Page 56 of Where Darkness Bloomed
“Bring her in,” he commanded, authority crackling in his voice.
The hush deepened, thick with expectation, as Thetis passed beneath the archway.
The sea trailed in her wake. Salt clung to the air, the echo of tide and storm. Light touched her like water, sliding over alabaster skin that glowed faintly, her midnight-dark hair falling like waves down her back.
But her eyes, dark and ageless as the deep, were rimmed with silent tears.
From the edge of the hall, Aglaia stood among her sisters, watching the goddess approach.
Thalia’s whisper reached her ear. “She is sorrowful.”
Aglaia nodded faintly. “She fears for her son, Achilles.”
Thetis reached the foot of the dais and sank into a low curtsey. When she straightened, her anguished gaze rose to Zeus.
“Mighty Zeus.” Her voice trembled. “I come before you seeking aid for my son.”
“The conflicts of mortals are not Olympus’s concern.” Zeus’s tone was brittle, cold as a high wind. “I have already decreed that none are to intervene in Troy.”
Thetis’s composure flickered, but she didn’t retreat.
“I have never burdened Olympus with pleas,” she said quietly. “Since my birth, I have kept to the quiet depths. When King Peleus was chosen forme, I married. I bore him a son, a warrior without equal.” Her voice cracked. “And now, I ask only this: help Achilles.”
Zeus’s face darkened, thunder rising in him. “Thetis, I cannot—”
But she was already falling to her knees. Pearly tears spilled down her cheeks, catching the firelight as she pressed a trembling hand to her breast, as if holding her breaking heart in place.
“This war was begun by Troy’s prince, and it has stolen everything from Achilles. Patroclus, who was his shadow, his solace and his heart—has fallen.” Her voice fractured like glass, soft but piercing. “Even in death, he was shamed. Stripped of Achilles’s armor by Hector, his body left to be defiled.”
Her head bowed, bent low with a mother’s grief. “Achilles weeps,” she whispered. “He, who has never feared death, now mourns as if his soul has been torn from him.” She looked up at Zeus, a plea carved from anguish. “For the first and last time, I beg Olympus—grant him justice.”
Silence shrouded the hall. Attendants exchanged uneasy glances, but Thetis paid them no heed. Her gaze remained fixed on Zeus.
He regarded her, his brow furrowed, jaw set. At last, he spoke, his voice gruff. “Your grief moves me, Thetis, as does the dishonor shown to the fallen. I will grant your petition, but do not think to seek this pantheon’s aid again,” he added sternly. “Hephaestus will forge new armor for Achilles, to replace that which was stolen from him.”
Thetis bowed, a murmur of gratitude slipping from her lips.
At the mention of Hephaestus, Aglaia’s pulse quickened. She had not seen him since the wedding feast when she’d danced among the others, laughter on her lips, silently willing his gaze to find her.
And it had.
From the table of honor, his eyes had met hers—dark and firelit, smoldering. A gaze that had shaken her to the core as she instinctively recognized its meaning.
Before the dais, Hermes sketched a bow to Zeus. The wings at his heels stirred, beginning to lift him skyward. But Aglaia stepped forward.
Surprise rippled through the chamber, then across her sisters’ faces. They stared at her, wide-eyed. A pause.
Then Zeus crooked a finger, beckoning her closer. She crossed the floor, stopping before his throne, and dipped her head in a graceful bow.
“Lord Zeus,” she said steadily, “if it pleases you, I will deliver your message to Lord Hephaestus. Hermes has many duties here on Olympus.”
A cough came from Hermes, but she ignored him. Heat crept up her neck beneath so many watching eyes, yet she remained still.
Zeus regarded her, a brow arching. Then, a faint, bemused smile touched his lips. “You have our thanks, Aglaia,” he said at last. “Go. Deliver my message to the lord of the forge.”
She bowed once more and departed the hall with swift footsteps, her heart thundering under the weight of what she’d done.
Chapter 25
