Chapter Text
The University of Amphoreus is a flurry of life. Autumn creeps into the courtyard, ushering in chilly winds and grey clouds begging to spill rain, and students rush to early morning classes while professors stay huddled in their offices, grading papers. The halls are packed with freshmen waiting to take their finals, nervously chattering, far too loud for eight in the morning.
But that’s what Phainon loves so much about being at the very tailed ends of his PhD. With files of his personal research—Ancient Okhema: A Protohistoric Study—tucked beneath his arm, he finds he’s able to enjoy people watching more now that he’s made it through the gruelling years of undergrad.
It’s a badge of honour, really, to have graduated at the top of his class.
Behold, I have survived the wrath of the professors you so warned me of! Anaxagoras and Katetos, you have nothing on me!
The most Phainon can truly say though, is that he graduated unscathed, with only a mildly developed sense of imposter syndrome and a less-than-desired sleep schedule that has shifted him towards midnight tendencies. Archaeology, after all, is largely centered around preserving cultural heritage, and many thought Phainon a massive fool for trying to press into closed files on ruins, of all things, for his thesis.
“There’s not much more to uncover, Phainon, but you can try.” Algaea, his dear, dear advisor, had told him after the Spring semester’s end. She’s patient. Kind, but even she had seemed cautious to approve Phainon’s proposal for his postdoctoral fellowship. Proving the existence of magic while battling the pillars of logic and reasoning are complex, if not impossible. “But do you have alternative routes you can go, if this upcoming season doesn’t come to fruition?”
Phainon weaves through the Library of Philia, where all is quiet. It offers him a moment to breathe. To take in the scent of freshly filled inkwells, the dust of aged, yellowed pages, and the lacquer of mahogany desks, all of which host emeralite lamps.
And he clutches his cold cup of coffee as if it’s the last thing keeping him standing. Which, it probably is, considering he spent countless hours pouring over profiles of the possible professors in his field who might be interested enough in his research proposal to take him beneath their wing.
Castorice. The Dean for research and a reserved woman who hardly shows her face, and partial to the company of the written word – Phainon could hardly blame her. Her speciality was in ancient scripts and rituals. Her residence was near the Grove, where the archives were. No one could get past her unless they had permission, and she was thorough. Softspoken, but with an eerie quality to her. Those eyes of hers pierced the soul.
But she adores Phainon, and she allows him to work with her and stay overtime in the library if needed, which makes his meeting today with Mydei more promising. It still doesn’t ease his worries.
Anaxagoras. Phainon’s mentor from his graduate days. He shudders at the thought of returning to his office, dragging along the trauma of late nights spent staring at the wall, unable to erase the lines of red run through all of his research, tearing apart his findings until there was nothing left. The man is a menace. Anaxagoras the Foolish, he’s called, but truly, Phainon can’t see him as anything less than a mad genius who plows through every person who happens to be in his way.
But Phainon had been the exception for a long while. The model student and one of the few Anaxagoras has praised.
And then there’s Mydeimos.
Mydeimos, expert in Phainon’s very same field of research, and the first to discover proof of divinity in Okheman ruins; a collection of recounts really—weathered scrolls tucked between what must have once been a tomb of sorts—proving the material existence of the Titans and the Chrysos Heirs.
His research had taken the Archaeological department by storm, and Phainon hadn’t been able to sleep, knowing that the very knowledge he desired had been pulled from beneath his very feet. The excavation site had been made public a few months ago and once Phainon had been there to see the carved marble tomb for himself, he’d been taken aback by the gravity of its discovery.
And envy is no small beast to be battled in academia. Phainon knows that Mydeimos deserves the praise. He deserves his honorary placement in the Grove, where all esteemed researchers go for grants. And Phainon still idolizes Mydei, to some extent, with a healthy amount of envy in tow.
Phainon wants that. Success. So much so that he tastes the sweetness of victory on his tongue.
He wants to be placed with Mydeimos as much as he wants to flee and never face the man.
A true predicament, really.
Phainon turns down one last hallway, anxiety sharp in his gut.
Deputy Dean for Research glares at him, nothing but a bronze placard announcing the office’s purpose. This door leads to his future. To the possibility of rewriting history and changing the world.
Swallowing, throat still far too dry, Phainon gathers the courage to knock.
–
“His track record of academics is excellent.” Mydei taps his pen upon the desk, an idle habit as he flips through Phainon’s records, already having gone over his statement of purpose. “I wonder why he chose Okheman ruins out of all things?”
