The Last Ballad of Olympus: The Waltz of the Vulture and Owl

Agape and Storge

It was already the pinnacle of the afternoon when the former goddess's tale was over. A strange air of thick yet cooling fog suddenly swept the whole village, bringing mystique—adding more thoughts with a thousand possibilities of life. The treats, prepared by the darling pregnant mother, were almost devoured. The sweet fruit drink, fermenting inside the jar, was gulped to the last drop, and the children could not stop begging Athena to tell them more about the Titanomachy. Not to mention how they were both fascinated and horrified with the tale of her birth.

"How strange yet fascinating it was for you to burst out from your father's head!" Phoebus exclaimed as his hazel orbs sparkled and grew like a saucer.

"And you do not call you father, 'father'? But why?" Tilting her head, matched with a downturned curve on her mouth, Helena felt confused and in awe about the deities' way of life,

"It is what it is, my dear," Athena answered, knowing fully that she—bestowed with the great wisdom—did not even know the answer to such construct of the laws Olympus imposed.

Such uncanny rule was the first dilemma when she came out as she learned more about her duties and dwelling. After Zeus recovered from the outrageous birth, he went to Athena and told her never to address him as 'father' since it was already what it was, even during Chronos's era. Perplexed, the goddess of wisdom complied without asking more—though her mind was weaving a thousand webs of questions as the door to her room was closed.

"Athena," Her deep thoughts were shattered—shortened when little Helena shook her hand. "Lady Athena," Helena joyfully called once again. "Can I ask something?"

The dainty blush on her cheeks made Athena giddy, tempted to squeeze those apples as they always reminded her of the sacredness of children's innocence. "What is it, sweet Helena?" She asked back with charm and peace.

A toothy grin brightened the little girl's face. Drawing closer, she asked, "Do you have a husband?"

Her mother, while entering from the kitchen, was appalled.

Athena's silver eyes grew like a full moon when her question finally reached the soles of her brain. However, instead of what was anticipated—being an angry lady who would box a naughty child's ears—Athena laughed.

The lady's cheeks were as red as the colors on Helena's chubby face, giving ease to the mother's weary heart, scared of what might happen to her daughter, all because she could not control her inquisitiveness.

"Oh, dear." Athena could not halt her cheeky laugh. "No, sweetie. I do not have a husband. Why do you ask?"

"You mean you've never been in love?"

"Ha! Love." Phoebus spat. Babyishly irritated with the concept of romance, as if somehow, in his developing years, he had already experienced the whirlwind of virtue.

"Helena!" The mother lightly scolded. "Forgive my daughter, my lady." Her voice became shaky—a flower slowly losing her petals, blown from what seemed to be a painful breeze from a brewing storm.

But there was no storm.

Athena was truly a ray of sunshine, a rainbow of hope, with a gentle pat on the worried mother's shoulder—the anxiousness just drifted like smoke kissing Gaia's stratosphere. "Never fret," She said, "Curiosity is a growing child's instinct. My son was like that when he was still a child. I am not angry at your question, Helena. Do not be afraid." She told the child, who was left petrified when she saw her mother's tense expression. "I do not have a husband. I have never been in love."

The little girl's brow lifted. "But I thought you have a son? Mama and papa always told us that children are blessings. That is why when the parents are deeply in love, the goddess of love will send her swans to bring the baby."