the villagers enough time to take their belongings onto their backs and flee. Now they hoped to sell what valuables they still possessed in order to fund their resettlement. Nothing unusual when new refugees arrived, but it brought a novelty of goods not always found in Okhema.
Unfortunately, there was nothing novel about the exchange in front of Mydei. One unchanged for as long as Mydei had been privy to it.
“I heard your wife fell ill. How is she? Has she visited the Twilight Courtyard? I would be happy to contact my friend to ensure she’s seen by a physician.”
“That’s a much too generous offer. And wholly unnecessary. She has been under the weather as of late but she’s been recovering steadily.”
“What a relief to hear!”
“I’m sure she’ll recover even quicker with the news of your concern.”
Entry Hour had given way to Lucid Hour yet Mydei was still less than halfway through Marmoreal Market. If he were alone then he would have come and gone before Entry Hour ended, striding through the stalls with an unwavering focus for the items he planned to purchase. There were better uses of his time than wandering around in the hopes of tossing coins at things he objectively had no use for.
A conservative lifestyle left over from his days in exile. A time when excess possessions simply meant more weight on their backs and their carts to slow them down. More to keep track of, more to pack and unpack with the encampment; every time, a reminder of their unmoored existence.
Not to say Mydei led an ascetic life. He had no qualms lavishing coin on things that caught his eye. Those things just happened to be practical items, necessities bought with more coin than strictly necessary but would be put to good use for it: fine garments to lounge in during those scant hours of relaxation he had to himself, quality produce, and the kitchenware to cook them; and, of course, metal for the sake of his undying body, wether jewellery, armour or weaponry.
Except Mydei so rarely hunted the marketplace alone. Once a solitary lion loosed on the prairies for the best game, and now accompanied by an excitable dog who got sidetracked by every interesting scent, sound and sight.
“I hope your daughter didn’t catch whatever illness befell your wife. I assume she was the one caring for her.”
“Yes. Those sons of mine have terrible bedside manners. A soldier in training I can understand, but even the one studying at the Grove leaves much to be desired. The only thing worse are their attempts at cooking.”
This was the fourth prolonged detour on their way to purchase pomegranates. Mydei shifted between his feet and huffed his displeasure. The vendor’s smile tightened at the edges as his eyes flitted to Mydei, yet Mydei’s companion chatted away.
Every other morning, it was Phainon who insisted he accompany Mydei to the marketplace. Insist rather than request. Whether it was loitering outside Mydei’s front door in the morning, lurking by the marketplace entrance, or even picking the lock to enter Mydei’s home and drag him from the kline on the one morning Mydei happened to oversleep. Phainon received a key not long after.
When Phainon set his mind to something he was near impossible to sway. He was inescapable: Mydei was certain he could board Castrum Kremnos and disappear into the fogs creeping ever closer to Okhema, and Phainon would still find him in time for the marketplace to open.
Phainon’s company guaranteed this stall selling—for the first time since Phainon dragged him over by the arm, Mydei squinted at the produce—fresh apples was just as inescapable. Simply due to Phainon’s ability to stop speaking.
An endless tirade of questions and digressions into the vendor’s family ( a wife, two sons, a daughter and a rehomed chimera who sustained an injury rendering it unable to safely work for the Garden ), their business that morning ( the same as usual ) and then their business that week ( a little slow in the first half but picking up in the latter half ).
At one point Phainon attempted to needle the recipe for the vendor’s favourite apple dish ( a pie baked by his wife; his daughter’s attempts were simply never the same ) despite his total failings in the kitchen that would render any apples into tasteless pulp.
“It must be strange to manage the stall alone after spending so long with company. Feel free to find me if you’re ever in need of help. I will happily lend a hand,” Phainon offered with his usual carefree smile and unquestioning sincerity. A combination that left little room for refusal.
The vendor laughed it off as best he could, knowing as well as anyone in city the number of responsibilities Phainon carried, and was hesitant to add to them. “Stop by tomorrow and you’ll see my wife has come to join me for some fresh air and daylight. She was always better with the finances than me. As for the heavy lifting, this body is still as sturdy as ever. Feel no need to trouble yourself, Lord Phainon.”
“It would be no trouble,” Phainon reassured him.
“Then, in advance for any aid I may request from you in future, take these.”
The vendor picked up two apples and shoved them at Phainon before he could refuse. Then stacked two more on top before he could think to put them down. The hands of a seasoned merchant were truly a worthy match for a warrior.