This office still smells the same; of enemy territory. Castrum College goes head to head with Amphoreus every single year, in terms of research, breakthroughs and papers published, and Mydei has the pleasure of coming here often to give lectures. It pays good to be a guest speaker. And he may enjoy it a little. He may glean in the pride of saving his expertise for his own college and keeping lectures here more basic.
It’s fun to stir up a little rivalry every so often.
“How do you feel, knowing you’ll be his mentor?” Castorice asks, sitting beside Mydei. The soft lavender of her sweater is a comfort, bright in the dark-wood panelled office. “I know you’ll take him.”
“It makes sense. This isn’t your field, and Anaxagoras would rather revel in traumatizing the freshman than handle research he himself isn’t benefitting directly from.”
“You’re right.” Castorice hums in agreement. Brushes a lilac-dyed strand of hair behind an ear. She’s truly only here as Dean to approve Phainon’s position, but she, too, loves being present for these small moments of happiness. Seeing students sag with relief as their proposals are approved is lovely. “Professor Anaxagoras is one for a show.”
Before Mydei can reply, a soft knock, knock, knock steals their attention.
“Here we go.” Castorice stands. Moves a few files where they sit upon the desk, a nervous habit.
“Come in,” Mydei says. He pushes glasses up, thin gold frames, and stands as well, tucking hands into the pockets of his slacks.
Let us see what Phainon is made of.
The door opens slowly. Mydei dares to say in a nervous manner, if inanimate objects are capable of conveying such a thing in the first place.
As it turns out, Phainon is made of ash-white hair, tousled bedhead-like, and grey pants. Mydei can’t help but smile a little, at how the formal black, cable-knit sweater Phainon wears falls loose on his frame.
Charming. Phainon is charming. In a disheveled and nervous-wreck kind of way.
–
“Phainon, we’re so glad you could make it,” Castorice greets Phainon first, and Phainon hardly registers words, far too fixed on taking Mydei in.
“Thank you, Professor,” Phainon manages to say, all in one breath. He looks from Mydei, to Castorice, and then back to him. “And you, Professor. I’m an admirer of your work.”
He says this with the softest hint of bitterness. A little clipped, but polite.
“Likewise. It’s a pity I beat you to it,” Mydei says. His voice is deep. Holds the upturned tilt of something playful and pleased. That has Phainon seething, just a little. And Mydei smirks, mirth bright in those eyes, as if reveling in Phainon’s failures.
It’s a pity Mydei is so fetchingly handsome when cocky. All the lectures Phainon had attended in the past had been spent admiring Mydei. Back then, he’d been utterly enamoured.
Things are different now, for a multitude of reasons.
Reasons Phainon is not ready to push from his tongue in the form of words.
“But there’s still much to be uncovered that you yourself haven’t found,” Phainon replies coolly. He shakes Mydei’s hand, and can’t help looking down, noticing how lithe fingers carry golden rings; thin bands upon his thumb and middle.
The universe seems to shift a little, or perhaps it’s the caffeine that’s finally gotten to Phainon’s poor heart, after all these years. He can’t breathe, fingers curled around Mydei’s. A current slips beneath his skin.
It feels as if he’s known this man for centuries. And how strange that is, to both know and not know the person standing before you. On an intimate level, at least.
The scent of pomegranates, crushed between fingers, and pressed to lips. That same voice brushes over the shell of Phainon’s ear. These are Phainon’s dreams. This is why sleep hasn’t found him in weeks.
Ever since Phainon began his research, a world left burning and Mydei has occupied his psyche when asleep.
It's as disconcerting as it is intriguing.
“And that’s the catch,” Mydei smiles, all teeth, and it tugs at Phainon’s gut.
“No blood will be spilled in this office,” Castorice says. She shakes Phainon’s hand, too, and they all take a seat. The chairs creak a little, aged, but still strong. “Now, shall I do the honour of going over our options, or will you, Mydeimos?”
“With great pleasure,” Mydei flicks through Phainon’s papers, and Phainon watches, his heart in his throat.
For months, he’s agonized over which route to go. The Okheman ruins are a massive pool of mysteries, and searching for the most broad, yet specific, topic for research has been like sifting through grains of sand.
“We have two research sites out at the moment,” Mydei starts. He rubs the end of a page between his thumb and forefinger, in thought. “One by the main halls that lead to the baths—”
“—And the other, by the prayer fountains,” Phainon interjects. He sits forward in his chair, resting elbows on his knees. “I heard about it a few weeks ago.”
