Transcend

by Natalia Jaster

  Merry waxes poetic about the injury, while Envy squats next to Anger and mock flirts, “Oh, my little archer. You know, I’m an expert at playing nurse.”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that information, other than gag on it,” Sorrow remarks.

  Without sparing her a glance, Envy replies, “I’m sorry. Was I speaking to you? Did I ask for your opinion?”

  “I don’t wait to be asked, in order to give my opinion.”

  Merry pets Anger’s hair. “It’s all right, my love. I’m here in your hour of need.”

  “Same,” Envy quips. “Say the word, and Uncle Envy shall kiss it better. With Merry’s consent, of course.”

  “Ugh. Get away from him.” Sorrow crawls over to the huddle and pushes Envy out of the way. “If I may.”

  Unlike Anger, who’s too busy grunting, Merry takes that as a signal, because she burrows closer to her soul mate, in a gesture of support. Without cautioning the rage god, Sorrow positions his body and pops the shoulder back into its slot. Anger grits his teeth, a bellow grinding from his throat.

  Sorrow wipes her hands. “You’ll live.”

  “You call that proper first-aid?” Envy laments. “What about TLC? Anger, don’t you need TLC?”

  “Go to hell,” Anger snarls.

  “I’ll come to hell with you,” Malice says. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Hey,” Wonder carps, elbowing him.

  “Oops.” Malice kisses her chin, then swings his gaze to Anger. “Apologies, mate. I’ll have to retract that. Can’t leave my goddess any more than you can leave yours.”

  As the pairings cling to one another like plastic wrap, a covetous spike bolts through Sorrow. She peeks through her wet hair, confirming that Envy hasn’t noticed her reaction. That’s one fact to be grateful for.

  The stars flicker, chipping away at the violet sky, which will turn into a hydrangea blue come dawn. That’s how Wonder describes the firmament, by using floral terms to the point where it has rubbed off on their group. She has a compulsive tendency to compare things to flowers. That is, when she concentrates on them long enough, or when her nose isn’t wedged into a reference book, or when she isn’t staring off into the cosmos.

  Or when she isn’t plastering her mouth to Malice’s. Though currently, they’ve got other plans. Her sizable curves fit snuggly into his side, and while he toys with her marigold curls, she closes her eyes and begins to meditate.

  Minutes lapse. The river calms down as the boat passes shrubbery embedded into the cliffside. Although the water’s surface is as slick as grease, their drifting vessel creates quavering creases in the surface that vibrate outward.

  Sorrow wants to submerge her pinky and make the liquid dance. Instead, she catches herself absently checking the stock in her quiver. Not that her cache will suddenly change.

  She’ll always be one ice arrow short.

  When she was a youth, she’d lost it. Precisely where, and when, and how remains a mystery. And since arms aren’t to be taken lightly, deities cannot simply conjure new weapons, not as they can with food or certain inanimate objects. And while Sorrow has accepted the loss, she reassesses her quiver every once in a while, just in case the lost arrow turns up by some miracle.

  Right. As if.

  A weight caresses the side of her face, its shape as narrow as a finger. Her brow crinkles. She glances over her shoulder, to where Envy has resumed leaning indulgently against the pole. For sure, his star was feeling ambitious when it birthed him. The god is solid, built like a monolith despite his douchey outfits.

  The instant she locates him, his head swerves from her toward the bluffs.

  “Damn them,” Love says, breaking the intermission with a stomp of her foot. “They’ll tell the Fate Court.”

  “They’ll order a hunt,” Anger adds.

  “They’ll search high and low, leaving no stone unturned,” Merry sighs.

  “They’ll torture us,” Malice says.

  “They’ll leave scars,” Wonder predicts, her lids still sealed.

  “Or they won’t,” another voice interjects.

  Everyone except Wonder glances at Andrew, who’s rubbing his leg. Immortality aside, his physical tolerance isn’t as strong as the others. The same goes for Malice due to his bygone human roots, prior to him being resurrected as a deity.

