Epilogue The Day Prometheus Died
Far to the north-west of Greece, in the land of Epirus, lay the valley of Dodona.
Men used to say it was named after the river that flowed through the heart of the land, a gift from the Mother so her children would flourish. At the centre of this verdant valley nestled a grove of oaks. It was older than the gods. Older than the Titans. Older, even, than the dragons.
Before pilgrims flocked to Delphi, before coins were pressed into molten metal and buildings of stone towered over the plains, people would walk from far across the earth to lose themselves amongst those sacred trees and learn the secrets woven through their branches.
But that was long ago, before the old ways were forgotten.
Now mortals thought of fate as an immovable force, herding each person down a fixed path towards an inevitable destiny.
They were wrong.
But there was one man who remembered that the Moirae could be bargained with. For a price.
Zeus had resisted this journey for centuries, ever since Prometheus’ poisoned words first reached his ears. He knew the cost of altering fate was always a devastating sacrifice. Yet now he found himself with little choice.
The trees murmured as he approached the ancient grove, his crimson cloak encrusted with ice from the Caucasus Mountains. Hours before, he had stood beneath a crag on the highest peak, Prometheus’ corpse lying in the snow at his gilded feet.
Zeus slowed before the grove’s towering trunks, staring into the gloom between them. The way was barred by hair-thin strands, gleaming as though spun from liquid starlight. His eyes narrowed. He unpinned his cloak and let it fall in a ripple at his feet.
Breath slow and steady as a moon-tide, he contorted his body between the gaps in the web, careful not to touch a strand with even the tip of a finger.
Three steps in, his foot crunched on the forest floor. He paused. Something lay splintered beneath his golden boot. The remnants of a comb fashioned from bone and pearl. He gazed at it for a moment, then carried on twisting through the strands.
A breeze shivered through the ancient trees, ruffling their leaves and jingling the offerings sewn to their branches.
Gifts for the Moirae, rusted and rotted with time.
Hours passed, and sweat trickled down Zeus’ brow, stinging his eyes.
His muscles ached like they had not done for centuries.
There was a screech far above, and for a heart-rending moment he thought he had touched one of the strands.
Then a dash of white flickered through the canopy.
A snowy dove, its voice as harsh as its feathers were beautiful.
Quelling his racing heart, he pressed onwards.
Finally, he came to a clearing free of webs and was able to stand upright and stretch his limbs. In the centre was a vast oak, thicker and taller than its brethren guarding it from the world. Around its base, like a row of bronze teeth, was a circle of tripod cauldrons, their metal rims touching.
Zeus tilted his face to the torso-thick branches shrouded in darkness and waited.
An acorn dropped from the tree, tumbling into the belly of one of the cauldrons. A clang echoed from within, chiming around the ring of bronze in a dissonant wave.
Out of the harsh, metallic chords came a voice, fractured in three parts.
What brings you to our grove, son of Kronos?
‘Sisters of the sacred oak, I come before you to make a bargain.’
The branches above him shivered, and a clicking sound cut through the peals of the cauldrons.
‘I wish,’ Zeus continued, ‘to change my fate.’
There was a cry like the ripping of the world, then the voices split.
The apple thief wants more time.
Greedy little Titan.
What will he give us?
Zeus raised his voice above the noise. ‘Whatever you ask.’
The clicking intensified.
A strange sensation spread across Zeus’ chest, a feeling old and forgotten stealing his breath.
Fear.
Leaves drifted down as the branches shook and three shapes descended the gnarled trunk.
Zeus stepped back as the first fate scuttled over the cauldrons.
She was large as a wolf, her arachnid abdomen trailing silver thread in her wake.
Her legs too were that of a great insect, but her arms were fashioned like a mortal woman’s, her face a smooth opal, broken by a crimson gash of a mouth.
Clotho, the weaver.
The second fate slithered like a serpent, her sea-green body rippling like water. She had no limbs, only an oval moon-white face undulating before him, devoid of features except two round eyes, misted as the dawn.
Lachesis, the judge.
Lastly, a shadow slipped from the tree, drifting over the swells of bronze and along the ground. It slid up Zeus’ armour, chilling his skin. The life-threads surging through his veins quietened, as though the third fate had reached inside his soul and quenched all that he was.
Then a voice whispered in his ear, The fate you would change belongs to me, child of time. And I have waited so long.
Atropos, the devourer.
Zeus’ heart betrayed him, thundering in his armoured chest.
‘I have walked the path of the Moirae, you must consider my bargain. That is the way.’
The darkness surged across his vision, and for a moment he thought it would consume him. Then Atropos retreated to prowl around him with her sisters.
He gasped, despite himself, as the surge of his life force returned.
Very well, the voices melded together once more, ringing in his skull. Which thread would you have us cut in exchange for yours?
‘The one belonging to the girl Prometheus named the last daughter.’
A riot of hissing exploded through the grove. Zeus fell to his knees, covering his ears against the violent noise.
YOU ASK TOO MUCH.
‘Please,’ he gasped, ‘I will do anything to change my fate. I will give anything.’
The hissing subsided, leaving a throbbing ache in his eardrums. He staggered to his feet.
He was alone in the grove. The Moirae were gone.
Rage boiled through his core. He was King of the Gods. He was denied by no one. Not even fate.
Drawing on the ocean of power he hoarded inside himself, he sparked a shard of lightning into being, feeding the searing bolt until it spanned the width of the clearing, singeing the trees.
‘You will take my bargain, or I will burn your grove to the ground.’
A shattered laugh echoed from everywhere and nowhere. The bolt in his hands died in an instant, his fire extinguished by a breath older than time.
Zeus’ face spasmed into a snarl. He spun on his heel, turning his back on the Moirae’s tree.
Wait.
A whisper of shadow played about his face.
What in all the world is most precious to you, son of Kronos? Do not lie, I will know.
Zeus fought against the dread stilling his tongue. ‘My children.’
If the darkness had a face, she would be smiling.
I offer you this: there is a way to prevent the last daughter from ending the reign of thunder.
‘How?’
If she is slain by a child of your blood.
Zeus’ chest tightened. ‘What will you take in return?’
Atropos enveloped him, caressing his cheeks. Blood for blood. A child armed for a child sacrificed.
He had known the price would be dear. It did not make the bargain any easier.
‘Which child will you take?’ he whispered.
That fate is yet undecided by Lachesis. It could be any, or none. It could still be you.
Zeus clenched his golden fist. He had lived too long and given too much to let human weakness stifle him now.
You know what you must do, said the voice inside his head.
Zeus gazed at the shining threads drawn across the trunks beyond the clearing. So many lives taut with potential, so many lifetimes for him to mould in his image. So many more children still to be born.
‘I accept your bargain.’
Atropos spun around him, thickening the air with midnight smoke. Through the blackness loomed Lachesis’ misted eyes, and below it, a single silvery strand drawn taut. Ready to be cut.
As one the fates spoke, It is done.