Chapter Text
Pasithea was dreaming.
She knew it because she was being watched; she could feel his eyes on her as keenly as she felt the sun’s rays on her skin, equally as warm and heavy. This was not the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. She pretended not to notice, however, because whenever she tried to confront her little dream-peeper, she woke up—whoever he was, he seemed shy. He was poor at hiding, though; she’d glimpsed him in her periphery about a hundred times already.
It was a party she dreamed about tonight, one where all of her “sisters” were present alongside herself. The Muses were there as well, as was Apollo, and Dionysus—a few other familiar faces amongst a host of unfamiliar ones, blurs of random features and bodies set to pad out the crowd. Drink and music flowed alike, laughter filling the gaps in conversation, and Pasithea reclined on a kline in the midst of it all—the center of the party, where she never typically was. She and her sisters typically drifted about, helping the mood keep light and keeping the wheels on the chariot turning smoothly. Pasithea thought that if she were ever thrust into the spotlight in reality, she would be quite uncomfortable with it—but this was a dream, and no one was even looking at her. She could do as she pleased.
And what pleased her was to people-watch and pretend not to see the smear of scarlet bleeding into the corners of her vision when she tilted her head too far this or that direction. She couldn’t avoid him forever, of course—her curiosity always got the better of her eventually, craving to look into golden eyes once more, to try and ask him the question revolving in her mind since she’d first noticed him. She wanted to know more—who he was, why he was haunting her dreams, what he wanted! It was just as well, then, that Dionysus leaned into her—the kline suddenly a couch packed with bodies, people that Pasithea loved and wouldn’t mind snuggling up to.
“Has anyone yet caught your eye, little flower?” Dio asked, leaning his face close in order to speak directly into her ear and be heard over the cheer. This Dionysus was a dream too—gods sometimes sent messages through dreams, but none but her onlooker had ever danced into her head before. She did not resent the projection this; he was, after all, the amalgamation of all she knew of Dionysus, a distilled version of her love for him. She leaned into him as easily as she would in real life, and indulged his question.
“No one I can name,” she replied, raising her own voice just enough to be perceived. “But you already knew that. I promised I’d tell you otherwise, didn’t I? You don’t pester your other daughters like this.”
At their mention, Paidia, Pannychis and Pandaisia appeared in the crowd as a trio spinning and laughing. They danced as wildly as any maenad worth her name—off-duty and not expected to uphold the gracefulness of a Charite.
Dionysus put an arm around Pasithea’s shoulders and pinched her cheek with his other hand, doting. “You’re the youngest! I have to baby you a little. What kind of a father would I be if I didn’t even know someone was courting my little girl?”
Her subconscious kept up the ruse even when her waking mind knew she was dreaming—a fun detail to notice. Of course, Dionysus has never dropped the act in public—he’d only confessed the truth to her in secret, behind a locked door in an empty house, where even the most prying of ears were deaf. Her dream of Dionysus would not swerve so far from the known path as to admit to only being her foster father in the middle of a revelry.
But with her mind turned to secrets, her subconscious took that cue to elaborate upon; the sunny summer day turned all at once dark. Thick purple clouds rolled ominously across the sky, blotting out the sun, and the party took notice. Unease spread across the crowd as thunder broke, dread pooling in the pit of Pasithea’s stomach.
She had had this nightmare before, and she didn’t care for it one bit. She would not be having it now.
She stood abruptly and turned to look over her shoulder—she glimpsed wide golden eyes, a surprised O of a mouth, a slash of scarlet—
She was awake. Mid-afternoon sunlight streamed in from the windows of the Orchomenus, the living quarters of the Graces, warming her legs and feet where it fell over her. She could hear Euphrosyne and Paidia chatting gently somewhere behind her, their voices low in consideration of her nap.
“Do either of you ever see a god in your dreams?” Her voice was thick with her aborted slumber, but not rough—she hadn’t slept for that long.
Out of her line of sight, Euphrosyne laughed. “Many, in fact. Do you have one in particular in mind?”
“Mm,” Pasithea stretched. “Golden eyes, and a red… cape, I think. Does that sound familiar?”
A warm hand slid atop her head, nails gently scratching at her scalp before Euphrosyne combed the long, black tresses with her fingers affectionately, leaning into Pasithea’s line of sight with a doting smile. “Doesn’t ring a bell, dear. Maybe you should ask Hermes—he knows everyone. He’s just down the hall; won’t be there much longer, mind you, but he’s meant to pick up a letter or some other thing and is here now.”
