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“The Fates but only spin the coarser clue; The finest of the wool is left for you.”
JOHN DRYDEN, Palamon and Arcite.
Pandora's arms hurt from shooing eagles away from Prometheus all day. She had a rake but she wished she had something a little more effective at hand. She tugged at Prometheus's chains while he dozed at night, but she knew as well as he that Olympian punishments aren't to be undone by human hands alone.
He rolled his head toward her. The waves slapped noisily against the low rocks and he opened his eyes. "Leave it be."
She didn't answer him. His wounds were already healed enough to only cause him discomfort, but what relief was that when more pain would come tomorrow? The birds were already gathering and she knew dawn would come all too soon.
"I will free you, if it is the last thing I do."
He laughed, even as the birds cawed at the sound. "Silly girl. Your crazy ideas will be the death of us all."
Pandora ignored him. He knew of the jars she kept behind locked doors, for she had told him often of their beautiful design, the way they hummed beneath her fingers if she stroked them as she passed. He knew of the jars, yes, but he did not know what she planned.
She knew he spoke the truth. She could not free him; the chains were as much a part of him as his bones now. Some things were beyond her mortal means, but not all things. Let them see what human hands alone could do.
Callisto glinted from her seat high above the Earth. Ageless and endless, she thought of Zeus and Hera often, of how they managed to spurn her even now, aeons into the cosmos. She remembered the burn of trickery as Zeus's plan took shape around her, even as she felt the tug of his offspring growing within her. The aching in her soul as she came to the realisation that she could not fight back, not against this. She remembered the chapped skin of her bear paws, the huff and the spit as she padded through the forest.
Most of all she remembered the indignation.
It was the reason the Earth turned and she turned with it, hoping against hope to glimpse Arcas on the other side.
Semele liked the feel of asphodel between her toes. It was a small reminder of the flora of the world above, and though it was a poor imitation she could shut her eyes and pretend. It was close enough.
She was the only mortal, in either world, to know the touch of a true god. Her life had been a fair price to pay for that, she wagered, for what was life in comparison to swaying the hand of the greatest god of all? She had asked to witness Zeus's true form, and he had obliged.
She thought of the son she had lost. Dionysus would return her to the land of the living, of that she was certain. After all, he would inherit her determination, her skilful ideas, her gall. Even Zeus could not deny that.
The touch of an immortal ached like an infection, raw beneath her skin; it burned like the amniotic pull that she felt whenever she heard news of Dionysus up above. It hurt like pride, like love, like victory. A fair price to pay, indeed.
Ariadne slept with the rope twined around her wrist. It was an old habit, hard to break even when she was far, far away from the labyrinth. Dionysus might call her silly, but he had stranger habits and this rope had saved her life many times over. Even in the Underworld, she had hated to be lost.
Daedalus had given it to her when she was but a child. He handed it to her as though it were a secret, one that she was too young to fully understand.
She asked him what had become of her brother, and what would become of Icarus. She asked him because he seemed to have the answers to all secrets, and no one else would answer her questions.
"Take this," he said in reply, "You will need it."
"It's just a rope," she had said, confused, but Daedalus shook his head.
"It is never just a rope, Ariadne. This is your way out. The gods have carved a path for us all – even you, child – but that does not mean we have to stick to it. You will never lose your way if you mark your journey with this rope."
She was unsure, but she took it anyway because it was pretty and because she trusted Daedalus.
She didn't know what he meant until many years later. As an adult and an immortal, she knew the importance of having a way out.
Euridice's path was laid before her, one foot after the other, as she followed her husband into the light of the living land. He would not look at her. It would drive her mad before too long.
"Orpheus, why?" She asked, not for the first time. She had been warned not to ask questions, but it only lit her curiosity on fire. It was her nature.
"This is the only way," was his reply. She could only see the back of his head, and it worried her. He tugged on her hand, urging her on.
She stopped walking. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It is the will of the gods. Hades and his Queen decreed it so, and look – we are almost there. Come quickly, and this will be over."
He was right, they were almost there, and Euridice could see daylight, feel the welcome breeze against her skin. The Underworld was dire; she did not know how Persephone could stand it, could not understand why the woman would choose to return there time after time.
