Y𐔌՞꜆.` ̫.꜀՞𐦯

Despite how badly you wanted to talk to him, to update him on everything that had transpired, you were tired. Turns out almost dying a couple of times will do that to you! Regardless, you dragged your feet over to the archives. Graciously, Pom Pom was letting everyone have a rest period before deciding on the next destination. You intended to take full advantage of that grace period. 

You slide the door to the passenger cabin open and quickly make your way to the archives. Not bothering to knock, you open the door and head in, ignoring the catch and leaning against the shelf. You slowly slide yourself down until you’re in a sitting position with your knees against your chest.

You let a small sigh escape, attempting to push all the air out of your lungs before inhaling deeply again. This is nice. Your eyelids slowly flutter shut, heavy with the weight of exhaustion. 

“You look terrible,” the tone is laced with amusement, and you don’t even have to look up to know who it is. 

“Hello to you too,” you mumble, letting your head fall back against the shelf as you make eye contact with him. “Missed you.”

Dan Heng huffed, turning his body away from the shelf he was pondering over to face you fully. 

“How was Penacony?” he asked, walking over to his desk. You watch as he pulls out the chair, swiveling it around to face you before he sits down. “Besides the obvious.”

“Eventful,” you sigh, your head lolling to the side. “Loud. You would’ve hated it.”

“I see.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That’s it? No follow-up questions?”

“I assumed you’d elaborate.”

He was right. He always is.

“We were trapped in some sort of Dreamscape,” you explain, unfurling your legs from your chest, letting them lay against the ground. “It was really confusing. And Sunday was a part of it.”

“And I assume you’re not thrilled with the decision to let him stay?” It was almost scary how accurately Dan Heng could read you. You normally ignore it, chalking it up to the fact he’s who you spend most of your time with when on the Express. But it does become unsettling when he always seems to be two steps ahead of you at all times.

“I’m not ecstatic,” is your eventual answer. “I believe he had good intentions and that he can choose to be better with a bit of guidance… but it’s not like I can just forget everything, you know?”

He nods, folding his arms loosely against his chest and leaning back against the seat. 

“And you’re unharmed?”

You shrug. Averting your eyes, you choose to look at the books on the shelf instead of his face.

“For the most part.”

You hear him grumble under his breath as he shifts in his chair. 

“It’s nothing a bit of rest can’t fix,” you reassure him. Your words hold truth to them. You can already feel the sweet warmth of sleep and relaxation is calling out your name. It’s becoming harder and harder for you to resist. 

“Don’t fall asleep here,” Dan Heng chides, having noticed your struggle to keep your eyes open. “You’re just going to wake up feeling more sore.”

“I’ll be fine,” the words are slurred out, evident of your exhaustion. “It’s comfortable down here.”

“It’s really not…”

“HEY, DAN HENG!” You groan at the intrusion, your eyes fluttering back open. Dan Heng’s eyebrows twitch a bit. You bite back a grin. “HAVE YOU SEEN-? Oh.”

“Hello, March,” your voice is dull and laced with tiredness. “I’m in here.”

March 7th leans into the doorway, her eyes widening slightly as she spots you. A knowing grin forms on her face.

“Oh,” she grins, looking between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes.”

“No,” you answer at the same time as Dan Heng, your head tipping against the shelf. “Unless you count me slowly dying as something.”

“You’re not dying,” she groans exasperatedly, simultaneously stomping her foot against the floor like a sulking child.

“Sure feels like it.”

March steps into the room to walk over to stand by you. She crouches down in front of you, tilting her head as she studies your face. There’s a brief pause. It’s a rare moment where March isn’t talking. The headache you hadn’t realized was persisting relieved itself at the quiet. You should thank the Aeons for this momentary silence. 

“You really do look terrible,” alas, the silence is broken.

“You’re both so kind to me,” you huff, rolling your eyes and pushing her head away with your index finger. “Truly, I feel so loved.”

Behind her, Dan Heng exhales softly. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already run out of patience for the two of you. All you need is for Stelle to join and then you’d get to tip him over the edge.

“That's because you decided to sleep on the floor,” he says, standing up and moving closer. “Which you're not going to do.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“You were about to be.”

“To-ma-to, to-mah-to.” 

“Well as much fun as I am having here,” March interrupts you two. Looking away from Dan Heng, you notice her shuffling towards the door. “I’m going to be taking my leave and getting some sleep. I suggest you do the same!” 

“I will,” you smile at her as she waves and skips off.

“You plan to get up anytime soon?” Dan Heng’s voice breaks the silence that had formed at March’s departure. You let out a disgruntled grunt, shaking your head.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

“Likely story.”

“It’s trueeeee,” you whine, shutting your eyes again. “I’m tired and can’t feel my legs!”

Another sigh. You’re surprised he hasn’t dragged you out of the archives by your hair yet. 

“Well, you need to sleep in your bed. It’ll be more comfortable than the floor.”

You don’t answer. You know he’s right. He always is.

“Are you okay with me touching you?” The sudden question has your eyes flying open and your neck snapping so you can look at him. He’s standing next to you now, his feet in line with your thighs. 

“Am I okay with you doing what?”

“Touching you,” his face remains impassive. “I’m going to carry you to your room.”

You splutter. Your eyes flitter around, looking anywhere but him as he continues to look at you. Heat rises to your cheeks and you try and will it back down.

“I’m… fine… with it,” you eventually manage to get out, clearing your throat at the end of your sentence.

“Bend your knees.”

You do as he says, bringing your knees up to your chest. As you’re doing so, he bends down, one arm sliding behind your back, and the other under your knees. He stands up quickly, causing you to throw your arms around his neck to secure yourself against him.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, opting not to trust your voice as you lean against his chest. You feel his hands tighten their grip on you as he makes his way to leave the archives, walking down the hallway to the Party Car, where your and Stelle’s room are.

You appreciated your rooms being further away from the rest of the crew; you did enjoy your privacy. But sometimes, it felt lonely. It felt empty, too far away from them. It was distant.

You have never been more thankful for the distance until now. 

The more time you can spend in his arms, the better.

You rest your head more fully against him, eyes slipping shut again as the gentle sway of his steps lulls you further into that hazy in-between state of awake and asleep. Your arms loosen their grip on his neck, and you feel his grip tighten as they do. 

“We’re here,” the moment ends too soon and you find yourself reluctant to let go.

Dan Heng moves to your bedside, gently laying you down on the duvet. Hesitantly, you let go of him, allowing yourself to be set down.

“Are you going to be okay with sleeping here?” He asks, standing over the side of your bed as you look up at him from your fetus position.

Your mouth dries. You don’t want him to leave. You want to spend more time with him. But you’re tired. So tired.

“Can you stay with me?” The question leaves your mouth before your mind can berate you for even thinking of such a thing. His eyes widen a bit as he looks down at you.

“I don’t think that would be a smart idea,” you choose to ignore whatever that means, your mind hazing as sleep tries to take over your body.

“Couch,” is the only word you say. He turns to look at the couch a few feet away from your bed. It’s across from your bed, so if you both lay on a certain side, you’d be facing each other.

“I suppose one night wouldn’t hurt,” is the last thing you hear before you fade out of consciousness. A light brush on your forehead displaces some of your hair before something quickly pressed against it before the sound of shuffling moves away from you.

Strange.

Back in that time, before the city on the mountain was as widely regarded as it is now, it was but a small kingdom, prosperous but contained, ruled by a kindhearted king who guarded his most precious treasure with a fierceness: his daughter, a girl so beautiful that Mnestia sang when she was born. The king knew, as all possessed with something so precious do, that there would always be those who would try to take her from him — an empire to the north, a nation of war-beasts to the west, and a nest of serpents in his very own court — so he prayed to every god he could think of, hoping for even one that might hear his pleas.

Yet none of them listened, and with every cruel answer to his prayer, the king grew more and more desperate. Great Georios desired the girl, but the king was not willing to give her to the father of giants, whose progeny would have torn her apart if they took; wise Talonton would not save her, for there was no justice in it, in allowing something so ethereal to remain mortal and unmarred; fair Thanatos promised to take her into their abode, but warned that the king would never see her again if they did, not even in death. 

Finally dear Mnestia appeared and told the king that there was only one god who could save his daughter: Nikador, the just, the furious, who even the greatest of warriors would not dare cross, whose stalwart defense could deter gods themselves.

And the king wept, for he had heard the tales of Nikador’s madness, their thirst for violence, but Mnestia held firm, unmoved by his tears, telling him it was the only way before disappearing. So the king slaughtered an entire herd of sheep and called upon the god of battle, who was so intrigued by the summons that they really did appear before him, and as soon as they lay their eyes upon the princess, they felt something stirring in their heart, something not unlike bloodlust but gentler, tenderer.

They swore to defend her, and never again did they bless another kingdom, for those of the mountain were so beloved to them that they could not bear the thought of any other’s victory. The hearts of men turned against them, and after the princess fell to Thanatos, as all mortals must, their own heart, too, grew cold — but their watchful gaze never left that mountain, for its stones were the last to hold her memory, and although it had been years upon years, they could not let go of her yet.

“Everyone knows that story,” you said when Phainon finished with great flourish. His smile, so proud in the telling, dropped immediately, replaced with a frown.

“How can it be? Do you know the labors Mnestia had me undergo before they told me that Nikador loved that girl?” he said, showing you his palms, the lines of which shone gold beneath his skin. “You mustn’t say it was in vain!”

“Well, I did not know they loved her,” you said. “That king was my ancestor, although it is his son I am descended from, not the daughter. We were always taught that Nikador admired the spirit of the mountain and so chose it as their residence.”

“Then you did not know the story!” Phainon accused, his expression indignant for all of a moment before relaxing back into the earlier grin. “My labors were not for naught. I am pleased to hear it.”

Were you not frightened of offending him, you might have rolled your eyes or made some remark, but instead you only nodded, wondering to yourself how long he would walk at your side for. He was tireless, keeping pace with your pony’s amble, striding along near your leg and speaking without so much as pausing for breath; it was all you could do to pray to Nikador, although you sensed they had no interest in saving you, not this time.

“What does it mean, that they loved this princess so well?” you said. “It isn’t as though I am her.”

“No, of course not,” he said. “But if they have loved once before, then they can do so again, right?”

“Perhaps, but it’s not as though I’m the sort of beauty which could soften their heart,” you said matter-of-factly. It was an objective thing, an honest assessment — a woman who could soothe even Nikador was the sort of person that could only really be found in legends and stories. If ever she did exist, she was long since dead and would not return so easily.

“I think you are,” Phainon said, and he spoke with such beguiling earnestness, gazing up at you with those gold eyes, as honest as daylight, that you almost believed him. But then you remembered that he was a god, and one using you for his own entertainment, no less, so you only huffed and raised your nose in the air, the only show of disdain you could be permitted.

“No matter how you flatter me, it doesn’t change the reality,” you said. Phainon pouted, and internally you scoffed at his petulance, how mundane and mortal his little mannerisms were. You wondered if he had to think about them, or if they still came to him naturally — for unlike the other gods, he had been a man once, and perhaps he still recalled in the back of his mind what that meant.

“It’s not flattery,” he insisted. “You will believe me when I bring you before them, I am sure.”

“And when do you plan on doing that, exactly?” you said, pulling your pony to a stop, for it was beginning to grow dark and you had no intentions of riding through the night. Sliding off and tying him to a nearby tree, you shook out your meager blanket, ignoring Phainon, who watched you curiously.

“Ah, it’s difficult to bring a mortal to the heavens,” he said. “You must be patient with me. But I swear I will!”

“I have nothing but patience,” you assured him. “There is nothing left for me — thanks to you, I have been cast from the mountain and the Grove alike, so I travel now to Okhema, in the hopes that I may at least find a quiet place there to live out the rest of my days.”

“Okhema! Wonderful, I can accompany you there!” he said as you lay on the ground, kneeling in front of you. “Mnestia does not guard their people as zealously as Cerces, and anyways they are fond of me, so they will turn a blind eye to my presence. Besides, Okhema is large enough that even if we did have some quarrel, I could still avoid detection without resorting to as many measures as I did in the Grove.”

“Wonderful,” you repeated with perhaps a quarter of his enthusiasm. “May I sleep now, my lord, or do you have more tales to spin?”

“You may sleep,” he said. “But won’t you be cold?”

“Certainly,” you said. “The nights are always cool, and to I who am used to the bedchambers of a princess, it is less than preferable, though I have grown used to it well enough.”

His expression was not smug when he leaned close to you, and his voice was as ever — soft, composed, clever — yet somehow you could feel it in his words, that teasing, that delighted mischief.

“I can embrace you tonight,” he said. “I promise you will be warm then.”

You sat up immediately, holding the blanket up to your chest, sputtering as you did so. “You — you most certainly can not!”

He burst into laughter, and it was a handsome sound, as befit him. You stared at him, waiting for his mirth to fade, but it took some time before his humor petered into a sigh and he shook his head.

“I didn’t mean in this form,” he clarified, although you had an inkling he very much had and was only saying that to save face. “Is this better?”

You would never grow used to the ease with which he changed shape, nor how unsettling it was when his body melted into something new. Now he was a large dog, his eyes shining, a collar winding around his neck and sinking into his thick white fur. He wagged his tail at you, and although you knew, logically, that he was still that same infuriating deity, you could not help finding him so sweet in this form, and before you knew it you were shifting to make space for him.

“Alright,” you relented. “However, you — you had best be a dog when I wake, or so help me, I shall give myself to Thanatos at once!”

He panted happily, a black-lipped, pink-tongued expression which resembled a smile, his small ears pricking as he trotted towards you and, with an exhale, flopped atop you stomach.

“Hey!” you snapped, shoving him off, earning you a dramatic, injured whine. “You are far too heavy and badly-behaved for that! You sleep at my side or go back to the heavens, but do not presume that I am enjoying this, or that I have forgotten who you are!”

It was easier to rebuke him now that he was not in the shape of a man, and especially so given that he did not argue or fight back, only licking his nose contritely and then tucking himself to your right, just close enough that the tips of his fur brushed your arm if you moved, but not so close that you had to touch him if you did not wish to. The arrangement was acceptable if not ideal, and he was as warm as he had promised, so you fell asleep quickly, without fuss, and better than you should’ve given that you were in a field alongside the road to Okhema, with the god of the dawn as your only companion.

Phainon was still asleep when you awoke the next morning, which begged the question of who had dragged the sun to the sky if not him — but these were mysterious things, and you supposed the explanation would’ve been beyond you anyways. Allowing yourself the moment of weakness, you stroked his forehead lightly, finding the fur to be like silk under your palm, moving so quickly that you doubted he would notice yet luxuriating in the soft feel of him, which was even more fine than your mother’s best gowns.

Yet almost immediately, his tail began to thump against the ground, and he lifted his head, cocking it when you withdrew your hand like you had been burnt. He nosed at your wrist, and you swatted him away, standing and beginning to fold your blanket brusquely.

“Enough with that,” you said. “You aren’t fooling me by playing the part of puppy. Become a man again at once, and enough with your innocent act.” 

“If that is what you will,” he said agreeably, wearing the same white armor as the day before, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. “I did not know if you preferred me in this form or the other.”

You almost told him you preferred him in neither, but his eyes were gold again, resting directly on you, and although you knew it was not his true divinity, it felt as if it might be the closest that you would ever see with your mortal form. A reminder, then, and one you heeded well, any traces of fondness or levity vanishing in an instant as you remembered once again that he was Phainon, god of dawn, god of the denied, god of deliverance.

“It is your choice, sunbringer,” you said. “It matters not to me.”

“You ought to just call me Phainon. Speak as if we are friends,” he said as the two of you set off again, you on your pony and he using his divine power to match your pace effortlessly.

“We are not friends,” you said, not unkindly. “I am a sacrifice who might, if you have your way, worship you one day. What friendship is that, where I kneel at your altar and beg you to bless me?”

“You wouldn’t need to beg,” he said. “Whatever you asked of me, I would grant it immediately.”

“That doesn’t change what I said,” you said. “You are a god, and I am mortal. Let us not pretend otherwise — it does neither of us any good.”

There were stories of gods who took what they pleased and left the rest; although such stories did not exist of Phainon, you were still wary as you waited for him to muster a response, half-expecting him to drag you from your pony then and there, to use the power he had been granted by Kephale to have his way. But he did no such thing, only nodding contemplatively, like you had said something profound.

“Very well, o sacrifice,” he said. “I will be a god for you.”

You did not ask him what he meant by that. You did not think you wanted to. How much more of a god could he be than he already was? What else was he planning? But knowing would not change the outcome, so you decided you would forgo your uncle’s teachings and, this one time, choose ignorance.

“You do not trust me because of Nikador, right?” Phainon asked you when you had been traveling for some days. Every night, he wore the guise of a dog and slept by your side; when dawn rose, he became a man anew, although he still followed you around as if he were a hound, tilting his head when you did something he could not understand — and there were many of these habits, for he had not been a man for an age and had not been a woman ever — and beaming if you offered him even the meagerest of praises — which typically amounted to a thank you for leaving me alone again every morning and nothing more.

“In some sense,” you said. You had, through the course of gour travels, grown accustomed to his presence, although you could never bring yourself to accept him fully. You were looser with your speech now, though, and less afraid, more indifferent when it came to the god. He had not hurt you yet, and although you did not doubt his capacity for it, you supposed there was no harm in letting down your guard the slightest bit. What other choice did you have? For he insisted on remaining with you, although the world and the heavens were his to do with as he liked.

“Nikador,” he groused. “They have always held this grudge against me! As if it’s my fault Kephale chose me to replace them.”

“It’s not as though you don’t do your part to antagonize them, if the stories are to be believed,” you said. “I admit that there must be some bias, but certainly the priests have never spoken of you favorably.”

“I would strike all those priests down if I could,” he said, quite seriously. “Yet even I know that that would be an act of war, and I am not quite so foolish — despite what you may think.”

“I don’t think anything,” you said, fighting to keep your voice neutral, without any hints of distaste.

“It’s such a silly thing,” he said, shaking his head. “Even if Nikador resents me for taking their place as the general of the gods, that doesn’t mean you must despise me as well.”

“I am loyal to my lord of strife,” you said levelly. “I have followed them for my entire life, and I shall not betray them now.”

“You love them,” he said. He stated it plainly, like it was a fact, but the way his brow furrowed implied a question more than anything. You shrugged, braiding a lock of your pony’s mane to busy your hands, which had grown lax, idle.

“Of course I do,” you said. “I have never had a father, for mine was too willing to relinquish his every duty to the High Priest — and so they were my father. I have never had a brother, for mine spent more time in war camps and temples than he ever did in the palace — and so they were my brother. I have never had anyone to believe in, for the priests show me their true faces, which I find hideous — and so they are my constant. Now, I shall never take a husband nor lover, I cannot, so whether or not you are successful, they will play that role for me, too. This is what it means to be the god of a people.”

“I see,” Phainon said. It must’ve been foreign to him, the concept of patronage, for although he had hymns and temples alike, he had no home, no sweeping city or towering mountain which claimed him as theirs. He was young for it, and anyways, who would want him? Because to have Phainon’s favor was to draw Nikador’s ire, and even though Nikador was no longer a proper deity of the pantheon, everyone knew that they were the granter of victory, so no one dared risk it. 

Besides, a god so impulsive that they even answered your brother’s wavering summons could not be trusted with stewardship of a kingdom. He would bring it to despair, and he would do so with that same glimmer in his expression as he wore now, finding humor in that downfall, delighting in their misery as much as he did their supplication.

“Is that why you wish to be their bride?” he continued. “Because you have already pledged yourself to them, and want to be theirs in full?”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He must have heard already, in some form or another, when you had explained to Anaxagoras why you had done what you had done. So why was he asking? Did he long for some excuse with which to punish you? For now, at least, you were defenseless, exiled from Cerces’s protection and far from Nikador’s. If you told him the truth, if you told him it was because you were frightened of him, then he might take offense, and you shuddered to think what his displeasure would mean for you. 

“Yes,” you said. “I will never know another. Can you fault me for this one longing?”

“You could’ve married a mortal,” he pointed out. “Any number of princes or kings, I am sure. Were you so concerned with longing, I could have even breathed life into a statue for you and made a man exactly as you wanted.”

“Well,” you said, for you had no doubts he would’ve found pleasure in doing that, in moulding with his own hands the husband he thought you desired, demanding only your devotion in return. “But a man is not a god. A prince is not Nikador. I cannot love any other but them.”

