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Phainon was born to fight dragons.
A prophecy foretold his delivery to Amphoreus as a vessel of virtue and selflessness, an heir without flaw and a man without sin. He is a hero meant for storybooks, and heroes exist to be a savior to the people, slay monsters, to usher in an era of golden light and eternal riches – Phainon, for all his childish faults and unfortunate cluelessness, knows what it means for him to be the Deliverer. It is not enough for him to be gleaming and right. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae must be good.
He regales this to Mydei many times, many nights, drunk on red wine and the warmth of eternally sun-warmed skin. Each time he is laughed at. Never once has he minded.
“There are no dragons in Amphoreus, Deliverer.”
Phainon always smiles and leans further into Mydeimos.
“Perhaps because they know I’m here.”
–
He has been having dreams, lately.
Phainon feels fake, more often than not – as though he’s gazing through a thin screen of fabric, or a slightly fogged glass. Objects and people feel distant, or small, or faded from memory the moment he turns away. The only time he truly feels present in all of his five senses is when he finds himself in the world of dreams.
When he lays down each night, he knows one of two visions will appear before him – the memories of those he loves most, of his fellow Chrysos heirs, of his long deceased family, or, more common as the end of an era draws closer, Phainon dreams of blackened soot.
It always feels so close, so present when he dreams of destruction. It’s familiar in a way that his waking life is not, more personal than a memory, closer to something truly within him than any name he has ever donned. He doesn’t like when he dreams of planets he has never seen or people he has never killed, of stars being blotted out and the fullness of a meal made with love. Waking up starving and shaking each time has gotten old very quickly.
–
“Lord Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”
Phainon jumps at the call of his name. He had been staring off into the water at the end of his step for longer than he had expected. The empty wine glass in his gloved hand droops.
“Lady Castorice! So rarely do you appear at such occasions. To what do I owe the honor?”
“Lady Algaea requested I appear briefly. I had reservations, but…”
Castorice descends the upper steps to stand at his side, where he sits on a concrete step. He is looking up at her now, her head making a shadow puppet of the light of Kephale behind her. It’s quiet, only the chatter of guests inside the distant atrium and birds pittering makes the air feel full.
“She can be very convincing,” she sighs.
He smiles. “She is a very strong-willed woman.”
“The crowd is so large tonight, I had to employ some less than savory tricks to sneak out. The vision of a united front seems to be much more important to her than … safety.”
Her hand rubs along her own gloves, pinching the tip of each finger until a pocket of air is formed – she pulls them back up with a soft sound.
“Well, you’d be hard pressed to find a more isolated area of Okhema, at the moment. I believe the public is out of harm's way.”
Looking away, she sighs.
“Not that I believe you’re harm. A harm.”
“It’s alright, Lord Phainon. Where is Lord Mydei?”
Phainon clenches his jaw and shakes his head, finally placing the glass down on the ground.
“Sorry. I’m not sure. I had matters I was to disclose with him, but he has yet to show his face. He dislikes these events as much as you, I wouldn’t be shocked if he had gone home early.”
Mydei never came, he knows.
“Is it matters pertaining to the Prophecy?”
“Well- yes. But nothing of importance. How did you know?”
“You’ve been unsteady since the Strife trial. I would not expect anyone, let alone you, to let something so important go so quickly.”
‘We all fail sometimes, I suppose.” It hurts.
“That’s correct, Lord Phainon. Even our Deliverer is susceptible to human nature.”
They stare at the water. Kephale reflects as clear as if he was standing before them, a small and warped version of his true majesty. Phainon takes the wine glass and tosses it gently into the water to disrupt the reflection, though it cracks when it hits a submerged step he hadn’t even seen. Castorice doesn’t admonish him for his behavior, so he doesn’t tell her he’ll replace it.
“I’ve been having dreams,” he admits.
“Dreams fall awful close to death, and not very far from prophecies.” Dreams are well within her realm, he knows. Phainon can ask her anything he needs. He doesn’t well and truly know if he really wants the answers.
“My dreams are awfully full of.. such things.”
“Speak with me about death, I may have answers for you.”
“You cannot laugh if my questions are stupid. I have been very.. confused lately.”
“Of course.”
Looking Castorice in the eye at this moment scares him in ways he can only compare to the instinct of prey meeting its final partner – her eyes are sharp and cold. His stomach growls, starved.
“Have I died before?”
“No, Lord Phainon. Not once have you died.”
She knows death well.
“How many times have I.. killed, before?”
“Many.”
He always feared he may know it, too.
“Castorice-”
She interprets his fear wrong, he can tell immediately what she thinks he is afraid of. He doesn’t care if she knows what he has done in the past, out of survival or otherwise, no, he just– he’s never, not even once–
“Phainon. What do you dream of?”
He speaks fast. Quicker than he should, forced from his mouth like they mean nothing.
“Other worlds and dragons. People I have never met and blackened faces and the way they die. You all, sometimes, but those are normal - they’re just memories. Castorice-”
“Why does this make your belief in the Prophecy waver? You aren’t any less of a hero because you dream of dragons.”
She looks so kind and understanding, it hurts his heart to correct her. He can’t tell her she's wrong, because she is death, and death is true and objective, and never once has the Maiden of War been flawed or erred.
But because he is good, he looks into the eyes of death and tells her.
-
He dreams that night of a beast. Most likely, he figures, of a dragon.
Large, larger than anything he has or ever will see, he looms over the sun and her thousand stars. Phainon feels as though some shackle has been removed, some gilded collar he hadn’t known existed. Starvation eats at the ichor in his body, his pointed teeth so useless in his mouth – desperation to clamp down eats along his spine, shakes the keratin of claws.
The glorious light of a star and her moons smell like ozone and the pulp of a lemon tree – Phainon swallows her whole and awakes sweating through his mattress.
-
Mydei comes to him on Phainon’s fourth day of sleepless nights, irritable in the way that he only is when he is riddled with concern. Phainon loves him like this.
Their conversation is short and awkward, brief in some alley in the market, Mydei having tracked him down appraising his beloved antiques – he's worried for him, he can tell, but it always comes out so stilted. He doesn’t know who told him of his insomnia, but he doesn’t mind – Phainon absorbs nearly none of the words thrown at him, enchanted and starved instead by the golden eyes of the man in front of him.
They part ways, but not before he promises to rest.
-
Mydei is pinned beneath him like an offering, that night.
He’s a monster again, endlessly massive and endlessly starving for all the light and good he can find – Mydeimos is like a sacrificial offering laid out before him, golden eyed and gilded blood. He doesn’t look afraid of the monster before him, either. Instead, his comparatively small hand creeps over Phainon’s claw, gentle and barely feeling, like cleaning an open wound.
Phainon adjusts his hulking, animalistic form, and presses Mydei down firmly into the ground. His hand envelops his entire form, the man taking up only as much space in his pitch colored palm as a ritual candle. A tiny heart pounds against his scales through the man’s bare chest, harsh breaths coming faster and faster. He doesn’t smell afraid. His eyes look like stars and he smells like light – he burns under him like fire. Starvation shakes his bones, raises his hackles. Both kinds of starvation, Phainon finds. Mydeimos is the closest thing he will ever get to the meal he craves, the closest he will ever get to the sun.
-
His bed sheets are soaked through the next morning.