Chapter Text
As he steps out towards the front of Treasure of Ages, the light from Kephale’s Dawn Device soaks him with its warm rays. He inhales a deep breath, unwinding himself from the bizarre interaction from mere moments ago. To his left, Theodoros hums and busies himself with adjusting the display painted dolias.
A tinge of guilt pinches him. He did accidentally put a few scratches and cracks into the man’s table without reason. Well, that’s not true. Much to his embarrassment, Phainon’s inappropriate behavior aggravated him to the point of acting out. Finding a priest of Oronyx to help fix his mistake becomes a high priority.
“Theodoros,” he says and approaches the man.
“Lord Mydei!” he jumps to attention. “A pleasure to see you, as always. The dolia depicting you has been selling extraordinarily well!”
The statement leaves him perplexed, but the prideful side of him basks in the unsolicited compliment. After all, he is the greatest warrior in Okhema. The Deliverer can protest the notion all he wants, but in the end he will claim victory. Just like how he’s currently ahead in their competitions.
“I wager you must assume only Kremnoans purchased the works, but I’ll have you know they’ve been quite popular with Okhemans as well.” Theodoros grins, pride etched into his words. Though, after a moment, his demeanor falters and he staggers a small step backwards.
“Is there something wrong?” Mydei asks.
“N-Not at all.” He clears his throat. “I—ah— didn’t mean to act so surprised! I— Are congratulations in order?”
“Congratulations for what?” He tries to hide his incredulousness, but his brow pinches in confusion.
“Lord Phainon’s…” He gestures vaguely, redness creeping up his cheeks then he coughs into his hand.
Ah, that’s right. Theodoros is an omega—he must be smelling Phainon’s pheromones upon him. Though, his reaction adds on to his befuddlement. Scenting is a common ritual, he shouldn’t be acting so odd.
“I wanted to tell you the table in the back has been lightly damaged. I will be requesting the services of an Oronyx priest to come and mend it, so you need not worry,” he says, deciding it best to move on with the subject and not linger.
His words have the opposite intended effect, for Theodoros’s face reddens even more and he chokes on his tongue. “I— Thank you for the kind gesture!”
“Right,” he says, he must be missing some vital piece of information for his peculiar behavior.
“You’re still here?” Phainon interrupts from behind as he steps out and parks himself beside the counter. “I didn’t realize you’d stick around because you missed me so much.”
“I was simply telling Theodoros about how I will be finding a priest to repair the damage I left, and I will be on my way,” he scoffs at his impudence, annoyance building with every repeating of his plan.
“Are you sure?” Phainon continues to tease with an amused lilt in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind if you stayed for a bit longer. You know, it’s quite nice when you wait for me.”
As pleasant as staying sounds, his royal responsibilities demand attention and loitering about a shop will not aid him. Plus, Theodoros adds on an awkwardness with how fast his eyes dart between the two of them. What is with him today?
“I—” He turns on his heel to face him, ready to argue, but he loses track of everything he wants to say when he sees how Phainon regards him. He leans against the countertop bearing a soft smile similar to the one from the day before; so tender is his gaze—so absolutely lost in his own little world. It strips every layer of armor, peels it until he’s left transparent. And for once he wishes he wore more clothes upon his person.
“What is it?” Phainon tilts his head. “Have you perhaps decided to stay?”
Is it even appropriate for him to stare in such a way? Before Mydei can process his own thoughts, his body reacts with a will of its own. He clenches his hand into a tight fist and hits Phainon’s face. Well, he tries too—Phainon is too seasoned of a warrior for a clumsy surprise attack to land.
“Now, that’s just rude!” Phainon lets out a faux gasp before laughing.
“Haikas,” Mydei grumbles underneath his breath before marching off once again, ignoring the small yelp from Theodoros. He can’t let Phainon keep flustering him like this, but he can’t help his reactions.
“I— Uh… Congratulations, Lord Phainon?” He hears Theodoros say the same dastardly thing again.
“No need for congratulations. We’re… We’re not like that,” Phainon answers, using the polite tone when being professional.
And what is that supposed to mean—not like what? His neck burns where Phainon scented him, and he rubs at it, the coolness of metal a welcomed relief. He’s missing something crucial. Of course he must be. No one has acted so strangely towards him before this scenting ritual.
As he traverses down the street, his hair stands on end. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes land on him, and his skin crawls with every pointed stare. Years of living in constant danger trained his senses to detect such attention.
Every step he takes, his confidence slowly dwindles. He wants to scoff, to roll his eyes at the unwanted attention like he always has before. Ever since he walked through the gates of Okhema, strife followed in his footsteps. And, as the prince of strife, he understood how to bear the burden.
Many wished to spout opinions about his mantle; of how they perceived him as a brutish barbarian feasting upon the blood of his enemies. Every tartly whisper about his reputation came from a place of expectation and he cared little for baseless gossiping.
But this—it’s far more intimate. Something he is unfamiliar with, yet everyone else around dangerously so. They spy invisible traces upon his neck, taking in what he cannot. And that unwelcome, ugly despair roots itself in him. What he thought right chips away with every concealed point and hushed whispers. However, his temperament never betrays his internal struggles.
When he speaks to a priest of Oronyx about the repairs, she regards him with barely concealed awe, and he finds his sorrow prickling with frustration.
“Is that Lord Phainon’s scent upon you?” she dares to ask as if he could detect it. As if he could enjoy it as much as she does.
“Here are the coins for you to perform your miracles.” He places the Balance Coins upon her outstretched hand.
She at the very least understood he has no interest in answering her.
He stops by the Kremnoan district, and converses with a few of his generals and sergeants. The betas speak with him like they always have: an air of politeness, reverence, and ease. They not once raise their brow at him or barely contain their sneers.
The alpha and omegas are another story. They try to conceal their opinions, but they cannot hide the way they recoil at the scent upon him. How the omegas almost choke on their breaths and the alphas scowl. How they grumble underneath their breaths in disapproval.
He is not afraid of their reactions, for such a word does not exist in the Kremnoan language. He does not shorten their conversations, nor does he flee from the disdain hovering throughout. He ignores the chain of whispers traveling down from alpha to beta. He bears their scowls with indifference.
But deep within, he hates and angers. Hates how he alone enjoys the intimacy shared with the Deliverer. Hates how no one from his fallen homeland can spare joy for him and this bond. Hates how his simple desire creates so much strife.
