Better Days to Come

Prologue

The body lies in state.

The mourners have come.

The mourners have gone.

Only Menalippe remains.

Dressed in a red-brown tunic instead of leather and steel, she stands beside the bier. Dim evening light fills the courtyard of the palace. Her long dark hair is unbound because that's the way of these things. Her throat is raw from leading her sisters in mourning. The sun is setting now and her voice has long ago worn out to a bare whisper. And that's for the best.

The mourning, the lamentations, the breast-beating. These are the rituals of grief that the Amazons remember from men's world when death came often to all.

No one has ever before died on Themyscira.

After so many years, the wailing rites seem nothing more than rites.

What Menalippe feels – it is quiet.

The body lies draped from the neck down in a white cloth.

In death, Antiope's skin is pale. Washed in sea-water and anointed with the sacred oils, it glistens. Her hair is in its customary braid, but the braid is crooked. She always braided her own hair. Hands shaking, Menalippe didn't have the skill to arrange it as Antiope would have. Antiope's eyes and mouth have been closed. A gold coin sits under her tongue. A rich toll for Charon.

Does Charon still carry the dead across the dark river?

Without gods, what of souls?

Menalippe lifts Antiope's hand and threads her fingers between Antiope's fingers.

The body is cold and it is heavy.

Behind her, someone enters the courtyard. Menalippe does not turn to see who it is. The only one who would join her so late is Hippolyta. Though queen, Hippolyta has no right to disturb Menalippe here. Having no right has never stopped Hippolyta before though. She had no right to delay Diana's training for so long. No right. Not as queen, not as mother.

Menalippe squeezes Antiope's hand tighter. Antiope's hand doesn't squeeze back. It's just… limp. Dead.

"She discovers the truth and defeats Ares," Menalippe says tightly. The future, shifting for so long, crystalized as soon as Diana left the island with the man. Menalippe Saw it, and then she returned to her duty.

The click of Hippolyta's teeth coming together fills the chamber. There's a brief return to silence, then, "But-"

"You'll see her again," Menalippe says. She's too tired to stop herself from sounding bitter.

Hippolyta's response comes soft. "Thank you."

Menalippe listens to Hippolyta leave. Still, she doesn't turn.

As in Antiope's life, in death, Menalippe's eyes are only for her.

Poets liken death to sleep. Nothing about Antiope suggests sleep. Antiope was a restless sleeper, always too hot or too cold or not quite in the right position. Menalippe wove a second blanket so Antiope would stop taking hers and then throwing it on the floor halfway through the night. Stillness does not suit her. Even braided crooked, her hair is neater than it should be. The braid wasn't for vanity, it was because Antiope spent most of her time as a sweaty mess in the training yards.

Menalippe reaches out and gets her fingers in Antiope's hair and then drags them through. The result is something slightly more recognizable.

It occurs to Menalippe that she has been standing for a very long time and that she is very tired.

She steps back from the bier and sits down on the stone pavement. She hugs her knees against her chest. She sets her chin on top of her knees. She stares at the body.

The sun dips below the horizon.

[] [] []

Hippolyta leads the ekphora, the funeral procession.

As is her right.

Menalippe follows her sister-in-law a step behind. And behind Menalippe follows the body, carried by Antiope's other captains. Behind Antiope come the other dead from the beach. The bodies have been draped in rich cloth so that only their heads are exposed. Antiope's shroud is a deep purple with gold embroidery showing a battle from before the Amazons came to Themyscira. Her pallbearers are armed, as are all the rest of the procession and all the rest of the onlookers. The clatter of steel on steel and steel on stone is almost louder than the keening of mourners. The cacophony is enough to drown out coherent thought.

They go down from the palace where the bodies have lain in state. Themyscira has no graveyard, and so they have decided to inter the dead on a low hill overlooking the main training yard. The women who died were the ones who after the thousands of years of peace had clung still to war.

The procession follows the main road of the city. It twists and it turns down the great hill of the palace. There are faster ways to descend, but time is something Themyscira has in abundance. They depart from the palace before sunrise and do not reach pyres on the field until after midday.

