Anastira
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Epithet’s voice rings through the arena, every word the cut of a blade, sharp and certain.
At first, she is not certain her words have held any weight: the archer yet reaches for a knife at her waistband, still in motion - unaffected. But Epithet’s particular infection is inevitable. The air stills between them; the archer leans forward, as though to land the killing blow, but partway there she is caught, frozen in space and in time, suspended in the moment before. Before reaching out, before striking, before drawing blood: the movement already begun, yet unable to reach finality.
And as the words flow, Epithet begins to smile. In a brief, dangerous, reckless moment, she believes this is it - her victory - and that she might as well go on forever…
That moment, however fleeting, is her undoing.
Remarkably, impossibly, the archer bares her teeth, takes a single step forward, and somewhere deep down Epithet feels her stomach drop and her heart skip a beat. Her hands feel clammy. She thinks that now might be a good time to collect Advice and Criticism from the floor, but eye contact is so important to a good Insult - and maybe, maybe she can lock the archer down again. So she keeps going, the words flowing from her like a salt flowing into a wound, every syllable dripping blood.
The archer does not stop. Her hand lifts to her chest and moves forward again - again, and the knot deep down becomes a flutter, wings of panic beating against the cage of Epithet’s ribs, the prison of her chest, beating to break free -
She is drowning, the water all around her, the Hearthlake vast and deep and never-ending -
Epithet strikes the thought aside viciously, focusing on her words. On the Insult. And it must work, because - before her - the archer is forced to her knees. Yes. Bow. Kneel to the queen -
“...So that’s what you believe. So close, yet so wrong.”
The words cut through the Insult, and Epithet feels something tenuous stretch and break: whatever hold she had on the archer dissipating like mist under a hot sun. Worse - the archer closes her eyes and smiles. Smiles. Why? What does it mean? This creature, only moments ago locked within Epithet’s iron fist, but now she is smiling?
Epithet is about to say something - an Insult, maybe, or words without meaning, words without bite; she can’t be sure, the words are unreachable, dancing beyond her grasp. And so, as Epithet searches for the words that should be second nature, the archer lunges forward, racing towards Epithet so quickly she doesn’t have time to draw breath nor scream an Insult. She reaches for Criticism, lunging for it; she thinks she might almost be able to reach it, half-imagines its cool weight settling against her palm, when she is stopped short, pinned in place. She looks back at the archer, confused and uncomprehending. The fluttering wings of panic within her chest become something more, something worse, loud and pounding -
Pain.
Splitting, piercing, fiery pain.
Epithet screams.
The pain is so abrupt that for an instant Epithet thinks maybe this is death, it is over and she is the victim of fate after all, but another moment passes and she realizes that the pain is all concentrated in her hand. She manages to turn her head to look: and sees her own hand pierced through with the archer’s dagger, her blood spilling out onto the marble of the arena floor; and the archer’s boot pressing on top, grinding her bones to dust. The panic has become a choking, suffocating fist closing around her throat, and she gasps for breath.
The archer seems unfazed. In fact, her other hand holds something: a blade, heavy and cruel, black-and-red.
Advice.
No.
Epithet swallows. The archer plays with the blade, toying with it; and then she holds the blade to Epithet’s throat, so close Epithet feels its cold kiss on her skin. She feels cold all over, as though someone has poured ice into her veins in place of blood. She feels as though she might shiver, but the razor edge of the metal against her neck is a violent warning: move an inch, a centimeter, even a millimeter, and the archer’s face might be the last she ever sees. And she can’t have that…
“Let this one tell you something,” the archer says, her voice laden with exhaustion. “Puppets dance on their strings. But I hang from a noose.” What a strange thing to say… “This one knows that she is broken - this one knows that she is dead.” Good, Epithet thinks, even though the blade is still sharp at her throat and she doesn’t dare breathe. She is waiting - for what? For the archer to end this, finally. But the archer is not yet done.
“Been at the end of my rope long enough to admit it…but that does not make this one a slave. Your words cannot kill a corpse, so be silent.”
And Epithet is.
The voices are singing.
“Sail the Hearthlake, the dear father said, look to the coming dawn / who whispered, when the sun rises, you’ll already be gone? / was it I? I don’t recall, it was so long ago / at least when you sail the Hearthlake, you’ll never sail alone!”
The water is deep, murky, dark. The girl flails her arms and gasps for breath; water fills her lungs. She is cold all over, a coldness she has never known before: an absence of warmth. Lost, she thinks. I’m lost. I’m not supposed to be here.
“Sail the Hearthlake, the new bride said, you’ve far now to run / the clock ticks on and the time runs low, but you’re not yet done / do you remember the place we made, the place you thought was home? / forget all these idle mistakes; your salvation is to roam…”
She is sinking; everything is black. Panic fills her body: a flutter of wings, the pounding of drums, the choking blackness of pure and utter suffocation. She breathes out. There are bubbles. How lovely.
“Sail the Hearthlake, the little child cried, as fast as you might / be afraid of the day, as you are of the night / nothing starts and nothing ends in the waters that swallow you whole / this is the fate of those that don’t know where to go…”
You did not kneel, the goddess whispers through the water, a ripple of sound.
I’m sorry, the creature called Wister whispers.
Her story is now mine to tell, says the woman in the hood.
The girl continues to sink. The bubbles are gone.
Epithet’s vision clears.
She doesn’t quite understand what happens in these moments. The archer’s snide comment, the blade - her blade, the greatest betrayal - against her skin, cutting deeper as the archer slices against Epithet’s throat; the memory of a foreign past overtaking Epithet for a brief, black moment. And then, as the blade threatens to cut deeper, Epithet recoils, bending backwards as far as she can, away from Advice’s touch.
She feels her own blood running in rivulets down her neck and onto her collarbones, streaming tears dyed crimson. It should be hot but it feels as though it runs cold.
Desperate, Epithet jerks her left hand from where it is pinned by the archer’s dagger and boot.
Pain blossoms like fireworks.
But there is no time to think about the pain. The archer is going to make good on the kill any moment now; Epithet knows this. So instead she tells herself a Lie.
There is no cut. There is no wound. There is only words, and poetry, and vengeance…
The pain recedes, and Epithet’s hand comes free. She does not look at it. The Lie holds true for now: but if she looks, if she sees the blood flowing free down her fingers and her wrist, if she takes in her mangled palm, the fingers that hang uselessly and the bone that is cracked - the Lie will splinter just like the archer’s arrow. It will shatter into a thousand irredeemable pieces and Epithet will have to face the truth. And that is not something she is ready for.
So instead she lunges, in the moment of the archer’s surprise: searching for her other blade, and yet at the same time her instinct leads her somewhere else.
Without thinking, Epithet reaches for one of the archer’s daggers, sheathed on her belt. Her right hand finds a hilt; before the archer can react, she swipes the dagger across the archer’s face. Blood wells in the lines it leaves behind, and Epithet feels a glow of pride as the archer staggers backwards, reeling. Off-balance…just the way Epithet wants her. Epithet looks back at the archer, meeting her blood-covered eyes; and then, as the archer struggles to orient herself, Epithet lunges forward, slipping beneath the archer’s guard, and stabs upwards: a sharp, confident movement, the blade angled to enter just below its owner’s ribcage, seeking her heart.
Two blades, two betrayals.
“You say my words cannot kill you,” Epithet snarls, smiling, “but perhaps this will do the trick.”
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