Flowergirl, Percy Jackson

004. The Endless Wander

004───────ஐ〰ฺ･:*:･✿the endless wander

  THEIR BODIES ARE WRACKED WITH EXHAUSTION. It isn't a pretty sight; sweat dripping down their frail bodies in saline streams and rivers, ribs poking from their chest, barely visible from the loose folds of their chitons*. The clothes themselves are streaked with dirt and mud, dust-stained, torn in savage rips — as if a wild animal has torn them apart. 

  They do not care. They take another step, and then another, their bare feet bloodied and splintered, cracked and cut. And then another step, and then they are walking, bloodstains left in their wake; a path could be traced to their hearts and souls. 

  How long have they been walking? They know not. But in the time that they have voyaged, death has befallen the earth. Flowers wilt and fade, growing black and grey instead of the usual iridescent multi-colour. Grass is dying everywhere they turn, greenery a forgotten memory. All they know is black, death, misery. 

  The earth burns, heat from the sun warming the sandy soil cushioning their toes. Lifting their feet, they see awful red welts, stinging. The pain moves through their body like a river flowing into the sea, and one girl at the back of the group allows her knees to buckle, a cry of pain escaping her lips. 

  The leader turns — the kind, great, ancient one — and helps her to her feet. 

  And so they continue. 

  How long have they been searching? From one perspective, all their lives. Searching for meaning, purpose. But now they have a mission, the highest honour, asked of them by one of the eldest goddesses herself. And so they search again, and again,  over snow-tipped mountains that seem never-ending and colossal, as if giants and titans carved these mountains themselves to stand taller than all others. Through burning fields, crumbling to grain and ash that floats away with the wind before they can touch it.  Through starving cities, cities that could be mistaken for the Underworld from the lack of life, and the excess of death. 

  They see the sea, trembling, the Earthshaker cursing and screaming. Fish float to the surface, wash up on the shore. Dead; starved. Birds fly without break, scanning the world for a hint of food. Dying; starving.

  They see the wild, animals collapsing, hunters searching to no prevail. The Protector frowns, disapproval on her face as she watches her domain collapse. 

  They see the great cities of men, the Greek towns of Athens and Sparta and Corinth. And they watch as men collapse on the streets, starving. Screaming. Dying. 

  It is then that  they realise that all animals are the same. Even them, those who have always been blessed and honoured and praised, they are no different. They are all starving. All searching. From the great kings to the common citizens, the mouse to the wolf, the smallest weed and the eldest tree.

  All dying. All starving.

  Only the gods are exempt, for only the gods are not weak. Only the gods will never understand what it is to be human, for they have never known death, never known powerlessness. How can you be alive, but know no death? It must be a blessed existence. 

  They want to be gods. 

  Not only for the end of their pain, but for them to continue their search, their greatest purpose. For them to please their chosen goddess, to help her. 

  Help us, they pray. To Poseidon, god of the seas and seafarers. To Demeter, goddess of plants and trees alike, their kin. To Hecate, goddess of magic. Help us search. To Aphrodite, goddess of pain.