Picus: An Elegy

For Juniper.

Rusticus breathed the heady air deep and examined the tapestry before him. The scents of palace life colonized his lungs, and the faun idly leaned against a doorway for support. Earthy incense, floral perfume, and the sweat of a dozen nymphs and fauns swirled in the humidity. The evening’s breeze struggled to navigate the palace halls, and the stale atmosphere coated Rusticus’s throat as he struggled for a clean, honest breath.

So he tried to focus on the tapestry. The king had received it when he arrived in Latium, but he had never told his servants from whom. On the left side of the scene, crowded in shadow, stood the king’s first six children. They stood in a wasteland; shriveled trees and dead flowers punctuated the rocky, inhospitable ground. The children had been cast as conspirators, whispering and eyeing each other suspiciously. The youngest of the six—a young man robed in blood-spattered white—clasped his fingers tightly around a brilliant thunderbolt he pressed against his chest. He stood in front of his older siblings and obsessed over his weapon with violent, paranoid eyes. The throne next to him had been toppled and shattered into six jagged pieces.

The king himself was the centerpiece of the artwork. Dethroned and fugitive, he carried an infant boy away from the child’s siblings. The purple robes upon his back were cut and torn, and the rain pelted the bloody rags as he shielded the infant from the brewing storm. Land rose from the sea to aid his escape and fell away behind to thwart pursuit. Rusty brown hatpin urchins pierced the king’s feet, but the swelling did nothing to slow him down.

His destination was an idyllic countryside that filled the other side of the tapestry. There, the storm clouds turned white and parted as the sun smiled through. The beaten king was welcomed by a man with two faces, each straining away from the other. One face, old and bearded, looked solemnly towards the dismal conspirators, while the younger face smiled at a laden banquet table on the grass. Among the grapes and bread and berries lay a golden staff and key. Two fauns and two nymphs tumbled joyously from the forest towards the table, eager to meet their new ruler.

A gruesome scene, for certain. But the king had insisted it be hung as the centerpiece of his lavish throne room, and no one had been brave enough to suggest otherwise.

Rusticus wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced around. None of the other servants saw him loitering; they were too busy tending to their own tasks. The king and prince had left before dawn, and the king had given the order to prepare for guests. As soon as the two had departed, the staff had exploded into a fit of anxiety and activity. It seemed only Rusticus was struggling to find work for himself, and his back tingled with dread at the idea of being unproductive.

He cautiously slipped from the throne room, through the enormous main hall, and onto the colonnade that wrapped around the palace’s northern side. His throat immediately relaxed, and he fell into a fit of coughing as his body tried to expel all the dirt from his lungs at once. He staggered to the low wall just beyond the far columns, caught himself, and counted his breaths until they came evenly.

Pertinax, one of Rusticus’s forest-dwelling friends, sat hunched a few yards down the wall. He coaxed a bittersweet tune from his panpipes, swaying slightly as the music flowed from his lips. Rusticus gripped the rough stone and sat next to him. After a moment, he turned his gaze to the dusky sky. A vague unease settled between the two fauns, but neither of them knew if the feeling was mutual.

Rusticus briefly glanced out at the forest before returning his attention to the emerging stars.

“What is it?” Pertinax angled his eyes towards Rusticus. He kept his pipes to his lips, poised to resume at any moment.

Rusticus shrugged. “It’s the prince. I worry.”

The piping resumed.

“It isn’t that I think to know better than Saturn—his majesty, that is—”

The tune faltered as Pertinax snorted in amusement. Rusticus scowled with frustration.

“He is a god, Pertinax,” Rusticus said. “Fruits ripen where he smiles and wither where he frowns. You’d be wise to remember that.” Then, somberly, he added, “The prince would be wise to remember that, too.”

Pertinax tucked his pipes under his belt and hopped to his feet. He stretched, keeping his catlike balance on the narrow wall as though unaware of the danger of falling.

“It’s not Picus’s fault—”

“I don’t get it,” Pertinax interrupted. “If you’re so miserable, why do you accept this new god’s rule? We were fine before he came, and we’ll be fine when he leaves.”

“I’m not miserable.”

Pertinax frowned, unimpressed and unbelieving.

“Civilization is a great gift,” Rusticus said, “even if it brings a few new hardships.”

Pertinax twisted his lips into a dry smile. “I doubt that.”

The fauns stayed like that a moment, Rusticus sitting and wringing his hands and Pertinax standing with the wind in his hair. Far to the east, a flock of starlings rose from the forest. The group writhed against the starry backdrop, twisting one way, then another, before looping around again. Rusticus watched the pulsations of the birds hopefully, but he couldn’t decipher any advice or sign from them. It seemed Pertinax would have to suffice.

“I hear Picus has a new girlfriend,” Pertinax said. He had a knack for reading Rusticus’s face, and he usually decided to move the conversation along rather than wait for his friend to sort through his thoughts.

“Do you know her?” Rusticus asked.

“Canens, is it?” Pertinax shook his head and looked to the forest. “I don’t think so. But I know plenty of other nymphs who would want a piece of him. Lucky guy.”

“He’s only a boy.”

“No, he’s also a prince,” Pertinax said. “And he won’t be a boy for long, by the looks of him.”

“Still.”

Gingerly, Pertinax lowered himself back to sitting. He took his panpipes in his left hand and rubbed his neck with his right. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Does Saturn know?”

Rusticus groaned and palmed his eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t know. Who’s going to tell him? He won’t like it very much.”

“There are two things no living man can hold for long: his secrets and his breath. Do you think a child can do better?”

Of course not, Rusticus thought. But he said nothing. He peered out at the eastern horizon, hoping the starlings would return. Maybe they’d have an answer after all. Pertinax let Rusticus flicker his eyes and bite his lip uninterrupted. He hunched over his pipes and blew a new, gentle dirge.

The notes rose and floated down the hill like leaves on a languid stream. They drifted over the simple wooden roofs of Atina and caressed the drowsy oil lamps. A lonely faun woke briefly, crying, without ever knowing why. The melody trembled and stretched itself thin as it pushed beyond the edge of town. By the time it reached the deep forest, it was nothing more than a suggestion of a sound on the edges of awareness.

Picus placed his hand on his horse’s neck and slowed to a halt. Something was different. He tilted his head to listen, but he wasn’t sure what he was listening for.

The night had covered the woods before the rest of the world, and not even the light of the moon or stars pierced the tangled canopy. Shortly ahead, the road opened to a moonlit clearing that silhouetted the features of the tree tunnel. Picus could nearly see the road before him—the dirt packed hard from years of travel and the low, steep walls of the enclosing ravine. A porcupine dashed from one grassy slope to another, rustling and snapping the fallen twigs. At the end of the tunnel, a great myrtle bush’s flowers glowed faintly under the moonlight.

An owl moaned in the distance, and the prince pressed on. Canens’s singing drifted from the clearing and soothed the tension from his shoulders. So feathery, so pure, was her voice that the mere rustling of the leaves overhead threatened to scatter it. Picus dismounted at the edge of the clearing and closed his eyes. If he breathed deep enough, he thought he’d catch her voice in his lungs and keep it with him forever. But he only managed to hold on to the words.

Canens trailed off to a gentle hum, and Picus stepped into the clearing. The moon shone down on her, bathing her in milky light and glinting off her silken dress. Animals stood around her, listening—mouse, owl, hare, and wolf all forgetting to hunt or flee. As Picus emerged from behind the forest’s gloom, Canens broke off, and the animals scattered to the trees, the air, the underbrush, and their hollows. In a mere moment, the only living things in the clearing were the two lovers.

