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The realization that Melinoë has overextended herself hits when she had been counting on Charon’s shop to offer something to restore her vitality, and yet only a boon, Pom, and Ashes are on display. She would have spent the rest of her Gold if it meant obtaining something to heal her wounds. The consequences of swearing Vow after Vow had caught up to Melinoë, Chronos’ forces emboldened by Nyx’s influence to mete out thrashings she had barely survived. She almost feels grateful for the frigid winds of Mount Olympus, numbing as they are.
Her relatives had made themselves scarce this eve, likely preoccupied with Typhon’s raging storm upon the summit. With infrequent boons on offer, Melinoë has had to rely on her innate magick and skill to overcome seemingly endless waves of enemies.
Melinoë purchases Ashes for the Altar, and grips Lim and Oros tightly as she stares at the ornate door blocking the path to her next foe. Eris’ incessant taunting often frustrated Melinoë, but she had come to the understanding that Eris is loyal to her nature as Strife Incarnate. Prometheus, however, had no such excuse. He had wormed his way into her mind with his disceptions and false prophecies that incited conflict within her. Melinoë longs for the nights before she had met him, when her motivations were clear and she harboured no doubts about her task.
Agent of Change, Prometheus calls her. She hates the way that moniker unsettles her—he always says it with such conviction, as if he knows something about Melinoë that she herself doesn’t know.
Despite this, Prometheus’ words draw an insatiable curiosity out of her, and much like pressing down on a bruise to see if it still hurts, lately she has found herself more often choosing to ascend and fight on the surface rather than down to Tartarus. She has beheld Typhon in all his grotesque glory, but not yet slain him. For all that she has accomplished thus far, defeating him is proving itself to be an insurmountable task. Some nights Melinoë does not even make it to the summit, succumbing to Prometheus’ flames or to the automatons stationed on the mountain.
Her relatives’ splendour is beautifully displayed everywhere on the mountain, hardly a single surface left unmarked with depictions of their glory. The Satyrs that dared to defile the carvings and tapestries met a swift end by Melinoë’s hand. She can only imagine the sheer opulence of the Palace of Zeus, having caught glimpses of it when receiving boons.
Steeling her resolve, Melinoë ascends the short staircase with Frinos and bids the door to open. A blast of hot air hits her, the sudden transition in temperature rattling her composure. A nasty blow from a Satyr had lacerated her leg, causing a limp that forces her to grit her teeth in the effort to conceal it. Melinoë wishes she had taken Descura instead this eve so she had something to lean on. Drops of blood follow in her wake alongside singed footprints.
Prometheus awaits her, Aetos alighting on his arm. A small satisfied smile tugs at his features. Melinoë bristles, and tries to avoid thinking about whatever he has foreseen that has brought him such satisfaction. She does not need his foresight to know that the odds are stacked against her tonight; a win, if even possible, would be narrowly obtained.
“Hail, Agent of Change. Your injuries are grave tonight, yet you persist. So eager to rush to your relatives’ defence upon the summit I see.” He is hale, save for his enduring scars.
While Melinoë can mask a limp, she cannot hide that each step is causing blood to ooze and trickle down her leg. “I am, yes. The sooner I defeat you, the sooner I can provide my aid to them. Shall we begin?”
He replies by way of launching Aetos at Melinoë, Apollo’s blessing granting her the speed necessary to evade within a hair’s breadth. Pain shoots up her leg, electric and stabbing, but it is drowned out by the rest of her body crying out in protest. She just needs to defeat Prometheus, somehow, then she can find some respite from the fountain that awaits in the chamber beyond. Melinoë pushes the thought of how she will slay Typhon and his horde out of her mind to focus on the present.
She thanks her past self for choosing Ares’ boons tonight, his gifted bloodlust hastening her attacks and putting her into a frenzy that dulls her pain into a faint bid for attention. His boons often leave her weapons slick with blood that refuses to be wiped away.
