The sky did not split open. No thunderclap shook the foundations of the world I knew. The end of simplicity arrived on a Tuesday, quiet as dust settling after a cart passes, beneath a sky the colour of old bruises, heavy and low enough, it seemed, to press the air down, thick and still. It smelled of the coming rain that refused to fall, a palpable tension that seemed to sink into the cracked stones of the market square, into the stooped shoulders of the laborers, into the very scent of the wilting herbs on the stalls, and, that day, into the space behind my eyes.
The world used to feel simple, then. It was just… outside. A place of hard ground underfoot that scraped against my sandals, of sun that felt warm or cold depending on the season, painting sharp-edged shadows across familiar walls, of shapes and sounds that were simply what they were. And I was in it. Himerios. A body moving through space, performing actions that felt straightforward: lifting a crate, walking a path, watching the sea flatten under the wind, the waves turning grey under the bruised sky. Doing things. Thinking thoughts that felt like they were entirely mine, singular and obedient, born just behind my eyes, nowhere else. I didn't question it. Why would I? It was like questioning the air I breathed or the ground I walked upon. Everything made sense, or at least, it felt like it made sense. Until the day I turned fourteen.
It wasn't a sudden physical blow. It was softer, insidious, almost subtle at first, like two distinct conversations happening just at the edge of my hearing, buried beneath my own thoughts. This began as I walked back from the potter's workshop for my father, a small, wrapped vessel tucked carefully under my arm. The main thoroughfare was busier than the side streets, lined with stalls and workshops. My Mother was near, her familiar shape a comfort. Being near Mother felt like warm air on a cold day to my spirit; it was a simple, good feeling that settled in my chest.
Annoying, intensely annoying. I'd stop mid-step, tilt my head, straining to hear. "Was someone whispering just behind the stack of amphorae near the wall?" I asked aloud, turning my head instinctively, my voice thin.
My mother looked at me, her brow furrowed just slightly, creating small wrinkles on her forehead. "No, child. Just the market sounds. Are you feeling well? Your face seems… tight," she asked, her voice pitched higher than usual.
A low rumble cut in inside my head, new and sudden. It felt deep, like stone, absolute. "Observe the lentils. Assess texture and colour. Determine quality based on learned criteria."
A lighter voice countered, a soft chime accompanying the first. This one felt like a breeze, fleeting but present. "But the stall nearby has bright flowers! Smell them! They might lift the spirit! They are beautiful!"
Caught between them, my head shook sharply, an involuntary movement. A cold clenching seized my gut. Panic, sharp and immediate, flared through me, a physical response to the impossible sounds.
"Was I getting sick?" I muttered, rubbing my temples, breath quickening. My heart began to beat against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm I did not understand. "Who are you?!" I screamed internally, raw and desperate, the sound trapped inside my skull.
But they didn't fade. They persisted. They sharpened. Two voices. Distinct. One deep and stern, like unyielding law, focused on order and rule. The other lighter and soft, like a spirit sensing colour, focused on feeling and beauty. They weren't talking to me directly, but about me, for me, debating, using my mind as their shared space.
I remember one instance, later that day. My Father was waiting near the door as I returned from an errand. Talking with Father felt like solid ground beneath my feet; it was a reliable feeling that settled my thoughts and made my limbs feel steady. I handed him the goods, the wrapped vessel cool under my arm.
"Did you complete the task efficiently?" he asked, his voice even and level.
"Affirmative. Task completion verified," the deep voice stated internally.
"He also saw a bright bird! Tell Father about the bird! It was lovely to the eyes! It was yellow like ripe grain!" the lighter voice added, appealing to sharing a simple visual pleasure, describing the bird's colour.
I opened my mouth, caught between the two internal responses, one driven by fact, the other by sensation. "The task is... complete," I managed, the words feeling stiff, caught in my throat. I did not mention a bird. His face showed nothing remarkable in response, only the usual lines around his mouth when he was not speaking.
Later, the bruised sky had deepened to a grim purple. I was walking back from the well with my sister, Euboa Leukē. Euboa's quiet presence was a pleasant shape beside me; being near her felt comfortable to my spirit, a simple, good feeling, like cool water on a hot day. Her eyes, large and bright shapes in her pale face, often fixed on the path ahead, but sometimes she would look at me with a steady gaze that was calming to the confusion inside my head. I liked being with Euboa; it quieted the noise just by her being there. The water sloshing in our amphorae was a familiar sound, but now felt like a disruption to the insistent internal noise.
"He should turn left here to avoid the crowd at the square," the stern voice rumbled inside my head. "It is the most efficient path. Calculation dictates. Minimize obstacles."
Euboa walked beside me, her small hand gripping her amphorae. "Himerios? Why are you stopping?" she asked quietly, her voice a soft sound beside me.
"But the right feels warmer," the softer voice countered. "More... hopeful to the spirit. It smells of the stream there. It feels... better to go that way. More pleasant."
