𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓷

II

Andromeda was not a happy child. It started in the early morning when she was rudely awakened by a priestess who was not her caretaker, who promptly attempted to untangle the knots on her head. No matter how many oils she slathered on, combs she used, and sweet nothings she whispered, Andromeda was intent on making as much of a fuss as possible. Her tiny fists hopelessly tried to beat her way to freedom, and when that failed, her screams were loud enough to alert anyone in the nearby vicinity that yes, Andromeda was awake, and no, she was not happy about it.

The rest of the nursery answered her call to war with their wails, a symphony of godly children who demanded immediate attention. With this, Andromeda's job of creating chaos was over, and she allowed the priestess to style her hair into intricate plaits, although not without the occasional complaint.

She was carried outside into the humid summer air, stuffed like a doll into a white dress, and still extremely unhappy. Her face was red and puffed, not unlike the blowfish her brother liked to keep as a pet. Behind her, a procession of similarly unhappy toddlers followed. In normal circumstances, a herd of misbehaving children would just be a nuisance, but with divinity, it became a matter of looking out for stray lightning bolts, flaming toddler fists, and unnaturally sharp teeth that could, and would, draw blood if the occasion arose.

Charlotte, a twenty-year-old priestess of Hestia and granddaughter of Hermes, had learned early enough that a life of gods was an unfair life. She wasn't granted any powers to complete dangerous quests or enormous feats but rather found herself veiled and serving a virginal goddess. Now stuck in a carriage on a journey through the sky to Olympus, full of godly children, she found her heart ached for more. Maybe a kinder fate. The daughter of Poseidon was napping on her lap, mouth slightly open. Even now, Charlotte could feel the power radiating around her in waves. It felt oppressive, and too much for such a little girl to bear. It was dangerous, unruly, and unpredictable. The priestesses of Poseidon worshipped her, calling her princess of the oceans, crowning her with pearls, and pretending she was a vessel of the god they served. Even her older brothers were draped in chitons of the finest cloth, their bodies painted in intricate swirls of bronze, and were treated like the immortals they would never be. It was unnatural, unholy.

Unlike most of the inhabitants of the Estate, Charlotte was raised in the normal world, an impoverished London with dirty streets and church on Sundays. There, they worshipped Christ. The prayers were in Latin, not Greek, and there was only one God instead of a pantheon full of them. In a world of Greeks, there was no blind faith, for they were right in front of you. She saw it in the winged horses, the boys with hooves and horns, and the girls that came from trees and rivers. It forced submission if one could see through the veil that kept mortal and immortal worlds separate.

She remembered the day when she found out, finding her demi-god mother being eaten by a Stymphalian bird, her insides on display in their rickety flat. It was Hestia who found her, offering the hearth of family and safety in return for obedience. She gave Charlotte a veil and painted her face with the symbols of her purity, before telling her to find the remnants of the Greek legacy.

Now, five years later, she was here taking care of godlings more powerful than she could ever dream of being. She spoke Greek instead of English and sacrificed animals to the altar of her patron goddess. Catholicism spoke of humility, but how was that possible when their kind soared above the clouds, dancing amongst the stars with the rulers of all-natural elements? If only mortals could taste ambrosia, then they would understand, Charlotte thought. It was invigorating, and she could understand the crazed cults of old, for only a taste of divinity was like eternal bliss.

She held Andromeda closer to her chest as they ascended to the heavens until the peaks of Olympus came into view. Without fail, the sight took her breath away. Rolling hills of luscious grasses and flowers, sprinkled with temples and forums all of white marble and limestone, sparkling in the bright sun. Fountains and pools of water of the brightest hues of blue, lined with statues of beautiful twisting figures, barely clothed in all of their anatomic perfection. It was a reflection on the Estate down below, as well as the ancient Greece that no longer existed.