Chapter Text
Styx was not a goddess you casually crossed, not that many were but her least of all.
While she may be usually bound to her river, there were exceptions, oaths in her name for one, or rather oaths in the name of her river. Those oaths, if you broke, she would make you pay.
Of course it was only supposed to be used by the gods, but times had changed, with the gods, too much needed their attention for her to punish them normally, and mortals didn’t have immortality anything she would normally take in her punishments. Unfortunately, that meant people had forgotten.
They’d forgotten the Styx that stripped gods of their power, who ripped their divinity from them and banished them to the mortal world, who held their domains from them with steely determination.
They’d forgotten the Styx whose name drew whispered fear out of the terror of potentially drawing her attention.
They’d forgotten that she bound the oath taker, not the oath itself, and thus viewed misfortune as her punishment.
Misfortune was no punishment, it was balance. Misfortune and fortune danced under the control of Nemesis, not the waters of the Styx.
Styx was Hate. Styx was Oaths. Styx was Binding.
The Styx, she was Final.
Yet oaths alone were not all that granted her a hand in the world beyond, living and dead alike. No, there was another.
It was rare, oh so incredibly rare for one to bare it. It was a blessing, a blessing granted upon those who survived her waters. In the first days this had not been so, her waters had held all and gave none. It was not until Thetis came to her that it changed, that single deal had altered what her river represented more than she could have ever believed it could, back then.
If you survived her waters which took and took and took, her waters of hate and rage and pain, her waters of oaths broke and kept, then you would be safe. Her Waters would burn away your mortality until a single point held you back.
The Styx would grant you life anew, she would form you brick by brick and watch with glee as you ripped apart your foes with steel in your skin crafted with all who had broken.
The styx was renewal, she was the end, she would place into mortal hands immortal might. She would make a man a monster in mortal clothing, would unleash them upon the world and delight in all they would do.
Those mortals, those precious few that lived. Those who faced her currents of hate and pain and broken oaths and unkept promises and forgotten dreams and pain pain pain and came out alive and whole. The ones who faced the worst there was and remembered the good, the peace, the oaths kept, the love and hope and safety. The ones who looked beyond the pain and suffering and remembered euphoria.
They rose from underneath her waters, ballads and songs twining through the air, through their hair, over their skin, honoring who they were, who they are, who they will be.
The world would hold its breath and wait for them to fall, but Styx would always welcome them back to her, back to her waters, back to her arms.
These precious mortals were hers. They bore her blessing. They were but a step away from immortality and it was her doing. They could never be taken from her, not in life nor death.
Until the filthy little shrimp of a river spirit dared to wash away the blessing of not just her newest and youngest blessed, but her Champion. Her chosen, hers, no one else could claim such bar two, and only one was a goddess, though she doubted either of them would even attempt to stop her.
The Styx was hate incarnate, she was all the hate that had ever was and will be, she was the currents of hate that swept you away until you saw red and you screamed until your throat ached and demanded your rage be heard. She was the hate that would tear the world apart. She was the hate that broke and shaped nations, that shaped vengeance and justice, she was hate, she was all of hate, and she was all that came from it.
And this itty bitty baby river spirit had washed her blessing away like t’was dirt on her skin.
Styx was quite tired of her hate being forgotten. She despised all who acted like she wasn’t present, like her blessing and claim didn’t hold importance.
They held the blessing of hate, the blessing of binding vows, the blessing itself was a vow, they gave up their mortality, a large portion of it, and in turn she blessed them, cradling them in her waters as they were reborn.
And oh, she hated and hated and hated and hated. She hated the foolish mortals that watched without care, who stared gaping at the one who was hers. She hated the gorgons for driving her into the water out of necessity. She hated Juno for forcing into the water out of spite. And she hated, hated, HATED that damned river who had dared to cross her.
Styx’s water churned and churned, waves rocking Charon’s ship and upsetting the souls and all other nearby underworld inhabitants, and they all knew, she was Angry, she was Furious.
This would not stand.
What was hers, was hers and could not, nay would not be taken away, she would never allow it..
