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Chapter Seven

Hebe

S omeone shakes my shoulder.

Groaning, I roll over, ready to scold Puraltas.

It’s Prometheus, though, whose hand is on me. He stares down at me with a mixture of contempt and curiosity as he tosses a sack over his shoulder. “Arise, mortal. We have much ground to travel before night finds us again.”

I push myself into a sitting position. “I thought you did not slumber.”

“I do not, but both you and Atum do.”

At his words, I glance past him to find Atum leaning heavily against the wall. He takes a deep breath and appears to find some strength in it, because he stands up straighter and dons his mask.

Prometheus sighs. “At least for another night or so. Speaking of which, you must do nothing to betray his current weakness.”

I wasn’t planning to, but still I ask, “Why?”

“Your people may be pleased with him, but other mortals we encounter on our journey might know that Primordials are their enemies. If they discover he’s vulnerable, they will not hesitate to attack.”

Saying nothing, I stare at Atum, if only to avoid looking at my bridegroom. We do not receive many visitors in my village, but those who’ve come have told wild stories of the cruelties and frivolities of the gods. I had thought they were moral stories to show what those in Olympus were allowed to do and mortals could not. But were they justifications for a holy war against the gods this whole time?

“I will be fine , Prometheus,” Atum calls, his voice strained but jovial. “The Creator vowed to me as a Firstborn that I would not taste death until one of my own bloodline could inherit my throne. I have no heir, so I am still immortal.”

“And placing great faith in a Being no one has seen or heard from since He forced us to vow upon the River Styx to keep all future oaths on pain of death or suffering. He has yet to prevent the Ancients from running rampant on our side of the Veil.”

“He is not required to come running to undo the destruction we have caused by our own actions,” Atum counters. “It is perhaps a mercy that He has not. The Creator’s return could become a sentence of condemnation to our people who do not carry out the responsibilities of their domains.”

“Creator?” I ask. “Who is this Creator?”

Prometheus snorts. “Yet another thing you do not know? Why am I not surprised, little savage?”

“Is He greater than the other gods?”

“It depends on who you ask. Zeus would tell you he has become more powerful than the Creator because the latter has yet to end his tyranny.”

“And what do you say?”

A light tugging on my curls drags me out of my train of thought. Surprised, I turn to Prometheus.

He’s still staring at my hair between his fingers. “Your hair is wilder than last night.”

What an abrupt change of subject. “I did not have my oils I usually use when washing them, but I didn’t want to delay since you asked me to clean up.”

“You bathed yourself merely because I asked? Is that something wives do for their husbands?”

I snort at the absurdity of such a question. And he thinks me a savage to not understand hierarchy of gods? “It is customary for husbands to comment on their wives’ appearances and say what pleases or displeases them.”

“And what do husbands give in return for this right to comment?”

Is everything a bargain to these ‘Primordials?’ “They must listen to similar comments from their wives. Though most of the suggestions have to do with what length they prefer their menfolk’s beards to be.” My gaze drops to Prometheus’ chin, which is as bare as an infant’s. “I suppose that isn’t something you need to concern yourself with.”

Prometheus runs his hand over his jaw, his lips twisted like he isn’t sure how to take my comment. Hopefully, he realizes it was an insult.

“I am sorry to interrupt your bonding attempt,” Atum calls, earning a glare from both of us, “but we should hasten our departure before I am unable to walk to the chariot being prepared for us.”

“They’re preparing a chariot?!” I cry before realizing my folly. Of course they are, but it is on behalf of the gods, whom they sacrificed a daughter of the village to. Why not add horseflesh to the offering? It is not as though they gifted it with my comfort in mind.

Rising, I smooth out my ruined dress the best I can before combing my notably wayward curls with my fingers.

Prometheus pushes open the door as I finish sliding on my sandals. My gaze falls on the spears hanging on the wall closest to the door.