Phainon fumbled and, finally acknowledging his presence, glanced at Mydei for help. Mydei only looked away and left Phainon to string together an argument befitting a debate champion, “Ah, that would be…”
The vendor was not a seasoned debater by the standards of the Grove and had no obligation to give his opponent time for a rebuttal. He only nodded and forced his way through. “Half price.”
“Is still far too generous,” Phainon protested. “Your daughter’s marriage is approaching and she will soon need her dowry.”
“Four for the price of one.”
So Phainon came away with four steeply discounted apples. Two, considering he immediately tossed one and then another to Mydei. They were a decent size even in palms as large as his own, a bright red stark and shiny against his gauntlets.
“Are these the two you paid for? Or the two that came free?” Mydei asked.
“If they came free then they would hardly be a gift from me to you, would they?”
“You enjoy them so much you ask for the recipe of a pie baked by that man’s wife.” Mydei tossed one apple high, ensuring he had Phainon’s attention when he caught it and prepared to lob it back to him. “Keep them for yourself.”
“Exactly,” Phainon rushed to say before Mydei could follow through with the throw. “I enjoy them so much that I simply must share them with you.”
“I have no need of them,” Mydei argued. “I ate a filling breakfast this morning.”
The same could not be said for Phainon, who preferred to rise late rather than early when left to his own schedule. But he forced himself awake earlier than his body willingly rose and hurried to intercept Mydei, often forgoing breakfast, so they could roam the market together.
“One bite,” Phainon bargained. He narrowed his eyes, a taunt, as he took a crisp mouthful, juice glossing the corner of his lips. “But if even that is too much for your small stomach then I suppose…”
He swiped a hand but Mydei reeled both his back.
“What kind of ridiculous challenge is that?” Mydei scowled but he snapped his jaws in a sharp bite, as though he had fresh meat between his fangs and not fruit.
Phainon’s goading smirk grew into an eager smile. “Tasty, aren’t they?”
While they had certainly looked appealing stacked on the cart and pressed against Phainon’s lips, their worth went deeper than skin. They were crisp and sweet. A strong yet mellow taste that lingered on the tongue.
“Why do you bother me with questions you know the answer to?” Mydei retorted around another bite, one he took the time to savour more than the first.
Phainon hummed. “It’s simple. I enjoy hearing it.” When Mydei arched a brow with the obvious question of what Phainon could mean except Mydei’s voice, his smirk returned. “You admitting defeat.”
Mydei’s unbitten apple bounced off Phainon’s head. Before it could hit the ground, Phainon caught it in the crook between his foot and ankle, and bounced it safely back into Mydei’s awaiting hand.
Phainon tutted, rubbing at his temple melodramatically when not even the apple had bruised, let alone that thick skull. “That was my payment for your precious time. We spent quite a while at that stall—“ because of course Phainon noticed Mydei’s impatience when half of his senses, at minimum, were attuned to Mydei’s presence at his side. If Mydei had tried to leave, Phainon would have snagged his sleeve before he made it half a step, “—I would feel terrible if you got nothing out of it.”
It was always the same excuse when Phainon plied Mydei with meat skewers, small bread loaves, fruits and whatever else caught his attention during their mornings in the marketplace. Sometimes it was carefully cultivated flowers that Phainon insisted would brighten up Mydei’s sparse andron while he tucked one behind Mydei’s ear.
Various foods were the most harmless purchases. An improvement from the few times Phainon had dumped gifts too expensive to justify in Mydei’s palms and gazed up at him with wide, expectant eyes hidden behind a few teasing jabs. Things Mydei never asked for but couldn’t deny were… nice. Thoughtful.
Regardless, Mydei advised him to manage his finances more appropriately and stop with the gifts entirely. Phainon made the same face every time—as though Mydei had cruelly denied him by trying to keep some weight to his coin pouch. The droop to his shoulders would have disappeared quickest if only Mydei pointed at every stall in the market and demanded Phainon purchase him the most expensive items from all of them.
So, one year ago, Mydei accepted that prohibitively expensive scroll Phainon bought for him solely because it originated from Castrum Kremnos. But only with Phainon’s solemn words that any gifts from then on would be limited to whims that wouldn’t lead him to bankruptcy: honeyed figs, fish skewers, fresh apples.
“My time cannot be bought.”
Not for gold inlaid with jewels. Not for city-states. Not for expensive scrolls marked with the emblem of homeland that was never truly home. Certainly not for some fruit in the marketplace that he would be purchasing from now on when his recipes required apples. And especially not that ugly vase sold by the stall to Phainon’s left.
“Oh, is that so,” Phainon said mildly.
A dangerously low and level tone, a facsimile of consideration. The one Phainon used in preparation for a closing statement so inane Mydei wondered whether his debate champion titles were fraudulent.
