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Her shaky voice reaches Envy’s ribs, robbing him of breath. “There’s p-pain that’s essential, because it makes us who we are, and it strengthens us. But there’s also pain that just h-hurts like fuck and kills you, in body or spirit or both. I f-felt every chip and crater inside him.”

Tears collect on her lids, but she sniffles harshly, refusing to shed them. “You don’t want to know that side of pain, Envy. I only s-sampled a fraction of it, but if we fight, we might…it might…That’s not a p-pain I’d wish on anyone.” She grunts, wiping those unshed tears with the back of her arm. “Whatever. It’s selfish of me to wallow in their suffering, as if I have a right to claim it as my own.”

“There’s a disparity between selfishness and compassion,” Envy intones. “Just ask Compassion.”

Sorrow’s wobbly lips quirk. “We’re not supposed to be talking about my history with pain. I’m supposed to be helping you find yours.”

Envy cups her cheek. “I think you just did.”

She wavers, resisting his pull. “I don’t…I don’t know how to…”

“Now, now. Come on, relax those arms,” he says over her grousing, then demonstrates. “Like this. Come now, you can do it.”

She surrenders, allowing him to sidle her closer and weave their fingers together. Their bunched hands rest in the space between them, and their foreheads press together. They stay like that, inhaling, exhaling.

Envy hears the bass strum of anguish and registers the abrasion of despair. He wants to wrap her in cotton, a soothing textile that he’s certain she likes.

But then, he realizes. Those sensory hints aren’t coming from her—and that shouldn’t be possible anyway. Not between deities.

No. Those traces are coming from him.

This hurts, because he can’t relate to her past. This hurts, because he doesn’t know how to make it better for her. This hurts, because it just does.

Envy glances down to where his thumb strokes the cuts up her inner arms. When did he start doing that? When did he roll up her sleeve?

He doesn’t care to acknowledge this, and she keeps her comments to herself. They sink awkwardly onto the moss, adjusting to the rarity of her head pillowed on his chest, his palm on her hip.

Sorrow speaks in a hushed voice. “Some pain, like in those wars? It’s about loss. I can’t show you the agony of that. First, we’d have to care about something more than ourselves, to have a chance of understanding. That’s what my Guide taught me, and that’s what I’ve seen in my targets. The paradox is that I can’t relate fully. I have the power, and I’ve exercised the crap out of that power, yet I can’t relate. What kind of deity does that make me?”

“A raw one,” Envy says, combing through her hair. “Like the rest of us. We may embody our root emotions, but I doubt any of us have felt the brunt until recently. Love never loved until she met Andrew. I would bet that Anger never internalized his short fuse until it became personal with Merry. And I’m pretty certain Wonder never marveled at the universe more than when she’d encountered the demon we call Malice.”

“And you?”

“Drag your hand any lower, and I’ll be damned if I’m able to answer.”

Sorrow freezes, her digits having made a roundtrip from his sternum to his navel. That she hadn’t known what she was doing becomes indisputable as her fingers recoil, fleeing into the cove of her neck. “Sorry,” she mutters.

He’s not. At least, not until he comes to his senses. “I’ve been nipped by the envy bug several times. To cope, I sulk until I get my way or steer the advantage back in my direction. Comparing myself to others is a natural inclination, I’m afraid, but it’s never driven me to do things that mortals have in the name of jealousy.”

“Do you think you should?”

“According to mortal tales, the gods were viciously prone to grudges, bitterness, and resentment. But the reality of us? Fates if I know.”

“We’re self-aware and completely clueless, aren’t we?”

“If so, perhaps both go hand-in-hand.”

They swap tales of the people they’ve targeted, the ones they’ve struck to either infuse with or alleviate from sadness and jealousy. Sorrow puts him to shame as she lists the jails, hospitals, battlegrounds, graveyards, morgues, orphanages, homeless encampments, group counseling sessions, bathroom stalls, and, yes, drunken parties, in which she has aimed ice arrows at her quarries. People fraught with loneliness, bereavement, hopelessness, and failure.

Whereas Envy has made the rounds in bars, competitions, games, marathons, ceremonies, classrooms, offices, and weddings. People doused in combinations of frustration, prejudice, petulance, rivalry, or lust.

Mortal holidays tend to swamp them both.

As they talk, Envy belatedly realizes that Sorrow’s aversion to this war, as it harkens to her past experiences, should be a reason to accept the legend between Envy and her. It’s the lesser of the two evils.

She must know this, but perhaps she’s too scared to choose. Or she’s too selfish.

That makes two of them.