#goddess!reader

The legends immortalized in the Library of Paradise say that the beaches of Themyscira were sculpted to reflect the soft, shimmering horizon of Mt. Olympus. Today, reclined in the warm sand while quiet waves lap at the shore, you think the sculptor of this land took the right creative liberties. Even as the tide rises, soaking the hem of your linen garment, something about being between worlds makes an occurrence as ordinary as foamy ocean waves washing away your footprints seem more beautiful, more profound in meaning. Your world, the mountain of the gods — Olympus — lingers somewhere far beyond the horizon and the mortal world bustles in the opposite direction. The way has been blocked for as long as you can remember, a safeguard put in place by the gods when you first voiced a desire to explore a world beyond your own. Lying back in the sand, you close your eyes and embrace the quiet. There are no gods bickering here.

If only the peace and beauty of Paradise was enough for you.

“You’re back,” Princess Diana, Wonder Woman herself, muses. Her voice carries on the ocean wind, soft enough to keep you relaxed, hesitant as if she could ever disturb you.

She stops beside you, her long shadow extending over you and into the water. When you open your eyes, she’s smiling down at you. Carefully, you push up to perch on your knees.

“This is as far as they’ll let me roam,” you murmur, tracing a heart in the sand.

“I see,” Diana hums. She squats beside you, smiling kindly. “Have you asked them for more? Have you explained why you want it?”

You bark a laugh and shake your head at the idea. “Last time I asked to go farther, to help someone, Zeus laughed and called me σωτηρία.”

“Salvation… Just because the others look down on your kindness and care for mortals does not mean you should give up on it. Abandoning your true nature will not appease the gods forever. Nor will it make way for any other happiness.”

“Trust me, Princess, I know.”

Diana nods in reply to your plight. She looks over your shoulder and frowns at the seemingly endless sea behind you. “When were you last in the mortal world?”

Exhaling, you still your fingers in the sand and mentally calculate the time. The days have long since begun to stretch oddly, blurring together as weeks became years stranded in a world you’ve already explored in its entirety. “Decades, I think.”

“I’ll ask Hera for permission to take you to a meeting,” Diana offers. “It’s the least I can do for a hero, a savior of those who need it most.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I never said I did, dear friend.”

“Where is your meeting?” you ask, pushing up to stand.

“Gotham,” Diana raises, rising beside you. “With the Batman.”

You narrow your eyes and suggest, “Perhaps you should withhold that part if Ares is nearby.”

“He’s still angry?”

“If there is one thing Ares is good at, it is holding a grudge. As far as he’s concerned, Batman should have indulged his bloodlust the moment that clown stole his son away.”

“Then there’s one thing Superman and Ares agree upon.” Diana lays her hand on your shoulder and meets your eyes to offer, “My kingdom is yours. Make yourself at home, and I will ensure you receive Hera’s answer as soon as I do.”

Nodding, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Diana leaves you alone on the beach again. You sigh as the sun inches toward the horizon. If you stay here on the beach, you may be able to witness the sky flashing green and illuminating the silhouette of Olympus. Instead, you turn in the sand and march toward the library. Vibrant orange trees grow at the corners of the white building while flowering ivy works its way up the columns bracketing the entrance. In this land, there are no business hours, nothing to cause hesitancy to come out at night.

“Good evening, goddess,” someone greets when you step into the ornate library.

“Good evening,” you reply, offering a soft smile.

“Looking for anything particular?”

Glancing around the shelves, you consider all the options. Usually, you come here because you are researching something. Now, you have the freedom you dreamed of as a young goddess. There is no one here to tell you what you can or cannot indulge in, to ridicule your choices or comment that a goddess should not buy into ridiculous fairy tales created by mortals.

“Something romantic, dramatic, with a good ending that makes it all worth it,” you decide.

The book she hands you takes place in the mortal world, and you fall asleep between the pages long after the moon appears over Themyscira. In your dreams, the main character leads you through the halls of his manor, telling you about his adventures and the woman he has been falling for since he first laid eyes upon her. It all spells of poppies. Focused on the story, you don’t spare the Oneiroi in the corners any attention.

When you wake, blinking against the blurry ink of the final chapter, you wonder what Morpheus wanted bad enough to visit you in your dreams. He didn’t force it on you, so perhaps it is neither important nor urgent.

Diana steps into view when you sit up, her lasso of truth clutched between her fingers. Bad news it is then, you realize as you close the book. Good things always die anyway; happy endings aren’t an option for goddesses in your experience.

“I tried my hardest to convince them,” Diana begins.

“I know,” you assure her, laying a hand on her arm after you stand. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Hera suggested you go to the gods directly and ask for freedom to explore as you want,” she says.

You nod, walking beside her to exit the library. The sunrise is painting the boundaries of the world, pastel pinks and oranges taunting you with ideas of the exploration you want but will never have. Diana is leading you to the hills, your senses numb as you follow her.

When does giving up on a dream get easier? Haven’t I abandoned enough that this should be the norm?

“I don’t have a great history with getting what I ask the gods for,” you admit, dragging your feet through the tall grasses swaying in the gentle morning breeze.

“And that means you should stop asking?” Diana challenges. “What if this is the request that they approve of?”

“It won’t be,” you scoff. “Even my fellow goddesses prefer to treat me like an ignorant, invalid child rather than an equal. I have all the powers and abilities of a goddess but have never been awarded the trust, the freedom, any of the things that truly matter! I prove myself every day and they don’t care.”

“As long as you know your worth and that you are deserving of these things, who cares what those on Mt. Olympus think? You have the strength to do this and the eagerness to not give up until you get what you desire.”

“I’m glad that is how you perceive me,” you hum. “But the cost could be too great. If I wrong the gods… I’m just not sure this I fight I can stand to endure. Even if I were to win, what would I have to trade for the opportunity?”

“You’ll never find out with that attitude, let alone win, goddess.”

You reach the peak of the hill, the palace of Themyscira and the surrounding landscape cascading down to the ocean shimmering like a safe haven beneath you. Diana is leaving for Gotham today, so you offer a hug and wish her well. Rather than staying here and watching her go, waiting and wandering in your sorrow and self-pity, you elect to take her advice.

Gathering your strength, supplemented by the faith of your friend, you leave Themyscira behind. Olympus may not greet you with open arms, but it never turns you away. Even if you don’t want it to be the only place you reside, can you risk sacrificing your home for an opportunity to visit a world that may abuse your powers?

“What good thing was ever earned without a bit of suffering?” you ask yourself. You don’t allow yourself to answer. You can’t always trust those kinds of replies.

Standing at the base of Zeus’s throne on Mt. Olympus, you look at the adornments above his head rather than the gods and goddesses seated beside him, staring down at you. Hera is the last to arrive, and her eyes soften when she sees you. She sinks into her seat and whispers something to Athena, who rolls her eyes and taps the hilt of her sword.

“What is it you seek, child?” Zeus asks then, reclined in his seat with a golden goblet hanging from his fingers.

“I’d like to roam the mortal realm,” you answer, willing your voice to be even as you clutch your clothes in both hands. “I want to find someone in need of help, to become a mentor.”

Zeus straightens, the air around the mountain vibrating with his thumber. “Absolutely not,” he rumbles.

“Please,” you whisper in reply. You step forward, looking at each god as you wonder, “Why should I be forced to spend eternity here?”

“Because you are safe here,” Athena points out.

“I am a goddess, just as you are. I would be safe wherever I went.”

“We’ve allowed you to travel to Themyscira as you please, have we not?” Ares counters. “Are there none in Paradise in need of mentoring?”

“That is not the same and you know it,” Hera points out.

“You side with the child?” Zeus inquires, his brows raised in shock and silent challenge.

“I do,” Hephaestus interjects. “She has forged a life marked by trust and responsibility. I believe we should indulge her an opportunity to demonstrate how she will use it. If it is only her safety that is a concern, I can arm her.”

“Her safety is not the only concern,” Zeus rumbles.

“Are we to take a vote?” Athena asks Zeus. “It has been many years since we made up the majority over you, God King.”

Zeus glares at Athena, who only smiles back, then shifts to stare down at you. His arms tense against his throne before he nods. “We will discuss it.”

You nod to communicate your thanks, then step back. One thing you learned long ago is that you don’t have to pretend not to listen because any discussion amongst the gods does not stay private for long. Hera exclaims the moment someone includes her, her approval or indignance obvious to anyone nearby; Zeus creates thunder of varying volumes when he speaks; and Ares and Aphrodite finish each other’s sentences. It’s never quiet, nor it is boring.

“Give us a good reason she should not go!” Hera demands. “She’s not asking to grant anyone immortality, just to see a world beyond what she knows.”

“She is too naïve,” Zeus argues.

“She’s been training with me since she could walk, Father,” Athena reminds him. “She has more strategy than Ares and Apollo combined!”

“Hey,” Apollo interjects. “Archery is an inherently strategic sport.”

“Strategy is not a substitute for experience,” Zeus continues. “If she should come across someone like the Greek, how should we know that she will not tell him-”

“Your concern for her judgement of character is wrongfully placed,” Hephaestus challenges. “She can evaluate humans, gods, and monsters alike with a word.”

“And if she’s learned anything from me,” Aphrodite interjects, “she’d be less likely to tell him who she is rather than what she’d like to do with him.”

Zeus continues arguing, not slowing when the sound of a crashing wave draws your attention from the throne. Smiling, you realize that none of the gods above you feel the misting that precedes his entrance. Or perhaps they are simply too enthralled with arguing to react.

“And her strength?” Zeus demands.

“You are afraid for her!” Apollo accuses. “She has the strength of Olympus at her fingertips, and we are on her side. What is there to fear?”

“What do they quarrel for this time?” Poseidon inquires, stepping to your side with his trident in hand.

“It’s about me,” you reply, glancing at his blue hair cascading down his back.

“Ah. Why?”

“I asked to roam the mortal world.”

Poseidon steps forward, blocking your view of the others. He sneers down at you before he demands, “Why?”

“I want to explore, maybe help someone who really needs it,” you answer softly.

“You have spent far too much time with Athena,” Poseidon sighs, pinching his nose. “You are aware that mortals are revolting creatures, no? Their habits and relations are abhorrent, utterly abysmal.”

“I am aware that you loathe mortals, yes. Especially those whom Athena engages with.”

Poseidon nods tersely, not bothering to feign offense. “You have often had my support,” he reminds you. “But a trip to the mortal realm… I am unsure I can argue in your favor in this matter.”

Your lips part but Poseidon turns and approaches the gods before you can reply. Without the chance to plead to change his mind, you know the answer you’ll receive. So much for standing up for what I deserve, you think.

When they decline your request, perhaps Themyscira can once again become an escape for you. Maybe requesting to accompany Diana will seem like less of an ask next time.

“Quiet,” Poseidon hisses when he reaches Zeus’s side. “Who is in her favor?”

Hephaestus, Hera, and Apollo raise their hands. Aphrodite shifts on her feet, then lifts her hand. Ares follows soon after.

“She can protect herself,” Ares affirms. “The violence of the mortal world is no threat to her.”

“Athena?” Zeus asks.

“I’m not saying she should or shouldn’t go,” she explains. “It is not my place to dictate her fate.”

“It’s dangerous,” Poseidon points out. “We risk losing her. If not to an enemy than to a mortal. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You care for her,” Zeus reminds him. It’s a pointless reminder; Poseidon forgetting how much you mean to him would be preceded by the sun failing to rise or the waves curling the wrong way. “What do you say, brother?”

Poseidon sighs. “There is sea and sky in the mortal world. She would not be alone… I think we owe her the opportunity.”

“She won’t be alone,” Ares agrees. “I have an idea to make sure of it.”

“And I have a sword she can take,” Hephaestus offers.

“I guess we have a decision,” Zeus murmurs.

“A decision about what?” Hermes interrupts, landing behind Athena. Aphrodite flinches, inching closer to Ares and Hephaestus.

Athena juts her chin toward you and explains, “Trip to the moral world.”

“How exciting!” Hermes exclaims, bouncing on his toes. “Who said no? Fill me in on everything. Someone brought up the whole ‘men are pigs’ — not a Circe reference — thing, right?”

“How ‘bout you do that?” Poseidon deadpans.

“We have made a decision,” Zeus calls.

Nodding, you await the refusal that is sure to come.

“I stand by my opinion that this is a bad idea,” he begins. “You have many thanks to give Poseidon and Ares.” Hera and Athena make argumentative noises, but Zeus only waves his hand toward them. “We have decided to grant your request.”

Straightening, you smile up at the gods. “Th-”

“Not so fast,” Ares interrupts. “There will be limitations. You have one week to find a mortal in need of a mentor. If you have not found one by then, you shall return immediately. If you should find one, you must return to us in no less than two months to account for your time in their world. If you chose to accept these constraints, you are free to travel between the worlds.”

“I agree!” you call quickly. Then, you press your hands to your sides and repeat, “I agree. Thank you.”

“A week,” Zeus reminds you. “Take care of yourself, and if you decide to return sooner than we have requested, there is no shame in it. Olympus is your home.”

You hope that’s true. No matter how you feel now, there is still a risk of letting down the gods and goddesses who let you do this. You may ruin the only relationships you’ve ever known if you do the wrong thing or go to the wrong place. The faith of the gods is enough to push those doubts aside.

Poseidon, Aphrodite, and Athena leave their places at Zeus’s table and walk toward you before you can leave. Poseidon’s jaw is set, his trident clutched tightly in his hand. Athena and Aphrodite look more approachable as they separate to stand on either side of you.

Aphrodite brushes your hair over your shoulder and sighs. “I hope you find love, beauty, and pleasure in your travels.” She traces her fingers down your arm, then takes your hand and taps the love line on your palm.

“Don’t let your guard down looking for those things,” Athena reminds you. “Strategy over feelings, just as always.”

Aphrodite scoffs as Athena notices Poseidon lingering beside you. She pats your back twice before she pulls Aphrodite away. The god of the ocean looks displeased with the decision even though Zeus told you he was to thank for it.

“Poseidon,” you greet.

“Should you need anything,” he grumbles, looking at his trident rather than you, “call out to the sea. I will send my aid, day or night.”

You sober, looking up at him. “Thank you.”

He scowls and nudges you toward the door. “Don’t make it weird, kid.”

“Too late, mer-boy!” Athena taunts over her shoulder.

“I should have drowned her when I had the chance.”

“Wait, dahling!” Hermes exclaims.

