The Ruin of Eros

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My head is pounding so hard, I don’t know how I make it back down the hill. A priest is there to guide me, but nothing is more than a blur.

Mount Olympus.

I am no hero. No god-child or great warrior. Herakles might very well ascend to the home of the gods, but me? I have no strength or skill to best whatever lies in those hills—whatever guardians have been placed there for the very purpose of keeping mortals like me out.

Fate , the oracle said . But what is it, in the end? Perhaps it means only the path I choose; perhaps the path I choose becomes my fate. Is that what Eros meant, before?

“Psyche…”

A soft voice pulls me away from the pounding thoughts inside my head. I blink, and see that Melite Georgiou is nearby. We are in a small, sandy enclave at the back of Delphi’s hill, a sort of antechamber, it seems, for the pilgrims who have heard their answers. We are allowed to wait here, I suppose, before venturing back out into the clamor. I look around at the other faces, the expressions of those recovering from what they have learned. Some look merely dazed, one or two are grieving. But Melite’s face looks peaceful, at least.

“She tells me Hector does well in Hades’ realm.” Her voice is low with emotion. “She says he made the journey with great courage for one so young, and that he was well received there. She says his uncle has claimed care of him in the Underworld.” She takes a deep, unsteady breath. “I asked if he was sad there, if he missed me. She said that it’s different, there. That there is no sadness, the way we know it here.” Her eyes find mine. “I suppose that means he doesn’t miss me. I suppose…I suppose I am glad of that.”

I don’t know what to say. I take her hand, briefly.

“And you?” she says.

I look toward the path out of here. Beyond is the milling crowd, and beyond them, the road. Beyond that, the mountains.

“I am to go to Mount Olympus,” I say.

Her eyes widen.

“To Olympus? But…not to climb it?”

She might as well say it: it’s a fool’s errand, and likely as not you will die there.

Well, and if I should die there? I think of Hector, and the legions of our kind who have already left the mortal world behind. Hades’ realm awaits us all eventually. It is only a matter of years.

“Mortals do not travel past the foothills,” she says gently.

“Nevertheless,” I say, “I must reach it.” I don’t explain to her that I go on this fool’s errand because of a reckless wedding vow, or because I looked into a god’s eyes and saw all my forevers there.

Or because the gods are mad.

Or because I carry love and death in a quiver on my back.

Melite studies me a moment more.

“In that case you may journey with us, if you choose. As far as the foothills, at least.”

“Are you sure?” I say. I am not sure what the rest of her party will make of me.

She shrugs. “We travel to Thessaly, you are on the way. The roads north of here are more dangerous than those to the south.”

Melite’s offer is a good one and I would be foolish to turn it down. And yet I am not sure that she likes me very much, or desires more of my company on her journey. What can I be for her except a bad reminder?

“Why are you helping me?” I ask, and her eyes travel over me.

‘‘Hector,” she says at last. I understand all that she means by it.

Because Hector would have wanted it. Because Hector liked me. Tears seal my throat as I think of her son, her child. Truly, the gods can have no sense of what it is to be mortal, of the grief we endure. If they knew, they surely would spare us it.

“Thank you,” I say, and bow my head low.

*

The sky is purple, the road ahead long and winding. Olive trees make black shapes against the sky. There are six of us in the party: me, Hector’s parents, his sister Kypris—a girl of perhaps fifteen—and another couple, Melite’s brother- and sister-in-law. They are from Sikyon too. They didn’t know me at first, not with the cloak covering my hair and half of my face, but then Melite said my name and their eyes widened in unison. Still, they did not protest when she proposed my joining their group. It’s lucky for me that they seem to be of the same view as Melite: that I am a victim of the king’s, and that it was the king’s conduct that brought about the downfall of our town. I feel treacherous, a snake in their midst. Their home—our home—is in ruins because Eros rescued me against the goddess’s decree. They have paid the price I did not.

The daughter, though—Kypris—I see her face as we ride along, the way it twitches when her glance comes to rest on me. It’s not hard to see that she hates me. Unlike the others, she doesn’t believe I’m so innocent.

The Georgious have two wagons, one for Melite, her husband, and Kypris, and the other for the brother- and sister-in law. The men drive the wagons, and I trot alongside with Ajax. Melite addresses me from time to time as we ride, quiet comments about the state of the road or, as day turns to evening, the dying light and changing views. But mostly, we ride in silence, and I think that’s for the best. She is thinking of what she has lost, perhaps, and so am I. Perhaps I should be thinking about what lies ahead of me, but instead, it’s grief that’s making itself known.

But according to the oracle, I won’t see them this side of Hades’ kingdom. At least there’s a chance, I say to myself. The oracle was certain about some things, yet about this, she was not quite so certain.

I look sideways at Melite’s face. For her there is no chance of seeing Hector in this life again.

As the sun starts to dwindle, the mountains come into sight, distant but clear. There is Olympus, the tallest in that great range, rising against her sisters like a god herself, her flat peak lost in the clouds. I never really thought I would see Olympus—let alone seek to climb it. This mountain is the stuff of legend, the stuff of dreams and nightmares.

We tie up the horses and stop to make camp for the night. Melite and I prepare the food. Hector’s sister pushes by me to gather kindling.

“Careful, Kypris,” Melite says, but the girl doesn’t look back. I have no doubt that she knocked into me on purpose, nor do I blame her. I look off into the woods, and wonder if there are bandits or bears out there. I wonder what would be greeting me on these roads if I were here alone.

Or what will greet me on the mountain that awaits.

It strikes me that I could simply turn back—I could turn back right now if I wanted. But I know that I won’t. I can’t, while I remember that night; while I remember what I felt looking into his eyes. If Fate is anything, surely it is that: the strange thing that happened in my soul, subtle as the whisper of feathers. It was a knowing . That is all I can say.

“Dinner,” Melite announces, and we gather in the firelight. The night is calm, the fire is warm, but we are a somber gathering.

Melite puts a bowl of stewed mutton in my lap, but across the fire I catch Kypris’s eyes, and suddenly my appetite is gone. I leave the stew at my feet until it turns cold.

“Time to turn in,” Hector’s father says, when the rest have had their fill. He glances up to the dark sky and bright moon, and I think of Artemis and her chariot, riding through the sky: goddess of night-time and of the hunt.

Which of the gods are loyal to Aphrodite, and which have their allegiance elsewhere? I pull the hood of my cloak a little tighter, and feel the cool stone of the medallion against my throat.

Soon pallets are rolled out in the wagons. There are none extra for me, so I bundle some spare fabric on the floor and make a pillow of my arms. I stare out at the stars and think that I will never sleep—except it seems I do, because suddenly I start awake in the darkness, with a stranger’s hand over my mouth.