15. Nyssa
Nyssa
Charon leapt to his feet the moment I came tumbling through the living room doors, the book on his lap dropping to the floor with a dull thud. His eyes widened in abject horror. It would have been almost comical, if I weren’t moments away from collapsing again.
“Nyssa, what?—”
“Hydra venom,” I choked out, clutching my leg as though the pressure might slow the wildfire racing through my veins. I grimaced at the effort it took not to scream. My blood had turned to flame, devouring everything in its path.
Everything burned.
I was a living pyre.
And then there was the secondary problem — the shade that kept skirting around my periphery.
It taunted me, always moving when I tried to look directly at it.
I didn’t think anyone else could see it.
No one had reacted to its presence. And it whispered to me.
Awful things. Sometimes, they were all I could hear.
“You weren’t enough for me — why should you be enough for the crown?”
“You can’t even control your own power. I see how it consumes you.”
“Daughter of death, always a disappointment.”
My dragon let out a woeful wail. She let go of my hair and glided to the floor.
Our bond was faint now, the venom consuming even that small semblance of comfort.
My strength finally gave out and I dropped down beside her, reaching out a bloodied hand.
She nuzzled into it immediately. It seemed she needed the contact as much as I did.
I was startled to realise my touch wasn’t harming her. Was it the bond? Did she have impenetrable scales? Or was I simply drained of power?
Another flare of fiery pain engulfed me, and all thought ceased to exist, devoured by agony.
Vaguely, I was aware of Charon scooping me into his arms. I leaned in, stealing comfort wherever I could, as he carried me into another room of the palace.
“Don’t touch my skin,” I whimpered.
“I know,” he said gently.
“It hurts, Char,” I sobbed into his chest.
“I know, Nyss. I know. But I’m going to fix this.” His tone left no room for doubt.
“Your life is futile. Your end will be just as dramatic as mine,” the shade breathed into my ear.
The world drifted away.
All I knew was pain, heat, and failure.
I tried to wade through the haze clouding my mind, but my eyes refused to open and my hearing faded into muffled obscurity. Indistinct sounds trickled in, stifled and smothered, like I was underwater. I couldn’t make sense of anything.
Every breath felt like trudging through tar.
Everything was heavy — my limbs, my lashes, my thoughts. All of it trying desperately to pull me under. Back to the comfort and familiarity of darkness.
The urge to let go was almost impossible to resist.
A soft hiss filtered through the sludge — steady, flowing, almost hypnotic. Dimly, I realised it was a faucet. Soft steam kissed my face. Charon’s presence shifted as he gently lowered me down. Warm water caressed every inch of skin, rising to my stinging collarbone.
The hissing ceased.
“You’re going to be okay, Nyssa,” he said resolutely. “I will not allow any other alternative.”
I felt his presence retreating and whimpered at the sudden loss.
“I’ll be right back. I’m leaving you in the bathtub with that dragon. Just for a few minutes, okay?” His voice was reassuring, though tinged with melancholy.
I managed a small nod. And then he was gone.
Waves of pain still rolled through my body, but the warm water somewhat lessened their intensity.
At some point, I managed to crack my eyelids open. A symphony of colours blurred and spun together. I blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the kaleidoscope from my vision, but all I could see were shades of violet and gold.
Dragon.
The word bounced around in my hazy mind.
Her bright golden eyes stared at me intensely, unblinking — as though I might disappear if she looked away for even a moment. She was balancing on the edge of the bath, still as stone, as close as she could get without sitting on top of my head.
Her hot breath brushed across my cheek in steady rhythm, smelling of smoke and toasted marshmallows. She made a trilling noise in the back of her throat, halfway between a wail and a purr, then leaned in closer until her snout bumped my nose.
The bathroom door creaked open, a rush of cold air sweeping in. I heard Charon before I saw him — his footsteps tapping hastily across the tiles.
I turned, meeting his troubled blue eyes.
Before me stood a version of him I’d never met. Gone was the easy smile and solitary dimple, leaving behind someone hollowed out by worry and fear.
