2

Of the First.

Reader, I commend you for your courage. To complete the task I place before you, courage shall be a great necessity. There are things in this cosmos that are old and terrible, powerful beings who control whole aspects of your life that you take for granted. I ask you to stop taking all things for granted, to appreciate everything innately, to mind all creatures in existence. To exist is no small thing, Reader. Keep this in mind as we continue our journey.

I mentioned that the First task I must perform in writing this Tome is to ensure the Reader understands the monster I have created and aim to destroy. This includes the history of its inception (to be explained through part of the story of its creator), its composition, its abilities, its effects. This is perhaps the most difficult of the five I stated, aside of teaching you the sciences of the cosmos. However, I have the time to impart a full detailing of the events surrounding the creation of Despair.

I must commence with my own story.

Perhaps war is innate to my family.

My great-grandfather Ouranos was the first to be deposed and disposed, tossed, torn to bits, into a great pit, the ever-void. Tartaros, a place no star may shine, where light and life are nullified. It is a horror to consider its existence, but the great beasts that once reigned over the universe and did nothing with it but reign now dwell there. It is their home, when once it was Heaven. But Heaven shut its gates to them; they were cast out, fallen lights, sent to dwell forever in the murk of the Abyss, the Ever-Void: Tartaros. Reaped by a scythe — the first Scythe — that was made for his child, his eldest son, Time, Kronos, the Ever-King, the one who consumes without ceasing, the Great Erosion, the One Who Devours, my grandfather, he who removed the means of his beginning without a slightest sense of disconcertion.

This coup d’état went without much struggle; a swift slash of silver, hacks of space sent rent to bits, floating from their domain into the deepest pits of the universe, that which none from might escape. And so there were prophesies — there are always prophesies concerning the demise of kings — and it was meant to come true — prophesies concerning the demise of kings are always true — that the youngest son of the Devourer, the one meant to be another amongst countless meals, would be he who overthrew. Zeus, thrower of lightning, wielder of the Great Bolt, Lord of the Four Skies, Chief, the Good God; he would rid his father of those consumed by Time. The Scythe would yield to the Sword; what was once sown would now be sliced, split, divided. Realms were given; straws chose. And father again cast to bits by his son — this time sons, one once hidden by Time’s blindness, his inability to tell boulder from bloodline, son from stone, flint from flesh — to Tartaros, the Ever-Void, where the Ever-King and his deposed father lie.

As the Father, so the Son, forever-more, Amen.

But Zeus was exception, or so it was said. Perhaps gaining the title Lord of the Fates kept him exempt from such a fate; perhaps that most of his children were semi-mortal, demi-god aided in the maintenance of his throne. Though lost it few times did him; snares and trials, tricks and séances — Zeus would become a wiser ruler, though never wise. To wisdom did his head give birth, once, Athene, the sage soldier, the strategist. From his heart produced be war — Ares, that bloodied god, he who screams for the plunging of all spears and swords, the slicing of all sabres. These, cast from Zeus’ body, would grow on their own, unlike his diminishing responsibility.

Love, however, would come from elsewhere, the sea, Ouranos’ final child, the combination and permutation of the sky and perhaps the thought that accompanied the protrusion that was Ouranos’ phallus as it lay enmeshed in Gaia’s great womb. One final gush. Sea foam. A seashell. A goddess, Aphrodite, love herself. And how she loved that roguish god, the one with flaming black hair, with flinty eyes and sharp tongue, with hatred curling his upper lip — oh, how she could tame him, the God of War! — and how he loved her. If he knew love.

He, the ever-grinning Ares, was well-acquainted with another god’s wife.

Lo, Hephaestos, that god of hammers, the Smith, He Who Made; what pity for you I feel! But I feel none, too, for he is well-equipped. His cleverness outmatched only by Athene herself — wisdom — but his mind was more labyrinthine, assuredly. To plot is one; to innovate, demonstrate, create is another. And whilst Athene knew her war and her people, her weaving and her politics, Hephaestos knew the nature of nature itself; his vision cleaved in twain the fibres of reality, and from between he pulled and crafted what he saw there. Spiders of bronze, automatons, never-blunting spears, ever-shining goblets; what one desired, the Smith forged. Slow to wrath, he, slow to action; once inspired, much as his volcanic domain, ‘tis impossible to stop, lest you are of the sea. He respects the sea; it caught him on his forced descent from Olympus’ highest towers, his cold, hardened mother’s hand the cause of that great fall. Were one Olympian to cast another out, it was Hera the ferocious. Within her father’s kidney she’d resided; she had grown hard, causing her father agony with each passing. And that she — the eldest of the gods — would be relegated (diminished) to the side of the youngest, to the wifehood of Zeus’ non-existent husband. Resentment fit her well; her husband’s faithlessness after her sacrifice would never be ignored, forever noted.

She saw her husband’s creativity (inspiration, mind) cast from his phallus into her, and so the lame, terrible Hephaestos was formed, and she had birthed him, and hated him — for he made it difficult to hate her husband, for she could then see his beauty — and so she cast the not-yet-crippled cripple from her violet and amethyst towers, and the sea caught him, and the land consumed his leg, and so he began to build from the bottom up everything he imagined, for he was alone, and his mother hated him, and his father neglected him, and his wife did not love him, but the sea had caught him, and the fires loved him, and his creations were well-tended to, and that was enough

And there is the jaded god, he whose place was the helm — the eldest male god — whose place in Heaven was stolen by a crafty trick of Fate and Thunderbringer, and so he was cast to the Underworld, the Nether, the place without true sunshine, a place of mere memory and mimicry, a sombre kingdom. Hades, the pale god, the one without remorse or wholehearted adoration because to rule his kingdom he must forget those, and faster than Zeus does Hades learn the tricks of his trade, of ruling over the dead. Callousness became calmness; calamity became liveliness. The warriors running rampant in Elysium were at peace, with lost comrades or heroes of antiquity. Those whose actions landed them in Hell were reformed, tortured with the wrongness of their past actions. The Furies were adept at their task; they hadn’t the emotions and internal conflict that comes with causing others pain that Hades had. Oft misunderstood, Hades. His taking of Persephone was his greatest dishonour, a torture he invented for himself. He loved her, and with his unyielding adoration he suffocated her. “All kings are masochists,” Hades would say to the one who repeated such sagacity. “They seek or maintain the most terrible and destructive thing in all the cosmos: power.”

We have mentioned the youngest and the eldest of the Great Three; my father, Poseidon, is the middle. Lord of the Seas, Earthbreaker, father of Cyclopes and horses, the most even-tempered and moodiest of the Three, or outwardly so; his turmoil oft barely grazes his face. His eyes are where the storm lies, and when it brews, even Zeus the All-Powerful knows fear. My father knows well his emotions; he does not mask them, as Hades, nor over-indulge in them, as Zeus; Poseidon is the most content of the Great Three. Hera would have preferred him, but knew that her bitterness would cause a rift she would hate herself for instigating; Aphrodite knows herself safe in his chambers, for she knows well his domain; Hephaestos was caught by the kinder sea, whose nereids and wave-maidens cooled his burning flesh, tended to his tears, and brought him to the cavern that makes up his primary furnace; Hades trusts Poseidon because Zeus does not; Zeus fears Poseidon, for he is close enough to inspire trouble should it need be aroused. Because of this last quality, all save one god finds Poseidon best suited for keeping Zeus in check; they would align with him easily. It is Athene who keeps Poseidon in check — an uneasy relationship, they have, certainly, for whilst they love each other as nieces and uncles shall, with great ferocity, they know that it is one who maintains balance over the other. As his mighty earthquakes and horses do — those which show the more irrational and unrestrained sides of my lord-father — Poseidon dislikes greatly any bounds, but he embraces them, knowing that without balance, there is nought but Khaos, and Khaos ruled once, when the cosmos was nothing but calamity.

My father would one day pursue a wife, the Queen of the Nereids, Amphitrite. Most are unaware of the story of their courtship; most never ask. I, however, and some of my siblings — my closest — knew the tale well, the eons it took for Poseidon to even grasp the concept of her existence, that she was a maiden of the sea, a maiden made of sea of whom the sea was made, but that she ruled over him more than he her. And that she hid from him so cleverly; ‘tseems all children of the sea are to be, in nature, excellent at hiding, whether it be — as with Father — emotion, or form, as with my sister Thetis, or placement, as with my mother. If one attribute were to name each family, of Zeus there would be crowns; of Hades, sceptres; of Poseidon, masks. But I spoke of the contest for my mother’s hand, the battle against her brutally free nature, one that could not allow conception of any boundaries aside of those pertaining to her form. She was the sea; she would not be tamed. But my father, he who bred horses and waves alike, knew well the ways of rebellion. He sought after her ceaselessly, aeon after aeon, until he caught wind of her location, and a scent; upon his chariot pulled by hippocampi Father rode, majestic in his white and sea-green robes, his beard flowing and black, as his hair was then, and his beautiful eyes harbouring a graceful balance betwixt untamed fury and relenting solemnity; two forces in constant competition for dominance, mastered only by Father’s wisdom.

He found her at the edge of the world, where Atlas groaned and grinned, bearing the weight of the oppressive heavens, separating Heaven from the clutches of Gaea, ensuring no mere mortal could climb to the Olympus without decree of the gods. Amphitrite sat upon her silver and gold throne, awaiting the man who sought for her so relentlessly, so bravely, so ceaselessly, as if he were drawn to her in the manner a bird does its nest, a bee its queen. She twirled in one hand a sceptre; in the other hung from her fingertips a single crown. My father would propose with the pearl meant for her crown to hold; she accepted the god’s offer, knowing that he’d gone through great lengths to track her down for the purpose of proposing. Zeus and Hades had taken their wives through either decree or divorce; Poseidon by pleading. The least bitter and freest of all wives of the Great Three, my mother Amphitrite was the happiest, the most in love, the most content of the rest. They love each other, Father and Mother, and their love has sponsored many great children.

My birth, I have come to realise, is little spoken of. The gods don’t parley much about those they have wronged. However, my mother tells me the tale as so:

“You were born on an island consisting of a mountain and a wilderness. Its name no longer has place in our tongue, but you know it instinctively; it now is called Ortygia. The beach there is incredibly beautiful; the sand is fine and white, soft as dew, and the skies perpetually clear, and the storms brilliant and beguiling, and from the top of the mountain upon which you were born, you can see the edge of the world, both and both again, looking one way to another, in all directions. Upon this ridge of rock is from whence you came, my child, a healthy babe, already reaching for the sky from birth, eyes clear and full of hunger, hands strong, feet fleet, and you did not cry. You observed around you until it was time to feed, and I put you to my bosom; then you would be silent, consuming with such vigour sometimes it hurt, but I took it as the fact you love to live.” A fierce gust of wind, my father would tell me, blew the day I was born; a tree fell in the wilderness, and it slew a galloping boar. He took it as a sign that I would become a hunter, and so he commenced enhancing those traits, teaching me how to throw spears and stones, how to sprint, to roll and dive and to see and read both words and situations and to understand people and how to be a proper child of the sea god.

“You learn with great speed, Orion,” my father would assure me from time to time. He never explicitly stated his love of me, but I felt that he did; we all did. There was too much heart in Father not to care for his children. It is his love that inspired my own, truthfully; I aspire to have a great heart, as he did, and my mother. The two who loved everything.

Thetis, Theseus, Rhode, Aeolus, Medusa; my closest siblings, my greatest friends, the six of us would romp together about the world. Theseus would become the most well-known hero; Medusa was named for Father’s most feared flame; Aeolus, the adopted son, would once help a great king home; Rhode would marry the sun titan Helios.

But these are objects of Future; we must dwell in its Past. I am five years old. Look before me; there are sombre skies above a roiling body of water, the kite flowing from between my fingertips pulled to and fro, tossed about with the gentleness of a tidal wave — a lack of gentleness, certainly — as the winds play with the pale contraption of cloth and wood. My older brother has given it to me as a present just the previous day, for it had been my birthday, and he thought my imagination needed a corporeal form. Thus, the kite, which flew about, shaped as a dove, fluttering about the winds — the Aurai, who did love my company — who tossed it amongst themselves, laughing and leaping with a mirth that matched my own, if not surpassing it, but the joys of a child are difficult to surpass, certainly. I tugged on the wooden bar that kept the kite tethered to me, playing tug-of-play with one of the feistier Aurai, whose breath I’d felt often upon my ear as she whispered sweet tales of sailors and the deeds of my parents and siblings when I slept soundly upon the beach, soothed by such a splendid sound as her voice. But there was thunder, a loud clashing discord that sent awry my friends the Aurai, and they ran to and fro in fright, knowing — a calamitous explosion of sound; the booming of a yelling god — the harbinger of Zeus was his raucous — enter trembling skies, rampaging winds; the Aurai are gone, replaced by the fearsome Anemoi — grumble, his ferocious Thunder. And flashes of light sparkled throughout the sky, his dark grey beard producing thunderflash; lightning bolt and arrow. Doom. I hastily attempt rolling back my kite. “Theseus!” I call, knowing Fear sent tendrils of itself through my spine as Zeus’ bolts did the sky. “Elder brother! Theseus!”

