#167 Septua Sanguis/The Eight Temptations: The Eight-Ch.10

Chapter 10 of an epic story about the Seven Deadly Sins, who originally were known as The Eight Temptations. This is their story of being who they are, engaging with humans, and with their powerful but removed parents.  This chapter is a closer look at Envy, and reveals a few secrets and clues about the other sibling deities. So much yet to discover!!! 

Transcript

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Septois Sainguis The Eight Temptations Chapter Ten The Eight Envy peers into the mirror and squints. She notes with considerable dissatisfaction an increase in wrinkles, but she looks away from them because they are not worth studying. She adjusts her head until a shaft of light perfectly reflects the central emerald on her forehead. Then with small circular motions, she buffs the chiseled surface, feeling the cloth glide over it as though her own skin. When she finishes polishing the emerald, it shines not a single blemish. She tilts her head again, ever so slightly, and a new shaft of light reflects the emerald. Only this shaft penetrates beyond the surface. It lightens the interior, revealing a blemish. Envy immediately relaxes. She exhales and admires the story hidden within the stone. The blemish is called a trapiche, and it's more than striking. It's a miniature cosmos, distant and still, with six spokes striking outward, encircling a dark center. Each spoke of the trapiche is a striation of green, edged with black lines, and it's exactly what Envy needs right now. She's been so uptight today, on edge, raw, nervous as a wrecking ball made of glass, and her siblings haven't even arrived. Envy is going to need a lot of reminding today, to remember what she's been practicing for ages, more like eternities, but who's counting? And the thing that always does the reminding is the emeralds. So she focuses on the stillness, the depth, the stunning beauty. She relaxes her jaw and loosens her neck. She pushes all thoughts of her siblings from her mind, since she can't push them from her life, and focuses on the brilliant star inside the emerald. It isn't actually a blemish or a defect. It's a rare find from the mountains of Columbia, a signature of authenticity, proof of what this emerald has been through, and what it's worth, which is far more than greed will ever understand. Envy's emeralds aren't worth what they cost. They're worth their stories, their experiences, the things they survived, to live the lives that they live. No other gemstone showcases their geological drama so beautifully. The pressure, the breaking, the healing, the scars, the becoming whole in a whole new way. And no other gem is so blatantly unafraid to reveal who they truly are, proud to forego any sparkle. In fact, if you see an emerald sparkling, it's fake. Emeralds don't sparkle. They glow, they're real, marked and marred by their stories, just like envy. If only her siblings understood this, if only they saw how hard she tries and how hard it is for her to be her. The thoughts of her siblings only tighten her jaw again, so she exhales long and slow. Her breath brushes across the mirror, leaving the emerald trapped behind steam. She stands up fully and pulls her shoulders away from her ears, annoyed that she's so hunched up today. It's frustrating to be this way, and she's more annoyed at herself than anyone. But it always comes out like she hates everyone, which does have some truth, but not as much as it seems. Today is going to be different, Envy reminds herself. She's going to breathe and relax, stay calm and centered. I don't have to react to everything they do, she repeats for the millionth time. Envy shifts her weight from one foot to the other and leans toward the mirror again, squinting and adjusting until light floods the next emerald on her forehead. She polishes the surface and then stops to appreciate the blemish within. A relaxing satisfaction flows through her as the sight of the feathered fronds comes into view, weightless and delicate, lace and hue. She's in a forest of ferns, suspended between shadow and stillness, nowhere and everywhere. In this moment, Envy has no doubt why the French call an emerald a garden, because each one is one, a garden created from enormous pressure. Envy buffs the surface a final time before moving on. The next emerald is a show off, with bold flecks spiraling into neat rows, their hues adding dimension to the small stone. The symmetry of the flecks is reminiscent of a Zen garden with neat curved lines catching the light, yet missing shadow. The interplay creates fractals of serenity in her mind, spiraling envy deeper and deeper into a calming release. She stares without thought, appreciating the rare inner silence. Then turns her head so light floods an emerald on the other side of center. This one is her favorite. But she says that about all of them. They are all her favorite, miniature flowers within miniature gardens, creating the garden of her life, each slowly found, eternally prized. They are known to her through intimacy, which makes them enduring. And yet no one truly knows her. Envy sighs. She turns to face her throne room, and as she does, images scatter, splintering her vision. This does not come as a surprise. This room is made of mirrors, ninety six to be exact, and each one reflects envy over and over and over. The mirrors cover every surface of the room, the ceiling, the floor, the walls, and each is as indestructible