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Only when the Underworld’s princess can again feel the embrace of the moon upon her and can hear the rustle of the wind carving its way through jagged trees does she let her eyes slowly open. The little section of the Crossroads she was permitted to carve out as her own is as welcome a sight as ever, even if the only greetings she offers are a wearied grumble and the instinctive hiss through gritted teeth, phantom pains not quite done haunting her from her latest descent this evening. A passing glance above reveals the new moon, and for once it is a welcome sight, one that draws her final greeting in the form of a relieved sigh.
While the full moon would bode far better for her next descent ( or ascent, if she should feel so inclined ), the promise of Her eye slowly opening on the morrow allows for a rare moment of respite. The Headmistress has ever spoken of the importance of maintaining one’s personal cycle in time with the lunar cycle, and ‘twould be remiss of Melinoë to eschew those lessons.
The first task of the night stands before her, and she whirls upon heel to address it.
Frinos sits upon the stone nearest to her that isn’t decorated with runic carvings, staring with an almost expectant look. Even in spite of the ache in her joints, Melinoë cannot help but approach and kneel before him, hands finding a place at either side of his head as she fondly leans in to press her forehead to his. The croak she is rewarded with is returned with a tired chuckle, and she gives him a gentle squeeze before she forces herself back to her feet to continue on.
There is not a hint of commotion as she pushes past the back entrance of her tent, and a quick glance about the area proves her suspicions right: Dora is out somewhere. The corner of Melinoë’s lips curve up into a bemused smile— a part of her mind wonders if perhaps Dora has found a conversational companion in Lord Moros this eve. As she goes about the routine check-in of the candles lit around her living space, she strains for any sound— perhaps the distant chanting of the Headmistress, or the sound of murmuring shades in the Taverna, but no such noise reaches her here.
A truly quiet night, it seems. That will make her trip to the springs an altogether more pleasant experience then. Shameful as she is to admit it, in her exhaustion she would much prefer to avoid most of the Unseen here and retreat into her tent as soon as she is able.
Melinoë stops at the foremost tent flap, eyes narrowing in thought before she quickly backtracks, stopping before the makeshift altar in the furthest corner. The candlelight is strong as ever, brilliant orange cast over the painted visages of mother and father and brother. And her, cradled gently within her Mother’s arms… a firm reminder of what is at stake, and what must be done.
Death to Cronos. Vengeance for her family.
It is at the forefront of her mind, drawing her brows to knit together in thought as she gathers her tonics and oils in her arms. And it remains there still, as she tiptoes through the Crossroads proper. She barely spares a thought to the cauldron and its attendants, the shade-sisters of the Headmistress that tend to it in her absence. Nor does she bat an eye at the table, strangely absent of Odysseus’ presence— perhaps the great tactician has yet retired for the night.
The steam billowing up from the paved pool of water is a welcome sight, and Melinoë almost thinks to sink into its waters now, to the hells with the clothes she wears and the tonics she’s brought to ease her tense and aching muscles. But no, she could never live such a thing down in her own conscience, such an unseemly display as it would be.
It is with a heaving sigh of annoyance that she doffs her attire, starting first with the silver adornments, carefully setting them atop one of the gargantuan stumps nearby before pulling the cloth of her dress up of over her head to be folded and neatly joined with the rest of her wearings.
When finally she can dip her feet into the stone and find purchase to lower the rest of herself into its waters, Melinoë cannot help the audible sigh of relief. It is naught but natural spring water— exceedingly hot spring water, perhaps, but spring water nonetheless, and it still manages to excise the dull and thrumming ache of a day’s hard work from her body. She sinks down, lets the water rise first to her belly, then above her chest, before finally dunking her head beneath the surface. ‘Tis a heavenly experience, especially now with the new moon ever watchful overhead, and she leans against the edge of the pool, letting her head loll back and eyes fall shut to bask in the lunar energy as the waters do their natural work.
‘Tis a testament to Melinoë’s weariness, perhaps, that she in her lucid state does not hear the onset of footfalls. Or perhaps she simply has lost the care for it, at least, until the shriek of metal scraping upon metal fills the area, the rough pulling of leather straps sounding against their confines.
The sound of a full suit of armor being doffed.
