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When Zeus dreams, more often than not, it is of women. Sometimes-albeit rarely, he is small again, and Rhea’s hand finds his own, but that is a rare occurrence. Zeus dreams of women. Tall and short, and round and lithe, dark and light, all of them bare in his arms. He wakes flushed, and sweaty by morning, and--far more often than not, faces his wife’s wrath, deserved or otherwise.
Zeus dreams of women, until he does not.
The first time it happens, there is nothing but a warm feeling in his stomach, and an unrecognizable lump in his arms, swathed in blue cloth. She has no face, only the warmth she leaves in his chest, and the idyllic presence of something precious held close to his chest. It is brief, but it is there. When he wakes, his arms are empty, and it feels as though he’s lost something. As though what he had found, in the silk wrapped, bundle had taken something from him that he could not retrieve.
He sits, almost in a stunned manner for hours, after waking. Long after Hera had awoken, become concerned, and then frustrated-and gone about her day. There is a small hole in his arms, and no one to fill it. No one precious, and frail to fill the crook of his arm.
…
He does not dream of the soft warmth again for months. He feels the ache in his arms, and the soreness of longing in his chest for a few days, until it’s softened. No longer sore, if not gone. He almost forgets it. The faceless, squirming presence that had come to him in a dream long pushed from memory, if not from feeling.
Zeus, once again, dreams of women.
It is not until Leto finds herself with child that he dreams of her again.
More than a warm feeling, Zeus dreams of holding a babe in his arms. She’s real, this time. Flushed, and sleep-warm, still wet with her mother’s ichor.
He knows, more than anything, that the infant in his arms is his child. From eyes as vibrant as the cloth she’s swathed in, to the curve of her underdeveloped nose. She is his baby. His daughter. With ten fingers, and ten toes, and an iron grasp around his heart. And yet, it is not enough to hold her in a dream. He wants to wash the slick gore from her hair, and find whatever bright, rattling novelty will hold her attention on himself.
The dream does not last, but the want to hold, and pamper her does. He will have a daughter. He knows he will. He knows her eyes, and the roundness of her face, and Leto will be the one to give her to him.
He dreams of her. Night after night, a surprisingly welcome reprieve from the naked women that often hold his minds eye.
It was all he had thought about. His daughter. A baby that lit his insides with everything paternal, as though if he was anything, he was her father first.
The infant in blue had begun to haunt his every thought, day and night. Smiling, crying, clean, dirty, sleeping, or awake, a part of him longed to sleep, if only to hold her again.
…
In truth, it was of little surprise that he spoke of her in his sleep. Even less so, that his wife had awoken him. Emotional distress he so often brings her, finding a way to twist her face.
Hera had not had to ask of him, where he was certain his daughter was to come from. He is not a liar.
Many things, but not a liar.
Leto will not bear her children. Not on land, nor in water.
Hera had been clear. As far as she could have it, his daughter would not be born. And so it would be, as the queen said it. No children of their coupling would be born at land or sea.
Still, Zeus had remained hopeful. He dreamed of his daughter. Of toothless smiles, and the warmth of a sleep-warm baby.
Hera's wrath often outweighed her duty to childbirth, but even red in the face, even Leto could find buried mercy from her. It had felt years too late. Far too long to labor, as Leto would tell it, but regardless, she had been given the mercy of the end of labor upon a coastal shelf.
And…
And the daughter she had bore had not been his.
…
She was. As was her brother-his child. But neither were the girl he dreamed of. No blue eyes and dark hair. No toothless smiles and reaching hands.
Standing on two legs, with their wide eyes, and their father's nose, so very far from swaddled in linen.
Still. Even if they were not his baby, they were his children. A daughter, which sat upon his knee with her chin high, asking for only weapons, and to stay nothing but a girl. A son to do the very same, and ask to never become mature. To pull their chariots, and hunt to their content. To mind animals, and play their songs until their fingers ran raw.
