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Chapter Text

Katápsychros was a practical man. 

He knew when to run, and when to fight. 

He could plan out battlefields and thefts with equal dexterity. 

And while he had never learned to read or write until Athena had taught him how, he understood the minds of men. 

Which is why he had been chosen as her champion. 

She did not, as he knew, usually involve herself with anyone but royalty. 

And he had been born, not in a palace, but in the dirt. 

Chapter Text

Katápsychros's father was a ragged drunkard who spent his money on dice, women, and wine, and who beat his children bloody. 

His mother had not even been his father’s wife, and she had been taken by the arrows of Artemis only hours after his sister was born. 

Katápsychros had been born Leontios, and his sister was Chrysafénios. 

From his earliest boyhood, he had known nothing but cold and hunger and pain.  

His father, cruel as Eris, foamed and swore and gave out blows as other fathers doled out praise and lessons. 

The townsfolk, when they saw him, spat at him for a beggar and whipped him for a thief, even though he was neither.

The priests said that his family was cursed by the gods, for his father was a blasphemer, and barely let Leontios or his sister sacrifice in the temples. 

Leontios had tried to shield his sister from the pain, but could only ease the blows. 

By six years old, both of them were working in the households of other families, and still despised as worthless.  

And his father drank away every coin they brought in. 

By eleven, Leontios had learned to be cold, because emotions were weakness, and had allowed ice to fill his bones. 

He had learned to be clever, because only cleverness kept him alive. 

He struck like a snake, quiet and still until his enemy came near. 

He watched like an owl, observing everything. 

He learned how to read the minds of men, and to spin words so that they would favor him and his sister. 

And he relied on no man but himself, for no one could be trusted. 

He still sacrificed to the gods, but carefully, carefully. Every sacrifice risked the wrath of his father for money wasted, as though his father did not swallow more money than he could ever sacrifice in his cups. 

But unlike his father, he was no fool. He needed fortune, from wherever it might come, and the gods could not be crueler than men.  

His sister, golden-haired, was outmatched in beauty only by the dawn. Where he was rough, she was gentle. Where he was ice, she was fire and passion and joy. She made him remember that life was more than survival, and he loved her for it.

She called him brilliant, and admired him as her protector and shield.

And by seven, the men were already watching her as one watched a lamb not quite old enough to slaughter, but delicious all the same. 

Leontios had noticed this, too, and had marked it. He went without food for weeks so that he could sacrifice to Artemis.

And then he managed to hire himself as a servant for a wealthy household, and while he did his chores, he watched as the sons of the house were taught to wield sword and spear. 

At nights, he copied what he had seen, and by the time he was thirteen, he had the form of a soldier, even if he did not have the weapons. 

His golden-haired sister, fair as the dawn, admired him, but the rest of the town merely watched and whispered of the boy who did not act like a boy. He did not laugh, or fight, or play as other boys did. 

Instead, he worked, and watched like an owl, and struck like a snake at those who came too close to his sister.

They said he was cursed. And maybe he was. But his curse had come at the hands of men. 

Chapter Text

Leontios had reached the age of fifteen years when his father lost a small fortune at dice.

To pay off his debt, his father had decided to sell Leontios into slavery—and he would have, too, if Leontios hadn't outsmarted him. 

His first thought had been to become a soldier. He had the form of one, and knew how to fight, even without  a sword. 

But he had no money, and no weapons. And there were no active wars. No army would recruit an impoverished youth in rags, no matter how clever he was. 

So his mind, always working, had shifted to another possibility. 

Decelea, the town he had been born outside, had been plagued by a vicious wild boar for several months. 

The soldiers had tried to contain it, and had failed. 

The noblemen had tried to hunt it, and had failed. 

Leontios came up with a plan. 

He spent all the money he had—not that it was much—on food. The townspeople whispered that he had no more money sense than his father, and he ignored them. 

He took the food to where the beast had last been seen, and waited for the animal to arrive. Drawn by the scent, it soon did.

And while it was distracted, he crept up behind it, as quietly as a snake and as gracefully as an owl, and slit its throat cleanly with the knife he had taken from his father’s belt. 

It had never even realized that he was there. 

Leontios found no particular joy in his success. The kill had been business, not pleasure. 

Honor fed no man. And it would not fill his purse. 

But the reputation he had earned for himself would.  

It had not been especially heroic. He had not faced the beast in epic combat. He had not risked his life in the way that was expected of a warrior. 

But the boar was dead, he was alive, and the town was very pleased to be rid of the animal that had ruined so much of the land. 

The hide of the boar, he sacrificed to Athena and Artemis. The meat, he used to fill his sister's stomach and purse. And the tusks earned him the sword, shield, and armor that his poverty could never have afforded him. 

And so he became a soldier. 

When he went, he left his sister Chrysafénios behind him. She was only ten, and still as beautiful as the dawn, and she wanted to come with him. 

He had refused. The tent of a soldier was no place for her and her smile and her golden hair. 

He had convinced himself that she would be fine. That she could take care of herself—and that their father would be kinder to her with the money and plunder he sent back to them. 

He should have known better. 

Chapter Text

Leontios quickly found that he was not the sort of man that easily fit into an army. 

He was a soldier, yes, but not the sort of soldier that his commanders had expected. 

He was careful with his coin, and careless of his honor. He did not care if he was thought a coward, so long as he could not be accused of desertion. 

True, he rarely fought an enemy head-on—but he rarely needed to. Even at 15, he could outthink and outmaneuver most opponents, use terrain so that he and his allies always had the advantage, and turn apparent retreats into ambushes. 

By 17, he was in effect the chief strategist of his unit, even if he was never admitted to be so.

But he was a common soldier from a deeply impoverished background, only a step away from slavery, and brilliance did not translate into plunder for men such as him.

They could not be rid of him. He was too useful. But they did not know what to do with a soldier of no name and no status who could not be manipulated by promises of glory and honor. 

And as poor as he was, he had no home and no property to protect. 

He was bound to the army only for coin for his sister and because he was too canny to risk execution for desertion. 

He was loyal to his men, but not to any commander and not to any polis.

And the commanders knew that, and they feared him.

They called him a coward. 

He could kill men and not blink. But because would box in an enemy in the thick brush rather than face them on an open plain, they said he had no honor. 

Because he slipped a knife in the ribs silently, striking like an owl instead of loudly challenging a stronger foe one-on-one, they said he had no sense of a warrior's pride.   

And because he never laughed, cried, or lost his cool on the field, they said he was inhuman. 

If he had been a wealthy man, he would have been called blessed by Athena. 

But a poor man was either emotional and reckless, or a disgrace. 

His plans took cities. His methods kept more men alive than the tactics of his superiors. 

And what did he receive? A pittance—money to feed him and his sister, and no more. 

His commanders enriched themselves on the plunder he had captured for them, tossed him a few coins, and called him less than a man. 

“You are no soldier, Leontios. The blood in your veins is not blood at all, but snow-broth. You do not joy in victory. You do not rage in defeat. And you do not care for honor. No, you are no soldier. You are some spirit of the cold north in the shape of a man,” one of his commanders said. 

He had said nothing. For the owl did not crow over its hunts, and the icy north wind would wear away even a mountain in time.

And as he listened to his commanders mock him as a coward, he saw an owl perched in a nearby tree. It looked at him with intent, and seemed to bow its head. And he bowed back. 

He could respect another silent killer.  

And he knew who else might be watching. 

Chapter Text

While his service brought Leontios naught but scorn from men, his sister, only outmatched by the dawn in beauty, bore blows, sold into the bed of a man fattened with wealth and wine at fourteen. Her radiance had been her price, and their father's purse had been weighted down by the bargain, as his soul had been weighed down by blood guilt. 

And for her low birth, her husband scorned his sister as a trinket of little value. 

When his company passed through Decelea, he saw her for the first time since he had left home as a youth. 

She had been sixteen, with a black eye, a split lip, and the fury of the Erinyes in her eyes. He had been twenty-one, still young, but as cold as the land of the Hyperboreans, those virtuous men beloved of Olympus, and hard and sharp as ice. 

She had thawed him, for her fury could melt the snow of the Caucasus.  

“Leontios, my husband thinks to break me. He emptied his fat purse for a slave, not a wife. If I were a man, I would already have cast him down to the dirt, flesh hacked raw with blood. To this brute, our father has sold me, but to him, I will never bow. I will never break. I am no timid child, to cower in fear of a man who would fall to the meanest soldier. But I cannot strike him down, as you can.” 

Leontios had clenched the hilt of his sword, and replied: 

“Your fury is a burning fire, sister. Mine is ice, and more controlled for it. Leave your husband to me. I will show him what it means to treat my sister as a harlot instead of a wife.”

Leontios had found her husband, and had faced him with the frosty stare of a man who had cut men down in the fields of Ares before he had the voice or the beard of a man. 

“If I hear that you have dishonored my sister, I will slit your throat as easily as I slit the throat of the boar that ruined our fields. Low-born though we may be, my blade is as sharp as any wielded by a king, and my skill no less pronounced.”

And for his disrespect of a prominent citizen, he was whipped until he could not walk. 

“Your sister is a harridan. If she is beaten, it is because she does not submit to her husband, but claims her own will. She is as wild as an Amazon—and as disruptive as you. If you ever disrespect her husband again, you will receive worse than this,” his commander said as he tied his hands to the post. 

He did not apologize. He did not scream. He did not beg. 

Not even when the whip tore his back to shreds. Not even when he collapsed into the arms of his sister, who looked as though she would kill a dozen men for his sake. 

And when he saw an owl fly overhead, he almost smiled. 

The rumors that he was some spirit of the north, rather than a man, spread all the more. For what man could take such punishment and not flinch? 

That he was a spirit was somehow easier for them to believe than the notion that a man born in the dirt could have the poise of a noble. 

Chapter Text

Two months after he had been whipped for the honor of his sister, Leontios’ company picked up another man who had been born to the dust. 

His name was Sophos. He was the son of a widow woman from Elateia, but in spite of his poverty, he spoke like a philosopher, and called himself Antanáklasi. 

He understood things about light and reflection that no one else could fathom, and he had a mirror of polished bronze, littered with jewels, that he refused to sell. 

One of the other soldiers had tried to steal it a week after he joined—and had been knocked away by a beam of light so bright it lit up the night like a torch. 

The mirror was, apparently, enchanted. 

And Antanáklasi used it like a magician. While he could wield sword and shield as well as any man, his true weapon was in his ability to create illusions, to bend light so that enemies saw more soldiers in their company than there were, believed that dangerous terrain was even, and were horrified by visions of monsters and spirits. 

Leontios did not understand any of it, but he knew it was an asset. He had always been one to set traps and manipulate the minds of men, and Antanáklasi and his powers only made his efforts more seamless. The two worked well together, even if  Leontios scoffed at Antanáklasi and his talk of how light could be understood with reason and bent with technology. Technology was ropes and pulleys and levers, not light beams. What Antanáklasi had was magic, pure and simple. 

Antanáklasi was also a puzzle in another way. He was handsome enough that a sculptor could have used him as a model for a statue of Apollo, but he never used that beauty to entrance others. Instead, he fawned over his own reflection, and praised Aphrodite Urania for his beauty. 

He sacrificed to her above all others, and other men whispered that he was unnatural, because no soldier ignored Aphrodite Pandemos. 

But Antanáklasi did. 

Leontios thought it odd, but did not comment. Antanáklasi was brilliant, and his skills were irreplaceable. 

And, in his own opinion, passion rarely made for better warriors. 

If Antanáklasi wished to love none but himself, that was his affair. Better a celibate soldier than a foolish one. 

The two quickly became friends, of a sort. Both were intelligent. Both were seen as less than human. And both had been born in the dirt. 

Leontios kept Antanáklasi and his vanity within bounds. Antanáklasi’s brilliance amplified Leontios’s plans and kept the man of ice from fully exiling himself from the company of men. 

And both men commiserated over being cheated out of any real reward for their success in battle.

Six months after Antanáklasi arrived, the two of them had ensured that their company was instrumental in the capture of a city rich with plunder. 

Antanáklasi had used illusions of soldiers to make their force seem much larger than it was. 

Leontios used the confusion to direct the flow of the battle and force the enemy into constricted terrain, where he fought best. 

And if feigned retreat was the strategy of a coward, it was also the strategy that had sent dozens of enemy soldiers to the Receiver of Many Guests. 

Antanáklasi, meanwhile, used his illusions to slip into the city and open its gates from the inside.

The city surrendered quickly once they realized that the enemy was inside its walls. 

There had been almost no loss of life for their company. 

And as soon as the city was taken, the commanders had claimed the strategy as their own, though their own plans had involved a siege that would have lasted for months or more. 

After the spoils had been divided, Antanáklasi fumed. 

“It was my brilliance, which confused the minds of the enemy. It was my philosophy, and the enchantments of Aphrodite Urania, which allowed me to seize the city with hardly a blow. And our commanders claim the victory, as though it was they who mastered the understanding of light!”

Leontios merely shrugged. 

