The Ruin of Eros

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Hide yourself.” He looks at me. “ Now. And no matter what, do not come out—no matter what you hear. My brother must not know you are here.” He’s pulling at the chains, moving them back into place.

“No!” I say. “We have time, if I hurry. I’ll cut the other ones. Then you’ll be free. You can fight him.”

He winces, and his eyes meet mine.

“I am not the god I was, Psyche. Before, I could have matched either of my brothers in a duel, but now…” I hear the pain in his voice, the pain of acknowledging weakness.

“But your brothers do not have this,” I say, holding up the dagger.

If I thought I had seen Eros angry before now, I was mistaken. Now I see what anger really looks like on him.

“You want me to arm myself with adamantine? I will not end immortal life, Psyche—less still, my own brother’s!” He swallows, mastering himself again. “We must wait till he has gone. If you arrange the shackles as before, he will not notice they are broken. And then you must hide, and fast.”

“But…”

“There is no other way!”

I want to argue, but instead I push the shackles back around his ankles, quickly arranging them as they were. In the dark, unless you were looking closely, you would never know. And then, even though turning away from him feels like a lead weight in my chest, I move quickly to a nearby boulder that’s high enough and wide enough to shield me. I run toward it and huddle behind it, sheathing the dagger to hide its light.

What did he mean, that I must stay hidden no matter what I hear ?

A chill of foreboding goes through me.

I know a little of his brothers. Deimos and Phobos: the twins. My countrymen paint their faces on our shields when we go to war, to horrify the enemy. These are gods who turn brave men into cowering children—at least, that is what is said. They, too, are the sons of Aphrodite and Ares, but the twins were raised by their father only. There is no love in them at all, only battle and terror.

Footsteps echo in the tunnel above us, very close now. And then I hear the sweep of wings, and I peer around the boulder to see a figure descending smoothly from the drop I fell down earlier. This other gods is tall like Eros, and golden-skinned as well; he shimmers, too, with the aura of a god. But instead of Eros’s black wings, this one’s are white as a dove’s. He moves swiftly through the room, and alights before Eros’s chair. His immense wings fold in and my heart hammers in my chest. I hope he cannot hear my quick breath. I have not seen his face; perhaps I do not wish to.

“You have done something, Eros.” The sound of his voice is like the clashing of knives. “The river runs with the ketos ’s blood.”

A ketos —so that’s what the creature was. I should have known my presence on this mountain could not be hidden long—not when I have left such a trail of destruction. But Eros seems surprised. After all, he knows nothing of how I got here; of what I had to do. Though perhaps now he’s starting to guess.

“I have done nothing to your creature.” His voice is steady. “How could I have? I am in chains, brother, as you well see.”

“And yet you are troublesome still,” the other god sneers. “Have you no sense at all in that pretty head of yours?” He reaches out a hand as though to caress his brother’s curls, but instead gives a sharp push, so that Eros’s head snaps back on his neck. I set my jaw; I must not make a sound.

“I already know you do not. Betraying our mother over some little mortal girl!” His white wings stir, like a dog bristling with anger. “But I do not think it was an accident that the beast had arrows of your making buried in it. Who have you commandeered to help you? Some other fool god? Some mortal idiot who believes he is heir to Herakles? Whoever it is, the Olympians will punish them when they find them. We do not like the guardian of our river to be treated so.”

“That’s as may be.” Eros’s voice betrays no emotion. It’s the voice I remember from before: the voice that tells me he’s steeled himself to keep every feeling at bay. But I know him well enough now to detect the anger he’s trying to hide.

“Think what you wish, but I know nothing of the monster’s fate.” He looks up at his brother. “Why so suspicious, Deimos?”

Deimos . So that is the brother who stands before him.

“You know nothing of it, you say? We shall see.”

He flicks a hand toward Eros. I see nothing, no disturbance in the air, but whatever power flows from this white-winged god is instant: Eros’s breathing becomes labored, his eyes screw shut, his whole body stiffens. And after a moment he begins to shrink back in his seat as though suffering from some great pain.

“Tell me the truth,” Deimos says. “Tell me the truth and I’ll stop.”

Eros’s head shakes side to side. My heart constricts; it’s too painful to witness. A god, reduced to this! And yet, if he did not have such mastery of himself, I can see he would be writhing in pain.

Whatever torture this is, it continues. Eros answers none of Deimos’s questions or taunts, but when a soft moan escapes him, Deimos pounces again.

“Something you’d like to tell me?”

Eros shakes his head.

“Have it your way, then.”