But, perhaps they sneer with disdain because he is no omega. There is no real bond to speak of, and there never will be. It is not right for him to want such a thing. To crave the impossible. There will never be a moment in time where he can indulge himself in the lavish scent of the Deliverer.
When he stops by the Fruit and Veg Store to procure supplies for dinner, the old woman named Demetria bears a slight glimmer in her eye when she hands him the pomegranates he purchased on the daily from her, and it discomforts him.
“Do you require assistance with anything?” he asks as a formality, and in an attempt to dissuade her from indulging in her thoughts.
“Where is that friend of yours?” She glances around for Phainon. “You two come together quite often, yet he is here only in scent.”
“We are not inseparable,” he grumbles, already wishing to depart, but cannot bring himself to be so rude.
“Some might question such a statement. Though, it is sweet you have finally let him scent you. I could tell he has been wanting to for quite a while.”
Ah, the butterflies return at the affirmation. If only he could pluck out their wings to cease their fluttering.
“How… Can you tell?” He settles the pomegranates on top of the cabbage and carrots in his calathus—a basket woven from reeds he likes to carry his groceries in—trying to hide his unease.
“Life must be difficult as a beta,” she muses. “The way an alpha carries himself, the way scents change. The older we get, the easier it is to tell these subtleties. Tell me, did he look happy once it was done?”
And his gut twists in remembrance of Phainon leaning against the counter bearing the fondest look he’s ever seen. If only he was allowed to remain, but his duties took priority.
“I fail to see the connection,” he grumbles. “I’m no omega to enjoy such things and sharing scents, from what I understand, is a common occurence.”
“You’re right,” she hums a laugh. “It must be lonely to not be able to perceive the colors of your friend.”
“How can I miss and long for a color I cannot name?” he says. “I have lost nothing for my lack of perception.”
“But is that true when most around you can— especially for the most important person in your life— and you can’t?” she returns the question back to him with the wisdom of a woman who has lived far more years than he. “If you were an alpha or omega, would you want to return the scenting?”
The audacity! The gall! Naming the Deliverer as someone so precious as to rank above all others. If he were a brute like the rumors want to believe, he would have spat out his shock.
“You are mistaken,” he calmly says instead, avoiding the poisoning of his mind with her musings. “We are rivals. Brothers in arms. To speak as if we are beyond anything than that would stoke false rumors.”
Demetria laughs and shakes her head. “I see. Ah, to be young again.”
He is about to question her—defend his statement—but she interrupts by handing a few figs, the ones whose prices have soared for their scarcity.
“I can’t accept this,” he says.
“Consider it as a thank you for supporting my shop. Your patronage has boosted my sales—the Kremnoans follow your footsteps straight to my pomegranates." She dispels the argument with a laugh, and waves her hand.
“Thank you,” he manages to say, fighting the urge to continue this dreadful conversation, and takes her dismissal with reluctance.
Her accusations are false. Never would an alpha take interest in a beta. He understands how perfect the omega is for the alpha. It’s nothing a beta can compare to. He needs no hopes for anything more, and he doesn’t. It is merely a friendly gesture.
And why should he hope? The Deliverer is his rival first and foremost—an annoying one at that. How many times has he wished harm upon that man? Too many times have they beaten one another bloody in their sparring, encouraging to not hold back and enjoy the thrill. The rushing of blood, wide grins taunting for more.
But the nagging question eats at him. If he were more than what he is, would he scent the Deliverer in return? Would Phainon be… happy… if he did? His grip tightens on his calathus, splintering the reeds underneath the tips of his gauntlets, and he throws such thoughts away before they anchor. No matter how hard his heart beats, there is no reason to dwell on the thought of caressing Phainon’s neck for scenting. No reason to imagine Phainon bearing his scent, marking his claim for all to know. Then those omegas from the market wouldn’t giggle and beckon him over.
There is no reason at all.
☼
With supplies for dinner procured, he returns home. Away from stares tracing the invisible scent upon him. Away from the eyes which glimmer with knowledge he lacks. Perhaps he should have remained resolute in the face of the Deliverer’s pestering and denied his begging.
As he turns the corner, he pauses in his stride. There, underneath the archway of his home, Krateros leans against the pillar, arms crossed and a stern look upon his visage. A tightness envelops his chest, but he continues on with confidence.
“Krateros,” he greets. “To what do I owe your company so late in the evening?”
The older man peers through his one working eye, scrutinizing him before lifting himself upright. “Mydeimos. It is good to see you return. Let us speak in private.”
Mydei controls his body to show no reaction. Not even a twitch breaks through. He steps forth and enters his residence, Krateros following close behind.
They travel towards the back, past the communal area bearing a painted mural of Nikador, the closed curtains concealing his bed from the ever-present light, and the small luxury of a private bathroom. The spartan nature of his abode speaks of his migratory, wild lifestyle of days past. The few things he owned were gifted from Castorice, the triplets, or forced onto by Phainon.
They enter the kitchen—the air tinged with the flavor of smoke from frequent use— and he drops his groceries off at the counter. Dinner must wait.
“It appears you have not kept your promise,” Krateros starts, making his way beside the table. “A disappointment which is unbecoming of you.”
Mydei sucks in a breath, fighting his indignant thoughts before he answers, “I understand why you regard it as such, but I don’t think you understand my intentions.”
“Your intentions hold little value in the name of how things are. Nothing is more important than the legacy and tradition of Castrum Kremnos,” he answers with a gruffness spelling his disappointment. “You, of all people, should know as such.”
“I know them well,” Mydei answers, keeping the bitterness out of his mouth. “But times have changed. We cannot keep clinging to the past until our nails splinter and fingers bleed.”
“Why did you let him do it?” Krateros cuts straight to the point, and a part of Mydei would appreciate him speaking plainly if he were not dreading the subject. “Why did you fold so easily to that alpha errand boy?”
The tightness of his chest returns, and he bites the side of his tongue between his molars. He flexes his grip, tensing and relaxing, transfixed by how the joints of his gauntlets allow for flexibility.
“Because,” he says, resting his hand against the limestone countertop. “I have stated it before, I wish for our people to accept our residency into Okhema. They need to learn this new way of life, or it will be our undoing. The council has been gracious to let us—conquerors as Amphoreus knows us—inside their delicate walls. A peace is maintained here between all the different cultures, and I believe we can thrive here as well if we give it a proper chance.”
