Ὀνοκέφαλος ''Stubborn''

Nine days. If one is to believe Hesiod, it takes nine days to fall into Tartarus. Hesiod was a famous poet, the story a stubborn one. It seemed as if all mortals believed in its carefully fabricated fantasy. Atropos thought about Hesiod often, for she longed to know how long it would take for a mortal to find their way into Tartarus. She had not found the final answer, the answer that would hold the power to silence the mortals’s cries for answers. If I, who has lived before the first attempts of civilizations, can not know it, how do they find the courage to seek the answer? But Atropos believed to understand why mortals would spend their last inch of sanity in order to understand what was not theirs to understand. It was less so the curiosity, and more so the perseverance, the desperate wish to find the answer, at last. Persevering for the sake of it. 

If Atropos were asked to guess, she would suggest that the fall into Tartarus can’t be measured in the timely intervals constructed by the mortals. Minutes, Days, Months, Years, it all did not exist in the world Atropos knew. So why should it present itself on the fall into Tartarus?

The mortals seemed to care for more than merely Hesiod’s tales. Atropos had heard lore of mortals, how they would spend the timely interval they named a ‘’Day’’ carrying out the same tasks, feeding into the needs their mortal form presented them with, just to do it again. Often, when something bothered them a good deal, they would stop amidst their labour, be it milking the cows or fishing, look up to the sky, and exclaim a resigned ‘’Why?’’. Mortals, apparently, desired to know why their life took the course it did, why the threads of fate folded in the way they would - Why?

The answer resided with Atropos and her two sisters, Clotho and Lachesis. They were the force behind life, the creation behind fate, for every mortal stepping foot on earth. Their threads of life, as fragile and valuable as they are, are spun carefully by Clothos. Their lives then laid within Lachesis’s hands, who caressed the threads, considering which length would suit best, which course of action seemed satisfactory. Now, Lachesis was more short-tempered than her sisters, headstrong at best, painfully stubborn at worst. It did not happen rarely that a bad day for Lachesis meant a short life for an unlucky, innocent mortal. Neither a dear was Atropos herself. Albeit less tempted to start a fight, she got cross easily, and so it would also happen that she, who decided upon the method of death, would choose a particularly painful one. Discus to the head. A man eating himself. 

Despite the sisters’ meticulous efforts, it seemed as though no mortal was further concerned with them. Clothos and Atropos had made their peace with the blissful ignorance they were treated with, and put all their drive and talent into the crafting of the threads of life. Lachesis’s temper, however, was often soured by this ignorance.  

It was, for instance, soured when three sisters were set to visit the kingdom of Mycenae. Clytemnestra of Mycenae had given birth three days prior to a daughter, Iphigenia. The sisters did not leave their residence often, for it was a privilege to be visited as an infant before your thread was spun. Iphigenia, however, was equally Agamenon’s daughter as she was Clytemnestra’s.  

For this rare occurrence, Clothos and Atropos had decided upon wearing a casual, somewhat worn-down apparel, that would ensure no mortal looking at them twice. They had set on arriving as old ladies, and shedding their eternally young form for a short while. Having appeared in this form whenever they were required to pay visits, they trusted the state of visible invisibility that would come with it and allow the visit to happen quickly. No one would cling to their sleeves and beg ‘’Give her a long, happy life, will you? ’’, no one would bow down in a desperate attempt to prolong their own life.

‘’Kèpfos!’’, Lachesis cried across their house, ‘’Tell me, why do you desperately want to disguise yourself as cranky old hags, when we could present ourselves truthfully? We could be beautiful and charming, you know?’’. Atropos knew very well what would shut Lachesis’s mouth, only she wanted Clothos to attempt it first. Her sweet, patient nature had often been the only remedy to Lachesis’s sudden outbursts of frustrations and fury. 

‘’Lachesis, let us depart. Clytemnestra is awaiting us, and I’d rather arrive in Mycenae so we can start our labour’’. 

‘’No. I shan’t ’’, and with that, Lachesis ripped off the white gown she had worn, and revealed a dazzling, golden dress. The dress exhibited fine craftsmanship, with jewels and seashells worked into the fabric carefully. Lachesis’s long brown hair, which she had just relieved from the tight knot sitting in her neck, was now framing the face, not masked in wrinkles anymore. There was no denying she looked beautiful, especially compared to Atropos, who had tucked her mouse brown hair in a braid. 

‘’Es kòrakas! I will not get dressed in these hideous gowns again!’’. 

 Atropos knew in this instant that it would be a fruitless effort to calm Lachesis, who was now wearing a cold, hard look on her young face, and convince her to recover their costume. For a moment, she felt jealousy pulsing through her veins. Mortals, she philosophized, can murder their sister when they behave like this. I am stuck with her for evermore. She was ashamed to be Lachesis’s sister. But even more, Atropos's heart ached for the poor, unknowing Iphigenia, who would most likely not be met with mercy. 

