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She almost doesn’t make it back.
It was all she could do to spit her return incantation out the moment Chronos, grandfather, releases her from his sands. She had doubled over, knees scraping against the cold stone floors of the House of Hades— her home, she thinks, sparks of fury settling deep within her belly— when he had approached, his gargantuan scythe at the ready. Melinoë had looked up at him for a moment, perhaps a fleeting one, perhaps eons and eons of moments, and she saw might in his wiry frame. Pure, grandiose might emanated off of his golden regalia, his deep skin, his height, and the way he so easily threw her around the halls of the House. Through her dizziness, through the sand in her eyes and in her mouth, she felt small in his presence; it’s a feeling Melinoë thinks she’s never truly felt before. Even her tastes of Olympus, of Zeus himself, couldn’t compare. She snapped herself out of her trance when the scythe came slicing down, a move meant to throw her in whatever hold he now holds her brother, her poor mother in. Melinoë could feel sharp, stinging pain through her real arm as her magick took hold, and now, in her tent, she winces as hot, red ichor runs down her arm and coats her elbow.
“Damn it all,” Melinoë mutters to herself, and when a chilling laugh follows her words she freezes.
He’s here? But how? Melinoë thinks to herself, but she snaps out of it when she watches the way her blood runs down her arm in real-time, and she decides that she has too much faith in the magick, too much faith in Hecate herself to doubt their protection for a moment further. She inhales sharply and spins around to search for the source of the noise.
“Foolish girl.” The shade says menacingly before shrinking, and Dora’s leaning against the wall of the tent nonchalantly. “You’re getting blood on your summoning circle. Any more of that and you’re gonna trigger some cloning spell, and believe me, one of you is more than enough around here.”
Melinoë looks down at her circle, and true enough, she’s dripping blood over it. It won’t do any harm— there can be no magick without intention, Melinoë, she recalls Hecate telling her as a girl— but she gets down to wipe at the stains anyway. Her knees smart and sting as she kneels, drawing another curse from her as she works quickly.
“Rough night, huh? Or day?” Dora says, and Melinoë nods as she stands.
“I’ll get him.” Melinoë grits out. “On my honor as Hades’ begotten, I will restore order to his House.”
“Oaths and order.” Dora muses. “If I had an obol for every time I’ve heard about those.”
Melinoë doesn’t answer, but the small smile her words bring to her is answer enough, and Dora straightens up with a smile of her own.
“I’ll leave you to it, Mel,” Dora says, and she’s gone as soon as she says the words.
Alone, Melinoë sighs shakily, and her feet move as though they have a mind of their own, to the unfinished painting. To the root of her struggle. To the reason she’s even here. Her father looks sturdy, unbreakable, it would be impossible to connect him to the god in chains in Tartarus were it not for the look in his scarlet eyes as Hades gazes down at the infant Melinoë. He looks at her with that same softness even now, and she gets the same tightness in her chest that she always does when she thinks about that for too long. Her mother is radiant, as though Apollo himself had imparted his sunlight on her. Her golden hair is like Melinoë’s, and it’s almost as though Persephone was proud that her daughter received much of her likeness. At least, that’s how Melinoë reads it. She wonders if she carries that same warmth, somewhere deep inside her.
Would it have defined her, had Time not stolen Mother away?
She frowns before her eyes settle on Zagreus. Zagreus. Just his name is enough to amplify the hollow feeling inside her. Her brother’s expression is one of pure delight, and perhaps the smallest amount of mischief as his hands hover just below her head. She’s heard tales from Artemis of his courage. His hard-headedness, more like, Artemis would say, not even the worst of the hells could keep him down. It comes through in the piece, even through his delight, through the light he inherited from their mother, she sees the way his father’s strength settles in his stance, downplayed but oh-so-obvious after all this time of studying the painting. Surely a perfect continuation of his parents.
Can she say that about herself? She didn’t get the privilege of being raised by them, that’s certain. Their touch is painfully absent from her; even the gods, Olympian and Chthonic, can see it through their brief interaction. She knows there’s power inside her, brewing and bubbling like one of Hecate’s concoctions, and it’s a power that stirs envy in most. How well can it compare, though, to being directly raised by a titan-slayer? Perhaps she could spend a little more time with her father next time she’s in Tartarus and ask him for more than just a blessing.
If she even makes it that far next time.
She can barely manage Cerberus, and she’s certain the Siren’s blasted song does her head in and throws her off balance sooner than she expects. By the time she reaches the hordes of corrupted shades in Tartarus, she’s drained. The aid of the Olympians seems to be the only thing carrying her that far. Without it she’d stumble, weak and weary through the stuffy gilded halls. Would that she could just strike faster, hit harder, think smarter—
“Goddess?” The voice comes out of nowhere, and she’s caught off guard for the umpteenth time today if days even pass in a place like this.