“True enough,” Phainon said. “I have not yet conceived of a way to convince them, but I will. I consider it daily, I promise!” 

“You are rather dedicated,” you said. “Why don’t you search for another worshipper? There are many who would be overjoyed to receive attention from one such as you.”

“I don’t want any others,” he said, patting your calf for emphasis. “If you had asked me for something simple, I would have left you with it, but you have presented me with such a challenge I cannot help being consumed by its completion. Anyways, think of it from my perspective — the bride of Nikador, praying to me. Oh, how it would infuriate them!” 

“And you wonder why they dislike you,” you said.

“It’s what they deserve,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “They would do the same if they could! Had I a lover, Nikador would surely torment them. Miserable, rotten old god. In truth I pity you, o sacrifice, for you will be bound to them for eternity!”

“Save your pity for those who ask it of you,” you said. “As for me, I shall discover for myself exactly what kind of god Nikador is when you bring me to them.”

Okhema was a distance from the Grove, although closer from there than it was from the mountain, which was inland and thus removed from the seaside capital. Still, you and Phainon traveled for a long time to get there, and over the course of our travels you learnt the god’s peculiarities with more intimacy than you ever would’ve wanted to.

He called you sacrifice, and yet he fussed for an entire day when he heard someone slaughtering a bull for him, saying he much preferred flowers and sweets to be burnt upon his altar. He was the bringer of the dawn, and yet he slept well into the morning, always whining when you told him you had to leave for the day. He bore the power of worlds, and yet instead of tormenting you with it, instead of toying with you and yanking you along at his whim, he followed your orders rather willingly, even happily.

“Do you ever laugh?” he asked you once. You frowned at him; he tried on the expression, which looked strange on a face that only ever darkened on the rarest of occasions. “This one is not so nice.”

“I laugh quite readily, when I have something to laugh about,” you said. He mulled this over, even nodding like it was something terribly philosophical.

“You did laugh at me when I was a bird. Shall I drown myself again for your amusement?” he said.

“It’s not amusing when I know it’s you,” you said. “It’s just ridiculous. What business does a god have flailing about in a bath?”

“By Kephale! My apologies, o sacrifice, for trying to raise your spirits, low as they were when you came to the Grove,” he said. “You forget I walked with you as a man and saw your shoulders droop lower and lower with every passing day.”

“That was because you made me lead you around like a child learning to ride a pony!” you said.

“As I recall, you are the one who insisted,” he said.

“You might’ve said no,” you said.

“I tried,” he said. “You refused.”

“Only because I thought you were truly a man in trouble,” you said after a moment, scowling at how weak the rebuttal was, for after all he was correct. Noticing that you were suddenly sullen, he snickered, knowing he had won this argument.

“I’ll give you something worthwhile,” he said. “I’m the god of good humor too, though most people don’t realize it, so how can I have such a serious devotee?”

“How many roles you play,” you said. “Dawn and good humor and the general of the gods. What relation do any of these have?”

“They are all things I used to love,” he said, so simply you were taken aback, shifting in your saddle to look down on him with a furrowed brow. “When I was human, I mean. I don’t remember much from that time, it was long ago and my memories have since burned away, but there are small things I can still recall. The feel of morning dew under my bare feet. The creases around my father’s eyes when he laughed at a clever joke. The sound of my sword clashing against a rival’s. I could’ve been the god of anything, but when Kephale granted me divinity, I only wanted to keep those close to my heart.”

“Oh,” you said, for you had been expecting some sharp, witty answer, as quick as he always was. You waited for him to continue, to laugh as he was prone to and tell you he meant it in jest, but he did not. He only stared ahead contemplatively, face set, the corners of his mouth curving downwards. “I thought you would say something more foolish.”

“Hm?” he said.

“That what each of these things has in common is you, or something,” you said, and you did not smile, but you looked at him and waited, for you found you did not like it very much, the sight of Phainon so pensive. If he was the god of good humor, then ought he not remain in high spirits? He glanced up at you in confusion, and then his eyes widened before his countenance became oddly soft — not exactly amused again, but kind in a way, grateful.

“There is that as well,” he said, and then he did that thing he was fond of, touching your leg as you walked along, lightly, shyly, like he was reminding you that he was still there — as if you could ever forget.

You smelled Okhema before you saw it, the air growing lush and heady with salt and sand, lemon trees lining the road and drooping with bright fruit, perfuming the path with their sweet blossoms. Phainon plucked one and held it out to you; when you gave him a look of barely-disguised horror, he shrugged, transforming it into a golden apple and biting into it with abandon.

“I will have to remain your hound while we are in Okhema,” he said as you approached the city gates, his head swiveling around, his eyes keen. “Mnestia may not chide me, but for some reason, I don’t know that I can say the same for their followers.”

“What can mere followers do to you?” you said. “You are a god.”

“Cause me enough trouble that I get into a fight with the Lady of Romance, who, although admires me, is temperamental to a fault,” he said. “Now, I can do battle for you if you’d like, but as you said you’re trying to find a peaceful life by the sea, it might be counterintuitive.”

“Yes, please do not ruin things for me here as well,” you said. He sighed at you but returned to the dog form you had grown accustomed to from your nights together, although he did bark at you rudely once he had, his ears flat against his skull in reprimand. “Come along then, and don’t bark too much, or they’ll shoo you away for disrupting the silence.”

Okhema was a city made of marble, white and gleaming, the stones polished until one could all but see their reflection. Phainon found inordinate pleasure in trotting along and leaving gold prints behind; you had not walked in any mud, and anyways you had never seen dirt which shone like ambrosia, meaning he was doing it entirely on purpose. When you gave him a look, he only cocked his head innocently, prompting you to click your tongue, wondering if he was the god of horrible jokes as well.

There was an order even to the bustle of the city, everything in its place, the people’s voices lyrical and hushed, never abrasive, never ugly. It was so opposite to the mountain, where everyone crushed together in a muddle of shouts, pushing and shoving and cheering in turn, everything done in extremity. How beautiful that cacophony was, how pleasant, and how uncomfortable you found this tidy quiet, where wandering eyes could not help but settle on those who intruded.

“Oh, miss, is that your dog?” 

You were halted in your tracks by two small children, a boy and a girl, with bright eyes and shy voices. You glanced at Phainon, willing him to answer in some way, but he only peered back up at you, like he was daring you to say something.

“He’s been traveling with me for a while, but I wouldn’t call him mine, exactly,” you said finally. “We go now to meet with the Council of Elders.”

“They won’t let him into the palace,” the girl said, squinting at him. “He’s a dog. Elder Caenis thinks they’re all dirty.”

“Then he’ll either go back to where he came from, or he’ll wait for me outside, I expect,” you said, not deigning to mention that it was just as likely he would take some other ridiculous shape so that he could stay with you — a bird or a beetle or something else like that.

The two children exchanged looks before the boy took the ball tucked under his arm and held it out in front of him, blushing and avoiding your eyes.

“He’s very cute,” he said. “There aren’t many dogs in Okhema, and all of the ones we do have are small or mean. Could we — I mean, while you’re on your business, would you mind…?”

“We want to play with him!” the girl completed, all in a rush. “But you can say no if you like, he’s yours after all.”

“So that’s why you approached me,” you said, tapping your chin as you tried to come up with some way to explain to them kindly that if they tried to make Phainon fetch their toys in some sort of game, he might actually turn them into insects for the disrespect. “Ah, well, he’s not mine, so I don’t want to—?”

“Puppy!” the boy squealed as Phainon pounced on him, taking the ball in his mouth and then wagging his tail. The boy did not even fight back, instead busying himself with petting along his back and hugging his neck. Your jaw dropped as, instead of smiting them, Phainon sat on the ground with his tail wagging and his eyes closed, allowing the two children to flit about him. “Fetch, puppy!”

“Don’t — what?” you said, for in a stranger turn of events, instead of refusing, Phainon bounded after the ball, catching it in his mouth and then trotting back to deposit it at the boy’s feet. “What is wrong with you, sunbring—Sunny?”

Phainon barked at you. You glared at him. The boy clapped in delight, and the girl's eyes grew to the size of saucers as she tugged at the hem of your shirt.

“Can we please watch Sunny while you’re gone? He’s so adorable and sweet and wonderful!” she said.

It wasn’t possible for dogs to look arrogant, but somehow Phainon managed, and you almost wanted to tell him he might as well just take these children for his budding cult, since they seemed so willing. But you would not condemn the two to that when their intentions were naive in nature, and so you only nodded slowly.

“Yes, alright,” you said. “As long as he doesn’t mind, you can play with him while I’m gone.”

“Yay! Thank you, miss, we’ll be sure to take good care of him,” the boy said.

“Right,” you said, still somewhat at a loss for words, the sight of the god being fawned over like any other mutt more than a little disconcerting. “As for you, Sunny, you — you had best behave yourself!”

The palace of Okhema had a name in the tongue of the sea, something elegant which you could not remember as you approached the grand staircase. Your pony, too, was nervous as you came closer and closer to the imposing building, and you stroked along his neck to soothe his prancing, although it did not do much. Eventually you dismounted altogether for fear of falling, taking the reins over his head and leading him behind you until you could flag down a stablehand, who was hesitant in accepting until you showed him the letter Medea had given you for Elder Caenis.

A pretty slip of an attendant came to fetch you from the entrance hall, her creamy dress swishing behind her as she motioned for you to follow along. Her footsteps were light and her walk magnetic; you wondered if they were trained in this way, to be so uniform, as much a part of the decor as the towering pillars and archways. She did not ask for your name, nor did she offer hers, only bowing and telling you that the Council awaited you in the meeting room.

You lingered for a moment, toying with the scroll you had kept close to your breast for the entire journey. Time and time again, you had been tempted to open it, but you always stopped yourself before you could. Whatever Medea had written, you thought it might be better if you did not read it, especially not before Phainon, whose reaction to your tears you could not predict.

Phainon. You wished he were with you, you realized; you were frightened, and instead of longing for Nikador’s gaze, it was Phainon who you wished to come to your side, Phainon with his charm and lightness and his uncanny ability to understand even what you could not say to him aloud. It was a betrayal of the highest order, but you could not help it, could not help looking towards the window and waiting for him to appear in some form or another. A bird or a beetle or a ray of sun, even, as long as he was there. As long as he was with you. As long as you were not alone.

“They tell me you have a letter from Medea,” Elder Caenis said when you entered. She was the council’s sole representative, which was both more and less nerve-wracking than if you had been faced with the entire collective. Her hair was a knot of clotted spiderwebs tied at the nape of her neck, and her eyes were the bland color of dead halcyon feathers, devoid of anything resembling light or life as they settled upon you.

You nodded, handing the paper to her. “Yes.”

“You’re Anaxagoras’s niece,” she remarked, unfolding it. “A wonder you are here, and not still in the Grove.”

“I am sure Medea’s letter explains it,” you said. Elder Caenis hummed.

“And so it does,” she said, putting it down and pressing her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes narrowed, twin slits of ice cutting through Okhema’s heat and into your core, chipping away at your soul with a steady cruelty. “I understand the situation. I shall deliberate over it with the rest of the councilmen today, and tomorrow, you will be summoned to hear our conclusions.”

“Yes, Elder. Thank you,” you said with a bow. 

“An attendant will be along to take you to the baths, after which you will be escorted to your quarters, where you are to remain until further notice,” she continued. “I hope you’ll understand.”

“I do,” you said, even though the taste in your mouth was bitter, sour. Yet you had no other choice, not when her glare didn’t lift for even a moment, not when an attendant was at your side in an instant, taking your elbow in a hand whose size belied its strength. 

The Okheman baths were as beautiful as their acclaim suggested, but you could not enjoy them when the water was soiled with the stench of your fear, the attendant hovering over you the entire time, offering you help with pleasant words that you did not believe for a moment. When she realized you would not accept it, she took a step back, and there she stayed until you told her you were finished.

Your guest chambers were far closer to what you had known for your entire life, sumptuous and decorated with an attention to detail that spoke to a true love of refinement and wealth, as was to be expected from the seaside capital, which had earned that title as verily as it had fought for it. Sitting on the windowsill was a white squirrel, and in the entire room filled with vibrant paintings and rich fabrics, you found it was the most beautiful thing, with a gold stripe running down its back and tufted ears swiveling towards you when you were ushered in by the attendant.

“You’re here,” you said, unable to stop yourself from sounding relieved as you nodded at the squirrel, resisting the urge to take it and hold it close to your heart. The squirrel — who was not really a squirrel but Phainon himself — chirped, and then when he was sure the room was empty, he sprung back into the form of a white-armored man, beaming at you in greeting.

“My sacrifice!” he said, and for a bizarre moment you thought he was about to embrace you, so, swallowing, you turned and busied yourself with inspecting the bed, which was as perfect as everything else. “Of course I am. How could I leave you so soon?”

“Perhaps you found better worshippers,” you said. “Ones who actually worship you, for example.”

“That would be boring,” he said. “Anyways, what did the Council of Elders say?”

“They will consider my fate and inform me tomorrow what they decide,” you said to him. “I am not to leave my quarters until then, and especially not without an attendant.”

“No matter,” he said. “If you have any need for anything, just ask me. I’ll bring it to you in a heartbeat.”

“I’m not going to treat a god like a messenger-boy. The mere prospect ought to anger you beyond belief,” you said, pulling gauzy curtains over the window to ward away insects, lighting oil lamps to stave off the encroaching darkness of the night. 

“It doesn’t,” he said. 

“Why not?” you said. “Like I said, it should. Doing these things for a mortal woman, letting her speak to you with such insolence, it should madden you, and yet you allow it — encourage it, even! Talonton or Phagousa or Mnestia or any of them, they would’ve turned me to some beast by now, if not stricken me down entirely. Why doesn’t it infuriate you?”

“It just doesn’t,” he repeated as you slipped into the bed, though you did not lie to sleep, instead waiting with your hands folded for him to do — you weren’t sure what, exactly, but something. “I don’t mind it so much. I’m not like the others, anyways, as they are so fond of reminding me.”

You smoothed the space beside you, motioning for him to sit. He furrowed his brow, but you shook your head wordlessly, and so he crept to the side of your bed before, all in a rush, hurling himself atop it, laying his head on your lap and slinging his arms loosely around your hips, exhaling as you finally allowed him to lie with you as a man. You raised your eyebrows but, biting your tongue, did not push him away this time, instead letting your hand hover above the place where his hair curled around his ear, too shy to touch it but suddenly feeling a great and inexplicable desire to.

“They don’t like you much,” you said rhetorically. He opened one eye to peer at you; when he noticed how close your palm was to his face, he tugged your wrist down until your fingers met his pale, warm cheek. You drew it back immediately, like you had been burnt, which prompted nothing but a dry chuckle out of him, as though he had expected nothing less

“Who?” he said. 

“Anyone,” you said. The corners of his lips curved, although he did not quite grin.

“Not particularly,” he said. “But you meant the other gods in specific. It’s okay — you can speak ill of them if you’d like. I will defend you.”

“Yes,” you admitted, finding you trusted him to keep this promise, although maybe you shouldn’t have. “I meant them.”

“It is not as though they hate me, necessarily,” he said. “Some of them even like me well enough — Mnestia, for example. But many of them do resent me. I am a man who became a god; I was never born to divinity the way they were. Once, I was just like you, and gods do not take kindly to those who rise above their stations. It changes the natural order of things, and they are so reliant on that constant to maintain their power.”

“Just like me,” you mused. “I cannot imagine what kind of a man you must have been.”

“I looked much as I do now,” he said, rolling off of you, sprawled on his back with his limbs askew as he stared up at the painted ceiling. “The same hair, the same nose, the same expression — although Mnestia tells me my smile was once crooked, endearing, not as perfect as it is now. Other than that, though, you should not have any difficulties picturing me as I once was.”

“It is difficult,” you said, moving so you could lie on your side and face him. He turned as well, and in the flickering light of the oil lamps, his irises were alive, dancing and mad, twin coins reflecting gold and greed as they bored into you. “How terrible your eyes are in this celestial form. I cannot imagine a mere mortal to possess such a gaze.”

“They were different,” he acquiesced. “I can’t remember what color they were back then, but it wasn’t this. These are a color only a god can don.”

“Yes, it must be so,” you said. “You really can’t remember?”

“It was not just years but an entire age ago that I was a man,” he said. “I told you already, most of my memories drifted away when I ascended to godhood, and time has only thrown a veil over those that are left. I could ask Oronyx for their aid, but I think it’s better I don’t remember. It would make what I do have hurt even more.”

“Hurt?” you said, and then you frowned, because you didn’t want to keep prodding at this newfound wound, even if Phainon might not have minded. “Well. By the way, it was good of you, what you did earlier.”

“Hm?” he said drowsily, although he did not appear to be tired, and neither did he need rest in the same way you did.

“With the children,” you said. “Obliging them and all. You might’ve punished them, but instead you played along and let them treat you like a dog instead of a deity. I didn’t expect it. I mean, who’s ever heard of a god that plays fetch with little boys and girls?”

“It made them happy,” he said, and then slowly, carefully, he extended his hand so that it rested on your jaw and he could trace his thumb along your face. You almost flinched away, but he was so mild, like a butterfly along your skin, that you could not bring yourself to. It was so different from any touch you had ever known, the priests or your mother or anything, that you found yourself leaning into it, found yourself wishing he would never stop. “I was also a child before. This, at least, is something I still recall — how it felt to be a boy, with no knowledge of what would one day become of me.”

He stroked along your bones like he was trying to memorize their shapes, their angles, and he lingered in odd places: the hollow under your eye, the bow of your mouth, the arch of your brow, with no rhyme or reason to it. The repetitive motions were soothing, and combined with the lush bed, it was almost enough to lull you to sleep, but you fought it back, giving in to your curiosity when the conversation seemed like it would take no other path but this.

“Was it painful when you became a god?” you said, punctuating the statement with a yawn. He pressed his index finger on your lower lip, halting you in the midst of it and answering your surprised look with a snicker that did not quite reach his eyes. Another joke, then, but one only meant to deflect the question, and so one you did not deign to acknowledge. “You keep mentioning your time as a man, so I was wondering.”

“Because it will happen to you, should I find success,” he completed knowingly. “Because in order to marry Nikador, you will have to become a goddess.”

“Right,” you said, although it wasn’t the case. But it should’ve been. You had no reason to feel genuine concern for him, to care for how he had become what he now was. He was still Phainon, still an ill-tempered and badly-behaved god who would just as soon take you and turn you into a rabbit for his troubles as he would grant your wishes. No amount of playing with children and touching you how you wanted would change that; no amount of tragedy or terror would make that fundamental part of him different.

“It’s not,” he said. “Painful, that is. The physical process is easy, and besides, after that pain is…different. You can’t quite understand it in the same way, so it matters little. I wish I could say the same for the rest of it.”

“Do you mean your injuries from the fight against Aquila?” you said, referencing that final, terrible battle, wherein Phainon had defeated the maniacal god by holding the sky upon his shoulders until Kephale could trick Aquila into taking back the burden. Human as he was, Phainon could not survive it, his body withering away from the weight, but in recognition of his sacrifice, Kephale granted him godhood and made him their general for his bravery. “I’ve only heard the story a few times, but it sounds so awful…”

“I had a horse,” he said. “Pegasus. He was as white as a shooting star and scared of his own shadow; I was the only one he allowed on his back, so sensitive was he.”

“He sounds beautiful,” you said, more than a little bemused by the change in topic.

“He was,” Phainon said, dreamily, wistfully. “He was the first one I lost. Colic, I think it was. They put another man on him and it set him to thrashing about and that was when I learnt that it is far worse to watch Thanatos embracing another than it is to meet them yourself.”

“Oh, no,” you said, a pit clawing open in your stomach, your chest heavy with an invisible burden as Phainon nodded slowly. You wanted to tell him to stop, but this was something you could not look away from, could not avoid, and so your mouth refused to move any further.

“My mother was next. She was assaulted, killed for pleasure and silence, and although I struck down those petty thieves, turned them into pigs as was befitting their nature, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t bring her back,” he said.

This story you knew as well, though you had never heard the whole of it. You were only ever told on the mountain that in all the hot-blood of youth, Phainon had once turned a pair of beggars into pigs and laughed at their squeals. You swallowed, because you did not think he was lying, but it was so at odds with what you knew that you weren’t sure how to reconcile it.

“After that was my father,” he said. “Old age took him. I fought with Thanatos—”

“For five nights,” you completed. He raised his eyebrows, and you hugged an extra pillow to your chest, hiding your face in it. “They say you got in an argument with them and the two of you dueled until Cerces intervened.”