You pause at the door, smiling as he rushes to your side. He pushes his yellow glasses onto his head and takes your shoulders to pull you closer.

“Mortal men don’t deserve you, dahling,” he murmurs, bending to look in your eyes.

“Okay,” you reply.

“They won’t accept the power you have to offer. They’ll be threatened by it.”

“I’ll be careful about who I trust, Hermes.”

“That… I’m not worried about you and what you choose to do, love. Don’t forget who you are and what you can do, but don’t let anyone use it.”

He nods and releases you. Ares waves before you step out of the palace. A week isn’t much time to do anything, much less to find a deserving mortal in need of a mentor. More pressing, you realize, is that you have no idea where to go. The maps in Themyscira are probably outdated. You’ve only heard of the realms where Wonder Woman is needed. Gotham is supposed to be pretty rough, you remember.

And you have your answer. You have a destination: the mortal world, Gotham, home of the Batman. Hopefully Ares doesn’t regret his decision to side with you over this.

It’s raining in Gotham, the streetlights reflecting off the puddles on the asphalt. Red Hood is perched on the roof of the police department, half-tucked beneath the extended wing of a gargoyle in effort to stay dry. Batman, Nightwing, Red Robin, and Spoiler are out tonight, too. That’s part of the reason he allowed himself the desperately needed break. Beneath the helmet, Jason Todd takes ragged breaths as he fights to calm his racing heart. He can still feel the knife in his hand, can smell the blood that the rain washed away.

Gotham is a powerful monster, one that turned Jason into a warrior long before he realized what the transformation would cost him. He’d been on the street, fighting just to survive, when Bruce Wayne arrived dressed as a bat and looking for someone to save, for someone to fix. Jason had offered himself up to be molded without hesitation or question. He never considered what would happen if he hated what he became. Or, worse, if Bruce hated what he’d created. Then the Joker came along and broke the soldier Bruce’s mold created, and the Lazarus Pit stitched it back together wrong. Jagged edges, missing chunks, and a mind filled with rage took the warrior’s place.

“Jay.”

The voice that interrupts Jason’s thoughts is staticky and distant even through the state-of-the-art speakers built into Jason’s helmet.

“Hood,” they call again.

Jason blinks, squeezing his eyes closed on a deep inhale. Gotham doesn’t pause for the rain, nor for his worries or the monster he fights to keep trapped inside. Maybe that’s what the armor has been for all along.

“Littlewing!” the voice yells, echoing in his helmet.

“I’m here, Dick,” Jason sighs into the comms. “Sorry.”

“I have good news for you,” Dick says. He grunts softly like he’s throwing a kick, then adds, “Just found out from Cass.”

“If it’s from you and Cass, the odds of it being good news for me is infinitesimal.”

“Okay, hurtful. I’m still telling you, but I don’t think you deserve to know now: Bruce has a visitor coming by the manor tomorrow.”

“B has lots of visitors all the time,” Jason points out, raising a gloved hand to the gargoyle for support to stand on the rain-slick roof. “Batman has even more.”

“Jay, Diana is coming!”

Jason lifts a brow under the helmet. “That’s not the worst news you’ve disguised as good news.”

“Ah, you’re excited! I can hear it in the timbre of your voice.”

“Hear this in the timbre of my voice-”

“Boys,” Barbara calls over the comms. “Clayface is attacking a crowd outside the theater. You two are the closest.”

“We shall fan-vigilante later then,” Dick sighs. “Meet you there, Wing.”

“Please don’t modify the word fangirl ever again,” Jason requests as he hooks his grappling hook in the base of the gargoyle.

“I’ll let that slide, but Diana won’t, so you have to be nicer to me tomorrow, baby bro.”

Jason scoffs, then repels down the back of the GCPD building. He’s been called to be a warrior again. It’s a call that never waits, that never takes a raincheck, even in a city that sees more rain than sun. In his best dreams, he can outrun the warrior he really is, can adopt the fighter the people closest to him think exists and find out what survived the Lazarus Pit. Whatever is left of him needs to be saved, but he’s too busy saving everyone else to look for it.

The moment they approach, Clayface turns his attention to Red Hood and Nightwing. Jason steels himself beneath the helmet to shove himself into Bruce’s mold despite the pain and uncomfortable stretch caused by the simple fact that he no longer fits in it. Wonder Woman once told Red Hood he was a valiant warrior. Jason is still unsure if Diana was referring to the warrior he pretended to be or if she saw the dangerous, deadly warrior he buried when he realized it couldn’t be killed.

“Clay!” Dick calls. “What are we doin’?”

Clayface roars as Jason slides between his legs and aims a special-made taser between his shoulder blades. He pulls the trigger, watching as Clayface seizes. Still, he remains standing.

“Hood, do something!” Dick requests, dodging a heavy ridge hand from Clayface.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jason replies. “Move him forward.”

Dick flips back, luring Clayface away from the crowded theater. Jason feels eyes on him; he’s been watched enough to tell the difference between a concerned crowd and someone who is watching because they’re not supposed to look away. It’s been a while since Bruce had someone tail Jason, but it’s the most likely explanation.

“Move!” Jason demands.

Dick taps his forearms together, activating the new gloves Tim installed in his suit. He jumps up and grabs the power line drooping above him. Jason places a disc explosive against Clayface’s changing form then takes three long steps back. He runs into a flying kick, burying the device in Clayface’s leg before he lands on one foot and presses a button on his belt to arm it.

Dick swings his legs up and Jason crosses his arms in front of his face, kneeling on the wet road. Braced for impact, they don’t flinch when the boom echoes in the alleys. Clayface collapses, spread longer and wider than he was when he was standing.

“Oracle, we could use some cleanup,” Dick radios.

“On its way,” Barbara replies.

Jason turns in a slow circle, looking along the rooflines in search of the gaze he feels. There is no one obvious. Bruce got better at briefing his dirty work employees.

“You didn’t come to dinner Friday,” Dick says, wiping rain from his forehead.

“I- uh- just got busy,” Jason mumbles. “Maybe the next one.”

“We’re still here,” Dick reminds him. “If you don’t want to go to the manor, that’s okay. We can do it somewhere else.”

“Yeah, the manor isn’t the problem.”

“I’m not going to lie and say I get it, but I want to understand. Whenever you’re ready to talk… Call me, okay?”

Jason nods. Dick has no idea what it’s like to be at constant war with who you really are because other people felt obligated to infuse you with what they thought you should be. Jason hopes he never understands. He wouldn’t wish this on Bruce, even for all their animosity. At the end of the day, he’s still a warrior. But he has to face the idea that he’s fighting for something he doesn’t even stand for.

Deep down, Jason knows that trying to outrun something that is attached to him will kill him. He’ll be hanging on by a string until it happens. He’s spread thin enough fighting for the people who need it more than him. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved after all he’s done. That’s what the bad dreams try to convince him of, at least.

“Jason,” Barbara says. “We’re on a private channel.”

“That’s never good,” he replies. “What am I in trouble for?”

“Nothing. Bruce wants to talk to you.”

Jason’s hands curl into fists, his mind racing with the familiar waves of the pit. He forces his eyes closed, thinks of a different ocean, and measures his breathing.

“I can’t,” he replies.

“I’ll tell him you’re busy.”

“Thanks, Babs.”

“You’ll have to talk to Father eventually,” Damian interjects, watching Tim do the grunt work of collecting Clayface.

“Stay out of this,” Jason snaps. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be-”

“That’s enough,” Dick interrupts. “Dami, help Tim. Jay and I are headed toward Arkham to make sure it’s clear for Clay’s return.”

Damian tsks, then nods and listens to Dick’s instructions.

“He’s trying, you know?” Dick murmurs when they reach the rooftop of the theater. “Bruce wants to do better.”

“I can’t talk to him, Dick.” Because I’m not who he thinks I am, because who he wants me to be died in that warehouse and a monster took his place in the pit, because I hate him for not accepting me for who I was. Because he’s the reason I realized I hated the warrior inside of me… maybe even more than he did. “Not yet.”

“What has to change first?”

“Both of us need to learn some more, I think.”

Dick nods. “I’m glad you’re back. Sorry I never said it before.”

“It’s okay,” Jason murmurs. “Sorry I shot you when I got here.”

Dick laughs, then stops on the edge of a roof when Jason turns suddenly. “What is it?” he inquires.

Dick’s domino mask reflects the moonlight shining through the clouds. Jason can only shake his head. They’re being followed, he’s sure of it, but he isn’t in the mood to tell Dick why. Bruce still can’t trust him — or simply won’t. Jason doesn’t hold it against him; he’d have someone watching him all the time, too, if he weren’t so scared to let someone that close.

“So, Diana,” Jason redirects. “What’s she coming for?”

“I don’t know,” Dick answers. “Just that Cass overheard B and Alfred making arrangements. League business, I’d assume.”

“Interesting we never get a trip to Themyscira. We’re just free labor.”

“What more are kids good for?” Dick jokes. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Her biggest fan.”

“Or she likes seeing me because I don’t ask her for a trip to Japan for sushi and call her uncle.”

“Leave Uncle Clark out of this!”

“You’re so weird. Has Diana ever brought someone with her? One of the girls from the island or Hera?”

“Not that I’ve known about. Bruce has been to Themyscira a few times but always refuses to tell me anything about it. I’ve heard it’s pretty.”

“Yeah, me too. I found a book in the manor’s library about it.”

“Stolen?” Dick inquires.

“Almost definitely,” Jason affirms. “There’s maps, history, legends.”

“What kind of legends?”

“The usual kind about crazy or talented rulers, some about why the island was created, that it was sculpted to reflect the horizons of Olympus.”

“Where the Greek gods live?”

“From what I gathered.”

“We should ask for a trip,” Dick decides. “Right after we tell dear, sweet, talented Oracle that Clayface is clear for entry.”

Jason blinks beneath the helmet. He feels at home with Dick, like he belongs. Dick never wanted to leave him, not like Bruce, who was more interested in how he could fight than who he was. Someday, when he’s brave enough to say it all, he’ll tell his brother everything. If he lives that long.

You’ve trained with the goddess of wisdom and masters of war, learned to love and fight for both pleasure and pain, but the mortal world still overwhelms you when you first arrive. There is love and hate in the same place, beauty and devastation at every turn. Everything you’ve heard about Gotham being dark, rainy, and dangerous seems to be true. You could have traveled to Ithica or Rome, but here you are. On a wet rooftop looking down at a man made of clay as he threatens a crowd of helpless humans. Diana may be in town, but she has more important things to do than show you around, and you’ve decided to remain invisible for as long as possible.

Athena’s lessons have proved helpful already. The spell you placed on yourself allows you to remain invisible to the mortals, empowering you to travel through the shadows. It bothers you that you can’t rush forward and save these people, but the whole purpose of coming was to find someone who was already endowed with that desire for heroism and mentor them further.

Ares once told you that the air shifts when a true warrior arrives. You’d laughed when he said it, pointing out that the only thing that changed when he arrived was how annoyed everyone else was going to become. You owe him an apology. Two humans step onto the scene — one is wearing spandex and a small mask covering his eyes, while the other tips his head beneath a red helmet as rain drips from his broad shoulders, covered with a dark leather jacket. The moment they step forward, the air does indeed shift.

They don’t hesitate to jump into action, drawing the creature away from the people before they incapacitate it. You’re drawn in immediately, unable to look away. It’s a whole group of heroes; you realize when two more arrive. Despite the ease with which they talk to one another, it’s clear to you that one of them is an outsider. Rather than being a cohesive team, it’s a motley crew of warriors. The one in red, however… He’s worthy of attention, possesses both the heart and mind of a warrior.

Red Hood and Nightwing are their names. Passing a 24/7 convenience store as you follow them through the city, you see their names and fuzzy silhouettes on the front page of a newspaper. The gods didn’t teach you how or when to approach anyone, though, so you hesitate to remove your spell. Maybe you can find an opportunity later. That’s the idea that makes you follow Red Hood, even when he and Nightwing split ways.

You sit on the cool metal fire escape outside Red Hood’s apartment all night. Goddesses don’t sleep like mortals, so you watch the city. More heroes emerge as the night progresses, present until dawn, when the darkness and filth of the city is illuminated for all. The man beneath the hood doesn’t stir until nearly 9 a.m. Rather than looking through his windows, you wait until he leaves, trailing behind him.

Dressed nicer, you can see that the man is large, imposing in his size and strength, and has a broad white streak in his otherwise dark hair. He walks with his shoulders hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as he navigates easily around people, doors, and things on the sidewalk.

Unknown to you, Jason Todd knows there’s still someone behind him. Whoever Bruce hired this time is much more thorough than the others. They’ve never been this close when the helmet has been off. He’ll confront Bruce when the time comes. Today, he has better things to think about.

You want to look at the city as you walk, but the warrior leading the way holds your attention.

“They won’t accept the power you have to offer. They’ll be threatened by it.”

Hermes’s message enters your mind unwelcomed. He very well may be right, but you won’t know if this Red Hood needs a mentor unless you get close enough to see if he’s threatened by power that isn’t his. He clearly has strength and skills of his own, but even the best can gain something from partnership and supplementary lessons. Aphrodite taught you that, though you think she was talking about something else.

Red Hood leads you to a manor on the hill overlooking Gotham. The script above the gate is old but well-maintained. Wayne. His chin dips closer to his chest as he approaches the door. You’re intimately familiar with the feeling of not belonging somewhere you really should. For you, it’s the internal separation from Olympus. For this Red Hood, it’s whoever the Waynes are.

You stay outside after he enters, wandering the grounds as you look through windows and run your fingers over the smooth, downturned petals of flowers. Gotham is no Themyscira, but it’s beautiful in its own right — melancholic, serious, and dark.

“Jason!” a familiar voice exclaims.

You hold the edge of a stone windowsill and look inside. Diana Prince of Themyscira is wrapping her arms around Red Hood. Jason, it seems. He leans into her, smiling as his cheeks turn pink at her whispered words.

“Aww,” you whisper to yourself. You release the stone and fall to the ground, your brows drawn together as you wonder where that came from. The whole point of finding a mortal to mentor is to make them better, not to get invested in their life. You should walk away now. You should find someone else. But you know it’s too late because the idea of doing either of those things makes you feel like Ares when someone tells him the battle is over.

Hours later, Red Hood emerges from the manor. He slings his leg over a motorcycle and drives into the night, his helmet firmly in place and a thigh holster strapping a gun to his side. The boy who walked inside the house and was touched by Diana’s words has been replaced by a man prepared to fight.