She almost jumps at that and stifles a gasp of surprise as she turns around. Odysseus stands at the mouth of the tent, much more corporeal than Dora, but he still moves far too lightly for his stature. His head is cocked to the side, and he raises an eyebrow at her surprise.
“Sir.” Melinoë grits out, all too aware that her back is to the painting. She pushes the thought out of her mind before she can consider the symbolism as an omen. ”All is well?”
“Indeed.” He says before looking around the room. His eyes trail down to her wounds, now surely closed up despite the dried ichor on her arm. “I hadn’t meant to startle you.”
“It’s quite alright, sir.” She says plainly. “Did Hecate call for me?”
Odysseus clears his throat at that. “No, it’s just,” he stands straighter, and when Melinoë motions for him to enter, he does so immediately and takes a few steps before stopping in front of her bed. “Your sigil makes a noise when you return. Quite a loud one, at that.” He nods towards her summoning circle. “You’re usually out and about when you return, is all. Tinkering with your tinctures. Fencing your finds.” He says politely, and she knows him long enough to see the poorly disguised concern on his face. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, Goddess—”
“You’re right, I was distracted. My apologies, sir.” She rushes out. “How long have I been gone?”
He smiles wryly at her. “Hard to tell, in times like this, but longer than usual.”
“Funny.” She says, “Felt like but a moment for me. Time becomes rather strange once I reach the House of Hades.” She clears her throat, and she’s certain there’s sand in her mouth now.
“Does it, now? Something to make a note of in the reports. Thank you, Goddess.” He says solemnly, and she turns back around, back to her family, and the familiar hollow feeling is back in full force.
“Happy to help.” She grits out, and she knows she’s done a terrible job of allaying Odysseus when she hears him sigh, and before she knows it, he’s standing right beside her, looking upon them with her. It fills her with ire; she wants to push him away, cover up their kind faces, and keep them away from anyone who isn’t her. They’re hers , yet somehow even the Fates don’t seem to respect that. Why would anyone else? She resigns herself to standing beside him and allows him to take in their likeness.
“Is it possible?” She begins, and Odysseus looks over at her curiously. “To miss those you don’t even remember?”
“Oh, aye.” Odysseus nods. “I think, even though it may lack experience, that the soul, no matter how exalted it may be,” he gestures to her, “knows when something is missing.”
“Did you learn that from your men?” She asks.
“I did. Those who had consumed the lotus, even in their haze of pleasure and forgetfulness, had a pain in their eyes that was unknown only to their own drunken minds. I saw enough of it in them to recognize they could be saved. They surely knew, deep down, they were, as you say, missing something they couldn’t remember.”
“I wish my plight were as simple as a lotus eater.”
Odysseus grimaces. “I would not wish it upon you, Goddess. The loss of one’s own wisdom is an awful thing.”
Melinoë hums. “I suppose you're right. Still, it was a simple solution in the end, wasn’t it? Just stop eating the lotus?”
Odysseus gives a tight expression. “If you say so, Goddess.”
Her face grows hot at that. “Od, I— I didn’t mean to imply that—”
“Don’t apologize. Our journeys are quite different, aren’t they?” He acquiesces. “Perhaps I should not have made the comparison.”
The silence that falls between them is heavy, and rather awkward, if she said so herself. She looks at the portrait, at the amiable face of Persephone, and swallows thickly. Find her kindness, Melinoë, she thinks to herself.
“Not that different, really.” She says, and when Odysseus gives her a questioning hum, she continues. “Both our journeys have us trying to reunite our families.”
At that, Odysseus looks at her wistfully. “That is correct. Although, I have the feeling that you will fare far better than I in that regard.”
She thinks of her own attempt, of the scythe of Chronos swinging back, and sniffles uncomfortably. She changes the subject. “How did you deal with the loneliness?”
“Why,” he gestures towards the outside of the tent. “By realizing I was never really alone at all. Neither are you.”
“If you say so, Od.” She echoes back, and he smiles sadly at her.
Odysseus continues. “Once you get them back, it will feel like the time you spent without them nearly never happened at all.” There’s something about the way he says it, paired with the way his fist clenches against the holster of his dagger, that tells her it wasn’t the full truth, at least not for him.
Her eyes are back on Persephone’s face. A face like that wouldn’t push back on his lie. “Thank you, sir. I needed to hear that, I suppose.”
