Tending the Flame

By Kate Polaski 2nd Place Prose

Hestia is the eldest of the gods and the youngest of her siblings. She is the firstborn of their mother Rhea but last regurgitated of their father Kronos, which seems to be enough for her three brothers and two sisters to grant themselves seniority over her.

It’s not as though she ever lets them know it bothers her. Hestia never lets anything bother her, at least not out loud. She may bite into the side of her mouth until it swells up, clench her fingers into her fists so hard the skin breaks open, but she never utters a sound. This is perhaps why her “eldest” brother Zeus is not expecting any resistance from her when he visits her in the kitchen one day and suddenly decides to try and upend her entire life.

“I have something I must speak to you about, sister,” he begins slightly awkwardly. He has to bend down to fit through the door, and when Hestia turns her head to look at him, his large muscular form seems comedically out of place in her little kitchen.

“What is it?” she asks, continuing to stoke the flames as Zeus attempts to wedge himself between shelves behind her. Once he’s somewhere close to comfortable, he clears his throat, which she takes as a request to turn around and give him her undivided attention. She obeys quickly.

He waits to speak until she meets his eyes. “I have had two requests for your hand in marriage,” he tells her proudly. “One from our brother Posideon, and one from my son Apollo.”

Hestia freezes where she’s standing and accidentally lets her poker fall into the fire.

“And as a kind and just older brother…” Hestia grimaces at the language but Zeus doesn’t notice at all, “I have decided to allow you to choose which you will accept.”

The normally comforting scent of bread in the fire has somehow been pushed away, and Hestia misses it dearly. Instead, Zeus has filled the room entirely, down to the very air, which now carries the energy and smell of an upcoming thunderstorm.

“They will both be visiting Olympus tomorrow to hear your decision. I suggest that you think it over this evening.” He says “suggest” in a tone that implies that his statement is anything but. Then he ducks back out of the room without a goodbye, and, as always, without waiting for a response.

Once the heavy falls of his footsteps fade away, Hestia allows herself to move again. She does not collapse to the floor and bury her head in her hands, although she would very much like to. She does not scream in frustration or beat her fists against the wall, although she wants to do that perhaps even more. Instead, she simply bends down to pick up her fire poker and resumes her bread baking, allowing herself to melt into the background, a skill so well-practiced at this point that she can melt out of even her own consciousness. She focuses all of her energy and thought on the fire, until it is all she sees. All she hears. All she feels. It burns in front of her and is reflected in her eyes as well as in her heart. At that moment she feels so connected to it that she cannot help but reach out to touch.

The fire does not burn her skin as it creeps its way up her arm and around her shoulder, but it does tickle, like thousands of tiny harmless explosions. A snake of fire circles several times around her head before sitting on the crest of her ear like a decorative cuff. It feels almost like a companion, or a pet, and Hestia, again, cannot help herself. She closes her eyes and thinks very hard, asking the fire what there is to be done about Zeus’s decision.

You are a goddess, the flame whispers in her ear, the eldest of all the goddesses. You cannot be compelled to take any action against your will.

Hestia shakes her head, trying to throw the rebellious thoughts from her mind, but the fire burrows deeper into her, through her ear and down her throat, before settling in the pit of her chest and beginning to burn.

You must remind them who you are, it says. Hestia nearly scoffs at that. She doesn’t know what that could mean. She has no idea who she is.

You are the goddess of the hearth, the flame tells her, you wielded me before any other. Before it was even an idea in Prometheus’s mind to send me to mankind, you were already my master. You are equal parts scorching and nourishing, just as I am. But you must embrace the wild blaze as well as the gentle cookfire. You are a fire, Hestia. And you must let them see you burn.

The voice fades away, but the heat stays, dancing painfully around her insides. This time, Hestia really does collapse to the floor, and she stays there for what feels like hours before she can move again.

That night, her sisters barge into her chambers without knocking. Hestia, ever the gracious hostess, sets down her weaving, tamps down the raging inferno inside her, and offers them both ambrosia and nectar.

“We heard the news,” says Hera, throwing herself down onto a cushion enthusiastically. “Do you know whose proposal you want to accept?”

Hestia shakes her head slowly, unsure of what answer her sisters will want to hear.

“We assumed you wouldn’t have,” Demeter says, sipping from her goblet with more grace than either Hestia or Hera ever seem to manage. “You’ve always been so afraid to make choices that might offend someone. So we came to offer our advice.”

