Chapter 8: Freedom
In the heart of a vineyard where time seemed to stand still, a beautiful girl, a Hesperide nymph, tended to the sacred greenery. The sun, in its ceaseless journey, bathed the orchard in hues of amber and gold while streams, clear as crystal, wove through the trees like threads of silver.
The girl, pausing in her eternal task, peered into the water, beholding her visage. Her skin, kissed by the day, bore a soft tan hue, whilst her hair, dark and undulating like the gentlest of seas, framed her features. Her eyes, dark as the night's most profound obsidian, mirrored the depth of her soul. She admired her reflection, not in vanity, but in a moment of tranquil self-regard. As she arranged a wayward tress behind her ear, the air was pierced by a voice, "Zoë!" It was Erytheia, her sister, whose presence was as constant as the stars.
"Thou lookest well enough, dear sister," Erytheia chided with a glint of mirth in her eyes. "Pray, let us attend to our duties. Hera, in her divine messages, hath decreed we shall receive a visitor. We mustn't dare incur the wrath of Olympus."
The girl, now known as Zoë, her countenance turning earnest, straightened herself with a sense of duty. "A visitor, foretold by Hera herself?" she pondered aloud. "What manner of being warrants such a herald?"
With a renewed sense of purpose, the nymphs of the Hesperides busied themselves, ensuring that every leaf glistened and every flower shone like a blaze. The air was thick with anticipation and a touch of unease. Unbeknownst to Zoë, this visitor would be the harbinger of a destiny that would irrevocably change her path. However, as the Hesperide nymph began her labors once more, she could not help the sense of restlessness that stirred within her. The beauty of the garden, usually a source of pride and solace, now felt like a gilded cage. The majestic trees and blooming flowers, once symbols of her admiration, now seemed to her like walls, subtly encroaching upon her independence.
This paradise, her home, began to feel more like a prison, yet the thought of leaving was equally daunting. Despite her yearning for something beyond the orchard, the idea of facing the world alone, outside the safety of her known realm, was a terrifying prospect. To Zoë, the garden was both a sanctuary and a cell. This internal conflict raged quietly within her as a figure appeared in the distance. A man, different from any she had seen before, with the exception of her father Atlas, was approaching the garden. This sight sparked a curiosity in Zoë, a feeling so intense it was almost foreign to her.
Zoë's sisters were nowhere to be seen, and in this rare moment of solitude, her curiosity transformed into action. She moved with a mix of caution and intrigue, stepping out of the familiar embrace of the garden to meet this stranger. Her heart raced with a blend of fear and excitement. Each step towards the man was a step into the unknown, a realm filled with possibilities that Zoë had never dared to explore.
The man approaching the vineyard was a figure of immense stature, his skin fair against the sun's light, his arms broad and powerful. His muscles, bulging and well-defined, added to his imposing presence. He wore no shirt nor chiton, only a simple loincloth, and across his back was draped the pelt of a lion, a testament to his strength and valor. As Zoë neared him, her heart beating with a mixture of awe and nervousness, she called out, her voice steady yet tinged with excitement. "Great hero! I am delighted to give thee a tour of Hera's Orchard."
The man acknowledged her with a grunt that seemed to resonate with the primal essence of nature before walking past her, his gait purposeful and commanding. Zoë found herself captivated, her eyes unable to stray from this remarkable figure who exuded an air of untamed power and rugged heroism. Gathering her courage, she walked alongside him and asked, "Pray tell, what name dost thou bear?"
"My title is Heracles, son of Zeus," he replied, his voice deep and resonant.
At his words, Zoë felt a thrill run through her. Heracles, the son of Zeus – the hero of countless tales and legends she had only heard in whispers. Her pupils dilated, a sense of infatuation washing over her as she gazed at him in awe, the reality of his presence overwhelming her senses.
Noticing her stare, Heracles slowly turned his head towards her, offering a small, knowing smile. In that brief exchange, a connection sparked, one that transcended the boundaries of mere words. Zoë, a guardian of the Hesperides, and Heracles, a demigod and hero, stood at the cusp of a story that she believed would echo through the ages. Zoë, walking beside the massive figure of Heracles, inquired, "What quest brings thee to our sacred garden?"
