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I am yours.
When I was but a babe starving in the alleys of your kingdom, you found me. Despite the danger, I was taken in, cleaned up, fed, and taught how to write— I knew then that I was born to serve you. You are my savior, the only God I will ever adore. The blazing ember to this life of mine, darker than the night. As I knelt before you in sweet surrender, you wrapped your arms around me and declared, "You are mine."
I am yours, now and forevermore.
Fire.
Ash.
Blood
Smoke.
His feet hurt, they’ve probably been bleeding from how hard he ran away, every step taken soaked on the dry road. His hands littered with deep cuts from all the times he crawled through spaces too small, just to evade the gaze of the enemies searching for more life to purge. His eyes cannot stop their tears, both from the smoke that had stung his eyes and lungs and the crippling grief of loss slowly morphing into a blazing anger. His body is exhausted beyond belief. The cough that hacks his chest is hard to stop, and he falls on unfamiliar ground.
His parents are dead.
His sister was burned.
His friends were killed.
His village was desecrated.
And everyone he ever knew and loved was gone, leaving him cold and so utterly alone.
He was the only thing that remained as proof that the village of Aedes Elysiae once stood in a small pocket of this world, vibrant and untouched by the darkness that slithered into cities and razed them to the ground. Or so he had long believed. They were supposed to be protected by Oronyx and hidden away from the rest of civilization, left alone because of how small and insignificant they are for any political conquests.
The boy screams, punching the ground and screaming once again. Why was he the only one alive? Why was he forced to run away and survive? He should've died. He should have joined them as the flames swallowed their cries. He shouldn't have let go of his mother's hand or remained rooted in fear when his father shoved him into the thicket to hide. He should've made a noise so that the invaders found him and killed him too.
Instead, he watched her struggle in the arms of unknown assailants and thrown into the flames in his place. The dress she loved so dearly turned to ashes far too quickly, and the hair she cared for so tenderly only strengthened the flames that took her away from him. The heat burned even from the nook he hid, and he cannot begin to imagine how much it must have hurt her when the fire blazed against her skin. His big sister was still just a child too. She was no older than him! She must have been so scared and confused and so sad. She must’ve been! So why?
Why was she smiling even with tears in her eyes?
He ran.
He shouldn't have, but he did! He took the coward’s way and left! Now every second he spends alive drowns him in the guilt of being the only one to survive. Why did he run? He should’ve stayed. He should’ve helped everyone else. He should’ve searched for another survivor. He should’ve put up a fight even if he was doomed to lose. He should’ve done more. He shouldn’t have been such a coward and ran even if it meant his death!
He should have been dead. He should have been dead. He should have been dead. He should have been dead. He should have been dead.He should have been dead.He should have been dead.He should have been dead.He should have been dead.He should have been dead.He should have been dead.Heshouldhavebeendead.Heshouldhave—
"You!"
He jumps from the sound, crawling backwards from the sudden appearance of this... child? They look almost similar in age, the stranger looking just a tad younger than he. The other was smaller, draped in shining jewelry and laden in gold; a child so clearly loved and cared for. A stark contrast to his appearance, with a singed shirt covered in mud and a face painted with tears and snot.
"Why are you crying?" The other child asked, though his tone was commanding, one that held undeniable authority. It sounded more like a demand to be answered, rather than a query born from concern.
Was he supposed to reply? Can he say that his village had been ransacked by pirates who seek to destroy anything and everything they come across? Can he trust this kid? What if he was one of those people? Sent to him to gain his trust so they can kill him without him realizing? Suddenly, the tendrils of fear momentarily forgotten grip him again. The shock that had immobilized him now replaced by terror over what this person could want from him.
"Mydeimos!"
Another voice, and he jumps once again. It was older this time, gentler despite the volume, and a woman runs to the side of the decorated child. "What are you doing runni—" She stops herself from speaking when her eyes land on the dirtied runt her son had been talking to. Golden eyes similar to the child raked over his form, unashamed in how they scrutinized his existence, and possibly his worth. If the kid wasn’t going to kill him, this woman might. She looked strong, her arms muscled in a way that compliments her form. She could take him down, and he’d finally be reunited with everyone.. His sister’s smile flashes in his head once more, and she shivers. "Oh dear, you're shivering. Where did you come from? What happened?" Her hands reach out, and he coils away from the contact.
"I was making friends, Mother." The son huffed, "He was gonna tell me why he was crying but now you've scared him as well." He notices that there is no heat in that voice as he addressed his mother.
His mother.
"I apologize, I was concerned about—"
He sniffles, and somehow, that seems to catch both of their attention. The lady bends to his level, her face gentle and warm and he wanted so badly for his mother to look at him that way again. Once more she makes a move to reach out her hand, but her son blocks the path, looking up at her meaningfully.
"You'll scare him again," he reasons, and he extends his own hand instead. "I don't know why you're crying. But I hate it when people cry. So you should come with me and I'll teach you how to be strong. Like me! I never cry!"
Ridiculous. His mother told him that crying was normal, and being able to express yourself was a good thing. She would embrace him and stroke his head whenever he found himself upset at something. Her voice would always be gentle, soothing him to let his emotions out, and to let his tears fall; and when he emerged from her arms, he had always felt better.
But she was gone now too.
"You'll help... me get stronger..?" He asks, and the lady's son seemed to light up when he spoke, "Yeah! I'll help you!"
The hand he took that night was small, but so very warm. And the hug he was given in the carriage was reminiscent of how his sister would comfort him when the night was too dark. The child spoke of many promises to train him, to become his mentor, and to make him invincible. Stronger he will be, and he will find all of those who had dared take away everything he had ever known. Anger was an emotion that used to be foreign in his heart, but now it wraps around him like chains, digging into his skin and branding him so he may never forget his reason for existence.
He survived. Therefore, he must pay for it with his life.
"I will be King when I am older. And I need someone to be my most trusted guard. Everyone in my kingdom would be too old by then, but we're the same age, so you'll do!"
"Me...?" He doesn't understand half of what this kid was saying.
"Yeah!" But his smile is bright, and certain, "What's your name?"
A pregnant pause, not born of hesitation, But awe. He did not know someone could be so beautiful. The boy’s eyes reminded him of the wheat fields his father cared for, it reminded him of the time he spent playing amongst the tall grasses. His mother would be exasperated as she wiped the sweat and grime on him, but his father would be overjoyed, saying that he was glad his children enjoyed the product of his hard work.
His eyes reminded him of home.
And maybe, just maybe, that is the reason why he leans into his savior's space, whispering his name like a secret meant just for the two of them.
"Khaslana..."
"Khaslana, from now on, you belong to me. You are mine and mine alone!"
His mother only chuckled in fond exasperation, believing such claims to be mere childish banter.
Khaslana believed his every word.
"I.. I'm yours."
-
The years pass by in the blink of an eye, and Khaslana finds himself living in Castrum Kremnos after that night. His new home, Mydeimos had said. The King was less than pleased with his existence, commanding him to work as a servant to earn his stay in the palace. He nodded in understanding then, before the golden-haired child stepped in front of him to disagree with the crown's choice of his employment. Khaslana realized Mydeimos was smaller than him then, oblivious to the shouting between the King and Prince, silent in his awe at how someone so small held such a large presence.
He became Mydeimos' personal servant at the Prince's insistence, a compromise from the King made with urging from the Prince and a gentle gaze from the Queen. He took to his role like fish to water, all too happy to be in servitude to his savior. And though the Prince seemed apprehensive at first, he seemed to enjoy the fact that he could take Khaslana everywhere.
And so he did.
Despite being nothing more than a servant to the crown, Mydeimos toured him around the area like he was an important guest. It was louder than he was used to, a lot hotter as well. The people were hot and cold, staring at him with eyes that did not hide their suspicion regarding his existence. They did not like him, that much had been clear, and he had a feeling that they despised him further because of the Prince's apparent favor for this outsider. An outsider whose existence was not at all dissimilar to a bad omen. After all, a child molded from the flames of destruction would soon serve as the next blaze's ember to herald another era of desolation.
Castrum Kremnos was the furthest thing from home to him, a child raised in a village smaller than this country’s tiniest lodgings. It was the complete opposite of Aedes Elysiae. But Mydeimos had told him it would be his home now, and Khaslana believed him with a single glance into warm golden eyes.
True to his word, the Prince did help him get stronger. They trained together under the tutelage of his Prince's mentor; an older warrior named Krateros. He was strict and honest, loud in his criticism during their training and also incredibly fond of the Prince. He was the best teacher Khaslana could ask for; But it is not hard to feel the elder's gaze prickling his neck, watching his every move and scrutinizing his existence. From what little interaction they had, Khaslana had come to understand a glaring fact. Krateros would never like him in this life. That was fine. Because his prince would hold his hand when they arrived at the training grounds, and he would hold it once more when they left the area. And he would always smile at Khaslana, a beautiful, toothy grin that only widens whenever the other could deflect his blows and match his strength during their spars.
