Heretic

Artemis thrived living amongst humanity, as did her brother. The two never liked to leave, finding enjoyment in creating little lives. While they no longer sought out worship, their cheerful meddling still brought them enough love from people around them that they felt no loss of power. It’d been two years since Artemis and Apollo became Marie and Marian Duval, and Artemis figured she had another three years before anyone would start to question their identities. Neither ever gave any explanation for who they were, and both always talked about being gods. By winking when they said it, everyone just assumed they were joking. It was the only reason Athena couldn’t complain - no one ever actually suspected the siblings that had different colour skin and were different ages were really the immortal twins from mythology. 

She’d spent the day with her brother, making him help out at her midwife practice for a couple hours, teasing him that fame was going to his head. She knew it was risky, him being so much in the public eye. Since neither of them ever actually left earth, just changed their faces whenever it was time to move on, they had to be careful. The only reason no one complained about them was because they were never found out. But he loved music, loved performing, and she’d never been good at telling him to behave himself. He might look older than her, but she was the eldest of the twins, so any mess made, she saw as her responsibility. 

A night owl, as Artemis loved to say around Athena, when she found out Morpheus was going to be at a bar that night, she saw that as the perfect opportunity to go make sure her brother wasn’t at any risk of being discovered. Besides, for a man, he was mildly amusing. 

Although she never liked getting attention from men, Artemis was proud of her appearance, so she dressed up in a vivid red dress that clung to this body’s curves, leaving her hair tumbling in wild curls as she left Apollo playing video games on her couch, throwing a pillow at him when he joked that she’d strike fear and love into men’s hearts.

By the time she got to the bar, she could see Morpheus posing for the camera. She got close enough to make sure he could hear her, Artemis always confident enough to push through crowds with ease, and leaned against a table casually as she smirked at him. 

“Don’t you just love them? Their music is amazing.” Someone gushed to Artemis, making her smirk deepen. 

“Don’t know what the fuss is, really. They’re dorks.” The word dorks held a ton of affection, but the woman who spoke looked surprised by the sentiment. “What? I’m allowed to say it.” 

Morpheus smiled a wide and brilliant smile, turning his eyes onto the woman that had shattered his ease like a plate-glass window over one knee. With one arm still draped over the blonde, he regarded her with a certain madcap amusement. Artemis and Apollo were rather a matched set even though they both coveted their independence. He wasn’t surprised to hear her half-jesting disapproval, and he shrugged in a liquid motion. “Said completely without bias,” he responded, grinning.

@herxtiic​

He frowned at the sound of eased laughter and two mugs clashing gently behind him. For a long while, he did not rouse, but sat unmoving at a lone table, close to the walls in the corner of the usual, hospitable Highwayman tavern. His own glass was empty, and has been for near half an hour now, yet he continued to swirl it leisurely as if he didn’t notice. He closed his eyes as he heard the men behind him cheer, feeling a surge of senseless rage at their rejoice. As the laughter ceased he opened his eyes again, and he continued to stare blankly at his empty glass. He repeated that, over and over again, until he slowly convinced himself that his sorrows too, can be emptied.

It only took a quick reminder of why he came here for Herbert to return to where he started. As he sat in silence, his mind got lost again reforming and pondering over arguments he had up to days or even weeks ago, an ill habit he realised, and considerably worsened by the recent predicaments. He had been losing sleep again, despite desperately needing the escape and rest. His waking thoughts and crushing realisation of failure were worse than the nightmares, worse than the concerning glares he now saw in every glance in his way. At least there was an end to it, a moment of liberation. But he would never be free from himself, not from the weight of all the lives lost on his watch either. There are so many, more than the lives he had saved.

He needed wine. He thought suddenly. A lot of wine. He needed to forget, even if just for a moment, he needed to live a waking moment not blinded by despair. He remembered Armaud, he remembered home. It all escalated downwards again since he went home. When he thought it wasn’t possible, he came back with less than he left with, less of himself too. And what if Armaud never returned either? What if they found him dead? What if they never found him? He would never know peace again.

