Fealty. Faithfulness. Fidelity.

These were the qualities prized most highly by the Great Goddess Hera, and once they were hers to give without question or doubt. So long ago now it seemed, she dared not consider that another path might lay open to her, a path of which the indomitable wife of Olympus’ King might not approve.

Yet here it was, and somehow she had found herself upon it. She had strayed from the true path, the path of righteousness, and passed the point of no return. She had passed it long ago, when first she had locked her gaze with a pair of earthen eyes and heard the name ‘Evanthe,’ spoken in introduction by her mother. She had sealed her fate when she had determined to make her feelings known to the object of her affections, and in a single night of passion had tossed her shame to the wind

Her maidenhead was gone now, yet she could not bring herself to regret the eve she had spent in the arms of her surrogate Evanthe. Gianna had shown her pleasures she had never known, worshipping every inch of her fertile form as if it itself were a temple, and she a Goddess on Earth. The golden-haired Princess had kissed away her shame, coaxing her out of the shadows of trepidation and into the light of ecstasy.

And in that light, she had seen what needed to be done. She had seen her path illuminated before her, strewn with petals of white and red and gold. In her vision, Evanthe had beckoned to her, sunlight crowning her golden locks, as though Apollo himself were beaming down upon her, and doves had fluttered hither and thither, a clear sign of Aphrodite’s blessing.

It had been a dream, of course -- no true sign of any God’s blessing. That glorious path was the idealistic imagining of a girl in love, but it had set her to thinking about the Gods. Though she could certainly not presume to know the mind of the divine, she doubted that Aphrodite would be inclined to oppose them, nor Eros. Apollo might even look kindly upon them also, for he was renowned for his own tragic loves. But Hera…

The trouble with Hera was this: Ophelia needed a husband. It was her duty to marry well. She was honour-bound to bring glory to her House, and as a woman, marriage was one of the few means in which she could accomplish this. Duty to her family always having been placed before almost all things, she was not about to abandon this ambition. Furthermore, now that she was resolved to make Evanthe the Queen of her heart -- should the woman desire it be so -- the two would need to be careful. No suspicion could fall upon them, lest their reputations shatter into a thousand tiny shards. She would not have it said that Lord Nikolias had a less than perfect daughter, nor that Evanthe was loose with her morals. In her mind, it was perfectly natural that the two should love each other. Men did, after all. Men had affairs with both sexes, before and after marriage, and it was considered perfectly acceptable. A man who lay with another man was merely considered experimental; a man who loved another man considered a bit of an eccentric, but never loose or amoral as a woman was. This double standard was utterly appalling to her. The very thought brought bile to the back of her throat, so strong was her distaste for the hypocrisy of the world she was forced to live in, but she knew that there was nothing she could do to change things. It was better merely to accept the way things were, pretending to the majority that one agreed with the injustices committed while privately confiding one’s opinions in a select few, than to stir up a fuss and disgrace a great household. It was far more beneficial to quietly find the loopholes in the system, all while smiling at the imbeciles who knew nothing of your plans.

Ophelia’s plan was simple. She would find a husband and he would protect both her and Evanthe from any whiff of scandal. She cared not who it was, as long as he was of good breeding. She did, after all, still have to marry a man that would impress Taengean society. As far as they knew, she was marrying to bring honour to the Condos name, not to conceal a secret.

But even the best laid plans go awry.

Even before her night with Gianna, it seemed as though all of the eligible bachelors in the three Kingdoms were determined to avoid her. Oh, they admired her -- many considered her a good and trusted friend -- but none were so captivated by her charms that they would pay her father’s bride price. She had long since suspected that Hera had a hand in this, withholding the serious suit of any man as punishment for her yearning for a woman. Now, she was almost certain that Hera would not lend her aid.

And her plan depended on Hera’s aid.

She needed the Goddess to work with, not against her, if she was to secure a betrothal. Her future matrimony depended upon attaining Hera’s blessing, or at the very least, her acceptance. There had to be some way to pacify the prideful divine, but she knew not how. For years now she had been coming to the Temple with offerings of every sort, but none had appeased her -- of if they had, not enough to sway her to intervene for the Condos Rose.

