Chapter Text
Greece. 1147 BC.
The child’s cry shattered the night’s silence, shattering the peace of the stars suspended high in the navy blue sky. A woman with hair as black as the bottomless depths of the sea walked, though with each step her body increasingly refused to obey. The long, once light blue chiton was soaked with blood, telling the silent story of her end. Yet she couldn't stop. For though there was no hope for her, tomorrow might yet dawn for her child.
—Shh... now, little one... — She whispered in a broken voice, hugging the tiny bundle to her chest as if she could protect it just a little longer.
She stopped at the foot of the Acropolis steps. She couldn't go any higher, and darkness began to cloud her eyes. She carefully placed the child on the stone step. Her hands trembled, and her heart beat erratically, not from fear, but from the grief of having to leave. Tears, silent and heavy as lead, streamed down her face, mixing with dust and blood. She reached out a cool hand, touching her daughter’s cheek, whose warmth still reminded her of life.
—They won — t hurt you here... — She whispered with difficulty, every sound a wound. — The Fates were wrong... You're not a monster... — Her voice cracked, faded. — And you never will be...
She leaned down beside him, resting her head close to the baby. Tiny fingers found her hand, squeezing it with a force that broke her heart.
—Live... my little star... live for me... — She said barely audibly.
Then everything stopped. A final breath escaped her lips, silent, almost imperceptible. Finally, her body spilled down the stairs like a silent offering. The earth and sand accepted her gently, as if they knew her pain, as if they knew she had given everything she had for a life that could still endure.
A long, cold, and bottomless silence enveloped the child, as if Nyx herself had come to embrace him in a maternal gesture. But the infant knew no silence. It began to cry again, plaintively and loudly, calling out for its mother, whose presence it still felt, unaware that she had already vanished, dissolved into the earth.
—By Athena... what is this wailing in the middle of the night? — grumbled the elderly priestess, wrapped tightly in her heavy himation, which barely protected her from the chill of dawn.
The anger slowly began to drain from her as her gaze fell on the small bundle at the foot of the Acropolis steps. The sound that had roused her from sleep was human in origin, and very young. She instinctively looked around for someone grown, a mother, a father, perhaps even a relative, but only shadows surrounded her. She carefully slid down the stairs. steps, placing the lamp beside it, and with a trembling heart, she took the baby in her arms. She rocked him slowly, carefully, as if she had done this a hundred times before.
— Now, now... hush, little one... you must be cold, — she whispered, wrapping the child in a corner of her robe.
— Ophelia? What are you doing now? — came a slightly irritated whisper from above.
— What am I supposed to do, Kira? Someone abandoned the child as if it were a basket of grapes thrown as an offering, — she replied, returning down the stairs with the little one. — And I, though old, am not a stone to be ignored.
— A girl...? By Zeus, she — s so beautiful! — Kira stepped closer, glancing curiously.
— Hmm... come on, run to the kitchen before Hestia hits you with a ladle. Prepare something to eat for our surprise.
Kira nodded hurriedly and ran, almost tripping over her own feet. Ophelia sat down carefully, pulling aside the piece of cloth. The child — s face was calmer, but her eyes were still unsure, as if ready to burst into tears again.
— Ah... Even if you were a boy, I wouldn — t leave you here, little one. — She smiled gently, running her fingers through her thick hair. — But it's good that You're a girl. The goddesses like that sort of thing. And it — ll be easier for you to grow up without any trouble in the temple.
— Are you sure no one was around? — Kira asked, setting down a bowl of warm milk as they reached the kitchen.
— Yes, my hearing may not be what it used to be, but my eyesight is sharp, almost like Artemis herself when she hunts at dawn. — She snorted, taking the spoon from her.
She dipped it in the milk, carefully handing it to the baby. The girl sucked greedily, tears giving way to silence, and the silence became... safe. Kira knelt beside her, observing the little one carefully. There was something about her that captivated her, though it was impossible to say what. Perhaps it was her hair, thick and dark as oak bark, perhaps her olive skin, or perhaps her eyes, disturbingly bright, as if molded from wisteria blossoms and the wind.
The priestess glanced at her mentor. Ophelia watched silently, almost hypnotized. Kira had a feeling she knew that expression. It was the look on those who have just peered into the future and aren't sure yet whether to fear or pray.
Morning light streamed through the temple’s colonnades, spilling a golden glow across the cool marble. The day promised to be peaceful, at least until Kira opened her mouth.
— We found a baby, — she said simply, almost casually, placing the goat — s milk in front of her.
The silence was so profound that for a moment one could hear the buzzing of a fly over the sacrificial table.
— Excuse me? — Megiste, the eldest of the priestesses, whose hair was the color of ash after a long festival in honor of Hestia, raised an eyebrow. — Who found what?
— A child. A girl. Under the steps of the Acropolis, in the middle of the night. She cried so hard that Hecate herself must have turned away. — All faces turned to her at once.
— Is this a joke? — Young Ione hissed, a permanent frown between her brows. — Kira, you swore not to touch the holy wine...
— I’m not joking. Ophelia found her herself. She fed her milk and cuddled her all night like her own. And the baby has eyes the color of... — She trailed off, as if unable to finish.