Hestia ignores the condescending tone and hopes she might actually get something useful out of this encounter.

“We are, of course, more experienced and worldly than you,” says Hera, preening so thoroughly that Hestia is reminded why peacocks have always been her favored creature.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Demeter agrees, and Hestia decides that flowers are no less self-aggrandizing than peacocks. “It would be shameful of us not to bestow some of our well-earned wisdom on our youngest sister.”

The nectar sours on Hestia’s tongue and the flame in her chest billows, begging to rise up through her throat and come out, blazing and furious. She resists it, forcing her fingernails into the familiar half-moon indents in her palms as she seethes internally. As usual, neither of her sisters notice anything wrong, and Hestia can hardly blame them. It’s not as though they’re aware of how she speaks when things are normal. She hardly ever speaks unless it is to keep the fragile peace between her siblings, or to ask what dish they would like her to prepare for the next feast, or to whisper small, meaningless encouragement whenever they come to visit her and complain about their newest least favorite mortal of the week.

“In my opinion,” Demeter continues, “a good marriage is like a garden. It has to be tended—weeded and watered and all those things—but no matter how much effort you put in, it won’t matter if you started on poor soil.”

Hestia and Hera both blink at her, confused.

“The husband is like the soil,” she explains, “so you must choose the right one, or else your marriage will suffer. Like the garden on rocky soil.”

“I was going to say it’s like buying a bull at the market,” adds Hera, unhelpfully. “You should go for the prettiest and strongest-looking one, because you want the calves to have the characteristics of their father. If you pick a weak and ugly bull, you’ll have weak and ugly calves.”

Hestia is remembering very quickly why neither of her sisters is married yet and also why she never asks their advice on anything. She also tries her hardest to ignore her disgust at the idea of being bred like a cow or tended like a garden, but her stomach churns hard enough that she sets her nectar down with finality. The flames aren’t helping either, licking painfully at her sides from the inside, trying to spur her into action.

“I’m putting my support behind Apollo. I doubt you’d be very happy living underneath the sea,” says Demeter reasonably. “You enjoy cooking and watching the fire too much. And Apollo is much more handsome,” she adds.

“But Posideon is more trustworthy,” argues Hera. “He wouldn’t be entirely faithful, of course, he’s still a man, continued on page 42 but I’d believe in his loyalty over Apollo’s.”

“Which do you prefer, Hestia?” Demeter pressures her. “You’ve hardly said a word this whole time.”

“I don’t like either of them all that much,” Hestia mutters. “Not for a husband, at least.”

“You’ll just have to decide which is less objectionable to you, then,” Demeter shrugs.

“What if I don’t marry either of them?” Hestia asks.

“Oh, darling Hestia,” laughs Hera, “you are simply too naive.”

Hestia forces herself to smile self-indulgently and then sinks back into her body, staying silent as her sisters continue to debate the merits of one fundamentally undesirable man over another. She sits, turning a choice over and over again in her mind like a well-roasted pig on a spit, but she does not share it or ask for any further advice on the matter. Inside her chest, the fire roars.

She returns to Olympus the next day when she is summoned.

“Sister Hestia…” Zeus spreads his arms in a playacting moment of welcome, smiling at her in the way he only does when other people are watching. “Thank you for joining us.”

Hestia says nothing, because the only words coming to mind all revolve around having no choice in the matter.

“Who will it be, then?” he asks jovially, smiling to himself, no doubt at the idea of the tribute he will receive from whichever man Hestia chooses. The two men in question are standing on either side of Zeus’s throne, each trying to catch her eye and get a hint at her decision. She has no doubt that neither of them has even considered the decision she’s actually going to make.

She takes a deep breath. She gives both of the men one final glance, wondering if she could ever truly be happy with either of them. Apollo flips his hair and gives her what he clearly thinks is a charming grin. Poseidon’s smile is more gentle, but the look in his eyes still tells Hestia that he already thinks he’s won. And that she is the prize. For a moment, in his eyes, she sees her potential future play out. Whoever she marries will expect her to become a gentle, acquiescing wife, just as she has always been a gentle, acquiescing sister. The kind of wife that takes the last seat at every table and sits quietly by the hearth on those all-too-frequent occasions when the host has forgotten she would be coming and not laid out enough chairs. The kind that stands in the background of every party, calmly nibbling at ambrosia with whichever minor goddess or nymph has had the fortune to be invited this time but lacks the courage to actually speak to anyone. The kind that lets her husband galavant all over the earth and heavens, taking up with any mortal he deems fit, but never saying a word about it even as all the other Goddesses whisper behind their hands with false pity. She can hear it now:

“Poor, dear, Hestia. But really, what did she expect? Gods will be Gods, you know. And it wasn’t likely that she’d be the kind to keep a husband loyal, what with the way she practically disappears into the background of every room she’s in. Still, one does pity her.”

