Chapter 17 Caelus
Caelus
Velira and Lykos had, by far, been the most enthusiastically welcomed by the Athenians.
Everywhere they went, people stopped to stare.
Children ran behind them, giggling and dodging their tails — and whenever Vel flew overhead, they would run in the streets with their arms outstretched, mimicking her.
Athenos was in the midst of Spring — a season I knew bothered both Nyssa and Demeter for the same reasons.
The mortals still thanked Persephone for the balmy air, the blooming flowers, and the cycles of life that so intrinsically connected with this time of year.
They knew, of course, that she was no longer responsible for such things, but despite the fact that mortal lives are so incredibly short, their traditions endure far longer than they do.
That’s not to say that mortals couldn’t embrace change, because the Athenians, at least, had been quick to accept the fact that war was on their horizon, and that they were to host an entire council of gods for the foreseeable future — something that had never been done.
Olympians didn’t stay in Ephemeron for extended periods.
We visited mortals, blessed them, fucked them on occasion — more often than not resulting in the births of demi-gods — then left them to worship at their alters.
Whilst in Athenos, we were given an entire wing of Aegis Academy, just outside of Ithacene.
The Academy was home to any in Ephemeron who decided they valued knowledge above all else.
Some were dedicated to studying the art of warfare — training to become Ephemeron’s key generals — while others chose to specialise in different vocations.
Given its emphasis on warfare, Aegis’ instructors were almost all tried and tested war veterans.
This, therefore, led to the logical decision that their base of war operations be housed here as well.
We’d spent many an hour in the round room with its round table, discussing tactics and theories, and whether they believed we could count on any of Ephemeron’s other leaders in the war to come.
It was a sorely debated topic.
The building was an architectural masterpiece: sharp spires pierced the sky; long, narrow windows on every level casting multi-hued light; gilded figures of beasts perched on the roofs, surveilling everything below.
Arch would be salivating at the sight of it, were he here. Instead, he and his father worked day and night on repairing the ruined gateways, unknowingly surrounded by swirling masses of displaced shades.
A shudder tore down my spine as I recalled their bloodcurdling cries and whimpering moans.
I prayed to whoever deigned to listen that the repairs would soon be done.
I’d found myself missing Arch. He’d surprised me during the Ascension Rite — for years, I’d only known him as this quiet lonely figure.
Someone who sat idly by on the sidelines while the rest of us got into questionable situations.
So, it had been no small shock to see him as an active participant in the Xifos Tis Moiras, long before I’d even learned of their existence.
And then, when he had wordlessly stepped in to help Nyssa — and by extension, me — through his father’s trial, he’d earned himself a large measure of my respect. Which wasn’t an easy thing to earn, generally speaking.
I knew he’d endeared himself to Nyssa in that same moment, too; felt her softening towards him when he nimbly inscribed her sword’s name on the flat of its blade, and helped her turn the pendant I’d given her into its power-filled pommel.
And in every shared moment since, he quietly carved away any of our doubts regarding his allegiance.
Arch was someone we all now considered a dear friend — and the curse hanging over his head was one I knew each of us was desperate to break.
Nyssa, especially, would likely not survive another death from one so close to her.
I’d grown accustomed to his hulking figure hanging around, backing me up when Aros was being obnoxious, and I dearly hoped my time with him wasn’t almost at its end.
I feared that would break me, too.
Nyssa was convinced that if she wasn’t able to harness her mother’s power, he’d sacrifice himself for the good of the realms. She was right — he absolutely would.
Archimedes was too noble for his own good. His moral compass pointed more north than anyone I’d ever met. He was selfless and brave, clever and funny… and Tartarus, I might be a little infatuated with him, too. I snorted at my own self-derision and the current track my thoughts meandered down.
In fact, it was because of Arch that she and I were currently sequestered along the bank of the Stygian Lake, right on the edge of Athenos.
The lake belonged to no country, but acted as the shared border between Athenos, Strathos, and Theris — the lands belonging to followers of Athena, Ares, and Demeter respectively.
