Daughters of Olympus: A Novel

Also by Hannah Lynn

Grecian Women Series

Athena’s Child

A Spartan’s Sorrow

The Queens of Themiscyra

Standalone Feel-Good Novels

The Afterlife of Walter Augustus

Treading Water

A Novel Marriage

The Peas and Carrots Series

The Holly Berry Sweet Shop Series

The Wildflower Lock Series

The Lonely Hearts Book Club Series

Copyright © 2024 by Hannah Lynn

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Cover design and illustration by Holly Ovenden

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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To Magdalen,

Thank you for being a true balcony friend.

Contents

Part One: Demeter

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Part Two: Core

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Part Three: Persephone

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty: Demeter

Chapter Eighty-One: Persephone

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Epilogue

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Part One

Demeter

Prologue

This is the story of a mother’s loss and a woman so completely torn to shreds by her family that the whole Earth would suffer because of it.

This is the story of the goddess, Demeter.

This is my story.

Chapter One

My brother, Zeus, was spared the fate that I and my other siblings suffered. We were given no chance to experience the world into which we were born. No opportunity to feel the softness of our mother’s lips as she kissed our cheeks or to listen to her lilting voice as she sang us to sleep. We did not spend our childhoods feeding on milk and ambrosia, or wrapped in fine threads, hair adorned with laurels as we raced beneath the great gilded arches of our royal palace.

The blazing light that should have suffused our immortal bodies was supplanted by a deep and impenetrable darkness that attended our every moment as we sweltered, limbs twisted, cramped and comfortless with barely enough room to draw breath. All because of our father, Cronus, and a future he feared above all else.

Cronus was the youngest of the seven Titans, and he was merciless and ruthless in his ambition. He thought only of power, of rising beyond the ranks of all who had gone before him. Years before my birth and armed with only a sickle, he had overthrown his own father, the King, castrating him while he slept. In that moment, he snatched the throne and had no intention of ever relinquishing it.

But a prophecy was made. One that foresaw his demise at the hands of his own child. That child would steal his throne and become the most powerful god the world had ever known. Cronus was determined that such a thing would never come to pass and hatched a wicked plan to thwart fate. Oppressive and controlling, he took his sister, Rhea, as his wife.

With her burnished flowing hair, Rhea was gentle and kind—everything that Cronus was not. She found pleasure in tranquility, contentment in serenity. She would spend her days walking, crossing fields where the wind would whip the long grasses, creating ripples like waves on a great sea. She would dangle her feet in the cool waters of the river Neda and bathe with the nymphs who dipped and dove in the soft spume that bubbled over the rocky riverbed. And she would aid nymphs and Titans alike in all times of trauma and grief, but most especially, with the birth of their children. Although by a cruel twist of fate, Rhea, the Goddess of Childbirth, endured a nightmare none could have imagined.

Whenever her belly swelled, the glow of impending motherhood shimmered on her skin. Light shone from within her, a deep luster that could have been seen by the stars above, had they cared to look down on her. She carried her children with ease, luxuriating in the time she spent with their bodies joined as one, dreaming of a future with them that would never come to pass.

For Cronus did not feel the same joy or parental instinct. He did not imagine holding his children in his arms, feeling the warmth of their skin. He did not envision a future in which we stood beside him and ruled together, one immortal and inviolable family. Instead, he felt only fear, desperation that the prophecy would soon be realized. His savage, malevolent nature, which had seen him geld his own father, grew in malignancy, and he did not cast so much as a fleeting glance at our bodies before committing us to our fate.

Wrapped in cloth and only hours old, he took each of us from our mother, opened his throat, and swallowed us whole, condemning us to a life trapped in his belly.

All of us, that is, except Zeus.

After my sister Hestia, I was the second child consigned to Cronus’s stomach, and I was not to be the last. By the time she was pregnant with Zeus, Rhea had already experienced the loss of five of her offspring to Cronus’s insanity. Each time, her grief had grown, flooding every fiber of her body, seeping from her pores, dark and all-consuming, turning the joyous songs that had previously come from her lips into bleak laments.

A pain such as this is never forgotten. It simmers and grows, transforming into something much darker and stronger. With each loss, the blackness deepened. But so did Rhea’s mettle. She became harder and more determined, and a fire started to burn in her that her husband did not foresee.

