The town square buzzed with energy, thick with the scent of incense and the murmured prayers of the gathered crowd. Pipes and lyres played a slow, reverent melody, weaving through the air like golden threads. Sunlight, sharp and bright, fell onto the assembled citizens, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. It was the day of the religious ceremony of Apollo, and I stood among the many people, my betrothal token feeling heavy and real beneath my tunic. I was here out of duty, as Father expected, as befitted a young man now bound for marriage, soon to be a more formal part of the community. But there was something else, too. A strange, quiet resonance I felt with this ceremony, with Apollo himself. God of music, poetry, healing, prophecy – his domains spoke to something stirring deep within me, a feeling of coming alive in a way that usually only happened when I was alone, playing in the dust. It was a sense of being closer to something essential about myself, a hidden part that the sounds and sights of the ceremony seemed to awaken.
As I moved deeper into the crowd, finding a place to stand, I saw Father over to one side, talking with Kyrios Xanthos, the military leader under whom my brother Tolmaios was training. Kyrios Xanthos was a imposing figure, his face sharp and observant. Father looked serious as he spoke with him, but I couldn't hear their words, couldn't guess what they were discussing. God's voice offered a low, analytical commentary. "Interaction: High-status individual with authority figure. Communication content: Unknown variable. Observation required for pattern analysis."
Scanning the crowd, I also saw Mother and Euboa. They were exploring near a display of offerings, Euboa clinging closer than usual to Mother's side, her quiet eyes taking in the sights and sounds of the ceremony. Seeing them together, apart from me, felt… different. Goddess sighed softly in my head, a sound of vague melancholy. "Separate. The bond is there, but space exists. Observe the quiet one."
Nearby, I saw Theano's family present as well, their faces solemn as they observed the ritual. My eyes found Theano, her presence a warm light even in the crowded square. She was watching the priests, her expression serene. As I watched her, I noticed other boys around my age, standing in small groups, their gazes drawn towards her, lingering on her beauty. They pointed subtly, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes fixed on Theano with clear admiration.
God's voice noted this observation. "Data point: Betrothed female's external value (beauty) generates significant peer attention. Potential for envy factor in social interactions. Status confirmation: Partner selection validated by external attraction metrics." Goddess, however, reacted with a mix of pride in Theano and discomfort at the objectification. "Beauty is seen! Yes! But their gaze is… empty of true connection. They see only the surface. She is more than sight!" Her presence felt a little defensive, protective of Theano's inner worth.
My attention, however, was suddenly diverted more forcefully by a different pull from within. Goddess. Her vision, always wide and attuned to the atmosphere and feelings of others, focused my awareness onto a specific group of people standing nearby. They were young men, around my brother Tolmaios's age, dressed well, talking loudly amongst themselves, their faces marked by an arrogance that immediately grated on something deep inside me, aligning with Goddess's own strong dislike of their energy, of their spirit.
Goddess's voice, clear and sharp in my head, though not yet uncontrollable, registered her disapproval. "Observe them. Their spirit is… cold. Disrespectful of the atmosphere. Of the purpose here. They lack reverence."
Then I heard their words, cutting through the reverent music and prayers. They were talking about art. Not with appreciation, but with scorn. "Who cares about art?" one of them said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "A waste of time and resources. Doesn't build empires."
"The world is better off without art," another scoffed, leaning back against a pillar. "It's for weaklings and dreamers."
"Art isn't productive at all," a third stated, his voice carrying easily, intended to be heard. "It doesn't contribute society in any way that matters. Just vanity and noise. Distractions from what's real."
Their words were like small, sharp stones hitting something vital inside me. They spoke of the very things Apollo represented, the very things that resonated with that inexplicable feeling inside me that the ceremony was bringing to life. My heart ached with a sudden, sharp pain, a feeling that their words were somehow directed at me, at the hidden spark I carried, at the part of me that thrilled at stories and performance. Goddess's presence intensified within me, her initial dislike transforming into a furious, uncontrollable energy.
"Defend it!" Goddess commanded, her voice rising in intensity, no longer a suggestion but a powerful, emotional imperative that seemed to seize control of my thoughts. "Defend the beauty! Defend the creation! Humble them! Defend Apollo! Defend the heart! Defend the truth they deny!" Her voice was a whirlwind of righteous anger, demanding action, demanding that the insult to art and its patrons not stand, demanding I give voice to the feeling that swelled within me.