You don’t hesitate to follow him. He finds a fight quickly, abandoning his bike and his gun in an alley to jump to action. He’s outnumbered; it’s the first thing that truly makes you want to step in and help him. You’re two days into your seven-day exploration, so you have time to wait. You don’t want to, and that’s something none of the gods or goddesses thought to warn you about. Unless, of course, Aphrodite did, but it was covered in flowery metaphors that you forgot as soon as she stopped talking — or she was distracting you by playing with your hair when she said it.

Red Hood throws the first punch, then takes two to his back. The men circling him aren’t fighting fair, their faces painted white and red and their hair tinted green as they laugh when he falls.

You want to help, want to do something. The fact that you’re a goddess has no bearing now; you are simply scared that you’ll let him down, that you’ll fail a warrior in need.

The men form a tight circle and grab Red Hood by his jacket. You stand then with a question on the tip of your tongue.

Jason is mad. More than the rage he fights to control when he is engaged in combat, this anger settles deep within him, festering with each move he makes, and each hit he feels connect with his body.

“Get off!” he screams, twisting into a hook kick that sends on Joker wannabe falling back onto another.

Three more reach out for him, clutching his jacket while someone punches just above his kidneys. Jason yells as he’s pushed to his knees, clawing at anything he can touch. He knew better than to walk into this fight unarmed and alone. He’s not even connected to the comms, so he can’t fall for backup. He’s alone, no matter what happens.

“Need a hand?” someone asks.

Unless I’m still being followed, he thinks bitterly. But Jason is no fool. He knows that the voice of whoever is speaking isn’t Bruce Wayne’s private investigator. It’s not someone on leave from the Gazette doing Batman’s dirty work. The offer to help must mean more.

“I’m losing,” he snaps. “What do you think?”

“The one in the green shoes is their leader,” you point out, inching closer to the fight. “Subdue him and the rest will flee.”

The red helmet tips before Red Hood surges forward, pulling three men with him as he wraps his hands around the leader’s throat. Almost immediately, the men release him and step back. Red Hood slams the man against the wall, his chest heaving as the first henchman runs.

“Please,” the criminal begs breathily. He digs his fingers into the brick wall behind him, searching for purchase to stay upright. “Please.”

“No,” Red Hood answers lowly.

Within seconds, the rest of the man’s crew abandons him and they’re alone in the alley.

“Run,” Red Hood instructs. “And don’t ever come back to my city. Understood?”

Nodding against his hand, the man agrees. He trips on his way out of the alley, unflinching when his knees scrape open, leaving a red streak not unlike his fake smile on the asphalt.

“Who do I have to thank for the assist?” Red Hood asks, looking around the alley.

You smile when he looks past the alcove you’re tucked in. “A friend.”

He stops then, facing you as he rubs his pec. “I know you’ve been watching me. Show yourself,” he requests. After a breath, he murmurs, “I can see you.”

“How can you see through my spell?” you demand, stepping forward and shedding the magic, just as Athena taught you.

The helmet drops, then rises slowly, like Red Hood is taking you in. Beneath the helmet, Jason’s eyes widen in admiration, appreciation, and recognition. He’s never seen a goddess in the flesh before, but he realizes now why so many people pledge their loyalty and their lives to women like you.

“I was lying,” he answers. “Guess I’m a good liar.”

As much as you’d like to act differently, you’re amused by his trick. “Well done,” you offer. Then, to get him back, you add, “Jason.”

He doesn’t seem surprised you know his name, or he’s good at hiding what he’s feeling. “You know my name. What’s yours?”

“Nice try.”

Jason steps forward and tugs something from underneath his jacket. He offers the grappling hook to you, nodding when you refuse it. Another step, and he slowly wraps his arm around your waist. You make no move to stop him. So far, he has given you no reason not to trust him. And while you may have just come across it while following him, you know Diana trusts him, too. She sees something in him, so you know you haven’t been led astray by the pursuit of pleasure.

He fires the hook over his head, then holds you close as you rise to the roof. Jason releases you and steps back the moment you’re firm on your feet. You hold your breath when he lifts his hands to either side of his helmet. The seal hisses when he releases it, and then you’re looking at Jason Todd. Not Red Hood, not any other warrior, Jason.

“What now, κόκκινος?” you ask softly. (<Red>)

“Don’t be modest,” he murmurs with a smile. “I know you’re a goddess.”

“And how do you know that?” you inquire.

Jason shrugs, a boyish grin on his face as he looks at you.

“Well, the Greek was a bit of a clue. You called me Red, right? Creative.” He cracks the joke, but he’s never more appreciate for Bruce’s foreign language lessons than he is now.

“Okay,” you hum, tapping your chin. “You know I’m a goddess and I know you’re Batman’s son.”

He tips his head to one side, his smile unchanging. There’s no challenge between you, no animosity, just an understanding that stems from something unseen.

“Look, you’re fighting more foes than you can even see,” you continue. “If you’re looking for a mentor who can separate the two, I’ll make sure your time’s well spent.”

Jason offers his hand. When you place your palm against his, Jason answers, “Sounds like a plan.” His smile alone threatens your willingness to go home in two short months, and then he uses your joined hands to pull you closer. “Goddess and man, bestest of friends?”

“Hmm. We’ll see where it ends,” you counter playfully.

“Okay.”

“Put your helmet back on,” you demand when he releases your hand. “You’re not done fighting yet.”

“Let me guess, you don’t want me to kill anyone either? Like Batman. How am I supposed to win this?” he asks. Despite having questions, he does as you said and puts his helmet on.

“Do you think you can trust me? Can you accept help?”

I’d trust you even if it cost me my life and that terrifies me, he thinks. “I can try,” he says instead.

“Goddess and man, huh?” you repeat.

“We’ll see where it ends,” Jason jokes, shrugging one shoulder. “Where to, goddess?”

“Those men you scared away didn’t heed your warning. They’re on their way downtown.”

“Do we need backup?”

You consider the question as you follow Jason to his bike. Growing up at the base of Mt. Olympus, you were taught to call on the gods when you needed assistance. But where if there’s more to life? What if being here and helping a mortal is the very way you find your own strength?

“Would you have called for help if I hadn’t arrived?” you wonder.

Jason throws a leg over the bike and looks back at you. “No.”

“Then there’s your answer. The real question then becomes why do you think you don’t deserve the help that’s offered?”

The red helmet shifts away from you. Asking tough questions serves a purpose; you’ve been on the receiving end of Athena’s seeming interrogations (though she prefers to call them helpful spurs) more than once.

“Relying entirely on your own strength is a gift,” you add. “And one that many people are unable or unwilling to grant themselves. Punishing yourself by facing the world alone is something else entirely.”

“Then show me,” he requests. “You just saved my life. I’m still here with you because of your strength.”

“You’re willing to accept what I can offer?” you check. Hermes argued that this would never happen, yet here you are — trading secrets and building alliances with a mortal that has held you utterly enraptured since you first laid eyes upon him.

Jason taps the seat of his motorcycle and lifts a shoulder. “Give me another win and I’ll let you know.”

“It’s not about winning.”

Despite your argument, you step forward and slide into place behind him. He offers a helmet before he grasps your wrists gently and wraps your arms around his waist.

“First time on a motorcycle?” he asks. You can picture the accompanying smug smile even through his helmet.

“Maybe,” you murmur as you press your chest to his back.

“Hmm. Guess I’ll have to make it memorable.”

“I thought I was calling the shots.”

He releases your wrists to tap your leg while he shifts the bike into first gear. “Give me all you’ve got, goddess,” he encourages.

“Who is she?”

Diana doesn’t flinch when Batman’s voice echoes in her hotel room. She straightens the knot on her robe and sits on the edge of the bed with a smile. “Take a guess, Bruce.”

“There’s an unfamiliar woman in my town helping my… helping Jason win fights he shouldn’t even be involved in,” Bruce explains, stepping out of the shadows and into the room.

“Fights plural?” Diana challenges. “What’s the problem here, Bruce? That you want to be involved or that she’s doing something you couldn’t?”

“I’m concerned for his safety,” Bruce argues, “that’s all.”

“That is certainly not all, but we don’t have to get into that right now. What is it you’d like to know?”

Bruce exhales slowly, then looks toward the tinted window overlooking Gotham. After several breaths pass between them, he whispers, “Can she help him?”

“She’ll do more than that,” Diana assures him. “Jason is a formidable warrior. She can show him that there’s more to him that than, even with everything he’s been through.”

“Everything I put him through, you mean.”

Diana stands and places her hand on the break in the armor across Bruce’s sternum. “You cannot blame yourself entirely, Bruce. Acknowledge your mistakes, learn from them, and keep going. Stalling in the present with your eyes on the past does neither of you any good.”

“It’s all my fault,” he admits softly. “I should have saved him.”

“Then tell him now. Save him from the fear that you blame him, save him from the doubts and the hesitation instilled in him after losing his way. Save him from wondering if you hate him.”

Bruce nods. “You- you never answered my question. Who is she?”

Diana murmurs your name, and a thunder crack breaks the monotonous thrum of rain throughout Gotham.

“Let me see, let me see, let me see,” Aphrodite pleads, her hands clasped in front of her chest. She stands between Ares and Hephaestus, whose arms are crossed in defiance, fear, or something else they’re hiding behind emotionless faces.

“So predictable,” Athena chides from Zeus’s side.

“Not too predictable, I hope,” he replies. “Had you any idea she wished to go to Gotham?”

“No. She didn’t tell me her travel plans and I didn’t ask. I’m sure Poseidon had her choices narrowed down in his mind. Gotham has a lovely harbor from what I hear.”

“Let me see!” Aphrodite calls out.

“It is a mortal,” Ares sighs tiredly. “Do they not all look the same to you?”

Aphrodite gasps, her fingers spread on her chest to show her shock. “No! If my fellow goddess has dedicated two months of her life to a mortal I want to see why!”

“Perhaps it is something within that made him or her worthy of a mentor,” Hephaestus suggests.

“Ah, you’re so cute,” Aphrodite replies. “Seriously, Athena, let me see.”

Athena shakes her head and looks to Zeus, who shrugs. When Athena waves, Aphrodite seems to teleport to her side, gazing into the shifting images of you and a man in Gotham.

“Oh,” Aphrodite breathes out. “I see.”

“He’s… built to be a warrior,” Ares murmurs when he approaches.

“Commendable weaponry,” Hephaestus adds.

“He’s gorgeous,” Aphrodite corrects.

“That’s enough,” Zeus mumbles. “Find something to do.”

“Should we tell Poseidon?” Athena asks. She smiles when Zeus turns toward her because she knows the answer.

“Ooh! A message?” Hermes exclaims, rushing over the threshold. “Perhaps I can help.”

“The last time I sent you to my brother, he attempted to skewer you with his trident,” Zeus reminds him.

“True, but you know what they say about third time being the charm.”

“Perhaps we should simply assume Poseidon already knows,” Apollo suggests from his seat. “He would be the one to keep tabs on her, after all.”

Jason rolls his wrist, stepping over the extended legs of a demobilized foe to reach you.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he muses through the helmet.

“I’ve had good teachers,” you deflect, looking away from him.

“So have I, but it’s never been this easy before.”

You nod, gazing out at the harbor. Jason finishes his journey to your side and leans against the bike wordlessly.

“Who are you really?” he whispers.

“A friend,” you offer. “Someone who can work with you, someone who can see that underneath the warrior you’ve been trained to be survives a man who needs more than fighting to truly live. You have survived, and that is commendable.” Bringing your eyes back to him, you ask, “But what if you can do more?”

Jason shifts but doesn’t look away from you. “What if finding out just hurts more?” he counters.

On an exhale, you promise, “Then I’ll share the burden of hurt. You’ve shouldered it alone for too long, Red Hood.”

“Jason,” he corrects. “Please.”

You offer your name then, smiling when he says it like a prayer.

Three days later, you find yourself in Jason’s apartment. You’ve yet to admit that you were the presence he felt on the fire escape the first night in his world, but it seems irrelevant now. The pain shooting through your shoulder is far more compelling than any truth you may confess.

“Easy,” Jason murmurs, pressing a cool cloth to the broken skin beneath your collarbone. Nearly immediately, his tone drops and he chides, “That was stupid.”

“Letting my mentee die would have been stupid,” you counter roughly. “Forgive me for caring about you.”

Jason scoffs. Deep down, you know that he’s still fighting the truths you’re telling him — that he’s enough on principle not because of what he can do, that if he hung up the Red Hood mantel tonight people would still love him, that he is worth something despite what that clown put him through. His demeanor changed, however, when you stepped out of the shadow and took an arrow intended for him.

“I’m sorry,” you offer.

Jason’s jaw works beneath his skin, his pinky dragging comforting lines along your inner arm.

“I’m sorry that you’re upset,” you add, “not that I did it. I would take every injury if I could. Had the gods given me a chance to take your place in Bosnia, I would not have hesitated.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” he grumbles, reaching over your waist for a fresh roll of gauze. “My lifestyle brings a lot of injuries; nothing to be worried about.”

“Just because they’re typical doesn’t mean you should accept them!”

“What would you have me do instead?” Jason demands. “Leave Gotham?”

“Yes!” you yell, pushing up into his hand. “If that is what you truly desire, yes, I would have you run as far from Gotham as you could possibly go.”

“Helping me win a few fights does not mean you know everything about me!” he argues. “Now lay down!”

You want to argue, wish to follow Zeus’s example and bring down lightning to punctuate your point. Jason deserves so much more — more mercy, more understanding, more acceptance, more love in place of all the inadequate excuses for care and home he’s received.

“Please don’t push me away,” you request softly. “I’m trying to help.”

Jason swallows thickly, then checks the gash in your skin. It’s already closing. Raindrops patter against the window behind you, the doom and gloom of Gotham forgotten in the warm embrace of Jason’s home.

“It was snowing that night,” he begins. “I had planned to ask Bruce for hot chocolate at the hotel…”

Halfway through your stay in the mortal world, you make a decision and refuse to let Jason fight alone. He yells when you step face-to-face with a high-level drug lord yet ends up pressing his back to yours as you fight your way through the Narrows of Gotham.

Ending a war will be quite difficult to explain to Ares, but Gotham’s drug problem is affecting children, something you and Jason share a negative opinion on. So, when he chose Carmine Falcone’s right-hand man and most affluent distributor as his next target, you readily agreed to help him win the fight.

