Thysa
I’ve never been to the gilded chandelier palace that hangs from the apex of Elysium’s dome. Not until today. It gleams, a celestial monument built to blind all into obedience. Every surface polished, as if light itself were pressed into submission. King Zeus’ palace seems less a home and more a statement—an altar to power where the walls sneer and floors groan under the weight of pretension.
Not like my Lord-Mother’s estate, that’s for certain. Where Dionysus reigns, there’s life—riotous and wild, with laughter that spills as wine and music that devours silence. This place? It reeks of control. Statuesque priests drone chants in voices that hang like mist, cloying and constant, as if they mean to become the silence. The atmosphere drags; all gold and piety.
Imposing, sure. But mostly? Uptight.
It’s been a week—just a week—since I made my debut, and the city is ablaze with gossip. They speak of Breathless, the mortal Maenad who dared to fight colossi alongside Dread Persephone. I can’t lie; it’s intoxicating, the way every look sharpens when it lands on me. My name is spilling from lips it never would’ve graced before. A little too much attention? Maybe. But why pretend I don’t love it?
Dionysus, however, does not. My Lord-Mother spent the days chiding me, rattling on about “decorum” and “indelicacy”, that our King would be angry already at my existence, and I have made it worse. She said that I was too brash with Persephone, as if the woman didn’t need a little shaking up. Her displeasure increased upon Zeus’ announcement that I was to present myself in her court, alone.
Certainly, this summons isn’t about my conduct—Zeus is angry because a rival pilot program has been built in the dark, blooming to fruition without her knowledge, as a vine through marble.
Had it been possible, my Lord-Mother would have kept me far from this meeting. Instead I was sent off with a litany of careful instructions: speak little, listen, caution your tongue. In all my years in her estate, I’ve never heard such apprehension in her voice.
Even my beloved sister Methe offered her counsel before I departed the Paralos: your mouth gets you into trouble, tread lightly.
Tread lightly. I don’t tread lightly—I dance. And if my mouth lands me in trouble, what of it? A little trouble never hurt anyone worth remembering.
Yet, one voice reached me. Of all people, Cedalion, Hades’ Hound, was waiting at the Paralos’ dock. A hand, pressed firm against my shoulder. Her touch startled me, as if she was reaching not to pull me back but to hold me still. All this time trying to get her attention, yet this is what gives her cause to touch me?
“Take care,” she said, concerned.
For all her inscrutable distance, that fragment of worry lingers, unshakable.
At last, the throne room swallows me whole. I stride with good form, head held high, wearing my pilot suit and jacket; proudly decorated with the thyrsus and vines of my house. They are my only armor today. My leg aches, faint but insistent, a reminder of what I did, of what I pushed through. Psilas’ railgun rattled my bones to breaking. The fractures have mended, mostly. I roll my wrist as I walk, flex my fingers. The motion is fluid enough, though pain tugs stubbornly at the edge. But pain is transient, a flicker in the fire of glory, and what is glory if not a thing earned? I would do it all again, and for a moment, I let the memory hum inside me like a triumphant note—the thrum of Psilas at my back, the two of us sweeping across the field, my railgun splitting the earth beside Persephone’s perfection.
The court stretches on, the air thick with incense and the smelt of candle-wax. Priests flank shallow pools that mirror an endless sky, drifting with clouds. They’ve gone silent. The King herself sits upon her throne at the far end of the hall—she is a lion, golden with divinity. Twin golden bowls rest on plinths at her sides.
And me? I kneel before her. Whatever this is—this summons, this reckoning—I will face it as I have faced everything: head high, unafraid. Let Zeus see me for what I am. Let her understand what Dionysus has wrought.
Zeus
The entrance of my throne room opens like a maw, and a speck of a mortal walks in. An offensive insect caught upon my tongue.
The chirping and clicking from my flock of priests flanking the walkway falls silent as she approaches my throne. For generations, champions have knelt to my feet in this room. They have taken the water from the two pools upon their skin and become holy by my hands.
