Page 4 of Heroines of Olympus

The sensation in her lips spread to her entire body, and for a moment she is fearful her measurements may have been erroneous, but she breathes a sigh of relief when it fades and she feels almost normal again - minus a hollowness in her chest that she assumes must be the absence of her soul’s consciousness.

Satisfied that she can proceed, she glances at the table once more, looking at notes so she can follow the very specific instructions on how to open the book.

The bowl in the middle is first, its rose quartz color almost imperceptible in the low lighting of the dank room. She picks up the matching dagger, feeling the smooth mineral beneath her fingertips. Holding her left palm out, she slices it open until blood runs freely from it. She quickly holds her bleeding hand over the bowl, allowing a generous amount of her life force to fill it.

The second bowl and dagger are next and located to the left of the first set, the moonstone they are made from shining brightly. She repeats the prior steps, slicing open her right palm this time, barely sparing a thought for whatever story she will need to come up with to explain these away to the healer.

For the last offering, she collects the tools on the right. The final cut, a vertical slit between her breasts, stings as she holds the bowl beneath it.

Setting the obsidian bowl down, Aphrodite wipes her hands clean on her skirts. Dipping a finger into the different bowls, she uses her blood to write runes all over the front and back cover of the book.

As soon as she is done with the runes, the book flies open, appearing satisfied with her sacrifice.

The pages are old and brittle, but she flips through indelicately, and is almost in a rage when she sees nothing of importance. Academic sketches fill a majority of the pages, depicting many of the magical flora found in the realm, and some that have long since left their world.

Her eyes land on a blank page and she pauses for a moment before having the idea to mark the page with blood from each bowl.

Within moments, words appear before her, shining in a gold glittering script that emanates power.

Aphrodite scans the page, taking in the lines of cryptic verse, recognizing the vague nonsense of a prophecy almost immediately.

The serpent slumbers,

where it ought not be.

And is strongest yet,

when it is three.

The Hearts of the Fates,

will unlock the way.

The mighty will fall,

ferrying the realm

to peace for all.

Aphrodite pinchesthe bridge of her nose in frustration, but is at least grateful to have something to go on. She kicks herself for not bringing any kind of writing utensil to jot down what she found. Trying to commit it to memory, she reads through it several more times.

As she turns to leave, Aphrodite gazes on the book once more. She cannot bring it with her and she doubts anyone else would find it and have use for this gibberish, but a lingering feeling in her gut says she should not leave it.

A self-satisfied smirk spreads across her lips as she grips the corner of the page and rips it straight out of the book, pleasantly surprised when the words remain visible.

It is almost as if Aphrodite can hear the book screaming as she folds up the stolen page, tucking it back into her dress with the map.

* * *

After a brief stopat Aphrodite’s island, she will return to the Temple of Olympus. As soon as she steps out of the healer’s door, an Acolyte informs her there is a visitor in the dining room. The imposition is grating, but Aphrodite paints on a smile, ever the cordial hostess.

The table is already filled with foods that she did not ask for, glasses of wine already poured. Dozens of candles scattered about illuminate the room in a warm glow. At the end of the table, in the head seat she usually occupies, is her son Oedipus, his Heroes helmet casually sitting on the table. Was she the best mother? No, but surely Aphrodite taught him better manners than this?

“What are you doing home? I thought you were on a rotation to Apollo’s Temple?” Aphrodite asks him, trying to keep her tone neutral. A mother is supposed to love her child, but something about him has always sent her instincts screaming. He has done nothing she can say is wrong, per se, but she cannot deny that she has caught his gaze lingering on her a little too long.

When he was growing up, he would try to peek into her dressing area when she was changing, or trying to spy on her with her lovers. It was always chalked it up to a natural, youthful curiosity, but the older he has gotten, the more she avoids him, as it seems to only be getting worse.

Never has Aphrodite been ashamed of having her body on display and it was only ever an issue with one of her children, so she is not to blame. Something is off about him.

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