Chapter 4 The Paradise of Rest
THE PARADISE OF REST
Acacius
The smell of sulfur greeted Acacius as his feet touched down on solid, mountainous ground. Firelight from the basins bounced across the cavern walls, drawing his silhouette against the granite.
He rested his shoulder against the stone, unable to handle putting his full weight down on his knee. After Viviana’s strike, he’d twisted his leg at a violent angle. The injury would’ve healed in seconds had it not been for Mansi and her infuriating ammunition.
He’d forgotten about the two goddesses and their close friendship to Marina, and it hadn’t occurred to him that there was a chance they’d be nearby.
His only objective was to locate Marina.
Seeing her in the Pit, breaking the pride of her opponent like they were an effigy, thickened the vicious taste for vengeance on Acacius’s tongue.
He longed to do the same to her, and his attention had mistakenly tunneled on her alone.
The nerves in his palms tingled, still fresh with the sensation of her throat in his grasp. He saw the terror bubbling under the serrated surface of her eyes, and it had made his heart race in ecstasy.
The feeling fizzled out after Marina disappeared with Mansi and Viviana, leaving him in a destroyed lounge surrounded by deities that brimmed with curiosity, with nothing left to do but wait until the side effects of Mansi’s fucking bullets wore off enough to teleport.
Nothing had gone his way.
He acted too rashly, too impatiently, leading to recklessness.
Acacius’s abdomen tensed up, and he hunched forward, gripping the wound in his shoulder, still slick with blood. His flesh mended at an agonizing pace, but the pain was a knife traveling through his numb layers. He could hardly feel it in the muscles and arteries of his strained arms.
Even after confronting Marina, the emptiness in his chest lingered.
Blood pounded in his ears.
What would it take to go away?
A knot gripped in the base of his throat.
Gods, he loathed everything—the idea of returning to his bedchamber just to stare at his sheets, how Marina fought back with such little fervor, and that tracking her down and confronting her did absolutely nothing to expunge the ache pulsating deep within him.
His breath rushed in and out.
It changed nothing.
Ruelle was still gone. Cassius was no longer a High God. Naia was on the Council, and her demigod child still lived.
He curled forward, and a guttural roar tore out of him.
The granite walls of the mountain shook, knocking pebbles loose from the stone crevices.
He stormed forward and drove his fist through one of the stalactites dripping from the cavern ceiling. The stone shattered like glass, alleviating some of the pressure in his chest.
Blood seeped in between his fingers, the flesh of his knuckles dangling like pieces of torn fabric.
He growled out, furious with how long it was taking the cuts to heal, and ripped his arm back, breaking off another row of the spikes. They fractured like icicles, spitting pieces across the cave floor.
Acacius kicked through the wall. The rock gave way to his divine strength, crumbling a hole in the limestone.
He reared his knee out of the mess, his breath heavy and fists wound tightly at his sides. Vermillion liquid splattered beside his feet. The blood led a warm trail down his skin.
Catching his breath, he lifted his head to survey the chunks of stone and wreckage through the cavern.
By the next day, the stalactites would miraculously grow back; the shattered rocks would disappear, as if they melted and formed into the floor.
There would be no sign of his tantrum, just a memory of his carnage.
The hostile terrain was immune to his violence, his Chaos and Ruin wound too deep within its pores, bleeding out into Moros.
That was one of his duties—to supply the atmosphere of the prison. It was why he referred to this cavern as his wrecking room. He visited regularly and took the opportunity to purge his grievances and anger. The divine power emitted from his screams and aggression seeped into the mountain itself.
Acacius slumped against the wall, the hard grooves of the stone digging into his back.
The rage quaking under his skin eased, and he let out a sharp exhale through his nose, glaring across the cavern at the hole he’d kicked in.
This was the most he could do—destroy and exert his pain.
But it wasn’t enough.
Would it ever be?
Acacius shoved himself off the rocky surface. His divine power formed a cobalt cloud in front of him, and he stepped inside and came out on a bed of rolling grass.
His eyes quickly adjusted from the darkness of the cavern to the bright horizon, the wisteria lining its edge in vivid color.
It was such a peaceful view, as if it were an oil painting brought to life. Looking at it clenched Acacius’s stomach, and he strangled the urge to set fire to the swaying limbs of the trees. A bad habit. The Land of the Dead was off limits to his hostile ways.
