Chapter 35 Ghosts of the Living
Danae, Atalanta and Telamon stood on the peak of the hill.
The wind moaned, and the white-crested waves beat against the battle-ravaged island.
Before them lay a fresh mound of stones.
Metis’ body was buried beneath, wrapped in the fur-trimmed cloak Danae had pulled from the wreckage of her hut.
In its folds, she’d tucked sprigs of the little purple flowers, as though they had grown from the cracks of Metis’ funeral shroud.
It felt strange not to place coins on the woman’s eyes, even though she now knew that Metis would have no need of them.
Below, keeping vigil beside the lake, were Heracles and Pegasus, the horse’s wings tucked into its sides.
Once Danae had revived her ichor on several bushes of spruce, she’d stripped Poseidon’s body of its golden armour, weighted down his corpse with rocks and tossed it into the lake.
It had struck her that, when free of his armour, the God of the Sea could have been anyone.
A fisherman washed ashore after losing a battle with the ocean.
Heracles had said nothing while they worked to drown Poseidon’s body, but he remained by the water when the others left the bank and trudged towards the hill.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Atalanta had asked.
‘He was family. I should pay my respects,’ was all the hero had replied. Pegasus too lingered by the lake, having returned to the island after flying away during the fight. With a bitter tang in her throat, Danae wondered if the horse too was in mourning.
‘We should say something,’ said Telamon.
Danae blinked, her thoughts returning to the hillside.
Atalanta and Telamon were gazing at her, waiting. The expectation in their weary eyes settled across her shoulders like a yoke.
Since learning she was the last daughter, she had sought out the people she believed would help her evolve into the warrior she must become.
First Phineus and Prometheus, then Metis.
Now there was no one left to teach her, no wise counsel to turn to.
She had assumed that one day she would feel ready, that once she had mastered her powers she would unlock the secret of how to defeat Zeus.
But now she knew that day would never come.
She would never stop being afraid, never stop feeling like she wasn’t prepared. But despite that, she had killed a god. Perhaps she was enough, broken and unskilled as she was.
She drew a breath. ‘From the earth we are born and to the earth we shall return. Gaia, take care of Metis’ ichor as she returns to the tapestry.’ She lowered the final stone cradled in her hand and placed it upon the burial mound.
The rusted grass shimmered about the island as it moved with the wind. Danae wondered if the woman’s life force was now woven into its blades. It seemed fitting that Metis’ threads should become part of the island she’d cared for.
‘We can’t stay here,’ Danae said. ‘The Olympians will send someone after Poseidon soon enough.’
‘Agreed,’ said Atalanta.
Danae’s eyes travelled again to Heracles. ‘You saw what happened with the sea-monster …’ She turned back to her companions. ‘He cannot come with us to face the false gods.’
Atalanta’s gaze sharpened. ‘We will not leave him behind. He has improved much these past weeks.’
Danae ran a hand over her face. ‘If he comes to Olympus, he will be killed.’
Telamon folded his arms, his jaw set. ‘If you want our help, Heracles is non-negotiable.’
You do not need them, whispered the voice. You alone are the reckoning.
But deep in her core, Danae knew that wasn’t true. She would not have survived Poseidon if it weren’t for Telamon and Atalanta. If it weren’t for Metis. She could not do this alone.
She fought the ache that rose in her chest at the thought of the sacrifice made by the woman now cold as the stones upon her skin.
She sighed. ‘Fine.’
They picked their way down the hillside to join Heracles and Pegasus beside the lake. The hero looked up as they approached, his eyes deep as the wine-dark sea.
‘What now?’ he rasped.
‘You three sail in the boat. I’ll follow above on Pegasus.’ Danae gazed towards the land beyond Delos. ‘We’ll head to Myconos first. Regroup, gather supplies, then on to Olympus.’
‘What are you going to do with Poseidon’s armour?’ asked Atalanta.
It lay in a golden pile beside the lake, along with the shattered remains of the trident, flecks of dried blood staining the metal like rust.
Danae had been wondering this herself. It’s power-amplifying properties could be useful. At first, she thought she might wear it, but it was far too large, designed for a man at least a head taller than her.
‘We take it. It could be of use, even if only as a disguise once we reach Olympus. A way to gain entry to the palace.’ She looked at Telamon. ‘I was thinking perhaps …’
His pale eyes widened. ‘You want me to dress up as the God of the Sea?’
‘You’re a similar build to Poseidon.’