-
“If there is anyone at all remotely deserving of becoming my personal guard, it would be someone I consider my equal.”
It had been nothing but a random thought from the Prince he had served; the same man who had picked him up after escaping from the ashen remains of what once was Aedes Elysiae, after their training session. The man, who was still just a child, that he had vowed to serve for eternity. Khaslana stares at him in wonder, like he always did whenever the boy spoke.
“What would it take to be your equal?... your Majesty.” He always forgets the title at the end, too familiar, too close with someone he was supposed to be serving.
“Hah! Obviously by matching me in battle!” His golden eyes seemed to glow back then, filled with excitement at the thought of someone being able to keep up with him in combat; a person he could confidently call his match. The Prince was young, no older than a teen just entering puberty, but the Kingdom has already dubbed him as one of their greatest. A fine warrior, the mightiest Prince. Khaslana remained quiet after his statement, pondering.
"Only the person who can best me in the battlefield can stay by my side."
He turns his gaze back to the Prince, and finds golden eyes already looking back at him. The latter breaks away first, standing from the patch of grass they had decided to rest upon after another fulfilling day of spars. Mydeimos bids him farewell then, not sparing him another glance, and Khaslana watches his back disappear back into the palace, mind reeling over what Mydeimos had meant.
Was that... a challenge?
He takes a deep breath, and picks up his wooden sword as he rises. Its weight grounds him, but the statement continues to echo in his ears.
Only the person who can best me in the battlefield can stay by my side.
A fervent desire burns in his chest, fueling him deep into the night even as everyone sleeps. He does not see his Prince for many moons, the other undoubtedly preparing as well, and though Khaslana feels near crippled with loneliness, he endures and swings his weapon once more. If strength is what it took to remain by his side, then Khaslana will prove himself to deserve that coveted spot.
Castrum Kremnos has several traditions Khaslana still doesn't fully understand. In this place, battles were celebrated, and death was the highest honor a warrior could achieve. It is unsurprising that their very own ceremony to celebrate young warriors’ coming of age was a duel with only one winner. In this ceremony, the winner would be hailed as the most promising warrior and is granted immediate entry to become a knight under the royal family.
Khaslana is uninterested in becoming a knight; What he truly wanted was the owner of that golden mane standing atop the podium and observing everyone slowly spill into the arena.
For the first time, Khaslana allows himself one selfish dream.
To stand by his Prince’s side and to become his equal.
Training with the Prince had been a blessing, and learning how to fight properly under a royal teacher made him feel like he had cheated. The audience whispered among themselves and Khaslana, though unable to hear, wagered that they must be disgusted by his strength. He moved like an executioner with each fight not lasting more than three minutes, leaving his opponents either severely bleeding from the injuries he inflicted or weeping from fear. He wanted this to be quick, to climb his way to the finale so that he will be the one to face the Prince.
The whispers only grew louder when his final opponent was thrown into the stands, body battered beyond belief while he remained unharmed.
Devil spawn, he notices the audience mouthing the word. He heard someone compare him to a devil after watching him beat a man twice his size until his face was unrecognizable. All because that man had called his prince spoiled and unworthy of the crown. It happened a few weeks after his arrival, and he had glared at the man who dared to call him that. Today, he finds himself agreeing to their words. A devil spawn felt like an appropriate description for someone who could not save the people he loved. What irony. He can barely remember that time long gone, but he knew he enjoyed playing pretend as a hero back then, promising his friends that they could count on him when they needed. Such naivety, he couldn't even kill a single one of those bastards while they pillaged his home.
Even then, he would consider it a blessing. After all, a devil was strong. His sister said they were creatures with immeasurable powers that sought to spread the seeds of chaos wherever they went. And if that had been the reason he could emerge victorious from that battle, and point his broken sword towards the Prince watching him from the stands, then he would grow horns and smile.
The silence was loud at his flagrant display of audacity.
“What’s wrong, Your Majesty? Scared?” His usual expression of neutrality is quickly overwritten by a smirk. Mydeimos was the only one who could bring it out of him. In fact, Mydeimos was the only one who could bring out many things out of Khaslana; that honor was his alone.
The grin that the Prince had given that day was something he would forget.
“You brazen fool.” Mydeimos has never looked more pleased. And Khaslana knew then that he would doom himself to solitude over and over for a chance to spend a single lifetime with this Prince.Somehow, that fate did not sound so damning.
“Are you certain you won’t regret this?”
“Are you sure you won’t come crying to your parents if I beat you, Mydei?”
Mydei.
He had thought of that nickname during the dark nights he laid alone in his room, rolling it onhis tongue repeatedly. It sounded intimate, somehow, offering him the illusion that he was closer to the Prince than he actually was.
To his delight, Mydeimos–Mydei–did not seem to mind.
“HKS. The only one crying after this will be you.”
From the moment they began trading blows, Khaslana had never felt more alive. The crowd's cheers seemed to fade into the background, leaving only him and his prince. Their exchanges felt endless, and time seemed to slow with every swing he made. His muscles grew sore with the blade’s weight, and his lungs burned with the need for a break.
The Prince, unmatched in battle, has finally found someone that could follow his every movement. He was not a part of theKremnoan bloodline, nor did he bear any connection to his people branded by Strife itself. He was a no-name existence that emerged from the ashes of a forgotten village. He was a warrior from the very beginning. That alone solidified his place to be Mydeimos’ aide, his personal guard, and the sole equal he would acknowledge.
Their battle ended with both their lungs burning from exhaustion, muscles sore from overexertion, and the King's displeased expression.
For the first time in the history of this ceremony, the battle ended in a draw.
Despite the unprecedented results, the second part of the ceremony carries on, a special ritual reserved only for Royals, where the Prince would officially be recognized as a warrior of the Kremnoan dynasty and deemed fit to bear the markings of strife on his body. Though he frowned against many of their rituals, Mydei seemed delighted to take part in it. His golden gaze lands on Khaslana, eyes softening as they both make their way across the palace halls to where Mydei will receive his ceremonial ink.
"Do you remember what I told you long ago about this ceremony?"
"Yes," he never forgets a word Mydeimos has said.
Tattoos are a significant part of a Kremnoan Royal's identity. My ink is my own, and it will be mine alone. So that if I win in battle, my enemies shall know who has claimed victory from them. And should I lose, the responsibility will be mine to bear.
The Prince responds with a hum.
"Will you wait for me?"
"Yes," he turns his head to meet his Prince's gaze, "I will be there when you finish."
He thinks he sees Mydei flush, but the tint of pink on his cheeks is gone when he blinks. They don't speak any further after that, and Mydeimos enters the room where the royal artist awaits him. Khaslana enters a separate room to fulfill a promise he made for himself.
The Prince emerges from his ceremony with red ink on his skin, and a proud smile on his face. He was beautiful, chest bare to show off his markings, and Khaslana feels heat pool inside of him. The red marks rake over his body like flames, a fire that burns more beautifully than anyone else. He looks stunning. Khaslana feels his heart stutter at the sight. Mydei's eyes sparkle when Khaslana meets them, the ache of his own tattoo of the sun forgotten when the Prince marvels over it.
"When--"
"While you got your own. I wanted to get one as well."
There's silence between them; Khaslana tries not to stare too hard, while the Prince moves closer towards the golden addition to his neck.
"It suits you," Mydei whispers, hands gentle as he traces the outline on reddened skin. Khaslana wishes he could keep that hand on him forever. "I knew it would suit you," the Prince added, and his gaze is reminiscent of the time when Mydeimos compared him to the sun.
'You remind me of.. Hmm.. Like the sun!'
'The sun?'
'Yes! It's like you're blessed by the sun!'
'Is that... a good thing?'
'Of course it is! I love it! I love the sun!'
Khaslana wonders if he still thinks the same. Was he still blessed by the sun in Mydei's eyes?
Did Mydei still love the sun?
I am yours.
When you hold my hand in silence behind closed doors. When you lean into my touch after a day's hard work. When you call for my name in moments you are unsure. When you rest your head on my shoulders and remove any trace of the infallible mask you constantly wore. It's in the little things you do; when you make me feel needed, wanted, /enough/, that I find myself falling once more. You seek my presence despite the fact that I am unfit to be near you; and that, my Prince, is more than enough for me to wage wars in your name until all your dreams come true.
Perhaps that is the destined burden of those born in royalty, to always appear invincible among his people and to hide the weakness that festers within his heart. It is his fate to be seen as the unyielding prince, the future ruler of Kremnos, fated to be strong and wise in his reign. None could truly see him for who he was; Mydeimos, a young man who yearned for a life, simpler than the one granted to him in this moment.
"Stay." He'd whisper against the sun inked on Khaslana's neck, carved into the Knight's flesh. When the world got too loud, and his shoulders grew weary from the burden he carried. When the crown feels too heavy on his head, he would rest himself against the shoulder of the other, the sole person who understood him beyond the prestige and glory he brought for his people.