He lifted his empty glass and gulped from it, seeking comfort from the gesture despite not being a drinker. He felt that he had forgotten. Like he almost forgot that he could have died during his trip back as well. He didn’t even notice when someone entered the tavern until the footsteps approaching were close enough to him to become a disturbance. After the lack of reaction for a few drawn out seconds, Herbert turned his head inattentively, disassociated, even. The pair of eyes he met with were ones he never knew how much he longs to see until he’s lost them. The bright blue that caught his weary gaze and the friendly face that reflected back at him was as calming as a clear lake and as welcoming as a spring breeze. As comforting as lies.

“Who allowed you to leave?” He teased in a whisper, lazily amplified. It felt strange when he realised how little relief he got when he learned that the message of Tristan’s death was false. And how little it shocked him to hear about his injuries. Curious, it was as if it wasn’t the first time it happened. And certainly, it wouldn’t be the last.

“Are you here to buy me a drink? Lieutenant—general.” His frown ceased, and a moment later he surrendered to the thin smirk tugging at his lips. He thought it was sarcastic. “I could do with some. Really.”

He paused, and sneeringly turned to face his friend as he invited him in closer. With a sudden influx of emotion, he smiled at Tristan, wrinkles forming at the tail of his jaded eyes, glimmering under the light.

He hadn’t expected to see him there, or the wave of emotion that struck him in response. He made his way slowly towards him, took a seat across from him. His eyes traced his features, again and again, as if he was shocked to have been seeing it again. Tristan leaned back against his chair, and allowed his lips to twitch upwards into a smile, allowed himself to radiate a sense of devil-may-care so overt it was almost vulgar. “No one,” he teased back, “and that’s the fun of it. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be eager to fling my money around? Can’t take it with you, right?” His expression sobered subtly, however. “Perhaps a little later, however.”

“Don’t call me that,” he admonished him tiredly, almost a little sharply. “Whatever I might…be…now, I’m still me. I’ve always been just me.” The genuine smile that Herbert levied towards him both lightened and sunk his heart, earning a slight but honest one from Tristan in response. He reached out, almost impulsively, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently, eyes meeting his.

He threw punches… well. Better than some other pretty boys had. Still, Émile had an eye out for skill. He was strong, yes, fast as well, but his muscles hadn’t learned how to contract and relax in the right order to unleash their full energy. Someone who had seen a few brawls, but who hadn’t trained. Whatever he was, it wasn’t a warrior god.

Which was why the sudden show of supernatural strength surprised him at least. Émile didn’t show it, his arm easily recoiling from the force. So the stranger most likely wasn’t an agricultural or fertility deity. If he hadn’t been… who he was, the strike could have dislocated his shoulder.

Émile gave the man a curious look over, a sense of rising unease, the hackles on the back of his neck standing on edge, like he had just woken up from a nightmare. “If you had thrown that wrong you would have broken your wrist,” he bluntly said. “And you’re wrong. I know my strength.” Well, not exactly. They didn’t make bars strong enough to hold the weight he needed in order to make sure.

Still breathing a little faster, there was something in Morpheus’ eyes that almost appeared impressed at his response. “I’m not surprised,” he countered softly, and for a moment, the light Cajun accent dropped, and his voice deepened, hypnotic, the hint of something much more ancient, much more whimsical and dangerous clear beneath it. “I’ve heard many stories about you, but stories are only stories until one meets the real thing.”

As they rounded out of their song, lulling the sweet ecstasy that reverberated from the high and low notes into a sweeter, tender melody. Throughout all of Olympus, and for those that were aware of their name, and what it stood for, their songs were unparalleled. But it seemed, someone had seen fit to seize the moment for themselves. For a moment, they did naught, remained in a slack position of serene calm before eventually, eyes fluttered open to narrow. They had hoped to find a humble admiration in those dark swaths of blue but they found a hubris so bright it was damning. Al reeled a little bit, lip curled in a manner that was more akin to wild nymph than goddess. Three, two, one —- they timed slow, deep, breaths and brought their heart down to an even keel.

