The train station was a large one, filled with many Europeans walking around in a hustle, tugging their children along, smoking cigars, wearing formal clothing, smoking cigars, buying their train tickets, smoking cigars, saying goodbye to loved ones, did I mention they were smoking cigars? Because that was the most annoying part about the British, they smoked a lot of cigars. Way more than any American I ever knew. Everywhere I looked, a small haze of smoke flowed from a group of people. I almost gagged at the overwhelming scent of the whole place.
Estelle and Cynthia noticed as well, their faces had sour looks and they only took breaths when absolutely necessary.
The station was very dimly lit; most of the light shown in through the windows, but some came artificially. And around any light bulb in the building, a small cloud of smoke radiated the light, almost like an aura.
Black leather furniture decorated the main lobby, and many waiting passengers lounged across the sofas and chairs, most focusing on a newspaper or book, waiting for their train. A woman behind the main desk focused most of her attention on a typewriter, but occasionally stopping to answer a fax or tend to a passenger. She was young, wearing a blue dress with floral print, the color blended in perfectly against the contrast of her eyes, and her long blond hair rested perfectly on her shoulders. I glanced at the girls.
"I don't think a train is such a good idea," I admitted, looking from Estelle to Cynthia. And of course, the 'perfect one' had a sarcastic comment to add.
"Do you expect us to walk all the way to Germany?" Estelle asked.
"No," I snapped. "But a train has no exits, if we're ambushed, we'll have limited fighting space. Plus, there are a lot of ways to die on a train."
"From what I gathered, you're quite the fan of death." She retorted, as if it were some kind of joke. A picture of Megaera flickered into my mind. The way she had told me about the punishment, the lust and hunger in her eyes. My blood boiled. There was no doubt in my mind my father had been behind the punishment. He didn't care about me. Sometimes I thought he invented things to make my life more miserable. Most likely he did.
"Shut up, Estelle," Cynthia demanded. She turned to me. "If you really don't want to take a train, we can find another way to get to Germany." She looked back at Estelle "No matter how long it takes."
I looked back at the main desk, where the woman was now printing tickets for a man holding two brown suitcases. "No, we'll manage." I said finally.
When we approached the beautifully polished wooden desk, the woman looked up at us for a moment, then back at her typewriter. She typed a few more words, and turned her attention back on us. "May I help you?"
"How much would tickets to Germany cost us?" Estelle asked, jumping straight to the point.
"Well, lets see if there's any seats left..." she directed her attention to a file on her desk. "We do have a few more seats available at a ridiculously low price. Not including meals." she said, her accent flowing.
"How much?" I asked.
"Four pounds each."
Estelle grimaced. "Sounds icky. Do you have any seats in first class?" the woman looked her over, judging whether or not she thought we would be able to pay. She reluctantly let her eyes drift off to her file again.
"Five," she told us, then added. "But are you sure you can pay that?"
"But of course," Estelle answered, looking pleased. But Cynthia and I knew we barely pay the four pounds... and we only had American money. Estelle pulled a single American dollar from her sack. She snapped. But it was no ordinary snap. The sound ricocheted in my mind, echoing over and over. She handed the worker the bill. She looked at the paper-money, and her eyes lit up with surprise. Estelle had manipulated the mist. Why hadn't I thought of that. Oh, right, because I'm not perfect like her.
"Don't you want to know how much tickets cost?" The woman asked. She pushed a tuft of hair from her eyes.
"Not really," Estelle said, somewhat snidely. "Just get me three tickets and you can keep the change." As if Estelle were her queen, the English employee immediately printed four tickets and handed them to us. "Thanks," Estelle said, and we walked away.
"The train leaves in about fifteen minutes." The woman called after is. "Although it may be delayed... it's snowing in Germany."
"Gotcha," Estelle said back, holding thumbs-up sign over her head. When we sat down and I was sure I was out of earshot of anyone else, I glared at Estelle.
"That was stupid. What if we get caught? We could be thrown in jail."
Her smile faded, and she looked at me, as if trying to call me a bunch of dirty words with her facial expression. "We're not going to get caught, Greg. Only when they count the money will they notice that bill, and by that time, I hope we'll be halfway to Germany."
