stjorthotic Chapter 1.139 [An Unkindness]
Chapter 1.139 [An Unkindness]
chapter 1.139 [an unkindness]
“away with you! begone! i’ll suffer no more!”
an unkindness
the children of helen were still transfixed by the stark pillar of light bisecting the earth and skies when the tragedies began.
across the free mediterranean, from the furthest colonies of the cardinal reaches - southernmost egypt, easternmost anatolia, northernmost thracia, and westernmost alikos - to the beating heart of ancestral peloponnesia, the favored heroes of the tragic muse melpomene collapsed in screaming fits.
some were amongst peers, whose best efforts could not soothe their agony, and whose muses could offer nothing more to them than bright outrage. some were amongst family, whose heartfelt prayers and promises of equivalent exchange went unanswered by the gods. some were amongst tyrants, whose eyes turned one and all to glare hatefully at the western horizon.
it hadn’t even been twenty years since the favored champions of queen calliope had suffered the very same fate.
as if those tragedies weren’t enough, a grim declaration soon followed.
there was no mistaking it. no man nor woman was deaf enough to miss it. no closed doors could contain it. not even the tortured cries of melpomene’s tragic heroes were loud enough to drown it out. one and all, the people bore witness to the passing of a torch.
the voice of an era rang loud in every ear.
“this man too is alexander.”
pandemonium followed. panic and terror and impotent rage, expressed in a thousand-thousand different ways throughout every enlightened city-state and humble colonial hovel. among those old enough to recognize the voice directly, the old generation that had laid eyes upon the conqueror in flesh, reactions to his heir were all the same.
one and all, they vowed that they would kill him.
anastasia, the caustic queen
she had known solus long before the day they first met.
“a man will never love you as much as he loves himself,” her mother had taught her as a girl. it was a lesson every blind maiden learned sooner rather than later. “he will never choose to listen in a world where he can speak. he’ll boast about himself. he’ll boast about his friends. he’ll boast about his country and his idols. he’ll even boast about the men he hates, if it means he doesn’t have to hear your story.”
in many ways, her mother and her fellow maidens were terribly cynical. but at least when it came to that final sentiment, they weren’t wrong.
anastasia had been promised to the son of a roman captain in the middle of their siege. at her mother’s earnest urging, she had spent as much time as she could with the man chosen to be her husband. a legionary through and through, he’d been durable and stout, brazen as a bull with a soldier’s rugged charm - and utterly in love with the sound of his own voice.
he had told her tall tales about himself, about his comrades in the legion, about his father the captain, and of course about the general of the west, all of that before he even asked her name. eventually, when talk of rome and all its wonders had run its course, rather than asking her about the wonders of her home, of the great city-state his people were at that time invading, he told her of his foes.
caesar’s campaigns had been extensive, and to hear her short husband tell it, he’d been there every step of the way. he had painted her a thousand pictures of routed barbarians, desperate clashes between legionary and beast, and even the solemn portrait of civil war. in every recounting, he prevailed. with every telling his voice became more impassioned. until, inevitably, he had run dry of even bittersweet triumphs to tell her. at that point, she had thought that he would finally pass the reins of conversation her way. surely, there was nothing left to say.
instead, he told her of the chosen son.
with neither pride nor passion - but rather a simmering resentment - her husband had confided in her the story of the fifth captain’s son.
though he had tried to paint her a bleak picture - and oh how he had tried - anastasia had seen right through him. her husband despised the wild child of the general’s fifth legion. the fifth was an assembly of conscripted barbarians, a coalition lovingly referred to as caesar’s feral dogs, and to hear her husband tell it, this young patrician had taken on the worst of all their failings. the lie was paper-thin.
against his best efforts, anastasia’s would-be husband had painted her the picture of a roman who loomed larger than the rest. younger than the prerequisite age for service, yet stronger than barbarians twice his size. younger than her husband, yet twice and twice again better decorated in his service.
this young man - this boy - that had spent his formative years breaking bread with knuckle-dragging barbarians, was somehow always just a bit more cunning than his rivals in the ranks. it was a dim animal’s cunning, her husband had assured her, just enough for him to avoid reproach and claim glories not his own. she had found herself doubting him, even at the time.
her husband had never told her this bastard child’s name, calling him instead a dozen epithets, each more inflammatory than the last. he had, however, described the bastard’s face.