With a silent curse, she regrets having taken Hera’s boons. The ability to hitch enemies together to inflict shared suffering does little good against Guardians. Melinoë wishes she could hitch Prometheus to his wretched eagle to take them both down in one fell swoop. Though it went against her nature to harm animals, she had previously attempted to strike Aetos only to discover he was divinely protected akin to her familiars.
Prometheus’ arrogance has given way to overconfidence tonight—he is clumsy with evading and she lands her blows more and more frequently as the fight goes on, despite her injuries. Melinoë tries to trap him within her cast, ghostly hands emerging and clawing at his ankles, but he manages to escape their confines. The time between his attacks grows longer and longer, allowing her brief moments to catch her ragged breath. She cannot pause for long however; the pain threatens to paralyze her if only given the chance.
While he is rooted in place charging a plume of flames, Melinoë rushes and flings Oros towards him. The sickle finds purchase, partially cleaving past his bindings to slice his scar open once more. The ground is flecked with streaks of her red blood and his ichor. He lags, and Melinoë knows the fight is almost over.
She would need to get close to Prometheus to deliver the final strike, as Aphrodite’s blessings are most powerful in close quarters. Clinging to nothing but resolve and sheer will, Melinoë manages to defeat Prometheus by weaving behind him and driving both sister blades deep into his back.
Unable to cry out, he drops to his knees and falls forward, supporting himself with one arm. Melinoë allows herself a moment of pride at the sight of their handles protruding from between his ribs. Retrieving her blades with a wet noise, Prometheus soundlessly gasps, ichor dripping from his mouth, until his collapsed lungs can re-inflate themselves.
Both of them take a moment to catch their breath, chests heaving. Her body is worn out, pushed far beyond its limits, and a metallic taste pools in the back of her throat. It takes all of Melinoë’s resolve to not collapse next to Prometheus. Her tenacity wins out, though not without some swaying on her feet that betrays her utter exhaustion. She tries to steady herself, to no avail as she cannot take a deep breath without sharp pains in her sides.
Recovered enough, Prometheus rises and turns to face her. Usually at this point he leaves her with a cryptic remark and disappears into his flames. This time, he doesn’t retreat but rather examines her curiously.
“You will not make it to Typhon in your current state,” he says bluntly, as if reciting a basic fact. Doubtful he needed his foresight to come to that conclusion.
Melinoë finds herself unable to disagree with him for once, though she would never admit it aloud. Her legs are admission enough, wobbling beneath her and threatening to give out at any moment.
“There is a hot spring hidden on the mountainside where I intend to rest and recover. You may join me there if you're amenable,” he offers, and extends his hand to her.
Melinoë gathers every bit of spite and anger she feels and puts it into her glare at his outstretched hand. “And why would I do something like that? Join you in licking your wounds? You’re probably scheming to fell me when my guard is down,” she spits out, infusing venom into every word.
“I have foreseen no such event occurring,” Prometheus says, and drops his hand. “If you come, you will have a change of heart about me by dawn. That, or you simply attempt to strike me down when you believe I’m not expecting it. It’s your choice. But if you don’t come, you will return to shadow on the summit and your task will resume again, remaining unchanged.”
Each action and word of his must be conscientiously chosen, informed by his foresight.
Prometheus continues, “I know that you know you’re not one to let things go unresolved.” With that, he turns and makes his way towards the exit, twin trails of ichor streaming down his back.
He has a point, the fact that Melinoë managed to overcome him was due to sheer luck—and skill—that could not be extended to carry her to victory atop the summit. She could return to shadow now, bloody and bruised, or follow him to this hot spring and return to the Crossroads refreshed and ready to set out again.
Although she is wary of his deceptions, her curiosity is sparked at her supposed change of heart. If Prometheus truly believes what he says, Melinoë would gladly take the chance to prove him and his foresight wrong tonight. To her, he would never be anything other than another obstinate, rancorous Titan who had turned on the gods.
