By Sidney Hinds
The first hero had been a mistake. Or self-defense, at the very least. Klothys thought that she and the little human wanted the same thing when red-faced hydra came roaring into the valley. The hero had been hot on the monster’s heels.
The hydra was nothing new; beasts were a constant threat to Klothys’s valley. She could smell most monsters from a mile off, and usually intercepted them before they crossed over the mountains. The hydra had snuck into the valley under the cover of a rainstorm. By the time Klothys caught wind of it, it had descended on the village of the little valley folk, and—more importantly—upon their cattle.
That would not do. Those were Klothys’s to eat.
The villagers huddled up in their homes on the foothills, watching the hydra rampage the fields below. It made sense; the little people were delicate. The shepherds and ranchers who guarded the flocks were delicate. The soldiers who sometimes came to kill Klothys were delicate, even with their armor and blades. A hydra would eat any of them as soon as look at them. It was strange to think something as small as the villagers would be brave enough to fight a hydra, but there the hero was with his sword and little winged shoes that let him leap high into the air.
Klothys knew the work of two would go faster than the work of one, so she lent her hands to the fight, snapping the hydra’s necks while the hero stabbed at its throats. Together they slew the monster in mere minutes, which pleased Klothys.
When the hero turned his sword on her though, as soon as the hydra lay dead, that was less pleasing. Klothys had never denied the little people their right to fight back when she took their cattle, but there was something in the viciousness this jumping hero hacked at her with. Something about his lack of hesitation. His presumption to fight beyond simply defending himself.
Klothys swatted the little hero out of the air almost on instinct, and ground him into the turf with her heel for good measure. The villagers groaned and moaned, but little that Klothys did ever made them happy. She simply shrugged, snatched up a pair of cows, and went on her way.
Slaying a hydra was hungry work, after all. Even for a cyclops.
Klothys’s life was full of heroes after that. Most were nothing special. Loud, clad in bronze… not so different from the soldiers. Maybe they fought a bit fiercer. Moved a bit faster. But in the end an ant was an ant, no matter how great a weapon the gods put in their hands.
Still, they were a bother. She had always kept her head down. Never strayed outside the valley. Never smashed more of the village than she had to when she was hungry. There were worse creatures beyond the hills; titans and dragons, krakens and giants; all much bigger nuisances than Klothys.
And yet the heroes came to fight her.
Sometimes they would stumble upon the valley while chasing a monster. Others just showed up without warning, either tracking Klothys down or waiting in the village fields to intercept her when she came to get her supper.
There was always a speech. Shouting and boasting about this god or that. Whichever one of the starry pests had decided that they wanted a little hero.
The heroes’ speeches made Klothys head hurt, so she made them silent. That was just the way of things.
Heroes shout and they die. Simple. If only the villagers could understand that.
When the soldiers had first come, the little people of the valley cheered them on. Klothys had worried she’d have to kill them too after smashing the soldiers, but they’d just slunk away when the “battle” was finished. Just as well. Bad enough to have them coming out with their flails and staffs whenever Klothys needed a meal. Bad enough to have to break their little bones just to fill her belly.
When the heroes came, bands of admirers and tag-alongs followed. Singers and guides and others who wanted to see how a hero lived. Again, the villagers cheered. Once Klothys showed them how a hero died, the followers would flee the valley, or else find a place among the village folk. With every hero, the shouts grew a little quieter. A little more subdued.
By the time the champion of the sun arrived, the villagers had stopped cheering entirely.
The champion’s group was small. Just a child to carry her shield and spear, and a woman with no weapons at all. The champion did not shout like the others when Klothys lumbered up the foothills, but just stood, and let the unarmed woman talk.
“The champion Agrippa has come this day, willed by the gods and embracing the destiny to free the people of this fair valley from the oppression of the dread cyclops, Klothys…”
Klothys blinked. The little talker had such a lovely voice that the… wrongness of what she said almost didn’t sink in.
“…for what good is it to be free of titans of storm and endless hunger when the moderate hunger of lesser tyrants still causes suffering among the living? It is the destiny of we mortals to live freely, unbound by fear-”
“Not a tyrant.”
