Packing

The trunk sat open at the foot of her bed, its dark leather sides yawning like a mouth waiting to be fed.

Lily approached it the way she approached most things: deliberately, logically, methodically. Packing was not merely tucking fabric into an empty case. It was proof that she could prepare for what was coming, even if she had no power to change it.

She began with the basics: dresses folded into neat thirds, each laid with care. Day gowns in muted blues and soft whites. One darker, heavier piece for formal council sessions. Practical shoes tucked into the corners, wrapped in linen so they would not soil the silk.

Begin with what you know you will need.

She lifted her writing satchel from her desk, brushing her hand across the worn leather strap. Inside: parchment, pens, and a vial of ink that always threatened to spill. Her words were her constant, the one thing she could never leave behind. She hesitated, considering whether to add the slimmer notebook she used for mortal observations, the fragments of overheard phrases, half-poems, sketches of streetlight and song. It wasn’t strictly necessary. But she slipped it in anyway.

Control requires record-keeping.

She reached for her perfume next, the small glass vial catching the morning light. Lavender, citrus, and the faintest note of smoke. Her scent. She turned it in her hand, debating. Was it foolish to bring it? Vain? She pressed the stopper to her wrist and inhaled. Not vanity. A tether. Proof of herself in unfamiliar rooms. The vial nestled between folded blouses.

Her books followed. She packed four, though she wanted to bring fourteen. A collection of epics in translation, a book of philosophy she always argued with in the margins, and a worn anthology of songs and myths that reminded her of home, and a slim volume of mortal poetry, its cover bent from use. She ran her thumb across its spine. Ares would mock the mortal verses, she thought suddenly, unbidden. But he would listen, too. He always listened, even when he scoffed. Heat rose in her cheeks. She slid the book under her gowns as though hiding it.

She opened her velvet-lined jewelry box on her dresser, the soft interior catching the light as it guarded her tiny treasures. There wasn't much. She didn’t indulge the way Erato did. Several pairs of earrings. A wreath of gilded laurels. A single gold cuff. A necklace with a small pendant, plain and round. She held the latter longer than she should have, the chain pooling across her palm. Hera had given it to her years ago, a gift disguised as a command. You belong to Olympus. Remember that. Lily set it down. Then, after a long pause, put it in the trunk anyway.

She sat back on her heels, exhaling. Everything was chosen, folded, placed with precision. And yet her hands itched. Something was missing. Something not logical, not necessary.

Her eyes drifted to the scarf hanging from her chair. It was pale linen, embroidered with thread worn soft by years. It smelled faintly of home, faintly of her sisters. Faintly of safety. She picked it up, held it to her face for a moment, then folded it into the corner of the trunk.

Finally, her journal. She hesitated longest over that. The pages were half-empty, full of words she never shared, words she could never speak aloud. Packing it felt dangerous. Leaving it behind felt worse. She slid it between the layers of clothing, hiding it as though even the trunk should not know what it carried.

She closed the lid slowly, pressing her palm to the smooth leather. It was heavy already, though the weight inside was mostly silk and paper. She thought of the council chamber, of Hera’s gaze, of Ares leaning back in his chair with the air of a man who could set the world aflame by simply standing.

The latch clicked shut.

Lily drew in a breath, then another, steadying herself. Packing was finished. Order imposed. Control maintained.

And yet, as she stood looking at the trunk, she knew it wasn’t just clothes and ink and perfume that she had sealed inside. It was all the things she carried silently: duty, fear, and the dangerous, unspoken ache of wanting more.