Chapter Eighty-Three
Several of the younger girls wished to fashion me a crown, but I outright refused. I would lead them as a queen did, and I would protect our lands, protect their lives. But I would not wear a crown.
“If you are going to use metal, use it to make me a sword,” I said. I made the comment in jest, so I was surprised when Thalassa responded in earnest.
“There is one in the payment from the village,” she said.
“A sword?” My heart fluttered at this news. I had let the women sort and pack the payment. My intentions had been to sort through it all when we returned so that we could decide how to repurpose the metals as necessary. But a sword?
“I will fetch it,” Safak said.
A moment later, she galloped off, returning shortly after with the weapon in her hand.
It was close to the length of my arm, with a wooden handle and a single sharp edge that had been so blunted it did not cut my skin as I ran my finger across it.
Still, it could be turned into something useful should we ever need to fight again.
Provided I could teach myself how to use it, that was.
Judging the weight in my hand, I lifted the weapon above my head.
“This is the only crown I shall ever wear,” I laughed, only to stop while the sound was still half-formed in my throat.
Laughter was not a sound I wanted to hear.
The memory struck like an axe in my stomach, flooding me with guilt and disgust for allowing joy into my life.
The only sounds I wanted to hear were hungry cries or mellow whimpers.
A sword would not change that. A name would not change that. Nothing would.
I was overcome with the sudden urge to throw the sword away, yet the women’s eyes remained on me and the gift they had used to name me their queen. So with Safak still riding parallel to me and Erebus, I handed it back to her.
“Thank you. I will begin my training with it when I return.”
It was some hours later, as we set up camp for the evening, that Damaris sought me out.
“Perhaps you should ride ahead of the rest of the women,” she said as I slung a skin onto the ground. “You can leave at first light. I will pack up your belongings and take them with me. All you need is Erebus. That way, you will be granted a little time alone to collect your thoughts.”
“Leave the women?” I said.
My initial instinct was to refuse, but the mere thought of solitude was enough to send calm washing through me. This way, I would have two full days’ riding, with no tasks or burdens to bear. It was the first moment I realized the true appeal of the nomadic life.
I will not pretend that two days’ riding was all it took to push the thoughts of my daughter to the back of my mind.
Two years, two decades, two centuries would not be enough to make her memory fade.
But those two days allowed me the chance to honor her in private.
To hunt and make sacrifices in her name. They allowed me peace to grieve.
When I returned to our lands, my heart was just as heavy as when I had departed, but ripped seams always weigh more when a tough thread is used to repair them.
I had not yet reached the buildings when Althea rode to meet me.
“Where are the others?” she asked. “Did something happen?”
I shook my head. “No. I came ahead. I suspect they will be here by nightfall.”
Relief washed over her.
“That is good.” She paused. A question lingered on her lips, one I knew she would ask and for which I already had an answer. “How do you feel?” she said quietly. “I take it your body is healing, but your mind?”
“My mind is where it needs to be,” I said. “On the women and our home.”
“I do not doubt that,” she said. “I did as you asked of me. Your daughter is buried, and I placed an arrow by her side. For she would have grown to be as formidable a warrior as her mother. Would you like to know where?”
“No.” I shook my head. “She is in Themiscyra. In every blade of grass and cloud that floats in our sky. That will be enough for me. Tell me, has there been news while I have been away?”
The expression was fleeting: a muscle twitching along her jawline. But it was all I needed. Tension flooded through me.
“Althea? What is it?” I said.
Rather than answering, she turned her horse and kept her eyes forward on the horizon.
“I do not know how to tell you this, Otrera,” she said, her gaze still not meeting mine.
My mind raced. What could cause her to react in such a manner?
Had we been attacked? I instantly dismissed the idea.
There was no sign of a battle, no bodies or churned-up earth.
So what could it be? What could have happened with the women that Althea did not wish to tell me?
She knew all there was of my life. She was the one I had entrusted to bury my own child after all.
