by James Welsh
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 th
eir 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, wha
t 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
