What From the Water Rises #18

In which Phaeon receives a challenge he can't refuse

When Azar returned from the archive, he didn’t speak to Phaeon for hours.

They’d exchanged greetings when he walked through the door, of course—and Phaeon had informed him of the night’s dinner plans—but since then, Azar had been fully preoccupied with his reading.

There was something strange about being in their little home, not alone, but in silence. Azar always had thoughts, observations, questions to share; he had long maintained the habit of filling the room with conversation whenever they were together. All his years of isolation had pushed him to crave information—and connection. It was his practice of asking Phaeon questions about the world beyond the palace walls, and of sharing what he’d learned that day in response, that had made them friends in the first place.

So for Azar to sit on the floor, reading and learning, but saying nothing—it felt strange. Phaeon didn’t think he was keeping secrets, necessarily, and could not have objected if he was, but something about this particular silence had him feeling restless and almost lonely.

“I’m going out to forage,” he told Azar abruptly. He abandoned his tea on the floor table where they had both been kneeling and made his way to the door.

Azar hummed his understanding, flipping forward a few pages in the loosely bound book he held before remembering himself. Looking up at Phaeon, he asked, “Do you want any help?”

“I don’t need help.”

“Well, do you want it?”

Phaeon paused for a moment, as if considering, but he knew Azar offered purely out of politeness. “Stay home,” he said. “Keep doing your reading. I was thinking about going out further than usual today, just to explore. There’s no use in dragging you along for that.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Azar was considering it—he’d perked up at the notion of exploring somewhere new—but he glanced back at his books and gave a slight nod.

That left Phaeon to head out into the world alone, for which he was immediately grateful. It felt good to walk with the sun on his skin, to leave the silent house and give Azar space to read… whatever it was he was reading. He was glad, too, to seek out something new to cook for dinner. It had been days since he’d ventured further than the narrow strip of beach outside their house.

His hand reached on impulse for the sword at his hip before he remembered it was not there. When they had first arrived on the island, he’d carried it everywhere out of habit; he had since decided that he didn’t need to wear it when he wasn’t with Azar. In truth, he probably didn’t always need it when he was with Azar, either. He’d seen the way people shot him nervous glances when he rested his hand unconsciously on the pommel; he hadn’t forgotten those looks of mingled pity and concern written across strangers’ faces in those panicked moments when he’d lost his prince at the market. His need to protect him—his fear of failing to do so—were too plainly on display for them to blend in seamlessly with the islanders, and he knew it.

What he really needed to do was to stop thinking of Azar as his prince. Azar was a new person—not Azarion, not the crown prince of Sehmera, but Phaeon’s friend and equal, no matter how absurd that was.

And yet he could not forget and could not adjust his behavior. No matter how many times Azar repeated his new name, their new situation, Phaeon always had “your highness” on the tip of his tongue, always felt that meeting Azar’s eyes was a sign of deep disrespect. He’d been disciplined as a member of the royal guard, his body and mind conditioned to be ready at a moment’s notice to defend his monarch.

He was without a monarch to defend now. All of those instincts were irrelevant at best—harmful at worst.

He contemplated his situation gloomily as he traced the island’s coastline toward Zuenos. His destination was not the city itself, but the lush green hills lying beyond; in all of his weeks on the island, he hadn’t yet made it there, though they’d often drawn his eye from a distance. Surely he’d find something interesting there—and even if he couldn’t determine whether the plants that grew on those hillsides were edible, he’d at least get a close enough look to investigate later.

Having reached the edge of Zuenos, he cut inland for a moment to travel through a neighborhood and avoid the city’s wharf, which was always overwhelmingly busy. Then he headed back down to the shore, where the city was at its quietest.

Some of the nearest houses had their back doors open, or their porches occupied by people engaged in soft-toned conversation, but he couldn’t make out their words over the ambient noise of the ocean. Even the smaller docks here were empty and near silent, with only one fishing boat preparing to venture out.

After a lifetime of living in Sehmera’s heart—at the crowded guard’s quarters in the sprawling and well-staffed palace, beside the bustling harbor—he had grown accustomed to density. What felt so foreign to him here was just how easy it was to step outside of it. Though the island was so small, it proved strangely easy to hide the prince here.

Not the prince, he reminded himself. Azar. His friend, Azar.

