Fantasy 𝗼𝗳 𝗴𝗼𝗱𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗻 .

[mother of sorrows]

 

[mother of sorrows]

It is not often you are to tell a noble child's fortune.

The thought of potentially angering somebody powerful is enough to make many a young seer's hand drip with sweat; as for good reason, too. The rich and mighty are not often known for their patience. Hilarion, however, has seen his fair share. He's seen into the fates of princes and princesses, future heroes or traitors, saints, and sinners. A day will come when your words will test the kindness of such people, but it is not a great thing; rage as they do, their anger will not convince the unmovable fates. If your child is set to drag you off your throne and set your kingdom ablaze, it is not the seer that made it so.

Perhaps he is too old to think such routine could ever change - and yet, today did not quite feel the same.

He could not point it out if you had asked. It was not the air, nor the weather, or the small cup of goat's milk he had this morning. T'was not the chirping of the birds or howl of the sea, nor the wind that blew on his way here. It was nothing particular. Only a small, nagging feeling that something was not quite aligned. Like your sandals not fitting just the same as they did yesterday.

His suspicions were only confirmed when it was time to start.

The palace was fine, as palaces tend to be. Carved roughly into rock and sealine, thin fabric covering the entrances and great, tall walls that stood guard like sleeping giants. A slight scent of salt caught on the breeze fluttering through the windows - he could hear the sea calling outside if he listened closely. Servants padded along the white floors, the stone long bleached white by wind. The throne room was grander still; a finely engineered, wide room, so tall Hilarion has to crane his neck to see the ceiling. A great window stared out into the endless horizon, bringing with it a view of rolling waves. The air was summer-warm.

Hilarion did not bring up the odd premonition. He only fixed his walking cane, cringing when it seemed like the child was about to be dropped on his head.

Neos' son was just a year old. Still a bit chubby-cheeked, clinging to his mother's silk. He could see the resemblance, a curl of pitch-black hair adorning his head - the exact same of the stern-looking man atop the stone throne. The face, however, was all the young mother's. It was the most notable feature of the staring little creature. Hilarion could see the resemblance in the elegant curve of their noses as if their faces went and decided that nothing but the refined belongs on them.

The mother herself seemed unsure of how to cradle the baby, awkwardly half-holding him out; as if hoping somebody might swoop in and take the burden away from her. Hilarion noted, with a tightening of his lips, that she looked young enough to be a big sister rather than anything else. Agape, her name is. A pale girl with soft brown, curling hair and slightly flushed cheeks, like two blossoming flowers. The furrowed brows looked too harsh to belong to such a delicate face.

Nero watched the duo from his place on carved-stone. His expression seemed troubled.

''...and you are sure it will work?''

The man asked, drifting back to Hilarion.

The elder only smiled at that. How scared people get in the face of the unknown, no matter how often he does this. He cannot make fun of them too much.

''Only as well as anything related to fate. You know the god's whims are quick to change.''

He said, not unkindly - Nero did not seem placated by his words, but he nodded. It is all Hilarion can expect and he does not demand more. Servants usher in at the nobleman's wave of hand, bringing in sweet-smelling wood and familiar herbs. They were tucked into the standing fire pit, standing in the middle of the sea-side entrance to signal to ships searching for land - legends of symbols so old even Hilarion could barely recall them danced over the marble, forever trapped in merriment. A clash of stone and fire sprang to life, devouring - the smell of smoke and burning plants lifted towards them, thick on the tongue. The baby started to coo at the display, reaching out a chubby hand - Agape looked distinctly annoyed, shifting him in his hands. And yet there was a flash of interest across her thin face, one echoed across' Nero's wide one.

One bare foot stepped closer, then another, until Hilarion was just out of the fire's reach. Warmth danced over his weathered face. With practiced ease he reached into the pouch at his side, his palm holding dust - purple like spring flowers, sparkling in the fragile sunlight.

With practiced ease, Hilarion blows it into the fire.

And it burns.

The fire, angered and thirsty, burned a magnitude of colors like a kaleidoscope's brother. It rose high, licking the salt off the ceiling before humbling down to a small size again, washing hot heat across the room; a few servants gasped, eyes wide and round with fear. The noble couple watched, too - their faces open in fascination.

Hilarion steps closer, arms wide open. He closed his eyes, breathes in, and sees -

nothing.

Hilarion frowns.

