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Melinoë is stalling.
She stands facing the Oath of the Unseen, Revaal in Persephone’s aspect poised above her hand. Already she has changed weapons three times, tweaked her Arcana, and stood in front of her Keepsake cabinet for longer than necessary. Raki looks at her inquisitively, wondering why she is stalling more than usual tonight.
The Fear in the air these past nights has been so thick that Melinoë feels on the verge of suffocating. She rarely made it to the summit or House of Hades, often finding her defeat by common foes enhanced by Night’s will far beyond their regular capabilities. Either that, or she has been indulging Chaos by partaking in their Trials. All in a futile attempt to delay the conclusion to her task, paralyzed as she is by indecision.
The one time Melinoë had slain Typhon and made it to the Palace of Zeus still lingers like a bitter taste in her mouth. While she had not been naive enough to expect overwhelming gratitude from her relatives, she did not expect being shooed away back to the Crossroads before Helios could even rise above the horizon. Melinoë had adhered to their requirements of decorum, although finding it stifling and restrictive to hold her tongue and speak pleasantries instead.
A fluke.
The Olympians’ decorum had interesting exceptions when it came to their allies. Coated in the dark, thick blood of Typhon and his spawn, Melinoë could not help but notice that their armour had been pristine, free from any marks tarnishing it. A tinge of resentment bloomed in her then and has been growing ever since.
Since that eve in the hot spring, Prometheus had incited further doubt and conflict between the demands of the task and her beliefs, leaving her uncertain about how she should proceed. Melinoë could no longer deny that change is necessary, but she still requires the Olympians’ aid in order to vanquish Chronos and Typhon. Her head spins when she considers what will even happen after she slays them—at how the world should be put back together from the ruins of their war.
Afterwards, Melinoë had avoided the surface for the next while, finding facing Chronos to be much simpler. She resisted returning for as long as she could, feeling like a moth drawn to Prometheus’ flame. The first night Melinoë dared to face him again, he still awaited her before the entrance to the summit. Their routine remained the same, clashing until one of them succumbed to their injuries, him this time. As he retreated, he left a fennel stalk next to the usual eagle feather.
Melinoë had such a limited selection of surface flora, only being able to gather what is either on Mount Olympus or en route. The rest of the surface realm remains far out of her reach, limited by her blood curse and task as she is. She had tried to analyze his intentions in giving her these gifts; if anything it disadvantaged him to be giving reagents to his enemy. The best answer Melinoë could come up with is that it is simply because he wants to.
Night after night, Prometheus has been leaving her flowers of hellebores, crocuses, hyacinths, and aconite. Sometimes he gives her fragrant boughs of cypress, juniper, or rosemary. They all lend themselves to potent draughts and incantations. Each one is a limited resource—she had tried replanting them in the Crossroads’ garden but found that they did not thrive in shadows, their germinated seeds failing to rise and pierce through the soil.
One night he had given Melinoë a heliotrope, its small purple flowers smelling of sweetness. Something strange twisted in her chest when she thought of putting it in the cauldron for a draught. Instead, Melinoë carefully placed it between two sheets of parchment and put it under a stack of tomes in her tent. Dried and flattened, its vivid purple hue and scent are preserved. Despite going through the trouble of preserving it, she has kept the flower out of sight, finding that looking at it causes her heart to feel like it is being pulled apart piece by piece.
Still staring at the Oath, Melinoë feels like a child who believes that hiding their eyes means that others cannot see them. She foolishly swears enough Vows to unlock the last veiled statue in the training grounds. Hecate's voice echoes in her mind, calling her reckless and that the Will of Night is not to be trifled with. Sighing in frustration, Melinoë returns to the silver pool once more. She exchanges Revaal for Descura, and marches to the gateway that transports her to the surface without looking back.
***
The first wave of Lubbers and Bronzebeaks fall like cut stalks of wheat by Descura. The staff flashes with silver as it catches glimmers of Selene’s waning light. During the second wave, a Cutthroat’s blade nearly lacerates her, its movement a blur as it slips in and out of shadow thanks to the Vow of Frenzy. Melinoë parries its blades and strikes hard, crushing its bones into a pile of dust.
Her foes dealt with, Melinoë takes a moment to look up at the stars, far brighter here compared to the darkness of the Crossroads. She climbs over the rubble between two once-ornate columns to get to the area where she can slip into Ephyra, only to find her awaiting foes already slain, scorch marks making their cause of death clear. Small blue flames linger on some of the bodies, sustained by their tattered clothes. Wariness sluices through Melinoë like icy water.
