by Raye Wagner
The light from Olympus poured through the gash, brighter and brighter as the size of the portal widened.
“That’s plenty, my dear.” Atropos pulled him back from the blinding whiteness. “Alecto, Megaera, Tisiphone, let’s go.”
The Furies led the way through the portal, with Nyx at the rear. As he stepped into the light, the air shifted and cooled, and the decomposing stench of the realm of death disappeared. The light grew increasingly intense, and Athan had to close his eyes.
The fresh scents of freesia and lime wafted on the breeze, and the spots behind his eyelids faded.
“Skata,” Athan breathed behind Hope. He let go of her hand and stepped around her into the room. “That was unbelievable.”
Hope met his gaze with a smile of triumph, and the Moirai and Erinyes were at the door of the small room, waiting for a signal from Nyx.
His heart pounded with excitement, his stomach turned with trepidation, and disbelief made his mouth dry, but he pushed the feelings down, focusing only on the moment. With the Fates and Furies, surely they would not fail. Pulling Hope into a hug, he bent over and whispered in her ear, “Are you ready to take Olympus?”
She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Absolutely.”
Nyx nodded at her daughters, and they opened the door and stepped into a long hall of white marble. The stone was threaded with silver and gray and polished smooth. There were no other doors, besides the one they stood in, but muffled yelling rang down the expansive passageway.
“How do we get there?” Alecto asked.
Hope bit her lip, and her pale skin blushed scarlet. “I don’t know. When Hera walked, the hall opened up to her. It just went the way she wanted it to.”
Athan smirked as he stepped out into the hall. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you let me come after all.”
The voices tugged at a part of his consciousness that he’d always attributed as a gift from his father. Like the pulling of the Acheron in the Underworld, Athan could feel the tug toward the noise of the Olympians. And it got louder as Athan, Hope, and the primordial goddesses crossed into a massive gallery that could only be the Hall of the Olympians.
He’d thought Hope had exaggerated the size of the offerings in front of the statues of the gods. But the mountains of relics and gifts were astonishing. Athan had always believed that nothing could be worse than the rot of the Underworld, but the combination of new heaped upon old, decaying, putrid offerings mixed with sweet incense made the shameful space impressive in its own right. He understood her vehemence with the moldering rot of the egocentric gods.
“I think when we’re done, you should have someone clean up in here,” Athan said, holding his hand to his face. “And definitely air it out.”
Hope said nothing. Was she so nervous that she’d taken him seriously?
“I was kidding,” he said.
She turned and held her hand out to him. “You’re right. It’s disgusting. I can’t believe they don’t clean it up.”
“It’s a contest,” he said, pointing from one rotting pile to the next. “They want to see whose can reach the ceiling first.”
Hope stopped and looked at the excess, her mouth open in shock. “If the gods had been at all concerned with humanity, they could’ve distributed this and helped so many people, but . . .”
Of course, they weren’t. Most of the piles didn’t surprise him.
Ares, Aphrodite, Athena, Hera, Zeus. He’d grown up hearing stories of these gods. And not all of them bad.
Athan looked at Hope, and her expression was a visible reflection of the struggle he was having to reconcile the dichotomy of the gods. He squeezed her hand. “They’ve done some good things, but don’t confuse their few acts of decency as true goodness.”
“Do you think this is right?” she asked, her eyes widening with panic. “Are we taking justice into our own hands and being arrogant?”
“You’ve made your decision,” he said with a shake of his head. “And you made it when you were not surrounded by them or their power. Don’t make the decision again. You were right then. You were certain of it.” He bumped her shoulder. “And, you’ve got seven of the most powerful goddesses to back you up.”
The voices grew louder. Shouting followed by the shattering of glass.
The doorway to the throne room was in front of them. Athan felt as if a live wire pulsed through him. His anxiety wasn’t just for Hope, but for all of them. He hoped his father was okay, that the Fates would keep his thread clear, and that they would all make it out of there alive. He glanced at the goddesses around him and felt awe that he’d been included in their company. And then, he looked at Hope.