“Good, you’re still awake.” He took a deep breath, readying himself for whatever it was he needed to say. I wasn’t sure I could handle more bad news. “I was hoping you would be, so I could ask your permission before potentially killing you myself.”
My brows slashed together, trying to make sense of the words he’d just uttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you remember the tale my mother told us as godlings? The story of Achilles?” He waited for recognition to sink in. I nodded once, perplexed — recalling the tale.
Charon’s mother, Lethe, had tucked us into his absurdly huge bed, pressing a kiss to each of our foreheads. My father had been increasingly absent, and Charon’s had long since met his afterlife.
I’d spent a good portion of my childhood here, in their household.
Lethe sat on the edge of the bed, her presence calm and steady, and I already felt cosy enough to drift off. I stifled a yawn, though, because her stories were always fascinating.
“Tonight I shall tell you the tragedy of Achilles,” Lethe began.
“For it is always the heroes whose stories end in despair.” Her gaze lingered on my face, momentarily lost in thought.
“Achilles, the son of a mortal king and a sea nymph, had a mother who loved him very much.” Now she gazed at Charon as though he were her greatest gift.
I wished I had a mother who looked at me like that.
“Before he was born, a prophecy foretold that Achilles would achieve eternal glory — but at the cost of dying young. So, his mother sought to make him invulnerable. Immortal. When he was born, she brought him to the edge of the River Styx ? —”
A small gasp from Charon interrupted her tale, but she simply smiled knowingly at him.
“Yes, my sweet boy. The very same River Styx your father left to you.”
“But Mama! Papa told me never to touch the water!”
“And you should heed his warning, Charon. Achilles’ mother tried to make her own boy so strong he would outlive the prophecy. But what do we know of the Fates?” she asked us both.
“The Fates always find a way.” My small voice wavered. It felt like an ominous thing for a five-year-old to say, but Lethe offered me a kind smile too, and I knew I’d guessed correctly.
“That’s right, my child. So, what do you think happened to Achilles?”
We both sat there, faces scrunched up as though it would aid our minds.
Realising neither of us could answer, Lethe continued.
“His mother dipped him into the waters of the River Styx. She held onto one of his ankles, so as not to lose him, and submerged his small body. Through whatever powers the waters possess, they made Achilles’ skin impenetrable.
No sword or arrow could harm him, and he grew to be a magnificent warrior, revered among his men.
He led them into battle and even killed a great enemy — a prince.
This prince had murdered Achilles’ closest companion. And so, Achilles slew his enemies with a heart full of vengeance and grief. But he was not infallible as his mother had hoped. In holding onto his ankle as a baby, she unknowingly created his fatal flaw.
The prince’s ally — another prince — learned of this vulnerability.
Some say a god whispered in his ear. Some say the Fates wove the knowledge into his thread.
But the second prince fired an arrow, striking Achilles in his one weak point.
The arrow sank into his heel, and Achilles died just as the prophecy had foretold. ”
“The water made him invincible, except for that one heel, Nyss,” Charon explained, his eyes boring into mine. “I figured it wouldn’t be wise to dump you into the River while you were still unconscious and barely breathing?—”
“You are not dumping me into the river at all!” I rasped, horrified at the prospect.
“No, I’m not,” he laughed. “But the thing that’s killing you is inside you. We need to purge it, from the inside out.”
“No,” I breathed, grimacing.
“You need to drink this, Nyss. Please .”
Charon procured a small vial of grey liquid from a pocket sewn into his wrinkled linen tunic, holding it out so I could see.
Its murky contents swirled sluggishly as he shifted, like bottled storm clouds.
He tilted it further, and the liquid held onto the glass for a moment longer before sliding down.
I felt sick looking at it, knowing I had to somehow force myself to choke down the slimy substance. I tried to reach for the vial, but my arm didn’t respond. Only a slight shrug of my shoulders and the slosh of the bathwater disturbed the silence.
Dread pulsed through my veins, which were once again aflame. Sparking, searing agony struck me as the venom continued to course through my body.