The air hung still as Canens took in Picus’s weary face. He had been crying again. He had tried to wipe the tear stains off his cheeks, but the smudges still shone in the moonlight. With a bounce of her heels, she launched herself at the prince. Picus didn’t have time to brace himself, and he fell backwards into the grass.

“You kept me waiting!” Canens playfully hit Picus on the front of his shoulder. Her hands were soft and gentle even when clenched, but Picus suspected she was going easy on him. He laughed and hugged her, hoping he sounded less tired than he felt. But, of course, Canens noticed. She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at his face. “What’s wrong?”

Picus tried and failed to crane his neck down enough to look her in the eyes. “I can’t stay long, that’s all,” he said.

Canens deflated a little and pressed herself further into Picus’s embrace. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Picus said.

“Okay.” Canens wrapped her arms around Picus and squeezed gently.

They lay in silence for a while, alone in their little hideaway. A faint gust blew against them, scattering Canens’s hair and sending her burrowing into Picus’s side. He shifted, planning to tug his cloak from under himself and wrap her in it, but she grumbled a faint protest. Picus stopped, and Canens’s breathing slowed and deepened. The nymph was asleep.

The last traces of dusk had vanished and night had settled by the time the woodpecker landed on Picus’s shoulder. Her claws dug through his tunic, drawing pricks of frigid blood. He winced, and the bird fluttered away briefly before settling in the grass. Picus propped himself on an elbow to watch her preen.

“She’s beautiful,” Canens said groggily as she lifted her head off Picus’s chest.

And she was. She was all black and white, with mottled feathers and a striped face. Each time she flicked her head up to glare at Picus, her glassy eyes swooped inquisitively over the entire clearing. This was the sort of bird who wanted to be left alone.

But right now she wanted something. Picus knew it.

As though on cue, the woodpecker chirped at him. Picus’s lips drew tight, and his smile disappeared. He helped Canens off him and climbed to his feet. Canens didn’t resist, nor did she complain. Picus’s attitude had shifted, and she didn’t want to hurt him more.

“What did she say?” Canens asked.

Picus let his shoulders slump. “My father is looking for me at the palace,” he said. “He’s taking it out on the servants.”

“Oh.”

“And apparently...” Picus twisted and rubbed his left forearm against his side, an anxious habit he’d had since he was a child. “Apparently there are women coming towards Atina from all over Latium. None of the birds know why, but it doesn’t sound good.”

“Maybe it’s unrelated?” Canens offered.

Picus looked at her blankly, then said, “Yeah. Maybe.”

Canens pulled Picus into a much stronger hug than before. She stood on her toes, feet trembling, to rest her head on his shoulder. “Don’t go.”

Picus hugged her back. “I have to.”

There was no argument, no further pleas. Canens simply let herself back down and looked despondently at her feet. “I love you?”

Picus nodded. “I love you.”

Canens nodded in turn, more to herself than to him. Picus waited a moment to see if she’d look up. When she didn’t, he silently walked back to the forest road, mounted his horse, and rode away.

By the time Picus had dashed through town and up the hill towards his father’s palace, it was silent. True, a few fauns in the town below laughed, sang, and waved their lanterns merrily, but the palace itself was as quiet as an apartment after a plague. Two oil lamps—their pottery sculpted to resemble gnarled oaks—flickered brightly in the breeze. The vermilion walls leapt and danced with the warm light of the flames, but the tyrian columns seemed to fade to a black which rivaled the night herself. The windows were dark, as though a matte screen were blocking the lamplight. Picus dismounted his horse and approached, legs shaking with each step he forced.

Picus faltered on the portico. He stared into the darkness of the doorway, suddenly remembering the monsters his father had frightened him with as a child. Lamia wasn’t real, he reminded himself. She was a story told to children who wander too far from home.

Even so, there wasn’t harm in making sure nothing was waiting for him inside. Picus glanced around to confirm no one was watching, then he ducked his head below the windows and followed the colonnade around the house. Once out of the lamplight, he settled himself down under the most sinister window he could find and listened.

Someone was definitely awake deep inside the palace. There were a few faint murmurings, barely loud enough to register. Men’s voices? His father, most likely. And the wavering...that was Rusticus. So they were waiting for him to come home.

Picus sneaked his way back to the portico, evaluating his options. He could easily slip away again, but where would he go? And at any rate, his father might already know of his arrival. The birds wouldn’t have told him—and he couldn’t understand them in the first place—but Picus suspected his father always kept a servant or two on a hidden watch.

The doorway accepted Picus like a giant accepting a gullible traveler into its mouth.

The moment he entered the hall, Picus knelt and removed his boots. He made his way towards his room, keeping to the outer halls and rolling his steps along the outside of his foot. He was nearly there when a tall faun stepped into his path, lamp held high.

“There you are.” Rusticus couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice. “Your father wants to see you.”

Picus nodded, defeated.

“Very good,” Rusticus said. He looked over Picus, pausing at the boots in the boy’s hand. “And put your shoes back on.”

“Right.”

Rusticus had always looked out for Picus. In a way, he had raised Picus more than the boy’s father had. Every time Saturn had locked Picus in his room, Rusticus had been there to slip him bread and water. Though Saturn neglected his son’s schooling, Rusticus taught him art and science and politics. When the restlessness of adolescence took hold of the prince, it was Rusticus who showed him the pastimes of hunting and sports. Whatever duties Rusticus had early on had been replaced by just one: look after the child and make sure he doesn’t cause trouble.

Once Picus finished putting on his shoes, Rusticus led him to the throne room. Picus winced at the tapestry as he entered but quickly turned his attention to his father.

“You wandered off,” Saturn remarked coolly.

Picus rubbed his forearm against his side and said, “I’m sorry.”

Saturn narrowed his eyes. “Where have you been?”

Picus glanced at Rusticus, who avoided eye contact with either of them. So he turned back to his father. “I saw a boar,” he said, “in the woods. While I was out. I didn’t want it to terrorize any of your subjects. So I, well, hunted it.”

“I see.” The room was silent for moment, then Saturn said, “And there aren’t any hunters in town?”

“I’m sorry?”

Saturn turned to Rusticus, who immediately snapped to attention. “Are there any hunters in town?”

“Several, sir,” Rusticus said.

Saturn frowned in mock confusion. “They’re good, I hope.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Interesting.” Saturn turned back to Picus, and Rusticus audibly let out his breath. “Then why is it,” Saturn said, “that you needed to go hunt this boar yourself?”

“I wanted to be helpful?” Picus cringed as the words came out as a question.

“Helpful. I see.” Saturn stood and descended the steps from his throne towards Picus, his tone as tense as ever. “How noble of you. So you solved this boar problem for our people. I’m glad. Where is it? I’ll prepare a feast.”

Picus stepped back as Saturn reached him. His father towered nearly a foot over him, and that wasn’t helped by Picus’s tendency to shrink in his presence. Saturn stepped forward to close the gap Picus made, and Picus craned his neck up to look into his father’s eyes.

“Well?” Saturn asked.

“I—” The words caught in Picus’s throat. “I didn’t catch the boar.”

Saturn stared down at him with cold derision. “Ah.” He turned around and slowly walked back to his throne. “Let me see if I understand this. You ran off this morning, you didn’t tell anyone where you went, you stayed out long past curfew, and now I find out that you even failed to catch your prey. Let me know if I made a mistake, of course.”