Prometheus leans against the city walls next to the gap with his arms crossed over his chest. He appears relaxed, waiting for Melinoë to arrive with the foreknowledge that she will. She knows he keeps his chest bare so as to not hide what Olympus had done to him, but it has the rather unfortunate side effect of drawing Melinoë’s eye and tempting her with thoughts she cannot allow herself to indulge in.
Aetos initially seems to be absent, though a quick glance up reveals that he is perched upon the city walls. Prometheus notices her arrival, meeting her eyes with the ghost of a smile.
Their routine would be simple, were it not for him insisting on changing it by gifting her reagents and now obstructing her path much sooner than usual. The change in routine and uncertainty in his intent makes the skin on the back of her neck prickle.
“Titan. What are you doing so far from Olympus? Don’t you have a siege to lead?” Melinoë asks, hoping he will give her an actual reply for once rather than circling around the truth as he is wont to do. Prometheus is bound by duty as she is, though the way he shirks it when it pleases him is grating to her.
“Hail, Melinoë. The siege can continue for a night without me. Your relatives can also fend off Typhon for a night without your aid. And I know that you know you’re not likely to make it there tonight.” He casts her a pointed and knowing look—the Vows influence him as well. “When was the last time you took a night off?”
While Prometheus can foresee outcomes, he cannot look into her past or see her intentions. It is a genuine question.
Something tightly wound in her slightly loosens at hearing him say her name. She had thought it would be less aggravating to hear than Agent of Change, but it had the effect of feeling uncomfortably intimate. Like they might not be bitter enemies anymore.
“Time is my enemy, I don’t have the leisure of taking a night off.” She grips Descura hard enough that her knuckles become white on her right hand. Nevermind that he is right—she had set the Fear so high tonight that there was little chance she’d see the Palace of Zeus.
“What do you do then, when you are not doing this?” He tilts his head, curious.
“I practice my craft, organize my reagents, help maintain the wards—” Melinoë cuts herself off when she realizes she is only proving his point. She wonders, if circumstances had been different, who she would have turned out to be. What she would have enjoyed doing for the purposes of leisure, not a task assigned to her. A life undefined by duty and birthright.
“I am not asking you to abandon your task, I am just asking you to take the night off,” Prometheus says. “And spend it with me instead,” he adds, extending his hand to her once again.
A retort readies itself on her tongue, that he is being foolish, that they shouldn’t start anything between them, that it is far simpler to remain as enemies and not complicate things. Melinoë feels herself teetering on the edge of a precipice. She had approached the edge when she joined him at the hot springs and has been swaying to maintain her balance ever since.
Prometheus wouldn’t have bothered to come here if there was no chance of her joining him. She is drawn to him, the truth of it feeling like a curse placed upon her. Perhaps this matter would have been easier to compartmentalize if he did not appear as he does. She aches for change, a way out of her task, at least for one night.
Slowly, cautiously, Melinoë takes his gloved hand. His bare fingertips curl around hers, their warmth causing her breath to catch in her chest. Feeling his gaze on her, she keeps her eyes fixed anywhere but him. He pulls her gently back the way she came, away from the ruins of Ephyra and her duty.
***
They wend their way through forested mountainsides, Mount Olympus slowly disappearing below the horizon behind them. The canopy blocks out what little moonlight there is, leaving the forest floor blanketed in darkness. Prometheus ignites flames on his palm, providing enough illumination so Melinoë does not stumble on gnarled tree roots. For her benefit, she realizes, as his steps are sure and confident. She wishes she had taken Ygnium tonight.
Melinoë has never seen the surface realm outside of what her task required her to traverse. Its beauty is an unexpected surprise—rolling hills rise into mountains covered with greenery, rivers cut across the land, draining meltwater away from the tallest snow-capped mountains. She surmises it must be early summer based on the pleasantly warm air, though she cannot be sure without much reference for the turn of the seasons. Surprisingly getting along well outside of battle, Raki and Aetos had disappeared into the sky together shortly after they left Ephyra. Bound to Melinoë and the Crossroads, she knows Raki will be able to find his own way home.
If Melinoë takes too deep of a breath, the air feels sharp in her lungs like she has inhaled minuscule crystals. A reminder that her time is borrowed up here, having only dared to loosen the Fates’ weavings and not unravel them completely.
Curiosity pricks at Melinoë, making her wonder where he is taking them. They walk side by side, Melinoë no longer feeling like he cannot be let out of her sight. She cannot pinpoint exactly when she started to trust Prometheus enough to even agree to something like this.