“Then, if such gifts are for naught, there must be something else that brings you to the market with me every other morning. Yet the only consistent thing would be the pleasure of my company.”
It really was an ugly vase. Mydei wasn’t versed at relic appraisal in the formal manner. His education came from a lifetime of experience; years of wandering partially funded by the collection and sale of valuables from defeated armies and cities.
If that vase passed Phainon’s little tests, which failed just as often as they succeeded in identifying a genuine antique, outside of scholarly pursuits there should be no value in something so blatantly unattractive. Even at a distance, he could see that the stripes of yellow and purple paint were poorly applied.
Mydei’s brows twitched. “You speak as though you wouldn’t have hunted me down if I failed to make our meeting.”
They passed the stall.
Phainon hummed, once again a mockery of thoughtfulness when he grinned. “I would be a poor companion to let you miss out on such an opportunity to indulge when you live with such restraint.”
They passed the stall. The stall with the ugly vase in Phainon’s favourite colours and would fit tremendously amidst Phainon’s storage room of other aesthetically offensive fake antiques.
Mydei’s brows twitched. “Deliverer? Do you need your eyes checked?”
Although he asked, it wasn’t as though Phainon had failed to notice the vase. For the briefest moment it had caught his eye, only for him to move on in less than a blink. It was beyond unusual. Reason alone never stopped him from making such ill-advised purchases. The only thing that ever stopped him was a lack of coin.
“I would have noticed if you didn’t enjoy my company, Mydei.”
He kissed his teeth and bit into his apple, finding satisfaction in the crunch between his molars as he chewed. “Forget it.”
Phainon’s habit of hauling Mydei to the market with the same dedication merchants hauled their wares—one time more literally than the others, since Phainon’s attempts to rouse him were met with sleepy silence. By the time Mydei awoke, later than usual, he was being carried on Phainon’s back—could be exasperating at times but it had benefits. It was an opportunity to observe Phainon closely, and feel that indecipherable thought catch at the back of his mind as he did.
While Kremnoans found haggling bothersome, Phainon enjoyed the opportunity to build a rapport with every stall owner. He teased out discounts or offers that were offered to Okhema’s famed deliverer, but also someone like a reliable friend. Combined with the stipend he received for his duties as a Chrysos Heir—one who went on black tide expeditions with a frequency only second to Mydei’s mandatory presence—he should never lack funds.
Yet, for all Phainon’s charms and intellect, he also had a terrible habit of falling for all sorts of scams. The most common threat to his savings were antiques or, more accurately, fake ones, but there were plenty of other things Phainon sank more coin into than they were worth: fabrics sold as masterpieces, produce sold as the best of its kind, scrolls sold as rare.
Mydei had taken to glaring menacingly over Phainon’s shoulder at the vendors, usually merchants passing through the holy city, who were speaking more lies than truth about their wares. It was a miracle Phainon ever had coin left to spend.
At the end of the marketplace was Mydei’s usual stall for pomegranates. Galenos chortled at Phainon’s words and their ongoing conversation finally served a greater purpose. It allowed Mydei to carefully contemplated all Phainon’s purchases he had witnessed in the past weeks.
Somehow, Mydei had that ugly vase to thank as the small discrepancies, ones he had waved away during their past outings, finally came together: his purchases lacked their usual exorbitance. Hardly even one ill-advised fake antique or weapon too old for the battlefield.
Since Mydei doubted Phainon had suddenly gained a rationality that years in the Grove hadn’t imbued in him, not even under threat of Anaxa’s gun, there was only one conclusion Mydei could come to: Phainon was more destitute than usual.
“Your usual order,” Phainon announced as he handed over the small sack of pomegranates, set aside for Mydei before the marketplace opened. “Since you have your hands full, you should return home first. I just remembered that I have somewhere else to be.”
Before Mydei could dissect Phainon’s flimsy argument, Phainon left a kiss on Mydei’s cheek, turned around and sped back into the marketplace. The heat of Phainon’s lips, no matter how brief, lingered on Mydei’s skin and spread in a light flush.
A pointed cough, more of stifled laugh, and he glared at Galenos, who dutifully lowered his head, hands moving produce or coin or whatever else was hidden from Mydei’s view. Perhaps air, simply so he could appear busy.
Mydei’s hands were hardly full. His only purchases of the morning were foodstuffs for the next couple of days. Some of the items were bulky but those were placed inside his satchel; combined they were still far from the weight of a spear and shield.
It was standard for him to return home so everything could be properly stored. What was strange was that Phainon insisted he go alone.
