Chapter 2
BARTY
Though they shared the same name, the same features and the same blood ran through their veins, his father had never loved him.
That never mattered to him, because he had never loved his father either. Thank you very much.
Everything about his life was predetermined. His existence seen as a curse. So why should he love or be loved? Why should he live and let live? All that mattered was the path he had to follow set by the fates themselves for him.
He had been told about his destiny more times than there were stars in the sky. Stories about feats he was sure to accomplish, wars he would win, the glory that his name would hold.
Bartemius had never felt like his name, it always sounded like his father’s. It sounded like a king’s name and he was not a king. He was just a warrior.
He would go down in a blaze of glory, the greatest warrior of all time. But he would never be his father.
The first time someone called him by a name that wasn’t his, was when he was sneaking through the castle, late one night.
Princes rarely listened to the rules. Rules were laid by them, not for them. A fact he endlessly took advantage of.
His father’s palace— because he would rather cut out his own tongue before he called it his— was truly an architectural feat. A marvel. His father had always been a fair ruler, beloved by the masses. And such kings were rewarded by a flourishing kingdom. Flourishing kingdoms in turn brought forth prosperity.
He could not help the sinking feeling that this kingdom would die with him.
Better than dying for him or dying in his stead.
Moonlight filtered through the windows, casting a silver glow every few feet. He raced through the hallways. The older he grew, the smaller his father’s palace seemed. Or maybe he was just outgrowing it.
Paintings lined the walls, telling stories of heroes he had heard a thousand times over. Some were of gods, divine deities the people worshiped. His mother never seemed very divine, just… all knowing. He supposed that was a better description.
Always ten steps ahead, always mystical and cryptic.
His feet made no sound on the floor. He hadn’t worn his sandals that night. He liked walking on the beach so close to his father’s palace. He liked the sand slipping through his toes. He liked the soft spray of mist that hit his face. He liked the night and he liked the sea.
What he did not like were gossipers.
People with nothing better to do. Immature children. That is who gossiped. They talked about everything they had seen and not seen that day, giggling among themselves like giddy women.
Their soft voices carried out of their room.
His father liked to collect charity cases. Young children he took under his wing and fostered so that they may serve their kingdom once they turned into men.
His father always did like everyone else except him. He’d much rather stare at the children of strangers, abandoned and left behind, or even criminals, rather than look at his son.
He was used to it. His father’s looks or lack thereof. No one ever looked at him the right way.
His father did not look at all. He just complained and snapped.
The rest of the kingdom never stopped looking.
Their precious prince. Half god. Destined for greatness. The greatest warrior. None of them had ever even seen him fight and yet rumors spread faster than wildfire.
He was used to rumors by then. They were harmless exaggerations of the truth. Some of it carried weight. Not all though. Yes, he was half god, his mother a sea nymph, destined to bear a son who would become greater than his father.
Zeus himself, as the story went, had married her off to the king of Phthia. And no less than nine months later, he was born.
Some days, he could understand why his father hated him so. A son who was better in every way possible? Of course his dislike bled through.
Some days he cried himself to sleep wishing he was just another face in the crowds he so often faced. Some days he wished he had never been born. If his life was to have conditions and strings like a puppet, always pulled by another, maybe it would be better to have no life at all.
Some days, he wished his father loved him. Some days, he wished he was capable of loving.
“No, he speaks the truth!”
He stopped in his tracks, lips pulled down in a scowl. It was past the middle of the night. The only ones who should have been awake would be the soldiers and guards, tasked to keep the palace safe.
And yet, someone else’s voice rang through the still of the night.
He would always consider himself a curious person. Everything had always been handed to him on a silver platter, sometimes gold. What’s the fun in things he never had to ask for? Never had to fight for? Never had to beg for?
He would never beg for anything in his life. Princes did not beg.
His whole life, people had been telling him what to do, when to do. Even when they told him Princes set the rules and not the other way around, they did so while laying down rules for him. That was just the way it was.
Princes did not eat like savages, they dined. Princes did not fool around with children, they had no time for friendship. Princes scowled, princes demanded, princes held their head high, princes did whatever the fuck they wanted except what the king did not want from him, which was… a lot.
Then there was the warrior part of him, the part his mother encouraged and his father feared. He liked that part.
