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The doorman in the lobby doesn’t greet her, doesn’t ask her who she is here to see. He knows better—because he already knows. But the elevator operator is new. He smiles broadly at the face he does not recognize, the woman with sharp gray eyes who stops before him and waits.
“Which floor, ma’am?”
“The penthouse. I’m expected.” Her voice is brisk and formal.
The elevator doors slide open and she enters. Only then does the operator find something unsettling in her eyes. They give him the impression that she is ancient, like she has passed time on this earth for more than thousands of years. He presses the top-most button inside the elevator for her, his voice wavering slightly as he says, “Here you are.”
When the doors close and she is alone, the woman allows herself to relax, resting the back of her head against the elevator wall as she watches the number above the door climb higher and higher. She closes her eyes and sighs. They always send her. They justify it by saying she is his favorite child, that she is the only one she does not hate.
The truth, more or less, is that they have both grown indifferent towards her and her interventions. For all the reason and logic she possesses, more than any being in this world, it makes no difference to the ones who need it the most — her fellow Olympians.
And then the elevator stops, and she steps out into the velvet-carpeted hallway, approaches the large, gilded doors embossed with gold, standing at the foot of their palace in the skies. She rings the doorbell once. To be polite. The second time is out of habit, and when that goes unanswered, she finally thrusts the heavy doors open with full force and lets herself inside.
Their apartment is a palace. Of course. Her father, their ruler, would have no less for him and his wife. Her shoes click loudly on the marble floor, as she walks through a hall of artifacts that could rival the greatest museum, passing by painted clay vases and stone sculptures, iron helmets and swords forged in the fires of Olympus, no doubt by the hands of her half brother. She stops in front of one of the sculptures, a bust created in her father’s likeness, brooding and majestic. The right side of his face, just under his eye, is slightly chipped.
The only evidence left of a passionate argument.
She finds her in the bedroom, perched on the edge of the king-sized bed.
“Hera.”
The woman on the bed raises her eyes. Dark and weary, they tell a story of a woman who has seen all the ages of the world, even more than her. She is still dressed in her night robe, drawing the satin tightly around her chest, a loose strand of hair framing her beautiful, terrible face—terrifying in its beauty or beautiful in its terror, the goddess could not say. She supposed it depended on the day.
“They always send you, don’t they?” Hera’s lips curved into a joyless smile.
“Yes.” For all the time the gift of immortality gave them, Athena still did not know how to speak to her. She cleared her throat awkwardly and felt like a clumsy little girl again, hiding behind marble pillars to catch a glimpse of the woman who lingered by her father’s side—the queen and her king—the one they all warned her about, the one they said would tear her to shreds, like all the ones who came before her and after.
Perhaps the other woman could sense it, as she rose from the bed with a sigh. “Wine?”
Athena glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past eleven. In the morning. But she knew better than to refuse Hera, especially under the circumstances that led to her visit in the first place, and so she followed the goddess into the kitchen, and watched her poured two glasses of wine into crystal glasses. “Dionysus sent this to us,” Hera said, raising the glass to her lips. “I forgot what he said it was called, but it’s very good.”
Athena looks deep into her glass, her reflection muddled in the blood red wine. “Hera—”
“Yes, yes. I know why you’re here.” Hera set the glass down on the marble countertop, somewhat forcefully as the crystal trembled in her tight grip. “I didn’t do it. But it doesn’t matter whether I say so, because none of you believe me.”
“I believe you.”
Hera stared at her. “It couldn’t have been you,” Athena continued. “I know you let the child live.” She locked eyes with Hera. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
Hera turns her head away, her dark eyes downcast. “He wouldn’t believe me even if I did.” She remembers the child in the picnic basket, could hear its wailing in her ears, crying out for its mother. Truth be told, she had thought about it. Killing him. His mother, that brainless mortal, had left him there for her, after all. As an offering. A sacrifice. Even named him after her favorite mortal, just for her.
It would have been so easy.
“I’ll talk to him,” Athena said. “I think he knows, anyways. She was... a troubled woman.”
