The gods had always been greedy, they coveted their prizes and trinkets, even, occasionally, a human who caught their eye. That was how I came to be, born of greedy ambition. Well, “born” would be the wrong word, I was created, fashioned in their image, the image of perfection, the image of the gods. Persephone, Dionysus and Hecate, gods and goddesses of the underworld and springtime; booze and grape harvest; and necromancy and witchcraft respectively, came together under the cover of night in the French countryside, tired of the boasts of their so-to-speak “superior gods” and decided to create their own trophy.
Hecate’s prowess in witchcraft couple with Persephone’s knowledge of the underworld and thus ample collection of souls forged the perfect base to create their prize. Dionysus was just there for the laughs, and provided the decadence with which the trio toasted once their trophy was created. From the ashes of grape vines and spring flowers came a child. The gods, overcome with pride for their creation, named and claimed the babe. A name meaning: the gods’ little one. A name signifying, wholly and completely belonging to them. Dominique.
The child grew in radiance and free spirit, inheriting Persephone’s dark beauty, Dionysus’ boisterousness and Hecate’s cunning, truly a coveted prize. Their victory both enraged and awed the likes of Zeus and Hades, but the true wrath was that of Dominique. She resented her birth and she resented her name that weighed like shackles on her shoulders, imprisoning her to the gods’ wills. She had a soul, plucked straight from a glade in the underworld, and while she was grateful for her new and eternal life, it was no life to her if she bore a name that acted as a slave mark and caretakers who cared not for her wellbeing but instead for her aesthetic and value.
Over the years, her resentment grew, but so too did her wit and spirit. She grew into a fighter, rebelling against the gods who saw her merely as either a prize to be showed off at gatherings or a taunting reminder of what Zeus had not had the imagination to do. With each passing century, with each new act of resistance, each new tactic, she grew only stronger. Olympus tried to keep her in check but her wiles soon became too much for even them to handle. Dominique was no demi-god, and while she was no god herself either, her very essence was imbued with the power of not one, not two, but three gods. So, she grew not only in spirit, but in power too and finally, in her twentieth millennia, she was cast out of Olympus, powers bound, free.
She was free.
Well as free as she could be with her name as a constant reminder. Her name. My name. Dominique. Belonging to the gods, forever.