Thankfully, no one really ventured here unless they were making the trek to Ithacene through the valley that split two peaks of the Ourean Mountains. Therefore, no one was likely to stumble upon Nyssa as she struggled to utilise her mother’s power.
I hadn’t even attempted to address the fact that my own powers were in dire need of more control. And I was grateful that she hadn’t noticed yet either.
The lake itself was still. Its deep, dark waters were as smooth as glass, rippling only when Nyss tossed pebbles into it as she attempted to negate her building frustration.
“How did she do this?” she yelled, her voice echoing off the water. “How did she grow something from nothing? How did she create living, breathing things with nothing more than a thought?”
Each question was punctuated by the splashes of stones fracturing the mirror image of the setting sun. Each rock hit a little harder, rippled a little further, until a whole spray shattered the image entirely.
Nyssa’s accompanying cry was filled with all the frustration she felt but couldn’t articulate. She paced the length of shore, wearing a track through the damp black sand.
“Perhaps—”
“Don’t.” She scowled. “Don’t placate me. Don’t ask me to complete trivial little tasks. Obviously, I can’t handle even that.”
“You’re being a brat, Nyss.” Charon’s disembodied voice floated down from somewhere nearby.
I winced, prepared for the backlash of being called out — but it never came.
She stared out at the water with tear-filled eyes and sobbed aloud as her outstretched hand passed through empty air.
“Since when do you let a lack of knowledge defeat you?” he asked. “That’s not the sister I know. It’s not the sister I trained, either.”
Her gaze fell to her shifting feet. “I know.”
I wanted nothing more than to tilt her chin up and kiss away the tears tracking down her cheeks, but this was not my moment to intrude upon. She needed this. She needed him.
So I sat and continued to absentmindedly braid some reed stems together. I listened. I learned. I tucked that knowledge away for future use.
Charon had a distinct way of comforting Nyssa while also challenging her beliefs.
She believed she was incapable of wielding her powers over life.
He reminded her that she had once believed that about her powers over death.
She believed she was only going to lead the realms into ruin.
He told her that the Fates have decreed otherwise so why should she believe any different?
By the time he was done, her tears had vanished, replaced by a steady resolve humming beneath her breastbone which echoed beneath mine — and I had woven the reeds into a completed ring, intricately entwined, just like our threads of fate.
The ring gave me an idea.
Two, actually.
Growing in patches along the shore were long-stemmed plants with leaves shaped like arrowheads, and white, triple-petalled flowers. I’d discarded a handful of them after learning that their stems weren’t so easily woven together. But they could be useful for something else.
Reaching over, I plucked a dying flower from the pile at my feet and squished it in my clenched fist. The petals bruised and tore, and the slight scent of grapefruit now coated the skin of my palm.
“What about this?” I called, approaching her with a tentative smile, and held out my hand in offering.
Nyssa cupped her hand beneath mine, catching the pulverised plant with a frown. “I don’t understand,” she said, the wrinkle between her brows deepening. “What am I supposed to do with a very sad looking Katniss flower?”
“Heal it. Bring it back to life.”
Her face shuttered. “Caelus, I can’t.”
“Nyssa,” Charon interrupted from somewhere between us and the lake. “If you can bring this solid lump of a god back from the dead, I know you can do it with a tiny flower.”
“Hey,” I scowled.
But it was worth the smile that graced her lips. I would endure far more for far less reward.
“I’ll try,” she said, more to herself than to us.
She raised her palm, eyeing the flower like it had personally offended her, and — nothing.
“Ugh!” Nyssa roared a minute later, loud enough to startle some nearby waterbird, and clenched her own fist around the flower.
She began pacing again.
“What were you thinking when you saved me?” I asked her quietly.
She stumbled mid-step, her cheeks flushing copper when she finally met my gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I mean: what specifically did you think of? How did you do it?”
She hesitated a heartbeat before answering. “I remember pouring everything into it.”
“Into what?”