Anassa fights my hand for dominance. ‘You wouldn’t hesitate to slice my throat yet you debase yourself beforethem? Can’t you see they’re mocking us even now?’
‘Mocking you!’
‘Poking you!’
‘Shocking you!’
More speaking in a chorus from the Moirai. I’m tired. Gods, I’m so tired. All I wanted was to kill my husband and his mistress. Avenge my daughter. Help Mycenae prosper. Instead … portals and corridors, and too many moons for comfort, and screaming shadows who can die from stabbing, and now this. And Agamemnon’s blood has washed away, taken from me by that silver sea. I both abhor its viscous memory and yearn for its assurance on my skin. The way it reminded me it was real. My revenge was real.
Clotho, the youngest Moira, gives me a look that’s on the verge of pity. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could swim inside my thoughts, catch all my fears like fish. A subtle tingle spreads from head to toe, a softer echo of the needles I felt earlier. A pinch of energy, enough to make me less afraid of hubris. Of course the Moirai can hear all. And if Clotho can …
O starry-eyed Spinner, if you can hear me, grant us shelter! We are exhausted, and my companion doesn’t seem to know who you are. Forgive her foolishness.
I manage to maintain eye contact as I think these thoughts, barely even shaking.
Clotho smiles. ‘My sisters, I believe we’ve made our point.’ The chorus stops abruptly. ‘You two,’ she beckons us, ‘come closer. Sit by our fire, have some stew.’
‘I’d sooner eat dirt from my own grave than your diabolic stew,’ Anassa scoffs.
‘Fine. Have it your way,’ I say, letting go of her hand. The Moirai do not disappear from sight when I do – a stark reminder that the rules are ever changing, tied to their whims. And so are we. I get up on trembling legs, approach their fire. There is a blanket laid across from them, enticing me, looking inviting. I want to collapse on it.
‘Sit,’ Clotho orders, and my knees obey her. The blanket’s soft, cushioning me from the rocks completely, and warm from its proximity to the flames. With a sigh, I make myself comfortable for the first time in an eternity.
Lachesis, next to Clotho, takes a silver bowl from Aisa’s lap, and fills it with some fishy-smelling liquid from the cauldron. She then hands it to Clotho, who reaches out across the flames, offering it with a smile – long, dainty fingers stretching out like wheat stacks in the wind.
‘Take it,’ Lachesis says. ‘Eat.’
I can’t even remember my last meal. My hunger is a visitor unbidden, my stomach cramping at the thought of food. I let go of my knife, placing it on the blanket next to me, and grab the bowl with both hands, about to bring it to my lips.
‘Be careful,’ I hear a bitter voice from behind me. Anassa. ‘I also got a bowl like that, back in my world. I drank its contents, precisely as these three instructed me.Next thing I knew, there was a forest in my castle.’ She sighs. I can tell she’s just as tired as I feel. Just as hungry.
‘That brew served its purpose. It prepared you for a journey.’ The words come from Aisa, but her mouth is closed. Might as well come from the sleek cliffside, or the crisp night air. Her words hang over us, clearly meant for our ears; her wrinkled face is turned in our direction, her timeworn eyes acute. ‘So will this brew prepare you for a different journey, one you must undergo together,’ Aisa adds. This time her tiny lips do move, revealing teeth like crescent moons, sinister and sharp.
I shiver, but still nod – because what else is there to do when the Inflexible One, the cutter of life’s threads, gives you an order? I guide the bowl to my mouth and start sipping, slowly at first, then gulping. The broth is warm and savoury. Not unpleasant. A deep contentment blossoms on my tongue and throat, travelling down to every inch of my exhausted body. My shoulders slacken; the pain of fighting, of swimming, of walking for what must have been hours, lessens. The difference is so stark I almost cry from relief. ‘Here,’ I point the bowl to Anassa instead, ‘you should also have some.’
To my great surprise, Anassa does as she’s told. ‘Fine,’ she grumbles, sitting next to me. ‘Have it your way.’ Her every word pointed, as she mirrors my earlier turn of phrase. She grabs the bowl as if I’ve just delivered her a death sentence and she’s accepting it to spite me.
The three sisters have gone silent; the only sounds I hear are the crackling of the fire and the crashing of the waves as Anassa drinks. Eventually, these sounds also fade away. My eyes grow heavy as I gaze into the purple flames. Their amethyst hue mesmerizes me, luring me in as if there aresecrets to decipher in their blaze. I stare for what must be a long time, noticing shapes and stories in the smoky tendrils’ dance. Empires falling, palaces crumbling, only the lucky few surviving the Fates’ wrath. New threads beginning, as old stories end.
I wonder if I will be one of them.
My eyes close.
When I wake up, I’m cloaked in claret. Heavy and warm, wrapping me whole.
I stay cocooned in comfort as my senses slowly rouse, my mind drifting to past puddles of blood, rightfully spilled. Part of me wishes I could stay anchored in this moment, where all has been achieved, where violence has run full circle, bringing me victory. Where I can finally rest, reap my rewards. But even as I think it, once my fingers stir again, I know it’s an illusion.
This isn’t blood, merely a heavy, woollen cloak in deep red colour, covering me.
I shove it aside and rise. Anassa sleeps beside me, also covered by a cloak – hers is the colour of a raven’s plumage, the same colour as her hair. She looks peaceful. That angry, scarlet scar from yesterday has already healed into a fine, pale thread, like a vein on marble. My finger reaches out, following a sudden urge to trace the path that scar carves on her cheek, to feel the border between flawless skin and proof of suffering, to test what this mark means for who she is; for how I see her. But I retreat. What am I thinking? Instead of ogling her face, I should be making plans, using this moment to get rid of her – though Aisa did say there is a journey we must undergo together. I feel uncertain, dazzled from sleep, still. Andthere is something else that gives me pause: if Anassa’s scar has already healed … how long have we been sleeping? Looking up, the skies are blue, a single sun gracing the horizon, a light breeze bringing ocean mist. The cliffs reflect the light, their onyx slates swirling with green and rosy tints, the only hint that this is not a human realm we are inhabiting. Yet it’s a lovely early morning – and we’re alive. We have not been burned to death by countless suns searing the sky, one for every moon, scorching the world. We’re still here, at the beach, on the blanket, only the purple fire has gone out and the cauldron’s silent. And the Moirai are gone.
I fight to stop my rising panic from resurfacing.
They left us here, without any help or answers … Just with a pair of cloaks in pleasing colours. At least they didn’t steal my knife: it’s still next to me, right where I left it.
I decide to rouse my companion, the one I cannot seem to shake in any realm. ‘Come on, Anassa, wake up. We fell asleep. The three sisters are gone.’
It takes her a second, those big green eyes of hers blinking before they focus. Then, she sees me, and her expression changes lightning fast – from soft to furious to uncertain, until it settles on sour. ‘I’m not back in my castle, am I?’