Upon their arrival in Mycenae, the three sisters still had to walk a small distance to the palace. On their way, they passed different Mycenaeans. There was an old woman whose hands glistened with olive oil and whose pinafore was smothered with the color the flesh of the olived had left behind. There was a meager, peaky boy no older than seventeen, whose hands were bloody by the labour of his enslavement. There were two men with fish, their eyes closed at the force of the sun so that they were merely lines in their faces, their beards uneven and uncared for. Guilt was filling Atropos up so quickly, she felt as if she couldn’t walk anymore. She felt a globe of heat make its way towards her face. It was not often she thought about how she was responsible for all of their fates. But today, this consciousness suddenly lingered in the air. She did not know what had awakened it, was it the hopeful face of the woman who crushed olived just to crush them again the next day? Or was it the composed way the young boy carried himself despite his pain? Something, an aspect, had evoked a notion of empathy within Atropos. 

What Atropos also noticed, guilt not being able to fully invade her mind, is how occupied the mortals were. Too occupied to shoot the sisters a second look, even though they were a rather queer pack. None of the mortals had given more thought to Lachesis it seems, in spite of her best efforts to look appealing, attractive, and godly to them. Atropos did not dare look at her dazzling sister, who surely had noticed, too. 

At the same time, a cold, violent fury that had set earlier the same day was beginning to spread through Lachesis’s body like lethal poison. 

Clytemnestra welcomed them with open arms, paying them their due respect, knowing these women were responsible for what would happen to her beloved firstborn. Albeit, Atropos knew that after the visit was over and the thread was spun, Clytemnestra would forget about them for a while, believing that she had done her duty. Iphigenia’s mother refrained from commenting on Lachesis’s apparel, and none of the maids in the nursery seemed to pay more attention to Lachesis than to Iphigenia. 

The sisters were eager to start working upon their arrival home, for Iphigenia was a dear indeed and the memories of her were still vivid and fresh. In her usual loving manner, Clothos started spinning the thread and the furrow between her eyebrows signified her focus on Iphigenia’s thread. The sisters sat there, Clothos and Atropos no longer old women, the hearth crackling beside them. Lachesis refused to take off her gown. Good for her, Atropos thought bitterly. I won’t speak on it. 

Why does Lachesis have such a deep desire for glory? Perhaps, it was the same reason that made mortals eager to find out more about realities they did not want experience. Maybe Lachesis was just persevering for the sake of it, proving a point just so she could claim she had proven it. How foolish. They had had this quarrel for millenia, it was a forever back and forth, between Atropos’s and Clothos’s desire to stay remote and modest, and Lachesis, who longed to be famed above all else. What did not occur to Atropos in that moment is that she was about to do just the same, proving points just to prove them, having the same arguments again and again, just for the sake of them. 

‘’Clothos, Atropos, did you see the way the men with the fish looked at me? I could swear, they almost dropped down on their knees and asked me to marry them’’, Lachesis noted in a voice so sweet Atropos could not believe it was her sister. She knew that the men were more concerned with the uneven path than Lachesis, and abstained from answering, though it was difficult. Clothos seemingly had made the same decision, for Lachesis’s claim was met only by uncomfortable silence and the crackling hearth.

‘’Are you angry with me?’’. No one responded, again. 

‘’Perhaps it is jealousy that withers your hearts. Are you angry I looked pretty?’’, Lachesis attempted again. 

‘’I did not think you pretty’’. Liar. Atropos had actually found Lachesis to be quite pleasantly looking, but her exasperating mannerism angered Atropos.

‘’Alright’’, Lachesis cried, immediately prepared to discuss the matter upon her sisters showing even the slightest bit of interest. She got up rather fast and walked to the middle of the room. ‘’Alright then, I don’t think I will think you pretty once your face grows pale and all demeanor leaves it. ‘’

‘’And why would it?’’, Atropos answered in an indifferent tone, unbraiding her hair. 

‘’Atropos, honestly, leave it be. You are giving into her little game.’’. Clothos had stopped spinning the thread and the furrow had disappeared. She looked up concerned. ‘’You mustn’t anger her more.’’ She sighed, the furrow returned and she picked up her work again at the other end of the room. 

Lachesis, who stood exactly halfway between Clothos and Atropos, turned to look at Atropos again. 

‘’Because’’, and she paused for malicious smirk ‘’the lovely Iphigenia shall not live longer than fourteen.’’

She had gotten the reaction she had aimed for. Though she had often let out her rage on innocent mortals, Iphigenia had been so sweet, so pure, such a dear. 

