Page 58 of Blood of Olympus

Part Two

RAGE & RUIN

“I don’t know if you will ever see Peace again.”

“Why, where has she gone to then?”

“War has cast her into a deep pit.”

— ARISTOPHANES, PEACE.

CHAPTER 16

Nyssa

Gods can tell the instant they set foot in another realm. The air weighs heavier on our skin, our power hums with a strange dissonance through our bones, and every sense takes a moment to adjust. Every change hitting at once feels like an assault of the most precise kind. Therefore, it was easy to discern who had never set foot in Ephemeron before.

Of all who stepped through the portal to land in the large, ornate chamber, only Evie struggled with the sensory assault. We waited as she cried out and keeled over. Aros was there to catch her and whisper steady reassurances into her ear until the feeling passed.

A few minutes later, with tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, Evie straightened. She met my waiting gaze and inclined her head.

Pride bloomed in my chest as I nodded back. She’d handled it better than other full-blooded gods I’d personally witnessed on the rare occasions that my father brought Charon and I along with him to the mortal realm. She’d handled it better than I did the first time.

The faint memory of nausea, vertigo, and a churning stomach lingered on the periphery of my mind, quickly dislodged by the sound of something shattering.

Within the broken mess, stood a man clad in a long white robe cinched at the waist, his hand raised as if still holding the now-fragmented pitcher.

“Uh-uh-uh, I, uh,” the mortal stammered. Blinking as if to clear us from his vision, he threw back his hood, revealing a youthful face and smattering of brown curls above pockmarked skin.

“What is the meaning of this racket?” boomed another voice, causing the boy to flinch.

A second figure rounded the corner into the chamber, clad in the same long robes, bee-lining for him. “Did you not clean your hands after pressing olives this morning, Elias? Why must mess follow wherever you go?” the second man scolded, his white, waist-length beard bouncing as he spoke.

Elias said nothing, but Aros’ amused chuckle gave us away.

The old man’s gaze flicked over to us dismissively, then back to the boy. A heartbeat and a sharp inhale later, his head whipped back around, eyes wide and mouth agape. His gaze immediately dropped to his feet and he threw himself down onto his knees, disregarding the shattered pitcher he now knelt in.

“Lady Athena, forgive me for I did not see you there⁠—”

The goddess stepped forward with one palm raised. “Hush, Sophocles. No offence has been taken.”

Sophocles blinked up at her, his brows knitted together like two hairy grey caterpillars embracing. “My lady remembers me?”

Athena grinned. Her sandals crunched the clay shards as she offered a hand to the old man. “One never forgets a friend.”

“Even a friend one rarely visits?” Sophocles dared to raise a singular caterpillar brow as Athena helped him to his feet.

She loosed a short bark of laughter. “You have my sincerest apologies, Soph. Time moves differently for us… and my mind has been otherwise preoccupied.”

Sophocles winced, clutching his left knee. Bloodstains now marred the once-pristine fabric, eliciting a frown from the god to my left.

Apollo strode forward, indicating that the man should raise the hem of his robe.

Sophocles froze, his eyes widening as the god of healing approached. Apollo merely rolled his own and lifted the hem himself, crouching to take a closer look at the mortal’s wounds.

May I? he signed.

Sophocles nodded wordlessly, and Apollo placed his hands over the cuts, sealing them in seconds.