Work Text:
It’s hard to know what you have until you lose it, something Calypso learned the hard way, growing up under Acheron.
She did not realize how nice it was to walk unimpeded until she stepped out of line one too many times and her manacles were attached, permanently (they had only been used as a temporary punishment before, she was more useful out in the field than chained to the point of immobility, wings thrashing out as she shook and tried not to scream).
She did not miss flight, miss the minute freedom it granted her, until her wing membrane was torn literally to hell and back on thorns, a sacrifice for her Father that didn’t even bat an eye her way (it was a good thing, she thought at the time. He was busy, and it meant he was satisfied, that she hadn’t failed him, not that he failed her).
She did not know how much she cared about Belial until the Dyad Dynasties fell, and her sister fell along with them (she shouldn’t care, he told her, she told herself, and yet she was always disappointed that her usual hiding spots were empty. There wasn’t anything she could do, there was never anything she could do, but it still stung).
It’s even harder to know what you are missing when you never had it to begin with.
She never realized she was missing the freedom to gasp air unimpeded by a collar around her neck, burned and seared into her flesh, there as she grew up, grew into the role she was Taken for (the fact that she was ever Taken at all took her too long to realize. It’s not like she remembered it, but her victims usually did).
She never realized she was missing a real family, a caring family, until she rolled the dice with a stranger and a five hour car ride and four little orphans put everything into perspective (there were enough infractions against her father, her Keeper, that her new friend, apparently, was keeping a whole list. She’s tempted to ask Kumiho if there’s an age limit for orphanages).
She never realized she was missing out on love, until love was staring her right in the face (the first kiss she ever received, a simple peck on the cheek, at the top of the stairs, still reeling from the events of that day, still on edge as her body expected pain and received love instead. She certainly didn’t need chains to keep her still, then).
Maybe freedom wasn’t flying, wasn’t soaring over hell planes or swooping down buildings with a rush one couldn’t get from the stairs.
Maybe freedom was magic unwoven, chains now broken, no more noose around her neck threatening to tear her up, yank her out and leave any semblance of humanity behind.
Maybe freedom was playing poker with people who don’t force stakes, at least not more than anyone is willing to give, no games of life and death, simply games, and fun.
And maybe, freedom was a kiss in the kitchen over fresh cookies, the freedom to love, the freedom to maybe, just maybe, learn how to live without someone breathing down your neck.
The freedom to forgive yourself, and become better than you were ever meant to be.