Paramythi III: Prometheus

Psykhe Trezla. The girl who sunk into the shadow of her family. The Rebel who lead Elias Kara, Helios Artemis and Riyo Midas through Galaxis without breaking a sweat. The woman who became a hero the hard way.

“Did you know Prowlers have a sedative in their saliva? It makes their prey resistant and unable to fight back.”

Psykhe laughed from where she lay, tangled in the sheets strewn across her mattress. When she turned her head to reply, she was smiling. “Yeah, I think you told me that before when we met.”

The young woman laying beside Psykhe rolled onto her side. The pastel dyed colours of peacock green hair tickled Psykhe’s shoulder and the woman propped herself up to her elbow, flashing slightly crooked teeth that was not unattractive as it was endearing.

“So, you remember that, but you can’t remember your name?” With a scoff, the woman punched Psykhe in the arm and sat up, letting the duvet fall away from her stomach and expose the heavy case of vitiligo patching her skin. “Do you remember my name?”

Psykhe lay there, casting brown eyes towards the ceiling. There was no ceiling; there were stars glittering in the skies above, outlining each constellation lining all of Galaxis. An alliance in the heavens just seemed easier than an alliance on earth.

“Alexis,” Psykhe whispered. “Alexis Iphigenia.”

“Bingo!” Alexis’ accent rattled the air around them. She grasped her ankles, crossed her legs and rocked back. “So, what’s your name?”

“Anima,” Psykhe’s mouth moved, her lips making every correct motion to pronounce her name ‘Psykhe’ but another voice escaped her throat. “Anima Eros. I am the first Blessed Magick Wielder to walk Galaxis. I hold the staff Atlas and tell the tales of our history to those I meet upon my travels. I have no other identity, I only have my masks.”

“You know that’s not true, you’re smarter than that.” Alexis was standing at the end of the bed now, dressed in her tattered tail coat and rag-scarf. There was no bed in the centrepiece of the starry sky, everything had changed and warped into the interior of Emvolo’s church. “I mean, come on… your hair isn’t even white! You’re not Blessed.”

Psykhe looked down to the scythe in her hands. “I don’t like it here.”

“Well, of course not!” Alexis laughed. She propped her hands upon her hips and jutted her weight to the side, pivoting to face Psykhe with a face full of arm-length needles. “This is where I kicked the bucket! You were there, I remember seeing you cry your eyes out before everything went black.”

“But if you’re dead, we can’t be talking.”

“In a land of make-believe, anything’s possible.”

Psykhe blinked, shuddering as the cold breeze streaked across the cliffs of Tentrail. Her nostrils were filled with the smell of fire smoking on the pyre Alexis’ body had been burnt upon. Her eyes were watering, but she could not feel the tears running down her freckled cheeks.

“You really held my crew together after that,” Alexis crossed her arms over her chest. She was bandaged head to toe, with any visible piece of skin burnt to a black crisp. “Damara and you got really close. Did she ever tell you anything about me?”

“Not really,” Psykhe murmured, pressing gloved wrists against her watery eyes. “She always said your story was something only you should be able to tell, otherwise it’s not worth telling.”

“Did you believe her? I mean, considering you’re supposed to be a historian, right? How did it feel to tell the stories of Galaxis, Anima? Was it really worth telling?”

Psykhe’s lips clamped shut. The smoke had subsided, and the open skies above were filled with stars again, spreading above the open valleys and fields of Minoas’ border. Wind blew across her face and left her hair dishevelled as the train beneath her feet rattled.

“If you ever see Damara again, just ask her for my story.” Alexis shrugged. The bandages became unravelled against the sweeping winds, revealing her healthy skin and shining eyes. “Sometimes it’s okay to tell people’s stories, because they don’t always get to tell the endings. With you and me, well, you were only my ending, but there’s still a beginning and a middle to my story that you don’t know about.”

“Who’s going to tell my story?” Psykhe felt her throat tense. She choked, feeling a pain shoot from her stomach. “Who’s going to write the name Psykhe Trezla in the history books?”

Alexis laughed. “What story? Your story isn’t over yet, you’ve just been having, I dunno, writer’s block?” She stood across from Psykhe, holding a gun up. One bullet had left its barrel, wedged into the abdomen of Psykhe Trezla. “Might as well pick up from where you left off.”

Psykhe inhaled, blood and air running down her oesophagus and filling her lungs with life. Her brown eyes glinted behind the white mask with three eyes and red lips. She swayed on her feet, releasing the Magick on the golden knife in her hand as she stood in Remiel’s throne room while her brother stood across from her, holding her at gunpoint.

The bullet which left Merine’s gun was sliced in half, each side of the silver shot landing upon the damp ground of the Bank at Psykhe’s feet. She stumbled back, nearly tripping against Remiel’s throne as Merine chuckled.