She stood tall, her eyes blazing with righteous indignation, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She’d always been amazing, but in this moment, she was glorious, just like the goddesses beside her. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Wanted to hold her one last time and kiss her. He wanted to make her understand how much he loved her. But now was the time for action, so he simply asked, “Ready?”
Atropos hissed as her features morphed into rage.
When Athan spun around to see what had infuriated the Fate, he froze.
Hermes was being restrained by Ares and Athena, and Zeus bellowed at the god of thieves, holding a thunderbolt to his neck. Golden ichor dripped, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and his head was bowed.
Hera sat upon her throne, sewing with a triumphant grin on her face, completely ignoring Demeter, who was wringing her hands at Hera’s side. Apollo was yelling at Artemis, and she screamed obscenities at him in response. Dionysus and Aphrodite were in the corner of the room, groping each other as though the rest of the world didn’t exist.
“You dared to defy me!” Zeus roared.
Hera cackled, a grating sound of mirth at someone’s expense, and then stood. “It is finished. You may release him.”
Hope pushed against Athan and hissed his name.
But he couldn’t let her go in yet. Not yet.
Ares and Athena stood, their expressions spoke of thunderous anger equal to that of their father.
Athan waited, but Hermes remained kneeling on the floor like he was bound by some unseen force.
“You will never leave Olympus again, Hermes. You will suffer your eternal torment here for your betrayal,” Zeus said, drawing back his arm.
Athan knew the trajectory of the bolt before Zeus released it.
The thunder that followed made the marble floor undulate, and Athan braced himself in the doorway.
The smoke and ash cleared, and Hermes’s blackened corpse lay on the ground.
“He’s not dead,” Lachesis whispered.
But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t just that Zeus would kill his own son. It wasn’t just that Hera had tried to kill Hope. Or that Ares had killed Xan. It wasn’t that Apollo was so crazy he cursed a woman who refused him. It wasn’t just one thing. It was all of it.
They needed one person to initially draw the attention of all the Olympians so the Fates and Furies would have a chance. Athan took a deep breath and walked into the throne room of Olympus, clapping his hands.
“Athan.” Hope gasped as he crossed the marble floor. The scorch mark where Hermes’s prostrate body lay was in the center of the room, and Athan was walking right toward his father.
“Bravo, king of the gods. Your strength is dizzying. Truly. But I wonder,” Athan said in a deceptively calm voice, “do you love anyone as much as yourself?”
He sauntered across the floor full of confidence, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “I suspect not, given the state of the Hall of the Olympians.”
“What do you want?” Ares asked, charging at Athan with sword drawn.
Hope wanted to ask someone if they thought her plan would work, but they were out of time.
“He’ll be okay,” Lachesis whispered.
Hope had no idea if the Fate was speaking about Athan or Hermes, and whether it was to Hope or Atropos.
But it didn’t matter.
Athan knelt by his father and whispered something to his regenerating corpse. Zeus drew another bolt from the air, and Hope wrenched her gaze away. Seven sets of eyes focused on her, waiting for her to call the attack.
“Go!” she screamed, stepping out of the doorway to let them pass.
The Furies dropped their illusion, spread their wings, and dove into the throne room.
Atropos held her hand out to Hope. “I need those Olympian shears now.”
Lachesis and Atropos charged in, brandishing their weapons.
Clotho pulled her current project off her needles and placed a small ring on a loop of thread before setting it aside. She pulled a wisp of thread from the air, clicked her needles together several times, and then stopped. “Are you ready?”
Hope nodded, and she and Clotho entered the pandemonium.
The Furies dropped from the air, pushing three Olympians to the ground all at once. Ares, Dionysus, and Aphrodite fell, and the Fates straddled their victims, brushing their pale gray fingers against the gods’ abdomens.