“Where are we going? As you so like to remind me, I don’t have your foresight.” She had endured too many taunts from him to try and restrain her sharp tongue.
“Foresight is a curse more often than not. I told you, I would not wish this gift upon anyone except my worst enemy. And you are not my enemy anymore.” The usual sardonic edge to his tone is absent, bare sincerity left in its wake.
Heat rises to Melinoë’s cheeks at how freely he gives voice to something she knows is true but refuses to admit. She is familiar with his animosity and can easily match him there, but his sincerity cuts like a precise blade.
She realizes Prometheus didn’t answer her question but doesn’t press him, finding an unexpected sense of relief in ceding some control to him. In trusting someone else to make decisions, at least for this one night.
They avoid mortal settlements, though Melinoë can see clusters of them in the distance by their firelight. Prometheus’ gift to them had not been forgotten. They did not earn it, yet he freely gave it to them anyways with nothing in return except agony.
Some shades like Odysseus and Icarus had managed to cling to their individuality, their lives memorable enough to retain some semblance of their mortal forms. The majority of shades had led small lives, or had drunk from the Lethe and thus had lost their memories of their mortal forms. The formless, indistinguishable shades who huddled together in the Crossroads, so different from Odysseus and Icarus yet mortal all the same, had piqued Melinoë’s curiosity recently. She often finds herself wondering how they had died, if by natural causes or divine interference.
“Tell me, Prometheus, what are living mortals like? For all I know are their shades.”
With a glint of pride in his eyes, he replies, “They are alike, yet very different from each other. They have spread far and wide since I shaped the first ones and made many advancements using their own wits. They are clever, finding ways to survive in every clime, even inhabiting the lands beyond the sea to the south where the sands stretch far in every direction.
“Zeus and his ilk like to imagine themselves as inherently superior to mortals, an unearned assumption, but they forget that I fashioned them in our image. We are more alike than different, sharing in plenty of our suffering. Though the hardships mortals face are often worse than ours, having death to fear for better or for worse.”
“So long as they suffer, so shall we all,” Melinoë murmurs as a piece of understanding clicks into place inside her. Perceptive as Prometheus is, she knows he doesn’t miss it by the way the embers in his eyes glow a bit brighter. Mortalkind’s cause of suffering must be alleviated or else the bloody cycle will begin anew.
They must be close to the ocean now, as Melinoë can smell traces of salt and brine in the air. It is unlike the Rift of Thessaly—the acrid, eye-watering smoke so thick from the oil fires that it overwhelms the sea air. They approach from along a cliff face and Melinoë sees the wine-dark sea stretching into the horizon, dotted with small islands. Moonlight reflects off the surface, making her silvers gleam. Prometheus stands at her side, allowing her to take in the sight. He always waits for her; Melinoë wonders if she will ever wait for him.
Bitterness coils in her, biting and caustic, that she has been denied all this due to her task. As much as Melinoë prides herself on her self-discipline, she has come to realize just how little control she has over her own life. Melinoë’s proficiency in her craft is especially a point of pride for her, but she is beginning to understand why someone like Prometheus would resent their natural abilities.
They continue walking for a while longer, until they reach a clearing lined with dense groves of trees, a small cottage at its centre. Beyond the cottage lies a river that appears almost black with silver rivulets running through it from reflected moonlight.
The cottage is simple and unadorned, likely just one-room, and has a few openings for windows. The structure must be quite old; its stones are pale and weathered as if the sun has beat down upon them for aeons. Ivy vines lazily crawl up the sides as well, anchoring themselves into the gaps between stones. The roof has seen better days, appearing in varying stages of disrepair and repair. The signs of repair, repatched areas, aren’t hidden, rather they stand defiant and proud, shunning the notion of flawless perfection.
It looks like where a mortal would make their home; a stark contrast to the opulence of Olympus. Where one would have a simple life, but not any less fulfilling for it.
The cottage’s exterior is lined with clay pots of flowers. With a small start, Melinoë recognizes some of them as flowers Prometheus had given to her. The hellebores curl down, shyly hiding their petals. The crocuses have sealed themselves shut in the darkness, protecting their saffron stigmata. They look tended to and well taken care of—not a single weed threatens them. Melinoë thinks about how it would be nice to be able to tend to their growth without regards to their utility as reagents.
Distantly, she remembers that these flowers only bloom in late winter. There must be some kind of divine influence on them.
The extensive garden is what catches her attention, however. It lies to one side of the cottage in a wild field, likely once neatly organized into rows but now an untamed sprawl of far more types of flora than Melinoë has ever seen at once. At the far edge of the field, there is a copse of pomegranate trees. Even from this distance, she can tell the fruit they bear are larger than normal by how the branches droop from their weight.
