Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

My parents raised me to be humble. No easy task, when they're gods who reside on their own floating island.

Early on, Mother let me roam and wander, slapping my feet on the golden, lily-dappled tiles of our isolated palace. Running through the meadows. Free, without much consideration for blood ties and my role in the cosmic order. But I am tired of only reading about the taste of sea salt or the sight of white sands. I wanted to see the world, be grounded.

Yes, Mother and Father raised me to be humble. But this swamp is another matter. I understand. Swamps are wet, but this much water falling from the hanging moss? Ridiculous. Before Zeus let me loose, I spent a good deal of time brushing my hair and getting it the way I like.

The dark world around me stinks of earth and decay. I wrinkle my nose. The sweet orchards of home, this is not. The dampness crawls on my arms, giving me gooseflesh. And it seeps into my elaborate chiton of Olympian purple and gold. In this starless night, my bare feet trespass on urine, stagnant water, and small animal bones.

A hiss to my right, a hefty reptilian sigh. I try to find the source. Nothing.

Mosquitoes and fireflies buzz and glitter around the dew-dappled branches as I wind through shadowy cypresses, seeing ghosts in every whorl of bark. Red, the life of the earth, stains my dress hem.

And, all at once—

Shadows swarm me.

I'm alone but watched.

And I can't quiet my quivering bird-mind. Nothing helps. Not thinking of home. Not thinking of Zeus. How his golden hand, a contrast to my brown skin, engulfed my cheek. And his other palm, dotted with small, pale hair, clutched my hip when he told me what I must do to remain in his favor.

My throat hitches as I pick up my skirt to step over a gnarled root. No thinking of dark or sad things. He loves me, and I can ease his heart. This is for my family's honor.

Find out if Persephone’s hideous daughter is plotting against me, my little lily.

Melinoë. The daughter of Hades and Persephone, exiled from the Underworld. Neglecting deference to either her home or Olympus. Unacceptable. But of course, the golden king, far from his more violent days, wouldn't accost his brother's daughter.

That leaves me.

I brace myself against a tree and stare into the gathering darkness. Golden lights in the distance. I suck in a deep breath and keep going, grimacing as I step in a mound of mud. At least, I hope it's mud.

In the distance, a bark. It echoes. Another, another.

I freeze. They're close, however many dogs there are. Usually, I'd assume dogs would be friendly, but I'm not sure what sort of ones live in the swamp. And have barks that are deep and raucous. Thinking quick, I kneel and dig my back into the tree, a small hollow that covers me.

Through the shadows erupt half a dozen red eyes, glowing hotly. Hatefully. And howls pierce the air.

A hulking shadow surges forward. Magic hangs in the air, pungent and all-encompassing. Like the mingling of myrrh and citrus. When it comes into view, I realize what it is by the tendrils of smoke rolling off its body.

An underhound approaches me, eyes trained on me, paws slapping the slurry of water and clay around us. Twice as tall as me, its fur charcoal, it approaches. It snarls, its jagged white teeth dripping with silver globs of saliva. More follow behind it.

"Apollo's balls," I mutter, drawing my shoulders close. There's nothing I can do. I can't fight, can't . . .

“Halt!” a harsh voice orders.