Let's Kill Caesar

30: Discordia's Golden Apple

Endymion sat there sprawled for at least an hour. But no matter how many times he whispered, "he wouldn't," it didn't erase the seed planted. 

Cicero and Cato sat by his side, eyes flinging messages back and forth. Endymion groaned, shoes slapping against the stone floor as his mind whirled. But maybe you should. That had been Bastian's reply to his friend's diehard promise. Those had been his words. 

He wet his cracked lips and scrunched his toes tight in his shoes. Cicero was keeping her hand pressed firm on his back. Iovita wasn't so warm but he remained at his cousin's side nonetheless. 

Endymion's voice was rusty as he croaked, "Can one of you say something. It can be mean as you want."

Nothing could cut deeper than the gash Bast had torn open. And maybe this wound wasn't new - that was the most comforting notion for the pit in his stomach. Cicero pat him and rose to her feet with a tentative smile. Endymion looked up like a baffled child as she extended a hand. "Let's pray." 

He nodded and took her hand. Cato rose to his feet with Endymion, green eyes fixed on the towering monument of Discordia. 

The trio walked to the brazier before the statue in silence. Sunlight bright as gold had broken through the grey misery. Long elegant shadows spun off Discordia's stola. A strange shudder ran between Endymion's shoulders as he turned his face up. From down here the brightening daylight softened the sharp cuts of the goddess's face. She seemed younger. A sadness hung behind her eyes. From afar all Endymion had seen was anger, malice, strife. Now he saw it clearer. Pain. 

Cicero bowed her head and dug out a lighter. Dry kindling was already in the small brazier, spots of green here and there. No one visits her. Endymion couldn't help the spot of pity deep in his stomach. Even Pluto wasn't this neglected. 

Endymion reached for Cicero's wrist. The blue in his eyes deepened as he croaked, "Can I?"

A smile found it's way to her lips. Alma nodded and handed him the lighter. 

It felt weighty as Endymion flicked it to life and held the small flame to the firewood. A jerk went up through his arm as amber fire consumed the inside of the brazier. He pressed a hand over his heart and breathed in the smoke. Please hear me. I need a god right now.

After a brief moment of silence he turned to Alma expectantly. "What do I say?"

Cicero blinked. "What do you mean?"

Endymion shrugged, cheeks warming. "I don't know her prayers." 

Cato laughed sharply and slapped his cousin's arm. "She doesn't have any Brutus. Do you see any priests to do that crap? If you hadn't noticed we aren't in the Temple of Vesta."

"But...maybe this isn't a good idea."

His lips twisted with anxiety and Endymion wrung his hands. Alma laughed dryly. 

"What would you rather?" She jutted out her chin, eyes flashing with intensity. The woman angled her head, nostrils flaring. "Tell me your plan. Seeing as you've been so responsible with your recent choices." 

He shrugged. Colour bloomed across Endymion's cheeks as he squeaked, "Most senators go to Concordia. If I don't Cassiel will drag me through the mud."

Cicero shook her head, eyes wide as she grabbed his face.  Endymion was ensnared by the iron grip of her eyes. Utterly transfixed as she growled, "Maybe if you scurried to Minerva. But Discordia?"

Cicero smiled, eyes glistening with the keenness of the hero Ulysses. "That's a new game. Who would dare to play with Strife, dare to pray to such a power?"