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Chapter Text

A pair of hands shakes you violently by the shoulders, jolting you out of your dreams of sunshine and warmth. 

Your first reaction is to throw them off. Slowly, you pry your eyes open with a groan. The early morning light slips into your room in shades of violet like the first fire of Prometheus, illuminating the looming figure at the foot of your bed. The housekeeper?

“What is it?” you murmur, bleary with sleep and irritation.

The figure snaps their fingers, and the lights flicker on, making you moan and throw an arm over your face. Then you see him. Dark hair, narrow eyes outlined by swirling tattoos, dressed in an obsidian suit tailored to his lithe frame. The tie at his throat is as crimson as a splash of blood. He looks as out of place in your dark cramped dorm as an emperor in a sewer. 

In an instant, your sleepiness flees. 

“Get up,” Lord Hermes says. 

You don't have time to be embarrassed. The gods demand absolute obedience, and so it's through the sudden lump in your throat that you scramble to your feet.  Lord Hermes barely casts you a glance before striding from the room with a few clicks of his shoes, and you abandon your uniform on the bed to scurry after him before he disappears from sight. 

Lord Hermes's lamp illuminates the long hallway stretching away from the servant quarters. The golden light flickers in spurts, outlining his sleek back—and what a figure he cuts, moving with a sort of contained grace that you’ve tried to imitate for years to no avail. The best you can do is an awkward facsimile, but your footsteps are too loud, too uneven, and while Lord Hermes tolerates your exhausted stumbling with polite irritation, you realize too late that you are practically panting on his shoulder. You blush as you pause and allow a respectful distance to grow between you. 

Your first attempt to speak emerges as a rasp that causes Lord Hermes to glance over his shoulder. Mortified, you clear your throat. "My lord, may I ask why I've been summoned today?"

Lord Hermes's smile carries a tinge of cruelty that reminds you of your previous housekeeper, a plump wood nymph who had turned her nose up at your heritage and hurled chore after chore at you in an attempt to prove the fallibility of humanity. His steps barely falter, as if your question is a mere drop in the vast ocean of his attention. “You are one of the servants employed under Lady Hestia, aren't you?" 

"Yes, my lord."

"Then I don't see why this is out of the ordinary."

A blatant lie. The palace's hierarchy is a well-oiled thing, polished by century-long grudges and blood-oaths. Housekeepers and butlers answer directly to Lady Hestia; chefs and maids to housekeepers; then far, far below that, hardly worth a glance or the responsibility of a more honorable assignment, are scullery maids and kitchen boys and everything in-between.

And then there was you.

You conceal your wariness with a bland smile. “Forgive my hesitancy, but it seems improbable that a god of your caliber would lower yourself to meet with a humble servant without good reason."

Lord Hermes doesn't respond. Questions press against your lips, but you recognize the implicit threat in the god's quiet, deliberate steps and squared shoulders. Wisely, you shut your mouth.

You follow silently as he leads you through the palace. Despite your many years of servitude, even you stumble as he disappears around corners, only to appear moments later at the apex of the staircase, strolls through hidden walkways, and make enough turns to cross your eyes. You walk, then jog, then sprint, all the while the lord-god continues down the hall.

The air changes as you cross some invisible boundary into Olympus proper, as does the decor. Plain tiling gives way to soft and rich carpets. Marble arches soar overhead, the narrow hallways spilling into decadent gardens and polished ivory chateaus. As you follow Lord Hermes through the fifth parterre in ten minutes, you realize three things in tandem.

These are the quarters of the gods—the kings, Lord Hades and Lord Zeus and Lord Poseidon (when he bothers to leave Atlantis). 

Only gods or prisoners chained in gold come here.

You don't realize you've stopped in the middle of the garden until Lord Hermes turns, ever so slightly, so that the burning lamps illuminate his face. The carnations sway in the brisk morning wind, laughing. For a moment, all you can see are red irises, a swamp of indifference, and you think, This is my execution.

As soon as thought leaps to your mind, you bite down until copper floods your tongue. Calm down. You've done nothing to warrant such an extreme punishment, and even Lord Hermes cannot kill an Olympian servant without good cause.

"What is it?" Lord Hermes asks.

Your fist curls on your thigh. "I am ever at your service, my lord, but I'm afraid I may disappoint you without proper preparation regarding the task at hand," you say, mind pacing desperately. "May I know the details of your request?"

Lord Hermes cocks an eyebrow. Your heart leaps, and you rake through the past few minutes in your mind, picking apart any detail that might reveal the reason for his displeasure. Instead, his handsome face splits into a smile, and for all its beauty it is no less terrifying than he'd snarled and sentenced you to death. "I doubt you will disappoint. Lord Poseidon speaks quite highly of you."

Whatever clever response you might've summoned dies. You stare, ensnared by the contempt and curiosity in his voice. 

Is he implying that you’ve been consorting with Lord Poseidon? You’ve only met him once when you served him at the banquet a few weeks ago, and before that the closest you’d been was when you cleaned the guest room he never used. And sure, Lord Poseidon might've been just as handsome as the rumors claimed, hair silvery-gold and eyes like sea-foam and a dangerously lithe musculature, but he was twice as cold. When you poured him wine, he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. 

It was a shame, because when you closed your eyes and breathed, Lord Poseidon smelled like home. 

You don't know what your expression looks like, but Lord Hermes smiles again, wider and nowhere as kind. Your ears burn, and you duck your head with an embarrassed mutter. Compared to Lord Hermes’s clean-cut suit and combed hair, you look—and feel—haggard as a beggar. Perhaps it had been intentional, a way to catch you off guard and make you slip. "I don't know what you're talking about."

“Don’t be coy. I’ve heard about your hard work.”

You swallow an instinctive surge of fear. “You have?"

”You seem shocked."

”I didn’t think the matters of my employment was of interest to you, my lord.”

Lord Hermes's voice shifts. "Do you think this is beneath me?" he asks, a warning darkening the otherwise innocuous question. 

Damn. Damn. What can you even say to that? Agree, and you're suggesting that Lord Hermes is negligent enough to consider aspects of the palace beneath his attention. Disagree, and you've just implied that Lord Hermes is willing to debase himself to such a level, speaking to a human servant personally instead of passing a message through a housekeeper or butler. 

As you search for an appropriate response, you glimpse the last of a fleeing smirk on Lord Hermes's lips. Dread drenches the flames of your anxiety. He enjoying this, you realize, jerking you around like a marionette according his private symphony.

in the end, you settle on a neutral, stiff, and patently fake response, accenting your genuineness with a slight bow. ”Nothing of the sort. As a humble servant, I am deeply honored to be recognized by a great god like you.“

You instantly regret the statement as Lord Hermes's eyes narrow and his demeanor slips, just enough to reveal the glittering fangs hidden behind the lovely face. "I detest liars," he says flatly. 

Your fingers twitch. 

You’d heard rumors, of course—that the title of greatest wit or wisest advisor doesn’t belong to Lady Athena nor Lady Hera; that once, a fleet-footed brat with cunning fingers and a knack for sweet-faced lies stared Lord Apollo in the eye and spun a smile so lovely that the sun burned a little brighter in the sky that day; that Lord Hermes is second-son only because Lord Zeus can't afford to have his authority undermined by slyly-worded contingencies. It’s nearly impossible to avoid hearing things in a palace as tightly knit as Olympus. But hearing and witnessing are completely different beasts.

Lord Hermes knows his own cleverness as much as he knows that the sky is blue and the gods are eternal. His confidence makes him humble, which makes him dangerous. 

Perhaps it was a mistake to avoid him. His lack of knowledge of your circumstances is just as intriguing—if not more—than knowing your life like the back of his gloved hand.

After a moment, you bow, low and deep. "I apologize."

"I'll overlook it," he says, mercifully. 

You keep walking. Eventually, the opulence of the palace eases into something more subdued, reminiscent of old worship temples. As you stew in the embarrassment of your blunder, Lord Hermes stops in front of a massive ivory door framed by twin pillars. “I have a request,” he says. 

Ozone hits your nose with the potency of dark wine. Like a lightning strike, the realization of your location hits you, and you jam your nails into your palm to stop yourself from sprinting in the opposite direction. "Of course," you say, strained, aware that you'd do anything to get out and knowing that Lord Hermes must know as well. 

He spares you a nod. “There is an Oracle scheduled to be born today, but Lord Zeus refuses to rouse from his slumber to oversee her birth."

“Oh,” you say. 

“Yes,” Lord Hermes continues. “You see our conundrum. After all, with no Oracle, there is no future, and with no future, there is no humanity.” He shakes his head mournfully. “Now what shall we do about that?”

Soundlessly, the doors slide open. Lord Hermes gestures towards the well of darkness inside the chamber. He slots there too easily for your taste, crimson eyes shut behind a curved smile. There's danger in being effortlessly forgettable, especially as a god. “Well?” he asks. 

You stare into the shadows, a knot growing in your throat. With a slow, even breath, you lift your chin and steel your back. “I will do my best, my lord,” you say, though your exact method is still up for debate. 

This is a test. You don’t want to know what will happen if you fail. 

“Make sure of it,” Lord Hermes says softly.

The door closes behind you with a thud.

--

The room is less of a room and more of an amphitheater. You have two seconds to gape at the arched ceiling and velvet curtains and delicate smell of roses beneath the ozone before a hand closes around your neck and wrenches you towards the massive bed at the center of the chamber. 

You choke on a scream, clawing and biting at your captor until they chuckle and bring you closer to them. When a luminous blue eye drifts into view, you fall limp, a rush of heat overwhelming your senses.

“Now what’s this?” Lord Zeus murmurs. “What a pretty little thing Hermes has brought to my bed.”

He squeezes, and you are certain you will be bruised tomorrow, and Daphne will laugh at the grape-shaped welts on your neck and tease you about your nonexistent paramour. 

“Are you trying to seduce me?” he teases. “You’re a little young for my tastes, but I’ll make do.” 

He strokes your side and pinches the skin on your hip that is exposed to the air. Damn Hermes for pulling you out of bed so early; damn you for not having the foresight to sleep in your uniform beforehand.

“My lord,” you gasp, scratching at his arm to no avail. He seems to enjoy your struggles like a mother cat tolerating a kitten’s play fighting. “Lord Hermes s-sent me to— to request your presence at the birth of the Oracle.”

You can’t quite make out his expression through the darkness. “Oh?” he drawls. “My son sent you, did he?”

“Yes, my lord. It’s a momentous occasion for humanity.”

Lord Zeus's next words are quiet and deadly. “And what has humanity done to deserve my magnanimity?”

“They— They love and worship you, my lord. You are their father, the god of the sky—“

If you thought that would dull his irritation, you were wrong. Lord Zeus draws himself up from the bed, and his blankets fall off his shoulders to reveal his bare frame, deceptively slender and lithe. Despite his elderly appearance, he retains the ridiculous strength of his youth that toppled his titan father from his throne. His smile is wide and gaping.

“Perhaps the brat knows me better than I’d assumed,” he muses, wrapping his other hand around your waist. “Killing a few humans always improves my mood." 

You hear your bones creak. Before you collapse into a pile of bruised meat and shattered bones, Lord Zeus releases his grip and allows you to fall back on his bed with a choked gasp. “Then again, it’d be a pity to lose such a pretty thing,” you hear past the frantic thudding of your heartbeat. He sounds frustrated. “Whose eye did you catch to be brought to Olympus?”

Pain throbs through your entire body, but you muster enough strength to lift your head and meet Lord Zeus’s eyes. Even in the darkness, they are bluer than the jewels Daphne covet. They remind you of a man who laughed when you discovered your flock had fled while you were napping and brought them back with a wave of his hand and a distant roar of thunder. 

“No one, my lord,” you lie. “I came here of my own volition.”

Lord Zeus barks out a laugh. After a while, you begin to chuckle as well. Then he clamps a hand around your upper arm and twists. “What are you laughing about?” he says, flat and cold.

This time, you really do scream. You lean towards him, trying to untwist your arm, but he lays a hand flat on your back and pushes you onto the bed. Even the softness of the blankets beneath you can’t disguise the agony tearing through your shoulder. 

A hot breath blows on your ear. “Tell Hermes I said thank you for the stress reliever,” Lord Zeus says. “Oh, but I suppose you’re not getting out of here alive. Never mind then.”

Through the pain, your mind races. 

Think, think. Lord Zeus’s temper is as fickle as the storms he commands, but people can predict storms, just like you can predict (or at least try to guess) a god’s psyche. Any other time and you would hit yourself for your presumptuousness, but presumptuousness is exactly what you need to survive. 

Think.

Why would Lord Hermes bring you here now? Why would be Lord Zeus be awake at this hour when he is usually so devoted to earthly pleasures, eating and sleeping and fucking on a whim? 

Unless he hadn’t been sleeping at all. Unless he’d been awake the entire night—a vigil. 

The revelation hits you with the force of a meteor. Taking a gasping breath, you force yourself to go completely still, though trembles still wrack your frame. “Lord Zeus,” you whisper. “I understand.”

Through the cotton and panic stuffing your ears, you hear him laugh. “Understand what? Foolish pest.”

Oh, so you’ve stopped being a pretty little thing and turned into a pest? You close your eyes and begin to talk, though your tongue is thick and your mouth is filled with blood.

“I had a brother, my lord. Younger by a few years. He liked to put rocks in my shoes and push me off cliffs when he thought no one was looking, but he had my parents’ affection and the whole world kneeling at his feet. Only a few weeks after his fourteenth summer, he contracted a... a sickness and passed.” 

You take a breath for air and are surprised to feel tears stream down your cheeks. “I hated him. But he was my brother, and I supposed that yes, I loved him too. When he was smaller and hadn’t yet tasted cruelty, I would lean over his crib and he would wrap his tiny fingers around mine and squeeze tight, like I was the only thing in his world.”

You don’t realize that you are crying and that Lord Zeus has released you until the ozone in the air clears, replaced by the freshness of grass after rain. You sniff and push yourself up to one wobbly elbow. 

“You can mourn a family member’s death and still hate them,” you say. “It doesn’t excuse their actions in life, and it doesn’t make you any less justified in your resentment. But you’re allowed to grieve.”

“Foolish,” Lord Zeus says. His voice is as frail as the old man he pretends to be. “I have no need to mourn.”

You inhale. “You killed your father at the Titanomachy,” you say, and if there is a crack of thunder that rumbles Olympus, you ignore it. “Kronos was a terrible king and titan, and his reign was long and awful. He deserved everything that he got. But my lord,” you say, reaching through the darkness towards where you think his hand is, “it’s alright to mourn what could’ve been.”

You feel the weight on the mattress shift as Lord Zeus eases back on his haunches. Suddenly, he is no longer so thunderous. “You think I should mourn for that bastard of a father who devoured my siblings, almost killed my mother, and tried to kill me?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not that you should mourn,” you say gently, “but that you are.”

The air crackles with energy. You hold your breath, hoping that your theory is correct, hoping that somewhere in that black heart is a sliver capable of sorrow, someone who can cry and laugh and scream at the heavens who pitted him against his own father.

Lord Zeus sighs. Just like that, the tension is broken. 

Released from the horrible uncertainty, you double over with a gasp. As you rub the bruises on your neck and wipe your mouth, Lord Zeus peers at you with his head cocked, identical to the eagles he’s so proud of. You sense his curiosity and stifle a sob. 

“My, my,” he muses. “You’re really something.”

“Thank you, my lord," you croak.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” Lord Zeus rubs his chin and looks away. “But you’re wrong, little one. I wasn’t mourning.”

You open your mouth, recognizing the lie. He cuts you off.

“I was furious at Kronos. He shattered my jaw,” he says, tracing the ruined remnants of the lower half of his face with a wince. “But I suppose he did something good in the end to balance out all the shit he caused. After all, he made me, didn’t he?”

You don’t know how to respond, so you stay quiet. Thankfully, the god doesn’t seem too offended by your silence. He waves you off, staring into the distance at some far off memory—or perhaps it’s the tapestry on the opposite wall, displaying a battlefield with streaks of lightning and blood. 

“Tell Hermes I’ll see to the birth of his silly little Oracle,” he says.

For a moment, you can’t believe your ears. Then you recover and press your forehead to the mattress as low as your bruised body will allow, flooded with glee and relief. “Thank you!” you say, too distracted to notice your slip-up of address. But Lord Zeus notices. “I-I’ll take my leave then.”

“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, and continues to gaze at the tapestry long after you scurry out of his chambers. 

--

Lord Hermes looks pleasantly surprised to see you stumble out of the room, coughing and nursing red welts on your neck. He hops off his perch on the window ledge and spreads his arms like an orator. “Well done," he says, a pleased purr. "I assume that he is alert?”

Unable to speak, you nod. That was Lord Zeus, you think, an angry, bitter old man who can’t admit his own feelings and vents his frustrations on the people around him, the king of the gods.

Hah. Gods weren't so different from mortals after all.

With a coy smile, Lord Hermes waves a hand, and the pain around your neck disappears. “I’m not a healer, but I believe that is enough payment for your services.” His smile turns wry. “I’m not sure if it is stupidity or bravery that caused you to mention the Titanomachy to my father.”

“You were listening?” you rasp, too exhausted to muster the appropriate anger for that statement.

“Of course.” 

Something, previously soft and simmering, roars awake in your chest. You swell and fall in the same breath, letting the fury rush out of you in a practiced motion. You’re used to the gods not caring. This is no different. "I hope I fulfilled your expectations, my lord."

Lord Hermes examines you, and then sighs. With the air of someone forced to crush a bug with their bare hands, he reaches out and—

And pats you on the head. You stare at him as he continues to pat, soft and comforting, like you’re a dog instead of a human. “You have my thanks,” he says. "Not many could've done what you did and come out in one piece."

If you close your eyes, you can almost fool yourself into thinking his gratitude is genuine. But you don't. "Of course, my lord," you say. Then, before your courage can fail you: "If I may say something."

Lord Hermes hums his approval.

“The anniversary of the Titanomachy and Lord Kronos’s death," you start, and then stop as Lord Hermes goes terrifyingly still. Locking your jaw, you forge on. "That's not an event easily forgotten. Yet you pulled me from my quarters and sent me to face Lord Zeus in the middle of his grief. An outsider might wonder if you’ve been playing me this entire time.”

There's a terrifying moment after you finish when you think he's going to kill you. But he merely presses a gloved hand to his cheek and looks at you, red filtering through his eyelashes, a cocktail of curiosity and something darker, headier. 

"You're right," he says lightly. Your breath hitches. "But you've been playing an interesting game yourself, haven't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"When Lord Poseidon asked for you, a small, insignificant, pathetic human, I thought the pressure had finally gone to his head," Lord Hermes says. You flinch instinctively, but the god seems unaffected by the blatant insult he directed towards the king of Atlantis, perhaps knowing that you'd never be able to repeat it without losing your head. “Then I thought about it some more, and it occurred to me that I didn’t know you very well, though I make it my business to be familiar with everyone who works for the palace. So that left one question." You brace yourself. "Why did you change the curtains in Lord Poseidon's room, the ones that Lord Zeus and I chose for our guests?"

It's not the question you're expecting. Surprised, you blurt out the truth.

Why? No particular reason, except that you spent too long as a pretty doll with no autonomy and understood what it felt like to have your needs ignored for a trivial aesthetic. Or maybe, after hours of running back and forth, delivering towels and blankets to frazzled maids and trying to ensure the comfort of every god who entered the palace, the decision had already been made. The moment you spotted those horrible things on the windows, silky and laced with bells that sang with any wind that drifted past, you tore them off without another thought.

“Lord Poseidon is the god of the sea," you say. "It is uncommon for him to stay in Olympus for so long. When I served him at the banquet, he looked—“ You pause, unable to articulate the god’s shifting moods. “—tired."

Lord Hermes blinks. “Tired?”

You nod. Despite the placidity of his expression, there had been a faint tremor in Lord Poseidon’s brow and fingers that reminded you of your brother minutes before he threw a tantrum. Over-stimulation, you'd thought. 

“I hypothesized that it might be due to the difference in environment between Atlantis and Olympus. The bells are noisy, especially at night.” Gods know how many times you’ve been startled awake by those same curtains. “While some might find it calming, the sea is far less disruptive. So I hoped to alleviate some stress from Lord Poseidon’s shoulders by removing unnecessary noise from his quarters." You pause. "However, I had no intentions of being presumptions, and I'll be happy to offer a formal apology to Lord Poseidon if he is offended—"

“No,” he says. “I imagine he is not. And his dinner?

Your heart skips. “My lord?” 

Lord Hermes smiles. “Did you think you were subtle? All twelve Olympians saw what you did to his food. The only reason why you aren’t a pile of smoldering ashes right now is because Lord Poseidon did not appear displeased by the change.”

Red blooms on your cheeks. You bite your lip. "It’s an embarrassing assumption on my part, but—“

“Do tell.”

