Pherenike - Chapter 17

Even with the power borrowed from the goddess, reattaching flesh once severed by a blade was akin to burning it. The healing of Kybellar was not always benevolent. It was like paying the price of the pain left by the wound all at once.

Of course, Pherenike’s ability to handle Althea was distinct from others in the sanctuary. Deucalion, on the other hand, was endowed with the goddess’s sword, ‘Orthea’.

A long time ago, when the goddess Kybellar led Evdokia and Argo into the Cadica War for the goddess, she bestowed two gifts upon this land: Althea and Orthea.

While Althea was for healing, Orthea was solely for battle. Both originating from the goddess, essentially stemming from the same root. The extent of pain Deucalion felt in receiving Althea was different from ordinary people.

Moreover, Deucalion’s body had been conditioned by her Althea since his youth. Nevertheless, the logic of healing remained the same. If the wound was deep, sometimes even the most seasoned veterans who had handled Orthea within their bodies for a lifetime screamed in agony.

Deucalion’s wound wasn’t particularly deep, but it was long and widespread. As the light flickered low over the sizzling wound and melted his skin, sparkling smoke diffused between them who stood close together.

She steadied her breath and met his gaze that never left her. His face showed no sign of pain, nor the usual gratitude. Even though it wasn’t painful, he didn’t seem to welcome the healing right now.

Deucalion simply waited with fierce eyes. Once Pherenike started to channel Althea into him, there was no way for him to interrupt it. He knew how, but did nothing.

For him, cutting off Althea was easy. He was one of the most skilled lance knights in Evdokia, adept at handling the power of Orthea at the highest level. He was not swayed by the divine power she pushed into him.

While most people became petrified during healing while enduring the painful process, Deucalion could leave whenever he wanted. He could gently push her away or even disrupt her focus with a few irritating words.

The control device merely restrained his Orthea, unable to eliminate the inherent power within him. However, halting the healing process would send the shock of the injury back to the one who performed the ritual.

In his youth, Deucalion once rejected Pherenike’s Althea. It was out of pride. Young Deucalion perceived receiving healing from her as akin to a parasite sucking the blood of a girl he liked.

Perhaps he thought it would be better to die than to accept the healing. Deucalion, after all, had the pride of a prince.

Despite his firm refusal, Pherenike could not withstand the sudden shock and fainted right in front of him. After that incident, Deucalion behaved as if muted and bound whenever she healed him.

It didn’t matter what they were doing or what he was saying just before. Deucalion couldn’t bear to hurt her.

Pherenike, hiding the sudden pain she felt in her stomach, spoke monotonously, “It’s almost over.”

“I know,” Deucalion responded equally flatly, contrary to his intense gaze.

She tried to suppress her pain by silently chanting the language of the goddess. Suddenly, her tongue felt as if it had been burned.

Pherenike realized something was off. She had pierced through the Orthea control device, but the healing was slower. Most of the Althea she poured into him seemed to have leaked, pooling at their feet instead.

Obviously, it’s almost done.

Her Althea was wandering around in his body, unable to make the point of simple action. Pherenike breathed nervously.

Deucalion sighed, “It’s done, stop now, Pherenike.”

“Just a little more.”

“There was never a time I felt as horrible as now, being unable to push you away.”

He looked at her hands on him with a cynical expression. Deucalion’s claim that the healing was complete was his own assertion. The fact that he couldn’t push her away himself meant there was still pain remaining in him, pain that could be transferred to her.

Deucalion was not unfamiliar with pain. He had always chosen to ignore it. A son who earned the hatred of his father in a royal family often grows up that way.

“…..Pherenike, damn, you’re sweating coldly.”

“Ung.”

“Is it because of the control device?”

Pherenike couldn’t explain her condition herself, so she simply nodded, roughly guessing it was the control device.

She stubbornly completed the healing. In the end, the remaining Althea spilled uselessly at his feet. She was exhausted.

Yet, she longed to see his body unscathed, without even a small scratch. It might have been an obsession or stubbornness, but she always wanted to see life in him.

She yearned to see the exact opposite of everything they had experienced on the day they died.