as the reflections. If you look closely, there is an unusual angularity to the room, one precisely calculated, in order to varnish and lacquer the light. The effect is vivid and blinding if you've got human eyes. Envy studies her throne room. It's flawless, and she can't stand it. Not the throne room. It's perfect. What she can't stand is that she exerts so much effort, cleaning and polishing, only for it to go unnoticed. Her siblings never say anything nice or even appreciate what she does. They just do what they've always done, what they always do, because none of them ever changes. Just like me, Envy mutters. She flips her polishing rug over and walks to her throne. She buffs a large emerald on the armrest and reminds herself that she doesn't need their approval. She doesn't even need to be needed. What she needs is what her emeralds give her depth and warmth and glow, moss and plumes, veined leaves, droplets of crystal dew, dark stowaways hiding night from day. This is what Envy needs. These are the stories she never tires of listening to, of polishing, of raising to their finest sheen. Suddenly an earthy crunch echoes across the mirrors, and Envy glances into them. Sloth's throne chair now stands at the far end of the room. Sloth is always first, not because he's punctual, but because he hates to jostle with his siblings. Envy can't yet see Sloth, but she hears his familiar groans of agony. He acts as though he's the only one who suffers, Envy thinks, then reaches down to buff an emerald near the base. As she polishes, the mirrored floor reflects the ceiling, which reflects the floor, which has a sloth crawling on it. Envy cringes at the reflection. It stretches into an endless corridor, eerily repeating gangly limbs, a procession of images pulling at the previous one, fainter, farther, fuzzier, and flipped. The flip occurs between reflections, so it appears sloth is crawling in both directions, depending on which reflection envy focuses upon. This bizarre phenomenon clashes with reality, like a fictitious image, yet is still somehow valid. Many viewers find this flip uncomfortable and demand that they are all illusions, but that isn't true. There is truth in the reflections. You just have to know where to look. All of this may seem odd or absurd, but for Envy, it's home. It's all she's ever known, and it's the reason she created her throne room as she did, because this is the closest replication of her experience that she's found. Envy thought it would help her siblings understand her, but it hasn't. And right now, she wishes she could look away. But there is no looking away, no escaping, because the reflections are everywhere, bouncing back and forth until they fatigue themselves, both within her mind and the mirrors. Envy stops polishing. She looks away from the iron tinted mirrors and rises to her full height. She stares directly at Sloth, watching him slog across her floor, looking ridiculous with his snout and all that hair. Or is it fur? Either way, there is something strange about Sloth. The fact that his hair never streaks her mirrors is just one of them. Hurry up, Envy says, then curses sloth in their olden tongue. She whips her rag at his splayed form, then turns away, only to spy a tiny smudge on a far wall. Envy stares in horror, and the smudge stares back, as though fiercely defending its very purpose for existing, which is to remind her of her flaws, her imperfections. The two stare at each other, as though one can remove the other, but neither can. A smudge, a deity, they are equals in the realm of reflection. Envy bites on her cheek and tears sting her eyes. She steps forward to clean the smudge, but three strides later she is stopped by the sudden appearance of another throne chair, this one directly in front of her. Envy's face darkens, shading from frustration to hate. She despises what she sees, the sharp confidence, the commanding gold, the proud feet, and that's just the throne. What enters the room next only darkens the shading upon her face, but envy doesn't turn to look. She doesn't need to. The image penetrates every mirror, a golden sun rising into a polished sky, glory reflected upon itself. Envy bites harder, and emerald blood seeps into her mouth. She has long hidden her insecurities and pain, and she will not stop or remit in any way because she deserves this. She is a failure, gross and slimy and lecherous, the worst of the worst, and oh so ugly. Everything about her is ugly. There is no swan in her, that fucking duckling she sees. Her head pounds with emotions, each one barreling through, dragging hurtful, destructive thoughts in their wake. And each one is true. They're all true. All the thoughts. She knows they're true, but she can't let anyone else know. She must hide. Hide the ugly, hide the horrible, hide the charade. She's exhausted by the charade, but she can't quit. This is a rut. She just can't quit. Envy lifts her studded forehead, desperate to look poised and confident. She hisses at her backbone, demanding it remain straight, and forces her shoulders back harder than steel. She glares at pride's reflection, his striding footsteps as though he is destined for a place far more important than her throne room. Don't leave your oily footprints everywhere, Envy snaps, wincing inwardly as she hears her yappy voice. And no, she isn't just trying to stop pride from showing off. Polishing truly is an arduous task. I'm here to solve a problem, not listen to yours, pride states, then