Melinoë turns to Prometheus, not expecting to find him already watching her with a faint look of mirth.
“How did you find this place?” she asks.
“I had a premonition of finding it one night while you were occupied in the Underworld,” he replies dryly. He must come here when she chooses to descend, then.
“This garden… it’s so full of life. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“My prevailing theory is that the most recent resident here was a dryad who blessed it. Nothing seems to be affected by blight nor pest here. You’re welcome to come here at any time, you know. As long as you can permit yourself a break from your task.”
There is a lump in Melinoë’s throat now, one that she tries to swallow down. A place she can go to that is unrelated to her task, a small piece of freedom and volition.
“Thank you, Prometheus.” Feeling emboldened enough to go against her better judgement, she reaches out and laces their fingers together. She can feel the warmth of his palm through the glove.
Giving her hand a brief squeeze, Prometheus leads her around the rest of the clearing, pointing out various plants and how mortals have used them for both medicinal and more deadly purposes. In turn, Melinoë shares her knowledge of her craft with him, demonstrating minor incantations—small magicks—with what is available.
The clearing is lined with trees, primarily composed of firs and cypresses. A few fig and olive trees are speckled amongst them. With a liveliness to him that Melinoë has not seen before, Prometheus tells her how much the fruits are favoured amongst mortals, that they preserve figs by drying them in the sun or storing them in honey so that they can enjoy them over the winter. Just like how they are favoured by immortals, Melinoë thinks.
Melinoë gestures at the cottage. “Do you live there?”
“Where did you think I lived?” Always a question in response to her questions.
“Quite honestly, I had assumed that you resided on Olympus.”
“I don’t like mountains, that one least of all,” he replies coolly, ending the line of discussion. “Shall we?” Prometheus says while inclining his head towards the cottage. He turns and makes his way inside the cottage. Blue light spills from the windows as he waits for her inside.
Melinoë wants to join him, but there’s one more thing she needs to do first. The pomegranate trees have been calling to her, standing like spectres at the other end of the clearing. She wades into the field, placing her steps carefully to avoid trampling and singeing any small plant growing amid the sprawl. Her fingers trail over the plants, feeling smooth leaves and the occasional bit of bramble. The scent of aromatic herbs wafts up; Melinoë rubs her fingers against some of their leaves and smells cool mint and lemon.
Halfway across, her foot snags on something. She reaches down and retrieves a green ribbon, illuminated by the moonlight so much it almost glows. The ribbon is faded and streaked with dirt, but she can tell it must have been a verdant green once. It tugs at Melinoë’s heart in an odd way, almost like it is pulling at the edges of a lost memory. Finding herself unable to relinquish it back to the ground, she carefully folds it and tucks it into her purse.
Now at the copse, the pomegranate fruits dangle temptingly from bowed branches. Melinoë plucks one free, carrying it in both hands as she returns to the cottage.
The plain exterior belies the interior—there is hardly a single surface left unadorned with small decorations or stacks of parchment. Mortals must have made their home here at some point, as Melinoë recognizes a few child’s toys. Little dolls made of clay, the paint long worn off. Leather bags likely filled with knucklebones.
The faint smell of sage and pine needles permeates the inside. It reminds Melinoë of the crisp, clean air on the way to Olympus before it becomes marred with smoke and ash. Melinoë finds the hearth at one end to be the source of the blue light. Upon closer inspection, she can see flickers of orange within the blue flames, dancing and intertwining themselves.
Prometheus is sitting at the table in the centre, studying a sheet of parchment. The chairs and table look new, evidently having been recently constructed to suit someone Titan-sized. She takes a seat next to him, her feet only brushing the floor. She resists the urge to lean too close to him, seeking the heat radiating from his body.
Melinoë peeks at the parchment; it is a sketch of a city harbour, its most prominent feature is a tall stone tower on a small island in the bay. Though Melinoë’s knowledge of the surface realm is admittedly lacking, she cannot place the city.
“It’s a mortal city to the south that hasn’t been built yet,” Prometheus explains. “It will be a city of progress and innovation, its vast library drawing scholars from across the world.” Again, that glint of pride flickers in his eyes.
Amongst the stacks of parchment, there are hand-drawn maps which Melinoë quickly identifies as depicting Olympus. She recognizes the winding corridors that weave between the indoors and outdoors, the fountain chamber where she can catch her breath, and now the Palace atop the peak. The lines and details appear almost perfunctory compared to the sketch of the city.