Menalippe helps the other captains raise the body up onto the stacked wood. When the others climb down from the pyre, she lingers. The shroud has gotten pulled down slightly, leaving the shoulders of the body exposed.

Antiope was shorter than Menalippe, shorter than Hippolyta, shorter than most of the Amazons.

But in life, she never seemed short. She held herself with poise and power.

In death, she seems small.

Menalippe fixes the shroud, pulling it back up to the base of the neck and then descends from the pyre.

First among the Amazons, Hippolyta lights her sister's pyre. After her, other Amazons light the pyres of their own dead.

The flames rise high, roaring, incinerating. As the flames rise, so too does the keening lamentation of the Amazons.

Menalippe stands silent in the grass of the field.

She sang herself empty at the lying in state, the prothesis. She has nothing left to say that can be said.

When the flames have burnt themselves down, Hippolyta leads the Amazons in pouring wine over the smoldering pyres to quench the flames. It falls then to Menalippe to collect the ashes into an urn. It's simple in shape, a round jar with a narrow base and a wide body, but elaborately decorated. It has been painted with a likeness of a white-skinned Antiope battling a black centaur, Hippolyta and Menalippe behind her, Athena watching over her.

The Amazons had had no funerary devices on hand. Antiope's cinerary urn was a water jar in Hippolyta's palace only a week ago.

When Menalippe has finished gathering up the ashes, she takes the urn to a grave that's already been dug up on the hill over the field. Other graves surround it, prepared for their other fallen comrades.

Antiope's rest is in the middle of them all and has more space around it. She'll have a higher cairn than the others.

That's not what Antiope would have wanted.

But it's what Hippolyta wants.

Menalippe lowers the urn into the grave. From a chest that was brought down ahead of the procession, she takes chosen grave goods to place with it. Antiope's favorite shield. The toy horse Antiope carved for Diana. The second blanket Menalippe wove for Antiope.

Wrapping the cinerary urn in the cloth, Menalippe thinks that her own heart will stay in the grave with the empty ashes as well.

In the world of men, for a strategos of such standing as Antiope, someone would have slit Menalippe's throat and set her among the grave goods.

Antiope's spirit, then, would have roused itself from the house of Hades and cut down whoever dared – she'd always found the custom barbaric. Shoveling earth over the urn and her memories, Menalippe thinks perhaps it was not such an awful thing.

They don't bury Antiope with her crown.

Hippolyta gave that to Diana.

Which is… what Antiope would have wanted.

When Menalippe's done covering the grave, she joins the other mourners at a feast laid out on grass of the training yard. The funeral has lasted the full day and the sun is low in the sky now. They'll build the cairns in the days to come.

Tonight, they drink.

[] [] []

It wouldn't be fair to the others who loved Antiope to keep the cairn-raising to herself. Hippolyta lays the first stone (as is her right) and then Menalippe and the rest toil for a week building the rest of it. They pause in their work only on the third day to lay out the first of the food offerings to the departed.

Hippolyta allows Menalippe to work with the stonecutters in crafting the stele.

What results is less a stele and more a statue in white marble, painted lifelike.

They sculpt Antiope in armor astride her horse, emerging from the stele. She's looking forward, out to the horizon, out towards the future. And beside Antiope, in stone, Menalippe stands, holding her reins and looking not to the horizon but up to her.

The artisans do breathtaking work. The likeness of Antiope is near perfect. The statue looks more like her than the body did.

[] [] []

The day after the statue is installed, Hippolyta begins the games.

The games take place on the field beneath the grave-hill.

Out of all the warrior's arts, Antiope loved archery best and so that's what they begin with.

At one end of the field, the Amazons raise a tall pole. Affixed to the top of the pole is a reed ring on a string with cloth stretched across its center. It's at such a height and is so light that it flutters to and fro in the wind. There are only a handful of clouds in the sky and the sun is bright. Menalippe has to squint to see the target standing only half the field away. The archers, the best archers on the island, line up at the most distant part of the field.

