Cloak & Silence (18 page)
May 9, 9542 BC
“
S
it up straight! You slouch like a fishmonger’s son.”
Styxx flinched at his father’s angry tone and straightened himself immediately in his uncomfortable gold chair where his legs had gone numb from dangling over the edge of it. But if he folded them under him, it would anger his father even more than his slouching. While his father often doted on him, especially whenever they were in public, there were other times when his father would be so cross that nothing he did pleased him. Times when his father seemed to begrudge him every breath he took.
Today was definitely one of those days.
“Are we boring you, boy?”
Styxx shook his head quickly, resisting the urge to groan out loud as pain split his skull with absolute agony. He’d always hated his headaches and the one today was more excruciating than normal. It made it impossible to focus. Worse, he felt as if he would vomit at any moment.
That
his father would find unforgivable.
What? Are you a pregnant woman, boy? You vomit as such. Learn to control your stomach. You’re to be a man, for the gods’ sakes. Men don’t throw up every other minute. They control themselves and their bodies at all times.
His stomach heaved violently, sending more pain throbbing through his head, which then sickened him all the more. The constant seesawing between his head and stomach was enough to make him want to scream in agony.
“Might I be excused, Father?”
His father turned to glare at him furiously. “To what purpose?”
“I don’t feel well.” That was a substantial understatement.
“Come here.”
Styxx scooted off his small throne and resisted the urge to wince as a thousand needles stabbed at his sleeping legs. Knowing better than to let his father see the pain it caused him, he crossed the dais to his father’s huge gilded throne. It was so massive that the top of his blond head barely reached the arm of it. Dressed in a white and purple stola and chlamys that matched Styxx’s chiton; his father’s blond hair and beard gleamed in the light beneath the gold-leaf crown that would one day be Styxx’s.
As they always did on this day of every week, they’d spent all morning dealing with the problems and concerns of the nobles and people who wanted an audience with their king. Since this was something Styxx would have to do once he ruled this kingdom, for the last year his father had made him stay and listen so that he could use his father’s wisdom once he inherited the crown. While Styxx was here, he was never to move or speak. Only observe.
The “privilege” of attending these sessions had been his sole birthday gift last summer when he’d turned five.
With a fierce frown creasing his forehead, his father touched Styxx’s brow. “You have no fever. What are your symptoms?”
“My head aches.”
He rolled his eyes. “And?”
I want to vomit and I’m terribly dizzy.
But he knew from experience that his father would only ridicule those complaints.
“That is all, Father. But the pain is ferocious.”
His father glared at him. “You will one day be king, boy. Do you think they will stop a war or an uprising because you have a meager headache?”
“No, Sire.”
“That is correct. The world does not stop for something so trivial. Now sit and listen. Observe your future duties. Your people are far more important than your boredom and they deserve your full attention.”
But it wasn’t boredom. Every shred of light or hint of sound pierced his head with a pain so foul that he wanted to bash his own brains in. Why could no one ever understand his headaches and how much they hurt?
Tears of pain and frustration formed, but he quickly blinked them away. He’d learned long ago that while his father would console Ryssa whenever she cried, he would never tolerate tears from his son. Styxx was to be a man, not some mollycoddled girl. . . .
Trying not to jar his head while he moved, Styxx returned to his seat.
“Sit up!” his father barked instantly.
Styxx jerked upright then winced in pain.
Don’t show it. . . .
But it was so hard not to. Swallowing in agony, he glanced out the window to see Ryssa in the garden with Acheron. They were laughing as they chased each other and played. What he wouldn’t give to be outside with them in the beautiful sunshine.
Not that it would matter. Even if his head didn’t hurt, Ryssa would never swing him around like that. She’d never laugh with him or tickle him. Her love was reserved solely for Acheron.
Turning his head, he tried not to think about it as another wave of misery pierced his brain.
Styxx leaned forward at the same time blood poured from his nose. N
o! Please, not now. . . . Please, gods.
He pressed his hand to his nose, trying to stanch it before his father took note.
“Majesty? Is His Highness all right?”
Styxx panicked at the guard’s question that brought his father’s full attention back to him.
Rage darkened his father’s brow. “Did you do that apurpose?”
Yes, I purposefully cut open my nose with no means whatsoever just to spite you, Father. I’m truly talented that way.
“No, Father. I shall be all right. It’s just another nosebleed. It will stop in a few minutes.”
The king curled his lip in disgust. “Look at you! You’re filthy. You don’t dishonor those around you or your divinely given station with such sanguinariness.” The king jerked his chin at the guard who’d ratted him out and Styxx’s valet who was charged with keeping him immaculate and presentable any time he was in public. “Take the prince to his room and see that he’s cleaned and changed.”
Great, I sound like an infant or puppy.
They bowed low before crossing the room to stand before Styxx.
Already dreading what this would mean for him later, Styxx kept his nostrils pinched together and slid off his seat, then headed for his room upstairs. As he crossed the atrium from the throne room toward the main palace, he paused again to watch Acheron and Ryssa laughing and playing in the back garden. The bleeding in his nose worsened as did the voices that shouted even louder than before.
Tears filled his eyes. He wanted to scream from it all, and when Acheron fell and scraped their knees, Styxx couldn’t take it anymore. He hit the ground, clutching his leg and crying out as his pain finally overwhelmed him completely.
Please, gods, please just let me die. . . .
Acheron came running to his side. “Styxx? Are you all right?”
No. I live in a state of constant physical pain no one understands or has mercy for.
And he was tired of it. Dear gods, could he not have one single hour where something didn’t hurt?
“Styxx?”
