The quiet sound that began on the day I turned fourteen didn't fade like a bad dream or the lingering taste of something unpleasant. It stayed. The two separate talks happening at the edge of my hearing, buried under my own thoughts, became a constant, a new kind of weather inside my skull. They settled in, like birds building a nest in a place they were not invited, fluttering and rustling just behind my eyes, making their presence known with a low hum that never entirely disappeared.
This couldn't be normal. This couldn't be something that happened to everyone. My body felt the same – solid ground under my feet, the familiar weight of things in my hands – but my mind felt... invaded. The world outside, which had already shrunk after Philistos left and my own shyness grew, now felt even more distant, separated from the strange, unsettling reality that was taking root inside my head. I watched people talking, laughing, going about their days, and felt a sudden, sharp gulf open between me and them. They didn't have this constant, internal noise. They were just... themselves. I felt like a stranger in my own skin, carrying a secret burden that made me fundamentally different.
I had to tell someone. I had to find out if anyone else heard this, if anyone knew what it meant. Was I sick? Was this a curse? Or was it something else, something... divine, perhaps? The old stories were full of mortals visited by gods, spoken to in dreams or whispers. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, a mix of fear and a strange, bewildering awe.
I tried my parents first, the people whose love had always felt like the most solid ground I knew. It was hard to find the words, they felt clumsy and fragile, not strong enough to hold the truth of the sounds inside me. I waited for a quiet moment, perhaps while helping Mother shell peas in the shade of the awning, the gentle rhythm of her hands a familiar comfort. "Mother," I started, my voice thin, barely audible above the soft clinking of the peas hitting the clay bowl. "Something... something strange is happening." I took a breath, gathering the last of my courage. "I... I think I'm hearing voices. Inside my head."
My mother looked up, her hands pausing in their work. The smile she gave me was soft, gentle, the one she used when I was small and had made up some elaborate fantasy about our games, about fighting unseen beasts or sailing imaginary seas. It was a loving smile, but also one that dismissed what I was saying as mere childishness. She reached out, her fingers cool, patting my hand where it rested on the table. "Just your imagination, dear," she said, her voice kind, almost soothing, but utterly, completely dismissive of the terror I felt. "Boys your age have wonderful fantasies. You've always had such a vivid mind, Himerios, filling the world with monsters and heroes. Don't fret about it." She went back to her peas, the subject closed as neatly as shutting a door. Her gentleness felt not like comfort, but like a soft hand pushing me away, telling me that this part of me, this terrifying reality, was not welcome in her world.
Later, I tried my father, catching him in the yard while he was mending a tool, the smell of wood and worn leather familiar and comforting. "Father," I began, my voice a little stronger this time, determined to be heard, "I need to tell you something important. It's about... about sounds I'm hearing." He set down his tool with a deliberate clink, his attention entirely on me, his face flat and unreadable, the lines around his mouth still. My hope rose slightly; he was listening. "It's like... like there are talks happening inside my head. Two different ones." He listened for a moment longer, his grey eyes steady on mine. Then his expression shifted, hardening just slightly.
"Voices, Himerios?" he said, his voice steady and firm, allowing no room for argument. "Do not talk nonsense. There are no voices in your head. Your mind is your own. Focus on what is real, on what is useful – on your chores, on your studies." He didn't raise his voice, but his tone carried the full weight of his expectation, his belief in order and sense, and the clear disappointment that I would say something so... irrational, so pointless. "Put such thoughts away. They are not productive." His dismissal felt like a solid, unmoving wall built between us, leaving me on the outside with my unseen burden.
The pain of not being believed was a small, sharp sting each time, a fresh wound in my chest. They didn't hear. They couldn't hear. They didn't understand the reality I was experiencing. My reality was invisible, unbelievable to them, something they could only dismiss as childish fantasy or foolish nonsense. It wasn't a game to me; it was real, confusing, and deeply, painfully isolating. It made the secret, which was already a heavy stone in my gut, feel impossible to share, something I had to carry entirely alone.
I made one last attempt, trying an older cousin, someone closer to my own age who I thought might understand things better than my parents' generation. He was quick to laugh, full of energy, always ready with a joke or a story. I found him by the well, the rope groaning as he pulled up a bucket of water. I drew a breath, the smell of damp earth filling my lungs, and mumbled something, quickly, about sounds that weren't there, about words only I could hear.