Hippolyta sits on a makeshift throne atop a small wood platform at the side of the field. The Amazons who are not competing are spread out around her, spectators of sport. All wearing brightly colored tunics and robes, they're a sight to be seen sitting on the grass of the training yard. The yard has never seen so many civilians since they came to Themyscira.

Menalippe takes her seat next to Hippolyta.

With Antiope gone, her duties have fallen to Menalippe. Menalippe is now strategos of the Amazons. Menalippe is now Hippolyta's second.

It's a role she lacks the fire for.

Hippolyta and Antiope were the first of the Amazons. They were sisters in a way that the rest of the Amazons are not. They played well off one another. They were constantly bickering, but in a kind fashion that lacked any of the rancor normally implied by the word. Menalippe cannot be Antiope and she has no interest in trying.

"I think Areto could win," Hippolyta says. There's a somewhat strained smile on her face. "It's been so long since we had a contest. She's improved quite a lot in the past years."

"Clio will win," Menalippe replies woodenly. It takes little effort to peer just a few moments into the future.

Hippolyta's forced smile vanishes.

Hippolyta and Menalippe both stare ahead at the competition.

All the competitors are great archers. They can hit any target they can see. And that's the catch. Clio is the only one who can clearly see the distant ring fluttering in the breeze. To compensate for the long days she spends hunched over her books, she wears spectacles, polished glass set in a metal frame over her eyes.

The first several rounds, every archer misses the target, but on the fifth try, Clio cuts the string and brings the target to the ground.

Hippolyta makes a speech and then crowns Clio with the olive wreath.

"You should award the next victor," Hippolyta says. On the field, a new group of contestants have stepped forward to compete in a footrace. "Whomever it is."

"Atalanta," Menalippe replies. She hesitates, then, "Probably." She doesn't know that Atalanta will win, but Atalanta hasn't lost a race since they came to Themyscira. And that was a very long time ago. She doesn't have to be a Seer to see what's plain in front of her.

Skirts hitched up, the runners assemble at the starting mark. They'll lap the island twice in their race.

"She's still grieving Orana," Hippolyta says. "Grief is heavy."

"We're all still grieving," Menalippe says.

Hippolyta's annoyance is clear in her tone. "Sister, you-

Menalippe cuts her off. "You never called me sister before."

Atalanta wins the race.

[] [] []

The table in Menalippe's house has four chairs.

Since the death, she's eaten at it only once.

Instead, she takes her meals with Antiope's other captains. They come together on the field where they train. They did this before as well, but infrequently. Not every day. And Antiope was always with them.

They eat and they talk. They talk of nothing at all. They talk of training regimens. They talk of weapon rotations. They talk of the weather. It rarely storms on Themyscira, but when it does they try not to miss the opportunity to work in the rain and the mud as they did so often in the world of men.

All the while, atop the hill, the graves watch them.

Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. Months pass – or maybe they don't. Time, in Themyscira, is ephemeral.

One by one, the other captains stop coming. They return to their families. In the end, only Menalippe remains.

The table in Menalippe's house continues to gather dust.

It's evening on the field and Menalippe has just sat down to eat her bread and cheese when Hippolyta comes riding down from the palace with a second horse in tow behind her. Her armor, like her crown, shines of gold and her white fur mantle would tell any stranger of her status. Not that there are any strangers on their island. Nor will there be for a great many years to come. Menalippe long ago grew tired of constantly peering into the future for every question, but some events, like Diana's defeat of Ares, are too momentous to shut out.

Hippolyta brings her horse towards Menalippe and Menalippe stands. "My queen," she says.

"Strategos," Hippolyta greets. "You're missed at dinner."

Menalippe doesn't understand. She allows her silence to speak her confusion for her.

Hippolyta nudges her horse, a tall chestnut, forward a few steps. She's holding the lead for the other horse, which she offers to Menalippe.

Menalippe eyes the lead with suspicion. She doesn't much want to eat dinner wherever it is Hippolyta intends. She prefers the quiet of the field. The watch of the graves is not something she's inclined to leave. But Hippolyta is her queen.

"Come," Hippolyta orders.

