Chapter 7 #4
Beaming, Monty procured a ridiculous looking fountain pen from his bag.
Casimir, damn him, was still eyeing August with that devilish gleam in his eye that reminded me of a lion toying with the idea of tormenting his prey.
He knew August couldn’t ignore that look. It was an invitation and a challenge.
Sure enough, as August met Casimir’s gaze, his features twisted into surprise, and then dismay. “I’m sorry, is there something you need help with?”
Casimir merely shook his head and shrugged, apparently unfazed by the obvious hostility in August’s tone.
I heaved a sigh of relief when Casimir trained his gaze back to the textbook.
I began to read in turn, but stopped when my tattoo began prickling.
I scratched at it and glanced up to find Casimir watching me with that same, insufferably cruel smile plastered onto his face.
I could almost hear the wheels of mischief turning in that twisted mind of his.
I shot him a warning glare, and then forced my gaze back to the page, though my brain refused to process any of the words.
After five minutes passed in this torment, Monty yawned loudly and stretched his arms, apparently bored, his textbook opened to the wrong page.
“So…” August spoke with the air of someone who desperately wanted to get through the next few minutes as quickly as possible.
“The two questions we must answer are, one, what does this tale tell us about the nature of trust and human fallibility, and two, is Orpheus and Eurydice’s love doomed by fate, or choice?
” He paused, his expression tentative. “Arden, would you like to start us off?”
I was so surprised by this that I nearly bit through the cheek I was gnawing on.
“Well,” I said, swallowing down the metallic flavor of blood, “It seems a bit reductive to blame the failure of this love story on fate. It was Orpheus’ choice to look back, after all.
But I suppose there’s an argument to be made for blaming the shepherd who chased them into the woods where Eurydice was bitten in the first place.
If he hadn’t tried to kill Orpheus, they wouldn’t have fled in such haste, and Eurydice wouldn’t have been bitten. ”
August frowned. “I don’t think Skinner is asking us to consider the earlier parts of the story, just how the story ends,” he mused.
“We’re meant to consider the pivotal moment when Orpheus is leaving the Underworld and whether his decision to turn around was really a choice.
Did Hades know Orpheus would turn around? Or was it all Orpheus’s fault?”
Monty blinked rather rapidly as though baffled by August’s lexical gymnastics.
August clarified, “What I mean is that Hades knew Orpheus was only human. He was bound to make a trivial mistake that would doom him—even if we know that in hindsight, it would’ve been easy to avoid.”
“So, what, you’re going to let Orpheus off the hook, just like that?” The accusation fell from my lips with more heat than I’d intended, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Orpheus gets to blame fate, or Hades, or whomever you like—while poor Eurydice is forever condemned to the Underworld.”
I crossed my arms and sat back with a huff. My face grew hot when I realized Monty and August were staring at me and wearing twin dumbfounded expressions.
August sighed, though not impatiently. It was a sorrowful sound, like he’d guessed my vitriol had very little to do with a Greek tragedy and everything to do with him and his choices.
“I only meant,” he began slowly, as though approaching a dangerous animal, “that we should consider the context in which this myth was written. We know the Greeks believed their lifespans were determined by the three Fates. Clotho spun the thread which began a person’s life, and her sister Atropos cut the thread, thereby ending that life.
Maybe Eurydice was never meant to come back to the surface. Perhaps we should blame fate.”
“You’ve forgotten Lachesis,” Casimir cut in abruptly. “The third sister of the Fates.”
“Should I be writing all this down?” Monty asked, his brow furrowed in worry, the moron.
August rolled his eyes at the correction. “I didn’t forget Lachesis,” he said calmly. “I was simply trying to be brief in my explanation.”
Casimir doggedly continued, “Is absolving men of all accountability a habit of yours? Or is it just a personal preference?”
My spine went rigid at the accusation. I fought the urge to look at August, to gauge his reaction to this challenge.
August spluttered, “I beg your pardon?”
Leaning forward with a predatory glint in his eye that told me he was enjoying this far too much, Casimir said in a low tone, “I think you heard me.”
I did look up then, unable to train my expression into anything other than dismay.
“Casimir,” I said in warning, but he ignored me.
Monty’s eyes flicked nervously between the pair of them.
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” August scoffed, still glaring at Casimir. “I don’t even know you.”
