Hecaton

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Hecaton

You think she does not see you. You think she does not know where and who and what you are. Encircled by wind, she sits among you, upon your unclipped fingertips, here at land’s farthest edge, where the sea begins and the road runs out and there is nothing left but sky. You would seize her, if you could, pull her deep into yourselves, were it not for her grandmother’s pallium, Oceanus blue, the scent of age and power still warm upon it.

Wear red, Gaia said, let my sons know you are coming. Let them know the daughter of my daughters is come.

Reach to the sky with your weathered fingers. Ask neither to hold nor release. If you emerge, her father will find you, her father who slew the spark-eyed dragon, her father who released you; her father you helped to chain the Titans, and both his hands will be filled with lightning, yes, father of all, son and nephew, offspring of the sister-wife and time itself.

The Earth of their prison is ancient, eroded, yet bound you remain.

Women bear witness. This you should know. New gods challenge old gods, sons defeat fathers, fathers fear their children; their wives plot against them. Who gave Cronus the scythe? Who raised Zeus in a Cretan cave? Who gifted her grandson a thunderbolt? Whose daughter dressed a stone in swaddling? Gaia, your mother, is grandmother to all.

In Tartarus, there is neither sun nor wind. All is night. Sea sloshes in the ceiling. In Tartarus, Titans yet remain, unrepentant, shut behind a cast bronze gate, enclosed by tarnished walls, remanded by three hundred hands whose fingertips taste freedom, but a vow is a vow.


Submitted: June 06, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Tara Mae Williams. All rights reserved.

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