13 #3
A tall, muscled goddess with golden hair, wearing a cloak of falcon feathers and an axe strapped to her back moves through those who have gathered to gawk.
He shoves his demolished plate of food into the Greek’s hands and slides from his chair to kneel as her feet stop before him.
She unclasps the silver brooch holding the garment onto her shoulders and drapes the cloak around him.
He bows deeper, placing a fist over his heart. “Mighty Freyja. Vanir mother. You honor me.”
“As you honored your blood today. Your strength allowed the weakest a chance to escape death,” she tells him.
“I will champion you, Torsten, just as I nominated you. And when you are named hero, all the world will know why.” She steps away, giving him space.
“Now rise. When you wear my cloak, you bow to no one.”
Holding the cloak’s ends together over his chest, he stands and gives his goddess a proud smile despite the grime and weariness coating it. She places her silver brooch in his hand.
There’s as much applause as there is jealousy hanging in the air.
Suddenly, a wave of dry heat crashes over us as the bounty on the tables is devoured by flame.
Hades strides into view in a suit made of glittering sapphires.
A wicked smile graces his sensual lips. His hair and beard are the color of rich, dark soil.
His olive skin revels in the shadows cast on his features.
And despite the heat radiating off him, something about his aura chills to the bone.
“After long, arduous journeys, the wisest heroes take time. Precious hours with loved ones…”
My ribs tighten as I scan the room to make sure they haven’t dragged Abuela and Cillian here. I relax when I realize they aren’t in the temple.
“Time spent feasting and celebrating like we have tonight…” Hades moves like the flame he commands.
No one dares get too close. Not even the other gods.
He’s given a wide berth as he casually moves between those gathered.
“And perhaps most importantly, heroes take days to recover. You will have four days to rest before your second trial. I suggest you indulge in them. If today taught you anything, it’s that they may be your last.”
The god of the underworld pauses, enjoying everyone’s rapt attention.
“At the bottom of the eastern and western staircases are new palaestras for your use. These gymnasiums are equipped with training rings, weapons that cannot be removed from the grounds, and heated salt pools. The western palaestra is reserved for the championed. The eastern is for the rest of you. We invite you to stay in the temple as long as you’d like this evening, but you’re now free to leave. ”
As he strolls toward one of the pieces of fabric swaying in the warm night air, he waves a hand and the tables and chairs that were shoved askew or toppled suddenly form neat rows again.
Some of the divine follow him, departing as breezily as he did. Others linger to size up the mortals who remain unclaimed.
Torsten, the mortal Freyja just chose, stretches and releases a loud groan before rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be in the western salt bath. Championed, I hope you’ll join me. We have things to discuss.”
“But we’re all one group,” a middle-aged woman grumbles from just behind me. I remember she’s the one who passed the troll with August. “We’ll all be championed soon.”
Torsten hears her. He takes in her softening body and the lines cut into her face, then laughs. “Perhaps, but not all of us can win. The gods and goddesses won’t want to waste their time on some of you.”
Prick.
And here I’d been hoping he would somehow make it back.
He turns and walks alone toward the west. My jaw tightens when Veronia encourages Niall to follow the Norseman. Niall hesitates, asking Koda if he needs help down the steps. Veronia spears Koda with a look of disdain.
Koda doesn’t budge. “No thank you, Niall. I believe I’m going to stay here a while.”
Niall pauses like he’s considering staying, but another urge from Veronia is all it takes for him to leave.
The other contestants begin to talk amongst themselves. Small alliances have formed, but some speak of a larger one. Of all the unchampioned banding together since the championed ones are.
I move away from the bickering and out of the center of the group to skirt those standing on its edges, when I notice two mortals seated at the tables with divine.
The nearest is a curvy girl with long, dark hair and lovely light brown skin who seems to be close to my age, talking in hushed tones with breathtaking Isis.
And while I want to know if they come to an agreement, I can’t help but watch what’s happening across the room, where the Greek has somehow garnered a private audience with Athena.
Their words are clipped and serious. She plants a finger on the wooden table to punctuate some point she’s making, and he leans in to speak, holding her sharp stare. Athena’s jaw ticks. Her eyes tighten on him. Scrutinizing.
From the far side of the room, the god of war spots them. Before he can intervene, the Greek’s clothes soak from white to a rich sapphire blue. And just like that, Ares is powerless to reverse Athena’s decision.
