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The first thing he saw was a flower with a crimson eye, its blotched center reaching outward into murky night - an anemone inverted, borne of wounded surprise.
The blindness that afflicted him was not external; for years, his line of sight fell squarely within the shadow of the hated god. Wherever he looked, he saw only walking specters waiting to dissolve into the cold and pale. He did not feel for them, nor did his approach to the task bear the smallest resemblance to thought. Their manner of death was already chosen; he was merely the blade that severed their threads. That was his end of the bargain.
At his knife-edge, the anemone's eye ruptured; its petals expanded like a stream welling forth from within the earth. It was then when his divine blindness lifted, and lurid light flooded the interiors of the temple, although a black flame had flickered in his eyes a moment before. Now, human eyes not comprehending dutifully traced the shapes of the dead as if etching the lines of a puzzle... till it dawned on him that anemones sprouted from a lover's blood.
But he had no patience for whimsy poetics, no use for stories of nectar and tears. He did not care for love’s tragic memorial. In them, there were no screams for triumph, no thirst for carnage, no glory to his god…
And the things he would do for his god! It had been his sworn promise to become the mortal hand of the fire that scorched the earth.
Something else troubled him. An old thought rekindled, and he remembered that there was a different kind of poetry in fire - a frenzied tune that had encircled him since the small hours of childhood. Two brothers would return in the gray and quiet dusk to find their mother kindling a small flame against the encroaching dark. A smile would steal out from the depth of her weary heart, and she would gather them close and sing of brighter days and other lives – tales of battles won, sieges lost, the dawn of the world, and the births of the gods.
It was then, in the clash of spears and the tempering of swords, in the sacrificial rites and the arrow's unerring aim, in the fumes of the serpent's decay and the darkening of blood upon the earth, that he saw the fire that would consume him, that would become him. And he knew he would one day see it in his own eyes, just as he knew the night would overwhelm the embers and the beckoning shades of his mother and brother would fall back into the hearth…
But the thought scattered like cinders on a gale, and a vision of slaughter pacified him. Once, at the Scaean Gates, he saw the sun's chariot dip beneath the horizon. A fiery, prophetic glow contoured the twisted shapes that sank into the dust, shimmered off the weapons strewn around them, and closed their eyes with its touch. Then, to leeward, an eerie cloud spread. He caught the gentle thrum of bowstrings, from which a burning shower of arrows was cast upon the dying and the dead. In that otherworldly rain, blasphemers joined fire's enigmatic, swirling dance, their souls emptied, and their bodies transformed into new temples.
The memory elicited a grim smile. It would seem he had understood the child of the river, that blind bard, even before these acts of violence were transformed by crafted words. For the invocation of the Muses was not forced upon them but drawn from deep within them.
Yet he did not understand that the tale was not just about fate and glory, for there is a tendency in heroes to become unbalanced, to question the blood that gives satisfaction to blood. It was a perfect blemish painted on the heart of man, a failsafe against those who soared too high, who lived astride the earth and heavens.
Thus, even those most devoted, those most favored by the gods, would yield after too many an unsheathing of the sword and let spilt blood water the seed called doubt that would grow into a new faith. One who sees its fruit would be undone by his own eyes, left helpless as it unraveled the very fabric of his life. Amidst that great struggle, the Moirai had looked down upon Thetis’ son weeping, grieving with his entire being, and deemed that he was fit to die.
He, of course, had no such flaw. Neither oracles nor divine lineage played a part in his birth. He wanted no bowers of Elysium, no warmth to the heart, no sorrow upon the lyre. He cared only that an arm could be torn from its socket, guts could be spilled from the flesh, a neck could be split in a single blow and a traitor’s soul could be severed just as clean. He sought only to wield violence over another.
Better to bequeath one’s soul to war than to gods of trivial things, or worse, to a love that may one day depart this earth.
He was pleased with the oath he had made, for in truth, he had made it for no one but himself, for the blood that would quench his blood.
And yet, he could not take his gaze away from the specters that lay before him. The flowers had withered and fallen upon the ground. A pool was gathering where the petals fell, and the burning dusk was reflected in the water, though night had already descended.
At the verge of epiphany, he was distracted by the burning of an old scar, which made him turn away. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the firelight shadow of his brother on the wall, looking wounded and lost - but it was just his own shadow. For the first time in years, he wondered where his brother had gone, and why he had ceased to care. Then suddenly (or perhaps it was in his mind), from some unscorched corner of the ruined village came a mother’s piercing cry.
And he was reminded of a song that the blind poet did not sing. Though all mortals should know by now that gods seldom gave for the sake of giving, but worse for wear were those who took from those undying.
Upon the altar of the huntress she lay, as deer grazed in a sacred grove. Lusting for victory, his eyes and ears were closed to the sound of her pleas. Soon, droplets of ruby ran across the back of her hand until every breeze stirred the wine-dark sea. The blood of foes shall surely wash away her face.
But blows of fate are never spared, and a reckoning awaited his return. As familiar shores enfolded him, memories rained of pain and sorrow. Through tears, his daughter's image blurred with the mother who bore his flesh and blood, herself a true-born princess of Sparta, whose shattered heart laid claim only to vengeance.
For she knew that one must pay the price the gods demand. 'From cold dark depths I'll fetch your bright red stain...'
So a vermillion path spread beneath his feet, and in a stride that oppressed the gods, a terrible rage led him into still water, the spider's net, the death of sleep...
And after a violent awakening, he found that he was not the accursed man, that king among the slain, who had let the blood of his daughter forever stain his hands. But in poetry, one should always speak vividly, speak double...
As the veil of frenzy dissolved, his eyes saw clearly the price he had paid. It was only the mind that was overcome by dreamlike madness.
Never once had he regretted the oath he'd sworn and so faithfully obeyed. Why would he regret? For how could he regret when to do so would imply that his will and choice were absent, that he was nothing but a slave to a jealous god?
Now, on a growing tapestry they soundly slept, its crimson dye staining their brow, temple, and lips, and drenching the dark roots of their hair. He had not beheld them for an eternity, but they were as beautiful as he recalled. He let their skin grow cold in his trembling hands.
And then he wondered, if he cried out, who would hear him amidst golden halls? Who would whisper into the toiling heart of poets? Who would grant his ruin an undying fame?
But above the desecrated temple, the Muses were silent, and so were the gods.