“You did not answer my question,” he presses what Mydei desperately avoids. “Or have you been spending too much time with that witch? Have her luxuries and opulence altered your perception away from the realities we bear, and softened you into a cub?”
“No,” he refutes quickly. “What I say are my own words. Never will I repeat claims made by another. I only speak for the wellbeing of all Kremnoans.”
“You say never, yet you fell on the blade of your promise so readily. So, answer me, Mydeimos, why did you let that boy have his way with you?”
A fury grips Mydei at the insinuation of Phainon making a mockery of him. The moment in the antique shop was nothing of such—it held a gravitas of companionship he never had. His being craved the closeness, the gentleness of soft hair tickling him, the warmth spreading throughout him.
But he answers naught, for how can a Kremnoan speak of such softness when his body is a weapon for destruction? To admit to these gentle notions is akin to speaking of weakness. And weakness is tantamount to death.
“Your silence leaves much to be desired,” Krateros dismisses his idleness. “So, instead, tell me this. Where did he scent you?”
A chill runs down his spine. What other ways are there to scent a person? There were multiple ways in the first place? Every straying thought tells him the truth will awaken something he does not wish to face. His hand twitches, yet he refuses to bashfully lift it to trace his jugular.
“I…” he murmurs first, then faces Krateros with confidence. “My neck.”
If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel the sensation of Phainon close within his space. The soft brushes of skin upon skin and how pleasant it felt. That imagined moment of him leaving a kiss upon his neck. How his body relaxed into the touch, and his soul sang to the sun.
“Hmph. Despicable,” Krateros scoffs. “And how did he apply his scent?”
He breaks eye contact, and fixes his gaze upon his purchased goods. He does not wish to answer something so intimate. Something he wants to keep to himself, and for no one else to know of. Reluctance involuntarily paints his features with gentle strokes.
“Is that really so important?” He plucks the pomegranates out of his calathus, arranging them in a clay bowl of older fruits. He may be able to stay his hand, but the brush dips its bristles into a soft hue of red, and continues to dictate his expressions.
“It is. These things are important rituals,” Krateros says, a slow bloom of realization dawning upon him as he takes in his prince.
“He,” Mydei sucks in his bottom lip and scrapes it against his teeth, “with his… face.”
“I see.” The air between them hangs thick and unnerving. And even someone as clueless as him knows what he uttered was wrong. Blasphemous, perhaps, to some.
“You cannot—”
The door bursts open, and he jumps to alertness at the loudness, fists clenched and ready to fight.
“Mydei!” Phainon greets with a grin as bright as the sun, and makes his way towards him, unaware of Krateros’s presence. “Finally found you! You sneaky little rascal, hiding away in your kitchen. At least I didn’t have to wake you from your napping. I was readying myself to lift the kline with you in it.”
“Deliverer,” Mydei sternly says, and he stiffens. Phainon’s gaze sweeps across and notices the extra company.
“Krateros. My apologies. Did I interrupt a conversation?” He switches to his polite tone—the one he uses in front of most—and straightens out his back and shoulders.
“You did. A very private and important conversation.” Krateros keeps Mydei pinned, then shifts his attention over. “Leave. We have not finished our discussion.”
“I—” A frown tugs at him, fighting the impulse to stay by Mydei’s side. “I understand. I apologize for bursting into Mydeimos’s room at such an inappropriate time.”
“Indeed.”
Phainon shifts on his foot, and throws Mydei a sideways glance. And Mydei wishes he could remain. He wishes he did not need to deal with the consequences of acquiescing to Phainon’s frustrations without a fuss. If he were true to his word, none of this would be happening.
“Leave,” he says what he wishes to not.
“Can we meet later?” The hopefulness in his voice is not lost upon Mydei. Even through the formal tone, it is whispered in such a delicate, fragile way, that it pains to deny him. The wound which cannot be touched deepens, carved by the knife of duty.
“No. Tonight, I have other concerns which need to be addressed.” He crosses his arms, protecting himself from the truth he hides.
“Right,” Phainon says, the smile gracing him not reaching his eyes. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow then.”
Mydei says nothing in return, and watches him leave. But, to his surprise, Phainon turns around underneath the archway.
“You know,” he begins, and Mydei knows that tone of voice, the one where Phainon can’t let something rest, “I think it is rather unfair you two are talking about me in private.”
“How did you…?” Mydei’s breathing stutters for a mere moment from surprise.
“It’s rather obvious,” Phainon says defiantly as he steps forward. “I think I can pick up a thing or two when everyone on my way over looks like they want to skewer me with spears and throw me into the abyss.”
Mydei rubs his forehead at the petulance. This is not what he needs right now, not another reason for Krateros to bark his reprimands.
“I don’t understand— we have fought one another to a draw. I thought such things held value in Kremnoan traditions.”
“Hmph. You may have done such things, boy, but you are an outsider. You are not, and never will be, Kremnoan,” Krateros scoffs in response. “You will never understand what it means to be one, no matter how hard you try.”
The hurt etched onto Phainon at the declaration pains Mydei further. Phainon has never been one to restrain himself from how he feels, he wears them upon his sleeves. The words gouge him deep, but they don’t deter him. He never falters, always pushing forward.
“That’s–!” Phainon huffs, “That’s ridiculous. I know you are an advisor, but who made you arbiter of what it means to be Kremnoan? I have proven myself to be an equal to Mydei—” Krateros’s jaw tenses and nostrils flare as he inhales sharply at the casual way he refers to Mydei “—through our duel, which, might I remind you, ended in a draw. What other means must I take to prove myself as a warrior?”
“Enough,” Mydei cuts in before Krateros has a chance to interject, before the argument devolves into vicious quarreling, “Kremnoans are prideful in their traditions, and we have always been insular. Unless you intend to challenge and defeat every willing soldier, you will not be considered as one. Even then I doubt you will be graced with the courtesy of recognition.”
Phainon scrutinizes him before asking quietly, “Is that what it will take?”
“I— What?”
“Is that what it will take?” Phainon repeats with more determination.
“That… That was not an invitation,” Mydei stumbles, he said that as a throwaway statement, not as a lifeline!
