“We’re almost gods, you know.”
“Nyss was a daughter of the river diety,” his lips sneered and twisted,” one of tha three-thousand children of her yolk.” Coils of greasy hair swayed before his good eye. The other was a sunken fold of hoary skin. Dread lingered in the shadow of it. He could smell the brandywine on his whiskers. He could taste the bitterness in his slur.
“A prophecy spoke her untimely demise and so Taihou forbade any ill-will against her. All ‘cept a harmless acorn.” His wide grin broke the gaps of his jawline and hooked teeth. “It grew thick and tall, towering over tha evergreen. A boy called Loftur cut this tree into a lyre and played it for Nyss. Falling for her beauty and grace. She, too, gave herself to his song. When they lay together, their passions broke the strings of his instrument. And when its wood splintered, punctured Nyss in her side.”
His face craned further down, its height and angle drew his gaze in strange arrangements. “Life began to fade from her as Taihou discovered them both. Tears of vengeance drowned our tragic earth and carried away the lover and the lyre, transforming the body of her daughter to a river trident.” Without a moment of hesitation, a strike found his skull pressed firmly against the ground. A mountain gripped him and moving was futile.
“Do you know what happened to the boy?” Words melt before they could form a reply or a gasp for reprieve from the iron hold. “He grew into a man who fathered many a whelp, resenting his misfortune and the wives who accepted him. They were so pale next to a god. Who could say beauty kills like that?” The pressure on his nape gave, if only for a fraction. His father’s breathing is still heavy above him.
“Taihou cursed him, or so, he thought.” Nails dig into the meat of his shoulder, reminding him of its lethal promise. A heartbeat passed - his pauses are a rattle in the desert night. He can strike again or slink away. It was the unease of knowing which found him. In his helplessness, he welcomed the violence before the uncertainty. That was torture as he understood it. “The villagers cast him out, no kin of his would share his plight. It were the riverbanks that would have him, it was Her trident he meant to belong. He stayed where she died to raise his sons and daughters. The children of scorched earth.” In his confusion, his mouth made the shape of confusion and deep pockets of rage. “You see? We’re not descendants of any god or hero. No claim to an ancient seat of power. No pretty ballads sung about the great Rivers house. Our legacy is mud and piss and broken men.”
He is not special. He was a bastard truth.
He learned it before he could bleed.
“Perdition saved us from grace.”
