Better Days to Come
Chapter Three: Hiketeia
Sparring with Philippus, Menalippe considers the anatomy of a training accident.
Philippus lunges with her sword. Menalippe sidesteps and raps Philippus hard in the ribs with the butt of her spear. If this were a real duel, she could have done the same with the point instead.
Accidents are rare among the Amazon warriors, but they do occur. Over the years, yearning for something more than sport, the warriors have gradually increased the complexity of their motions and the ferocity of their strikes in their endless training. However, the waters of Themyscira are such that mishaps have never ended in maiming or death. But there's a first time for everything.
Philippus rolls as she hits the ground and is quickly back on her feet. They circle. They've been trading blows for some time and they're both breathing hard.
If Menalippe died in a training accident, it would be unfortunate but, in the end, an accident.
Menalippe raises her spear to strike, exposing her right flank. Philippus immediately darts inside the reach of Menalippe's spear point, homing in on the opening.
Death in a training accident would fix Menalippe's problems quite handily.
At the last possible moment, Menalippe spins, ducking down and extending her leg to sweep Philippus' feet out from under her. Philippus goes crashing to the ground once more. She's got more muscle than the average Amazon. She does not go down with grace.
It would be a strange thing indeed for the Amazon's most prescient oracle and second greatest warrior to die in an accident. Hippolyta would be furious. So too would Antiope.
Menalippe brings her spear back into a guard position and waits for Philippus to get up again.
[] [] []
Standing on the beach and bracing to hurl a discus out to sea, Menalippe ponders drowning.
It would be a far more plausible accident than a slip of the spear.
She has established already that, should a vision come to her in the open water, she will go under.
But Menalippe doesn't much like the idea of her lungs filling with dark water as the sea pulls her down.
And such an outcome would, like a training accident, anger Antiope to no end.
[] [] []
Several times more, Menalippe searches the threads again for her own death. That she still cannot find it, not even by her own hand, suggests her dark thoughts will come to nothing.
[] [] []
Hippolyta is coming more often to the training field now.
She fights like her sister. The grace and power in her knocks Menalippe, Philippus, Artemis, and all the rest onto their asses like a great sea-storm overtaking a fleet on open water. As the days pass, Menalippe gains nothing on her queen. She doesn't really expect to. Thousands of years and she never passed Antiope. No one did. There's no reason she should make progress against Hippolyta in a matter of days, weeks, months, even years.
The only one who shows any improvement against the fury that is Hippolyta is Philippus.
This is strange as Philippus fares no better or worse against any other opponent.
Still, her bouts with Hippolyta begin to grow longer.
At dinner, Menalippe says nothing of it. It's not her place. She is Hippolyta's sister's wife, not Hippolyta's sister.
Instead, they've taken to talking of times past.
"She was scared to talk to you," Hippolyta says as she picks up a piece of cheese. Queen, always, she puts the cheese in her mouth, chews, swallows, and washes it down with wine before continuing. "She spent an entire summer hiding every time she saw you coming."
Unlike Hippolyta, Menalippe doesn't track whether or not she's still chewing when she speaks. From around a fig, "She was bad at hiding. It wasn't in her nature."
"Thank the gods she was bad at something," Hippolyta replies.
Menalippe turns over so that she's on her back, looking up at the ceiling. There's a part of her that wants to get a bucket of paint and cover the whole of it up. The question tumbles from her mouth, "What would Antiope have done if I'd been the one to die?"
Hippolyta snorts. "For you? She'd be digging her way down to the house of Hades," she says. "Knowing her, she may even have made it there by now. She could hardly stand leaving you behind when she went on raids. She worried you'd miss her as much as she missed you."
A long silence descends. Menalippe folds her hands over the base of her sternum. If she squints, she can make it seem as though the painted Antiope on the ceiling is looking at her. The actual her, not the one entwined with Aphrodite in the mural.
Then, Hippolyta, "Would you like a shovel?"
Menalippe hums thoughtfully. "Maybe."
Hippolyta's reply is mock-serious, Menalippe thinks. "If you do start digging, don't tell me."
