Sun and Moon


Thalassa Speaks,

Terreis, Penthesilea, Turah, Panope - to you, these names mean nothing. They are words that were written in the sands of long ago, disturbed by the harsh winds of time until they were nothing more but faceless names associated with an old Greek myth.

The women who bore those names were the world to me. They were the threads that wove the different aspects of my life together, now gone - lost on these very plains. Terreis was my dear friend, Panope my mentor, Turah the enemy who made me fight and Penthesilea, wisest of Amazon queens, saw me.

Now my sisters are the dust. I stand here, alone, looking out at the plains of the once powerful Troy. Even now it still seems red with the blood of the many warriors slaughtered then. Artemis, why did you permit this? Hasn't the Amazon nation always served you? Haven't we sacrifices many things to deserve your blessings? I remember thinking to myself then with much bitterness and sorrow. No, I think now, we turned away from our ways and we involved ourselves in the business of men. This wasn't our war.

It's been many years since it happened. Artemis' great moon looks down on me just the same as it did before it happened and to me, Apollo's sun could not have shone so bright. I stand on the very same ground and look out at the very same plains.

But much has changed. I no longer see the mighty walls of Troy in the distance - walls that withstood the enemy for ten long years. Instead, I see the ruins that were once Troy.

Foolish men, starting a war over one woman, I think before remembering the days when I was a ignorant, rebellious young Amazon and before my days as an outcast. Love is the cause of so many struggles and once I promised I would have no part in it.

I look down and see a sword, half hidden in the sand, abandoned by a fallen warrior. Whether it was one of my people, a Trojan or an Achaean, I do not know but it doesn't matter. All is done now. The funeral pyres of my sisters were lit long ago and I still remember the red glow of the flames, releasing their souls into the afterlife, leaving me, the last of them, here to mourn them.

It rains now, as I speak. The dull sound of thunder rumbles in the distance and it pronounces my cries and the rain becomes my tears. The sword is still crimson stained. Even the rain wasn't enough to wash it away. Nothing will ever wash the blood from my hands.

Bards will tell the stories of Troy, of Prince Paris and the beautiful Helen. They will tell of Agamemnon's anger, how Hector murdered Patroklos and how Achilles, driven mad with grief, sought vengeance. Minstrels will sing about all the heroes - all their stories woven into a great legend many have already heard. But the bards will never tell my tale.