“Not a problem at all, Goddess. You know,” He starts, crossing his arms as he meets Hades’ gaze, “I really did once briefly visit the House of Hades in my mortal days.”
She turns to look at him, eyebrows raised. “You weren’t joking?”
“I really wasn’t.” He replies, smiling mischievously at her. “A lifetime ago.”
Melinoë smiles unamusedly at the quip, and she catches the twinkle in his eye. “And lived to tell the tale?”
“Indeed. Were it not for my visit, I surely would have died and ended up there anyway. I searched for a man who could help me avoid the wrath of your own Lord Uncle, Poseidon. Once he helped me, I went on my way. Security was a bit more,” He pauses. “We’ll say relaxed, back then. This was before your brother’s time, you see.” At that, he turns back to the painting, looking almost impressed at Zagreus.
“My brother? Zagreus protected the hells?”
“Not many know, but yes. In his own way, he did. The reports seem to indicate that Zagreus was employed by your father for many jobs. The details, however, remain muddled.” He clears his throat, returning to the painting, “I met plenty of gods in my travels. Not your father, however. Although his presence in Hades itself was undeniable. The power—” he trails off, and purses his lips. “Was magnificent.”
“Wish I could say the same now,” Melinoë mutters, and she can’t help the resentment pooling in her tone. Odysseus stares blankly at her. “Hades is Time’s domain now. My father couldn’t stop him, and he’s no longer the force you say he is, chained up in Tartarus and mocked by his own father. Zagreus couldn’t secure the hells well enough if they were infiltrated by Chronos’ forces that easily. My mother—”
“Wait,” Odysseus says. “What are you saying, exactly? Your father—”
“Tied up, in rags, Od. Alone. I can’t do a thing about it. Not now, likely not ever.” She looks at Hades’ likeness with a frown. “Zagreus and mother? All their friends? I haven’t seen them nor sensed them with magick. Could they—” She trails off. There’s that hefty silence that falls between them again as Odysseus ponders for a moment.
“Now, now, Goddess. It can’t be as bad as all that, aye?” He smiles softly. “You know, I haven’t seen you sulk like this since you were but a godling. When Hecate would evade you until you quit in a rage. Your little stomps would cloud the room in smoke, we were almost certain Hypnos would wake up hungry for a roast bird!”
Melinoë scoffs and crosses her arms. “I wish you wouldn’t jest.”
“Ah, I wasn’t jesting. You really did stomp around on dry grass. Quite the hazard.” He points out before crossing his arms. “You do see what I was getting at. Don’t you?”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m acting like a child? My skills aren’t honed? Perhaps,” She looks at Zagreus; would he, wherever he is, resent her for not reaching him sooner? She sighs exasperatedly. “Perhaps I’m not the one who can save them? Save everyone?”
“Really just—” He starts, but Melinoë is already moving towards the flaps of her tent, putting her spectral arm up to silence him.
“You’re right, Od. I should’ve realized it sooner. Nem was right, too, I was just too stubborn to see it. I’ll tell Hecate right away—”
“Melinoë,” Odysseus says firmly, in a tone more serious than she’s ever heard him use, especially towards her. It’s almost as chilling as Hecate’s chiding tone. “That’s enough, child.”
She freezes right at the entrance, not unlike him just moments earlier. Melinoë hangs her head down, more exhaustion and shame than deference. “Sir.”
“Sit.” His tone makes her feel like one of his sailors, and her body moves of its own accord, slumping onto the bed, shoulders hunched as she bites her lip. She feels reprimanded already, and he hasn’t spoken a full sentence. His arms are still crossed, and he looks down at her, stone-faced.“What happened? What did you see?”
She’s silent for a moment, looking around the room. He doesn’t urge her, doesn’t press any further than he already has. Melinoë is grateful for the reprieve, but there’s a part of her that wishes she didn’t have to say any of this at all. “I reached the House of Hades.”
“That I gathered.” He says, a hint of a tease blossoming in his voice. “What happened there?”
“Chronos, sir,” Melinoë says tightly. “It was close. I—”
She’s suspended in the bubble of sand again, and any attempt at movement is akin to trying to wade through the depths of the sea without Poiseidon’s aid. She hears the squeals and chitters of corrupted shades outside the bubble, using their makeshift weaponry to poke and prod her. The blows aren’t their worst, yet it's all she can do to stay conscious as she heaves slow breaths inside the bubble, flecks of sand blowing into her eyes and mouth, up her nose, and even into her ears. The hits slow down, and the last one slams into her shoulders as Chronos lets up on his sands. It sends her sliding to the ground, knees first, and she feels every ridge of the stone, where the masons left a gap in their designs, and the cracks in the stone where grit and pebbles begin to lodge themselves into the raw skin there. It’s stinging and red hot, and the force of her landing has her letting out a pained noise before she can control it.
