Paramythi III: Prometheus

For as long as he could remember, there had always been death around him.

It was not simply the loss of his mother at such a young age which had turned Elias Kara into a smaller, quieter child. Nor had it been the crippling illness which consumed his father shortly after. Instead, it had been those awful stares at school.

It was the fear of speaking up in class, always conscious of who would be listening. It had been the thought of handing in a paper and not getting a good mark back. Failure had turned Elias Kara into a smaller, quieter child. The God of Wrath had turned him into a sick one.

Fatigue had been something Elias was plagued with since his childhood. He was convinced he had poor lungs and claimed he had not yet collapsed dead because he had lived on the borders of Tentrail, away from the pollution of Capitol’s city. His eldest sister, Maxa Kara, had done little to encourage such ideas – whilst never dismissing them either.

This had been all Elias understood growing up. His mother had died when he was little, his father was simply bedridden. All he wanted to do was join the Rebellion and he drank honey with lemon every night to soothe his throat. Wake, wash, rinse and repeat.

Standing in that bar upon Recruitment Day had changed everything. Death was still around him and fell upon everyone he spoke to. It was carved into the skulls of all who had died that night at the hands of Capitol lapdogs.

“Pay no mind to those who whisper behind your back.”

Elias had been cowardly to turn and hide. A rickety round table had served as his benefactor when the Prowlers broke into the pub and tore open body after body. Elias had never known the insides of another person could have been so warm until he saw the steam rolling up from the corpses of those around him, dissipating into the air along with every curdling scream and cry.

“Humans only live to save themselves.”

The following events moulded so closely. He could remember sitting in the middle of the pub, watching the surviving members of the attack whisper among themselves. It was the first time he ever laid eyes on Psykhe Trezla and Helios Artemis as they conversed about Kane Ruskin and his crew.

Psykhe and Helios would always disappear. They evaporated like dust in the wind, sinking low into the caving floorboards beneath them until Elias was left to sit on his own in the darkness. He could hear the sounds of Kaira crying; the girl who had just lost her mother to the Prowlers only hours before, and the soft hushing of Eris Crysanthe, Elias' former partner.

He never heard her for long. There was always a whisper to stop him from reliving the past in all its glory, the kind of whisper people keep to themselves. It did no-one any favours when you tell someone you can hear things that are not really there, or feel things that could not possibly be felt.

“Look to your right.”

He could never fight the urge to stay still. His head would always turn and he would always witness the same encounter. Riyo Midas, kneeling off to the side of their group. They had said nothing until the last minute; inquiring about the time scale they would be expecting before they were deployed on missions.

Elias could not help but stare. At the time, he had convinced himself it had been the colour of bright red hair, the questionable pitch of voice and the sharp eyes which had shot him down after a full of minute of nothing but staring. Now he knows what it was, who it was.

Remiel and Sytry’s hosts, under the same roof in the dawn of bloodshed. Their gaze lasted longer than their hosts would care to remember; after that, they only spoke as colleagues throughout their training. Whatever interaction they had shared had never been an accident. Remiel had been lurking under the skin of many potential hosts long enough to know how to find other Gods and their hosts, he had lived his whole life searching for the Prince of Moons.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” Riyo had said the night of the Rebellion celebration. Only, when Elias turned his head to face them, he was staring into the milky eyes of Sytry.

“I, ugh, don’t actually know how to dance.” Remiel gasped, withholding a small laugh as he scratched the back of his neck.

Sytry shrugged, lowering his hand from the spiral tattoo etched into his shoulder. “Neither do I, but it doesn’t look that hard.” He stepped forward and glanced back at Remiel, pursing pale lips together. “You can lead.”

Remiel was sure he was blushing when he took Sytry’s hand and walked onto the dancefloor. There was no-one in the pit of darkness but them; swaying in each other’s presence and holding each other so tight. Elias remembered it differently every time.

What he could not remember was the last time he saw Riyo Midas. When had Remiel watched Sytry’s host disappear into the fray of a petty war between government and its people? Lost in that village on the border of Minoas? It had been well known to merchants across the kingdoms and had held the proud name of Theia until Capitol tore it apart. Now it stood in ruin.

By the time Theia came to mind, Elias would begin reliving his life again. Everything would rewind like a record, moving backwards until he was back at the start.

He was always surrounded by death, although it had never made him a quiet child. It had been the stares and fear of rejection which turned Elias into a quiet child. Remiel had turned him into a sick host, an agitated young man and the destroyer of Tentrail.

“Before I go ahead with my execution of Kane Ruskin, is there anything you wish to input, milord?” Merine Trezla’s overexaggerated Emvolo-accent rang through the room Remiel had claimed his throne room. “I understand your host was well acquainted with the Rebellion. I would hate to rid him of any closure once we capture the Rebellion leader.”

Remiel did not move from his throne. His arm was bent, open palm resting against his cheek, elbow dug into the armrest. His coal eyes stared ahead as his host repeated his life over and over. Remiel enjoyed it, witnessing those splendid moments Elias had shared with Riyo. The longer he watched, the closer he hoped to find the demi-God. He needed to accomplish something soon, lest his boredom get the best of him.

Merine was not unaccustomed to Remiel’s choice of silence. Some days he wondered if the God was even there at all, or if the empty husk of Elias’ mutated body was attached to the ominous throne sitting in the wreckage of Capitol’s Bank. What had once been furnished in gold and marble now sat in coal and ash. Remiel had gone on something of a havoc spree upon his return.

Sighing, Merine turned from the throne and walked out of the building. He followed the scuffed, red carpet out to the open air and waltzed down the high staircase back to level ground. The air in Emvolo had gone cold, the skies had turned black and grey. Wind wafted left and right, dragging flags of Tentrail across the concrete grounds as a reminder of the ghost town below Capitol. All that lived there now was the remains of Prowlers and dying street-rats.