Warriors won, warriors conquered, warriors fought and above all, Warriors never feared. What did he have to fear when he had the whole kingdom at his fingertips, the muses singing his praises already and not even eleven years of age?
And so he listened to the conversation happening just on the other side of the door. He pressed himself to the wood, ear against it. There was no one in the hallway, no one he had seen for minutes. He couldn’t help but think some guards should be stationed where he was.
Why did his father collect so many young children to foster if they weren’t given protection? What happened if, Gods forbid, the palace was attacked? Would his father leave the young men to their own devices? To defend themselves? To die alone?
He grimaced. That sounded like something his father would do. Fair, but not kind.
His father had always been that way.
“The prince!” They exclaimed. Their voices were young, like his own. The spark that men lose with age, the thrum of energy and excitement still evident in them. The smiles that grew less and less common as men grew older, the rosy dust of their cheeks, their grins, so carefree. He could imagine it. He could almost see them.
They must have been huddled together, or speaking to one another from their cots. Gossiping in the cover of the night.
Such a childish activity. As juvenile as them.
He had never paid them much attention. His father did enough for both of them.
So why now were they speaking of him?
“That was him? At the far end of the table?” Another voice asked. They must have been speaking about dinner, a somewhat boring affair.
He hadn’t even realized these young children had been watching him. He shouldn’t call them young, some were older than him, and most his own age. And yet, they seemed far more carefree, far more relaxed, like the world could never touch them.
He had seen many like them come and go. Most did in fact join his father’s ranks. Some turned into faithful citizens, some into priests and some into dead men.
“And he is ten?” A scoff of disbelief. “He looks older, or younger, I cannot tell”
A flash of anger and he almost banged open the door. How dare they speak of him this way? How dare they speak of him at all? Would his father care if he lost some of them?
What would his mother encourage him to do? What would his trainer say?
“He’s magnificent” Another voice, full of hope and awe.
“He’s alright”
Another flash of anger, white hot, like Zeus’ lightning. Fire bubbling under his skin. His fingers curled into fists, eyebrows drawing lower, teeth clenched.
The door had opened slightly. Not much. Not enough for attention to draw to him.
Just a pair of eyes.
The nearest cot from the door.
A boy was sprawled on top, arms stretched above his head, floppy, light hair that fell into his eyes. And those eyes that stared back.
He almost fell back with how fast he retreated. He slipped the door shut as quietly and quickly as he could manage with trembling hands. Even now, those eyes were his most vivid memory.
Those eyes that stared back, catching him eavesdropping, had shaken him. Embarrassment flooded him, heat rising to his cheeks. He never meant to get caught, he just wanted to listen, to hear what they said about him.
“He’s alright?” There was an uproar. The others seemed to agree with the Prince. He wasn’t just alright. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone knew it, except for the boy who said it. The boy with deep, dark eyes, a lazy smile stretched across his face and his body stretched in a similar lazy fashion. Like a useless cat that bathed in the sun.
He loathed him. He decided. He was the Prince, he could have that boy exiled for speaking against him. He could complain to his father. He held that boy’s life in his hands. How dare he?
“He’s certainly something” the boy said, “Handsome, yes, but not much of a warrior”
He wanted to rip the door off, throw it at the boy, wrap his fingers around his throat, make him choke, gasp, beg for air and forgiveness. He wanted the boy at his feet, begging, praying, apologizing.
He wasn’t allowed to train in front of others. The boy should know that. His talents were best kept hidden. Phthia’s warrior prince was not something his father thought was well to advertise. It would bring them only misfortune and raids. His father did not want to lose what he had in terms of land and power.
“They say his mother is a goddess,” Said another voice. “A sea nymph, the Queen, promised to the king by the king of the Gods”
He had never met any gods apart from his mother. If they were anything like her, he wasn’t sure if that made him want to meet them or stay as far as he could from them.
His mother was no evil sea nymph. Just a cursed one. Misfortune had lain in her lap and in her womb. And yet he liked her better than his father.
At least she looked at him.
That insolent boy in the dark room had looked at him too.
He didn’t know how to feel about that.
“And is he really prophesied to be greater than his father?” Someone else asked, “A warrior, they say?”
“Half god, half king” Said the boy from earlier, the prince could hear the smile in his voice even from the other side of the door. “He’s certainly something”
Half god. Half king. Never a full something.
