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Merry

Two of the five members manifest, adding to the diorama of immortals occupying the vault. The figure who’d spoken is a goddess with dark skin, her iridescent, astral-woven gown as luminous as Neptune. Her accomplice is a god with a hawkish nose and an avalanche of hair to his waist, a separate pair of braids swinging like ropes within the mane.

It’s the same duo who had pursued Merry and Anger in the carnival arena. The ones who vacated their thrones, on a mission to either apprehend or kill. Only these celestial monarchs can say what their endgame had been.

It’s odd to feel both dazzled and outraged by these rulers, to experience melancholy and rebellion in equal measure. Residual hurt surfaces like a scent from a bygone era, something long forgotten yet easily remembered once it reappears. Regardless, Merry stands tall, refusing to wilt. There was a time when she would have knelt and waxed poetic, back when she was first cast aside. But not anymore.

The same can be said for Anger, more so given the history between him and these sovereigns. But instead of prostrating himself, the rage god glares and shifts closer to Merry, protective without denigrating her ability to defend herself.

The rulers observe the archers, along with the remnants of their conflict. Malice, bloody and leering from his imprisonment on the floor, his reclined position the picture of indulgent madness despite his injuries. He’d defied The Fate Court by exploiting a legend and conspiring with Anger to reclaim their places in The Dark Fates, intending to back their sovereigns into a corner by undermining them. To hinder any suspicion toward himself, Malice then fanned the flames against Merry, steering The Court’s wrath in her direction.

Moreover, Malice had attempted to murder the former Goddess of Love, an offense regardless of her mortality. Humanity aside, the goddess is theirs to contend with, not a pawn for the demon’s sport. But that he planted rotten seeds from the onset, thus instigating this turn of events, only draws an indolent smirk across his mouth. That his sovereigns can rip him apart for the indiscretion doesn’t faze him.

The Court transfers their animosity to Wonder, who has deserted her post in the human realm, in favor of assisting outcasts. In their eyes, she hasn’t learned from her previous crimes, irrespective of the scars. Because here she is again, dabbling with the forbidden.

There’s Merry, untrained and unwanted. According to them, she’s a lackluster star, a loss of potential. Yet according to herself, she’s an exile who has made a life in this city, forged her own weapon on wheels, and built a community. She has left humans in peace. She identifies with them more than this ignorant court. She has rallied supporters of free will. And she outmaneuvered these rulers during a violent chase.

Finally, there’s Anger. In their limited estimation, he’s a renowned disappointment.

Silence engulfs the vault. A dozen unspoken motives linger in the air. Some are easily interpreted, others cloaked in shadows, locked within the shell of each occupant’s mind.

Although these sovereigns can eviscerate them without blinking, they won’t tonight. This is a parley, the preliminary to becoming enemies. They had invaded that dreamy night in the carnival, but likely that was a tactical attempt devised in advance. The motorcycle chase must have been intended as a swift resolution to an isolated problem, whereas The Court won’t lower themselves to an expanded, long-term conflict devoid of terms.

“This show of defiance looks familiar,” the iridescent goddess observes. “Except half of the players are different, the other half sadly recognizable.”

The god with braids sneers at Anger, “Based on your surveillance of the former Goddess of Love over this past year, you have proven yourself to be more nostalgic than we foresaw. However, this is taking the obsession a bit too far. What?” he asks, noting Anger’s inflammatory glare. “You didn’t think we would keep an eye on your fetish? We may have lost our most promising goddess to mortality, but twelve months is scarcely time to be sure she wouldn’t regain her memory or sight, either by some trick of The Stars or an existential misstep. We weren’t about to leave that to chance.

“The Stars keep infinite legends hidden. Of course we would periodically monitor her until we deemed it safe, until certain she would remain human. So yes, we’ve known about your activities—,” the ruler glances at Merry, “—until recently.”

Merry lifts her head. As if to prove them right, Anger threads his fingers with hers, unashamed and without repentance.

Nonetheless, their rulers’ speech proves one other thing. Despite their surveillance, The Court doesn’t know about Iris and Andrew’s attempts to regain their memories, the details of her mythical heritage. The lovers must have prepared themselves prior to their transformation, having anticipated The Court would keep tabs on them.

Merry withholds a grin. Those two are a clever pair indeed.

“Notwithstanding your latest conquest, we’ve trailed our former goddess back to you,” the female monarch intones to Anger. “How else do you think we knew to come here? Moreover, your scrimmage rang quite loudly across realms.”