Phainon thinks his words over, grimness tugging at the corner of his lips, before saying, “I see. Then, I think I will be taking my leave. Have a good night.”
The two quietly watch Phainon depart, his footfalls thudding against tesserae flooring. The door opens, and closes. The room remains deathly still.
Once Krateros makes up his mind he speaks, “Do not let him use your ignorance of these dynamics. He is taking advantage of you.”
The notion seems almost laughable. The Deliverer taking advantage of him? Preposterous.
“He is doing no such thing,” Mydei says. “Phainon is not the type of person to do that.”
“Hmph, perhaps you should educate yourself in the ways of an alpha.” Krateros closes the distance between them. “You reek of him, and he continues to try to pull you in with his innocent demeanor. Pretending he does not know what his actions entail. He is attempting to claim through your ignorance and folly, and upend the ways of our people.”
His words sting with truth, Phainon knows far more about this than him. Before this, he didn’t know of the different ways of scenting. But a side of him preens with knowledge of being claimed; it warms and soothes, for perhaps Phainon wants him close.
“An alpha making such a bold move for a beta is laughable behavior. They twist themselves for omegas in hopes of finding their true mates. This must be the plans of Aglaea to extend her controlling reach,” Krateros reasons to convince his prince.
And the icy river washes over him once more. He doubts Aglaea has any such plans. After all, he is the one who ordered Phainon to scent him after much incessant whining. But the fact remains: he is no omega. Confusion rattles and sweeps through him, grabbing his throat and squeezing.
Krateros glares before heaving a sigh. “I do not fault you for your lack of awareness. You were denied a rightful upbringing as a proper crown prince. You had no time to brush up on this knowledge when conflict was a constant beneath our feet, and you presented as a beta. What was once a blessing has turned into trouble.”
Even if Krateros speaks harshly, he always has the best intentions in mind. They disagree on many things, but his kindness in this moment is not lost upon Mydei. He can’t remain with his vision clouded by darkness. Every guess and wonderment leads to a solution of nothing.
“Your concerns are heard,” Mydei says carefully. “Perhaps it is time I invested myself into this knowledge.”
Krateros remains stiff and tense. “Do not fall for an alpha playing the pretense of prey. They are beasts who need to be contended with.” He clamps his hand upon Mydei’s shoulder. “You are the lion. It is time for you to bare your fangs and claws; exert your strength to rake and tear.”
The words split him in half. Years of upbringing with Kremnoan ideology tell him he is right; but, that quiet part of him wishes to brush it off. To go back to the privacy enclosing just the two of them in a quiet, small room. To bask in one another's presence not in the violent punches and slamming of sword upon metal, but the tender, soft touches of companionship he craves.
And that damned fluttering of his heart overtakes him at the thought. He winces and shakes his head. Krateros cannot be truly correct in his statements, but there may be a sliver of truth to grasp. He cannot desire for such intimacies, for he is no omega. He is no fated partner to an alpha.
“I will look over texts,” he says. “And come to my own conclusions. I will see if the things you speak of are true.”
“Such is your duty,” Krateros says. “As much as I wish for you to take my words at face value, it is noble of you to seek out information on your own right.”
Krateros, seemingly satisfied, departs with a nod of his head. Mydei leans against the counter on his hands, fingers splayed, and takes a deep, steadying breath.
There is only brotherhood between Phainon and him. To desire the tenderness would mean to set himself up for disappointments; ones he cannot carry in the face of all of his responsibilities. Perhaps, if he were an omega, such things would be more palatable to consider. More reasonable.
Mydei grips a pomegranate, projecting such thoughts onto the fruit. He crushes it, watching the arils burst, and soak the bronze metal of his gauntlet with red. The juice drips between his fingers, down into tiny puddles on the countertop.
He squeezes harder until chunks break apart, collapse, and only a small clump of white flesh studded with seeds rests on his palm.
☼
In the morning, he lethargically goes about making his breakfast; three eggs are cracked over the pan, meat is seared, and vegetables lay on the side. A well balanced meal. Every motion he takes sways with laziness, dragging his feet through mud.
Nerves tremble through him at the thought of reading any sort of text on alphas and omegas, and he can’t quite place why. All he understands is the pit nestled into the bottom of his stomach makes it difficult to eat.
He stabs through the cut dromas meat with a fork, and presses it into his mouth. Every bite and chew is deliberate. He swallows, and fights the lurching of his stomach. He knows there should be no reason to feel this way, and no matter how hard he tries to reason it away, it sinks its talons deeper and refuses to let go.
Mydei manages to finish his entire meal, downing it with his favorite drink of pomegranate juice with goat milk. Even that goes down unpleasantly, but it helps the heavy food slide.
To soothe his woes, he convinces himself today he will not see Phainon; today, he will go to the private library afforded to Chrysos Heirs through Aglaea and learn. Normally, if he wishes to read, he’d simply go to a book store and purchase scrolls on the histories of Amphoreus. The stacks of them in his bedroom are a testament to that.
Instead of joining the other Kremnoans in either the training grounds or gymnasium, he travels down the cobblestone path. His people question his destination, and are bemused over his response of the library. Most of them care little for such things, but understand the importance of knowledge.
Speaking to the librarian is out of the question. He cannot divulge this embarrassing information of him seeking to understand the biology of omegas and alphas. His anxiety spikes at the mere thought, and he would like for his food to remain in his stomach.
He gazes at a multitude of scrolls and tablets. Papyrus and parchment; clay and stone. Rows upon rows. Columns upon columns. They intrigue his interest, but he refrains from indulging himself in the captivating histories inscribed upon them. He has his strict mission to adhere to.
After what feels like five quints of searching, he finds a section of biology pertaining to his interests. He delicately takes a few scrolls and tablets in his arms, and finds a table.
He unfurls the first scroll and reads. It speaks on the simple factors of life: scent glands on the neck and arms which he knows, but the inner thighs surprise him. He spares a quick glance at his legs, then shakes his head.
It continues on to speak of presenting, and how arduous it potentially can be. Volatile emotions, bodies changing and restructuring through painful means varying from person to person. Especially for female alphas and male omegas. He winces over the painful texts, and wonders if his body never presented because of his healing factor.