“Oh, but I know you, Sinclair,” Casimir said, smirking broadly.
August seemed too flummoxed for words, but then he looked toward me, accusingly.
Before I could summon a reply, Casimir glanced at me, a conspiratorial smile curving his lips. “Why don’t we ask Farrow for her opinion,” he suggested.
Surprise and anger flashed across August’s face at Casimir’s familiar tone, at the implication that we were well acquainted.
The blush that had momentarily abated now returned to my face in full under the weight of Casimir’s flirtatious gaze.
My lips opened and closed, but no words came out.
I had been right to dread this group assignment.
If Skinner really had intended to torment me today, his plan was succeeding beyond measure.
They were still waiting for me to say something.
“I’m not going to comment on personal accountability,” I said with a meaningful look toward Casimir.
“But, on the matter of Orpheus, I don’t believe fate necessarily compromises free will.
Despite whatever the gods were up to, the mortal characters in these stories still made choices that impacted the outcomes of their lives.
These myths are meant to be read as lessons on humility and understanding human weakness. ”
Monty looked positively dumbfounded, and August sullen.
Casimir was smirking as if he’d won a prize. He tilted his head toward me with interest. “Then, would you also agree Orpheus was wrong not to trust Hades?”
I frowned. What was Casimir’s game?
“No, not exactly. I certainly understand why Orpheus looked back—” I said, struggling for the right words to express my thoughts. “It was…just a very human impulse. One that Hades correctly anticipated, knowing he would get to keep Eurydice with him in the Underworld.”
Casimir nodded thoughtfully. “And yet, if Orpheus had just trusted Hades’ word, he wouldn’t have ruined everything,” he observed.
Was he taking August’s side, now?
“Perhaps accountability shouldn’t be limited to just Orpheus,” I said, and something flashed in Casimir’s gaze.
I continued heatedly, “Perhaps Orpheus was right to suspect Hades of skullduggery. After all, he abducted Persephone—who was very much alive, by the way—and dragged her to the Underworld to make her his wife. His prisoner.”
Here, August tried to interject, but I cut him off, far too preoccupied with winning this argument with Casimir. “Give me one good reason Orpheus should’ve trusted Hades.”
“Because,” said Casimir, leaning forward, his eyes glittering with amusement, “when you don’t have any other options, you have to trust the devil you know.” He smiled at the look of indignation on my face, knowing I was finally wise to his game.
He thinks I don’t trust him. No, I corrected—he knows I don’t trust him, and he’s trying to make a point.
August grumbled mutinously under his breath, irritated at being ignored, which I suspected only served to amuse Casimir.
I suppressed the urge to kick him under the desk.
“As for kidnapping Persephone, well—that whole situation was pretty shady, I’ll give you that,” Casimir conceded, leaning closer, his arm nearly brushing my elbow.
“But unfortunately for you, my side of the argument has the benefit of hindsight. We know for a fact that Hades was trustworthy in this case. It was Orpheus who fucked everything up.”
I slammed my book shut. “Fine! You win. Did you get that, Monty?” I snapped.
A flustered Monty rustled around for a clean page in his notebook, his fountain pen dripping ink all over the pages.
“Or Maybe Orpheus looked back simply because he loved her,” blurted August.
“No one asked you!” I snapped.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the four of us.
When August turned to me, his dark eyes were troubled. “I didn’t mean to imply that your points weren’t valid, Arden.” He shot Casimir an icy look.
August’s apology cut right through me, needling under my skin.
But why should I care if I hurt his feelings?
He hadn’t spared a thought for mine, when he’d unceremoniously dumped me in the library.
The tip of my pencil snapped between my fingers and Monty and August exchanged an uncomfortable glance.
Casimir, on the other hand, watched me with a mildly curious expression.
For once, he did not comment on my temper.
August cleared his throat. “So, um. Would anyone like to summarize our thoughts? We ought to turn in something,” he suggested.
Monty, who had likely never expressed a single coherent thought in his entire life, nodded enthusiastically.
Casimir clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back, arching a lazy brow at August’s suggestion.
August met his eye, albeit reluctantly. Casimir’s expression was indifferent, but there was a glimmer of ice lurking just beneath the mask.
“Sounds like you’ve volunteered yourself for that job, Sinclair. Best get on with it.”