— Wisteria, — Ophelia finished for her, having just entered the room with a baby wrapped in a linen shroud.
An even deeper silence fell. All the priestesses glanced at each other, and in an instant, as if a clap of thunder had rolled through the temple, they all spoke at once:
— We need to give her a name!
— By Demeter, this is a sign!
— Maybe she — s a messenger of the gods!
— Or an abandoned bastard from the port!
— Quiet, girls, or you — ll get sore from screaming! The baby isn't deaf, — Ophelia snapped, sitting up with the baby in her arms.
— She must be given a name that is appropriate, strong, worthy of a temple! — Megiste announced, raising her hand theatrically. — I say: Kleio. Like the muse of history.
— Kleio? Phew. A name like library dust. — Ione snorted. — What about Arete? It means virtue, perfection... Maybe we can shape her.
— And I say Melia! — Damaris said dreamily. — That sound, that sweetness… like honey flowing from a sacrificial tree.
— Melia sounds like the name of a goat, — one of the younger priestesses muttered.
— Maybe something to do with her eyes... Iasis? Sounds like healing. Maybe she — s sent to bring relief to the world, — Kira said quietly.
Ophelia smiled to herself as she rocked the baby, who looked as if he knew perfectly well that his identity was being fought over.
— Or maybe we should leave the choice to the girl herself? — she suddenly said with a touch of malice. — We’ll give her seven years. When she speaks, let her decide who she wants to be.
— Until then, shall we call her “girl”? — Ione’s frown deepened. — it's not acceptable. The gods don't like the nameless.
The priestesses argued quietly for a while longer, their voices mingling with the sounds of the morning: the clatter of dishes, the rustle of sandals on stone, laughter that rarely echoed within these walls.
Suddenly, something rustled overhead. High in the kitchen window, an owl perched. Small, bright-eyed, with feathers a shade of ash and silver. It made no sound, but stared directly at the child, then at Ophelia.
The priestesses fell silent. Even Kira, who usually had no qualms about saying more than was necessary, stopped breathing. Ophelia raised her head, smiling barely perceptibly.
— The choice is made, — she whispered. — The patroness has spoken.
The owl moved its wings slightly, as if in confirmation, then rose into the air and disappeared, quietly, noiselessly, like a sign that appears only once and never returns.
The baby stirred in Ophelia’s arms, making a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
— Atheneia... — Ophelia said quietly. — That's what we — ll call her. Let her grow under the watchful eye of the wise goddess. And let her decide for herself what she will become.
The priestesses bowed their heads, and the full light of day flooded the temple interior. As if in agreement with the choice.
***
Six springs passed, and the temple courtyard was bathed in the scent of jasmine and heated stone. The sun — s rays fell gently on the cloisters, where Atheneia, with childlike gravity, tried not to drop the jug of sacrificial water. She walked carefully, step by step, and each priestess who passed her smiled involuntarily, some indulgently, others proudly.
Ophelia sat on a marble block by the well, her elbow on her knee, watching it with one eye, the other squinting against the sun.
— Slow down, my owl, in a moment we will be collecting teeth from the courtyard.
— But Ophelia, you said that when the priestess carries water to the altar, she can't stop! That it's... as if she were running with her soul!
— And I also said that the priestess is a full ten years old and is not a walking watering can with her knees in the air.
Atheneia giggled, but didn't drop the jug. She reached the small stone altar, bowed with great reverence, perhaps even a bit too dramatically, and carefully poured water onto the base where herbs had been sprinkled. Ophelia approached. She crouched beside her and handed her a damp cloth with myrtle oil.
— Now clean him. Quietly. As if you were wiping the face of the goddess herself. — Atheneia wiped the marble, concentrated, her tongue lolling from the corner of her mouth. After a moment, she looked at her guardian.
— Is Athena really watching us all the time? — Ophelia smiled, not answering immediately. She looked up at the blue sky, where an owl occasionally flew, but today it was empty.
— She doesn't look. She knows. Knowledge doesn't need eyes. — The girl thought for a moment, then nodded as if accepting this as obvious. After a few heartbeats, she added:
— And when I become a real priestess… like you… will I know too? — Ophelia looked at her, at that childish face full of concentration and the remnants of goat’s milk at her mouth, and cupped her chin with her fingers.
— Knowledge doesn't come with age or clothing. It comes when you stop asking “when” ... and start listening to the silence. — The girl frowned, as if trying to understand, and perhaps not fully, but she remembered. And that was enough. Before Ophelia turned away, she felt small hands grasping her tunic.
— And how was I really born? — she asked suddenly. — Kira says I was brought by the wind. And Damaris says I was dug up by a hen from under an olive tree. — Ophelia laughed softly.
— And I tell you, you came down the stairs with the moon in your hand and screamed across the Acropolis like Heracles giving birth.
Atheneia laughed loudly, echoing through the cloister. Then she nestled against Ophelia without a word. For a moment, the priestess and child stood like mother and daughter.
They needed no words. The temple around them breathed peacefully, as if Athena herself, from somewhere invisible, sighed and acknowledged the child was on the right track.
***
The temple walls cooled the air even in the full sun. From within one of the chapels came the sounds of a softly repeated hymn, partly like prayer, partly like singing, partly like the same thought stuttering over and over again.