None of this affected Merine in any sense. He was still able to get by in life by tossing a gold coin in the right direction and climb into his five, black-seat convertible car with an interior made up of red leather.

With most of the city in decay, there was no logical need for a means of transport such as his. Half the civilisation lived on the southwest of the city, on the side of the ocean as opposed to the wall cutting their border from the fields between Emvolo and Minoas. A silent offer of loyalty to Remiel, to stay within his kingdom and never scout towards Minoas.

Merine was not afraid of Remiel. From his own experience, the mighty God of Wrath would have struck him down thrice over for the false prophesies he had been milking from the Church of Emvolo years ago if Remiel bothered about what mortals chose to do with their lives. Remiel could not care less what went on in his kingdom, so long as he found Sytry.

Which led Merine to park up outside Leto’s infamous Theatre for the hundredth time that year. A handful of people were waiting in line, drooling and conversing over the acts and plays going on within. Merine could never seem to find the idea of dancers entertaining, much less Faeman. He was a man of sport who preferred hunting races he personally chose unworthy of stepping foot in Emvolo.

“Welcome back, Mister Trezla.” The Faeman trapped within the glass pillar ticket booth at the front of the entrance forced a smile. Her nametag read ‘Taavi,’ but that was all Merine cared to notice. “Will you like a ticket for today’s show? Special discount for Remiel’s personal assistants.”

“I’m not here to see a show,” Merine leant against the glass pillar, watching his breath condensate against the pane. “Is Leto in?”

Taavi’s smile remained. “Miss Dionysus is at a meeting today. She has requested all appointments this afternoon be cancelled. May I reschedule your appointment, Mister Trezla?”

“Forget it, who’s in charge today?”

“Xerxes has taken over for Miss Dionysus, would you like me to let him know you’re here?”

“It’s all right, Taavi,” a tall Faeman stood in the theatre’s entrance. He met Merine’s eyes and waved a hand, coaxing him past the waiting line. “You see to these people in line.”

Merine scoffed, trudging into the dimly lit hallways behind the Faeman. It was perhaps his biggest question for Leto as to why she put so much faith into leaving her entire empire in the hands of one particular Faeman, her slave, Xerxes.

“I apologise for Miss Dionysus’ absence,” Xerxes sighed into the air. His accent was not Emvolo-origin. His tongue always replaced the ’th’s’ with ’z’s’ and ’v’s’ with ’f’s.’ “Perhaps I could leave her a message for you?”

“Hardly,” Merine waltzed past the open door Xerxes had opened, familiar with Leto’s office. He scoffed at the décor, the pictures hanging on the walls, the poorly peeling paper and tried not to stare at the whip mounted above the desk. He turned back to Xerxes. “I need to speak with one of your actors.”

“Hm?” Xerxes had a cigar dangling from his lips. He lit the end with a flick of his thumb and forefinger, a Magick Wielder. “Which one would that be?”

“Helios Artemis.”

Xerxes’ inhaled, casting an orange hue to ignite from his cigar and send fleeting shadows across his face. His eyelids were low across the surface of his single, colourful eye. The other was a stark white, blind thanks to his own punishments long ago. When he exhaled, the smoke morphed and erupted against the ceiling.

Merine watched the Magick trick with an unamused line of thin lips. His brown eyes were dull, the wrinkles around at every crease tensed and he opened his mouth. The click of the office door opening stopped him from saying a word.

“Ya called, chief?” Helios grinned, peaking his head through the door.

Xerxes offered a short nod and motioned towards Merine. “You have a visitor.”

Helios pushed the door open, perhaps a little keener than intended. The wide smile upon his face failed when he saw Merine and his heart leapt into his throat. His hand never left the golden knob of the office door as he forced another smile and turned back to Xerxes.

“What’s this about?”

“This,” Merine clicked his fingers, willing the Magick of his own abilities to pull the door free from Helios’ grasp and shut him in the room; thus gaining his attention once more, “is about you, Artemis. You and the Prince.”

Helios felt sweat bead at his forehead. “Come again?” He cantered his head to the side. “There ain’t a prince around here and I haven’t been anywhere else in the last two years.”

Merine merely blinked when Helios forced a laugh. “Precisely. Two years ago, you and the Prince of Moons’ host were quite close. I dare to wonder if either of you have made contact since my last visit. Surely you would tell Leto where the Prince is hiding, if you were to receive word?”

Helios shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothin’s changed since last time. Can’t really say if it’ll change next time, either.” His smile was his strength, the sweat that ran down his cheek was his weakness.

Merine did not miss either. “Do you think all of your comments would remain the same if I brought a Feral with me, next time?”

The glint in Helios’ eye was dismissed by Xerxes exhaling a long line of smoke into the air. “Feral ain’t allowed in here, Mister Trezla. Emvolo Law.” He grunted, keeping his eyelids low.

“Very well,” Merine wrinkled his nose. He bowed, placing a hand upon his chest. “Then perhaps I shall visit Riyo Midas’ parents, instead.”

Helios could say nothing. Xerxes’ intense stare would not let him. He could only drag his artificial legs to the side, allowing Merine exit of the office, before his eyes were filled with tears. Xerxes would not ask, so long as Helios excused himself and trudged back to his room.

The temptation to throw something at Merine’s car was heavy. The horrid rusty bars drilled into the window was the only thing that stopped him. Helios could only watch through red, silk curtains and narrow his eyes with disgust as the Trezla man climbed into his car and drove away.

Helios’ heart fell to the pit of his stomach as he watched the vehicle drive down the street. Merine kept to his promise; making course for the colosseum in the distance where many Moon-Graced lost their lives to the hands of greedy bets as Allawo and Avolaki fought to the death.