Ichor - Trish DW
Ichor - Trish DW
Ichor - Trish DW
com
Ichor
Copyright © 2022 by Trish D.W.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
About the Book
Dedication
The First Chapter
The Second Chapter
The Third Chapter
The Fourth Chapter
The Fifth Chapter
The Sixth Chapter
The Seventh Chapter
The Eighth Chapter
The Ninth Chapter
The Tenth Chapter
The Eleventh Chapter
The Twelfth Chapter
The Thirteenth Chapter
The Fourteenth Chapter
The Fifteenth Chapter
The Sixteenth Chaptrer
The Seventeenth Chapter
The Eighteenth Chapter
The Nineteenth Chapter
The Twentieth Chapter
The Twenty-First Chapter
The Twenty-Second Chapter
The Twenty-Third Chapter
The Twenty-Fourth Chapter
The Twenty-Fifth Chapter
The Twenty-Sixth Chapter
The Twenty-Seventh Chapter
The Twenty-Eighth Chapter
The Twenty-Ninth Chapter
The Thirtieth Chapter
The Thirty-First Chapter
The Thirty-Second Chapter
The Thirty-Third Chapter
The Thirty-Fourth Chapter
The Thirty-Fifth Chapter
The Thirty-Sixth Chapter
The Thirty-Seventh Chapter
The Thirty-Eighth Chapter
The Thirty-Ninth Chapter
The Fortieth Chapter
The Forty-First Chapter
Epilogue
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ABOUT THE BOOK
This story contains mature topics that may be triggering to some and
inappropriate for a younger audience. It includes the following: violence, death,
emotional manipulation, emotional & physical abuse, conversations about
assault, self-harm ideations, and self-inflicted deaths.
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Dedicated to: My mother, Anne, who taught me a woman’s strength, resilience,
and persistence.
You are the bravery behind each female character I write.
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THE FIRST CHAPTER
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THE SECOND CHAPTER
For eighteen years, I have lived and suffered, yet I have never seen my
reflection. Day and its eventual night have come and gone, but I haven’t seen
what my smile looks like, or if I have minuscule, brown dots on my cheeks like
my best friend.
Three or four years ago, when I was venturing away from childhood,
curiosity emerged. I asked a girl from another cell to tell me what I looked like.
We were shower mates, and she was the only person my age I talked to other
than the boy in my cell. I didn’t ask him what I looked like. He would ask me,
and I’d be honest, but I was always too nervous to inquire about my appearance.
So, I asked the girl for answers. One day within the showers, the girl and I sat
cross-legged across from one another as the water beat down on our dirt-covered
bodies, and we told each other how we looked.
She went first.
Her voice was as quiet as the wind that blows through the jail, and she said.
“You have a small nose that is round at the tip.” Disapproval brimmed her
features when she explained. “But there’s a lot of hair above your eyes. Mainly
in between them.”
I anxiously touched the skin she described as hairy but felt smoothness. “I
don’t feel it,” I mentioned.
“Trust me,” my shower-mate said. “It’s there, and it’s gross. Also, there are
little red bumps everywhere. Like, everywhere. The bumps are on your sunken
cheeks, the tip of your pointed chin, and your large forehead.”
Each malformed part of myself she criticized, I touched with an onslaught of
insecurities I’d never felt before that day.
My expression must’ve held sadness because she muttered. “You’re kind of
pretty, though.”
Even with dirt caked upon her arms and legs, my shower-mate was like a
stream of sunlight in the darkest corner. Her bones protruded out of her
shoulders, but I was in awe of her radiance with a competitive buildup of
jealousy. Death and fatigue circulate around the deep bags underneath her doe-
shaped eyes, but she was the most beautiful human I’d ever seen.
The girl’s skin was much darker than mine; while I’m the stars in the sky,
she’s the beauty of the night. Her irises are brown, but lighter than her skin,
while her lips are plump and pink. Her skin does not have the same red bumps as
mine, except a single one on her cheek. She has the beauty that all dream to
possess, but when she asked me how she looked, I lied.
“You are only kind of pretty, too.” I told her.
After the day in the shower, curiosity about my appearance dissipated, and
we stopped talking during our trips to the showers.
Now, as I stand to prepare for the arena, I wait to see my reflection and think
of that upsetting day.
Before the arena, Lady Hecate uses her magic and provides minor transforms
to every human. She molds us into an appealing version of themselves. The
usual muck and malnourishment that decorates our skin is replaced with the false
lie that we’re treated humanely in the prisons. She does not alter our natural
appearances, but she removes the trauma and neglect our bodies have withstood
for eighteen years. Lady Hecate gives us a glimpse of what we would’ve looked
like if we were free and not enslaved. To me, it’s her greatest torture.
I am last in line, and while seven girls before me are in pleasant disbelief of
their appearance, I refuse to look when it is my turn.
Lady Hecate’s green smoke slithers around my thin, deprived body, and pain
overtakes every sense. A scream threatens to break through the surface, but the
agony is so overwhelming that my throat can’t produce the sound to accurately
explain the torture.
As smoke dissipates and I stand in front of Lady Hecate; for the first time,
Lady Hecate’s jaw slacks in an unfamiliar expression.
Shock, maybe?
She opens her red painted lips but closes them a second later.
“For the love of Olympus,” Lord Phobos swears, his face mirroring Lady
Hecate’s shocked expression. “She looks just like-”
Before he can finish his sentence, Lord Deimos elbows his brother in the
stomach and says. “Quiet. Don’t say it.”
I look at Lord Phobos, and while humans are forbidden from directly
speaking to an immortal, I ask. “Who do I look like?”
Lord Phobos opens his mouth to answer me, but green magic pulls his lips
shut. I turn to face the source of the magic, and Lady Hecate is glancing down at
me. Her shocked expression is gone, but she takes in my appearance with a
peculiar gleam in her eyes.
“Beneath the dirt and displeasing personality, I almost forgot you were
attractive.” Lady Hecate muses, then holds up an item and orders. “Take the
mirror and see what you look like. It may be the only chance you get.”
A mirror, she called it, is offered to me. I reach out my hand but hesitate
before I can hold on to the handle. My shower mate’s negative words about my
appearance reiterate in my head. Each movement is slow and stemmed from
fright, but I guide the mirror towards my face until I’m met with brown eyes that
swell with unabashed surprise.
Regardless of Hecate’s magic or the gods’ reactions to my appearance, I hear
the insults from my past and expect inadequacy, but that is not what the mirror
shows me.
The hair above my eyes is thin and arched, further highlighting my
prominent physical features. My lips are not as big as my shower mate’s, yet
they’re well defined like hers. High-risen and plump cheeks best define my face.
Brown hair reaches my chest, and I run my fingers through my once-long,
matted locks with newfound appreciation.
Once skeletal and on the brink of death, my body experiences the most
prominent changes. My thighs have grown three times their original size, and my
stomach becomes full enough to create a pouch at the bottom. The top portion of
my body isn’t as thin as it once was, but it is smaller than the extrusive curve of
my bottom half.
Gone is my thin physique, and it’s now replaced by a voluptuous figure. The
other girls around me vary in weight after their transformation, and while many
other girls remain thin, I am far from that. The thought makes my smile grow
wider because I look more than healthy for the first time in my entire life.
I look full.
For eighteen years, I’ve been naked. My starving body has been without a
scrap of clothing, and I always gravitate my gaze towards Lady Hecate’s gowns
with an overwhelming desire for one of my own. While my greatest wish is to be
a freed woman, my miniscule desire for a dress has come true.
While many girls who remained thin are in gowns which barely conceal their
new healthy builds, my dress is modest. The gown is white, and it wraps around
my neck and glides down to my ankles, where gold shoes are on my cleaned
feet. Gold objects are around my wrists, but they are not handcuffs; these are
something beautifully different.
As soon as I see the allure of my smile, I know the girl lied when she said I
was only kind of pretty. I stare at myself in this mirror with a radiance I did not
think a human could possess. I look around the room, and the other humans in
this room are staring at their own reflection in the mirror with the same
wonderment as I am. They are touching their cheeks in disbelief, and a few girls
like my shower-mate are sobbing with elation over the sight of their
attractiveness. Yet, I still feel different from them, as if my transformation
surpasses theirs.
Only one person stands far away from the mirror with a solemn expression
on their face. I walk towards my best friend from my cell, who I have watched
grow from a boy into a man within these past eighteen years, and this is the first
time I barely recognize him.
His once shoulder-length brown hair, which he often complained about, is
cropped short into a similar fashion to Lord Phobos and Lord Deimos’s. His hair
is so short that when my hand runs through it, it is spiky and pokes at my skin. I
haven’t seen him without facial hair for years, and the smoothness of his face
makes him look young again.
Too young to die today.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he says the words we were both too afraid to say
earlier.
Tears accumulate as I look at the face of my closest friend. I let my words of
optimism spill from my lips at the same time as the tears. “Maybe we will be
lucky enough to meet again in the Underworld.”
“What if the Underworld is as depressing as the prison?” His voice’s
dejected, lacking the reverie which once swelled in my best friend’s chest.
“No, it has to be better than this.”
“Because your dreams say so?” He asks and I nod my head, believing every
word from my storyteller within my dreams, but a deep frown creases my
friend’s lips. “I have never had a single dream before. Once I fall asleep,
darkness is all I’m allowed to see. I thought I was crazy when you told me you
can dream while I see nothing, but when I asked my shower-mate and the people
in our cells if they see anything when they fall asleep, they said no. You’re the
only one.”
My breathing comes to a full halt. In this dark and desolate world, my best
friend whispers these words in fear of my safety if anybody eavesdrops. He
looks around the room with a line of suspicion, and he is careful to ensure
nobody is listening to our conversation.
I wouldn’t have survived this abysmal prism without my dreams at night. If I
didn’t have my storyteller when I slumbered, then insanity would’ve infested my
mind. The tales he spins each night are my lifeline in the treacherous ordinance
that submerges me. He is the escape from Lady Hecate, Lord Phobos, Lord
Deimos, and the looming doom of the arena.
Every tale about the gods and goddesses that my storyteller taught me in the
jail cells is my lifelines. Because of him, I hear about fantastical lands I hope to
one day see in the waking world. He fills my night with his ethereal voice
speaking about demi-gods slaying monsters, Lord Heracles’s twelve labors, and
the most wicked Olympians.
I wish I could always live within my dreamworld, where the veil which
separates my Storyteller and me is severed, and I am there with him forever.
“I’m not crazy,” my voice trembles as I whisper. “I know what I see at
night.”
“You’re not crazy,” he confesses these words so quiet that I have to strain to
hear him. “I believe you see the shadowed man in your dreams. I believe
everything you’ve ever told me about the gods and goddesses.”
“Then what are you saying?” I ask.
There is a prolonged period of silence between my question and his answer,
but when he gains the courage to speak again, he shuffles closer to me. He wraps
his arms around me in a tight-gripped hug, and his lips graze my ear.
In this close embrace, beneath the heavy thumping of our hearts, my best
friend murmurs. “I’m saying you can’t tell anybody about what you see when
the rest of the world does not. Even when you get your master and you think you
can trust them, don’t say a word about what you see. No other humans have
dreams.”
“But I’m normal.”
My friend hugs my body tighter, and he speaks his truth in a quieted,
frightened cadence. “No, I don’t think you are.” His hands tangle themselves in
the soft curls of my hair and sincerity leaks through his voice. “I wish I could
save you forever, to shield you from whatever is to come, but I don’t think we
will be lucky enough to see each other after today. “
“I don’t understand,” I admit.
He pulls away from the hug, and just as our arms slip from each other’s hold,
green smoke surrounds our bodies. The smog invades my vision, leaving me
blinded and unable to see anything but Lady Hecate’s powers. I try to reach for
my best friend, to feel his arms around my body in comfort once again, but I’m
alone.
As soon as the green smoke dissipates, I am pulled down towards a merciless
ground with no preparation to stop my fall. My bottom hits the ground, and as I
groan, a hand is extended forward.
My closest friend hoists me up to my feet. Then, I look at him, and I see his
fear as if it were a beast that holds onto his throat, slowly squeezing out every
breath of strength from his lungs.
He feigns his former gallantry and asks me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I say.
But I’m not.
Because I’m in the arena, standing beneath the stares of a hundred Immortals,
who wait to feast upon my fear and serfdom as if it were a delicacy.
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THE THIRD CHAPTER
Turning my body away from my friend’s, I stare at the infamous arena I have
dreaded since I knew of its existence. Upon this ground, which is perpetually
stained with spilled blood and servitude, I will become a slave to an immortal.
This is the land where the quickest god with a blade will become my master, and
fear slams into my chest as if I were struck by one of King Zeus’s lightning
bolts.
I promised myself I would remain strong. I vowed not to let the intensity of
this day befall me, but now I am here, and my entire body is quaking in
petrification. My friend beside me shakes too. I can feel it in our intertwined
hands, but I can provide no comfort. I am paralyzed at the spot, staring at the
many faces of malignant gods and goddesses who look down upon us as
entertainment.
An overarching display of decadence threatens to swallow me whole. My
storyteller told me about the arenas, but he couldn’t prepare me for the
magnitude of the colosseum, which stands over three hundred feet high and
twice that in width. The marble seats surround the circular perimeter, with four
rows that start ten feet above the arena ground and end at least a two hundred
feet above us. The gods and goddesses who sit in the highest seats are blurred
faces because of their distance.
The light-colored walls nearest the arena ground are splattered in dried blood.
Godly magic could’ve absolved the secretion, but I know the blood is left on the
walls as a reminder. It reminds every human that our premature death is a god’s
best kept promise. While many of us will not die in the arena grounds in front of
a crowd of raucous gods, our blood will inevitably decorate somebody’s walls.
Over one hundred immortals take the pews. They are laughing, socializing
amongst themselves with glasses of nectar in their hands. Immortals see today as
the social event of the month. To them, it may be enjoyable, but to us it is the
soul-crushing moment that all of us are sold to slavery and might be killed
before the sun sets.
Every god and goddess is just as otherworldly gorgeous as Lady Hecate,
Lord Phobos, and Lord Deimos, who now sits relaxed in the crowd. Because of
the gods, I do not correlate beauty with kindness. I stare into the crowd of
immortals, who look at us with a lethal desire to purchase us for their own sick
desires, and I loathe their attractiveness that masks their internal hideousness.
These gods are monsters who sit in the arena pews on the worst day of our lives
with the prettiest of smiles and ugliest of souls.
A myriad of immortals examine every inch of our bodies to see if we are
worth their time. Their perusal is excruciating for the soul, and I squeeze my
friend’s hand tighter. Yet, no matter how tight my grip on his hand becomes,
nothing can stop my overwhelming emotions.
All the surrounding humans are just as frightened as I am. My shower-mate
is dazzling a green dress, which brings out the smooth darkness of her skin, but
she is sobbing on the floor. Others are trying to hide themselves with their hands
over their faces, as if this turns them invisible.
I turn away from the others in time to see the first god flying towards the
arena ground on a pair of winged sandals.
Lord Hermes lands on the floor with grace, and he stands across from me
with his caduceus in hand. I know the man in front of me is a god, but he stands
in the middle of the arena looking like an ordinary boy. Lord Hermes is the
messenger of the gods and the god of thievery, but he looks no older than me
with a lopsided, adolescent smile on his face that contrasts his immortality.
The messenger god looks to me, and I’m swallowed whole by his gaze.
Green eyes, deep like a forest my storyteller once showed me, stare at me with
so many emotions I can’t decipher fast enough. I’m stunted by him, a male who
looks more human than god, and for a second I believe I have him enraptured,
too.
But then, his attention turns to the gods sitting upon the pews. His back is to
me, and he is looking at his allies in torment and immortality once again.
With enough strength to shake the pews, he yells to the crowd. “The rules are
the same as each arena event. If you want to fight for a human, then you come
down and challenge anybody for the one of your choosing. Then, whoever else
wishes to duel for the human may do so. You fight until your blood is spilled,
and the last god or goddess unscathed in the arena will win their possession.”
Possession.
I hate that word because it’s true.
We are property, spoken about as if we were not here. The gods, who Lord
Hermes speaks to, are excited by his words. Their clamors of excitement are
loud enough to crumble the arena.
“You are limited to a maximum of two humans per arena.” Lord Hermes
continues, his voice loud enough to be heard for miles. “Once you win either one
or two humans, then you must leave the arena with your new belonging to begin
their renewed life and journey. You may start the battles once my feet leave the
ground.”
Lord Hermes looks back at me once more, but he doesn’t glance away a
second later. His gaze lingers as the crowd of gods and goddesses continues to
shake the arena. He is taller than any being I’ve ever seen, towering over my
friend and me. The god’s visual inspection wanders down to my hand, which is
wrapped around my friend’s, and looks back at me.
As the bellows from the immortals cease, Lord Hermes prepares flight. Yet,
before he flies off and the fights begin, he winks at me. Then, as quickly as he
appears, he is out of the arena and sits in one of the farthest pews.
My friend and I are the only two standing up on our feet, and that garners too
much attention. A bark of laughter begins the arena’s fights, and I gravitate my
scrutiny towards the noise. The god stands in the middle of the second row of
pews with a spear materializing in his hand. His fixation is on the two of us, and
my friend pulls me behind him.
My friend’s chivalry intrigues this god.
He is in armor similar to what Lord Phobos and Lord Deimos wear, except
he has an intricate boar’s head upon the bronzed chest plate. While those two
lower-level gods were clean shaven, a thin beard covers the lower half of this
brawny god’s face.
I look up at the most handsome immortal, and my body becomes electrified.
Tiny pricks, which feel like miniature lightning bolts, dance across my skin. The
sight of him churns the pit of my stomach with an unknown, unexplainable new
feeling. With a newfound burning against my cheeks, I try to steer my attention
away to no avail.
“Do I see a fighter on my hands?” The god implores with undeniable
excitement lacing his words.
A shield materializes in his other hand, and once he is ready for battle, he
leaps into the air. The god soars in the sky and jumps over the immortals who
are in the pew in front of him. His feet slam against the arena ground, and the
floor splinters in half upon his weight.
I stumble back when the ground shifts, but my friend keeps me steady with
his grip on my hand. The god’s lips curl with a snarl when he notices our linked
embrace, and he takes an advancing step towards us. The closer he nears, the
tighter my friend’s grip on my hand becomes.
The god is several inches taller than my naturally short friend, and he doubles
him in muscles alone, but my cellmate stands against the immortal. He is
terrified while facing off with an Olympian, but he never wavers. The spear
within the god’s grasp lifts to the bottom of my friend’s chin, tempting him to
cower like the rest of the humans. But his submission would leave me alone with
the god of war.
So, my friend doesn’t look away.
There is a cruel expression growing on the god’s face, and he applies
pressure to the spearhead against my friend’s chin. My friend flinches when the
god cuts skin, and a trickle of red blood slides down the spearhead.
“Lord Ares, stop!”
A voice rings out and silences the erratic thumping in my chest, as well as
Lord Ares’s assault against my friend. The sound of those three words muted the
arena, and they focus on the source of that voice, and the command which
spilled from undeserving lips. I spoke the name of an immortal I am not
supposed to know, and every god, goddess, and human in the room stares at me
with confusion contorting their faces.
“You should’ve stayed silent, my queen,” my storyteller coos inside of my
head.
Effortlessly, Lord Ares pushes the barrier between him and me out of the
way, and my friend flies halfway across the arena floor. I gasp, watching as he
smacks against the wall and crumbles onto the ground without a stir of
consciousness moving him, but then Lord Ares’s blood dripped spear is on the
tip of my chin.
His nearness leaves me breathless, and while a foreign emotion bubbles by
our proximity, fear is paramount. Pain is this god’s weapon, and with his
nearness, I want to scream in agony. His stare pierces into me, delving into my
soul for my deepest, darkest secrets.
Then, he growls. “Do I know you, human?”
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THE FOURTH CHAPTER
Death has been on the precipice of my mind since I was a child and watched
horror unfurl without an escape, but now that the thought becomes a genuine
possibility, I realize how desperate I am to live.
The spearhead presses against the skin beneath my chin, and the danger in
Lord Ares’s stance is like standing on the edge of a cliff. Immortals, from their
protected seats several feet away, watch the desire for murder lay unspoken on
his face. Lord Ares stares down at me and sees a frightened human, who he
deems weak in front of the mighty, but a fire burns through me that vows
survival in the depths of dread.
I spill out a lie. “Lord Phobos and Lord Deimos spoke about their powerful
parents all the time, your majesty.” When Lord Ares lessens his grip on the
spear, my ability to breathe is restored, and I am quick to add. “I made a guess
you were the great Lord Ares they spoke so highly about when I saw your
matching armor.”
There are two seconds between my lie and his answer. The entire time, our
eyes are locked. Navy blue clash against deep brown, and my fear lays visible
for him and the onslaught of gods watching from the pews. However, I am the
only one who sees the hesitance within his own gaze. The god of war and
bloodshed does not know how to trust anybody’s words or actions, and I wait for
him to denounce my words and execute me.
Instead, the spearhead descends, its tip pointing at the ground. He does not
fully believe me, I can tell, but Lord Ares doesn’t question me further. Lord Ares
turns away from me, and he strides towards the middle of the arena.
His muscular arms are opened wide, and his voice is thunderous as he
announces. “I bid on both the girl and the boy. Who dares to fight me for them?”
The relief I possessed evaporates upon his declaration. While Lord Phobos
and Lord Deimos did not speak about their father, my storyteller did. He told me
about every god, both extraordinary and subsidiary, which sits upon the
coliseum pews. I drink in the sight of hundreds of gods and goddesses, and the
storyteller ensured I recognize every single one of them for this day.
Because of my storyteller, there is not a single immortal within my line of
vision whose name is unfamiliar to me.
His velvety voice spoke of each gods’ powers, their origin stories, and their
standing as a master. There was caution within his cadence whenever he spoke
about particular immortals and their treatment of their slaves; Lord Ares was one
of them.
Betwixt in darkness within the dreamworld he has concocted, my storyteller
is only a tall, lean figure of shadowy wisps and obsidian ascendance. He sits on
a black object, which he calls a throne, where the shadows of his body slither
around the arms and legs. Nothing of his face is visible, but a silver crown lays
haphazardly on the outline of his head.
He is a daunting sight, who has graced my dreams since I was sixteen years
old, and he should’ve frightened me the first time I saw him. I should’ve seen my
Storyteller and screamed until consciousness freed me, but I did not. I could not
see a face, only a frightening man coiled in shadows and disparity, but I felt
safest within his company.
Within a space in my dream that he said was his future throne room, he told
me about each god and goddess who ransacked my world. I had no face to
gauge for emotions. Only his voice, and a deep ache of austerity, changed his
cadence when he spoke about Lord Ares, the god of war.
“Ares is one of the greatest warriors this world will witness. He is a living
weapon, my sweet queen, but he only realizes the strength in men rather than
women. Athena is his sole exception to that rule. Therefore, he only takes male
humans as soldiers. Rarely ever will he fight for a woman, but if he does…”
Hesitation lined my storyteller’s voice as he spoke about Lord Ares. When he
halts and the silence encases the room, fear always creeps inside.
“If he does, then what?” I probed.
“It will be because his lover, Aphrodite, and him are no longer together,” he
ground out the words with anger intertwined with heedfulness. “If he fights for
you and wins, then every inch of anger he has towards his recent separation with
her will unload on you. You can’t control the victors of the game but avoid this
god as much as you can.”
I try to tether myself to bravery, but upon Lord Ares’s words, there is a crack
in my resolve. I stumble backwards, trying to distance myself from the god who
never allows women to live past a single night. My back hits a chest, and I jump
to the side in terrible anticipation that another god has come up from behind me
to fight against Lord Ares.
But it isn’t.
My best friend takes a step towards me, with a new slight limp in his step,
and he grabs my arms. He wraps my body in his embrace for what will
undoubtedly be the last time if Lord Ares wins me. While my friend cannot
dream like I do, he believes each story I’ve told him and squeezes me harder.
There isn’t anything motivational from my friend because that is not our
world. Instead, he presses a kiss on the top of the back of my head, and together
we stare up at the pews to see the story of our lives dictated by vindictive
immortals.
Centered in the middle of the arena, at the very top, are three balconies. On
the left, King Hades and Queen Persephone sit on thrones. Their loyal dog,
Cerberus, is seated in between the mighty rulers of the Underworld. On the right,
King Poseidon and Queen Amphitrite are on their thrones. King Poseidon has a
goblet filled with nectar in one hand, while the other holds his mighty trident.
Last, in the middle, the king and queen of all the gods and goddesses sit upon
their thrones made of humanity’s suffering.
The king’s appearance gives off the false pretense that he is the oldest out of
his five siblings. He is the only one with once-black hair now peppered with
both white and gray locks. While small snippets of his hair have black creeping
through the surface, his beard is completely white and gray.
No other God displays a physical feature that would age them, but King Zeus
proudly displays himself with streaks of white hair. For a second, I meet with the
king’s electric blue ones, and the world halts. Hatred forms within me upon the
sight of the god responsible for a world, which was once free, that is now
shackled in chains and subjugation.
When the Olympian king sees me enclosed in an arena as Lord Ares’s
centralized fixation, shock overtakes his features. His mouth drops, and his head
tilts to the left, the way mine does when I am confused. My presence in the arena
surprises King Zeus, and he tears away from my sight to look down at Lord
Ares.
A hundred eager souls wait for King Zeus’s decisive words regarding the
first fight.
“You already cut the boy,” King Zeus’s declaration is absolute, and he
bellows the statement across the arena with the strength of a thousand screams.
“You will fight for him first. The girl will go second.”
The king of the gods raises his hands into the air, and the ground beneath me
quakes under his might. Lightning bolts materialize in both of his hands; as they
strike upon the ground, I am flung across the arena.
My body soars through the air as if I’ve grown wings, but with no control of
my movements. I reach out my arms, trying to keep my best friend within my
reach, but I fly thirty or more feet away from him until my back claps against the
wall. It momentarily takes my breath from me, but I don’t care. I fight the pain
the way a warrior duels with a sword, and I am quick to rise to my feet once
again.
“Stay down,” an angry voice snaps. “You’re begging for death by standing.”
It’s my shower-mate who spoke, and she cowers against the wall. Dirt covers
parts of her new green gown and silver streaks slide down her cheeks. I once
envied her beauty, but fear misshapes her. We’re in a world where all we can
control are our reactions to the strife, but my shower-mate submerges herself in
submissive fright.
“Why is death seen as a thing to fear?” I respond. “It sounds like a welcomed
gift compared to all of this.”
I rise to my full height but cannot rip my back from the wall King Zeus
pushed me against. I try to reach out a hand, to move enough to escape the hold
the king of the Olympians has on my body, but my sentiment is futile.
Helplessness clings to me like a foul odor, which grows worse by the second,
and I look at my best friend with visible dejection.
While everybody else is against the wall, unable to move, my friend and
Lord Ares stand in the middle of the arena. My friend looks back at where I am,
and this time he does not try to shield me from the sight of his fear. His
trepidation lies in his agape mouth, his widened eyes, and his hands that
continue to open and close into fists.
I mouth three words to him. We will survive.
There is no certainty in my words, but the smallest smile grows over his lips,
regardless.
Winged sandals once again flutter onto the battle grounds. Lord Hermes
lands delicately upon the arena, but his caduceus glows within his hand, and the
taunt in his raised eyebrow contradicts his ginger landing. Just like Lord Ares,
Lord Hermes is ready for bloodshed.
Golden wings whoosh onto the battlefield. A goddess stands in front of Lord
Ares with two majestic wings, which overtake a quarter length of the arena when
outstretched. She is slim and pale, with blonde hair pulled back into a tight,
high-risen braid. The goddess appears docile with a button-nose and a dimpled
chin until two knives materialize in her hands and a deep scowl matures her face.
Lady Nike, goddess of victory, readies herself to fight for my best friend.
Then, one of the mightiest gods crashes upon the ground. A lion’s sheath
covers his otherwise naked, muscular torso. The mouth of the slain lion lays as a
crown upon the God’s auburn, cut hair, to remind the world he is the god of
heroes and the slayer of the Nemean Lion. A metal club decorated in sharp
spikes is swung around in both of Lord Heracles’s burly fists.
Seconds pass as the arena waits for any other prospects. When it is clear that
no other gods will emerge from their seats, Lord Ares’s spear and shield re-
materialize. A blood red helmet, which matches his shield, forms over his head
and obscures most of his face from view.
“Shouldn’t you be sitting up there, Nike? I’ll be needing a victory wreath
soon.” He lets out a condescending laugh, which is devoid of any humor. “We
both know you are not a fighter.”
Oh, how wrong he is.
“Dear brother,” Lord Hermes’s playful cadence cuts through the air. “Could
you not be a sexist, arrogant, mess of a god for just one day?”
Lord Heracles snorts, and Lady Nike gives the tiniest nod of appreciation to
Lord Hermes, but Lord Ares frowns in disapproval. All four gods are skilled
warriors, and they impatiently squirm for their chance to fight one another. Yet,
the arena waits for King Zeus’s permission.
In order for a battle to begin, the fighters need King Zeus’s allowance. The
arena ground is quieted in anticipation, and I silently pray to the merciless king
to show a sliver of benevolence. I stare at the podium, where King Zeus stands,
and I mutely beg for my friend’s safety.
Per usual, my prayers remain unanswered as King Zeus outcries a single
command.
“Begin.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
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THE SIXTH CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
The ground splinters in between the eight furious immortals. The arena floor
tries to run from the power of these deities, and I stumble backwards as the
fissure splits between my feet. Queen Persephone looks back at where I fall
before she fixates back on the fight at hand.
A decomposing hand emerges from the cracked ground. Clumps of decayed
skin linger on the skeletal hand, dried brown blood coated on the white bones,
and the stench of decomposition I wish I did not recognize creeps to the surface
with this creature of death. Inch by inch, it enters the domain, and the warriors
gape with disbelief.
The skeletal hand outreaches its black nails, testing the unfamiliar air, before
piercing the ground. A hand from the pits of the Underworld is pulling itself out
of the trenches to come alive once more for a battle. The king and queen of the
Underworld wear a smug expression, while Lord Phobos and Lord Deimos stare
back with mounting fear.
Lord Deimos rushes to the skeletal hand, his foot stomping down until the
bones disintegrate under the weight, but the creature’s other hand derives from
the pits of the Underworld and wraps its tendons around the god’s ankle. Lord
Deimos, the god of terror, lets out his own frightened squeal and desperately
tries to free himself from the skeletal creature’s viper grip.
The corpse’s black nails are merciless, and they dig into Lord Deimos’s skin
until rich ichor spills out of his ankle. This skeletal being uses his grip on Lord
Deimos’s ankle to rise out of the crack, and an abominable creature of death
emerges into the sunlight. Holes, where the skeleton’s eyes once sat, turn to Lord
Deimos, and the defeated god falls unconscious with complete petrification.
A dozen more undead mutations crawl themselves out of the fractured
ground. Clumps of dead skin, remnants of dried blood, and razor-sharp teeth
gnash in the warmth. King Hades snaps his fingers, manifesting Stygian black
weapons for the skeletons that thirst for carnage.
They stand at the back of the battleground, swords raised behind Lord
Hypnos and Lord Thanatos. Lord Ares glares down at his already-defeated son,
then deviates his fury on King Hades. Lord Phobos is frightened. It is clear in his
trembling hands, but Lady Athena is calm.
She looks at King Hades and asks. “Was that necessary, Uncle?”
“What can I say?” King Hades says with a shrug of his shoulders. “Achilles
and Atalanta were just itching for another fight. I didn’t want to disappoint
them.”
The first skeleton, now only with one hand, looks to the only one with long
brown hair, and I swear it winks. Both Achilles and Atalanta, who are silent in
death, serve as co-generals for the army of the dead.
“Seems like a bit of overkill for one girl,” Lady Athena hums, and she
glances to where I sit on the ground. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing,” I whisper.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lady Athena muses, then looks back at King
Hades and Queen Persephone. “Any more parlor tricks?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and find out,” Queen Persephone says.
Lady Athena spins her blade and coos. “I guess so.”
The fight between death and war begins, where more bloodshed is
irrefutable. The skeletons run towards Lord Phobos, and he readies himself with
a spear in one hand whilst spinning a sword in the other. Moans are all the
skeletons can utter as they rush towards Lord Phobos, and the immortal returns
their hatred for him with the bloodthirsty kiss of his blade. Bones fly across the
battlefield, a rib narrowly avoiding one human girl’s throat.
Lord Thanatos flies up into the air just as Lady Athena’s sword is about to
slice across his legs. Wind greets Lady Athena’s blade, but she does not dwell
long. In the same breath, she swings her blade towards Lord Hypnos, who is not
as quick to avoid her unrelenting weapon.
One long, jagged gash breaks through the armor underneath Lord Hypnos’s
gray robe, and he crumbles onto the ground. Bubbles of golden blood emerge
from his robe, and defeat speckles his face. I can’t see the top of his face beneath
the hood of the robe, but I swear the deity turns to me with pity marring his
scarred mouth.
As if he was about to apologize.
Lord Ares fights the king and queen simultaneously. Sweat streams down his
forehead as the rulers of the Underworld block him in. He is constantly evading
the next attack. The god of bloodshed is in continual defense. The battle moves
towards the side of the Underworld.
I almost dare to hope.
Lord Thanatos is high in the sky, his black wings contrasting with the light of
the sun, and he throws his scythe through the air. His scythe goes straight
towards Lady Athena’s head, following the harsh wind’s direction. She is quick
to duck, avoiding the blade’s antagonistic caress, and she is back on her feet with
the handle of the scythe in her powerful clutches.
I can only watch, unable to make a noise to stop the imminent circumstances.
Lady Athena throws Lord Thanatos’s own weapon back at him, and he doesn’t
have time to block himself. His blade plunges into his chest. The sound of his
weapon splintering bone echoes throughout the arena, declaring his defeat.
He spirals downwards, away from the chance at victory. When he collapses
onto the ground, he is beside his brother’s fallen form, and his head turns
towards where I sit. Just as Lord Hypnos had, he stares with a sadness I cannot
see beneath the hood but can feel within my chest.
“Look at them,” my storyteller says in my mind. “Look how the Gods stare at
you; adore you the way they would never would an ordinary human. Look how
they gawk at you and see what I’ve always known.”
I drift my attention towards the seats. As Lady Athena strides towards Queen
Persephone, leaving King Hades to duel against Lord Ares in an individual
battle, I look at the other gods who are in the audience. They all gape on with
bated breaths, enjoyment paralyzing their movements.
From what my storyteller has said, it is common that the gods use the arenas
as a social event. Except for rare occasions, most immortals do not interact in the
duels that take place. They come to a human’s worst day in existence and
gallivant around. Today, as well as every seasonal solstice of the year, is a
human’s awakened nightmare, but it’s the gods’ party. They will socialize,
fornicate, and drink until they are incapacitated.
The female goddesses and Lord Dionysus use this time to flaunt their newest
outfits. Most of the fights in the arena garner little attention, but they will gossip
about the outfits for weeks. On a typical seasonal solstice, two-to-four immortals
of varying prowess will duel one another for a human. During a typical arena
day, the duels are war immortals bitter from a previous defeat. Only on a rare
occasion will other gods partake in the arena.
It is rare that five deities will fight for a human, but the reason behind their
actions is obvious. The humans coveted and fought for by more than one god are
the most beautiful or they’re sinewy men. They stand out amongst the crowd of
sobbing, demure contenders.
The gods’ fixate on each other rather than the enslaved human race, but today
is different. Eight notorious warriors stand upon the battleground, and they incite
a story that leaves the most prattling extraverts silent with concentration. The
burn of garnering the spotlight for the immortals’ rapt engrossment scorches my
pale skin.
Even King Zeus, who sits high in the balcony seats, has his electric gaze
centralized on every movement the gods make. Every few seconds, he seeks my
whereabouts, and he stares with a crinkle of confusion. His hands are curled
against the arms of his throne, and Queen Hera stares more at me than the battle
with a purse of her red-painted lips.
Every human accompanying me on the worst day of our lives is staring at the
arena, and then me, with awe and befuddlement. The humans I’ve spent my
entire life besides, struggling to survive in the cells with, stare at the scene
unfurling. They forget they will be the next fought and sought after, and they
distract themselves with the battle at hand. I look at my shower-mate, who is
staring back at me like I’m a stranger. Different from her in a thousand ways.
Everybody in the arena is watching with entrancement as they are observing
every swipe Lady Athena makes with her swords, and each deflect Queen
Persephone makes to keep herself from the tip of the blade. They obsess over the
sight of King Hades and Lord Ares, two powerful deities, matching blade-to-
blade in a brutal dance for possession. Skeletons surround Lord Phobos, whose
feet stomp on the discarded bones of the defeated and discarded.
Not a single human, or god, can steer their attention away from either me or
the battle.
Every time one of Lord Phobos’s spears breaks, he throws the now useless
weapon upon the floor to join dozens of bones, and another materializes in his
callused palms. Only Achilles and Atalanta remain intact, and they’re working
side-by-side to ensure Lord Phobos does not emerge as the victor.
Each movement of the gods is lightning-fast, where no fault can be
witnessed. Their pride is on the line, the battle for victory paid with their egos,
and none can afford to make an error. One miscalculated move will end in their
demise.
Lady Athena swings her sword, a battle cry escaping her lips as the weapon
slices through the air. She believes she is about to decimate Queen Persephone,
but she makes an error. Lady Athena knows of the sword in Queen Persephone’s
hand, but she does not see the dagger Queen Persephone unsheathes from its
hiding spot.
While the queen’s sword deflects Lady Athena’s, the small dagger within
Queen Persephone’s other hand plunges into her opponent’s rib cage. It is the
one part of Lady Athena’s armor left open, and the skillful goddess of wisdom
crumbles onto the floor. She is clutching the dagger embedded in her abdomen,
and the audience gasps in disbelief.
Lord Phobos makes the next mistake. He hears the gasps from the audience
and momentarily turns his attention away from his opponents. He looks at his
father to make sure he is unscathed and then finds Lady Athena’s defeated form.
For only a second, Lord Phobos forgets about his skeletal enemies, but the two
decomposed warriors do not make the same mistake.
Achilles and Atalanta simultaneously slide a blade into Lord Phobos’s back,
and a scream bellows out of the god as he crumbles to his knees in defeat. The
skeletal heroes pull their swords from Lord Phobos’s body, and they turn to face
the rest of the battle at hand with ignorance.
They do not know that it has already ended.
A battle isn’t about how fast you are, but it is about deciphering your
opponents’ weaknesses. Queen Persephone rises from the ground, her face
splattered in Lady Athena’s ichor, and pride makes her unaware of the spear
Lord Ares throws. The weapon spirals towards her stomach, but she is heedless
until it embeds deep within her thin body.
The effervescent goddess of spring collapses onto the ground, and her
trembling fingers move towards the spear deep within her stomach. A cry of
agony rumbles out of her lips when her fingertips touch her golden blood. She
screams with an absence of pain but a surplus of guilt, and she turns to me. Ichor
trickles out of her, sliding across pale flesh like a stream of gilded water, but
Queen Persephone gawks at where I stand with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Then, the ultimate mistake of the battle is made.
King Hades is a skilled fighter, but his love triumphs his rationality. He turns
his attention towards his wife, who is crumbled upon the floor and staring at me
as if she has disappointed me. The king of the Underworld’s face slackens with
sympathy, but when he turns to face Lord Ares again, it’s too late.
Lord Ares uses his last remaining opponent’s distraction to his advantage,
and he swings his dagger.
A thin slice cuts across the king of the Underworld’s throat and the blood of
defeat trickles out. King Hades collapses onto his knees and crawls towards
where his wife lays upon the floor, a spear holding her to the ground. Blood
cascades down his neck and underneath his black armor, but he collapses on top
of his wife with worry clear on his pale face. Both king and queen of the
Underworld look to me, their sadness paramount.
King Hades repeats. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Atalanta and Achilles, unable to fight without their king, disappear in a puff
of Lady Hecate’s green smoke. Lord Ares is declared the victor. The winner of
my body and life. Lord Ares strides towards me with dominion seeping from his
smirked lips.
He steps across the discarded bones and fallen warriors, and each step he
takes sends a shiver throughout my body. I want to fight him, to slam my fists
against his chest and challenge him myself. I want to choose the decisions in my
own life, but that is not the world I am a servant to.
My life is not my own.
It’s Lord Ares’s.
The god of war’s hand convolves around my bicep, and I do not have a
choice but to obey his silent command to stand up. I do not have a choice in any
of this. My fate was decided long before I was born, forever a piece of
materialistic possession for the gods to play a game with rather than care for.
They made me a toy of their wicked devices.
I do not get to decide who pulls the strings of my life, and I do not have the
power to slap away Lord Ares’s touch. I am treated as if I do not have a mind
that screams and begs for freedom. In their clouded perception, I am devoid of
emotions. Of dreams and aspirations surpassing blind obedience. Of dying upon
their everlasting whim.
To these gods, I am just property, and property gets discarded if it tries to
fight back. I can’t deny Lord Ares from the prize he just won because that is all I
am. Just a prize. A materialistic object. A human.
