A Greek Mythology Challenge

A trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck and soaked into his tunic. Pegasus’ wings brush against his calf muscles as the horse pumped up and down in midair, waiting.

Bellerophon leaned forward, clutching the spear, feeling small splinters from the rough wood dig into his hand. He laid his head on the horse’s neck and breathed in the sweaty dustiness. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his free hand in the pure white mane, threading the coarse fibers securely around his fingers, so tightly the circulation seemed almost cut off.

Tightly now. Tightly.

Whatever happens, you must. not. let. go.

The grey fog raised goose bumps on his skin.  The spear seemed so heavy.

So heavy.

Whatever happens. You must not let go.

Do. Not. Let. Go.

The fear congealed around his heart. His muscles felt frozen, unyielding. Sluggishly, he turned his face sideways and looked at the distant peak of Mt. Olympus. He took a breath. Athena be with me.

Lifting his heavy head and hoisting the spear, he exhaled, the puff of air turning to steam in the frigid morning mist.

He softly pressed his right heel into the muscled flank of his mount and the horse banked steeply.

“Death and glory…" he whispered as the wind whipped his hair across his face and shrieked in his ears.

“Remember,” the horse’s low voice floated back to him. “Just within the entrance. You must strike first and you must not let go of me. Trust me to maneuver you and whatever happens. HOLD. ON.”

Just then, they broke through the bottom edge of the fog and Bellerophon saw the yawning black of the cave mouth, lit by a dim red glow, as if the monster’s fires burned low in his slumber. He tightened his grip on the lance.

Noiselessly, Pegasus glided toward the cavern.  Bellerophon glanced hastily at the landscape on which they were descending.  The valley was silent and still, almost tranquil. Like a temple, he thought, and then he saw the bones. Some were bleached clean as lamb’s wool. A skull leered at him. Bits of flesh still clung to a ribcage. Flies feasted on fingers, a foot. And the stench, ah Pallas! The putrescence and sulfur made the bile rise in his throat. He choked. Swallowed. Knew he would vomit out all of his courage along with his breakfast if he didn’t stop heaving.  He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then urged Pegasus forward.

“Death and glory.”

Graceful as a butterfly, Pegasus flitted into the blackness of the opening, his movements belying his powerful musculature and noble demeanor.

In the ruddy light, Bellerophon could see the three massive heads, each breathing in tandem. Pegasus touched down gently and the young man slid off the horse’s back, his bare feet immediately raising puffs of soft gray ash.

One stroke. Just one. Just enough to injure it. To make it angry. To make it want to kill me, he thought.

Just below the hip joint. Just one stroke.

His palms grew slick with sweat. He drew his dagger from its sheath strapped to the inside of his right leg.

Step. Step. One stroke. One small stroke. Small but effective. Just below the hip joint.

Step. Breathe. Step. Is the roaring in his ears the sound of the monster’s hideous snores or is it the throbbing of his own heart? He doesn’t know, but he moves onward, choking on waves of panic as he stares up at the slavering jaws, the golden mane, the coarse matted goat hair, the cloven hooves. That venomous serpentine tail lying curled around the Chimaera’s body.

He knew the prick of his dagger would be enough to annoy the monster: a gnat on a sleeping baby. It would wake and then he would slash the leg.

Athena, give me strength. Pallas, goddess of my heart, guide my hand.

Slash the leg, and then onto Pegasus’ back and no matter what don’t let go.