"But what happens when the station contacts the train and tells them that there are three people on the train that paid with a one dollar bill in American money? They'll throw us off at the nearest stop and have us arrested, that's what." Cynthia scolded. She looked consciously back at the woman at the desk, who was, once again, leaning over her typewriter.
"It's not like they have proof it was us who paid with the American money. They won't throw anyone off if they're not sure who it was." Estelle argued.
"Let's see... pretend you're the person who works here," I said, Estelle began to tie her hair up. "You sold a bunch of tickets to all Europeans, and then there were three American teenagers who paid with a large amount of money and told you to keep the change. Who would you say paid with the whack bill?"
"Look," Estelle began apprehensively. "Let's just let it go, and see what happens. I'm sure everything will be fine."
--1--
If you're anything like me, you don't feel comfortable in small enclosed spaces. It can't be called claustrophobia, because it's more of a paranoia.
Now, imagine me, on a train. I was shaking harder than any chihuahua I'd ever seen. It got really bad as the train started leaving the station, and I knew we wouldn't be able to get off if we got into any sort of trouble.
The good thing, though; we had our own private quarters. Just a little room that had a bench stretched across the three walls, and a sliding-glass door that led into the outside hallway. There was a small window that exposed the outside world as our train zipped past it. The leather seat felt cold against my butt, but I wasn't going to complain. I would have rather been inside than out. We had thrown our backpacks onto the tan carpet, making it difficult to walk around.
The employees to the train past the hall quite often, and when they did, Cynthia would lean her head against the wall, and take a deep breath.
"Every time they pass by, I feel like they're coming to get us." she admitted.
"Me too," I told her. "I even said a prayer to Hestia."
"Hestia?" Cynthia asked. "Why Hestia?"
"Well, not always Hestia," I corrected. "Sometimes Artemis. They've just always seemed to be the most worthy of prayer."
"Pray to either of them to keep us from getting caught." Cynthia said, her head collapsing into her hands with frustration.
"Will you relax?" Estelle asked. "We're not going to get caught."
"I will not relax," Cynthia growled. "And what makes you think we won't get caught? Can you see the future now, too?"
"Huh?" Estelle asked, befuddled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Cynthia added meanly. "That ever since you joined up with us, you've acted like a snob. You think you're perfect, but we think you're a bitch. You act like you're better than both of us, and we're sick of it."
I'd known Cynthia a while, and I'd never seen her act so much like her father. She was beginning to change... change into something I wouldn't like. Another attempt by Hades to keep me isolated. Why doesn't he just kill her?
"You think I'm perfect?" Estelle asked, then she turned in my direction to ask her second question. "We?" there was a sparkle of held back tears in her eyes.
I glanced at the window above her head, avoiding eye-contact. "We."
She looked at both of us briefly. Then she suddenly became interested in the ceiling. "I... I didn't realize you two felt this way." she stood up from her seat, wobbling a bit from the movement of the train. "I'll just... just get out of your way. Good luck finding Achilles in Germany." I could hear her voice break slightly.
There was something I had forgotten about the children of Demeter and Persephone. They weren't good with pain, physical or emotional. We had hardly known Estelle for a week, yet she still cried when she heard what we truly though of her. Just like her mother. Even after thousands of years of Persephone leaving to the Underworld annually, Demeter still felt the pain of the loss, even though she knew it was only for a little while. I seemed to notice things about people in this way. I noticed the certain personalities and attributes that heroes received from their immortal parent, not just their fighting abilities, but something deeper than that.
She gathered her pack, and stumbled out the door. "Estelle?" I cried after her, but she ignored me, and turned down the hallway in a run. She pushed past a few passengers, practically knocking them to the floor.
I stood up to go after her, but Cynthia raised her hand up in protest. "She just needs time to settle down. She'll be back in a while."
I hoped so, though I didn't say it. I didn't like her, but that didn't mean I wanted her hurt. That was something about the children of Hades I didn't understand. They have a compassion to feel the pain of another human being, even though their father has to be the foulest, cruelest man alive. I've always thought that compassion came with an understanding of death, knowing that life truly is short, and that you need to live it to the fullest. Yes, I talk about the children of Hades like I'm not one. There's a reason for that, I think you should know that reason by now.
I leaned my head back, bracing it against the head of the chair and the wall. I took one last glance out the window, I could see light snow beginning to fall from the sky. I closed my eyes with that mental picture running through my mind.