The scroll within his hand flaps down on the table as he scratches his stomach, gauntlets tracing the firm muscle of his abdomen towards his side. If that were the case, then his curse of immortality went further than he thought. If his status as a beta stayed because of the intense, rapid healing factor and never letting his organs develop and ripen… If he were to actually be an omega…
A dimness crests his visage, and he maneuvers his hand back to grasp at the end of the scroll. Such meandering thoughts are unbecoming of him. He’s never cared for presentations before. But the little voice in the back of his head whispers of how his life would be easier, how it would make more sense, and how…
He swallows down the lump in his throat.
How his connection with Phainon would go deeper than comrade in arms. More than what is allowed now. Sure, he believes him to be the only man who is worthy of having his back, but there is a whole world he is barred from. That intimate connection between alphas and omegas goes deeper than words and flesh. It is a bond so deep it can never be described in speeches.
Poets wax, songstresses sing, and orators captivate with their stories of the omega and alpha joining in union. They jingle the possibility of true mates; a bond so pure it can move mountains and part oceans.
Mydei rolls up the scroll and moves to the next, stuffing those thoughts away. He has no desire for such things. He can’t.
The next text he finds dull. It speaks of ruts and heats—a topic he is more familiar with considering how many headaches it gave him when the Kremnoan Detachment travelled around Amphoreus. Memories of frustration over his best warriors being incapacitated and perverted makes him put the book away. He doesn’t need to read over this. And he will never admit the anatomical diagrams fluster him too much.
The longer he reads, the more the ink on papyrus blurs. Truly, the subject is dull with the dry, intellectual language. He finds many things ranging from the different types of scents to matin bites. A strange, old Okheman ritual of alphas hunting omegas for mating during the Era Chrysea—before the titans of Strife, Trickery, and Death made the frolicing unacceptable.
While the information is useful, it lacks what he needs: how these rituals translate between peers and the underlying societal meaning of those activities. He picks another scroll, unfurling it with a bored scowl. Yet more dry, intellectual ramblings to parse through.
“Lord Mydei?” Castorice peeks around a bookshelf, and he jumps out of his skin, juggling the scroll to save it from dropping to the floor.
“Castorice!” he exclaims in embarrassment. He clears his throat, trying to steady the rapid beating of his heart. “What… What are you doing here?”
“I often visit and find things to read.” She joins him on the opposite side of the table, eyes tracing the text of a loose scroll. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I… was doing research,” he says and hopes the embarrassment of his tone has tapered.
She picks up one of the scrolls, and smiles to herself. “Are you perhaps trying to understand more about second genders?”
“Is that an issue?” He crosses his arms, defending the vulnerability placed on display.
“It’s not,” she assures. “I think it’s a good thing you’re finally gaining an interest in these things. There is much for you to learn, and I think it will help you with understanding your people better.”
He grumbles a sigh. “I understand them well enough. I have been around them for more than half my life.”
“Of that I have no doubt, but this is a different type of understanding. One that is more personal, and closer to the soul rather than the physical nature of war.” She picks another scroll, and skims across the text.
She has a point. One he can begrudgingly agree with. He relaxes, and flicks one of the parchments, watching it roll away from him. The awkwardness of this topic continues to bother him, but if he has to have this conversation with one person, at least a gentle soul like Castorice is palatable.
“I’ve read through much already,” he says, easing out of his tense disposition. “Though, it lacks a more societal explanation of things.”
“Societal?”
“Yes. These texts speak of biology, and why things function the way they do. It hardly discusses what the things I see in the day to day mean.”
Castorice brings a hand to her chin in thought, then ventures, “Like what scenting means?”
Heat creeps back his cheeks, and he desperately tries not to stutter, “Y-Yeah. That.”
She giggles behind her hand. “There is nothing to be ashamed about, Lord Mydei. It’s natural to be curious.”
“This… is not a thing Kremnoans talk about. What we value is the art of the battlefield; the strategies we employ, and the ruthless tactics for victory. Not any of this,” he gestures with a hand, “nonsense. This is considered stereotypical Okheman behavior.”
“Is that why you’re here all alone, and not asking for guidance?” She skewers him with practiced ease.
Ugh, he hates it. Is he truly so predictable?
“... Yes. Having these discussions would be considered far out of character, and many would not indulge.” He leans on his elbow, and shadows his eyes behind his hand.
“I see.” She softens with a hint of pity, and it annoys him. “I’m happy to assist you in these ‘Okheman ways’ then. Perhaps, if you are willing, I can bring a few… novels I am quite fond of to help you understand these things.”
“If you think it will be of help,” he says with a begrudging sigh. “I will not deny your aid.”
“I will return with a couple of my favorites then. The genre of romance is a really good way to understand the nuance of— Oh, Lord Mydei, don’t make such a face!” Her giggles brighten.
“There is no word for ‘romance’ in the Kremnoan language,” he mutters stiffly and fixes his expression.
“Perhaps you will invent it after reading my recommendations,” she says with an accent of amusement. “I’ll be right back.”
And so he waits, face buried into a hand as he groans. Great, now his mission includes reading dreadful romantic stories. It certainly can’t get any worse than this. At least the Deliverer will never know. He must never know.
The empty seats before him fill with memories of his fallen friends. If they were here, they would tease him, rib his cluelessness, and appease him with answers. He would have felt at ease in asking these sorts of questions. They have always looked after him.
The illusions of his old friends vanish with Castorice’s return. She sits across him, places two scrolls down, and pushes them forward with the tips of her fingers. Once her hands retract, he picks one up, unfurls it a few inches, and squints at the title.
“These are very traditional alpha and omega stories. I think you will enjoy them,” she says, then points to the one on the table. “This one depicts a true mate bond. It will help you understand more on scenting and the implications, as well as the intricacies of a mating bite and nesting. While that one—” she gestures to the one he holds “ —is from the perspective of an alpha. From what I understand, it’s quite accurate.”
“I will take your word for it.” The scroll weighs heavy in his hand so he sets it down. “May I ask a personal question of you?”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Forgive me if this is rude. If you do not wish to answer I will understand.” He pauses, and finds the words to continue, “If you were to scent me as a friend, how would you do it?”
“Ah.” Her smile pinches at the corners, and her hand stiffens. “I don’t mind answering. I’ve often thought of such things myself; how it would feel to share my scent, and bear others upon my person.
