﻿Pale Eyes Published by James Welsh at Smashwords Copyright 2012 James Welsh Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Invocation of the Muse Calliope, my Muse – I beg of you, please be my chorus as I flip the pages of my book. I need a voice that thunders like an avalanche. I need a voice as violent as swords that are magnetized by war. I beg you for your words, tremendous words, because they’re loud enough for each and every soul to hear. I mean, this whole entire world is nothing more than some pushing crowd with splashes of voices, some old crowd where each will speak and no one hears. I need you, Muse, to make them listen. The story I’m about to give will need to draw in every soul because I need some actors else I’ll fall to ruin. Also, I’ll need all corners of the world because I’ll need a stage. It is a play whose scenes will span the length of time. It is a tale that weighs too much for me to lift alone. Calliope, I beg you, make me feel that I have grown. And true, this story is a tragic one – enough to drown a heart if one isn’t careful. Help me through these wrenching scenes of death. I never learned to breathe during funerals, let alone to grieve. I need my voice clearer than windows, no more brittle than diamonds. Please, my Muse, just give me sight right now, because the first step in any story is always the hardest. Book 1 The moment Alexander of Aeolia was born, he heard his mother’s last words, but he was too young to remember. His father thought that was the reason why Alexander never spoke for the first year of his life. It wasn’t until one night when everything changed, when the father woke up to hear his child’s foreign screams. He rushed out of the crumbling clay house to find his son a short distance away, struggling to get out of a ditch. The father figured that the infant Alexander was trying to crawl towards the mother’s grave, which was near the house. Not only did young Alexander learn to crawl, but he learned that he needed to move if he wanted to bring the world closer. That is why it is so torturous that no man has ever stood in the first moments of his birth – only horses had that right. No, the only thing that can prop up a man is time, as the months push him along, as the years hold him up and steady him, as the decades build him like a wall, one brick at a time. Only then does the reward come, the pride of walking upright, the gulf between man and all other creatures. And yet so much muscle is needed for those two, wobbly legs. And so much faith is needed for the man swaying in the strong breeze, hoping that he doesn’t topple. But, just like the man can walk away from the crawling creature, so too does the towering soldier glance down casually at the slouched philosopher. The philosopher may know all of the secrets to life, but the soldier laughs because he can see the thinker’s balding head, his shining crown. And just like the tall look down on the short, so too did Mount Olympus cast shade on those who groveled at its feet. Morning at the base of the mountain came a little later than morning elsewhere. Alexander’s neighbors were foolish, because they were farmers who planted their crops in the shade of the mountain, and so their fields became stunted by the long nights. Even the sun – a glow that bakes the bricks in a home – could never quite melt the snow packed into the cracks of the mountain. People like to think they’re the princes and princesses of the world, but in the eyes of the sunlight, any mountain is royalty that should not be disturbed. Even the brisk winds during the winter months rush around the rock, like the river sloshes around your feet when you wade across. And so, just like the man looks down on his livestock, and the tall look down on the short, Mount Olympus looked down upon everything. It was a mountain tucked into the land like an unearthed treasure chest. All of the tall men that Alexander knew pledged to be the first to open that ample chest, to be the first to plunder the treasure. But no man, as far as Alexander knew anyway, took on their own challenge. There were even a few who felt guilty for thinking of trying. And because it was forbidden, the people became curious: if the summit of Mount Olympus was where all of the immortals lived, who wouldn’t want to say that they have walked amongst the gods? It was the worst-kept secret in the world. All of the stories that Alexander grew up with pointed to Olympus as being the palace of the heavens. When the priestesses made their offerings – those slabs of fat sizzling over the fire – they insisted that the winds carried the juicy smells to Olympus. All sounds, all smells, all light, all touch, all taste – all of those sensations were pulled from across the world towards Olympus, as if the world was paying tribute. Alexander heard those stories, and he thought they were almost impossible. After all, when he played at the nearby pond, and he tossed a rock into the center of the waters, the ripples all moved outwards. At Olympus, though, all of the ripples moved inwards. That the world was magnetized towards Olympus was the first symptom that there was something strange about the mountain. On the melted days during the summer, when the heat had blasted away all of the clouds in the sky, Alexander liked to crane his head upwards, squint his eyes, and find the arrowhead in the mountain. But even with all of the clouds in the sky gone, the summit of Olympus was always swaddled in a sugar of clouds so far above, obscuring the view from all of the people deep below. The perpetual clouds always provoked argument in town during the nights, when there was nothing to do except bicker. Some said that the clouds were protecting the heavenly palace from mortal eyes. Others said that the clouds were protecting people from the gods. After all, wasn’t it true that even an athlete would drop dead at the sight of a powerful immortal? Still others, perhaps the bravest of the townspeople, insisted something else entirely. They jeered and asked, “If we can’t see the summit, then how can we say there are gods up there? Who’s to say they even exist?” The arguments finally boiled over one hot afternoon, when the young Alexander gathered up his courage like fallen grain and said, “I’m going to climb to the top of Mount Olympus.” His words ripped the town apart. The reverent begged him not to go, saying, “If you trespass on the palace of the gods, you will make them angry. And we have suffered enough from the droughts this year. Please, don’t add to our misery.” The reverent said this, afraid that young Alexander would climb to the top of the mountain, only to find rock and thin air. The skeptical encouraged him to go, saying, “If you reach the top of Olympus and find no one but yourself, you will still be the tallest man in the world. Go and show every other breathing creature just how high a man can reach with his arms. It’ll make even the lions bow down before us.” The skeptical said this, afraid that young Alexander would climb to the top of the mountain, only to find himself surrounded by even taller gods. Alexander’s father – a poor merchant down in the town’s marketplace – advised the eager man. He said that Alexander should listen before he does anything, and do before he says anything. The father had seen too many men boast and not enough accomplish. Alexander listened to his father, and so he listened to the townspeople first, like the student he never was. Still, the words of the fearful did not move him anywhere but up. Alexander left home late one night. Before he left, he warmed himself by his father’s fire one last time as the nervous merchant gave away his only torch – he gave away the rest of the wine – he gave away the bit of cheese and strips of pork. The merchant weighed his son down with as much love as he could, not thinking that a bird can climb in the air with only a whisper of feathers. Everyone from the village had gathered at the foot of the mountain, just to watch Alexander climb up Mount Olympus. They all watched as the torchlight grew fainter and fainter up the mountainside, until it suddenly flickered away, like it was the second sunset for the evening. But when the sun rose in the morning, Alexander did not march in with the morning triumph. The hours grew long and longer with the father wringing his hands at the market. The hours felt like days until they were days. The days felt like weeks until they were weeks. And still, Alexander had not come back, even though his father was older than ever, graying with waiting for him. One day, a villager ran into the town, quicker than even his own breath. The villager dragged a trail of dust behind him on the dirt road, like a shadow at dusk. The villager kept repeating, “Everyone, come to the mountain, quick!” “What’s going on?” Some were afraid that boulders were tumbling down the mountain, which had happened once or twice before, blocking the road going into town. “I saw it with my own eyes!” “What?” The response, exasperated. “A torch, a torch is coming back down the mountain! I can see the light! It’s Alexander, back from his quest!” Some of the villagers teased the man, who wasn’t known for his sight. And after all, they had long lost hope in Alexander’s return. They thought it was easier to imagine him dead, even going as far as to dig a grave without a body to bury in it. They crowed, “Old man, what makes you think it was a torch? Maybe it was just the sunlight glinting off the mountain?” The villager, a balding man with a beard of wires, grew scarlet. “You think I don’t know fire when I see it? No, it’s not the sun – it’s Alexander with his torch. Have faith in me for once.” The elderly merchant, who heard the news, rushed from his stall. He led the crowd of curious townspeople down the road and towards the mountainside. An hour later, they were gathered at the foot of the incline, looking up into the cliffs. The merchant, his own eyes failing in his old age, squinted all the harder, hopeful for a sign of his only son. And so it was the merchant who saw his son before anyone else did. The messenger was right – Alexander was finally back. The villagers clambered up the mountain as best as they could, wanting to welcome home the brave one they thought was dead. When the villagers got closer, though, they all froze, terrified by the sight. A lady fainted. Young Alexander’s once-smooth face had turned hairy like ivy, the vines climbing up his cheeks. The man’s brilliant blond hair had been shocked whiter than ivory. Alexander was not dead – it was worse than death. The man trembled with hunger, almost seeming to wither away before their very eyes. The father rushed forward and grabbed his son before the adventurer collapsed into the rock. The crowd went silent as father cradled son. The merchant looked at Alexander’s face. Even though Alexander had fainted, his eyes were still wide open. Never, for the rest of his life, would those eyes ever shut again. The villagers tried their best to nurse Alexander back to health, but the young man was too far gone in the mind, now staring blankly at the far wall of his room every day and every night. He was silent during the day, rocking from side to side as if moved by an unheard rhythm. At night, though, at night, he babbled a long string of words that nobody understood but him. Eventually, the villagers all gave up hope once more for the aspiring man, and they abandoned him in the home of his father, punished with the way that madmen live. Some nights, his father – feverish with fear for a son who looked older than his father – listened at the doorway. He listened to his son repeat words that made no sense at all. One night, though, the father could have sworn he recognized one word “Silver, silver, silver, silver.” This surprised the merchant, who was used to gold coins clinking together in his palm. The father liked to think of coins as being drops of sunlight, too hot to stay in one man’s hand for long. He wondered then if his son had not seen the gods after all – he couldn’t fathom the gods building their palace out of silver. Weren’t the gods alchemists? With that, the father discounted his son’s ramblings – he wanted to believe the mad man’s words, but silver seemed too common for an Olympian to use. If only the father knew how right his son was. Even though it had been decades since Alexander died, his legend shone brighter than he ever did. Even though it had been decades since Alexander saw the palace that drove him mad, the palace was still blinding in silver. The summit of Mount Olympus was so far from our world that it rested in the clouds like an island in the churning seas. Like angry waves, the clouds were a sharktooth white, breaking against the shores of the mountainside, drowning with gravity. And although the summit was above all of the clouds and moisture, there was still a jungle on the mountaintop, the canopy thick and wet with an impossible rain that tasted almost like wine yet somehow even better. Still, even on the crowded mountaintop, there was enough room for civilization to sprout. On the eastern side of the summit – where you can see the sunrise before the rest of the world – a great palace stood. It was the finest architecture in history, with silver splashed thickly on the walls like paint. The walls themselves shot up into the darkness, stunning into modesty anyone who saw them. The doors themselves were almost as tall, but they could swing open easier than breathing – even easier than thinking. The lucky few who walked through that first gate found themselves in a vast courtyard, a yard that somehow seemed larger than the entire summit itself. The grass was neatly trimmed and modern yet still plumper than carpet, pushing you up with every step you took – the closest anyone came to walking on air. And that was before the guest even saw the palace. The palace was built with massive bricks of silver, with pride as the mortar. No one except the builders knew how those heaving stones were cut and placed there in the first place. Anyone who walked through the entrance of the palace went up marble steps into a massive chamber, where everything seemed to be supported by columns. The columns themselves were not made of marble or any kind of stone for that matter – odd, given the masonry everywhere. Instead, each column was a tree trunk, glazed in silver. The trees seemed different, though. They used to be oak – King Zeus’ favorite kind – but now they were made of the goddess Athena’s olive. While oak may seem confident and sturdy, the olive tree looks leprous and twisted. But cultures have risen and fallen by the allure of olive oil – oak may seem strong, but there’s always a stronger wood. Even with the change in the guard, the columns held up the life in the palace. It was all still life, though. A look in the theatre showed no one, no actor nor audience. It was there, in the sprawling space, that Apollo would busy himself with constant productions – he hosted a lot of plays by Sophocles, but he did have a weakness for Euripides. But the silence in the stands was louder than any play had ever been. Never, in the thousands of years since that stage had been built, had there even been a lull. It was all a strange feeling and feeling even stranger by the moment. If one walked through the rooms in the palace, they were met with the same sight in each: all abandoned, all silent, all dead. The kitchen was busy, though, with the scampering of servants as they prepared their meals. The scent of lamb and ambrosia filled the air. There were some stains of splattered pomegranates on the floor. All of the servants were in a rush, more so than usual, ignoring the pomegranates crushed underfoot, ignoring their stained sandals. All of them were hurried, their russet hair tossing as they turned. All of them had the same pale eyes. All of them had the same, whispery voices, dark and murmuring. None of them wore a smile – all of them had forgotten how. The only one different was the girl with hair like wet sand, only darker. Her face was full, her lips redder than martyrs. Like her servants, Hebe was usually all shy smiles, but some days have to be different. Some days just had to be different – otherwise, her job would always be the same. She had been serving the gods and goddesses atop Mount Olympus for longer than she could remember. And that was why she was the only servant who could sip from the cups she served, testing for poison that was never there. Like the mortals had faith in the gods, the gods had faith in her as well. But even with her eternal youth, she still looked as stern as a mother as she snapped at a servant, “What are you doing? Don’t put any pomegranates on Demeter’s plate.” The servant asked, “Why’s that?” Hebe slapped the servant-girl across the face. The girl collapsed to the ground, spilling her plate on the floor, spraying the food across the polished stone. “You foolish girl! Don’t question me. You know pomegranates are why Demeter’s daughter is enslaved to Hades. Do you want to remind her of her daughter, especially on a day like this? Must I do these things myself?” The servant, tears in her eyes, said softly, “My apologies, milady.” The usual softness fluttered back immediately in Hebe’s eyes, but this time the kindness felt ironic, wrenched even as she stood over the girl and pitied her. Hebe sighed and turned. She saw the rest of the servants in the room looking on silently. They had never seen her angry, but they knew why she was. Hebe said curtly, “Well, come then, this food needs to be served.” Grabbing a plate full of lamb and a cup full of ambrosia, Hebe stiffly left the room. As she walked into the corridor, her skirt trailing on the floor, she took a quick drink of the cup she was holding, but not to check for poison. The servants all followed her with the rest of the food and drink, some of the girls helping up the one who had fallen. As the girls walked through the long and twisting hallways of the palace, one might have wondered how they knew the way. True, they had lived in the palace since it was built. But there were hundreds, thousands, millions of rooms in the palace. There may have been an infinity of rooms for all anyone knew – no one had ever bothered to count. Although most of the rooms had never been entered, all were still richly furnished, torches crackling. All of the rooms looked the same, and they all looked beautiful. It was impossible for any mortal to tell them apart, let alone choose the most inspiring room. Hebe and her fellow servants had no trouble finding the way, though – they never did. As they walked through the dim corridors, a packed ball of light hovered in the air. It sparked and popped and never stopped shining. It softly guided the pack of women through the arteries, towards the throne room, the thudding heart of the palace. As the women walked, none of them said a word – the only sound was their footsteps and the ambrosia splashing around in the full cups they held. They walked for what was hours to some, minutes to others, until they reached a wide olive door. The women held back at a distance while Hebe knocked – the door was so thick and stout that Hebe had to slam her fist to be heard. A pause, then the door swung open by itself, and Hebe led the women into the throne room. As they stepped in, the ball of light zoomed away into the recesses of the palace, having heard lost footsteps somewhere else. The door closed softly behind the servants as they began serving the drinks to those inside. There is, perhaps, no way to describe the magnificence of the throne room. After all, the palace itself was the jewel of Olympus, and what does a jewel admire besides a mirror? Although the room was square enough, it had no edges, no sharp pinches where the walls met the floor or ceiling. Everything seemed sloping and forever, like the world’s horizon. This marvel in the architecture, though, was obscured. Running the height and width of each wall, perpetual cascades of water showered down, all in spite of the fact that no piping ran the water to the room. Just as mysteriously, when the water splashed on the floor below, it did not leave a trace, not a pool, not even a drop. It just sank into the floor, or maybe it vanished altogether – no one had ever checked where the water went. The water itself was not the crystal-clear or murky waters the mortals below were used to, though. No, even the colors in this water were different, with the water magically dyed with thousands upon thousands of colors, colors that not even a mortal artist could see. As the water fell, the dyed drops assembled themselves, painting frescoes of their own. This water alone was the most beautiful painter in the world, its recreations moving and almost alive, almost. Each of the scenes you saw in the water was a famous piece of history, from the first time mortals planted crops in their fields to the war where the Olympians overthrew the Titans. The moving frescoes were gorgeous, but necessary. Even gods can forget things in their long lives, and they needed to be reminded of what had made them. Until that day, though, no one had ever seen the water paint a failure – they only saw, or chose to see, triumphs in the frescoes. But for all of the pain, all of the sorrow, all of the punishment that the gods dropped on the mortals and other creatures, the gods had never felt pain worthy of a painting. There was a new fresco, though – this one showed a beautiful woman weeping over a fallen bull in the woods, near a mountain stream. The bull’s blood was as silvery as that mountain stream reflecting the moonlight. Those who looked closer at the fresco swore that the weeping woman was crying silver also. But even they thought the whole scene was impossible – in spite of being in a room with painting water, in spite of the palace with millions of rooms, in spite of the green flourishing atop the highest, coldest mountain the world had ever seen. Not to mention the view that they were treated to every morning. Of all the luxuries the royalty enjoyed, this view was second only to their immortality. On the east side of the room, there was no wall – instead, there was a sweeping look over the courtyard outside, a yard that seemed to stretch for miles, until it suddenly dropped over the edge of the summit. There was no looming wall there – instead, there was a wall of light that fell down every morning. When the sun rose, the gods saw the light in all of its glory. There were no clouds where they lived, there was no rain, no atmosphere at all. There was nothing but the sun, in all her aging beauty – there was nothing but the stars above, as bright and brilliant and impossible to count as the specks of salt in the afternoon ocean. This, all of this, was why the gods hardly looked down at the world they ruled. They lived so far above that the planet seemed packed and cramped. There was nothing the world had for the gods to look at – it was an isolation fit only for royalty. But even with such a beautiful view, the gods and goddesses assembled in the room were too distracted to look outside. Instead, they took their drinks and talked quietly amongst themselves. Almost all of the Olympians had gathered in the throne room, a rare feat, one not seen since the gods learned about their cousin Prometheus giving the mortals fire. There was Aphrodite, the goddess of lust and beauty and their pleasures. She was the daughter of Zeus and Hera – or at least Aphrodite thought. She wore the same black dress she always wore, dark enough for any man to get lost in. She had tugged the dress down enough so that her cleavage showed. Even blacker than her dress was her panther-dark hair – she was more the night than a goddess – she was all of the joys that hide inside the nights. She kept her lips pursed, though, because she knew that if she spoke, her sneer might shine through. There was so much hatred in the goddess who loved everything. There was Apollo, the god of sunlight and truth. He stood the way a hawk perched on the branch: noble chest inflated, eyes sharp and guarding. Apollo – with his golden hair, his squinting eyes – was the one whose chariot pulled up the morning sun every day. As son to Zeus, twin brother to Artemis, he knew too well the need for duty. Zeus had once shown him the space beyond the world, with the anarchy of stars and gases scattered. Zeus told him that he was the guardian against the sky falling down on their orderly world. And even before that, just after being born actually, his first thought was to turn and free Artemis, his twin sister, who was strangled by her umbilical cord. And so he became the silent guardian of his unwilling sister. Artemis stood a few feet away – the goddess of the hunt and virginity – daughter to Hera – the protection of Apollo. Her arms were thin, but held more power than any mortal man. Men thought that her golden bow was impossibly rigid, that the thick bow needed to give to pull, but Artemis knew better. Her muddy hair always seemed to rustle, and that was because, wherever she walked, a cool breeze followed. It was a breeze that hid her footsteps in the forest, it was a wind that soothed the prey she hunted. She was always quiet like her brother, although silence is a virtue of the hunt. Ares stood apart from the group, as he always did – Ares, the god of war and the slaughter. He was a tremendous man who wore his armor like you wear clothing, although his breastplate weighed more than a boulder. But for all of his strength, Ares was far from impressive – he could see it in the other gods’ eyes, how they hated him, how squeamish and soft they were whenever he talked of blood and gore. Those were reasons, yes, but not the only ones – he was a sloppy god, one who never washed the spilt blood off his tunic, who never shaved his face, who never washed his hair. He never saw himself as being too feral – he saw the others as being too civilized. He couldn’t help but feel slighted just by looking at them. And so he distrusted them, just as much as they distrusted him. Demeter – goddess of harvest and grain and seasons and change – stood away from the group, but for different reasons. Demeter, her dress greener than emeralds, her hair fiery with ruby, her tears all shades of sapphire, was weeping, but not just for the reason they all were there. A lady as aged and beautiful as a statue, Demeter wept because her daughter Persephone had vanished earlier. No one knew where Persephone went, but Demeter had a few ideas, each terrible than the thought before. Hermes – god of traveling, as well as of thieves, invention, coins, and speeches – hovered a few feet above everyone else. With his winged sandals, he made sure to be taller than Ares, a poke of jest in spite of the occasion, in spite of his sadness. Sometimes, the floating sandals saved Hermes from angry hands. Hermes was always getting into trouble, the guilt usually showing through his grinning eyes and subtle smirk. The smile was gone now, and Hermes looked clouded like a funeral shroud. He tried distracting himself with his cane, twirling it slowly in his hands, the snakes wrapped around it hissing softly from being awoken. And there was Hera, the beautiful goddess of women and marriage. She stood with her marble arms folded, her face still, her sunny hair shaded. She would have looked more gorgeous – she was once the most beautiful woman in the world – but her leprosy of jealousy over the years had left her face twisted with angst. That day actually was the first in awhile where she had felt a calmness calling. Strange how it took a tragedy to put her mind at ease – perhaps it was because she had found all of her answers, even the ones she was looking for. The only ones not there were Hades, Poseidon, and Zeus. All three were brothers, but in name only. It was rare when they saw each other, even rarer when they spoke with one another. The absence was expected of Poseidon, a dripping god with barnacles for a beard, a king who hadn’t stepped out from his ocean in years. Hades was forever busy with his duties as King of the Underworld, where he ruled over the dead. But Zeus, King of Everything, should have been there, but he simply wasn’t – and that was the chaos. All of those gods and goddesses were assembled in that great throne room, all because they were the same. True, each of them was different in their own way – some had bad tempers, others were childish, others silent. Some were brunet, others blond, even red-haired. But all of them had that one feature that was their rope, their pull. All of them had the same eye color, that same silvery shade, pale, almost invisible. It was this glint of silver that proved their heritage – even when they were down in the mortal world, disguised as either human or wildlife, they still had those same, silvery eyes. Thankfully, none of the mortals knew this. The gods were afraid that, if the humans found out, they would be checking eye colors, to see who was a god or not. But just like the humans were curious about their gods, the gods were curious about themselves as well. Sure, they could look at themselves easily enough in a mirror or the water’s reflection. Still, none of them knew what was inside of them. None of them knew because none of them had ever bled their ichor, their god’s blood. Not once, not in their long lives of warfare and falls and fights, had any of them been cut or bruised. They were gods, they weren’t meant to bleed – if they did, then they were just like the humans they ruled over. All they knew was what they had been taught by their elders many milieus before: the same gray ichor in their eyes was the same that their hearts pumped. That was their knowledge of their own biology, yet none of them were sure if that was true or not. Well, none of them except for Ares himself. Late one night, many years before, while Ares tossed and turned and tried to sleep on a cliff overlooking a rusty battlefield, he pressed his sword’s blade against the shoulder, curious as to what would happen. The day before, he had seen thousands of men being slashed and gouged open. As gruesome as their deaths were, they were still glorious. This made Ares jealous, and it sickened him that he was jealous of those mortals. Still, he needed to know if he could bleed like them. He needed to know if it was possible to become glorious too. And so he pressed the blade hard against his skin, pushing down until he felt the sudden sting. He yelped and the sword thudded in the soil at his feet. He massaged his shoulder with his fingers before examining them by his fire. His fingertips were drenched in liquid silver, the god’s ichor, the gray to the red that man bled. He had never seen ichor before, but still he immediately knew what it was. Ares had never told anyone that before – the old curiosity gave way to shame. What would the other gods say if they saw Ares with a cut? Would they look at him oddly? Would they jeer? Would they even cast him from Olympus – make him live with all of the mortals who bled also? What if Ares was more mortal than what he was told? None of the thoughts comforted Ares, and so he told nobody. It was the first and only time that he had ever felt any fear – Ares, a veteran of thousands of battles. All of these gods and goddesses drank their ambrosia with a funeral silence, looking down, troubled. Some of them shot quick glances at the throne in the center of the room, facing the courtyard and the universe beyond. Once, there was a king who sat in that throne – a god with the beginnings of a beard – a god with thick, snowy hair – a god with that familiar jesting smile, whose robes were always white. All of the gods were used to seeing Zeus sit on that jeweled throne, wearing a blinding crown, using his sword as his scepter. They were all used to the commands that Zeus gave in his booming, baritone voice that echoed off the walls, sounding like a demanding crowd. They were all used to this thunder. But where the father once sat, there was now a woman on that throne. Dressed in her traditional dark blues, Athena sat with her back straight as always, her full lips pressed, her curly chocolate hair wrapped loosely in a bun. She was the goddess of genius and inspiration, the goddess of courage and justice, daughter to Zeus and the exile Metis. She was a princess yet never meant to be queen – it showed in her scared eyes and her quick breaths. She looked on at all of the gods assembled before her – she could easily see the bitterness in their faces – she could see that they blamed her for the revolution. And while she couldn’t blame them, she could not blame herself. She could have never done what they accused her of – she loved her father too much and she knew that she could never live up to even his shadow. Still, the law was law and meant to be followed – not even gods were strong enough to break the back of justice, even if they wanted. Hera silently walked to the far end of the room, where the walls opened up into the rustic outside. At her feet, there was a deep, bubbling fountain, enclosed in silver. Hera sighed as she leaned in, dipping her hands in the water, up past her elbows. Slowly, she lifted a crown and a sword from the waters – the symptoms of royalty. As Hera passed each of the gods, walking towards the seated Athena, the deities bowed their heads, graceful, respectful. Even if they couldn’t love the wearer of the crown, it was the emblem for which they stood. They knew that Olympus would crumble the day that crown broke, and crowns don’t break if they’re made well. Hera climbed the steps towards the throne, taking her time as she did so, almost as if she was stalling, almost. Still, she handed the gleaming sword to Athena, who took it as she had to. Hera placed the beautiful crown on top of Athena’s head. The sunlight that made its way into the room caught in the crown, turning the room into twisted bridges of rainbows. Hera stood frozen for a moment, looking at this new Athena curiously, not sure what to make of her. She stepped backwards down the steps and took her place amongst the other Olympians. She took a cup of ambrosia and lifted it up to Athena. She said: “Athena, my queen, may you rule as brilliantly as we will serve you.” The other gods repeated the pledge, a rare moment of harmony. Athena did not say a single word. She did not even look down at the Olympians beneath her – instead, she stared blankly ahead, into the deep courtyard. Part of her wanted to cry, but she had been too charitable with her tears earlier, and now she felt dry the way a desert must. Somewhere – Athena wasn’t sure if it came from inside the palace or out in the courtyard – somewhere an owl hooted. It was a long, strong vowel that filled the empty Athena, almost drowning her. For the first time in awhile, Athena actually felt as if she was made of something. The owl’s hoot animated her, loosening the veins in her still arms. Still, while the bird’s cry reminded her to keep brave, it made her miss the eagle’s call she was so used to hearing before. Book 2 Many years before the crowning of Athena, long before the first Olympic Games or the wellspring of democracy in Athens or even the decade of devastation at Troy, there was change of another kind. King Zeus and his beautiful Queen Hera stood at the edge of Mount Olympus, breathing in the world beneath them. The two of them had been husband and wife for only a short time. Each had promised their hand to the other in marriage, but only when they had defeated their parents, the Titans, and had overthrown them. In the ashes of that final battle, the two had joined together as one living, breathing being. You could not talk to one without talking to the other. But the glue that held them was weak, and all things wither in time’s winter. Sometimes, Zeus had left – what he called trips, but what Hera called abandonment – for days at a time, weeks even. He would claim that he was hunting, but whenever Hera looked down at the world, she couldn’t see him anywhere in the wilderness, where he should have been, armed with his bow-and-arrow. Hera never mentioned this to him, but she was working towards that moment. “Where are you going this time?” Hera asked quietly one morning. Zeus had risen before the sun even, anxious to get down to the mortal world before the day got too hot. Zeus pointed a fat finger down at the lands east of Greece. “Our sister Demeter has seen leopards in that land. I want to hunt one down.” “Why would she tell you that?” Hera was confused – Demeter had loved the wilderness too much to let anyone destroy it, even if the hunter was her own brother. Zeus smiled slightly. “I told her I wanted to see how beautiful a leopard looks in its home. And, of course she doesn’t know this, but I want to see how beautiful a leopard looks in our home too, when we use its skin as a blanket.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I will be back in a few days. Don’t worry about me.” He always said those same words before leaving for one of his adventures. But the consistency did not give Hera any comfort. If anything, his reassurances were mocking, as if Zeus expected her not to know any better. As she watched Zeus walk away to prepare his bow and his chariot, she felt the beginnings of her now-usual rage. She wondered why he could not give her a straight answer. What was Zeus up to? She wondered if it was because Zeus didn’t want a child – she always saw the unusual fear creep in his eyes when she mentioned it. She wondered if it was because she seemed old to him now, even though she was never old, not ever. She wondered if it was because he was seeing someone else. She didn’t want to think any of those things, because the longer you think of something, the more true it becomes. And she still wanted to love Zeus, even after the doubts began to grow. But Zeus was gone for so many long days, and Hera had no one to love but herself. Yet, when Zeus returned, like he always did, she felt even lonelier. They say that since the world is round, when someone leaves you, that means they’re only walking towards you. But Hera didn’t find that joy in Zeus’ leaving – if anything, she wished that he had simply vanished, never to return. Then, she would at least have an answer from him. But if Hera had known the truth behind the trips, if she had squeezed the answer out of his lungs, then she would have wished she had never asked. When Zeus told her that he was hunting in the forest, he was telling part of the truth. Zeus was in the forest, yes, but he wasn’t hunting leopards – he was hunting for answers. His long trips were spent at the feet of the Fates who knew everyone’s future, begging those witches for help, as much as he feared them. All of this because they once made the mistake of telling him too much – for Zeus, knowing too much of his future was like knowing too little. Even if the Fates had broken down and revealed everything, Zeus would have needed more. Every answer just became another question. But what Zeus discovered isn’t important to us, at least not right now. No, what was important was Hera, and what she wanted to know. She wanted to know what it was like to give birth. She wanted to know what it was like to cradle a child, its heartbeat pressed against her heartbeat. She wanted to have a legacy, as immortal as she was. All of this was a mother’s curiosity. So finally, it reached the moment of desperation – Hera knew that she would have to have a child without Zeus’ love, somehow. But how could you conceive by yourself? Hera remembered a story that her mother had told her, about the seed of the olive tree, and the magic that it could do. So, Hera descended into the mortal world, for the first time in years. She took her old, familiar disguise – an elderly woman, dressed in rags but still looking noble – and she walked into the nearest village. At the market, she bought one olive tree seed from a confused merchant, who couldn’t help but ask why she only needed one. She just smiled, paid with a coin, and left. She swiftly climbed Mount Olympus in her godly form, took to her chambers in the palace, and slammed the doors behind her. She hurriedly dipped her cup into a cask of ambrosia, the rich drink sloshing onto the floor as she sat down on her bed. Hera opened her mouth, she put the seed on her tongue, and she washed it down with the ambrosia. Breathing heavily, excited, she waited, but nothing happened. The minutes went by, and Hera still sat on the bed, frozen. She suddenly felt foolish – was her mother lying to her when she told the story? Was it nothing more than folklore? She didn’t want to think she was that desperate to be that stupid. She downed the rest of the ambrosia to drown out the thought, threw the goblet to the floor, and stormed out of the room. But what Hera didn’t know – at least, not then – was that her mother, the serene, gray-haired Rhea – was telling the truth. Yes, the powers of a simple olive tree seed were folklore, but all short truths grow into tall tales. And so, as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, Hera became sick. Her gray eyes turned cloudy, her lips withered and paled, her strides became a standstill. Somehow, at least for a short while, she managed to hide the truth from the rest of the gods living on Olympus. She didn’t want them to know that she had actually swallowed an olive tree seed, all in the hopes of conceiving a child. And that was why she was ill – the seed lodged itself in the pit of her stomach and fermented. The seed began to crack until it split, and it split until her stomach bubbled, and her stomach bubbled until her entire body rolled with spasms. It wasn’t until Hera began screaming uncontrollably that any one guessed that something was wrong. The servant-girl Hebe and her assistants gently lifted Hera into her bed and took care of her through her sickness. Hebe was the only one allowed to press a damp cloth against Hera’s face, the cloth sizzling from Hera’s fever. As Hebe did so, Hera twisted and curved and mumbled words in thousands of languages except her own. Hebe grew nervous because of this – she called in the other gods and goddesses, to see if any of them knew what to do, but none did. And, of course, Zeus was never there during Hera’s sickness. He took the bedridden Hera as his excuse, and he left for even longer periods of time – each time he returned, he asked Hebe just one question about Hera before retiring to his own, private chambers. The question was the same every time: “Do you think she will live to see another day?” Hebe always answered “Yes”, but she was confused why Zeus asked that. Of course Hera would live to see another day – Hera would live to see every day, just like the immortal gods before her and after her. They can never die, only be born. But if Hera wanted her Zeus to be with her in that room, she didn’t show it. She was literally blinded by the pain, her eyes closed tightly to the world around her. She didn’t talk anymore – all that came from her lips were screams and crying. Her arms and legs flailing, her fingers searching for something that did not exist, Hera reminded Hebe of, oddly enough, a newborn infant. One day, Hebe was tending to Hera as she always was now. Hebe turned her back for one minute to the screams, to fill another goblet of ambrosia, when the crying suddenly choked off. Startled by the sudden silence, Hebe turned and immediately stumbled backwards. Hera had turned like a statue in the bed, her limbs rigid, her breath silent. All that moved were her eyes, her silvery eyes that had not been opened in months. They looked downwards, frightened – Hera was terrified because there was something growing out of her mouth. Trembling, Hebe inched closer, peering at the strange growth. Slowly, she ran her fingers over the growth. As soon as she did, though, Hebe jumped back, putting her hands to her mouth in horror. She knew what was growing out of Hera’s mouth – Hebe had touched the same thing before, in the garden in the palace’s courtyard. It was the beginnings of an olive tree, and it was growing quickly. All Hera and Hebe could do was watch as the trunk grew up and out. By the time Hebe could find the words to scream, the tree had already grown a foot upwards. Its roots began to crawl out of Hera’s mouth and slither across her cheeks. Still, Hera had not moved, except for her wide eyes and tears running down her face. The doors to the chambers burst open and a rush of servants stormed in, having heard Hebe’s screams. “What’s wrong, milady? Has something happened…” The words were abandoned as all of the servants stopped and stared at the olive tree growing out of their queen’s mouth – two of the servant-girls fainted at the sight. Hebe screamed, “Find Demeter!” A servant-girl rushed out to find the goddess as Hebe turned once more towards the queen. Hebe felt foolish for asking for someone else’s help, when Hera was her duty and hers alone. But she did not know what else to do – she knew she couldn’t chop the tree down – the ambrosia that Hera drank made the tree as vibrant as any god. All Hebe could do was watch as the gnarled branches began to sprout and the olives began to blossom. Most of the olives were withered, but there was one olive that kept on growing, ballooning until the entire branch began to bend. Hebe supported the tree and especially the heavy branch, watching as the olive grew almost to the size of her. Just when Hebe thought that she couldn’t hold it up anymore, the olive broke off the branch. The olive collapsed to the floor and split open, its juices splashing out. The branch that Hebe was holding onto broke off in her hands, immediately withering into dust between her fingers. Demeter rushed into the room. “What happened, Hebe?” Shocked and silent, Hebe could only point at the olive tree. Demeter did not look surprised in the slightest – she simply rushed over to the bed. Hebe looked on as Demeter stroked Hera’s hair and made soothing sounds. The frozen Hera looked intently at Demeter, hypnotized. Hera was too distracted to notice Demeter’s other hand, which worked its way through the thick web of olive tree roots, past Hera’s lips, into her mouth. “Forgive me, sister.” Hera shook madly as Demeter clasped the main root that reached down Hera’s throat. Demeter grunted as she tried yanking the stubborn root, still anchored to Hera’s stomach. Hera looked up at Demeter, silently crying. Demeter couldn’t bring herself to look back – she knew that if she looked at her sister Hera, she would immediately regret the hurt she was causing. Suddenly, the root tore free from Hera, and the tree fell on the floor with a thud. Hera was crying from the pain, crying at being able to breathe again, but it was all over, the illness had run its course. Demeter scooped a cup of ambrosia from the cask and made Hera drink. As she did so, Demeter heard Hebe gasp. “What is it, Hebe?” “Look. Look!” Demeter turned her head slightly, and what she saw made her drop the cup, the ambrosia staining the bed. The massive olive that had fallen on the floor had split in half. Instead of a pit inside of the olive, though, there was a sleeping infant. Demeter watched as Hebe reached down and scooped up the child. Hebe numbly swaddled the child in a blanket and said softly, “His legs.” “What about them?” Demeter asked as she hurried to the other side of the bed where Hebe stood. Wordless, Hebe showed Demeter the child’s legs, how they were twisted and gnarled and grotesque, just like the bark of the olive tree that had borne it. “Have you ever seen anything like that, milady Demeter?” “Never.” Both goddesses looked at the child silently. The other servant-girls, helpless during the birth, stepped forward and crowded the newborn son. “What…what…” Hebe heard Hera’s voice, making sense for the first time in months. She stepped towards the bed, the child still in her arms, and gently set the infant down in his mother’s arms. “It’s a son, milady.” Hera looked down at her first son for the longest minute. Then she looked up at the goddesses standing before her and, with her eyes dazzling from tears, said, “I have a son.” When Zeus returned home to the palace a week later, he was stunned to hear the news. He strode through the corridors until he came upon Hera’s chambers. He swung the doors open to find Hera at the far side of the room. She was kneeling down in front of the hearth, smiling and watching her son play in front of the flames. “Hera?” The Queen turned and her smile vanished. “Zeus.” She turned her back once more to her husband and watched her son intently. Zeus strode in and stood over his wife. He demanded, “How were you able to conceive?” Without looking at him again, Hera said cryptically, “With a story’s help.” “A story?” “How else could I?” Hera said with a sudden sneer. She said nothing else on the matter, but Zeus knew she hated him. She loathed him for never being there, for never loving her as much as she loved him. She had every right to, he guessed. He looked at the child, saw how his little legs were so twisted they almost looked broken. Disgusted, Zeus asked, “What happened to his legs?” Hera looked sharply at him. “Are you questioning my son?” “Well, what happened?” “He was born this way. He was the best I could do, and that’s enough for him to be beautiful to me.” Still, Zeus felt repulsed by the deformed child. He commanded in the voice he used for orders, “He will never be my son. I cannot be King of the Heavens with a child so ugly and ruined!” He reached down to grab the child. Hera screamed and snatched the child away from his grasp. She snarled, “You will never touch him, never! I’m the mother and father, and I have every right to him!” Zeus froze. Hera continued, with a growl Zeus thought he would never hear from her, “He’s not yours and he never will be.” With Hera between him and the son, Zeus could only glare at his wife. He then raised his hand as if to strike Hera, but he suddenly stopped when he realized that Hera didn’t flinch. He lowered his hand abruptly and said, “Fine, I’ll let you make a mockery of us! I’ll let your son be the joke of all who worship us! Those mortals below us, they look up to us, you know – they worship us for our perfection. We’re a diamond to them – do you want them to see the flaws?” Still, Hera never moved. She didn’t move until Zeus left the room with a roar of frustration. She sat down shakily, and she wanted to cry. She did cry, but the reasons changed as she did. She cried, not out of sadness, but from her son looking up at her with his wide, silvered eyes. He jeered with his toothless smile and reached up for his mother with his tiny hand. Hera picked him up and, together, they watched the fire crackling in the hearth, watching the flames bend like grass in the wind. “Isn’t it amazing, my little Hephaestus?” Hera said, over her son’s babbling, talking more to herself than him. “Fire is such a wonderful thing. It’s warm, it’s bright, it’s hypnotizing. It’s so peaceful that it makes you want to reach in and hug it.” As to emphasize what she was saying, Hera held her hand over the flames, almost to the point that the fire licked her palm, her hand sweaty from the heat. “But the second you touch it, you’ll feel the burn. You can never touch the beautiful things in life – no one can.” Hera hugged her child hard and burst into sobs. Little Hephaestus laughed at the flames and tried to reach out to them. As the years wore on, little Hephaestus grew, but not by much. His legs still remained misshapen, so much so that whenever he walked, he limped. Still, this did not stop him from his morning strolls with his mother Hera around the palace. As they walked, the other Olympians, the servant-girls, the guests from the world below – they all bowed and honored Hera and her son as the pair walked past. As soon as mother and child walked out of earshot, though, the rumors sprung up as they always did. “How can he be one of us, when he’s so flawed?” “He can barely walk; how can he succeed his father as king?” “Zeus would never let him be king. He would sooner let the world fall apart.” “Hera must have had an affair. Children like that are fated as punishment.” “Did you see how rough and dirty his skin is?” Hera knew about the rumors, but she never said anything. She knew that, no matter what, they had all decided to turn against her. They now trusted her as much as Zeus trusted her, as much as she trusted Zeus. Olympus was crumbling apart from the swirling doubt. And she thought it was ironic that there were rumors swirling about infidelity – after all of the years she suspected Zeus of being unfaithful, she was now the one branded with the insult. She could only hope, though, that Hephaestus, her darling Hephaestus, wasn’t paying attention to any of the mockery. She knew his spirits were as weak as his legs. But Hephaestus knew – he knew the looks that were, by then, becoming familiar, he knew the difference between pity and ridicule, he knew what he could and couldn’t do. But none of that mattered or at least it didn’t seem to. Because, as weak as his legs were, his arms were stronger – he was a child with a man’s arms, able to lift any hammer and any sword with one hand. He was an unchartered beast – no one knew just how strong he could be. And he had his mother for company, too. Sure, he had talked to the servants – Hebe, especially, was always nice to him – but Hera was the only one he could talk with. She knew what he loved, what he hated, what he feared. Hera knew that Hephaestus loved to put his hands into fire. It was strange, because even gods could burn their fingers, but Hephaestus never felt it. If anything, the fire cleansed his hands the way water washes yours. Hera was careful around Hephaestus when he played with his fire – after all, if he was careless and hugged her, his burning hands could melt her neck and shoulders. She knew that Hephaestus hated mirrors as much as he loved fire – she wondered if this meant he hated himself. And she knew what Hephaestus was afraid of – he was terrified of that god in particular, looking out from his balcony, high over the courtyard, the god who was twitching with agitation. Hera had only seen Zeus like that once, and it was so long ago that she almost forgot the look. Zeus had burned with that hatred when he threw their father into the deep prisons of Earth. Their father was ugly, but in other ways. Late one morning – when Hera was still asleep, exhausted from a late night of laughing with her sisters – the childish Hephaestus took his first walk of the courtyards alone. He had always wanted to, but his mother would never let him – Hephaestus gave up asking her why, because she would never answer. And the air felt so crisp, and the world smelled so much like apples. Hephaestus timidly opened the door of the palace and crept outside. The chill numbed the pain in his legs. He was all alone in a courtyard that stretched for miles around him. As he walked, he suddenly noticed a sparkle in the grasses ahead. It disappeared, and he thought he was imagining things. Then, the spark snapped back – it was slithering between the blades of grass. Curious, Hephaestus followed the shine, wanting to know what it was – he had never seen such a thing, in all of his short years as a god. And he followed the spark through the empty courtyard that was never empty. And he followed the spark through the open outer gate that was never open. And he followed the spark through the silent forest of the summit that was never silent. The spark slowed enough that Hephaestus could see it in detail – it wasn’t a spark, but a necklace, its jewels catching in the sunlight. All the while, the necklace kept slithering, much as a snake would – Hephaestus had never been down in the mortal world, and so he had never seen a snake before, but he heard that was how they moved, and he believed all that he was told. Hephaestus was so consumed with catching the necklace that he didn’t know that he was stumbling closer and closer to the summit’s edge. Now, parts of the edge, as dangerous as they were, were still sloped enough to make the climb difficult but possible. This edge, though, this was where the summit simply ended – from there, it would be a straight fall, thousands of feet down to the mortal world, where there was only hurt and death. But Hephaestus didn’t know this – if someone had never seen death before, they wouldn’t believe such a terrible thing could exist. And still, Hephaestus got closer and closer. The necklace was suspended against the edge, and Hephaestus almost had his fingers around it… A pair of arms curled around the young god and yanked him backwards. Hephaestus found himself sprawled in the blanket of the grass, looking upwards, seeing his mother’s silhouette in the sunlight. Hera cried, “Hephaestus, what were you thinking? You could have fallen! What would I have done if you had fallen?” Tears were streaming down Hera’s face – she was hysterical in the eyes. Hephaestus hadn’t seen her like that in a long time, perhaps never. His mother frightened him more than the thought of falling over the edge. Hephaestus sputtered, “I-I-I-I…” Although his voice was shaky, his finger was steady. He pointed past Hera, towards the necklace that was tucked into the grass nearby. Hera snatched up the necklace and immediately recognized it – it was the one that went missing from her chambers just the day before. Still, Hera did not understand. She waved the necklace in front of Hephaestus’ eyes. “Did you take my necklace?” “No, mother, I-I-I saw it just a few minutes ago. It w-w-w-was moving, by itself.” “It was moving?” “Yes, mother.” Hera looked down at the jewelry. She couldn’t believe that her favorite necklace would try and kill her child. “But Hephaestus, a necklace cannot move by itself. Someone would have to throw it…” “There are other ways,” a quiet voice said from behind Hera. Hera spun and saw Zeus standing near the edge, his arms folded across his chest, his face granite. Hera looked down at the necklace, dumbfounded, before a moment of fury seized her. Suddenly understanding everything, she balled up the necklace in her hand and threw it at Zeus – the necklace bounced off his shoulder and fell over the edge, where it was lost for good. “You, you,” Hera began through clenched teeth, “you tried to kill my son. How dare you!” “You know why,” Zeus said coldly, rationally. “Every moment your son stands atop this rock, our palace crumbles a little more. We cannot be the lords of the world when that…thing walks among us. You know that. You know that we can silence one mortal who mocks us. But we cannot kill them all, not without destroying ourselves. We need every soul in this world to worship us – their prayers are our breath – the columns of their temples are our veins – their sacrifices are our food. We can’t destroy them, but they can destroy us, they can end us just by laughing. And they will laugh at your son the moment they see him. No prince from their world would be so weak as your Hephaestus, they wouldn’t allow it…” Hera stood as tall as she could, between her quivering son and her furious husband. “He is my son, Zeus, mine! I have always told you that, and I forever will. And for once, you have no say. You can decide for the skies and the thunderstorms and the fate of this world, but you will not decide the life of my son. How can you, when you didn’t even conceive him with me?” Zeus was silent for a moment. “So, you want to know why I don’t love you?” Hera didn’t answer, but Zeus continued. “I cannot love a wife with that chill in her eyes. I cannot love a wife who looks at me suspiciously, no matter what I do, no matter what I have done. I could make this world spin the other way for you, and you wouldn’t trust me. You could never trust me. If you were mortal, I would strike you down for your blasphemy.” “Some days I wish I was mortal!” Hera screamed. “If I was mortal, I would fight you just to show you how weak you are!” Zeus’ eyes flared. With one hand, he shoved Hera to the side, his wife hitting the ground with her shoulder. Zeus turned towards Hephaestus and reached for the boy, saying, “This needs to be done. You must understand. This needs to be…” Petrified with fear, Hephaestus could only watch as the thing that scared him most was reaching out for him. The fingers were hypnotic, seeming to drag him in. The spell was shattered, though, as Hera reached around Zeus’ massive arm, trying to yank her husband away. Zeus roared and, with a massive push, tossed Hera into the air. The goddess skidded along the grass, before coming to a stop as a quivering heap. “No!” Hephaestus screamed, finding his voice. He jumped up, his fingers aiming for Zeus’ throat, but the king was quicker. Zeus deftly grabbed Hephaestus by the arm and dragged him towards the edge, where the fall was waiting. “No,” Hera rasped, as she struggled to stand. As Zeus walked, he spoke to Hephaestus. Zeus tried to comfort him with talk of fate, softly saying that it was decided the moment Hephaestus was born, but there was no engine of sincerity behind Zeus’ words. There was only tension as Zeus spoke, as he found a struggling and growling Hephaestus in his grasp. This surprised Zeus: he never expected Hera’s son to fight back, and to fight back so harshly. Even Zeus, king of all, was having trouble keeping a steady grip, as light as Hephaestus weighed. This scared Zeus as much as Hera’s tears scared Hephaestus. Still, Zeus reached the edge and, without wasting another moment, he threw Hephaestus as if the young god was just another discus. As Hephaestus dove through the air, Olympus disappeared behind him in the clouds, and even his mother’s screams grew softer. And yes, Hephaestus was terrified, although he shouldn’t have been. Zeus may have thrown Hephaestus as if the young god was nothing, but nothing fell quite like this crippled god. The winds caught his tiny frame and he tumbled madly through the clouds, like a dandelion seed in a hurricane. At one point even, Hephaestus felt himself floating up, and he thought that the wind was handing him back to Hera and the other Olympians. But then the wind continued pushing and pulling him along. He fell like this for nine days and nine evenings. Through the occasional break in the thick clouds, Hephaestus could see the forests far below, then he saw the grasslands, then he saw the shores, then he saw the sea. The winds began to die and so Hephaestus began to fall, slowly at first but picking up more and more speed. As he fell, the world spun around him, until he couldn’t tell the seas apart from the skies. Meanwhile, a galley was skimming the waters. It was small compared to its peers, only having one row of oarsmen on each side, a crew of sixty altogether. She was more of an arrow and less of a ship, with sleek sides and a pointed hull – even the foamy wake behind the ship resembled feathers. The men themselves were more pirates than sailors – they took to raiding ports along the coastline, bringing the stolen goods with them back to their secret base, tucked into the side of a volcanic island far out to sea. The pirates were anxious to touch friendly shores again – during their last raid, one of their numbers – a young, hilarious man – had been killed in the fight. None of the captured cargo in their galley could bring him back. The men were so caught up in their grief that neither the slap of seawater across their face or the hug of sunlight could wake them up. What caught their attention, though, was a loud splash off to the port side. Several of the oarsmen turned sharply, their oars suspended in the air just above the choppy waters. The rest of the crew soon took notice and someone shouted, “What made you stop?” “Something fell in the water!” Curious, the crew made a shallow turn and rowed back towards the impact. At first, they didn’t see anything, and the witnesses feared that they had been mistaken, and that they would be punished for the folly, which cost the boat precious time. But, as they got closer, they could see something bobbing in the waters. They got even closer, and they realized that it was someone in the water. One of the oarsmen sprang into action, jumping off the deck and into the waters. The rest of the crew abandoned their oars – a rarity on any galley – and leaned over the side, trying to get a better view. There were so many oarsmen on the port side of the galley, actually, that the ship began to lean somewhat. The oarsman in the water grabbed a hold of the person and began awkwardly swimming back towards the ship. The crew helped the man and mysterious person onto the deck. They look over their sudden guest – it was a boy, his sunken eyes closed, barely breathing but still alive – the crew noticed that his legs were horribly mangled too. The one thing that the crew didn’t notice was that their guest had dry robes on – dry, even though the oarsman who rescued him was himself salty and soaked from the seawater. The boy coughed up some seawater, sputtered a little bit, although his eyes were still closed, as if stuck in a dream between life and death. The crew was not sure what to do. One of them finally said, “We should toss him back in the water. It is where we found him, after all.” “Don’t be foolish.” “What do you mean, Alexis? We cannot take the boy back with us – do you want us to raise him? To feed him? Since when did we become mothers? There is no time for rescuing children.” “I have been living in this world far longer than you have. And I have seen a lot of strange things, but never have I seen someone fall out of the skies and into the water. This is no ordinary boy – this, this is a sign from the gods. We must be his saviors – it has already been chosen.” A snort. “And what is this message the gods have given us? Should we go back to the port we just raided? There was a temple there – perhaps one of the priestesses there knows why the gods are throwing people at us.” “Don’t you dare jest with the gods! We have already suffered enough tragedies lately to…” “Quiet, the both of you!” The oarsmen stopped their arguing and turned to see an aging man stand in front of them. His hair salty – either from old age or from the sea, no one knew for sure – Zosimus was perhaps the most experienced and roughest of any of the sailors on the deck. The two backed away cautiously as Zosimus shuffled forward and looked down at the boy with his one good eye. He frowned for a moment, then said, “We will take