That got a response from the little villagers. Small gasps and exchanged glances. Most probably never knew that Klothys could talk until just then. The little talker just smiled and turned back to the Champion. The Champion nodded, and took up her weapons. Her bronze was polished brighter than any Klothys had ever seen. The shine of it made her dizzy.
And the sharpness of it made her bleed. The spear moved like a swift; the blade sliced her ankles and butt battered her heels, bringing Klothys to her knees. When she bore down on the champion, the little hero swung her shield so the sunlight glinted off the polished bronze and cut Klothys’s vision like a sword. Tears poured from her eye. She stumbled about blindly on her elbows and knees. Klothys howled. She ripped up bushes and boulders to find the hero, but her hands never found the slippery little human.
One of the flung boulders did, however. When Klothys’s vision cleared, she found the champion lying a short distance away, leg shattered, and arm bleeding freely.
The champion flung her spear at Klothys. That was strange. The little ones before had mostly moaned and screamed when hurt so badly. When Klothys swatted the spear aside the champion cast her helmet. It bounced off Klothys’s knee. It stung, to be sure, but Klothys could not find it to begrudge the hero her last efforts.
Hair spilled out over the champion’s face. Black and wet with sweat, framing grit teeth and scarred cheeks. Blood trickled over one eye, wetting it shut. The other glared up at Klothys. There was none of the fear of the soldier. None of the anger of the other heroes…
…and nothing left to throw. The champion held her arms wide. There was expectation in that single, staring eye. Expectation…acceptance? Klothys paused.
The champion’s gaze never wavered, not even when Klothys finally brought her fist down, and drove the little hero’s corpse into the dirt.
Tears were already streaming down the child’s face. The villagers only nodded among themselves, or stared at the spot where the hero had knelt. The talker was silent a long while before clearing her throat.
“Destiny is not always kind. Not in its middle, or at its end.” Her voice carried fast over the hilltop. “Destiny is fought for by the living. We each have our path, and those paths will cross with others many times in the course of things. Sometimes when a path merges with another, it does not emerge again. It is not tragedy that a destiny should come to an end, merely a sign of a greater path rising.”
She gave Klothys one last look, and departed with the others.
***
So it was destiny that the little heroes should come and die. That was not so simple, and it sat uneasily in Klothys’s mind. It seemed…cruel. Did these little creatures really have such little choice in their lives?
***
Still, it made sense to Klothys. It was her nature to eat and be strong. It was the nature of the small to be crushed under her heel. Was that destiny? Did some of the little creatures of the world really think it was in their future to bring Klothys low?
If one of the little mortals was strong enough, if one of these heroes had the will, Klothys supposed it might well be their destiny to strike her down, but she couldn’t begin to imagine such a creature.
The next hero came, a grim, red-finned creature who smelled like brine, with a jagged bident that made waves rise out of the grass. She tried to explain to him what she had learned. Tried to explain that destiny, the cruel thing, had sent him here to die. It seemed only right to warn him. He was so surprised to hear Klothys speak that he just gaped until she dropped a boulder on his head.
The little talker lingered after the villagers had escorted the brine-hero’s companions away. Klothys liked to slink off and rest after fighting, but curiosity kept her.
“You took my words to heart, mistress cyclops?”
“Scary words.” Klothys crouched down to look at the talker. She had never liked the taste of the little creatures that spoke, never really looked to harm one unless they tried to fight her. Still, it was strange to have one speak to her so… casually.
“Scary? Even for one as powerful as you?”
“Scary for you.” Klothys jabbed a finger at the little talker. “I not scared. I fight and win. That my destiny. Humans fight too, but they fight and lose. Should give up bad destiny.”
The little talker laughed. As wonderful as her voice was, the laugh was even sweeter to Klothys’s ears. “Mistress cyclops, not every destiny is a success. Agrippa understood that. I would not have spoken for her otherwise. Not all destined to fight are destined to win. Some will lose and lose badly. Knowing which is not for us mortals to know.” She leaned up toward Klothys, and thought the distance between them hardly changed with that small gesture, the little talker still whispered her next words.
“I suspect it may not even be for the gods to know.”
And with that, she gave Klothys another of her lingering looks, and turned to go.
Klothys felt a strange warmth in her cheeks. The little talker had definitely smiled at her that time.
***
A destiny could lead anywhere. That was scary, Klothys supposed, but not really anything new.