“But, to answer you, I would apply it on your wrist from my own.” She turns her hand over, and presses her fingers down the tendons of her arm. Her fingers lightly twitch of their own volition. “That is most customary between companions. And if we were closer—like how you are with Phainon—it would be considered normal for me to scent your neck with my wrist.”
“I… see…” His throat runs dry, trying to not let memories of Phainon’s closeness overtake him.
“Is that an issue? You look a bit pale.”
“No. It’s no issue.” He shakes his head, snapping himself out of his daze. “Thank you for answering me. I never wish to remind you of your curse in such a crude, selfish manner.”
“You worry too much,” she says. “I’ll be alright. Though, If I may ask in return—did Lord Phainon scent your neck?”
“He… did,” he answers.
“No wonder he was so happy then.” Her features brighten to an incredible degree. “Even through all of his bluster, I can see how much you mean to him. Even if you did not know the meaning entirely, I’m sure you understood the intimacy to some extent.”
Maybe… Maybe Phainon did take advantage of him. The way he scented now seems completely inappropriate considering their stations. He should have used his wrist, right? The question hangs on the tip of his tongue, but he refuses to continue the conversation. Elaborating on the intimacy invites too much scrutiny.
“I did,” he says curtly, then begins to gather his borrowed texts. “Thank you for your assistance. I will read these in the privacy of my home.”
“Tell me what you think about them,” she beams in her unique, gentle way. It’s always nice to see her express such joy, for her life to not be a cocoon of misery.
“It’s the least I can do,” he says in earnest, and escapes after they exchange farewells. There is only so much embarrassment he can handle.
☼
His day drones on as he is forced to sit in the amphitheater of Dawncloud. Leadership of previous city-states as well as Okhema’s own domestic governance gathers to discuss and debate the runnings of the city on a smaller scale. A few citizens perch against the seats, raising a keen ear to their discussions.
He stands beside Aglaea who maintains her neutral disposition, never once letting her emotions through in her words. Though, how much of it is because of her curse he cannot say. The topic of the black tide is spoken: a recent sighting near the southern entrance of the city which was efficiently dismantled by Castorice.
“I would like for us to station more guards in the area as a precaution,” Aglaea says.
“The city is in need of guards throughout to maintain order. We cannot spare the extra headcount on baseless frets,” her rival, Caenis, speaks out against her. “Or is this an acknowledgement that your underling has done a poor job and you require additional aid from us regular people to handle the troubles your precious Chrysos Heirs fail to?”
“It would be unwise to leave things to chance when we can increase our defenses temporarily for a week's worth of time. The black tide is dangerous and unpredictable, no matter how thorough we are,” Aglaea counters.
The crowd murmurs, some acknowledging the threat, for they had their own tumultuous encounters before finding sanctuary in Okhema.
Caenis narrows her eyes. “You already exude plenty of influence throughout the city; our guards maintain a valuable effort in defense throughout the entire city, as well as the location you are allegedly worried for. This is a petty attempt at inducing our colleagues with fear to extend your reach where it is not needed.”
“Then let the Kremnoans offer a hand in this issue,” Mydei says. “My people itch to rise from their listless stations. If there is the potential for conflict, they will be more than willing to be at the ready.”
Aglaea hides her smile as Caenis chokes back a displeased grunt. “And how can we trust Kremnoans with Okhema’s safety in mind?”
“We are citizens like everyone else here. There are no better warriors than my tribe, and I, as crown prince Mydeimos, swear they will defend with honor in their hearts and steel in their hands.”
The crowd murmurs throughout the amphitheater, at first hesitant, but in the end, they decide to allow the Kremnoans to bolster defenses in the potentially endangered area. His ears prick towards the wanton whispers naming them “brutes” and “savages” who are only good for wetting their hands with blood. The meeting moves on to other dry subjects, ones he has little opinion for, and patiently waits for it to conclude.
All of these people love to hear themselves talk, droning on and on about this or that. If he weren’t trained for this, his eyes would glaze over and his mind wander. Well, it does that from time to time, but he manages to catch himself.
At the very least, he can appreciate the fact that Okhema treats these discussions with a reverence. Any alpha and omega must wear scent patches upon their necks and wrists as to not influence one another, and to not let themselves lay their feelings bare.
Caenis picks at the one on her neck when she’s irritated. Usually the tick occurs after a bout with Aglaea. And at times like these, he is thankful for his status as a beta. Never must he worry over concealing a scent, or have precarious instincts sway his thinking.
The meeting adjourns into the first quint of Parting Hour. A few straggling questions caused it to spill into overtime, and everyone had to remain in place until all parties were satisfied. He has half a mind to begin reading those books Castorice recommended to him.
“Thank you, Mydeimos,” Aglaea says as they walk down the long road of the Forecourt and towards the entrance.
“For what?”
“Offering to assign the Kremnoans to defend Okhema’s walls, even if the chance for any invasion is minute.” She offers a polite smile to a citizen passing by.
“They have been restless. Even a chance at a battle will stir excitement within them,” he mutters. The same citizen eyes him wearily, and whispers unkind words to his companion.
“Well,” her blank gaze focuses on the road ahead, and she deftly steps out of the way to avoid a crowd stopped in the middle of the path, “As a thank you, I will offer you this: it seems Phainon has been stirring up a bit of trouble at the training grounds with them.”
His eye twitches, and he stops his stride.
“What?”
“He still hasn’t mastered controlling his emotions quite yet,” she says, her heels clicking against stone until she halts and turns to face him. He tries not to heave a sigh. “I’m sure you are well aware of his tendency to take things to an extreme when he sets his mind to something. Especially in the heat of the moment.”
“That I am aware of,” he crosses his arms, a scowl marring his features.
“I take it you are also aware of what he must be doing then?” she questions.
“I unfortunately am.”
Aglaea gestures for him to follow, and leads them off to the side where Phagousa’s water flows. The golden liquid cascades down the plateaus, pooling into canals they walk alongside until they find a pleasant spot beside green thickets decorated with violet blooms.
“What are your intentions with this situation?” she asks, tracing one of the petals with a delicate hand.
“I will be telling him to stop, naturally,” he tries not to grumble.
She hums, taking a moment to process her thoughts before saying, “Perhaps it would be in your best interest to let this play out.”
“I— I’m not sure I’m following.”
“Phainon and you are close, anyone with a working pair of eyes can see it. All of Okhema sees it aside from the Kremnoans. Whether people like it or not is a different story. But, perhaps this could be an opportunity to crack through their stubborn pride. If there is anyone who could manage to, it would be Phainon.”