Menalippe wraps her dinner back up in its cloth. She takes the lead and mounts the second horse. The horse is a black mare, slightly older, but still in a condition to carry Menalippe and her armor. A good pick for navigating city streets.

Together, the two women turn towards the palace. Hippolyta sets the pace, an easy trot. They cross the field quickly and it's not long before they're winding through the city. They don't take the main road. Instead, they take the smaller streets, the ones that go more directly towards their destination. The sun paints the horizon red as it sets. There are only a handful of Amazons out in the city; most have retreated indoors to cook and eat their dinners. A few guards salute them as they pass.

They go the entire ride in an uncomfortable silence.

At the gates of the palace, guards take their horses. Menalippe gives her mare a pat on the neck before following Hippolyta into the complex. Neither Antiope nor Menalippe ever much liked lingering in Hippolyta's gold and marble home. They always suggested dinners in their small house with its small table and four chairs near the training grounds. Sometimes, Hippolyta was even amenable.

It's difficult to move quietly in armor through the quiet stone palace. The spaces are built on a grand scale and noise echoes. Hippolyta owns the clamorous racket of her passage. Menalippe tries to ignore the clatter of armor in such a house but can't. It's loud and out of place.

They go first to the sleeping quarters. Both in armor, they have to change before they can eat. Menalippe, after a day on the field, must also make some attempt to wash. It's another reason she and Antiope rarely dined with Antiope's sister. They were always free to tramp about their own home while covered in muck. Hippolyta's palace abhors dirt. It's too white. Too perfect.

Hippolyta goes to her chambers.

Menalippe goes to the room set aside for Antiope. They rarely used it except for situations like this one, coming in from the field and needing to clean and change, or when dinner ran late and they didn't much want to trek back down to their own home.

Menalippe steps past the threshold and closes the door behind her. It's a small room with few furniture pieces. It has a table with two chairs, a chest of clothes, a washbasin, and a bed. The washbasin has already been filled with clean water in anticipation of Menalippe's arrival.

Antiope used to splash water from the basin in Menalippe's face. She thought herself very funny. Once, Menalippe retaliated by lifting up the entire basin and dumping it over Antiope's head. They had to send for more water and they both arrived to dinner late by a good deal more than the time it took to wash and change. Hippolyta was furious.

It's wrong.

It's all wrong.

This isn't Menalippe's room. It's Antiope's room. Menalippe shouldn't be here alone. And it shouldn't be so silent.

Menalippe moves swiftly, as if she can replace the absence of laughter with the clatter of armor.

She undresses and drops her armor in a heap by the door. She washes herself. She dresses in a red and brown chiton. She draws it from the chest of clothes. In the chest, her things are intermingled with Antiope's. Hers lie stacked on the left, Antiope's on the right. Antiope was short enough that there were only a few garments that they could share well.

Instead of closing the chest, Menalippe takes out one of Antiope's tunics. It's a light green. Neither one of them made it. It was a gift from Hippolyta, who herself got it from one of the weavers. Menalippe raises it to her face and inhales. It smells like dirt and grass and sun.

She's still kneeling beside the chest, still chasing memories, when Hippolyta returns.

Hippolyta tries to speak softly. But it's not in her nature. "She wouldn't want you to starve."

Antiope wouldn't have wanted an awful many things. She wouldn't have wanted a cairn so much greater than her sisters. She wouldn't have wanted her sister harassing her wife either.

Menalippe replaces the clothing and closes the chest. She stands and follows her queen to the triklinion. The dining room of Hippolyta's house is as ostentatious as the rest of it, though it pales in comparison to the great hall where feasts are held for the entire island. Large enough to accommodate the full council of the Amazons, the triklinion has been set tonight for only two. There is a couch for Hippolyta and a couch for Menalippe and a table laden with food between them.

Reclining, Menalippe is uncomfortably aware that she has never before sat alone in the place of honor beside her queen.

The food is thick with fat, a royal meal. The wine is unwatered.

Antiope enjoyed such strong wine. But then, she could drink the stuff as if it were water and still wake early the next day. Menalippe prefers her wine mixed.

