The Goddess of Blessed Death

Athena's Peony

Macaria leaves the bath. Death will bring Him to her. Death. It could be her brothers who are next. He could take them from her. He may not be the reason they are dead, but he will separate their souls from their bodies and send them to Hades, where they will live in limbo for all eternity.

She dries herself and throws a loose tunic over her body before withdrawing to her room. She should go to the temple and pray, but she has nothing to offer the goddess that's worthy. She has already given away her greatest treasure, as soon as she got it and for selfish reasons.

Macaria fishes through her chest until she finds her jewel necklace. It was a gift. She can't give away a gift. She continues digging through her things and searching the room. But even all the gold in the world would not be enough. Macaria bends over one of the other chests in her room, hanging her head.

What does it matter.

She changes back into her peplos and leaves for the temple. The closer she gets, the clearer it becomes that it will be crowded. People are still filing towards it. Unintelligible praying and shouting get louder and louder.

A speckle of pink catches Macaria's eye. A peony grows from the ground. Its center is the color of a canary, surrounded by a rich, vibrant pink that crawls up the veins of its soft pink petals.(1) It is not the season or the flower, and yet there it is. Macaria bends down, caresses the delicate petals, and breaks it from the stem. She cups the flower head in her two palms and carries it to the temple, weaving through warriors and their families. It smells of sweat and incense so strongly that Macaria's head swims.

Worshippers place their offerings, which have been piled on top of one another and are wrapping around Athena's statue, and step back for the next people to place theirs. Her lekythos pokes out from among the offerings by the goddess's feet. Athenians stand close together, murmuring and raising their hands in prayer. Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, warriors too, young and old are crying as they pray for protection.

Macaria places her peony before the goddess and steps back before closing her eyes and lifting her palms in prayer. For now, this is all they can do.

The temple is overflowing with Athenian citizens into the late night and early morning. Young children are struggling not to fall asleep; for some, their parent's palms are the only things keeping them awake. Elders hobble in and out, many unable to stay like that for too long. The more desperate fall to their knees, crying and begging. The more limber remain standing and praying, like statues except for their mouths. Priestesses continue to bring out incense, priests leading prayer rituals.

It will remain so until the warriors are called away, and people will remain praying until they have won. And if they lose, it will remain so until blood is spilled on the temple floor.

When Macaria grows dizzy and teeters on her feet, she leaves the temple for breakfast. Inside the citadel palace, someone runs into her and continues on as though they didn't notice. People around her are striding forward. She sees them going into the court hall and follows.

King Demophon is back.

She jogs into court, finding those who have gathered already discussing. Demophon sits on his throne, Acacius and Hyllus stand on either side of him, Iolaus beside Hyllus. Everyone is yelling on top of one another, and Macaria strains to pick out phrases.

"A noblewoman? Just pick the first you can find, who cares if it means we are all spared?"

"Does she have to be a virgin? Pick a whore! Any will do."

"Yes, how are your wife and her lover, Demetrius?"

One of the men shoves the other, but both are quickly separated by nearby soldiers.