***
The healer came with the next hero, a stout human all clad in bronze that looked like gold. Klothys almost didn’t notice the healer huddling in the hero’s shadow, but satyrs rarely came to the valley, and her horns were curious to look at.
The hero was quick in spite of his armor and the massive hammer he wielded. The weapon burned like fire whenever he landed a blow, and his armor burned with the same heat when Klothys finally grabbed him up. For all that, he still burst like any other mortal when she squeezed him tight.
She bellowed all that evening in a grazing field. The armor left burns on her palm and fingers. Angry, red, peeling burns. Burns so painful Klothys squished her supper in frustration, and had to scrape lamb-flesh from her palm.
The little satyr-healer came to see Klothys just before sunrise. She approached slowly, nervously, holding out a leather bag with both hands. Klothys was almost too miserable to move more than it took to sit up and inspect her guest.
“Th-the philosopher. She said you…she said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
The healer was smiling at Klothys. A small, scared-looking smile that wobbled with her voice.
“Does it hurt?” The healer pointed at Klothys’s hand. “I have…I can help with that, if you would like.” She came just within an arm’s reach, and set her bag down. She took out clay pots, marked with bright colors, visible even in the low light. “M-may I help?”
Klothys considered the little healer, and what she had said. Philosopher. That meant ‘talker.’ So the talker had sent her, and the talker was not afraid of Klothys. Surely the talker would have come herself, if she meant Klothys harm. Or perhaps she was too clever to try and kill Klothys in person.
Pain throbbed in Klothys’s hand, and she grumbled at the hurt. The little satyr flinched, but did not shy away.
Very brave. Come to heal me as bravely as the heroes come to kill me.
Klothys lowered her hand to the ground.
The little healer’s pots were full of pastes that smelled like hay and sunflowers. The healer spread them on Klothys’s burns with trembling hands, and stole away the pain little by little with every dab.
“I wish you hadn’t killed Theleus.” The little satyr’s voice was high-pitched and she spoke quickly, her words tumbling together. “He…he wasn’t very kind, but he only wanted to protect people from monsters.”
“Not a monster,” Klothys rumbled.
The little healer nodded. “The philosopher said that too. Said that we shouldn’t be angry that you, um… that you defend yourself.” She fell silent and busied herself with bandages before speaking again. “I’m…I’m trying not to be. My mother taught me how to make others well. It’s what I know. So as long as you’re hurt… I suppose I’ll help.”
Klothys had nothing to say to that, so she only nodded. Her head felt warm and stiff from her sleepless night, and as the sun rose over the hills, her eye slipped closed, and Klothys drifted away.
When she awoke, the sky overhead was the smoldering orange of late afternoon.
The healer was gone. Klothys patted her hand against her belly, and found her fingers swaddled in bandages. There was a dull throb, but the pain was gone.
“Very good, isn’t she?”
Klothys started, and scrambled to her feet. The talker was there, sitting on a boulder by the edge of the field. “The satyr culture of excess and festivity must by necessity produce those gifted at healing the bruises of careless revels.”
Klothys grumbled and cradled her hand as she sat back down. “Burns worse than bruises.”
“I suppose they are more painful.” The talker pursed her lips, and stepped up from the boulder to approach Klothys. “Thank you for letting her help you. That hero of hers filled her head with all sorts of stories. That you would eat her if he failed.”
“Never eat a satyr,” Klothys snorted. “Better things to eat in the valley. Being a meal… not her destiny.” She grinned down at the talker. She hoped it was a good grin. She didn’t have many others to smile at most of the time.
It must have been a good grin, because the talker laughed. “No. Not destined to do much, that one. A very sweet satyr though. She’ll be welcome in the valley, destiny or no destiny.”
“Destined…destined to heal. To make pain go away.” Klothys waved her hand in front of the Talker. “Good destiny. Good path. It is a good path to cross with.”
The talker paused. Her face was blank, and for a moment Klothys worried she’d said something wrong. The worry didn’t make much sense, as she didn’t have much reason to care what a little human thought, but then why did the smile that came a second later make her heart beat so harshly?
“I suppose is a good destiny to heal, even if one doesn’t heal heroes or kings.” She raised an eyebrow. “But do you really think being eaten is a destiny?”