‘’What’’, Atropos had gotten up and walked across the room, violently holding Lachesis’s wrist and pulling her towards her chair. She forcefully pushed Lachesis down, who did not make any effort to resist her sister’s force. Clothos had rarely seen her sister this mad, every line of her face filled with rage, her face becoming red from it. ‘’Lachesis, you shall not. Enough mortals have been victimized by your inability to control yourself’’, she said and almost spat the words out, into Lachesis’s face. 

Lachesis merely laughed, which angered Atropos more, but feeling as though she had expressed her dismay to the best of her ability, she turned around and stomped back to her chair. 

‘’Clothos, you have long finished, I can see it. Give me the thread, as the work continues with me.’’. Clothos, who could not lie for the life of her, did not even attempt to hide the fact that her work was finished, and she clutched the thread to her heart, protecting it with her second hand across the room. 

‘’Give it here, now!’’

‘’Lachesis, you don’t want to do this. Let it out on us, instead’’. Clothos said calmly. 

‘’Trust me, I will. You shall see that we deserve to be worshipped by mortals’’. 

‘’Maybe’’, said Clothos. Lachesis, surprised by not being fully denied, was taken aback and her expression softened. 

‘’I can see it. You don’t want to do this. You mustn’t. You will find another way to prove to us that we deserve to be worshipped, that we should fight to be praised. But this isn’t it, Lachesis’’. 

And with that, Lachesis’s expression hardened again. ‘’Then you don’t know me, Clothos.’’. It did not sound convincing. She closed her eyes in anguish. Perseverance for the sake of it. Continuing for the sake of it. And suddenly, it became clear to Atropos, that what Lachesis was doing was exactly what the mortals were doing when they were writing or reading about the fall into Tartarus. Lachesis did not really want to hurt Iphigenia, no, it even pained her. But she had declared she would, loud and proud, and so she didn’t allow for the plan to be discontinued. Proving a point just to prove it.

Atropos thought it to be clever to not allow Lachesis’s the attention she wished to harvest. Maybe, if I make Iphigenia’s death as heartbreaking as can be, I might be able to get all the attention, if there will be any. Atropos, now joyful at the thought of her great plan, nodded to Clothos to give Lachesis the thread. In a hesitant manner, and to her obvious dismay, Clothos gave the thread to Lachesis, who walked back to her chair with it. Heartbroken, the two sisters watched as she worked beautiful pictures of Iphigenia’s childhood, filled with love and bliss, into the fabric. For a moment, it seemed as if Lachesis had given up on her plan, her face displaying all sorts of grief. But she pulled herself together, and cut the thread at fourteen. Clothos turned her back to Lachesis, sat down quietly and buried her face into her hands. 

Atropos happily took the thread, thinking herself lucky to decide how the death will happen, but knowing in her heart she was not making matters better.   

When Iphigenia is fourteen, Agemenon would be stranded on an island on the sea, Aulis. Together with the bravest, most legendary men Greece had to offer, he would kill a deer, not knowing it was Artemis’s sacred animal. Unknowingly, he would cause the goddess great dismay, and the winds would stop on her order. The men would find themselves unable to leave the island, and one of them would recommend for Agamemnon to sacrifice his firstborn. Driven mad by the war and isolation, he would agree, and on his orders, Iphigenia would be brought to Aulis and told she would marry the great Achilles, whose thread the three sisters had spun not long ago. Standing at the altar, ready to become a devoted wife, the stone cold blade of her father’s sword would cause her to collapse. Blood on the white stone, Iphigenia would realise in the last moments of her short life, that she had been killed by her own father for the sake of wind. Iphigenia’s life would end, but it would only mean the beginning of the Trojan war, the beginning of more violence. 

Having carefully worked this ending into the thread, Atropos looked up, expecting Lachesis to be visibly outraged. She, however, only shook her head quietly and turned away. 

Slowly realizing what she had done, Atropos let the thread fall into her lap as if it was coal and she would burn herself if she touched it any longer. It did not matter if she never touched it again, for the work was done and the fate composed. 

At Iphigenia’s death, Clytemnestra was outraged a fair deal, but no one, not even Clytemnestra, seemed to think of Lachesis. Lachesis did not receive the glory she desired, the attention she wished for, by foolishly cutting Iphigenia’s thread. At the bottom of her heart, she knew it was foolish the whole time, but only now she recognized the dangers of persevering for the sake of it. At last, Iphigenia’s death moved the masses, but not enough to turn to the three Moirai - Clothos, Lichema and Atropos. Their desperate, stubborn attempts to change it had come at the cost of an innocent, undeserving girl. Atropos was embarrassed for herself, for thinking that the remedy to stubbornness was more stubbornness, for continuing a plan that she knew was not wise. 

It pained her a great deal, for Iphigenia’s life could have been happier and longer, had the two sisters been a little less stubborn.