The Morning After

Morning came.

A soft light shone through the window.

Arxiphos opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. Intricate networks of ornamentation crisscrossed and zigzagged above him. He sat up and put his hand to his face, trying to remember where he was. He saw something white with red-brown spots wrapped around his hand. A bandage. He felt his head, bald. Shaven. It was a nightmare. He wished that he could convince himself that it was all a dream. The palace bedroom, bound hand, shaved head and naked princess told him otherwise. He looked at Alazoneia where she laid sound asleep. Her mouth hung open, lips drooping. Her hands were balled tightly over the covers. He was disgusted. Disgusted with her. Disgusted with himself. Disgusted with the Hegemon, the village... the world.

He swung his bare legs out of bed and stood. Leaning over the princess, he whispered into her ear, "You may have won my body for yourself." His lip quivered against her disheveled hair, "But you'll never have my heart. Never."

She shifted slowly, smacked her lips and rolled over, pulling the blankets over her sloppily. Her sleep was graceless. He found a neatly arranged pile of clothing next to the bed, new and fresh. He dressed and exited, telling the guards he would be back after the morning rituals.

A light rain fell across the village. He walked to his old hut and grabbed the thin candle. He didn't dare even to look at the idol. He wanted to love her. She had left him alone.

He brought the candle to the first fire. Arktouros didn't speak. Arxiphos was silent.

He held the wick over the flame. He thought he had felt her there. When the glowing seal sizzled into his skin, he thought he had felt her. Enypnia, his goddess, his spouse. He tried to convince himself that it was her. She would never have wanted things to go the way they did. Or did she?

If she was there, then she must not have had the power to hinder them. She had lied about her strength. She lied. If she did have the power to set him free, then she didn't use it. Perhaps she wasn't there at all She had abandoned him. He couldn't find a way to acquit her. All the facts condemned. Was she a liar? Was she weak? Was she a traitor? Perhaps she never felt anything for him at all. The gods play jokes like that. He had fallen for it. The real Enypnia was the charcoal skinned beast with red, sunken eyes. The creature of Tetheia.

He looked once at Arktouros. The fire watcher nodded. Arxiphos moved to the next fire. His mind and heart were silent as he walked, numbed by routine. He touched the already burning flame to the second fire of Enypnia. A second fire watcher looked at him in silence.

She had been there. He had felt her. A feeling that was undeniable. He wanted to love her. He wanted to trust her. He held on to the conviction that she was good. She was his. She said so herself. She could have lied. Feelings don't prove anything. Perhaps he had never seen her at all. That was always a possibility. His father had just died. He was stressed and looking for a way out of a marriage. His mind had built the whole experience for him. He was playing make-believe.

He reached the third fire and crouched next to it. He touched the candle to the last flame and watched the wax peel away in wet drops. Something inside him melted as well. She loved him. Love was unmistakable. Unmistakable. He had loved her. Even if she had left him alone, he loved her. He wouldn't surrender so easily. However, he had already lost the fight. He had lost. he had caved.

He lit the thicker candle under the wooden sculpture and watched it flicker and dance. The rain continued to tinkle against the roof. The summer morning breeze blew through the slats of wood. It was cool and moist with the rainfall. He mixed the tiny wood chips and herbs on his bandaged hand, wincing when he bumped the raw flesh too hard.

She was there at the ceremony. He wanted to love her. He trusted her. She loved him at least for a moment. He loved her. She told him that she would be totally his. He would be exclusively hers. The events of last night had proven her wrong. He remembered the sensation in his gut. Disbelief.

Maybe he was the one who abandoned her. He had held his promise through torture. He wondered how long he would have held if the Hegemon hadn't called Arktouros from the onlookers, placed the ax blade against his friend's neck. Should he have held on for one more minute? One more second? Would he have wavered? Would he have fallen?

Or would he have died? If he had died, would he have gone to live with her as she had promised? Would she have let the blade cut through his neck, or would she have made his skin harder than iron? He never found out. He never found out if she would protect Arktouros from death. He had caved. He hadn't trusted to the point of death.

Was he supposed to have lasted longer? A second longer...

"Perhaps I was unfaithful," he whispered out loud. "Perhaps I could have held on." He dumped the incense into the flame. The smoke rose around the idol. He breathed it in and looked up at the image.

"There is a third option," he said. He smiled.

A drop of water fell from a leak in the roof and struck the candle wick, extinguishing it with a sizzle and a final desperate wisp. He chewed his lip, imagining her doing the same.

"Does that mean..." he said.

He heard her interrupt in his heart, go already!

"It's not over, my love," he whispered. He kissed the idol, skipping the prayers, and rushed to the palace. Mud sprayed all over his new clothes. The fight wasn't over. The battle hadn't been lost. That was the third option.