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Chapter Thirty-Two

Hebe

I am on fire. No — I am already consumed.

If I were still alive, I would feel my other injuries as well. They’re gone now, leaving me with only the burning.

I am no longer Hebe, wife of Prometheus. I am only smoldering ashes. Is there anything left of me to bury?

“Hebe, I’m here.”

Suddenly, Prometheus is kneeling beside me. There is compassion in his voice that I’ve never heard before and desperation in his gaze.

I want to tell him to turn away so he doesn’t look upon me in my nothingness. But ashes don’t have a voice.

Prometheus places his hands on either side of what was once my neck. “I’m here with you. I won’t leave you. Please don’t leave me.”

But I have no choice. I’m already gone. He must bury me, because that is the only way my soul will find rest. That is just how life is among us mortals— it always leads to death.

“I won’t let you leave me,” Prometheus hisses desperately. There are tears in his voice.

My poor, dear Prometheus. I made him the first husband of his kind. Now I have forced him to become the first widower. The only knowledge I could teach him, mortal that I am, is the pain of grief.

“I won’t let you go,” Prometheus adds, even though he has no choice but to do so. Then he molds the ashes that were once my neck.

And . . . it actually feels right. The burning is gone— from my throat, at least.

I gasp, startled to breathe freely again.

Prometheus’ hands move lower, molding my shoulders, my arms, and my hands.

Lifting one hand, I marvel to see flesh instead of ashes. Power like I’ve never felt before courses through it. If the rest of me weren’t still ashes, I would think I could do anything.

I almost think I might survive.

Prometheus’ hands move up to my face, his fingers running over what were once my lips, my nose, and my eyes. They curve over my ears, and then I feel my face again.

“You may be the warrior,” Prometheus murmurs, “but I’ll fight for you.”

I stare at him, too stunned to speak as his hands move lower, forming my torso out of the ashes next. Power courses everywhere Prometheus touches, and then he moves onto my legs.

“What are you doing?” I finally say, trying to ignore the intimacy of this moment.

Prometheus doesn’t look up from his work. “I’m making you like me.”

My eyes fly open as I breathe desperate, smokeless breaths.

Prometheus kneels beside me with his head bowed. Instead of touching my legs like I dreamed, he’s holding my hand so tightly not even one of Zeus’ storms could tear me away from him. But my skin still burns everywhere I imagined his touch.

Lifting my head, I discover that my chiton has become a collection of rags. The skin I can see between the tatters is whole and unburnt, but it isn’t unblemished. That is, if what I see can even be considered a blemish . . .

Instead of blisters and burns, there is a river of bright orange flowing beneath my skin. It makes lovely swirling patterns up and down my arms, my legs, my torso— and, by the strange but pleasant sensation on my face, it’s there, too.

“This looks like the vision the Tablet revealed,” I whisper.

Prometheus’ gaze snaps to mine. “Hebe? You’re awake?”

“Are we . . .” I gesture at the strangely beautiful swirls. “Are we bonded?”

He doesn’t seem to hear me as he brushes his hand tenderly over my face. “You’re alive.”

“Not just alive.” Sitting up, I feel none of the injuries I know I sustained when Zeus’ Fire was unleashed. I’m not completely without pain, though. I feel an ache throughout my body, not unlike the growing pains I experienced as a child.

Excitement like I’ve never felt before fills me. I push myself to my feet before Prometheus can reach for me again.

Rather than the weakness I expected after all the trials of the day, energy surges through me. I feel like I could wrestle a lion and win with no aid whatsoever.

Prometheus doesn’t trust my newfound strength. He stands quickly and holds out his hands as though he expects me to collapse into his arms. “How do you feel?”

“How do I feel ?” I stare down at myself. Though I should feel embarrassed to be wearing charred rags in the presence of my divine husband, all I see is my smooth skin marked by ethereal light. “I feel beautiful .”

“You were always beautiful.”

I glance up in confusion to find Prometheus looking equally confounded. But then his eyes climb me to meet my gaze, and his expression softens. “I don’t know why I didn’t realize it sooner, but you are the truth I could never tire of discovering.”

For a moment, I just gape at my husband, discovering something new myself. What it feels to be desired .

Barely knowing what I’m doing in my reborn body, I close the distance between us. I throw my arms around Prometheus’ neck and draw his lips down to mine.