“You’ve picked up the power of our ancestor, too.” The man tossed his blonde hair back across his forehead. His features tensed, raising the moulded wrinkles adorning his aging face. “Like brother, like sister.”

“We are nothing alike.”

“Oh, so suddenly you remember who you are?” Merine pouted. “What are you even doing here? Attempting assassination on the God of Wrath while he sleeps? When did you become a coward?”

Heavy breaths filled the mask adorning her freckled face and Psykhe’s hand fluttered to her neck. She felt suffocated and weak, knees shaking beneath the weight of reality peaking from the sheer glow of Merine’s taunting glare. Whenever he stepped forward, Psykhe would step back.

“Now, Psykhe, don’t ignore me.” Merine snapped his fingers, pulling particles of ruin from the ground and crushing them into pieces of balled lead. They floated around his shoulders like an armoured necklace. “Let us settle this, Trezla to Trezla.”

“Stop talking, please!” Psykhe’s palms flew down, rattling the tiles beneath her feet. She elevated in the air, quick enough to evade the lead bullets Merine had summoned. Each balled piece ricocheted, narrowly missing Remiel’s head. “You’re so annoying!”

“You’re a brat!” Merine snapped, raising his gun. “Go back to the grave before you screw this up for me!”

Psykhe whirled in the air, ducking every bullet and pounced against the columned walls while Merine’s merciless attacks flew skyward. Summoning the ghostly shaft of a shining scythe, she came down above the man with a battle cry escaping her lungs and a fiery glow of red eyes.

Merine countered, summoning the glow of a rapier and his own eyes shone a luminous violet. The clash of both weapons meeting their opponents rang in their ears; a force so strong it swept dust and debris across the throne room.

Merine was the first to stumble back, holding the seeping wound from his chest. His white dress-shirt was torn, stained with the inky crimson of his own blood spewing between his fingers and coating the floor. His rapier disappeared into the air, flashing into nothingness whilst its master knelt to the floor, spitting up a gob of blood as he struggled to heal himself.

Psykhe did not fall, but she swayed. Her white mask had been split in two, leaving a deep gash across her face – starting from the top of her right eyebrow and across the bridge of her nose, down to her left cheek. It was shock that caused her to cease moving. Her head was fuzzy, her mind clicking and working against her faith.

She was no longer Anima, she was Psykhe. She had always been Psykhe. It was a fact clearer than day once the ruined mask fell at her feet. As if a curse had been lifted.

It did not take long for her epiphany to end when Merine shifted to stand up. Psykhe grit her teeth and bounced into the sky, throwing herself up through the blown-off roof and into the cold air. Blood dribbled across her cheeks and filled her mouth and nose when she moved. She swayed through the cold night and stumbled back to earth once she had thrown herself over Capitol’s border.

The low tide against Tentrail’s cliffs hugged her when she landed. Sand and stone flew into the night and across the waves upon her landing. She coughed, hacking up her nerves and inhaling with a desperation that turned her face red. The glow in her eyes dissipated and she caved, flopping onto her back as the water swept over her torso.

Psykhe lay still as she collected herself. She was confused and filled with adrenaline, disorientated by the loss of blood running across her pale face. She felt different, older. Her heart thumped against her chest and when she finally moved to sit up, her arms screamed with agony. She flopped back, exhaling defeat.

She slept until the tide went out. Her body needed the recovery and her Magick abilities ceased the blood from spilling to her grave. She would have slept longer if not for the sounds of cries coming from the higher, sandy dunes behind her.

“Psykhe!”

“Is she alive?!”

Damara threw herself over the dune’s edge, rolling against the sand until her knees dug into the ground and her hands slapped the mounds above Psykhe’s head. She placed her fingertips against Psykhe’s shoulders and released a loud sob of relief.

“Thank the Gods!” Damara cheered, hauling Psykhe into her lap and resting the woman’s head against her bosom. “Oh, Psykhe. You idiot!”

Psykhe shifted, inhaling Damara’s scent until her lungs were full. “Can someone tell me what’s going on…? Did Elias get back to Theia okay?” She murmured, eyes staying shut whilst her babbling slurs echoed.

Damara’s fingers tightened against Psykhe’s blouse. “Please, try not to black out when you hear what I have to say.”

Psykhe lifted her chin. The blurry outlines of Damara peered down, with Selene standing behind her. An extra collection of faces peered down at her, three figures she had never met before. A Feral, an Allawo and a Faeman. She was certain she was hallucinating. “Riyo and Helios look different…” she grumbled, slipping back into slumber against Damara. “…and when did Elias turn into a Feral…?”

Hermes exchanged glances with Dite and Peitho. The trio shrugged in sync as Selene clapped her hands, laughter erupting past her quivering lips. Damara cried, frustration and relief engulfing her as she dragged Psykhe into her arms and stood.

As the sun rose over Emvolo’s dark kingdom, Damara explained to Psykhe all that had happened over the last two years – and in the not-too-far distance, Kane Ruskin’s execution began.