Looming over him like a wraith, Sorrow crosses her arms and juts out her gangly hip. He can practically hear her saying that rejection looks fantastic on him.
She must have just parted ways with Wonder. Or Wonder moseyed off on her own, intent on daydreaming.
Envy gains his feet, acting as if he’d meant to fall. Snorting, Sorrow flips around to leave.
He cocks his head, a smile worming across his face. Well, well. This won’t do. Muteness in his presence just will not do, so who can blame him for what comes out of his mouth?
He says, “So which star shed you like a tear?”
Sorrow whirls and snatches a fistful of his shirt. Jerking him into her, she sneers, “Don’t mess with me, pretty god.”
These are the first words they say to each other. And fine, now they’ve met.
***
Envy
What is this? Pick on Envy Day?
He doesn’t like it one bit. He doesn’t like her, either.
She’d made the word pretty sound like a cheap trick.
Envy swats her grimy fingers away, muttering that she’s going to stain him. By the time he finishes dusting himself off, she’s gone.
Very well. Let the witchy witch go. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
It’s a profitable train of thought. His Guide, Siren, would approve.
So why, oh why, is Envy marching down the nearest trail, hoping to find and rile up Sorrow more?
Hiking along the outcroppings, he fails to locate the archeress. She must have gone in the other direction.
Eventually, he finds something else: an inlet.
Curious, Envy rushes home and retrieves his small boat, tethered to a stilt beneath his house. Sailing back to that inlet, he cruises down its course and happens upon a lagoon. Beyond which, vines cover the entrance to a cavern.
And beyond that, he discovers a haven of pools and mist.
Some kind of waterfall enclave.
***
Sorrow
She grows taller. From her Guide, Echo, she attends daily instructions, learning about the nitty-gritty of sadness. The clammy texture of melancholy. The clouded grays of desolation. The lumpy intersection between agony and despair.
She becomes fluent in the sagging facial expressions of a crestfallen soul, and the cracked voice that signals catastrophe, and the watery quaver of tears.
During field trips to the human realm, Sorrow learns how to predict sobbing and wailing—every nuance and coping mechanism. So many of them, in such misery. Beggars, prisoners, daughters, husbands, widowers, students, leaders, followers. She chides herself not to weep, not even when she’s alone, lying in a fetal position in bed.
She sucks it up, sucks it up, sucks it up.
Otherwise, she’ll drown.
***
Envy
During archery practice on the blooming hill, he twirls his arrow. The glass weapon glints, reflecting his visage a thousand times over.
The target marker across the range awaits his strike.
Oftentimes, it’s difficult to concentrate. Over the years, he’s developed two odious habits. One, a tendency to compare his skill with his classmates, which only spoils his mood, because he knows that Love is the best shot, and she’ll carry that title into eternity.
From Siren, Envy has been educated in the sensory signals of jealousy. The moldy reek of resentment, the briny sting of spite, the bumpy terrain of rivalry, the blaring horn of covetousness, and the underhanded, slippery slide of lust. He’s been trained to avoid those temptations in himself.
Deities aren’t meant to be overwhelmed by their root emotion. However, that doesn’t mean they’re impervious. At the ripe age of fifteen years, these things have become second nature amongst his peers.
Anger’s temper escalates with each failed shot.
Love is constantly preoccupied with the concept of mortal affection and touch, so that she traces her fingers more than she nocks her iron arrows.
Wonder’s mind drifts during practice. On a regular basis, either she ends up meditating, ruminating about the Archives—the great library of the Peaks, which she obsesses over—or daydreaming about mortal libraries.
As for the last female in their class…
The murky goddess mopes every time she misses the bull’s-eye, then plugs her disappointment with a dismissive scoff.
She might be deceiving the others, but she’s not deceiving Envy.
***
Sorrow
At every target practice, and class lecture, and bonfire, and feast, he’s there. He’s there, there, there.
