Hearth Pt. 1

Note to Whomever:

Good evening. Or morning, or afternoon, depending on when you’re reading this. I’m flattered you would find my story interesting at all.

It isn’t always a happy story. After thousands of years, moments of happiness seem fleeting, but I am pleased to tell it. I was surprised when I was offered an interview. More often than not people forget me.

I’m not upset. I’ve never been one to smite, or curse and torment. I love my siblings, but they can be… well siblings. I attend the hearth, and so family ties will always be strong, and I rarely leave Olympus. However, I don’t always think my younger (older?) siblings are aware of how much I see—or influence.

I do not have control of the sky; I can’t crack shattering earthquakes or induce unbridled passion (nor would I want to). I don’t have the gift of prophecy, or judgment over lost souls, and marriage is not my forte.

I am the Home and Hearth. I stoke the fires, and I keep the mantle forever burning. I think people forget a hearth’s importance. I don’t blame them; when the world moves so fast, it’s easy to forget things that never wane. But when war is done, the soldier, if he’s lucky, returns home. When babies grow, mothers sit by the fire with their grand kids. Even, Olympians, in all their divinity, find themselves near my flame, whether seeking solitude or comfort. And, as always and forever more, I am here.

I hope you, like others I’ve helped before, find some comfort in this story. When you see a home fire burning, and a mantle scrubbed clean, I hope some fleeting thought passes to me.

I wish you well, reader.

-Hestia

Goddess of the Hearth

Cold. Damp. Rocking in a spongy sack, I bounce when I land. I am alone.

Eons Ago…

Ouranos coughs, as the hundredth sliver of his physical body is sliced. Blood wets his mouth, and his chunks fall off the cliff. His milky eyes, tired and angry, settle on his youngest son. Such a disappointment.

“Traitor… patricide…,” Blood burst from his lips as the scythe came down again.

Kronos chuckles at his weak father, his dying father. But primordials never really die. They just fester like unkempt scabs, growing steadily more desolate. He is king now, he will rule and no one would question him again.

“What goes around, son…” Ouranos warns. His white beard, crusted with blood (dicing a sky entity took time), cracks as his lips lift in the corners. “Take your sister to bed, birth as many fiends as you’d like, but be cautious—for my fate will befall you at the hands of your own…”

And with that, the first lord of the sky falls deep into the watery void.

Sneering, Kronos turns his back on his father…

I can’t remember who first holds me; it isn’t my mother. Her many nymphs and maidservants attend her. The smell of daisies and persimmons lingers, in the arms of whoever cradles me. Then there is my mother. Earthy, and warm and soft; like fresh turned dirt in a garden. Her chest heaves against my cheek, and soft lips press to my forehead. I still don’t open my eyes. It is far too bright in this place; a gust of wind chills my cheek.

My mother’s servants wrap me in a swaddling cloth of fresh leaves. The nymphs giggle, and toy with my hair, commenting on how bouncy and pretty it is, dark like their Queen’s. Cooing, my mother stands, barely hindered by the birth she endured. Titans—their bodies heal in a way even gods could not. The blood from my birthing sprouts a thousand and one carnations, tickling my mother’s toes. Carrying me to a stone palace atop Mt. Oryths, (my brother would replace such scraggy buildings with beautiful marble) she presents me to my father, her brother, Kronos.

Even as a baby, I felt the despair of my father’s aura wash over my fresh, pink skin. Kronos is not a friendly titan, or a kind husband, but the thread of affection in his voice as my mother approaches is testament to how beholden he is to Great Mother Rhea.

“A girl, a precious girl, my lord- “

“A girl,” Kronos’s voice is not pleased, but he takes me in his arms, “Perhaps a boy next time—” He grew silent, and some hiss or scoff deep in his chest frightens me. It rattles my cheek, and my nose curls at his scorched smell. All the beauty of my mother is the antithesis of Kronos.

“What? What is it—she’s perfect!” A squawk of indignation from normally demure Rhea.

“It’s… different.” The blanket covering my face lifts, and I recall tearing up at being so vulnerable.

“Different?”

“Not a titan; she smells different.”

“Perhaps it’s just the nymphs rubbing off—I’ll dismiss Myde at once, I knew I should have swaddled her myself- “

“It’s not a blasted nymph. No spirit could leave such a… a foul smell.” His arms jut away from him, and my tiny cry is foreign to myself. They grumble to each other, snips back and forth, and Mother’s voice is desperate. Father’s grows angrier. Words like “prophecy”, “Ouranos”, and “god”; words which mean precious little to my newborn self. I miss my mother’s embrace, and the smell of protection and home. A scream, sharp and mournful, and then—dark.

A Babysitter Without Pay

I brush my hand against the elastic sack I find myself in. What odd place is this? No heat permeates the smelly confinement, and through a thin veil I hear distant shouting. My mother? Rather than cry, and it is difficult not to, I crawl in the dark existence. Realizing there is no place to go, I curl in a tight little ball, hugging myself for comfort.

The dark is not the problem, nor the smell or odd texture; the problem is the loneliness.

Months (or I assume it was months) pass and I find my voice. It is soft and fragile, and comes from a part of me, but I don’t know where. How strange this is! I don’t understand words exactly, but when pressing my ear to the thinnest part of my cage, I can make out phrases. Hours are spent on trying to decide what those words may be. A tree? Water? And what is a “star”?

I learn how to open my hands, and touch my hair and feet. It is dark wherever I am, so I did not know the shade of my hair or what colors are. My pointy ears twitch as I inspect them, my tongue feels wet and weird on my fingertips. After poking my eye, and scratching myself a time or two, I understand pain. I do not know what causes it, but I know I do not enjoy it. Often, sleep takes me after a long round of exploring my tiny space and myself.