“Hrm. Bad destiny for cows.” Klothys patted her belly. “But good for me.”
“Good for you, bad for animals.” The talker turned away toward the hills. “And bad for the villagers. I’ve come to ask you a favor. A trade, in exchange for the services of our destined healer.”
“What trade?”
“The next time you need a meal, call for me. I’ll bet I could hear you most anywhere in this valley. I can speak with the villagers about sending along a meal for you without you needing to knock over any homes or harm any of the good people here.”
Klothys frowned at the talker. “Would take longer for food. Don’t like… I don’t like to wait.”
“Maybe, but wouldn’t it be nice not to have a fuss raised at you every time you get hungry? To get your food without causing harm and grief? Imagine a creature bigger than yourself coming to this valley and harming you to get what it wanted-”
“Happens all the time. Don’t have to imagine.”
The talker went quiet again. Klothys wondered if her voice had broken. The little folk were so delicate. She hoped very badly she hadn’t broken that lovely voice.
“I’m sorry,” The talker said at last. “That sounds dreadful. What sort of…?”
“Monsters.”
“Monsters, yes. What kind have come here?”
Klothys shrugged. “Hydra. Dragon. Katoblepas. Thypon, once. They not come into valley long. I see to that.”
The talker was quiet again, but not for as long. “That must be very trying. Would you not prefer to live in peace?”
Klothys chewed on her lip. “Good at fighting. Don’t mind fighting…but…would be nice to not have to fight all the time.”
“I’m sure the citizens of the valley feel the same way. Wouldn’t that be a great gift to them, to obtain your food peacefully?”
“Hm.” Klothys rubbed her chin. “Hydras attack. I attack. It…It in our nature.”
“I think you are cleverer than a hydra, mistress cyclops. Beasts have natures. You can have a destiny. A destiny you get to choose for yourself. A peaceful one, even.” When Klothys didn’t answer, the talker continued. “The people here have lives to live, same as you. Destinies of their own, shall we say.” The talker rubbed her hands together. “Yes, destinies. As you say, even the small destinies matter. It’s how we’re remembered, after all.”
“Remembered,” Klothys repeated. “Yes, important. Best cyclopses remembered for great feats.”
“Would you rather the people here remember you for the monsters you fought, or for the way you terrorized them?”
Klothys didn’t have a reason to want the little people to be happy. She didn’t have a reason to want to make this talker happy, even if her voice was soft and lovely.
Still, she nodded. “I call. Then food?”
“Yes. I’ll bring the food.” The talker turned to go. Right before she reached the edge of the field, she turned back and called out. “And perhaps a bit of company, too?”
Klothys nodded, and made another grin.
She liked grinning.
***
A destiny was something you chose. That was a nice thing to think. That Klothys could have any destiny she wanted. It seemed too easy though; not quite the way things really worked in the world.
***
The healer came again, after the next hero cut into Klothys’s leg with a whip that trailed black smoke. The wound stung and hung open, and Klothys spent another night wailing until the little satyr appeared with her bag and her pots.
She wasn’t alone. The hero with the whip had been accompanied by a weaver; an old minotaur with fur white as fleece, horns full of thread, and a bag full of needles. While the little healer cleaned Klothys’s wound, the weaver stitched up the cuts. The threads pulled her flesh back together. The balms stopped the stinging and the pain.
The weaver worked in silence, perhaps upset that Klothys had ripped her whip-hero in two. The little healer was full of enough energy for both of them, and talked all through her work.
“And you really should wear some kind of armor. It would cost a lot of gold to make anything out of bronze for someone as big as you but it would be worth it if it keeps you safe. Oh, but then I suppose it would be tough for a hero to beat you, wouldn’t it. I guess I don’t mind if you don’t get beaten though, if you’re not going to be causing trouble for the people here any more.”
The little healer had a nice enough voice, Klothys supposed. Easy to listen to, but not a delight, like the talker’s was.
“Anyways, this should heal much faster once miss weaver is done over there. I can do stitches for most folk, but for someone as big as you… I’ll have to have her teach me her techniques. You’ll do that, won’t you, miss weaver?”
The weaver raised her snout from her work, slowly. Spools of thread hung from nails hammered into her horns. Her eyes, Klothys noted, were almost as pale as her fur, and when she spoke she looked up into the sky, rather than at the healer.
