The Three-Hearted God

Deianira had risen with the sun, donning her chiton and fastening the thick himation around her slender shoulders. With chestnut hair plaited down her spine, she slipped out of her house built of pale stone and brick before her parents could redirect her attention.

Pails hung from each fist as she padded through cobbled-stone streets. The town was just waking, the soft flutters of women rising for their daily chores as the men dressed to sell their wares. The bakery in town was already puffing smoke from its chimney, and from the high point on the hill she descended, the docks were lively with fishermen and young lads earning their keep.

It was the week of the Final Revolution which would bring forth abundance and health into the New Revolution. It would be the first time Deianira could participate rather than watch as the offerings were given to their god. As a daughter of a Councilman, much was expected of her now that she was of the giving age.

As Deianira neared the marble idol depicting Animdeus, she tilted her head to study their benevolent protector’s physique. He was depicted with one face with two sides; on the left a softer expression symbolizing the love for his people while the right portrays a seething stare with bared teeth towards the sins of humanity. Within his breast are three hearts representing community, family, and belief. These pillars guide the citizens of Phosyra.

“By the Heart of Three,” Deianira murmurs, a glint of wonder in her eyes as she continues past the statue, its base covered in offerings of wreaths, food, and wine.

Deianira hears slapping heals behind her and turns as a familiar girl with blond hair and crooked cloak darts by. Her laughter floats on the dawning winds, her head angled over her shoulder as she calls, “Hurry, Deia!” before taking off down the hill, two pails of her own banging against her hips.

Deianira takes to the wind, following the rare splash of blond hair down the streets to the shoreline. She’s gasping for air when she reaches her, slipping through the pearl sands and tipping a pail over to sit on it beside her friend as they watch the waters turn gold from the sun.

“You’re so slow,” she teases with her silver eyes staring into the horizon.

“Aye, I enjoy my morning breaths,” Deianira says as the waters turn from gold to turquoise. She stands and hefts the buckets, striding towards the tide pools. “Come, Nefali.”

Nefali keeps pace as they step into the tide pools, placing buckets nearby to fill with shells and crustaceans. They each claim a pool and bend into the cool waters.

“Did you see the warriors yesterday?” Deianira asks, plucking a limpet and placing it into a bucket.

“Aye,” Nefali says with a twisted lip, “and the Unforgivables being dragged from their homes.”

“They know the laws as well as us,” she replies sternly. “To break a pillar is to break a Heart.”

“I know the law.” Nefali gruffs and drops a handful of snails into a bucket. “The Heart of Community, for the whole is greater than one; the Heart of Family, for duty becomes the legacy; and the Heart of Hearts, for without belief there is no life.” Nefali snorts and shakes her head, blond hair shimmering like the aqua waters. “Perhaps the Hearts are wrong.”

“Hush, Nef!” Deianira chides, glancing around with wide eyes. “Should the Augurs hear such blasphemy, you’ll be plucked from the streets.”

“Not if they can’t catch me,” Nefali says with a cunning grin, her gray eyes sharp as stone. “Don’t you ever wonder what else is out there? Beyond the tides, past the boats, towards the sun? Surely there must be more.”

“No, I’m content here,” she answers softly. “To abandon your family would be unforgivable.”

“My parents have six more children, they would not miss one,” Nefali says with a distant sigh. “And the city could do without one more poor girl to dirty the cobbles. You’ve come from a family of wealth.”

“Aye,” Deianira admits, “but I would miss you, Nef.”

Nefali smiles sadly. “You’d be the only one, Deia. You’re of three hearts, all of gold.”

Deianira blushes and ducks her head. “Hush it. When I am grown you’ll be beside me. None will ever dare to dirty a look at you, neither for your spirit nor your hair.”

“My hair!” Nefali giggles, throwing her head back. “What’s so wrong with it?”

“It’s too bright beneath the sun and glows in the dark,” she teases. “I think it exotic.”

“Now you sound like Mother.”

They giggle within the pools, the water lapping at their soaked garments. Deianira drops several more shells into the bucket before rinsing her hands of grime. A frown pulls at her face, a darkness tightening within her breast.

“You wouldn't leave, would you?”

Nefali glances from the waters, her expression reticent. “Not today nor tomorrow.”

She sighs, accepting the reply, and the two continue filling their buckets until none more can fit. Once the task is complete, the two start back into the city with dripping clothes and overflowing buckets, parting ways at the statue of the Three-Hearted God, muttering their prayers as they pass. Deianira enters the household courtyard, dropping off the buckets at the mageireîon for cleaning, then entering the commons to change into fresh linens.

Her mother enters as she pulls off her himation, tutting at the water wicking garments. “Are the tides too deep? You always come back soaking.”