Hera snorted through her nose. Troubled, indeed. The woman was an alcoholic, drunk off both liquor and her vanity, nagging her husband to take her to Olympus, to make her immortal, eternally ageless and beautiful like herself. An aging actress who only returned to the limelight on account of the tragic headline that she first read in the newspaper the day before: TV STAR BERYL GRACE DEAD AT 39 IN CAR CRASH! LAPD rule crash as drunk driving accident.
He had flown into a rage when he found out. He blamed her, of course. How could it not have been her? She, who dedicated her life to destroying those poor mortal women and their kin, his kin, who he would so strongly deny, lying through his teeth, like he really still believed he could convince her of his innocence, time and time again.
The clouds darkened, rumbled low with thunder, and as their words grew more heated and they raised their voices, husband and wife, the skies split apart as lightning struck their building. The news reported a sudden power outage across all of Manhattan, the cause of the blackout a mystery to even the top electricians in the country. It was a mystery to all but them, the ones who continually bore witness to the phenomenon that occurred far too frequently and put them all in danger of being exposed, threatening to lift the veil of Mist that protected them from humanity. In response, they would send Athena, to chastise them for their reckless behavior. But he was always gone by the time she showed up, disappearing for days or weeks at a time to blow off steam, probably seeking comfort in the arms of another, leaving her to face Hera alone.
It never got easier after the first time.
“Fine,” Hera replied stiffly, refusing to meet Athena’s eyes. She took a sip of wine.
“You don’t need him, you know,” Athena said.
Hera laughed. “I know.” She looked at the goddess across from her, sitting upright, her body tense and ready to defend itself, should Hera decide to erupt.
Hera knows Athena is afraid of her. She has always been. They fed the little girl stories of the queen’s wrath, her wicked contempt and cruelty, warned her that she was not safe from her, even though she was borne from no woman but sprung from her father’s skull in her full glory. They do not tell her how the queen gently took her in her arms as her husband reeled from the shock and pain of birth, holding the girl like her own, welcoming her into the world.
That part was lost to history.
“You are a wise girl,” Hera spoke, and if Athena was offended by her condescending choice of words, she did not dare show it. “I want to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“You are a mother. Like me.”
“Yes.” Even now, Athena’s face glowed with pride at the thought of her children.
“Are you a wife?”
“You know the answer,” Athena replied, confused.
“Have you ever been married?” Hera prodded.
“I have not.”
Hera’s eyes glinted, her beautiful face cold and resolute, and her voice dripping with venom as she replied, “So, what gives you the right to stick your nose in my fucking business?”
Athena knows that tone, the one trying to bait her into a fight. She suspects that this is Hera’s needling attempt to keep her here a little while longer, so she isn’t left alone in her empty palace. And maybe if she were younger and more naïve, she would have entertained the goddess’ wishes, and vindicated her, reminded her that she was a queen long before her husband had a throne.
But she knows he will return. She knows she will accept him. And for a brief moment, Olympus will know peace.
“I should go,” she says, rising from her seat. “Please, no more power outages. You’ll have to move again if the tenants become suspicious.” Hera merely nodded, her mind clearly elsewhere.
“I will talk to him.” More silence. “I can show myself out,” Athena said. She turned to leave. “Take care,” she added gently, and she was gone.
Hera sat alone at the counter, toying with her glass of wine. She gripped the stem of the glass so hard that it shattered in her hands, blood red splattering across the polished, granite surface, staining her fingertips. She reached for the other glass, the one Athena left untouched, and smashed it against the edge of the table, staining her hands and her robe, before she grabbed the bottle and flung it against the wall, watching the glass burst apart, the glass shards scattered across the floor. The goddess exhaled, her breath shaky, dusting off her robe.
“Hebe!” She called out for her daughter, her voice echoing through all of Olympus.