“ Nem? That you? “
Her query is answered with the dull thunk of a particularly heavy piece reaching the ground, and an ensuing huff that Melinoë can’t quite tell if it’s born of annoyance or amusement.
“ Nope. “
She’s joined soon enough, and as the waters rise to accommodate the newest arrival Melinoë’s tired eyes finally open to regard her companion for the evening.
“ Hm. Strange … you look very like her, you know. I know of no other with a perpetually furrowed brow and downturned lips like hers. “
Nemesis scoffs once more, but the telltale signs of a not-quite-smile beginning to bloom on her lips promises that Melinoë has not yet picked at the wrong bone.
“ There isn’t a chance in the hells you didn’t hear me coming, and I still could’ve sliced your head clean from your shoulders. You’re getting complacent. “
They are meant to goad her, and were it any other day, perhaps Melinoë would have risen to the challenge. There might’ve already been a remark just as scathing dancing at the tip of her tongue to send them into a proper banter, but tonight, she can only muster a lackluster hum in acquiescence. Though it seems that wasn’t the proper response, as Nemesis almost immediately draws her aforementioned furrowed brows in a somehow even more furrowed state— practically pushed up against one another.
“ You get your scrawny ass beat something fierce out there, princess? You’re not saving anyone in this state. “
The corner of Melinoë’s lip curls back a fraction in displeasure at the accusation, but she shakes her head and makes to push herself up into a proper sitting position so she can reply.
“ No, Nem … I’m just— “ But ah, she hesitates there. Nemesis’ view of her has clearly already soured tonight, and she’s not certain how many more tongue - lashings she can weather before she recites her incantation and recalls back to her tent, clothing and accessories be damned. Her lips press thin in consideration and she cannot look at Nemesis properly as she visibly deflates and continues. “ I’m just … so tired. So please— spare me your words tonight … I just want to recover before I venture out again tomorrow. “
…
The quiet is almost as unbearable as the words Nemesis was slinging at her just moments ago, and she decides at once it is not near as pleasant an outcome as she had envisioned. Her eyes fall shut once more and she inhales in preparation to make an apology— one that is silenced abruptly as Nemesis’ heavy hand clasps onto her shoulder and squeezes.
Her reaction is immediate, the hiss that sounds through grit teeth as Nemesis’ thumb digs into her shoulderblade with an accuracy she would expect of Artemis’ blessings, managing to force into one of the many knots she’s certain lie beneath. Eyes shoot open and level Nemesis with as fearsome a glare as she can manage, but it does nothing to dissuade her companion— if anything it seems to spur her on as she rubs the pad of her finger roughly into the tight muscle.
“ Cut it out— “ It’s hissed through her still clenched teeth, and she has a mind to reach up and slap her hand away with the strength she’s able to summon up when Nemesis speaks up.
“ Turn around, before I make you. “
The ensuing stare-off brings enough tension to the springs it could easily be carved through with the Stygian Blade Nemesis wields. Enduring bronze meets defiant green and red and both refuse to back down from their standstill. Beneath the water’s surface, Melinoë’s hand bunches into a fist and Nemesis’ intensity is redirected to it, visible beneath crystalline waters as it is.
She expects a coming of blows, but instead it is Nemesis who seemingly backs down from this budding altercation first, heaving a sigh of her own and shaking her head in frustration.
“ I’m not trying something, Mel. Clandestine plots and cunning plans are the playthings for witches, in case you forgot. Turn around. “
It is just as scathing a remark as earlier, but it’s a relatively kind reassurance that she would not have otherwise offered— always forward as Nemesis has been, Melinoë is at least certain in the belief that there won’t be some attack squared between her shoulders. For this reason alone she hesitates before ultimately adhering to the request, baring her back to Nemesis and sitting stock still in expectation.
Nothing comes at first, no punch or drag of nails, nor hells forbid some kind of weapon. There is the near sound of a cork coming loose from its container and then liquid dripping into the pools, but no such words from Nemesis’ lips. Instead, given a few moments' time, her hands are once again on Melinoë’s shoulders and just as unrelenting as they were in her ministrations before. Thumbs dig into the muscle of her shoulders, heedless of Melinoë’s immediate writhing and complaints.
