1.139 [An Unkindness]

“Away with you! Begone! I’ll suffer no more!”

An Unkindness

The children of Helen were still transfixed by the stark pillar of light bisecting the earth and skies when the tragedies began.

Across the Free Mediterranean, from the furthest colonies of the cardinal reaches – southernmost Egypt, easternmost Anatolia, northernmost Thracia, and westernmost Alikos – to the beating heart of ancestral Peloponnesia, the favored heroes of the Tragic Muse Melpomene collapsed in screaming fits.

Some were amongst peers, whose best efforts could not soothe their agony, and whose muses could offer nothing more to them than bright outrage. Some were amongst family, whose heartfelt prayers and promises of equivalent exchange went unanswered by the gods. Some were amongst Tyrants, whose eyes turned one and all to glare hatefully at the western horizon.

It hadn’t even been twenty years since the favored champions of Queen Calliope had suffered the very same fate.

As if those tragedies weren’t enough, a grim declaration soon followed.

There was no mistaking it. No man nor woman was deaf enough to miss it. No closed doors could contain it. Not even the tortured cries of Melpomene’s tragic Heroes were loud enough to drown it out. One and all, the people bore witness to the passing of a torch.

The voice of an era rang loud in every ear.

“THIS MAN TOO IS ALEXANDER.”

Pandemonium followed. Panic and terror and impotent rage, expressed in a thousand-thousand different ways throughout every enlightened city-state and humble colonial hovel. Among those old enough to recognize the voice directly, the old generation that had laid eyes upon the Conqueror in flesh, reactions to his heir were all the same.

One and all, they vowed that they would kill him.

Anastasia, the Caustic Queen

She had known Solus long before the day they first met.

“A man will never love you as much as he loves himself,” her mother had taught her as a girl. It was a lesson every blind maiden learned sooner rather than later. “He will never choose to listen in a world where he can speak. He’ll boast about himself. He’ll boast about his friends. He’ll boast about his country and his idols. He’ll even boast about the men he hates, if it means he doesn’t have to hear your story.”

In many ways, her mother and her fellow maidens were terribly cynical. But at least when it came to that final sentiment, they weren’t wrong.

Anastasia had been promised to the son of a Roman captain in the middle of their siege. At her mother’s earnest urging, she had spent as much time as she could with the man chosen to be her husband. A legionary through and through, he’d been durable and stout, brazen as a bull with a soldier’s rugged charm – and utterly in love with the sound of his own voice.

He had told her tall tales about himself, about his comrades in the legion, about his father the captain, and of course about the General of the West, all of that before he even asked her name. Eventually, when talk of Rome and all its wonders had run its course, rather than asking her about the wonders of her home, of the great city-state his people were at that time invading, he told her of his foes.

Caesar’s campaigns had been extensive, and to hear her short husband tell it, he’d been there every step of the way. He had painted her a thousand pictures of routed barbarians, desperate clashes between legionary and beast, and even the solemn portrait of civil war. In every recounting, he prevailed. With every telling his voice became more impassioned. Until, inevitably, he had run dry of even bittersweet triumphs to tell her. At that point, she had thought that he would finally pass the reins of conversation her way. Surely, there was nothing left to say.

Instead, he told her of the chosen son.

With neither pride nor passion – but rather a simmering resentment – her husband had confided in her the story of the fifth captain’s son.

Though he had tried to paint her a bleak picture – and oh how he had tried – Anastasia had seen right through him. Her husband despised the wild child of the General’s Fifth Legion. The Fifth was an assembly of conscripted barbarians, a coalition lovingly referred to as Caesar’s feral dogs, and to hear her husband tell it, this Young Patrician had taken on the worst of all their failings. The lie was paper-thin.

Against his best efforts, Anastasia’s would-be husband had painted her the picture of a Roman who loomed larger than the rest. Younger than the prerequisite age for service, yet stronger than barbarians twice his size. Younger than her husband, yet twice and twice again better decorated in his service.

This young man – this boy – that had spent his formative years breaking bread with knuckle-dragging barbarians, was somehow always just a bit more cunning than his rivals in the ranks. It was a dim animal’s cunning, her husband had assured her, just enough for him to avoid reproach and claim glories not his own. She had found herself doubting him, even at the time.

Her husband had never told her this bastard child’s name, calling him instead a dozen epithets, each more inflammatory than the last. He had, however, described the bastard’s face.