“No, that’s right.” Picus cursed himself for not coming up with a better lie, but it was better than the truth: he had wandered the woods alone for hours, talking to the birds, then he had seen Canens, who Saturn didn’t even know about.

“Boy,” Saturn said, “start acting like an adult.”

Picus nodded. After a moment of silence, he added, “May I go now?”

“Of course not. I wanted to talk to you.”

Of course not, Picus thought. He looked up at Rusticus, then back at Saturn, then finally remembered. Without thinking, he asked, “Is this about those women coming to town?”

Saturn’s expression hardened. “How do you know about that?” Picus worked his jaw, trying to come up with a believable excuse, as Saturn narrowed his eyes. “I thought I told you to stop talking to those feathered friends of yours.”

“It’s not my fault if they—”

“And do not speak to me with that tone. You shouldn’t speak to them. You shouldn’t be able to understand them. It’s not normal.”

Picus looked down at his feet and nodded. “I know.”

Growing up, Picus hadn’t been allowed to spend time with the common children in town. So, on days when Saturn was preoccupied, Rusticus would let him explore the forest to entertain himself. He spent most of his childhood among the trees, and as time passed, the forest began to see him as part of itself. Animals no longer fled at his footsteps, and Picus never seemed to get lost like others did. But unlike the fauns and nymphs of the woods, he was alone with no one to talk to. And when a child spends enough time like that, they’re bound to learn to talk to the birds instead.

But his father was right. It wasn’t normal; it was just a reminder that he had been a thoroughly unlikable boy.

“But yes,” Saturn said, “it’s about the suitors coming to Atina.”

Picus felt Rusticus tense next to him, but he was busy fighting his own queasiness. “Suitors?” he asked.

“For you,” Saturn said, confirming Picus’s worries. “They’re some of the most influential women in Latium. You ought to be grateful.”

Thinking fast and breathing deep, Picus coaxed the tension from his shoulders and opened his posture. “I’m too young to marry, so this is obviously just to introduce—”

Saturn cut him off by slamming his palm on the arm of his throne. “Remember to watch your tone. You will choose one to marry.”

Picus smiled. “But what if I don’t wish to marry any of them?”

“‘Wish’?”

“Or if there’s someone else I find—”

“So that’s it. Who is she?”

“Just a hypothetical, Father.”

Saturn gestured to Rusticus, who grabbed Picus’s forearm. “I spent my valuable time and energy organizing this for you, and now you want me to send these women away? You want me to tell them I deceived them with false hospitality? Is that how you think people ought to be treated?”

“But—”

“It’s time for you to get some sleep. You need your rest for tomorrow.”

Rusticus dragged the desperate Picus from the throne room and down the hall. The prince got his feet under him, and he sped angrily away. Though, since his legs were far shorter than Rusticus’s, the faun kept pace without much effort.

“‘For me’,” Picus muttered, turning a corner. He glared up at Rusticus from the corner of his eye. “I didn’t ask for this. It’s not fair.”

Rusticus didn’t respond until the two reached Picus’s room. It was decorated primarily with pieces Saturn had decided on, save only for a hunting spear over the bed and a small embroidered cloth on the pillow. Rusticus had given Picus the spear on his fourteenth birthday, and though it was only a few years old, the signs of wear were so great that Picus could see them in the nighttime gloom. The cloth on the bed, though, was a gift from Canens. It was a simple design—a single purple aster—but Picus cherished it more than any of the other artworks in the palace. He picked it up and looked at it, his expression softening for a moment.

“It’s not fair,” Picus repeated.

Rusticus pressed his palm to his side and sat on the bed. He gestured for Picus to join him, but the youth didn’t. “What do you want me to say?” Rusticus asked.

“It isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t, and I’m sorry,” Rusticus said.

“Thank you.” Picus sat next to Rusticus and played absently with the embroidered cloth. “I can’t marry.”

“The nymph you’re seeing?”

Picus nodded.

“I know it’s hard,” Rusticus said, “but sometimes we don’t get what we want.”

Picus fell back onto the bed and turned his face away from the faun. Rusticus tried to reach out to him, but caught himself. Picus was at that age where he wanted to be left alone.

Rusticus obliged, but paused in the doorway. “I do wish I could do something,” he said. And then he was gone.

Picus kicked his boots into the corner and braced himself for another restless sleep.

***

While Picus battled nightmares, Canens slept peacefully alongside her friend Cloelia. The two nymphs lay on a bed of clover that flourished in their forest clearing. They didn’t awaken until the sun had cleared the horizon, and they took the time to pick the crushed leaves from their hair and clothes before rising for the day. Once they had eaten their usual breakfast of arbutus berries, Cloelia slid to Canens’s side and nudged her with her shoulder.

“What do you want to do today?” Cloelia asked.

“Do you remember the stream I showed you?” Canens said. “I want to find where it starts.”

Cloelia gave a brief laugh of confusion. “The source could be days away.”

“It isn’t.”

“And how would you know?”

Canens shrugged. “I just do.”

She couldn’t explain it. She’d never be able to. But every once in a while, she knew things without knowing how. Cloelia understood, in a way. At least, she knew to stop questioning it. And that was nearly the same thing.

In any case, Cloelia accepted the assertion and turned her attention to the ground. Her nimble fingers flicked in all directions, and her keen eyes scanned each clover patch completely. For weeks she had been searching for something on the forest floor, but she refused to tell Canens what. “I’ll tell you when I find it,” Cloelia had said. This bothered Canens; like if she wasn’t told soon, she’d never find out. But that was something that she couldn’t explain to Cloelia, even when she tried. So she let it be and walked into the woods.

The stream lay at the bottom of a gentle hill dotted with strawberry trees and oaks. Smooth pebbles covered the bank, earthy reds and grays contrasting the greens and browns of the grasses and shrubs. A chorus of frogs sang merrily, overlapping calls of brek-ek-ex crowding the air. Canens tested the water with her foot and shivered. Gathering her courage, she ran in.

A splash from downstream drew her attention from the cold. Picus coughed, bracing himself in the middle of the water on his hands and his knees. His ankle wouldn’t support his weight, and he fell as soon as he tried to stand again. He looked around, caught Canens’s eye, and smiled weakly.

It wasn’t the first time Picus had made a fool of himself in front of her, and Canens suspected he was growing clumsier on purpose. She could see that he enjoyed her teasing when he tripped on a root or slipped on moss, but he recently had a habit of going overboard and actually hurting himself.

Canens knelt at Picus’s side and gently prodded at his ankle to assess the damage. He hadn’t broken it, and it wouldn’t be long before he could walk again. She put his arm over her shoulder and helped him to his feet. They hobbled to the bank, where Canens lowered them to the ground.

Picus muttered a curse under his breath as he massaged his ankle. He pushed away Canens’s offered hand and kept his attention on his leg. Canens was taken aback for a moment. He hadn’t treated her like that in a long time.

“What’s wrong?” Canens asked.

The prince gave a hollow laugh and gestured at his ankle.

“What’s wrong really?”

Picus didn’t respond for a moment. Then, with the most forced disinterest imaginable, he said, “How was your night?”

“It was good.”

“Yeah,” Picus said. “Me too.”

A brief pause. Picus grabbed a pebble, wincing as it grated against the others on the shore, and fingered it in his hand.

“How is Cloelia?”

“Still searching.”

Picus nodded. He tossed the pebble into the stream and watched the ripples vanish in the current.

“You said you’d talk to me,” Canens said.

“We’re talking.”

Canens dug her fingers into the soil. “You promised.”

