Young Writers Society

Prologue: The Vengeful Goddess

It all began with a seed.

The seed of life one might say. It struggled in a cosmic ocean, endeavoring toward its destination. Blind in determination, in an almost pure zealotry, it ventured forward on the unruly path ahead. It was only one of a billion, one of a trillion. And they all headed toward a life-giving orb.

Only one seed could eventually reach the endpoint. Only one could create. And this particular seed was never meant to be the one to make it. The other seeds, they all held the potency of a god. They swum with speed and strength, vitality and endurance. Yet, as the Fates would have it (and perhaps it was simply the horrible joke of three bored old hags), the other seeds weren’t the winners of this race. Ran astray, they were only knocked aside to make way. Deformed head, twitchy tail; this dim-witted seed of Zeus found the doorway open. And it entered. Much time later, Herakles was born.

---

The almighty god, Zeus, keeper of Mount Olympus, mankind’s overlord, Mr. Perfection himself, raised his head and sneezed. Four sea-baring vessels capsized and the temple of a lesser god crumbled. The sunken vessels upset Zeus, but the temple didn’t weigh much upon his mind as no one on Olympus cared much for the guy.

But now was the not the time for obtrusive thinking. More important matters had to be attended to. Zeus stood from his throne and grabbed one of the lightning bolts from the holder and used it in the manner of a cane. They were purely ornamental, of course. Even though he was an old man, he was the king of the gods. He was as stalwart as ever.

Zeus stood upon the cloud-like foundation that passed for a ground on Olympus. As he went forward, puffs of the cottony substance floated at his ankles.

He was to make an announcement to which all of Greece would hear. The next son of the line of Perseus would be king of Mycenae. Alcmene, the mortal who carried his son, would soon have her child and he would be the next ruler.

When Zeus reached the Corinthian column podium (forged by the great Hephaestus), he cleared his throat and began the proclamation. “The next son born in the house of Perseus shall be the next king of Mycenae. Questions?”

A crowd of eager Olympian reporters hounded him. “So he’ll be the next king of Greece? Is he a mortal? So does he actually have to be part of the lineage or could just be physically born in Perseus’ summer home?”

Zeus took a step back. “When I said questions, I never intended there to be any. I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer. Hermes here will inform you of any more developments.”

A small, quick-looking figure with winged sandals came up barely over the top of the podium. He had an odd nasally accent. “Yeah, I’ll take all yous questions now.”

Zeus quickly made his way back to his throne atop Mount Olympus and sighed as he sat in the plush seat. He cranked a lever on its side and an extension rose from the bottom of the throne on which he rested his tired legs. He leaned back a bit and was in a nearly supine position. “Great,” said Zeus. “Hard day’s work. Now all I need is some Ambrosia.”

---

She brushed her long dark hair in a hovering vanity mirror. The knots, they simply wouldn’t stay out for very long. She had to brush constantly to get any progress. Hera was up to ten thousand strokes when she heard the proclamation ring out.

Immediately she stood, threw the brush at the head of an innocent passerby. He fell to the gorund and a tuft of cloud arose. The vanity mirror vanished with a small poof.

“Zeus!” she said with venom on her tongue. And she really could have had venom on her tongue if she had wanted to. She was a goddess after all.

Hera hated her husband, yet she could never find it in herself to leave him. He hit her sometimes. She’d wear large dark sunglasses to hide the non-existent marks. She was immortal, so it wasn’t possible for him to leave any, but she liked to think that she was hiding the damage he was doing to her on the inside.

When Zeus had proclaimed that the next son in the line of Perseus was to be king, she had become irate. The king of the gods spent one night with that floozy Alcmene and all of a sudden, there would be a personal representative of her cheating scum of a husband in the mortal world. No, that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

Hera formulated a plan. Ingenious to the bone.

“Eileithyia!” she commanded. “Daughter! Come to me!”

The goddess of childbirth appeared at her mother’s side. “Yes, mum?”

"There are two I wish for you to manipulate. And you are the perfect pawn--er, I mean goddess--to carry it through. Nicippe, the horsewoman; I want you to force her labor early."

“But such an atrocity?”

“Is of none of your concern! The child will live; I will make sure of it.”

“Yes, mum. And the other?”

“The whore Alcmene. Delay her birth until my hero is born.”

“But she is already overdue. Such a task could kill her. The mortal body was not meant for a burden such as that over so long a time.”

“So be it. Her child will be born, and healthy. I have no doubt of that. Who cares if the woman dies?”

“Indeed.” Eileithyia turned away, ready to perform the deed for her mother.

“One more thing.”

“Hm?”

“Two serpents. Put them in his crib.”

“Alcmene’s child?”

“Yes.” Hera, whose hand was now on her chin and her finger over her mouth as if in thought, believed she had covered everything.

“That’s not really my area,” the young goddess said. “I suggest finding a demigod, or you could perhaps do it yourself?”

No, Hera thought. Much too dangerous. Zeus would find out. “I’ll think of something.”

“Yes, mum.” And Eileithyia was off, ready to carry out her mother’s most fiendish of schemes.