“Sorry, Mother,” Deianira murmurs and bows her head, “the buckets are full. I can tend to them after.”

Her mother waves her off and offers her a dry linen, brushing a wet lock from her cheek. “Nonsense, dear. You are too young to be doing a wife’s duty just yet. Clean yourself, then off you go. Enjoy the celebrations.”

“Thank you, Mother,” she says and places a kiss on each cheek. Before she can exit, her mother stalls and clears her throat, having Deianira pause at the sound. “Yes, Mother?”

“Did you hear of Damaris?”

“The seamstress? What of her?”

“She was deemed Unforgivable. Can you believe it? I’ve known her since I was a child. She’s sewn most of our finer wears.” Her mother shakes her head, brown curls bobbing in disbelief.

“How awful! What was her sin?”

“Adultery,” she tuts and pounds her heart thrice with a fist in blessing. “Her poor children. Her poor husband. Even the devout may decay to sin. Remember, my dear, the pillars may never fall.”

“May the Hearts stay beating,” Deianira answers to the prayer.

“Off you go,” her mother says with a flick of her wrists.

After changing into a fresh chiton, Deianira spent the rest of the day perusing the celebratory wares being sold in the market, nibbling on flaky baklava and sucking fresh mussels from their shells from the early morning catch. Music graced the cobbled-streets and dancing children weaved through the crowds, shrill laughter bubbling from smiling mouths. By the time the sun had begun to set, she’d shuffled her way back home, bleary-eyed and yawning, nestling down to bed and wishing Nefali could have experienced the joys of the Final Revolution with her instead of choring.

The next morning is a blur of preparation and pleasantries as she and her parents ready for the feast and prayers that evening. Deianira dresses in her finest chiton as pale as the sea in winter, slipping on jewels of pearl and lining her eyes in kohl, then lacing her hair with silk and styling an intricate bun atop her head. Her mother smiles at the sight of her, brushing a thumb along the crest of her cheeks in adoration. Her father, wide-shouldered and stoic, nods his approval with a glimmer of pride in his dark eyes. Together the three of them walk, arm in arm, to the Final Revolution.

They find their spots toward the front of the crowd where the ceremony is to take place. They kneel as one on the long strip of linen placed for the Councilmen and their families so as not to dirty their garments, and bow their heads as the rest of the city files in. Deianira glances discreetly into the crowd searching for the familiar blond hair belonging to Nefali, but at her mother’s watchful eye, she redirects her gaze downwards, a blush burning her cheeks. No longer a child, but a dutiful member of the community, she must uphold the standards.

After all had taken their seat, the Augurs appear as one, thirteen total, standing on the dais before the smaller yet still as magnificent embodiment of Animdeus. They wear tunics of crimson red, faces hidden within draping cloaks split in two colors; the left as white and right as black. The thirteen Augurs speak as one, addressing the crowd, as they lead in the opening prayers.

Deianira murmurs along, pounding her chest thrice when expected and bowing her head with closed eyes as she has so many times when praying to her god. Then the Augurs step aside to allow the Unforgivables to be led to the front, their wrists shackled to the wooden Animdeus to be sacrificed for their sins so those who remain can prosper in the New Revolution. After the offering of the Unforgivables to Animdeus, the feast and festivities would commence for a full week.

She watched silently as the Unforgivables were ushered in. The first two were men, charged with the sin against family. Following alone was Damaris, the seamstress and mother’s once-friend, her head held high and eyes burning with hatred as she stared out into the crowd while the warriors shackled her wrists to the effigy. Charged with adultery, her gaze caught on Deianira’s mother, her strong-willed facade fracturing when her mother turned her head away. Damaris sniffled and lifted her head as tears streamed down her face.

Then came the Unforgivables against the Community. There was only one, an elderly woman with a hunched spine, her sin that of stealing sustenance from the working class. The warriors had to lower the ropes to her wrists, her spine unwilling to straighten from years of labor. She stared blankly into the sky, a vacant smile on her mumbling lips.

Finally, the Unforgivables against the Heart were led to the center. Deianira was anxious to participate in the ritual and then feast and dance with Nefali afterwards. Her father would be proud seeing her truly be part of her people, leading them in the most important part of the year.

A couple not much older than Deianira were pulled before the crowd, kicking and screaming. The warriors struggled to get ahold of the man and clogged him in the head with the handle of their xiphos, the blade nearly missing the sinner’s throat. He stumbled to his knees, the woman dropping her weight so the warriors had to catch her as she heaved sobs, imploring for mercy.

Deianira watched in fascination as they dragged the couple and tied their wrists above their heads, their feet dangling above the ground. Her mother sniffed and murmured a prayer at the display. She heard her father’s gruff voice in agreement a moment later.