The pilot before me now is so small she nearly disappears from sight when she kneels to me. Though she doesn’t move—well-trained by her Lord-Mother’s nymphs, I imagine—I can hear her heartbeat from here. Like a hummingbird, so frantic for such a small body. It is a wonder she’s lived this long.
“At ease,” I say, and watch her unfurl. I produce a report on the pilot’s battle, provided on my order to the Mark Four. One of my priests bears them to my guest. The stack of papers are hard-light, impermanent, but they rustle all the same.
“The Mark Four had a lot to say about your first battle, pilot.” I sneer the word. “In summary, you are undisciplined.” She makes to protest, but I lift a finger to quiet her. “I will enumerate: singing, goading a banner-class pilot into a childish game, refusing to withdraw at the order of a senior pilot, disregarding your own safety. And that’s leaving out your most criminal acts: leaving Elysium unsanctioned, piloting an Eidolon unordained, possession of a cybernetic suite for the purpose of piloting an Eidolon, unregistered mortal augmentation.” I do not elaborate further, but allow the accusations to bear upon her, one by one like lead weights.
“I beg forgiveness, my King,” she begins. Light and shadow dance upon her meager face from the rows and rows of wax candles that line the room’s floors and sconces.
“There are no beggars in Elysium, child.” I step forward out of my throne and bring myself to her, casting her in total darkness beneath my divinity. “I have endured the insult of my Lord sister and her pilot only because the Mark Four delivers results that cannot be denied. I will not endure anything further from my fellow Gods. If your Lord has not already made this clear to you, you will hear it from me: your crimes aside, you are a mere mortal, Thysa. You are no pilot. Cease, at once, we need not take this further. Our city has seen enough political upheaval in the past few months.” I sigh. “However… if you continue, you will be executed.”
The Maenad rises, her gaze fixing on me, fearless in a way that suggests her Lord has tampered with her amygdala. She bares me the same courage she would an enemy upon the battlefield. “Is it not virtue to seek glory, my King? If it's the results you’re after, look no further than our recent sortie. In effectiveness, I am the Mark Four’s equal.”
I chuckle at her lack of decorum. Death appears to be an immaterial punishment to her. “The Mark Four was made to my exact specifications, meant to satisfy and endure my every requirement.”
A look flashes on her face. This is the first flicker of hesitation she submits to me, so minute I would not catch it if I were not a God. She is not moved, then, by threats—but by jealousy. So easy it is, to read mortals like this. Her emotions are arranged as neatly as a battle report.
“I have satisfied every condition my Lord-Mother has imposed. I am sure I can satisfy yours.” Thysa’s claim carries all of the certainty and foolishness of the young.
Infuriating, this one, but so simple to nudge. “You would break beneath my wrath. Recoil from my desire. A true mortal like yourself cannot stand beside a Mark.”
Thysa blinks once, then steps forward. “My King. Levy on me your trials. As you’ve done in the stories of heroes past. Spend your wrath in me. Slake your desires with my own.” Without permission, her fingertips alight upon my arm. I capture her hand by the wrist, lifting her unceremoniously off her feet and holding her at a distance.
“I did not give you permission to touch me.” Her defiance is a fire brighter than her, and draws me to study her more closely. She is a pretty thing in my hand. “But if your desire to be tested is that great, then I will oblige.” She blushes at this, the first time I’ve managed to shut her mouth.
Some mortals require demonstration, when instruction alone will not suffice. I drop her to the ground. The papers scatter, dissolving into light.
With a snap, I let my trousers dissolve. My priests begin chanting in droves. She does not seem to hear them, her eyes beholding my divinity, her mouth trembling at the sight of me.
“Your first test, then. Open your mouth. Bare your tongue.”
She is bashful in obedience, eager to follow my instructions now, flushing with something near to maidenly excitement. I almost laugh at the possibility as I mount her face. Certainly no scion of the Lord of Revels would be virginal after so many bacchanals at her Lord’s side?
“Begin,” I command.
The touch of her tongue on my vulva is tentative.
“I read the Mark Four’s report,” I say, frowning. “This hesitation hardly seems like you.” I want to see the tenacity that drove her on the battlefield. She redoubles her effort, padding at me like a dog.
