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These Stepsons tread where mortals don't belong, some of us think. They seek out battle high above their station. Who knows what powers may yet take them and their mystic allies to task, bring them their comeuppance?

Janet Morris

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Janet Morris
Age: 78
Born: 1946
Born: May 25
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Janet Ellen Morris
Janet E. Morris
May
Belong
Stepsons
Take
Powers
Tread
Think
Task
Mystic
Thinking
Tasks
Station
Seek
Suspicion
Battle
Stations
Bring
Allies
High
Mortals
Comeuppance

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Everything that anyone respects is what men naturally excel at: fighting, accruing wealth, playing at power.
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Each soul has its appointed doom. How is it you dare to raise a mortal boy so high - high enough to flout the gods? Bring godhead where a man may reach out and take it? growls Enlil, and lightning splits a clear blue sky.
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Survival has its own etiquette.
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The heavens listen to what is said on these cobbles. Laws of man and nature come together here. Here you must be firm. Here you must be true.
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Haste breeds error error breeds woe.
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Such hubris could only come from a man's mouth.
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To the death with honor, shoulder to shoulder, and no one gets closer to a Stepson than his partner.
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What wastrel mankind destroyed takes time for nature to put to rights.
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Die never for a god, Nikodemos who should know better - not your soldiers' god, nor any other.
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Gods colliding, ethos and mythos trying to combine. The Sacred Band caught up in a whirlwind not of any god's devising: he and Niko had wanted to save twenty-three pairs of fated Theban fighters. Now everything feels fated and fighting oversweeps its boundaries of time and place and plane.
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The universe forgives those who give until their hearts are aching and their spirits weak, and finds a way to renew all strength and cure all ills, in this world or the next, if a soul can just have faith.
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Learn what can, and cannot, be asked from destiny.
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Wanting neither too much to live, nor too much to die.
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Choose life over death, Niko, when a choice can be made that puts no soul in jeopardy.
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For me, myth is the 'common' language of us all.
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There are stranger things here than Thebans know about.
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Painful things are quickly forgotten.
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Men may not believe you, my son. But you must always say the truth, when the truth holds no danger for you or your loved ones.
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Don't forget, Riddler, how I love thee. Or all we shared together. Or that this sea and all other seas can lead you back to me.
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Use him wisely. Few have been given such a weapon by the gods or Fates before.
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