Atheneia sat cross-legged on the stone floor, her forehead furrowed with concentration. Before her, on scrolls unfurled on a low lectern, danced signs, ancient Greek verses whose rhythm she almost knew by heart. Almost.
— “Zeus, the thunderer, gave birth to great Athena. From his head, in a flash of lightning and the sound of trumpets…” — She squeezed her eyes shut, then muttered, — …Or from the pain of a migraine…
— What did you say? — Ophelia asked from behind, approaching with a jug of water.
— That this must be the strangest birth in all of Olympus, — Atheneia sighed, lying on her back with a dramatic groan. — Can you imagine that? Who gives birth to a child from their forehead? — Ophelia set down the jug and sat down beside it, clasping her hands in her lap.
— One who distrusts women. Or... One who fears their power.
— The power to give birth? — Atheneia asked, propping herself up on one elbow.
— The power to create something that might overwhelm you, — Ophelia said quietly. — Zeus swallowed Metis because he was afraid. He thought that if he imprisoned wisdom, he would be safe. But she spoke through Athena anyway. And there you have it, the goddess born from a thunderbolt, in full armor, ready to fight for the world.
— And she was an adult right away? No childhood? No fun? — Atheneia stared at her with wide eyes.
—Athena had no time for childhood. Gods rarely have that luxury.
— That's a bit sad. — The girl lowered her eyes.
— Not everyone needs a childhood. But those who have one should use it well, — Ophelia said, caressing her hair. They were silent for a moment. Atheneia raised her head again, this time with a slight twinkle in her eye.
— Do you think... that Athena sometimes looks at me and smiles? That she — s happy that... that I — m like her?
— I think Athena knows more about you than you think. And that... When you came to us, the goddess's bird perched itself on the column. It wasn't a coincidence, Athena. — Ophelia looked at her seriously. The girl lifted her head, as if checking if an owl was perched somewhere on the ledge, in the shadows. But there was only silence and light.
— What if she calls me someday? How will I have to follow her voice?
— Then you.. l’ll recognize it. Your heart will. And we... — Ophelia leaned down, touching the child — s forehead, — ...will remind you that you were never alone. Not then, not now.
— So, from the beginning again? — Atheneia looked at the scroll again.
— Only if you don't call birth a lightning bolt migraine this time, — Ophelia muttered.
The girl laughed, but was already sitting upright, ready for the next verse. The world outside the window remained blissfully still. Unaware that within the marble of the temple was growing a girl the goddess could call her own… Even though she wasn't one at all.
***
The sun spilled gold over the temple walls, and the air was filled with the scent of myrrh, myrtle, and freshly baked honey cakes.
The courtyard was bustling with quiet activity. Priestesses whispered to each other with smiles, and Atheneia stood in the center, dressed in a new tunic of light linen, girded with a golden sash. Her hair was braided in two braids, from which olive leaves dangled.
— Today you turn ten, child of the temple, — Ophelia said with solemnity. — You are no longer a bird in the nest. Now you are the bearer of light. — Atheneia took the lamp from the eternal flame and approached the altar. The entire temple fell silent as she watched as she placed it on the stone and bowed her head.
— Athena, Pallas, armed and wise goddess… Your light guides, let it not fade within me, — she recited. The priestesses raised their hands in a gesture of blessing. A silence hung in the air, almost sacred. Kira handed her a modest ring, gilded bronze with an owl engraved on it.
— Let it remind you that you were named not by men, but by gods.
Atheneia smiled. In that moment, everything seemed perfect. But the gods, if they were listening, were already silent. For they knew what would come that night. And it all began with a scream. A quiet one, then louder and louder.
Atheneia ran through the temple in a panic, searching for Ophelia. Her feet were bare, the marble beneath them cold and clammy with... Something. She heard laughter. The neighing of horses. And thunder.
Fire danced in the sky, but it wasn't divine, it was wild. And then she saw her. A woman with hair as black as a moonless night, covered in blood, carrying a bundle. Her face was familiar, distorted by pain, but Atheneia recognized it without hesitation. It was her face, but older. Wounded. Struggling.
— Shh... hush, little one... You — ll be safe here... — The woman whispered, kneeling beneath the marble stairs that disappeared into the air.
Then they appeared. Shadows in human form. Gods? Hunters? Executioners? Their faces blurred in the lightning flashes. One of them laughed, holding a severed head by the hair. Another hurled a spear through the darkness, which hissed like a wound.
Atheneia couldn't move. She felt only a deep, excruciating pain in her chest. The woman continued to whisper, trembling.
— You're not a monster... You're not a monster...
Seaweed, seaweed, and scales shimmering with a bluish light began to grow from her back. The earth beneath her opened like a maw, as if the sky itself no longer wanted to contain her.
In the distance, the Gorgons howled. Two of them. Then it was impossible to hear them anymore. Atheneia screamed, but her voice caught in her throat. The woman looked her straight in the eyes, the sea drowning in her gaze.
And then the space burst open like a curtain, and a new vision entered the dream, though perhaps it was more of a memory. But whose?
A stone circle. Smoke. And three women with faces of old youth, eternal old age, and eternal now—she recognized them from the stories of Ophelia and Moira. They stood before the woman whose face she wore. She was naked. Bloody. Broken. She trembled, clutching her stomach.
