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Chapter Four

Hebe

I stare at the fiery-haired Prometheus as he does nothing to hide his disgust at wedding me. Then I turn back to Atum. “Can’t I just marry you instead? I promise I don’t need a lot of time, and I won’t ever get in the way.”

Prometheus sputters, as though he’s now insulted by my not wanting to marry him as much as he doesn’t want to wed me.

Well, just because I’m not god doesn’t mean I don’t have some pride. Call it hubris, but I was ready to die with dignity. Now that I have survived, I intend to live with just as much dignity.

Atum grasps Prometheus’ wrist and pulls him toward me. Then he takes my hand as gently as if it were made of butterfly wings, and places it on Prometheus’.

While Atum’s touch was featherlight, Prometheus’ hand is very warm, the heat seeming to sear through my flesh and into my psyche. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not comfortable, either.

Being careful not to look directly at Prometheus lest I be smote for reacting as repulsed as he is, I turn to Atum.

It’s impossible to tell past the mask, but by the way he grasps his hands, he seems to be smiling down at us. “You two have matching flames in your eyes. You will make the perfect coupling.”

“You can’t be serious!” Prometheus cries. “You have other Entities and Nymphs under your command. Order one of them to do this!”

“I do not have as many entities as before considering how many have joined with Zeus.” Atum pats our joined hands. “And an Entity’s testimonial will draw more attention from the Firstborns than a Nymph’s.”

I steal a glance at Prometheus and find him clenching his jaw as he mutters, “This isn’t something I’ve ever asked for.”

“No one did because we didn’t know we could. You would be the first of all our kind to wed. The first to prove whether or not it is possible. We could put the Tablet of Life and Love to the test.”

Prometheus’ jaw twitches, but when he meets my gaze, there’s something different in his expression. Curiosity.

What was it Atum called him? The ‘Entity of Ingenuity’?

“Very well.” Prometheus sighs. “I will take this mortal for my bride.” With that announcement, he grasps the hand he’s holding and tugs me from the altar.

Puraltas is clearly as surprised by the sudden change of heart, because he releases me without a fight. I’m even less prepared, and my legs buckle.

Prometheus is apparently as unprepared for mortal weakness as I am for Primordial forthrightness. He fails to catch my fall, though he makes an attempt to. That only proves to unbalance Prometheus though, and then he’s falling after me.

My tailbone and then my shoulders hit the ground hard. I just barely keep my head from following suit.

I don’t have a moment to feel relief, though, before a heavy body crashes onto me.

Instinct has me trying to scream, but no sound leaves my throat.

“Of all the confounded mortal catastrophes . . .” Prometheus mercifully rolls off me. “Why did you have to be mine?”

Since I still can’t speak, I just glare at him.

Puraltas helps me to my feet while Prometheus pushes himself up.

Atum clasps his hand over his heart. “You’re already falling as one.”

“They aren’t wed yet,” Puraltas counters, gripping my forearms.

The High Priest glares at him. Apparently, I was to be sent as is, with no actual vows or dowry to protect me.

“Tell us what your traditions are,” Atum says with more excitement than I expected from such a powerful being. “We must do this correctly for the bonding to have every chance of success.”

“Then I’ll see that she is prepared for the ceremony.” Puraltas begins to lead me away.

The High Priest grasps my shoulder like he thinks Puraltas wants to spirit me away. He just might. “We have already performed the proualia. We can move right into the gamos .”

“But—”

“She has already enjoyed her sacred bath,” the High Priest answers like that was what he wanted me to weasel out of this conversation. “And she is the sacrifice, so no further offering are needed.”

“But I need to provide the dowry.”

The High Priest scoffs. “What can you possibly have that would enrich a god?”

Puraltas purses his lips. Then he reaches down the front of his short tunic.

I whirl toward him when I realize what he’s doing. “Puraltas, don’t. Keep that for your wife.”

“She has her own dowry and has no need to fear a divorce. You, though . . .” Puraltas tugs the bronze chain encasing our family’s sacred amber free. Then he holds it out to Prometheus. “This is my kinswoman’s dowry. You cannot put her away without giving this back to her for her provision.”