It had been one of the many things Picus had promised early in their relationship. He had told her that she was his first, his only, and that he would always go to her before the birds. And Canens had liked that. Feeling trusted, feeling like a priority, that was the sort of thing that made her heart skip a beat, and the fact that Picus trusted her over his only childhood friends had been intoxicating.

Over time, Canens realized that this was a harder promise for Picus to keep than most. There were always parts of his life that he didn’t open up about to her. Some evenings, as she heard the birds twittering overhead, she inexplicably came to believe they were talking about him. But when she asked him about it later, he would feign ignorance, and she would let it go.

Picus didn’t say anything. He ignored her and ruefully watched the leaves float by.

“Fine.” Canens grabbed a pebble of her own and hurled it at the water. It bounced off a fallen log before tumbling into the stream, and the frogs stopped their singing and fled in a cascade of tiny splashes.

“It’s...my father.” He still wasn’t looking at her, but he was talking. “He’s bringing—” Picus faltered. “I have to—” Another moment of indecision, and finally: “I have to get married.”

Well, that wasn’t as bad as Canens expected. At least considering what she had heard of Saturn before. “Okay,” she said, “then let’s get married.”

Picus finally looked at her. “What?”

“Us,” Canens said. “Marriage.”

Nothing. Not a “yes,” not a “no,” not even a “maybe.” Just a confused stare and a tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek.

“Your father doesn’t give up on things,” Canens reasoned aloud. “So you have to get married. And if you do, you should marry me. So let’s get married.”

Picus’s face hardened as he came back to his senses. “I have to marry someone he chooses.”

The words lingered a moment as Canens processed them. “Oh.”

“I don’t want to,” Picus said bitterly, “but sometimes we don’t get what we want.”

“What if we got married anyways?” Canens asked. “You can’t marry twice; not even your father can force you to.”

For whatever reason, Picus refused to consider the possibility. He sat in serious contemplation for a full minute, then offered a solution of his own: “If I don’t reject any of these women, but I don’t accept any of them either...then they’ll have to leave on their own. And my father can’t possibly be mad at me if they leave on their own.”

No way for that to go wrong, surely. “Can’t we just do my idea?” Canens asked. “It’s a lot simpler.”

“And then I won’t have to get married anytime soon.” Picus grinned in satisfaction. “It’s perfect.”

“Listen to me.”

Picus eyed her with distrust. “You wouldn’t get it. I know my father.”

“There are other gods.”

“Not for me.”

The royal family was always a bad subject for Picus, and he tended not to explain the details of what went on inside the palace. Canens had tried to force him to elaborate once; it was the first time she had made him cry. “Okay,” she said. “We do it your way.”

“Then it’s settled.” Picus rose and shook the mud from his wet cloak. The shadows lengthened eastward, and he squinted at the sun through the trees. “I have to go.” He helped Canens to her feet and gave her a kiss. She didn’t say anything, so he muttered an apology and limped away.

He made it back to the palace about an hour before guests began to arrive. Rusticus waited by the door, clutching his stomach as he fought off his worried nausea. He ushered Picus into his room and set to work on the prince’s hair. Picus begrudgingly sat through the tugging and the pulling along with Rusticus’s admonishments to sit still. He winced and yelped in pain to no sympathy from his guardian.

“If we had more time,” Rusticus said, “I could be gentler.”

With minutes to spare, Picus donned his toga and smoothed the fabric with his fingers. Rusticus smiled warmly at him despite his visible discomfort. The faun drew a silver necklace out of his waist-pouch and showed it to the prince. The pure silver chain’s only adornment was a small pendant. A woodpecker, wings outstretched, straining to soar even as its metal body weighed it down.

Rusticus offered him the necklace. “For good luck. And for wisdom.”

It made Picus feel better, at least.

The pair stood in silence for a while. Picus tried to count his breaths, but the chatter from the main hall had grown to an anxious fever that halted his focus. He would have made a remark to Rusticus, but the faun was too busy distracting himself by examining the wall’s intricate texture. Eventually they could wait no longer, and the prince followed his guardian to the royal hall.

Picus had never seen so many people in one place. The women alone outnumbered everyone Picus had ever met, and that didn’t count the fauns who had shown up to try their luck at courtship. They all hushed their conversation when they saw Picus and stared at him like he was a beast being pushed into a pen. He made his way to one of the girls his age and gave a trite greeting. The girl returned in kind. At least someone else had been forced to come, too.

Idle conversation. Where are you from? A brief laugh, a well-timed joke. A small group formed. Picus began to relax. The women interested in finding a husband were gossiping with each other or coyly teasing the fauns. Picus talked, and the other youths seemed satisfied with that.

A woman cut in. She was taller than Picus—though not by much. Her hair fell like fiery rays over her shoulders, and her golden eyes gleamed as she smiled. Picus found himself entranced, and by the time he looked away, the other youths were gone.

“So you’re the young prince who brought us all here.” By any account, the woman’s voice was lovely, but there was an underlying edge that made Picus tense.

“My father invited you, yes.”

The woman leaned in close to inspect him, and Picus subtly angled his lips away from hers. Her warm breath glided over his cheek and caressed his ear. A salty burning grew in the prince’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut.

The inspection was satisfactory, and the woman straightened back to her full height. Picus’s hands trembled as his body relaxed. He hated that he found comfort in the woman’s smile. He needed to say something; things needed to move on.

“My name is Picus,” he said lamely. Surely she already knew that.

The woman nodded. “And mine is Circe.”

“How are you enjoying Atina?”

And the tense conversation began. Picus tried not to encourage her, but every time he stopped talking, she eyed him with those hungry eyes. So he filled each silence that came up. Questions and pleasantries, mainly. Anything to avoid talking about himself.

He asked her where she was from, and she seemed excited to answer. She lived above a promontory along the Tyrrhenian Sea. Her home, she claimed, was as splendid as his, with mosaic floors and ochre walls adorned with the tapestries she weaved. The coast stretched north from her mountain, and the woods around were filled with lions and wolves that howled but never bit. Some days, the clouds hung so low that a fog settled and lent a serene, romantic atmosphere. Circe was certain Picus was going to love it.

A cup of wine was offered and refused. A hand on Picus’s shoulder, a brush against his hair. He stepped back, she stepped forward, and soon the wall pressed against his spine. He nodded, he smiled, but his eyes darted around the room, desperate to catch anyone else’s eye.

The party had died down, and many of the guests had already left. The few who did glance in Picus’s direction either failed to notice his silent pleas or failed to care. As the room emptied and the din began to fade, Picus realized he could hear a group of starlings somewhere close by. It was odd that they’d be so close to the palace that he could hear them from inside, and as he tried to focus on them, he felt they were looking for him.

After muttering a bland farewell, Picus slid out from between Circe and the wall. He signalled to Rusticus, who nodded and moved out of the doorway that led to the side hall. But before Picus made it halfway, Circe gripped his forearm and spun him around. She dug her fingernails into his skin and pulled. The smell of wine was strong on her breath, and she pressed herself against the youth.

Picus wasn’t sure what happened in the next few moments, but by the time he processed the situation rationally, Circe was stumbling backwards and her cup had clattered to the ground. His wrist stung. He must have pushed her. Rusticus moved back into the doorway as Picus entered the hall, and he was already busy making excuses for the prince’s behavior.

The darkened hall, a few turns, and the crescendoing starlings. A window, and then the cold marble floor of the collonade. The rough outer wall supporting the youth’s back as he struggled to catch his breath. A single starling, hopping back and forth.

And breathing. Remembering to breathe.

