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Calliane was a nymph who lived at the foothills of the Mycenaean mountains.
Her light bronze skin resembled the smooth,damp surfaces of stones, and her straight, ash-brown hair, flowing down to the ground, shimmered like threads rahat captired the sunlight whenever she moved.
She spent of her time wandering the slopes of the mountains with the agility of a wild goat. Sometimes, she sat by the spring at the mountain's source with other Oreads, singing songs and braiding their hair.
She was a nymph with ordinary desires. At least, most of the time.
But one day something changed (permanently)
While sitting at the base of the mountain, an urge with no clear reason made her rise and descend. She wandered into the fıorest and came upon ay clearing covered in wildflowers. Lying among the tall grass, her ash-gray yes lazily followrd the slow drift of clouds in the sky.
Suddenly, peace gave say to ay rush of excitement. Her gaze was drawn upward to the chariot flying above.
A glorious chariot, drawn by peacocks, appeared in the blue of the heavens. She knew this chariot, knew this splendor. İt was the chariot of the goddess Hera.
Hera was feared by all beings for her vengeful nature. Calliane remembered how recently an Oread had been the target of her wrath. She immediately sat upright, squinting against the blinding sunlight to catch a glimpse of the goddess. For a fleeting moment, she saw her silhouette.
Curls of black hair crowned by a diadem of peacock feathers. Bronze skin gleaming in the sun. A flawless, sculpted face. Eyes that shone with a brilliance like diamonds.
Their gazes did'nt meet, yet Calliane's heart beat wildly, as if they had.
İnside her, a fierce desire was born: the wish to be noticed by the goddess.
For most nymphs, to be seen by Hera was doom. An omen of death, or worse. But for Calliane, it was the opposite. Even the name of the goddess ignited a spark within her, an uncontainable flame. She longed for Hera’s gaze, her voice, her presence. She did not know when this foolish and dangerous wish had begun, only that it consumed her now.
When Hera’s chariot disappeared into the clouds, Calliane stared after it with an ache in her chest. The desire gnawed at her, and there was no turning back. Patience was not in her nature. She wanted to see the goddess at once.
But Hera rarely descended to the mortal world— only to bless a marriage or to punish someone. Calliane could not wait for either. Her yearning had unlocked something within her that she could not understand.
As she climbed the mountainside again, a plan was already forming in her mind. A smile curved on her lips, one that made the other nymphs uneasy.
...
On Olympus, Hera was resting in her private chambers.
She lay upon an embroidered cedar bed draped with layers of velvet and silk. Sunlight streamed through windows studded with opal and amethyst, warming her skin. The air carried the faint scent of musk and hyacinth.
But her peace was disturbed by a sound: Apollo’s mournful love song for his latest paramour, drifting through the air outside.
“Again?” Hera muttered, rolling her eyes. She rose from the bed, her silk gown of violet spilling to the floor, and walked to her mirror. As she brushed her dark hair, she murmured, “Apollo and his endless foolish romances…”
Just then, she noticed someone landing on her marble balcony. She sighed. “Hermes, how many times must I tell you to use the door?”
The young god shrugged with a mischievous grin, his scent carrying traces of animals. Hera arched a brow. “Again?” her tone sharp, questioning.
“You’re no fun, Your Excellency,” Hermes teased.
Hera inhaled slowly, bracing herself. He usually came for one reason only: to whisper Zeus’s latest infidelities.
“Well? What is it this time?” she asked, her voice heavy with both weariness and anger.
“A nymph,” Hermes said casually as he perched on a couch. “An Oread. She keeps declaring her love for Zeus. He hasn’t noticed her yet, but she’s drawing attention.”
A cold gleam flickered in Hera’s eyes. Only days ago she had turned one nymph into a leaf. And now another one. Do they never learn?
“You are certain Zeus has not touched her?” Hera demanded.
“I am certain,” Hermes answered sharply, bowing his head. And then he vanished.
