Chapter 29 Sorrow #2
Two, even if she knew where the crew was, she’s not about to fold.
Three, they can place bets on who’s included in the party. These sovereigns are ignorant, but not that ignorant.
Four, fuck them.
Fuck them for disposing of Sorrow and her crewmates like dumpster trash when their values turned out to be different.
Fuck them for banishing Love and threatening Andrew’s existence.
Fuck them for casting off Merry when she was born, just because she didn’t fit the so-called immortal concept of perfection.
Fuck them for shooting Malice in the back like cowards and almost killing him.
Fuck them for inspiring Sorrow and then disillusioning her. Fuck them for dismissing her. Fuck them for breaking her heart.
The iridescent ruler winces as if she’s a mind reader. Maybe the hurt is mutual, because none of these supreme beings act haughty or unflappable. Rather, they appear worn. In their eyes, they feel equally duped.
“All of this effort,” the god with winged brows says, clamping his hands behind his back. “Lives compromised. History and destiny forsaken. All this for the sake of mortals.”
Ah. That’s where the ignorance begins.
“All of this for all of us,” Sorrow maintains. “Fate doesn’t have to involve controlling mortal will. We can find a balance between chance and destiny, a new life cycle, and we might be better for it.”
They frown collectively, struggling to perceive her meaning. Pity swells in Sorrow’s throat because it’s always been this way. It’s all they know.
It’s all she’d once known too.
“What qualifies you to speak on humanity’s behalf?” the cloaked god demands.
“That’s rich,” Sorrow scoffs. “Mortals can’t speak for themselves because they don’t know deities exist.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“But it’s half the answer, while the other half is simple.
Our crew includes immortals, humans who became immortals, immortals who became humans, outcasts who grew up near humans, and humans resurrected into devils.
And the rest of us have either loved humans or befriended them.
That’s what makes us the most elite crew of archers.
Not because it includes the Goddess of Love, but because we’re diverse. It has to start with us.”
“Has to?” the cloaked god repeats. “And you say fate has no place in the universe.”
“I never said that,” Sorrow parries. “I said there’s room for every possibility and for everyone. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a big fucking sky up there, with a lot of fucking stars. You’re just afraid of what you don’t know.”
The iridescent goddess steps nearer. “And what are you afraid of?”
“Tweed blazers. Alien invasions. Romantic comedies.”
“Oh, I imagine such triggers would distress anyone.” She tilts her head, bringing those exfoliated cheekbones into stark relief. “Or does the answer have to do with the male companion you left behind?”
When Sorrow narrows her eyes, the goddess clarifies, “Envy.”
The name produces a cramp in Sorrow’s gut. They don’t know about the legend meant to empower this campaign. The one that binds her and him together like a pair of barnacles. Yet this female expects the shape and sound of his name to affect Sorrow.
An aurora of color surrounds the female, prisms from the waterfalls floating across into the enclosure.
“You claim to have no idea of your crew’s whereabouts.
Yet you weren’t alone on the pier. Or do you not consider the God of Envy an ally?
That would be odd, seeing as you tossed yourself into the fray so he could escape.
One would think you were petrified of his capture. ”
“Ugh.” Sorrow flips her eyes heavenward. “I was petrified that if he got shackled, we’d have one less fighter on our roster.”
“So your platonic history is intact. You were being practical. He’s merely a necessity, a crewmate who routinely antagonizes you but demonstrates excellent aim.
A comrade rather than a friend or paramour.
And a valuable one, if you’ve chosen him over yourself. Thus, you must know where he’s headed.”
Who died and made this female cleverer than she deserves? And what’s with the benign tone? It doesn’t match the insulted, belittling expressions the other rulers wear, the rest of them having lost their patience the moment Sorrow got comfortable talking back.
There’s only one response she’s in the mood to give. Because her hands are bound, Sorrow glances at each monarch, going down the line. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you—” then to the iridescent ruler, “and fuck you.”
As a deliberate afterthought, Sorrow finishes with, “Your Majesties.”
“That tongue of yours is quite the coping mechanism,” the god with winged brows snarls.
“You can do what you like to me. I’m used to pain.”
“Immortality 101,” the goddess with the amethyst tresses speaks up, rising from her chair. “There’s a difference between pain that’s fleeting and pain that lasts. And with us, it can last a very long time.”