Picus cautiously followed the starling along the colonnade, keeping under the roof but closer to the pillars than the wall. The ground by the building sloped away, turning the marble foundation into a short cliff. The starling perched upon the low wall that connected the columns and floor, then fluttered to the ground below.

On the grassy lawn below, a nymph sat cross-legged and quietly sang to a group of birds and field mice. Picus reversed his grip on the wall and leaned as far over as he could.

“Canens!” he hissed.

The nymph rose, looked up, and grinned.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Picus said.

“Why not?”

“What if someone sees you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe.”

Canens strained up and ruffled Picus’s hair, nearly making him slip. “Don’t I get to decide what to do with myself?”

Picus readjusted his grip and gritted his teeth. “I might not be fine. If my father—”

At that moment, Rusticus emerged from the palace and called out for the prince. Startled, Picus lost his grip and crashed to the ground. Pain shot through his leg as he landed on the same ankle he hurt that morning.

“Picus?” Rusticus poked his head over the wall. His eyes briefly flickered to Canens before snapping back to the prince. He reached his hand down and helped Picus back up to the colonnade, dusted off the prince’s toga, and continued, “Do you know who you were talking to in there?”

“Some woman named Circe,” Picus said.

“Some witch named Circe,” Rusticus corrected. “You have to be careful with her.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Rusticus glanced around nervously and lowered his voice. “A while ago in Boeotia, she fell for a fisherman named Glaucus, but he didn’t reciprocate. I don’t want what happened back then to happen to you.”

Picus waited, then: “Well? What happened?”

“Oh, right.” Rusticus paced a few steps away from Picus, then doubled back and leaned in. “So, she liked this Glaucus, right? But Glaucus liked Scylla. He rejected Circe but asked her for a potion to force Scylla to fall in love with him. Circe told him she would, but she ended up poisoning the poor girl and turning her into a monster. Scylla just wanted to be left alone, but she was unfortunately Circe’s ‘competition.’”

Of course, Rusticus had made it easy to read between the lines. Picus peered over the wall and found that Canens had left.

“So Glaucus should have spent his life with someone he didn’t love?” Picus asked.

“If he really loved Scylla, he would’ve protected her, at any cost. And it would have made your life a lot easier, at least. But he did what he did, and now Circe’s your problem.”

Rusticus’s eyes darted around, as if anxious the two would be caught. Picus appreciated the warning, but he still believed in his original plan, though he needed to be more careful than he first thought. That wasn’t going to be an issue. Part of growing up with his father was learning to be careful. Lectures, parties, it was all the same stuff. Keep your head low and your voice quiet, and they’ll forget what they wanted from you. Either that, or they’ll give up for boredom.

And how quickly the women gave up! Over the next month, Picus socialized and laughed, but he remained noncommittal and elusive. His father couldn’t directly prove he was doing anything wrong, so he was left free to do nothing at all. The secret meetings with Canens went on, but Rusticus made sure they were kept off the palace grounds. Sure enough, the first of the suitors went home after only a few days. Then the next few went home after a week. More followed like sand leaking from a cracked bucket: quick and quiet.

Circe was more persistent than the rest, but that was expected. She cornered him every few days and talked about their life together, about her house on her mountain, and about the wonderfully enchanting herbs in the area. Picus, determined to endure, distracted himself by imagining increasingly dangerous monsters and devising how he would have defeated them had they been real. He still tried to avoid allowing her to touch him, but he controlled his violent reactions when she did lay her hand on his arm or his neck. He answered her questions in the least interesting ways he could imagine, and he tried to be sure she’d have nothing to continue the conversation with. While that didn’t stop her from talking about him or about herself, she was visibly upset.

This robbed the hunt of its satisfaction, and Circe stopped looking at him like prey to be snared. Eventually, she seemed to merely be play-acting her interest in their conversations. The warmth in her eyes left along with the zeal, and Picus dared to hope that she was coming around. But every time she touched him, her face and eyes contorted again with that hunger and joy, leaving Picus unsure of how she felt about him.

Only a handful of suitors remained in Atina when Saturn ended the parties, and none were particularly surprised. On that final night, they thanked each other pleasantly for the company and fun before leaving Picus, Rusticus, and Saturn alone. The king returned to his throne as the prince and faun saw the final guests out, and he said nothing when they found him again.

Saturn leaned on his elbow and held his forehead in his hand. He glared down at Picus, who struggled to contain his grin. His son’s mouth twitched with glee, and he finally snapped.

“Boy!” Saturn pushed himself to his feet and clenched his fist, sending Picus back with a wince. The king stared him down with satisfaction. “Go to bed.”

Picus hurried to his room and laced his boots as Rusticus watched from the doorway. The prince drew his traveling cloak around him, gave his guardian a bow, and leapt from his window. He stumbled briefly to break his fall and ran to the woods at the bottom of the hill.

Canens was in his arms before she saw him. He lifted her into the air, laughing and spinning with joy.

“Yes!” he cried.

Canens managed to separate herself from him and catch her bearings. She steadied herself on Picus’s arms. “What happened?”

“No more parties!” Picus shouted to the canopy. “No more suitors!”

The woodpeckers and starlings rose a song of joy.

“See?” Picus turned back to Canens. “It’s true!” He took Canens in his arms, gentle this time, and held her head to his shoulder. “It’s true.”

Canens wrapped her arms around Picus in return. She traced shapes on his back, and Picus only felt her grabbing his cloak a moment before she pulled him to the ground. That little survival instinct in his mind rang out as he fell, and he had barely the wits to throw his hands out on either side of Canens’s head. He caught himself before he landed on her. Good. One day she’d do that, and he’d crush her. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t any heavier than she.

Canens’s eyes were calmer than they’d been in a long time. She put her hand on the back of his neck and teased at the edges of his hair. With a voice soft as a whisper, she sang a song for herself and her prince.

Picus rolled onto his back next to her. Exhaustion had finally caught up.

***

The sun rose over the worst morning of Rusticus’s life.

For a reason that had yet to be explained to the faun, Saturn had sent for Picus late into the night. When Rusticus couldn’t find the prince, the king had flown into a rage. At first the servants had all stood and listened, agreeing timidly whenever the opportunity was presented. Certainly the prince had been unreasonable with the suitors. Of course the king hadn’t been asking anything more than basic filial duty. But when words like “treason” and “conspiracy” started echoing through the palace, they suddenly remembered very important duties they were neglecting.

Except Rusticus. His duties were to care for Picus, and so he did. He talked incessantly. He gave alternatives while never directly contradicting the king. Perhaps, Rusticus offered, the young prince had simply been unable to sleep. Perhaps he went for a long walk to clear his head. Perhaps he even went back to continue his hunt for the elusive boar.

As the morning wore on, the god tired and his temper cooled. Rusticus didn’t manage to convince Saturn to forget his fear of plots and schemes, but he managed to distract the god whenever the idea came up. His first six children were the perfect scapegoats, the ones responsible for all of Saturn’s worries. The prince was lazy and irresponsible, Rusticus agreed reluctantly, but those weren’t the traits of a traitor. Was Ceres lazy when she stole her father’s sickle? Was Pluto acting irresponsibly when he claimed lordship over the Underworld? No.

A part of Rusticus paled at depicting Picus in such a negative light, but he reasoned he was choosing the more charitable interpretation that Saturn would actually consider. With the help of bread and wine, the god released his anger as the sun crept to its zenith. He sent Rusticus out, and the faun stumbled out to the exterior colonnade. Sleep placed his palm over Rusticus’s eyes and whispered promises into his ear. It wouldn’t be so bad to rest for a bit. No one needed him here anyways.

