He stood, using his height to retrieve a thick, leather-bound copy that looked a few decades old. He cradled it in his hands, reminding Libraean of what a bibliophile he was, before handing it to him as one might pass a newborn child. Then he sat back down in his chair, resuming his ankle on top of knee position while Libraean delicately turned the pages until he’d found what he was looking for.
“Ah, here.” He showed Lucius the handwritten passage. “Erebos was the Greek god of darkness, the child of Chaos.”
Lucius scanned it over before meeting his eyes. “Discordia knew exactly what body she was putting me in, one she specifically selected to be the father of her offspring.”
“It would also explain why you were so insatiably violent and deranged,” Libraean pointed out.
Lucius leaned back in his chair, digesting his words as he crossed his hands along his stomach. “Well, don’t go telling anyone that theory. I will lose my notoriety. Besides, I wasn’t exactly a saint in my past lives either.”
Libraean shook his head with a smile. It faded as he began piecing all the events together, including Lucius’s recent admissions. “I cannot believe how artfully we were betrayed.”
“Hekate did get her revenge on the Council,” Lucius brought up. “Revenge for us all, I suppose. Except now we have a bunch of wayward Watchers in their stead.”
Libraean took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Indeed.”
Lucius grew quiet, staring at him with his penetrating amber eyes. “I suppose I owe you an apology for how I treated you back then.”
Libraean blinked. “You apologize?”
“It is a rare occurrence, and you should not plan on it happening again,” Lucius assured him as he rose from his chair, heading towards the open bottle of spirits he kept in his library. “Brandy?”
Libraean nodded, realizing he was quite parched.
“In any case,” Lucius continued, “I’m not entirely convinced it was Morrígan who made it so that we forget our pasts as we come to earth. I think it was Discordia’s doing, long before Morrigan and David even concocted their plan with the Druids.”
Libraean frowned. “We have nothing to study to prove otherwise—except, perhaps, the humans. They don’t remember their past lives when they come back. It could just be the way of the Earth.”
Lucius handed him a short glass of tainted brandy before settling back into the leather chair across from him. “I suppose we will never know.”
Libraean took a sip, surprised by the pleasant marriage of flavors that hit his tongue. “From what I remember about Celtic myth, Morrigan attempted to seduce Cuhullin and, since he scorned her advances, she wanted his death. To do so, she transformed into various creatures during his battle to defend Ulster from the army of Connaught and Queen Maeve. That account has always bothered me. It sounds nothing like the goddess we know.”
“Humans love to distort our history,” Lucius agreed. “Which is why it is so imperative that you keep it for us. My guess is the overgrown sack of skin came up with the story as a way to brag. Morrigan is a great beauty. She always was.” He grew quiet again, taking a sip from his glass.
“I’m assuming you never told her you visited her in disguise.”
“Well, I am just remembering everything again whilst trying to stay away from her, as per our collective agreement.”
“We all benefit from the lack of discord,” Libraean reassured him. “Though I do appreciate how hard it must be for you.”
Lucius said nothing, taking another careful sip.
“What about France?” Libraean changed the subject. “How were you finally able to be rid of Discordia, or Angelique, as she was known to you?”
Lucius perked up. “What do you know of the salons in Paris?” PARIS, 1760
lucius
Cigarette smoke wafted around the parlor, mixing with the aroma of Bordeaux wine. Lucius scanned the faces of those surrounding him, as well as the numerous portraits hanging on the walls, acting as caricatures of those seated below. He was surprised to see both nobility and bourgeois in attendance, the collection of attendees not nearly as progressive as he had hoped for.
Their salonnière, a refined woman of lingering beauty, despite her gray hair and lined eyes, sat in the center of the room, an air of pretentiousness hanging around her like fog. The name Marie Thérèse Rodet Geoffrin commanded prestige in itself, and an invitation to one of her salons was as prized as any summons to Versailles. Lucius had managed to secure his invite with little effort, though Angelique’s noble status would have earned him an easy pass; he didn’t want her to know he was there. So he snuck in as a supposed friend of Diderot’s, excited to see what the famed salon on the rue Saint-Honore was all about. To his disappointment, the topics being thrown around the room were far less titillating than anticipated. After about an hour of painfully uncontroversial chatter, he slumped in his chair, holding up his chin with his hand as he listened to a man in a freshly powdered wig drone on about how all men should have the right to practice their own religion.
“Or lack of religion,” another man chimed in from the back.
The powdered man nodded. “Indeed. One could argue that the natural rights John Locke emphasized were inspired by his desire for religious freedom. He argued that religion cannot be compelled by violent means, that there must be complete separation of church and state.”
“Natural rights refer to the human right to freedom,” Lucius blurted out before he could help himself. “Stoics argued for natural rights centuries before Locke put ink to paper.”
The room turned to look his way, causing him to straighten up in his seat.
Madame Geoffrin nodded his way. “Do continue. Marquis de Cardevac is on vacation from his duties as French Ambassador in Sweden,” she told the assembly. “He is a friend of Monsieur Diderot.”
Lucius cleared his throat, hoping that no one would recognize that he was very much not the person he claimed to be. “Centuries ago, Stoicism claimed that no person could be a slave by nature, that it goes against the very condition of the human soul. Locke only expounded on their assertions, claiming that one cannot surrender their own rights to freedom—it is stolen from them, therefore it is morally reprehensible.”
There was a murmur amongst them.
A man seated close to Madame Geoffrin leaned forward. “Even Locke himself declared that enslavement of a lawful captive in times of war would not go against one’s natural rights,” he pointed out.
“Ah, but we do not take lawful captives through acts of war. We sail to foreign lands in our ships to rape and pillage their lands,” Lucius reminded him.
The murmur grew louder, a few of the men grumbling their protestations.
“I believe our conversation is growing heated,” Madame Geoffrin said smoothly. “Perhaps we should steer clear of politics in our discussion going forward.”
“Isn’t any human matter by its very nature political?” Lucius pressed, enjoying their discomfort. “How can we speak of the natural right to freedom and liberty when we enslave our fellow man, when we have a monarch placed on the throne by the ‘divine right of kings’ who pulls us all down into ruin? How can one divinely be throned if he shares the same soul as we do?”
Lucius smiled as the room erupted.
He hung back as Madame fought to control the crowd, corralling the impassioned voices as many called for an end to the ancien régime. He started to sneak away amongst the chaos, but when he turned the corner, he was stopped by a short gentleman with light hair and eyes. “My name is Arnaud Bisset,” the man said quickly before Lucius could dodge him. “There are places where talk of revolutionary politics is welcomed, if you are interested.”