“Bartemius, they call him, after his father” Someone explained, someone older with a deeper voice.
“Barte…” The boy trailed off. The Prince imagined him with that infuriating smile, those half lidded, careful eyes and he wanted to drive a sword through him. The boy didn’t even bother finishing the rest of his name. He simply trailed off at Barte.
“Where do you come from?” A younger voice asked.
“Locris” The boy said, “I had to travel day and night, with my weight in gold. And you?”
“I know not” the other voice said, “The king had taken us when we were crawling. He will take good care of you. He and the Prince.”
“I hope the Prince can take care of himself first, let alone the whole kingdom”
Some part of his words struck a desperate childish sensitive nerve in him. He was the prince for gods’ sake. He would take care of himself and his kingdom. Who was this boy from Locris to tell him what to do?
Where was Locris anyway? A meaningless kingdom that would die with the nameless boy.
And so they chatted. Juvenile gossip, laughter, crude comments about serving girls. He didn’t waste his time listening to those.
He slipped past the room as quickly as he had walked past any other on his way. He had already kept his mother waiting for too long. Any longer and she would be cross. She would never say it, just purse her lips in a line.
But he would feel it in his bones, the way the sea churned around her feet, the way waves seemed harsher when she was angry.
Suffice to say, Thetis was not a goddess he wanted to keep waiting.
The voices dulled the further he got from them. He passed guards and serving girls, all doing their duty, even deep into the night. They acknowledged him with a low bow, scrambling for words, for apologies. They avoided his gaze entirely, looking at their feet or his.
Nothing like the impertinent boy from Locris. The memory of his eyes boring into the Prince’s made him lose way once.
He emerged from the palace, swaying with anger and his feet harsh on the ground. He did not care if stones found their way into his skin, nor if seashells cut him and let his blood flow.
How dare he? How dare that boy?
He’d have a word with his father or his trainer. They would have to throw him away, cast him aside. The Prince demanded so.
The closer he got to the sea, the faster his heart beat.
The night was cloudless, wind in his dark hair, cool sand under his feet. The constellations shone above, stories of the heroes he had grown up listening to. He had always felt too far from them. The sky was out of his reach. He’d never be one of those heroes he was prophesied to be.
He could have sworn the beach was empty a moment before and yet when he looked back, there she stood. His mother.
Thetis.
A goddess.
A queen.
A mother.
And somehow none of those all at once.
“Mother” He greeted.
Her hair was dark, like his. It fell over her shoulders like the waves of the ocean that night. Her skin glowed with barely contained divinity. She looked much like a normal human woman, and yet one could tell she was definitely not.
She stood taller than any man he had ever met. Her dark eyes boring into his own, somewhat patronizing, somewhat commanding. Her clothes seemed to melt into the very ocean she stood ankle deep in. The water lapped at her feet.
“You are late” Is all she said. She cared about him, he knew it. She had made the fact clear a thousand times over. And yet, he could never get over the cold undertones in her voice when they spoke.
They did this often, late night trips to the beach, all alone. He didn’t have a weapon, he never needed one. Some would say the crown Prince wandering alone at night was a cause of great concern.
It worked for them.
Thetis never liked being too close to the palace. Bartemius, the king, never liked her being too close to his palace. As the prince, as their child, he was always stuck in between.
Unable to go with his mother into the depths of the sea, unable to stray too far from his mother’s element.
Always stuck between his godly side and his human one.
It was no secret Thetis despised the king of Phthia. No matter, because the king disliked her as well. She blamed him for taking her freedom, for being forced to be married to him, always bound to the waters that surrounded his kingdom.
He blamed her for their son, and what his life would mean for the kingdom and its residents.
Neither thought much of what their son might think.
“I lost my way” He admitted, anger melting away. He could never tell with his mother. If she was happy, the waters were calm, if not, they broke apart ships that never left the harbors. Somehow his childish anger never seemed to matter in front of hers.
“In your own palace?”
“Apologies, mother”
He tried to contain his expression, to not flinch away at the mention of the palace as his. Thetis had always wanted the best for him. She wanted to make him the greatest. He had no choice but to do as she said. Except in some matters.
“This is no place for you” She clicked her tongue. “If your father would just—”
They’d had that discussion many times. Thetis wanted to take him and raise him under the water. She would give him blessings from the other sea nymphs, perhaps from Poseidon himself. She would raise him in the way she wanted, molding him into the warrior she wanted as a son.