You pick your words carefully. “I am— was once a fisherman’s child. I know how difficult it can be to be uprooted from your home and deposited someplace else apropos of nothing, and Lord Poseidon is a sea god first and foremost, so I thought—“

“You thought?”

You thought, and after you sprinkled sea salt on the dish and prepared to leave the banquet hall, Lord Poseidon had twitched, nose wrinkling, and turned to meet your gaze for the first time—

“I thought he might like the taste of home,” you murmur.

Outside, the birds begin to sing. The first shimmers of sunrise streams through the window, a sheen of cool blue that colors Lord Hermes's eyes violet. 

 “You may go,” he says. 

You bow, careful to bend your head at an appropriate angle. “Thank you, my lord.”

--

As your frantic footsteps disappear down the hall, Hermes turns back towards the doors. He is still smiling, though not out of any real amusement. The taste of home? 

What a perfectly sentimental and human answer. 

And yet it worked. Zeus did not kill you for mentioned his accursed titan father; Poseidon endured the festivities with slightly more grace than usual. 

It had been quite a shock to open his door and see Poseidon standing there, an odd persistence staining his stoicism as he requested (demanded, really) the names of the servants who’d worked that night. Poseidon rarely displayed interest in other gods, much less the mortals who served him. So what kind of an extraordinary human caused such a—dare he say it?—unsettled expression to cross his face? 

Apparently, a human like you.

At the time, Hermes had sent Poseidon away with a promise to look into the situation, a promise he intended to uphold despite his uncle's suspicious frown. If he exaggerated the amount of time a report would take so he could pry further without Poseidon’s knowledge—well, that was no one’s business except his own.

It took him a second to summon your old employment contract into his hand. It took a minute to read it, and another to realize that the pretty words and empty platitudes disguised the fact that there was nothing there. 

Oh, sure, there were lines upon lines about your employment history, which gods you were assigned to and when, your promotions (or lack thereof). But your peers flushed and tittered when he approached them, eager to curry his favor, only to falter when he asked for you. Some prattled about your antisocial demeanor but could summon little else in terms of your character, while others frowned at the mere mention of your name, though they had no specific complaints about your work.

Even Hestia, his darling aunt, had hardly been better. Upon his inquiry, Hestia had laughed and brushed him off. "The workings of the Palace are not your concern," she'd said, and despite her gentle smile, he'd known there was little else he could do to sway her mind.

You were competent, but not enough to be promoted from a menial servant who was shuffled from task to task like a toy. Cordial, but standoffish. An eyesore, but a helpful confidant. Sometimes a mediocre coworker with a dull demeanor, other times a sharp-witted bastard with a cruel streak. 

There had been one notable exception: Daphne, a pretty river nymph whom Hermes vaguely remembered from one of Apollo's old trysts. Her time as a servant had changed her, though whether it was for better or worse, only she could determine. She hadn't gotten over her habit of blushing and stuttering whenever she was confronted by a god, but all of that embarrassment melted away when he mentioned your name.

Dull? Perhaps, though Hermes certainly enjoyed your attempts to appease what you believed to be his anger. But mediocre? Far from it. You'd noticed things you had no right to see: a sea god’s homesickness, a king’s grief—even Hermes himself. Humanity is your vice, but it may also be your boon.

To coax an old and mad king out of his frenzy, to make him even consider the possibility of reconciliation, if only for a moment…

How dangerous. 

The groan of doors opening startles Hermes out of his thoughts. He inclines his head as his father walks through the ivory doors. “My lord."

Zeus grunts, peering at Hermes beneath one bushy eyebrow. As always, Hermes cannot glean a single thing from his expression that doesn’t want to be seen. “The Oracle, hm?” he says in lieu of a greeting. “Take me to her.”

“Yes, my lord,” Hermes says, bowing. He cannot help but add, “Did the human please you?”

And there it is again, that mixture of odd delight and confused affront that had colored Poseidon’s visage a few weeks prior. Zeus scratches his chin and hums. “Curious thing,” he says, and says nothing else. “Now come. Much to do, not much time.”

Hermes smooths out his smile. It would be polite to show his glee so obviously. “Yes, my lord.”

Curious indeed.

Chapter Text

You run. 

At one point you trip and skin your hands on the polished white floor. As you stare down at your down shell-shocked reflection, you pat yourself on the back for a chore well done. Then you climb to your feet and keep running. 

The world blurs together. You blink, and the walls bleed from gold to ivory to brick, and you’re standing in front of a familiar door and knocking on it like you've done a million times before. 

It opens. Behind it stands Daphne: tall, willowy Daphne with her thick head of curls, Daphne and her dark brown skin and pale nightgown; who always smells like salt and pine and gives the warmest, best hugs, who stares at you with poorly disguised horror.

“What happened?” she asks.

Your neck throbs with pain. You open your mouth, but only a sigh escapes.

You fall into her arms and cry. 

--

Your sleep is haunted by nightmares. Between flickers of unconsciousness, you feel Daphne’s weight shift at the foot of the bed and her hand smoothing your hair. When you drag yourself to wakefulness and babble a stream of apologies, she hums loudly enough to cover your voice, a slightly out of tune melody that lulls you back to sleep.

“Go back to sleep,” she insists. Other times she says nothing at all, and you fall into unconsciousness with her warmth on your skin. 

You dream of herding sheep and fields and a man with his back to you, golden hair whipping in the wind. When you try to run towards him, the fields of yellow wheat tangle your feet and slice your skin until you fall, bleeding from fresh cuts all across your body.

And you—

The next time you wake, it's because of a stab of pain from your empty stomach. You blink sticky eyes at the dark ceiling, body heavier than lead. There's a weight at your foot.

"Daphne?" you rasp. No response. 

With a groan, you push yourself onto one elbow and squint at the dark figure curled at the end of the bed, their head pillowed in their arms. Your neck aches.

“Daphne?” you repeat. 

She shudders awake, blinking away her confusion. When she sees that you’re awake, she grins and rises to her feet with a wince. Her nightgown is completely wrinkled from her brief stay on the floor, though she doesn't seem to notice. "You're awake!" 

"I am," you say, throat dry. "Are you— I mean." You're acutely aware of the stains streaking your cheeks. You still smell like ozone. "I'm sorry. I don't know why..."

Daphne raps the top of your head. You flinch, eyes wide. "Hey. Enough of that," she chides. "Didn't I tell you that my door is open to you?"

"Right," you say.

"Then what do you have to apologize for?" she asks.

"Nothing," you respond dutifully. 

"That's right. So don't apologize." She rubs a thumb over your cheek and gives you a small smile. You lower your head between your knees and push down the urge to cry. "Are you hungry? I’ll grab you something from the kitchen.”

When you try to protest—you have a shift soon anyways, there’s no need for her to go through more trouble—Daphne shushes you. “I’ll take care of it.”

If this was any other time, you would look into her brown eyes and realize what "taking care of it" means—shouldering your responsibilities and doubling her own workload for the day, begging the housekeeper for leniency, risking whipping if she is too slow. But fatigue claws at your chest and demands to be fed, so you press a kiss to her hand and promise to yourself that you’ll make it up to her. “Thank you, adelfí."

Daphne pats your cheek gently. "Enough of that. Will you alright here?"

You look around at the piles of clothes on the floor, the trinkets on her desk, and the drooping houseplant on her window ledge. It's small, cramped, and dark, and nothing like the eye-searing marble you left behind. "Yes," you say.

Daphne grins. After she leaves, you fall back into bed and dream of nothing at all.

The next time you return to the waking world, the light that streams through the window is already sunset orange, and your exhaustion has been replaced by a sticky sort of confusion that comes from sleeping too long. 

Daphne is watering her plant on the windowsill. She glances over when she hears the bed creak. You push down a pang of guilt at the sight of dark circles beneath her eyes. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head. Words tumbles from your mouth, awkward and stilted, stinging like acid as you sit up and force yourself to meet Daphne's gaze. “Daphne, I— I should explain—“

Even the memory makes you want to vomit. Your fingers dig into your arms, and you suppress a flinch. But Daphne deserves the truth, at least. 

"Don’t," she says, clipped but unkind. "Whatever happened, I don't wanna hear about it."

"But I—" You stop. Then you swallow and nod. It's a favor she's giving, not a rejection. The palace hides its fair share of secrets. No one, least of her, faults you for keeping one more. "What time is it?" you ask as she helps you to your feet. There are fresh blisters on her hands, swollen and raw.

"In time for Lady Hestia’s announcement," Daphne says cheerfully, rubbing your knuckles with her thumbs.

Your head whips up. “Lady Hestia?”

She nods. You frown instinctively. You can’t remember the last time Lady Hestia addressed the entire household at once. The ascension of Lord Heracles, perhaps? “Are you feeling up for it? I can cover for you if you’d like," she adds. 

"No," you say after a pause. "I want to hear what the lady has to say."

“You sure?”

You touch her wrist. You don’t want to dream anymore—not of the gods, and certainly not of your past. “Let me get dressed,” you say, tugging at your rumpled nightclothes and mustering a half-hearted chuckle. “I look like I've been run over by a Minotaur."

"But much cuter," she says, pinching your hip. You smack her gently.

Daphne finds you an outfit from her closet that fits, a loose shirt with a high-collar and comfortable pants. She says nothing when you adjust the hem to cover the fresh bruises on your neck, and you adore her for it.

After stealing you a bite to eat from the kitchen, Daphne leads you towards the garden. Once friendly statues bare their teeth in ugly smiles. Shadows deepen in the afternoon sun. You don't quite shrink back, but you tense every time a corner doesn't match your memory. While you slept, the palace had shifted slightly to the left, whatever ancient magic fueling its roots twitching in its sleep. Not an uncommon occurrence as Olympus prepares for the new year, but unsettling enough to make your heart quicken. 

Noticing your discomfort, Daphne squeezes your hand. “Did you know that Lord Ares tried to propose to Lady Aphrodite?” she asks, light and unaffected. It's as much of a facade as your silence, but your shoulders ease slightly.

Your chuckle is dry and utterly insincere. “Again?” 

“His third rejection and counting.”

“You’d think he’d learn.” Though you don’t blame him. Lady Aphrodite is rarely outshone even by other goddesses and gods of beauty.

Daphne rolls her eyes dramatically. “Gods like him never learn. Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.”

A smile tugs at your lips. "He's determined."

She snorts. "Yeah, and we all know how that turns out."

You let out a noncommittal hum and squeeze her hand. As you turn the corner, the garden comes into view. It's an ugly, overgrown thing, smothering the sky and undergrowth with weeds and untrimmed branches, but the sight of it lifts the rest of the darkness from your shoulders. When you were a child, you always loved tucking yourself into dark, damp places to hide from your tutors or whoever else pissed you off that morning. This is familiar ground.

Before you can take a step forward, Daphne grabs your shoulder and squeezes. “Hey. Is everything alright?" 

The subtle scent of Daphne's perfume washes the memory of ozone from your nose. You peer into her deep brown eyes, the color of river silt, and feel the knot in your throat unspool like thread. "No," you say. "But I will be."

The two of you make your way down the stone path threading through the thicket of plants, which are the closest to “desolate” as Olympus will ever get. Some of them are even beginning to show signs of wilt. It's a shame. Despite the signs of neglect, the flowers unfurling in the undergrowth are still the loveliest shade of pink you’ve ever seen, and the air, though stinking of pollen and rot, will occasionally offer a scent that resembles Lady Aphrodite‘s perfume. 

Daphne kicks away a vine in her path and ducks beneath a stray branch, cursing beneath her breath. “I love Lady Demeter, but she needs to tidy up this place."

You nudge a bee off your shoulder. It clings to your finger, confused, then bobs into the air and flits away. “She’s the goddess of harvest, not gardening.”

She clicks her tongue. “Why do you like it here anyways?”

“It’s quiet.”

“It needs to be weeded.”

“Would you rather we invade Lord Zeus’s throne room?”

She laughs, startled. "Blasphemy!" 

You smile. Your stomach is pleasantly full, and Daphne’s presence soothes the dark whispers in the back of your mind, making it difficult to remember the reason for your poor mood in the first place. "For you, Daphne."

She bumps her shoulder against yours and tugs you down the cobblestone path, which winds through the thicket and spills into a large clearing, marked by a tall bronze statue of Lady Nike, the goddess of victory. Ignoring your protests, Daphne drags you forward and shoulders her way through the crowd gathered at the base of the statue. It's easier than you expect. People shift out of the way once they spot Daphne, some even dipping their heads in a misguided attempt at respect. She ignores them, but you frown, suddenly irritated by their deference. As if she's an object to admire rather than their peer.

“Daphne!” says a white-haired figure—one of Daphne's friends, waiting expectantly at the foot of the statue with the rest of her posse. Her smile twitches when she spots you, but it returns full force as Daphne returns the greeting with a wave. “Join us. We saved a spot for you!”

"Thanks, but I'm good!" Daphne hooks her elbow with yours. "Maybe next time."

The other nymph glances at you, and you do your best to smile unassumingly. You don't recognize her, but her eyes narrow in clear distaste, and she turns her back with a haughty sniff that's audible even at this distance. You wince. Daphne, for her part, doesn't look too bothered by it, and tugs you forward with a hum. 

"Do you want to join her?" you ask. "She seems, um, nice."

"Sure," Daphne says, "but she didn't want you there." She turns slightly and shoots you a grin. "Besides, who'll drag your ass away from trouble if not me?"

You bite down on a relieved laugh and allow yourself to be pulled along. The two of you make it to the front of the crowd with all of your limbs in tact, a feat made only possible by Daphne's sheer force of will, and settle down as a voice to ring out through the garden.

“Is everyone here?”

You turn your head at the declaration, squinting past the halo of light ringing the statue. Someone's standing on Lady Nike's crown—a tall woman with flame-bright hair and flowing robes.

Lady Hestia's eyes gleam as she waits for the crowd to still. Despite her distance from the ground, her voice carries across the clearing, clear and crisp. A clever magic trick, you suppose. Lady Hestia may be subtler than her brethren, but she is still a goddess, prone to the same bouts of fancies as her brothers. It shows in her worshipers, and it shows now as she stands, the tails of her flame-colored dress flapping in the wind. The sun wreathes her in gold, caressing the blazing goddess of the hearth. 

"I have an announcement to make." She waits, and then smiles. "Just last night, the Oracle was born. My brother, Lord Zeus, saw to it personally and confirmed the existence of her Sight.” 

A stunned silence. Then, cheers. After all, an Oracle is only born to announce the advent of a new age of heroism or to translate a message from the gods. 

Only Daphne looks concerned. She darts a look at you, her clever mind connecting the dots faster than you can refute them. Your nails bite into your palms, and you shake your head before she can ask. “Later,” you mouth. She hesitates, and then squeezes your wrist. Okay. 

Lady Hestia holds up a hand, and the celebration subsides. Her mirth infects her voice. “That isn’t all,” she says. “You may be wondering what message is important enough for the birth of an Oracle. This is because the next Valhalla conference is scheduled for the end of the century.”

“Valhalla?” someone next to you blurts out.

“Oh no,” Daphne groans, pinching her brow.

She’s not the only one who is apprehensive. The crowd begins to shuffle and mutter their complaints. 

Lady Hestia ignores it. “In addition,” she continues, “the Norse have announced their intention to stay at Mount Olympus. They will be staying with us from now until the beginning of the conference.”

You grip your arm and shiver as the murmurs shift once more, rising with excitement. More gods. Fantastic. 

It’s obvious why everyone is thrilled to hear the news. The Norse gods are as beautiful as the icy peaks they hail from, and they don’t bother opening their mouth to say stupid things that turn people away. There are exceptions—Lord Loki and Lady Sif especially—but for the most part, they are genial, if not standoffish. Sometimes, you wonder if it's better to serve the Olympians, whose attention spells disaster, or the Norse, who don’t acknowledge your existence at all. 

As the noise continues to climb, Lady Hestia’s humor vanishes. She claps her hands, and the sound cracks through the garden like thunder. The air cools several degrees—not because she is ice, but because she is fire and can withdraw her warmth from the world just as easily as a child steals a treat from the kitchen table. The mutters halt. 

“I don’t want to hear complaints,” she states. “You are servants of the gods, blessed by the hearth. Do not disgrace me.” 

Lady Hestia’s molten gaze wanders through the garden, lingering on each person. When it lands on your corner of the garden, Daphne grabs your hand and digs her fingers into your wrist. You wince and pat her, making an effort to keep your expression neutral. 

Then Lady Hestia smiles, and you’re not the only one who lets out a sigh of relief. “Off you go, then,” she says cheerfully. “You’ll receive your assignments soon.”

After a while, the crowd dissipates, though somewhat sluggishly as they struggle to throw off the remnants of Lady Hestia's anger. Instead of following them, you turn towards Daphne and pitch your voice low. “Are you alright?” 

Daphne blinks slowly, her lips slightly parted. “Sorry," she says after a moment. "Just startled."

Your concern fades into resigned acceptance. Of course. Lady Hestia isn’t frightening, at least not in the same way Lord Hermes or Lord Zeus are, but her disappointment can be just as daunting. You brush a piece of curled hair from her eyes and cup her jaw gently, tilting her face towards you. “We’ll be together,” you remind her.

Daphne flashes you a sallow smile and nuzzles into your hand.  “I hope so. As long as Lady Hestia doesn't get too finicky with her—“

“With my what?”

You wrench your hand away and whirl around. At the sight of colors like the tongues of a flickering flame, you sink into a bow, lowering your head to the ground. Daphne does the same. 

“My lady,” you say.

"Nothing, my lady," Daphne says quickly.

How did Lady Hestia get down here so fast? You didn’t see her climb down the statue, but now she’s close enough that the heat emanating from her skin causes a bead of sweat to drip down your collarbone. You stare at the grass beneath your feet and pray for her to be in a forgiving mood. 

“Look up,” says Lady Hestia. 

You obey. Lady Hestia’s eyes are a shade closer to white than yellow, curved with amusement. "It's been a while, hasn't it been?" she asks, reaching to brush your face with her fingers.

Yes, it has. 

Daphne lets out a choked sigh, something like absolute adoration coloring her expression. To some degree, you understand. It’s not the first time you’ve seen Lady Hestia and it certainly won’t be the last, but her beauty strikes you all the same. Her auburn hair is the color of the hearth, threaded with intermittent gold and brown and gathered into a loose crown that spills over her shoulders. Though she's clothed simply in a sleeveless dress, cinched at the waist by a golden rope that trails into scarlet tassels, she carries herself with the self-assured grace of a grandmother storyteller. She radiates a mother’s warmth, a sister’s mirth, and an aunt’s affection at once. 

The goddess of the hearth is the is the closest thing to kind as a god will ever be, and her brilliance stings. You close your eyes as her fingers graze your cheek. You sense her gaze flick towards the bruises shining on your neck. Abruptly, the air smells like burnt pine.

"Come with me," Lady Hestia says. "I have a special assignment for you.”

Your breath hitches, and your eyes snap open. An instinctual denial rises to the tip of your tongue. Then Lady Hestia chuckles and flicks a wrist, her bangles jingling with the movement. “Don’t look at me like that,” she chides. “I’m not leading you to your execution.” 

Ah.

You lower your head. “Do with me as you wish, my lady," you say, and it is the truth.

“Well, let’s not phrase it like that,” Lady Hestia says, wincing. “Daphne, you may go.”

Daphne jolts. Your gazes lock briefly, and a determined set comes over her face. "My lady, are you sure? That is to say, I would be delighted to offer my services as well—"

"I wish to speak to your friend alone, Daphne," Lady Hestia says. Daphne stops short of protesting, a frown flitting across her mouth. If Hestia notices her frustration, she gives no indication. "Surely you would not protest?"

Daphne's cheeks redden. She curtsies. "Of course not, my lady. Sorry. Er, then I'll take my leave."

Before she leaves, she shoots you a pointed look. What's going on? You shrug, an old anxiety knotting your tongue. Her brow knits, and she mouths, Do you need me to stay?

You don’t want to be left alone, much less with a goddess. But Daphne has spent last few days slaving away on your behalf, and you can’t possibly ask more of her. So you shake your head and watch her slip out of the garden, something like exasperation tightening her shoulders.

Finally, the two of you are alone. You fold your hands in front of you and bow your hand, waiting with bated breath for your verdict. Lady Hestia's gaze never leaves you. It's as unnerving as if the sun stopped its rotation through the sky and started following you through the undergrowth.

"How long have you known Daphne?" she asks once Daphne is out of earshot. 

“Since I first arrived, my lady," you murmur.

“And what do you think of her abrasiveness?"

There’s an odd dissonance between the question and the lady’s carefully angled head, cocked so that only the elegant slope of her nose and cheekbones are visible. A dull anger stirs in your stomach at the implication, but you force it down with a deep breath. 

“She’s the best of us,” you say honestly. “If you need an assistant, she’d be the first I’d recommend.”