Despite the twitch that threatened to betray the simmering within they smiled, easy, sweet. “Have you heard,” the whispered. “Of the tale of King Pierus?” They did not wait. “Pierus had nine daughters whom the King aptly named after the muses,” the tale that was spun from their lips evoked inexplicable emotions, shared between the two of them. The club disappeared and they were soaked in the height of morning sun, a King basked, proud, between the trees aside his daughters. “They are known together as Pierides, so sweet and so beautiful they were. Brazen, the king decided upon himself that his daughters could rival and exceed the muses’ beauty.”

Al paused, the tale was tantalising on their tongue, their sisters’ wrath at the notion of defiance and such grandiose hubris. They remained calm and leaned in closer to their foolish god of dreams. “The nymphs of Helicon became the judges and so, the sisters sang. With their noisy mouths and their hapless melodies.” Their eyes fell shut as they recalled stepping forth upon their turn, ivy bound through thick hair as they sung —- and with that melody, the heaven, stars, sea and rivers stood still as they, and all their sisters, sung together. “Then, the muses sang,” they whispered, aware of the projection that was spilling between them, memories and storytelling overlapping into one. “Rumour has it the world shuddered to a stop, the beauty of their voices unparalleled. The sisters’ fate was sealed.”

“But, they quarrelled and sullied the moment with cries of clamour. Heedless to the muses’ warnings that they should accept defeat with grace the sisters continued until quills sprouted from their finger-nails, and plumes spread over their stretched arms; and they could see the mouth of each companion growing out into a rigid beak. —And thus, new birds were added to the forest. Their screaming notes and their tiresome zeal of speech have all remained.” They caught the god’s chin between lithe fingers, “now, Morpheus, do you understand?”

They let go and waved with one delicate pale hand for another drink. Al’s back flattened against the booth and although they did not lean into the god of dream’s they did not skitter away. Their smile had not wavered throughout the entirety of the tale, even now. “Fear not, I do not hold your hubris against you. All of us immortals have befallen that fate once or twice.” Of all the gods, it was Ananake and her daughters that Al feared the most. Amused, they laughed softly and took the offered cup of honeyed lemon from a waiter. “I suppose, it was my fault for not introducing myself to a god of the underworld. I am Calliope, artiste for the gods and muse for the mortals.” They tapped their glass to Morpheus’ lips. “It is a pleasure to meet you my foolish god of illusions.”

A deep amusement flared in his gaze, and he chuckled, listening patiently to the condemnation. Morpheus didn’t move away from the contact, but there was an edge of something to his features, a sense of subtly being impressed. His shoulders shifted as he leaned backwards when he was finally released, the delicate fingers leaving tingles of energy across his skin.

“Calliope,” he murmured softly, the identity forming in his mind just before the name itself cemented it. The god settled, attention lazily focused on them, entertained. “You know me.” His words were sweet, accompanied by another hint of a smile. “And my flaws it seems. I’m gratified to know that you’re willing to be so…permissive.” He had long known that he was considered most human-like by the standards of their kind, as their traits over long (albeit-distant) exposure had settled into his skin from the beginning. He wasn’t surprised that he picked up even more of them over his long centuries mingling directly with humanity, and wondered if the muse thought him strange for it, or perhaps understood.

The taste of the honeyed lemon was sharp and sweet, and he took an easy draught of it, sweetening the moment further with a laugh. When he regarded him again, his gaze was human, shrouded in the pageantry of stage makeup smudged from a prior performance. The watchfulness, the dancing hedonism in his eyes, however, was something much freer and much more ancient than to which any mortal could aspire.

