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A cloaked figure hurries down the grassy slope, bracing herself against the pounding rain. She trips over a rock, stumbles, and rights herself almost immediately, pressing a bundle of cloth close to her chest. The boom of thunder that follows startles the cloaked woman and a fearful cry escapes the mass of cloth. She broke into a gentle jog, trying her utmost best not to jostle the already distressed infant in her arms. A crack of lightning illuminates her face, casting her usually soft features into a sharp, unforgiving scowl. The rain chills her to the bone, the floor is slick, and she knows that if she takes one wrong step, she falls and would have helped her husband defy the fates.
The moon and stars are snuffed out, the only light illuminating the otherwise dark world being the deafening whips of lightning that explode every few minutes. The squirming bundle huddled to her bosom lets out another indignant wail, and she hastily stuffs a curled finger into the wide open mouth. The woman watches with a fond weariness as the infant closes its mouth on reflex, suckling and chewing agitatedly. She has no time to feed her son—she must get him to safety first.
She must get him away from her husband: from his gnashing teeth and bloated belly, from the way his eyes glint greedily as he watches her belly grow and grow. One time, two times, five times—
The rain suddenly dies down, an eerie quiet falls upon her, and she knows she has finally reached her destination.
The forest is damp and cool; her steps are muffled by the soft leaves that blanket the ground. Small animals swivel their heads to stare at the mysterious new arrival, before taking off at the slightest movement. The air, she notices, has changed from one that is charged with fear and doubt to one of bated breath. She can feel the eyes of the forest on her and the infant—curious, but with a hint of trepidation.
The quiet rustling of the leaves calms the infant instantaneously; he blinks sleepily and sniffs quietly, nuzzling his head into her bosom. She treads silently into the trees with calm, measured steps, even though her chin trembles and her arms shake. She reaches an identical pair of cedar trees and looks up at their looming height, watching the leaves sway and rustle in the gentle wind. The woman slowly extracts her finger from her baby's mouth and for the first time since she took off from her palace, she takes off her hood.
Brown waves cascade and frame her face; she is eternally young and beautiful. Her eyes glow a brilliant gold, being the only indication that she is an otherworldly being. Her lips are trembling and she subconsciously clutches the sleeping child closer to her chest, but her voice does not waver.
"I am Rhea, Queen of the Titans. I have come to ask for your help.”
Her request is met with apprehensive silence, The cedar trees do not change, and Rhea feels desperation crawling up her gullet. She pushes her arms out, revealing the sleeping infant, who grunts softly and squirms in his sleep.
"Please—" her voice breaks, " you are his last hope."
She waits for another eternity of a minute, and a tear slips from her cheek as the cedar trees begin to glow.
Rhea cradles the mass of cloth close to her again and watches a petite body emerge from one of the massive cedar trees cautiously, her hair obscuring her face. The nymph tucks her hair behind her ears and watches the bundle with unabashed curiosity and adoration. Rhea slowly walks forward and beckons the nymph closer to look at the baby boy, who has stuffed a pudgy hand into his mouth, drool smearing all over his chubby cheeks. Rhea smiles softly, gently pulling the hand out of her son's mouth and wiping his face dry with cloth.
“I can’t help you, I’m sorry.” The nymph turns away, a grimace twisting her face.
Disappointment lands a swooping blow to Rhea’s guts—she opens and closes her mouth wordlessly, speechless. Then anger holds her steady and she draws herself up, tears steadily filling her eyes as she hugs the baby close to her again.
“Do you fear the wrath of the Crooked One if you offer your help? My husband be damned ! I will never set foot into that cursed castle with my son. I am not going to let him suffer the same fate as my other children.”
A soft gurgle breaks the short pregnant silence; Rhea looks down to see her son staring square into her eyes. He blinks owlishly at her, frowns and cocks his head. Then, softly babbling, he raises a pudgy hand.
Rhea’s eyes fly open in shock, and the nymph slaps a hand over her mouth as small lightning bolts fly from finger to finger, the zaps that shoot out between his chubby fingers cutting through the shocked hush that ensued.
He trills in delight, wiggling his fingers as the lightning sparks dance between them. He looks up at Rhea and gurgles again, drool spilling over his flushed cheeks. Rhea hastily wipes his face dry and looks back up at the nymph, who still has her hands over her mouth.
“He is… a child of the skies.” The nymph states in a distant voice.
Rhea nods jerkily. “I suppose, yes. He is a weather god.”
"Zeus is the one the universe has been waiting for.”
Rhea freezes.
“Child of the skies. Mother Gaia said so. She said… a sky child who could command the storms would overthrow the Crooked One. This is him.”
Rhea blinks rapidly, watching the nymph slowly reach a hand out to stroke the baby's cheek. The nymph locks eyes with the Titaness, olive brown meeting molten gold.
She then grins, bright and flushed, and turns to the other cedar tree that stays stubbornly silent.
"Ida! You can come now; this woman is our friend." The nymph calls out in a hushed shout, and then turns back to Rhea, smiling happily.
"I am Adrasteia. My sister and I rule this forest. I have waited my whole life for this moment." Adrasteia nods to herself and beams.
“Your son is the chosen one,” she supplies, bouncing on her feet and swaying ever so slightly.
Rhea reverently hands Zeus over to Adrasteia, who wastes no time in cooing over the sleeping baby and showing him off to Ida in excited voices. Rhea closes her eyes and lets the tears fall.
"My husband will eat him if he finds him. I beg of you—“ She opens her eyes and looks straight into two pairs of olive eyes, “—keep my son safe."
With that, Rhea turns her back to her child, throws her hood back on and walks out of the forest. The forest seems to close in behind her, trees and bushes bending over each other almost as if they were attempting to hide the infant god.
Zeus blinks his eyes blearily, opening his tiny mouth in a yawn. He hears excited squealing, but can't bring himself to care; he’s way too sleepy to bother.
There is one thing he can never, ever forget, though. As he drifts off, a gentle hand strokes his cheek adoringly and a sentence rings through his head:
“You are our saviour. You will save us all .”
And with that, a golden crown was smelted onto his baby brow.