Did I know it was my brother whose horrible actions summoned the Chief, the Lord of the Skies? Could I have known that at the moment I played with his boon, he bestowed his bane upon another, that he had spotted the beauteous Helen — then, of nowhere but Sparta, then the daughter of Zeus and Leda, whose beauty was everlasting and, by many, ever-scorned — and decided that she was but another for his taking? Could I have mistrusted my eldest brother? Seen in him the turmoil and evils that ran alongside the good, the brave? I do not believe so. I wish I could have. Perhaps the Aurai and my laughter had drowned from my ears the screams of the girl merely my age twice-fold, the lass whose virginity was stolen by a man who I knew not resided within my brother.

“Where is thine brother, boy?” asked the man in golden robe and crown and sandal, whose beard crackled with electricity, whose eyes were daggers of sky, upon whose shoulder sat a clasp shaped like an eagle.

“On this island, sir,” said I, not fully cognisant of with whom I spoke. “Where specifically, I am uncertain, but he may be readying his ship for sail. Could you help me, sir, with my kite? I don’t wish to lose it just a day after its reception…” The man’s face contorted into a grimace of displeasure swiftly after the single “Ha!” that I perceived for a moment as laughter.

“His hands have made it, this fine kite?”

I nodded emphatically, confusing for curiosity bitterness. “It was an early birth-gift, sir, hand-made and a fine flying creation!”

There was a feral flash in his eye, and I felt the end of the line loosen too swiftly. “No!” I cried, looking towards the man who no longer existed there. My dove fell to the ground as the sky cleared, its white feathers charred a most horrible black, reduced to smoking ash. The Aurai surrounded me, their fine ethereal dresses, golden hair, and calming, clear eyes closing in upon their friend, my tears shared by those who, too, knew the pleasures of fine kites.

“But he is our Lord Zeus,” an Aura would mutter through the consoling tears, “and he may do as he pleases.”

And so, I had to accept that my brother’s actions had cost me a kite, though what he had done I wasn’t to know until I was much older. When I did learn, I felt ashamed, for I’d looked at only that which had affected me, not how it had torn in twain the life of Helen, the daughter of a god and a queen, from whom emanated the gifts bestowed upon her by Aphrodite and Athene — beauty and weaving — and thus the curse of Ares’ affection, that boorish god whose love of Aphrodite spawned unyielding desire, a bane that echoed in many men, that echoed even in the great Theseus, the then-man now-hero who would slay the Minotaur, end Minos’ rule, become king of Athens, and later have his life ended during exile, thrown back into the sea. Did he know that by raping the daughter of Zeus, he was ending all chances of immortality? Did he believe Father would go against the Sky God’s wishes for that of one of many children? I doubt that he cared. He saw Helen, wanted her, and took, the way of too many men. He ravaged a young girl for his own pleasure, scarring her for the rest of her immortal life. I oft pity Helen, and wish her forgiveness for my own selfishness, for those years I cared more of a kite than the transgression made against her.

I am nine, old enough, Father decides, to learn the bow. The palace watches as Father presents me with a gift, a bow of aqua-coloured yew, adorned with white, trickling stone and a string of silver, a quiver coloured sea grey, and arrows, the tips of which were made of silver, the fletching made of the lightest feathers from Father’s collection of albatrosses.

“How do you like it, son?” asks Father in that voice of his which comes from the deepest reaches of the sea, his sea green eyes twinkling in happiness. I pulled from the quiver an arrow and notched it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; I drew back the bow. As if it were my calling, I loosed, the arrow flitting through silence, through the handle of an urn, down the hall, where it rooted itself deeply within the portrait one of my countless other half siblings had made, a painting titled Chiron and Heracles at Archery. I’d shot a target I could scarcely see. With awe in my eyes at the feat, I turned to my father; the entire palace was silent, everyone awaiting the response of its king.

“Well, I suppose there is a severe lack of need teaching you about it, then,” spoke Poseidon, and the palace roared with pride and laughter. After the feast and the dancing, I took my archery set outside, to the island where I was born — Ortygia, a land of mountain and wilderness — and commenced firing my arrows into the trunk of a tree.

The Aurai — forever my friends, they — did watch me, and one said, “Look at him; behold! He shall be beautiful, full of grace and power, and tall. See how he steadily holds such a powerful bow, and marvel!” Of course, I did not realise what she meant, for my aim was becoming focused, as was I.

“You fire well, Orion,” spoke a voice that could never be ignored. I turned to see my eldest sister watching me from the shore; I grinned and, setting down my bow and arrows, ran to her, rushing to her sweet, cooling embrace.

“Thetis!”

“Hello, younger brother. I’m glad to see you so pleased with Father’s gift, and Mother’s, and the rest. Will you have any mirth left over for mine? I wonder…” Her beautiful green eyes sparkled with her grin; her appearance was nothing but comfort to me. When Mother was away, it was Thetis who looked after Rhode, Medusa, and me. Her face held no contempt, no hints of distress; she was stillness itself.

“How could I not?” I asked, giggling. “You’re my elder sister, and one of my best friends!” Thetis’ smile slipped; my statement of complete affection overwhelmed her for a moment.

“You… you are so sweet, Orion, so sweet and brave and clever… It shall be difficult to find someone who doesn’t love you.”

“I hope to never find the person,” I said with great sincerity. Thetis pulled me to her bosom, allowing me to hear that soft, soothing, consistent beat of a heart that would only once be broken. Once it was broken, however, it would be so completely that she would spend many an aeon without knowing joy. The shards of a goddess’ heart repaired over time, only to be destroyed by an equally immortal memory.

“I hope no such person exists,” she said in reply. We separated, grinning.

“Your gift, sweet brother of mine; ‘tis there, bathing in the moonlight. Lady Selene did help make it; she drew up the designs and taught me how to make it, for she taught Athene, who perfected the art of weaving, and she taught me, who is third best in the art, after Athene and Selene — may their ladyships forever be merciful to us.”

I walked to the stone she had pointed me towards and placed my fingers to my mouth in awe; a beautiful suit of white and silver sat there, a hooded cloak beneath the tunic, vest and pantaloons. The suit was light, but sturdy and tough, with sleeves that would cover up to my elbow, and pants to my knee, and a cloak — coloured the murky hue between water’s surface and water’s bottom, seeming to blend in with all surroundings simultaneously — that covered all of me, hood to hem matching head to heel.

“Thank you, Thetis! Of all gifts, this must be the best made!” Thetis’ face lit up with glee, and she nodded beyond me.

“Our brother awaits ye, Orion. Forget not to thank the Lady Selene, for ‘twas her enchantments that made it so.” And, with nigh a splash, Thetis returned to the sea, perhaps to the palace to parley with mermaids and the other nereids. I placed with my bow and quiver my suit and cloak, all which remained peacefully beneath the tree whose trunk held holes caused by my arrows, before running to Theseus, the man whose transgression was yet unknown to me. I laughed as he hefted me up and swung me about. Once I was returned to the ground, Theseus opened his famous satchel and from it drew sandals, arm guards, and shin guards.

“So that upon your encounters you shan’t fear battle, for your legs and forearms will be covered for shielding, and your sandals — never broken, never of ill report — may carry your fleet feet yonder. Ah, and this…” He offered a small pouch within which remained some flint and stone to spark a flame. “Should ye ever need it, little brother.”

“Thank you, Theseus,” I said, marvelling at the gifts. He grinned and ruffled my hair.

“A visitor awaits you on the shore, ‘tseems. You cannot keep our lovely mother waiting. Go on.” I embraced my brother’s massive leg before scampering over to my stockpile of presents and — after placing upon the stone Theseus’ bestowments — ran to my mother’s skirts.

“Dearest mother!” I exclaimed.

“My little hunter boy! Oh, happy birthday to you, my sweet, sweet son! I have a present for you.”

“A present? What for?” Mother was one who rarely gave gifts, for those she gave were magnificent and crafted to perfection. She kissed my brow before pulling from the sea a belt of shining silver. She took the next few moments to dress me in my suit, sandals, guards, cloak, quiver and bow, and finally — lastly — that sparkling belt, fastening everything together. I beheld myself in the mirror my mother held up to me, examining the growing curls of black hair surrounding an olive coloured face, with eyes the colour of a storm over the sea, the lean and nearly muscular body, the long fingers and nimble yet supporting feet.

“A gazelle,” one of my more distant relatives once deemed me like. “Or a fox, even. But fluid as a jellyfish, and as enduring as his father’s domain. As temperamental, too, as belying.” I accepted these as compliments, wore them as I did my presents.

By age ten, I hunted on my own. I dash through the forest with the nymphs and the dryads, leaping from tree to tree, swinging upon the branches until I reach a point amongst the leaved towers from where I could observe the fleet footed animals below.

“Will you catch one this time, Orion? Will you leap onto their back?” some dryads whisper through the leaves. I grin, preparing myself for the fall — slip! I plummet towards the ground about to collide with dirt will I — outstretches my hand and I grab onto the neck of a flying deer, hoisting myself onto its back as it bucks and lurches before leaping over an enormous root. I pull my bow from my shoulder and notch an arrow; the lion chasing us focused on the nearest hind. I rose to a kneel upon the deer’s powerful back and loosed the first arrow; it grazed the lion’s ear and landed with a deep thunk in the side of a tree.

“Sorry,” I muttered, hoping one of the dryads didn’t take the form of that tree too often. I jumped off the back of the deer and aimed another arrow, firing it as I landed upon the back of another deer. My foot slipped, and I fell on my back, watching with a moment of great fear as three deer and the lion leapt over me, continuing the chase. I rose to my feet and dashed after them, aimed, fired, aimed, fired, swung, scaled, sprinted, leapt, leapt, aimed, fired, fired, landed beside the bleeding lion, its side holding three of my arrows. The lion growled angrily at me as I stood over it, placing bow on my shoulder and taking up the spear my most recent birthday had earned me.

“You were terrorising the deer, lion, and you allowed their bodies rot before you shared them with your family. That’s not the way a king should rule.” The lion snarled, snapping its jaws at my ankles. I shook my head. “Do not, lion. You do not deserve your crown, so from you I shall remove it.” I pierced the lion’s brain with my spear before carving out its heart. From my belt, I drew a sphere in which resided an ever-burning flame, the godsfire, white and pure. With a flick, the sphere was a bowl in which I placed the lion’s heart and muttered a swift prayer over it. My mother had taught me to greatly respect the gods, even when they slighted me, for to respect the gods was to respect the world, and the world would help me as I supported it. So, I did, gleefully, rather than deeming them horrible upon hearing the fate of Thetis’ children. Lord Zeus himself came bearing the news, knowing it would tear dear Thetis apart, that one of her sons was meant to die.

“You would kill him?” No longer was the reverence in her voice; there was solely contempt and scorn. “Send an arrow through his chest without a second thought, uncle?”

Callously, with thunder rumbling in his chest, Zeus mandated, “Your son will die, Thetis. It is fated. We know I cannot stop the Fates.”

Thetis, tears streaming down her face, snarled at the Thunderer then. “How is it, then, that so many of your children find themselves immortal, or merely escape Thanatos’ embrace?”

The room was tangibly silent; my sister’s glare pierced the thunderous shroud surrounding Lord Zeus. He turns from her, shaking his head, assembling his energies for displacement.

“May their lives be great in size and worth,” he said before a thunderclap alerted us to his vanishing.

Amphitrite — our consoling mother — could not cease Thetis’ tears, nor could my embraces, nor Rhode’s wacky tales, nor Theseus. But Theseus could not please anyone in those days; it was during his decline in power in Athens, when he was becoming meaningless to them, and it seemed his life’s end was nearing; it was when I learned of his transgression first but did not completely comprehend its magnitude. I did not know the pride of holding one’s virginity, for I was too interested in the sciences Father had me learning, and the arts Mother implanted in my daily routine. From Father’s behests I gleaned the science of intention, the meaning of will and determination, gallantry, nature. From Mother’s gentle hand I gathered information of the bow, of the arrow, of when to strike and when not to strike, how to hide, how to be free, how to be ensnared, of love, of mirth, of humanity. The two fostered in me a great sense of the universe as a being in which joy was meant to thrive, and beauty. But my nephew was going to die, and their mother already mourned them, and their aunt was learning to woo men to their demise before she learned to woo them to their successes, and my brother was falling from the throne to the cliff to the seafloor, and he was to perish there, deep in the throes of his father’s domain, of his mother’s skirts, a rapist — once a hero, once a man, once a brother — and his eyes would remain open as the sea washed over him, oblivious to his once-vitality, uncaring in the execution of his burial, and he would become part of a fish, part of another fish, part of waste, and finally part of the sea, where all things seem to return.

Perhaps you see the relevance of this? That a god could be so unjust in their treatments of others they would harm the heart of a child, cast ill-will upon the innocent? Certainly not all gods are like this, but there exists either a rising majority or an increasingly loud minority.