I let out a moan, unbidden.
“My King,” she coos between my legs, peaking her pinecone brown eyes up at me. “If I’m not mistaken, it sounds like you’re enjoying this.”
I seize her by her flame of hair, grip my thighs on either side of her face, and ride that defiant little smile off her face.
She descends into a fit of groaning and eager gasps of air.
I’m reminded of the heavy breathing, the force and skin from when I traded blows with my sister. Hades’s defiance, Persephone’s defiance, and Thysa’s defiance all blend together. I let the anger flood through me now that I finally have an outlet, giving her less and less time between breaths, crushing her with my wet heat.
I press down with my weight, enough to crack the walkway, and still her tongue does not cease. I lift her head up and slam us down again, releasing a gasp from her, a crack from the walkway that extends near to the pool’s edge. Still, her nails do not cease their march upon my thighs. She is already far more enduring than I could have expected.
I release her, her face is slick with my pleasure; gold marbled with black. She wipes her mouth and then leverages her legs in an attempt to force me to the floor.
“What are you doing,” I say, chuckling. She groans, face red against my insurmountable strength.
“It’s my turn,” she says.
I blink, and bring my brows together. If by no other measure, the audacity of this girl surpasses Persephone.
She claws at me, pressing valiantly to straddle. I am immovable.
I grab her arms and lift them from me to show her that her strength is nothing. Outraged, she bites deep into the muscle of my thumb—I honor her with a taste of my ichor before forcing her wrists together and slamming her beneath me again. She gasps, sharp with pain.
“If you’re already screaming, I doubt you’ll survive the night.” I taunt, hoping to nip this affair in the bud before she suffers too greatly. Breaking pilots is Demeter’s job, not mine. “Are you sure you wish to continue?”
“I’m fine!” She hisses.
“Oh?” I scoff. “So far you’ve held up to a Mark Three’s specification. You should know that we've obsoleted them for a reason.” I shift my grip until her forearms are crossed and press. “I wonder what will happen should I subject you to the stress the Mark Four was forced to endure? Perhaps—”
The ulnar in her right arm shatters with a report of crackling pops. Regardless of her augmentations and her resistance, she is merely mortal. And she screams like one, too, her pain suppression augmentations likely all that’s kept her conscious. “There, you see?"
Her scream dies behind gritted teeth. Defiant tears stain her cheeks, yet she persists. “Only one bone? You… insult me… my King.”
“In the songs they will sing about you, I do hope they stress my generosity. I gave you an out. Now,” I summon golden light to my hand, air rushing to fill the space, “I shall have to teach you a lesson.”
With a snap, I summon my harness, lengths of thick black leather supporting my noble golden strap. Its providence is a weight even in my hands.
“My King!” She gasps, trembling with fearful excitement. Her knees draw together, a flicker of concern on her face: that I will not fit. I seize the crotch of her pilot suit and tear it open. Her sex is glistening.
“Did you come to me this way?” She flinches at the question.
“No, my King.” She trembles.
It matters little if she speaks the truth.
I drag her to the pool's edge. When I take her she screams, louder for every centimeter. I am magnanimous in that I do not force the entire length at once.
I slide a finger along her jacket, tearing it as I do. Her neck I bare first, where I find a gold and purple cypress-leaf necklace, beneath it a tattoo of her Lord-Mother’s thyrsus divides her sternum. Every layer of her brings me more insult.
Of course she honors my sister.
I grasp the necklace in one hand and plant my other beside her head for leverage. I yank, using the chain to choke and fuck her harder.
She is like a songbird being hunted, chirping, yelping and spasming. Her tiny nails dig into my flesh with the fervor of a lover.
Suddenly, tension unwinds underneath me in a rush. Her voice pinches.
“Did you just come?” I ask as she exhales and arches herself against the floor. “I didn’t say you could do that.”
“I’m sorry,” she moans, voice thick with pleasure, her thighs tightening as though trying to draw me closer.