It was her tradition to appear in white as a symbol of her maidenly purity, but she dared not anger the Goddess by deceiving her in this fashion today. She knew that the divine were omniscient; Hera would know of her deeds with Gianna, and judge them as she saw fit. And so, instead of white, she selected a peplos of dove grey, a humble colour that alluded subtly to one of the Goddess’s sacred animals. The peplos was unadorned, with the exception of a pleated skirt, and she wore no jewellery, with the exception of pale pink fibulae shaped to look like lilies crafted from rose quartz. Her hair was pinned into a simple braided bun, and as was her usual custom when visiting the Temple she had foregone her typical headdress, for it was not her place to announce her regality before a deity. Royal and commoner alike were all mere pawns to the Gods, subjects of their great kingdom.

“Wait for me here as usual,” she instructed her driver, who offered a fatherly smile. The carriage ride had not been an easy one, and for the first time ever she had opted to come entirely alone rather than in the company of a handmaiden who also might wish to make an offering. She had spent the entire journey fretting, silken curtains closed against the bright afternoon sun, fighting back the tears of frustration that had kept threatening to spill down her alabaster cheeks.

The carriage had been dark and close with the light blocked out, but Ophelia had wanted it that way. She had not felt like smiling and waving to the Taengean commoners as they caught sight of her familiar vessel, a regular part of her routine. Every week they would spy her carriage making its usual route and every week they would wave to her. Without fail, she would call out her greetings to them and toss a single red rose from the pavement, to be scooped up by the first fortunate commoner who reached it. But this day was different. For one thing, she was not due to visit the Temple for another four days, but her encounter with Gianna had prompted an earlier visitation. She still intended to make her typical trip, but she felt she owed Hera an explanation. No...perhaps not. Not exactly. She wanted to test the waters, to gauge if all hope of the Goddess’s favour was lost to her. If it was, she would have to rely on her own charms alone, and perhaps hope that Aphrodite might have some sway in the marriage department after all.

Her driver was most confused by her behaviour. It was not like his Lady to close herself off from her people and forego the throwing of her rose. When he had opened the door for her, he had found her wringing her hands, her brows knit together in fierce concentration. And so he smiled upon her now, hoping to lighten the heavy load he knew she weighed secretly upon her, though he knew not what it might be.
“I shall do so, My Lady. Take all the time you need to make your orision.”

The brunette beauty offered a wan smile before proceeding towards the Temple. A large fountain stood just outside, silvery water spraying from the scepter held in the marble hand of Hera’s depiction. As was her custom, Ophelia retrieved a drachmae, closed her eyes and allowed the coin to slip from her fingers. It was her belief that if it landed safely in the water, Hera was glad to receive it, but if it did not, Hera was displeased.

The coin bounced off the fountain’s marble edge, falling to the ground. Ophelia heard the sound of gold hitting tile and her eyes snapped open, instantly misting over. She glanced quickly in the direction of the spot where -- only a moment previously -- her aged driver had been standing, only to find that he had retreated to the carriage and busied himself with the task of feeding the horses. She turned once more to the fallen drachmae, staring down at it. Though it was cast in sunshine, it shimmered not. Her stomach lurched at this, for it seemed to portend only ill.

“Please, do not turn from me…” she whispered to the wind, not bothering to retrieve the coin. A beggar could do so, had they need of it. She would not give Her a sullied offering. Reaching into her purse once again, she pulled out three drachmae and, with eyes wide open, carefully sent each into the crystal waters below.

Having done so, she made her way over to the cleansing station and proceeded to thoroughly wash her hands and face. Of course, she had bathed before the carriage ride, but it would be highly disrespectful to enter the Temple without a proper cleansing, lest she tarnish the statue within. This was not merely a cleaning of bodily grime, but of the heart, mind and soul. The monument inside the Temple was Hera’s representation in Taengea, and no dirt -- be it physical or metaphorical -- should ever be permitted to taint it.

As she stepped into the familiar space, however, she encountered something entirely unexpected. A ravishing woman with lustrous locks that flowed down her back like a waterfall of obsidian knelt in prayer at the foot of the statue, her mesmeric face tilted upward to gaze upon the face of the great one with unconcealed reverence. Her honey eyes -- typically alight with mirth or burning with rage -- were cast in a light that Ophelia had never seen before, for now they held new depth in the form of a mixture of wistfulness and woe.

