Page 45 of Torn

In the Peaks, refreshment is initially savored in silence. They maintain tradition by mutely draining portions of their lemonade. It’s a companionable lull, which grates on Anger.

He’s missed this. He’s enjoying this.

Like Fates does he want to get attached to this.

Not long after, Envy encourages Merry’s chatter. “Wonder, our veritable grapevine, has shared a fascinating tidbit. Another reason we had to satisfy our curiosity. Is it true that you had first dibs on the title of Love?”

In so many words—really,so manywords—Merry narrates her existence as a failed goddess. In turn, they answer her questions about the Peaks, about serving the mortal realm, which Merry bluntly dubs controlling rather than serving.

None of Anger’s classmates balk at the offense, like they once would have.

After that, the archers recount what’s happened since life, as they’d known it, went straight to plebeian hell. Ever since the Court demoted their class from elite to second rate, and ever since Anger’s banishment, word of Love’s rebellion—her attachment to a mortal and demise as a deity—had spread. Most had condemned this weakness, once they’d actually accepted the tale as gospel.

A mortal having the power to see deities?

An immortal falling in love with that very human?

For a deity to fall in love at all? Implausible.

Deities expel passions the same way they exert power. Selfishly and with detachment, with hierarchy and standards. The heart has no place in mating.

However, as the first successfully born deity of that intricate emotion, Love had been an exception to the rules.

It had taken a while for residents of the Peaks to process what had happened to her. The remainder of her class—Anger, Envy, Sorrow, and Wonder—became a laughingstock. The consensus: As Love’s peers, they’d become just as mottled with sentiment, since they hadn’t been able to leash her.

Not even Anger, the class leader, had contained Love. Instead, he’d let his own prominent feelings get the better of him. The reputable side of him.

Contempt had been the immediate order of the day. And ever since.

But some of the deities have grown interested in Love’s tale. True to form, the novelty is attractive. So there’s been whispers, which have multiplied covertly and reached the ears of Anger’s class, who’ve wisely remained quiet, redeeming themselves in the Court’s eyes. They’ve been keeping to themselves while debating silently, consulting their inner turmoil, their points of view broadening.

A seed of doubt has been planted. It has leaked from their home to the Celestial City, influencing Merry and her exiled neighbors. So even now, even as a newfangled human, Love remains an influencer.

An equilibrium between fate and free will.

That’s what she had argued for prior to losing her memory. That’s what she’d asked her class to consider. That’s what she’d hoped for the future.

Those pipe dreams hadn’t convinced Anger. Love had been unreliable, impressionable, and impaired by sentimentality. He hadn’t bought one asinine word, no matter the incandescence of her face when she’d spouted those foolish notions.

The Fates reign over humanity. That’s how it’s always been, how it always will be. Erratic, frail humans can’t be trusted with their own emotions, much less their choices.

Love hadn’t understood that. She’d been blinded by adoration for a lesser being who possessed white hair and a limp. Her wayward convictions hadn’t been Anger’s priority.

It still isn’t. He’s done enough for Love, not nearly the same amount for himself.

Sorrow plops her empty glass on the tray. “Forget the pleasantries.” With a razor-cut arm, she indicates Anger and Merry. “You two look like trash. Is this what becomes of strays? Because if it is, it’s a dismal sight.”

Anger opens his mouth just as Merry blurts, “The Fate Court attacked us.”

Wonder’s eyes pop open, meditation forfeit. Envy spits out the lemonade, spritzing his tweed trousers. Sorrow groans in distress.

The announcement causes a riot, questions overlapping so that it’s impossible to get a word in. A muscle ticks in Anger’s jaw. He drums his fingers on his hip, quelling his impatience while Merry rehashes the events, omitting their game of getting to know one another.

No, Merry doesn’t know why the rulers showed up.

No, Anger doesn’t know, either.

Yes, he’s lying. And yes, they buy it. And yes, he wishes they knew him better, knew him enough to detect the falsehood.

---