Hope gasped as Alecto extracted a blood-red thread from Ares’s core and pulled. Until that very moment Hope hadn’t been sure her plan could work, and she felt a surge of excitement as Ares flailed, off-balance on the ground, struggling to get to his feet. Alecto held the glowing string and flew to Lachesis.
Atropos stood next to her sister, and after Lachesis measured a length of thread from the god of war, Atropos snipped it and handed it to Clotho. Atropos turned back to Lachesis just as she was measuring another thread in bright pink. Followed by a thread in deep burgundy.
Athan hovered over his father, trying to cut the binding from Hera, but either the shears he had wouldn’t work, or the binding was still sitting in Hera’s lap. He jumped up, just in time to block Ares’s attack.
Hope looked at Clotho and the four strings she’d bound together. There were four more they needed to collect before Hope could sew anything.
Alecto screamed as a thunderbolt singed her wing, and she tumbled to the marble ground. She held a golden thread, and Apollo stomped toward her with murder in his eyes.
Tisiphone fought with Zeus, and Megaera wrestled with Artemis.
Demeter was sobbing in the corner, a long strand of her apricot-colored thread strung across the floor.
And Hera sat on her throne, sewing.
Hope’s gaze ping-ponged between Hera and Hermes, but Hope wasn’t close enough to see the thread the queen of Olympus was using.
A blast of Olympian Fire shot across the throne room, and one of the Furies screamed. Alecto.
Without thinking, Hope ran toward the fallen Fury.
“Get back!” Alecto waved.
But if they didn’t have Apollo’s thread, they couldn’t bind him. Hope ran through the blast of heat, and blistering pain crawled over her skin. She snatched the golden thread from Alecto’s outstretched hand and fled to Lachesis.
No sooner was the thread relinquished and Hope was running again. This time toward Megaera, but Hope crashed into someone and they both toppled to the ground.
“Hope.” Apollo breathed her name with all the emotion and feeling of someone making a declaration of love. “What is this madness?”
He scrambled to grab her, but she pushed away, desperate to collect the rest of the threads. As Hope ran toward Megaera, now on the other side of the room with Tisiphone, Hera left her dais and bent over, pulling up something from the ground.
Another thread.
Hope blinked, and the threads were everywhere. The gray and white of Olympus was woven with the vibrant colors of the gods that lived there. As well as their visitors. Could Hera see the strings?
A sharp crack of lightning was followed by the reverberation of thunder. A familiar wail for revenge rang through the air.
Hera pulled a pale-green string with a thin stripe of vibrant bronze toward her. And Athan stumbled.
“No!” Hope screamed as she sprinted across the room. She didn’t stop, or even slow as she approached Hera. Hope crashed right into her, and they both fell to the ground. Hope grabbed at Hera, pawing at her abdomen, trying to find where to remove a thread from her core, and Hera stabbed at Hope with a small set of pinking shears and a silver needle.
Pain lanced up Hope’s side, just as she felt a thread brush her fingers. She clasped her hand shut as a cold hand pulled her up.
“I’ll deal with the queen,” said Nyx. “Take her thread to Lachesis!”
The bedlam continued, and Hope had to dodge another blast of Olympian Fire.
As soon as Lachesis had measured the thread, she passed it to Atropos, who then passed it to Clotho.
Clotho pushed Hope to the ground and handed her the thick yarn of shimmering colors created by the Olympians’ threads. “No matter what you hear, you just keep sewing.”
Hope opened the bag at her side and pulled out her sewing kit.
She’d watched Clotho use the threader several times, but this fiber was thicker, coarser. Hope slid the yarn into the wire hoop and then pulled the hoop through the eye of the needle. The string barely fit.
Grabbing the fabric of Tartarus, her hands flinched as the filaments sliced into her. Needle and thread. That was all it was now. She could do this. Just like that button.
Spreading the black scrap of fabric over her lap, Hope jabbed the needle into the inky cloth and tried to pull it through.