Her decision made, Melinoë breaks into the fastest walk she can tolerate to catch up to him. She represses annoyance at seeing Prometheus’ shoulders shake almost imperceptibly as he chuckles. Her strength depleted, she no longer has the energy to conceal her limp, though she still grits her teeth to keep pace with his long strides. Melinoë again feels a pang of regret at not having taken Descura; she would have made for a halfway decent crutch. They make their way into the antechamber before the summit.
To her surprise, Prometheus pauses to allow her to drink from the fountain. She seizes the opportunity and drinks deeply, feeling her aches fade enough that she can walk without too much difficulty. When Melinoë has had her fill, he continues to the launchpad and squats down next to it. In one smooth motion, he rips the plate off and sets it aside. Spend a lot of time besieging Olympus and one will find secret exits and passageways, Melinoë figures. He starts to climb down without checking to see if she is still following. Melinoë peers down after him, and sees a short drop leading to a tunnel.
Grateful to the fountain for partially restoring her health, Melinoë drops down and lands on the balls of her feet. The chill immediately hits her; the tunnel is short and leads directly outside. They descend the mountain together in silence, Prometheus leading and Melinoë following, continuing until icy rocks and gravel give way to forests finely coated in snow. Starlight shines in the absence of the moon, sufficient light provided through its reflection on the snow.
Melinoë is glad to be behind Prometheus, not wanting to let him out of her sight. She avoids his footsteps, oft filled with ichor as they are. Her fiery feet leave behind small pools of water that quickly refreeze. She allows herself a small smirk at seeing him develop a limp, likely no longer able to conceal it. A surge of pride wells within her; she is becoming quite adept at slaying Titans.
Prometheus’ wayfinding is confident, sure, as if he is following steps to a plan in his head as he weaves them through the trees. Melinoë wonders how often he makes decisions for himself versus merely following what his premonitions dictate. She spares a glance upwards and sees Aetos flying overhead, ever loyal to his former prisoner.
“Do you go anywhere without that bird?” Melinoë asks, breaking the silence.
“His name is Aetos. Why do you ask questions that you already know the answer to?”
She refuses to provide a reply, wanting him to have the frustration of never knowing what her answer would have been. They must be close to the hot spring now; hints of brimstone drift on the wind.
At last, the ground gives way to one large hot spring split into two pools. The jade-green pools are divided by a small waterfall, one pool flowing gently into the other. Based on the amount of steam and bubbling at the far side of the upper pool, it must be the source of the heated water from deep underground. The lower pool eventually narrows into a small stream. Frinos, delighted, immediately hops into the tepid water by the stream.
Two pools, one for each of them. Melinoë leaves Prometheus behind and makes her way to the hottest part of the upper pool to claim it, where the steam is so thick it almost creates a fog hanging over the water.
She kneels in the soft grass by the pool’s edge to gather some vibrant moss and stows it in her purse. The brimstone’s influence would surely lend itself to a potent draught.
She unclasps her gorget and belt, which allows her saffron dress to slip off easily. Every part of Melinoë’s appearance speaks to her identity—her birthright and allegiances to the Unseen. From her laurels, silver ornaments, and braided tie around her leg, one could have no doubts about whom she allied herself with.
The rest of her silver now removed, her hands hesitate on her laurels. To remove them would sever her from a core part of her identity and leave her wholly exposed. The puerile urge to cling to something familiar in an unfamiliar situation claws at her.
Melinoë comes to the conclusion that she is being foolish; she is the princess of the Underworld, with or without her laurels. Laurels off and in her hands, the persistent feeling of homesickness acutely strikes her heart. Melinoë barely knows what the House of Hades is supposed to look like, having only seen it in person after Chronos had defaced it with all that gold. She sets them atop her pile of silver and neatly folded clothes. Lim and Oros rest next to them, safely within arm’s reach.