“Mother… I must explore. Though your skirts are comfortable, I cannot remain behind them forever.”

These words made my mother proud, and encouraged from her tears of foam that clambered down her cheek and landed with a soft plop upon my feet, for it was there she clutched, my shins, covered with guards gifted me by Father — Theseus’ had been outgrown years before — held by my mother’s cooling hands as I stood upon the threshold between home and the world. The Sea Queen Amphitrite rose and planted kisses upon my cheeks, brow, eyes; her fingers holding gently my shoulders.

“I love you, Orion,” she assured me. “You make me proud; you shall make me proud.”

“Thank you, Mother,” I spoke, pulling her into an embrace. “I shall see you again a time, certainly.”

I was naught but twelve years old and leaving home. Thetis waved to me from her cerulean tower, her third child in her arms, waving too. Peleus — that wise king — had captured appropriately my eldest sister. As Mother had taught her: “Make them fight for you, make them win wars for you, make them search for you, make them yearn for you, for if they cannot do all those things, they are not worth you.”

The wrestling match between my form-shifting sister and her not-yet-husband lasted three days; Rhode and I watched from afar, atop our perch upon Ortygia, the Silver Pillar offering us ample height to observe the nuances of earning one’s love. Thetis fought well, but Peleus too knew the ways of shifting, of conforming to my sister’s standards, of cooling fire and melting ice, of purging toxins and filtering water, of cutting through thick hulls and maintaining that distance between boldness and transgression; the third sunset passed, and by morning the blows were softened to strokes, glares to sensuality, their mouths met and I looked away. Rhode, ever more brazen than I, watched on, and I watched her as she scrutinised the process of lovemaking, her eyes filled with wonder and awe; my sister and her husband would retire to his chambers, Rhode and I to ours.

And Rhode now stood before me, a year after Thetis’ engagement and marriage to King Peleus, her hair long and white, her skin the colour of olives, her eyes that ephemeral sea green that it seemed only children of Poseidon could have — the translucent and opaque blending in a most beautiful fashion; her mouth in its typical fashion, crooked and smiling, opened and out spewed few words. “So, you, as Theseus, take your leave of us, brother?”

I explained, “’Tis but a journey out, surely to return again. I am no hero as our eldest brother, Rhode.”

“Oh? How unfortunate… I suppose you’ll be wanting your room, still. And the Spire?”

“I entrust the latter to your maintenance, sister.”

Rhode grinned wickedly and put her arms out for a hug; I responded appropriately, taking her by the hands and twirling about as we did before we spiralled into an embrace. She was odd, certainly, my younger sister, but we were best of friends, with equivalent and eternal trust in one another. Looking at her then, I could not have imagined that she would marry the sun titan Helios and help Father by whispering the madness of hunger into the ears and stomachs of Odysseus’ men, that she would fall in love and be crushed by its ferocious, eternal embrace. Rhode’s wild, gnarled streams of blanched hair bounced as she departed from my presence. I sighed, seeing the now two years old Medusa staggering into the atrium, her petrifyingly gorgeous eyes glaring at my simultaneously bewildered and bemused irises.

“Why are you leaving me?” asked my youngest sister.

I knelt before her, ignoring Mother’s laughing smile as I pat Medusa on the head and swore that I wasn’t doing it to be cruel. “I just have a need to explore the world a bit, Medusa.”

Feistily, as only Medusa could, she shouted, “Can’t you do that here? It’s nice and comfy, too!”

“I wish, dear sister. However, this isn’t the whole world, but a piece of it. I want to meet the people, humans and other gods, and run through fields I’ve never heard of…” Her eyes — so blue they outshone Zeus’ domain — grew teary, so I pulled Medusa into the tightest hug I could offer without hurting her. “I’ll send things back amongst the Aurai and the river nymphs for you, okay?”

“Do you promise?”

“Aye,” I said, sealing my oath.

“Good.” Medusa kissed my cheek and pulled on my ears. “I expect a pretend party when you come home.”

Medusa’s pretend parties were legendary amongst the palace dwellers, for Father had given — with the help of her namesake — Medusa the ability to daydream things into reality. As Medusa sought in a tea party, so it became. He had bestowed upon many of his children such gifts; Theseus once had the ability to charm one with his looks and words, though that was lost after the rape of Helen of Sparta; Thetis was gifted with Mother’s Nereid abilities; Rhode had a more elevated version of Medusa’s ability. I learned from Mother that Father planned to switch Medusa’s daydreaming magicks for petrification, so that her namesake would be pleased. Father loved my mother most amongst his lovers, but Medusa would forever be his second, a fact Amphitrite never minded, as she knew she was supreme over realms and their denizens, and that was more than enough. It didn’t stop her from wincing occasionally when Father mentioned Medusa, or from commenting on how horrendous and ugly the Gorgon sisters were, but never in front of Father did she say such things.

I adjusted the clasp of the cloak covering my shoulders so that it would not impede my movements. I bowed to my beloved family and the dwellers of the palace. I turned on my heel. I walked away, feet leading me in a direction I did not decide.

“Where are you going, young prince?” An Aura stood beside me, her long strawberry blonde hair falling into curls that bounced gently upon her bare shoulders and back. “Will we ever play again with thee?”

I smiled and nodded. “Oh, most assuredly! You’re the sweetest breeze imaginable, friend, and if I go where you cannot follow, my heart would break from missing you so dearly.”

The single Aura summoned her Aurai sisters and brothers, and they swirled and swept over me, planting kisses upon my cheeks and arms and feet and anywhere they could touch.

“We shall miss you dearly, young prince.” The Aura of before moved through the frenzy with an almost unnerving calm; her fingers were upon my face, a smile — wide and free — upon hers, and she leaned in, pulling my brow onto her lips.

She whispered, “You shall forever be a beautiful being. Fare thee well.” And the breezes of summer and sweetness were gone, and I was on a new land, and it was nightfall.

Night. Its darkness perforated with a million stars, hundreds of thousands of heroes and princesses and banished beasts and worlds and realms, a million lights sending out their stories and tales, some weeping in mirth, others in melancholy, some laughing and some scorning, some sensually soft and some horribly heavy; one could admire a different star each night and never come across the same over their entire lifetime. Upon these I gazed as I reclined upon the shore of this new land. The waves caressed me, the son of their god; I felt replenished by their gentle hands. There was no breeze, but silence, a thing which smothers more carefully than night; it goes almost unnoticed, until it is too thick and too powerful to ignore, almost too strong to overcome until — footfalls. Three, then twelve; hoots, shouts, fear; to my feet and towards the sound; running, rushing, dashing, jumping, I scale a tree; fires through the forest shouting “Run, run!” in a language I understand but do not know.

Gracefully from branch to limb to trunk I jump and slide and leap and fly quiver full and bow prepared girl screaming “She’s over there!” fires to and fro men carrying lanterns scared rushing spears missing large beast afoot screaming girl screaming men dying “Help the princess! Save the princess!” explosion of muscle and sinew and claw and tooth two men dead two fires dead I draw my bow taut and fire one two three thunk thud growl the beast is slowed it turns growling I land silently beside it for I am Silence, and I shall inflict myself upon the beast. My spear is an arc of starlight; the beast charges; I duck beneath its wild lunge for my scalp and inject into the heart of it my point; the beast does not surrender, seeking to slay me so long as it lives; I leap out of its range, switching to arrows; it is murdered by another, through its forehead, between its eyes; it falls to a heap after smashing through the tree behind me; I land in a kneel behind its carcass. The fires stop running; a girl clutches to a branch in fear. I hear a crackle not from flickering flame and dash towards it; upon my back the branch breaks, but in my arms is the girl, sobbing and scared, breathing shallow until our eyes meet, and she senses the calming essence of the sea.

“You have saved me.”

“I have slain a beast and caught a lass. These in themselves are unremarkable.” I set her upon her feet as the fires finished drawing nearer.

“From where are you, boy?” asked their spokesperson. His breath smelled of fish; I’d forgotten they were consumed by people as much as by other fish.

“The sea, sir.”

“Been there your whole life, have ye?” I shook my head.

“I was born in the mountains of Ortygia.” He nodded.

“A good place, that. Many a time have I passed by that island. Tell me, boy, of the kingdom to which you belong. What name have you?” I shook my head again.

“I haven’t one, sir. I merely pledge allegiance to my father and mother, and my sisters.” For a moment, there was a disconcerting quietude about the people surrounding me; they then, a moment later, broke into laughter.

“Ah, a wise lad, this! Well, boy with remarkably good aim and spear arm, allow us to bring you to our king, so that he may know who saved his daughter. I am Alexios, of the night watch, son of Baltasar, founding member of the night watch.”

“I am Orion, son of Poseidon.”

“A demigod, then! No wonder, your strength, then. Come, Orion; meet the father of she you have saved.” The princess turned briefly towards me before walking towards the castle. The other men of the night watch commenced taking from the beast I’d slain its meat and fur; within the hour, I was presented to the king, who immediately wrapped his arms about his daughter before her mother could whisk her away to their bedchambers. Alexios explained who I was and what I had done; the king nodded and reclined in his throne.

“I have met other children of the gods. Three of Ares, one of Hermes, two of Apollo, six of Lord Zeus; you, however, are the first of Poseidon. And the first to have been introduced me with grace upon his brow. I welcome you, Orion, to my kingdom, Skyros.”

“Thank you, kind king,” I said in their tongue, which I understood but did not know. “I am honoured to have encountered you.”

A puzzled look came upon the king’s face, and he asked, “Plan you to leave already? Can we not entertain he who saved my daughter?”

“I meant no offense, sir, nor to bid thee farewell; I merely meant thanks.”

The king let loose a chuckle. “Good, then. Agrippa, lead our guest to the bathhouse, anoint him with which oils he prefers, and then to his chambers have Elene guide.”

“Yes, my liege,” she said with a curtsy before leading with her hand and pace where we were to head. I bowed to the king and followed Agrippa from the throne room. Once outside of it, Agrippa took me down a long hallway, to the left, and down a small flight of steps.

“Might I ask you a question, milord?” asked Agrippa.

I smirked and nodded, stating, “I’m not your lord, madam; I’m younger than you, after all. Please, call me Orion.”

“Yes, s— Orion. Tell me… what brings you to Skyros?”

I shrugged. “I’m merely exploring the world, is all. I awoke on the beach, hearing the search for the princess.”

“So, you don’t know… you couldn’t possibly know. She wasn’t running from solely the beast, Orion. Here are the baths; I’ll say no more. Be wary here, Orion; be wary everywhere.”

Before I could inquire the meaning of her words, Agrippa had vanished, and I was alone beside the baths. I entered the steaming room and bathed myself, for I must have smelled mightily of sea, a scent not always pleasant to land-dwellers, before returning the door of the large, aquatic chamber. There stood a woman, younger than Agrippa but older than me, with faintly red hair and bright, blue eyes. She took my hand in hers and smiled; she was beautiful, certainly, and her voice like that of velvet.

“I am Elene, chief companion of this house. Who are you?”

“Orion, son of Poseidon and Amphitrite.”

Her eyes widened. “A son of Amphitrite, mother and queen to all nereids? No wonder you are such a handsome man…”

“I am but a boy, miss, exploring for the first time on his own.”

Again, Elene seemed awestruck by what I’d said; her clutch on my arm grew tighter, and I could feel her soft flesh press lightly upon mine. I felt vaguely uncomfortable with the closeness of Elene’s touch and shrank from it, causing her to cling tighter; we suddenly stopped walking at her behest and I was pulled into a side room, within which there was a pile of cloths and a window in the wall.

“You say you’re the son of the seas?”

“I am, certainly.”

Elene clasped her fingers about my face and beamed. “Then you must be on some sort of quest, child of god.” I shook my head, but she put a finger to my lips. “Whether you realise it or not, young one, you are on a quest. It is the fate of all godly children that they should do great things we mere mortals cannot; your lives are of such far denser stuff than ours. Forever live ye, through memory.”

I argued, “Such an honour belongs to my brother and sister, certainly; one has married the famed King Peleus, the other was once king of Athens and Thebes.”

She kept my gaze, her bright blue eyes tearing through my existence, searching for what she wished to find. A faint smile appeared upon her beauteous face, and she said, “I feel a greatness about your name, Orion, son of Poseidon and Lady Amphitrite. Don’t fight, but embrace it. I must now tell you of the curse upon this castle.”

“Who cursed it?” I asked.

“Its king, by his horrid presence. He has deposed his brother and by-sister, slaughtered all but one of his nieces, and the sum of his nephews has been reduced to zero. He holds the lass you saved this night hostage so that his power is never stolen.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “But… why would someone do this?”

Elene stroked the side of my temple, a lingering grin upon her face. “Oh, youth, during which one’s power stems mightily from within, from confidence! I pray you never lose such self-concept, Orion, beautiful boy. It is said that whosoever marries the princess shall have on their side the gods forever. He seeks to maintain his hold on her as to ensure no such person has power outmanoeuvring him.”