Before him stood the grand iron gates to the entrance of the Paradise of Rest. The pointed arches reached up into the angelic sky, the pillow-like clouds obscuring their spiked tops.
The Paradise of Rest was a sacred sector of the Land where souls could choose to spend their afterlife uninterrupted.
Acacius had only walked through the polished gates once, with Cassius and Iliana.
Months after their deaths as mortals, once they’d grown accustomed to their new roles as deities, Cassius had wanted them to have one final moment with their mother.
Not that Acacius recalled her much, seeing as she passed away when he was only a child.
His maternal figure had always been his eldest sister.
The Paradise of Rest was also where Ruelle currently resided.
Was she happy now? Did respite finally greet her in the afterlife with Klaus? Did she regret the way she’d ended her life in front of Acacius? Would she ever show remorse for what she’d forced him to endure?
When he thought about the prospective answers to these questions for too long, the impulse to crush something or someone surged in his hands.
As much as he loved Ruelle, a reoccurring thought toyed with him: Did she even consider what seeing her death would do to me?
Acacius rubbed at his chest, hoping it would lessen the stabbing sensation a bit.
A soft swoosh sounded from behind, and the stoic presence of his brother’s oldest friend appeared. Now the ruler of the Land.
“Acacius,” Mavros greeted, claiming the spot at his side.
Acacius said nothing in return.
His brother’s attendant stood with his hands placed in front of him, his thick dreadlocks pulled up off his shoulders.
It was the only change he’d seen on the god’s appearance since becoming a High God.
Acacius had assumed he would take on wearing something more lavish, anything other than the thick wool robe he’d presented himself in for centuries.
Perhaps adopting an outfit more like Cassius’s tailored suits, something fitting of a High God.
Not that Acacius ever cared about those things.
However, that seemed to be the case with Mavros as well. He looked as he always did, his hands joined in front of his black robe, permeating a calmness that Acacius perpetually considered a challenge.
Mavros fixated ahead on the gates.
Every evening, for the last four months, when Acacius appeared outside of the Paradise of Rest, not once had Mavros bothered him.
Though, he could feel eyes on him from afar.
The wisteria blossoms and the blades of grass all reported back to the new High Goddess of Nature, Nathaira, who resided across the Land in her small cottage.
The glimpses of silver silk teleporting down the riverbank were members of the Errai, the deities of death who all worked as a collective under their high ruler.
Acacius sensed their anxiety, chewing holes in their lips under their marble masks. They were all waiting for him to break, for his Chaos to leak out and wreck the order of the Land of the Dead.
After a beat, Mavros sighed out an exasperated sound. “You cannot enter.”
It made Acacius feel like a child. “I am aware.” As if he would ever break the laws of his brother’s Land.
Now leave, he wanted to say, but refrained, knowing Cassius would condemn disrespect toward Mavros.
Silence settled between them. The jostling breeze ruffled lavender stalks atop the knolls, and the sweet fragrance touched Acacius’s nose.
He peered off to the side. The grove of lilac parted the Paradise of Rest from the Serpentine Forest. Wispy, frail limbs danced over the River of Caelum.
The scents, the sounds, they were too familiar. Nostalgia wept in his chest.
The Land of the Dead was just as much a home to him as his own realm was.
For centuries, he’d walked its plains to visit his brother.
The horrifying nightmare of finding Cassius after the Bleeding still haunted his mind.
Despite it nearly being five thousand years ago, he could still feel the savage cleansing of his mortal coil, weak and lethargic, crawling out of his realm to find his siblings.
Acacius’s ritual had only lasted three days. Iliana’s was five. Cassius’s seven.
“He is well,” Mavros said, as if he could sense Acacius’s unsettled thoughts. “Cassian, I mean. In case you were wondering.”
All of Acacius’s life, he’d known his brother as Cassius, but it had become like second nature to call him Cassian in the presence of others. A name he hadn’t spoken in a while.
Acacius ground his teeth. “I wasn’t.”
It was a lie. Iliana had given him the location of Cassius’s new home. Acacius debated visiting him, turning over the stationary delivered by Iliana’s boyden in his fingers until the ink nearly faded. The tension in his gut stopped him, though.