A lone figure stood at the summit of the mountain, overlooking the vast forestland below. In the distance, a dark blemish stained the land, blotted out from existence – the first of the many undoings to come.
He breathed in deeply, reveling in the fresh air that filled his lungs. A smile grew on his lips. Oh, what a time to be alive!
"We will be free of this stone coffin soon enough," he whispered into the winds. "Can you hear me, father, grandfather? This land shall be ours to rule once again." Laughter bubbled past his pale lips and he spread his arms out, feeling the breeze caress his naked skin. It was better than he'd remembered. All these centuries of waiting and finally, the end was in sight.
"The titans will walk the earth again and we will bring back the golden age."
This, he promised with his life.
Clarke was...not in her own body.
Perplexed, she raised a hand and flexed the fingers experimentally, feeling the joints unfurl as if for the first time. No, these were not her hands. They were too big and far more calloused than her own.
Her arms were muscled and covered in scars, her biceps as big as mini watermelons. She palmed her face, eyebrows furrowing at the feel of stubble on her chin. She looked down. Half her chest was exposed to the open air, flat and chiseled. A simple dirty white linen toga draped over her left shoulder, falling down her body, fastened around her waist with a length of string. Her feet were bare but for a pair of leather sandals.
Clarke turned and there across the small tent, her reflection stared back at her in the form of a cracked mirror.
She was a six foot tall Grecian soldier.
Holy Hades–
Her hands flew back to her face in disbelief, trying to confirm that what she felt and what she saw were indeed reality. She took a step closer toward the mirror and slowly reached out, sliding a finger across the glass.
Di immortales, this was real. This was really happening.
Her most striking feature, she couldn't help but notice, was not her impressive beastly build, or even the pink jagged scar that ran down her cheek and jaw. It was her eyes, dark grey-blue and turbulent like a midsummer storm. For a second, she was struck by how attractive she looked before she grew weirded out by the narcissistic inclination.
Deep breaths, she told herself, deep breaths.
Before she could freak out even further – because what in Sweet Persephone was happening? – a loud commotion outside the tent caught her attention. Men cheered and hollered at the top of their lungs. They were chanting something, their shouts echoing like thunder around her. Clarke strained her ears to listen.
" Aristos Achaion! Aristos Achaion! Aristos Achaion!"
The best of the Greeks , Clarke translated.
A rush of familiarity shot through her chest.
It couldn't be.
She pushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside, momentarily blinded by the bright sun and the reflection against the soft white sands. The scent of salty ocean water lingered in the air.
Around a hundred feet or so away, a crowd had gathered on the beach, fists and weapons raised in boisterous spirit. The crowd moved, opening and closing, parting for someone. Amidst the sea of dark locks, Clarke caught a passing glimpse of blonde hair that glinted like gold under the heavy sun.
Her feet moved instinctively. She knew who it was before she even saw him. The crowd separated and he appeared before her like a god.
Achilles, the greatest Greek warrior who ever lived.
Her breath caught in her chest. She'd seen Achilles in the Underworld before, but that shadow of a man held nothing to this living breathing legend. The Achilles that stood before her now glowed with life, literally, as if the rays of the sun bent to his strong will — the perfect image of a Greek hero.
On the contrary, darkness clung to Achilles's soul in the afterlife. He'd seemed so defeated and burdened despite his non-living being.
It struck Clarke, just how far someone could fall.
"Greatness is a choice."
Clarke turned, surprised by the voice. No one was there, but Clarke recognized the solemn tone.
"It comes with a steep price. Are you willing to pay it?"
Clarke turned back towards Achilles, who shined like the gods. Unstoppable and untouchable. She wondered if those chilling words of warning were meant for her or for his past self who so challenged and defied the gods, unafraid of the world.
"I made my decision. Now you must make yours."
The scene shifted.
The slight scent of salt in the air was replaced with the heavy metallic twang of iron. It clung to her nostrils and lingered on her tongue. The cries around her were not of glorious victory, but desperate shouts and declarations of bloodshed – the clanging of metal against metal a constant chaotic symphony.
Her sword was heavy in her hand and slick with blood. Her fingers cramped from holding onto the handle so tightly, but she refused to drop her weapon. Her legs and chest burned like the forges of Hephaestus but she moved without pause knowing that stopping meant certain death on the battlefield. She hacked and fought without aim except to survive and to live another day.
Her back suddenly tingled with imminent danger. She turned, too slow. A large axe slammed down onto her head, blocked in the last second by a blade not her own. Without wasting any time, Clarke forced her xiphos into the enemy's neck. He fell choking on his own blood. Clarke looked up at her savior who was already moving away on feather-light feet.
A name bubbled to the front of her consciousness, one she knew from her AP Lit class, and one she knew personally, at least in this life.
Odysseus, king of Ithaca and hero of the Odyssey.
Future hero, her mind corrected.
"Do not lose focus, Kleros!" Odysseus shouted, eyes bright with uncommon wisdom, before jumping into the next violent fray.
Kleros.
Clarke turned and brought her left arm up, blocking a blow with her shield. She speared her sword forward, catching her opponent on his leg and striking him down. He was quickly trampled to death by enemies and allies alike.
Kleros was her name. Kleros of Elis. She remembered now, bits and pieces of her old life, before she was brought here to fight this war.
Across the battlefield, her eyes met another's. And against all her hard earned experience, she froze.
More memories fizzled to the surface. A night spent together in secrecy. Entangled limbs and dominating tongues. A love witnessed only by the moonlit night. An enemy she held dear.
Alexios of Troy, her lover.
Sea green eyes widened, darting to a space behind Clarke, flashing with urgent warning.