“When our paths converge again, you won’t need me to point him out. He’ll be the surliest face in every crowd. The only man still glaring, even at a wedding celebration – like the bridegroom killed his dog.”

Of all the lies he had told her about Caesar’s favored soldier, that one alone had proven to be true.

“Stop him!” Thalia cried.

At least, she had thought that until today.

Her Flourishing Muse had no laughter in her voice now. Thalia’s teasing smile was nowhere to be found. The Muse of Comedy and the Muse of Tragedy had always been close, intertwined as they were by their mystiques, and Thalia’s rage had eclipsed all her sisters’ when the Tragic Muse was stabbed.

Anastasia burned her heart’s blood and wove cleansing flame along her javelin, dueling without restraint, and still at every turn she was pushed back.

Until today, she’d been certain that Solus was every bit the man her husband had assured her he was only pretending to be.

Her hunting hounds broke their caustic teeth and ripped out their own burning claws as they tried to bring her quarry down. They couldn’t even break his stride.

Until today, she had been certain he was the mighty Legate of the triumphant Fifth Legion. Envied by men that consider themselves his peers. Beloved by his people. Strong enough to stand apart from his legion and fight as though he wasn’t, a feat not even her husband’s father could match.

He advanced. The golden fire in his eyes tracked her every motion, unbothered by the shadows. She had nowhere left to hide.

Until today, until now. Until he had run from the consequences of his machinations, until he had confessed to them his weakness. Until he had admitted, until her grandmother had asserted – until Thalia had confirmed – that he was nothing more than what he appeared to be. A young man in over his head. Half a junior Philosopher, and half a worthless captain of a long dead legion. Until that moment, Anastasia had thought her husband a liar. But somehow, despite everything that had transpired since the kyrios’ death, her would-be husband had been absolutely right about Solus.

The Revenant struck her javelin aside, stomping its tip into the earth when she tried to sweep the weapon low.

At least, she had thought that for a moment.

He punched her in the chest.

Anastasia’s ribs exploded into shrapnel.

Elissa, the Sword Song

What was it, exactly, that made a Hero’s heart unique?

The scholars had debated the topic for centuries before she was born, and likely would for centuries more to come. Elissa had never had time for such sophistry. The answer was self evident, or at least it had seemed so to her.

That nebulous excellence, so coveted and yet so rarely found, was the same property that made Elissa so much quicker than the other children in her city, lighter on her feet and more deft with a blade. It was the same phenomenon that allowed her to advance five ranks in the time it took her seniors to move a single step. It was the burden put upon her by the Fates the moment she was born – the burden of promised power.

Elissa had known from a young age – known, not believed – that she would do great things in her time. Her ascension to the Heroic Realm had been inevitable. Because of that, she had never bothered herself with the squabbles of mediocre men.

“Master, what makes a hero’s heart unique?”

She had only asked the question once, and only then because she’d been certain the returning answer would match her own.

Song Yu had looked upon her sadly instead.

“Nothing, little oriole. Nothing at all.”

Then he’d given her another scar, so she would always remember. She still carried that scar.

Somehow, she’d forgotten anyway.

The fair-faced coward from the Hurricane Heights descended like an executioner from heaven, harvesting her patron Tyrant’s last breath as he fell. The storm split along the obsidian edge of his scythe, pouring into it and enveloping him in a ferocious mantle of gale-force currents. Hazel flames poured out from his eyes. His pneuma grew and continued growing, expanding endlessly.

Before today, Elissa would have sworn steadfast that she would advance long before the Hierophant’s adopted heir. It was a fact of life that most Heroic souls, despite their excellence, never progressed past the first rank. Scythas and his ilk were those sorts of Heroes – the type to flee and fly, not follow and fight. She had known it in her bones.

Before today, she had been certain of a great many things.

The eighteen year old Philosopher with eyes like golden flames laughed delightedly as an ascending Hero swept down upon him. Griffon – Lio Aetos? – flourished his arms and all of his pankration hands, welcoming Scythas back to the fight.

Scythas flickered and vanished, by all appearances swept off by the storm. Somehow, though her own senses couldn’t track it, Griffon turned and drew his burning blade sharply up to block.

Chipped obsidian chimed against tempered iron, the sound preceding the sight of their clash. She saw it for just a moment, the whirling cloak of grass-green silks, and then he was gone again. Griffon smiled ferociously, pivoting on his heel and parrying another strike just so.