He’s there, harassing her whenever she misses a shot at the archery range. He’s there, pretending to be a scorekeeper as she competes against herself. He’s there, spoofing, and teasing, and jeering. He’s there, with his nose hiked to the sky, and his baritone voice oozing like caramel—sticky, addictive, bad for her.
He purrs and insinuates. He pops his head from behind the target marker, throwing her off balance. He drapes his arms lazily over the bull’s-eye and croons.
He bugs Love as well. But it’s not nearly this frequent.
Ignoring him or making snide remarks only refuels his tongue. What does he want from her?
By their eighteenth year, Sorrow’s had enough of Envy. She plots revenge quietly, because as much as he’s been watching her, she’s been watching him. And it’s obvious what will pierce him the most.
When the Fate Court hosts a class-wide demonstration, Sorrow makes her move. Every archer takes a turn to exhibit their skill. Envy hops from archer to archer, ribbing them like a comic, flirting with them like a courtesan.
He fancies himself a good luck charm. Except when it comes to her, because then he’s just a bad omen.
When Sorrow’s turn comes, she feels his shadow loom from behind. She fists her longbow as he strides past while muttering into her ear, “The wind is fickle today. Play nice with it.”
Her finger spasms on the weapon. Is this a prank? He can’t be tipping her off, can he?
As Envy saunters away, she catches the disparaging lift of his mouth, his black hair swinging behind him like a whip, and his pristine clothes molding to his muscles, and his polished weaponry shining like a trophy.
He winks at Nostalgia, who sniggers. Well, now Sorrow knows who Envy’s next flavor of the month will be.
She gulps, realizing she was right the first time. She’s a joke to him. Envy isn’t being a true classmate, only pretending to appear that way for the crowd, wearing his consideration like he touts other fake expressions—like a varnish. When in reality, he’s mocking her as usual.
More bully than classmate. More critic than ally.
Everyone waits. A legion of deities. Archers-in-training. Gods and goddesses. Her classmates.
Her Guide, Echo, stands on the sidelines. He nods at Sorrow with encouragement.
From a dais, the Fate Court presides over the event. A frosted goddess in snowy lace. Another goddess with hair the same shade as Sorrow’s. Another with ebony skin swathed in gossamer, the gown bearing resemblance to butterfly wings. A god with a hawkish nose and long braids. And a cloaked god with steeples for brows.
Each one of them had witnessed Envy strut past Sorrow like a parade float and coo, his breath causing goosebumps to flare like a disease. Under a dome of stars, Sorrow clenches her teeth.
Before he can take another step, she whips an ice arrow from her quiver. The projectile cleaves the air, lashing distance out of the way.
But it’s not flying toward the marker.
It plows towards Envy’s back. Maybe he senses its approach, because he turns an instant before the weapon slams into his chest and blows him off his feet. He cannons backward, the arrow punching him into the bull’s-eye. The impact pins him there for a second, then the arrow vanishes in a flash of light and reappears in Sorrow’s quiver.
A collective gasp resounds across the field.
Anger fumes. Wonder gapes. Love snorts
.
Echo drops his face into his palms. Both he and the Court will give Sorrow grief for this later—lack of comportment, lack of dignity, lack of marksmanship, lack of respect, lack of camaraderie. A disgrace to her class and a far cry from the elite unit they’re supposed to be.
As Envy hits the ground, disorientated, a twinge of remorse gusts through Sorrow. She’d let him get to her, and yes, she’d debased her class and her mentor as a result. Not to mention, herself.
But hey, she didn’t loose the arrow harsh enough to shatter his bones. Only his most precious commodity: his ego.
On the flip side, she’ll take the punishment, the days in confinement. She’s done being his target.
Sorrow stalks across the grass, her boots kicking flowers out of the way. Kneeling before his shocked face, she announces for the congregation to hear, “You’re right. There’s a good reason you get so much attention. An ugly god is easy to spot.”
And then she marches off the range.
***
Envy
He lays there, aghast.