Phainon, who clung to Mydei at every opportunity, going so far as to demand Mydei bathe with him twice a day every day.
Phainon, who insisted the marketplace be part of their shared daily routine and almost always kept an arm over his shoulder, around his waist, gripping his arm or wherever else he thought he could get away with.
Phainon, who always found excuses to enter Mydei’s home since Aglaea insisted their affections be private rather than public matters.
Phainon who had, for all intents and purposes, ditched Mydei at the end of their date.
With a sigh, Mydei prowled back into the marketplace. New prey to find amongst the stalls with the ruthless efficiency of a solitary hunter.
The first place he checked was the stall with the ugly vase. No Phainon and the vase was still in place—and likely would go unsold for sometime. At a closer distance it was even uglier: slightly lopsided, paint unevenly applied prior to firing—so he knew Phainon had a different objective or both would have vanished by now.
Without a clue of what exactly Phainon endeavoured to accomplish, Mydei could only rely on his senses to locate him. With the passing of the day, the marketplace had gradually begun to empty, easing Mydei’s movements and the skim of his gaze across each passerby.
He retraced their steps halfway through the marketplace before he caught a flash of white in the corner of his eye.
The stall and its owner were new, likely one of the new refugees, but Mydei couldn’t see exactly what had captured Phainon’s attention until he was directly behind Phainon. Once again, he was absorbed in conversation with the vendor as though they were good friends. This time, too busy to realise Mydei was directly behind him.
“What are you doing?”
Phainon yelped and spun so fast he almost tipped backwards over the table. “M-Mydei, what a coincidence.”
How nonsensical. Hardly worth listening to. Mindless rabble, which meant Phainon was genuinely nervous as Mydei glanced down at his hands. A scroll.
Phainon followed his eye and his face paled as he tucked his hands behind his back. “Are you here to purchase some reading material too? Funny, I thought you couldn’t read,” he said with a weak chuckle.
“Deliverer,” Mydei said calmly, not falling for the taunt. Phainon’s jaw snapped shut and he nodded stiffly, stood to perfect attention. “I have no issues with whatever literature you choose to indulge in.”
A confused furrow to his brow. Then his face slackened with realisation that rushed to his head as quick as the blood flushing his cheeks.
He gaped wordlessly, until a strangled noise escaped him. “I-it’s not—what are you trying to imply here? I am… my mind and my morals are pure! I have no need of such a thing I assure you I—“
That was almost laughable considering the way Phainon stared whenever they bathed together.
“A healthy appreciation for another warrior’s body!” he insisted cheerily.
“Then what excuse to do you intend to give me for that scroll hidden behind your back?” Mydei pressed with a pointed look at the hands tucked stubbornly away like a child caught misbehaving.
Phainon’s lips flapped without a sound, closing only to open again, then finally fully shut as he bowed his head in defeat.
Mydei stepped closer to skim over the stall’s wares, withholding any comments on the way Phainon shifted so the scroll was hidden by his body.
The majority of items for sale were various scrolls. Mydei wrinkled his nose. He doubted any would be suited to his tastes considering Phainon’s face was still aflame, practically wilted at Mydei’s side.
The vendor glanced between the two of them. “Lord Phainon, I heard rumours you were close companions with Lord Mydeimos. I owe my life to Lord Mydeimos and his warriors, so I would be happy to provide you a discount since that one is—“
“That’s all right!” Phainon burst, and Mydei startled with the vendor.
Phainon rarely interrupted anyone, only nodding along and laughing in the correct places even if that meant all of Lucid Hour passed in conversation with one lonely, elderly Okheman.
Realising his mistake, Phainon winced too but chuckled weakly. “I would be remiss to lower an already reasonable price when you need the coin much more than I.”
Phainon dug through his coat for his coin pouch and Mydei arched a brow at the number he handed over. Mydei wasn’t familiar with this small, self-contained economy but he doubted that was a reasonable price.
“Are you finished?” Mydei asked, coin gone so any cautionary glares at the vendor would be for nothing. Phainon nodded timidly. “And will you be returning home with your purchases before our spar?” Another timid nod. “Let’s be off.”
The scroll was carefully tucked under Phainon’s coat, out of sight as they departed from the market and went their separate ways home. Phainon practically tucked his tail between his legs and fled.
It was a suspicious amount of coin for a single scroll. He could have easily purchased that ugly vase for less than half. Yet he couldn’t afford both as his coin pouch was practically empty after taking possession of the scroll.
Mydei huffed as kicked off his sandals and checked his teleslate. He had some time to spare before their daily spar, so he headed for the kitchen with intention to do more than store his new ingredients.
