Pherenike - Chapter 118

Most of the time, the hours passed in silence, but every now and then someone would mention Pherenike. Just idle talk about the days when Deucalion was a little boy, and Pherenike was a girl with long, braided hair—stories that were already slipping into the past.

Atalanta found herself repeatedly scraping at a wall so hard not even the smallest stone came loose, then shaking her head and walking on again.

Was this the path to Ogygia? Deucalion had described it many times—how Pherenike would come to him through one of Calyce’s maze-like caves.

But she’d never been there herself, so how could she know? The only thing certain was that this was not any of the caves she remembered from Paetusa.

It was then that a faint light appeared. The mist surrounding Atalanta cleared, and the dry touch of air met her damp nose. The fog still flickered in her vision, but now it was only dust.

The lioness quickened her pace, and soon, through rows upon rows of endless chests in a huge chamber, she saw a woman collapsed as if dead, a broken lyre beside her.

That tumble of silvery hair was instantly familiar. Even after all these years apart, she could never forget her mistress’ scent.

[Pherenike!]

The lioness leapt over the chests and bounded forward. She pressed her nose to her mistress’ head, tilting it gently skyward, and then nudged the fragile human’s shoulder with the softest part of her cheek, careful not to hurt her.

She first checked the slow rise and fall of Pherenike’s chest to make sure she was breathing. Only then did the lioness lower herself to the ground, panting, and realize, this must be a dream. Yet her heart raced, denying the difference between dream and waking.

The lioness thought of Deucalion, who lay soaked in blood. Every time she stood on the edge of losing something precious, she grew afraid, even resentful, of what she had come to love. Despite having already lost so much.

Despite living her second life now.

[…Pherenike.]

[……]

[Pherenike.]

Atalanta gently laid her head on her mistress’ stomach and called her name. Of course, there was no answer. The sleeping woman’s face looked peaceful, but her ragged breathing told a different story.

[How have you been?]

[……]

[I… I’ve been quite well in Paetusa.]

Nearly ten years had passed since they parted. Once, the lioness was a small cub who first met a nine-year-old girl; now, she was old again, and the mistress who left at nineteen had a face grown unfamiliar with the passing years.

She was a little bitter at the lost time between them, but at least—for humans, this was still the best and brightest age. Pherenike was still young, even more beautiful than in the lioness’s memories.

[If we meet again, I suppose there won’t be much time left for us together.]

[……]

[But at least you’ll still have plenty of time with Deucalion. Humans live much longer than lions, after all. Isn’t that right?]

[……]

[I’m glad.]

The lioness gazed at the sleeping woman, just as she once lay beside her as a cub on the girl’s bed, wishing that if this really was a dream, it would last forever and never end.

The lioness and the girl had often met and spoken to each other in dreams, and even after waking, they always remembered what the other had said, as clearly as if it had happened in the real world.

But since they’d been separated by distance, they hadn’t met like that anymore. Dreams faded back into dreams, illusions dissolved into nothing. Still, even illusions were precious—if only because they were the things she loved most in all the world, even if they were fleeting.

[…Atalanta?]

Even before her eyelids fluttered open, Pherenike recognized her without seeing—her presence, her weight, her breath, her scent… all the things she could still remember without needing to see.

For a moment, something flickered across the usually expressionless face of the beast—a look as close to a smile as a lion could have. The big lioness, who still seemed to think she was a small pup, bounded into her mistress’ arms in joy.

Pherenike coughed but still wrapped her arms around the lioness. Atalante licked her cheeks and brow, her own way of smiling as she nuzzled her mistress.

[Why are you coughing? Are you sick? What’s wrong?]

[It’s just the dust… But how are you even here?]

[Where is here?]

The lioness finally took a look around. Then, for a moment, she followed her mistress’ silent gaze. At Pherenike’s feet, a broken lyre lay rolling.

[…This is Heliodora’s sanctuary.]

[Who was that, again?]

[Just a woman who, long ago, did the same work as me.]

Slowly, Pherenike sat up and reached for the lyre at her feet. She gripped it so tightly it looked as though she might crush it, then finally tossed it into a chest and slammed the lid shut.

Her profile was cold and pale in the silence, as if she were measuring something only she could see. But when she turned back to Atalante, her face lit up, as if she were an entirely different person.