Somewhere between when Jason threw the first punch and when he ushers you onto his bike as sirens echo down the street, you make a startling realization. Jason isn’t just a mortal; he’s not just someone you’re helping. This is absolutely nothing like Athena and the Greek because you’re falling in love with Jason Todd.

 Sitting before you, glancing down at your hands gripping his jacket, Jason has no such revelation. Because he’s known since the first night, when he took your hand, that he was falling for you. He’s read enough books to know that goddesses and mortals are rarely a good match. But everything you’ve taught him, all you’ve reminded him of, your constant gentle reassurances, it all leads him to wonder what if?

Seven weeks into your mentorship of Jason Todd, you nearly blow your cover. Nightwing and Red Robin join him unexpectedly, leading you to duck behind a dumpster and utilize Athena’s invisibility spell once more.

“So, that Bane fight last night…” Red Robin begins.

“How’d you do that?” Nightwing inquires. “Oracle was screaming in our ears that you were about to crushed, but Bane was the one to end up in the street. So, what’d you use?”

“There’s this thing you’ll never truly understand,” Jason begins. “It’s called a brain. Many of us have one behind our eyes.”

“Ha ha,” Nightwing deadpans. “Seriously, was it the new flash bomb?”

You step out, invisible to any human who may look your way. Jason glances in your direction and for a brief moment you wonder if he truly could see you that first night.

“I had some help,” Jason admits. “I’ve learned a lot in the last two months.”

Two months. Your time is almost up. The brothers’ conversation fades to little more than static as the crashing of waves draws your attention. Tonight’s red flag warning is unusual for Gotham; the harbor typically remains calm even in Gotham’s seemingly never-ending thunderstorms. When you turn toward the shore, however, foamy waves curl, colliding powerfully with the sand. The salty water sprays inland, beckoning you forward.

Still invisible, you don’t notice Jason look around for you. Walking to the shore, you trust his brothers to have his back should an unexpected threat arise.

“Poseidon?” you call softly.

“You were injured,” his voice accuses. “And you did not call out for aid.”

Glancing over your shoulder, you see Jason watching the space you left while his brothers continue asking questions. “He helped me,” you explain.

“Mortals do not act selflessly without expecting some sort of repayment,” Poseidon warns. “These waters are not easily trodden.”

“I’ll be back to Olympus soon, remember?”

“And what will you say? Will you tell Ares that you ended a war? Will you admit to Aphrodite that you care deeply for the mortal? Will Hermes remain quiet about the letters the mortal has slipped beneath your pillow?”

“How do you know about that?” you interrupt, standing from your squatted position. “I didn’t tell anyone about those. I haven’t even conjured the courage to read them myself.”

“Precisely. The gods know more than you’re willing to discuss. You’re running out of time to fix this.”

The salty air burns your throat when you swallow. “What are they going to do to me?” you whisper.

A cooling mist brushes over your cheek. “I do not know. But I will provide all the help I can.”

“Why?” you question. “Why am I worth it?”

“Because you’re not as insufferable as the others,” Poseidon answers flatly. “Perhaps I even care about you and do not wish to see you killed in the arena.”

“I… Thank you, Poseidon.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

The night before you must return to Themyscira, you curl up in Jason’s reading chair and open each letter in the order you received them. They start cordial and friendly, offering thanks for your assistance. Slowly, they become more personal—a mention of how you ran your fingers along the flower petals outside Wayne Manor, admiration of your focus, a comment about how your smile shines brighter than the stars over Metropolis. By the final letter, Jason has put words to his feelings: he loves you.

Jason Todd loves you.

Jason Todd, the man you love, has expressed his feelings, has used his most-admirable courage to say the words you’ve attempted to ignore.

Jason Todd loves you, too. And that’s why you choose to lie to him.

“It’s just a trip to Themyscira for a few days,” you tell Jason the next morning. “There are a few things I need to tend to.”

Jason nods, twisting the end of your linen belt around his thick, calloused fingers. He uses it to tug you closer. “When will you be back?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“But you’re coming back?”

The question and the doubt in his voice make you pause. You have already lied to him once. Unsure of how much more your heart can take, you spread your hands over his chest.

“I plan to,” you answer honestly. “I will do all I can to return to you quickly, Jason.”

Jason nods, his eyes not quite reaching yours. His hand rises to your shoulder, his thumb pushing beneath your collar to trace the scar you got protecting him. It’s only one of many — but it’s the only one he can see, feel, look to for a reminder that you’re still here with him. You draw a careful line over a mirror scar on his chest, one of many earned in battles you were not present for.

Looking at the box of letters on his coffee table, you drop your forehead to Jason’s shoulder. “Keep those safe for me?” you request. “I’d like to read them again when I return.” What you mean is, I want to remember all of this, but I can't miss any more. I want my life to be wholly intertwined with yours, I want to be yours.

“Of course,” Jason answers, holding you against him like it’s the last time your hearts will beat together. “You don’t have to say it back.”

“I have to say what I feel. But I want it to mean something. I need you to know that it isn’t a goodbye, that it’s not the end of us.”

Jason nods against your temple. “Be careful,” he pleads.

You straighten, smiling softly as you hold his jaw. “I will do everything in my power to come home to you, Jason.”

“Home?”

“Home.”

Jason smiles then, interlacing his fingers with yours to walk you to the door. He presses a kiss to your cheekbone and closes the door behind you. It’s what you asked for: a quick separation. The first tear falls to the carpet of his hallway, and though you don’t look back, Poseidon’s oceans would be jealous of the tears you spill for Jason Todd.

The gods are angrier than Poseidon led you to believe they would be — if such a thing is possible. Ares is infuriated at your role in ending a war, Athena has made it clear she feels betrayed by the loss of a strategic warrior, and Aphrodite remained quiet when you did not argue against the claim you fell in love with a mortal. Whatever comes next will be bad, so you stand at the base of Mt. Olympus and remain silent. You’d cry if you had more tears to shed, but you have emptied yourself for Jason Todd. It’s a sacrifice you would make over and over if it brought you back to his side.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Zeus demands.

“I would defy you for eternity for him,” you admit, clutching the same belt Jason held this morning like it’s a tether to his world, to him.

You can’t hear what Ares says over Zeus’s thunder.

“Where is she?” Red Hood demands.

Diana wipes under her eyes and leans away from the mirror. “You’re too much like Bruce,” she murmurs.

“I don’t have enough time to tell you how remarkably offensive that is,” Jason replies. “Where is she? She told me she was going to Themyscira, but you’re still here.”

“She went home, I presume. The gods gave her a limited time here.”

Jason stops pacing her hotel room and releases his helmet. “What?”

“The gods did not want her to visit the mortal world. When she finally convinced them, her trip was allowed with very specific limitations.”

“She spent her limited time on me?” Jason clarifies. “Why would she do that? Why didn’t she tell me? I wouldn’t have let her do that.”

“That’s why she didn’t tell you,” Diana points out. “She’ll answer for her time here, all she did… who she did it with.”

The letters, the shared moments, the stolen touches. Jason’s voice breaks when he asks, “What are they going to do to her?”

Diana stands, shaking her head. “They may send her to the arena,” she answers. “They- they may do worse.”

“You’re going to let that happen?!” Jason demands, extending an accusatory arm. “Diana, she’s your friend!”

Diana raises her hand and presses into Jason’s shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do, Jason.”

Jason. Not warrior or Red Hood. Jason. The man you saw even through the helmet and the emotional mask he clings so tightly to.

“There’s something I can do,” he argues, stepping away from Diana’s hand. “And I will do whatever it takes.”

“Even fighting the gods?” Diana challenges. “Jason-”

“I love her,” Jason interrupts. “I’m not letting her be punished for that.”

She nods and reaches for her lasso. “You’ll need help, then.”

The gold chains holding your arms above your head dig into your wrists when your legs give out. Your weight hangs as your breath catches. Blood leaks into your mouth from your injured nose, but you can’t find the strength to spit it out.

“All your training to fight and you chose to keep a fight from occurring,” Ares seethes. “Pathetic.”

He swings a weapon, and you can’t tell if it’s one of Hephaestus’s before it makes impact with your side. You cry out, but it doesn’t change anything. Zeus watches you, his eyes darker than storm clouds.

An unexpected mist sprinkles down on you, comforting with its stark coolness. Poseidon isn’t in view of your non-swollen eye; still, he must be close. A moment later, the blood is rinsed from your face.

“What did you do after you ended the drug war?” Athena asks.

“I stayed with Jason,” you admit.

Zeus stands from his seat. Poseidon is standing behind him, you realize then. The god of the sea has his head inclined toward the mortal shores. He shoots you an apologetic look, settles a continuing mist over you, then leaves Olympus.

You nod before your chin is clutched in Zeus’s hand. “Answer,” he demands.

Jason is in crystal clear waters, carefully guiding his boat according to Diana’s map, when he hears your voice. Hera was the one to warn him about the sirens blocking the passages between the worlds. He pushes the beeswax she provided deeper into his ears, blocking out the one voice he wishes to hear most.

When he turns toward the port of the vessel, he sees her. She has disguised herself to look like you, but it’s not quite right. The eyes aren’t the same captivating shade, and her smile doesn’t bare her heart like yours does.

“Swim with me,” she says, though Jason has to read her lips to decipher it.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “You know I can’t swim.”

“I’ll help you float,” she insists.

“μέλι, I don’t know.”

“We’ll have fun!”

“We? What do I get from this, then?”

She tips her head to think of what she can offer. “Ask any question!”

Jason takes the opportunity, not hesitating to ask, “How do I get to Mt. Olympus?”

The moment she finishes answering, Jason lifts the crossbow Roy lent him and fires into the water. He’ll leave a trail of blood across the threshold of the mortal and god worlds if that’s what it takes to find you. Before he plunges his oar back into the sea, a wave pushes his boat off course.

“You conned a siren,” a deep voice booms as the waves continue.

Jason braces himself against the sides of the boat. “She was trying to kill me,” he points out through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t mean to sound unimpressed.”

The sea calms in a heartbeat, and Jason sees the man in the water.

“You must be Jason Todd,” he says.

“Depends,” Jason replies. He clutches the crossbow, keeping it lowered behind the ship’s boards. He’ll fight his way into a watery grave before he lets anyone talk him out of finishing the journey he has begun.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” the man says. The waves rise around him, raising him so he can step onto Jason’s boat. “I’m Poseidon. And I believe we are planning to save the same goddess.”

“Why would you go against the other gods?” Jason asks, releasing his weapon. “I mean, they’re going to hurt her, and-”

“They already are,” Poseidon interrupts. “We don’t have time to talk about why I have chosen to disagree with my brother again. Do you think you can trust someone, this one time?”

“What am I up against?”

“A handful of gods. Nothing someone like you can’t handle.”

“A handful of gods sounds exactly like something I can’t handle,” Jason argues, incredulous as he drops the bow.

“Then you’re not as courageous or as smart as she made you out to be,” Poseidon muses. “If she believes in you, why do you refuse to believe in yourself?”

Jason looks out at the sea, the clouds of Mt. Olympus beginning to shimmer at the horizon. “Help me get there,” he requests. “Please.”

“We need a plan for when we get there.” Poseidon inclines his ear toward the storm forming in the distance. “She’s alright for now, but Ares and Zeus won’t back down simply because you come for her.”

“Tell me what to do,” Jason pleads. “I’ll do anything.”

Poseidon’s eyes harden. “She’s already risking her life for you. Will you do the same for her?”

Jason’s answer comes quickly. “I will die for her.”

“It’s a start,” the god of the sea grumbles, calling up a wave.

“You used no weapons,” Hephaestus booms.

Ares steps into view, his jaw tensed. “Explain yourself!” he demands.

You flinch when he screams. Poseidon’s mist stopped cooling you soon after he left, and the cold water can’t numb you deep enough to eradicate the pain the gods are inflicting upon you.

“You did this yourself,” Zeus reminds you.

Swallowing, you keep your eyes closed. Every word that you utter, any truth you could offer, will only increase their anger.

“You claimed you wished to mentor a warrior,” Athena hums. “Why did you decide to break the very thing that made the mortal worthy of his title?”

“Because he’s more than a warrior,” you whisper. “If all you can see is how well someone can fight, perhaps that is why so many of your warriors have perished in battle.”

The arena fades before you feel the impact of Athena’s swinging weapon. Memories of Jason Todd’s voice fill your mind, but even unconscious, you know he’s not here. You’re bruised, broken, but you made a promise. A promise to fight, a promise to do all you can to get home to Jason.

“I will not apologize for reminding Jason that he’s worthy of love without his armor,” you say wearily, sending tears over your cheeks with each blink. “And if you think you’ve lost a warrior, you’re wrong. Because he gave me something to fight for. Something none of you could ever do.”

Jason Todd, who considers himself well-read and relatively smart, vastly underestimated the grandeur of the arena at Mt. Olympus. He slides on the fine sand when he rushes in, shocked and slightly disoriented. Though the architecture and the open sky above vie for his attention, it’s you that draws him in.

He gave me something to fight for, you argue. Jason can tell from your voice and the curve of your back that you’re tired, weak, and injured. Even before he sees the blood on you, he knows that you’re not the same goddess he said goodbye to in Gotham. You’ve expended your strength; it’s time to rely on his. You’d do the same for him, but even if you hadn’t shown him that already, he’d dedicate his entire being to you.

Steeling himself, Jason clutches the weapon Poseidon shoved into his hand before they arrived. “And she’s not fighting alone!” he calls.

The gods and goddesses turn toward him, thunder shaking the arena. You turn too, wide-eyed at the sight of him.

“Is he actually here?” you murmur to no one in particular.

Jason uses the move you taught him before he fought Bane — the double spin that allows someone to move nearly undetected, even when being watched closely. He lands behind you with a muted thump, looking up at the golden chains restraining you.

You take a shuddering breath when Jason lifts you, taking your weight from your wrists.

“Ready to fight one more time, goddess?” he whispers against your shoulder.

“With you? Always,” you reply. “And remind me to thank Poseidon.”

“I’m already indebted to him.”

“Yeah, that’s not true.”

Jason doesn’t have time to ask what you mean by that. Ares throws a spear that shatters the chains, sending your weight into Jason’s arms. He doesn’t falter, just sets you at his side, keeping a hand extended toward you until he’s sure you’re steady.

“Goddess and man,” you murmur, bracing yourself when Athena steps forward.