Lord Ares sends a mocking glare down towards King Hades and Queen
Persephone, who are still upon the ground with defeat brandishing their cheeks
with tears. They wanted to win me, to covet me, and a part of me wonders what
makes me so important. Why is she crying over the possibility of losing me, a
measly prize amongst a crowd of a dozen mortals? Why mourn my loss?
“Because you are a grand prize,” my storyteller purrs inside of my head.
“You are everything magnificent in this world. The ignorant don’t know any
better.”
A victory wreath materializes around Lord Ares’s neck, and he stares down
at me with deviant desires. “Are you ready to go to your new home?
“Save me,” I beg to my storyteller, who always watches over me within my
mind.
A blood red chariot metamorphoses upon the battleground. Lord Ares hoists
me up, and when my feet land upon the chariot, ankle cuffs wrap around my
skin. A whimpered noise leaves my lips, too quiet for even Lord Ares to hear,
and I look up to the sky and the beating sun.
“Save me, Storyteller,” I plead once more within my own frightened mind.
Lord Ares is upon the chariot now, and as it whisks away us from the arena,
the Storyteller responds.
“I will free you. Stand strong when the time comes, knowing that you’ll
eventually be with me, my queen”
OceanofPDF.com
THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
The only home I’ve ever known was the ten-by-ten cell I inhabited with at least
four other humans.
My former home was foul in both stench and appearance. Two buckets sat in
the far corner of the cell, one accredited for feces and the other for urine. It was
common that vomit sprayed the floors of the prison, which resulted from uneasy
stomachs or physical abuse by Lady Hecate and the twins, and it was never
cleaned up. The vomit would always linger, staining the ground already
blackened with soot. The three pungent smells would permeate, along with salty,
desolate tears.
Until today, that prison was my only correlation with home.
Lord Ares helps me off of his chariot, his fingers burning through the thin
material of my gown. He electrifies my pale skin, no matter how valiant I am to
dismiss the sensation. He turns my body, so the first thing I see is his mansion. I
follow the sight, but I know better than to correlate this enormous expanse of
land as comforting or homely.
All of my homes are torture devices.
Lord Ares’s abode is the derivation of one’s worst distress. Two statues of
Lord Ares’s sigil animal—the boar—are on either side of the large front door.
Crimson blood spills on the top of their heads as if humans rained down on the
inanimate objects moments before their inevitable demise.
This home of carnage is the same imposing size as the prison. Similarly to
the prison I lived in, terror flocks to Lord Ares’s house. His hand stays on the
small of my back, leading me away from the chariot that disappears in a blaze of
ash, and guides me towards his land of torment.
The god of bloodshed could transport us inside, but he doesn’t. Lord Ares
strolls through the front yard at a leisurely pace, so I see each traumatizing
detail. He is luminous with eerie exhilaration, and he watches me as I let my
concentration wander across the acres of land.
From the beginning of his estate, which is a quarter of a mile from the front
doors, there is a cobblestone pavement. Each step mirrors a face, one of
consuming dread, as if the muse for the rock died with their head smashed
against it. Lord Ares stops walking beside a bare faced piece of cobblestone.
“I think your face would look radiant here,” he muses.
I say nothing at all, and when he realizes I have no plans to humor him, he
continues our journey.
Along the sides of the cobblestone pavement, spikes lead the way. On each
spike, there is a decapitated human head. The heads vary in the decaying
process. Some spiked heads are fresh, but others are peeling flesh and empty eye
sockets.
His attention never wavers away from my face. Several times, I want to
vomit and scream, but with my storyteller’s former words of warning playing in
my head, I let the bile of disgust slide back down my throat. My expression is
apathetic to the two dozen decapitated heads, which lead the way towards the
blood-painted boar statues.
Lord Ares stands close to me. So close, in fact, that I feel the ghostly
remnants of words he never says aloud. His fingers slide up and down the small
of my back, and he leans forward so his lips graze the shell of my ear.
“You are the first in many decades not to vomit upon the sight of my home.”
If I did not know any better, then I’d assume I impressed Lord Ares.
“I can’t control much in my life, Lord Ares,” I whisper the truth in the
quieted air, all the while ignoring the stench of decomposing flesh. “But I can
decide what I fear, and I forbid you from taking that, too.”
He wants me to turn to face him, but I do not give him the satisfaction. I walk
across the cobblestone pavement painted with humans’ last expressions before
death, and I ignore the pungent stench of rotting flesh as we pass the spiked
heads of his former slaves.
His mansion’s first floor has floor length glass windows, and two slaves are
posted at each window. Their armor’s color is duller than Lord Ares’s, and it
appears rusted from aged overuse. They are as still as a statue, with hands
holding up a shield with a boar’s head and a six-foot tall spear. Around twenty
men stand across the perimeter of the house, but I do not see their mouths
moving or a human expression on their faces.
The second floor has two balconies which face the front yard. Vines coil the
marble banisters, and the sight might’ve been beautiful if there weren’t guards
stationed. Two guards are posted on each balcony, and they hold the same
shield, spear, and stoicism as the men on the first floor.
I refuse to look at Lord Ares’s face, which is only an inch from mine, but I
stare at the guards’ appearances. I can’t hide my mortification when I look at
them because their faces are mutilated by their specific scarification mark. While
their vision is intact, the human men were made grotesque by the brutality of
their scarification mark. Lord Ares wants anybody who sees his house to look at
his guards and fear them, and so he made them more beastly than man.
For a terrible second, I imagine my face like theirs, and I want to die before I
enter the house.
A boar-shaped knocker sits in the middle of the door. Just like the boar
statues on either side of the door, the knob is stained with human blood. Lord
Ares’s hand wraps around the bloodied object, and he knocks on his front door
three times. He pulls his hand away from the knob, and his palm comes back
bloodied.
Before the door opens, Lord Ares turns to look at me. The same hand that is
coated with blood grips my face and forces me to look at him. A vicious grin
seizes him, while his manic fascination centralizes on the red blood streaking my
ivory cheeks.
I can see it now, the excitement that seeing red blood coating my skin gives
him. The front door opens, but I continue to stare at my captor with ire rather
than fear. I stare at him, and I imagine golden blood across his cheeks the same
way he looks at me with red on mine.
As if he can hear the murderous thoughts swimming through my brain, his
voice holds a gentleness as he says. “You are magnificent.” His thumb is still
coated with red blood, and he slides the digit across my bottom lip. His rapt
attention travels with the movement as he murmurs in a husky cadence. “I can’t
wait until I wipe that defiance off of your beautiful face.”
“The only way that’ll happen is when my heart stops beating,” I sneer at the
promise with lethality.
“Don’t tempt me with such an inviting thought.” Lord Ares is the first to pull
away. He takes two steps back, and he looks at the slave who stands in the
opened doorway. “I want her cleaned from the arena and brought to my room in
two hours.”
He does not spare the male slave or me another glance before walking into
his own house, his head held high with arrogant power.
Only once he is out of sight, I inspect the human male in front of me.
He is older than me by a few years and is clad in armor similar to the other
soldiers standing at their post. He is the first human I’ve seen with a scarification
mark close up. The man wears a symbol of our enslavement and our name, but
the sight makes my stomach churn.
The slave was attractive before his scarification. This man has a strong,
clean-shaven jaw, and a sharp, narrow nose that could cut through bone with the
same brutality as a sword. Golden blonde hair counteracts his tan, slightly
burned skin. His eyes are like a storm, mixed with both blue and dark gray, and
they stare down at me with unbridled kindness.
Even his smile, lopsided with full lips and a front tooth longer than the other,
is gorgeous. He was beautiful before an immortal’s sinister blade vitiated him.
Most humans, after being claimed by a god in the arena, are given
scarification marks. These marks give a name to the once nameless. If an
immortal wants their human to be beautiful, then the scarification mark will be
small and in an easily hidden spot; however, gods like Lord Ares use the
scarification process to further minimize humans’ worth. The man in front of me
is proof of the vileness of the Olympian.
The man’s scarification mark starts on his left temple. A deep, black scar
zigzags down the entire left side of his face. He has a cruel mark that curls
around his chin, cutting right in the middle of his plush lips. While the right side
of his face remains flawless, highlighting the beauty he once possessed before
becoming Lord Ares’s slave, the left is brutalized.
The slave sparkles like a star when he takes in my appearance. Redness
blooms over his high-risen cheeks, and he bows in front of me as if I were
royalty.
While still bowing, he says. “Forgive me, milady, but you’re the first human
girl I’ve been in the company of for eight years, and none as gorgeous as…”
He stops talking, never finishing his compliment.
As he rises from his bow, he extends his hand towards me. “My name is Zig.
It’s a pleasure to meet you, milady.”
I stare at the hand he hangs in the air with confusion.
A joyful laugh in a land as dark as Lord Ares’s home lights up the room.
“This is a handshake. It is customary for you to close your hand around mine and
shake it.” He expels with happiness as he adds. “Otherwise, this is a tad
awkward.”
His hand is warm as I place mine on top. His fingers curl around the top of
my hand, and I almost dare to smile in this miserable place. Zig teaches me how
to shake his hand, yet, too fast, he removes his hold. Yet, his smile remains.
I ask. “How are you so happy?”
He shrugs. “It’s the only thing Lord Ares hasn’t been able to steal. He tries,
but he’ll never take my happiness from me.”
I shouldn’t, not when Lord Ares’s bloody promise for my wellbeing sticks to
my cheeks, but I let myself find a friend in Zig. I let his infectious personality
worm its way into my mind, which was murky with fear and anger. For two
seconds, I allow myself to see the world the way Zig does, but a loud crash has
me moving towards the deadly truth.
One guard, a man as thin as I once was in the prison, collapses.
No guard moves from their post. They do not glance at their comrade, who
lays unmoving on the ground.
“Is he…” I turn to look back at Zig, whose happiness falters upon the sight.
“Yes,” Zig’s words are grave as he explains. “Our post does not end until the
first person collapses dead, and then their replacements take over.”
I twist my body towards the guards who are still standing. A white towel is
placed under their boot clad feet. The white material is destroyed with the
soldiers’ urine.
“Come on, milady, let’s get you away from all of this.” He pauses for a
second, then adds. “And clean the blood off of you.”
Zig leads me up a staircase just as a fresh round of guards runs downstairs, a
clean white towel under their arm.
OceanofPDF.com
THE NINTH CHAPTER
Zig informs me almost two hundred male humans live here, but even in a
mansion as vast as Lord Ares’s, there are only four bedrooms designated for the
slaves. The rooms separate the men by their shifts. Fifty humans, their faces all
mutilated with scarification marks, are guarding Lord Ares’s home at a time,
while the remaining one hundred and fifty eat, train, and attempt to sleep away
their existence.
The door with the carved X in the middle is Zig’s, and he looks at me with an
unspoken apology in his eyes before opening it.
The room is larger than my prison cell, but there is no comfortability inside.
They cover every inch of their bedroom in blankets. Mangled men lay beneath
the blanket, sleeping on the floor with dirt still upon their faces.
There is one window in the room, which is no larger than my hand. This tiny
opening allows a stream of light where the men slumber in a dreamless state, but
Lord Ares keeps bars on their only escape. We’re on the third floor, and if the
bars were removed, and the dread was too much, then one terrorized human
could fling themselves from this window and escape the world of the living.
So, bars lay inch-by-inch across the window.
“There might be some girl clothes in here,” Zig mumbles, more to himself
than me, and he ventures further into his bedroom.
We make it two steps before a man blocks our path, anger thriving in his
pitch-black eyes.
Similar to Zig, there was once beauty where there are now only scars and
affliction. His skin is umber brown, and I know the gorgeous complexion once
stressed a powerful jaw and plump pink lips. While most of the men in the room
are sleeping and their bodies are concealed by their blankets, this man appears
the largest in both height and muscles.
His scarification begins in the middle of his forehead, and it creates a
diamond shape around the perimeter of his face. All the lines are jagged and
hateful, and if I did not know any better, then I’d guess Lord Ares was trying to
peel off the center of the man’s face.
The left and right edges of the diamond end on his sharpened cheekbones,
but the bottom of the jagged shape is on the tip of his pointed chin, where the
smallest accumulation of black stubble forms.
While Zig sees a sliver of allurement in his world of torment, this man does
not. Acrimony lives in his dark gaze, but the worst aspect of this man is the
absence of life across his face. He has a perpetually carved frown, which mars
his face worse than the scarification.
“What is a girl doing here?” His voice is as rough as a rusted blade, and I
flinch.
“She’s a girl?” Zig looks down at me as he feigns surprise. “I did not notice.”
I try to smile at the man, but he growls in response.
“Quit trying to scare her, Diam,” Zig says to the man staring down at us, and
he sighs. “I’m just trying to find her something to wear for tonight.”
“What’s the point of dressing her up?” Diam’s words are harsh, like
sharpened canines. “We all know she will be in the Underworld by morning.”
“Diam,” Zig grits, but his hand flinches on the small of my back with his
own brand of fear.
Diam’s hatefulness slashes towards Zig. “Unlike you, I’m being honest with
the girl. When you look like her in this house, death waits around the corner,”
without looking at me, he sneers. “Hopefully, I’ll be joining you soon.”
He turns away from us and saunters towards the far left corner of the
overcrowded bedroom. Once in his designated spot, he curls up into a ball and
covers his bulky build in a blanket half his size, but he doesn’t sleep like the rest.
He stares at the barred window with a forlorn dimness.
“Stay put.” Zig retreats near the staircase. “I’ll find you something to wear in
our closet.”
He is gone only for a minute or two, but his absence seems boundless. Every
man’s face is etched in terror as they lay on the floor, suffering travesties even in
a dreamless unconscious. Almost fifty men are compacted together in this room,
the pungent scent of their body odor mingling together to produce a stench so
vile that bile rises in my throat.
When Zig’s hand finds my wrist, I almost scream as I jump.
Sympathy is clear on his face, and Zig says. “Let’s get you away from them,
milady.”
I do not object, and neither of us speaks as we leave the room of
despondency. We are walking down the hallway, where all the slaves’ bedrooms
are located, when Zig breaks our silence.
“I’m sorry about Diam. He’s the longest living soldier in Lord Ares’s
mansion. He can be senile sometimes.” I do not ask, but curiosity must be clear
on my face because Zig elaborates. “This fall will make him the first in Lord
Ares’s home to live ten years. Some of the other soldiers think Lord Thanatos is
tormenting Diam by forcing him to live here longer than anybody else.”
Zig stops in front of a door and turns to face me. “Here, I got you the biggest
shirt I could find.”
He extends a white shirt, simple in design and humongous. My hands
tremble, and the garment slips from my grasp. Before the material can fall, Zig is
quick to catch it and extends the shirt towards me once again.
I reach out for the shirt, but before my fingers graze the material, I find Zig
staring back and falter. “Milady,” he says, the humor in his cadence gone. “I
swear on my life I will make sure you live for as long as I do. You will not die
tonight, not if I can do anything about it.”
I listen to his lie for his sake rather than my own, and I take the shirt from
him as he opens a light brown painted door.
“It’s called a bathroom.” Zig points towards the one familiar thing in this
room, which is a shower, and he says. “Lord Ares will want you to use it.
Change into the shirt when you’re done. If you need any help, then I’ll be right
outside this door.”
“Okay,” is the only word I can muster.
I am given my first glimpse of privacy throughout my life as Zig closes the
bathroom door. I strip out of the dress I once adored, which is now covered in
golden blood and dirt, and I walk into the shower. The knobs differ from the
ones in the jail cell, but after a few tries, warm water sprays downward.
My skin is cold, numb like the corpse upon Lord Ares’s mansion floor. I do
not process the warm water, nor do I react to the steam that emanates from my
pale flesh. My mind ceases its ability to think, to plan its next step as I scrub my
body with sweet-scented soap. I can’t formulate tears of sympathy for my own
circumstances as I bunch my hair into my hands, washing the shampoo from
each tendril.
The roaring nothingness drowns my storyteller, who is a constant voice of
positivism within my mind.
I do not remember stepping out of the shower or pulling the shirt on. When I
leave the bathroom, there isn’t a fragment of awareness. My mind is an
unfamiliar haze, which only ebbs towards clarity when Zig is knocking on a
crimson door. Each time he hits his fist against the door, he looks down at me
with clear nervousness.
No, not nervousness.
Unadulterated fear.
I look away, and I fixate back on the crimson door, which swings open and
welcomes me to my heinous demise.
OceanofPDF.com
THE TENTH CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
Downstairs, thunder crackles and screams erupt, but Lord Ares and I hold an
unwavering state with one another. The wound, which should still bleed, is
healed. I do not have to peek underneath my shirt to know the puncture wound is
gone, with not even a scar in its wake.
When my friend from the cells vocalized my differences, I claimed I was
normal, but now his words are roaring through my brain.
No, I don’t think you are.
The commotion downstairs grows louder, but nothing is as cacophonous as
the pounding of my chest; nothing is as lethal nor silent as Lord Ares’s glare. His
look of mortification forms a wound within me larger than his bloodied blade.
While he stares at my shirt, stained with the truth, I look at the blade within his
white-knuckled grasp.
Red blood coats the tip of the blade, but gold speckles are visible, too. Only
the immortals have gold ichor spilling from their veins, but my mundane blood
is somehow tainted with the godly touch.
I’m not normal.
I’m not human.
One second, Lord Ares stares from afar at the impossibility of my blood, but
with unparalleled quickness, he has his free hand wrapped around the back of
my neck. Lord Ares pulls me close. Our noses press into one another and our
lips are centimeters apart. I can kiss his heavy breath upon my mouth, but there
is nothing passionate in the embrace.
His words are ragged as he stammers. “It’s not possible. You’re not
possible.”
Irately, he stares at me and deciphers every square inch of my appearance
with scrutiny. Only a minute ago, he cited me as the most beautiful human he
has ever seen, but now I am a monstrosity that he must eliminate. The blade, still
bloodied with my truth, is pressed against my throat.
“What are you?” Lord Ares’s hand tightens around the back of my neck, but
his question is formed through gasped breaths. Fear is manifesting in a god who
has fought every victorious battle in human history.
The blade against my neck shakes, his hand quivering as he stares at me the
way I see myself: an abomination that does not belong. I am neither human nor
godly, but a damnable creature. I am the definition of the dirt upon the ground.
The noise from downstairs grows louder.
Swords clash and screams ricochet from the lower floor, but Lord Ares does
not care. He is gazing at me, the atrocity, as the blade threatens to break skin
once again. The only reason I am alive right now is because, just like me, Lord
Ares is frightened by what should not exist within my veins.
“Which god created you?” He asks, but he appears too frightened to hear the
response.
“I…” I gasp, my chest hammering a thousand miles a minute. “I don’t
know.”
He presses his blade closer to my throat, the skin threatening to spill, and
with a hatred that burns like a thousand suns, he sneers. “You should not exist.”
I expect the darkness before death to encompass me, but a shadowy man is
waiting for me.
My storyteller is waiting behind my closed lids.
He stands on the brink of the abyss, and he embraces the blackness as if he
belongs in the disparity. The darkness shields his face from my prying
inquisitiveness, but he is home when the world becomes too violent and
frightening. He has always been faceless, unable to see, but his power is felt in
the dreamworld air as if it were a sweltering change in the weather.
The shadowy figure that shields my storyteller’s appearance is tall, as mighty
as the walls within this world, and he must crouch down in order to reach me at
eye level. For two years, I have been surrounded by the storyteller and the
dreams we share, and I’ve only ever seen his hands, which are littered in black
ink.
Stories of his worst fears, he once told me, decorate his pale flesh. On the top
of his right hand shows a bird he calls a crow. With that hand, he delicately
captures my chin. I can’t see his face, but he is there like the wind; I may not see
him, but I feel him everywhere.
“Why are you letting him hurt you?” His voice is beautiful, a serene melody
gracing my ears amid the chaos. “There are weapons all around you, and yet
you are the most powerful one in the room. Show him the power living within
your veins until he fears the thought of ever touching you again.”
Without leaving the comfort of the twilight, I show Lord Ares the very power
he feared upon the first sight of my blood.
The shrill sound of Lord Ares’s screams jolts me back to reality, and I
witness the first sliver of power the storyteller always told me was within me.
One spearhead from his shelf of memorabilia—the only one made from a hard,
white material—flies out of the glass case upon my command and lodges itself
in Lord Ares’s neck. The god of bloodshed stumbles backwards, golden blood
spilling down his shoulder.
I stumble backwards, while candor stares back at me with aching clarity. I’m
not human, I can’t be. The dreams, the words of doubt from my friend, the
discolored blood, and the comments about my appearance spin through my
mind. I can’t ignore the obvious any longer: I’m not human.
“No, you are not human, my queen.” My storyteller confirms. “You’re
unadulterated power; now use it against your enemy.”
Lord Ares rips the spearhead out of his neck, and he is inflamed with rage.
He strides towards me with the knife raised and murder on his mind. Before,
Lord Ares had fear intermingled with curiosity. He saw me as an abomination,
but I was going to live until he discovered who created me, but now that I drew
his blood, death awaits me.
The screams from downstairs are now silent, and the only sound in the house
is Lord Ares’s ominous footsteps, which pound against the ground with brutal
promises.
With no other option, I lift my hands in the air and wait for some magnificent
magic to manifest. I am weaponless, weak compared to a god, but my hands
raise with a futile hope the magic that moved the spearhead will obliterate my
enemy before he can destroy me. I wait for the sensation of power to bubble
through my skin and to erupt from my hands, but nothing happens.
He swats my hands away, and I’m his victim once more; his knife returns to
its place against my throat. “Did he send you?” Lord Ares asks this question
with every bit of hatred seeping from his words, but I do not mistake the fear
that also ebbs to the surface. “Did my-”
He doesn’t get the chance to finish the sentence.
Before the question can leave his lips, the locked door is kicked down. The
home previously exploding with pandemonium is silent. The room is stifled with
tension, swimming in the rigidity, until three figures step through the threshold.
Lord Ares barks out a laugh. “You shifty little-”
Light blue smoke spills into the room, silencing Lord Ares mid-sentence. The
three figures at the doorway do not move, but they watch as the blue smoke
imprisons the room and all of its inhabitants. The smog slithers through the air
until it finds its target—Lord Ares’s nostrils.
Confidence transforms into confusion, and Lord Ares stumbles and drops his
weapon. He drowsily points at the male figure on the far left, accusing him
without words for the colorful mist. He coughs up the unfamiliar powder, but
after a few seconds of trying to fight the magic that enters his system, Lord Ares
collapses onto the ground. He twitches once, then does not move again.
Once Lord Ares is snoring on the floor, the three figures step out of the
shadows and into the room. I am trembling where I stand, but I keep my eyes on
the doorway. The blue mist is still in the air, but the trio walks through the fog,
steps into the light, and reveals their identities.
Lord Thanatos is drenched in black, just as he had been a few hours earlier in
the arena, and he is gliding into the room as if he is floating above the ground.
Meanwhile, Lord Hypnos, who is in a light shade of gray, flicks more blue
powder on top of Lord Ares’s head for good measures. The personification of
sleep smirks with his scar ridden lips, proud of his handiwork, but Lord
Thanatos rolls his eyes at his twin brother.
“You’re just jealous I have a cooler power than you, little brother,” Lord
Hypnos quips.
Lord Thanatos’s frown deepens. “We’re twins, we’re the same age.”
“Semantics,” Lord Hypnos says, and he waves Lord Thanatos off with a
sudden annoyance at the conversation.
My focus shifts to the immortal in the middle, who orchestrated this break-in,
and he ogles at me as if he has won the greatest prize. While I cower where I
stand, he strides forward with a boyish confidence that is polarizing from my
connotation of the gods.
“It looks like we showed up right on time,” there is humor dancing in his
voice, but when he takes an extra step towards me, I flinch. His amusement
dissipates. “You do not need to fear me. I’m here to help, my name is-”
“Lord Hermes,” I cut him off, surprising both him and me with the courage
to speak. “You’re the god of thieves and tricksters.”
I shouldn’t know who he is because the gods reigning over the prisons do not
teach us. My knowledge should be hidden, but I accidentally announce it and I
wait for his fear to set in. He must know I am different. A malfunction to the
gods’ world. While I can try to excuse the blood on my shirt for Lord Ares’s, I
do not think I can trick the god of tricksters if he questions me.
He doesn’t comment on my education of the gods; instead, he says. “Then
you know what I’m about to do next.”
The same blue smoke that has Lord Ares snoring on the floor is blown into
my face. It’s material slithers into my nostrils, and the world twirls and tilts upon
the magic’s command. I look at the three deities standing over me with visible
fear, but my gaze levels with Lord Hermes’s, who stands closest to me.
“Don’t worry,” Lord Hermes says, his tone softer than before. “When you
wake up, you’ll be safe.”
While Lord Ares tried to fight the sleeping magic, I welcome the darkness
because anything is better than this world. I close my eyes and yearn to
disappear for a few hours from a world I no longer recognize.
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER
Smoke, in varying shades of black and gray, swirl through my vision. Darkness
encompasses my soul, and I invite the pernicious cold with inviting arms. I let
the thickened mist, and its swirls of deleterious sorrow, coil around my biceps,
graze my bare neck, and lead me away from the emptiness of unconsciousness.
The obscurity pulls me towards the world where my storyteller dwells. I glide
away from the vacant land where humans commonly slumber, and the smoke
leads me towards a new realm of shadowed secrets and veiled electricity. I let a
smile lift over the curvatures of my lips as the familiarity of my storyteller’s
throne room comes into my view.
The room is draped in onyx sophistication. Obsidian curtains drape over an
arched window behind a throne meant only for a king. The curtains are made
from the feathers of a crow, his sigil. They decorate the curtains, darkening the
room of smoke and enigma from any glimpse of the sun. The only sliver of color
comes from the walls, which are painted in the darkest shade of purple.
Upon the gargantuan throne of varying jewels and blackened mist, sits my
storyteller.
His appearance is enshrouded. Every night he and I spend within this dream
world, the shadows and smoke he controls conceal his face. The only aspect of
his body unobscured are his tattooed hands.
On the top of his right hand, a crow is painted with brutal, black swipes. It’s
an irate creature, with squinted, dark eyes and a mouth open in a furious
scream. The wings are widespread, as if the bird will take flight off his pale flesh
and soar through the sky.
A monster rests on top of his left hand. The design is devoid of color, and
instead of eyes, the creature has my storyteller’s smoke seeping out of the
sockets like a disease ransacking its body. The monster is frozen in complete
petrification, and it lays in permanent sorrow upon his skin.
His tattoos are the first piece of artwork I see on his hands, but I always drift
towards the many rings that decorate his fingers. All the rings have silver bands,
but the gems are different on each digit. There are rubies, emeralds, topazes,
onyxes, sapphires, and tanzanite. My favorite jewelry is on his pinkies, which are
black sapphires. His rings dance along his fingers as he caresses the shadowy
elements he controls.
When he speaks, the air stills in anticipation of his magnifying words. “Are
you ready for another story, my queen?”
My storyteller has taught me everything I know. He is the reason I recognize
the gems on his fingers and the gods infesting my world. While I can’t see his
appearance, he can see the widespread grin that encompasses my face upon his
words.
“Yes,” I say.
“Good,” he purrs with satisfaction. Then he begins. “There was once a time
when the Olympians reigned over Mt. Olympus, the land within the clouds.
When Zeus was upon the throne of glittering gold, he stared down at humanity
with only two emotions. There was ire in him as he looked at a species that
Prometheus created without permission. Then, there was lust.”
My storyteller sighs in disappointment, and if the smoke dissipated for a
moment, then I’d know I’d find hatred within his expression.
Still, my storyteller continues. “Zeus does not care about the gender of the
person who gives him pleasure. Men, women, and even the occasional woman
turned into a cow. He preyed upon people, and he’d swoop down from Mt.
Olympus to pluck apart the sanity of whomever caught his eagerness that day.”
For two years, I’ve drifted towards the throne room, and each time I’ve met
with my storyteller. The first time I met him, there was an initial prickle of
curiosity to see his face. Now, I stand only five feet away from the precipice of
my fascination, and the urge to break through the smoke and see what lies
beneath possesses me. Each time his voice vibrates through my body, I want to
lift the veil of shadows to see what remains beneath the secrets.
His words seep into my bloodstream, becoming a part of me, without ever
witnessing the undoubted beautifulness of his appearance.
“Mt. Olympus was Zeus’s coveted home, one created after he defeated his
father in the Titanomachy War, but Earth was his favorite playground. Zeus and
all of his malicious kin would land on Earth’s ground and take whatever they
wished. Humans were not slaves to the Olympians when they lived upon Mt.
Olympus, but they were toys.”
Hatred makes his cadence tremble, his stance rigid upon his throne of
blackened jewels. His hands curl around the armchair with vicious intent. As his
nails dig into the wood, I wonder if he is imagining the chair as King Zeus’s
throat.
“Gods have always seen the humans as tools to fornicate with, banish if they
provided them with another bastard child, and kill whenever they please. The
Olympians were always monstrous when their feet landed upon Earth, but the
humans still worshipped the gods. The humans would ignore the death and
bloodshed of their loved ones by immortal hands because praying to the gods
when they were frightened was a better alternative than accepting an empty
afterlife. Fear has always been the gods’ greatest asset towards possessing
humans.”
My storyteller, with his nails embedded in his throne’s armchair, rises to his
full and imposing height. He stands before me, and his smoke drapes itself
around his body. An obsidian spiked crown lays upon his head, and I stare with
magnifying curiosity to see the face that wears the sigil of a king.
There are three steps in between him and me, which always separate us, but
today he breaks the barrier between us. Each step he makes to eliminate the
space sends vibrations through the ground, which shutters under his might.
When he stands a heartbeat away from me for the first time, the same electrical
current I felt in Lord Ares’s company surges through my veins. I look up at my
storyteller, who is within arm’s reach, and my body craves him.
The warmth radiating from his skin is a fireplace that’s too close, both
burning my skin and delighting me in its hickory scent. His chest is a breaths’
width away from mine, so close that I can feel each erratic palpitation. He’s
nervous, an emotion that I never thought would correlate with my mysterious
storyteller, but my curiosity behind the fear’s origins is short-lived.
The smoke listens to my storyteller’s silent behest and it no longer hides his
appearance. Blackened mist coils around both of us, and it draws me flush
against his chest. Our bodies make contact for the first time, and the all-
consuming warmth he elicits is how I’d imagine ambrosia to taste like. Pure
utopia.
The smoke, which he controls, leaves his pale, moonlight flesh and
enraptures both of us in a web of his creation. I drift towards the face I’ve
imagined and prayed to see each night for the past two years, and a veracious
gasp seeps from my lips upon the sight.
Zig and Diam’s scars are unappealing because they were delivered with
brute ferocity and were catastrophic to once gorgeous faces. I regret to admit it,
but I could not stare at the two of them for long because I was repelled by the
sight of what Lord Ares destroyed. But my Storyteller has more scars than them
both. Queasiness racked my stomach when I met Zig and Diam, but I do not feel
disgust when I see my storyteller. I look upon my storyteller’s face, which rests
on a multitude of scars, and I see beauty.
My gasp is one of amazement, and I am cautious as I raise my hand towards
the largest scar. His milky flesh, devoid of any sunlight, is slashed with hundreds
of scars. They vary in size and discoloration, but there is one upon his neck that
garners my fascination above all others.
He tried to hide this scar with a tattoo of a sword, but I can see the scar as if
there was no tattoo. The wound starts on the bottom curvature of his chin and
continues down his shirt, which conceals its size. The tip of the sword is on his
chin, and my finger glides across the risen skin with enthrallment.
Smaller, less noticeable scars decorate his high risen cheekbones and thick
black eyebrows. A more prominent one cuts the left corner of his lip. It is
undeniable that this scar is meant to demoralize him, but there has never been a
pair of lips I’ve wanted to kiss more than his. Whoever mutilated him wanted to
persecute him both mentally and physically, to ensure that nobody would look
upon him without recoiling with disgust, but his tormentor did not achieve their
goal.
He’s radiant.
Curly, black locks accentuate his angular, clean-shaven face. The thick coils
rest below his ears, concealing the sides of his neck from my inspection. Each
tendril of his hair is crafted to perfection, and when I run my fingers through
them, it’s the softest material. My smile continues to grow until it threatens to
devour my face whole.
“You’re,” I whisper out. “So beautiful.”
His hands are on my waist, holding me steady as I draw my gaze towards his
exotically gorgeous eyes. Twinkling like an unblemished blade underneath the
sun’s rays, my storyteller’s eyes are a magnificent shade of silver. I’m blinded
by his beauty, for I have never seen a man as magnificent as him.
My storyteller’s expression slackens in disbelief. “You’re not lying to me,”
he concludes, but he continues to assess my face for a hint of a lie.
I shake my head. “I don’t think I know how to lie to you.”
“How?” He asks in bewilderment, his voice devoid of its powerful cadence;
instead, a quieted sound seeps through the air. “How can you see beauty in this?
In what the Olympians created to ruin me?”
There is an unmistakable self-deprecating bite in his words, but just as I
always have, I gift him with my honesty. “It would take me eons to describe all
the ways I find you beautiful. I thought scars make a person grotesque, but I was
wrong. Scars are a story told upon the skin, and you’re more gorgeous because
of the stories you tell.”
His thumbs stroke my waist, but he lingers on my face in ready anticipation
to find lies. When seconds, then minutes pass without a flicker of disbelief
misshaping my face, his intensity moves towards my unblemished lips.
“Today is the beginning of many things, my queen.” His words are still in a
breathy and unraveled cadence. “You learned the truth about yourself and the
blood that runs through your veins. Beneath the smoke, you saw my scarred face
I’ve hated until today. Until you. Now, you will discover my name and the fight
towards eliminating the Olympians.”
“Wait,” I say. “Did you know before today about my blood?” The smile I
once had disappears and worry overtakes every inch of my once barely collected
sanity.
He ignores my question.
“Today, I’ll tell you the one story that I’ve wanted to tell you since I found
you two years ago, but I’ll start with my name,” one of his hands drifts upwards
and cups around my round cheek, while he lures me nearer. “While I enjoy your
adorable nickname for me, I’ve wanted to hear my name on your lips for too
long.”
Standing in his embrace, both frozen and electrified, one word that I’ve
waited to hear enters the air and slithers into my ear.
“I am Epiales, the personification of nightmares, and together we will help
the true king of the skies finally kill the gods that enslaved you and millions of
other humans.”
“I don’t understand.”
His thumb brushes my cheek, and he fixates on the movement. “I wish we had
more time tonight to speak, for me to tell you everything, but it will have to
wait.” His lips pour out one last sentence before I am pulled from our
dreamworld. “Once we kill those heinous gods, then we will take the
Underworld as its rightful king and queen.”
I bolt upwards in a start, my hand pressed against my chest, but I am not
given a second of reprieve from my discombobulated mind. I do not have time to
think about the name tingling upon my lips, or the promises spoken from a man
derived from scars and nightmares, because Lord Hermes is sitting at the foot of
the bed I lay in. There is a tray of food on his lap and a lopsided grin on his
boyish face.
“You hungry?”
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
This bed, plump with pillows and blankets unscathed from hungry mice’s teeth,
was once an unachievable goal. I knew what a bed was. Epiales promised I’d
one day slumber in one when he freed me, but I did not understand the gravity of
his oath until Lord Hermes leaves the bedroom and the bed is my sole company.
It’s comfortable, but too much so.
I accustomed my body to the cold, rough caress of a blood-stained floor. The
leftover, pungent stench of copper tickled my nose. Varying level of uproarious
snores would fill the stilled air, a lullaby that reminded me that every member of
my cell survived another melancholy day.
This room is warm, a mighty fireplace roaring next to the door that leads to
my personal bathroom. There is not a coppery scent in here; instead, a sweet
aroma differing from the strawberries or anything that I’ve smelled before wafts
through the wind. There is the hum of burned wood permeating, but there is an
additional smell that does not remind me of the deadly stench of the jail cell.
Neither snores nor additional voices grace my ears. I have never been
without another person within a five-feet vicinity. Even as I showered, I had my
shower-mate as company. My consciousness was occupied with the other
humans from my cells, and Epiales inhabited the world, which lived beneath the
veil of actuality. Now, it is only the noises of crackling wood and the occasional
creak from the bed as I shift from side-to-side.
I flinch when the silence ruptures by an unfamiliar voice, which is shrill and
eccentric, on the other side of the bedroom door. “Are you awake?” She asks. I
open my mouth, a response ready on my tongue, but the girl does not wait. She
thrusts open the door, and a smile larger than the arena spreads across her young,
freckled cheeks. “Good, you’re awake.”
The first noticeable features are her freckles. From the tip of her forehead,
down to her sandaled feet, deep orange spots pepper her pale complexion. She is
a fire, blazing in deviating shades of oranges and reds, and the sight is radiant.
While her skin is sprinkled with orange spots, her hair is the hearth of the
flame. Deep red pin straight locks slide down a thin neck and rests on her
shoulder blades. Shorter hair conceals the left side of her forehead, hiding her
dark red brow and dusting across the top of her lashes.
Her eyes are round like mine, but it’s the only similarity the two of us have. I
look at her and see the brightest shade of green eyes. A ring of gold rests in the
middle of them, but a majority of her irises are that blinding green.
A gasp escapes my lips when I look at her, but the shock that passes through
the air is not because of the vibrant green eyes or the freckles that stipple across
every square inch of her skin. I look at this girl, who is thin and tiny in stature,
with incredulity because her face is unscathed.
No scarification mark destroys her appearance.
She looks fine.
Better than fine. With a crooked yet genuine smile, she appears happy. Her
clothes aren’t covered in dirt, and her hair is clean. She stands in front of me
with ordinary, mundane features, but she looks too healthy to be a human.
“Where is it?” My voice cracks, personifying my disbelief with the words
that pour out of my lips.
The cheerful woman, who glides into the room and shuts the door behind her,
does not ask for clarification to my question. She is wearing a floor length green
gown, which covers her arms, until she rolls up the right sleeve. I wait to see a
mutilated atrocity upon her pale flesh. I wait to find the reason that Lord Hermes
is just like every other egregious Immortal, but when her sleeve is over her
elbow and she is presenting her scarification to me, it isn’t unseemly. She does
not fear the mark Lord Hermes gave her, claiming her as his slave until her
dying breath. She looks down at her scarification mark when I do, and she
gleams with pride.
On the smooth flesh of her forearm, there is a creature sitting there. Green
leaves surround the creature’s face, with red fur like her hair and white ears as
pale as her skin. I expected a fearsome sight, but the beady gazed beast upon her
white flesh is adorable.
“It’s a red panda,” her crooked tooth smile returns as she explains. “Lord
Hermes gave me the name Panda because my hair reminds him of this little guy.
I adored my scarification mark so much that Lord Hermes bought me a red
panda a few weeks later. I named him Roscoe. If you ever visit my room, then
you can meet him.”
I’ve always been told to fear the moment I will be branded as a god’s
property. In the prisons, Lady Hecate always said scarifications are the greatest
tool used to destroy a human’s soul. My mind burns with memories of Zig’s and
Diam’s, and the fright I’d been taught solidified with the sight of their mutilated
appearances.
Panda doesn’t seem destroyed, though. She’s happy and walking towards me
with her scarification arm outstretched.
“Do you want to touch it?” She asks, but I flinch at her question. “I’ve been
here for almost four years, so it does not hurt anymore, I promise.”
My finger outlines the ridge of the panda’s nose, then the ears that stick out
of its head. I admire the wisps of hair that poke through its pointy ears, as well as
the creature’s round cheeks covered in both red and white fur.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, more to myself than Panda.
Still, Panda replies. “Thank you.” She is no longer staring at her scarification
mark, or my fingers that gingerly trace the outline. She’s gauging my reaction to
her words as she breaks the silence. “Tonight will be the night you get your own
scarification mark. Lord Hermes will make sure that it is beautiful, like mine. He
always makes sure that you’re happy with the outcome.”
I drop my hand from her scar and scoot back in the bed, distancing myself
from the woman, who is happy as a slave. My back hits the wall, but she is still
too close to me. I do not look at the fiery-haired woman, or her scarification
mark that is neither appalling nor mutilating, but I stare at my unblemished skin.
The blue veins on my pale flesh have a dangerous secret. A gilded tint lives
beneath the surface, and it will condemn me to an early, unmarked grave.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” I ask, but the pain is the least concerning question on the
tip of my tongue.
“The gods who ruled the cell made it seem a lot worse than it is,” Panda says.
“Just think of it as a small little pinch that happens over and over again.”
Still, I won’t look at her. I remain engrossed in a large vein that begins at the
base of my palm and glides up to the underbelly of my elbow. The line, varying
in thickness as it progresses up my skin, is a shade of blue that’s deeper than the
sky. Yet, the longer that I stare, I can make out gold horizontal lines glistening
with the otherwise mundane blood flow.
Panda is oblivious to the magnitude of my fear, and she saunters towards the
door that hides the clothes Lord Hermes said were custom made for me. She
throws open the doors with theatrical exuberance, and she begins a pilgrimage of
the gowns.
“In honor of your first night here, I volunteered to show you how to dress and
pamper yourself,” she peeks her head out of the room with the clothes, and her
severely crooked front teeth gleam in the light as she quips. “It might take you a
few tries to understand a life that’s outside of the prison, but I will always be
here to help you.”