She sinks into the water, not bothering to hide her sigh of relief as the heat envelops her. The water is searing, doubtless it would scald delicate mortal flesh. Cupping her hands, Melinoë splashes water onto her face to wash away the grime and blood. She lowers herself until the tips of her hair graze the water’s surface. In this blissful moment, she finds she could not care less about who brought her here. As long as he stays far away in his own pool.
It is silent, the snow insulating almost all sound. Except for Frinos occasionally croaking, and Aetos somewhere in the trees above letting out shrill warbles here and there. With the thick steam obscuring her vision beyond the pool, Melinoë feels like her world has shrunk to just the present moment.
Her meditative silence is disrupted by a splashing noise as Prometheus slips into her pool and briefly dips under the surface. He has barely risen from the water before Melinoë has Lim in hand and at his throat. She places her free hand on Prometheus’ shoulder and firmly pushes him down onto his knees so that she maintains a slight height advantage. It takes nearly all her willpower to resist retracting her hand—his skin is so hot it almost burns her.
His eyes widen and his mouth opens ever so slightly, before his features resume their regular sharpness. Melinoë almost doesn’t recognize the expression on him when all she has previously seen is minor variations of animosity and smug confidence.
Fear.
Neither of them say a word. Melinoë believes her dagger speaks to her intent clearly enough.
“I cannot answer your question unless you ask it aloud.” His throat bobs as he speaks, grazing Lim’s edge.
“What is your plan, Prometheus? To lure me here and finish what you failed at earlier?”
“The outcomes that one tries hardest to avoid are often the ones most inevitable, Agent of Change.” His tone is infuriatingly calm.
Sick of him always speaking in riddles, she lightly presses the dagger’s edge down and slowly drags it across the side of his neck. A fine line of ichor wells in its wake. Melinoë feels, more than hears, his sharp intake of breath.
“If I wished for you to return to shadow, I would have done so earlier. You are a formidable enemy, but for the rest of the night I merely wish to speak.” He raises both hands out of the water, palms open to her. Her eyes flick to the scar that encircles his left wrist, usually hidden by a glove. “I am unarmed, am I not?”
It makes little difference; the danger lies in his rhetoric, not in any weapon he may wield.
That flash of fear in his eyes still remains in her mind. Something is different tonight. Against her gut instincts, he seems genuine. And she would not let a chance to prove him wrong slip away from her.
Dropping Lim from his throat, Melinoë retreats until her back hits the mossy edge of the pool. As a show of good will, she returns Lim to Oros. The large rocks that sit on the bottom along the pool’s edge make for decent seating. She sits on one that keeps the waterline at her shoulders, then brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them.
Prometheus sits as well, now that a tentative truce has been formed. He rests against the opposite edge of the pool, though they are still close enough that the steam does unfortunately little to obscure him. His gaze makes her feel like she is pinned down in place, intense and scrutinizing as it is. She resists the impulse to squirm under it.
Melinoë had not realized how long his hair actually is, now nearly brushing his shoulders in loose waves. Saturated with water, it hangs in front of his face until he sweeps it back with one hand. He is bare like her, save for his earrings. She supposes he is pleased that his scars are on full display with no bindings to cover them, proof of his grudge against Olympus.
The scar reaching across his chest is marked with a deep shade of pink from where her blades found their target. She wonders if he refuses to let his wounds completely heal or if he is unable to after aeons of having his liver shorn from him. If it’s the latter, it is what he deserves for knowingly committing theft against the gods.
She continues staring Prometheus down. It is him who intruded and wanted to converse, so let him initiate.
“You bleed red, like a mortal,” he observes, gesturing to a cut above her brow where a harpy’s talons had slashed at her.
Her wounds are stitching themselves closed, the flow of her crimson blood having since slowed to a halt. She cannot help but compare it to the golden ichor trickling down his neck and pooling in the hollow of his clavicle.