“Bestest of friends,” Jason finishes, spinning Poseidon’s weapon before he lunges toward Ares.

Zeus steps back, watching you and Jason fight together. When you’re blindsided by one of Athena’s moves, Jason takes your place, allowing you to utilize Athena’s strategies against Ares. You fight well together; better than you ever did with Athena, Ares, Hephaestus, or even Zeus himself.

“Shall I intervene?” Hephaestus asks, reaching for his warhammer.

“No,” Zeus answers. His thunder rumbles so powerfully that you drop your hands to the ground to steady yourself. “Enough!” he calls, stepping forward. “Ceasefire.”

“But, Father,” Ares begins.

“You have not lost a warrior,” Zeus points out. He gestures toward Jason, and adds, “He nearly beat you.”

“I felt like I was doing pretty well too,” you grumble, taking Jason’s hand before he wraps an arm around your waist to hold you up.

Zeus glances over his shoulder, summoning two others without a word. You sigh when you see Hermes, but the appearance of a third silhouette makes you smile.

“Hi,” you greet. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Poseidon asks.

“Not watching me get beat up. That would’ve been super embarrassing.”

Poseidon rolls his eyes, but when you meet his gaze, he nods once.

“Dahling, you look terrible!” Hermes frets, walking in circles around you and Jason.

“Hermes, move,” Asclepius requests. “I need to see her wounds to treat them.”

“Then look!”

You close your eyes and lean against Jason, ignoring the bickering and soft apologies around you. All that matters now is the mortal beside you, how his hand rubs comforting circles along your back, and the debate that is to come. You finally have a home to return to, no matter what it costs.

Jason is engaged in a very animated conversation with Athena and Aphrodite when you find Poseidon staring out of a window.

“Why’d you do it?” you inquire from his side.

“What?” he asks, glancing at you quickly.

“You’ve done more than I can list… Why am I worth it? Really. Of all the goddesses you could show favor to, why me? Even when Athena was growing ever-closer to the Greek, you chose to-”

“You threaten to wipe out Ithaca ONE TIME!” Poseidon exclaims. “Yes, I had issues with that mortal. You are not a mortal, and you have potential they refuse to see.”

Softening, you wonder, “How did you see it?”

Poseidon turns toward you, trident in hand. “Because I cared enough to look. You… You carry a fire within you that Olympus had not seen in far too long. If willing you the opportunity to fan that flame is favoritism, so be it.”

You nod, watching as he turns toward the window again. “You love me so much,” you taunt, tugging his sleeve. “You’re a big, soft, seahorse of a god.”

“Get off me, gnat,” he hisses. “Go save your boyfriend.”

“From what?” you ask, laughing.

“Athena and Aphrodite.”

You stop laughing immediately. Running toward Jason, you hear Aphrodite offering advice while Athena provides a fitting threat for each love-related topic.

“Whoa, whoa, that’s enough,” you interrupt, catching yourself on Jason’s shoulder. “Leave him alone.”

“He needs to know what is at stake now,” Athena argues.

Jason is staring at the ground, his ears pink and his nose scrunched. Still, he takes your hand.

“Now?” you repeat.

Zeus lays a hand on your back, covering your shoulder and Jason’s. “You’ve proven more than we could ask,” he explains. “You are free to travel to the mortal world as you please.”

At that, Jason looks up.

“What?” he whispers to you, ignoring the growing crowd around you.

“Ooh, ooh, Dahling!” Hermes calls, pushing through to reach you. “I have a letter for you.”

The familiar envelope is ripped out of his hand by Jason. “I didn’t ask for this to be delivered,” he argues.

“You didn’t have to,” Hermes explains. “I know these things.”

Interlacing your fingers with Jason’s, you urge, “Let’s go home.”

There’s a letter on Jason’s pillow when he gets out of the shower. Olympus has better stationary than the craft store in Gotham, he finds. The admission inside is just long enough to be descriptive and specific without being meaningless. Your handwriting is a representation of you; intriguing, unique, bright, and filled with love and purpose. Jason has the letter memorized by the time you knock to check on him.

“Oh,” you say, realizing what has kept his attention for so long. “Is… Is that okay?”

Jason looks up, his eyes glassy and his lips pressed together. He reaches out, takes your hand, and pulls you forward to stand between his legs. Looking up at you, holding your hips, like a man at the altar, he begs, “Say it.”

You brush your fingers through Jason’s hair and smile. “I love you,” you say. “I love you, κόκκινος. I love you, Jason Todd. I love you, my warrior.”

Jason exhales, then pushes his face into your stomach. He speaks into your skin, his words indiscernible but the weight of them grounding as he clings to you. You don’t hesitate to kiss him when he raises his chin.

“Come with me,” he requests, his hands wandering your sides as you move together. “Forever.”

“Less talking,” you encourage against his lips, tangling your fingers in his hair.

There are far more people in Wayne manor than it looked like there were through the window. Hiding behind Jason, you elect not to admit that you watched these people speak to Diana a few months ago.

“You’re okay,” Jason promises over his shoulder, clutching your hand in his. “They’re annoying, not intimidating.”

“So many voices,” you murmur, pressing your chest to his back.

“Well, you know the thing about mortals?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s more to life than saving him. You can get to know them, too.”

“No, you’re way too cool for Jason,” Dick decides, talking around a mouthful of Alfred’s souffle.

“Yeah, he’s pretty boring,” Tim agrees. “If you want adventure, he’s not really your guy.”

“I got enough adventure on Mt. Olympus,” you murmur, looking at the desserts spread across the table. You only look up when no one comments on your reply, then draw your shoulders up when you see you’ve made yourself the center of attention once more.

“Stop staring,” Jason barks. “Did Alfred teach you all nothing?”

“Ο φίλος σου είναι ένας ηλίθιος,” Damian mumbles. (<Your friend is an idiot.>)

“Μιλάω ελληνικά!” Jason responds. “And I’m not an imbecile, demon brat.” (<I speak Greek!>)

You meet Damian’s eyes and smile. “Τον αγαπώ όπως το φεγγάρι αγαπά τον ήλιο, ικανοποιημένος που περνάω τις μέρες μου αντανακλώντας το φως του, ώστε ο κόσμος να μην ξεχάσει ποτέ τις θυσίες του.” (<I love him like the moon loves the sun, content to spend my days reflecting his light so that the world will never forget his sacrifices.>)

Jason doesn’t comment on his ability to speak Greek again, nor does he let his brothers see how much your confession affects him. He takes your hand and drags you out of the dining room, carrying his plate — piled high with what you enjoyed — with him. Bruce watches you go with a smile, making a mental note to thank Diana the next time they see one another. Maybe he can do something for you and Jason too, start working on showing Jason that he’s still his son, cherished and loved.

“I love you,” Jason promises in the privacy of his room.

“I love you,” you remind him. “Enough to stay here with you, to align my forever with yours, because a lifetime without you would be no life at all.”

Jason kisses you because it’s easy. Easy to show his feelings for you, easy to exist in the same space, the same air, and easier than telling you that Zeus offered him immortality to fight at your side, to bring peace through love rather than war.

A week after you return to Gotham, you and Jason sit on the coast of the Gotham Harbor, your head on his shoulder and your hands joined.

“He’s going to think we’re rubbing it in his face,” Jason points out.

“I am Poseidon’s biggest soft spot,” you point out. “He’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think he likes me.”

“He does. He wouldn’t have given you a weapon if he didn’t.”

“What did you mean back there?” Jason asks. “When you said I wasn’t indebted to him.”

“She meant there was no debt owed because I would have saved her myself had you been too cowardly to,” Poseidon answers for you, suddenly looming over you, dripping salt water onto your legs.

“Good to see you, too,” you deadpan. “You remember Jason.”

“Yes, the man,” Poseidon grumbles. “Your bestest friend.”

You narrow your eyes at Jason, who shrugs and says, “Aphrodite asked. She’s hard to lie to.”

You shrug in understanding.

“I’ll take care of her,” Jason promises Poseidon.

“Why? Because you love her or because she loves you?” he challenges.

“Why can’t it be both? I give her all the love I can conjure, and when I can’t love me, she’s here to carry the weight, pouring into me, too.”

Poseidon grimaces, mumbles, “If you need anything…” and disappears again.

“Is he always like that?” Jason asks, wiping the drops of water from your legs.

“You get used to him,” you answer.

“No, I won’t.”

Smiling, you lean against Jason. He kisses you before you can say that you love him. Everything you do, everything you are shows it. When the mortal beside you first joked that you’d become the bestest of friends, you didn’t allow yourself to dream that the result of your time in his world would be that fantastic. Instead, you found a future, you found love. And his name is Jason Todd.

it was grand inside, he thought. he couldn't see very well thanks to the darkness brought on by the rains, but from what he could see it must have been a place of high regard in its peak.

he lit a torch, carrying it as he continued on into the structure. he determined it had been a church in its old days, long forgotten due to.. well he didn't figure that part out yet.

he bumped into a object that resembled a bench, besides the old candle wax, fresh leaves, and golden statutes he saw littering it. he made a mental note to take those with him as he organized his things onto the bench.

he laid his wine down first, a treat he'd enjoy on the way back to his kingdom. next, he laid down his clothes he planned to change into. though he was a barbarian, and by nature they did not wear many clothes, katsuki knew the trip would require such clothing, so he brought the best.

his next item was the huge hog he'd caught earlier. he lugged it on to the bench-like object, thinking of how it was a perfect spot to gut and prepare it for his meal later on. speaking of his cooking, he made sure to bring only the finest oils to cook in. he set it down next to the hog, satisfied with his array of items, he'd slumped against the bench, closed his eyes and sighed.

when he opened it again, he saw the shadow of a person moving behind him. alarmed, he readied his other weapon he always kept on his side, his blade welded by his mother.

though, his blade was dropped out of his hand at the sight. his jaw went slack, eyes wide, and the sudden urge to worship overcame him as he finally saw who was behind him.

a gorgeous.. deity? who glowed with an luminous essence, who adorned pointed ears, heavy amounts of gold, a silk dress that encapsulated your body, and an unreadable expression as you sifted through his items.

the ability to speak was taken from him, he felt as if he was at your mercy, and he was. he was on his knees before he could process it.

your hands glided through the items he had placed on the bench, after you finished looking through the group, you finally spared him a glance.

"your gifts are of high value," you spoke, your voice royal, with an unimaginable presence. "i'm not as powerful as i used to be, my temple and followers were lost to time, my memory faded from the minds of the new." you sauntered over to him now, becoming eye-level with him.

he'd never felt so unworthy.

"i have not much i can give you or do for you, so what would you like from me?"

his ability to speak finalky returned, his mind though, remained blank, so he answered with the only thing on his blank mind:

"your hand."

he immediately rescinded back, never feeling so unnerved and unknowing as he did in this moment. "i- it was an unreasonable request! you-- it's beneath y-"

"that's acceptable. i will go with you, barbarian."

he was shocked as you accepted, though he wouldn't dare question your judgement. "katsuki." he blurted out. "please call me katsuki."

"i will marry you, if it's what you desire katsuki."

his eyes shot open. "yes. i-- it's what i'd like."

"you may call me [name] then." he clutched his heart, he wasn't sure if he was dreaming, but if he was he'd never want it to end.

"alright.. [name]." you smiled at the hesitance in his voice, and waved his worries off with a smile.

"shall we head out then?"

"we can't, the weather is horrible."

"what weather? it's sunny as normal." surely enough, as he turned around the weather had returned to a calm, warm day. the harsh winds and rains no longer present, replaced by the mundane weather.

"i-- i suppose you're correct." he gathered his supplies, even getting your permission to take the things he had on your alter, as he learned it was, back with you two. he slung his satchel behind his back and turned to you.

you held out your hand, and after he placed a chaste kiss on it, he carried you in his arms. the journey back was a blur to him, the burning in his feet nonexistent as he focused on the feeling of his skin on yours, the feeling of his hands on your body.

you arrived sooner then expected. internally, katsuki was excited. not only did he manage to revitalize a goddess, but he'd marry her. he was ecstatic not only at the prospect of beating this into the elders' faces, but to be yours for his eternity.

as he burst back into the conference room, the elders were shocked to see him back so soon. the smug expressions they would've gotten were wiped off the second they noticed you in his arms.

even they, from their distance at their cabinets, could sense the raw presence you had.

"prince bakugo, what is the meaning of this?"

"i've brought to you undeserving folks my wife."

the table of elders all collectively choked at the revelation. "wife? but we've yet to go through the proper trails and period of compatibility. that woman isn't even a barbarian."

"you're right, she's above all of you. she's a deity, and i've earned her hand in marriage. i want my wedding planned for next week, make it fit for a god."

"a deity you say?" the elder's felt like their eyes were about to burst out their sockets. "but--"

they heard nothing as he walked away from the room, you still in his arms. as you eyed the new, strange innovations and buildings around you, katsuki clutched you closer to his chest.

he set you onto a bed, the feeling of silk under your hands one that was foreign, as you hadn't been awakened for over a century.

he knelt in front of you, taking off one of his necklaces, and wordlessly asking for permission to set it on you.

you didn't know this, but this was sacred to the barbarians, presenting one's necklace to another was like talking a piece of your soul and entrusting them with it.

he looked at the sight of you, his ruby necklace with the teeth of the beasts he slayed contrasting severely to the gold you adorned, and he smiled.

you felt your heart go into a knot at the sight of him, he held your hand as he suddenly made a vow to you.

"i vow to be your greatest worshipper. even if i am not the last, i will set a standard that will long exceed my lifespan.

for you are my wife now, and i'll cherish you as long as i may live."

you smiled softly, reaching out to him to hold his other hand. "you've already become my most interesting worshipper, that i'm certain of."

as the two of you basked in each others presence, other gods were smiling upon you two as well.

unbeknownst to you, zeus, a god who had favored you since your birth, had set off the storm on bakugo, leading him to your alter.

not like it was what you were pondering at the moment anyway, as you caressed and embraced your soon to be husband, who you were already planning to turn into a god alongside you.

Your husband drove you mad. He irked you terribly. How could he sit there acting like everything was alright, when you were one problem away from bursting at the seams? He was a boulder, stable and calm and all things unfortunately comforting while you were utter volatility.

You had long learned to tune out whatever tales were told in the tea house. Some of them you could stand; silly little inaccuracies that you paid no mind. After all, what caused little harm was not worth fussing over. However, the moment anyone spoke the words Chenyu Vale and particularly when paired with the word goddess, you knew no good would come from listening. It would only drive you mad- haunting you with the reality of what was and what is now, and how desperately out of place you felt in this new world. 