Heracles, his gaze fixed ahead, shared with her a tale of divine machinations. "Hera, my stepmother, hath set upon me ten labors. One such task is to purloin an apple from this very garden," he explained, his voice laced with a hint of both resentment and determination.
The half-nymph halted, the gravity of his words anchoring her to the spot. The notion of someone attempting to steal one of the sacred apples was unthinkable. Rushing to catch up to Heracles, who continued his stride undeterred, she warned him, "Such a task would be impossible, great Heracles. I beseech thee; do not attempt it, should thou value thy life."
Heracles merely nodded, offering no response, his mind seemingly set on his formidable task. As they moved forward, Zoë realized that Heracles was not heading towards the garden but towards a field nearby. Confusion etched on her face, she reached out, tugging gently on his lion pelt. "The garden lies not in that direction," she informed him, her voice tinged with urgency.
The son of Zeus responded with a hearty chuckle, the sound resonating in the open air like thunder. "Before I dare to attempt the theft of the fruit of immortality, I seek the counsel of Prometheus. His foresight may aid me in this labor," he said, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of cunning and respect for the titan known for his wisdom.
Zoë, now understanding the depth of Heracles' plan, felt a blend of admiration and concern. Heracles' quest was not just a test of strength but of strategy and wisdom. Nonetheless, her dark, sharp eyebrows raised in confusion before asking Heracles, "Who is this Prometheus thou speakest of?"
As they reached the crest of a hilly mountainside, Heracles paused, his mighty club pointing towards the valley below. Zoë's gaze followed his gesture, and there, at the base of the mountain, she beheld a startling sight. A large man, a titan, was bound to the mountainside, sitting in a pool of golden ichor that seemed to emanate from his very being. Without a word, they began their descent with Heracles narrating the tale of Prometheus. "Prometheus is a titan, one who dared to defy the Olympians. He tricked my father, Zeus, and committed a great transgression by stealing fire from the gods and gifting it to mankind," he explained, his voice imbued with awe and solemnity.
Zoë listened intently, her mind absorbing the legendary tale of Prometheus, a being whose story was etched in the annals of time, a symbol of defiance and sacrifice. It only became clearer as she journeyed with the demigod that the walls of the garden truly trapped her from such engaging epics and history.
Upon reaching the bottom of the hill, they approached Prometheus. Zoë, feeling somewhat out of place in the presence of such monumental figures of myth, stood to the side, observing quietly. She tugged on the side of her white chiton, feeling a necessity to offer a further formal appearance. Heracles approached Prometheus with a solemn greeting. "It seems thy predicament is a painful one," he remarked, his eyes surveying the titan's bound form.
The titan, fueled with defiance yet burdened with weariness, spat out a mouthful of warm ichor onto the ground. "So, Zeus sends his own son to mock me in my chains," he retorted bitterly.
A shadow passed briefly over Heracles' expression, a flicker of anger or perhaps understanding, but it quickly gave way to a small, enigmatic smile. "Nay, Prometheus," Heracles began, his tone serious yet measured. "Father hath delivered a divine message. He offers thee freedom, shouldst thou renounce thy defiance of thou false god and swear fealty to the rulers of Olympus."
At this, Prometheus let out a manic giggle, the sound tinged with both amusement and a hint of madness. "Lord Perseus is no mere god; he is god," he scoffed. "Were he here, he could raze the Olympians with but a blink."
In response, Heracles placed his large club upon Prometheus' bleeding stomach, the gesture a silent, looming threat. Leaning in close, Heracles whispered with a steely edge, "Lies."
Zoë, standing off to the side, watched this exchange with bated breath. The tension between the hero and the titan was palpable, a clash of wills and ideologies. The mention of 'Lord Perseus' piqued her curiosity further, adding another layer of mystery to this already complex tapestry of divine politics and power struggles. Unable to cease her endless interest in the unknown, she stepped forward. The mention of a name unfamiliar to her ears compelled her to ask, "Who is this Lord Perseus thou speakest of, Ser Titan?"