“I have some mortal heritage through my mother’s side. I do not let it limit me or my proficiency in my craft.”
He tilts his head to one side. “I did not mean it as an insult.” After a pause, he continues, “You know the cause I fight for, Agent of Change. Whose side I am on.”
Melinoë questions Prometheus’ renowned intelligence whenever she is reminded that he had willingly subjected himself to such torment for some pitiful mortals shivering in the dark. They die quickly, and easily, and no amount of stolen fire would change that.
“You were somehow freed from your due punishment, allied with a fellow traitor, and now you spend all your free time making unprovable claims to let everyone else know you think you’re wiser than them. And you send your blasted eagle after me night after night!”
“Let us prove my claim about tonight. You are here of your own volition; you could leave at any moment and I would not stop you. I’ve seen how you hang on my every word. Noticed how frequently you choose to ascend to the mountaintop rather than descend to your ancestral home. I wonder, since you’ll never tell me, do my words often linger in your mind? Have you started to doubt your task and whom it will restore to power?”
Prometheus’ words would always attempt to get under her skin and contaminate her with his poison. Melinoë had been trained her entire life for the task; she would not, could not, allow one traitorous Titan to change her. The order to the world must be restored, with her family ruling the Underworld and the Olympians ruling from the Palace of Zeus. Mortals have their place, dutifully serving and devoting themselves to their betters until they are brought to her family’s domain. A so-called Golden Age where mortals answered only to themselves would surely end quickly, and with the world in disarray.
“Complacency and compliance are the death of change. Your future will be decided for you if you choose to not seize it for yourself.”
Melinoë glares at him, not wanting to give him anything that could be interpreted as confirming his words nor give him the satisfaction of calling her out on a lie. The task calls for her complete and utter dedication, no doubts should be entertained lest she ruin everything the Unseen have been working towards. What would Prometheus have her do, defy all of her loyalties and attack her own relatives? His loyalties change at whim, first having sided with the Olympians and then leading the siege on their mountain. He has proven to be loyal to no one but himself.
Mercifully, Prometheus changes the subject. “Are you aware of how that mad fool Dionysus was brought into this world?”
“I know that my lord uncle has sometimes… strayed from Lady Hera and the vows he made to her.” Only two gods upon Olympus belonged to Hera. While Melinoë may privately disagree with some of Zeus’ actions, she could not refute his Fates-ordained rule.
“Her name was Semele and she was a princess of Thebes. Zeus had found a new mortal woman to adore him and worship the ground he walked on. When he deigned to visit, he believed himself in love with her. He swore upon the Styx to grant her every request, not realizing that her life was in his hands. Such a plaything she was to him. When Hera discovered evidence of their coupling, her abdomen swollen, she appeared to Semele in disguise as an old crone. Hera wove doubts of Zeus’ devotion into Semele, saying that if he truly loved her, he would reveal himself to her in his full glory. Of course, we dim our divine nature when appearing to mortals to protect them.
“The next time Zeus came to her, she claimed that if he loved her as he said he did, he would hide nothing from her. As he had made a binding oath to grant her every wish, by Hera’s will he reduced her to nothing but a pile of ash. With a new child, Dionysus, in his arms, he forgot Semele’s name by the next day.”
“Mortals have short lives often filled with nothing but pain. What is one mortal woman’s life cut short in the grand weavings of the Fates? Would you have me weeping over every ailment and accident that harms their weak flesh?” As the words leave her lips, images of a shy smile and a tunic stained with oil enter her thoughts unbidden. Mechanical wings to replace the wax ones that cut his life thread before he could fully reach adulthood.
Prometheus’ jaw tightens. He sweeps back a few locks of errant hair from his face; Melinoë sees why he ties it back with bindings now. “I see you cannot find it within yourself to care about a mortal whom you do not personally know. The weaver, Arachne, who resides in Erebus, then. What do you make of her fate?