As Zeus grew within her, so did her resolve to rebel against my tyrant father, and she sought help from the only person she knew for certain she could trust—her mother, Gaia, Mother of the Earth. Away from the Titan King’s paranoid ears, they conspired against their own blood. They plotted and planned until they knew exactly what they must do.

The night that Rhea bore Zeus, not so much as a single star twinkled above her. She had stolen away from Cronus’s prying eyes to Mount Lycaeum, to a place where no creature could cast a shadow and no whisper could escape on the wind. A current of warm air blew around her, carrying the scents of sweet honeysuckle and dianthus, calming her during her labor. There, hidden from view, she crouched close to the earth and, with her mother’s hand in her own, wept tears of joy, for she knew that this would be the child to fulfill the prophecy and cast her verminous husband to the depths of Tartarus where he belonged. This would be the beginning of the end for him.

When Zeus entered the world, Rhea allowed herself only a moment to breathe in the musky aroma of her newborn and feel the soft suppleness of his fingers in her own. She pressed him tightly against her skin, wishing to commit every heartbeat to memory, before placing the lightest, most gentle kiss upon the child’s head. Her time with him was over, for now at least.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she left her baby with her mother and returned to Cronus. With her head bowed in deference, she offered the King a bundle bound in swaddling clothes, in the same way that she had done five times before, so tightly wrapped that nothing inside was visible.

As with me, Hades, Poseidon, and our sisters, he ripped it from her hands and swallowed it whole, not even checking to see whether Rhea had birthed a son or a daughter, whether it was healthy and strong or sickly and weak. Never once did he suspect his wife would betray him. As Rhea wept tears of joy, knowing that her son would survive, Cronus assumed she wept from grief and believed that, once again, he had thwarted the prophecy.

While Rhea had returned to Cronus, Gaia had taken the child and fled to Lyctos in Crete, to the Aegean Hills, where she left him at the cave of Dictes, in a golden cradle hanging from the branches of a tree. In this way, if Cronus got wind of Rhea’s deception and searched for the baby, he would not have found him either on the Earth or in the heavens. There, in Crete, the goat-nymph, Amaltheia, took on the role of guardian to Zeus, keeping him away from his father’s vindictive eye.

As a baby, Zeus suckled milk from Amaltheia and feasted on viscous golden honey that ran in streams from beehives that dotted the land, and he became stronger with each passing day. When he was old enough, he spent his days running barefoot through the lush, rippling grass and leaping over streams. He was safe under Amaltheia’s watchful eye, free to mature until he was ready to fulfill his destiny.

It was upon the hills of Crete and among the shepherds of Ida that Zeus grew into manhood, his powers more formidable than Cronus could have envisioned even in his worst nightmares. Of course, I knew nothing of him in those early days, still confined in the prison of my father’s belly. But now, I can almost see him. Young Zeus, stretched out on a rock, enjoying the heat of the sun beating down on his skin, casting him in an ethereal glow while the nymphs looked in awe at a figure that no mere mortal could gaze upon and survive. I have often imagined those early years of Zeus, before he saved me.

He arrived in our father’s presence as a cupbearer, only Rhea aware of his true identity. As he bowed low, Cronus could not have conceived that this man before him was, in fact, his son. In the same way, in his arrogance, he could never have dreamed that Rhea would have slipped an emetic into the honeyed drink he was being served. Cronus drank deeply from the cup, emptying every last drop. It was only a matter of moments before the effects took hold. Rhea and Zeus looked on, watching the uncontrollable spasms as the potion forced out the contents of the great Titan King’s belly.

The stone came out first, rising up through his throat and nearly choking him, finally landing on the ground with a heavy thud that resonated around the hall. Then came his children.

My brothers, Poseidon then Hades, were the first gods to be freed. Next came my sister, Hera. It was after her that I was expelled up through his gullet and onto the slippery mattress of his tongue. As his mouth opened to eject me completely, light shone in from the outside world, an intense, glaring white I had never before encountered. I squinted, trying to protect my eyes as I dropped to the ground at my mother’s feet, only to be joined seconds later by my final sibling, my sister, Hestia.