Prometheus takes the chain from him and inspects it for a moment, focusing more on the intricate way it holds the amber rather than the jewel itself. Then he turns to my cousin in confusion. “Wait, what do you mean by ‘put her away’?”

“That isn’t important for this ceremony,” the High Priest says quickly. “We have the bridegroom and the guardian of the bride, so we can begin at once.”

“The sooner the better,” Dionysus calls. “I love a good celebration, but something tells me you don’t have the appropriate amount of wine and won’t until you resolve this business and I can complete my part of the bargain.”

The High Priest claps his hands together. “Then let us hurry!” He turns to Puraltas.

My cousin furrows his brows, but then he leads me toward where the High Priest and my . . . bridegroom stand. He clears his throat. “I, Puraltas — warrior of the Mycenaeans— give my kinswoman to Prometheus . . . god of ingenuity?” Puraltas wrinkles his nose, like he’s not sure he got the title right.

“Close enough,” Prometheus mutters, more out of impatience than understanding. Then he frowns at the High Priest. “Is that all?”

“Now you must verbally accept the bride.”

“Very well.” Prometheus turns back, but instead of addressing my cousin, his gaze locks on mine. For some reason, it feels as though a fire has consumed all the air between us and there is nothing left to breathe. “I accept your kinswoman . . . What was her name again? She does have one, right?”

“Hebe,” I whisper before anyone can answer for me.

Prometheus winces, like he doesn’t even approve of my name. “Yes, well, I accept Hebe— sacrifice of the Mycenaeans— as my bride.”

As I try to wrap my psyche around what those words mean, the High Priest takes my hand and places it in Prometheus’ again.

I stare at our joined hands for a long moment before forcing my gaze back to meet my . . . husband’s.

However, he’s no longer looking at me. “Is that all? Are we wed now?”

“Now we must lead the bride away from her kin and see her into the home of her husband.”

My stomach lurches at the implication. I had not thought that far ahead— or very much at all, except that I could save my people without dying.

Dying suddenly seems like a more merciful fate.

Prometheus frowns. “That will be a bit of a journey.”

The ironsmith pushes his way through the crowd and then throws himself at Prometheus’ feet. “I dedicate my humble abode to you, O great one.”

Prometheus glances back at Atum.

His master nods. “We shall remain in this village for the night. Now go ahead with the ceremony. Dionysus and I shall attend to the fields.”

The third Primordial grumbles as he untangles himself from his new acolytes. Then Dionysus salutes us. “Blessings of fertility upon the new couple.”

I stiffen.

Everyone’s focus returns to Prometheus and me. A path clears before us in the crowd, one that will take us straight to the ironsmith’s home.

Puraltas grasps my elbow even though it’s still so sticky with wine. “I’m here.”

I have nothing to say as I descend the hill with my kinsman at my elbow and my new husband holding my other hand.

In my focus to avoid tripping and dragging Prometheus back down on me again, I nearly walk into the building. The ironsmith’s house is the third-biggest hut. I used to spend childhood days here, watching him forge spearheads.

Now my childhood ends within its walls.

The door is pushed open before us, and Puraltas squeezes my elbow. Then he releases me and I’m stumbling into the hut with Prometheus. The door slams behind us, and for the first time since we met moments ago, we are alone.

Avoiding looking at my new husband, I study the interior of the hut instead. It is two-stories, with a ladder leading to the sleeping area. There is a door that opens to the forge on one end. On the opposite side of the house, where the second floor does not extend, is the hearth with a hole in the ceiling above. In the center of the room is a table with two dining couches stretched on either side.

Prometheus steps into my line of sight, running his hand over the top of the dining couch. “Hebe . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m just musing over your name.” He shakes his head. “Such a drab, short title for a goddess.”

“You serve a god called ‘Atum.’”

Prometheus snorts at this, like that’s not actually the case. Then he turns his intense gaze back to me. “Tell me, Hebe, what do mortals do on their wedding night?”