“Yes,” he said, his hand on the back of your head now, petting along your hair. “Cerces told me even I could not fight fate, and if I continued as I was, they would be forced to bring me before Kephale and have my divinity stripped away. I nearly agreed, but the gleam in Thanatos’s eyes at the prospect was so wicked I could not bring myself to.”

“Then the story of you flooding an entire empire?” you said, your voice muffled by your bedding and exhaustion alike.

“They dared to kill a man I once considered my dearest friend,” he said. “And planned on pillaging his kingdom and enslaving his wife, who was always so meek, who always gave me little sweets when I visited and told me she was glad her husband had someone like me to defend him. I could not do anything for him in the end, but at least her, at least I could save her in his name…she scorned me, you know. When I appeared before her and told her what I had done, all she could do was weep and curse me. What sort of a god are you? That was what she asked. He prayed to you before he left, and you abandoned him. His kingdom revered Nikador, and still he chose to put his faith in me, but that very faith was what cost him. I’ll always wonder if it might’ve been different, had he been like you, had he remained loyal to strife. Would he have lived a little longer? Would his wife have hated me less?”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” you said. “He still would have died eventually, and she still would have hated you. Only gods are immortal.”

“And that is what you will come to learn,” he said. “In time, indifferent as you are now, you might find me to be your greatest ally in the pantheon. I am the only one who can ever understand you, after all.”

Perhaps it was his words, or perhaps it was the late hour, or perhaps it was the last vestiges of the dying oil lamps, but you found yourself asking him to close his eyes. He did so at once, always so willing, always so obedient, and for a second you thought to yourself, what have I ever done to deserve him? But you chased it away immediately, because Phainon was your bane, because you did not want him and certainly did not think of yourself as unworthy of him — if anything it was the other way around, for you surely did not deserve to have to endure his presence as much as you did.

“They must have been blue,” you said after a moment of deliberation. His forehead creased, but he did not speak, only waiting for you to elaborate, and so you did. “The color of the sky right after sunrise. Bright and lovely. The kind of color that is impossible to refuse. I would have been very fond of them, I think.”

“Would that I could make them that shade,” he said, and then he opened his eyes to reveal that same gold, not the blazing blue you had pictured and loved. “Would that you could be fond of me as I am now.”

“I am sorry,” you said. “But—”

“Nikador,” he said, and then he rolled over so that his back was to you, wide and sturdy and perfect, so perfect, like an artist had made him with loving hands, like he had been crafted, not born. “I understand, o sacrifice, you needn’t explain further. I am sure that learning the fate of my friend has only fortified your resolve.”

To this you had no response, so you only turned your back to his, and thus you slept alongside him, dreaming of a man who resembled him greatly — but with a crooked, dimpled grin and eyes like wildflowers, shining in the faint light of dawn as you offered him something sweet in the hopes he might accept it. 

The next morning, you were summoned to the meeting room once more, for it was said that your fate had been decided. Phainon rode along on your shoulder, a small bird tucked into the curve of your neck as you walked behind the attendant to where Elder Caenis awaited you. When nerves caused your hands to tremble, you would reach up and run your finger along his wings, which would earn you a delighted coo that you thought would alarm the attendant but in fact went ignored each time. Phainon, for his part, seemed to have forgotten his sorrow from the previous night, waking up in good cheer and even pecking your palm sweetly when he became a bird and you lifted his fine-boned body in the air, asking him to come with you.

It was easier to face things with him there, even though the prayers in your mind were meant for Nikador alone, as they always were. You did not know if your esteemed lord would answer you, not with Phainon so near, but even the words were enough to calm your thrumming heart, so that when you came before Caenis, it was with a steady mind and blank expression, giving away nothing.

“Niece of Anaxagoras, former princess of the mountain, you have come to Okhema in search of refuge from the god Phainon,” Elder Caenis began. “Medea has explained it well, so you needn’t clarify further. As a favor to an old friend, I will accept you, but on one condition.”

“Anything, Elder Caenis,” you said. “I have no qualms about working and staying in sparse lodging — I don’t demand nor expect comfort.”

“Good, that makes this easier. As of late, the Okheman countryside has been plagued by a new terror: the Khimaira, a terrible beast with the body and head of a lion, the bust of a goat sprouting from its back, and a serpent for a tail. It can breathe fire, and it has been burning crops with such prolificness that a famine has gone from unthinkable to a genuine consideration. You are from a nation of warriors, so surely you should not mind slaying it for us?” she said.

“If I say no?” you said.

“You will not like how I answer that question,” she said. “This isn’t a choice, girl, it is a compulsion. You will agree to it. You will ride forth, and you will slay the Khimaira or you will die trying.”

“Haven’t you army-men to send?” you said. “Why must it be me? I may be of the mountain, but I don’t have any experience with fighting, and certainly I am no hero who can kill even monsters without batting an eye. That age is over; men like that aren’t born anymore.”

“The soldiers have attempted and failed again and again,” Elder Caenis said. “But setting aside the matter of Phainon, you carry Nikador’s blessings in your blood. They will certainly assure your victory, as long as you pray to them well. That is all; you will be brought to your horse and given a weapon with which to do battle. The Council of Elders wishes you luck, young princess. May fortune smile upon you someday.”

You thought it strange that people only ever called you princess when they were bidding you farewell. The High Priest, Elder Caenis…they wielded the title you once had as a mockery, as a way to cut into you with unfounded cruelty. Neither they nor you could ever escape the knowledge that a princess you were no longer, and they took such pains to remind you of it with every breath you took.

“Oh, Phainon,” you said, a single, terrified sob escaping you as soon as you were in the stable alone, a knife in your hand and your pony’s reins in the other. “You heard her! They’re sending me — I’m meant to — this beast, how am I supposed to defeat — with only a dagger!” 

“You aren’t,” he said, jumping from your shoulder, a man once again, tightening the straps of your bridle so that it would not slip. “Medea sent you to Okhema to be killed. You know that, right?”

“No,” you said. “My uncle, he would never allow it, surely there is some mistake!”

“Your uncle was outvoted,” he said, lifting you by the waist and setting you in the saddle before leading you forward, your pony prancing along behind him. “Six against one. The Sages were too cowardly to do it themselves, as were the Elders, so they have come up with this way of ending your life blamelessly, without any chance of angering Nikador or I — make no mistake, this is an execution order nonetheless.”

“What am I meant to do?” you said. He looked at you over his shoulder.

“Ask me for my help,” he said. “I will come to you, o sacrifice, and I will save you, as I have promised so many times before. Become my devotee and I won’t let anything harm you. You won’t fall to the same fate that my friend did, that my mother and father did. As long as you ask it of me, I will guard you from even Thanatos. But you won’t, right? No matter what I say or do, no matter how I entreat you, you won’t.”

“It is Nikador,” you said. “I must — I cannot anger them; the savage king who bears the lance of fury, they who vanquish all enemies and who are with me in all my battles, they must befriend me in this mine hour, or else I will not see victory.”

Phainon’s expression turned a peculiar version of mournful, desolate, and for a moment you thought he would say something, but then panic flitted across his features and he vanished, like he had never even been there in the first place. Your pony pinned his ears, but you did not nudge him forward, waiting for Phainon to appear again with one of his jokes, to tell you he would stay with you until you found the Khimaira. Yet he did not, so eventually all you could do was continue as you had been, your muscles turning tauter and tauter the farther you grew from the golden city.

“I suppose in the end, you are my only constant,” you said, hugging your pony around the neck. Your pony, who had set out with you from the mountain and remained steadfastly at your side ever since; indeed, he was at this point your oldest and longest friend, the only one to never spurn you, the only one to never demand anything from you in return.

Your hunt for the Khimaira was long and lonely. Phainon did not materialize at any point, and if the Khimaira had ever been near to Okhema, it had long since flown to the countryside, far from the capital. You rode for longer than you ever had, with your pony as your only company, your orisons to Nikador and the song of hoofbeats on the road the only sounds to cut through the desolate, foreboding silence.

You missed the god most in the nights, for it became colder and colder as the year stretched on and your distance from Okhema increased. What you wouldn’t have given to lie with him, to have him embrace you and ward away the omnipotent chill you suffered from. But you refused to call upon him as your deity, refused to kneel for any who were not Nikador, and so you suffered alone, sleeping against your pony’s side, his body shielding you from the wind, his warmth meager compared to Phainon’s but better than nothing.

Many times you thought of running, but where would you go? Who would have you? Cast from the mountain and the forests and the seaside alike, there wasn’t a village that did not know your face, that did not turn silent when you begged for asylum. They did not dare anger the Sages or the Elders or the priests or their deities, and no amount of disguising yourself or invoking Nikador’s name was enough to fool them or change their minds. 

You were marked by Phainon — therefore, the gods who had quarrels with him took it upon themselves to bring misery to you, too, for he was untouchable and you were so delicately, breathtakingly mortal. Georios caused the earth to shake when you tried to become a nanny in a small riverside town; Thanatos sent a plague to the foothills until you were chased from them by a crowd of frightened men with sick on their breaths; Phagousa brought a great wave from the sea when you sought refuge with a family of fishermen, who even after this retribution told you you could stay and only allowed you to leave when you pretended you could not stand the smell of seaweed which clung to every available surface in their home. 

You pleaded and pleaded to Nikador — defend me, please defend me, why won’t you defend me? — but they did not so much as send you a sign, let alone protect you from the torments of their brethren. Deaf to your begging, they left you with no other choice, no other recourse but to seek out the Khimaira in the hopes that you could one day return to Okhema, where Mnestia’s protection could be enough to hide you from the rest of the pantheon.

Eventually, in the course of your travels, you came across a dying woman, blood around her mouth and a baby wailing in her arms. She was saying something, and you knelt so you could hear, gathering the baby without thinking and holding it to your breast, cradling its soft head against your heart as you rocked it, trying to soothe its fretful tears.

“Lady,” she coughed out. “They took everything from me — my son, please take care of my son—”

You didn’t bother asking what happened to her. It was obvious enough, and anyways you didn’t want her to waste her precious last breaths explaining something that could not be undone, so you only stroked your hand along her temple, not sure who you meant to comfort more, her or the child or yourself. 

“I don’t know how to,” you said, your voice breaking as something caught in your throat and stuck there. “I’m sorry, madam, but he will have such a terrible existence with me anyways, and I do not even know how to cheer him…” 

“Sing to him,” she said. “As your mother did to you when you were a baby. Do you remember the song?”

“Of course I do not,” you said. “But it must’ve been one for Nikador, I am sure.”

The woman shook her head, and then she lifted a crimson palm to your cheek, leaving a slender, wet handprint behind. Everything about her was limp; you held her hand to you, crushing her bones in your grip as your vision swam with tears that did not fall and the baby’s damp cheek pressed against your own.

“They chided her for it,” she said. “She tried every ode to war, but it never ceased your sobbing. There was only one song which could quiet your tantrums, only one god whose name could mellow your irascible temper. Don’t you remember? That hymn you never learnt but know in your heart, the one you loved so well as a child…call upon it once more, darling princess.”

“What?” you said, and if you were not so entirely distraught, you might’ve noticed the sparkle in her eyes, which should not have been that type of gleaming when she was supposedly so near to death. “A hymn I never learnt but know in my heart?”

She smiled at you, mysterious and cunning, but did not explain further. You thought and thought, but you could not understand what she might mean, until she began to hum to you, soft and slow and sad, her voice so like your mother’s you nearly began to bawl yourself, nearly crawled and lay your head against her stomach so that she could pet your hair as your mother had in your youth.

“How, then, shall I sing of you?” you said, following the dips and crescendos of her humming, allowing her to lead you through it as the baby quieted. “For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.”

Suddenly the weight upon your shoulder lifted, the baby dissipating into nothingness and an immense light enveloping the woman. You stumbled backwards as she stood, no longer a wan, bleeding figure but robust and tall, angular and pointed in construction, wearing flowing robes and a melancholy expression on the most beautiful face you had ever seen.

“Hello, child,” they said, and you covered your mouth with your hand, waiting to be struck down, waiting for the latest tragedy to befall you in the name of Phainon, in the name of some feud or another. “Do not be frightened. I have no quarrel, with you or with that dear boy. You do not recognize me? But it is my own city you ride forth from.”

“Mnestia,” you said. They smiled at you, bending down to caress your face, combing their fingers through your hair and kissing your forehead. How warm it was, how maternal, and you found yourself reaching for them, clinging to their skirts like a child might cling to a mother’s dress, enveloping yourself in the safety of their watch, the closest to repose you had felt since Phainon had left you without a word.

“Phainon was right,” they said. “If only you had been born in Okhema. You would’ve been my most treasured priestess, you lovely little thing. What a shame that another has staked his claim upon you, and a greater shame that you were born to Nikador, who would never allow me to so much as look upon their mountain and steal you away first.”

“Thank you,” you said. They placed their palms on your shoulders firmly, pulling you to your feet, and although they were a goddess, no less than Phainon or Nikador, you could not bring yourself to be afraid. For a moment, their expression flickered, and you swore you saw your mother looking upon you, that same lined smile, that same furrowed brow, and instead of terror, it was only grief you could muster, grief for the life that had been wrenched from you the day you were exiled from the mountain.

“You are not so far from the Khimaira,” they said. “Soon you will stumble upon it, but as you are now, you will lose.”

“I know,” you said. “I was never meant to win, was I? You should know better than anyone, as it is your own cult who sentenced me.”

“I am sorry,” they said. “I cannot control them any more than I can help you. There are too many factors at play, too many gods who find pleasure in this turn of events. Even meeting you now is a risk that I am taking, but at my behest, you called upon Phainon, and so he is protecting us, shielding us from the gaze of the other deities.”

“Phainon,” you said, swallowing and wrapping your arms around your own torso. “I…”

“I know,” Mnestia said. “He longs for you as well, child. All he does is sit by the heavens’ looking glass, staring down at you so forlornly that even Zagreus has grown concerned.”

“Then why won’t he come to me?” you burst out, all at once, ashamed of it but spurred onwards by the desperation which had built and built in you since he had left. “Why did he go without any explanation and refuse to return?”

“Do you think gods can appear to mortals without consequence?” Mnestia scolded you, their voice resounding with the clamor of a thousand avalanches. “He has broken every one of Kephale’s rules so many times over! He struck one of Cerces’s Sages, he came into my holy city, and he has watched over you, who does not even offer him sweet words. It is not allowed! Perhaps Kephale might’ve turned a blind eye were it one of the others, but not him. Not Phainon, who is kept in such contempt by half the pantheon. If he were allowed to continue to accompany you without so much as a sincere plea falling from your lips, if he were allowed to continue to trample on other deities’ domains without care, the heavens would’ve been thrown into mass upheaval. It would’ve been war, and so Kephale has chained him to his throne in the sky and banned him from the mortal realm.”

“Then…if I ever want to see him again, I have to pray to him? But what about Nikador? They will hate me if I turn to him now,” you said.

“Do you truly love them so well?” they said. “Phainon tells me you wish to wed them. Is it so? You will be miserable if you do, you must know it. They won’t love you, child. Not how he does.”

“Nikador has never betrayed me,” you said. Mnestia sighed, and then they took a step back. You meant to chase them, but some force rooted you in place, holding you there as they grew more and more distant.

“Is it not a betrayal that they have left you to this fate?” they said. “Is it not a betrayal that they allow their kin to toy with you? Make no mistake: you may have once been the princess of the mountain, but even in the eyes of Nikador, you belong to Phainon now. In some sense, you always have — your mother knew it, I know it, and more than anything or anyone, he knows it. You only need to call on him, child. He will come as soon as you do.”

“I will do no such thing,” you said. “You lie. Nikador would never — they would not leave me like this, they would not forsake me to Phainon — it isn’t true! I am of the mountain, I am their daughter and sister and devotee, I have spent my whole life as such — you cannot say that they have thrown me away as easily as their priests did — you cannot, you cannot—”

“Whether you believe me or not, that doesn’t change the truth of the matter,” Mnestia said, and then they sounded so exactly like your mother that you could only close your eyes and pretend that they were affording you that final farewell the High Priest had robbed you of. “Goodbye, child. May the path you tread be ever peaceful.”

Only when their imposing presence vanished did you allow your lower lip to tremble, tangling your fingers in your pony’s mane as you remounted him, leaning forward and burying your face in his crest. He continued onward steadily, ignoring your shuddering breaths, which were not exactly cries, unaccompanied by tears as they were, but came very close. Yet you refused to cross that threshold; you were brave, strong, you could not crumble over something so meaningless. Nikador was still with you. Phainon was the one who, in his fickle whims, had abandoned you, had grown bored of your constant refusals, and this was what you had hoped for, wasn’t it? You didn’t want Phainon to look upon you ever again, you were glad he had moved on, and when you had begged Mnestia it had only been a wavering moment of longing for the familiar comfort he brought you, nothing more.

You knew you had found the Khimaira when ash began to stick to the air, a light film of grey settling over your surroundings, turning the sunrise dim — as if Phainon could not bear to witness this final moment, as if he were close his eyes to this last brutality which would be your end. The withered trees were sticky with residue, and every village you passed through was deserted, hollow, the white stone walls streaked with black ash and dried, flaking red, the smears turning brown around the edges. 

Bile rose in the back of your throat, scratching and burning and wicked when you pushed it down, clenching your fist around the ritual knife you had been given in Okhema, your only weapon against the monster. It was a pretty instrument, the hilt painted gold, the blade nearly white and engraved with a prayer to Mnestia, but it was only meant for slaughtering lambs at the altar, who were small and shy and would not fight back. Perhaps it was some sort of a joke, a tongue-in-cheek reminder of why you had really been sent on this errand, of the fate the Sages and the Council of Elders had decided for you, but you could not resent it enough to throw it away, not when it was your sole defense against the world.

Your pony’s instincts were as keen as yours, or perhaps keener, for just as he had in Okhema, he swelled with nerves, and this time you could not quell them. Yet he continued onwards steadily, trusting in you more than himself, and this was such a great source of dismay for you that you nearly leapt from his back and turned him loose. How could he? After all this time, after all he had endured, his coat growing dull and his ribs sharper than you ever remembered them being on the mountain, he still remained loyally at your side, such that he would even accompany you to your death. Perhaps you would ride him into the underworld, too, and it was selfish but it soothed you to believe you would not be alone in that final descent, so you steeled yourself and directed him onwards.

Great Georios must have warned their child that you were coming, for the Khimaira was eerily still when you emerged from the forest onto the cliff where it awaited you. The sire of all beasts, they thought of Phainon as a troublesome, calamitous being, and so they held no love for you, either. At times, you thought of giving them some offering or another in supplication, but then you remembered the stories you had heard of the earth god and grew frightened, deciding you would rather suffer their casual irritation than their proper rage. In truth they were as jealous and mean as Phainon was said to be, but far more powerful than he, slower to anger but erupting suddenly and violently when they did.

The Khimaira stood slowly, languorously, the lion’s head eyeing you and your pony with shrewd eyes like volcanic glass, blank and unfeeling. Beneath you, your pony shuddered, and you knew you were in no better shape, your breaths quick and short like a hare’s, the knife slick in your grasp, teetering on the edge of falling more and more with every passing moment. You wondered, suddenly, in a stroke of clarity, how it had come to this, how you had gone from an esteemed princess to such a ragged, pitiful girl, who only had death left to welcome her — and not even fondly, for Thanatos hated you as well as the rest! How learned you had been once, how happy and adamant, and now you were miserable and helpless, abandoned by divinity and humanity alike.

As quick as lightning, the Khimaira opened its enormous, gaping maw, a dying lamp in the back of its throat flaring to life as fire built in the span of instants before spitting out at you, licking along the browned grass and turning to tall, towering columns that scraped at the reddening sky. Your pony squealed and bolted, the whites of his eyes showing as he tried to storm back into the forest, but in his fear he missed the path, ramming into a tree whose boughs gouged into his flanks and left them dripping with blood. You tried to shush him, to take back the reins and guide him properly, but he was beyond reason, his pain and fear blinding him as the Khimaira advanced with a piercing roar, the serpent of its tail lunging at you, your leg only escaping its translucent fangs because your pony shied sideways, dancing towards the edge of the cliff and whinnying shrilly in vain challenge.

You had known as soon as you saw it that it would kill you, and you had known for longer that this quest was meant to be your execution, but despite how long you had had to come to terms with it, you were surprised to find that you were still so petrified, that as your pony’s back hooves scrabbled against the edge of the cliff and the knife balanced precariously in your fists, you still clung to him desperately, still clung to a final chance at life you knew would not come.