And who was he, not to grant the wishes of his children, who were not born babes? Who were born with Leto's pleading eyes, and their fathers pride?
Zeus dreams of her, again that night. Sitting up in his arms, with all the joy of an infant that had yet to cut teeth. This time when she smiles at him, grasping for his beard he knows she is happy to see him. Not weakened by undeveloped vision, and uncontrolled facial muscles.
He had awoken, to find that he felt more empty than he had the first time he'd awoken. To find that his arms were still empty.
He had a daughter, and she was not her. Wonderful, and blessed with the bow just as her brother was, but far from the perfect girl he dreams of. Prideful, and beautiful. Intelligent, and eternally immature.
Just…not the girl he had hoped to hold.
…
It had made sense. When Hera had told him she was pregnant. When he was able to glance upon his girls face, when he didn't see himself, he could hope to see Hera. In the shape of her face, though still soft--in the chime of her laughter.
She had called him papa. The night after Hera had told him of her condition, and he had awoken with a newfound hope. That he would hold his daughter. Certainly this time.
When he had awoken, a dumbstricken grin on his face, at the fading feeling of her hand on his face, and her voice in his ears.
Papa.
He had woken Hera, to her disgruntlement, to tell her of who was surely their daughter. And surely, far kinder than she had felt so early, Hera had listened with patience.
Listened to tales of curly hair, and wide eyes. Curious as a little owl, with grasping hands, and a smile that melted ones heart.
And Hera had listened. And listened and listened to him gush about their daughter to be.
Then, she had given him a look, as though apologetic. Just to tell him that, surely, the baby she was carrying was not the one he dreamt of.
He should have listened to Hera. The baby born is not his daughter. Another boy. Another child of his with fire in his eyes, and stubborn independence fused with his heart.
But he is not the little girl he dreamt of.
It’s as though he’s being mocked. As though Hera’s child had thought it funny, before his own birth to have his daughter’s hair. Her skin, and the slope of her mouth and chin. To take his hope and crush it in a small fist. Red wide eyes, with no love for Zeus. No curiosity, no grasping hands, and no toothless grins. Not for him.
Ares is born clinging to Hera with a look in his eyes that suggests he might never let go. And they look…happy. Joyful. Content with each other in a way he can only find envy for.
Still. He is almost relieved that Ares is infatuated with his mother, rather than Zeus.
The night Ares is born, he dreams of his daughter again. The one that still leaves a hole in his heart. This time, she is not in his arms, but standing on her own feet. Sure and steady, if a bit overcomplicated as she finds a way to wobble to him.
Zeus does his best, not to let tears come to him, as she babbles out half-incompromisable sentences. His beautiful daughter is not real. Not to anyone else.
It is clear now, who her mother is, as she begins to stand on her own feet. As she begins babbling questions, in lieu of nonsense. As her hands reach for his, rather than raise to be held.
The girl in his dream is Metis’ baby. His own, and hers, and she shows it in the shape of her face. The very voice that creeps out of her. She has teeth now, and her mother’s laugh, when he tosses her above his head. Too many questions to ever answer.
But she is not real.
He had never had a child with Metis. Never would, and now, would never get the chance to. A sick reminder of what he had lost, with his choice.
She is a figment of his imagination he must find a way to truly hold, and never will.
There are other children born. Babies born from his blood, and none of them are her. Many of them steal her features from his mind. The curve of her nose, or the brightness in her eyes, but never as perfect as her own.
Zeus dreams of her once more than he can take it. Metis’ daughter calls him papa. Asks him of his other children, and Hera. Of his brothers, and sisters. Of people she will never meet, and who will never see her. She wants stories. She wants to hear of Apollo and his tales, and Artemis and her hunt. Aries and his wars, and Hephasteus’ and his great inventions. Dionysus and his drink, and Hermes and his travels. Of everyone, and everything, who will never know her.