After a long time, when exploring loses all interest, and I stare bored at the ceiling—it opens. The shining light hurts my eyes. It doesn’t last long; some lump falls through, and lands on my thin legs. Flinching, I reach for the tiny bundle, and it cries. Loud, and with my ears so unaccustomed to noise, it hurt. I touch the roll, and a hand, smaller than my own, grabs my finger. The crying stops. I can’t see what it is, but I take it in my arms and hold it to my chest. Heat rushes through my body, and a small tear trails down my cheek.

I’d forgotten, in my prison, what warmth felt like.

Her face is hidden—at the time, I didn’t know other things could exist that weren’t female like myself. Her hair is softer than mine, and her giggle, when I tease her feet, is sweet. Somehow, she smells familiar, like grass and roses and… Mother. Sleeping with her is better, she curls around me, and tiny hands fist my hair. It hurts; but for once the pain makes me smile. I don’t know her name, and as I teach her, I learn she doesn’t either. I call her Poppy, for the popping sounds she makes.

I notice the subtle glow a month or so after she arrives. It starts at her feet, and as time passes it grows an inch or two a month. When she’s happy the glow brightens. One time, she bumped into me. She cried and her light dimmed. I count the months by the braids I make in her hair. It’s brown, like my own, but the reddish tint makes her hazel eyes gleam.

Poppy just starts walking when the sky opens again. Another package tumbles in. Instead of leaves though, she’s wrapped in soft material; it glides under my toddler fingers.

Does our hair get softer with each try?

This little girl is loud; certainly more than Poppy. It takes effort to calm her, and her wailing even distresses Poppy. I quiet the two, and settle against the wall, holding Little. Overtime, her name changes as Poppy couldn’t quite pronounce it. Lily, when happy, is a bright child, and she makes the cutest noises when I sing. Poppy tries to join in, and she sounds better than me. Lily squeals, Poppy laughs, and my heart swells with new emotion: affection.

Using her tiny fingers and toes, I teach Poppy to count and to not pull my hair. Having two sisters makes naps even better. She helps me with Lily, holding her hands when we teach her to talk. With the two of them keeping me busy, the days’ race by. The swell of the cave isn’t so lonely.

The next child is a boy. The odd appendage between his legs gives it away. He glows, not warm gold like the girls, but an eerie blue hue. He’s quiet, and stares at me—dark lashes wrapped around bright blue eyes that even as a baby look so sad. Blue rarely cries, or makes noise at all, and it does not go unnoticed by Lily.

“He barely speaks! Isn’t that weird?”

“Well, considering you wouldn’t be quiet, it’s actually nice—”

“Pops, don’t you—”

“Girls, you’ll disturb him and he really will cry.” They glance at their feet. Perhaps our space is getting rather small. Lily huffs.

“Her—,” (My name from the girls, I suppose because I was the first) Blue glances up at Lily and extends his chubby arms. There is a small cleft in his chin. I notice the tremble in her lip, the stars in her eyes as she picks him up and cuddles to him. She’s good with him.

Poppy blows a lock of hair from her eyes, “Will we ever get out of here?” Her voice, normally strong, is soft—almost a whisper—and she leans against me, shoulder to shoulder.

She only did that as a child, and taking it as her vulnerable side showing, I wrap my arm around her neck, and press my cheek to her forehead. I feel her soft sigh of content, and the brush of her eyelashes as she closes her eyes.

“Her, you’re always so warm…”

I gaze at Lily, sitting across from me, rocking Baby Blue. He snores, and her tender look is all adoration. She sings the same lullaby Poppy and I once sang to her. It sounds best from Lily though. Her hair is longer, blonde tresses sweeping Blue’s cheek, and her eyes meet mine.

“Where did he come from?” Her question’s quiet, so as to not wake Blue.

“I suppose the same place we did.”

“But where is that? And do we just… live here forever? Taking care of every new creature that falls down here?” There’s a crease between her pretty eyebrows.

“I don’t know Lily. It can’t stay this way forever, I’m sure.”

“This place is getting cramped, Her. We can’t stay!”

“Lily, we know that!” Poppy stands, hands on her hips. “But there’s nothing else we can do and complaining isn’t going to change that!”

“Well, neither is sitting here doing nothing!” Blue whimpers, and Lily clamps shut. When the boy turns over, she whispers, “I don’t want to stay in this place. There is more out there, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

Poppy eyes Blue, “Lily we tried hitting the walls. We barely made a dent. We aren’t strong enough.”

“We aren’t trying hard enough Pop. I know there’s a way out.” Lily touches my ankle. “Isn’t there?”

She’s so independent. I hum and close my eyes. So sure of herself. There are moments I forget she is younger than me. I forget they are both younger than me.

“Her?”

I gaze at my youngest sister, her forget-me-not eyes beseeching me for a solution. And I don’t have one. I pet Blue’s tuft of black hair, my fingertip skimming his cheek.

“Whatever it is, as long as we are together, we will be fine.” My murmur is barely audible over the boy’s breathing.

Blue is a quiet child, but smart and mature. More often than not, I find myself running a hand through his hair, and pressing my lips to his cheek. His skin is a darker shade than the girls, even without the blue glow. His bottom lip is a perpetually soft pout. He picks up numbers, names, and words easily enough, and the girls are so delighted than they are distracted from bickering.

Unlike the first time the sky opened, I don’t shrink away from the sudden bright light.