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A tale is told that only women know. For when the men of the Golden Age passed down Their stories of victory and sacrifice, They did not think to ask the women theirs.
However, the women of our age would tell a very different story.
Weak Titans fear us and try to control that power, but a woman’s love is her wings. We can soar high, higher than the gods.”
“Prometheus says, ‘Fate leads those who listen and drags those who resist.’” I
no outside power could claim ownership of my heart. My heart was the only heart I would have, forever. I wasn’t interested in giving it away.
“We all bear scars from our past lives, some visible, some not.”
Anyone with eyes could tell the shape of your soul is powerful. Your body barely contains it. It practically shimmers off you.”
Wings had many meanings, but to my mother, they’d represented the basic shape of each person’s soul, and its ability to soar beyond this life and into the hereafter.
We cannot continue to harm ourselves in an effort to meet men’s expectations. We must stop shrinking ourselves to accommodate them.”
“I can rise despite them, despite what you and they would have me believe about myself. I used to think the world didn’t belong to women. We were spectators, disciples, slaves. But this world is ours.”
“You are Althea Lambros. You don’t have to do anything a man tells you to do.”
“Cleora shall remain a virgin goddess, forever pure and unspoiled,” he answered. “Nothing could ever spoil her,” I retorted. “She’s perfect no matter what she does or doesn’t do with a man.
In one sense, all mortals resembled gods—their souls could be displaced but not destroyed. Death was circumstantial. The soul lived forever.
I didn’t want to be my mother or my father or anything anyone told me I had to be. I just wanted to be me.
