The gods are both my salvation and my curse . . . pretty much like any in-laws, I suppose.
My father was an abusive ass so it only stood to reason that he would want me married off to someone in the same category. Even though I escaped that life and married someone who bought me, but waited for me to truly love him and be ready before coming to my bed, it only stands to luck that my mother-in-law would be just as manipulative. Although, I suppose the gods can’t help it. Manipulation is all they’ve known, which makes me wonder where Eros learned his patience.
Of course, I didn’t know he was a god when I married him. In fact, I hated him for marrying me. I never wanted to marry, but I suppose I lucked out that when I did I ended up loving my husband. I resented him, at first, this man I never saw except by dim firelight who came to my room for nothing more then a talk each night. Years went by before the talks turned into a marriage. But my logical brain could still never trust him. A man who would not give me his name or show me his face, yet he expected my loyalty still. I confess to breaking his only rule for me - I shined an oil lamp over his sleeping form to see his face. Can you blame any woman for the same?
For my doubt, he was taken from me and the story goes on like the poets say. I traveled the known world. I begged and bargained from gods and monsters. I faced the Underworld and retrieved a prize promised to my mother-in-law in exchange for the return of Eros. It’s there that the poets break from reality. They could never allow a woman to fault from her heroism for anything less than vanity. If you read the story now, it says I opened the gift for Aphrodite in order to keep a little of the beauty promised. The truth was much less about the “frailty of woman” and more my own logic getting the better of me.
Doubt is a nasty thing. If it’s crept into a mind once, it can do it again. The box was so light and made no noise when I shifted it I thought there was nothing within. I only peeked, opening the lid a crack to make certain about not about to had the goddess of Love an empty gift. Then the world of dark within the box engulfed me.
When woke up, Eros was arguing. I stood beside Hades who was presenting me to Zeus, the king of the gods, and a tribunal of his family. I couldn’t speak or move as if I were strapped to the ruler of the Underworld. Only my eyes followed the actions before me.
“She went through everything to rescue me. To get back to me!” Eros insisted.
“And for that you want her to be made a god?” Dionysus, the god of wine, scoffed.
“Why not?” Dionysus’s wife, Ariadne, loudly declared. “I was human and you made me a god. And I haven’t done half of the amazing things this girl has done. And you make gods of heroes often enough.”
Ares shook his spear in my direction. “She is no hero!”
Hephaestus, who I recognized from his club foot and leather apron, slammed his hammer to the floor. “She has accomplished more heroism than most of your mortal champions.”
Hera haughtily stormed away, grumbling, “Do what you like, but stop waving all of your weapons around.”
Many of the goddesses were on my side, save for Aphrodite. She watched everything proceed with a sweet smile. When Zeus declared I would be made a goddess, she moved to me, attempting to embrace me as her new daughter. As my arms and legs grew warm as Hades released me. Instead of the shapely arms of the most stunning of all goddesses, Eros stepped between us. He glared once at his mother before escorting me to a small circle of minor gods. Hephaestus clapped a muscled arm roughly around my shoulders. “You poor girl. You’re stuck with this husband for eternity.”
I didn’t mind that. I don’t mind being a goddess of soul. I don’t mind that every Valentine’s Day greeting cards display my husband as a diapered baby. What I do mind is my image used as a warning against Christian sin and womanly weakness. Love doesn’t always mean being vain and illogical. But most love stories are told by men.