“Arachne knew the consequences of a god’s wrath and accepted the challenge regardless,” Melinoë parries. “While she was Lady Athena’s better at weaving, she needed to learn a lesson about hubris.”
“Does she still need to learn her lesson? Has she not suffered in that form for long enough? Athena’s pride prevented her from accepting that one mortal girl excelled in an area she claims dominion over.”
“I’m sure Arachne would be delighted to hear you championing her cause,” she scoffs. “Foolish mortals cannot be led to believe that they can surpass the gods.” A ghost of Arachne’s silk caresses her skin, her weavings finer than anything Melinoë has ever worn.
“There is one half-mortal, a son of Alcmene, who was close to that while he lived and breathed. You have crossed paths with Heracles.”
Her cousin, who acts closer to a mindless beast than a man in battle as he revels in bloodshed. The Glory of Hera has few words for her, and those he does share are often laden with threats. “I’ve run into him. I’m never quite sure where his club will land when we vanquish foes together. It keeps things interesting,” she answers flatly.
“Divine heritage has cursed him since birth. Even in death he could not even find peace, as the Olympians beckoned him from Elysium when my master struck. Hera controls him by assigning endless and menial labours, never allowing him a moment’s rest.”
“It is an honour to labour for the gods. Heracles’ deeds will be forever remembered, which is far more than most mortals could hope to achieve.”
A faint memory tugs at Melinoë, of Odysseus telling the tale of his venture to the Underworld while he lived. He recalled speaking to the shade of his former comrade, a swift-footed hero who shared his regrets in life: that he wished he had chosen to live a long quiet life alongside his lover instead of eternal glory earned through an early pyre.
“Then why does he not carry himself with the honour of an exalted hero? For what reason could he have thrown himself into vicious despair? Heracles isn’t his birth name, you know—it was assigned to him in an ultimately futile attempt to placate Hera’s wrath.”
The heat of the spring is starting to become stifling. By the sheen of sweat forming on Prometheus’ brow and chest, Melinoë knows she isn’t alone. Gloating, she finds the stubborn urge to continue arguing supersedes the need to move to a cooler part of the pool.
“Am I to personally answer for every mortal’s suffering? I was raised to complete one task, which I would be closer to achieving if you didn’t plant yourself in my blasted path every night.” The task and Melinoë are one and the same. Hecate had never disguised her motivations for what purposes she had raised Melinoë. She had carried Melinoë away to safety in shadows out of duty to her parents, and taught her how to slay Titans out of vengeance.
“You misunderstand me, willfully. You cannot save every mortal. I ask that you consider the unnecessary harm the Olympians have wrought upon them, and the consequences of preserving their rule.”
He can’t know that she has considered it, but only in moments of weakness. She recalls seeing the routine frustration on Echo’s face at not having the right words to express herself. Whenever she visits, Melinoë carefully chooses her words in an attempt to predict which words Echo will want.
She opts to ignore his question. “There’s something you’re not telling me about Heracles. How do you know him this well when he shuns everyone? And how did you know I've met him?”
“You’ll find out in due time. When the Fear in the air grows thick enough,” Prometheus says impassively. Another one of his vague promises about the future.
Melinoë narrows her eyes at him. From past experience, she knows he will refuse to elaborate on his foresight so she doesn’t bother pressing him on it.
“Does it not wound your pride that the Olympians see you chthonic gods as lesser? Do you genuinely believe that they would have come to your aid had Chronos not sent me to attack their precious mountain?”
“Unlike you, I do not waste my time ruminating on outcomes that did not and will not come to pass.” The Olympians had always treated her cordially. Except when they simultaneously offered their boons, forcing her to choose and subsequently endure the other’s wrath.
Melinoë continues, “You’ve proven that my relatives on Mount Olympus have their flaws, which I already knew. But at the end of the day, they do care for one another.”
“Do they now? Zeus had no qualms about sentencing me, his cousin, to an eternity of suffering if it meant enforcing his will.”
