Page 32 of Crown of Olympus
“Hey, Aros — how’s your catching arm?” he called.
Aros grinned with delight. “That depends. How’s your aim?”
Archimedes returned the smirk, tossing the golden fruit down, precisely into Aros’s cupped hands. He caught it gracelessly — stumbling forwards under the weight of it. Howling laughter echoed from above as Aros’s lips flattened and his cheeks roared to life. He handed the golden heart gently to Aphrodite, who stared at the pulsing fruit in horror.
The next projectile landed in his hands a second later. This time, the god of war was prepared for its ostensible weight. He tossed the fruit to Apollo, and another to me. Archimedes threw down two more before leaping from the tree, landing firmly on the ground, and stirring up a cloud of ash in his wake.
The golden fruit was warm against my palm, pulsing softly and glowing faintly. I grimaced, just as Aphrodite had. She was still holding it at a distance, like it was a stray cat and she was at risk of being bitten.
But today, the only things being bitten were the heart-shaped monstrosities within our fingers.
I met the eyes of every champion, each pulling similar expressions of apprehensive disgust. Likening it to a shot glass of foul medicine, I figured the best way to approach it was quickly.
Even so, I hesitated a heartbeat before sinking my teeth into the fruit’s soft flesh. The taste of it was sharp and bitter, souring instantly on my tongue. For a moment, nothing happened, just as it did for Thallo. Then the world fractured, like the broken bone trees behind me.
The forest dissolved into a grey mist. The champions along with it. My knees hit the ground forcefully. Ash swirled in the air, clung to my skin, burrowed deep into my lungs, and stung my eyes. Above, the sky burned a deep crimson, as though Helios’ sun had scorched the heavens themselves.
I tried to stand, but a heaviness settled around my shoulders, like a blanket weighing me down.
A woman’s scream tore through the silence, sharp as a battle cry. When I clapped my hands over my ears the sound didn’t stop. Because it originated from somewhere withinme.
It was grief, pure and crashing. Eternal and suffocating.
Demeter’s sorrow.
This was the pain she had buried when she tore hertormented heart from her body. This was what she carried, every moment, between her daughter’s death, and her desperate act of sorrow.
I felt it tear through me, dragging its icy claws through every vein and nerve. Visions flashed through my mind. Empty cradles, children’s laughter cut short... a girl with hair the colour of wheat.
My mother.
Demeter’s daughter.
More visions flooded my mind — crops withering in mourning, rivers running dry, snow that refused to relent, and storms that washed away entire villages. Mortals had paid the price of a goddess’s grief, and I felt how that, too, had ravaged her heart.
Tears tracked down my cheeks — tears I had no recollection of releasing. My heart began to slow, matching the same, broken pace of the dead orchard. A tempo not sustainable to a living, breathing being.
It was killing me.
I realised all at once what it had taken Demeter months to recognise.
I could not fight her grief,and nor could she.
I could not mend her broken heart,and nor could Hades.
I could not undo the act that brought us all to this very moment,and nor could Zeus.
I could only withstand the weight of her sorrow and offer to carry it with her. And so, I bowed my head, praying to the goddess of harvest for the first time in my immortal life.
I see you, Demeter. I feel what you bore. I see what you have sowed.
I have witnessed how you loved her — so fiercely the mortal lands shattered alongside your heart.
But I also see how you tore yourself apart to fix it for them.
You said it yourself:
Grief is the price you pay when you open your heart to love.