I shook my head, yet she continued, “Lust is a most horrible kind of madness, whether it display itself through blood, power… longing…” Her blue eyes brushed against mine with an intensity I’d witnessed only second-hand, as with Thetis and her husband before they left our presence for their chambers. I drew back; Elene giggled. “You’ve never even been kissed, hm?”

I stuttered, “By Aurai, and my mother, and sisters…”

“Tut, tut, tut… they don’t count, sweetheart. Promise me something, Orion? Promise me that the first girl you kiss is one you really love, hm? Don’t be like me, a girl confused by advances from everyone she encounters. But enough of that; underneath this cluster of cloth is a pathway. Can you fight without your weapons?”

“Why will I need to?” I asked, perhaps too naively for Elene’s tastes.

She snapped at me, losing her velvety voice for one cutting, jarring. “Are you going to allow us turmoil, rather than aid us, son of a god? Will you be as all the others, and let us weep in shadow, or will you help us laugh in light?”

I nodded, understanding.

“Good,” she said. “Down the passage, all the way to the end of the corridor, take a left. There should be a ladder along the left path; use it to climb into the princess’ chamber. There should be guards within, so move with swiftness and silence, you hear me?”

Again, from me, a nod, emphatic; she replied in kind. My ears pricked up as footfalls could be heard down the hall. She pushed me into the bed and climbed on top of me after snuffing out the candles that lit the room. Soft moans left her lips as the footsteps passed by; when enough time had passed, she was closing the hatch beneath the cloth bed. I slid down the ladder and followed the wall with my finger, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Whereas with the outdoors the darkness was pierced by gleams of moon and starlight always, within the tunnel through which I travelled, there was no brief glint of photon, no hint of sun’s memory. There was an absolute lack of light. And here I could feel the crevices in the wall where the smith must have slipped, and here where they slammed a bit harder than usual, and I wondered: did they know for whom this passage was built? Could they have known that a son of Poseidon would, one day, venture down these opaque halls, hoping to free an enslaved princess? Were they thinking of the princess’ fate when they slipped, when they struck too deep? Of their wife, of their children; had they eaten? Left. The memories that surrounded these walls were thick; I could feel them. I am told the children of gods are more sensitive to the vibrations of the cosmos; the quivering here was very strong, minutia seeking to make themselves known; a small candle, a ladder. Easily I scale, with difficulty I listen through the wooden door beneath which I grip stone. Footfalls there are none; I gamble. Up I press, eyes peering through dim illumination, a girl gasping sobs, three men I see posted, one inside guarding the door, another by the window. The third I realise is no man at all, but a suited manikin.

He hisses, “Hush, child, and listen!”

“I don’t want to listen!” she screeches, breaking again into vehement sobs. I slither from the hole for none can see me; I am beneath the bed. My foot slips over an edge, but a swift withdrawal prevents a sighting. I slow my breathing as if I were underwater, where I could cease all in and exhalation. “I’m tired of listening! All you tell me are stories of my death; can there not be one of life?!”

“Not if you attempt escape, young princess.”

She huffs, infuriated; I can practically see her pouting. “I will escape by sleep, then. May Morpheus lead me far from the likes of you.”

Gruffly, with a confident chuckle, the man said, “Gods’ sleep, princess.”

The heavier of the two left the bed; she reclined; I heard the door close. I snuck a peek from the darkness within which I lay. There appeared to be only one guard remaining within the chamber; I rolled towards the wall near which there was no light; my eyes adapted to the familiar darkness. One thing about living on the bottom of the sea was that my eyes were accustomed well to utter darkness; as I would walk about the land, too, my sight was as unimpaired by sunlight as most demigods’. I crept slowly towards the guard near the door, creeping like a sea jelly along a current, silently, without much restriction of flow; I rose suddenly, lunging for his throat; he vanished, and I felt a presence throw me against the opposite wall.

“Invader!” the wraith-like being howled.

An alarm commenced going off; my plan of stealth was utterly failed. I blocked a shadowed claw for my face and kicked at the creature who floated before me, an armoured wraith with silver talons. I ducked beneath the next blow and latched myself around its centrepiece, twirling about and throwing it against the door. Before it could rise I stood with my arm across its neck-plate, pushing in steadily. It began to sputter; pieces of its armour clattered to the stone floor. The armour fell into a heap on the floor as the door burst open: I was flung back, just out of reach of the glaive slashing wildly where my stomach had once been. The wielder lunged for my throat; I rolled from his assault and spun on my back (a move that jarred my shoulder blades most terribly) and kicked out his shins. He fell towards me, and I lashed out with a fist for his temple. On the side of me he fell, unconscious, and the second guard entered, running towards the princess. I grabbed the first’s glaive and whirled it about; the guard parried it with a knife and his shove towards me sent me nearly into the sword awaiting my spine; I’d sensed it and so launched myself into the air with the force of the parry, allowing me to avoid the blade but not the skull of the man behind me. We fell in a tumble; I hovered over him just long enough to hurl the spear into the guard’s arm and restrict him thus from taking the princess, who by this time was wildly screaming. With a hysterical roar, the man wrenched from his wrist the glaive; I was wrestling with the interrupting swordsman, who hurled me against the stone wall again.

“Pathetic boy after all,” he spat. I felt upon the back of my head a wet plop — his saliva.

“I am Orion, son of Poseidon,” I snarled. “You have disrespected me, and like my god of a father I shall joyfully smite you!” I charged the man with the alacrity of the beasts I’d been hunting for years, a feat he did not expect. My shoulder made his armour crunch like paper. He was sent with enough force that the wall he collided with formed a well-fit crater. I took his sword and shoved it through his throat before almost gleefully wrenching it from the now-ruptured oesophagus. I twirled it about my wrist, flicking off the blood from its blade, and ran out, following the sounds of the princess’ squeals and screams.

“You were supposed to get her out silently,” an annoyed Elene shouted from a room I passed.

“I’m aware!” I roared in reply as I skid to a halt and turned the sharp corner. I could see the man’s blood loss was making him weak; he walked in his own crimson, and his gait was lessening in speed and surety. He neared the king’s chambers; I hurled the sword down the hall, where it clipped past the man’s calf. He squeaked in pain and confusion and turned just to see me taking a leap towards him.

“Shit!” he hissed before my heel found his shoulder, sending him spiralling into the ground. The princess fell to the stone floor of the hall; she stopped crying aloud and went to whimpering, and I realised that she was a while younger than me, perhaps closer to Medusa’s age than mine.

“I swear I’m not here to hurt, but help you,” I said, offering my hands in supplication. She nodded, her twinkling emerald eyes full of something ancient. I could tell that she was well-acquainted with the world in ways that perhaps I wasn’t.

A door creaked open; I picked the princess up, hoisting her upon my back, and sprinted for the room in which my hunting tools were kept. Elene was there, again prepared for my arrival; she offered to me my quiver and belt and bow and spear, all of which I placed upon myself with haste.

“Thank you, Elene,” I said before the princess and I began leaving. The faint scent of olives wafted by, and when I looked for Elene behind us, I found that she was gone.

“That way!” I heard someone scream. The princess pulled my hand away from the voices, and so we dashed. We weaved our way through the corridors to a passageway leading outside the palace, where we ran all the way to the forest and scaled a tree and I leapt from branch to branch until we were on the shore, and she whispered in my ear that there was to be a party awaiting her arrival and as we neared a group sitting about a fire she shouted, “Lykomedes! Lykomedes!” and there’s a flurry of movement and the princess sits in his arms and the others thank me as they douse the fire and off they go, upon the sea.

Lykomedes. I knew not then that he would be the man who raises Neoptolomos, the child of my beloved nephew, that this Lykomedes would rise against the king who held the princess hostage and succeed him. I knew only that Lykomedes and this princess would venture upon the sea, and that perhaps they needed me no longer, for my father was kind to those kind in spirit, and I sensed greatly this quality in the pair.

A wave, a sail, a thousand footsteps, and I was out of their lives.

Ten hundred footsteps it took to skirt about the gates of the palace; they were drawn up, I could see, preparing for invasion from the gods’ army. I smirked, thinking about the futility of humanity. From what I’d seen and heard, they would do anything — as the gods themselves — to escape their fates. I visited a spring of salt water the next day and in it bathed. My mother’s blessing starved my wounds of existence, and the kiss about my brow replenished my content. The first day of my earthly exploration had been a busy one, certainly. Today I would relax. An adjustment of my sandals and garb, and off I strolled towards a quiet, sleepy wood, a place I could feel at home.

Reader, you may wonder the importance of the details that with you I share; I promise that, should you read carefully, you may glean from my life the reason for which I made Despair, and the methods of my practice.

Trumpets.

I awaken, hearing horns and stomping and cheering, the sounds of hooves on the ground and the scents of trees and flowers; I rise, seeing twirling fires and swirling petals. Towards the source of this rhythmic cacophony I wander, seeking the cause for such an instance of revelry. Hoots and more exclamations of congratulations and cheer. “He’s done it!” I hear, “He has become a god!”

“All hail the king of revelry, the moderator of madness, the lord of the vine!” A satyr wearing nothing but a garland of poppies and the flute about his neck had gleams of drunkenness in his eyes that made me weary and feel strangely at peace. “Behold! His presence is amongst us; behold!”

A dryad took my hands in his and we swung about gaily, somehow both in and out of tune with the rhythms beat upon the chests of the male nymphs and with the hooves of the satyrs. Whoops and celebratory screams were loosed by a new host of centaurs; drums are taken out. A rumpus commences; satyrs and nimble dryads leap over the trotting centaurs’ backs. A salvo of arrows is launched into the air; they come back as shoots of wine and petal.

“All hail the mighty king of revelry!”

“He is come? He is finally come!”

“Embrace the madness, friends!” I smell the tangy and sweet flavour cast by grapes moulded for wine. “Worship! Bow!” I turn and kneel immediately, sensing the great power emanating from the wreathed man riding atop a tiger. His violet eyes glint with madness and gold specks; he is in the process of joining the gods, I can tell by the fluctuations in the concentration of his aura. He nods towards me; a nymph tells me to rise, an order I obey.

“You need not bow to me, son of Poseidon. It is his deeds that lend me reason to celebrate this day. Tell me, child: your name?”

Rising to my feet, I answered, “I am Orion, sir.”

“Then I am Dionysos, god of revelry and wild things — but not all wild things, as Pan would be quite upset were I to encroach. Of wild minds, I should say… but the relevance of this is little at the moment. Tell me, Orion: are your looks deceiving?”

“I understand not your question, sir.”

“Allow me to ask again: are you strong, Orion, in both mind and physique?”

“I should like to think so, but my strength has never truly been tested.”

Dionysos let fly a single, “Ha!” There was no scorn, nor malice in his laugh, but pleasure, as if I had said something comically brilliant.

“Then a request for you have I, son of he who would make me god. There is a creative god who seeks help in presenting for me my throne. I would have you join him as aid.”

“Where shall I find him?” I began to ask as the world spun beneath a violet haze and I found myself amongst what seemed piles of bronze and golden rubble with greater magnitude than most human palaces. There was a soft breeze that swept through the gleaming graveyard, and with the wind came the scent of charred metal, of rust, of fire.


“I presume you are the lad of whom he spoke?” uttered a soft, reassuring voice to my left. I turned and saw a goddess there, her eyes a soft and beautiful flame, much like that of a fireplace. Upon her glowing face sat small flecks of black, as if she oft sat amongst the soot and cinders. “Fret not; I mean you no harm. I am Hestia, goddess of the hearth. I know your father from your eyes — Poseidon’s children alone have such colour — yet not your name. May I inquire it?”

“I am Orion, milady.” Hestia waved her small hands, giggling with her eyes.

“No… you mustn’t call me your lady, or ‘grace,’ or anything of the sort. I am Hestia, or, to you, Aunt, but not of titled nomenclature. You are the famed Orion, then.”

I shot her a quizzical glance. “Famed?”

“Well-spoken of, if you prefer. Come, nephew; we must visit the smith god and present a throne. Know you this place?” I shook my head as we commenced our stroll through the footpaths set amongst the mountains of dishevelled and unsettled crafting material. “This is where another dear nephew of mine places his broken or incomplete things, or those which were used but meant for a single expenditure.”

“A graveyard of sorts?”

“I wouldn’t say that, uttered a gruff, laughing voice from above. “More like a recycling bin. Welcome, Hestia; welcome, lad.”

Hestia nodded kindly to the smith and introduced, “This is Orion, the one Dionysos sent.”

“He must have detected in you a great madman, then,” laughed the god with smoke tangled in his gruff face, and eyes that resembled much the volcanic drift one sees in rivers of lava. “But I, too, am mad, as is the lovely Hestia here, so you reside in pleasant and familial company.”

“I am aware, milord,” I said.

“Ha! Lord! Nay, lad; I am a smith, the Smith, and we are but cousins, so refer to me as such if not by my name. I presume you know that, cousin?”