It's a poor guest who complains.

"How fares the army?" Hippolyta asks. Her tone is flat. She's straining to make conversation.

"The army stands ready, my queen," Menalippe answers, voice equally unenthusiastic.

"Good," says Hippolyta.

"Why are you doing this?" Menalippe asks. She sets down her goblet with a heavy thunk. The dark liquid within sloshes up over the sides. She's had too much wine.

"Doing what?" Hippolyta challenges. She takes a deep draught of her drink and then sets down her goblet with an equal amount of force, if not greater. She's had too much wine as well.

Menalippe doesn't answer the rhetorical question. Instead of looking at her sister-in-law, she scowls at the food on the table before them. If she wanted, she could squint at the strings leading to the future and defuse the conversation. She doesn't want. She doesn't care.

"I am your queen," Hippolyta says. "And I am your sister-in-law. And I am kyrios to you."

Menalippe flinches. She hasn't heard that word in some time. And it hasn't meant anything to her since a time in another life. She turns her scowl from the food to Hippolyta. "Of all the customs of men, that's the one you cling to?"

"You are a member of my household," Hippolyta says. There's a touch of heat in her voice, though it's not anger.

Menalippe pushes herself up on the couch so that she's sitting upright instead of reclining. She's now above Hippolyta. "So you'll take my things and find me a dowry and a new wife?"

"No." Hippolyta sounds so scandalized Menalippe almost regrets her words.

Somewhat off balance from the drink, Menalippe stands. The room spins. She staggers towards the door. "Then leave me alone."

Behind her, she hears Hippolyta gracelessly stand and teeter after her. Walking out on her queen seems less and less a sound idea the longer she takes to execute it, so she pauses at the door.

"You're the only member of my household," Hippolyta says.

Menalippe leans against the doorframe. It makes the world spin less. "You still have Diana."

She sounds bitter. She is bitter.

It's not that she loves Diana any less than Antiope did or than Hippolyta does. Any one of them would have given their life for her. Menalippe just resents that it wasn't Hippolyta. Or herself.

Drunk, Hippolyta is not as good at hiding her thoughts from her face as she usually is. It's clear what she wants to ask. But she won't. Asking for the details of what an oracle sees is improper and, some say, an ill omen in and of itself. Menalippe won't volunteer what she's seen. It won't do Hippolyta any good.

Menalippe tries to shove herself away from the doorframe to get on her way again, but as she steps forward, the world tilts, spins, and blurs.

She's-

She's in a vast cave. The ceiling is so high and so dark that it seems like the inky black of a stormy night. She carries a torch, but its light does little to ward off the press of shadows. Forward. She walks forward. As she moves, she hears the soft clink of her armor, though the noise is swallowed by the cavern. In the hand that does not carry the torch, she holds her spear. Her grip is tight, but her palm is sweaty. She's nervous.

She's never been in such a cave. This isn't a memory.

She's Seeing what will come. Not what might come. What will come. The vision has none of the haze that accompanies her dealings with future's maybes. Everything is crisp and clear. She can smell the dank mist of an underground pool. She can hear her steps as she moves.

The world goes dark with a crack.

[] [] []

Menalippe wakes to Hippolyta crouched over her.

She's lying on the floor of the palace, just outside the triklinion. Her head hurts.

Normally, she's able to keep her feet when a vision intrudes so forcefully. With all the wine, she must have fallen.

Still drunk, she pushes herself up and to her feet.

"Menalippe," Hippolyta says. It's half-question, half-order. If Menalippe has Seen anything Hippolyta needs to know, Menalippe must tell her queen, now.

There's nothing Hippolyta needs to know.

"The wine," Menalippe mutters. "Moved too fast. Going home now."

"You can't go home," Hippolyta insists. She makes to grab Menalippe's wrist. "You just fell."

"Stop me," Menalippe growls, evading Hippolyta.

Hippolyta does not stop her.

She manages to stagger back to Antiope's house by the training grounds. When she arrives, she pours herself a cup of unwatered wine. She sits down in Antiope's seat at their dusty table and drains the goblet.