In moments like these, he is not the Crown Prince Mydeimos, beloved son of Gorgo, Hope of the Kremnoan dynasty.
He was simply Mydei.
"You've worked hard. Rest. I'll wake you up when Krateros starts a search party for you."
His Mydei.
"HKS...I only need a few minutes."
Stubborn. Adorable. Sweet Mydei.
Who liked to stuff his cheeks with everything sweet. Who would brag about the most insignificant accomplishment to pull a reaction from him. Who held little chimeras in his rough hands with the tenderness of someone who has never seen the horrors of war.
His Mydei, who now pressed his body closer and allowed his head to rest upon his knight's shoulder, His Prince insists that this nap will only take a few minutes, enough to replenish his vigor. Yet hours would soon pass in welcomed silence, before his beloved would rouse from his slumber.
His most beloved Mydei, who would nag at him for not waking him up, yet would squeeze his hand twice in thanks before turning his back to don the mantle of a royal once again.
These moments were few and incredibly far in between for the two preferred exchanging blows and taunts, competing in every manner of battle they managed to think up. But right now, as they rest under the shade of the great tree planted by the ancestor of his beloved monarch, there is only tenderness and warmth.
Like this, Khaslana can spend the rest of the day just memorizing the entirety of Mydei’s face. He could etch in his mind how that strawberry blond hair would tickle his neck from its softness. How those long lashes of his looked like they shined under the moonlight. How his chest rose and fell in a relaxed rhythm, deep into his slumber. How his lips, usually barking out orders with grace and authority, were pressed together in a small, subtle pout that Khaslana refuses to let anyone else witness. Mydei still doesn’t believe him when he says His Majesty pouts like a child when he sleeps. He could never provide proof, far too selfish to share this sight even with the owner of that expression.
His greed is damning; a wretched thing that has taken root in the very marrow of his bones with its recipient, meant only for a single soul. A knight desiring the man he serves, nights filled with thoughts of filth to tide him through the cold blanket of darkness, drowning himself in delusions of grandeur involving his prince reciprocating his unspoken feelings.
His Mydei, what a laughable dream. Mydeimos did not belong to him.
He will never belong to him.
But this greed is his own. And for now, that was enough for him.
Khaslana watches that back retreat into the halls of tall walls and strong columns, posture ramrod straight and expression composed. The servants crowd over him, fussing over his tasks; their words overwhelming him with a multitude of things he should not be bothered with right now. Khaslana had always found it ironic, how these people claim to always put the Crown Prince's well-being above everything else. Yet they fail to see the slight clench of his jaw as he forces himself to be strong, to look as if he is unaffected.
They do not notice the grief in his eyes from losing his mother.
They do not notice. But Khaslana did. He always did.
Mydei had always been so fond of her, having taught him that strength did not always mean violence, and emotions were not a sign of weakness. She was kind to Khaslana too. His final memory of her had been before he was sent along with the prince for a campaign together. She spoke no words, but her eyes were filled with hope. Khaslana had nodded, vowing to always protect his son's back.
Victory had been easy. The country they conquered was overconfident, relying on their greater number of troops; as if numbers determined the unquestionable victor. They made a competition of it too, on who could get the most kills out of these soulless swindlers. Mydei had won that one, 54-53.
They had brought home glory and pride, but were greeted with the news of the Queen's death as soon as they arrived.
Khaslana had never seen Mydei so broken.
"You're here," Mydei whispers, voice laced with exhaustion, yet unsurprised at his presence.
"I am." Because I knew you'd be here tonight too.
He takes his spot beside the Prince, resting against their favorite tree and looking up at the moonless night. It's been three days now, and the funeral arrangements keep the Palace busy underneath the haze of a grim cloud. Mydeimos' responsibilities only increased with Queen Gorgo's death, made worse by the fact that his father, King Eurypon himself, seemed to blame her demise on his own son. Khaslana never understood how he came to that conclusion, and silently deemed the King mad with anger.
He feels a comfortable weight rest on his shoulder, and a soft sniffle from his companion. Khaslana opens his palm on his lap, and the Prince laces their fingers together, squeezing his hand.
"I am here." He keeps his gaze ahead, while his thumb strokes the Prince's skin.
A normal person would not have been able to hear the next words uttered. But Khaslana had deeply attuned himself to Mydeimos' existence that even the smallest sounds always rang loudly in his ear. It was quiet, unsure.
"Promise?"
"Until my very last breath."
Mydeimos buries himself deeper against the crook of his neck and cries.
-
The Queen's death meant the beginning of the end.
King Eurypon, once a man who only listened to reason under his wife's word, now lost the one person ensuring he was making the right choice. Khaslana wishes he could say the descent to madness had started small with His Majesty. But there was no slow descent, it was a tidal wave bursting through the flimsy walls of sanity to wreak havoc on everything blocking its way.
As soon as the funeral ceremony had concluded, Eurypon had called Khaslana to the throne room before the Knight could even approach his Prince. He was commanded to follow the King in haste and made to kneel while the older man sat on his throne, glaring at him.
"We've sheltered you long enough. It's time to prove your worth."
In that moment, Khaslana had felt...relief. Finally, something he can do to repay the kindness they have shown him, to show his gratitude for providing him with another chance in life and letting him find a purpose to stay alive. He was relieved to finally have something to do, so the burden of his debt would no longer feel so heavy on his shoulders.
His smile is sincere as he offers himself to the crown's whims.
He wishes he never did.
Castrum Kremnos' first conquest target was a far country located north of Amphoreus, Aidonia.
Khaslana was made to lead the siege that aimed to stake Kremnos' claim on the snowy peaks of the faraway land. Armed with a sword in his hand and bravery in his heart, he and 600 knights set sail to follow the King's command. He had been confident then, having spent the entire time traveling to Aidonia formulating strategies and plans to cover all the bases they needed in order to secure that country. Though his ceremonial knighting was hardly official, his subordinates trusted in his plan and followed his commands.
Victory did not feel so far from his grasp.
Fire.
Ash.
Blood
Smoke.
Khaslana came to Aidonia with 600 men.
Aidonia greeted them with 5,000.
The outcome had been decided long before the battle had even occurred.
Somehow, they knew of their arrival. Somehow, they knew of the exact numbers they had. Somehow, the Aidonians knew what they had planned. Somehow, they were able to plan retaliation. Their weapons were raised against the Kremnoans that dared invade their land, and the plans Khaslana had drafted were left forgotten as they struggled to fight back.
He didn't understand what truly happened and why it happened. Only that Khaslana watched everyone around him die. Again.
They called for his name to save them, they reached for his hand for any semblance of salvation, and they stared into his eyes in hopes of a painless departure. The knights under his command fought back with everything they had, persistent and valiant even in a battle doomed to be lost from the start; that much he will not deny. But there were simply too many.
There were too many...
He couldn't save anyone again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
He's the only one left again!
There, covered in blood and ash in the battlefield, the lone knight screams. His sword breaks when it clashes with another, and the broken piece is not allowed to fall. The blade cuts into his skin when it is caught, but the pain only serves to fuel him into burying it in the eyes of an Aidonian knight. He recognizes the man as the one responsible for leading the charge. Another soldier attempts to attack him from behind, but he turns himself around and pushes the other half of his broken sword into the neck of the sly knight who thinks he can sneak a hit in. More soldiers scream and charge, fire burning in their eyes with the determination to kill the remaining invader on their land.
Another scream disrupts the night, and the pure white of snow now carries the metallic sanguine of blood from the bodies Khaslana pools. And at the top of the mountain of corpses, he stands alone. Neither defeated, nor the victor.
His return to Castrum Kremnos takes longer than when he departed. He's failed to count the moons, mind too consumed by grief to function outside of blindly tracing the path back home and blaming himself for the death of his companions. Khaslana utters their names over and over again ensuring not a single one is forgotten, not a single one left behind in the bloody remains of the war from which he had departed, not a single one to spare him any reprieve, so he may never forget why he still lives. He'll have to apologize to their families, kneel in front of those who had lost someone and repent for the crime of being the only one alive. He will bear the burden of their grief, their anger, their loneliness, their pain. He would bear it all.
And that shall be his punishment for staying alive.
The gates of Kremnos stand tall in front of him. Its strong, pristine walls are a stark contrast to his current state, covered in a twisted mix of his own blood and the blood of those whose lives he had ended with his blade and anger, clothes torn and no longer bearing any resemblance to the uniform of knights; a shoe missing from his foot, now covered in cuts and bruises after having to walk all the way from North. The sight felt like it was reminding him of the fact that he did not belong here.
He hears movement behind him, and he turns to find golden eyes and a beautiful mane of hair.
"Khaslana...?"
Your Majesty, he wishes to say, but his sight blurs and he fades into unconsciousness.
-
When he comes to, he is greeted by the glaring glow of the hospital's lights and the face of his treasured monarch.
That was enough to make him smile.