“And so the world goes. For my part, I would leave the glory to the great if only they would provide me my fair share of the plunder. But they call me a coward, and say that they will not reward a man who spurns honor in the field of Ares. I know my price, and my mind is worth more than the scraps they throw to me to keep me bound to their ranks,” he said. 

Both men looked at each other and smiled. 

“If it is any consolation, Leontios, without your strategy, we would have no plunder at all,” Antanáklasi said.

“And without you and your so-called philosophy, Sophos, we would have lost many men. That is your honor, even if our commanders will never show you the credit you are due,” Leontios replied. 

“My friend, perhaps you and I are allied by more than circumstance. We are both men of vision, who deserve more than we receive,” Antanáklasi said. 

Leontios snorted.

“And we were both born in the dirt. Men like us are never crowned.”

Antanáklasi smirked. 

“Then perhaps we should take our crowns by wit.”

And the owl and the dove watched as the two men sealed their friendship with an oath. 

Antanáklasi, as vain as he was clever, reached for his crown first. When their commander decided to take his mirror of bronze, and threatened to have him hung as a thief if he did not hand it over, the man of illusions used his powers to walk into the reflection of his own sword and vanish. 

He was branded a deserter, and yet no one hunted him down.

The fear of his magic prevented that.  

Leontios missed the company of Antanáklasi, but he did not search for the man. With his brilliance, he would surely be able to handle himself—at least until he was killed for daring to raise himself out of the dust. 

Leontios would accept his names—coward, ice spirit, child of the dust—because that was how a man like him survived. He watched like the owl. Waited like the snake. And struck like both. 

Chapter Text

A year after Antanáklasi vanished, Leontios was asked by his commander to draw up a battle plan that would allow them to take a powerful city. 

He had complied. 

And then he had been sent, deliberately, to the place where the fighting would be most ferocious. 

And while he was there, fighting in silence like the owl, and striking like a snake only when his foes revealed weakness, a chariot appeared in the midst of the fury.

The chariot was driven by what seemed to be two youths, no more than fifteen.

And while there was no position more dangerous than that of a chariot driver, both were totally unarmed. True, the warrior in the chariot with them was imposing and armed with both sword and spear, but that alone would probably not be sufficient to protect both boys.  

Leontios thought this was unwise. They wore the armor of nobles, perhaps even princes—but what sort of father would let his heirs drive a chariot into battle without weapons of any kind? 

Whatever the case, he needed to act. His company had chariots, but they were on the other side of the battlefield, and a chariot unopposed could cut through foot soldiers with ease. 

And the foolishness of these nobles might well be his only chance to bring the chariot down. 

With that in mind, he calmly waited for the chariot to come closer, and tried to ignore the efficiency with which the warrior in the chariot cut down his allies. 

He could not save them. And unless he waited, more of his men would die. 

As the chariot came closer, Leontios was overwhelmed by a sense of powerful fear. The men near him, both friends and enemies, reacted in a panic. 

But he had been familiar with fear since he was a boy. He had no intention of allowing it to compromise his only chance at survival. 

Instead, he threw his spear at one of the two boys, and pierced him through the shoulder. 

The boy screamed in pain and jerked the reins sharply to the left, the chariot veered wildly, and, with the terrain as rough as it was, all three occupants were thrown from it. 

Now that their drivers had been thrown, the horses disappeared into the distance with the chariot. 

“What was that?” the warrior from the chariot bellowed. 

Leontios stared in shock. How was he still alive? His horses had moved at incredible speed, and he had landed hard when he had been thrown. 

No matter how good your armor was, no one should have survived that unharmed. 

“Father, someone threw a spear—” one of the boys began. 

“Into me,” the other finished. The spear was still embedded in his shoulder, but he seemed only mildly concerned by it. 

“The pain distracted us. We could no longer guide the chariot,” both boys said in unison. 

And people said that Leontios was inhuman. What would they call these two? 

“How could someone have thrown a spear at either of you? No one ever gets close enough to our chariot to throw a weapon at any of us,” the warrior demanded. 

How overconfident was this man? No matter how rich you were, no matter how skilled you were—there was always a chance that you could be attacked on the battlefield. 

Although, with the exception of Leontios himself, both sides seemed to have broken rank, and many men were actively fleeing away from the three strange soldiers. 

Leontios sighed, decided to ignore the two boys and their idiotic but extremely lucky warrior friend, and turn the situation to his advantage. He rallied his men, turned what had been a real route into an opportunity for ambush, and effectively shattered the enemy’s strongest flank, who still seemed shaken by the encounter with the chariot. 

That seemed odd—hadn’t that been their chariot?---but Leontios had more important matters at hand than the question of one chariot. 

Instead, he led his men forward. The sight of the strongest part of the enemy line shattering emboldened the rest of the army, and Leontios’ commander was soon able to demand the surrender of the city.

The city, who had already lost many of their strongest soldiers to panic, sued for peace only about an hour later. 

When Leontios returned to his tent, he was very surprised to find the chariot he had faced earlier waiting there for him. 

Since he had been pretty sure that the horses driving it would have been halfway across Greece by now, this was bewildering. 

What was it doing here, in their camp? 

As he examined the chariot further, Leontios was unnerved to find that it was not made in the style used by their enemies at all. 

In fact, he could not identify it as belonging to any Grecian army he knew of—and he had faced many in his years in the field. 

Perhaps it was some foreign design? But there had been no sign of foreign armies in the field. And why would foreigners help Thrace anyway? What would be the benefit for them? 

Leontios circled the chariot. Gold trim. Lots of it. But why? 

Even noblemen wouldn’t waste gold on a chariot that could end up destroyed. 

He thought back to the two boys and the warrior who had been in the chariot. 

On the other hand, a man stupid enough to send his sons into battle as charioteers unarmed might also be stupid enough to put gold on a chariot. 

He made another circle around the chariot. There was no dust on it, and no blood. For a chariot that had been driven across a battlefield filled with both, that seemed impossible. 

No human craftsman could make such a chariot. This one had to have been built by the gods. 

Had the enemy soldiers who had driven it been given it by some god? That would explain why they had seemed so sure of their own invincibility. 

“No wonder they were fearless. They had the power of someone with more strength than themselves on their side. But fearlessness is only a strength when it is accompanied with tactics. Otherwise, it is only another weakness, to be exploited by those clever enough to outmaneuver them,” he mused. 

One of the horses snorted, and a plume of fire shot out of its nose. 

Leontios stared at the beast in shock. 

So it wasn’t just the chariot that was unusual. The horses themselves were of the heavens, not the earth. 

“So, to whom do you belong? Whose champion did I bring down, when he underestimated the danger of a man who waits before he strikes?” he asked. 

He went around the chariot a third time, but found no obvious answer. It was red and black and gilded with gold. Its horses breathed fire. 

But none of that was conclusive. 

It took a fourth trip around the chariot before he thought to look on the inside of the vehicle. And, in the vulture painted on the interior, right beneath where the driver would stand, he found his answer. 

Ares. 

The boys had been weaponless because their father—or whoever the warrior with them had been—had gone to the field with the backing of War himself. 

“They thought that the tools of War made them invincible. But with Ares at their backs, they would never have Athena to guide them. Their mistake—and my victory.” 

Did that make the chariot his now? He had defeated its owners in combat, and to the victor went the spoils. 

But no man born in the dirt rode in a chariot. 

More likely, his commander would simply take the vehicle himself.  

Suddenly, Leontios was filled with a sense of dread. While he didn’t flinch, he could feel his heart rate pick up. 

Odd. He was not prone to attacks of nerves. 

“You have—” a voice said.

“What is ours,” a second voice continued. 

“Give it back,” the two voices said in unison. 

Leontios looked up in confusion, and found that the two boys who had driven the chariot on the battlefield were suddenly standing before him. 

What were they doing here? 

And how was the boy whose shoulder he had thrown a spear through completely uninjured? 

“I don’t take orders from beardless boys. No matter whose favor their father has. The chariot is mine, now. Or my commander’s. We conquered. So it belongs to us.” 

The twins looked at each other in apparent confusion. 

“You do not—”

“Understand.” 

“That chariot belongs to our father.” 

“And who is your father?” he asked. He needed to know what he was dealing with here. He suspected that they were probably demigods, but he wanted confirmation. 

“You answer–”

“Us first.” 

“Everyone fears us. Why don’t you?” 

Leontios shrugged. 

“Look. The gods have more children than I can count. I’ve seen some of them on the field before, and they die just like the rest of us, even if their parents favor them. I’m not going to quake in front of a pair of boys barely old enough for spears just because their father gave them a fancy chariot they couldn’t use.” 

There was another flicker of powerful fear. For a second, Leontios saw his sister in agony. But he pushed it down. 

He was not the sort of man who could be taken off-guard by illusions or emotions.

“Do you not–”

“Know who we are?” 

For a couple of boys, these two were incredibly arrogant. 

“I’m afraid not. I don’t keep track of every boy born to nobility who thinks gold can buy victory, nor of every illegitimate child of the gods.”

The twins exchanged another glance. 

“How can you not—”

“Know who we are?” 

“No mortal man is untouched by our power.” 

Leontios felt another burst of fear and dread, and wondered what was going on. There was little enough to fear from boys without weapons, no matter how fine their armor. 

“What power?” 

“He is—”

“Different, yes.” 

“Most men are not so brave.” 

“Why are you two so convinced that everyone is afraid of you? You aren’t the only sons of Ares running around.” 

And most of those sons of Ares were not fifteen, and did not need a babysitter on the battlefield. 

What had happened to the warrior who had been with them, anyway? Had he been killed in the fighting? 

“Tell us. Who–” 

“Do you think we are?” 

“Clearly, you are sons of Ares. The vulture on your chariot gave that much away. Daddy gave you a chariot, and you decided that made you invincible. I took it from you. Now you want it back. But I’m not especially inclined to return it to a couple of whining fifteen-year-old boys. And before you ask again—no. I am not afraid of you. Perhaps your father gave you some control over the fear that your half-brothers wield, but that sort of trick doesn’t work on everyone.” 

Unless…unless…

But no. There was no chance that these two beardless youths were Fear and Terror incarnate. 

“You are afraid.”

“We can feel it.” 

“And yet you stand before us as though you feel nothing at all.”

“Who are you two? I’d like to know who it is that I face, and clearly I do not,” Leontios said. He was increasingly sure that he knew exactly who the twins were, but he was hoping that perhaps he was wrong. 

“I am Phobos. My brother is—”

“Deimos. We are—”

“Fear and Terror. And yet you resist us.” 

Leontios bowed, but did not kneel. 

“I know you both. You have haunted my house since I was a boy. And I have grown accustomed to your presence.” 

The twins nodded. 

“So that is why–” 

“You did not recognize us.” 

“To most men, our presence alone identifies us. For you, it is ordinary.” 

“That, and I was not expecting Fear and Terror to look like beardless youths.” 

The twins smiled, and Leontios felt another stab of dread. 

“If we look young—”

“It is because we are.” 

“We are always young, because in the young, fear is most pure.” 

At this point, the warrior who had been in the chariot with the boys suddenly made his appearance. 

“Well? What’s taking so long? Did you find the chariot, or didn’t you?” 

His voice shook the tent. 

“We found it.”

“He will not give it back.”

“He claims right of conquest. From us!” 

The warrior frowned. 

“Just do your thing. That usually works.” 

“We have—”

“Been ‘doing our thing’.” 

“But even fear cannot compel mortals unless they yield to it.” 

“Then make the fear stronger!” 

“We cannot. We feed—” 

“On presence.” 

“Not absence. We can only amplify what is present and uncontrolled.” 

The warrior sighed in frustration and turned to Leontios.

“You broke them. Fix them, or I’ll break your skull.” 

“Father—”

“He did not break us.” 

“He has simply mastered his fear.” 

“It is—”

“Rare.” 

“But not impossible.” 

Leontios went to his knees. 

Fear and Terror had called the warrior “father”.

He was not just a soldier. 

He was Ares. War himself. 

And Leontios had, somehow, defeated him. 

He had kept his wits, when other men panicked. 

He had used his mind and attacked the charioteers, when other men would have focused on the armed soldier as the obvious threat. 

But he had thought that he was facing mortal boys and their foolish father. Not three gods! 

“How did you end up with my chariot?”

“Father, he was—”

“The soldier who threw the spear into Deimos.”

“He is why we lost the chariot to begin with.”

“We lost the chariot to some mortal?” 

“Control of fear—”

“Is powerful, father.”

“No matter who it is that has the control.”

“Who are you? You don’t look like any king or demigod I know.”

“Because I’m neither, Lord Ares. My name is Leontios of Decelea. My father’s name was Lykourgos, but you do not know of him, either, for he owns nothing but debts. As for myself, I own the sword and spear I carry and the armor I wear, and that is all of value that I can claim—except your chariot, now.”

Ares turned to his sons in apparent disbelief. 

“You two couldn’t make a common soldier afraid?" 

“The control of fear—”

“Is not the provenance of the great alone.” 

“If he can withstand us, father, then he can withstand us. There is nothing to be done about that.” 

“Next time, I let Eros drive the chariot,” Ares muttered. 

His sons looked offended, and not at all like the dread entities of Fear and Terror. 

“Father!” 