She proudly stands as Ares reaches them.
He grips her bicep. “What have you done?”
“Chang’e made him an offer,” she hisses. “Before accepting, he came to me, wanting to be certain that none of us would claim him instead.”
“And?” he demands.
Athena’s glare could cut diamonds. “He. Is. Ours.”
“We had an agreement!” Ares seethes.
The Greek’s dark lashes flutter like Ares’s rejection cuts him, leaving an invisible scar behind.
She jerks her arm from her half-sibling’s grasp and her clear voice echoes over the space. “I will train him, and I will not let him fail.” Like Ares did… she stops short of saying.
The scathing insinuation of his inadequacy infuriates the god of war. His face mottles. His hand finds the hilt of the sword on his hip.
Athena glances down and gives a sultry laugh. “I made the offer within the boundaries of the rules you crafted. You could have listed other stipulations, but you didn’t.”
Shoulders back, she strides past a loitering Zeus and Hera, who seem satisfied with her decision to enter the trials and her choice of mortal. To the gods, blood is as important as feats of strength.
In the firelight, Ares’s dark armor and hair gleams. His red cape snaps at his back on an angry, phantom wind. He turns to find me watching.
The other mortals look away, pretend to talk amongst themselves, or make their way out of the temple to avoid his wrath. I raise a brow.
If he can’t control his own pantheon, how will he influence the rest?
Movement draws my attention. The girl who had been in talks with Isis rises triumphantly, the straight skirt of her dress pleating as it melts to warm gold. Lapis lazuli artfully appears to adorn her ears, neck, wrists, hair, and sandals.
She and the Greek waste no time in leaving. They walk westward, likely to find Torsten. I inwardly cringe at the thought of his alliance gaining the two of them. They seem strong, and more than capable of winning trials, if not the games.
August helps Koda over. “Callalie,” he weakly greets. Today was too much for him.
“You aren’t going with them?” I ask, ticking my head to the two as they disappear into the night.
Koda waves his counterparts away. “I don’t think it would be wise to abandon the friends who brought me out of that trial. None of the ones who walked to the west would have bothered to help.”
His judgment about them isn’t wrong, but he’s giving me too much credit. I almost got us killed on that bridge.
My skin begins to prickle, like a thousand legs tickling. I turn to find Koda’s champion, Anansi approaching with a mischievous grin. Ogun accompanies him.
The Yoruba god of war, metal work, and craftsmen, and of strength, sweat, and transformation, Ogun is tall and broad with a serious disposition.
Deep brown skin stretches flawlessly over his muscled form.
The cap he wears covers most of his head and its pattern matches his bright red and black kente robes.
Anansi’s ensemble is the reverse of the one he gave to Koda. His black dashiki’s crimson embroidery is woven over his shoulders and down the center of his chest. In the design, tiny red spiders wait in delicate webs.
The two gods feel so different, yet they complement one another somehow. Ogun is steady and sure like the metal he commands, while Anansi moves surreptitiously. Steadfastness and stealth, the two of them.
Koda bows as deeply as his spine will allow. “My champion.”
Anansi urges him to stand, watching me with keen eyes as he talks to the man whose time-bowed body is fueled by his blood. “I trust that you are nourished and will take the advice of our hosts and find rest in the coming days, Koda.”
“I am, and I certainly will,” Koda vows with a nod.
“Who are your friends?” Anansi questions, his eyes sparkling impishly.
“This is Callalie Ryan and August Aymes.” Koda proudly gestures to each of us in turn.
Ogun’s deep voice joins the conversation. “I know your music well,” he reveals to August. Aymes thanks him for the compliment. Ogun starts questioning him about his songwriting process and listens intently as August graciously answers.
“Ogun may know your friend’s songs, but I know your story,” Anansi slyly tells me, creeping closer.
I can’t help but smile. “Are you upset it’s about to end?” I tease.
He smiles broadly. “I’m curious to see what you do before it does.”
“Only time will tell,” I reply, trying to match his levity.
When we were children – after our mother left – Abuela used to read to us at bedtime.
She told us that our lives were like the stories in our favorite book, and that every moment spent and each lesson learned between our beginning and ending was what our souls would take into the hereafter.
Only the gods lived forever. Mortals had to make each day count because we had so few.