“Hephaestos. It is a pleasure to meet you two, and I wish the injustice done you was nullified of existence.” Hephaestos grinned, extending a great paw of a hand — a hand I shook immediately.

“I owe your father, cousin; he caught me when I was hurled from the heavens. Many of my best smithing caverns are beneath his domain; he is a generous god. I know not why he doesn’t rule from my father’s throne…”

Hestia tutted, interjecting with a sweet chastisement, “Oh, speak not of my youngest brother, dear nephew, nor my middle brother’s right to the Skythrone. We know he is more than content to maintain the sea and keep both brothers of his from each other’s necks.”

“Even Hades himself says that he prefers Poseidon as king! But these are not matters of present. Come, Orion and Hestia, and regard! Think it worthy of the new god?”

I observed the chair made of woven bronze grapevines; amethyst grapes drooped off the vines when they gathered about the arms of the seat. Tigers ran amongst dolphins about the head rest, and a romp could be seen marching along the edges of the chair, a never-ending celebration.

“He shall adore it,” I said after another moment of scrutinising. Hestia agreed with a nod and a clap.

Hephaestos smiled widely, proud of his work. “I hope so,” he said. An automaton appeared, hefting up the chair.

Hephaestos mentioned, “Hestia, you must prepare your throne for removal. We shall take the throne from here; fret not, beloved aunt.”

“Agreed. Farewell, for a small while, my lovely nephews.” The faint scent of home and soot remained where Hestia suddenly did not.

Hephaestos nodded towards the automaton. “I programmed him to march straight to the throne room, so we may follow without fear of being lost. Neither of us is there often, I assume?”

“I have never been there before,” I replied. Hephaestos nodded.

“What think you of my father, cousin?”

I realised that he was testing me, in a way, as children do when seeing if they might confide in one another. I did not mind the examination; I merely hoped that Zeus was too busy preparing for Dionysos’ apotheosis to care what I said. I explained to my cousin that the only experience I really had with my lord-uncle was one in which he eliminated a kite of mine from existence due to his wrath towards one of my closer brothers.

“He seems more caring for his legacy than the good of the realm over which he rules,” I stated.

Hephaestos nodded and pat my back. “That he does, cousin. That he does.”

Perhaps I offer too much information regarding my relationships with others, but I implore you to observe them with care and watchful eye. All that I mention shall, in one way or another, become explicitly important in the future.

We reached the citadel of Olympus, and I was amazed. The architecture was filled with floating islands of buildings, rotating shrines, of marble and gold and bronze, of ever-beautiful skies and splendid expansiveness, of magnitude and marvelousness. The staircases leading from one island to another were invisible, but solid; there were no doors here, but openings through which Hephaestos and I followed the automaton. My elder cousin enjoyed observing me, methinks, for whenever I would point out something I found utterly remarkable he would gain a large smile and nod, explaining how this connected to that, how this held up the other; I was in awe. By the time the smith god and I made it to the throne room, there were many people rushing about, making sure all things were ready for the apotheosis.

“Here, my nephews,” summoned Hestia, with flurry of hand as well as voice. “He shall be seated here.”

“A nice place for him, certainly,” said Hephaestos.

Dionysos was to be placed between Athene and Ares, as if he were the boundary between strategy and savagery. The table about which the thrones were placed was elliptical, with — were the symbols upon the table any marker of the gods’ places — Zeus (lightning bolt) at one narrow end and Hera (crown) at the other. To Hera’s left would sit Demeter (wheat), whose left belonged to Apollo (lyre) whose left was Ares (spear) whose left now was Hestia (large platter) and would become Dionysos; to the left of this place was Athene (shield) and Zeus. To Zeus’ left sat Hermes (Ouroboros), whose left belonged to Artemis (quiver of arrows), Poseidon (trident), Aphrodite (seashell), and Hephaestos (anvil), before Hera.

Perhaps in the moment I was too awestruck to fully comprehend the implications of such a seating arrangement, but in hindsight I can see the cleverness.

To put the goddess of strategy and wisdom on one side of the Sky Lord and the god of many trades on the other is to imply that Zeus could out-plan and outmanoeuvre any who came his way. His wife sat at the opposite end of the table; he had his eye on marriage — that is, pairing. He watched alliances and production, as Demeter — of the harvest, of all fruition, so to speak — and Hephaestos — of smithing and thus the creation of tools and arms — as well, implying that all who rose against him would be prepared against and carefully observed. To have the goddess of love across from the god of prophesy was to claim that Zeus knew of passions before they occurred, that they were created rather than instantaneous; the moody sea across from brutal warfare suggested the ability to quell or suppress all disputes, regardless of struggle or others’ might; the goddess of the hunt across from she of the homestead and warmth inferred the ability to find all safe places, that none were really safe from Zeus’ eye. Now that Dionysos — god of madness and revelry — sits across from the goddess of the hunt, I suppose it to mean that Zeus, despite his apparent enjoyment of those surrounding him and the fun they may have, keeps a watchful eye on those who have aroused his suspicions.

Of course, all of this is speculative and only validated by your faith in my deduction, Reader.

The gods entered shortly after the throne was placed, and each took their seat after the Thunderbringer took his throne, reclining in it with such force it shook the very room. Every movement he made was to display his power, it seemed, whether moving his finger or foot.

Zeus spoke, “Dionysos. We of the Olympian Council have — in order to maintain our sacred twelve — agreed to take you upon our mountain, to have you drink of ambrosia and nectar and go through the process of apotheosis. Shall you partake, young godling?”

Dionysos spoke liberally, with a lilt in his voice and drunkenness slurring his speech, and with a wink towards Aphrodite, “Well, I think you know me well enough to understand that I can never refuse a drink, nor a bite to eat — particularly when it comes to offerings from the gods!”

There were murmurs amongst the gods, though the room remained silent. Zeus smiled, nodding towards the bearer of cups, Iris, the messenger of the gods and pourer of nectar to Zeus and his wife. Her eyes were spirals of rainbow that emanated from her very core. She observed me with faint interest upon pouring the cup for Dionysos, who offered some to me.

“Methinks she wants you to try some, too, lad. Would you?”

“Oh, no milord, I meant not this,” whispered Iris to Dionysos.

His violet eyes glittered with laughter as he pulled the sweet-smelling liquid from beneath my nose and quaffed it down in one voracious gulp. “Alas, alas… Ah, quite splendid, this. More?” The congregation of gods clapped until Zeus silenced all with a wave of his hand.

Hera spoke, “And now for the ambrosia. Accept you this, near-god?”

Dionysos shrugged. “I see not the point of holding back,” he said with a wicked smirk.

Hera returned the smile with a glare as another serving god placed a platter of what appeared to be cakes in the form of flowers before Dionysos. Within a moment, all the ambrosia was gone, and the god of vineyards and rumpuses reclined in his chair. His throne exploded instantly with grapevines and a troupe of dancing centaurs and nymphs and blaring trumpets and horns and satyrs and the table changed the platter of Hestia’s to a wreath of grapes. The true party commenced then, and so I departed, preferring to explore the view from a veranda that provided one with the entire world as their sight. I could see that night was falling on some regions and ending on others, and the fires of one starting as the flames of the others died out. Time flowed on.

“This is usually my spot during such festivities,” spoke a voice from behind me, a woman’s voice, soft and soothing. I turned to see who stood beside me; it was a young goddess whose robe was light pink and cream. “I’m Eos, of the dawn. And from your truly beautiful eyes, you must be a child of Poseidon.”

“I am, yes,” I replied.

“That’s an odd name,” smiled the goddess of the dawn, with her rosy fingertips and eyes coloured the soft violet at the end of a sunset, with specks of gold surrounding the pupils. “One that I find most agreeable, nonetheless.”

I amended with a grin, “Oh... my name is Orion.”

Eos nodded, grinning all the same. “That is more logical, I presume. So, Orion, what brings you to this lonely mountain? Were you one of the two throne-bearers?” I nodded. Eos gasped in awe. “No! But it is so heavy…”

I explained in a whisper, “Hephaestos rigged it so that we didn’t have to actually lift it, I wouldn’t know.”

Eos nodded, leaning over the edge of the loggia, placing her arms across one another and atop the railing. Her curls fell towards her chin, hiding much of her face from my view. “He’s a nice god, Hephaestos. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

“You were there?” I asked. Eos nodded, twinkling her eyes.

“I tried to catch him, but he was thrown with more force than I could muster. Even though I’m old in existence, I’m quite young in form. Always young, my siblings and I, for our durations are short.”

“Who are your siblings?” I asked quietly. Her eyes were drawing me in like twin whirlpools that sucked in one’s attention, or a line with a fish.

“There are two, mainly. Selene and Helios, titan-goddess moon and titan-god sun. They are so much older than I, and stronger. The others aren’t quite worth mentioning, unfortunately.” We were within finger’s breadth from one another; I could see the freckles upon her face, centred about her nose as if it were the moon and the freckles fireflies, flickering in and out of existence, the colour of cinnamon.

She smiled, revealing her beautiful, small, perfect teeth. “What of you, Orion? Have you any siblings?”

I smiled in return, nodding. “Rhode, Thetis, Theseus, and Medusa are my closest, but I have many more that I don’t interact with all that often.”

“Your father gets his fair play of maidens I’m assuming?”

I shook my head and repeated what I had overheard, “Just a few, none of whom were maidens. Except my mother.”

Eos smiled, adjusting a strand of her hair. “Amphitrite. She is a fair lady, exquisite in all ways.”

I nodded, agreeing with her statement. “You, Eos, are quite lovely.”

Eos laughed, chimes in the air. “You’ve known me but for a few minutes, Orion. Ah, but I think you, too, are handsome, and kind.” I thanked her; she took my hand in hers. “Tell me, Orion; would you see me again sometime?”

“Any time you wished,” I said, “aye.”

Eos grinned with her entire being. “I am glad to hear it! Until next, when hopefully a certain goddess won’t interrupt with her important presence…” Eos whispered the last part in my ear, for we were embracing. The scent of dew-wrought grass filled my senses, and she was gone. Athene stood in the doorway, watching me with an intrigued look in her eye.

“M’lady,” I said, bowing.

Athene grinned a moment before entering the balcony and sending the adjacent building away with an apparently effortless push. “Orion. We haven’t much time, so allow me parley to you, rather than with.”

“Yes, madam.”

With trepidation belied by swiftly spoken syllables, Athene said, “I have a mission for you. If I were not under such a steady gaze as befits that of the daughter of the Sky Lord, I would perform this myself. If I could choose one of my wards for the favour, I would upon them usher this, but they are watched as well as I.”

“What is it you would have me do, milady?” I asked.

Athene stood beside me, her grey dress billowing around us as she spoke, as if it stood for some kind of great shield against spying eyes. “I want you to consider my father’s ascendancy.”

“Which aspect, if I may inquire? And why?” Athene shook her head, her sterling eyes piercing me with the power of their gaze.

“Not of me, and never of an Olympian god.  Of no one should you ask that, lest you encounter them asking it of you. Understand?” I nodded. “Good. Tell me… if a king overthrows his father, is he legitimate in the consolidation of power in himself, or would it make sense to balance it amongst his siblings?”

Before I could open my mouth, I was alone; a flap of wings and a hoot remained in my memory of Athene’s departure. Around me were nothing but trees again, and a cliff overlooking the sea.

It is after this event that I began my research into the reign of the Sky Lord. Surreptitiously, I had begun reading various histories and accounts of the overthrowing of Kronos, listening to people of various cultural backgrounds explain to me the process through which my uncle had come to power. Overall, I heard a constant stream of how great the Sky Lord was, the power of the Thunderbringer, the infinitesimal might of the Lord Zeus, but here and there I could hear mild strains of what might coalesce into dissent, that Zeus was a rapist, that he tricked his brothers into their positions, that he was unjust in his reign, that he punished without justice.

And there were mentions of a child of Atlas, left upon an island to her own devices, never to meet a man with whom she could live forever. Through murmurs lent me by the Aurai and Nereids and some gods who travelled well, I was able to locate the island Ogygia, upon which she was bound.

I released the hippocampi who had brought me to the island and bid them safe journeys homeward; from the shore, I ventured towards what appeared to be a going fire. There, upon reaching the site of the blaze, appeared no one, so I sat awhile, watching the flames flicker hither and fro, dancing amongst the roads of wood they travelled.

“From whence comes you?” asked an infuriated, feminine voice; I turned to see the speaker only to receive a terrible blow to the head. “Answer, man. Do you dare conspire against a titan-goddess?”

“I do not dare such; I seek speak with Kalypso.”

“None seek Kalypso, but find themselves here at the behest of some torturous god! I should end you before she even knows— “

“Relieve your staff, Argyra, of our visitor’s head. He seeks to speak with me, and ‘tis my task to deny him or otherwise.” The increasing pressure against my skull’s base was suddenly withdrawn, and I fell backwards, hitting my head on the sand. Above me stood two women; the one with the burrowing brow I presumed to be Argyra.