— Please... I beg you... don't take her away from me...
— Your children will be monsters, one after another, daughters of the darkness of the sea, condemned to the blades of Olympus. — The younger Moira spun a silver thread.
— The third... — The Middle One, the one who measures fate, spoke. — She will be a serpentine monster, with a gaze that destroys the soul. She will be the worst of all, and her fate will be written in blood.
— I haven — t stained myself with anything! I only wanted my firstborn to be beautiful, like those of Aphrodite! — The woman groaned and lifted her head.
— So don't be surprised... Keto, — the old woman growled, — the envy and greed in your heart were like the sparks of a fire. And the gods... the gods are only sparks.
— We punished you not out of whim, but out of the order of things. So it was spun, so it will be cut.
— No! — Keto screamed. — You can't!
— We don't have to... — They replied in unison. — Fate is already in the making.
Then the thread snapped, and everything was swallowed by water. The woman. The monsters. The fire. The slaughter. And then only bottomless silence.
Atheneia woke from her sleep. She was drenched in sweat, her hand pressed against her chest as if something were trying to rip her heart out. Ophelia slept on a chair next to her, an open book in her hands.
The owl sat on the ledge, motionless, watching, as if it saw something no one else could. The girl wasn't crying. Not yet. She looked toward the altar and whispered, so softly only the night could hear her.
— Who am I...? — But the owl replied with silence.
When dawn barely touched the sky, Atheneia was already on her feet. The chill of the marble floors burned her bare feet, but she didn't feel it. In her hands she held an oil lamp and the scrolls she had taken from the temple archives: descriptions of the families, legends of the sea, of gods and monsters. She searched. Desperately.
In a scroll from the Titan War, she found a passage about the Gorgons. Another mentioned Phorcus, a powerful deity of the deep seas whose name she knew only from nightmares.
But about Keto... nothing. About abandoned children, about the prophecies of the Fates... nothing. Only veiled parables, full of metaphors and empty verses. Finally, exhausted, she knelt before Athena’s altar. She clasped her hands together. Clenched them until her knuckles took on a lighter shade.
— Lady Wisdom... — she began, barely above a whisper. — If there's something in me I don't understand... if I — ve dreamed of something real, show it to me. I beg you. Tell me the truth... — An inexorable silence fell.
And then she heard a voice. Not in her ears, but in her mind, smooth, calm, cool as the brass of a sword.
— My child... You dream too vividly. Too many stories, too many scrolls before bed. That's all. Your place is here. Your origin is the light. don't look into the shadows. Close your eyes. Rest. Nothing threatens you.
Atheneia felt peace. Warmth. As if she felt a hand on her hair. A mother’s. A divine one.
***
Time moved inexorably, and the Acropolis seemed to stretch forever. Yet, answers still didn't come. She searched for them constantly. Signs. Words. The breath of Athena herself, barely perceptible on the wind.
The marble beneath her feet no longer burned as it had before. When she was ten, every ceremony, every prayer in the temple had been filled with awe, and awe before the goddess's majesty mingled with childish fascination. Now, at fifteen, she stood silently, as if nothing could surprise her anymore, as if she saw everything in a new, cold and ruthless light. She didn't kneel. She stood, still, with an erect posture, as if all space around her had slowed. Her body froze in readiness, and her mind drew the silence into itself, as if listening to the tiniest murmurs in the ether.
The scrolls she had once abandoned in panic now lay before her, arranged in precise order. She knew them like the back of her hand, as if every nook and cranny of these parchments were her record, her step on this unspeakable journey.
But something in her eyes had changed. In her faith, anxiety, uncertainty, perhaps even something akin to resignation. The questions hadn't disappeared; they had sunk deep, into hidden shadows, where hope no longer existed. Athena’s voice, once reassuring, now seemed distant, as if suspended in space, or perhaps... as if deliberately silenced.
The nightmares that once robbed her of sleep were gone. Only the signs remained. And the silence. Heavy, filled with anxiety, as if the very space of the temple were becoming increasingly alien.
— Who am I... — she repeated in a whisper. Her voice trembled like a leaf on a windless day. The owl on the ledge glanced at her. She didn't answer. Only the faint creak of the beams in the high vault reminded her that time still flowed.
— Why are you silent... I have so many questions... no answers... no more visions... — She sighed in a trembling voice. — Did I do something wrong, Lady...? I beg you... answer me...
The whisper faded into the sounds of the temple—rhythmic footsteps, the raised voices of priestesses in the side corridors, the rustling of fabrics, the laughter and singing of preparations for the Panathenaic Festival.
Large jugs of olive oil were placed on stone platforms, somewhere someone was tuning a lyre, and one of the younger novices dropped a clay bowl, which clattered to the floor. Atheneia didn't even flinch. Then a familiar voice rang out behind her.
— Oh, by the gods, You're standing here alone again, like marble from Myron’s sculpture shop! A little while longer, and you — l’ll bloom like those laurel wreaths the girls weave! — It was Kira. Always too loud, always too honest, but with a heart as warm as olive oil in the sun. Atheneia didn't turn around.
— I can't celebrate if I don't know if he can still hear me. — Kira sighed at her words, then stepped closer, her tunic rustling in her folds.