The closeness now dissipated some of the mystery, they recalled seeing them before but the scenario had been different, their focus on someone else. Al would’ve canted their head if fingers weren’t gently holding it in place. For now, they kept the intimacy of it, content but unable to resist the questions that cried to be asked. Just the faintest spark of mischief danced in their eyes, perhaps reminiscent from their evening the day prior, as they tilted their chin away sipped on their drink, slow. Their lips tingled with the tartness of it as they came to rest each arm on each of the God’s shoulders.

“Illusions are fanciful and fickle,” their voice trickled between them like silky honey. “You have spent too long in the underworld my dear, you reek of the undead.” Al grinned, and caught their bottom lip with pearly whites as they drew away. “Don’t you want to hear me sing?” The suggestion was whisper quiet despite the pounding of bass that reverberated off the close walls. They bounced on their heels and headed towards an empty, quieter, booth. They did not beckon, for if the God of Dreams wished to follow, they would.

Al had long learnt from times amongst the stars that Gods were not to be told what to do. You did not coerce an immortal such as Zeus himself into doing your bidding, you suggested, sweetly, and they followed. They eased into their seat, the glass they had carried abandoned on the table for there was naught but the last dregs of syrupy sugar now.

They sighed and stretched, easy and languid, amused at the simplicity of this. Gods of the underworld were not too dissimilar to those Calli was used to serving, but they were inexplicably different. Each one unique—- but then, that applied to the immortals of Olympus too. Even the muses were different, to mistake one with another was blasphemous. Clio was specifically adamant not to be mistake with her frivolous siblings, Thalia laughed in the face of whomever asserted that they were all identical, and Calli, they had always felt different. They were no daughter of Gaia.

Amid noise, the churning electronic mismatch and clamour of chatter, they sung. So, fleeting and rare was a moment like this that even Calli lost themselves. Eyelashes fluttered down to frame fair cheekbones as they sung, the interlacing poetic nature of their song spurred their heart into a frenzied flutter. “…the heart of a lion.”

“And who is to say I’m steadfast,” he teased gently, and behind the human voice there was a curve of amusement, the breath and the heavy weight of eternity. His gaze flickered again, those galaxy eyes, soft and swimming with the suggestion of the stars. Morpheus had been alive a very long time, understood the suggestion and the manipulation, but he bowed into it, sunk into it, breathed into it because he was curious. It was something that had made him among the most humanlike of his kin, that need to understand the wills of others in order to best perform his duty. He exercised that now, that desire to learn, to understand.

 He followed them, deliberate, easy, of his own free will. The fact that they knew who he was, the fact that he had a guess as to who they were, intrigued him. “Spent enough time above to know they have better parties up here,” he demurred, with a curve of a smile. There was nothing explicitly flirtatious about him, but it was impossible to read his intensity as anything but. What he lacked in coquettish charm, he made up for in thoughtless, instinctual seduction.

He settled into the booth, leaned in against the rich leather with one arm over the back displaying his muscularity. His eyes were still fixed on them, watched the liquid way that he stretched, listened to the sweet sound of their song. Dark eyelashes fluttered as he briefly closed his eyes, listened to the tender chimes of their song, like breathless bells tinkling in the wind. He could hear the reckless abandon of their music, and without thinking, he sang in quiet counterpoint, voice deeper, rougher around the edges. 

Émile was working at one of the larger speed bags to the side of the wall, focused on the rhythm the bag made bouncing against his fists and the platform. He focused on his breathing, bouncing from left foot to right. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped down his face as he kept up the rhythm, until his attention was drawn away by the accented voice behind him. His fist dropped and the bag faltered, quickly losing momentum and hanging here. Émile sighed and hit it away with a final punch, the force making it violently ricochet for a few seconds.

He grabbed his towel and water bottle off the bench and used them simultaneously. His face dry and mouth wet, he took a second to look over the other man, chest heaving still. Playboy abs, dumb-bell arms; the man was attractive to look at, but it was all for looking at. He snorted, rubbing the top of his head with the towel before slinging it around his shoulders. “Have you ever thrown a punch before?” he jested, resting his weight on one leg as he took another deep drink from his bottle.

