Athena - Of The Abandoned

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Athena - Of The Abandoned - book excerpt

Chapter One

Fog hugged the cobblestone streets, a thick field of gloomy miasma penetrating each orifice. It was commonplace, and the residents of the city hardly noticed it any longer. Whether it was steam escaping from the sewer grates or simply water vapor, rising to join the daily grind, the fog had an identity and an atmospheric allure.

The evening had come, and businesses were transitioning. Merchants were locking their doors, headed home to their families or evening frivolities while pubs were swinging their doors open, welcoming those who were tired from the day. Somewhere, music was playing a lively tune, reminding those who heard it of times when life was sweet. The streets were still populated by commuters, either on foot or in carriages, but the hustle was slowing down. Somewhere, a man was walking with his son, telling him how important his studies were. Somewhere, a woman was talking to her friend about the mixed signals her suitor was sending her. Somewhere, a child slept, a young girl wept, and an old man kept a careful ledger of debts owed. Secrets were shared, trust was broken, and relationships were restored. The only entity to see everything was the fog, and it was not going to share information.

The soft light from a streetlamp shone down on a small child. No one saw her, and even if they did, they would not remember her. Her soft brown hair hung messily from her head, tied back into a clumsy braid. Shadowed blue eyes hung heavily over an array of freckles on either side of an impish, slightly upturned nose. Dry, cracked lips that rarely smiled hid an army of yellow and broken teeth. The filthy, patchwork clothing her body was draped in revealed almost as much about her as the set of nearly visible ribs underneath the skin of her torso: she was an urchin, likely an orphan, living on the streets and finding sustenance where she could. Every city has them, and it is regrettable, yet unavoidable. There are always those who slip between the cracks of society, like coins in the gutter. Those who take the time to search for them find treasure, but it hardly seems worth the effort to sift through the refuse.

The little girl navigated the streets with practiced precision. She had been doing this for a long time, after all, and the fog was practically her partner in crime by now. There was a time not long ago when she could walk by a businessman and coins would appear in her pocket, as if by magic. A slight tremble in her parched upper lip would feed her for an evening. Those days were gone now, though. Now, the hunger rumbled in her stomach, but there was no one to feed her and no loaf of bread could be stolen.

No one saw the little girl as she darted from alley to alley, and no one tossed her a coin out of sympathy or checked their pockets to see if coins were missing. Now the cold raked her body, but there was no fire to give her warmth and no blanket to protect her from the elements. The little girl danced between the shadows, always just out of sight, until she reached a specific alley—a sequestered area where two worlds combined. Once there, she stopped dancing, and entered.

A slight, sad, soft voice came from the shadows deeper within the alley. “Hello, Cordelia.”

Peering into the darkness, the little girl spotted the speaker. It was a small boy, slightly younger than she, but dressed in similar attire and likely subscribing to the same dietary restrictions. His matted brown hair lay in tousled clumps, and his gray eyes looked as though they had never stopped crying, while his thin lips seemed as if they had never seen water.

Upon seeing him, the little girl nearly smiled. “Hello, Edmund,” she returned the greeting. She nearly asked him how he felt, but there would have been no point. She already knew the answer since she was feeling the same.

Edmund crept from the shadows and advanced on Cordelia on unsteady feet. In his hands, he held a supporting branch, more out of habit now than necessity. “It got Orson,” his quivering lips stuttered. “I was there, but it didn’t see me. Orson ran, he ran so fast, but it was faster.”

Cordelia’s body trembled with unrealized sobbing as she flew to Edmund and embraced him tightly. “There was nothing you could have done,” she whispered to him as he attempted to cry with tears that did not exist.

“I should have expected you two would be hugging,” came a third voice, uncharacteristically bright and scampish. “If you hug any tighter, you’ll likely end up like them joined kids at the circus. What have you got to be hugging about now?”

Cordelia released Edmund and turned to see the new member of their group. He was a slightly taller, older, and merrier individual, hiding his malnourished body in slightly more fashionable street rags beneath a tattered peacoat. Brown eyes with a single spark of life glistened from beneath black hair hidden under a newsboy cap. Cold, cracked lips curled upwards into sunken cheeks.

“It’s Orson, Percival,” she explained, her hand never leaving Edmund’s shoulder. “The wolf got him.”

The smile faded from Percival’s face as he approached the two others and lay his hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “Were you there, boy?” he asked, sympathy creeping into his nonchalant banter.

Edmund rolled his eyes up to Percival with the same low energy, feeling annoyed as always with the scamp. “Don’t call me boy,” he grumbled. “I ain’t a boy no more, you know that. I’m the same as you.”

“ But yes,” he continued, dropping his eyes to the alley floor, “I was there. I saw it happen. I wanted to help—tried to—but I wasn’t fast enough.”