"You're here," Mydei whispers, voice trembling.
"I am..." He responds, with great effort on his end.
Later, Mydei would tell him how he had been gone for nearly three months and how Eurypon had declared him dead without any effort to try and search for his remains. Mydei would say many things about how he fought back, how he planned to visit Aidonia as well to find the body himself. But none of his Prince’s words register in his head. Maybe some other time he would be able to give a more coherent response befitting a Prince's knight. For now, he squeezes the warm hand that holds his and basks in the warmth carried by Mydei's presence.
He was home.
I am yours.
When you drag me to your bed chambers long after sunset has passed. When your lips ghost my skin and your teeth break flesh; you cover me in a constellation of marks that leave me bleeding and breathless. When you let me embrace you every night, praise me for soiling the sheets where you lay, beg for me to go deeper inside, and cling to me when you reach your peak, I, in turn, grow weak. For someone so merciful to your subjects, you have displayed greed and selfishness for me all too frequently. The desire you exhibit in these private moments are what remind me of your humanity. I take delight in the fact that the indomitable ruler of this land comes undone by my hand.
The night had been blanketed by a drunken haze.
Mydeimos, despite never being particularly favorable of alcohol, drank goblet after goblet at his birthday celebration. It surprised everyone, even the King who only looked his son's way when he was being sent to another campaign that aimed to take more countries to expand their growing territory. Eurypon thought Mydeimos was finally growing out of his childish fantasies of peace, Khaslana hoped nothing was wrong with his Prince.
"I am of...ripe...age..." Mydeimos had slurred into his arms as Khaslana carried him back to his quarters, lifting him with ease like a bride to be deflowered. He seemed to like the word ripe so he repeated it, raising the intonation of the final syllable higher and higher until a hiccup interrupted him. And he giggles as if he had been tickled, and Khaslana adored the sound of it beyond what words he could manage to muster.
"For.. marriage..."
Khaslana wished his ears bled to deafness.
"The King says...I am to be...wed..." Khaslana pretends the words do not make him feel as if his heart had been soaked in the molten fire from the blacksmith's furnace. Mydeimos is to be wed, to a woman who will help their country prosper and ensure a bright age for Kremnos. He is to marry someone that will never be the knight pining for him for decades long. "Are you...istening...?"
They stop in front of the Prince's chambers, and Khaslana gently opens the door to let his monarch rest after the celebrations. He enters the room in solemn silence, kicking the door closed, but he nearly trips when the Prince jumps out of his arms. His fists are clenched and his eyes are glued to the carpet cushioning their steps.
"Answer me," he whispers, the sound so small for someone so magnificent. If Khaslana notices the way he no longer slurs his speech, he does not mention it.
"I'm always listening," was his gentle assurance, taking a step forward hesitantly. Khaslana's gaze is soft when Mydeimos does not move away, and he cradles the Prince's face with his palm, stroking his cheeks and wiping his tears. "My ears are drawn to your voice and no matter how far you may be, or how small your plea, I hear you. I will always hear you."
That response must be incorrect, because the Prince's shoulder trembles and tears stream down his face. "You're lying..."
He is?
"Your Majesty, I assure you—"
"Silence!"
Khaslana stops speaking.
"If you truly listened...then why can't you hear my heart?"
He stares, taken aback by his monarch's statement. His heart? What did he mean?
"Why can't you hear the way it screams your name?"
Impossible.
"How...could that be?"
"Now you're calling me a liar too?!" Mydeimos exclaims, and by instinct, Khaslana makes a move to pull away and give him space. But once again, his plans are thwarted by strong arms wrapping around his head, and pressing him down the Prince's soft chest. His body bends forward to accommodate the position, having grown taller than Mydeimos in their adulthood, but he makes no move to pry them apart.
"Listen, Khaslana..."
And he does.
Khaslana presses his ears further into that warmth, feeling the thump of his heart pumping with life. The beat is aggressive, loud, and quick. But it is not erratic. The sound is steady and persistent, as if pleading over and over again.
Listen.
"Can you hear it, Khaslana?"
He does.
"I do."
The arms wrap around him tighter, fearful.
"Then will you listen to its plea?"
A million thoughts race in his head. The Prince likes to use metaphors and vague imagery in his words, having been raised by marvelous teachers who taught him a number of prose. Khaslana had believed he could decipher every single one of them because he knew Mydeimos best.
But this onehe fears the solution of this puzzle. Because it would fulfill all his dreams, born from greed and a desire to possess. It would make every late night he spent with his hand as company a forlorn memory to be replaced by the warmth that holds him close and refuses to keep him away. It would answer every single prayer his faithless body had ever made.
And that was horrifying.
What is a worm to the eagle and its claws? What is a raindrop to the ocean that houses life in this world? What is this Nameless Knight found in an unknown alley to the beautiful Prince of a mighty kingdom?
"I do not deserve you," Khaslana pulls away.
"On what grounds?"
"I am just a mere Knight, with unknown origins and barely any accomplishments—"
"You are my best friend!" His volume has increased, sobriety seeming to have gotten ahold of him despite everything he had drunk tonight. Was that even possible? "You have been with me from the start and you are the only one who truly understands me when everyone else only sees me according to their needs!"
He sniffles, tears cascading down soft cheeks again and Khaslana, by instinct, wipes each drop immediately. Mydei holds his hand still, gripping it tightly.
"You make me laugh whenever you say a joke with the most deadpanned expression in all of Amphoreus. You are so gentle to me even when everyone calls you cold and unfeeling. You match me in a way no one has ever managed.It is only in your arms that I feel safe enough to cry, to scream...to...feel." Mydeimos pants, "You make me human, Khaslana."
What?
"Why do you get to decide who I deserve? Is that not my choice? Or are you to deprive me of the freedom to let my heart desire who it wishes to offer itself to?"
His brows furrow and Khaslana shifts. He pulls his body up to meet that golden gaze and his expression, though conflicted and agonized, was overshadowed by a sweet surrender. The next words uttered are spoken with sincerity and certainty, along with newfound determination.
"I cannot deny you anything."
The kiss they shared is bittersweet against his tongue, and it is everything he could ever dream of upon the stars.
First kisses were something of a fantasy; though he does not admit it, he yearned for that honor to be shared with Mydei. He had believed such thoughts were nothing more than his greed invading his unattainable dreams too, a testament of this dog too loyal for his own good. Yet his prince embraces him in full, keeping their lips locked in a dance led by His Majesty. Somehow, he is torn between joy at finally fulfilling one of his dreams and humiliation that his response to the kiss is telling of his inexperience. He's clumsy as he leads them into the Prince's bed, placing him gently on the sheets and hovering atop him to marvel at the beauty he has caged underneath him. Khaslana kisses him once again, bolder and more confident this time. Distantly, he hears the sound of a familiar voice barking orders to the rest of the guards; the mentor who had watched them grow up. Khaslana stiffens instinctively, a trained response from years of being under the veteran's wings.
If Krateros sees him devouring his student lips, he would be beheaded.
When the sound of Krateros' finally fades, Khaslana finally releases the breath he is holding. He hears a scoff coming from the beauty underneath him, wearing a grin so snarky he almost wants to devour that smile away. Suddenly, he's all too aware of his position; a knight with no power, caging a royal with his soiled hands and cursed existence. He feels so utterly dirty when his knee touches the edge of the bedframe, and he makes a move to pull away and stall in order to ask if Mydei was truly sure about this. But when he attempts to do so, a look of panic flashes through his Prince's face.
Mydeimos clings to him in a desperate act to try and make him stay. His entire body wraps around Khaslana's, and his legs are immovable as they wrap around the Knight's waist. He's crying once more, begging to not let this night be over so soon.
"Stay, until the sunrise..." He hiccups, and Khaslana wipes his tears gently. "I command you..." But his words sound like a plea.
"Okay." He cannot deny his Prince anything.
Their lips meet once more, no longer in a hurry to taste all of each other. Khaslana slowly lowers himself atop his treasured person, gaining more confidence now to take the lead, with every soft sound of Mydei serving as his fuel to be bolder.
They do not have sex that night, at Khaslana's insistence. Though his Majesty speaks eloquently, his lack of restraint is a telltale sign of intoxication. When he explained his reasoning, his Prince giggled, the sound unfairly adorable and leaving Khaslana breathless. "Okay," he'd acquiesce, and they’d kiss again, and again, and again. Until they're both breathless against the sheets, and their lips swollen from lip locking.
Khaslana stares, quiet and reverent in his gaze for this beautiful man who has claimed to reciprocate his feelings. Mydeimos swallows, and his voice trembles.
"Stay..."
"I love you."
When tomorrow arrives, Mydeimos remains tucked against Khaslana's neck, and Khaslana continues to embrace him even after the day begins.
-
Kissing Mydeimos was addicting.
The days that followed that memorable night were filled with stolen kisses tucked between the castle's hidden nooks and crannies. Khaslana had believed himself to be a man with the self-discipline that would put even the strongest warriors to shame, but a single glance at the lion who has taken residence within his heart is enough to make him clench his fist and want.