flourishes one arm around the room. Where is everyone? He pauses when he spies sloth dragging himself toward an arboreal throne, then pivot then pivots away, continuing his speech. Nothing makes sense. Why do they die after eight breaths when they could just die immediately? I am going to figure this out. I will determine why the humans are dying and why this is happening. Envy swallows the bloody saliva in her mouth and retorts. Why should they live at all? This wasn't made for them. Have you ever thought of that? Of course I have, Pride says, an angry furrow between his brows. This isn't real Envy, he says, gesturing at her throne room. Think. Interior design, which you obviously have no clue about. Pride's voice is as condescending as his cloak, which he tosses over a shoulder, revealing a lining of pink. Envy searches for another retort, but Pride pauses just long enough to stop her. She watches him study his reflection in the mirror with distaste. But it isn't the mirrors that he minds. What pride minds is that he can't see himself clearly. There are too many reflections in that hideous hue of iron green. Envy smiles inwardly, pleased to see her brother struggling. And what's with the pink? she wonders. Pride resumes his pacing and analysis. Humans aren't alive here, Envy. They're visiting. I know that, Envy says. You're not the only one who Envy steps back, suddenly separated from pride by an icy blue chair, which is surrounded by a dozen gilded chests. Immediately following the bounteous arrival is a sleek reflection, casting upon the mirrors like a blue halo around the moon. The potency of the cast is stunning, to the point of being numbing, yet somehow also manages to crash upon Envy's skull like battering rams, smashing her lucidity into bits. This is the freezing impotence of her sister, and it works. Envy doesn't move. She can't move. She can scarcely remain upright. Her mind numbs. The polishing rag slips to the floor, and Envy fights to look unaffected. She feels nauseous and dizzy, sickened by the glorious grandeur of greed. Envy's hands suddenly grip her throne. She feels like a lightning bolt seeking the ground. She carefully slides onto her chair, keeping her gaze fixed. Her fingers fumble for the emerald that will soothe her, the one whose inner garden is extraordinary, a crystal droplet suspended amid blades of grass. But that isn't the reason this emerald is soothing. It's because there is a slight wobble, a tiny bump of movement when her fingers caress it, due to loose prongs. It's been this way forever, and Envy leaves it because the feel of stone shifting beneath her fingers ever so slightly is like a second heartbeat, a rhythm of remembering, a lessening of the clamor in her head. Envy's fingers finally settle on the emerald and she exhales as the rhythm begins. I am going to solve this, pride states to no one, then adds, Do you have anything to say, Greed? Greed appraises the contents of a chest before selecting a large cameo on a gold chain. She slips it over her head before sauntering to her throne with a flourish of hips. How do the mirrors catch only her best curves? Envy wonders. Then Greed responds with questions of her own. Where oh where did you misplace your style, pride? A bit snitty and cramped, are we? Greed settles onto her throne before finishing. Bothered by the shadows? I am going to solve this, pride repeats, louder than necessarily, and I don't need your input. I am simply telling you. As pride finishes, an orange streak smears the mirrors and lands with an unmistakable boom. Gluttony's throne chair overwhelms the corner opposite sloth, which means, very soon, gluttony will overwhelm overwhelm the remaining space in the room. The overwhelm arrives as a mass of blobbing, pasty fat. This enters before the lumbering breath is heard. Yet there is a disturbingly coordinated rhythm between the blubber and the breath, as though their tempo sets the opening stanzas of some unforgettable score. And this is just the beginning. The real music does not start until the brash orange symphony yodels through the doorway. Envy glances at Greed, knowing her sister will look away, which she does. But when Greed looks upward, she discovers gluttony on the ceiling, all but from a different perspective. So Greed jerks her ice down but finds no relief. She's trapped, Envy thinks, just like me. There is a relishing quality to this thought, like sharing a delicious secret with a friend, except greed is not a friend, nor is gluttony a secret. Gluttony is, in fact, loathsome. Envy would never let herself become such a monstrosity, so offensive and vile, and that's just the sight. The true horror is the smell, the vapors and fumes. It makes one wish for death. Gluttony's odors are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. Only it's never chocolate. The thought, the mere thought, the mere idea of such odors causes Envy's anxiety to spike. She feels a keening whale threaten to escape her chest and forces herself to stare into an oval cup emerald. She bores her eyes into the interior, focusing on the tiny hollow tubes that look so similar to mint, their finely edged corners and delicate hairs. She stares intently as though she's never seen this before, and it almost helps. Except her ears. They work too well, and clearly hear the promenade of sticky flesh across her floors, leaving plenty of marks. Envy sips air through her lips, anticipating the smells to come. She fidgets the loose emerald, clicking it