Prometheus looked up at Zoë, a spark of eagerness in his eyes at the opportunity to speak of the fabled god-king. "Lord Perseus is the prince of the cosmos, the lastborn of the mighty Chaos, and the true heir of Olympus," he began, his voice carrying a tone of reverence.
As he continued, Prometheus raised a hand as if painting a picture in the air with his words. "He would not abide the tyranny of the gods, for he is unlike them; he is greater. He is a primordial."
"Primordial?" Zoë echoed, leaning in closer, her interest deepening.
"Yes, a primordial," Prometheus confirmed. "The first race of gods, the pinnacle of divinity. He was akin to, nay, mightier than Tartarus and Ouranos. Truly, he is the rightful sovereign of the world."
Zoë felt a rush of astonishment at Prometheus' words. The concept of a being so powerful, so ancient, was almost beyond her comprehension. Her heart raced as she tried to envision such a deity, one who stood above even the Olympians in might and majesty. The stories of the gods and titans she had known seemed suddenly smaller, part of a much larger and more mysterious universe than she had ever imagined.
With a grunt of impatience, Heracles pressed his club into Prometheus, silencing the titan momentarily. He then turned his head towards Zoë, his expression stern. "Listen, garden maiden. Prometheus is a trickster. His tales are naught but lies and myths; even the wise Athena denies such legends. Do not let his words beguile thee."
Turning back to Prometheus, Heracles addressed the matter at hand – the theft of one of the immortal fruits. "If thou providest me, counsel, on how to acquire an apple from this orchard, I shall refrain from inflicting upon thee a fate far worse than what a mere eagle could do to thy insides."
Prometheus, undeterred, laughed once more. "Steal from Lord Perseus' Orchard? I would sooner embrace oblivion at the hands of the 'golden boy' than aid in such an endeavor."
Heracles growled in frustration and used his club to push himself off the titan, standing up. The force of his movement and the weight of his size caused Prometheus to groan in pain under the pressure. Abstaining from any more of the titan's mockery, Heracles turned and began to walk back up the hill towards the garden. However, Zoë lingered for a moment, torn between the desire to aid the suffering titan and the impulse to follow Heracles. After a moment of contemplation, her sense of duty to her role as a guardian of the garden overtook her sympathy for Prometheus. With a bitten lip, signaling her inner conflict, she hurriedly tried to catch up to the demigod, leaving Prometheus behind in his eternal torment.
As the lush garden came into view once again, Zoë reflected on her brief journey with Heracles. The experience, though fleeting, had given her a glimpse of a world beyond the orchard's confining embrace. Driven by a newfound sense of courage and a desire for freedom, she quickened her pace and stepped in front of Heracles, blocking his path. With a rush of emotion and without fully thinking it through, Zoë blurted out her plea. "I wish for thee to save me!" she said, her voice a stir of hope and desperation. "Is that not what heroes do?"
The son of Zeus looked at her, his expression a blend of surprise and contemplation that burst in his brilliant electric-blue orbs. A long, silent moment passed between them before a glint of something unidentifiable flickered in his eyes. "What wouldst thou offer in exchange?" he finally asked.
The Hesperide was taken aback, confusion and discomfort evident in her gesture as she ran her hands through her hair. She had always believed heroes acted selflessly without expectation of reward. Heroes were a beacon of good, compassion, and nobility. Most of all, to her, they were virtuous. Though, as her hand brushed against the hairpin in her dark, ashy brown locks, the girl let out a resigned breath, pulling it from her silky hair and offering it to him.
As she held the hairpin, it began to glow with soft auric light, transforming before their eyes into a magical leaf blade. The blade was a warm bronze, nearly three feet in length, its double edge sleek and sharp enough to pierce the toughest foes. Near the hilt, an engraving caught the light: 'Anaklusmos.'
Why was she going so far? For freedom? For glory? For love? Even she did not know; all she could feel was the heavy thumps in her chest and the feeling that flowed in her veins whenever she was close to the man.