My confession of gratitude dies on frightened lips.
The once quiet room has erupted with Panda’s voice and my endless thoughts
roaring at me to run and escape before my blood is spilled. She is complimenting
me, then telling me the step-by-step process Lord Hermes takes during the
scarification night. A part of me is listening to her, but my anxiousness is
growing and festering until my mind is a barrage of thoughts.
“Storyteller, where are you?” I ask and search for the gorgeous man in my
head, who holds a million stories within the dozens of scars on his flesh.
“Epiales,” I outcry into the dark void in my head. “Come save me.”
There is no answer.
I stare into a room too large to belong to me. Panda never ceases her
conversation to a dazed audience, while I look at a purple, dainty object
enraptured in a clear cylinder case nearest to the bathroom door.
“Are you listening?”
Panda’s voice crashes through my discombobulated thoughts, and she stands
a few feet across from me rather than over by the dresses. A gown is folded in
her arm, the hue a faint blue. Panda blocks the purple tipped item with her thin
frame.
“This is important,” she says.
“Sorry,” I mutter unapologetically, while my finger rises towards what stands
behind her. “What is that?”
She turns, responding a second later. “It’s a flower in a glass vase,” she
walks towards the table where they sit, and she lifts the thin, green part of the
flower from the vase. Panda stares at the delicate purple strands, which rests at
the top, and the plums of yellow and red that seep out in the middle. “But I don’t
recognize this kind of flower. Looks a little like a lily, but it isn’t. It’s not in the
garden, either. How strange.”
The flower only garners Panda’s interest for a few seconds. She is quick to
put the flower back into its vase and then veers all of her attention back to me.
“If you like the flowers, then I’m sure Lord Hermes would let you build a
garden in the backyard.” She traipses towards me, and when her hand wraps
around one of my wrists, she pulls me off of the bed. “Let me help you start a
bath,” the tip of her tiny nose crinkles as she adds. “We’ll get you some flowery
body wash.”
“A bath?” I ask.
“It’s like a shower, except the water is in a round container called a bathtub,”
Panda explains as she moves me towards the bathroom, but her answer amplifies
my confusion.
“But,” I remark, making a full stop at the same time Panda uses her free hand
to open the bathroom door. “I already showered twice this month.”
That crooked, front-tooth grin returns.
“What I am about to say,” she begins. “Is going to amaze you.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
There are two wings in this mansion.
Panda explains that the left wing is where the slaves typically slumber. Their
rooms are in the same hall as one another. There are four vacant bedrooms in the
left wing, but I am on the opposite side of the mansion from the rest of the
slaves. My bedroom is in the right wing of the mansion. With only an adjoining
bathroom in between us, my room is next to Lord Hermes’s.
I’ve noticed that Panda tries to fill every silence with conversation. If there’s
a pregnant pause, then it’s promptly diffused with her voice. There is a short
walk from my bedroom to Lord Hermes’s, but Panda surprises me and doesn’t
fill the space with incessant rambles. She’s silent, and the only sound between us
is her shuffling feet and my hammering heartbeat.
We stand in front of the door, but neither one of us makes the move to knock;
instead, Panda whispers. “It’ll hurt, but then you can come to Pyro and my room
afterwards.” Her smile is fabricated and scanty. “We can share a bottle of wine
until the pain subsides.”
I won’t survive past my scarification when he sees the colors in my blood.
Panda doesn’t realize that I am an abnormality. I stare at this door, unblemished
with our knuckles clacking against it, and I see my death.
As if it were occurring right now, I can feel my throat being slid open with
one of Lord Hermes’s knives. Lord Hermes sees the peculiarity within my veins,
and I can hear the smirk in his tone. I can smell the coppery tang of my blood as
it spills upon Lord Hermes’s bedroom floor, forever staining my white flesh.
“I’ll see you after,” I lie.
She squeezes my shoulder. “See you then.”
Panda leaves with a skip in her step and obliviousness clearing her conscious.
I watch her, the gentle bob of her fiery locks as they sway to her jubilant jaunt.
As she caroms down the staircase, leaving my line of vision forever, I say a
silent farewell to the boisterous woman that foolishly believes I will survive to
see the next morning.
“Are you ready?” A male voice asks, and my hammering heartbeat stills.
I whip my head around, abandoning the shadow where Panda once stood, and
I face my executioner. Lord Hermes is taller than his doorframe, but he still
attempts to lean against the frame. His back is bent at an awkward angle, and he
crosses his lanky arms over one another upon his chest, but his face is solemn
and rigid.
Am I ready to die?
Without responding to the god of thievery, I take a step towards the opened
door. He nods once, understanding my silence, and walks into his bedroom with
me. I saunter a few steps behind him, still too nervous to get too close.
His room is just as large as the one that I woke up in, but while they
decorated mine in pale colors and purple flowers, his is paradoxical. A deep
shade of brown decorates white walls, from the frame that holds his bed up to
the rim around his bedroom window. A mighty rectangular object is sitting
against the wall to the right of his window, covered in smaller items with strange
symbols across them.
I’m going to die tonight in this bedroom.
My gold and red blood will stain the brown rug, splatter upon these strange
symbols, and fill this room with the malodor of my decaying corpse. I shouldn’t
look around my death site, but I remain imbued with the symbols and the large,
rectangular object that holds them.
The words tumble out of my lips before I have the common sense to stay
silent. “What is this?”
His voice is coming from behind me, several feet away. “This is my
bookshelf with my favorite books on them.”
“Books?”
I turn around and I face the source of my curiosity. Lord Hermes is sitting on
the corner of his bed with an oddly shaped object in his hand, and his brows in a
slight furrow. His fascination is on the books behind me, and they roam around
the plethora of them.
“They are filled with words, and these books tell a story. Sometimes, the
stories exist in the real world, but sometimes they are make believe,” Lord
Hermes says. “I teach all of my slaves how to read. I’ll make sure that you get to
read every book on that bookshelf by the end of this year.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lord Hermes.”
“I’ve kept this promise to all of my slaves; why would I make a dreadful
exception for you?” He inquires.
I meander my focal point away from him and towards one prominent vein,
and the subtle strips of gold that exist within them. I look at the atrocious truth,
which caused Lord Ares to recoil with fear, and I silently answer his question.
Because I’m not human.
“Come sit down,” Lord Hermes’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and as
tears bloom in my vision, I obey.
I take my spot on the edge of the bed beside him, and we instantly migrate
towards one another. He has never been this close to me, but with a faint sizzle
filling in the limited space between us, neither of us pulls away.
His hands are dangerously close to my skin, but he never touches me. He
opens his mouth to speak, but instead of words spewing out, there is only the
faint scent of mint leaving his lips. Lord Hermes is quick to shut his mouth, and
he rummages his hand through his dark brown locks. If I didn’t know any better,
then I’d think Lord Hermes is just as nervous as I am about this scarification
mark.
He has scarified many slaves, Panda and the others are proof of this, but he
sighs as if this terrifies him. I wait for him to break the silence and begin the
scarification process, but he is speechless. He tries to speak a few times, but each
attempt is futile.
My fate is death. The moment Lord Hermes sees the oddity of my blood, he
will know that I am an abomination, and his nervousness will transform into
unspeakable rage. Lord Hermes, who is currently terrified of breaking my skin
and causing me harm, will show me the monstrous side of him once my blood
becomes visible.
So, I hold out my arm where Panda has her scarification and I start his
transition from a kind god to a ruthless one. My arm is shaking frenziedly, my
fear paramount, but Lord Hermes does not start the process. I keep my attention
on that one long vein on my forearm; the tears blurring my vision, but Lord
Hermes changes my expectations when his large hand wraps around my forearm.
Electricity, small and subtle, tickles my skin where he touches me. I jolt my
eyes back up to him, but his attention is on his hand as he drags my arm back
down to my side. I look at him with unspoken questions, but he shakes his head.
“Turn around,” he says in a soft cadence. “So that your back is facing me.”
I am trembling, but I obey his command. Once my back, which is mostly
bare because of the dress, is in front of him, then his hands rest on both sides of
my waist. He pulls me backwards, his legs slide across the outside of mine, and
his body cages me in.
My back is too close to his chest, and my backside is pressed against his
inner thigh. His hands ascend from their place on my waist, and I lose the ability
to breathe. My heart goes to a full stop when one hand grazes the back of my
neck.
He’s going to kill me before he ever draws blood, I realize as tears slip down
my round cheeks.
His breath, warm and saccharine scented, brush against the back of my neck,
and I expect his hand to move to the front of my throat. I wait for him to curl his
long fingers around my windpipe, slowly but auspiciously draining each breath
from my lungs. I remain in dreadful anticipation of my murder, but he moves my
braid off of my back and over one of my shoulders.
A few seconds later, and the tip of an instrument presses against the middle
of my spine.
“About two hundred years ago, there was a girl who escaped her
enslavement. An immortal, who was infatuated with her, aided her escape. She
vanished from thin air. No matter how severely Zeus punished the guilty
immortal’s friends and family, who may or may not have helped them escape,
we never found her or the immortal again. After her, the girl with hair as white
as snow; my brother Hephaestus had to make amendments to the ink used during
the scarification process.”
There is a pause of silence between his story and the reasoning behind it, and
in the quietness, I hear my life ticking away.
For a majority of my life, I have yearned for death and freedom from this
world. I’ve wanted to live in the Underworld since I learned about the land of the
dead, but then I see Panda’s youthful, exuberant face. I hear the hope dripping
from Zig’s face despite his horrendous situation. After learning the name of my
storyteller, I no longer want to die.
I’m not ready to die.
“The ink makes anybody, human or immortal, traceable. Hephaestus can
track down anybody with this ink in their skin, but this power came with a
price,” his breath fans against the back of my neck as he speaks. “The blade we
used to scarify humans never breaks flesh but fuses with the skin. This blade is
meant to not only puncture human flesh, but the ink exists can fuse with gods’
flesh as well. This will be more painful than it once was, I’m afraid.”
His words give me a morsel of hope.
“But it doesn’t break my skin? I won’t bleed?” I ask.
“You won’t bleed,” he confirms.
I can hear my sigh of relief for miles.
“Are you ready?” Compassion laces his voice as he asks.
I nod my head.
A sharp pinch marks the beginning of the pain. Once the discomfort of the
pinch subsides, an intense sensation of fire enlivening in my flesh begins. I
clamp my eyes shut, and I try to imagine I’m somewhere else. However, nothing
can deter me away from the agony.
The repetitive pinch into my flesh isn’t the perturbing factor, but the burning
sensation is unbearable. Tears form again. No matter how valiantly I try to keep
them at bay, now that my life is not on the cusp of death, they stream in mighty
waves.
I use one of my hands to wipe away the sight of my weakness, but the second
tears glisten my fingers, the pain abruptly ends. I turn around, expecting him to
be finished, but he is staring back at me with pain in his expression, as if he is
the one being branded.
“Are you okay?” He holds the pen an inch above my skin. “I’ll stop for a bit
until you’re ready to begin again.”
“Don’t many humans cry during the scarification process?” I ask.
He sighs. “Every time.”
“Do you stop for all of them, too?” When he moves his head no, I turn
around so that my back faces him once more and I remark. “Then please
continue, Lord Hermes.”
I expect resurgence and after a few seconds of empty readiness, the pain
makes its reappearance. I suffer, let a few more tears fall, and bite back screams
for at least thirty more minutes until the pen is finally removed from my skin and
I can take a breath of relief.
“It’s official.” Lord Hermes breaks the silence, his breath sliding across my
bare skin. “You’re a slave in my house. Ares won’t be able to take you back
now.”
“Can I see it?”
He holds up a mirror at an angle where I can see both the reflection and my
scarification mark, and once I meet with the inked flesh, a gasp escapes from my
lips. While Panda’s mark takes up a majority of her forearm, mine is smaller.
The scar starts in the middle of my back, just a few inches above the start of my
dress, and is a radiant bright shade of purple.
The stem is long and thin, and at the top sits two flowers. One flower has
bloomed, displaying oval shaped petals, while the other one has not yet
transformed into its beauteous form. At the top of the blooming flower, there are
wisps of red and yellow strands that peek out.
They’re identical to the flowers in the vase in the bedroom.
I glance back at Lord Hermes as he places the pen in a wooden container, and
I declare. “It’s beautiful.”
He closes the top of the box, which holds the instrument that marred my skin,
and he glows with appreciation. Then, he asks. “Do you know what flower this
is?”
“No, but I’ve seen it in the room that I woke up in,” I answer.
“This is the saffron flower, and it is my personal favorite.”
“Why?” I ask.
An expression I recognize too well encompasses him. Sadness strips away
the happiness that once possessed Lord Hermes, and a raw stab of mournfulness
takes siege. As he sits in front of me, a man destroyed by death or abandonment,
I can finally see the immortal age in his boyish features.
“Many eons ago,” he says solemnly. “I had finally met a human that did not
care that I was a god. He and I became quick friends, and for the first time in my
Immortal life, I wasn’t just a messenger for the gods. I wasn’t just an immortal
with a responsibility of traveling deceased souls to the Underworld. I was just a
friend to a human man named Crocus.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, but I know where this story leads without
ever hearing it from my storyteller. I know because of the sadness encompassing
his face and darkening his green eyes.
“One day, we were playing a game called discus. Crocus was my first human
friend, and I didn’t realize my power compared to him. Or, worse, how fragile he
was. I threw the discus and killed the only human friend I had because of my
idiocy.” His gaze wanders from my face down towards the flower that sits on the
middle of my spine, and he continues. “I transformed him into the saffron flower
with the promise that if anybody owned that flower, then I would protect them
for the rest of their mortal life.”
“My name is Saffron,” I say my name for the first time in eighteen years, and
while the origins are abysmal, I smile from ear-to-ear.
As soon as the name leaves my lips, Lord Hermes’s sorrow falters, and an
impish smile grows over his pink lips. “Yes, you’re Saffron.”
I laugh, my cheeks burning with pride as I affirm what I always feared I’d
never get to achieve. “I have a name.”
He rises from the bed, the scarification pen’s wooden box under his armpit,
and he nods his head. “A beautiful name fitting for a beautiful woman.”
I cock my head to the side, confused. “Wait, did you just call me beautiful?”
His laugh bounces off of the walls and warms up a room once chilled with
frightened tension. “I have to go to work. I’ll see you tomorrow, Saffron.”
My back still stings, and my cheeks now burn with a foreign feeling of
giddiness. I almost forget the next step of the scarification night until Lord
Hermes is one step out of the bedroom, his winged sandals ready to take flight.
“Wait.”
Because of my words, Lord Hermes stills to a stop and turns to face me.
“Yes?” He inquires.
“What about my job in the house?” I ask. “Aren’t we going to talk about
that?”
Mischief overtakes his features, as he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Saffron.
Have fun drinking wine with Panda and Pyro.”
And he’s gone.
OceanofPDF.com
THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
When the room twirls and tilts, Panda informs me it’s called intoxication. It’s a
fun, bubbly sensation that happens when a human drinks too much wine too fast,
and while I stumble back to my bedroom from Panda and Pyro’s, Panda giggles
as she guides me towards the bed that awaits my rapt embrace.
“Goodnight, Saffron,” she enunciates my new name as she lowers me onto
the mattress and slides the blanket over my clothed body. “I’ll be upstairs
tomorrow with a glass of water. Sleep tight.”
My heavy lids fall, and my unconscious is whisked away from the mansion
and towards the obscurity I know too well.
The drunkenness enveloping my body is gone, and a room shrouded in
darkness greets me like an old friend. Onyx hued feathers drape across the
windows, the caliginous curtain concealing our dream world from everything
else.
My storyteller sits on the throne of obsidian elegance. Epiales sits with pride
in his chair with a face that no longer shields itself from my curiousness. Scars
decorate his milky flesh, but his plush lips curve upwards into the smallest smile
because he sees no fear as I look upon his face littered with stories of survival.
Ring clad fingers curl around the arms of his throne and he hoists himself to
his full, magnificent height. His eyes, as silver as the stars in the night sky, stare
upon me with hypnotic enamor. If I could see my reflection, then I am certain
that I am gawking at him with the same fascination.
Epiales is the moon the rest of the world stares at in rapt reverence. His
presence is a beacon that only the foolish would look away from. He walks down
his throne’s stairs, and he advances towards me. Each stomp of his feet on the
ground sends a thunderous hum through my veins. He is the manifestation of
darkness, from the top of his curly locks down to the shadows that nip at his
shoes, and I am hypnotized by it.
My storyteller is in front of me, staring at me for the second night in a row,
and there’s no denying the fascination laying across his handsome face. His
fingers are on my chin, and the cold caress of his rings tickles my skin. Epiales
moves my head upwards and guides me to his silvery irises. Immediate warmth
enraptures me.
His scar riddled smile is mesmerizing, but his voice is like nectar, a tendril of
sin and decadence. “I’ve missed you, my queen,” his thumb that holds my chin
gravitates higher, just barely brushing the curve of my bottom lip.
“I’ve missed you too,” is my whispered response.
His thumb halts on my bottom lip. “I have a present for you,” he announces.
Epiales turns his head back to where his throne rests upon a black pedestal.
Upon his command, his shadows move to the space to the right of his throne.
The gray and black mist intertwines together in a tornado, creating something
from nothing. When the shadows depart, a throne of black, gold, and red sits in
their wake.
The shadows, once completed with their masterpiece, slide back to the ankles
of their master, while I stare upon the throne of dazzling jewels with my jaw
ready to drop to the floor. While Epiales’s royal chair is black and silver, the
beautiful onyx gem glimmering under the dimmed lights, the other throne tells a
story with the intermingling of red and gold.
Epiales has shown me every jewel, familiarized me with the beautiful gifts
that the world offers, and this blackened gift is veiled in glimmering gold and
gleaming rubies. A story of my blood plays in the spirals of multi-colored
excellence.
I turn to look at my storyteller once again, whose hand has dropped from my
chin, and I ask. “Is that meant for me?”
“When the time comes and I’m allowed to,” Epiales’s voice is gravelly but
deepened in sincerity as he looks down at me and vows. “Then the throne, the
crown, and the title of the world’s queen will be yours.”
He takes an additional step towards me, and that is all he needs for our
bodies to collide. Electricity, more potent than any strike of lightning that King
Zeus could throw, scours through my skin upon his touch. One hand lies on the
plump curvature of my hip, while the other one cups my cheek. Blazing silver
irises stare down at me, admiring me with mutual enthrallment.
“I’ve spent almost every night in this dream world with you for the past two
years, and soon enough, we will spend every moment together. Not just in a
world that does not fully exist, but in a realm that we will jointly rule. Once he
has everything else in place, then we can be together as equals. There will be no
gods to-”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “He, who? I thought it was just the two of us.”
His soft curls bounce as he divulges. “If I could achieve this on my own, then
I would’ve, but I’m not strong enough.”
He pauses, the past reliving itself in his mind. Epiales had an impish smile
upon his scarred lips, but there’s now an outstanding frown. He grimaces in
solemn remembrance of the atrocities he’s endured. The sadness is painted on
his face like a ruined piece of artwork; perfect to all but the artist who created
the melancholy painting.
“Sometimes,” Epiales murmurs. “We have to work with evil in order to
defeat evil.”
I am shaking my head, a flood of thoughts rushing through my mind. “You’re
scaring me, Epiales.”
“Am I scaring you in the same way that Ares scared you with a blade to your
chest? The same way I am scared each night, when I am forbidden from saving
you from a god who could kill you without a second thought? Or am I scaring
you in the same way that Hecate would each day in the cells with stories of the
morbid truth?”
My body deflates, my thoughts switching from confusion to compassion, and
I let my hands speak my words. Epiales is much taller than me, but I move on the
tip of my toes to wrap my hands around the back of his neck. I thrust him down
to my level, and when the warmth of his breath nuzzles my cheek, I propel him
forward into a hug filled with electricity and tenderness.
His arms move to my waist, uniting our bodies with a yearning for comfort in
a world that provides none. His lips skim my cheek in a fond kiss, the closest I’ve
ever come to embracing a man. Epiales does not tilt my head towards his, for
our lips to join, but he holds me with the same earnest desire as I do with him.
Time is infinite in each other’s grasps, but I pull my hands from around his
neck and grab both sides of his face. Underneath my fingertips, I can feel the
jagged barbarism of his scars, but when I am at his focal point, I only see his
handsomeness. The beauty with the scars, not despite them.
“All I need are our dreams together, Epiales. I’m content knowing that when
I am asleep, you will be there, and the world is a little better.”
His hands clamp on top of mine. He draws one hand close to his lips,
pressing a kiss on the center of my palm, before focusing on my face once more.
The sadness which sharpens his features is pulled to the surface.
“That’s the thing, my queen. I do not just want you in the dreamworld I’ve
created for us. Every morning, I want to awaken with you in my arms. To talk
with you over a blistering evening and hold you in my arms when night has
come. I’m not sedated with just the dreams in which I only get a glimpse of what
I want, and my power drains with each passing day. The power to go into
nightmares, to control humans’ unconsciousness, grows more difficult by the day
as I wither away into nothingness.”
“Wither away?” I whisper as an agonizing sense of abandonment infiltrates
every fiber of me. “What do you mean?”
His fingers curl around mine in our embrace, and he hums. “I have none that
pray to me, and I’m disappearing slowly and painfully from existence. It’s why
we must work with him.”
“You’re not making much sense. Who is he, Epiales?”
He evades the question as he explains. “I am desperate, my queen, but so is
humanity. We’re all desperate for the same thing: survival and freedom. We
need him. He’s our chance to destroy the gods and save ourselves.” Epiales
squeezes my hands and stares at me with fire burning him from the inside out.
“He’s how we get our revenge and our thrones.”
I know the gods are monsters, but instinctual fear crawls into my chest upon
Epiales’s words. Freedom has been on the cusp of my greatest imaginations
before I had dreams with Epiales, but death was never on the precipice of my
mind. Escaping servitude is every human’s dream, but I will not accept my
independence with blood marring my skin.
Stumbling back from Epiales, my abhorrence for his words clear, and his
hands drop from my cheeks. I only retreat two steps before my back collides
against a warm body. Jumping backwards, I turn my body around and face the
second figure in a dreamworld that used to just be Epiales and me.
First, I see the watches that decorate his tanned wrists. There are three of
them on his left wrist, all ticking at different intervals. The Immortal proudly
wears them over his white, long sleeve shirt that is taut against his muscular
chest. I can see each ridge of his arms distinguishingly brawny underneath the
thin material.
Then, I drift towards his face.
He has golden brown hair, styled to perfection on the top of his head. The
gilded parts of his hair are only a few shades brighter than his tan skin, which
appears kissed by the sun. His face, unlike Epiales’s, is unscathed and demands
dominance. From his strong, narrow nose, the subtle dimple on his left cheek,
his sharp jawline, and round eyes, he appears too perfect. But long ago, I
learned to distrust a face as pretty as his.
His irises are the color of a storm just as lightning crashes through the sky,
identical to King Zeus’s in every imaginable way.
Epiales is right behind me, the warmth of his skin tickling my back, as he
concludes. “He’s our chance at a real life, my queen.”
This immortal, whose power ripples off of him in steady waves, cocks his
head to the side the same way King Zeus does and coos. “I’ve been waiting
centuries for you, little one.”
Epiales has only told me stories about the gods who enslave humanity. He’s
briefly talked about monsters from the ancient world, but his stories have always
originated in educating me about the gods who could become my masters in the
arena. Epiales never talked about the titans. Other than informing me of their
sovereignty after usurping King Zeus, I know nothing of the titans, but I know
this male who stands in front of me and turns my blood to ice.
“You’re Kronos, aren’t you?”
I am yanked awake before I can get an answer.
OceanofPDF.com
THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
Lady Aphrodite leaves with her words remaining on boundless rerun, and we
haven’t found the strength to speak. For five minutes, we’ve let the room drench
in silence and unspoken secrets. The smoke she disappeared in is long gone, but
the words she spoke linger like a foul odor.
“I think I’m going to need a drink,” Lord Hermes announces, breaking apart
the muteness.
He strolls through the kitchen, opening the little doors that contain food or
plates until he finds two glass cups. He sets them down on the counter, and after
a snap of his fingers, a bottle of brown liquid manifests in between the two cups.
There are no words, but an uproar of internal thoughts deafening the room.
He fills the cups halfway and walks towards where I have remained, frozen
in disbelief. Lord Hermes extends the cup full of brown liquid towards me, but I
do not grab the glass; instead, I blurt out one word. “Concubine?”
Lord Hermes sighs. “Aphrodite shouldn’t have revealed your status like that.
I don’t know how she figured out. I only told H-”
“Should I disrobe, Lord Hermes?”
My hands are on the straps of my pink gown, visibly trembling as I squeeze
onto the flimsy material and stare up towards my master. Lord Hermes slowly
lowers the two glasses onto the table next to me, where Lady Aphrodite once sat,
and looks at me with a deep set frown.
He shakes his head and says with great dejection. “No, that’s not why you’re
here.”
There is silence for too long, and my fingers are still hesitating on the straps
of my gown. He is as quiet as I am, but while my feet are unmoving and
plastered to the ground, Lord Hermes walks to the back of the kitchen. He opens
a white door and removes a rectangular object.
The only noise in the kitchen is his feet, which are tapping against the floor
as he moves back to where I am. He sits on the chair beside the two abandoned
glasses of brown liquid, and then he sets the white, rectangular object on the
rounded table.
He picks up the glass once more, and sighs. “Do you want to learn how to
play my favorite board game?”
I ask. “You don’t want to…”
I let my words drift into the wind, the purpose of them redundant when both
he and I know the rest of my question.
Lord Hermes assures me. “That’s not why you are my concubine, Saffron.”
“Then why am I?” I ask with an undistinguishable tremor in my voice.
“Do you want to take a seat? You’ve been standing for quite a while,” Lord
Hermes evades my question while gesturing towards the empty chair across
from him.
When several seconds slip and I am still standing, Lord Hermes sighs but
leans forward to grab both sides of the rectangular shape he’s called a board
game. There are two parts to the box, and he lifts the top portion. Curiosity
draws my gaze towards this unfamiliar contraption, where a myriad of different
colored shapes and sizes await me.
He opens a bluish green square from within and opens it up while explaining
to me. “The board game is called Monopoly, and when we came crashing into a
modernized world to re-establish our ancient tyrannical roots, I kept this game
before the rest turned to dust under Zeus’s fingertips.”
He sets the multi-colored items in their designated sections, while I watch on
with my hands on my waist instead of on the straps of my gown.
“I haven’t gotten to play this game with anybody in a very long time.” Lord
Hermes sets a shoe-shaped item on a corner and asks. “Would it be alright with
you if we play a round of Monopoly, drink a bit of whiskey, and pretend that we
aren’t two very different people forced into a terrible world?”
When I finally find the ability to speak again, it’s scratchy and opaque. “Is
this what you want from a concubine, Lord Hermes? Somebody who will play
board games, drink, and pretend with you that the world is all right?”
“Is that such a terrible request?” He responds, one of his brows raised a
quarter of an inch higher than the other.
I shake my head. “This isn’t right.”
“What isn’t right?” He asks. There isn’t a molecule of judgement in his tone,
only mild curiosity.
“My entire life, I have been told about the jobs we may get once an immortal
wins us in the arena. Before the gods taught us how to speak, they made sure that
we knew our job options and the duties that came with these jobs.”
“It’s not like that here, Saffron,” he says, but I shake away his words.
“There is the job of the Laborers.” I push through his words that he is
different, and I explain the facts I know about the gods. The gods who Epiales
wants to destroy with Kronos and me by his side. “The Laborers are the
unfortunate humans that no god or goddess wanted on the arena floor. These
humans would be forever nameless, sent to one of Queen Hera’s labor camps to
produce more children for the vicious cycle of human enslavement. Laborers’
lifespans are only as long as their fertility. Then, the nameless and unwanted are
killed without ever holding their children in their arms.”
Lord Hermes’s face slackens with sympathy, and he wants to say anything, to
apologize for his species’ actions, but I do not give him the opportunity.
“Then, there is the job of the dispenser, which is the most frequent job
amongst humans.” I sneer my words with hatred bubbling in my chest because it
was my job in Lord Ares’s home. “Dispensers are nothing more than death’s
brutal gift. Dispensers are nameless, like the Laborers. Before their lives begin
outside of the jail cell, they are killed. That is all they are, quick kills for the
gods. They never survive to see the next sunrise after the arena.”
Glaring down at Lord Hermes, I try to imagine him with the same inkling of
hatred I have for the other gods who have tormented me. I look at his boyish
features, and I think about Lady Hecate and the blood drenched lipstick she
wore. When I see Lord Hermes, I imagine Lord Ares’s navy blue irises that
brewed with disgust when he saw my mixture of gold and red blood. Lord
Hermes is in front of me, and the image of Lord Phobos and Lord Deimos
return, their taunting laughter when they held my ration of food just out of arm’s
reach like nails screeching down glass.
I try to picture them when I look at Lord Hermes, but all I see is sadness on
his face as I show my hatred for his kind.
But I don’t stop spewing my abhorrence for his family.
“The second most popular profession is the toy. An immortal’s toy is the
equivalent of a pretty piece of décor on a god’s shelf. The toys are always
attractive, but their bodies are always defiled by whomever purchased them.
Their life expectancy is longer than a dispenser, and they are given names, but
their existence is strife personified. Whatever a god wants to do with their toy is
acceptable.” Hot, angry tears stream down my cheeks as I snarl. “Anything, no
matter how perverse.”
“I’m-” He tries to apologize for his family, but I do not give him the
opportunity.
“Another job is a maid,” I snap while crying for the thousands, if not
millions, of lost lives. “The maids clean the immortal’s home and complete all
the chores, but they are more frequently toys and rarely last longer than
dispensers. All it takes is one dust speckled shelf or a spill on the floor, and an
immortal would kill the maid that was inconsequential to their eternal lives.”
“Saffron,” he speaks my name as if it were a plea, but I do not stop speaking
the truth.
I act as if I never heard him and continue. “A human could become a cook
who makes food for the immortals. They refill empty glasses with nectar, supply
ambrosia, and feed the bare minimum to the other slaves. But their fate is as
abysmal as the maids. If there is an overcooked meal, then their death is
wickedly sealed. Again, a short life expectancy.”
I expect Lord Hermes to interrupt me again, but he is silent and staring up at
me with his own sadness clear in bloodshot eyes.
“Soldiers are tasked with guarding their immortal against the enemies that
their master has garnered from eons of mistakes and acts of vengeance. That’s
the duty of every male unfortunate enough to be won by Lord Ares in the arena,
and most of them die within the first two months of their servitude. They’re
sometimes killed by the immortal’s enemies, but most frequently they die of
dehydration or starvation because their lives are so unappreciated by the gods
that they forget to feed them.”
I do not fight the tears, and the anguish slamming into my chest with the
severity of a knife. I let Lord Hermes see the reverberation of the gods’ fear and
destruction upon my distraught features. Tears slip from the god’s eyes.
“We could be decorators, like Panda, who make sure that the house is
prestigious, but their lives are just as fragile as the cooks. If the immortals dislike
one slight change to their house, then the decorators are killed with such savage
exaction that even Lord Thanatos is told to weep in disgust. Again, just like the
chefs and the maids, they are frequently toys as well. Distorted to whatever
image the god, who won them like a piece of property, wants them.”
I wipe at the tears streaming down my cheeks, but they spill in an endless
downpour.
“Then there are concubines,” I snap.
Lord Hermes flinches as if my title in his home was a slap across the face.
“The concubines are the most beautiful men and women in the arenas and are
always the most coveted, but beauty comes at a price when you’re a human.
Concubines are the equivalent of a naked, unmoving body. They are inanimate
objects rather than a woman or man with hopes and feelings. If you’re tied to the
right God or Goddess, then it’s possible to survive a few years before reaching
the Underworld, but most concubines die within the first three months.”
I laugh, but the sound is devoid of any humor.
“Saffron, that’s not why I want you as my concubine,” Hermes says in a soft
cadence, but I ignore him again.
“Or concubines survive a few days if they’re tied to an immortal with a
jealous spouse.,” I continue. “Everybody correlates concubines with one thing,
and it isn’t their dazzling personalities. These cursed jobs are what I’ve learned
my entire life, along with the abysmal expectancies that are correlated with
them. I’ve expected carnage and mutilation, I’ve expected my body to no longer
belong to me, and I’ve waited for the moment that I spend eternity in the
Underworld. But then…”
I let my words become one with the wind, but Lord Hermes stands up to his
feet and moves towards me with his own tears streaming down his cheeks. He
walks towards me until he is at arm’s width away, and I know he wants to
comfort me. I can see the twitch of his fingers and anxiousness in his teeth that
nip at his bottom lip, but he doesn’t break the distance between us with an
embrace.
He leaves the choice to me as he asks. “But then what, Saffron?”
“But then you didn’t follow the rules, not even in the slightest.”
The last of my anger and tears slip, but I do not dismiss them. I let Lord
Hermes rivet towards the stream of sadness, sliding down my round cheeks and
dripping off of my chin.
“I don’t like those rules,” he finally confesses.
“When I was at Lord Ares’s, I was a dispenser,” I reveal aloud for the first
time. “My job made sense because that is how I’ve been taught. I was going to
die if you, Lord Hypnos, and Lord Thanatos didn’t save me, but I wasn’t
confused there because I knew what my job was and what it entailed. Yet, here I
stand in front of you as your concubine, and you do not want me for anything
else than company. Here I stand, and you see me as a person rather than
property.” I shake my head in disbelief as the last bit of truth slips from my lips.
“You’re different from any other god,” I admit as a stream of brown locks falls
from my braid and brush across my face.
“You’ll be surprised how many immortals differ from what you’ve been told
in the prisons,” Lord Hermes raises a hand, and he inches towards the tendril of
fallen hair, but he curtails his instinctual desire before he touches me. He clears
his throat and moves towards the round table, where the two glasses of whiskey
and the Monopoly game patiently wait for our attention. “I would like to explain
with words that I do not want you to be my concubine for anything else other
than company, but actions are much more potent. If you would like to, then
please sit and enjoy a round of Monopoly with me. I think you’d like the game.”
“And if I do not wish to?” I dare to ask.
“Then you may go back to your bedroom,” he says. “Or anywhere you’d like
in this house. China and Panda have created a beautiful garden in the backyard
that you might enjoy.”
“I’ll play one round, Lord Hermes,” I decide.
When he looks up at me, the eons-old immortal looks no older than I am.
“Please, just call me Hermes. I don’t want you to see me as your master.”
“What should I see you as, then?” I ask, my hesitance clear in my voice.
For several seconds, he ponders this question before finally giving me an
answer.
“You want to be seen as a person with thoughts and feelings, and that is what
I’d like as well. My hope is that you see me as a man who has never purchased a
human with the purpose of killing them. I want you to see me as somebody who
has never had a toy, harmed his maids, chefs, or decorators. A man who cares
for humans and abhors the slavery system with a burning passion.”
“Then why do you own slaves?” I ask without judgement, but an abundance
of curiosity.
“I’m not a skilled fighter, no matter how often I train for the arenas. Zeus
limits us to two fights per arena, but I jump into the arena each time to save
humans from gods like Ares, who wants them for certain death.” Lord Hermes
fiddles with a Monopoly piece in the same shape as Hattie’s scarification. “I do
not have the power to end slavery, but I can make as many humans’ lives easier
by giving them a glimpse of freedom in my home. The only humans who have
died before they reached their elder years while living with me were when
Athena and Poseidon got into a terrible fight in my home. Their fight ended in
all but one of my slaves becoming casualties, and they have been forever
uninvited from my home because of their actions.”
“Your slaves become elderly?” I ask with disbelief lacing my tongue.
He nods his head and divulges. “The first slave I won in the arena lived to be
one hundred and one years old,” he looks at where I stand, and something in my
appearance makes his sadness lessen; he murmurs. “How you’re looking at me
right now, as a person with feelings, is how I always want you to look at me. A
male who despises human enslavement and vows to always protect every person
in this house with every inch of my power. Including you, Saffron. Especially
you.”
There is a long pause, where I process his words while he waits for my
response with a tight grip on the hat shaped Monopoly toy. For nearly five
minutes, we are in complete silence until I finally look at him, and I see
somebody other than a god. I see a sweet man who promises human safety more
than anything else.
“You’ve never killed a slave before?” I ask once more, my tone laced in
abashment.
“Never,” he says as he passes the miniature shoe towards me. “Hecate put a
spell on my house that forbids any god or goddess who has killed a slave to enter
my home. I think it’s why Ares hasn’t tried to steal you back. Anybody who has
permission to enter my home will never harm you. I promise, Saffron.”
“Even Lady Aphrodite?”
Hermes laughs with a lace of humor attached. “Even Aphrodite. She may
annoy me, but she does not harm humans. Never has and never will.”
I slide my thumb across the smooth, cold material of the miniature shoe in
my hand. “Do you promise I can trust you?”
Epiales’s words of how terrible each god and goddess is to humans play on
repeat in my head. His vows that I can’t trust them are on an endless loop inside
of my mind. Even in a world away from my dreams, I can see Epiales’s scars,
and I wait for Hermes to show his malevolent truth and throw a knife towards
my head.
But I’m unsurprised when he responds to my question without a hint of a lie
on his tongue.
“You are my first concubine, but you are not here for whenever I desire
intimacy. You will rule this house beside me as a friend for as long as you wish
to be, and I will let nobody harm you. I will not harm you,” he restates with
sincerity. “You are my equal in this house, and I will do everything in my power
to ensure you grow to have fond memories of this home,” he spins the Monopoly
piece in his hand as he remarks. “My only request is that you partake in the best
game in the world.”
My attention deviates to the miniature shoe that rests in the palm of my hand.
“And this is the best game in the world, Hermes?”
A genuine smile curls over his lips when he realizes I dropped the
formalities, which are mandatory whenever a human speaks to an immortal. I
should be whipped, or worse, for such a crime, but Hermes smiles at my words
as if it were a grand gift.
“Yes, of course it is, as long as we never play a round with Apollo,” Hermes
fake whispers with his hand around the side of his mouth. “He’s the biggest
cheater I’ve ever seen.”
A laugh burst through my lips without warning.
“I have to reveal something,” Hermes says as he picks up two tiny white
cubes with black dots on top. “There is one thing you said about concubines that
is true.”
My heart stops completely. “What?”
“You said that concubines were the most beautiful women in the house,” he
drops the white cubes onto the board game and says with a golden hue growing
on his cheeks. “It’s the truest statement I’ve heard in a millennium.”
I finally take a seat in the offered chair, my cheeks burning brightly as a
newfound flutter resonates in my chest.
With a smile still on his lips, Hermes teaches me the game of Monopoly.
“There is this thing called money,” Hermes explains. “That you must get
through the game. In order to make more money than what you’ve already
gained, you must buy little boxes and cards.”
“I don’t know how to count,” I admit.
“I’ll teach you,” he promises.
Throughout the game, Hermes is true to his word. He helps me count out my
money, which he told me is of no use in the real world. Near the end of the
game, I steal a handful of pink dollars.
You know, just in case.
The game lasts around three hours, and once I am the crowned winner, I let
myself care for the god who purposefully chose a game that would help me learn
to count.
“Thank you,” I say as we pack up the game.
He turns his attention back to me, deviating away from cleaning up the game
of Monopoly. His shaggy brown locks flop to one side of his forehead as he tilts
his head in confusion and asks. “For what, Saffron?”
“For being different from the others.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER
For the first time in my life, I avoid going to sleep. After my game with Hermes,
fatigue tickles the back of my heavy lids, but I lay on my bed and stare
unblinkingly at the ceiling. Epiales waits for me in my dreamworld, but who will
join him there?
Will Kronos, a monstrous titan who sends caliginous fear down my throat, be
accompanying him?
Sleep comes for me, forcing the conscious world to dissipate from my
desperate grasp. My dreamworld was where I once correlated with safety, but
now I fight the grip of sleep. Yet, with the same valiant effort as my experiences
with trying to stay asleep, I lose the battle.
There are no sinister smirks, or the faint sound of three watches ticking at
separate intervals. My body does not freeze with fright, and a voice created from
melted gold does not slither through the dreamworld I once saw as my
sanctuary.
Kronos is absent from sight, but Epiales is sitting on the steps leading
towards our thrones with his hands burying his head.
His normally wind-spun, curly raven locks are manic, indicative of hands
anxiously running through them. Pulling at them in hysteria. His back is
hunched over, and the confidence I’ve always seen from Epiales is absent. The
charm, which he wears like gem-encrusted jewelry, is gone. His shadows, just
like him, sit limply on the steps towards a throne he always sits upon.
I take a step towards him, and Epiales jerks upwards. He centers on where I
stand, with disbelief marring his appearance. He jolts up to a standing position,
wiping away any debris from his knees, and moves closer to me.
“I thought you were avoiding me,” he breaks the silence with vulnerability,
which is such a foreign sound in his voice.
“Maybe I was,” I concur with the same quieted cadence.
I take another step.
Then he does.
