Chapter 11 #2
Whatever he's trying to say will come in its own time.
So I wait, drawing in a slow breath and letting my gaze drift briefly back to the glittering city below while he gathers himself to answer.
Finally, after what must be several minutes, he lowers his hands down to the stone railing, gripping it for a second and letting out a long, suffering breath.
“I have my reasons for wanting godhood so badly. And as we know, this is one of the only ways a mortal can earn it.” He hesitates. “The other aspects of the winner’s spoils don’t interest me. Not the money, not the title, and not your sister. You could have all of that. I want divinity.”
I frown. “But... you're already a demi-god.”
“Which isn't the same thing.”
“How?”
His jaw tightens. “A demi-god is not a god.”
They’re not immortal, just damn close to it, but that’s the only real difference. Isn’t it? Is he afraid of death?
“But–”
“Perhaps someday, I might tell you more.” Another pause, more working of his jaw. “But I hope you can trust that I’m telling you what I can. This is important to me. In fact, it’s all I live for.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Surely you can’t mean that?”
“I do,” he says simply, as though it’s a fact of the universe and not the purposeful way that he’s oriented his pursuits.
Slowly, I ask, “Which is why you’re willing to die in the tournament for it?”
“Yes.”
I consider what he’s saying. Thorian constantly waiting for the Trials.
The gods and their games filling his every waking thought.
It seems like torture. Even in our fall from grace, even with the lack of coin and food, Lyra, Ivor, Hilda, and I managed to enjoy our hobbies, to laugh with one another.
Perhaps others might think it obvious to lust over the chance at being a god.
I don’t see the appeal. To live forever while the ones you love die around you.
To be alone. As powerful as the major gods are, they are lonely.
They lack the compassion and soul of a human, and so they’re not really alive.
“I can’t imagine this being the only thing to live for,” I say honestly, as my lungs fill with the cool night air.
I think of my sister, dancing, singing with Hilda and Ivor.
My girlhood at the manor. Losing my parents.
Even in the hardest moments of my life, I wouldn’t trade it for something cold and immortal.
“There is so much in the world. So much love and genuine goodness.”
His brow draws down, and he stands in silence. Perhaps he disagrees with me about all the goodness in the world. Down on the street, two drivers are fighting, their voices loud enough to hear but too wild to make out the words.
I don’t know much about winning the divinity, but I’m sure it must change you.
Thorian doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to fear death.
Certainly I’ve known many self-centered and narcissistic men who can’t fathom the truth of their existence one day coming to an end, and it’s those men who might seek out a magical cure for aging, or dump their life savings into a prophet promising them a path to minor divinity.
Thorian is nothing like those men. Though, he is a demi-god, so perhaps he already feels the pull toward the heavens, toward an existence more than this one. Maybe for him, the godhood would be more like going home.
It’s hard to fathom that someone could have one hand in the stars and the other in the earth and choose to rise anyway.
The gods are fundamentally un-human. It’s what allows them to kill, to spread the godfever and hurt those who worship them without a second thought.
I could never see wanting to become that myself.
Rather than ruminating on it, I try to remind myself that his choices are none of my business. And, in fact, it only benefits me that he wants none of the other prizes. That ensures I can protect my sister. Which is what I’m here to do.
Thorian takes a deep breath, startling me out of my thoughts and turning to me, his brown eyes oozing gold in this light. “Lady Nocturne, it’s important to me that you know something.”
“Yes, Sir Valeheart?” I answer, raising an eyebrow at this sudden formality.
He does the Thorian equivalent of rolling his eyes, then lets out a breath and says, “I have never sacrificed a partner willingly, Nyx. I hope you know that. There are some in there—” he gestures to the throne room as well, “who posit I enjoy killing by proxy. That this, entering year after year, is a ploy for murder. But I have mourned every one of their deaths, and find no pleasure in losing good men. And I especially do not like the idea of your death on my hands. I’ll do everything I can to protect you while we’re competing. ”
“And me, you,” I return, smiling at my little joke.
“I appreciate that,” he sighs, turning back to the city. “It will be a relief to have someone I trust at my back.”
I think of his past partners, vampires and berserkers and the warlock. If Thorian and them couldn’t make it through the trials, then what hope do he and I really have?
It’s too depressing for me to linger on, so I try to think about something else.
“Why do you think Soryn chose us?” I ask.
Thorian chuckles, running his hand over the scruff on his chin, “Likely to piss off Valtor. Maybe just for fun.”
I nod, thinking of that warm, glowing energy I’d felt through my body when she looked at me. Like sinking into a star, or lying on your back in the grass, sunlight washing over you. It was simple and clean, and I already miss it.
Thorian is familiar with this place. It occurs to me, just now, that he’s a wealth of knowledge. He could help me learn more about the major divines, to parse what, if any, advantages we might find in the trials.
“We should call it an early night,” Thorian says suddenly, as though sensing I have more questions for him. When he turns to me, I can’t read his expression. “We leave early for the Trials in the morning, and we’ll need the rest now while we can get it.”
“Right,” I agree, the thought of the Trials starting sending a shiver of trepidation through me.
It’s just as well that we have an early night.
I’ll have to figure out how to fit everything I’ve experienced into a letter for Ivor and Hilda, find someone to send them the correspondence before we set off.
Who knows when my next opportunity will be to communicate with them? Sending a letter with the news of joining the Trials might be cruel, but at least then they’ll have an idea of where I am.
Earlier, I toyed with the idea of poking around the palace, trying to find my sister or someone who might tell me about her. But when I tried to talk to one of the servants, they looked so scared that I felt bad. They wouldn’t reveal a god’s secret. They’re not dumb enough to do such a thing.
I suppose the gods would have a terrible punishment for a servant disobeying them, and I don’t want to take part in that. I just have to tell myself that Lyra is being taken care of. For now, I have to focus on what I can affect.
Thorian walks me to my room, which reminds me more of the one I had at home than the chambers I occupied at the inn.
“Where’s your room?” I ask, then feel my face flush at the implication. Hastily, I add, “In case something happens tonight and we must find one another.”
“I won’t be staying here,” Thorian says, his gaze darkening. “But I’ll be here first thing in the morning. You can trust in that.”
My fingers tighten around the handle of my door, deciding the hell with it.
“Do you know where Lyra is?”
He goes still.
“No.”
The answer is immediate. Certain. Not evasive.
“I've never been told where the Courted Prizes are kept,” he continues. “Only the gods and a select few servants seem to know. I wish I could give you something more.”
Disappointment settles over me, though I can't honestly say I expected a different answer.
“I just…” I swallow. “I keep thinking she's scared. Wondering where I am.”
“If she's your sister, she's spending every moment believing you'll find a way to save her.”
I cling to those words more tightly than I probably should.
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing and stepping backward. He lingers in the hallway, waiting for me to close the door.
Just before I do, I whisper quickly, “Good night, Thorian. Sleep tight.”
I think he won’t answer, but he says a begrudging, “You as well, Nyx.” The words come through the crack in the door, and I can’t help smiling.