King Dionysio and Queen Wen
The entire time, that whole ten years I was journeying home, my wife was in my mind. There were other women, a fact of which I’m not proud, but whenever I considered giving up, whenever I considered accepting my fate, I thought of my Penelope, my Telemachus, my Argos. But history has never favored me. Most countries, most mythoses, have favored brawn over the mind. There is a reason it is the Illiad, after all, named after Achilles and his boundless valor. There is a reason that I was despised by the Romans, and by the Italians. I preferred craft and cunning.
I stood on the hill, watching as my people died. Chankpe Opi Wakpala continued to flow. The Ghost Dancers continued their shuffle in the name of a messiah who would never materialize.
“’ve gotta go,” mumbled Crupky, her face turned away, as she stepped back. “’ts good to see you again. Ariel. Achilles. Uh. Megan. Need to, uh. Gotta go make sure things are okay at the station.”
“You know,” I said, as we studied the crypt, “this is really nice.”
Every good story uses threes. The reasons for this are complicated, but mostly come down to what humans call prime numbers. Numbers that cannot be easily separated. Amounts which are difficult to split. From such unity comes strength, but also, great pride and a tendency towards self-reinforcing behavior. Three, Five, Seven, Eleven; Thirteen.
“This is vile,” I growled, pacing the streets. “It’s late September, and it still feels like July.”