Zoë extended the transformed blade towards Heracles. "This blade, forged in fire and cooled in the River Lethe and imbued with the essence of the oceans, hath the power to overcome even the Drakon Hesperion Ladon. Brute strength alone cannot fell such a creature, but Anaklusmos shall prove thee victorious," she declared, her voice steady with newfound resolve.
The demigod's eyes shimmered with desire and hunger as he reached out and took the blade. He swung it a few times, admiring its weight and balance. "A blade of perfect balance and craftsmanship," he remarked, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.
Facing Zoë, Heracles smiled broadly. "I shall save thee from this garden and the drakon, as it is my duty as a hero. Once this labor is completed, I shall take thee with me, and together we shall be forevermore, pretty one," he proclaimed his words a promise of freedom and a shared future.
Zoë felt her cheeks warm with a blush at his words. Leading the way towards Ladon, her heart was a tumult of emotions. The garden, once a place of confinement, now seemed different, bathed in a new light. As she contemplated leaving, a twinge of regret gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside, focusing on the path ahead. Moving through the garden, she brushed aside some foliage, revealing the grand apple tree and the formidable drakon Ladon. The monster was coiled around the tree like a massive serpent, its presence terrifying. Zoë paused, taking in the sight of the drakon she had known all her life, now seeing it through the eyes of someone about to leave it all behind.
Amidst the tension of the impending battle, Zoë turned to Heracles, her emotions a complex quilt of hope, fear, and admiration. As he stood ready, Anaklusmos in hand, she found the courage to speak, her voice steady but tinged with the weight of the moment. Slowly, she raised a shaking hand that found its way to rest on his large bicep. The touch of a man excited her; she could feel the blood rushing to her face as she stumbled over her words.
"H- Heracles," she began, her eyes meeting his, "I wish thee good fortune in thy battle. May the goddess Nike bless ye' with strength and valor to guide thee to victory."
Her encouragement, sincere and heartfelt, hung in the air between them. Heracles, pausing briefly to acknowledge her, nodded with a sense of determination and gratitude. This simple exchange, a wish for luck, was a tribute to the bond they had formed, however brief and tumultuous it had been. As Heracles then turned to face Ladon, Zoë stepped back, allowing him to meet his destiny. She watched, her heart a maelstrom of emotions, as the hero she had aided and who had promised her freedom faced the formidable drakon in a battle that was as much about his own trials as it was about her hopes and dreams.
Zoë stood transfixed as Heracles engaged in combat with Ladon, her gaze filled with trepidation. With each fearless dive and strike Heracles made, she found herself flinching, empathetically feeling each blow that landed on the monster. Her relationship with Ladon was complex. Over the centuries, she had developed a bond with the creature, often finding in its silent presence a kind of understanding that she sometimes lacked with her sisters. She had fed it, cared for it, and, in a way, respected it as a fellow guardian of the garden.
Yet, the longing for freedom, for a life beyond the confines of the garden, outweighed the guilt that angrily snapped at her. To her, the small bite of life with Heracles she had taken was more than the weight of a thousand golden apples. Regardless, unable to bear the sight of Ladon being overwhelmed by Heracles, especially with the sword she had given him, Zoë turned away. The sounds of battle – the clashing of metal, the roars of the drakon, and the grunts of the demigod – filled the air, a tumultuous symphony that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
Gradually, as Ladon's mighty roars gradually diminished into pitiful whimpers, Zoë's heart ached. She brought her hands to her ears, trying to block out the sounds of the creature's pain and defeat. At this moment, she was caught between her past and her future, between the duty she had always known and the independence she yearned for. As Zoë stood, lost in her tumult of emotions, she felt a large, calloused hand gently fall upon her shoulder. Slowly, her hands drifted down to her sides, the gesture bringing her back to the present moment.
She turned to face Heracles, lifting her gaze to meet his. Tears brimmed in her obsidian eyes, a reflection of the turmoil within her. In one hand, Heracles held Anaklusmos, its celestial bronze surface now stained with the dark crimson of Ladon's blood. In his other hand, he held the fruit of immortality, its golden hue stark against the backdrop of battle. Out of the corner of her eye, Zoë noticed Ladon's body, still moving, slowly coiling itself back around the tree. A wave of relief washed over her at the sight. The drakon was wounded but alive, a small comfort in the wake of what had transpired.
