Chapter 24
Envy
There’s a star that flashes proudly in the sky. It radiates amid the galaxy, glowing as opulently as an expensive jewel. The pompous thing should humble itself in the presence of its maker, yet the galaxy excuses this behavior, for the ostentatious specimen is too confident to deny.
The star is also competitive. It outshines its neighbors with finesse, showing off to its best advantage.
Beneath the hemisphere, The Fate Court and an assembly of Guides quirk their lips.
Convening around the stargazer of Fortune’s Crest, these observant rulers and mentors agree.
The celestial is boastful but stunning, a veritable source of jealousy and vanity.
Hence, it bears the marks of a pride god.
“He is ready,” the Guide of Envy announces.
With The Court’s blessing, the female mentor extends a cupped palm and summons the star, which dives from the firmament and lands with a flourish into her hand.
***
Sorrow
At the same time, there’s a star that glints quietly in the sky. Not far off, pulsing with a mellow light, this celestial is lonely. It hovers by itself, solitary yet sympathetic to its environment, from the dull light of isolated planets to the weeping meteors with no place to land.
This star wants to help, to console its neighbors. It tries, it really does. In fact, it sends tiny gleams of hope into the universe, but the offerings fizzle out before they reach their destinations.
It’s too much. There’s just too many of them. This star bears the darkness like a weight, fighting to hold itself up. Maybe one day it will learn how to thrive. Until then, it cries when it thinks no one is watching.
Yet someone is watching.
Far below, the Guide of Sorrow gazes at the speck.
The mentor swallows, aware of how his future pupil feels.
And so, rather than wait for The Court to arrive and give permission—they will surely approve later, once they’ve ceased fawning over that other showy star—the Guide cups his palms, and the star drops, slumping wearily into the mentor’s hands.
Stroking the newly birthed deity, the Guide whispers, “Everything will be all right.”
***
Envy
He grins at the mirror and blows himself a youthful kiss. “Good morning, beautiful.”
And later, when it’s time to craft his arrows, Envy chooses glass. It reflects his flawless countenance, paying homage to every exquisite contour.
***
Sorrow
She flops onto her little stomach, mashes her small face into a pillow, and groans until she falls back asleep.
And later, when it’s time to forge her arrows, she chooses ice. It’s a numbing element, a protective barrier against pain, so that when her time comes to serve the mortal realm, each pierce of her weapon will soothe an ache. Or cause one, depending on what’s needed.
By then, she will know the difference.
***
Envy
Despite his fledgling years, he’s the only pupil whose feet reach the ground from his chair. Even if his voice hasn’t broken yet, at least his height is an achievement.
In a misted enclave of waterfalls, Envy sits with four other youths while The Fate Court promenades around them. The sovereigns proclaim that he’s been assigned to the most elite crew of archers in existence.
Excellent. Envy likes the sound of this. The best of the best. The top of the immortal chain, etcetera, etcetera. He won’t have to compare himself to anyone, except his crewmates.
There’s Wonder, who’s a buxom Venus. Plush, perky, and pretty. Wildflowers ornament her chestnut hair, and she has a wandering gaze, her attention drifting to the clouds instead of Envy’s face.
Too bad. He’ll need to rectify that later.
There’s Anger, all olive skin, sculpted cheekbones, and graphite eyes.
Short fuse, for sure. With his nostrils flaring, he’s got a furious type of handsomeness.
Though his unadorned shirt, pants, and fingerless gloves leave something to be desired, which prompts Envy to smooth over his silken shirt.
If that turbulent god gets to claim the coveted title of crew leader, at least Envy can dress better.
Love is a raven-haired spitfire in a black dress trimmed with lace and a pair of wings splaying from her back like an exotic accessory. She represents the most complex of emotions, and because of that, she’s the first love goddess to be successfully created in history.
Then there’s the banshee seated to Envy’s right. The one called Sorrow.
He scoffs at her ensemble. A shredded skirt that has seen better days, a vest dyed in a shade of nightmare-black, and boots with an assortment of metal buckles she must have stolen from a guillotine.
Is this goddess actually considered one of the elite? Look at her. She’s no more celestial than a witch.
Oval face pulled down into a dour visage, lower eyelashes dusted in star flecks, and a wry twist to her chapped lips.
Tragically, the creepy goddess has painted her fingernails to match her unkempt hair.
