And she was not even a centerpiece, not a jewel in the crown that was Olympus.
Younger. Expressly fertile. Innocent.
She had once been innocent in a way. Even after rising full-formed as offal from her Father's crowded insides, tasting the blood of aunt and uncle as she joined in sending the former regime into the black pits of Tartarus, while golden sandals sparkled on her ethereal flesh she was still innocent of men.
But that was then.
And so she hungered for what was promised: the power, the respect, the adoration, the confidence, the knowledge, the exquisite love. Despite the pain. And waiting was intolerable, nothing came to her quickly enough or pretty enough or with enough genuflection.
He was absent entirely even while physically present and it disgusted her beyond belief, that she should still want and desire him, still bend the knee to his proclamations and be forced to accept. . .everything. Ganymede, the former prince of Troy, now the boy that held his cup—replacing her child! (Damned Eos and her morning absolutions)—now closer to Zeus' hand than even she, caressed and clucked. Heracles—oh the shame in being namesake to that human whore's abomination!—with more strength than cunning, with designs on the Immortal mountain home that would have cloaked other mortals with the stain of heresy and cursed their progeny onto the fifth generation; he ascended on high and was welcomed with open arms while she was forced to endure. Eunomia, Dyke, Eirene: sisters who held the passage of seasons as well as her husband's ear, who carried Judgement as their banner and felled humans at will. They all were coddled and favoured and accepted completely even with inferior beginnings.
Mortal after mortal after mortal and still he was not satisfied, and yet she was left in starvation, in desperation, unable to touch and feel or be filled if not by his command. Their children bitter disappointments in comparison, always carrying to much pity or fear or indifference in their name's wake.
She once had the chance to make him taste of her lake of poison when arrogant Ixion tried claiming dominion over her body. She would have followed eagerly—a mortal, lower than her monstrous cousins in her esteem, but still empowered with that rolling confidence that only kings can bear—wished to see the stares of pity shine on her husband in the eyes of those closest to their hearts, finally away from her and her successful cuckolding. But even that simple act was taken away. Petulant child! To have the population of the world at his disposal, wife or servant or priestess, and to deny her one King! To deny her even the act of copulation, fashioning a figment instead for Ixion to lay with, a cloud to bear his denizens of half-creation. And then, true to form, naming this figment, giving it essence and leaving It to float and mourn the loss of It's expected mate, Ixion of Thessaly tossed to hell and the flaming wheel.
Oh how she hungered for sex and death, for revenge and revelation.
Oh how she hungered for the Fall.