He couldn’t respond to his brother, not while he ached so badly and in so many ways. Instead, he stared at the blood on Acheron’s ravaged skin. He felt the same exact injury on his own knee and yet he knew that if he looked at his leg, he’d have no wound to explain the throbbing ache he felt there.
“Don’t get hurt again, Acheron,” Styxx finally breathed. “Please.”
Acheron frowned as Ryssa came forward. She knelt on the ground by Styxx’s side. “Why are you lying here?”
Styxx pushed himself up before she could mock his pain, too. “I fell.”
She glanced around the path. “There’s nothing for you to trip over. What? You saw Acheron fall and couldn’t stand him getting five seconds more of attention than you?”
Styxx glared at her as more agony split his skull. “Yes, that’s exactly what happened.”
“Have you another headache?” Acheron asked.
Styxx nodded then winced.
Ryssa scoffed. “Father says you only pretend to have them to get out of your responsibilities.”
He gestured toward his soiled chiton. “What of the blood that covers me?”
“You probably injured yourself for sympathy. I know you. You’re not above doing anything for attention.”
That was so him . . . never.
Unable to deal with her criticism, Styxx cradled his aching skull in the palm of his right hand and continued on to his room with his valet and guard trailing in his wake.
Acheron started to follow after him, but Ryssa held him back.
“Let him go, Acheron. He’ll just get you into trouble like he always does. Come. Let us play more.”
* * *
H
ours later, Styxx lay in bed, trying his best not to move or breathe. Suddenly, he felt a gentle hand in his hair. He knew instantly who it was. Only one person was that kind or caring where he was concerned.
“Acheron?” he whispered.
Without answering, his brother crawled into bed behind him. “Is your head any better?”
“Not really. Yours?”
“It hurts but not as much as yours, I think. I can still function with mine.” Acheron touched the fresh bruises on Styxx’s bare back that throbbed even more than his head did. “Why were you punished?”
“I left the court sessions early. Like Ryssa, Father didn’t believe my head hurts. He thought I was trying to avoid my responsibilities.” Something their father had absolutely no tolerance for.
Acheron put his arms around him and held him close. “I’m sorry, Styxx.”
“Thank you.” Styxx didn’t speak for several minutes as the voices in his head finally grew fainter and the cranial ache lessened enough that he could almost breathe normally again. “Acheron? Why do you think I can feel your pain, but you don’t feel mine?”
“Ryssa would say it’s the will of the gods.”
But why? Styxx suspected that he must not be as important to the gods as Acheron. Why else would he feel his brother’s wounds while Acheron was impervious to his pain? It was as if the gods wanted to ensure that Styxx protected his brother from all harm. As if he was Acheron’s divinely chosen whipping boy. . . .
“What do you believe, Acheron?”
“I don’t know. Any more than I understand why the gods have abandoned us to such awful people while they speak so loudly in our heads. It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Acheron turned over and pressed his back to Styxx’s, then his feet. As they lay quietly in the darkness of Styxx’s room, Acheron reached to take Styxx’s hand into his. “I’m sorry Ryssa is so mean to you. She just thinks that you’re doted on and spoiled while they treat me badly.”
“What do you think?”
“I see the truth. Our parents are suspicious of you, too. And while they are nice to you at times, they’re also very, very mean.”
Yes, they were. And unlike Acheron, he couldn’t complain about it. No one believed him when he did so. They accused him of being spoiled and then disregarded his pain as insignificant, or worse, they took perverse pleasure in his suffering as if he deserved it because he was a prince while they were not. Sometimes he thought it would be better to be Acheron. At least his brother knew what reception he’d receive whenever their parents were around. Styxx never knew until it was too late.
Sometimes his father was loving, and then at others . . .
He lashed out as if he hated Styxx even more than he hated Acheron. It made no sense and was terribly confusing to his young mind. For that reason, he didn’t want to be around either of his parents or his sister.
It was best to avoid them and the confusion they caused.
Sighing, he squeezed Acheron’s hand and let that touch silence the voices that urged him to kill himself. They were merciless in their taunts.
You are poison. So long as you live, you will suffer!
But if he died, Acheron died, too. The wise woman had proclaimed it so when they were born. Their lives had been joined together by the gods themselves and there was no way to undo it.
Maybe that is why you suffer.
The gods were trying to make him kill Acheron. To hate his brother so that Styxx would murder them both. It made sense in a way. Maybe they thought that if they tortured Styxx enough, he’d grow so tired of it that he’d be desperate enough to kill Acheron to end his own agony. Was that why their eyes were different? So that if he killed his brother, he wouldn’t be looking into his own blue eyes when he did it?
Yet he couldn’t make himself hate the only person who loved him. The only person who could comfort him and quiet the evil in his head.
Gods or no gods, misery or happiness, Acheron was his brother. Forever and always. He was the only real family Styxx had.
And the one thing he’d learned in his short life was that he couldn’t trust anyone. Not even the gods. People lied all around him. Constantly. Even about the little things. Only Acheron was trustworthy and honest. Only his brother didn’t try to harm him or seek to betray him to his father. So how could he hurt the only person in his life who treated him as something more than an object to be despised? The one person who didn’t smirk in silent satisfaction whenever he was harmed?
“I love you, Acheron.”
“I love you, too, brother.”
Styxx leaned his head back until it rested against Acheron’s and finally let the tears fall that had been misting his eyes all day. He could show them to Acheron. His brother understood and would never mock him for them. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to leave this place and find peace?”
“No. I think we were born to suffer.”
The saddest part? So did he. “At least we have each other.”
Acheron nodded. “Brothers— always and forever. They’ll never be able to take that away from us.”