Melinoë’s eyes rove over the other parchment scrolls on the table. Some scrolls, yellowed and worn with age, have text on them composed of little pictograms. Others have text that is close enough to the script Melinoë is familiar with that she feels she can almost read it. While both are unfamiliar, she can discern shared patterns and similarities between them.
In the corner there’s a bed draped with woven blankets. It would fit someone of a mortal height, not Titan height. Melinoë looks at it, then at Prometheus with a raised eyebrow.
He shrugs. “I don’t like to sleep.”
She clears a space on the table for the pomegranate, carefully piling scrolls and putting charcoal sticks, some worn down to nubs, aside. The last thing she wants is for its sticky juice to stain the parchment.
Using a sharp nail to pierce the tough covering, Melinoë peels the skin and membranes back until its ruby-red seeds are revealed. She takes a bite—the sweet acidity fills her mouth and a drop of juice trails down her forearm. Prometheus takes the pomegranate from her hand, warm fingers brushing hers as he does. He brings the side Melinoë just bit to his mouth, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Melinoë’s breathing becomes quick and shallow, and her body feels alight with a tingling sensation similar to when she receives boons from Aphrodite. She gives a small nod, and he bites into the fruit.
Drops of red, mimicking blood, stream down between his fingers. Melinoë feels a thirst in her throat, burning in its need to be sated.
She is teetering on a precipice again. If she falls, there would be no going back after changing their relationship like this. Melinoë could continue trying to ignore how Prometheus makes her feel, and return to battling him nightly. It seems like it should be easier to return to their routine than admit something between them has irrevocably changed.
Melinoë’s blood turns warm in her veins, softening her limbs and dulling her more sensible thoughts. She decides she has had enough of struggling to maintain her balance, and allows herself to fall.
She reaches out and grabs his wrist, her fingers unable to encircle it fully, and slips his index finger into her mouth.
Prometheus’ reaction is immediate—his eyes widen and his lips part, not in surprise but in relief, almost as if he was worried this outcome wouldn’t come to pass. She swirls her tongue around the digit, laving it and tasting sweet pomegranate before taking his second finger in. The burnt skin is unexpectedly smooth, like scar tissue.
Melinoë can see the anticipation in his eyes, the way he would do anything to keep her touching him. A sense of power fills her, knowing he would bend to her will, pliable.
Prometheus wraps his other hand around her waist and pulls her closer to him, into his lap. Melinoë slings one leg around his thigh, straddling it. Behind her, she hears a rustling sound as he removes his glove and runs his bare hands up her thighs all the way to her back. His touch is firm, holding her to him as if there is a chance she might run off.
Extracting his fingers from her mouth, slick with her saliva, Melinoë leans in close enough until his burning eyes consume her field of view. His head tilts to meet her lips, but she pulls back, holding firm to his shoulders. A soft whine escapes him.
“Did you foresee this happening?”
“Yes.” Prometheus takes her right hand in his and licks clean the pomegranate juice from her elbow up to her wrist, his tongue leaving a trail of fire. Heat coils low in her stomach, making her hips shift ever so slightly against his thigh. By his sharp gasp, he doesn’t miss it. Not that he misses anything.
“How long?” Melinoë’s voice comes out more breathless than she intends, her control slipping away from her once piece at a time.
“A while. I would’ve waited even longer if that’s what it took. I’m good at waiting.” Each word, utterly sincere, chips away at her defences. Fighting him beneath the summit until one of them was forced to retreat would have been less painful than this.
“And what if I turned around and left you all alone here?”
“You won’t.” As if to make his point, Prometheus’ hands release her body, cold spots left in their wake.
Melinoë often relishes in contradicting him for no reason other than to avoid agreeing with him. But now, she finds that compulsion is absent.
There is something deeper than unconcealed lust in the way Prometheus watches her. Melinoë closes her eyes, willfully blinding herself to the depth of how much he wants her.
Fisting a hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, she brings her lips to his before he can say anything else that needles at her heart. His lips are warm, plush, and nibbling on her bottom lip. The taste of pomegranate lingers in his mouth, sweet with a bit of bite.
His hand cradles her cheek, allowing him to angle her head back as he plants a line of small kisses along her jaw. He continues down her neck until he reaches her gorget, growling at it as if it is a personal affront.
Her hand trails down his chest, feeling the soft skin that belies the firm muscles underneath. Tracing her fingers along the smooth scar, Melinoë can feel his heart racing, matching hers beat for beat. This close, she realizes the sage and pine smell that permeates the dwelling is actually his scent.
