Pherenike - Chapter 8

In the Antehe Council Hall, the shouts of those wishing for the queen’s only son to die, the loud protests against the king who killed his son, and the shrill screams of the handmaids shook the building.

Chairs toppled over. The men of the Thasos family, which was led by the queen’s brother, drew their swords. A giant jar in the center of the assembly fell, spilling out pottery fragments, each marked with a measure of Deucalion’s guilt.

The royal guard blocked the way, turning the assembly into complete chaos. People trying to flee the building collided with those pushing their way in.

Pherenike, standing dazedly, was pushed by the crowd until a man suddenly grabbed her shoulder firmly.

“Sybylle, you must leave this place now. Do not worry unnecessarily and take care.”

“…..”

“His Highness will protect himself as always.”

The voice was that of Dexikos, who had protected her in the Palliuron Mountains.

A faint light dawned over the lingering darkness in Pherenike’s eyes. Her lavender-colored eyes, reminiscent of the flower, quickly cleared as she accepted the light and dispelling the shadow of death. Her frozen fingers began to move.

‘Deucalion,’ she swallowed his name as if in a trance.

It was only a single call, but Deucalion’s heart echoed like a loud drum in Pherenike’s head. Like drum beats in an empty place

‘It’s different now.’

Deucalion was alive. He was truly alive at this moment.

Pherenike shook off Dexikos’s arm, stepped over fallen chairs, and wandered among the people. Her anxious eyes searched for Deucalion’s silver hair. The assembly’s edges were crowded and chaotic as people tried to distance themselves from the swords.

In that chaos, Deucalion was already looking for her when he spotted Pherenike. His olive-green eyes, flickering with hatred and murderous intent towards his father, regained a strangely calm light upon meeting hers.

‘Go, Pherenike. Nothing will happen,’ his lips silently moved towards her. His mouth that had been twisted in an amusement for the world, briefly curling into a playful smile.

Pherenike couldn’t even smile back, feeling her throat melt just from swallowing his name.

A glimpse towards her lover was brief.

It was interrupted as Deucalion’s gaze momentarily warned Dexikos, standing beside her, before fiercely shifting elsewhere. Pherenike was eventually led down from the chair like a child by Dexikos’s hand.

Everything happened as she remembered. It all repeated like a play, yet Pherenike continued to look at him. Joy, sorrow, emotion, and pain.

Her desperate and persistent gaze followed him as if fearing Deucalion would melt away if she did not constantly look at him.

In the center of the Antehe Council, Deucalion stood as if he were on a throne rather than a sinner’s seat. He was undiminished in his majesty.

He looked calm as if the king had never decreed his own death a moment ago, he remained confident as if he could stand up and leave the place at any moment.

Since he had heard and mocked the charges against him in the assembly, Deucalion’s sneer had only grown deeper.

Deucalion ‘observed’ the chaotic scene as if all these people were actors in a farce. He showed no signs of being wounded by his father’s abandonment.

In fact, Deucalion was all too familiar with this. It was just a grander scheme than he had ever experienced before, but the king had long wished for his death in some way or another.

Deucalion was not unaware of his father’s long standing hatred.

However, Pherenike knew him well. Deucalion, who had whispered to her that everything was alright, had changed from that day.

It was from this moment that he completely let go of his father. When the king attempted to kill his own son without any pretense of secrecy in front of everyone. He willingly trampled Deucalion’s honor into the mud.

Even though Deucalion had narrowly escaped death at his father’s hands numerous times, he secretly held onto a slim hope and longing for a parental bond. He finally relinquished it all that day. He forever laid down the notion of parent and child, crossing an irreversible river.

Thus, the moment he left the land of Evdokia, he decided to make the disgrace and false accusations cast upon him by his father a reality. Whether being labeled as a patricide plotting against his father, a blinded traitor in cahoots with the Argo kingdom, or anything else.

Around this time, Deucalion had survived against all odds. Though everyone expected his end, he lived on.

Then, as if he had obtained a sliver of mercy at the edge of a cliff, he was exiled abroad, narrowly escaping death.

This was the price he paid for acknowledging his ‘crimes’.

– Sybylle: Referring to the title used for the kingdom’s high priestess. In ancient Greek and Roman mythology, it was the title of a prophetic shaman.