He stopped pulling, looked at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of concern. Then his face broke into a wide, easy grin, and the concern was gone, replaced by amusement. "Ah, Himerios!" he laughed, clapping me on the shoulder with a splash from his wet hand. "Sounds like you've been reading too many old myths! Thinking the gods are speaking to you, perhaps? Leave that to the priests and oracles, cousin! They're the ones who get paid for riddles and whispers! We have work to do!" He turned back to the well, shaking his head slightly, chuckling to himself.
Each dismissal layered on the last, like building up a wall around me. They didn't hear. They didn't believe. My reality was invisible, unbelievable to them. After these few attempts, the hope drained away, leaving behind a residue of resignation and a deeper fear. I stopped talking about it. The words got stuck in my throat, knowing they would be met with that same gentle smile or firm dismissal or easy laughter. I learned to keep the voices secret, hidden away in the increasingly crowded and strange space behind my eyes.
They were always there now. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear, of course. They were inside me, filling the space where my own quiet thoughts used to reside, and yet… they felt separate. They weren't thoughts I generated myself; they felt like presences, like tenants in my own mind who paid no rent but dictated where I walked, what I looked at, how I held my shoulders.
The deep, clear one, which I started, foolishly perhaps, calling 'God,' was all about sense, about logic, about rules and order. What was the right thing to do? The efficient thing? The strong thing? He spoke with the conviction of an elder, the authority of a leader, his perspective narrow but intensely focused on the practical, the observable, the measurable. His voice was like the scraping of stone on stone – firm, unyielding.
The softer one, 'Goddess,' felt different. She was linked to feelings, to intuition, to beauty and connection, to the intangible. What felt good? What felt kind? What felt… true to me, to my spirit? Her voice was like a gentle melody, a soft bell sound, often drowned out, easily overlooked, her 'vision' wide, encompassing the feel and colour of things, the atmosphere of a place, the emotional state of others, but lacking sharp focus or concrete direction.
In these early months, Goddess was often dominant, her perspective coloring the world more strongly, guiding my attention to things I wouldn't have noticed before. I might be walking to the market, focused on the errand, and Goddess would draw my attention to the way the light hit the dust motes dancing in the air, or the particular shade of blue in a child's tunic. She might see the weariness in a merchant's eyes as I approached his stall or feel the weight of sadness in the air around someone sitting alone, and push for kindness or empathy, a gentle pull towards connection. God would counter with logic about bargaining harder, about efficiency, about ignoring distractions.
Their initial dynamics were like two currents in a shallow stream, pulling in slightly different directions, often with Goddess's wider, more encompassing flow guiding the ultimate course, or them finding a kind of compromise that leaned towards feeling or intuition. "He must buy the freshest figs," God would state, his voice flat with fact. "But the figs at the small stall look lonely! And the seller has a kind face! Buy his figs!" Goddess would counter, her voice light with feeling. I would stand there for a moment, my body still, caught between the two pulls, before one perspective, or a blend of them, guided my feet.
And the most unsettling part, the thing that sent a cold, tight feeling into my stomach and made my heart beat like a caught bird, was their utter, complete unresponsiveness when I tried to communicate with them. "Who are you?!" I'd scream inside my head, raw and needing an answer, the sound stuck inside my skull, echoing only to me. "What do you want from me?!" "Why are you here?!" "Go away! Leave me alone!" My silent cries, my frantic questions, my pleas for them to stop, for them to explain... were met with silence. Not a physical silence, their own arguments continued, but a complete lack of acknowledgment of my presence, my terror, my attempts to reach them. They didn't show they heard me try to talk to them, to understand them, to make them go away. They didn't see my fight against them, like stone statues not hearing people asking for help at their feet, simply continuing their own discourse as if I weren't there at all. It was like being trapped in a room with two people who talked over you constantly, never once acknowledging you were even in the space.
They were strong, like a song stuck in my mind that no amount of shaking my head can make go away, playing even if I didn't want it to. They got louder, stronger, wanting more the more I tried to ignore them, like they wanted me to know they were there, wanted me to listen, wanted to be in charge of how my body worked. They started to feel less like ideas to think about and more like… orders. Quiet, not loud orders, but ones that came with a silent, clear feeling that I had to listen, a strange compulsion that was separate from my own will.
My own thoughts, my own desires, my own will felt increasingly overshadowed, struggling to be heard above the constant, low hum of their presence, above the growing volume of their commands. The outside world went on, unaware that my inner world had just gained two powerful, persistent, often disagreeing, and utterly unresponsive inhabitants. My isolation was now complete, a thick, invisible wall between my visible self and the unseen forces that were beginning to control my steps, to filter my perceptions, to dictate my reality. I was alone with them, and they would not leave.