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Chapter Six

Hebe

I glare upward all evening long. Of course, my bridegroom— who professed to not needing to sleep— took the portion of the house where the cots are.

It seems I was correct in my supposition that being Prometheus’ living bride was not, in fact, a more merciful fate than becoming Dionysus’ dead one.

At least sleeping on a dining couch is superior to lying beside him, so I shouldn’t complain. Not that there is anyone to complain to since Prometheus took my made-up tradition seriously.

Thankfully, that gave me the opportunity to bathe in privacy. Prometheus isn’t the only one aggravated by the wine sticking to my skin. To him, it was only an annoyance. To me, it was a funeral shroud.

But considering others of his kind seek to wipe out my people because we have the audacity to die, I suppose that makes sense. As much as senseless hatred can, anyway.

I doubt my clan would allow me to leave this house to bathe in the stream. So, the pitcher of water by the hearth and a rag I found is the best I can do to clean myself. I pat at my dress the best I can since it is all I have to wear. I do a better job at cleaning my skin before dousing my hair. Compared to our soldiers, I am hardly suffering.

Now I lie on the dining couch and stare up at the clay barrier between my new husband and me.

Never have I met a more infuriating man. Though, I shouldn’t be surprised, since he isn’t exactly a man .

After being ignored by my clansmen for my lack of dowry, I find myself wed to a greater authority than the chieftain. A god.

I don’t feel honored.

The door swings open, and I nearly topple off the couch in surprise. Who would have the audacity to enter this house they have fashioned as a new altar for me to be sacrificed upon?

Atum staggers in, and my surprise subsides. There is nothing too audacious to the gods, who view hubris as their personal possession.

His strange green mask stares at me for a long moment. “Many pardons. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I was told I could rest here.”

Did he just . . . apologize?

Shock is followed by shock when Atum collapses onto the dirt floor.

I hurry to his side and then hesitate. When Atum grasped my hand during my gamos , I was not smote. And I suppose if any mortal may touch a god, it would be the wife of one.

Gingerly, I roll Atum to his side. “Are you injured?” But what can hurt a god?

“No . . . just weak.” Grasping the edge of his green mask, Atum pulls it free.

I brace myself for a dangerous level of beauty. However, though the face beneath is far from hideous, it isn’t remarkable either. If it weren’t for the mask or his height, I could pass Atum on the path and think nothing of him.

Come to think of it, his height seems to have diminished, too. If it weren’t for his fine Egyptian garments, there would be nothing preventing him from being mistaken for an impoverished mortal like me.

“What is happening?” I gasp.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Prometheus says as he suddenly kneels next to Atum. “Just the folly of self-sacrifice. Not that you would know anything about that.” He arches a sarcastic brow at me.

Atum pushes himself up on his elbows. “The mortals are my responsibility to protect. There was a blight on the harvest, and it took at least a day and a half of my power for Dionysus to reverse it.”

“Pestilence is becoming as troublesome as War,” Prometheus mutters.

“You speak of such things like they are beings and not curses. Are they ‘Entities’ too?”

Prometheus snorts. “Worse— they’re Ancients . But such things are beyond your mortal mind’s comprehension.“ With that, he lifts Atum into his arms effortlessly.

Grabbing the discarded mask, I stand. “I am not as feeble as you think, and I would like to learn more of the world I’m about to see more of. As the ‘Entity’ of ingenuity, you should understand that.”

Prometheus carries Atum toward the ladder. Then he ceremoniously shifts him so he’s hanging over his shoulder like a sack of barley. Atum is apparently too weak to protest.

Instead of hurrying to make his master more comfortable, my bridegroom glances over his other shoulder at me. “Oh, I do understand, little wife of mine. I just don’t care.”

With that, Prometheus scales the ladder as easily as if he were just carrying his own weight.

I watch them go. Then I return to my dining couch to enjoy a peaceful wedding night without my bridegroom. I will have to come up with more “traditions” to keep us apart, or being wed to the Entity of Irritation will be a fate worse than death.