44. Nyssa
Nyssa
I awoke to an empty bed. I knew I shouldn’t be hurt by that — after all, I was the one who’d told Caelus it was a one-night deal — but it still stung a little.
I rolled over dramatically, lamenting his absence, my face landing in the pillow where he’d lain all night. A faint trace of caramel still lingered in its fibres, and without warning, tears burned behind my eyes.
We were bound, he and I. I had no idea what that meant for us going forward, or how much it had influenced my emotions these past few months, but I knew one thing: we were inevitable, in one way or another.
I let the tears fall, knowing I wouldn’t have another opportunity for solitude today. I needed this tiny unstoppering of anxiety, pain, grief, and overwhelm, lest I fall to pieces in front of those who would use my weaknesses to their advantage.
Resolutely, I made my way to the wardrobe, unsure if the day called for regality or reinforcement.
Deciding against the impedance of a gown, I donned my usual set of black leathers.
Caelus must have hung them to dry before he left because they were bone dry, thank the Furies.
I clearly remembered leaving them in a sodden pile in the bathroom.
I quickly ran a brush through my knotted hair and twisted the strands into a long braid that ran down the length of my spine. Better to err on the side of caution than be caught off guard wearing a dress with hair in my face.
My cold mask of detachment had been worn less and less lately. Somehow, without much conscious decision on my part, four persistent gods had crept past my defences and blasted down my walls. Despite every ounce of pushback, my friendship circle had grown from two sunshiny souls to six.
But today called for more than casual indifference.
Today, I donned three additional pieces of armour: crimson painted lips, an icy facade, and the smoky, flickering darkness of the Shadow Crown.
It weighed heavily these last five years, hidden away in the shadows, but no less burdensome than if I’d borne it openly.
I’d had no real idea how to bear it, nor the responsibilities that came along with it, not since the day it first appeared on my head. The same day my death-wielding powers manifested. The same day Charon’s mother died. The same day Hades faded through the Elysian arch.
It all happened so quickly. The last, startling Charon so badly he almost toppled into the Styx from his perch on his skiff.
It was a different kind of heartbreak, having to watch my best friend ferry the shade of his mother to the Isle of Judgement. Tears had flowed freely from his red-rimmed, grey-blue eyes as my father deemed Lethe worthy of the Elysian Fields.
And then Hades had shocked us both — throwing himself through right after her.
Just like that, he was gone.
They both were.
To this day, I had no idea how Charon forgave me for the role I’d played. It was my fault Lethe was gone; my fault Hades had followed her; my fault he’d lost his sole reason for living, because I had been born.
That morning, my gifts had manifested so violently, I’d been powerless to stop it. And Lethe had paid the price.
She’d been braiding my hair when shadows started leaking from my hands, then oozed from every pore and dripped out of every crevice. They leaked from my ears, eyes, nostrils, and mouth. I watched it all in my bedroom mirror. Horrified. Terrified.
When I cried, my fear caused the dripping to increase its steady tempo. My tears ran gold, mixing with the dark rivulets running down my face. Then my powers blasted outwards, like an explosion.
The edges of my morbid powers latched onto every surface it could find as it fought to claw outwards. The shadows had exploded like a trawler’s net, dragging every soul within a mile back into my body.
As with Leander, their bodies had dropped lifelessly wherever they stood. Empty shells — their souls devoured by my own, and my power had grown with every bite.
They had no shades left to ferry, no lives to judge, and no sentence to be determined. They simply ceased to exist, in any realm.
All except Lethe. Her, I gave back. My grief spat her out in the only way it could manage — a shade. Her own son ferried her across the Styx. My father had judged her. And then they both left us.
I shook off the memories as I laced my boots and headed downstairs in search of the Ferryman himself.
I found Charon in the kitchen — which is never where one wants to find Charon. Utensils were strewn about haphazardly, pans balancing precariously on the edges of benches, remnants of food on every visible surface.
