Chapter Text
Menalippe has been many things in her life; prophet, poet, lieutenant, lover. General. She hates the last title more than any other she has carried.
She is almost glad that Antiope’s tiara left the island with Diana. Menalippe wonders if she would have been expected to wear it along with her new title. She thinks that wearing it would have taken more strength than she has left in her.
She still has not cleaned up their shared room, and each time she walks in, Antiope’s carefully polished armor, neatly folded tunics, and carefully folded battle plans, nearly breaks her heart. She throws a blanket over the armor, numbs herself to the clothing, and carefully files away the papers. Perhaps she should read them, make sure to continue to train the diminished army as Antiope planned to. She tells herself that she’ll read them tomorrow, always tomorrow. She cannot even pick up a single paper without her hands shaking. Menalippe can almost hear Antiope's voice as she skims the carefully penned notes.
Menalippe goes down to the ocean more than she’d care to admit. The blood from the battle no longer stains the beach, but she is haunted by the limp bodies of her sisters with every step. The ocean has meant many things for her over the course of her life. She remembers swimming up from its depths, one among hundreds of her sisters. Her first prophecy, spoken mere moments after her birth. It was a message from the gods, spoken from her lips, but not with her own words. She remembers it like flashes of a dream. Phillipus tells her that she foretold Hippolya’s rule as Queen, that she spoke with the authority of Zeus himself. Menalippe only remembers the taste of ozone in her mouth and the sensation of more power than she could comprehend, like lightning bolts had been sewn into her skin.
The gods died, and Menalippe felt like she had lost a part of herself. She had spoken for every one of them, felt their power, their desires, and while Menalippe had not claimed to understand the gods in their entirety, she had known them. She mourned with her writings, silently and privately, using words written in the same poetic style her prophecies had once been spoken with. She would sit by the ocean, sea breeze rustling her hair, and write until she felt her hand might give out. None among the Amazons would ever understand what she had lost, and she did not know if she even understood exactly what she was mourning. So she wrote it down in tangled and confusing prose, and threw her best writings into the ocean to be seen by only herself and whatever lived in the water’s depths.
Menalippe had never quite understood her talent for warfare. Certainly it did not mesh with her other gifts. But when Antiope called for soldiers, she answered. Menalippe had only interacted with the woman a handful of times, mostly after the rebellion. Antiope had an air of command around her that Menalippe thought could make even the gods fall in step behind her. It inspired Menalippe, and drove her to perform better than even she thought she was capable of.
“Congratulations Lieutenant.” Antiope extended a hand to her, pulling Menalippe up from her hunched position. “That was quite the fight.”
Antiope added a wicked grin to the last part, and Menalippe felt her knees go weak. She told herself it was only because of the recent sparring match. Artemis could pack a powerful punch after all.
Menalippe also told herself that she only went on early morning beach runs with Antiope so the two could work better together as general and lieutenant. The more they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, the better their synergy would be when working with the army. These were just the facts.
Said facts did not stop her from kissing the general. There was the sunset, the gentle crashing of the waves, the leftover adrenaline from the run, and the general. Antiope's eyes seemed to hold the entire ocean within them.
Now she sees only Antiope’s sightless gaze when she walks near the ocean. She wades into the water aimlessly, half searching for answers, half wondering if a strong undertow might grab her and take her away to her beloved. The feeling of the waves lapping against her waist is calming, but these dark thoughts ruin the moment. Panic seizes her heart as she realizes that she is wading further in, almost subconsciously, and she stumbles out of the water. She sits roughly on the sand, burying her head in her arms. Antiope would not have wanted Menalippe to throw herself to the waves or mourn fruitlessly on the beach. Antiope is dead. She can do nothing to change that.
Menalippe wonders if Antiope knew that she would have died in her place. She wonders if she is dying right now. It feels like she is.
There are days when commanding the army feels as easy as breathing. Antiope used to say that Menalippe was one of the best warriors the Amazons had to offer. She hadn’t been wrong, not in the slightest, but Menalippe still feels weak. She cannot stop crying at night as she sleeps in a bed far too big for just her. She still has not yet moved the blankets off the armor. The armor. It would probably dusty by now. Antiope would have never let the armor grow so dirty. Menalippe pushes such thoughts away, pretends the room was always just hers alone and that the piles of blankets and musty clothes shoved behind furniture were always there. She will clean the room tomorrow. She will read the battle plans tomorrow.
There are days when commanding the army feels as if each order tears her heart in two. Her voice breaks when she gives orders, when she hears the soldiers say; “Yes, General.” She sees the grief in their eyes as well, and it breaks her more. She can never be Antiope, never replace her, yet this is what she is meant to do.
