Pherenike - Chapter 96

Deucalion took in her words without any expression, almost like her mirror. Yet, rare as it was, his Orthea responded to his emotions—unable to hide its agitation.

The spear, propped casually against the cliff wall, gave a faint tremor. Pherenike smiled at an angle.

“Deucalion Paetusa, you look pathetically excited. Am I wrong?”

“…Shut up, Vassilios.”

“How cute.”

“…Did you say all that just to tease me?”

“Of course not. Wherever I am, the hero of all my sweetest dreams is always you.”

Deucalion gave a faint smile.

“…Same for me.”

Sometimes, just to see you in my dreams, I’d go so far as to cut or stab myself in my sleep—because when I’m in pain, you never leave. You never have…

All of it was the foolishness of childhood. The boy who’d win her attention by showing his wounds was long gone, and the girl from that day had disappeared too.

She always had to leave; he never tried to hold her back. He kept his foolish scars hidden, ashamed to let her see that he once begged for affection by hurting himself. He knew she’d find that kind of man repulsive.

He’d forgotten how to show his pain to the one he loved; he didn’t want to buy even an ounce of her disgust.

Healing from anyone other than her was always nauseating—because it wasn’t hers, because his Nike would hate it.

But he didn’t want her healing either. Not anymore. Not even a scrap. He was already clinging to life, paid for by the cost of her own. Everything he had came from that sacrifice—both abhorrent and holy.

So, he almost hoped there were still wounds she would never know about. Things she would never have to give up for him. Things that were never hers to give.

“…Cal, aren’t you curious what I do to you in my dreams?”

“You’ve got that look again—are you just trying to tease me?”

“Why don’t you ask?”

“Because you’d just say something filthy.”

He turned away with an indifferent look. Pherenike wandered over and gave a lazy tug to his long hair.

“Don’t look so dejected, you fool.”

“I’m not.”

Then, with a gentle hand, she plucked a dried fruit from the pouch and pushed it into his mouth, using the same face she had as a child—believing a snack could fix anything.

Deucalion stared at her, the fruit sitting on his tongue, until she tugged on his hair again, like trying to lead a stubborn horse by the reins.

In response, he chewed at his own pace, then pulled her hair in return, and with a wild, playful gesture, pressed his mouth to her pale neck, biting hard at the tip of her nose.

In an instant, Pherenike found herself in his lap.

“Paetusa, why bite when I gave you something to eat?”

“Not even Seirios would get treated this way.”

“Ah, Seirios…”

She glanced up at Ogygia’s night sky, her sharp eyes searching through the multitude of stars, past the immortalized hunter* until she found the great hound** trailing after him. Only then could you see the star Seirios.

“…Most people aren’t even as good as Seirios.”

Seirios—the brightest star in the night sky. Deucalion’s most loyal wolfhound.

And—

“Deucalion.”

“Yeah?”

“She likes dogs too, you know.”

That child. In truth, Pherenike could never quite say her daughter’s name out loud, anywhere. It sat on her tongue like a thorn—never quite spoken, never swallowed.

Sometimes, that ache was sweet. Leuce was a small, sweet thorn. There were times when it seemed almost dull enough to swallow.

But when she thought of her child’s name in front of Deucalion, that gentle thorn became something jagged and sharp. Just thinking of the princess’s name, her mouth filled with the taste of blood.

Absurdly, it was the name of this tiny child that stirred up more guilt than the name of the other man she had spent countless nights with.

Whenever Leuce’s name brushed against her, Pherenike felt as if she were betraying the Deucalion who had wandered the deserts and seas with her.

Betraying the most perfect love she’d ever received, grinding it to dust for the sake of a child born of the man who killed him, from that wretched bloodline.

Her dead husband was her sanctuary, holier than any god, the most sacred memory of her life.

And yet, it was as if she’d committed the ultimate blasphemy by bringing that child into the world.

“That’s a good thing. Dogs are worth loving.”

Deucalion ran his fingers gently through her hair. Pherenike’s gaze lingered on his hand as it moved, and she murmured,

“…She learned about the star Seirios, up in the summer sky.”

“Clever girl.”

“Afterward, she named that scruffy dog she picked up in the woods with her father—she named him Seirios. Just like you.”

Deucalion smiled a little.

“She takes after me.”

Leuce was the child the goddess herself had placed in Pherenike’s womb. Her life had taken root in the land of Geotil, and before and after, Pherenike had never seen Deucalion again.

The wishful fantasy that the child might be Deucalion’s—no one, not even for a moment, let themselves believe it.