“So you decided to restructure your entire proposal a few weeks ago? After months of being set on deciphering five of the twelve ancient scrolls I found, you instead leaned heavier into sacrificial practices and how it led to the city’s ruin?” Mydei raises a brow, but even Phainon notices the way those amber eyes light up with interest. “Why?”
Because my dreams haunt me. They call back to the Titans again and again, and nothing I’ve done has let my mind rest.
It’s not an obsession. It’s a calling. Phainon feels drawn to these ruins, as if he’ll find a missing part of himself there. It’s terrifying, and he’ll never admit any of this to his advisors. They’ll think he’s gone mad.
Perhaps he has.
“Because…” Phainon swallows. Taps his foot on the floor. “Because I felt there was more to the downfall of Okhema than war. The sacrificial ceremonies were carried out in the name of the Flame Chase. The Heirs that were reborn again and again carried significance beyond a structured religion. We all missed something.”
Phainon says this so strongly, with such passion, that even Castorice seems to take a moment to mull over his words. It makes sense though.
“A bold statement, knowing your motives are based purely on mythology. But you’re a Protohistoric Archaeology major, I should know that you work off of the loosest of texts, and try to find reason in them,” Mydei comments, but he’s listening. Phainon has interested him. “I’ve read your statement. But why does this pique your interest? Why dare to take mythology literally in the hopes of uncovering something new?”
“I—” Phainon hesitates. “I want to make a name for myself. I want to unearth something and have my work published–”
“—Don’t we all?” Mydei counters. “What moves you, Phainon?”
“Moves me?” Phainon laughs, a little incredulous. How on earth is he meant to answer that?
I want to know why those ruins remind me of you. Why do I dream of you, Mydeimos?
“Are you choosing this line of research for the fame, or for the passion, is what Professor Mydeimos is trying to say,” Castorice says, offering a warning glance Mydei’s way. “I, for one, know that you are the ideal fit for this research. Your lean into taphonomy and protohistorics will be incredibly beneficial.”
“I was never one for the mythology of Okhema, and you were never one for the epigraphy of ancient tests beyond the basics of Okhema’s remaining Librarium that could be salvaged and explained in introductory courses,” Mydei adds. “We’d pair well, in a mad sort of way.”
Oh, how that praise sinks into Phainon’s gut, molten honey. It shouldn’t. Is terribly inappropriate, but it can’t be helped.
“You flatter me, Professor.” Phainon clears his throat. Mulls over his words, careful. “The Titans fascinated me. When Professor Anaxagoras spoke of them, I felt so incredibly small those first few weeks as a graduate. I enjoyed the fear. The fear of being irrelevant in a world much larger than myself, guided by the hands of Gods we couldn’t see.”
Mydei looks at Phainon as if he’s gone insane, but in an admiring way, if possible, and perhaps Phainon has lost it. He has everything and nothing to lose at once, and he may as well spill his ideas now before he walks out of this office without a grant. Castorice simply smiles, intrigued, and so very used to the musings of the Philosophy students in The Grove already; so little deters her.
“I don’t mean to suggest that we delve into darker methods of alchemy, but,” Phainon takes in a breath, pushes glasses back up the bridge of his nose, “there is a gap in your research. The fountains are linked to sacred waters. I believe they may be further underground, buried beneath fallen constructs.”
“I believe you,” Mydei says softly. His gaze wanders to Phainon’s papers. Flick back up to meet those blue eyes. “Congratulations, Phainon. You’ve landed yourself a fellowship.”
“Really?” Phainon sits up. A rush of relief courses through him, followed by a very sudden wave of shock. He can’t feel his fingers, and something close to delirium fizzes upon his tongue. He’s so very tired, and suddenly, all the tension he’d been holding in his body seems to leave.
Was it truly so easy?
“I’ll send you home with the papers. The NDAs.” Mydei offers Phainon a smile, and this time it is kinder. A bit softer. “You’ll be working with my unpublished research, after all.”
“Of course.” Phainon stands. Follows Mydei and Castorice to the door. She is the one who hands him a thin folder, contracts within, and a statement containing details on his funding. He takes it from her, his hands shaking. He can hardly believe the leatherbound file in his hands is real. His. “Thank you for your time. I won’t disappoint you.”
–
Phainon’s apartment is on the lower side of campus. With such a small salary to himself, mostly gathered from tutoring, shadowing and the occasional shift at the Library of Philia, when Castorice allows it, he is thankful for the scholarships that have carried him through. It gave him the chance to extend his finances to a bookcase and a humble collection of novels, all of which reside in his cramped living room.