him back, as Alexis suggested. We will take care of him, and, when he is old enough, he will join us as a raider. There is something strange about our guest, there is no denying that. But, I cannot help but think he is a good omen. After losing Lysandros in battle, perhaps this is the gods smiling down upon us. Perhaps he will be the sailor that we have lost in Lysandros. And we would be fools to turn away such a gift from the gods.” “But his legs! His legs are ruined. He will be a burden to the rest of us…” Zosimus glared. “Then he will become my responsibility. I will look after him, with my one good eye. Does anyone else have anything more to say?” He turned and looked at the crowd around him. None of them said a word. Triumphant, Zosimus shouted, “Okay then, back to your rowing! We have to reach our island before it turns dark. You there, help me revive this boy.” And so the sailors revived Hephaestus, and, by the time they reached their island port, Zosimus had adopted the young god as his son, unaware of the boy’s true heritage. For some time, Zosimus and the other pirates questioned Hephaestus over his origins, but time and time again, the god was silent. Perhaps Hephaestus was fearful of what the mortals would do to a god who walked amongst them. Or perhaps Hephaestus did not want to admit to his exile, his punishment for his looks. Whatever the reason, Hephaestus would not admit to his past life, terrified of the emotions that went with it, of the betrayal and heartbreak. It proved to be a challenge to raise Hephaestus – the god could not walk far on his withered legs, and so Zosimus had to tend after him for most things. It was not until several years after the rescue, though, that even Zosimus grew tired of his responsibilities. As much as he loved his adopted son, he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he himself died and Hephaestus was on his own. And so Zosimus made his son work alongside the blacksmith in the village. The other pirates jeered at this – of course, they only made jokes amongst themselves, never to Zosimus – they wondered how such a crippled young man could make the strong armor they needed. And the blacksmith, too, was a bit reluctant to take on such a weak apprentice, but Zosimus forced him – some say with his rusted dagger. But, as weak as Hephaestus was in the legs, he was brilliant with his arms. Hephaestus was notorious for forcing others out of the room while he was working – he felt self-conscious of others looking at him, after years and years of being taunted. It was then, and only then, that the godly blacksmith would craft his metals the way an artist sculpted marble. Although he had only a few years of experience, Hephaestus could make anything the pirates requested: he made armor out of bronze and swords out of iron. Hephaestus even helped the shipbuilders make ballistae for the pirate galleys – those giant crossbows killed countless men and ruined many enemy ships in the years to follow. Obviously, Hephaestus gained a reputation and he gained one quickly, first throughout the village, then the island, then other islands even. And Hephaestus did all of this work for free. Sure, he asked for food and new clothes and other necessities when he needed them. But he never asked for a single coin from any of his neighbors. He lived his early years in that village surrounded by charity – the people gladly fed him, and they kept his storeroom filled with literally tons of metals that they found in their raids. They were grateful to him, and so Hephaestus was grateful to them. And this was the way that Hephaestus lived for some time, and he liked it. This kindness to him was so great that he wondered if he should have been born a mortal instead of a god. Of course, he didn’t want to think that it was his godly nature that made him a phenomenal blacksmith. But, it eventually reached a point where the love became too much, even for Hephaestus. His fame resulted in streams of people sailing to the island, begging for his help in making new swords and shields for them. As much as Hephaestus wanted to please everyone, he was afraid of the attention that came with it. One morning, a demanding pirate from a far-flung port walked up to the little house where Hephaestus kept his workshop. It was a simple house with a complex view: built on the rocky beach at the southernmost point, you could watch the sun both rise and set over the water. But when the pirate called outside the door and no one answered, he forced his way in and found the home deserted. Everything – the bed, the amphorae of raw materials, food – it had all vanished. The pirate next went to Zosimus’ home, to ask where his adopted son had gone off to. When Zosimus heard, he was shocked. His son Hephaestus never strayed far from his little home, because the outside world was not as easy to form as a shield or a sword. And so Zosimus organized small bands of men to search the countryside, hoping to find the favorite son of the pirates. But, after days and weeks and months of walking over the island, the men reluctantly gave up their hunt for Hephaestus. The blacksmith was wiped off the face of the world. Yet one morning, not long after that, Zosimus left his home and found a large stockpile of gleaming armor, all sitting in front of his home. The armor was so bright, the metal so strong, that no one but Hephaestus could have crafted it. And so Zosimus, whose first and last son was Hephaestus, found hope again. But, Hephaestus was still nowhere to be found. There was only one piece of evidence that someone had delivered the armor: there were massive, but shallow, indentations in the soil, leading to and from Zosimus’ home. If you looked from the roof of the home at the slight depressions in the ground, you would notice they almost looked like footprints. More specifically, the depressions were in the shape of sandals, but they were much larger – twenty men could sit in the prints and there would still be room. This was the beginning of a new ritual – once a week, Zosimus would find a heap of new shields and spears and swords sitting near his home. Curious, Zosimus tried staying up for whole nights at a time, hoping to catch sight of the mysterious craftsman, hoping against hope that it was his Hephaestus. But Zosimus never saw anyone or anything deliver the stockpiles – some nights, though, he had heard what sounded like thunder nearby. During the blistering summer months, when Zosimus would lay in bed and hear the storms roll over his house like waves, he would hear the thunder, and he would smile. He was never sure if the thunder belonged to Zeus, or perhaps it was the arrival of his mysterious craftsman. Both of those he so desperately wanted to believe in. If Zosimus had known the truth, he would have been thrilled. Hephaestus was still alive, and he was still living on the island with all of the other pirates. He had moved his workshop, though, to the lone volcano at the center of the island. There, burrowed in the sore throat of the volcano, Hephaestus had found a massive chamber, one that was free of any magma. It did not take long for Hephaestus to civilize the room, building countless rows of shelves to house his materials. He even moved in his massive stone table, one which he himself carved and used as his anvil. With the long stretch of magma at the entrance of the chamber, the melted rock bubbling and murmuring, he turned that pool into his forge, because only the hottest flames could withstand the metals that he used. And with that tremendous forge guarding the only entrance, no mortal could enter and disturb Hephaestus while he was at work. So the workshop was silent, and this pleased Hephaestus. One morning – or perhaps it was night, Hephaestus never knew when he was so buried beneath the earth – the crippled god was fashioning a sword. It was going to be a beautiful sword, more art than death, when Hephaestus felt a strong, chilled breeze enter the chamber. Although his back was to the magma, he could hear the bubbling stuff ripple, its tides actually splashing against the obsidian shore of the workshop. Hephaestus stopped his work – he knew who was there without even turning. “Hello, Zeus.” The massive golden eagle landed, its sharp claws as sharp as the obsidian. It looked at Hephaestus curiously for a moment before it began to transform. The feathers clumped together into hands that reached outward, like a drowning arm clawing above the water. The talons grew into sandaled feet, the chocolate plumage into billowing robes, the beak into a proud human face, with a grizzly beard and perfect hair. Zeus stood up, transformed. He walked over and, looking over Hephaestus’ shoulder, said, “This looks like good work to me.” Hephaestus continued slamming his hammer against the white-hot iron. “Leave me alone. I can’t ruin my concentration. It’ll show in this sword.” “It’s just that…” Hephaestus suddenly picked up the piece of metal with his gloves and threw it across the room. The hot iron hit the far wall and crumpled to the ground, twisted and ruined by the impact. There was silence for a moment. Hephaestus asked softly, dangerously, “What?” “Your mother has been watching out for you, you know. She doesn’t say it, but I see her some mornings, peering over the edge of Olympus, hoping to see her child. Ever since you disappeared, she’s been up most nights, worrying for you.” “I’m glad I still have an advocate on Olympus.” “Do you still have an advocate amongst these…men?” Zeus asked, disgusted by the final syllable. “Yes. I always will amongst these people.” “Then why have you hidden away from the world?” Zeus persisted, curious. “I left because this family here loves me too much. I needed a quiet place to work.” “Do you know why they really love you?” Hephaestus was silent, but Zeus continued. “Your work may be magical, but they think you are human. Great, yes, but still human. If they knew who your mother was, they wouldn’t think of you as a great mortal – they would think of you as a weak god, pitiful even.” Hephaestus turned and said sharply, “Why are you saying this to me?” Zeus shrugged. “It’s because it’s the truth. And I do not have much respect for those who serve man. You may be ruined on the surface, but inside you’re still very much a god, by virtue of your mother’s blood. The things you’ve done for these people, you’re dragging Olympus down into shame.” “Why are you so afraid of people who could never break you?” Hephaestus asked, incredulous. “I’m not afraid of them,” Zeus spat, “but you have to understand the balance. Man was put in this world to serve us. As powerful as we are, we live off their worship. And here you are, making weapons for them, weapons too beautiful for even a god to use. If you make these mortals more powerful than a god, then what happens? What are you trying to make happen?” Hephaestus threw up his hands. “So what will you have me do in this world, Zeus? Be a beggar like the rest of the poor men? I have seen crippled souls in the villages, their legs just as broken as mine. My mother has suffered enough because of me. I do not want her thinking that I am begging for food from mortals.” “What do you know of your mother’s hopes and fears? You haven’t even seen her in years,” Zeus asked, not understanding the irony in his words, that he was the reason why Hephaestus could never meet his mother again. Stung, Hephaestus shot back, “Don’t you remember, Zeus, how I was born from my mother’s seed alone? By that alone, I’m closer to her than you’ll ever be; I understand her more than you ever can.” “Don’t taunt me, boy,” Zeus snarled, his voice somehow growing even deeper. “I may have thrown you down to this world, but I can throw you even lower than this. I can always ask Hades to make space for you in the Underworld.” “But you won’t, will you?” Hephaestus said, shuffling up to Zeus. “Or else you would have come down sooner, to ruin what little happiness I have left.” “You build beautiful weaponry, Hephaestus, but for the wrong beings. These mortals do not deserve such craftwork. They cannot appreciate the art in the sword’s handle, but only how sharp the blade is. Do you not remember what happened to my brother Prometheus?” For once, Hephaestus looked sick with fear. He said, with some hesitation, “Yes.” “I don’t think you do. He stole fire from my palace, and he gave those flames to the mortals. And I have ruined him because of it. Do you know why?” “Why?” “Prometheus pitied those mortals – he thought they were animals – he wanted them to become just like us. And so he gave them fire, so that they could find their way up Olympus. He didn’t know it, but he had turned those mortals against us forever. His loneliness ruined him. Now, he is punished – he remains chained to his boulder, his liver everyday plucked out by the eagle. The liver always grows back, but only to be eaten again – his liver is now little more than a field of wheat.” “And tell me, Zeus, how does his liver taste? Does it taste like wheat?” Zeus glared. “It is not me who eats it.” “The eagle may eat it, but you are still the eagle. Its beak is your teeth, its stomach your stomach. And even as an eagle, you disgust me.” As if for emphasis, Hephaestus waved his arm around him, showcasing the chamber. He continued, “I have been exiled to the lowest points of this world, and why? You say it’s because I disgust you. But do you want to know what I think? I think it’s because my mother loves me more than she loves you. If you had your way, you would be every mother, every father, every friend, every lover in this world. You can’t imagine someone being loved more than you…” “Enough!” Zeus shouted, pounding his fist on the stone table. A crack appeared in the stone. Realizing that he had lost his temper, Zeus took a breath and said, much softer, “I didn’t come here to argue.” “Then why are you here?” “I need a new throne made.” Hephaestus laughed bitterly. “After all of your years of mocking me, you want me to help you? Why?” “You have been helping these wretched humans for far too long. Now you must help us – you must help the Olympians. Follow your duty.” Hephaestus held up the hammer in his hand. “Ah, so this is why you haven’t completely ruined me. I am little more than a hammer to you – but I am a hammer you don’t want to break.” “Will you help me?” “What choice do I have? If I refuse, you will chain me to the boulder, next to Prometheus.” “No, no, I won’t do that,” Zeus said, waving away the suggestion. Zeus didn’t say why, but Hephaestus figured that Zeus didn’t want to incur any more of Hera’s wrath. “But there are terrible things I can do to these people, Hephaestus. If I want, I can sink this whole island. Now, you may survive, but everything you love – all of those villages with all of those people – they will all die and no one will ever care or notice, because no one loves a pirate. Do you want that for a legacy?” Hephaestus sighed. “No.” “Good.” Zeus took some parchment from his robes. He put them down on the table. “These are the specifications. I will be back in a week to collect. Make sure you are done by then, or else.” “Fine.” Zeus turned to leave, but stop. He asked curiously, “By the way, how do you do it?” “Do what?” “How do you leave this volcano? Some mornings, I look down at that one man’s house, and I see that you leave mountains of shields and swords and such. But how do you get over the magma, when your legs are ruined?” Hephaestus couldn’t help but smile a little, that he knew something that Zeus didn’t. He pointed to the dark recesses of the chamber. Zeus squinted into the darkness – it took him a few moments, but he could make out the vague outline of something sitting in the corner, something massive. “What is it?” “I think you mean who. It’s my assistant, Talos.” Zeus walked towards the hulking beast. As he got closer, he suddenly snapped, “That’s no creature – it’s only a statue!” “He’s only a statue when he’s asleep,” Hephaestus said, “like the rest of us.” “What is he made of?” “Mostly bronze, but whatever materials I could find, really.” “You made him?” Hephaestus snorted. “Don’t act so surprised, Zeus. I’m as much a god as you are. I too can breathe life into things. Of course, he is still learning to be useful, but he can carry anything through that magma and up to the surface.” As Zeus gazed up at the massive, sleeping bronze automaton, he couldn’t help but to be amazed. Hephaestus stumbled to where Zeus stood, rooted, and said, “You know, just like I have learned to be a god, the time will come when you will be humbled.” Zeus broke out of his trance and snarled, “Don’t you dare threaten me.” “You enjoy being honest with me, but you cannot handle it yourself?” Zeus was silent. Hephaestus continued, “You will fall one day, and then, and only then, will you learn what it is like to be me, or to be Prometheus, or to be any mortal. You will be chained and dreaming of power, and there will be nothing you can do about it.” For what was the first and last time ever, Hephaestus saw a glint of raw fear in Zeus’ eyes. But the moment came and passed too quickly, and Hephaestus figured that he was simply imagining things. Still, Zeus seemed distracted. As he began his transformation into an eagle, he said, “Remember, the throne by next week.” Zeus had barely finished the sentence when his voice transformed into the eagle’s call. Book 3 It is ironic, maybe, that while Hera thought Zeus was cheating on her, he wasn’t. At least, he wasn’t cheating on Hera before her solitary conception of Hephaestus. However, following the scandal – and Hephaestus’ fall from both grace and Olympus – Zeus began to look at his wife differently. Zeus could only see ugliness in Hera’s beautiful eyes, never thinking that it was simply his reflection in her silvery glance. And so Zeus continued on his hunting trips – instead of hunting for wildlife or answers, though, he took to hunting lovers. He went from town to town, village to village, looking for beautiful women. He walked in the marketplace as a young fisherman, in the palaces as a traveling diplomat, in the temples as a pilgrim, all simply to steal looks at the women in the billowing robes. However, none of the women – not even those who stood in their dark doorways and beckoned him in – could entice him. There was one lady named Euthalia, the daughter of a merchant, the widow of a soldier. She had short, brown hair that waved with the wind – she had hazel eyes with flickers of emerald – she had a necklace of gemstones her mother had once given her. She was gorgeous, and her shy smile soaked up the world around them. But, even in the rare moments when Euthalia snuck out of her father’s house, all to visit the disguised Zeus, nothing ever came of those moments. At one point, the two of them sat on the edge of a stone bridge, their feet dangling just above the river washing under them. The wineskin that sat between them was deflated. But even then, with the two of them drunk, Zeus couldn’t love her. And so he left suddenly, without even providing an excuse. Euthalia chased after him but he vanished down the moonlit road. And Euthalia collapsed, her tears pooling around her, wondering if she could ever be beautiful to anyone again. This abandonment was the first but not the last. In the months and years that followed, Zeus loved many women, but he could not become intimate with them, as much as he wanted to, just like he used to love Hera. It was his curse, as much as Zeus was afraid to admit it – the horror was real enough just being silent. And so Zeus, as powerful and striking as he was, became a wanderer across the world, loveless, homeless, with no sheath for his sword. Sometime later, though, when Zeus was walking along a mountainside pass, rejected, the scenery felt familiar. But where did he remember it from? Zeus frowned for a moment, trying to remember, then his eyes light up. His distant cousin, Metis, lived nearby. Metis was the daughter of Zeus’ uncle, Oceanus, the sea god. Oceanus was always Zeus’ favorite of the elders, a bulbous god who walked like lead but never sank in the ocean. During the war, when Zeus and his siblings had overthrown their elders, casting the arrogant Titans down to their prison in the Underworld, Oceanus was one of the few granted freedom. Zeus allowed his uncle to escape to the cool depths of the ocean, as thanks for Oceanus once hiding Zeus from his terrible father, Cronus. The siblings had protested this, saying that Oceanus could easily free Cronus, and then the Olympians would have been ruined, or even worse. But Zeus silenced his siblings and he let Oceanus go. True, it may have been a foolish thing for Zeus to do, but then again, it was a foolish thing for Oceanus to do, betraying his family to save the life of a young Zeus. That Oceanus had faith in Zeus was enough for Zeus to have faith in Oceanus. But when Oceanus sank into his cold refuge of the ocean, his daughter refused to come with him. Metis, a stunning goddess with thick, blonde hair and a little smile, was afraid, in the ways a goddess shouldn’t have been. She loved to splash around in the tide at the beach, where the brine caught in her hair and sparkled in the sunshine. But she was terrified of stepping out any further, past the point where she had to swim in the water. She couldn’t see as well as her father did while underwater, and all Metis thought of was the fish and serpents in the darkness, swimming around her kicking legs. And so Metis stayed behind on shore, waiting for the day when her father would come back. It had been thousands of years since Oceanus last dove into the waters, but everyone has to come back up to breathe sometime, even the gods. But while Zeus’ siblings knew about the amnesty for Oceanus, they didn’t know about the same gift for Metis. Zeus had hidden her away, in a deep nook in the cliffs, far from the prying eyes from high above. He had to hide her, because none of the goddesses could bring themselves to trust her. She was a clever goddess, after all, one who had tricked Hera and Demeter all too often. Metis never said why, but Zeus figured it out long before, when the tricky goddess had asked Hera to take a walk with her. To Hera’s dismay, she was led into a field of clay – she sank knee-deep into the clay, which then immediately hardened from her fierce warmth. Zeus had happened upon the scene just in time to hear Hera begging for mercy, and Metis laughing hysterically. Zeus was able to pull Hera safely from the clay, but the future Queen never forgave Metis for the trick. Of course, Metis tried to trick Zeus as well in those days, but the young god always outsmarted her. Instead of being frustrated, though, Metis was impressed, thrilled even that she could never trick him. And so Metis began dreaming of the one day when she would trick him, and that anticipation transformed somehow into love. And Zeus loved Metis as well, simply because she loved him. And so, in his moment of weakness, Zeus decided to pay Metis a visit. He trailed from the dirt road and into the forest. The woods were stripped of leaves, the branches twisted, almost a graveyard. The locals were afraid of the area, how all of the trees had their branches pointing up toward the sky. The villagers knew there was magic to the woods, and so they stayed away, but that was why Zeus came. The ground began rising under his feet as he climbed a hill that became a mountain that became a cliff. And there he was, standing hundreds of feet above the kicking surf of the Aegean. The sea was a harvest that went on for miles, its blueberry leaves rustling in the wind. Even from the height that he stood, Zeus thought he saw something leap up from the waters below. It looked like a dolphin, but even Zeus wasn’t sure. Although the cliff was steep and smooth, Zeus didn’t have much trouble clambering down the side. His fingertips were strong enough to carve into the solid stone. Just some distance beneath him, he could see the cave entrance, just as he had remembered it. And, with night striding in from the east and darkness falling, he could see a flickering light escape the cavern. Even with the roar of the tides far below, he could hear the crackling of fire, and the singing of songs: “I hope that as long as you live, you shine, and that you never feel pain at all. Because we all know that life is short, and death always demands its toll.” Zeus smiled as he neared the cavern – Metis always had a beautiful singing voice – he was glad she never lost it. Whenever she spoke, he couldn’t help but listen – and how could he not, with her voice like water over pebbles? Hanging from the lip of the cavern, he let go and landed inside. The entrance was narrow, but the cave itself was deep and massive. The cave walls were lined with shelves of works, all written by the brightest minds in the world, both known and unknown. The floor itself was a gigantic map of the world, Greece alone consuming most of the space. Zeus looked up and, by the light of the dancing fire, saw that Metis had finished painting the ceiling of the room since the last time he visited. The ceiling was now a reconstruction of the nighttime sky – here though, the constellations actually moved. Zeus watched in silent amusement as the bull and the lion played and fought with one another in the mock sky. “They were quiet a few minutes ago, you know.” Shook into focus, Zeus looked across the room, beyond the crackling hearth, at Metis, reclined in her lounge. She had her head propped in one hand, with a thick pillow of parchment beneath her. Metis was slim but full of life, her long, blonde hair having never lost its youth. She was smiling, but her eyes looked at him shrewdly. Zeus was quiet and she continued, saying, “Normally, the stars stay still. Since I have a guest, though, they must be excited. It’s not often that I have visitors.” “It’s beautiful artwork.” “Thank you, but it’s more than art to me.” “Oh?” “It’s hard for me to leave,” Metis said as she slowly got up, stretching her stiff arms. “This is all I have left of the outside.” As Zeus walked towards her, he asked, curious, “Have you ever left?” “No.” “Why not? Are you afraid of Hera and the others seeing you? Are you afraid of what they’ll think, of what they’ll do?” “No, not that. I was never afraid of them. It’s…” Metis’ voice trailed off, and even her little smile vanished. Zeus suddenly knew better than to ask. She was still afraid of the sea – she was afraid of slipping on the rock and falling into the water that was blue to him but black to her. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “Then how did you build this library? And paint this floor and ceiling? Where did you get the materials?” Metis pointed to the corner of the room, just past the lounge. There, Zeus saw a stunted tree somehow growing from the stubborn stone floor. Hidden in the nest of branches, Zeus could barely see a brood of owls – the branches seemed to quiver with their soft, rumbling hooting. She said, “I have my assistants – they’re good enough.” “How are you?” “Fine, just fine. I have been having trouble sleeping, though.” “Is that why you were singing earlier?” Zeus asked. “To sing yourself to sleep?” Metis looked amused. “Oh, I guess you heard me, then?” “You were loud enough to have the whole cliff as your audience.” Metis laughed. “You know, one of my owls once brought me a comedy it stole from a local playwright. The play is about a farmer who hears singing in the wilderness during the night. The farmer tells everyone, but, of course, no one believes him. I like to think that play is based on a true story.” “Ah, another practical joke of yours?” “Well, when you live in a cave and can never leave, you have your laughs when you can.” Zeus saw that Metis was serious. He asked, “Let me help you leave then.” “I can’t…it’s just…this is enough for me, for now,” Metis said with a sigh, motioning towards the shelves of manuscripts that surrounded them. Zeus looked helpless for a moment. “Well, if you don’t want me to bring you out into the world, at least let me bring the world to you.” Metis looked somewhat taken aback, not sure what to say. She finally asked, “Why would you do that for me? After you had abandoned me so many years ago? Why now?” “I need someone to be lonely with.” Metis looked up sharply at Zeus, having never seen a wounded side to him. She said softly, the emotion rising in her throat, “Okay. Okay.” In the months that followed, Zeus returned to Metis’ cave again and again. They spent hours talking, the fire between them, the perpetual evening sky above them. Metis asked most of the questions during their times together – she asked about what was happening to the east, to the west, to the north, to the south. After all, her owls could not fly very far and steal very much – and so all she had to read was Greek even though she knew most of the world’s languages. And so Zeus, who could see everything in the world from Mount Olympus, told her. Metis laughed at some of the things, at some of the scandals, at the gods who sometimes tripped even though they were gods, at the comedy of life. Still, there were the moments when she turned silent. Once, when he was talking about a famine just to the east, one that was drying up entire villages, Zeus stopped talking. He heard Metis sigh softly. Although the fire was dying, there was still enough light to see her crying. Zeus asked, “What’s wrong, my love?” “It’s all so sad.” “Well, you’ve lived long enough. You should already know that is how things work.” “I do, it’s just…perhaps I read too much.” “Read what?” “Well, I do read a lot of tragedies. And they all end so sadly – like they should – but when I put down the parchment, I feel lifted. But when you tell me these things about death and misery, I can’t free myself from it.” Zeus shrugged. “Maybe you should write about it. Trap it in a manuscript and hide it on the shelf. You’ll forget about it then. I’ve seen it work for others.” “I’m being serious.” “So am I.” “But surely you must have feelings for these mortals? Surely you must feel their pain when they do?” Zeus looked at her as if she was absurd. “By the time I know about a mortal’s pain, they’re already gone. Those mortals, from the farmer to the king, they all live for a few decades then they die. I’ve lost count of how old I am. Should man love a fly, even though the bug lives for only a few weeks? That’s asking for too much, I think. No, no, I don’t want something just to lose it.” Metis looked at him longingly. “All this time, I’ve never had anything to lose. How could you say that, Zeus? The only thing more immortal than you or me is us.” Zeus looked visibly awkward. He tried to change the subject. “Why do you love the mortals then?” “I love them because they’re weak.” Zeus snorted. “Who could love such a thing?” “You didn’t let me finish,” Metis said quietly. “Everything breathing is weak. It’s just that those mortals, they’re the only ones who seem to know it. They’ve buried their lovers, they’ve slaughtered soldiers on the battlefield, and they’ve insulted one another. They’re merchants – they know the price for everything.” “What about the immortals then?” “What about us? We’ve never seen us bleed. For all we know, we don’t have any blood. If that’s true, then we’re no better than the statues in our temples. How do we know how much we’re worth if we have never paid the price?” “That will never be our problem. Stop talking like their philosophers, else you’ll finally turn old and gray.” Metis looked at him shrewdly. “Don’t you feel the least bit guilty because of what you had done to them? You could at least show them some sympathy.” Zeus scoffed, not because he thought the question was ridiculous, but because he didn’t have an answer. Metis was right – Zeus had ruined the mortals enough. It began in the early years of his reign, and the mortal world was growing wild and feral. Zeus needed someone to burn down the overgrown fields and to slaughter the fattened animals, and so he made man. Zeus gave every man four arms and four legs and two heads, all so that they could do more at the same time. And at first the plan worked perfectly – the world became tamed for the first time ever, organized, almost predictable. But when the men were done with the work, they turned to the last of the chaos: Mount Olympus. They saw the rough edges of the mountain, the sooty rock, the indulgent palace that sat atop the summit – they knew they could clean that mountain from the bottom up. And so they did, clambering upwards, polishing the mountain clean with their rags for clothes. When Zeus saw the scouring hordes approach the summit, he panicked. He was afraid of what mankind would see: the beautiful palace, the blinding jewelry, the constant food and drink. And his infinite palace was just too small for those guests. And so he grabbed a lightning-bolt from his quiver, squeezed the electricity in his fist until it thundered, and Zeus tossed it down at his invaders. The strike worked through the entire crowd, slashing all of the men into two – they tossed and tumbled down to the earth, their blood painting the sides of the mountain that they had just cleaned. Those who had survived the plunge never really survived. The survivors looked down at themselves, and they saw they each had only two arms, two legs, and one head left apiece. They wandered around the base of the mountain for days, lost, trying to find their better half but never finding it. And their journeys grew as they tried to find their lost companions, until they too became lost in their travels. And that was how mankind as we know it came to be, and only the true lovers, once together, could become the climbers of mountains. All Metis craved was what those mortals wanted: to conquer mountainsides. And Zeus was standing in her way, just as he had to the mortals. Because, for every time Zeus visited, Metis would sit closer and closer to him, hungry for the first time in centuries, a time so long that she almost forgot feeling. But Zeus noticed – he may have not said anything, but he noticed – each time, he would look out at the setting sun and announce, “It’s time for me to leave. Have a good evening. I’ll be back again – no worries.” At first this bothered Metis: Does he think I’m not beautiful enough? Then it depressed her: He doesn’t think I’m beautiful enough. Then it angered her: How can he think that I’m not beautiful enough? And so Metis began to devise a plan. The familiar thrill crept back into her as she schemed. She had no one to trick for so long – and what if she was able to outwit Zeus? She had never been able to trick the god, so she never thought of what would happen after. She didn’t stop to think if she would even still love him. After all, she could never love the things she already knew – that was why she sped through all of the books her owls brought her, eagerly reading through the pages before dumping the manuscripts in the corner. It happened one night. It was a bitter night, with black raindrops falling out of the midnight sky. The wind drove the rain sideways into the cave, upsetting the fire in the hearth, nearly extinguishing the stubborn flames. Metis was huddled in the corner, wrapped in her blankets, drinking some wine, watching the lightning streaks outside. The jagged skies suddenly darkened – someone was standing in the entrance, their silhouette tall and striking. It was Zeus, who had come to see her once more. Even though he had traveled in the pelting rain, his robes and skin were completely dry. Zeus was warm enough that he had never felt water – the drops would simply wisp away into steam. But Zeus was no man dying of thirst in the desert – he had no desire to ever taste water, to wash himself with water, to cool himself with water. After all, if he could, then he would be just like any other mortal – and only the ordinary ever die. Metis, meanwhile, was shivering and splattered with rain – true, she was a goddess, but she was no true Olympian. Only Olympians, isolated on their summit so far above the world, had the privilege – or the curse. When Zeus arrived, the fireplace went from dying to roaring again. By the light, Zeus saw Metis huddled. He asked, almost concerned, “Are you okay?” “I’m cold.” “Here,” Zeus said, offering a hand. “Let’s sit together then.” Metis took Zeus’ hand and simply said, “Okay.” They both sat down on the lounge, Zeus’ warmth overwhelming her, drying up the soaked chair. Still, Metis said through clenched teeth, “We should drink. It’ll warm me up, at least.” “I’m fine – I don’t need a drink.” “Please, don’t let me drink alone,” Metis insisted. Reluctantly, Zeus agreed. And so Metis poured both of them cups of wine. What Zeus didn’t know, though, was that Metis’ cup had holes dug into the bottom. And so her cup slowly drained into a shallow pool at her feet. But, with Zeus enjoying his own drink and the cave dim enough, he didn’t notice the deceit as it was happening. And Metis put up a convincing act, giggling and slurring her words as if drunk herself. If anything, she had never felt so sober, not in all of her life. Zeus was certainly drinking, though. He was never an excitable drunk, though – instead, his eyelids were becoming heavy, and his words trailing away, drowsy. And then, between blinking his eyes once, just once, the night became morning. And Zeus was sprawled on the floor, blankets heaped on top of him. And next to him, a naked Metis was still sleeping, her milky back to him. Startled, Zeus leapt up from the floor, his head throbbing. He tried to remember what happened the night before, but he couldn’t remember much. He could remember giggling – he could remember friction. And that was perhaps all he needed to remember. As Zeus stumbled away, Metis woke up from the noise and looked quietly at the retreating god, smiling a little – she had finally tricked him, after all of that time. She controlled him now. And it was true – Metis did control Zeus, but it was not in the way she thought. No, no, Zeus was scared for a reason larger than Metis, larger than him even. As he stood at the edge of the cave’s entrance, the cliff crumbling beneath his weight, him taking large gulps of seawater air to calm his nerves, Zeus thought back to a moment long before, when everything changed. Zeus had made the mistake that countless souls – immortal or otherwise – have made before him, and will make after him. Once, as a much younger god, he was trampling through the forest early one morning, when the dawn’s light caught in the mist and everything glowed – when he heard a low, steady chanting. Curious, he took his sword and cut through the thick foliage of the forest, drawn to the music of voices. Suddenly, the branches disappeared and he entered a clearing. Across the sea of mist, he could see a trio of heads bobbing up and down, like drowning sailors. Even from that distance, even through the fog, Zeus saw that two of the mysterious people were swaying their heads from side to side, humming loudly and singing in a language he had never heard before. The third person was playing what looked like a pan flute, the musical puffs of air blasting across the clearing. As Zeus stepped forward, the one playing the pan flute stopped, having noticed him – the other two stopped their chant when the music ended. Far from annoyed that someone had interrupted their chorus, the one who had been playing the pan flute said sweetly, “We have been expecting you, Zeus.” When Zeus had heard the high, sweet voice, he thought that the person was an old woman, perhaps a priestess for some obscure religion, given their strange music and the heavy robes they wore. But, as Zeus edged closer, he thought that they were men instead – their arms were not slender, but built crudely like a man’s, and they even had beards, the long whiskers rustling in the wind, their beards grazing their exposed breasts. Zeus felt a rare moment of sickness claw up his throat – he couldn’t tell if those old women were actually old men. Their looks confused Zeus, made him nervous – he took a sudden step backwards. “Oh, don’t be afraid of us now, Zeus,” one of the others said soothingly. “We’ve been kind enough to wait for you.” Zeus, not understanding, said slowly, “You’ve been waiting for me? And how did you know my name? Who are you?” Zeus said that before he realized the significance of those words. Those women, or men, or whatever they were, they knew that he was Zeus. There was a reason why, when he walked amongst the mortals in their world, he cloaked himself as one of them. Because if they knew that they were looking at an immortal like Zeus, even the knowledge of something so brilliant would be their end. Zeus had used that as a weapon only once before – when he was visiting a village disguised as an old man, some youths were taunting him, throwing rocks at him as he shuffled along. Angry, Zeus suddenly snatched one of the rocks in mid-air and crumbled it in his hands like a loaf of bread. When the youths saw the phenomenon, there was a bright flash – when the light vanished a moment earlier, the bullies were nothing more than a pile of dust, already vanishing in the thick wind. But these creatures here, they understood what he was, and they didn’t die – only an immortal could do that, yet Zeus had never seen that strange trio before. “Why, we know everything, Zeus,” one of the creatures laughed. “Well, we know everything that will happen, anyway.” Zeus was slow at understanding. But, he drew his breath when he realized what they meant. He asked quickly, “Are you the…” “Fates? Yes, my dear, we are,” the trio said at once, as if they knew what to rehearse. “And we know that you have been looking for us, even if you haven’t been.” He had only heard stories about the trio of Fates. They camouflaged so well into the world, that they only revealed themselves when they wanted. He knew enough that they decided the fates of every living thing in the world. They foresaw the future through the magical strings they wove, seeing triumph in the strands, disaster in the frays. And when someone had reached the end of their life, the Fates would pull that soul’s string tight, before cutting it with their jagged scissors. They were the weavers of every story, where a breath was a word, and a heartbeat was ink on the page. And the young Zeus was intrigued - after all, his meeting them was during the first year of his long reign as King of Everything. It was not long before, actually, that he had overthrown his father and his rotted elders, their decaying smell still burning like incense in the palace atop Mount Olympus. He wanted to know what the future held for him, if the years ahead would be as chaotic as the years before. That was why he took a deep breath and asked the question he would later regret: “What will become of me?” The Fates looked at each other, their smiles growing wider until they consumed themselves. The one, whom Zeus guessed was the eldest by the length of her beard, asked, “Are you sure you want to know?” “Yes.” The Fates said nothing else, but they began to circle Zeus slowly. While they walked leisurely, their arms began to jump and dance wildly, their heads began to swing at unnatural angles, their tongues hanging out of their mouths, panting. The circle began to close in around him, and Zeus’ heart, hidden miles inside of him, began to beat faster and louder until he could hear it, for the first time actually. The Fates began muttering a string of words. At first, Zeus had trouble understanding them, but as they got closer, Zeus realized that they were repeating the same verse, over and over again: “Our Zeus, we know that you will die like the thirsty man who drowns, or the hungry man who bursts with feast. You will have a child, a brilliant one, a generation worthy of light – but be warned, your heir will be the one who draws your final breath. You will trade your throne for your own death. Understand your fate, but never mourn, because your birth was always your end, and your end was always your birth.” The Fates were close enough that Zeus could taste their breath: it tasted like worms and raw meat and a smear of blood. Zeus began to feel sick once again. They were close enough that Zeus could see their eyes glazed, their faces sticky with sweat, their brown stumps of teeth that barely glittered through their matted beards. Zeus closed his eyes, hoping that would be enough to block out the dead side of the world. It worked – when he opened his eyes a moment later, the Fates were gone, the mist was gone from the clearing, and the morning sun had finished its rise in the sky. But Zeus was still shaken from that morning. The words that the Fates said danced in his mind, even years later. He thought them over, again and again, until he realized what the Fates had prophesized: that his own child would overthrow and kill him. Zeus desperately thought of a way out of the doom, but there was nothing to do but isolate himself from love. And that was why, in the years that followed, he lost his intimacy with Hera. That was why he tried to find a replacement for his wife, searching amongst the most beautiful the world had to offer, but he still saw ugliness in every woman’s eyes. He knew their embrace would smother him, he knew their kiss would bite him, he knew their love would ruin him. And, even worse, he was alone in his fears. There was no one he could go to for advice – no one would believe that he had actually met the Fates, no one would imagine that a god could possibly die. Even Zeus’ father Cronus did not die in the coup – Zeus had merely clasped his father’s hands in iron and thrown him into the Underworld in disgrace. To admit that he, a god, could die – did that mean he was no longer a god? Was he already ruined before he was defeated? Was he now at the mercy of anyone who knew the secret? And so he did not tell a soul, not even his own wife, whom he once trusted with everything. Instead, he took to the forest more and more, his hunts becoming obsessive, as he tried to find the Fates once more, to demand clarity. What could he do to reverse his destiny? Or was it too late? Had he already tripped, and was he now falling on his sword? But the Fates always hid from him, no matter how much Zeus begged as he trudged through the forests – although he could have sworn he heard their wicked laughter one night as he walked. And what was he to do now? If he had actually conceived with Metis, his end was near. But that was when the fear began to slip and drain from Zeus, and the arrogance took hold once again. He turned slowly to face Metis, who was now sitting up on the cave floor, not bothering to cover herself with her blankets. As he stepped towards Metis, he smiled, but a dangerous idea had already gripped him. There was one thing that can be done. Zeus said calmly, “That was a night I’ll remember.” “I hope so.” “It’s a shame, though.” Metis was confused. “Why’s that?” “Because now the rest of the day will feel like a disappointment.” Metis giggled. “Did you have plans?” Zeus frowned as he thought. “Well…I was thinking that we could take a walk along this creek I know.” Metis looked uneasy. “Oh, don’t be frightened!” Zeus said, offering his hand to Metis. “It is not that far from here. And it’s too beautiful to miss.” Metis did not take Zeus’ hand. “You know I can’t leave this cave. What if I fall?” “Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure you won’t,” Zeus said, although he already knew her answer to that. “No, I can’t.” Zeus sighed and tried his best to look disappointed. Then, his eyes lit up. “There is something.” “What?” Metis asked. “You can transform. Can you still change into a mosquito?” Surprised, Metis said, “I didn’t know you knew about that.” “I know a lot, my love.” “Well then, you’ll know how dangerous that is. Just think of the winds along the cliffs! It’s enough to crush a bird against the rock, let alone a tiny mosquito. And what if a bird or some other creature eats me? Did you want that on your conscience?” Zeus looked sad. “I remember you not being so afraid. What happened?” Metis motioned to the starry ceiling, the atlas on the floor, and the curve of books around the cavern. “Sometimes, a cave is all the world you need.” “No, it’s not,” Zeus insisted. “And you’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.” “Why? How can you guarantee it?” Zeus thought a moment. “I’ll transform too. I’ll turn into my eagle – I’ll watch you – I’ll make sure no one or nothing hurts you.” Metis looked at him for a long moment before sighing. “I guess I’ll have to believe you.” Zeus smiled. “You guess?” Metis was serious, though. “I have no one else to believe but you.” As Metis began her quick transform – shrinking down towards the floor, her two legs splitting and withering into six thin limbs, her arms turning transparent and flattening into wings – Zeus watched, fascinated. He somehow felt wrong for watching her transformation, but the thrill kept him looking. And then, Metis was no more – where the beautiful goddess once sat, there was now only a buzzing mosquito, hovering around Zeus. Zeus then began his own transformation, forming himself into his familiar eagle. He too began to shrink and deform, his arms twisting into wings, his face sharpening into a beak, feathers bursting out of his skin like hair. His transformation was quick as well – in a few moments, a proud eagle strutted along the cave floor, peering around, looking for its mosquito. The bug landed on the floor in front of Zeus the eagle, finally ready to leave after centuries inside of the cave. And that was when the eagle suddenly leaned forward, plucked up the mosquito with its beak, and ate it, all in one blur. Zeus could feel Metis writhing about inside of him, her sudden shock turning into an instinct for freedom. Still, Zeus forced her down his throat, all in the hope of ending the curse before it began. He suddenly shook as the mosquito got its chance for revenge, biting on the inside of his throat as it plummeted to the stomach. Zeus waited a few moments, then he began his transformation back to a man. And there he was, laying down, his naked body warm, even against the cold cave floor. Still, Zeus shook as he gathered up his clothes and dressed himself. Metis was gone, but she had left her bite behind – Zeus could feel his throat swell and begin to pulse almost. He shook his head violently, as if that would cure the terrible itch. If anything, the itch seemed to writhe and rise – like a spider, it seemed to crawl up his spine, before burrowing itself into Zeus’ mind. Zeus suddenly felt a second, even sharper pain as the bite latched onto his brain. The headache was instant and overwhelming – it felt as if his head was expanding, ready to burst at any moment. Zeus had never felt such a headache before – even as a god, he had his moments of sickness. True, no earthly thing could slash him, make him draw blood, but a god could only stop hurt coming from outside of him. The pain inside of him was always ready. Somehow, even with the pain that kicked him from the inside, Zeus managed to transform into an eagle once more and fly back to the summit at Olympus. There, he took to his room, not leaving his bed for days, drinking ambrosia constantly from the cup that never ran out. He drank until his arms felt numb, until the words slipped off his tongue. Still, even with his body paralyzed from the drink, the agony of the headache never left him. Zeus couldn’t even fall asleep, the pain being too much. At times, the headache was so swollen, so everywhere, that he felt like he was being forced out of his own mind. At those points, Zeus swore that he had left himself, that he could see his body twisted in the bed, his mouth yawning forever in pain. Still, even with his never-ending pain, Zeus not once told anyone else what had happened. He knew that questions about his headache would lead to the revelation of Metis, and that would lead to his fear of the prophecy, and telling the truth about that would make it the truth. But, with a headache so terrible, Zeus at his best was still his worst. And with a palace as organic and living as that one, it saw Zeus’ pain but did not understand it. It was not long, then, until the gossip amongst the servants made its way to a very curious Hera. Hera tried to gain entrance to Zeus’ chambers twice during the god’s sickness, but he had shouted her away. If anything, his dismissals only made Hera more curious – she knew that her husband was desperately trying to hide something. It would explain why he had not looked for a cure to his headaches. And already, Hera was coming up with a plan to make Zeus admit to the truth. She wasn’t sure what that truth was, but she knew it had something to do with an affair – with Zeus, it always was. And so she decided to pay her son Hephaestus a visit. When Hephaestus heard the news about Zeus’ illness – and Hera’s idea to ‘cure’ him – he was intrigued. The blacksmith god was still angry with Zeus for his contempt – Hephaestus was eager to break Zeus’ grip on power, even if that meant breaking the King’s fingers. And so, one night, while Zeus squirmed and cried in his bed from the pain, having not slept in weeks, Hephaestus slid into his room. Hera crept in behind her son, standing in the shadowy corner of the room. At first, Zeus did not know that Hephaestus was there, blinded with his pain. Then, the crippled Hephaestus spoke up: “Now you know what it’s like, ruined by pain.” Hearing and recognizing the voice, Zeus slowly stopped twisting in bed. His voice muffled, with his hands pressed to his face, Zeus grunted, “You! What are you doing here?” “I heard that you needed my help,” Hephaestus said softly as he inched closer and closer to Zeus. “I don’t need anyone’s help! Especially from you!” Hephaestus looked amused. It was not often that he could tower over the hated Zeus. He took a moment to enjoy the reversal. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I hold your cure in my hands. I don’t know much, but I do know that.” “What…what are you…” Zeus began before he collapsed over the edge of the bed, vomiting onto the floor. Hephaestus immediately smelled the stink of ambrosia, soured. He wrinkled his nose, and he continued, saying, “Look at your medicine.” Zeus spat on the floor, and, breathing heavily, he squinted back at Hephaestus. By the moonlight streaming through the open window, he could see that Hephaestus was holding an axe, so sharp, so thin, so polished, that Zeus wasn’t sure it even existed. It was as invisible and murderous as a mortal breathing in their final breath before dying. Zeus tried to say something, but he tumbled backwards in the bed. He moaned something – Hephaestus thought he was saying “no” over and over. It was no use – the god had to bow before the inevitable. Hephaestus whispered, “Hold still.” He raised the axe high in the air – Zeus had fainted – Hera held her breath. And then Hephaestus brought the axe blade down like rain. The blade was so thin, it passed through Zeus’ skull without even cracking the bone, without even scratching the skin. The axe kept sliding through until it connected with the infinite hardness of Zeus’ brain, where it stuck, fused with the mind like rust with iron. It was then that Zeus felt the axe. He screamed, his cries carrying down the long halls of the palace. The roars filled Hephaestus’ mind and he could barely think of anything else. Still, he held on as Zeus’ cries gave way to hyperventilated gasps. Then, slowly but surely, Hephaestus began to pull the axe from Zeus’ brain. As he did this – the blade surfacing from the skull as easily as a fish jumping from the water – something happened, something that Hephaestus for the longest time could never quite believe in. A silvery oil began to trickle out of Zeus’ ears and pool on either side of him on the bed. As it happened, Zeus began to moan – Hephaestus didn’t know if it was from the pain or from relief. Curious, though, as to what the oil was, Hephaestus slowly set his axe down and reached down, to touch the oil, to understand the meaning of it. As soon as he touched the liquid, though, it stuck fast to his fingers. Hephaestus took a step back and tried to shake the oil from his fingers. But the oil didn’t break loose – if anything, the oil began to solidify, and, as Hephaestus shook his hand from side to side, the twists in the oil became curves, and those curves became arms and legs. And there, before Hephaestus, stood a woman, formed from the shakes of oil. She shone, not only from being drenched in oil, but from her godly glow. Hephaestus only knew of one god who was as bright as her – Zeus. But there it was, the shine burst from her muddy brown hair, her thin but strong arms, her full lips, her warrior’s stand. The oil that covered her skin began to darken and hang off of her like night-blue robes – then they became night-blue robes. Her eyes were closed at first, but when she opened them, Hephaestus felt as if he had known the stranger forever. She had a serene little smile as she said what would be the first of many words: “Hello.” Dumbfounded, Hephaestus tried to find something to say. Behind him, he heard Hera hiss from the shadows, “Look, look on the other side of the bed!” With some effort, Hephaestus glanced a little past the oily woman standing before him. On the other side of the bed, another woman was rising, she too formed from the oil that drained out of Zeus’ ear, warm like saltwater draining from a conch shell. By then, Zeus had fainted from the grotesque agonies of the births, but life was strong and going on without him. The second woman stood up with a bit of a stumble, as if she had forgotten how to stand. She looked around, dumbfounded, absentmindedly wringing the oil from her long, blonde hair. Hephaestus didn’t recognize either woman, but Hera stepped out of the darkness and snarled, “Metis!” The blonde woman, shook out of her daze, snapped in Hera’s direction and said, “Cousin, I can explain…” “How could you!” Hera shrieked. “I should have known that Zeus was coming to you, after all of these years!” With that, Hera raised her hand, as if to strike Metis, even though the two women were still at opposite ends of the bed. Still, Metis fell backwards, slipping on the oily floor. Hera swung in the bare air and a sudden gasp of wind blew across the room. Hephaestus protected his face with his arm – whenever he looked again, the second woman, this Metis, she was gone. Hephaestus looked around the room, but didn’t see her anywhere. He asked, “Mother, what did you do to her? Did you make her vanish?” “No, my son, not even a god could do such a thing. No, I did something worse to her. I took away her human shape – she does not deserve such beauty. She never did. I took away her human eyes, her human ears, and her human tongue. I reduced her down to her emotions, where she’ll be trapped, forever, as she should have been like her Titan family…” There was a sudden flutter of wings and a loud hooting noise. Wide-eyed, Hephaestus watched as a large, snowy owl settled down on the bed. It craned its head and looked at the still-fainted Zeus, and it looked back at Hera. Hephaestus could have sworn he saw hatred in its eyes, though that may have been the reflection of Hera, as the Queen looked down at the owl with contempt. Hera had a short and bitter laugh. “You were always an owl, cousin – too clever for your own good.” And, with that, Hera swept from out of the room, ignoring the other woman, the one who glowed brightly in the dark room, the one who stood like a warrior. “My King?” Zeus heard the voice but didn’t see it. His eyes were still closed, and he felt like he could never open them again. The mystery happened days before, but the pain still lingered in the cracks of his brain. He wondered if that was what women felt like, after giving birth that is. And he felt ashamed – for once, he had something in common with a woman. “My King? Are you awake?” Zeus mumbled something – even he was not sure what it was. “There is someone here to see you. She…well she was the one, from the other night.” Hebe said this flatly, not quite sure how to introduce the guest. She had heard of Zeus giving birth through his ears, but she didn’t know how to put that night into words, at least not yet. When Zeus heard what the servant Hebe said, though, he knew who was coming. His eyelids sprung open and he gripped the edges of the bed, whispering in a raspy voice, over and over, “No.” “Yes, it’s me, father,” a different, more musical voice announced. Zeus turned as best as he could in the bed, looking past Hebe, at the woman who had just spoke. Somehow, he had recognized her – the brown hair, the smiling lips, the drenched confidence, it all seemed so familiar. He had never seen her before, but he had felt her growing within him all of that time, and that was recognition enough – just as a mother knows her infant. “You’ve come to…” Zeus began. “I’ve come to see how you are, father. Do you feel better since the other night?” The stranger asked, concerned. Confused, Zeus thought for a moment. Then, hesitatingly, he said, “What are you going to do to me?” “What am I going to do to you?” The woman repeated, confused. She looked uncomfortable, and Zeus wondered if she was actually grappling with what she had to do. But, in all honesty, the woman was confused because, for once, she was actually confused. She was brilliant, and the ignorance felt strange, and she tried to shake off the feeling, but she couldn’t. Zeus made an effort to sit up in bed – as he did, his eyes darted around the room, searching for a sword, for a bolt of lightning, anything lying around on the floor that was sharp. Zeus remembered the prophecy – he would always remember the prophecy – and so he knew this woman was coming to kill him, just as the Fates had told him. Zeus was expecting a son to depose him, but having a daughter made no difference. Already the confusion was melting away in her eyes, and Zeus could see the steel behind the bewilderment – she had a killer’s look – he knew before she did that this woman could fight if she wanted to. “Calm down, father. You must still be in pain,” the woman said. There was a table propped up next to the bed – there was a silvery bowl sitting on it, with a thick pool of water inside. The woman reached in and took out a sponge. She patted Zeus on the head with the wet sponge – of course the water turned to steam before it could touch Zeus’ forehead, but Zeus breathed in the steam, and it somehow began to calm him. “Why must you torture me?” “What?” “This. Why not kill me now?” Zeus demanded. “What’s the point of being a nurse if you’re going to be a soldier in a few moments? Just kill me now, and spare the mercy.” The woman took a step back, looking at Zeus like you would look at a madman. “I could never kill you, father. How could you say such a thing?” “The Fates, they said so. They said that my child would rise up and kill me before taking my throne. The Fates have never been wrong – why would they start being wrong now?” The daughter looked confused once more, and once more she looked uncomfortable not understanding. “I’ve only been in this world for a few days, but I already know I was never meant to be Queen – I’m only meant to be your daughter. And if you, my father, were to die, then what would that make me? If a father dies, could the daughter still call herself a daughter? I’m nothing without you.” Still, even with those words, Zeus was not convinced. His throne had made him paranoid, and all he could think about was how easily she could slit his throat as he lay in bed. Zeus never heard of a god dying before, but he also knew there was always a first – there would always be a first for anything. For all of his suspicions though, Zeus found something trusting in this woman, not so much in her words, but in the way that she spoke them. And not so much the way she spoke those words with her tongue, but the way she spoke them with her eyes. Zeus had a talent for telling when someone was lying – liars have that talent of knowing – and when he looked into her eyes, he saw that she was telling the truth. And, for the first time in a long time, the tenseness in Zeus’ limbs gave out, like a pulled rope slackened, and he gave a short gasp, not quite a laugh, but not quite a sob. His strength coming back to him, Zeus reached up and embraced the woman. “My daughter, my daughter!” Zeus wept as he hugged her. Once he collected himself, he asked, “What is your name, my child?” “I’m Athena.” “Athena! What a wonderful name for an intelligent goddess. Come, let’s prepare your celebrations. Hebe? Hebe?” Hebe appeared in the doorway. “Yes, my King?” “Tell the servants in the kitchen to prepare a grand feast. We must celebrate my first child, my daughter, my Athena.” Like all celebrations, that feast was grand, but it was nothing more than a burst. When all of the food had been eaten, and all of the ambrosia had been drunk, the good feeling soon evaporated. As the palace calmed down, the other gods and goddesses began to absorb the impact of what had occurred. And so they began to ask questions, not so much to Zeus or even Athena, but amongst themselves, because gossip has no time for the truth. They wondered what could have caused Zeus to give birth from his mind – they had never heard of such a thing before. And the whispers began that Athena wasn’t Hera’s but instead Metis’. The fact that Athena’s mother was Metis – and not the fact that Athena’s mother wasn’t Hera – struck a breathless panic amongst the gods. The Olympians didn’t care about the infidelity. The accusations of adultery were between Zeus and Hera – if the other gods had condemned Zeus, then it would be the guilty punishing the guilty. However, the Olympians had long since banished from Mount Olympus the Titans – their hated foes, the old torchbearers meant to be extinguished. Yet here, one of their children, this Athena, was walking amongst them. Zeus vouched for her, but even that wasn’t enough. While Zeus had dropped his paranoia over Athena, the others gladly picked up that fear. They liked to boast that they were better than the Titans, but they knew that, just as easily as they had overthrown them, the Titans could lead a coup as well. And this Athena, with half of her blood Olympian, the other half Titan, she could possibly ruin them all if she wanted. It reached the point where, if Athena wasn’t going to overthrow Zeus, the other