Atalanta

Part 6

• Y/N •

Each week that passes melts into the next.

Staring out the windows of Dietas, I wonder when I last dared to run free. The days cannot be counted on one hand – nor can they be counted on two, three, four or five. On some days, I do not leave my bed at all. On some days, I do. It all depends on the week, the last race, on whether I can bear to look at myself in the mirror.

I write letters to each family of the dead. They do not write back. Or, if they do – their letters never make it to my door. I assume their responses are unkind, and my parents wish to shield me from harm. Silly of them; I have dealt with far worse in this past year alone. I am the one who murders children, after all; I do not expect to be forgiven for that. But then, it is not truly me who desires their deaths.

It is Artemis. I have tried on several occasions to visit the White Plains of Ore. I have sought that mysterious temple, only to find the space empty, the plains nothing but wheat and endless grain. It seems the temple only appears when it desires to be seen and for whatever reason, I am no longer worthy of the task.

Burying my head in my arms, I inhale shakily and wish the nausea to pass. Lately, this seems to happen more and more. Only this morning, I received a request from my parents to meet with a coming competitor. This is something I have refused since the second month of the trials, but my parents are oddly insistent about this one. There is something different about him they tell me, something special.

To me, this is even more reason not to meet him. If this competitor is truly someone special, it will be even more horrifying to face him on the field. Exhaling again, I do not look at the sun. Its rays coax me closer, so different from the cold light of his sister.

Apollo, I think I could have dealt with. I hear he is unpleasant as well, but at least he is straightforward about it. Artemis came to me promising help and I was foolish enough to believe in her sanctity – and then the trials began, and I found myself an executioner.

There must be a lesson here, somewhere. Something future generations will look back on and agree I deserved this. I cannot see it though, which is partly the problem. Everywhere I look, I am blinded by death, anger and sorrow.

And yet, my parents insist I meet another competitor. I finally agreed to their request earlier today, after weeks of prolonged pleading and begging. The tipping point was when they mentioned his city – Kom. I will admit this was intriguing because, while Dietas has the reputation as the least pious of the Provinces, Kom is its opposite. In their wood-laced land, the people of Kom steadfastly believe in the gods.

Overall, Kom is regarded as careful and superstitious – it strikes me as strange, that someone from their land would dare enter. They are the only Province who has not yet sent a competitor. Indeed, when I visited Kom to dissuade men from entering – I found they were more fearful of me, than wanting the prize.

In Kom, they know the gods and know that curses are real. They know that, if we race, they will die.

Footsteps enter the parlor behind me. I still, lifting my head to look out the window – I cannot bear to look at his face. Not yet. Right now, he is merely a phantom, a projection of the future where he dies and I always, always live. Once I look at him, it will seal both our fates.

Gently, he coughs. The sound is oddly familiar.

I frown because, during my travels, my time in Kom was the shortest. They barely let me into the palace, let alone prolonged the visit. I was not there long enough for any one voice to make an impression. And yet, the back of my neck prickles in familiarity.