“Look at you!” The dewy-feathered god retreated at Pertinax’s voice. “Palace life seems to be treating you well.”

Rusticus opened his eye a sliver and watched the other faun climb into the shade. “Not now,” he said. “Go home.”

Pertinax scoffed in feigned offense. “But my good friend Rusticus! You’ve assured me that my humble life in the forest is nothing compared to your life in the palace. Would you deny me the smallest luxury of your company?”

Perhaps Sleep would visit him later, but for now Rusticus forced his ears open. “I’m not in the mood.”

“But that’s right!” Pertinax lightly smacked his palm against his forehead. “That prince of yours doesn’t seem to like it here either.”

“What?”

“The one who talks to birds. He and Canens seem to prefer the woods to the palace, too, considering last night.” His eye twinkled. “Maybe there just wasn’t room? You must have a lot of people in there.”

“Shut up!” Rusticus struck Pertinax across the face.

Pertinax staggered back, more in shock than in pain. His panpipes slipped from his hand. The binding cloth unraveled, and the individual reeds clattered across the marble. The two fauns stood for a moment before Pertinax stooped to collect the pieces of the instrument.

“You weren’t always like this,” Pertinax said. “What have they done to you?”

Before Rusticus could think of an answer, Pertinax retreated to the forest. He passed a youth in traveler’s garb at the treeline and gingerly stepped out of the way. The youth gave a shallow bow to the faun before continuing towards the palace. He called out to Rusticus, but the servant was too exhausted to answer. The wind breathed billows through the youth’s cloak and weakly lifted his satchel from his side. The colonnade caught the wind so it crashed and roared like cold rapids across Rusticus’s face. He squinted and vaguely understood that the colors and shapes he saw were Picus, and that the prince had come home.

When the youth hopped into the colonnade and greeted Rusticus, the faun pulled his bloodshot eyes up to stare at the prince. He said his father wanted to see him. Picus caught him by his shoulders; he must have fallen. The prince was talking now. Rusticus should get some rest. His father would be fine. He could handle this. Rusticus nodded in agreement and stumbled a few paces before his knees gave out from under him. He fell against the palace wall, slid to sitting, and let Sleep take him.

Picus placed his cloak over Rusticus and clasped it behind the faun’s neck. The poor man was exhausted, and he hadn’t been speaking coherently, but Picus gathered that his father was upset with him again. The pleasure and joy of the previous night soured on Picus’s tongue as dread crept in. Last night was a happy night, the best night of his life. But he had hoped his father wouldn’t notice.

Picus rounded the front of the palace and made his way to the throne room. Saturn sat waiting on his throne, and he nodded as Picus entered. The air was humid and warm, and Picus met his father’s dilated eyes without flinching. The prince stopped before the bottom step of the stairs leading to the throne.

The youth shifted his weight between his feet, silently debating how to begin. Anxiety got the better of him, and he stammered out, “Good morning.”

Saturn raised an eyebrow.

“I heard you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” Saturn paused a moment. “You weren’t in your room last night.”

Picus looked away. “No. I wasn’t.”

The king stood and walked to the bottom of the steps. “I don’t recall giving you permission to go out.”

“I know, but—”

Saturn made as though to strike Picus, who ducked and shielded his face.

“I know,” Picus said. “I’m sorry.”

Saturn relaxed for a moment. Picus lowered his hands. Then the sting of Saturn’s backhand tore across Picus’s face. His father’s fingernails cut his cheek open, and he teetered on the side of his left foot. He gingerly searched for the ground with his right foot, but failed and smacked his temple against the stone floor. He groaned and feebly drew himself into the fetal position as he clutched his head.

“I’m sorry,” the prince whispered. “I’m sorry.” Saturn’s footsteps pounded in Picus’s ears as the king returned to his throne. A few moments passed as Picus forced his vision back into focus.

“Get up,” Saturn said.

Picus pulled himself onto his hands and knees, still shaking.

“Get up,” Saturn said.

Picus lifted his torso over his hips and shifted to one knee. He stood and met his father’s gaze. “May I go?” he asked.

Saturn scoffed. “I wanted to talk to you, didn’t I?”

Picus didn’t respond. Saturn rapped his knuckles twice against the wall behind him and waited. After thirty seconds, a delicate cough broke the silence between the two. In the door to the hallway, hair blazing with the light of the lamp directly behind, Circe stood with hands clasped modestly in front of her. Her face was a perfect mask of sweetness, but Picus saw the glint of cruelty in her eyes.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked. Picus stared at her, and he worked his wrist in rhythmic circles. Circe smiled as she approached and placed a hand on his neck. The youth turned to his father, somehow believing the god would save him from the woman. But instead, Saturn nodded approvingly.

“Congratulations,” he said, more to Circe than Picus. “I’m sure you two will be happy.”

Picus turned back to Circe and felt his face chill. “I...”

“Thank you,” Circe said. She pulled Picus closer to her by the neck. “The moment I saw you, I knew you’d soften to me. And you did.” Picus strained back, but Circe held him fast like a fishing line. “You don’t have to play coy anymore, sweet prince.”

Picus’s mind swam, aided by his still-ringing ear. “Wait. I didn’t...”

“You didn’t have to,” Circe cooed. “I knew you were nervous. And I knew you would have told me to stop if you wanted me to.”

Circe ran her other hand up Picus’s arm and pushed his sleeve up ever so slightly. Picus recoiled and ducked to slip out of her grasp. He turned to Saturn, clinging to misguided hope that his father would spare him enough love to end this. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” Saturn mused, “but I know that a child of mine would have known better than to lead a woman on. So I set things up for the two of you.”

“Why?”

Saturn chuckled. “Because I love you, and I want what’s best for you.”

Circe reached out again, and Picus scuttled away. The witch stopped. “Of course,” she said. “Tomorrow, after our wedding.”

Picus wheeled back to his father, voice tightening. “Tomorrow?”

“I know!” Circe said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

The youth wound a few more paces away, praying to any other gods out there for deliverance. If Rusticus were here, perhaps he could do something. He would have stood up to Saturn over this. Picus repeated the thought to himself, consoled with the idea that someone cared for him.

“I need to rest,” Picus said distantly. Without waiting for a response, he made a wide circle around Circe and returned to his room. As he entered the hall, he thought he heard a honeyed voice call out “Tomorrow!”

A brief detour first. Picus returned to the colonnade, and found that Rusticus had gone. Moreover, the faun wasn’t in any of his usual haunts around the palace. Picus returned to his room and snatched up his few pieces of traveling gear, his hunting spear, and the embroidered cloth Canens had given him all those months ago. He strapped a few pouches on his waist and heaved himself out the window.

His feet had barely touched the ground when the beveled tweeting of a golden eagle fell from overhead. It was leading him to the woods.

***

Not even Canens’s singing could calm the animals. The hares hopped back and forth through the clover, and the wolves cowered beyond the treeline rather than chase them. Cloelia had left earlier in the day to see friends, and with the incoming fog, Canens expected she wouldn’t be back anytime soon.

Leaves rustled. Twigs snapped. The animals bolted in every direction, and Picus stumbled from the foliage, panting. He doubled over and clung to his spear for support.

Canens placed her hand on his shoulder. He was trembling. His hair fell over his face as he looked down, but it couldn’t hide his tears. She ran her fingers through his hair. Her knuckle brushed against something tender. The side of his face was slightly red, and he winced when she rubbed near his eye.

“What happened?”

