Life with the voices, those unwelcome tenants who had settled in when I turned fourteen, had, by the time I was fifteen, settled into a strange, exhausting rhythm. They were a constant presence, sometimes a low hum beneath my own thoughts, sometimes a maddening clamor of conflicting suggestions, but always there, a secret world warring within my head. My attempts to tell anyone had been met with swift dismissal, pushing me further into myself, reinforcing the terrifying truth that this was something I carried entirely alone.
The quiet, shy version of myself, the one who avoided eyes and fumbled for words, had become the one people outside my family knew. The social boy I had been felt like a ghost from a distant past. My acting, when I still did it alone in secluded spots – the quiet corner of the yard, the hidden bend in the stream – was a hidden escape, a secret known only to Euboa, who still watched sometimes from a distance with her quiet, constant gaze. The external world often felt overwhelming, a place I navigated awkwardly, filtered through the conflicting, often detached perspectives of God and Goddess.
Then, Theano came into my orbit. She was like a sudden, unexpected burst of sunlight on a cloudy day, scattering some of the internal fog and making the world outside feel, for the first time in years, a little less daunting. Her hair was dark and seemed to catch the light even on overcast days, her eyes were bright and full of a cheerful laughter that felt utterly genuine and seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep inside her, and her smile… her smile could make you forget, just for a moment, whatever internal debate was raging in your skull, whatever conflicting commands were vying for control. She was my age, fifteen, with an energy that seemed to draw people in effortlessly, without demanding attention, simply by being herself, by radiating a warmth that was open and accepting.
I first truly noticed her at the well, her movements easy and graceful as she drew water, the rope creaking softly, talking easily with the others around her. Her voice was light and clear, like a small bell. I was there to fetch water too, and found myself lingering, just to be near the sound of her voice, the sight of her easy way of being in the world. Unlike most people, whose easy confidence I now envied and shied away from, shrinking into myself when they approached, feeling the familiar tightness in my chest, talking to Theano felt… comfortable. She didn't seem to push or expect me to be louder or more outgoing than I was. She just accepted my quiet nature, my hesitant words, my sometimes-long pauses, and surprisingly, she seemed to enjoy my company, finding a different kind of value in my presence. Our conversations started small, here and there – a shared moment by the well, a brief exchange in the marketplace when our families were trading goods, the scent of spices and dried herbs thick in the air, a quiet nod at town gatherings. Each interaction was like a small, warm stone added to a cold, difficult path, making it slightly easier to walk.
Our relationship didn't deepen with grand gestures or dramatic events. It grew, slowly and steadily, with shared quiet moments and simple conversations that stretched longer each time. We'd find ourselves walking in the same direction after errands – her with a basket of olives, me with bread from the baker – and the few necessary words about the day's tasks would turn into a hesitant chat about the clouds, or a story from our childhoods. She'd ask about my day, and I'd find myself answering with a little more ease than I did with others. What was it about her? She didn't fill the silence if I paused, she just waited patiently, her bright eyes meeting mine without judgment, without demanding I rush to fill the quiet space. This lack of pressure, this simple acceptance of my quiet nature, was a balm to the raw nerves of my growing shyness.
We started deliberately seeking each other out. A shared walk by the edge of the village, the smell of dry earth and wild thyme in the air. Sitting together near the place where the old fishing boats were pulled up, listening to the murmur of the waves, the scent of salt and seaweed strong. In her presence, the constant hum of the voices didn't entirely disappear, but their clamor felt less urgent, somehow quieter, as if even they were momentarily soothed by the simple peace she brought.
One afternoon, she found me near the stream, in one of the secluded spots I sometimes used for my lonely play, though I wasn't acting that day. I was just skipping stones across the water, watching the ripples spread and fade, a simple thing I hadn't done since I was much younger, before the world got complicated, before the voices, before the shyness.
"Himerios?" she called out, her voice light and clear, a sound that felt like it belonged in the peaceful setting. It didn't startle me the way other voices often did now.
I startled anyway, the old instinct to retreat a sharp jolt through my muscles, nearly dropping the flat stone in my hand. My immediate impulse, guided by a mix of caution learned from God's insistence on privacy ("Private space. Retreat. Avoid unexpected interaction. This is not a controlled environment.") and my own shy embarrassment at being seen alone in this quiet, vulnerable act, was to run, to disappear into the trees. But a softer thought surfaced, a gentle, quiet presence I hadn't heard clearly in a while, overriding God's sharp command. It felt like Goddess, her voice a fragile melody. "Stay. She is kind. She sees. There is warmth here."
I stayed, flushing slightly, turning to face her. "Theano."
She came closer, her dress rustling softly as she moved through the tall grass by the bank. She didn't approach with the boisterous energy of some my age, or with an intrusive curiosity, but with a quiet grace that was her own. She stopped a few paces away, respecting the space. "Are you hiding away today?" She didn't ask it accusingly, or with the pitying tone I sometimes heard from others. Just with genuine curiosity, her expression open and accepting, making it easy to answer.