Both Prometheus’ hands reach under her thighs and he stands, easily carrying her weight. He deposits her in front of the hearth, a silent bid for her to wait for him in his eyes as he turns to the bed in the corner. His movements are swift and precise as he strips the blankets and linens off and grabs the pillows.
Moonlight streams in from the open windows. Melinoë feels a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, as if she is being watched. She pulls the drapes across each window to block out the moonlight.
Returning to the hearth, she finds Prometheus has set the blankets on the floor in front of the hearth. He sinks to his knees in front of her; Melinoë has never seen a famished mortal, but she reckons the hunger in his eyes to be the immortal equivalent. The silver band around her leg slides down easily at his touch—he intends to undress her one piece at a time.
One quick fuck, and perhaps that will get him out of her head. Afterwards, she can gather the few remaining shreds of her dignity and make a discreet and hasty exit.
Now taller than him, Melinoë takes advantage and pushes Prometheus’ shoulders down in an attempt to get him on his back and have her way with him. It is like pushing against a wall—he stubbornly resists her and remains kneeling.
“I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work, not with me.” He redirects her by taking both her hands in his, lacing their fingers together. Even though she is still clothed, his intense gaze makes her feel completely exposed. The ember glow of his eyes seems to be intensified from the contrast of the blue firelight, now the sole source of illumination.
Prometheus continues, “Your blood curse. How long can you survive on the surface for?”
“I know I can make it at least until dawn.”
His eyes darken. “Good.”
His hands occupied, he leans down until he can grasp the braided tie on her leg with his teeth and tug it down, their sharp points grazing against her skin. He places a kiss on her inner thigh where it was, his hair brushing close enough between her legs that it sends a jolt up her body.
“How shall I worship you tonight, goddess?”
Prometheus is dangerous, the way he makes Melinoë’s heart twist and flutter in her chest. The way he makes her feel like nothing else matters as long as he is at her side. It frustrates her relentlessly, that it makes no sense but she cannot deny how her body is responding to him, leaning into his touch like how a heliotrope flower follows the sun.
To answer him, Melinoë guides his hands to the clasp on the back of her belt. Deftly, he undoes it and sets it aside. His clever hands move to either side of her gorget and quickly find the ties that hold the front and back pieces together. Her previous lovers had always paused at this step, requiring her to guide their hands or to just remove the pieces herself. His foresight has benefits sometimes.
He attacks her neck, nipping and sucking at the now bare skin. She cups a hand over her mouth, biting down on it, to stifle the gasp that escapes her.
“There is no point in trying to hide from me, Melinoë. I have seen how you come apart at my touch, and I will see that vision to realization tonight.”
She lets her hand drop, acquiescing to his demands of nothing except her unveiled pleasure.
The rest of her silvers on her leg and arms come off next, his fingers and lips trailing down her skin with each removed piece. Prometheus is agonizingly slow and unhurried—it seems as though dawn will arrive before he is finished. She wiggles her leg to hint to him to hasten; in response he only pulls the piece down slower.
Her laurels and crescent moon are next. His hands hover over them, waiting for her permission. Melinoë places her hands over his, guiding him to remove them. All that remains is her saffron dress. His hands crawl up her outer thighs, grabbing the hem and lifting the garment off over her head.
Prometheus’ eyes rake along her body from head to toe, nearly as tangible as his greedy fingers currently wrapping around her ribcage, thumbs stroking small circles into the soft flesh below her sternum. He looks at her reverently, as if she is someone beloved.
Melinoë understands then, what he had meant in the hot spring when he said he wished to experience his visions rather than merely watch them.
She cannot meet his eyes, fearing that it would erode the last remnants of her withering resolve. Her feelings are carefully controlled—if she lets herself feel, there is a possibility that she won’t ever stop. From the way his eyes have slightly dimmed in focus, he is surely committing every inch of her to memory. Melinoë looks down at her body, and finds every curve illuminated solely by his blue flames.
She draws Prometheus in for a deep kiss before either of them can say anything foolish.
He allows her to unravel the bindings across his arms, though she doesn’t dare remove the one around his abdomen after what happened last time. Melinoë tries to remove the belt around his hips, and gulps when the back of her hand brushes against him, getting a hint at his size.
Prometheus draws her hands away and says, “In due time.” He presses a feather-light kiss to her inner wrist. Heat rises in her cheeks as Melinoë realizes he is capable of such gentleness when he chooses.