Nikador, you thought to yourself, please, where are you? Why do you not aid me? You have left me! Grant me victory, what must I do for you to do just that?

Every prayer, every ode, every hymn to the lord of strife, they all ran through your mind like an elegy, haunting and anguished and imploring. You could speak them aloud, as you had been every day since you left Okhema, you could attempt to force them to listen — but would they? Mnestia’s words rang in your ears as your pony’s hindquarters gave way and you began to slide down the cliff, sweat darkening his neck, white lather bunching under his mane as he scrabbled for purchase.

Is it not a betrayal that they have left you to this fate? Is it not a betrayal that they allow their kin to toy with you? They won’t love you, child. 

And so, when your pony collapsed and you shrieked out a name, it was not Nikador’s which fell from your lips. You abandoned them then, abandoned them as well and truly as they had abandoned you; it felt like death, too, this invocation, for with it you could never go back to who you had once been, could never again be the princess of the mountain who was loyal only to her god of war. 

“Phainon! I will give you anything — my body, my loyalty, flowers and sweets and a thousand songs in your honor — but come back, please come back, please, I need you—”

You belonged to him now, or maybe it was as Mnestia said: maybe you always had, and it was only in this moment that you were realizing it, this moment in which it came to fruition, that prophecy which your mother had unwittingly woven with that very first lullaby she whispered to you, that very first story of the sunbringer she sang you to sleep with.

Your pony’s slack, tangled limbs straightened in midair and his coat turned the shining white of a shooting star, all of his many wounds knitting together before vanishing entirely. Feathers sprouted from his heaving sides, large wings coalescing and churning at the air, leaving howling gales in his wake as he climbed towards the sun, far from the furious Khimaira’s reach, prompting a proud trumpeting sound from him as he soared over the forest you had come from.

“Pegasus,” you gasped, for he had in truth transformed into a winged version of Phainon’s horse from his mortal days, that silvery, wild thing which had died when it lost him to godhood. Yet here he was, born again, winged and immortal as his former master, but beholden to another this time, still possessed with your pony’s steadfast, undying allegiance to you. Flicking an ear back, he banked slightly, allowing you to catch your breath. “Ah, what?”

Flashing with a surge of lightning, the hilt of the ritual dagger became a scalding temperature, and then it melted in your palm, reforming into a sword made of moonbeams, the crossguard a heavy bronze that your arms strained under until hands curled around your wrists, fingers closing over yours and helping you heft it. It was not just any sword, you realized when you stared at it longer, but the very one which heralded the dawn, the blade of the worldbearer, a heavenly weapon which only one other had ever wielded: Phainon, whose invisible presence was the only reason you did not plummet from the burden of its divine authority.

Go, he said, and when you twisted in your saddle you saw nothing, but you could feel his heat surrounding you nevertheless, could feel the tickle of his breath against your ear when he whispered against the shell of it, the firmness of his body as he steered Pegasus towards the Khimaira. Slay that vile thing.

“I can’t,” you said, your voice bordering on hysterical. “I can’t, it breathes fire, I can’t, I—”

You can. Something fluttered against your cheek, a kiss like a sunbeam, and then it was gone, so quickly that you might’ve imagined it. I promise that you can. I am with you. I am always with you.

He steadied your grip, an invisible thumb soothing over your knuckles, and then Pegasus dove towards the Khimaira with his muzzle pointed at the ground, weaving in between bursts of fire like a child playing in the streets. Then Phainon nudged your upper arms, and before you knew it you were raising the sword in the air so it could catch the light, squeezing your eyes shut and aiming it at the Khimaira’s heart.

That’s no good, my sacrifice. This beast doesn’t have just one heart, you know. Wait.

Right when you thought Pegasus might crash into the ground, the Khimaira leapt at you, evidently tired of toying with its prey. Pegasus pulled up sharply, and you hesitated, but Phainon had no such reservations, maneuvering your hands into place and then humming as the tip of the sword stuck into the top of the Khimaira’s gullet.

Pegasus landed on the ground with hooves tearing at the mud, gnashing his teeth as he galloped under the still-airborne Khimaira, the power of his stride dragging the sword through the beast’s underbelly and ripping it asunder, its molten innards spilling out in a splattering trail. Smoke and flame billowed about you, but you did not breathe in even a wisp, and Pegasus’s brilliant hide remained untouched, like there was a shield protecting you both, rendering you invulnerable to all which might cause you harm. 

The Khimaira landed behind you in a heap of mangled flesh and steaming remains, and Pegasus skidded to a stop, snorting in approval as the sword of dawn sparkled back into nothingness, leaving the innocuous dagger to rest in the ruined weeds. You dismounted on shaky legs, fisting the cloth of the saddle pad to remain standing, and then you waited for his wings and starlit pelt to vanish, leaving behind your dull, simple pony. Yet seconds turned to minutes and still he remained, wings folded against his sides, dark nose nuzzling at your pocket in search of a treat.

“He will not return to his mortal form,” a familiar voice said. “My first and only son, born from my blood and your sweat — such creatures can only be made like that, after all. He is a demigod now.”

You had not known until you saw him how deeply your sorrow had run, but as it was, you sank to the ground and wept, your face in your hands and Pegasus standing behind you protectively as Phainon appeared to you once more, white-armored and golden-eyed. He did not bid you to bow or greet him, only crouching before you and taking you to his chest, allowing you to sob against the smooth curve of his throat and stroking your back, your hair, any part of you he could touch, like he could not quite believe you were real. And for your part you were the same, clinging to his neck, tangling your fingers in the hair at his nape, almost assuredly wrenching at it in your quest to hold onto him as tightly as you could, in your refusal to be yanked from him once more.

“Don’t leave again,” you said. “What do you want from me? Anything, I promise I will give you anything, but don’t leave me again, I was alone and they kept hurting me and I was cold, so cold, I wished for you every night, I did not realize at the time but I did, I thought of you until I ached from your absence—”

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said. “I did not think Kephale would call me back so swiftly, or I might have said something beforehand. Even sending Mnestia to speak with you was beyond difficult, and I am sure they will demand recompense from me for a century or two, but I couldn’t let you think I left of my own will. It was the other gods who demanded it, Thanatos and Georios and Phagousa and the rest; even Cerces and mad Aquila spoke against me, I have come to find. It was abrupt for me as well, and prolonged for your stubbornness. How torturous it was, to know that if only you asked, I could rejoin you in an instant, but to also know you never would.”

“Still you saved me,” you said. “After everything, after how many have left me, you never did. You came when I called, and you saved me.”

“Yes,” he said, gathering your face in his hands and touching his lips to your forehead. “I never expected you, o sacrifice, and so many times I tried to understand what it was about you that moved me to hold you so dear. An exiled princess who constantly spoke ill of me, who praised Nikador to the point of asking to wed them…what business do I even have with you? But it remains that from the day your brother offered you to me, you gave my purposeless existence meaning. Curiosity, desire, warmth…these things which I have not felt since I became a god, you made me remember what they are like. In truth, I could not ignore your summons any more than I could ignore Kephale’s; perhaps you are not my sole devotee, but you are the only one to understand me, and so I will die without you regardless.”

“Mnestia told me I have always been yours,” you said, finding yourself otherwise unable to respond. “Is it true?”

“I do not know,” he said kindly. “Nikador’s mountain is not a place I can look at very frequently. Sometimes, I would hear the faintest murmurs of my hymns, but until the ritual to sacrifice you, it was never enough to justify my appearance.”

“But that is why you were listening on that day,” you said. “That is why you took me before Nikador could. Because of those very murmurs.”

“Yes,” he allowed. “It is so.”

“Then they were right,” you said, closing your eyes and leaning into him once more, allowing him to trace his index finger along your dusty face, as he had such a penchant for doing. “All along, I have—”

A stomp from Pegasus was the only advance warning you got, and then something dark crept into the corners of your vision, a malevolent presence which dulled even Phainon’s celestial light. You almost asked who it was, but then Phainon tensed, his voice coming out as a growl as he held you tighter than ever before.

“You,” he said. “You dare show your face now?”

“Is it not my right?” said the newcomer, their voice deep, commanding. 

“You forfeited any rights when you ignored her every call for help,” Phainon said. Pegasus nickered in vehement agreement, pawing at the ground for good measure, but this new god was undeterred, only chuckling at a display they surely found childish.

“Just because I do not coddle her as you do does not mean I have been ignoring her,” they said. Peering over Phainon’s arm, you saw that the figure was that of a tall, bare-chested man in a red-plumed helm, a spear in their right hand. You knew them at once, and although you could not see their eyes, you wagered they softened with something like delight when they understood you recognized them. “How could a woman unable to handle such petty disagreements ever hope to be my bride? I have never allowed her to face anything she could not manage, and she has in turn proven her mettle many times over. You chose well, brat-god; I am thoroughly impressed. She is beyond compare, beyond a mere, paltry sacrifice, and thus she is truly worthy of standing beside me.”

It was Nikador.

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Your brother, the pale-robed prince, would be the one to dedicate your heart to Nikador. Of course he would be — who else could? Not your father, that feeble, fading king who had long ago relinquished the throne to the lord of strife; not your mother, who came from a distant land where a gentle goddess was venerated, an endless forest where they praised reason instead of the steadfast violence that those of the mountain danced for. No, it had to be your brother, the next king, who had yet to prove his faith in the priests, who had yet to appease the thunderstorms which would not vanish from the horizon until that great titan was given the utmost of sacrifices.

“You mustn’t be frightened, sister,” he whispered fervently, winding cloth around your eyes and taking your hands to lead you forward. “This is what you were meant for. The priests said as much, and when have they ever been wrong? Nikador awaits you most eagerly. It will be quick, and then you will be with them. You mustn’t be frightened.”

The stone of the sanctuary scraped your bare feet as you were brought to the center of it and told to stand very still, your brother’s footfalls growing fainter and fainter as he took one step and then another away from you, leaving you alone upon the altar. You stood in exactly the place that countless oxen and sheep had, and although the scent of the many-flowered wreaths resting atop your crown was dizzying and heady, you were sure that it was nothing but the stench of stale cattle-blood which stung at the back of your throat, those dried, acrid remnants serving as cruel reminders of the ritual you had watched countless times yet never dreamt of participating in.

“Hear me, savage king who bears the lance of fury; you who vanquish all enemies and who are with me in all my battles; befriend me in this mine hour,” your brother began, his voice cracking as his hands, still wet with ceremonial water, seized your forearm and drew a shallow gash in it. You bit back a whine, for you would not give the priests the satisfaction of seeing you cower, and you waited until you heard the trickle of blood into flame before you allowed yourself one whimper of dismay, when you could be sure no one was listening.

“Now,” came the soft croon of the High Priest when your brother choked on his prayer, tears thickening his practiced incantation, “do not falter, young prince — call upon Nikador to free us from this storm. What is one life compared to thousands? Every man and woman on this mountain will suffer if this typhoon continues to rage, but until our great lord is duly satisfied, they will not lift the curse on our kingdom. I have seen it myself; the princess is who they demand. Who are you to deny they who have done so much for us? Who are you to deny your own deity?”

“Yes,” your brother whispered. “Yes, yes, my vigorous and horrid-tempered god, please, I pray, I beg you, deliver us from this torment, bring about a new dawn for our home, and — and in return — in return, accept our offering.”

You waited for him to plunge the sacred dagger into your heart, which was no longer your heart at all but rather Nikador’s, yet there was nothing of the sort, only an awed silence and a blistering, immeasurable heat, oppressive in its sudden strength. You turned your head this way and that, though of course with your blindfold it did nothing but frustrate you, the bells around your throat singing mockingly, teasing you with their knowledge of the unfathomable.

“So,” a stern voice said, and although it was softly done, it echoed in your ears such that you had to clamp your hands over them for fear that they would bleed. “This is what has become of the great cult of Nikador. A boy-prince pointing a blade at a sister who will not fight back. They would be ashamed to hear of it.”

“Why have you come?” the High Priest said, and although he was clearly attempting to maintain his dignity, his valor, he could not stop his words from breaking. “He did not summon you! What business do you have with us, who have always scorned you?”

“You called for dawn,” the voice said, nearly laughing, albeit humorlessly. “You called for deliverance. Who else but me did you expect?”

“Please,” the High Priest said, and you heard a thud as he ostensibly prostrated himself before the mysterious presence. “Do not punish us, revered one, sun-bringer, bearer of the world; spare us, and everything on this altar is yours. We shall hail your name for generations to come, shall honor you as surely as we honor Nikador—”

“It doesn’t seem to me that you honor Nikador very well,” the voice observed. “Why should I accept such an exchange? You have drawn the attention of divinity; perhaps I am not the god you wished to see, but I am a god nonetheless, and yet you are receiving me with such an unpleasant welcome. Well, I’ll overlook it this once. Tell me, why do you pray?”

“The storm,” you said when neither the High Priest nor your brother responded to the nameless god. “They say it is borne of Nikador’s wrath, and so we must pray for its end before we are swept away.”

“Ah,” said the god. “You speak. For how silent you were, I thought they must have cut your tongue out.”

“They did no such thing,” you said. The god hummed, and then a blade, sharp as sunrays, traced up the bridge of your nose, slicing away the linen covering your eyes without so much as nicking your skin. You blinked, your vision adjusting to the blinding light filling the temple, and when you realized who you stood before, you immediately fell to your knees and pressed your forehead to the floor.

“Do you recognize me?” he said.

“Phainon,” you said, your heart pounding when he did not correct you. It was him, the young general of the gods, the one who had supplanted Nikador in the pantheon, the bringer of the dawn and the deliverer of the departed — here he was, the deity that those of the mountain despised most, who they had unwittingly summoned to earth from his throne in the heavens. If your brother did not look so aghast, you would’ve sworn at him, for in truth you would rather die in Nikador’s service than live for even a moment longer under Phainon’s gaze, but you could tell even without him saying it aloud that he knew these things already, and furthermore echoed your thoughts entirely.

“Yes,” he said. “Then, knowing this, will you ask for my blessing?”

“No,” you said, surprising even yourself with how resolutely you said it.

“No?” he repeated.

“What will you do to them if I do? This storm is no natural disaster, and for you to free us from it, you will have to venture forth and do battle with Nikador until their fury abates. Isn’t it so?” you said.

“It is,” he agreed. 

“Then I will not ask it of you,” you said. “Since the birth of our people, Nikador has been our guardian. Perhaps a tempestuous one; perhaps a contemptible one, at times; but we will not abandon them. We will not turn our back on fury for a god without so much as a city to his name.”

“Girl!” the High Priest hissed. “What are you doing? Esteemed one, she meant no disrespect, you must ignore her, fright has twisted her mind…”

“Silence,” Phainon said. “I have met many men like you, old priest, and I have no desire in meeting another. Rise, o sacrifice, and enough with the bowing. What is it that will make your loyalties sway?”

“Nothing,” you said, scrambling to your feet and raising your chin, although you did not brave staring directly at him for too long, knowing that the truth of his being would sear away your vision forevermore. 

“What if I threaten to turn you into an ewe or mare?” he said.

“Aren’t I already as much?” you said, lifting your hands and showing him your adornments, which mimicked those seen on the livestock slain for the fifth day of Nikador’s Feast. He chuckled.

“How self-aware,” he said. “Well, what is it you want? Surely there is something. I can halt this storm and make you queen of this mountain in a moment if you say the words. I can afford you endless wealth and eternal peace. I can ensure you never go hungry and that your children are always healthy. Love, riches, power…pray to me and I will give you them all.”

“Do not squander this,” the High Priest hissed at you. “I am not sure how, but you have gained his interest. You must not let pride stop you from this opportunity.”

Yet you had read the stories; you knew what became of those who received the so-called favor of the gods. It was only Nikador who you could trust, only Nikador who disdained all mortals equally. The rest were as generous with their fits of rage as they were their boons and gifts — even your mother’s kind goddess had once caused the forest to wither for five years, after they had been given a bull instead of a sow as they preferred.

“Nikador,” you said. “That is what I ask for. Convince them to take me as their bride, and then, on the day of my wedding, I will swear allegiance to you as well.”

“Nikador has never taken a bride. Even in the heavens, not a single goddess has turned their head, so how would a mere mortal accomplish it?” Phainon said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “And they would not make a good lover, anyways. Are you certain that is your greatest desire?”

“That is all I want from you, sun-bringer,” you said. “If you cannot accomplish it, I will not blame you, but there is nothing more you can give or take from me.”

“You are bold,” he said. “But I will reward you for it. Very well; until the next time we meet, then.”

As quickly as he had come, he was gone, leaving spots in your vision and a curious darkness in the sanctuary, the very walls crying out for what they had held and then lost. You gasped for the breath you had been unable to fully draw in his presence, dabbing away the sweat which had collected on your brow and not daring to look at your brother or the High Priest.

“What have you done?” your brother whispered finally.

“What have I done?” you parroted with a scowl. “You incompetent fool, what choice did I have? You made me bargain with a god — and not just any god but Phainon!”

“Do not raise your voice against the prince!” the High Priest said. “We were — we were so close, we even had a god in our hands, and you wasted his goodwill with such a thoughtless wish. Nikador’s bride! Who do you think you are?”

“Have you forgotten those stories you taught us when we were children? What if we ended up in the way of my uncle? He, too, thought he could parley with gods, and how has it left him? Bereft of an eye! Whatever Phainon may have given us, we would come to regret it, I know it to be so,” you said. “I have asked him for an impossible gift in the hopes that something else will strike his fancy in the meantime and he will not return to toy with me further. Everyone knows Nikador does not love, and furthermore they detest Phainon, so they will be doubly sure to say no to any requests coming from him. It was the best I could think of in such a fraught situation!”

“You’re right,” the High Priest said. “The gods are unpredictable at best.”

“Thank you,” you said warily, for he was not the sort of man that would concede so easily, and especially not with the sort of absurd smile he was, for some reason, donning.

“Thus, we cannot let you stay here. You have gained the attention of Phainon, who is staunchly opposed to Nikador. Who knows what will become of us if we continue to harbor you with that knowledge? Nikador may not strike us down, they are far too judicious for it, but there is no telling what curses Phainon will rain upon us if we mistakenly anger him when his eyes are turned toward our kingdom,” he continued.

“What did you just say?” you said.

“He is headstrong and young as far as gods go, and you are his latest amusement. We are already suffering from Nikador’s wrath. We cannot handle another disaster, especially of such magnitude,” the High Priest said.

“You’re banishing me,” you said, and now you were incredulous. “I who was meant to be your great sacrifice, I who am your princess…you’re banishing me?”

“Perhaps we ought to think it through,” your brother said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. “My sister is sage and learned; her presence at my side will make my reign only that much stronger. Besides, who’s to say that Phainon will do anything? As she said, likely he will grow bored of Nikador’s obstinance and move on.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” the High Priest said, and if you were not old enough to know better than to raise your hand at anyone, you would’ve struck him on the mouth for his daring. “Your reign will have all the strength you require if you continue to follow Nikador’s teachings. The words of a careless princess tainted with Phainon’s favor will only bring about our end.”

“Your mind is made,” you said. “And if you say it, then it will be done, High Priest.”

“Surely you understand,” he said.

“All too well,” you said, and then you looked at your brother, who avoided your eyes. You waited for him to say something, anything, but he was motionless, as deferent in the end to the High Priest as the rest of the kingdom, despite his many-times-higher status. So it was all you could do to dip your head in feigned respect before spinning on your heel, leaving a path of red footprints in your wake as you left the temple unimpeded.

They gave you until the next dawn to leave — after all, dawn was Phainon’s domain, and so they could pretend like it was mercy or caring that drove them to this. He will guide you, the High Priest assured you as his servants stripped your chambers of their finery, carrying the velvets and silks to the temple where they would be burnt in search of Nikador’s forgiveness. Wherever your path leads you, he will light your way.

You saw him at the kingdom gates in the blue hour, when the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon and your pony was impatiently pawing at the dirt of the road. He wore new robes, the collar trimmed with velvet, his face lined with satisfaction, and when he saw you he had the nerve to bow, although you were a princess no longer and he had not shown you that respect even when you had been.

At his side, her elbow secured with his fist, was your mother, and although her countenance was wan with despair, her very expression begging you not to leave her alone, she did not move. You could not bear to look at her, not without your throat threatening to close, so you pulled your cloak over your shoulders and knotted your fingers in your pony’s flaxen mane, as if through his unwavering strength you could find your own. Then, without looking back, you kicked him forward before you could falter, knowing that every moment you hesitated would only cause you and your mother both to suffer all the more. 