He’s almost certainly altering her perception of time, because he’s gliding slowly down from where he was just perched in front of the mosaic of her father, obscuring his visage as he lands gracefully in front of her. Her head moves slowly up from his legs in front of her, out of her control, as though he were compelling her to move. Just how much does he hold back? She wonders as he leans down, mockingly, and speaks words she doesn’t register. She can only look before him, and in her haze, she wonders if this is how mortals feel standing before gods.
She wonders if this is how shades feel standing before her.
The scythe comes up, and she braces herself. She imagines what he will do to her, how he will punish her indiscretions against his seized territory. Perhaps he will chain her up and throw her next to her father, or suspend her in a constant state of dread, doomed to watch his reign in paralyzed agony. Perhaps he will end her quickly, and remove any trace of her existence from the inscriptions of Time themselves. He must be imbuing the weapon with his power, his punishment , however , because whatever he does causes her trance to break ever so slightly. She seizes the moment quickly like she does in her spars against Hecate. Clumps of sand spill from her lips before she’s hoarsely calling out her hallowed words.
Return to Shadow.
She doesn’t notice the tears welling in her eyes until Odysseus kneels before her, elbows resting against the foot of her bed as his delicate thumbs press against her cheeks, swiping away at tears there. Melinoë hadn’t realized she had been blubbering out this exact recollection aloud until this exact moment, and the way humiliation licks at her belly has her straightening up and furrowing her brows, willing whatever weakness she has out of herself.
“Good. Good, Melinoë.” Odysseus praises, and he slides his hands down until he holds both of her hands firmly in his, looking up at her with a sense of pride, even after her display of tears. “Let it out, but don’t let it tighten its hold on you.”
“No. It’s not good. I shouldn’t be this weak at all.” She shakes her head in protest.
Odysseus shrugs, “Nary a shade but me here to see it, and trust me, Scylla’s ballads have drawn more tears from me far more pathetically than that display.”
At his words, an actual laugh bubbles out of her through wet tears, and he gives her a dazzling grin of his own when he registers her expression.
Melinoë sobers up, however, when she asks her next question.
“What if this is the extent of my strength?” She asks, voice low and quiet, as though she dare not tempt the Fates with her words.
His thumbs are running soothingly along her knuckles as he considers her words. “Your first journey. Tell me about it.” His tone is solid, confident even.
She raises an eyebrow. “It was awful, Od. I had no idea what to expect.” Her cheeks feel heated, and she shifts in her seat as she shakes her head. “I didn’t even make it to Hecate.”
“And did you not get back up and go again?”
“I did, but—”
“What’s different this time?”
“It’s Chronos. Father of my father. Father of Zeus himself!” She sputters out indignantly.
Odysseus shrugs again. “Aye, daughter of Hades, and he’s been felled once before. It can happen again.”
“By those far stronger, far better than me, Od!” Melinoë points out, but the mischievous glint in his eye tells her he’ll have a response to even that.
“I daresay Hades himself didn’t catch the waver in his power before he lifted his scythe. You did.” He points out. “In what way does that make him better?”
At that, she has no response. She wouldn’t dare agree with his implication, that someone as inexperienced as her holds such power. However, perhaps he has a point, perhaps it isn’t the end. The mere thought is as though a cloudy haze has been lifted from her mind, and for the first time since she was almost caught, she can think clearly, and actually count the seconds as they come.
“Alright.” Odysseus stands, and the moment he draws back, his comfort is sorely missed. “Tell me, Goddess. How will you evade his sands next time?”
“Oh.” She says and scrunches her face in thought. “I—”
“Your issues lie not in your actions, but in his ability to force your inaction. So, tell me, how do we remedy this?” Odysseus stands with his hands behind his back, face challenging and quite amused. The tactician in him was clearly itching for this moment. Melinoë suddenly feels much younger, like she was back in one of his strategy assessments. He would always trip her up with reverse techniques and twisted words and double meanings, never hesitating to chuckle warmly and poke her sides every time she offered faulty logic, much to her embarrassment. She would get up from their tutoring table with her mind reeling. Even Hecate herself would give her a moment of respite after particularly challenging days.
“I won't get caught in his trap next time?” She says dumbly, and Odysseus nods for her to continue. When she doesn’t continue, he’s gesturing with his hand, a circular motion as though to say, get a move on!
“The lesson after our first shooting lesson. What did we cover?”