  Tilting his head, Andrew considers his next words. “I’ve read plenty of book series”—this deserves so many eye rolls, but nobody indulges—“and in plenty of them, what happens? A dumbass who’s determined to prove himself decides to take matters into his own hands and catch the prey. In fiction, motivations inform every action a character takes.

  “What’s the difference in reality? Probably not much. So who’s to say those archers won’t come after us themselves? Who’s to say they don’t want to impress the Court? Everyone has a story of their own. And everyone considers themselves the heroes of it.”

  That’s not a half-baked idea. Chagrin gets the better of Sorrow.

  Being a fantasy enthusiast, Andrew possesses knowledge of human-fabricated mythology that surpasses Sorrow and her classmates. Maybe it’s because their kind have been too willfully ignorant and arrogant to take the mortally constructed tales seriously. But these days, so much has happened to change their points of view.

  Their band considers Andrew’s theory.

  “There’s no telling what their desires are,” Merry summarizes. “What their hopes and dreams are.”

  Wonder’s eyes open, bright and blossoming. “It could be a loophole made manifest. If they’re the only ones chasing us, they might buy us time to continue with the plan.”

  “Or this could be a different means to the same end,” Anger counters, massaging his shoulder. “The Fate Court will eventually know we’re here.”

  “Did anyone leave anything behind?” Envy questions.

  Anything that will confirm who they are? As though those archers don’t already know?

  Sorrow had left her clothes at the pond. Since she isn’t famous for her style, that’s neither here nor there.

  As for anything else? Nope. The blinking eyes and blank expressions suggest as much. Before the attack, everyone had the presence of mind to grab whatever would identify them, a precaution before arming themselves.

  Merry had brought her skateboard. Andrew had brought a notebook. Malice had brought his mouth.

  Thus, all possessions are accounted for.

  Anger announces that they’ll have to draft a contingency plan, since their original route has been diverted. They’d devised an alternative before arriving in the Peaks, but that’s being second-guessed, too. Meaning, they need a Plan C.

  As the boat licks across the sea, their group recedes into thought. Andrew’s fingers twitch. Malice notices and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, fishing out Andrew’s notebook and pen. Malice must have been carrying those items since Andrew’s black, high-collared jacket lacks secure pockets of its own.

  Leaning over, Malice chucks the supplies on to Andrew’s lap.

  “Thanks,” Andrew says.

  “Don’t mention it,” Malice says.

  It’s impressive that they’ve become friends. Being humans in their previous lives has forged a sort of bond between them. That, and their respect for the written word.

  Andrew jots notes, his face a mask of boyish seriousness. Love interrupts. She grabs the quill and writes a message to him, to which he smiles, plucks the pen from her fingers, and scribbles his reply.

  They continue doing this while Wonder and Malice murmur theories to one another, citing research texts under their breaths.

  Wrapped around each other, Anger and Merry doze, her skateboard resting beside them.

  Their band’s various scrapes and contusions will fade eventually, quicker than a mortal’s wounds. Those arrows hadn’t been able to produce gashes, but they could have been disabling. Consequently, sometimes a blow is vigorous enough to snap a neck or a spine. Sometimes the
damage is permanent.

  Sorrow inspects the razor cut scars stacked up her arms. Like the scars on Wonder’s hands, the markings will never go away, because they’d been too gravelly delivered.

  Envy fusses over his sodden shirt, pouting when he fails to remove a grass stain. What a fucking baby. He could just conjure new clothes, if he’s dissatisfied with imperfection.

  “See anything you like but can’t have?” he mutters, the inquiry hitting Sorrow between the eyes.

  Checking to make sure their comrades aren’t listening, she shrugs. “I see plenty I’ve had but didn’t like.”

  Like a true god, Envy gives an uppity sniff. Disregarding the outfit with a careless sigh, he twists toward the pole and steers the boat through a slit in the cliffs. The edifices glisten with dew and fuchsia vines that crawl up the facades.

  Sorrow goes back to blissfully ignoring him, though she has the urge to sink her teeth into something.

  She knows this emotion. It’s anger. It has to be.