“You two let a mortal steal my war chariot. So I may as well let your younger brother drive. He can’t possibly do worse!” 

“You were—”

“In the chariot too, father.” 

“And you didn’t see him either.” 

“I’m not supposed to need to see anyone! You two aren’t supposed to let anyone get near enough to you to hurt you and send us all flying out of the chariot!” 

“Men who can control fear—” 

“Are very rare, father.” 

“It has been years since we encountered one who does so as well as this man.” 

“And now a mortal—not a demigod, not a king, not even a noble, just a common soldier—has my war chariot.” 

“Yes.” 

“You are excellent at stating the obvious, father.” 

“Do you have any idea how stupid this is going to make me look if the story gets out?” 

“Probably not stupider—”

“Than you looked when everyone found out that you were imprisoned in a jar for over a year.” 

“This is worse! The Aloadae were at least giants! This is a soldier with no name, no powers, and no lineage. And he defeated Fear and Terror, and sent me flying out of my own chariot!” 

“Father, he has—” 

“A power.” 

“He can control his fears. Even if it did not come from lineage, it is a power all the same.” 

Ares looked at Leontios with a mix of begrudging respect and intense annoyance. 

“Look. You. Whoever you are. Either you’re the most fearless mortal I’ve met in a long time, or somehow my sons’ powers have been blocked. But fearlessness won’t save you from me, and neither will luck. Give me back my chariot, or I’ll break open your skull.” 

Leontios was no fool. While he would defend the chariot he had won from demigods, claiming it as spoils from War himself was far too risky to be worth the price. 

“It’s yours, Lord Ares. And the secret is mine. I would not be known as the man who took down the god of war.”

“Why? If anything would win you glory, it would be that.” 

“It would also win me a pack of fools, who want to try to best the man who accidentally bested War. I do not need the trouble.” 

“You’re impressive, mortal. But I don’t know that I like you. You have no fire. No passion. If you had any stature, I’d think you were my sister’s man.” 

And with that, Ares, his sons, and the chariot were gone. 

Chapter Text

When Leontios woke up the morning after the battle, Ares’ chariot was somehow back outside of his tent. 

Either another god had decided to infuriate Ares, or the chariot had a mind of its own. 

Neither idea was especially comforting.

And since he did not want to end up in the middle of a battle for supremacy between two gods, he decided that he would simply pretend that the chariot did not exist until his commander noticed it, claimed it for himself, and would then be responsible for the fallout. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Fear and Terror turned up at his tent. 

Without their armor, they looked even younger.

“You have—”

“Our chariot.” 

“Again.” 

Leontios bowed, just enough to make sure he wouldn’t be punished for insolence. 

“It seems to be following me. I woke up this morning, and it was outside my tent.” 

The twins exchanged a concerned glance. 

“It should not–”

“Vanish—”

“Without father’s permission.” 

“PHOBOS! DEIMOS! WHERE IS MY CHARIOT? IF YOU TOOK IT ON A JOYRIDE AFTER LOSING IT TO A MORTAL YESTERDAY, I WILL—oh. You again.” 

Whatever else one might say about Ares, he was not subtle. 

“Yes, Lord Ares. Me again. Believe me, my lord, I was hoping that my giving you your chariot back would mark the end of our direct interactions for a while—but the chariot seems to have other ideas. That, or some third party is invested in either killing me or making you look foolish.” 

“How do I know you didn’t steal it?” 

Phobos and Deimos looked at their father in disbelief. 

“Because, father—”

“He has no idea–”

“Where we keep the chariot.” 

Ares looked slightly embarrassed at that. 

“Oh. Right.” 

Leontios sighed. 

“As I said the day past, the chariot is yours. I do not wish to make enemies of the gods.” 

And the gods vanished with their chariot once more. 

But next morning, the chariot and its fire-breathing horses were back outside his tent. 

The gods did not wake with the dawn as common soldiers did, for while Fear and Terror did not arrive until a few hours later, they had the appearance of youths who had been woken from slumber only a few minutes before. 

“Our chariot—”

“Is with you–” 

“For the third day in a row.” 

Leontios bowed slightly, and then spoke.

“And your father, Ares, the Destroyer of Men, is no doubt furious that he has lost it.” 

“Father—”

“Does not know yet.” 

“Which is why we searched for it so early.” 

“You want it back in your possession before he realizes that it vanished again.” 

The twins nodded, and Leontios felt a spurt of terror that he pushed down. 

“Father is—” 

“Less than pleased with us.” 

“Which is why we must retrieve the chariot before he learns that we have lost it again.” 

They wanted the chariot. Leontios wanted to be rid of it. 

“It is yours. I do not want it or its fire-breathing horses, and I do not wish to incur the wrath of any of the deathless gods.” 

“WHY IS MY WAR CHARIOT BACK HERE?” 

The voice was loud enough to shake the camp, and the horses shot fire out of their nostrils in response. 

“Lord Ares. As I was telling your sons before you arrived, the chariot is yours. I do not want it.” 

“Then how does it keep ending up at your tent?” 

“I do not know, Lord Ares. If I can deduce the answer, I will inform you.” 

“If you’re stealing it, I will rip you limb from limb, and hang your pieces on the walls of my temple.”

Phobos and Deimos exchanged a glance. 

“Father—” 

“He cannot be stealing the chariot.” 

“No mortal knows where we store it.” 

“Right. And, of course, no man, brave or no, could breach my fortress on Areios Pagos.” 

The Destroyer of Men, for all he reeked of blood and devastated armies, was stronger in body than in mind, for he had just revealed the secret to one he had reason to believe an enemy. 

“We stand—”

“Corrected, father.” 

“Now one mortal does know where we store it.” 

“Which would not matter, if the two of you were not so careless with it!” Ares roared. 

The horses reared up in fear and breathed plumes of fire. 

The men in the camp looked up in alarm. 

And Fear and Terror scrambled for an explanation like any scolded youths. 

“Father, the chariot moves—” 

“Without our knowledge.” 

“We cannot be held responsible for a vehicle that moves of its own will.” 

“You are my charioteers! I entrusted you to protect it—and instead, you lost it to this mortal, and now it follows him around as if he were a god!” 

Leontios did not often feel pity. 

But he knew what it was like to be blamed by a wrathful father even when you bore little responsibility for a situation. 

“Lord Ares, clearly, there are forces at play here beyond you, your sons, and me. I do not believe that your sons have been irresponsible in this matter.” 

At the very least, they had been no more irresponsible than Ares himself, who had been so confident in the powers of his sons that he had not even armed them as they rode in the chariot. 

The twins looked at Leontios in surprise, and one of them—they were all but identical, but after three days’ experience, Leontios was fairly sure it was Deimos—actually nodded to him. 

Ares scowled. 

“Give me my chariot back, mortal.” 

“Lord Ares, it is yours. I do not want it, or the trouble it brings me. But I will not be surprised if it turns up at my tent tomorrow.” 

His commander, had he captured the chariot of War himself, would have crowed over the glory and honor it brought him. 

Leontios was not such a fool. 

He wanted to keep himself well away from any such glory as came from involvement with the disputes of the gods. 

Ares turned to his sons. 

“By losing track of my chariot, the two of you have made me look the fool in front of this mortal, who is no king nor noble, but owns nothing but his own battered armor!” 

“You made—” 

“Yourself look the fool, father.” 

“You did not consider that a mortal might resist us on the battlefield.”

“How dare you speak so to me! Am I not your father? Am I not Ares, the Destroyer of Men, the Stormer of Ramparts? I will not be mocked by my own sons!” Ares roared. 

His horses reared once more, snorting fire, and only narrowly avoided setting the tent of  Leontios aflame. 

“Lord Ares, please, take your chariot. I do not claim it, and I do not seek to take your glory. I have no use for such honor, and much use for life.” 

Ares looked at him strangely. 

“You speak like a coward. And yet I know you cannot be any such, for you do not flinch. Not in the presence of my sons, nor of me.” 

“My commander calls me a spirit of the north, in the shape of a man. I control all my passions, whether they be pride or fear. And so I live.” 

“You do. Your silence buys your life, man—and if you would live, you will continue to pay me so.” 

“Of course, Lord Ares.” 

Ares spun back around to his sons. 

“As for the two of you, until my chariot stays where it is meant to be, you will sleep in the stables with it!” 

With that, Fear, Terror, and War vanished with their chariot. 

A single feather of an owl drifted down moments after they disappeared, and Leontios almost smiled. 

He had found his answer. 

And when the chariot reappeared at his tent the following dawn, he made a quiet sacrifice to Athena. 

The twins appeared earlier than they had the day before. While they had still been abed far later than any soldier, this time they at least arrived while the dew was still on the grass. 

Their arrival prompted screams and panic in the camp, but Leontios did not blanch, even when the image of his beloved sister in agony stabbed into his mind. 

He was not the sort of man to collapse before illusions.

Especially not when the illusions were wielded by a pair of beardless youths with hay in their hair and without even the fine armor they had worn the day before. 

“Because of you, we were—” 

“In the stables all night.” 

“Give us our father’s chariot.” 

“If you were in the stables all night, then you know that I was not. But the chariot is yours. I would not see you punished for the folly of your father.” 

One of the twins—Deimos—scowled, and a horse across the camp reared in panic and nearly knocked over a soldier. 

“You made our father question our strength. And to him, strength is all. He took our armor. He sent us to shiver in the straw like beggars. And the stable hands laughed at us!” 

Leontios felt another strange spurt of pity. He was not a man of sentiment. But he knew what it was like to be cold because of a father. 

“Go. Take your chariot. Guard it as your father has told you. And tell him that I do not seek to take honor from any of you.”

“YOU LOST MY CHARIOT AGAIN?”

The whole camp shook, and for a moment the world seemed to be bathed in the blood of all the soldiers ever slain. 

“Good morrow, Lord Ares. Take your chariot. I do not want it, or the wrath it may bring. Honor brings no wealth to a man of the dirt, and wrath only brings death.” 

“Then how do you keep ending up with it? Ice-blooded though you are, you are only a man—and a man of no name.” 

Another owl feather fell and landed on the chariot. Leontios held it out to the Destroyer of Men without a word. 

“Sister! If you dishonor me, at least have the courage to face me!” Ares bellowed. 

Athena was wisdom itself, and she did not appear. Instead, a scroll appeared as if from nothing. 

Leontios unrolled it, but, never having been taught, he could not read it, so he handed it to Ares, who, in turn, handed it off to Phobos. 

“Leontios has triumphed over you, brother. By the law of conquest, proclaimed by all the gods, and none more so than you, the chariot is his. To the victor go the spoils,” Phobos read flatly. 

Ares roared, and the boar’s horns on his helmet dripped with blood. 

“Sister! Sister, will you shame me in the eyes of all the world? Is it not enough that you make me a fool before our father, who always favors you? Is it not enough that my mother, white-armed Hera, spurns me as a brute because of you? Must you steal my chariot and give it to a mortal, too? By our father, and all the gods—I’ll pay you back for this outrage! Come and fight!” 

There was no answer, save another scroll. 

Leontios handed it to Ares, who handed it to Phobos. 

“I have said once, and say again: to the victor go the spoils. And brother—learn to read,” Phobos read.  

Ares’ face darkened like a stormcloud, and his red eyes began to bleed—but the blood was like fire. 

“Fight me, sister! Meet me with your spear, not your scrolls, and we will see which of us is the stronger! Why will you not fight? Are you afraid to face me, when this mortal born of dirt stands, as unmoved as the ice?” 

When the third scroll landed, Leontios almost laughed. 

He handed the scroll to Ares, who handed it to Phobos, who sighed wearily.

The image of his beautiful sister and her hair of gold suffering for his sake stabbed into the mind of Leontios, and he almost cried out, but no sound came out of his mouth. 

It was only fear. And he had known fear before he was old enough to name it. 

“A weak opponent demands to fight on his terms. A strong one adapts, and turns any terms into their own. Be glad I did not ask you to fight with scrolls, for our father would have agreed to such conditions, and you cannot even write your name,” Phobos read. 

"Coward! If you had not the backing of our father, you would not dare to mock me so! Face me! I have had enough of words, sister!" 

As the Destroyer of Men raved in his fury, his armor and helmet flashed with the gleam of polished bronze, and were covered in the blood and gore of a thousand battles. His hands stained red, and his sword and spear smoked with the lifeblood of the fallen.

The twins' eyes were suddenly fire. Men screamed and scattered, trampling tents and knocking supplies into the dirt to escape. Horses reared and screamed and broke their bonds. 

Leontios was almost overwhelmed with the images of his father, drunk and holding the whip, and of his golden-haired sister, fair as the dawn, beaten by her husband. 

But these were only echoes of the past. He had survived his past, and he would survive its echoes.

But the rest of the camp was not so resistant to fear. 

 Four horses were lost, and his company was in disarray. 

This was why Leontios would not keep the chariot of Ares. It brought nothing but fear and death. 

But to reject it would be to insult Athena, who had given it to him. 

He would have to navigate this situation carefully.

"Sister! Come to me, or my sons and I will destroy all your champion has worked to build!" Ares snarled. 

The horses of Ares snorted, and Leontios' tent caught fire. 