gods would. Zeus heard the mutiny rising up against him, though, and he quickly reversed his decision. Athena could walk around the palace whenever she wanted, but she was no longer welcomed in the sense that a guest would be. Instead, she was an intruder – the other gods greeted her not with words, but with narrowed eyes, with bared teeth, with alert ears. And so, just months after Zeus first welcomed Athena into the palace, he had to watch her leave. He stood on the steps of the palace, his hand coupled with a pregnant Hera’s, the other hand waving, grasping out to Athena, begging her not to leave. Athena was from Zeus, so she was Zeus – as the King God watched her leave, he felt as if his own arm was cut off. But Hera gently pushed his arm down, as if to say, “There is nothing that even you can do now.” Hera did that with a sort of knowing smile – for once, after all of the years that they had been married, she finally had her own power, and she loved it, as much as Zeus hated it. When Athena had been born from Zeus’ ear – yet did not kill him like the prophecy said – Zeus made another mistake, and he told Hera the truth. When Hera found out that Zeus had never slept with her over a prophecy, she was at first angry, but then she realized something. With the prophecy gone, Zeus had no choice but to sleep with her, and so seed the future. And so it did not take long before Hera’s stomach was fertile and swollen, and a perpetual mother’s grin showed in her face. The night before, she had woken up, feeling a kick from inside of her. She suddenly realized that it was the child’s kick that made her a mother – she had not truly been a woman until that moment. And Hera felt brilliant because she had been realized – and Zeus felt terrified because his wife had trapped him in a cage of family. And so that was the scene – Athena thought it would be the last time she would ever see the palace in all of its glory – as wrong as that was – and so, with a heavy heart, she began the long trip down the side of the mountain, towards humanity. The trip took her three days, and she soon found a village to live in for the time being, until she understood her new world. The village itself was half-deserted. Years before, the village had the good fortune of being near an important dirt road that impaled Greece. Traders from the ports would take the road to bring goods to the inland, and so the village grew strong, its heartbeat the pattering of the horses’ hooves, its breath the shouts of the traders. Like death is in life, though, the village found its ruin in its success. The traders realized that there was a vast market deep in Greece, far richer than they ever knew. And so more roads were laid, and more routes made a spider’s web through the land. As the traders took to other roads, the vibrant marketplace in the village dwindled. The merchants knew when an opportunity was lost, and so they left the hub that they once called home. Those they left behind were the drunks and the farmers who plowed the rocky fields, people too poor to know anything better. The village was not so much misery as it was decay, like an old man enjoying the sunset in his final days. And so Athena found her godly perfection in the malnourished roads of the town. Athena discovered an abandoned house on the outskirts of the town. It was not so much a house as it was a hut, dilapidated, its hair gray with cobwebs, its bones creaking in the floorboards. There was a hearth off to the side – what was surely once a soaring fire was now a pile of ash, as sad as a pile of fallen feathers. It took Athena a minute – not even a minute actually – to breathe life back into the house. The warmth of her magic blasted away all of the webs and moss, and her breath was a bellows that brought the hearth back to life. And so the house glowed brighter than it ever had before. Athena did all of this, proud that she could do something on her own like the other mortals had to, not knowing that humans did not have her advantages. The morning after, she woke up to find a deep pot bubbling atop of the hearth. Curious, Athena took a spoon and ladled out the murmuring liquid. It was ambrosia, warming and stirring. Curious, Athena looked around, wanting to know who it was that brought her the drink. It was a recipe known only to the gods, and for good reason – whoever drank the juices stayed immortal for just a bit longer. Athena herself could go for days without drinking the slightest, but in another week, she could die as easily as any mortal. Athena felt she knew who the charitable soul was. There was no sign of forced entry in the house, but when she walked outside, she spotted a trail of hoof prints leading to and from the nearby forest. The prints were wide and deep enough alone that Athena knew who it was. She glanced up at the distant summit of Mount Olympus, clouded, and she smiled a little. “Thank you, father.” And so this went on for awhile: every other morning, she found a pot full of ambrosia atop the hearth. Some afternoons, she paid a visit to the town, disguised a bit like a general’s beautiful wife she saw once before. And so, while she left her house with her deep brown hair, she showed up at the village with hair that was rusty red – her lips were thinner, yes, but her bosom was much fuller. Of course, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t transform the color of her eyes, which always stayed silver. She changed herself because Zeus had taught her well: the gods simply couldn’t walk amongst the mortals without attracting attention. If the mortals found out the Olympians’ true identities, they would crowd the poor gods with favors or scorn. Still, Athena wanted attention from someone, and who could blame her? And so Athena kept herself cloaked as a beautiful mortal. One morning, a disguised Athena was walking around the town’s bustling center. The well in the center was what gave the town life, and the women who came to draw water, they gave the center life in return. Athena got an indescribable thrill when she walked through the center – she knew that all of the women had noticed her because they suddenly stopped talking for a few moments. When the hush crackled and the whispers came back, Athena smiled to herself, because she knew they were talking about her – they didn’t know that she was actually a goddess, but they knew that something was different about her. She was so focused on hearing and understanding what the women were whispering, Athena didn’t hear the voice from her other side. She felt a rude tap on her shoulder and she turned. “What do we have here? I haven’t seen you around here before.” It was a student, his voice much deeper than Athena expected. His voice was rich and soothing, but his hands were bony and clutched like death at the front of his robes, right over where his heart would beat. He was young, but he was already balding, his forehead crawling further and further up his head. Amused at the unjustified confidence, Athena said, “What’s your name, student?” His hands gripping at his robes until his knuckles turned white, the scholar said, “Callimachus, my lady. And yours?” “Why should I tell you my name?” Athena asked, sincerely. Callimachus paused, his face blank, unsure what to say. Athena spoke for him: “If you know my name, then you’ll look for me. You’ll ask every person you meet about me, and you’ll find me, eventually. So why should I bother?” Callimachus blushed. His voice now limp, he said, “It’s just a name.” Athena smiled in her usual way. “Come now, Callimachus, walk with me.” And so they walked, Callimachus struggling to keep pace with Athena’s long strides. The disguised goddess said, “You, as a scholar, should know the power of a name.” “I do?” Athena nodded. “Don’t you suppose the gods regret giving out their names in the first place? Once mortals found out their names, they peppered the gods and goddesses with questions and prayers. I imagine some nights, those gods wouldn’t even be able to sleep, their heads filled with so many shouts of prayers from here.” Callimachus scoffed. “The gods don’t sleep.” Athena knew that Callimachus was wrong, but she didn’t say so. Callimachus, again: “Why am I even bothering myself with you, then? If you won’t even tell me your name?” Again, Athena was silent, although she once more had the answer. It was the mystery, the taste of the unfamiliar, which propelled everything. Just like the ocean’s tides broke against the shores of the desert, trying to find a way in, so too did men squirm over the mystery of women. And it was a mystery that Athena wouldn’t let him solve. There was a reason why no mere mortal could walk amongst the gods on Mount Olympus. Familiarity bred. But Callimachus didn’t share Athena’s thoughts. Instead, he scowled. “You women, you’ll be the death of me just like you were the life of me.” “I’ll be the death of you?” “Yes, you with your pale skin and your pale eyes. You look like a spirit that has risen simply to haunt me.” And with that said, a frustrated Callimachus left, the shadow of his ego trailing behind him. He left behind a dumfounded Athena and a nearby crowd of women, who were already whispering about what looked like a scandal. A bit embarrassed, and still not sure what had just happened, Athena kept walking, out of the town and towards her home in the countryside. As she kept to the path, lost in her thoughts, she heard a loud hooting above her. She looked up and saw an owl floating high above her. The owl was so perfect it looked almost crafted. With the perfection in its feathers, and the fact that an owl in daylight was a rare sight, the owl gave itself away. Almost immediately, Athena knew who, rather than what, it was. “I don’t understand my people, and I don’t understand these people, mother,” Athena whispered up to the soaring owl, which caught every soft word with its focused ears. “What can I do?” Metis the owl could do nothing but hoot in response, cursed never to speak with a human tongue again. Instead, it flapped ahead of Athena and out of sight into the thick soup of clouds. As Athena watched her mother fly away, she caught sight of Mount Olympus, saddled in the distance. She saw how looming it was, both in terms of the mountain itself, as well as the legends that surrounded it. Every mortal that Athena met spoke of the mountain with hushed tones, as if Olympus could crack at a word. But Athena had lived on top of that mountain just long enough to know that even that infinite palace felt ordinary. But for all that Athena knew about her once-home, there was one thing she never learned. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, perhaps even millions of years before, Mount Olympus wasn’t even a mountain – it was barely even a hill. Everything was equal, a prairie that never rose or fell. In the years upon years since that moment, though, the hills and mountains began to grow, and the valleys and canyons began to cave in. But even with all of those changes, though, Olympus never really shot up into the sky until humans came into the world. Only then was it necessary for the gods to raise up their throne. Book 4 At that same moment, as Athena contemplated while digging her toes in the cool dirt of the road, the world thousands of feet beneath her had scratched back. There was a life beneath the world, a civilization that murmured and occasionally erupted geysers of magma. This life, this ecology, this home, though, was much cooler to the touch than you might think, tasting almost of frostbite. It was the Underworld, the cellars of history, the eternal cemetery. The mortals above, in the real world, they either burned their loved ones’ corpses in the funeral fires, or they buried them in the fields or the seas. But that, all of that, was just an illusion. A pound of dirt can pin down a dead man’s hand, but it was like cloth to the soul, still breathable, still opaque. And so, as the bodies withered and rotted, the souls tried to wake up – they tried to live the lives they always had before. But, it was too late – the souls had lost their looks the moment they lost their bodies – to those around them, the spirits looked like little more than puffs of chalk, suspended in the air. Some mornings, when you walk outside and see a thick mist, you know that there had been a battle somewhere, if not here, then somewhere else. And, as hard as the spirits tried to be free, the world was just a muscle stronger and had a more magnetic pull. And so, by the thousands every day, the souls of the departed had sank into the soil for good, passing through the dirt and worms and rock, until they reached the core of everything, the Underworld itself. When they landed in the Underworld, the place where they could sink no more, the souls found themselves in a cavernous room, one so huge that it took twenty echoes to cross it. Still, the chamber was barely large enough to contain all of the fresh souls, recently arrived, the wisps assembling themselves into a long, winding row. From there, the souls marched, all through a narrow hallway at the far end of the room, which was a sloping slide, shallow yet so slippery the souls would have surely fallen if they still had feet. When the souls reached the end of the sloping hallway, they found themselves in an even larger cave, one where the stalactites hung from the ceiling like chandeliers, where the stalagmites grew up from the ground, looking vaguely like marble statues. The newly arrived souls weaved between the statues carved of calcium, all until they found themselves at the shore of a river. It was not so much one river as it was a confluence, a splitting of one into dozens. Some of them flowed slowly, others briskly, but all of them were green and rotten from the inside-out, as if the souls were downstream of a catastrophe. Sometimes, the rivers even spontaneously caught on fire, and when they did they burned for days, weeks at a time, lighting up the entire cave by their putrid light alone. As the souls gathered and crowded at the shores, they waited for the approaching ferry. There was only one ferry, and so many souls waiting, but the boat was slick on the waters. The ferry itself was obviously quick, given the talented ferryman – Charon himself was the fastest ferryman in history, and it helped that he had thousands of years of training. Though more bone than man, more shockwhite hair than youth, Charon still manned his daily chore as he always had – the alternative to the ferry was far worse. Charon would always remember the deal that he had made, on his deathbed so long before, that instead of dying, he would row the new souls into the Underworld. It was a fair trade – at least he thought so at the time. Because although he couldn’t die, he still decayed, and so as the years wore on, his skin sloughed off, his nose and ears fell off, his eyes began to mush and leak, and his teeth had all fallen out years before. But he couldn’t go back on his deal, even though he wanted to now. Some things could not be broken. Charon threw some ropes and tied the ferry up to the splintering dock. The souls clambered onto the ferry until the boat became overloaded, because even souls weigh something. Each of the souls paid Charon their two golden coins – the coins their loved ones placed on their body at death, the coins they needed to pay for their passage – and a few minutes later, the boat began its travel across the sick river, to whatever was on the other side, waiting for them. As the whole process was going on – the same as it had been for centuries – there was someone watching as the souls traveled across the river. Sitting on a balcony looming above the far shore, dug high up into the cave wall, barely noticeable, a creature stood. He looked down at the ferry as it plunged through the water towards the other dock. He smiled a little as the ship came down a little too hard after one wave, and a soul slipped on the deck and fell into the water. The soul tried to swim, but it had no real arms to speak of, and so its dust sank beneath the currents in a few moments, never to be seen again, lost. Hades laughed – it was his usual short and bitter chuckle, more of a hyena’s gasp than anything else. The god – the rich and powerful Ruler of the Underworld – turned his back on his new subjects and strode back into his royal bedroom. As immaterial and vague as the Underworld felt, he as a god was very much real. With his long brown hair combed back, his rustling beard scraping against his chest, and his silvered eyes with just a glint of scarlet, Hades was the concrete alone that kept his kingdom of spirits glued together. But, as strong as he was, Hades had desperation as his muscle. It had just been a few days before that Hades had lost his wife, his own wife, and all because of his brother Zeus. The marriage began less than a year before, when Hades was swimming in an underground stream, washing off a cake of grime and dust. And somewhere – Hades wasn’t sure where, because the stream broke into a series of tunnels and everything echoed from all directions – somewhere he heard someone singing. It was a beautiful sound, perhaps the most beautiful that Hades had ever heard – it reminded him of happier days, when he was younger and singing because he was young. Eagerly, Hades stopped bathing and began to storm through the tunnels, the water splashing beneath his heavy footsteps. The tunnel began to dry beneath him, though, and he found the tunnel rising up towards the surface. And the singing was getting louder and louder, so much so that he could almost make out the words. Up ahead, there was a tiny burst of light – Hades’ jog turned into a feverish dash, and the burst of light became an explosion, expanding in front of him like a loaf of bread. And suddenly, all was bright around him. Hades blinked hard, his hand to his face, trying to adjust to the blinding brightness of the outside world. It had been so long since he left the dim Underworld, so long that he almost forgot there was anything else. Yet there he was, the god of death in a field of life, where birds sang and the long grass swayed either with life or the wind. Hades recoiled from the fertility that laid siege to him, and he almost jumped back into the hole (which was a sinkhole, possibly formed by torrential rain just a week before) when he heard the songs once more. Hades spun about, almost dizzied, and that was when he saw her: she was walking through the field, her back to him, still singing, her short oak-colored hair bouncing with every step. It would be the first, and only, time that Hades would ever fall in love – he knew that, even then. No longer the cool and withdrawn god he always was, Hades felt like a mortal fool, and so he ran towards her. The woman was so caught up in her song – Hades thought he heard the song before, the lyrics having something to do with the fall harvest – that she did not hear the rushed footsteps behind her. She didn’t know until two hands sprang around her, one hand covering her mouth, the other wrapped around her waist. The woman desperately tried to struggle, but it was no use as Hades effortlessly plucked her off the ground and ran back to the sinkhole, with the woman at his side, unwilling. It was a stupid moment, dangerous. There was not only the injustice behind the kidnapping, but there were politics to the crime as well. But it wasn’t until Hades brought the woman back to his underground palace that he heard her story. The woman wasn’t mortal, but instead the goddess (and Hades’ niece) Persephone, who was daughter to Demeter, herself the goddess of all things fertile. Hades wanted to scream like one of those mortal children whom he always hated. That he kidnapped a woman was serious, that he kidnapped a goddess, amongst the royalty of the world, was worse. It would only be a matter of time until Hades’ sister Demeter would find out about her daughter’s desperation. Once that happened, she would protest to Zeus – as Hades knew she always did – and Zeus would have to demand back Persephone. Any other god would have returned Persephone, just to avoid a crisis of consequence, but Hades was greedy, even by a god’s standard. The vast pile of money that collected in his treasure room – the tolls demanded from souls ferried into the Underworld – that was not enough. Hades would have paid for Persephone’s love with all of that gold – its shimmer what lit his palace through the eternal night underground – but he knew Zeus would not allow it. It was not so much that Zeus wanted peace as much as he wanted order. Zeus had been the tyrant for as long as Hades was his brother. When they had overthrown their Titan parents and the world was finally theirs, Zeus, Hades, and their brother Poseidon all stood on a mountaintop and divided the world. Zeus had convinced Hades with the Underworld (“It’s a kingdom of its own, brother, one where you answer to no one but yourself”) and Hades believed him for the last time. And so, when a massive eagle squeezed through the crevices of the earth, landing with a royal pomp in the window of his palace, Hades’ fury began. Zeus obviously refused the mountains of gold that shone behind Hades, instead asking for Persephone. Hades snarled in his low voice. “She’s in my world now, Zeus. Those who enter can never leave. You know that.” Zeus shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do. “She’s a goddess, my brother. She can come and go as freely as I can.” Zeus looked past Hades, at Persephone who was hiding in the corner. She had only been in the palace of the dead for a short while, but she would be scared for centuries because of it. Zeus asked soothingly, “Don’t you want to leave, child?” “Very much so, Zeus.” “Then come with me.” Zeus extended a hand to Persephone, who began to creep out of the shadows, entranced by the warmth in the Father God. But Hades, without even thinking of it, swatted Zeus’ hand away. The King turned, not sure whether to be shocked or angered. “How dare you challenge me, Hades? If she wants to leave, there is nothing you can do about it. Besides, why would the daughter of everything fertile want to live with a prince of death?” Hades shook – he wanted to hurt Zeus somehow. But he still remembered the last time Zeus threw a thunderbolt, and how it rattled the world for days – and he saw then how Zeus’ hand gripped the sheathed bolt at his side. Hades was immortal, yes, but ironically the Underworld was very much alive. All it took was one shatter of the thunderbolt and the entire realm could cave under the tons of limestone from above. Hades bared his teeth, but only a friendly “Of course, Zeus, if she chooses” came out. Persephone walked towards the pair of brothers, but slipped past the expecting Hades and slinked under Zeus’ arm. From beneath the blanket of Zeus’ arm, she gazed back at Hades, wild-eyed, terrified that the prince would grow insane. And, although a look of shock snapped in Hades’ eyes, a new insanity swept through him, something that Persephone had never seen before. Hades crooned, “Well then, before you leave, Persephone, won’t you do me the honor of trying these pomegranates? I plucked them from a tree in my garden earlier.” Persephone was hesitant about accepting anything from Hades. Not once since she was captured had she asked for a morsel or a drop from him. Hades seemed like a creature that would season his food with poison. But Zeus, without thinking, spoke up for her. “Yes, I imagine that she would like to have them. Wouldn’t you, Persephone?” He took some of the pomegranate seeds from Hades and offered them to the young goddess. When Persephone still refused to eat, Zeus whispered, “It would be poor manners to refuse a gift from your host, no matter what he has done to you.” Zeus said this, not really believing in the rule of hospitality – even though he was the patron of guests – but he did not want to offend Hades and ignite something far worse between the two brothers. So, with Zeus’ encouragement, Persephone gingerly took the pomegranate seeds one by one and put them in her mouth, slowly chewing. As she chewed, a glint of something passed once more through Hades’ eyes and he almost began to smile, though he contained himself. He said, a little too eagerly, “Perhaps you should try some as well, my brother. I think you will love them.” Zeus, always the glutton for more food, was happy to oblige. He took one of the seeds and almost bit down on it before he stopped. Horrified, Zeus threw down the seeds, scattering them across the coldstone floor. He spun towards Persephone and commanded in a terrible voice, “Spit them out, child, spit them out!” Hades could no longer help himself. He burst out laughing at the sight and it took him a few moments to recover. As a bewildered Persephone tried to cough up the seeds, a panicked Zeus watching her, Hades could finally say, “You forgot, Zeus! No one can eat the fruit of my kingdom and escape! The Fates made that law years ago. The girl is my guest, she has accepted my gift of the pomegranate seeds, and she will have my hospitality, for as long as I rule!” And it was so, and Zeus could not fight the twist, for even the Olympians had to bow before the Fates, those spinners of all fates and destiny. Since Persephone had eaten six of the pomegranate seeds before she discovered the trick behind the gift, she was forced to live as a guest with Hades for six months of the year. During those six months, her mother Demeter wept, because she loved her daughter as much as she hated Hades, the god of decay. And so Demeter, the goddess of fertility, became cold with vengeance, and the whole world froze with her in those bitter months. Only when those six months had passed, and her daughter was back in her arms, that Demeter’s world warmed and brightened again. It had been the same heartbreak every year since. But even that conquest was not a triumph for Hades. It was only six months of the year that he had his lovely Persephone in his arms. The other six months, he was left to his own imagination, which was little, and his kingdom, which was vast but felt empty. And so, instead of counting the days until Persephone was forced back to him, Hades instead counted the days since she was snatched away from him. It had been five days since Hades had lost his wife. “How can my brother do this to me!” Hades roared, picking up a handful of gold coins lying on the floor and scattering them across the room. “What right does he have to my kingdom!” It was true, at least it was to Hades. And so his anger grew, and even worse, it knew no bounds. To him, Persephone’s leave was no less than a mortal losing their loved one. And, because he heard their funeral cries from above so well, and because the line of souls across the river never slackened, Hades felt not so much comforted as justified by the sheer numbers. Hades walked to the end of his bedroom, where a series of statues were perched. Each of the statues was carved to look like an Olympian – they were given as a present when Hades first became Ruler of the Underworld, so that he would not forget the family of which he was once a part. But that love seemed ugly now – to Hades, the statues seemed mocking, as if to say, “Remember, these are the gods you are meant to serve. Don’t forget them.” Hades walked past the row of them, until he found the one he wanted: Zeus. Hades walked around the statue of his brother, looking for some sort of weak spot in his armor, some limp, some anything that could finally down the King God. But Hades could not find any weakness, but he was expecting that. But everyone, even a god, can fall sometime. Hades knew that because he remembered the last time he spoke to his brother like an actual brother. It was centuries before, actually just before Hades was fatefully given the Underworld to rule. Ironically, the Olympians had been fighting their parents, the Titans, because Zeus and his brothers and sisters felt powerless. And their Titan parents were so vast yet so ignorant. The mortal world at that point was filled with volcanoes and deserts and tundra and salty oceans. There was no life, because the Titans had no imagination to create life, and so the mortal world burned and froze. But the young Olympians had a child’s imagination, and they saw a world in their minds teeming with creatures, a landscape gusty and crowded with life. But the Titans refused to change their world, and they only became more insulted with every suggestion from their Olympian children. And finally, the heavens came to civil war, as the old generation fought the new. And it was Hades himself (at least, that’s what Hades thought) who was responsible for winning that war for his siblings. The night before the battle that decided everything, Zeus asked Hades to sneak into the Titans’ camp and steal their weapons. And so Hades put on his cap of invisibility, a gift from his rare kind uncle Oceanus, and vanished from sight but not touch. He snuck into the camp that very night, and he put all of the Titans’ swords and shields and axes into a massive bag, and he left with them. The next morning, the Titans surrendered, and Zeus dictated the terms. As Hades remembered, he could have sworn he had heard a distant clanging coming from somewhere, somewhere even deeper than the Underworld, even though that should have been impossible. But Hades knew what that sound was, and it was the only thing that could make him, the Prince of the Dead, shiver – and he did shiver. He forced himself to think again about Zeus, and the injustices that his brother had committed against him over the years. For so long, Hades had been accepting all of those crimes without question – whether Zeus was vouching for a soul’s extra years in the mortal world, or Zeus wanting to ‘borrow’ a bag of gold coins – but this, this was different to Hades. Zeus had walked into Hades’ home and demanded back Persephone, all that Hades had held dear. And that was when an idea took a hold of him. It gripped him so harshly that he suffocated, the words coming out of him in a hoarse gasp: “Of course. Of course.” It was a dangerous idea, but it had to be. Hades strode out of his room, walking towards the main chamber of the underground palace, all the while going over the ideas in his head. He would go and visit the Fates – yes. He would ask for their help in destroying Zeus – yes. He would turn the order of the world upside-down, he would rise above Mount Olympus and take back all of his rights – yes. He would become the King he was meant to be, one who was never challenged, one who had his own Queen, all to himself. Yes, yes, yes. The main chamber of the palace was vast and empty. Hades never kept any guards or entourage in his palace – what was the point? He was the most solid being in the Underworld. If a soul attacked him, like the occasional one did, it was nothing more than a breath on his neck. Hades woke up every morning, never afraid of a coup, never afraid of a knife pressed against his neck like many kings secretly are. That said, while he didn’t have guards, Hades still kept around a favorite of his. As he walked through the dim chamber, his feet crushing tossed bones beneath him, Hades remembered. He went to the side of the chamber, where there was a massive pile of corpses, their skin long since sloughed off, their insides now outside, rotting away. Hades used to hate the smell, but that was millennia ago. He grabbed what looked like the freshest body and dragged it behind him, the corpse’s blood trailing, soaking the floor scarlet. Up ahead, Hades could hear a deep-throated growl in the darkness. He smiled and picked up the bloated body with one hand, and he tossed it into the darkness. There was a moment of silence, then a scream of delight as Cerberus bit into the meal. The lumbering, three-headed dog had been guarding the palace for almost as long as Hades lived there. Born to a normal dog in the mortal world above, Cerberus was a mutation, a freak of nature, having been born with two extra heads. When its mother abandoned him, Hades took him as a pet, feeding him corpses of the fallen and leftover ambrosia. And so Cerberus grew monstrous and immortal – although eating the diseased bodies for centuries would drive any other creature mad, Cerberus celebrated his rabies. He loved the nonsense of the moment, almost as much as Hades did. It was no wonder, then, that during the months that Persephone was ripped away and put back in the world above, Hades treated Cerberus as his only friend for miles and miles around. “I’ll be back, Cerberus, don’t you worry,” Hades said soothingly, patting the dog through the darkness, feeling the dog’s muscle as it peeked through the patchy fur. Hades left the palace, the massive stone doors swinging open silently and automatically before him. As he walked along the trail towards the River Styx, the massive river of sewage and death that separated the Underworld from everything else, Hades kept going over the plan in his head. Hades found that the more he thought about it, the more it made sense to him. He made it to the shore as soon as Charon’s ferry landed. Hades pushed his way through the swarm of souls gliding off the boat. He sat down in a seat at the front, and he turned to Charon and said in his always-harsh voice, “Start back. Hurry.” A rare look of emotion swept over Charon’s ruined face as he hastily turned the ferry around and began the long trip back across the river, towards the other shore. Bored, Hades reached into his robes and pulled out a plain leather headband, twirling it between his fingers. The headband looked simple enough, perhaps too simple, until Hades would put it on his head. The second he would do this, the god would vanish from sight. When his uncle Oceanus gave him the Cap of Invisibility as a gift so many years before, the greedy Hades asked why it was so simple, indistinguishable from any other piece of leather. “What if I lose it?” The young Hades demanded. “You won’t lose it, trust me,” Oceanus laughed, like he always did. “Thieves steal things that only look beautiful, never things that actually are beautiful.” What Oceanus said to Hades then didn’t make much sense, and it still didn’t make sense years and years later. Hades felt drops of liquid on him, and he looked up at the ceiling of the cave, a ceiling that seemed so far away, but it was as close as each of those drops. No, it wasn’t raining in Underworld – it wasn’t rainwater as much as it was libations. The grieving from above would pour their best drinks into the soil, honoring their fallen. Hades used to love tilting his head back and drinking the juices that seeped through the cracks in the ceiling. But he was older now, and the drink had long since lost all taste. The moment the boat touched the shore, Hades leapt out of the boat, landing on the dock. He began to walk, then snapped his fingers and turned back to his ferryman. “I almost forgot.” There was a soul gliding past Hades, preparing to board the ferry for the other side, where his eternity awaited. The bit of change that the spirit held onto, the coins jingling about in his blustery hand, it was just enough to pay for the passage. Yet Hades, without even thinking, took the coins from the spirit without a moment’s hesitation, and he gave the coins to Charon instead. “Thank you, Charon,” Hades said. “I’ll be back in a few days.” And Hades left, abandoning the grieving soul to the shores of the River Styx. As heartless as that was – taking the coins from the poor spirits to pay Charon for his own passage – Hades never thought of how much those coins were worth to those spirits. And, even if he had, he would have reasoned away the cruelty: just as he was denied his Penelope, so too did everyone else deserve the same. Besides, anticipation was the end of all things – there was nothing after. To that spirit in particular, belonging to a body named Anastasius in the world above, that money had meant the world and more. It was just a week before that the shade was a man who could feel and be felt, an aging farmer who kissed his wife every time he left for the market, as if he would never see her again. This time, though, it was she who would never see him. That night, when Anastasius came back from the market – hiding behind him some fine wool his wife had wanted for the longest time – he found the door of their hovel kicked open. Rushing in, the poor farmer found his wife slumped in the center of the only room, her forehead bloody, her leg bent at a terrible angle. Anastasius screamed unearthly and crouched over his wife – he tried to shake and cradle her back to life, but it was too late, it was no use. In his moment of never-ending grief, Anastasius plunged into his bag and pulled out a knife that he used to protect himself on his trips. His first thought was to hunt down the bandit that killed his wife, to teach him pain in all of its shapes and colors. But he knew the thief’s death would not bring his wife any closer to him – and so Anastasius held the knife above where his heart beat like madness – and he drove the blade into his chest until he couldn’t anymore. As he collapsed to the floor, the last thing he saw was his wife’s eyes closed. He hoped that when he saw her in the Underworld – and he could only hope he saw her soon – he would see her eyes opened again, those cool blues, infinite like the sky only wishes it could be. But now that dream had been denied. Anastasius screamed and raged at the injustice, but all that Hades ever heard was a rustle of wind behind him. All of the other shades heard Anastasius, though, because they were like Anastasius, and in a few moment, all of the shades in earshot rasped together until even Hades could feel a strong spring breeze. Yet Hades ignored them still. That was because in the Underworld, all of the spirits had long lost their faces, their fingers, their toes, and their breath. They had left all of those features in the world above, in their graves, their funeral pyres, their seas. The only way a shade could recover those looks was by returning to the mortal world, where their looks rotted and composted in the soil. But no shade had ever returned to that world, and so no shade ever regained themselves, and so the renewal was nothing more than imagination. In the Underworld, there was no real life after death. And Hades never admitted it, but he felt much the same when he was in that world with those wispy creatures. It was only when he was in the world above that he felt the old traces of life, but like winter changing to spring, it was painful, it was crawling, it was prickly. The pain was enough that Hades almost wanted to turn back into the Underworld each time he left it. But, as he walked up a long and steep tunnel towards that world, and as the loud wails of the shades dimmed behind him, he thought he heard a new sound: Persephone’s old songs. The music stung him to tears. Worse, Hades knew that she wasn’t there – at least, she wasn’t there yet – but those old memories of her were enough to push him into the future. Book 5 Hades was wading across the stream, holding up his long robes so that they wouldn’t get wet. The water was frozen for a summer’s day, the shallow current biting at his heels. Hades grimaced from the chill. Even though he was used to freezing in the Underworld, somehow the cold in the world above felt different. There was a spark to it which shocked him, in more ways than one. He shivered so much from the water that he didn’t notice that each footstep turned the clear water murky around the foot. When he reached the other bank, he immediately found himself in a forest, the greedy trees having grown as close as they can to the stream for its water. The leaves were dark and rich, and what little sunlight that could make its way through the canopy showed the forest as being a sweet chocolate in color. All around him, Hades could see only browns and greens, the colors of life, and this stung his eyes. All around him, Hades could smell only syrup and trees, so strong that he could even taste it, and he felt the sudden urge to vomit. Hades was so overwhelmed by the life in the forest that he didn’t notice that each footstep of his left behind a trail of decay, with the grass and foliage withering and dying behind him. Hades had been looking for hours, with no luck, all in the hopes of finding the Fates. He had never met them before, he wasn’t even sure if they existed or not, but he had it on good authority that their myth was in this forest. Every time he pressed someone for the Fates’ exact location, though, he received a different answer each time. But Hades knew that he was getting closer to their hiding-place: indeed the woods were becoming even darker, and there was a thick mist beginning to settle in. The woods were enough to terrify any mortal afraid of death, but for Hades it was life, and the King of the Underworld felt a sudden vigor in his walk as he plunged into the darkness. That was when the trees gave away. Hades found himself in a massive clearing that was as dark as midnight, even though it was still day and there were no trees to block out the sunlight. Hades knew that if any immortals could have such magic, it would certainly be the trio of Fates. In the center of the clearing there was an enormous megalith, a ring of rock slabs, each the size of a galley if the boat was pointing upwards. The rocks looked out-of-place in the clearing, which meant that they were moved there, which would have been impossible given their size – another symptom of an immortal’s presence. Each of the slabs had a hole hollowed out of it as well – in each hole there was a lit torch, its sick-green light dazzling in the dimness. Hades peered past the rock slabs and noticed there was an absurdly simple well in the middle of the megalith, with a bucket leaning against the well’s stone. And Hades didn’t so much see it as he heard it, but there was a thick grunting and moaning behind one of the stone slabs. Curious, Hades took a few steps closer and called out, “Is there someone there?” The moans stopped almost immediately. There was a few moments of a heavy silence, then a face appeared from behind the slab. At least, Hades thought it was a face; it was hard to tell with the mass of stringy hair over the front of it, hair that looked like a clump of rotting seaweed more than anything else. Then slowly, the being moved into full view, and Hades saw that it was a head, and it was attached to a hunched-over, gnarled body. The creature was dressed in a beggar’s tatters, its limp breasts exposed. Just like Zeus many years before, when that god first met the witches, Hades felt the sickness rising up his throat. Hades fought the urge to take a step backwards. He found his voice once more and demanded, “Are you the Fate herself?” The creature shuffled closer – Hades saw that even though the being had a woman’s breasts, it had a man’s beard. The beard was matted and tangled in the creature’s flowing hair, a beard so thick that Hades couldn’t see the being move its lips as it said, “Yes, I’m one of the Fates.” “Where are your sisters then?” Hades persisted. He wanted to believe that the strange creature was one of the Fates, but he knew the woods were full of tricks and betrayal. The beast standing before him could have just as easily been a faun, the cursed offspring of men and goats, who knew the woods better than anyone else, who could disguise themselves as any person they wanted. Hades had never met one before, but he had heard enough stories. The creature smiled – or, at least, Hades thought that it had smiled – and it turned back to the stone slabs. It called out in its creaky voice, “Come, my sisters. The god has arrived.” The creature turned and said, “We’ve been waiting for you, dear Hades. We’ve been patient, almost too patient.” Two others came out from being the slab, creatures that were identical to the first in every detail. Flattening out the folds in their ruined robes, the one asked, “Do you believe us, Hades? Do you truly believe we are the Fates?” Hades tried to sound confident, but the unease crept into his voice as he said shortly, “Do I have a choice?” The creatures laughed at that. The one, mocking a mother’s soothing voice, said, “You have as much choice as a prisoner pacing his cell, wondering where his next step should be.” “As much as a prisoner, yes,” another hissed softly. Hades asked, “What do you mean by that?” “Whatever you want it to mean,” the trio said at the same time. As they said this, they came closer and closer, until Hades could smell their breath. Hades wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sheathed sword. He warned, “Don’t come too close.” The one giggled. “Oh, you wouldn’t hurt us, little Hades. If you did, what would happen to your kingdom? Don’t you know what we do?” “You cut the strings of the mortals. You decide when they die,” Hades said, his fingers still on the hilt. “We do so much more than that, Hades.” The other two agreed. “So much more.” “I know, and that’s why I have come to see you. I want to know what you know,” Hades said tensely. “That’s why we have been waiting for you, little Hades,” the one cooed. “You’ve come to ask us about Zeus.” “Yes,” Hades said with some hesitation. “Now, which one of you is the one who spins the thread? Which of you determines the fate of every being in the Universe?” “I do,” the one said, offering a hand that was surprisingly perfect and youthful and clear of scars. “But so do the others.” Hades was beginning to lose his patience. “I don’t understand.” “Of course you don’t, Hades. But who does? My name is Clotho, and these are my sisters, Lachesis, the one who measures a life…” The one curtsied. “…and Atropos, who cuts the death.” The other nodded slowly. Clotho continued. “I may spin the thread of someone’s life, but the three of us, we are one when it comes to death. We pull out the strands as one, and we cut the strings as one.” Lachesis and Atropos nodded and said as one, “We are together, as much as we are separate.” Clotho smiled at the confused Hades. “An arrowhead has three points, but they all kill together.” Hades’ fury was beginning to grow; he did not have the time to deal with their riddles, as important as they were. He was looking for answers, not more questions. Still, part of him was beginning to understand the moans from behind the stone slab earlier. The mortal couple becomes one when they love each other – perhaps these sisters, these weird sisters, did the same? Perhaps the moans of ecstasy came from the three-faced creature, finally realized in all of its glory? Lachesis and Atropos – at least, that’s who Hades thought they were – began slowly encircling the god as Clotho stepped closer, the long weeds rustling beneath her ragged skirt. And, Hades hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a silk scarf wrapped around Clotho’s neck. Clotho noticed that Hades noticed and whispered, “Beautiful, no?” Hades couldn’t imagine such a horrific beast having such a beautiful scarf. “Yes, yes it is.” Clotho said through her cracked lips, “We weave our scarves from only the most breathtaking of mortals. These strands once belonged to queens and princesses, to priestesses and warriors. We are amazing when we wear these, we are gorgeous.” All Hades could smell now was rotting lamb. He asked, “What does this have to do with me?” Clotho smiled. “Everything.” Just then, the one Hades believed to be Atropos called out, “Sister, it is time.” Without a word, Cloth swept to her sisters. They huddled together, so close it seemed as if their clothes were one cloak, their bodies one corpse. Barely holding back his impatience now, Hades looked over their shoulders, and he saw that they held a strand between the three of them. Two held the string taut while the other pulled a pair of scissors from her robes. In a few moments, they cut the strand and sent a soul down to the Underworld. The sisters showed no emotion over the murder: Hades didn’t know if their blank looks were because the deaths were their duty, or because the three sisters had killed for so long that a human just seemed like another string to them. Clotho turned back towards Hades and asked, “You wanted to know what these things have to do with you?” “Yes.” Atropos asked, “You wanted to know why our scarves, woven out of the past, hold your future?” “Yes.” Lachesis asked, “You wanted to know if we could destroy your brother Zeus?” “Yes.” Clotho said heavily, “We do not enjoy telling people their secrets, you know. We already made that mistake once before, with your brother actually.” “Yes, I’ve heard how he came to you, asking about his future. But why was it a mistake?” “In the end, every strand is cut, and they’re all as brittle as the others,” Clotho explained. “A king can be cut as easily as a peasant. Even you, King of the Underworld, are as easy to cut as a mortal.” Clotho said that last sentence with a hint of satisfaction. She enjoyed the terror that pulsed in Hades’ eyes. The god scoffed at this, but he was already wondering if it was true, if he could die, and not just die, but pass as easily as a mortal can. Clotho continued. “You gods may think you’re immortal, but everything is just string in our scissors. And true, a being can complicate things if they knew the truth about themselves…” “Yes, they can,” the other two sisters said, almost sorrowfully. “But even then, their string can still be cut. It’s just that their string has to break in a different place.” “So how did Zeus change things?” Hades asked. “Zeus’ first child was meant to be with the sister Hera. It was meant to be a son, born with a sword drawn to kill Zeus in its first moment of life. When Zeus discovered the truth, though, he tried to run from his wife and his death, but all he did was run into Metis’ arms. And together, they conceived Athena.” “Why did you bother telling Zeus the truth? Why not let him live his course and die?” Hades demanded, now angry. Perhaps if Zeus had died long before, Persephone would have never been taken from him. “Your brother may be powerful, but he is arrogant,” Atropos said. The other two sisters nodded in approval. “We wanted him to know that death is inevitable, even for a mighty god like himself, one who thinks he knows all. He may have altered the course of history since, but all of the roads meet together in the end, no matter how much they diverge.” “Where does his road lead from here then? How will he die now?” The sisters paused. Finally, the one – Hades wasn’t sure who it was anymore – said, “We will help you, Hades, but do you know why?” “No.” “Of course you don’t,” the sister spat. “You take the dead from us as much as we give them to you. You may not fully realize it, but we all have been working together all of this time. And I suppose we owe you a favor, little Hades. If it wasn’t for the despair of your kingdom, then these mortals, they wouldn’t fear our scissors. We may provide you with these strings, but you provide us with the blade. So you will have this favor, just this once, as our thanks.” “So Hades, are you ready for everything to change?” Lachesis asked. Hades had not come that far just to turn away. It was too late for such things. “Yes.” “Very well,” Clotho said. “Sisters.” Clotho walked towards the well in the center of the megalith, her sisters close behind her. Hades watched as, together, the sisters drew a bucket of water from the well. One of the sisters plucked a torch of green light from a stone slab, and she doused the torch in the bucket of water. But instead of the bucket giving off a cloud of gray steam, there were puffs of yellow smoke. Hades continued to watch, by now entranced by the spectacle, as the Fates gathered around the bucket and breathed in the dangerous fumes. At first, nothing seemed to happen, and Hades began to wonder if the whole scene was a trick, if the Fates weren’t as magical as they appeared. But then, they began to twitch, with the shakes beginning in their fingertips, then their wrists, then their elbows, then their shoulders. In a short minute, the weird sisters were entirely consumed by themselves, shaking madly in their seizures like prey writhing in a beast’s jaws. But, for all of their madness, for all of their shaking, their feet were still solid and calm. And so the sisters marched slowly towards Hades, all the while their heads and their arms and their torsos shook and bounced and bent at all of the wrong angles. The whole time, Hades had not moved an inch – he found himself bizarrely drawn in by the insanity of the moment. Even his fingers, having been fastened around his sword’s hilt the entire time, had begun to loosen on their own. The Fates began to circle Hades, and the circle began to close in on the god, until he began to feel morbidly claustrophobic. He imagined this was what being buried alive felt like. In spite of the breath being pushed out of him, he could hear poetry over the intense pressure. “Your brother Zeus will die, but not by your hands. Instead, his daughter, his Athena, will deliver the mortal blow, without even knowing. They are the actors, and you are the playwright. You will force one against the other, and when Athena has killed and taken over her father, you will storm the palace and break Mount Olympus down the middle. This is the way that things have to happen.” The moment the last syllable was uttered, Hades heard a sudden and terrible scream in his ears. He cried in pain, feeling as if he would be ripped apart. Hades collapsed in the soil, hands pressed firmly to his eyes, but still the sound flooded his mind. It took Hades a few moments before he realized there was no sound anymore – the silence was just as crushing as the noise was. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and he realized for the first time that he was lying in the grass, pathetic and feeling almost human. Shaken and self-conscious, Hades stood up on his chattering knees. There was nothing around him: the Fates, the stone slabs, even the clearing had all vanished. He was once more in the deep forest, and everything was still and calm – he couldn’t hear a bird song, even if he wanted. The only thing still there was the Fates’ song, which sang itself over and over again in Hades’ mind. He stumbled away, lost for a few minutes, as he tried to regain his sense of the world. He looked up through the thick soup of branches and managed to see the sun setting in the west, the only logic in the forest swirling with madness. He knew that the stream he had crossed earlier was to the west, and that was where the cave was, his entrance to the Underworld. As he moved briskly along, he desperately tried to make sense of what it was the Fates had sung. If what the Fates said was true, then his revenge was murdering his own brother. But he couldn’t do it, not on his own anyway – he would have to kill Zeus through Athena, somehow. And with Zeus destroyed and the conquering Athena on the throne, it would be only a matter of time before Hades laid siege to the mountain. Only then would Hades win what was rightfully his: not only claim to his wife Persephone, but to his rights as a king, to enjoy the rewards of his kingdom in peace, without Zeus and the others on Olympus arrogantly dictating the terms of his existence. He was already beginning to forget his earlier confusion, though, and as Hades heard the stream trickling nearby, he was already thinking of a plan to ruin Zeus and bring down Olympus in an avalanche. Book 6 It was late afternoon, and the Greeks across the lands were enjoying their final moments of the day, in whatever way they could. The farmers were leaning against their plows, enjoying the way their fields glowed yellow in the dusk, the closest many of them would come to seeing gold. Children were laughing and dancing and running in the narrow streets of the towns, with their mothers looking for them. Merchants were closing up their shops and stalls in the marketplace, and the lucky ones were counting their stacks of coins for a third, even fourth time. Far away from the ports and the towns, there was a lake burrowed in the mountains. It was more of a mirror than a lake, its color the world around it. On the cloudy days, puffs of pearl sailed across the surface – on the rainy days, the lake was black and boiling like murmurs of tar. Now though, the lake was a bloody color, because the setting sun was dying a bloody death. Out of the crimson lake, though, there was a crackling, elderly face staring up, looking an old man in the eye. The old man had finished rinsing the dust from his face and struggled to stand up, using his gnarled walking cane for support. His clothes looked almost as old as he was, just as wrinkled and blotchy. The old man looked like the walking dead, his eyes the only thing about him that seemed alive, and even that made the rest of him look ruined in comparison. The eyes were rich and deep, almost creamy with unmistakable silver. Athena looked around her, scanning the steep forest that surrounded the lake. With the forest’s darkness and the sharp mountains all around, there was enough to be suspicious about. Athena thought she had heard something too, but as she spent a minute of silence, listening, there was nothing there. They say that when mortals are given nothing, they try to mold something out of it. She had seen the mortals grope about in the darkness before, their eyes wild, expecting something imaginary to snatch them away. True, Athena was no mortal – she was not so much more perfect as she was less imperfect than a human – but the imagination of a god is much stronger. A god has to be creative – the world owes its existence to the artist in every god and goddess. But perhaps Athena was expecting something to look for her, because she was looking for something. It was the reason why she was hiking through the Arcadian mountains, disguised as an old beggar. It was why, in her bundle of cloth, she had a long dagger, fashioned by her brother Hephaestus as a favor. The dagger was important to Athena as an old man, because it could be easily tied to the walking cane in her hand: the deadliest spear in the mortal world. Nothing can escape an immortal blade, no matter how it was made. Why Athena was walking along that lake’s shore began years beforehand. Although Athena had long since been cast out of Mount Olympus – due to the other gods’ fear of her Titaness blood – her worship amongst the mortals was better remembered. The moment a god materializes in the world and makes their self known is when the temples and monuments and statues and paintings begin sweeping the known world. When Athena saw her tributes in the towns she visited, she couldn’t help but smile – if only those people knew that the person they worshipped was walking past them in the crowd. And not too far away from where Athena stood on that lake shore, actually, there was a small temple built in her honor. Other gods would have been insulted by such a stunted temple, one that was barely taller than the trees that surrounded it. But in Arcadia, there was more wildlife than there were people, and so Athena did not mind her short shadow over the region. Besides, she had lived with the mortals long enough to know how much work went into that building, or any building for that matter. When she was first banished from Olympus, she thought that the mortals could build just as quickly, just as brilliantly as the immortals could. And so she was surprised when she watched some of those mortals build a house, taking months to do the task. Legend had it that her ancestors built the palace atop Mount Olympus in only minutes – they would have built it sooner, but they took a break after a few minutes. In the years since Athena came to live with the mortals, though, her ignorance withered, and she came to have a new respect for the mortals. A shrine or a massive temple was an honor to her, as long as they were built with rough human hands. And, while her temple nearby was modest, a staff of priestesses were always on hand, tending after the worship of their patron goddess as if the world depended on it. One of the priestesses, a wiry, young woman with milky arms, died a few nights before. She had left the comforts of her home that night to pluck a bucketful of water from her well – she was found the next morning, gored to death. The other priestesses became terrified as a result, fearing that the murderer was some rogue god or mischievous faun that didn’t know its place. What else would dare attack the priestess of an immortal? Athena heard the prayers of her priestesses, and so she came to kill the murderer and bring peace to her temple once again. She did this because it was her duty to look after her priestesses, just like they looked after her interests in the world. And she did so, knowing that it was likely no immortal or faun, but probably a stray bull, an easy enough target for her blade. As immortal as Athena was – as much as her sense of duty towards her temple had steadied her – Athena still felt a twinge of nervousness as she began to walk into the forest, her eyes adjusting as the sunlight dimmed around her. After Athena had been banished from Olympus, her sister Artemis paid her a visit early one morning in her humble home. It had been the first time that Athena had met her sister. Artemis had been forged between Zeus and Hera in the traditional way, after Zeus realized that he had broken that prophecy – he no longer needed to fear his offspring coming to kill him. But Artemis was still very much Hera’s daughter, and like her mother, she too hated all that Athena represented. But when Artemis came to her, asking if they could go hunting together, Athena thought that her sister was extending an offering of peace. There was an irony that the sisters could come to a truce through the blood of hunting, something that the clever Athena immediately noticed. Still, Athena accepted, because she knew she could get more help from a friend than she could from an enemy. It was not long into the hunt, though, that tragedy almost struck. There was a deer between the sisters, and Artemis struck first, her arrow slamming into the deer’s skull. Artemis’ aim was flawless and flawed at the same time: while she did bring down the deer, the arrow was a few inches short of missing the prey altogether and hitting Athena. When Athena brought up this point later, Artemis tried to laugh it off as stray aim. Athena didn’t say so, but she began to suspect that Artemis had been aiming more for her and less for the deer. Athena knew she was immortal and so she couldn’t die, but she still felt the occasional twinges of pain. And Athena had heard enough stories of stray arrows to know that, even if an arrow didn’t kill, it could still sting amazingly so. And so, since that hunting trip, Athena had always hunted alone – she was afraid of becoming like the prey she hunted. She had not bothered to bring up that incident with her father Zeus. Athena may have still been his favored child, but Zeus was still held to the demands of Queen Hera. War between Zeus’ Athena and Hera’s Artemis would have meant war between the King and Queen themselves, taking the entire kingdom down with them. Athena had only heard of the arguments and even skirmishes between the monarchs, and she did not want to be the reason why that fire sprouted up again. There had not been peace long enough in the kingdom to justify another fight. And so Athena said nothing, because she knew that her father Zeus would do nothing as well. But for all that Athena knew and would come to know, there was one very important thing she was ignorant of. She had the constant feeling that she wasn’t alone, and her instincts were right. But what she was hunting – and what was hunting her – was not a beast or a human. Instead, the forest teemed with immortality. They say that when enough gods crowded a landscape, that the fundamental qualities of the nature changed. The leaves would refuse to fall from the trees, the birds would stop singing, and the small critters would hide in their shelters in the trees and the ground, all until the intimidation passed over them. Nature recognized an immortal before man ever could, and so nature bowed, all before man even noticed the kings in front of them. Some distance behind her, slithering along in the dirt and the grass and puddles, Hades followed. He usually turned into a snake when he was in the world above, so as to avoid attracting attention. Being a snake, even a poisonous one, seemed foolhardy – there were too many birds that could easily pluck him from the ground, too many people that would decapitate a snake out of pure reflex. But no birds dared to go near that snake, sensing something unnatural and foul in his meat, and no humans could kill the serpent, their blades bouncing off the thick scales. He followed Athena dressed as a snake, because he knew Athena was too busy looking above herself – Hades heard enough to know that Athena and most of Olympus were at an uneasy truce with each other. Athena had no time to look down at what was beneath her feet. But Athena should have done so, because her answers could be found in the serpent. It had been a few nights before, when Hades followed the doomed priestess to her home, much as he was following Athena now. When he found out where she lived, Hades the snake went and bit a bull on a nearby farm. With the bull in an induced coma and nearing death, it was no problem for Hades to assume his usual form and saw one of the horns off with his sword. Armed with the tusk, he crept back to the priestess’ home and waited. When the priestess walked out the door that evening to fetch some water, Hades stabbed her in the heart with the horn. He killed the priestess because he knew that Athena would notice. And he chose that temple in Arcadia because he knew that Zeus would coincidentally be in the same area. Unknown to Athena – and almost all of the other immortals, except for Hades – Zeus had been taking strolls through the region as of late. Against his will, he had gone through his brief period of fidelity with Hera. He felt pressured to do so, after the scandal that erupted years before when Metis and Athena slid out of his ears, exposing Zeus’ history of lies. But the years are long and memories short, and so it did not take long for Zeus to begin the hunt for new lovers. Before, he had looked for lovers to avoid the prophecy, but now, now he was looking