‘When I learnt there’s no fucking afterlife!’
While they spoke, Heracles bent down and pulled on a gauntlet, wincing as the metal slid over his swollen joints. With effort, he straightened up. ‘I will wear the armour.’
Danae looked between Telamon and Atalanta. They remained silent, avoiding her gaze.
She clenched her jaw and turned back to Heracles. ‘It cannot be you.’
He turned to face her, chin held high. ‘I have led armies, slain hundreds of men on a single battlefield. I am the one who should wear it.’
Danae’s pulse quickened. ‘The Olympians will know you are not one of them.’
The hero’s gaze narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Because … look at you!’
Atalanta inhaled a sharp breath as the gauntlet slipped from Heracles’ hand to clatter against the earth.
‘Heracles …’ Danae called as the hero turned and stalked away towards the cliffs. Pegasus snorted, flexed his wings, then trotted after him.
Telamon shot a barbed look at Danae. ‘I’ll go.’
As he walked away Danae sighed. ‘I don’t know how to do this.’
‘You could have been softer with him. But you weren’t wrong.’
Danae glanced at Atalanta. The warrior was staring after the men, thoughts blustering across her face like wind-chased clouds. Then she looked at Danae, ‘You’re doing better than you think.’
Danae’s heart swelled. She looked down at the battle-churned soil. ‘Thank you.’
Atalanta grunted. They stood in silence for a moment.
‘Poseidon would have killed me if you hadn’t been there,’ said Danae.
‘I only did what I had to.’
The corners of Danae’s mouth twitched. Atalanta was not half the liar she was.
‘Come on, let’s get the boat down to the shore.’
They walked over to the little rowing boat and began dragging it across the earth. Danae coughed as the wind gusted the scent of the sea-monster’s dried blood caked on Atalanta’s limbs.
‘You smell like the inside of my father’s fishing boat.’
Atalanta raised an eyebrow, then lifted her arm and sniffed her skin. She wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve got a point.’
Once they reached the sand, Atalanta dropped her end of the vessel and sprinted towards the glistening water, Skolopendra’s corpse looming over her. She ran like a gazelle, sure-footed, swift and graceful. As she splashed into the shallows and dived beneath the waves, Danae felt an ache deep in her core. She imagined running after the warrior, letting the sea envelop her, the water sweeping around them both, drawing them close. Her cheeks reddened. Then something caught her eye. A shard of pottery, nestled in a crisp nest ofseaweed. Danae glanced up towards the hillside. It must have tumbled down, propelled by the force of the collapsing hut when she rumbled the earth the previous night.
She bent down and picked it up. The edge of an owl’s wing was visible on the clay. Her hands trembled as she traced the outline of the painted feathers, pressure building in her chest.
By the time Atalanta emerged from the water, Danae was undone.
‘Danae?’
She knelt on the shore, mouth stretched wide, tears splashing onto her thighs, the shard of pottery digging into her palms.
Atalanta crouched beside her.
Danae’s face ached, her cheeks stinging with salt. For a while she could not bring herself to speak. When she was able, she murmured, ‘I called her a coward.’