back and forth with such rapidity that the motion does not soothe her. It only intensifies the anxiety, but Envy doesn't notice. She's lost the balance of her mind. So when the vapors hit, she gags. Today's compilation of odors is a mixture of three rotten eggs, jelly duck blood, and stewed pig intestines. Envy feels their rancid touch just as surely as she smells them, and she would hold her breath, but that would only trap them in her mouth. Nothing can stop these odors. They invade and they clog. Envy looks around and notices pride struggling to breathe. But then he shrugs it off just like that, with a hard wrinkle of his nose. He doesn't obsess or fret or worry. He just shrugs it off and moves on. How? Envy asks herself, how does he do that? How does he just move on? When I mire in the foulness. Suddenly, a ruby storm crashes into the room with a tornado voice. Humans are stupid, Wrath roars, his tongue flicking in and out of dark lips. They can't even stay alive. Every nerve in Envy's mind fires and she unleashes before considering the outcome. You are stupid. You can't even remember your chair. In the instant before Envy finishes, she glimpses movement. Not in the room, but in the mirrors. What Envy glimpses is a pair of fiery opal eyes, along with two bolts of searing light. As this image registers in her mind, she prepares herself, knowing all too well that Wrath will not stop to consider the outcome any more than she did. The vision fades just as blinding light fractures into chaos. The disorienting flash reflects infinitely and it's hard to focus. But Envy saw this coming, so her whistle is ready, and she sends the bolts streaming into sand at Wrath's feet. The sand falls downward and upward, depending on which mirror you watch, but Envy can't see this, not anymore. She can only stare at the floor and wait. She hears the wheezing of gluttony, the fiery crack of wrath, the moans of sloth, and other commotion she can't determine. Envy can barely determine the blurry shape of her feet. She blinks a few times, trying not to reveal her inability to see, just one more charade, and waits ages to see again. When she does, her vision is filled with a tone of pink that is neither feminine nor masculine. It's both. Lust is draped over the back of his throne chair just opposite her, and somehow manages manages to look virginal and whorish, cardinal and carnal, sacred and profane. Ooh, so riled up, Lust says, arching his hips to the perfect degree, giving Sultry a new definition. Makes me want to fuss with your fetish, Lust continues, then drops onto his throne with wide legs, showcasing jewels quite different from greed's. Envy knows lust isn't referring to wrath, but wrath doesn't know this. So Wrath does what he always does. He hurls a flaming spear, which pierces lust's throne, very near his groin. Lust moans and fondles the spear, causing it to vibrate and shudder. The scene is obscene, but there is no looking away because, as it has been said, everything is seen endlessly. At least I'm private, gluttony slurs, her flesh heaving across her throne. Private? Greed says, staring with grand disapproval at all the flesh. Have you seen yourself? Everything is on display. Greed's eye roll is followed by a final comment. Some people simply I am here to fix a problem, Pride interrupts. Ooh, you are lickable today, Lust says. Then with a wink, his desire becomes infectious. It spreads down his body and seeps across the floor. Pride steps back, wincing briefly, then shakes his curls with a raised chin. Envy was just about to tell Pride to stop leaving a boulevard of footprints on her floors, but watching his irritation is worth the cleanup. Pride clears his throat twice. The second time is so loud that Envy recalls a cartoon character vying for attention, and it's ridiculous. As though pride isn't a deity standing in the center of thrones. What more does he want? Envy thinks, proud that she's keeping her mouth shut. Listen, Pride says, I've been thinking. And just like that, Envy is pissed. The mere idea of pride solving the problem is too much. She cracks her neck, purposefully loud, and then her knuckles, one for each word. Have you really? Greed flicks her freezing gaze in Envy's direction. Oh do hush up. Haven't you heard enough of yourself? Envy nearly gasps. The words stab at some eternal wound. Her fingers wrench at the loose emerald and nearly destroy the setting as an indescribable deflation sucks life and liberty from her, leaving only a husk of pain. She bleeds away the hard work she's done of building herself up and nearly slips from her throne. But pride stomps a golden shoe and startles her mental descent into oblivion. Pride's shoe sends a dazzling wave of gold surfing across the polished floor. And it crests so high it is poised in confidence and it delivers a blow of certainty. This is not the certainty of knowing, but that of force, like a command or a contagion, and it elicits a groan from sloth. Pride seizes the opportunity he created by shouting over sloth, but his words are lost, and he stops, his mouth remaining open. Pride looks prepared to continue, but he doesn't. Instead, his shoes dim. Envy recognizes the moment and smiles, a real smile. Then she looks to her siblings, curious of their reactions. Sloth sleeps. Greed counts. Gluttony burps, lust fondles, wrath stalks, sorrow scribes. Wait, when did she get here, and methinks? She looks at sorrow, watches her quill clip the air again, again, again in rapid