His lips crave to press themselves against the softness of his Prince's, his hands miss the feel of chiseled muscles against his own person, brimming with strength and elegance befitting of a man his caliber. His eyes wished to see that awestruck expression again, to caress his cheeks that flush in shyness, to gaze into those eyes, glossy with want. Khaslana wants so desperately.
And Mydeimos indulges him again and again.
"I have known you all my life," he'd smirk, so infuriatingly handsome in the tilt of his lips. "I know you better than anyone, and I can read you without needing to hear a sound." The chuckle he lets out is downright destructive in its cadence, dripping with confidence of a man who knows what effect that sound has on the pitiful Knight rutting against his leg. The contact, even through the fabric is deliciously warm. Or perhaps, Khaslana had simply been away too long for Eurypon's recent campaign that he is acting out of line. The King has been relentless in conquering lands from beyond the vast seas and creating wars where there did not need to be. The time he has spent with Mydei continues to decrease further with each success he brings under his belt, but that is no excuse to act with so much greed that a mutt would find him humiliating. To pull away the Prince so brazenly and hide him like a secret, this is unbecoming of him. He must compose himself immediately, lest he soils himself against the Prince's pants from the mere sound of his laugh.
"I missed you too, my sun."
Khaslana devours his mouth once again.
Come tomorrow, Eurypon will find another land for him to conquer, and once again, he must bet on his life so he can return home into the arms of his lover.
But tonight, he takes the spot beside Mydeimos in bed and wraps him in an embrace.
"You smell like me," his Prince would say, beckoning him closer. He had washed himself within the Prince's lavatory, used his oils and soap, and now he bears the same scent Mydei always carried. "I do," Khaslana would reply, the smile on his lips small but present. He smells like he belongs here, by his beloved's side.
Tonight, their kiss drips with unspoken words of adoration, unhurried and brimming with devotion. Each fabric removed from Mydei's body is placed carefully on the far edge of the bed, and the beautiful man that awaits him is worshipped under the moonlight's illumination. Khaslana begins at the very bottom, right where he belongs. From the bridge of his foot, to his ankles and heels, strong and reliable as they carry his weight when he walks, when he runs, when he leads his people. His calf and thighs, swift and durable, capable of killing a man with a single coil.
Mydeimos tugs his hair, quiet in his urging for Khaslana to hurry.
The command falls on deaf ears.
His hands and fingers, thick and wide, littered with the calluses of the warrior yet somehow looking more prim when compared to Khaslana's hand. He feels a small smidge of pride when he compares it to his own and sees that his fingers are significantly longer, thicker. Mydeimos did not look so pleased with his pout, so the Knight apologizes by continuing his onslaught of kisses. His arms, filled with muscles Khaslana didn't know could grow that large, and that beautiful vein that becomes visible when Mydei flexes just right. His beautiful prince moans when he sucks on that part.
"What is with your obsession on sucking that specific spot? Can you indulge in something more normal like my chest?"
How vulgar. Khaslana laughs.
And he squeezes Mydei's chest with both hands.
"Would it please you to know I am obsessed with your beautiful breasts too?"
"Don't call them that...!"
"I am obsessed with every single part of you."
He can tell Mydei wished to reply, but Khaslana cuts him off by sucking on a pec. His Prince arches so beautifully in response, moaning louder now, and pushing Khaslana's head closer to him. The touch urges him to take more, to possess Mydei in his entirety. Khaslana obliges, and his free hand gropes the other breast to ensure it does not feel neglected. His lips wrap around Mydei's areola, tongue licking and prodding for that shy little nub to emerge from hiding. It is his favorite part when lathering Mydei's chest with attention, and when the nipple finally pops, the fulfillment he feels is more satisfying than when he follows the King's orders. The same is done to the other nipple, coaxed out by the warmth and gentleness of the knight's tongue until the bud is perky enough to latch upon.
The hand on his head grabs a fistful of blond hair and roughly pulls him away from his continued shower of attention on Mydei's chest. His Prince is flushed from his cheeks down to his neck, and his brows are pinched in what Khaslana can only assume is embarrassment and need.
"Stop stalling..." The words are spoken so softly and Khaslana's heart skips a beat. He rises to lock their lips once again, hastily removing his nightwear and throwing it somewhere. "Oil..." He whispers between their kisses, making a move to turn his head and search for the item, but Mydei holds his gaze in place. Did he grow...redder?
"No need..."
Khaslana tilts his head.
But instead of replying, Mydei guides his hand downwards, pressing the knight's fingers against his entrance and letting him feel the slickness of his hole.
"You're already prep–"
"Silence!"
The lion is a demanding creature and Khaslana would not have it any other way.
Mydeimos is warm and tight even with lubrication. Every inch of himself that manages to breach past his rim sends his mind closer and closer into frenzy. It does not help that Mydei keeps insisting on rushing him, urging him to just shove it in without care. And he wants to. He desperately wishes to give in to that insistent desire inside of him that whispers in his ears to let go of control, to slam all of his cock inside and pound away to chase his pleasure. It would feel wonderful, he does not doubt it. Putting the Prince under his mercy, keeping him speared on Khaslana's cock until the only word he can utter is his Knight's name. He fantasizes about scenarios like those in his head during moments he is away accompanied only by the moon's kind light and the distinct memory of Mydeimos in his head, so vivid he can pretend it's real even if only for a few hours.
He wants to, so badly.
But a tear falls from Mydei's golden gaze, and Khaslana stills.
"Breathe," the knight presses his forehead against the other, both eyes holding each other's gazes. His earlier thoughts of roughness remain loud, louder even, at the sight of Mydei's tears. He refuses to unpack why that is, "Breathe, Mydei.."
His Prince obeys, and Khaslana finally sheaths all of himself in.
"Good boy," he coos and kisses away the rest of the tears that now fall without restraint. Mydeimos wraps his arms around Khaslana so tightly until there is physically no space existing between their bodies. His Prince does not speak, but Khaslana understands every sniffle he releases.
The rhythm of hips moves with the passion of a servant that aims to please its Master. For days he has dreamed of this night while stuck in faraway lands, his words spoken to the crickets that witness his debauchery. "You're so beautiful," Khaslana whispers against his Prince’s ear. Mydei screams and clings a little tighter when Khaslana locates that specific spot within him that makes him weak. His pace grows in speed, repeatedly rubbing against his Prince's prostate so that he may reach his peak.
"Khas!" His name sounds like a melody on his Highness' mouth. "Lana...I'm..! I'm close..!"
Mydeimos was strong, extremely so. But like this, he's flexible and malleable, willingly allowing someone as insignificant as this Knight to fold him in half until his knees reach his ears. Khaslana chuckles fondly, even Mydei looks surprised he could bend this far, "You're so talented, My Prince." The change in position makes him reach deeper, pounding him aggressively until they both reach completion.
They reach the crests of their pleasure together; Khaslana filling his prince with proof of his existence, and Mydeimos staining his knight's stomach with a mark of his ownership.
When the sun rises the next day, Khaslana once again sails to the next land to be conquered, as commanded by his King.
Mydeimos wakes up, cleaned and alone in his bed.
I am yours.
When you run to my side first after a battle won and check my person for any skin torn. The warmth you share and the tenderness you exhibit are luxuries I do not deserve, My Lord. I am naught but your weapon and bed warmer. This lowly soldier has no right to touch you. But when your eyes light up with recognition and your smile becomes a tad bit brighter in my presence, my foolish heart hopes that maybe I can be something more. That maybe the affection you've shown is equivalent to my hidden ardor.
"Your Majesty, you called?" The knight's footsteps are quiet despite the metal of his boots, halting just before the frame of his monarch's door. The mud trails that trace his path is an unwanted existence in the pristine chambers of the one he adores.
"You arrived later than I wanted." The Prince's back is turned to him, bare and framed by the gentle light of the moon; a beautiful sight that renders him mute in awe, always. He will never tire of this sight. Of Mydeimos himself.
"I apologize. It will not happen again." The campaign had run longer than he wanted, pests that refused to die, clinging to some form of divine gaze that they deluded themselves into believing would give them assistance. They cursed him with retribution, damning him to a life of eternal despair. A laughable act, he merely steps on their bones until their screams could ring no more. All who aim to become impediment to his Prince's reign will not be permitted to continue their existence—
"Khaslana."
His recollection is interrupted, and he raises his head to meet honeyed eyes on a face blessed by the Titans themselves. Khaslana may not believe in the existence of beings that rule upon them as an omnipotent entity whose will cannot be changed, but if he must worship a God then he would willingly fall to his knees under Mydei's gaze.
"Come in..." The Prince commands, voice too soft that it wraps around the Knight's heart in a tight embrace.
"I am dirty." Filthy.
"Mud sticks to my armor." Unworthy of your purity.
