Sweat beaded on his lip, but he sat silent as a biker in a tattooist’s chair. It would be over soon, and then he could wear shirts again without the fabric sticking to him the minute he put them on.
The Moirae worked for a long time. Twice he almost passed out from the pain. Every now and again he heard something sharp and metallic, like razors rubbed together: the shears of the Moirae, opening and closing. Not on his skin. They opened and closed in their idle hands, just an absent habit. Hera stayed with him as they worked, her flesh hand on his knee. Aphrodite hummed a soothing tune from the open doorway.
(THERE. ENOUGH)
He stretched his mostly healed back, reformed from ribbons into one piece. Yes. They were his gods. They decided what was enough. Even though his godhood called for more, for all, like it always did.
“Turn,” Hera whispered. “Turn and thank them.”
He didn’t want to. He wanted to wave and jet the hell out of there. Leave a fifty on the brazier and promise to call them sometime.
“Yes, Mother,” he said. At least the Moirae had moved away, receded to wherever they’d snuck up on him from. Better than turning around and finding his nose stuffed into their silk dresses. He imagined they smelled half-rotten.
The Moirae sat in a puddle of stitched-together fabric. Red, silver, and black merged in a sadly extravagant patchwork quilt to cover them up like old ladies. To hear Zeus tell it, the Moirae were three beautiful girls. Ivory cheeks and sparkling eyes. Curves and temptation along with wisdom and war. Clotho, the spinner of life, had red hair that flowed over her shoulders. Lachesis, the weaver of destiny, tantalized with silver-blond hair down her back. And Atropos wore her black braid long and thick.
At least Zeus had gotten the hair part right.
Lovely red hair hung down Clotho’s back, and a mop of silver stuck to Lachesis. But they were wigs glued onto mummies. Clotho and Lachesis themselves were pale, withered husks, so thin and limp he would’ve thought them dead had the shears in their hands not opened and closed.
(WHAT DO YOU SAY)
Ares swallowed. He fixed his eyes on Atropos, the Moirae of death, the only sister who was still beautiful.
“Thank you.”
(YOU ARE WELCOME, GOD OF WAR)
“You’re ill,” he said. Hera grasped his ankle, but he ignored her. The Moirae’s illness was obvious. Clotho and Lachesis barely functioned. Their eyelids and lips drooped. Their shoulders slumped into Atropos. They breathed, and that was about it.
“Forgive him,” Hera said, dragging herself half-upright. “He is in awe of you.”
But to Ares’ surprise, Atropos smiled. It was lovely and horrid, and he hid his shudder.
Atropos brushed her sisters’ hands aside and tugged at the cloth that covered them until it fell away.
In the hall, Aphrodite began to cry. Ares could only stare.
Three voices melded into one. As three bodies melded into one. Five of six arms remained mobile. The fifth, one of Lachesis’, had grown into Atropos’ stomach. Clotho and Lachesis’ hips and legs had merged with Atropos’ and seemed to have broken, as if sucked inward, or as if pulled and knotted with string. Clotho and Lachesis were on the outside, with Atropos in the middle, and the sickness worked its way inward.
Ares looked into Atropos’ eyes, black as ink and hungry, and wondered if it didn’t work outward.
Clotho’s head jerked. Her milky eye swiveled and fixed on his face, and all at once, he knew. The Moirae were the source.
The source of their deaths. Gods died as their gods fell ill.
“What do you want?” he asked.
(THE WEAPONS OF FATE. BRING THEM. NOW)
“The weapons of fate. Achilles and that girl. Athena has them both.”
(BRING THEM)
“Easier said than done,” he said, and the Moirae pierced his mind hard in punishment. Fresh blood gushed down his chin, and a vessel in his right eye popped. Aphrodite and Hera whimpered. Oblivion whimpered, too.