Which made the dream I had even more bizarre.
I was on top of a beautiful green-grassed hill, the sun shown bright midday, a woman in a straw hat, surrounded by two children not even half her height. They all three wore dresses, showing they were all girls. They were all African-American.
It was Elana, I just knew it.
I followed them uphill, I wasn't getting hot or tired as I would in real life, but the sun still blinded me.
We stopped at the top of the hill, which overlooked a long lake, with crystal-clear waters and low-lapping waves.
"Are you sure we should be out here, Momma?" the oldest daughter asked Elana, who smiled back at her. "What if the Master catches us?"
"That old mule ain't gonna' get us." she answered simply.
"But we really should be working," the younger one said, almost guilty. Both the kids wore ragged blue or red dresses with matching sun-faded bonnets. The youngest one looked to be about six, with her two front teeth missing. The elder girl looked about nine, and was about a foot taller than the other.
"Well, ain't that a cryin' shame?" Elana asked, placing her hands delicately on her hips. "I finally sneak my girls away for some fun, and all they can think about is work!" I was quite impressed, Elana's vocabulary had improved since she'd been dead. She was wearing a long dark purple dress with a dirt-stained apron and a torn straw hat.
"Why we gotta' work all day anyways?" The youngest one asked, placing her hands on her hips, careful to do it just as her mother had. Elana got down on her knees, meeting the height of her daughter. She gripped both her shoulders.
"Darlin' me and your father tried to explain it to you a couple of times before, I don't think we can until you're a little older. But these people—" she braced herself to finish the sentence,"white people. They think we're... different from them 'cause our skin is black. They don't like us, baby."
"I hate white people." Stated the older girl, crossing her arms over her chest. Elana stood up and was looking down at her in a heartbeat.
"I don't want to hear you say that ever again." Elana told her, calmly but sternly.
"It's true." She replied defiantly.
"It may be, Stephani" Elana said. "But the hatred against us started when the first white man said 'I hate blacks' we can feel the same hatred in us, but it ain't gonna' get us nowhere."
"So they can hate us, and hurt us and sell us like pets, but we can't hate them back?" The one called Stephani asked. "That don't seem too fair."
"It ain't fair," Elana explained. "But we just gotta' keep prayin' and hope things'll get better."
"I want things to get better real soon, Momma, real soon." The littlest one said.
Elana picked her up. "Me too, baby, me too."
"Well ain't that touching?" I turned around. A white man was behind me, he held a whip in one hand, and a strap of leather connected to a bloodhound's collar in the other. Stephani shuffled to hide behind her mother.
"Malcolm," Elana began frantically. "It was my fault, don't punish my girls, if you're going to hit someone, hit me."
"Oh, don't worry, Elana, you'll get your turn." Malcolm said. He dropped the leash and his dog scurried to the lake down the hill. He cracked his whip, and a sharp, snapping noise disturbed the perfect afternoon atmosphere. I heard a small whimper come from Stephani.
I wanted to get in front of them draw my sword, and tear apart this guy limb from limb. But he passed straight through me, as Elana and her girls started backing up.
"Don't run, Elana, it'll only make things worse." The owner warned. Elana dropped her youngest daughter to the grass, who joined her sister behind their mother. Malcolm lashed out at Elana, and the whip immediately pierced her skin, she cried in pain and staggered backwards, unintentionally leaving the girls exposed. Malcolm slung his whip again, this time, it struck the youngest girl, sending her to the ground. Elana and Stephani watched in horror as he moved closer to the little girl, intending to strike again. Ignoring the blood gushing from a cut dangerously close to her eye, Elana rushed to her daughter, reaching out and grabbing the whip from her owner.
Before Elana even had a chance to attack him, his fist flew towards her face, and I heard the crack of her jaw as she dropped the whip. Malcolm retrieved it, and held it over his head, he was hitting to kill now.
He began to sling it, to end Elana's life, when he suddenly cried out in pain himself. He fell to the grass.
"Eleanor!" Cried Elana, almost in a lecture. But Malcolm grabbed the girl's leg, and Eleanor fell to the grass beside him. "No!" she screamed in horror as she watched the white man produce a knife from his belt. She made a move to ambush him, but was too late. He stabbed her in the chest. Her bulged out, and she screamed in pain.