The cold prickled my skin, but this was no discomfort to me. After years lost in the clammy, suffocating heat of my father’s stomach, the fresh air was intoxicating. For a moment I lay there, still blinking, as I curled my fingers and toes and flexed my limbs, releasing cramps and experiencing the freedom to move that had been long denied to me.

One blink after another, my eyes adjusted to the onslaught of light. The first images came only as shadows. Black, blurred smudges that slowly formed into shapes with colors. I noted the curve of my fingers and wrists, the straight line of my forearms. Still recovering, I pushed back onto my heels, and for the first time in my life, I looked up toward the heavens. But it was not the sky that I saw.

He was younger than me but of a size and strength that I could never have dreamed of. And while my siblings and I all carried ichor in our veins, in Zeus it shone with such a vibrancy I feared I might lose my sight altogether.

While my father continued to retch, clasping his stomach in pain, my mother wept for joy at the reunion with her children.

Zeus reached out his hand to me.

You are free from him now, Demeter, he said, the first words I had heard. I have saved you. And I will fight beside you, always.

That was my first encounter with my glorious brother. The hero. The almighty Zeus. Oh, how naive I was.

He was right about one thing, though. For ten years, Cronus’s own children waged war together against the Titan King. Battles raged and blood was spilt. But a decade is barely a breath to immortals, and the moment of our victory came swiftly. In the end, it was achieved through the alliances that Zeus formed with Cronus’s enemies, with the Hecatoncheires—the Hundred-Handed Ones—and the Cyclopes that Cronus had imprisoned in Tartarus, the deepest region of the Underworld. The infernal heat of that storm-filled abyss—which is distant from the earth as the earth is from the sky—is where the vilest of creatures were imprisoned and tortured. A punishment they would have endured for all eternity had Zeus not freed them to fight beside us. And they fought with a vengeance.

Strengthened with divine food and drink, the Hecatoncheires shook the earth in their wrath. They tore apart mountains and raised the sky with winds so violent that trees were ripped up by their roots and scattered as easily as an autumn breeze flings dead leaves from branches. They caused devastation the likes of which Cronus could never have imagined. But it was the three gifts from the Cyclopes that secured our victory.

The one-eyed giants bestowed a present on each of my brothers. Hades, the eldest, received a helmet of darkness that, when placed over his head, made his image slip from sight, rendering him as invisible as a shadow on the blackest of nights. To Poseidon they gifted a trident, with which he could wield all the power of the sea, causing the water to swell and rise at his command. And finally to Zeus, my youngest brother, they gave a thunderbolt, with which he struck down our father and brought about the reign of the Olympians.

Our reign.

This was the Golden Age.

Or at least, that is what we were told.

Chapter Two

Tell me what that one is, I asked, pointing to a bird resting on a branch of an oak tree.

That, Zeus replied, is a turtledove.

A turtledove.

I let the name roll over my tongue as I continued to focus on its song, which was deeper than many of the other birds’ I had learned that day. A low, resonant trill that I was certain I could listen to for hours on end.

Zeus was already striding ahead, pointing out a more colorful specimen.

Come, Demeter, he called. There are many things I wish to show you.

After all those years confined in the rancid heat of Cronus’s belly, I continued to marvel at the wonder of the outside world and would do so for decades after Zeus freed me. My previously suffocated lungs rejoiced at the clean crispness of the breeze that wafted below a cerulean sky, each lungful invigorating and a testimony to my freedom.

My eyes, which had been forced to endure centuries of darkness, drank in the vivid color of sunlight reflecting off the gold-paved corridors of my palace. The marble pillars and the bronze statues dazzled with a ferocity that could have blinded a mortal but kept me captivated, as did the tinges of blue in a flickering flame, or the hundred different hues shining in every sunset. I lost days, weeks probably, awestruck by the infinite tones of blue and green in a calm sea and then the shades of gray that swirled in those same deep waters when a storm struck.

My ears, which had endured my siblings’ every moan and whimper as our bodies were squeezed together, now feasted on melodies. Not just songs, but the music of the earth. The sound of water as it weaved its way down a mountainside, and the dulcet laughter of the naiads as they danced and skipped through it, were to me as any melody picked out by dexterous fingers on a lyre. I could hear a thousand notes in a flower blooming or an acorn forming, while bursts of a seedpod or the tinkle of a spray of pollen in the air offered rhythms to which my very heart would dance.

