Chapter Text
“Can you believe it, Eros?”
“Hm?” You look up from your fletching, turning to face your father. He’s sprawled out dramatically, an arm thrown over his eyes. “Believe what?”
“The mortals!” He cries out, as if struck. “They- they’re saying there is one more beautiful than I! They’re worshiping him, Eros! This common creature!”
You sigh, turning back to your arrows. “You know how mortals are, Father. They’re more fickle than even Zeus.” You lift one, inspecting the pointed end. “It’ll pass, as all things eventually do.”
“What if it doesn't?” He moans, sounding like a dying animal. “Please, Eros, you must help me!”
“And what do you propose I do, Father?” You ask, accepting your role in all of this with grace. It wouldn’t be the first time your father has made you do something questionable for his own entertainment.
His urgency, his melodrama, it all evaporates as soon as he has your cooperation secured. He leans over, leering at you with a predatory look in his eye. “This lamia,” he says, cruel amusement already saturating his tone, “Ramattra, they call him. Make him fall in love with some swamp creature, some hopelessly ugly thing! That would serve him right, for thinking he’s better than me!”
“Consider it done, Father,” you say, hoisting your quiver onto your back. The sooner you finish, the better.
He smiles at you, and his expression is devoid of any kind of love. It is beautiful, but it is empty. “Thank you, my child.”
You don’t dignify him with a response.
The first thing you notice about the monastery is that it’s crowded. Despite being on a secluded mountain range, visitors come from far and wide to visit the holy site. Of course, the main attraction is not the shrine itself, but one of the humble servants of the temple.
Ramattra.
It’s not difficult to find him in the throng of visitors. They give him a wide berth, as if getting too close would be inauspicious, and stand in awe of him.
You have to admit, even as the child of Aphrodite himself, that he is lovely. He has sharp, dignified features, and an incredible physique. His coloring is regal and striking, cutting an imposing figure that seems unapproachable.
And yet, there is this gentleness about him, this purposefulness in the way he moves and speaks, that belies a certain softness to his character. Clad in his raiments, you truly do not blame the mortals for thinking he is divine.
It upsets you, just a bit, to have to debase and ruin him for your father’s machinations.
You nock an arrow.
You’ll finish quickly and go home to hear your father’s insincere praise.
You take aim.
Surely, a goat or cow would suffice? Your eyes dart between your two targets as he tends to the herd.
Then.
He looks at you.
Purple, you think, and--
Your hand slips.
A fatal error.
It scratches you, just barely, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.
The arrow falls, useless, to the ground.
His eyes wander away-- he wasn’t even looking at you, was he?-- but it doesn’t matter.
Your wings curl around you protectively as you shrink in on yourself, your cheeks blazing red.
Oh.
Oh no.
And that was the beginning of the end.
Far from the vain and self aggrandizing individual your father made him out to be, Ramattra is humble and soft spoken.
He carries himself with an otherworldly grace, but does not hold himself above others. No, he lowers himself to their level, sinking to the dirt and grass to help those who have fallen, caught on the harsh incline of the mountains, dizzied by the lower air pressure.
Despite being their better by all accounts, he mingles with the mundane visitors as much as they'll allow. They give him a wide berth wherever he goes, parting before him like scattered birds, only to follow closely behind, watching his every move.
And you're no different, are you?
You alight on his windowsill, nary a noise made from your disturbance. The moon is thin and wan tonight, providing very little light to see with, but even in the dim, insubstantial light, he is radiant.
He sleeps apart from all the other monks, by virtue of his size and stature, and has his own quarters instead. The room is largely impersonal, devoid of affectations or decorations. It is strictly utilitarian.
It’s disappointing that you can’t learn more about him from his surroundings, but it makes sense that a monk would not have many personal belongings.
Your shadow falls across his hulking, sleeping form. He’s curled up, using his own coils as both bedding and a pillow. He’s so large that he takes up a large section of the room, the remaining portion of which is dedicated to storing his clothing and scriptures.
A dark flush rises to your cheeks as you realize that he is sleeping almost entirely naked, with just a sash covering his groin.
His tongue darts cutely out of his mouth, forked and tasting the air, and he shifts in his sleep. Blearily, he opens one of his eyes, and--
You’re gone.
…But unbeknownst to you, you left a trace of your presence behind.
A single, shining white feather.
Visitors mill about the temple, conversing in hushed tones with the monks, and going even quieter still when Ramattra makes his appearance. He’s just one of the many monks, not high in position at all, and yet, he commands respect and obedience by merit of his size, his stature, his sylvian, serpentine grace.
He wears but a simple chlamys, a piece of cloth draped over his right shoulder, held together with a gold ring near the front. It leaves the entirety of his left arm and side exposed to the air. The temple did not have many articles of clothing that would fit a creature of his stature, so he had to improvise.
And yet, despite the amateurish design and construction, the result begets awe and respect solely by virtue of its model. Ramattra could make even the most derelict of fabrics appear regal, simply by drawing them around his form.
You conceal yourself amongst the foliage, following him through the day as he goes about his daily routine. His fellow monks are friendly enough, but they maintain a healthy distance.
The visitors are far more obvious in their reverence of his presence. They treat him like a living deity, and practically worship the ground he walks on and the objects he touches.
Is it wishful thinking? To imagine that you are similar to him, in a way? Adored by all those around you, and yet…
The day winds to a close, and you follow him to his evening retreat. The setting sun highlights his sharp, jutting features, makes the gold filigree on his vestments shine and sparkle.
…He looks so alone.
You clutch your hands to your chest, your wings fluttering nervously behind you. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, as an idea begins to form in your mind. A solution to both your father’s problem’s and Ramattra’s.
Yes, that would work… wouldn’t it?
The leaves rustle as you leave your perch behind, speeding off the work on your plan.