But it wouldn’t budge. The yarn was too thick for the hole the needle created. Hope pushed and pulled, wiggling the needle into the pitch, and then, finally, she had the needle through far enough that she could grasp it on the other side. She tugged and yanked and wrenched the thick yarn of Olympian threads through the fiber of Tartarus.
The coldness from the fabric seeped into her lap, and Hope shivered. She stuck the needle into the fabric again, pushing so hard her fingers and thumb ached with the effort.
Heat ballooned in front of her. Something crashed, and then there was a deafening explosion.
But Hope pushed the needle in again. On the fourth pass, the needle sliced her finger. On the fifth, it broke the skin on her thumb. Her fingers ached with the abuse, but she shoved the needle back into the black fabric, wiggled it back and forth until it passed to the other side, and then yanked the thread through.
A stab of excruciating agony rippled through her, but Hope refused to acknowledge it, she would not let it stop her. Her eyes watered. She blinked, and the threads disappeared.
“No! No, no, no . . .” She blinked again and again. And they were back, fainter but there nonetheless. She pulled the fabric to her face so she could see it, and then she pushed the needle in again.
She could hear the screaming around her, but she blocked it out. It didn’t matter. Nothing but this mattered. She would make it right.
The edges of her vision darkened, and a weighty pressure blossomed across her chest, making it hard to breathe. Hope sucked in a ragged breath and pulled the thread through again.
A far off wail, faint at first, swirled over her lap and up to Hope’s ears. She stabbed the fabric again, pulling the rainbow threads through, and the sound crescendoed.
The smell of rot blasted through the doorway, followed by an icy wind. The screaming increased, not just one voice but several. Hope would not look up. She would continue to sew.
The needle came back out, and Hope pushed it in again.
A harsh cackling laugh rang through the din.
Had someone dropped an anvil on her chest? Hope blinked again, and the fabric flickered in and out then back into existence. The needle was only a sliver, but pushing it through the blackness was like pushing against stone. Something had happened, and the needle wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?
Someone sat behind her, pulling her to their chest. “You can do this, Hope.”
A warm hand covered hers, and when the needle got stuck, he helped push it through the fabric and then pull the thread through. H
e kissed her head and sang to her while they sewed.
Her vision continued to tunnel, and her chest was heavy.
Then it was silent . . .
“You can stop now, Hope. It’s finished.”
Hope slumped to the ground, and Athan pulled her back up in his lap. She was beyond exhausted, and he glared up at the Furies.
“It is done,” Tisiphone said.
Alecto smiled down on Hope and Athan. “They are bound to Tartarus.”
“Damned for their crimes.” Megaera grabbed the inky-black fabric from Hope’s lap and looked up at her sisters. “Are you ready to go home?”
“We’ve waited a long time for this,” Tisiphone said as she broke away from the other two and walked toward the dais where each of the Olympians now sat bound in their chairs, save only for Hermes, who was sitting on the ground with his head in his hands.
Zeus paled as the youthful goddess drew closer. “What do you mean?”
“As king of the gods, you should know exactly what I mean.”
“Exactly,” said Alecto. “When someone you rule violates the laws, you can only claim ignorance for so long, Zeus. And your ignorance fled long ago.”
Hera shifted in her throne. Without saying anything, she inched toward her husband, but Zeus flung out his hand to stop her. “I know not what you mean. Whatever she’s done, it was on her. I was not privy to her decisions. I did not condone her choices.”
Hera’s face morphed from fear to rage. “How dare you?”
Zeus returned her glare. “Don’t pretend that we work together—”
“Enough!” Alecto snapped. She circled around the edges of the room, staring at the occupants of the thrones of each of the gods. She surveyed the back wall, the food heaped on the tables, the fountain of wine bubbling in the corner. “What were you celebrating?”
Hermes raised his head and ran his hand over his neck. The golden ichor smeared across his skin, but Athan felt a weight of worry lift as he saw the skin was now unbroken. “It has been thus for many years, Erinyes.”
“Ah, Hermes. Nice to see you again,” Tisiphone said with a wink.