He makes coffee, and rakes through the folder. Outside, it rains, and the chill comes through the crevices in the windowpanes. He doesn’t feed the fireplace, though. Instead, he takes his mug with him to bed, and slips beneath the covers. Today was cleared of work, thank everything good, just for this occasion.
Half expecting to be outright denied a fellowship, Phainon had truly prepared for the worst, prepping lunch and dinner in advance and cancelling plans and classes, just in case a depressive spiral was needed before returning to work.
But now he presses a pen to his lips and reads through all the fine print. By the time he’s done, every page signed and sealed and settled at his bedside, it’s dark outside, and he curls beneath the blankets, all the excitement of the day simmering down to exhaustion.
Perhaps tonight he’ll finally rest. The soft patter, patter, patter against the windows is a lulling thing, dragging him under.
–
The baths of The Holy City are blanketed in mist, and the waters lap at marble. Incense lingers in the air, floral and soft, luring Phainon in.
Phainon brushes hands over the robe he wears, white silk, lined with gold. The humidity makes it stick to his body, but he doesn’t mind. He steps into the baths, and discards it.
“Didn’t think you’d make it.” Mydei rests against the opposite side. Red markings curl over muscle, adorning them, and blonde hair fades to red, damp upon strong shoulders.
“Unlike you, I had wounds to tend to first,” Phainon says. His smile is a savage thing. Challenging. He enjoys this; bantering. It’s familiar, and with their trials looming over their heads, Phainon years for something grounding and real.
“A victory is a victory,” Mydei muses. He watches Phainon, gaze heated. The baths are quiet and all have left for the feast of Klidonas, celebrating the summer solstice.
How beautifully alone they are.
“How shall we celebrate?” Phainon dares to ask. This is a dance they know far too well. They tease and play with words until they cave, reveling in the thrill of the chase.
“As we always do,” comes Mydei’s reply.
They come together softly. Laughter carries on the wind from the city beyond, but they pay no mind to it. Tongues trace the backs of teeth and the roofs of mouths, and breaths are shared.
In the heat of these baths, they pour oil upon skin. Sink fingers into heated muscle, sipping pleasure from lips as gasps are offered up in the throes of release.
Mydei is divine around Phainon. They make love, akin to sparring in the way nails dig into backs and hips meet, rough and desperate.
And in the aftermath, skin flushed, they wash each other’s hair. Retreat to private rooms to take each other apart upon tongues, and with the flex of throats, as release is swallowed, and the taste of a lover is savoured.
“How long will it be?” Phainon asks. They sprawl out upon sheets, a tangle of limbs, and Phainon cards fingers through Mydei’s hair, silk. “Until this journey ends?”
But Mydei doesn’t reply.
Shadows fall over the room, sapping the light from lamps and devouring them whole.
Phainon’s vision goes. Not a sound can be heard, and he tries to breathe, but can’t draw in air.
A light flickers to life on his right. He turns his head. He’s no longer upon sheets. The warmth of Mydei’s body has disappeared, and Phainon stands, rubbled ground cutting beneath his feet.
33, 550, 330 shimmers, a number manifest in the ether.
And this is wrong. Far from the world Phainon was in.
He tries to run. His foot slips, and he falls.
–
Phainon wakes with a start, far too hot beneath blankets, and uncomfortably hard. His heart thrums, a hummingbird caught in a cage, and he presses a hand to his chest, trying to draw in deep breaths of air.
Trials.
Cycles.
33, 550, 330.
He almost falls out of bed, rushing for pen and paper.
Don’t forget. Don’t forget. Don’t forget.
Stumbling into the kitchen in the dark, Phainon knocks his knee against the corner of the counter, and cusses beneath his breath. But he brushes aside the pain, flicking on a light and reaching for the notepad he keeps on his fridge.
This, he must remember.
Nausea roils in his gut, and he bows his head, once everything has been written down. He breathes shallowly through his nose until the feeling passes.
“Who are you?” Phainon asks aloud. His thoughts run miles a minute, and his dream slips from his fingers. He tries to remember. Grasps at threads that unravel startlingly fast.
Mydei. Mydei is the cause of these dreams. Or at least a link.
Phainon goes back to bed with a glass of water, packed with ice, hoping to chase away the memory of the warmth of lips upon his own.
For a man he has never met beyond guest lectures, he wonders how his mind managed to conjure such intimate fantasy?
How real it had all seemed. And how unnerving that is.