Page 91 of Torn

In what universe can they hope to convince the Fates, to persuade their extended peers, much less the Court? Their leaders may be stringent and impervious, arrogant and thirsty for supremacy. True, they’re unjust when it comes to flawlessness, dismissing those who don’t meet those standards. Even truer, he hates what they did to Merry, what their lack of vision has failed to see in her.

They’ve kept their secrets, burying certain skeletons in the Hollow Chamber’s forbidden section, to prevent others from discovering them. But they’d done so with the best of intentions: to safeguard their kind. They’ve made those judgment calls out of protection, however censored.

They’re as imperfect as their so-called inferiors. They misjudge, and sometimes they don’t learn from it.

And what about Wonder? Can Anger excuse what they did to her?

He can’t. He can’t excuse it any more than he can excuse himself. The Fate Court had given the order of torture, which his class had carried out.

Who is right and wrong? Perhaps there is never a simple answer.

The singular clarity is this: No soul is perfect.

Their rulers admit to errors once they’ve recognized them. They hold themselves accountable, rather than point the finger. They believe in inspiration and guidance. They reward bravery.

They do not play mind games with their archers. They do not assume superiority merely because of age.

What they did to Love when she fell for Andrew, was what they’d had to do. They’d believed the Peaks in danger, their existence threatened. By extension, the euthanasia of fate would have meant the demise of humanity. They’d sought to preserve that, to shield destiny, to protect all.

He remembers the smaller things, like the Court members’ own stories. One ruler habitually offers random acts of kindness to their people. Another makes the rounds, singing lullabies to children who have trouble sleeping. And another ruler pens verse. And another paints canvases to combat depression. And another is a self-proclaimed guardian of animals.

Anger knows this, because they don’t hide it. They’ve not hidden themselves from him, once their most loyal archer.

They’re more approximate to mortals than they realize, in spite of their restraint. Their denial of sentiment. Their misunderstanding of love.

What they’ve never comprehended is that love isn’t a drawback. With its complexities and unpredictability, its controversies and intricacies, its flaws and enigmas, it’s the ultimate empowerment. It’s a chief distinction between immortals and mortals. Rather than reduce humans, it gives them a resilience the Fates can’t comprehend or empathize with.

Not until something changes.

Love isn’t the only goddess capable of that emotion. Neither are Anger’s classmates. Perhaps only when deities accept this, only when they understand it, only when they relate to it, will this balance of fate and free will be struck.

So again, how can anyone get the Fates to listen?

What do the stars think? Are they on both sides, looking out for deities and mortals? Do they play a part in this? Or will they leave it up to the Fates and humanity?

Long into the night, Anger and Merry embrace and exchange concerns, possibilities. Everything he knows about immortals, everything she knows about mortals, everything they know about the stars and their mysteries.

How can they approach the Court? How can they spark this change?

What if it doesn’t cement peacefully? What if this makes an enemy of the Fates?

They can’t do this alone. Not without Wonder, Envy, and Sorrow, which is still a paltry number of archers against a mighty number of disbelievers. The Fates will win this battle unless Anger and Merry amass supporters.

He shakes his head. There must be a way beyond war, perhaps an outlet or a bargaining chip, but that might take eons to figure out.

Merry sidles on top of Anger, her nudity splayed around him. “We’ll get creative,” she says, her breath misting across his throat.

He winds his arms around her, pressing her close. “You make it sound easy.”

“I’m making it sound possible. That’s how everything starts.”

She’s right. That’s how it started for Love and Andrew. That’s how it started for him and Merry. One small shift, one unexpected meeting at a time.

Her sparkler eyes cast down, her hair sloping like a curtain. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

His muscles tense, because it’s a statement that he should be making. A confession that he has every responsibility to voice. The legend, his attempt to win back his place. He no longer intends to break her heart and abhors that he ever did.

Setting a finger against her lips, he says, “Then we share a similar burden, because there’s something I need to confess, too.” Before she can reply, he sweeps his lips across hers. “Later.”

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