The thoughts of Kronos, of the fear that plummets into my chest when he is
infiltrating my mind, are still there, but I cannot stay away from Epiales. My
storyteller, my haven, and my friend. He, too, moves towards me with a
magnetizing pull. Just as I can see him without the scars, he is the only male in
the world who sees the somber, self-defeated side of me and still sees beauty.
His shadows yearn for my company with the same urgency as their master.
The obsidian mist curls around my ankles, tickling my skin as they spiral around
each leg and surround my body.
Epiales is only a few steps away from me now, and he outstretches his hand.
“Do you care for a dance, my queen?”
I am in nothing but a long shirt, which stops a few inches above my knee, but
when my hand lands upon Epiales’s, I am transformed. The shadows encompass
my body, removing the tie holding my hair together and disrobing me from the
shirt. In a spiral of shadows and magic, I am manifested into a queen with a
crown worthy of her excellence.
When the shadows dissipate, there is the familiar heaviness of lipstick on my
mouth. My hair is falling down a little past my shoulders in wavy ringlets. A
weighted crown is on my head, while a gown of radiant red clings to my body.
The dress is floor length, leaving a slight trail in its wake. While the sleeves
of this gown reach the top of my hands, they end in a triangle shape and loop
around my middle fingers. The gasp, which leaves my painted lips, is not
because of the gown’s sleeves. My hand placed on top of Epiales’s has an
accessory on the fourth finger. A ring of brilliant red and gold garners my
disbelief.
“One day, my queen.” He raises my hand that holds his ring, and he presses
his lips against the top of the jewel. “It will all become reality one day.”
His kiss sends a current through my body. The pit of my stomach warms as
he uses his grip upon my hand to bring my chest flush against his. His other
hand captures my waist, while I guide my free hand towards the top of his
shoulder.
I look up at him. “I do not know how to dance.”
His smile is enough to still the heart of any woman, or man, in the world.
“I’ll take the lead. Just follow my steps and you’ll be magnificent.”
Epiales’s movements are slow, his feet shuffling between the same two spots.
The steps are simple, and when I take his lead with ease, he integrates an extra
movement. Then another. Time is infinite when I am in Epiales’s company, and
as we tell a story with our rhythmic movement, his words filter through the air.
“May I tell you a story that I’ve told nobody, my queen?”
Without fear, I realize I am his prisoner. I am beguiled by him, enamored by
each tilt of his head, each wayward glance that is dedicated to me, and each
word that filters out of his scarred lips. I am a prisoner to his beauty because I
can’t bring myself to look away.
“It is a sad tale,” he admits.
“What is it about?” I ask just as he lowers me back, dipping my body until
my hair tickles the floor.
I am propelled upward again and brought so close to him that the tips of our
noses graze one another. The smell of mint and smoke strokes my lips as his
words breathe into me. “It’s about how I ended up in Tartarus, the prison deep
in the Underworld’s belly, designed only for immortals.”
He dances with me, his feet shuffling across the obsidian floor, but pain
worse than a blade to the chest mars his soul. He spins me outwards, allowing
me to feel the ginger brush of the wind, but when I am spun back into his
embrace, his story begins.
“When the titans first usurped us from Mt. Olympus, the idea of enslaving
humans was conceived. For many centuries, there has only been one way a god
could die, and that is if we are forgotten. Zeus feared being dethroned from Mt.
Olympus would cause the humans to forget him, and he’d disappear from the
world. So, him and many other gods took Earth from the humans and forced
them to become our slaves.”
His movements slow down, and as seconds go by where there is only silence
as I process his words, the dancing comes to a complete halt. Epiales still holds
me, one hand intertwined with mine while the other holds my waist. I do not
move, my fingers still cupping the back of his neck.
“Selfish fright blinded me,” Epiales divulges, his cadence weakened but
dripped in honesty. “And I followed my king along with many other gods, but
one deity fought back. When he found his destined soulmate, his third love,
screaming in her dreams for freedom and mercy, my nephew intervened.
Morpheus was a benevolent god, and he no longer obeyed Zeus’s orders to
enslave the humans because of our own fear. He helped his soulmate escape,
along with the other humans who lived with her, and nobody has seen them since
the day they disappeared.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Two hundred and fifteen years ago,” he answers. “Humans do not have
dreams anymore because of the clemency Morpheus gave his soulmate and the
three other slaves who lived with her in Heracles’s house. When he helped them
escape and live freely, as all humans should, Zeus went mad with fear. The
wicked king did not blame Heracles, who lost all of his slaves. He didn’t blame
Hypnos, either, who is Morpheus’s father. Morpheus’s brothers, Icelus and
Phantasus, weren’t to blame, either.”
I already know the dreaded path this story is taking, and before he can say
the terrible truth, I softly infer. “He blamed you, didn’t he?”
He audibly gulps. “Morpheus and I were close. I have no children of my
own, and he was the closest that I’ve had to a son.”
Epiales’s touch, which was once warm and elicited electricity throughout my
body, has gone cold with grief. His thumb still strokes the waist he tenderly
holds, but his silver eyes are a pool of sorrow where he and I drown without a
way to break to the surface.
“Every scar marring my skin is a punishment from Zeus. I should’ve healed
from every torture, but the Fates wanted me to become a mutilated version of
myself. If my mangled appearance was the only punishment for my silence, then
I wouldn’t be working with Kronos. I wouldn’t choose evil to fight against evil,
but destroying my appearance wasn’t enough for Zeus. I was stripped from
every book that was ever written about me. Each statue in my honor destroyed,
and any human who knew that I existed was murdered in front of me.”
“He wanted you to be forgotten and disappear,” I surmise with horror lacing
my voice.
Tears form, but they never fall down his scarred cheeks. “After the last
human who knew me was murdered, I tried to kill him, but I wasn’t strong
enough. I was thrown into Tartarus without a second thought. Zeus knew I knew
where Morpheus took the humans, and since I wouldn’t betray my nephew, I
would disappear in a prison dedicated to the worst immortals and their
unforgivable crimes.”
One tear falls down his pale flesh. Another falls, then three and four join
them in ominous unison. My hand, which rested against his shoulder, cups his
angular face. He tries to brush away his sadness, and I help him. My thumb
continues to swipe away silver streaks, but they continue to tumble down.
“That’s where Kronos found me,” Epiales reveals as he replaces the sadness
with vengeful determination. “With my livelihood disappearing into the pit of
Tartarus, where he was once imprisoned. He promised me a chance to destroy
the ones who wronged me. He promised to free me from a prison of empty
nothingness. If I did everything that he asked without question, then he would
make me King of the Underworld, where I’d never disappear but thrive with a
crown upon my head.”
“Are you still there?” I dare to ask. “Are you still in Tartarus right now?”
His expression is sad, but his answer is harrowing. “It’s why I couldn’t save
you from Ares when you called to me.” More tears fall down his face, but this
time, he doesn’t hide his devastation and I stop wiping them away. With a
mournful ache on his face, he tells me. “It’s why I haven’t taken you from
Hermes yet. I’m still a prisoner, waiting to be freed by a titan I swore allegiance
to.”
“You’re disappearing,” I say with my heart breaking and my own tears
building up.
“Our dreams will be less frequent after today, so that I can conserve my
energy for when Kronos comes for me. For when he saves me, and you and I
fight alongside him to destroy the gods who tried to kill us both.”
“But…” I stop talking, my own thoughts no longer black and white but a blur
of gray.
But do I want to destroy all the Gods?
Do I want to destroy Hermes?
“He is how I found you,” Epiales murmurs as his hand gravitates away from
my waist and moves towards the curve of my jaw. His touch sizzles my skin,
electrifying me. “He found you in the prison cells, with blood that was neither
human nor god, and told me to tell you stories about the gods. To tell you the
truth of the monsters who exist in this world. I did not know you existed before
two years ago, but he’s been eager to meet you for many years.”
Upon the mention of Kronos, of his eagerness to acquaint himself with me,
Epiales’s electrifying touch turns cold as ice. I stumble backwards, taking
enough steps away that Epiales’s hands fall from my body. As soon as our
fingers no longer touch, the dress, the crown, the golden shoes, and the ring
disappear, and I am back in the oversized shirt I slept in.
I stare at Epiales, who is only a few feet away but feels miles away, and I
admit. “He scares me, Epiales. I can feel the hate in him, and it scares me.”
Epiales does not move towards me, but he stares at me with a plea on the tip
of his tongue. “He’s our chance at survival, my queen.”
“What am I, Epiales?” I do not dare to blink, much less breathe, as I look at
my storyteller who promised to never tell me a lie and I implore to him. “Why
was Kronos searching for me? Why is my blood two contrasting colors?”
He opens his mouth, ready to tell me the truth, but consciousness demands
my arrival.
And I’m pulled towards the conscious world.
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
Hattie never divulged the identity of our Saturday visitors, but when I hit the last
step and look at the four women standing under swinging, flickering lights, I
recognize them as neither immortals nor slaves.
I see four of Artemis’s loyal huntresses.
Their clothing is identical to one another. Brown boots that reach their knees,
sleeveless fur vests, and white shirts splattered and stained in the dried blood of
their enemies.
I flinch, the movement caught by the slender-necked huntress on the far left,
when Panda sneaks up and wraps her arm around mine. Panda’s grin is
widespread as she looks up at me, the gaps between her teeth more apparent than
ever. Pyro stands a few feet behind her, his hands gripping an axe, and he
glances at me in silent acknowledgement.
“This is my favorite day of the week,” Panda coos, her grip on my arm
tightening with excitement.
“Why are they here?” I ask, half of my attention on Panda’s smiling form and
the other on the slender-necked huntress who watches me with droopy, yet
protruding, eyes.
“Hermes and Artemis made a deal,” Panda says, and I do not mistake the
lack of formalities on both immortals’ names as Panda speaks. The friendliness
in her tone as she talks about not one, but two gods, is enough cause for treason.
“Each Saturday, Artemis will bring four of her huntresses here to help us train,
and he will steal whatever she wants without question.” Panda giggles as she
adds. “Hermes said that he once stole an elephant for Artemis.”
We’re all here, the humans living in Hermes’s mansion.
China is talking to the tallest huntress, who has a scarification mark of a large
black bird, its wings outstretched across most of her chest. It’s not a crow, I
realize, but a grander onyx creature.
Hattie is picking up two bronzed swords, twirling the weapons as if they are
hers to command. A tall, slender blonde huntress leans against the wall closest to
Hattie, conversing with the normally rigid woman, and I watch with fascination
as Hattie tilts her head back and roars in laughter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her
smile before today.
The slender-necked woman, along with the portly huntress with untamed
dark hair, starts advancing towards Panda and me. Panda is still talking,
rambling about another item that Hermes stole for Lady Artemis, when the two
huntresses stand in front of us. I am frozen, rigid to the spot as I intermittently
flicker to the slender-necked huntress and that damning smirk on her large lips.
“Dýnami,” the slender-necked woman says to the portly one beside her.
“Train with Pyro and Panda today, please.”
The slender-neck huntress looks at me, and the single brightest pair of brown
eyes stare back at me. They are a few shades lighter than her complexion, with a
gilded gleam to them, and they both droop and protrude from their sockets.
Everything about this woman is beautiful, yet odd. She has a long face with
subdued features. Her chin is exorbitant but has a dimple in the middle that
feminize the masculine feature. Plump lips that are twice the size of mine, but
they’re long, too. She has an enormous mouth that takes over her face.
And that large mouth curves into that knowing smirk again as she adds. “I’m
training with the concubine.”
Her hair is brown and voluminous, barely contained by the ribbon that’s tied
around the curls. As she slugs off her fur vest, her hair bounces in excitement at
the fight that is about to take place. When the thick material drops to the floor, I
can now see her scarification mark that rests on her left bicep.
There are antlers, two of them, sprouting around a thicket of green trees. The
scarification mark is simplistic, yet gargantuan. The tip of the antlers starts at the
top of her shoulders but does not end until it grazes the top of her elbow.
She answers my silent question. “Artemis named me after her most favored
animal, the sika deer.”
“Is your name Sika or Deer?”
“Sika,” she answers, then walks away.
I do not need to ask; I trot behind her.
While China fights against the huntress with a magnificent bird scarification
across her chest, and the blonde huntress laughs with Hattie as she swings two
blades, I stand in front of a table that Sika leans against. She watches on with
intrigue peppering her unique appearance while I look down at my inevitability.
There are five weapons that are set out on the table, and I have to choose one
to fight against Sika with. The table, where weapons of destruction rest, is small.
It allows the rest of the basement to remain open space, an ideal fighting ground.
Sika rests her hip against the edge of the table, her arms crossed over her
chest, but although she is weaponless, I have little doubt in my mind she is a
force on the battleground. Epiales told me all of Lady Artemis’s slaves are freed
upon exiting the arena with her. They are offered, not forced, to immortally tie
themselves to her as a huntress of the wild. Sika looks only twenty years old, but
she could be fifty or one hundred or even three hundred years old.
With the patience of an immortal, she is waiting for me to choose my
weapon, but as my hands graze upon the sword, then the spear, I freeze. I know I
am not human, but I want to pretend I am. Kronos and Epiales’s words continue
to play in my head, guiding me towards a war I want no part of, and it makes me
pause in front of Sika and a row of weapons. While the rest of the room fights
and trains, I want to hide.
“No, I will not allow you to be a coward.” Sika’s voice is tough, yet in a
whisper, so that nobody else can eavesdrop. “You are more than your fears; now,
choose your weapon before I decide to fight you without one.”
“Why are we doing this?” I turn to face Sika, ignoring the five weapons that I
could use to start a pathway to destruction. In confusion, I ask. “Why are we
learning to fight?”
Sika is no longer leaning against the table with ease. No, the mighty huntress
is now standing in front of me with only a breath of air in between us. She is
taller than me, by at least two or three inches, and has to look down at me at this
proximity.
The rest of the basement pays no attention to us, their own training
paramount, but Sika still responds in a hushed voice. “Humans are always in
danger, concubine. There are always monsters, gods, titans, and primordial
deities stronger than us. We are nothing but ants beneath their mighty feet. At
least with a blade in your hand, and skills to use it, then you have a chance. No
matter how small the chance is, with training you still have one to slay those that
dare to see you as easy prey.”
Sika retreats, and she resumes her place against the edge of the table. She
crosses her arms over her chest again, and if I weren’t previously close enough
to her to smell the eggs that she had this morning, then I might’ve doubted that
she moved at all. The huntress lowers her focus onto the five weapons that I
have to choose from and waits for my decision. Sika’s patient and waits for me
to no longer be a defenseless ant beneath mighty feet.
“What’s an ant?” I turn to face her, the question slipping out before I have
time to think it through.
“They’re easy prey,” she says. “Now, choose.”
Five weapons mock me. They stare back at my cowardice with a laugh
readied. “How will I know which one to pick?”
“Each god has a weapon that they are most skilled with, and it is sacred to
them. Like Heracles with his club, Artemis with her bow and arrow, Poseidon
with his trident, and Hermes with his caduceus. Their symbolic weapon
strengthens them, and they become more confident with their skills upon the
battleground,” Sika says, while she latches onto the bow and arrow on the table.
“I believe humans can have a signature weapon, too. There are few people better
than I am with a bow and arrow, and it’s because I chose that as my signature
weapon. It’s mine, and I’d dare any fool that tried to take it from me.”
I look back down at the bow and arrow on the table, its size lesser than the
four others around it.
“Look at these weapons and find what stands out to you,” Sika orders as I
stare down at the silvery objects below me. “Choose your symbolic weapon and
fight me with it, concubine.”
There are five weapons on this table, and each of them has a deer emblem.
There is a sword, which has the symbol on the bottom hilt of the sword. Then, a
spear, with the deer’s head on the spearhead. A bow and arrow, which has the
design across the quiver’s handle, sits next to a scythe, its deer sign carved into
the black handle. Last, two smaller axes sit side-by-side, with the marker across
both sharp edges.
I do not have to ponder for long. Sika swore that the right weapon would
stand out, and as if the sun had tilted towards it, my hands wrap around the
handle. When I turn, the blade has become an extension of my arm. The tip of
my sword points at Sika’s head, mere inches away from the tip of her flattened
nose.
Sika nods her head in approval. “One second, you feared touching any of the
weapons, but now you-”
“I what?”
Sika declares. “You look like a warrior.”
All of my life, I have been taught to hide beneath the shadows of the gods. I
have been told that I am nothing but a human, an inconsequential and fragile
blimp in the gods’ fruitful endlessness. Lady Hecate raised me on the belief that
I must always submit to the immortals’ excellence, but as swords clank together
and arrows swish through the air, I realize that there is another option.
The immortals side or Kronos’s aren’t the only two options. There are
possibilities that do not involve serfdom or joining Kronos and the nefariousness
that enshrouds him. Humans have not seen an alternative path like this in
hundreds of years. All I have to do is fight for my version of freedom.
I look up towards Sika, a sword now raised in both of her hands, and I smirk.
“Let’s fight.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
We stand five feet apart, the tips of our blades towards the floor, as Sika
announces. “We start on the count of three.”
The background noise—the clashing of weapons between Panda and a
huntress, the laughter from Pyro’s lips, the exhausted grunts from China—they
all dissipate into thin air. They’re still existing, these noises within a capacious
basement, but I can no longer hear them.
The endless repetition of Epiales’s words, warning me of the danger of the
gods and the need for vengeance, leaves as well. Even the wind silences in
climactic anticipation of Sika’s countdown. Neither one of us moves, but the
slight curvature of Sika’s lips tells me she’s hiding a smile as excitement for
battle races through her.
“One,” she finally bites out, itching for her imminent victory.
Nobody in this basement is watching us, their own training garnering their
fascination, but the hairs on my arms rise to attention. In my mind, I am on that
arena ground, but not as a prisoner. I’m an Olympian, leaping off of the pews
and slamming onto the dusted floor, readying to fight for a prize that I’d never
thought achievable.
My freedom.
“Two,” she says.
My fingers curl around the handle of the weapon, a resurgence of power
sizzling my skin. I am not a slave within this basement, but I am Saffron. I am a
warrior, a fighter, and a victor for my freedom. Epiales’s words of destroying the
gods vanish from my mind because whatever power I feel waking from a long
slumber inside of my chest is all that I need to garner my emancipation.
“Three,” is the last word Sika says before she charges towards me, a sword
raised, and mayhem is the exuberant skip to her sprint.
She is speed and agility molded together into one person. Before I can raise
my blade towards her, she is already swinging downward. A squeal threatens to
break the surface as I duck my head, my hair nearly a victim to the might of her
sword.
I stumble backwards a few steps, but Sika is approaching, her sword slicing
through the air and towards where I stand. Steel smashes upon steel as I lift my
weapon, stopping her from cleaving it into my neck. With all the strength that I
can muster, I push her sword away with my own, and together, we take a step
back.
An aberrant grin peels across her peculiar face, morphing it into one of pure
terror. Then, she’s running towards me again. She slashes, and I duck or block
with my sword. It’s a dance, I realize, similar to one Epiales and I had in my
dream world. A shuffle of our feet, a precise movement of our hand, and then
repeat.
Sweat dribbles down the side of my face as I circle around Sika for the third,
perhaps fourth, time. The minutes and hours slip from my fingertips as I learn
how to defend myself against those stronger and faster than I am. My body
aches, an unfamiliar buckling of my thighs and strain of my biceps, but I
welcome the sensation of pain intertwined with dedication as I look at Sika with
a raised weapon.
Panda and Pyro have left already, I vaguely notice as their familiar laughter
no longer fills the room, but China, Hattie, the huntresses, and I remain. I twirl
the sword in my hand, looking at my opponent, as she teases me with a
beckoning curl of her fingers.
“Let’s see you on the offensive, concubine.”
I attempt the same quickness as Sika, and I run towards her with my sword
raised and my confidence inflated towards the roof. As I slash my sword, I can
feel victory on my tongue. I expect my blade to nick flesh, which would declare
a winner between us, but air kisses the sword, and an elbow greets my gut.
Her laughter and my dry coughs fill the air, while something within me
snaps.
Humiliation burns my cheeks, while something otherworldly inhuman
courses through my veins and demands retribution. Gold and red incinerate my
vision, blinding me to rationality and mortal binds. I rise, but do not remember
my actions. Beneath the golden fog, I swirl and twirl around the basement like it
is my battleground.
My sword slashes through the air, but something else tugs against my chest.
There are strings within Sika that I’m in control of, and when an ear-piercing
scream ricochets off of the walls, only then does the blindness ease and clarity
come once more.
I am standing over Sika’s writhing, fallen body. Her sword is on the floor,
while both of her hands are gripping her left leg. I, too, stare, and nausea builds
up at the sight. While she wears pants and long boots that cover her legs, the
tight material does not hide what is obvious beneath.
A bone juts out of place, threatening to break through the skin and leave her
body altogether. I’ve only seen a few bones, the sight always unpleasant whether
in this basement or in the jail cells, but it’s oddly placed. Almost as if it broke in
half with fury.
She bellows and all the huntresses, plus China, rush towards her to help,
while I stagger backwards in disbelief. My sword clatters to the ground, and I
turn away from Sika’s deformed leg as bile rises in my throat. It is then that I
look at Hattie, who stands with her knuckles whitened as she clutches onto her
weapon.
Mouth widening in fear.
She does not fear for the huntress’s health, or the rest of their wrath because
one of us harmed them. No, she looks at my cheek that burns in pain, and she
fears me.
Especially when my cheek, split open by Sika’s nails, spills two droplets of
blood before healing altogether.
One red.
The other gold.
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
Hermes flies down the staircase, his shoes’ wings flapping furiously, a minute
after Sika passes out from the pain. He is kneeling over her thin frame, quickly
removing her boots, then cutting her leggings until the grotesque mutilation of
her leg comes into view. I am trembling a few feet away, but all of us stare at the
bone that threatened to break skin when Panda rushes down the stairs.
“Lunch is ready. Pyro tried something new and has made cucumber-” she
stops talking as she stands on one of the middle steps of the staircase, her mouth
ajar at the sight of Sika’s leg. “Oh, dear Underworld, that’s disgusting.”
She runs back up the staircase, slamming the door behind her. A few seconds
later, the far-off sounds of Panda vomiting creates noise in the quieted room.
“What happened?” Hermes looks to the huntresses inquisitively.
The tallest one, with the large black bird scarification on her chest, answers
him. “We do not know. I was working with China,” the huntress’s eyes, nearly
black in hue, look at me and squint incredulously. “Your concubine was training
with her.”
“Saffron,” Hermes turns to me, hesitance lightening the green in his irises as
he asks. “What happened?”
To admit the power that courses through my veins frightens me, I try to open
my mouth. I raise my hand to my cheek and feel healed skin, while my gaze
drifts to Sika’s unconscious body on the ground.
There isn’t a memory of touching her leg or slamming my foot against it. I
remember nothing except the blinding power in my body that demanded
retribution for her laughter at my expense. My mind was blinding gold, my body
moving under something otherworldly inside of me I’ve always been too afraid
to unleash.
“Sika fell on the butt of her sword after Saffron tripped her.”
I turn around at the sound of the lie, and Hattie stares back. For only one
second, Hattie looks to me and I no longer see the girl who has avoided and
loathed me since I’ve arrived. I look at Hattie, and she looks at me, and we come
to the mutual understanding that we are no longer on opposite sides.
Then, she looks at Hermes and elaborates. “I was training with Lamb, but I
saw the whole thing. Sika did that to herself, and it was a simple mistake.”
But the huntress with the blackbird on her chest frowns. “I’ve never once
seen Sika trip, much less hit herself with her own sword.”
Hattie responds without hesitation. “Then you must not be very observant,
Raven. I suggest you take in your surroundings a bit more. It’s an un-huntress
like quality. Sika is very clumsy. It’s those gangly legs of hers.” She glances at
the blonde huntress who she was training with, and Hattie asks. “Isn’t that right,
Lamb?”
Lamb, the blonde huntress, nods her head and daintily adds. “Sika’s the
clumsiest.”
Hermes had heard enough. He slides his hands underneath Sika, who subtly
stirs by the contact, and he lifts her up into his arms. Then, he looks at the
woman with a black bird on her chest.
“Raven,” he orders. “Grab Sika’s belongings and join me in one of the guest
rooms. She’ll rest until Artemis comes to pick you all up.” Hermes looks at the
rest of us standing around the room and says. “The rest of you can enjoy the
lunch that Pyro made,” he dares a smirk and adds. “It seems like Sika and Panda
won’t be eating today, so there’s plenty for everyone.”
Raven, Sika, and Hermes leave while the rest of us clean up the basement.
Not a single word is spoken, not as the questions live unanswered in our heads.
We place the swords back into their rightful spots, along with the stray arrows,
fallen quivers, and discarded spears.
Then we walk into the kitchen, where plates are ready for nine. I look at
Hattie, but she purposely avoids me and glances at Lamb.
Hattie asks Lamb. “Do you think we should bring Sika and Raven their
plates?”
A slight frown mars Lamb’s lips. “I don’t think Sika will be too hungry, but
we can try.”
The two women do not just take two plates. They grab four—two for the
other huntresses and two of their own—before leaving the kitchen without a
goodbye. I sit down, where a plate awaits me, while the sound of Panda dry
heaving nearby can be heard.
My stomach is in knots, a coil of nausea and anxiety curbing any desires to
eat, but the last remaining huntress—Dýnami—does not have the same lack of
hunger as I do. Regardless of the sound of Panda vomiting in the distance, or
that China, Pyro, and I won’t touch our food, Dýnami digs in with ferocity.
Dýnami doesn’t just eat, but she annihilates her lunch as if it were a foe that she
must thwart.
Pyro tries to pick up his food, but Panda vomits again, and he drops it and
stands up. “I’m going to go check on her,” and he leaves the kitchen altogether.
“His best dish,” Dýnami grumbles through mouthfuls of food, but there is no
response to her comment.
China looks back and forth between the closed bathroom door to the stairwell
towards the guest bedroom and says nothing. She does not touch her food, or
even ponder the thought of eating, much less starting a conversation to cease the
thick silence encompassing the kitchen.
“I was there at the arena when you were fought for, concubine.” Dýnami
breaks through the quietness as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand,
and then says while displaying a row of crooked, yellowed teeth. “That was the
best fight I’ve seen in nearly fifty years, not since my own.”
She looks my age, but appearances can deceive in our world. Even an
appearance as mundane as Dýnami’s.
“I had five gods fighting for me,” Dýnami says, then adds. “All of them were
females. I set the record for the amount of gods fighting for one human in an
arena before you had eight. Impressive, dude.”
“Which goddesses?” I ask, breaking my fright induced silence.
“Artemis, Athena, Bia, Hygea, and Iris,” Dýnami lists off the names without
a single formality beforehand. She speaks their names as if they are
acquaintances or equals in a world where humans are solely slaves. “They all
wanted me as a soldier, except Hygea. She turns her humans into nurses for the
Laborers, but I have about as much kindness and warmth as a corpse.”
China and I don’t laugh, but Dýnami barks out a laugh at her joke. She
glances down at my untouched plate.
“Mind if I have your food?” She asks. “Fighting and talking of the past
makes me hungry.”
I slide the plate across the table to her, and with mouthfuls of food, she tells
her story of becoming a huntress.
“They all stood there on the arena floor, weapons drawn and determination in
their stance. I wanted to piss my pants,” she bites into her sandwich and
explains. “But I stood and watched each sweep of the sword, every trickle of
blood, and all the mistakes the fallen goddesses made on the arena ground. I was
fascinated, but more than that, I wanted to become like them. A tough chick with
a weapon on my hip at all times.”
She pauses from her story to take my glass of water, her own empty, and she
chugs the entire content without a break. When she slams down the cup, she lets
out a loud belch and bites into her sandwich once again.
Although she’s muffled by the sandwich’s bread, she explains. “Iris and
Hygea were out within the first ten minutes, but the other three goddesses fought
against each other for six hours. Their sweat was basically perfume in the arena
near the end, but with three arrows on the same bow string, Artemis took out
Athena and Bia. The first thing I asked Artie to do when I became her huntress,
before she could even give me my scarification mark, was to teach me that trick
with three arrows on the bowstring.”
I centralize on the scarification mark on her collarbone, which is three arrows
tied together with a string, and I conclude. “That’s why your scarification mark
is of three arrows.”
“She said my question showed more strength than she’s seen in a human in
nearly twenty years,” Dýnami takes the last bite out of my sandwich and
mumbles. “My name is Greek for strength, and the arrows show why she saw
strength in me.”
“Oh, are we talking about our arena stories?” Panda asks, and when I turn
around, her pet red panda sits on her shoulder, nibbling on the frayed ends of her
orange hair. She’s no longer nauseous from the sight of Sika’s mutilated leg, and
she sits on a seat where a plate awaits her. “Can I tell mine next?”
“Sure,” Dýnami says, then looks to China’s untouched plate. “Are you going
to eat that?”
While Dýnami eats her third serving, Panda begins her story.
“I don’t remember much about the jail cell that morning or receiving my
makeover,” Panda explains. “I was in such a fog of fear that I couldn’t process
the shift until I was standing in the middle of the arena.”
Her hands tremble as she holds the unscathed sandwich in her hand. She
looks to Pyro, who places his hand on top of her knee, squeezes once, and looks
at her as if she holds his world in her grasp. He gives her courage to speak the
truths of her past with the power of his love for her.
“I was the second to last human in the arena,” she gulps as she adds. “I
watched the two boys I shared a cell with leave, along with my shower-mate and
every familiar face, and I was so scared. Priapus, a low-level god of fertility,
came down upon the arena ground to take me. When I asked, Hermes told me
later that Priapus made every human girl his toy, and because of his high
fertility, his slaves are killed within six months of their servitude because they
became pregnant with his children.”
She flinches at her own words, but the fire from her hair transfers to her chest
as ferocity possesses her petite frame.
“A demi-god,” she growls the word with enough hatred to shake the floor.
“It’s a promised death to either birth one or be one, and Priapus plucks girls from
the jail with certainty that they will become pregnant with his child and die for
his own perverse desires.”
“Panda, I’m so-” I start, but she shakes her head.
She doesn’t let me apologize. Her words whip through the air and silence me
mid-sentence. “Priapus went down with the thought that nobody else wanted me.
I was the last girl in the arena, and I’m not as beautiful as most.”
“That’s a terrible lie,” Pyro says, to which she responds by kissing him on the
lips.
She continues her story. “He thought it’d be easy to take me from the arena
with nobody else fighting for me, but then Hermes flew down to the arena and
challenged Priapus.”
There is anger in her cadence when she speaks about Priapus, but the
moment Hermes’s name leaves her mouth, the fury dissipates as if it never
existed. Her lips relax, and the fire extinguishes.
“For a moment, as I shivered on the snowy arena ground, I thought my worst
imaginations were going to become a reality. I looked at Priapus, at the way he
stared at me with hunger rather than appreciation, and I saw my death with each
tear that rolled down my face. I saw enslavement in each brutal detail the gods
told me in the jail cells every night, but then Lord Hermes won on the arena
ground.”
She tears off a piece of her sandwich, but before taking a bite herself, she
gives a fragment of bread to the red panda on her shoulder. The animal whines in
appreciation, nibbling on the food, when she finally bites into her sandwich.
Unlike Dýnami, she waits until she finishes her bite to speak.
“Hermes outwitted him in the arena, using his winged sandals to fly behind
him when he wasn’t looking. Priapus tripped on the arena ground and broke his
nose. It was the quickest fight Hermes ever had, he said.”
She actually laughs in amusement.
“I would be dead right now if Priapus won, but he didn’t. Instead, Hermes
did, and he let me choose my job in this house, gave me a name that I know I
will keep for decades to come, and let me decide everything. With each passing
morning, he defies the rules put into place, and he lets the humans living under
this roof gain a glimpse of what being a free person would be like. Like how it
was before the gods took over this land and enslaved us.” Panda takes another
bite of her sandwich, then looks at Pyro. With bread stuck between her two
gaped front teeth, she says. “It’s your turn, honey.”
We each take a turn.
I think Dýnami told her story to break the basement’s uncomfortable tension,
but the origins of our conversation shifted into a chance to turn a terrifying day
into a transformative moment. The stories all start with the fear of becoming
property, less than human, but they always end with the gratefulness to be under
Lady Artemis or Hermes’s care.
Pyro explains how Lady Hecate and Lady Eris, who is the goddess of chaos
and strife, were both fascinated by his red eyes that they wanted to win him in
the arena. Yet, Hermes saw the oddity and knew that he would become less than
a human, and she fought for him in the arena. Hermes gifted him with the name
Pyro to show him the power of being individualized.
China’s story is brief. Perhaps, because of her older age, she doesn’t
remember the day as vividly as the rest at this table, or hers was not as
spectacularly significant as Dýnami and mine.
Regardless, China vaguely says. “Lord Momus jumped down first, and when
it looked like nobody was going to fight him, Lord Hermes joined him and won.
It was a quick fight, and he named me after a China doll.”
“What’s a China doll?” I ask.
China’s eyes drift to the past, when she was a young slave in this house, but
her words are brisk and unspecific. “Just some toy before the titans ejected the
immortals from Mt. Olympus and overran Earth.”
“Why did he name you after a toy?” Panda asks, but China shakes her head
and does not answer.
By the time Dýnami has finished Pyro’s plate of food, Lamb has come back
to the kitchen with four empty plates.
“Aye, Lamb,” Dýnami yells out, an effervescent smile blooming over her
tawny complexion. “Tell us your arena story. Let’s hear about how to second
oldest huntress in our regime was won.”
Lamb, the demurest huntress amongst the four, blushes a bright shade of red
and responds in her quieted cadence. “Maybe another time,” she looks at Pyro
and asks. “Do you want me to clean the dishes?”
He responds. “I’ve got it, Lamb. Thank you, though.”
Lamb walks over to the kitchen sink, and I follow her. I pick up everybody’s
finished plates, earning mumbled thank you’s from all of them, and I walk
towards Lamb. Everybody talks amongst themselves in the background,
laughing and oblivious to the fear that coats my words as I stand in front of
Lamb.
“Is Hattie coming back downstairs?” I ask.
Lamb sets the plates in the sink, then turns to face me. “Hermes said he
wanted to speak with you. He said to meet him in his bedroom whenever you
finished lunch.”
My heart is hammering a thousand times at its normal speed, and while I try
to find the ability to reiterate my question to Lamb, she steps around me and
leaves without another word. Hattie covered for me in the basement, lying to
Hermes when she did not have to, but my luck could slip from my grasp. The
detested truth of my blood, and the power I hide within me, could come to light.
Each movement towards Hermes’s room is slowed and sluggish. Previously,
our time together sparks excitement and joy, but today I am anxious as I reach
the steps. Every time my own feet hitting the floor reaches my ears, I think of
Sika. I can hear her screams in my head, threatening to deafen me with the truth
of who I am.
Demi-god, Panda had spit out the word with disgust. It’s a promised death to
either birth one or be one.
I stand in front of Hermes’s closed bedroom door, and I flutter back towards
that large vein on my forearm. The thin, almost non-existent, lines of gold within
the blue mockingly stare back at me. They’re laughing, this sliver of gilded
proof that I am not equal to those conversing in the kitchen, but I’m less than the
god who waits for me inside his bedroom.
Epiales once told me that demi-gods were the fearless creations of the gods
throughout ancient history. Demi-gods had the greatest tales derived from their
heroism and bravery. I swore his shadows were comforting me when he
explained that demi-gods were killed in this new, repugnant world because the
immortals feared the day that humans prayed to the halflings instead of them.
After all, my queen, Epiales, whispered that night. Gods are nothing without
the humans’ prayers.
The bedroom door opens, but not by my hands. Hermes towers over me, well
over a foot taller than my smaller form, but he does not hold a weapon to prepare
for my execution. He does not have anger in his forest irises or a malicious
scowl on his lips.
Instead, he holds up our Monopoly pieces and asks. “Do you have time for a
game or two?”
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
I’ve passed go twice when I garner the courage to ask. “How is Sika?”
He rolls the dice, watches it land on a two, and then answers while moving
his piece to its new destination. “She will be fine. Artemis is taking her to
Asclepius, so she should be good as new in a few days. He has medicine that’ll
expedite the healing process.”
“Asclepius is the god of medicine, right?” I pick up the dice, but not before
seeing the small smirk growing on Hermes’s lips.
“Correct. Did China teach you that already?”
“Yeah,” my lie is quiet, but he can still hear it. I move my shoe forward six
boxes, humming each number as I go. When I land on the box with the blue top
border, I ask. “What does this say?”
“Park Place,” he answers. “And it’s three hundred and fifty dollars.”
“What color money do I need?”
He helps me count each dollar bill I place in the palm of my hand. I
sometimes get confused if seven or eight go first on the count, but Hermes helps
me with no semblance of judgement. Regardless of today and its atrocities, I still
smile when I count three hundred and fifty dollars, moving the small stack from
my hand to his.
“You’re getting better with the money,” he says, and whether or not he’s
lying, my body warms with a newfound flutter in my chest. “What else has
China taught you since I last saw you?”
“I know half the alphabet,” I answer while he shuffles the dice in his hands.
“Or at least, I’m pretty sure I do. I get a little tripped up near the end.”
He stops shuffling the dice. My focus shifts from the dice to his face and it
illuminates with joy. I stare at him as he looks at me with an expression on his
face that bursts with pride for me. My achievement is minor, but I realize his
happiness is my favorite sight in this world.
“Really?” A joyous laugh escapes from his lips. “That’s incredible. Can I
hear it?” He is quick to add. “If you mess up near the end, then I’m here to
help.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “But we’re playing Monopoly.”
“I don’t care about Monopoly, I care about you… learning the alphabet.”
For a moment, I thought he was just going to say the first part of this
sentence. That he only cares about me, a defect who should not exist in this
world. I do not know why, but I wanted to hear that more than I’ve wanted to
hear any other words in the world.
“Okay, I might go a little slow at first. We’ve only been working on it for
two days now,” I sheepishly admit, a newfound burning growing on my cheeks.
“I’m sure it’s going to be the greatest version of the alphabet I’ll ever hear,”
is his immediate, genuine response.
I take a deep breath, and the first letter slips from my lips. Then the one after
that. I close my eyes near the middle, trying to imagine the letters China had me
trace on the piece of paper. I fumble between H and I, but when I reach the letter
M, I want to scream and cry and leap around the room with pride.
When I open them, Hermes is staring at me as if I were a victory wreath
placed around his head like a crown. His smile is wild and authentic, while I
stare at him with nervousness in my chest.
“Well?” I inquire with timidness. “I did it correct. Right?”
“Like I said, it was the best version of the alphabet that I’ve ever heard.”
My smile soon matches his, while my cheeks burn bright. “That wasn’t even
the entire alphabet.”
“When you learn that, my heart might cease beating,” he jokes, but the
humor slides off his face when he murmurs. “I was meaning to ask you about the
basement. Are you okay? I’m sure her tripping and hurting herself was scary for
you.”
I can hear the cracking of her bones, the screams that left her lips and rattled
the swinging ceiling lights. The fear in Hattie when she saw the multi-colored
truth still eats away at my chest, while the paranoia that at any second, she could
divulge the ghastly truth of my identity makes each second coveted and
excruciating at the same time.
“I don’t want to talk about what happened downstairs,” I stare at my
Monopoly piece, the lonely shoe on Park Place, and I ponder aloud. “Can I ask
you a question?”
“Anything,” he replies without hesitation.
I still stare at the lonely shoe as I inquire. “If I weren’t what you expected,
then will you kick me out of this mansion? I know that I’m scarified now and
technically yours, but if I weren’t what you wanted, then-”
“Saffron,” he cuts me off and implores. “Can you please look up at me?”
His eyes are the depth of the forest, where thousands of trees thrive. They’re
endless, the pools of green, and if I stare for too long, then I could become lost in
the thickets. He looks at me with the same rapt fascination, mesmerized by what
he sees, yet frightened that at any moment he’ll be stuck in the whorls forever.
“Have I ever told you what a pinky promise is?” He asks.
I shake my head.
“They’re the most sacred of all promises, except for the River Styx. The
River Styx is spawned from dangerous promises, but this,” he motions to his
now outstretched pinky, and elaborates. “This is the safest, yet truest, promise
that anybody could make to one another.” He uses his free hand to lift one of
mine off of the table, opening my pinky with a curled fist and wrapping his
around mine. Then he swears. “I pinky promise you I will always want you in
any capacity that I can have you, from today until my last breath.”
With our pinkies still intertwined, I add with a crack in my cadence.
“Regardless of anything?”
I think of my golden blood, and the execution that would be inevitable if any
gods discovered the truth, when he nods his head.
“You could sprout a lion’s tail tomorrow, and I’d still want you here.
Whatever version I receive, you will always be perfect. I promise.”
For good measure, he squeezes our pinkies tight together.
He waits until I pull my pinky from his before he places his hand around the
dice to our game. Only as he shakes the dice again, I admit. “I really like being
your friend.”
“I like being yours, too,” he responds.
Our game of Monopoly is filled with more laughter, too. He tells me of the
pranks he’s pulled on his family members throughout the eons, and I read the
letters of the alphabet I recognize on the Monopoly game each time I land on a
new box.
