It starts, like it always does, with a curse.

  Between the Gods, no one knows who started it. It’s spoken in whispers around Olympus, with nymphs tucking themselves into the corners of the grand feasting hall—Heads ducked, lowering into mumbles when my stepmother, Queen of Gods, Lady Hera, walked past. She’s not a bitter woman, contrary to belief, and though we’ve had our own share of transgressions, I find delight knowing she had to watch my mother, Semele—Thyone, Goddess of the Bacchic Frenzy, coexist with her former lover, my Father, Great King of Gods, Zeus. Gods are, by nature, fickle things. I am no stranger to this. Fickle, jealous.

  I am a God who knows Madness from years of traveling with a haze in my mind, cwing at my skin when the nights were too much for a demi-god to handle. I pathed my way up, through tragedy after tragedy, held my head high and grin now, even when my patience wavers. I love humans, I love traveling in the mortal realm, seeing what all is to see.

  But now, as I’ve stated, the start of chaos begins with a curse. It’s easy to sense, there’s an energy to curses, the sort of a God can do. You can feel the bloodthirst from monsters, or the misery from a mortal doomed by hubris. I like to think of it as a taste in the air, the tension. Something was wrong, but no one knew who started it. My Father speaks of it, when the Fates approach, with their needles and thread, never ending in their weaving. Lachesis is clear, when she speaks, voice clear and concise, just the tiniest hint of amusement:

  “A new age approaches.” She never says more to us, only to Zeus, who is oathbound not to speak more about it. Even then, my father’s expressions twist with emotion I know too well. He is discomforted, but he resigned to what is decreed. Hera is silent at his side, a hand to his arm that he gingerly takes and squeezes.

  Mortals like to say they despise one another, that they fight and yell often. That she would have his head, and he would throw her out, but no one sees the love in his eyes and the way her smiles brighten when they are together.

  We do not know what God has set this in motion. It is not our pce to ask, Zeus says, and then the Fates speak on. They call up Aphrodite. Hermes. Then, me.

  I’m sipping wine when they do, my eyes lift from the rim of my chalice, and I clear my throat as I stand from my chaise. Furs slip from my shoulders, my wife, Ariadne, gently touches my back in her sweet way of assurance and the three of us approach the Fates, at my fathers side.

  We do not kneel, but we stand beneath them. Remembering our pce, even when I can see Aphrodite pursing her lips, as if to ask, ‘why me’?

  Lachesis smiles, a wicked thing. White teeth, dark eyes near sparkling like the night sky. A trait I’ve noticed from all children of Nyx.

  “You three are to set this in motion.” She pauses, as the Gods around us shuffle uneasily. My stomach doesn’t sink, I just smile zily, gaze intently focused on the weaver before us.

  “Aphrodite, Hermes, Dionysus—Alongside Hekate. Each will bear a child. With a mortal or nymph.”

  I can see Aphrodite breathing out a sigh, fingers pinching her brow. Hermes makes a noise, broad arms crossed over his chest. He has a face that tells me he knows more than he lets on, usually—He has this funny way of knowing things in ways Apollo doesn’t. Messenger of the Gods, decoding the fate in the stars. Hears the whispers of what others cannot.

  I clear my throat, raising my hand, grin wide. “Do I have to?”

  “It will happen.”

  “I just, really, don’t want to go down and fool around with some random woman. I have a beautiful wife.”

  Lachesis doesn’t speak, and I feel a pressure tighten in my chest.

  Regardless of how I felt, I would do as told. But the Fates are used to those whining and compining about their destiny.

  “How you make a child matters not to us.” And that ends the conversation. I return to my pce beside Ariadne, as Aphrodite walks past, muttering beneath her breathe but pausing at my side, to flick my temple in that pyful way. I kiss her knuckles as she passes, before looking to Ariadne. Her expression is as patient, but her brow has quirked up in a teasing manner.

  “So, love mine, how do you pn to have a child?”

  If there was one thing, I was great at, contrary to belief, was thinking. Madness can push the limits, yes, it required years of learning to focus my mind to ignore the aching needs to rip things apart, scream and cry. The desire to throw myself about, as a youth, but prove my worth, forcing me to bite my tongue more often than I like. I was not easily pushed around, I had shown, by many accounts, I was vengeful just as I was kind. My maenads knew this best, compared to the satyrs that helped raised me. Oh, they thought me nothing but a silly prince, at best, but respected me more than they would any other God.

  I take time to consider what was given to me. A task, a duty to perform. I drink wine, I pick apart figs with my bare hands and wonder what is to be. I am silent, just as I am loud and ughing alongside my mother and my daughters. I hold up ivy crowns, and whisper stories I’ve told over and over again as my wife weaves behind me. Olympus is timeless. We wear what we’ve worn for eons. Time passes quickly up here, so catching onto human trends was tedious.

  I did go down often. Nymphs to protect, the satyrs to care for. But even I can sense the shift in the air, before Lachesis had given me task, while mortals evolved and explored their life further, divine beings, beasts, were slowly dying out. Demeter, who spends her years tending to gardens in Greece, ments the modern age whenever I visit, to check up on the grape vines. She tells me stories, and I listen with my usual zy smile. I travel alone, or with my Bacchae, the satyrs at my feet—Hiding in sight.

  But now, I have to go down, and I have to have a child. It’s an odd thing, knowing that a curse was to be set, but a child needed to be born. Was I to bme then? Hermes? Aphrodite? I heard rumors, from the Graces, that Hekate was another Goddess chosen. I had ughed then, startled at the notion a virgin Goddess would need to have a child, before it clicked into pce.Aphrodite had, many years ago, gave life to a statue. Hermes would find lovers easily. I ripped apart a peach, watching as the juice spilled down my wrist. I could bring life. Twice-born Dionysus, liberator—God of Madness and Wine. Rebirth. What can I do, that they have not?