“Soon, soon, daughter. You’ll be dead like me soon,” the shade crooned.
It was right. I was dying. The venom was killing me.
Terrified, I looked at Charon. His face mimicked my own, awash with fear. His boyish features were twisted in indecision — eyes wide, jaw locked — but they quickly hardened into grim determination as he unstoppered the vial and tipped the contents into my parted lips.
The liquid burned cold down my throat. I coughed and spluttered, but I’d already swallowed most of it.
I tried to scream, but the icy pain rendered me frozen, and all I managed was a strangled moan. Unbidden, my body began to thrash and seize. The dragon was thrown from my chest, roaring. Charon’s face filled with horror and guilt, though his body remained immobile.
Despite the panic, my eyes drifted shut. The darkness claimed me again. Perhaps, for the last time.
When they opened again, I was no longer floating in a warm bath with a dragon perched beside my head. No worried god crouched at my side.
Like Achilles, I had been brought to the water’s edge.
I stood on the shore of the River Styx.
A chorus of unearthly voices began to sing, the lyrics reverberating off the glassy water.
“Come down to the water,
Down where it’s deeper,
Here lies what you seek,
Beneath the surface,
No more, no more,
Then you shall be free.”
Unable to resist the lure of the song, I stared, transfixed, at the smooth, black water. Without conscious thought, I watched myself stretch out a hand and dip my bloodstained fingers into the icy cold river.
Awareness snapped back immediately, the cold as jarring as any alarm. I tried to snatch my hand free, but it wouldn’t budge — the river held me firmly in its grasp.
My breathing faltered as I fought against the liquid shackle, my wounds screaming in protest. Golden blood poured down my right leg, mingling with the onyx river.
The waters stirred. They rippled once in the distance. Then again. And again.
Skeletal hands broke free of the surface — hundreds of them — clawing at the air like it was their salvation.
I pulled on my arm again, and this time, it gave a little. But as I drew it partway out, I realised it hadn’t been the water that held me hostage. It wasn’t the river at all. A bony hand had locked tightly around my wrist. And as I gasped, that hand gave a tug of its own.
I fell into the river, inhaling a lungful of water as I was dragged down, down, down — so far down that I scarcely believed I could find my way back.
Is this why we were warned never to touch the river?
The glacial water burned like frosted fire, searing everything it touched — my lungs, my veins, every wound, and every scar I possessed. It ravaged me from the inside out, igniting every nerve.
It felt like it was destroying every tiny piece of me, bit by bit.
And still, the hands continued to claw at me in the pitch-black depths.
“Accept the darkness, child.” An eerie, tri-layered voice spoke softly. It came from everywhere — and yet nowhere. “Stop fighting your fate.”
I screamed, but it came out as little more than a muffled cry. The water burned through my torn-up leg, my clamouring heart, my fractured mind.
“Claim the power that Fate has woven for you.”
That’s when I remembered: I wasn’t entirely helpless.
I was the weapon.
I erupted.
For the first time since my gifts had manifested, I relinquished the tight, fear-filled control I’d held over them. Pure, undiluted power burst from me like an explosion. The water itself shook from my detonation, and the hands vanished, retreating into the murky depths.
And for the first time in my life, I felt… peace. I could exist here in the river, needing neither air nor food. Nobody need fear me here.
The current lulled me towards sleep, until that haunting voice whispered in my ear, startling me awake.
“We have seen your death, child. This is not it. Not yet.” It spoke so softly, humming with otherworldly power.
“You are the daughter of death, yes. But you are also the daughter of life. Dark and light. Night and day. Both. It is time to accept the gifts given to you by those who chose love above all else. Rise, child. Endure. And choose your own fate.”
I felt the presence fade. Felt its strange energy retreating.
A choice lay before me: truly accept myself — who I was at my core — accept my powers and their consequences, or fade into oblivion, here, in these deadly, frozen waters.
It took less than a heartbeat to decide.
I had reasons to live, and they were waiting for me in my bathroom.
I chose to swim.