Tonight, I realize the button of his nose crinkles when he yawns, and when I
told him of my discovery, he said that I sometimes snort when I’m laughing too
hard.
Then, he asks. “What is something I don’t know about you, Saffron?”
The color of my blood comes to my mind, but I silence the roaring thoughts.
Instead, I confess. “I lost a friend once, too.”
“Excuse me?” Hermes looks up, his confusion clear with a crinkle between
his brows.
“The night of my scarification, you told me you named me after a friend who
died during a game of discus,” I explain. While he stares at me with curiosity, I
keep my gaze on the board game. I can’t bring myself to stare at him as I divulge
one of the worst days of my life. “I lost a friend, too.”
“The boy in the arena I tried to fight for?” Hermes asks, but I shake my head.
“I suppose, in a way, I’ve lost him too, but no. This was a friend I lost when
we lived in the prisons together.”
He is quiet for a while, then he asks. “How? Humans are protected in the
prisons. Forbidden to die.”
“Just because we’re forbidden to die does not mean we are protected,
Hermes. My friend did not die, but I still lost him that night. I may not know
much about the world, but I know that a mind can die when a heart still beats.”
“What happened to him?” Hermes asks.
Our game of Monopoly is paused, and he is staring at me with too much
focus. I keep my gaze on the game, but my mind is elsewhere. It spirals back to a
time when I was too young to understand the dark gravity of my world and the
toll it has on a person’s mind.
I begin my story. “When I was eight, there was a boy in my cell who helped
raise me. He and a girl with blonde hair were the closest things to parents I’ve
ever had. They were around the same age, too. Both two years shy of going into
the arena, and each day they grew older, the boy became sadder. I didn’t
understand at the time why he was sad, but I quickly realized on one fateful
night.”
There is no other sound in the room but my voice. Panda’s raucous laughter
from downstairs has muted, and birds have quieted from outside Lord Hermes’s
bedroom window. We are doused in the silence so each word I speak is heard
with perfection.
“The boy in my cell wanted to die, and one night he began smashing his head
against the brick wall with aspirations of death. Rich, red blood splattered the
floor, sprinkling across my toes as I laid two feet away. I should’ve run to him,
to stop him, but the sight of seeing blood for the first time paralyzed me.
Looking back now, I wish I had sprinted to him, but not to save a life desecrated
in trauma. No, if I could change time, then I would’ve helped him end his
anguish, but I didn’t.”
“What happened to him?” Hermes asks, his voice softer than usual.
I answer. “A mere second before he could end his suffering with the last
assault, Lady Hecate materialized and snapped her fingers. Green smoke
surrounded the boy, and when she and her magic disappeared a minute later, he
was outwardly unscathed. While Lady Hecate healed all physical wounds, she
destroyed him worse in the mental capacity. Because of her, he cried himself to
sleep every night until they took him to the arenas.”
Hermes is quiet for a while until he whispers. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks,” is my weak response.
“I understand why you hate the gods,” he admits. “But can I ask a favor of
you? I have no right to ask, especially after that story, but I’m still going to ask.”
“What’s the favor?” I question, and I look up at his boyish face.
“No matter what, please don’t add me to the list of gods you hate. I don’t
think my heart could handle it.”
I mull over his words, then extend my pinky. “I promise,” I say.
His pinky wraps around mine in an unwavering vow.
We eat dinner in his bedroom, along with a few glasses of red wine, and we
laugh and talk the entire time. Night drifts in like a cool winter breeze and
fatigue weighs heavier on me with each roll of the dice. The rest of the house
quiets, sleep enrapturing the rest of the occupants, and my body obeys its wishes.
I move to a lying position, my head comfortable upon Hermes’s feathery
pillows, while we play the longest round of Monopoly. Then, at some point, my
lids drift closed. He doesn’t stop me, but I can hear the shuffling of his feet as he
cleans up the game.
The last thing I feel before sleep claims me are his hands wrapping a blanket
over my body and a pair of lips pressing a ginger kiss on the top of my head.
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
I sit up in the bed and reach for my throat in frightened readiness for tenderness.
Yet, my unscathed neck is smooth against my touch. I run my fingers across my
throat, waiting for bruises to bubble to the surface, but all that remains from my
dream is deliriousness.
I can still hear the sounds from my dream: from the crumbling of the
columns; to the ticks of each clock around Kronos’s wrist; to the words of
enmity leaving his lips with the same rough accuracy as the fallen debris.
The gods will crumble, and you’ll be their demise.
The bedroom door springs open without a knock, and I drop my hand and
stare awestricken at the intruder. Hattie stands in the doorway, a folded set of
sheets in her arms, but when she sees me cowering in bed, confusion crinkles her
dark brows. She says nothing to me, but the droplets of blood from the basement
floor are replaying in both of our minds.
We’re both frozen in uncertainty.
“Why are you in Hermes’s bedroom?” She asks, breaking the thorny silence.
“I am?” is my immediate response, then I see the fluffy, white blanket around
my body that isn’t in my bedroom, and I quip. “Oh Gods, I am in Hermes’s bed.
I slept in his room last night. Oh Gods.”
I fling the blanket off of me, eager to leave the bed I found myself comforted
by last night, but stickiness clings to my inner legs and stops me from leaving.
With the blankets now flown off of me, I glance at the stickiness, and fear
paralyzes me.
A large pool of blood sits in between my legs, the colors unmistakable.
Crimson red makes a circle around the place in between my legs, but there are
sprinkles of gold throughout. The abundant truth of my deformity is the wedge
between her and I.
“Oh my Gods, I’m dying. He’s making me bleed to death,” I gasp as I search
my thighs for any wounds.
I do not remember Kronos touching my thighs in Mt. Olympus, but perhaps
that was his plan. To distract me in the dream world so that he could bleed me
out while I slept in Hermes’s bed. Tears build up as I’m unable to find the source
behind all the blood that stains his once white sheets.
“You’re not dying,” Hattie says, now beside me.
She is frozen in disbelief as she stares down at the solidifying proof of what
she saw downstairs yesterday. Her dark, monolid eyes stare at the proof once
more, and as I bleed to death on Hermes’s sheets, she stares in mortified
realization that she saw two different colored blood yesterday.
“Please don’t let me die.” The words seep out of my lips in the midst of sobs
and confusion.
Hattie pulls her gaze away from the sheets, then back at me. “You will not
die,” she extends a hand for me. “You’re just having your period. Let me help
you.”
I take her hand, but as she helps me up, I ask. “I thought you hated me. Why
are you helping me?” Neither one of us looks at the blood on the sheets, but I
say. “My existence could get me executed. You could finally get rid of me, but
you keep helping me. Why?”
Hattie presses her lips together. An inner battle rages in Hattie’s mind as we
sit in front of the blood-soaked bed, with my life resting in her hands. Shattered
breaths fill the silence of the room, and just when I’m certain she will not answer
my question, she walks me towards the bathroom door inside his bedroom.
“I didn’t know why you were so special to him.” She is both smaller and
skinnier than me, but she takes most of my weight as my mind dizzies with the
heaviness of my blood loss. Hattie guides me towards the bathroom and
explains. “One day, we were all equals underneath Hermes’s house, and the
next, you’re stolen from another god and you’re everything. You’re the one he
comes home to see. You’re the reason we aren’t getting intensive studies like we
used to. The rest of us work, but you have no job at all within this house except
to play board games with him. We were all once coveted by him, but now you’re
his everything and we’re just humans.”
She opens the bathroom door, and we walk inside. She is careful with me,
lifting the top of the toilet and setting me down on top of it. Then, she’s
rummaging through the bathroom cabinets until she produces a white cloth.
Hattie informs. “When we were in the prisons, the goddesses in charge of the
prison cells took away human girls’ fertility. So on the slight chance we could
have relations with another human, none of us would get pregnant. The moment
we leave the arena, our fertility returns, and with it is a thing called periods. It’s
a lot to explain to you right now, but girls bleed once every month. It’s normal.”
I look at my ruined leggings, sticky with blood, and I ask. “So, I’m not
dying?”
She lets out a breathless laugh, which is the closest to amusement she’s ever
had with me, and shakes her raven locks. “No, you’re not dying. Now, get out of
those clothes and take a shower. When you get out, those sheets and leggings
will be hidden from anybody else, and I’ll teach you how to put on a pad.”
“A pad?”
“Laborers not only produce children but other supplies the gods desire.”
Hattie explains. “After the modern world was overrun by the gods, the gods
decided that males and unpregnant female Laborers would work in factories to
create some of their favorite items. It’s why we have these things called pads,
which stop the period blood from going everywhere.”
“Oh,” I rise to my feet, and Hattie turns to leave the bathroom. Yet, before
she does, I say. “I have one more question.”
She turns to face me again. “Yeah?”
“I get why you hated me, but why don’t you still?”
“Because I didn’t know why you were so special to him before, but now I
do,” Hattie opens the bathroom door and says before departing. “I’ll be waiting
for you out here. Hermes shouldn’t be back home until late tonight.”
“Thank you, Hattie.”
She nods her head and leaves the room.
I let the shower beat down upon my skin, the water scolding hot to ignore the
thoughts pounding against my head with the brutality of a thousand cudgels. The
same four words filter through my mind, neither term comforting to the
longevity of my life nor the anonymity of my secrets.
Demi-god, whispers in my ear from the left.
God-Killer, whispers in my ear from the right.
My pale flesh threatens to break as I scrub my body until every trace of my
golden blood is gone. I try to clean off every part of me that isn’t human,
anything Kronos could want as his weapon to wield to his own desires. I try to
rub at that large vein on my arm that shows me the golden lines of my divinity,
but nothing ebbs away with the soap and the water.
When the shower turns cold as ice and I turn it off, I am still the same demi-
god; the one destined to kill. No amount of showering can diverge me from who
I’m destined to become. Except, now I do not have my blood as visible for
others to condemn me for.
Just as she promised, when I leave the bathroom with a towel tight around
my body, Hattie is still there. She’s sitting on the edge of Hermes’s bed, where
new white sheets replace the ones I destroyed, and the former are gone. In one
hand, she holds a pair of underpants, and in the other she holds the pad that she
took from the bathroom cabinet.
We glance at each other from across the bedroom.
“Why are you holding my underwear?” I ask.
While at first, she is teaching me about how to use a pad and the
commonality of periods, it drifts to more than that as time progresses. The same
laughter she had with Lamb is now directed my way, and somehow, we’ve
found ourselves in my bedroom with her putting my hair into two twin buns
surrounded by thin, intricate braids and she’s telling me about the time she
singed off Pyro’s brows.
“I told him I couldn’t help in the kitchen, and I’d mess up somehow,” she
says in between bits of laughter. “But he didn’t listen and the next thing I know,
I blew up the chicken on the pan and the fire went straight for his face.”
I can barely breathe, much less stay still as she does my hair, while I’m
imagining Pyro’s expression as the fire swarmed towards him like their meal of
choice.
“So, was it both of them or just one?” I ask, to which she chuckles louder.
“That’s the best part. It was one and a half.” She explains with joy evident.
“One was completely gone, but the other one was only the front part. He looked
demented, and of course Aphrodite came to our house the next day and nearly
passed out in fear over the sight of Pyro. Can you imagine walking in and seeing
his goofy face with those beady red eyes and only half of a pointed brow?”
“Oh my Gods,” I wheeze out, now clutching my chest. “I never thought I’d
say this, but poor Aphrodite.” From the mirror’s reflection, I can see Hattie’s
laughter leaving and an unfamiliar expression illuminating her face. “What?”
“It’s the first time you’ve said a god’s name, other than Hermes, without
their formalities.” She looks back down to my hair that she’s braiding as she
adds. “I guess all it took was for you to think you were bleeding to death to
realize that you don’t have to use formalities anymore.”
“I guess there are bigger things to deal with right now than adding the word
lady in front of a goddess’s name.”
“Like the fact that you think Hermes wants to kill you,” Hattie adds.
“What? I don’t think he wants to kill me.”
It’s her turn to frown, even as she continues to braid my hair. “When you
first saw your blood, you cried that he tried to kill you. If it wasn’t Hermes, then
who were you talking about?” She snorts and asks. “Was it Pyro? You can be
honest. Pyro is terrifying the first time you see him.”
Kronos’s scent wafts back into my mind. That distinct smell of copper and
cinnamon makes bile rise to my throat. I shake away my thoughts with urgency,
but they do not waver. I’m reminded that Kronos is out there and waiting for the
moment I fall asleep, so he can terrorize me with threat-laced promises of using
me as his weapon. His sinister words do not cease, no matter how desperately I
want to forget for a little while longer.
I look at Hattie through the mirror’s reflection and am quick to lie. “I was in
a crazed state, and I thought it was Ares. When I calmed down, I remembered
Hermes has that protection spell against any god who has killed slaves, so I
don’t know what I was thinking.”
She presses her lips against each other again, in deep thought. I know she
doesn’t believe me. Hattie has this innate ability to read through a person’s lies,
to look into a person’s soul and tell if they are telling the truth or hiding from
their own secrets with deceit. She sees me and knows I haven’t been honest.
Yet, she doesn’t say anything.
“China should be in the kitchen waiting for you for your training, and she
hates when people are late. Which you are, by a lot.”
Hattie steps away, my hair finished, and I look back at her with gratitude.
“Thank you,” I say. “Not just for the hair, but for everything.”
“My favorite stories Hermes has taught us were about demi-gods. I’m excited
to see what stories you create along the way.”
She’s almost to the door when I ask. “Where did you put the sheets,
anyway?” I snort as I add. “Did you burn them like Pyro’s brows?”
Hattie laughs but shakes her head. “No, I just put them inside Hermes’s
dresser. I’m sure he can take them and throw them into the depths of Tartarus or
something. They’ll never be found down there.”
She opens the bedroom door, but I exclaim. “You need to get them out of
there now.”
“Why?” she asks, once again shutting the door and turning to face me.
“Hermes doesn’t know, just you.”
And Kronos, Ares, and Epiales, I think in my head, but never dare say out
loud.
“Yes, he does,” she counteracts without hesitation. “He saw you bleed when
you were given your scarification mark.”
This time, I frown and shake my head. “No, he said I didn’t bleed. It’s some
new needle or something. He said Hephaestus made it so that it wouldn’t heal on
immortal skin and wouldn’t puncture it, either.”
“Wow,” Hattie draws out her disbelief as she scoffs. “The first part is true.
The scarification mark will never heal because of some type of ink that
Hephaestus made to track us, but it still bleeds. It’s a needle, it absolutely
bleeds.”
My heart slams to a complete stop.
“So, Hermes knows,” I conclude.
“And he doesn’t want you to know that he knows.” Hattie opens the bedroom
door again and as she walks out of my room, she quips. “Good luck with that.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
“This is the letter S,” China explains as I trace her scribe for the fifth time. “It
goes after the letter r and it’s the first letter in your name.”
When I’m learning my letters with China, it’s the only time of day when I do
not think of anything else.
I realize with a spurt of awe. “I can spell my name now?”
China nods her head and prompts. “Yes, do you want to try?”
Excitedly, I nod my head, but she drifts away from where I sit across from
her. She looks behind me, and when I turn my head, Hermes is leaning against
the kitchen doorway. He’s watching the two of us, flickering from the paper
covered with the alphabet, and then the pen in my hand.
He looks at peace, his arms crossed over his chest and untidy wisps of brown
locks fallen across his forehead. His messenger satchel, which is more often
strapped around his shoulder than off, is absent, along with his feathered sandals.
There is no sign he is working today, although a day off for him is as
preposterous as a human free of their servitude.
“Good morning, girls.”
“Morning, Lord Hermes,” China responds, but I remain silent.
“Do you mind if I borrow your pupil for a few minutes?” Hermes asks China.
“But I want to learn how to spell my name,” I murmur, but I speak too
quietly and only China hears me.
China replies. “Of course you may,” then she looks to me. “We’ll start with
spelling your name first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Promise?” I ask, my pinky outstretched, and China’s normally unflappable
expression cracks like a hammer upon glass.
Her expression softens, her lips slacken, and she wraps her pinky around my
own, and vows. “I promise.”
My smile is bright, but as I rise to my feet and let our pinkies pull apart, the
giddiness dissipates because I look to Hermes, and I hear Hattie’s words. I stare
at Hermes, whose head skims the top of the doorway, and I want to scream at
him. I want to open my mouth and let every secret tied around us to cut away.
But I don’t say a word.
I walk over to Hermes, and I let him obliviously look down at me as if I were
just his human concubine and he were my kind master. “I have a surprise for
you,” he says, his elation elevating his cadence as he holds out his hand. “Let’s
go.”
His hand is much larger than mine, nearly twice in size, and as I place mine
within his, it disappears from sight. His long, thin fingers curl around mine, and
he pulls me towards the double glass doors at the end of the kitchen, which leads
outside to the backyard.
Rich fragrance from the multitude of flowers blooming and thriving in the
expansive garden is nearly overpowering. Yet, when the sunlight gifts its
radiance upon the tips of the flowers and the white gazebo in the center of this
backyard, it is impossible to deviate away. I’ve seen the regal darkness of the
Underworld’s throne room, the excellence of alabaster gild upon Mt. Olympus,
but I stare at the boundless array of multi-colored flowers and there is nothing in
this world that is more gorgeous.
Panda waves to Hermes and me as we walk towards the gazebo, her white
elbows darkened with dirt and arduous work, yet the pride she has in her
gardening is evident from over a hundred feet away. Pyro stands beside his
soulmate, watching with fascination and enamor while she plucks dead petals
from otherwise vibrant flowers and waters each square inch of soil. Their love,
even from far away, is the second brightest note to this splendorous garden.
Hermes leads me up the two steps, decorated with purple petals, into the
gazebo. The few times I’ve been to the gazebo, there’s been a table inside, with
two chairs that Panda and Pyro sit at each evening for dinner. Today is different;
there is emptiness and fallen purple petals. Hermes leads me into the middle, my
hand still coiled in his, and slows us to a stop.
Hermes—a god created eons ago with endless powers upon his disposal—
looks down at me with a small portion of his bottom lip caught underneath his
teeth. His gaze moves from my face, then to the flowers on the ground, and to
the circular lights hanging from the ceiling. His fixation does not stay in the
same place for more than a few seconds, and the realization brings laughter to
my lips.
Hermes watches me as the joyous sound escapes my lips and evaporates any
other thought, and he finally asks. “Why are you laughing?”
“You’re an immortal, who has seen everything in this world that I could only
dream of, but you’re scared right now.” Once my laugh dissolves, a relaxed
smile remains as I retort. “You must’ve faced more terrifying things than
standing here with me.”
He falters, the captured portion of his bottom lip slipping from his teeth. “I
may be much older than you, but there are many things that I still fear, and
you’re one of them.”
“Me?” I inquire, but I drift to that damn vein on my arm and the proof we
both know but refuse to acknowledge.
The secret is pressing against my closed lips, demanding freedom from its
confinement, but before I can confess the truth, he breaks the momentary silence
and says. “Yes, you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous about asking a girl
on a date in all the eons I’ve existed.”
I look at his bare, wingless sandals. “A date?” I sputter out the word. “Like
the food Pyro had me try yesterday?” I scrunch up my nose at the thought. “I
didn’t like them that much. They’re not as bad as syrup, but they’re not great.”
When Hermes lets out a breath, it’s one filled with amusement. Forest eyes
glimmer with entertainment as he explains. “No, there are two different dates.
One is the food, but the other is when two people interested in each other
romantically spend an evening together. Like how Panda and Pyro spend dinner
out here together each night, that’s a date.”
“Oh,” I say, but then I realize the question he asks me, and once more I
reiterate with emphasis. “Oh.”
“I’m not asking you to eat food that you don’t like, by the way.” Hermes’s
voice is laced with humor as he says. “I’m asking you to come to a symposium
with me at Dionysus’s house next week as my date.”
“The romantic one, not the food one?” I double check.
He laughs once again, but this time nods his head. “The romantic one, yes,”
there is only a beat of silence between us, but he uses this time to elaborate. “It’s
the five hundredth year since we arrived on Earth, and Dionysus believes
celebration is essential instead of mourning what we’ve lost. My nephew, Eros,
and his wife will come over the day of to ride on the chariot with us, but if you
do not want to go, then all you have to do is tell me and I’ll understand. Few
gods bring their concubines as dates, so I get it if you-”
“You’re rambling, Hermes,” I mention with slight hilarity.
He lets out a sigh. “I am, aren’t I?” Nervousness pulls out a laugh, and he
bites onto that small corner of his bottom lip again. “So?” He asks. “Will you go
with me, Saffron?”
“Will Ares be there?” I ask, hating the wobbliness of my voice.
The previous time I saw the god of war reemerge in my mind; his face
burning with rage, lips snarled in disgust, and his blade glinted with my blood.
The thought of Ares destroys the tentative balance between my sanity and
hysteria.
With the image of Ares poisoning my thoughts, the terse night he and I
shared returns, too. The tales of a broken man frightened of the possibility of
cherishing another, the tip of a blade against my heart that he feared would beat
for him, and the moment his knife bled gold and we realized I was not mundane.
I try to forget I’m an anomaly, a creature not meant to exist in this world of
serfdom and chaos, but everything reminds me I’m neither a god nor a human.
The mention of Ares’s name, of seeing him again, is one of a multitude of truth-
ridden tokens I’ve collected over the past week.
Hermes’s hand slips from mine, the coldness of its absence reminding me too
much of the cool touch of the cell bars. Only a moment later, warmth replaces
the chill. Both of his hands cup my face, tilting my head back to stare into
Hermes’s kindness.
“Yes, Ares will be there, but there’s a reason Eros and Psyche are riding with
us.” As Hermes talks, my immersion shifts to one of his thumbs that skims the
side of my cheek with such gentleness. “Eros has arrows with powers. Has
China taught you about them at all?”
“No.”
Epiales didn’t tell me about the arrows, either.
“Eros has two types of arrows he plans to use against Ares that night. One of
them, when he shoots Ares, will make him fall madly in love with the first
person who he sees. The lead arrow, however, will make him fill with rage at the
first person who he sees,” Hermes explains. “Eros will shoot Ares with the love
arrow when he’s around some water nymphs or Aphrodite. He’ll be so blinded
by affection that he won’t even realize you’re there. If you want to go, that is.”
“He won’t speak to me?” I ask, but that isn’t the crucial question circulating
through my head.
Will Ares tell others about me? Will he tell the truth about my blood and
condemn me to death? These questions remain unspoken.
“I won’t let him get the chance,” Hermes swears. “I promise. Will you come
with me, Saffron?”
He drops one of his hands from my face to extend a pinky. There is hesitance
across his face, with a crease of his forehead that’s partially hidden by a few
rebellious brown strands of hair. He never looks away from me, as if he fears I
will deny him if he moves away or blinks.
“Why do you want me to come? You said that gods almost never bring their
human concubines, so why are you inviting me? What makes me so special?” I
ask the questions with a vague knowledge of the answers, but I want to hear him
say the words.
He is holding his hand in the air, pinky finger extended. I mutely plead with
him to say the correct answer, the one that he and I both know as truth but have
been too cowardice to admit.
“Because I enjoy your company more than I ever thought I would. When I’m
around you, it feels like all the problems of the world leave me alone and I can
breathe,” he says the words with the wind, the tone quieted but honest.
My heart skips a beat, even if they were not the words that I yearned for him
to say. My cheeks burn, while my lips spread into a sheepish grin. “As long as
you promise not to leave my side,” I officiate my acceptance with a curl of my
pinky around his. “Then yes, I will be your date.”
Relief relaxes his face, and he looks younger than the eons he’s lived. His
cheeks tinge gold, the blood rushing to his skin, and the sight makes my heart
skip. With his grip of his pinky finger around mine, he pulls me forward until
my chest brushes against his.
The gazebo is silenced, with not even the whistling wind for company. The
garden is stilled in anticipation, both inanimate and animate objects watching our
interaction with rapt fascination. His fingers are delicate, cloud-like upon my
skin, as he moves down my shoulder, across my arms, and around my round hip.
He holds my hip, while his other hand encompasses mine that once only held
his pinky finger. We both stare at our intertwined touch, and the fingers that
slide into their natural place. There are no words, but we stay in suspension
between friends and another realm that I’ve never entered before.
“What are we doing, Hermes?” My voice is quiet, almost drowned away by
the considerable tension thickening the open, flowery expanse.
When he looks back, he isn’t looking at me. The forest hue of his gaze,
which is sparkling underneath the setting sun, is on my lips. His lips are parted
with shock and something foreign but welcomed. Time pauses in anticipation of
his next move. It is only the two of us, but my body tingles in a way that makes
me feel as if a thousand people are watching how he stares at me and the
response my body has to him.
“There are many things I want to do that I have no right to do,” his voice is
heavier than usual, his cadence grave with bottomless starvation. “I want to do
so much more with you.”
I don’t know when I shift my fascination to his lips’ movements and the
formulation of each grainy word, but I can’t bring myself to look away. The
color is pink as petals, and they’re closer to mine with each unspoken
confession. We’re gravitating nearer to one another, unaware of our actions but
unable to stop ourself. All that it will take is one of us to eliminate the
suffocating tension and create a new feeling that I’ve never gotten the
opportunity to experience before.
“I need to teach you to dance for the symposium,” Hermes says.
Hermes pulls his head away from mine and takes one retreating step from
me. A ping of disappointment hits me, but I ignore the emotion with a
convincing smile that tells him everything is alright. We’re still holding hands,
his other one resting on my waist, but our chests are no longer pressed together.
Our lips are not a breath apart, and the chance to get rid of the tension is cut
apart by cowardice once more.
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER
Hermes may be the god of trickery, but we both are the masters of secrets.
Our nightly game of Monopoly has vanished, gone with the storm that
destroyed so much more than Panda’s daisy garden. He’s almost never home, the
wispy flaps of his wings ringing louder than any of his words. Many days have
passed, but when the sun sets and the stars come out to dazzle in the nighttime’s
darkness, I sit in my bedroom with my hand around a Monopoly dollar.
I wait.
And wait.
I receive nothing in return for my patience. He never walks into my room to
break the silence and lies with an inkling of truth. Instead, I can only hear his
fluttering wings from his sandals as he travels far from his home.
Each night before I fall asleep and realize he’s not coming to my room for a
game of Monopoly and truth, I see his fear during the storm. I see his slackened
jaw, rigid stance, and widened eyes as he looks at me and recognizes me as a
monster. When I do not see Hermes’s fright right before a dreamless sleep takes
me away, I see Medusa’s decapitated head above Ares’s fireplace, and his words
about a woman who dared to love. Who was later detested as a monster for her
foolish act of compassion.
Five nights have passed since the lessons in the garden, and the argument
with Hermes, and each night was without dreams but minimal sleep, too. My
body is more sluggish each morning, trekking down the steps to where China
waits with a warm cup of tea and a new set of three-letter words to write on a
piece of paper.
On the sixth morning, as I stumble into the kitchen with tiredness, China has
a feast waiting for me. Her dark hair’s silver streaks shine underneath the
morning sun that drifts into the kitchen, making the beauty of her age enviable.
Her typical bun is absent today, as well. For the first time in my two weeks
inside of this house, China’s hair falls into natural waves down past her
shoulders.
The older woman pours two cups of hot tea. “Morning,” she says. I take in
the vast array of foods across the small, circular table, and she explains. “It’s
been a long while since I’ve cooked, and I felt the urge. Hopefully that’s
alright.”
My stomach grumbles at my immediate response. I sit down and I ogle at the
breakfast China made. Buttered toast sits closest to me while my mouth waters
in famished anticipation.
As I reach towards it, shoving a majority of the bread into my mouth, I ask.
“What words am I learning today?”
“None, my dear. I have a story instead. If you’d like,” China says as she
takes a sip of the glass of water next to her steaming cup of tea. “Afterwards, we
can go over how to write some words from my story.”
I nod my head, taking another bite out of my toast. “Sure, I like stories.”
“You once asked me why Lord Hermes named me after a China doll, and I’d
like to tell you the story now,” China sips her water, but she watches me,
following each piece of toast I bite into and each time I raise the cup of tea to my
lips. “When I was won in the arena by Lord Hermes, I came into his home and
began picking up everything inside. I was a curious little girl, and I held an
ancient China doll in my hands when I saw the face of my soulmate walk down
the staircase.”
“Your soulmate?” I ask with a wave of giddiness. “What was his name?”
Her words are tinged with a broken heart. “Falcon,” she says with a
mournfulness to her voice. “His name was Falcon, and I knew he was the love of
my life from the moment I saw him as children in our prison cell. I thought he
was dead when he left the prison to be chosen in the arena, but he stood on that
staircase, and I saw a second chance at loving him.”
I take another sip of my tea, the swirl of mint and lavender melting upon my
tongue. She has both of her hands, wrinkled with age, around her glass of water.
Her pinkies tap on the glass, almost impatiently, as she talks about her soulmate.
“I dropped the China doll I was holding, and I half-expected Lord Hermes to
become furious with me. I waited for my death to come as swiftly as I assumed
my life was beginning, but he laughed. Lord Hermes saw how I stared at Falcon,
like he was a gift from the Fates meant to enliven my days, and he decided we
should immortalize the moment with a name that reminded me of seeing him
once again.”
My eyes grow heavy, either with fatigue from my poor sleep the night before
or sadness for the grief that is imminent in her story, and my toast falls from my
weighty hands. I still centralize on China, but I lower my head down upon my
upright hand while I rapidly blink in a fight to stay awake.
China picks up her water glass and takes another sip; the click, click, click of
her pinkies worsening with each new sentence she utters. “Lord Hermes allowed
us to be together, to defy the rules of the gods without restrictions or rules. For
six glorious months, I was with Falcon, with the closest inkling towards life as a
free woman. The Fates gifted me with a soulmate when most humans weren’t
fortunate enough to experience a love that was half the magnitude of ours. Even
as my belly became swollen with a baby, I was not afraid. I was happier than I
thought possible.”
She takes another sip of her glass, but her pinkies abruptly stop tapping. Stoic
in nature, it is rare to see emotions on the older woman’s face, but today she
looks at me and I see decades of hatred on her wrinkled face. I no longer see the
woman who spent hours each morning teaching me the alphabet and simple
words, but a broken soul manifested in rage sits before me.
“That’s when the explosion happened,” she confesses. “When I was at my
happiest.”
China’s eyes shimmer with tears as she relives the past through her words,
but she does not cry. She uses her hatred for the gods to transform any remnant
of sadness into rage. Behind blurred and heavy lids, I almost miss the knife she
lies on top of the rounded table, hidden behind a stack of pancakes and a bowl of
blueberries.
“King Poseidon and Lady Athena were fighting, an argument so
inconsequential to them now that if you’d ask them the origin, they couldn’t
answer. When the explosion of two pure gods fighting against one another
crashed through this kitchen, Falcon grabbed my hand, and we ran. Almost a
dozen human bodies lay in the wake of their rage before Falcon hid me in the
wardrobe, but he had no time to save himself.”
I struggle to keep my head up, the back of my neck baring the weight of a
thousand suns, but I ask. “What did you do to me?”
She ignores me and continues the story. “King Poseidon,” she sneers the term
with pure hatred. “Threw his trident to hit Lady Athena, but it impaled Falcon
through the chest. He died within seconds, as I cowered in the wardrobe, but that
was all it took to change my entire life. One mis-aimed weapon and three
seconds before death claimed the one I adored most of all.”
A single tear falls, but she wipes it away before it could stream down her pale
cheek. She lives in front of me, with a beating heart and years of anguish in her
thoughts, but I stare at China and see a corpse whose heart died alongside
Falcon’s many years ago. The only residuum of life that clings to her body is
rage, which reeks like a disease eating away at what remains.
“Lord Hermes found me in the wardrobe after both gods were kicked out of
his home, but the damage was irreversible. The Fates gifted me with a second
chance at happiness, only to watch and cackle as I broke into a thousand terrible
cracks, and there was no longer gleefulness. The child in my belly must’ve
tasted the sourness of my sorrow because it came into this world without a
pulse.”
“What?” I lick my lips, fighting the numbness that overtakes my body and
inhibits me from running from a woman fueled by revenge. “What did you-”
“King Kronos came to me in a dream one night, soon after, with a
proposition that I could not refuse,” she says. “He’s getting rather impatient. The
king wants you to join us now. No more waiting.”
The story has been festering inside of China since Falcon’s death, and telling
her past distracts her from the rest of the world. She does not realize who
emerges from the garden doors because of either the engrossment of the story
she tells, or her poor hearing, but she is oblivious to Hattie’s stealthy entrance.
She stands in between the opened back doors, a garden fork clutched in her
hand, and disbelief slackening her features.
Hattie stares at the woman who she’s seen as a mother figure, and she finally
sees her for who she truly is—a monster.
There is turmoil brewing inside of Hattie, whether to save me or the woman
who she sees as a mother, and it paralyzes her. She holds onto the garden fork,
unable to advance towards us or run for help. She only watches the transaction
with confliction and an onslaught of tears.
“What proposition?” I force the words out, the drowsiness slamming into me.
China flickers down to the half-drank cup of tea, and she says. “You need to
finish your cup of tea, Saffron. You’ll want to be asleep for the rest of our trip,
and I had to kill far too many to get enough drugs to incapacitate you.”
“Kill?” I ask as my eyes flutter shut.
“Panda became such a nosy little thing,” as soon as China says Panda’s
name, my stomach curdles in disgust. “I had to dispose of her before she told
you what she knew.”
Panda?
Panda’s gaped tooth smile burns in my mind. Her laughter, the nasal but
carefree sound, taints my ears. I hear China’s words, registering Panda’s death,
but I do not accept the fact that she’s gone. With as much strength as I can
muster, I shake my head at the familiar sting of sadness that another lost soul
incites.
I look up at where Hattie stands, and tears stream down her cheeks and off of
the tip of her chin. Where there was once hesitance, there is now only
determination and sorrow. Each step Hattie makes, both silent and lethal, is in
honor of Panda. Hattie raises the garden fork into the air, and just as China turns
around to face my line of vision, Hattie’s weapon slides downwards.
China watches as the garden fork slides through her chest and impales her.
The three prongs stick out of her back while rich red blood spills from her pale
flesh. China tries to open her mouth, but crimson cessation slips from the corner
of her lips.
She falls from her chair but does not fight her death. China does not wrap her
fingers around the handle of the garden fork, but she lays her arms outstretched
and watches her blood pool around her body. China is staring upwards at the
ceiling, refusing to pay attention to anything but her own looming demise.
When her soul leaves her body, the truest smile graces her lips.
I am fighting the poison coursing through my body, but I will myself to stay
awake long enough to check on Hattie. She stands over China’s corpse, her
hands vibrating and her body swaying. She cannot keep herself upright when the
waves of distress crash into her tiny body. I trip and tumble my way out of my
chair, but I stumble to Hattie fast enough that when she collapses, I am there to
catch her.
When she screams, the walls tremble. With the lingering strength in my legs,
I distance us from China until my back hits the kitchen counter and my arms are
wrapped around hers. Hattie won’t look away from China’s corpse, the woman
who she loved but murdered for Panda and me, but I intertwine our hands to stop
them from shaking.
As the drug ebbs away the overbearing desire to slumber, I unveil the truth.
“You saved my life.”
“I’m a murderer,” Hattie gasps, tears slipping from her cheeks and wetting
my arms and hands. “I killed her.”
“You saved my life,” I reiterate. “You are a hero.”
The garden doors are thrown open, and Hermes stands in the threshold with
Pyro behind him with a knife in his hand. Hermes only wears a pair of shorts, his
chest slicked in sweat, but his mighty caduceus is gripped in his hands as he
looks around the room. Hermes expected a battle, but when he looks at China’s
corpse upon the floor, his grip on caduceus lessens.
“Are you alright?” Hermes asks, staring at me but then migrates his focus to
Hattie’s sobbing, bloody, and inconsolable form. “What in the Underworld
happened?”
I migrate to Pyro. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Pyro asks, and he looks back with befuddlement, but I
can’t bring myself to say the words out loud. There is a long expanse of
muteness, our words spoken within the lines of frightened silence, and Pyro
knows. He takes a wobbling step forward, noticing Panda’s absence, but refusing
to believe the truth. “What are you sorry for? What happened?”
Anybody who lives in this mansion would’ve heard Hattie’s scream as she
murdered China, but Panda is nowhere in sight. She isn’t here, and the tears that
stream down Pyro’s cheeks confirm she will never be with us again. Hermes
turns to Pyro and places a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“No,” Pyro shoves Hermes away, still shaking his head as he stammers. “No,
she’s fine,” he looks at me and probes. “Right? Panda is fine, right?”
“I’m so sorry,” I recite once more, my tears building up.
“No, you’re wrong,” Pyro says, his hands tightening around the knife in his
hand. “Panda is just sleeping. I’ll go fetch her.”
Pyro runs downstairs, searching for his soulmate, but what he will find won’t
be what he is hoping for. The kitchen is silent as we listen to Pyro’s fading feet.
There is a prolonged muteness in the room as we wait in terrible imminence for
his own realization that Panda is no longer alive.
His screams pierce the walls until there is a distinct thud of a newly fallen
body and then nothing at all. I do not have to run downstairs to see the blood-
splattered truth. We are in the kitchen, numbed by the gnawing realization that
both Panda and Pyro are gone from this world, leaving behind nothing.
Nothing but the death of love ricocheting through the walls.
Hermes sheaths caduceus and walks towards China’s corpse. As I hold Hattie
tight in my arms, Hermes picks up the dead body of the woman who was
betrayed by her own mind and agony. But another creature stumbles into the
kitchen.
Panda’s red panda, Roscoe, walks into the kitchen soaked in the blood of his
owners.
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER
In the same spot where Panda’s favorite tulips grow in the garden, she and Pyro
are buried side-by-side. The sky cries in mournful remembrance of their
devotion for one another, the gentle petals of rain hitting our hair, face, and
emotions as we watch Hermes lower their bodies into the graves that he dug.
They become a part of the Earth that was never kind to them, while only the
three of us will remember the story of their life. None of us have spoken a word
since that dreadful night, not when Hermes lifted China’s body and disposed of
it far from where she started the seed of betrayal and hatred. Not when Roscoe’s
stomach began its horrendous grumbles of hunger, his beady eyes looking for
Panda or Pyro before he could eat a morsel of food.
Hermes lays each shovel-full of dirt upon their corpses, and with each slap
that hits their faces, I see Kronos. I feel the icy spike of his presence, reminding
me again and again that I could’ve avoided this if I told Hermes the truth about
Kronos upon our first encounter. I watch as Pyro and Panda’s faces leave this
world forever, hidden behind six feet worth of soil, and I hear China’s words.
The king wants you to join us now, no more waiting.
Sweat rolls down the sides of Hermes’s face as he stares down at the new
graves he’s created, and then he swivels to me. Hattie stands behind me, mute
since the day she killed China to protect me, but she stares at the graves without
a glance at Hermes or me. Tears that do not shed but build. The suffering is
burning with more intensity than the sun.
I do not ponder my action, but I wrap my hand around hers. At first, she
freezes. Her body tenses upon contact, but within a few seconds the tears fall
down her cheeks and she squeezes my hand in a tight grip.
“After the dance,” Hermes says with conviction, drawing me back to him. “I
promise I’ll tell you everything. No more secrets or lies.”
I nod my head, my words hushed but genuine. “After the dance.”
Hermes lets out a deep breath, a fraction of his tension disappearing, but he
centralizes on the graves once more and the sadness returns alongside a wave of
guilt. “I’m going to take their souls to the Underworld,” he tells us both before
adding. “No matter what, I’ll make sure that Panda and Pyro end up in the Fields
of Elysium with Roscoe by their sides.”
Roscoe’s little form materializes in Hermes’s arms, and the red panda stares
at Hermes with confusion. He lets his feathered sandals fly him into the air with
Roscoe, and within a fraction of a second, he is gone with the souls of our
friends who invisibly soar beside him. I watch each flutter of his wings until he
leaves my line of vision and the possibility of seeing Panda and Pyro depart with
him.
Hattie must’ve been watching, too, because when Hermes’s form drifts into
the clouds, she collapses to the ground. With my hand intertwined with hers, I
fall beside her. The ground is cold, but Hattie is burning with anguish. Sweat
dribbles down the side of her face, intermingling with the tears of her sadness,
but her hand remains coiled around mine.
“I almost didn’t save you,” Hattie says as her first words in nearly ten hours.
With a solemn nod, I admit. “I know.”
“Did I ever tell you how Hermes won me in the arena?” Hattie asks, but she
does not look at me. She stares at the two freshly dug graves which are decorated
with Panda’s favorite tulips. “Three gods fought for me, but Psyche was quickly
defeated and only Heracles and Hermes were left. I found out later that Heracles
required all of his slaves to take part in a smaller scale version of his twelve
labors to see if they were worthy to live, but almost all of them die. I would’ve
died if I were with him, I know it.”
“How did Hermes beat him?” I ask, both because of curiosity and a need for
the squelching silence to subside.
“He threw a little piece of candy onto the floor of the arena, right in front of
Heracles’s feet.” Despite the sadness, Hattie lets out a laugh similar to a sob.
“Heracles was so confused by the thought of having candy thrown at him he
didn’t see Hermes strike until it was too late. He bested Heracles over a small
piece of candy, and I have lived eight years longer than I thought I would’ve. All
because of a god and a piece of candy.”