“ Y’know, you sure did drop the ball big time here. Brought your damn concoctions and everything, just to let them sit out forgotten near your clothes. Who knows what else you carelessly forgot today. “
The words don’t quite register in her mind at first, too focused on the warpath Nemesis’ hands are carving from her shoulders up to her neck. She glances at her clothes, folded in the distance as they are, and realizes with a start— of course.
The oils. The ones she brought specifically to aid in her recovery. How utterly foolish. The realization draws an annoyed groan of realization from her lips, feeling now those very tonics coated upon the hands that furiously rub against the tension in neck.
“ Urgh … you could stand to be a little more careful with your— “ A particularly rough press of her hands makes Melinoë audibly suck in a breath and cut her words off.
“ And you could stand to be a little more aware of your surroundings. Looks like we both got flaws after today. “
Even with the hands that work upon her, Melinoë remains stiff for a good several moments longer before the tension begins to lift. No doubt the oils, all but forced into her skin as they have been, are working their magic on her. In due time, she has begun to relax— the pleasant tingle of the balms mingling with the numbness of having soaked in the heated waters perhaps a bit overlong allowing her to lean back against Nemesis and her ministrations with nary a hint of shame. In fact, if she really tries to focus, she finds her hands pleasant as well now that she’s stopped using her brute strength to get the point across.
Her eyelids have nearly fallen shut when Nemesis speaks up again, voice far nearer to her ear than it was before.
“ So, is the fatigue strong enough that you aren’t gonna rat me out to the Headmistress for ‘impeding on your grand task’ or whatever else today? “
“ Mmm - mmn. “ Melinoë can barely even shake her head to reaffirm her words, but the lazy smile on her lips would speak for herself if Nemesis could see it.
“ Hmph. I guess even you have your moments, then. I take it you aren’t going back out for a late night jaunt down to the hells? “
The shake she offers in response is even worse than the previous one. It’s a struggle, between the relaxing tonics and the heat of the water, to fight past the sluggishness and fatigue that has crept up to fill the places the tension once took hold. Perhaps Nemesis sees this, and that is why her hands finally lift from her shoulders only to find a place beneath her knees and back respectively. The air is all the colder after spending far more time than recommended in the springs, and the steam lifts from her red-kissed skin as Nemesis brings them both out from the pool.
Heedless of the water that drips from her body, Melinoë is carried to one of the stumps, and she mindlessly throws her arms up into the air for Nemesis to pull her dress down over her head. She is left to her own devices for a some time, watching with vague interest as Nemesis goes about the ordeal of donning all her armor, tightening the leather straps and buckles before she returns in time to hoist the princess up into her arms once again.
“ Grab your things, I’m not dragging your ass back here in the morning if you forget them, too. “
In spite of the tone, Melinoë laughs in fond amusement and plucks her silver accessories from their place to rest on her stomach as Nemesis sets off. With only one hand needed to keep her silvers from tumbling to the ground, the other is free to reach up and wind her arm loosely around Nemesis’ neck.
“ Mn… I suppose I owe you for this, Nem? “
Ah, how unsightly … even her words are beginning to slur in this state, so very near to sleep as she is. Nemesis though, she doesn’t seem to mind— kindly even chooses not to comment on it but answer her question squarely.
“ Suppose you do, Mel. I’ll make sure you pay up when it’s time— not now though. You could barely stand on your own feet I’m sure. Maybe you ought to try not throwing yourself out in the woods in frustration every time you get sent back here before the Fields. “
Melinoë’s giggle is a soft and amused thing, meant only for Nemesis to hear in the dark of night, with the new moon hanging overhead as their witness.
“ What, you getting worried about me, Nem? “
A scoff is all the response she receives, and it is not a negative response either. In this, Melinoë finds a little bit of peace, and she finds herself content to rest her head against Nemesis’ broad shoulder.
Melinoë loses track of when they have arrived, tent flap shouldered aside, nor does she recall with clear precision when she was laid down upon her makeshift bed of pillows and blankets. She does, however, remember keenly the cold bite of metal against her arms and the bleary sight of bronze eyes drawing closer. Nearer and nearer, until she could no longer see them but could feel the uncharacteristically gentle press of something to her forehead in their place. She can recall her arm remaining loosely around Nemesis’ neck, until the other had carefully detangled it and tucked it beneath one of her blankets.
“ Rest easy, Mel. You better be in top form tomorrow. “
“ Mmm. “