The formidable matriarch of the Dynasteia Leventi was the last person she had ever expected to see here, but now that she thought upon it, she could not imagine why. Indeed, given the Lady’s past, it seemed tragically fitting that she should find the former barmaid humbling herself before this particular Goddess, for Hera was that of childbirth as well as matrimony.

Beautiful as the Leventi girls were -- so much so that the emerald in Ophelia’s eyes was well in danger of spreading to her heart, infecting it with the poison of envy whenever she thought of it -- they were daughters. Every mother longed for a son, it was a simple fact of life. Sons were heirs, sons could inherit, sons were taken seriously. And yet the woman had no son, though it was obviously not for lack of trying, for she had produced three daughters and they were -- though it pained Ophelia to admit this, even silently to herself -- incredibly fine specimens of womanhood.

It was not necessarily true to say that the woman had no son; she had no living son. That was her great tragedy. Ophelia had been young at the time, eight or nine, she could not recall, but she could recall the boy, and how he had been his mother’s pride and joy. Her love for him had far surpassed that of a matriarch for the heir of her husband’s household. It had been a true love, a mother’s love, that she had remembered. The boy’s name had been Erik, and he had been the sun around which the indomitable Leventi had orbited for several happy months. She would even be bold enough to say that his birth had softened her. But then, out of nowhere, illness had struck the babe. Too young to understand the division between their families then, the young girl had fallen at Eirini’s feet and sworn to pray daily for his recovery. She had done so, too, making daily offerings to both Asclepius and his great father. Her prayers had fallen upon deaf ears however, as had those of his mother, for the illness had claimed him with shocking haste. Again, in her youth, not understanding who and what his mother was, she had come to her with words of innocent comfort and a hand-picked bouquet of lilies, for they were Hera’s symbol, and, as she had said back then, ‘you look so much like Hera.’

That time seemed a world away now. She doubted that Eirini would even remember that day when she had stared up at her with big, earnest eyes and held out that small bouquet with a trembling hand, nor the day that she had sworn to pray for her little son’s recovery. Little good her prayers had done, for Erik had not recovered.

That, doubtlessly, was why she was here. Her child-bearing years would soon be passed. Still, why the woman should be so desperate for a son, Ophelia knew not. Fotios appeared to have an heir in his nephew, and any other lands and titles could be inherited by their daughters’ husbands. Still, she supposed it was always better to keep such things as land and title in the immediate family, and a male heir was preferable in that sense. Perhaps Eirini did not fully trust Konstantinos to continue the Leventi lineage as she would have liked? Or perhaps the idea of chancing permitting a lesser being to marry one of her daughters repulsed her? After all, should a main claim the right to that daughter, he claimed the right to the surname as well, and all that came with it.

No. Much easier to have a son. Sons could be trained by their mothers, and some mothers were particularly skilled at wrapping their children around their little fingers. A son-in-law would be difficult to control, as might her husband’s nephew, but a son? For a woman like Eirini, a son would be easy.

And yet Hera had seen fit to take one from her.

As she had grown, Ophelia had developed her theories on that, though she had never dared voice them aloud. Over the years, she had come to think of the matronly Goddess as somewhat of an avenger. She had neglected to send any suitors in Ophelia’s direction since her fifteenth year, despite there having been much interest in her fourteenth. The interest had suddenly ceased when Evanthe had entered the household, cementing herself as a permanent fixture in the Condos’ heart. Thus, did it not stand to reason that the DIvine Queen could be punishing them both?

She had heard the rumours: whispers passed behind veils; notes exchanged and burned. Nobody dared confront Eirini directly, but everyone said the same of her -- siren, spellcaster, seductress. No man was safe, even if he wore a wedding ring. Was that why Hera had stolen her babe, in vengeance for a grieving wife? Dare she go further and assume that Erik was not Fotios’s child, but that of some other man, and in rage the Goddess had seen fit to take him? If that was so, and the rumours were true, was this why she had borne no male heirs? It was known that the Leventi’s had an issue with male conception. Could it be that they were cursed from Hera by the start, and she was merely the next in a long line of Leventi wives to suffer this ailment? If so, then each Leventi couple had sinned in some way. The fact that Konstantinos was still alive and well was a miracle.

Or she could just be unlucky…a little voice whispered in the back of her head. You need think so harshly of her always.

