This is somewhat of a collaboration with another writer that I have come to know personally over the years. While she hasn't written anything on this website yet, here is her name so maybe, when she uploads you guys can check her out. ('akaanksha. venkatr' without a space, of course.) I apologize for the small chapter, but given its impact and relevance, I think this will keep you guys guessing for a while.

Narrator's POV:

Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods, in all its magnificence was yet again empty. A prophecy yet again has spoken and the world yet again facing impending doom. All the gods had left to look for clues on the unknown danger, and en route, find allies. All but one.

Lady Hestia sat, staring mindlessly into the fire that blazed in the room's hearth. Her throne, at the moment, not her decorated seat of power, but a love seat. Her manner, not regal and poised, but meekly curled up and depressed. She was the eldest of the gods, her power lit the torches of the court's hall, her essence protected the seats of power, her being radiated hope into the hearts of all. Yet, here she sits, bereft and overwhelmed with emotions and memories.

Not long ago, she commissioned young Troy to the land beyond the gods. Sent the boy off while she sat on his bed. She had hoped to be reminded of him in some way - the way the ocean seemed to cling to him, a scent that she had come to closely associate with his presence; or perhaps some of his effects left behind as inspiration. She chided herself for being a fool, thinking, hoping, the distance might lessen the pain, the ache. So, she went, every leisurely moment spent operationalizing her emotions, engaging with his past environment, praying to ease her heart. Maybe she'll experience those memories one last time and they'd finally leave her in peace.

She looked across the room. His bed, which she diligently made and maintained. His dresser, which she restocked every now and then, blindly hoping his day of return. Finally, an album of all of his pictures and adventures. Her assiduous routine, only hers to know. Only hers to pine.

Hestia's POV:

They say suffering makes love poetic,

They sing ballads of those written down.

I'm no Quasimodo grieving his Esmeralda,

But my passions are just as strong.

Oh, how my heart aches,

Throbbing is my immortal wounds.

I close my eyes, see his amused smile,

And as I open, they become open tombs.

We sat around fires, I gave him a home,

Now, where do I go to have my own?

Alas, my hair neither golden or silvery white,

I am but an auburn flame in the night.

And I burned to warm his skin,

For they undeserving, may have his heart,

But it was I who saw him glowing in the dark.

When the Moon had no ritual,

I was his only light.

Murmured confessions of the terrors of his heart,

The whispered fears of his horrid past.

Oh, how I long to hold him, be held in his bay,

Maybe he'd know then, he is needed even today.

But I must not keep remembering him,

Look at me, petulantly kicking myself in this childish game.

One must devise a way to remove the heart,

Is that enough? Can I then, finally stand apart?

I must divest myself of this ridiculousness.

I must. I must.

I need to be strong, spoken magic demands my strength.

I feel my head swirl and my limbs go limp,

Even in absence, his strength decides my whim. For the Goddess of the Hearth, he is my fire.

Eternally I know, I burn green in desire.