He lays there, his nuts thoroughly shorn.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
A tide of crimson crawls up his throat, a recognizable visceral response that he has seen in others but never felt in himself. He senses the color trek across his complexion, but he’s unable to squelch it in time.
Mortification. That’s what this is.
He’s the God of Envy. He’s the object of lust by countless gods and goddesses. Unparalleled charm. Abs to match his abs. A smile that deserves its own constellation. Never a cause to be covetous or jealous of anyone.
He’s a paragon of seduction, charm, and confidence.
And he has never been so thoroughly, wholeheartedly embarrassed.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Even Love, who’d shoved him down a cliff when he tried to steal a kiss, who’d hankered to claw his face off when he teased her, has acknowledged his attributes. He grates on Love’s nerves, but he doesn’t repel her, and her gaze doesn’t peel him layer for layer like an onion.
Sorrow is the exception to every rule. To her, he’s utterly ordinary.
It’s a bizarre event, to desire the appraisal and approval of someone who denies him at each turn. It’s the lacerating fibers of burlap. It’s the pungent, stinging whiff of pepper. It’s the suffusion of blood to the jugular, reminiscent of a river rapid—swift, stifling, and savage.
That. Immortal. Bitch.
What the Fates had she demeaned Envy for? He’d been trying to help her by making a tactical suggestion about the wind.
Then again, what had he expected? Of course that harpy would be dubious of his assistance. But still…
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Perhaps he should care a little less about her opinion. Or a lot less. He’ll show her what dismissal feels like. From this day forth, she’s beneath his notice outside of their class.
Envy blinks at his surroundings. The crowd glances away, either out of sympathy or awkwardness.
Several leagues off, he locates Siren. She’s curvaceous, with luminous copper hair and bangles that vibrate at her wrists. Thank Fates, she hadn’t witnessed this humiliation. Currently, she’s conversing with Wonder’s mentor, Harmony.
Envy picks himself up and moves to join the females. For the rest of the proceedings, he invents flippant comments about the incident to anyone who remarks on it.
Later, as attendants gather in the refreshment tent, he halts when his boot bumps into an item. A bar of light catches his attention. Kneeling, he swipes the high grass and blossoms aside.
An ice arrow rests in the soil.
In retrospect, Sorrow had trudged off in such a fit, snatching her quiver in a hurry, its contents rattling against her tailbone. She must have neglected to notice one of her arrows falling.
Envy should catch up to her, then flick it at her chest without a backward glance, thus illustrating her negligence. He should embarrass her back.
In any case, he should return the weapon. It’s hers, after all.
An ugly god is easy to spot.
Rising to his feet, Envy checks the perimeter to make sure nobody’s watching. He twirls the arrow like a baton, then jams it into his quiver and struts away.
***
Sorrow
As the sky darkens from blue to purple, Sorrow stands before his home. She’d trudged here in order to apologize for what happened. Partly, Echo had insisted. Mainly, Sorrow hadn’t been able to stomach the guilt, not after a few hours of reflection, when her temper had subsided.
Tapping on the front door yields no response. In what fantasy would he ever answer the door to her?
Irate, Sorrow raps her fist on the facade, harder than she’d intended because the door swings open. She freezes, her hand arrested midair. For some reason, the scene inside causes palpitations to slam against her breastbone.
The flesh. The moans. The thrusts.
Nostalgia is plastered to a wall, his head flung back and his mouth open in rapture. Envy’s the reason. He stands behind the god, waist-deep inside his guest.
Sorrow stumbles backward. Before she can flee, Envy swings his gaze toward her. His lunging backside ceases for a moment, shock flickering in his eyes before they taper with ridicule.
Resuming his thrusts, he mouths tightly, Get. Out!
Sorrow gets out, though not before tossing him a defiant glare, which promptly buckles the second she wheels around and slams the door, shutting out the heightening sounds of rutting. She storms down the pier, her eyes stinging.
Why is she upset? What’s the matter with her?