“I…” While he respects her, he has doubts over her reasoning. Nothing can be so simple, not even with the Deliverer pushing through.
“I hope you consider these words,” she continues once he fails to say anything in return. “You have dedicated yourself to the Flame Chase, and I wish the best for you two. I just ask for you to try not to antagonize one another.”
He cannot promise her such a thing, so he remains quiet. Undoubtedly, they will get into an argument and fight. All of this started because of him, because he couldn’t handle Phainon’s pouting over a different alphas scent upon him. If he never allowed him to be scented the first time, none of this would be happening.
But, then he would have never known how tender Phainon could be. How his chest vibrated with a delightful purr when he let him do it again. How he could smile so blissfully it made Mydei malfunction.
He wants it. He wants to experience it all again. But he can’t act on his individual desires, not when Castrum Kremnos looms upon his shoulders, weighing him down with responsibility.
Mydei lets out a heavy sigh. “I will speak with the Deliverer, and see where his mind is at.”
“Of course.” Aglaea smiles gently, her blank gaze piercing him, seeing through to what he cannot, and makes him bare.
☼
The sharp crack of wood smacking against wood and the heavy thud of a body hitting the dirt are the first things he hears as he steps into the training grounds. From a distance, he spots a crowd of people observing a duel which lasted a measly ten seconds at most.
One moment the fierce Kremnoan alpha charged forward to strike, and the next he lay on the ground beneath Phainon’s feet. Another person stepped forward, and lasted a tad better than her compatriot. A few slashes, a few desperate jabs, and she too meets the ground. Like with the previous individual, Phainon shoots a pleasant grin and thanks her for the fight.
“Deliverer,” he calls out.
The sea of Kremnoans part for their scowling prince, and he walks straight towards him.
“Mydei!” Phainon glimmers with excitement. “You’re here quite late.”
“And I see you have taken a liking to fighting my people.”
Phainon lets out a forced, stiff laugh. “Nonsense! I’m merely partaking in what they love most.”
Mydei refrains from rubbing a hand down his face. Instead, he turns to his people and issues a single command: “Leave us.”
The crowd disperses after a few minutes, a few grumbling over the interruption. Phainon assures them he’ll be around tomorrow to continue, and Mydei bites his tongue to not immediately protest.
Once in the clear, he sharply asks, “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing what?” Phainon blinks. The bags underneath his eyes have only deepened, standing out against his pale skin.
“This. When I spoke of dueling my tribe, I did not extend it as an invitation.”
Phainon studies him, weariness etched into his features. His gaze settles right above his shoulder then traces his jugular. He sighs, placing a hand on his hip, and shifts his focus towards the Dawn Device.
“It seemed like the right thing to do,” he finally says. “You were afflicted with their grievances. I learned how much they truly despise my company around you, and I…” Phainon waivers, scratching at the bronze studding his white coat. “This is the right way to go about it.”
Mydei folds his arms, briefly noting the destroyed training dummies: wood splintered, straw strewn all about. Some of them have been cleanly decapitated.
“What did you want to talk about earlier?” Phainon tosses a glance from his profile, not allowing a moment for Mydei to respond, and strains a rehearsed smile. “From yesterday.”
“Ah… that.” The word lays heavy on his tongue, steeped with his internal conflict.
“Yes, that,” Phainon says, putting on a cheerful disposition, a breathless giggling bubbling out. “It warranted you to seek me out, it must be important.”
Mydei looks at Phainon, doubt overtaking him. He knows he needs to say it—to utter it into existence. To not let the warm rays of the sun penetrate the bone chilling river. He heaves a sigh once more, steeling himself for the inevitable of what must be said. As the crown prince, he can’t afford the luxury of selfish desires. He represents so much more than a sole individual, and this is another example of such.
“Deliverer,” he begins with trepidation. “This is an important matter, so do not toss it to the wayside.” The words are wrong, but they can no longer be held within.
“Alright…” Phainon faces him properly. “What is it?”
“You…” Mydei hesitates, heart sinking to the bottom of the river bed, and releases the sigh he held within. “You cannot scent me—” Phainon instantly flinches “—Not again. As Mydeimos I cannot allow for such a thing.”
“What?” he asks, the air churning with a tenseness. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has to do with everything.” He focuses on the brightness of the Dawn Device, tracing how the rays dance in their circular patterns, omitting the soft light. “The restlessness of the Kremnoans over your scent will escalate things even further. I cannot afford the Okheman council to have another reason to pick us apart.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Phainon grabs his attention with the sheer venom in his voice. “What does that even mean? Not scenting you? Even standing this close imparts a small fragment of me. Are we not allowed to spar then? Am I not even allowed to place a friendly hand upon your shoulder?” He demonstrates by clasping a heavy hand down on him. “Would this count for you as scenting? This is absurd.”
Mydei shrugs him off. “It is not absurd. It is a matter I must adhere to, even if I do not agree with it.”
“So why not ignore it then? You have no issue ignoring so many other things and bearing the brunt of unpopular opinions.” Desperation fills Phainon. That insecurity he harbors rearing itself through.
“Because I must choose the battles I fight. You of all people know what I represent. And you, of all people, should know the way you scented me means more than a simple gesture of brothers in arms.”
The words slash Phainon, and he grimaces as he takes a step back. His breaths come out heavy and shuddering, his hands clench so tight his nails threaten to cut open his skin and drip golden ichor.
“Maybe if you listened to the things I say, you would understand,” he says, and invades Mydei’s space. “I do not refrain from withholding my opinions. You are the one who tunes me out whenever I try to speak them.”
A gnawing guilt sinks its talons into him, but he perseveres. While he may have a point, Mydei can’t accept his belligerent attitude.
“That does not matter,” he says with finality. “I have spoken on what must be.”
“So, you do not think this is worth contesting?” Phainon mutters.
“We have gone our whole lives without it being the case. It will simply be a return to what we were before.”
Phainon takes him in, his hands twitching in his restraint, arms trembling from contained anger.
“I don’t…” he begins, but bites down on his lip. A wetness covers his eyes, and he blinks heavily.
“I’m not an omega for you to scent,” Mydei gently says, reminding himself of a bond he can never have for he never will be. “Nor am I an alpha who can contest the declaration of being scented. As the crown prince, I must stand on these principles. With that you must understand our differences.”