"Allow me to bathe beforehand." So I may pretend I deserve to be by your side even if it's a fallacy.
Khaslana keeps his head hung low, unable to meet his Prince's gaze. There's a gnawing dread within him that whispers inside his ear about how the Prince must find him repulsive, an existence of great shame wearing the crest of Nikador yet failing to uphold his principles. It reminds him about how his Prince once told him he detests assassins and how he hates the indiscriminate killing, even if everyone else in his home says otherwise.
As he is now, Khaslana embodies the exact same thing his Prince loathed. An executioner that follows the will of a King mad beyond reason in blind faith and hopes that his actions of today would pave the way for the sole reason he continues to bathe himself in the blood of men.
"Excuse me," he bows and pads back to his quarters. His "room" had been turned into a storage closet, with the King reasoning that he was always away from the palace anyway, and thus it would be best to put it to better use. He did not disagree. What right did he have to do so? He was still a stranger in this country; a parasite that had managed to worm its way into the lives of the royal family. He never deserved the kindness Mydei had offered him. Still, like the greedy man he was, he basked in it unashamed.
He maneuvers through the boxes, towards the small bed tucked in the corner hidden by the litter. Khaslana ducks down to pull out a chest under the bedframe where he keeps his clothes, having no cabinets around in order to accommodate the King's trophies that only seems to grow in number.
The water is scalding hot as it lands on his skin, turning his flesh red and raw from the heat. He scrubs the blood and grime off until he scratches his own skin and even then he keeps scrubbing, forcing himself to believe that if he cleaned himself enough, it would wash away his sins and all the blood he spilled.
When he emerges from his bathroom, Mydeimos is sitting on his bed.
"Your Highness," he greets with a bow, keeping his head low from shame...and because his Prince was wearing nothing more than a robe.
"The time you're away has grown longer than the time you've spent in the palace."
Has it? He never noticed.
"You follow the King more than the one you actually serve. Are you his Knight or mine?"
"Yours," he declares without hesitation.
"Then why are you never beside me?" There's a tremble in his tone from the last word uttered, and the next statement turns him mute. "You are mine!"
"I am yours..." He whispers, "But I must pay my dues...for this life...for being able to meet you, I need...to pay."
"What are you talking about?"
How does he tell Mydei about his guilt? About how it only seems to grow bigger after every penance he makes? How he feels like he should just kill himself to be absolved of all these sins, but he persists on staying alive because his greed reminds him that he still wants to see Mydei's face for another day. How does he explain that only through war and discord can he find purpose in his existence? That only in the flame of the cities they raze down does he feel the warmth of deserving to live?
"Your father promised me that...when you take the throne, he wants you to have a land vast enough to reign."
"I don't need that."
Khaslana looks at him in surprise and becomes stupefied when he realizes Mydei has already moved and now stands in front of him.
A hard punch lands on his cheek, making him fall on his rear. "What, you think I'm so weak that I can't take those countries myself?"
"What? No–"
Another punch to his jaw, and Mydei straddles him. Khaslana feels his bareness, and it does not help that he's only wearing a towel. It's distracting, even more so than the fact that Mydei's plump ass was right atop his dick, left untouched from all the weeks he'd spent fighting. "Your Highness, please—"
"What do you mean no? Clearly you look down on me so much that you're handing me these trophies because you believe I cannot accomplish them myself."
"Absolutely not–"
"Silence!"
Mydeimos hits him again. And again. And again. The force of each hit leaves a purple flower blooming in its wake, and Khaslana does not retaliate. Each punch, each scream, each tear is accepted with both guilt and awe. Mydeimos was beautiful and strong, that had never been in doubt. But being underneath the Prince and at the opposite end of his fire fulfills him in a way like no other. Soon, Mydei's punches weaken until he's panting on top of Khaslana, bloodied and bruised, yet never moving from where he had laid down.
"I don't know you anymore..."
His Prince falls on his chest, and his shoulders tremble while sobs wrack his body.
Khaslana lays there, letting the man who has become his reason for living, who has turned into his whole world, mourn for the death of what he once was. His hands hesitate as they wrap around Mydei, only hugging him tighter when the latter leans into his embrace.
"Stay..."
His chest is covered with tears and snot, and the weight of a grown man with more muscles than limbs rests heavy against his body. The floor is cold against his bare back, and Mydeimos is still bare underneath his robe of silk. But there is nowhere else he would rather be.
"Stay, my sun.."
Khaslana stays.
-
To the surprise of no one, Eurypon is enraged when Khaslana declines to join his next campaign.
In fact, it seems both he and the King had both assumed Khaslana would never decline. "As commanded by Crown Prince Mydeimos himself, I am to accompany him in his travels to the city of Okhema to scout their military prowess as well as prepare for diplomatic negotiations to facilitate a channel of trade." The knight keeps his head hung low, engaged in a heated discussion against the King about where his priorities lay, as if it had not been obvious from the very beginning of his stay. Though Eurypon's words were formulated like spears meant to make him bleed, Khaslana does not feel any form of fear.
"You will be of no use to him compared to me during my campaign against those slimy thieves of Dolos."
"His Highness, the Crown Prince, wishes to only bring forth a select few, and thus he asks for the Kingdom's mightiest in tow should something go awry in his reconnaissance."
"I am your King. You are to obey me over him, you are to follow my commands over his! What made you think I will forgive this insolence?!"
"That is enough!" The majestic lion roars as it enters the throne room, marching towards the King with the fierceness and confidence of a predator. "He is staying with me, as he should have been all these years. He is my Knight, and it was me who commanded him to stay. You have no power over him, and you know that very well when you refused to properly knight him into your brigade."
"You dare speak to me that way, Mydeimos?" The room's temperature seems to drop from the tone Eurypon used to address his son. His only son. It was the same tone he used when he was about to kill. Khaslana moves before his head could think, rising from his bow and standing in front of his Prince.
"Khaslana was never a knight at your refusal to grant him that title. Yet you treat him like he is one and work him to the bone like a dog. You know fully well that you never had power over him." He most certainly should not be aroused at such...heated debate. But the sight of Mydeimos, so confident and eloquent in his words, sends a blaze down Khaslana's loins. "He is mine. He has always been mine. And he is not coming with you anymore, Father. That is final."
A spear flies from the King's hand, aiming directly at the Prince. It does not reach its intended target, having been caught by the Knight, no, having been caught by Khaslana himself. King Eurypon seemed flabbergasted. "This is grounds for treason, Mydeimos. I am your King and my orders are final!"
"If I wanted to betray Kremnos, your head would already be separated from your neck."
Mydeimos turns to leave, dragging the loyal mutt away with him.
Khaslana watches the confident back that guides him through the castle, broad and strong, as if it carried the weight of the entire universe. He thinks about how Mydeimos declared Khaslana as his alone, and he finds himself falling even harder.
His prince takes him back to his bedchambers, locking the door and shoving him to the bed.
"Seven days." Mydeimos mutters, climbing atop Khaslana and removing his garments almost tearing them off in his haste.
"My Prince.." His hands reach out to help, but they are immediately slapped away.
"You are mine alone for the next seven days."
Khaslana stares in awe before soft lips press into his own to silence what he would have said in response to that declaration.
Seven days, Mydeimos had said. Khaslana responds to the kiss with the same fervor.
I've been yours for two decades and more.
-
"Kremnos must fall."
A beat. A single breath.
"I understand."
Mydei turns to him, surprise coloring his features without any attempts at hiding it. Not this time, when it was them alone under the cloak of moonlight, basking in each other's warmth with nary a soul to deny their love. Their skin shining under the thin sheen of sweat press against each other in the aftermath. Khaslana meets Mydei's gaze, now clear when those amber orbs had looked glassy with desire just earlier. He was beautiful. So dazzling and radiant that not even the night could hide his brilliance.
"You would not stop me? Not even a question on why I would reach that conclusion?"
Khaslana only smiles, reaching a hand to stroke that unfairly soft cheek and tucking a few strands behind his lover's ear.
"You underestimate how much I trust you. If you have decided for Kremnos to fall then it shall be so." His tone is calm, leveled, and sincere in every word that comes out of his mouth. Mydeimos stares at him for several seconds before shaking his head and exasperation.
"Of course you'd say that. Why am I even surprised with the answer when you got yourself a tattoo of the sun just because I said you looked similar." His Prince makes a move to pull away, but Khaslana pulls him close, stealing a kiss. "Precisely...and...I have been lacking in the fulfillment of my duties as your..." He takes a pause, cheeks starting to warm, "As your lover. I want to make it up to you."
Three days.
He has three days left before time runs out, and they must depart for Okhema. Three days before he must return to the distance he has set for himself. Three days before he must bid farewell to this warmth, to this softness, to the divine entity he's pressing against the bed. So ethereal is he even in the smallest actions he does, adorable in his embarrassment with cheeks so flushed and eyes that refuse to look up at him.