By the time he was finished and arrived at Phainon’s doorstep, he was still early. He raised his hand to knock but paused. Considering the speed Phainon departed earlier, almost forgetting to give Mydei a farewell kiss, Mydei wouldn’t be surprised if Phainon avoided Mydei for the rest of the day to wallow in humiliation.
Mydei didn’t see the issue. He couldn’t fault Phainon for having needs. If anything it should open a conversation about the physical aspect of their relationship. As the one most embarrassed by it, he would leave Phainon the opportunity to address that himself. If a few weeks passed without word then Mydei would take charge.
Mydei used his copy of Phainon’s key to unlock his front door. First, he went to the kitchen to place down the basket he packed at home. Except the counters were still covered in the foodstuff Phainon purchased that morning, yet no indication Phainon planned to cook any of it or had before Mydei’s arrival.
He peeked into the andron yet that room, another mess but of old scrolls and antiques and oddities, was just as devoid of company. So Mydei sighed and returned to the kitchen to properly store everything away.
The next place Mydei checked was the bedroom, in case he felt like sleeping his embarrassment away, but the kline was neatly made and the curtains parted.
The bathroom door was ajar. Not that Phainon often bathed there when he preferred the large, open baths of Marmoreal Palace and coaxing Mydei into accompanying him.
The remaining rooms were reserved for Phainon’s various collections. He separated antiques by era, genuine or attempting to replicate. The exception were weapons, stored in a separate armoury.
Just as he was deliberating which room to check first, a muffled sound came down the hallway. His head turned, ears honed upon the small clatter and the quiet curse that followed, slipping beneath one of the doorways.
When he knocked, all noise halted. “Phainon, I’m coming in.”
“N-no! I’ll come out to you—“
Mydei opened the door only for Phainon to charge towards him and throw his full weight forwards. It would have been enough to knock Mydei off his feet but his hand lashed out and grappled for the doorframe, catching both their weights despite Phainon’s insistent clinging attempting to drag them down together.
All of Mydei’s limbs were occupied keeping them from stumbling backwards out the room, feet digging into the floor and hands into the doorframe, so he could only hiss, “What have you been buying?”
“Nothing!”
A room full of nothing at all. That was why every time Mydei shifted his head to get a glimpse, Phainon would mirror his actions exactly—foreheads nearly pressed together, Phainon’s flushed cheeks warming Mydei’s skin more than their shared breaths—to block any attempt at an insight into all of Phainon’s strange behaviours slowly coalescing into a whole image just beyond Mydei’s reach.
“Haikas, move.”
Wood chipped by his claws fell to the ground as Mydei released the doorframe and lunged for Phainon’s jaw. He whipped his head out the way with a practiced ease, an instinct cultivated by their spars against one another. His mind caught up a moment too late.
The room opened up to Mydei’s purview. Shelves stretched from wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling. Every available space was filled with scrolls.
Defeated, Phainon slumped against him.
Although Phainon couldn’t see it with his face buried in Mydei’s shoulders, Mydei eyed him anyway. “Should I be concerned you feel the need to have so many…”
“They aren’t that!” Phainon wailed and staggered back a few steps, as though he had endured a physical blow. One only Mydei could land because the strength of little else could faze him. “None of them are that.”
With a watchful eye on Phainon, hands through his hair with wide eyes appearing on the brink of tears even while dry, Mydei closed the door behind him and crossed his arms. An immovable bulwark if Phainon attempted to flee.
Although Phainon usually preferred to confront things head on, he had practically scurried away earlier and Mydei couldn’t recall the last time he witnessed Phainon so shamefaced when he excelled at being so shameless.
Phainon was so eager to state what they weren’t without elaborating on what they were. He simply stared somewhere over Mydei’s shoulder with a faraway, despondent gaze, as though Mydei were his executioner finally coming to claim his head.
“Then what are they?” Mydei prompted. “What could make a single scroll worth more than some spend on jewels?”
“It’s…” Phainon’s hands clenched at his sides, still not quite mustering the courage to meet Mydei’s gaze, eyes flitting to his face and then away just as quick. He heaved a sigh and his hands fell slack. “See for yourself.”
Mydei arched a brow and began with a slow step. When Phainon didn’t retract the offer or even make another attempt to force him from the room so Phainon could burn it to the ground and throw himself from the shaded window, he surveyed the room in full. There was nothing much he could glean except Phainon purchased a lot of scrolls, and Mydei wondered how he had the coin to feed himself if even half costed as much as he handed over that morning.
