Art Sales

She could hear them now. The soft whisper of voices, the gentle caress of their sins. Shadows writhed as she passed by, stretching and reaching, yearning for her touch. And oh, how she wanted to be free of them, wanted it to all to stop and end.

Their voices climbed to an incensed murmur, a fever pitch that rose and fell with no discernable reason. She could make out words and phrases, nonsense syllables and dire warnings. But no matter how she scrambled for a meaning, tried to appease them, it was never enough.

They snapped at her, clawed at her ears, her mind, wailing and screaming until she was screaming.

It ended in the snuff of a candle, the sound choked in her throat and the whispers a background murmur. Her voice was raw, blood an ever-present taste in the back of her mouth, but she was alive. Surviving, if nothing else.

It was slow, slotting together the puzzle pieces, threading together sense from their disjointed voices. Her head was bowed, her jaw locked, and gradually, the truth was separated from the mass of tendrils and a prophecy was extracted. Then finally, blessed silence, so wholesome and pure that she wanted it to last. Yet the reprieve was always short-lived, the voices returning as insistent as ever, and Ofrigg could do nothing but let them win.

Occasionally, she spoke. When the contents of a prophecy were too dire to ignore—and even then, only to Titan—she shared the visions. Her words were dry and grating, too difficult and tiring to string together more than a sentence. Yet he listened whenever she chose to speak, and for that, she was grateful.

The shadows were invisible chains on her wrists, the voices clamoring for attention.

The dead were known for talking, and she merely the hapless vessel.

He didn’t know what to believe.

It was hard to tell fantasy from reality, when the world shifted at the slightest touch. Colors bled together, words slurred and distant. He thought someone approached him, but he blinked, and it was a tree. Another blink, and he was somewhere else altogether.

He knew he should’ve been worried—seeing things that weren’t there was certainly a sign of losing his mind—but he felt strangely unconcerned, as if everything were happening to him in a dream. Distant, unchangeable and untroubling.

… Maybe it was a dream.

Maybe all he had to do was wake up and his world would make sense again. But for all he absently marveled at the eccentric sights, found his days slipping away, Nocturna couldn’t bring himself to care.

He paused, and there was something in his hands. A stone figure he never remembered getting. It was warm to his touch, lifelike and calm and pleasant. It winked at him, twinkling little messages that made him smile and laugh.

Yet for all its beauty, there was a part of him that balked at it, a voice at the edge of his mind tugging and insistent. But that couldn’t be right. It was a pretty thing; why would he want to get rid of it?

(“I’m worried. You haven’t been eating much and— are you even listening to me? Nocturna? Nocturna!”)

He kept it.

From the second Artemis saw him, she knew he was different. The way he held himself, the words spilling from his lips. He sauntered through as if he owned the place, arrogant and cocky and all around annoying. Yet there was something else in his gaze, a darker emotion that didn’t fit his carefully constructed façade. His shoulders were set too tense, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

So Artemis reserved judgement for later, smiled and said, “Would you like to come along?”

It took coaxing. During the long nights, illuminated in the glow of the campfire, he slowly and haltingly told his story. It was easy to fill in the missing pieces, to trace his route and feel every harsh breath and beat of his heart as if it were her own. And when he finished, waiting with baited breath for—for what? Disgust? Pity? —Artemis just shrugged and said, “You’re not defined by your past.”

It certainly never seemed to slow him down. He scared away most of the prey with his thundering footsteps, kept her awake at night with his snoring, and never stopped making jokes at the absolute worst of times. She lost more game with him in a week than she had in her entire career of hunting. But for all she knew that she would’ve done better on her own, she got used to him. He was charming in his own special way, and she was fond of him. Not enough to live with him forever—dear Icewarden, just the thought of being romantically involved with him turned her stomach—but maybe something lighter. Friendship. A close bond that needed no words to be exchanged.

He was the one to first coin the phrase. Out of the blue, and without preamble. “You’re like my older sister.”

And she’d stared at him, startled and amused despite herself. “And you are like the younger brother I never wanted.”