Her stomach began to twist in anticipation for what would come next. Her palms were slick with sweat despite the cooling air, though it wouldn’t be cool for much longer. She sucked in a breath and leveled her gaze on the Unforgivables, those that could not prosper with the rest of the city, fearing their corrupt deeds would give way to root and risk the decaying of the Hearts. Should the Hearts fall so would Phosyra, and such a thing may never happen lest the Three-Hearted God willed it.

Shouting rent the air as a final Unforgivable was dragged out. She sounded animalistic, her snarls guttural and Deianira could swear she could hear teeth snapping. It took only one warrior to pull her to the final rope, her hair a tangle of blond, and once secured she lifted her head, her silver eyes meeting Deianira’s.

“No,” she whispered and shook her head, glancing at her parents who merely muttered their approval at such a fine line of sacrifices for Animdeus.

Nefali’s gaze was imploring, her face twisted into fear, her body trembling with rage. The Augurs must have heard her doubts in the streets, saw her misgivings in their sights, tasted the falsity of her words on their tongues. She was a sinner, an apostate, an Unforgivable.

Tightness clawed at Deianira’s throat, tears threatening to give away her sympathy. Nefali was her friend, and though she wasn’t near as devout as she should be, she was no sinner. Her talk of leaving, her doubts in Animdeus, her dreams of seeing beyond the horizon was not freedom. It was death.

“The eldest child of Councilmen Vasilieas will provide the first offering as welcoming to her giving year,” spoke all of the Augurs, their voices a trembling baritone in her breast.

Deianira rose methodically, keeping her head bowed as she passed the few rows to the front where the Augurs stood brandishing the Final Flame on a torch as black as night veined with pearls. She stopped in front of the crimson cloaked figure holding the torch while a second stepped forward with a scion to wield the flame.

“The pillars may never fall.” The Augur brandishing the Final Flame lowered the torch to the scion now clasped tightly in her fists. Its flames had her skin itching and her stomach twisted like a viper.

“May the Hearts stay beating,” Deianira replied solemnly as they lit the branch and stepped aside. She sucked in a breath, the heat scorching her nostrils, and stepped up to the effigy where the Unforgivables cried for mercy or stared with such fierce animosity she felt a darkness crawl across her olive skin.

Nefali holds her gaze as Deianira approaches. Her expression was one of acceptance and disappointment, a bitterness glinting in her silver glare. Deianira made eye contact only once she was close enough to light the first branch which would then light the first Unforgivable commencing the ritual. She lifted the flame above her head with shaking hands.

“I thought I’d always be by your side,” Nefali says, her voice jagged from her screams.

Deianira winced, her eyes downcast. “I could not foresee this. I am no Auger.”

“You could change things, Deianira. This is not what a benevolent god wishes from their devout.” A cut splits Nefali’s lip. It’s swollen and red with blood staining her teeth.

“I am sorry, Nefali,” Deianira whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks. She lifts her gaze and is greeted with resentment sharpening Nefali’s features. “I can’t undo this.”

Nefali growls and spits at Deianira’s feet, her lips twisted into a bestial snarl with bloodied fangs. “May the Hearts seize and fall to the damned. May the pillars crumble and crush all those beneath. May the Three-Hearted God incinerate in Gehenna for eternity.” Nefali lifts her chin defiantly, her voice clear to all listening. “And may your golden hearts rot in your breast.”

A gasp escapes Deianira’s lips, the traitorous barbs a lance to her heart. The crowd murmurs and hisses behind her. Deianira tosses the burning scion into the effigy, catching the shine of tears in Nefali’s eyes one last time before turning on her heels as the first screams of the Unforgivables bless the air, Nefali’s curses rising with the flames.

Deianira returns to her place beside her parents as the rest of the Councilmen throw their flames onto the effigy. The Augurs begin to pray, blessing the sacrifices to Animdeus and sanctifying the prosperous New Revolution.

“Grace us with a bountiful Revolution and bless our city with babes born from sacred blood. Bestow us with life of the Final Flame so your love may be known not by one, but all.”

The sound of Nefali’s screams thunder through the prayers, her sins burning away so she may forever live with Animdeus, his parting gift to those who have strayed—eternal life. A small smile lifts Deianira’s lips knowing her friend will find the freedom she sought. She continues to pray, beating her chest thrice.

“Forgive the Unforgivables, for they may stray from the Hearts, yet their sacrifice provides breath.” The voices of Phosyra rise to the heavens, mingling with the purified cries of the Unforgivables, a bass of crackling flames melodious to Deianira.

“May the pillars never fall, may the Hearts beat eternal.”