“You’re a Titan, it’s different.”
“God or Titan, we are deathless both.”
The pool has become sweltering, oppressive in its intensity. The earthy smell of brimstone had been initially pleasant, but now it verges on suffocating. Melinoë’s hair sticks to her sweaty face, the sensation maddening. She sweeps it behind an ear and feels heat radiating from her cheeks as she does so. Melinoë feels no small amount of satisfaction at Prometheus lifting his arms from the water to rest his elbows up on the edges of the pool. He, too, is not immune.
She mirrors him to seek some relief in the cold night air.
“Why do you bother with all this, Prometheus?” Melinoë asks while she waves her hand between them. “If you already know the outcomes of everything I say and do?”
“Perhaps I wish to experience my visions rather than merely watch them,” he answers, his bright eyes never leaving hers.
The stars above are becoming dim as the night sky lightens from obsidian to a deep blue. Soon, Eos would set out in her chariot followed by Helios in his.
“Zeus cares for none other than himself, a slave to his own impulses and thoughtless desires. He clings to power by repeatedly imposing his will unto others, including his own brothers. Do you know how Hades and Persephone were wed?”
Melinoë furrows her brow, unable to decipher what he may be trying to get at. She relays what has been passed to her by Hecate and the other members of the Unseen. That her parents met and fell in love immediately. Persephone eloped to the Underworld with Hades, and they kept their marriage a secret until her brother reached out to the Olympians seeking to reconnect their families.
“Not quite,” Prometheus replies. “A clever bit of fiction to conceal the truth in order to avert a war between Olympus and the Underworld.”
“Explain yourself.” Her voice is firm, commanding, though she knows he requires no encouragement to continue speaking.
“Your impetuous lord uncle knew Hades was struggling to adjust to his assigned realm. He had also noticed the way he looked at Persephone, and that she grew weary of the strict decorum Olympus prides itself on. Believing he knew what was best for them, the short-sighted fool convinced Persephone to leave with him in secret on his chariot. They descended to the surface, where the ground opened and swiftly closed behind them. Zeus presented her to Hades as a gift, a consolation prize of sorts for inheriting the least ostentatious realm. Grief-stricken Demeter believed all manner of terrible things had befallen her only daughter, and to this day Zeus has never told her the truth.”
“You’re lying.” The simmering heat of the spring and growing anger make Melinoë feel like she is consumed by flames from the inside out. Burning alive, her head feels clouded and her coherent thoughts are lost in a haze. She curls her hands into fists to hide that they are trembling.
“I have no need to lie when Zeus has shown who he is time and time again. Your grandmother’s anguish at losing her only daughter was so immense that she cursed the mortal lands with an endless winter that ceased only when Persephone returned to Olympus.” Softly, he adds, “You don’t know what it’s like to fear the worst for those you feel responsible for.”
There is nothing she can say to refute Prometheus. No way Melinoë could have known this—none in the Crossroads would have known—and it is fuel to her blazing fire that he is the one to gift this knowledge to her. As if he knows her own family better than her. All she has of them is a half-complete portrait and what others have shared with her. Not a single memory she can lay claim to. Melinoë’s eyes sting, but she holds onto her anger to will the unshed tears away. Her heartache is reborn for having been denied her family and upbringing in the House, grief and rage uniting to create something that consumes her entirely.
If she had returned to shadow earlier, by Prometheus’ hand or Typhon’s spawn, none of this would have happened.
None of this would have happened.
Melinoë’s stomach drops as she realizes she has fallen into his trap. Recognized his scheme too late, and played right into it. It couldn’t have been just luck that she prevailed against him; his missteps during their clash had been intentional to allow her to win. The fear in his eyes when she had held Lim close was genuine, fear that this opportunity would slip past him and never arise again.