He paused in the sand, eyeing the hills beyond, wondering if he really was feeling ambitious enough to venture that far with no guarantee of successful foraging. His mood had taken a melancholy turn; he wanted to go home. He wanted to gently pry Azar from his books and ask about what he’d learned so he could sit and listen and focus on someone else, rather than getting lost in his own meandering thoughts…

The sound of approaching footsteps was dulled by the sand, but Phaeon had trained for years to tune into his surroundings, to register even the quietest approach. He spun around, hand going to his hip—

But he hadn’t brought his sword, and the stranger walking toward him was an unarmed Mesaanoti boy, perhaps in his mid-teens. The child paused, fixing Phaeon with a wary look; Phaeon, embarrassed, made an effort to relax his posture, crossing his arms over his chest to keep his hands from reaching for his sword.

“Do you need something?” he asked, trying to force a casual tone. It still came out more demanding than he intended.

The boy straightened and spoke in a reedy voice, lightly accented. “I am here to convey a message. A challenge has been issued—”

“I’m not interested,” Phaeon said immediately. How often was he going to be approached to champion someone in a duel? He’d already decided not to partake in the islanders’ perversion of the noble art—not unless he became truly desperate. How strange, though. Last time, the boy who asked him was drawn by the sight of his sword. What had inspired this?

His refusal had silenced the boy, who gawked at him for a moment before composing himself. “I don’t think you can say no,” he said. “Can I finish?”

“I can’t—?” Phaeon began, irritated—but he reminded himself that this was only the messenger. It struck him as horrible the way Isle Ezu’s residents sent children to arrange their sword fights, but he dismissed the thought and tried again. “I don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for. I don’t duel.”

The boy gave him an appraising look up and down and said, “You are Phaeon, aren’t you?”

Phaeon froze with horror for a beat before remembering that he’d given out his name before. He had introduced himself to all of the people he’d met in his first days on Isle Ezu, when he’d ventured out to learn what was edible on their part of the island and how to navigate bartering at the market. Zuenos, though it was the most populous part of the island, was still small enough for gossip to spread; they probably had little to discuss besides newcomers.

“I am,” he said finally.

“Well, I know that,” the boy said, an edge of irritation in his voice. “You, Phaeon, have been challenged to a duel to defend your honor. It will take place tomorrow—”

“Listen,” Phaeon said, taking care to keep his voice gentle, “you need to go back to whoever sent you and let them know I am not interested in sword fighting. I won’t do it.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Tomorrow at noon,” he said, ignoring Phaeon’s refusal. “In the city, at the western plaza. If you want to forfeit, do it in person. That’s not my job.”

“I’m not forfeiting. I won’t do it.”

“I just told you, if you want to get out of it, go tell your challenger in person. Tomorrow at the plaza.”

“Okay,”  Phaeon said wearily. There was no way he was going to participate in this sham of a duel—both for the sake of his own dignity and because it struck him as a surefire way to draw attention to himself and, in turn, garner even more requests to champion. Still, it seemed wise to draw out as much information as possible before letting the kid walk away. “Can you tell me why I’ve been challenged?”

The boy glanced toward the ocean, frowning, shuffling his feet in the sand; he looked almost embarrassed to answer. All of his earlier impatience had left him, replaced by a childish shyness.

“If you know, I would appreciate if you could share,” Phaeon prompted. “I’d rather talk to the challenger—find another way to address what I’ve done wrong. Can you at least say who challenged me, if not why? Please?”

“Can’t tell you who,” the kid said. “They’re anonymous. I never spoke to them directly. They just—they want you to know that the Sehmeri nobles here, or some of them at least, know about you and your man, and they don’t… like it.”

It took Phaeon a moment to understand his meaning past the absurdity of Azar being his—another moment still to realize with a hot flash of panic that the ex-nobles knew anything about them at all. “They know what about us?” he asked, more severely than he intended.

The boy grimaced and said, “They know what you’re doing here. They think it’s wrong for someone of his background to run off with some man like this, especially—well,  you know, someone like you. They think it’s wrong to be with a man at all—that’s what they say—worse to abandon your duty to do it.”

Phaeon’s panic didn’t lessen, but it shifted. Less of a sharp fear, more of a building dread. He could do little more than gape at the boy, speechless with horror.

“And,” the messenger added, “there is someone in particular on the island who is very unhappy to see these things from former Sehmeris. Someone who wants to teach you a lesson about, um, respecting your history. This person said this isn’t what Sehmeri people do, and especially not those with noble blood—”

“Tell them they’re wrong,” Phaeon urged him, unable to hide the desperation from his voice. His face was burning with shame; his hands had clenched into fists.