“Go to your uncle!” she shouted after you as your pony spooked at shadows, bolting out of the kingdom with ears pinned. “Go to your uncle, he will—!”

She was cut off by the High Priest’s rebuke, and you squeezed your eyes shut, leaning forward and urging your pony faster, faster, wishing, not for the first time, to be somewhere far, somewhere that the High Priest and his ilk could not reach you ever again. If you had wings, you might’ve flown, and in the back of your mind you laughed at the thought that you could’ve, had you been naive enough to ask Phainon for that kind of a blessing. Yet as it was, your only recourse was galloping away on the mountain road, leaving your temple and your family and your title far behind, where you could never again reach them.

You wandered for some time — how long you could not say, but it was certainly many hours before you came across another person, the first sign of life you had encountered since leaving the kingdom. He was an old man, his eyes a bright shade of ochre set deep in his wrinkled, sun-worn face, his hair thin and white, his limbs spindly and bent. His clothes were torn and looked to be only hastily mended, and he walked with a warped branch serving as a cane, limping along the path without care for the day beating down on his caving back. 

“Sir, are you alright?” you said, reining your pony to a stop beside him, ensuring your shadows fell over the man in some semblance of protection. “Why do you travel by yourself, in such a state?”

He beamed up at you, gummy and pink, and then he coughed. Before you could stop yourself, you were dismounting and patting him on the back, offering him your arm to steady himself with as he heaved and hacked.

“Ah, you are such a kind girl,” he said, his voice hoarse, his gnarled fingers digging into your bicep. “Not many would stop to help a stranger. Your family has raised you well.”

“My mother always told me that it is better to be scorned in the pursuit of kindness than to ignore someone who may be in need,” you said.

“She must be very proud of you,” he said. You frowned slightly before schooling your expression back into a pleasant, if not plain, one.

“Perhaps,” you said. “But what of your family? Why have they let you travel this road on your own? It is dangerous, you know.”

“My family and I are ever-quarreling,” he said, shaking his head with such affected despondence that it was nearly comedic. “My latest actions have drawn their ire, so I have excused myself from my home for a time. They will forgive me sooner or later, and then I will return to pester them as always, but at the moment, it is best that I am on my own.”

“I see,” you said. “In truth, I am in a similar situation, although I do not think I will be forgiven. I go now to my uncle, who does not know, yet, that I am to be spurned, and I hope that he understands my plight a little better than my brother and father did. Do you have a destination, sir? If our paths are similar, then I can accompany you for a time. I do not like the idea of you traveling alone, especially not at night. The wolves are so daring this time of year…”

“I have no path in mind,” he said. “I was set to walk this road until I thought their rage might have cooled, whereupon I would perhaps return home — or perhaps not.”

“Then you must come with me!” you said in alarm, for he was such a frail wisp of a person that even a particularly strong breeze might be enough to knock him over, let alone an actual threat. Though you were sure he was safe from the many thieves that liked to accost wayward travelers, having nothing worth stealing in the first place, that did not mean he would escape the notice of any beasts that might be hungry enough to grow indiscriminate in what they saw as prey.

“Oh, I would not want to be a bother,” he said. You shook your head.

“I insist. It would bother me far more to leave you behind; I would think of you with every step, wondering if something had happened,” you said. “Come, let me help you onto my pony. He is gentle, and anyways I will lead him, so you needn’t worry about falling.”

“You will walk!” the old man said, stepping into your cupped palms nonetheless and allowing you to boost him into the saddle. You shrugged, for although you were unused to such laborious work, you were determined to bear it without complaint.

“My uncle does not live very far,” you said. “And between the two of us, I am the better suited to it. Do not fret — if I thought I could not manage, I would not have offered!”

“You are generous to such a fault. One day, someone may take advantage of it,” the old man said, cracking his back as you began to walk forward.

“It is a habit for me,” you said. “Since childhood, I have been tasked with helping others. Nikador’s teachings call for it, if they are followed in their purest form. There can only be strength if it is in contrast to weakness, and it is the duty of those with to help those without.”

“I have not heard of such a creed,” he said.

“Many accept the words of the priests as those of Nikador themselves, but then, how easy it is to twist ideals if none are willing to seek the truth on their own! I have read the myths and the stories in their most ancient versions, so I have drawn my own conclusions, but I know they are in opposition to most,” you said.

“Then isn’t it vanity for you to assume that yours are the correct ones and theirs are not?” he said. You whirled to look at him with your jaw dropped, and when you saw he was serene as before, his eyes now closed, his lips still half-curled, you let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“I suppose so!” you said. “Though it’s not the priests’ interpretations I am opposed to, it is how — never mind. I should not burden you with my anger, fresh as it is.”

“After helping me, you worry about burdening me?” he said. You waved your hand dismissively.

“It’s beyond explaining, anyways,” you said. “And far from prudent. I have said too much already.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “The ramblings of an old man are hardly widely believed, anyways. You can speak freely before me.”

“I appreciate your offer,” you said. “But it is alright. You have your troubles, and I have mine; I won’t inquire into yours if you offer me the same courtesy. We may reach my uncle with our sanities intact in that way.”

“If it is what you prefer,” he said, and then neither of you spoke further, leaving nothing but the afternoon birdsong to fill the empty silence. 

He was a good companion, the old man, and as the day bled into night and then back to morning again in a perpetual loop, you found you were grateful for him. Your feet may have ached terribly, but it was better than being alone, even if the two of you never conversed much beyond the basic formalities. You were fond of him in your own way, and with every hour that passed, you thought to yourself how wonderful it would have been if you both had met under better circumstances. Had he been younger, a citizen of your kingdom…had you still been a princess instead of an exile…you might’ve been friends in earnest instead of weary travelers merely following a road without end.

“We are nearing my uncle’s home,” you said when the firs began to mingle with poplars, the sunlight gold and dappled on the path instead of thin and harsh as it was in the alpine territories. “He can be frightening to those who do not know him, but I give you my word that he is a kind man, and I will do what I can to soften his heart to you.”

“You mean to bring me into his city?” the old man said.

“Do you have anywhere else to go? If you are even half as exhausted as I, then you should be thanking me. My uncle is well-regarded, and I will ensure your accommodations are comfortable,” you said.

“I thank you kindly for thinking of me, but it is long past time that we parted ways. I will not be welcome in the forest, and I do not want you to face any more troubles because of me,” he said.

“You haven’t brought trouble,” you protested. “And why wouldn’t the forest welcome you? You are so kind!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t say that if you knew more about me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you see, my…aunt, who would be furious to know I just called them that, lives in the forest, and they will do anything to chase me away if they learn of my presence.”

“How cruel,” you said when he motioned for you to halt and then slid to the ground. “They really cannot tolerate you to that extent?”

“It would be best not to push it,” he affirmed. “Thank you for coming with me this far, but I will be alright from here. You were nothing like what I expected, but I am happier for it.”

“What do you mean by that?” you said, bending to embrace him in farewell even as you did. He inhaled sharply, and for a moment you thought you had overstepped, but then he was holding you to him with a strength that belied his delicate stature and advanced age. It took you aback, but it was somehow so tender that you made no move to escape, burying your face in his shoulder, which smelled of thyme and mountain-tea.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go on and do not hesitate. We will meet again, I am sure of it.”

“How can you be?” you said, more bewildered now than you had been in the entire time you had known him. He only hummed, mysterious and sly, and then turned to walk back the way you had come. You glanced at your pony, although of course he would be no help, and then back at the man, who continued to hobble along.

“Our business remains unfinished,” he called over his shoulder. “And I do not like to leave things open-ended.”

“...our business?” you repeated under your breath, trying to think of what he could possibly mean by that and coming up blank. Mounting your pony, you cued him forward, and then you shifted in your saddle for one final look at the strange man, who had never confounded you so greatly as in that moment — yet in one final twist, he had vanished, as surely as if he had never been there in the first place. You blinked a few times, attempting to clear your vision, but he did not reappear, and you were left with nothing but the ache in your legs from walking and the lingering warmth of his arms to know that he had been there at all.

The great city of the Grove was sheltered deep in the forest, caught in a sort of perpetual twilight from the lacy shade of the many boughs that criss-crossed over the sky and flourished eternally, blessed by Cerces as they were. Your uncle had told you, once, with mocking in his voice and a pinch to his brow, that the Grove itself was Cerces’s sanctuary, and so the entire place bloomed as a temple might, every blade of grass as sacred as any altar’s offerings.

He was waiting for you by the gates, and you did not ask him how he had known you would come, for of course he had — he knew everything, he was that sort of man, who could see farther and further than hawks and prophets alike. You only handed your pony to a waiting stableboy and then collapsed against him, your arms winding around his neck, clenching the fabric of his long coat and allowing a single sob to escape you.

“Uncle,” you said. “Oh, uncle, uncle, they’ve cast me from the mountain—”

“I know,” he said, and somehow you found his typical perfunctoriness to be a comfort instead of abrasive, as it often was. “I will come to your chambers tonight; there will be time to weep then, but not now. Now you must appear brave, or else I will not be able to convince the others to accept you. They are already wary of taking in one who reeks of Phainon’s meddling, and their reluctance will only double if you appear to be a frightened coward crawling to us and expecting our protection from the gods.”

“Who told you?” you said. 

“Your mother sent a messenger bird,” he said. “Even in ink and parchment, her fear was evident. Is it true?”

“I don’t know what she wrote to you, or what the High Priest has poisoned her mind with, so I cannot say for certain, but given that I am here instead of home, you must know the situation is less than ideal,” you said.

“Later,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and then adjusting the filigreed eyepatch covering the left half of his face. “For now, have something to eat and take a bath. You look horrible, and you will have to face the rest of the Sages tomorrow.”

“I walked all this way,” you said. “I look better than you’d expect.”

“And still worse than one who must argue with the supreme authorities of the Grove ought to,” he shot back immediately. “Go, and gather your thoughts while you’re at it. They will not let you off without sharp questioning.”

The baths in the Grove were modeled in the way of the seaside capital, Okhema, although according to your father, who had been even so far in his youth, the marble buildings of Okhema had no equal, and certainly not here, where fashion was sacrificed for function. But you were in no position to be selective, and anyways, after traveling for so long, you would’ve been thrilled even by a particularly clear pond, so the steaming waters and stone benches of the bath seemed all but paradisiacal as you approached them tentatively.

Right as you dipped your toe in to check the temperature, you heard a small splashing sound, and then you were gasping, for there in the middle of the bath was a small bird, flapping its wings most desperately as it struggled to stay above the surface. Wading through the water as fast as you could, ignoring how the sudden heat of it nearly burnt you, you scooped the bird into your palms, cradling it carefully to your chest. It fluffed out its feathers indignantly, and you were careful to walk slowly back to the edge, so that you did not splash it by mistake, for it was already so damp and sorry-looking you could not bear the thought of worsening its plight.

“Oh, my dear friend, how did you end up here?” you said gently, mindlessly, looking over at the open window and wrinkling your nose, scratching under its beak in an attempt to soothe the tiny heart that you could feel hammering away in the glass cage of its chest. “Such a pretty creature you are. I’ve never seen anything like you before, but then again, I am so far from home that that shouldn’t come as a shock.”

Sitting on one of the steps carved into the side of the bath, you swished your legs about in the water idly, raising your hands into the air and smiling at the bird, who did not attempt to fly away, only cooing at you sweetly, prompting a giggle from you. It was a little songbird of a variety you did not recognize, small and white, with gold feathers ringing its neck and its beetle-dark eyes, which sparkled as it looked down on you like it was entirely pleased with its situation, despite still being soaked.

“I must continue to bathe, but the window is open, so you may fly away whenever you would like,” you said, setting it down on the lip of the bath before beginning to rub oil into your skin. “Or you may stay! I do not mind the company.”

The bird chirped at you, cocking its head, and although you knew it was ridiculous to believe you could genuinely converse with it, you could not help yourself from shaking your head with the utmost of solemnity, taking your strigil and scraping the oil off alongside the dirt of your ordeals, exhaling in relief as you did so, for it had been far too long since you had been properly clean — and longer since you had bathed of your own volition, not by one of the priests tasked with readying you for the ritual of sacrifice.

“I am glad I came as well,” you said. “You might’ve spent hours on your own if I had not. Well, at any rate, you would’ve been the cleanest songbird the Grove has ever seen, so there is that consolation.”

It pecked your hand as you set the strigil down, as if it were chastising you for making light of its troubles. You let your thumb run along its back in apology, and then you returned to immersing yourself in the bath, allowing the hot water to soothe away the tension in your muscles, which were still taut from how long you had spent walking. The steam turned the world hazy, and you stretched languidly, one arm and then the other, finding yourself in such a dreamlike state it was a wonder you did not fall asleep entirely.

“Do wake me up if I should drift off,” you told the bird through a yawn. “Since leaving home, I have not been sleeping well, if at all. It is difficult to go from a palace to a field in a span of hours, you must understand.”

“Excuse me? This bath is meant only for the Seven Sages. Who are you?”

The voice was masculine and unfamiliar, and immediately you sat up, your earlier playfulness replaced with a sense of dread, though the man had given you no reason yet to fear him.

“My uncle told me it was alright for me to come here,” you said. “He said no one else would be using it at this hour.”

“Your uncle?” the man said. “Ah, Anaxagoras. He always has been one to bend the rules. You are the infamous niece, then? But you look nothing like him.”

“He was taken in by my mother’s family when he was young. We share no blood,” you said. “Who are you?”

“I am Socrippe,” he said. “Another of the Seven Sages of the Grove. Ordinarily, your uncle would have been right to say the baths would be deserted at this hour, but I was tired of our latest debate and asked to be excused early.”

“I see,” you said. “It is an honor to meet you, great Sage.”

“So you are the girl that has piqued Phainon’s interest,” Socrippe said, and then he was crossing the bath so that the two of you were side by side, mere paces apart. You shrank away, but he followed you, and the bird trilled as you edged closer and closer to where it had thus far sat undisturbed. “I can see why. With how beautiful you are, I am surprised you have not won Mnestia’s heart as well.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but I must be going now,” you said. “My uncle awaits me.”

“Your uncle is still busy in that debate, arguing that we must hear your case and give you the chance to stay with us. The rest of the Sages are stubborn, but I am sure they will at least listen to you tomorrow. Have you prepared a proper defense? If not, I can assist you. You will not have to try very hard to convince me, at least,” he said.

“I appreciate your concern, but I really am alright. My uncle’s counsel shall be more than sufficient,” you said.

“What is the hurry? Stay, do not let me be the reason you leave earlier than you would’ve liked,” he said when you made to stand, catching your wrist and tugging at it. You felt it, then, the phantom hands of those priests as they scrubbed your back with pumice, how unsympathetic they had been, how harsh, like they were goading you into a yelp you refused to give them, reluctantly permitting them only the satisfaction of seeing your shivers, which you could not help yourself from. Yanking your arm back, you hastened your pace, although it did not matter when he, too, stood and mirrored your every step.

“Thank you for your generosity, but it is unnecessary,” you repeated, though it was in vain.

“You mistake me,” he said, and although he was not so close, it suddenly seemed as though he were looming over you, as if here were a great tree and you were merely the size of the bird at your feet. “It isn’t generosity. I am not offering.”

You took a deep breath, trying to think of a prayer to Nikador. They would not come to your aid, not so deep in the Grove, which was Cerces’s domain and thus forbidden for all other gods to approach, but the words alone would bring you solace as the Sage came nearer and nearer. Yet for some reason, every ode to war was gone from your mind, and all you could think of was a hymn for the sun-bringer, which you did not even remember ever learning.

How, then, shall I sing of you? For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.

In his single-mindedness, Socrippe stumbled on the bird, which set it to shrieking. You covered your mouth as the Sage yelled and the bird flew at his face with a fury you had not expected such a small thing could contain, and then you pulled a towel around your waist, fleeing the bath while he was distracted, thanking Nikador for the intervention under your breath. For surely it had been them, you thought as you touched your forehead in reverence, who else could drive a bird to such madness? And one who had been so cheerful only moments before! You had thought they had abandoned you, but all along they were there, your defender to the last.

You had had some plans of great productivity after returning to your temporary chambers, of eating a full meal and preparing your defense for the Seven Sages, but the bed proved irresistible, and before you knew it you were curling on your side, pulling your blanket up to your chin and closing your eyes, although you promised yourself you would not sleep. It would be unwise — you still had much to do — the day was young, the sun had not even reached its zenith —

A paw batted at your forehead, and at first all you could do was groan, pushing it aside, but to your consternation, the animal remained undeterred, tapping you again and again. You squeezed your eyes shut, doing your best to ignore its demands, but it seemed to disagree with this, for then there was a pressure on your chest, the unexpected weight of the creature all but suffocating, causing you to cough as your lungs constricted in alarm. Against your will, your eyes opened, and you were met with a pink nose and a stare like finchfeathers, glowing even in the dark of the evening.

“I fell asleep!” you said, sitting up abruptly, earning your a plaintive mewl from the cat as it tumbled onto the blanket and looked up at you dolefully, its ears low and its fur standing on end. “Yes, yes, thank you for waking me. It would’ve been embarrassing if my uncle came to visit while I was still slumbering away like a child sent to nap.”

Evidently, the cat forgave you for your transgressions, for it rolled over on its back and peered at you invitingly, beginning to purr as you stroked behind its ears, rubbing its cheek against your wrist in content. A lump swelled in your throat the longer you pet it, and with your free arm you hugged your knees to your chest, trying to stifle your tears but finding yourself unsuccessful.

“How many wonderful things this Grove has,” you said. “First that bird blessed by Nikador, and now—hey!”

The cat’s claws had caught against your palm, leaving behind an angry scratch, not deep enough to bleed, but enough to smart adamantly. When you pretended to scowl at it, it blinked at you, slow and innocent, and then it flicked its tail in an obvious solicitation for you to continue. You did not, crossing your arms and thinking yourself quite stern for it, but instead of being cowed as you thought it would be, the cat only stood and shook itself, prancing about atop the blanket with no small amount of self-approbation. 

“Now, don’t be like that,” you said, giving in and extending your arms. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Come back.”

The show was over in an instant; it leapt at you, a flying mass of fur and outstretched legs toppling into your lap and tucking its tail over its paws, glaring at you until you continued your earlier ministrations, albeit more pensive now, lost in reminiscing.

“I had a kitten just like you when I was younger,” you said. “Though she was a tortoiseshell, not all white as you are, and she had the prettiest green eyes. Like the emeralds in my father’s Okheman ring. I would tie ribbons around her neck and bring her everywhere with me; in that time, they called her the second princess and claimed I would’ve given her my wreaths if they would’ve fit her.”

You lifted the cat, paying no mind to its disgruntled huff in the moment but patting it in apology after you had returned it to the dip in the cushion where you had formerly sat. Going to the mirror, you began to fiddle with your hair, attempting to make yourself presentable enough that your uncle would not ridicule you for your sloppiness. 

“I would’ve, maybe,” you said to the cat, who was also grooming itself, perhaps in an imitation of you. “But the High Priest took her from me before her first year. He said that it was better I grieved her now, when I loved her less, than to save it for later, when my sensitive mind would not be able to bear it with the unflinching nature Nikador required. I’m not sure what he did with her; he never told me, I think because he knew I would seek her out. In the end, the truth of her fate was less important than what it meant to me — she had gone somewhere I could not reach, as all things I would love eventually would.

“Nikador tells us that we do not weep, we stand true in the face of adversity and turn our sorrow into strength, but I could not help how I cried that night. The priests chastised me for it, but I was a child and did not understand what meaning they were trying to impart. All I knew was that there was a bleak void in my chest, for my heart had gone with her, wherever she might have been, and I did not know if I would ever be whole again.”

Giving up on your appearance and deciding you would just have to take your uncle’s comments in stride, you reclined next to the cat again, permitting it to clamber onto your chest and ruffling its fur idly as your mind wandered, thinking of everything you had left behind without even a farewell. You hadn’t been given the time, not when the dawn encroached so rapidly on the night, not when the High Priest and all who followed him were watching your every move, waiting to find a moment of weakness that they could prey upon — because it was not enough to exile you, of course it was not. They wanted to destroy you, and they would not settle for anything less.