I slap her. Hard. I grab a length of her red hair and yank her close to me so she can bask in my offense. Her face blooms with a vivid flush of crimson, and yet—she moans again, breath uneven, gaze heavy with defiance and surrender intertwined.
“No!” I chide. “I am punishing you. Stop enjoying it!”
“How could I not enjoy your touch, my King?” She’s coy in her tone, through the pain.
I laugh. “Let’s see how breathless you really are.” I shove her head into my sacred pool. The clouds above us coalesce, grow heavy and dark with storms. My priests pick up their chanting. Bubbles erupt to the surface, but she doesn’t move from me, only squeezes me tighter. Gently, I begin working our hips again in circular motions to keep her perfectly in place.
After a minute, I pull her head back above the surface. Her lungs seize and expel water. She coughs deeply, afflicted and taken. I pause, weighing her courage before I offer her a final opportunity.
“Thysa,” I begin, gently this time, “creatures like you have been attempted before. It’s untenable, cruel, what your Lord-Mother has done to you. You will break on the field, and it will happen sooner than you imagine.” Her coughing diminishes to a ragged pant as I bend until my face fills her vision. “It is no shame for a mortal to crumble at my touch. Yield. I will order your Lord-Mother to end her foolish program, but you will be spared punishment. If you insist on this inevitable failure the consequences will be dire.”
She rolls her hips, eyelids fluttering, as if she is so caught in pleasure that she cannot hear me. With a fierce grip, I still her. “I will not offer you another opportunity to end this, no matter how you cry and plead, do you understand?”
Her right arm is swollen, purple-black with agony. Unbelievably, she lifts her left hand—eyes fixed on my lips—and slides her palm past my cheek to the nape of my neck. There she pulls at me, thighs tightening, as if we are lovers, as if she means to kiss me.
“I. Do. Not. Back. Down.” She rasps, husky, needy, recalcitrant to the end.
I shove her head back under the water and redouble my efforts. Her insides struggle to swallow my vastness, she cannot help but claw at me in mortal panic.
“All the way, Thysa, or I won’t let you breathe.”
She stops scratching at me, goes still. Her thumb runs in circles along my thigh until her whole body relaxes and I sink into her belly.
I pull her back up, and I almost laugh at the shit-eating grin on her face. I cannot help but reward it with a kiss. Firm and brief to her obvious disappointment. She frowns but I do not give her more. She has not succeeded in all of her trials.
“Good girl. You may make a pilot yet. Don’t pass out on me now.”
She spurs me on, inviting pain as deeply as I am willing to give it. Mortals always whimper the same when overwhelmed by pleasure or agony. In that respect Thysa is no different.
She grips the edge of the pool for stability. I do the same, folding my hand over hers, making sure neither of us slip.
“Harder,” she demands, indignity returning to her. “I’m… close.”
“'Sow the seed of glory deep,’ was it? If you long to sing, then sing for me, pilot.” My anger, alchemized into curiosity, transmuted to raw excitement and pleasure, overtakes me. I fully let go on her mortal body. Every thrust creates a new line in the walkway now.
Crack. She screams, her voice reaching new heights then tumbling melodically against the fervent, harmonious chanting of my priests.
Her orgasm grips my strap, her face twisting with agonized ecstasy.
I can tell immediately I’ve broken something in her hip. I consider stopping, but she wraps her legs around me to urge me as pleasure crashes through her. I oblige, fucking her harder.
The walkway panel collapses as I get closer. Water flows over both of us. I pull her into me as I fuck her, making sure to savor every whimper and cry. She is a symphony of pain and pleasure unto herself, every note taking me higher until—
Lightning strikes from above. Ecstasy floods through me as I climax, warm gold laced with shimmering black spilling around my strap and onto her.
A storm breaks, warm droplets of rain hitting my skin. Every candle goes out. So too does the voice of every priest.
We breathe in the same rhythm, though hers are weighted with suffering. Animal sounds escape her tiny lips, the music of her gone now. She clings around my neck with her good arm. She was pretty when she walked in, the way a trinket or a well-maintained gun is pretty. She is most beautiful when broken.