“when our paths converge again, you won’t need me to point him out. he’ll be the surliest face in every crowd. the only man still glaring, even at a wedding celebration - like the bridegroom killed his dog.”
of all the lies he had told her about caesar’s favored soldier, that one alone had proven to be true.
“stop him!” thalia cried.
at least, she had thought that until today.
her flourishing muse had no laughter in her voice now. thalia’s teasing smile was nowhere to be found. the muse of comedy and the muse of tragedy had always been close, intertwined as they were by their mystiques, and thalia’s rage had eclipsed all her sisters’ when the tragic muse was stabbed.
anastasia burned her heart’s blood and wove cleansing flame along her javelin, dueling without restraint, and still at every turn she was pushed back.
until today, she’d been certain that solus was every bit the man her husband had assured her he was only pretending to be.
her hunting hounds broke their caustic teeth and ripped out their own burning claws as they tried to bring her quarry down. they couldn’t even break his stride.
until today, she had been certain he was the mighty legate of the triumphant fifth legion. envied by men that consider themselves his peers. beloved by his people. strong enough to stand apart from his legion and fight as though he wasn’t, a feat not even her husband’s father could match.
he advanced. the golden fire in his eyes tracked her every motion, unbothered by the shadows. she had nowhere left to hide.
until today, until now. until he had run from the consequences of his machinations, until he had confessed to them his weakness. until he had admitted, until her grandmother had asserted - until thalia had confirmed - that he was nothing more than what he appeared to be. a young man in over his head. half a junior philosopher, and half a worthless captain of a long dead legion. until that moment, anastasia had thought her husband a liar. but somehow, despite everything that had transpired since the kyrios’ death, her would-be husband had been absolutely right about solus.
the revenant struck her javelin aside, stomping its tip into the earth when she tried to sweep the weapon low.
at least, she had thought that for a moment.
he punched her in the chest.
anastasia’s ribs exploded into shrapnel.
elissa, the sword song
what was it, exactly, that made a hero’s heart unique?
the scholars had debated the topic for centuries before she was born, and likely would for centuries more to come. elissa had never had time for such sophistry. the answer was self evident, or at least it had seemed so to her.
that nebulous excellence, so coveted and yet so rarely found, was the same property that made elissa so much quicker than the other children in her city, lighter on her feet and more deft with a blade. it was the same phenomenon that allowed her to advance five ranks in the time it took her seniors to move a single step. it was the burden put upon her by the fates the moment she was born - the burden of promised power.
elissa had known from a young age - known, not believed - that she would do great things in her time. her ascension to the heroic realm had been inevitable. because of that, she had never bothered herself with the squabbles of mediocre men.
“master, what makes a hero’s heart unique?”
she had only asked the question once, and only then because she’d been certain the returning answer would match her own.
song yu had looked upon her sadly instead.
“nothing, little oriole. nothing at all.”
then he’d given her another scar, so she would always remember. she still carried that scar.
somehow, she’d forgotten anyway.
the fair-faced coward from the hurricane heights descended like an executioner from heaven, harvesting her patron tyrant’s last breath as he fell. the storm split along the obsidian edge of his scythe, pouring into it and enveloping him in a ferocious mantle of gale-force currents. hazel flames poured out from his eyes. his pneuma grew and continued growing, expanding endlessly.
before today, elissa would have sworn steadfast that she would advance long before the hierophant’s adopted heir. it was a fact of life that most heroic souls, despite their excellence, never progressed past the first rank. scythas and his ilk were those sorts of heroes - the type to flee and fly, not follow and fight. she had known it in her bones.
before today, she had been certain of a great many things.
the eighteen year old philosopher with eyes like golden flames laughed delightedly as an ascending hero swept down upon him. griffon - lio aetos? - flourished his arms and all of his pankration hands, welcoming scythas back to the fight.