“Mother?” Hera smiled at the sound of the young woman’s voice. Her children were busy people, but she knew Hebe, the ever faithful servant of Olympus, could not let her mother’s call go unanswered. Hebe drew in a sharp breath as she surveyed the kitchen, her eyes skimming over the broken glass and the wine trickling down the wall, the table, pooling at her feet, but she said nothing as she looked at her mother, who stood with perfect composure amidst the mess, smiling at her lovingly.
“Be a good girl and draw your mother a bath.”
***
Her rule was waning.
She was the goddess of marriage and birth. She was supposed to preside over what was considered by many to be the happiest moments in a mortal’s life, the very things that make life worth living. And it wasn’t enough. Around the world, the divorce rate was climbing. For every wedded couple she blessed, there was another separating, amicably or violently or indifferently, it did not matter, for each estrangement was a dagger to her heart.
She wept for days after the separation of the prince and the princess in the little island country across the ocean. No one could console her, not her daughters, not her sons, not even her husband, as she stared blankly at the television screen. She remembered how they called their union the wedding of the century. And for all her disdain for mortals, she had attended it herself, in disguise as an irrelevant guest. Oh, how her chest swelled with pride as the bride, a pretty, young thing, came down the aisle, radiant in white.
They will believe again, she thought to herself then, blinded by her pride.
And then everything fell apart.
He was unfaithful to her.
Of course.
The worst part, perhaps, was that this betrayal hurt her more than the own infidelities her husband committed. His betrayal was a tale experienced over and over again, one she grew to expect, even anticipate. For unlike mortals, she knew he would always find his way back to her, even if she hid herself from him in the furthest corner of the world.
So when she wept, she did not cry for herself. She cried for them.
Hera sank deeper into the bath water, and shuddered.
***
The doorbell rings. She opens the door open a crack, frowning at the sight of the golden, curly-haired mailman at her doorstep. With a heavy sigh, she opens the door fully.
“Morning, my lady,” the messenger of the gods says cheerily. “I have a special delivery for you.”
“Is that so?”
She gingerly accepts the slim, narrow package he hands her. The box is a deep, rich purple, her favorite color, with a golden string tied around it. She already knows who it is from but asks him anyways. “Is there a note?”
“Afraid not.” He tips his hat in farewell, vanishing in a cloud of shimmering dust.
She takes it with her to their bedroom, carefully unwrapping the gift, finally lifting the lid of the box to reveal the contents inside. Her eyes widen in surprise as she lifts the grey feather out of the box, examining it in the sunlight. The feather of a cuckoo bird.
Do you remember, when we were young?
She remembers. Everything was bright then, after Kronos was defeated and darkness was banished. She was young, sprightly as the dawn, and her soul was light, for she was full of hope. Hope is what saved them from the depths of their father’s belly, in the form of the handsome young god who could grab lightning from the skies and hold it in his bare fists, with his noble brow and daring eyes. He was born to be their hero, immortalized in the songs and stories, and he knew from the moment he laid eyes on her, he would have her immortalized too.
She was not so sure.
They would lay in the soft grass together, side by side, the young goddess resting on her side as she watched the young god’s face while he spoke. He told her of his hopes, his dreams, his vision of the future of the world, and in his eyes, she saw a hunger that frightened her. Those were the eyes of a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. But still, she cast the feeling aside as he cupped the side of her face with his hand—the same hands that were stained with the blood of their father—his touch gentle and soft, like he was afraid he might accidentally hurt her.
Did you always know? Of the pain that lay ahead?
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes, the sunlight warming her face. She would not be enough for him. He moved closer to her, resting his forehead against hers. They wanted him to rule Olympus. He didn’t want to do it alone, not that he would admit it to anyone. Anyone except her.
“I need a queen.”
Her lovely face cracked into a smile.
“I want you.” The way he said it, it sounded like he had already decided he would have her. Hera opened her eyes and looked up at his face, the way he held his breath in eager anticipation. She pulled his face towards her and kissed him on the forehead.
“You’re mistaken.”