“I already said I can’t tell them anything,” the kid retorted, still avoiding his eyes. “I don’t even know who issued the original challenge. I just have to tell you to show up. Tomorrow. Noon. Western plaza. Will you be there? You don’t really have a choice.”

Would he be there? Horrified as he was by the notion of participating in this, he had to accept the challenge; it was a matter of defending Azar’s honor against a humiliating accusation. Not to mention his own honor, but that was a lesser concern. If he could demand his challenger rescind the rumors—to apologize for spreading something so distasteful about Azar—then maybe they would be fine. Maybe they would be left alone.

“I will be there,” he said. His voice sounded strangled, and the echo of his heartbeat pounding in his ears almost overpowered his words, but something about speaking them sparked the tiniest flame of courage within him.

The boy murmured his thanks—obviously insincere, perhaps annoyed by how long it had taken to convey a simple message. He scampered off, and Phaeon stood on the beach for one long, numb moment before setting off for the house. His feet carried him swiftly across the sand; he arrived home before he processed the distance he’d traveled.

“How did your foraging go?” Azar asked him, barely feigning interest. He was still kneeling by their dining table, reading by candlelight, too absorbed in the material to pay Phaeon much mind.

That was for the better. For a split second, Phaeon considered explaining what had happened; he had come home empty-handed and would need an excuse to get out of the house for a time tomorrow, after all.

But as much as he didn’t want to lie to Azar, he couldn’t bring himself to plainly state the truth, either. He couldn’t imagine looking Azar in the eyes, which was in itself still a challenge for him, and telling him that someone thought they were—lovers.

“I didn’t find anything,” Phaeon said. Azar glanced up, a frown pulling at his lips, but he returned to his reading soon enough. “I’ll try again—later. I’m going to go practice.”

“Have fun,” Azar said distantly, licking his fingertips to turn the page.

Phaeon crossed the room and pulled on his sword belt; then he drew his sword and stood staring down at the blade, trying to imagine how he would practice. In all of their time on the island, he had little time to do much more than go over his footwork; now, he was realizing how difficult it would be to emulate combat. He wasn’t among the royal guard anymore; he did not have access to practice swords or pells or peers to spar with. At best, he might be able to find an empty clearing nearby, swing his blade uselessly through open air—

“Phaeon?” Azar asked. His voice was cautious; Phaeon couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmured, sheathing his sword. He crossed the room and pushed outside without another word, though he felt Azar’s eyes on him all the while.

He went inland, unsure of his destination, walking until he found a small clearing in the dense brush that extended beyond their home. Stepping into the space, open and silent but for the gentle buzzing of insects, he reached for his sword—

But no. He needed the satisfaction of impact, the feel of metal reverberating up his arm. If he couldn’t use this sword, what he really wanted was one of the iron-cored wooden practice swords to smash against one of the spindly young trees around him…

His best option, then, might be to improvise. It took him only a moment to find a thick, sturdy branch that mimicked the length of his own sword—bulky enough to have a bit of heft, but pliable enough to stand up to a beating. He adjusted his grip on the end and cut a few practice slashes through the air before stepping toward one of the taller trees around him.

He appraised his target, trying to picture a man’s height—deciding that the knot just above eye level was where the head should be, then making a sudden slash to where he imagined an arm.

The thwack of wood on wood was as satisfying as he’d hoped; he backed up and swung again, basking in the way his makeshift weapon shuddered on impact.

His attention should have been on his feet—on moving slowly, re-acclimating himself to the movements he hadn’t reviewed in too long—but with each subsequent swing he moved a little faster, a little more carelessly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed fighting until this moment, and he let his concerns for his form drift to the back of his mind. 

Every familiar motion—every lunge and decisive thrust, every sidelong slash—came so easily that all he could do was dwell on how badly he wanted to defeat whoever had spoken against Azar—

Until he swung too hard and snapped the thick branch almost perfectly in half.

He stopped himself then, breathing heavily. He’d been too careless—but the impact had felt just as good as he’d hoped.

And it would feel a hundred times better, he knew, to strike at the one who had dared to insult his and Azar’s dignity like that—to shame them and leave them, defeated and bleeding, for all of Zuenos to witness.