Merciless Fate

Fire. All around me, everywhere I looked. There it was—ruthless, merciless fire engulfing the souls of the living and the dead in its radiant arms. The people screamed. They cried to the gods for mercy. But there was no one to answer. The people were alone.

I woke up in a cold sweat. Beware the dreams, my father always told me, for in every one there is a morsel of truth. The gods had blessed us, he said. We should be thankful, he said. So we were. We sacrificed to our fallen fates, our gods of prophecy.

And in return. We were given suffering. What did I have to show for seventeen years of reverence? A dead father and a village who hated me and my gifts. My father, the Priest of Apollo, was a man of great fates. They say he sacrificed his sight so his daughter would be blessed with the Sight of Delphi.

But the visions I was given were no blessing; they were a curse. I knew too much. I understood too much. The people of my village feared my powers. They called me “demon” and “witch”. No, my powers were no blessing in the slightest.

I slid out of bed, shivering as my feet touched the temple's marble floor. I opened the door of my room, gazing upon the cellos, where a towering statue of Apollo gazed down at me. Despite everything fate had put me through, I still believed my father. 

I picked up the clay bowl of olive oil and carried it to the foot of the statue. I knelt, whispering the prayer I had been taught. Worship of Apollo had been looked down on for generations. As men of renown shaped their own fate, very few warriors, or even commonfolk, respected the fallen god of prophecy.

“Please,” I looked up at the statue, “please don’t let my visions be true. You owe me.”

I knew it was no use. My visions always came true. But I also knew that what I saw wasn’t always literal. And if the danger was really as serious as my vision made it out to be, there was a way out. The gods kept arrogant heroes and demigods around for a reason.

As the sun crept over the horizon, I sighed. Today was inspection day. The authorities of the village would examine all of the temples to see that the gods were being honored. I only hoped Achilleus wouldn’t be a part of that envoy today.

“Lady Aris,” I hid my frown beneath my golden curls as I bowed to the speaker, “How are your affairs?”

“They are all in order, thank you, Lord Achilleus,” I met his beady eyes with the warmest smile I could muster. I gestured towards the open door of the temple, welcoming him and his companions inside.

“Make one wrong move, and I will throw you out, agrytia,” He hissed in my ear, his chubby fingers leaving marks on my bare arm. I showed no reaction to the insult, but inside, I was fuming. Who was he, a fat, arrogant fraud, to call me a street vagrant? I was an outcast, yes, but not a dust-covered beggar.

I stood in the shadow of an ornate column as I watched the magistrate’s boots echo throughout the temple. More than once, I caught many of them throwing disdainful looks in my direction. I smiled in response every time.

“Alright, well,” a timid, rather skinny magistrate began, “Everything looks to be in order.” 

“Wonder-”

“Wait, what's this?” I whirled toward the voice that cut me off. Gasping in terror, I watched Achileus pull a handful of scrolls from a secret compartment on the floor. Please, I begged, and the god listened. If you care about me at all, please don’t let him open those scrolls. The gods remained silent. Achileus opened the scroll, his eyes widening.

“They’re -they’re,” I struggled for an excuse for the writings on the scrolls as Achileus showed the scrolls to his colleagues.

“What kind of witchcraft is this?” The timid man asked in horror.

“Yes, Lady Aris,” Achilleus’s mouth twisted into a malicious smile, “Do explain yourself.”

My shoulders sagged. “They’re prophecies,” I whispered. Prophecies had been outlawed years ago. Achileus knew this, so did I. But prophecies cannot go unrecorded. Especially if they all came true. And I had hundreds.

“Speak up, kynopis,” Achilleus barked. I flinched at the slur.

“Prophecies,” I said, meeting his eyes.

The ground was dusty and smelled of horse droppings. And there I was, lying in the road in front of my temple. The magistrate's fist hit my sides sharply. In the back of my head, I vaguely registered the group of people who’d gathered round shortly after Achilleus had unceremoniously kicked me down the steps of my own temple.

“Please,” Someone was saying, maybe it was me, I couldn’t tell, “Please stop. Please.” It didn’t stop, of course. Those soft cries were drowned by the sound of harsh words and bloodthirsty shouts. It must’ve been entertaining to watch. 

Apollo, I prayed, What’s the point of all those sacrifices if I don’t even live to eighteen? I’m going to die here, and you’re not even going to do anything. I was angry. Furious even. Here I was the prophetess of a fallen god, getting what I deserved. If I had the heart, I would curse the world a hundred times over. 

Think again, my daughter. What was that? A brush of wind whispered in my ear. Suddenly, the beating stopped. My quiet sobs dissipated.

“What’s going on here?” A commanding voice asked as I struggled to my knees. The crowd parted, making way for a young man on a black stallion.

“We found this girl with prophecies, my lord,” Achileus answered defensively.

The man’s face took on a strange expression. He looked almost… curious. His eyes flicked towards me. 

“Prophecies?”

“They’ve been outlawed for fifteen years, sir, as I’m sure you know,” Achilleus explained, bowing. This man must be of great importance for Achilleus to be so polite. “I was just doing my duty to the crown, sir.”

The warrior ignored him as he dismounted his horse. Soon, I was staring at a pair of leather boots. The man crouched down; I could feel his eyes burning into my skin. I tensed as his hand came toward my face, expecting a blow. Instead, he gently lifted my face to meet his gaze.

“What’s your name?” The question was gentle, like he was talking to an injured animal. Maybe I was one in his eyes. Nothing more than a scared foal. I felt like one.

“Aris.” 

“Why do these men abuse you so?”

“I’m the prophetess of Apollo. They fear me. Everyone does. They think of me as a liar and a fool. No one believes me.”

Silence.

“Do you want revenge?” More than anything in the world. 

“How do you expect me to do that?” I asked dubiously. Who did this man think he was? A vision flashed before my eyes. Death, darkness, an endless vat of ambition and desire.

“You’re a seer, aren’t you?” He challenged, “Let’s prove them wrong.”

I struggled to my feet. He stood with me. Looking into his dark eyes, I saw one thing: satisfaction. Whoever he thought he was, he needed me. He was one of the heroes. He was a child of prophecy. He needed me to twist fate to his will in a way that had never been tried before, even by the most daring.

“The girl comes with me.” The man told the crowd. He led me to his horse.

“My name is,” He began, as if an afterthought to our strange meeting.

“Mavros.” I continued, fire burning in my soul, “I know who you are. Remember that. Fate bows to no man, nor do her children. Whatever plans you have for me, keep that in mind.”

“Trust me, seer,” Mavros responded, his gaze of steel, “I know just how dangerous you are under all that innocence.”

He let me ride on his horse. As we rode, the wind sounded like a thousand doors closing all at once. I remembered his annoyance at my insistence to close the door of the temple. But it needed to be done. I needed to hear the familiar scrape of wood on stone one more time. It seemed Fate had come to a decision about me. The path I was on now was one I couldn’t veer off, even if I tried. 

I didn’t trust the man sitting in front of me. I didn’t trust the soldiers under his command. But the only soul in the world I had ever truly trusted was dead, and even he said trust dulls the senses. Shivering, I watched day bleed into night as Helios lay to rest.