— Maybe she just stopped talking because you finally started listening. That's something, isn't it? — She looked at Atheneia sideways, narrowing her eyes. — Or You're being dramatic again. — Silence hung between them.
— I only know one thing, — Atheneia whispered, almost to herself. — Silence can be worse than anger.
Somewhere outside the temple windows, the sound of flutes resounded. The Panathenaea was approaching. And Athena... still remained silent. Kira tilted her head, looked at Athena with obvious pity, and then, without question, lightly slapped her on the shoulder with the scroll.
— Well, enough of this standing around praying to your own thoughts. I know, I know... the goddess is silent, your heart is heavy, and your soul is as dark as olives after winter. But you haven — t lost your hands, have you? I need you in the courtyard.
Atheneia glanced at her sideways but didn't respond. Kira sighed loudly and dramatically, as if the entire world needed to hear her agony.
— The girls can't handle wreaths, — she continued, more conspiratorially. — They weave them so well they — d make Athena cry. And you know how to make those leaf swirls... the kind that look like the patterns on the goddess's helmet. Come on, move, before I start shouting at the echoes of the Pnyx!
— Blackmail by screaming… That's new. — Atheneia raised an eyebrow.
— Effective. — Kira smiled wickedly. — Well, well... go ahead. You won — t find more answers in marble today than in your hands. — Without waiting, she grabbed Atheneia’s hand and pulled her gently but firmly toward the exit of the temple’s main hall. — Besides, one of the novices cried today because someone told her she looked like a goat. Go fix that before she floods the altar with tears. You know how to do these things.
- I can’t.
— But you look like you can.
They walked together through the shadows of the colonnade. Kira’s voice bounced off the cool stones, echoing between the statues. Atheneia walked slowly, as if each word the priestess uttered separated her from the silence into which she sank. And perhaps... perhaps that was precisely the point.
The courtyard was bustling with life. The scent of fresh herbs mingled with the scent of incense smoke and the warm aroma of olive oil. Women moved around, some barefoot, stepping on mosaics of bay leaves, others weaving wreaths, laughing, singing hymns to Athena, trying to find a common tone. Kira stormed in among them.
— don't pull so hard, those aren — t sail lines! — she shouted to one of the novices, who almost tore a leaf from a laurel branch. — And where are those olives? I told you to bring them before noon!
Her voice carried high into the portico, where several older priestesses glanced up but didn't interfere. Kira had her methods. Loud. Effective. Full of life.
Atheneia sat down next to the bowl of laurels. She stared at them for a moment, as if wondering why they had been brought there in the first place. Then she reached out and began to weave the branches. Slowly. Carefully. One of the younger novices sat down next to her. She was silent for a moment, then she asked timidly.
— Did Athena really ever speak to you?
— She said… once. — Atheneia looked at her. Her fingers were still working.
—And what did she sound like? —The girl was barely older than a child, with eyes as large as a moon mirror.
— Like a thought you know before you hear it. — Atheneia hesitated, and the bay leaf cracked in her hands.
The novice bit her lip, unsure if she understood. Then she stood up and returned to the others. Atheneia was left alone with the wreath again. The sounds around her grew louder: someone played a lyre, someone recited verses from a hymn to the goddess, the girls danced in a circle. Her hands worked automatically.
— Well, You're doing well, — Kira said, walking by with her arms full of rolled-up fabrics. — If you keep this up, you might even forget You're sitting here looking like Hecate on an empty stomach. — Atheneia didn't reply, but the ghost of a smile flickered on her face, imperceptible even to herself.
Panatenaje. Athena waited a whole year for this day—and the people even longer. The temple came alive not only with prayer but also with laughter, dancing, song, and color. The courtyard was bursting at the seams, priestesses scurried with jugs, novices with burning wreaths, and the faithful swarmed around like bees around honey.
— See that one over there? — one of the craftsmen gasped, leaning against a column and pointing at the bearded dancer. — That's Heron from the lower market. He came in wearing a bronze helmet! By the snake god, who wears a helmet to dance?
— And do you see that girl with the lyre? — the vendor whispered back, adjusting her wreath. — I heard her aunt dreamed of Athena last night. All in tears, can you imagine? The goddess is crying!
— The goddess cries when she sees your onions at the market.
The laughter drowned out the chorus of children reciting a hymn to Athena Polias. Somewhere in the distance, a sacrificial fire burned. A tall, pure flame.
Atheneia stood off to the side, unobtrusive. She gazed at the crowd as if she didn't see it, or rather, from a different, distant, quiet place. Her hands still bore traces of bay leaf juice.
— Ha! But You're not made of marble. You move. You breathe. Maybe you — l’ll even dance?
The voice was rough, as if scrubbed with salt. Atheneia turned. A man stood there, older, with a face lined with wrinkles and a beard that looked as if it belonged to Poseidon himself. Bushy eyebrows, eyes the color of a stormy sea, and his tunic smelled of… seaweed, fish, salt. And perhaps time.
— Excuse me? — she said quietly.
— I said you were breathing. Good. Not everyone here breathes. Most just endure. — He grinned, his teeth like old bones. — But you... You're listening. You just don't know what.
— I don't know you. — Atheneia took a step back, uncertain.
