“ I felt sorry for taking your place but this ,” he said , playing his fingers over the flames , “ is the seat of true power . You are not the goddess you pretend , Hestia . You are not without sway . Or guilt .” “ You ’ re drunk ,” I said , bristling . He had no business at my hearth . He conjured his cup full . “ I ’ ve seen you spying and meddling , using the gods . The blood on their hands is yours .” “ That ’ s not true .” He held his cup over the sacred fire . With a tilt of his wrist , he could douse it . “ No !” I tugged on his leopard skin . “ What do you want ?” The god of vices looked coldly on me . He wanted me brought low . His son , Priapus … “ I wouldn ’ t touch you ,” he said , intercepting the thought . “ You swore by Zeus . A violation would incur his wrath , and I ’ m no rebel .” He glanced at the fire , then at me . “ I ’ m not you .” He knew I had helped Prometheus ; it should have been me on the rock of punishment . With a word , he could send me there . “ What will you do ?” I murmured . He li ed his goblet — and drank .
I am the first and the last . The Olympians leave me tending fire while they shake and swing . I am all of them and what they lack . And when we destroy each other , what will remain ? These embers , burning low . Burning a nimbus that whispers my name .