Pasithea let out a little noise of acknowledgement, and when her sister’s hand let her hair fall again she rose to do exactly that. She wondered if Peitho had stalled the god’s steps today—she’d set her mind about marrying him some few years back, and though Hermes didn’t seem keen on the idea, there was only so much that once could deny the goddess of seduction and persuasion. But Pasithea found him alone, leaning against a pillar and jiggling his leg—restless. Something in her twisted with irritation; a task left unfinished, a wrinkle in an otherwise perfectly smooth piece of paper. She smothered the feeling with a deep breath—there was only so much she could do against someone so… so Hermes.
“I have a question,” she offered instead, just as he seemed to notice her. He greeted her with a bright smile and a gesture that seemed to invite her question, as though he—(god of communication that he was)—sensed that she was going to continue without giving him time for input. “There’s a god I’ve seen often who’s name I’d like to know. He has golden eyes and wears red. Does that description seem familiar?”
Hermes’s head cocked to the side. “Sure—that sounds like Hypnos. But he’s a chthonic god—they’re all kinda trapped down there in Hades. Wherever did you meet him?”
“In my dreams,” she replied simply, and Hermes snapped his fingers to point at her.
“That’ll do it,” he encouraged. “He’s the god of sleep, after all, and—”
“Dreams,” Pasithea finished for him, thoughtful. “In hindsight, that seems obvious.”
“Don’t feel silly, no one’s seen much of him since Lord Uncle Hades closed the Underworld to us Olympians.” Hermes shrugged. “Does make sense that Hypnos’d show up in your dreams, though—rest and relaxation kind of go hand in hand with sleep, don’t they? Not that I have much time for either.”
“Yes…” Pasithea drawled, still mulling the idea over. Hypnos… she’d heard of him, but never met him; she’d always, absently, thought it was a pity that they never would, since their realms seemed so close. The other gods remembered him fondly, if at all, from the passing encounters they’d had with him. She’d been curious about him for a long time; was it possible that he was just as curious about her? Is that why he kept—wait, what had Hermes just said?
Her gaze snapped to messenger abruptly. “Yes, let’s talk about that.”
Hermes blanched, realizing the trap he’d cleverly laid for himself. “Oh, let’s not, Pasithea—have I ever told you you’re my favorite niece?”
“Flattery won’t save you, silvertongue. You know if you don’t make the time to rest, your body will make the time for you.”
Hermes made a big show of bowing, using the gesture to mask the steps backwards he was taking—towards the door leading out of the Orchomenus. “And when the time comes I will graciously submit to all your many I-told-you-so’s, but I do have a job to be getting back to…”
“What of the letter Euphrosyne mentioned you were waiting for?” Pasithea put her hands on her hips. Her tone was more threat than temptation. “It may be time to take a seat. Take a load off.”
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Hermes’s face broke into a cocky grin. Aglaia emerged from the parallel hall, envelope in hand—her perceptive eyes darting between the two before her. A smile graced the eldest Charite’s lips.
“The same old with you two?” she asked, and held out the envelope to her brother-in-law.
“No longer,” Hermes plucked the paper from her fingers. “You’ve saved me! I’m off now!”
“This conversation isn’t over,” Pasithea warned, gesturing with two of her fingers. “I’m watching you, Hermes.”
“Tell the dreamer I say hello!” was his non-response—the wings at his temples and ankles fluttered and carried him beyond the doorway in a blink.
Aglaia took a moment to snort, amused, before turning to Pasithea. “The dreamer?”
Pasithea flushed. “Oh, just—a certain god of dreams has been visiting mine lately. I couldn’t put a name to the face—now I can.”
“Hm,” Aglaia hummed, and reached up to smooth Pasithea’s silky hair—Pasithea was not a tall goddess, relatively short in fact, but Aglaia was shorter and had to look up to nearly all of her sisters despite her age and defacto leadership role. “Interesting.”
The Charites weren’t really sisters—not all of them, anyway. Some of them shared parentage, but the Orchomenus was home to a mishmash of bastard daughters who were made useful in the art of entertaining. Most of them had grown up in the house of their mother or father before moving into the Orchomenus after becoming a Grace to officially undergo their training; Pasithea herself have been there since she was a godling, barely old enough to walk. It was Aglaia who’d overseen the majority of her childhood and her schooling, adopting a role that was almost akin to motherhood—while still retaining the teasing air of a big sister. All this to say—Pasithea melted into Aglaia’s touch, while simultaneously eyeing her with suspicion.
“What does ‘interesting’ mean?” she asked, slow and measured.
A smile quirked Aglaia’s lips. “Nothing more than that I am interested. What has he said to you?”
“Nothing,” Pasithea confessed. A frown tugged at her lips. “He just… watches. And if I look directly at him, he vanishes—and I wake up.”