I circled the island bench?—
Yep. That’s a pan on the floor.
Give the boy a break , Velira’s chortle ricocheted through my skull. He’s been up for hours. I think he calls this “cooking.”
The violet menace lounged in the corner, glee in her eyes and flour on her snout.
I think you might’ve been the beneficiary of his prior attempts , I replied, grinning.
I shall not dignify that assumption with an answer.
I cackled loudly which was immediately followed by a loud metallic thud and subsequent groan of pain. Charon emerged from a lower cupboard, rubbing his golden head gingerly. He rose slowly, sheepishly, with a pan in each hand.
He was wearing, of all things, a black, flour-covered apron that read: ‘FERRYING SOULS it was Apollo’s prophecy; Ares forced himself on Aros’ mother and she’s still alive on some island; Hades is dead — which you already knew — and Caelus wove both our fates together in the Fates trial months ago.”
I raised a finger for each secret, ticking them off some invisible mental list as Charon’s eyes grew wider, his jaw dropping lower, with every revelation.
He sputtered. Just sounds — no words made it past his teeth.
“Oh! And Hera killed Zeus,” I tacked on, rather tactlessly.
“What?! Hera? But why?” Charon yelled.
“Really? That’s where you want to start?”
He nodded, dumbfounded.
I sighed. “I broke her protection pendant. The same magic that tore the secrets from our flesh stole hers too. She sobbed the admission as she lay bleeding on the ground. Honestly, the sight was worthy of a painting. But yes, that explains Caelus’ catatonic state.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Charon breathed.
He shook his head, suddenly aware of the syrup sliding off the plate and pooling onto the floor.
“I’ll clean that up after. But breakfast is served, Majesty.
” He grinned that wicked grin, untied his apron, picked up both plates, and led us to the dining room.
“So. Caelus, huh?” He smirked. “And what exactly are you going to do about that?”
I dropped my head into my hands, narrowly avoiding the pile of syrupy-something.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“If you want my advice?—”
“I don’t.”
“—I say go for it.”
“Nobody asked you.”
“Caelus did.” Charon winked down the table.
“What? He did? When?”
“Last night,” he paused, shooting me the most salacious smile I’d ever seen upon his face. “After certain, ah, noises came from your bathroom.”
I choked on what I thought was blueberry pancake.
“And then bedroom,” he added, preening. “I must say, Nyss — I’m impressed. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Technically, I didn’t,” I mumbled.
“What was that?” Charon leaned across the table, mischief glinting in his eyes, that damned dimple cutting into his cheek. He leaned in further, dangerously close to dipping his chest in the pile of sticky goo on my plate. A dusting of flour clung to the end of his aquiline nose.
“Nothing. I said nothing.” The heat in my cheeks belied the lie, and Charon knew it.
“So, you’re telling me the golden prince himself made you scream without even sticking his lightning rod—” a wink, “—somewhere I’d prefer not to think about in relation to my adopted sister?”
I remained silent. Damned if I did, damned if I didn’t.
“Okay, now I’m impressed,” he laughed loudly, his eyes closed as he howled — which was precisely why he didn’t see the forkful of pancake I flicked into his open mouth.
Charon’s eyes snapped open as he choked on the glob of goo sliding down his throat.
“Hint received,” he spluttered between coughs. “No more girl talk.” His eyes slid down to the mess on his plate contemplatively. He scooped up a large glob of potential-pancake and twisted the fork menacingly in his grip.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
His lips turned up at the corners.
“It’s Selection Day, Char. I can’t afford to turn up with pancake in my hair,” I quipped, quirking a solitary black brow.
“No, you’re right. It would clash with your crowns.”
He winked, dropping the fork with a clatter, and rounded the long dining table to offer his elbow.
“Shall we? After all, realms are waiting on you to save them,” he grinned good-naturedly.
I rose, taking a deep, steadying breath.
“Let’s go save them, then.”