The summer had been long and, day after day, she watched as the sun made its arc over her room and peeled back towards a horizon she never saw. Often, during those long days, she would find herself thinking of the gods, for they were the only ones who could view her hidden away. A new kind of serenity came from twisting yarn between her fingers, rocking gently back and forth as she did so.
That day, she was at peace. Silver-tinted clouds had lessened Helios’ blaze, keeping cool her brass clad tower. When her fingers were tired from weaving for the day, she moved across the room, fetching a glass of water before lifting herself up onto her bed. Heavy-headed crocuses decorated her tables at her mother’s request, the petals of purple and white glistening and vibrant. As she lay on her back, she watched the silver tint of the clouds deepen, although rather than to grey as she had expected them to do, they graduated into the softest of golds. Shimmering above her, they grew in luminosity and lustre, until they were brighter than Helios himself. Danae shielded her eyes from the blaze. There was a god above her. She trembled at the realisation. Maybe one who had heard tales of her fate, and who could guide her. A patron within Olympus, perhaps. The heat from the light grew stifling. Sweat beaded on her pale skin, and her cheeks flushed redder and redder.
‘Please …’ Danae called out, although who she called to and what she hoped they would do remained a mystery even to herself. Her heart trembled beneath her ribs, her breath shallow and lacking in air. And then, as the blaze seemed fit to burn her skin, the clouds burst, setting forth sheets of golden rain.
Through the opening above the rain poured in great golden droplets, more lustrous and more alluring than all of her father’s treasures combined. Danae lay back on the bed, spreading her arms and legs wide on the sheets. Every place a raindrop fell felt as alive as if it had been kissed by Zeus himself. She opened her hands and mouth, tilting back her head as she allowed the rain to flood over her. Soaked to the skin, and deeper still, until every muscle of her frame was tinged with its delicate light. Every cell in her body shook. Only when she was drenched in sweat, panting, did the shower lift. Still gasping, Danae closed her eyes. When she awoke, her room was dry, and the sky as cerulean as she had ever known.
It took two moons before Danae realised the effects of the golden rain. Now, within her, she bore the consequence of that day. Fear and love wavered back and forth in her mind. If this child was born a boy, nothing other than his death would satiate her father’s desires. And the child would be a boy. She knew enough about the gods to understand that.
So, she promised to love the baby in her womb, more than any woman had loved an unborn child in all of time. If these were the only seconds they were to have together, she would treasure them, cling to every moment. Every fluttering kick, every twist and turn. She would recall them all. Keep each one safe in her memory. Each day, she sang to him, hours at a time. She told him stories from her childhood and stories from her imagination, all in the hope that this would be enough for her voice to move on with him into the afterlife. And she named him. He would be the one to end her solitude and bring her back to the light. Perseus.
Chapter 17
It happened just as the day broke. The last three nights, it had come in a similar fashion, rippling through her swollen belly, tensing and throbbing as pulsing surges brought tears to her eyes but, each time, they had faded again by the time the sun rose. However, that night, there was no fading. By the time the dawn chorus had begun, Danae’s skin was slick with sweat, the ripples through her belly now great tides, waves, crashing down with all their force. She steadied herself against the wooden frame of her bed and bit down on the leather strap of the girdle with which she had secured her belly for so many months.
The child of a god. The child of Zeus himself, she knew, for no other could have come to her as he did. She would not scream. She could not. For weeks now, she had prayed her son would arrive in the night, when she could have held him and hidden him. Delayed his seizure a little longer. But the morning was the worst time of all. Soon, one of her maids would come with milk and honey and fruit for her breakfast. And only now had she learned of her naivety. The stench in the room, the blood that was dripping from her body. There would be no hiding this.
With her teeth clamped down on the strap, another surge swept down. She knew this was the time. This was when she met her child.
Breathless, she lay with him pressed against her. His skin was pink and smothered in the milky whiteness from his journey into the world. Her body throbbed, ached, and burned inside and out, yet, as he silently suckled from her breast, the pain melted into the periphery of her consciousness. All