Instinctively, Clarke ducked and swung her sword around as she dropped. A pained scream sounded over her as a body crumpled to the ground by her feet. She straightened back up, immediately searching for those eyes again.
They were angry, but even with a horde of fighting men between them, Clarke could tell the admonishment was laced with relief.
"Do not die, you idiot!" She could just hear his voice in her head.
Despite it all, Clarke's lips lifted into a smile, hidden by the shadows of her ill-fitted helmet. No, she would not die. She promised after all. They would both survive this hideous war.
She gave him a nod. "You too." Then she turned and smashed her blade into the nearest enemy.
The scene shifted once more. Clarke was older now, still in Kleros's body. She looked down at her hands and noticed there were more scars than before. Despite her arms looking stronger, her body felt heavier. She ached with an old weariness that sunk deeper than skin and muscle. It was hard to discern how much time had passed, only that it had felt like a lifetime.
Before her, a wooden horse stood proudly in the middle of an empty beach, so tall it blocked out the sunlight. It was a majestic sight and had it not been for the heavy sadness in her heart, Clarke might've felt awe standing in its final completed presence. But through the years, her heart had forfeited most of her old passions and all she wanted now was for the war to end.
To go home and heal from her broken heart. Maybe then she'll feel again. Something other than this bitterness that threatened to consume her everyday.
She understood now, what had robbed Achilles of his former glory. The grief that had destroyed him. The anger that had driven him mad.
It was scary to find the anger so familiar, in more than just this one lifetime.
A light breeze blew from inland and a presence settled next to her. Clarke recognized the shift of energy in the air. She turned and looked into eyes that resembled hers, but they held more wisdom and power than she could ever imagine.
She bowed her head, a little more reluctantly than perhaps she'd done in the past.
"My lady."
Her ever knowing patron, the Lady of Wisdom, gazed upon the impressive wooden monument.
"Were you the one who planted the idea in the king's head?" asked the goddess of war.
Clarke shook her head. "The king is smart. He birthed the idea from his own merits. I merely encouraged his musings."
The goddess hummed. "Odysseus is a wise man, but he is still just a man, and like all men, he is blind to certain happenings in the world and in his own person." She shifted so her gaze fell on Clarke. "As are you."
Clarke was no fool. That was what had earned her Athena's respect in the first place. She knew exactly what her blindspot was and she would never, could never, regret it. She bowed her head even lower, stifling the brewing fire within. It was futile trying to hide anything from the gods, but this, this love , this ever doomed love, was hers, hers and Alexios' alone.
Soon, she thought to herself. Soon, they would be reunited.
"Troy will fall," said the goddess, "as will many civilizations after it. The Fates have deemed it so. Do not let your efforts go to waste here. You could have glory and fame and anything you could ever want if you survive this, a whole kingdom under your name if you wished it so."
Clarke clenched her jaws in case she accidentally said something unsavory in front of the goddess. It was foolish, she knew, to question and deny the goddess of wisdom. However, unlike in her youth when she eagerly followed Odysseus to fight in this war for him, she no longer wanted glory or fame. The only thing she wanted, she couldn't have. Athena claimed this love would ruin her. She had no idea Clarke was already ruined.
The goddess shifted and Clarke could feel the disappointment radiating off of her.
"It seems history will repeat itself again," Athena commented cryptically, disappearing as quickly as she came. Clarke had a feeling that would be the last time she would see the gods in this lifetime. She didn't care.
The scene changed again.
In stark contrast to the burning beaches and overwhelming heat of the Aegean sun, Clarke found herself buried knee deep in snow in the middle of a mountain top. Her body shivered uncontrollably as any remaining heat was violently sucked from her body. She tucked into herself for warmth and noticed that she was back inside her own body.
Damn. She was going to miss being six feet tall.
She scanned her surroundings, vaguely recognizing the landscape from the last time she'd demigod-dreamt. Unlike last time however, there was no furious blizzard. Everything had an eerie stillness to it, almost like she'd been dropped into a picture of the Arctic, a frozen moment in time.
"Hello?" she called out. Her voice echoed off the far mountains, bouncing back in broken fragments. Her ears picked up on a low rumbling in the distance.
A woman's voice, guttural and gravelly, imbued with divine power, called out from beyond the depths of the snow.
"The gods are cruel, Clarke Griffin. You will see that soon."
Clarke recognized the voice.
"You again!" She shouted out into the void, teeth chattering. "What do you want from me? Why do you keep bringing me here?"
Laughter echoed through the air. "It is not a question of what I want from you, but what you want from me."
"I don't want anything!" Clarke shouted.
It was a lie – Clarke had a long list of wants – but she also had a very low trust of creepy omniscient voices.
"Anything you could ever want," Athena's words from before replayed in Clarke's mind. They left a bad taste in her mouth.
Still, a sliver of temptation rose inside of her — bring back my friends, stop the war against the demititans, rescue the ones still stuck in the Mountain — but she forced the wishes down, refusing to let them slip past her lips. She knew better than most to be wary of gifts given so freely by the gods.
"I don't want anything!" she repeated, strengthening her resolve. "Not from you, whoever you are!"
"Not now," said the voice. "But you will find yourself wanting soon. And when you do, I will be here, waiting. Find me. Find me when you've finally had enough."
Clarke hated how confident the voice was.
"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "Had enough of what? What do you know?"
The voice didn't answer. It laughed at her expense, retreating back to where it came from.
"Tell me!" She reached to summon her sword. It was not there.
The presence retreated, laughter echoing off the lonely mountain tops, leaving Clarke stranded in an icy wasteland.