Alone once more, Hera returned to brushing her hair, though her grip on the ornate comb tightened. Apollo’s song no longer reached her ears. What resounded instead was her own growing fury.
...
Calliane already knew her actions had reached the goddess’s ears. She felt Hera’s threatening aura pressing around her. But instead of fear, it filled her with trembling excitement.
For days she wandered the mountains, reciting poems for Zeus, praying, praising his name. But it was all for a single purpose: to draw Hera’s gaze. To see the goddess once. She did not care about the price. She would gladly die if her end came at the goddess’s hand.
Even if Zeus became part of her plan, she did not care. She knew the lord of the skies was busy with the Trojan prince these days. Zeus would not interfere.
One night, she returned to the clearing where she had first seen the chariot. She felt Hera’s wrath close by. She knew the goddess would come. She wanted to meet her in a place worthy of her.
She sat among the flowers. The warm night breeze played with her hair. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her hands trembling with anticipation.
“At last, tonight,” she thought. Her eyes gleamed like silver coins in the moonlight.
And then, the moment arrived. A shadow of smoke gathered only a few steps away. Calliane leapt to her feet, breathless with expectation. The smoke shaped itself into a woman. Hera emerged.
The goddess’s eyes burned with fury. Calliane, however, was mesmerized. “So beautiful,” she whispered, her lips dry as if parched for millennia.
Hera advanced, unmoved by the words. In her hand she held a golden dagger, burning like fire. She raised it high, ready to plunge it into the nymph’s chest.
But before she could strike, Calliane lifted her hands, cupped Hera’s cheeks, and pressed her lips to the goddess’s. She had to strain upward, for Hera was taller.
When their lips met, Calliane felt her mind explode. Her soul seemed to leave her body and soar into Elysium. Hera’s lips were soft, divine, unbearably beautiful. At that instant, she wished to die within the kiss.
Hera was unprepared. Shocked, she dropped the dagger. It struck the grass, its flames extinguished. For a moment, she thought nothing at all. She had expected screams, pleas for mercy—not this fearless, desperate kiss.
For years, the only lips to touch hers had been her husband’s, and his kisses carried no tenderness, no love. But in this small nymph’s defiant embrace, she found both. Passion. Devotion. A love so stubborn it shook her anger to its core.
Time froze. When Calliane finally pulled back, breathless, her eyes glowed with desire. She had taken a terrible risk, and now she waited for her fate.
Hera stood still, her gaze locked on Calliane’s fragile yet resolute face. She heard nothing—not the scent of flowers, not the rustling grass, not the sounds of the night. Only the nymph’s trembling breath.
Everything else faded beside the memory of those lips. She longed, for one instant, to touch her own mouth and feel the echo of it. It was wrong. It should never have happened. It had to end before it began.
At last, Hera spoke. Her voice hung heavy in the air.
“You… What have you done?”
“I worship you, my lady,” Calliane whispered, her voice trembling yet firm. “And I always will. Even if this is my last day.”
Confusion deepened in Hera’s eyes. Never before had someone offered her such devotion. Slowly, she picked up the extinguished dagger. She saw fear flicker in the nymph’s eyes, but Calliane did not take back her words. She seemed resigned to death, still gazing at the goddess with adoration.
Hera raised the blade to the nymph’s throat. The distance between them was the space of a breath. “What a strange creature you are,” she murmured.
“Go,” the goddess commanded. “I forgive your audacity this once. But if you dare stand before me again… if you come to me like this once more… then—”
She faltered. Even she did not know what would follow.
Calliane would have preferred to die at that moment, by Hera’s hand. She fell to her knees, gazing up as if in prayer. Hera took a step back and vanished into the shadows.
Under the moonlight, Calliane wept, her lips still burning.
Far away, Hera sat in her chamber once more, staring at the moon. Her fingers lingered against her mouth, the sensation refusing to fade.
As if it would never leave her again.