I reward her with a proper kiss. Her lips are warm against mine, her back hot with fever against my arms. She needs medical attention.
I pull my strap from her, she moans as if being emptied.
“You are petty, rash, unnecessarily resistant. But I accept.” I laugh, low and long. “Congratulations, Thysa. Through a will mightier than I’ve seen this side of the War, you have earned your right as a pilot. If your Lord-Mother can promise results as consistent as these, I will green-light their program.”
“I am honored... my King,” Thysa says through the agony of her afterglow, fluttering on the edge of consciousness. I am as delicate as one would be with a broken-winged bird when I pull her from my sacred waters and lay her upon the walkway. It’s there that I finally allow sleep to carry her away. I quell the storm, though errant rain clouds flit across my sky.
My Pontifex, ever anticipating my needs, has appeared, as if out of the water itself. She awaits, white-armed and ever-cowled to receive my commands.
“My King,” she says curtly. Her eyes do not track Thysa, staying always on me.
“Father Pygmalion, see to it that this girl is cared for. While she is in the infirmary, prepare for her a room in the pilots’ quarters.” I rise, and with a snap, I dry myself; with a flicker of light, my clothes return and my visage becomes unblemished. “And ensure her network access is disabled.”
The Pontifex nods, and calls in several of her priests. Between them they hold a gurney. Gingerly, they attempt to place Thysa upon it.
A scream resounds in the chamber, though not one of us has our mouths open. Divine purple light begins to leak out of Thysa. Whispers seem to crawl just out of range. The space stretches and expands.
The priests that bent to lift her to the gurney spasm, fall to the floor, and die.
Thysa shoots perfectly upright with inhuman exactness. Her eyes fly open like blast doors, radiating purple. The heat off of it dries her entirely. There is no trace of Thysa in the expression, a face twisted into the essence of rage.
Three more of my priests fall dead at the sight, their chanting turning to drool.
“And they call me dramatic,” I say. “You’ve made your point, Dionysus.”
“You broke her arm. Her hip.” Dionysus’s voice layers upon Thysa’s vocal chords. It becomes a resonant, sonorous thing, as if she’s been plugged into an amp. “You could have killed her. How dare you—”
“She broke the law,” I say. “You broke the law. This was mercy.”
“Was it mercy to claim her virginity, too?” She crosses Thysa’s arms, something that should not be possible. The bone juts against skin, as visible as her anger.
That I did not know would not make a difference—it might even make them angrier—so I don’t make it a point to tell her. Instead, I say, “Thysa has been consecrated in my sacred pool, as Honored Pilot and Holy Concubine.”
The laugh that escapes her lips nearly makes my priests stand up. My Pontifex eyes them down, keeps them in their seats. I see more than one pass out at the effort. “This is sophistry!” she exclaims. “Thysa would never agree! This, Zeus, is how you’ve allowed things to slip through your fingers as they have, why I have worked to keep her a secret. You lose yourself in petty games, unwilling to see the forest for the trees. I want my daughter back.”
“I tire of this,” I say, waving them off. “Look, I am prepared to give you both what you desire.”
She scowls at me, but asks, “What do you propose?”
“Cede to me this daughter and everything you've done to her,” I say. “Thysa has proven herself to me today. If it is a pilot program you’re after, you have my blessing.” She perks up, and even through the puppeteering I can see I’ve struck true. “However, If you refuse, I will have my engineers tear her to pieces to find out exactly how you ascended her. I will order you to halt your program, destroy any further candidates. You could have shared your plans, but you hid all of it from me.”
“It’s all about control with you,” she scoffs. “You’re only doing this because Hades stole your pilot,” she says. “Your petty insecurities might end us all one day.” I’ve never known Dionysus to be so direct. I wonder precisely what this girl means to the Lord of Revels, and precisely what leverage I have gained by stealing her away.
“I’m doing this because Thysa proved herself worthy of my honors,” I say, struggling to soften my tone. “She begged for trials. I can see clearly the spark and fire of a pilot. I merely obliged her, gave her a proper pathway to glory.” Softness does not become me, though, and Dionysus’s impolite display warrants further scorn. “Perhaps your music or madness have distracted you, but your daughter is undisciplined. She is dangerous, both to herself and others. Clearly you have failed to properly train her. In my Thunder Contingent she will be tempered—or break before her wild nature harms anyone other than herself.”