Lady Hestia laughs, and the jagged edges of her smile softens until she resembles the gentle scullery maid from your youth who'd snuck you still-warm pastries wrapped in cloth. “Good," she says, and you release a breath, not knowing why she'd been testing you, only that you'd passed. "Walk with me."

Lady Hestia strolls towards the palace, and you scramble to follow her. Her pace is brisk but conversational, making you feel like a child chasing after their mother. The fernery brush their leaves against her legs as she winds through the garden, while gnarled trees groan as they remove their roots from her path. You settle in a comfortable pace behind her, watching in amazement as nature twists and molds itself for her viewing pleasure. 

She plucks a falling petal from the sky absentmindedly and rubs it between her fingers. "The assignment I spoke of is rather sensitive in nature. I expect you to treat it with the gravity it deserves."

You swallow, tracing the sturdy curves of her back. "I understand."

"Good. I want you to oversee the preparations for the Valkyries.”

You blink.

"I see,” you say. You don't know if you should consider this a promotion or a demotion. 

Lady Hestia laughs and glances over her shoulder. “It’s a daunting task, I know. They don’t exactly make it easy for us.”

No kidding. The Valkyries are reclusive, notoriously so. In your many years of service, you can count the number of times you’ve seen them on one hand—a glimpse of dark hair here, a golden belt there. You fidget. “So why me, my lady?”

She shrugs. “How long have you been on Olympus, my dear?”

Forty-eight hundred years, five months, and two days. “Five millennia,” you say.

“And I’ve watched you for five millennia,” she says. On instinct, you flinch, and she chuckles. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m the goddess of the hearth. I watch everyone. I’ve seen you help a maid sneak out in the middle of the night to meet her godly lover. You lied to your superior and diverted punishment to you, even though you would’ve easily earned the housekeeper’s favor if you confessed to the whereabouts of a stranger you owe nothing to. I’ve heard every prayer you whisper to the hearth, and none of them have been for yourself.”

Before you can fully process her statement, Lady Hestia stops in the middle of the path, making you stumble to a halt. She turns, dress rustling with the movement, and rests a warm hand on your shoulder. Her skin is nearly scalding.

“I know that your circumstances upon arriving here weren’t ideal,” she says softly, “but you’ve persevered in spite of everything. And I believe that makes you worthy of my consideration.”

Her praise grates. “My lady, I don’t understand. Why not Daphne? Why not someone with more experience on the Valkyries?”

“The Valkyries are not..." She pauses, and frowns. "Well. They are not beloved by my siblings, and I’m afraid that sentiment spreads to the servants who serve them. But you did not throw your friend to the wolves at the chance of raising your own status, and you did not flinch when I mentioned the Valkyries. That says something, don't you think?"

"But my lady—" Your tongue twists. You fall silent. 

Lady Hestia's head tilts. The sun is setting now, and it throws its golden rays upon her head, setting the tips of her hair ablaze. "Is there something you want to say?"

Yes, you think. Why now? Why here? You say, "I don't mean to question your decision, my lady. But I have little experience when it comes to accommodating guests of their caliber."

"Didn't you prepare Olympus for my brothers?" Lady Hestia asks. "Didn't you serve Hypnos when he first stumbled out of the House of Nyx?"

You bite your lip and stare at your feet. Lady Hestia's fingers brush through your hair and lingers near your jaw. "I know what you want to say," she says softly, "but your doubts are unfounded. You are who I choose, and I trust your abilities." The look that she gives you—gentle, appraising—makes you think that she knows, and you flush at how easily your fears have been read, how Lady Hestia can shatter your defenses by offering you respect.

The only thing left to do, then, is to nod and accept.

“I will,” you say.

Lady Hestia nods as if she’s expecting the answer. “Good. Give them a god’s welcome, hm? Show them Lady Hestia’s grace.”

You fold your arms in front of you and bow, as low as you can make it. “I’ll do my best to meet your expectations, my lady.”

Lady Hestia raises her arms as if to embrace you, and then thinks better of it. Instead, she tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and lingers her fingers on your cheek, carefully tender.

“You will. I’m sure of it.”

--

Ask anyone in the palace what the difference between a good servant and a great one is, and there's a high likelihood their answers are the same. 

First: a thorough knowledge of the guest’s preferences. Second: a willingness to nudge into their personal lives (and the spine to deal with the inevitable backlash). Third: a firm belief in the power of warm baths. After all, an uncomfortable god is an unhappy god, and an unhappy god spells disaster. 

This time, the stakes are higher than simply losing your job; you might lose your life if you offend the Valkyries, or worse, the Norse gods, with a mediocre welcome. 

So the moment your schedule spares you some space to breathe, you head towards the palace library. 

Part of you thinks that your former tutor would be proud. You used to pout and whine when it came time for your lessons, and—when that didn’t work—scream and threaten to fire him, never mind that you were a snot-nosed brat with illusions of grandeur and he was a scholar recognized by the king. Now, you're studying of your own volition. Oh, how he'd cry.

The library is homely in the way the rest of the palace decidedly isn't—modest wood instead of grand quartz, two floors lit by amber lamps that burn warmly, washing the hall in gold. Each breath fills your lungs with flakes of yellowing paper. As you walk inside, you bump your hip against a cart stacked with books. 

You flinch as a screech splits the air. Across the entrance hall, the stern-looking librarian glares at you from behind his desk. His eyes are tinged yellow by the lamps.

You bow, cheeks reddening. "I apologize."

He stabs his quill into the inkwell with a fierce frown, probably imagining the inkwell to be your face. "Watch your step."

The scratch of his quill follows you as you slip meekly deeper into the library. As you glance around, your embarrassment fades into wonder.

No wonder he is so protective, you think, running your fingers down the spine of each carefully bound tome. Half of the books predate humanity. The other half are penned by names scorched in human consciousness: Zhu Geliang, Leonardo da Vinci, Dante Alighieri... 

A discrepancy makes you pause. Your brow furrows as you glance back down the shelf, noting the titles and authors. But only their best works, the ones known and published; no previously undiscovered works, hidden journals, or private letters.

For a library of the gods, it is nowhere as comprehensive as you'd expected. Perhaps this level of depth is to be expected, given that most visitors who peruse the palace library are servants who have little time for reading, content with simple understandings of topics, but you are still disappointed. 

If you had the choice, you'd be browsing the Revived Library of Alexandria at the base of Olympus, not foraging for scraps in a curated selection guarded by a stingy librarian with yellow eyes. Unfortunately, you're given little choice in the matter. Only those authorized by Lord Zeus may leave the palace, and you doubt the lord thinks very highly of you after your last encounter. 

You spend the rest of the day shoved into a dark corner of the library, suffocating in the scent of leather and rotting paper. As time ticks by, the pile of discarded books at your elbow grows taller and taller, while the list of useful information you've found remains at a pitiful zero.

When another book repeats the same spiel as the last half-dozen—the Valkyries are female warriors of Odin’s court. Little is known about their past before they ascended to semi-divinity, as there is no need to document the lives of such minor deities—you put your head in your hands and stifle a scream. Darkness creeps along the edges of your vision.

It's obvious that the gods don’t like the Valkyries. They don’t like talking about their background, they don’t like glorifying their victories, and they certainly don’t like acknowledging these barely divine half-goddesses have earned seats at the right hand of the Allfather. What little information you find dismisses them as amateur warriors—powerful, yes, but young and minor, ultimately unworthy of a paragraph in the history books. 

You're beginning to hate that word, minor. Who decides who is immortalized in text? What gives them the right to rewrite the truth so easily? 

It’s infuriating. You want to strangle the authors for glazing over such a large part of godly history.

As you bemoan Olympian censorship, shadow falls over your figure. You lift your head from your hands to see the librarian frowning at you. He's holding up gas lamp, though it's been enchanted to keep oil from spilling.

His voice is gruff. Whether that's from disuse or his natural timbre, you're uncertain. "You should go back. It's late."

You lurch in your seat. Darkness swallows the view outside the window, and you scramble to gather the books scattered across the table, blushing at pages of random notes you've scratched down. "Have I overstayed my welcome? I apologize. I'll return these as soon as possible."

He stops you with a hand and gestures sharply towards the door. "No. Go back. I'll take care of them." 

"There's no need—" you begin.

The librarian's eyes gleam softer in the lamplight, though maybe it also has something to do the relaxing of his brow or the fact that he no longer looks like he wants to stab you with a quill. "You need to rest. I respect your diligence, but I will not let a promising young student run themselves to the ground."

You stifle a snort of disbelief. Diligent young student? "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine, lord...?" you say, inclining your head.

"Niccolo. And it's been eight hours," he deadpans.

It takes some effort to keep the shock from your face. No wonder your stomach is cramping. "I see. Then I apologize for taking up your time, lord Niccolo. I'll leave soon."

Niccolo sighs, pinching his brow. "First: don't call me lord. Niccolo is fine. Second: You're an idiot. That's not the problem here."

"Pardon?"

"Just go," Niccolo says, waving a hand. "And consider asking me for assistance if you have a book in mind."

You hesitate, and then duck your head in a bow. "Thank you." He nods, and the last you see of him is his back curved over your table, handling the books with the gentleness of a father with his children.

You find Daphne in her room, head bowed over some paperwork or another. She barely looks up when you step inside, only jolting to attention when you lean over her shoulder and tug on a loose piece of her hair. The frustration of the day melts away when her familiar scent fills your senses. 

"No hello?" you tease. 

Daphne blinks and twists in her chair. Your smile flickers at the sight of her eye-bags. "You're back," she says. Or croaks, rather, making you cock an eyebrow. Flushing, she clears her throat, and her next words come out airy and full of forced cheer. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"You can't get rid of me that easily," you say, drifting a hand through her hair and tilting her head up to face you. Then softer, "What's wrong?"

Her mouth twists. “Just trouble with work."

Ah. Guilt strikes you like a hammer. "The Norse gods."

"Yeah." 

You slip your hand through her fingers and squeeze. She squeezes back. "Do you want to talk about it?" you ask.

Daphne shakes her head. Her mouth twitches in self-deprecating humor. "It's just gossip," she says. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Her arms dart out, and she tangles them around your waist and pulls you towards her bed. You catch a glimpse of red half-moons on her wrists before you fall in a plume of pillows and blankets. Daphne always pinches her arms to stop herself from crying.

"Tell me about your day," Daphne murmurs into your shoulder, too muffled for you to decipher her emotions. Perhaps that had been the point. 

A clear diversion. You hesitate, and then wrap your arms around her shoulders and rest your chin on the crown of her head. You'll play along for now.

"What is there to say? I've made no progress at all," you admit. "I'm starting to think it's hopeless."

Daphne makes a noise of sympathy. You close your eyes as her hand drifts over your back to brush through your hair, smoothing out the tangles that formed while you were hunched over in the library. "Have you tried asking around?"

"I doubt that will help."

Over the years, you've discovered that your presence garners one of three reactions: apathy, apprehension, or scorn. The former is preferable to the latter two, so you've learned to section yourself off, limiting your interaction to select members of the household. Most barely know your name, and the ones who do treat you with the dismissive politeness of near strangers.  

Of course, Daphne's never had that problem. She's always been surrounded by a group of friends, attracted to her wit and hopelessly charmed by her kindness. More than that, she’s respected. There’s not much you can do to discredit one of the oldest servants in Olympus. 

Daphne's fingers twist through your hair, a soothing motion that lulls you to sleep. "You'll never know if you don't try."

"Will you help, then?" you ask, half-joking. "Fend off my enemies with a sword? Defend my honor until the end of your days?"

A sharp jab to your forehead jolts you out of your sleepiness. Daphne is smiling, her eyes gleaming, poised as if prepared to spring from her bed and lunge for the people who may or may not have wronged you. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and her heart is prone to impulsive decisions, a habit she's never managed to shake off from her younger years. 

"What kind of question is that? Of course I would," she declares. You laugh.

--

“Valkyries?” Asta asks as you hang up bed sheets to dry in the sun. “You’re looking for the Valkyries?”

You're careful to avoid her eyes as you pinch a clothespin between your teeth. “Do you know anything?” 

Asta adjusts the basket on her hip and fiddles with a piece of her ash-blonde hair. The action tickles a memory in the back of your mind, the night you'd prattled on and on about the benefits of certain curtain patterns to an irate housekeeper so a small blonde figure could clamber out the window unnoticed. Is that why she's so eager to speak with you?

“I met the eldest sister while I still served the Norse gods,” Asta explains, biting her inner cheek. “That was a couple of decades ago, but I still remember her clearly. The lady is not easy to forget.”

You almost drop your basket of laundry. “Really? Can you tell me about her?” 

By now, your conversation has piqued the interest of the rest of the servants in the courtyard. They inch closer, curiosity and hostility alike shining on their faces—curiosity, because gossip about the Valkyries is coveted like jewels; hostility for obvious reasons. You ignore them, focused on Asta. 

Asta blushes under your intense gaze, but bites her lip and nods. “What do you need to know?” 

“Everything." 

The information she gives you only fills up half of a page. But it’s the farthest progress you’ve made since Tuesday, and you give her a bow before rushing out of the courtyard as soon as the shift is over. 

The story goes like this. Apparently, Asta once ran into the eldest Valkyrie sister, Brunhilde, in the kitchen making horrible licorice pies in the middle of the night. Brunhilde had given her a smile so terrible that Asta had fled without a second thought. 

Daphne frowns when you tell her the story. She's arranging a collection of dishes on a tray to take to a godly guest. When you finish, she places a glass of wine down with a harsh clatter. “Is that all? That doesn't seem very helpful," she says, strangely snappish. 

But to you, it’s the greatest piece of news you heard in a while. The story tells you that Lady Brunhilde is a night owl, enjoys the weirder things in life, and—judging by her reaction to Asta’s unexpected arrival, which sounds less like malice and more like the awkwardness of having a total stranger stumble upon your late night antics—kinder than she appears.

You tell Daphne as much. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. She musters a triumphant grin. “What did I say? Told you talking to people would help.”

"You're always right," you say, nodding. "I should've never doubted you."

"Damn straight."

When she turns, her sleeves ride up to reveal a trail of marks on her inner wrists. She leaves before you can ask about them.

--

It thunders that morning, though with no apparent source. Daphne frowns and tugs your attention towards the window, and you gaze up at the shining sky, with barely a cloud to block Lord Apollo's radiance. Beads of humidity gather on your lips. You lick them, tasting salt and electricity. 

“Storm incoming?" Daphne asks, tugging a brush through her stubborn hair. 

Storms aren’t allowed on Olympus without Lord Zeus’s permission. You shudder, unable to shake off a deep feeling of dread. "Strange," you murmur. 

You're not given must time to contemplate it. As the celebratory banquet for the Norse gods draws nearer and nearer, the kitchen grows frenzied with desperation. 

“Where are the cleaners?” the chef roars. “For fuck’s sake, there are enough dishes in the sink to make a damn tower.”

“The shipment of potatoes hasn't arrived yet,” fusses the scullery maid, flitting through the kitchen like a nervous beetle. “And dinner is in an hour!”

“Make sure every speck of dirt is washed off of those vegetables,” the housekeeper snaps as she looms over the staff. She slaps a maid when she stumbles, and the poor girl crumples to the floor from a combination of pain and exhaustion. “Neither Lady Hestia nor I will tolerate any mistakes.”

As the maid’s friends rush forward to wipe her tears and help her to her feet, you hunch over the sink and focus on scrubbing the carrots until they’re raw. Usually, Daphne’s presence keeps the boredom at bay, but she’s busy trying to keep the Norse gods happy, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except that your thoughts tend to wander to unpleasant places when you’re bored.

As you scrub vegetables and toss them into a bin, the memory of the port city on the edge of the glittering sea floats to the forefront of your thoughts. There used to be a bakery at the base of the palace that sold the sweetest honey buns, and the old baker with his curled mustache would save a tray for you. When you bit into them, the bread melted in your mouth, oozing with honey and hot with steam. "Anything for you," he'd say if you asked for more, and watch fondly as you devoured bun after bun like a child possessed.

With a sudden pang of melancholy, you shut off the cold spray of water and dry your hands on a towel. You miss being a spoiled and lazy brat, breathing in the salty breeze and reaching out a hand to kiss the spray of seawater with your fingertips. You miss the sound of wagons and merchants advertising their wares. You miss home.

The sound of uneven steps jolts you out of your self-deprecating musings, and you turn around just in time for someone to push their entire weight against your side. You stumble, spotting a head of dark curls pressed to your upper arm and smelling salty pine. 

“Daphne?" you ask, incredulous. "What are you doing here?”

Your pleasant surprise fades to worry as her muteness stretches on. Startled, you tilt her chin up. Her red-eyed expression is strangely familiar. “Daphne?” you repeat, softer. 

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out. 

Her meekness unnerves you. “What? Are you okay? What happened? Why are you apologizing?”

She doesn’t reply. The collar of her shirt is uneven, like she’d tried to button it with shaking hands. She stumbles, and you catch her before she falls into the basket of carrots. Her hair smells like poison and ice.

The housekeeper is glaring at you from across the kitchen, tapping her foot impatiently. You panic. 

“Daphne and I will be taking a short break,” you blurt out, and rush out of the kitchen before the housekeeper can deny your request. 

The storage room is cold and smells like dirt, but the walls are thick enough that the noise of the kitchen dies down to a faint murmur. You haul over an empty vegetable crate and have Daphne sit down. She does, and alarm rushes through you. It must be bad if she allows herself to be maneuvered so easily.

You kneel at feet and clasp her hands. She’s colder than stone. “What’s wrong, Daphne? Why did you come here?” 

She’s silent. 

That’s fine. You rub her knuckles with your thumb and wait. Finally, after an eternity and a half, she shifts her weight and squeezes your hands. She’s not crying, but it’s a close thing. If you let go of her, she will shatter, just like how your brother shattered in your arms.

“That day,” Daphne says. Her voice is a raspy whisper. “When you came to me in tears… did it have something to do with the gods?”

Confused, you shake your head. Your heart twinges pathetically at the mention of that day, but time has dulled the wound enough that you simply ignore it. “That was weeks ago,” you say. “It doesn't matter."

Her nails dig into your flesh. You bite back a hiss. “It matters! It matters a lot.”

"Daphne?” you ask. 

Her brown eyes meet yours, swollen and rimmed with red. Dread sinks into you like a slow-acting poison.

“Lord Hermes came to me a few days before that. He asked about you," Daphne says.

Your blood freezes.

“What?”

“I told him everything I knew. I thought I was helping you, but he wasn’t talking about a promotion, was he?” Daphne inhales shakily. “Did he have something to do with the bruises on your neck?”

A snarling beast of fear and unease claws your stomach. You stare at the spot above her head until you’re sure you’re not going to scream. 

Yes, you know why Daphne’s expression is so familiar. It’s the same expression you’d seen reflected on the polished granite floor when you returned from Lord Zeus’s chambers, all the hurt and outrage and shameful excitement of being acknowledged by a god rolled into one package.

“Did Lord Loki do something to you?” you ask instead.

Daphne’s silence is the only answer you need. Someone snarls. It’s only when Daphne flinches that you realize it’s you.

“Was it my fault?” She’s crying. Oh, gods above and below, Daphne of Peneus is crying, and you have no idea how to help her. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”

“You could never hurt me,” you whisper, squeezing her hands. “Never. You’re my adelfí, Daphne.”

“I don’t deserve to be your anything,” Daphne whispers, red-faced and teary. “Gods, I’m the worst friend— I don’t deserve your sympathy, I’m so, so fucking sorry—“

You close your eyes so you don’t reveal how close you are to begging. “Don’t say that. Please. I can fix this, Daphne. I promise I will. Did Loki touch you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“So what did he do?”

Daphne bits her lip and bends over, shaking. The only thing you can do is hold her tightly and recite every curse you know in your head. "We need to tell someone,” you say once the urge to slaughter the gods passes. 

“No one will believe us,” she says with a wet laugh. “Remember our place.” 

“We can report it to Lady Hestia, and then—“

And then what? Lady Hestia had only chosen you because she admired your selflessness and neutrality. If you begged for her to help one of your closest friends, what would she think? That you were taking advantage of her favoritism to direct her ire towards someone you didn’t like?

Your abrupt silence tells Daphne everything. She gives you a watery smile and slips her hand out of your grasp, and you’re left holding air, gaping at nothing and wishing that the gods spared kind people like Daphne the pain of their attention. 

“Nothing happened,” Daphne says, her voice cracking halfway through. “It was an accident.”

“Daphne—“ you start.

“Drop it, okay?” she bites out. 

Your throat tightens. So you drop it and spend the next few minutes listening to her heavy breaths as she tries (and fails) to collect herself. Her fingers tremble as she braids her hair, and you know you’ve never been capable of murder but you’d learn, just for her.

You hear yourself speak. 

“Where is Loki’s room?”

--

All of the lines you’d rehearsed fly out the window when your eyes land on the Norse god of mischief. 