Menalippe lets Artemis take command on these days, when her heart can take no more. The older warrior says nothing each time, simply touches Menalippe’s shoulder and looks into her eyes, saying more in her silence than Menalippe can comprehend.
It is on these days that she takes her sword and heads down to the beach. The sand is hard-packed and smooth in some areas, where the tide touches it at its highest point. Menalippe kicks off her shoes and takes a warriors stance, then lets her sword fly through the air as though facing an invisible enemy. She thinks of a thousand ways to cut down this make-believe foe, slashing her sword as though cutting off arms, shattering bones, and gashing unhealable wounds in chests. She does this until her arms feel like lead, until her hand releases her sword from sheer exhaustion, and it is then that she lets herself drop to the sand and cry.
It feels as though her grief could never end. But slowly, slowly she pushes her way past it. There are still days when the title “General” cuts into her heart like a knife, where she nearly runs to the beach to fight her make-believe enemies. There are also days when she makes it through whole training sessions without once comparing herself to Antiope or wondering what the former general would have done instead of her. The army trusts her, and she knows that in her core. She must learn to trust herself.
It is many weeks before Menalippe pulls the blanket off of the long hidden armor. Antiope used to meticulously clean it and put it away so that pieces could be pulled off their stands in mere seconds, if needed. Now, a thin layer of dust has settled over the once bright metal. Menalippe can only stare at the armor, feeling as though she is seeing some sort of desecrated ghost. Her entire being feels numb, and she is unsure if she can bring herself to move.
Footsteps behind her startle her, and centuries of combat training kick in, despite her apathy. She whirls around, ready to kick, punch, stab, and feel anything except this awful numbness.
Instead, Menalippe finds herself looking into the eyes of the Queen.
“It almost feels like she will walk into this room in a few minutes and scold us for not properly cleaning it.” Hippolyta’s voice is hoarse, and her eyes are on the armor as well. Menalippe can only nod numbly. Hippolyta steps closer to the armor, reaches her hand out as though to wipe the dust from the breastplate, then hesitates and drops it back to her side. She turns back to Menalippe. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Menalippe feels tears coming again, and inwardly curses herself. It seems she cannot even keep her emotions in check in front of the queen. “Thank you,” she replies.
She feels some pride in the fact that she could say at least two words coherently before she started crying again.
The two women work together to clear the armor away. Some pieces are put into storage, having been built only to fit Antiope, who was shorter than the average Amazon. Other pieces are to be sent to the armory. Menalippe thinks Antiope would have liked the idea of her armor protecting her soldiers, almost as though she was protecting her soldiers even after death.
She pretends not to notice the Queen’s tears.
Hippolyta hovers at the doorway when the task is done. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” She bows her head. “I miss her as well.”
Hippolyta sweeps out the door as quietly as she came and Menalippe realizes, with a start, that Hippolyta had not been wearing her crown.
Time passes, and it still hurts to think of Antiope, but Menalippe does not dwell on her pain as much. She has stopped bringing her sword to the beach on her worst days. Instead, she wields a pen and paper, writing down her turmoil until her heart and hand can take no more. Then, carefully, carefully, she folds the paper into a neat square and throws it into the sea.
Ease with her title comes with time as well. She corrects a soldier’s form, hears the standard “Yes, General.” She moves on to the next training group without a second thought. It is not until later, stripping off her armor for the day, that Menalippe realizes how many times that simple phrase had been said to her. She hadn’t blinked once.
The next time she writes, it is to Antiope herself. Menalippe asks whether she is proud, whether she thinks Menalippe is living up to her standards as a general. Menalippe tells Antiope that she loves her, and will never forget. She tells Antiope that she is learning to live again. She folds up the paper as small as she can make it, and throws it as far as she can into the ocean. She lets go.
Menalippe is walking among soldiers on the training grounds and suddenly she feels a shadow pass over her, feels her skin go cold and her knees buckle. She can hear the Amazons yelling in concern, when her vision goes black.
She comes to with Phillipus holding her. “What… Happened?”
Her voice is hoarse and she feels groggy. Phillipus is wearing an expression somewhere between shock, awe, and fear, but before she can answer, it all comes rushing back to Menalippe.
The taste of cold metal. A cold chill creeping down her spine. Shadows dancing in front of her unseeing eyes. Hades.
Menalippe’s eyes go wide at the realization. “But the gods are dead!”
“Well something spoke through you.” Phillipus’ voice is shaky. “I believe you said;
Winds of change blow down old temples,
To be built anew by bloodied hands,
Rise by the awakened storm,
And let the dead speak."
Menalippe is silent for a long time. The gods are dead. She has not been their voice in millennia. Yet she has spoken for them. “Get the Queen.”