It boggles Envy to think of how many buckets of slime were sacrificed in the name of that drab color.
And Fates. Does a side of sarcasm come with that morose countenance?
As if hearing the unspoken question, Sorrow cuts her gaze toward Envy. Like a pair of fists, their eyes slam into one another, the impact threatening to knock him off his chair. The goddess pierces him with a stare that pulls no punches, plays no games, and offers zero compliments.
Stars be damned. His confidence withers like a dry leaf.
***
Sorrow
What the fuck is he looking at?
The preening male gawks as if he’s caught Sorrow brewing a contaminated potion or speaking a language he doesn’t understand. In fact, it takes him a while to get over himself. At which point, the god puffs out his chest like a defensive glory hound.
He’s expecting what? For her to blush?
And what a snob. Despite The Court’s introductions, they haven’t said a word to each other, yet already she can tell this much about the ass-licker called Envy, with his high-maintenance clothes and styled hair.
Clearly, he fancies himself the hottest catch in their realm.
In which case, he probably jerks off to his reflection each night, as part of his bedtime routine.
Unimpressed, Sorrow narrows her eyes. It takes effort to give him attention, and he must sense this, because her reaction accomplishes the opposite of what she’d intended. Relishing her expression like a morsel of candy, the god flashes her a smarmy grin. Then he winks at her.
***
Envy
After the indoctrination, their crew travels to the summit of a moonlit cliff overlooking the sea, where the road leads to their homes. Love invites them to race down the slope, an offer that gets snubbed. Anger twists his mouth in distaste and struts off. Sorrow leaves, tugging Wonder with her.
Because Envy’s too good for that hex of a female, he turns his sights on a disappointed Love. She’s comely and famous, two qualities that meet his standards. Since no deity their age has failed to melt in his presence, he makes a sly comment to the lone goddess, then leans in for a kiss.
Love responds by tripping his ass down the hill. As he rolls to a stop at the bluffs’ base, Envy resists the urge to snarl, pout, or retaliate. Worse, he has company, having landed at the feet of the least desirable female in The Dark Fates.
Looming over him like a wraith, Sorrow crosses her arms and juts out her gangly hip.
She must have just parted ways with Wonder.
Or Wonder moseyed off on her own, intent on daydreaming.
At any rate, he senses what Sorrow’s about to say, how she’ll mock and declare that rejection looks fantastic on him.
Envy launches to his feet, acting as if he’d meant to fall. Rolling her eyes, Sorrow flips around to leave.
He cocks his head. Well, well. Despite her unspoken insults, silence in his presence won’t do, so who can blame him for what shoots out of his mouth?
He says, “So which star shed you like a tear?”
Sorrow whirls and snatches a fistful of his shirt. Yanking him into her, she sneers, “The same one that’s going to knock you on your flashy ass. Don’t fuck with me, pretty god.”
These are the first words they say to each other. And fine, now they’ve met.
***
Envy
What is this? Pick-on-Envy Day?
He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like her either.
She has made the word pretty sound like a cheap trick.
Envy swats her grimy fingers away and mutters that she’s going to stain him. By the time he finishes dusting himself off, Sorrow’s gone.
Very well. Let the witch go. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
It’s a reassuring train of thought. His Guide, Siren, would approve.
So why is Envy marching down the nearest trail, hoping to find and rile up Sorrow more?
Hiking past the outcroppings, he fails to locate the goddess. She must have charged in the other direction.
Instead, he finds something else. A secluded inlet.
Curious, Envy rushes home and boards his small boat, the vessel moored to a stilt beside his house. Sailing back to that inlet, he pilots down its course and happens upon a lagoon. Beyond which, vines cover the entrance to a cavern, its passages leading to an enclave of pools and mist.
***
Sorrow
She grows taller. From her Guide, Echo, the goddess attends daily instructions and learns about the intricacies of sadness. The sound of melancholy, which plays like the strings of a violin, and jagged line between agony and despair.
Sorrow becomes familiar with the facial expressions of a crestfallen soul, cracked voices that signal catastrophe, and the watery quiver of tears.
During field trips to the human realm, she learns how to predict anguish, including every nuance and coping mechanism.
So many of them, in such distress. Beggars, prisoners, daughters, husbands, widowers, students, leaders, followers.
She coaches herself not to weep, not even when she’s alone, curled in a fetal position in bed.
She sucks it up. Otherwise, she’ll drown.
***
Envy