My fingers itch to hold one. I used to sneak to Puraltas’ lessons with the village boys to watch them learn how to throw them. I studied the techniques from afar until my cousin spotted me. After that, Puraltas agreed to teach me in secret to keep me from sneaking back into his lessons and embarrassing him. I’m not sure how I would have since Puraltas always said my aim was better than even the older boys’.

Then again, I’ve given my people my body to trade away for a harvest. Surely, they cannot fault me for taking a spear in exchange?

Grasping the shortest of them, I turn toward the door. I am surprised by the crowd waiting outside, although the sun is only just now rising. My clansmen and women watch in silence as I follow my new husband and his master out of the ironsmith’s home.

A hand grabs my spear, and I find the High Priest glaring at e as he tries to pull it away from me.

Another hand lands on his shoulder.

We both startle to find Prometheus frowning at him.

“Let her keep it,” he says simply. “She’s going to need it.”

Releasing me, the High Priest stumbles backward.

Prometheus smirks, grabs his own spear, and strides away. Then another hand is grasping my elbow.

I turn to find Puraltas staring down at me intently, his gaze sliding over me as if searching for an injury. “Are you well?”

Considering the stone slab I was tied down to just last eve, the dining couch I woke up on is a vast improvement. “I have fled the bad. I have found the better.”

I mean to infuse the words with a portion of the sarcasm Prometheus employs every time he opens his mouth. However, I have always been terrible with conveying emotion with my words, so the point is missed.

There is nothing I can do to prevent the relief blooming across Puraltas’ face, not that I want to tear it away.

His bride, whom I did not notice standing just behind him, leans forward. “What did she say?”

I blink, not sure why she addresses him and not me. Am I as dead in her eyes? Or have I simply ascended too high to be addressed?

My cousin turns to his wife, grasping her hands happily. “She has fled the bad and found the better!”

The same words are whispered by those nearest to us and then slowly repeated like a wave washing over my village. They transform into a chant and then a roar.

“She has fled the bad and found the better!”

The High Priest steps forward onto the path cleared by the crowd for my entourage. He lifts his staff like he didn’t seek to spill my blood just yesterday. “Those words shall be spoken by our brides on the day of their gamos for ages to come in memory of you.”

I stand in shock, not sure what to say and less sure how to feel— though that is far from unusual for me. My people are honoring me like I am the warrior I always dreamed I could be. No, wait— they treat me like I am a goddess already.

My gaze shifts to where a bronze chariot has been pulled forward. A pair of the chief’s own brown stallions have been tethered to it.

Prometheus is assisting Atum into the chariot like servants do for their masters. They expertly disguise how much Atum actually needs to be assisted up.

For a moment, I stand in the throng of the people I’ve known since birth, staring up at the gods I met mere hours ago. It is strange to finally be exalted by my clansmen, yet not belong to them any longer. Now it is the tall man with fiery hair, curious eyes, and contempt in his smirk who owns me. He is my family, my future, and my fate.

Despite how much I wish it were not so, this is just like when I passed from girlhood into womanhood. I can mourn from the past, but never return to it. Old things must be put away so I can embrace my new duties.

With all the affection in my bosom, I embrace Puraltas one final time. Then I pull away and— with my head held as high as when I walked to my death— I stride toward my husband.

Prometheus does not assist me into the chariot, as I am not his master. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I come to stand just behind him where the chariot widens just enough for Atum and me to stand side-by-side with Prometheus at the reins. He does not need to. Whether or not Prometheus favors me does not change that he is all I have now.

Turning toward my people, I accept their final salutations and hope they never learn how impoverished I have become.

“I have fled the bad!” my clan calls as the horses carry me away from them. “I have found the better!”

I keep my chin high so I can look as regal as I can manage. They need not know the truth. I have fled being unwanted by all men to simply being unloved by my husband.

But that is just as well, because after only a night, I have found a truth to carry with me into my new life. For as much as Prometheus despises me for all that I cannot be, I shall loathe him for all that he already is.