Chapter Text
Okhema’s market is especially busy with the return of the Western Frontier Army, a delegation rooted around Crastum Kremnos and nearby cities. Significantly crowdier than usual, with merchants taking advantage of the citizen’s gathering to gain patrons for their goods — barley cakes with grain freshly imported from the south of Aidona, greens and honey, trees of pears and mulberries.
The sweet-tart scent of pomegranates wafts the air as Cipher wanders from stall to stall, slipping walnuts between her mouth after covertly procuring them from a basket on the stone floors. It takes a good few moments before the salesman takes note of the sudden half-empty hamper.
“Hey!” He bellows, pointing accusingly in the direction of the cat-thief. Cipher turns around, uncouretously stuffing three nuts in her mouth before nodding, “A bit woody, but good enough, thank ya!”
The man sputters in astonishment, watching the girl as she disappears between the stands.
Despite her slippery fingers, Cipher’s only here for one particular thing — Milopita. A type of round apple cake, dense and full of sugars enough to send a Dromas into a coma. With them being a delicacy rooted in Cipher’s home town, Dolos, there is only one particular stall, or person, who makes them accurate enough.
She hears him before she sees him.
“Milopita! Cakes straight out of the oven!” The bakery man hollers, voice raspy with use. “Sweet and homey, much like ‘ol Phainon’s facade!”
The nearby citizens chortle at this — both from the audacity and the irony of it all.
The stall had previously been marketed as “General Phainon’s favourite cakes! Come get one while ya can, or he’ll grab them all!”
Years ago, the General had indeed acquired baskets of goods, honey-cakes and sweet-pies alike, before heading out of Okhema with his militia. The soldiers, back then, were infatuated with the man’s benevolence. Cheesing as the General hauled over hampers of delicacies after carefully reminding them to be wary of their intake on their way to the front line.
A facade, is what they think of it, now.
Cipher sniggers. “You’d best watch your tongue before the little lion catches you.”
The stallkeeper looks up as Cipher drops a handful of coins on the table. “What’s he to do? That General would surely praise me.”
With a pair of tongs, the stallkeeper grabs a piece of Milopita from the stone oven before wrapping it in brown paper.
“It’s a taboo subject, nonetheless,” a woman nearby warns.
Cipher pays her no mind, moaning as she bites into the cake, the warmth melting into her mouth. “Fuck,” she curses.
The man snorts, used to her antics. “Did ya know General Phainon would specifically come over to me? My cakes are comparable to none! Not even that old pie-man who’s been living on these streets since Kephale’s ages could compare,” he boasts.
“Quiet down, Galen. Haven’t you heard of the Western Frontier’s return?” The same lady cautions, packaging perfumes in the neigbouring stall.
Galen groans. “What do you take me for, woman?” Cipher sneakily grabs a biscuit and stuffs it in her pocket in response to the derogatory speech.
He continues, unaware. “Those troops are pitiful. Haven’t you seen their meek temperament? Strong, sure, but with no personality,” Galen clicks his tongue. “No, that was taken when the mutt left, leaving them scrambling under a raged oaf’s commands.”
Cipher raises her eyebrows at this, fingers twitching just slightly.
“The Kremnoan people? No personality? C’mon Galen, even you know that’s bullshit,” the perfumer argues.
“You misunderstand, Kaloris. While the Kremnoan take up a good majority of the West’s militia now, what remains of General Phainon’s army stands out obnoxiously.”
Kaloris hums in agreement, “You can’t blame them, with so many of their past comrades buried.”
There’s a shared silence for a moment.
Cipher sighs. “So boring,” she whines. “But, seriously, you’d better come up with a better slogan. Don’t act surprised when lil’ Mydeimos cuts that smart tongue of yours.”
“That’s if he hears it,” Galen winks, and Cipher responds with a fake-gag before taking another bite of the cake, cheeks bulging.
“The western frontier will be in Okhema for a while before heading out towards Eretria’s border. War, and all,” another man folding robes across the street says.
“General Mydeimos will hear of your jests eventually. I’ve heard the man’s infuriated after losing a town near Crastum Kremnos to those barbarians. Don’t wanna tick him off while he’s already raged, do ya?”
Cipher turns her head around at him. “You heard, huh? From who?” There’s an indescribable feeling bubbling in her gut, something that wants so bad to defend the General from these careless lot.
“Wouldn't you like to know, kitty,” he slurs, mouth greasy. Cipher flicks a walnut at him. Her eyes flit over the materials on his table, cloth of varying types. Aglaea would be appreciative of those, she thinks, conjuring up an image of the man showing up to his stall only to find it empty and bare the next morning.
General Mydeimos had been born into the Kremnoan order, a distinguished bloodline on the West of Amphoreus. Known for their valiance and brutish swordsplay, alongside special methods of cultivating their psyche, the General had very quickly garnered innate abilities apace with formidible combat, truly befitting of his role.