And this man, this terribly bothersome, ridiculous man that you reluctantly called husband, he would only sit there, listening on with a soft, almost amused smile on his lips as though they were not in the process of tarnishing your history. In the process of rewriting your story. 

The thing that bothered you most though, was how encouraging he became once aware of your displeasure. Every single time he would speak so softly, calming you against your best efforts and reminding you that if you wished to voice your truth, he would be right there to support you. 

How terribly it confused you. He was lovely. He was every bit as lovely as when you remembered him from millennia ago, long before any major conflicts, when you were simply two beings too foolish to admit to the love you held for one another. 

And at the same time, he was still the man who you were bound to now, still the god who had betrayed you. He was both your salvation and your misfortune.

How could you indulge in his love when the look of his face alone reminded you of just how greatly you resented him?

“Zhongli…” His name slipped from your lips, not his real one, just the one he used in daylight. It suited him, this persona that he had taken up, and to your annoyance, you did not mind the way it felt to say it. 

His eyes were on you in an instant, their soft, golden hue made you feel conflictingly comforted and too exposed all the same. 

He always looked at you like that- soft and intimate, like he was regarding something precious, like to him, you could do no wrong. There was a time when that look of his felt like the purest thing in Teyvat to you. Nowadays, it tends to make your heart ache with bitterness more often than it did not.

“I wish to go…” Your voice was nothing more than a quiet utterance, making you seem so very small for what you truly were. 

Then again, had this not always been your demeanor? Meek. Much too weak to have ever been of any real use to your people. Much too insignificant to protect the territory you once called your home, especially from him.

You had never been a match when it came to Morax’s raw strength.

He answered you with a contemplative hum, a decisive nod that was all too telling that he intended to indulge you. His eyes drifted over you, almost analytical in his exploration. They ended on your hands, clasped together just a little too tightly on the table, your untouched mug not too far. He tilted his head in its direction.

“You have yet to finish your tea, dearest.” He commented, voice silky and warm. You had to remind yourself that it wasn't a challenge. Rarely ever did he disagree with you. Perhaps, in the past, he was more willing to hold open discourse with you; his respect for you had never wavered, and your opinion was one he had held in high regard. If he felt the same in the present day, you did not know. 

He acted docile around you now. He had always been calm, always reasonable, but now only more so. You had become rather easy to upset after waking from your near eternal slumber, and he had no wish to become the subject of your ire. 

Though, when it did happen, he took it with a grace and patience that left you feeling disoriented.

“It's gone cold.” The hazy steam that emitted from your cup called you a liar in every language you knew, and even if it had not, you had never been the type to waste food or drink over something so minimal. 

Zhongli made no attempt to dissect your dismissal, though he acknowledged you with a low hum that told you he did not believe a word you spoke. He had given you an opening to speak, and you had very clearly refused. He would not push you further.

“Then we will depart.” He agreed. 

He took another slow sip of his tea, before standing and pushing his chair in. He took a moment to adjust his waistcoat- not that he needed to, he was always frustratingly put together. Once he was satisfied, his focus was you once again, and he held out a gloved hand to you, always a gentleman. You stared at his outstretched palm for a moment, pursing your lips just enough that it was perceptible to him. You were in a mood, you're sure he would note privately. 

When you did finally accept his hand, he lifted you from your chair with the grace and ease of a man who had done so countless times before. He leaned in closer to you, lightly bending at the hips just enough to press his face next to yours.

“Are you all set then, my dear?” His breath was warm against your ear, and you had to hold in an unsteady exhale of breath. What was more than likely meant to be a comforting gesture, felt almost intoxicating in your head. It only fueled your frustration with him, and all too unfortunately, brought out that deep rooted ache you still felt for him after all this time.

You nodded mutely, your jaw almost tight in the way it clenched. He hummed in acknowledgement, though he did not move. His eyes remained fixed on you, observing you much longer than you would have liked, as though he saw right through you. 

He probably did. 

Morax had rarely had any issues reading you in all the time that you had known him. There had been many occasions when he had been entirely capable of deciphering your very thoughts before you had even spoken them into existence. In this mortal form as Zhongli, he seemed much inclined to do the same.

He offered his arm to you, and you accepted with little reluctance. It was routine now. He guided you towards the entrance of the tea house, and the hostess bid farewell to you both. Until next time, she would say, without a doubt within her mind that she would see you two once more within the week. 

Zhongli brought you here often, and it was to your knowledge that he also made a habit of coming on occasion during his lunch break.

The walk back to your home- his home, was silent. He made some idle comments about the weather, how the ports seemed almost livelier this time of year, and even about the more vivid details the story teller had chosen to include that particular afternoon. His perceptiveness to your discomfort did not waver however, and for the most part, he seemed rather content to remain silent by your side.

The clink of the doorknob’s inner workings was only faintly audible when Zhongli opened the front door, allowing you to enter first. You had been living with him for the better part of a month now, living, existing, being known as his wife. You were well acquainted with the intimate space that was the home he occupied as Zhongli. 

It was now yours too. At least, that is what he told you, and what you were sure he meant with utmost sincerity.

His space was moderately agreeable to you. The interior was sleek, but classic, and he had no trouble keeping a tidy space. In those regards, your tastes were similar. Where you two agreed in design ended there, however.

The dark brown walls felt all too constricting to you. In another time, these features that screamed of his presence would have felt comforting. For you, he had always strived to be the most excellent host, and such elements were reminiscent of fonder times. 

Now that you were already on edge, already feeling the haziness that came with your weeping heart, you could not help but to yearn for the billowing hills of your home land. 

You slid your shoes off unceremoniously by the door, and crept into the open space of the foyer with a rigidness that could not go unnoticed. Your mind was eating away at your own sanity, little by little, and it showed.

You paused, freezing in place as though your veins extended into the ground. But instead of sensing the rhythm of life beating in sync with your heart as you did in Chenyu Vale, you felt cut off. Utterly stranded from stability and much too vulnerable. 

His eyes were on your back, and he did not follow you inside- not right away. He stood in the open door frame, his arms crossed and his expression much less serene than it had been earlier in the afternoon. Not that you could see him, you knew if you turned to look at him, effectively blocking the front door, you would only feel trapped. 

Like prey. Like you were being hunted. 

Again. 

He spoke your name in a low tone. Not the one you used now, as this fake mortal woman you pretended to be. Not any one of the multitude of titles you had accumulated throughout the years either. He spoke your true name, one only he was still living to utter, one that you yourself had almost forgotten. 

You could not breathe. Not when he said that. Not when he spoke to you like that.

“Are we going to discuss this?” 

Even in his seriousness, he was not unkind. You almost wished he would be. Surely it would make hating him all the more easier if he were cruel to you. He did not grant you such mercies. 

You only managed a meek sound in reply. One that acknowledged him, but refused to actually provide him with any answer.

He hummed audibly, a disapproving, though not scolding sound. The front door clicked shut, and his footsteps were intentionally loud enough to signal that he was approaching you. It was a purposeful choice. 

Had he wished to startle you, he would have had no trouble sneaking up on you. At least, that was the case when it came to sound. At this point, your souls were much too intertwined to allow the presence of either one of you to remain subtle. 

Though, if he truly wished to disguise his aura from your senses, you imagined that with enough effort, Morax would certainly be capable of finding a way to do so.

“You seemed to be fine just this morning. Had I known you were feeling unwell, I would not have suggested going out. Tell me, is it something I have done?” His voice was as smooth and silky as it had always been. So calm, while you felt like you were slowly falling apart in front of him. Those who did not know him so intimately might mistake him to be unfeeling due to his somewhat private demeanor- you knew this to be starkly false. 

Though composed to a fault, he was a man who felt and thought deeply. Thousands of years of companionship made it entirely impossible for you to ignore the care behind his words and actions. Morax was a being of intent, and so what he spoke and what he did were never without meaning.

You exhaled slowly, trying to take control over the panic that was threatening to overwhelm you. The greater part of you wished to sob and shake and let yourself crumble to the floor in a pathetic blob of fabric. But you could not. You could not stand to appear weak in front of him. Not after everything that had happened.

“It merely comes and goes…” You managed to mumble aloud. 

He was still a respectable distance from you, giving you room to flee if you felt the need, but that was something your pride could not handle. Even a distance from you, his presence felt overbearing. It weighed down on you, and still, you could not think of anyone that might bring you comfort but him.

Morax was all too aware of the disdain you held for him. You had not been shy in voicing your frustrations, and for his part, he had encouraged you to be expressive. He was patient with you. He always would be, or so he claimed.    

He took a step closer to you, though he still did not touch, like he was afraid that your skin might burn him. Or perhaps more accurately, he feared inversely that his own flesh might betray him and leave you scarred once more. 

“It comes and goes…” He echoed your words, not mockingly, but with a soft acceptance that could only come from a man who had long since learned to live in companionship with his grief. 

Fortunately he was still behind you when he uttered those words, and your eyes- though they were privy to many facets of his being that others were not- did not see the way he had to refrain himself from reaching out for you. 

He quietly exhaled, steadying himself for the consequences of this strange dynamic he held with you now.

“It is said that many centuries before the formation of proper human settlements, Rex Lapis formed a contract with the Jade Goddess of Chenyu Vale. Have you heard, dearest?” 

He carefully stepped around you, making himself visible in front of you, like one would for a wounded animal. 

Was that what he thought of you?

You did not miss the quiet reverence in the way that he murmured the beginnings of his tale, nor in the way he tilted his head as he watched you. 

He had always been subtle in his devotion. Zhongli, Rex Lapis, Morax, it was all the same. You had known him under dozens of names, and you shared an understanding under dozens more. Under each, his love was careful and calculated, present only in the ways he moved in the world, in the ways he moved around others. 

Why he punished you with the controlled intensity of his love now, you did not know.

A mute nod was all you gave him, enough to satisfy him in the knowledge that you heard him, that you were still present enough in your own mind to listen to him speak. You could not look at his face. Not now, not when you feared what you would see reflecting back towards you in his eyes. You kept your gaze squarely on his gloved hands, though even then, it was as if you were looking through them.

“The histories say that he promised her his hand in battle, in commerce, even extending to matters of the soul, and the heart. That is to say, that he would be there to ease her troubles, no matter what they would be.” 

You could not help the way your breath hitched when he spoke to you like that. It almost felt like it had been another life when he made you that promise. 

His hands had been warm then- pure gold yet still impossibly soft against your own in the ages where he did not keep them covered. 

You forced your eyes away from the black of his gloves. They had been yours then, now they were not. 

They had ceased to be yours long ago, on that fateful day when you had been forced to say goodbye to your Guizhong, and he had only let it happen.

No- don't think about that. You shouldn’t think about her, not when you were already feeling like this. It would only give you more reason to fear, to resent, to hate.

His silence was deafening. Had he been waiting for you to answer? The way he began to speak your name said otherwise, or perhaps he had simply grown tired of the way you had grown hollow-

“Surely, you recall the condition placed on this contract?” 

Finally, you found it in you to meet his gaze. The way he looked at you made your heart ache. Furrowed brows and the most troubled eyes graced his handsome features, because for some reason, this all-knowing god found your devastation vexing, a heavy burden on his soul when it should have been nothing more than minor inconvenience.

Again, you nodded, though this time you did not part your eyes from his. 

Of course you remembered your agreement. So ancient, and yet, you remembered every word that had been spoken. Every promise, every vow. It had meant something to you then- you were almost willing to admit that it meant something to you now. 

Almost. 

Instead, you answered before he felt the need to remind you further.

“She would come to him no matter how small the need…” 

You did not miss the way he seemed to relax when you spoke, no matter how subtle it may have been. A sharp inhale made its way through your chest, and his eyes followed the movement, unable to do anything less than examine you in full. He had always been good at that, seeing the full picture that was you, and simultaneously cataloging every little detail that even you yourself sometimes missed.

“Yes.” He agreed quietly, the word uttered with the simplest sincerity. 

You could almost hear his unspoken voice through your held gaze- Come to me. I am here. Ask anything of me, I wish for nothing more than I wish to see you at peace.

He took a step closer to you, lifting his left hand up to brush at the hair that framed your face. He was very careful about the way that he touched you; light while still being firm enough to be grounding, lingering simply for the fact that he wished to. 

The feel of the cold of his gloves against your skin momentarily shocked you, and you blinked slowly in response. When his hand trailed lower and he gently grazed the back of his knuckles against your cheek, you broke.

“I did not ask anything of you.” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from wobbling. Your words were both an attempt at defensiveness, and a biteless accusation. 

If you had been able to tell him that you did not need him, you would have. Instead, you closed your eyes and willed yourself not to cry. Doing so at your age- after everything that you had witnessed in your long life, it would only feel embarrassing, unbefitting of someone of your status.

“You do not need to.” He pulled you in- not forcefully, he would never guide you with anything resembling brutishness- or so he claimed-  and you allowed yourself to lull your head into him. 

It was almost troubling to you how easily you had abandoned your resolve simply because the promise of his comfort compelled you so. After all this time, his silky voice was still a soothing balm to your weary mind, and his firm embrace was still stabling and warming to your hurting heart. 

It made you more of a traitor than even he was.

His heart beat was steady and calm against you, not a single flicker off beat, like the erratic pattern you were sure could be heard from your own. You briefly wondered if there had ever been a time when his heart rate hadn’t been constant- a silly thought. 

If it were not for the fact that he seemed to draw towards you so easily, you could have believed that he was all machine.

Perfectly powerful, unstoppable in his path- that is what he had been when he had broken past the defensive barrier that you had placed along the border of your territory. That is what he had been when he had come hunting for you.

You inhaled sharply, taking in the scent that was uniquely his. Earthy, like the grass in the morning after it had rained, mixed with a hint of the tea the two of you kept brewing throughout the day in your shared home. To your misery- and delight- he also smelled like you. You were certain you reeked of him, too. For someone you so dearly wished to hate, you two spent an awful lot of time pressed against one another in the darkness of night (and occasionally, extending into the light of day as well).

You exhaled against his chest, and tilted your head up, resting your chin against the thick fabric of his waistcoat. He wasn’t looking at you. His head was pointed forward, his eyes closed shut. 

He looked serene, calm in a way that you had seen many times before. Usually it had been during hot summer afternoons, when the two of you had been sprawled out against the grass, napping against one another like there was no care in the world. Occasionally you would peek your eyes open to look at him, oftentimes he’d catch you, other times, Morax would already be observing you when you looked. Never had he found any shame in it. 