Loki's room is dark when you step inside. It’s smaller than Lord Zeus’s, but the emptiness makes it feel multiple times larger. You count a total of three pieces of furniture—a couch, a TV, and a pedestal in the middle of the room displaying a shallow silver bowl. The only source of light is the TV pressed to the opposite wall, illuminating the god's hunched figure. 

Loki himself isn’t the terrorizer of servants you’re expecting. In fact, he’s insultingly pretty, tall and slim with a streak of white in his dark bangs that reeks of teenage rebellion. His black clothes are patterned to strategically reveal strips of ivory skin on his chest and hips, and he arranges himself on the couch in a pile of spidery limbs, leg slung over one armrest and arm dangling off the other.

You hate him on sight.

As you close the doors behind you, Loki turns off the TV. “Back so soon? I thought you would’ve run by now.”

A million and one retorts flash through your mind, scathing in their criticism. But you discard them all, standing frozen at the entrance with your nails digging into the flesh of your palm. His voice is the worst part. Lilting and playful, like the lives of mortals are nothing but games to him. 

You find your words. “I’m not Daphne. My name is—”

Loki yawns. “Did I ask?”

A quiet rage creeps over your neck and flushes your face. Look at me, you want to scream. Turn around and look at me.

You drop all pretenses of civility. “Daphne is my friend. I want to know why you hurt her.”

Loki twists in his seat, and you are happy to report that his eyes are just as terrifying as Lord Hermes’s, narrow and bruise-purple. Irritation turns to surprise, then interest as he takes you in from head to toe. He cocks his head, slow and viper-like. “So you’re the human from her memories.”

“Yes. And I—”

“The one who got Uncle Zeus’s panties all in a twist?”

Your indignation fizzles out into bewilderment. Loki gathers himself off the couch and prowls towards you, and you can’t suppress a flinch as he rakes his eyes up and down your body. His gaze feels like a snake, coiling around your limbs.

What Loki sees must please him, because he grins. “It is you!” he says, delighted. “Oh, this is wonderful! You spared me the trouble of looking for you myself.”

You want to take a step back, but doing so would only reveal your weakness. So you shake off the icy derision of his attention and force yourself to meet his eyes.

“That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Really? I have so many questions for you.” Loki leans closer, and you catch a hint of bitterness in his cologne. He brings his lips next to your ear, and his voice lowers into a purr, hauntingly intimate. “For example. What did you do to Uncle Zeus?”

His voice sends shivers down your spine. Your hands curl into fists. “I didn’t do anything to Lord Zeus.”

Loki laughs. His pupils are horizontal slits, a slash of black across violet. “You’re lying. Uncle Zeus is usually so grumpy around this time of year, but he didn’t even try to fight anyone when we arrived. When I learned that it’s because of some human, and—I’ll kill you if you tell anyone that I said this—I thought he’d lost his mind. So what did you do?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you snap. “I’m here because you hurt my friend. I want to know what gives you the right to do so.”

Your question gives Loki pause. He steps back and re-evaluates you, something dark slithering into his smile. Then he shrugs.

“Sweetheart, I’m a god. I can do anything I want,” he drawls. “Who cares about a little river nymph? She’s nothing.”

She’s not nothing. She’s Daphne, who made a place in her heart for the trembling human on her doorstep who was freshly plucked from the mortal realm, who cried at the mere possibility of hurting you.

You bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t snarl an insult and get yourself killed for your efforts. The taste of copper cools the flame boiling in your blood, and you manage to meet Loki’s eyes.

“What did you tell her?” you ask, low. 

Loki examines his nails. “Only the truth. That Hermes was the one who put those bruises around your neck, and that you didn’t tell her because you knew she caused it.”

“You made Daphne cry— No, you ruined her confidence with a lie?” you spit. “She thought she hurt me. She was ready to quit!”

That makes Loki cock an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says, slow and mocking. “I’m Loki Laufeyson, Father of Lies, god of mischief and trickery. Lying is what I do.” He glides a finger down your jaw as you clench it and smiles. “There, there. Don’t cry. Now it’s your turn.”

His touch burns. When you don’t respond, Loki heaves a sigh. “This is why I hate mortals,” he complains. “I always have to do things myself.”

Before you can protest, long fingers dig into your brain and pry it apart. It’s disgusting, filthy, like a worm settling in the cavity between bone and flesh, and you stumble backwards, grabbing your head as if that will somehow stop the images flashing through your mind. 

No. Not images. Memories. 

A large hand leading you to the seaside and teaching you how to dip your fingers beneath the waves and feel the sifting sand; giggling as you hide from the chef’s stern gaze, stolen pastry warm and gooey in your mouth; looking at a golden apple and dreading the answer that spills from the lips of the man knelt at the foot of the dais—

“What’s this?” Loki purrs. He yanks.

A brief flash of light, and Loki is settling into a new face, a new body, all tumbling hair and golden robes and a crooked smile that shines like starlight. Your forehead throbs, and you fall to the floor in a heap.  

Pain ricochets through your bones. You glance up, and she’s standing in front of you. A few things you recognize in yourself: her mouth, her ears, the way her neck slopes into her shoulders. The rest are wholly her.

Loki-not-Loki examines his new hands. “You’re holding out on me!” he says through her lips, in her voice. He twirls, her dress spinning softly at his feet. “How do I look?” 

Beautiful, you think. Like starlight. Like amber. But you can’t say any of those things, because Loki splinters her effortless grace with his glee, warping her kindness with the perverse pleasure he takes in watching you shatter into pieces.

“Turn back.”

Your voice is practically a whisper, but Loki hears it anyway. He contorts her features into a dramatic pout. “Rude. Is this how you treat all your friends and family?” He pauses, annoyed. “Who is this girl? How are you blocking out those memories from me?”

“She’s important to me,” is the only thing you can say.

“Even more important than your little nymph friend?”

You’re silent. 

The face Loki is wearing contorts in a grin that doesn’t suit her at all, because a proper lady never shows her teeth when she smiles. “She cried, didn’t she? Your little nymph.”

Your jaw clenches. Loki’s shoes tap a hypnotizing pattern as he circles you. He’s shorter in the new body, but you can’t look above his collarbone before flinching.

“I’ve seen your memories. It’s a strange way to be friends,” Loki muses. “Seems like you’re too fixated on your own problems to help her, even though she drops everything for you.”

That’s right. Daphne. You cling to the image of her warm smile and her glittering eyes, dark as bark and fresh rain. “That’s not true,” you hiss. 

Loki throws his head back and laughs an ugly, brutal laugh. “If you care so much, then why don’t you help her?” He looks down at his new hands and inspects them. “Well, you’ve survived this long with so many secrets. What’s to say you don’t have one more? It’s not difficult to fake a friendship, especially when you have a pretty face, and isn’t that what you do best? Pretending to be selfless, pretending to be no one, pretending to love her.” 

Something snaps.

Pain stings your palms. When you uncurl your fists, blood drips down your hand. 

Pleasure flickers across Loki’s face. He laces his fingers beneath his chin, vindication and malice coloring his triumph. Colors twist beneath his skin. You blink, and his arm turns into a spiderweb of red tissue and scars, shimmering beneath his transformation and snaking up his arm. Ugly scars. Lightning scars.

And then you understand. The crash of thunder in the morning, the venom dripping from Loki’s words—you understand.

It’s never been about Daphne at all. 

Your anger rushes out of you in one fell swoop, leaving behind a deep well of exhaustion. “Do you really believe that? That relationships are so easily torn apart by your words?”

His smile stiffens, losing some of that sickening cheer. “Excuse me?”

You gather yourself to your feet, the scrapes on your knees stinging. The pieces slot together like a puzzle, and the amount of sense it makes sickens you. Loki’s words hide a layer of desperation that you recognize all too well, peeling apart Daphne’s psyche until the festering wounds are exposed to the air and you have an excuse, a reason to express your hatred. But you don’t think it’s you he’s trying to convince. 

Familial love is like fire, warming a heart just as easily as it turns it into ashes. That’s why Lord Zeus had mistaken it for a weakness. Loki, too, because anything that has the potential to hurt you must be a weakness.

But they’re wrong.

You called your siblings a lot of things, most of which were insults and poorly veiled threats for them to stop poking their noses in your business. But the one thing you never told them was the truth—that your first brother may have been awful at keeping secrets but he spun words into tragedies and epics like threads of moonlight; that your second brother was loved despite the fact that he was a piece of shit who died too young; that your sister’s kindness and stubborn refusal to listen to your advice would conquer the world. You called them asses and idiots to their faces, and when you received news of their death some decades later, you regretted the words never spoken.

It took you another thousand years to realize that you didn’t need to say anything at all. For all of your squabbles and tantrums, your first brother would always save you a plate of honey buns at the dinner table; your second brother’s words stung harshly, but none harsher than the ones he flung at your detractors; and your sister would rebuild the world in your name, and you, for her. 

The same applies to godly siblings, no matter how much they try to distance themselves from fragile, imperfect mortals. Gods are capable of love. Perhaps they even deserve it.

“I think I understand,” you say. “Lord Thor hurt you, so you lashed out, desperate to prove that relationships are inherently flawed, that the world has some intrinsic trait that makes it cruel. But you’re wrong.”

Loki’s expression dives from mild irritation to genuine anger. A pair of slim daggers slip from his palms. “You insolent—” 

“I’ve never heard of a wordsmith who resorts to violence.”

Loki's mouth twists. “Maybe actions speak louder than words."

And that’s exactly it, isn’t it? Loki is far too clever for his own good. He had read into the thunder god’s mind and came face to face with his demons—that he isn’t loved for anything but an imitation of a nephew.

“May I come closer?” you ask. 

Loki cocks his head. You step towards him, and when he doesn’t try to kill you with his daggers, you trail your hands across his arm and rotate it so that the scars are exposed to the light. When you bend down to kiss cold skin, static prickles your lips, a gift from Lord Thor.

You don’t realize that Loki’s transformation has melted away until you hear the thundering of his heartbeat beneath his skin. He’s stiff as a board, but his daggers remain at his side, gleaming like his eyes.

“I’m sorry that Lord Thor doesn’t love you enough to not hurt you,” you say.

Loki inhales sharply. His arm tenses in your grip, but you refuse to let go, squeezing his skin with labor-rough hands. You linger on the dark red blisters marring his otherwise smooth and pearl-white skin. Loki is a beautiful god; it’s a pity his personality doesn’t match his appearance.

“I’m sorry that you feel the need to disparage others in order to make yourself feel better about your pain.” You squeeze, trying to pour all of your sincerity into the gesture. "But you're not a child lashing at those around him. Be cruel to yourself. Be cruel to Lord Thor. But don't you dare be cruel to me, nor anyone else uninvolved in the matter."

"I'm a god, aren't I?" Loki says, and you glance up and soak in his confusion, his mouth parted and his eyes feverish. You understand the implication. I am a god. Who are you, a human, to decide what I can and cannot do? Who are you to dictate my thoughts, my mind?

"Yes, you are," you say. "You are a god, and I am a human, and I still know more than you. What does that say about you?"

You are not powerful, nor are you favored by one deity or another. All you can do is watch and listen, and you know the gods are bound by their domains as much as they are empowered by them. Trickster god, lie-smith—all accolades to conceal the fact that truth is an alien concept to Loki, an illicit drug he chases endlessly. Why else would he provoke and dig and spite the ones around him, picking at their scabs until they lay bare the entirety of their soul for him to inspect? 

He wants nothing but the truth, and you pity and envy him. 

For once, Loki is silent. You peer into bruise-purple eyes and exhale, slowly and deeply. 

You let him go. 

"I will speak to Lady Hestia about reassigning both myself and Daphne," you say. "I apologize for overstepping. Please excuse me."

Before you can turn away and stride out the door, Loki's hand darts out and catches your wrist. You stumble, a foreign force tugging your backwards. 

Anger rushes over your ears, but whatever admonishments rising on your tongue die when you jerk around and spot the awe spreading across his expression, the same childish exhilaration of a ten year old boy at his birthday celebration. His attention clamps you between steel jaws. 

“So that’s what you did to Uncle,” Loki says breathlessly.

Bewildered, you stare at him. You tug, but he refuses to let go. You try again. No better.

Horror creeps into your confusion. You straighten your stance and try to keep your voice even. “I did nothing to Lord Zeus. Please let go of me." You hope you don't sound like you're begging.

“No, no,” he says, “you must’ve done something, because you’ve insulted and offended me multiple times, but I still don’t want to kill you.” 

Loki pulls you forward in a show of strength ill-fitting for his slim form, and you stagger, chest bumping against his. He clasps your hands in a mockery of a lover’s embrace, and when you graze the scars spreading across his skin, Lord Thor’s lightning jolts down your arm in a warning spark. 

Stunned, you let yourself be dragged to the couch, where Loki sits you down and then crouches down, his hands still intertwined with yours. His grin stretches and wobbles like he doesn't know how to arrange it to be pleasant, but it contains a genuine edge of elation that drowns you under the weight of his expectations and his dark, dark eyes.

“So who are you? What have you done to me?” 

You open your mouth to protest. Then you notice a detail so off-putting that it kills the protests building on your lips and scatters your thoughts into oblivion. 

Loki is blushing.

Your mind goes blank.

What?

Chapter Text

Your touch is a brand, and Loki hates it.

He had tried everything short of cutting his hand off—scrubbing it with holy water, dunking it in lava, even provoking his darling cousin to see if a good bolt of lightning would do the trick. (It didn’t, but the too-eager gleam in Thor’s eyes dissuaded Loki from a second attempt).

No use. You linger, not just your touch, but your scent, your eyes burning with the quiet fury of a mouse pitted against a lion, your voice cracking with the intensity of emotion that spills into your words. 

Loki lets the butter knife twirl across his knuckles, only half-listening to whatever new project Forseti is jabbering about. Across the table, Sif leans over and presses her cleavage to Thor’s arm under the pretense of pouring him more ale. Thor, for his part, remains unmoving and uninterested, though his lips threaten to twitch into a scowl when Sif’s hand drifts down his arm and latches onto his elbow. 

“—works on interdimensional strings, you see, it’s really quite simple,” says Forseti, gesturing to the floating blue hologram. “Well, not really, but the best way I can explain it is like overlapping threads of a tapestry—“

“Fascinating,” says Bokkr, eyes shining just as bright as his brother Eitri’s beside him, and great, the fanatics are going off again. “And how would you construct them?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked! The delicacy of the task can’t be understated. You’re essentially building off a non-existent foundation, so the process is reversed—“

Nothing worth paying attention to. Even the thought of the Greek pantheon suffering similarly boring presentations a palace away can’t stop a yawn from splitting Loki’s jaw. He draws his wine glass closer and sips at it. 

Ugh. Too rich. 

Grimacing, Loki shoves the glass away. Your spitting condemnation rings in his ears like the toll of a bell. 

You’re a god, not a child, you had said, and even the throbbing of his heart hadn’t been able to assuage the laughter that wanted to bubble past his lips, almost hysterical. 

What did you know? He is Loki, god of tricksters, father of lies, older than than the first breath of humanity. (He does not think of what that means for his fervent denials.) But you had a clever tongue, hidden so neatly behind your demure attitude and innocuous prettiness, and it had been enough to take him off guard. The Aesir are such boring conversation partners who wouldn’t recognize a backhanded compliment if it punched them in the nose, and you had been the first in a long time to look him in the eye and throw his words back at him.

Defiant eyes. A firm hand on his arm. Soft lips brushing his wrist, grazing those irritating scars from Thor’s tantrum.

And you had dared to invoke Thor’s name in his presence. 

How has you known? Loki is certain that the only one to witness his blunder that morning was Thor himself, who’d sooner dance a jig in the middle of the Allfather’s court than gossip like a midwife. And the fight hadn’t been anything significant, just another day of Thor storming out of the palace, only for Loki to intercept him at the gate. 

“Giving up so early?” Loki said, floating upside down. “I didn’t peg you for a quitter.”

Thor’s frown had deepened. Olympus’s warm temperate climate didn’t suit him, dampening the vibrant red of his hair and warming his pallor. With some glee, Loki realized that suppressing his powers in light of his shared domain with their host must be driving him crazy.

More fun for Loki, then. 

“Get out of my way,” the god of thunder said, low and rumbling. 

“No need to take your anger out on me!” Loki spun in the air, enjoying the sight of Thor’s growing irritation. His cousin was so easy to rile up, even if it barely showed on his face. You just had to look a little deeper at the twitch of his pinky, the tightening of his jaw. “Let me guess. Received another letter from Sif?”

Thor’s hand flexed by his side. “I won’t repeat myself.”

“So I was right! You should be blunter next time.” Loki mimicked holding up a pen and paper and scribbling down a note. “Dearest Sif. I do not wish to marry you because you are terribly ugly in comparison to Mjnolnir. Never speak to me again until you can match the beauty of my glorious hammer—”

Ozone. And thunder.

Loki flashed out of the way, but a lick of pure power ripped through his arm. Thunderclouds gathered above their heads, black and unamused—Thor’s work or Zeus’s, Loki wasn’t sure. He frowned, hand aching. 

Thor was smiling faintly. Mocking Loki.

“Loki,” he said, gold irises glowing amidst black sclera, “you overstay your welcome.” 

“Darling cousin,” said Loki, smile slipping away, “I am always welcome.” 

The same lines as usual, and Loki didn’t even recognize the burning anger in his heart until he laid eyes on that river nymph and decided that he’d had enough of presumptuous people for one day. So what if he played around a little bit, peering into her heart and picking out the pieces that made for the prettiest tragedy? It was all in good fun.

You shouldn’t have gotten so upset about it.

(Why is he so upset about it?)

You aren’t even that pretty. Sure, the arrangement of your features is aesthetically pleasing, but Freya is one of the most beautiful goddesses in all the pantheons, and even Thor has his moments of elegance when he’s not being a thick-headed bull. But it’s you and your furious glare that flutters his heart for the first time in a long time. 

No. It doesn’t matter. You are as human as the rest of them, so caught up in the whirlwind of your own anguish that you never bother to consider what Loki will do once he discovers your name. Death is the kindest option. He can turn all of Olympus against you, watch you crumble as the pretty nymph you called friend turned her back to you and walked away. Or he can cast you into Helheim, first to be ripped apart by demons, then to be forgotten and faded into nonexistence. Hades still owes him a favor, and your tears will be oh-so-pretty as they roll down your cheeks—

Loki grips the hilt of his knife and drives into the table with a thud. 

He should’ve killed you, he decides, not fallen to his knees like one of Freya’s foolish suitors. Admittedly, he’d been carried away by the euphoria of a verbal battle, but that’s no excuse for how he’d acted afterwards. Blindly confessing to a mortal paramour is more of Frey’s style. No matter your beauty or wit, your disobedience is a death sentence.

Someone steps behind him. “More wine, my lord?” a maid asks with a smile, a bottle nestled between her hands. 

For a brief moment, Loki entertains the thought of sinking the knife into her ribs. It would be easy to lean over and draw her over with a hand, gentle as a lover’s embrace. She’d probably blush, flustered by a god’s attention, oblivious to death until it kissed her on the mouth. 

But no. He is a guest, and even he is not foolish enough to violate the rules of hospitality in the middle of enemy territory. 

So Loki smiles and allows the maid to fill his glass. Then, as she straightens, he reaches over and tugs her arm so that she stumbles and her head falls next to his mouth. “Don’t come back,” he murmurs into her ear, and presses the tip of his finger to her jawline. 

For a second, Loki almost expects her to scowl and retort. It’s not until the taps of the maid's feet disappear into the distance as she retreats, muffling sobs beneath her breath, that Loki remembers. Oh. He’s thinking of someone else. 

(You would’ve leaned in the tips of your noses touched and bared your teeth in a smile, as vicious and beautiful as the end of the world, and begged him to bleed for you. And for you, he might.)

A scoff. Halfway across the room, Sif’s eyes are searing as she, oh wonder of wonders, lets go of Thor and pins Loki with a searing glare. “Wipe that expression from your face, liesmith,” she snaps. “How dare you disrupt the meeting?”

Loki blinks. Then he reaches up to touch his cheeks.

Ah, no wonder his face hurts. His heart beats like a war drum, and it doesn’t even need to beat—ichor is a self-sustaining liquid—but now it soars and thuds, and his cheeks ache from how hard he’s grinning, brighter than the time he tricked Thor into a dress and married him to a Jotun giant. 

Loki slaps his face. The pain dispels some of the giddiness, but not all. No wonder the maid had tried to talk with him instead of running away on sight, as they usually do. 

Forseti clears his throat, his smile disgustingly polite. “Your thoughts are welcome as always, Lok. Of course, if you weren’t paying attention…”

“Oh no,” Loki says, waving a hand, “I would hate to spoil your hopes with my amateur opinions.”

Forseti’s smile grows strained at the implication. Hopes. What a pretty way of calling his idea useless. “No, I insist. Please regale us with your thoughts.”

