A Bronze Feather
His actions were on her.
Athena stormed into her quarters, looking at Icarus fall was the last straw. She begged Apollo to stop the sun shining, to cushion his fall, something! She cannot shake the image of the bronze feathers whittling from the wings.
People don’t think that she cries, being the wisdom goddess and all that. As if there is no wisdom in accepting what you’re feeling and processing them in a healthy way. But today, she cried herself to sleep.
Her dreams were not pleasant.
She remembers being constrained. The pink being the only thing she can see for miles. Why does she feel constrained then? The claustrophobia making her nauseous, she looks for exits.
Every once in a while she sees electrical shocks and visions. Most of it is quite inappropriate to describe but she sees armour and weapons. She puts them on and waits her turn. Patience is key, is what she keeps repeating to herself when she clangs her weapons. Finally, when the visions distort beyond recognition, she pushes against the barrier. Eyes closed, she tumbles out clumsily but lands gracefully. Nothing can prepare her for what she faces.
Zeus. The king of Gods.
The dream shifts. She’s at a weaving competition. Clearly winning. Her tapestry showing the destructive power of hubris, whereas her rival weaves an amorous interaction. When she stares at her rivals work, all she sees is perfection. Consumed with envy, she turns Arachne into a spider, weaving for all eternity. Not one of her best moments.
She expects them to stop so she can wake up. Dreams are messages, a lesson. Athena knows that better than anybody.
The dream shifts again. This time it’s her son Daedalus walking with Perdix. She knows what is about to happen, she cannot stop it, she won’t wake up. All she can do is walk with them. Perdix is inquisitive, ambitious and the most adorable grand-nephew she could ask for. It takes all her resolve to not go there and squish his cheeks when he invents the saw and the compass. Maybe because she was distracted by Perdix, which is why she didn’t notice the scowl on Daedalus’ face. Consumed with envy, he throws Perdix off the Acropolis. The pit in her stomach only grows deeper when she has to brand a partridge on her favourite son’s shoulder.
They stop.
She wakes with a start. Her face is ashen, puffy and visibly tired.
Ego ftaio gia ola. It’s all my fault.
She mutters these words to herself, till they don’t have any meaning.
Nobody knows what it’s like being the Virgin Goddess. Normal mothers feel responsible for their children. Athena is her children. They are born out of her thoughts. The interaction between her and her suitors is purely intellectual.
Daedalus inherited the worst part of her supreme intellect. Envy. Better yet, hubris. The hypocrisy crumbles her from the inside. She knows the smart thing is to take responsibility and move on. How can she? Does she doom all her descendants this way? Did she brand his son as a reminder of her stupidity?
His actions were on her.
No amount of lament will absolve her sins. And now the fates have taken the one thing Daedalus had. His son. Sweet, sweet Icarus.
A bronze feather falls on her cheek. A thought.
It’s the thought that Icarus could push himself towards the sun that made him fall.
A thought.
Thoughts.
Now, whenever we do something stupid or envious or push ourselves towards burnout, Athena whispers thoughts into our ears. To take a breath and think. A subtle nudge to do the right thing. A soft bronze feather.