"Just... thinking," I mumbled, sending the stone I held skipping across the water. It bounced three times before sinking, a small, satisfactory series of circles on the surface.
She watched the ripples fade into the wider flow of the stream, then looked back at me. "You always seem to be thinking, Himerios," she said softly, "or else... pretending."
My head snapped up, the constant internal static momentarily silenced by surprise. The word "pretending" hung in the air between us. "Pretending?" It felt strange coming from someone else, like she was speaking a secret language I thought only I knew.
She smiled softly, a knowing light in her eyes that made my stomach do a strange flip, a mix of fear and wonder. "Sometimes I see you when you think no one is looking. By yourself, when you're alone, you move differently. With more... fire? Like you're fighting something vast and terrible."
My stomach did a strange flip again, this time heavier, a knot of emotion tightening in my chest. She had seen? She knew about Hektor, or at least the feeling of it? I hadn't played the act near anyone but Euboa in years, not since Philistos left and the shyness became a wall. The thought that someone else had witnessed those hidden moments, those glimpses of a self I kept buried, was both terrifying and... something else. Something that felt like hope, fragile but real.
"Deny it. It is odd behavior for your age. It shows weakness. It will bring scorn. Conceal it," God advised instantly, his voice sharp and insistent, already calculating the potential negative social outcomes of such a revelation. "She will not understand. It is illogical."
"But she sees something real in you," Goddess whispered, a tremor of hope in her voice, like a fragile bird taking flight against a strong wind. "She sees the spark. Share it. This is connection."
I hesitated, caught between the two internal commands, one urging denial and concealment, the other urging openness and connection. Theano waited patiently, her expression open, not mocking, not judgmental, just... curious and kind, making the choice feel less impossible.
Finally, the words came out, quiet but true, a little rusty from disuse, pushed past the tightness in my throat by that fragile hope Goddess had offered. "I... I used to play a game," I mumbled, looking down at the ground. "As Hektor Anepsios. With my friend Philistos. When we were younger."
Her smile broadened, not with amusement at childish games, but with understanding and a kind of gentle recognition that made my heart feel a little lighter. "Ah. The hero. I always liked his story. Courage against impossible odds." She paused, her gaze steady on mine, and I found myself looking up to meet it. "It suits you, somehow. That fire."
We talked for a long time that day, sitting by the stream as the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows. The sound of the water flowing, the rustling leaves, her light voice – it all wove together into a moment of peace. I didn't tell her about the voices, of course. That secret was buried too deep, too intertwined with shame and the pain of not being believed. It felt like a dark, tangled root I couldn't expose to the light. But I talked about Philistos, about seeing Sophon Argyros that day in the square and the spark he ignited, about the feeling of becoming Hektor, the escape it offered from the quiet boy I was, the way it felt like finding a truer self in the dust of our makeshift stage.
As I spoke, recounting these memories, the old feelings stirred within me – the joy of the play, the sadness of Philistos leaving, the power of Sophon's performance. Goddess's voice was a constant, warm presence during this conversation, a gentle hum of agreement and encouragement. "Yes! The truth! Speak of the fire! Share the feeling!" God was quieter, a low rumble of unease. "Past is irrelevant. Focus on present. This conversation has no practical outcome." But for once, his voice held less sway.
And she listened. She truly listened, not just with her ears, but with her whole being, her bright eyes never leaving my face. She asked questions, simple ones that showed she was following, that she cared. "What did it feel like, to be the hero?" she asked softly, watching my face. "Was Sophon Argyros's voice truly like striking metal?" She saw the passion that I had let become hidden beneath layers of shyness and internal conflict, that I didn't even consciously acknowledge as my true desire anymore. She saw the boy who lit up when he talked about heroes and stages, not just the quiet, fumbling one who struggled with simple decisions. She saw the spark.
From that day, our meetings became less casual, more sought after by both of us. We walked together as the seasons changed, shared stories about our days, sat in companionable silence sometimes, the quiet between us comfortable, not empty or awkward. With her, the burden of the voices felt lighter, or perhaps I just had a space outside their constant debate where my own feelings, my own quiet joy, my own true self could simply be, acknowledged and accepted without needing to understand the internal chaos.
Falling in love with Theano wasn't a single moment, like being struck by lightning, sudden and overwhelming. It was a slow, steady blossoming, like a flower opening to the sun over many days. It was in her easy laughter, the way her eyes met mine without judgment, the understanding smile when I struggled for words, the incredible fact that she saw and valued a spark in me I had forgotten was there. It was the feeling of peace and simple happiness that settled over me whenever she was near, a feeling the voices, for all their arguments and commands, couldn't create or command. She became my anchor in a world that increasingly felt adrift in internal noise and external misunderstanding, a cheerful light in the growing shadows, a connection to the external world that felt real and vital.