Loki shrugs. “Well, building subportals within the Bifrost is an ingenious idea. It would make traversing the realms as easy as stepping through a door, and I’m sure we’ll all be glad to avoid relying on Hades’s black magic every time we want to visit our allies in other realms.” He pauses to let a reluctant flutter of laughter ripple through the collection of gods. “I just have one question.” 

“Yes?”

“Who will guard the doors?”

“Guard?” Forseti’s smile, which had been growing through Loki’s speech, falls. “There will be no guards. They’ll be automated.”

“I, for one, think it’s a great idea,” adds Sif, crossing her arms. 

“Ah, of course! Genius!” Loki’s claps resonate through the hall. “So anyone can enter whichever realm whenever they want. Minor gods will enjoy that, I’m sure. But I’m sure you’ve thought of something grander for the Allfather.”

With a sputter, Forseti says, “Are you implying that we ought to focus on aesthetics over function? Don’t be foolish!”

Loki laughs. “Come now, Forseti, don’t be dull! If there is no one to oversee the function of these portals, who could say if someone decides to make a more dramatic entrance to Midgard? Balloons, fireworks, an entire party! And we can’t let them upstage us, can we?”

Forseti leaps from his seat, too foolish to notice the dawning understanding on everyone’s faces. “You can’t be serious! That’s what you’re worried about?”

Of course not, you buffoon. There’s a reason why the Bifrost is guarded so tightly, why the pantheons stay within their own realms except for shared domains. It’d be all too easy for an ill-intentioned deity to decide that inter-pantheon peace is a farce and disrupt the millennia old treaty established between the king gods.

Loki waves it off. “What can I say? I love drama.” 

Sif’s eyes narrow. Then, a smug smile spreads across her lips. “You’re on edge today, Loki. Were you thinking of someone?”

Loki barely keeps a grip on his animosity before it can lunge forward and sink its fangs into Sif’s pale neck. By the curl of her mouth, she’s well aware of it.

“That doesn’t concern you, Sif,” he says, itching to draw his knives. 

“But it does. I can’t be the only one who’s heard the rumors of the pretty little human seen leaving the Western Palace recently,” she says, raising her voice. “Do you have something you want to tell us, Loki? A new Greek friend, perhaps?”

At the end of the table, the Allfather’s attention shifts.

Oh, that bitch. 

Loki forces himself to smile. “Come now, Sif,” he says with a deliberate sigh, “don’t lump me in with the likes of Frey.”

Next to Freya, Frey coughs, caught off guard by the sudden mention of his name. “Hm? Oh, right.” He grins and rubs the back of his neck, where a light purple bruise is visible. “Guilty as charged.”

“And, unfortunately,” Loki continues, “nothing like you.”

Sif’s smug grin flickers, and it shouldn’t excite Loki as much as it does but damn is devastation a good look at the goddess of the earth. “And what does that mean,” she snarls.

Loki stretches, a deliberate movement that nearly bends him over the back of his chair. “Why don’t you ask Baldr?”

Sif’s hand slams on the table hard enough to shatter the rich wood. The crack travels down the length of the table with an ear-splitting shriek until it stops mere inches from Loki’s chair. “You don’t get to say his name,” she says, nearly feral with anger. “Not ever, you pathetic, sniveling coward—“

“Projection isn’t a good look at you, dearest Sif,” Loki says lightly. “Why don’t you focus your attention elsewhere? Like finding a better wig. Oh, I forgot. You have no one to show it off to.” He laughs, sharp and wicked. “How’s the widow’s life?”

Outside the window, a furious streak of lightning tears through the clouds. Thunder crashes, rattling the windowpane and shaking the table. 

Loki keeps smiling as Sif’s spear trembles mere inches from his throat, stopped only by the cold steel of his summoned dagger. 

“Sif,” says the Allfather. “Sit down.”

The room falls silent. 

With a silent glare, Sif steps away from the wreckage of the table and returns to her seat. Her spear remains at her side, her fingers flexing and unflexing on the golden shaft. 

At the head of the table, now ruined by Sif’s rampage, the Allfather gestures with a hand. Guards swarm into the room, gathering the ruined pieces of Olympian oak from the floor.

“Oh,” croaks Muninn from the Allfather’s shoulder, “you’re in trouble.”

“So much trouble!” cackles Huginn, flapping his wings. 

“Loki,” says the Allfather, and the room stills. Even the storm outside abades as Thor settles back in his chair, gold tattoos pulsing in time with the rolling thunder. Like silver ash, dreadful and all-knowing, the Allfather’s lone eye meets Loki’s. “You are distracted. Are you planning to disrespect our hosts?”

“No,” Loki says. 

“Will it disrespect the name of Valhalla?”

Loki sneers. “Who do you think I am?”

“Then,” the Allfather says, “don’t play games. If there is something you want, take it.” 

It’s as much a dismissal as it is a command. Odin has always been selfish, and Loki’s never been one to deny himself anything. 

He laughs. “Of course, uncle,” he says, taking the Allfather’s dismissal for what it is—permission. With a flick of his hand, the logs that the guards have been struggling to lift float up and arrange themselves into the shape of a table, as pristine as the day it was carved from Olympus’s towering forests. “I’d expect nothing else.”

He’ll need to prepare a present, Loki thinks as the meeting continues. Flowers? Humans like those, right? 

They have to be gold, he decides. Golder than Sif’s hair. More beautiful, too. Oh, she’d hate that, that a mortal is worth more than her precious, precious hair.

All he needs now is to find you.

--

“Oh,” Hermes says, brushing the chrysanthemums leaves with a gloved hand. “Is something wrong?”

The flowers tremble, just slightly, and lean towards his touch. Hermes chuckles and tips the watering can indulgently, letting water stream over the batch of chrysanthemums. 

“I expect it to be quite stormy for the next few days,” he tells them. “Our guests aren’t quite as well-behaved as we’d like them to be, and one of them has a tendency to throw tantrums where he shouldn’t.”

Though Zeus didn’t seem to care, regarding the unsanctioned thunderstorms with a roar of laughter and a statement that, “If the brat wants to fight me, let him come.” Still, the paperwork made for dreadful afternoons. 

Suddenly, the nearest chrysanthemum bud lunges towards him with a flash of thorns. Hermes slices through its stem with a hand. As the dead bud floats down, he snatches it from the air and examines it. Its petals are sharp enough to cut cloth. 

With a click of his tongue, Hermes discards his ruined gloves and retrieves a new pair from his pocket. Eden’s become quite prickly after the loss of the First Man. 

“Behave,” he scolds. “What would your father say if he saw you now?”

The flowers say nothing, but Hermes chuckles and bends down to grab his shovel. A nudge at his foot draws his attention. A tiny rabbit, smaller than Hermes’s fist, peers up at him with soulful red eyes, nose twitching. It climbs onto its back legs and sniffs the air.

Hermes’s mouth quirks. He sets down the tools and cups the bunny in his hands. “Hello there. Enjoying yourself?”

The bunny twitches its ears and thumps its tail. Hermes runs a finger over its head, feeling its fur through his gloves. 

“You’re not supposed to be here. Eden is strictly closed to mortals.”

Clear red eyes blink back at wine-crimson. The rabbit sniffs and shakes out its fur in denial. 

“It’s the rules, I’m afraid,” Hermes says apologetically. He cups his hands, enclosing the animal in his grasp. “Now…”

“You’re not going to kill that cute rat, are you?”

“Bunny,” Hermes corrects, not turning around. “And really now. You’d think me so cruel as to punish an animal for infringing a rule it doesn’t even know exists?”

The figure at the base of the hill huffs. “Is that a trick question?”

Hermes smiles. He opens his hands, and the bunny leaps from his grasp and darts into the bushes.  “Did it sound like one?”

“I don’t appreciate being called an animal,” Loki of Scandinavia says as he ascends the hill to the garden of chrysanthemums. 

“Did I say that?” Hermes hums.

The twilight sky turns Loki’s hair violet, his eyes brown. He spits out a leaf and frowns. “You look ridiculous.”

Hermes looks down at his dress pants and suit jacket, hems dirtied by the dirt he’s been kneeling on since morning. A simple change and it’d be fixed, but… Well, he enjoys the faint disgust on Loki’s face. “Thank you. And you?”

“Could be better.” Loki sticks out his tongue and kicks away a clump of rotting dirt, unearthing a writhing den of worms that scatter into the undergrowth. “I thought they were lying when they said this place was still here. Paradise, my ass.”

Hermes turns his face towards the sky and closes his eyes in remembrance—the eternal twilight transforming into a sunny blue sky, the overgrown weeds and shriveling landscape sprouting verdant green, the silence filled with songbirds and rushing streams. Eden misses its retainers, and even Hermes’s best efforts pale in comparison to the Garden’s former glory, the man-eating chrysanthemums being only the most recent example. 

“Once upon a time, yes. But the First Man and the First Woman no longer need it. So it was recycled.”

“To what end?” 

“It’s a personal project,” says Hermes.

“And does Uncle Zeus know what’s going on here?” Loki’s voice gains a teasing edge. “Or have I stumbled upon your dirty little secret?”

“Even if he doesn’t,” Hermes says, opening his eyes and casting the other trickster god a smile over his shoulder, “would that stop me?”

A similar smile, just as sly as Hermes’s own, spreads across Loki’s face. “Guess not.”

Hermes swivels on his heel, turning around and bowing in the same movement. Loki scoffs. 

“What can I do for you?”

“I hear you know everything on Olympus,” Loki says. He couches down by the chrysanthemum bush, testing its blade-sharp thorns with curious fingers. 

“Hardly everything,” Hermes demurs. Certainly most. But he doesn’t know where Hades goes off to once a month, nor does he know why Zeus wears the face he does. “But I would be delighted to help a guest in need.”

Ichor drips from Loki’s finger to the ground, where it sizzles and turns the dirt black with rot. With a hum, Loki sticks his finger into his mouth and sucks. “I’m looking for someone.”

Hermes inclines his head. “There are certainly many ‘someone’s on Olympus.”

“Oh, don’t play smart with me.” Loki stares out at Eden’s desecrated landscape, carefully angling his body away so that Hermes can’t see his expression. “I’m looking for a mortal.”

Hermes freezes. A spark of interest tugs at the corner of his mouth. Someone has caught Loki’s attention? How strange. How delightful. “Oh? What kind of mortal?”

And as Loki describes his paramour, there’s a sense of reverence in his tone that he can’t quite hide, even turned away from Hermes. It’s the awe of meeting one’s equal, to unleash one’s all and be matched, blow for blow. 

Oh. Oh.

Hermes covers his lips with his glove, but it’s too late. Loki has already seen the grin curving his mouth, the flush coloring his white skin. The Norse god rises to his feet and frowns, tapping a finger against his thigh. 

It’s you.

“Lord Loki,” Hermes breathes, glee sharpening the curve of his eyes until they’re like daggers above the white of his glove, “I would be honored.” 

Loki scowls. “I don’t like that look, Hermes. What exactly do you know?”

Only after regaining control of his expression does Hermes remove his hand from his face. Yes, it feels as if he’s been given a surprising yet not unwelcome gift. He hadn’t exactly expected you to stay quiet, not after his deliberate prod into your halcyon life, but to willingly lift yourself from the safety of anonymity…

Well. It’s almost like you’re delivering yourself to his doorstep. 

“I’ve heard of someone similar to your description, but they are a servant.”

“That’s them.” Loki’s response is too quick to conceal his eagerness. Hermes smiles again, a flash of sharp teeth. The other god recognizes it as well, because his entire demeanor goes relaxed and sleepy, and he examines his nails with a look of utmost boredom. “So do you know where they are or not? I could always go to Lady Hestia. She’s much prettier than you, anyhow.”

Hermes hides his chuckle with a cough. It seems that Loki has run into the same problem that Hermes did when he stumbled across your file. For all his posturing, Loki can’t hide his desperation. He must’ve already met with Hestia, who presented the same dead end as she did to Hermes. 

This time, however, Hermes knows the answer to Loki’s confusion. After all, it was he who caught a certain moon-eyed sea god and slipped him the secret of his obsession. 

“The lady would be honored to hear you say that,” he says mildly. “But no. She would not be able to help you in this instance.”

Loki’s eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” says Hermes, pressing a hand to his chest. “The Lady’s jurisdiction ends at Olympus’s borders, after all.”

There’s a very simple reason why Loki cannot find you on Olympus—why even Hestia could not help, even if she wished to. 

You’re not on Olympus. 

You’re in Atlantis. 

--

One week ago. 

--

“Irresponsible,” the housekeeper thunders, “reckless, foolish, idiot! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I only wished to—”

“I’m not done.”

Your jaw clicks shut. The housekeeper’s gray gaze sears into your head, and you shrink a little despite your best efforts to stand firm. Her disapproval stings like a tutor’s whip on the back of your legs. 

The click of her flat shoes against the floor echoes around the empty hallway. She walks in a tight circle around you, tapping her thick oak cane against your calves, thighs, hips, like you’re a pig on sale in the marketplace. “Abandoning your shift is one thing; barging into a god’s quarters is another. You’re lucky that Lord Loki didn’t strike you down where you stood.”

You swallow and stare at the ground. “I didn’t think—”

“Precisely. You don’t think.” The housekeeper’s voice bites like a viper. “Tell me why you did it.”

You search for the words to describe the rage that had chilled your bones at the sight of Daphne’s tears, and fail. “Extenuating circumstances.”

She pinches her brow, as if to anchor herself there rather than flying into a rage. “Explain. What did you do?”

You wish you knew the answer to that question. 

As Loki had knelt at your feet, a supplicant before their king—as if you were the god and he the worshiper—you tore yourself away with a stuttered excuse, panic and a quiet traitorous thing that might’ve been hope crawling up your throat. “I-I need to go.”

“What?” he’d said, irritation darting through his eyes, and you latched onto the familiar emotion like a drowning man. Yes. Yes. Irritation, you could deal with. Derision, apathy, anger—those were familiar. 

“I have duties to attend to,” you said. “Thank you for your time. I—” You stopped. “Don’t,” you said helplessly. 

Loki was a liar and a thief, but the hurt that flashed across his mouth as you swept into a bow and fled his room was the closest to genuine he’d ever been. But you ignored it, running down the hallway with the steadfast intention to never look back. You hate that you’d even entertained the thought that he’d—

That he might ever see you as anything more than a plaything. 

Gods, you remind yourself, desire nothing more than proof of their own perfection. A disobedient toy is nothing more than a brief interest to dominate, to squash. Loki will forget about the incident in a few days.

“Nothing,” you say. “I did nothing.”

A blow from her cane knocks you to the ground. Face stinging, you haul yourself back to your feet and resume your subordinate position, forcing your hands to stay still in front of you. Blood fills your mouth. You swallow it.

“I should whip you until you’re raw and bleeding. I’m tempted to hold the whip myself!” the housekeeper bites out. “You’re not a spoiled prince who can do whatever they wish, you’re a servant. You have a duty to both me and Lady Hestia to uphold your responsibilities.”

“I apologize,” you repeat, tasting copper. “I will accept any punishment you decide for me.”

The thump of her cane on the ground lands like the strike of thunder. “Seven months,” she says after a beat of silence. “All overtime work will be delegated to you. Anyone who helps with your chores will be punished. I will deliver your assignments soon. Until then, you’ll be confined to your room.” 

You lower your head, closing your eyes. Seven months. The Valkyries arrive in less than half that time. Still, it’s lighter than the banishment you’d been expecting, so you bow at the waist and say, “Thank you for your generosity, ma’am. Should I return to my shift?”

“One last thing.”

You pause. The housekeeper’s lips twist. She looks tired. 

“I know what happens behind my back, how all of you look at Lord Poseidon and Lord Hades and Lady Aphrodite when you think no one sees,” she says, slowly and carefully. “But nothing good comes from fraternizing with your betters. Never forget your place. You are a mortal and they are gods, divine and eternal.”

Your nod is curt. “Thank you for the warning, but you’ll find no such love for the gods in my heart.”’

“Well, isn’t that a shame?” says a new voice. “That’s what I was counting on.”

You take an instinctive step backwards, startled. The housekeeper stands still as the new arrival greets the two of you, silver hair pulled back from a lined but still handsome face.

“Madame,” he says. 

“Lord Proteus,” the housekeeper says, gripping her cane. You don’t miss how she takes a single step forward, ostensibly to curtsy to the new arrival but also to shield you behind her long skirt. “What can I do for you?”

Proteus is a well-dressed Atlantean in a black suit and white cravat, silver hair swept back to reveal ears that extend into delicate fins. When he smiles, his opal-white eyes crinkle pleasantly. “You must pardon my intrusion, Madame. I was simply overjoyed to have found the person I was searching for.”

The housekeeper frowns. “You must not be looking very hard. Just ask the kitchen maids, I’m usually overseeing food preparations.”

Proteus shakes his head, cutting her off. “Ah, forgive me, Madame, but you are not the person I’m interested in.” His opaque eyes slide over the housekeeper’s shoulder, and on instinct, you glance behind you, seeing nothing but the empty hallway. “Your friend, however.”

You blink. “Me?” 

“Yes,” Proteus said, amused. “It sounds like you will be free for the unforeseeable future.”

“I’m not sure if that’s the case…” you say hesitantly. “The madam has plans.” 

“Really?” Proteus glances at the housekeeper, and you bristle at the dismissiveness of the gesture. “That’s a shame. I will need to notify my lord of your preoccupation, then.”

“There’s no need,” you say immediately.

Only when Proteus smiles do you realize your mistake. There is a reason why they call him the “Old Man of the Sea,” prophet of the ocean---why Lord Poseidon keeps him at his side despite thousands of minor gods vying for his attention and favor. 

“So you know why I am here,” he practically purrs. “You shouldn’t run, my dear. There isn’t much use in it.”

“I—” you say. “I’m not running.”

“Proteus,” says the housekeeper, and you’re thankful now that she’s never had the patience for bullshit because her glare is sharper than the crack of the whip. “Why would Lord Poseidon request the presence of a mere servant?”

And there it is. The truth, laid out as cleanly as your death.

Proteus gives a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Who am I to decide the whims of my master?”

“That’s not an answer,” the housekeeper snaps. 

“It is the truth.”

The housekeeper taps her nails against the dark wood of her cane. “They are under my jurisdiction. If you wish to take them, I need to know why.”

Why is she fighting? You stare at her, eyes wide. Everyone knows that Proteus is under Lord Poseidon’s direct employ, and disobeying Proteus is akin to rebelling against Atlantis itself. But the housekeeper isn’t looking at you, her gaze fixed on Proteus’s growing smirk.

The glint in Proteus’s eyes isn’t quite smugness, but it’s leering and petty in the same way. “I’d love to enlighten you. But simply put, it’s none of your business.”

“Ma’am,” you interject. The housekeeper’s eyes dart towards you, quick as a heartbeat. You shove your trembling hands behind you and take a step forward to draw Proteus’s attention. “Lord Proteus, I am delighted by your invitation. May I know when I should be ready for Lord Poseidon’s presence?” 

He hums and looks at his empty wrist. “Now.”

“N-Now?”

Your voice breaks. Proteus blinks slowly. “I didn’t stutter, did I?”

“I’m afraid it’d be inappropriate for me to meet Lord Poseidon in my current state.” You tug at your wrinkled shirt collar and exaggerate your grimace. “It’s unsightly, you see.”

“An easy fix,” Proteus says, waving a hand. “What else? Will you prepare a gift? I assure you, none of your mortal crafts will interest my lord in the slightest, so there’s no point in dithering any longer.”

You swallow exactly that, excuses withering under Proteus’s piercing gaze. Damn. You’d hoped to buy yourself more time, at least enough to speak to Lady Hestia about reassigning Daphne. But behind Proteus’s insistence lingers the threat of Lord Poseidon’s displeasure. 

“I understand,” you say quietly, hands curling into fists. “I… will do as you say.”

“Alright,” the housekeeper says after a tense moment. “When should I expect them back?”

Once again, Proteus shrugs. “Whenever my master feels it is appropriate.”

Ice skitters down your spine. You take a deep breath. 

“Shall we, then?” Proteus asks. 

You take his offered hand, his smile ever so kind. The housekeeper calls out your name in a clipped tone, and you glance back to see her brows furrowed with concern. “I am meeting with the Lady next week,” she says. “I’d like to see you there.”

Subtle as an elephant, but a deliberate reminder for Proteus that you are under another goddess’s protection. You can’t quite manage a smile, but you nod. Then you turn around and follow Proteus out of the kitchen.

“No need to tremble, my dear,” murmurs Proteus as he guides you down the hallway. The sleeve of his suit jacket is rough, almost sandy beneath your fingers—sandfin? “My master doesn’t bite.” 

“A predator need not bite to kill.”

He chuckles. “Is that what you think is going to happen? That His Majesty will kill you?”

“No,” you say, staring resolutely in front of you. “I doubt Lord Poseidon will dirty his hands with human blood.”

For the sin of disrupting his meal, it’s more likely that he’ll order his subjects to do so in his stead. 