You did not doubt that even now, they were poisoning the hearts of your former subjects, telling them how the princess had been so consumed with thoughts of godhood that she had even abandoned her people, that she had fled from her duties out of some dream of worshipping Phainon and marrying Nikador. Or maybe they would not even say that much; maybe they would omit the last part entirely, simply announcing  that you had grown enamored with Phainon’s promises, had not been strong enough to resist his ethereal temptation, and so had gone somewhere where you could pray to him until he blessed you wholly, in flesh and spirit alike.

“As if I would ever pray to that conceited, arrogant deity,” you muttered to yourself, emboldened by Cerces’s omnipotence in the Grove to speak the truth, for they would defend you if it came to it. “Appearing when he wasn’t even wanted, forcing me to ask him for a boon in exchange for my unwilling worship…what sort of a god! Would that Nikador had come, as they had been bid to. My death might’ve meant something then, for it would’ve been the death of a princess, a sacrifice — I might have become a sort of martyr for my brother to learn spine and soundness from, though that could be asking too much. But we’ll never know, will we? Because thanks to Phainon, I am here, a common outcast begging for shelter and talking to a cat like it can understand me.”

The cat meowed. You gave it a look. It meowed again. You snorted.

“My apologies. Talking to a cat because it most certainly can understand me,” you said. “Do all creatures of the Grove have such intelligence and charm? You must teach my uncle your ways, for he is possessed with twice the intelligence but not nearly half the charm.”

Like you had summoned a visitor by taking one’s name, there was a knock on your door, and before he opened it you knew it was your uncle, because he was a Sage, and so the world of the Grove always bent a little differently where he was concerned. Winking at the cat and raising your finger to your lips like you were swearing it to secrecy, you called for your uncle to enter as he’d like, shifting so that your posture was correct, without flaw, for of the many things you knew he might pick at, you did not want that to be one.

“Good evening,” he said as entered, holding a plate in one hand, resting the other on his hip. “I was told you did not ever call for your meal. I can only assume it was because you were preoccupied with more important matters.”

“Entirely,” you said, taking the food without even thanking him, for you were so famished and he had, you noticed, ensured that what was prepared was a dish you had loved in your youth.

“You are a horrible liar,” he said.

“Only to you, who knows me so well,” you said, permitting yourself the bit of cheek — you had always been his favorite, for the very reasons you were so reviled by the leaders of the cult of Nikador. To the priests, your inquisition was a thing to be feared, but to Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage of the Grove, it was a cherishable quality that he cupped his hands around and protected, as surely as one might guard the wavering flame of a lantern in the wind. That was why your mother had told you to go to him, and why you had planned on it before she had even made the suggestion: not out of any sort of familial duty, but his keen recognition, his acceptance of the state of things how they were and not how they ought.

“But the time for lies and jest is past,” he said. “Now you must tell me what happened and why you are here.”

“Perhaps we should begin with you telling me what you heard from my mother,” you said. “I do not wish to bore you with redundancies.”

“She did not write much. I doubt that she could,” he said. “All she said was that you had somehow attracted the gaze of Phainon, and so the priests had banished you from the mountains for fear of what Nikador might think should they continue to harbor the devotee of one that is so loathed by that war-mongerer.”

“Then the High Priest has done exactly as I thought he might,” you said. “Of course. Even though I am in exile, my very name cannot be allowed to linger on people’s lips as anything more than a reference to a weak-willed joke of a girl.”

“I surmised as much,” your uncle said, furrowing his brow at the cat, offering it his closed fist. The cat hissed, slinking back to hide behind you, nudging you in displeasure, like it was urging you to reprimand him for even the approach. “But Phainon’s mark does linger upon you, and that can only mean you have asked him for something. I thought you were sharper than that.”

“Do you think I wanted to?” you snapped. “It was Nikador they were meant to summon, my brother and that accursed High Priest. I am sure you are aware of the storms that have torn at the mountain for weeks now?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Though I was under the impression they paused for a time, and only resumed recently.”

“Yes, I was fortunate that they ceased while I was traveling; perhaps it is that Nikador took pity on me and allowed me safe passage, or perhaps it was Phainon, though I doubt the latter is the case,” you said. “Anyways, during the worst of it, there was a great convocation in the throne room. Every priest in the kingdom was called to attend, and my entire family, too, as we made our plans for how we might appease the great lord. My brother suggested hosting games in Nikador’s name, for they are fond of sporting events, of the competitive verve to it all, but the people were too storm-weary to consider participating in such a ceremony. One of the younger priests thought that we might build a grander temple for them, as ours is old and, some may say, falling into disrepair. Then there was me, who said that maybe Nikador was expressing their displeasure at the order of the priests, who had not served their name in as many years as I had lived.”

“They did not take kindly to it,” your uncle said rhetorically. “You should’ve known better than to say anything.”

“I was tired of them,” you said. “They spoke of games and buildings and slaughterings, but who would do these things? Not them, comfortable as they are, twisting Nikador’s laws to serve their own purposes and make themselves all the wealthier, all the more powerful. The High Priest has already deposed my father in all but name, and he will soon do the same to my brother, who is ten times as irresolute and quivering as his sire, malleable to suggestion in a way you taught me not to be.”

“It is as innate as it is taught,” your uncle said, and although he was brusque, his words were tinged with mourning, for you could tell by the expression he wore that he had already understood where the story was going and now only waited for you to confirm it. “Your brother has long since been past saving. I could not manage it, so how could you?”

“I wanted to, though,” you said. “I wanted to take his hand and bring him into understanding, to lead him from the mania of the priests and into Nikador’s heart, where we might have resided together. I argued with him so desperately that day, him and my father alike, begging them to hear me this once, and for a moment I swear I saw him falter. He would have joined me, uncle, I know it, but then the High Priest had a vision.”

How perfectly it had coincided, a stroke of lightning as the High Priest raised his hand, the room falling silent, your father’s vapidness dissipating in an instant, replaced with a sheen of rapture as he leaned towards the High Priest and away from his straight-backed throne. Nikador had spoken to the High Priest, who was the only one they ever communed with, or so he said, and now he would turn prophecy into decree, vision into direction, storm into sunshine. 

“‘They demand the grandest sacrifice,’” you repeated miserably, the words etched into your memory as clearly as if they had just been spoken for the first time. “‘The princess. Only by giving herself can she satisfy them; anything less will be seen as an offense of the highest order.’”

“What a fraud,” your uncle said, pacing the breadth of the room, and while his voice remained level, his every bootstep was livid, incensed. “To claim divine intervention—”

“But who would say as much? In face of Nikador’s so-called will, we are all powerless,” you said. “How easy it was for him to sentence me to death. My brother did not argue; my mother could not; my father would not. I did not fight it, either, for I knew it would come to nothing, and I refused to let them know that they had — that they had — that they had been successful. I would die as Nikador’s sacrifice, and in the runes written with my blood, my brother, who was tasked with the butchering, would finally come to see the truth.”

“Go on,” your uncle said when you paused. “Finish the story.”

“That idiotic boy,” you said. “He is still a child. Not a prince, and far from a priest, who would be trained in such arts. He was chosen only to prove his mettle, his loyalty to the High Priest, and I suppose he did as much, even going so far as to raise his dagger against me — though in the end, it came to nothing. In his nerves, he floundered his invocation, and so instead of Nikador, he inadvertently called upon Phainon. And unlike Nikador, who is silent even when they do grant our wishes, Phainon answered.

“He turned away the High Priest and my brother alike, finding intrigue only in me. I wonder if he thought I was a sacrifice meant for him, or if he understood that I was Nikador’s and simply did not care, or even delighted in it, thinking that by stealing my loyalty, he would have won yet another victory in that eternal rivalry of theirs. He offered me many things, uncle, in the pursuit of taking me for his own, but I refused them all, for I knew that his blessings would not come without a price. Yet I worried, too; those who reject the gods fare no better than those who embrace them.”

Your uncle’s fingers touched the hollow where his eye had once rested, and, pursing your lips, you let yours follow, lacing through his and squeezing. He had never told you what it was he had bargained his eye away for, had never told anyone, but it did not take a Sage or Cerces to know that whatever it was hadn’t been enough. That was how it was with gods, really; always unequal. Always tilted in their favor. Always lacking.

“I asked him to convince Nikador to take me as their bride. If he was unsuccessful, then my life would not change, or so I thought; if, by some miracle, he was triumphant, then I would be safe at their side, out of the reach of his eventual retribution. For a moment I thought he would refuse, but then he agreed, vanishing with a promise that we would meet again, and that was that,” you said.

“The priests were unhappy that their plan to be rid of you had failed,” your uncle completed. “But they could not kill you without risking Phainon’s wrath, so they came up with some excuse about his enmity with Nikador to banish you from the mountain forever.”

“Yes,” you said. “And so I came here, the only place that I have left. Do you think the Sages will accept me? I don’t demand to be treated like royalty; I know I am not that any longer. But I can read and write, and my mother tells me I am good with the young ones, so I could be a teacher, if there is need…or a recordkeeper, or anything, really, though if it is a more laborious task, I may need instruction, I am still not so good with my hands…”

“Listen to me,” your uncle said, placing his hands on your shoulders firmly. “I cannot promise anything, and neither can I lie to you. The other Sages are disconcerted by your presence, and I cannot blame them. Ever since you came here, it’s as if Phainon himself is with us, and divinity of such magnitude is enough to make even the greatest of men shudder. But you know I am always on your side, and as it happens, I am looking for a teaching assistant, so perhaps — if all goes well — something can be arranged.”

“Thank you,” you said, and if he were one for it, you would’ve embraced him again, as you had upon your arrival. Yet he would not appreciate it, you were sure, so all you did was gather his hands together and press your forehead to his knuckles, holding it there until you could be certain he understood what you meant by it.

Although you had fallen asleep with the white cat tucked under your chin, when you awoke the next morning, it was nowhere to be found. You should not have been surprised, as it was so well-kept and friendly that it surely must’ve belonged to someone, but you could not help the disappointment that crept into your throat. At your loneliest, it had come and, for a time, raised your spirits, so could you be blamed for your longing? Especially now, as you donned the austere garb of one of the Grove’s scholars, pulling the hood over your hair in keeping with their modest tradition. It was foreign, the stiff fabric, the dull coloring, and you longed for something familiar — the rumble of a purr, or the curve of your uncle’s smile, both which you would be denied until after you had passed the Sages’ trial.

Dawn in the Grove was the brightest time of day, and as you swept down the hall towards where the Sages awaited you, you paused by the largest window, narrowing your eyes at the sun peeking above the treetops. The sky wasn’t as vibrant here as it was in the mountains, every shade muted, everything soft around the edges as the morning climbed over the horizon, tinged with the fading lavender of the night. Perhaps it was because Cerces had secluded themselves from the rest of the gods, and so Phainon did not brand their dawns with the same violence as he did Nikador’s, in concession to their enduring neutrality, or maybe in fear of their rare condemnation.

“How, then, shall I sing of you?” you said, reciting the same hymn as had come to mind the day before, the one you must have learnt at some point, though you still could not recall exactly when. “For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.”

You did not mean it as a prayer, only a way to taste the words, to roll them in your mouth, to chew on their softness, so unlike the hard, unyielding edges of Nikador’s many odes. They were beautiful, you had to admit as much, coalescing quietly in the corners of your ribcage and flickering like embers, warming you from within like a sunrise captured in miniature. 

A soft rustling drew your attention from the clouds to the sill of the window, where a bird had just landed. It was the same kind as the one you had saved in the bath, and when it did not shy away from your proffered index finger, you rubbed along the honeyed feathers underneath its eye. For a moment, it allowed you the indulgence, and then it hopped away, warbling out a song before taking off and flying back to, you supposed, wherever it had come from. You watched it go, your heart a little lighter for its visit, your shoulders a little less burdened, your mind a little more prepared for your meeting with the Sages.

It began, as many such meetings did, with the most important member speaking first. Although in theory all of the Sages were equal, they tended to hold the eldest of their ranks in the highest esteem, for in the Grove, an accumulation of years also meant one’s wisdom would have increased to match. In the present time, said eldest Sage was Medea, the Sixth Sage, a haughty woman with angular features and irises like frostbitten earth. 

“Niece of Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage,” she began. “You are here to seek asylum in the Grove. If you pass the examination of the Sages, you will become the Fourth Sage’s teaching assistant, and he will aid you in acclimatizing to life in the Grove, which is surely nothing like the one you have led thus far.”

“Yes, great Sage,” you said, bowing as your uncle had instructed you to, demure and nigh-bashful. “I submit to your inquiries, and whatever it is that you may ask, I swear to answer with only the truth.”

“Only three Sages wish to question you today,” Medea said. “Stagira, the Third Sage, what do you ask of the girl?”

“Will you renounce your ties to Phainon and Nikador alike? If you stay in the Grove, then you will be a child of Cerces, and although Cerces is an affable goddess, they are also a jealous one. You must forget that you were born of the cult of the Nikador, and that you have been chosen by Phainon. Do you have it in you to cleanse yourself of your heritage and your claims, becoming a student anew?” Stagira said. He was a man, older than your uncle but a mere child beside Medea, and his expression was so lively you did not think that he was attempting to trick you, leading you to nod earnestly.

“Yes, great Sage. I will forget that either existed; the cult of Nikador has already expelled me, and Phainon…” you trailed off and shook your head. “I was never his devotee in the first place.”

“That is all,” he said. You glanced at your uncle, who inclined his chin the slightest angle, imperceptible to anyone who was not looking for it, prompting you to sigh. The first test was passed; two more and you were free.

“Apuleius, the Fifth Sage, what do you ask of the girl?” Medea said. He was nearer to her in age, and there was a scar running down his misshapen nose, ending right above the faint line of his mouth. You could tell from even the way he walked that he was less affable than Stagira, but you were used to prickly, thorny men, for they were a common breed whence you hailed, and so you did not shy back as he must’ve liked you to.

“This scar on my face,” Apuleius said, pointing at it for emphasis. “What does your first instinct blame it on?”

War, you thought to yourself. Violence. An altercation. Someone who tried to hurt you, who tried to kill you, who tried to tear your face apart, so that you resembled the two-faced Janus for their efforts.

“An experiment with unforeseen results,” you said. Apuleius regarded you carefully, and then he laughed, clapping your uncle on the shoulder.

“She is quick to learn. Your influence, no doubt, Anaxagoras,” he said. “If a daughter of strife can think through her words so carefully, then all hope may yet not be lost.”

“You know better than to give another credit for one’s victory, Apuleius,” your uncle said. 

“You’re right,” he said. “Well done, girl. And no, although I wish the scar’s origin was so mysterious, the real story is far more embarrassing. I simply fell from my horse and landed face-first onto a particularly sharp stone.”

You winced. “I am glad you suffered no worse injuries, great Sage.”

“It may have left me a little frenzied in the years to follow, but then, those of the Grove always are of such a temperament, so what difference does it make?” he said. “Alright then, boy. Ask her your questions and let us be done with this affair.”

“The Seventh Sage,” Medea said, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards. “Socrippe. What do you ask of the girl?”

The man you had met yesterday in the baths was unrecognizable, his face covered with bandages, a formidable gleam in eyes, the whites of which were shot through with enraged crimson. The other Sages murmured to themselves, and you, too, swallowed nervously, for you had not expected him to be in such a state, not when he had been perfectly fine at your last meeting.

“How was I injured?” he said.

“I am not sure, great Sage,” you said.

“You lie,” he said, and then he was jabbing his index finger at you. “This wicked woman attacked me in our own bath yesterday! I had gone to wash after excusing myself from the debate, and she was so infuriated by my company that clawed at me with her fingernails until she drew blood. She is no dove that we can tame, she is a beast that will hunt all in this Grove down if we let her stay!”

“Is this true?” Medea said sharply. You shook your head.

“No, there must be some mistake, that’s not — that’s not what happened, I didn’t — he approached me, and I did not attack him, I only ran—” you stammered, your composure crumbling at their stony glares.

“You’re accusing a Sage of lying?” Medea said, her every word a self-contained avalanche. “He has taken an oath in the name of Cerces, and he will not break it! Need I remind you who is the guest here?”

“I should’ve known,” Apuleius said, clicking his tongue. “You can dress a wolf in the skin of a lamb, but you can’t make it merciful for long. I am ashamed that I was fooled for even a moment.”

“You may renounce Nikador, but it seems he will never renounce you,” Stagira said.

“I didn’t attack him!” you said.

“I know my niece, and she would never do such a thing,” your uncle said. “There must be some alternate explanation or confusion.”

“So you are calling me confused, Anaxagoras?” Socrippe said. “Careful, or you will be replaced. There are plenty who can do your job just as well as you.”

“Now, Socrippe, you don’t have the authority to declare that,” Medea warned. “It would come to a vote, and do not think that you have the power to sway us all against him.”

 “But as for the matter of the girl…” Apuleius prompted.

You thought there would be hatred in Medea’s mien, but to your shock, she seemed a little sad, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes. Maybe it was that she knew Socrippe had broken his oath and mourned her helplessness in proving the truth, or maybe it was that she only regretted having to give such horrible news when she had surely prepared for a happier occasion. Although the latter was far more probable, the thought of the former comforted you as she clapped once, so you chose to believe in it.

“All those in favor of sending her to Okhema, raise your hands,” she said.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The rest of the Sages looked at your uncle, at dear Anaxagoras, who clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead with his arms pinned to his sides. They already had a clear majority, so it wasn’t as if they needed his vote, yet you sensed they would not move forth until he made a decision one way or another.

You turned around so that you did not have to witness it, and a minute later, Medea clapped again. You did not know how your uncle had voted; it was like that cat, really, the one you had had in your childhood, the one that the High Priest had taken from you. It didn’t matter whether he said yes or no — what mattered was that it was done, concluded, and irreversibly so.

“The motion is passed. Girl, leave the Grove at once; if you are prudent, you will go to Okhema and tell the Council of Elders that Medea sent you, but never again shall you return here. You are not welcome any longer.”

They were kind enough to return your pony, along with some food and a letter to one of the Elders of Okhema, Caenis, written by Medea herself. You did not wait for your uncle to come and wish you farewell; you did not think he would, anyways. The two of you were not so dissimilar, after all.

Your pony did not complain about being told to trot down the road, going merrily, even flicking his toes as he went along. You were glad that he was happy, for then at least one of you was, and you allowed him the length of the rein to do with as he pleased, eventually urging him to canter, then gallop, until the trees thinned and you had left the forest behind for good.

“Miss! Miss, wait!”

You were ambling through a field of barley when you heard a boy shouting after you. You swiveled in your seat, at first presuming your mind to be playing tricks on you, but then you saw him, sprinting through the resplendent sea of crops with a ball in his hand. His hair was a pale shock on his head, and when he caught up to you, his amber eyes crinkled at the corners in greeting. You halted but did not dismount, for there was foreboding in the air, and although you were loath to leave the child behind, you could not help but think that there was some merit to the notion that he was the very source of your apprehension.

“There you are,” he said, his hands on his thighs as he huffed for breath. “I’ve been looking for you. You disappeared for a little while — it worried me!”

“Do I know you?” you said, as politely as you could. “Perhaps you think I am someone else.”

The boy’s smile did not drop. “I would not mistake you for anyone. We’ve met a few times."

“I’m sure we haven’t,” you said, subtly pressing your heels into your pony’s sides, telling him to walk on, albeit without any speed. 

“Oh! That’s my mistake,” he said. “Wait, wait, do you recognize me now?”

Right before you, he aged decades in only a second, leaving him a hunched old man leaning on a branch, his face split with a broad smile, pink and gummy. Your eyes widened, and although everything in you demanded you flee, you were paralyzed as your old companion waved a wrinkled hand at you.

“Or maybe this is better?” he said, and then he was melting into the form of a white cat, chasing his tail playfully before, in a burst of feathers, turning into a songbird with gold around his neck and eyes. 

“No,” you said, shaking your head furiously, clenching your fists so hard you were surprised your palms did not bleed from the force with which your nails dug into them. “No, it can’t be. Say it isn’t so. Please, say it isn’t so. You can’t be—”

“It is so, o sacrifice!” he said, springing into the air fully formed, a tall man in handsome armor, his eyes still that same burning shade of dawn, his hair still as white as jasmine.

“Phainon,” you said. He beamed at you.

“Well done,” he said. “Yes, it is me. I have been keeping careful watch over you, you know. Why do you think you were never confronted by bandits or bad weather? Ah, but attacking that Sage put me in a lot of trouble with Cerces, so maybe you ought to forget about asking for any blessings and begin to consider how you might repay me.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” you said. “You aren’t Nikador, I haven’t asked for your protection, so there’s — there’s no need for you to give it! Leave at once, I beg of you!”