He has to tell her himself that she will never meet them. He is many things, and a liar is not one, but the look in her eyes when he takes her hand, small in his own, to tell her that she will never be anywhere but his own dreams makes him wish he was.
She never takes his hand again. In dreams that come and go, she does not cling to him. Does not ask him everything and anything. He can not be sure, if this is his own way, of letting go of the baby he will never have, but it pains him nonetheless.
His daughter, his beautiful baby, that will never be born does not want him to hold her, in his dreams. She does not reach for his hand, to walk together. Does not squeal, and allow herself to be thrown into the air.
One night, they do not even speak, in his dreams. They sit in a silence that feels like goodbye, and when she leaves him, Zeus awakes sure that his heart has torn in two.
He does not dream of her. He wants to. He pictures her in his mind, in hopes she will appear. He wants nothing more than to see her again, as she continues to grow in his heart. Never real enough to truly hold.
His baby, turned child does not come to him in dreams. Not her voice, or the sight of her, comes to him. Perhaps a sign he should move on. Truly focus on the children who are present in body. Who look to him to be Father, Uncle, or King. That the very last of Metis has left him forever.
She doesn’t come. Even as he tries his best, he can not bring her to mind. Not during the day, and not while he rests. There is no baby, in blue cloth, and no girl babbling questions. No tiny hand with such a ferocious grip upon his heart.
…
It feels as though centuries have passed, and perhaps they had, without the sight of his baby. A girl he will never hold. In his dreams, the blue blanket she had once burrowed her sleepy, new face in is empty. His ears hear no questions, and his heart knows no peace.
Hermes, even, is older. Wide, intelligent eyes, and fast hands, wreaking havoc on his elder siblings.
He does not think of her often, as he had once. He can not. It pains him to think of the baby he will never hold. The girl who will never say his name, and the hand that will never hold his own. He will not weep, in front of his own children, over a girl who never was. They are his children, just as she could have been. He will not make them feel as though they are not as important, but it is hard. Far harder not to miss someone who never was, when he lays down to sleep at night.
The headache comes at night.
He is assured, when he awakes, that it is likely stress. And he agrees. That it is just a low, slow pulsing headache that won’t seem to ease with rest, nor quiet.
It does not dull. It swells, and contracts, over and over until he can not be sure of anything. The world spins, even from his bed as Hera’s attempt to help him somehow turns into a crowd of people.
He can not make them out, not truly. Blurred voices mixed in with unintelligible words from a voice he almost knows. Blurred sights of a woman he doesn’t recognize and a baby he most certainly does, twist behind his eyes.
He runs hot, with this migraine. Zeus can not make out words, through this pain. Can not see, and can not hear his own voice. Memories of a girl who never was, and a woman who never could be, drown out the reality of his family around him. Cold hands, in comparison to his fever, and--eventually, the cold relief of an ax.
Zeus can not remember begging for it, could not hear his voice, if he had, but he is grateful all the same. He does remember, however, seeing her . Standing there, amongst the confusion and relief of his kin.
Not a baby in cloth, but a woman in armor. Bathed in his ichor, rather than her mother’s.
She is beautiful, and she is real. Standing amongst his kin like she had always been there. Born from his skull, as though she was a dream come to life.
Athena.
She had called herself Athena. Wide blue eyes now as wise as they had once been curious. His daughter. Metis’ daughter.
Every good part of him, mixed with the perfection of Metis, standing on her own in front of him, with the defiance one could expect from one of his children.
A dream of a baby come to life as a woman.
She does not take his hand, when he stands. Does not reach to help him, when the healing wound in his head keeps him unsteady. But she allows him to move her helm back. Ever so far, as to see her properly. To take in the brightness of her eyes, and the slope of her nose.
To see her, as he had longed to as his other children had grown.
For the first time, as he brushes hair, real hair, out of her eyes, Zeus is at peace. A peace he had not known, since first dreaming of her.
His family, at once, is whole.