Torn Apart

They Will Come For You

There is a rip hanging just a few feet from you, widening to reveal a lush garden view at midday. Memories slide into place as she steps through the gateway, impressions of the goddess called to the forefront by association. Her form is human, but the air hangs thick with power and her first step is accompanied by lengths of jasmine creepers running out and away from her toes. Her lip lifts in disgust, and the creepers collect themselves quite suddenly into orderly, upright pillars. The long grass, refreshed at her presence, curl tips in on themselves until they are uniform height.

She is not mortal flesh. Even you are still mortal flesh, though granted power beyond your wildest dreams. She smells of clay and decomposed leaves and rich, riverbank mud. A maelstrom of rich, nourishing earth churning and tossing within the invisible confines that give her form its human shape.

You deviate for a moment, scanning those present. The ghost is already gone. Good. She must not see him enter the locket.

You bring your eyes back to find her studying you. Her eyes are carved stone, the only unmoving pieces in her. The goddess Demeter weighs you. You must kneel.

You bend forward and nearly fall on your face. You are missing a limb and have forgotten to compensate. You struggle to adjust, keeping your muzzle on the ground as you bend.

"You seem different, my pet." Her gaze doesn't falter. She speaks to you before she even looks at the siren she has spent centuries punishing. Explain!

Lie? No. We are already lying, too much and she will find us out. Give it a touch of truth and she may be fooled.

You grimace, offering an apologetic whine. "A miscalculation. I took myself a puppet, but now I cannot leave."

"A puppet with a damaged body."

Wag your tail in acknowledgment. As the original body is damaged, you will be unable to form a new limb. The memory of the injury is carved too deeply in the mind. "But it is mine now. The Puppet himself is no more." A deadbeat comes on command, disconnecting the metal prosthetic and carrying it off. It will only distract you.

"I see. And how does the herd fare under your watch?"

You cringe, grovelling belly to ground. "They ended themselves in the confusion this Puppet caused. They are no more."

"I see." Her gaze finally turns, and you breathe easier. She seems to accept what you say and is unconcerned. Now she approaches Teles.

Teles lies facedown in the mound of feathers, her body trembling as the goddess' feet come to the edge of the pile. "Teles," the voice is soft as wind over grain. "Teles, where is my daughter?"

Teles' fingers curl into her palms and you smell blood, but she is silent.

"Teles, have you seen my child?" Demeter asks, bending ever so slightly at the waist. It is a motion of dominance, not deference.

Teles gives a low moan, but does not speak.

"Teles, my only daughter is missing." Demeter crouches, laying a hand on the back of the siren's neck, running her hand over Teles' back in a soothing gesture. "Find her, bring her back to me."

The pile of feathers shifts as Teles' shaking increases. Fear stabs the air with its scent.

And Demeter stands, dragging Teles up off the ground by her hair. Her voice does not raise as she asks, "And what did you tell me, Teles? 'I do not know. I searched everywhere, but she is nowhere to be found.' "