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Chapter Eleven

Hebe

W hen all my childhood friends were given in marriage in the last few years, I experienced no shortage of emotions. Bittersweet joy knowing they were secure though our time together would become limited, sorrowful jealousy that none of the marriages belonged to me, and yet also relief that I was still free.

Those emotions dulled in power every time we walked together to fetch water. That was when they shared stories of their new domestic bliss, and I realized it was a blessing I did not have a husband of my own.

My mother never had the chance to explain the responsibilities of a wife in the home before pestilence took her, and her sister did not wish to speak to me about her duties to her husband. I certainly never wanted to ask her, even while there was a chance for her to explain.

Most of what I learned was from the young wives of the village. There were the blushing brides, who couldn’t speak of their bridegrooms without a smile on their face. But there were also the ones whose light had gone from their eyes. They spoke of how powerless they felt against their husbands’ wrath or indifference.

None of them ever spoke of a time when their husband tested them, though.

Still, as I stand in a ravine next to a barely conscious god with only rope and a muddy chiton , I know I must not fail.

When I was a girl, my father gave me no test to prove I was a worthy daughter to him. He gave me no chance to prove that we could continue living in the same abode. Instead, I was unceremoniously deposited with the sister of his late wife while he went out hunting.

He never returned. To this day, I know not if it was his own choice or the gods’, only that a monument was placed by my mother’s grave in his honor.

“Prometheus means well,” Atum offers as he watches me tie the chiton around the edge of the rope. “He’s just never had to woo a woman before. He simply doesn’t know how to.”

I freeze. “Wh-what do you know about ‘wooing’?”

“Not much, especially compared to Dionysus. But I’ve learned of a few mortal traditions while protecting them from a distance. Though the separation of the bride and bridegroom was new to me.” Atum lifts hs brows in amusement.

I resist the temptation to drop my gaze.

“But your peoples have many traditions,” Atum adds casually. “You do not all speak the same language. Why would you all share a bed of myrrh on your wedding night?”

The rope tumbles from my fingers. I have to stomp on it to prevent it from washing downriver.

Atum doesn’t seem to notice, as he leans back and closes his eyes. “Of course, even if that were one of your people’s traditions, it wouldn’t make sense for you and Prometheus. He doesn’t sleep, after all, so beds mean nothing to him.”

A bed will never mean a thing to Prometheus.

Grunting, I stoop to reclaim my rope.

“He’s eager to learn your traditions, though.”

I nearly drop the rope again.

Atum’s eyes are still mercifully closed. “He may seem gruff, but it’s only from weariness over this war. It takes a toll on all of us, but I am the only Primordial— other than Nymphs— who can sleep and escape the troubles for a moment.”

“‘ Can ’ sleep? You say that like your weakness isn’t a burden.”

“My need to sleep has nothing to do with my current weakness. The Creator gave me a portion of His power over life as well as a portion of mortal vulnerability. This way I will always have compassion on my charges.”

“Your charges?” I finally turn from Atum to the surface above. The tip of my spear is just within sight with its shaft sticking up and the head embedded into the soil. It is like the storm picked it up and then hurled it back down.

Hopefully, the spear is deep enough in the soil to support my weight.

“The mortals.” Atum finally peels his eyes open again and watches as I twirl the rope over my head. “All Primordials are to protect mortals by tending to their respective domains, be it land, air, or sea. And all Entities are supposed to help mortals by being a beacon of the virtue they were born to promote.”

Does that mean that Atum didn’t wed me not because I was too human for his tastes— but because he was too human for our marriage to prove a point?

I finally throw my rope, and watch as the knot I fashioned from Prometheus’ chiton loops around the spear. Then I turn back to Atum, longing to learn more about these things. “You speak like all Primordials were assigned by this Creator to protect mortals. Yet you act like you were singled out for this duty.”

“Both are true. The mortals are the jewel of His creation, and we Primordials are all meant to protect them. Our powers exist to fulfill our duties— and as my compatriots are discovering, if we actively defy that calling, our power diminishes.”

Tugging on the rope, I decide it’s secure enough, but I don’t climb yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you must be like a mortal when it is the rest of your people who struggle with compassion.”

Atum smiles sadly. “I have been directly appointed as the protector of mortals— the Guardian of Life. Zeus, Poseidon, Dionysus, the Entities, the Nymphs, and even Hades have their parts to play to keep order and maintain life— or to keep it separate from the dead, like in Hades’ case. But I am uniquely charged with responsibility over life itself.”

“But that almost sounds like you are the greatest of all Primordials.”

His sad smile grows. “Yes. And also the weakest. Even we must keep our hubris in check.”

I stumble away from the rope as everything I thought I knew is called into question. “If you are the greatest then why does Zeus claim to be the king of the gods?”

“Because he wishes to be.”

“But then, this isn’t a war— it’s a rebellion!”

“It is, but not against me . The rebellion is against the One Who created this order to begin with.”

I purse my lips. “This Creator . . . will He intervene?”

“He already has, making us swear on the River Styx so we are bound to our word. There are now consequences for our actions. Soon Chaos will be contained along with her brothers War, Pestilence, and Death.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say to the thought that Death is a person to be avoided. “So, do you aim to be our deliverer, then?”

He sighs sadly. “I wish I could be, but it seems I am only capable of being an intercessor since I understand both the strength of a Primordial and the weakness of a mortal. But maybe a deliverer will rise to work alongside me until the Creator sends One Who will be intercessor, deliverer, and so much more.”

“More?”

“He is the all-knowing, all-powerful provider, the epitome of beauty, and the promised victor. Yet somehow, He will also be the suffering servant.”

“How?”

Atum shrugs. “I only know what has been promised. I will understand more fully when all is fulfilled.”

“Will mortals survive until then?”

“Of course you will.” Atum claps his hands together. “Now, enough about things that cannot be resolved here and now. Climb out of this ravine and prove to your husband how clever you are.”

“What about you?”

“Prometheus already knows I’m clever. But if you leave the rope in place, I’ll make my way up in a moment.”

Nodding, I turn to face the ravine. Hoping I’m as clever as Atum believes, I test my rope and tentatively find a foothold.

Several footholds later, I make it to the top. Leaving everything in its place for Atum, I scan the area.

Prometheus’ spear is embedded into the ground several cubits away. Farther still, I see the chariot.

Well, it’s a good thing Prometheus urged us into the ravine.

I see movement by the chariot. My husband. Of course, he still hasn’t properly covered himself. Though, if he brought spare garments, they could be anywhere after the storm.

Prometheus moves quickly around the chariot, the sight almost comical— until I see why he’s running.

A giant lion prowls toward him— larger than anything the village hunters ever brought back. This is no ordinary lion. And by the way it prowls, I think it intends to widow me.

No.