He had seen the man around before in the gym, infrequently, in the weights section. He and Marian were friends, worked together apparently. Already Émile could tell that he was… more than met the eye. A seductive kind of power, like the allure of the night sky during a full moon. All it meant was that they would be less likely to freak out if he let his strength slip. Flinging his towel to the bench again, Émile fetched some punching mitts. He clapped them together and held them out towards the other man, eyebrow quirking in challenge.

An eyebrow quirked, impressed at the speed of the blows, although there was a sense that he couldn’t help - as though he was holding back. At the tease, Morpheus shrugged, good-natured, his smile bright. “Not at something that couldn’t throw back,” he jested back. Arms uncurled, and he glanced at him with easy curiosity, although behind the youthful veneer, there was a sense of quiet, amused antiquity, something almost regal in the way that he moved, a complete and unspoken confidence and effortlessness in his borrowed skin.

Eyeing the punching mitts, he took up a stance that mirrored the one he saw Émile take before. Although his instincts told him to be careful not to shatter those very human-looking forearms, something told him that he could perhaps let a little more loose with this one. Fingers curled into fists and he struck out, fast and directed, moving with the forward grace of a panther. He struck again, and again, moderating his strength, until at the last moment, he let himself go—-

Music flooded their veins, the very essence of life igniting their body into a hypnotic dance. Hips rolled, lips curved into broad smiles and whispers of possibility were left in the ears of hopeful mortals. Tonight, they were free from sin, the divine amongst the finite and drenched in sugary sweet honey. Their lips tingled with the lemon sugar they’d been drinking, a riot of laughter spilled from between their lips as someone leaned in to share a story of yesterday. It was not often they took to the night, let loose and permitted themselves to indulge in a little wanton hedonism. They were alive and within, Calli was singing.

“My youth is yours,” they whispered to an onlooker, words enveloped in silk as they quirked a teasing grin. Something illicit sparked between the high notes of their voice. “Come, sweetheart, let’s ascend to the stars.” They danced until they had descended into the raw notes of bass, hips sunk and rocked against another’s. As the music shifted, slowed, they parted ways from the mortal and glided towards the bar, fluorescent lights caught the glitter that lined their cheeks. Al hummed as they waited, keeping the over-spilling life of their immortality at bay as they waited upon the bartender. The mortals in the bar tonight could only tolerate so much rapture before they became crazed.

When he had first come up permanently from the grey and joyless Underworld, he had found himself almost overwhelmed by the brightness and franticness of the world above. He had certainly known Mortals before, had been famed for his ability to walk between worlds and weave understandings, but he had never stayed for an extended time, had never had the freedom to move outside of the drab little messages that the other Gods had given him to deliver. Freedom drove him to explore further, to chase the sparks of humanity so to speak, but he never stayed for long. Although Morpheus did not truly understand grief as humans saw it, he grew more melancholy than he expected when his bright playthings winked out of existence. One couldn’t move within the intimacy of dreams without feeling something akin to loss.

This bright spark was not human, he knew that. They were blinding, straining, pressing against the skin that tightly bound it. Youth was a veneer as much as his own thick accent was. Attention blurred and directed and sighted and his lips curved deeply, a smirk that suited him, sharp, attentive, dangerous. He moved towards them, slow and sinuous and smooth, muscles shifting beneath his light leather jacket, let hand on shoulder and insinuation tug them closer. Without thinking, he let callused fingers reach out in return, traced the alabaster line of their jaw before gently tilting up their chin.

“I grant illusions,” he returned softly, and his eyes shone, not bright, kohl-rimmed blue but black with the depths of the galaxies, countless points of light that sparked and lit and were born and died, became reborn again. Mists of atoms shrouded him, the scent of ozone radiating from his skin. He smiled.