Sometimes he wondered if she ever saw him for who he was instead of who she wanted him to be.
“He says I am not ready”
“He means he is not ready” She waved her hand, “Not ready to part with you, to part with what you would mean for this kingdom”
“You don’t wish me to be king?”
“I would have you be king, warrior and god” She beckoned him closer, cupping his face. The skin of her hands was cold, like icy water. It raised the hairs of his arms. Her touch was smooth and at first glance— caring. But when she stared into his eyes, they had a gleam he feared.
And if I don’t want to be a warrior, king or god? He wished to ask. He did not.
“Your father will have you curb your strength. Do not listen to him. Come with me, under the sea. Let my sisters care for you, train you. Let me make you into the man I hope you will become”
“Father will forbid me from speaking to you if you do not respect his wishes, mother”
“Let him” She narrowed her eyes, “I will see to him. If you wish to come with me, no mortal king can stop you. You are no ordinary child, remember that, always”
He nodded, finding it suddenly hard to meet her eyes.
Only a handful of people had ever seen Thetis. She tended to not stray far from the water. She had been seen once at her wedding to his father, then once when he was born when she delivered him unceremoniously to the palace guards and promptly left. As soon as he had been old enough to talk and walk on his own, she insisted on meeting him on the beach, away from prying eyes, away from his father, away from humans.
“Not yet” He told her, “I do not wish to go yet. I train here, on land”
“You can train under the cover of the sea”
“I do not wish to go yet” He repeated, firmer this time.
Thetis pursed her lips. His father, once in a drunken stupor, had drawn comparisons between him and his mother.
They shared the same dark hair, the same pointed features, the same high cheekbones, the same stubbornness, the same cold gaze and the same fire blazing in their chests. He didn’t know what to do with the similarities.
But then again, he had much in common with his father. They shared the same name, the same blue eyes, the same smile, the same blood, the same coldness, the same indifference. Maybe, like his father, he could never love either.
The only thing his father had ever loved was his kingdom.
The only thing his mother had ever loved was the version of him she crafted in her mind.
He did not love either of them. He wasn’t sure if he ever could love something or someone.
Perhaps that’s the price one must pay for immortality, for fame. To be a great warrior, one must give up human pleasures. Being a hero meant severing the part of yourself that kept you human.
For him, the best thing to do now would be to leap into the waters and let his mother raise him. He would turn to be every bit the hero she promised him he’d be. So why then could he not bring himself to touch the water?
Whenever the waves got too close for his liking, just about to touch his feet, he rocked on the balls of his heels. In his mind, the water burned like poison. He should not have felt as if he was on a cliff, stuck between choices. And yet he did.
He was only delaying the inevitable. One day, he would have to choose between his father’s kingdom and his mother’s for good.
Which one would he then wish to live in?
“How does your training go?” Thetis changed the subject. Maybe, she read it on his face. He was after all only ten, far too young to conceal his expressions and to even think about hiding things from his mother.
“Well. Alastor has already trained me in every weapon found on Phthian soil.” He informed her. It felt safer to talk about weapons and training than it did to talk about choices. Choices were always difficult. He did not want to make any choices just yet. “I bested him in combat yet again. No guard in the palace can beat me”
A foreign sort of pride filled his chest. He tried for a grin like he had seen some of the foster boys do. He imitated what it would look like for him to be one of them, just another human. In doing so, he inevitably thought of the insolent boy from earlier.
His smile was more natural, his teasing joy was just… better.
Thetis raised an amused eyebrow at his smile. “Very well, son. One day you will train with the best. For now, Alastor will do”
“The best? Is it one of the heroes you tell me stories about?”
“The trainer of heroes, the immortal Chiron”
He stifled a gasp. Chiron, the centaur. The same one that had taught Heracles, Jason and many others. Maybe he would continue to teach heroes well after Phthia had been reduced to rubble, when the little prince was nothing more than just bones and ash.
“When will I?” He asked. “Soon?”
“Soon” Thetis smiled. It looked like a predator. Something on the hunt. She bared her teeth, though her intentions seemed pure, her execution was improper. The prince wondered if he looked the same when he attempted to smile. Like he might bite and draw blood. “When you turn into a man”
When he turned into a man. He had a few years before that.