The Last Ballad of Olympus: The Waltz of the Vulture and Owl

The Jackal's Prize

Not a pinch of eureka had awakened a sleeping memory. The name Athena did not mean anything to her except that it was somewhat familiar. The lady, still pinned under the muscular man's weight, was conflicted.

After a while—his demeaning force had subsided, and she gently moved him away as she sat up, stared at the wall, and wandered in abysmal thinking.

The man called Anubis was perplexed as he gazed into her back. It was as white as milk, but the scars and wounds had turned it into a fabric with patterns—but it was still beautiful. She was beautiful—tantalizing enough for some poor man to be on edge and plead for her simple kiss on his lips.

"Is something wrong?" He finally asked after a minute of crickets and the growing geophony.

"You know my name, but I do not. You seemed to have more tales about me than I could perceive. Why am I only seeing a large fog whenever I want to return to those memories?"

Before saying anything, the man grabbed the pomegranate, sitting beside the oil lamp, and offered half to her. As the downhearted maiden reluctantly accepted his gift, he started, "One thing I am very certain of is that you are someone many adored. You are also many men's hidden dreams. Your beauty was concealed behind your quiet etiquette, for it was your mind won on the forefront."

Regardless of the eerie atmosphere that encircled them, the way his ego marked into her—firm, prideful, and quite assured with his telling, the maiden sprouted some uncanny fondness for him. Her emotion surprised her. Scattered all over, but she was all ears on what he was saying.

As he curled the tips of her dark golden hair, he then narrated tales he could recall—especially their first meeting. "You were weak—a little lamb about to be sacrificed. But I can still see the strength in your eyes. The resistance you had displayed was quite bold."

"Can you tell me more about it?"

He laughed again. "Ha! Well, it is for me to know and for you to find out."

"Everything is not making sense. I can tell you are sincere, but I can also sense the lies. I do not know which one I should embrace." With a genuine question painted on her face, she turned towards him, pleading with her eyes to know the truth. "Nothing comes out of me. Everything is vague. I do not even know how I came here or my name. Who's Athena? What do you mean by payment? What happened to me before? I do not want to play some silly games! I just want some clarifications."

However, the man's notion was of a trickster—never would he give information easily, no matter how she pleads. He loved his games. He loved the gamble between pain and affliction and love and contentment. And much like how his mind was running, the lady beside him was his prey to tease. The scent of her remained on his nostrils, blocking other aromas as if selfish for his attention. There was also her whole audacious body that screamed to be touched—to be unceasingly worshiped. It called for him for more of his caresses, though her lips did not part for such yearning.

Filled with her inquiries, he knew his game of cognizance commenced. She might have seen the inconsistency of his tale about her, but he knew he could twist the screws of her head more, knowing she was becoming more of a child in wonderment rather than the acclaimed goddess.

"I am no priest of yours to narrate the events of your gravitas nor your father to recall with you of your beginnings. All I want to tell you is something that pleased me."

"Then tell me of those pleasurable memories." Her voice escalated to demand—challenging him of his confident stand.

The dusk of his façade contrasted with the luster that gleamed all over her. Once they stared into each other's orbs, the keenness that both hindered sparked. The maiden was truly gullible—too naïve to the world around her.