Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Eruptive laughter echoes in the dining room.
I’m unable to stop the contagious giggles from taking hold of my body, or tears of joy from falling down my cheeks.
It’s a story I’ve heard numerous times, but Grandad always tells it in a way that I fall in line with like the others, getting sucked into their boisterous enjoyment.
Once he finishes his story, the laughter stops.
I glance around the table to see the familiar faces of Henry, Dr. Alarie, and Amina, trying to recall how exactly we all got here.
I can’t remember when we arrived at Wilcrest House, or the hours leading up to this moment. It’s all an empty blank in my mind.
I stare at Grandad, Amina, and Dr. Alarie, with an inclination telling me that they shouldn’t be here. I glance over at Henry and know we shouldn’t be here either. But the team is all together—somehow.
The dining room looks exactly as it should.
The drapes are their usual dark green. Grandad’s favorite portrait of us hangs above the fireplace.
The ink stain I marked on my seat cushion from last winter is still there.
Not a single piece of furniture is out of place, and yet, it feels like I’m not in the dining room at Wilcrest House.
I place my hand on Amina’s arm, about to ask her if she senses something is wrong, but as soon as I touch her arm, Henry coughs uncontrollably. Blood splatters onto his napkin and doesn’t stop.
I’m about to run over and help him, but a panicked cry comes from Dr. Alarie as his eyes start to cloud over, yelling that he is unable to see.
Amina then screams beside me, as her teeth start falling out and land on her plate.
Grandad clutches his throat, desperately trying to grasp for air, then collapses onto the floor.
I scream out for help, but no one comes. Sobbing, I frantically run around the room to each of them, trying to help.
Paralyzed from helplessness, I stop dead in my tracks and watch everyone suffer around me in horror.
Placing my hands on my head, I try to think of a way to help them—to stop this madness.
But my fingers are not met with the feeling of my hair.
Instead, I feel cold metal—a crown. Or more specifically, the crown of compulsion.
Realization settles in that I’m the reason this is happening. I’m the one who is hurting them.
I asked for this to happen, but why?
With my heart pounding in my chest, I stare at the others suffering and dying in front of me. I close my eyes, about to ask the crown to stop this horrific chaos from happening.
But before I could do so, I wake up.
It takes me a moment to calm myself down—to realize I’m not at Wilcrest House witnessing the death of the people I care about. Instead, I’m in a small cabin at Hullbeck Barracks. As far as I know, the others are safe and sound.
Alive.
I drag a hand over my face, still shocked by the nightmare as I wrap my head around what it all could mean.
I fear the guilt of this mess will drive me down a route of madness if I don’t fix it in time.
The flimsy twin bed creaks as I push myself up, hugging a pillow to my chest. I take a deep, soothing breath, but the guilt settles comfortably on my chest.
Anger rises in me when I spot the contraption resting on the wooden chair in the corner. Over the past several days, I’ve grown to despise the artifacts, but I’ve never loathed them as much as I do at this moment.
My sweaty nightgown sticks to my body—a chill runs up my spine as the blanket falls to my feet. The cabin’s cold air hits my wet skin. I glance out the window, looking at the cabin next to me. Henry’s cabin. Counting to ten, I calm my racing heart, knowing he is nearby.
Unable to go back to sleep, I lie back down on the bed.
As I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts are consumed with the artifacts, the chest, and what it means to be the Eudaemon.
I wonder if my predecessors have had the same terrible luck as I’ve had, feeling guilty over the power they hold.
Or, if they’ve embraced it and become the hero they thought the Eudaemon should be.
What if being the Eudaemon comes with a price?
A price no person who wields such insurmountable power can pay without giving up something in return. Is it possible that the curse of being the Eudaemon is that it destroys the lives of those the wielder cares for the most?
Careless—that is how I acted during our holiday in Crete.
I didn’t have one single hesitation in opening the golden chest or what it could mean.
Not once did I consider that the chest was buried in that cave for a reason.
If only I weren’t so ravenous to find a discovery.
If I weren’t so selfish, then possibly we wouldn’t be in this mess.
The lives of those I care about wouldn’t be in such danger.
