The Gifts of Pandora

for twilight to seep in. Twilight was the best and worst time.
At dusk, an invisible weight sloughed off her ten-year-old shoulders and she could breathe more deeply than any other time. She’d leave the bustle and crowds of Thebes behind and walk for hours. Here, she could feel the lines of the World, threading through the land and sea and sky and into her. Sometimes, though, she could see too much in the gathering dark. Shadows on her periphery would grow so thick they seemed almost solid. Or perhaps, sibilant whispers would carry on the wind like a chorus of nonsense.
Papa told her not to listen, but she could have sworn, a few times, someone was actually speaking to her. But he didn’t understand. If there was someone out here, addressing her, didn’t she need to know who?
Well, she had come far enough. She plopped down on the sands, and Sharvara immediately lay down beside her, head on her knee. “Somebody needs his ears scratched, huh?” And who was she to deny such an important need?
For a long time, they sat like that, listening to the waves lap upon the beach, even after the last light of the sun had winked out. It was a new moon tonight, and with the lamps of the harbor district so far off, an extreme darkness had settled upon the shore. Papa would not have approved of her going so far out on a night like this, but Pyrrha couldn’t stand another moment in that stuffy court.
Oh, sure, Lady Tethys had given them a place to stay after they’d lost her mother. Pyrrha had a home in the court, and Papa told her to have gratitude for that. She tried. But Tethys’s children were … She snickered. “Well, they’re mostly horrible wretches who deserve to be gobbled up by Cyclopes, don’t they, boy?” Papa would have castigated her for saying such, but it was true. “If they didn’t want to be scorned, maybe they shouldn’t act like they shit gold.” She shuddered. “And that Hera, bleh!”
Sharvara whimpered in what Pyrrha chose to take as agreement, and she nuzzled him more. Perhaps they should head back. Papa would worry, after all. This close to the polis there wasn’t much fear of bandits, but tripping in the dark and breaking an ankle wouldn’t do, either.
Before she could rise, Sharvara lurched to his feet, casting about sharply, ears pricked. A moment later, the dog tucked his tail between his legs and whimpered.
“Who’s there?” Pyrrha demanded, climbing to her feet. She peered into the gloom but couldn’t see more than five feet ahead. She glanced up at the stars for a brief moment, willing them to offer more light than they did. “Is someone out there?”
The sensation of a figure moving through the shadows to her left seized her, and she spun. Neither the sliver of moon nor the stars cast enough illumination to make out whatever had drawn her attention.
Sharvara had begun to tremble beneath her palm. The hair on Pyrrha’s neck and arms stood on end. “Go away …” she whispered.
She knew she needed to move. Staying here—whether something was out there or not—was a fool’s option. But her feet wouldn’t respond.
A gasp, as of pain, ushered out from behind her. Pyrrha spun around and saw a fleeting glimpse of a man in the darkness, clad in full battle panoply, his feet dragging in pained shuffles. But he was gone too far in the gloom before her eyes even had time to focus on him.
She expected Sharvara to growl at the figure, but the dog continued to whimper, not seeming to have seen the man. Finding it hard to swallow, Pyrrha forced herself to back away a few steps. Sharvara did not move. “Come on,” she grated, tightening her grip on his fur and pulling.
The dog yelped and broke into a wild run, scampering back toward Thebes.
“Sharvara!” Pyrrha shouted after him. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth, realizing she had just given herself away to whoever was out there.
Where was Papa when she needed him? Where was anyone? Pyrrha wanted to scream, to weep, but could not afford either.
Not daring to run, Pyrrha continued to back away, toward the harbor. Finally, when she had put enough distance between herself and the site where she’d encountered the soldier, she turned. Behind her stood a bushy-bearded figure too tall to be a Man. He too wore a full panoply, his breastplate encrusted with a dolphin.
Pyrrha stumbled backward, fell on her arse, and shrieked.
The Titan gazed down at her, seeming confused by her presence. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a wheezing moan came out. A gaping wound opened out of the back of his throat. A hole, clean through him. The Titan began to reach trembling fingers toward her.
Shrieking, Pyrrha half ran, half crawled until she managed to gain her feet and break into a dead sprint away from the figure. Tears stung her eyes, further blinding her. Hot wetness ran along her legs. It took her a moment to realize she’d pissed herself.
Unable to stop her sobs, she blundered back into the harbor, gasping for breath. What in the depths of the Underworld? What had she just seen? She flung herself at the first sailor she came to, a rancid man lounging on a pile of rope, a bowl of wine in his hands.
“Help me,” she wailed.
The man looked her up and down and crinkled his nose before shoving her away. “Pissant, I’m trying to drink here.”
Dazed, Pyrrha found herself wandering the boardwalk, not even knowing what she was about. Only half-aware of herself, she spied Hera and Styx, two of Tethys’s children dangling their legs off a pier. Styx noticed her first and elbowed her elder sister. The pair of them sneered at Pyrrha but rose.
“I saw a dead man,” Pyrrha yelped.
Hera snorted, and Styx chuckled. “Just one?” Hera asked. “During the war, hundreds of men died here. They brought them into