It was not much, but it was the only shelter he had. 

He rushed across the camp, grabbed a bucket of water that had been abandoned by a fleeing soldier, and doused the flames. 

Unfortunately, the flames of Fear, Terror, and War were not so easily doused. 

Panic continued to spread through the company like wildfire.

Then another scroll descended, and hit Ares square in the head, knocking off his helmet and revealing the face of a young man, not much older-looking than Phobos and Deimos themselves. 

Without his helmet, War looked less like the father of Terror and Fear, and more like their older brother. 

War gave a shout that was more of surprise than pain, and the blood and gore vanished from his helmet, armor, sword, and spear. 

And as Fear stooped down to pick up the scroll, the camp seemed to calm.

Phobos unrolled the scroll and read it. 

"Your wise sister says that with your wild rages, you have shamed yourself--always headlong, always bloody, always clamoring for slaughter. Enough with your rage, so like that of your mother! Her champion has claimed the chariot in her honor and her name, and it is his, not yours." 

Phobos shook his head. 

"It is from our grandfather, the Thunderbringer. And even you, father, cannot hope to raise a spear against him and live."

Ares scowled, and though his eyes flashed like flame, he looked more like a scolded youth than War itself. 

"Always you favor Athena, father! She cheats me of honor! She cheats me of my name! And she cheats in my fields! If she wishes to claim my chariot, she should take it herself, not grant it to a mortal born to the dust!" 

Storm clouds gathered, and War glanced to the sky with the eye of one who knew his father would gladly punish him. 

"But even my wrath will not avail me against you. You say my chariot is not my own, and so it must be."

The sky cleared, and Leontios knelt. 

"Gray-eyed Athena, the victory is yours, and the chariot, should you wish to claim it. If not, I beg that you let me be rid of it, for such a chariot brings only destruction. A man of the dust will be accused of theft or worse if he drives a chariot."

Another scroll landed, and on top of it the feather of an owl. 

Leontios kept the feather, and handed the scroll to Phobos with a bow. 

Phobos unrolled it, glanced at his father, who was sulking like a child denied supper for misbehavior, and then read the scroll. 

"Leontios, you reason well, and you honor me still better. Do with the chariot as you will; you are not bound to keep it. My brother has gold enough. He can pay a ransom."

Ares glared at Leontios, glared at his sons, and looked like he was about to explode in fury. 

Then he glanced at the storm clouds above and seemed to think better of it. 

"How much for my chariot, man of ice? And how much more for your silence?"

Leontios did not even smirk. He had more sense than that. 

"Enough to keep me in armor for a year, and to bribe my sister's brute of a husband away from her for that time." 

Ares frowned. 

"How cheaply do you hold my chariot?" 

Phobos and Deimos exchanged a look. 

"As cheaply--" 

"As our grandfather--" 

"Holds your honor."

Leontios held up his hand. 

"And one thing more. They say the gods cannot break a promise sworn on the River Styx. I want you to swear on it that you will not have me, my sister, or my men killed, maimed, or transformed as retribution for having defeated you unawares."  

Ares' eyes flashed like fire.

"You think you can dictate terms to me?" 

"No. But Athena and the Thunderbringer can, and they have said the chariot is mine to ransom. That is my price." 

Ares snarled, and for a second, he was terrible and dreadful, drenched in blood. 

But when lightning lit up the sky, he shook, and he looked like a normal soldier again. 

"You are fearless, man of ice. And by my sister's treachery, I have been chained down. To restore my name, you have your price. I swear on the River Styx, that neither you, your sister, nor your cohort will be punished or transformed for my defeat."

When the oath was spoken, Ares fixed Leontios with the glare of one who knew he had been defeated, but still insisted on his pride. 

"Here is your gold. Now give me my chariot." 

A pile of loot, as big as Leontios' tent, appeared as if from nothing. 

"Father, you have---" 

"Given more than--" 

"He requested." 

Ares scowled. 

"And what if I have? I will pay for my chariot what it is worth!"

The pile was luxury like Leontios had never seen. Silver, gold, precious stones, and  weapons. So many weapons--every sort he could name, and plenty he could not. 

This was the spoils of centuries of war--enough to buy Leontios his own army.

Phobos and Deimos stepped forward. 

"You are--" 

"A strange man." 

"You will keep your silence, though you stand unphased in our presence, and forced our father--War himself--to bargain?" 

Leontios felt a shiver of fear, but kept his composure. Ice did not fracture because of terror. Nor would he. 

"Yes. I need to survive. Not to be celebrated. The owl does not hunt for glory. The snake does not strike for honor. They fight to live, and so do I."

Ares shook his head. 

“I cannot call you coward, for you make my sons seem as harmless as lambs. I do not know what to make of you, and your strange titles. Owl and snake, and spirit of north—you would be neither god nor man. But whatever you may be, I will tell you this. My sister has claimed you as her man. And she cares nothing for emotions, nor for sisters. You follow her, and one day she will ask you to sacrifice even your sister for her glory." 

Then War, Fear, and Terror disappeared with their chariot--but the spoils of hundreds of wars remained. 

One more owl feather fell, and Leontios nodded. 

"Half of this is yours, Lady Athena--as sacrifice, and ransom for my life, which I would otherwise have lost."

Half the wealth vanished in an instant, leaving Leontios with ten times what he had initially asked as ransom. 

It left him richer than most kings. What, he pondered, was he to do with so much wealth?

Chapter Text

Leontios' commander took the choice out of his hands. The second he saw the pile of loot, he and the other men of rank declared that the spoil must be distributed lawfully, and Leontios had no standing to oppose them. 

He had not wanted to be richer than kings. 

But he had wanted gold enough to protect his sister, and to smooth his own path for a year. 

His commanders left him without enough pay for either.

That night, Leontios decided to give his commanders what they had always seen in him. They called him cowardly and said he had no honor.  They said he was less than a man.  

And they had taken his one chance to free his sister from her husband. 

So he would take from them what they had stolen from him. 

Bloodlessly, if he could--but he valued his sister more than the lives of his enemies.

And as he plotted in his tent that night, an owl flew inside--and transformed into a beautiful young woman. 

She was armed like a warrior, and clutched a spear like one too.

Pallas Athena. 

Leontios knelt. 

"Leontios, you have defeated War itself. And your commanders have chosen to take from you the rewards I gave you for it. I do not let such hubris go unpunished." 

"Does that mean you aren't here to revoke your favor for destabilizing order?" 

"They destabilized my order when they treated my champion as nothing and my commands as an excuse to satisfy their own greed.

They mocked you as a man of ice, and said that your blood was snow-broth. Now you will have the power to freeze the blood of any man who would bring you low—and you will be called Katápsychros." 

She gave an amulet to Leontios—or Katápsychros, now. The name fit him better than the one he had been born with. 

The amulet was colder than bronze to the touch, and covered in frost. A small snowflake sat at the center of it. 

"This amulet, I took from Khione, the goddess of snow. With it, you will be able to manipulate ice and snow, and cold itself." 

Katápsychros put the amulet around his neck, and touched his water jar. The water froze to ice instantly, and in a few seconds, the whole jar was frozen in a block of ice. 

"Thank you, Lady Athena. I will use your gift wisely--and only when I have need. For I wish to live, not to be buried so some man may claim such a prize as this."

"Take as much plunder as you please, but leave your commanders alive. I will not be called a hypocrite by my brother for completely upending the chain of military command," Athena said. 

"Done. I need no avengers of blood hunting me down." 

With that, Athena transformed back into an owl, and flew out of his tent, leaving him alone. 

Katápsychros wasted no time. He slipped into the tent of purple, where the wealthy commanders slept in luxury, found their chests of treasure, froze the locks with hardly a sound, and took an equal amount from each man. 

To ensure that they would have other concerns than following him in the morning, he also froze all of their weapons in a block of ice so thick even the hottest flame would take days to melt through. 

Then he quietly cut the ropes that restrained the fastest horse the company had, and rode off into the night with the spoils he had been denied from his years of service and his triumph over War himself.

Chapter Text

Katápsychros had been on the road for two days when a hand light as a feather slipped into his purse. 

Most men would not have noticed, but Katápsychros was not most men. 

He was observant, for if he had been otherwise, he would have been struck down on the field of Ares long ago. 

He drew his sword---and was shocked to see a youth, no more than sixteen, hovering in the air and holding the jeweled dagger Katápsychros had taken as part of his plunder. 

"Hi there!" the youth exclaimed with a grin. 

"You have my property. Give it back." 

The youth laughed merrily. 

"But this isn't your property. You wear the armor of a common soldier, and this sort of gem would only be given to a commander. I'm not the only thief here...and unlike you, I can't be hunted as a deserter!" 

Katápsychros looked the youth over. He was handsome in a boyish way, with blonde curls and eyes as blue as the sky. His tunic was in garishly bright shades of orange, yellow, black, and blue. 

And, most prominently, his sandals had wings, like those of Hermes. 

They were what kept him in the air.

"Clearly, you've impressed Hermes." 

The youth giggled. 

"That I have. I'm his favorite son. He named me Epíklopos, and I live up to the name."

Katápsychros fixed the boy with an icy glare. 

"And you would risk theft from an armed soldier? A deserter I may be, but for all you know, I am a cutthroat." 

Epíklopos giggled again. 

"You aren't. If you were, you would have run me through with your sword, rather than just threatening me with it."

He paused for a second, pulled out two plain daggers, and then started to juggle both them and the bejeweled one he had taken from Katápsychros. 

"Where is your mother, boy?" Katápsychros asked. 

Epíklopos waved his hand dismissively. 

"On the road, just as we are. She is a traveling performer, and makes her fortune with her beauty and her skill. It's what attracted my father to her."

Then the boy leaned forward. 

"So, what is a soldier from Decelea doing near Sparta?" 

He was cleverer than he looked. 

"How did you know I was from Decelea? In these last few conflicts, my company wore the armor and the banner of Athens, for we were allied with them," Katápsychros asked. 

"Simple. You have the accent from the town. I've passed through it a few times on my travels." 

"You read people better than most men." 

"A performer who can't read people starves. A thief who can't read people hangs. And while I love a good length of rope, I would rather not have one embrace my neck." 

Katápsychros snorted. 

"You're the son of a god. You have nothing to fear from the rope, for he can make hanging you hubris and blasphemy both."

Epíklopos' grin faltered just slightly. 

"Hermes calls me the best of his living sons, and protects me when he can, but he has many duties, and is often distracted. And unlike my half-brother Autolycus, I am not related to kings. What was a prank for him would be a hanging matter for me."

Then he smiled more brightly than ever. 

"But we don't need to dwell on such unpleasant details as those, Warrior of Decelea. Not when you could be telling me of your triumph." 

Katápsychros shook his head. 

"Flattery won't get you anywhere with me, boy. I keep my own counsel."

"Then let's see if I can guess. You have an amulet of Khione hidden under your armor, but since my father says she rarely leaves the lands of the north, and I doubt you could have traveled so far, more likely you received it from someone more powerful. And since you're a soldier, I would wager that your patron is grey-eyed Athena---for a champion of Ares would likely have slain me already."

The boy had his father's cleverness. 

That made him dangerous. But it also made him useful. 

A thief with the blessing of Hermes, the talents of a wandering performer, and the eye of an eagle would be a tremendous asset. 

"You guessed correctly. I am Katápsychros, and I have been chosen as champion by Gray-Eyed Athena. Because I was born in the dirt, my commanders denied me what my strategies earned, and she gave me permission to seek my fortune. And so I have." 

Epíklopos tilted his head. 

"A thief with the blessing of Athena is a man worth knowing." 

"So is a boy who laughs at gravity and observes better than a strategist." 

Epíklopos laughed and clapped his hands. 

"I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Katápsychros!" 

Katápsychros shook his head. 

"We are not friends. We are partners. And you will follow my rules. No killing women or children, or unarmed men. No violations of xenia. And no disrespect to the gods." 

Epíklopos smiled. 

"Of course, of course! My father is Hermes. Xenia is more sacred to me than anyone---and I am no cutthroat, I. There is no fun to be had in the deaths of innocents." 

"Then we understand one another. Welcome to my company."

"What first, champion of Athena?" Epíklopos asked. 

"First, we find an old comrade of mine. He helped me win many battles, and we will have use of his talents." 

"Sounds exciting! Where is he?" 

Katápsychros shook his head. 

"I don't know, yet. But I know we'll find him. He's too proud to be subtle...and everyone remembers a man who walks through reflections and bends light."

Chapter Text

Epíklopos could charm stories out of a rock. Within a day, he had determined that Antanáklasi was on the island of Kythera. A day after that, he had convinced a ship owner to take both himself and Katápsychros to the island for free, with the promise that he would ask his father Hermes to bless the man's business. 

They had landed on the island two days previously--and two minutes ago, they had found Antanáklasi in the company of the most beautiful woman Katápsychros had ever seen.

This would have been typical for most men. But Antanáklasi was celibate. He worshipped only aesthetic beauty, and was unreceptive to physical desire.

“So, comrade. I see you have finally found the maiden who made you violate your protestations of devotion to the ideal, and not to the flesh," Katápsychros said. 