“I see.” Phainon purses his quivering lip, and takes in a deep breath through his nose. “You have been brainwashed into believing such things because you are ignorant, and wish to remain as such without consulting me.”
“I am anything but ignorant,” he defends himself.
“I know it's not my place to act as your advisor on these matters, but your understanding is primitive and follows traditions, for that is what you’ve been taught by others.” Phainon grips the strap upon his chest holding his pauldron, and tugs at it.
“Why must you make everything so difficult?” Mydei groans. He knew this conversation was going to be unpleasant, but he never anticipated such a strong reaction. “If anything, you scenting my neck instead of my wrists is what brought this upon us.”
“I’m not making things difficult,” he petulantly responds. “I’m making a statement—one I observe as a fact. And the other thing I’m observing is how much of a coward Mydeimos is.”
“Excuse me?” This insult he did not expect.
“Indeed.” Phainon grabs his wrist, and he tries to tug away. “Instead of finding a solution, you decide to run away with your tail between your legs. Unless you forget—which I believe you haven’t—you enjoyed it. So why shouldn’t I fight for it? I know it's what you want.”
“Unhand me, Deliverer,” Mydei growls in their tug of war, his frightful strength digging through the hard metal of his gauntlet, pressuring and squeezing his wrist.
He throws fist against Phainon’s head in an attempt to dislodge himself. Phainon dodges with ease.
“Or what? You’ll defeat me in a battle? Need I remind you of our equal strength,” Phainon taunts him.
His heart skips a beat at the reminder, and his blood burns. Punches and kicks are thrown, blows are parried, and bruises are given. Their exertions convey what words cannot; the language of combat speaks of desperation in Phainon. The frustration of being denied and how it boils him leaves his stance wide and full of holes. The exhaustion plaguing him slows his movements.
“You will listen.” Mydei cracks his forehead against the alpha’s, pain splintering through his skull towards the back of his head.
“I only listen to Mydei,” Phainon grunts as he wraps his arms around Mydei’s torso, securing his hold with a tight grip.
“Idiot, I am Mydei,” he grunts out through gritted teeth.
Phainon hunches down and presses forward, using all of his strength to push him down onto the ground and air knocks out of his lungs. Mydei glares up at him as they both heave. Phainon holds him down by the shoulders, and a red bruise blooms on his forehead.
“You…” Phainon starts, sun eclipsing the sky-blue expanse, and a wild grin stretches across him. A familiar, uncomfortable heat settles itself in his groin. They’re close. Close enough for warm puffs of breath to ghost upon his face. “Looks like I’ve scented you again by sheer proximity this time. Won’t people be upset?”
“They… will be,” he mutters, plopping his head against the ground in defeat. “Phainon, I…”
Phainon lets go of his shoulders, and leans further down to rest his weight against his elbows. They are so close like this, chests almost flush. He can feel his heat engulfing his exposed skin. He bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to quell the confused fluttering of his heart. They were never this close before, and he has no idea where it comes from.
“I don’t want to give this up,” Phainon murmurs so quietly he wonders if he is meant to hear the confession. “It won’t matter that I do this since you already have my scent upon you, and it's quite late into Parting Hour.”
He presses himself up against his scent glands, and Mydei’s breathing stutters. It's soft, gentle. Just like how he remembers. The will to fight saps from his bones, and he lays heavy against the dirt. Vines wrap around his limbs, gripping him into submission, feeding upon his strength with greedy gulps. He gives in, allowing Phainon to caress him. Allows him to pour himself over.
He wonders if he even has the courage to shove him off if his frustrations willed it. But this warmth, this closeness, it intoxicates him. Makes him wish to wrap an arm around him and close the tiny distance between them. To feel Phainon’s weight upon him, and ground him to the earth underneath.
Mydei exhales a shuddering breath.
“You don’t need to worry,” Phainon whispers against his ear, and his toes curl as his groin pulses with desire. “No one will know.”
“I will,” he says, and finds the roughness of his voice surprising.
Phainon leans up, and their noses almost brush. “The only one who matters.”
Close—too close! Strength surges through him, and he shoves Phainon off. He hears him laughing over the loud thudding of his heart. Ah, how it thrashes and bewilders him. Mydei rubs his chest underneath his bulky necklace, trying to calm it down.
Phainon lays beside him, pleased and quiet. A soft breeze rustles shrubberies and trees around them. No sounds of sparring, chatter, or footsteps interrupt the intimate air. They are here—alone. And Mydei melts from knowing his lonesomeness is broken by the Deliverer’s ceaseless persistence.
“Mydei,” Phainon breaks the silence after a few beats.
“What?”
“I’m not going to let this go.”
He dryly chuckles. “Why did I hope you’d let this be easy for me? Fine. I cannot dictate your actions, but I do not approve of them.”
Mydei shifts to look at Phainon, and his eyes widen as he realizes the other is already watching him with ardent determination.
“That’s fine. I don’t need your approval for this. I apologize in advance if it causes you trouble.”
And he can’t fight the smile tugging at his lips. Warmth invades his core, seeping its way through his chest and up his ears. But spikes of anxiety wedge between the spaces of his ribs for indulging these soft desires. He’s no omega, he should not be enjoying the presence of an alpha, for how can an alpha ever feel the same for a beta? They share no special, intrinsic bond.
He’s so close. If he willed it, he could outstretch his hand and reach forward—touch the rays of sunlight breaking through the darkness of the bottomless sea he lives in. Breach the surface and gasp in air his lungs burn for.
He sits instead.
“Don’t get full of yourself, Deliverer,” he scoffs in his bluster. “You act as if I want such a thing. I’d be more pleased if you stayed beside yourself.”
“I can’t afford to this time,” he says with a small, humorless laugh.
Mydei moves to stand, but Phainon grips his wrist, halting his action.
“Can—Can we stay for a little while longer… Please?” His question borders on begging.
And Mydei… always has a hard time denying him.
“Fine. But I’ll be leaving after a quint,” he huffs as if it’s some terrible inconvenience. Allows himself to be yanked back down to the ground.
Because the smile Phainon gives is always, always worth it. Every single time. And if they sit closer than they usually do, pressing their shoulders together, heads tilted towards one another, he’ll keep it to himself.