With the overripe sweetness of fruit on the verge of rotting, the pale goddess elaborates, “Why not ask a certain introspective crewmate?”
Wonder. Sorrow’s confidence experiences a quick death. In its place, a charred scent fills her nostrils. Yes, she’d looked up to these figures once, but that fateful day tainted the admiration, the downward trajectory continuing ever since.
“Would you care for a sample of what she endured?” the amethyst ruler suggests.
“Like I said,” is all Sorrow replies.
Yet it’s the iridescent ruler who Sorrow has bigger trouble facing, especially when the female observes Sorrow intuitively, like a former Goddess of Wonder would. “Your botched escape was rather explicit, including the look Envy gave you before he blocked that arrow on the pier.”
The cramp in Sorrow’s gut intensifies. The ruler continues rubbing salt into the wound.
“Such an exhibition brings to mind other looks. The one Love bestowed upon Andrew as we targeted him. The one Anger directed to Merry when we charged at them in a carnival. The one Malice gave Wonder in The Archives, before he took a shot to the heart for her.”
“About that,” Sorrow jumps in. “How the hell do you sleep at night? Are you the least bit sorry?”
Shadows of remorse cross their respective features. “Repentant is a better word,” the cloaked god with pitched brows acknowledges, since he’s the one who targeted Malice. “Chastened to have struck down an unarmed archer in the back.”
“That’s why we did not bear arms on your crew shortly after Malice and Wonder’s destructive actions,” the hawkish god defends.
“We called a ceasefire and sought to explain the situation to our subjects, only to lose a number of Dark Gods to your side, then to discover Malice survived the injury and you cemented your plot against us.”
“The drawbacks of haste are plentiful,” the pale goddess judges, her epicene features creasing.
The amethyst goddess steers them back to the subject of Sorrow and Envy, including their attempt to save each other by the shore. “Since your sentimentality has spread like a virus, the susceptibility to love growing into a contagion among your crew, a theory presently festers in our minds.”
“You can theorize all you want, geniuses,” Sorrow says. “You’d be wrong about him and me. We’re not like our peers.”
The iridescent ruler drifts off for a second. “How many arrows do you have in your quiver?”
Wow. Talk about a change of subject.
Not to mention, Sorrow’s archery is no place in sight. She lost the chance to find her weapons. And since a deity can’t replace their weaponry, much less produce new ones, she’ll have to deal with the loss. It won’t be the first time.
By the same token, the female says, “It seems you’ve been missing one since youth. In all this time, you’ve failed to recover it.”
The cloaked god twists in his seat and then straightens, brandishing a lone ice arrow between his fingertips. “Would you care to have it back?”
Sorrow blinks. “Where the fuck…”
“In his home,” the iridescent ruler supplies. “According to the deities who swarmed your crew, one of them found it while searching the interior.”
It’s a good thing Sorrow’s already prostrate on the ground, because her knees buckle.
When she and Envy swam to his home, Nostalgia had been guarding the place.
Then after they dealt with him, they found Envy’s cache of alternative weapons gone.
One of those archers—maybe Nostalgia himself—must have discovered Sorrow’s old arrow and taken that too.
All of these years? That duplicitous, double-crossing cocksucker kept Sorrow’s arrow to himself the whole fucking time?
Her fingers curl like talons, the breach of trust rendering her speechless.
It’s one thing for Envy to snatch Sorrow’s weapon and hold it hostage for a few centuries during their era of rivalry.
But to hide this truth for eons, never once confessing in the waterfall enclave?
That amounts to the worst kind of backstabbing.
Another thought minces her to pieces. Claiming another deity’s weapon renders both parties incapable of mating, severing the chance for any type of union. The Stars have declared this, and Envy knows this.
This is also why he’d scoffed at the legend Wonder and Malice discovered. Not just because Sorrow and Envy’s hearts hadn’t been invested, but also because it’s a lost cause.
Her insides curdle. Be that as it may, it’s stupid to publicize this epic reaction.
Sorrow rearranges her features into a mask of stone. “This means nothing,” she lies. “The immortal prick must’ve taken it to use against me later, to bribe or blackmail me for sport.”
“Then he procrastinated for quite a long time. If that’s the case, let us do it for him,” the cloaked god volunteers. “Since he never mustered the courage to follow through.”
“I’m not an easy target.”