He wraps one arm behind her knees and the other across her back. Delicately, as she is something precious, Prometheus lifts her up and lays her down atop a blanket. The blanket is soft and warm on her back, having basked in the hearth’s heat. He follows her, settling down between her legs. She crosses her legs around his waist and bucks her hips up, seeking any amount of friction he will give her. Evidently feeling indulgent, he languidly grinds against her, drawing a keening sound from her.
“Needy,” he teases. “I don’t understand why you deny yourself pleasure, why you let your pride make decisions for you. I don’t need my foresight to know that you want me, and that you have for some time now. Tell me, have you ever touched yourself to the thought of me doing something like this to you?” Each word is punctuated by a drag of his hips.
Her silence is admission enough. It happened once, after returning to shadow by his doing. She had leapt at Prometheus with Zorephet held high above her head, poised to strike him down. He plucked her out of the air by easily wrapping one hand around both her wrists, causing the axe to fall uselessly to the ground. Melinoë inadvertently let out a gasp that was too breathy to plausibly come off as being one of pain. Nothing could get past his clever eyes that saw right through her.
He extinguished the flames on his right hand as he lowered her to the ground, maintaining a firm grasp on her wrists. His burnt arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her body flush to his. Prometheus’ lips grazed the shell of her ear, moving closer to her face until they brushed the corner of her mouth.
Like being submerged in ice water, Melinoë suddenly came to her senses and snapped out of the trance he had put her in. She extricated herself from his arms, and spoke the familiar incantation that would take her far away from him. The last thing she saw before shadows enveloped her was hurt in his eyes.
After returning to the Crossroads, she chased Dora out of her tent and sealed it shut. Hiding under blankets, her hand snaked between her legs to find herself already slick. Melinoë had to bury her face into the pillow to muffle her cries as she came so hard stars spotted her vision. Hot shame immediately flooded her, leading her to repress what had just happened and trying, futilely, to forget how she imagined herself trapped under his weight exactly like she is now.
“What did I do to you, in this fantasy?” he asks. Prometheus is so curious for knowledge that lies beyond the bounds of his foresight, hunting it down and seizing it like how Aetos catches prey with his talons.
Her face feels like it is on fire. If Melinoë refuses to tell him, he’d have no way of knowing. That sense of relief returns to her at the possibility of relinquishing control to him, of being completely at his mercy.
“We were like this,” she says, squeezing her thighs around his waist for emphasis. “But my arms, they were…“ Melinoë trails off and shows him instead. She raises her arms above her head, crossing her wrists and curling her hands into fists. “You had your hand on my wrists,” she mumbles quickly, rushing to get the words out before she can stop herself.
Prometheus slides the heel of his burnt hand up along her forearm, bidding her palms to open for him. Intertwining their fingers, his hand is large enough to easily cover both of hers.
With his free hand, he slides it from her hip up along her side until it cups her breast. His thumb rubs her nipple, the flesh subsequently pebbling under his touch. Prometheus’ mouth finds her left nipple, tongue laving and sucking at it until she is writhing beneath him. Teeth graze her sensitive skin, lifting her breast up and releasing it with a wet pop. Melinoë’s back arches off the ground and her legs tighten around his waist, seeking to somehow get even closer to him. It sends a thrill down her body as she struggles to free her arms from his hand and his grip only tightens in response. Prometheus restarts the same ministrations on her right side, coaxing whines out of her with each lap of his tongue.
Melinoë must be an obscene sight. Helplessly restrained by her former enemy, subject to his will and his will only.
His grip loosening slightly, she frees one hand to reach down between them and palm him through his clothes. Melinoë elicits a quickly swallowed gasp out of him before he guides her hand away.
“So impatient,” he tuts. “I’m not finished with you yet.” With one final squeeze of her chest, Prometheus lowers himself down her body, planting kisses along her abdomen with each inch he descends.
She can feel how slick she must be, evidence of the effect he has on her. Now between her legs, Prometheus wraps an arm around her thigh and settles his hand below her belly button. His touch is light, though could turn into a vise-like grip to hold her still at any moment.
He starts at her knee, dragging his tongue up along her inner thigh, making small flicking motions as he goes. He repeats this on the other side, though this time he bites down and sucks as he goes, leaving a trail of small bruises.
Clinging to some semblance of dignity, Melinoë refuses to beg him to hurry up and move his tongue to exactly where she wants it. Her pulse is a steadily growing throb between her legs that aches for relief.
“If you don’t hurry it up sometime before the next aeon, I’m going to leave,” she snaps. It comes out harsher than she had intended, desperate as she is to not reveal the depth of her want.