She leaves him in the field, alone, dumbfounded. That was her first mistake. From then, he no longer saw her, only the challenge she presented. Not even her sisters could protect her, nor her brothers, who dared not get in the way of Zeus, lest he confuse their protection for competition. Instead, they tried to reason with her, to appease him. It must be you, they said. It only made her more stubborn in her refusal. When did it no longer become her choice?
You’re mine.
She heard the distressed cry of the bird from her balcony and was drawn from the comfort of her bed. “Oh,” she cooed at the sight of the injured bird on the floor. She dropped to her knees, cupping the small creature in her hands, gently stroking its silken feathers. “Don’t worry,” she whispered softly, drawing the bird close to her breast. “You are safe here.”
“I know,” a deep voice said, and Hera trembled as Zeus’s arms wrapped around her.
He tricked you. He tricked you, the voice in her head repeated as the god cupped her face in his hands, like the day he did in the fields. His touch was still soft, but it had lost its hesitation. He knew she would not shatter in his hands.
“You—” She choked out, her throat tight. He pressed his forehead against hers.
“You are the most beautiful being I have ever known.” The god frowned when he was met with nothing but silence, but continued, his voice low in his throat. “My immortality means nothing without you in it, Hera.”
He tricked you, the voice in her head screamed, but her heart ached, desperate to believe his honeyed words. She leaned into his embrace, and he knew he was victorious as he swept her into his arms, pulling her face towards his.
“You’re mine,” the goddess gasped aloud as his lips brushed against hers. Zeus pulled away, his eyes widening in alarm before his face broke into a grin, amused. “I am yours,” he answered, and leaned in again to kiss her, properly this time, and yelped as a set of nails dug into the sides of his face. She held his face close to hers, her eyes boring into his, and he saw a part of himself in those eyes. “You are mine,” she repeated firmly. Possessively. “For eternity.”
His expression relaxed as he finally understood. This was her way of levelling herself with him, king of the heavens, claiming him for herself instead of allowing herself to be his conquest. She was making it her choice, when he provided her with no alternative. “I am yours,” he vowed solemnly, “Until everything becomes nothing again.”
And her terrible, devastating face transformed once more, and she was beautiful again as she threw her arms around his neck, his eternal bride, and the world was bright with their joy.
“And I am yours,” she breathed into his ear. And for a while, it was enough.
***
She twirled the feather in her hands, lost in thought.
I am yours.
And she still was. She upheld her end of the vow all these years, loyal even in the face of his lies and deception, the portrait of endless devotion. There were many who saw her loyalty as a challenge, prostrating themselves at her feet, full of empty promises and blind flattery. She was touched by their bravery, for they would soon find themselves at the mercy of her husband’s wrath. He really had the audacity to be bothered by her suitors, even as he descended to the earth and warmed the beds of mortals while she lay in their marriage bed, cold and alone.
In the early years of their marriage, Hera sought the counsel of Aphrodite in secret. “Can’t you make it stop?” She asked the love goddess, who blinked innocently. “I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, her voice sweet and airy. Hera eyed the young goddess with distaste. They said she was the most beautiful goddess in Olympus now, a title once held by her before Aphrodite had come along. She saw the way they all eyed her hungrily as she emerged from the sea foam, so she took matters into her own hands and gave her hand to her younger son, Hephaestus, a decision she suspected the love goddess resented her for.
“Can’t you make him stop?”
“Who are you talking about?” Aphrodite’s eyes widened as it dawned on her. “Oh.”
Hera looked out the window, afraid someone might overhear them. “Make him stop,” she demanded, her voice deep and dreadful, mustering up that darkness that made her so feared across both Olympus and the mortal world. “Make him stop falling in love with them.”
“It is beyond my power,” Aphrodite said helplessly. “Even if I could, he would destroy me if he ever found out.”
Hera made a noise of disgust in her throat. “Useless,” she spat at the goddess, storming out of her bedchambers. “He loves you,” Aphrodite’s voice called out, and Hera turned on her heels, towering over the pretty, young goddess who flinched under her steely gaze.
“Watch your tongue, you stupid little girl—”
“He loves you,” the goddess insisted. “Truly. I see it.”