for mistresses because he wanted to. This was more awkward to do now, though, than it was before. He had begun a family with Hera in earnest, after all. Now, Olympus teemed with a new generation of immortals, such as Aphrodite, Ares, Artemis, Apollo, and so on and so forth. He did not doubt that when he left Olympus now for his trips, an always-suspicious Hera ordered her children to look out for their father, to make sure he did not get into more trouble. Zeus suspected this, and for once his paranoia was correct. But fortunately for the King God, he had his own clever moments, and so the impossible became an inconvenience. So the moment that Zeus touched down in the mortal world, he assumed one of his many shapes: a bull. He lumbered through the lands, snorting and chewing grass and all of the other things he guessed bulls did. The gods and goddesses on Olympus were looking so eagerly for Zeus in a human form, they never thought to suspect the stray bull in the countryside. One day, as Zeus trotted through Arcadia, he came upon a milkmaid at work in a field. She was so busy milking a cow to notice the bull that was walking up behind her. Zeus took a moment of silence to bask in the beauty of a woman. She had short blonde hair and wide hips – from where Zeus stood, he couldn’t see her face, but he assumed that was gorgeous as well. And of course Zeus fell in love with the milkmaid in all of the ways that he shouldn’t have. When Zeus snorted to announce his presence, the woman turned around sharply. She was taken aback at first, frightened even. In his lust, Zeus had not realized that a mortal woman would be terrified to be in the same field with a fiery bull. And so Zeus lowered his head in an awkward bow towards the woman, as if to show his devotion to the woman. It must have been convincing, because the woman soon gave up her fears and inched forward. She hesitatingly pressed her hand again the bull’s cheek, fearful of giving the beast a start. But Zeus did not lunge forward – if anything, he loved the massage of her fingers – he wanted to curl around her fingers. Zeus’ plan was the same as it always was – to trick a milkmaid into thinking that he was a loose bull. When the woman tried to lead him down the road, looking for the owner, Zeus would transform and together they would make love, all under the trees that hid him from Olympus. This was the way that the plan usually worked. But that time, things had to be different. Perhaps it was because the woman could somehow sense something far more powerful than a bull beneath the leathery skin. Or perhaps it was because the woman was raised in Crete before finding a home in Arcadia. After all, it is in Crete where the bulls are prized as deities, their fertility a sign of a bountiful future for humanity. Whatever the reason, the woman looked around, as if hoping that no one would see what she was about to do. Satisfied, the woman reached in and licked Zeus the bull’s face. Electrified, Zeus gently nudged the woman to the ground. As the woman tore her clothes from herself, Zeus carefully positioned himself over her, afraid of accidentally trampling her in the moment of passion. And that was how the two made love that afternoon, in a rolling field with no witnesses but the cow the woman had been milking. When Zeus left to go back home to Olympus, he did so confused, for a number of reasons. What he was the most baffled by was his identity in the affair: did he love the woman as a god or as the bull? It was apparent that the woman loved the bull, but Zeus wasn’t sure about himself. Sometimes the bull’s spirit was overpowering, even for a god as mighty as Zeus. Sometimes he could do nothing but stand back, watching with a mixture of amusement and horror as the bull did some of the things it did. And yet, in spite of Zeus’ misgivings about the weird afternoon with the milkmaid, that had not stopped him from coming back. Each time he returned to the milkmaid, though, he did so as a bull. Sometimes he wondered if he should creep into the woman’s room late one night. He would do so not in his godly form – doing so would crush the woman’s weak mortal heart – but in his usual human form. But he never did this: not only did he feel the woman would not enjoy him as much, but he might not enjoy her as much either. Zeus was especially embarrassed by that last observation, and he didn’t dare boast about the affair to anyone but himself. But it would have taken much more than humiliation to keep Zeus away from those summer afternoons with the milkmaid. Zeus enjoyed the present of the affair, never stopping to think of the affair’s future. Of course, this was something he never considered about any of his other lusts. Zeus did not know that just a week before, in the heat of the moment, the couple together had conceived a child. And so, unknown to Zeus, a child grew in the mother’s womb. It was no ordinary child, though – it was a hybrid of some sorts, already doomed to a long lifetime of confusion and agony. The woman would eventually give birth, or try to give birth, but the child would kill its mother in its first moment of life. The child would then grow into a horrific beast – it would look like a bull in every way except its legs would look like a man’s arms and legs. It would then become feral, killing dozens of people in the wilderness until a famous hunter would eventually kill it. Of course, not even Zeus in all of his glory would possibly understand the ugly future that he had already written. Now, he was just lying on the rocky shore of a rushing creek, resting and enjoying what little of the day was left. The stones underneath him were warm still from the afternoon, and the dusk light still felt heated. It was wonderful, every drop of everything, and Zeus lazily hoped that the moment would be forever. Normally, Zeus as a bull would have been alert, his flared nostrils paying attention to any unusual smells. Once as a bull, he had smelled a hunter from two miles away, and so Zeus was able to escape without the hunter ever knowing he was there. While a human with simple weapons could not break a mighty god, Zeus was afraid that his invulnerability would reveal his true status, and so unintentionally kill the mortal hunter. But now, Zeus was so relaxed, he was no longer paying attention to anything going on around him. And so anything that could happen would happen. If Zeus had been paying attention, he would have smelled an old man downriver of him, a man who would have looked human but was far from it. Zeus would have been able to smell the dried blood on the old man’s spear – not only that, but Zeus would have even recognized the scent of the metal itself. Any weapon forged by Hephaestus bore a distinctive apple smell – why this was, Zeus never bothered to ask his estranged son. And still the old man crept closer. While Zeus did not sense the hunter approaching, the man certainly knew that there was a bull nearby. The old man had amazing hearing for his old age, and so he heard the deep sighs of the bull as it breathed lazily. The old man had amazing smell, and he wrinkled his nose at the scent of droppings in the air. And then the old man saw it, the beast supposedly responsible for the death of the priestess. The old man stepped forward carefully, anxiously trying not to rustle the grass and alert the bull. But Zeus as the bull remained motionless, looking more dead than asleep to the world. The old man quietly pulled the blade out and lashed it to the end of his walking cane. All the while he did this, he looked curiously at the bull. He had seen many of the beasts before, but never one that large – it would have been easy enough to dismiss the bull as simply being well-fed. No, there was something else, something more to the bull, but the old man did not have time to think. Here was a beast, and it must be killed – there was no reasoning around it. The old man may have raised the makeshift spear, but it was Athena’s hand that threw it. The goddess watched as the spear launched through the air, the cane wobbling a little as it flew. It took barely a moment for the tip of the blade to connect with the bull, for the sharpness to dig through the hide, for the immortal’s spear to drive through the entire body and stick to the ground beneath it. That was all it took, and Athena stood back, satisfied by her revenge, and waiting for the beast’s death-cries. There was a rare glint of fury in Athena’s normally clear eyes, something that would have shocked her if she could see her reflection. But as the bull folded into the rocky shore, it didn’t unleash a final cry. Instead, something else happened. When the corpse had settled, its skin began to move, or rather, something beneath the skin began to move. Athena watched, morbidly fascinated, as cracks actually began to show in the rough skin of the bull. And then, like an egg hatching, there was a pop and the skin splintered. Something then began to struggle out of the mess of cow innards and muscle and blood. It took Athena a few moments to realize what it was: a beautiful golden eagle. Or rather, it was usually a soft gold, but now the eagle’s color was a massacre red. It slowly lifted its head up, held back by either exhaustion or pain, and it tried to screech its usual screech. The only thing that came out of its beak, though, was a long and ragged hiss, like steam rushing through cracks in the ground. Athena continued to watch as the eagle stumbled away from the shore – she had by now realized that she had done something wrong, something terribly wrong, but she wasn’t sure what. The eagle staggered a short distance on its wobbly talons before it came to a halt. It was there that the rocky riverbank ended and the ground rose, just slightly, and ran into the forest. The eagle looked up the slow incline, and it gave up. Tiredly, the eagle settled down once more into the rocky riverbank and wrapped its wings around itself, forming a cocoon of feathers. The eagle, and all around it, was still and silent, and still Athena watched. In a few moments, the bloody gold of the eagle feathers began to calcify and turn grayish as if it was stone, and then Athena realized that the bird had actually turned to stone. And then the eagle was no longer an eagle, but a small boulder, out of place on the floor of pebbles. Athena noticed that the top of the stone was beginning to crackle, and something else was growing out of the stone. It grew and grew until Athena recognized it as being the sapling of an oak tree. And the oak tree grew until it stood just a little bit taller than Athena herself. The tree trunk should have been strong and enduring, but instead the bark was withered, almost diseased. No leaves hung from its branches, which reminded Athena of spider legs, thin and curling. The trunk began to crackle in front of Athena, and then it split altogether, the broken seam running the height of the trunk. From the crack in the tree, Zeus appeared. He stood tall as tall as he always had, but just for a moment, before he collapsed to the ground. Startled by the sudden appearance of Zeus – not yet understanding the consequences of what she had done – Athena rushed to cradle her father. She struggled to pick up his weight from the ground – as strong as a goddess as she was, there was nothing in the world heavier than Zeus, because he was heavier than the world. Athena struggled, and she realized that Zeus was slick to the touch. And that was when Athena looked away from Zeus’ grimacing face and realized that his entire body was covered in a thick film of ichor – the silvery blood that belonged to the gods themselves and themselves alone. The silver gushed all over Zeus’ robes, forming a slippery puddle around him like an aura. Athena gasped as she finally began to understand. “Father! Father. Father,” Athena repeated the word, less out of shock and more as a chant, as if the ritual of the word would bring her father back to her. In that moment, she was the child that she never was before, crying out for her father. By then, the sun had slipped into the west. But even with night approaching, the forest had not turned inky. Rather, the ichor that Zeus bled was glowing brightly but not consistently; instead, the ichor pulsed in its glow, matching the fallen god’s slowing heartbeat. The darkness around them shrank before the ichor’s pulse, but when the glow shrank, the woods’ darkness approached. Each time, the pulse shrank just a little bit more, and the darkness crept a little bit closer. Athena desperately pressed against the gaping wound in Zeus’ chest, but the wound was too large, and her hands too small. Still, she pressed down in the hopes of stopping the gush. “Athena…” It was a soft whisper, but loud enough for Athena to hear over her panic. She spun and looked her father in the face. She had never seen him so gray. “Father, I’m sorry! I didn’t know…!” “I know, my child, I know,” Zeus rasped. “How could…” Zeus coughed horrifically and spat on the ground beside him. “How could you know? How could anyone know?” What neither Zeus nor Athena knew, though, was that someone did know. Zeus continued. “Tell them,” he gasped, “tell them…” His words slipped away. Athena, frantic, begged, “Tell who what? Tell me!” But it was too late. Zeus, the King of the Skies, was dead. His eyes stared blankly ahead, his mighty hands limp, his heart finally still. With him went thousands upon thousands of years of history – gone was the triumph of the war with the Titans – gone was the artist of humanity – gone was the engine of the nighttime skies. In the wake of Zeus’ death, the mortals would wonder why the heavens froze at night, the constellations no longer moving in their wide arcs across the sky. What they didn’t know was that those constellations wept, that those portraits no longer saw the need to persist. For the first time in her life, Athena began to sob. Standing over the fallen Zeus, Athena cried richly as she beat her breast in grief. She lifted herself and screamed, silencing every creature within a mile of where she stood. Exhausted already from her grief – having never suffered tragedy before – Athena slipped down to the ground and curled herself around her dead father. She held her hands to her face, perhaps to keep the tears in, or perhaps to hide herself from the world. When she finally removed her hands from her face, there was ichor all over Athena’s cheeks and forehead, her hands still stained from trying to save Zeus. The ichor still had its strength; Athena’s face never looked so youthful and vibrant. By the glow of the ichor, Athena was still weeping, but much softer now. Her bloody face shone in the darkness until that too began to dry and fade, plunging her into the darkness she had already felt. Book 7 It took Athena two days to reach Mount Olympus. It did not take her so long because it was a difficult journey. It was a long and dangerous trip for the mortals, but for Athena, there was no difficulty. As an owl, she could easily fly to the mountaintop in less than an hour, something that would have taken even the most experienced of the mortal climbers hours or even days to achieve. No, it took Athena that long to reach the palace atop Olympus because, even when the next morning came, she was still curled up in her grief. She had cried herself to sleep, and she awoke to find that her father’s body was missing. It had utterly vanished, something that Athena had thought to be impossible: not even the gods could simply vanish, especially dead gods. Athena searched wildly about, but there was no sign of Zeus reviving and crawling away, or of a creature sneaking in and snatching the body. There were no grooves in the pebbly riverbank, no bent grass, no broken twigs to show where the body went. The mysterious disappearance of the body only sent Athena into another howl of sadness. What she had done was the most serious of offenses – the fact that she did not mean to slaughter Zeus could not excuse anything. How could Athena explain to the rest of the gods on Olympus that she was responsible for the murder of their King? And she even had no proof that it was merely an accident: there were no witnesses and now there was no body as evidence. The other gods would have to believe the word of a murderer and nothing else. And so she spent most of that first day, alone on the riverbank, barely moving except for the occasional pacing about, trying to figure out what her next action would be. She tried desperately to think, but nothing came to her mind – she had robbed Zeus of his life, and in return he had robbed Athena of her words. In the end, Athena had gained no ground in her mind, yet she decided to leave anyway. She had her duty to Olympus: she had to tell them of the tragedy, of her murdering her own father. That is, if they hadn’t suspected the truth by that point – after all, the death of a leader is a cut across the kingdom. Everyone who was loyal to the king would have to notice. And so Athena transformed into her owl form and, even with a heart as heavy as hers, lifted off the ground and flew in the general direction of Olympus. Her wings did the flying for her; Athena simply crawled into the back of her mind, hiding from the new reality that she had created. If she had taken the time to emerge from her shelled mind, though, she would have noticed that the mortal world beneath her wings looked the same as it always did. Farmers still plowed their fields, merchants still sold goods in their shops, children still played. They may come to understand the significance of what Athena had done, but that wouldn’t be until much later though. For now, the mortals were blissfully ignorant that their kingdom was rotting and giving way beneath them, like an old wooden floor beneath the rug. As Athena neared the palace, she knew that, while the mortals may have not noticed or cared even, the other Olympians certainly did. She heard their cries, and even though she couldn’t make out the individual words, the tone was evident. And she heard the cries before she saw the wreckage of the palace. Parts of the palace, built to be as heavy and sure as the mountain itself, had actually crumbled to the foundation. Even though the palace had an infinite number of rooms, the damage was still noticeable. It reminded Athena a bit of an earthquake she saw once before: most of the entire town had been leveled, and dazed survivors stumbled about, looking for their loved ones, so numb that some didn’t even know that their limbs were crushed, even missing. As Athena floated over the palace, she noticed a large crowd in the main courtyard. There, the gods and goddesses were wandering about, confused, unsure of what was going on, let alone what to do next. Most of them were too preoccupied to notice, but the always-alert Apollo caught sight of the owl flying in a large circle. Recognizing the owl for what it really was, the god of the sun called out, “Athena, come and join your family.” Reluctantly, Athena answered Apollo’s beckon and slowly settled down to the ground. As she transformed, her morphing mouth asked, slightly garbled, “What happened here?” Apollo shrugged. “All I know is that the ground started shaking beneath us. I was able to get Artemis out before the palace started to cave in.” “That is all you know?” Athena asked a little too quickly. “Have you heard no other news?” “What I know is what everyone else here knows,” Apollo drawled. He added, “Unless there’s something that you know that we don’t.” The sickness Athena had felt sometime before, when she stood over her father’s murdered body, was returning to her. Nauseous, Athena turned and walked away from the questioning Apollo and towards the center of the group. She breathed deeply a few times and, with more her father’s courage than her own, called out in an unnaturally loud voice, “Everyone! I have some terrible news to announce!” Almost immediately, all of the gods quit their talking, and they all looked in Athena’s direction. The silence should have been unbearable, but for Athena, it made her feel as if she was the only person there. And it is always easier to admit the truth to yourself than it is to another. “I believe that I am the reason why the palace shook.” The crowd murmured. Someone – it sounded like Hermes – called out, “How could you have shaken the palace? You haven’t been welcomed here in years.” The voice shook Athena out of her trance – it made her realize that there were other, actual people around her. Feeling very small now, Athena said with some hesitation, “The palace shook because Zeus is dead. Our father is dead.” “What?” Hera shrieked. The rest of the gods and goddesses, though, they immediately began to argue amongst themselves. But while they were used to arguing, they fought like cornered animals, bewildered. How could it be that a god amongst them had actually died? Were their centuries of drinking ambrosia for nothing? How could they be both immortal and mortal? It was a paradox too ridiculous for them to believe. They wanted to believe it was a paradox, but worse, it wasn’t. Something that was both immortal and mortal could only be mortal: a god that dies is no better than a mortal. And if the mighty Zeus could fall, who was to say that the rest of them were any better? The gods didn’t want to believe the truth, and so they didn’t believe Athena. They didn’t trust her, although the signs all pointed to Zeus’ death: not only had the palace shook with its king downed, but the gods themselves had felt the disaster in their ichor. All of them had felt a shudder at the same time that the palace began to sway, but their tremble was deeper than anything else they had ever felt. And yet the immortals did not admit to this, because they were afraid of their weaknesses. The gods did not believe, and so Artemis called out over the gods’ bickering, “How do you know this, Athena? How do you know that our father is dead?” “Because…because I killed him.” Once more, Athena silenced the entire crowd. Everyone looked at the goddess through shocked, muted eyes. And then came the roar. “How could you kill our father?” Aphrodite snapped. The goddess lunged forward – never before had the goddess of beauty looked so ugly with hatred. Taking Aphrodite’s cue, several of the other gods rushed forward into the fray, determined to exact vengeance against the usurper. Instinctively, Athena reached for the blade in her robes – the dagger was short and stunted, but she had already killed one god with it, so she knew it was sharp enough. And while she could never imagine herself killing Zeus, she could certainly imagine killing many in the crowd. As a matter of fact, some nights she had even dreamed of doing so – she especially wanted to jam her dagger down Aphrodite’s throat. But before the immortals could reach Athena – before the accused goddess could even pull out her dagger – there was a sudden bulb of light, one that blanketed the entire courtyard and blinded those in it. All of the gods fell backwards from the light, shielding their eyes but it was no use. The intense bulb lasted for a few moments, and then there was nothing. The courtyard was back to what it always was. Almost all of the gods and goddesses were on the ground, groaning. Slowly, they stood up while rubbing their eyes. The only one still standing was Apollo, who was also the one who called down the bulb of light from his sun. He stood tall over the fallen gods, his face showing no sign of triumph, his eyes like granite. He said sharply, “There will be no more violence! Zeus’ death was more than enough. And yet you want to honor his death with more misery? No! You all will back down, and you all will listen to our sister. You all will decide her fate after she has defended herself. This is the right thing to do, because it has always been the right thing to do. We will not abandon our justice because we are angered. Our kingdom has bled enough today!” His fingers still crackling with light, Apollo motioned for all of the gods to sit down in the grass, and the gods obediently did as they were told. For once, those gods were all frightened together: it may have been because Athena had murdered their king and so was strong enough to kill any of them, or it may have been because they had never seen Apollo lose his composure and were reluctant to anger him further. Apollo went to sit down with the other immortals, but not before he gestured for Athena to begin her story. And like the other gods, Athena did as Apollo commanded. She began her story of the past few days, first with hearing the prayer of her frightened priestesses in Arcadia. As Athena plunged headfirst into her story, some of the gods were paying attention to every word, wanting to understand what it was that frightened them so much. They wondered if that was why the mortals built their entire cultures around death, with doom showing in their poetry, their paintings, and their plays. Athena, though, had long since lost the attention of some of the other gods. Ares scratched his scruffy beard as he thought of the implications of what Athena had admitted to. True, Zeus was his father, and he would mourn for his father later, as the tradition dictated. But at the moment, his mind was swirling with so many possibilities. He remembered back when he accidentally cut himself that one evening, and so realizing that he could bleed like any other mortal. He was once afraid of that fact, thinking that he may have been the weakest of the gods. He thought he was the only immortal who could bleed. But now that he knew his father not only bled but died as well, Ares saw interesting developments that would sooner or later take place. He especially looked at Apollo – he used to look at his brother god with envy and hatred, but now he looked at him murderously. It was an open secret on Olympus that there was a rivalry between the brothers. There were times when Ares waited impatiently for daybreak so that a battle could begin. When it would seem like the dawn never came, Ares grew annoyed then furious then desperate. It was only in his moment of weakness that he would call out to his brother, asking Apollo to pull the sun across the skies with his chariot. Each time he prayed, almost immediately the sun would rise. Ares knew that beneath the somber and duty-bound looks of Apollo, there was mischief like any other soul. And Ares would respond in kind to his brother’s perceived taunts. When his favored army would win a battle, Ares would secretly urge the generals onward into the losing city. There, the victors would pillage and burn the entire city down. Ares would stand in front of the raging inferno and laugh viciously each time – he knew that the fire could be seen for miles – he knew that Apollo would hate someone else controlling a fire just as blazing as the sun. And while the brothers may have only fought skirmishes against each other, Ares knew – and he guessed that Apollo knew as well – that the war had yet to be fought. Ares was too tired at that moment – exhausted still by his recent campaign in Egypt, as well as the shock of Zeus’ death – but when he recovered and stood tall again, he would plan Apollo’s fall. Ares knew that much, but he hoped that Apollo didn’t know that as well. Sitting far, but not too far, from Ares was Aphrodite. Aphrodite could see Ares’ venom, even through his worn eyes and scraggly beard. And she would have noticed the hate without even looking at her brother. After all, one night long before, when all of the gods were enjoying a feast, Ares had pulled Aphrodite to the side. “What do you want?” Aphrodite asked, exasperated. She had noticed Ares’ eyes on her all that night during the dinner. “I need your help with something,” Ares said, looking about, as if he was ashamed to be asking for a woman’s help. “Oh?” Aphrodite asked, amused. Ares took Aphrodite down an abandoned hallway, where there were no prying eyes, and explained. Ares went on and on, when all he said to say was that he needed Aphrodite to entice an enemy army into a night of drunkenness and scandal. The next morning, as the army would recover from the night, Ares’ chosen army would march to victory. Ares wanted to keep the plan secret, though – the enemy army had pledged their devotion to Apollo, and so Apollo loved them in return. “But what if I don’t want to help you?” Aphrodite said dismissively. Ares slapped her hard across the face, so harshly that the goddess actually stumbled. “You will help me, or I will make you fall – even if I have to push you myself.” Aphrodite rubbed her stung cheek, the tears instinctively rolling from her eyes. She said meekly, “Okay. Just please don’t hurt me again.” The things that Ares did not know but wished that he had. Of course Aphrodite helped Ares then, and she had helped him in many of his battles since. And Aphrodite would smile broader and broader as their alliance deepened and their victories together grew. It eventually reached the point where Aphrodite knew for certain that Ares could not win a battle without her help – Ares had simply grown rusty in strategy. It was at that moment that Aphrodite knew that she had Ares under his control, when all along Ares wrongly thought that he controlled her. And Aphrodite could do a lot with the god of war as her pawn. As she glared at Athena – Zeus’ favorite and now Queen of Everything – she was wondering how to put her Ares to use. And then there was Hermes, his feet planted on the ground for a rare moment. He wrapped his chest with his thin arms, trying to stay warm. His teeth were still chattering from his last visit down to the Underworld. It was one of Hermes’ duties to help guide the new souls down to the Land of the Dead. He was there to comfort the shades, to teach them where to go through the winding passages of the world below. And as much as he loved helping travelers from all walks of life and death, he always felt miserable when he left the Underworld. There was something in the air, something cold, something damp, that chilled him through and left him feeling like he would never be joyful again. He figured that the last time he was in the Underworld, actually, would have been around the same time as his father’s death. If only he had a chance to see his father’s spirit before it dived into the depths of the Underworld. But even if Hermes did cross paths with his father’s shade, the winged god doubted that he would recognize even Zeus. It seemed as if all of the shades looked the same – he could never tell one from the other. Still, part of him felt that he would have recognized Zeus in the crowd of dust – he had to believe that at least. And then there was Demeter, whose face was webbed with tears like it always seemed to be these days. She was upset for several reasons. Of course she grieved when she heard the news of her dear brother’s death. Zeus had done so much for her, and he had passed before she could do anything for him as thanks. And she cried all the harder as she thought of her daughter. When the earthquake was shaking the palace, Demeter and all of the other gods rushed to escape the collapse. In the confusion, Demeter for the first time forgot about her daughter. It wasn’t until well after the gods had gathered in the courtyard that Demeter realized that her daughter Persephone wasn’t with her. She searched and searched but her Persephone wasn’t anywhere to be found on the mountaintop. At first, Demeter feared that Persephone had been trapped beneath some fallen debris in the palace – of course there was the common knowledge that gods simply don’t die, but Demeter was scared of her daughter experiencing the slightest in pains. But now that she knew the truth – not only that gods could die, but Zeus had actually passed – Demeter understood why Persephone vanished. Hades must have sensed Zeus’ death somehow, and why wouldn’t he? Hades was the lord of the Land of the Dead, and if Zeus’ spirit passed through, then Hades would have certainly known. And, without Zeus to look after her, to protect her, Persephone was once more a prize for Hades. Yet Demeter was so distraught over Hades having kidnapped her daughter, she did not stop to think of what could be happening to Zeus at that very moment. To think, that Zeus was the denier of Hades’ happiness for so long – and creatures more noble than Hades have fallen into bloody vengeance. When Athena finished telling her story to the crowd, there was a dim silence; Athena thought that she had heard some whispering, but that may have been her imagination once more, making her think that the crowds were going to mutiny against her. But then, Apollo stood up and said in his always-booming voice, “You have listened to Athena, haven’t you? You have listened to her story, how she did not mean to kill our father. And while we may disagree about her intent, it is very clear to us that she is his murderer, yes?” The crowd nodded. Athena’s heart wrenched. But then, Apollo looked at Athena in the eye and continued. “But although our sister has broken the tradition that has stood for thousands of years, we cannot break the rest of our standards in unity with her. There are rules that are meant to be followed, rules that you do remember, even if you don’t say you do. And one of those rules is this: if a god was to defeat one of his own kind in battle, then the victor must take on the responsibilities of the defeated.” “So are you saying that Athena must become our Queen? Because she has killed Zeus?” Demeter demanded, her voice still choking with sobs. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Apollo said swiftly. “This was the rule we wrote when Zeus banished his Titan parents from Olympus. It was Zeus who understood the responsibilities he had to take on, else the world his parents built would have fallen into ruin. And so, just as Zeus became King, so too must Athena become our Queen. If you don’t believe in this rule, then you do not believe in this mountain!” The courtyard paused, as the gods sighed over what Apollo said. It was true, every word of it. They could not break their rules, although they had written them in the first place, although they never imagined someone taking the throne from Zeus. But running the entire kingdom was the greatest challenge of them all, and so someone had to take on the role, and none of those gods wanted to step forward and volunteer their services. If Athena did not become the Queen, then the skies could very well darken and collapse over their heads. Such a thing had never happened before, because there was always a ruler over the world, and the gods were afraid of witnessing the first break. The stately Hera stood up and announced, perhaps emboldened by her son Apollo, “He is right! We must have someone to lead this world, and if it cannot be Zeus, then it must be his daughter Athena. They shared more of the same mind, the same voice, the same spirit than we ever could with our dear Zeus. Athena is Zeus’ reflection, and we cannot afford to break the mirror. So let us all stand aside, and may Athena step forward to the throne. May Athena rule over the world, as she was fated to do!” Hera said all of this, believing in something else entirely. It was true that she wanted Athena to assume the throne as the Ruler of Everything. Hera wanted this to happen, as much as she distrusted and even hated Athena for all the scandal that goddess represented. As much as she grieved for her beloved husband’s death in spite of his scandals, he still had his scandals. The years had only begun to stitch their wounds, and a vein of suspicion still ran thickly through their Olympus. The suspicions had every right to be – the always lusting Zeus must have fathered countless children with mothers both mortal and immortal. Hera had never considered the thought of succession, because she had always thought that Zeus was infinite like any other immortal. But since the prophecy turned true, and Zeus was murdered by one of his own children, Hera was viciously glad that it was Athena with the bloody hands. Athena, the outsider; Athena, the one who would have to be taught the ways of Olympus after having been gone for so long. Hera may have been shuffled to the side, playing the ceremonial queen mother, but she knew that she would be called on for advice soon enough. And so, while Zeus had reigned so many years over a world divided by himself, there would finally be a unity, with Hera guiding Athena’s writing hand as the new queen wrote the new laws. Artemis stood beside Hera, silent like usual. She had not spoken, because she wanted to wait until both her brother Apollo and her mother Athena had done so. And even then, with her mother and brother having given their opinion, Artemis was still mute – they had said all that she would have said. There was no use repeating. However, it was because of her silence that she was the first to hear the evolution. She heard crackling behind her and so she looked over her shoulder. Saying in a loud voice that surprised even herself, she exclaimed, “Look!” Most of the gods paid no attention to the meek huntress, but others turned, and the looks on their faces made the others finally revolve. The palace – which was crumbled just moments before – was rebuilt, renewed. The walls looked as strong as they had ever been, as if the palace had never collapsed, as if Zeus had never fallen. The only things that looked strange were the columns, holding up the immensity of the palace with ease like cousin Atlas holds up the world. The columns used to be Zeus’ choice of wood: oak, the unchallenged strength of the woods. But now, instead of oak, new trees had sprouted up as the columns. As the gods neared the palace, cautious, they recognized the sort of wood. It was olive, Athena’s chosen. And so the gods muttered amongst themselves, asking if this was a sign, if the palace had recognized its new monarch. If that was true, then that meant they had no choice but to accept Athena as their queen. If they refused her reign, then their palace, their home, their life would fall once more upon their heads, this time for good. Hera was the first to walk through the lumbering front doors of the palace. As she walked in, she spun around, making sure that the palace was structurally sound once more. Satisfied, she turned to the family of gods and goddesses, anxiously crowded just outside. “Let us begin the ceremony. I can only hope that we have not forgotten how to crown a leader since the last time,” Hera said in her clipped tone. She was not entirely sure herself – it had been almost countless years since the ceremony where Zeus was made king. As the gods slowly shuffled into the palace, as Hera ordered Hebe and the other servants to prepare the food and ambrosia for the ceremony, Athena stayed behind. The last to enter the palace, she did so with trembling steps, feeling pulled rather than pushed. Book 8 As the gods far above dove into a new world, so too did Zeus. The former king was still very much alive, but in a newer, rawer fashion. His godly glow – which could shine through any darkness – was now gone. His new aura was the panicked cloud that stretched from his lips, the exhalations of terror following him in the coldness. And he had every reason to be terrified. He knew that one moment he was looking at his daughter Athena in the world above, the next he was dragged down into the Underworld. He had sudden visions of ships sinking, as ship and crew were buried in the ocean’s pitch, never to see sunshine again. Yet, it was not the Underworld that terrified him – Zeus had been there before and knew it well, having overseen the punishment of his Titan parents and the shades he personally damned. What frightened Zeus truly was that he was in a deep chamber that he had never seen before. And he felt that he should have been aware of the vast cavern at least, because it was too alive and dangerous to be hidden away. After all, a lion that has fallen into a pit can still be heard for miles around. It couldn’t have been a new addition to Tartarus, the sprawling prison for the damned just beneath the Underworld. It could have not been Tartarus, because Zeus had done nothing to deserve it. Still, what Zeus was trapped in looked and felt like a hell enough. By the dim light of a torch somewhere, Zeus could barely make out the outlines of walls all around him. The air was dark and furious, a steel wind driving against him, almost blinding him, almost deafening him. Specks swirled about his face, stinging his cheeks, drying out his throat every time he inhaled. Zeus did not know it, but he was pushing into a blustery snowstorm. He did not know it was snow, because he had never felt snow before – his eternal warmth had always evaporated any moisture around him that was not ambrosia. But now he was feeling the snow, and it frightened him. And the air, the air smelled like rotten apples – Zeus did not know it, but he was smelling the thick stench of poison. It was a perfume that sank down from the Underworld above him, the deaths of millions fermenting the ground until it was a harvest of the end. Through the foulness of the sour apple orchard, Zeus thought he could smell a new scent. He didn’t know it, but this new scent was that of skeletons, scrubbed clean by the things that squirm and crawl. Zeus would have held his nose with his left hand – he would have shielded his eyes with his right arm – but he had already put all of his limbs to work. The windblown snow had pushed thick drifts of the stuff against him. Every step tired Zeus, as he had to trample and push his way through waist-high snow. He tried to climb atop the snowdrifts and run, but his incomprehensible weight only dragged him downwards. And so Zeus had to swim through the snow. And why did Zeus have to run through the swarming snowdrifts? What had scared the king of the gods so much that he had to flee through the dark caverns? Zeus could hear howls, and they did not belong to the wind. He took quick glances behind him, and he regretted doing so each and every time. Through the dimness of the cavern, through the white sheet of wind and snow, he could see a pack of dark figures storming after him. They moved like men, but Zeus could tell that their heads and arms were far from human. There was something wild to the creatures, something snarling, something that was all teeth. If Zeus had only known how close he was to the truth: the creatures were tortured hybrids, their upper-half wolf, their lower-half human. They were constantly on the move, never tiring, never gasping for breath. No, they breathed like the wind, always on Zeus’ neck, and they moved like the gusts too. They were close enough that Zeus could hear them actually speaking with one another. It was not wolf howls, but it was some obscure language that not even Zeus knew, and he thought that he spoke every language in the world. But Zeus did not have to be one of those creatures to translate their babble. He knew what their yelps meant: Kill, kill, kill, eat, eat, eat. At one point, Zeus felt air press against his arm. He thought it was more wind, coming from another direction, when he peered into the whiteness just ahead of him and saw something black plunged into the snow. He yanked it from the ground and he realized that it was a spear. The lunging wolves not only spoke but they also could throw spears. And yet Zeus had never heard of such a beast. Feeling a burst of strength, Zeus stopped his retreat and turned, spear in hand. He saw a jaw of glowing, jagged teeth jump towards him. He jabbed in the darkness and he thought he heard a howl, he thought that he had impaled one of the terrible beasts. And then there was a loud tearing sound, and Zeus screamed. He clenched his arm, feeling a steady stream of ichor gush from him. He thought the pain he felt when Athena accidentally killed him was terrible. But this pain, it was something entirely new, within its own class of torture. The cut immediately felt poisoned, and there was a wrenching motion in his arm muscles. It was so sharp that Zeus felt someone was ripping his arm off. And then there was a sudden blankness, a numbness from his shoulder to his fingers on his left arm. Zeus, horrified, wondered if his arm had actually fallen off. The time from the bite to the wrenching pains to the numbness was less than a second. With his good arm, Zeus pushed himself away from the beast, feeling the creature’s scaly hide pressed against his palm. Zeus forgot how tired he was for a moment, and he paddled fiercely through the waves of snow. He knew that his bitten arm had not fallen off, because the sensation slowly began returning to his arm. But with the sensations, the agonies filled him as well, until he felt as if his whole being was on fire. But the burning pain was good, because that meant that his arm was his once again. And that was when he realized that the long, deep wound in his arm had already healed. Even if he was still a god in the world above, Zeus doubted that he would have healed so quickly. No, there was something healing in the beast’s bite. But Zeus realized instantly that this unexpected blessing meant damnation. He knew that when – and not if – the beasts had finally caught up with him and pinned him helpless in the snow, they would chew him to pieces. And, since the wounds they dealt would heal almost immediately, then Zeus could very possibly be eaten alive for eternity. With that in mind, Zeus tried desperately to pick up his pace. But the growls and snaps behind him didn’t fade – instead, they were still consistent, still very nearby. Zeus’ old godly vigor would help him for awhile, but he felt even that beginning to slip away. It would be only a matter of time before he finally collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, offering himself as a feast for his pursuers. Half of Zeus thought it was a small blessing that wherever he went, it was downhill, the cave somehow sloping in all directions. If it wasn’t for the fact that the snow was so soft, he could have climbed above it and simply rolled and tumbled downhill. But the slope was just enough to give him some momentum. The other half of Zeus knew, though, that for every step he took, it was less downhill and more downfall. Every step not only wore him down, but it took him further from the world above that he loved so much. As Zeus tripped and stumbled through the blinding snow, he did so not knowing that he was being watched. He would have never guessed it, since the snow was so white yet so dark, and he could barely even see the wild beasts chasing after him. But there was a long crack that ran the entire length of the cavern. The tear in the stone was too narrow to be easily noticed, and Zeus certainly did not have the time to look. But the narrow crack was still there, with a pair of silvery, beady eyes, watching. Hades scampered through the narrow tunnel that paralleled the hellish cavern. As Hades ran, keeping pace with the chase, the stone floor crackled beneath his mighty weight. Without taking his eyes from the sliver cut through the rocky wall, Hades hissed, “Hurry, my love, hurry!” Behind Hades, Persephone tried desperately to keep up. She was not used to running to begin with – her shins felt sore after every dash – and she would have gladly stopped to rest and breathe. But Hades’ gravity was too powerful, and he pulled her along without him even noticing. “Don’t you want to see what happens to your Zeus? After all of this time of him keeping us apart, we are finally getting our revenge!” Hades turned and, grabbing Persephone by the hair, pushed her until her cheek brushed the tunnel’s wall, and she could see the chase through the slit in the rock. Behind her, she could hear Hades’ panting – she had never heard him breathe so hoarsely before. Was it from his run? Or was it from the exhilaration? For the first time, Persephone could see Zeus’ punishment. She saw the tall, dark figure striding through the deep snow, and she saw the blobs chasing him. They kept almost catching up with him, almost. Bewildered, Persephone turned. “What are those things?” Wild-eyed and looking past Persephone, at the chase beyond them, Hades said, “Men of the past, shades so far gone from their human bodies that they go insane from the thought of being men again, even if that means devouring men.” For the first time he noticed Persephone’s confusion. He smiled. “My love, how else can you become one with something? Do you not drink ambrosia to stay the beautiful immortal you are?” “Yes, but I…” Hades silenced her with his venomous eyes. “Your Zeus has kept us apart, not knowing the pain of separation, not knowing that the pain of reunification is just as agonizing. Doesn’t the world cry when your mother Demeter wakes it up from its winter’s sleep? Now, Zeus will know that you don’t rip apart something that will have to be put together again. Don’t you agree?” Persephone thought No but said, “Yes.” “Good. Now let’s hurry. I don’t want to miss the moment when Zeus falls.” And with that said, Hades continued his run down the tunnel, trying to catch up with his running brother. Persephone exhaled sharply and continued her run as well, although her legs were lead beneath her, and her stomach was sinking. All she could think about was all of the things that Zeus had done for her and her mother over the years. Persephone could still remember the time when she was younger, much younger, and Demeter gave her a beautiful emerald for her birthday. And Persephone had loved it dearly, tossing it up in the air, watching the sunlight glitter through the stone. When the emerald caught the light, all she could see inside of it was a vast field in the spring, where the greens almost seem to breathe. But one day, as the young Persephone jumped and laughed and threw the emerald in the thin air on Olympus, she tripped over a rock. She could only watch in horror as the emerald bounced across the hard ground and disappeared over the edge. Persephone thought that she would never see her beloved stone again, and she cried madly – it was the first time she ever experienced loss of any kind. Demeter saw this happen, but she didn’t dare climb down the mountain to retrieve the stone. She could not abandon her daughter on the mountaintop while she was gone, and Demeter didn’t want to take Persephone with her into the mortal world, which was so ugly and imperfect. But Zeus had heard the commotion and he swept out of the palace. He listened for a few moments to his sister Demeter apologize for the noise and explain what had happened. Then, before Persephone’s astonished eyes, Zeus had turned into an eagle and flew down the side of the mountain. Demeter wanted to lean over the edge and see Zeus fly, but Demeter didn’t let her, although at that point they all still believed that a god could never die. When Zeus returned minutes later, the emerald tucked in his eagle’s talons, Persephone loved him as if he was her father. It was a lifetime of charity that began with that falling emerald and almost ended with Hades’ first kidnapping of her. When Persephone was snatched from the fields that fateful afternoon, when the mouth of hell reached up and swallowed her whole, Persephone thought that she would be lost forever. She had heard the legends of the Underworld from the other gods atop Olympus. The way they spoke in fearful whispers, as if saying Hades’ name too loudly would beckon the death lord, made Persephone think that no one, not even Zeus, would dare challenge Hades. And yet, Zeus did that – he was the only one who strode confidently into the Underworld to demand her back. No other god, not even Persephone’s overly protective mother Demeter, would have done the same for her. And although Hades had tricked Persephone into staying six months of the year with him in his gray kingdom, that still meant that Persephone had the other half of the year in the sunshine and freedom. And for that, Persephone loved Zeus even more than the time he retrieved her precious emerald. But while Persephone loved Zeus for her free months during the year, Hades hated Zeus for taking away his only love for so long, even if Persephone was forced to return to the Underworld. This ran through Hades’ mind as he ran through the tunnels. He called out, more to himself than to Persephone, “My brother has never understood the shame from taking orders. He has never had to bow to anyone, pledge loyalty to anyone, back away from anyone. What would he give now, to save himself from my beasts? How long must he beg for mercy before he learns humility? How long?” “I don’t know…my king,” Persephone gasped as she ran. Somehow, Hades spoke as if they were taking a stroll, not running breathlessly through a thousand corridors to follow the chase through the cave. “He has taken my life away from me before! He has taken my life, and he has never seen what pain it caused me! To be separated from you, my love – that is at least a death. But Zeus never knew, he never understood. Now, though, his life is over, for good –” Hades stopped once more and spun in a circle. Persephone skidded to a halt in front of him, nearly slipping on the smooth floor. “His life is over now, but I am here to watch it happen. So ask me, my love, who is the more understanding? My brother or myself? Who has taken the time to understand that his decisions are very real, that they can ruin others?” “You, my lord, you are the one who understands,” Persephone squeaked. “Exactly! Exactly.” Hades was lost in his thoughts for a moment. Then, snapping himself out of his daze, he snapped, “Let’s hurry! We’re losing him again.” As Persephone followed once more, she felt a sickness grow inside of her like a child. She almost collapsed, she was so overcome with the nausea. But the feeling didn’t come from the run, although that weakened her enough. No, the sickness came from watching Zeus being inches away from an infinity of agony, the jaws of the wild beasts threatening to tear apart his immortal limbs. And even from there, even through the blustery snow, even through the cracks in the cave walls, Persephone could tell there was fear behind every stride Zeus took through the deep snow. That fear did not belong to Zeus, it could not. Persephone could not imagine how that Zeus who stepped into the Underworld unchallenged, solely to rescue her, was the same one that she saw running for his life. And yet, as terrified as Zeus was, Persephone did not find his courage. She wanted to rescue him, just as he had done for her sake so many years before, but she did not know how to begin. She could not even talk back to her captor Hades. She could not tell him that she was not his wife, that she could never be his wife. She would always remain Demeter’s daughter, as long as Demeter lived, and Demeter was immortal. She could never bring herself to abandon her mother – for as much as Persephone needed Demeter’s protection, so too did the mother need her daughter’s needs. They had defined their lives through each other, and so they were incomplete without each other. It was that mother’s love for her child that became their duty to uphold. But her duty to the lord Hades, that was not love, it could never be. It was a mother’s love that made Persephone realize that she needed to find a way back home. She had to do it on her own, because Zeus could not rescue her anymore. And since Zeus no longer sat on the throne atop Olympus, Persephone knew what Hades surely knew: that no other god could dare make Hades relinquish his queen. If Persephone did not break free, she would never be free. And so, as Persephone ran to keep up with Hades, she began planning on how to run away from him. Book 9 Later that night, Persephone began her escape. At least, Persephone thought it was night. She was trapped so deep beneath the world that she could never see the sun or the moon shine. When she was in the depths of the Underworld, she knew the day was over though when Hades returned to his throne. He spent most of his time outside of the palace, overseeing the ferrying of the souls across the rivers, or maybe watching the punishments inflicted on those who lived beyond the shores, the souls doomed to an eternity in the Underworld. However he spent his days, though, he always came back to the palace in the same way. He would carelessly swing the massive doors of the throne room open, not caring that the loud noise woke up the three-headed guard dog Cerberus. He would walk tiredly across the room, sighing the whole way, before falling down hard in his throne. Hades would then cover his face with his hands for some time – Persephone would notice this but never dared to ask why. She couldn’t imagine that Hades had any tears he wished to hide. Nor did Persephone think that Hades was deep in thought. The only thing that made sense to Persephone was that the mortals did much the same in the world above: they too would collapse in a chair after a long day of work and rest their head in their hands. Hades had personally witnessed countless of mortals die during his long reign, and Persephone imagined that Hades had observed the mortals in their moment of exhaustion. Without meaning to, Hades copied his subjects, although he had never known the tiredness that the mortals felt. And every time Hades raised his head from his hands, he always barked the same order: “Bring me a glass of ambrosia.” Each time he said this, Persephone did as she was commanded. There were no real servants to speak of, with the royal couple being by far the most solid beings in a kingdom of rotting flesh and ghosts. Persephone never said so, but the first few times she did this, she felt indignant – after all, in her old life in the palace at Olympus, only the servants fetched the ambrosia. But after awhile, she began to drop her silent protests and began to see the commands as favors one would ask another. She began to understand there would come a time when her nursing him would be rewarding – she just did not know how. But that night, Persephone understood everything: she knew how she could trick Hades, she knew how she could escape to the world above, she knew how she could be free and rescue Zeus, all in the same breath. And it all stemmed from that one cup of ambrosia. Or rather, Hades thought that the cup would hold ambrosia. But Persephone had drained the cistern of the godly drink, went into the palace’s storeroom, took out jugs of wine, and poured the drink into the cistern instead. The ambrosia and wine were so similar in taste and color that it would be impossible for even a god to tell them apart. That is, they were impossible to tell apart until well after: ambrosia woke up a god and gave them a bounce to their step, while the wine tired them out and they were asleep before they knew it. Hades did not know that the cup that Persephone gave him was filled with wine and not ambrosia. He did not know this when he drank it, not even afterwards when his eyelids felt weighted and he had trouble sitting upright on his throne. And so, less than an hour and several cups of wine later, Hades was fast asleep, his cup on the floor, shattered, the wine staining the stone. His head was leaning heavily on his shoulder, and Persephone was afraid that the awkward sleeping position would wake up the god soon. And so she had to act quickly. She crept from her own throne nearby and slinked up the steps towards the king’s throne. She slowly reached up towards the leather headband that Hades always kept hidden away in his robes. Hades didn’t know, but Persephone had seen Hades place the headband on his head before. Whenever Hades did, there was a pop and he would vanish from view. The invisibility cap was perhaps Hades’ most prized possession – that was one of the few things that Persephone knew about the lord before he kidnapped her. She pulled the leather headband from Hades’ robes and realized that she had not breathed the entire time she did so. Taking long, shallow breaths, Persephone backed away from Hades, admiring the prize she held in her hands. The cap was so simple and plain, and the palace so shining and decadent, she knew that Hades must have hated the cap. She knew that he loathed it, but she could not understand the point; after all, once you put the cap on, no one could see it anyway. Who was Hades trying to impress when there was nothing to see? She had no time to ponder the philosophy of the king’s madness, though, and she silently walked out of the room. As she walked, she fitted the headband on her head. As she did this, she suddenly halted – a loud pop filled her ears and the air was squeezed out of her. She gagged for air and collapsed to the floor. It was the first time she had ever vanished, and so she did not know the physics behind it. Persephone did not understand that the cap induced invisibility by pushing the wearer an instant into the future. She was barely a moment ahead of everyone else, and so she was not significantly quicker in reflexes, nor was she able to see much further into the future than anyone else could. But that moment’s difference was enough, as no one could look into the future, and so everyone in the world was blind to Persephone. But Persephone was blinded too: since the others lived in a world just a moment behind her, any creature that lived and breathed had vanished from view. Just the moment before she put the headband on, Persephone could see a sleeping Cerberus on the other side of the room, near the door. When she put the headband on, though, Cerberus had disappeared. The rest of the world, though, the palace, the lands, the waters, the skies, they were still there. Those things did not have to breathe to live because they did not live – they were more immortal than even the gods. And as Persephone crept past the spot where an unseen Cerberus slept, she was glad that likewise the beast could not see her as well. She still remembered the one time, a year or so before, when one of the dog’s three heads had bitten her. The dog’s poisonous bite was deadly to any mortal, and it would have even stung an immortal a bit. But Persephone had gone for a few days without her precious ambrosia – a punishment, because she could not bring herself to tell Hades that she loved him, because she did not like to lie. And so weakened, the dog’s bite left her in seizures and fever for days, and even when she recovered, a jagged scar was left behind on her leg as a reminder. Persephone gently opened up the door and walked outside. For a few moments, even though she was protected by the cap of invisibility, she still felt a wave of fear sweep over her. She had never walked through the Underworld alone – as much as she hated Hades, there was little denying that the god was always nearby to protect her in his own twisted way. Now, perhaps for the first time in her entire life, Persephone was entirely alone. She was alone in the physical universe, separated from everything else by a split-second. She was alone metaphorically as well, with no god or goddess nearby to look out for her well-being. It was up to her now to defend herself, and the stakes were never higher. If she could not tell the other gods the truth about Zeus – that he was being tortured on orders from Hades – then the old king would never be rescued, and Persephone would be dragged back into the Underworld once more, perhaps permanently. And so, she stepped out onto the jagged surface of the Underworld. The ground felt rough and unforgiving beneath her bare feet, but the ground felt like that even with Hades guarding her. And, as she walked towards the shores of the River Styx, her invisibility began giving her confidence, bit by bit. Nothing could hurt her as long as she wore the cap. That confidence soured, though, when she neared the shore. As the river came into view, she was startled by what she saw. The shore was usually black and rocky, almost as if it was the soul of shipwrecked shores in the world above. Now, though, the beaches were grey and sloping. At first, Persephone thought it was snowing – that would have sounded ridiculous if Persephone hadn’t seen Zeus trudge through snow in the endless tunnels just earlier that day. But as she got closer, she realized that it wasn’t snow but mist. And she got even closer, and she realized that it wasn’t mist but shades. There were thousands of shades along the shores of the Styx, the spirits crowded so closely together that it looked like a cloud had landed. Persephone had never seen such a thing before, not in all of her trips into the Underworld. No, this was something entirely new and different – the fears that melted from her just minutes before, those terrors were returning to her. The fact that she couldn’t understand the crowd of shades only made things feel worse. But she had to keep on moving. Persephone took a deep breath and began making her way down the slope towards the shore. Before, she had the advantage of height from the hills, being able to see out over the cloud of spirits and across the river. But now, now she was face-to-face with the shades, at their level. She could see nothing but grey around her. One time, she had walked through a shade by accident. It was during one of her first trips to the Underworld. When she had walked through the shade, she had gasped as if she had lost a few days of her infinite life. She remembered looking down at her hands, seeing how wrinkled they had become from touching the shade. Although the wrinkles quickly smoothed out and she regained her breath, the incident had scared her away from the shades, as much as she pitied them. But now, she had to walk through thousands of them, perhaps even millions, to reach the dock. But before she began her march, Persephone thought of something and froze – could the shades actually see her? That was something she had not thought of, and now she wished she hadn’t considered it. But it made sense, after all: just as she could see the palace because it did not need a specific moment to live, neither did the shades, because they did not live anymore at all. They were not constrained by time like everyone else was. And since she could see them, it was very possible, if not absolutely certain, that they could see her too. But what could they do? They had no voice loud enough to alert Charon or Cerberus or Hades even of her escape – as if they ever listened to the cries of the shades. And she doubted the shades were nearly loyal enough towards Hades to crowd her and age her