But that was then, back when he still had horns, and back when you were still draped in delicate silks. When you looked at him now, you hurt from the way you mourned what had once been.

It was only once you had made space between the two of you, that he peered his eyes open once more. He gazed lazily at you, the hand that he had twirled in your hair was looser now, less of a proper touch and more of a linger.

You stepped away from him entirely, and he released you without protest. You averted your eyes from him once again. Though you had seemingly been pacified, you were not yet ready to confront your heart.

“It comes and it goes.” The words were out once more, this time with a finality that could not be challenged. He watched you, longing, grieving. You did not look his way to confirm it. 

He nodded in reluctant understanding, resigned acceptance, reduced to nothing more than a man who loved his wife more than she would allow. More than she could accept.

You walked away before anything else could be said on the matter. Not that he would start again- for all you held against him, you could not say that he did not respect you- if you did not wish to speak, then the conversation would have to be held another time. Space and time were two luxuries that he had no problem gifting you. 

Rex Lapis had lived three-thousand years without you, under the impression that he would never reunite with the companion he once held dearest to his heart. Surely, Zhongli could spare a few hours if it meant he would have you for the rest of eternity.

Your husband did not disturb you for the rest of the afternoon. Presumably, he was off in his study, you did not bother to check. 

It began to rain some twenty minutes after you had walked away from Zhongli. It was the quiet type, slow and unassuming, though still melancholic in nature. You watched the pitter patter of drops against the kitchen window for some time- you weren’t exactly sure how long. 

Left alone with only the company of your thoughts, you could not help but to become lost in them.

The morning had not been kind to you, nor had you been kind to Zhongli. You had wanted him gone so desperately, and now that he was giving you the space you had wanted, you could not find peace in it.

He felt guilty for the way you acted around him. You could see it every time he looked at you, a certain sort of helplessness hidden in the irises of his eyes. You had thought you would find satisfaction in it. After all, the scorching heat of the domain he had left you in, the ache of your muscles from running and fighting, the betrayal you had felt when he turned on you, when he had stopped you from saving Guizhong…every bit of pain you had endured at his hands was ingrained in your mind.

But you had always been weak, had always felt too much love. Love for your people, for your land, for the mother that had cast you done from the heavens, for Morax too. 

You felt utterly bitter that you could not take joy in his torment. 

Watching him, as he was now, restrained, composed in his sadness, it only broke your heart further.

His hands were no longer yours, not to you, but that did not mean that you did not continue to care for them, that you did not love-

You blinked away your turbulent thoughts, aware once more that you were in his kitchen, in his home, unable to do anything to change your current position. You found yourself looking towards the glass door that led to the balcony where your little garden resided. 

Zhongli had started it for you, bringing you home a small, potted little thing, likely meant to ease your transition into his space- did he truly think he could buy your affections?- One had turned into two, two into three, and soon enough, his meager balcony had become your little haven.

You spent most of your time tending to it. Gardening in the mortal sense was much different from what you were used to, and so, you spent your time finding a balance between dirt and tools, and connecting with the roots- letting your dormant powers flow essence and life into your earthy companions.

Recording your observations had become a regular habit of yours. The smooth flow of scribbled ink against parchment was an easy transition into further writings. You had been attempting to archive your knowledge- recounting practices, traditions, and remedies that had long been forgotten. It was the only way you could think to be useful, stuck in Liyue Harbour, playing housewife to a much faker funeral consultant.

You would return to Chenyu Vale once you were stronger, once you were familiar enough with the new order of the world. This arrangement was temporary, you had promised yourself. 

The abyssal corruption that had long plagued the land in your absence had yet to be entirely squandered. You had contained it, yes, placing sigils in every corner that you could before you left- and Alatus had given you his word that he would monitor the land. Still, your people, if you could still call them that, could not prosper as you wished they would when you were not there. 

It was not as though any of them would have known the difference. After all, you had not governed the land since the Archon War, and very few still spoke of your existence, fewer still worshiped you.

Even so, if you could bless their soil, protect their villages and tend to their ill, all from a distance, you would do so without a second thought. 

In the meantime, you would continue to transcribe the ways of the old.

It did not take you long to set up. Your notebook laid open on the floor before you, the door cracked open just enough to let the cold in. The rain was not strong enough to do any real damage. At most, a few drops had  made their way into the house, seeping into the edges of your pages or onto the floor.

You wrote from that point until the sun began to set and it became increasingly difficult to see your own writing. You had carried over your work to the kitchen counter, placing it on the rectangular island, and occasionally jotting a thought or two down as you mulled over what to start for supper.

Meals had become something of a connection for you and Zhongli. Neither of you needed to eat to survive, and yet, without fail, three meals were made each day between both of you, and two of them were always shared together.

You had begun to mince your vegetables when you heard him. Morax made his way into the kitchen, coming to a stop at the counter. He let the island stand between the two of you, careful not to provoke, uncertain if the tension from earlier had subsided. 

You did not react. It came and it went, that resentment you held for him. The morning had been an emotional storm. Now, you were calm, and you were content to exist in his presence once more.

He watched you as you worked, cutting while a pot of water came to a boil on the stove. It was horrifically domestic, this scene that you shared with one another every evening. 

You could not call him out for his staring, you did the same when it was him working over the counter. He hummed in appreciation, allowing his gaze to fall to your open notebook.

“Might I take a look at your work, dear?” He murmured quietly as to not break the tranquility of the moment. You did not bother to look back at him, only humming to voice your acceptance. 

Morax reached for your notes, nothing but careful when he handled them. He observed your writings in quiet curiosity. He had always shown interest in the things that you wrote. Your teachings and philosophies had always had a place in every personal library that he had kept- you had found some when you were first exploring his home, kept in the most pristine condition. Folded between pages, he kept notes. Some of which were his own thoughts, others you had written for him.

You had refused to acknowledge the tug you felt in your heart at the thought that he had kept them all.

He chuckled warmly, prompting you to finally place the knife down and face him. Leaning back against the counter, you quietly observed him- the subtle, amused smile on his lips, the light twinkle in his eyes. Zhongli looked up to you once he had finished the passage, and you felt a warmth blossom through you at the way he appeared so very relaxed.

“‘Jueyun chilis and slime condensate for internal medicinal use’? What an intriguing combination.” He mused, repeating the title that you had so neatly scrawled at the top of the page. 

You huffed, and abandoned your cooking entirely to stroll around the island and to his side. You gently placed a hand on the back of his chair, and leaned in close to take a look at what he had been reading.

“You’re laughing now, but I distinctly recall this exact recipe proving useful once or twice.” You tutted, idly flipping the page. 

He hummed in acknowledgement, humour and agreement seeping out from it and settling as warmth in the little space that was between you.

“Oh yes, that’s right, isn’t it?” 

When you turned your head away from your notebook, and back to him, he was already looking at you. 

Traitorously, you enjoyed this- the peace that came when he was at ease before you. You thought he looked younger like this, with his hair loose, his gloves off, and an easy smile on his usually composed face. It was almost reminiscent of days long ago, back when he had been cockier, more expressive in his demeanor.

“A good portion of my troops had fallen ill that spring, hadn’t they? And you, my dearest, though you came to our aid, you couldn’t stand to stay with me for more than a day’s time.” 

It had been a while since you had seen a grin like that on his face. Morax was teasing you, you knew this. Privately, there was a part of you that took great enjoyment in it. Still, you could not help the sigh that escaped you.

“I had my own responsibilities.” The words slipped past your lips weakly defensive. You had spent the majority of the Archon War in Chenyu Vale, unwilling to leave your precious lands under the direction of others. 

Despite falling victim to his beckoning and calling more than you should have, you had insistently claimed neutrality, holding onto it with unyielding conviction- all the way up until the incident. And then you had closed your borders, mobilized your troops, and from that point everything had gone wrong. 

His own lips had relaxed into a lingering upturn, his eyes scanning over you, perhaps sensing that certain topics were still not yet up for discussion.

After all, Rex Lapis had three-thousand years to come to terms with what had occurred in those few fateful days. You had spent those same years in an endless void of scorching heat, unable to think of anything else until a few months ago, when you had broken the seal placed over you.   

“Of course…please do not mistake my complaints for anything other than an old fool’s greed for your companionship.” He spoke softer now, more intimate and sincere in a way that you had not been prepared for. Once more, you could only ask yourself why he was doing this to you- looking at you in a way that was utterly disarming.

And then the water began to boil over the pot, and you were shaken out of the privacy of your moment. You nibbled on your lower lip a moment, before sighing.

“I should…” He shook his head before you could finish your thought. Morax’s hand was wrapped loosely around your wrist- not restraining- only letting you know that leaving was unnecessary. He stood, trailing his hand up your arm, slow, reverent, until it settled over your bicep, rubbing lazy circles into your sleeve with his thumb.

“Allow me to finish what you have started.” You hated the way his murmured breath sounded, and you certainly hated the way he gazed into your eyes with a warmth that bordered on intimacy. The heat you felt pooling in your stomach, surely that was hatred… 

Then he did the unexpected, and leaned down, and stole your breath away. His lips were warm against your cheek, and infuriatingly only mere centimeters away from your lips- a fact you wished to strangle him for. This horrible, wicked man, he had the audacity to linger there when he was done with you, inhaling the smell of you with no care or shame in the world. 

Devil of a man…

You blinked slowly as you watched him walk away from you, the most ridiculous of smiles on his face. Oh how pleased he seemed to be with himself as he went about continuing supper preparations, contently humming an old tune to himself that you were sure you could name if you cared enough to bother.

“Mori-” Your husband did not bother to hide his laughter at the way you complained, spitting the old nickname out of your mouth.

“Yes, my sweet?” He only countered you with serene amusement, as if he did not know precisely why you were complaining, nor why you were so very quick to follow after him. 

You stopped beside him, watching the way his hands worked with precision. He was pestering you on purpose, and instead of giving him the response you knew he was trying to coax out of you, you pursed your lips, and reached out to take over.

“You made us breakfast, it is only fair that I manage the cooking now.” You argued, glancing up his way when he moved the tools in his hands just out of your reach. He hummed, almost a tut, and began his work once more. With nothing better to do, your arms fell limp to your sides.

“Am I not permitted to feed my spouse?” He countered, a quiet calm to him that rendered you silent. 

A part of you wished to argue with him, to pick at every little thing he said until he had no choice but to turn to face you, but you could not find anything to say in response to his words.

“You know well that I take great enjoyment in doing things for you, so I wish you would just allow me to do so.” Morax continued before you could. It was not fair to you for him to say such things. The sincerity in his voice only caused you to frown, your eyes flickered over his face. Still handsome, still serious, still yours… You paused in your string of thoughts.

Still yours? That wasn’t right…

“Why do you speak this way?” You finally settled on the light accusation, the words were uttered with a thinly veiled desperation that even managed to surprise you. You meant it- after all this time, after everything, he still spoke like everything between the two of you was real.

Was it?

There was a long pause after you spoke, as though perhaps you had managed to break not just yourself but him, too. Whatever moment of sweetness the two of you had just greedily basked in was now all but forgotten. 

You heard his inhale, watched the way his shoulders pulled back, mentally and physically preparing for whatever you intended to throw his way. Only this time, it was not solely resentment that fueled you, no. Rather, it was the accumulation of centuries and centuries of unspoken words, longing glances, and unacknowledged feelings that made this entire situation feel so very wrong to you.

“Would you rather that I not call you my wife? That I would not say that it pleases me to serve you? I have only spoken two truths, so tell me then dear, why does it trouble you?” The resignation that he spoke with hurt. It was almost firm, as if he had resolved to be with you despite how your current temperament affected him, as if it were difficult to live with you now. 

It probably was.

Morax turned to you, golden eyes filled with emotions that could only be some mashed mixture of pain, restraint, and longing. How terribly you wished you were incapable of reading them. His gaze bore into you- piercing and unyielding, reading into every little bit of you as if they were made to do nothing else.

“We are not truly husband and wife…” you muttered, casting your eyes to the floor. You could not look to confirm what your words did to him, but the rigid inhale that he took was enough to give you an idea. 

He surprised you with his agreement.

“You're right, the bond that we share transcends that of mortal terminology.” His earnestness struck you like a slap to the face in all the worst and best ways. 

This was his conviction, uttered with nothing more than the same simple honesty in which one would state the barest truths of this world.

You shifted your eyes back up, and his own were already there to meet them. What was it that you were meant to say to him, when the look he gave you was enough to strip him bare before you, and to demand that you do the same in turn? This moment that he offered you, it was vulnerability. You were not sure that you were ready to give the same to him. 

He reached out for you instinctively- his hand stopped just short of you, hesitating just a moment before finally allowing himself to touch you.

His warmth seeped through your clothes and onto your hip. He guided you closer; not demanding, but inviting, pleading, and his other hand came to meet your curves as well. You could do nothing but heed his call. Naturally, in such a position, your hands had nowhere else to go but the firm plains of his shoulders, your eyes falling shut as he leaned his head down to place his forehead against your own.

You allowed it, willingly let him comfort and regulate you both as you were so prone to do- as you so terribly despised yourself for.

“We have been companions for so long… How many promises have we made to one another? Shall we go through them, one by one? I have tried patience in hopes that it might help you, and really my dear, it does not seem to be working at all.” His breath was warm on your face as he whispered those hushed words to you.    

“Mori-” 

“What is it that you need from me?”

You shut your jaw. What were you to say to such a question? How many times would you have to question your own ability to speak throughout the evening?

You peeked your eyes open slowly, and goodness was he close. You'd felt him, yes, but seeing him was something different. He followed, peeking his own eyes open until a sliver of gold met your own.

“You are unhappy with me. We ought to fix that. Shall we discuss the origins of this dislike?”

You feel it, the way your heart sinks ever so slowly as he speaks. You know what he means, what his words imply, and you feel utterly ill from it. He wouldn't speak of it if you did not bring it up, would he?

“Morax-”

“-That prison was never meant for you. You must know that, my dearest. I would never do that to you. You had simply stepped in front of him and I could not stop it-”

You yanked yourself away from him like his touch had scorched you. He had done so before, he would surely do so again. You were heating up, you were all too horrifically aware of it. There was a time long ago when you had enjoyed the sensation of warmth on your skin, and then you had been forced too close to the sun, denied respite, and now it frightened you terribly. 