My feet paused on the path, a strange tension pulling. My head swiveled, scanning the two paths. "Which way?" I muttered, lost in the internal debate, looking at Euboa's face, the unchanging shape of her expression.
"Tell her you are evaluating the paths. Reason requires evaluation of options before selection," the stern voice instructed, providing a logical explanation for my pause.
"Tell her the air feels different! The feeling guides you! Follow the heart! The air smells sweeter!" the softer voice suggested, offering a reason based on sensation and feeling, elaborating on the pleasant smell.
My mouth opened, but no coherent words came out. Just a choked sound. Euboa watched. After a moment, the lighter voice gained dominance, its feeling-based argument overriding the stern logic, their argument coalescing into a directive. My body obeyed, turning onto the path the softer voice preferred, feeling a strange, unbidden momentum. "This way," I said, the word abrupt. Euboa nodded and followed. The simple act of walking had become complicated, now dictated by unseen occupants.
Later, passing through the market again, I saw Lalos Pyrros, known for his chatter and reddish hair, arguing with a customer, his face tight with strain. "He is making loud sounds," I commented to Euboa, pointing vaguely at the two figures making noise.
"Observation confirms external sound source. Note frequency and amplitude. Ignore extraneous data. Focus on navigation," the stern voice stated, detached analysis of the sound source.
"But his voice sounds... like plucked strings pulled too tight! It feels like that sounds! It is a sound of struggle to the spirit! The customer looks pulled tight too!" the softer voice exclaimed internally, reacting with feeling and applying the feeling to the customer's appearance.
We continued walking, the sounds of the market fading behind us. A sudden panic began to set in again, a physical clenching in my gut, a quickening of my breath I didn't understand the source of, a cold dread that gripped my chest.
What was this? Was this happening only to me? Were these perhaps gods speaking to me? Had the divine decided to make me their mouthpiece, like the oracles of old who spoke in riddles? Was I a prophet, burdened by celestial noise others could not hear? "Are you hearing voices?" I whispered internally, raw and desperate, directing the question at the presences.
"Source analysis required: Divine intervention, anomaly of the humors, external manipulation." the stern voice listed, applying reason to categorize the phenomenon, ignoring the panic.
"But it feels... like yearning! Like sadness and hope mixed! Like a memory of sunshine on skin! Gods feel big, like the sky! Not... mixed like this inside the chest! This feels too human! It feels like it belongs to someone hurting!" the softer voice protested, countering the analysis with intuition and feeling, linking the feeling to human suffering.
I tried to ignore them, pushing them away with sheer force of will, all my spirit focused on the task. I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my ears with my hands, leaning my head against my chest. "Go away!" I screamed internally, a desperate sound trapped inside.
"Inefficient action. External stimuli must be processed for optimal survival. Blocking input prevents optimal decision-making based on reason." the stern voice stated, applying practicality, analyzing my physical reaction.
"But shutting out feels... safe? Like hiding from a loud noise? It soothes the spirit! It makes the chest feel lighter! Do not analyze safety, feel it!" the softer voice argued, focusing on the emotional response and well-being of the spirit, describing the physical sensation of relief.
I concentrated on the sounds outside – the far-off bleating of a sheep, the creak of a cart wheel, the distant crash of a wave against the harbour wall, the persistent hum of the market – on the feel of the amphorae handles in my hands, the rough weave of my tunic against my skin, anything external, anything simple, anything not these voices. "Go away! Leave me alone! Let me think my own thoughts! Let me walk my own path! Get out of my head!" I screamed internally, directing all my mental energy at the presences, picturing myself pushing them out like unwanted guests from a threshold.
But my internal shouts, my frantic mental energy, were met with nothing from them. They didn't react to my attempts to engage them, to understand them, to banish them. They didn't acknowledge my struggle against their presence, like statues ignoring the cries of a beggar at their feet. They just continued their observations, their debates, their subtle directives, persistent, like a melody stuck in my mind that no amount of shaking your head can dislodge, playing whether I wanted it to or not, growing louder, more insistent, more demanding the more I tried to ignore it, as if demanding to be acknowledged, demanding obedience, demanding control over the very mechanism of my being.
Only, this melody had opinions that directly impacted my physical body, my actions, my words, my choices. And they weren't just passive thoughts. They became commands. "Turn left here, it is the calculated route." "No, go right, it feels better to the heart." And my feet would obey, feeling a strange, unbidden momentum. My head would turn, my eyes directed by force. Words would sometimes form on my tongue, not words I intended. It was terrifying, this loss of authorship. My world, simple outside, was crowded inside. The bruised sky outside pressed down, mirroring the weight within my skull, the air thick with the promise of a storm that felt like it was now raging primarily inside me, with no clear way out. The light began to fade from the sky, leaving long, grim shadows stretching across the path as the day, and my old life, came to a close.