— And I know you, — he replied calmly. — Though not by name. The goddess watches you while you sleep. But now... now she has turned away, hasn’t she? — She remains silent.
— Who are you? — she whispered, her heart pounding.
— Sometimes I — m a fisherman. Sometimes I — m nobody. And sometimes... the one who disturbs the waves when the sea seems calm. — He smiled again and moved into the crowd, like a shadow among the olive leaves.
Atheneia watched him for a long time, hearing neither song nor laughter. Only his words echoing hollowly in her skull. Time, as always, took away all that was momentary, and she was left with a silence that hurt more than any word.
The days passed slowly, and the evenings on the Acropolis grew increasingly muggy. Quieter. Stagnant in her throat and lungs. The olives ripened silently, and even the wind seemed drowsy.
Atheneia sat alone in the garden, under a pomegranate tree. Seemingly calm. In her hands, she held a clay bowl of water, reflecting the sky. She stared into it, but saw nothing but her own thoughts, which continued to bounce off the walls of her mind, like those words. And instead of looking at the sky, she looked into herself. Longingly. Incomprehensibly, as if searching for an answer she didn't want to know.
Her hands were cold, and her heart felt too heavy. For several nights, she had been haunted by dreams and visions, but not like before. They were no longer visions filled with symbols, leading to revelation. They were too pure. Too... ordered.
In each of them, her mother. A woman she knew almost nothing about. She stood on her knees before Athena, begging for forgiveness. Her mother’s face was almost too similar to Athaneia’s. As if it were her, not Keto, and Athena in these dreams was large, bright, and powerful. She repeated over and over: — It was her fault that you were born with a mark. She chose this. You can redeem it.
But Atheneia felt no relief upon waking. She felt... something else. Unease. Disgust. Distrust.
What if these weren't visions, just echoes? Or... a lie planted by something that knew her fears?
— Monster, — she whispered to her reflection, as if trying to acknowledge her reflection.
Was this what the goddess whispered about her? Was it true? Was that why Athena remained silent? Because Atheneia was tainted. A footstep sounded somewhere in the distance. Slow. Even. She lifted her head and smelled it before she saw it. The same scent wafting from the mysterious man. It was unmistakable. Sea. Salt. Algae.
— Aren — t you sleeping? — He stood nearby, leaning against a column as if he had been there for a long time. — Dreams are louder than the sounds of the day, — he added, quietly.
— Are you following me?
— I’m observing. it's not the same.
— Why? — Her voice was sharp. Almost angry. — What do you want from me?
— I — m not here for anything. I — m here... because I should be. — The man took a step closer. His face was calm this time. He wasn't smiling.
— How can you know that? — She stood up slowly, holding the bowl in her hands as if it were a weapon. — How can you know what it should be?
— The goddess of wisdom does not only look in on her servants
— I have no idea what You're talking about.
— But you have... you have... You're smart, girl... I — m glad the priestesses are so... — He looked down at her before he finished. — Devoted.
The contents of her stomach rose in her throat. She felt a surge of anger and shame collide. She gripped the jug tighter, covering herself with it as much as she could.
— You don't know anything about me. You're just some old, drunken fisherman.
— Ah... such language doesn't suit such a face, let alone a priestess. — He seemed amused by the situation. — Besides... I didn't know the temple was open, only to... the chosen ones.
— it's open to everyone, only the garden remains for the exclusive use of the priestesses. — She snorted briefly, irritated by his amusement, and tried to walk past him.
He didn't move, thankfully, but she still felt his gaze boring into her as she returned to the temple. Thoughts raced through her mind faster than she could process them. Notice.
She reached for the cloth arranged next to the herbs on the altar. She bowed, more out of habit than actual faith. She poured water on the marble and began to carefully wipe it, just as Ophelia had taught her. She took a ragged breath, staring at her reflection in the stone as she noticed tears streaming down her cheeks.
She missed her, just like the other priestesses. But she was the only one who couldn't talk about her with them, after she'd already passed away... she couldn't even process how long ago it had been. The wound was still raw. Sometimes it bled again, and sometimes it seemed almost healed. She took a deep breath and knelt, looking at the altar, wiping away her tears and sniffing.
— I miss you... — She whispered in a trembling voice. — You would know what to do... you always did... I wish you were here with me... Mom...
She buried her face in her hands, sobbing silently. She felt as if her soul had been crumbling from that moment on. Piece by piece, stripping her of everything Ophelia had built within her. A sense of security. A sense of belonging. Warmth. Love. Home.
Now, without her, she was nothing but emptiness. She felt as if she no longer had a reason to live. Atheneia felt as if her faith was fading along with Ophelia. It was growing weaker day by day, fading like a flame within her. Everything she did now was just to feel closer to her.
— You're carrying a lot. — She stopped sobbing immediately and wiped her face, turning to face the man. — Now then... there's nothing to be ashamed of.
— You were supposed to leave. — She stood up, adjusting her tunic.
- Well, I was, but I couldn't just ignore a crying sheep like you. - He started to approach, definitely too close.
She took a step back. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. She gripped the altar, her gaze darting around the room, wondering if a priestess was nearby who could help her. She froze completely when the man wrapped his arms around her waist. Up close, the stench was even worse, and the hint of rotten fish became much more pronounced.