"Fulfilling your duties as my lover means agreeing to my plans of treason?" He scoffs, but Khaslana sees how his ears have begun to grow rosier.
"Was it not clear during our spar, Mydeimos?" Gently, he guides his beloved lion's face to look his way. His voice drops, eyes icy in their intent and glowing with a deliberate threat. "I would kill everyone and burn the world for you, had you asked me to."
Khaslana feels his Prince shiver, and it does not take long for them to tangle in the sheets once more.
-
The night is peaceful for the first time in a while. There are no bodies he must bury, no fight he must win, no battle he must endure, and no broken path he must follow to return home. Tonight, the crickets serve as a backdrop for their hushed whispers, and the fireflies offer an ambient glow that somehow makes Mydeimos look softer, more tender. The river's flow is calm and unhurried, and the weight on the side of his body offers him more comfort than the softest pillow in existence.
Khaslana stares at their interlocked hands and he smiles.
"Did you know?"
"Hm?"
"About how he uses those campaigns as an excuse to kill you?"
He takes a deep breath, reminiscing all the previous battles he had faced; all the wounds he sustained from comrades he thought were loyal to him yet aimed their blade straight to his body. The first time, he had been enraged. The last time, he had killed them without asking.
"I had a feeling."
Mydeimos squeezes his hand tighter and angles his body to further bury his face into the crook of Khaslana's shoulder. The position is awkward and it makes him strain both his shoulders and neck, reminiscent of the sacrifices made by pet owners in the name of a feline friend's comfort. Though in his case, the feline is hardly just a friend, and it's more than just a house cat that plays with yarn or sleeps all day. The one who finds solace in his arms is a beautiful lion, one that he so tenderly loved.
"I can't put you through that again..."
How silly of him to worry, when Khaslana has already prepared himself for the task even before Mydeimos thought of it.
"The blaze of the revolution must begin with a single spark, but you..." He chuckles, stroking Mydei's cheeks, "You deserve more than a small spark. So please...let me use my body as the fuel and burn myself for all to see. Let me be the inferno to symbolize your resolve, and I will burn brighter than the sun you adore."
Mydeimos’ voice wavers, "You could die..." Khaslana presses a kiss on his hair.
"To die for you is the greatest honor I will ever receive."
Kremnoans value battle and honor. Every death on the battlefield is symbolic of their courage and resistance to fight until the ceasing of their lives. Khaslana never understood such sentiments.
All he knows is that here, in the far outskirts of Okhema where the rest of the world goes quiet in its wake, he would not mind dying in Mydeimos' name.
From ashes he had come, to ashes he shall return.
I am yours.
I have always been yours. From that day 25 years ago until the present. Forever will I be at your service, and my loyalty will not waver no matter who the temptress. Let the walls of your palace bear witness to this enduring vow that'll last through the ages. If a spark is what you desire for a revolution to begin, I will burn myself in accordance to your will.
"For the crime of assassinating the late Queen Gorgo and the murder of multiple guards under the King's command, you, Khaslana from unknown lands, have been convicted of treason! In accordance with the customs of our nation, you will be starved and denied water in the dungeons during the preparation of your punishment, then flogged in the city square 10 times for every person slain by your hand spanning the entirety of ten moons! And lastly, executed as a public spectacle to watch."
There was no opportunity to speak, no chance to defend himself nor a moment to breathe. His arrest happened in the blink of an eye; a parade of guards had gathered in front of the palace walls to ambush them upon their return from Okhema. Khaslana can only turn his head and look at his beloved Prince once last time to assure him that he will be fine, before being shoved into the dungeons where he must wait in agony for his punishment to arrive. He had been stripped of his armor and uniform, leaving him in rags so tattered it could barely serve as warmth against the cold floor.
This had been the easy part. Starvation and the cold is something he has experienced too often, choosing to forego food in favor of fighting. He's survived on plants, bugs, fish, and meat from the animals he'd hunt when the hunger was simply too much. The dungeon is much kinder to him than the wilderness had been. Because within its stuffy brick walls, he was allowed a corner to himself alone where he could stroke the signet ring he had hidden away, to remind himself of why he must continue on. He stares at the gift given to him before their return as a silent promise to each other. Khaslana plants a kiss on the symbol of strife on it and sleeps to let tomorrow come faster.
Arriving at the city square during the daytime made him flinch from the sudden onslaught of lights too bright after spending his days in utter darkness. His confinement within the dungeon had been long, all so the King could build him a personal stage for everyone to witness his plight. The podium rises above the ground made with wood of varying types, carefully selected and so obviously prepared beforehand. Two poles stand on each side where his hands are to be raised and tied. The people had already gathered before he arrived, whispering to each other about his crimes and speculating its nature. Somehow, he does not spot anyone cheering for this display of torture. Khaslana glances behind his shoulder; he spots the King sitting on his throne and no Mydeimos in sight to serve as a balm for his soul.
The first hit cracks against his back leaving a long line of reddened skin. The second hit lands on the same place as the first did, making him flinch as the metal on the tip makes itself known by slicing his skin. The hits continue in an unpredictable rhythm, sometimes they slow, sometimes he cannot breathe properly from the consecutive blows. Some hits land on his shoulder, some would nick his face. The pain sears his back and the warmth of blood dripping from his wounds only fuels his executioner further into exerting more power in every hit. Khaslana had kept his head hung low and eyes shut, bearing through every hit by biting his lip as a form of resistance. Eurypon will not be granted the honor of seeing him fall. He will persist through the entire ten days, or even longer, until his Prince finally arrives with the torch of a revolution.
Ah, his Prince. Was he able to warm himself up on his bed and sleep under the comfort of his blankets? The tents they used during their expedition to Okhema couldn't have been more comfortable than his own silken sheets. Though Khaslana had been delighted to share his tent with his lover, he was filled with worry over the quality of sleep the hard ground had to offer. He wonders if Mydeimos has eaten. He wonders if he's currently resting under that tree they both loved or if he was in the barracks training with his men. How nice it would have been to watch and even better, to join him in a spar. He misses him so deeply. And though he does not believe in the Titans themselves, may Nikador keep his lover safe and sound. Or he himself would climb the skies, and force the titans to bend to the wills of a brokenhearted man.
His flogging is over without him realizing, far too busy in his recollection about the only person who ever held a place within his heart long burned by the hatred of the world. It felt as if the entirety had passed in the blink of an eye, and it is only when they remove his bindings do his knees tremble from exhaustion and blood loss.
Still, Khaslana does not fall.
He holds on one of the poles for support, composing himself like he always did during missions where he was seriously injured. The guards spare him no moment to collect his breath, cuffing him once more and bring him back to his cell. His clothes, tattered and soiled, are thrown towards him with no care, leaving him to pick them up and get dressed. The fabric stings his skin, sticking to his wounds and soaking itself with his blood. He cannot even lean his body against the wall, the action far too painful. Khaslana sleeps on his side that night, kissing the signet ring and hoping he can last as long as he can so Mydeimos can take his time.
The second and third day pass in the same manner. He is dragged away from his slumber and stripped bare to once again be a pathetic spectacle in the square. The flogging becomes more violent with each passing day, as if testing just how far they can push his body before it breaks. Old wounds are forcibly reopened, and new wounds appear in any patch of untouched skin. The whip feels as if it had become sharper, and Khaslana wouldn’t put it past the King to send out that specific order. Still, he does not fall. His knees, though trembling under the weight of exhaustion, do not kiss the ground to grant the King his sick satisfaction. They take him back to his cage, but he does not forget to glance back at the maddened monarch, golden eyes blazing with fury and resistance. He will not surrender to the path laid down for him so easily.
By the fourth day, he barely survives on the miniscule amount of water given to him, using it to wet his throat and curb the hunger in his stomach. Khaslana has foregone clothes now, choosing to simply wrap his arms around himself for warmth and forcing sleep to let the time pass. When he is presented on his stage, he is greeted by two floggers. And they were bold. The combined hits from the two put him through pain unimaginable, and he swears he feels the whip touch his bone. They were far more cruel now, hitting not only his back but his arms, his legs, and his chest. The end of the whip, sharp and sure, manages to graze his eye in the flogger's excitement to write out their name on Khaslana's wrist.
In the midst of his torment, a small hand reaches for the stage and places a flower right where his gaze was fixed. For the first time since this entire ordeal had begun, Khaslana finally lifts his head to face the crowd in search of the one who had offered him something so...beautiful in the midst of this bloody performance. He had expected to be met with gazes filled with vitriol and hatred, of fear and condemnation for his sins, perhaps even mockery at his pathetic state or laughter at this spectacle he was forced to participate in. He expected all forms of prejudice and scorn to come his way, but he did not expect this. Sadness. The crowd looked concerned, worried..? They all carried the same expression as they watched him: sorrow.
How? Didn't they all hate his existence?