“If you settle down long enough to be taught, little goat. Better to show this big oaf how to handle the needle and thread herself, I think.”
Klothys wrinkled her nose. “What for?”
“To save me the time,” The weaver huffed. “I’ve got tapestries and garments for heroes to craft. I can’t be fooling around with my arms up to the elbows in blood and skin.”
“No one’s making you stay,” The healer replied. Klothys didn’t think the little the little satyr meant anything cruel by it, but the minotaur still bristled at the comment, and pinched the next fold of skin just a little harder.
“Plenty of heroes come wandering into this valley, I’m told.” The weaver jabbed the needle through Klothys’s thick skin in one deft, brutal motion. “Might as well stay. That philosopher of yours has a good way with words. I’m sure she’ll see a scene worthy of my talents eventually. Until then I want this big brute in as fit shape as possible. I won’t waste my time depicting the slaying of a cyclops already at death’s door.”
The little healer set down her pots and scrambled over Klothys’s leg to look at the weaver. “How could you make a picture anyways, if you can’t see anything? I had to walk you all the way here.”
“Feh! I’ve been working the needle since before any of you were born. I can tell a thread’s color by touch alone. I could reproduce a hundred scenes just from memory. Don’t you worry about how I’ll make my tapestries, little goat. I was born to weave.”
“Destiny.” Klothys nodded, understanding. “Destined to weave.”
“Destined, feh! I worked hard for my skills. Destiny’s got nothing to do with it.” The weaver knotted the end of the stitching, and severed the wire with a pair of shears. “Now get up on that leg. Got to make sure the stitches hold.”
It took a day’s rest before Klothys could stand without pain. Three days later she felt well enough to walk. Four days beyond that and she had the strength to walk to the village.
The handful of distant cottages had swelled with the many travelers left behind by heroes and champions. Tents were scattered across the valley foothills. Little children, satyr, human, and centaur alike, who had once carried weapons for warriors now helped in the fields and the vineyards. Youths who had followed heroes for love or out of admiration helped the blacksmith, the tanner, and the woodworker with their labors. Warrior companions harvested fruit in the groves.
Klothys, of course, only caught a glimpse of this activity before her appearance sent all the little folk screaming and running.
It had never felt wrong, scaring the little ones, whenever Klothys was hungry and wanted a meal. This time she had only wanted to talk, and it felt… uncomfortable? It was small consolation that, when the talker strode down the hill to meet Klothys, she was smiling.
“I’m happy to see you on the mend, mistress cyclops, but I would have come with some food if only you’d called. I can’t show you my promise is good if you don’t give me the chance.”
“Not hungry.” Klothys rumbling belly gave the lie to that statement almost right away, but she just flushed and kept speaking. “Wanted to see you. Talk with you.”
The talker made a face that Klothys couldn’t quite place. Her mahogany cheeks looked… redder?
“Well…how can I say no? Wait here a moment. I’ll have the cook prepare you a sow.”
With that the talker was away back up the hill, into the spread of tents and houses. Klothys stood amid the tents, shuffling her feet as little as possible to avoid knocking anything down. A few of the little folk, a priestess, a drunken old man, and a centaur with a broken leg, had remained in the village, and regarded Klothys warily. Some of the little folk who’d fled or hid started to make their slow way back up the hill, or to peek out of their homes. The stares made Klothys anxious, so she left and sat in a grazing field, rubbing her aching leg. The healer had left her with a big cauldron of the sweet-smelling paste for her wounds, and it cooled the pain a bit.
“Pernatos, no!”
Klothys blinked and looked down. A little child, one of the villagers’ children, had wandered out onto the field, and was waddling toward Klothys’s foot. The little healer burst out of a copse of nearby trees, shouting after it.
“Get back! Oh! Sorry miss cyclops.” The healer scooped up the child in her arms right before she could grab at Klothys’s toe. “Some of the little ones were curious. I said they’d be better off not bothering you.”
Klothys squinted at the copse, and sure enough, three more children were huddled around the trunks, staring back at her.
“Big lady.”
The first child was leaning out of the healer’s arms, still trying to get a hand on Klothys’s foot. Klothys slid her leg forward, and felt the faintest tickle as a tiny palm scraped against her toe.