The pair settled into life amicably, the nights warmer and more alive than before. And when they came across Hera and Zeus, Artemis took one glance at Apollo and agreed to join them. They were amazed by her hunting abilities, by Apollo’s healing skills, and Artemis thought that maybe life in a clan wouldn’t be so bad.

Apollo adapted easily, effortlessly charming and charismatic, and she watched it all with a wry smile and an amused glint in her eyes. But Artemis stayed distant even as Apollo endeared himself to everyone he could, remaining cool and collected in the face of adversity. There was no need to concern herself with them, not when she had everything she’d ever need from her family. But she made sure to be courteous and kind, if not slightly reserved.

Yet as time passed, Artemis found it hard staying in one place after a lifetime of moving.

Her free time was spent hunting in the nearby woods, her nights wandering and exploring the moors. And if Apollo occasionally caught her staring off into the distance, he only drew her into a conversation, regaled her with his latest botched healing, and they laughed until the world felt lighter and she didn’t feel so trapped.

She was the first to see through his mask. Apollo built walls and moats, kept everyone at arm’s length. He used his words as a shield, his attitude as deterrent. And it worked. He kept his castle standing by the skin of his teeth, skirting social expectations with the ease of a dancer. But Artemis had taken one look at him, her eyes cool and assessing, and seen him when no one else had.

“You’re lying, aren’t you?”

He gaped, floundered for words that didn’t come, tried to build up his façade and bolster his way through, but Artemis just dismissed all his claims with a wave of her hand, and asked if he wanted to travel with her.

He was wary, counting down the minutes and wondering how long it’d take before she turned on him like everyone before. But she put up with him, even as he chased away her quarry again and again or serenaded her with his attempts at poetry. Only a shake of her head and a small smile betrayed her amusement.

At night, it was the resentment that kept him awake, the bitter twist in his heart and the incessant thoughts that refused to leave. He was hurt and angry and bitter, all a mass of dark emotions roiling in his chest that he couldn’t get rid of. When he’d wake, he was exhausted, circles under his eyes and a strong aversion to the sun. Artemis watched as he stumbled to his feet, and though he dared her to, she never questioned it.

As days turned to weeks, Apollo found his carefully built walls cracking them crumbling. He shared things with Artemis he hadn’t with anyone else, told her stories of his exploits and misadventures. And on a particularly cold night, in the soft glow of the moonlight and near the crackle of logs, Apollo told her of how he came to be travelling alone. Of why he built up walls and obstacles and let no one else in.

Artemis listened without interrupting, that careful, considering look on her face she always got when she came across a particularly difficult puzzle. And when he finished, she paused, silent and unreadable, and said, “You deserved better than them.”

Things were easier between them after that. Apollo relaxed around her, their days lighthearted and fun. He teased her when he could, made jokes and bad poetry. He let his façade fall, revealed to her both his bad and good, and she accepted him for all his faults.

When they came across Zeus and Hera, it was a surprise. They were interested in them after seeing Artemis’ hunting skills and Apollo’s healing, and they offered to take them in. They made a strange family, Zeus with his loud, boisterous laughter, Hera with her jealous streak, and Artemis the voice of reason. But he was happy.

Apollo spent his time charming others, smiling and charismatic and inserting himself effortlessly into conversations. He endeared himself to the clan, made a name for himself in healing and helping where he could. From his side, Artemis stood, fond and exasperated even as he made himself a fool. Stepping in when he needed it and shouldering his burdens.

She was a sister, in all the ways he could’ve wanted.

And if every now and then, his mask wavered or he woke with the taste of blood in his mouth and a want for something more, Artemis was the only one who knew.

They liked to tell stories. When the nights were long and the guards were away, huddled around each other for warmth and safety, they whispered their tales, tried to share in laughter and brightness even in a world so wholly dark.

He used to think it was beautiful. Wondrous. A spark of hope to lighten the day's horror.

But time passed, and days turned to weeks turned to years, and Phthonus was left with more scars than he could count. The ghost of their screams ringing in his ears, his wounds straining, and every movement agony. In the darkness of night, Phthonus could feel the blood beneath his claws, the hollow ache of hunger, and wished they would stop.