What made a Hero so much stronger than their lessers? Of course, there was their burning heart. Just the same, though, there was their Muse. In a struggle, if one party had the voice of high heaven guiding them to glory and the other party did not, all other things being equal, it was obvious which of the two would win.

Griffon and Scythas traded blistering blows, the scything winds cutting to pieces anything and everything within their reach. Elissa forced herself back, raising a useless hand against the current when it came too close. Another weeping cut was drawn across her palm.

The difference between a Hero and a Philosopher was as the difference between heaven and earth. One of them divine, the other tethered by fate. It wasn’t the burning heart alone that was to blame for this. The heart was just the symptom. Even the muse’s help was not the sole deciding factor. Otherwise, what threat would Tyrants be?

Griffon danced wildly through the storm, carving through it with his burning blade. Scythas’ pneuma was growing stronger by the second. Yet even so, the cadence of their dance was shifting before her eyes.

Every Tyrant had once been a Hero themselves. Even the lowliest Tyrant had once been the best of every Hero, just as the least powerful Hero had been the best of every Sophist. That difference could be felt, like the warmth of a summer sun. A Tyrant stood above a Hero. A Hero stood above a Philosopher. The reason why was endlessly debatable, but the reality was not. Even her master hadn’t transcended that truth.

Scythas hissed an oath a moment before Elissa saw his mistake. His obsidian scythe swept out wide, drawing blood from Griffon’s neck, but the cut was too shallow to kill. The Scarlet Son stepped into the scythe’s reach and brought his blade down in a severing strike.

So why was this happening?

As the blade fell, the spectral image of a woman flung herself away from Scythas, her starlight teeth grit in horrible frustration. The sophist’s bright smile mocked her as she fled.

Tempered iron struck polished stone. Griffon’s eyes went wide.

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In Heavenly-Urania’s place, the stone statue of a woman had risen up behind Scythas and caught the falling blade on her forearm. As Elissa watched, as they all watched, the sword bit deeper into the stone, devouring it as it had devoured everything else. The marble beauty made a grinding sound of agony, but she held firm against the blade.

“What are you?” Griffon asked – wondering.

His foe whistled a piercing note.

Cutting winds drove Griffon back, and Scythas took him to harvest. Great rending cuts split the Philosopher’s tan skin and cut his mended silks to tatters. The Young Aristocrat of the Rosy Dawn drew his pankration hands around himself to guard, blood burning bright, but he’d lost control of their exchange. Scythas tore him apart, growing stronger all the while.

The reaping wind passed over Griffon again and again, taking from him flesh and silk. The fair-faced Hero moved through the coalescing hands of his pankration intent, weaving a perfect line at speeds too swift to believe. He flayed the Young Griffon one slice at a time, and whenever the Philosopher managed to bring his blade between them, the stone woman took the blow in Scythas’ stead.

The killing note wasn’t a whistle from the Hero’s lips. It was the whistle of a harvesting scythe, and by the time Griffon began reacting to it, Scythas was already behind him with the curve of his scythe pressed against the philosopher’s throat.

Scythas twisted at the hips, ripping the scythe around-

The Roman struck him like a charging bull, driving his shoulder into the Hero’s gut and slamming him down to the earth. Griffon jerked his head back, letting the scythe’s edge graze his cheek, and let out a breathless whoop. He was having fun.

Scythas flickered and blurred the moment he hit the ground, vanishing into the wind once more, but in response the Roman simply followed him to the ground and dropped an elbow onto his neck. The impact cratered the earth.

Griffon’s golden-bright eyes shifted, searching. Seeking new struggles.

Settling onto her.

Lefteris, the Gold-String Guardian

His boys were dead.

You have to take aim, Polyhymnia near urged him.

His boys were dead, and their killers were walking free.

Nock the arrow! Let me guide it!

His boys were dead, and it was his fault that they’d died. In his greed, Lefteris had allowed himself to be swayed from his convictions. Beckoned by the bounty of divine nectar, he had strayed away from his purpose as a guardian. Sure enough, he had rationalized it in his heart – the nectar was for the boys. He’d only taken a sip to see if it would work.

Give me the arrow. Give me the string.

His boys were dead, because Lefteris had allowed himself to forget the revenant’s nature. He had known. Curse him for a coward, he had known and done nothing.