The Tyrant's Tomb

No matter what images Harpocrates had shown me, or how weary he was
of life, I couldn’t imagine he would just roll over and surrender. Oh, you
need to kill me for your prophecy thingie? Okay, sure! Stab me right here!
I definitely couldn’t imagine him letting us take the Sibyl’s jar and
shattering it for our summoning ritual. They had found love. Why would
they want to die?
Finally, Harpocrates nodded, as if they’d come to an agreement. His face
tightening with concentration, he pulled his index finger from his mouth,
lifted the jar to his lips, and gave it a gentle kiss. Normally, I would not have
been moved by a man caressing a jar, but the gesture was so sad and
heartfelt, a lump formed in my throat.
He twisted off the lid.
“Good-bye, Apollo,” said the Sibyl’s voice, clearer now. “I forgive you.
Not because you deserve it. Not for your sake at all. But because I will not
go into oblivion carrying hate when I can carry love.”
Even if I could’ve spoken, I wouldn’t have known what to say. I was in
shock. Her tone asked for no reply, no apology. She didn’t need or want
anything from me. It was almost as if I were the one being erased.
Harpocrates met my gaze. Resentment still smoldered in his eyes, but I
could tell he was trying to let it go. The effort seemed even harder for him
than keeping his hand from his mouth.
Without meaning to, I asked, Why are you doing this? How can you just
agree to die?
It was in my interest that he did so, sure. But it made no sense. He had
found another soul to live for. Besides, too many other people had already
sacrificed themselves for my quests.
I understood now, better than I ever had, why dying was sometimes
necessary. As a mortal, I had made that choice just a few minutes ago in
order to save my friends. But a god agreeing to cease his existence,
especially when he was free and in love? No. I couldn’t comprehend that.
Harpocrates gave me a dry smirk. My confusion, my sense of near panic
must have given him what he needed to finally stop being angry at me. Of
the two of us, he was the wiser god. He understood something I did not. He
certainly wasn’t going to give me any answers.
The soundless god sent me one last image: me at an altar, making a
sacrifice to the heavens. I interpreted that as an order: Make this worth it.
Don’t fail.