“Hattie, why did you choose me over China? Was it because of Panda?”
“Partially, but it was also because you saved the god who saved me,” she
responds. “You saved Hermes’s life when you came into this mansion. He was
not about to face the twelve labors, or have his throat slit for existing, but he was
withering away in his mind. I didn’t understand why in the beginning, and for
that I hated you, but the god I care for saw you and no longer found a reason to
hide himself in his work. He is eternal, but he started living because of you, and
I would let nobody take that away from him. Not even China.”
We drift into the silence again, but the tears have subsided. We are back to
the torment of our inner thoughts, but our hands stay intertwined. As if we are
each other’s strand to sanity, we sit on the ground in front of the two graves,
hands together, and we stare ahead at our own unknown future.
I whisper. “Regardless of who you saved me for, thank you for saving my
life.”
“I told you once and I’ll say it again,” Hattie ensures I am staring at her, our
eyes almost identical in color but polarizing in size and shape. While mine are
round yet petite, similar to an almond, hers are downcast and always narrowed in
critical analysis of surrounding people. “Your presence is the turning of times. I
saved you because of Hermes, but I’ll keep saving you because you’re the
closest chance humanity will get to freedom, no matter if you choose the side of
the gods or Kronos.”
I look at her, shock causing my jaw to drop onto the floor as I ask. “Kronos?”
She nods her head once more but does not look away from the graves.
“China was not the only human he found and tried to promise the world to. Not
even close to it.”
“Did he ask you to…” I ask, but fear stops me.
Did he ask you to kidnap me? Is what I was going to say.
Hattie finishes what I was too frightened to, and she says. “I told you I’ll
always save you. Just because a pretty face came to me in a dream doesn’t mean
I’m going to fall for it. Plus, I’ve seen far prettier faces in my time than his.”
“Thank you, Hattie.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me, demi-god, or I’m going to rethink his decision
just to keep you away from me.”
“What did he offer you in exchange for kidnapping me?” I ponder aloud.
“China was promised revenge against Athena and Poseidon, but what did he try
to persuade you with?”
While she stands in front of me in the present, her mind and soul reverberate
to a time when sadness ravaged her. “I had a twin sister, and I don’t know if his
words are true or not, but Kronos said she was a dispenser and died her first
night out of the arena.” She is quiet for quite some time, but when she speaks,
her voice is distant. “He promised me revenge just like China because revenge is
the only bargain he needs against humans who have nothing else.”
Her hand slips from mine as she rises to her feet, and I do not stop her as she
leaves the garden in search of a void of nothingness my company does not
provide. When the back door closes behind Hattie, I’m alone with death and
flowers. I sit upon the garden ground, my dress and skin covered in wet soil, and
I am infused on where Panda and Pyro permanently lie.
“I’ll kill him for you,” I vow to where their bodies lie, but their souls are
miles away. “If it is the last thing I do in this world, then I will kill Kronos.”
And what about Epiales? My thoughts cry for an answer, the contemplation
bringing an aching to my chest. What about the god who helps the titan
responsible for such terror?
I can’t answer my question.
Night arrives, Hermes with it, before I leave the garden. When his feet land
upon the ground, he does not question by wet, fatigued state. He walks over to
me, picking me up in his arms, and steers me away from the burial ground that
lays two premature souls.
We are halfway up the staircase, nearing our bedrooms, when I ask. “Is this
how life will always be? Full of death where there was once beauty?”
“I keep praying that the right hero will bring change.”
“How, though? How will it change?”
He opens my bedroom door with a nod of his head, never once moving his
hands from holding my body, and walks into the room. Hermes doesn’t
immediately answer my question, but he sets me down on the corner of my bed
and wraps a materialized towel around my shoulders. He ensures that the thick
material is snug against my body, before my wet clothes disappear with his
magic.
Hermes assesses my trembling bottom lip and the steady drips of water from
the bottom of my hair and mutters more to himself than to me. “With the right
prophecy and the destined wielder, I think change will come sooner rather than
later.”
He pulls away from me fast, as if my skin were the center of a flame, and he
migrates back towards the door he just entered.
“Hermes,” a question is ready to leave my lips, but he is already closing the
bedroom door behind him with a parting request.
“Rest well, Saffron.”
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THE THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER
Hattie sees the tears drying on my cheeks and distracts me from tonight’s
endeavors. She sets a thick tome on top of the bed and right in between my legs.
I look up at her with confusion, then at the book. Leaning forward, my fingers
graze the four golden letters on the front.
“Z…” I go to the next letter and stammer. “E… U… S.”
“Zeus,” Hattie says, and she flops onto the bed and takes the book from my
hands. “I’ll take over your studies, and today you’re going to learn everything
about Zeus. If you can pronounce a word right, then…” she bends backwards,
her hands leaving my line of vision, but a few seconds later a bowl of cut
strawberries sits adjacent to the book. “You’ll get a strawberry as a prize.”
“Strawberries?” I squeal with excitement, and she nods her head.
“Let’s get to reading about Zeus before Psyche and Eros show up and
pamper you for the ball,” Hattie says. “I think we have about two or three hours
before she storms in with her butterflies,” she shivers and adds. “Those things
creep me out.”
It’ll still be a beautiful sight. Watching Zeus’s secret child kill him and all the
other Olympians, whether it’s against her will or not.
Epiales’s words come back into my head, burrowing its way through my
sanity. Once again, I look down at Zeus’s name written across the top of the
booklet, and his words are screaming back at me.
Zeus’s secret child.
Zeus, the king of the skies, is my father.
“Can we learn about somebody else today?” I ask.
Hattie counteracts with another question. “Why? Zeus has some pretty
wicked stories. There was one time he was so scared of a prophecy about his
second born chi-”
“Hattie,” I snap her name, interrupting her story with my trepidation.
“Please? Anybody else?”
She mumbles. “You’re lucky I brought a book about Apollo, too,” she bends
over, and while switching books, she mutters. “I knew I should’ve brought
brownies laced with laxatives instead of strawberries.”
As she sets down the book with new letters on the top, I ask. “What are
laxatives?”
Humor laces her dark eyes as she smirks. “Chocolate.”
“Would it taste good with strawberries?” I ponder aloud, and her smirk
widens.
“Delicious with strawberries,” Hattie drawls, then opens the book on Apollo
and asks. “Where do you think we should start? With the story about his birth or
his story with Daphne?”
“A t-tr,” I sigh, staring at the four-letter word Hattie told me to read aloud.
“Trah.”
“Tree,” Hattie corrects me, then reads the rest of the sentence. “Her father,
Peneus, took pity on his daughter and turned her into a laurel tree. Just as Apollo
went to grab her, she began her transformation into the laurel tree.”
“Tree,” I sound out the word on my tongue, my finger tracing the four-letter
word on the page. “Alright, I’ll get that right next time.”
Hattie turns the next page and says. “Alright, the next story about Apollo is
about his friendship with a man named Admetus. Do you want to read the first
line?”
I stare at the words, which float and turn across the page as if they’re
possessed by some powers to propel confusion. I try to stop the words from
twisting and contorting themselves, but they do not listen. All the letters
continue their distortion, which only furthers my disorientation.
Each letter swivels, but I still read. “Apollo saw in-”
“Was, not saw,” Hattie corrects me. “But keep going.”
I sigh. “It’s like the d and b again,” I elaborate. “When China was teaching
me how to write the letters, I kept switching those two.”
“Learning how to read and write isn’t easy,” Hattie explains. “You’re fine.
Just keep going and do not give up. Even when you want to throw the book and
scream, keep reading.”
I take a deep breath and try the sentence again. “Apollo was in big,” I pause,
staring at the seven-letter word. “Trewdell. What is a trewdell?” I look at Hattie
and ask. “Is that a kind of food?”
“The word is trouble,” Hattie points to the word and explains. “Trewdell isn’t
a word, but you’re right, if it was a word, then it’d sound like food. I’m thinking
of a pastry.”
“Right.” I look down at the page once again and repeat the sentence for a
third time. “Apollo was in big trouble with Zeus. Zeus ex… ex…” I stare at the
word a little while longer, trying to sound out each letter as Hattie told me to,
and I test out the word on my tongue. “Exiled.”
“You got it!” Hattie yells, a grin encompassing her face, and a joyous laugh
escapes from my lips.
“I did?” I exclaim, my smile wide.
Hattie nods her head with obvious excitement. “Yup.” She digs into the half
empty strawberry bowl and throws me a piece. “Another new word down.”
I pop the strawberry into my mouth with a newfound burning to my cheeks.
Each sentence takes me several times, but Hattie surprises me with her patience.
Hattie used to be the first to grow impatient with my confusion, but she’s a better
teacher than China ever was.
I periodically mess up the d and the b, as well as the p and the q, but Hattie
never yells at me. She quickly reminds me of my error, and I try again. A few
times, I am half-tempted to close the book and throw it across the room, but I
don’t. I take her advice and I try again, mess up, and then try again.
“Apollo saved his fr.” I stop, take a deep breath, and finish the word. “Freb.”
“Friend,” Hattie corrects me.
“You don’t know what the word ‘friend’ means?” A new, nasally voice
outcries.
Hattie and I turn towards the opened door. Live butterflies rest upon her onyx
hair, which is braided around her head like a crown. She is almost as beautiful as
Aphrodite’s forms, yet there is a childlike roundness to her face that makes her
appear older, yet younger than me at the same time.
There is a youthful glow to her naturally tan complexion, which contrasts
with the other goddesses I’ve come into contact with. While other goddesses
have an archaic sophistication to them, Psyche glides across the room with a skip
in her step, which reminds me of all the toddlers in the prison cells.
The butterflies never deviate from the top of her head until she and I are
standing face-to-face. Then, the largest purple butterfly soars off of her head and
lands on top of my shoulder. Psyche’s eyes, which are squinted and in a rich
multitude of browns and greens, watch the butterfly that sits on me.
“You’re a purple soul. How exciting,” Psyche’s cheerful voice outcries. Her
attention meanders towards the opened book on the bed and she giggles. “You
are clearly not a green soul. When did you learn how to read? Yesterday?”
“She just started two weeks ago.” Hattie slides off of the bed and glares at the
goddess of soul. Her tone is clipped as she snaps. “You’ve had eons, so what’s
your excuse for all that air in between your ears, Psyche?”
I turn to look at Hattie, my brows raised in disbelief at her brazen attitude,
but Psyche laughs. “Your wit will one day get you killed, little viper.”
Hattie snaps back. “Yet undeformed, unlike your little butterflies.”
“Until Hermes finally accepts one of my trades. You’d look beautiful with a
red butterfly right here,” Psyche points to her right eye, and Hattie recoils from
the goddess. Amused, Psyche turns her attention to me. “You must be Saffron.
It’s a pleasure to meet the woman Hermes whisked away for the sake of love.”
I look over at where Hattie once stood, but she is gone. She fled from Psyche,
who claps her hands and demands. “Bring me all the purple dresses!”
Five female slaves scurry forward, purple dresses draped across their arms,
but I focus on the woman on the far left, and I gasp.
My shower-mate, who was once the prettiest human woman I’d ever seen,
stands amongst the slaves holding purple gowns. Now, her right eye is
permanently shut with a scarification mark. A butterfly, large and in a shade of
amber brown with two white stripes, covers the entirety of her once important
organ.
I glance around at the other humans, and they are all blinded by the
scarification of a particular butterfly, too. I stare at the dehumanizing sight,
unable to pull away.
“You mutilated them,” the words slip out of my lips before I have the
common sense to stay silent.
“The quickest and easiest way to a man’s soul is through a woman’s eyes. I
did them a favor,” Psyche says, her voice deepened in seriousness. “They should
thank me.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Lady Psyche,” I turn to face her, and my words are
venomous as I sneer. “Mutilation isn’t a favor, it’s torture, and only monsters
look upon torture and see something beautiful.”
Psyche takes a threatening step closer. She expects me to balk, to fear the
ground her immortal feet glide across, but the familiar pit of power deepens
within my chest. I stare at the goddess of souls, and I see an opponent I could
defeat.
My chin is raised in the air.
“I saved them from the dangers of men who do not accept no as an answer,”
Psyche snaps back.
I point at my shower-mate, who flinches with brutal anticipation for a
punishment. “Did you know I grew up in the same jail cell as this girl? She is the
same age as I am and grew up in the bastille right across from mine. She was
sold in the same arena I was a little over two weeks ago, yet here I am, ready to
be pampered and adored by you. Here I am, about to attend a symposium with
you as Hermes’s date, and here she is, suffering without an eye because you
made decisions that impacted the rest of her life.”
Psyche gapes at my shower-mate, who cowers in fright that today is her last
day alive. Yet, the goddess looks at her and sees the mutilation. For a moment, I
fear that I’ve cost my shower-mate her life, but Psyche glances back at me
without malice.
Then, Psyche explains. “I was not born a goddess like many of the
immortals, but I was a human girl Aphrodite disapproved of. She tried to decide
disappointment was my fate. Aphrodite saw my beauty as a threat and wanted
Eros to set me up with the ugliest man he could find. Yet, my Eros fell for me. If
Eros didn’t love me, then I would’ve lived a putrid life Aphrodite orchestrated
without my say. If I didn’t find a god’s affection, then I would’ve been married
to a repugnant man and died a forgettable life, but the world has changed since I
first found Eros.”
“The world didn’t change enough to make mutilation acceptable,” I snap.
“Yes, it did,” she insists. “Because a relationship between a god and a human
girl equates to demi-gods, and a swollen belly on a woman is a swift death
sentence. You see a sadist when you look at my girls, but I see the marks as
shields from a short life expectancy. My slaves live long lives, and-”
“Are they happy?” I interject.
The question confuses Psyche. “Excuse me?”
“You say they live long lives under your sadism,” I say.
“Protection,” Psyche sneers back, interrupting me.
“But are they happy with the life you chose for them?” I gesture to the girls,
who tremble as they hold purple dresses, none of them showing a glimpse of
gratitude for their master. “Do they look at you as their savior with their limited
vision? Do they look at you and see a happy life in store for them? I wouldn’t. If
I looked into the mirror each day and saw mutilation after years of waiting to see
the beauty of my reflection, then I might want to die a little more than I already
did in the jail cells.”
In my peripheral, I see tears sliding down the girls’ cheeks. Proof of my
words that neither Psyche nor I can ignore. The goddess looks back at her slaves.
Some of their movements are tentative while they touch their scarification, but
all wear mortification on their gorgeous yet mutilated faces. Others, like my
shower-mate, cry with dismal remembrance of their deformed state.
“Glasswing,” Psyche says, her voice no longer enlivened with confidence
and jubilation. Her tone is fragile like glass with its first crack. “She’ll wear the
dress you’re holding. Get Hermes’s concubine ready.”
The butterfly flees from my shoulder amidst its owner’s rage. Psyche storms
out of the room, and all the slaves scramble behind her except for one. Only my
shower-mate, Glasswing, remains as the last girl slams the door shut behind her.
She murmurs. “Hi.”
A sliver of my childhood returns, and I run towards her with my arms
outstretched. She is frail, almost as malnourished as she was in the jail cells, and
when my arms wrap around hers, it feels as if I’m hugging a skeleton. Glasswing
hesitates for only a second, then she holds me with the same fervent need for
comfort.
“I’ve missed you,” I murmur into her shoulder.
“I’ve missed you too,” when she pulls away from our hug, Glasswing
reminds me of the past once more. “You told me I wasn’t pretty.”
“You said the same thing to me.”
Her cheeks burn as she ducks her head. “It’s clear we both lied. Gods, I wish
we could’ve gone back to the days when we were kids worrying about our
appearances.”
“Those days were still unkind to us,” I remind Glasswing. “Our entire lives
have been one terrible thing after another.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she sets my dress down on top of the bed and
walks to the makeup center. We were once equals, sitting together underneath
the shower head and comparing appearances. We were once seen as two
unfortunate human girls, pushing through adversity together.
Yet, as I sit down and she applies makeup to my cheeks, we couldn’t be
farther apart.
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-THIRD CHAPTER
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
Hermes and I do not dance to elicit a sense of elation beneath the glittering
chandelier. We do not hold one another beside the celestial radiance of the
muses’ hymns. Our bodies are gliding together as one to ease any tension that
has built to a suffocating level over this past week.
Our lips never discuss the secrets or gaze at the prominent vein on my
forearm that tells us both what we’re aware of, and our ears never listen to the
confessions of the other’s lies. Even as the lights dim and the music drifts higher
towards the ceiling, we let the dance become our escape once more.
I tilt my head back, letting the rush of air brush through my hair like tender,
loving hands while Hermes twirls me towards the center of the dancefloor. He
will stare at me with enough intensity to move mountains, but then look away a
moment later. He will be present in our dance one second, then he is searching
around the crowd the next.
We stop dancing for another sip of wine, another poison to drown my
discombobulated mind. Then, our feet grace the floor again and we resume the
endless game we play. Our game of make believe, where I am only his human
concubine, and he is only my master without a mischievous thought in his head.
I let a smile grow over my lips even as Hermes searches the room for
somebody else. I did not realize that I, too, was roaming the capacious expanse
until I see navy eyes across the room staring back. He is far away from where I
am with Hermes, his body almost completely shrouded by Eros’s lanky frame,
but I can see him despite the barriers between us.
Ares, who tried to murder me the last time he saw me, stares at me from
where he stands, and traitorous jolts of electricity pulse through my body. He is
nodding his head every so often in response to whatever Eros is saying to him,
but he doesn’t look away from me. Ares waits and plays nice with his son, while
I dance and drink and try to ignore the world around me, but I know he will
approach me if I’m alone.
Then, like the predator he is, he will strike.
Drawing my gaze back towards Hermes, I plead with newfound
breathlessness. “Can we take a quick break? A drink sounds great right now.”
I know I shouldn’t. Remaining sober and of sound mind is the wise choice,
but Hermes slows us to a stop and plucks two fresh glasses of red wine from the
tray of a passing server. I do not fight what my trembling hands want, and
Hermes does not comment on my heavy drinking tonight. We both fight back the
words we want to say. Him with tight lips and me with endless glasses of wine.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says as we resume dancing, my feet more
sluggish than they were at the beginning of the night.
My words are slurred when I respond. “Thank you.”
His arm is still wrapped around my waist, but his other hand dares a change
in movement. Fingers, callus from hard work, caress the side of my cheek. He is
no longer searching the room for another; his attention is on me.
I stand beneath him, absorbed by the scent of the flowers from our garden
that encompass him like a welcoming hug. Hermes brings me a step closer to
him, flushing my chest against his, while he ogles down towards my parted,
wine-painted lips.
“You told me that this was a bad idea,” I vocalize the first glimpse of honesty
between us all night.
He nods his head. “It is a terrible idea.” He doesn’t look away from my lips,
even as he verbalizes. “I’m horrible for you.”
“Yet?” I urge him for more.
His thumb slides across my bottom lip, teasing the sensitive nerves, and as I
gasp, he discloses. “Yet, you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. When
I stare at you, this close but unable to kiss you, it feels like I’m being brutalized
in the Fields of Punishments.”
“Why are you unable to kiss me?”
“Because the Fates are as cruel to me as my own conscious is,” he says, more
to himself than me, but his thumb slips from my lips, then his hands join him in
leaving me. He drops his touch from my body and takes a step back, muttering
aloud. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,” I say, but Hermes is already gone. Dejected and drunk, I finish my
sentence for only my ears. “You pinky promised not to leave me alone tonight.”
Joyous couples surround me, dancing and laughing and twirling around, but
I’m alone in my disharmony. Standing in the center of the dancefloor, my
shoulders brush the surrounding partygoers, but I’m ostracized once again. Then,
like a glimmering ray of sunlight falling from the sky, a god parts the room and
approaches me with an extended hand.
No matter what inebriated state I am in, or that I’ve never cordially met him,
I know which god stands in front of me. The blinding rays from the chandelier’s
brilliance conceal a portion of his face, but I would always recognize Apollo.
Apollo is the god of prophecies and truth, healing and diseases, and music
and dance. He is the brightest scintillant in a room of eminence. His hair is a part
of the sun, blinding if looked upon for too long, but ever flowing. It’s about as
long as mine, resting upon the middle of his chest in natural waves and
haphazard, thin braids.
Even his eyes have speckles of gold inside of them. Bright shades of greens
and blues fight for dominance, but gold runs around the black pupil like a halo.
Gold splashes his irises, but it’s the most luminous in the middle. He’s not as tall
as Hermes, but his height is still considerable enough to cast a shadow over my
shorter frame.
His cheekbones are sharp enough to split the Earth in half, and they are high
risen when he smiles in amusement. “If you keep looking at me like that, then I
might think you’re attracted to me, ómorfo aínigma.”
“What did you call me?” I ponder, my hips swaying as I stand before him,
unable to keep still.
He doesn’t answer my question; instead, he looks down at his extended hand,
then back at me. “May I join you in a dance? It is a great sin to leave a beautiful
woman alone on the dancefloor.”
I search for Hermes amongst the crowd. I scour the ballroom for his tall
frame, which towers over every other male and female in the vicinity, but I
deflate each time a dark-haired and slender figure does not wear his face.
Another server passes by us, her tray filled with white wine, and I pluck it for
my own greedy ambition for obliteration.
In three rapacious gulps, the glass is empty. Only then do I accept Apollo’s
hand and ignore the stinging resurgence of Hermes’s rejection. I let the golden
god pull me to his brawny chest. His hand, the one that is not clasped in mine,
glides to my waist.
Wine-gifted smiles are directed in Apollo’s direction as we glide across the
ground, my mind spinning with each turn, each press of our bodies when they
dare to part from one another. He is infectious, a happy distraction from the
stinging reminder of Hermes’s dismissal, and with the surplus of wine in my
system, I forget about the rest of the world.
“Are you enjoying tonight, ómorfo aínigma?” His voice is a deep bass,
drumming through my body like one of the muse’s instruments.
“That’s a good question,” I comment, but that’s all I say because I’m not sure
if I’m enjoying the night.
Would I still be enjoying this event if it were not for the succulent wine
coursing through my body? The alcohol evaporates the fear and voices within
my head, which tell me dastardly things about myself I’m not prepared to listen
to. I enjoy the wine and the glimpse of freedom that comes with it, but am I
enjoying myself? Or is this glimpse of freedom reminding me of all that I cannot
possess? Epiales and Kronos’s words burn in my head, causing the world around
me to spin and the uneasiness in my stomach to worsen.
“I’m going to throw up,” I garble.
Nausea churns my stomach, and bile makes its steady climb up my throat.
Apollo, who has only known me for a few minutes, pulls me away from the
crowd of immortals and rushes me towards the open air. He throws open two
glass doors, which lead to a fountain in the backyard, where a naked figurine is
spouting wine from their mouth.
I collapse onto the ground before the fountain, my knees slapping against the
rough terrain, and all the wine I consumed spills out. Apollo’s hands are in my
hair, pulling it back as I heave. Ragged gasps leave, along with red chunks, but
as the nausea subsides, Apollo’s hands drop from my hair.
“Thank you,” I gasp out as I wipe away the bile with the back of my hand. I
stand to my feet, and as I turn to face Apollo, I explain. “That is the last time I
drink that much.”
The rest of my words die upon petrified lips.
Apollo is on the ground, gold ichor spilling from the side of his head, but his
body is mostly concealed by the burly god who stands a foot away from me.
Some of Apollo’s blood is splattered across Ares’s face, dripping into his dark
scruff. Ares stares back at me with a calm demeanor, but I can only focus on the
knife he has gripped in his hand.
The same knife he almost killed me with two weeks ago.
“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Ares growls as he takes a step forward.
“Who created you, demi-god?”
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
Since I first saw Ares on the arena ground, beneath the veil of fright, I found him
to be the most handsome god. There has always been something about Ares,
which makes some instinctual part of me yearn to gravitate closer. It could be
the pout of his lips, the prickle of facial hair across his sharp jaw, or the sharp
intensity in his eyes.
But right now, I stare at Ares, and I can see my own brutal demise staring
back. The end begins with him and that blade, and no amount of alcohol can
make the realization ebb away. I take a retreating step, only to trip on my own
wayward feet and tumble downward. I land on the rim of the fountain, and my
hands curl around the edge.
My nails dig into the material, but I do not deviate my focus away from
Ares’s advancing form. Not even for a second.
“I’ve had a few weeks to think about you,” Ares says. “When the shock went
away, and you were no longer around to answer my curiosity, I searched for my
answers.”
He takes a step forward, and as he does, the knife in his hand grows into a
mighty sword. Its sharp blade glistens underneath the stars, promising me a swift
death. With each step he takes, the tip of the sword screeches on the cobblestone.
“In order to create you, your mother had to be the very definition of
perfection,” he says the words as if they were not a compliment, but a mere fact.
“I thought she was a goddess, so I went through and tried to remember the
deities who didn’t attend the arenas eighteen years ago. Who might’ve hid a
pregnancy from the rest of the world.”
His feet pound on the floor, making the ground beneath me shake. Stray
rocks jump from their resting place, trying to flee from his mighty steps as he
advances nearer and nearer. My hands tighten around the fountain’s rim, the
smallest crack forming beneath my fingertips.
“One day, I went and saw Hebe and Thetis.” He takes another step. “Then, I
met with Dione and Eris, Nyx and Achlys,” another step, and another list of
goddesses. “I stared into the eyes of Pasithea and Oizys and Lethe, but none of
them were your mother. Each one of them weren’t half as radiant as you are.”
He kneels in front of me, and the tip of his sword finds its victim underneath
my chin. He stares up at me with fastidious fascination, but I remind myself that
he is my executioner, and I must expect the death he has wished to exact since
we met on the arena ground. The sword will slide through the underbelly of my
chin and kill me. I am certain the next time the faraway clock chimes a new
hour, I will be within the Underworld. Charon will stand at the bank of the river,
his wrinkled hand outstretched for currency, before taking me to my afterlife.
Ares does not cease to tell his journey towards my lineage, never once
applying pressure on the sword he uses to dangle my life. “Some of them had
brown eyes like you, but theirs did not sparkle the way yours do. Most had
brown hair, but theirs did not have the shimmer that yours possesses. Two of
them have round cheeks like yours, but when they smiled at me, they did not
raise into the highest cheekbones I’ve ever seen. Not like yours. I saw dozens of
goddesses, and you were too beautiful to be their children.”
Ares hesitates to kill me, the woman he vowed to eliminate for the sake of his
own heart. He hates the words he spews to me, but he cannot stop them from
reaching my ears. This god, who prides himself on the lives he has taken with
brutal savagery, kneels before me with a quivering sword pressed to my skin.
He does not realize that his words, laced with an undertone of dubiousness,
are the sweetest compliments I’ve ever received. I’ve been called beautiful by
him and others over the past few weeks, but he does not just see a beautiful face.
He sees the uniqueness in the common color of my eyes, and at the risk of
hubris, sees me grander than dozens of goddesses known for their beauty and
charm.
But now is not the time to awe at my potential murderer. I do not have the
chance to fawn over his words, to see them as more than just compliments. The
blade is still against my throat, and murder is still Ares’s aim. His words, which
bring electricity to my veins, are meager compared to my skin threatening to
break upon the sword’s kiss.
Ares growls his next words. “Then I thought back to the human women in
the arena nineteen or twenty years ago. Between the quarterly arenas, there were
hundreds of human women who came onto the grounds to be sought after by
gods. But if those goddesses paled in your perfection, then I did not know how
I’d remember the ordinary appearances of a common mortal girl.”
I should speak, to beg him for my life, but the words never spill out. I can’t
bring myself to cry, plead, or scream for Hermes’s name. Apollo, whose
forehead is healed but still lays unconscious on the floor behind Ares, wouldn’t
stir even if I bellowed his name. The crack of the fountain beneath my fingertips
grows, little by little, as I stare at Ares, who does not know whether to praise me
or kill me.
“That’s when I remembered her,” Ares says. “Round cheeks that hid high
cheekbones, shimmering brown hair, and round sparkling eyes. Standing so
meek in the arena ground, hugging her tiny body in the winter cold. A diamond
amongst pebbles thirty years ago.”
Ares does not let his sword deviate from my throat as he rises to his full,
imposing height. Something foreign flickers across his face, making his lips turn
into a deep frown as he stares down at where I sit on the fountain’s rim. Maybe it
is guilt for the murderous act he is about to commit, or perhaps it is a resolution
that he must go through with his homicidal promise to himself.
The fountain’s small cracks fall to the ground in muted cries. I refuse to
glance at the growing carnage, but I stare into the depth of Ares’s sharp features.
I look at Ares as if I can pierce into his soul.
His frown worsens, and when he speaks again, his cadence is fracturing like
the fountain around my gasp. “I remembered the scared, timid girl who looked
identical to my father’s first wife, reincarnated into a human woman. Zeus took
one look at her, the mirror image of his only wife who he ever respected and
cared for, and he jumped onto the arena ground. The entire room erupted in
lightning bolts, and he promised to throw any god or goddess into Tartarus if
they dared to fight him for her. He was so mesmerized by her beauty, and
nobody tried to battle him for what he yearned for more than life itself. Not even
my mother, his current wife, said a word as he left with the human in his arms.”
He applies the tiniest pressure against the sword on my neck, and one trickle
of blood falls. It’s pure gold as it stains his blade, and I watch as Ares’s face
contorts with bloodshed. Desperation clings to my chest, and I can’t die yet. Not
when answers I’ve been searching for are within my grasp.
“Before you kill me, answer your question for me, Ares. Please, please
answer your question.” I beg for the truth Hermes has known, but he has refused
to tell me. I peer at the last person I expected honesty from, and I let my answers
spread through the outdoors like a burning toxin. “Who created me into this
thing the world hates? A weapon to some, but a monstrosity to most? Who
created this? Who hated me so much that they spawned such a creature?”
The sword wavers and with it, Ares’s motivation to end my life. There’s a
shatter without the world splintering around our feet. An internal switch in both
of us crumbles, transforming into debris. His desire to kill me is diluted when he
sees the hatred for my existence staring back with blurry vision.
Meanwhile, Kronos’s words scream in my head once again.
God-Killer.
God-Killer.
God-Killer.
“Put your weapon down, Ares.” An unfamiliar, feminine voice pushes
through the tense, cursed air around us.
I forgot about the party inside, where laughter and drinks are exchanged
without anxiousness. I let the world outside of Ares and I disintegrate. My mind
is so engrossed in his words and his actions, and my response to them, and I
omitted the party from my mind.
Apollo is now up to his feet, a golden-edged sword pointed towards Ares, but
he is not Ares’s biggest concern. A petite woman with the same narrow yet
upturned nose as Apollo stands in between two huntresses with their bows and
arrows raised.
The one huntress, who stands to her goddess’s right, is Sika. I glance at her
leg, which is completely healed. My gaze drifts toward her face, and Sika gives
me a sad smile. Sika, who was brash and wise, looks uncharacteristic with
sympathy splattering her long face.
I look away from Sika, hating her expression, and I stare at the second
huntress with a gasp escaping my lips.
The stories of Artemis and Willow are effusive in the jail cells, like a secret
the other gods could not know. Humans do not have dreams when they slumber,
or knowledge of the outside world, except for Willow and Artemis. Every
human in my jail cell knows who Willow is because she is the greatest huntress
to exist. As Artemis’s favored huntress, Willow has been alive for nearly five
hundred years, and has fought beside her goddess as an equal.
When humans dream, it is while they are awake. Each girl dreams of
becoming Willow, a human with the quick speed of a goddess, and immortality
to finesse her skills. With blazing blue eyes and blades wrapping around her
biceps like a badge of honor, Willow is the exception to the fragility of
humanity.
Ares sees Willow standing beside Artemis, and he drops his sword.
Artemis takes a step forward and she snarls. “Good afternoon, brother.”
He should leave and count himself fortunate that he can escape without an
arrow lodged in his chest, but Ares looks back at me once more. He stares at the
tears I’ve refused to let fall, and the effect the secrets of my life are having on
my mental state. Ares ignores the huntresses with fingers twitching on their
bowstrings with excitement.
“Your mother’s name was Metis,” he says this, but by the time the arrows
fly, he disappears from thin air.
Once Ares is gone, Apollo rushes towards me. Just as Ares did before, but
with none of the magnetism, he lowers himself down onto his knees in front of
me. I can’t look at Apollo, who is as much a stranger to me as all the others in
the ballroom. He almost touches me, placing his hands on my knees, but stops
himself.
Instead, he holds his hand out once again in a voluntary invitation. “Let’s go,
ómorfo aínigma. We’re going to take you home.”
“Home?” I ask with hope swelling my chest, and I accept his hand.
When I stand up, the entire fountain collapses, red wine gushing across our
feet like spilled blood. Apollo looks at my fingertips, which are healed, but
specks of dried red and gold blood remain. I’m not surprised when there is no
incredulity marring his face, but then we disappear in a bright ray of the long-
fallen sun.
The party leaves my vision, but Hermes’s mansion does not materialize when
the light disperses. We’re no longer in Dionysus’s backyard, around the
shattered fountain and overflowing wine, but we aren’t in the place that I’ve
called home these past two weeks, either. There are no tulips resting in a vase in
the kitchen, or Hattie’s faraway quips of anger. Books aren’t haphazardly strewn
around the house, open on a random page.
There’s only darkness.
Only the Underworld stares back.
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
The Underworld’s throne room is identical to the one Epiales created in our
dream world. Both thrones are the same, regal in blackened jewels. I can see my
tear-stained expression through the clean floor. It’s so similar, but when Hades
and Persephone rise from their seats as king and queen of this land, it is so
different, too.
There aren’t black feathered curtains that cover the window, and now the
stretch of the Underworld is visible from clear glass. Smoke doesn’t slither
around the ground, greeting me in cold yet welcoming comfort. There is no
Epiales, no matter how much I stare at the shadowed corners of the room,
waiting for him to emerge.
This is real life, and that makes this experience more confusing.
Apollo’s hand drops from mine, and he takes retreating steps back. He now
stands with Hermes, Artemis, Willow, and Sika. My attention is solely on the
Monopoly loving god, who kneels into a bow before Hades and Persephone. He
won’t look at me.
Although he is bowed, he tilts his head upwards and stares at Hades. Apollo,
Artemis, Sika, and Willow are bowed next to Hermes. I stand in between the two
groups of gods, a handful of steps ahead of where Hermes kneels but behind the
king and queen of the Underworld. I lower myself on wobbling knees, ready to
bow just as they do, but Persephone breaks the drowning silence.
“Not you, my dear. Do not bow to us.”
Persephone’s voice is a hushed sound, but she commands respect with each
heeled click of her shoes against the smooth, obsidian ground. Her gown
reminds me of her eyes, both dark with a tinge of purple. She glides, and the
dress follows behind her in a circular trail. The dress’s train reminds me too
much of the disgorged wine from the fountain, which I shattered with strength I
was not aware lived inside of me.
Her hand is stiff as it cups my cheek, but I gaze up at the queen of the
Underworld. The knowledge that gods bow before her, and I do not, speaks more
than words. I remember the day of my arena with her. I remember the kindness
she displayed, and the devastation that wrecked Persephone when she and Hades
did not defeat Ares.
“Who am I?” I ask the Queen of the Underworld, and while Hermes
shrouded me in secrecy, I look up at Persephone and see the answers within my
reach.
“That is a loaded question, but I will answer it with only two requests.”
“Anything,” is my immediate response.
“First, you must wait until we are finished with our story before you can ask
us questions,” Persephone says, her voice quiet yet firm. “Secondly, and this is
the most important one, is that you do not blame us for the terrible actions we
made along the way. There wasn’t a perfect option amongst the terror of our
current world, and we did what we thought was the best we could with our
circumstances.”
“I just want to know the truth,” I say with a weakened strain to my voice.
“I’m sick of the lies and the secrets. People run from me when I just want to
know who I am, and I’m so tired of it.” I say these words to Persephone, but they
are a bladed stab in Hermes’s direction.
Persephone nods her head. “Very well.”
Hades deviates from the four beings behind me. “Thank you for bringing her
back to us. You may all leave with my deepest gratitude.”
I look around the room, which is familiar only in my dreams with Epiales,
with the certainty that I’ve never been here while awake. My waking life was
within the prisons, the arena, Ares’s mansion, or Hermes’s home. I’ve never
ventured further away from the land of the living, but Hades’s words ring in my
ear.
For one second, I hesitate to turn around and see him one last time. That’s it.
Just a second slips by before I whip my head behind me. I yearn to see his
boyish smirk again or hear his laughter always brewing with an undertone of
mischief, especially if this is the end to our story.
Yet, when I look back, only Apollo remains.
He’s no longer kneeling on the ground before the king and queen of the
Underworld, but he’s standing and looking only at me. My forlorn expression
speaks words I never will, and Apollo knows this. He stands taller than me, my
presence shadowed beneath him, and he knows I wish he were somebody else.
The golden god lowers his head. “Until we meet again, ómorfo aínigma.”
Then, he too, is gone.
When I look back at Hades and Persephone, their focus is not on me, but one
another. Tension once filled this onyx throne room, but when Persephone stares
up at her husband, the smallest smile peels over her lips. She stares at her
husband and all of her anguish vanishes as if he were the peace amid a storm.
When they behold one another, it is a private event, for their love is all-
consuming.
Hades is the first to deviate away; he looks at me and then asks. “Would you
like to go somewhere where you can sit during this conversation?” He hesitates
for a minute before he adds. “This will be a long story.”
“I’m fine where I am,” I say.
I stared at Hades in the arena and saw him as the rest of the answers to the
mystery of my life, and I was right. He leads Persephone and me back to the
thrones that remind me too much of Epiales, but instead of taking a seat himself,
he lets me sit in a chair meant for a king. I follow his silent request, and I lower
myself onto the plush seat.
Hades stands at the second step closest to the chairs. His absorption is on me
as he begins. “Eons ago, there was a war that cemented a deep-rooted hatred
between the gods and the titans for the rest of eternity. My father, Kronos,
fought against his children for possession of the world as its sovereign ruler.
This war, to the humans, was titled Titanomachy and we were victorious.”
Persephone starts where her husband pauses. “The gods who fought in the
war threw Kronos into an impenetrable prison deep in the Earth, even lower than
the Underworld. Every single titan who joined Kronos in the fight against the
gods joined him in Tartarus. It’s where Kronos was for eons, along with his
followers.”
“Nobody has ever escaped from Tartarus,” Hades emphasizes. “It is an
endless well, so far down into the Earth that nobody can crawl themselves out of
its abyss. Even if they could climb out, magical bars block the exit, and Thanatos
is waiting at the top with his scythe and an imperial duty to guard the prison
from any daring to escape.”
“Yet, somehow, Kronos escaped,” Persephone says with a purse of her lips.
“Magic blinded Thanatos for only a minute, maybe two, but when light returned,
there was a crack in Tartarus. The bars were deformed, as if hands pulled them
apart. We were fortunate in the sense that not everybody within Tartarus
escaped, but all the titans fled from their eternal imprisonment.”
“Thanatos closed the bars before other nefarious immortals could venture
towards freedom, but the damage was irrevocable. Kronos, along with all the
titans and cyclopes who fought alongside him, were free in a world unlike the
one they left eons prior.” A sigh breaks through Hades’s explanation, silencing
the room once bubbling with newfound information. “And with their freedom,
the second round of Titanomachy began.”
Persephone interjects. “The world the humans lived in when the second
round of Titanomachy came was of learned helplessness and vapid beliefs. They
thought they would never see strife in their life. They were given technology,
medicines that could cure most diseases, and houses that had lights without the
use of torches. They were spoiled, but when the war began, I felt an abundance
of sympathy for those humans.”
“Eighty-five percent of humanity died in this war, casualties of a battle they
should’ve never had to witness. We should’ve protected them. We should’ve
kept Kronos and all of his titans imprisoned for the rest of time, but we failed in
our mission, and we failed the humans.” Hades says these words with a bitter
bite to his cadence, his hands curled into tightened fists. “But the titans had
surprise on their side and all the monsters, who never died by a demi-god’s hand
but were thrown into Tartarus instead, joined the titans in the fight. Typhon
almost killed Zeus in the battle, and Kronos’s army was winning.”
“They were going to kill humanity,” Persephone’s words are a mournful
promise. “There are only two ways that an immortal can be killed, and Kronos
was killing the entire human race because he did not want to defeat us in battle
and imprison us. He wanted all of us to die by his hands. So, he started to kill
humans in mass quantities.”
“Have you ever heard of a god named Pan?” Hades asks, deviating from the
conversation.
Confused, I shake my head. Epiales taught me about countless gods, ensuring
I knew every detail about them. I knew which god was married to which
goddess, which animals were symbols to specific immortals, but Epiales never
told me about Pan.
“Pan was a fertility god and a sweet man, but forgettable to the humans. It
took a few eons, but the humans forgot Pan existed. Because they no longer
prayed to him, he disappeared from the world. The first god to truly die,” Hades
whispers the last sentence, almost afraid to utter the truth. “The humans in the
modern world were egotistical creatures who barely appreciated the beauty of
the world outside of their cell phones, but they prayed to us in their own
particular way. There were countless poems and television shows written about
us. Songs were sung in our honor and movies graced their theaters.”