“Evasion tactics,” She answers immediately, the memory fresh in her mind now that she’s back in study. “Feint, riposte, parry. But how does that—”
“The titan of time,” he administers a sharp jab to her ribs as he interrupts her, and it takes all of her composure to not collapse into nervous laughter, “has many abilities. The one most appropriate to this thought exercise is his ability to trap his opponent in a time-slowing ball of whirling sand. Given that the most effective method of maneuver against the titan is—” He gestures at her to fill in the blank.
“Evade?” She offers. Another jab hits her squarely in the rib, and she squeaks out a pained laugh. “Seriously? ”
“Shall I confine you to report reading until you offer me the right line of thought, Goddess?” Odysseus muses, having fully put himself back into his role as her instructor. Even through his air of pretension, he can’t help but shake his head at her confusion. “Olympus may fall, but you will learn. The most effective method of maneuver is—”
“Deflection and speed.” She starts, and when Odysseus is still, she thinks carefully, “He exposes himself after a large attack. To watch his carnage. If he misses—”
“You’ll have but a moment before he realizes his miss, but that will be a moment to turn the tide of the battle in your favor. Especially after a spontaneous trap.” He finishes her sentence for her. “So, given that deflection and speed— well done— is the most effective method of maneuver, avoiding his trap is but a simple solution of?”
“Feinting and sprinting.” She finishes, and he nods solemnly. “His traps— he can only conjure them after brief reprieves.”
“Then short, unpredictable bursts, the moment you sense his evocations.” He supplements. “I’m certain Hecate has more than provided enough lessons in that matter.”
“This is all, of course, easier said than done.” Melinoë points out, and at this, he finally takes his seat next to her. The bed barely sinks beneath him. When his eyes finally meet her, they’re sincere and earnest.
“Aye, maybe so. But, do you still feel as though you’ve reached the peak of your skills?” He says, as though he had a wager on what her next words were going to be.
She sighs, exasperated, but no longer hollow. Melinoë’s eyes return to her family. To Zagreus. “I suppose not.” She says lightly, and when Odysseus beams proudly at her, she can’t help the smile that settles into her expression. “I’ll be ready. Perhaps not right at this moment. But—” Her mother’s face really is full of pride. It’s more obvious than ever now. “I will be.”
“Admitting that is half the battle. The other half being the, well, actual battle.” Odysseus chuckles at his own joke, and the sheer fondness at his terrible jokes that Melinoë feels has her practically launching herself at Odysseus, wrapping her arms around his torso as her face settles into his shoulder. He lets out a surprised oof before sighing contentedly and taking her into his own arms.
“Thank you, sir,” Melinoë says. “I wouldn’t be half the warrior I am without your guidance.”
“Goddess,” Odysseus says, pulling back to rest his hands on her shoulders. “You honor me. And more than that,” he pauses for a moment, as though he were unsure how to say it. “I never got to rear my own young, and, well, being able to see you grow into the battle-ready warrior you were meant to be? The magnitude of that honor is not lost on me.”
“I won’t let you down, sir,” Melinoë says, and when he stands, his head is that much higher, his stance is that much taller. The glint in his eye is back in full force. It fills Melinoë with drive, and it’s now she finally understands the sheer amount of men as his beck and call, both now and before. He seems to thrive at pulling the best out of his soldiers, she notes to herself.
“You couldn’t even if you tried.” He says firmly. Odysseus gestures towards her family. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind that they feel the same as I do.”
He salutes her firmly before taking his leave, and when she’s alone in the room, she finds herself leaning back into the bed and rubbing her eyes exhaustedly for the first time in gods know how long. The sand must have dissipated, along with the cottony feeling in her mouth, and when she looks back at her most recent failure, it’s no longer tinged with the same dread she had earlier. She supposes Commander Schelemeus would be amenable to some practice whenever she has the drive to return to her descent into Tartarus. For now, Melinoë sits, and when the mood finally takes her, she’s scrawling notes and tactics into the air with her magick, watching the letters disappear the moment she writes them.
When she finally wields her staff, days or nights later, and makes her way towards the other end of her camp, she catches Odysseus in his normal station, peering over reports as he always does. He looks up at her, and upon seeing the weapon stashed in her hand, he nods slowly in approval.
As she approaches the training grounds, the sound of her name stops her in her tracks. "Melinoë!” Odysseus’ voice booms over the din of shades and gods chattering aimlessly, and when she spins around to meet his gaze, he’s grinning at her.
“Death to Chronos,” Odysseus says.
It makes her lift her weapon in victory, a victory she hasn’t even clinched yet. It may not be this try, or the next, or even the one ten tries from now. What she chants next is a certainty: no matter how near or far, no matter how many times it must be done, or who it must be done by.
“Death to Chronos.”