Elana fell to her knees in the grass, screaming in horror, her tears mixing with the blood on her face. Malcolm stood as Elana grabbed her daughter into her arms. She stared into his eyes, which were full of hate.
"Be back within ten minutes, or I'm coming after the other three with a shotgun. I ain't playin' nanny to your goddamn brats." Malcolm threatened, and turned to walk away.
Elana and Stephani hovered over Eleanor, both sobbing unconditionally. I was aware of the tragedy I had just witnessed, the death, and somehow knew it wouldn't be my last. I knew this had really happened, which made it even worse. I could feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, though they seemed to disappear as they reached the bones of my chin.
"Can we hate white people now, Momma?" Stephani asked between sobs. Elana held her lifeless daughter against her chest, her own blood mixing with the girl's. Tears fell off her face and landed on Eleanore's dress. Stephani rested her head against her sister's chest, and they all sat on the grass, huddled, crying and lonely. The girls arm with a thin line of blood draped over Elana's knee.
"My baby, my sweet little angel." Elana sobbed hysterically as she stroked the girl's hair, leaving trails of blood on her forehead.
"Momma?" I heard it very faintly, but the girl was speaking. She coughed up blood. It was a miracle that she wasn't dead, but that just meant she'd have more pain, taking her time to die. "Tell daddy I love him, and Sam and Teddy. Tell them all."
"I will baby, don't you worry."
Eleanore's voice was raspy, but she sang, it was the same song Elana had sung in the Labyrinth. "Swing low, sweet chariot, coming—" she coughed again.
"Coming for to carry me home, swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home." Elana finished for her, wiping tears from her own eyes.
"I'm goin' home, Momma. Home where I ain't gonna' work all day. Where the clouds are pure white and the streets are paved in gold." Eleanore said, and a smile crossed her face.
"I looked over Jordan, and what did I see?" Elana began singing again, she looked to Eleanore for a response. She said nothing. "What did you see?" Still no response. But after a few short seconds, the girl repeated:
"I'm goin' home Momma, I'm goin' home."
I knew what Elana was feeling. I had experienced it myself. She felt sick, horrified, and heartbroken. It was an experience she would never forget. It would be her most vivid memory. She'd remember every last detail up until the last grueling moment. But out of everything, she felt alone. Alone, all though she had everyone she needed to keep her sane, she still felt, and always will feel, alone.
--2--
I woke to the sounds of commotion in the hallway. It took me a few minutes to remember where I was, and what all had happened within my last few minutes of being awake.
I looked out the window. The daytime sky had faded to black, and there wasn't much to be seen, except the pure white blanket of snow that covered the ground. My eyes drifted to Cynthia, who was asleep, lying flat on her bench. Estelle was still gone. How long had it been since she left? Where did she go? I got up, stepping carefully over the packs on the floor, and started to shake Cynthia. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands.
"Huh? Greg?" She asked incoherently.
"Come on," I ordered. "Estelle never came back. We need to go find her." Visions from my dream were swirling through my head. The blood, the tears, the happiness beforehand.
"Have you been crying?" Cynthia asked, looking me over skeptically. I wiped at my eyes, dry tears that had shed during my dream left their mark. The collar of my shirt was soaked.
"No," I said defensively. "Come on."
Cynthia slung her feet over the leather and to the floor reluctantly. "Do we really have to find her? We're better off without her."
"Look, no we're not, okay?" I snarled. "The Furies assigned her to my group, I have to follow what the Furies say, if I don't, they'll punish me."
"Punish you?" Cynthia asked, grabbing her backpack. "Punish you how? And since when do you listen to the Furies? You hate anything to do with the Underworld and your father. We'd be better off to just go our separate ways with Estelle. We would work so much better just the two of us. You know, partners in crime." My mind instantly trailed off to Bonnie and Clyde back at the diner. They'd been 'partners in crime', and how had that turned out for them? Not too well.
"Like it or not, Estelle is a valuable asset. Without her, we wouldn't have known where Achilles was, and we probably wouldn't be on this train right now." I told her. She had caught me in a bad mood.
"Don't snap at me, Gregory," she ordered. "And why are you defending her? You were the one who agreed with me a few hours ago in England that she was snobby and arrogant."