The man himself carried a particular temperament, much unlike the insults hurtled at him which take root from Kremnoan generalisations. On the battlefields, a competitive spirit, responsible in his command, dauntless and bold. On a normal day, quiet and somewhat isolated, dutiful and well-mannered, though slightly awkward in his speech.
The only person who the man had truly befriended outside of his companions back from Kremnos was now unanimously hated by the lands. Spoken with not a drop of reverence, as though he were merely dirt beneath their feet. Phainon — or, back then, General Phainon of the Dawnmaker Militia, now renamed as the Western Frontier.
For Mydeimos, Phainon had been his equal. A comrade he shared laughter with under the skies of Amphoreus, cheeks flushed from liquor.
For Mydeimos, Phainon is his executioner. A stab between his ribs, below his heart, as though mocking him for his trust. His pure, all-giving trust that he had placed in the bright youth’s hands, only to have it skrunkled up and spat back at him, burning his skin, galvanising his bone.
And so — it is something of an unspoken agreement for the citizens of Okhema to not mention the now-gone General in Mydeimos’ presence.
That is, the civilised people of Okhema follow this rule.
The stars befrilled the dark, blue blanket of the night sky with a sentimental glow. Troops from various milita, mostly the central Okheman Frontier, found themselves, arm-in-arm, drinking syrupy wine from shallow cups while adolescents folk danced at the centre of their tent, singing the songs of Amphoreus’ children.
Cipher sits hunched over a plate of grapes at the back, a coin flipping between her fingers as she watches with a hazy look in her eyes. Drunk.
“C-commander, this is quite.. Isn’t her Imperial Majesty expecting a report soon?” A younger man stammers.
The commander scoffs, movement sluggish as he pours wine into the boy’s cup. “Life is short, child. Drink up, would you? Her Majesty is in no hurry and neither are we.”
An older soldier snorts beside him, stuffing a barley treat in his mouth. “I’d expect she would be, considering the disaster that beholded the Western Front. Losing Pylos to the Eretrians.. General Mydeimos has some grovelling to do.”
“Him? Grovel? That man is much too prideful,” another soldier says.
“That man’s pride fell lower than Styxia’s deepest waters when that friend of his stabbed him in the back,” the commander voices, wine clumsily drippling down his broad chest.
The same young boy startles at this. “Commander, I dont think it’s right to speak about G-General Mydeimos in such way. Besides, he hardly knew that things would turn out like that.”
A hum. “True enough. Who expected the revered General Phainon, the sun of Okhema,” he mocks, “to turn traitor to Eretria—”
“Of all places!”
“Of all places. Truly, a mutt. Tale wagging at whoever offers him a treat, including those blood-thirsty beasts across the border,” he spits. The troops around him pump their fists in the air, spewing insults from their lips.
“Pylos aside, the lion’s done well with handling Phainon’s militia ever since,” a soldier muses.
“Of course!” A boy agrees hurriedly. “General Mydeimos was the only one equal to his strengths,” he smiles. Cipher snorts. Little prince has fans.
“If only Mydeimos was equally as pleasant,” the commander says. “Have you seen that hardened face of his? Atleast Phainon tried to put a facade up.”
“C-commander..” The child stammers. “I think you should be m-more careful with—”
“What, child? Am I saying anything wrong? He walks as though he has a stick between his cheeks.”
A squeak. The tent is unusally quiet, now. The dancing haulted. “Commander…”
Cipher whistles slowly. “Unfortunate.”
And then — a low voice from behind. “I’m sure her Imperial Majesty Aglaea will be happy to hear of what you’ve been up to as you actively neglect your duties, General Atticus.”
Silence.
Wine drips on the floor as the cup slips from General Atticus’ hands, jumping to turn his head around harshly to see General Mydeimos standing at the enterance of the tent.
The man is still in his uniform — red tunic draped over one shoulder leaving half his chest exposed, red markings trailing down his torso and arms. Mydei tilts his head, eyebrows raised and arms crossed as he waits.
“What? You had so much to say just moments ago, General. Are you feeling okay?” He mocks, lips curled.
General Atticus stammers, the troops around him frozen in stone as the watch, eyes wide. “G-General Mydeimos! Ah, I hadn’t expected to see you so early. Please, h-have a seat.”
Mydei walks forward, watching the way the man’s muscles tense. Then, he brings his sharpened gauntlets down to his face. The man squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for a hit — General Atticus is no strong warrior. His position was granted to him as a consequence of nothing more than connections and wealth. It’s why he holds control over an obscure region in the south rather than any area that needs to be heavily guarded.
Instead of a hit — Mydei’s fingers work over the man’s lips, wiping the wine dribbling at the corner of his lips. A humiliating action.
Then, he looks up, towards the right corner of the tent. “Cifera,” he says.
Cipher grins, “on my way, little man!” She says joyfully, hopping up from where she had been seated. The two leave the tent together before those within can completely comprehend the.. situation.
Heads turn to look at General Atticus, who flushes deeply. “It is disrespectful to stare, you scoundrels!” He scowls, standing up to leave the tent himself.