‘We can’t just sneak into the palace of the gods – and even if we could, they would surely kill me once they discovered the deception.’
‘I think it’s a good plan,’ said Atalanta.
‘You put the armour on, then!’
The warrior glared at him. ‘When did you become such a coward?’
‘When I learnt there’s no fucking afterlife!’
While they spoke, Heracles bent down and pulled on a gauntlet, wincing as the metal slid over his swollen joints. With effort, he straightened up. ‘I will wear the armour.’
Danae looked between Telamon and Atalanta. They remained silent, avoiding her gaze.
She clenched her jaw and turned back to Heracles. ‘It cannot be you.’
He turned to face her, chin held high. ‘I have led armies, slain hundreds of men on a single battlefield. I am the one who should wear it.’
Danae’s pulse quickened. ‘The Olympians will know you are not one of them.’
The hero’s gaze narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Because … look at you!’
Atalanta inhaled a sharp breath as the gauntlet slipped from Heracles’ hand to clatter against the earth.
‘Heracles …’ Danae called as the hero turned and stalked away towards the cliffs. Pegasus snorted, flexed his wings, then trotted after him.
Telamon shot a barbed look at Danae. ‘I’ll go.’
As he walked away Danae sighed. ‘I don’t know how to do this.’
‘You could have been softer with him. But you weren’t wrong.’
Danae glanced at Atalanta. The warrior was staring after the men, thoughts blustering across her face like wind-chased clouds. Then she looked at Danae, ‘You’re doing better than you think.’
Danae’s heart swelled. She looked down at the battle-churned soil. ‘Thank you.’
Atalanta grunted. They stood in silence for a moment.
‘Poseidon would have killed me if you hadn’t been there,’ said Danae.
‘I only did what I had to.’
The corners of Danae’s mouth twitched. Atalanta was not half the liar she was.
‘Come on, let’s get the boat down to the shore.’
They walked over to the little rowing boat and began dragging it across the earth. Danae coughed as the wind gusted the scent of the sea-monster’s dried blood caked on Atalanta’s limbs.
‘You smell like the inside of my father’s fishing boat.’
Atalanta raised an eyebrow, then lifted her arm and sniffed her skin. She wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve got a point.’
Once they reached the sand, Atalanta dropped her end of the vessel and sprinted towards the glistening water, Skolopendra’s corpse looming over her.
She ran like a gazelle, sure-footed, swift and graceful.
As she splashed into the shallows and dived beneath the waves, Danae felt an ache deep in her core.
She imagined running after the warrior, letting the sea envelop her, the water sweeping around them both, drawing them close.
Her cheeks reddened. Then something caught her eye.
A shard of pottery, nestled in a crisp nest of seaweed.
Danae glanced up towards the hillside. It must have tumbled down, propelled by the force of the collapsing hut when she rumbled the earth the previous night.
She bent down and picked it up. The edge of an owl’s wing was visible on the clay. Her hands trembled as she traced the outline of the painted feathers, pressure building in her chest.
By the time Atalanta emerged from the water, Danae was undone.
‘Danae?’
She knelt on the shore, mouth stretched wide, tears splashing onto her thighs, the shard of pottery digging into her palms.
Atalanta crouched beside her.
Danae’s face ached, her cheeks stinging with salt. For a while she could not bring herself to speak. When she was able, she murmured, ‘I called her a coward.’
‘You can’t dwell on that. Metis knew those words were said in the heat of anger.’
Danae looked up at the warrior through swollen eyes. ‘Do you think she was right? Am I like the Olympians?’
Atalanta sat back on her heels.
‘You are and you aren’t.’
Danae’s heart plummeted. That was not the answer she’d hoped for.
‘It’s not a bad thing. You killed another false god today. No mortal has ever done that. Perhaps being like them is what it takes to be the champion of mankind.’
Danae tried to find comfort in the warrior’s words but she could not. Then her mind settled on the last part of what Atalanta had said. ‘You believe I’m the champion of mankind?’
‘That’s what the prophecy says, doesn’t it?’
As she held the warrior’s gaze, light sparked in the hollow cavern of her chest.
Then the pound of footsteps sounded behind them.
Danae turned to see Telamon sprinting through the tawny grass, a bloody gash across his forehead.
‘Heracles has gone,’ he gasped.
Danae hurriedly wiped her face as she and Atalanta leapt to their feet.
‘What?’
‘He hit me,’ Telamon pointed to his head. ‘Came at me with a rock. By the time I was on my feet he was on the back of that horse, flying away.’