Helen laughed as she ran from the palace of Greece, feet quiet on the wooden floor. A part of her died that day, but a part was born. There is a dark joy in leaving behind everything familiar for a taste of the unknown.
Icarus was silent when he fell from the sky, plummeting to the churning sea, spurned by the sun’s warmth. Acrid smoke filled his lungs as his body went up in flames, a burning so intense that he could have charred the entire earth, made it a burnt-out shell beneath him. He could not draw the breath to scream.
Atlas accepted the weight of the sky without a protest, and they thought that he was understanding. How could they have known that he was simply bowing to his fate, exhaustion in his bones? A man who carries the weight of the world is easily broken.
Heracles did not cry when he slew his children. Drawing blades is easy, the aftermath is not. When he saw their blood spilled by his own hands, that is when the tears began to fall. Everyone has regrets, but there is a sort of beauty in looking back at them and knowing that it is final, when finality is all that is certain.
Pandora was not driven by curiosity, but by desperation. In a world where infamy is easily achieved, she strove to be remembered. When she trapped Hope it was the hope that she would live on in the stories and in the hearts of men. How could she have known how much damage she would wreak?
Here is what they don’t tell you: the heroes could not handle their gifts. They were too human.