She thought of her husband, who had had many adventures the likes of which she could not imagine. He had charmed Sirens once, and had travelled the depths of the Underworld simply in search of her. He was a hero, of that she was sure.
Euridice let go of his hand. She did not want to follow his footsteps any longer.
Cassandra stumbled in Apollo's temple, snakes around her ankles. They licked at her ears, whispered impossible things. Things that had not yet come to pass. She called for Apollo as the snakes moved to her eyes, and she saw fire and dust, purple riches and scarlet blood, and she saw things she did not have names for: monsters in the sky, explosions, godless men and women in cities of metal.
She called for Apollo. He did not listen.
Years later, she sat with Polyxena on the turrets, watching the sun dip low in the reddened sky. She held up her thumb and traced Apollo's descent with one eye closed and she felt, as surely as she felt her sister beside her, that this would be Troy's last sunset.
Polyxena stopped toying with the beads on her dress, and cocked her head at her sister. "What is wrong?"
Cassandra remembered the time she saw Polyxena's death. It is little balm to know that her sister will die a hero.
Cassandra pointed with her thumb. She was never sure of the right words. "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts."
Polyxena, who had heard this phrase since before she could remember, shook her head sadly. "Silly girl."
Helen had no time for hesitation. As a child she had danced a pretty dance, and Theseus had stolen her away. She had been rescued by her brothers then, her cosmic and dauntless brothers. Afterwards, she vowed to be no one's captive trophy, no one's weakling to be rescued. She grew up strong, and beautiful. She had no time for hesitation.
After Paris shot down the greatest mortal warrior, aided by Apollo himself, Helen turned away from him and found her husband in the madness. He welcomed her back to his bed, eagerly, for why else had he come to this forsaken city if not to reclaim her?
Long after he fell asleep, Helen smiled beside him, her face against his warm shoulder. Let the men have their battles, she thought, let the gods move them like pieces in a game. Leave the true choices to the women, she thought, for we have no time for hesitation.
Iphigenia's dress was more than a little burned, but the ground on which she sat was blissfully cool. She had yet to take a look around, her eyes were still jammed shut from the panic of the sacrifice, but she heard waves, smelt tangy salt in the air. An island maybe, or perhaps she truly had died and was only hearing the Styx.
She felt rough hands in her hair, on her temples, tracing the curves of her ears. If this was death, she had better open her eyes.
Death was a woman, older than Iphigenia and perhaps as old as her mother. She had hair that seemed mostly to be made of woven forestry, she had a dress of old leather and meshed fabric, and her eyes were brown like a fox's tail. Iphigenia gasped. Death was beautiful.
The woman laughed, and tapped her forehead gently. "I am not Death, child. But you are young, and I must appear strange to you. I do not believe you have ever seen me like this."
"I am not dead?"
"No. You are safe. And you know me, child, as I know you."
Iphigenia frowned, but the woman stroking her hair twitched a little and Iphigenia saw the bow sling across her shoulders, the glinting of arrowheads inlaid into her necklace. Iphigenia cried, and lowered her head. "Artemis! My Queen! You saved me; I called to you and you came!"
Artemis took her hand, and it was the grip of ages, the grip of protector and of the victorious. She pulled the young girl to her feet.
"My lady – are we going somewhere?"
It is late when Athena arises. The mountain is still cloaked in sleep and she is not surprised that she is the first to stir, for what good is a Pantheon without Wisdom? She does not wake the others, not yet, and instead she turns her eyes to the sky, above and below. The stars are different.
The world below is changed, she knows that, and there are many more unbelievers than she can count. Their skies are greyer and their planet is warmer and their wars are waged in a different type of ship. She wonders if she will recognise her people, after all this time.
She can pick out the Aegean if she looks hard enough. She can see Rome, risen and fallen since she last looked that way, and Egypt torn down the middle. She sees Persia and China, little lights shining like pins against the black night. To the west she sees a new land that she does not yet have a name for. She has missed much, it seems.
She has slumbered for many thousands of years, and there is work to be done.