He chose a random shelf and a random scroll. The container was worn, exposed to the elements at some point in its life; not created in Okhema or even the Grove. A fact that became even more obvious when he slid the parchment from the container and the flex of his clawed fingers was as delicate as he could manage against degraded parchment and wood, lest they disintegrate in his hold. He unfurled it.
Kremnoan. It was undoubtedly Kremnoan captured in every ink stroke. And that emblem at the top—
Mydei rolled it tight and slid it back inside the container, hardly pushing it back into its proper place on the shelf before he grabbed the one next to it. Different ink tone and handwriting to record different words. But still Kremnoan and still that same emblem stamped at the top.
No matter how many scrolls Mydei checked, the language and the sigil never changed.
Kremnoan texts from the Library of Garbaniphoro.
Mydei breathed, trying to clear his mind as he did a stagnant room by opening a window to air it.
But his voice was still strung to the point of breaking, no use in loosing an arrow to meet its target when he struggled for the words, “Phainon… how?”
There were many questions folded into one. How did he find all these texts? How did he afford all of them? How did he persevere and hide them from Mydei long enough to build such a collection? How did he even know what to look for?
Phainon’s shoulders shrank into himself. “That scroll I gifted you a year ago. I chatted with the previous owner at length before purchasing it and learned much about the libraries of Castrum Kremnos. Including its royal library and the seal placed on all texts when first catalogued.”
The symbol of Kremnos’ royal family hardly varied from the Symbol of Strife—after all, the warrior who could crown themselves in the old king’s blood strived to become the embodiment of Strife and uphold the dynasty’s traditions. To a layman, it was only an indicator that it came from Castrum Kremnos and not the library it was once archived in.
“I know you told me not to purchase gifts at greater value than you would hold for them yourself,” Phainon recited near perfectly from that conversation a year ago.
After all, Mydei had no need nor want for the purchases Phainon was so intent on bestowing onto him. Mydei’s company wasn’t conditional on the things he could receive from Phainon. Gold and jewels, conquered city-states, expensive scrolls that should have been lost to history—none of it could buy his time, let alone his affections.
No matter how valuable something was judged to be, if Mydei deemed it worthless then their words were meaningless. The same if others judged something as less than dirt but Mydei held it up as something of worth. Even if only to him and him alone.
To Mydei, Phainon was invaluable, and that would never change.
In that aspect, the two of them were similar. No matter how people commented on Phainon’s lacking eye for aesthetics, he proudly indulged in the clashing colours and unappealing aesthetics he enjoyed.
If he were someone who bowed to the whims of others then they—the deliverer of Okhema, and the warrior prince of Kremnos—never would have become companions, comrades, lovers. That unconventionality, a commitment to himself, his morals and his ideals, was one of the traits that lifted Phainon above all others in Mydei’s eye.
Now Phainon lifted his head to finally meet Mydei’s eyes, utterly unrepentant. There was only the resolve that could have led him to amass such a collection in only one short year. “But, Mydei, all of these belong to you.”
For all that confidence, Mydei only returned it with a flat stare. “Not once did I step foot in that library.”
“That’s beside the point.”
Although it very much was part of the point. How could Mydei claim ownership over possessions that may have been the birthright of position he was rejected from, and rejected in turn when the time came.
“The first time I encountered the symbol… it felt wrong for the scroll to fall into anyone else’s possession, especially someone who would fail to see its true value. The Grove of Epiphany still refuses to meaningfully diversify its collection due to outdated assumptions about Kremnoan culture,” Phainon said, outraged as though it were Kremnoan blood in his veins.
Mydei kissed his teeth. “I have no need of them.”
What use did he have for texts that glorified the history and culture of Kremnos: its bloodshed and conquest. History should be preserved and remembered but only as teachings for the future. Many of these should have been left to rot in the husk of a dynasty that had spent centuries with a blade in hand, hollowing itself out to nothing.
The only Kremnoan scrolls he needed were already in his possession.
“You don’t need to take personal ownership of them,” Phainon suggested and his boldness waned again as he looked from Mydei to the scrolls, avoiding the questioning tilt of Mydei’s head. “I had the idea that, perhaps, a library could be created here in Okhema for the displaced Kremnoans. It could become something of a cultural centre to help them feel that they always have a place in the holy city. One to aid in the transformation of preconceived notions about Kremnoans.”
For those who feared Kremnoan culture would disappear under Okhema’s majority. For those who wished to preserve their language and history for the children who had never seen Castrum Kremnos. For those who simply longed for home.
Not a bad idea. If anything, it was rather brilliant.
Mydei’s eyes narrowed, dragging slow over Phainon’s features and fidgety body. “You thought about this at length.”