They whispered in the corners, smiles strained and laughter forced. And he wished they would give it up, forget it, because life was never coming back for them. This was it, the end, and if they would just accept it—

"Let them have their fun," a dragon murmured nearby as the others burst into laughter at a Spiral's raunchy story. "It's all we have."

Phthonus barely spared him a glance.

He threw himself into the work, the training, the flying of whips and the pain in his back. The cheering of crowds and the roar of adrenaline, the bloodlust and anticipation and then the silence that was all the more terrible. Blood dripping from his claws, the world empty around him, head bowed and corralled back to the beginning, to another night of sleepless terror and another day of fighting for his life.

At night, they liked to tell stories. Whispered confessions and choked sobs. Tales of dragons that had come and lost, who died to keep the others alive and going.

And Phthonus shifted, the start of guilt roiling in his stomach, and looked away.

Sometimes, he felt he deserved this life.

They liked to gossip. Chattering and leering with their insinuations and the ear for rumors. And he just shrugged and went on his way, Kulvara following along as always. It was always the same words, the same insults, the same gestures and jeers, and Dimosthenis rolled his eyes.

It was so unimaginative.

Dimosthenis looked up, expecting the usual derision and scorn, and was instead met with a curious gaze hidden behind bars and laden with chains. He paused, stared, and said, “We’re saving him.”

“What?” asked Kulvara, but Dimosthenis was already gone, after a fellow fledgling dragon whose eyes had long ago lost their shine.

“Why?” the fledgling spoke one day, after months of wheedling and assuring. His teeth were tucked away and claws stowed, but Dimosthenis still had the scars to show. The boy was wary, eyes dark with mistrust and voice hoarse. “Why me?”

And Dimosthenis looked at him, an excuse on his lips. A ‘Why not?’ and ‘I saw something in you,’ or ‘You reminded me of someone.’ Instead, he said, “No one deserves that.”

The boy stared at him, blinked, and said, "Oh."

At the next town, they liked to gossip. Questions like, "What brings you boys here?" and "You three all alone?" or "Awfully young, aren't ya?" And Dimosthenis shrugged, brushed aside their queries. It always the same. The looks, the interest, the eccentricity of newcomers.

But watching the boy's—Phthonus, Dimosthenis reminded himself—eyes light up at the sight of a bustling town, just might've made it all worth it.

"Come on," said Kulvara. "Let's see how much you learned."

They liked to wander. Off into the distance, just the two of them. Their voices lost to the wind, whispering and laughing, eyes bright and carefree.

And Kulvara watched from afar, wondering and wishing, an odd feeling in his chest. Cold and dark and bitter. But he shook his head and said nothing when they returned, faces flushed and the echoes of laughter in their eyes.

Things were fine. Were more than fine. But Kulvara waited, that feeling burrowing in his chest, and wondered if it really was.

When Phthonus came to him one day, mouth pulled in a snarl and accusations flying from his lips, Kulvara didn’t hide his answering glower, the wry twist of a smile.

“He’s not glass,” Kulvara told him, unamused and just so tired. “He won’t shatter the moment you look away.”

But Phthonus was set in his views. Called him selfish and arrogant and all manners of things before he stomped off in a huff, and Dimosthenis went after him.

“I’m sorry,” Dimosthenis said afterwards, regretful and sheepish. “I just—”

Kulvara shrugged. “I get it. I do.”

“What I have with him is— it’s different, you know?”

“Special,” Kulvara supplied. “It’s fine. I understand.”

Later, they wandered off as they were wont to do, and Kulvara pretended he didn’t see the way Dismothenis’ eyes lit up or how they brushed against each other as they moved. Soft, fleeting touches that left them breathless and wanting.

Things were fine. Were more than fine.

And as Dismosthenis threw his head back, eyes crinkling with laughter and shining with a radiance he never had before, Kulvara turned away with a small smile of his own and made his decision.

As long as Dismosthenis was happy, then Kulvara was too.