But as much as I’m resentful of myself, I start to wonder why the Olympians would give us mortals such dangerously powerful gifts.
Did they not know, or understand, how human beings are? Wouldn’t they have known what gifting these artifacts would do to humanity?
All it does is expose humanity’s vicious, ingrained desire for power and how they wield it for selfish gains rather than for the good of others. The deities must have known this before creating them.
I lie awake with these thoughts until I see the rising sun out the window. Dawn approaches with bustling commotion as soldiers start their training with stomping marches. A usual occurrence, I imagine, in any military base, and one I’ll need to get accustomed to quickly.
It’s a crisp June morning in Canterbury. Dewy covered grass and light fog rise as the sun warms the cool air. The scent of petrichor, lavender, and bluebell surrounds me—reminding me that summer will soon turn into autumn.
Wishing I’d brought a sweater—or two—with me, I look at my small collection of dresses and feel frigid as my eyes sweep over the silk and cotton. I wonder if one of the privates could take us into a nearby village to purchase some warmer attire.
For now, I settle on a blue dress with sleeves that reach down to my elbows—the longest one I have. Despite the contraption on me as an extra layer of warmth, I’m still cold.
A flicker of light shines through Henry’s window. I wonder if the marching woke him up or if he had a restless night of sleep, too. Our eyes lock with a smile, and we wave good morning. Henry gestures to the front door, asking if we should grab breakfast, to which I nod.
A warm cup of tea will certainly help raise my body temperature.
We meet on Officers Row as the sun rises behind the trees in the distance, the light fixtures still ablaze. I notice Henry is holding onto something as he walks toward me.
“Good morning,” he says, then hands me a wool cardigan. “I had this packed in my luggage. I figured you would need it this morning.”
I pull on his sweater in a few seconds, unable to contain a smile of relief. “You have no idea how freezing I am. Thank you for lending me your sweater.”
Henry flashes a smile back. “Couldn’t let my wife walk around the base shivering. Now could I?”
After I button his cardigan, Henry extends his arm to me, and we make our way to the dining hall. Puffy grey clouds hang above us. The gravel on the pathways is slick with wetness. Preoccupied with my spiraling thoughts, I must not have heard it raining during the night.
The dining hall isn’t as busy as I thought it would be.
Either the privates eat earlier in the morning, or we have arrived before they will swarm in.
We grab a plate of toast and a kettle of tea to share, then take a seat at an empty table in the far corner of the hall.
My stomach rumbles from the scent of butter and freshly-stepped tea.
I butter and spread jam on top of the toast when I feel Henry’s gaze on me. I glance at him to see a pensive expression on his face. “What’s the matter?”
“Are you alright?” he asks, concerned. “I don’t want this to come across rudely, but I think after going through an arduous journey together, I can speak freely and show my concern when you look frail and exhausted. Is it about what happened with Mr. Meier?”
I raise my hand to my cheekbone, conscious of how dark and baggy the skin must look under my eyes.
I am tired and feeble. In a week, my life has been turned upside down, and I’ve not had a moment to stop and recover.
It’s been a constant state of running with no end in sight.
And my tired eyes are a result of another restless night consumed by my own thoughts.
Henry places his hand on my arm. “Clara, you can talk to me.”
I know I can, which is why I feel the need to unburden my spiraling thoughts and ideas to him, as I know he won’t judge or belittle me for them. Henry looks at me attentively and nods encouragingly.
“I’ve been thinking…now that we know the artifacts are real, it also means that the Olympians exist. Correct?”
Henry nods. “Yes, indeed it does.”
“Then how come, after all the danger we have been in since we found the chest, the deities haven’t done anything to help us?” I ask, leaning closer to the table.
“Why are they still silent, hiding away in Mt. Olympus? Don’t you see,” I continue before I give him a chance to respond, “the deities didn’t create the devices to reward us.
They created them for their own entertainment.
We’re simply a spectacle to them. They don’t care what we do with the artifacts.
We can create all the chaos we want because that’s what they want us to do.
They want to watch us fight each other for a chance to wield the powers of a Greek deity.
They want to watch humanity destroy itself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”