That night, Khaslana lays on his side on the cold floor of the dungeon and thinks about the scene he had witnessed in the square earlier. He had seen familiar faces in the crowd. The fruit vendor he always bought Mydei's pomegranates from, the book store owner who always had a healthy stock of interesting reads he could pore over, the lady who once dropped several rolls of fabric he had to chase into town, the old man who always gave him a new type of candy whenever they passed by, and many more. Every single one of them had grown to tolerate his presence at best, yet there were many others too that he did not recognize sharing the same look of grief. It is a difficult thought to swallow, having been so thoroughly convinced that his existence in Castrum Kremnos remains unwelcomed all along.
Why did they look so sad watching him?
On the seventh day, the fruit tree vendor he always bought pomegranates from slammed his body against the guards just as Khaslana had finished today's flogging. Though he looked and sounded drunk, his hand managed to slip a small vial into Khaslana's hand and evaded notice from the guards. Khaslana opens it in his cell, smelling it and realizing it was a health tonic.
A health tonic.
That old man had risked his life to slip him a health tonic. Khaslana wanted to cry so badly. But his tears have long dried in the wake of dehydration, so he swallows the lump in his throat from this shattering realization and drinks the tonic, vowing that each drop will be put to good use so he does not waste their courage.
By the tenth day of his punishment, a guillotine was now placed on the stage, to be used on him when the flogging ended. There are a small number of folks watching, and if Khaslana had been more coherent, he might have been able to count them. Their number looked smaller, and every single one is a face he does not recognize at all. Perhaps the audience had grown tired of their grief and have now resumed their daily lives rather than spending the rest of their mornings watching a criminal be punished.
The whip does not manage to land on his scarred back when a lion's roar disrupts the peace that blanketed the square. Then there was stomping, lots and lots of stomping, as if a battalion had come to invade Castrum Kremnos so suddenly.
Eurypon was immediately alarmed and guards positioned themselves to defend their monarch. The sound of marching grows louder, and they sound as if they are coming from every direction. No. They are coming from every direction. A large horde of soldiers surrounded the town square and leading the charge, was the very man he had dreamed of his entire life.
"My Prince..." He calls out, voice hoarse, yet no less affectionate in its utterance, "Mydeimos..." Two soldiers cut the ropes that keep him bound, and Mydei catches him before he falls to the ground. He is exhausted, he feels hollow, and his body is always in agonizing pain. Yet he reaches out still, cupping the Prince's cheeks and feeling relief knowing they remained soft; a sign he had been taking care of himself all along. The magnitude of all the suffering he had endured finally dawns on his body after forcing himself to remain strong, and Khaslana collapses.
-
He opens his eyes, no, eye, to the blurry but unmistakable silhouette of his beloved.
"My–dei—," the sound comes out too dry and strained, having been denied water for days. His sight slowly begins to clear as he blinks, and the face of his Prince grows clearer. Finally, Khaslana can admire—
"Why are you crying, Mydeimos?" Though each word is spoken with difficulty and the act of getting up sends jolts of pain to his body, Khaslana pulls himself up to wipe the tears away.
"HKS! You are injured! Lay back down!" He ends his command with a sniffle and by slamming Khaslana's body back to the bed (Where was he?) he was in. He does not have the heart to tell him that his grip is enough to send another man into serious injury. Hastily, Mydei wipes away his own tears and moves to sit on the edge of his bed. They don't speak for a long while, simply basking in each other's presence after spending several days apart.
"You're beautiful."
Mydeimos looked like he wanted to punch him for what he said, and Khaslana laughed even though it hurt his lungs and head.
"Castrum Kremnos has fallen," he begins. "I...I've killed my father and ended his tyranny, and no one will be forced to suffer through unnecessary wars, nor partake in senseless bloodshed once again." Pride blooms in Khaslana's chest. He knew his Prince could do it, there was simply no other outcome other than victory for Mydeimos. "It still feels as if I am in a dream...I've planned for this rebellion for years, and I never thought you'd partake in it in this way."
Khaslana notices how inked hands tremble as they cup his face, and he leans in by instinct, chasing the warmth from the only person that mattered to him. "I'm sorry, Khaslana..."
Hot tears run down Mydei's face bearing an expression so miserable it makes his heart ache even when he has always found Mydei's tears beautiful. Khaslana gently pulls him in, guiding his beloved to rest on his chest. Mydeimos hesitates in leaning his full weight, but his doubts are silenced by Khaslana wrapping his arms around him completely. His lips kiss away every tear, and his hands gently comb through Mydei's hair.
"My Prince..."
"No."
Huh?
"I...I am not a Prince anymore..."
Khaslana might have suffered a concussion.
"I've abdicated from the throne." His surprise must show unabashedly because Mydeimos looks apologetic when he continues. "My people deserve a clean start in life. They deserve to be able to make the choices they want to make without the fear of needing to conform into the mold they have been forced into by the culture in Kremnos..." He takes a pause and rests his head on Khaslana's chest. "They deserve a ruler who does not have the stain of injustice in their blood."
"You are not responsible for your Father's madness."
"But I am his son."
"Mydeimos..."
"That fact alone will forever place me in his shadow, and my people deserve better than that."
The people? Is it truly just the people you care about? What about yourself? Did you want this? Is this what you wish for as an outcome of the revolution you led?
"And I've had enough of politics and leadership..." The voice is shyer now, "I just wish to be happy...with you."
He swallows, painful and heavy. With him. Mydeimos wishes to be with him.
...
Him?
"You would have me, as I am?"
With the blood on my hands? The sins of the past? With the burden of guilt following my soul wherever I may go and the heaviness of my existence as witness to the destruction of my own home? You would have me, a stranger and an outsider, with nothing to his name but the sincere wish of being able to love you even without reciprocity?
"I would have all of you."
Yes, he would.
"I am yours, Mydeimos."
My King, My God, use me as you wish.
This weapon is forever at your disposal.
And I swear by the blood I’ve spilled to stain your land,
this humble mutt will never bite your hand.
Yours, forevermore,
Khaslana.
Fire.
Ash.
Breeze.
Warmth.
The children are hiding amongst the trees with varying degrees of success, unable to properly conceal themselves due to their own curiosity. He does not blame them, the smell of the meat he was grilling must have traveled to their houses, and their curious noses followed its location to find the source.
"Well what do we have here?" A loud voice booms from behind the hiding rascals making them jump and squeal in fear, but eventually laugh in joy when they realize who it is. "Mister Phainon!" his new name, to symbolize this new beginning they shared. Khaslana is used as his surname instead, to remind him of who he was before everything finally fell into peace.
Mydeimos watches his husband carry all five kids into his arms, and squeezes his own thighs. Always so strong and dependable and so blind in realizing how attractive that makes him.
He clears his throat and transfers the finished skewers to the plate he prepared. "Good kids line up if they want a piece," he calls out, prompting the children to cease their horsing around to follow his command. He gives every child a piece and looks at the last person in line with an unimpressed stare. "Did you not hear the part where I said good children?"
The bastard laughs, a beautiful sound. "Am I not allowed a reward after being good for my husband?" The tease in his voice is obvious, but Mydeimos is drawn to two words.
"Say that again."
His husband tilts his head in a manner so similar to their family dog when he's confused, his soft white hair dyed from the previous blond it had been, dancing in the breeze and making it look fluffier. He likes this color too, along with his previous one. It makes his husband look softer, non-threatening, a far cry from the misery that always followed his every move long ago. His eyes, one golden like jewels and one blue like the sky after the blow it suffered on that specific day. He still finds it almost magical that it healed into that color, with evidence of its previous golden hue existing as specks littered to make his eyes shimmer. Though he mourns the fact that his husband can no longer see in that eye alone, even if he insists he does not mind at all.
"Uhh, the...am I not allowed a reward after being good for my husband?"
He feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist gently, thumb rubbing the side of his hips. They're stronger now, his husband's arms, with an underlying softness born from a man pampered and loved. Yet the way they hold him tenderly and securely has never quite changed throughout the years.
"The last two words," he says, a little breathless. Though it has been years since their new start in life, Mydeimos remains drawn to how his husband, Phainon, can now easily say such words with ease. He is enamored by the looseness of his shoulders and the comfort he radiates in this home they have built and shared. He feels his cheeks steadily grow warmer, and his eyes starting to blur. But he does not miss the way those lips curve into a smile.
A smile.
One so free and filled with glee.
It was his favorite change. His husband, whom he once watched the light in those eyes grow dimmer with each passing year spent under the tyranny of the mad King, now smiling so openly and so frequently that smile lines have begun to form on his face. Smile lines! He has been smiling so much that his joy was now forever etched in his face. How beautiful, how precious, how utterly beloved he was.
"My husband," he whispers, reverent, and Mydei feels the press of soft lips on the ink right under his eye.
"Your husband..." He whispers back, and he watches the love of his life beam like the sun.
My Love, My Sun, I have only one wish,
To have you by my side when the sun rises and sets.
And I swear by my heart that I've put on your hand,
this humble lion is yours until the end.
Yours, forevermore,
Mydeimos Khaslana