until she was shriveled. And so, bravely and nervously, Persephone started walking through the crowd. She could feel the dust from the spirits cake her face and her arms, the fine powder immediately drying up her pores. She couldn’t see her hands through the grayness, but she could feel her fingertips begin to wrinkle, as if she had been swimming for far too long. She felt disoriented in the cloud, having no idea which way led to the shore now, but it was too late to turn back. She had to keep moving, and so she hurried up the pace, feeling her bones begin to creak, and arthritis begin to settle in. If she didn’t die in that field of shades, she would certainly grow decrepit enough to become a statue. She was reminded of corpses she had seen before, the people frozen in their final movements. She wondered if that would happen to her – she wondered what she might look like: perhaps a woman fallen in the ground, her hand reaching out, clawing in the soil, frozen forever in motion. And that was if she could ever be found – she remembered that she still wore the cap of invisibility, and she wondered with a panic if she would be lost forever, dead but still alive, lost but still very much there. And then, the gray gave way and the murky river was just a few feet in front of her. She had to fight back the compulsion to kneel over the river and wash her face with the water. She was afraid of falling into the water out of exhaustion, vanishing into its depths like many an unlucky shade throughout history. When she asked Hades where the shades went when they drowned in the rivers, he just laughed and said they were now swirling in a sea of nothingness, lost with no hope of rescue. There can never be a map for the Underworld. The dock was nearby – Persephone stumbled over the rotting wooden planks and sat down at the edge of the dock, her feet just hovering over the river’s surface. She waited what felt like forever but was only a few minutes. The familiar thud made Persephone turn around, and she saw that Charon’s ferryboat had just brushed up against the dock. Persephone waited until all of the shades onboard had shuffled off and left the dock. Persephone watched them as some disappeared through the winding trails that led to their afterlives, but many simply joined the swirling cloud of shades on shore. The cloud was becoming denser by the moment, and it was even beginning to spin, like furious thunderstorms in the afternoon. Persephone was so unsettled by the sight that she almost forgot what she was there to do. She hurried onboard before Charon could lift up the plank. As the ferry began to move once more across the water, Persephone sat down and waited for the other shore to appear. She desperately hoped that there wouldn’t be another cloud of shades waiting for her – she simply couldn’t walk through another crowd like that anytime soon. But as much as she was afraid to look ahead of her, Persephone was also reluctant to look behind. She knew that a few feet behind her, Charon was steering the boat, unaware that there was anyone else onboard with him. She was always unnerved by the crumbling ferryman – every time she entered or left the Underworld, though, she needed his services to cross the river. And true, she was invisible this time, and so was Charon, with both of them separated by a gulf of a split-second. Still, she somehow felt Charon’s mushy eyes bearing down on her through the mists of time, always watching. Persephone shivered and tightly wrapped her arms across her chest. The libations that dripped down from the world above splashed in tiny drops on her head. She was cold and wet with the sacrificed wine and terrified of being caught. Persephone had never been quite so miserable, as close as she was to freedom. Barely before the boat touched the other shore, before the invisible Charon could lower the ramp for the waiting shades, Persephone was already climbing over the boat’s side. She landed lightly on the dock, disturbing a few shades on the crowded planks. Gasping a little from touching the bursts of dust, Persephone held herself together regardless and continued onward. She walked through the winding paths, the ground slowly rising below her, the river growing distant behind her. With the river’s lights fading and the darkness growing, all of the old fears began to cling to Persephone. It was a rare moment when she wasn’t with someone, and she had never trusted those lonely moments. She still remembered that moment, long ago, when she had slipped from Olympus to play in the green fields of the mortal world. That was the same afternoon when Hades heard her singing and decided to take her away. But even with the weight of her terrors, Persephone began to pick up the pace. Just as Hades pulled her along to watch the torture of Zeus’ hunt, she felt pulled at that moment as well. Persephone just didn’t know what was dragging her along: part of her thought it was the love for her mother Demeter, but the other part thought it was her duty to Zeus. It did not take long for the darkness to thin – Persephone looked down and she saw speckles of light on her arms. Her eyes followed the beams upwards and she noticed that she was in a massive volcanic pit. There was a strong pulse of sunlight far above her, but the sides of the chamber were jagged and steep. She had used that chamber countless times in the past, but it was only with another’s help. Each time she was given to Hades for her months-long captivity, it was Zeus as an eagle who had lowered her down into the chamber, Persephone held safely in Zeus’ talons. And every time Persephone was released from her unwilling service to Hades, Zeus would be there at the base of the pit, waiting for her. And so Persephone had never taken the climb by herself, but she had to now. Persephone looked around her, wondering where she could begin the climb. And that was when she saw it: nearby, there were deep, wide grooves in the rock. She walked over and curiously examined them; they were rough but certainly artificial. Someone or something had climbed out of that pit before, and whatever it was happened to be a bit taller than her, judging by the space between the holds. Persephone shivered as she wondered what beast had the claws sharp enough to dig through the thick rock. Still, she said her thanks to whatever beast it was, because at least it was a start. And so she began the climb. At first, it was easy, and Persephone marveled, never thinking of herself as a climber. But it did not take long for the grooves to become shallower and shallower. Persephone gasped when the grooves above her stopped altogether, and she glanced around wildly in the dimness, hoping to find more holds. She noticed some to her left – the beast must have jumped to the side, perhaps to avoid falling rocks. Persephone had not thought of a rockslide before, but it quickly became a real fear for her. What if a rock knocked off her cap of invisibility, revealing her to the world and to the always-watchful Hades? What if a rockslide knocked her off the steep wall, burying her in the rubble far below? It would take much more than rocks to kill an immortal like her, but Persephone would not be strong enough to free herself from the fallen stone. And she would stay there, trapped beneath the rubble forever, because no one could rescue a girl who was invisible. It was a real-enough fear that should have made her climb back down. Instead, it was that fear that made her jump to the side, clutching madly for the grooves in the rock. How did I do that? She thought, astounded. She held on firmly to the groove with one hand, her legs dangling with nothing to hold her up. Any other person would have slipped, and Persephone felt like any other person – that was why she felt so surprised that her fingertips were so strong. She felt as if she could have held onto that groove for days. But she had work to do, and so she continued her climb, now at a faster pace than before. The bulb of sunlight above her grew larger and brighter, bit by bit, and Persephone hurried even more. Still, it felt like hours until she finally climbed over the ridge and touched the world above again. The climb felt like hours to her, even though it was barely even an hour. At first, Persephone thought that she was gasping for air, and so she spent a few moments trying to catch her breath. Then she realized that the gasps weren’t from exhaustion – they were actually gasps of laughter. It was the madness that came with being free. But while triumph came with her climb out of the sleeping volcano, Persephone was met with only frustration as she began her trip towards Olympus. Even though Olympus could be seen from the volcano itself – the mountain of the gods looming in the distance as a giant’s shadow – the journey was still forever. Along the way, Persephone passed by villages of invisible people. She felt bizarre not being able to see the mortals through her cap of invisibility. She could only assume that the citizens were going about their daily business, unaware that an invisible goddess had just run past them. Persephone felt the urge to rip the leather headband from her hair and rush to the nearest temple, where she could pray for rescue from one of the Olympians. But, even with her newfound bravery from the climb out of the pit, Persephone knew better. She had a feeling that Hades was awake by then, shook out of his winy sleep. And so, if Persephone revealed herself to the Olympians above, she would also reveal herself to Hades below – and that was the last thing she wanted to do. Still, she had to find a way to reach Olympus soon, or at least communicate with one of the gods. There were forces at work that she did not understand, at least not at that moment: there was Zeus’ horrific punishment, Hades’ feverish excitement, and the cloud of shades in the Underworld, a cloud that was becoming denser by the moment. It was a massive problem, and yet so few knew the secret. More had to know. And that was when she heard it. It was low at first, softer than a whisper, but as it got loud, it became clearer, like swatting your hand at the fog. “Persephone, Persephone, Persephone,” the gliding voice cooed. The goddess froze, terrified. Who could see her through her invisibility? She spun around, but saw nothing but the forest in all directions. She could see nothing but trees and blankets of leaves, because all of the deer and wolves and boars were invisible to her. And she could see no human mortals, no gods or goddesses. She was completely alone – she should have been completely alone. “Persephone, don’t be frightened, it’s me.” “Who are you?” Persephone asked, breathless. “How can you see me?” “You can see the forest, can’t you?” Persephone didn’t answer. “If you can see the leaves, then you can see me,” the voice continued. At that, the leaves in front of Persephone began to toss and turn, even though there was no wind, the rest of the forest silent and still. Persephone watched, marveling, as the leaves spun quickly in a tight circle, gradually moving upwards. As the leaves spun up, there were leaves left behind, forming the rough outline of feet, then legs, then a waist, then arms. It reminded Persephone of a statue being cut from marble. When the whirlwind of leaves reached slightly above Persephone’s height, the wind died and a few, leftover leaves fluttered to the ground. Before Persephone, there was a silhouette of a woman – at least, she thought it was a woman – made entirely of the leaves. Shocked, Persephone fell backwards in the soft soil. The woman of leaves appeared to smile and said softly, “My dear Persephone, don’t you know who I am?” “I-I-I…” Persephone tried to find the words, but only awe came out. “I’m your ancestor,” the woman of leaves said as she stooped down to help up Persephone. For being made of leaves and air, the woman was remarkably strong. “My ancestor?” Persephone said, not believing that she was related to fallen leaves. The woman nodded. “I’m your ancestor. I’m everyone’s ancestor.” Persephone was silent for a few moments, then she understood. She breathed, “Gaia.” Gaia, the goddess of life, nodded. “I don’t understand,” Persephone said slowly, walking around Gaia, expecting to see some magic. “How are you…?” “Made of leaves?” Gaia offered. “Oh, my darling, I’m made of much more than that. I’m made of the leaves, the trees, the fields, the marshes, the ponds. I’m the seed of life – I’m the seed of everything beautiful.” Persephone saw Gaia, but she still couldn’t understand. None of the other gods and goddesses had ever seen her. They had spoken of Gaia many times over dinner as if she was a myth. But here was a woman formed of leaves, talking to Persephone, claiming to be the Mother Goddess, the beginning of life. Persephone began to find her words. “You, you should not be real.” Gaia smiled widely. “I only make myself real when I need help.” “You need my help?” “Yes. You’re running from your Uncle Hades. I know why.” “You do?” Gaia nodded solemnly. “Your uncle and I have never been fond of one another. And why not? He loves death and I love life. He is there when my forests burn down, and I am there when the saplings grow out of the ash. I have sensed something, something terrible from the Underworld. I have never sensed this power before, and I’m afraid of what Hades is planning to do with it.” Suddenly, Persephone remembered what she was doing. “Oh, it is terrible! Hades has Lord Zeus trapped in the depths of the Underworld! And there is a cloud of shades that is growing on the shores of the River Styx. I don’t understand why the shades grow like that.” “I know about Zeus,” Gaia said matter-of-factly. Persephone realized that Gaia must have been present when Zeus died in the mortal world, because Gaia was everywhere. “But the cloud of shades, this is something new.” Gaia looked troubled – she twisted her leafy hair in her fingers – Persephone watched as a few of the leaves fell to the ground. Persephone asked, “You said you needed my help?” “Oh, yes! I need your help, child, as much as you need mine. Hades is planning something dangerous, and I cannot let him win this time. He is beginning to understand too many things about himself. I’m afraid that he could bring the entire world down now if he wanted. We will need to let the Olympians know – they are our only defense against the troubles in the Underworld.” “But what about you?” Persephone asked. She was confused, because she thought that Gaia, the mother of life, was strong enough to stop death. “Oh, my child, my dear child, if only I could! But what would I be, if I killed someone? If I even made someone bleed? I can only make the world grow – I cannot take anything away. I’m not…him.” She pointed beneath their feet – Gaia didn’t say the name, but Persephone knew she was talking about Hades. “But I can help you, though,” Gaia said, seeing the disappointed look on Persephone’s face. “You need to reach Olympus soon, and I know just the way you can do it.” Gaia turned her head to the side, stuck two leafy fingers in her mouth, and whistled impossibly. The sound drenched the forest all around the two goddesses. Even after a few seconds, Persephone could still hear the whistles in the distance, echoing off a thousand tree trunks. Finally, she asked, “Who did you call for?” Gaia smiled. “You can take off that cap of yours. You have nothing to fear now.” Reluctantly, Persephone did as the Mother Goddess asked and took off the cap of invisibility. As she did, a world alive with birds and rabbits snapped into view around her. She was connected with the world again, and the rush of senses scared her, then it excited her. But then, she heard a sound of twigs breaking, of grass rustling. She spun in a circle, frightened. Did Hades already know where she was? Had she made a terrible mistake by taking off the cap? But then, the bushes parted and a beautiful horse leapt into the clearing with Persephone and Gaia. The stallion was darker than night, his eyes whiter than the moon, his bared teeth faster than shooting stars. Persephone stumbled backwards a bit as the horse snapped at her. She was so startled that it took her a moment to realize that the horse wasn’t trying to bite her – it was trying to talk to her. “Persephone, I am at your service,” the horse said, kneeling and bowing its head gracefully. Persephone turned to Gaia, searching for answers. Gaia laughed lightly and said, “Persephone, I want to introduce you to Arian, the fastest horse in the world.” Arion’s title wasn’t what impressed Persephone. The amazed goddess asked instead, “He can talk?” “I can talk better than any human,” Arion snorted proudly. Gaia patted Arion on his long head, “Now, now, we barely have enough time for introductions. Arion, I need you to take our guest here to Olympus, as quickly as you can. The whole world depends on your gallop. Can you do this, if not for me then for the world?” “I will do anything for you, my Queen,” Arion spoke, “because I see no difference between you and the world.” Gaia helped Persephone onto Arion’s back. As Persephone steadied herself on top of Arion, she looked down at the leafy goddess and asked, “Will I ever see you again?” Gaia smiled and said, “You have always seen me, and you will always see me. Hold on tight – Arion waits for no one.” Persephone gripped Arion’s neck tightly. The horse reared his head and roared more than neighed, and then the world blurred. It took a few seconds for Persephone to realize that they were moving, the horse was so fast. The forest around them blurred like colors of paint mixing together, and Persephone saw colors that she had never seen before. This must be what an artist feels like, Persephone thought. Olympus grew larger by the second, until the mountain chewed up the horizon. They were approaching a shimmer of blue, one of the many lakes that sat at the foot of the great mountain. Persephone realized with a shock that she just got on Arion’s back a minute before. In a minute’s time, the horse had run what it would have taken Persephone hours, even days to walk. Persephone was so surprised by Arion’s quickness that she didn’t understand until it was too late: they were going to go into the lake. “Arion, watch out!” Persephone yelled over the intense wind. Either the winds were too loud, or the horse was ignoring her, but either way, Persephone’s warnings went unheard. She gripped the horse’s mane tightly, expecting them to dive into the water. She closed her eyes and braced for the impact of the icy lake water. After a few moments of feeling nothing, Persephone carefully opened one of her eyes and realized that they were actually on top of the lake itself. Arion ran so fast that his hooves barely touched anything – they were practically flying. Then, the lake was behind them, and Arion began leaping up the mountain. Horizontal turned vertical, and Persephone screamed in horror as she held onto Arion’s mane, her feet dangling. Arion was so lost in his run that he didn’t realize he was going up a sheer wall of rock – he also didn’t realize that there was someone holding onto him for dear life. But thankfully for Persephone, that dash straight up the mountain only lasted seconds. Then, the run stopped altogether. The blur came into focus immediately as Arion halted, his hooves digging deep grooves into the rock. Persephone didn’t stop as easily though; she flew some feet ahead of Arion, her momentum stopping only when she hit a boulder. Persephone groaned as she slid and collapsed to the ground a few feet beneath her. She couldn’t bruise that easily, but the stop jarred her senses loose. As she slowly stood up and shook the dust off her, Persephone said to Arion, “Thank you for running me here, but you could have stopped a bit easier.” Arion huffed, “I’m sorry, but I’m not used to people riding on my back.” Persephone looked around and realized that they were on a ledge thousands of feet up in the air. In front of her, the ground simply ended, the ledge giving way to a nine-thousand foot drop to the ground far below. Behind her, the mountain rose even further. Persephone turned and looked; just a bit higher, she could see one of the walls of the palace poking out from the mountaintop. She was back home. She turned back to Arion, wanting to thank the horse for his help, but the noble stallion was already gone. Alone once more but not for long, Persephone took her joy with her as she began the short climb to where the palace sat. She should have been anxious: not only was Hades planning something terrible far beneath her, but she should not trust the gods that reigned above her. She had lived amongst them for too long; she knew that at least one of them would have to be working with Hades. Persephone would be disappointed if the Olympians didn’t live up to their trickery. And someone had to be working with Hades – as powerful as the Lord of the Dead was, he alone wasn’t strong enough to bring about Zeus’ death. Who were the conspirators? Was it Ares, who hated everyone? Was it Hera, who was always jealous of Zeus and his affairs? Was it Apollo, who loved order as much as he hated Zeus’ carefree rule? There was an upside to there being so few to trust, though – Persephone could easily remember their names. There was her mother Demeter, of course, but a mother’s trust is a given. And, for all the power that Demeter had, she was far too weak to challenge Hades. There was one whom Persephone could trust – there was one whom Persephone knew could fight Hades. Athena was the reason why Persephone climbed towards the palace, unafraid. Book 10 Hera climbed the steps towards the throne, taking her time as she did so, almost as if she was stalling, almost. Still, she handed the gleaming sword to Athena, who took it as she had to. Hera placed the beautiful crown on top of Athena’s head. The sunlight that made its way into the room caught in the crown, turning the room into twisted bridges of rainbows. Hera stood frozen for a moment, looking at this new Athena curiously, not sure what to make of her. She stepped backwards down the steps and took her place amongst the other Olympians. She took a cup of ambrosia and lifted it up to Athena. She said: “Athena, my queen, may you rule as brilliantly as we will serve you.” The other gods repeated the pledge, a rare moment of harmony. Athena did not say a single word. She did not even look down at the Olympians beneath her – instead, she stared blankly ahead, into the deep courtyard. Part of her wanted to cry, but she had been too charitable with her tears earlier, and now she felt dry the way a desert must. Somewhere – Athena wasn’t sure if it came from inside the palace or out in the courtyard – somewhere an owl hooted. It was a long, strong vowel that filled the empty Athena, almost drowning her. For the first time in awhile, Athena actually felt as if she was made of something. The owl’s hoot animated her, loosening the veins in her still arms. Still, while the bird’s cry reminded her to keep brave, it made her miss the eagle’s call she was so used to hearing before. More than anything else at that moment, she wanted to fling the crown from her head and run away. She wanted to run down the infinite hallways of the palace – her palace – out into the courtyard, down the cliffs of Mount Olympus, and into the mortal world. It was there that she belonged. A tiny part of her wondered what she would be doing at that exact moment, if she had not killed her father. Well first, she would be happier, much happier, than she was now, sitting on her dead father’s throne. She would have been walking out of her little home in the woods – it was that time of the day when the sunlight flooded through the branches and washed the modest home. The other gods thought that ambrosia was the warmest thing in the world, but Athena knew that the afternoon sun was balmier. Athena idly wondered if it was possible to drown in sunlight. The thought was not as ridiculous as it sounded – the mortals loved water, but Athena had seen many of their bodies dragged out of the harbor, to the rhythm of their mothers’ wails. And the thought of water made her wish that she could wash herself of the blood that still clung to her like briars. The glow had long since gone out of Zeus’ shed blood, but the dried bloodstains were still on her hands and her face. The streaks across her face were blackened, sooty almost. She had tried desperately to scrub the stains before the crowning ceremony – she could not let her family see her with their patriarch’s blood. The gods had never seen their own blood before, and Athena did not want their first sight of ichor to be Zeus’. But the stains were stubborn – true, they would fade with time, but so would Zeus’ memory. And the spear that she had used to commit the awful deed: that spear’s point was still tucked away in her robes. She almost tossed the spear’s blade after the murder, she loathed it so much. But she still brought it with her. Perhaps it was because the spear’s tip touched Zeus – the blade may have sinned against the world, but it was still a relic. And Athena’s life was so long, and her memory so short, that she needed all of the remembrance she could find. And that was how Athena found herself, drenched in blood she did not want to shed, armed with a blade that she did not want, sitting in a throne that she felt she did not earn. Still, the gods and goddesses who bowed before her thought she was their new ruler. And whatever the gods believed in, the world below believed in it too. The temples built to honor Zeus would eventually crumble, the cults that worshipped the dead god would soon break apart – in their place, the new monuments would rise, pledging love and loyalty to Athena. The new Queen could only wish that she could tear down her temples. And although Athena did not feel like a queen, her mortal subjects far below certainly felt the presence of something new and raw. It felt like a poor man rubbing his hands together like sticks in the winter months, trying to stay warm. The friction was slow and grinding, but the important thing was that it began. Already, the mortal scribes were writing about droughts, about the winds turning dusty, about the deserts reaching out to take what was once theirs. To the far south in Egypt, a sandstorm swallowed an entire village. Only a few years from that moment, the maps would be the only ones who would remember that village, and even the maps would eventually crumble away. To the east, the crops warmed, then burned, until the farmers thought they were growing fields of fire. This was a story that the historians didn’t want to write, but they were still writing the first chapter on their papyrus. All of this was happening at her feet, and still Athena didn’t know. She didn’t know that her kingdom was breaking apart, because no one told her that she had to know. Some of the gods in front of her had not left Mount Olympus in centuries – if no one had kept them informed, then they would have forgotten about the humans. The only one who could have guided Athena through her first day as queen would have been Zeus, and he was gone in every way possible. After the crowning ceremony, the gods took the opportunity for a feast. While they had feasts as often as they could, they now had an actual reason to celebrate: they had a new ruler, and so they had a new direction to their compass. And since they were nervous, they were excited, and since they were excited they chattered, and since they chattered they stuffed themselves with food so that they wouldn’t have to hear the others talk. The feast was held in a chamber, one connected to the throne room by a short corridor. In the middle of the chamber, there was a black stone table, carved out of the obsidian floor beneath them. And while the benches too were crafted out of the same, unforgiving stone, they felt silky and lazy. Only a god could survive sitting on those wonderful benches – a normal mortal would have never been able to get up until they finally died. As the gods all ate their plates of food before them, they kept their secrets well. None of them gave anything away with twitches in their eyes or faces. No, instead, they kept their faces down, their jaws gulping, their fingers picking at the food. It seemed that, as long as someone kept eating, they could keep a secret. The only one that seemed to give away his secrets was Ares. He ate slowly, his eyes flickering upwards from time to time, glaring down the table at the quiet Athena. There were questions that Ares wanted to ask: How did Athena kill Zeus? Why did she kill Zeus? Of course, Athena had told them all the story of the tragedy, how she had killed Zeus, mistaking him for a rogue bull. But Ares had seen enough wars in the world below them, enough to know that no death was an accident. He had seen generals sacrifice entire bands of soldiers in battle, only to ignore those deaths later, as if the soldiers never meant anything to the generals in the first place. If a man’s death meant nothing, then that man’s life meant nothing. It was why Ares remembered every kill he ever made, the thousands of mortals who met death at the end of his sword. Each of those men looked different, but they all looked at him the same way in their final moment, the shock in the eyes from meeting the one challenge they could not win. Ares felt an honor to be that challenge; that he had slaughtered princes and generals through the years only made him feel prouder. So how could Athena sit at that table with them, eating her food and drinking her ambrosia, and not say what they all knew? How could she not boast of killing the greatest god in history, a being whose eyes shone with sunlight, whose knuckles crackled with lightning? And, if Athena wasn’t saying anything, then what was she thinking? Was she already wondering what god to kill next, to preserve the prize that she had won? Who was to say that Ares himself wasn’t the next to be executed? It made sense to the god of war – after Zeus, he was the strongest god. And Ares had seen quite a few generals overthrow their kings in the mortal world – how quick the people would forget their past king and love the new. But while Ares was suspicious of Athena at that moment for what she could kill, he had resented her for a long time for what she could save. Ares never admitted to anyone, not even himself, his history with Athena – because Ares could never talk about failure. But there was a time, long before, when Ares did not hate Athena at all actually. If anything, he ignored her, even when most of the palace clamored for Athena to be banished to the mortal world, afraid of her Titaness blood. Ares had seen so many wars that a squabble like that felt like a waste of his time. But, it wasn’t long after that exile, when Athena got comfortable in the mortal world, that things began to happen. And, while Ares may have ignored Athena’s Titaness blood before – he certainly was paying attention now. For the longest time, Ares had his eyes on the same valley where Athena lived in exile. The valley felt too beautiful to be real, like a finger had been run through thick green paint. Trees lined the banks of a river that was miles long and fathoms deep. From there, the forest of straight green ran up the sides of the cliffs that straddled the valley. The valley felt real only to the people that lived there – travelers and guests would swear that they had walked into a mirage. Even during the burn of the summer months, the forested valley never lost its shade. Every time Ares looked at that valley of green, the beauty sickened him. He wanted to burn the valley grey, to streak the soil with blood. He simply could not rest until the whole world looked like a battlefield, because a battlefield was his whole world. And so he whispered in the ears of sleeping generals, and it wasn’t long until one city sent its soldiers into the valley, wanting to claim the fertile land as its own. At first, the soldiers were successful, burning a village to the ground and dislodging people who had lived in the valley for generations. When Ares saw this, he was pleased, but he wanted more. And so he excited the soldiers until their hearts pumped with bloodlust, and they plunged even deeper into the valley. One night, when the soldiers were encamped on one of the many cliffs overlooking the valley, they saw flickers of light further along the cliffs. They immediately recognized the lights as campfires, and there were so many campfires they wondered if an army had finally marched to meet them. When Ares saw this, he hissed rumors through the soldiers that, if they didn’t kill now, they themselves would be killed by morning. And so the men of Ares led a charge through the night, silently running so that they could surprise the other army. Ares smiled as his men ran, expecting the other army to be caught by surprise. But it was Ares and his men who were surprised, when they reached the enemy camp and found nothing there but the campfires, their lights burning, their smoke feeding a hungry night. The men, uneasy, asked themselves, “Where are they? Where are the men who lit these fires?” Their answer came a few moments later, in a volley of arrows from their left flank. The night ripped itself apart as soldiers screamed, and those were the lucky ones, as many were hit in the throat and the lungs, bleeding words as they fell. The band of soldiers retreated, because no one can fight and win against an invisible enemy. With his godly eyes, Ares could see the silhouettes of the enemy army as they advanced, stopping only to aim their arrows at the scrambling soldiers illuminated in the campfire light. Many of the retreating soldiers were in such a panic, they didn’t know where they were going. And so the steep cliffs claimed the lives that the arrows did not want. Ares screamed as he melted into the darkness, not so much to escape capture but to escape his newfound shame. And although he didn’t see her, Ares knew that Athena was responsible for his stunning defeat. Athena was the only one who could have anticipated Ares’ bold, nighttime charge. And Athena was the only immortal who loved the people of that valley enough to fight alongside them. Afterwards, Athena never admitted to having a role in the battle that night, but her silence was damning. And so, ever since that moment, Ares’ war with Athena had raged on in the shadows. That was why, when a nervous-looking Hebe slipped into the chamber and whispered into Athena’s ear, the first thing Ares thought was that a new conspiracy had started. He could tell by the way that Athena’s eyes widened, the way that her chest heaved, the way she whispered back to the servant Hebe. As Athena excused herself from the table and hurriedly left the room with Hebe, Ares would have lost a thousand battles to know what the two goddesses had been whispering. If only Ares knew the truth. Athena’s reaction to the whisper was not one of excitement – it was one of shock. At first, Athena could not believe what Hebe was telling her. The servant was always honest and faithful to the throne, no matter what, but what Hebe said made no sense. But that was why Athena followed Hebe down a long hallway and into a room she had never seen before – she wanted the world to make sense again. As Athena entered that room, though, the world gave way even more. She took a step back and asked, “Persephone? Is that really you?” The room was a simple one, out-of-place alongside the palace’s many exquisite and rich rooms. This room was more for storage than anything else, with rows of jugs lining the floor. And, at the far end, Persephone stood, with a granite lip but shaking knees. Before Athena could say anything, Persephone ordered, “Hebe, close the door and stand guard outside. I need to speak with Athena, alone.” Hebe didn’t budge, though, and Athena realized that the servant was waiting for her queen’s order. Athena simply nodded, and Hebe left the room, closing the door behind her. Athena and Persephone were alone, and Athena realized that it was perhaps the first time she had ever spoken with her cousin. Before she could reflect on this, Persephone said in a rush, “Something terrible is going on.” Athena nodded grimly and pointed to the crown on her head. “I know.” “It wasn’t your fault.” What a strange thing to say, Athena thought. It was certainly her fault – she was the one who threw the spear at her father, after all. How could Persephone know, when she wasn’t there to witness the murder? Athena didn’t say any of this, though – instead, she walked slowly towards Persephone, asking, “Why did Hebe bring me here? What do you want to say to me that you can’t say to the rest of the family?” And suddenly, remembering something else, Athena added, “And where have you been? Your mother has been worried about you.” Persephone smiled a little. “She’s worried about me? Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that at all. But you want to know where I’ve been? It’s not so much where I’ve been, but what I’ve been. For too long I’ve been a hostage to Hades. For too long I’ve surrendered myself to that filth, when I should have fought him every step of the way. I’ve let him control me, though, and now the crimes he has committed, I’ve done those crimes as well. I had you brought to this room because I want to wash the blood from our hands.” “Tell me everything.” And that was what Persephone did. She told Athena about how Hades had become insulted, being told what to do by his brother Zeus. It was an indignation that boiled over when Zeus took Persephone away from the King of the Dead. Desperate for revenge, Hades went to the Fates, where he found out about the prophecy that Zeus could only die at Athena’s hands. From there, Hades orchestrated the scene of Zeus’ death: the dead woman, the rumors of the rogue bull, all of that was a trick by Hades, to make Athena do the one thing that Hades could never do. When Persephone finished speaking, Athena was quiet for a long moment. She was beginning to understand just what Persephone meant, when she said that Zeus’ death was not Athena’s fault. No, it was Hades’ fault – he was the one who drew back Athena’s arm that evening, he was the one who threw that spear that killed Zeus. What Persephone was saying should have answered all of her questions and more, but all it did was confuse her. She always knew her Uncle Hades was no good, but this, tricking her to kill Zeus, what was the use? Hades was too smart for mere revenge – that was something she would expect from Ares. No, there was something else going on, and Athena wanted to know what. She could tell by looking in Persephone’s eyes that her cousin wanted to know the same too. “You know, Hades keeps telling me that he’s doing this for me,” Persephone sighed. “He says that Zeus wants to keep Hades and me apart, as if we’re doomed lovers. He says that no one has the right to do that. But while Hades saw Zeus as kidnapping me from the Underworld, I saw Zeus as my rescuer. That’s why I pulled myself out of that damned hole, that’s why I walked across half of this land and up this mountain. I did all of that for Zeus – I could never see myself doing that for Hades.” Persephone spat that final word. There was a short silence before Athena spoke, quietly. “And you came to me, why? Why do you trust me?” Athena wanted to know, because everyone else had always gone to Zeus for help. And she felt like a terrible queen, one not worthy to help those in need. That Persephone came to her…that said more than Athena expected to hear. Persephone shrugged. “You were Zeus’ firstborn. You came from his mind. You might not be Zeus, but in my eyes, you’re close enough.” “But I killed him.” “Yes, you killed him, but you both share the same mind, the same spirit. So you may have killed him, but why would you have wanted to kill him? That would be the same thing as killing yourself…at least, that’s how I see it.” Persephone threw her hands up in exasperation and continued. “You’re the only god I can trust with this, really.” “What about your mother?” “You would think so. After all, she’s the spring to Hades’ winter, the life to his death. But she’s cried over me for too long. She’s so obsessed with losing things, I don’t think she even wants them back. The only time she loves me is when I’m not in her arms. She might cry over Zeus like she cries over me, but she won’t fight to bring him back. She won’t fight to bring him back, just like how she didn’t go into the Underworld to save me, when Hades had me in chains. But you! You love those mortals enough to hate Hades, who tries to kill them in their sleep. Not only do you love them, you rescue them. I’ve heard stories about you, even from up here, on Olympus. You’ve saved wounded soldiers in battle from Ares. You’ve swam out and saved drowning sailors from Poseidon. You’ve looked over the sick and the old. So please, rescue Zeus – you’re the only one of us who can.” Athena groaned, running her hands through her hair in frustration. Sure, she had rescued mortals on the brink of death – but she had never rescued someone who had actually died. When a person died, they were gone forever. No one, not even a god, could bring the dead back to life. But she had already done the impossible once: she had killed someone who was never supposed to die. Could she perform a miracle again? Could she bring someone back to life? As if to answer her question, there was an owl hoot that rolled through the corridors like a wave. The sudden sound startled Athena in more ways than one. Somewhere far away, or maybe somewhere impossibly close, Athena heard, or felt rather, her mother’s voice. She couldn’t make out the words – but a baby doesn’t understand their mother’s words when she sings. And so, with a deep breath, Athena gave her first order as queen. “I want you to hide in my room until this is all over. Do you understand me? Because if Hades knows you’re here…” Athena didn’t finish her sentence, because there was no point in saying what Persephone already knew. Her cousin nodded her thanks and asked, “What about you? What are you going to do?” Athena didn’t answer her, but instead walked to the door and opened it swiftly. Hebe, who had been listening through the crack in the door, almost fell into the room, but she recovered, barely. Sheepish, Hebe asked, “Do you want something, my queen?” “You’re going to go back to the room with the others,” Athena said sharply. “When they ask you where I went, you’re going to tell them that I’m resting in my room. Tell them that I’ve had a long day, that I want nothing more than to sleep. Don’t tell them anything less, and don’t tell them anything more.” “Yes, my queen.” Athena strode past Hebe and down the hallway. She was beginning her transformation into an owl, her talons clicking on the stone floor as she walked, when Persephone called out from behind her. “Athena, what are you going to do?” “If the Fates knew that I was going to kill my father, then they will know how I can save him.” And so Athena left on her journey. She was so focused on finding the Fates, though, that she forgot everything else. And so she didn’t know that, miles below her, the world was rippling. Somewhere, across the oceans, on a rocky island where nothing grew and the grounds were charred, a volcano sat. It was one of the largest volcanoes ever, its crater alone chewing up most of the island. And, for the first time since any man and their grandfather could remember, a boulder the size of a ship tumbled down from the volcano. The cliffs rattled, the peaks groaned, the ground began to split like broken shards of pottery. A tongue of smoke reached out from the volcano, licking the clouds in the skies above. Book 11 “Where are you?” Athena roared, her voice shaking the leaves loose from the trees. “Show yourself, or I’ll burn this whole forest down!” She had been walking through the dark forest for hours, calling out for the Fates to appear. She knew that the Fates only showed themselves when they wanted to, but she hoped that they would hear her cries for help and show some mercy. After awhile, their silence mocked Athena, and this angered her. As she passed through a particularly wooded spot, she found some low-lying branches in her way. In her fury, she kicked the heavy branches, shearing them off the tree. The forest was becoming darker here, the leaves overhead growing into a ceiling. Athena knew of ways around such inconveniences. She began her owl transformation, stopping when most of her face had turned avian. She ran her hand over her face, feeling the feathers, the pointed mouth where the beak would have been – but now she at least had an owl’s eyes. And so the dark woods opened up for her, the shadows pulsing with light. She made her way a bit deeper into the shadows when she heard it. At first, she thought it was a bird singing, but that was when she began hearing lyrics. And that was when she knew she found them. She spun around in a circle, trying to find the silhouettes of the witches somewhere in the forest around her. Finally, her wide owl eyes spotted them. Off to the left, under a tent of branches, Athena saw what looked like several women dancing. Or it could have been men – Athena wasn’t sure exactly, even with her perfect eyes. As the trio danced, their pace picked up, and so did their song. Athena couldn’t recognize the language, but something about it was unsettling, reminding her of a rabid dog growling. As Athena approached, her sword drawn, she called out, “Witches, show yourselves!” The dancing halted. The creatures looked up at Athena as one, their crimson eyes glowing in the darkness. Athena heard a crackling voice say, “We’re much more than witches, my child. You’re smart enough to know that.” “I have no time for arguments!” Athena snapped. The Fates all looked at her curiously. One with a particularly long and scraggly beard said, “We know why you’re here.” “Then why are you wasting my time?” The Fates didn’t answer, so Athena had to answer for them. “You’re wasting my time because you have to. What happened to Zeus is still going on, isn’t it? Answer me!” Athena grabbed the nearest Fate by the throat and pulled her closer until they were almost nose-to-nose. Athena had to fight back the sick – the Fate’s stench was horrendous, reminding her of a crumbling corpse. Immortals were not used to such a smell, because their bodies never rotted. The other Fates stepped forward to help their troubled sister, but the Fate motioned them to stop. The Fates did as their sister asked, but they still looked on, suspicious of what Athena might do. “Should we tell her, sisters?” “She will know eventually,” the other two chanted. “It is too late for her now, though. She cannot do anything to save them.” “Save whom?” Athena demanded, refusing to look away from the Fate she held. Her fingers tightened, and the Fate began to gasp hoarsely. “It doesn’t matter now.” “Doesn’t matter.” “Doesn’t matter.” “You two, quiet!” Athena snapped at the other Fates. She turned to the one she was still choking. “Why can’t I save them? Why is it too late?” “You have to save yourself first,” the Fate explained. “How can I save myself?” Athena asked, exasperated. “I’m still here, I’m still whole, I’m still intact.” “No, no you’re not. You’re only half of yourself. Zeus is the other half. Zeus was the other half.” Incredulous, Athena glanced at the other two Fates, who nodded silently. She said through gritted teeth, “I don’t understand.” “Zeus gave birth to you from his mind. Ever since that moment, you both have been two bodies joined by one head. Only when the two halves are joined can all become whole again.” “How do I do that? How do I resurrect Zeus?” Athena asked. “We can’t tell you.” “We can’t, we can’t.” “Foolish girl,” one of the other Fates said, scratching her beard, “we cannot tell you how to pull life out of death.” Athena could barely restrain her anger. “But you told my father how he would die! Why can’t you tell me how he can live?” “If we did, what would that mean?” The Fate let the question hang in the air as the sisters began to walk in a circle around Athena. The goddess’ grip loosened on the Fate she held, and that witch joined her sisters. Athena collapsed to the ground, her head in her hands, almost defeated. The Fates held the only key to her escape, and they wanted to hold the key just out of her reach. As the Fates swirled around her, one said, “If we tell you how to bring back Zeus, then we’ll have to tell every mortal in this world how to bring back their loved ones.” “Yes, we’ll have to.” “Why?” Athena breathed. “All I’m asking for is one soul. Zeus is the only hope this world has. If kingdom doesn’t have its true king, the lands will fall.” “That’s what you think,” another Fate chuckled. “Foolish girl, we know Zeus better than you ever did. We were the ones who cut his string. And his string was just as easy to cut as any mortal’s.” “Just as easy as any mortal’s.” “He may have been a king in life, but he stands with his subjects in death. Death is blind and sees no rank. Didn’t you know that?” “If you didn’t know that…” “…you do now.” “Enough!” Athena screamed. She leapt from the ground and tackled the Fate prancing past her, the witch that had something gleaming wrapped to her waist. Athena quickly yanked the scissors free and held the edge to the witch’s throat. The other Fates saw this happening and they screeched. They would have jumped on Athena and ripped her to shreds, but the Fate snarled, “Stay back, my sisters, stay back!” Athena’s voice almost seemed to foam as she leaned in and whispered, “I know your name – Atropos. That’s it, isn’t it? The legends all say you hold the scissors.” Atropos nodded, her face venomous. “You’ve held these scissors for so long, you must know how sharp they are. I imagine I can cut your throat as easily as you can cut a mortal’s string. Is that right?” Athena held the blade so close that it scraped the Fate’s throat. The Fate breathed heavily, never feeling pain before. Athena was breathing just as hard, having never felt this vicious before. Still, she refused to let go of the scissors. Trembling, Atropos hissed, “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. You were supposed to follow your destiny. Why are you changing your destiny?” “I will change your destiny as well if you don’t tell me how to rescue my father.” Atropos was silent for a moment, then called out, “Sisters!” The sisters knew what Atropos was asking of them. They wheezed, “No, we mustn’t!” “Yes, yes, we will. Unless you want to lose me.” The other two Fates looked carefully at each other, reading the other’s thoughts. After a few moments of silent debate, they turned and said, “Let our sister go, and we will tell you what you want to know.” “No,” Athena growled. “You will tell me first, then I will let her go.” The Fates went silent at this. Finally, one of them – Athena wasn’t sure which one it was – simply said, “Okay. When Zeus heard the prophecy many years ago, he heard his entire destiny. But he only understood part of it.” “Only understood a part of it.” “Just a part.” “You see, girl, he realized that ever since he was born, he was marching towards his own death. That was why he was no better than any mortal – as soon as one of those mortals is born into the world, they are already dying. The mortals understood that, but the immortals never did. Why? Because the immortals never had to learn that.” “They’re learning it now,” one of the Fates chuckled. “Be quiet, Clotho! If only Zeus remembered the final lines – he may have had a chance.” “What were the final lines?” Athena asked. Lachesis closed her eyes and rolled her neck, trying to remember what was said so long before. A few moments of thought, then Lachesis’ eyes lit with remembrance. She said: “Understand your fate, but never mourn, because your birth was always your end, and your end was always your birth.” Another moment’s silence, then Athena asked, “What does that mean? I don’t have time for riddles!” “It means, girl, exactly what it means. There is no riddle. Just like Zeus’ birth eventually led to his death, so too must his death lead to his birth.” “How?” “Well, how did he die?” Atropos asked, the scissors still held to her throat. “I impaled him, with my spear.” Atropos shook her head. “No, that was not how he died.” “What? What do you mean?” Athena asked, baffled. Out of frustration, she held the blade even closer to Atropos’ throat. The scissors dug into the Fate’s skin, and a shallow pool of black blood formed around the blade. The blood boiled and turned to steam before her eyes. Athena could tell by looking at Atropos’ expression that the Fate was just as surprised by her blood – matter of fact, none of the Fates had ever seen their blood before. They didn’t even know they had blood. In a bit of a panic now, Atropos said, “The night, the night you were born! When you were born, that was the moment your father began to die.” Athena felt no illumination. She tried to find the words to express her bewilderment, but no sound came out. Atropos continued. “When you were born, child, you shattered your father’s mind. He may have not shown it, but he’s been dying ever since that moment. He has had headaches ever since that fateful night, headaches so powerful that they could weaken even him, the king of the gods. Your father would have died whether you killed him on that riverbed or not. You may have thought you murdered him when you stabbed him with your spear. But you must understand, what you committed was an act of mercy, not murder.” “Mercy, mercy,” the other sisters chanted. “You don’t have to understand us, but you must believe us when we say it,” Atropos said. “Ask Zeus when you bring him back to life, and he will teach you.” “How do I bring him back to life?” “Why, the same way he brought you back to life. You both share the same mind, after all. He’s in your brain right now, even if you don’t feel it. He’s there, waiting to be broken free.” Athena didn’t experience revelation, but she was starting to learn. In a daze, she backed away from Atropos, dropping the scissors on the ground as she stepped back. Atropos quickly grabbed the scissors and shoved them back into the belt around her withered waist. “Thank you for your help,” Athena said. “You three have done a good thing today, even if you think it’s terrible. I must leave you now, though. I have to save my king to save my kingdom.” As Athena began her transformation into a full-fledged owl, Atropos thought of one more thing. She called out, smirking a little as she did, “Would you like to know your future? You’re brave enough to know.” Athena stopped her transformation long enough to look back at the Fates crowding her and calmly said, “I’m changing my destiny as we speak. How could you know what my future holds if I’m writing over it?” As Athena flew off in the hopes of pulling life out of death, Hades was doing the same, but in a very different way. Far beneath the world, in the land of the dead, Hades stood like a giant over the expanding cloud of shades. The River Styx glowed like day behind Hades, the army of death in front of him burnt like night – Hades wondered if this was how dusk felt, caught in the middle between the sun and the moon, between the light and the darkness. “My generals!” Hades called out. “My generals, approach!” Figures in cloaks pushed their way through the crowds of shades until they stood in front of Hades. The god counted them to make sure they were all present, then, when satisfied, said, “Are you ready to do this favor for me?” “Yes, King Hades,” came the response, unified. Hades allowed himself to show a little smile. Then, “We will be entering the world through the volcano. I will march with you until then. Once we enter the outside world, though, we will go our separate ways: I, to Mount Olympus, and you, to every village and town and city in this entire world. When we meet again, we will meet as conquerors. Again, do you understand what it is I ask of you? You see, I can only keep up my part of the bargain if you keep yours.” “Yes, our Lord Hades!” “Good. Good.” With that said, the generals turned and carried out their work. Each of the hooded figures was assigned their own regiment of shades. The first regiment to board the ferry was led by Nemesis. She was once a beautiful woman in the world above, married to the tyrant of a far-off city to settle a dispute between families. When the tyrant died of a mysterious illness sometime later, Nemesis took the throne and ruled her people until they loved her. Then, one of the tyrant’s old advisors stepped forward and accused Nemesis of murdering the ruler to gain power. Upon hearing the accusations, the people turned on Nemesis, decapitating her on the palace steps. The people did this, not knowing that it was actually the advisor who had killed their old ruler, not Nemesis. The advisor did this, thinking it would be easier to influence Nemesis, whom he thought was weak and inexperienced. When Nemesis did not play along with the advisor’s scheme, though, he simply turned to the people and tricked them. With her dying breath, Nemesis bitterly swore revenge for the betrayal. The moment her head was cut off, the advisor clutched his chest and collapsed on the steps, breaking his neck. Still, the thought of revenge consumed Nemesis in the Underworld, chewing away at her until she lost her humanity. Now, whenever anyone looked at her, all they saw was a mirage of the person who hated them. The next regiment belonged to Thanatos, the jailor of the Tartarus prison. Thanatos was once human, in a way – he was the rare person who was born without a soul. He spent his childhood terrorizing his family and his town, and he was eventually caught up in a murder. Thanatos made no attempt to hide his guilt – when the villagers found him, he was sitting in a field, chewing on the raw flesh of the man he murdered, the corpse nearby. The villagers could not wait for a trial, and so they executed him in that field. The village was relieved, because they thought they would never have to worry about that monster again. Yet, even years later, the spot where Thanatos was executed was never forgotten, the grass still somehow stained red. As for Thanatos himself, he had no shade to send to the Underworld in his death. But Hades thought he could be useful, and so he reanimated the rotting body of Thanatos, and he made the walking corpse be the jailor for his prison. Thanatos loved the idea of torturing others for eternity, and so he readily accepted. Centuries later, Thanatos was still a jailor, even though the rest of his skin and muscle had since rotted away, leaving behind a dirty skeleton under the cloak. Only his hatred for all joy kept his bones glued together. Following in the regiments behind Thanatos were his own prisoners. Thanatos would have rather that the prisoners be kept in their tortures, but Hades insisted that they come along. The prisoners were overjoyed at having their eternal torments interrupted, and they were even more thrilled to carry out their petty revenges on the world above. There was Ixion, a mortal whose mother used to tell him that his father was Ares. Ixion loved the idea of his father being a god, until he made the mistake of telling the other children in the village. They laughed and teased Ixion, thinking that he was telling stories to make himself sound better. And that was how Ixion grew up, bullied and hating those who taunted him. When he was older and finally in love, he had visited his future father-in-law one fateful afternoon, to discuss the terms of the dowry. The men drank too much while discussing the price, and Ixion – feeling insulted – stabbed the man to death. The scandal drew in all of Olympus – many of the gods wanted Ixion dead, for breaking one of the most ancient of customs: that all hosts should respect their guests, and all guests respect their hosts. The last thing anyone wanted was news getting out about a guest slaughtering the man who welcomed him into his home – who would take up the custom after hearing such tragic news? But Ixion was, as it turned out, very much Ares’ son, although the god of war wanted nothing to do with him. Hera suggested that Ixion be invited to Olympus and be made to appreciate generosity. It was not like Ixion could kill any of them, even if he tried. The other gods were reluctant, but Hera believed strongly in the idea of reform as punishment, and she convinced them to invite Ixion into their home. The murderer gladly accepted and, when they saw him enjoy the infinite feasts, the gods wondered if Ixion had a change of heart. But, as it turned out, Ixion was enjoying his privileges as a guest a bit too much – Hebe spotted him sneaking into Hera’s chambers one night and sounded the alarm. The gods condemned Ixion for his daring, and Hera watched with sadness as a jealous Zeus threw the mortal into the fires of the Underworld. There, Thanatos strapped Ixion to a wooden wheel that spun forever, dizzying Ixion so much that he could not think of any schemes. When the wheel stopped, though, and Hades asked for Ixion’s help, the old schemes came back to the decayed mortal, who was already plotting his way back into Hera’s arms. There was also Sisyphus leading another regiment. He was once a king who did not deserve royalty – if he was born a commoner, people would have called him spoiled. And he was greedy and ruined, hating anyone who entered his home and asked for him to share. And so, while he made his kingdom rich in trade, he killed any foreigner who was not a trader yet walked on his land. This soon caught the gods’ attention, and Olympus condemned him and his xenophobia to the depths of hell. When Zeus entered the palace to carry out the punishment, Sisyphus ordered the stranger to be arrested and executed, not recognizing the stranger for who he really was. In his fury, Zeus showed proof of his godliness to his jailors, who immediately disintegrated with the knowledge. Zeus then approached the king, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him down to Tartarus. There, Thanatos designed a punishment for his new prisoner: Sisyphus would have to push a massive boulder uphill, forever. Thanatos slyly told him that if Sisyphus could push the boulder to the top of the hill, then he would be freed. And so Sisyphus spent eternity trying to achieve this – but the ground near the top of the hill was slippery, and so the boulder rolled back downhill every time Sisyphus got close to the summit. Tantalus was the last of the generals. Once an old pagan king who had ruled lands just north of Greece, Tantalus often had Greek traders and diplomats stay in his palace. When he would hear the stories about the Greek gods, Tantalus would burst out laughing – he refused to believe that gods could be so imperfect and childish. But he stopped laughing when he saw that a few people in his kingdom had converted to the Greek faith – and soon that few became many, and that many became all. And before Tantalus realized what was happening, he had lost his kingdom, the people abandoning their old idols and worshipping the new Greek gods. Tantalus invited the Greek gods to a feast, wanting to welcome them to a new realm of their worship. The gods accepted, not realizing that Tantalus had gone insane with frustration. They were halfway through their meal, enjoying their food greatly, when Tantalus stood up and made his announcement: without realizing it, the gods were eating Tantalus’ son, Pelops. The king had his own son killed and baked into the food, refusing to have his son soon be king of a people whose faith was now strange and new and Greek. The gods, sickened by the cannibalism, threw up their food, and Zeus threw Tantalus down to Tartarus to join the other damned prisoners. There, Thanatos gave Tantalus what was perhaps the worst of punishments: Tantalus was hung from a cherry tree in a deep, flooded pit. The noose was not tight enough to choke, but Tantalus couldn’t free himself from it. Whenever he tried reaching for the cherries blossoming around him to eat, the branches all leaned away from his fingers. When he tried to scoop up water from the pool beneath him to drink, the water receded just out of grasp. And so Tantalus starved and thirsted for centuries, tortured by a meal for torturing the gods with a meal. And so Hades and his generals and his army of shades made their way across the River Styx, through the winding valley of stones beyond the river, and up the rising tunnel towards the surface. The shades all marched with the promise of life after death – each of them wanted nothing more than to rejoin the world that they lost so long before. They wanted to see colors again, they wanted to taste food again, they wanted to embrace their loved ones again. The generals marched because they wanted nothing more than revenge. Zeus, whose name they spat, was already being shamed at that moment, the once-mighty god now reduced to being chased through a snow maze, constantly on the verge of being bitten for eternity. Zeus’ punishment was just a start, though – the prisoners of Tartarus wanted the rest of the Olympians to share in Zeus’ torture. They wanted the Olympians to feel the anguish that the prisoners had been feeling for centuries. They wanted the Olympians to know that a god’s decision could have consequences as eternal as they were. The gods may have forgotten years before about the prisoners that they condemned, but those damned certainly remembered – they always would remember. And Hades – who marched at the front of the massive column of ash and dust and dirt and rotting flesh – he led the army because he wanted to be the first to reach Olympus. He wanted nothing more than his family to know that nothing controlled him, that he was his own god, his own ruler. He would mock them the same way they had mocked him over the years. For the first time ever, they would know what it was like to lose something – not just lose something, but to have something they loved taken away from them. They would understand that finally when Hades knocked down Mount Olympus into a pile of rubble. And so Hades and his army marched, towards the growing pulse of light at the end of the stony tunnel. Book 12 “It’s about time you showed up. You also have a feather in your hair,” Hermes said lazily. “I do?” Athena reached into her hair and pulled out an owl feather, left from the