scythas flickered and vanished, by all appearances swept off by the storm. somehow, though her own senses couldn’t track it, griffon turned and drew his burning blade sharply up to block.
it wasn’t the direct flourishing that scythas was experiencing, his advancement to the second rank of the heroic realm elevating his pneuma to staggering heights even as he pressed against its limits. no, kyno’s muse had assured him of that. despite all appearances, griffon and sol had not advanced a single step beyond the third rank of the sophic realm. their heart’s blood was a puddle compared to a hero’s coursing river, and they were burning it away at a mad rate just to keep pace. kyno didn’t even have to win this fight. he just needed to draw it out a few minutes longer. they were all but dead already.
and yet. there was that terror, clear as crystal in his heart.
was it the paradox of their existence that unnerved him? a philosopher with a hero’s burning heart. no. was it the remnant’s invisible hand, shifting the axis of the world as it pleased him? no. it wasn’t even the conqueror’s blade. it was all of these things but none of them at the core.
griffon and solus met the five of them blow for blow, pushing them back towards the sea so fast they might as well have been sprinting, and every exchange refined them further. their hearts were burning out. the full wrath of the free mediterranean was descending on their heads. the docks that they were pushing towards were a blasted out, burning ruin. they had no path to escape. they had no hope.
and yet they flourished. the closer they got to guttering out, the brighter that they burned. in the span of five seconds of blistering combat with elissa, kyno saw griffon pick apart and internalize thirteen separate sword forms as they were used against him, and in the next second turn them back upon the sword song. in that same amount of time, he saw solus shift the world around like it was a puzzle box, catching every technique sent his way in the current of his virtue and crushing them to pieces in the air - only to reform them, break them down again, and combine them with each other.
you have to burn them out, erato whispered. the loving muse clung tightly to his neck, her voice thick with grief. you have to, hero. you have to...
sah-bakari plunged out of the counter-current, golden teeth shining as the crocodile spun. the scarlet seer was caught flat-footed, unable to avoid the virtuous beast’s open maw.
griffon fell from high heaven, nailing the great crocodile’s mouth shut and pinning it to the earth with his burning blade. then, for the first time since he’d drawn it, he let the blade go.
left to its own devices, the conqueror’s sword fed with gusto. sah-bakari spasmed and thrashed, hissing in visceral agony. kyno rushed forward, knowing he was running headlong into a snare as he did it.
griffin straightened up and reached with burning hands into his shadow. each one emerged holding a stolen sword, and as one they buried the blades into the earth around griffon and sah-bakari. eight lines, each connected to another.
the scarlet son of damon aetos beckoned kyno wordlessly into the octagon. every muscle in the huntsman’s body locked up, urging him to freeze. just as he’d frozen that day.
until the day he died, kyno would never forget the sight of that horrifying egg cracking open. he’d never forget the look in that creature’s hungry eye, peering out at him - the first thing it had ever seen.
it was one thing to endure through hardship, to prevail in spite of it all. it was another thing entirely to feed upon that struggle. these weren’t sophists they were fighting. this wasn’t a hero beckoning kyno into his octagon of blades.
these were monsters being born.
myron, the little kyrios
myron heaved the deceiver up out of the burning waves, tossing him up against one of the few stone breakwaters, still largely intact. the red-headed boy immediately began to heave, smoke sick and half drowned. while he retched, myron turned and dove back beneath the waves.
the flames went deeper than the surface. molton globs of heat boiled the ionian as they sank down to its depths. blasted out ships and their broken sailors burned blood orange as they drifted down, the flames consuming them unbothered by seawater.
myron spent the contents of his second pneumatic chamber, diving through the boiling depths.
when he broke through the burning surface again, he had no vital breath remaining in his chambers. he inhaled the smoke and salt, eyes watering, and only hours of practice prevented him from choking on it.
myron dumped a second body onto the rocks. the deceiver dragged himself across the breakwater, reaching for his brother and pulling him to his chest.
“pyr?” he croaked. “pyr?” his brother didn’t respond. the deceiver turned to myron, slumped against the rocks with numb despair. “he’s not breathing.”
myron grunted and dropped his fist like a hammer onto the unresponsive one’s chest. pyr lurched up, choking and spitting up seawater. the deceiver exhaled a shaky breath, squeezing his older brother tight.