Antanáklasi smirked.

“Leontios! It has been too long, my friend. I see you finally took me up on my advice to seize your own crown."

He paused for a moment, and gestured at his companion.

 “As for your “maiden", I would advise you not to speak of her so lightly. She is not—perish the thought—my lover. She is my patroness, and my model of beauty—the Lady Aphrodite."

Katápsychros had no idea if that was true, but he went to his knees just to be on the safe side. Aphrodite was not the sort of goddess it was wise to risk offending. 

Epíklopos smiled and winked at her. 

“Lady Aphrodite—I see that my father did not exaggerate your beauty or your charms," he said. 

Aphrodite—if that was indeed who the woman was–smiled back and batted her eyes. 

“And you, son of Hermes, have the wit and features of your father. Be careful that you do not also have his insolence."

Epíklopos laughed. 

“I fear that all children of Hermes inherit his insolence—but I will not address it to you, my lady. I may have quick wit, and quicker feet, but no one outruns your wrath. Not even my father could boast that, I think."

Aphrodite smiled. 

“Remember that, and you will go far. I would so hate to see such a handsome youth destroyed."

Then she turned to Katápsychros. 

“And who might you be? You have the look of a soldier about you—but no man chosen by my lover would be so silent, nor so cold."

"Katápsychros is my name, Lady Aphrodite, and it is true that I am not Ares' man. I am not one who courts his own death, I—though I have sacrificed many a soldier to him in his fields. I have come here in the hopes of recruiting Antanáklasi for an enterprise of mine—for we worked as allies in the field of combat, and I know well that he is as clever as any mortal man."

Aphrodite smiled. It was dazzling, but Katápsychros was not sure he liked it. 

"I remember you. You are the hyperborean soldier of the dirt—the one who caught the eye of Athena before you were old enough for a beard. It surprised us all when she took an interest in a man of no name—but we all know now why she did. You control passion, fear, and hatred as if you were indifferent to them all, and though your wit can take a city, your caution keeps you from boasting of it. You watch like an owl, strike like a snake unseen—and are as deadly as both. You are a hard man to kill, and a harder one to love—for you abandoned even your golden-haired sister in pursuit of security. Like my gray-eyed rival, who casts love as foolishness, you weigh men by utility, not by affection. But while you are not my sort of man, I also know that you will accomplish much with Athena at your back, and I do love shiny things, especially when they are sacrificed to me. As brilliant as he is, Antanáklasi will be able to achieve still more riches and honor for me if he allies with you, and so I am pleased with this alliance you have proposed to him."

She turned to Antanáklasi. 

"What say you, my philosopher of beauty?"

Antanáklasi smiled and bowed deeply. 

"Katápsychros and I swore an alliance years ago, my lady. I would be honored to work with him now—for I know the sort of mind he has."

Katápsychros nodded. 

"And I know your skills. You and I will work well together—and that it will please your patroness, so much the better."

Aphrodite smirked. 

"Excellent! I do so love Antanáklasi. It is rare that I find a man so wholly devoted to me as Aphrodite Urania, and that he will be a legend in the name of my aesthetic beauty even rarer. While I delight in my role as Aphrodite Pandemos, I am more than simple desire. I am beauty as concept and perfection, too, and I would like men to remember that. He ensures they will."

Antanáklasi smiled. 

"Of course I will, my lady—for what is there that I could better serve than perfection herself?"

Aphrodite looked very pleased. 

"And this is why I favor you above all mortal men. You understand that beauty cannot be possessed, only served."

Antanáklasi bowed once more. 

"You flatter me, my lady, and I will reflect your beauty ever."

Then he turned to Epíklopos. 

"And who might you be?" he asked.

Epíklopos smiled and waved. 

"Epíklopos—entertainer, thief, and your new best friend. My father is Hermes, and he delights in my cleverness. Nice to meet you!"

Antanáklasi smirked. 

"And you as well. Any youth Katápsychros would take on as an ally must be impressive—and I can admire a fellow performer."

Katápsychros sighed. 

"Both of you dazzle. Both of you are clever. And both of you are arrogant. You will be natural friends—but I will remind you both. Pride does not fill stomachs. Glory does not save lives. And I do not intend to die before I fill my purse and redeem my sister from her husband."

Antanáklasi shook his head. 

"Overcautious, as always. But you kept me alive on the field of Ares, Katápsychros. So I will keep myself within your bounds."

Katápsychros nodded. 

"And you will follow my rules. We do not kill women, children, or unarmed men. We do not violate xenia. And we honor the gods."

"Fair enough, my friend. To kill women and babes in arms has no touch of beauty in it—and to honor Aphrodite Urania is always a goal of mine. Your rules are more than fair—and indeed, will make me all the more spectacular."

Aphrodite smiled. 

"After your first success, sacrifice something pretty to me, Antanáklasi."

Antanáklasi bowed. 

"Of course, my lady."

"In that case, I will transport you back to the mainland. There are more treasures there than on my sacred island."

Chapter Text

In a burst of radiance, Katápsychros, Antanáklasi, and Epíklopos found themselves outside of Delphi. 

Not too far away, seated on a mossy stone, there was a youth no older than Epíklopos, who was playing the sweetest music that Katápsychros had ever heard. 

Animals surrounded him as he played his lute. Crows perched on his arms. Rabbits sat at his feet. A deer nuzzled at his ragged tunic—and, most alarmingly of all, a wolf laid less than ten feet away from him. But it did not seem inclined to attack. Instead, it looked perfectly calm. 

Katápsychros was mostly indifferent to the arts, but he always acknowledged talent, and this youth had it in spades. 

When the youth finished his song, Epíklopos walked up to the youth with a smile. 

"Hi, there! I'm Epíklopos! And I am impressed. As a showman myself, I know the value of performance—and you're quite the showstopper!"

The youth looked surprised. 

"For your words of praise, I thank you, and welcome you to Delphi, Apollo the prophet's oracle." The youth had a soft voice, and one that was as musical as his pipes. 

And the formality of his speech did not seem to match his cloak, which was torn and full of holes, nor his tunic, which was all of rags. 

In fact, while Katápsychros had but rarely seen a king except in the fields of Ares, the youth spoke in the way a ruler might. His accent was not the sort heard in men of the dust. 

"You are dressed like a slave, and speak like a prince. What are you, boy?" Katápsychros asked. 

The youth frowned. 

"Both."

Epíklopos smiled. 

"He speaks in riddles! I like him already!"

Antanáklasi laughed. 

"So, you are like me, then. Born to the dust, but with the wit and talent to make yourself a prince. My philosophy is light and illusion, and yours music, but we control men with beauty and harmony all the same."

The youth looked almost as though he would cry. But then he restrained himself. 

"Would that the gods above had seen fit to have me born, as you were, into the dust."

Katápsychros frowned. So here was a prince, who wanted to play at poverty. Did he think it romantic? Did he believe starvation was artistic? 

If so, he was a fool. 

"And if you had been born into the dust, you would know better than to say so. Who are you, who would play at poverty, and treat it as a game?"

"My father was Olympiodoros, king of Thebes. My mother, Rhoxane, was from Corinth. I was born a prince of the realm, until my parents learned that I was deaf as a stone. My father commanded that I be left to die in the mountains, but his shepherd, Philon, took pity on me and spared my life. He and his wife, Nymphe, who was a maid to my mother, raised me as their own, and so I was a slave in the household of my father."

He paused briefly, and his eyes glistened with tears. 

"Until I was ten, I believed myself nothing but a slave, and a slave of several generations, for all assumed that Nymphe bore me, and that Philon was my father. They had been born slaves, and so had their parents, and their parents before them. And though I was deaf and mute, I could be set to simple tasks, so no one questioned my presence."

"How did you learn you were a prince?" Epíklopos asked. 

"One day, a ragged musician came to the door of the palace. I am told that he played the lyre beautifully, though of course I was as deaf to the song as I was to any other sound. In exchange for his music, he asked for shelter, but the king and queen scorned his clothes and sent him away. I knew what it was to be cold and wear rags, so I brought the lyre-player to Philon and Nymphe, and they offered him what shelter the slave quarters provided. He accepted, and the next morning, he thanked us for our hospitality—and as he did, he suddenly shone like a golden flame. He had been handsome before, but now he was radiant, and we knew that he was not a man. We had sheltered Apollo, the healer of Delos, the far-reaching archer, and, as he was in a generous mood, he put his hand on my head—and suddenly I could hear. Then he took me to the king and queen and demanded that they recognize me as their son, and heir to Thebes."

"And did they?" Epíklopos asked.

"Of course they did. They had already failed xenia. If they followed it up with disobeying a direct command from Apollo, they would have been dead, or worse," Katápsychros replied. 

The prince nodded.

"I was declared heir, and, at the behest of Apollo, named Armonikós. Before that, Philon and Nymphe called me Theodoulos. The king and queen dressed me in silk and put a crown of gold on my head, and I was told that I now owned the man and woman I had believed to be my parents, and all of the servants who had worked beside me as well. I asked the king and queen to free Philon and Nymphe, who had loved me as if I were their own, but they refused, and said a prince should not concern himself with slaves. Then they handed me a lyre and a lute, and told me that since Apollo had favored me, I ought to serve Apollo."

"You took well to instruments. You play as well as Orpheus must have," Antanáklasi said admiringly. 

"I had little else to do but practice, for the king and queen distrusted me with affairs of state, and did not like to display me in public. It would raise many questions, none of which they could answer while painting themselves favorably, and I was too kind to the lowly to make a suitable prince."

"Practice alone may make a talented musician, but it does not make animals tame. There must be more to it than that," Katápsychros said. 

Armonikós nodded. 

"There is. When Apollo healed me, he did not merely restore my hearing. He allowed me to hear the sounds that animals hear that we cannot, and even the music of the spheres. And he sent me Euterpe for my tutor. So my music brought fame to Thebes, and pleasure to Apollo."

"So if you're a prince, and a student of the muses, why are you in rags now? I can understand why you'd be in Delphi, since it's sacred to Apollo, but even I have better clothes than you, and I live only by my wits," Epíklopos asked. 

Armonikós sighed. 

"Two days after I turned sixteen, my parents heard a prophecy from this very oracle, which said that I would sit on my father's throne while he still lived. My father was a proud man, and not at all keen to relinquish his crown to a prince who had sworn to free all the slaves in Thebes once he inherited the throne only two weeks before, so he and my mother cast me out. They did not disown me, for the fear of Apollo, but they turned me out of Thebes with only my instruments and the clothes on my back. I came here to seek advice as to what I must do—and that is when the three of you arrived." 

Epíklopos smiled .

"What a story!"

Then he turned to Katápsychros and Antanáklasi. 

"Can we keep him? Please?"

Antanáklasi smirked. 

"I would be all for it. His music is as beautiful as my illusions and light-bending, and he speaks well. But of course, Katápsychros , you make the final call. You always know what is prudent."

Armonikós frowned. 

"Who are you three?" he asked. 

"Epíklopos, son of Hermes–and his cleverest since Autolycus himself. Nice to meet you! I never thought I would see the prince of Thebes."

"It is apparent you have the pride of your father, too," Armonikós replied. 

Epíklopos laughed. 

"We'll be great friends! I can tell already!"

"I am Antanáklasi. I am what you might call a philosopher of light. I study its properties, and from that study, I have learned to bend it to my will. I can create illusions, walk through reflections, and produce beams of light that are as hot as flames, and I trust that as I continue to study I will only increase my abilities. I use my talents in order to raise myself above the dust into which I was born, and to serve beauty for my patroness, Aphrodite Urania."

Katápsychros shook his head. He had thought he was recruiting an army. Instead, he had a theater troupe. 

But as it was a theater troupe beloved of the gods, it would serve his ends. 

"Men call me Katápsychros. Athena has claimed me as her champion, though I was born in the dirt. I fight to survive, and I take what men are not wise enough to protect. Your music will aid me in that. If you join us, you will not starve, and you will be treated as an equal partner. But you must follow my rules. You will not kill women, children, or unarmed men. You will not violate xenia, and you will honor the gods."

Armonikós looked surprised. 

"Then you are thieves?"

"Of course! My father is Hermes, and I must honor my father," Epíklopos said with a wink. 

Armonikós was silent for a minute. 

"I do not want plunder, nor gold. I had riches enough when I was a prince, and they did not gladden my heart. All the same—money lifts up the poor, and it frees slaves. I will join you, if I may use my share of the wealth to help those who cannot help themselves," he finally said. 

"And you will keep my rules?" Katápsychros asked. 

"Of course—and I will add one more. We steal only from those who can afford it."

"Your rule is fair. The poor have nothing worth taking."

"Welcome to our band, Armonikós. With you on our side, we'll astonish all of Achaea!" Antanáklasi exclaimed. 

Chapter Text

Katápsychros and his three companions had traveled to the city of Argos, and were in the middle of debating if they should strike the city when a herald announced that the king was about to pass judgment on a thief that had been using the recent storms and inclement weather to cover his thefts from traders that were coming to and from the city. 

Katápsychros' instinct was to keep away from the display. While the thief did sound as though he had been clever, he had also been caught, and it was far too risky to attempt to free a man he knew nothing about in front of not only soldiers and royalty but a massive crowd of citizens as well. 