Menalippe answers in the same tone. "Yes, my queen."
[] [] []
Grief is as the tide, rising and falling, always present. A fact of nature.
And so perhaps it is grief that takes Menalippe to the water when next there comes a day of rest.
Menalippe goes down to the beach. She leaves her armor in her house and wears only an undyed tunic. As she passes her sisters, they greet her politely but with some surprise. She is not known for her love of the sea. When she's near to where the earth meets the water, she strips and leaves the tunic near some rocks a good way above the high tide mark.
Then, she wades into the warm surf.
In another life, Menalippe drowned.
In her blackest nightmares, she can feel large hands holding her under. The water is cold as it rushes into her lungs.
But that was a different life.
She's strong now. She cuts through the waves quickly. She swims with purpose.
She finds the cave again with little trouble. Knowing that it's there is more than half the battle. And, in the back of her head, Menalippe suspects she's read enough scrolls to know what it is. As it comes into view, Menalippe slows her pace. No one else has swum out with her. If a vision comes to her suddenly, she will have to keep her wits about her.
Her approach is cautious and she stops to tread water when she's still several horse-lengths away. She can see that the sea doesn't rise up all the way into the cave. There's a cave floor that's submerged but not deeply and a higher shelf farther back that sits above the water. The cave recedes back into darkness.
Searching for calm, Menalippe closes her eyes.
The threads are thick, less like a field of threads forming cloth and more like a few ropes – many threads twined together such that they all run to the same place. Rarely does she perceive such a convergence.
Menalippe takes a deep breath of warm sea air. She takes up in her mind the thickest of the ropes.
She sees herself.
Dead. Broken. Her left arm is broken and white bone pokes through the skin. Her eyes are glassy and stare blindly up. Her face and her throat are rent by the deep gouging parallel cuts of an animal's claws. She's covered in blood. Her stomach has been ripped open.
A harpy descends and begins to pick at her entrails. It's like watching a butcher gut a pig, but with a fraction of the respect.
The sudden and immediate need to vomit rips Menalippe away from the vision. Her breakfast comes up in short order, leaving a slick of sick-smelling bile on the surface of the water.
Shaking, Menalippe swims to the nearest shore. It's a rocky beach with no good land access to the rest of the island. The pebbles of the ground bite at Menalippe's feet. She finds a large stone and sits down on it, dropping her head into her hands. Water drips from her dark hair.
For an hour she remains nearly motionless on her rock, listening to the crash of waves against the cliffs and shore.
So she's found her death. The one she's been searching for. A violent end to an endless life. But she wasn't searching for her death. Not this time.
She takes a steadying breath, inhaling deeply and then releasing. The air smells of salt. She closes her eyes again. This time, she approaches the rope of threads with care.
She watches herself arm and then row a small boat to the cave mouth. She moors it and goes into the darkness.
While all her other visions of the cave had been crisp, this one is blurry. The act of observing can change the course of things, but once she has a thread, it won't dissolve until she releases it.
She's followed the cave down, twisting and turning, and entered a great cavern when the harpies attack. They strike her from behind. The fight is over quickly.
In the physical world, Menalippe grinds her teeth. After seeking a vision of her death for so long, she doesn't much like watching it now. And, for the first time in a long time, it's not what she's looking for. She curls her toes in the pebbled sand and clenches and unclenches her hands.
Again.
This time, she defeats the harpies. She knows they'll come from behind and so she's ready. She drives them off. It's not difficult. Harpies aren't fighters, they're scavengers. When their prey strikes back, they retreat. She continues her journey into the cave.
At the far end of the harpy cavern is a great gate. It's made of some dark metal and it's easily four times Menalippe's height. It stands shut. Menalippe sets down her spear and her torch. She grasps the enormous door rings, one in each hand, and pulls. The gate swings slowly outwards, slowly open.
Beyond is another dark cavern. It is so vast Menalippe cannot see where it might end. She sees no ceiling and no far wall. The small circle of light that her torch casts is swallowed by the inky night.