  Because it can’t be sadness. Or worse, pain.

  Of all people, she knows the difference.

  4

  Envy

  The God of Envy likes three things, and only three things: males, females, and fucking. The order or combination is irrelevant. He’s done and seen it all.

  Or Envy once thought he had, until he’d stumbled into uncharted, indecent, raunchy territory with a goddess trussed up in grim-reaper black, her hair and lips tainted by a melancholy jewel shade.

  Envy has never liked the latter color. Condemnation, it’s the hardest one for any soul to pull off well.

  Anyway, he hasn’t been able to explain himself since the clutter of Sorrow entered his personal bubble. She may be one-fifth of the most elite class of archers in history—along with Love, Anger, Envy, and Wonder—yet that hardly exonerates her gritty attitude, her ill-considered fashion choices, or her repugnance for the pleasures of life. Stars above, he’s never even seen her savor a glass of bubbly.

  After every orgasm, she’d mope afterward. To this day, Envy finds the notion offensive. There must be something wrong with her libido, because her fornicator’s remorse sure as shit isn’t his fault.

  In any event, she’s Sorrow…Sorrow. Neither her roots, nor her former status, excuse Envy for degrading himself with her. He had tumbled off his high horse, and he’d fucking liked his high horse.

  Fates forbid. He’d pounded her. Numerous times, in numerous ways, with numerous results.

  Standing at the nexus of the boat, he sniffs audibly, though no one notices, which miffs him. But oh, so be it. There’s no reason to get upset. None whatsoever. He might not have the adaptability of Andrew, but thankfully, Envy lacks the short fuse of Anger and Malice. Frown lines on a pretty face are a travesty.

  A pair of shimmering bluffs rises on either side of the boat as it floats down a slot in the middle. Vegetation crusts the formations, trimming them in filigrees of fuchsia. When the canal forks, Envy twists the pole and steers it down the southern passage, beyond which a summit rises, its range puckering toward the constellations.

  It’s refreshing to navigate these arteries again. As a youth in the Peaks, and during his intermissions from the mortal realm, he spent his free time enjoying the waterbodies of this land, learning every surreptitious route and shortcut.

  One watery enclave in particular.

  To get there, he’d cruise a boat similar to this one, albeit slimmer and smaller.

  Whereas Anger prefers the shallow, confined fluxes of mineral caves in order to mellow his temperamental fits, Envy prefers deeper ones. No, it’s not his passion. He simply appreciates the water, as he appreciates a fine suit and other indulgences, such as the exquisite sweetness of a ripe fruit, or the sight of a comely face, so long as it isn’t more handsome than his.

  He enjoys living, especially living forever. It has its perks.

  Fine, then. He might like more than three things.

  “Someone tell Narcissus that we’d like to know where he’s taking us,” Sorrow says.

  “You think I’m Narcissus?” Envy makes an inflated sound. “I’m appalled. That fictitious, mortal concoction doesn’t hold a candle to me. At least compare me to the weaving queen, Athena, for textile reasons.”

  “I’ve heard only the most distinguished archers are compared to Greek myths, because those deities are an inspiration,” Merry interjects, glancing between them with a hopeful—pointless—beam. “I’ve heard it’s a great compliment to bestow.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Anger says with knowing fondness.

  “No, I didn’t,” Merry confirms dolefully, sagging into him.

  Love grimaces. “If anyone were to call me Eros, I’d skewer them.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Andrew tells her. “You’re subverting the myth with your badassery. Goddesses in those tales didn’t have much autonomy. They were tools to further the hero’s journey.”

  “I’d rather be Love. Not someone else.”

  A cute grin slides across Andrew’s face. “I’ve got no problem with that, either.”

  “Please don’t start necking,” Sorrow groans. “We’re running for our lives, and anyway, I’m sitting right here. Furthermore, it’s bad luck in this land.”

  Shortly following her birth, Merry was ostracized from the Peaks. She hasn’t returned until now and looks quite panicked. “You mean expressing our devotion to our soul mates is banned here?”