Beyond whether Mydei would like or dislike this elaborate gift. Phainon thought about the future.
The tension in Phainon’s shoulders and face eased away enough for him to chuckle beneath his breath. “You always claim you hate unnecessary, meaningless gifts. Much like words etched in ink, you can make these as meaningful as you wish. Burn them, secret them away, or expose them to the public.”
He couldn’t even begin to guess at the cost of every scrap of marked and weathered parchment. It would an endeavour to calculate, one Phainon would hinder rather than help. Mydei doubted he kept expense receipts of his purchases, or any physical evidence except what was all around them, carefully stored and locked away.
Mydei admired the sight of it all with a new eye, one that had been too hasty mere moments ago, and quietly asked, “Even after you depleted your coffers?”
After all that effort and sacrifice?
Phainon’s expression remained painfully earnest as he smiled and laid a hand over his chest, swearing, “The choice is yours, Mydei.”
Because each of these scrolls were only worth as much to Phainon as Mydei decided they were worth to himself.
Mydei huffed a laugh and held out a hand, Phainon tilting his head as he blinked at it until Mydei prompted, “The scroll you purchased today. I assume you have a system you organise these by.”
An enthusiastic nod that bobbed the ends of Phainon’s hair, still mussed from his panic. The step ladder was already in place against the appropriate shelf. Phainon only needed to climb about halfway and slide a scroll free, passing it down to Mydei waiting at the bottom.
Another one from the Library of Garbaniphoro but this scroll was slightly different from the rest. There was newer ink, still by no means recent, nestled in the gaps and margins of the original text.
It was familiar handwriting. One that marked the scrolls Mydei kept preserved in a dark room of his own home.
A quiet laugh, more a puff of air under Mydei’s breath. “This one… may have been your most worthwhile purchase.”
And Mydei had seen with his own eyes how much coin Phainon had exchanged for it.
Phainon perked up, eyes crinkled with curiosity and joy at the praise. “Truly? The owner said it was a text on Kremnoan military strategy. An analysis of how it could best be adapted to counter Okhema’s own formations. Dated back to the Chrysos Wars.”
“Beyond the preservation of the past, that information has little value to me,” Mydei admitted and he jerked his head for Phainon to come closer, shoulder-to-shoulder so Phainon watch Mydei point at the annotations. “Back in my days of exile, one of my dearest companions, who had been with me since the beginning, was a man by the name of Ptolemy. Before he left Castrum Kremnos, he stole many books from the royal library and took them with him into exile. This was once his.”
A text Mydei had seen numerous times as the detachment sought to teach Mydei all he needed to be their crown prince and future king. Second in importance only to personal prowess with a weapon was military strategy.
When it had gone missing some time after Ptolemy’s death, Mydei had been distraught. Not to the point of tears but it was a near thing when he tore through what remained of Ptolemy’s possessions that had become Mydei’s after that ill-fated encounter with Aidonian rebels. He even dug through Leonnius’ possessions, as though he ever would have been careless enough to mix them.
Krateros assured him that every word, original or appended, was memorised to be rewritten by Krateros’ hand at any time. But that was hardly the point. A new sheaf of parchment with someone else’s handwriting could never measure up, like debased coins melding gold with bronze.
Wide eyes gazed at him with something like wonder. Unsurprising, since Mydei had never mentioned much of his days in exile beyond a few recounts of battles or sieges when Phainon was exceptionally curious.
To him, such information as a name that still bore a place in Mydei’s heart was undoubtedly worth as much, perhaps more than, the gold he splurged on these scrolls incomprehensible to him—valuable only because of their potential value to Mydei. It was up to Mydei to convey to Phainon how much they were truly worth
Mydei leaned towards him and Phainon’s eyes flicked down to his lips before they closed. It was a brief kiss, something short and sweet. Not fuelled by a spark of passion or desire for more. It was the quiet love that could keep itself alight in the dark, hidden away and unacknowledged for a year. The type of love that lasted even once the records of it weathered and faded into obscurity.
But he still murmured against his lips, “This is an invaluable gift. Thank you, Phainon.”
Carefully, he furled the scroll and slipped it back into its container. Then he passed it into Phainon’s hands, just as cautious as he returned it to its designated spot.
“There are other texts, too. Ones from different Kremnoan libraries. Some of them were supposedly written by the detachment,” Phainon explained as he climbed down the ladder again.
“It’s possible,” Mydei admitted, proven by the scroll they had admired together. “But improbable. Put your appraisal skills to rest. I’ll be able to identify anything you show me as genuine or otherwise. For now, we should eat. The lunch I prepared is in the kitchen.”