transformation. “Thank you for waiting for me.” Hermes shrugged. “It’s the least I could do. Besides, that servant didn’t…” “Hebe. Her name’s Hebe.” “Right, sorry. Well, Hebe didn’t tell me what this meeting was about. She just told me to meet you here. Suspense is a murder.” “I wanted it to be that way,” Athena sighed. “If she knew what was going on, then someone else can find out from here.” Hermes smirked. “Ah, so you don’t trust her then?” “Oh, I trust her. I just don’t trust other people. The less Hebe knows, the less danger she can get herself into.” They were on an islet just off coast of the mainland. Athena had seen the island many times in the past when she flew up and down the coastline on a warm spring day. When she landed on the gravely soil, though, she realized that the island looked much better from the air. The island was so pitifully small that, no matter where you went, you heard the sound of the surf rolling over the shore. The soil was rough and unforgiving, and few trees, or plants even, grew there. The island was little more than a sore on the beautiful face of the sea. Hermes, who was lounging against a boulder, pushed up his wide-brimmed hat so that he could see her better and asked, “So, what’s this all about? Why are we here?” Athena pointed behind her. “That’s why.” Hermes looked past Athena and simply said, “Oh.” The island they were sitting on wasn’t the only one off the coast. An archipelago of islands surrounded them, most of the islands even smaller than the one on which they were standing. Those tiny islands were little more than boulders jutting out of the sea, their sides bleached from the saltwater splashing against the rock. But there was one island, just a bit further out to sea, which towered over all of the other rocks in the water. The island grew up from the horizon like an angry cloud. There was a looming volcano in the center of the island – the volcano was so greedy, its slopes almost reached the isle’s shores. The volcano belched puffs of pitch, but the island seemed calm overall. Hermes knew why Athena was asking for his help – she knew that he had visited that island many times in the past. He visited that island because the crippled Hephaestus kept his workshop in the tunnels of that volcano. Hermes chuckled a little. “So you need my help in getting to Hephaestus?” “Something like that, yes. Listen, I know you carry messages to all of the gods. So you know how to get through that volcano to reach Hephaestus.” “That’s true.” “So how do I get to him?” Hermes smiled. “Very few people ask for directions these days. What you’re asking is very refreshing – it gives me hope.” “Just tell me,” Athena said, growing more impatient by the minute. She doubted that Hermes could understand her rush. “Okay, okay. First, you think you could fly down to his workshop. But you’d be wrong to think that.” “Why?” Hermes cleared his throat, and said, “Well, we all know what our brother Hephaestus is like. If there’s one thing that can be said about him, it’s that he loves his privacy. If someone wants to get to him, they’ll have to work for it, damn near risk their life for it.” Athena asked, “Well, what could be worse down there than magma?” “That’s it – there is nothing worse down there than the magma! Imagine flying over a river of it and having it explode in your face? What then? I’ve seen many mortals die horribly from volcanic eruptions. You and I, we would survive the heat, of course, but the magma is like quicksand. If it can latch onto you, it will drag you down. You might be able to pull yourself out of it, but it will eat through pretty much any armor. Best case, it’ll ruin your clothes. Worst case, you could be trapped in the stuff, forever.” “But I would be going down there as an owl, not in my human form,” Athena pointed out. Surely, it would be easier for her to fit through the narrow passageways as a bird, rather than a full-grown goddess. Hermes shook his head fervently. “No, no, that’ll be even worse. See, you might be immortal right now, in your goddess form. But when you become an owl, or any other animal for that matter, you sacrifice a bit of what makes you immortal. So, you may have not been hurt before as an owl, but I bet you, I bet you that all it will take is one burst of magma and you’ll be a fried bird.” Athena never thought of that before, how her animal form could be so weak. She wondered out loud, “Could I survive that?” “I don’t know – I’ve never heard of a god’s animal form dying. I’ve seen them injured before, though, so I know it’s possible. Who knows? Maybe a god could still break free from a dead animal. But say the owl dies and yet you still survive – I guarantee that by the time you begin your transformation back to your goddess form, you’ll be at the bottom of that magma bed, trapped.” “So how do I get to Hephaestus then? Or rather, how do you get to Hephaestus?” Hermes smiled broadly and pointed down at his winged sandals. “I’ve flown there in these sandals thousands of times, and they’ve never failed me.” “That’s good to know, because I need them.” Hermes’ smile vanished. “Why?” “Everything depends on me,” Athena sighed, “and I depend on those shoes.” “Tell me everything.” And so Athena did, as quickly as she could. When she finished, Hermes’ eyes widened. “You really think that our brother cracking your head open will bring back Zeus?” “It’s how I was born,” Athena said, “and so it’ll be how Zeus will be reborn.” Part of Hermes thought that Athena was crazy. The other part of Hermes thought the same, but it hoped that Athena was somehow right. Only Athena missed Zeus as much as he did. Hephaestus could still remember the time, many years before, when Hermes found Apollo’s herd of cattle in a meadow. Apollo was nowhere to be found, and Hermes was always jealous of the perfect cattle that Apollo kept. Such cattle could be sold to the mortals, the price anything in the world. And that was what Hermes did: he led the herd down the road and began selling them to anyone with money. When Apollo came back to the herd to find it gone, he was in a fury. Although he was able to go around the region and steal back his cattle, he still wanted revenge. It was Zeus who settled the dispute. He knew how much Apollo loved music, and so he gave Hermes a lyre and told him to play every song he knew. When Apollo heard the music, he fell into a sleeplike trance. When the music ended, Apollo woke up, but he had forgotten why he was angry. Ever since that moment, Hermes and Apollo truly became brothers, and Hermes and Zeus truly became son and father. And so Hermes took off his winged sandals, saying as he did so, “Take these then.” Athena took off her own sandals and, as she laced up the winged sandals, asked, “How do I fly with them?” “It’s easy – just think of where you want to go, and you’ll go there.” “That simple?” “Luckily for you, yes.” As Athena finished lacing up the sandals, Hermes said wistfully, “You said that you and Zeus could never be separated, since both of you share the same mind.” “Yes,” Athena said distractedly. Her nervous fingers fumbled with the sandal laces. “Did you know that I was born in Arcadia?” Hermes said abruptly. “Near where Zeus was killed?” “No, I didn’t know that.” Hermes nodded and said sadly, “Arcadia is a beautiful place in this world to come and go.” “It is,” Athena said, looking up and realizing that she had never seen Hermes that serious before. “Please bring him back, however you can. He’s as much my father as he is yours.” “Don’t worry, I will.” “Good. Thank you.” The sandals laced, Athena took a deep breath and thought of floating. At first, she thought that nothing had happened. Then she looked down, and she realized that she was hovering several feet off the ground. Hermes was looking up at her, pleasantly surprised that Athena had picked up flying that quickly. Athena turned in the air, a bit awkwardly, and looked towards the volcano, where she knew that Hephaestus was hiding. Calling back to Hermes, Athena said, “I’ll be back with these sandals shortly, unless, you know, something happens.” “Of course. Take your time.” Athena asked, “Will you be fine here until I get back?” Athena realized that she was asking a lot of Hermes. Those sandals meant everything to him – she wondered when was the last time Hermes went barefoot, if there was a last time. But Hermes just smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me. I have my staff to protect me.” Hermes pointed to the staff propped against a nearby boulder. Athena hadn’t noticed it before – it was Hermes’ magical staff. It looked like an ordinary walking cane, except that there was a solid gold ball at the top of the stick. There were two cobras coiled around the ball, hissing softly as they writhed against the warmed rock. Hermes never told anyone where he had found the golden ball, but all of the immortals knew what it could do. All Hermes had to do was shove the stick in someone’s face, and they immediately became peaceful, some even falling asleep. That was how the cobras came to be wrapped around the staff in the first place – Hermes had seen the snakes fighting one day and he had put the staff between them to stop their fight. The snakes immediately simmered down because of the staff’s power. But when Hermes moved the staff away, the snakes latched on, not wanting to lose their narcotic. Ever since then, the snakes held on, even when Hermes was flying thousands of feet up in the air. There was something more to that gold than met the eye, but Hermes enjoyed keeping everyone in the dark about it. Athena started to float towards the volcano when Hermes called out once more. “Athena!” “Yes?” “Good luck,” Hermes said sincerely. When most people wished others good luck, it was usually as good manners. There was no way for mortals to truly grant another person luck – they simply did not have that power. But when Hermes said it, he meant it. He was the patron god of good travel, after all – if he wanted someone to get lost on their journey, he could easily do that. So when Hermes wished Athena good luck, the goddess smiled her thanks and continued flying towards the volcanic island. Hermes watched her slowly disappear against the horizon, then he heaved a sigh and leaned back in the rough soil. He closed his eyes and let the heavy sun above sing him to sleep. Book 13 As Athena made her way through the glowing tunnels, she wondered if she was making a mistake. The winding paths deep inside the volcano were exactly as she pictured them: just as narrow as they were shallow. This proved to be a problem, as streams of running magma covered the ground like rugs, engulfing the caverns in a loud light. She thought of the warning that Hermes gave: if she let one drop of the sticky magma touch her, she could very well be trapped in the burning rivers, maybe forever. “Well,” she muttered to herself, “at least I’m not in the dark.” She was glad that she took Hermes’ advice about the sandals. If she had used her owl transformation, the low ceilings would have meant her flying too close to the heat. The last thing Athena wanted was burning off all of the owl’s feathers and the bird, and her spirit, tumbling into the magma. In her goddess form, the magma just felt uncomfortable, but it was awkward flying. She was not used to the winged sandals that Hermes had given her. There were several times when she bumped into the wall or the ceiling and almost fell into the heat. It took all of her nerve to keep going, even though her brain was screaming at her to turn and leave. The tunnels were so tight, though, that she doubted she could even turn – not without wading in the magma. At first the thought was a small one, in the back of her mind – then it began to grow and take over. When she had first dove into the volcano’s mouth, she had found several tunnels at the base. She didn’t spend a lot of time choosing one tunnel over the others – she just felt that the tunnel to the right was the one to use. Again, it went against all of her logic, because nothing distinguished that tunnel from the others. For all she knew, she could have been going down the wrong tunnel – and what would happen if she reached a dead end? Could she find Hephaestus in time? I guess I have to know where I’m at first before I can find Hephaestus, Athena thought with gritted teeth. The magma beneath her popped, and Athena swerved to avoid the melting plaster. She hit the wall hard, but she managed to regain her balance. But her breathing began picking up again when she looked back and noticed smoke coming from her left foot. The burst of magma had caught her sandal and now the wings were on fire. Athena swore and awkwardly tried reaching back to extinguish the flames. But she quickly realized that she couldn’t do that – not without dipping into the magma and catching the rest of her clothes on fire. Athena alternated between looking back at her fiery shoe and looking forward, desperately hoping to reach dry ground sooner rather than later. Already, she could feel the wings disintegrating from the intense heat, and the sandal began to limp. While she was still floating in the hot air, she could certainly feel a stutter in her sandals. She wondered how much longer she could fly on one winged sandal. “I hope Hephaestus can fix broken wings,” Athena mumbled. She was not looking forward to the same trip back to the mainland, especially if she only had one good shoe to fly on. And that was when she saw it: a darkness at the far end of the tunnel. There must be a cave or something at the end, Athena wondered. At least it doesn’t look like there’s lava there. Encouraged by this, Athena willed her remaining wings onward. The sandals flapped as hard as they could, and Athena propelled herself the rest of the way down the tunnel. The darkness grew and grew until Athena flung herself out of the tunnel and skidded across a hard stone floor. She was still for a moment, just grateful to be on a floor that wasn’t trying to hurt her. Then, she slowly got up and looked around, and what she saw was wonderful. It was Hephaestus’ fabled workshop, filling every inch of the vast cavern. Athena walked slowly past the shelves and shelves of raw materials, all of which towered high above her, just scraping against the tall ceiling. The shelves held a hoard of gold and silver and bronze and iron and a thousand other metals and precious stones for which men have killed each other for centuries. Athena wondered if the reason why the stones were so rare and precious in the outside world was because they were all stored in this volcanic chamber. “How does he reach the tallest shelves?” Athena whispered to herself as she walked through the library of metals. “I have my assistants,” a voice called out, through a shelf next to Athena. The goddess jumped, startled, and she looked through the shelf to the next aisle. She saw a slouched man, whose face was soft and pushed around like clay. Athena said nothing but watched as the hunchbacked figure shuffled into the aisle where she was standing. Hephaestus, the smith-god, continued what he was saying. “I have an assistant, someone who can climb to the tallest shelf with ease.” “Who’s that?” Athena asked. Hephaestus pointed to a massive, hulking figure in the shadows of the room. Even in the dim darkness, Athena saw clearly that the figure gleamed with a shiny bronze. For a moment, she forgot the reason why she was in the workshop. She wondered out loud, “That thing, it moves?” Hephaestus smiled widely, showing a rare moment of pride. Then, his smile faltered a little. “Yes! He’s a wonderful assistant – that is, he’s wonderful when he’s awake.” “He can sleep?” Athena asked, not realizing that she was addressing a statue as if it was an actual individual. “Yes, a bit too much actually. He’s up and moving for a few hours every day, but then he sleeps for the rest. He’s like a newborn. I have to figure out how to build some motivation into him.” Suddenly, Athena remembered why she was there in the first place. Urgency in her voice, Athena said abruptly, “I need your help, Hephaestus – now.” A bit taken back, Hephaestus asked, “Help with what?” “You remember that night many years ago? When you hit Zeus in the head with your axe?” Hephaestus said darkly, “Yes.” “I need you to do that now, to me.” Hephaestus took a step back in shock. He squeaked, “What? Why?” For the second time that day, Athena had to explain what it was that the Fates had told her. She went through the explanation quickly, knowing that no matter how slow she said it, no matter how many times she said it, Hephaestus would have trouble believing her. And she was right, because when she finished telling her story, Hephaestus shook his head and said, “No, no, no. I refuse to help you with this.” “Why?” Athena demanded. “This is what needs to be done.” Hephaestus had a look on his face as if Athena had just insulted him. He spat, “You expect me to help you bring back Zeus? Don’t you know what you’re asking of me? He’s the god who threw me from the summit of Olympus! He’s the god who refuses to let me back into that palace, the god who refuses to let me see my mother again. As long as he’s imprisoned in whatever hellhole he’s in, I’m free to go wherever I want, free to do whatever I want.” “Then why haven’t you?” “Why haven’t I what?” “You said so yourself, that with Zeus gone, you’re free. So why not come back to the palace? Why won’t you visit your mother again? Why stay here in the darkness when you can come back into the light?” Hephaestus flinched at the questions, at how close Athena was getting to the truth. Even with his jailor imprisoned, Hephaestus still felt very much trapped. Hephaestus thought that all this time Zeus was the cause for his exile, but with the King God gone, Hephaestus saw that there were other reasons. He wanted to say so many things to Athena: he wanted to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his infinite life with her, that he wanted to walk into the palace atop Mount Olympus with his hand clasped in hers. He had always madly loved her, perhaps too madly – even though she was born from Zeus’ mind and, when he looked at her, Hephaestus swore he saw Zeus’ glare flash in her eyes. He loved her, even though they were too similar – both of them coming from the same family. He loved her, even though they were too different – she was beautiful and clever, and he felt ugly and awkward. Love should have liberated Hephaestus, it should have made him rise and enter his glory. But all his secret love for Athena did was trap him in questions and drown him with doubt. “I have a confession to make,” Hephaestus growled. “When I heard that Zeus died, I showed the world what I looked like when I mourned. But, on the inside, in my heart, I cheered because my oppressor was gone. I refuse to have another person take his place, I refuse to have you order me around, to tell me what to think and do.” Hephaestus spat these words, even though he wanted her to tell him what to think and do. But she couldn’t know that, not right then – if she knew, everything would change, everything could be ruined. Athena walked slowly towards Hephaestus, looking at him with venomous eyes. Hephaestus wanted to shrink away from the gaze, but there was a shelf right behind him. And so the god stood his ground, not because he was brave but because he was trapped. “I understand why you hate my father,” Athena said. “I understand that he has done terrible things to you over the years, like taking you away from your mother and exiling you from the palace. I know that he has taken so much away from you and still he has asked for more. I know that he has come here before, demanding weapons and furniture from you. I know all of this, and I understand it all. Your whole life has been a reaction to what my father has said and done. That’s why you haven’t stepped out of this workshop since Zeus died, even though you want to enter the outside world again. You’ve become nothing more than a reflex over the years. So, of course, when Zeus hits you, you move as he wants you to. Now that he’s gone, you realize that you don’t know how to move, because you’ve never done so on your own.” Athena was close enough that Hephaestus could see every perfect pore on her face. The goddess asked softly, “How close am I to the truth?” “Very,” came back the whisper. “I’m asking you to do something for the right reasons. I’m asking you to break my father free from my mind, so that he can rule over this world again. There are terrible things going on in the Underworld, Hephaestus, things that we cannot understand on our own. We need Zeus here, not only to guide us, but to protect us as well. The world almost fell apart with his death, and it still could, unless we bring him back. Those are the right reasons to do this. But you don’t have to do it for those reasons. You can do it for the smart reasons. You can do it so that you can say, ‘Yes, I made a decision that Zeus had not forced upon me.’ Not only can you make that decision on your own, but you will have Zeus in your debt, forever. My father always acknowledges his debts, even though it might not seem like it. Imagine what you can do, independent and in Zeus’ good graces? You can do all of this, just with one swing of your axe.” As Athena said all of this, emotion began creeping into her voice, like invisible hands choking her. It took all of her strength not to break down in her pleas for help, and Hephaestus noticed this. He couldn’t bear to see Athena so ruined, and he loved the thought of having Zeus’ future in his hands. Still, he could miss with the axe and hurt, possibly even kill, Athena. Still, he could win the respect of Olympus and win his way back home, finally earning his godly blood. And so, with some hesitation, Hephaestus said, “Lean your head against the anvil, and I’ll get my axe.” Athena took long strides towards the anvil-stone, her heart racing even more than her feet. She leaned over the stone, her heartbeat thumping against the surface. Through the commotion inside of her, she could hear the approach footsteps of Hephaestus. With the footsteps, she felt her freedom stepping closer. She would once more be free from obligation. She would be once more free from guilt. The shuffling footsteps stopped next to Athena. She heard Hephaestus’ timid voice ask, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” “I’m sure,” Athena said, her voice somewhat muffled by the stone. “Just please hurry up. And remember what you did the last time you did this.” “Don’t worry,” Hephaestus said. His words were contradicted by the shakiness in his voice, and Athena wondered if Hephaestus was going to back away from their deal at the last moment. The moment she thought this, though, she could hear a thin slash through the air as an impossibly thin axe came thundering down towards Athena’s head. The axe’s blade was so thin that Athena barely felt it as it slipped past her skull. She certainly felt it, though, when it crunched into the infinite hardness of her brain. Athena screamed with agony she thought she would never feel, with curses she thought she never knew. She fell from the slab of rock and collapsed on the floor, clutching her head with both of her hands. She pressed her head with her hands, as if to keep her head with bursting open. There was certainly an exploding pain in the wound, and Athena felt as if she was in a thousand different places at once. And, for the first but not last time, Athena wondered if she was staring death in the face. Through the agonies, Athena heard Hephaestus yelping, then she felt something cold pressed against her head. Her screaming subsided and her vision cleared, slowly but noticeably. It took her a few moments to realize that she was sprawled out on the stone floor. She still twitched from the pain, but she was aware of herself now. Once again, she had full control of her limbs. Sobbing from both pain and relief, Athena looked up at a panicked Hephaestus, who was pressing something against the side of her head. “Keep still!” Hephaestus begged. “Please be still for a few more minutes.” If Athena could see what Hephaestus was actually doing, she would know that he was pressing crushed herbs against the wounds on her head. They were rare herbs, so uncommon that Athena forgot their name. But she knew that the herbs were used to wipe rust off of metal. Those who had pneumonia could smell the herbs and be cured of their sickness. Those who wanted their fields to grow in a drought could grind up the herb and scatter it in the ground, to rejuvenate the soil. It was prized medicine, and if Athena could see what was happening at the moment, she would have appreciated Hephaestus for the care. But while Hephaestus was able to relieve the pain, he could do nothing to stop the flow of ichor from Athena’s head. He tried to hold his hands over the cut, but more and more ichor slipped through his fingers and pooled on the floor around them. Feeling that he was losing his secret love, Hephaestus rocked back and forth over the dying body, closer than ever to true tears. “Please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die,” Hephaestus begged softly. But in spite of the blood around her growing deeper, Athena didn’t look like she was dying at all. If anything, there was something of a serene look on her face. At first, Hephaestus thought that she was going into shock, but then Athena turned and said, “Don’t worry. He’s come back.” “What? Who?” Hephaestus asked, not understanding. “Look.” Hephaestus looked behind him, and that was when he saw something that was more than magic. Athena’s ichor that had gathered on the floor had snaked in little streams past the gods and swirled into a puddle a few feet away. Hephaestus watched as the puddle began to gain dimensions and grow. Almost as if entranced, Hephaestus got up and stumbled to where the puddle was forming. Athena, still on the floor and holding the herbs to her wound, said, “You did wonderfully, brother.” Hephaestus didn’t turn back to ask Athena what she meant, although he certainly thought she was mistaken. After all, Athena was in a mess of her own pain and blood – things were far from wonderful. And that was when Hephaestus saw it: the puddle had stopped forming and he realized that it had turned into a silhouette pressed into the ground. The outline was of a tall man with massive arms and legs, a hero’s shadow if nothing else. The silhouette of silvery blood inflated until it looked like a statue that had fallen over. The statue of blood hardened and began to crackle, until the shell of ichor broke apart. Hephaestus watched in shock and Athena watched with delight as Zeus climbed out of the broken piece of the statue, coughing as he breathed fresh air again. Book 14 It was all too late, though. On a jagged island of rock just off the coast of southern Greece, there was a vicious-looking volcano. The volcano was just as charred as the rocks it was plastered in, the whole island looking like death because it was death. The volcano had been sleeping for generations, and no one ever remembered it waking up. But it was stirring awake now – the volcano’s mouth spat out boulders that sailed through the air and splashed into the sea around the island. A deep steam was also coming from the volcano, like someone exhaling hard on a winter’s frozen day. People from the mainland could see the volcano clearly – they looked on in horror as more and more steam, then smoke, then ash, began to boil up into the heavens. The sun was changing colors in the sky, first yellow then orange then a crimson red. The ash gathered in the sky, distorting the sun – people who looked at the sun swore they saw the red sunlight dripping down like blood. And then the world seemed to split open. There was a lion’s roar as the volcano gasped. A massive, billowing cloud of darkness erupted into the sky. Some people on the mainland turned and ran – they didn’t know where to run to, but they knew they had to run. But there were those who stood still and watched, mesmerized, as the storm grew above the volcano. It wasn’t until the cloud of pitch was the size of a city when those people knew they had to run, now. But it was too late for those who stayed behind. The vast, deep cloud slipped down the volcano and began sailing across the water, towards the mainland. The waves of smoke and ash washed over the shores, and the cloud reached the first of what would be many villages. People in their homes had just enough time to look out their windows and scream as the dust exploded through any window, any open door, any crack in the foundations that it found. It wasn’t long until the entire village was lost in the darkness, the ash filling every pore. When the cloud rolled over the land, the village was no longer blanketed with black but white. Several feet of ash had snowed down on the village, and nothing moved – nothing would ever move in that village again. As the storm moved through the plains and the valleys, sculpting the landscape with dirty ash, the cloud cried. Anyone who got close to the storm and somehow survived the slaughter saw that the cloud was far from ordinary. The storm was actually thousands, perhaps millions, of shades, writhing and clawing about the soup of soot. The shades were crying from frustration – when they were asked to join in the invasion, the shades accepted. They wanted to be a part of the world again, the world they had lost when each of them had died. But now, as they looked down at the path of ash that they made, they saw nothing but death. They were reducing the living world into the land of the dead, where nothing crawled and nothing breathed. And so, while the shades thought they were finally leaving the Kingdom of the Dead, they were actually bringing the kingdom with them wherever they went. It was then that they realized they could never escape their deaths, no matter how hard they tried. Some of the shades even recognized the living below. The shades fluttered down from the cloud, wanting to hug their loved ones once again. But when the shades hugged their family and friends, they pulled away to see their loved ones gasping for air before collapsing. The shades wept over the people they hugged to death, their ashes a lukewarm blanket over the bodies. The invasion quickly became too successful, and the shades did not want to march ahead anymore. They wanted to return to the Underworld, where they could not hurt and spread death any more. But as much as the shades wanted to turn and fly away, they couldn’t – that was because Hades was at the front of the cloud. The shades had to move wherever Hades wanted them. The King of the Dead was hovering in the head of the cloud, the shades holding him up with their ashy wings as they flew. While the shades were in agony over the destruction they were causing, a smile began to take over Hades’ face. While the shades only saw others’ deaths, Hades only saw his life. Every acre of land covered in ash was another parcel of land to add to his kingdom. And another addition to his kingdom meant more control for Hades. Soon, the whole world would be enveloped in ash and death, and then Hades would be the master of all. Buoyed by the thought of conquest, Hades turned to the swirl behind him and roared, “Push on! Soon, this will all be ours! And no one can stop us then!” And since Hades commanded it, the shades did it. Hades turned the cloud towards the shoreline, where there was a thick wind going north. Once the wind hit the shades, the army picked up speed as it was dragged deeper into Greece. The shades watched with sadness as fishermen along the shore choked to death on the ash that thundered past. But Hades was thrilled when he saw the collapsed bodies in the boats below – every person dead just meant another soldier for his army. And so, as the living gave, the dead took. What the living gave, the immortals also lost. The mortals watched as their decades of life were lost in a matter of a few minutes, for some, seconds. At first, they didn’t know who to blame for their tragedies. But it did not take long for the mortals to begin blaming the immortals for the disaster rolling through the land. The immortals were supposed to be there to protect the mortals from harm, and yet they had failed something that for them should have been easy. And so the mortals spat in the rulers’ faces – the lesser gods were the first to feel their worship slipping away. The centaurs and the tree-gods in the forests, the nymphs in the seas, and the harpies in the skies, they all screamed as their worlds closed in around them. But there was nothing that they could do – their mortal subjects simply refused to believe in something that caused them so much harm. The rebellion in the mortal hearts grew tremendously and went through the land like a plague. If it reached Olympus before Hades did, it was possible that the mountain would collapse. And so, further up shore, Hades began to become even greedier. Initially, his plans were simple: he was going to invade and conquer the entirety of the mortal world, and make the gods atop Olympus surrender. Hades would make sure that the terms of surrender included exile for the gods – once the gods were banished from the world, then Hades would become the true master of everything. However, he could not wait that long for that plan to unfold. He wanted to be the one who torn down Mount Olympus – he refused to let anyone else have that honor. And so he began to devise a new plan. He turned once more to the shades around him and commanded, “Lower me down the world! I also need a formation to follow me!” A pack of shades lowered Hades down to the sandy beach below. The moment Hades touched the gritty sand, the shades that lowered him began to gather around his neck. The shades began connecting with one another, interlocking until they formed a long, flowing cape behind Hades. The cape stretched for almost a mile behind him – it felt addicting to wear the darkness, and he wondered if this was how the night felt when she washed over the world. Book 15 Hephaestus smashed his hammer against the lightning-bolt. With every strike, millions of sparks danced off the anvil and onto the cold floor. The sparks bouncing reminded him of, oddly enough, raindrops bouncing off a roof. Hephaestus was sweating sheets of water, the moisture running off his misshapen face and sizzling on the heated anvil below. He was sweating not because of the hard work – he knew nothing but hard work – but because he was shaping a lightning-bolt for Zeus. And everyone knew that Zeus only fought when he absolutely had to. As Hephaestus banged away at the bolt, Athena and Zeus were a short distance away. Athena was trying on the winged sandals, admiring the work that Hephaestus had done. The feathery wings on the sandals were no more – instead, the limping god had quickly fashioned miniature wings made of metal and fitted them to the shoes. The sandals could certainly get Athena through the volcano and back out into the outside world. Athena finished lacing up the shoes and tried out the flying – before she even thought it, the shoes lifted her off the ground and held her, suspended, in the air above Zeus. The King God looked up with a little smile on his face. “A lot has changed since I’ve been dead,” Zeus said as Athena hovered. “Hades is plotting to overthrow the world, our family is in chaos, and you’ve learned to fly.” “These aren’t my shoes – I just borrowed them, from Hermes.” “Yes, yes, of course. But he let you borrow them,” Zeus said. “Gods and men alike have been trying to pry those sandals off of Hermes’ feet for centuries. The fact that he gave up his shoes to help you is telling.” “Well, I’ll think about that later.” Athena settled back down on the floor. “Right now I’m trying not to get us all killed.” “Of course, of course.” Athena looked at Zeus curiously for a moment. It may have been her imagination, but it seemed that Zeus was more pleasant than she remembered him being. When she pointed this out, Zeus smiled again and said, “I have my reasons.” “Is it because you’re alive again?” Athena asked. Zeus shook his head. “Yes and no. I’m more alive now than I’ve ever been. I suppose there’s something I should have told you a long time ago, although you probably already suspected it.” Athena waited, a bit impatient, as Zeus continued. “You see, when you were born all those years ago, the birth was messy. You and everyone else probably figured that out already. For women, it’s bad enough – imagine what it must have been like for me, a man, having to give birth through my ear! But there’s something I’ve managed to keep hidden since that night, and…well, perhaps it’s better to show you.” He leaned forward and pulled away the hair near his ears. He showed Athena what looked like a spider’s web of scars running from each of the ears. Athena looked at them with idle curiosity and asked, “Were those from my birth?” Zeus nodded. “You see, your birth was so horrific that it almost broke my skull. Gods are not supposed to feel pain, I know. Trust me, I was just as surprised as you must be now. But when you were born, when you broke free from me…the pain was incredible. It was a trauma that I never felt before, a pain even greater than when you stabbed me with that spear. See, my daughter, gods have their armor to protect them from the outside, but they are all skin and bones on the inside.” Athena said nothing, and so Zeus sighed and said, “Ever since the night you were born, I have felt a stabbing pain in my head. The mortals have their headaches and they think it’s a terrible thing, and it is. But when a god has a headache, it’s greater because a god is greater. For years now, I’ve had to deal with a headache that clawed at the inside of my head like some wounded animal. For years now, I’ve had days where I was simply too tired to get out of bed. For years now, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night, with my own blood pooled around me, the ichor draining from my ears. Even when I turned into a bull or an eagle, the pain never entirely vanished. So you see, that afternoon when you speared me, I was already dying, if not already dead.” “And now?” “Now, I feel no pain. You may have thought that you murdered me on that riverbank, but it wasn’t murder – at least I didn’t think it was murder. If anything, it was a mercy killing. Only in death was I separated from that terrible pain in the back of my skull. And even though I’m reunited with my body in the world now, the pain is no longer here. You not only brought me back to life, my daughter, but you reinvigorated me.” As Zeus said this, Athena could feel a shallow, pulsing pain begin to settle in her ear, the same ear from which Zeus was reborn. A fear began to grip her, as she wondered if she would experience the same pain that has been plaguing Zeus for all of those years. The King God noticed the pained expression on his daughter’s face, and he asked sadly, “I’m afraid that you now have that same headache. Am I wrong?” “It’s not too bad at the moment,” Athena said through gritted teeth. Zeus nodded. “It began weakly for me too. As the years passed, though, the pain grew.” “So I guess I have something to look forward to.” “Don’t worry – we’ll figure out something for you. For now, though, we have more important things to deal with. Like I said before, my brother Hades is planning something, something terrible. I have seen that army of his massing in the Underworld – it’s unlike anything that I’ve ever seen before. I’m afraid that the moment that army marches, nothing will be able to stop it. I don’t think even I could stop it if I tried.” “So what do we do?” “You will need to go to Olympus – warn the gods there that Hades is planning to invade the world. Tell them that they will need to stop the army of shades before it is too late. That army will kill every mortal it finds, and for every person dead, that’s just another soldier in that army. It would not be long before the world is a wasteland and Hades’ army is infinite.” “And what about Hades himself? Who will stand against him?” Zeus’ face looked like granite. “I’ll fight him myself. He’s too powerful now – I don’t think any other god but myself can stop him. I think I might actually be too weak against him.” Athena was incredulous. “You, too weak? You could tear the world in half with a lightning-bolt if you wanted to! If you can’t stop him, then who can?” “I used to be that strong,” Zeus sighed, “but not now, not at this moment. I may be walking again in this world – you and Hephaestus can see that. But everyone else still thinks that I’m dead and gone. If they don’t believe in me, then what am I fighting for? What am I fighting with? That’s why I need you to go to Olympus. Tell the others that I have risen, tell them what Hades has planned, tell them to defend the world against the shade army. Judging by the way the Underworld is preparing for war, I would not be surprised if the invasion has already begun. But I need you to give these people hope – only then can I get my old strength back. And the moment I return to greatness is the moment that Hades will fall – and I will make sure that he falls harder than anything else has before. So go now, my child, go! Before it is too late for us all.” Athena was reluctant to leave her father, so soon after they were reunited again. There was so much more she wanted to tell him. She was afraid of losing him again, this time possibly for good. But she saw the determination in her father’s eyes, and she knew better than to challenge him. If they worked together, they were more powerful than even they could comprehend. And so Athena nodded and leapt from the ground. Zeus waved as Athena propelled herself out of the cavern and through the winding tunnels towards the surface world. When Athena disappeared from view, Zeus turned and noticed that Hephaestus had watched Athena leave as well. But while Zeus watched Athena’s exit with pride and triumph, he noticed a profound look of sadness wash over the crippled god’s face. In his old, booming voice, Zeus called out, “Hephaestus!” The smith-god turned and looked Zeus in the eyes. Hephaestus said, “If you don’t distract me, then I can weld these lightning-bolts together quicker.” “Good – that’ll give me more time to talk with you,” Zeus said, strolling towards Hephaestus, thrilled that he didn’t have to run through waist-deep snow anymore. He was also glad to be dealing with the crippled Hephaestus, and not those bizarre wolfish creatures in the Underworld. A wave of frustration splashed across Hephaestus’ face. “Please, just leave me alone – this one time, just leave me alone.” Zeus looked at Hephaestus with pity. “I just wanted to think you for all that you did today, as well as what you will do later.” “I just did as Athena asked,” Hephaestus said shortly, continuing his work. “She was the Queen, after all – what was I supposed to do? Refuse her command?” “Well, I’m glad that you did it, anyway. You would not believe the torture I had in the Underworld. I’ve been running for days through a blizzard, trying not to get chewed up by a pack of beasts. And so I’m grateful that you did what you did, even if you did it for your own reasons.” Hephaestus, still smashing his hammer against the lightning-bolts, straightening out the electricity, asked, “You said something else? Something about what I’ll do later?” Zeus smiled. “We all need your help soon. I’ll need your help soon. When Hades invades this world, we’ll need every brave god and goddess we have to go to war. And you’re as brave as they come.” “What makes you think that I’m brave? What makes you think you know me?” Hephaestus demanded. “Well, you’re talking back to the most powerful god in the Universe. I would say that’s pretty brave.” Hephaestus sneered. “And you wonder why I hate you? All you think about when dealing with others is yourself. You don’t care how anyone else feels. If I didn’t make weapons for you, you would probably disintegrate me with one of your bolts. I’m right, aren’t I?” Zeus shook his head. “It’s something you’ll probably never understand, but I’ll say it anyway. Believe it or not, I do care for you, and not just because you make my weapons or because my wife loves you like the son you are. I do the things I do because the world needs some sense of order. If there isn’t order, what happens?” “People get to make their own fates?” Hephaestus asked, giving the bolt a particularly loud smash with his hammer. “Do you really want that? Do you really want Hades to rise up from the Underworld and conquer this world? This world and everything and everyone you love will fall unless I’m here to hold it up. I’m just being honest, although you may think I’m arrogant. A long time ago, I accepted this responsibility, this need to be the watchman of the world. You may think that all I do is drink and carry on affairs, but the truth is I’ve had to make some terrible decisions in my long life. I’ve had to watch people suffer from the choices I’ve made. But still, I made those choices, because if I didn’t, then someone else would. And while I have this world’s best interests at heart, someone else won’t be as kind. Do you think that Hades will allow you the freedom to make weapons, the thin you love doing the most in the entire world? I may take weapons from you to use, but he will take a lot more if he was the ruler. Do you think that if you were to end your isolation, that you would be welcomed back with open arms? I exiled you into this world because our family is a terrible creation. Our family tree has had a cancer in it since the beginning of time. They all distrust and hate one another with a passion – what do you think they’ll do to a short man with twisted legs and a slouched back? They would insult you, mock you, manipulate you. But they’ve forgotten what you look like, it’s been so long since they have seen you. And all they see from you now are the weapons that you make, and your weapons are beautiful, so they think you are beautiful. You have earned the jealousy of every single Olympian because of the weapons you make – why ruin such a wonderful thing? You have every right to hate me, but don’t you ever doubt me, because I will always win the day for you and anyone else who deserves it.” A dull rumble echoed through the tunnels and into the cavern. Startled, Hephaestus asked, “Is it an earthquake.” “No, no…it’s worse, much worse,” Zeus said, his eyes lit with either fear or excitement. “Give me my thunderbolts.” Book 16 The gods were just about to sit down to their meal in the chamber when Hebe ran in and hastily said, “Everyone! I wish to announce that Athena is…” “There’s no need for that, Hebe,” Athena said, walking in behind the servant, her hand on Hebe’s shoulder. The servant nodded obediently and moved to the side, unseen, unheard. The Olympians all looked up, with some confused, others annoyed. Ares, especially, was frustrated: not only had he not anything to eat that entire morning, but he also felt the old suspicions rising inside of him. What’s Athena doing now? Is this just another step for her plan? It took all that Ares had not to demand anything from Athena. Instead, he pretended to look at her, confused, like everyone else had. Athena felt slightly out-of-breath – she had flown as fast as her owl wings could carry her, all the way from Hephaestus’ workshop to Mount Olympus. She had flown that distance before, easily, but not nearly that quickly. Still, she had no time to catch her breath – maybe later she could. “Everyone,” Athena began, her face sweaty but her voice solid. “I’m here with news that will shock you all.” “Well, go on then,” Hera said, not trying to be helpful. Athena glared at Hera for a moment before turning to the rest of the gods and goddesses. “I’m here to announce that Zeus walks amongst us once more.” The gods looked at her confused, then surprised, then exhilarated. “What?” Artemis squeaked, everything about her seeming out-of-character at that moment. “I’ve met with the Fates, and they…” “This is already quite a story!” Ares scoffed, remembering that he had a voice. “You really expect us to believe that you found the Fates? I’ve yet to meet someone who has met them...” “No!” Athena snapped, her eyes vicious. “You don’t get to tell me what I believe in, brother. And as your queen, I want more respect than what you’re giving me right now. I never saw you interrupt Zeus before, so why are you stopping me?” “Let her speak!” Apollo scolded his brother, his eyes glimmering. He turned back to Athena, and he asked, “How did you bring back our father?” “I, um, I forced the truth out of the Fates,” Athena said, skipping over a few facts, such as how she had threatened to kill one of the witches. “They told me that I found my birth in Zeus’ death, and he would find his birth in my death.” “What? That makes no sense,” Aphrodite said. “It does! It does,” Athena said quickly. And so she told them of how she went to Hephaestus, how she had convinced her crippled brother to break her skull and release the spirit of Zeus. She added, with a bit of triumph in her voice, “We thought these past few days that our father, our king, was dead. But he’s been with us this entire time. See, as long as I live, he lives – as long as he lives, I do too. We share the same life because we share the same mind.” When she finished, she realized she had many of the gods convinced, even the always-skeptical Hera. Yet Ares leaned back in his chair, his arms folded in front of him, with that snarl of his on his face. Athena smiled thinly. “I see you don’t believe me, brother.” The other gods looked at Ares, curious as to what his objections were now. The god of war sneered. “How can we believe anything you say?” He looked intently at the other gods seated at the long table and asked them all, “How can any of you believe her? She killed my father, after all! She killed him, she took his throne, and she expects us to believe she has done the impossible? That she has resurrected someone? If any of you believe her, then I’m afraid I’ve respected you too much then.” Shaking with anger, Athena said, “You have to believe me. Zeus may not be here with me right now, but only because…” “Then how can we believe you?” Ares demanded. “How can we believe that Zeus is alive if he isn’t here right now?” There was a blinding bolt of light that coursed around the room. The gods cried out and shielded their eyes from the light. The flash lasted just a few seconds before dimming quickly – when Athena rubbed her eyes and looked, she saw Apollo having pushed Ares against the wall, pinning his arms useless by his side. “Brother, I want you to understand something,” Ares said, perhaps being too calm. “Our sister just doesn’t want to speak – she needs to speak. And I will be damned if you interrupt her one more time. There’s something going on here, something much larger than you, me, or anyone else in this room. And so you will be quiet, you will listen to all of the facts, and then, and only then, can you accuse our sister of lying.” Ares laughed, humorlessly. “What are you going to do? What could you do to me actually? Would you use that sun of yours and give me sunburn, hmm? Maybe a heatstroke…” And that was when all of them heard it. It began as a low rumble, so deep in sound that it sounded like the gurgling of a faraway creek. But, the noise quickly grew, and as it became louder, each of them realized there was more than one note to the sound. “What’s that?” A red-eyed Demeter asked, frightened that someone would be able to answer her. But there was silence, as each of the gods and goddesses began to understand the noise. Hera heard what sounded like her wheezing, but she wasn’t, at least she wasn’t then. She heard what sounded like words, but she couldn’t make them out through the wheezing and the horrible hacking, spitting breath. She looked around at the others and asked, in almost a pleading voice, “Did anyone hear that? What were the words? Someone tell me, please.” She looked to her son, Apollo, but the god said nothing. He was too distracted by the beautiful voice whispering in his ear, singing lullabies, begging him to come closer and never leave. Apollo flinched as the sweet voice vanished and he heard the sound of flesh being torn. He knew that sound all too well. On his long walks through the woods in winter, he could hear the wolves driven mad by starvation, the wild dogs clawing and ripping apart any poor deer that they saw. Apollo didn’t know it, but Artemis heard similar sounds, of flesh being ripped apart, of bones breaking like sticks. Through the sounds of the carnage, she could barely hear swords swinging, arrows flying, people screaming for mercy. Both Demeter and Ares heard the roar of battle as if they had stepped inside of thunder. Ares felt an odd thrill fill him as he heard the familiar sound. But Demeter, the goddess of life and the growing of life, was terrified by the sounds, and she shrank into her chair as best as she could. And all Aphrodite heard was the symphony of gasps and screams and, oddly enough, a baby crying. While the gods twisted and shook their heads and clawed at their hair, Athena was the only one of the immortals not to move. She stood, as still and beautiful as any statue, because she heard a sound too. She had never heard the noise before, and she didn’t know what to make of it. It sounded like someone was singing a song to her – she recognized the melody, but she couldn’t figure out the lyrics. Whoever was singing to her did so with a dialect of Greek that she had never heard before. And the voice sounded rough yet calm, like lazy currents carrying a shipwrecked sailor home. And her singer was close, so close that it almost felt as if he was inside of her head. But when Athena looked around, there was no one standing next to her. “That sound!” Hera called out, startling all of the gods, who were still trapped in their trance. “I know what it means.” “What?” Demeter demanded. “Death is coming,” Hera breathed. “Is it true, Athena? That’s what you’ve come here to warn us about? I remember the stories my mother used to tell me when I was younger, much younger. She said that when we heard the sounds of doom, sounds that no one else could hear, that meant that death was coming. That’s why when our father ate us, I was not afraid – I was brave because I didn’t hear the sounds. But it’s coming now, isn’t it? Death is coming?” Athena nodded. “My father told me what he had seen and heard in the Underworld. He saw a massive army of shades gathering on the shores of the Styx. He also heard the whispering of mutiny. He believed that a war was coming – and what we heard, just now, may have been the trumpets of battle.” Some of the Olympians groaned, and the others sobbed. Ares called out over the commotion, “So what do we do then, our queen?” “First, I am not your queen, not anymore,” Athena replied. “I gave that honor back the moment Zeus returned to this world. Second, my father and I have already decided our strategy. He will fight our Uncle Hades, alone. None of us must help him, else we will lose everything.” “Why not?” A voice demanded. Athena couldn’t name the voice in the thick crowd. “Zeus is our general, and so he is the most powerful of us. Hades is the Lord of Death, and I’m afraid of the things he could do if he captures any one of us.” “But Zeus fighting by himself, the numbers aren’t fair!” The voice called out. Athena recognized the voice as belonging to Artemis. “None of this is fair. I wish we could help Zeus somehow, but we’re needed elsewhere. If what our father says is true, then an army of the dead is gathering, forces more powerful than anything the world has ever seen. Father and I believe that Hades will scour the world with the army of shades, while he himself will capture Olympus.” “That would be foolish!” Ares snapped. “What general splits his forces? If Hades is as clever as I think he is, he will invade this mountain with his army. When he does that, I’m sure he’ll move on to the rest of the world. But to think that Hades will split his army is ridiculous!” “It’s ridiculous, but it will happen,” a quiet voice said from behind Athena. The softness of the voice somehow rang out over the arguments echoing in the chamber. Athena turned and looked, and so did everyone else, and they saw Persephone standing in the doorway, looking braver than she ever did. “My daughter! My beautiful daughter!” Demeter cried out, ecstatic to see her daughter returned. Demeter pushed past through the crowd of gods to embrace her daughter. As they hugged, Athena noticed that Demeter was much more thrilled than Persephone, who only hugged her mother out of necessity. Athena silently swore at Persephone, wishing that the girl had stayed hidden in her room like commanded. If Demeter had assumed that Persephone was still in Hades’ grasp, there was no telling what might the goddess could have mustered. Demeter could have commanded every living, breathing thing in the world to fight for her, simply to bring back her daughter. But now, with mother reunited with daughter, what incentives did Demeter have left? Persephone hugged her mother for only a few moments before pulling herself away and saying to the crowd, “Athena is right. I’ve seen and heard much more than Zeus has. I’ve been with Hades much longer than any of you have. He thinks he’s doing this for the right reasons, but I’ve seen through him. He’s doing this for him, because he feels that you all have insulted him. He’s the most selfish creature I’ve ever met, a being that won’t give anything unless he’s given more back. I don’t doubt that he’ll split his forces. He wants to be the first and only one to climb this mountain. He wants to say that he brought down Mount Olympus all by himself. Trust me.” Athena paused, to let the other gods take in that information. Then she demanded, “Tell me you’re convinced now. Tell me that you will trust Zeus to stop Hades. Tell me that you will help me stop the army of the shades. If we don’t stop those shades, the entire world will be plunged into a never-ending winter of ash and night. All hope will be lost, and when hope is lost, the people will go with it. And do you know what will happen when those people die? Those people give us strength through their prayers, their sacrifices fill our cups with ambrosia. The moment they die, we will vanish! I am absolutely certain of that. I know that few of you trust me – you don’t have to hide it anymore, because you can’t. I can see it in your eyes, how you think I’m a part of this conspiracy. It’s possible I am! If Hades could become such a monster, then what could stop the rest of us from following that path? But do you know why you should trust me? It’s because I trust you – all of you – at this very moment. I may not have trusted you before, and I may not trust you in the future if we survive this. But I’m here, right now, asking for your help, because I know you all are the only ones who can defeat death. I know that together, we can push back Hades and his army. But I also know that if we’re separate, if we continue not trusting each other, we’ll have to sit and watch as Hades brings the entire world down to rubble. So trust me, because I trust you.” There was a silence in the air. The gods looked at one another hesitatingly. They had spent too long fighting one another, so long that they didn’t know what peace was like. They didn’t want to become a true family and fight together, even if it was for one battle, even if it was to save their way of life. But while they were filled with hatred, none of them were stupid. They all knew the consequences of doing nothing, of letting Hades destroy the world without a fight. The Olympians had to make their peace with one another if they wanted to preserve themselves. By this point, though, none of them wanted to take the first step – none of them wanted to be the first to say what it was they were all thinking. Then, Artemis stepped bravely forward. She looked Athena in the eyes and said resolutely, “I’ll fight by your side, Athena.” The other gods were once more surprised by something that Artemis did. She was the same goddess who was afraid of doing anything unless her mother and her brother said she could. But they were too surprised to restrain the goddess. Then, Apollo remembered his place as protector of his sister. Not wanting to see Artemis hurt in the battle, the god of the sun stepped forward too and said, “I’ll fight by your side.” Then Hera stepped forward. Then Aphrodite. Then Ares. Then Persephone, quickly followed by a nervous Demeter. The gods and goddesses stood in a line in front of Athena, staring at the goddess, expecting their next orders. Athena swelled with pride at the rare sight. She cleared her throat and said, “Okay, here’s what we need to do. And we need to hurry while doing it. If we can hear Hades’ army, then they can see us.” Book 17 Hades couldn’t see it, but he knew that Mount Olympus was to his north. He gathered a few, deep breaths and began jogging along the beach. His jog soon quickened into a run, and that run soon became long leaps, clearing at least a mile or two with every stride. They were jumps that even the gods would have considered impossible. But the shades that flapped in the wind behind Hades didn’t pull the god back – if anything, they pushed him fiercely. And Hades’ gasps came not from exhaustion but instead exhilaration – he was getting closer to his destiny by the jump. Just a few more leaps, and he would have Mount Olympus in his grasp. And indeed, after several jumps, Olympus soon zoomed into view. Clouds hanging around the mountain shrank away, almost as if they were frightened by the approach of Hades. Hades was running even faster now, jumping even longer. The cape of shades behind him flapped madly in the wind. Finally, he reached Mount Olympus, after centuries of exile in the world below. He latched his hands into the crevices of the mountain, remembering the forgotten touch of the stone. For the first time since he began his run, Hades halted. He leaned in close to the mountain and breathed in the stone – he couldn’t remember the last time that he breathed in something so wonderful. It vaguely reminded him of meat being cooked over a hickory fire, the juicy smoke filling him more than meat ever could. He had been denied that simple pleasure for too long – he had been denied too much for too long. He looked up the mountain to where it disappeared in the sky. He couldn’t see the summit from where he stood, but he would see it soon enough. He roared, “I’m coming for you all! Be ready!” And, with that said, Hades began his climb, the cape billowing beneath him. It did not take long before he could see the mountaintop. It was just a few minutes into the climb, and already the air began to thin. He took quick glances downwards as he climbed – the world far below him looked tiny but sprawled, like a map unrolled. He wasn’t used to seeing the world from that angle, but it was something that he could certainly get used to. And above him, he could see the palace walls, looming over the edge of summit. The moment he touched that summit, things would be different. Hades knew everything would change, because he had seen it happen once before: when the Olympians overthrew their Titan parents centuries before. But this day would be different. Before, he was forced to take the Kingdom of the Dead, all while the other gods got drunk on life. Hades smiled as he thought of how long the gods would last in the Underworld before they went insane. He would have his answer soon enough. As Hades clambered up the mountainside, his billowing cloak had grown immensely. When he had left the Underworld, the cape of shades reached his feet – now, though, the cape had grown miles long. Any mortal who survived the massacre below would have looked up in shock, as the mountain became wrapped in a dark shroud, like a funeral. As more shades poured out of the Underworld, as more people were terrified and slaughtered by the shades, his power grew. Hades did not even feel the climb anymore – if anything, he was almost floating, pushed up by the millions of shades that he wore. The shades pushed him up because they too wanted to see what the palace atop Mount Olympus looked like. They wanted to see the dream that the gods lived, while they were given the nightmare of the Underworld. So close, Hades chanted himself on, just a bit more climbing. He could feel the cape of shades rippling behind him. At first, he thought that they were as excited as he was. But then, he felt a wind – it was a breeze at first, but it began to pick up a trot, then a gallop. In just a few moments, the wind was rushing against Hades, pinning him to the mountainside. He could barely hold onto the rocks, let alone climb the rest of the way up. “What’s going on?” Hades growled to himself. He never remembered Olympus like this. Was the mountain fighting against him? The thought felt ridiculous, but he had seen a lot of ridiculous things recently. And that was when he saw it – out of the corner of his eye, he saw an arrow plunging towards him. Still pressed against the rock by the wind, all Hades could do was watch as the dart came towards him. It was not until it got closer, though, that Hades realized it wasn’t a dart: it was a bird. And it wasn’t until the bird got closer that Hades realized it was an eagle. And it wasn’t until the eagle got even closer that Hades recognized it. He recognized it, even before it landed on the rocky wall beside him. As the eagle’s talons became legs, its wings into bristling arms, its beak into a bearded face, Hades looked on, shocked. Hades almost fell from the mountainside at that second, perhaps from surprise, but perhaps from defeat. The wind that heralded the eagle’s entrance died down. And what was once eagle but now god roared, “Brother!” “Zeus,” Hades hissed. He didn’t understand how Zeus freed himself from the Underworld. Or rather, Hades didn’t have the time to understand. Already, Zeus was reaching into his billowing robes for his weapon. Hades could see sparks erupting from the robes, and he knew what was coming next. Still holding onto the rock with one hand, Hades reached for his sheath with the other. He pulled out his sword just as a lightning bolt came hurtling towards him. Hades awkwardly blocked the bolt with the blade of his sword – the lightning strike