Picus sniffled and swallowed his sorrow. After wiping his face and righting himself, he managed to croak, “He’s making me marry Circe.”

Canens drew her hand away. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No!” Canens caught Picus as he tipped forward. She righted him and turned him to face her. His expression softened slightly, but it was forced.

“I wish I could do something,” he said.

“You could.”

Picus coughed and inhaled. “Marriage?”

Canens nodded. “I want to, if you’ll let me. I’d much rather you marry me than her.”

“Yeah.” Picus pulled himself up his spear to his full height. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

The nymph backed away from him and slid her hands down his arms. She took his hands in hers, smiled sweetly, and said, “How do we do this?”

Picus patted his hand against his thigh. “Maybe we just say it?”

A wheezing laugh rang through the woods. It was high and whooping, like it had been suppressed far too long. As the laughter died, the fog lifted and revealed a tall woman approaching. She wore a goatskin cloak over her broad shoulders and a diadem in her curly hair. In her left hand was a myrtle branch, and in her right, a javelin. She raised the latter in greeting as she composed herself. “You two really are helpless.”

Canens stepped between Picus and the strange woman. “Who are you?” the nymph asked.

Picus gently nudged Canens out of the way. “My sister,” he said. Canens looked between the two of them, and Picus addressed the newcomer. “That’s right, isn’t it?” he said. “Juno?”

The goddess nodded with satisfaction. “You recognize me.”

“Father has a tapestry of you. And your siblings.”

“Our siblings.”

“You haven’t met?” Canens interrupted. “Where have you been all his life?”

Juno leveled her javelin, and the same eagle Picus had seen earlier landed along the shaft. “We don’t make a habit of visiting our father’s domain. Even Jupiter sent along Aëtos here in his place.”

Which is fair, Picus thought. He hoped it was enough for Canens.

“But there was a prayer, and I heard a marriage was due.” Juno’s eyes flashed with childlike delight. “I had to marry my poor, mortal brother myself.”

“Yes,” Picus said. “Please.”

Canens took Picus’s hand. His tendons twitched, and she massaged them gently with her thumb.

The goddess extended the myrtle branch over the lovers. She pressed one of the flowers to Picus’s shoulder and traced it down to his heart. From there, she traced over Picus’s and Canens’s chests to the latter’s heart, finishing the connection at Canens’s shoulder. Then Juno gently shook the branch over the two. A few petals fell before she raised the branch towards the sun. When the branch was directly over the goddess’s head, it burst into flames and crumbled to ash.

“It is not much,” Juno said, “but it will do.” Before Picus could thank her, she continued, “It won’t satisfy our father. It’s up to you to protect your virtue.”

Picus stammered and fell silent, so Canens spoke up. “What should we do?”

“Asking your elder siblings for advice,” Juno said approvingly. “You’re wise for your age.”

Canens bowed her head.

“Jupiter has already given me a message to deliver,” Juno continued. “He says to journey west to the Tyrrhenian Coast. On a lonely beach, you will find a laurel tree. It’s rotting, but it clings to this world. Around this tree, you’ll build a city, and your kingdom will give the tree life again. Only then will you be safe from our father.”

Picus bounced his leg and turned to Canens. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

He tightened his laces and checked his pouches for something useful. He flittered about with an excited energy, checking the same pouch four times before remembering he had already done so. Then he moved on to checking his cloak for holes. He turned to ask Juno for advice, saw that she vanished, and returned to inspecting his cloak.

“Picus?” Canens asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah!” Picus grasped his spear and felt its weight. “This is great! I’m doing great!”

And he really believed it.

Just as the two were ready to set off, a long, woody flute rose over the trees. The note flickered into a jaunty walking tune. Pertinax, pipes to his lips, emerged from the trees and took a long look at the couple. Then he let his hands drop to his side.

“Yeah, she’s gone,” he called over his shoulder.

At Pertinax’s call, others came out of hiding. Nymphs and fauns gathered behind Pertinax with expressions ranging from timid fear to embarassment. Cloelia and Rusticus were with them, leading two massive white horses laden for travel.

“For the newlyweds.” Cloelia winked.

Picus give a brief laugh of disblief and began rifling through the saddlebags.

Pertinax waved his hand dismissively. “Thank Rusticus. He’s the one who came to get us.”

“An eagle woke me,” Rusticus explained. “I thought it was a friend of yours, so I followed it to the stables, then here. You were talking to your sister, so we thought it better to wait.”

Perhaps, Picus thought, his siblings were not quite as bad as he’d been led to believe.

The journey took a full three days before they sighted the Tyrrhenian Sea. The noontime sun pushed down on their shoulders, and the group moaned with relief when they found the tree. After dipping into the water to cool off, they got to work.

Picus trusted Rusticus with most of the planning and oversight, but he sketched out the foundation of the first lodging-house himself. They agreed it needed to be large enough for double their group’s size, and its door was to face the sacred laurel. The idea was that the people could watch the tree return to life day by day, but Picus reserved his doubts. Only one shriveled leaf clung to its branches, and the bark had been stripped in places to reveal gray, emaciated flesh. If his presence restored it to health, maybe Picus really was divine.

The first stone was laid, and Picus returned to the beach. The waves lapped at his feet, and he threw his back into the wet sand. The sun withdrew his rays, revealing the milky road of the gods stretched across the evening sky. Saturn had always told him about how wonderful it had been to live among the stars, but Picus could only pretend to understand what it was like. He made believe that he knew where his siblings lived and angled his head towards the brighter stars to thank them for their help.

It must have been nice to live up there, watching the struggles of the world below. Things aren’t so bad, Picus imagined them saying, we could be like our brother. Watch him stumble about down there, never sure where he belongs. Never at home with his family. Never having friends. But don’t bring him up, no! He’d be too sad to have around.

The youth dug his fingers into the beach and silently said a prayer. If Rusticus’s stories had been true, he was not the only one excluded from the heavens. Somewhere deep below, Pluto mined the earth to accommodate the ever-growing population of Hell. The eldest and the youngest, both exiled to misery and suffering. The one reigned king over the forgetful dead, the other over a dying tree on a lonely beach.

What a joke. He would have laughed if he weren’t so tired.

And he was tired.

Morning came gently. Picus had expected some disaster to mark his first night as king, but it came and went like any other night. Rusticus had the others well in hand, and the levelling of the lodging-house foundation was nearly finished. With nothing else to do, Picus ate a simple breakfast, took up his spear, and patrolled the perimeter of their camp.

It was several hours before Canens woke and found him. At this point, he was pacing a small edge of the woods and staring warily inside. Every few minutes, a twig snapped and punctuated the buzzing of the insects. He clutched his horse by the reins and dragged it along, but every time he thought to rush in, the forest seemed perfectly average again.

“Something’s in there,” Picus muttered.

Canens didn’t respond.

“I have to find it.”

“Why?”

Picus walked another few circles, thinking. His eyes kept searching for something just inside the forest’s edge. It waited. Lurked. “A good king protects his people.”

Canens placed her hand on Picus’s forearm. “Get some sleep?” she suggested.

“I did sleep.”

She closed her fingers around his wrist. “Are you coming back?”

Gently, he pried off her hand. He forced a sad smile and said, “Of course.”

“Please don’t go.”

Picus mounted his horse. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Goodbye.”

And he disappeared into the woods.

***

Picus wound around the bushes and trees, the grasses and ferns. Nothing could be heard but his horse’s movements—no wind, no beasts, no birds. Even the insects had ceased their whining. But the young king pressed on. He prodded about with his spear, exposing freshly abandoned hollows and nests. Signs of commotion flattened the grass around. This was recent.