“Actually,” Phainon said, although he visibly deflated at your repudiation, his shoulders sagging and his eyes growing large, nearly watery with defeat, which was a ridiculous expression on anyone, let alone a fully-fledged god, “I have something to tell you. I think that I can grant your wish, if it is still what you want.”

“What?” you said, your panic replaced with a momentary inquisitiveness.

“Nikador,” he said. “Do you still…desire them? Because if it is so, then listen to me carefully — I have discovered that the stories of their battle-hardened heart are not entirely complete. The truth is as follows: once before, many ages ago, they, too, knew what it was to love.”

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Yet, you were reluctant too.

It’s not that you weren’t excited to see this new world. No, that wasn’t it. You always enjoyed adventuring and experiencing new things – “The way of a true Trailblazer” as eloquently put by Stelle.

Perhaps it would be the lack of a certain companion on this certain trip.

It probably was that, but dwelling on that possibility made you feel queasy, so it was best to choose the most logical route you could take and completely ignore it. 

You loved everyone on the Express, truly, you did. You loved them all equally. But… you quickly shake the thought away once again.

You were found by Dan Heng and March 7th shortly after Stelle was on Herta’s Space Station during the Antimatter Legion’s invasion. Your origins remained a mystery, obscured behind a foggy wall in your mind. All you could remember was your name. It was speculated that you may have been connected to the Stellaron Hunters, but that was quickly dismissed upon the discovery that you held no Stellaron within your body. Regardless, the Astral Express quickly welcomed both you and Stelle as new members of their crew, and you would forever be grateful.

It didn’t take long for you to bond with the crew. 

Himeko and Welt resembled parental figures, always looking out for you and the others. Himeko would always make tea for you after a particularly bad nightmare, and Welt always answered your bountiful questions about each world you visited with the patience of a saint.

You and Stelle were swift to attach yourselves to the other. Her sense of humor was appreciated, as well as the closeness from being found around the same time. She didn’t quite have a grasp on the concept of personal space, evident as she constantly draped herself onto you, but you didn’t mind. It was nice to have someone so close to you.

Being around March 7th was like being bathed in sunlight. She was impossible not to smile around. She dragged you into photos, into conversations, to vendors on the side of the streets. Her positivity was infectious. Most nights were spent in her room painting each other’s nails and doing skincare. Occasionally, you’d managed to drag Dan Heng and Stelle along, watching movie after movie until you all slowly drifted off to sleep on March’s bed. When you’d wake, limbs would be strewn across one another, with someone always managing to end up face down on the plush carpet of the floor.

Dan Heng was… different. 

He was quiet, yes, but he wasn’t mean. During yours and Stelle’s first days in the Astral Express, he had kept his distance. Looking back, you couldn’t blame him. If two enigmas appeared out of nowhere in a space station you were in – one with Stellaron in her body and the other with no recollection of who they were – you would be suspicious of them too. 

Eventually, he seemed to warm up to you. You started playing chess against him every Friday afternoon, that then evolved into accompanying him on supply runs and hanging out with him in the archives. He would also let you sleep in his room (the archives) after you stayed up too late, scrolling down a rabbit hole of horror and inevitably freaking yourself out. 

He was easy to be around, and you found yourself growing fond of him. Too fond…

Now, as you stood in the hallway outside of the passenger cabins, the hum of the Astral Express vibrating faintly beneath your feet, that same queasy feeling twisted uncomfortably in your stomach.

Penacony.

A new world. A new adventure.

One he wouldn’t be joining.

Your hand hovered briefly near the door to your room, fingers curling slightly before falling back to your side. You could go inside. You could pack. You could shove this feeling back into the depths of your mind.

A quiet groan left you as you turned around, your feet carrying you elsewhere.

You were headed to the archives. Of course.

You knocked lightly on his door, praying he wouldn’t answer so you could turn around and get back to packing – something you desperately needed to do.

“Come in,” his voice was muffled by the closed door. You sighed, reaching back out to the door. The door slid open with a soft hiss and you stepped forward into the room. You were conscious about your decision to close the door behind you, not wishing to be interrupted by March or Stelle. Not that you were going to be doing anything worth interrupting anyways…

Dan Heng stood by a shelf, gaze fixated on a data pad. His eyebrows were furrowed, a small crease formed between them as he stared down.

“You’re not packing,” his observation broke the silence in the room. You swallowed nervously, walking to stand next to him as he looked up at you.

“Neither are you,” you smiled up at him, forcing your voice to stay steady as you tried to come off as playful, loosely crossing your arms across your chest.

“I’m not going.”

Right.

You knew this.

“I knew that,” with a huff, you look away from him, choosing to focus on the data pad. The information on it is disorientated as you’re not actually looking at it, instead looking at the reflection of the two of you on the screen

“Uh huh…” you notice him looking at you in the reflection of the screen. “Is there anything I can help you with then?”

“Not really,” you sigh, dropping your arms to hang at your sides again. You look back up at him again. “What are you working on?”

“There’s information on Penacony in the archives that may be useful to you.”

“Mm.”

You look back down at the screen, the words finally unblurring as you focus on them.

“It’s better to be prepared,” he shrugged, looking back down at the data pad.

“Yeah,” you let out a quiet chuckle. “I guess it is.”

Silence settled between the two of you again.

You should go pack. Your suitcase is desperately calling out your name.

“You’ll be fine.”

The words caught you off guard.

You looked at him properly this time. 

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his eyebrows were furrowed again, his lips pursed as well.

“On Penacony,” he added quietly. “You can handle yourself.”

The queasy sensation once again returned with full force.

“I know,” you laugh breathlessly. “It’ll be fine.”

The corner of his lips twitched upwards, but he still wouldn’t meet your stare.

The heavy silence stretched on for an uncomfortably long time before he finally decided to break it.

“You should go pack,” the dismissal was evident in his words, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind them (despite how badly you didn’t want to pack).

“Yeah, I should,” you sigh, turning around and walking towards the door.

“Come back safely.”

It was quiet – barely above a whisper. 

You didn’t turn around.

“I will,” you replied, just as softly. 

You stepped out into the hallway, a dull ache present in your chest. The excitement of Penacony had been dimmed.

You knew exactly why you didn’t want to go.

And exactly who you didn’t want to leave behind.

With silvered moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains, the room is steeped in a quiet, luminous glow. Books and scrolls lie scattered across the table, their aged surfaces drinking in the pale radiance. The only sound that dares disturb the stillness is the soft hum beneath your breath, accompanied by the occasional whisper of parchment shifting under your touch.

It is well past midnight—an hour where even the most diligent have long surrendered to sleep. Fortunately, neither you nor your husband belong to the cathedral of most. While the world rests, Dan Heng remains seated across from you, absorbed in the scrolls passed down through generations of the previous Imbibitor Lunae.

His gaze is unwavering, tracing each line of ink with meticulous care. The brush in his hand moves only when necessary, deliberate and precise, as though each stroke carries the weight of something far older than either of you. You find yourself watching him—quietly, almost absentmindedly—as he turns from one scroll to the next.

His dark hair catches the moonlight in soft strands, the subtle teal undertones rendering him almost otherworldly in the dim glow. He has tied it up tonight, a rare choice that leaves the line of his neck more exposed than usual. The glasses resting upon his nose sit perfectly, framing his features in a way that feels unfair—like the world has conspired to make him even more beautiful than you remembered.

And the longer you look, the more details begin to surface—the ones you have memorized countless times over. The quiet sharpness of his eyes, softened now by focus. The faint tension in his brow. The calm, composed way he carries himself, even in something as simple as reading. Each time, the same thought returns, persistent and disbelieving—how did you ever manage to place a ring upon this man’s hand?

Lost in your thoughts, you fail to notice how your gaze lingers—unwavering, unhidden. And Dan Heng, ever perceptive, has already taken note of it. Of the way your eyes rest on him, softened with something warm, something quietly consuming.

It is enough to draw a faint flush across his cheeks.

Even after years of marriage, it has done little to dull the effect you have on him. If anything, it only seems to deepen it. How could it not, when you look at him like that—like he is something to be cherished, something worth memorizing?

He clears his throat, the soft sound cutting through your thoughts.

You blink, returning to yourself—only to catch the telltale signs you know all too well. The tips of his ears have turned a delicate shade of red, twitching ever so slightly. In a futile attempt to compose himself, he lifts a scroll closer to his face, as though it might shield him from your gaze—and the feelings that come with it.

“…You’re staring,” he murmurs at last. There’s a subtle hesitation in his voice, like he’s carefully stepping around something unspoken. “Is there something on my face…?”

The question halts you for a moment.

That tone—quiet, uncertain, laced with something deeper—and the way his breath seems just a touch heavier than before.

Oh.

You know exactly where this is going.

Without a warning do you move closer, placing yourself onto his lap and earning a soft whimper from him. His breathing has already shifted into a heavier pace, a crystal-clear expression of his hazy mind. You can feel the way his movements have grown wobbly as well, perhaps your seat has truly fogged up his already troubled mind.

Instinctively, you place your hand against the dragon's chest and he— without a word— obliges to your silent demand, allowing his back to hit the ground beneath.

Settling your hand by his head, you pin him in one place, gazing down on your beloved— who is admittedly in a trance. It is a play you've partaken in a hundred times, that familiar gaze on you is nothing less than tender and borderline needy.

“Why, can't I admire my husband now? You're all dolled up tonight.” you tease softly, leaning in to press a kiss on the tip of his horn— to which, the Vidyadhara responds with another muffled whimper, one he does not try to hide as he does so usually.

Dan Heng's hands snake around your waist to grip the fabric of your clothes, anchoring him against your softest touches. You are a witch, he thinks— bathing him in touches so gentle, he could have never imagined they existed until you. You can make a mess of him, yet he'll never push your hands away because he knows, it is not in your nature to be overbearing.

“I...” Dan Heng breathes out in another futile attempt to regain his composure. “I should be the one admiring you—” A groan bubbles up from his chest as he interrupts in own sentence, the warmth of your lips on the spot beneath his pointed ear is enough to render him speechless.

You can't help but smile victoriously— to see the guard of the Express be a whimpering mess, you swear the Aeons above have blessed you. But as you pull away to straddle his hips, sharp nails dig into the skin on your nape, wordlessly pulling you into him, only pressing his lips against yours.

Taken aback, you freeze momentarily, letting him peck your lips demandingly. With each moment of your silence, he only grows more demanding, one scaled hand pressing against your nape while the other palms at your hip. Overcoming your initial shock, you angle your head and catch the rhythm of his lips. His hand only presses your further against him, as though a single kiss can steal his words to you.

The moment you pull away to regain your bearings, another whimper leaves him— a verbal sign of his disappointment at the absence of your warm lips. A soft chuckle echoes within the closed chambers as you watch him gasp with half-lidded eyes, mumbling inaudibly to himself.

The man beneath you is gone, by a few light touches only. To think that having the Imbibitor Lunae so pliant within your grasp by mere body heat, it sounds ridiculous. But how can you resist the temptation before you? You ought to savor what you are given.

With little thoughts to your clouding mind, you pluck the jade hairpin off his hair, allowing the dark hair to spill in its glory. “I should be apologising, no?” you ask as you place the hairpin on the ground beside him. “Sorry, love, got carried away. You just look so beautiful like this.”

The sincerity in your words does not miss him, it only serves to spreads the warmth within his ocean-fed heart. You truly believe he's radiant, don't you? Oh, how he wants to reciprocate those sweet words— he would, hadn't he been rendered speechless by a mere kiss.

Instead, his grip on you tightens and he pulls you right back into another kiss. This time, his forked tongue sweeps against your bottom lip, demanding access— and you allow him to slide into your mouth without protest. Your tongues intertwine in a slow, familiar dance. With each whimper and moan falling off his heavy chest, you find your mind more clouded than ever and lost in the way he's palming every part of you that he can reach.

The need for air does not avoid you long. Hesitantly, you pull away with nothing but a string of saliva connecting your tongues. Huffs of warm breath leaves you as you steady yourself but the man beneath you is far from being in that state. The light of moon above illuminates the Vidyadhara's teal-bathed horns— if one were to witness this sight unprompted, they'd be bound to think he was woven by Idrilla THEMSELF.

You can see how needy he's grown by the way he's twitching beneath your grinding hips. Each roll only heightens the sensitivity and endurance of it all. The words have swallowed past his tongue, unable to tell you how much he loves this— your touch, your voice, the way you wrecked with only a few familiar tricks. If he could, he'd dress up like this forever, just to have you on him.

You press another soft kiss on his cheek, hoping to calm his gasping form down. However, control does not favour you entirely tonight. The dragon's urge to please his beloved wife overshadows the want to be made love to.

In the blink of an eye, you feel your back hit against the cold, hardened floor, ripping a soft gasp from you. Above you hovers your beloved husband, who is gazing down with those delirious eyes and long hair spilling on your wrinkled clothes. Dan Heng is a strategic man, and currently, his mind is occupied with ways to have you squirm and gasp his name beneath him. For all know, he will achieve it.

As his lips press against your collarbone, you know you're in for a long night.

How the hell do yall write smutfics, this isn't even one and I was staring my screen like this mid way thru it:

Maybe there’s an Aeon that can rewind time somewhere in the cosmos. You could really use that power right now.

You’ve known Phainon since diapers, saw him through his awkward phase, and was the first to see him when he somehow got insanely attractive. Lethal facecard or whatever people say. The point is, you’ve known him longer than anyone not in his immediate family. Maybe except Cyrene, she’s a true day 1, always taking care of you two. But she’s currently off at University while you and Phainon are stuck navigating the horrors of high school.

Maybe it was the fact that high school would be the first time you and Phainon would truly be separated. Different classes, different after school activities, even different friend groups. You had maybe two friends at school but that’s only because you’ve had the same class as them for your entire high school career. Your coworkers don’t really count either, you’re just cordial with them for the sake of not making your already awkward job even more unbearable.

Back to Phainon’s new group of friends, they probably don’t even know you exist. If life was a game from their point of view, your role is schoolmate b. It’s almost unbelievable how different you two have become. Phainon and his group of friends are probably the most popular in the school. They’re the definition of picture perfect.

Anaxagoras might be an asshole but he has a good face and even better grades. According to rumors he’s been offered a full ride to attend the Grove. Mydeimos is captain of the school’s basketball team (though he’s good at almost any sport he plays) and an heir to a conglomerate. Aglaea, she’s more of a full time designer and part time student, her designs are everywhere you look, runways, billboards, and even tv commercials. The list of his friend’s achievements go on and on, it’s easier to list what they haven’t done.

But that’s getting a little too sidetracked, a week before the “confession.” Cyrene was on break and visited you at your job. Which could have gone worse, thank aeons it didn’t.

“You should try to talk to new people, Okhema is completely different from Aedes Elysiae. At this rate, you’ll only have me for company!” Cyrene was scolding you, again. Sure, it was in a lighthearted way but she was correct. You’ve barely talked to Phainon since entering high school or anyone for that matter. The only two people you talked to almost daily were Sampo and Sparkle. Probably because you were the person willing to talk to them despite their reputation.

“That doesn’t sound too bad… plus I could just make friends in college. Or something like that.” There’s no use trying to bring back something that was doomed from the beginning. The only reason you go to high school in Okhema is because you managed to get off the waitlist after applying.

Cyrene let out a sigh, “At least try to talk to Phainon. He’s sulking about you not talking to him.”

“Huh?”

“What?” Throughout your measly one and a half year of high school, you’ve never been close to Phainon. He’s always either surrounded by fans or friends, it’s impossible to talk to him one on one like back in Aedes Elysiae.

Recovering from your shock, you manage to ask a single question, “He tries to talk to me?” Cyrene just burst into laughter, dumbfounded at you and Phainon’s severe communication issues. “C’mon Cyrene don’t laugh!”

“You two really need to talk to each other,” her laughter had turned into light giggles now.

Now here you are, the Monday after break. Just a couple more months and it’ll be a new school year. The school courtyard is filled with other students, most in the standard winter uniform. Not very different from the summer one, no big difference other than the long sleeves. Which idiot decided to make school uniforms amplify the cold by fifty, they have to die a second time.

“Boo!”

“Oh. It’s you,” Sampo, the guy you’ve been unfortunately deskmates with for the past two years.

Sampo wrapped his arms around you, “Aww don’t be like that! As your dear friend, I’m hurt… I thought we were close…” He was always dramatic, though it sounded forced.

This was nothing unusual, just banter between you and the blue haired pest that clung onto you. Sparkle was probably somewhere around the school and the sooner you find her, the sooner the pest gets off of you. Though from a certain someone’s perspective, you two seemed too close for comfort.

“Yoo hoo! Earth to Phainon?”

“Ah sorry Hyacine! I spaced out a little.”

It’s really unfair, how can you let some guy, whom you met after starting high school, hug you from behind while completely avoiding him? He’s known you longer than that rando. You won’t even call him by his old nickname anymore! In the rare chance he gets to talk to you, it’s always “Phainon” and not “Phai.” He should’ve just asked the teachers to change his class to yours. But that’s just selfish thinking, at least to him. You deserve to meet new people and not be hounded by fangirls. He knows Valentine’s Day and White Day were nightmares to you back in Aedes Elysiae.

“Unfocused on the first day back? You’re lacking, deliverer.”

“Stop calling me that!!!”

Phainon and Mydei had an interesting friendship. They were seatmates during their first year of high school. That normally would be enough to become friends but no, of course not, especially with those two.

“Here, your package. It got delivered to my house.” Phainon was in a terrible mood, which was out of character for such a sunny guy. But who could blame him? He woke up late, had to sprint to the bus station, and even witnessed that blue haired pest clinging and using you as a shield.

Mydei only stared at him, a stern glare that would be enough to send chills to anyone. Except a pissed off Phainon. “In Castrum Kremnos packages are treated with respect, deliverer.”

Cutaway from that terrible memory, it still makes Phainon cringe to this day. How does a terrible joke of a nickname still stick after a year and a half?

Muffled laughter could be heard from behind Mydei. A purple haired girl covering her mouth, attempting to keep her amusement quiet.

“Not you too Castorice…” It was tradition to tease Phainon in their group. He was the most reactive after all. “Let’s just go to class first.” Honestly the best course of action for poor Phainon’s little heart. He wouldn’t have to hear more teasing and wouldn’t have to see that now, there were two people playing tug of war with you as the rope.

You on the other hand, were too busy being used as some human meat shield by Sampo while Sparkle tried to pull you off of him. Really where do these two get the energy in the morning?

“I’m going to class,” look you can try but success is a rare thing.

Sampo was still clinging onto you, except this time, he was in front. Anything to put a distance between him and Sparkle. He didn’t really have to worry about her though, cause unlike him, Sparkle had other people she could talk to.

Sampo was just rambling while going up the stairs. Your homeroom was on the second floor. Pretty fitting since you’re in your second year of high school. Third year is going to mean an extra set to climb in the morning. How nice.

At the same time Phainon, Castorice, Mydei, and Hyacine were going up too. Hyacine was a first year while the rest of them had nothing better to do as they had gym for first period. So why not tag along with Hyacine because she has something to actually talk about with Anaxa.

While you were halfway up the set of stairs, Sampo’s rambling suddenly stopped. It all happened so fast, Sampo screaming wait while a pair of gray haired twins charged full speed at him. You tried to step back but in your startled state, accidentally stepped on the weird edge of the stair. Wow, what a great way to go out, death by school stairs. This has to go in some sort of Guinness world record book.

“ah-” instinctively, you reached out your hand. But grabbing onto the rail mid fall won’t stop your fall, you know? Maybe Phainon is like Siri, voice activated by only you. He was starting to climb the stairs to go to the fourth floor, only to see you falling backwards. He really thinks with his heart, sprinting up the stairs with his arms stretched out, ready to catch you.

But, Sampo caught you before you could fall backwards. And dramatically declared while shoving you into his chest, “You know I could never put a dear classmate whom I love so much in danger!”

Phainon really might have to kill this guy.

You and Phainon had been sitting at a corner table for three hours. You had a stack of history lecture notes in front of you, but your studies were progressing slowly.

"You're frowning again," Phainon said in a soft, velvety voice.

You looked up from your notes and met his warm, inviting gaze. Phainon tilted his head slightly to the side, a subtle, gentle smile playing on his lips. He always exuded an extraordinary sense of calm. He had an uncanny ability to make any worries fade away, as if he were a safe harbor in the midst of a storm.