Rancor cuts from his tongue. “I didn’t lure her to this city.”

“In a manner of speaking, you did. Malice has always been a crooked soul, but it was you who compelled us, through yet another skirmish in which you’ve forsaken your origins. Like Wonder, you haven’t learned from the last time we disciplined you. I marvel at where rebellion will oblige us in the future. Who knows what other fruitless lore your clan might excavate. Other signs within The Stars, perhaps?”

Malice and Wonder speak at the same time.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Such as?” she blurts.

The deities swap irritated glances, but the rulers intervene, the braided god addressing Wonder. “You and Malice share a common interest for The Archives. Malice was exiled because he overstayed his welcome. He dug too deeply for fossils, meddling where he didn’t belong, searching for secrets he had no right to obtain.”

“No right to obtain,” Malice repeats dubiously.

Merry’s head slants. First, mentioning how loud the battle had been explains how The Court uncovered Malice’s deception and the legends. They hadn’t been here to witness the quagmire, but they must have eavesdropped from their celestial thrones. Blessedly, this also means they have no idea about Anger’s wings since they weren’t here to witness that part.

And as far as the ceiling destruction, well. Combat makes a mess. Rationally, The Court has chalked it up to that.

The clincher is why Malice hasn’t said anything about the wings. True, the point of melting them had been to erase the proof. But still, the demon’s silence can only involve an ulterior motive.

Speaking of which, The Court’s hint lingers like a bad aftertaste. Before his banishment, what other texts had the demon been looking for? What information would he covet badly enough to risk exile?

“The difference between you and Wonder?” the braided ruler continues to Malice. “You were stupid enough to get caught.”

“But smart enough to remember what I found out,” the demon gloats.

This earns him a contemptuous look. “Thus, tempting Anger into action while you sat back and loafed. That said, you were enterprising enough to slander Merry, convincing us she was the only anarchist, her intentions mercenary rather than pacifistic. When in reality, your destinations are unanimous. Despite your differing agendas, they each require infiltrating The Dark Fates.”

“Malice is a fucking scorpion, but he never forced me to do anything. I make my own choices,” Anger snarls.

“Breaking a heart to break your banishment. How presumptuous, entitled, and ambitious of you.”

“Funny. You make me sound like a god.”

Malice snorts. The monarchs slit their eyes between him and Anger.

The braided god returns to Wonder. “As for you, we should’ve known better. You claimed that our love goddess ascertained how to become human on her own, that she trespassed into The Hollow Chamber’s forbidden aisles and made the discovery herself. Yet here you are, a frequent patron of the Chamber. Therefore, let us guess. If Malice is the pest who approached Anger, you’re the instigator who rallied Merry.”

“I made her tell me,” Merry fibs. “I wouldn’t rest until she did.”

The rulers appraise her, from the lavender dress, to the fishnet gloves, to her hands entwined with Anger’s.

“How we remember you,” the iridescent goddess condescends. “A spectacular failure, birthed from a defective star. To deprive the human world of a love goddess, whom we had such hopes for. To dispose of her aggrieved us more than it did you. Mortals need us in every capacity, but you were not sufficient; thus, reclaiming your place would have solved nothing. To assume it’s that elementary, that you can master the skills and weather the training when both require inherent proficiency?” Her gaze rakes over Merry, not with scorn but pity. “Being born as a goddess doesn’t make you a goddess. You were smeared in overt sentimentality from the moment we first beheld you, a fault that hasn’t altered. At least our former success, with all her penchants for touch, showed a measure of resilience to affection.”

“So you thought,” Merry rebukes. “She was just better at hiding it.”

There’s a squint of disapproval. “You will never be good enough.”

Anger snarls, but she compresses his hand to subdue him. “Woe is me,” she pretends to lament. “I hate to break it to you, but you’ve misinterpreted. I don’t want my original power back. I don’t want to wield love. And I don’t want to be good enough for you. I want to be good enough for myself. I want to be good enough for humanity. And I want all outcasts to be good enough for The Dark Fates.”

“Insolent creature. Forget the offense of mobilizing inferior exiles back into our world, but an expelled goddess speaking on behalf of a mortal society she doesn’t belong to. Of all the conceit!”

“I suppose that makes me a true deity.”

That provokes another scathing look from the monarch, who’s maybe a little impressed by Merry’s nerve. “Such gross empathy is what makes you a poor candidate to oversee mortals.”

“I’ve lived among them.”

“You’ve lived in proximity to them.”

