Asilentbreezerustledthrough the valleys of hell carrying the stench of battle and blood. Zeus inhaled deeply and reveled in his victory. The Olympians would spend days glutting themselves in celebration, but he had work to do.
Zeus knelt, sank his fingers into softened clay, and piled handfuls of the moldable material until it reached his chest. He had never been one for dirty work, but there was something about the silence after battle that left him restless. Working with his hands soothed this feeling, his mind finding comfort in simple tasks.
Zeus wetted his hands with the cursed river and carved elegant dips and curves into the mud pile, his palms smoothing every crack and dimple. His mind drifted as he worked, falling back into the calculated dance of battle and recent victory.
The Olympians had been held in the throes of the Titans until Zeus came along and pulled their sorry carcasses together. Half were drowning in the bile of their father, Cronos, while the other half cowered in the shadows.
For years Zeus survived in a godsdamned cave, hidden away in fear by his mother Rhea, while his siblings cowered. His mother was just as weak as the rest of them. It was a mercy, really, what he had done for her. He spared her life and sent her to be a silent servant in her precious temple as he had been for years before he was strong enough to break the ties that held him there.
Well, not a temple yet. But it would be.
It took ten long years to beat the Titans into submission, and his band of warriors were still clueless as to what he’d had to do to secure that victory for them. What he had to take and the sacrifice he had to be willing to make to obtain it.
Zeus paused his musing to focus on his work. The face was, after all, the most intricate. He used deft fingers to shape the contour of pouty lips that turned up ever so slightly at the edges. Her nose was pointed delicately at the end, and the dip between it and her lips was deep and feminine.
He took time to weave every strand of hair and placed it in long exquisite waves down her back. Flecks of sand dotted the tops of her rounded cheeks that would morph into a cluster of freckles. Zeus carved well into the night, shaping the figure that would solve all of his problems.
Zeus grimaced at that thought. He wouldn’t be in this position if everyone around him hadn’t given up hope – If they had been more willing to fight for their place in this world as he had. But, if one wants to control the outcome, one must sacrifice what it takes.
He shook his head hoping to rid it of residual anger and focused instead on the finished product before him. She was perfect.
Zeus placed a hand on the back of her neck and gently covered her lips with his own. With a soft but firm exhale he forced the breath of life to fill her lungs. Clay morphed to skin, the color of the river mud turning to a flushed, feminine pink from her rosy lips all the way down to her toes. Small strands of clay pulled from her head and came to life in the breeze, wisping around her naked shoulders and brushing his own.
She gasped for air, releasing his mouth and sputtering to life.
“Shhh, there, there love,” he whispered and patted her back. “The first breath is always the hardest.”
She coughed and gulped oxygen, then bent over and vomited brown muck.
“That’s it, get it all up. That’s just your insides expelling the clay. It will all be over soon.” As she spit and sputtered, Zeus crafted a leather waterskin from clay and filled it with the cursed water from the Acheron. Known as the river of misery and woe, it ushered the dead into a newly reformed Underworld.
While his clay goddess choked on the ground, Zeus walked to the tree line and searched the greenery budding along the forest floor. Reaching out toward the bank was an invasive vine with dark green leaves.
Knotweed. Perfect.
Zeus took a handful,drained it of life, and crushed the dead leaves between his immortal fist. He sprinkled the fine powder in the water skin and muttered the binding words over the elixir.
He walked back to where the woman sat near the riverbank. Her coughing fit had eased and her eyes settled on the reflection in the river: stars.
Zeus passed the waterskin and urged it toward her lips.
“Drink. It will make you feel better.”
She watched him wearily as she took her first sip. The gluttony of drink soon became too much and she drank greedily, taking long pulls from the mouth until it was empty.
“Good girl,” he crooned. “Drink it all. Every last drop.” Zeus patted her back as she lowered the water skin and wiped the excess from her chin.
“You’re going to be very important to me, do you know that?” He said as he gazed across the river.
In a scratchy alto, the woman spoke, “Wh-who are you?”
“No one you need to be concerned with. You’re free to go forth and live as you please, as long as you carry something of mine with you and never mention this night for as long as you live. And you will live, Pandora. You will live a long life if you do what I ask.”
She started to speak again but her raw voice caught in her throat. She cleared it and tried again. “What am I to do?”
“The water you drank was a binding agent. Water of the cursed and an herb to tie your life essence to mine.” She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t speak. Good. “It will not be soul-bonding. If you decide to take your own life, I won’t fall with you. I have something within myself I need out, but kept close to me and hidden from others. It needs a vessel.”
She seemed to ponder this for a moment, her thoughtful gaze locked on the stars reflected in the water.