On her way, she slips on a rock. When her quiver overturns, she stoops to collect the arrows. That’s when she notices.
Sorrow counts and recounts the stock, but one is still missing.
Panicking, she races across the boardwalk. Barreling into her house, she chucks her longbow and quiver aside. Then she tears through the lamplit dwelling, rifling through cupboards and checking underneath fleece blankets.
Nowhere. The arrow is nowhere to be found.
She’ll have to go one arrow short until she finds it. Either she has misplaced it, or someone is playing a trick, or someone has committed the ultimate insult and stolen from her.
It’s a celestial offense. A measure of disrespect. A slap in the face.
Nope. No way. No one is vindictive enough to take another archer’s weapon.
No one is that selfish.
***
Envy
He should give it back. He really should give it back.
After Nostalgia leaves, Envy paces. Damn her for interrupting.
Damn himself for barking at her. He hadn’t meant it.
Not to mention, he’s scarcely certain why he’s keeping the arrow a secret. It had been a lark at first, to deprive her of something sacred, the way she’d deprived him of his pride in front of everyone.
But the second his fingers had wrapped around the stem of ice, it stopped being about that. Instead, an indistinct and uncompromising sensation had flowed through him. Perhaps he’d wanted a token of her rejection? That makes no sense.
Either way, he’d just wanted the arrow. He’d wanted something of hers.
Call it curiosity. Call it selfishness.
But whatever Envy does, he’d best not call it sentimentality.
***
Sorrow
Over the decades, she learns from Echo that beings experience three types of suffering. There’s the suffering of oneself. There’s the suffering of strangers.
There’s the suffering of a peer.
A few years shy of fifty, Wonder is caught breaking celestial law. According to the Fate Court, she’s been making clandestine trips to the mortal world, in order to communicate with a human boy. Since it’s impossible for mortals to see or hear their kind, the goddess has been writing letters to him instead.
From what the naysayers report, and from what little their cla
ssmates know, it wasn’t a rousing success. All it did was terrify the mortal into madness and land him in an asylum.
As for Wonder? Right now, she’s screaming. She’s screaming so hard and so brittle, it shatters Sorrow’s bones. Because their class is responsible for each other, they’ve been tasked with the gruesome chore of executing Wonder’s punishment.
Within a rotunda of immortal spectators, they’ve tied Wonder to a chair. Her hands have committed the misdeed, so they’re the focus of retribution. While Anger, and Love, and Sorrow keep Wonder strapped down, Envy slashes her palms with a blade. Ribbons of red form the shapes of starbursts. Her howls jump from one end of the space to the other, as if trying to pound their way out of here.
Each of her cries slices a rift into Sorrow’s womb. She hates this. She hates this so fucking much. And she hates that she’s a coward who’s not stopping it.
That’s Love’s job. The goddess can’t take it anymore and flings herself in front of Wonder, shouting for the horror to stop.
“Stop!” she bellows.
Envy reels back to avoid lashing Love by mistake. The intermission is a welcome relief. Privately, Sorrow exhales.
Love throws a tantrum, kicking and screeching as Anger abandons his post and drags her out of the room. Being the class leader, it’s clear why he takes action. If he does nothing, the outburst will get them all into trouble, not just one.
Besides, since Love is such a precious and rare commodity to their rulers, keeping her in one piece is paramount. It’s likely that Love will serve a period of solitary confinement for this disruption, rather than physical torture. But she hadn’t cared about that, and good for her.
Shame on the rest of them.
Sorrow bites her tongue until it leaks blood. So this is what it’s like to feel guilt without having to ask Guilt. This is what it’s like to witness someone else’s pain, to have it slide between the cracks of one’s conscience.
This is what it’s like to be powerless, unable to help.
As Wonder whimpers from the chair, Sorrow yearns to stroke the female’s waterfall of blonde curls. So she does. Covertly, she does this, her fingers combing lightly through the roots, brushing her friend’s scalp.
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