She takes up her spear and torch and advances through the gate cautiously. Before her, some distance off, is a cliff with crumbling stairs cut into it. She descends, using her spear to test each step before trusting her weight to it. To her right, the cliff is glassy black obsidian, jagged edges sharp enough to cut to ribbons any unfortunate who might slip against it. To her left is a yawning abyss.
Watching herself, Menalippe tries to count the steps but loses track sometime after two thousand.
The path goes seemingly forever.
But it doesn't.
The base of the cliff is a pebbled beach. Grey waters lie softly against the dark earth. There is silence here. There is stillness here. There is, too, light, of a strange unearthly quality. It is like the light of a darkly overcast day.
Menalippe suddenly feels very cold. She has been on this shore before.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the mists that rise from the waters. A ferryman punting his craft to shore. He is hunched, wizened, twisted. His skin is drawn tight over angular bones. His eyes are blacker than the darkest night and lit with the gleaming of dead stars. Charon grins, showing a mouth full of stained teeth, and he looks at Menalippe. Not at the Menalippe before him, but the one watching.
"It's been a long time since I took a hero across the river looking for their beloved," he says.
Wordless, Menalippe produces a branch of some tree, its leaves gold, the first touch of spring. In the vision, her face is grim.
Charon takes the branch and beckons her to join him on the skiff. "I should warn you," he says. "Hades hasn't kept order in his house in a very long time."
Menalippe leaves her torch on the riverbank and steps onto the boat. It dips under her weight, threatening to sink below the waterline. It wasn't meant for the living. Grimacing, Menalippe seats herself near the center of the craft. It's small enough that she can cling to the sides. Her knuckles are white.
Charon takes his pole and he pushes the rickety skiff away from the shore and into the mists.
Menalippe's vision does not follow. The torch on the ground sputters out.
In the waking world, Menalippe opens her eyes.
The tide has come in and the waves are lapping at her feet.
Though she can't see it, there's a feral grin stretched across her face.
[] [] []
"Voyages to the underworld," Menalippe explains to Clio.
Clio looks at Menalippe from over the top of her spectacles. The aura of judgment is strong indeed. "You have five boxes of my scrolls," she says. "Return some of them."
This is likely for the best. There's little room at Menalippe's table for any more scrolls.
[] [] []
Menalippe scoops up scrolls about Themysciran weather, about Themysciran agriculture, about the formation of stalagmites in sea-caves, and puts them away in their boxes. She makes some attempt at organizing, but she's not sure how best to articulate the difference between a scroll on bat colonies and a scroll on bat diets. Best leave that to Clio.
Truth be told, she hasn't read either scroll about bats.
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Menalippe heaves the boxes of scrolls onto Clio's desk. "Now?"
Clio ducks under her desk and takes out another scroll box. She places it next to the ones Menalippe is returning. For a moment, she keeps her hands on it. She fixes Menalippe with a stern look. "You're a fighter," she says. "These boxes are heavy and your house is a long way from here. I want this back before you do anything unwise."
Menalippe thinks about protesting that she intends to do nothing unwise. It would be very hard, however, to make Clio believe something that Menalippe herself does not. So instead she nods. "Of course."
[] [] []
Dragging herself through scrolls about Themysciran agriculture has made Menalippe a swifter reader than she was only a few months prior. With some pride, she notes that she can now read without speaking, though the turning script of the older scrolls still gives her pause.
Orpheus. Theseus. Castor and Pollux. Herakles. Persephone. Alcestis.
These are tales she's heard before. Who doesn't know of Orpheus? Of Theseus? Of Herakles? It might even be said that Menalippe knew more of Herakles that most – though mostly she knew him as the first of Hippolyta's disastrous affairs with men.
Menalippe lingers on the accounts of Persephone. Persephone, the Amazons still honor. The daughter of Demeter. Kore. Every year, they still sing to her as they bury new seeds in the earth. That she, in all her dread might, fell with the other gods against Ares is still nearly beyond belief. How could one have prevailed against so many, and so many of far greater majesty?