“They saw us as mythical creatures,” Persephone admits. “But the humans
prayed to us and let us live. They did not know it, but without them praying to us
and remembering who we were, we would’ve faded from existence like Pan had.
Kronos knew this, so he wanted to kill every single human who knew we
existed.”
I have none that pray to me. Epiales said to me on the night he brought
Kronos into our dreamworld. And I’m disappearing slowly and painfully.
“Athena is both the goddess of wisdom and warfare. She looked out at the
battleground and knew we were going to lose, and the death of humanity would
join us, so she came up with a plan.”
Hades moves to sit on the top step, his elbows resting on his knees and
fatigue overtaking his appearance. The king of the Underworld, who sits on the
floor while a girl takes his mantle, looks human. He’s attractive in the same way
the other gods are, but there’s a sense of honest transparency with him that
breaks the barrier of otherworldly attractiveness and shows human
characteristics.
He rummages a hand through his shaggy, jet black locks, and divulges his
tale. “Athena told Kronos that if the humans died, then all immortals would
decease because every immortal needed to be remembered. Kronos and the other
titans were included in her theory. There hasn’t been a titan who has died from
humans forgetting who they are, but she made an educated guess. It was an
educated guess that Kronos believed enough to listen to her next plan of action.”
“Zeus takes credit for the deal,” Persephone says. “But it was Athena who
came up with the idea of human enslavement. As if she were an oracle, Athena
saw our deaths on the horizon and acted fast. She made educated guess after
educated guess and spun a story where we did not end up in Tartarus and the
entire human race did not die.”
“Athena told Kronos that if he could escape from Tartarus, then so would
they. She said that she knew how to escape from the impenetrable prison,”
Hades adds. “My father is a terrible man, but he also is smart enough not to test
fate. Kronos and Athena sat at a round table on Mt. Olympus for fourteen days
until they came to a mutual agreement. Both of them knew the other would
break the oath the second there was an opportunity, but when we were looking at
our deaths, this deal saved our immortal lives.”
I want to ask, but Persephone answers before a word can leave my lips.
“Hecate was ordered to put a shield around Mt. Olympus, hiding the home of
the Olympians from all of us. Then, we were cast aside and put on Earth with a
sworn oath to Kronos that we would imprison the human race.” When
Persephone says the last sentence, she looks at her shoes rather than me.
“It was Kronos who enslaved people?” I ask, my jaw slacked, and thoughts I
do not dare to express out loud blare in my head.
The same titan, who is promising freedom for the humans if they help him
kill the gods, is the same monster who enslaved them to begin with.
“Yes, but we are no better in this situation,” Hades said fast, but with a tinge
of regret. “We agreed because of fear for our own mortality.”
“But you saved the humans by agreeing to this,” I respond.
“We were told we needed to own at least two slaves at a time,” Persephone
explains, diverting from my statement to finish their story. “But we weren’t
allowed to have any over two hundred slaves at the same time. We were given
permission to have just enough slaves to keep us alive, as Kronos swore in his
meeting with Athena, but not enough to give us our full strength.”
“It was Zeus’s idea to turn getting slaves into a game in the arena,” Hades
said. “And even if some of us hated the arena, most of us fought to keep
ourselves alive. Then, as the centuries passed and some gods and goddesses’
compassion for the humans withered away, many of us fought in the arena to
save humans from gods who wanted to kill them.”
“Some gods blamed our dependency on the humans for why we lost the
war,” Persephone said, her teeth gritted. “So, some began torturing the humans
we gave up Mt. Olympus to protect. It took about a hundred years, but after all
the humans who knew the truth died, the story changed. The vicious few who
mistreated humans gloated, and their stories traveled farther than the actions of
the benevolent masters. When the humans stopped hearing the tales of truth, they
were replaced with the truth of horrors. We gave up our home on Mt. Olympus
to protect them, but we are also the villains.”
“Thank you for telling me the truth about how this all began,” I say, but I
look between them and ask. “But how does this connect to me? With the color of
my blood?”
I mutter the last question with fear they do not know and will kill me for such
an offense. The room is silenced by my question for a prolonged time.
Persephone stares down at Hades, but he looks at me with a frown curling the
corners of his lips.
“Earlier, Persephone said there were two ways to kill an immortal, and we
only explained one of them. You, Saffron,” Hades announces with great
grievance. “Are the second way to kill any deity.”
“How?” I’m struggling to breathe, much less produce one coherent word.
“It begins with a prophecy,” Persephone says. “And a woman named Metis.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
Hades and Persephone do not hide under a sheath of pleasantries and amiable
lies. They’re honest, with their slouched stances and destitute expressions. As
my world quakes, fracturing in half between what I know and what I’m afraid to
discover, they do not cloak their grimaces. They do not use suave explanations
to ease my mind.
“The prophecy was eons before you were born, but one cemented in every
gods’ mind. Especially Zeus’s,” Persephone adds. “Metis was a powerful
titaness of good counsel, planning, cunning, and wisdom. She was wise, and she
was one of the few titans who did not favor Kronos’s side in the first
Titanomachy. Instead, she aided us in defeating Kronos and all who dared to
fight with him.”
Hades’s back is hunched over as he leans into his elbows, which still rest on
the top of his knees. His bangs hang over his forehead, shadowing a portion of
his face, but he does not shield me from this information. The king of the
Underworld glances upwards, his thick black lashes intermingling with his
shaggy locks, and he gifts me with candor.
“Metis was not just smart, but she was gorgeous as well. One of the rarest
beauties that the world has ever seen,” Hades admits. “She was so beautiful that
both of my brothers, Poseidon and Zeus, fought for her hand in marriage. Zeus
won, and she became his first wife. Many believe that Poseidon married one of
Metis’s sisters, Amphitrite, because it was the closest he could get to achieving
the coveted titaness.”
Persephone continues. “Zeus’s entire world was Metis, who was his most
coveted wife. Some insist she was the only wife he had never cheated on. Others
say they’ve never seen the king of the skies as happy as he was when she was
alive. Yet, many great romances in our world end in tragedies. Theirs is no
exception.”
When she falls mute, Hades fills in the space with noise. “Zeus called for one
of Apollo’s oracles to come to Mt. Olympus and tell him the gender of his first
child with Metis. Yet, when the oracle came to the skies, her words did not warm
Zeus; instead, rage and paranoia took siege.”
“It was prophesied that Metis would bear powerful children,” Persephone
says. “The first child, who was prominent in Metis’s belly, would be a mighty
warrior on the battlefield. However, the second child they bore would become
more powerful than Zeus. The oracle said that this second child would be a son.
Before she could explain the prophecy, the oracle was killed because of Zeus’s
rage, but even oracles make errors in their prophecies.”
Hades is leaning against her throne, his arms crossed over his chest, and
continues. “Zeus, in a rage of paranoia, asked his wife to turn into a fly. Dutiful
Metis obeyed her husband, and she transformed into a fly. Then-”
“Zeus ate her,” I finish his sentence, my voice devoid of emotion as I
regurgitate one of Epiales’s stories.
Come to think of it, it was the first story Epiales told me in our dream world.
“Correct,” Hades says. “Do you know how Athena was born, then?”
I nod my head, responding. “Zeus had a splitting headache one day and asked
Hephaestus to help him. Hephaestus used an axe and cut into Zeus’s head, and
Athena sprouted from his skull in full armor.”
“Hermes taught you a lot when you were there,” Persephone commends.
I do not have the strength to correct her.
“Zeus thought the prophecy ended with Metis living in his stomach as a fly,”
Hades explains. “He thought his beliefs were cemented into fact when Metis was
forgotten by the humans and died within his belly, and eons went on with Zeus
unaware that prophecies always have a tricky way of resurgence.”
Hades has a foot propped up against Persephone’s throne now, and a
passerby would assume that he’s comfortable in the throne room, but his face
tells a different tale. His forehead is scrunched, a row of imperfect wrinkles
creasing his otherwise deific complexion. Then, every few seconds, his jaw
twitches.
In a gravelly tone, Hades says. “After Athena struck the deal with Kronos to
save us and the humans, the Olympians came together and agreed to a new set of
laws while we lived on Earth. Our most important rule was to never create demi-
gods.”
I must’ve showed displeasure on my face because Persephone clarifies. “We
feared the creation of demi-gods because we know the power they possess. Even
a traditional demi-god of Ares’s or Aphrodite’s holds more power than a
traditional human, and that kind of power is dangerous with Kronos living free.
He is a master manipulator, and if a demi-god believed he was the benevolent
one and we were the villain, then that halfling could change the balance that was
created because of Athena.”
“Yet, while I am not fortunate in this category,” Hades says with a very
uncharacteristic snarl in his cadence. “Most gods and goddesses are extremely
fertile.”
Persephone reaches out her hand, and Hades is quick to accept his wife’s
compassion after revealing his own infertility. A fact about him I realize is
something he correlates with being deficient. The frown on his lips worsens until
she squeezes his hand.
With their hands intertwined, Persephone turns to me and says. “Many
immortals bed both female and male slaves, and terrible decisions were made on
all of our parts when those humans would fall pregnant. Hundreds of humans
lost their lives because of their pregnancies.”
There is a long, guilty silence between the three of us as her words spoil the
air. The pungent stench of regret sticks to the walls, the oppressive treatment of
humanity screaming in a muted room. My gaze moves to my lap, to my nervous
fingers that pick at the skin underneath my fingernail.
I do not look up, but Hades begins again. “One day, thirty years ago, there
was a quarterly arena event. Nobody expected a different outcome than the
previous thousand fights, but then we saw an anxious woman cowering behind a
few rows of humans. She was thinner than Metis, by at least thirty pounds, but
there was no denying whose face this human girl bore. Anybody who knew
Metis saw her spitting image attempting to hide on the arena ground.”
“Zeus wouldn’t let anyone fight for her,” Persephone explains, her hand still
intertwined with Hades’s. “He saw that tiny, fragile woman, and he saw his
second chance to live with the only person he’s ever loved. Zeus chose her
without a standard arena duel.”
Hades takes over, his voice roughened with growing emotions. “Metis was
his great love, and no matter how many men and women Zeus spent his nights
with, Metis never left his mind. When he had the human girl in his house, he
named her after his fallen wife and gave her a scarification mark of a wedding
band around her finger.”
“Just as he had with the last Metis,” Persephone says. “He fell for her. Hard.
Zeus would no longer bed anybody else but her. He loved the human Metis as
much, if not more, than his first wife, who he lost eons before.”
“For eleven years, Zeus was careful not to impregnant her. Nobody could see
her except for him, but he was happy. My brother, for the first time in eons, was
elated to wake up every morning, and it was because of Metis. Yet,” Hades says
with a wave of sadness. “She became pregnant.”
“Zeus never hesitated to kill his previous mistresses who fell pregnant,”
Persephone’s voice wavers with an onslaught of emotions. “But not Metis.
Except for Hermes, Zeus did not tell anybody that Metis fell pregnant, and he
promised Hermes a promotion from his job as messenger if he helped protect his
unborn child. Hermes would replace Dionysus as an Olympian, and he would
become Zeus’s child’s betrothed as long as the child was a girl and could make it
to adulthood. Zeus was going to keep his child and raise it with his soulmate,
and with Hermes’s help with the lies, he kept the pregnancy a secret from the
world.”
“That was, until Hera found out,” said Hades.
I am still picking at the skin underneath my fingernails. They’re talking, and
as they explain this story of amour and loss, I know the direction it is going. No
matter how valiantly I try to diffuse the thoughts, I know my involvement in this
story. Their words scream in my head, telling me the rest of this tale that I need
to hear, but don’t know if my sanity can handle. So, again and again I use my
thumb to scrape against the gold-streaked red, angry finger.
My skin is frayed, but I do not stop eroding the sore flesh. Even as gold and
red blood bubbles to the surface, I listen to Persephone’s hushed words and
punish the body that holds so many secrets.
“Metis was nine months pregnant, ready to give birth, when Hera walked into
the room and saw the truth that she long suspected. She killed the human Metis,
and she left with the belief that the baby couldn’t survive without its mother.
Hera did not factor Hermes into the equation. Hermes came to the bedroom a
minute later with a message to Zeus when he saw Metis. Her throat slashed and
her hands around her swollen belly. A resilient foot kicking against the rounded
stomach.”
Tears drip onto my hand as I pick apart my flesh, centimeter by centimeter.
Gold and red and the distraught liquid intermingle on the top of my thumb.
There are screams in my head, but their words are audible beneath the steady
stream of anguish.
Hades talks. “Hermes is the messenger of departed souls to the Underworld.
So, when he took Metis’s soul, he took the baby girl with him. That’s where
Persephone and I found Hermes on that memorable day. He was on the ferry ride
with Charon, with the human Metis’s spirit beside him and a crying newborn
baby in his arms.”
I know what I am, yet I do not stop their words. I do not announce my
proclamation, and I let Persephone explain further. “Hades and I cannot have
children together, but all I’ve ever wanted was to have a child that was both of
ours. If I’ve ever prayed to the Fates for anything, then it was a chance to start a
family with my husband, and Hermes gave us both that chance.” Persephone
wipes away her own tears as she hiccups. “When Hermes reached out his arms
with the baby, I didn’t hesitate. I took the first-born demi-god in five hundred
years as my daughter, and I named her after the only flower sacred to both
Hermes and me.”
We both divulge my name to the air that listens with rapt fascination.
“Saffron.”
Hades, a god who is not biologically my father but took up the helm with
pride, explains. “For almost two years, we could hold you and covet you as our
first-born child together. Persephone has other children with other men, but you
were our first, and it didn’t matter that you had none of our physical features, or
that you were my niece. I saw you for the first time, and I loved you as your
father.”
I didn’t realize that Hades moved until his hands curl into mine, separating
my finger from brutalizing my skin. He does not force me to look at him, or to
accept his affection. He curls his fingers underneath the palm of my hands, and
he waits to see if I will pull away or accept his embrace. My sight is blurry with
tears, but I look at Hades, who wants to be my father, and a fragment of my
sadness wanes.
He murmurs. “We both knew who you were and what prophecy you brought
to life, but we did not care. We were going to train you to control your powers
that came with being Metis and Zeus’s second-born child, and you were going to
become the princess of our land.”
“What happened?” I squeak out the question.
“We wanted to announce on your eighteenth birthday that we conceived a
child. You would ascend to a goddess, and you’d run the Underworld with us.
Most immortals are too focused on themselves to question it, but we made a
mistake.” Hades runs his thumb up the top of my hand and informs me. “Hera
frequently visited the Underworld to make sure Zeus’s mistresses, who she
killed, were dead. We were typically careful and quick enough to hide you
before she would put the pieces together, but you look so much like Metis, and
we weren’t fast enough one day.”
“We thought we talked our way through Hera’s skepticism.” Persephone
rises from her throne, and she moves to where Hades kneels in front of me. She
falls to her knees with him, and her voice trembles as she recounts the past. “But
she told Athena everything. While we might’ve been able to fool Hera, Athena
was too wise to trick. She was the strand keeping the oath between us and
Kronos intact. When she realized the prophecy came true, Athena looked at you,
her only true biological sibling, and she saw the ultimate weapon that Kronos
needed to kill us all with.”
Until the day we meet in person, my treasured god-killer.
Kronos’s words send unwanted chills down my spine, his chanting promise
intermingling with Persephone’s next words. “She ordered that we kill you, our
daughter, not by birth, but by love. If we didn’t kill you, then Athena would
make the sacrifice. Death was all that seemed to await you in your brief life, and
we were both trapped.”
“How-”
Am I alive? Was the continuation of my question, but I do not have the
strength to finish the sentence. Hades’s hand squeezes around mine, and
although I did not end my sentence, he understands.
“Hermes came to the rescue yet again. He told Athena and Hera that he
started this trickle of deceit, so he should be the one to end it. He asked for
privacy to kill you, but while Persephone and I wept and Athena and Hera
waited with us, Hermes took you to a prison that you could blend into. A child
just died in the same cell from sickness, and he put you in the place of this
child.”
“When he came back to the Underworld with the already dead child, he used
magic to make the dead baby look like you. Nobody within the cells knew the
difference between you and the other baby, and Hera believed the glamor and
left with no question.” There is an embellished frown on Persephone’s face
when she adds. “Athena, however, was far wiser than Hera.”
“We were going to take you back from the jail cells after they left, but
Athena said that she would periodically check in. To preserve the peace between
the titans and gods, Athena checked on us in the Underworld twice a week at
random intervals, without warning, for the next fifteen years,” Hades adds with
unbridled sadness. “Each time we thought she was going to stop visiting and we
could steal you back, she would make another resurgence.”
“Compared to the Underworld, you were safe in the prison,” Persephone
says. “At least, until we could win you back in the arena.”
“But you lost,” I say.
They both lower their heads.
Hades speaks next, with a voice thickened in guilt. “Hermes came to save
you yet again, just as he had his entire life, and once the wave of suspicion
lessened, he always planned on returning you back to us. To your home.”
Suddenly, every secret behind Hermes’s words bled through.
He was never meant to be the god who fell infatuated with a slave, but he
was the guard protecting the prophesied child he always saved. The child who
would free him from the binds of his strenuous job and ascend him to the title of
an Olympian. A chore of his, who he’d marry and used to elevate to new heights.
Aphrodite and Hermes warned me of Hermes’s selfishness and eagerness for
more in this world, but like a fool, I thought otherwise. I thought he only cared
about me, but I should’ve believed the truthful lines in between his blasphemy.
“Do you have any more questions?” Persephone inquires.
I shake my head. Instead of questions, I have confessions.
“I think it’s time I tell a story.” I wipe at my tears that streak my cheeks, and
I look at what I never thought I’d be fortunate enough to have—parents. “It
begins with a dream two years ago with a god of shadows and nightmares.”
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
Fatigue tickles the back of our lids by the time I dispel my edge of truth. I’ve
never spoken out loud about Epiales to anybody except from my jail cell best
friend, but this is the first time my words aren’t laced with a fantastical view of
excellence. I no longer see Epiales as my hero, whisking me away from the
mayhem of my restraints in the prisons, but I see him for who he is.
A broken god, who is desperate enough to join the villain for freedom, thus
turning into a villain himself.
They ask me questions about Kronos’s plans, and I answer them all. Only
once my words cease and their curiosity disintegrates, do the screaming chants
in my head disband. Tranquility empties my mind from a raging storm of
thoughts, even with the influx of information Persephone and Hades had given
me.
I look at the vein on my forearm, and the strips of gold throughout no longer
frighten me. According to Persephone and Hades, I am the precipice of power in
a world that I’m just now understanding, but the reality has not leveled. My
brain refuses to accept their cautionary words of my powers, but I can only
accept that the secrets have been revealed.
They lead me into the royal quarters of the prodigious obsidian mansion that
is twice the size of Hermes’s. I try not to flinch as skeletal guards patrol the
hallways, nodding their appreciation to the three of us. Persephone will tell me
brief stories about some of the skeletal warriors, but when we pass by a
malnourished man on a bench, she tells me to never look at the humanoid
monster.
As we stand in front of my new bedroom, the door a silvery sheen that
counteracts the darkness of this home, Hades says. “If you need anything, then
Atalanta and Achilles will always guard your door. We are in the room right
down the hall.” There’s a small smile when he adds. “Just look for a three-
headed dog wagging his tail, and we will be nearby.”
Persephone walks forward and presses a motherly kiss to my forehead.
“Goodnight, darling. I’ll see you at breakfast in the morning.”
With three guards behind them, the king and queen of the Underworld exit.
They allow me space within this new home, a true form of freedom I grew up
believing was an impossibility. It’s with elation on my face that I wrap my hand
around the doorknob, opening the entry towards my new world as a princess and
a daughter, when I once thought I’d be inconsequential and void of family.
I take two steps into the bedroom before halting, my body paralyzed by the
sight awaiting me. Hermes is an imposing figure, matching the door in height.
He’s so tall that the flowers in his hands seem miniature, as if they were
shrunken before he brought them to the Underworld.
He is a god who has existed for eons, but when he greets me with that boyish
smirk, I forget he isn’t human. For a few seconds, as I stare at the nervous smile,
the bouquet of saffron flowers, and the nervous shuffling of his feet, I
misremember Hermes’s godly status. I see a human boy who taught me how to
become more than a slave.
“Hi,” his voice is weakened by the gravity of this small word.
That single utterance destroys the image I had, that he was human and
innocent. When his cadence enters my mind, the way he manipulated me
reemerges. I take a few more steps into my new bedroom, but I do not make an
immediate response. I let the silence pulse through the air, acting as a heartbeat.
A third party to our interaction.
The bouquet in his hands lowers, and the first sight of defeat intermingles
with the silence and tension. “I almost told you so many times,” he sighs. “When
I’d walk downstairs, and you’d be scrunching your nose while trying to figure
out a new letter of the alphabet with China, I wanted to scream to you everything
I knew and then more that I was too afraid to say out loud to anybody else.
When you’d smile at me after winning Monopoly, or when you’d steal a few
dollar bills when you didn’t think I was noticing, I wanted to share what wasn’t
mine to express.”
“But you didn’t,” I say, my words sharper than a blade as they slice into him.
“You left me ignorant of the truth. You’d think you would tell me you were my
betrothed, but no. Even the secrets that were yours to tell me, you didn’t.”
The flowers lower some more as the sharpened end of my sentence reaches
him. “No,” he admits. “I didn’t tell you.”
I take a step forward, and I glare at the man who I once trusted. One who I
saw as a friend and possibly something more. He is standing in front of me in the
Underworld’s depth, but I see the pleasant moments we shared.
The dance in the gazebo.
First time I tasted strawberries.
A starry night when I laid my head on his shoulder and slept dreamlessly for
the first time in two years.
“Instead of telling me the truth, you spent nights by my side playing board
games and gifting me with compliments,” I speak, and I hope he hears my anger
and disappointment.
The tears slip, burning streaks of fire down my cheeks, but I do not push
them away. I make sure his eyes trail the expanse of the clear liquid, and he feels
a fraction of my betrayal.
I snarl. “Instead of telling me we share the same father and I’m a demi-god.
Or that I was promised to you, and I was your ticket to a promotion; you danced
with me and stared at me as if I were the most important person in the world.
Rather than telling me you knew the answers to the questions I’ve had, you kept
me in the dark while distracting me with feelings I knew better than to have for
you.”
“Saffron,” Hermes whispers my name like a prayer, but when he moves to
advance towards me, I place a hand forward and halt him in his movements.
“I don’t want to hear your words. You always trick me with them.”
The bouquet falls from his grasp, the soft thud against the black carpeted
ground solidifying the end of something that never should’ve begun. Any trace
of nervous jubilance is replaced with the somber truth that I will never forgive
him for his lies and treachery.
“I know we aren’t biologically anything. Hades and Persephone explained
we share as much familiar ties as Hattie or Panda. That is not why I am mad.”
The purple petals are mocking me as I look at the fallen flowers. “I trusted you
when I grew up learning to trust no god.”
I abhor the way my legs can’t stay still and the burning behind my cheeks
worsens with each agonizing second that silence and tension squeeze in the
space between him and I. My tears are not a sight of weakness, but a fabric of
truth he never gave me. And I never gave him by omitting my candor about
Epiales.
“Each night, when I fell asleep, I was tricked by an immortal who I thought
cared about me. I found my storyteller, who spun tales about how loathsome the
entire godly race is, and I believed his lies until I met you. Until you showed me
he was what was wrong with my life, and the lies he weaved were for his own
purpose and not my well-being.”
I scoff at my roaring thoughts, wishing they’d disappear into incoherent
whispers. Tears angrily spit upon the floor, staining the room with my bubbling
ire. I refuse to look at him, centralized on the discarded saffron flowers that
signify every coil of deceit he manifested.
“You may be the god of mischief and trickery,” I say, while tasting the
saltiness of my tears on my bottom lip. “But I trusted that you would never lie to
me. You showed me your kindness, and with each passing day in your home, I
believed everything you said to me. I believed I was beautiful to you, that I was
special to you as nothing more than a human girl.”
He tries to take a step towards me, but I take two more backwards. His hand
was outstretched, but it drops when a curl of hatred ensnares my lips. My eyes
are on the flowers, but he is examining my face for any sign that I could forgive
him.
My next words refute his hope.
“But you were just like him. Worse, even,” my throat is raw as more tears
decorate my face. “You spun your own secrets to get what you wanted. My
storyteller saw me as his freedom from certain death, and Kronos saw me as his
treasured weapon. But you? I was your precious damsel and your ticket away
from a job you hate. A key that unlocked your title as a hero and an Olympian.
With me as your prized wife, I would elevate you to new heights and make you
viewed as a god to envy. I thought I was valuable to you because of my
personality and the feelings you had for me, but I was just another object for you
to steal for your own successes.”
“Saffron, that is not-” he says, but I do not care for more of his words.
“I was the greatest story ever written about you.” I admit. “The god who
orchestrated the safety of the prophesied second child of Metis and Zeus. Forget
about the tales of Heracles and Athena. Yours was going to trump theirs. The
tale of a male who denied the orders of Queen Hera, who stole and saved a
demi-god with the power to kill all enemies. Immortal or otherwise.”
“I promise that is not what I want,” Hermes says, but he is nervous as he
skirts around the bedroom, unable to look directly at me.
“Was it the plan to have me fall in love with you, too? You already had my
biological father’s permission to become my husband, but did you want me to
choose to marry you? To become your willing, pathetic fool? Was your plan to
gain my trust, my fascination with you next, and then swoop in with some
flowers once I learned you protected me my entire life?” He wanders to the
fallen flowers the moment I look at him, and a scoff leaves my lips. “I may be
young and naïve, but I was not dim-witted enough to feel anything but lust and
temptation. Now, get out of my bedroom before you see the true depths of my
powers.”
“I wanted-” Hermes begins.
“I don’t care. You have ten seconds to get out of here before I scream loud
enough to let everybody in the vicinity hear me and rush to my aid.”
“Ten seconds?” He asks.
I nod.
“Alright,” he strides towards me in one fluid step. “That’s one second.” He
wraps an arm around my waist and flushes me against his chest. “That’s two.”
Hermes’s free hand grabs the curve of my chin and hoists it upwards so I can
only look at his face. His scent wraps itself around me, ready to torment me
worse than his façade has these past few weeks. He leans in closer, his nose
daring to caress mine.
“When you were nothing but a babe in your mother’s growing womb, I saw
you for who you were. The prophesied child who would defeat Kronos. I saw
you for what Zeus promised me. The hand of the single most powerful deity to
exist and the freedom from my job as a messenger, which I’ve hated since the
day I was cursed with it. ”
“Three,” I remind him.
“Everything was strategic to get you to kill Kronos then marry me, so I could
get back home with the title of an Olympian on my shoulder. I knew Hades and
Persephone wanted a child badly enough to ignore who you were, and I was
certain they wouldn’t ask why I cared about you living. They were blissfully
clueless about my plans, and I used them to raise a powerful child. I was going
to bring you back to Zeus on your eighteenth birthday and show him you were
alive. Persephone and Hades thought I was being kind, but I have and always
will be a selfish god.”
“Four,” I say.
“I had a plan, clear cut and perfect, my flawless trick. I was going to have
you, a child of Zeus’s and Metis’s, and Hades’s and Persephone’s. You would be
wanted by all single gods as a wife. The most powerful wife to exist. And you’d
be all mine. When you ascended into a goddess, I was going to train you until
you were ready to kill Kronos and free us from our ties to Earth. I wasn’t going
to do this for fame, though. I did not care about that.”
“Five,” I murmur, although I’m certain the ten seconds have surpassed. Still,
with his body flush against mine and his version of the truth spilling from his
lips, curiosity keeps me from screaming for the guards.
“I wanted to become an Olympian. To no longer be a messenger, a job that is
below a child of Zeus’s. I’m powerful and I wanted my family to finally
acknowledge that, and I was going to use you to get that strength. I was going to
use you to escape Earth and go back to Mt. Olympus as an Olympian and hero,
but then I saw you on the arena ground.”
“Six,” I say.
“I hadn’t seen you since you were two years old, after I dropped you off in
the prison. When I saw you in the arena, hidden behind your friend, all of my
plans disappeared. I thought I was the one in charge and you were mine to
control for my gain, but I saw you and realized that you were going to be my
undoing. Not the other way around.”
“Seven.”
“I lied to you a lot, but the way I felt for you was never false. Each time I
called you beautiful or almost kissed you was as real as anything in this world. I
could’ve continued my plan to seduce you and make you become exactly what I
planned, but I couldn’t. Each time I stopped myself from kissing you was
because of the gnawing guilt that ate me alive, bit by bit, when the secrets still
existed between us.”
“Eight,” I count aloud.
“I know you do not believe me, but it’s the truth. I’m selfish and everything
wrong with this desolate world, but in your company, I can’t be those things. For
the first time in eons, I care more for another’s wellbeing than my own. My plan
to marry you and use you was before I knew you, and before I fell in love with
you. Now, I’d be a messenger, a lowly god, or a tormented soul in the Fields of
Punishments, as long as it’d mean you are happy and safe.”
“Nine,” I remind him.
He breaks any bit of distance between us, and he presses his lips against
mine. My first kiss, stolen by the god of thievery, momentarily freezes me. His
lips are warm and smooth, and they glide across my mouth with lethargic desire.
He isn’t rushing through the embrace, and he isn’t consumed by passion as
Panda and Pyro were every time they kissed.
This is a parting entwinement, and when that realization enters my mind, I
kiss him back. My lips part, and I accept his version of a goodbye. For a single
second, I run my lips across his before pulling away.
When his warmth leaves my body, and I am left only with my dried tears and
clamorous thoughts, I look up at where he once stood to see a single saffron
flower left behind.
OceanofPDF.com
THE THIRTY-NINTH CHAPTER
Two female skeletons, who are dressed in tattered gray garbs that always flow
regardless of the stilled air, dress me for the start of my day. Regardless of the
dark shroud outside of my bedroom window that mirrors nighttime, my morning
has begun in a world anew.
The silent, dead women style my hair in intricate braids and place a pale pink
gown around my curvaceous build. A crown of braids and a headpiece of tangled
white and silver thorns are woven into my chocolate locks.
Lipstick in the same shade as my gown accentuates my prominent lips, while
kohl is placed around my almond-shaped eyes. I entered the Underworld as a
confused monstrosity, peppered with both godly and human blood, without an
inkling of its origins. However, I leave my bedroom with the two women and my
two guards in tow as a princess.
A demi-god.
I believe Hades and Persephone when they told me the story of my life, their
words too vivid to be anything but the truth, but I still haven’t processed the
discovery. I know I am the child they spoke about—the second born of Metis
and Zeus destined to become stronger than any other immortal—but my mind
comprehends each bit of information one step at a time.
Right now, I have come to terms with the fact that I am Hades and
Persephone’s adopted daughter, a demi-god princess of the Underworld. There is
no way I can deny this part of my life, not as skeletal beings bow as I stroll the
halls. I can’t dissuade myself from the truth when the few beings with the ability
to speak call me Princess Saffron or my lady. This aspect of my ever-changing
life has cemented in my mind as I wear a tiara on my head.
Achilles, the guard to my immediate right with blood still seeping from the
wound that killed him, opens the door to the dining hall with a black-teeth smile.
I nod my head in appreciation, and I walk into the room with the assumption that
only Persephone and Hades would be my company for breakfast.
However, two more seats are filled with familiar faces. One guest, beautiful
but mangled by a butterfly tattoo, nibbles on a piece of bread as her single eye
darts between where I stand and the two gods who sit nearby. She wears a green
dress styled identically to mine, and her hair is spun into dozens of small braids,
which trail down her back.
The other guest looks to me with her ochre skin blemished with splotches of
food. She wears a blue gown similar to Glasswing’s and mine, but just like her
face, it’s stained with the red, mushy food on her plate. A gold headband pulls
back her raven locks, and a widespread grin shows pieces of food in her mouth.
“The cooks may be deader than a doornail, but their food is top-notch,”
Hattie says, and with further emphasis, she puckers her lips and throws a kiss in
the kitchen’s direction. “I think I found my soulmate in a three-thousand-year-
old chef.”
In bewilderment, I stare at my two friends and ask. “What are you both doing
down here?”
Hattie snorts. “Missed you too, princess.”
“Hermes didn’t tell you?” Hades inquires, one bushy, black brow raised. He
takes a bite out of the food on his plate, waiting for an answer from me I am too
stunned to make. When silence responds to him, he answers my confusion.
“Hermes purchased Glasswing from Psyche, then freed them both from slavery.
To the rest of the world, both Glasswing and Hattie died, but only Hermes and
we know the truth. Other than Artemis’s huntresses, they are the first freed
humans in over two hundred years.”
The last sentence Hades says is in amazement, his astonishment at Hermes’s
actions laying in between his words. I think to Hermes, whose lips still linger
upon my own, as I stare at Glasswing. She plays with the piece of bread on her
plate, but she doesn’t attempt to eat the food. While Hermes assured me that
Psyche never harmed her slaves after the scarification mark, Glasswing’s mind
was dying in Psyche’s mansion. Hermes’s decision to free her from servitude
undoubtedly saved her life.
“Why did he do it?” I ask everybody.
Hades and Persephone share a look, words spilling from the stare, and then
she looks at me with knowledge on her ageless face. “Take a seat and eat,
darling. We have a busy day ahead of us, and you’ll need your energy.”
Hattie, with a mouthful of food, is nearly incoherent as she mumbles. “You
should try the strawberry jam and biscuits. It’s delicious.”
“Strawberries?” I inquire with audible excitement.
I sit down with thoughts of Hermes. I eat the strawberry jam that reminds me
of his boyish smile and lanky frame. Hattie laughs, and I think of all the times
she and Hermes would playfully jab one another with insults and that same
laughter would fill our former home. The room talks, except for Glasswing, but
all I can hear is him.
“Well,” Hattie smacks her flat stomach as if it holds the entire world within it
and grunts as she rises to her feet. “That bed made of feathers is calling my name
once again.”
She does not walk but hobbles out of the dining hall. Two guards, more
ghostly than skeletal, follow behind her. Glasswing is close behind, saying her
farewells. Just like Hattie, guards accompany my friend. Both of them, protected
as I am, in a world where they are free.
We were born of shackles and serfdom. Since we were old enough to cry for
the first time, it was in anguish for the life we were delivered. Since words were
taught to us, we were begging for freedom that, even at such a young age, we
knew was an impossibility. Yet, here is it. A world where we are neither slaves
nor victims to the world’s circumstances.
We are free.
I focus on Hades and Persephone, but he is no longer there. Only my adopted
mother, Persephone, sits at the dining table with me. Her hands are folded on top
of the furniture, the rings on her fingers glinting with dark light beneath the
multitude of candles that surround us and illuminate the room.
This goddess of regality sits in front of me as my self-proclaimed mother.
Persephone rules beside her husband as his equal in the Underworld: the largest
expanse of land owned by any of the godly kings. Poseidon may have the seas,
and Zeus may rule the skies, but both of their territories pale in comparison to
Hades’s land of the dead.
She rules with him as Hades’s equal. A gift of equality that the other two
queens—Amphitrite and Hera—are deprived of. They are queens solely in title
and loneliness, but Persephone and Hades are dual leaders in the largest expanse
of territory. She compeers with her husband, and she is before me as a monarch,
who only the greatest fool would antagonize.
Persephone rises to her feet, effervescent in a flowing plum gown, and she
nears me with hesitance and an inkling of uncertainty. A queen, a warrior, and a
goddess stalls a few inches away from me. She looks at where I sit, unsure of her
next steps, and I am just as hesitant.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask, shattering the doubtfulness between us.
“Of course you can; you’re my daughter and you can ask me anything.”
“Did you know Hermes was in my bedroom last night, waiting for me with
flowers?”
“Yes,” she answers.
“Why did you let him?” I look away from Persephone, flittering towards my
empty plate. “He was just like Epiales. He wanted to use me differently, but he
still wanted to use me.”
“For eons, men have thought they could take what they wanted from a female
without repercussions or an inch of guilt. Gods like to believe they are
impervious to mistakes, especially when their actions are accepted. Regardless
of the terrible ways they used women.”
Persephone lowers herself into a kneeling position to my immediate left, and
while I can’t bring myself to look at her, she stares at me as if I hold the stars
and moon and galaxy. There’s no ulterior motive, unlike Hermes and Epiales
and Kronos; Persephone’s only aim is to care for me how a mother would her
child.
“Hades and I did not know Hermes’s intentions with you when he brought
you to us eighteen years ago. We were oblivious to the promise Zeus made to
Hermes about your hand in marriage and his rise to an Olympian. He could’ve
gotten away with deceiving us in the same way that he was tricking you. We
would’ve been unprepared and unable to stop him in time if he gave you to Zeus
instead of us.”
She is silent for a beat before defending the man, who saw me as a prize
instead of a woman with feelings.
“But while you were dancing with Apollo, Hermes sought us out and told us
the truth. He admitted every terrible, archaic thought he had. He told us he
thought he could possess you, but after he said everything, he asked that we take
you home and far away from him. He realized his actions were monstrous and
possessive, but he was not what his actions almost made him. Guilt read on his
face from a mile away. We let him say goodbye before he promised to never see
you again because he regretted his decision. Hermes punished himself more than
Hades and I ever could.”
“I think I hate him,” I admit. “I think I hate him the same way that I think I
hate Epiales.”
“My dear, sweet daughter,” Persephone says. “You are so young that you do
not realize love and hate are two of the same coin. I do not think you hate either
god. I think what you feel for both males is the opposite of hate, but that is your
own journey to make. A journey that you no longer have to make alone.”
I draw my gaze downward, to where Persephone is kneeling before me, and
warmth fills my chest. When she holds out her hands, I accept, and they’re my
haven. Her embrace, her honesty, and her affection are a sense of comfort I
haven’t realized I’ve searched my entire life for until now.
“Can you take me on a tour around my new home?” I ask.
Raw emotion softens Persephone’s features, an authentic mixture of elation
and disbelief, and she squeezes my hands. When she answers me, her voice is
broken by an influx of affection. “There’s nothing I’d want to do more.”
As Persephone and I stride out of the dining hall, Achilles and Atalanta are
two steps behind us. Their boney hands are coiled around the handle of their
swords, awaiting danger where it lurks, but they are not alone in our protection.
A three-headed dog, its snouts bulbous and its body stout, licks the palm of
Persephone’s hand as it trots beside us.
Persephone giggles as one finger scratches one of its many ears. “The key to
Cerberus’s heart,” she explains with a sideway glance towards me. “Is to scratch
right behind the ear. Then he’s loyal to you for life.”
As if the enormous dog understands Persephone’s words, two out of his three
heads tilt in my direction. I swear the dog smiles, its tongue hanging out. While
we walk through the obsidian mansion, Cerberus trots in an infinity loop around
the two of us, and almost trips Achilles on one occasion.
The skeletal warrior is not amused.
At least one hundred steps separate the mansion’s front doors to the floor of
the Underworld. One hundred onyx stairs, where two guards are posted on every
other with shields and spears tight to their chest. I once lived in Ares’s house,
which was guarded by malnourished and frightened humans who yearned for
freedom, but the Underworld’s guards are different from Ares’s.
Here, in the Underworld, it is a fortress. With each guard we pass,
Persephone nods her head in appreciation. Their soldiers are from the past, who
died on the battlefield, Persephone explains. I do not mistake a few heartfelt
bows we receive from the ghostly or skeletal men and women. Persephone is
cordial to each guard and greets them by their first name, and the respect she has
for them is as easily visible as the guards’ passion for their jobs.
“Each guard who works during their afterlife decided without coercion.
Neither Hades nor I approached any of the men and women who now serve as
guards and warriors in our army, but all of them left their home in this afterlife
and asked to join. They gave up their ability to speak, and they lived in their
decomposed bodies to serve as they did in their living existence.”
“Do you know why?” I ask. We are only halfway down the staircase, and
already sweat is streaming down the sides of my face. My breathing is haggard
as I elaborate. “Some of them were in Elysian Fields, right? Why would
anybody want to leave the land of heroes?”
Persephone is quick to answer me. “All of our guards lived in Elysian Fields
before joining our artillery. Each time we ask a deceased hero why they wish to
become a sentinel, their answer is always the same. Happiness and peace bores
the warriors who lived their entire lives on the thrill of war and battles. Some
heroes become so disinterested in the Elysian Fields that they agree to become
the skeletal remains of their former life; or worse, if your body was never given
a proper burial, then those warriors become ghostly, faceless figures.”
“Like the guards with Hattie and Glasswing,” I conclude, and Persephone
nods her head.
“Many live happy lives in the land of heroes, but champions like Achilles
and Atalanta desired the fight that came with their previous life, which is why
they stand behind us now. It’s why these mighty soldiers stand on these steps.
They wanted the choice to live a glimpse of their former life, and Hades and I
accepted.”
“Choice.” I taste the uncommon word upon my tongue, and a smile lifts over
my lips. “That’s beautiful.”
“No,” Persephone shakes her head, purple-tinted brown hair streaming down
her shoulders with the movement. “This world is so grotesque that choice seems
like an unachievable beauty rather than an innate right.”