Zoë wiped away her tears with the fabric of her chiton, managing a small, forced smile. "I thank thee, Heracles, for saving me—a damsel in distress," she said, her voice a mix of gratitude and a faint hint of sorrow. "And I am honored that I was able to aid a son of Zeus in his quest."
Her words, though polite and fitting for the moment, belied the complexity of her feelings. She was torn between her longing for freedom and the guilt of her part in the battle. The realization that her journey with Heracles was just beginning filled her with both anticipation and apprehension, a new chapter in her life that promised both adventure and challenges yet to be foreseen.
Yet, almost poetically, the demeanor of Heracles underwent a drastic change. Like the difference between night and day, the warmth and charm that had once radiated from him gave way to a cold and distant air. He looked at Zoë with a hint of confusion, his tone turning dismissive. "How hast thou helped me?" he questioned, his words cutting through her like a blade. He discredited her role in his victory over Ladon as if her contribution had been of no consequence.
Zoë's heart felt as if it were shattering like the fall of glass upon a rock. She watched, stunned and disbelieving, as Heracles began to walk away. In a desperate attempt to reach out to him, she stumbled forward, her hand extended towards the retreating figure of the demigod.
"Thou art supposed to take me with thee!" she cried out, her voice laced with pain and disbelief. But Heracles did not stop, did not turn back, did not acknowledge her plea.
Fueled by a sickly sense of desperation, Zoë got up and began to sprint after his distant form. Her legs, however, felt unusually heavy, each step more laborious than the last. Confusion clouded her mind – she couldn't understand why her body was betraying her, why it felt as though she were running against a riptide. Struggling to keep pace, the thought that it might be the weight of her broken heart slowing her down crept into her mind. The realization that the hero she had admired, the man she thought would be her savior, had used her for his own ends was a burden too heavy to bear. Her dream of freedom, of a life beyond the garden with Heracles, crumbled around her, leaving her to grapple with the harsh reality of betrayal and the painful cost of misplaced trust.
As Zoë finally caught up to Heracles, she reached out once more, tugging at his lion's pelt in a desperate attempt to gain his attention. This time, Heracles turned around, but the look in his eyes was not one of warmth or camaraderie. Instead, it was a vile, disdainful glare. "You are pathetic and weak, nothing more than a pretty face," he sneered. His words were cruel, cutting deeply into Zoë's heart. "The only reason I would ever consider taking thee with me would be to make ye' my harlot, to use thou body for my own satisfaction."
Zoë staggered backward, shock and horror written across her face. Heracles' cruel laughter echoed in her ears as she retreated, his contemtpful snicker a stark contrast to the man she thought she knew. He raised his arms and shouted, his voice booming with arrogance, "Nobody could stop me if I wished to take thee here and now!" But then, with a malicious grin, he added, "However, I shall take this sword in place of your womb. It is of more use to me."
With those final, devastating words, Heracles turned away, continuing on his journey to his next labor. Zoë, her emotions overwhelming her, reached out feebly for Anaklusmos, the sword she had given to him. But she was immobilized, her body unable to move, her spirit crushed under the weight of his betrayal. As Heracles' form disappeared over the horizon, Zoë was left alone, the echoes of his cruel laughter and the sight of the sword in his hand haunting her. The pain of betrayal, the shattering of her dreams, and the harsh realization of the true nature of the man she had believed to be a hero enveloped her, leaving her to grapple with the broken pieces of her trust and her heart.
Zoë's breath seemed to catch in her throat, the shock of Heracles' betrayal leaving her feeling as though her very essence had been drawn into an abyss. Her body shook with the force of her emotions; each shudder was a monument to the depth of her pain.
For a time, she sat alone in the fields, tears streaming down her face, mourning not just the loss of what she thought was love but also the ghost of her dreams. Eventually, she found the strength to return to the garden. But the garden, once a place of beauty and serenity, now appeared desolate to her eyes. The vibrant greenery seemed to have lost its color, turning grey in her vision, and the once-clear streams appeared sickly black, mirroring the darkness in her heart.
