"You didn't feel sorrow or guilt as you stabbed him, but you felt gratitude? Why?" The witch examined the vanishing memory of the procession of young children committing almost ritualistic murder; her tone was less flirtatious now. She seemed genuinely curious.

"Because he owed me nothing, but he died so that I could live."

"Wouldn't he have died either way? I assume they didn't call off the execution if you refused to participate. They don't seem so lenient."

I shook my head.

"They wouldn't call off the execution, but they would give that month's failure another chance. Instead, whoever refused to participate would take the target's place and die in his stead."

The witch chuckled. "I like that," she said, "Who came up with such a system?"

"That would be our mother. Look, there she is now."

The memoryscape shifted.

An ageless woman stood in front of my younger self, dressed entirely in white. She was indescribably beautiful, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. Her face was entirely devoid of any sort of warmth.

She rubbed the top of my younger self's head.

"Congratulations," she said, "I thought you wouldn't make it this far. You've proven me wrong."

"Why did you call me here?" My younger self asked, ignoring her hand on his head.

"I wanted to see you. It's rare that I'm so wrong about someone. I mistook your initial lack of social instincts for lack of potential in that area. Yet the way you've developed is perfect. It's a bit early to say, but I have high hopes that you will become my masterpiece."

"Charming lady, isn't she? I would love to have her," the witch opined.

"She was a really shitty parent."

"But she was your parent, no?"

"Biologically speaking, yes. "

The witch seemed to have developed a fascination with the woman, looking for more memories of her. She found plenty; after that conversation, our 'mother' called me to see her often.

None of these meetings seemed to satisfy the witch, however, until she stopped on a particular one, intrigued.

I was a teenager in this one, sitting at a table, reading, when a beautiful girl with our characteristic blue eyes and dark hair approached. She went by Minerva and she was a year older than me.

"There's something I think you'd want to know," she said, "It's about Icarus."

Icarus was the name they had given Johan after he survived to fourteen. Mine was Kronos, for the record, but you don't need to remember that. Our 'mother' called herself Ares. Johan and I never really cared much for her bland Greek/Roman naming schemes. I'm only mentioning it for clarity.

"Then hurry up and tell me," I said, "I'll remember I owe you a favor, if that's what you want."

"Mother is having him executed tonight," she said.

"What for?"

"Apparently, he failed another test. Beyond that, you'll have to ask her yourself."

I stood up and walked out of the room.

At that point, I was mostly allowed to walk freely through the compound. Of course, there were some restricted areas, and Ares' quarters was one of them.

The guards tried to stop me, telling me that access to Ares' quarters was forbidden.

The smart ones got out of my way. I killed the more foolish ones.

I would be punished for this, but that was the least of my worries.

I strode into Ares' office. I couldn't simply kill her, as her vitals were linked to bombs implanted in all of our bodies. No matter how she died, we would all die with her.

"Split Icarus' sentence between us," I said, "So that neither of us are executed."

"Why would I do that? I know you find him useful, but he really went too far this time. He claimed he somehow missed a woman that was five feet away. She was his primary target. I let him off all this time due to his incredible talent, but at this point, he's so soft that he can't be trusted anymore. You're more than strong enough now to survive without him, anyway."

I looked at her emotionlessly.

"Split the sentence between us. It will be torture, I assume? Make him watch me being punished and I guarantee that he'll never fail a mission again."

It was Ares' turn to stare in shock, and dawning horror.

"You... actually care about him?"

She almost looked betrayed.

"Yes, I do. And if you execute him and leave me alive, I will destroy everything you care about and kill you, even if it costs me my life. Or, you could kill us both, and lose your two most exceptional works. You've been trying for decades and you haven't produced anyone that even comes close to us."

"You're more flawed than expected. I will have to fix that later. But fine. I will split the sentence."

She gave the orders. I didn't resist as the men strapped me to the bed. They started with waterboarding and a special injection of Ares' invention that she called 'liquid pain'.

"I'm sorry, Solomon," Johan said.

I laughed angrily. Did he really think his life was his to throw away as he pleased?

The witch seemed immensely satisfied with this. She watched us being tortured for a while, then moved forward.

I followed the witch as she went through my past, looking for weaknesses. I censored the most vital information, but there was still lots for her to work with.

To be honest, I was a bit curious how a centuries-old witch would analyze my psyche.

Then, she made her move. Pure, unfiltered agony. It was basic, but effective.

I rode the wave of unbearable pain as a spectator in my own body. It was so intense that I couldn't even scream. This wasn't enough to break me, but I wished it would stop.

Then, like the answer to a prayer, the witch fell back with a knife in her forehead. Johan stood at the mouth of the cave.

"I came to save you, little brother. I forgive you for everything. I was just angry in the heat of the moment. You were only doing what you had to. That bitch, Ares, arranged for them to erase my memories and make me go insane. I don't know how I can make it up to you, but I'm back and... I'll never leave you again."

I knew this had to be part of the illusion. Something this absurd with this sort of timing was incredibly improbable.

But this sort of mental battle was one where logic and intellect subordinate themselves to emotions and strength of will.

A good story can make the audience feel whatever the author choses, even though the characters aren't real. And this was so much worse.

I knew it was a trap but I couldn't stop the emotions rising in my chest.

As it turned out, the witch understood me better than I did myself. I hadn't realized how badly I wanted this to hear him say the words I knew he would never say.

She had found a chink in my armour. She pushed her advantage, driving me further away from the real world and into her madness.

I collapsed to my knees, weeping. I felt my awareness of reality beginning to fade.