The Tower of Nero

He had no final words—just a look of half-blind reptilian horror as he plummeted into Chaos and burst into a cloud of purple fizz.

I hung from the ledge, too exhausted to feel relief.

This was the end. Pulling myself up would be beyond my ability.

Then I heard a voice that confirmed my worst fears.

“I TOLD YOU SO.”

I never doubted those would be the last words I heard.

Next to me, the goddess Styx floated over the void. Her purple-and-black dress might have been a plume of Chaos itself. Her hair drifted like an ink cloud around her beautiful, angry face.

I wasn’t surprised that she could exist here so effortlessly, in a place where other gods feared to go. Along with being the keeper of sacred oaths, Styx was the embodiment of the River of Hate. And as anyone can tell you, hatred is one of the most durable emotions, one of the last to fade into nonexistence.

I told you so. Of course she had. Months ago at Camp Half-Blood, I had made a rash oath. I’d sworn on the River Styx not to play music or use a bow until I was a god again. I’d reneged on both counts, and the goddess Styx had been dogging my progress ever since, sprinkling tragedy and destruction wherever I went. Now I was about to pay the final price—I would be canceled.

I waited for Styx to pry my fingers from the obsidian ledge, then give me a raspberry as I plummeted into the soupy, amorphous destruction below.

To my surprise, Styx wasn’t done talking.

“Have you learned?” she asked.

If I hadn’t felt so weak, I might have laughed. I had learned, all right. I was still learning.

At that moment, I realized I’d been thinking about Styx the wrong way all these months. She hadn’t put destruction in my path. I’d caused it myself. She hadn’t gotten me into trouble. I was the trouble. She had merely called out my recklessness.

“Yes,” I said miserably. “Too late, but I get it now.”

I expected no mercy. Certainly, I expected no help. My little finger slipped free of the ledge. Nine more until I fell.

Styx’s dark eyes studied me. Her expression was not gloating, exactly. She looked more like a satisfied piano teacher whose six-year-old pupil had finally mastered “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

“Hold on to that, then,” she said.

“What, the rock?” I murmured. “Or the lesson?”

Styx made a sound that did not belong at the brink of Chaos: she chuckled with genuine amusement.

“I suppose you’ll have to decide.” With that, she dissolved into smoke, which drifted upward toward the airy climes of Erebos.

I wished I could fly like that. But, alas, even here, at the precipice of nonexistence, I was subject to gravity.

At least I had vanquished Python.

He would never rise again. I could die knowing that my friends were safe. The Oracles were restored. The future was still open for business.

So what if Apollo was erased from existence? Maybe Aphrodite was right. Eleven Olympians was plenty. Hephaestus could pitch this as a reality TV show: Eleven Is Enough. His streaming-service subscriptions would go through the roof.

Why couldn’t I let go, then? I kept clinging to the edge with stubborn determination. My wayward pinky found its grip again. I had promised Meg I would return to her. I hadn’t sworn it as an oath, but that didn’t matter. If I said I would do it, I had to follow through.

Perhaps that was what Styx had been trying to teach me: It wasn’t about how loudly you swore your oath, or what sacred words you used. It was about whether or not you meant it. And whether your promise was worth making.

Hold on, I told myself. To both the rock and the lesson.

My arms seemed to become more substantial. My body felt more real. The lines of light wove together until my form was a mesh of solid gold.

Was it just a last hopeful hallucination, or did I actually pull myself up?

My first surprise: I woke.

People who have been dissolved into Chaos typically don’t do that.

Second surprise: My sister Artemis was leaning over me, her smile as bright as the harvest moon. “Took you long enough,” she said.

I rose with a sob and hugged her tight. All my pain was gone. I felt perfect. I felt…I almost thought, like myself again, but I wasn’t sure what that even meant anymore.

I was a god again. For so long, my deepest desire had been to be restored. But instead of feeling elated, I wept on my sister’s shoulder. I felt like if I let go of Artemis, I would fall back into Chaos. Huge parts of my identity would shake loose, and I would never be able to find all the puzzle pieces.

“Whoa, there.” She patted my back awkwardly. “Okay, little fella. You’re all right now. You made it.”

She gently extricated herself from my arms. Not a cuddler, my sister, but she did allow me to hold her hands. Her stillness helped me stop trembling.

We were sitting together on a Greek-style sofa bed, in a white marble chamber with a columned terrace that opened onto a view of Olympus: the sprawling mountaintop city of the gods, high above Manhattan. The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle wafted in from the gardens. I heard the heavenly singing of the Nine Muses in the distance—probably their daily lunchtime concert in the agora. I really was back.

I examined myself. I wore nothing but a bedsheet from the waist down. My chest was bronze and perfectly sculpted. My muscular arms bore no scars or fiery lines glowing beneath the surface. I was gorgeous, which made me feel melancholy. I had worked hard for those scars and bruises. All the suffering my friends and I had been through…

My sister’s words suddenly sank in: Took you long enough.

I choked on despair. “How long?”

Artemis’s silver eyes scanned my face, as if trying to determine what damage my time as a human had done to my mind. “What do you mean?”

I knew immortals could not have panic attacks. Yet my chest constricted. The ichor in my heart pumped much too fast. I had no idea how long it had taken me to become a god again. I’d lost half a year from the time Zeus zapped me at the Parthenon to the time I plummeted to Manhattan as a mortal. For all I knew, my restorative siesta had taken years, decades, centuries. Everyone I’d known on Earth might be dead.

I could not bear that. “How long was I out? What century is this?”

Artemis processed this question. Knowing her as well as I did, I gathered she was tempted to laugh, but hearing the degree of hurt in my voice, she kindly thought better of it.

“Not to worry, Brother,” she said. “Since you fought Python, only two weeks have passed.”

Boreas the North Wind could not have exhaled more powerfully than I did.

I sat upright, throwing aside my sheet. “But what about my friends? They’ll think I’m dead!”

Artemis studiously regarded the ceiling. “Not to worry. We—I—sent them clear omens of your success. They know you have ascended to Olympus again. Now, please, put on some clothing. I’m your sister, but I would not wish this sight on anyone.”

“Hmph.” I knew very well she was just teasing me. Godly bodies are expressions of perfection. That’s why we appear naked in ancient statuary, because you simply do not cover up such flawlessness with clothing.

Nevertheless, her comment resonated with me. I felt awkward and uncomfortable in this form, as if I’d been given a Rolls-Royce to drive but no car insurance to go with it. I’d felt so much more comfortable in my economy-compact Lester.