Page 7 of Heroines of Olympus

Hestia may not have the same reasons to be there as most of the members of the Allegiance, but she feels that her heart is equally committed. It has been decades, possibly even a century, since she has been close with anyone, but that does not mean her eyes have been closed. No, they have been very much open throughout the orchestrated famines, the secret executions, the trafficking.

Watching in horror as the power imbalance has grown alongside the arrogance of the Pantheon, she would look around and wonder why no one was saying anything against it. Is she truly the only one appalled by their actions? Surely not. But was Hestia to do? Be a lone vigilante? That is the fastest way to end up in a god cage… but they aren’t supposed to know about those. Another lie the Pantheon has perpetuated to keep the citizens falling in line. If they believe the gods are truly invulnerable, they are much quicker to kneel.

Her frustration with the malicious cruelty of the gods has been growing, and Hestia is positive she would have done something stupid if not for an encounter that had to have been orchestrated by the Fates themselves. By all logic, she never should have discovered the Allegiance operation in the Temple of Olympus four years ago. The rebels had planned their mission immaculately, but somehow their paths still crossed, and they made the decision to trust each other.

So now, once a week, she uses a communication stone to relay anything important she overhears during her many meetings and duties. Hestia’s lip curls as she remembers a conversation she overheard today between Aphrodite and Athena. They had been fawning over each other’s cosmetics and clothes, the handiwork of the enslaved nymphs - which are supposed to be illegal. How they can so callously own a being and make them work for them is beyond her comprehension. She has to remind herself that her silence is much more helpful to the nymphs, and the Allegiance, than a hot-tempered outburst would be.

Usually, Athena would be off at her own temple, but this week there is a flurry of visiting gods here for the spectacle of the Trials.

As she reaches the final stretch to the library, Hestia runs back through the week’s events and recalls if there is anything relevant she may need to add. The meetings she sat through this past week had been incessantly dull and yielded little useful information.

How anything ever truly gets accomplished here, Hestia will never know. In every meeting, she sits and listens. She listens to the information that is always being droned on and raises an eyebrow when someone inevitably interjects an argument. Watching as the gathering descends into bickering, internally rolling her eyes as they shout over one another - egos preventing them from not weighing in with their undoubtedly priceless opinions. Occasionally something useful will innocuously slip out but they are easy to miss if she loses focus. So, despite her attention trying to wane, she diligently listens and watches.

Locking the doors to the library behind her, she breathes in her space. This is her domain, her sanctum. With a flick of her wrist, the torches along the wall and candles in the chandeliers spark to life, illuminating the grand room that houses the most important tomes, scrolls, and artifacts in all the Olympic Isles. As the God of Knowledge, this is her temple.

Tasked by the Fates to be the Keeper of the Immortal Flame, it is her duty to make sure the spark of knowledge and enlightenment lives and thrives. Chuckling, she remembers the time a small child inquired why she was in charge of books if she was a flame god. Hestia crouched down to his level and explained that the flame is a metaphor for knowledge and learning, for living with our eyes open and seeing the world for what it truly is. As such a god, turning an ignorant eye to the current state of the world is something she would never have been able to do.

Sighing, she finally reaches her desk on the library’s top floor and plops down into the velvety chair sitting behind it. She ducks under the desk and opens the compartment hidden in the floor, designed to only recognize Hestia’s magical aura.

The board slides out of place, and she takes out the smooth blue stone. The marbling on it swirls around like a storm cloud trapped inside. Psyche’s magic has always been beautiful. It is incredible to have an asset such as Psyche on their side. Hestia wishes she had known them all in time to have prevented the chain of events that led to Psyche’s involvement, the heartbreak that led her to the Allegiance’s doorstep.

Hestia shakes away the thoughts. Guilt and sadness for past events help no one. Shutting her eyes, she closes her hand around the stone and envisions the message she wants to send and its recipient, Alec. Her mood lightens slightly when she pictures the handsome man who will receive this. It sours again when she remembers he might be in Poseidon’s path of rage. She has done everything she can. The rest is in the hands of the Fates.

When she is alone like this, she allows herself the indulgent moments to recall the dark gray eyes that matched the salt and pepper color of his hair and beard. She remembers the warm smile on the kind face of the man who took a chance on her and saw in her someone who would fight with them and for them. Maybe she can tell him that someday once they bring this world crashing down around them… if they live to see the other side.

4

MEDUSA

Medusa brushes the sand from the mythical shield of Athena, running her fingers over the metal owl, as its bronze eyes stare at her, judging her. She agreed to hear what these people have to say, but under the condition that it would be back in her home. Everything about this day has been off and the need to be in a familiar space was palpable.

Psyche and Alec followed her back up the hill to her sanctum while Yiorgos stayed behind to keep watch. Or maybe it is to avoid her. Guilt tries to continue its reign of terror in her mind, but she shuts it down.

She does not know any of these people. What was she supposed to have done?

Reaching up, Medusa touches the hood, amazed at their unwavering confidence that it will not fail. The silence of her serpents still unnerves her.

“My gods.”

Alec’s voice jerks her out of her daze and back to the task at hand.

He is staring into the eyes of one of the statues, and Medusa hangs her head in shame. It is the one that haunts her the most - he was so young. She looks around her cavern and tries to imagine it in the eyes of Psyche and Alec. What do they see when they look at the gallery of frozen faces, forever fated to hang in her halls as permanent portraits? Do they see the small army’s worth of hatred that Medusa has had to wade through to survive? Or do they see the victims of a monster?

Medusa’s strength falters as she feels the pressure of their judgment on her soul. Shame and helplessness flood through her. She never wanted this to be her life. To be hunted and forced to slice away at her soul, little by little, with every kill. And now to be judged by it as well.

Alec reaches out and touches the smooth stone cheekbone of the statue. “He was just a boy.”

“I know, I-”

“The gods sent a child to come after you? What in the name of the titans were they thinking?” He rubs the back of his neck and grits his teeth.

Psyche holds up a hand to silence him. “We need to get back to why we are here. They can do nothing for him now. The only path in front of us that will help boys like him in the future is to continue the mission.” She turns to Medusa. “I’m sorry if I was blunt on the deck. I knew if I hadn’t been you might not listen to us and I couldn’t take that chance. You are more important than you could possibly know.”

Heat floods Medusa’s cheeks. How can she be important? All she offers is death and ugliness.

“We have left the Pantheon unchecked for far too long. They have too much power and think that anything that displeases them should be removed from existence. Families have been torn apart, and that’s not even touching the atrocity that is the Acolytes,” Alec’s gravelly voice accentuates the rage in his words. She does not know what this man has lost, but she has a feeling it was great indeed.

Unsure how to respond, Medusa returns her focus to the shield. As expected, it is soul locked, keeping anyone from wielding it who does not have permission. She grunts under the weight of it as she rolls it against one of the cavern walls.

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