She opened her eyes, wrapping her waters and her arms around her mortal, her champion. Her blessing dripped like glossamer off her skin once more, before fading just underneath the surface once more, hers to use, hers to command, and it would never be taken from her again. Even as it lay dormant waiting to rise at her champion's command, the false mortality forced upon her eradicated in a burst of their combined divinities, it still radiated off of her in a presence that could not be ignored.
Styx could not help the feelings that rose as her champion relaxed ever so slightly in her arms, even as Juno demanded and ordered all she could feel was joy, her chosen was here, she was safe, she was whole. Styx was not one to let emotions consume her, at least emotions that weren’t hate or rage or fury, but Penelope was hers, she had suffered under hatred long before she entered the divine world, and even longer before she entered her river, she had suffered and suffered and suffered and yet had never broken, had always held on to that hope and peace and love.
As Styx looked up from her champion she felt her usual rage return, the water bug had risen from the water, lightning flashed overhead in tune with Styx’s false breaths and she snarled.
She hated.
She hated and hated and hated and Hated.
She was hate and it was high time they remembered.
“You cannot!”
“I CAN,” she growled, her voice sharp and cutting, even managing to shut up Juno and her tirade, “She is mine,” She snarled, “She is my champion, she holds my Blessing, my gaze, my mercy, and pride and-”
“I washed it away! You cannot interfere-”
“You. Had. No. Right.”
It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath as the brat recoiled.
“She is mine, you have no right to take my blessing from her.”
“It isn’t-”
“I have every right to act for mine,” Styx hissed. “I blessed her. She laid in my waters and clung to what was hers, to what was alive, she clung to peace and joy and love. She kept her oaths and swore herself to me in blood and water and pain.”
“I-”
“And you do not get to take that! That was a sacrifice! She gave up her waning mortality for the strength to do what she must. And you want to take that away?” Her words were fast, hate and fury and rage dripping from them, sharp and harsh, like metal wire wrapping around the necks of all those present, or, all but one.
Within the eye of the storm that was Styx’s fury, Penelope stood, cradled in the arms of a being that she could not remember, and yet with this woman's arms, she felt the safest she had ever been since waking up in the wolf house. Styx’s wrath formed a barrier around her, a shield of hatred and anger and broken oaths and forgotten dreams and pain pain pain pain Pain.
Styx raged, her fury forcing the river spirit to its knees, it radiated off of her, the demigods who had gathered and gaped were forced back, many frozen in fear even as the pressure forced them back. Even Juno could not resist it, her form barely staying standing as the pressure of raw all consuming. HATEFURYRAGEPAINAGONYSUFFERING pressed down on her.
For a moment it seemed as though the raw hatred would crush the spirit and stop the demigod’s hearts cold before a soft voice spoke up from the furious goddess’s arms, “T-thank you?” In less than an instant the pressure was gone, as the goddess’s attention focused on her chosen. The girl seemed to close in on herself as the attention focused on her, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t remember what you’re talking about?”
Styx’s waters rose, her rage returning once more, she hated Juno dearly for taking away all that she was from her in this time. Twas the only reason the weak pathetic waters could strip Penelope of her blessing, she held no memory of it, and memory was important to keeping a power or oath alive.
“You stepped into my waters,” Styx decreed. “You stepped into my waters and breathed them in and accepted the pain and the hate and the fury all to bring peace and hope and love back to yours. You gave up your very soul in order to save people. With love at your back and hope in your heart.”
Oh… I’m sorry for forgetting?”
The child truly was, and Styx bubbled with that ever so unusual joy, wrapping her in light curls and soft currents, she wrapped those waters around him until she was safe in a cradle of her waters. Her eyes had focused back on the foolish river during her speech, even as she cradled her child, her chosen, closer in her waters.
“It was not you who broke the oath. And your blessing and status is returned, for it never should have been taken.”
She bared her teeth at Juno and the tinny bitty river goddess, who glared back, even as the water bug shook in fear behind her.
Juno opened her mouth to speak, to demand whatever it was she thought she deserved from Styx, only to be stopped by a sudden burst of fire off to the side, Vesta had arrived.