Hestia stares into the flames of her hearth. They flicker this way and that: orange, vermillion, red, pink, back to orange, and the cycle starts again, a million accents of the one colour all blended together to form one whole. They curl and writhe like Hermes' snakes when tangled up together. Each wisp of flame unique. Like snowflakes.
You might wonder why Hestia is so quiet and accepting, when all the other gods are so boisterous and rowdy and competitive. All her worth is gone. She does not control anything that the mortals cherish anymore- they move so often that it is impossible to establish a home, let alone a family hearth.
What do the other gods control? Elements of life that are unimportant but so plentiful that Hestia wonders how the world is still spinning. War, revenge, wine. So common. So useless, so petty, so wasteful of energy.
And these days, energy is precious, the thought whispers through her mind.
Marriage, she adds bitterly to the list. Not really a traditional, sacred ceremony anymore. A wedding, which is supposed to be the bonding of two people with the ultimate blessing of the Love and Marriage goddesses, is now just an event used as an excuse for the consumption of more wine, of pointless revels that mar the soul, leave unholy impressions of the sins that alcohol influences the mind and body to commit.
Hestia huddles closer to her hearth. It is so cold… getting colder…
Eventually, she will fade. The mortals don't care about their homes, their families. To them, 'home' is just a place to cook dinner, to watch the picture device known as 'television'.
'Home', back in Ancient Greece, meant 'family'. When the mortals were at home, it was a time to enjoy the blessing of family. These days, in the twenty first century, it is normal for everybody in the household to be doing their own things, separate and detached from everyone else.
The mortals used to sacrifice to Hestia every night, so that she would place her blessing of family upon them.
The fire of her spirit is fading. The flames of her hearth have dimmed. They glow softly, fed now only by the fire of her regret, her pity.
It is so quiet, so lonely in the vast, majestic throne room that is so very far from her real home…
Hestia shivers and hugs her knees, staring down into the glowing coals. Only the slightest hint of heat is emanating from the hearth now. The goddess can feel herself slipping. Her image is blurring, her soul in limbo.
Dusk performs the transition into twilight. Hestia's favourite time of day, the gloaming, is fast approaching. How suiting it would be, she muses, to pass at her favourite time of day.
The gloaming. The bridge between night and day. That one time of day that everything stops for a split second. The sun pauses for a single ceaseless moment before sinking below the distant horizon, leaving the world shrouded in darkness.
Hestia shivers as the foreboding shadows of the throne room leap upon her small, quaking figure in the lonesome darkness like a hungry pack of wolves. Her hearth is barely a single ember now.
Hestia clutches desperately for one last hope, to save her from her inevitable end.
But it's too late. The hearth is dead, a single wisp of smoke wafting up into the sky, the last remnants of the goddess of the heart.
The goddess sighs and lays her cheek down on the cold marble floor of her throne room.
Her time has come. The gloaming is under way. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She accepts that the world is doomed, and there's nothing she can do, perhaps a coward's path but she is always the first to admit that she is not the goddess of bravery.
Her mind goes blank and her limp body disappears from the face of the earth.
All that's left is a single, smouldering ember that is hidden beneath the ashes of the dead hearth. One last shred of hope that perhaps, someday, the Hearth will be reignited.
So sad. I just felt the need to write something for Hestia, whom we know so little about and doesn't seem to have much of a fan base in the archives.
Hope you enjoyed,
MashPotatoeSquishBanana