Just as Goddess's commands reached a fever pitch, God's voice finally entered the fray. His observation was slow, detached, his vision narrow, focused on the immediate, practical implications, on avoiding unnecessary complications. "Engagement is unnecessary. Their opinion is irrelevant to your function. Social conflict: unproductive. Potential for negative outcome: high. Ignore. Disengage. Move on. Maintain current status."
God and Goddess clashed violently within my mind. Goddess, a storm of righteous fury and emotional defense, demanding confrontation, demanding I defend the sacred value of art and inspiration, demanding I act on the feeling they stirred. God, a solid wall of logic and practicality, demanding disengagement, demanding I avoid conflict and focus on maintaining my place, my duty, my outward conformity. Their voices rose to a deafening roar, a chaotic battleground where their core values collided with terrifying force. Goddess's pleas to "Speak! Defend! Do not let this stand! Give it voice!" were met with God's thunderous commands to "Silence! Observe! Do not engage! This does not concern you! Avoid complication!"
I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe properly. My mind was a maelstrom of conflicting commands and raw, unbearable emotion. The sounds of the ceremony, the faces of the people around me, Theano's serene expression, Father talking with Kyrios Xanthos – all faded into a blur, irrelevant compared to the terrifying intensity of the internal war. I was only aware of their voices, pushing and pulling, using my very being as their battleground. I lost all sense of the outside world, a prisoner in my own skull, paralyzed by the conflict.
Desperation clawed at me. I didn't understand what was happening, only that their conflict was tearing me apart, forcing me into a state of being that wasn't my own quiet self. Stop! I screamed internally, a silent plea swallowed by the roar of their debate, unheard, ignored, as always. Please, stop! Leave me alone! I don't want to hear this! But they didn't hear me. They never did. They continued their war, utterly detached from my suffering, using me as the physical space for their battle, the instrument for their opposing wills.
And then, without my conscious will, without a decision from my own mind, without a conscious thought directing my actions, my body reacted to the storm within. Words tore themselves from my throat, propelled by Goddess's furious energy, unfiltered by my own thought process. My expression, which moments before had been one of quiet participation, contorted with sudden, intense anger, an anger that didn't feel entirely my own, but was forced upon me by the overwhelming force of her command.
"Pay some respect!" I blurted out, my voice loud, raw, cutting through the ceremony's music, directed with startling intensity at the group of young men. "Pay some respect to the gods! To Apollo! And to the people of art! They bring beauty to the world! They give meaning!"
The moment the words left my mouth, the intense internal storm seemed to abate slightly, leaving a jarring silence in its wake, a sudden, disorienting calm after the chaos. The faces of the young men snapped towards me, their arrogant expressions replaced by outright shock and disbelief, then anger.
"What?!" one of them exclaimed, his voice sharp, indignant. "Were you… were you saying that to us?"
"Who do you think you are?!" another demanded, stepping towards me aggressively, his hand clenching into a fist. "Interrupting the ceremony! And for what? For art?"
A third man in their group, older than the boys around the fountain, stepped forward, his eyes narrowed with anger. " insolence! Speaking to us like that! At a sacred ceremony!"
Suddenly, I was aware of the outside world again, flooding back in with terrifying clarity. The shock on their faces, the sudden tension in the air, the way the murmur of the crowd around us was dying down, replaced by sharp gasps and murmurs of confusion. People were turning, looking at the disturbance. Kyrios Xanthos, from his position, turned his sharp gaze towards the commotion, his eyes narrowing. But I had no idea what had just happened. My mind was reeling, trying to catch up to the external reality my body had just created. Why had I said that? Why had I sounded so angry? Why had I just… done that? Everything was happening without my conscious notice, my body acting out an internal command I hadn't chosen to follow, a public performance of an internal conflict I didn't understand.
The young men began to make a big show of it, their voices rising in indignation, creating a significant disturbance in the midst of the sacred ceremony. Their anger fueled by my unexpected outburst. The sounds of their quarrel and the gasps of onlookers replaced the quiet reverence.