But Menalippe isn't searching these scrolls for answers to unfathomable questions or for stories every Amazon knows.
She's searching for something more.
And she finds it.
[] [] []
Menalippe meets Philippus' sword with her shield. She throws her weight into the block, shoving her opponent's weapon up and out to the side and leaving Philippus' open for a fatal thrust of Menalippe's spear.
Artemis' blunted axe catches Menalippe in the ribs, knocking her off her feet. She hits the ground.
The world spins as Artemis' face swims into view over her. "Strategos?"
Menalippe stifles a groan as she pushes herself up. She doesn't think anything is cracked or broken, but her entire body is one giant bruise. She wipes thick sweat from her brow. She needs to fight less linearly. She picks up her spear from where it fell. "Again."
It's good to have purpose.
[] [] []
Sitting in their armory, cleaning her shield and inspecting her other armaments, Menalippe remembers teaching Antiope how to care for her own armor.
When the Five first created them, Antiope had preferred to ride and to shoot. She'd treasured her bow, a beautiful thing of horn whose tips curved forward, and she'd loved her favorite horse almost as much as she'd loved Menalippe. Armor, however, had confounded her. She'd leave her bronze and leather cuirass out in the mud for Menalippe to trip over on her way to Antiope's tent.
She'd said she didn't need armor. The enemy can't hurt you if they're dead. She'd grinned ear to ear every time she said it.
It was not a terribly comforting thing to hear for those who cared for her.
Although as good a horsewoman as most Amazons, Menalippe herself had always preferred to fight on foot. She'd excelled as a hoplite in the ranks of a phalanx. Watching Antiope neglect her armor had aggrieved Menalippe to no end. One day, Antiope would need her armor and then it would break and fall off her for want of care.
So Menalippe had set out to address the problem.
And, going to Antiope with cloth and oil had always made for a good prelude to other things.
Menalippe runs a whetstone along the edge of her knife and tests the blade.
[] [] []
In the mornings, Menalippe rises before the sun. She dons her armor and takes up her spear and shield. And then she runs. She laps the city.
By the time her captains and the rest of the warriors troop onto the training fields, she's already tired.
It's something she needs to fix.
[] [] []
Menalippe makes sure to return Clio's scrolls.
As Menalippe sets the box down on Clio's desk, the librarian worries at her necklace of Athena, rubbing the pad of a thumb over the goddess' cameo. Looking at the box of scrolls instead of Menalippe, Clio says, "She used to visit the library, you know. On her own. Not just that one time with Diana. And… not often. But more often than…" Clio trails off again and shrugs. "You. For example."
Menalippe winces slightly. On second thought though, she feels as if of late she's spent far more time than the average Amazon in Clio's library. She refrains from mentioning this.
"I wish you a safe journey," Clio mumbles, still not looking at Menalippe. "I'd like her back too."
Menalippe bows her head slightly. "Thank you."
[] [] []
Menalippe blocks Areto's spear with her own. As she does, she spins, bashing her shield into Philippus' face.
Artemis is charging from behind.
Menalippe pulls her spear back slightly and drops to one knee, giving her a better angle to ram the butt of her spear into Artemis' gut.
Even before Artemis hits the ground, Menalippe is back up on her feet, dodging Areto's strike. Areto has closed distance, taking away Menalippe's advantage of fighting with both shield and spear when Areto has only a spear.
Menalippe slams her armored forehead into Areto's, stunning her, forcing her to stagger backwards, barely able to stay on her feet.
Breathing heavily, Menalippe taps the edge of her spear lightly against Areto's neck. The weapon leaves no mark.
[] [] []
So much as Themyscira has seasons, spring comes.
With the morning sun lighting the eastern horizon, Menalippe dresses in her armor and red cloak, and sets off for Hippolyta's palace. Around her, Themyscira's white stone walkways and buildings capture the light of dawn and amplify it, chasing away any thought of shadow. Like almost every day on the island, it will be a warm one.
The streets are empty. It's dawn on the day of rest.
