Hundreds, maybe thousands of ichors surged through the gold, ripped from their hosts over the centuries and trapped in this cold shaft of metal.
Her body was no longer her own as she walked forward. Poseidon swung his trident wildly through the air, cleaving scars of clarity through the fog, just as she had done on the Doliones shore.
He only saw Danae when she was barely an arm’s length away. His ravaged face stretched into a terrible grin. Hebrought his trident down as though he would split her in half. She reached up, her entire being singing with energy, and the shaft crashed into her outstretched palm.
It was as though she had been struck by lightning. Power reverberated through her, rattling her teeth.
Take them, urged the voice.Consume the life-threads.
She could hear no other sound, save the ringing in her ears.
Metis had told her that life-threads could not be created or destroyed. She did not know if the strands trapped in the trident held the memories of those they had animated, but they had once been people. And that was enough. She would not be like the gods.
Screaming in pain, she wrenched the weapon from Poseidon’s grip and smashed it into the rocky earth, channelling the power of the tapestry of life into the blow.
The trident shattered.
Danae gasped, her vision returning to normal as the trapped life-threads dispersed from the shards of gold, fleeing back into the air and the earth. Back into the tapestry where they belonged.
Poseidon roared and grabbed Danae, hurling them both into the ground. He clamped his gauntleted fists around her neck, pinning her beneath his weight, blood dripping onto her face from his wounded cheek. Power vibrated through her, radiating from his armour: it too was engorged with life-threads and somehow amplified his strength. Then Metis appeared through the dissipating mist, her arm healed. She ran at Poseidon, propelling him off Danae, but the God of the Sea was swiftly on his feet. He grabbed Metis by the neck. She gasped as he lifted her like a rag doll and hurled her across the cliff. She hit a crop of rocks with a sickening crack, rolled to the earth below and remained still.
Telamon and Atalanta came sprinting towards Poseidon,but he flicked them aside like leaves blown by the wind. He advanced on Danae. She struggled to push herself to her feet, but Poseidon sent a cord of glowing strands to pin her down once more.
He stood over Danae and again gripped her neck. Baring his teeth, he began to drain her.
She shuddered, her vision darkening, limbs twitching as the warmth was leached from her body. Then her fingertips brushed an edge of cold, hard metal. She stretched, her hand curling around a sliver of broken trident. With a grunt that expelled the last of her strength, she thrust the shard into Poseidon’s neck.
The God of the Sea crashed to his knees, mouth stretching wide as blood filled his lungs. Danae stared as he choked, his face reddening, the air ripening with the earthy stench of human waste. It seemed to take an age for him to sink to the ground.
Take his threads!commanded the voice.
But Danae did not move. Something beyond the raging desire for life-threads was alive within her. A calming presence, strengthening with each breath. An innate knowledge of what was right. She must give Poseidon’s life force back to the Mother.
She did not dare look away until the light faded from his eyes and the last of his threads returned to the soil. Glancing up, she saw Telamon helping Atalanta to her feet. Pushing herself to standing, Danae turned and ran towards the crop of rocks.
When she reached Metis, the woman lay very still, blood trickling from the corners of her lips. Telamon and Atalanta crouched beside Danae while Heracles stood a little way off, like a ghost watching from another world.
‘Poseidon is dead,’ said Danae, squeezing Metis’ hand.
Metis’ eyes traced the sky to meet Danae’s. She tried to speak, but her words were so faint Danae had to lean in close. The other woman’s breath fluttered like a butterfly’s wing against her cheek.
‘Have faith.’
For a moment the wind lulled, and the air was filled with the caws of gulls, the whisper of the sea and the murmur of petals turning towards the sun, as Metis’ ichor returned to the Mother.
35. Ghosts of the Living
Danae, Atalanta and Telamon stood on the peak of the hill. The wind moaned, and the white-crested waves beat against the battle-ravaged island. Before them lay a fresh mound of stones. Metis’ body was buried beneath, wrapped in the fur-trimmed cloak Danae had pulled from the wreckage of her hut. In its folds, she’d tucked sprigs of the little purple flowers, as though they had grown from the cracks of Metis’ funeral shroud. It felt strange not to place coins on the woman’s eyes, even though she now knew that Metis would have no need of them.
Below, keeping vigil beside the lake, were Heracles and Pegasus, the horse’s wings tucked into its sides.
Once Danae had revived her ichor on several bushes of spruce, she’d stripped Poseidon’s body of its golden armour, weighted down his corpse with rocks and tossed it into the lake. It had struck her that, when free of his armour, the God of the Sea could have been anyone. A fisherman washed ashore after losing a battle with the ocean.
Heracles had said nothing while they worked to drown Poseidon’s body, but he remained by the water when the others left the bank and trudged towards the hill.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Atalanta had asked.
‘He was family. I should pay my respects,’ was all the hero had replied. Pegasus too lingered by the lake, having returned to the island after flying away during the fight. With a bitter tang in her throat, Danae wondered if the horse too was in mourning.