I found such joy in these gifts that I would sometimes look down from our palace on Olympus and feel a twinge of sadness at my inevitable separation from that natural world. That is not to say that I was confined. Occasionally I would leave, passing through the golden gates that marked the boundary between our home and that of the mortals, to feel again the softness of the grass beneath my feet or the coarse grain of wood bark on my palm. And though I tended to avoid mortal company, I would sometimes watch maidens picking flowers in meadows or singing as they harvested corn. And it was in those moments when I walked on the mortal lands that I found my power.

I had been raised in darkness, but now light and life surged within me. At first, my touch was required. A graze of my fingertips against a soft blade of grass would create a single flower, fully in bloom, with its petals reaching for the sun, just as I had done. In time, that same touch could transform an entire meadow into an avalanche of color. Flowers, ferns, foliage of every form would spring to life. I created life. But I did not stop there. I tended my gift. Nurtured it. And with such encouragement, my power grew so strong that I could perform such acts from the very palace of Olympus. With the whisper of a word, I could create a harvest bountiful enough for a thousand men or mold a mountainside with dense forest. I could tend to the mortals without leaving the comfort of my home. This was my calling. To bring harvests to mortals. To turn those decades of darkness into light and life, and I embraced it.

From my palace, I could see it all. I observed men and women alike as they feasted on berries, plump and lush that burst with juice upon their tongues, and pressed young olives, directing the fresh, green oil into containers, ready to use in their lamps or to season their food. I saw the pulpy meals they would feed their children and noted how similar it was to the food they gave their elderly. And, now and then, I would experience a melancholy at how detached I was from it all. But I would never leave my family. I would never leave Zeus.

Our relationships as brothers and sisters were not like those of mortals. We Olympians were gods. Immortal. Superior. Just as the Titans who had come before us, we were unique beings, incomparable to all others. It was right that we found more enjoyment in one another’s company than in any others, but it would be wrong of me not to admit that, for a time, I did not merely love Zeus. I was in love with him, too.

In those early years, it was impossible to find fault in him. For those of his siblings who desired it, Zeus commanded palaces to be built, up on the great heights of Mount Olympus, beneath his own, gargantuan home. So vast was his palace that the entire earth could be viewed from his throne room. Not that mine was lacking in any way. Its bronze foundations shone like the setting sun, and vast pillars edged my cloistered courtyard, within which there was room to host as many deities as I could have ever hoped to gather.

Given that I had no intention of marrying or having children, my palace was smaller than my siblings’ and those built later for my nieces and nephews, yet it was all I needed. Located on the lower south side of Mount Olympus, freshwater streams gurgled nearby as they tumbled over the rocks and down toward the earth. I could not have asked for more. Or so I thought.

Now, the foolishness of how I doted on my youngest brother sickens me to the core, but back then, I was besotted by him. I was in awe of this great god who had rescued us and created palaces for us in which we wanted for nothing. He was our savior. Our liberator. How could I not love such a being? His glory shone brighter than Helios’ sun beating down upon the earth. Even when his flaws slowly became apparent, I never believed he would be anything other than kind toward me. Once again, my foolishness shows, for it had been through trickery that he had made our younger sister, Hera, his wife.

Hera had spurned Zeus’s every advance. She, like myself, was intent on staying a maiden, but that was not her only reason to decline his attention. He had already taken a wife, Leto, who had yet to bear him any children. Hera was far more perceptive of Zeus’s questionable behavior than I was, but like always, he managed to get his way.

He came to Hera on the hills of Crossus, disguised as a bedraggled cuckoo. With her warm heart, she took the creature in her arms and held it to her, hoping that her warmth might go some way to reviving the feeble bird. In a moment, he transformed and took her there and then, against all her protests. Shamed, Hera took Zeus as her husband.

The morning of her wedding is one I will not forget, as she wept at the future she now saw for herself, long before I recognized it. The sun shone with a brightness that only Olympians could endure, but in Hera’s chamber, a dark cloud shrouded the goddess.

At her request, she had sent all her nymphs and handmaidens away, and it was I, her sister, who attended her. In my eyes, there was none as beautiful as Hera, with her tawny locks, piercing gaze, and the quiet demureness that, back then, she possessed in such abundance. Mortals and gods alike fell silent in her presence, stunned at such magnificence. Yet it was when she smiled that she was most beautiful. She could light up the whole world, more luminous than a thousand burning arrows. But on this day, darkness engulfed her.