Artemis stands guard at the palace gate. She is not the sort of commander to set others on early watches so that she might revel. When Menalippe approaches, she nods in greeting. Unusually, she is standing such that she blocks entry into the complex. Her dark eyes take in Menalippe's dress and demeanor. "Strategos," she says. She says it with weight in her voice.
"Artemis," Menalippe returns. "I've come to speak with my sister-in-law." It is both Menalippe's purpose and a subtle reminder that Menalippe is of the house that Artemis guards. None but Hippolyta can bar her entrance.
There's a moment of indecision, then, "She's in the courtyard," Artemis says. She frowns and adds, "Menalippe."
Menalippe thanks Artemis and enters the palace.
It is not until she has passed the gate, traversed the corridors of the palace, and come to the inner courtyard that leads to the bedchambers of the family that she remembers the body.
It's not there, of course.
But the image of it lying on the bier under a white shroud is seared into Menalippe's mind.
Hippolyta sits on a wooden bench. The bench is new to the courtyard. The queen wears a white tunic and her hair, though tied back and held in place by her golden crown, is sloppy. Even so, her regal bearing still speaks of her status.
Menalippe approaches, making as little noise as she can, dressed, as she is, in leather and steel. Here, more than any other part of the palace, she does not wish to disturb the quiet. She comes to a halt a few feet from Hippolyta. She bows slightly and waits to be acknowledged. She makes no effort to hide solemnity from her face.
It is with reluctance that Hippolyta looks up to Menalippe and addresses her. Like Artemis, she takes note of Menalippe's armor. "Strategos," she says. "What brings you here at this hour?"
Menalippe's dark eyes seek out Hippolyta's blue ones. "I've come to tell you that I am digging."
Hippolyta squints slightly. "Digging?"
"I have found a path to the house of Hades and I intend to walk it," Menalippe says.
There is a moment of confusion before Hippolyta understands. Menalippe can see the spectrum of emotions play out on her face. Surprise, anger, disbelief, heartbreak. Fear. Her voice quivers. "Strategos, you cannot abandon your post."
Menalippe shakes her head. "I do not seek the permission of my queen," she says softly. "My life is my own. But I would ask the blessing of Antiope's sister."
Hippolyta closes her eyes. For a long time, she keeps them shut. She is as a statue, if statues could silently weep. When she opens her eyes again, instead of speaking, she rises and takes a few steps away. She stands now where the bier once was. "If you were her," Hippolyta begins, "I would not give it." Every word is weighty and slow.
"It would not be your place," Menalippe replies. Her words are not a challenge. They are a statement of bare fact.
"No," Hippolyta agrees. "I would have no blessing to give or to withhold. But it would be my place, and my duty, to stop her. And I would. I would stop her."
"I know," Menalippe says. She tries to speak as gently as she can. She owes Hippolyta that. She owes Hippolyta more than that, but more than that, she can't offer.
"Menalippe," Hippolyta begins. She trails off, searching for words that escape her. She turns once more towards Menalippe. She's still searching, for something, anything.
She doesn't find it.
Hippolyta reaches up and she removes her crown. She sets it down on the marble flagstones of the courtyard. Her hands tremble. She unbinds her hair. Then, she approaches.
Hippolyta first reaches out and touches Menalippe's chin. They are the same height and for a moment they are so close that Menalippe can feel Hippolyta's breath against her lips. And then Hippolyta kneels. She grasps Menalippe's knees, touches her forehead to them, kisses them, looks up again towards Menalippe's face. "Menalippe, strategos of the Amazons," she says. Her voice breaks. She takes a deep breath. "My daughter has left and my sister lies dead. If ever I bled with you in the world of men, if ever I was good to you, for the sake of my sister whom you love, I beg your pity. I supplicate you. Do not leave me."
Looking up at Menalippe's face, as she speaks, Hippolyta's words gain an edge of desperation.
"Please."
Words said, Hippolyta again sets her forehead against Menalippe's knees.
Menalippe takes Hippolyta by the hands and raises her up. Her mouth is dry. She licks her lips. She hesitates. She wavers. Then, "Sister, I cannot give what is beyond my power." Menalippe swallows. "But this I can give you."