From the cacophony of her mind, a tempting image appears: of reaching for her blades to slit his throat and drain him of all his ichor. But nothing could erase the knowledge he had given her tonight. She thinks of never returning to the surface again to avoid seeing him. Leave Typhon and his relentless onslaught to the Olympians and stop doing their dirty work for them.
Would the Olympians express any gratitude when she finally managed to vanquish Typhon for them? Or would they dismiss her capability and chalk her victory up to a fluke? She has endured defeat many times but with each night she is getting closer and closer to the Palace of Zeus.
Her anger at herself, her place in this war-torn world, and how Prometheus is unravelling her previously comprehensible beliefs boils over. It hones itself into a sharp point, poised to strike its victim in their soft underbelly.
“If you care for mortals so much, then why haven’t you done anything to protect them?” she seethes, lips curling in a snarl. The words have barely escaped Melinoë before she realizes how horribly wrong she is.
Prometheus says nothing, speechless for once. His eyes finally drop from hers; their burning intensity fades, leaving them vacant as if he is lost in memories.
“All I could do was watch.” His voice cracks, usual self-assurance absent. “Watch my clever creations succumb to the Olympians’ cruel whims for aeons. I tried to prepare them as best as I could, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could have ever been enough.”
Never having witnessed Prometheus’ torment firsthand, Melinoë has only known him as he is now: an angry and violent being. Moros had mentioned that his time in captivity changed him, that he had not been the violent sort prior. She wonders what he would have looked like without the permanent grimace, vivid scars, and blackened hand. Prometheus was made to be like this. The downfall of Olympus, created by Zeus’ own hands.
“But I know that no chains shall ever bind me again. So let Zeus hurl his lightning bolts and convulse the air with thunder and howling winds. Let him do all that, for he cannot break me. I shall fight for mortals, bleed for them, and fall by your hand for as long as it takes to bring forth the Golden Age that I owe to them.”
That strategy rings familiar to Melinoë, of replacing fear and insecurity with the fierce determination required to will her desired outcomes into existence. Her anger is abating, reduced to glowing embers now that it has burned through its fuel. Melinoë’s head swims.
Her spectral arm and his blackened one form a mirror image of each other. Proof of the lengths they are both willing to go in order to altruistically help others.
Prometheus leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, the sudden movement causing the fresh, fragile scar tissue on his abdomen to tear like wet parchment and tendrils of gold to spread into the water. The bindings he always wears must provide some stabilization to the wound. His eyes become vacant again, as if he is looking past Melinoë. While her wounds have completed healing, he is bleeding anew, exacerbating his previous loss of ichor.
He makes to stand up, likely to retrieve his bindings, but as he does, his eyes roll backwards into his head and he collapses face-first into the water.
Melinoë lunges, grabbing Prometheus’ wrist and pulling to turn him onto his back. Immortal or not, a lungful of water would always be a distressing sensation. Pulling him out of the water isn’t an option as he’s far too heavy. She attempts to reach an arm across his chest to hold him up, but his frame is too broad for her to get a sturdy grip on his back. Melinoë settles for standing at his head to support it between her forearms. His skin feels warm, almost pleasantly so.
Eos has begun her journey, rosy fingers stretching across the sky. Her warm light makes the ichor-stained water look like it is shimmering, but Melinoë finds she cannot tear her eyes away from Prometheus.
The shallow rise and fall of his chest is strangely a reassuring sight. From this odd, upside down angle, she takes the opportunity to study Prometheus’ face. He looks younger without rancor marring his features. His brow is smooth, free from its perpetual furrow. As if her hand belongs to someone else, she traces a finger down the straight bridge of his nose and the word handsome comes to her unbidden.
His eyes slowly flutter open; this close Melinoë can see faint outlines of pupils in them. She curls her fingers along the underside of his jaw and tilts his head up towards her.
“Agent of Change,” Prometheus breathes, a note of admiration in his voice.
“Melinoë,” she says, stroking a lock of hair out of his eyes. “My name is Melinoë.”