Letter to Versi (#18)
(Written before going to bed the evening before the Run.)
My dear one,
I had hoped that being in Pamplaxia for the Run would lift my spirits but I am afraid that today has not quite lived up to its promise.
The Run itself makes me uncomfortable. Or, rather, the fact that the whole thing seems to be rigged is what makes me uncomfortable. We were asked to ensure that some of the teenagers were worse for wear ahead of tomorrow. Effectively, we were asked to make them lose.
It is not that the losers are faced with a terrible fate, per se... but I think it is unfair on the runners for us to change the rules of the game they think they are playing. It is their future on the line and they are at the age that they should have some sort of control. Afterall, it is not as if they are not criminals in need of punishment or tyrants who must be overthrown at any cost: they are children and we should not sabotage their first choices on the road to adulthood.
I suspect I am being naive.
Despite my discomfort, I am glad we are here in Pamplaxia so that Braz could spend some time with his flock while we take a small break from our seemingly endless list of tasks. Or, at least, I was glad for him. Unfortunately, it would seem the reality of Braz’s curse has not gone unnoticed: his flock have decided that they want him to leave and not come back unless he is completely curse-free.
It is a cruel request, though understandable. My heart breaks for him. Braz is strong and has put on a brave face but there is an undeniable pain in his eyes.
And he is not the only one. Pythor has been hiding here in Pamplaxia, drinking himself into a stupor.
It is easy to look at him and say that what he is doing is wrong. That getting as drunk as a Lutherian Satyr every day won’t help anyone, least of all him. But I understand. He wants to forget. Not just the pain, but the guilt and the helplessness that comes with realising I couldn’t save he can’t save everyone.
When I met him, I thought Pythor and I were very different. Maybe that is still true but the way we have dealt with our issues aren’t. All that is different is the drug: he chose wine and I chose… well, you understand.
I want to help him. But how do you help a God? I don’t know the answer to that question. So, I figure, the best I can do is treat Pythor like a mortal. Like a friend.
I kept him company on his watch this evening and we spoke about a lot: the Games; his role as a God; his drinking… from his perspective I suppose I am just some Siren with a mind younger than her years lecturing him on life. He has no reason to listen to me. But, after all was said and done, he seemed thoughtful. He even poured away his wine.
Maybe I helped a little after all.
Hopefully yours,
Calliope