Lucius shook his head, his eyes impassive. “I think we should give your hand a rest, regardless.”
Libraean looked back down at Lucius’s memoir, realizing only one page remained in the book. “Well, even without those millennia accounted for, your story is longer than David’s,” he commented. “I suppose it is high time I make you another book.”
Lucius shrugged, a sideways smile lifting his lips. “Ah, well, maybe my story will end soon and you won’t have to worry.”
“I highly doubt that,” Libraean snorted as he shut Lucius’s book. “You seem to be utterly unkillable.”
David breezed into the library where they sat, his sudden arrival unsettling the room. Libraean was undeniably startled, watching David try to fight the scathing look that Lucius’s presence provoked. He felt a wave of guilt, as though he was somehow being disloyal to David by being in his brother’s company, but he swiftly reminded himself how ridiculous that was. David had never been one to indulge in pettiness, there was no reason he would start now.
“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” he said lightly.
Libraean showed him the book he had been working on. “Lucius was just helping me fill in some of the blank spots in his memoirs,” he explained. “I’ve been updating the histories, trying to keep my mind busy during this long journey of ours.”
“Ah,” David nodded, sitting across from him in the chair next to Lucius. They both instinctively stiffened, the tension in the room becoming so thick it was almost palpable. Libraean shifted in his seat, wondering if it was even possible for the two brothers to co-exist in any semblance of harmony. “Which part were you writing about?”
“Oh, surely you don’t want to hear all the deliciously sordid details of my life with Nephthys,” Lucius cut in.
“Right, because I never heard you carrying on in Romania.” David didn’t miss a beat. “Rest assured, recollections of your escapades cease to give me pause, especially since she’s shown time and again that she prefers me.”
Libraean’s heart rate increased, frantically wondering if he would be able to intervene between the two if a fight erupted. Where were the others—Cahira, Sandrine?
Lucius laughed, the sound bellowing through the room. “You were never one to throw barbs, brother. Something must have gotten under your skin.”
“Perhaps it’s the scent of your horrid cologne,” David suggested. “If your intent was to repel Morrigan, you’ve certainly succeeded. I can barely breathe around you myself.”
“Don’t you have some dark hole to crawl into where you can lament your tragic existence, perhaps drown your sorrows in scotch and opium?”
“It’s far more amusing to be the thorn in your side,” David replied. “Besides, this excursion needs a true leader, not some lovesick pup wearing grown up clothes.”
“David,” Libraean gasped.
The fire in David’s eyes suddenly went out, swiftly replaced by embarrassment. He licked his lips, fishing for a cigarette from his coat. “Forgive me, this journey has been wearing on me,” he muttered.
Remarkably enough, Lucius didn’t look angry, but rather amused. “No worries, brother,” he said neutrally as he rose to his feet. “This lovesick pup is off to bed. The hour grows early, even for me.”
Libraean peeked out the crack in the front doors to see that he was right, the skies were beginning to lighten, prophesying the dawn. When he turned back, Lucius had already left out the back, the door swinging shut with a clang. He turned back to David who seemed distraught as he pulled smoke from his cigarette. “You cannot allow him to get under your skin,” he scolded. “We need him.”
“I know,” David sighed. “I haven’t felt like myself since I came out of my last spell. My temper is uncomfortably short.”
“You still don’t remember where you went while you were unconscious?”
David shook his head. “I haven’t a clue.”
Libraean frowned. It seemed that his mourning paused only when it gave way to nagging worry, most often provoked by David. He looked down at Lucius’s book, running his hand over the tight leather cover that had been etched in his own script. Just keep writing, he told himself.
“You look tired, Libraean. Can I walk you to your room?” David offered.
He nodded. “That would be nice.”
Although the sun still had yet to rise, they avoided the open deck, though there was ample shade if anyone desired fresh air. Instead, they kept to the long, painted hallway that ran along the starboard side of the ship to their rooms. He had adjusted to the swaying, for it was a far smoother ride than in Cahira’s clipper, but it was terribly loud and his shoes slipped on the tiled floor. He held onto David’s arm for support, his pride long abandoned in favor of practicality.
“How have you been sleeping?” Libraean asked him as they walked.
“I’ve slept a few times since we began our journey, though I have been dreaming of my time with Morrigan in Ireland.”
Libraean grew nervous. “Is that right?”
David gave him a weak smile. “Don’t fret. Despite what I tell Lucius, I’ve accepted that things between us have ended. It’s just never pleasant to relive the past when you know the outcome is not what you’d hoped for. I’m focused on reaching Africa to see what Anubis has to say about the realms. I’m also interested in this Discordia character you told me about, the one responsible for this mess. Have you found any mention of her in your texts?”
“No,” Libraean admitted with a sigh. “Only that the Greeks called her Eris, the goddess of strife. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans worshiped her, simply considering her the personification of chaos. The Iliad describes her as being a sister to Ares, the god of war, and says she has a relentless wrath.”
“Perhaps her wrath wouldn’t be so relentless if she was more than a note in their texts,” David speculated.
“The only story I’ve found that mentions her is the Trojan War, which details her part in it,” Libraean continued. “Apparently, she was snubbed at the wedding of Peleus and Thetis, though the rest of the Olympians were invited. They claimed it was because of her troublemaking tendencies. So, she tossed a golden apple into the party with the inscription: To the Fairest One. It caused the three goddesses in attendance, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, to quarrel over who the apple was meant for. Zeus, at a loss, appointed poor Paris, the prince of Troy, to make the decision for him. Hera offered political power and Athena promised wisdom, but Aphrodite tempted him with Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“And he chose Helen, therefore sealing in fate the Fall of Troy,” David finished.
Libraean beamed up at him, his good blue eye sparkling with pride. “I never knew you had an interest in mythology.”
“True. While I’ve always preferred poetry and art, I have been reading more historical accounts,” he told him. “I suppose I can be grateful Lucius has such an extensive library.”
“It is a good use of your time,” Libraean approved.
“That story explains why Aphrodite, Athena, and Hera were her first victims,” David told him. “It seems as if their constant neglect of her as a goddess was what led to her fury.”
Libraean raised his eyebrows. “I never thought to put that together. Do we know for certain that she also killed Athena and Hera?”
“Well, I am only speculating, but it could be something worth investigating.”