"Let us take another route. I have seen public punishments as the prince of Thebes, and they make me ill," Armonikós said. 

But Antanáklasi frowned. 

"I share your distaste for such punishments—as a professional thief, I have been threatened with many, though my mastery of light enabled me to escape them. But I am curious to learn more about the methods of this particular thief. He is clearly not ordinary, or the king himself would not punish him."

"And public punishments mean big crowds, and there’s no better place to lighten a few purses than in a large crowd distracted by a public execution!" Epíklopos added. 

"What say you, Katápsychros?” Antanáklasi asked. 

Katápsychros weighed his options, then spoke. 

“We go—but only to evaluate the mood of the polis. We will not pickpocket anyone, and we will stay to the edges of the crowd.” 

The four men followed the crowd to the agora, where the king himself was seated, surrounded by armed guards and much finery.

Standing before him, face bloody and hands bound, was a dark-haired young man, tall but slender, whose eyes were wide with terror. 

His clothes were plain, but he was wearing a very elaborate cape of green, one which was decorated by spots of blue. 

It was far too fine a cape for a common thief, so most likely it represented some of the loot he had stolen. 

Two soldiers forced the man to kneel before the king of Argos. 

“For six months, you have plagued our city, with your thefts and misdeeds. You have robbed our merchants, and stolen from the merchants who came to trade with us. What do you have to say for yourself, you miscreant?” the king demanded. 

Epíklopos snickered. 

“I need to use the word miscreant more. It sounds so dramatic!” he exclaimed. 

“I…I…well, I…I…I…” the captured thief stammered. 

“Eloquent, isn’t he?” Antanáklasi asked wryly. 

Katápsychros frowned. Being captured was one thing, but a thief as effective and clever as this one was supposed to be should have been able to do more than stammer in his own defense. 

“Explain yourself! How did you carry out such brazen thefts?” the king demanded. 

The thief flinched away as best he could while still on his knees. 

“I…I can’t. You…you wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you,” the thief replied. 

“The people you have robbed claim that storms follow you! That your presence is preceded by fog, even when there was none, and followed by rain so thick that none can chase you! What sort of sorcery do you wield that lets you appear only in foul weather?” 

“Well…I…um….one of your soldiers has the answer,” the thief said. With his bound hands, he gestured at one of the soldiers, who was holding something that gleamed like gold. 

Katápsychros was too far away to tell what it was, exactly, but it reminded him a bit of the gold that had encrusted the chariot of Ares. 

That meant that it had likely come from the gods. 

So maybe this thief was not clever. Maybe he was simply lucky. 

“You mean to tell me some metal rod gives you your powers?” the king asked. 

“Yes. It…it lets me control the winds and bring up fog, to call the rain and pull down snow—and even to wield lightning. I do not predict foul weather. I…I make it.”

Katápsychros could hardly believe his ears. The power of the Thunderbringer himself—all wasted on a fool who had allowed himself to be caught. 

Epíklopos let out a low whistle. 

Antanáklasi tilted his head. 

“Should we intervene? Power like that, at our fingertips…”

“Would make us targets. Subtle power is safer than overt use of force. We do not interfere,” Katápsychros replied. 

The king of Argos looked taken aback, but pressed forward. 

“Whatever weapon you have stolen for yourself, you are guilty. And the penalty for such crimes as yours is death!”

The imprisoned thief laughed nervously. 

“My lord, you, uh, you…really don't want to do that.” 

“You would plead for mercy, after you robbed us blind?”

“Well, yes, but—uh, there's one thing I didn't have the chance to explain, and, um—”

“What is it?”

The thief swallowed hard. 

“I, um, have a patroness. And….and you really, really do not want to make her mad.”

Katápsychros frowned. What patron could this man be speaking of, to inspire that level of dread in him? 

The king laughed.

“A wretched thief like you claims to be protected by the gods?”

“I…I was as surprised by it as you, my lord, but—please. You really do not want to make her mad. She—”

“Enough of your lies! By the laws of Argos, you have been sentenced to—”

Suddenly, a woman, dressed in the veil and gown of a poor but respectable wife, stepped out of the crowd and stood next to the thief. 

“Release him, King of Argos. The man has a destiny decreed by the Fates, and you would do well not to interfere with it,” she said. 

Who was she? Could she be his mother? 

But the man did not seem to be a native to the city. And what peasant mother would defy a king? 

“And who are you to make commands of the king, woman?”

The woman did not flinch, and for a second, Katápsychros could have sworn there was a crown of gold atop her veil of homespun cloth.

“Tell me, King of Argos. Who is patroness of your city?”

“The Queen of the Heavens—white-armed Hera.”

“Is that so? All the more reason for you to release your prisoner posthaste,” the woman replied. 

“I don't know who that is, but she is either the bravest woman in all of Argos or touched by Dionysus. Maybe both,” Epíklopos said.

“Or maybe more than both,” Katápsychros muttered. 

“You would invoke the goddess of rule in defense of a thief of no birth? You are mad, woman.”

The woman frowned. 

“You, King of Argos, have slept with the wife of your closest advisor, and in so doing violated the marriage bed. Would you presume to judge in the name of the goddess of marriage?” 

“That poor woman. She'll be killed! We need to do something!” Armonikós exclaimed. He reached for his lyre.

Katápsychros grabbed his hand. 

“Wait. We will intervene—but only if it becomes necessary.”

The king scowled at the woman. 

“How dare you dishonor the King of Argos? For your insolence, you will be whipped!”

And in a flash, the common wife was no common wife at all, but a woman dressed more richly than any queen.

Her dress was as blue as the sky, and her cloak was a bright green with spots of blue, mirroring the cape of the thief next to her. She was draped in fine jewelry, and the golden crown atop her white veil glistened with the hint of lightning.  

She was beautiful, maybe even more beautiful than Aphrodite had been, but older. Her brown eyes were alight with power and authority that no mortal queen had ever had, and her skin was pale as alabaster. 

Hera. The Queen of the Heavens. 

Everyone knelt. Immediately. Instantly. No one was stupid enough not to—especially not the King of Argos, who had just ordered that the most powerful goddess be whipped. 

“Aetos is mine. He operates in my name, and for my purposes. He will be released.”

She waved her hand, and the soldier closest to the thief–Aetos—untied his wrists. 

Then Hera took the golden rod, the one that provided such incredible power to any man who wielded it, and handed it back to Aetos. 

“Thank you, your majesty,” Aetos said. 

Hera smiled at him almost fondly. 

“I keep an eye on those I have claimed, Aetos. I promised you that you will be a king. And so you will be.”

The King of Argos was as pale as a sheet. 

“Forgive me, Queen of Heaven—forgive me! I…I….”

Hera frowned coolly, and turned to the crowd, as though the king was beneath her notice. 

“Hear me, Argos. Your king, who claims justice in my name, dishonors marriage by taking the wife of his advisor. He would have executed my eagle, who bears my cloak and my name. He would have had me whipped in my disguise, for speaking my own will. And all of you—all of you—would have watched, and called it justice! 

You honor me as your patroness. You sacrifice to me as Queen of Heaven for your marriages, your children, and your laws. And yet you do not recognize me when I come without my finery, and spurn my decrees when they come from a woman in plain veil and dress. 

Remember this: I do not forget. And I do not forgive.”

She took Aetos and lifted his hand, which still held the golden storm rod. 

“This man, who you would have killed for a thief, you will one day kneel to as a king–and one much more powerful than your own. He will be my storm, and punish those who do not obey me. Anyone who lifts their hand against him rebels against me—and to defy Hera is death.”

Then she was gone, and only a peacock feather remained behind her. 

“You….you…” the king of Argos stammered as he looked up at the man he had arrested as a thief—and who had just been proclaimed as a ruler. 

Aetos smiled awkwardly.  

“I did try to tell you.”

And then he walked away without another word. 

Chapter Text

Katápsychros had not intended to ask Aetos to join his company. A champion of Hera was rare, and likely to draw anyone close to him into the types of divine squabbles he desperately wanted to avoid. 

But as he, Epíklopos, Armonikós, and Antanáklasi were leaving Argos four days after the execution that had turned into the declaration of a future king, Aetos walked up to them with an awkward smile. 

“So…um…this is awkward, but—my patroness said that I should join up with a company composed of a soldier, a philosopher, a musician, and a son of Hermes, and, well–you seem to be the only group in Argos who fits that description. Apparently you'll be instrumental in my rise to power, or something like that,” he said. 

Antanáklasi smirked. 

“You weren't exactly what I had in mind when I set out to claim a crown, but you'll do. Weather control rivals even what I can do with my control over light. I am Antanáklasi, philosopher of light and servant of beauty as ideal.”

Epíklopos waved. 

“Nice to meet you, future king! I am Epíklopos, the son of Hermes. You put on quite a show–even if your patroness is the star.”

Armonikós inclined his head in greeting. 

“I am Armonikós, a slave and son of slaves, but also crown prince of Thebes. I, too, have been promised a throne, but by Apollo, rather than Hera. And for the sake of the poor and enslaved, I will claim it. In the meantime, I play the music of the spheres.”

Katápsychros shook his head. 

“I am Katápsychros. I would not have recruited any such man as you. To meddle with the affairs of the Queen of Heaven is dangerous—but since she has said that we must work with you, I will abide by her laws. Still, I insist that you follow my rules. You will not kill women, children, or unarmed men. You will not violate xenia. And you will honor the gods.”

“Your rules suit me well—but, I will add one more. No adultery. I am as fond of women as any man, but I will not violate marriage. Not with my patroness,” Aetos replied. 

Katápsychros nodded. 

“I need no furious husbands on our trail, and wish the wrath of your patroness still less. I will allow your rule. Welcome to my company.”

Aetos beamed. 

“I finally have friends!”

Why, Katápsychros wondered, had the Queen of Heaven picked such an awkward fool as her champion? 

Chapter Text

The story came out a few days later, when the company was on the road to Athens. 

“I'm the son of a nymph and a mortal man. My mother was as beautiful as the river she was bound to, and her beauty attracted the attention not only of my father, her husband, but also of a….much more powerful individual.”

“A king?” Epíklopos guessed.

“Well, yes, but…not just any king. She attracted the attention of my patroness' husband. And that affair produced my older brother, Astrapí. I was born eleven months later, and, as I said, I was the son of her mortal husband. 

I loved my brother. Everyone loved my brother, because he was handsome and brilliant and strong. And my mother loved him most of all, because he was proof that she was so beautiful that she had attracted his father.

But she was wise enough to keep that fact quiet. Neither Astrapí nor I knew that we did not share a father. 

Me? I never measured up. Astrapí was perfect. My father trusted him to take over his farms when he became a man. My mother boasted of him to the skies. And I was just their other son. I never did anything right in their eyes, or in the eyes of the town. 

When Astrapí turned sixteen, a man appeared at the house of my father. Even though he was dressed like a merchant, he looked like a king. Mother was thrilled to see him, and even more thrilled when he presented my brother with the golden rod I wield now. The man said it was a present from the Thunderbringer himself–and after he left, my brother and I learned for the first time that he was not the son of my father, but of the husband of my patroness. 

Astrapí used his powers to benefit everyone he came across. And I became even more invisible to my parents, and to everyone. Everyone except Astrapí. He loved me. He was the only one who ever did. 

When I turned sixteen, I ran away from home to seek my own fortune, and failed. And failed. And failed. Eventually, I drifted into petty theft just to support myself. 

Two years later, my mother found me. She told me that Astrapí had died—and then said that she would have happily sacrificed me if it meant Astrapí had lived. And she left me alone with her curse. 

A week later, the worst storm I can remember blew in, and I went outside, trying to be struck by lightning and join my brother in the Underworld. 

And then my patroness appeared to me. I thought that she was there to punish me, but instead she said that I was to be her champion, and that she would make me a king. 

She granted me Astrapí's golden rod and a peacock-feather cape, and when I asked her why she had chosen me, she said it was because my mother hated me. 

Her husband had had an affair with my mother. And to avenge that, she would make me, the hated son of that same mother, more famous than Astrapí had ever been.

She champions me out of spite.”

Katápsychros muttered a curse under his breath. 

This was much worse than he had thought. 

Aetos was not just a champion of Hera. 

He was a weapon that Hera was wielding against her unfaithful husband. 

Who also happened to be Zeus, the ruler of the heavens and the king of the gods.

The rod that manipulated the weather had been intended for Astrapí, the son of Zeus, and in whom the Thunderbringer had evidently taken much pride. 

If he learned that Aetos now had it, and because Hera wanted to punish his lover, his wrath would be poured out on Aetos and anyone close to him. 

But Katápsychros also could not tell Aetos to leave the company, for to do so would be to court Hera's wrath. 

So he was now permanently allied to a knife to his own throat. 

Chapter Text

Katápsychros, Antanáklasi, Epíklopos, Aetos, and Armonikós were nearing Athens when they saw a man sitting outside a tent, with a wagon and all the tools of a blacksmith. Oddly, the man seemed to be entirely preoccupied with a spinning top, which he watched as though he was entranced. 