Phainon slung both arms around Mydei’s waist, trailing behind him through the door. “What earned me the honour of eating your cooking?”
“I noticed how lacking your funds were.”
“Ah.” Phainon chuckled and tucked his chin over Mydei’s shoulder. “If only I had known it would get me a meal made by your hands, I would have exposed my poor finances to you some time ago.”
“I’m certain you could claim the purchases as expenses,” Mydei mused as they waddled their way to the kitchen but Phainon was content nuzzling against his shoulder and Mydei was content to let him. “Donations to the city’s cultural and educational life.”
Phainon’s hands tightened as he stilled and stopped them in the middle of the hallway, bumping his chest flush to Mydei’s back. “Mydei?”
“I have a few scrolls myself. From Ptolemy’s collection. Ballads written by another friend of mine, Peucesta. Even military accounts by Hephaestion,” Mydei said casually even as he ran his fingers tenderly over that scabbed wound and felt it ache years on.
But Mydei breathed and let the pain fade with acknowledgement rather than time. He glanced over his shoulder at Phainon’s eyes practically alight with anticipation and fondness for the future he had already imagined, now coming to fruition.
“The library… I like that idea, Phainon.”
The hands around his waist were thrown over his shoulders and replaced by Phainon’s legs as Phainon’s weight slammed into Mydei’s back. It was enough to rock even Mydei’s sturdy body but Phainon clung to him like plants climbed cliff-faces. For air, for water, for sunlight; although Phainon was the one beaming at Mydei from where he nestled their temples together.
“Let me contact Aglaea. We can discuss a suitable location,” Phainon blurted much too loudly in Mydei’s ear.
One of Phainon’s hands withdrew from where they overlapped right over Mydei’s mark of Strife. But Mydei caught his wrist with one hand—the other sliding down to catch the back of Phainon’s thighs, despite the flex of muscle strong enough to hold Mydei’s neck and pin him to the ground—and he held Phainon in place.
“Remember to eat first,” Mydei said, too soft to be chastising, as he carried him towards the kitchen.
Once there, Phainon hopped off his back to grab the dishware while Mydei plated up the food and they moved to the andron. Phainon sent Aglaea a message to schedule an appointment in whatever slot of free time she had that day while Mydei considered the work that would go into this endeavour.
Many texts would need to be handled with care but there were those amongst the detachment who were both scholars, by Kremnoan standards rather than the Grove, and warriors. He doubted any of his people would accept the scrolls becoming the responsibility of the Grove. It would be a good excuse for Mydei to encourage some of the older detachment members to retire from expeditions.
There would be other potential issues. The Kremnoans had yet to fully assimilate into Okhema and the glorification of Kremnos’ triumphant, bloodstained history risked driving a further wedge between those who wished to perpetuate that culture of conquest, and the home Mydei hoped they would all find in the holy city.
The most obvious solution would be to withhold the most egregious texts but it was a path Mydei would prefer to avoid. It would be best to consult with Aglaea, Tribbie and perhaps Anaxa on the way forward.
As Phainon lounged atop Mydei on the kline, scooping seeds from a halved pomegranate and pressing fingers stained red and sweet to Mydei’s lips, there were two other things to consider. Firstly, the library needed a name. And second…
”Starting next week, reserve one hour each day.”
Phainon licked the juice running down his fingers before it could spill down his arm. “What for?”
“Lessons on the Kremnoan language.”
Phainon’s face and his hand slackened, pomegranate seeds about to scatter if Mydei’s quick reflexes hadn’t lashed out to catch them.
He popped them into his mouth. “You went through all this effort to build this collection. It would be a waste if you were never able to read any of it.”
Mydei grinned, sharp and wicked around a pomegranate seed pinned between his teeth, and Phainon easily took the bait. Lips and tongues against each other as he thieved that burst of sweetness from Mydei’s mouth, pulling away with slick lips stained red.
Eyes still on Mydei, reclined beneath him against the kline with a smirk he made no effort to suppress, Phainon scooped up another handful of pomegranate seeds and tossed them without care into his own mouth. Then he dove dowm again and spilled them into Mydei’s throat.
They had time before the meeting, so Mydei wrapped his arms around Phainon’s neck and shivered when Phainon’s fingertips, stained dark with pomegranate juice, drew markings down his chest that may as well have been Phainon’s name, a emblem of his, so one glance would tell everyone where Mydei belonged. To whom.
Later they could discuss this small piece of the future, and he would ask how Phainon wanted his name forever preserved in Mydei’s library.