"I just don't understand this chapter," you sighed, rubbing your temples wearily. "The letters are already blurring."

Phainon chuckled softly, a pleasant, lulling sound. He carefully pulled your notebook closer, turning it towards him, and tapped the tip of his pencil against the intricate diagram.

"It's simpler than it seems. Let me explain it again from the beginning," his voice was so soothing that you couldn't help but relax your shoulders. For a moment, his fingers accidentally brushed against your palm as he handed you a pencil. The warmth of his touch sent a pleasant flutter through your chest.

You sat there for about half an hour, while Phainon patiently and gently explained the difficult terms. Finally, he closed his notebook.

"I think that's enough for today. You've done a great job. Let's pack up and stop by the grocery store on the first floor. My mom asked me to pick up some things for dinner, and you might as well grab something to eat before bed."

You happily agreed. You packed your textbooks into your backpacks, went down to the ground floor of the building where the large supermarket was located, and took a shopping cart. Phainon walked slowly between the rows. He chose the food with his usual care: carefully checking the expiration dates, carefully putting everything in the cart, turning around to you from time to time and gently asking if you wanted anything.

You reached the farthest, half-empty wing of the store, where household goods were sold. For some reason, it was suspiciously empty, and the usual music from the supermarket's speakers suddenly stopped.

"Hm, that's strange," you remarked as Phainon stopped near a long rack of laundry detergents. "It looks like they're renovating here. Look."

In front of you, right between two tall shelves, there was a strange opening instead of the usual concrete wall. There was no door, just a narrow corridor with old, faded yellow wallpaper on the walls. A monotonous, barely audible electric hum came from the depths of the passage.

"It's really strange. Let's not go there, just in case," Phainon smiled softly, and warm sparks flashed in his eyes. "Let's go to the ticket office instead, we still have to study for the exam."

He gently touched your elbow, about to turn the cart around. But for some reason you were slow. Your gaze seemed to be drawn to this strange yellow corridor. It seemed to you that in the depths of it, in the midst of absolute silence, there was a faint, barely noticeable gleam — as if someone had turned on the phone screen.

Curiosity was stronger than caution.

"Wait a second, I'll just take a look," you said quietly.

Before Phainon could stop you, you took a step forward, entering this strange passage.

"Hey, where are you going, Y/n? Wait," Phainon sighed. There was a soft, almost parental acceptance of your adventurous spirit in his voice. He left the cart and confidently followed you down the hallway, reaching out to grab your shoulder.

You took another step deeper... and in that moment, the floor beneath your foot simply disappeared.

You didn't stumble or fall; you literally sank through the solid tiles, as if they had become transparent like smoke. A scream caught in your throat. Phainon, who was standing right next to you, reacted instantly, lunging forward and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist in an attempt to hold you up. However, an unknown force also pulled him down. For a brief moment, the world blurred into yellow streaks, and all the sounds of the store ceased abruptly, leaving you with a wild sensation of falling into nothingness.

You both came to your senses at the same time, inhaling sharply in the stuffy, dry air.

You found yourself sitting on the floor, with Phainon holding you in his arms, his breath coming in short pants, shielding you from the unknown. His face was slightly pale as he pulled back to examine you, but his clear blue eyes remained calm and focused.

He gently touched your cheek, helping you to recover.

"Are you all right?" His pleasant, velvety voice was quiet, but it was filled with so much enveloping warmth and genuine concern that the approaching panic subsided a little. "Y/n, look at me. It's okay, I'm here. Did you hit yourself?"

"I... I don't think so," you whispered, swallowing hard. You looked around, and your heart sank.

The supermarket has disappeared. You were sitting on an old, damp carpet that exuded a faint smell of dampness. There was an endless expanse of empty rooms with strange, crooked walls covered with sickly yellow wallpaper. And there were rows of fluorescent lights right above your heads. They burned with an unnaturally bright light and hummed loudly, monotonously, clogging up all thoughts.

then there was that boy that looked like the gods had graced them with a part of their beauty and hope and gave it to him. that boy was phainon. he was young man, an admirable warrior, and a lovely neighbor.

he’s talked to you a few times. he was cheery and fun to be around. he always respected you and brought you food a few times with the excuse of "oh! i made too much food" with the sweetest, sheepish smile to his face.

recently, you’ve been receiving roses. they were in your favorite color. you didn’t pay no mind to it and picked it up when it read, "i hope this’ll cheer you up, you looked a bit down today :(" which was true, you were in a sour mood due to a stomachache that did not want to let you go, no matter how many times you’ve sat down or took some pills to ease the pain. you probably ate something bad that day.

the roses did lighten things up a little bit, and you kept them in a vase. when phainon came around the next week, you noticed that his eyes were on the roses for a little too long before looking at you again.

ever since then, every thursday, every two weeks, special colored roses would appear on your doorstep with a little note that seemed to brighten the heart. they were always sweet and heartfelt, nothing creepy.

phainon would always make sure that you got them and ensured that no one saw him dropping them off. if you knew, he’d probably faint.

truth was, phainon was kind of shy. he didn’t know how to act if he saw a pretty person in front of him.

so the only thing he could do was play secret admirer.

leaving little notes and your favorite colored flowers was the least phainon could do. sometimes, he’d slip in your favorite chocolates too, just to see that smile on your face when you receive them.

whenever phainon came by your place to chat, he’d always eye and smile at what happened to the roses. they were neatly kept in a vase on a table by the door, next to some dog treats you always gave his dog whenever he yapped by.

he hoped you didn’t notice his odd behavior once the bouquet thing started happening, but he knew you weren’t dumb.

he heavily disliked- not hated, disliked- your perceptiveness. he usually admired it, but right now he didn’t like it.

today was a day where phainon wanted to pass away.

phainon promised himself he’d confess his feelings on valentines day. he’d repeatedly mustered up the courage and kept practicing his confession in the mirror for the next four months before february. but today, his anxiety levels skyrocketed and he didn’t know what to do.

snowy was watching him slowly panic, yapping and jumping to place his forelegs on his legs. yapping again and again as if he was telling him to shut up and get out there.

phainon looked at snowy once. "buddy, i don’t know what to do. what if—" snowy barked again, stopping his intrusive thoughts.

but a bright idea came into phainon’s mind. it would be cheesy, but snowy was always an amazing icebreaker.

…

you got a notification on your phone for movement from your doorbell ring camera. were they your yaoi stickers?

you hurriedly went down to inspect the door, peeking through the peephole, only to see… absolutely nothing.

you opened the door to see what it was, and there he was.

phainon’s dog, snowy, sitting with a bouquet of roses and your own personal favorite flowers on his back, strapped with a harness, and a letter clamped in his mouth. his tail was wagging happily when he saw you emerge.

"what d’you get for me, buddy?" you smiled, crouching down to pet his furry head, slightly jumping when your hand touched his head. you gave him a treat.

you gently took the letter from his mouth and opened it. it smelled like the sun… and dog breath.

"this is a really terrible form of confession but i got too shy. i promised myself i’d be brave enough but that was a big lie. i’m so sorry, i wish i could’ve done this better. :( will you be my valentine anyway, [name]?"

you knew it was phainon for a while, but you didn’t quite have the proof yet. you held the letter with a smile on your face. "come on snowy, let’s go back to phainon." you ushered. he yipped and jumped around. luckily, his place was just a 30 second walk from yours.

you went up to phainon’s house and knocked on his door. you knew he was in there. you could see a tuft of white hair peeking out from the window.

you waited patiently until he was ready to open the door. it creaked open with tension.

"hey, [name]! uh, did you—" you didn’t wait for him to speak and pressed your lips on his. phainon stood still for a heartbeat or two.

did you just really do this? oh my god, are you actually kissing me?

but before he could pull you in closer, you already pulled away. his hand hovered over your waist, slightly trembling.

"does that answer your question?" you asked. he nodded frantically. this must be a dream come true.

07.14.26 , 9:46

taglist : @aerisellesuchi , @cloudluvrrr

"What're you talking about?" you reply, hands held up to the sides of your head, a nervous smile encroaching onto your lips. Your back meets the metal of the Parlor Car's walls, your smile parting ever-so slightly to gasp for air, breaths haggard, as Dan Heng presses you further, his expression unfeeling.

"Don't lie to me," he states, the calmness eerie. "You are not [Name]."

"How's that even possible?" you reason, managing to tilt your head slightly, eyes crinkling as your smile widens.

For a moment, Dan Heng's resolve stutters. It's true that your face is the same; from the curl of your lips, to the bridge of your nose, to the scars and moles which line your skin—your well-loved face, those well-loved features.

But it's not. Dan Heng looks at you again and Cloud-Piercer steadies, unwavering, the blunt end pressing fully against the bob of your throat as your mouth hangs slightly agape, eyes craning down as if to gauge just how sharp the weapon really is.

How audacious, is all Dan Heng thinks, brows furrowing. To claim their identity when you cannot even judge the spear which I've told them so much about.

The curl of your lips, though the same in shape, does not resume its natural form when you smile. The crinkle of your eyes, though perfect in imitation, does not contain the natural mirth that enraptures your features.

To think anyone would even dare to mimic a fraction of the sublime—Cloud-Piercer digs closer into your skin, the possessor's eyes widening, lips shrinking to reveal the most fervent of frowns, its shape not suiting your features—how utterly foolish.

"Answer me," Dan Heng states again. "Where did they go?"

"Hah!" you then exclaim, the sound not fitting your voice, its melody infuriating despite its timber belonging to your chords. "You'd have better luck giving up. This body is mine, you mutt!"

Fury, though wildly impulsive, is something that Dan Heng submits to whenever he feels its phantom looming over his shoulder, its mouth widening, capturing him within the hinge of its jaws. Fury allows him to act, without the burden of thoughts, without the second-guessings of whether regret will follow.

Fury is his. There's someone in your body, claiming it as their own, and Dan Heng feels the mouth of fury swallow, he feels the esophagus, he feels the stomach acid as he fizzles in the bile.

He feels the grit of his own teeth as his jaw tightens, his brows furrowing to the point of wrinkling his nose, his figure hunched forward as he presses Cloud-Piercer's blunt end so violently into your throat that you start gasping for air, unable to breathe.

(And, despite it all, he's careful not to draw blood. He's careful to avoid the wounds which haven't healed fully, he's careful to avoid your lower neck, as you've mentioned how sensitive you are there. This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.)

The doors to the Parlor Car slam open, and Dan Heng feels his figure part from yours, his dominant hand held back by the arms of another, the frantic cacophony of voices as you're subdued by Stelle and Himeko, March watching from afar, Welt behind him.

They say that eyes are the windows to the soul.

Dan Heng looks at you, and he does not recognize the entity which stares back at him. A possessor; a fraud; a thief. Something stole your body—but more than that, because Dan Heng couldn't care less about what sort of appearance you take, where your moles form, where your scars lie.

The crinkle of a joyful eye is unmistakable, the cadence of words are unique to each person, the syntax, the choices, the mannerisms of an identity. Dan Heng knows you to be a creature without regrets, to smile wildly, unabashed, teeth and all. He knows you to tilt your head when you speak, to use crude language that is common, not outdated, lousy terms such as "mutt."

Dan Heng knows you. And even when someone wears your eyes, and even when someone smiles with your lips, and even when someone speaks with your voice, he knows.

Something stole your body.

And where are you?

You're pretty.

Dan Heng has thought that ever since you stepped foot on the Express. He thought that the sofas seemed to reinvent themselves under your gaze, he thought that space must've shrunk away when your eyes sweeped over it, through the window, perceiving each freckled star. It felt as if this universe shifted in accordance to your examination, as if its worth amounted to how much time was spent beheld within the center of your pupils, sublime.

And when you smiled, Dan Heng thought you to be even prettier.

You smiled in such a way that felt as though you lived anew, as though joy alone was enough to rid this guilty world of its sins. Despite being the Express's newest member at the time, you quickly settled in, joining each game night with a striking resolve, creating inside jokes with the Stelle and March, laughing at things that made no sense.

And you were there for Belobog, for the Luofu, for Penacony, for Amphoreus. Throughout it all, you remained as you were: euphoric, unabashed, free. Sublime.

You're pretty.

From behind the makeshift prison which Himeko had crafted from bars made of steel, Dan Heng stares. Your hand tightens around the material, unable to reach fully through the crevice, expression sullied by a violent frown. Bottom lip jutted out, a sound leaves your lips, not too far removed from a growl.

You were pretty.

Dan Heng stares at you, whose countenance is devoid of any bliss, whose laughter remains humorless, whose gaze never once trickles towards the window, to look at the space which you oh-so adored.

But not like this.

"You possessed this body," Welt states. "And where was your original form?"

"As if I need to tell you anything," you spit.

"If you value your life, then I suggest you do," Dan Heng snaps, readying Cloud-Piercer once more. Himeko raises her hand, arm separating his figure from yours, an extra layer added to the prison cell which you wallow in, unmoved.

Then, you laugh.

How disgusting, is all Dan Heng thinks.

This is your body. This is, and will always be, your body.

"How hilarious!" you exclaim, laughing still, the sound disturbing, lacking humor and humanity and anything that serves to anchor you to this world, to liken you to the sublime, to make even space shy away. "To think you're threatening me! If you kill me, where will the original soul land?!"

Dan Heng's eyes grow wide, and he lurches forward, Cloud-Piercer stabbing past a crevice in the prison, slamming through the other side, your figure barely missing the impact.

"The original soul," he seethes, "where is it?"

You laugh again.

When you looked at the universe, it reinvented itself depending on the worth you had assigned it, how long each star existed within your gaze, how wide your smile became after perceiving each constellation, each striking comet.

He remains at the window of the Parlor Car for a long while, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracing over each freckled star, its shape lining the face of space. He wonders which one made you the happiest, which one was so beautiful it could make even the personification of radiance a witness.

When he's not in the Parlor Car, lost in his stupor, he's at the Data Bank, sifting frantically through the archives, desperate to determine what exactly is possessing your body.

Depending on what it is, maybe he can finally satiate the bloodlust which tugs at his hands.

A knock on his door. Dan Heng doesn't look up; he sifts through another array of pages before saying, "Come in."

It's Welt. Upon entering, he closes the door behind him, and Dan Heng tears his gaze from the archives to spare a glance at the man, his expression taking the shape of vague relief.

"Dan Heng," Welt says, hand coming to push his glasses further up his nose. "I believe [Name]'s possessor is a form of miasma which stems from the Luofu. It only makes sense, considering they had gone there the day before their possession began."

"But the only question now is," Welt continues, "what exactly is the type of miasma, and where has [Name]'s soul gone now?"

Dan Heng slams the archives shut, his hand tightening around the edge of the desk, brows furrowed so vehemently.

"Luofu possession either forces the host's soul back within their body, or ousts them into a new, soulless body."

"So, [Name] could still be in there?"

"Unlikely. Usually, if that were the case, the original host could manage to occupy the body at the same time as the possessor. In this case, however, it seems as though as the possessor has full autonomy over [Name]'s body."

This is your body.

This is, and will always be, your body.

"So, they've possessed a soulless body. The dead, then?" Welt remarks, quick as ever.

Dan Heng nods.

"I'm leaving," he states, grabbing his spear, damn near sprinting towards the helm, desperate to return to the source, the ship which he once belonged to, yet now exists merely as a past that serves to push him forward.

The future; it must have you.

Dan Heng likes you.

But maybe like is too light of a word, unable to bear the weight of which only a creature so hopelessly devoted could hold. Dan Heng adores you.

He adores you in such a way that has familiarized him with all of your habits; the tap of your fingers against glass, the way you save your favorite bites for last, the raise of your hand whenever you laugh.

Dan Heng adores you in such a way that renders him unable to part his gaze from your smile in pictures, the way you seem to have a signature pose, the way you are so wholly and completely radiant. It's sublime. You're sublime.

("Want this photo, Dan Heng?" March asked, handing him a polaroid, its frame depicting only one subject. You.

(He grimaced slightly. Was he so obvious?

(Before he could say anything, March waved her hand dismissively, knowing that he'd decline the offer yet want it anyway. "Just have it!" she said, mischievous. "And I better get credits when you get together!")

Dan Heng adores you in such a way that he himself doesn't quite know when or how or why it began, or exists; it just does, and that fact alone is enough.

He boards the Luofu. The moon hangs in the freckled sky, and Dan Heng revisits the sight once more, wondering how it looks through your eyes, wondering if, in this way, your gazes will meet again, lost in space's vast face.

Then, he looks forward.

Dan Heng adores you in such a way that feels as though he knows you better than himself. He knows your favorite foods, your favorite drinks, your favorite spots. He knows you love bustling environments, but also, that you like people watching from comfortable spots, content with the silence, wind kissing your skin.

There's a hill. On top, is a bench, shaded from the moonlight by the leaves of a blossoming tree. In its tender embrace is a figure, slumped, head tilted towards the sky.

Just a silhouette is enough.

Dan Heng races towards the pinnacle, the sublime, the wonder.

"[Name]!" he calls, even before reaching the top, even before his eyes can behold the sight of his beheld, even before your habits find him, your manners familiar. The silhouette is enough. The crane of your gaze towards the sky, the universe shifting in accordance to your perception, its worth assigned based on the mirth that enraptures your features, irrevocable, is enough.

You turn towards him, finger tapping on the wooden plank of the bench, head tilting to the side, mouth hanging slightly agape.

"Dan Heng?" you reply, disbelieving. "Dan Heng, how are you—"

Cloud-Piercer dissipates, his hands free, arms outstretched, engulfing you within its grasp as he feels your figure press against his, your body devoid of any warmth, its previous owner gone. But it doesn't matter to Dan Heng, what form you take, where your moles are, where your scars form. All that matters is this soul is yours. His soul is yours.

He breathes, most desperately, most fervently, most ardently. Dan Heng presses you closer to him, as if afraid you'll leave him, as if your soul could disappear again—but what difference would that make? Dan Heng will find you, new face and all, and he will love you again.

"[Name]," he says again, barely above a whisper. "[Name], I was so worried..."

Your name is proof of identity. And, when his lips cradle the syllables, and when its sweet sound echoes throughout the air, Dan Heng cannot help but say it again. He says your name just to say it, to solidify this identity, to put more of you in the world, to exist, the sublime, the irrevocable, the unabashed!

Briefly, his figure parts from yours, his hands on your shoulders still, gaze tracing over your new, yet well-loved, face. He examines you for any injuries, unable to contain the frantic race of his heart, now reunited with his beloved.

"[Name], someone stole—"

"I know," you reply, smiling still, eyes crinkling, joy finding you despite the circumstance. "I'll get it back, you know. That shit's not free!"

Dan Heng, for the first time since your possession, finds it in himself to spare the most subtle of smiles.

In the end, the solution was much simpler than anticipated.

Upon re-entering the Express, you found yourself in front of, well, yourself. And you stared at the image of your figure confined within a prison cell, the sight sending a shiver down your spine. Is this foreshadowing?

"For miasma cases such as this, it says that just a touch is enough to swap souls, so long as the one with the foreign body desires it. In this case, [Name], it's you," Welt explains, beckoning you towards the cage.

You snort. "Damn."

Despite your possessor's vehement attempt at swatting you away, and curling back into the cage which they had once so desperately tried to escape, you manage to graze your finger against theirs, the world spinning immediately after. Hazy, you feel yourself falling back, and a pair of arms manage to catch you before the pain of the ground hits—but then, you wake up, now behind bars.

The arms, which once served to stop you from falling, now drop your possessor's form to the ground.

And, soon after, a spear pierces the body's chest.

Nobody says anything. Except for you, however, with an uninspiring, "Ooh... That looked like it hurt."

Dan Heng, paying no mind to Cloud-Piercer's spot in the body's newfound cavity, is quick to slam the prison open, his hand outstretched, callused and all, as he helps you up, his expression unreadable save for the slight melt of his irises, the relief which sweeps over his lips.

Click! A camera goes off. You wince at the light, and Dan Heng sighs.

"March," he mutters. The girl in question makes no effort to say anything.

"March," Stelle calls, before throwing up finger guns, "give me that photo!"

"Stelle..." Dan Heng mutters, in a tone quite similar to the one he just used to utter March's name. But then, your laugh resounds throughout the Express, the sound satiating the emptiness which pervaded so thickly in your absence, and Dan Heng can't help but turn towards you, pupils finding their place, beheld reunited with the beholder.

How beautiful, is all Dan Heng thinks.