There used to be formalities for spoken prophecy, rituals to make sure no information was lost. They have been long forgotten, rendered obsolete with the death of the gods. The only rituals followed now, are the hastily scribbled recordings of the prophecy and the gathering of the council. The atmosphere is tense, uncertain. The gods are dead. So why do they still speak?
Hippolyta wields an air of command about her like a weapon, forcing order. “Menalippe. You are certain that it was Hades who spoke through you?”
Menalippe considers her words carefully. “Each god felt different when they spoke through me. I’d recognize their signatures anywhere. It was Hades that spoke through me, or something that was able to emulate his power perfectly.”
The Gods have never died before. Menalippe supposes it is possible that mortals would never be able to comprehend the life cycles of immortal beings. There is no instruction manual for what to do when a pantheon collapses.
Hippolyta is silent for a long time, tension rolling off of her in waves. “The only god we know to be alive is Ares. Assuming Diana did not kill him. Is it possible that he could emulate Hades’ signature? We know he absorbed many of the other gods’ powers after their death and was able to wield them.”
Menalippe considers this carefully. Ares had only spoken through her once in all her years as a prophet. His signature was the iron taste of blood and rage coursing through her veins for hours after she had spoken for him. She is sure she felt the voice of Hades. However, Hades is dead, and Ares may live. “It is possible.”
Hippolyta pales, and Menalippe suddenly realizes what this would mean. It would mean Diana had failed in her mission, and the princess was likely dead. To her credit, Hippolyta retains her composure long enough to give orders to the gathered Amazons. “Double the patrols throughout the day. Prepare the island for war. If Ares still lives, he may yet find us.”
Menalippe dutifully follows the queen’s commands. Patrols around the island are doubled, and she is sure to put herself into the lineup. Antiope never tried to elevate herself from the common soldier, so Menalippe will do no different. She fights alongside her sisters, not just her soldiers.
The patrols are uneventful, but no Amazon dares to let their guard down. Ares is their sworn enemy, and only a god can kill a god. If he still lives, Menalippe is unsure of how the Amazons can guarantee his death. They have been granted immortality, but they are mortals still. They cannot kill a god.
It is with these unsettling thoughts that Menalippe finds herself marching along the beach, guarding Themyscira’s shores. Penthesilea and Egeria follow closely behind her. Menalippe knows the island and its inhabitants like she knows the back of her own hand. When she sees the unfamiliar form hunched on the side on the beach, she freezes and drops into a fighting stance.
“Egeria.” Her voice is soft, but firm. “Get back to the village and tell them we have an intruder on the island.”
The warrior nods and takes off in sprint. Penthesilea raises her weapon and looks to Menalippe for further orders.
“Approach cautiously, but weapons at the ready. Do not engage the unknown until I give the command.” The figure seems to be coughing up seawater and does not look hostile, but Menalippe knows better than to underestimate an opponent.
The figure turns and for the first time Menalippe sees their face. Sees her face.
Her heart shatters.
It’s a trick. It has to be.
She died on this very beach. Menalippe remembers watching as the woman she loved slipped away from the waking world.
She walks shakily towards the figure, remembering to hold on to her sword. This could be a trick. It’s probably a trick. A cruel, cruel, trick.
The figure blinks once as Menalippe approaches, as though surprised. The figure’s eyes drop to Menalippe’s sword, then flicker back up to her face with a wry smile. “As trusting as always, Mena. I taught you well, then.”
The voice is raspy, but oh so familiar. Menalippe’s sword slips from her limp hands. There was only one person who called her Mena.
She has not cried for Antiope in so long, but now there are tears running down her face. Menalippe runs to her, throws herself on the sand next to her and her arms around Antiope’s shoulders. Antiope nearly falls over at the force of the embrace and Menalippe hurriedly steadies the other woman. In the corner of her eye, she can see what appears to be half the Amazonian army approaching them.
“Antiope!” Hippolyta nearly vaults off her horse, sprints to them, then halts shortly before reaching them. She turns to Menalippe, hope and wariness apparent in her eyes. “Is this real?”
Menalippe can only nod, and Hippolyta runs to her sister. The Amazonian army stands on ceremony behind them, but Menalippe can feel the elation running through them. A lost sister has been returned home.
Much later, she sits in Epoine’s infirmary as Antiope rests on a nearby cot. Menalippe holds her hand gently, childishly afraid that if she lets go, Antiope will vanish once more. She knows that, in the council room, Hippolyta and the senators are discussing what this miracle means. Between her prophecy and Antiope’s rebirth, it is certainly not a typical year for Themyscira. Something is coming.
But for now, Antiope is gazing up at her like she has hung the stars in the sky. Menalippe squeezes the warrior’s hand tighter. For now, she has everything she wants.