— From what I know... priestesses must remain pure... for their goddess, are you too? — He leaned in, running his nose along her neck and behind her ear, into which he purred. — You smell like you were...
Atheneia felt as if those words had awakened her again, and she pushed the man away. Her face was filled with pure disgust. Her hands. Her legs. Her entire body was trembling. A searing heat began to spread through her body from the sheer volume of blood pumping through the teenager's heart. She didn't know if she could escape. Adrenaline pounded in her ears, drowning out the sounds around her. Her head was pounding as she struggled to keep up with her breathing.
Suddenly, the man took a step toward her. Her breath caught in her throat. She clutched the altar, stepping back, knocking over the jug of water that spilled across the floor, soaking her sandals. She stared into his eyes. There was nothing human in them anymore. Only pure lust. As if torn from a frenzy, she pushed herself away from the altar, no longer willing to wait for his next step.
She breathed heavily, but didn't stop. Even when her tunic began to bother her, she pulled it up. Her lungs barely managed to keep up with the oxygen. she'd never felt the need to run so fast before. Each leg extension was increasingly difficult. She was slowly losing strength. Only one thought lingered in her mind: run.
Her scream echoed through the empty corridors as the man rounded the corner, and she almost ran into him. At the last second, she jumped past him. Hope slowly filled her as she saw over her shoulder that he wasn't following her. He was too old to catch up.
How stupid and naive that was. Another cry of pain tore through her throat as he yanked her hair, trapping her in an iron grip. She could have sworn her lungs collapsed and her neck snapped. He twisted her long hair around his fist, refusing to let go. She grabbed his hand, moaning in pain as she struggled like a trapped animal.
— No! Please! Leave me alone! — She said between heavy breaths.
Her heart pounded in her chest, eager to break free. Her eyes slowly dimmed to dark spots, and with each flicker of soft light, pain sank its claws deeper into her skull, slowly opening it to eat away at her brain.
She swung her leg, trying to push her captor away, but he only grabbed her ankle and threw her to the ground with a thud. She coughed, gasping for air. Blood began to trickle from her nose from the force of the blow. She began to scream, her voice tearing at her throat, the silence, the darkness that surrounded them.
— Shut up, bitch, — he growled above her, stripping her of the one material that was now his biggest obstacle.
She slapped his hand and tried to swing her arms blindly. When she finally felt her elbow collide with his head, she immediately regretted it. He grabbed her head with his entire hand, slamming it against the stone with full force. She rolled her eyes back. Warm blood practically burned her skin, dripping onto the marble. She shuddered, opening her mouth, not to scream, but to draw in a breath. It felt like the last breath she had ever felt in her lungs.
A silent scream twisted her face. The contents of her stomach rose in her throat again. Breathing became increasingly difficult with every movement. Blood stained her dress, and a searing, ripping pain emanated from her spine. She felt as if she were losing feeling in her legs, that she was slowly losing control of her body.
His hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the occasional scream and sob that escaped her, though it was much quieter. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying only for this nightmare to end. She no longer had control over what was happening, what she felt. Her body had become nothing more than a thing, an object over which her tormentor now had complete control. He had stripped her of everything. Of the sadness, the regret she had felt only moments ago. Of the anger, the rage that boiled within her as she stared at her reflection. Of her innocence.
***
Holding her livid stomach, she slowly made her way to the bathroom. The pain lingered, still as intense as it had that night. The priestesses didn't find her until morning. They talked about how they hadn't heard anything, hadn't noticed anything. But Atheneia had a hunch, knew these were just lame excuses. They didn't want to admit, they had no intention of simply turning their backs on her.
She was about to return to bed, but the temptation was too strong. Slowly, she reached for the mirror resting on the wooden shelf. Her eyes were blank. There was no joy, anger, or sadness in them anymore. There was no soul in her. Her nose was twisted disgustingly in half and covered with a cloth soaked in some herb, making it adhere tightly to her skin. Her cheek and eyebrow were bruised.
She squeezed her eyes shut, groaning, and clutched her head as another throbbing pain surged through her. She had to hold on to the ledge to keep from passing out. The blows he was delivering seemed at first indiscriminate. But now she knew they were primarily aimed at knocking her unconscious.
With a trembling hand, she put down the mirror, which at first she would have liked to smash into tiny pieces. Step by step, clinging to the wall, she returned to the bed, slowly sitting up. She buried her face in her hands. She didn't cry. She had no more tears for it. She just gritted her teeth. Slowly, she laced her fingers together and closed her eyes, pressing her hands to her mouth.
— My lady... you are silent again... I don't even see you in my dreams anymore... — She spoke in a whisper, though each word seemed to trigger new surges of pain. — You turned away from me, even though it wasn't me who defiled your temple? Please... answer me, my lady... Why didn't you help me?
Her next words caught in her throat as the door to the room opened. Kira. Not long ago, she had comforted her. She had offered her a hand when Atheneia retreated into her thoughts. She had provided a closeness she only now felt how much she missed. Now. She had treated her with silence. Like the other priestesses. She was no longer a girl, a pure servant of Athena. She had become a woman. Tainted with blood in the most cruel way. Yet, there was no place for her here anymore. She knew it.
