“Solaris?”

Sala inched closer to the deity, who reclined against the tree. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, knowing that something profound had occurred in the wake of this half-god.

“Am I weak?” muttered the god to the goddess, who stood beside him.

“You are not weak. Rather, you’re wounded,” Sala sighed. She reached out to comfort the god, but his eyes were all too different. She shivered under their storminess, recognizing that this god was a little more than just ‘half’.

“What’s the difference, Sala?” He snapped, returning his head to its resting place against the bark of the tree.

“Wounds can heal, and strength is in the ability to transform. If you can heal your wounds and confront them, then you are not weak. If you allow your wounds to fester, you will weaken.”

“These wounds hurt, Sala, more than other wounds I’ve had.”

“That’s what it seems like at first because we can only see them through pain. A doctor will look at his patient and administer a cure because he does not actively feel the pain, save through his sympathy.”

“Are you the doctor, Sala?”

Sala stiffened at the dark tone underneath the god’s voice. His eyes had only grown stormier, with a deepness to them that belied the otherwise expressionless god. He narrowed his eyes at her change, turning away from her hand and standing up. He dusted himself off and sneered over his shoulder at the goddess. Eventually, he left, and the sun seemed so much darker in its setting. Sala folded her hands as she watched the god leave. She shivered, knowing well that this would only escalate.

“All is one, even you in your darkness,” she said shakily, trying to calm the beating of her heart.

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“My Lord,” greeted Mere, the Lord of the Kingdom of Fire, as he entered Solaris’s study. Dhena had immediately taken to Sala, with whom she sat in the garden, plaiting pomegranate flowers with a red thread from her dress. Sala seemed worse for wear, looking at the goddess next to her in thought.

“Please sit,” slurred Solaris with a wave of his hand. The snake bracelet he had worn that evening jingled on his wrist, flashing the light. Mere frowned at the sudden disposition of the god but complied regardless. There was a hierarchy, and Mere was taught to respect it by his wife, but he knew when to fight and when not to fight.

“You have come up for a mission,” continued Solaris, turning around to smile gingerly at the god who sat at his desk.

“I would be honored, my lord,” responded Mere, watching the god, who swayed to his desk.

“You will gather your powers. You will look for the Lunar God and bring him here. The use of force is allowed, but only if necessary. I trust you can do this.”

“Noctifer?”

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“Buthios,” corrected Solaris with a chuckle, falling into his chair. He continued with that smile that made Mere shuffle in his seat. He eyed the god’s demeanor.

“Are you alright, my Lord?”

“Do not pry into my affairs, elemental,” snapped Solaris, his smile fading into a darkened expression of annoyance.

“I do not mean to pry, my Lord, but rumo-”

“Rumors mean nothing to me; I am the designated head of the pantheon, and you will do as I say.”

“My Lord, I-”

“Silence,” roared Solaris as he swept the contents of his desk away and grabbed Mere by his collar.

“You will do as I say. I am in control, and you are controlled; am I understood?”

“My Lord, let go,” growled Mere with equal anger to Solaris. His smile returning, Solaris threw the deity back in his chair.

“You have become a snake; do you think you can overcome me so easily?” Solaris cooed as he swayed to the window again, pressing his head against it.

“It was you who became the snake,” Mere said, rising from his chair with grace. He bit down on his tongue, his knuckles white as he held himself back.

“Your will be done, Sol-Maenoles,” was all he said before he left.

Solaris chuckled at the god’s sudden departure, forgetting the tears that streamed down his face. He swiped at them, looking at his reflection in the window pane. He cried aloud and punched the window. It did not budge, but it did enough for him to relieve his anger. He looked down at the stinging flesh, seeing the golden-red blood and the faint marks of bruises. He smiled a sorrowful smile, keeling over as he let out strangled breaths.

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Mere came into the garden in a huff. Dhena looked up first, followed by Sala. The two looked at the muttering god as he came closer to them. Sala, much to her surprise, stood up quickly and held the god’s hand.

“How is he?”

“Your god is mad, beyond himself and his senses,” declared Mere, pulling his hand from Sala’s. He looked to his wife, who still sat down with the pomegranate garland in her hands. He let out a sigh when he met her eyes, seeing the intense power that roared within the goddess.

“He is mad, that is all I can say. I will not turn against him, but he has undone the work of heaven in this madness, and others may see it as an advantage.”

“War is already happening on earth; we can’t have it in heaven,” Sala snapped, her blood boiling with the realization that Mere was right.

“War is rarely chosen, Goddess, but the politics of heaven are as fickle as the mind of your god.”

“He is your god too, Mere,” corrected Dhena, who stood up proudly.

“Not him; he is not Solaris-Soter.”

“What did he say specifically?” Sala and Dhena asked almost simultaneously. Sala’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“He wishes for me to go to the earth and seek Noctifer,” Mere said, shuffling under the wrathful stares of the god. Despite himself, his hand rested on the hilt of his blade.

“You will do this, even if it is to give him peace of mind that he is still in control,” Sala said quietly, sitting down on the bench. Dhena eyed the goddess warily. The way she slumped down onto the bench, the wrathful lines around her eyes—it all seemed as though the goddess had begun to shift before their very eyes. It worried Dhena to no end.

“Give us a moment, Mere,” Dhena said in her characteristic voice, one melodious with sweetness and depth. Mere nodded, leaving the garden to prepare their chariot. Dhena sat down next to the goddess, who seemed so cronelike.

“What do you suppose, Lady Mother?”

“Your husband is right. We cannot deny the possibility of rebellion. The Young Gods have begun betting on the war; they’ll likely do anything to win.”

“And how do you feel?”

“I’m tired. The world moves on, and we are simply conduits of its transformation,” the goddess smiled at Dhena, “whether we like it or not.”

“The wheel turns,” Dhena said, placing a hand on that of the goddess, “and so do we.”

“Deus ex Machina,” chuckled Sala as she patted the hand of her emanated daughter. Dhena was happy to see the goddess laugh. It made their circumstances feel lighter.