An old ache, a memory of ecstasy, rippled through her; of life-threads thrumming through her veins. Perhaps her humanity was already lost, left behind in the mists of the Asphodel Meadows. Her heart was barren, any remnants of feeling burned up by grief and fury. She had made so many agonizing choices, put aside what she wanted over and over again. She could do it once more. She had to. She was just a thing of flesh, with nothing but Prometheus’ words where her soul should have been.
The air felt as thick as honey as she turned the knife in her hand. It was so light, such a small thing. A tiny destroyer of worlds.
Charon forced the man to his knees, pulling his head back to bare his neck.
Her gaze met his.
Heracles’ cerulean eyes were bloodshot, devoid of anger or fear, filled instead with the stone-patient look of a man waiting to die.
Danae loosed a long, slow breath and raised the blade above her head.
15. Imperial Purple
Objectively, Hera knew she was flawless. As a mortal, she had been blessed with perfectly symmetrical features. She could no longer remember how old she had been when she became divine. Thirty perhaps? Time moved differently for her now; it was almost impossible to contemplate such a limited number. She had lived endless lives, and she would live endless more.
She sat in her chambers in a gilded chair, appraising herself in the bronze mirrored wall. Once satisfied with the shape of her hair, she lifted a golden headdress from the marble table in front of her and placed it on her oiled curls. It was a simple design, just a band with rods of gold shooting from it, but on her it was spectacular. The shining metal crowned her head just like the rays of the sun.
As she gazed at her reflection, she methodically recalled the wounds she’d suffered over the years, some at the hands of her enemies, some inflicted by those she loved most. She imagined what she would look like if she did not have the power to heal herself by consuming the life-threads of others, if Zeus ever denied her access to the lives of the mortals held in the Olympus vault. She was plagued by a terrible fear that one day she would wake up with all the livid scars, burns and mutilations she had ever suffered visible on her skin.
Two weeks had passed since she’d overheard Zeus and Poseidon’s plan to send Hermes after the girl from Prometheus’ prophecy. Two weeks of agonizing waiting. As far asshe knew, the boy was still out there, searching. If Hermes failed, she had no doubt her husband would send another child. Possibly one of her own sons.
She smoothed the silk of her gown, banishing the fear threatening to curl around her heart. The colour was particularly special. The specific shade was imperial purple, the dye harvested from a rare species of sea snail. To create one dress required tens of thousands of the little creatures. The labour wasn’t easy either; the snails resided on the ocean bed and had a fondness for human flesh. As a result, it often took decades to make a single garment.
Only the best for the Queen of Heaven.
A princess of Mycenae had once commissioned an imperial purple dress. The mortal had debuted it at the unveiling of a new temple dedicated to Zeus, no less. The bare-faced nerve of it. Hera had made sure the woman’s body was cold before the arrogant creature had the chance to wear the gown again. Imperial purple was Hera’s colour and hers alone.
She traced the little stoppers of each of the potion bottles lining her dressing table, the glass chinking under her fingers. Some were perfumes she’d concocted from flowers in the sky palace gardens. Some were medicines to help her sleep and calm her nerves. And some were poisons so deadly a single drop would asphyxiate an Olympian before they’d had time to grab the nearest nymph. Her son, Hephaestus, chided her for keeping them all together. It would be so easy to make a mistake, he’d said. She’d told him she never made mistakes.
The door to Hera’s chambers opened, and one of her nymphs entered.
‘Your son, Hephaestus, my queen.’
Hera nodded, and the nymph retreated through the door. Hephaestus entered the room and bowed to his mother.He was still wearing his forge clothes, his face smeared with soot.
Hera’s brow creased. ‘You could have changed.’
‘The nymph said you wished to see me right away.’
He lowered himself down onto the cushions at the edge of Hera’s vast bed. She winced as he rested a grubby hand on one of the draped pillars that stood at each corner.
She rose, snatched a tasselled shawl from one of the many beautifully crafted pieces of furniture that littered her chambers and strode over to him.
Hephaestus pulled away as she began scrubbing soot from his rich brown skin.
‘You should take more pride in yourself. You can’t walk around the palace like this, you’re a prince of heaven.’
‘Stop.’
Hera sighed and relented from wiping.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ grumbled Hephaestus.
‘Like what?’
‘Like you pity me.’
‘I don’t pity you,’ Hera said softly. ‘I just don’t see you enough.’ She placed a hand on his cheek.