You’re so stupid. Why did you think that interfering with the Olympian banquet had been a good idea? You’d stumbled into the role because one of the maids had become violently ill the day prior, and you were the only one familiar enough with court traditions to replace her. But you’d known how bad of an idea it was to fiddle with the chef’s delicately prepared entrees. 

But gods, serving the god of the sea sour fruit with sugary glazes, fatty steaks, spices practically exploding on one’s tongues? Sure, Lord Ares and Lady Athena might enjoy it, war gods as they were, but it was practically unheard of for seafolk.

And you had been foolish enough to deliver the altered meal to Lord Poseidon personally.

“I have only one last request,” you say, determined not to look at Proteus’s face. “I want my ashes to be scattered on Earth—not Niflheim or Helheim.”

Proteus’s laugh nearly makes you jump. His arm shakes beneath your hand, and you look at him in concern, only to see his hand covering his face, his teeth bared as his shoulders shake with mirth. 

“Forgive me. I haven’t heard anything that stupid in a long time.”

You bristle. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, dear,” Proteus says with a sigh, patting your hand. “Don’t be offended. You’ve exceeded most of my expectations. You’re amusing, that’s all.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ll see,” he says, and the two of you step into the courtyard.

You look up, and the air in your lungs leaves in one fell swoop.

There’s a ship-castle floating above the palace, its underbelly just barely visible above the clouds. Jutting from its stern are oars—and there must be hundreds, thousands of them—swimming through the air, manned by scores of invisible oarsmen. The sounds of rolling tides and seagulls nip your ears, haunting you. 

The ocean cannot love you. It was the first thing your father told you when he steered his ship past the remnants of an old shipwreck, his large hand firm on your shoulder. The ocean cannot, will not love you back, no matter how long you spend at its edge, waves swirling around your feetz

But it’s so easy to forget when the breadth of Lord Poseidon’s kingdom sprawls before you.

Behind you, Proteus chuckles. You’d barely noticed that you’d rushed down the steps, leaving him behind. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” 

You inhale the scent of the salt and seaweed. It’s pungent and rotten, like stepping home for the first time. “Where the god of the sea walks, the ocean follows,” you say. 

“One might say that.”

“So,” you say, feeling your heart go still, “Lord Poseidon is there.”

“Yes.”

The wind brushes past your legs. You move a piece of hair out of your eyes, fixed on the sight of the grand ship in the sky. “Then I’ll die where I was born.”

“Ah, a child of the sea,” Proteus says, stepping beside you. “Where from?”

“It was a long time ago.” Long enough that truth turned to myth turned to legend, your worst mistakes immortalized as caricatures of themselves. “How do we get up there?”

Proteus draws an arm around your waist, and the world goes black.

When you regain your bearings, you’re standing before a pair of looming black doors, built of pure aquamarine. The corridor is dark, illuminated by gently flickering torches in shades of blue and green. The effect is a world underwater, dappled patterns swaying along the walls and ceiling. 

You stumble away from Proteus, who smiles at your expense, a little cruelly. The star on his forehead glows, his skin taking on a healthy blue shade. 

“Some find it easier without a warning,” he offers. “Did that startle you?”

“Not at all,” you say, gripping your arms and shuddering. For a moment, you’d felt yourself dip into non-existence. 

As you struggle to ground yourself, Proteus glances towards the black gates. At some invisible signal, they begin to ease open. When a sliver of light appears from behind the doors, a heavy pressure like the bottommost depths of the ocean presses down on your shoulders, making you shudder in apprehension. 

Proteus adjusts the cuffs of his suit. “Collect yourself. His Majesty awaits.”

You follow Proteus inside, only a few steps behind. The throne room is just as grand as Olympus’s, if not more. Every inch of it is built of black or blue stone, glittering with opals and pearls. Great pillars arch towards the ceiling, which opens into a view of the ocean. The ocean. You can’t stop yourself from gaping as a great white whale meanders overhead, sinking the hall into momentary darkness. Occasionally, there is the telltale glint of steel from the shadows, indicating spearmen and guards, but they are sparse, and of course they are. Who would dare attack a god in his own domain? Moreover, who could wish to win?

At the end of the hall is darkness—not the physical kind, but the daunting, looming awareness that peering into the abyss means drawing the ire of a great beast with bloodied fangs. You catch a glimpse of a few details—the shine of earrings, the glisten of polished scales—before you wrench your gaze away, heart pounding in your throat. 

Proteus’s knee hits the ground with a thud as he drops to a kneel. You hurry to follow suit, not daring to lift your eyes towards the throne.

“Your Majesty.”

It is silent. You keep your head bowed, your gaze fixed on the rich red carpet beneath your feet. Proteus, undeterred, continues, “I have returned from Olympus with a gift. I hope it is to your liking.”

You bite back a snarl. You’re no one’s gift, least of all a god’s.

Silence. Proteus waits. 

A firm hand grabs your forearm and drags you to the side. 

A cry rips itself from your mouth. You dig your heels into the ground, but the guard—it has to be a guard, right?—is stronger than expected. The force of their tug makes you stumble, and you collide with a bruising iron wall. 

“What—” You blink lights from your eyes and glare up at your assailant. 

The hand clamped around your arm wraps around your wrists and pins them to your chest, forcing you to remain still. The other trails up to your chin, tilting your head towards them. 

It isn’t a guard. A guard isn’t twice your size and paler than sand. A guard wouldn’t wear an open-cut shirt with glittering ornaments draped across their collarbone, shimmering in shades of the sea. A guard wouldn’t radiate aloofness and power like a physical aura, and they certainly wouldn’t possess that shade of blond hair, a silvery-gold you’ve only seen on descendents of Lord Kronos. 

The world falls away to numb terror. You swallow a squeak as the god rubs his thumb over your lower lip, tensing in preparation for the strike.

No pain arrives. Instead, a gentle, almost imperceptible touch grazes your cheek, stroking your skin like how an owner pets a dog. 

You blink. The grip on your chin tightens, and you suppress a wince as locks of blond hair drip into your face. 

Lord Poseidon has silver eyes, you realize, not blue like many claim. They’re lighter than Lord Zeus’s sky-blue, something you’re surprised to have even noticed, since Lord Poseidon spends most of his time with his head tilted to the side and gaze pointed down, statuesque beauty marred by his disregard for the existence of others. But now he’s looking at you, so close that you see the flecks of yellow and green in his irises. Like seafoam. 

“I found you,” says Poseidon, Earthshaker, Voyager, Lord of Horses and god of the ocean.

--

Two weeks ago.

--

The meeting is barely worth his time. 

It’s a yearly tradition upheld by all pantheons, meant to summarize the state of the human world and maintain the balance between the realms. But Hades’s throne remains stubbornly, infuriatingly empty, and Zeus does nothing but giggle in his throne like the mad king he isn't. Dionysus is slumped over on the table with his head in his arms, and even Hephaestus looks bored as he tinkers with his instruments, only half-listening to Athena’s self-righteous crusade.

Poseidon closes his eyes. 

Filth. 

“Given the progress shown by humanity since the invention of the water wheel, I foresee unprecedented growth in their future. Should they begin their expansion to the moon, I propose that we contact Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto and Chang’e to ensure they are well-prepared for humanity’s arrival,” Athena finishes, glancing around with owl-like gray eyes. Poseidon feels them linger on him before moving on, burning with resentment. “Any questions?”

Someone yawns. Artemis rolls her eyes and leans over to her brother to whisper in his ear. He chortles, and twin pairs of silver and gold turn to leer at their half-sibling. 

Athena’s eyebrow twitches. “Something to share, Artemis?”

“Not at all,” Artemis drawls. “It’s just funny that you think humans can reach the moon when they haven’t even figured out plumbing.”

“As I mentioned before, this is merely a rough map of humanity’s progress for the next century. We’d be fools to ignore how swiftly they are industrializing.” 

“One of us certainly is a fool,” Apollo says. His sister giggles. 

Before Athena can retort, Zeus speaks up from the head of the table. “Thank you for the report, daughter! We’ll keep that in mind.” He’s making some sort of folded crane with his paperwork. “Who’s next?”

Poseidon stands. A hush falls across the room—not the disinterested silence that had greeted Athena, but the silence of inferiors who know to listen to their betters. 

Without prompting, Amphitrite, one of Poseidon’s most trusted generals, steps forward and hands him a file. He drops it on the table and allows the holographic images to flicker through the air. 

“The humans have infested the ocean with their filth,” Poseidon says. 

The gods flinch. Across the gleaming marble table, Athena’s mouth opens, and then closes. Even Apollo’s smile dims. If Poseidon is admitting to a weakness, it must not be a weakness at all. 

A shimmering sea emerges from the hologram. A twitch of Poseidon’s fingers changes the image to a pair of mermaids comporting a whimpering seal whose flipper is caught in a green net. As one murmurs a lullaby and strokes the seal’s quivering head, the other swims down and tries to tug off the strange net. But it’s not straw or cotton, but some shiny iridescent edge that slices her palm, causing her to wail and Poseidon’s fingers to gouge into the marble table. How humiliating, for his people to bleed to a mere human apparatus. 

Another twitch. This time, the water is black and wretched—choked by a poor imitation of colors, shimmering red and yellow and green. Merpeople cower beneath the surface as the oil oozes across the surface, shutting them in darkness. A larger image reveals that a large portion of the gulf has been covered by the substance.

Enough. Poseidon shuts off the projection. The other gods do not dare to break the silence.

“Humans,” he says with the cold vitriol of a storm devouring a king’s ship, “have invented a poison. They suffocate my people in it.”

Athena scoffs. “Surely your people are not weak enough to die to a human made poison.”

“They show blatant disrespect for my domain,” Poseidon says. “We must eliminate the issue before they toe the line any further.”

Lounging in the arms of her personal servants, Aphrodite frowns and examines her nails. “You can’t mean what I think you’re suggesting.”

“It’s not a suggestion.”

Aphrodite’s lip curls. The admission draws a few murmurs, both discontent and contemplative. A few seats away, Ares hums, rubbing his chin. “We could start a war,” he suggests “That would send them back a few decades.”

A possibility. Killing holds no specific enjoyment for Poseidon, but neither is he averse to it.

“Hold your horses, brother. The conference is still decades away. Why don’t you make your decision then?” Zeus interjects. He rolls a grape between his fingers, and then pops it into his mouth, chewing. He winks. “Who knows? Maybe a pretty human will have caught your eye by then, hoho!”

A cough. A pile of auburn hair appears behind Dionysus’s throne and bends down, murmuring in the slumbering wine god’s ear. Dionysus blinks blearily and mutters a drunken affirmation. He lurches to his feet and stumbles out of his throne, falling towards a group of servers who hurry to take him by the arm and lead him away. 

Hestia slides into Dionysus’s seat with a smile that feels more like a knife, her mere presence increasing the temperature of the room by a few degrees. 

“Let me get this straight, little brother. You want us to expedite the death of humanity—a decision that depends on the entirety of Valhalla, not only Olympus—simply because you don’t believe that your people are strong enough to fight off humanity’s invasion?” 

A snarl bubbles behind Poseidon’s teeth. It’s not until that his trident materializes in his hand, incurring a hoot from Apollo, a bemused cock of the eyebrow from Aphrodite, and a smattering of mutters from the others, that he recognizes what the rancid emotion swirling in his chest is. 

It’s not a matter of strength. The dead simply weren’t strong enough to live. No, what infuriates Poseidon is how humanity went about it. 

Science and innovation. To create a poison and to spit in the face of the gods, of Poseidon, in the meantime?

Poseidon cannot let the insult lie. 

“You are testing my patience, sister.”

Hestia’s eyes narrow into slits of yellow-white. “It sounds like your people are losing a battle that the opponent doesn’t even know they’re fighting.”

“The humans overstep.”

“They are learning. They’ve only just begun to play with electricity and discover the fundamental laws of the universe.”

“So they must learn,” Poseidon says as the gods closest to him begin to shudder, ice creeping into their veins, “that one of those immutable laws is us.”

The torches flicker. 

Zeus sneezes.

“Who’s messing with the temperature? I’ve got old bones, you know,” he says, rubbing his nose and sniffling. He stands and stretches with a long groan. “I think we all need a break. Let’s take an hour.”

“No,” Poseidon snaps. He’s not a child throwing a tantrum that needs to be assuaged with milk and crackers. “A decision must be made.”

As Olympians murmur and shuffle out of their seats, glad for the excuse to flee, Zeus puts a hand on Poseidon’s shoulder. Luminous blue eyes peer at him from beneath graying eyebrows. “Which can be made later.” His grip tightens, almost a warning. “Go cool off, Poseidon.”

Poseidon scowls. Then he whirls around and stalks out of the meeting room, mindful of Hestia's gaze on his back. 

“Uncle.”

Outside of the hall, Poseidon pauses. The hurricane of his fury abates, if only by a hair. There’s only one person brave enough to call him uncle in front of the departing crowd of gods; more than that, there’s only one person who’s shrewd enough to take advantage of Poseidon’s momentary surprise to halt his anger in its tracks. 

“Hermes,” Poseidon says, turning. “What do you want?”

His nephew bows, hand pressed to his heart. He’s still dressed in that ridiculous butler’s ensemble, as if that would make Olympus magically forget that he is as much a war god as Ares or Athena. 

“My lord,” Hermes says, fake deferment dripping like honey, like he hadn’t just called Poseidon ‘uncle’ not two seconds ago, “I’d hoped to offer my assistance.”

A spark of anger, then interest. Poseidon allows the latter to wash over him, appraising his nephew with cautious intrigue. “Speak plainly. I have no interest in your games.”

Hermes dips his head. “I heard that your attempts to locate a certain human have been fruitless.”

A pulse of his heart.

Poseidon’s eyes narrow. Hermes’s smile is sickly sweet, veering on poison. “Hestia is protective,” he allows. Which had been well and fine when they were child gods, cowering in the corner of the palace and waiting for the day they fell into the maws of death. Now it is simply annoying. 

“She is,” Hermes agrees. “But not as vigilant as she used to be.” He opens the palm of his hand, and…

Poseidon’s trident slams to the ground. “And in exchange?” he asks, because Hermes has never worn that smile without a scheme of his own. 

Hermes shrugs, disregarding the crater that Poseidon has made in the hallway. “A game,” he says, gesturing. The hallway groans and shifts, and suddenly they are standing before the library gates. “Shall we, my lord?”

--

“You’re losing your touch.”

The chessboard is a mess of black and white, dead territories and unsprung traps. Poseidon rolls a pawn between his fingers, then sets it down beside the board. 

He is losing, which is strange for multiple reasons. One, Hermes does not usually bare his fangs at his fellow Olympians, especially when most of them don’t take lightly to losses. Two, it isn’t uncommon for Poseidon to play chess with Hermes, and no other time has Hermes chosen to scheme so thoroughly. Third—

Third, Poseidon does not like losing. 

“Enough,” he says, nudging his bishop forward. “I don’t enjoy being toyed with."

Ah, but that’s the entire point of a game, isn’t it?” Hermes says with a grin. Definitely Zeus’s son. Perhaps that had been Poseidon’s first misstep in this game, to trust the god in the first place when his eyes curve and his voice sweetens like dripping molasses. Hermes places down his rook. “Check.”

Poseidon’s king darts in the other direction.

“Check,” Hermes says, moving a rook to cut off his king. As Poseidon frowns and sacrifices a pawn, Hermes chuckles, nudging his last knight into place. “And checkmate.”

Poseidon gazes down at the board, irritation broiling like a physical itch in his chest. A loss, clear as day. Poseidon is a war god, not a strategist, but it makes him wonder why Hermes is rearing his head after centuries of biding his time, sharpening his claws on the same silverware he offers to Olympus’s guests. 

With a thrust of his trident, the board scatters. 

“What are you scheming?” Poseidon asks quietly. 

Hermes shrugs, catching an errant king from the air. “A personal project,” he says, examining the piece. “Don’t sulk, uncle. I am magnanimous at heart.”

A black blur shoots towards him. Poseidon snatches the projectile from the air and examines the small pouch. It smells faintly of pine and holds a thin key. 

“Your little human is buried deeper than a groundhog, but their friends aren’t so hidden,” Hermes says, wine-dark eyes flashing in amusement. He places the kingpiece on the table and ever-so-gently tips it over. “You’ll find the people they decide to surround themselves with rather interesting.”

Poseidon tucks the key and pouch away. “What do you want?”

“Information, uncle.” Hermes presses a finger to his temple. “Nothing more.”

Poseidon is many things—king of the seas, titan-killer, father-maimer, god of the ocean and all that dwells in its fathomless depths—but he is not an oathbreaker. He tilts his head, a sign for Hermes to continue. 

Hermes smiles, crossing his legs and leaning forward. “What do you remember of Troy?”

--

Now.

--

“Why did you run?”

Perched at the base of the dais, you glance up at him through a veil of lashes. There are creatures in Poseidon’s realm called sirens, who lure sailors onto jagged rocks and slit their throats while they’re distracted by pretty songs. In truth, you are nothing like them, too selfish and pathetic to be anything but a shallow imitation of their beauty. Too human. 

But humanity lives in the sunlight that kisses the curves and lines of your body, and for all of the filth that you surround yourself with, Poseidon only feels the aching, burning need to touch, to possess, to ruin. He’d wanted so badly that the moment he’d heard your voice through the door and felt your presence in Atlantis, he had almost killed you on the spot to rid himself of the unclean emotion. 

Imperfection, he thinks, is the height of humanity. As is impudence and arrogance, the same things that had warmed your eyes when he met you for the first time.

With a slow exhale, you brush a piece of hair from your face. “I wanted to exercise,” you say drily, tilting your head towards him. Fear loosens your tongue, revealing a sharpness that Poseidon hadn’t expected from the trembling servant who’d nearly fainted when he grabbed you in the middle of the throne room. “What else, my lord?”

Poseidon snorts, a sound which startles the rest of his court. He shifts on the plush cushions of his throne and leans his chin on the palm of his hand so that he can peer at you more closely. 

Shriveling under the weight of his gaze, you turn away and scuff your feet against the steps of the dais, hands shoved between your thighs. The hair on the back of your neck is wispy and thin, outlining the curve of your neck where it meets cloth. You had worn the same thing at the banquet, all white and black and buttoned to your throat. It covers most of your skin except for a sliver of your neck, where he can sense your red blood pulsing beneath.

Poseidon stares, and he wants. 

“Come here,” he commands. 

You almost trip as you stand from the steps. With a curse, you catch yourself before you drop to your knees. A chitter of laughter ripples through the court before Poseidon flicks his gaze towards them, whereupon it abruptly goes silent. 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. You’ve been fed and given water.

Your cheeks are flushed as you pick yourself up. “My legs are tired, my lord,” you mutter, limping. “I’ve been sitting in the same position for too long.”

Poseidon scoffs. “Pathetic.”

With two wobbly steps, you stand before Poseidon’s throne with your head bent, your hands poised behind your back. You’re still staring at your feet, he notices with a hint of irritation. 

“Look at me.”

Slowly, you raise your head and finally grace him with the sight of your eyes. They are normal by godly standards, neither especially bewitching nor captivating, but he finds himself unable to look away. Defiance suits you well, more so than your cloying subservience on the first day.

“You dawdle,” Poseidon says, tapping his fingers against his throne’s armrest. 

The corner of your mouth tightens. “Forgive me, my lord. There’s not much for me to do here besides languish in your presence,” you say, gesturing behind you at the near-empty throne room. 

Poseidon glances at the sky. The sun has dipped below the horizon, signifying the end of your seventh day in Atlantis. Time is hard for him—he could’ve sat there for another seven cycles of the sun, watching light glimmer on the tips of your lashes—, but he has a vague recollection of his childhood, a blur of noise and chaos that consisted of eating, fighting, and sleeping. 

He shifts, widening his stance. “Sit.” When you don’t move, he arches a brow, annoyed. “You dare defy me?”

Your lips part, unfurling like the petals of a spring flower. “I— Forgive me, my lord, but I— Where exactly should I sit?”

“Here,” Poseidon says.

You roll your lower lip between your teeth, hesitating. Then, with the delicacy of a first-time dancer, you step forward and perch yourself on the very edge of Poseidon’s throne. 

Poseidon puts a hand on your hip and tugs you towards him. With a yelp, you fall squarely into his lap. “My lord!”

You go startlingly still as he draws an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck. You fit in his lap like a pearl nestled in a clam’s shell, warm and soft and breathing gently despite how stiffly you hold yourself, your back ramrod straight.

The irritation and building headache in the back of his temples subsides. This is safe, this is home, an instinct purrs. You won’t babble on or threaten his realm or play politics with barbed tongue, attempting to deceive him. You’re human, which means you’re flawed and weak. 

You're human, and when you looked him in the eye it was the closest he'd ever felt to another creature. 

Poseidon shifts so that you’re caged between his legs, leaving no room to fidget or flee. “Your hesitation irritates me,” he says into your skin, inhaling your faint scent of soap and pine. “Your only use is to obey.”

