The Goddess of Blessed Death

The Gentleness of a Ghost

After the trip to Lycabettus Hill and meeting Mors's sister yesterday, there is a crisp, sharp chill in the air as though it became autumn overnight, skipping months ahead. The song thrushes' lullabies rang through the air with the rising of the sun.

In the hall, all have gathered for the start of the workday. Word has been sent to Demophon that Hyllus is making progress with his half-siblings. As children of the god Herakles, they at the very least are willing to listen to their brother. The oldest of their father's most recent family, Herakles spared no expense in his raising and training; a moment, a willingness to listen, was all Hyllus needed. With King Eurysteus's men fallen ill and still recovering, even as it is said that he pushes them to march on, even as it is said that they collapse before a kilometer passes, the Athenians and Calydonians are making headway on all the preparations needed for the battle.

The hall thrums to life with the men's voices, the air hums with their tenor and baritone laughter. They converse with Glenus, Oneites, and Ctessipus almost as if the three brothers have been accepted into the Athenian way; yet, there always remains a distance, a rigid handshake, a false smile, or a hurried farewell. Deianira stays by Demophon's side. Everyone has come to expect they will marry, whether the councilmen approve or not, after the battle. Few doubt that they will win, so what better way to celebrate?

For once eager to take part in the council activities, Macaria sits with the other women. As demeaning as it is, the idea that Mors will step forward finally puts the issue to the back of her mind. The other women look proud of their position by the king, after all. Of thousands, they were chosen for their beauty; they have a right to their pride and vanity, her mother most of all. But at what a cost. Macaria, fidgeting, is scolded by her mother.

"Sit still, Ria," Deianira admonishes quietly. "What's gotten into you?"

Macaria doesn't answer and her mother turns her attention back to the ongoings of the council. Demophon is droning on. Macaria hardly hears anything, so wound up by the fact that she knows today is it. Today, Mors will either prove himself trustworthy or traitorous. Either she will be right and become even more divisive among people, or she will be wrong and seen as a little girl with her head up in the sky, crying wolf. They may never trust her again if she is wrong, but if they trust her, then who knows all that Mors could have done to betray them. If Mors is a traitor and so close to the king, Macaria can hardly breathe at the thought; all the things he could have lied about and told King Eurysteus. The very fact that it could well mean that their army has not fallen sick at all but could arrive by nightfall.

An Athenian man comes jogging through the hall, causing a stir. Men quiet down and all eyes turn to him as he approaches and politely greets the king.

"May I have a word?" he asks.

With a wave of Demophon's hand, the man goes up to the throne to whisper in the king's ear.

"Now?" the king asks. "Right, of course." The man leaves, and Demophon shifts in his seat. The air, warm from all the bodies, is suffocating Macaria. "Mors has new information," the king announces to the council, voice as taut as the tensed muscles in his face. "It's pertinent to what we are discussing now."

Mors steps out behind the curtains that hang behind Demophon's throne. Macaria stands, gawking. The hall falls so silent there is a ringing in Macaria's ears.

Gone is his clean, bright chiton and dirty ponytail. His robes, pinned up by a butterfly pin, are dark, as though he's in mourning, making the pallor his skin take on shine. Upon his head lays a wreath with brown-tipped leaves. His hair is blonde and dark and lays in waves that reach for his shoulder tops like snakes reaching for the next olive branch. It's the only thing that doesn't appear shadow-like, like he could evaporate any given moment and is suspended between life and death. But the most shocking of all are the wings that unflur behind his back. They are a murky gray-black, like charcoal, and cast extensive, enveloping shadows across the court.