Hera freezes, her hands balled up into fists. She supposes the goddess genuinely thinks she’s being helpful right now, her eyes bright and hopeful, like her mother-in-law might actually like her, like she didn’t know the goddess betrayed her own son behind his back. She was no better than her husband.
Hera rests her hands on the pretty thing’s shoulders and smiles warmly. Aphrodite smiles back at her, pleased with herself, not noticing Hera’s hands snaking up towards her neck, her fingers coiling tightly around her throat. The goddess thrashes and screams in her grip, her voice strangled and distorted as Hera squeezes harder, on the verge of crushing her neck completely.
“I know that,” she replies through gritted teeth. “Do you think that helps?”
She lets go of Aphrodite and dusts her dress off as the love goddess crumples to the floor, mute and limp.
“You will speak to no one of this,” Hera says sweetly. “Give my love to my sons.”
***
He returns the next day, in the quiet hour where morning and night confuse themselves with one another, when the world awaits the dawn with bated breath. She could hear him climb into their bed, and soon she feels his warm breath on the back of her neck. She also senses his hesitation, unsure whether she will welcome him or cast him out of their bed, but eventually his arm snakes around her waist, and he waits, his breath still.
She turns over so she can look him in the eyes. The usual storminess in his eyes is extinguished. He is tired. And sad. For just a moment, he looks like a man. Moved by this observation, she cups his face in her hands and his silver eyes flood with relief. He inches closer to her, pulling her towards him but she pushes one arm against his chest, blocking him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s funny, no matter how many times he says it, her husband cannot seem to master the art of apologizing. In the beginning, he could hardly bring himself to say it, too hot-headed and proud to admit his wrongdoings. Now, the words roll off his tongue so smoothly, thanks to many years of practice, but his voice always falls flat.
He is a king first, always, even in their marriage.
She lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t do it.”
“I know,” he says. “I know you didn’t.” He reaches out to stroke her cheek. Athena found him at the Ritz Carlton, in the smoky bar lounge with a giggling escort draped across his lap, his daughter looking far too respectable against the backdrop of cigarette smoke and noisy drunks. He never quite got used to the disgust in her eyes when she found him like this.
“But I’m glad she’s dead.” His hand freezes on his wife’s cheek. “She was a bad mother.”
He considered reminding her that she had once thrown their son off a mountain, repulsed by the very sight of him, but wisely refrained. Nor could he argue with her; His lover was not the most stable-minded person, although he refused to acknowledge how much of that was his own doing. In the darkness, he could hear his wife sigh, exasperated. “If you’re just going to lie here and think about her in our own damn bed—"
“I’m yours!” He reassured her, frustrated, reaching out for her in the dark. She pulled away from his touch, turning her back to him, and the god’s face grew hot with anger. He grabbed her wrist and drew her to his chest, their foreheads pressed against each other. “What did I say to you, at the beginning of the world?”
“I’m yours,” she whispered.
“Yes.” He softened, looking down at her. She was as beautiful as the day he first saw her. But there was a weariness, a heaviness in her eyes that she did not have before, and for a moment he wonders if that is his own doing as well. “Do you remember, when we were young?” He smiled at the thought, his mind transported to the green fields of their youth. Her lips twitched upwards into a faint smile at the memory, but her eyes darkened. “We cannot run back to the past, whenever the present is unpleasant.”
“Forgive me,” the great god says, resorting to his final act of desperation to get in her good graces, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. “My love.”
It would take another whole eternity for Hera to forgive all of her husband’s wrongdoings. But they have all of eternity to figure it out. An eternity to love each other, to punish, to reconcile, to hurt, to forgive. And she knows if there was ever an end to all of this—when the world is long gone, when the light of Olympus is extinguished, when they are turned to dust, forgotten, even then, they will be bound together, forever.
So she takes him in her arms and holds him in the dark quietly, a queen and her king, and they will stay that way until the morning comes, together.
And for the time being, Olympus will know peace.