Percival took an empty breath and let it out slowly as he tightened his grip on Edmund’s shoulder. “If you had been fast enough to help,” he said in a more compassionate tone, “we would be mourning both of you.”

As the three children stood together in joined sorrow, a fourth entered the alley quietly as if riding the wind. Her tangle, curled red hair hardly moved as she slid silently toward the group.

“Where’s Orson?” she asked pointedly, her voice so gentle it could have been a mother’s hand, but confident enough to be a father’s belt.

Cordelia looked at the newcomer. “Hello Amelia,” she greeted the girl. “I have sorrowful news.”

“Can we wait to recount the events until David arrives?” Edmund pleaded. “If I must recount the story twice again, I fear I may go mad.”

Cordelia nodded, and Amelia hung her head as she correctly deduced Orson’s fate. The four children huddled closely together in the alley, holding tightly to one another, waiting for the fifth member of their group to arrive.

Many adults passed the alley, but few glanced into it. Of the few who glanced in, none noticed the street urchins. The only one who took notice of the children was the fog.

The fog was not in the habit of sharing secrets.

Chapter 2

War changes people. Athena preferred to think of it as adaptation.

The Olympians had been defeated in the war. There was no other way to think of the situation: they had lost. As a result, Aphrodite was gone, and the world no longer welcomed them. It had been time for a transition.

Zeus and Hephaestus had orchestrated a grand exit, and their existence had been redefined through the interdimensional portal. Mount Olympus had restructured itself, and around the same time, Athena had relinquished the “goddess of war” title. After seeing what her brother had done with the nomenclature, she wanted to be as far from the designation as she could.

She was now only the goddess of wisdom. Hermes had, of course, warned her that wisdom was more difficult to monetize, especially when worshippers no longer sought her audience. That did not matter. Athena had other things to think about than amassing wealth.

She was petite, standing slightly less than five feet from the ground. Her hair, a cascading river of dark silk, caressed her head and shoulders in flowing waves, ending just below her shoulder blades. Emerald eyes peered through the fabric of reality, dissecting what was presented to them, determining which elements warranted further analysis and which were obsolete. Her graceful, slender form was clothed in a simple gray cloak that deftly concealed the suit of armor underneath it.

Even though Athena had abandoned the war title, she could not bring herself to take off the armor. It had been a part of her for so long, and she felt naked without it. On her shoulder perched an owl, sitting as though there were nothing uncommon about the situation at all. As she walked, the owl studied its surroundings. When he saw something, Athena saw it as well.

She walked the cobblestone as though each step was a calculated maneuver. The sun was setting, but no one saw from where it was hidden behind a thin layer of clouds. A light sprinkle fell from the sky, complementing the fog and enhancing the atmosphere. Athena pulled her cloak tighter around her, and considered the world she was now in. She had been coming to Earth more often since the war. It was not as though tensions on the mount were higher than they had been, it was simply because there did not seem to be much point in being there any longer. Studying the adventures of humanity, watching the cultures evolve and grow, was much more alluring.

The owl, Glaukopis, had seen as much of humanity as Athena. As his head spun about, he analyzed his surroundings. There was a family of five: a father, mother, two girls, and a boy. The children seemed well dressed enough, and the father was wearing a cultured jacket with matching vest. Considering the expressions on their faces, they seemed to be content with one another. A deeper glance into the wife would reveal a loneliness that not even she was willing to acknowledge yet. As her children grew, relying on her less, she was beginning to feel under-utilized, as though she ought to be doing something more. Glaukopis saw her and acknowledged her, but there was really nothing he could do. This woman’s sentiment was not uncommon.

Athena saw a man, thin and wiry, sitting in tattered clothing under an overhang. It appeared he had been sitting there for quite some time, based on the collection of rags around him and the level of personal hygiene he had allowed himself. Every now and again, he would call out in a cracked voice that he was hungry, begging the passers-by to supply him with some financial aid. Athena dropped a few shillings near him, ignoring Glaukopis’ disapproving glare. Glaukopis was much more jaded to the cries of the needy than she, insisting they would likely use the money for something nefarious. That was possible, yes, and the smell of stale whiskey that seemed to emanate from the blankets lent credence to that thought. Athena insisted, however, that charity did not involve dictating someone’s actions. It only meant helping those who needed help, and supply for those who could not supply for themselves.

It was not as if Glaukopis had no compassion for the poor and homeless. To the contrary, he hated the situation and wished there was something that could have been done about it. He was more suspicious of the individual’s motivation, though, and much more conservative in charitable selections than Athena. Glancing around, he saw a small girl leaning against an alley wall on whom he would have much rather taken charity. Based on her tattered clothing, she was clearly homeless. Her disheveled brown hair needed to be washed badly, and her sunken cheeks suggested dehydration.