We’re almost done with the staircase when I stop. My hands are on top of my
knees, and I hunch over, gasping for breath that slices down my throat like
knives. I’m heaving, struggling to survive the downward trek, but Persephone
stands beside me without a glimpse of perspiration.
“With your permission, Thanatos and Hypnos have offered to further the
training you began with the huntresses,” she looks down at me with amusement
lighting up her face. “It might help you with a few stairs.”
I gasp. “A few?”
Her laughter fills the air. “The trip to both the Fields of Punishment and
Elysian Fields includes twice the amount of stairs.”
“Oh, gods,” I groan. “Where can we visit today that does not involve stairs?”
“We will see the rivers today, my sweet daughter.”
She places her hand on my back and helps me down the last twenty steps.
Better yet, when I collapse onto the floor and stare up at the black sky for ten
minutes, she reins in the laughter that I can tell wants to burst at the seam.
OceanofPDF.com
THE FORTIETH CHAPTER
Cerberus zigzags between our feet, his tail wagging with enjoyment, when we
visit the first river on the expansive journey through the Underworld. The Lethe
is the river closest to the castle, and it’s correlated with oblivion and
forgetfulness. In the land of choices, the Lethe River is a chance for humans who
suffered a slow, painful demise, or lived a regrettable life, to forget their earthly
ties. With one sip from the dark blue water, most slaves do not remember their
time with their barbarous masters.
“Your friends who passed away in Hermes’s home.” Persephone whispers
the words that I’m almost too frightened to hear. “Are living in Elysian Fields,
but their murderer chose the river before spending her afterlife in the Fields of
Punishments. She is penalized for her acts of rebellion without recollection of
her decisions that led to that point.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Hermes found the punishment fitting, and Hades and I agreed,” she answers.
“Can you take her out of the Fields of Punishment?”
We are walking away from the Lethe River when the question slips from my
tongue. Persephone slows to a stop, and she looks down at me with an
unmistakably confused expression.
“You are a princess of this land. You may decide anything you see fit, but
why would you want that? She tried to kidnap you, and she killed your friends.”
We are walking toward the next river, the Cocytus, where endless guilt-
ridden souls suffer. Their wails live in the water, staining the air with a forlorn
feeling. I frown as I stare at where the manipulated and tricked live. Those who
listened to pretty lies, and whose greatest mistake was believing the trickery of
another’s words.
“It’s easy to believe Kronos’s falsity,” I concede these words with Epiales on
my mind and not China. “Especially when you think there’s nowhere else to
turn.”
“Atalanta.” Persephone turns to the female soldier, and she orders. “Go free
the woman from the Fields of Punishment. She shall live the rest of her afterlife
either in the depths of the Cocytus River or in Asphodel Meadows. The choice is
the traitor’s.”
“Thank you,” I hum when Atalanta runs off to complete her task.
“Please,” Persephone implores as we begin our tour of the Underworld. “Do
not thank me for listening to your wise words.” We walk a few steps, then
Persephone adds. “I can’t free Epiales from Tartarus, though. Not without Zeus’s
knowledge.”
There’s a pinch in my chest when I am reminded of Epiales’s predicament,
and my words are hoarse as I murmur. “I may hate him, but I can’t let him die in
Tartarus.”
Persephone nods her head, compassion written on her beautiful features.
“Hades and I will speak to Zeus at our earliest convenience and see about
lessening Epiales’s sentence, but it’s all we can do. This may be our land, but
Zeus is the king of all, and he was the one who sentenced Epiales. We can’t
disobey his command without receiving repercussions.”
I’m silent for a moment before I ask. “What can we do for him right now?” I
hate the way my voice breaks when I admit. “He’s dying, and I don’t know how
much longer he can survive down there.”
Persephone thinks for a moment. “Do Hattie and Glasswing know about
Epiales?” I shake my head, and Persephone says. “Tell Hattie and Glasswing
about Epiales, and Hades and I will inform all the living humans in our castle.
We have about one hundred former slaves in our home, and while it’s not much,
Epiales won’t die if over a hundred humans know of his existence and pray to
him.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I am quick to push away a single fallen tear.
“I want you to know that I’ll do anything for you within my power. You are
my daughter, and I’d move mountains for you.”
“Daughter,” I reiterate the word, tasting it on my tongue. “I never thought I’d
hear somebody call me that.”
“For eons, all I’ve wanted was to say that very word to a child that I had with
Hades. You may not be my child by blood, but you are ours by love. You’ll
always have us, my sweet daughter.”
We travel from the Cocytus River to the Acheron River, each one rich with
stories and powers. The Acheron River is as black as the castle, reminding me of
the wispy feathers of Epiales’s crow in water form. She tells me of the
Phlegethon River, which burns of fire and is a neighbor to Tartarus, but we do
not venture near Epiales’s prison.
I glance at the shrouded land, though, with a twisted ache of guilt.
When I look away from Tartarus and the Phlegethon River, I find myself
staring at the largest river in the Underworld. In the far off distance, Charon is
on his ferry and sails through the water with half a dozen newly departed
humans. Persephone hasn’t looked at the river once, I realize, but actively avoids
the sight.
“We’ve passed this river a lot, but you haven’t said a word about it,” I say
about the magnificent bulk of water, which both intrigues me and sends a chill
down my spine.
The river is stilled, never moving like a stream the way the others have.
Shadowy apparitions, screaming faces and twitching bodies move in the water,
but not because of a current. They try to run away from their sentencing of
eternal imprisonment within the black and silver depths. The deceased that fell
into the river try to escape to no avail, and the despondency in their unblinking
eyes stare back at me.
No longer believing they’ll escape, nevertheless trying to breakout.
“No matter what you do, stay as far away from the River Styx,” my mother
was laughing with me just a minute ago. Now, fright deepens her voice as we
stand side-by-side, two feet away from the edge of the river. “The titaness who
lives within the water is the personification of hatred, and her river is the
epicenter of her power. She is the scariest aspect of the Underworld, worse than
Tartarus himself, but many immortals are too foolish and underestimate her
power because she lives in a river. Never underestimate Styx.”
I nod my head. “I promise.”
As we carry on with our tour, Persephone asks. “Hermes mentioned you were
learning how to read and write. How is that going?”
I look to the ground, and while I answer, my voice is mumbled and my feet
kick at the dead grass. “It’s alright, I guess.”
“Can I confess something to you?” Persephone asks, and when I nod my
head, she admits. “I’m not asking you this to embarrass you, but I want to give
you a choice. I have some of the greatest scholars in Elysian Fields or Asphodel
Meadows, and just like my warriors, these intelligent men and women miss
teaching others. If you’d like to, then I found you a great tutor.”
“Will they make fun of me?” I ask, still not looking up at her.
“Why would he make fun of you?”
“When Hattie and China were teaching me, I kept messing up a lot. It’s like
all the letters are in a river, moving around with the current.”
We walk, but Persephone takes a second to ponder my words. “From what I
know of humans, the difficulties that you have are quite common and it is
nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve also only been learning how to read and write
for a few weeks by other slaves who barely know the words themselves.”
I ponder aloud. “Is there somebody you have in mind to teach me?”
“I do,” Persephone answers. “He was a brilliant man when he was alive, but
he made sinful choices that he’s trying to atone for in his afterlife. Building the
Labyrinth, for instance, was his greatest descension. He’s offered to leave
Asphodel Meadows to tutor you, and considering the mistakes he has made in
his own waking life, there will be no judgement from him. And if there is, then
I’ll have Cerberus bite off a finger or two.”
Persephone has a look of amusement across her face when I realize who she
wants my tutor to be.
“Daedalus?” I ask, thinking back to the stories Epiales told me about the
Greek scholarly architect responsible for the Labyrinth.
“He will tutor you every day after your trainings with Hypnos and Thanatos.
I’ve already spoken to Hattie and Glasswing this morning, and Hattie will join
you in the trainings while Glasswing will be there during the tutoring sessions.”
“I never expected life to be like this,” I admit.
“Like what?” She asks.
The land of death, where rivers wail and skies are as black as crow feathers,
has become a home. Just as beauty does not equate to kindness, darkness does
not equate to maliciousness. My place is within the obscurity, surrounded by
skeletal guards and monarchs who covet choice, where respect runs as long as
the River Styx.
I am truthful as I answer. “Beautiful.”
After a picnic on the edge of the Asphodel Meadows, which Cerberus ate
with us, we head back to the mansion. With each step we take back to our home,
we learn about each other in the gap since I was taken away. Epiales told me
about Persephone and Hades, but he only explained the stories that were told and
glorified.
He didn’t tell me that Persephone is terrified of spiders after an encounter
with Arachne. Epiales did not know that Persephone’s favorite fruit isn’t
pomegranates but peaches, but she is too nervous to tell Hades that and only
enjoys the yellowish fruit when she visits her mother during the summer. While
she learns about me, I discover Persephone’s authenticity along the way.
I do not realize how much time slips from us until we are standing in front of
the one hundred steps that lead to the front doors, and I groan. “Can’t I just sit on
Cerberus’s back and have him race me up to the top?”
Persephone laughs, and Cerberus lets out a yelp of discontent.
“Consider the stairs your first day of training,” Persephone jokes.
I stride towards the arduous sets of stairs before a gleam of gold blinds me.
Wings that are miles long crash through the Underworld, and the petite goddess
who owns them lands on the fifth step. With her blonde locks and golden armor,
Nike contrasts the darkness of the land of the dead.
I see Nike, and my mind goes to my best friend. The only person I had
growing up, who tethered me to the waking world. My protector and ally within
the prison cells when I thought I had nobody. The first person to admit I differed
from everybody else. One of the few people to never lie to me.
Nike bows in our presence, a fact that still sends an unwanted sense of
strangeness through me, but she rises before I can tell her to stop. Her lips are in
a firm frown, and I just know. Between the dried streaks of tears on her cheeks,
and the red blood on her fingertips, I press a hand to my own stilled chest with a
terrible knowledge smashing into me.
“What can we help you with, Nike?” Persephone asks, and her tone is laced
with an undertone of clairvoyant, mournful knowledge.
“I have a request for you, your highness,” Nike looks away from Persephone
and looks at me. The sadness Nike wears on her face like a physical wound
intensifies. “And an apology for you, princess.”
“What happened?” Persephone asks, her cadence devoid of the previous
jovial nature that it had only a minute prior.
“Titans,” Nike says while fresh tears stream down her cheeks. Each silent
click of a new tear upon the ground tells me whose blood lies on her fingertips.
With each quiver of her lips, I flinch. “Two of them came into my home—Crius
and Eurybia—and said their king needed to make an example out of my slaves.”
She wipes away her sadness with the back of her hand, but a streak of his
blood slides across her cheekbone. It’s all I can stare at, the red smudge that I
know belongs to him. My best friend, who warned me about my dreams. My
loyal friend, who protected me on a continual basis at his own risk.
Gone because of Kronos.
Gone because I refused the titan of time.
Gone because of who I am.
Gone because of me.
“Most of my slaves are,” Nike flinches from her own words and restates.
“Were elderly. I tried to fight both titans, but they had a target, and I wasn’t
strong enough. Oh, gods, I’m so sorry, princess.”
Nike’s golden wings fold into themselves and she collapses onto her knees.
She sobs for the humans she cared for as her equals within her mansion. Nike,
who is the goddess of victory, mourns for the elderly men and women who she
could not protect. Crumbling into herself, she yearns for my guy friend to live
another day.
“He knew they were there for him before I did. I tried to run to him, to stop
Crius, but I wasn’t fast enough. Not with Eurybia fighting me. I tried, and I tried,
and I tried, but I failed.”
Nike was poised and regal when I first saw her in the arena a few weeks ago.
She was immaculate in a way that most goddesses are. She was almost
statuesque in her apathetic expressions, but today is the truth behind the façade.
I take the steps that separate Nike and me, and I sit on the same step with her.
I take her hands, and I let a goddess press her body against mine. She rests her
head against my shoulder, weeping for my friend until snot runs down her nose
and she is gasping for breath.
Ares once told me a person’s third love is your soulmate, the other half Zeus
pulled you apart from, and I know with certainty that Nike was my friend’s third
love; his destined mate. I hold the goddess as she sobs over the loss of the one
person who she was pre-destined to have forever. Her body trembles in my hold,
inconsolable over the loss of her fated love. My thoughts return to my friend
with a wry grin and blazing blue eyes, and I squeeze his mate tighter.
“What name did you give him?” I ask with tentative delicacy, as if the
answer to this question will either unravel her or the fragment of rationality left
inside of me.
“Angel,” she can barely get the words out before sobbing once again. “I’m so
sorry, I tried.”
I’m numb as I sit on the staircase and hold a goddess as she cries. Persephone
is gone, searching for my friend to take him to Elysian Fields as he belongs. The
last time I saw Angel, we both subconsciously knew it was going to be an eternal
farewell. We knew, just as I knew he was dead, that we would never see each
other after the arena.
I hold Nike in my arms until her tears dry once more. She hiccups as she tries
to plea. “Will he-”
I answer before the question can be uttered. “Yes, he’s a hero, and that’s
where he belongs.”
“I didn’t know who you were to Angel until Hermes came to pick up his…”
Nike stops, unable to finish the sentence.
“Soul,” I say for her.
She nods her head. “Hermes recognized my Angel and told me of your
friendship. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, it wasn’t your fault,” I murmur, my thumb running up and
down her fingers that tighten into a fist around mine.
It’s my fault to bear.
“I’m going to kill them for this.” I promise Nike. There is acrimony
thickening my otherwise stoic voice, but the anger is laden with certainty that
my words are destined to come true. “I’ll start with Crius and Eurybia, and then
I’ll rip Kronos apart bit by bit until he realizes that his example for me was his
own demise.”
I don’t know how much Nike knows of my existence, how much Hermes told
her, but she doesn’t question my abilities to kill the titans. Perhaps she is too
distraught, or she does not care about words in the war of grief overtaking her
body, but she is silent upon my declaration. Nike only has the strength to nod her
head and cry.
OceanofPDF.com
THE FORTY-FIRST CHAPTER
Power buzzes through my body like an electrical current, zapping my skin and
igniting me with adrenaline. Thanatos’s scythe slices through the air, but I’m
quicker. I duck and roll, avoiding the kiss of his blade with my sword raised.
I almost slash Thanatos’s back, but Hypnos is there. The scar-littered god of
sleep swipes his gray scythe down before I thwart his brother. Our blades clash
against one another, vying for control in a room thickened with tension, pride,
and sweat, and my smile is lethal.
An inkling of something dark and inviting plays in his gaze, and I pull him
flush against my body. My chest is against his, and I can feel everything. The
hammering of his heart, the wet sweat of his arms, the pronounced rigidness of
his muscles, and the unspoken words of his desire as I stare up at him. Our
bodies have never been this close except in his imagination, and our nearness
brings me that much closer to victory.
I spin out of Hypnos’s hold as Thanatos’s scythe strikes downward. The
blade is meant for me, but I whirl away from its trajectory. Hypnos isn’t fast
enough, though. In a state of disorientation, he does not realize Thanatos is about
to accidentally defeat him until it is too late.
I am a foot away as Thanatos’s blade sinks into Hypnos’s shoulder and a
terrible scream of vanquish ricochets off the training room walls. Thanatos yanks
his scythe out of his brother’s shoulder, then turns to me with the first smile that
I’ve ever seen on his face.
“That was impressive,” he says, all while twirling the five-foot long scythe
stained with his brother’s ichor. “Almost three months later and you finally find
out Hypnos’s weakness.”
“Daedalus is teaching me about human desire right now,” I inform my last
opponent, and I white knuckle my sword and resume a fighting stance. “I’m a
quick study.”
Hattie, eating a bowl of walnuts in the background with Achilles and
Atalanta, lets out a bark of laughter. “You? A quick study? That’s a joke.”
I turn to face my best friend, her hand wrist deep in a bowl of walnuts, and I
stick my tongue out at her. For a second, I look away from my opponent, but
Hattie diverts from my face to a spot behind me in silent warning. A smirk plays
on my lips, and I continue to act unaware of Thanatos running towards me with
his scythe raised.
Thanatos thought I learned only Hypnos’s weakness, but he was wrong.
Thanatos swings his scythe towards me, and as the familiar whoosh of his blade
nears my ears, I fall to my knees. Once again, his scythe kisses the air and I spin
a complete one-eighty on the floor.
He is ready for my sword, the blades meeting in disharmonious
competitiveness, but he underestimates me. I expect each move my trainer
makes, and while his scythe is pushing my sword downwards for the final blow,
my free hand moves to the blade hidden in my boot.
Thanatos nears because I allow it. I let the curvature of his blade fog with my
heavy breathing. When he thinks victory is in his clutches, I thrust my knife
upwards until it reaches flesh. My lucky knife, gifted to me by my dad two
weeks ago, slides into his shoulder in the same spot as Hypnos’s injury.
Upon the realization that I defeated him, his face falls in disbelief.
For the first time since I entered this training room almost three months ago,
I am victorious against Hypnos and Thanatos. Thanatos, still in shock, stumbles
away from our previous position and staggers to his full, imposing height. Hattie
is laughing in the background, her lewd comments about Thanatos being a sore
loser loud enough to shake the walls and the aforementioned god’s ego.
“I found your weakness, too,” I tell him as I stand up to my feet.
“Which is?” Thanatos asks, and I do not mistake the annoyance in his voice.
“You still think I’m the same girl you started training three months ago, who
tripped over her weapon,” I wander to my blade, which is now sticky with
Thanatos’s defeat, and I gleam at my trainer. “You keep forgetting how well you
trained me these past few months.”
“Twice,” Thanatos says after a moment of silence. “You tripped over your
sword twice.”
Hypnos barks out a laugh at his brother’s comment, and he playfully smacks
his back. “How does it feel knowing you lost in a fight against the girl who
tripped over a sword twice? A little salty?”
Thanatos refuses to look at Hypnos, who looks identical to him except for the
color of their eyes, their amount of facial hair, and the scars which litter the
latter’s skin. “You fought well today, Saff,” he grits his teeth as he admits this.
“But I’ll be the winner tomorrow. I’d be a fool to let you underestimate me
again.”
“Just accept you lost,” I coo. “And will continue to lose from now on.”
“You’ve turned into quite the bossy princess,” Hypnos teases as he props his
foot against the wall farthest from me. A smirk grows on his lips as he adds. “I
like it.”
A second later, a walnut hits him square in the forehead.
“Don’t make me barf all over the floor,” Hattie snaps.
I pick up all of my belongings and I walk over to Hattie. She stretches her
legs before standing, as if she’s as exhausted as those who trained. While Hattie
agreed to train with us, after two weeks of Thanatos’s grueling workouts, she
quit and decided to watch our sessions with a bowl of food each day.
Eventually, Atalanta and Achilles joined her.
Achilles, Atalanta, Hattie, and I walk out of the door when Hypnos’s
question cuts through the training room. “Are you sure you do not want to go?”
I freeze to the spot.
Every three months, on a season’s solstice, the arenas are conducted. There
are four prisons around the world, and the bastille I grew up in had their arena
fights each summer solstice. Yet, another prison located halfway across the
world has their arena today on the fall solstice, and as the proclaimed miracle
child of Hades and Persephone, I am invited to take part.
To fight for a human to own, whom I can brand with a scarification mark and
force their presence into the circle of problems with this world. Hattie, too, stills
upon the mention of the fall solstice and the arena we were invited to. Just like
me, she imagines the day she was fought for like a piece of property to obtain,
which was the last day she saw her twin sister alive.
“I’d rather hangout with Tantalus in the Fields of Punishments,” I say, and
the four of us leave Hypnos and Thanatos.
Mom said that the one hundred steps to and from the mansion would be less
grueling the longer I lived here, but it is the only time she’s ever lied to me. Both
Hattie and I groan as we stand at the bottom staircase and look up at the grueling
hike that is ahead of us. They can’t talk, but Achilles makes a sound similar to a
laugh at the sight of us.
“Cerberus carried us up there once.” Hattie looks at me and asks. “Do you
think he will again if we promise treats?”
I frown. “My parents already left for the arena, and they took Cerberus with
them.”
Hattie groans. “Why didn’t we steal any of Hermes’s winged sandals before
leaving?”
“I was too busy almost being killed by Ares,” I turn to my best friend.
“What’s your excuse?”
Atalanta snorts.
Hattie glares back at the guard. “Whose side are you on?”
The skeleton smiles, showing an array of her blackened teeth.
Hattie groans. “Ugh, I want to grow wings. Not like Thanatos’s or Hypnos’s,
but little ones that I could easily hide in my clothes but could use for moments
like this,” Hattie glares at the staircase, and as we ascend the torture device, she
asks Achilles and Atalanta her daily question. “Was this the original Fields of
Punishment? We’re buddies, you can tell me.”
I smirk when silence greets Hattie.
By the time we make it to the top of the staircase, my legs threaten to buckle
from underneath me.
Hattie grumbles. “I need a nap.”
After stumbling for the second time, Achilles leaves his spot beside me to
help Hattie to her bedroom. Atalanta and I share a look, humor decorated on her
decomposing face, and we head toward my bedroom, where the two maids—
Myrah and Sasha—wait for me.
My days are pleasant and predictable. Myrah and Sasha are in my room, with
a warm bath decorated in rose petals ready. A glass of champagne, rimmed in
sugar, sits on the desk next to the tub, along with a bowl of cut strawberries.
I drop a few into my glass of champagne, and as the bubbly sweetness
caroms my tongue, Myrah and Sasha help me pick out my outfit for the day.
Everything is routine, from the braided crown upon my chestnut locks to the
guards who lean against my doorway when I begin my descent to Daedalus’s
home.
Today, I’m in a sheer, pastel blue gown that is both sleeveless and
uncorseted. Instead of a tiara Mom once insisted I wear, golden beads weave in-
between my braided hair crown. Minimal makeup decorates my face, and I see
my favorite version of myself in the mirror every day.
Just like every single day, Glasswing is waiting for me at the front of opened
double doors. She is in a red gown, a color I’ve never seen her wear before. A
gold eyepatch covers her scarification mark, an atrocity that no amount of
healing medicines could lessen, but she’s gorgeous. Glasswing, to me, has
always been one of the most naturally beautiful humans.
When my friend turns her attention to me, there’s a painful twist in my
stomach that tells me something is awry. She stands beside her ghostly guards—
Benjamin and Swiss—but doesn’t register their presence. Glasswing is eerie
today, her body’s stiller than usual. This is odd for her; typically, Glasswing is
fidgeting with something. Whether it is her morning plate of food, a piece of
wayward fabric on her gown, or a piece of her hair.
Yet, today, she is still.
Relaxed.
“Ready?” I ask her, to which she nods her head.
Benjamin and Swiss are two steps in front of us, while Atalanta is two steps
behind. At first, the adjustment of constant guards around me was daunting, but
as time elapsed in the Underworld as its princess, the more accustomed I’ve been
to my new role. She and I do not complain about the staircase or talk on our way
to Asphodel Meadows.
Since Daedalus is dead and unable to communicate when outside of his place
of eternal rest, Glasswing and I travel to him in the Asphodel Meadows. This is
the farthest location, except for the Fields of Punishment, from the castle. We
pass by all the rivers, Tartarus, and Elysian Fields on our way.
Glasswing is silent the entire time.
I will glance over at her, assessing her for any injuries like a bump on the
head; however, she is unscathed. I try to spark up a few conversations, but each
time, she is unresponsive. While she and I are not as close as Hattie and me, I’ve
known Glasswing my entire life. I’ve known her since we were children, sitting
under the showerhead together and surviving a terrible world.
“Are you okay?” I finally ask.
We are walking in between the River Styx and the Phlegethon River, but I
stop to a halt. I turn my body to face the waif woman. She has gotten skinnier, if
possible, since we arrived in the Underworld. Now, with true freedom, she
appears more troubled than ever before. Her cheeks are sunken in and nearly as
skeletal as Atalanta’s and Achilles’s.
“I will be soon,” she says in a raspy whisper.
“What do you mean by that?”
Glasswing’s attention shifts away from me to her two guards, and in the same
throaty intonation, she says. “It’s time.”
The guard on the left—Swiss—acts without hesitation. His ghostly figure is
only shadows and speed as he runs towards Glasswing. Confusion stuns
Atalanta, Benjamin, and I long enough for their plan to work. Swiss is behind
Glasswing with his blade to her throat, but he is a ghost who can’t hold physical
objects for longer than a minute.
He drops the handle of the blade against Glasswing’s throat, but she catches
it. Her one eye is on me as Atalanta unsheathes her sword and points it at
Glasswing, then Swiss, then back at Glasswing. If Achilles were here and not
assisting Hattie, then she could take one down while Achilles handled the other.
But luck is not on our side today.
“Glasswing,” I say. “What are you doing?”
She has not smiled since I’ve known her. She’s been correlated with fear or
hatred, never happiness. When Glasswing smiles, it isn’t with elation. Insanity
darkens her irises, and her hand is steady around the handle of the knife against
her throat. She stares at me, unblinking, as she applies pressure to the blade.
A trickle of crimson blood spills down the long expanse of her throat, and I
step forward. “What are you doing? Put the blade down.”
“You are the symphony and victory, you are the fated in the tomes of history,
but for the ruler of time you bring misery,” the more Glasswing talks, still
unblinking, the more she presses the knife against her throat. I try to take another
step forward, but she snarls. “If you move any closer, then I’ll slit my throat
from ear to ear. Tempt me, the chosen treasure, and see the carnage that leers.”
I freeze as realization crashes into my chest with such brutality.
Treasure.
Ruler of Time.
“Kronos,” I seethe his name with acrimony poisoning my tongue. “You’re
working for Kronos.”
“Swiss and me both. He brings the peace with each god whose life must
cease. He is the release from the monsters that derive from Greece.” With her
free hand, Glasswing pokes at the side of her head, her maniacal smile growing
to eerily large proportions. “He is the king, and you are the treasure that makes
time sing. It sings with relief for the death of the gods, which begins with the
thief. The thief who stole and tricked, then the dead that gripped-”
“You’re not making any sense. Put the blade down,” I order.
I do not peel my eyes away from Glasswing, even with the fighting grunts
behind me. Atalanta and Benjamin fight for the Underworld, but Swiss battles
his former allies because of a manipulative titan.
With one hand on the handle of the knife, the other pointed finger presses on
her temple again and again, and I no longer recognize Glasswing. Kronos
stripped any inch of sanity within her, resorting her to a rhyming, unblinking
version of herself.
“Your allies are not meant to be gifted with life and lucidity.” When she
laughs, it’s empty and chilling. “Your loved ones are the treasure’s vulnerability.
They are not meant for infinity, but for un-survivability. They are your weakness
and liability. It began with an angel, but the next is the most ungrateful. All who
the treasure adores will die until she is shameful. Death will taint her until the
king of time finds her faithful.”
Behind Glasswing, around one hundred corpses crawl and run towards us.
Their allegiance has switched to Kronos’s side, and they rush to Glasswing’s aid
with swords in their boney grasps and misguided hope in their hearts. Still, I
stare at Glasswing, and I want to save her from Kronos, who has distorted her
mind.
A body crashes against my valiant efforts.
Atalanta pummels my body into the ground, and an arrow dipped in an
unfamiliar dark-green substance narrowly avoids my neck. Glasswing won’t
blink, but she laughs. A chaotic guffaw taints the once-pleasant air, and my
home is distorted into Kronos’s diluted image. Atalanta jumps off of me, two
swords within her grasp, and I am up on my feet again. We watch the leader of a
small army of traitorous dead souls as she laughs and laughs and laughs.
Benjamin is holding Swiss against the ground, and only Atalanta and I
remain in a standing position. Atalanta looks around at the army doubling, then
tripling in size, and I can see the defeat clear on her decaying face. Glasswing
walks past Benjamin and Swiss, and she stands at the banks of the River Styx
with her arms outstretched.
“It began with an angel, but the next is the most ungrateful.” She repeats this
line, and with wide eyes burning red with anger and insanity, she cries out. “The
fiery one who denied the king of time will lose her spine.”
Her laugh is derived from nightmares.
Ten sword-clad corpses flock to Atalanta. She lets out a roar as she swings
her blades, decapitating two heads. Between fighting an influx of bodies rushing
to capture me, Atalanta garbles a single word. Whatever she is trying to say is
incomprehensible, but desperation clings to her bones. I stare at her, my mind
foggy with confusion and betrayal, and she makes sure I am staring at her and
nobody else as she repeats the same word again and again.
Finally, I follow the movements of her lips and read the three-letter word.
“Run,” she says.
Atalanta’s attention shifts, and I follow her focus. There, passed the fiery
Phlegethon River, a man with curly black tresses and gray eyes identical to
Hypnos’s stare back. I know who this god is, who stands on top of Tartarus,
sword raised in the air, without ever seeing his face before today.
The god of dreams screams from across the Phlegethon River. “Long may
time reign!”
Morpheus, who left this world with his human soulmate over two hundred
years ago, strikes his sword upon the cells of Tartarus and the Underworld
splinters. Hands emerge from the cracks in Tartarus, and Atalanta still jumbles
the same word.
“Run, run, run.”
When a scarred hand, decorated with a black tattoo of a crow, sprouts from
Tartarus and stabs into the Underworld’s ground, I listen to Atalanta. I turn to
sprint across the dead grass, but one sentence from Glasswing’s psychotic
rambles reemerges.
It began with an angel, but the next is the most ungrateful.
My mind rewinds itself, bringing me back to the day of Pyro and Panda’s
funeral. I do not reminisce about my friends’ deaths, but I perseverate on
Hattie’s words when we talked about Kronos. About her rejecting Kronos’s offer
to join him.
Just because a pretty face came to me in a dream doesn’t mean I’m going to
fall for it, Hattie said. Plus, I’ve seen far prettier faces in my time than his.
“They’re going to kill Hattie,” I realize. I turn to Glasswing, who still stands
in front of the River Styx with arms held out wide, and I growl. “Where’s
Hattie?”
“Let us see how pretty the treasure is when she cries,” Glasswing responds.
“Oh, and how loud she screams.”
I look back at the castle, where Hattie was napping when I left her.
At least a dozen creatures are sprinting towards the castle with materializing
weapons in their malnourished hands and homicidal thoughts in their minds.
They’re closer than I am from the castle, with a speed that doubles mine, and a
scream of anguish and desperation claws at my throat. I can survive Angel’s
death, but can I escape here and leave Hattie behind?
Without pondering the question, I know the answer.
I look at the largest river in the Underworld. I stare at its black and silver
tresses that twinkle with death’s kiss. The fear I should have towards this
expanse of deadly water is replaced with a need to save my best friend. The
journey through the Underworld is five times as long because of how much we
avoid the River Styx, but more titans and monsters from the depths of Tartarus
run for the castle.
I’m certain they will reach its stairs before I do, unless…
One choice is left in a land ridden with war, and I move towards the river.
“Hey, Glasswing?”
She doesn’t respond. Only stares back, unblinking.
I advance until we are chest-to-chest, and I know she thinks I’m surrendering
to her king. She sees my proximity and does not see my plan until my arms are
around her thin body and our feet teeter off of the edge.
As we begin our fall, I whisper into her ear. “I’m sorry this world failed
you.”
Before we make the fall into the River Styx, I see two things. One, a shred of
humanity etches Glasswing’s fearful face. Two, Epiales stands beside Morpheus
on top of Tartarus’s border, and watches as I fall into the river with one word
leaving his terrified lips.
“No!”
Then, I see nothing at all but the plunging darkness of the River Styx.
OceanofPDF.com
EPILOGUE
My eyes burn as I peel them open, but once I take in my surroundings, I wish I
could stay unconscious and avoid witnessing the catastrophe of a defeated effort.
Shackles are tightened around my families’ wrists and ankles; ichor spills from
every direction, staining the alabaster floor beneath my kneeled position, and I
wish I could ignore that this is my reality.
Kronos is standing a few feet away from the row of immortals he laid out in
the throne room within our former home of Mt. Olympus. For five hundred
years, I have yearned to see my land’s excellence and its phosphorescent
supremacy. I’ve fallen asleep with the image of Mt. Olympus waiting for me, but
over the decades, the vision I remembered had lessened.
Now, I am back, but only as its prisoner.
Circe stands to Kronos’s left, but the man to Kronos’s right gains my
attention. Epiales, Saffron’s Storyteller, stands to the left. He was on the cusp of
death because the world forgot his existence in Tartarus, but he survived and
now stands victorious in front of me. His skin is horribly scarred by Zeus and
Hephaestus for his crimes with Morpheus, but now both gods are at his mercy.
Zeus wanted the hideousness of Epiales’s scars to match his atrocious
actions, but black ink hides most of the torment inflicted upon his pale flesh.
Instead of white, shockingly jagged lines, tattoos bring out the lethal blaze of his
vengeance. The worst of Zeus’s inflicted mutilation is now a sword on his neck,
a crow on the top of his right hand, a detailed image of the Minotaur turned into
stone on the top of his left hand, and a snake biting into a strawberry curling
around his left shoulder.
“Impressive ink,” my voice is groggy but coherent. “How’d you get that in
the pits of Tartarus?”
Infatuation blossoms on Circe’s face as she stares at Epiales. She coos
several octaves above her natural tone. “I gifted them to him.”
He refuses to look at her, but his silver eyes are glued to where I kneel. His
gaze has always unnerved me, even before he was an enemy. They were akin to
a sword under the sun, glimmering and dangerous.
“If it wasn’t for her, then I’d peel your skin off inch-by-inch,” Epiales snarls.
Her being Saffron, not Circe.
I surmise. “That would take a very long time, and I heal fast. Are you sure
you’re ready for that kind of commitment?”
“Your chance of surviving is already looking dreadful,” Morpheus says, who
has risen from the dead and stands beside Epiales. “I’d shut up if I were you.”
“I’ve never been one to stay silent,” I coo.
“Shut-up, Hermes,” Artemis, who stirred awake a few feet away from me,
growls.
I clamp my lips shut.
Kronos has been quiet, standing in the middle front of his impressive army of
monsters, titans, and vengeful gods. His victory is speaking the prideful words
that he does not need to. We are his prisoners of war, and there isn’t a necessity
for words when you are the champion.
He looks at Circe and finally speaks. “Retrieve my wife for the presentation.”
Circe, with excitement, disappears in a plume of dark green smoke.
Kronos glances at one of his brothers, Crius. “Heracles is still unconscious at
the end of the line. Transport him to Mt. Atlas. He will take Atlas’s job holding
the Earth up.”
Obediently, Crius nods his head and walks to the end of the line. Heracles
lets out an inaudible groan as he is lifted and thrown over Crius’s shoulder. A
moment later, they are both gone.
Next, Kronos looks at his brother, Coeus. “They said she died in the River
Styx. Prove it and kill any human you see in the castle. I want her body, or
there’s no proof she’s dead. You come back with a body or not at all.”
“Who died?” I snarl, and Artemis doesn’t try silencing me.
We both look at Kronos, who is smirking as Coeus obeys his command. He
and two dozen members of their army dematerialize. Fear unlike any I’ve
experienced before threatens to rip my heart from my chest, and I shift my gaze
to Epiales.
“Who is dead in the River Styx?” I repeat.
My fright triples when Epiales flinches at the question. The dried, silver
streaks of tears are now visible on his cheeks.
“No,” I murmur. “She’s not dead. You’re wrong.”
“We saw her jump in ourselves.” Morpheus answers me, and he glance at
Epiales with a mournful expression. “We know how slim the chances are that
she survived the plunge.”
Epiales wipes a tear away before anybody else can see, but he says nothing.
“I have faith my little treasure will emerge victorious.” Kronos coos, then
drifts his attention to me and smirks. “Hello, thief.”
“Hello, cannibalistic child-eater.” I snarl in a brutal effort to conceal my own
overwhelming fear.
The smile on Kronos’s face falls. Artemis, who is the only other immortal
awake, snorts at my comment. Artemis and I are given a few seconds of
amusement before the world crumbles. In those few seconds, we look at each
other and say goodbye with a nod of appreciation. She tells me without words
her hope that Saffron is alive, and I look back at her with a fear I can’t afford to
feel as my life hangs in the balance.
Several moans fill the air, and when other gods and goddesses awaken,
Artemis and I look away from one another. I focus on Kronos, but Artemis looks
to the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Zeus, who is to my left, lifts his
head and sees Kronos for the first time in five hundred years.
Kronos’s face turns into a scowl. “Son,” he snarls.
Kronos says this one word in a taunting, vengeance laced cadence. Zeus is
chained up and forced into a kneeling position, but Kronos watches his youngest
son and dares him to fight the restraints. Kronos’s fingers are twitching at his
side, eager for a fight without magical spells and lightning bolts.
Zeus doesn’t move an inch, but he glares up at his father with hatred that
spans several eons. “Father,” he responds.
Circe reappears, with Rhea in her grasp. Rhea—my grandmother and
Kronos’s wife—stands in front of us in more chains than the rest of us. Golden
bondage tightens around each square inch of her wraith build, securing her as a
vital prisoner in Kronos’s plans. Once he sees his wife, there is not a look of
fondness that crosses his face; instead, he looks at her the way one would glance
at their favorite pair of shoes.
A preferred necessity.
Circe takes a step back, and all of Kronos’s allies watch as he unsheathes a
dagger. It’s small enough to fit into the palm of Kronos’s hand, but power
radiates off of the miniature weapon. It’s bronzed, and in a vertical direction,
Latin inscriptions rest on the blade.
Deos timere et catenam.
Fear the gods and the chain.
Rhea flinches at the sight of the weapon, and she murmurs for mercy. She
tries to run, but with all the chains on her body, she collapses to the ground.
Kronos approaches his wife with his knife in his hand, and Rhea’s murmurs turn
into helpless, incongruous screams.
She tries to kick her husband as she lies on her back, but he overpowers her.
He is sitting on top of her lap and turns his attention to Zeus. “Do you know
what this weapon is?” Kronos asks.
Tears of helplessness stream down Rhea’s face as she kicks, screams, and
tries to wiggle out of Kronos’s hold. Zeus flinches at the sight of his mother in
this state, but he can’t help her. Zeus can only glare at his father and shake his
head.
“I don’t recognize it,” Zeus says.
Kronos spits in disgust. “You are a disgrace, my son. Are you so vain that
you do not research the weapons that humans have created over the years?” He
scoffs and moves his attention from Zeus, narrowing it onto me. “Do you know
the blade’s importance, thief?”
I don’t, but I do not say that.
Artemis answers a beat after the question is directed my way. “It’s the
Dagger of Chains.”
“Very good.” Kronos drags the tip of the blade down Rhea’s chest, and the
contact makes Artemis flinch. “Why don’t you be a dear and tell us what the
dagger does?”
Kronos wants her to play his game, but she stays silent. Artemis bows her
blonde head, submitting to the titan of time. My resilient sister, who fears
nothing and no man, trembles because of the dagger in his hands.
“What about a presentation?” Kronos asks the crowd, but none of us respond.
None of us have time to.
Kronos raises the weapon into the air, and Rhea lets out a terrible outcry. She
looks at Zeus and sobs. “Save me. Son, please.”
But he can’t.
We all watch as Kronos drives the dagger into the center of her chest. She
stares at Zeus, fear manifesting in her expression, but when Kronos removes the
blade, Rhea is gone. Not dead. Not bleeding out on the floor.
Just gone.
“What did you do?” Zeus stares at where his mother once laid, and he looks
to his father and lets two tears slip as he repeats. “What did you do?”
“In Ancient Greece, there was an architect who blamed the gods for the death
of his son, Icarus. He was so infuriated that he created a blade, which could trap
an immortal in a prison that sucks the power out of their bodies. Poor old
Daedalus created a masterpiece that only needed an inscription on the side to
activate.” Kronos caresses the Latin words across the blade, then looks at us and
inquires with wickedness on his tongue. “Who wants to go first?”
Kronos’s face remains unsurprised when nobody raises their shackled hands
to volunteer, but this does not derail him. The titan of time rises to his feet and
chooses his victims with a stride in his step and pride illuminating his face. He
presses the blade against Zeus’s neck, right underneath his thick, white beard,
but hesitates. Kronos stops himself from driving the blade into Zeus’s throat
because he wants his last sight of Zeus to be slackened in fear.
“Get on with it,” Zeus growls.
“When you get out of this dagger, it will be with your second prophesied
child with Metis readying your execution,” Kronos’s smile triples its size when
Zeus’s face pales with fear.
“The child is alive?” Zeus asks.
Kronos never answers.
He drives the dagger into Zeus’s neck, and he is gone a moment later. One
after another, Kronos stabs my siblings and aunts and uncles and cousins until
only Ares, Hephaestus, Hecate, and I remain. Kronos lowers himself into a
kneeling position in front of me, and I ready the pain and imprisonment that
comes with the prick of his blade.
But the pain never comes.
Kronos sheathes the dagger, and when the realization that I will not be
imprisoned in the blade settles, my fright multiplies. I do not have to glance at
the three immortals who are chained and seated beside me, to know that the
unknown torment that awaits us is going to be more frightening than the blade.
Kronos says with cruelness on his tongue. “I told you that thieves will always
face the consequences of being caught stealing what does not belong to them.
Oh, I’m going to have fun breaking every will you have to live, little thief.”
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