“Do you hear yourself? That’s true for all of us. And yes, especially exiles, which is why Malice wasn’t entirely wrong about me. Free will is—”

The male ruler delivers an elegant groan. “This again.”

“Free will is an illusion,” the iridescent goddess persists, her astral gown swishing as she glides closer. “Without destiny, humans would condemn themselves. What’s more, there is bliss and strength—there is autonomy in relinquishing control. There is courage in that.”

“That’s a poor excuse,” Merry scoffs. “Humans don’t know they’re relinquishing anything. Even if they did, there’s courage in having a choice, and there’s courage in giving someone a choice. So maybe you should take your own advice.”

“Given free reign, misguided emotions lead to misguided acts. Mortals would extinguish themselves. They do not choose or act perfectly.”

“Neither do immortals,” Malice drawls.

The braided god sighs. With a single step and a decisive swipe of his arm, his knuckles slam into the side of Malice’s face, the blow causing the demon’s head to rocket sideways.

Features constricting, Wonder jolts forward on reflex. Then she stops herself.

“Indeed, not all of us,” the male agrees. “Which is why you’ve been placed here.”

Malice gives a humorless laugh and speaks around a mouthful of crimson. “Real cute, but sweeping shit under the rug doesn’t make a house clean. You can dispose of us like hazardous waste for being imperfect; it doesn’t prove the leftovers of your world are nice and tidy.” He grins like a prick. “It only means you’re a lazy housekeeper.”

“Why don’t you stuff his mouth with barbed wire?” the braided god suggests to Anger.

“Really?” Malice rolls his eyes. “Barbed wire is all my witty comebacks are worth? Now that’s just tacky.”

“To gag this shithead, I’d also have to disagree with his point,” Anger bristles.

The ruler frowns. “Then you’ve changed beyond redemption.”

“It’s my choice to change. We have minds. We have voices. Those prerogatives are power—the liberty to influence our destinies. If I’m not mistaken, humans are capable of the same agency. That makes us equal.”

“You would spurn fate.”

“I would redefine fate.”

Merry and Wonder align themselves with him. They’ll show the enemy that a balance can be struck, that perfection is an illusion, that love can be felt by all beings, that it’s a strength rather than a weakness, and that all deities have value rather than a precious few. Somehow, they’ll prove it or perish in the attempt.

“Then we’re at an impasse,” the iridescent goddess maintains. “You will need to enlist a great many of our kind, to stand a chance of disarming us. If you wish to continue on this path, so be it. Enjoy your banishments and your extracurricular conflicts.” For emphasis, she directs a mildly repulsed look at Malice. “If you manage to tame the wild beasts, we shall see what your crusade accomplishes while outnumbered, outarmed, and outsourced.”

Like threads of moonlight, they evanesce.

“Well, hell. That was classy,” Malice compliments.

“That was tradition,” Wonder corrects.

“That was The Court,” Anger remarks.

“And that’s why they’ll lose,” Merry declares.

Every head swerves toward her. The demon god is the first to protest. “And you call me delusional.”

“We call you a prisoner,” Wonder snaps.

To which, he slithers his tongue over those bloody teeth. “Huh. That a kink of yours, Wildflower? You like to play captor to the villain?”

“Keep your foul mouth shut .”

“Not an answer. In which case, I’m bored.” Henceforth, Malice ignores her, favoring Merry and Anger instead. “Planning to combat the enemy, although you can barely handle your own soap opera without fucking up. You botched not one but two legends.”

Merry clenches Anger’s fingers. “Who says we failed?”

Thanks to Malice’s big mouth, the truth dawns like a sunrise. Merry swivels toward Anger, their eyes meeting, realization surging to the forefront. Surprise cements into understanding, smoothing out the planes of his face.

They slip their arms around one another, holding fast. An aurora of sparks ignites around them, the impact surging through her veins as if in retrograde.

Anger experiences the same phenomenon. A golden sheen brims across his iron weapons, restoring his archery to its former glory. Though, he’s less winded than Merry, having known this sensation for centuries—this power to wield emotions.

“Merry,” he husks.

“Anger,” she says. “They left without asking.”

“Without noticing,” he agrees.

She nods, weaves their hands together, and presses them to her chest. “The Court has their own breed of magic. But they don’t have this .”

Incited by two legends, Anger and Merry had targeted one another’s hearts. Yet they’re equal, for they’ve each succeeded at both.

They broke one another’s hearts. Then they rekindled them.