“Hm,” Aglaia hummed again, a frustratingly non-committal noise that meant nothing. “Perhaps he happened upon you one night and fell madly in love, but he’s too shy to say anything.”
Pasithea snorted. “And perhaps Lady Aphrodite will allow Psyche into her vicinity without forcing her to cover her face.”
“Don’t be that way. You remember your first real party?”
Pasithea almost didn’t—there had been so many over the years, including the ones she’d attended as a child, sitting on Dionysus’s lap and sneaking sips of his wine while he was looking the other way. But her first real party—the first she attended as a Charite, just barely old enough to be considered a goddess and not a child, some fool mortal had been asked by a friend of his to rate the most beautiful goddess. Out of herself, Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Aphrodite, the idiot had chosen Aglaia. He’d been cursed for it, of course—the only thing that had saved Aglaia from the scornful fate of Aphrodite’s daughter-in-law was the fact that Aglaia was Lady Aphrodite’s favorite.
“Sure,” Pasithea answered, “but what does that have to do with me?”
Aglaia took her arm in hers, beginning to lead her down the hall she’d emerged from. “You’ve only gotten prettier as you grew up, Thea. It’s not entirely out of the question that gods will notice you.”
Pasithea made her own non-committal noise. She hadn’t realized her sister’s mention of the party was intended to call to her rating as one of the prettiest there, rather than Aglaia’s own lucky break. “No one ever has before.”
“Only because you let the others draw all the attention from you.” Aglaia gave her a look from the corner of her eye. “I think if you made more of a fuss about yourself, you’d be rather noticeable indeed.”
Pasithea mulled the idea over, and let it pull her face into a grimace that made her sister laugh. Aglaia grabbed her hand and squeezed it before letting her go, almost as if to release the subject. “No, that would be out of character for you. But you know Aphrodite is thinking of dreaming up a match for you?”
Eyes wide, Pasithea stopped in her tracks. She could hear their sisters just ahead of them, laughing and conversing; Aglaia stopped just outside the room and turned back to face her, waiting for Pasithea to approach. “With who?”
“No one yet,” Aglaia sought to soothe, turning a step back towards the youngest Charite. “More thinking of the idea of it than actually planning. She says you’re painfully under-appreciated.”
“She has to get my father’s permission first,” Pasithea spoke quickly, trying to slow the beating of her heart.
Aglaia’s round face faded took a curious, though comforting expression. She stepped close enough to clasp Pasithea by the arms. “To make you fall in love? She needs no one’s permission for that. She only needs to consult Dionysus if she intends marry you off. What of the idea sparks fear in your eyes, sweet one?”
As if she could hide what had already been noticed, Pasithea turned her head to the side to avoid meeting Aglaia’s gaze. “Nothing. I just… you know. I’m not ready?”
It wasn’t quite a lie, but that wasn’t the whole reason, and Aglaia’s answering hum told Pasithea that her sister saw right through her. If Pasithea got married, she’d have to have a wedding. At any wedding on Olympus, Hera was a required guest. Pasithea had done a fantastic job of avoiding the queen of the gods thus far; she’d been excluded from the list of Charites who attended Hera day to day, and masterfully stayed at the sidelines of every wedding she’d attended as a Charite tending to the party. The closest she’d come to crossing paths with Hera was at Hephaestus and Aglaia’s own wedding; but if Pasithea got married, then all eyes would be on her. Everyone would be able to see the resemblance between the officiant and the bride. Rumors flew so quickly on Olympus… it wouldn’t be long after that that thunder would shake the Orchomenus down to its foundations…
“Hey,” Aglaia quieted her voice, leaning in close to Pasithea, close enough for the plush of her body to press against Pasithea’s own petite form. The closeness did not bring discomfort, but Pasithea still felt the urge to run. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready. But we all love you, Pasi. We’ll support you no matter what.”
Pasithea forced her lips into a smile; she knew she wasn’t fooling Aglaia, but it was all she could do. “I know.”
Aglaia stared at her a moment more, before stepping closer and lowering her voice further. “Has someone hurt you, baby?”
It took a moment for Pasithea to catch her sister’s meaning. Her surprise was genuine. “Oh—no, gods no, I’ve never been… I’m fine. That’s not—no. That has nothing to do with it.”
Aglaia seemed to take a moment to assess Pasithea’s honesty before she nodded. “Okay. I was just checking. I’ll drop the matter here, if you like—and I’ll tell Lady Aphrodite to leave the subject of your love life be, for now. How does that sound?”
Pasithea’s smile was a touch more genuine. “I’d like that.”
Aglaia smiled back at her, and petted her hair with a gentle hand. “Lets get out of the hall, then—I believe we need your skilled hands for the embroidery on Hegemone’s chiton.”