Antigoddess

We don’t have the time that everyone seems to think we have.

She inhaled and felt the tickle of feathers.

I don’t have the time.

“And shouldn’t we be investigating why he’s not dying?”

“Apollo can get bent,” Athena snapped, and winced when Odysseus poked harder with the needle than he had to. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Odysseus groaned. “Are you two really so thick that you don’t understand why he’s doing this? Your war doesn’t matter to him. The only thing that matters is Cassandra.”

The needle slid through her skin again, tugged as he made a knot. It would heal quickly; the makeshift stitches could come out in a day. Odysseus clipped the thread off and started to clean up. Red dots and wads of gauze and tissue moistened pink with blood and water decorated the sink. Athena turned and looked in the mirror. He’d done a good job. The stitches weren’t even visible through her hair. She sighed.

“Apollo will fall in line once he realizes that Hera is coming for her. And for him. He’s smart. And we’ve always been close, by godly standards. And,” she said, arching her eyebrow at Odysseus, “I wouldn’t put too much stock in his ‘love.’ The last time he loved her, he drove her completely bughouse. Remember that.”

“I remember.” He tossed reddened tissues into the trash. “But haven’t you ever heard of atonement?”

“Great movie,” Hermes supplied. “Better book.”

Odysseus ignored him. “The way you grabbed her throat today—I’ve never seen anything like that from you. Maybe you should start thinking a little less about the big picture.”

He refused to look at her while he finished cleaning, throwing away pieces of thread and wiping down the counter. The rejection stung like a tightly squeezing ball in her chest.

“How can you say that?” More words rose and died in her throat. The way he ignored her, the aversion in his eyes; it pierced like needles. She expected loyalty from him, if from no one else.

I need it. That’s more the truth. I can’t let him turn his back on me. It would hurt more than these stupid feathers.

Athena stalked across the room and slammed out the door. The air had turned colder since they’d come back and the mist had turned to snow; small, dense flakes hit her cheeks like tiny razors. Her feet struck the pavement as she paced, almost hard enough to crack it. She didn’t know how long she was out there, turning ice into steam, before she heard the door open and Odysseus walked through it.

“Do you think any of this is easy? Dying? This stupid Twilight? You, Hermes, Cassandra—Hera and Poseidon will send all our worlds sliding off the edge and I’m the one holding on to the rope, so don’t tell me not to think about the bigger picture! Thinking of the bigger picture is the only thing I can do these days.”

“Don’t give me that,” Odysseus said. “This is exactly your element.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about what you did back in the woods. It was cruel, and that’s just the way you wanted it. You got to be a god again. You’re so bloody scared of being the tiniest bit human—”

“Bullshit. Hard choices have to be made. How can you accuse me of wanting to do that? Do you think I liked it?”

Odysseus took a breath. How must she look, her head full of sutures, still wearing the t-shirt soaked in blood? If she wanted to, she could tear his limbs off, one by one. He should be afraid of her. He always should have been. But he never was.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” His brows knit and his palms lay flat, trying to explain. “I know it needed to be done, believe me. But you used to be patient. Compassionate.”

Athena exhaled. “Back then I had the luxury.” She pressed her hands to the side of her head and wanted to squeeze, to reopen the stitches and scream. “But I know, I know. I came here to save her, to protect her, and instead I killed her in the first five minutes.” Her arms fell to her sides. His words hung around her neck like lead. “I had to, you know. ‘Make her remember, and she’ll be more.’ That’s what Demeter said. Unless I misinterpreted the riddle.” And maybe she had. The immediate battle was over, the adrenaline rush subsided, and she was so incredibly tired.

“At night I imagine feathers cutting through my insides,” she said softly. “I see them, making their way to the surface, tearing me up before they tear me open. When they come through it’s slow. They twist up and rise, like plants from soil.” She laughed a humorless laugh. “I’m going to die, Odysseus. And when I do I’m going to look like a monster. I suppose you think that’s fitting.”