Your chest swells and falls beneath his arm in tandem with your breaths. “I don’t wish to intrude.”

“Shut up,” Poseidon says. You freeze, fingers curling on your thighs. “How dare you doubt my word?”

“I… apologize.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder and closes his eyes, hearing your breath hitch. Your rabbit-fast heartbeat races beneath your skin.

“Entertain me.”

After a moment where he can tell you’re struggling with yourself, you start to hum the first few notes of an uncertain tune. Your voice thrums in your chest, vibrating through his body. You sound awkward and drifting, unable to stay on the melody for long. But the reverence in it is real. 

Poseidon frowns and opens his eyes. “Where did you learn that?”

You stutter. “The song?”

“Yes.” 

You begin to hunch into yourself, and Poseidon splays his hand across your hips so you can’t run. “I used to live next to the sea,” you begin, and Poseidon thinks, ah. “Whenever I grew bored or was chased from the house, I would sit by the seaside and listen to the waves crashing upon the shore. I don’t know if it was my imagination or something about the way that water hits sand, but I swear that the waves sang a melody.” You hum it again, louder and more sure. “Why? Do you know it?”

Poseidon’s jaw locks. Yes. Of course.

When he was younger, he’d climb out of the suffocating madness of his lord-father’s palace by swimming as far into the sea as his child-like body could withstand. His small hands couldn’t fit around Kronos’s neck yet, so he contented himself by teaching songs of rebellion to the coral and fish and sand. After Zeus drove a hand through Kronos’s skull and snatched kinghood for himself, the songs died out, becoming nothing more than echoes of the resentment and hope of a boy-god.

I’ll be king, he told the waves.

Poseidon says, “Sing.”

And so you do, a mournful lullaby that runs fluttering fingers over his eyes until he finally relents and closes them, sweeping him away from Atlantis to a city on a distant peninsula, where a human child once sat by the shore and listened to the ocean’s songs. 

With a flick of Poseidon’s fingers, the naiad at the base of the dais begins to pluck a simple harmony on her harp. You pause. He opens his eyes and spots just a sliver of the devastation on your expression.

He pulls you closer, wrapping his fingers around your wrists. 

“Keep going,” he murmurs.

And you do, until your voice goes hoarse and your head begins to dip. And when Poseidon finally motions for the naiad to stop playing, your dozing figure is slumped in his lap, as content as a napping doe, and there’s an expression that might pass as a smile on a lesser god’s face playing across his lips. 

Chapter Text

“Sister! Are you here?”

You burst into the room, and there she is, sitting near the window with her chin cupped in one palm. Her gaze flicks towards you, then returns to the view outside. The evening sun brushes the bridge of her nose and lips, outlining the hazy lines of her torso as she peers down at the marketplace. While the rest of the city is draped in mourning white, her features are cast in gold, lashes fluttering as she blinks. 

“No need to shout. I’m right here.”

You bite down on your retort. She says it so casually, as if you hadn’t spent the better half of the afternoon combing through the city, trying to find her amidst the chaos of the king’s announcement. And now you find her here of all places? 

With a growl, you stride towards her, too swept up by anger to be mollified by her smile. “Have you heard of Father's decision?”

She unfurls from her slouch, a regal movement that makes your heart clench. Even now, she is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. “I’m well aware.”

You throw yourself into the seat in front of her, resisting the urge to cross your arms and pout. “This is ridiculous! Has the heat gone to Father’s head? He can’t just marry you off to some random man without notice and—” Your voice cracks. “—and at such an inopportune time. Besides, you’re promised to someone else!”

She lets out a humorless chuckle. “That random man is our friend.”

“Your friend.”

A breeze drifts through the window and ruffles her hair. She brushes a piece of wispy bangs behind her ear and sighs. “You can say his name, you know.”

You scoff. “He lost that privilege a long time ago.”

Your sister’s retort gets lost in a shriek of laughter. Down the street, a little boy clambers onto a tower of crates and leaps onto his father’s shoulders, who yelps and pretends to stumble. The mock-fight draws the chuckle of several bystanders, and a little circle forms as merchants shout their support and toss stray pennies at their feet like a real wrestling match.  

“I bought some figs,” your sister says, interrupting your thoughts. She nudges the tray of fruit towards you with a small smile. “They’re good."

You blink, and then glance back at the father-son duo. They’re wrestling on the ground now, the boy’s thin arms wrapped around his father’s neck and his legs clamped around his shoulders. The older man pleads and begs for his life, but the boy refuses to relent until his father goes limp with a dramatic gasp.

You take the fig and take a large bite out of it, mild sweetness dripping down your lips. “I’ll speak to Father. This foolish engagement will be annulled before the day's end.”

“There’s no need,” says your sister. Her expression is serene, placid. A stranger once called her a goddess in a breathless whisper, which made your father flush with pride and your sister frown and you laugh, because what goddess could measure up to her? “Father won’t change his mind.”

Your sister doesn’t flinch as you leap to your feet and slam your hands on the table, nearly overturning the entire thing. “That man thinks that he can uproot our entire lives just because he has a couple of golden apples and a mandate from a goddess?” you say, palms stinging with pain. “I don’t care if the rest of the city calls him a hero. He’s nothing to me.”

“Oh, dearest,” your sister says with a laugh.  “Don’t hurt yourself worrying about me.”

She’s not taking you seriously. You sit back down with a huff. “It’s too soon,” you mutter. “Father’s heartless.”

“Quite the opposite. He only wants only the best for us.” 

“And this is his conclusion?”

She says nothing, instead taking an apple and a knife from the plate. With calm, steady movements, she pares off the skin of the apple and slices it into pieces. “Who is the most beautiful goddess in the world?” she asks, and you sigh, hearing the lesson inherent in her voice.

You reach over and grab a slice of apple from the plate. “By titles and name alone, it must be Aphrodite.”

“But what of Hera? And Athena, and Artemis? Are they not beautiful as well?” She motions with the knife, making you flinch. “And there are other gods too, from the east.” 

“I didn’t take you for a philosopher.” 

She shrugs. “Eras change. I’ve had time to think.”

You chew thoughtfully. The apple’s flavor bursts on your tongue, tart and juicy. “Then beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” you say, smiling triumphantly at your own cleverness. 

“Then who is the most beautiful mortal?” she asks, soft as poison.

A startled laugh bursts from your lips. “Is that a trick question?” She palms the fruit knife and examines it in the light. You watch her, an itch crawling up your throat. “You, I suppose. Or lovely Hyacinth, or beautiful Narcissus. Who’s to say?”

“I see.” Her lashes flutter. The prophets in the city foretold her face to be the mark of tragedy, but also of glory and honor. Foolish, you think. There is nothing glorious about war. She tests her skin with the knife. The edge of the blade digs into the flesh of her palm, hard enough to flush skin but not enough to break through. “Do you know what I think beauty is?”

“Tell me,” you say.

“It’s helplessness. Ignorance. Knowing that you can do nothing when the world puts a price on the symmetry of your face.” She runs a finger along the edge of the blade. “Fighting despite it.”

You bite into another piece of apple with a frown. Juice runs down your lips, which you lick away. “Well, that’s stupid. Heroes are always beautiful, and they do plenty.”

Your sister chuckles, dry as bone. “And what of Father’s decision?” 

You flush and set the apple down. “He’s senile.” Selling his daughter for glory—you want to spit on the ground at the thought.

“He isn’t,” she says. “He knows that they’ll fight a war over beauty.”

“He— The gods aren’t so selfish or self centered.”

The knife moves to her jaw, the slender curve of her throat, to her delicate cheekbone and arched brow. She toys with it, tracing the corners of her eyes until your heart jumps. It’s not narcissistic to call her beauty haunting. She haunts you, but you don’t hate her for it. How could you? You have her face. “That’s the thing. I think he’s right, dearest.”

You scoff. “You’re not responsible for the wars of petty fools and kings.”

“I’m not,” she says. “And I won’t be.”

You couldn’t know what she’d do. But you wish you did.

The knife flashes. You shout.

--

On the eighth day, Atlantis welcomes a new guest.

“Your Majesty, Lady Hestia seeks your audience,” Proteus says, gesturing towards the doors with an overly dramatic bow that reminds you of a former servant whose voice only grew sweeter the angrier she became. Others would whisper while they believed you weren’t listening; she, on the other hand, once marched up to you and listed her grievances one by one until you couldn’t help but be charmed. 

You leap to your feet—or attempt to, anyhow. Lord Poseidon grips your hip, and with an insultingly gentle tug, you stumble back onto his lap, back pressed to his chest as he rests his chin on your shoulder. One of his arms locks around your waist, the other sinking into the flesh of your hip, squeezing in warning as you shift and squirm. 

“So eager to run,” he asks, low and murmuring in your ear. His hair tickles your cheek, smelling faintly of sea salt and sand. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

If nothing else, the last seven days have taught you to follow Poseidon’s whims. Much like the ocean itself, the god of the infinite depths swings from irritation to pleasure with the fleetingness of a child. So you settle back into his lap, heart fluttering in your throat. “Forgive me, my lord. I only mean to show my respect for the Flame Lady.”

There is no reply. When you finally gather the nerve to peer over your shoulder, Poseidon’s eyes are half-lidded with boredom, except there’s something flinty in those pools of silver, like a glacier just splintering apart. He buries his nose into the crook of your neck and exhales, his chest rising and falling in an unnaturally steady rhythm. 

It unsettles you. Poseidon is an ivory sculpture pretending to breathe. 

(Why pretend at all?)

“She is but the goddess of the hearth,” Poseidon says into your shoulder. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he is pouting. “Your deference is superfluous.”

Your hand hovers over the arm caged around your waist. When he doesn't bat you away like an irritating fly, you place it gently on his forearm, rubbing absentminded circles against his cool skin. Some tension in his shoulders relaxes, and you suppress an odd swell of emotion, not quite fondness, not quite apprehension.

“Perhaps,” you say carefully. “But I choose to worship my lady, for she of all deities knows the strength of little fires.”

Poseidon’s fingers dig into your hip, and you bite down a yelp of pain. Then he raises his head from your shoulder and flicks a hand towards Proteus, still waiting patiently at the foot of the steps.

“See her in,” he says, something cold and unyielding infecting his voice. You hadn’t realized there had been anything close to softness in it until it disappeared, leaving nothing but blade-like ice.

Proteus bows. You notice that he no longer glances in your direction—or perhaps it is because he cannot. After all, it is well known what Poseidon does to those who disrespect his things. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

That’s your only warning before the air rips apart and a white-clad figure steps through, auburn hair burning in the dim torch light. 

“Little brother,” the Lady of the Hearth coos, as if she hadn’t torn her way into another god’s domain as easily as breathing, “I believe you have something of mine.” 

You swallow, hands twitching on your thighs. Perhaps if you hide yourself behind the lord of the sea’s arm, she won’t notice you, you think, somewhat hysterically. You feel like a pet, the way you’re perched in Poseidon’s lap, legs thrown over his thighs, side pressed tightly against his chest.

How humiliating. How familiar. 

When you try to duck your head, Poseidon splays his other hand across your throat and forces your chin up as he rests his chin on your shoulder once more. Your breath hitches. “Do I,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. “Your arrogance knows no bounds, sister. Nothing of yours is worth my attention.”

You have only heard stories of Lady Hestia’s anger. The first, when her mad Titan-king of a father laughed and crushed her siblings’ heads beneath his feet, taunting them for their lack of power; the second, when an ill-fated king from ancient Macedonia forced himself upon one of her sacred priestesses. 

This— This is not anger. The edges of Lady Hestia’s long chiton fade into wisps of sweet-smelling smoke, and her divinity presses against her skin, desperate to burst forth. She smiles thinly. “All Olympian servants are under my employment, including the one you hold in your arms,” she says, spreading her arms. From the corners of the throne room, guards lurch forward, startled by the sudden gesture. “Or are you suggesting that you’d like to take over Palace affairs?” 

“Hm,” Poseidon says. His fingers trace your throat down your collarbones, over the curve of your shoulders, and you’ve never been more for the thin cloth of your uniform separating you from his bare skin as his touch flutters down your side. 

Lady Hestia’s eyes flare, and the flames in the torches scattered through the throne room roar to life. “Brother,” she warns. “Return my servant. They are not suited to life in Atlantis.”

“Was it not you, dear sister, who espoused the virtues and strengths of humanity?” Poseidon says, and you’re certain you’re not imagining the slick satisfaction in his voice as he adjusts you in his lap so that you’re splayed across his legs like a doe, exhausted and panting after a long chase by an unrelenting predator. “Hypocrisy is a vice.”

“My lord,” you hiss, arching away from his touch, only to buckle as he tugs you back as he’s done a million times before. His clawed grip is a cage, trapping you in place. 

Lady Hestia takes a step forward, and the guards rush to entrap her within a circle of spears. Yet she continues forward, forcing the Atlanteans to follow her lest they impale her bronze throat. “Don’t be childish. Strength means nothing against the might of the ocean,” she says, ignoring the spears poised at her. “Need I remind you of the toys you’ve broken in the past?”

Toys. You close your eyes. 

“Childish?” Poseidon’s voice turns flat. You feel his body coil beneath yours as he unwraps his arms from your waist to grip the golden armrests of his throne, shifting like a great serpent beneath the waves. “You come to my domain, demand that which does not belong to you, and call me childish? Was it not you who disdained my realm, who refused to address the concerns of a king because they offended your pacifist sensibilities? Sister, need I remind you which of us has won a war?”

“Are you threatening me?” Lady Hestia says quietly, placing her foot on the first step of the dais.

“That is beneath me,” Poseidon sneers.

“My lord,” you say. “If I may.”

The clashing surge of ice and fire subsides as the attention of the gods swings towards you. From the corner of your eyes, you see the guards surrounding Lady Hestia back away, the tips of their spears melting into molten steel in her aura. But all of your focus is on the god before you, whose eyes have narrowed into silver slits, who waits with hitching breaths that he does not need for your statement. 

You need to be as direct as possible. You don’t know what incident roused Poseidon’s ire against Lady Hestia, but you know a political spat when you see one. And it’s precisely because Poseidon is a war god, not a politician, that he bristles when another god dares to tread upon his realm and spin webs from words. 

How, then, do you tell the truth in a way that does not offend Poseidon’s already frayed nerves? 

“I am ashamed to have caused such a misunderstanding between my lady and my lord,” you say, wishing you had enough courage to smooth the furrows between Poseidon's brows with your fingers. He is close enough that you can see his chest move in slow, deliberate breaths. “Truthfully, this situation is due to my personal error. I did not inform Lady Hestia of my leaving, and as the Lady of the Palace, it is her responsibility to ensure the well-being of her staff. It is due to her kindness and not her arrogance that she comes here today.”

Poseidon’s grip on his golden throne tightens, causing minute cracks to form beneath his fingers. “You still defend her.”

“She is a kind god,” you say. “She does not mean to undermine your authority.”

Poseidon tilts his head, lashes low and fluttering over his cheeks. His eyes have darkened from seafoam to coral blue. “Is that so,” he says. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He turns, and you try not to collapse as that overwhelming pressure lifts from your shoulders, the seconds before a tsunami crashes upon the earth and sweeps away an entire civilization. “Fine. Your request is acceptable.”

“How lucky of me,” Lady Hestia says drily. You lower your head, unable and unwilling to meet her inquisitive gaze. 

Poseidon ignores her. Cold fingers touch the back of your neck, then twist themselves gently in your hair. “Proteus,” he says. “The gift.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Atlantean says. 

“M-My lord?” you stammer as Proteus brushes past Lady Hestia and ascends the dais, head carefully lowered in deference. In his outstretched hands is a pearly clam shell, around the size of his palm. 

You find yourself unable to look away as Proteus approaches the throne, frozen in place by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. A gift? From Poseidon? Perhaps you are dreaming.

Poseidon tilts his head, delighting in your internal panic. “Take it."

You glance between him and Proteus and back again. “I don’t— That is to say, I cannot—”

“You can’t?” Poseidon asks, eyes narrowing. The air grows cool, dampness kissing your cheeks.

“It wouldn’t be proper,” you amend, waving your hands frantically. “A lowly servant such as myself would never dare take advantage of your kindness.”

He snorts. With a flick of his finger, Proteus places the shell in Poseidon’s hand and backs down the dais, leaving the two of you alone on the throne once more. Surprisingly gently, Poseidon pries the shell apart. An aquamarine hairpiece is nestled atop pink silk, each petal of the sea anemone carved and shined to fractal perfection. A round pearl sits at the center, milk-white and gleaming.

A knot grows in your throat as you stare at the jeweled hair piece. “Turn your head,” Poseidon says. 

You cannot disobey. As you gaze at your hands, hyper aware of the guards still hovering in the shadows with their melted spears, of Lady Hestia and her burning gaze, of your own frantic breaths as they escape through your lips in shallow pants, you feel the hairpiece slide into your hair, as damning as a chain. Cool fingers glide along your jaw and twist so that you’re arching your back, forced to stare into a pair of dark, dark seafoam eyes. 

Poseidon peers down at you, a satisfied sneer twisting his pearl-pink lips. “I have never been kind,” he says. “Take it, and know that your life is mine.”

--

Lady Hestia is silent as she strides through the palace, spat out before the gates by whatever mechanism Proteus had used to take you onto the flying ship. You jog after her, dread and shame halting your tongue. Deja vu. 

It’s hard to believe that you’d spent the past week in Atlantis now that you’re on the ground, the smell of dirt and flowers and whatever else the housekeepers decide to cultivate in the palace filling your senses. But you can’t—will never—forget how Poseidon had sat in his throne, chin resting in his hand, a lazy sort of satisfaction mired in his gaze as he watched the two of you slip out of the hall. Nor will you ever be able to erase the sensation of his body around yours, coiled like a dragon around its gold.

An eternity and a half later, Lady Hestia steps before an innocuous set of doors, safely tucked away near the kitchen pantry. A snap of her fingers, and the doors ease open.

“Come in,” she says.

You follow her inside. 

Lady Hestia’s office is small but comfortable. Colorful tiles and tapestries decorate the walls, displaying stories of friends reuniting with friends, family finding each other amidst storms, siblings reconciling over wine and stories. A fireplace crackles cheerfully in the corner, infusing the air with the smell of woodsmoke and enveloping the room in a golden glow. 

Lady Hestia eases herself behind a heavy oak desk with a sigh. When she laces her hands beneath her chin and regards you with a familiar pair of amber eyes, the fireplace flickers, licking the edges of its brick prison and snapping its teeth in delight. 

“Sit,” she says. 

You do, sinking into the plush seat positioned before the goddess’s desk.

“That,” Lady Hestia says, “could’ve gone better.”

“I apologize—”

Lady Hestia cuts you off with a wave of her hand. “This isn't your fault. I'm not so blind as to believe you can refuse the demands of a god and escape with your head in tact." She sighs and pinches her brow. "However, I never expected my brother to sink so low as to kidnap my servants. You’d think he'd learn to stop being a brat after so many eons"

You remain silent. Lady Hestia sighs again. "Are you hurt, my dear?"

"No, my lady." Poseidon hadn't done anything but wait, that terrible gaze boring into you while you ate, slept, and sang for his entertainment. Even when matters concerning his kingdom were brought to his attention, he regarded them with faint irritation, never taking his attention away from you for longer than a few minutes.

"That's good." A phantom touch grazes your jaw, then trails up to your ears, brushing over the jewelry pinned in your hair. “Look up, my dear.”

You raise your head. Lady Hestia's expression is soft with understanding. “I never thought I’d see the day where my bratty little brother would finally be tamed,” she states with a faint smile. “And by a human, no less.”

You suck in a breath, hands curling into fists on your thighs. You hadn’t dared to remove the hairpiece while you still resided in Atlantis, but now you want to toss it into her fireplace, where it’ll melt away with the memory of the past week. “You flatter me, my lady. But I merely treated him with the respect a god of his stature deserves.”

“Respect,” Lady Hestia repeats, and you’re surprised to see her appraise you with amusement. “Very few mortals can say they faced my brother with respect and emerged alive for it. Even less with a boon.”

“I see,” you say. 

“Most of the time, it’s fear,” she says, tapping her chin. “Perhaps worship, if they’re particularly bold.”

“I see,” you say again. 

Lady Hestia says, “Look at me, my dear.” You obey, feeling numb. Her eyes burn like the sun. “Do not approach Poseidon again. I don’t think I need to remind you why.”

“Of course, my lady,” you hear yourself say, soft and apologetic. “Thank you for retrieving me. I know you are busy, and I’m ashamed to have taken you away from your duties.”

A pause. Then Lady Hestia snorts, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Pardon?”

“My dear,” she says gently, “you are my duty.” Then, as you reel from that statement, she huffs and drags a hand through her hair. Licks of flame come away from the tips of her fingers. “And it wasn’t entirely altruistic.”