“You know the curse, Kalypso,” Argyra growled. “You’re doomed to fall in love with him.”

Kalypso countered, “’Tis not a curse, to love.”

“It is when it is used to cause you hurt,” replied Argyra. I turned about and rose to my feet. Argyra shook her head and stomped off, angrily smashing her staff into the ground with every step she took. Kalypso smiled a smile that took over her entire face, turning her eyes into crescents.

“Argyra would defend me from my own existence, were she to see it pose a threat to my heart. I love her, and she loves me, and we seek protect each other from the worst of blows. Tell me your name, traveller.”

“I am Orion, son of Poseidon.”

Kalypso’s eyes twinkled; “A son of Poseidon, hm? Rare is it, to see the child of a god voluntarily here. Your parents hate me and my kind. Are you under punishment?”

“I am not.” Kalypso inhaled sharply, leaping away from me. “I mean not to cause you harm, either!”

“Argyra was perhaps right to question your presence, then. Tell me, Orion: why are you here?”

Dusting myself off, I answered, “I have questions that only you may answer. They concern the Sky Lord.”

She recoiled in great distaste. “The Thunderbringer?! What information have I that you require, son of the sea?”

“I seek to understand the means of his ascendancy.”

Kalypso’s hands lost their teal glow and her eyes sparkled like the sun upon a gentle wave. She fell to her knees, her brown tresses bouncing as her knees hit the ground. “It is begun, then. They are recognising what I dared profess those aeons ago… Come, son of the sea, for you have much to learn and so little time to do so; they send me the means of my death sooner than I realised.”

Before I had time to ask what she meant, we were running towards a well-hidden hut in the middle of the forest upon the island. Argyra and a few others were bathing in the springs beside the house; Kalypso brought me inside, where vials and containers were shifting about on their own, organising themselves at what I presumed to be Kalypso’s will; books flew from shelves and landed upon the tables. Kalypso — eyes closed, muttering beneath her breath — stood in the middle of the fluttering madness, her eyes aglow with turquoise, her hair suspended in tepid and viscous air. There was a sigh of relief as she found what she’d been looking for; a gasp of wind sent the house shaking as she released her spell. The book on the table still glowing opened to a certain page, and Kalypso turned it towards me.

“What is this?” I asked.

She said, with tears striving to depart from her alluring eyes, “How Zeus was able to take the Sky Throne.”

“Oh,” I said, beginning to skim the pages. “Of whose account is this?”

“My father, the general of the titan army, Atlas. Your uncle calls him traitor for seeking to spread this account.”

I read the journal entries, a detailing of Titanomache, the battle of gods versus titans from the titans’ view, specifically Atlas’. It informed me of the flow of battle, that Kronos was generally disliked as ruler; that the main dispute was truly between Atlas and other titans, and only in a second-hand fashion between the gods and their predecessors; that there was so much carnage and bloodshed it scared Atlas and his compatriots.

Then came the information I believe Athene had been asking me to find, that Zeus’ claim to the throne was illegitimate in one sense, and completely absolute in the other. The latter form exists in that Zeus was able to outmanoeuvre all who would have taken from him the Celestial Throne — the titans referred to it as such, and I found it more appropriate. Zeus’ claim to the Throne came in three waves.

First: he crafted the Master Bolt by containing the blood of his father within highly compressed shards of marble and glass, which made it highly volatile. From this Bolt, Zeus unleashes bits of time that are so swift and sharp that it slices through and detonates the atomic fibres of one’s existence.

Second: he captured all but one of the Fates’ eyes, which is why he can control them; he holds the key to their ability to even use their power.

Third: he found and holds Ouranos’ knife, which can cleave through all things except itself, Khaos, Truth, Imagination, or Creation.

I knew not the gods or titans or primordial beings that Truth, Imagination, or Creation referred to, but I felt them to be of higher importance than those as Ouranos, or Kronos, let alone Zeus. The information in this account, though, is certainly more galvanising than the last of those three, than Zeus’ will may dictate. He had hidden the truth away, tucked it where none would venture, where none would look.

Unless they were curious, of course, and able to go about without restraint of station, as I.

I asked Kalypso if I could take with me the journal; she consented, saying that I should take the entire collection. By nightfall I was with Hephaestos, who was repairing Athene’s never-dulling spear. The conversation happened to turn to literature, during which I may have mentioned that there were interesting works that surely had to be fiction, for otherwise there would yield from reading these novels a great implication that something was off in the reign of the current Sky Lord. It is there the work leading to Despair began.

Hephaestos and I commenced purifying, separating, blending various materials; in all we attempted five hundred combinations before we came across one that would produce something similar to what could contain Time. Each material we used I would test on a hunting expedition, seeing how it affected the monsters I would fight. As time increased, so did the power of my artillery. What would take me twelve arrows to take down one day would take five the next, and then only one. I began recording all that I learned during this period in a journal like this one — in fact, all the notes on science that I took down during that era of my life are in the second chapter of this Tome.

Eventually I recognised that emotions were of the strongest elements the realm had to offer, for these were aspects of the soul and thus of Creation itself, that primordial being without which nothing would exist; the same is true regarding Imagination and the Cosmic Laws, all of whom are derived from Khaos. This is a Truth inherent in all things that exist, that they must obey the dictations of all three.

I began combining emotions, seeking out the most durable and effective of amalgamations. By accident, I believe, I combined hopelessness and sorrow one day, a permutation that caused a great explosion and disrupted the lives of all who lived near Mount Vesuvius. Its creation would become the boon and bane of my existence. Despair was formed, its inception causing the deaths of hundreds of people, their physical forms left to remain in a frame of ash as their ethereal selves were instantaneously evaporated.

I began using it almost immediately, revelling in its durability, its ability to cause my targets to give up entirely and thus feel less pain. I enjoyed it; it was a material that made the hunts less psychologically damaging to both hunter and prey. What I couldn’t have known was that there was another who had their eye on my material, one who visited every monster slain by a hunter, one who encountered the hundreds of people of Vesuvius’ ecosystem. Thanatos, a god of Death, found most satisfactory the traces of Despair left in my wake; he took it as his own, collecting enough to form some warped derivative and adding it to his essence, creating for the first time a fear of Death, and the ability to throw the world into his control.

With Despair at his disposal, Thanatos overthrew his parents and assumed control of Death, inspiring the fear of death that most feel today. Zeus observed the usurpation Thanatos wrought and promised Thanatos freedom from competition or restriction, so long as the self-proclaimed God of Death submitted to Zeus’ crown. Thanatos, never yearning for more than he took, settled.

Despair can render those who meet it completely devoid of hope. In its original form, Despair was meant to offer a reprieve from the selfish and destructive paths through which many of those who performed ill against others travelled. In its form as used by Thanatos, it spreads fear and apprehension everywhere, causing people to go to great lengths to escape it, lengths that only cause further hurt. It is composed of sorrow (woe) and hopelessness, two of the strongest emotions in existence.

With this I close the first chapter. Within the next chapter comes the cosmogony.

I awoke the next day without realising that I’d fallen asleep. The Tome was closed, sitting atop my bedside drawer. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and decided to depart from my bed after fulfilling the urge to stretch my arms; as I walked, I again stretched out my limbs, letting loose a ferocious yawn in the process. Slowly I meandered down the corridor to the bathroom, where I performed my morning ritual before clothing myself and venturing downstairs for breakfast. Mum wasn’t awake yet, I noted as my hand defined the kettle as cold. I turned on the kettle and prepared a bowl of cereal for myself as I awaited the water heat up enough for tea. Within minutes, the tea was made, the cereal consumed, and a note left for my mother, explaining that I was out for a walk and would be back before lunch, and that I loved her dearly. Satchel on shoulder, book inside, I wandered outside, allowing my mind to mull over that which I’d read the previous evening and into earlier this morning.

The history of the Hunter as presented thus far seemed troublesome, to say the least. He’d rather glossed over the methods of his acquiring Despair, and though he took responsibility for his actions in allowing Despair to get taken by Thanatos, he never really went into explicit detail as to the nature of Despair, nor why it remained after the target was slain. I hoped he covered this information in the second chapter of the Tome; there was a lot of data to consume. He was to speak of cosmogony, after all, and the creation and maintenance of the universe is no small thing.

“Lorcán!” I heard someone call.

My eyes found the person sprinting towards me; it was Charlie, Slade’s younger sister. In all the ways Slade was rational, she was erratic. That does not in any way mean that she is less intelligent than Slade, but that her behaviours are without the marked logic Slade exudes. She is the right brain that Slade is missing, but he is not her missing left hemisphere… it is odd to explain without an example.

When Charlie was four and Slade nine — I was told this tale by Slade’s mother — the former wished to escape the house. Slade was guarding Charlie whilst their mother was on the phone, speaking with a client. Charlie knew that to get past Slade was certainly impossible, for he was much bigger than she, and could lift her up with ease. Thus, Charlie tricked Slade into believing that their mother was calling for him, not by merely saying such, but by throwing her voice so well that Slade hadn’t a choice but to believe that it was the Irigis matriarch. Within minutes, the door was unlocked, and Slade was chasing Charlie around the yard, trying to bring her back inside. Charlie is cunning, and blatantly so. Slade is more overt in his intelligence, however, and so is labelled the smart one whereas Charlie is oft relegated the artist. I can’t imagine that Charlie would have it otherwise.

“Hello, Charlie. How are you?” I asked.

With a bright and endearing smile, Charlie answered, “I’m good, as usual. Kind of bored, honestly. What’cha up to?”

“Just out for a stroll.”

“Meandering?” Charlie inquired.

“Meandering,” I confirmed.

Charlie nodded, a smirk about her face. “You are an odd person, Mr Maeve. Are you alone intentionally, or by happenstance?”

She only used her best vocabulary with me, and sparingly so. I think that the pretentious nature of speaking as my mother and I do slightly infected Charlie, unless she were mocking us. What I loved about Charlie was that both situations are equally likely.

I replied, “More by happenstance than intention. You could join me if you’d like.”

“And interrupt that brilliant mind of yours? No… no, I’ve a wall to splatter upon.”

“Ah?” Charlie nodded and pointed mischievously towards the wall behind me. “With permission, I hope.”

Charlie answered with a defiant laugh that echoed throughout the empty morning road. “Who needs permission to create art, Lorcán? Ta-ta, laddie.”

Charlie, with her sandy blond hair and grass green eyes, petite frame and high energy, and, of course, the fire that set her grass green eyes ablaze, drew from her backpack a paintball gun for one hand and a can of spray paint for the other. Within the hour, her piece would be done, she would be caught signing her name, and the painting would remain up for two weeks before either rain or Charlie herself took it down.

Such was the nature of Hollowhaven, a place that strove to emphasise the latter half of its name rather than the first. There were many artists and exiles here, and businesspeople whose business models didn’t quite function in the countries from where they originated. The police officers acted more like camp counsellors than coppers, ensuring that a safe and fun environment existed rather than merely a safe one. It was known that on Halloween, the police dressed up as different characters from the same video game franchise or film or something, and once they played cops and robbers with a bunch of neighbourhood children; those who were caught were put in jail for the night, where they heard ghost stories from a character named Fidgety Frank. This role was played by either the sheriff, the commissioner, or an actual criminal deemed harmless enough to be around kids. In the last case, they moved the children to one cell and the criminal to the other. Sometimes parents would purposefully speed a bit or take something from the store so that they could be the storyteller for the evening, but rarely were these parents chosen, so that criminal activity wasn’t seen as something tolerated nor rewarded.

More and more stores were opening for the day, mainly shops that required intensive care to function properly. The food market had many teenagers working there, restoring the shop windows with a cloth and spray, organising food and drawing on the chalkboards, explaining pricing and whatnot. Whilst the majority of Hollowhaven could barter with one another for the goods required to live on a daily basis, the rest of the world was still using money. Hollowhaven had fertile soil, so we could grow things, but there were still imports, and for those we had to pay.

“Ah, you’re alive. That’s a mild shocker,” Rhiannon spoke with great sarcasm, appearing from inside a shop I’d just passed, a flower and herbs store.

“Good morning, saviour,” I retorted, “I feel that I can accept you as my lord, too, if you’re kind enough.”

Rhiannon snapped her fingers dramatically. “Darn. Just when I thought I’d get another worshipper and level up to somewhat-holy. Guess I’ll have to settle for semi-sacrilegious.” Referring to the Hunter’s Tome, she asked, “Have you read more of it?”

“I read the first part out of five.”

With a chortle, Rhiannon remarked, “Well you just jump right in, don’t you?”

I shrugged and replied, “It’s a good read.”

She queried, “What’s it told you so far?”

I told her that the Tome had only told me about the circumstances regarding the thing the Hunter wanted to destroy. Rhiannon whistled, impressed. “Despair? He created and wants to destroy one of the most powerful substances ever formulated? That’s… wow. You’ve found something pretty big, Lorcán…” Rhiannon took a seat at the bench that was designated for those taking the bus.

“Are we going somewhere?” I asked.