Epíklopos opened his mouth, likely to make a joke about a grown man playing with toys, but before he could speak, the top suddenly shot out hundreds of tiny darts, which pierced a nearby tree in a precise pattern. 

"My dart-shooting top appears to be functioning precisely as designed. Excellent, excellent. I am in top form today," he said to himself. He didn't even seem to realize that he was no longer alone. 

Katápsychros frowned. This man, whoever he was, was no ordinary craftsman. He was either a master without peer, or he had been blessed by a god. 

Suddenly, Aetos stepped on a loose branch, which had ended up on the road by chance. It created a loud cracking sound, and the man looked up in surprise. 

"I am not alone. Not, not. And these men are not of Athens. No, no. Nor are they of a single polis. Odd. Quite odd, indeed," he said to himself. His voice was oddly flat, and lacked the variation of normal speech.

"Who are you?" Katápsychros asked. The man blinked, as if he was unaccustomed to being spoken to by anyone save himself. 

"Dineuō. You have interrupted me and my tops."

"You…and your tops?" Katápsychros echoed. 

"Yes. My tops. They are my craft. Or part of it. I study rotation. I study movement. Balance. And, in a way, the Earth itself—which is merely a gigantic top."

"Quite a mind you have. A philosopher?" Antanáklasi asked. 

Dineuō nodded. 

"Philosopher. Inventor. Blacksmith. Yes. And you?"

"I am Antanáklasi, philosopher of light and devotee of beauty, in the cosmological sense. I study reflections, and have learned to bend them to my will." 

Dineuō pulled out another top. It spun, and as it spun, it started to hum—and then exploded into fire. 

"Motion is force. Force is motion. I control both," he said. 

His inventions were incredible—and deeply unnerving. And his mind was more incredible and unnerving still. 

A man like Dineuō would be an asset…but could he ever be trusted? 

"So, what's your story, Dineuō? Where did you learn to make such wonderful toys?" Epíklopos asked. 

"I am from Athens. My father is a prosperous merchant, and expected me to inherit his business. But I was not suited for it. Not, not. I liked tops. They were orderly. Predictable. People were not. I did not understand them. And they made fun of my tops. Because I could not succeed in business, I became a student of natural philosophy, and a blacksmith. Motion, machines, laws, rules—-they were orderly. Predictable. Like a top."

"And?" Epíklopos asked. 

"I learned how to build. I surpassed my teachers. They did not understand. They do not understand. But they were impressed. And so was another. Yes, another. For there was no blacksmith in Athens who understands motion as I do—and only one blacksmith anywhere who does. I was sixteen. Sixteen to the day, the hour, the minute—and he arrived."

"Who?" Epíklopos prompted. 

"Hephaestus, the blacksmith of Olympus. He said I was brilliant. That my work outshone the rest. And he provided me with knowledge. Skill. And—this," Dineuō replied. 

His eyes glowed green, and suddenly his cart was floating in the air. 

Epíklopos whistled. 

"That's some trick!" he exclaimed. 

Dineuō lowered the cart back down, and his eyes faded back to normal. 

"Telekinesis, he called it. Mind over matter," he explained.  

Katápsychros frowned. He did not like this man. He was too dangerous. Weapons and magic were controllable. A man who was a weapon was not. And Dineuō was clearly mad. 

"Why are you outside the city, rather than in it?" Armonikós asked. 

Dineuō rocked, back and forth, and waved his hands in front of his face. 

"I am cursed, they say, because I am mad. Or mad because I am cursed. They would not have me. They said my work was dangerous, blasphemous. Motion is force. Force is motion. The world runs on laws, not magic. I follow the laws of nature, and for that I was silenced. My father disowned me. Athens cast me loose, for I spread ideas they would not hear—and because I had never fit in. They said I spoke as an automaton might. I am broken, crippled–in mind, they say. Mad, cursed. Cursed, mad. It is why I prefer tops. They do not judge me on rules I do not understand."

"You don't believe in magic?" Aetos asked in shock. 

Dineuō shook his head. 

"No. Magic is merely a term for laws, misunderstood by men. Power is force. Force is motion. Motion is force. Motion is power. So Hephaestus taught me. He favors me, because he is as I am. Crippled. Mocked. We both understand machines more than men. And we were both rejected by our fathers. I follow him. And no other," he said.

"And an excellent student you are," a rough voice suddenly added. 

The ugliest man Katápsychros had ever seen was suddenly standing by the mad inventor. Although he walked with a cane, he still radiated power. 

Hephaestus. The blacksmith of Olympus. 

Katápsychros knelt, as did Aetos and Armonikós. 

Epíklopos waved cheerily. 

And Antanáklasi physically recoiled. Hephaestus snorted. 

"You're my ex-wife's man. Can tell that much already. Beauty above all, is that right?"

"Of course. Beauty is truth, truth beauty—and Aphrodite Urania both."

Hephaestus shook his head. 

"A brilliant mind—wasted on someone who will chew you up and spit you out. Take it from someone who knows, mortal: Aphrodite destroys all she touches."

"To shine, my lord, one must play with fire. And there is no fire more pure than the radiance of Aphrodite Urania," Antanáklasi said. 

Hephaestus sighed. 

"I warned you."

Then he turned to Katápsychros.

"The man of dust. Athena's champion. Not what anyone expected—but you must be something, if she chose you."

Katápsychros nodded. 

"I do not chase honor. I do not seek glory. I watch like the owl, wait like the snake—and strike like both. My patron prizes a man who does not rush blindly into death. And I am such a man, my lord."

"Blunt. I can respect that."

Then Hephaestus turned to Aetos and Armonikós.

"The slave-prince of Apollo. You and Dineuō will compliment each other, I think. Music is pattern and motion. He understands that. And, of course, my mother's eagle. The despised son, champion of a despised wife. She likes you. She likes you a lot. And mother usually has her way. Which is why I want you lot to take Dineuō. He may be odd, but a king needs a weaponsmith. And there's nobody better than him—-except me, of course."

"My lord, I…I am not skilled with men. Not, not. They spurn me, as they spurn you. No one listens. No one understands. I have never been accepted," Dineuō said. 

"Nor have I. I am a prince who pities slaves. I know what it is like to be an outcast," Armonikós replied. 

Aetos laughed nervously. 

"And I was the failure. The screwup. The brother who never measured up. My own mother cursed me. I was never accepted either—until I met them," he said.

Antanáklasi smirked.

"I can relate to another misunderstood philosopher. Men mock me because I am celibate, because I worship beauty, and not desire, or they spurn me as a sorcerer. They fear what they do not understand—but I understand. So I do not fear you. And you would be quite an addition to our team," he said. 

"So welcome aboard! We could use another misfit!" Epíklopos exclaimed. 

"See? There you are," Hephaestus said. 

Katápsychros sighed. 

"I do not like you. I do not trust you. But since Lord Hephaestus would have you join me, I cannot refuse. But you will follow my rules. No killing women, children, or unarmed men. No violations of xenia. Honor the gods. Take only from those who can afford it. And do not commit adultery, for we do not wish the wrath of Hera."

Dineuō nodded. 

"Your laws are orderly. I will follow them—but I honor only my patron. Only. I will not dishonor the others—force is power, power is force, they have both—but motion is to be studied. Not worshipped," he said. 

"You see why I like him. He gets it. He knows what my relatives are. Powerful—but not worthy of the praise they receive from you mortals," Hephaestus commented. 

"Yes. Quite. Power. But no order. Not like you. Not like your machines, my lord," Dineuō agreed. 

"And mortals who say such things are cursed. Whether your relatives are worthy of worship or not, they are too powerful to refuse. Blasphemy is no small affair, and you would be wise, Dineuō, if you kept it to yourself," Katápsychros said. 

"My champion speaks well, brother. And you would, I think, do well to take his advice yourself."

Since he was already on his knees, Katápsychros simply nodded to acknowledge the unexpected arrival of his patroness. 

"Lady Athena," he said. 

"My stepmother has drawn you into her schemes, and, while the risk is real, so too are the rewards. To be the strategist and ally to two future rulers is a fitting place for a champion of mine. But be careful. My father will not look favorably on Aetos if he realizes what his white-armed queen is up to," she said. 

"I seek life more than honor, my lady. I will not be rash, and I will be silent."

Hephaestus shook his head. 

"Sister, Dineuō is like me. He sees patterns. He sees order. He sees laws. And he knows what I know—that even we are bound to rules above ourselves. He will speak, and I will be his surety. You would not silence the truth, would you, sister?"

"His truth threatens order. Law and government would collapse without the divine."

"His truth would improve the lives of the mortals. They would be better off if they were less reliant on us."

"You speak like Prometheus, brother."

"So I do. Because he was correct."

Athena frowned. 

"You are fortunate that our goals align, Hephaestus. If they did not, I would report your words to our father," she said. 

Hephaestus rolled his eyes. 

"And then what? He would throw me off Olympus? Oh, wait—he already did."

"He could make that seem merciful, brother."

"But he won't. No one else can make his thunderbolts."

Dineuō smiled. 

"Motion is force. Force is power. Power is motion. And you, my lord, control all three."

"Yep. I do." 

Athena frowned. 

"Why champion him, brother? A poor man, despised, may yet prove worthy, if he is cautious and clever. But a man who does not understand his fellows will never triumph. He is broken, no matter how brilliant he may be."

"So am I, sister. And you would not be rid of me. So your champion will not be rid of him."

"Very well, brother. But if in his madness he becomes uncontrollable, I will not hesitate. Order must be preserved."

"Order is law, sister. And my man understands it better than anyone. If you try to be rid of him, he will capture you—even as my net captured War himself."

And then both Athena and Hephaestus vanished. 

Dineuō turned to Katápsychros. 

"I do not like you. You do not understand. Not, not. But you understand men, and I do not. I will work with you, so that I may demonstrate my craft. It is the one way in which I may come out on top at last."

Katápsychros shook his head. 

Dineuō was somehow already more irritating than the rest of his cohort combined. 

Chapter Text

The cohort struck the house of a wealthy nobleman in Athens that very night. 

Epíklopos picked the locks on his home with practiced ease. 

Katápsychros barricaded the guards in a hall with a block of ice. 

Armonikós put the household to sleep with his music. 

Antanáklasi used his control over light to transport them directly into the treasury through the reflection of his bronzed mirror. 

Dineuō moved the loot with his telekinesis, meaning that their hands stayed free as they left the house. 

And Aetos covered their escape with a massive rainstorm. 

By the time the nobleman called for the watch, the team had disappeared.

And two days later, Armonikós returned with his share of the loot, and purchased the freedom of the slaves of the nobleman. Since no one had seen the faces of Katápsychros or his men, he could do this without fear of suspicion. 

All in all, it was a thoroughly successful first outing. 

The six men were leaving Athens when they were met by a very recognizable figure. Even if his winged shoes, winged helmet, and caduceus hadn't given him away, the grin on Epíklopos's face would have. 

"Father!"

Hermes smirked. It was eerily similar to the smile his son wore. 

"I heard about your little escapade, Epíklopos. You really do me proud," he said. 

"I try."

"You succeed too. There's a reason you've always been my favorite. You lie like you were born to it, and travel is in your blood."

Then Hermes turned to Katápsychros. 

"An owl of Athena, who serves my domain. Rare. But not unheard of. Her Odysseus was the descendant of my Autolycus–and he honored us both as well."

Katápsychros nodded. 

"I make a point to not make enemies. Well, divine ones, at any rate. The mortal ones, I have had since I was born."

Hermes laughed. 

"I see you also share my wise sister's lack of humor."

"Which makes him a wonderful straight man!" Epíklopos exclaimed. 

Hermes smiled fondly. 

"You, my boy, will be a legend."

"I know."

"Exactly."

Then he looked at Aetos, and frowned. 

"But I want you to promise me one thing. Your friend here stole a thunderstorm. If its owner ever finds out—you run. You do not stay, no matter how much you like him."

"But–"

"No buts. I love you. You are my prize. I will not lose you to a battle between my father and stepmother."

"Yes, father. I can move pretty fast, if I need to," Epíklopos said weakly. 

Hermes handed his son a whistle. 

"If you really need me, blow this. No matter where I am, I will come. And I can move faster than anyone."

Then he smiled. 

"Terrific show, all of you. Keep up the excellent work! I haven't been so entertained since that time Ares was trapped in a jar for a year!"

And with that, he was gone. 

"I told you I was his favorite!" Epíklopos exclaimed. 

"Just what I need. More divine intervention," Katápsychros muttered. 

He had spent his entire life attempting to avoid divine entanglements. Now he was trapped in a web of seven different gods. 

Chapter Text

Katápsychros and his cohort were passing through rural farmlands on their way to Thebes when they suddenly saw what looked like a farmer and his mother on the other side of the road. 

This would not have been particularly noteworthy—until the farmer suddenly shot a flame of fire out of his hands. 

Katápsychros stopped dead in his tracks. 

Who now? 

"Hi, there! I'm Enkavma! Are you Katápsychros?" the farmer said cheerfully. The plume of fire was still blazing over his hand. 

"Yes, love. He matches the description that my niece gave me," his mother replied softly. 