Dionysus is still angry, but there is consideration in her pause. “Even if I were to agree, Thysa will defy you. It is the nature of our House to fly free.”
I chuckle. “No one flies free on Olympus. The entire planet is a cage.”
“And what then, when her spirit breaks against its bars? What happens when a new play-thing catches your eye?”
I am struck, as I occasionally am, by the gaping crevice between myself and the rest of the Twelve. Her distrust is not unwarranted. I have made myself Dionysus’s obstacle through hierarchy and image, through obstacle and machination. It has been enough to focus her, to hone her into the kind of player that creates a piloting program out of nothing—for unascended mortals! In another life, I would be proud.
I do not reply in words; words cannot sway someone you’ve pushed this far away. Hades and I taught each other this lesson recently by trading fists and ichor. I look to my ever-silent, ever-watching priest and nod.
The Father Pygmalion pulls out a band of gold cloth and glides over to one of the collecting bowls beside my throne. The rainwater from earlier shimmers inside, as if it still carries the emotions of our affair.
“You are not serious, Zeus,” Dionysus says as the Pontifex approaches them. The remaining priests in my court begin chanting again, lower and earthier.
“Even if I were the heartless, myopic libertine you think I am, I would still care about the one thing all of the Gods must: our pilots.” I kneel to Thysa’s height, and allow Pygmalion to wrap the band around my right wrist. The water is warm and gently glowing. It smells of both ozone and wine. “Usually, this process takes years. Baptism is the final step rather than the first. But I will make an exception.” I nod again to my Pontifex, and she catches my meaning. We have worked like this, in faith and battle, for so long that we have long ago lost the need for words.
“Will you bear witness, as her Lord-Mother?” Pygmalion asks Dionysus. “Will you give this daughter of Elysium away to the King?”
The Lord of Madness begins to shake her head, then stops. She stares at me for a long moment, then nods in agreement.
“Then both sides have testimony.”
Pygmalion wraps the band around Thysa’s left wrist, and I clasp both her and Dionysus’s hand in mine. The Father speaks, her voice affecting its own kind of musicality, “The First Pilot, Leto, is said to have held her breath underwater for a day and a night before becoming one with the long-limbed Keraunios. Through water, we find the holy spirit of our Lord.”
Dionysus does not resist or jest, nor uses the moment to comment on my followers’ faith. It is as much a ceremony for her as it is for Thysa.
Pygmalion looks to Dionysus. “Repeat these words, if you would: “my strength is the Lord’s strength. My glory is the Lord’s glory. My death is the Lord’s death.”
She does, the cloth reaching ever up her arm. It chafes me that her Lord-Mother speaks for her but it is enough for me. Thysa is sworn to me by her own tongue. I will brook no other path for Dionysus and her piloting program.
Pygmalion turns to me, and I say, “My strength is the strength of my pilot. My glory is the glory of my pilot. My death is the death of my pilot.”
The band squeezes us both, then falls dry on the floor, dissolving into fragments of light, its water spent on our skin.
Thysa
I come back to myself in pieces, splintered fragments stitching together slowly—bone, breath, memory. I feel less human than ever, like something spectral, torn from the edge of oblivion. The last moment I recall: myself lying broken beneath Zeus’ wrath and—Lord-Mother save me—her pleasure. Though it is hazy and incomplete, my face heats at the recollection.
The ceiling above me offers no answers. Gold sprawls across its surface, curling into intricate patterns edged in black. The room itself gleams with smothering grandeur, as though poured from molten wealth, every corner cooling into this prison of opulence. How long have I been here?
A tug pulls me from abstraction, sharp and sterile. I look down—an IV snakes into my wrist. I’m wearing gold. I inhale deeply, enough to get through the petrichor that clings to me and the frankincense that burns lightly from golden sconces above. Only then do I notice the chemical scent underneath.