That was when I felt it, like a sickness in my stomach. Tears throbbed at my eyes, yet I tilted my head to the sun and burned them away.
“How many?” I asked Althea, clearing the lump in my throat as I forced the question out. “How many of the women are pregnant?”
It was short-sighted to believe I was the only woman who had conceived at the Gargareans, yet I had been too consumed with my own pregnancy to consider that others could have been in the same situation.
“Four,” Althea said in answer to my question. “Four are pregnant. Three of them stayed here. They did not want to fight in their condition. One, according to them, rode with you to the fight. Though I only have their word for that.”
“Which one?” I asked, racking my brain for any indication that one of the women I had spent the previous days traveling and fighting with was with child.
“Safak,” Althea answered.
“Safak?” I heard the shock in my voice. Safak. The young girl who reminded me so much of Aina. She could not have been more than eighteen years of age. Anger filled me, though Althea was quick to continue.
“She formed a bond with one of the Gargareans, according to her friend. A promise to return to each other. She swears it was all consensual. Safak would not have allowed him to take advantage. She would not have let him live.”
From what I had seen of the girl, I suspected it was true, yet it did not stop the bile that stung the back of my throat as images of Aina resurfaced in my mind.
“Did they come to tell you, or did you find out?”
“They offered the information. They hoped I would approach you. Ask that if the children are male, you will ensure the mothers can travel to the Gargareans with you again to leave the children with their fathers.”
It felt as though my chest was constricting all my air. Not only were these women with child, but they had felt the need to approach Althea rather than myself about the matter.
“I am tired from the riding,” I said, dismounting. “Will you take Erebus and brush him down, please? There is mud and blood on his legs from the fight.”
“Of course. Will you be retiring to our chamber? I have fixed another for you if you would rather.”
If you would rather not be in the room where your child died. Those were the words she did not say. But it had been the room where I had held her too. Besides, I would not be held prisoner by illusions of a future that could never exist. Mourning had its place, and so did living.
The chamber had been scrubbed clean, and no evidence remained of the stained mattress on which I had birthed my dead child. Instead, burning herbs filled the room with the aroma of citrus, and a small wreath of rosemary had been placed beside the window. Rosemary. For remembrance.
As I closed my eyes, my body no longer resisted, and I allowed sleep to take me more fully than I could ever remember. I would have slept all day or longer still had Althea not opened the door a little before sunset. Rather than allowing me my rest, she spoke loudly.
“If you are a queen, does that mean that I must find myself a new place to sleep?”
I opened my eyes to see her hovering over me with her hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips.
“I would hate to impose on her majesty’s space,” she said.
“The women have returned,” I deduced.
“They have, high on the excitement of their newly named queen. Although I wish I had known. I would have prepared a far grander reception than just myself this morning. Perhaps we should have had some music? Or dancing?”
The warmth of her jesting flowed through me. Not for one moment had I expected Althea to revere me, and I was grateful.
“You are a good friend, Althea. Thank you.” I stood up and kissed her on the cheek.
“You do not need to thank me for friendship,” she replied. “We have been through far too much for that. Now, the women wish to hold a feast to celebrate our newly appointed queen. Not to mention their first spoils of war.”
And so our days continued.
Much to Sotiria’s delight, the forge was completed before that first winter, and she spent the cold months hammering out weapons and tools.
Remaining true to my desire to keep favor with the gods, I delegated over half the women to build the temple for Artemis, and platters, candlesticks, and jewelry from our spoils adorned the altars inside.
The relief it brought me was immeasurable.
The goddess would not forsake us now. I was certain of it.
Babies were born, a tonic to my own grief, winter passed, and soon spring returned with its cacophony of color.
One morning as I rode Erebus, I stood at the top of the plain and gazed across at the world we had created.
Women riding, smoke weaving up from the forge, and birds dipping and diving above flower-filled fields.
At that moment, I thought of Phile. We had created our own Elysium.
I only wished she were there to see it. All that it was missing was the presence of a god upon the lands.
And when spring came, that too would change.