You finish your preparations later than expected.
You glide over to Ramattra’s window, creating a slight breeze when you land, once again, on his windowsill. Your heart races with anticipation and trepidation all at once at your guilty pleasure, your eyes roving over his iridescent scales.
Nervously, you glance at the moon, already at the cusp of setting, and back at Ramattra. He seems to be sound asleep.
You’re consumed by the urge to creep closer, to touch him, to hold him, but you restrain yourself, and let your gaze linger for but a moment before you flutter away again.
Ramattra woke that morning to a cacophony of noise, and a certain, familiar face at his door.
"Ramattra," Zenyatta looked caught between worry and excitement, "there is something you need to see."
Puzzled, Ramattra dressed himself, and let his brother lead the way. The sea of visitors parted before them as they approached, revealing an ethereal, effulgent dove, clad in gold and ivy. In its shining beak, it held a letter addressed to him, adorned with wax the color of ambrosial nectar, and ink matching the vivid violet hue of his eyes.
With shaking, reverent hands, Ramattra accepted the parchment, and bowed before the divine messenger. A voice, not spoken, but rather carried upon the winds themselves, graced his humble ears with but one sentence:
Rise, lamia, for my master has sent me to deliver this message unto you.
Ramattra met its shining, dark eyes as they sparkled, seeming to hold all the cosmos within those pinpricks of darkness. His trembling talons divested the scroll of its wax seal, and unfurled it.
It was a marriage proposal.
(A contract.)
The coming days were hectic, filled with hustle and bustle as people bid him tearful farewells and he prepared for his inevitable departure from the monastery.
On the designated date, Ramattra descended the mountain, accompanied by his brother, his friend, Zenyatta. The trip was spent in companionable silence, and Ramattra was glad for it. It gave him time to think.
The monastery hadn’t felt like home in a long, long time.
It hurted to admit it, but between the religious practices of the temple itself, and the overbearing attention of the visitors, he felt claustrophobic-- caged.
He felt like a spectacle. A decoration. A tool. It reminded him far too much of his past.
The path led to a clearing dotted with wildflowers. The tall grass swayed in the wind, and the foliage rustled as a breeze whispered through the dense trees. Zenyatta put a hand on his arm.
“This is where I leave you,” he said.
“It would seem so.”
Zenyatta smiled at him, warm and genuine. “I wish you the best of luck, Brother.”
Ramattra felt that he would need it. His eyes followed his brother as he disappeared back into the trees, and lingered still, long after he’d gone.
As twilight quickly turned to dusk, a soft, warm wind blew across the clearing. Gently, lovingly, it suffused the air with a scent that lulled him to sleep. Dimly, he could feel that he was moving, being lifted by some extraterrestrial force, but he could hardly open his eyes, let alone discern what was happening.
And when he awoke, he was in a place he’d never seen before, nor could he have imagined.
An opulent palace shimmered before his eyes. Pearlescent columns seemed to pierce the very sky, and mistlike clouds swirled about the impossibly high roof. The brilliant, white marble was resplendently polished to a mirror finish, and such decadence, such splendor could only be afforded to…
A voice came to him from on high, melodic and sweet.
You may enter, for this is now your home. The lord, your spouse, shall visit you once night falls.
And so he did.
The interior was just as lovely as the exterior, and as he traversed the corridors, he found them empty of life and company. The entire place was like that-- decadently decorated, and yet, with nobody around to enjoy it. It felt hollow and lonely, and a large part of him hoped the lord of the place would return soon.
As he traveled down yet another hallway, he dragged a hand along the wall behind him, brushing against the cold, cold marble.
His other hand drifted down to a pocket on his clothing, and he touched the feather he’d brought with him, still effulgent and warm.
When night finally fell, the wind shepherded him to a room. There was no light when the door shut, and Ramattra felt a cold unease crawling up his spine.
“Hello,” a voice called out to him, “it is good to finally meet you.”
He tilted his head towards the direction of the sound. “Yes,” he said tentatively, and shifted to get more comfortable. “Is there a reason for this meeting to take place in the dark?”
“Call it a whim,” the voice said, and Ramattra could hear the person getting closer. “I presume you have questions beyond that?”
He felt as though he was being watched, but in the inky darkness of the room, he couldn’t make out much of anything. “Why did you propose to me?”
“I… needed something from you.” There was hesitance in that answer that belied an untold truth, but Ramattra was himself reluctant to ask. “I do not harbor any ill will towards you, and you will not be forced to do anything against your will. Your comfort is my utmost priority, and I assure you, my servants and I will make sure your every need and want is taken care of.”
“So this is a contract, then?”
“Yes, a contract. I will ask nothing of you, other than to stay here.”
Ramattra stilled, and raised a clawed hand to his chin, puzzled. “I see,” he said slowly, with measured words. “But… what exactly do you have to gain from this?”
“...Companionship, I suppose.” Eager to shift the topic, they interrupted as Ramattra was about to speak up again, “you must be tired from the journey here. I shall escort you to your chambers.”
You guide Ramattra through the halls with your wind, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. The doors to the bedroom swing open for you as you approach, and you allow Ramattra to enter before you. “Make yourself comfortable,” you say, and turn to leave.
Sensing your absence from his side, he tilts his head. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes…?” You pause, and turn back to him, the moonlight just bright enough to make out the faintest silhouette.
“We are wedded, are we not? Won’t share the night with me?”
“I- I suppose I could,” you stammer, and make your way over to the bed, where he’s already made himself at home. The bed itself is so large that you can freely sprawl yourself out without making contact with him, even with his hulking frame.
You lay there stiffly for what feels like hours, with your heart beating so hard you’re convinced he can feel it emanating through the sheets. But eventually, inevitably, his breathing evens out, and yours is soon to follow.