My vision sharpens. I’m wrapped in a hospital gown. It is insultingly luminous. Zeus’ sense of humor, no doubt.
Enough.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, tearing off the sensors that tether me. Machines shriek, outraged, a chorus of blaring disapproval, and my body joins them. Pain flares across my hip, my arm, my neck—my sex. Nausea crests, but I bite down and ride it out.
My right arm bears a line of sutures from elbow to wrist, the skin taut and raw. Another, uglier line runs down my left hip—evidence of a surgeon piecing me back together. My augmentations accelerate my healing, knitting flesh and bone faster than common mortals. Without them I likely could not move at all. Even so, I wince as I stand, an involuntary betrayal of my weakness.
I stagger to the window, every step a blow to my aching frame. The shade resists, then I yank it high. Sunlight floods the room in a brilliant burst, and there it is—Elysium. The city sprawls below me, breathtaking in its impossible beauty.
There is only one place in the city with a view like this.. Zeus’ palace. I’m still here.
I try to hail my Lord-Mother—reach for Dionysus through familiar channels—but there’s nothing. No connection. No signal. Panic blooms hot beneath my ribs, cutting through the pain. I tear the IV from my arm, watch the blood bead briefly before my skin smooths over.
Grimacing, I lurch toward the door. Each step feels like a war waged against my own body. My hand hovers over the handle, trembling. I exhale, steadying myself. Whatever waits on the other side of this door, it will not find me cowering.
The door is locked.
Rage hits like lightning. I pound my fist against the edifice, every strike sending shockwaves through my body. I scream.
On the third blow, the door hisses open.
“Impatience is the downfall of many heroes,” says a voice. A pale, white-armed priest stands at the door, flanked by two more. Under her cowl, her eyes are as void-black as Zeus.
“What is happening?” My voice is rough, more demand than question. “I want to speak to Zeus!”
The priest steps into the room, forcing me back into it. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t even seem to breathe. When she speaks again she remains perfectly, horribly still, except for her mouth. “You think because she honored you with her touch, that you may ask after her at any hour? She is the King. Sit yourself down. Get rest. We may be able to make something of you yet.”
“Make something of me?” The words come out slow as understanding dawns on me.
“Yes, pilot Thysa. The Lord has accepted you into her service. ” She allows me a smile, a cruel instrument to finish me. “You spoke the oath, your hands joined by gold. You are now Pilot-Secondary. Welcome to the Contingent of Thunder.”
The words drop like stones into the marrow of my bones. I spoke the oath? I want to laugh—wild, hysterical laughter—but I don't. Not yet. Instead, I stand there, pain lapping at my edges as a tide. Pilot-Secondary.
The word freezes my blood. I will be second only to Herakles. The thought of it—that I could pilot Keraunios, that I am so close to matching Dread Persephone, should please me. Instead, my stomach is a nauseating pit.
In the House of Revels, there is a lesson we maenads are taught very early on: beware of wishing. We bear Dionysus’s power of wine and illusion over other mortals, to make any wish bloom into something beautiful, something real. However, no desire is pure enough, no want so clean that it won’t leave you hollow after—gutted, gasping, retching out the thing you swore you wanted most.
I have never heeded the lesson. I was born with nothing, lifted only by my Lord-Mother’s whim. So I wished, demanded; took. I threw my voice into the heavens, shouted into the storm. And now? Now I have it. Or I’m getting it, at least—piece by piece. I could never have imagined that it would come with the price of being ripped away from my Lord-Mother’s House.
And gods, I am finally learning the lesson. I feel ache where triumph should sit, taste sour notes where there should be sweetness. Turns out wishes don’t taste like wine. They taste of salt, sweat, blood—
Tears run down my face.
Was this it? Was this what I was willing to break for?
I laugh finally, sharp and bitter. The sound of someone who doesn’t know whether to scream or sing. I was warned, we’re all warned. But what is a Maenad if not someone who dances into the frenzy? Eyes wide open?
Inside me the music fades, the lights go out—I curse myself. Not for wishing, but for learning too late.
I throw up all over the priest’s feet.