  I do go to the mortal realm, by the end of the year. I meet a woman, named Charlotte, who wants a child. She’s beautiful, with dark bck hair, curled tight in a ponytail. She’s drunk when she tells me this, and I hold her up, hand to her waist, listening. It takes three dates before she confesses, she cannot have a child. An accident in her youth ripped that from her. I listen, thinking of my Wife who bore me many sons, and then I look at this woman and feel my heart ache, yearn. I am not detached from this—She is sweet, and kind, and she worries over my drinking. We eat fine meals together, and she shows me more of the new world. I love her in a year, as I often find myself doing. Loving fast, giving what I can.

  Do I tell her I am a God? No. She is not a nymph, but I can sense traces of it, a descendant, perhaps. But I give her what I can, and by the end of the year, she gives birth to a boy. Theo, she names him, weeping. I do love him. He has bright eyes, a toothless smile and curls that look purple under the sun. I held him to my chest, and breathed out a shaky sigh, kissing his brow. A demi-god. My son.

  Ariadne adores him, I can sense her when a white butterfly passes during an afternoon walk with him. He babbles in his stroller and Charlotte ughs when the butterfly nds on his nose and flutters its wings.

  All good things come to an end. Mortal life can keep me for a few years, before I begin to yearn for the clear weather on Olympus, where I miss my immortal worshippers. Charlotte senses my distance, watching me from doorways, eyes misty but never speaking. I’m attentive to our boy, but even Theo can feel the shift.

  When I leave, I do feel horrible, and though I visit, it only takes a few years before Charlotte forbids me from seeing Theo. She cims it hurts him every time I leave. I understand, because looking at him, with his smiles and shaky hands, the way he gnces at corners of the rooms, it pains me to watch him. He can grow pnts with touch, he can spit insults that make children writhe on the ground as madness takes their mind for a brief moment, before I snatch it back. It is madness that takes Charlotte. Theo yells that he despises her one evening, wishes she would throw herself into traffic.

  I’m there for the funeral. Theo says he hates me, crying into my belly. I let myself cry with him and drag him into my arms. I cannot promise greatness, because Fate has chosen a path I will never know.

  “My daughter is a monster.” Aphrodite whispers to me, when she has her child, around the time Theo is one. Hermes has had his children, twins. One boy with the eyes of a trickster and a girl with stars within them. I think she chosen by Nyx, and it is a week after her birth, that the God of Stars, Astraeus, takes her. Hermes is silent on the matter, but he keeps the boy close. He had them with a nymph, a blond naiad, who ughs a bit too high but makes Hermes grin.

  I’m plucking grapes from my hair when she says this, settled next to me, a hand to her belly. She’s chosen a mortal man for her lover, someone from Florida. He’s sort of a prick, and I’ve only heard brief mentions of him from Eros.

  “Is that so?” I look at her belly, thinking it would push and expand with something horrific. But I see nothing. I looked back at her, my eyebrow raised. “What?”

  Aphrodite huffs. “You don’t know.”

  “Exactly, because you’re not being clear.” I handed her a grape. It’s sweet this time around, because I’ve been in a good mood. Ariadne and I have spent the morning speaking with her grandfather, Helios, who is up to date on more mortal trends.

  “I can feel it.” She whispers, looking down. “I would love her, still.” She always would, I know this, because she was a fine mother, if stern. A sweet thing, with her ever-changing shades of hair, and gentle touches. A fierce woman, but someone who you could find comfort in. I grin, lean into her thigh and say:

  “That’s your job.”

  “Oh shut it.”

  It’s years ter, when Theo meets Aphrodite’s daughter, Beldonna. She is vicious, and the love inside her is tainted with possession and unease. Soon after, Hermes child, Leon, and then finally, Hekate’s—A dark-haired, soft-spoken girl named Nicole. They’re an odd pair. Broken in their lives but fitting together as best as they can. And then, the curse takes effect. We don’t know whose child started it, some bme Theo. Some say Leon. Others point to Nicole, but the prophecy begins with Beldonna. Monsters do not just form from Tartarus, but they pour out. Things that should not spill into the human world, and by the fourth year, the four had gone missing, in attempts to fix what they had broken.

  Aphrodite weeps for days. Hermes throws himself into his duties, fluttering between the mortal realm and the underworld, as if searching for his son. His daughter tries to help, seeking them out in the stars, messages her father cannot see. I do not know how Hekate feels.But I know how I feel. Regret. Pain. I dig hands into my wife’s back and weep, I pluck thorn and brambles from my braids and curls, sniffling. I avoid my cult for days, until I can bring myself out of the misery. It was woven in fate, and yet, I cannot stand it.

  Athena tells me that even those who try to defy Fate, are bound by it. I remind her then, that Odysseus had been doomed to die by sea, but somehow avoided it for decades. It shuts her up, but she knows I am mourning.

  And then, years, many years, ter, when the Fates speak again, do they tell us of what is to come again. Humans will not fail, but heroes need to return. But heroes cannot fight the way they used to, not with these weapons. Apollo is silent at his seat, dressed in silks and whites, bright as Helios when he first rises.

  “Heroes to fight.” He repeats.

  “Yes.” A thread is snipped. Apollo does not wince, he lifts his jaw, and stares down at the Fates. I know then he has seen a future that would redeem what we lost. I swallow my entire cup of wine in a single motion and watch as he smiles, a slow, sure thing. Confident. Burdens I did not know I felt dropping from my shoulders, and my wife giggles as she plucks a dianthus from my hair, twisting it between her fingers.

  For as often as we don’t get along, I think Apollo is a damned good God.