Upon her return to the vineyard, a shadow of her former self, she encountered her sisters – Aegle, Erytheia, Hesperia, and Arethusa – huddled together. Seeking comfort and understanding from them, Zoë approached, only to be met with scorn and rejection. Their faces, once warm and familiar, now bore expressions of anger and betrayal. Erytheia, the first to speak, voiced her disappointment sharply. "Zoë, how couldst thou betray thy sacred duty? Thy actions have endangered us all!"
Hesperia, her voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and disdain, added, "Thou wert bewitched by a mere mortal, forsaking the trust father placed in thee."
Aegle, usually the gentlest among them, looked at Zoë with a pained expression. "We are bound by our duty to this garden, and thou hast broken that bond for selfish desires."
Arethusa, the eldest, her tone cold and final, delivered the verdict. "Thou art no longer welcome here, Zoë. Thou hast chosen thy path; now be gone from this place."
"My sisters, I... I do not. I never meant to bring harm or dishonor upon us!" Her heart aching with every word, Zoë tried to find the words to explain, to seek forgiveness.
But her words fell on deaf ears. Her sisters turned away, and their decision was made. The rejection by her own kin, on top of Heracles' betrayal, was a blow that cut deeper than any physical wound. In her state of emotional exhaustion, Zoë could not find the energy to argue or defend herself. As they banished her from the orchard, she accepted her fate with a resigned, heavy heart. She took a step beyond the borders of the garden, stepping into an exile that was as much internal as it was physical.
The freedom she had longed for, the freedom she had thought would be her salvation, now felt like a consuming fire. It was a freedom that came at a high cost – the loss of her home, her sisters, and a part of herself. As she walked away from the garden, the weight of her choices and the pain of her experiences settled upon her. The world outside the garden was vast and unknown, and she stepped into it not with the joy of a dream realized but with eyes opened to the cruelty of reality.
Almost ironically, she found herself back in the fields, overwhelmed by the magnitude of her loss; Zoë's emotions burst forth uncontrollably. She wailed, the sound a raw expression of her heartache, and fell to her knees. Her hands clutched at her chiton, the fabric bunched in her white-knuckled grip as if holding onto it could anchor her in the storm of her despair. There was no sign of life nearby. Only her, the passing skies, and the boundless agony that throbbed in her chest. She was now alone, possibly forever, with nothing more than the dry lips that her sobs gave way.
After what felt like an eternity, when her tears could flow no more and her voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper, Zoë noticed the first light of dawn breaking the horizon. The night had passed in her sorrow, and now she faced the daunting reality of her exile. She was deserted, with nowhere to go, caught in a cycle of loss and uncertainty.
In her desolation, her raspy voice barely carried through the still morning air. "Who, if not a hero, would save such a maiden as I?" she muttered, the words more a lament than a question, reflecting her shattered dreams and the irony of her once hopeful desire.
But as the first golden rays of sunlight pierced the hilltops, casting a warm glow over the fields, Zoë saw something unexpected. She could have sworn on the River Styx that it was not there when she had first dropped to the carpeted dirt. Nevertheless, it was lying next to her in the grass as if it had always been there.
Curious and cautious, Zoë brushed the damp strands of hair from her face and tucked them behind her ear. She leaned over for a closer look, her heart beating as her curse of curiosity once again took her over. Her bloodshot and puffy eyes could only sparkle in fascination as she saw it...
A boy.
AN
Hello! I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of this new beginning; I'm really going to be giving it my all to flesh out the side-cast, so I wanted to give Zoë a whole chapter in my vision of how her origin played out
Zoë Nightshade is actually my second favorite character in the entire Riordanverse (behind Percy); I even have a tattoo of her final words from TTC! Thus I was heavily desiring giving her character a foundational origin that we didn't really get to see from Rick.
I once again added an illustrious reference for the scene at the end, I thought it might be well received since there are fewer faults than having it in the middle of the story. I'm still playing with the idea, but please let me know if you believe that I should add one every chapter or that it ruined the flow, etc.
Thank you all for reading; feel free to comment and share!
- ANAKX
Word Count: 5055