The flame in Hestia’s chest snarls like an untamed dog at the idea, ready to leap out and bite. She attempts to speak, but at first, no words come out of her mouth. All the men smile at each other, shaking their heads fondly, like she is a young child who’s come before them to share a song she’s written but forgotten the words to. She coughs a few times and forces her voice to work, for once, in the moment that she needs it the most. “I do not wish to marry either of them.”

Confusion and anger ripple across Zeus’s face. He does not ever expect defiance, much less from Hestia, who he thinks of as a submissive baby sister. “What?” he growls, clearly expecting swift repentance.

Hestia forces her eyes up off the ground where they’ve been fixed and meets Zeus’s gaze. She hopes they are glowing with the same fiery rage she feels but cannot express. “I said that I do not wish to marry either man.” Her voice shakes a bit but she carries on anyway. “I want to remain unwed. Permanently.”

“That is not one of the options I gave you,” Zeus warns, fists clenched on the sides of his throne. Apollo and Poseidon shoot raised eyebrows at each other, more bewildered than angry.

“I am aware of that. However, if you allow me to do this,” she begins, bristling internally at the idea that she requires her younger brother’s permission to retain her so-called freedom, “I will stay a maiden forever. I will tend the hearth here in Olympus every day,” she continues, gesturing to the fire which has sunk down to the embers, clearly having been left unwatched. A ripple of empathy for a kindred spirit rushes through her, encouraging her to go to it, brush away the ashes and shake the kindling until it reignites, but she resists, knowing that will weaken her in Zeus’s eyes. “I will collect offerings and cook meals, and perform any other duty required of me. All that I ask in return is that my maidenhood be respected.”

Zeus’s mouth pinches dangerously, but Hestia can tell he’s considering her words. As he frowns in thought, Hestia allows herself to smile, just a bit, and the flame in her chest purrs. She does not need to stay here and wait for Zeus’s decision because she already knows what it will be. One of the advantages of staying quiet and unobtrusive at the back of every room you’re in is the ability to observe others in their natural state, and Hestia has been watching Zeus rule Olympus for what feels like (and probably has been) eons. She has seen his mind in action countless times and knows that it is a simple and selfish little thing, like that of a toddler dictating the rules of a make-believe game. When given the choice between giving something away to be used by someone else and keeping it for himself, Zeus will always choose the latter. And in this case, it just so happens that Hestia is that thing he wants to keep. He has never realized this before, because he has never considered a world in which Hestia is not there by the hearth at all hours of the day to cook him something whenever the whim takes him. He has never thought about how much colder his life would be if he forced Hestia out to tend the hearth of another man’s household. It has never even occurred to him what it would be like to have to cook his own meals, fetch nectar for guests himself, or return dutifully to the flames every half hour to ensure that they are well cared for. Zeus is just now seeing these things in his mind’s eye for the first time, and he hates them. He hates them all with a childish and egotistical passion, but hates them all the same, just as Hestia hates them, which means that she can use that feeling to coax him over to her side. She can kindle the fires and send them crawling up just the right spot in Zeus’s cavernous chest to make him bend to her will without even realizing he’s acting for anyone’s benefit but his own.

Just one last push, she knows, one adjustment of a log here and a small puff of air there, will do it, taking the small flame to a roaring inferno, and Zeus will send the suitors away in a self-righteous fury, berating them for ever trying to deprive him of the service and presence that is his to own by birth. This is an idea that Hestia will need to disprove at a later date, but she is nothing if not patient.

“And besides, it would be a grievous error of etiquette to be married before either of my elder sisters,” she adds, before turning and walking out of the room, head held high, the fire finally satisfied and licking happily across her ribs as though they are dry wooden planks. They want her to be young? Very well. She will be young forever, then. She will run through meadows, skimming the dewy grass with her bare feet. She will bathe in rivers with nymphs and climb trees without worrying about dirtying her dress. She will sit by the hearth and listen, wide-eyed, to stories from traveling poets. And most of all, she will never ever marry. She refuses to be a bargaining chip for her brother. Women may be bargaining chips, but it has been made very clear to Hestia that she is just a girl.