Page 52 of Crown of Olympus
Her hot breath brushed across my cheek in steady rhythm, smelling of smoke and toasted marshmallows. She made a trilling noise in the back of her throat, halfway between a wail and a purr, then leaned in closer until her snout bumped my nose.
The bathroom door creaked open, a rush of cold airsweeping in. I heard Charon before I saw him — his footsteps tapping hastily across the tiles.
I turned, meeting his troubled blue eyes.
Before me stood a version of him I’d never met. Gone was the easy smile and solitary dimple, leaving behind someone hollowed out by worry and fear.
“Good, you’re still awake.” He took a deep breath, readying himself for whatever it was he needed to say. I wasn’t sure I could handle more bad news. “I was hoping you would be, so I could ask your permission before potentially killing you myself.”
My brows slashed together, trying to make sense of the words he’d just uttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you remember the tale my mother told us as godlings? The story of Achilles?” He waited for recognition to sink in. I nodded once, perplexed — recalling the tale.
Charon’s mother, Lethe, had tucked us into his absurdly huge bed, pressing a kiss to each of our foreheads. My father had been increasingly absent, and Charon’s had long since met his afterlife.
I’d spent a good portion of my childhood here, in their household.
Lethe sat on the edge of the bed, her presence calm and steady, and I already felt cosy enough to drift off. I stifled a yawn, though, because her stories were always fascinating.
“Tonight I shall tell you the tragedy of Achilles,” Lethe began. “For it is always the heroes whose stories end in despair.” Her gaze lingered on my face, momentarily lost in thought. “Achilles, the son of a mortal king and a sea nymph, had a mother who loved him very much.” Now she gazed at Charon as though he were her greatest gift. I wished I had a mother who looked at me like that.
“Before he was born, a prophecy foretold that Achilles would achieve eternal glory — but at the cost of dying young. So, hismother sought to make him invulnerable. Immortal. When he was born, she brought him to the edge of the River Styx?—”
A small gasp from Charon interrupted her tale, but she simply smiled knowingly at him.
“Yes, my sweet boy. The very same River Styx your father left to you.”
“But Mama! Papa told me never to touch the water!”
“And you should heed his warning, Charon. Achilles’ mother tried to make her own boy so strong he would outlive the prophecy. But what do we know of the Fates?” she asked us both.
“The Fates always find a way.” My small voice wavered. It felt like an ominous thing for a five-year-old to say, but Lethe offered me a kind smile too, and I knew I’d guessed correctly.
“That’s right, my child. So, what do you think happened to Achilles?”
We both sat there, faces scrunched up as though it would aid our minds.
Realising neither of us could answer, Lethe continued. “His mother dipped him into the waters of the River Styx. She held onto one of his ankles, so as not to lose him, and submerged his small body. Through whatever powers the waters possess, they made Achilles’ skin impenetrable. No sword or arrow could harm him, and he grew to be a magnificent warrior, revered among his men. He led them into battle and even killed a great enemy — a prince.
This prince had murdered Achilles’ closest companion. And so, Achilles slew his enemies with a heart full of vengeance and grief. But he was not infallible as his mother had hoped. In holding onto his ankle as a baby, she unknowingly created his fatal flaw.
The prince’s ally — another prince — learned of this vulnerability. Some say a god whispered in his ear. Some say the Fates wove the knowledge into his thread. But the second prince fired an arrow, striking Achilles in his one weak point. The arrow sank into his heel, and Achilles died just as the prophecy had foretold.”
“The water made him invincible, except for that one heel, Nyss,” Charon explained, his eyes boring into mine. “I figured it wouldn’t be wise to dump you into the River while you were still unconscious and barely breathing?—”
“You are not dumping me into the river at all!” I rasped, horrified at the prospect.
“No, I’m not,” he laughed. “But the thing that’s killing you isinsideyou. We need to purge it, from the inside out.”
“No,” I breathed, grimacing.
“You need to drink this, Nyss.Please.”
Charon procured a small vial of grey liquid from a pocket sewn into his wrinkled linen tunic, holding it out so I could see. Its murky contents swirled sluggishly as he shifted, like bottled storm clouds. He tilted it further, and the liquid held onto the glass for a moment longer before sliding down.
I felt sick looking at it, knowing I had to somehow force myself to choke down the slimy substance. I tried to reach for the vial, but my arm didn’t respond. Only a slight shrug of my shoulders and the slosh of the bathwater disturbed the silence.
