#ld tsoa

“This boy has a stain upon him, Eris. You are to be a god. For years I have urged companions on you. Again and again you have denied me this.” The anger in each word beat down upon Azriel like the sun's rays on the hottest summer day, burning his soul instead of his skin. “Why.” The word was a demand, for answer, not a query. There was no choice but to answer.  Eris did not shy away. Azriel heard him step forward, sandaled footsteps echoing as they moved away from him across the sand-dusted rocks.  “He is surprising. You told me to choose. I have chosen. Consider your wish fulfilled.”  “And if he ruins you?”  “I won’t let him.”  The room was silent for a moment, even the sand stopping it’s trail across the stones.  “Let your decision rest on your shoulders then, and the consequences wrought tenfold. You and your therapon will apologize to Amphidamas. I expect you to inform your mother thus.” There was a pause for a moment, the weight of the king’s words settling heavy on the boy’s shoulders. His voice was softer, a sadness Azriel could not understand lacing the tone when he added “I wash my hands of this. May the gods guide you.” 

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The acolytes' eyes were open, staring toward the moon. Azriel stared between the pair of communing maidens and pleaded with the gods. He just needed one more chance. He could make this right, he wouldn’t fail Phoibe again, he wouldn’t- On the sand beside his knees, the girl's hand fell open as if in offering. A pair of dice rolled to the sand. Three and two, together making five. Duplicity and luck all wrapped up in a new beginning. His sister had taught him to read dice, and he recalled her lessons so acutely in this moment his head throbbed.  Screams echoed through his mind as well. It took Azriel too long to realize they were his own. Soon, they were joined with other shouts. The distant yells became louder, closer. Men running from the barracks would arrive quickly, swords in hand and ready to defend. Azriel hung his head. He placed the acolyte gently on the ground, fixing her hair so the wound was covered. Beautiful, he thought as he did so. Just like my sister. Before he ran away from the bodies, Azriel grabbed the pair of dice. 

“What is your name?” The question did not register. Azriel focused on the delicate freckled fingers, still dancing with unhurried ease across the strings.  When the question came again, colored with demand, Azriel remembered his place. No longer was he a Prince, but an exile. It would do him well to remember that. Bowing his head slightly, his eyes leaving the lyre for the first time since he entered the room, he replied. “My name is Azriel.”  Turning away, his gaze finding the ceiling above him, the Prince paid Azriel no further mind. It was the treatment he deserved after all the people he’d let down. Understanding the dismissal, Azriel turned for the door.  His hand pressed against the door. Beneath his scarred fingers the wood grain felt overstimulating. The repeated hurt and healing had left his hands sensitive. It did not bother him most days and he had no explanation for why he felt it now.  Something unfamiliar but not unwelcome skittered down his spine as the Prince spoke once more. “Welcome to Phthia.” 

He fought, channeling his pain into rage, and his rage into movement. For months Azriel trained from sunup until just before sundown. Each evening, he found his way to the ashen ruins of the house that still burned in his dreams. While Apollo carried the sun to its rest each night, streaking the sky in vibrant orange and red two thoughts warred in Azriel’s mind: the fire that licked at his sister’s skin, taking her life, and the red headed boy who had made it easier for Azriel to breathe. As the colors melted to an ashen purple and charcoal night, Azriel hated himself for both.  Why should he have it easier? That boy, Eris, he’d been so young, so unaware. Burns did not make Azriel a warrier. The healing skin was calloused now, having adjusted to the brutal training Azriel endured. But maybe if he trained more, worked harder, he could become the hero that boy thought he was. The one his sister had deserved.  The charcoal grey darkened to an inky black, blue wisps of cloud covering the moon left in the sun’s wake. Stars dotted through, carrying hopes, dreams, and the true heroes of their world. Azriel sat beside the toppled brazer, the only piece of his sister’s sanctuary that remained, and watched them blink into existence. His mind began to replay the events of that night, as it often did. The screams were so vivid, Phoibe’s voice reverberating through his memories…