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He flicks a hand toward Eros. I see nothing, no disturbance in the air, but whatever power flows from this white-winged god is instant: Eros’s breathing becomes labored, his eyes screw shut, his whole body stiffens. And after a moment he begins to shrink back in his seat as though suffering from some great pain.
“Tell me the truth,” Deimos says. “Tell me the truth and I’ll stop.”
Eros’s head shakes side to side. My heart constricts; it’s too painful to witness. A god, reduced to this! And yet, if he did not have such mastery of himself, I can see he would be writhing in pain.
Whatever torture this is, it continues. Eros answers none of Deimos’s questions or taunts, but when a soft moan escapes him, Deimos pounces again.
“Something you’d like to tell me?”
Eros shakes his head.
“Have it your way, then.”
Whatever pain he’s inflicting must be redoubled: Eros is crouched down in his seat now, cringing, his breath coming in hard, fast pants. I want to scream, I want to hurl myself on this monster called a god—this creature who takes pleasure in his brother’s suffering. But Eros told me to stay hidden, no matter what I heard. I tell myself I must stay where I am.
Then Eros’s eyes flash open. He knows where I am; his gaze meets mine. And in his eyes I see a pain more dreadful than anything I’ve ever imagined. A pain that no one, god or mortal, should ever be expected to bear. And I can’t stay hidden any longer, I can’t.
I get to my feet, the dagger in my hand.
“Please stop.”
The god Deimos whirls around. His face is a cruel distortion of his brother’s. He has the radiance of a god, but here it inspires dread, not exultation. This is the face the wordgod-fearingwas meant for.
“This, brother? Your little mortal plaything?”
His deep voice is filled with disgust. Eros looks at me, his eyes bright with pain. Yet again I have flouted his orders.
But this time I had no choice.
“Great god, I petition you. Please: he is your brother. Relent from this.” I get on my knees. My heart batters; I cannot think that he will listen, but the oracle said prayer was power, and I will try.
Deimos only sneers at me, with that face so like Eros’s.
“Stupid creature. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect your gods?”
It grows so fast, the darkness. I’m in a mist, a fog—but is the fog in my mind or in the air around me? Are my eyes closed? Ican’t tell.
I try to take a step forward, but my body will not move. And then another feeling grows, starting in my feet. It seems to come from the earth up, like ice grips a plant from the roots and spreads upward.
The voices...is it the madness the oracle spoke of after all; has it finally come to claim me? They seem to speak to me from the very walls. They get clearer, and soon I understand they’re speaking to me.
Look what you did to us,they say.Look what you’ve done.
I hear little Hector’s voice, and his mother’s; I hear Dimitra, and my father, and all the voices of Sikyon. I hear voices of strangers, of those not yet born. And all of them despise me. I wish I could block my ears to them, but there is no end to it, this chorus of malice—their voices shake with it. It seems as though I am back out in the Olympian winter, but now it is the winter of my mind. Everything is cold.
Endless.
Hopeless.
There will never be light again.
I see things I have long refused to imagine. Now they flock to me. My mother lies dead in a white room, the blood of my birth pooling around her. I see Dimitra, a small child, whimpering in the doorway, the blood reflected in her eyes.
I see other things, too, horrors that have not come to pass, but seem invented to torment me. Eros standing over me with a wolf’s smile, his teeth bared, sharp…teeth digging into my chest, ripping my heart from inside my ribcage. My sister, with the face of a Gorgon. My father weeping on a battlefield, ringed by a circle of men who taunt him with their knives.
They’re not real,I try and tell myself.They’re creations, evil fantasies.But my voice has no conviction in it. And I’m so cold. So very, very cold. I can’t think, can’t cling to anything exceptthis feeling: the dread in my stomach, and the ice in my veins. I’m dying, I realize. This must be what it feels like to die.
Please,I try to say, but nothing comes.
