Suddenly, she felt not animal hide beneath her, but a chill marble slab. She was back in the Underworld, bound and gagged, her body no longer her own. Memory consumed her. It was not Atalanta’s hands on her flesh, but Hades’ fingers, bone-thin and cold, scraping across her head, sending shocks of unwanted pleasure through her body.
She punched Atalanta in the chest, a burst of life-threads exploding through her arm. The warrior flew back and crashed into the side of the tent, knocking over the barrel and sending the candle stuttering out into the dirt.
Shuddering uncontrollably, Danae scrambled around in the dark, unable to gather her senses.
Her mind was a roiling sea, her reason untethered. She was trapped again beneath the earth. She was going to suffocate. She was going to die.
Once her fingers connected with the fabric of the tarpaulin, she flailed her way to the entrance. Gasping for air, she knocked down one of the wooden poles and clawed her way out of the sagging tent. Behind her, Atalanta called her name.
Part of her knew she should stay, should try to explain what had happened to her in the depths of the earth, what Hades had done to her, but even outside in the fresh chill of the night air her mind screamed that she was being buried alive.
Stumbling to her feet, she ran.
Danae bashed into tent poles and tripped on tethers as she staggered through the torchlit tents towards the sea. Gazingup at the sky, she searched for the moon, the stars, anything to anchor her to the outside world. But the heavens were as dull as the earth, veiled by smoke-grey clouds.
She clawed at her throat, gasping for air, as she emerged beyond the line of tents and ran towards the ocean. The waves would save her. Once she reached the water, she would be all right.
Crashing to her knees, she moaned as the tide washed over her trembling limbs.
Breathe, said the voice.
Finally, air returned to her lungs. She remained where she’d fallen, kneeling in the sand, the cool water tugging at her dress. As panic slipped away, her thoughts returned to Alea, as they always did. She had raged at her sister for abandoning her, for not choosing to fight, but now she understood the draw of giving herself to the dark depths of the sea. She too longed to dance in the deep, let it wash away all her pain.
She was so weary, so bone-crushingly weary.
Escaping the Underworld had not freed her soul from the darkness. Now, she did not know if anything ever could.
Have faith.
Her heart ached as Metis’ final words echoed through her mind.
She reached forward, pressing her hands into the tide-sodden sand. ‘Gaia, where are you? Please … help me.’
She waited. But the guidance she craved did not come. Eventually, she rocked back onto her heels, shivering as the wind licked over her wet skin.
Atalanta’s words lingered in her mind. She wondered what would become of her, once her destiny was fulfilled. Naxos had forever been a beacon, shining bright through the dark storm of her fate. There was so little left of the girl she had been. She wondered if her family would recognize thewoman she had become. Would they look at her with horror when they learnt what she’d done to survive? The countless lives extinguished in the service of her destiny. And even if they did accept her, there would come a day when she would be alone once more; she’d weather time like a rock while they withered like fading blooms.
There was a shift in the air. The tide surged in rhythm with the wind, the rustle of the tents vibrating to the melody of the sea and sky.
Danae stiffened.
Something was emerging from the inky waves. In the darkness it looked like a creature from the deep, draped in long strands of seaweed.
She shuffled away from the water as the beast approached.
As it drew closer, she realized it was Achilles. His long copper hair was draped in tangled strands over his lithe frame. Free of the waves, he stooped swiftly to wrap himself in a leather kilt worn by the Myrmidon soldiers. Danae wondered how she hadn’t noticed it lying there.
The young man startled. ‘Seer, what are you doing?’
Danae wiped her hands. ‘I could ask you the same.’
‘I always swim the night before a battle.’
‘Is that the secret to your skill?’
Achilles twisted his hair into a rope and wrung it. ‘Perhaps. My mother taught me to worship the sea above all else. She said the ocean rewards those who honour its power.’
The face of Danae’s father loomed so clear in her memory she was forced to turn away from Achilles.