You frown. “Did the housekeeper inform you? Or perhaps Daphne—”

“No. No, it was someone else,” Lady Hestia says, smiling. “In fact, I am very, very curious to hear the truth from your lips. What exactly happened between you and Loki?”

--

So you tell her. 

Not everything. Not Daphne’s distress, not Loki’s transformation into that sickeningly familiar face, not his final reaction to your words. But you tell her enough that Lady Hestia’s brows furrow and the air begins to warm in response to her darkening mood. 

“That little shit,” she mutters under her breath once you finish.

Sweat sticks your uniform to your skin. You feel like a child being chastised by a beloved teacher for breaking their bully’s nose: guilty, somber, and a little vindicated. “I know I could’ve handled the situation better—”

“Don’t,” Lady Hestia snaps. Your jaw clicks shut as she drags a hand down her face. The fireplace roars, then settles back down with a lazy spit of flame. “I’d assumed Daphne would be a suitable choice for Loki, especially considering how long she put up with Apollo. Evidently, I was wrong.”

No one’s a suitable choice for Loki, you think.

You glance around, spotting a kettle to your right. You pull yourself out of your seat as Lady Hestia snaps her fingers. A slip of paper drifts from the bookshelf into her awaiting hand, and she picks up a quill and begins to write. 

The water boils quickly. You pour it into the cup and allow the tea to steep. For a moment, the only sound is the sound of bubbling water and Lady Hestia’s pen scratching on paper. Once the tea has finished steeping, you bring the cup across the room and set it on her desk. She glances up, raising an eyebrow. 

“Chamomile,” you murmur. “For stress.”

Lady Hestia accepts the mug with a nod, affection warming her smile. “Thank you, my dear.” 

As she takes a sip, the lines on her forehead ease, and she leans back in her chair with a sigh. She scrawls her signature at the bottom of the paper and tosses into the fireplace, where it disappears in a wisp of golden smoke. “There. The housekeepers have been notified of the change. Daphne will be reassigned to a less volatile god. Forseti, perhaps.”

Relief rushes through you, washing away a week’s worth of panic and concern. You dip into a deep bow to hide your gleeful smile. There, there. Daphne will be safe. There is still the matter of your seven month punishment from the housekeeper, but she’ll never have to speak to that petty, childish little god ever again.

“Thank you.” You pause. “My lady, you said that Loki— that Lord Loki approached you?”

“Unfortunately,” she says. 

“Did you…” You can’t finish the sentence. 

Lady Hestia frowns, and you realize too late the offense in your statement. Before you can rush to apologize, she waves it off. “I told him nothing, though that didn’t stop him from hefting something else upon me.”

You follow Lady Hestia’s finger to a corner of the room, and your breath hitches. Like a spring storm, your good mood abruptly dissipates, giving way to a crawling sense of dread.

“What is that?” you say sharply. 

“A bouquet,” Lady Hestia says.

Not just a bouquet. A bouquet of pure gold flowers, petals and stem and all, and you’re a little too far to tell to be certain but the twinkling of stars bundled within each flower look like diamonds. Too expensive for a joke and far too expensive for you, a mortal servant who works for an entirely different pantheon.

“He told me it was a gift, and then threw a fit when I didn’t immediately summon the person he wanted to meet him,” Lady Hestia muses, taking a sip of tea. 

“A gift?”

“Yes. A gift for his newest obsession. He even demanded that I deliver it to his beloved.” She sighs. “Poor fool. I wonder who’s caught his attention this time?”

You uncurl your fists carefully, pressing them flat against your thighs. Lady Hestia smiles above the rim of her cup. “However, I am under no obligation to listen to Norse gods who barge into my office and demand things from me,” she says cheerfully. “So I don't plan to listen to him."

“Really?” you ask, stunned.

She waves a hand and shrugs. “Of course not. Sending the gift along means that I'd lied when I said that I didn’t know who he was talking about, and I’m no liar. But I have no need of gold, nor a silly god’s affections. So why don’t you take it off my hands?”

“My lady, do you mean to say…” 

“It’s my gift to give,” she says. “And now it’s yours. What you do with it—we’ll, it’s up to you now.”

Oh. Oh. This is a favor. She’s letting you decide what to do—reject Loki or to accept it. “Thank you,” you say. “I will return for it. Please give me a few days to make a decision.”

She nods. There might be pity in her gaze. You don't dare to look closer. “Take all the time you need.”

--

You walk back to your room in a daze. 

What game is Loki playing? Perhaps tearing yourself from his grasp and rushing out of the room hadn’t been clear enough: you want nothing to do with him. 

On the surface, your refusal might seem petulant. Loki couldn’t be clearer about his intentions if he wrote you a sonnet. 

But the gesture is a tad too on the nose, a tad too obvious to be genuine. Loki is the Father of Lies; the more direct the statement, the murkier the intention. If he truly desired your affection, then he wouldn’t give you a basket of gold roses when he’s clever enough to know neither gold nor gifts may capture your heart. 

So. If not a gift, then what are his intentions? Revenge, perhaps? By singling you out as the object of his favor, he may draw out the hostility of your peers, enough that one of them may be moved to harm you out of jealousy. That plan removes him from the equation and places the blame squarely on your shoulders. After all, it would be your fault that the people around you hate you enough to attempt murder. Loki himself would be a simple bystander. If he’d known a simple gift would kill his favorite mortal, he might bemoan, he never would’ve given it at all! 

There is another possibility that suits his cleverness. Perhaps he plans to make you indebted to him by “gifting” you something you have no way of repaying. By the time you realize that it isn’t free, he’s already claimed your eternal servitude.

Either way, Loki wants something from you, and you’d rather not accept such a lucrative gift if it means owing him a favor.

“Ah. There you are.”

The deep voice startles you out of your stupor. There’s a tall, thin man standing in the hallway, regarding you with a pair of sharp yellow eyes. “Niccolo?” you ask, surprised. Then you blink and sweep into a bow. “And Lord Hermes. How may I help you?” 

Damn. You hadn’t wanted to meet another god, not this soon after Poseidon and certainly not when you look and feel so awful. Discreetly, you run a hand through your hair to hide the hairpiece as best as you can, though it’s a futile effort.

The librarian inclines his head in greeting. Beside him, Lord Hermes grins, sharp at the edges and a little too gleeful for your tastes.

“I noticed that you were searching for information on the Norse pantheon,” Niccolo says. “I hate to admit it, but our library lacks substantial primary sources regarding the Norse. Lord Hermes was gracious enough to help me find some material that I wish to pass on.”

“It was nothing,” Lord Hermes says demurely. “I merely had to… dig, a little.”

“Oh,” you say as Niccolo removes the heavy black bag from his shoulder and hands it off to you. You take it in both arms, though not without taking a peek at its heavy contents: book, stacks and stacks of them, most covered in annotations in a sharp cursive font, one that you recognize from the front desk of the palace library. Something swells in your throat. “I can’t thank you enough. Is there anything I can do in exchange?”

Niccolo grunts, pale cheeks flushing. “No need,” he says. “My only request is that you continue to read.” He coughs. “The library doesn’t receive many visitors, and some of the books need to be aired out."

“I would be honored to visit your library in the future,” you say, wishing you could rush forward and kiss his hands. You make do by bowing your head, suppressing tears of gratitude. Kindness in the palace was hard-won on Olympus. “I’ll make some time next week.”

The librarian’s lips tug into a small smile. “Good. It’s never too late to learn.”

As the librarian bids the two of you farewell, you haul the books over one shoulder and let out a hiss of breath. The initial excitement and warmth of meeting Niccolo again gives away an all-too-familiar trepidation. “Lord Hermes,” you say, gazing resolutely over the god’s shoulder, “what do you need?” 

A few weeks is not enough time to forget your first meeting. Even the way he curves his bruise-purple eyes is the same, revealing a hint of white teeth. “Am I not permitted to visit a friend?" he asks, as sweet as molasses. 

“With what free time?”

He chuckles. Before you can react, he reaches out and brushes your hair from your face. “It seems you have a fair amount of free time on your end, too,” he says, hovering over the aquamarine hairpiece. “Hm. Nasty piece of work.”

“Please don’t insult Lord Poseidon,” you say sharply, then blink, startled by your fervent defense. 

Lord Hermes blinks, something incomprehensible flickering across his expression. His mouth stretches into a lazy smile, and he draws back with a slight shrug. “You misunderstand me, my dear. The craftsmanship is exquisite, though I can’t say the same about the hairpiece itself.” His lip curls slightly, and he pulls out a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe his gloves. “Lord Poseidon has always had a fondness for things with teeth.”

What? Your hand flies to the hairpiece, nearly dropping the bag of books. Did Poseidon place a curse on it? Are you going to die in seven days?

“Regardless,” Lord Hermes continues, returning his handkerchief to his pocket, “you are correct. I have a proposal for you.”

You lower your hand and eye him warily. “The last time you made a deal with me, you threw me into Lord Zeus’s chambers on the anniversary of the Titanomachy. Frankly, Lord Hermes, I don’t feel the need to repeat that experience.”

If anything, his eyes grow brighter. “Silly me. I’ve forgotten to explain the terms of the deal first,” he says cheerfully. “Come with me, my dear.”

The way he places a hand on your lower back and nudges you forward indicates it’s not a request. You stumble along, struggling to carry the bag of books until Lord Hermes plucks it from your arms, carrying it with a single hooked finger as if the whole thing isn’t the size and mass of a good boulder. “I understand that you are searching for information on the Norse pantheon,” he says, plowing on like nothing’s happened. “Niccolo is correct. The palace library is sorely lacking in books on the other pantheons for a reason.”

Your heart sinks to your feet. You’re an idiot. Why would the heart of the Greek pantheon require information on other gods unless they planned to invade their territory? The Greeks and Norse are allies, and any incriminating data would be destroyed in a show of good faith as soon as the alliance had been forged. 

“Of course, that doesn’t mean we don’t have our ways,” Lord Hermes continues. “As you mortals say, ‘know thy friends.’” 

A flash of lightning outside the window. You nearly jump, only to trip forward as Lord Hermes parades you forward. “I understand that you will be hosting the Valkyries,” he says between the rumbling of thunder. 

Your head jerks around. “How did you—”

“Don’t insult me, my dear,” Lord Hermes says with a sharp smile. “You’re currently filling in a supplementary role, not yet assigned to any of the Norse gods residing on Olympus. The information you seek doesn’t exist in the palace library, and you haven’t asked your fellow servants for help for the same reason. Of the Norse gods who have not yet joined us on Olympus, only a few fulfill the criteria of being both disregarded by gods and respected by mortals. Ergo, the Valkyries.” 

He’s right. You grimace, ducking your head. Lady Hestia hadn’t exactly required you to keep your assignment a secret, but it’s not unknown that the gods dislike the Valkyries. Not many gods retain their close connection with humanity even after an ascension, not even mentioning the Valkyries’s half-divine status. As an Olympian guest once spat, mutts.

“You’re correct,” you bite through gritted teeth.

Lord Hermes chuckles. “Of course I am.” Yet another bolt of lightning streaks through the sky, close enough that thunder immediately roars. Blue. “You’re lucky. Our Library of Alexandria not only contains information on the Valkyries, it even has first-hand accounts of their lives pre-ascension.” A note of derision slips into his voice. “Mortals are not permitted into the Library without express permission from Lord Zeus. Once granted, I imagine it will be vital to your intended hospitality.”

“Indeed,” you say as the two of you round the corner and come upon the main gates separating the palace from the rest of the Olympic peak.

Wind whips your face, making you sputter. The sky is black with storm clouds, smothering the afternoon in darkness. Rain pelts the earth with enough force to overturn the flowers that had been carefully pruned and planted a few weeks ago. Every few seconds, furious blue lightning splits the sky. 

Memories of the events following the last blue-lightning storm flicker through your mind. You steel yourself. “And the price, my lord?” you ask quietly.

“Oh, you know,” Lord Hermes says, hand splaying across the small of your back. For the first time, you become aware of how much taller he is than you—how easily he can shove you to the ground or wrap his fingers around your neck and squeeze. You gaze up and catch a glimpse of wine-dark eyes, curved with an amusement to a joke only he understands. “You only need to help with a personal project of mine.”

--

Funny little thing. 

Hermes watches as you dart through Alexandria, hovering by each shelf like you can’t bear to bring yourself to touch the books. Your hesitancy is unwarranted. Alexandria falls under Athena's protection. Even Thor’s, hm, temper tantrum cannot penetrate the protective spells. 

Still, there’s something half-charming about the excited gleam in your eyes as you tell the Library your wishes and wait for the books to float down from the shelves and deposit themselves into your arms. The Library is built like a tower spiraling endlessly towards the sky, and every inch of the walls are stuffed to the brim with scrolls, journals, books from every era. Anything that’s been written down eventually finds its way here, meaning that it’s the most important collection of history in all of Valhalla—all that more blasphemous that Hermes has invited a human inside.

Well, whatever. He’s never cared about Athena’s opinion, and he’s not going to start now.

“This is a diary,” Hermes hears you murmur as you flip open the leather-bound book. “Huh."

Hermes meanders over, delighting in your minute flinch as he leans over to read over your shoulder. Old Norse. “Need assistance?” he asks, ignoring the obnoxious blue eyesore in your hair practically screaming Poseidon’s claim. Mine, mine, mine. He has half a mind to tear it from your head and throw it back into the ocean, damn the consequences.

You're so still that Hermes is almost afraid that you've stopped breathing. “Be my guest,” you say.

Hermes hums, brushing a gloved hand over the edge of the yellowing pages. “Today is my thirteenth winter, and Mother believes I am strong enough to bring back ice from the lake by myself,” he reads. “Brother showed me how to use the pick last moon, but I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’ve practically forgotten everything. Hopefully, Ullr smiles upon me today! Mother looks awfully weak these days. I’m certain she’ll appreciate a heated bath after all this time.” 

How droll.

“How sad,” you say. 

Hermes glances at your side-profile. Your eyes are downcast. There's a split of skin on your lower lip where you must've bitten through in your anxiety. “In what way?"

You flip through the rest of the diary, showing nothing but empty pages. “This is the last entry. Valkyries don’t age after their ascension, right?” When Hermes nods, your shoulders droop for no reason he can surmise. “Thirteen years old. That’s far too young.”

“Do you feel pity for the Valkyries?” Hermes asks, bemused. “They are still divine, demigods or not.”

“I know. I just…” You murmur thanks to the paper owl who flies by and takes the diary between its beak, returning it to its original position on the five-hundred and third floor. Sadness seeps into your voice. The back of Hermes's throat itches. “I don’t think divinity exempts them from compassion.”

Hermes allows you to duck past him to accept a yellowing scroll from another paper owl. You scratch its head and giggle as it flaps its wings and butts your head. Strange. He didn’t think Athena programmed tactile sensations into the Library’s helpers. 

“Does it benefit you to be so earnest about serving the Valkyries?” Hermes notes, following you down the spiral staircase into a nook filled with pillows and blankets that someone (likely Hestia) had piled into a corner.

“Not at all,” you say, sinking into the nook with your stash of reading material. Without prompting, a tiny corvid flutters over, struggling to carry the blanket draped over its head. You hurry to snatch the blanket and free the magpie, tickling its wings and laughing as it buries itself in your hair and tries its damndest to preen you with its paper beak. “The only benefit is knowing that we’ve shown them the best hospitality we can afford.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yes,” you say, letting the magpie hop into your cupped hands. Your smile is gentler than anything he’s seen you wear. You lift your arms and allow the paper bird to spring off, soaring higher and higher until it disappears into the higher shelves of the Library. “The world is strange and wonderful. Is it so bad to search for places that remind you of home?” 

Hermes doesn’t understand, and he doubts he ever will. Home is a cave filled with the scent of blood and the sounds of sobs. Home is an opulent room next to Ares’s quarters that he never uses. Mortals, he thinks, live such short lives that they attach themselves to the first thing that gives them some semblance of pleasure. It’s rather pathetic.

You do your best not to flinch when Hermes suddenly sits down next to you, curving his body so that your shoulders touch, his arm pinned between your side and his. A silent command, and dozens of paper birds rush forward with platters of sweets and tea, set them clumsily on the floor, and then dart away. 

“I doubt you understand Old Norse as well as I do,” Hermes asks, pouring two cups of tea from a delicate porcelain teapot.

You stare at him warily and shake your head when he offers you a pastry. How cute. Do you really think he’s enough of an amateur to poison something as basic as food? “Are you offering to help me without a price?” you ask, drawing your knees to your chest.

“Is that so strange?” Hermes asks, blinking innocently. 

“Yes.”

He laughs, and it’s close enough to being genuine that he clamps his mouth shut on instinct, hand flying to his mouth. The sound raises your hackles, and you shuffle away with a faint frown. 

Seven days in Poseidon's possession has taken its toll on you. You're more blunt, less coyly deferential. He can't say he hates it.

“Well,” Hermes says with a sigh, dragging the same hand through his hair and tugging hard enough to hurt, “consider this part of our original deal. It would be cruel to leave you in a Library with books you don’t understand.”

You tilt your chin up stubbornly, a pretty look of defiance crossing your face. “I understand plenty,” you say. “You’re simply underestimating me.”

Ah. Hermes smiles. “Would you like to make a bet, my dear?”

--

The game is simple. Hermes finds a book, and you must summarize the first page within five minutes of skimming. If you complete the task, you win a point. If you don’t know the language or can’t guess the contents based on context clues, Hermes wins.

In the end, Hermes loses. The last scroll he’d chosen makes your eyes light up and your voice rise as you recite the entire maritime tax revenue document without pause. 

“I admit defeat,” Hermes says, sweeping an arm out and bowing sarcastically. As your eyes light up, he allows the paper owl to swoop in and return the document to its respective shelf. “You have quite an esoteric knowledge bank, my dear."

The realization dawns too late. You duck your head, biting your lower lip in embarrassment. “I, er, had a strange childhood."

“Strange enough that you needed to learn maritime tax brackets?”

You shrug. Hermes lets the silence draw out for a touch too long, then laughs and brushes it aside. “Then I shall give you free reign over the Library. Come find me when you’re done," he says, pressing a hand to his heart. Well, if he had a human heart.

“Alright,” you say, but your movements are subdued as you return to your search.

Hermes hides a smile as he emerges from the Library, summoning an umbrella to protect him from the worst of the storm. Rains pours from the skies, but nothing like his darling father's storms. Clearly, Thor’s bad mood isn’t going away for a while. Good.

After no time at all, the door opens, and you step outside, hair considerably more mussed up than the last time he saw you. Before you seal the door behind you, you coax a paper sparrow from your head and release it back into the Library.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Hermes asks. 

Your smile is small yet victorious. “Yes, I did," you say, brushing a rain-slick piece of hair from your forehead. "Thank you.”

A little blossom of warmth stirs in his chest before he quashes it with a click of his tongue. After a pause, he steps closer and tilts the umbrella towards you, shielding you from the worst of the rain. It would be a shame to bring you to Thor when you’re so wet and pathetic-looking. You peer up at him, eyes wide with surprise.

"Time to fulfill your end of the bargain,” Hermes says. He nods towards the distance, where the storm clouds have gathered into a single black singularity. He doesn’t need to squint to see that crimson-haired figure standing at the peak of the mountain, mystical hammer in hand and generating enough lightning to power an entire human civilization for decades, but you do, and you lean forward to do so, hitching a delicate hand on the crook of his elbow. “That, my dear, is the reason why Olympus’s climate has experienced so much turmoil in the last few weeks.”

Your expression sobers. You pull away, folding your arms over your chest defensively. “Lord Thor.”

“What do you think he’s doing?” Hermes asks.

You bite your lip when you think. He wonders if you're aware of the tic. “He’s bored,” you say after a moment, “and doing whatever he can to stave it off.”

Hermes can’t help but smile. You’re clever. He likes that. 

“Lady Hestia would hate to have one of her guests go stir-crazy within the palace,” he says, placing his hand at the small of your back once more. “Let’s go.”

--

(“Troy?” Poseidon’s expression turns flat with boredom. “The kingdom who lost. What else is there to say?”

“More than you’d think, my lord,” Hermes says. “Start from the beginning. How did the war begin?”

Poseidon leans back, tilting his head in thought. Even the simple plush seat is a throne when he sits upon it, eyes half-lidded and keen. "There was a human," he says. "A peasant's boy. He won a golden apple and bestowed it upon the one he believed to be fairest in the land. His prize was a stolen one."

"What else?"

A sneer twists Poseidon's lips. "Humans did what they do best: they go to war, and taint the earth with their filth."

Hermes inclines his head in faux pity. "Many fell in the ensuing war. Even some of yours." When Poseidon doesn't respond, Hermes continues, "How, then, does the tale end?"

There's a glint in Poseidon's eye. Hermes hesitates to call it anything but disinterest. "One of Athena's humans," he says. "A cowardly ruse. They left no survivors."

"I see." No survivors. A fortuitous story. Hermes rises to his feet. "Thank you, uncle. I believe that is all I need.")