He still takes other women, you know.

Her eyes were fixed on the mirror in front of her as she spoke.

I see his eyes wandering, not only to goddesses but to mortals, too.

I remained silent, braiding her hair, interlacing each gleaming twist with a pure-white lily, as I considered my answer. Now, when I think back on what I said to her, it causes me to shudder.

You will be Queen of the Gods, Hera. Zeus will not hurt you again, nor will he betray you, when he has you as his wife.

Silence descended on us. Despite what I had said, I’d heard rumors floating around Olympus, circulating through the hallways and slipping into the ears of any who would listen. Gossip was rife, and every day a dozen new stories passed the most loquacious lips, but I knew it was one particular piece of gossip that plagued my sister.

Leto was his wife, too, Hera said. And I know you have heard what they are saying, that she is carrying his child, even as he makes me his wife.

Her eyes shone with tears as they fixed on mine, waiting for me to refute these words, but I could not lie to her. I had heard them myself and from sources close to Leto. Ones who had nothing to gain by spreading such falsehoods. Silence engulfed us again as I searched my mind for something to bring her at least a modicum of comfort.

Leto was a Titan. She is not like us. Theirs was a pairing that was doomed to fail. It will not be the same for you.

How can you be certain?

I brushed my hand against her face, locking my gaze on hers as I spoke.

Zeus was rash when he married Leto. He did not think through his actions. But he loved you from the first day he freed us. He chose you, Hera. He would not have been so insistent that you become his wife if he did not love you.

A half smile played on her lips, which deepened as I kissed her cheek.

My beautiful little sister, Queen of the Gods. How happy you will be. Hiding the pain that it was she Zeus chose, and not myself, I returned to braiding her hair.

Zeus hurt and betrayed Hera more times than a mortal witnesses the sunrise and caused her to endure more torment than anyone should suffer. But this is not Hera’s story. It is mine, and it would be wrong to say that Zeus hurt me.

He destroyed me.

The day that he came to me, I had been sitting on one of the rocky outcrops of Olympus, watching the life of a mortal play out beneath me. The baby was born on the island of Lesbos to a shepherd and a young woman with auburn hair. By the grace of Eileithyia, the birth had been quick, and I watched as the mother plucked the child from between her legs and held it to her breast, weeping with joy. But mortal life is so very brief to an immortal, and it felt as though I had barely sipped from my cup of ambrosia when the child was toddling between his parents and then attempting his first words. Another mouthful and he was waist height to his father and helping him guide their goats over the stony terrain. It was when that baby, now an old man with hunched shoulders, was telling his grandchild of his youth spent on the hillsides that Zeus arrived.

You are watching the mortals again, Sister, he said.

Radiance glowed around him, and I knew from the way a smile curled on his lips that his mood was playful, and that the temper we all knew burned within him was currently held at bay. By this time, he had been married to Hera for many centuries and his indiscretions were well known, but he had achieved so much as ruler, both for the humans and for us gods, that when I looked at him, I still saw that same savior. He was the reason I was blessed with such a wonderful life. I did not know that this very day, the blinkers would fall from my eyes.

You cannot deny you watch over them, I replied, returning my gaze to the earth to find that the old man had already passed on. His family was kneeling beside his body, weeping. The burial rites would be meticulous, with a coin placed in his mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman, who would guide his soul across the river Styx and on to the Underworld, where my brother, Hades, awaited him.

There is something so alluring about them, I said. I find myself constantly enthralled by their ways. They live and love so fiercely, despite the fleeting nature of their lives.

Do you not think it is because of this that they love in such a manner? he remarked.

Possibly, but if that were the case, what would it say about our ability to love? Cannot we feel so deeply as they do because of the gift of eternity we have been granted?

That is an interesting point, he agreed, and his smile broadened a little more. He paused, his gaze lingering on me, before saying, Come, walk with me, Demeter.

He took my hand in the same way he had when he first brought light into my world.

