Most Blessed

Let me live out my years in heat of blood!
Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine!
Let me not see this soul-house built of mud
Go toppling to the dust—a vacant shrine!
Let me go quickly like a candle light

Snuffed-out at the heyday of its glow!

Give me high noon—and let it then be night!

Cydippe was proud. Her sons—so dedicated, so handsome—were the twin joys of her life. She watched, cat-like eyes smiling, as they strained under the weight of the heavy cart. It was full of food and sacrifices for the celebration in Argos. It was a crucial festival, and were it not for Cleobis and Biton they would not have been able to attend.

It was the men’s fault. Her stupid, stubborn husband and the others never obeyed. Cydippe had warned them she would need the oxen to pull the cart, but they had not listened. Defiant, they had chosen to continue their work in the fields. It had been her husband’s notion, Cydippe knew beyond doubt. Cercaphus would be the death of them all! Did he not understand it would not matter how much they plowed? Arrogant fool. Should they incur Hera’s wrath, all work would be for naught. Cydippe, a priestess, could not miss her goddess’s feast.

Cydippe shivered. The mother of the gods was nothing if not vengeful. It was said that if the holy sacrifice was not made at the appropriate time, the priestess herself must die. Her husband might have killed her for the sake of a few crops!

But her sons had saved them all, she reminded herself. All was well now. They had volunteered gladly to put the yoke on their own shoulders. She watched as her sons’ muscles rippled under their burden, strong legs pushing against the earth of the hill. Biton turned his head speak to Cleobis, and his brother laughed. So full of life! Cydippe smiled. And then, just as quickly, she frowned. The sun was high overhead, and they were still five stadia from Argos.

“Hurry, my sons!” she commanded harshly. “We must not be late.”

Cleobis turned and nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. Of course, Mother, his eyes said, and Cydippe relaxed with a sigh. They had traveled forty stadia already that morning, for the love of Hera and herself. Her sons would find a way. She must only have faith in their strength and devotion. Cydippe lay back in the cart, thoughts spinning busily as her sons dragged the cart the remaining distance.

Once at the festival, all went smoothly. The prayers were offered, the sacrifice was made, and all feasted and praised the mother of the gods. No day had been merrier, and all guests were glad to be celebrating. It was only thanks to her sons that it had been possible. Cydippe gazed out at the people, ignoring the prattling young priestess at her shoulder. She was the envy of every mother in attendance. What other woman’s sons would do as much for her? None.

“Mother,” Cleobis said softly, coming to stand at her shoulder. He inclined his head towards her companion in a quiet bow.

Cydippe turned. “My joy,” she murmured, pulling him close. “I am proud,” she told him fiercely. “Your devotion deserves great reward.”

Cleobis only smiled and held her a moment before he stepped away. “No, Mother,” he told her fondly. “Any son would do as much.”

Cydippe shook her head, but Cleobis interrupted before she could argue. “Mother, I would ask a favor of you.”

Cydippe’s forehead wrinkled in a delicate frown. “My son, what is it? What do you want?” She smiled, magnanimous. “Today the world is yours.”

He glanced over at his brother. Biton smiled, tipping his head to the side in a silent question. Cleobis held up his hand. Wait a moment.

“Well?” Cydippe prompted. “What is it? More wine, gold, trinkets? A woman, perhaps? Ask, and it is yours.”

Cleobis laughed. “No, Mother. Merely your permission. Biton and I are tired, and we would like to go into the temple to sleep.”

Cydippe felt…disappointed. That was all? “Oh,” she said dumbly. “Well, all right. I’ll come and wake you when it’s time to leave. Someone sent a message from your father, saying he would come and bring the oxen, so you may rest on the journey home as well, if you’d like.”

Cleobis smiled. “Thank you, Mother.” He moved away, headed towards his twin, and Cydippe sighed. Many days she could not understand her sons. They were so modest! It was infuriating, really. Their heroic actions had saved her. They deserved glory, honor, blessings.

Yes, Cydippe thought. Yes, they did deserve that, all of it! And she would arrange it. She would find them their reward, and she would do it now.

“Hera!” Cydippe called loudly. People turned and stared.

The wind swept across the pavilion.

“My goddess, I call upon you on the day of your feast!”

Thick clouds gathered overhead.

“Hera, I would ask a boon of you!”

And then, quite suddenly, the goddess herself was there.

“What boon?” Hera asked, her tall stature causing her to loom over Cydippe’s small head.

The proud mother swallowed, suddenly nervous. “It is for my sons, goddess. Their devotion allowed me to come and serve you. It was they who made this feast possible.”

“What would you have?”

Cydippe’s voice shook, but her resolve did not waver. “The greatest blessings that can be bestowed.” The crowd gasped. Few dared to make a request so audacious. The greatest blessings? It was unthinkable. Requesting wealth, honor, skills—that, they would have understood. But a request so large frightened them. The people were fond of their proud priestess, despite her faults, but now they feared for her.

“Do you know what you are asking, Cydippe?” the goddess asked.

“No. I leave it to your judgment, my goddess.”

Hera regarded her impassively. “Are you sure?” the goddess asked, arching an eyebrow.

Cydippe was taken aback. “Of course,” she said. What mother wouldn’t want glory for her sons? She had felt rather clever for a moment, letting the goddess decide which was the greatest blessing, but now she shivered. Hera looked so solemn. Why?

Hera nodded. “Very well then. It is done.” She turned on her heel and was gone.

It took the priestess a moment to recover. Done? Already? She rushed into the temple, shouting for her sons. “Cleobis! Biton! My sons, my sons!” She felt overjoyed, even triumphant. She could hardly wait until they heard!

There was no answer. The echo of her voice fractured on the marble walls, going a thousand directions at once. Where were her children?

Then she saw it—a flash of white cloth in a corner. She ran to them, dropping to her knees beside her sleeping sons. Their arms were wrapped around each other, and soft smiles lit their faces with joy. “Cleobis, Biton—” She shook them gently. “My sons, wake up!”

But they would not move.

The crowd had followed her, and now they stood behind her in quiet respect. Several shifted on their feet, uneasy. Cydippe glanced at them, glaring. Why were they staring so? Her sons would wake up. They would. “Biton,” she begged. “Cleobis!”

Then a quote crept unbidden to Cydippe’s mind. “The greatest gift is to die young.”

“No!” she shrieked, clawing at them, shaking them, screaming—why wouldn’t they wake up? Why wouldn’t they wake up? She began to keen, rocking back and forth beside her beloved children.

Cydippe remembered too late what wise Solon the Athenian once said: “Call no man blessed until he is dead.”

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Inspired by “Let Me Live Out My Years" by John Neihardt and written for the Circle of Neihardt writing contest.

Yes, this is what I've been doing instead of working on the Honesty re-write. And I'm not even sure if it's any good! I don't even like Greek mythology...