Rhiannon lifted the bag attached to her wrist, her head leaning back on the wall of the little cubicle constructed to protect riders from the rain; her eyes were lazily focused on the edge of the roof of the bus stop. “I have to drop these off for my sister. She’s a bit of a cold.”

“You mean she has a bit of a cold?”

“Did I fucking st-st-stutter?” Rhiannon snapped with a smirk. The back of her head still attached to the wall of the bus stop, Rhiannon turned towards me a bit. “What do you do in your spare time, Lorcán? I’ve always wondered what a hermit as yourself does all the time.”

“I’m usually running around the forest behind my home, honestly, or exploring the cave beneath the lake.”

“You have a cave beneath your house?” she asked.

I nodded. “It’s a big cave. I don’t think anything but spiders — at most — live down there. Haven’t found an opening to the land or anything yet.”

Rhiannon whistled with faint admiration as the bus arrived. We paid our fares and sat beside each other, the only bus riders besides an old man in the back, reading a newspaper with his Hawaiian t-shirt and Bermuda shorts giving him the aura of a true tourist.

“I’m coming to your house more often, Lorcán, even if you’re not there. That’s pretty awesome, having a cave and a forest. Who died to give you that much land?”

A faintly bitter smile appeared upon my face before vanishing completely. “My grandfather.”

Rhiannon’s eyes widened a moment, as if she were testing to see if I were joking or not. She let out a short outburst that sounded like an exclamatory laugh before apologising.

“He died happily; what’s there to apologise for?”

“That’s a rare view,” Rhiannon mumbled.

“What’s that?”

“To be so… ambivalent. Towards death, that is.”

“I just learned last night that the current Death is just a jerk with a power complex. Besides, I’ve always been that way.”

She asked with a raised eyebrow, “Ambivalent towards death?”

“Apathetic. It’s to happen eventually; what’s to fret over? You don’t cry every time you run out of bread, do you?”

“I have strong feelings about pumpernickel, okay?” Her childish tone threw me into laughter. Three and a half stops down, the bus pulled aside to let us out. I thanked the driver for the ride; he thanked me for the fare and drove off as Rhiannon and I walked towards a small footpath that wound around a small collection of trees and through flower patches.

Rhiannon nodded to indicate something farther. “It’s a bit up the road. You don’t have to join me, if you’d rather wait here.”

“And miss out seeing the inside of the home of my saviour?” I gasped with a grin. “Never!”

Rhiannon retorted, “Well, there’s no guarantee you’re actually going insidethis time, buddy. Haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”

“It’s scarcely after nine in the morning.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Real boyfriends bring dinner in the morning to show appreciation for a long and epic night, y’know. Chivalry’s fucking dead…”

We arrived at her front door, which was coloured an icy blue and covered in scratches that — upon observation — appeared to be runes. Rhiannon touched her finger to the doorknob and turned it; the door flung open, releasing all the pent-up noise from within. There were four paths to take, it appeared: one leading up a staircase, one down a red hallway, one down a white hallway, and the last lead you past the staircase and into some other room in which there appeared was nothing else but photos and mirrors and windows.

“Wait here, please,” Rhiannon urged.

I, bewildered by the strong rock music erupting from the red hallway and the monotonous thumping from upstairs, overwhelmed by the scents of trees and flowers and wilderness, taken aback by the dramatic shifts in colour from each path to the next, remained behind. Soon, the door was shut, and Rhiannon had changed into a white tee beneath a black leather jacket, and jeans. Her fingers wore rings that hadn’t been there moments before.

“Onwards, then, hm? To your place?” she suggested. I shrugged and led the way back to Maeve Manor. Mum had gone to market in my absence, so I moved the magnets around on the refrigerator to let her know that I was home and in the forest with a friend.

Rhiannon scoffed, “What? No letters with which to spell ‘girl’?”

I looked at Rhiannon sardonically before showing her to the door leading out into the backyard of mine that was, indeed, a forest. An intense breeze flew through, abruptly leaving as soon as it appeared. Eventually we found ourselves sitting on the small bluff overlooking the lake, the same one I’d fallen from sixteen years previously. We spoke of what I’d learned — and not learned yet — from the Tome.

She asked, shocked, “You mean he’s not even gone into the concept of being a shaman or anything, yet?”

“Well, he’s hinted through the chapter names that he must reveal to me things in a certain order, so that I follow his path of progress precisely and don’t muck anything up. I mean, I’m certain there’s a method to his madness that requires me to learn in a particular order.”

Rhiannon shook her head. “I’m not talking about Summoning up a Maorga or anything like that, Lorcán, but learning the basis of the craft. You have the Tome on you now?” I nodded and pulled it from the satchel. Rhiannon offered her hand towards me, as if gesturing that I lend her the book.

“I thought you weren’t to read it on account that it made you feel all prickly and stuff.”

“I’m over it. You seriously need to—” Rhiannon’s words were cut off by her outburst of unexpected agony; the book had shocked her hand away. “What a sassy book!” she snarled, dipping her hand in water and mumbling a few choice words, some of which weren’t swears.

“What did you want to look over it for, Rhiannon?” I asked when she was again sitting beside me.

“I wanted to see what spells and the like it had inside. I’m guessing that those are meant for you to read alone, so we’re going with plan B. That is, I’m going to teach you the essence of spell-casting.” My hands started getting a bit warm when she mentioned what she plotted to do, and I felt the urge to open the Tome. I looked down at it when I noted Rhiannon’s face had paled a bit and she’d stood, backing away towards the lake’s edge.

“Open it, Lorcán; it obviously wants you to.”

I nodded and, after exhaling the breath I’d pent up without realising, opened the Tome. From within surged a great blue light that erupted into the sky — and apparently beyond. A hole appeared in a cloud that was floating by, matching the exact shape and colour of the light the Tome ejected from its core. Rhiannon yelled my name as the feeling of falling into water took over my other sensations, and I found myself suspended again before turning inside out and upside down and landing feet first on the ground I hadn’t left — my eyes opened, I gasped, and Rhiannon did, too.

Everything around us was dimmer than usual, as if a filter had been added to our eyes so that we couldn’t perceive the general atmosphere as we once could. Of course, I speak for myself on that affront, but I presumed from the way Rhiannon was looking about that it was a similar, if not the same, shift in colouring. All breezes were ceased, and until I saw the pillar that had seemingly appeared from nowhere in particular, I thought I was still on Hollowhaven soil.

“Holy shit,” Rhiannon whispered. “What have we done?”

“You presumed that I wouldn’t teach my successor how to defend himself against the forces I have asked him to eradicate, Rhiannon of the House Shae, descendant of the Tuatha Dé Danann. This is your doing, as well as his. Lorcán Maeve, my friend, ascend the Shrine. We have met but a day ago to you, but this has been aeons in the making, and I must parley with he who would become my champion, and his comrade, without whom his life would be forfeit.”

Rhiannon's eyes widened at his words, as if she were entirely shocked about having been recognised as someone who would risk their life for mine. The Shrine was about three storeys tall, with a dishevelled exterior that demonstrated its age and wear; the sea had taken great liberties with the grey construction. Its shape is that of a spire, the Shrine, a pillar hollowed out and walled with stones formed to fit their function. Its base extended downwards, as if someone had taken a screw and made it a building; there were few windows, it appeared from the outside. Once inside the Shrine, however, one could see the brilliant deceit the outside created. The floor was made of well-polished wood. The ceilings of each floor were high and refracted light as to fill each room with wonderful and endearing colours. The staircase was carved from the wall, allowing for maximum floor space. I merely caught glimpses of each compartment of the Shrine, for I felt that the man at the top of the stairs required me more immediately than the rooms required my observation.

It took a few minutes for us to reach the top, but we did, and we marvelled a moment at the gorgeous view it lent us. The Shrine was tall enough to sit amongst the clouds, so that we overlooked everything that surrounds the spire. For great expanses, we could observe the sea or the rolling hills or the lower skies. It was beautiful, the vision that the Shrine gave those who stood upon it.

“Great for observing the stars, I’ve found,” stated the being at the spire’s top. The voice came from a translucent being, one shaped in a humanoid fashion, but as if someone had taken from them all physical presence and left the memory or idea of one behind, a ghostly husk of what could be.

“I apologise for the inability to encounter you in a more physical state. I am rendered capable of solely astral projection at the moment, but as time passes and my strength is regained, as my power waxes rather than wanes, you shall find me more tangible in substance.”

“There is no need for apologies,” I uttered, bowing a moment. “It is an honour, sir.”

“And mutually so, to both of you,” he replied. “I think it is safe for us to begin. I am the Hunter, the author of the Tome to which you and I are bound — though I am more bound in the literal sense, I suppose. My first memories come from the time during which I was named Orion; if you seek to call me this, I shan’t offer you reason to refrain. However — and you shall understand more later — it is better that you call me the Hunter and leave it at that. Today you shall learn the way through which energy may be used to aid you in defending yourself. First, I must ask: have you practised any form of battle? I have watched some form over the years that are very interesting in both a physical and practical sense.”

I shook my head. “I never really found it necessary, so I omitted it from my practises. However, I was on the free running team in school. I never won any awards or anything, but I did decently in competitions.” The Hunter’s eyebrows inquiringly shot upwards, so I explained, “Free running — parkour, some would call it — is the art of using your surroundings to get out of whatever trouble or situation you might be in. It requires stamina and swift motions, really; climbing up walls and trees, leaping across rooftops, et cetera.”

He sought clarification. “So, you are well-versed in moving freely through space?” I nodded. Appeased, he said, “Good. That is where we shall commence, then. I must explain that what I am teaching you is not the basic tier of magick filled with parlour tricks and card shuffles, but the truer magick. Allow me to define what I mean. Magick is the manipulation of energy to cause something into being on a certain plane. There are eight planes of existence, seven of which are directly linked to the Ether.

“The Zeroth Plane — sometimes mentioned in passing as Zero — is that on which you dwell the majority of the time. In Zero, you can only influence the physical by using the physical. For example, you cannot declare the couch on fire without actually setting fire upon the couch. The First Plane — One, simplified — is the layer of cosmos dedicated to the elementary layer of the Ether. Most animals can see this, as can most people. The blue of the sky, for example, is an indication of the Ether, as are emotions and auras. The Second Plane is also known as the Inner Realm; it is where one’s soul materialises. The Third Plane is that of the Individual Heart, where the core of a being materialises. The Fourth holds the Upper Underworld; cats and other animals related to Death may guide you to this plane. Spectres live on this plane as humans do on the Zeroth. The Fifth is the Lower Underworld, where the Djinn dwell. The Sixth belongs to the Elementals as the Seventh belongs to the Maorga.”

I asked, “Is it, then, that each plane exists more tangibly to those who live there than those who do not?”

The Hunter nodded, adding, “Yes, but each subsequent plane may affect with less effort things belonging to lesser planes. For example, it is easier for Maorga to cause atomic degeneration on the Zeroth than on the Fourth, and extremely difficult for Djinn to even appear on the Sixth. As planar level increases, the denser the creatures who live there become, and thus the greater an effect they can have on levels of lower plane.”

“Because the denser an object, the greater gravitational pull it exerts.”

“Precisely,” said he.

Rhiannon interjected, after a contortion of her face into a mask of curiosity, “I think you teach well. My learnings were more cryptic in method.”

The Hunter shrugged. “I haven’t the need to be cryptic, for only certain people may appear here. This is my Individual Heart, after all, and my Heart is very well safeguarded. It is good for you to comprehend ideas with this speed, friend, for you have much to learn and such little time for it. Ah…” The Hunter smiled, realising something. “I feel I need clarify something. The concept of density, that is. There are, as with all things you’ll find, two sides of an entity. Its physical part and its, for sake of lucidity, Ethereal part. The former becomes less dense as one increases in plane.”

“That makes sense,” I remarked, “considering that Einstein found out that matter is no more than a storage container for energy. Take an entity and shift its ratio of mass to energy, and to maintain balance one must increase one side and lower the other.”

For this, I heard Rhiannon refer to me as a nerd.

The Hunter nodded again, perhaps in agreement, and said. “Good. You think about these things, which shall only help you, for having an innate sense of how things function helps you use them more efficiently.”

There was an abrupt pause, as if the Hunter were listening to something that we could not observe. The silence lasted what felt like five minutes before the Hunter returned to us, his eyes glowing starlight.

“Where was I… ah, right. The very awareness of these planes and the way they are interconnected allows you to understand the premise behind which magick exists. That is, by influencing something in another plane, one can indirectly affect that which exists in yet another plane. For example, purifying wood with fire casts aspects of it into the Ether, the First Plane. Think of all that is tangible and solid as Zeroth Plane material, whereas gases appear in the First, and plasma as all things Second and above. That doesn’t mean that some plasmas can’t be seen on the Zeroth, of course, for you can see fire, but fire is primarily a Second Plane material. In fact, the one responsible to bringing fire to the Zeroth was immediately caught and infinitely tortured for it.”

"Prometheus,” said Rhiannon, vaguely woeful in mood.