She silently allowed Kira to change her bandages and apply ointment. Before leaving, she gave her some packed food and some money for the trip. Was it already that time? Their eyes met, but it was Atheneia who lowered her gaze first, unable to say goodbye like that.
The door closed quietly. Soft, salty tears began to streak her cheeks again. They burned her eyes and skin, as if tearing it from her face with each fall. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.
Suddenly. Warmth spread through her body. Gentle. Cautious, yet almost maternal. The air caught in her throat. A thumb wiped away her tears, and then she felt another hand on her cheek, slowly lifting her head. Her eyes widened and her mouth parted, staring at the woman of her dreams. She was surrounded by the warmth, wisdom, and care she had longed for. She tried to rise to bow before her patron, her protector, but she was stopped.
— M-Madam..? — She managed to whisper before she even thought about it.
— Shh.. shh my child.. you've been through so much.. — Her voice was like balm to the girl's heart.
— Madam... I thought... I thought you had abandoned me...
— You? Of course not... — She smiled gently. — You are like a daughter to me... grief weighs heavy in my chest at the thought of what happened to you... — Atheneia swallowed hard, and questions began to swirl in her head.
— So... can I ask you something? — Before the goddess answered, a quiet question slipped from the girl's lips. — Why didn't you help me?
— Why … you ask? — She tilted her head slightly and slowly pulled away.
— I didn't mean to offend you, Madam.
— You didn't offend... but now... I — ll ask you a question... Why was Arachne punished?
— Arachne..? Because.. she challenged you, Lady.. she claimed to be better than Lady..
— Yes.. That's right.. You challenged me too.. from the very beginning, my dear..
— But.. I.. what..? — She started to ask, confused, but quickly silenced by the goddess's hand.
— Your beauty has brought this... trouble upon you. — Athaneia felt something welling up inside her. How could she call it trouble when the girl had been through the worst hell? — However... since... you have served your punishment... let me help you now... protect you... from similar harm that could befall you...
— Will you help me? But... why only now? It wasn't my fault... I... I didn't want this...
— And yet you allowed this to happen... you could have run faster... defended yourself more... and you... you just gave in...
— That's not at all...
— That’s why I want to give you special power... no man will dare to approach you or harm you... — She brutally interrupted the girl again.
Athaneia had even more questions than answers. She wasn't sure of the goddess’s words. Their truth. Their sincerity. She had abandoned her. Or perhaps... she was watching over her, and this nightmare was meant to happen so she could finally achieve her honor? Heroes were mostly men, though women were also born demigods. Was Athena finally giving her a chance to change? To change who she had become? Who she now despised? Would she lift the cursed mark Keto had placed upon her? Was she capable of doing so?
— Athena... I need your help with this... So, what's your decision? — Athena’s voice snapped her out of the thoughts that were increasingly consuming her.
— What should I do, Madam?
— Prepare the altar... we need herbs, water and a holy dagger.
— Of course... I-ll prepare everything right away.
She rose slowly, clutching her stomach. She opened the door, carefully stepping out into the corridor so that none of the priestesses would notice her. If necessary, they would escort her out of the temple themselves, but she preferred not to, she had to avoid that. Holding onto the walls, she prepared the herbs needed for the ceremony.
Sage. Mint. Thyme. A touch of rosemary. A rather unusual mixture for an offering. Yet the presence of the goddess, who seemed to be always by her side, strengthened Athenea’s movements. She arranged everything on the altar and knelt, joining her hands in prayer, as Athena had instructed.
The scent of burning herbs soothed her tense body. She had no intention of rushing the goddess, but she feared being discovered making a sacrifice, even though she should have already left the Acropolis.
The silence stretched on inexorably, until she began to squeal. She opened her eyes and glanced at the altar, where everything seemed to be in its place. Even the ritual dagger. As if the goddess had no intention of even using it.
— Mrs..? - She didn't finish.
The golden spear pierced through, its bloody tip clanging as it grated against the stone. The sound echoed, as if it wanted to stay in her head forever. The pain didn't come all at once, but came in waves, each stronger, heavier, as if trying to drown her. First, it spread along her spine, paralyzing her limbs like a sudden frost. Then her nerves, frantic from the overload of stimuli, could no longer keep up with what was happening inside her. Alien, icy iron ripped through her chest. Right through her heart.
This… is this what the end feels like? It flashed through her mind, but at the same moment, she felt consciousness begin to slip from her grasp. With a trembling hand, she reached for the spear. Fingers, cold and weak, slid across the smooth metal. The robe slowly soaked in burgundy red. Heavy, sticky, its bitter, metallic taste reaching her mouth. She choked, coughing toward the altar. The air in her lungs was thick, viscous, and no more sound escaped her.
Cold… deep, inhuman, straight from Hades itself, began to envelop her body from the feet up. Her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. Time ceased to flow, or she was torn from it.
Her mouth opened wider as the spear slowly withdrew, tearing through her muscles and leaving a void inside her. She automatically pressed her hand against the opening, as if to stem the flow of life. Her fingers met a warmth that faded with each passing second. She collapsed onto the altar, heavy and limp. Her eyes remained wide, staring at something that was no longer there. Not even her last breath found its way out.
The altar flowed with her blood. Still warm. For a moment longer.