Whatever pain he’s inflicting must be redoubled: Eros is crouched down in his seat now, cringing, his breath coming in hard, fast pants. I want to scream, I want to hurl myself on this monster called a god—this creature who takes pleasure in his brother’s suffering. But Eros told me to stay hidden, no matter what I heard. I tell myself I must stay where I am.

Then Eros’s eyes flash open. He knows where I am; his gaze meets mine. And in his eyes I see a pain more dreadful than anything I’ve ever imagined. A pain that no one, god or mortal, should ever be expected to bear. And I can’t stay hidden any longer, I can’t.

I get to my feet, the dagger in my hand.

“Please stop.”

The god Deimos whirls around. His face is a cruel distortion of his brother’s. He has the radiance of a god, but here it inspires dread, not exultation. This is the face the word god-fearing was meant for.

“ This , brother? Your little mortal plaything?”

His deep voice is filled with disgust. Eros looks at me, his eyes bright with pain. Yet again I have flouted his orders.

But this time I had no choice.

“Great god, I petition you. Please: he is your brother. Relent from this.” I get on my knees. My heart batters; I cannot think that he will listen, but the oracle said prayer was power, and I will try.

Deimos only sneers at me, with that face so like Eros’s.

“Stupid creature. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect your gods?”

It grows so fast, the darkness. I’m in a mist, a fog—but is the fog in my mind or in the air around me? Are my eyes closed? I can’t tell.

I try to take a step forward, but my body will not move. And then another feeling grows, starting in my feet. It seems to come from the earth up, like ice grips a plant from the roots and spreads upward.

The voices...is it the madness the oracle spoke of after all; has it finally come to claim me? They seem to speak to me from the very walls. They get clearer, and soon I understand they’re speaking to me.

Look what you did to us, they say. Look what you’ve done.

I hear little Hector’s voice, and his mother’s; I hear Dimitra, and my father, and all the voices of Sikyon. I hear voices of strangers, of those not yet born. And all of them despise me. I wish I could block my ears to them, but there is no end to it, this chorus of malice—their voices shake with it. It seems as though I am back out in the Olympian winter, but now it is the winter of my mind. Everything is cold.

Endless.

Hopeless.

There will never be light again.

I see things I have long refused to imagine. Now they flock to me. My mother lies dead in a white room, the blood of my birth pooling around her. I see Dimitra, a small child, whimpering in the doorway, the blood reflected in her eyes.

I see other things, too, horrors that have not come to pass, but seem invented to torment me. Eros standing over me with a wolf’s smile, his teeth bared, sharp…teeth digging into my chest, ripping my heart from inside my ribcage. My sister, with the face of a Gorgon. My father weeping on a battlefield, ringed by a circle of men who taunt him with their knives.

They’re not real, I try and tell myself. They’re creations, evil fantasies. But my voice has no conviction in it. And I’m so cold. So very, very cold. I can’t think, can’t cling to anything except this feeling: the dread in my stomach, and the ice in my veins. I’m dying, I realize. This must be what it feels like to die.

Please, I try to say, but nothing comes.

The world is pain , a voice says. Pain and fury. Nothing but this.

And I feel in my bones that it is true. There is nothing else but this aching dread, this horror. Nothing but disease and war and death and hopelessness…

The horror sticks to me like a thousand webs. I can’t find my way out. Am I breathing still; am I dead? Somewhere out of dim memory I remember Eros’s voice, commanding me to breathe.

Breathe, Psyche. Breathe.

It’s not real.

It’s. Not. Real.

I force my eyes open.

“Psyche!” Eros calls.

But his brother is in the air above me, his pale wings beating. Deimos.

His face sings with malice. He’s not tired, I can tell from his eyes—we haven’t even got started. This is just to whet my appetite. I can feel what’s waiting for me, the horror of it, and I know, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that it will kill me.

That he wants to kill me.

And I did not come all the way here to let him.

I force myself to move. Just unclenching the fingers of my right hand is like pushing a boulder uphill. It takes everything I have. But with that small movement comes a flood of warmth, as though the ice has started to melt. I fumble for what’s strapped to my waistband, and my fingers close around it, smooth and cold.

I must move quickly. I imagine myself back in our old house, parrying with Dimitra with our wooden swords. Dimitra’s aim was always better, but I practiced harder.

I whip the blade from its sheath, draw back, and fling it, all in one smooth motion. I hear the sweet keen note it makes as it cuts through the air and I know I’ve never thrown a blade so fast, nor so true. It’s almost as though it knows where I want it to go.

I feel the cut it makes as though it were my own flesh. And I hear it, the slicing-through of feather and tissue. A scream to split the sky.

And a god falls from the air.