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"Manto." Her voice whispers, a warm bundle in her arms, cool sweat running down pale and clammy skin. The world felt painful and bright and sharp. She held the small bundle of wriggling warmth like a wisp of a flame in a howling storm. She remembers how cold it was. Sweat on skin, the line of now-dried tears reflecting the chill of the wind onto her cheeks.
A dozen voices proclaim, whisper, repeat again and again in her ears.
Manto
Manto
Manto.
What is her daughter’s name?
What is her daughter’s name?
Prophet
Prophetess
“She has your eyes” her husband says. “Tiresias, love, she has your eyes.”
My eyes? My eyes?
Visions swim on the horizon, they are all encompassing, tall, looming behemoths of giants bearing down on heavily trodden earth.
"IT IS A CURSE" she screams, holding the bundle close to her- she cannot see. A tiny hand grips the tip of her finger and her heart melts. There is an echo at the back of her mind, grieving wails claw at the thin veils of Time. Her husband cannot see.
Your eyes. Your eyes.
The voices whisper back. Stronger and harsher than wind.
Manto. Manteia.
Prophet and prophetess.
She had a name. I gave her a name. She begs, chasing the sound, any sound. The ghost of a whisper at the back of oblivion.
.
.
Where is her name?
Warmth holds her close, on the banks of the river Lethe.
The waters have a certain chill, a certain silence. She is cold, and yet she is breathing. She’s spent many years breathing. Being a shade in the underworld does not negate the memory of the soul breathing in through a mortal vessel and releasing. Inhaling a part of the world so greedily only to give it back. You cannot keep the world in your arms. You can try and hold your breath, but even the last breath you take will be taken from you in kind.
She chokes, the phantom pain of an arrow lodged in her throat. She breathes. Again and again and again. She takes no air, takes no solace. She cannot take. She is dead. She is a shade. She is warm. How is she warm?
Tiresias’ cold hands find warm ones wrapped around her. Foolish thief, she thought. Stealing moments such as these. There is a cut on his palm from the summoning. Gods blood. Gold and ichor, she knows, from her visions. Sacrificed for her.
“Oh dar~ling, I am the God of Sacrifices” Hermes’ voice rings in her memory. She has too many memories.
The cut closes quickly, the skin now smooth and hale.
“Oh hello there dove.” Hermes sings, he always speaks like he’s singing. Like wind through the plains, a great rustling joy as the forest acknowledges its presence. “I love the new look”
Tiresias sighs, leaning into the hug. It was the closest to an eye roll she could ever get.
Hermes laughs, discordant and shrill.