  “She’s lying, dearest,” Wonder reassures her. “It’s a ruse to discourage public displays while in her company.”

  “Christ. So the hell what? Why would we care if it were forbidden?” Malice asks. “What are they going to do? Banish us?” He taps his chin in mock thought. “Oh, wait. They’ve already done that—”

  Wonder grabs Malice’s face and pries his lips open with her own, the pair lunging into an impressively subterranean kiss that shuts him up. The goddess pulls away with a contented sigh, elated by the glazed look on his face. She adjusts the wildflower corsage around her wrist, then pats the lavender tulle of Merry’s dress. “There, you see? Show all the devotion you want.”

  Anger tugs Merry closer to him. “Gladly. Once we’re out of harm’s way.”

  “Then you’ll be waiting a long time, mate,” Malice counters, all husky.

  “Define ‘long’ in deity terms,” Andrew prompts.

  Everybody contemplates, returning to the matter at hand. Very well, considering Sorrow’s request to know where they’re headed is fair enough.

  The original plan had been set into motion when they trespassed into the Peaks from the mortal realm. Or actually, it started earlier. In just a handful of years, so much has transpired. For this trio of couples—Love and Andrew, Anger and Merry, Wonder and Malice—it’s a long, complicated, interconnected story across the board, but ultimately, they have each proven that deities can feel love.

  While their kind consider such sentimentality an insult and a weakness, Envy’s peers beg to differ. They would say that love has strengthened them. Their romantic tales have led to this crusade, the fight for a balance between fate and free will, an equality between deities and humanity. They’ve been gathering allies in the Celestial City—the human metropolis where immortal outcasts dwell—in addition to the ones who’d revolted from the Peaks after being inspired by each star-crossed story.

  The plan had been for their rebel band to trespass into the Peaks and prepare for conflict. Even with their comrades on standby in the mortal realm, ready to journey here upon the first call, they’re still outnumbered in this land. Nevertheless, they’d chosen a location that will grant them an upper hand for battle.

  This is assuming Envy and Sorrow are too selfish to play their parts in this quest.

  Ah, yes. That’s the only condition Envy protests.

  Not long ago, Wonder and Malice uncovered a means to defeating the Fates: a legend. And one that has an awful sense of humor.

  If two deities can choose love over lust,
they’ll become a force of influence, along with those closest to them.

  Because several prior legends have played roles in uniting the three couples present, this band has concluded that Envy and Sorrow are the remaining match. If they become something real to each other, it shall be the final stamp, confirming that all deities are loving beings. Thus, their people will change, will think differently. They will recognize that they’re more like humans than previously assumed, that they’re equals who deserve a fairer balance of power.

  Hence, the equilibrium between fate and free will.

  It’s the last solution Envy had expected. And the very last one he supports.

  What do he and Sorrow have in common, other than genital compatibility?

  Sorrow had been the first to concur with him. Since they can’t be forced to feel things they don’t—yes, they’re aware of the irony—this band has had to cobble together an alternative plan.

  Cue this excursion, which has gone awry.

  Envy’s breath seeps into the breeze, the air speckled with motes that fascinate Andrew. “Even the air smells different here,” he murmurs to Love. “And the texture, the pigments, the light.”

  “Dust in this realm has the iridescence of gemstones,” she tells him. “Try and catch one with your tongue, and it will taste like a fresh snowflake.”

  They share private smiles, wrapped up in a distant memory. Meanwhile, Anger grins at the marveled expression on Merry’s profile, since she’s never had the luxury of living here.

  “This place must be a stunner to someone who grew up thinking magic existed only in books,” Sorrow says.

  “It’s freakin’ mesmerizing,” Andrew exclaims. “Or, it kinda is.”

  “Kinda?” his audience of seven parrots, making him laugh.

  “Kinda. But I mean, magic is everywhere,” he insists. “In my world, in your world. They’re just different colors of magic, with different shapes.”

  Envy’s flummoxed, but Sorrow nods like she understands better than he does, like he’s ignorant of the point. He bristles. What exactly does she understand?