Perhaps he simply did not focus correctly. He did not sleep well, after all - he is sure he will hear the whispers soon, the faded voices of the fates telling him about what is to come. He knows he has not offended them, for they speak to him in his dreams; he wakes with vague memories of another's future, forehead slick with sweat. But even so, no matter how the old man strained his ears, no voices would come. No grand fights or loves, betrayals, and scorn. His mind was blank and so was the fire. A feeling, strange and old, entered his chest and he could not do much more than stumble back.

He has only experienced this twice, in the long years of his life. His hands shook slightly, face going odd.

Hilarion turns to stare at the babe, pale and black-haired.

Were they really his father's eyes?

***

Iher sits on his throne, legs tucked under him, and says nothing.

''I know. I lied, and that is wrong. But I did not think he would be executed, you have to believe me -''

''- I should have stopped her! I should have, but I didn't and now she is gone -''

''I am keeping the gold a secret from my family. They're too greedy, and I know they will just take it from me.''

''...it is forbidden, yes, but is it so wrong to love her? Even if we are from different worlds -''

''I killed my father. I do not feel as bad as I should about it.''

Faces change. Voices change. Different people of all walks of life, coming to confess to his shrines. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, wives, and husbands - there they kneel or stand or bow, crying or whispering or raging. Their secrets weave in the air, dark or light or complex. Sometimes they are like a child's; secret loves or friendships. Sometimes they cost the life of a whole kingdom. It is a human behavior Iher has gotten used to over the countless days of his existence, dark eyes saying nothing. He does not mention these secrets to anybody. They stay buried in his head, like bodies under the black, quiet dirt. And are there not countless of those? Iher is old but the earth is older, and so are the bones resting in her depths.

What the gain from telling him this, he does not know. Even if he had such powers to take all of their mistakes back, he would not. But that does not seem to be the case; they never beg him for that, never ask. What the point is Iher is not sure, but he has been non-human for so long that trying to understand it is a foreign concept. Iher must have felt this way too, so long ago, did the same things. Had the same frail human emotions, so desperate in their hopes.

But eternity is a long, long time and his memory is certainly not older than it.

Nor does Iher care to ask.

He is often alone, from turn of day to night - save for the maidens and widows working at his shrines, cleaning algae and water from the stone statues. It is by choice and yet not; for Iher enjoys the solitude.

Though, it is not like he knows anything else. He shies away from companionship like night creatures from sunrise. But he considers these secrets enough - loneliness is not the same as being alone, and Iher does not know the difference anymore enough to care.

***

It was a day as any other when Iher got sent after.

''I'm sorry,''

he said with no small amount of distrust, frowning up.

''I must have heard you wrong.''

Sunlight shone brightly ahead, the sky blue and stretching into the distance, always endless. The kingdom is as it always was; sad and joyful, dying and living. Somebody somewhere did something of great importance, surely, but if it was of any concern for the gods, Iher did not hear of it. Olympus is known for nothing if not being a physical barrier between the living and the gods. Iher appreciated being able to decide between the mountain's lone peaks and civilization down below. He was quite ready to use another day to sit by the sparse forests, nose deep in some scroll or other when he got a visit.

Hermes stood there in front of him, skin shining like liquid gold and eyes white like marble. The air around him seemed to shift as if to make space for him.

''No,''

the other god started, staring.

''They called for you. And a human.''

Iher tucks the scroll on his lap, slick white silk moving under the weight. He waited for Hermes to continue, to add just which human and for what reason Iher is being bothered; but Hermes did not say anything more. As if he knew whatever he would answer is going to annoy Iher. The hesitation was enough to make Iher suspicious, nose downturning into a displeased frown. It is not often Iher is needed; but certainly not that uncommon that it would shock him. Perhaps it was some king in need of advice, or would be hero on his wit's end.

(Oh, how close he was to the truth at that time.)

With a long-suffering sigh that spoke of his opinion that he is very much unappreciated in his time, Iher swatted the grass from his silks and rose.

***

Stone older than his entire lineage burned his bare soles. Clouds hung in the air he breathed, air cold and crisp. Curtains weaved by god-nymphs, daughters of heroes and saints. Gold-edged beds with lounging gods and their lovers, exchanging barely-heard whispers. Smell of ambrosia and over-ripe fruit stacked in decorated bowls filled the rooms with sweetness, thick in your throat. In the middle, the throne; carved and terrifying and beautiful, like everything related to the gods. There was nobody on it, yet; it remained empty, even as Iher stood in front of it in accusation.

There Iher waited, looking like an angry child that's been dragged into working.

the god

iher.

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

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