succession. There is an immediacy to her movements that is unusual, both harsh and desperate, and then unexpectedly sorrow stops. She places her quill on the parchment and stands. The room goes rigid. But Envy saw this coming, so she watches her mirrors for more clues. They reveal nothing. Sorrow is too careful for that. And sorrow does not move nor speak. She seems to be waiting for something, perhaps for the rigidity to lessen. And when she finally speaks, the words are not what anyone would guess. I believe the oracle has answers, or at the very least, she understands our situation better than we do. I think we should ask for a divination. Pride spins on one golden heel, away from sorrow, and walks to his throne. He climbs the three steps of his dais, must he always bring a dais, and seats himself with a flare of importance. His lips purse, but eventually settle on an uneven grimace. These are the tattletales or telltale signs that pride has lost control. Not because he disagrees, but because he agrees. Pride flaunted himself so brashly as the beholder of the solution, yet didn't deliver. Well sorrow was so quick and obvious that it's clear there was never a contest. Envy relaxes. Her deflation lessens. She caresses her emerald. I like that, gluttony slurs, nodding toward sorrow. It'll tell us what we're missing. Gods, Greed says, Your breath, close your mouth. Then she swivels to sorrow with raised brows. Dearie, do tell, since you appear to have thought this out for everyone, how exactly will the oracle tell us about our causal windows when we know more than any of her scattered bones and pretty little seashells? Sorrow's quick sorrow's reply is quick, prepared, and we can feel it. The oracle is a disciple of destiny, so she can follow threads. We can't. She doesn't need to see our windows or even know they exist. She just needs to show which humans have threads connected to all of us equally, like a common fate. I don't believe all humans will have this, so it's an easy way to determine who can come and survive. Sorrow falters at the end, as though she has doubts, which is just the hesitation pride needs to dive back in, returning to his favorite spot, front and center. No, no, this trial has nothing to do with fate, pride states, his usual double talk firmly in place. It only tests what the humans have learned. We agreed on that. Envy is confused. She thought pride was in agreement with sorrow, so why does he now dismiss her solution? Unless oh yes, unless pride needs. He needs the solution to be his idea. But for that to happen, sorrow must not only acquiesce, she must admit she is wrong, so pride can be right with some nearly identical solution. Envy hasn't seen pride play this petty game in a long time. It doesn't suit him. He looks ridiculous. Plus he has other ploys, so why lower his standards? Envy glances around the room. Nothing unusual. Wrath stewing, greed hoarding, gluttony heaving, lust toying, sloth sleeping. At least on the surface nothing is unusual. But Envy can tell they are out of sorts. It began when Sorrow declared that her shadows were the only way to connect their causal windows. Her shadows. How convenient, and since none of them has been able to figure out another way, they have all been living with those thrumming shadows just outside their doors. It's no wonder they're all behaving strange. Did Sorrow plan this too? Envy wonders. That's correct, pride, Sorrow says, as though to interrupt Envy's line of thinking. You are correct. Sorrow seats herself and begins to scribe. No one speaks or bothers to do anything. They all just wait. Wait for the inevitable, the time immemorial, yet again, as consistent as the feathered end of sorrow's quill, wisping reflections upon the mirrors. They've watched this a million times, waited eternities for something to change, but nothing ever changes. No one ever changes. And certainly not pride. Now, pride says as if on cue, we need to determine which humans are able to come. The best way to do that is by analyzing them. Those that can survive must have similarities. Something about them that will help us determine one from the other. Perhaps they have certain attributes or markers. These will tell us. This trial won't work unless humans can come here and survive. Marvelous, Greed says, not bothering to look up from her coins. Who's going to the oracle? There it is. The question on everyone's mind, at least those paying attention, because everyone knows a visit with the oracle is rigorous at best. I'll go, sorrow says. Seven sets of eyes stare, even sloth, who slowly turns his head in sorrow's direction. The mirrors reflect all of this and more. They also reflect suspicion. And that's when the idea rubs envy wrong. But just as her mind begins to whirr, sorrow continues. I'll ask the oracle how to bring humans here safely, and I'll report all she says about this. All she says about this, Envy repeats in her head. Is sorrow trying to direct their attention or suspend their suspicion? Or both. Envy grips her arm rests and hisses her sister's name. Sorrow What are you up to? Leave it alone. Sloth's voice grinds every word. So harshly they crash upon the floor like boulders. Envy looks to Sloth, his eyes hooded but clear. He means every word. The deities stare from one to the other, their reflections turning and twisting this way and that, wondering which way to go. What's going on? Gluttony slurs, just as sorrow gathers her items and exits in a shadowy thrum of purple.