And for a second, Katápsychros swore that there was a fire atop of her homespun veil. 

Another goddess, then. 

"Would your niece happen to be the Lady Athena, by any chance?" he asked. 

The woman smiled. 

"I can see why she chose you for her champion. You are clever. Yes, she is my niece. I am Hestia."

With that, the disguise fell away, to reveal…the same woman, just with a crown of flames atop her plain veil. Apparently, she did not take much stock in displays of grandeur. 

Katápsychros knelt. 

"No need to kneel, dear. I am not like my relatives. I do not seek honor—and I believe that is a trait the two of us share."

As she pulled Katápsychros back to his feet, he felt a warmth he had left behind with his sister. 

"So it is, Lady Hestia."

"Just Hestia, dear."

"I didn't think you usually took champions, Hestia," Katápsychros said. 

"I don't. Enkavma is my son. I adopted him after his family was killed in a fire," Hestia replied. 

"And you gave him the ability to control fire?"

"I did. Fire destroyed his family. Now he can keep it from destroying anything else he loves."

"I wanted to stay with Mama Hestia. But she says you need me. And I know what it's like to be alone. After the fire that killed my family, no one wanted me, because they thought I was cursed. She showed me differently. So now I can help you," Enkavma said. 

Hestia smiled and turned to Aetos. 

"My sister says you are her champion, and that she will make you a king. But a king needs someone to remind him of the lowly, and to be kind. That is what Enkavma will do for you—for all of you. He is loyal. He has a very warm heart. And he will keep you from breaking apart."

Katápsychros nodded. 

"We need someone like you, Enkavma, for we are very different. But you must follow my rules. No killing women, children, or unarmed men. No violation of xenia. Respect the gods. Steal only from those who can afford it. No adultery," he said. 

Enkavma smiled warmly. 

"Okay. And one more: we are family."

Hestia smiled. 

"I love you, Enkavma. May peace follow you and your new family. And remember–if you need me, I am in every hearth." 

"I love you too, Mama. Good-bye!" Enkavma said. They embraced, and then Hestia calmly walked away. 

Enkavma turned to the cohort and beamed. 

"So, who are all of you?"

"Men call me Katápsychros. I am not a sentimental man. I have no hearth, no home, and no family but a sister. But I am loyal to my own. I watch like an owl, wait like a snake, and strike like both. And I serve the Lady Athena."

Epíklopos waved. 

"Hiya! I'm Epíklopos, trickster extraordinaire and favorite son of Hermes! You and I will have loads of fun together!"

Antanáklasi smirked. 

"I am Antanáklasi. I am a philosopher of light and bend it to serve my ends, but I am also a devotee of beauty, in the cosmological sense. I serve Aphrodite Urania."

Aetos waved awkwardly. 

"I'm Aetos. I was chosen by Hera, but I suppose you already know that. Future king, apparently, and currently happy to have friends and be alive."

Armonikós smiled. 

"I am Armonikós, both slave and prince, and blessed by Phoebus Apollo. I fight for those who cannot fight for themselves."

Enkavma smiled back. 

"I like you already."

Dineuō cocked his head. 

"Dineuō is my name. Natural philosopher. Inventor. Blacksmith. Builder of tops, and apprentice of Hephaestus. I do not know warmth, nor family. But I understand motion. Motion is force. Force is power. Power is motion. Fire is all three. You are powerful. And you were mocked, as I was. So I think we shall function well together."

Enkavma looked thrilled. 

"Nice to meet all of you! I hope I make you all proud."

Katápsychros actually smiled, to his own surprise. 

"You already have."

Chapter Text

Six months and four successful heists later, the cohort was passing through a seaside town when a discus came flying in and nearly slammed into  Katápsychros' head.

"Oi! You lot! I want in!" a man exclaimed. He was short and lean, but muscular, and looked like a professional sailor. 

"In what?" Katápsychros asked. 

"In your band of marauders, that's what. You make more money than any other band of outlaws in Achaea, and I've been in a lot of them. So I want in."

"Who are you?" Katápsychros asked. 

"Volí. Best discus-thrower in the world. Or at least in Achaea. I never miss, except when I want to," the man said. 

To demonstrate, he walked over, picked up his discus, and threw it some forty yards away. His form was perfect. 

"Nice shot! You should try out for the Olympics!" Epíklopos said. 

"Already did. Have the laurels for it."

"Look. That is impressive, but…we don't really need a man with a discus. We can already control weather, ice, fire, light, and a number of other powerful forces," Katápsychros said. 

"I can brawl, too. I've never lost a fistfight, because I fight dirty."

"So do I. And I did it in the fields of Ares, not in back allies."

Volí smirked.

"Did I forget to mention that my father is Poseidon?" 

Katápsychros sighed wearily. Of course this man was another divine favorite. 

"Your father is the Earthshaker?"

"That he is. So if you want to be able to travel by sea, you need me with you."

He was right. If Katápsychros tried to take a boat after he had rejected a son of Poseidon, the terrifying sea king would ensure that the boat was drowned. 

"Fine. You want in? You're in. But you follow my rules. No killing women, children, or unarmed men. No violation of xenia. Respect the gods. Steal only from those who can afford it. No adultery. And we are family."

Volí did not look especially impressed. 

"If you didn't take so much plunder, I'd laugh in your face. Rules for outlaws?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I want to be rich and famous, and you're the quickest path to that. I'll follow your stupid rules if it means I live like a king."

A few seconds after he said this, a man walked out of the ocean and onto the beach. He was tall and dressed more magnificently than any ruler, but his crown was made of coral and seashells, and he held a trident of solid gold. 

Poseidon. The Earthshaker. 

Everyone knelt—except for Volí. 

"Pops! Long time no see!" he exclaimed. 

Poseidon nodded. 

"Son. You were a terror on the open seas. I trust you will spread my dread on the land as well, and remind the mortals that I am powerful even outside of my domain."

"No problem, Pops. I'm your son, after all—and your sons are always monsters, even on a leash."

Antanáklasi smirked. 

"So, you were a pirate, too. Quite the list of feats. How is it that you never got arrested? Rulers hate piracy even more than theft on land, and, unless I am much mistaken, you are not of noble birth."

Volí laughed. 

"Because I told anyone who tried to mess with me that if they did, they would take a one-way trip to the Underworld, courtesy of sea monsters, earthquakes, or tidal waves. Pops doesn't like people who hurt his sons."

Poseidon nodded, and turned his gaze to Katápsychros. His eyes were somehow blue, green, black, and grey, all at the same time, and had all the intensity of a storm at sea. 

"You are my niece's man. Be sure you do not wrong my son, as Odysseus did. Or I will make you suffer more than you can imagine."

"I will not, Lord Poseidon. I know better than to offend any of the deathless gods. You son will be one of my cohort, and will share the plunder with us. But if I may be so bold—why send your son to work with us?"

"To spread the dread of me—and because two of you will be kings. To have my son so allied will be a boon to me—and that one of them is an insult to my younger brother, so much the better."

"Uncle." Athena's voice was never warm, but now it sounded like ice.

Poseidon tilted his head. 

"Niece."

"I have told you before to not interfere with my champions."

"And I have told you before that I outrank you, both in years and in power. If I wish to have my son join with your champion, it will be so."

"Power alone is insufficient for victory, uncle. Or have you forgotten why I won Athens?"

Poseidon frowned. 

"Perhaps, niece. But my son is very cunning. I would match him against your champion."

Volí smirked. 

"And I would win, too. Because I don't think. I just hunt."

"A beast, then. Just like your other sons."

"Perhaps. But beasts are far better as predators than any man,” Poseidon said. 

"Which is why I do not fight them head-on. A shark may be a terror in the water, but it cannot resist the net," Katápsychros said. 

Volí laughed. 

"Maybe—but only if you have a boat and a net. Without a plan, I'd kill you. So you're lucky we're allies. A shark is a dangerous enemy—but a vicious weapon. And I'm loyal to them who feed me." 

Poseidon looked amused. 

"My sons are ravenous, as I am. But your man will feed him well enough, niece. For now, we are allies."

Athena shook her head. 

"Very well, uncle. But if your son proves to be a liability, he will be cut down like any of your other sea monsters."

And then they were both gone. 

Volí smiled. 

"So, what's for dinner?" 

Chapter Text

Nine months later, Katápsychros and his cohort were dividing the spoils of their latest robbery when there was a knock on the door, and his sister, Chrysafénios, suddenly burst into the room. She was still as beautiful as the dawn, but she had clearly been beaten to within an inch of her life. 

"Sister!" he exclaimed in horror. 

"Are you okay?" Enkavma asked. He had never met her, but he hated seeing people in pain. 

"Who did this to you?" Armonikós asked. 

"My husband. He accused me of adultery—as though he himself were not guilty of it a thousand times over. By all the gods, I would have sent him to the dust in blood if I were trained in weapons! He beat me, for a crime I did not commit—and then would have had me killed in the public square. So I ran. I drugged his wine and took his fat purse, and I came here to you."

The fire in her eyes was like that of Ares. And Katápsychros did not like it in his sister. 

"I will protect you from him, sister. If the man comes after you, I will pay him back what he paid our father for you, and more. You will have your divorce. You are free of him, now and forever," he said. 

"You would leave him alive?" 

"He is a prominent citizen. To kill him would be unwise. If all else fails, I will slit his throat. But bribery and fear should be sufficient to keep him away."

"I want him dead! For seven years now, he has used me for pleasure and for wrath, and I will see him repaid in blood! If I could, I would kill his whole line, and bathe in the blood."

"Sister, you are out of bounds. Fire is well enough when it is contained, but unleashed it will destroy all. I will find you a husband. I will protect you. But blind vengeance will benefit no one."

"Brother, you abandoned me to him! When you sent money, it only fattened his purse. It did not protect me! And now you tell me to be calm? You, who did not suffer? They are right, who say you have frost in your veins!" she shrieked. 

"Sister, enough! You are a woman, and women do not fight the battles of men. I will protect you. I will never force you to marry a man you do not love. But I will not have you screaming for blood like an Amazon."

Dineuō looked up from the top he was spinning across the table. 

"There are fates worse than death. Quite, quite. Come with me, and we will destroy your husband."

Chrysafénios smiled. 

"Dineuō, is it?"

"Yes. Quite."

"I like how you think."

"Motion is force. Force is power. Power is motion. And I control all three." 

**************************************************************************

Dineuō and Chrysafénios completely destroyed the home and property of her former husband with his weaponized tops. They left the man alive, but only after he had publicly confessed to his adultery, and to his mistreatment of his wife. 

They had not broken the rules. But Katápsychros did not want his sister involved in his life as a thief. And he wanted her involved with Dineuō specifically still less. 

After her public humiliation of her first husband, Katápsychros bought his sister a fine home in Athens. Since Dineuō had been cast out of Athens, he assumed that this would be sufficient to keep the man away from his sister. 

He was wrong. 

Dineuō and Chrysafénios followed each other everywhere. 

He praised her beauty and her movements, and said she was the equal of any of his tops. 

He showered her with gifts. 

And he talked to her as if she were a man. He asked her opinions on politics. He discussed his natural philosophy with her, as though she were not a woman. He allowed her to work with him when she asked, and to argue with him in public.  

Chrysafénios adored him just as much. 

She said he was handsome and called him brilliant. She did not seem to mind his endless peculiarities, and seemed genuinely interested in his tops. She lit up whenever he entered the room, and helped remind him to eat when he was consumed with his work. 

Eventually, as much as he hated it, he had to admit that she made him a more reliable teammate, and that he pulled her away from her horrifying rage.

While he still distrusted Dineuō, the man sincerely loved his sister. 

So when Chrysafénios asked him if they could be married, Katápsychros said yes. 

Chapter Text

The wedding itself was supposed to be a simple affair.

But Aetos was the eagle of Hera.

When she learned about the wedding, she turned it into the most spectacular one ever provided to a woman born in the dust.

Hera invited the entire city of Argos to the wedding, as well as half of Olympus.

Thankfully, an enormous war had just broken out, so Ares and his sons declined the invitation.

Aphrodite was apparently busy with a massive love affair, and also declined.

But Zeus showed up.

And so did Poseidon.

And so did Hestia.

And so did Demeter.

Katápsychros had never been so nervous in his entire life.

Chrysafénios wore a dress and jewelry fit for a queen.

Dineuō was arrayed as a king.

Hera conducted the ceremony, and, in spite of the fact that she mentioned Aetos at least six times, Zeus somehow failed to work out who Aetos was or why his wife was so fixated on him.

Nectar and ambrosia were served, much to the delight of Volí.

Dionysus turned up after the ceremony was over and brought free wine, which delighted Voli even more. Unfortunately, he also brought his Bacchae with him. By the end of the wedding festivities, the entire hall was completely trashed.

And Epíklopos made a small fortune from pickpocketing the guests from Argos.

After the wedding was over, Dineuō refused to speak to anyone but Chrysafénios for a month. The massive crowds and drunken revelry had completely overwhelmed him.

Katápsychros had never wanted honor or notoriety. Only money.

Now he had all three, and could only hope that no more deities decided to involve themselves with his life or his sister.