We left through the golden gate and passed the Horae who guarded our home and privacy so fastidiously. Then, in the land of the mortals, Zeus guided me to the island of Tenos, where the crystal water shone in vibrant shades of turquoise, so clear that you could see every grain of sand on the seafloor. The scales of the fish that teemed beneath the surface sparkled as if they, too, were of an immortal nature, and the briny scent of the sea pervaded my senses.

Despite all the water surrounding Tenos, the island was, at that time, arid. The muted morning sun, which reflected on the lapping waves, found no lush pastures of flowers or wheat upon which to shine. Instead, the ground was sparsely covered in coarse brown grass that broke underfoot. Yet, as I brushed my hand across those brittle stems, they transformed. Color spread up from their roots as they thickened and lengthened, twisting into golden stalks of wheat, laden with heavy ears of corn. Wherever I touched, the barren land transformed and became fertile, and more wheat, as plentiful as any farmer could ever wish for, gleamed in the sunlight. For this is my gift. This is why mortals worship me, for I am the one who brings them their most bountiful harvests.

When the wheat had reached its full height, I pressed the palm of my hand against the tangled trunk of a withering peach tree. Leaves burst out, bright green and shining. The branches extended to form a wide canopy, which grew so heavy with the weight of amber fruit that they began to bow.

You are magnificent, Zeus said, from behind me. You do us Olympians proud.

Even now, I can recall the rush of deep satisfaction that surged through me at his approval, for we both knew the only Olympian he was referring to was himself and my display had been aimed to elicit such a response.

Thank you, I said modestly, for yes, my gift is magnificent, but I have never thought highly of those who boast.

Tell me, Sister, he continued. Have you considered marriage yet? Do you not feel the desire to raise children, as Hera and I have done?

It was known by this point that Hera and Leto were not the only women by whom Zeus had fathered offspring, but he was my brother and the King of the Gods, and at the time, I considered there to be worse flaws than a fondness for carnal pleasure. Now, I see that this was just one of his shortcomings, but there is not enough parchment in Olympus to record them all.

That day, I pondered his question only briefly, still thinking about that mortal I had been watching before his arrival, whose life had begun and been extinguished in such a fleeting moment. I felt a pang of sadness in my chest.

I look on the mortals as my children, I told him, honestly. I keep them fed and nurture them, just as a mother would. That is enough for me. I am content.

It was a truthful answer, which I believed he had hoped for, yet his face hardened.

You do not wish to further your lineage? To strengthen our immortal family?

I chuckled at these words.

We already have dominion over the mortals and have defeated the Titans. What more could we possibly achieve?

A slight wind had picked up along the shoreline, and from our place in the fields, I watched as the wave caps frothed white before rolling up onto the sand.

They would worship your children, Zeus continued. Give offerings and libations that would resound through the very halls of Olympus.

I have no need for such indulgences, I said, resting my hand gently on his arm. I am content, Brother. You do not need to worry about me. This is the life I have chosen.

I do not believe I spoke these words with any animosity, nor did I wish to cast aspersions upon Zeus’s choices or invite his wrath. At first, I didn’t realize that I had, for we continued to walk together through the barren fields in silent contemplation, my hands draped on the brittle stalks, creating a river of wheat in my wake. We had reached a small copse of cedar trees when, from the other side, there came the sound of laughter. Mortal laughter.

We should not approach, I cautioned. No mortal can see us in our true state and survive; it was not a risk I would take.

I agree, he said, but added. Perhaps we could take another form.

I had assumed we would take a human form. This was not the only manner in which the gods roamed the earth, yet in a place where so few animals roved, it seemed the most suitable option, and it was certainly the form in which I felt most comfortable. But Zeus had other ideas. A mischievous grin crossed his face, and his eyes glinted.

We should become serpents, he said.

Serpents?

Snakes. We can move across the earth and reach their very feet and they wouldn’t even know of our presence. That smile flooded through me, and in that moment, I did not view him as the great, all-powerful god, but as my baby brother, wishing to play a childish prank on the mortals. It could be fun. Mortals are terrified of snakes. You can change into a reptile, can you not?

Metamorphosis was not a skill I had practiced with any frequency, and before that day, I had never assumed the shape of a snake. As my immortal life would play out, it is a form I would never take again, either. But I was naive, and I wished to impress my all-powerful brother. And so, without further ado, I transformed.

The instant my scaled belly touched the ground, he