“Big,” The child added, nodding to herself.
“Certainly is, little troublemaker.” The healer put the child down, but watched her warily as she waddled around Klothys’s foot. The other children dared a little nearer, a few steps, then a few more. By the time the talker returned with a trio of other humans bearing a fat hog on a spit and a barrel, they were only a few yards away.
“Oh good, you found some company.” The talker directed the others to set the hog in front of Klothys. “The first of many peaceful meals. The butcher didn’t like the idea of cooking it up for you, but I made an appeal to his pride.”
Klothys laughed as she plucked up the spit, and the humans that had carried it retreated back up the hill. “Little human kill pig. What so tough about that?” She bit into the pig, ripping its belly out. “Nothing to be proud abou-” Klothys paused mid-chew. The pig tasted different. Good different. Like there was something on the skin that made it crispy and sweet, and something inside it that was more than just meat.
“Stuffed with its own meat ground up and mixed with peppers, then covered in honey and roasted. A traditional meal for greeting strangers in the valley, I’m told, along with this.”
The talker gestured toward the barrel. Klothys slurped down the rest of the pig, chewing it a bit longer than was her habit to stretch out that lovely flavor, then grabbed up the barrel. The liquid inside was red like blood, but tasted strange and bitter. Klothys spat it out into the air.
“Not a fan of reds, I’ll be sure to pass that along to the winemaker.” The talker sat down on the discarded barrel. “How have the days been since your last victory?”
“Full of hurt,” Klothys grumbled, tapping her leg. “But full of help, too.” She pulled up the tarp of her loincloth to show the long scar running from shin to hip.
“They did a good job on you.” The little talker looked away, back at Klothys’s thigh, then away again. There was red in her cheeks. “Heroes… heroes have brought you wounds, but quite a few good people into your life as well.”
“Brought you.”
“Yes…” The talker smiled up at Klothys. “…me. But also a willing physician, and a skilled worker of thread to keep you… keep you whole. Your path is intertwining with many interesting destinies.”
Klothys ran a finger along her stitches. “Cow-weaver…says it’s not destiny. Says she worked for her skills. Lots of practice.”
“An interesting perspective. What do you think?”
“Think… I think skill part of destiny. If destiny a road, skill just make the road better. Practice… practice is the work to pave your destiny path.”
“Hm.” The talker rubbed her chin. “And what practice do you do, mistress cyclops, on the path of your destiny?”
Klothys shrugged. “Heroes keep coming. Keep giving me practice. You?”
The talker spread her arms. “This. I talk. I listen. I think. Back home I matched my wits against other students and teachers of philosophy. When I stopped learning from them, I wandered the world.”
“Dangerous to walk the world with just your words.”
“You might be surprised,” The talker said with a smile. “The right words can win you the company of warriors enough to travel safely where titans and monsters tread. The right words might even sway a great beast’s heart. I’ve found myself swept up in the current of many more… forceful destinies, but I’ve had good enriching experiences along the way.”
“Current?”
“Ah, I’m mixing metaphors. Some destinies are like a road. Others…well, some roads have so many travelers on them, so many others who are swept up in the wake of the one who walks at the head of the crowd, it’s easy to get swept up in the rush.”
Klothys nodded. “Like your sun hero?”
“Exactly like the Champion of the Sun.”
“Sun champion… your friend. I kill them, but you still friendly with me?”
The little talker made a face of thinking, and nodded slowly. Klothys leaned toward her. The very best of the words came after the quiet. After the thinking.
“It’s a dangerous destiny these heroes have. They intersect with so many others, for more intense and much shorter spans of time than most any of us intersect with one another. Their destinies are direct and violent, and for all the good they do, so many other destinies are trampled along the way.”
Klothys considered that.
“I trample.”
“That’s true.” The little talker sat herself on the ground, cross-legged. “But you are alive, and every living thing has the right to fight for its destiny. You eat the flocks and chase away the others smaller than you, but you do it to live. I… I could not begrudge you your right to live.”
“Mmmm… thank you.” Klothys leaned forward, and gingerly patted the talker on the head. There must have been something funny about it because the little talker was reduced to a giggling fit.
***
A destiny required work. Klothys had suspected as much. That was fine. She didn’t mind work.
***
The story continues in I, Immortal: Part Two.