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The sharp tang of blood greeted you the moment you stepped into the cave.
You’d seen this before - scattered intestines, cracked and jagged parts of a skull, a femur here, an ulna there, a spine torn in two strewn across the cavern floor - yet you still couldn’t hold in a gasp.
This of course drew Seraphim’s attention, who knelt by the mangled remains of his uncle, a puddle of blood under his knees.
Quicker than any human, he rose to his feet and whirled around, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. In one bloody hand, he clutched his bident, both tips still gleaming crimson.
This should’ve insulted you, made you bristle. Any god, titan or olympian, would have struck him where he stood for even daring to defy powers greater than himself, a puny human desperately trying his hand at godhood. It was pathetic, really.
But at your core, you were what creation intended; you were the personification of love and all its nuances - the warmth and chaos of it all, the unconditional acceptance of the insanity that came with loving and the loved. This was your essence since you dawned alongside the universe, birthed long before the concept of humanity was even imagined; the primordial goddess of love, a titan of no equal. Even when you’ve been made obscure and obsolete, this was still your duty as divinity.
And so, standing before seraphim now, soaked in gore with his humanity barely visible anymore, you saw.
Somehow, he did, too. His features grew less sharp, snarl turning into a grimace as he leered at you. “Another god.” He spat the words like a curse.
“Titan,” you corrected. “And I mean no harm.”
Recognition dawned on his face. But you’d seen this before - recognition for the sword but not its wielder. This time, however, you refused to let disappointment settle in your stomach. It wasn’t his fault.
Neither of you moved. Your gaze darted to his crimson-tipped bident, and he to your form. The questions were easily recognizable in his eyes - who were you? why were you here?
With a breath, you decided and stepped forward. Seraphim watched you approach. Your dress trailed behind you, red blooming along the white, silken hem.
When you were a foot away from him, you extended a hand between you. “Come,” you said. “You need rest.”
He eyed it like it was a snake about to strike.
So you tried again. “Take your rest before Hera finds you again.”
At the mention of the goddess’s name, Seraphim growled, and you gasped when the cold tip of his bident pressed under your chin. This forced you to look up into his red gaze, your stomach churning at the miasma of bitterness and revenge swirling within them.
“Gods, titans, you’re all the same,” he spat. “We’re nothing but playthings to you. Like pawns on a board that you move and summon to your liking. When have any of you answered our prayers? Where are any of you when we beg for your aid, your mercy?”
With a snarl that rivaled his, you answered, “Am I not an answered prayer? Have I not come at a moment of need?”
“You all come when you please.”
“I come when I can,” you hissed, unable to quell your outrage because how dare he presume to even fathom. What do you do when you were nothing but mythos? When the best you got was a passing thought because you were merely a footnote?
When they came, the prayers came few, until eventually there were none.
People had more faith in rocks and earth. You? Your existence was too irrelevant to even question.
Your tongue was a weight of all the spite and bitterness festering within you, the antithesis of your essence.
You could’ve said more, could’ve made him see all that you had seen. But that would shatter him irreparably, and you couldn’t do that. That wouldn’t be very lovely, not when you were love itself. Still, you wanted to love in spite of it.
You were the chaos of it all, and so you understood. And with you, he would, too. In time.
Quietly, you added, “Trust me, boy, you are not the only one the fates have abandoned.”
This—this broke him. His eyes dimmed and his form slumped, as if the weight of his bident suddenly became too heavy. Then, as if just seeing for the first time, his gaze darted all over himself, at the blood smattered across his chest and arms.
“I—“ he began, features rapidly shifting between grief and anger, and when he couldn’t decide, he finally, finally looked at you. “Hera will come looking for me.”
“She will.”
You read emotions as one would read letters on a page. And with his realization came the brief flash of fear, bitter and sharp, before emptiness took its place once more. Beneath it all, however, was the undercurrent of anger, a steady thrum while everything else ebbed and flowed.
A pause, and then, in a whisper, “He’s dead. He’s really dead.”
When you touched his cheek, images played in your mind — a mother and a boy against a world of greedy men, of gods and prayers, of swords and blood, of a yawning hopelessness and a desperation like teeth chewing through flesh.
All these behind a vast wall of nothingness acting as a barrier between the memories and the red haze of anger facing the world. Monsters hiding monsters.
“I know,” you answered just as softly, pressing closer. Seraphim leaned into your touch—not out of want but out of necessity, and oh, how your skin tingled. To be wanted. To be needed. And when he stepped further into your space, a soldier laying his burdens as his forehead pressed against your shoulder, your very soul thrummed. Your arms wrapped around him, one hand carding through the white-blonde hairs in his nape while the other trailed down his arm, to the clawed hand circled loosely around his bident.
"You need rest."
Hot breath fanned against your collarbone. "And in exchange for rest?"
Seraphim's muscles grew taught under your touch. A man awaiting judgment.
Skin to skin, the images became clearer, the sensations stronger—a memory of muscles straining to stay standing, of hard rock digging into his knees as a force pushed him down.
You grit your teeth, forcing the images away. You wanted, yes. But not that. Once, maybe. But not today. Not for a long while.
Cupping his cheek so he gazed up at you, you answer, "Nothing you would not wish to give. And I have nothing I wish to take."
With your thumb, you swiped at the blood on his cheek. His skin was warm to the touch. Maybe, maybe, he was human still.
His gaze darted over your features, your eyes, your lips, and you barely stayed the shiver creeping up your spine as you pulled your hand back, allowing him privacy to his thoughts, for here was a man frozen in awe at the face of kindness.
"I will be a better god," you swore to yourself as a fist clenched around your heart.
Seraphim seemed to gather himself as he rose to his full height. His free hand twitched at his side before slowly taking yours.
"Where do we go?" He asked.
"Wherever you wish."
Together, you walked in contemplative silence toward the mouth of the cave. High above, the sun's glare was brilliant. It warmed your skin, and glimpses of a chariot burning across the heavens flashed in your mind. Today, everyone called the sun god by another name.
In your time, he was other—a titan. And for him, for them, you would remember.
Seraphim pulled you from your thoughts when he said, "I do not have a place to come home to."
His skin shone like obsidian in the light, the smattered blood gleaming as hotly as the red marks running along his skin. "There is a wooden hut not far from here. It's not much, but it can be home." If you would like.
It remained unspoken, but when he squeezed your hand, you knew he understood.