Your husband frightened you. 

It stung terribly, to be spoken to this way. He had certainly tried to broach the subject on more occasions than one; Zhongli had prodded, had eased you into conversation, but it had never gone further than that- you would stop him, and he would not pressure you any more. So why, why was he doing this to you now?

“The way that things occurred, the way I went about it, that has always been my deepest regret.”

You nearly don't hear him, with the way your ears have begun to ring. He doesn't reach for you- a wise decision. You shake your head once, and exhale, though it does little to ground you.

“No- you…you do not get to say that. Do not speak of this, of that man- it was you who stormed my land.” You snap your head up at him then, and there is nothing but accusation and despair dripping from you now- anger, maybe.

Morax is hurting too, you can see it in his gaze, in the way he stands so awfully still where he had been holding you only moments ago. Still, that doesn't stop the harsh setting of his brows, an expression of emotion that you can only read as frustration. 

Perhaps you had taken his composure for granted. Perhaps, he had grown tired of the patience you demanded.

“What would you have had me do, dearest? You tell me not to speak of him, as though he is not the very reason that you were taken from me.”

He stares at you- he stares at you so intensely that it hurts. You think it's a rhetorical question at first, but he simply watches and waits for you to answer.

You feel utterly incapable of it. That heat is rising, your heart is pumping, and you think you must be panicking. Your throat is tightening, you're not sure how long you'll be able to breathe properly. This human form is limiting.

Your husband continues when you do not: “Tell me, what could I have done? I will admit that when it comes to you, I have done many things wrong. I should have been more careful with you, my dear, but that does not mean I am entirely at fault.”

You open your mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.

“You often neglect to acknowledge the fact that it was a member of your court who shot Guizhong, and that it was you who hid him from me.”

You don't expect him to throw the blame back at you. It was one thing to reminisce about your Guizhong privately. That alone you could barely handle- you’ve found it easier to cast away any related thoughts when they have popped up in your mind since you'd woken. 

It was another thing entirely to hear him speak of her after all this time.

“That was an act of war, dearest. It mattered very little how much I loved you- how much I love you now. On behalf of the Guili Assembly, it was my duty to respond.”

You shake your head, you shake it so fiercely you think it might fall off. It is too hot in his kitchen, too closed in, and too suffocating- lacking in fresh air. You need to leave, you need the open space, the cool breeze that has always felt just right in your mountains. You need the shade of your trees- so vibrant and lovely are they, so different from the ones in his territory.

But Chenyu Vale is now his, too, and you are sure it will kill you.

“No-”

“No?”

“You shouldn’t- I…” You don’t think you can breathe.

It’s too unbearably hot, it burns. You are too close to the sun, in that domain turned prison that never knew anything other than the eternal glow of the brightest star. There is nothing- the space is empty save for that horrid light that intensifies no matter which direction you go. When you try to move yourself, you cannot. Instead, the air pushes back, and it scorches you so horribly you think you will burst into flames. 

You’re on that empty field with Guizhong in your arms, she’s desperate, warning you- he is no good, I have learned of something that he does not wish for me to know. Rex Lapis will kill me, I know he will. Please take me with you. The God of Dust clings to you like you are the only thing connecting her to this world. You brush her hair back, you tell her it will be okay- you must calm yourself, my dearest friend. What has happened?

You’re crawling to your Guizhong. Her blood has painted you both in a fearsome red. It’s a beautiful colour, it makes you sick. The arrow sticking out from her shoulder tells you exactly who drew the shot. The shaft is made from that beautifully rich wood that you know so well; the hafting is made of the finest thread, tied with precision as you have taught generations. You need not see the arrow point to know that it is made of clearwater jade- whoever shot her, as she sobbed in your arms, could only have been one of your own. You try to reach her, you think you could still save her, the wound was not particularly severe- 

Her body is enclosed in stone before you are able to. There is no mistaking who is responsible for this, too. Guizhong had been right, then. It is not only your court that has betrayed you.

You’re running. You move through the forest like wind does through the valley, for you have known this land longer than any other. It’s duller than you remember it- void of the colours and sounds that you so desperately nurtured and loved for thousands of years past. Morax shouts your name somewhere behind you. He is fast, but in your Chenyu Vale, you are faster. 

Never before have your legs ached as they do now. It’s a long, throbbing sort of sensation in your calves. You’ve been running for days, and he is still behind you, still some few paces away with no signs of stopping. You’re sure you’d see him if you turned your head- you do not for fear that he may take the opportunity to catch you. 

He’s hunting. You know that he is, for you are his prey. He calls for you again, his voice is louder this time. He must be closer. You look back despite yourself, and when you do, you are in his kitchen, in his home, and he is coming towards you-

“I should not have gone there. I’m sorry, dearest, truly. Try to breathe.” 

You know that he is. You do not care. Your husband takes another step towards you, and your feet scream at you to flee.

The only thing you register after is the loud sound of skin against skin, the sting you feel on your palm, and the sore red spot on Morax’s cheek.

He says nothing when he freezes- not when he reaches up after a moment, not when he gently presses two fingers against the spot. His expression is unreadable to you then, and you are left to assume the worst- that he may retaliate.

You run before he does, before he realizes that he should be angry with you- before you have to fully think about what it is you’ve done.

You escape to his room, to his bed that you have stayed in for weeks. You wish to leave, but you do not know where you would go, who you would seek.

You resign yourself to sobbing in his sheets instead.

Zhongli does not come to bed that night. You are glad for it.

You’re not sure what you would have done if he had. Maybe you would hit him again, maybe you would reach for the comfort of his hands. You do not know.

You think of your Guizhong, you think of your Chenyu Vale. You think of Morax, too, back when you still thought the world of him, back when he was still yours.

You cry until you cannot anymore, and then you lay in complete silence, simply waiting for the sun to rise.

Her chuckle was light, barely echoing against the walls of his bedroom and turning into a sigh when his fingers brushed up to the skin of her neck. “Asgard was… beautiful.” There was longing in her voice, a sense of sorrow seeping through as the memories surfaced. “Magical. The place people here write fantasy novels about. It was,” she paused again, pressing her cheek into his chest, “ Home.”

A wave of sadness filled Johnny, his one hand moving to cradle her by her waist while the hand on her neck trailed down to the middle of her shoulder blades. Nuzzling his nose into her hair, he was met with the calming smell of eucalyptus and lavender with traces of wood. It didn’t matter how many times she bathed or doused in midgardian scents, the Goddess always smelled like she spent hours in the forest. If Johnny closed his eyes, he could imagine trees in place of walls. Grass instead of the memory foam mattress they laid on. And her beloved animals instead of the buzzing sounds of the streets below. 

“Picture all the gold on Earth in one place,” she spoke, maneuvering herself so that they were level with each other, head laid on the pillow beside his, “And imagine it in the form of a castle. That’s where my family resided.” 

“All the gold on Earth?” he repeated in awe, adjusting to lay on his side facing her, tucking an arm under the pillow while the other loosely went to her waist. 

“All the gold on Earth,” she giggled with a wink. His brows furrowed, followed by a soft pout on his lips. “What’s that look for?”

“I’m just imagining all that gold. I’ve never seen so much in one place--unless you count the museum exhibit we went to last weekend.” His eyes widened, realizing something she said, “wait, you lived in a castle made of gold?”

The Goddess chuckled, tapping his nose in the process. “I did. My family lived there for many many years.” Millenium really. But he didn’t need to know that. Johnny already teased the fact the Goddess was technically 800 years old, considering Asgardians aged slower than Midgardians and viewed as immortal--though there were still things that could kill them. 

Thor was pushing 1,600 years and Loki, at the time of his untimely death, was close to 1,100. Then, of course, their father lived to 5,000. Physically, she looked his age. A young adult in their 20s, while Thor physically appeared a man in his 40s. 

But she lived many lives over the course of her extended life.

The youngest child of Odin and Frigga, Y/n’s birth was a surprise to the royal family, but celebrated nonetheless. She’d be born during the coldest winter night at midnight which also happened to be the winter solstice on Midgard. 

The shortest day, the longest night. Echoes of the wolves howling in the distance mixed with her first cries, and Odin named her the Goddess of Winter, the Hunt, and made her protector of animals.

“What was your favorite part of the castle?” He inched closer, falling deeper into the melting gold of her eyes. He wondered if they were the same shade of gold as her home. 

“Oh,” she hummed, pinching her brows in thought, “I don’t know. There were many places I loved--my bedroom, the gardens, the balcony overlooking the city where I could see the Bifrost and its rainbow bridge.” 

“That’s where Heimdall guarded, right?”

“Yes,” she smiled, pleased he remembered. “Then there were my beloved mountains--though they were not part of the castle. I had to travel a few miles to get to them,” she corrects, chuckling softly. “I cannot tell you how many times my parents and brothers feared I’d been kidnapped, but really I’d lost track of time skiing down the slopes.”

“You said Asgard didn’t really have seasons,” Johnny commented, smiling at the image of her decked out in her hunting gear and skis, trailed by the wolf companions while the eagles she adored soared above. “Bet that was nice not having to worry about the snow melting.”

“Oh it was marvelous . Not having to wait months on end for the winter, because half of Asgard remained that cold while the other half stayed in a scorching heat.” A pause occurred, before she added, “I spent hours in the library. Reading texts from all over the Nine Realms, but also it is where Loki taught me magic.” 

Johnny lingered on every word, committing each detail to memory. It was rare Y/n spoke of Loki, her brother. Who, like Heimdall, died at the hands of Thanos not long after they escaped Sakarr and the destruction of Asgard. Y/n barely survived the ordeal, her last image being her brothers before Heimdall sent her and Banner to Midgard.

His final action before Thanos drove a sword through his heart. 

Johnny removed his hand from her waist in favor of taking her own. Interlacing their fingers. “Can you tell me about him?” His face softened, as did his voice. “Loki.” A flicker of sorrow flashed over her, but the Goddess quickly recovered, but not before the blonde leaned over to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. Both in apology and to encourage her if she felt ready. 

“You know how Reed likes to complain about all the headaches you give him?”

“Yes…?” He pouted, confused by the statement when her lips curled up. 

“That is likely how my parents felt towards Loki. He always knew how to drive them up a wall.” A chuckle escaped her, adjusting her position slightly. “He was the God of Mischief after all. Always causing trouble. Always finding a way out of things. Using his magic to terrorize us.” She pursed her lips together, biting back a smile, “One time he shapeshifted into a snake to prank Thor.”

“Noooo.”

“Oh Thor felt so betrayed!” Johnny beamed at the genuine laugh she released, laughing with her. “The man adores snakes and of course he suspected nothing when he found one in the gardens.”

“What happened?” Johnny wondered, leaning closer, their noses nearly touched. 

Y/n let out another laugh, “Loki transformed back, scared the living daylights out of Thor,” she paused, unsure whether or not to say the rest but ultimately mumbled with a cheeky smile, “and stabbed him.”

His gasp echoed, eyes bulging from his head, “ Stabbed him!” He stared at her in disbelief while she simply laughed at his state of shock. “Why would he do that?!” All he received was a shrug. 

“Who knows? To this day I don’t know what possessed him.” She shrugged again. “Luckily it was a small butter knife and really only left a scratch. There was this one time we went hunting for my name day and Thor decided to lay out in the grass covered in bushes to take a nap, and well…” she bit her bottom lip, “I thought his boot covered foot sticking out was a rabbit from the distance.”

Johnny’s reaction was aghast, “you shot an arrow through your brother’s foot?” 

“It was an accident!” she defended, heat rising in her face while avoiding his eyes. “Serves him right for sleeping on my name day hunt.”

Johnny squeezed his eyes shut with a groan, muffling it into the pillow as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “You Asgardians have different meanings when it comes to roughhousing your siblings.” He yelped when a smack landed on his ass, snapping his head up to look at her scandalized. “How dare--.”

“Careful, young Storm,” she warned with mischief. “You’re speaking to a God.” She inched forward, breath kissing his skin. “One you happen to love .” 

He sighed, plopping his head down with a lovesick expression, “Yeah you got me there.” Warmth fluttered his heart of fire when she laughed, leaning down to kiss his temple. 

How did he, Johnny Storm, the once most eligible bachelor in America with ladies and gents lining up to get his attention, secure a love so pure with a Goddess? The type authors wrote fairytales about. The type one yearns for all their life. 

He saw it in his sister and Reed. He saw it in the way Pepper Potts and Thor mourned Tony Stark and Jane Foster. He felt it in the way Y/n spoke about her parents, detailing the thousands of years they spent together. 

Now he got to experience it. And damn did it feel good. 

“Your turn.” 

His brows raised, “My turn?” The question was followed by a nod, the Goddess moving to get comfortable once more. 

“Tell me about your world.” This time it was Johnny’s turn to freeze, unsure how to approach the subject as talking about his home world was still a sore subject. Sensing this, Y/n nosed his cheek, kissing it, “Not ready, my darling?” 

“I’m sorry,” his murmur was quiet, like a child after being scolded for doing something wrong. But Johnny had nothing to be sorry about, and Y/n made sure to let him know. 

“Hush,” a finger caressed his cheekbone, and Johnny realized his eyes were tearing up as he got pulled into the final images of his home before destruction occurred. “How about I show you something instead?” 

“What?” he finally finds his voice.

“You know how I said my brother taught me magic?” He nods against the pillow, blue eyes glossy and full of wonder. “Well, one of his favorite things to teach me were illusions. Illusions so accurate, you think they are real.” A warm palm cups his cheek, moving up to rest her forefingers against his temple. “Would you like to see Agard?”

He nearly gasped, “You can do that.” Suddenly her eyes seemed brighter. Glowing. “Show me Asgard?”

He lets you stay in the Underworld for the moment, but you find out that he cannot interfere since you are a mortal, and starting a war with other gods is forbidden since the Dance that nearly caused their end.

Daemon wouldn't tell you the punishment for breaking this rule, so you start thinking about how to get around it, even if the fact that the God of War and Death shows fear whenever you bring it up freaks you out a bit.

The solution comes a few weeks later, when he has to deal with your quite frankly insane attempts to get rid of the consequences of what Aemond has done to you. The process is painful and almost kills you, but there's an aftermath, a spark ignited in you that can be nurtured into great power to transform you into a goddess.

As for now, still a mortal with increased magic, you can offer Daemon something no other could. To be an instrument in starting a war and getting his revenge for all the losses Aemond and his side caused during the Dance.