shot down the mountain. Far below them, Hades heard the sound of the lightning shattering the rock, then a short silence, then a dull roar. The lightning bolt had caused a rockslide. Hades asked, “Are you trying to destroy Olympus before I can?” “Only if I can bury you in the rubble!” Zeus roared as he pulled out another lightning bolt. Hades prepared himself for another strike, but Zeus didn’t throw this lightning bolt. Instead, he held it in his clenched fist like a sword. Zeus launched himself from the rock and landed on a ledge next to where Hades clung. Lightning bolt met sword blade as Zeus tried to impale Hades with electricity. But at the last moment, Hades pushed the lightning bolt into the rock with his sword. Zeus let go of the lightning bolt stuck in the rock and he punched Hades in the face. The King of the Dead almost lost his footing and, as he recovered, Zeus pulled the bolt from the stone. As the brothers fought, Zeus demanded, “How could you do this to us? After everything we worked for?” Furious, Hades snarled, “Who was it who stole the Titans’ weapons from them? I did! I am the reason why you are on that throne in the first place. And how do you repay me? You banish me to live with the dead! You take away my queen and my wife!” “There has to be order!” “No, Zeus, no there doesn’t.” Zeus swung at Hades’ head with the lightning bolt, but Hades ducked and brought his sword up, the blade aiming straight for Zeus’ eyes. Zeus just barely knocked away the stab with the end of his bolt and brought the streak of lightning down on Hades’ head, hard. The electric shock couldn’t kill Hades, but it did paralyze the god momentarily. There was a dazed look in Hades’ eyes, and Zeus thought that the god would fall from the mountainside. The god quickly recovered, though, and he kicked Zeus in the leg. Zeus lost his footing and he slipped from the rock. Zeus gasped as he fell a short distance, his arms flailing. By luck, his hand caught onto a ledge and stopped his fall. But now, Zeus was caught up in the miles-long cape of shades that Hades wore. The shades slipped around Zeus like sheets of cloth, and Zeus could feel himself growing old at their touch. Through the grime and dust, Zeus saw his hands turning gnarled and shriveled. He looked up and saw that Hades was already continuing his climb towards the summit. If Hades reached the summit before Zeus could stop him… Zeus knew that he had to get out of the cape soon. The cape was so long now that it stretched down the entire mountain, its ends in a heap at the ground far below. If Zeus got too old and lost his strength, then he could fall the entire height of the mountain. He could survive the fall, but he would be too aged and weak by then to get back up and fight Hades. He had to get to the side somehow – that would be the quickest way to get out of the shadow of the shades… The eagle! Zeus thought wildly. Why didn’t he think of it before? Already, he was turning into the bird, his grey hairs transforming into feathers. In a few moments, he shrunk into his eagle form, and he felt his youth return to him. But the shades were causing him to age once more. His hands were the last part of him to transform, and he used them to push himself from the rocky wall, hoping to clear the cloud of shades around him. The plan worked, as Zeus broke free from the shades and tasted fresh air again. The eagle tumbled towards the earth for a few moments before he found his wings and flew. Zeus as an eagle soared up the mountain. Hades was closer than ever to the summit – the god was standing on a ledge just short of the mountaintop. Zeus flapped his wings tremendously and, at the final moment, began his transformation once more. Hades wasn’t expecting a bird’s beak burrowing into the back of his neck, nor the god’s hands reaching around his throat. Hades gurgled in surprise and reached for the fingers choking him. He easily pried the fingers away and turned swiftly, his hand now around Zeus’ own neck now. Zeus tried to rip himself from Hades’ grip, but the god was just too strong. Zeus felt his legs dangling useless under him – he knew that Hades was holding him over the side of the mountain. Zeus felt the urge to transform into his eagle form, but he knew better. As strong as Zeus was as a god, it wouldn’t take much for Hades to snap a bird’s neck. And while Zeus transformed from bird to god thousands of times, he never tried transforming from a dead bird before. Hades scoffed. “You’re too weak now. How long have you been gone, Zeus? Just a few days, and already the world has forgotten about you. There was a time when you could light up the sky with your lightning. Now, you can’t even knock me down with a bolt. Face it – no one believes in you anymore. You’re a king without a kingdom. Now, you know how I’ve always felt. I was a king, and still I had to take orders from you. Don’t you understand my shame now?” The fingers tightened around the neck and Zeus gasped, “Yes.” Hades laughed bitterly. “You know what? I don’t think you do. You don’t understand now, but you will soon enough. When this mountain crumbles and the world is mine, I will throw you and your entire family –“ “They’re your family too.” “Don’t interrupt me!” Hades screamed, shaking Zeus. “I will throw you and your family into the Underworld. But I’m willing to make a deal with you. While the rest of the family is tortured for eternity, I will let you sit on my old throne. There you will be King of the Dead, for as long as you’re willing to take orders from me. I will be your master now. You will hate me as much as I have come to hate you. Do we have a deal?” Hades’ fingers clenched together so harshly that Zeus thought his brother was choking a yes out of him. Instead, Zeus gritted his teeth and said, “I’ve survived death once – I’ll survive it again!” Zeus lashed out with another lightning bolt hidden in his robes. Hades screeched as the lightning bolt stung his elbow, numbing the arm. Hades’ grip suddenly slackened, and Zeus fell. Zeus anticipated this, though, and he grabbed the ledge, stopping his fall as soon as it began. As Hades stumbled backwards, holding his left arm, trying to rub feeling back into his numb fingers, Zeus pulled himself onto the ledge. If they had fought centuries before, or even a few weeks before, Zeus would have won the battle before it even began. All Zeus would have had to do was launch a single lightning bolt, one charged so much that it could blind the entire world, the waves of light washing Hades back into the Underworld. But things had changed in the past few days – although Zeus had been reborn, he was still only partly in this world. Much of his spirit still hung back in the Underworld, because it was not welcomed in the world above. The people, both mortal and immortal, had short memories, and so they already began to forget their king. A king who had ruled for centuries without question became a distant memory in a few short days. And Hades was there to fill the vacuum. His invasion of the world was not so much a battle as it was a victory march: with every step of his troops, Hades was claiming more and more land for his kingdom. And with that land came people, mortals terrified of death that was all around them. They prayed to Hades, begging him not to take away their lives, and Hades fed off their despair. And so, after years and years of Hades having to take commands from his brother, the two gods were looking at each other as equals, something than neither brother had ever expected to happen. But, as Zeus stood up and shook off the dust, Hades saw a familiar flicker in the King’s eyes. He had seen the same look before, when Zeus knocked their father from the skies and into the world’s depths. It was the look of a man who knew he was going to become king before he even overthrew the king. It was the look of a man who knew too much and who could do even more. It was a look that Hades thought he had, when he was climbing up the side of Olympus, towards the throne, towards his destiny. So why did Zeus have that look now? “You’ve made too many mistakes, brother,” Zeus breathed as he advanced. “I can never die, because I have always had one person believe in me, no matter what. As long as Athena lives, I will always live!” Zeus roared as he rushed, lightning drawn, towards Hades. The brothers met, steel against lightning, the sparks seen for miles around. Book 18 Although Zeus and Hades were still fighting each other on the slopes of Olympus, it seemed as if their battle had already been decided for them. Far below, Hades’ shade army still advanced, chewing up everything in its wake. Farms, villages, ports, even entire cities were buried under feet and feet of ash and dust. And so, for the first time in history, the night swept eastward instead of westward. As the cloud of spirits swept across the land, it only grew larger and larger. Because, for every person that choked to death from the ash, a new soldier joined the ranks of the shades. But the cloud’s stomach was infinity, and nothing that it ate could ever be enough. Yet still the shades stormed across Greece, starving, looking to fill and fulfill themselves. No one – perhaps not even the shades themselves – knew the army’s intentions. The innocent below were doing all they could to survive, with the lucky ones thinking to wrap their faces with cloth. The unlucky ones, though, tried to outrun the storm, gasping heavily as they did – they inhaled the shades until they themselves became shades. And yet, as incredible as the shade army was, they had little control over their own march. Instead, they were pushed or pulled rather by the strong currents of wind. They were little more than flying jellyfish, their legs useless, the world doing the walking for them. But anyone who survived the panic below would have noticed the wind was pushing in a northeasterly direction, hugging the coastline. At the speed the wind was going, it would not be long before the shades reached the outskirts of Athens. The moment the army touched Athens, the city would become the world’s largest cemetery, the army would grow impossibly, and all would be lost. But there was no mortal who could stand against the march. Their best spearmen would only throw their spears through the shades, the archers their arrows. If the swordsmen stabbed at the shades, they would only get their swords dusty. If the mortals could draw up any hasty defense along the coast, it would be no use. There were a few riders brave enough to race the storm, their horses galloping breathless along the shoreline. But even if the horsemen reached Athens in time, would the Athenians believe them? Would they actually believe that a cloud of death was rumbling towards them, a storm of choking dust that could kill the strongest in just moments? Who would want to believe in such things? And just like how the shades didn’t know where the path would take them, they didn’t know what the path would bring them. Their answer came further along the shore. There, the cliffs began to rise higher and higher over the sea and the wind changed course, veering to the left, deeper inland. There, the shades quickly found themselves in a maze of canyons and valleys, a convoluted network that did nothing but slow down the inevitable. It may have been easier for the shades to continue hugging the coastline, flying straight like an arrow towards Athens. But the wind was their master – wherever the wind went, so did the shades. As the cloud of shades made its way through one valley, where the muddy walls on either side were mossy with stubborn trees and bushes, something began to happen. It began first as a growl, low and murmuring. But then, the growl rose until it became a roar, which the shades recognized as not being their own. This roar was something new, something raw, something very much alive. And that was when they appeared. A band of soldiers climbed over a nearby ridge, dressed in full armor, clanging their shields with their swords, giving their battle-cry. Who are these people? The shades wondered amongst themselves. Don’t they know how easily we can kill them? What the shades didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, but it could defeat them. “Shades of Hades! Stay back! Stay back or we will bring you down!” The voice of Athena boomed and echoed through the valley like a rockslide. The cloud halted, suspended in the air like a black sun at noon. The shades whispered amongst themselves once more. The gods, they’ve come. We can’t kill them. Their skin is too tough, their blood too strong. We need to push on. As long as the gods stood between the shades and Athens, the shade army could not move. Each Olympian gave off a soft breeze when they were in their immortal form. This wind was necessary, because it trumpeted their arrival in the mortal world. When other creatures in the woods and plains felt that wind, they knew that a god was approaching, and all of the bears, foxes, wolves, and rabbits would bow. When the gods were separate, the breeze was noticeable yet weak – when they were together, though, their breeze combined was more of a whirlwind than anything else. Even though the gods were still a distance away from the cloud, their wind was still very real. And so the cloud hung in the air, frozen. As the cloud hovered, the gods looked on from the ridge, unsure of what to do. Hermes, floating with his winged sandals just above the others, wondered out loud, “So, how will the battle go?” The gods looked expectantly towards Ares, thinking that the god of war would know a strategy. Red in the face, Ares blustered, “I’m still working on a plan. Let me think!” Hermes looked back at the cloud. “Well, what’s the worse they can do to us, anyway? They can’t kill us.” Demeter said thoughtfully, “That’s true. We’ve lived in the mountains our whole lives – we’re used to breathing thin air, if any.” “We need to drive them back into the Underworld, now!” Athena said urgently. She pointed in the distance to Mount Olympus. The mountain was covered in clouds darker than night. Even from far away, they could hear the applause of thunder. “Zeus and Hades are already fighting. We have to make the shades retreat if we want to weaken Hades. We need to…” “Look!” Artemis was pointing past the gods and goddesses, her outstretched finger towards the shades. The immortals looked, and what they saw astounded them. The belly of the cloud was opening up, and figures were raining downwards. The gods watched as the raining creatures landed in a creek far below. The creatures quickly recovered and leapt from the creek, sprinting up the slopes towards where the gods stood. As high up as the gods were, the creatures were running even faster. They only had moments before the battle would begin. “What are those?” Hera asked, squinting at the charging forces. Athena was the first to recognize them, even though she had never seen them before. She had heard enough stories to know who they were. She screamed, “They’re the prisoners of Tartarus! Prepare for battle!” The gods barely had time to raise their swords and shields before the charge struck. Tantalus was the first of the prisoners to reach the gods. Tantalus pulled his longsword from the sheath and swung for Athena’s head. Athena ducked and moved her shield to the side, ready to jab at Tantalus with her sword. But the prisoner was already lunging at her and the two fell, tumbling down the slope behind them. Their fall stopped a short way down the hill, when the two of them slammed against a boulder jutting out of the hillside. Dazed, Athena stumbled up to her feet, taking a moment to realize why she fell. She spun around wildly, looking for Tantalus. She found the prisoner nearby, clutching his chest – that was when she saw the sword handle sticking out of his breast. Tantalus must have impaled himself as they tumbled down the hill. She watched in silence as Tantalus lurched upwards – the old king gritted his teeth and pulled the blade from his rotting chest. As Tantalus wiped his guts from the rusty sword, Athena wondered how she could kill a man who was already dead. As Athena looked past Tantalus and up the hill, she could see the other gods and prisoners fighting each other. Although the gods had managed to stay together at first, she could see that they were breaking up into one-on-one combat. Once the group of gods broke their ranks and dispersed into their separate fights, the hill would be unguarded and the storm of shades could march on again. She had to make the gods regroup. She tried to race past Tantalus, but the rotting king stepped in front of her and raised his sword. She couldn’t tell if he was grinning or snarling. “If you’re really a god, why are you afraid of me?” “I’m not,” Athena said warily, looking past Tantalus at the larger fight happening uphill. “Then fight me…” Tantalus began, and then a commotion happened. A swirl of feathers and talons landed on Tantalus’ face, scratching and digging. Tantalus screamed, his hands latching to his face as the owl flew away. Athena’s eyes followed the owl as it shot back into the skies. Athena smiled and whispered, “Thank you, mother.” She looked back down at Tantalus, who had somehow become even more gruesome. The owl’s talons had popped Tantalus’ eyeballs, the jelly dripping thickly down his cheeks. It was a blessing for Tantalus that he could not feel the blinding pain that came with his eyes being clawed out. But, that also meant that he couldn’t see anything that was going on in front of him. His arms flailing in front of him, Tantalus tripped forward as he roared, “You see what I am now? This is what you’ll look like when I find you!” Athena laughed. She cracked Tantalus across the face with the broadside of her sword. Not expecting the blow, Tantalus stumbled to the side and continued rolling down the slope. Athena watched, mildly interested, as Tantalus reached the edge of the slope and disappeared over the side, leaving behind only a trail of frustrated screams. When Athena rejoined the battle, she knew then that the rest of the fight would not be as easy. Ares and Nemesis were struggling with one another. Hephaestus and Thanatos were dueling. Sisyphus was fighting both Artemis and Apollo. Hermes was hovering above the battle, trying to get close enough to help one of his fellow gods but getting chased away each time by the vicious Cerberus. To the side, Athena spotted Aphrodite standing between Hera and the lustful Ixion. Each of the gods – even the powerful Ares – looked as if they needed help, any kind of help. Athena paused for a moment before deciding to help Hermes. Hermes dove in to save Aphrodite from what looked like a stunning hit, but he yelped as the three-headed dog leapt forward and got a hold of one of his winged sandals. Hermes tried to pull away, but Cerberus yanked off Hermes’ right sandal. Now uneven, Hermes awkwardly tried to fly away on one sandal, but he hit the ground hard after a short distance. Two of Cerberus’ heads growled hungrily as the lucky head ripped the winged sandal to shreds. With Hermes downed, the mischievous god had no more tricks, now easy game for Cerberus’ three jaws dripping with poison. Hermes would survive the bite, of course, but at the cost of his sanity. Even from a distance, he could see the dog’s jaws frothy with spit, the faces soaked with hysterical tears, the eyes both terrified and terrifying. Still, Hermes did not think to get up and run away – his winged shoes had spoiled him for too long, and Hermes could not remember the last time he had to run, if ever. He scrambled backwards in the rocky soil as the dog rushed towards him. He shut his eyes and waited for the poison. But the agonies never came. Hermes heard howls and grunts and he opened his eyes to see Cerberus rearing back on its hind legs. Athena had grasped onto the mighty dog’s back, her fingers digging into the patchy fur. She ducked and twisted her body as the dog spun in circles, its many jaws struggling to snap at the rider. Through the swirling rush, Hermes saw that Athena was barefoot, and that she was holding onto something with one clenched fist. Hermes saw the goddess lash out with her hand, and at first he thought she had punched Cerberus in one of its jaws. But then, he saw the jaw clamp shut, with something dark like a snake coiled around its long snout. It took Hermes a moment to realize that Athena had unlaced her boots, and that she was using the leather laces to tie the dog’s mouths shut. There was a yelp as another dog’s jaw was tied shut. Unfortunately, Athena only had two boots, and the dog had three jaws. Cerberus finally managed to toss Athena free, and the goddess rolled in the dirt. As she got up, she saw the dog charging towards her now, its last free mouth snapping wildly. Athena reached for her sword, but she realized that she had dropped it, when Cerberus had thrown her. The sword was ten feet away, useless – she would be mauled to madness by the time she reached her weapon. When Cerberus was just a few feet away from her, she saw a flash from her right. There was a moment of turbulence, and then the dog collapsed in a shaking fit. Standing over the dog was Hermes, now completely barefoot and triumphant. He had shoved his sole sandal deep into the dog’s mouth, jamming the dog’s jaw. The dog fiercely shook its head, trying to dislodge the stuck sandal, but the shoe remained. Whimpering in strangled tones, the dog trotted away, desperate to free all three of its jaws. “Your sandals!” Athena called over the battle’s roar. “I can always get another pair of winged sandals…look!” Hermes yelled, pointing his finger. Athena turned and saw Hephaestus stumbling down the hill, with Thanatos marching swiftly behind him. She also saw, out of the corner of her eye, Demeter standing on the outskirts of the battlefield, wringing the worry out of her hands, Persephone shielded behind her. Athena wanted to scream out in fury. She wanted to tell Demeter to let Persephone alone for once. They were in a battle where every number counted – yet Demeter would rather guard her daughter than the rest of the world. But there was no time for her to shout sense into Demeter. She snapped, “Hermes, drag our aunt into battle if you have to. We need her!” While Hermes dashed through the battle towards Demeter, Athena ran to Hephaestus’ aid. The crippled god was making his way through the hillside strewn with boulders, struggling to reach his dropped crossbow. Moments earlier, Hephaestus aimed a dart from his crossbow at Thanatos – but the jailor was swaddled in dark, flowing robes, making him a hard target to hit. And so the crossbow dart frayed Thanatos’ robes and cracked into the ground behind him. Hephaestus desperately reloaded his crossbow with another dart, hoping he could do it in time. He wished that, when he made the crossbow, he didn’t make the weapon so complicated to reload. The fact that his heavy plate armor was slowing him down did not help matters. By the time Hephaestus had a dart resting in the crossbow, Thanatos had already reached the god. Thanatos jabbed his sword between the bow and the string, ripping the crossbow out of Hephaestus’ hands and sending it flying down the rocky hill. Thanatos could have easily caught up with Hephaestus as the crippled god stumbled downhill towards his weapon. But Thanatos was thrilled with the thought of a god trying to run away from him, and so he slowed his sprint to a powerful stride. He loved the moment too much to see it go. Athena knew that the second Hephaestus grabbed his crossbow and wheeled around, though, the god would have a sword aiming straight for him. It all seemed to happen in one motion. Hephaestus snatched the crossbow from the ground with one hand, a dart in the other. Thanatos brought his sword back, ready to swing the blade down on the god’s arm. Before he could do this, though, he felt something, or someone, grip his wrist so tightly that his sword clattered to the ground behind him. Athena gripped Thanatos’ wrist with her left hand and swung her sword in a wide arc with her right, the sword’s tip pointing towards Thanatos’ heaving chest. Thanatos gasped as the sword broke through his brittle ribcage, sheared open both of his withered lungs, and broke through his back in a spray of sour guts and crackly skin. Athena gave a mighty roar and flung her sword so hard that Thanatos’ impaled body flew off the blade. The rotten Thanatos soared through the air and against a boulder, where the jailor collapsed in a heap of broken bones and spilled juices. Athena grabbed Hephaestus by the arm and snapped, “Hurry! We still have a battle to win!” Hephaestus nodded and wheezed as he stood up to his stooped height. Athena scrambled back up the hill, Hephaestus shuffling close behind her, as the two rejoined the battle. As they ran out of the shadow of the shade army, Athena had to swerve around a fiery boulder that fell from the skies – although the shades looked wispy, that did not stop the cloud from raining rocks and ash down on them. Athena glanced back at a pale Hephaestus, chalky with the falling ash, and shouted, “Stay with the group, no matter what!” Hephaestus nodded grimly. Only by staying together as a group, protecting one another, could the gods protect the rest of the world. He understood now that the shades wanted to split up the group, to weaken their winds so that the army could plunge down the valley towards Athens in the distance. Hephaestus ran to help Aphrodite fight back Ixion as Athena wondered which battle to help with next. Ares and Nemesis were circling one another with carnage in their eyes. Athena saw what looked like white paint dripping down from Ares’ arm. She got closer before she realized that it wasn’t paint, but ichor – Ares was bleeding. But how? The only creature that could scratch an immortal was another immortal – Athena understood that all too well. And Nemesis was no immortal – her blood did not shine the way that the Olympian blood did. Athena didn’t comprehend what had happened until she heard Nemesis’ taunts. “What a brilliant general! You don’t even know how to hold a sword.” Ares snarled and pointed to his sword. “The next time you touch this, it’ll be when I run it through your heart!” “If only I had one,” Nemesis said with a smile. Athena guessed, but it would not be until later when she heard the truth. Nemesis had managed to overpower Ares in the first moments of their fight. Ares could only watch in horror as Nemesis grabbed his sword – which Ares still clutched in his hand – and rubbed the blade against his other arm. The sword slipped along his skin, leaving behind a path slimy with pain and running blood. And while Nemesis could have easily slit Ares’ throat with the god’s own sword – while the god was still holding his sword – she needed him alive. Already, Ares’ mouth was foaming with fury, his eyes red with shame. Ares didn’t know it, but every moment he remained angry, that was another moment when Nemesis grew stronger. Athena needed Nemesis to be weak, somehow. Athena rushed from behind, taking out her sword and plunging it into Nemesis’ trailing robes. The vengeful woman halted as she realized she was anchored to the ground with a sword. By that point, though, Athena had already ducked under Nemesis’ flailing arms and launched herself onto Ares, sending both of the immortals falling to the ground. Surprised, Ares sputtered, “What do you think you’re doing? Whose side are you on?” “Don’t attack her!” Athena ordered. “You’re not the one she shamed. Get off me! Let me save my reputation!” With a mighty heave, Ares pushed Athena to the side and got up on his feet once more. From the ground, Athena begged, “Please, you don’t understand! She feeds off your revenge!” “Then let her eat herself to death!” Ares rushed towards Nemesis, who was too busy trying to free herself from the stuck sword to notice the god. Nemesis spotted Ares, though, at the last moment – she saw the gleam of madness in Ares’ eyes, and when she saw this, she smiled. And as Nemesis smiled, Athena realized what she had to do. Ares’ attack never happened. Ares stopped in mid-air, his sword inches away from Nemesis’ face. With a look of shock on his face, Ares was flung backwards into the rock. Athena stood where Ares was a moment before, her breasts heaving, the goddess trying to catch her breath. As strong as she was, Ares weighed just a little more. Ares got back on his feet and roared, “How dare you stop me?” “I’ll toss you again if I have to!” Athena snapped. “I don’t want you making a mistake you’ll regret.” Ares spat on the ground before Athena. The god of war cracked his knuckles and asked, “Why do you care for me now, sister? Why can’t it wait until after the battle?” Athena said quickly, “You and I have had our scuffles in the past, but we need to stop fighting. That’s why I forgive you.” Taken aback, Ares simply said, “What?” “I forgive you for all of the pain you’ve caused me, for invading my home before, for killing my neighbors,” Athena said, walking towards Ares as she spoke. “I can only hope you forgive me for what I’ve done to you.” Ares didn’t understand what Athena was saying at first. That is, he didn’t understand until he looked past the advancing Athena, and saw Nemesis, or rather what Nemesis was becoming. The embodiment of all revenge was looking at Athena, shocked that she wanted to end the cycle of vengeance. Although her upper body was still intact, Nemesis’ feet and legs were beginning to fade like sunlight at dusk. Ares could actually see the ground behind Nemesis now, the woman was so faint. Hiding a smile, Ares said, “I forgive you as well, Athena. Now, let’s save our family, together.” And so brother and sister clasped hands as if they were signing a truce. Although their hands meant peace, their eyes still shook with fury at one another. The treaty was only skin-deep – their war was still ongoing – their war would possibly go on forever. But for now, their peace on the battlefield was enough. They turned to join their family in battle, but Athena forgot her sword. She ran back to grab her weapon, which was still plunged in the rock. Nemesis was nowhere to be found as Athena, with a loud grunt, pulled the blade from the ground and rushed to join the fight. The fight was beginning to turn, now that the gods and goddesses were united. Sisyphus had made a terrible mistake during his fight with Apollo and Artemis. The prisoner picked up a nearby boulder and flung it as easily as you would throw a stone across a pond. Artemis tried to step to the side, but she was not quick enough. The massive rock hit her in the arm and she went backwards with the stone. The boulder crunched into the ground, pinning Artemis’ arm and immobilizing her. Artemis had god’s blood and so she felt no pain, but she was not strong enough to pull herself out from under the boulder. Sisyphus laughed hard with the knowledge that he had defeated a god as powerful as Artemis. What he didn’t realize, though, was the effect that had on Apollo. As the god of the sun looked back to see his younger sister held helpless under the boulder, the beginnings of rage were creeping over his face. Apollo, a god notorious for being calm and orderly, gritted his teeth, his face flushed red. He roared at Sisyphus, “No one hurts my sister!” Apollo screamed an unearthly yell and began to glow. Athena, who was a distance away, could not tell if Apollo meant what he was doing, but she had certainly never seen him like that before. The god began glowing brighter and brighter, until anyone who looked at him had to turn away or be blinded. Sisyphus stumbled backwards before the light, his eyes shut, his arms up to block the shine. But Apollo was too bright, and Sisyphus could still see the glow. Still bursting with light, Apollo gave a piercing whistle. There was a brief pause, and Athena saw Apollo’s chariot shooting into view. The flying horses landed the chariot next to the temporarily blinded Sisyphus. The prisoner was still shaking the light from his eyes when Apollo roughly picked up Sisyphus by the foot and dragged him onboard the chariot. Apollo gave a sharp order and the horses obeyed. In less than a second, the chariot flew from the ground and shot into the heavens. Athena couldn’t see what was going on through the clouds, but she knew that it would end with Sisyphus having a very hard fall back to the earth. And she was right, as a few moments later, a dark blob broke out of the clouds and hurtled towards the ground. Athena watched as Sisyphus fell screaming into the valley far below. Almost all of the duels were over now, almost. The remaining fight was happening in the corner of the battlefield, on top of a large, flat rock. Ixion had managed to break his way past Aphrodite and Hephaestus, and he had clambered to the top of the boulder, where Hera was standing. Ixion had Hera by the arm, and Athena was surprised to see Hera not struggling, instead looking at Ixion with a dazed wonder in her eyes. Ixion had joined Hades’ army not to fight for the King of the Dead, but to have Hera in his arms once again. But Ixion soon realized how difficult it would be, fighting off a pack of gods with a sword in one hand and Hera in the other. Ixion waved his sword wildly at the approaching gods. The prisoner shouted, “Don’t come any closer! I’ll kill you all if I have to!” But there was no confidence in Ixion’s words. The prisoner knew that he couldn’t fight so many Olympians at once, and he knew that the gods knew this as well. Still, he held his sword up, ready to stab. And that was when Hera began to whisper in Ixion’s ear, words so soft that none of the others could hear what she was saying. As Hera whispered, the fight began to leave Ixion’s eyes. His sword lowering, Ixion looked at Hera with wonder and said in a hushed tone, “Really?” Hera simply nodded. Ixion let go of Hera’s arm and dropped his sword in surrender. Hephaestus and Aphrodite bound Ixion’s hands together with invincible leather straps from their sandals. As Apollo came back and lifted the boulder off Artemis’ arm, Athena approached Hera and asked, “What did you say to him?” Hera glared and said nothing. Athena didn’t bother questioning Hera any further. Instead, she looked up at the cloud of shades hovering above them. Across the globe, there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people dying by the minute, whether from disease or hunger or war. And when they died, their numbers joined the shade army, whether they wanted to or not. It would not be long before the shade army grew so strong that not even the Olympians could hold them back. They had to come up with a plan soon, one that would push the shades back into the Underworld. And that was when Athena thought of a plan – or rather, the plan hit her. That was possibly their best way of defeating the shades, perhaps the only way. She ran over to Apollo, who was hunched over Artemis, making sure that his sister was okay. She whispered her plan into Apollo’s ear. The god listened attentively to what Athena had to say. For the second time that day, Apollo showed a rare emotion – instead of fury, though, there was a thin smile on his face. When Athena finished whispering, Apollo said, “Okay, I’ll do it.” “Good. Thank you.” Apollo jumped into his chariot, with Artemis close behind him. As the chariot zoomed into the sky, Athena rushed over to where Demeter was standing. She snapped at her aunt, “Your daughter’s fine for now. There are more important things at the moment.” Demeter said defensively, “The last time I looked away from my daughter, that beast took her.” Persephone, who was sitting on the ground behind Demeter, looked down and said nothing. Athena snarled, “Well then, if you don’t want to help us, then give me a seed. I’ll do the work myself if I have to!” “A seed?” Demeter asked. “What kind of seed? What for?” “A seed for an olive tree,” Athena said cryptically. Demeter reached into the pouch that she kept around her waist. She produced from the pouch one olive tree seed, which Athena snatched from her. Athena motioned for all of the gods to lean in close and listen to her. “I want you all to follow Apollo and do as he says,” Athena commanded, pointing up to the sky. “And, no matter what, you all must stay together!” With that said, Athena spun and started walking towards the ledge. She stuck the seed under her tongue, careful not to swallow it. She was beginning her transformation into an owl when a worried Hephaestus called out, “What about you? What are you going to do?” “I’m off to plant a garden,” Athena said through gritted teeth, now more owl than person. Book 19 As an owl, Athena flew around the dirty cloud of shades, careful to keep her distance. Even as a goddess, she knew it would be too dangerous to touch one of the spirits – she did not want to find out what happened if she touched one while transformed as an owl. She flapped her wings hard yet effortlessly, the shore a blur beneath her as she made her way to the volcano. She needed to get there in plenty of time, because she didn’t know how much time she would need. She went over the plan again and again in her mind. It all seemed simple enough, almost too simple. She didn’t even want to think about what she had asked of Apollo. She felt guilty asking for his help – she had done so, knowing that no matter what, Apollo would say yes. There was a god who accepted any duty without question, even when he should have asked questions. She was only a few minutes into her flight, but already she could see the volcano looming in the distance. The yellow sand beneath her soured blue as she flew out over the sea. The waters seemed choppier than usual, the dark waters turning white like cream. She thought of the wolves she had seen before, the wild dogs scratching and biting at their fur, trying to uproot the bugs nestled between the hairs. She wondered if the entire world was doing the same thing – she wouldn’t have been surprised. The volcano was coming up now. She tilted her wings and descended into the mouth of the volcano. As she dove deeper and deeper into the pit, the walls shot up around her, and she felt like a fish swimming straight into a whale’s mouth. She felt a sudden pang of fear – what if the plan didn’t work, or worse yet, if it worked too well? What if she was trapped in the Underworld with the shade army? What evils would Hades and his generals have in store for her when she was discovered? But she had no time to be afraid. It seemed to take her longer to descend to the floor of the pit than it took her to fly to the volcano in the first place. Finally, she reached the floor, or rather the floor reached her. It was hard for her to see through the dark, even as an owl, and she hit the rocks hard. The bird groaned and got up on its talons, shaking off the soreness. A few feathers floated down to the ground as the owl shook. A few moments later, the owl was no longer there – instead, Athena was back in her regular form. She remembered and spat out the seed she had been carrying in her mouth. She couldn’t see it in the darkness, but she could feel the seed in the palm of her hand, slimy with spit. She got down on her knees and began groping around, hoping to find the hole that led to the Underworld. After a minute or so of searching, she found it, a massive, perfectly round hole that led straight down into the Underworld. At the bottom of the hole, she could see a faint dance of blue – the rocks at the bottom must have been reflecting the shimmering rivers that flowed through the Underworld. There was obviously no soil at the bottom of the volcano. A mortal would have thrown their hands up in despair, thinking it impossible to plant an olive tree in such a rocky and desolate place. But Athena knew better – she found a crack running along the edge of the hole. She would make her garden there. She had to wait to plant it though – too soon, and the shade army would still be in the mortal world – too late, and the shades could break out again. And so Athena stepped away from the hole and looked up at the faint light coming down from beyond the volcano’s summit. She whispered, “Come on, Apollo, hurry up.” A few miles away from where Athena stood in the volcano, Apollo was in the fight not only for his life, but for all life too. The plan that Athena told him was a good one – dangerous, but good. Some would have hesitated, but Apollo felt that he did not have the right to hesitate. He was the arm of Athena – when Athena wanted him to lash out, he did just that. In his beautifully crafted chariot, Apollo yelled out commands to his prized flying horses as they pulled him in tight circles around the jumbled mass of shades. As the chariot banked and the vertical world turned horizontal, Apollo glanced to his passenger in the chariot with him. Artemis was clenching Apollo’s shoulder with her left hand, the front of the chariot with her right hand. She avoided flying with Apollo in the chariot whenever she could – but the day was too important for Artemis’ fears. Grey-faced, Artemis yelled out over the wind breaking like a surf around them, “Why are we circling them?” “You’ll see!” As the chariot swerved around the swirl of shades, the chariot’s golden frame caught what little sunlight found its way through the clouds. The gold reflected the sunshine so brilliantly that any mortal on the ground would have thought the chariot was the sun. The rays of golden light stabbed at the shades – the spirits howled and recoiled before the light, as darkness should. Far below Apollo and Artemis, the other Olympians were rising to the occasion as well. Each of them were hurdling over the boulders and trees that dotted the landscape, even jumping entire gorges, doing all that they could to follow the storm. They panted from their run, but it made them sweat even more wind than before. With the Olympians pushing at the shades with their bursts of wind, with Apollo corralling the shades with his light, the spirits had no choice but to let their enemies guide them. The shades hissed with frustration, but all they did was encourage the Olympians to keep pushing them further and further. It was not long before they saw the volcano rising over the seawaters. The Olympians on the ground could not go any further, and so they waved Apollo and Artemis onwards. As the cloud of shades slipped over the churned waters, the Olympians watched in silence. Without taking his eyes off the cloud, Hermes wondered out loud, “Do you think this will work?” Hera said grimly, “I can only hope so. If not…” She let the words hang in the air, because she was afraid to say what they were all thinking. But what she didn’t know was that the gods and goddesses were each thinking different things. Some especially were hoping for Athena’s safe return, while a few were not. Meanwhile, Apollo brought his chariot down to the water’s surface, the horses’ hooves just skimming the tide. They were moving so fast, the chariot kicked up a wall of water, spraying the shades in the bottom of the cloud. The shades altogether roared in protest and the cloud rose to escape the sprays of saltwater. “We need to get them in there!” Apollo explained to Artemis, pointing to the volcano just ahead. “What happens when we do that?” Apollo shrugged, helpless. “I’m not entirely sure!” When they reached the volcanic island, the shades sensed that they were on familiar ground once again. But with that memory came the thoughts of the Underworld, and the shade army suddenly halted – they refused to return to the dreariness of the Underworld. They wanted to stay in the world above, the home where they once belonged. Apollo anticipated this happening. He shouted once more to Artemis, “Close your eyes!” Artemis did as she was told. Apollo called on all of his strength, roaring so loudly that people across the sea in Egypt thought they were hearing thunder. Somehow, his battle-cry only grew louder – as his voice rose, his armor began to pulse brighter and brighter. It reached the point where he was even brighter than before, when he had blinded Sisyphus. He shimmered so much that his body could no longer be seen. Apollo was no longer a human form – he was nothing less than pure light. Apollo’s shine was so intense that rays of light broke through the cloud. The shades cried from pain they didn’t know they could feel. And like sailors jumping from a burning ship, the cloud of shades jumped over the volcano and into its cooling darkness. Apollo rode the chariot in a circle around the volcano, hoping his light could pierce the darkness of the volcano’s mouth, forcing the shades down even deeper. And it worked – the shades dove further and further into the volcano until they met the hole they had used earlier to escape the Underworld. They screamed and howled and clawed their way into the tight tunnel, never noticing the woman who stood at the hole’s edge. Athena watched, fascinated, as the whirlwind drained into the hole. She was mesmerized because, as the shades flew past her, she didn’t see what others saw in a shade. When the other Olympians looked at a shade, all they saw was a wispy silhouette of dust and ash. They didn’t see the shades’ arms and legs and faces and hair and eyes, because the shades didn’t have any of those. But, when Athena looked at the whirlwind, she could have sworn that she had seen faces rush by her, faces young and old, faces of sadness and anger, faces of confusion and acceptance. She knew she wouldn’t be able to explain what she saw to anyone else, but she still saw the people as if they were alive. They reminded her of travelers finished with their journey, exhausted and caked with dust, but completed, fulfilled. She was so breathless with the revelation that, when the last shade slipped into the hole, she almost forgot her duty. She gasped when she remembered, and Athena knelt down quickly beside the hole. She took out the seed and pushed it into one of the many cracks that formed from the hole. Before Athena could even stand up and step backwards, the seed had already cracked and begun to grow. Athena stumbled and fell backwards out of surprise – she yanked her bare foot away just as a raised root slapped against the stone. Athena shuffled away a safe distance and slowly stood up, in awe of the tree growing before her eyes. It grew feet by the second, until the tree covered up the hole entirely, until the tree was thirty, maybe even forty feet in height. It was only when the tree towered over her that it stopped growing. Athena walked up to the tree cautiously, gently reaching out with her hand. She ran her fingers across the bark, not understanding how a seed watered with her spit could grow into such a massive and sprawling olive tree. Ichor could do wonderful things. From beneath the tree, Athena could hear the faint hum of thousands of shades struggling to uproot the tree and break out into the world above once more. But the shades, no matter how many there were, no matter how hard they pushed, they could not bring down the tree. There were very few things that were impossible: one of those impossibilities was the force of death getting past an olive tree. All of the peace and generosity and potential for joy in the world were wrapped up in the bark of those olive trees, and so the dead were allergic to its bark. Any dead creature that dared touch an olive tree would immediately recoil, howling in their agony. The bark alone was enough to resurrect the pain of their past life. And so, as long as that olive tree stood guard over the sole entrance of the Underworld, no shade could enter or leave. Athena wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for years – she had never known exhaustion like this before. But the thought of lying down in a dark pit reminded her too much of burials, and so she transformed into an owl, anxious to see sunlight again. As she fluttered up towards the mouth of the volcano, she could see a burning light far above her. At first, she thought that Apollo was still glistening from earlier. And so she was surprised when she reached the summit of the volcano and found Apollo waiting for her. Instead of shining like a star, Apollo’s glow had ceased, the god now as dull as any man. Apollo gave a little smile when he saw her. “I’m glad to see you made it.” “So am I,” Athena said tiredly, her eyes wandering around, looking for the source of the light. And that was when she saw it: for the first time in what felt like forever, the sun was roaring across the landscape. Apollo’s trumpet of light from earlier had blasted the shades and every single cloud from the heavens. Now, there was nothing in the sky but blue and gold. No one probably ever saw the sky so clear before. Athena noted this to Apollo. “Perhaps,” Apollo said in his clipped tone, “perhaps the day looks so bright because we’ve been in the night for so long.” “Maybe.” Artemis appeared, having clambered off the chariot and climbed up to the ridge to join her siblings. Giddy with victory, she squealed, “Athena!” More by instinct than anything else, the two sisters embraced, something that mildly surprised both of the goddesses. Athena asked, “Is any of our family hurt?” “No, sister.” Athena sighed with relief. She was about to say something when Artemis suddenly said, “Look! Look at the mainland.” Both Athena and Apollo craned their heads and looked across the water. They had not realized it during their fierce battle, but when the shades invaded the world, they had left behind a march of snowy ash. Although the shades were gone now, the world had turned winter in the middle of summer, the hills grey like hairs. They couldn’t see from where they stood, but the trio of gods knew that somewhere, mortal survivors would be coming out of their hiding-places and surveying the ashy fields. It would take time for the fields to clear, but they would clear – it would take time for the streams to pump fresh water, but they would. The world around them may have felt as dead as parchment, but it was still parchment, and new stories could still be written on it, and that was all that mattered. While Apollo and Artemis took in the snowy world around them, though, Athena looked even further. Off in the distance, she could see the faint outline of Mount Olympus squeezed into the horizon. And, while the skies all around the gods were clear of clouds, Athena could just barely see a dark cloud hovering over Olympus still. And, while the cloud was looking like it was withering, it was still one last smudge to wipe away. Without saying a word to the others, Athena ran towards the edge of the volcano, turning into an owl as she sprinted. Apollo noticed the transformation, and he called out, “Athena! Where are you going?” The only response he got was an owl’s hoot, as the bird flapped madly towards Olympus. Book 20 Hades gasped and folded onto the ground. Zeus, who had been fighting his brother just moments before, did not take advantage of Hades’ fall. Instead, Zeus took a step back, a curious look on his face as he tried to make sense of the situation. Part of him wondered if this was some sort of trap, if Hades wanted Zeus to underestimate him. But he quickly laughed off the theory: he doubted that Hades would fake weakness. Even acting out a fall would have been an insult for the King of the Dead. No, there was something else going on. Zeus suddenly felt warm underneath his thick cocoon of armor. It was then that he realized that the afternoon sun had come back to life, that all of the clouds in the sky had vanished. And while Zeus felt a lover’s warmth in the sunlight, Hades hissed and slinked back from the rays of sunshine. Zeus could feel his old strength returning to him, all while Hades was losing his own power. Much more confident than he was before, Zeus strode over to where Hades laid sprawled out on the stone. Zeus raised his foot and brought it down hard on Hades’ chest, kicking the air out of the god. Hades gagged and then vomited a shallow pool of ambrosia to his side. “Get up, brother,” Zeus ordered sharply. “It’s my turn.” Hades crawled at the ground, desperate to drag himself away. As he crawled, Zeus walked alongside him, slightly amused at how far his brother had fallen. Zeus let Hades crawl for a few more feet before he grabbed the King of the Dead roughly by the neck and pulled him from the ground like a flower. He dragged Hades towards the end of the ledge they stood on. Holding Hades out at arm’s length, Zeus commanded, “Look at what you tried to do. Look!” And so Hades looked: he saw the entire world white with ash. But the sun was still in the sky, and the world was still very much alive. Worse, there was not a single cloud to be found. And his cape of shades had since slipped from his shoulders – Hades did not see the shades anywhere. And that was when he realized the truth that was awful for him: his armies had failed him in the battle. Not only had they lost, but they also fled back to the safety of the Underworld, abandoning their leader in a world that was not his. When Hades realized this, how lonely he had become, he wept. Zeus wasn’t sure whether to be more disgusted by Hades’ tears or to feel pity for his brother. But then, he remembered all of the injustices that Hades had brought against him. Hades was the reason why Zeus was dead and imprisoned in the Underworld until very recently. Hades was the reason why the world had plunged into an ashy winter. Hades was the reason why Mount Olympus almost collapsed into rubble. When Zeus thought of these things, all he felt was rage. He tossed Hades to the side. Hades slid across the stone, coming to a halt after a few feet. The god struggled to get up as Zeus approached. As the King walked, he took a lightning bolt from his robes. He knew his power was coming back to him, because this bolt glowed much brighter than the others. And he could even feel the hairs on his own arm rise from the electricity. Zeus made a fist with his right hand and wrapped the lightning bolt tightly around his hand, until it looked like he was wearing a glove of light. Hades had barely stood up before Zeus hit him in the stomach with the glove of lightning. There was a deafening crack and Hades flew backwards, slamming into the mountainside before coming to a rest in the deep crater he made. Zeus almost seemed to saunter towards Hades, clearly enjoying the reversal. He said lightly, “That didn’t hurt you, did it? I didn’t mean to hurt you – not yet, anyway.” Hades gave up trying to stand – instead, the god laid in the crumbled rock, groaning softly. Zeus stopped when he was standing over his fallen brother. Zeus looked down at Hades distastefully and asked, “Do you remember King Draco?” Hades looked up at his brother, baffled as to why Zeus was bringing this up now. He said in a crackling voice, “Vaguely, yes.” “I wouldn’t blame you if you forgot about him,” Zeus said, leaning his arm against a boulder, his arm wrapped in lightning still ready to strike. He looked down idly at the sparks popping from his fist. As he did this, he continued. “He’s been dead and forgotten for a long time, as he should be. But when he was king, he wanted to be remembered, forever. And so he set up a cult, and he executed anyone who didn’t worship him. I made a mistake – I didn’t pay attention to him until it was too late. He murdered several of my priestesses who were traveling and stopped in his city. And so I killed him. Well, I did more than that. One night, his palace was hit by a lightning bolt, even though the skies were clear. The whole palace burned down, and I watched him melt to death. And the records that he had his scribes keep? They burned up with the palace. He spent decades trying to be remembered, and I made the world forget him in one night.” Hades, breathing raggedly, asked, “Where are you going with this?” “I was there during Draco’s final moments. I stood over him and watched his defeat, much like I am now with you. And I saw the look of horror on his face, just before he died. And I thought for the longest time that he was afraid of the fire, of being burned to death. But then I realized something: the fire would be agony, but just a few moments of hurt. He was afraid of that, sure, but there was something else. You know what I think? I think he actually believed in his own worship – I think he believed he was a god, that he would be going to whatever afterlife he made. It wasn’t until he saw me, though, that he knew the truth: he would be spending an eternity in the grayness of the Underworld. And that’s how I know what your punishment will be.” As Zeus finished speaking, he began unwrapping the bolt of lightning from his hand. He held the bolt to his side, limp in his hand. Still not enlightened, Hades asked, “What are you planning to do with me?” “I’m not going to kill you, brother, because I don’t know how. But I do know something – I know that you hate the Underworld more than anything else. But you’ve come to hate it as a ruler. You don’t understand how much your subjects dread you, how they try to prolong their lives, even by a few extra minutes, to avoid your kingdom. And that’s how you’ll live, from this moment on. And so I’m going to tie you up with lightning, I’m going to throw you to your shades, and we’ll see just how much your subjects love their king.” But as Zeus approached with the shackles of lightning, Hades began laughing. Startled somewhat, Zeus asked, “What are you laughing about, brother?” Hades managed to stop his laughter long enough to say, “You still don’t understand – after all of this time, you still don’t understand.” “Understand what?” “If you hurt me, if you kill me, if you imprison me, who will look after the Underworld?” Hades asked. Zeus’ face fell as Hades continued. “Remember, any god who defeats his kin has to take over their responsibilities. Otherwise, who will look over the Underworld? If you bring me down, I’m taking you with me.” Feeling outwitted by his brother, Zeus snarled. Still, even as hatred sparked in his eyes, Zeus stepped back and put the lightning bolt back in his robes. Hades smiled, because he saw an escape from defeat. But he took his approaching freedom for granted, because even then, he was thinking of yet another plan, one last-ditch effort to salvage all that he had lost. Zeus took a deep breath to calm himself and said, “I’m going to follow you to your kingdom, and I’m going to leave you there. You may keep your throne yet, but I never want you to step foot in this world again. Do you hear me? I want you exiled to the Land of the Dead, forever. You will never see another color besides grey again. You will never see another living being. You will never feel the warmth of another’s touch. And you will never, ever see Persephone again.” That last sentence set off a panic in Hades’ eyes. He sputtered, “You will show mercy if you were smart, Zeus. I will let you take away all of my other freedoms – just please let me see my love again.” “She was never yours to begin with, brother. She would have had to love you back first. That’s something you need to understand – but I’m afraid you’ll never understand that, as smart as you are.” Hades bared his teeth. “You will regret doing this. I will make sure of it.” “No, I don’t think I’ll regret it. You see, you may have taken her, but you’re not an army, and she’s not a city. Persephone is a living, breathing being, not the spoils of war. You will never be close to her again, just like your earth can never touch my heavens. As long as I exist, and I will exist forever, you will never be close to anything you love again. Now come with me – it’s time for your exile.” Zeus reached down and easily picked up the limp Hades, now weaker than ever. Hades desperately needed death to happen somewhere in the world. What Hades didn’t know was that, as long as the olive tree covered the entrance to the Underworld, none of the dead could enter or leave the kingdom of the gone. He was a king without his land, and it showed in his pained face. But even though he wore the face of defeat, Hades still had one more plan – he always had one more plan. Hades shrank back from Zeus’ outstretched hand. Alarmed, Zeus watched as Hades convulsed and coiled into a viper. In just a few moments, Zeus found himself face-to-face with one of the most dangerous creatures in the world. Zeus was too strong to be killed by the snake, of course – but that did not mean that its venom, infused with Hades’ ichor, could not ruin the god. Zeus had never been bitten by a snake before, but he had watched from the heavens as mortals were bitten. He watched as the bitten mortals spent their final days in agony, writhing in their beds while their limbs turned black and smelled spoiled. Zeus could not imagine what a viper with an immortal’s spirit could do to him. Zeus shuffled backwards as quick as he could. He tripped over himself as he did so, and he fell hard on the ledge, cracking the rock beneath him. The snake was much quicker and, before he realized what was happening, Zeus found himself staring wide-eyed with a viper. The snake was resting on his chest, its fangs dripping, ready to bite. Zeus could have sworn that the snake was smiling, but he thought he was imagining it. But, as the snake pounced, and Zeus instinctively closed his eyes, the bite never came. Instead, Zeus heard a squeal, and he looked to see the snake wrestling in mid-air with an owl. Zeus immediately recognized the owl for what it truly was, and he stared in awe as the snake tried wrapping itself around the flapping owl. The bird stayed clear of the snake’s jaws, hooting loudly as it climbed in the air. Then, the owl squeezed hard with its talons, and Zeus heard the sound of juice running. The snake immediately went limp, its neck crushed by the owl’s sharp, powerful talons. When Zeus saw the dead Hades, he knew that the world’s nightmare was over. But for his daughter, a new horror was beginning. Zeus wanted to warn her somehow of what laid ahead for her, he wanted to rescue her before she was ensnared. Hades was right – any god that defeated another god had to take over their responsibilities. And in the case of Hades, those responsibilities meant death. But, it was already too late for Athena. Zeus could do nothing more than watch Athena fluttering above him, her wide, silvery eyes burning through him. That was when Athena vanished from the air entirely, something an astonished Zeus had never seen before and never would again. “Athena,” Zeus breathed. Book 21 Athena fainted. The next moment she remembered, she was floating lazily in a circle around a tree. At first, she thought that she had been dreaming, because she could vaguely remember having a dream like that before. Except that dream was about a sycamore that was on the shores of some vast lake. Here, she was circling an olive tree at the base of some rocky crater, the walls looming above her and cutting out the sunlight. The darkness seemed to come alive in the olive branches, crawling out towards her. Athena looked down at her fingers and she realized that she was in her godly form – she was somehow floating without being an owl. She also realized that she was holding onto a dead snake in her right hand. And that was when the memories began to flood back into her, and she moaned as she understood what had happened, or rather what had begun to happen. She tried waving her arms back and forth, in a swimming motion, trying to float away from the tree, but the branches were magnetizing and drew her in. She struggled for a few moments to break free, but she was a ribbon in the branches. She wanted to break down and weep, because she knew what all of this meant, she knew that she wasn’t trapped in a dream. But she knew she couldn’t fall, she knew she couldn’t drop that snake’s corpse. In her moment of duty, Athena reached down towards the rough soil, to try and uproot the tree. But her hidden, massive muscle was wasted – wherever she reached, the roots recoiled, digging further and further into the soil. The roots seemed to become more of a live snake than the one in her hand did. While she did this, she knew deep down that she couldn’t. But she still had to. She felt a sudden wind on her neck and she looked up. At the very top of the volcano there was a dust storm that was beginning to rage – at least, that’s what it must have looked like to any mortals in the area. Athena knew that the dust storm was actually all of the shades beginning to gather. They wanted what she wanted – what she now wanted – but they too couldn’t reach for it. “Sister!” Athena recognized the voice and so she turned. Through the thick branches of the olive tree, she could see Apollo standing there, still in his full battle armor, the sunlight still catching and sparking in his blond hair, even though they were so far beneath the sunshine at this point. Athena felt an unusual thrill, because Apollo looked just as terrified for Athena as he normally was for his twin sister Artemis. “Apollo.” “What are you doing?” Apollo asked, confused. The last he had seen Athena, she was flying as an owl towards Zeus and Hades. Athena held up the dead snake for Apollo to see. This did not answer Apollo’s question enough. He asked again, “What?” “I’m holding Hades in my hands.” It took a few moments for Apollo to register the significance of those words. His eyes widened, he said, hushed, “You mean you…?” “Killed him? In a way, yes,” Athena said cryptically. Apollo took a few steps forward, his hands outstretched, wanting to touch the snake’s corpse. He could not believe that his evil uncle was as dead as the Underworld over which he ruled. But Athena put the snake’s corpse closer to her bosom, hiding it from view. “There’s no point in touching the wounds. Hades may be dead, but he’s very much alive.” “How? You’re not making any sense.” Athena spoke, her words muffled a bit from the branches, “Whenever a god is defeated, their victor has to take on their duties. It is what’s demanded of us. I have already taken on those duties before. This is no different.” “You’re going to take over the Underworld?” “I already have, the moment I ripped apart this snake’s scales. I have to become the Queen of the Underworld, else everything will fall apart. We need to make sure this tragedy doesn’t happen again.” “But there has to be some other way.” “For once, there isn’t. Now please help me. If we don’t hurry, we’ll have another catastrophe on our hands.” Athena pointed up at the skies above them. The world was beginning to darken, the clouds of souls blotting out the sunlight. “If we don’t open this entrance now, who knows what those shades will do. They must have an Underworld to go to, because they can’t stay here at the surface. We have already seen what a shade can do when they’re amongst the mortals.” Apollo took a long look at his sister. “What do you need help with?” Apollo asked. “I need to remove this tree. Its roots are too pure and my hands are too corrupted now,” Athena said, holding up her hands which were already beginning to gray. She was already changing into the Queen – it would not be long before she was as decomposed as Hades. Apollo hesitated and reached down into the volcanic ash, to pull out the roots and fell the tree. As his fingers latched around the roots, he looked up. “You know that the moment I do this, you’ll be lost forever.” “I know.” “You would not be welcome amongst the gods on Olympus. They’ll fear your aura of death.” Athena smiled a little. “My family has already exiled me once from Olympus. Twice will make no difference.” Apollo blushed, just slightly. He said gruffly, “Things changed. You’ve proven yourself with us.” “I know, I know. Now pull.” Apollo grasped the roots and he pulled with a mighty roar. At first, the tree did not budge, even as Apollo’s muscles worked and stretched. Then, bit by bit, the tree began to give in, the roots surface, and the trunk began its long fall to the ground. The tree had not completely fallen yet, but Athena could already feel the pull. She was seeping through the hole left by the tree – she was entering into the Underworld, she was entering a new phase in her life. Above her, the dust storm of souls had the same falling sensation, the cloud collapsing as one giant raindrop. As the shades and Athena began to swirl into the hole, the goddess did not grasp to the edges, trying to spend just a few more moments at the surface. She did not even take one last look at Apollo. Instead, she accepted her future, which was now her present. She closed her eyes and let herself fall in. This time, she didn’t faint. She could still feel the wind rushing past her, as the countless shades fell into the depths of the world with her. Screams that weren’t her own filled her ears. She fell and fell – it felt like there was no end – until her feet touched a cold stone floor. She collapsed – not from the pain of falling, because she felt none – but in reverence, in obedience. Even as a monarch, she had to pledge herself to her new kingdom. She was now nothing without that world, just as that world was now nothing without her. When Athena managed to stand, she followed the stream of the souls, which knew the path to the Underworld without knowing. As she walked with them, it felt like wading in a river, but in a river of air, not water. Yet the current was strong, practically sweeping Athena through curves and corners and somehow even deeper into the earth. And, through it all, Athena still held that dead viper in her hands, never letting go. She knew that Hades was not truly dead – just as she had accidentally killed Zeus but was still able to free him from his torture in the Underworld, she knew that Hades could always come back. Death was a major inconvenience for the gods, but it was still an inconvenience. As she reached the River Styx, she could feel the snake corpse begin to writhe between her fingers. It was feeble twists in the body, but she knew it was now only a matter of time. She anxiously waited for the ferry to land, and she was the first to jump on board. Charon looked confused, for perhaps the first time in centuries. He was so used to dealing with shades, he wasn’t sure what to do with someone still breathing. Athena said briskly, “I’m your Queen now. You will do as I ask, and I ask you to row, fast.” Yet Charon didn’t move. And so Athena thrust the dead snake in the ferryman’s face, waving the corpse wildly. “If you don’t move this boat now, your old master will come back to life,” Athena snarled. “I don’t want that, and I’m sure you don’t want that. Now move.” This prompted Charon into action. The ferry left the shore while only half-full, the remaining souls left on the banks roaring in frustration. As the ferry cut across the water, the snake’s body began to move more and more in Athena’s hands. Athena could have tried and crush the snake between her fists – or she could have tried and toss the body into the River Styx, where all things tossed are forgotten – but she knew, no matter what, Hades would come back. It was only a matter of time until the god in the beast remembered himself and roared back to life. As Athena struggled with the slowly reanimating snake, she tried to think of a way to imprison her uncle before he became fully realized. If her father Zeus had a hard enough time to defeat Hades, Athena doubted if she would have any better luck. Yet there she was, in the Underworld with her nemesis, without any of her allies, alone against a new world. But even with all of that fear stacked against her, Athena still remained focused, her mind churning for answers. Then, the old familiar smile leapt onto her face, the smile that meant that she had a plan. The moment the ferry touched shore, Athena leapt from the deck onto the rocky land and plunged through the thicket of granite towards the palace – her palace. She didn’t have time to dwell on this, though, as she pushed her way through the heavy doors, past the sleeping Cerberus – too tired to bite – and into the throne room. She could feel the snake’s body bend in her hand as she dashed around the room, desperate to find what she was looking for. And she found it: a basket on the table, holding moldy pomegranates for Hades and his wife Persephone. She emptied the basket on the floor, stuffed the basket, and closed it with a brittle wicker lid. Athena poured oil all over the basket before she grabbed an everlasting torch off the wall and doused the basket with flames. It took only a moment or two, but the basket became trapped in the miniature inferno. The squeals of the snake were barely audible over the crackle of the fiery basket. Athena suddenly realized she hadn’t breathed in awhile – she exhaled and inhaled deeply, almost capsized with relief. She had been remembering all of her lessons. Of course she knew she already killed Hades once before – she could still feel him crunching between her hands, although her hands were an owl’s talons then. Yet, just like her father Zeus had come back to life, Athena knew her uncle could do much the same. And he especially could in the Underworld, where all the dead migrate to so that they can live and not suffer death again. And so the Underworld was not only an eternity for the dead, but it was also an immortality. Nothing can die, nothing can be truly drowned, nothing can be broken, and nothing can be burnt to ashes. That was the key to it all, and it was something Athena only wished she had known earlier. Although that basket would be ablaze for eternity, it would never burn down, not in the Land of the Dead anyway. If Hades were to break free from his prison inside of the basket – whether he did so as the snake or as his godly form – the worst would happen. The basket would break and the oily fire would latch onto his skin, biting like countless mosquitoes. And the fire would never end, because there was no water pure enough in the Underworld to put out the flames. And Hades would be in too much agony from the flames – which could not kill the god through his immortality but can sear him – to crawl up to the world above for water. And even if he could, Zeus would be there, waiting for him. And that was all it took to exile a god as powerful as Hades. Nothing more than a burning basket. Athena left the crackling, hissing basket where it laid on the stone floor – she was afraid of touching it, for it could catch her fingers on fire as well – and she walked towards the throne in the center of the vast room. Her steps were slow, but not once did she turn away. The throne loomed closer and closer until it filled her sights and her world, towering up above her. She climbed up the gold steps and sat down in the plush cushions. The first thing she realized was that, for a chair made completely out of gold, its back was surprisingly comfortable. Still, as she tried to settle into the throne, a sickness began to overtake her. Most sickness begin in the stomach and pulse outwards like a dirty sun. This illness, though, it began at the feet and rise, like a flood of sewage. First, her feet felt claustrophobic and shriveled, until Athena was sure they were older even she was. Then, the bitter disease took over her legs, then her waist, then her chest and her arms. She could feel the malevolence ground her up into clay on the inside, twisting and massaging the bones and ichor out of shape, into something more necessary to rule over the Underworld. All of this, this sickness, it took only a few minutes to rise up to her neck. Only a few minutes more and it would transform her into an entirely different being, perhaps something more like her uncle. Athena shuddered, both from the grainy feeling on the inside and from the thought of being like Hades. And then she wondered: perhaps this is what happened to Hades. Perhaps he was a bright god before his flame sputtered out in the darkness. She never thought to ask Zeus about that – though she imagined that Zeus could never imagine Hades as being anything besides evil. Athena felt the urge to vomit rising within her. She hurriedly stepped down from the throne and rushed towards the doors. She couldn’t make it, though, and she threw up just in front of the wide doors, her vomit glistening with browns and reds. It took her a few minutes to recover – she staggered up, her eyes wet, her tongue burning. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand – when she did this, she noticed that her hand was an unhealthy shade of gray, much like the moon on a hazy night, perhaps even more. She noticed that it was the same pale color of skin that Hades always had. Athena was walking along the passage towards the River Styx. She was walking slowly, but her mind was racing. She held up the folds in her robes between her fingers – every time she took a step, her clothes jingled like a merchant’s palm in the market. It had been a few hours since she had collapsed – that was how long it took her to collect herself and the thief’s dream of gold coins and jewels. Her face, her arms, her legs, they all were as gray as they were before, and becoming grayer. Soon, she would no longer be able to tell herself apart from the shades she supposedly ruled in that land. The ferry wasn’t at the shore when she arrived. Athena felt so weak by that point that she sat down on a flat rock nearby and waited for Charon. As she waited, she thought of what she was trying to do with all of the coins and jewels in her possession. She had vague ideas when she left the palace sometime before, but all of those plans were ridiculous and barely wishes. She was in a world where the dead only decomposed more, where she herself lost all of the colors that made her Athena before. But she was not going to let those things happen like they always had. She didn’t think of how the decay of life worked so well for so long – for countless years, since the first creature breathed – but she thought of how little time the world was given to improvise. After a few minutes, Athena could make out the dim silhouette of the ferry through the world of fog. With ragged breathes, Athena clambered her way onto the ferry and fell into a heap on the nearest wooden row. It took a few more minutes for the shades to disembark the ship, but when they did, it was as if they were never there. There were no footprints, no litter on the harsh soil, no distant voices, none of what mortals left behind as a trail in the world above. And this saddened Athena – it depressed her more than her changing colors. The boat ride back to the other shore felt longer than it did before. But finally, Athena felt the now-familiar thump as the boat bumped against the rocks. As Charon mutely lowered the ramp for the souls to clamber aboard, the ferryman held out his long, spindly fingers. It was the same routine that he had perfected over a course of hundreds of times a day, thousands of times a year, billions of times over the course of his career. It was a routine that never changed: if the souls of the departed presented him with money, he would let them through. But if they were missing money – if they were even a single coin short – than Charon would point the poor soul away, to join the countless souls that gathered along the shore of the Styx like a fog, waiting forever for charity that never came. Athena sat to the side, watching as each of the shades dutifully paid for the ferry and stepped aboard. After a few minutes, it happened: one of the shades did not have enough money to pay its way aboard. The shade’s voice was too whispery to protest – it had lost one of its coins in the journey to the river, and it could not find the money through the foggy march of souls. But even if it could speak, Charon wouldn’t have listened – Charon never listened to any of the shades because they were not the kings and queens over him. Just as Charon was about to push the shade away, though, Athena stepped forward. She took some gold coins from the folds of her robes and pushed them into Charon’s bony hand. The ferryman froze for a moment before turning to look back at Athena. The Queen of the Underworld wasn’t sure if Charon was surprised by the sudden act of charity, or if Charon’s face had just wrinkled like that over the centuries. Still, Athena said in her demanding voice, “Let this soul pass. It has paid.” The look of bewilderment dissolved from Charon’s face and he stepped aside to let the shade board the boat. The same thing happened a few more times, and each time Athena personally paid for the soul’s passage. Of course, Charon never said anything during these unusual exchanges, but Athena knew that the ferryman wanted to. Charon probably wanted to know why his new monarch was so generous with her stores of money. Charon probably wanted to know why the Queen loved her subjects so, in spite of the fact that all of them looked so wispy and indistinct, it was practically impossible to tell them apart. And just like the shades couldn’t speak their thanks, and Charon couldn’t speak his confusion, Athena too couldn’t speak her reasons. She knew that Charon wouldn’t believe her, but she was so generous with those shades because she knew many of them when they were human and real. She had walked amongst the mortals long enough that she could still remember many of their laughs, their tears, and their voices both shouting and whispering. She had seen as many of their kings as she had seen their beggars. She knew the secret that so many of the mortals themselves did not admit, even though they were themselves the secret-keepers: they were as fragile because they were beautiful, they were beautiful because they were fragile. Athena gave away money to the poor souls, mostly because she wanted one last good deed before she slipped entirely into the gray, when she would become just as cold-hearted as her uncle. But, as the ferry filled and left, with Athena still on shore, she decided to trudge along the footpath, against the headwinds of the march of souls. She wanted to strew her pile of jewels across the surface of the path, she wanted to break the gems down until they looked like beautiful crush on the unforgiven trail. She did it so that the spirits could find their way through the darkness by the trail of glistening light, and so the souls would have a warm welcome to the rest of their lives. She busied herself with her good works, so much so that she didn’t notice that the gray was loosening from her skin, that her old painter’s colors were creeping back into her arms, her legs. Book 22 “Kneel before our brother, who is king once more!” Hera’s voice rang shrilly through the throne room. All of the gods and goddesses who were assembled quit their eager chatting – they knelt in reverence before the king, holding up their slopping cups of ambrosia as their salute. The room was so still and quiet that it couldn’t be made into one of the moving paintings in the fountains behind them. That water was a painter that demanded motion. Instead, there was a scene of the Olympians overthrowing their Titan parents so many centuries before, an epic scene that played out on all of the fountains of water around them, a glory perfect for that day. Zeus took in the sight for a few moments, smiling just barely. His crown sat neatly on his head as it always had. He used to find the crown old and antiquated, but now he found it familiar and comfortable. Zeus supposed much the same could be said for the row of gods before him, all kneeling still. “You may rise,” Zeus commanded, and so they did. They waited for his next words. Ares was the only one drinking, and he was taking large gulps doing so. Zeus took a few moments, thinking of what to say next. And then he began: “I know that all of you have been anxiously awaiting my return. We have suffered a darkness with Hades’ invasion, something so terrible that I hope the world never sees it again. To make matters worse, this was a tragedy that all of us, including myself, could have avoided. We broke Hades when we banished him to his kingdom in the Underworld, when we took away all of the joys we have here, in this palace atop Mount Olympus. We broke him when we did this, never realizing that he could learn to build himself up again. Even then, we were not fools – we would only be fools if we were to let something like this happen again. But, I doubt that we will. My daughter – who is your sister – or who is your cousin – she has the Underworld fully in her grip now. Hades has been imprisoned, his punishment of humiliation equal to the crime. As long as Athena holds that throne, we will never fear Hades again. I am beginning to understand this now. “I know that some of you have doubted Athena before, and that you will continue to do so. You do not trust her, in spite of all that she has done for us, and for myself. I understand why you do this: you find her birth to have been a strange one. That she is a daughter of a Titan can arouse suspicion in any good Olympian. However, the fact that she was born of our enemies is not her fault – that mistake is mine and mine alone. I’m afraid I love too much, or perhaps I love the wrong things. Yet when she was born and I came to understand my daughter, I did not fear her. I was not afraid, even though it was prophesized that she would kill me – yes, those rumors are true. The Fates had told me that my daughter would be my own killer, but I welcomed Athena with open arms. I did this because she was born as much from me as she was from Metis. Hephaestus was the one who broke my skull to find Athena – ask him if you do not believe such a mystery cannot happen. And since Athena was born from me, she is me, just like I am her. I never understood the mother’s bond with her child until that unusual birth. Athena is my sense of the world: her hands are my touch, her eyes are my sight, her ears are my hearing. I did not truly begin to understand this world until she came into my life, and for that I thank her. She may not be here right now –” Zeus motioned to the open space, right next to Apollo, where Athena would have stood if she wasn’t watching over the Underworld. “But she knows how thankful I am for her. And so, if you still cannot trust her, then you cannot trust me as well. Leave right now if you are one of the doubters.” Of course, none of the gods and goddesses dared to move from their spots. Zeus suspected this, because he knew those gods were a jealous and suspicious pack, and he knew this because he too was jealous and suspicious. His eyes narrowed at the rigid gods, because he knew that at least one of them had to be lying. Still, he put aside that paranoia for some other time, and he said: “I know that for some of you, your loyalty in this mountain has wavered. I know I have lost my faith from time to time – yes, even a king can lose hope for his kingdom. But Athena is as solid as this mountain. Even though she has spent much of her life on the mortal plains, or now in the Underworld, she has always been here on this summit. Just like she is a part of me, she too is a part of this mountain. Olympus will fall only if she dies with it. And I know she is loyal – only a loyal follower of the faith would do what she has done. If it wasn’t for her, all of this would have been lost – the mortal world would have been overrun with spirits of the dead, and Olympus would be as high as the lowest valley of the Underworld. She has fought back Hades and his horde. As we speak, she is making sure that such an invasion does not happen again. Imagine if this mountain, as sacred and different as it is from any other place in the world, was stormed by the Underworld, where everything is the same profane color of gray and despair? The faith would crumble, and with it the world. That Athena is the divide between all that is sacred and all that is profane, this will be her greatest legacy. I am beginning to understand this now.” “But Zeus!” Demeter called out. “She had killed you. How could she be the protector of all that is sacred when she was the one who sent you to the Underworld?” “She may have dealt the killing blow, but the only one who sent me to my death was myself,” Zeus said gravely. “It is true that it was my own fault. As a god, I believed too much in my immortality – I feel that we all have, from time to time – and I ignored the history. I always forget how we managed to overthrow our parents – that alone should make us realize that we’re always on the verge of being exiled from our lives, or even from life altogether. But, when I have lived old as long as I am, I find that my memory becomes shorter and shorter over time. My old age is of no use to me, as I always forget my history. I should have been more careful – I should have realized that, even though Athena loved me in spite of the prophecy, she could have still killed me unintentionally, which she did. If I had been walking in the mortal world as a god instead of a bull that fateful day, then Athena wouldn’t have tried to kill me – instead, she would have hugged me and called me father. “Yet, even with the prophecy that was handed down, Athena still triumphed. She may have carried out that prophecy, but she did not accept it. No, no – instead she challenged it, every word of it. The more I learn about her story, her short yet amazing reign as Queen of All, the more that I am in awe. She may have killed me, but she was the one who brought me back to life: she went to the Fates and forced them to reveal their secrets, she was the one who braved the dangers of the volcano and found Hephaestus, she was the one who offered to have her head split open so that I could be brought back. And she was the one who grabbed Hades just before he was about to attack me as a snake. If she hadn’t done all of that – if she hadn’t done even one of those things – I would still be at the mercy of Hades and his tortures. I am beginning to understand this now. “But, these things that I have spoken of, they are all in the past. Now, we’re confronted by a new world, one with a strange shape that we must understand. First, the obvious: since Athena is now the Queen of the Underworld, all puzzles, all arguments, all dilemmas involving death in any way, it is Athena’s responsibility to oversee these situations. Death is one of her subjects, no matter if it is in her kingdom or not.” Zeus stopped, and thought for a moment, then smiled. Curious, the gods and goddesses pressed him to reveal what was so funny. “I was just thinking of how strange it is, to have a queen rule over the dead. For so long, we have been used to a King of the Underworld. Now, though, we have a goddess – someone who can give birth, who can create something out of nothing, an entirely new world practically. I find it funny – in a sad way – that a goddess who has the potential for so much life can be resigned to a kingdom of death, where she must strike down the mortals and chain their souls to eternity. That is no life for a goddess who resurrected me back into this world. Yet, it is someone like her who is necessary for that kingdom. For far too long the Underworld has suffered at the hands of Hades. We now know that it was his tyranny that drove those souls even further into despair, only to drive them back into this world, all with false promises of something better. Such a monster does not deserve the afterlife as his plaything. Imagine if the mortals learned what terrible gods managed the world after this one? Any decent person would rebel against such careless evil. We need them to believe that we are good, else they will reject us like a bitter fruit. Their happiness brews our ambrosia, their joy is what pushes us onwards. If they see us with contempt, we will vanish. That Athena, a goddess who has lived with the mortals for some time and understands their thrills and fears, now rules the dead – well, we should all be relieved. True, our gratitude for this may make her more powerful, perhaps stronger than you, maybe even stronger than myself. But this is the least that she deserves.” As Zeus said this, Ares scoffed a little into his drink. The contempt was soft, but Zeus heard everything. “Ares! Do you think you deserve our gratitude?” Ares didn’t shrink back from Zeus’ roar, which had filled the chamber. Instead, perhaps emboldened by the drink, Ares protested, “I have done my part – imagine where we would be if I hadn’t lent my support? It would have been a mountain lost, and a mountain crumbled.” The other gods and goddesses roared over this. Zeus swept his hand over the crowd, silencing them at command. He stared coldly at Ares for a moment. His hesitation was not so much because Zeus was unsure what to say; Zeus knew every word he would ever say – he was just waiting patiently for the time to say them. No, Zeus stared down Ares because he was waiting, and the wait wasn’t long. Already, Ares was trembling slightly, from the fear of being caught in the open. Ares spoke all of his words with a bite, expecting resistance. But Zeus was silent, the chamber was silent, and all Ares heard were his shouts echoing outside of him, his shouts echoing inside of him. He was understanding that he was being foolish: he was stupid not for thinking his thoughts, but for saying them. Finally, Zeus said what Ares hoped he wouldn’t say. The King God said quietly, “Ares, my son, you must understand. Yes, we would have failed without you, but we would have failed without Apollo, and we would have failed without Artemis. We would have failed if any of our pieces were missing. Imagine if we were a statue with her head and her arms and her legs – imagine if someone were to break her arm off and leave her crippled for eternity? Athena is marble – she is strong enough. I saw you gloating over the battlefield, Ares, we all saw you. You raised your hand in triumph, but only because Athena held up your arm. If it wasn’t for her efforts, that battle would have been lost. The battle would have been lost because not every battle can be won with a swing of the sword –“ When Zeus said this, his eyes flickered on the sword that Ares always kept sheathed by his side. “Your sister Athena knew that a sword could not bring down our smoky enemy. If she hadn’t planted that tree, our entire world would have been lost to that smoke. Remember, Ares, a thought is always sharper than a blade – why, the thought has already been cut into the body, before the sword could ever break the skin…” It was obvious that Ares wanted to say something, anything, to break his father’s spell over the crowd. He wanted to fight back against those words, he wanted to ask how such powerful gods could be afraid of fighting a wall of smoke, he wanted to know if his family was nothing more than a bloated coward. If they were as immortal as they said they were, then why be afraid of fighting on the battlefield, where a god could fall but never die? What else was there to be afraid of? Ares had so many questions he wanted to ask, but even he knew that it wasn’t the time for questions. With Ares quieted at last, Zeus turned his words back to the rest of the crowd once more. “But while we have won, we have lost so much. Yes, we may have saved our mountain, and our throne has never stood taller over the world. But our throne is as tall as it is because the rest of the world has fallen so much. The pastures have been turned gray with ash, the lakes taste bitter, and the forests are crackling with fire. But while much of the world has been wasted by the advance of Hades’ army, I only see the springs of renewal. I have to see this, because never before have we depended on so much from our mortal subjects. It is only through their prayer that we gain our strength, and it is only through our strength that their prayers are answered. In a world as devastated as this one, I can see how the mortals could lose hope. But fortunately, it is their nature never to surrender – instead, they will always ask for help. And we will help them, like we always must. But until they give up their humility, until they remember that they are very mortal still, we must be weakened. It is to be expected, I suppose, for us to be weak while the rest of the world remains off-balance. It is also to be expected that when the world rises, so we will as well. We will rise as one because we all are one.” With that said, Zeus coughed and wearily sat down, his true age beginning to show through his godly veneer. Most of the other gods, still crowded about on the floor beneath the throne, they raised their cups of ambrosia as a salute to their king. They, too, were beginning to look a bit old and wrinkled. They drank their thick ambrosia quicker than they were used to, but even the magical liquid wasn’t enough. The edges of their eyes began to splinter in the tiniest of wrinkles, and every step took a few more breaths from them than it should. They were feeling old, and the timelessness wouldn’t oil their veins again until the fallen world had righted itself, which it would in time – just not as quick as the gods could hope for. Among the gods who said their loyalties the loudest, there were Hebe and the twins Apollo and Artemis. Hebe was always the perfect servant, only making herself known when another god needed her, and this was no exception. Athena had done so much for her and had only asked for Hebe’s support in return, which the servant goddess now gladly gave. And Apollo and Artemis, while the twins may have distrusted and even hated Athena at first, they began to see the new Queen of the Underworld with respect. They had fought alongside Athena on the battlefield, and as much as war takes away life, it patches the holes with loyalty. And, of course, there was still the clenched handful of gods who still saw Athena with suspicion – they hated the need to be thankful, especially when that thanks was for an outsider like Athena, a goddess who lived with the mortals. They couldn’t understand the paradox: that a goddess who lived beneath them could somehow rise above them. And since these gods could not understand this, they reasoned that there was something more dangerous happening, something that they couldn’t quite understand but would regret if they ever had. But of all of the gods standing in the chamber, none were as cold as Ares, who shook with fury. As the god of war, he had always craved the gift of death. Maybe he loved death because it was among the harshest punishments he could give on the battlefield. Maybe he loved death because he could never feel it, as immortal and everlasting as he was. But once more, the kingdom of the dead belonged to someone who wasn’t him. And, as long as Ares did not hold that throne, he never felt whole. Because, while he could certainly help a favored army win in a battle and live on in poetry, he could never make the other side lose and be forgotten in death. Only the Monarch of the Dead could give such losses, and the fact that it was Athena’s privilege now made Ares angrier than ever. Yet, for all that Ares hated his sister Athena, ideas began slowly flooding his mind, ways of getting revenge for all of the insults that Athena had brought upon him. A good strategy was Athena’s legacy, and Ares was beginning to think of a few good schemes of his own. Book 23 The entrance to the Underworld began to tremble for the second time in as many days. The ground shaking would have sent mortals on the surface running for their lives, and why wouldn’t they? But the earthquakes weren’t caused by an army of shades rising up to claim the world. Instead, something was descending into the depths of the Underworld. It was a massive beast, lumbering – as it plunged down the snaking tunnels into the Underworld, rock from the walls fell down with it. And the beast didn’t even brush against the walls to cause the boulders to fall – the giant’s gravity was so strong that it drew the world towards it. It was a beast. It was a statue of a man dressed in his battle-armor. It was a mountain, standing so proud and tall that it could blot out the sun in all directions for a mile. Wearing a shimmering coat of bronze, the monster almost seemed to glitter in the darkness as it clambered down. The beast sparkled, although there was no light bouncing off it. The beast moved slowly, but it moved gracefully, like a swan waking up in the morning. Beams of candlelight emanated from holes in its head, scooped out to resemble eye sockets. The massive candles would never melt down – they would crackle and pop forever, their dazzle striking through the darkness. Perched on the walking statue’s left shoulder, Hephaestus held on tightly as the beast climbed into the Underworld with its creator. With each sway of the beast beneath him, glowing drops of ichor splattered from Hephaestus’ wounds, staining his tunic. Hephaestus could feel the bloody tunic sticking to him, and he swore softly. He had never bled before the battle – of course, he had seen the mortals bleed and die before. It was only when Zeus died that Hephaestus began to understand his own mortality. But it was when he looked down and saw his cuts that he finally understood. The slashes would heal in time, but the scars would still show – he would have scars. He tried desperately to put the uncomfortable thoughts out-of-mind as the duo, creator and created, continued their plunge into the depths of everything. It would have taken a mortal years, a god an hour or two, but the giant statue climbed down in minutes at most. And so it was not long before the climb suddenly halted, and the giant stopped swaying side to side, its feet planted in the rocky floor. Without a moment’s rest, the statue began trotting down the tunnel before them, towards the inner sanctum of the Underworld. As the statue breezed down the tunnel, Hephaestus held on tight, his teeth rattling with the statue’s every stride. Hephaestus looked at the cave walls as they shot past. As quick as they were going, Hephaestus could still see shapes and colors on the walls. The painted walls didn’t show the deaths of the countless as much as they celebrated those deaths: Hephaestus saw the scenes of suffocation, of starvation, of disease, of warfare. The smith god never thought of it before, but there were as many kinds of death as there were deaths, which made him shudder even as he approached the dead heart of the world, which was somehow still warm and full of life. Suddenly, the ground zoomed up and the next thing Hephaestus knew, he was sprawled on the harshly cold floor, battered but otherwise intact. He shook his head and got up with a slow grunt. Nearby, he could see the fallen statue on the ground; it was rolling from side to side, gripping the shoulder that it had landed on hard. Hephaestus hissed something unrepeatable. He snapped, “Talos, you can’t even feel pain. Get up – we still have a ways to go.” Talos the bronze statue looked back wearily at the stone it tripped over, and it pushed itself up, scraping its head against the low ceiling as it did so. Hephaestus groaned because the scrapes meant more hours of him polishing the statue – it was an unfinished statue, and it probably always would be unfinished, given how reckless it was. But in a few minutes, Talos had dusted itself off and creator and creation together continued their trek. In a few minutes, the tunnel expanded and they suddenly found themselves in the massive chamber, where the souls gathered for their ferry across the rivers to their afterlives. The tunnel was so claustrophobic, the chamber so infinite, that Hephaestus lost his breath, the expansion a constriction, the excess a poverty. Hephaestus gained control of himself, though, and he ushered Talos to follow the stream of souls towards the River Styx. He suddenly realized that not even Talos could wade across the Styx, and so he would have to take the ferry with Charon. The thought of the ferry made Hephaestus swear, because he had not thought to bring any gold coins with him to pay for the passage. But as Hephaestus neared the riverbank, he noticed a familiar figure perched on the dock. At first, he thought it was her, because he could see her long muddy hair, even from that distance. But as he got closer, he wasn’t so sure anymore – if it was her, then why was she dressed so plainly? Hephaestus had never seen a goddess dressed in such patchy robes before. He wondered if it was a mortal who somehow snuck into the Underworld, but Hephaestus laughed before he could even finish thinking the thought. It seemed too absurd to be true, although he himself was a god born from a tree that grew out of his mother’s mouth. It wasn’t until Hephaestus and his creation neared the River Styx, until they were at the dock practically, that the crippled god realized that, yes, it was Athena herself. The newly-crowned Queen of the Underworld was standing at the foot of the pier, where the shades funneled into a line for the ferry. Hephaestus noticed that, at Athena’s foot, she kept a massive cloth bag. For each of the shades who marched past, Athena reached into the bag, produced two shining coins, and put the coins in the shades’ windy hands. Hephaestus watched, awed, as the shades each nodded their thanks and moved on to the docked ship, the coins jingling in the windstorm between their clenched fists. “Athena!” Hephaestus called. Athena looked up, startled to have guests that were solid like her. At first, all she saw was the bronze statue looming above her. Perhaps it was the statue’s towering height, or perhaps it was the statue’s battle armor, but whatever the reason, Athena clenched her fists, prepared to fight whatever monster she needed to. “No, don’t be frightened, my sister!” Hephaestus squeaked, realizing what it may look like. “It’s me, Hephaestus!” Athena peered up at the cloaked god resting on the statue’s shoulder. She asked, “What are you doing here? There isn’t more trouble in the world above, is there?” “No, not for now, no,” Hephaestus grunted as he commanded Talos to kneel down. The god hopped down from the giant’s shoulder, stumbling a little as he did so, and walked towards Athena. “Do you like my newest creation?” Athena looked at the statue with awe. “It’s amazing, like everything else you make. Why didn’t you bring it into the battle with you? It looks like its left foot could squash a man out of existence.” “Well, it’s not so much an it as it is a he,” Hephaestus said airily. “He has something of a personality.” Athena looked impressed. “It does?” “Well, it’s learning.” As if on cue, Hephaestus turned and noticed that Talos was standing on the edge of the riverbank, peering down at the sick waters of the River Styx. The statue began to lean down, its finger outstretched, curious as to what that strange water felt like. “Talos, no!” Hephaestus barked. He had spent too much time piecing the statue together to have it get stuck in the quicksand of the river bottom. The beast stepped backwards on the shore, scratching its head, downcast. If it was human, Talos would look almost sheepish. Athena smiled. “I guess he’s still unfinished then?” “What’s ever finished?” Hephaestus said, his face reddening as he guided Talos back to more solid ground. “So, why are you here?” Athena asked, perplexed. The Underworld wasn’t a common place for anyone to visit. And if Hephaestus wasn’t there to warn her of a new danger, then what else could there be? “I have something I need to speak with you about. Come and walk with me.” Athena looked at Hephaestus silently for a moment, then said, “Okay.” Athena tipped the bag of coins over with her foot, spilling the gold on the floor. She said to the crowd of shades that pressed against her, “Here, take your coins to pay Charon. Do not take more than you need.” Athena added that last sentence, knowing there was no point. Besides paying Charon for the ferry into the afterlife, there was nothing else for which the shades could use the coins. Mortals in the world above would lust for the gold, even if they didn’t need it. It was only when someone entered the Land of the Dead that they lost that love – that was when some of the stubborn souls finally realized they were dead. As the shades waited in line to take their fair share of the money to pay Charon, Athena said to Hephaestus, “Let’s walk over there.” They walked towards a boulder that jutted out into the Styx. The boulder had landed there recently after a rockslide, and already the acidic water was chewing away at the rock. It would not be long before the stone was eaten away entirely, but for now it was there. Hephaestus sat down at the rock’s edge, his feet dangling above the bitter waters. Hephaestus had to sit down, because his bent legs were not strong enough to hold him up for long, especially if he shook with fear. And still the tremors hit him – Hephaestus had to grip his hands together to stop the shakes. Athena chose to stand, and so she hovered serenely over Hephaestus. “I have something that I need to tell you,” Hephaestus said after a long moment. “And I want you not to say anything until I finish talking.” “Why?” Athena demanded softly. “Because if you stop me from saying this, then I’m afraid I can never say it again,” Hephaestus said slowly, because if he spoke too quickly, then he knew he would stutter. Curious now, Athena said nothing, waiting for Hephaestus to make the next move. “I was the first person you had ever seen,” Hephaestus began. Athena had never thought of that before, but it was true. Hephaestus was standing in the room that fateful night when Athena drained from Zeus’ ear. “And during the battle,” Hephaestus continued, “there were so many times when I thought that I had lost you.” Athena misinterpreted what Hephaestus was trying to say. “We were all frightened, Hephaestus – it was sad enough when we lost Zeus…” “Quiet! Quiet. Please, I beg of you,” Hephaestus pled, his eyes frantic. Athena remembered her promise of silence, and she went quiet once more. Hephaestus saw Athena’s pursed lips, her arms folded across her chest, and he smiled humorlessly. “I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t blame you for not understanding, because – to be honest – I don’t understand it as well.” “Understand what?” Athena asked, her exasperation showing through her royal calmness. She was more than a Queen – she was the lungs of her kingdom – and her kingdom had held its breath long enough. She had a kingdom to keep together. Hephaestus took a deep breath and said, “I was afraid of losing you during the battle, Athena, because I love you.” Athena did not speak, because her eyes said enough, and they didn’t encourage. Hephaestus wanted to turn and run with shame. But if he did run away, then he should have done so years before. The words he said to Athena sounded like a crime, but for Hephaestus, it was nothing more than an admission to a crime. It was too late to run now, and, if anything, that gave Hephaestus the strength to continue with his confession: “I have loved you since the moment I met you. In your first moment alive in this world, you were the strongest god who ever lived. You were so powerful, your father tried to stop you from being born, all because he was afraid of you overthrowing him. And although you loved him like the father he was to you, and you didn’t mean to kill him, you still managed to kill him. You destroyed a god that thousands of creatures, both mortal and immortal, have tried to kill over the centuries. The Titans, as powerful as they were, could never figure out a way to kill him in battle. The Titans! The first rulers of this world, the gods who oversaw the beginning, when the oceans began to fill and the forests became noisy – those gods could not stop Zeus. Mortal men have tried to kill Zeus by not praying to him anymore. I have seen countless men curse Zeus out loud after their houses burned down or their friends died. When any other god stops being worshipped, do you know what happens? They’re supposed to wither, but Zeus never did. And after all of that history, you managed to bring down Zeus with one spear – one spear. Love, you’ve spent your whole life running away from your strength – if only you accepted yourself sooner, imagine how the world would have changed! How perfect you are – you’re beautiful, you stand straight and proud, you’re brilliant, you’re strong. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted to be. When I look at you, I see an opportunity to be better – do you want to take that away from me? I want to be with you, because I’m tired of being so weak.” During his entire speech, Hephaestus couldn’t bring himself to look at Athena. Instead, as he spoke, Hephaestus looked out over the river. Every once in a while, he would take a quick, sideways glance at Athena, hoping for a word, a look, anything that would tell him how she felt. But the entire time that Hephaestus spoke, Athena did not betray anything. Her face remained granite, and her lips were silent. It wasn’t until Hephaestus finished speaking and a few moments had passed that Athena said something. “You only love me because I killed Zeus, and you always wanted him dead.” Hephaestus shook his head wildly. “No, no, you don’t understand, Athena, I didn’t want him dead! I have always been angry with him, but I never wanted him dead. I’m not like…” “Hades?” Athena finished Hephaestus’ sentence. “What are the differences between you and our uncle? Both of you felt insulted by my father, and both of you wanted my father dead. And true, you may have not killed Zeus, but your legs are as twisted as your heart, and your heart is as twisted as a dagger. While I never knew you loved me until now, I did know you thought I was beautiful.” “You did? How?” “The look in your eyes, when you first saw me – you looked at me as if I was beautiful. But you know what? You saw my father, you saw the fear in his eyes because he thought I was coming to kill him. After that moment, I saw a different emotion in your eyes. You no longer thought I was just beautiful – you thought I was gorgeous. You thought I was gorgeous because you thought I was coming to kill Zeus,” Athena spat, her eyes seeming to spark. “If I was mortal, if I didn’t have this strength in me any longer, would you still love me, Hephaestus? Would you love me if I could not live out your dreams for you?” Hephaestus looked nauseous – he expected his confession to sour, but he didn’t think that the situation would fall apart this badly. Athena took advantage of Hephaestus’ sick silence and continued, her queen’s confidence growing stronger in her, word by word. “And you thought that you loved me because you hated my father? Don’t you see how much I’m like my father? I was born from his brain – we share the same joys and the same fears. And now, with him as the King of Life and I as the Queen of Death, we truly look over the world as one being. And who are you to take away a queen’s right to rule her kingdom? You are no better than our uncle, who kicked my father Zeus from his throne.” Hephaestus looked aghast. “I’m not asking you to sacrifice anything.” “When you committed your love to me, that was what you did: you committed. You professing your love is no better than a person who surrenders himself. You have allowed yourself to become a slave, all in the hopes that I would say the same, that I will love you for longer than eternity. You want us to become slaves together, but you don’t know how much I hate the word slave. I haven’t ruled for long now, but it’s been just enough to infect me. Now, no one will ever take away my right to decide my future, no matter how much ichor is in their veins. So no, I will not say I love you. What I will say is that I hope you find your freedom too.” Hephaestus sighed. “It was a mistake for me to say anything. I shouldn’t have even come here.” Athena gave the slightest shrug. “There has to be something good to mistakes. Otherwise, why would we keep making them? Now, I must ask you to leave – you’ve interrupted me at my work enough.” She pointed a finger down the dark tunnel from which Hephaestus came earlier. It was with a steel heart that Hephaestus stood up and shuffled past Athena towards the waiting Talos. He managed not to look behind him the entire time he walked away and boarded his massive bronze statue. Hephaestus managed not to look back as Talos stood up and began trotting away from the Styx, towards the tunnel that led to the world above. But, before the statue walked too far, Hephaestus could no longer resist the temptation. He glanced back at Athena, hoping for one more look at his love, dreaming even that she was running towards him, begging him to come back. Instead, Athena stood where she stood before, her arms still folded. He couldn’t see her face clearly from that far away, but he could almost imagine that her pale eyes were the same as they always were: hardened, resolute. It used to be that every time Hephaestus saw Athena, even if it was only for a moment, he would see her like she was during their first meeting. He could still remember that little smile she had, as if she had known him for years, and her inviting eyes. Now though, all he could think of when he looked at Athena was her sitting on her uncle’s throne, somewhere deep in the Underworld. And, whenever he thought of Athena perched on Hades’ throne, all he could think of was Zeus. Athena was right – she was more than her father’s daughter – she was her father himself. Zeus and Athena, father and daughter, they were both strong and noble, standing against Hades and saving all of the living. They were both careless, not understanding how much hurt they could cause. They were both proud, almost to the tipping-point of arrogance – although they would have said they were independent. And now, the father and daughter shared one more similarity to add to the growing list: both of them threw away Hephaestus. Zeus looked at Hephaestus and saw ugliness that could shame the gods – Athena looked at Hephaestus and saw a love that could trap her. Both of them saw Hephaestus not as a god, not as an equal – they simply saw him as a wall meant to be knocked down, a tree meant to be cut down, a boulder meant to be pushed to the side. They thought he was only a limitation. And still, as much as Athena loathed him, Hephaestus could not help but love her. He wanted to rescue her from her duties in the Underworld still, he wanted to take her with him to the world above. He could not understand why she loved the power that came with ruling the Underworld. She had all of that power, and yet she could not make the sun rise over the kingdom of the dead, nor could she make her subjects feel anything again. Her power as the Queen was as hollow as the shades themselves. Hephaestus thought so much about what Athena could achieve that he forgot how much he himself could achieve. He forgot that he could build such beautiful things – he built Talos with his brain, but imagine what he could have built with his heart. He could easily build a love of his own, one made of metal but could never rust, one that could live for as long as he could love her. But that was something that he could build, something that he could build any day that he wanted to, but all of that was the problem. There was nothing exotic about such a love, because he already knew everything that went into it. Perhaps the reason why Hephaestus loved Athena so much was because she was everything that he didn’t know – perhaps. Book 24 As the Underworld began to collect itself under its new leader, Athena quickly realized her new duties as Queen of the Dead would be much harder than Queen of the Life. This was mostly because of the promise that she had made to each of the shades as well as herself. She had promised the shades that they would finally have life in their deaths, but even then, when she had uttered those words, she knew that was impossible. Even as a newfound Queen with so much power and even more potential, there were some things that she just couldn’t do. She had already learned enough from her uncle: he had promised those shades life above again, and those conquests only brought about more death. But sometimes it is hard to tell death apart from life. To make matters worse, the souls were now agitated. Before, Hades had trapped all of the shades in a forever of dimness and grayness – the souls simply did not know anything better in the afterlife. But now, now that the souls had touched the outside world once more, they knew that things should have been better all along. They were clamoring and they made sure that Athena knew it – even from deep within the palace, Athena could hear the howling of the souls outside, their demands whistling in through the windows and the open doors. But clever Athena was already thinking of ways to calm her new subjects, in spite of her limitations. She was driven to invention, all out of necessity – already, the shades and their demands were becoming toxic and viral – their desires were beginning to infect Athena until she too wanted to enter the outside world, to invade once more as her uncle had. And so Athena began her long and drawn-out plan to reestablish order in the kingdom of the dead. First, she demanded the re-imprisoned Sisyphus to walk with her through the rocky fields of the Underworld, just before the River Styx. Sisyphus went along reluctantly – he was terrified of what punishment his new Queen had in store for him – he had spent too long with Hades to expect anything else. So, he was surprised when, while walking through the field, Athena pointed to a massive boulder to the side and said simply, “Move this here.” Sisyphus, who had been forced to spend all of his lifetimes moving the same boulder up an impossible hill, was all too glad to move this rock just a few feet to the side. And that was what he did, and it only took a few moments, and then the boulder took up the entire passageway leading to the Styx. When he did this, the passage was blocked, and the shades trudging along suddenly had nowhere else to go. As they stumbled around and bumped into each other, Athena suddenly appeared with a flaming torch – it was bad enough that they were getting their first taste of death, but now they were stuck in a field where rocks loomed all around them, their shadows dancing in some light. But when Athena appeared, the shades all calmed. Perhaps it was because the torch looked so warm, or perhaps they immediately recognized Athena from all of the statues they had seen in the temples above, or from all of the paintings on their old vases. Athena smiled her little smile. “Welcome. I’m glad to meet you, all of you. You do not need to worry about this passageway any more. That is the old life – I want to welcome you to your new life after death.” She waved her torch towards another passageway cut into the rocks. This one had been hidden from view all of that time, but now it was cast in a light for all to see. The shades all dutifully began streaming into this crevice, like a dammed river grasping for new valleys to conquer. This passage looked much like the other one did, but this one had a completely new destination. While the old path led to the River Styx and its fiery waters, this one led to the River Lethe. The Lethe was a dark blue to the Styx’s pink, with the Lethe being much cooler, almost like actual water but with a very salty taste, even saltier than the ocean. And, whereas the fire-drenched plains of the Underworld lay beyond the Styx, here there was nothing but darkness on the far shore of the Lethe. It was such a pitch that no torch could light it. As the shades gathered on the shore of the Lethe, they saw what the far shore looked like – or rather what it didn’t look like – and they were frightened because they could not see it. The shades began to cling together until there was a whirlwind on the shore. Athena, who had been leading the shades towards this particular spot on the shore, appeared and motioned for the shades to calm themselves, which they did. “Now, I know many of you have heard the legends, of how a ferry will take you across the river to the other side, where your fate awaits you. That is true – for the other river. This river, though, is different. It is shallow enough for you to cross on your own. The other side may look terrifying from here, but it is more wonderful than you can imagine.” As if to prove the point, Athena waded out into the water until it neared her waist, the warm, salty water itchy on her skin. She motioned for the shades still on shore to follow her out, and so they did. The normally still water became whipped like the tides in a storm as shades by the hundreds then thousands spread out over the river. They stayed above the waters for a short while, but about halfway across the mighty river, something began to happen. The water was so thick that even the shades – each of whom were little more than bursts of dirty air – began to become stuck in the water – they struggled to free themselves, but they only sank in deeper – it took only a few moments for each of the shades to disappear into the water, never to reappear. Athena watched all of this from where she stood, still waist-deep in the water. She watched for a few moments before turning her back on the scene and wading back to shore. Even as a powerful goddess, she struggled to make her way through the water, but she managed it. When she reached dry land once more, she knelt down and brushed the salty muck from her flowing gowns before leaving. As she left, she noticed that the shades still on shore did not notice the mass drowning taking place, their eyesight too miserable, the river too wide, the Underworld too dim. And yet, in spite of how tragic the scene appeared above the surface, Athena had actually been more merciful than Hades could have ever imagined. That was because there was something brilliant about the River Lethe. As each of the shades slipped beneath the surface, they actually didn’t drown in the river. Instead, each of the shades found themselves in a new, blank world. It was literally and metaphorically blank, with as many colors as the snow. And, just like the snow, when you buried into it, whiteness filled your eyes, white noise filled your ears, and your nose turned red and numb. But in a world of nothing, there is no nothing – the mind is always hungry and will find its own food, no matter what. And that was what happened, after awhile of the souls being trapped in the white blackness – their eyes started to hallucinate, then their ears, then their tongues. And, out of the blankness, there came worlds that were not real yet still real enough. The shades had used their old memories to build up their worlds, the emotions their mortar. The river lived up to its obscure legend: its waters could make you forget your present, no matter how real and painful it was. And the shades became drunk with memories, and bit by bit, they let themselves be swallowed back into the womb of their past. For the dead mothers amongst the shades, they relived their children and those childhoods, the giggles of laughter, the cries from cuts, and the first words. The men lived through their triumphs in war, the metals they hammered together, the fields they plowed, and the money they earned. One man in particular, Anastasius, a farmer who had come home one night to find his wife robbed and slaughtered, he was rewarded perhaps most of all. As he tripped through the water, hoping to find his wife at the other shore, Anastasius was terrified as he slipped beneath the surface and into the whiteness. He knew his wife wasn’t there, and he wanted to scream out, he wanted to curse Athena, but as soon as he opened his wispy mouth, the river’s muck filled him. In a few moments, he was preserved like a fly in amber – and perhaps just as precious – and, almost immediately, the memories began to fill him like blood through the veins. But as all of the memories began to flash through him like lightning through a cup of water, there was one memory that quickly took over and consumed him like a monster. It was the memory of the first time Anastasius saw his wife, or rather, the first time she saw him. It was at the festival, following one of the plays in the sprawling amphitheater, with the sky for its roof. As the crowds streamed out, chattering amongst themselves about one of the actors who tripped and fell as he was walking onto the stage, Anastasius was laughing with his friends. In the middle of one of his famous roaring laughs, the young farmer felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw a beautiful woman with long, blonde hair and eyes like the fields. He would later learn her name was Korinna – she was the daughter of a blacksmith. The blacksmith, a longtime widower, was also a mother to his only daughter. And so Korinna was more aggressive than the other women in the town, and Anastasius liked this – he was always tired of the shy girls turning away and giggling whenever he walked past them. And, perhaps it was because she was so beautiful, or perhaps it was because she came into his life the moment he was laughing, but Anastasius knew right then that he liked her – and a few moments later he knew that he loved her. And that memory alone played and played again in the depths of his everything, and Anastasius lived it like life, because he was back with his wife once again. What none of those shades knew – or perhaps they did, but they didn’t want to admit it – was that none of those feelings were real, as brilliant and blinding as they were. Rather, each of those shades had been tricked into living in their own field of Elysium, the seaweed beneath them now the long grasses of a perfect meadow. So, while the memories may have not been real, their happiness was real, and to Athena, that was what truly matter. The happiness was the new reality, because, even though the souls were all dipped deep in the water, their utter joy still shone through the surface, churning the waters and shooting beams of light upwards. And, for once, the entire rocky plains of the Underworld lit up, brighter than even the sunlight on the surface world above. And Athena tossed her torch to the side because it was now useless to her. She walked back with the torch sputtering out behind her, letting the newfound light guide her back to her new home in the palace. The Underworld – not so much the one that Hades gave to Athena as much as the one Athena took from Hades – was now even stranger than it was before. All of the myths from before were realer than the storytellers thought they were – all of those tragedies about torture, of being starved without dying, of being stabbed without dying, of being mangled without dying, all of those horror stories were true. But now, now the Underworld was, in all ways at least, even better than the world above. With life, there came the sorrows, the disappointments, the flickers in the light. All of the sadness was gone now, though – the happiest moments in each of their lives consumed the souls, and the happy souls consumed the Underworld. This light, as shining and just as it was, did not touch the Tartarus, the prison for the hated. No, those damned, whether it was Sisyphus or Tantalus, they were cast so far down into the earth that the light never touched them. No, they still grew paler and paler until they couldn’t any longer, grinding their bones into their work like chalk into stone. And, even further beneath Tartarus, there was the other prison, the one that no one ever spoke of. That one, it was calm most of the time, but still Athena heard the occasional loud roar and a crash against the bars. But, like her uncle, she too was too frightened to discover what terrible beast was trying to break out. No, none of those cursed monsters deserved such a wonderful glow. Instead, the light that emanated from the River Lethe shone up and up, flooding through the vast web of tunnels and caverns, bubbling and murmuring up until it touched the mortal world even. The light broke through the volcanic entrance to the Underworld, filling the nighttime heavens with an electrical cloud. Some nights, those mortal farmers who lived in the area would go into the village, they would talk about the strange green lights they saw the night before, the lights that seemed to dance with the ceiling of the skies now their floor. Those in town, many of whom had never bothered to look up at the night sky because they were too busy looking down at their drinks or looking down at other people, those villagers laughed off the poor farmers in the countryside. Some of the farmers felt insulted because they knew that the villagers were wrong – the other farmers felt justified because they knew they were right. And as for the travelers that made their way through that part of the country? Some nights when they traveled through with their caravans, they saw the volcano to the east, with its shimmering lights, and they thought that it was the sunrise. And, although they were wrong, an accidental sunrise is still a sunrise. New York-Delaware September 2011-February 2012