Much as she resented that voice, she had to concede that it spoke sense. After all, Eirini had never publicly slighted her, nor done anything to cause her harm. She disliked the woman because of what she was. It was not her humble upbringing that bothered Ophelia, nor her rise to power. It was the fact that Eirini glided through life with a sense of entitlement, seeming to believe that position owed to her, when in reality it had been Fotios’s good grace that had elevated her from a simple barmaid to a respected courtier. The fear and reverence of the people she had earned on her own account, but Ophelia had always been of the opinion that it was much better to be loved than feared, and that it was rather foolish of Taengean society to fear a woman who once feared them. If they all banded together, she would hold no power over them at all, but for some strange reason utterly unknown to her, they were under her spell -- a spell to which she seemed to be completely immune.

And yet seeing her in this manner cast her in a whole new light. She was no longer the haughty creature whose mere name put a bad taste in her mouth, but a woman, a lost soul, a devotee of the great one above, like her.

Eirini had yet to notice her, and so not knowing what to do she stood very still and observed as the woman poured out librations of wine that looked to be sweetened with honey. Next came roses white as snow, and a purse of substantial weight. She held her breath as Eirini lowered her honey eyes, feeling like the worst kind of voyeur. She wanted to run from this sacred place, for to spy upon such a private moment seemed an unforgivable act, but her legs were rooted like trees to the spot and she found that they would not obey her mind’s command to carry her away. Thus she stood there, helpless to do anything but watch with widened eyes as the Leventi matriarch parted her full lips and addressed the sacred statue.

‘Great Hera, Queen of all the Olympians, honour me in acceptance of these offerings as I ask, once more, for you to bless me with a son – please, my majestic queen, bestow your blessing unto me once more and I shall build you the finest temple in all of Taengea. I praise you noble Hera and I honour your might.’

This is wrong, that voice in the back of her head screamed in protest. She agreed, once more urging her legs to co-operate with her heart’s desire to flee. Once more, movement failed her. This is so, so wrong!

It was more than wrong. It was the worst kind of violation of a person’s privacy that one could commit. It was desecration of a prayer almost. Bile rose at the back of her throat at the thought of this and on instinct she swallowed it down, her tongue as dry as as the scorching desert sands.

Once more the matriarch pushed herself to her knees, gazing in a manner that Ophelia could only interpret as one of entreaty into the eyes of the statue with her own captivating orbs. Ophelia could bear it no longer. This had to end. Knowing she could not carry herself out of the Temple, for her legs would surely give way if she tried, she instead pushed forward, miraculously managing three tentative footsteps in the woman’s direction.

As she had hoped, the sound of her steps caught the woman’s attention and she swivelled her swan-like neck to spy the intruder. Although Eirini did not look best pleased to see her, she appeared not to have deduced that Ophelia had been a mute and helpless witness to her grief for longer than either would have liked. Hopefully, she could keep it that way.

Her legs were trembling violently beneath her chitton, but she managed to remain in a standing position. She bent a curtsy to the matriarch, lowering her head in a slight bow before meeting her gaze.

The woman’s tone was not unkind. It was civil, perhaps even amicable.
‘Lady Ophelia, what a pleasure it is,’ she intoned, inclining her head in a gracious nod. She had risen by now to her feet and was smoothing out her chitton. ‘It appears we are both in need of the services of the great goddess this day, I do hope nothing troubles you too much.’

Having seen EIrini so humbled, Ophelia felt inclined to be kind, yet she knew not what to say. They might have more in common than she had originally thought, but she dared not tell the woman that.

Would a little bit of honesty really hurt, though? Perhaps it might soothe the woman’s aching heart to know that others, too, were hurting. And if Eirini were innocent of the charges levelled against her by society -- which she may well be, because the court could be a cruel place -- then surely it would do Ophelia no harm to be gentle with her. Looking upon her now, she seemed not at all a monster. She seemed like a disturbed soul, very much in love with her husband, who dearly wished for a son.

“Would that I could find a husband as devoted as your Fotios,” she murmured softly, her lips curving upward into a small, sad smile. “I am twenty-six; I have been on the marriage market for quite some time now, and it is no secret that my family seek an advantageous match for me. I seek to please them in this, as I do in all things, but I appear to be failing them, and so I crave the benefaction of our DIvine Queen, that she might grace with me with a husband even half as wise and wondrous as yours.”