His horse found a little worn path through the trees. If fauns or nymphs had used it once, they were long gone. Underbrush blurred its edges with the surrounding forest, and the trail disappeared completely in parts before emerging again from the overgrowth. Until, finally, the trail was gone.

A boar burst across Picus’s path. Its bloody eyes smoldered like embers, its hide was tortured with knotted muscles just below the surface, and its fur bristled like the venomous spines of a sea urchin. The tawny froth which oozed from its mouth flicked and spattered in all directions, withering the plants and burning the horse’s coat. Massive tusks as sharp as sickles grew from its mouth and head, gouging bark and tattering bushes. And as soon as it appeared, it was gone. Picus leaned against his horse’s neck and gave a swift kick. They were going after it.

The spear slipped and trembled in Picus’s sweaty hand. Splinters dug into his palm as he tightened his grip. Branches cut his cheeks. Thorns gashed his legs. He ran his horse until its thick spit dribbled down its neck, and they were no closer to the thing. The horse faltered, and Picus leapt from its sweating back. But he had already lost the boar. He ran on, chasing glimpses and shadows, until his thirst congealed in his mouth. And at some points, he ran just to ignore that nagging thought in the back of his mind: he was lost.

Picus chased the boar into a small clearing. With no trees to block his aim, the young king hurled his spear at the boar and struck its side. But as soon as the spear pierced its hide, the beast dispersed in a cloud of smoke. A hollow thud reverberated in Picus’s knees as the spear impaled the Earth. He went to recover it, but tripped over his own feet and collapsed.

Circe was there. Picus didn’t know how he had missed her before. She stood in the center of the clearing, chanting under her breath and making strange gestures with her hands. He craned his neck to watch her kneel beside him, and he couldn’t muster the energy to squirm away when she placed her hand on his head. She drew her hand back, rubbed the sweat and heat between her fingers, and fell silent.

“By those lightsome eyes,” she said, “which late have ravished mine, and by that gorgeous body and lovely face, which compels even me, a goddess, to make this suit to you who are a mere mortal... Assuage my flame, and make the Sun, my father, yours as well. Please do not scorn me; I fear I have taken more scorn than I can bear.”

She helped Picus to his feet and waited as he caught his breath. “Set your heart at rest,” he finally said. “My heart belongs only to my wife. I’m not yours, and I never was.” Circe reached for Picus’s wrist, but he smacked the hand away. “Just leave me alone!”

The witch’s face hardened. “Fly from me, then,” she said. “Back to your friends.”

She resumed her chanting, and the pendant around Picus’s neck burned against his skin. He turned. He fled. He dashed out of the clearing and aimlessly sprinted away from the sound of her voice. As the pain grew, he felt his neck grow warm and soft. His arms bore him aloft as he searched for Canens. He called out her name, but he couldn’t force out a word through the chirps his throat produced. He fluttered this way and that, and he slowly realized what had happened.

The woodpecker—for that’s what he had become—searched for his wife even as his tiny heart pounded in his chest. With every beat of his wings, the pain grew stronger, until he swore his heart would burst. With nowhere else to go, he returned to the now-empty clearing Circe had lured him to. He fluttered down, perched on the end of his spear, and waited.

Picus wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for. Maybe Canens would burst from the treeline, cradle him in her soft hands, and tell him everything would be alright. That she still loved him. And he would speak to her, and she would understand him, and they would still be happy. She’d bring him home and make him a nest of the nicest linens, and she’d sing him to sleep each night. I’m here, she would say, and I always will be.

He perked up at Canens’s voice. She had come looking. Her voice was sad and sweet. It trembled like the strings of a golden lyre crafted in a raging storm. Picus flew to her, just like all the other animals, and listened.

Canens’s voice broke, and the other animals scattered. But Picus didn’t; he landed on her shoulder and chirped her name as best he could. And she looked down at him, tears brimming in her eyes, and he knew she was ready to bring him home.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand. My husband would, but I don’t know where he is.”

The woodpecker on her should cried louder and frantically hopped from foot to foot. It was clearly trying to tell her something. It was clearly important. But all Canens could do was regret poking fun at Picus for his gift.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m useless.”

The woodpecker slammed its head into her neck, and she sank to the ground. She tried to comfort it, but everything she said seemed to make it sadder. Not even her singing calmed it. Defeated, she laid her head on the cool dirt and watched the woodpecker hop around grass. Picus had always followed the birds to her, but she couldn’t do the same even when they offered. She really was useless. The bird nestled in her hair as she closed her eyes. Keeping her company, perhaps. As she rested her broken heart.

Though Sleep believed rest could heal any wound, not even he knew how to help the two young lovers, and he sent along his brother in his stead. Death emerged from the woods, scattering the few animals that had returned. His sword gleamed in the afternoon sun, and he smiled as he went to work. It was always more fun for him when they died young.

Death had already finished his task when Cloelia found their bodies. The nymph sat silently for a few minutes, her head pressed to her friends chest, but no heartbeat came. No tears came either. Cloelia wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She had cried enough already.

They had prepared the funeral pyre before Cloelia left to search. The woodpecker was arranged on Canens’s chest, whose hands were shaped to cradle it in place. Pertinax reached out to remove the bird, but Cloelia stayed his hand.

“Don’t,” she said. “They died together; let them rest together.” She took a four-leaf clover from her pouch and placed it in the bird’s mouth. “For you. I always thought you needed one. I really tried to find one sooner...” She trailed off.

“Where is Picus?” Rusticus asked.

“Vanished.”

Pertinax shrugged and readied his torch. Cloelia and Rusticus prayed to Pluto. May he accept his brother and sister with love. May he be the family they deserved. Pertinax brought his torch down and lit the pyre ablaze.

“That is that,” Pertinax said. His voice was unusually nostalgic, and Rusticus even suspected he had cried. He raised his panpipes to his lips, then lowered them shakily.

The reeds burned well in the fire.

“My first offering,” he said, “to my king.”

Over the next few days, the fauns and nymphs disappeared into the forest. The first kept their heads low as they left, murmuring their apologies, but soon they left as a matter of course. Without Picus and Canens, there was nothing for them in the town.

On the morning of the third day, only Pertinax, Cloelia, and Rusticus remained.

They hadn’t wanted to leave before the others. If a single person had asked to stay and build the city, they would have done so. But no one had, and even these three abandoned their posts. They looked over the haphazard foundation stones, the withering tree, and the cold remnants of the pyre. Pertinax and Cloelia sighed their bitter sighs and departed, leaving Rusticus alone.

Rusticus took a step back towards Atina and paused. He imagined Picus’s quiet room and the dust gathering on his pillow. When he returned, he would be tasked with cataloging the articles in the room before destroying or repurposing them. He would burn the bedsheets and clean the walls before receiving Saturn’s decree on what new purpose the room would fill.

He turned and bounded after the others.

When he reached them, their footsteps lightened and their voices rose. With a third to carry the grief, their pace recovered, and they even dared to hope.

A strong gust blew across the beach. The laurel’s last leaf detached and fell into the ocean. Insects settled over the abandoned campsite and licked the scraps of food from the ground. A sparrowhawk chased a snake from the safety of the woods, and it fled beneath an abandoned foundation stone for cover. The snake was surprised by her luck. The hollow beneath the rock was cool, spacious, and close to her usual hunting field. It was so perfect that the snake briefly believed it was created just for her.

Yes, the snake thought. It was home.

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