“where’s the ship?” the deceiver asked him. myron pointed wearily at the burning surface of the sea.
“we have to-“ pyr choked halfway through the words, derailing into a wet hacking fit. the deceiver held him steady through it, expression tight as he looked over the beach.
it wasn’t a beach anymore. it was molten glass and burning flame as far as myron’s eyes could see. as the second passed, the fire spread further and the glass sank into the boiling sea.
“we’re trapped,” the deceiver said quietly.
“the king has eyes.” myron turned onto his back. the piled mound of rocks that made up the break water were heating up like cooking stones. “so tell me, where is-“
myron sat straight up, his eyes going wide.
“look,” he breathed. then louder, “look!”
there was a ship coming into shore. more than that, it was a ship that myron recognized. one he had seen before, impossibly and against all common sense. yet there it was.
the eos sailed implacably through the burning wreckage of the dock city and its break waters, and not a single lick of burning flame marred her stern. through the smoke and haze of heat, myron saw the grim silhouettes of ten men at her oars. they focused grimly ahead, bellowing in time with one another as they heaved at their oars.
in the crows nest above her scarlet sail, a boy about their age was perched with an enormous eagle on his shoulder. his flinty eyes roved over the wreckage from above, and every time he barked a word the man at oars roared in unison and shifted the ship’s course. in this way, they navigated the graveyard of molten glass and burning break waters, sailing steadily to shore.
myron was howling before he knew it, leaping to his feet, and waving his arms like a fool.
“here! over here!” he screamed. the deceiver and his brother joined him a moment later, crying out across the waves.
just when he was beginning to think the distance was too great for them to hear, the boy in the crows nest, turned his head their way. his flinty eyes swept across the wreckage, then back - and finally, settled squarely on myron. the relief nearly knocked him off his feet.
“help us,” myron mouthed.
the boy in the crows nest sneered and turned back to his vigil, dismissing them entirely.
the deceiver and his brother slumped back down to searing stones in limp despair. myron, for his part, stared at the distant shape of the eos in utter shock.
then came the rage.
“hey!” myron shouted furiously, picking up a hot stone, and flinging it as hard as he could at the distant ship. it fell just short. he tried again. “bastard! that’s my cousin’s ship! hey! i know you can hear me!”
he ignored them like they’d never been. myron seethed, chest heaving in rage. in half the time it usually took him to fill one pneumatic chamber, he filled two to bursting.
“fine,” he hissed, settling into a diver’s crouch. the deceiver jerked up an alarm. his brother, pyr, reached out to grab myron’s ankle.
“wait-!”
“don’t!”
he’d do it himself.
myrom dove into the burning ionian, eyes set on the distant eos.
only to be caught by a firm hand.
the deceiver and his brother cried out in relief, but myron fought like a cornered animal as the steady hand hoisted him up. the eos drifted further and further away, sailing through the flames. lio could be on that ship. lio had to be on that ship. he had to catch it!
“let me go!” myron snapped, twisting in the stranger’s hand and stabbing at it with one of two daggers.
the dagger skittered across the man’s flesh like it was solid stone, not even drawing a scratch. the man’s eyes burned as he raised myron up to their level. the flames behind them were blue, but a deeper blue than niko’s. darker, and frayed.
“i won’t,” the hero denied him sharply. “i’ve seen enough children die today.”
myron thrashed and fought with all his strength, but in the end he could do nothing but be carried. the hero leapt up from the breakwater, soaring clear over the dock city and its glassed beaches. they landed in a forest of fir trees and prickling undergrowth. the moment the hero set them down myron made a break back for the shore.
he never felt the blow that knocked him out.
while the scarlet city descended once more into fresh chaos, sparked by the collapse of stavros aetos and the conqueror’s thundering decree, damon aetos sat out on his terrace and watched the stark light split the heavens.
bright rings of concentric light spun slowly in the kyrios’ eyes, black now where they’d been sky blue before.
in the shadow of it all, no one saw his smile.