Outside, Cipher and Mydei walk alongside eachother. The people of Amphoreus would not expect something of a friendship kindling between the two, considering their distinct personalities. But in hindsight, they’re much alike.
“What a scene,” Cipher jeers.
Mydei snorts. “Is this what you do in your freetime? How unbecoming of Lady Aglaea’s personal assassin.”
“You’ve alot to say about being unbecoming, hm? General dickhead will be on your ass the next conference.”
“As if anyone takes a word he says serious,” Mydei scoffs. “Her Imperial Majesty is expecting you.”
Cipher tilts her head at this, looking up at him. “She sent you here to get me?”
Mydei is quiet, for a moment. Strange. “I’m on my way there, too.”
“Pylos?” It wouldn’t be surprising if Aglaea wanted to discuss further plans regarding their recent loss so early.
A sigh. Mydei reaches into the gap between his armour, pulling a letter out. Cipher raises her brows as he hands the paper to her, but chooses not to say anything, yet.
General Mydeimos,
Eretria wishes to declare an armistice. To demonstrate their sincerity, they will personally escort the traterious general Phainon back to Amphoreus’ holy capital.
Our holy land had once entrusted him with a sword to protect, and yet he has plundered his mother country and slaughtered his former comrades with that same weapon. Such crimes cannot, and will not, be pardoned. This is something the citizens of this country understand.
In five days, Phainon will make his return to Okhema. I, as your Imperial Majesty, cannot make this decision alone and ask that the nobility and commandment aid me in this decision.
General Mydeimos, I understand that Pylos is a matter to be dealt with urgently, far from Okhema. However, you are a trusted voice. Your advisement is requested.
With regards,
Aglaea
Phainon would be returning to Okhema.
The traiterous general, hands soaked in the blood of his own people, a mere commodity to be used as a peace-deal. Exchange between two nations. How ridiculous, for him to be tossed back so easily from the land he slaughtered his comrades to reach.
Mydei mused over the audacity of it all — for this man and his blackened heart to return to what he had so carelessly betrayed. Phainon was always a courageous man. But this — not even General Mydeimos can fathom the audaciosness of it all.
The deep hatred he had buried so deep for the past seven years appeared raw and apparant on his face, in the twinge within his chest, veins constricting and constricting, chest tight.
What would happen to him, once he arrives? A quick death? Public execution? Long, worn out torture — the type befitting of one who betrays Okhema?
Okhema’s… Mydei’s comrade. They had been acquainted for half of Mydei’s life, from the moment him alongside soldiers from Crastum Kremnos appeared at the gates of the holy city admist their civil war.
At the academy where they had both studied, the two were rarely ever seen without the other. Phainon always clung to Mydei in some way — hands on his shoulder, fingers between his hair earning him a low warning before they pounced each other on academy grounds, brawling, fist to chest, to arm, to legs. Laughing, under the bright sun.
Back then, the people spoke of them as though they were one, the twin prides of Amphoreus. And now — “General Phainon and General Mydeimos are like oil and water. That dog, he’s made a sworn enemy of himself. A victim of Mydeimos’ hatred, his greatest foe. If Phainon were to die, it would surely happen by Mydeimos’ hands.’
There is an emptiness to Mydei’s eyes that Cipher, or anyone for that matter, has never seen before. Rage, is what she expected. Trembling teeth and shaking fists, a desire for vengence with Phainon soon returning to their hands. But instead — nothing. Perhaps, this is grief. Grief that has not left Mydei every since that fateful day, when he watched Phainon’s body retreat as he bled out.
Grief of having known him, or thinking he had known him. And then — lost, with such quickness it was almost laughable. It felt as though Phainon had died, that day. Or perhaps, the Phainon Mydei had known.
Betrayal, he thinks, can only sit so heavily within him if there is, was, affection. It is the highest form of confirmation. Mydei is not the type to remain in ignorance of his feelings — he’s been all too aware of it long before. All of it is gone now, of course.
What the citizens of Okhema don’t know is that — these two enemies, formidible foes — had slept together.
Drunken nights where touches became something more, their body heat mixing together, warm, warm, warm. Pillows scattered across the floor as Mydei wrapped his hand carefully around Phainon’s neck, as the man trailed kisses down his chest. Lust and desire.
Phainon had begged, then. Soft pleas escaping his mouth, and of course Mydei listened. Truthfully, there had been no reason to beg ; Mydei was ready to give him everything — because between ernest moans and the sound of flesh against skin, there was affection.
On Mydei’s end, that is. Phainon had never spoken of his feelings; perhaps it was just lust for him. He’ll never know.
Before betrayal and hatred contaminated everything that was once between them — before they were reverred as sworn enemies — they were two youths. Seeking the other’s warmth under the sky’s glean, soft, soft, soft. Their mutual competitiveness born out of being equels.
Mydei always thought he belonged to Phainon. Perhaps, that is precisely why he suffered, and continues to suffer.
And now, Phainon will be returning, soon. Okhema’s traiterous general.