The Hunter mumbled, “He is a good man, certainly, and strong. So terribly strong…

“Fire is a good example of using magick, actually. Usually one must create fire, then relocate it by physical means, and thus one may set something on fire. However, using a truer version of magick, one may simply cause a thing become fire.”

“Is it the process of becoming fire in which a thing is consumed by flames?” I asked.

“Indeed. One must consume oneself to become oneself, right? Do you not consume your entire existence by existing? A is A, after all. Magick is one of the most scientific things in the cosmos, which is why those as myself — who know well the science and art of magick — hold in ridicule (and some in contempt) those who argue that magick is in no fashion scientific. It requires one to understand the fundamental fibres of the cosmos, to examine the electrons and photons and quarks in the world and innately know that to move this neutron here is to cause a flood there, and so on. You can explore more of that in the Tome.

“There are three fashions through which one might cast. Rhiannon, which of the three do you follow most?” Rhiannon snapped her fingers, releasing an explosion of sound much louder than what would usually come of a snap.

“I’m a Dancer,” she said, grinning as if amused by her actions. The Hunter nodded.

“Good. Then you two may train together with more ease.” The Hunter stared into Rhiannon, as if examining her very core. “You have three sisters, do you not?”

Despite the visible shock the question caused her, Rhiannon answered, “Two living, one deceased.”

“Oh? How so?” he asked.

“Fighting a couple of warrior Djinn with her comrades, she overused a Tattoo and it decimated her body.”

“I am sorry,” the Hunter said, stealing the words from my mouth.

Rhiannon shrugged and muttered, “She wasn’t the most inventive shaman, to say the least. Luckily, the Djinn tried to consume her body and ended up poisoned from the imbalance.”

The Hunter nodded and seemed to sit in the air, legs crossed in the lotus position, eyes turned from Rhiannon unto me. “The three fashions of casting are that of Dance, of Incantation, and of Summoning. I, as Rhiannon, typically use Dance to cast magicks; that is, I instigate the movement of energy with my own motions. For example, observe the tree atop the yonder hill. Do you see it?”

I nodded, and the Hunter held out one fist sideways, as if gripping a bow; with his other hand, he used three fingers to pull back a string. For a moment, I could see a silver and blue bow being pulled taut by a white string, upon which sat an arrow of swirling light. He loosed the arrow, which shot from its vanishing bow and landed in the tree. The tree absorbed the arrow, and its leaves turned white before becoming flickering flames of the same colour.

“Your aim is ridiculous,” mumbled Rhiannon.

The Hunter released a short laugh. “I believe that was a moment of showing off, hm? Ha… I am sorry. But, as you saw, my movement galvanised atoms to incite the tree’s leaves turn to fire. I don’t want you to get stuck on how that happens, but merely hold faith that as you will shall occur when you cast, lest an opposite or greater force determine otherwise. Rhiannon, if you’ll aid me in demonstration, fire at me what you will.”

Rhiannon hesitated a moment before leaping into the air, landing in a crouch that revolved to again face the Hunter, and finishing the cast in a lunge with her arm extended towards the Hunter, palm aimed at him with her fingers sideways. From behind Rhiannon surged a gust of wind. The Hunter snapped his fingers, dividing the wind in twain and sending it back to Rhiannon, who swirled from a crouch onto her fully extended legs and toes, sending the blast of air into the sky. A cloud was eviscerated. Rhiannon stumbled backwards and fell, legs fully extended and her weight on her hands.

“That was stronger,” exhaled Rhiannon.

The Hunter smirked. “My apologies. I’m glad you were ready for it, then.”

“I really wasn’t,” Rhiannon muttered. “All’s good, though. Please tell me you got the point, so we don’t have to do that again.” Her eyes pleaded with me, and I admitted that I understood entirely.

The Hunter continued, “The second, Incantation, is the delineation of an existence through use of word. Words are of the most powerful things in the cosmos, for without them things are solely potential. Once a word is used to identify something, that thing becomes defined, and thus its existence is rendered. Of course, in cases of Incantation, the magick is only as strong as the word is absolute in its definition. This leads to some pretty interesting occurrences. For example, magicks uttered in English are nowhere as powerful as those uttered in earlier languages, like Greek or Latin, which are faintly less powerful than those of Egyptian or earlier.

“Incantations, when inscribed, are more durable in casting than when uttered. It takes but minute amounts of time to hear a word, but one can read a word repeatedly and, when written correctly, forever. Thus, some Incantations are done through writing — observable in the form of transmutation circles and Runes. Tattoos, as Rhiannon mentioned her sister wore, are typically Incantations written upon one’s body to enable them instant activation of that magick. Seals fall under this category as well; it constitutes two thirds of casts, Incantation. When one prays, by the way, one is casting a spell, whether of protection or to achieve one’s goal.

“The last form of casting comes as Summoning, which involves one bringing a being from a higher order plane to a lower plane, typically. There is required a greater amount of power to Summon than to use Dance or Incantation and thus those who Summon are least in number when compared to those utilising Incantation and Dance. Those who Summon typically carry with them a great many amulets and objects of power to ensure that the Summoned cannot override their Bounds, whether it be Djinn or Spectre or, should they have enough power in store, Maorga. Maorga are the hardest the summon. If there is a hierarchy of creatures, it goes as such: Spectre, Djinn, Elemental, and Maorga. This makes sense, recalling the order of planes and the creatures’ locations amongst them.

“I also wish to impart upon you the fact that one fashion of casting is not necessarily stronger than the other. I have seen a shaman use Incantation to disembowel a Maorga but lose to a Spectre, and I have seen a Dancer lose against a Summoner, and the various permutations thereof victories and defeats. I chose Dance because it is most attuned to my nature, but this does not mean that you must select the same.”

As the Hunter had been speaking, I was subconsciously twirling my finger around, watching a leaf on the tree behind the Hunter flickering in its little dance. The Hunter and Rhiannon, realising that my entire attentions were not on them, looked towards where my gaze had travelled. I would have thought that I had begun thinking magically, much like children who correlate their exhalations with the wind flying by, except I found my finger to control the flaming leaves of the tree, for they all were rotating at the same rate as my finger. When I noticed the other two watching me, I stopped, which caused the leaves to be extinguished.

“I’m a Dancer, methinks,” I uttered to the smiling Hunter and Rhiannon.

He nodded, grinning to himself more than Rhiannon or me. He said, “Good, then. Rhiannon, I entrust you to help him in his training. That is all for today. Until next time, fare thee well.”

The grey twilight that once surrounded Rhiannon and myself was suddenly gone, in its place the bright and sunny realm from whence we came. The Tome sat in my hands, closed.

“No time passed, it seems,” I said.

Rhiannon nodded in agreement. She explained, “Going into other planes of existence has that effect sometimes. More accurately, for the Zeroth through Third planes. The rest are quite strange regarding to time translation. Sometimes it moves faster here than there, sometimes the opposite.”

Rhiannon plopped down on the lakeside, allowing her suddenly shoeless feet to lay within the water. I nodded, agreeing with her as I sat beside her, placing my sandals behind me as my feet, too, touched the clear water. “How are you feeling with all this information about the cosmos, Lorcán?”

“It’s a bit to intake, certainly, but that’s alright. I’m coping with it. I feel like by knowing these things, I’m becoming a more responsible person in the world, yeah?”

Rhiannon’s eyes were focused upon the azure sky; she was watching a cloud flow by. Whilst it neared the sun, parts of the fluffy blob became increasingly shaded until its entirety overlapped the sun from our view. Much like the cloud, the mood on Rhiannon’s face shifted from light and pleasant to brooding, as if she was remembering something.

“He never really explained to you the concept of becoming a shaman, did he? Of what a shaman does?” I shook my head, “I’ll do it, then, especially since he’s given me the task of tutor, more or less. A shaman’s sole goal is to maintain the balance between the planes and to protect the denizens of Life’s domain from Death. shaman are, in essence, the warriors of Life, of things that grow and flourish, and we are fighting against the forces of Death who would consume those things, that would cease growth. I’m going to tell you a story now, about Life and Death.”

Rhiannon lay down, her hands behind her mass of wild, red hair.

“In the beginning, there was Death the Kindhearted.

“When it was time for her to claim you, she would whisper the softest of mumblings in your ear, telling you that it was your time. She would take your hand and with the greatest of smiles walk you down to her palace — such a magnificent palace, filled with anything the heart desired as the enchantments allowed — and introduce you to her family. Yes, even Death has a family. The Kindhearted was old enough to have three generations of grandchildren, and yet — when she appeared to you — she looked not a day over twenty. It’s not that she was vain in any way, no, she appeared as the earliest of mortals did when they died, which was rarely a day over twenty. As time carried on, Death the Kindhearted developed a series of rules that the Great Architect allotted her create. She would, should one act as they should and live a beneficial life, part of which included not doing Death’s job for her, allow that one immortality until they asked for her.

“Death the Kindhearted only had a few of her family follow in her footsteps. Many of the others preferred their father’s task of creation; he was Life the Experimental. He enjoyed throwing notches in the plans of those mortals and immortals, not to hurt them — he, too, was kindhearted and loving — but to remind himself and his family of the brilliance, the magnificence of the mortals. Life was known for his incredible fairness, albeit his harsh code at times. Those who followed him were many; those who followed the mother, however, were few. They each preferred their own targets of capture. Death the Lass, for example, preferred explosive, violent ends, ones that were heroic in nature. Death the Mourning wore a mask that mimicked his mother’s smiling face, taking those who committed suicide through obsessive mourning. He usually reunited lovers lost at separate times. There are two beings who — although content with most aspects of their existences — are rarely mentioned within the major family of Life the Experimental and Death the Kindhearted: Thanatos and Vivienne, the two who staged the coup.

“Thanatos was the real inspiration for the coup. He was tired of being nice to those mortals who so frequently messed up, who could escape his mother’s grasp for ‘good behaviour.’ That was pathetic, overly kind. The populations of the universes were never fluctuating; the balance between the two — Life and Death — were boring to watch. He was sick of it! His mother was thousands of times stronger than his father. How dare his list of creations outnumber that of Death’s captives? That was horribly wrong! There should be no more immortals… not if Thanatos had something to do with it. And so, he found Tartaros, the most permanent hole for those who trespassed against the will of the gods. He needed a comrade, someone who thought similarly to him. He turned to the girl who was sister only in name to him: Vivienne, a daughter of Life and Death whose alignments were more towards the tasks of her father.

“Thanatos was a bully to Vivienne, who — at that time — hadn’t realised just how strong she was compared to him. He convinced her that she could only become stronger by taking over for her father, by casting him and his wife into Tartaros, giving Thanatos domain over Death and Vivienne that of Life. Vivienne couldn’t believe it at first, the concept of banishing her parents whose eyes held only love, whose cores gave so freely and blissfully… that they should be placed in a realm worse than Hell. Vivienne avoided Thanatos’ will by staying with her father awhile, but the jaded son soon got to his sister, having a few of his friends — Wrath, Homicide — rape her; Thanatos killed them both. Violated, mutilated, Vivienne believed the illusion Thanatos presented her with, leading her to believe that he was her only saviour, his path the only viable salvation. She would make the two who could not protect her pay dearly. Thanatos watched as Vivienne created the trap for their parents and transported them into Tartaros; and so Vivienne and Thanatos became the new Life and Death. Their reign ended immortality for those who hadn’t gained it. There were few insurrections against their co-dictatorship. Vivienne, the New Life, remained aloof from her brother known simply as Death, or Thanatos. Thanatos cared not; he was in control now, his entire family under his bloodied scythe, the one he stole from Saturn.

“If you didn’t catch it that is literally the verbatim story of Life and Death from a Tome that my grandmother wrote. She collected stories about the cosmos and planted them in what appears to most as a children’s book, but in all honesty, is a Tome.”

“You memorised all that?” I said, impressed.

Rhiannon snickered. “I had it read to me about a thousand times. Anything I hear I can remember, the result of a punishment from my mother. She had me given Tattoos of a listening spell behind both ears so that I could actually remember what she told me to do when I was younger. I get them renewed and replenished about once a year, just because they can be terribly useful. At any rate, Vivienne — as we’ll call her for simplicity’s sake — took a mass of souls from the Well and made us shaman, her warriors, to protect against her tyrannical brother. We protect the other souls perpetually, as we are reincarnated to help other souls get purified and create, eventually, an army against Thanatos, who would then have not a single mortal soul under his control.”

“Is there a running count of souls saved or something?” I asked in earnest.

Rhiannon shook her head. “Not that I know of, at least. But I think that Vivienne is really stalling for time to put together a strong enough front to merely remove her brother from his throne. I cannot tell you what I don’t know, which would be all the details concerning their spat, but I know that I’m taking my job seriously, as should you. Each shaman is given a mission, Lorcán; you should make sure to know, understand, and do your best to complete yours.” The gravity of her tone alerted me to the solemnity of what it meant to be a shaman. At least, from Rhiannon’s angle. I would have to learn what it meant to me.