"Yeah, but I didn't know you were going to snap at her like a hungry pack of wolves." I said angrily. "She's a person, just like you and me. With feelings, emotions and insecurities. I know children of Ares are meant to look past all that—"
"Whoa, hold up," she said defensively. "What do you mean 'meant to look past that'?"
"I mean," I said, blood boiling. I could still feel the dry tears on my cheeks and in the corners of my eyes. "Ares's kids are supposed to be killing machines—most aren't, but all still have their genes operated in a fashion to ignore the guilt that comes with causing other creatures' pain."
She put her hands on her hips. "What exactly are you saying to me?"
"Never mind." I just gave up, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and heading for the hallway. The visions from my dreams were still running through my mind. The blood, the death, the sorrow of that tragic moment as the little girl took her last breath. She had sacrificed herself for her mother, something I wished I could've done.
Cynthia grabbed my arm. "Stop. Finish what you started." I could see the blind rage in her eyes, telling me she was not playing around. For the first time, Cynthia looked like she wanted to kill someone. Her expression was firm and strong, like stone.
"I intend to." I told her, yanking free from her and walking through the door and into the hallway. What I had just said had nothing to do with Cynthia. I found a trains station employee pushing a trolley of snacks through the narrow path way. "Excuse me, where are we?"
"We're in Poland, can't tell you where exactly, seeing as I don't know, but from what I understand, we should be arriving in Germany on schedule." she replied.
Cynthia filed in behind me as the worker pushed her cart down the hall. "I'm not finished with you, Greg."
"I don't want to talk about it." I said, starting to make my way into the dining hall, the only place I figured we had a chance of finding Estelle.
"Well I do," she said in a hushed tone as a group of Europeans passed us. "You practically called me heartless, and told me I wasn't a good person because I blew up in one person's face."
"I said I don't want to talk about it." I growled. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she had changed into a long blue skirt and a long sleeved button shirt. I knew her knife was in her pack, and my sword in mine.
"I don't give a damn whether you want to talk about or not!" She cried, getting the attention of other people in the hall. She lowered her voice again. "You really talked down to me, I'm not a bad person. Who was the one that slept with you in the small shack on stormy or cold nights so you wouldn't be alone? Who walked with you to the cemetery every night for protection when you wanted to contact your mother? And who left their life behind at camp when you cut yourself?"
I turned around, by this time, we were just outside the dining car. "But I didn't ask you to do all that!" I yelled. "You did that. No one made the decision for you!"
"I did it because I care about you." Her voice broke a little. "Don't you care about me?"
"No." I lied, my voice a perfect even tone. The truth was, I did like her, but I didn't like that stakes she was putting herself at because of me. She was the closest thing I had ever had to a friend since my mom died, and it killed me inside to hurt her the way I did, but in the long run, she would benefit from it. She wouldn't die.
I didn't dare meet her eyes. "Fine," she said. "After I make sure Estelle's alright, and the train stops in Germany, I'll leave you alone, go my own way, just like Estelle. Maybe I'll see you in Erebus Stronghold, maybe even on the battlefield, but if I don't, have a nice life." She said this with deep pain painted in her voice.
"Since when do you care if Estelle is alright?" I asked, trying to keep the illusion. What I really wanted to say is Please! I'm sorry! Don't go! I need you! I'm... I'm just afraid to get to close to you!
"Since I recently discovered what it feels like to be hurt." She grumbled and pushed in front of me and into the dining car.
It felt like my heart had been ripped out again. I guessed everyday of my life would be like this. It always seemed to go that way for me. First, I watch a girl die, then, I lose my best friend.
A/N Alright, this chapter was going to be longer, but I'm dividing it up into two, since the first half was longer than I expected.
Next chapter, you will meet some mythological figures, and there will be a fight!
And on my last chapter, you all questioned why I used 'status' instead of 'class'. As I explained to the reviewers that asked, 'status' would refer not only to the amount of money you have, but it would also refer to how you're treated in society. Whereas, if I just said 'class', you would instantly think of money. Does that make sense?
Oh, and please, don't waste you time telling me about all the grammatical errors that Elana and her daughters made. I did that on purpose, they're slaves, of course they're not going to talk well.