Menalippe closes her eyes. She feels for the places where the threads come together.
"Diana will come home," she says. "She will come from the eastern sky with the sun at her back. Areto will spot her and swift Atalanta will bring the message to you. You will be waiting when she sets foot on Themyscira once more. You'll meet her on the beach. She will look no older but her soul will have aged. When you embrace her, you'll find your love has only grown over the years and that nothing about her has diminished. She'll have come seeking aid and you'll grieve that you do not have longer with her. Fighting beside her, you'll marvel at who she has become. And when the fighting is done, you'll have your time. You will not be alone."
Menalippe opens her eyes once more.
Hippolyta's eyes are a clear, bright blue. The same shade as Antiope's.
Hippolyta's clear, bright eyes are wet with tears.
"I thought…" Hippolyta begins. She stops herself. She tries again. "I wish…"
Menalippe waits. She gives Hippolyta time.
Hippolyta pulls away. She allows Menalippe to release her hands. "Thank you," she says. She swallows. "Will you remain here for the day or are there other preparations you must make?"
"Only the sacrifices remain," Menalippe says. "And those must be made at sundown. I can stay a while."
When they leave the courtyard together, Hippolyta's crown remains on the ground.
[] [] []
They sit side by side in the garden of the palace. They sit beneath a gnarled apple tree.
Even in Themyscira, there is an order to nature.
The branches of the tree are golden with new growth but empty of fruit.
Menalippe and Hippolyta say little to one another.
Hippolyta leans against Menalippe's shoulder.
Overhead, the sun sweeps across the vault of the sky.
[] [] []
The first prayer goes to dead Hermes.
Standing before Antiope's stele, Menalippe pours out honeyed milk, then wine, then water. The sun is setting and the shadows are long. Her hands shake.
Before her, she's set out three pyres. Not far away, Hippolyta waits with a few others – Artemis, Clio, Philippus – whom Menalippe has asked to stand witness.
Menalippe takes a deep breath and then she begins. "Hermes," she says. Her words are quiet when they should be loud. She raises her voice. "Soul-bearing Hermes, who favored me once with your Sight, alongside whom and for whom I once fought, I offer you honey and milk and wine and water to carry my words and my sacrifices into the earth. Hear me, Hermes, and accept these gifts."
The next prayer is to dread Persephone and the prayer after that goes to Hades. For Persephone, Menalippe cuts the throat of a black ewe. To Hades, she gives a black ram. The animal's limbs are bound and so the sacrifice goes easily. She allows their blood to spill out into trenches she dug in the ground and then she raises the bodies onto the pyres. When she lights the pyres, her hands are stained a deep crimson. Thick smoke rises to the empty heavens.
Then, finally, Hippolyta approaches, leading a black mare, the same horse that she offered to Menalippe when first she summoned her sister-in-law to dinner. Hippolyta has always had a gift with horses. The mare is calm as Hippolyta offers the lead to Menalippe. Menalippe takes the lead and sets a hand on the horse's warm neck, running her hand over coarse hair.
Menalippe walks with the horse to the last pyre, still unlit. Hippolyta follows her.
For this prayer, she does not raise her voice.
"Antiope. You have left me alone. Your kleos is great, but it is cold. And you are cold as well, my love, to have deserted me." Menalippe adjusts her grip on the knife in her hand. It is the same knife that she prepared weeks ago for this rite. The hilt is warm with blood. "I am coming to the house of Hades for you," Menalippe says. "I ask that you watch over me in death as you did in life." She hesitates, then, "If ever you cared for me as I still care for you, grant me that I will find you."
Wordlessly, Menalippe gestures to Hippolyta.
Hippolyta has the black mare kneel.
Artemis clubs it hard enough to stun it.
Menalippe cuts its throat. She plunges the knife into the horse's neck up to the hilt and drags.
Its blood pours out into the trench. When the blood thickens and the flow becomes a trickle, the three of them heave the sacrifice onto the pyre.