Concern flashes across his face. He draws back and covers her hips with the side of the blanket.
“Do you want me to stop?” He sounds so concerned about her she cannot bear it. It would be so much simpler if he would just flip her onto her stomach and fuck himself on her until he’s spent.
It is a perfect out. Melinoë could stop him here and try to forget the way his mouth leaves trails of fire on her skin. How he feels slotted between her legs. She has every logical reason to hate him, and no excuse for how badly she wants Prometheus to keep going.
Wordlessly, she removes the blanket, exposing herself again, and winds her fingers into his hair to push him towards her sex. He does not delay any longer, immediately licking down her inner labia and tonguing at her entrance. His mouth is hot, adding to the growing pool of heat in her lower stomach.
She keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling and her fingers tangled in his hair. Melinoë feels no small amount of satisfaction in that he is unable to speak for once, mouth occupied as it is. Each flick of his soft tongue either makes her gasp, her hands tighten in his hair, or her leg to twitch against his back. Pressure builds in her core, her release getting closer each time he licks at her clit.
With his hand along her lower abdomen, he firmly pulls her skin up, exposing her clit from its hood. He latches on, and sucks. Melinoë almost cries out his name, but stops herself as it’s on the tip of her tongue. Her breaths come in ragged pants, until her entire body tenses as she succumbs to waves of pleasure.
Recovered enough, she releases Prometheus’ head and props herself up on her elbows. She spares a glance down at him, and sees his chin is shiny and his eyes are burning into hers. He holds her gaze as he inserts a long finger inside her.
Prometheus isn’t anywhere near finished with her, she realizes. She feels foolish for having even entertained the notion that this would be quick. He is so thorough, meticulous, and focused with everything he does, unravelling her would be no exception.
He fucks her slowly with one finger, his thumb making lazy circles over her clit. He adds a second finger, the pleasant stretch to fit both causing her head to loll back. She can feel his piercing gaze still on her, as if he doesn’t want to miss a single example of how reactive she is to his touch.
Prometheus pins her hips down with his arm, then curls his fingers inside her, reaching the spot inside her that makes her spasm. Melinoë’s hips attempt to buck, but his arm is like iron restraining her. Using his foresight to anticipate her reactions, then. It’s dizzying to think of what he may have seen, how many different ways he saw himself tipping her over the edge.
His hand increases in speed, making her knees splay outwards to grant him full access. He switches between curling his fingers and scissoring motions to stretch her even further. Pressure is rising again in her core, a familiar sensation at this point. Hands fisting in the blanket under her, Melinoë nearly cries out his name as she comes apart on his hand, catching herself on the first syllable. From the smirk curling his lips, she knows he caught it.
While Prometheus would likely happily remain down there until daybreak, she feels far too sensitive for any more direct contact at the moment.
“Come here,” she beckons. He crawls up to be face to face with her again, caging her in with his forearms. He pushes the fingers that were just inside Melinoë past her lips, making her taste herself. He withdraws them and replaces them with his lips. She feels an insatiable desire now, threatening to consume her in its intensity now that it has been freed. Unbidden, her legs wrap around his waist again and she pulls him in.
Her tongue runs along his lips, seeking entrance. His hand finds the nape of her neck, tilting her head up to give him the best angle before he opens his mouth and swallows her moan as he licks into her mouth. It is a good thing that Melinoë does not strictly need to breathe, because he doesn’t let up for a moment. When he finally pulls away, a strand of saliva connects them and his lips are swollen.
Prometheus pulls away from her, much to her dismay and whining, to sit up on his calves. Up on her elbows again, she watches his hands travel towards his hips. She cannot look away as he, teasingly slow, reaches under the sash and works the ties of the braided belt loose. Melinoë wishes she could do it herself, but she feels as if she will collapse if she tries to sit up.
Free from the belt, the layers of the garment slip down and he tosses them to the side without looking. Her sex aches at the sight of his tented pants. Savouring every moment of her anticipation, he starts to pull his pants off, slowly of course.
Dropping on her back again, she debates peeking at his size but decides on blissful ignorance to avoid panicking about how he will fit without splitting her in two.
Pointless, as he has returned to caging her in between his forearms, pressing himself, burning hot, against her leg. Prometheus knows her too well, bringing down one hand to secure her hips before dragging his cock along her slit. Whimpering, she thrashes under him as much as she can, seeking any amount of friction. He does it again, turning her into a begging, writhing mess that emits a string of incoherent words that probably contains his name and ‘please’.
“Not until you tell me exactly what you want. You won’t enjoy this fully if your mind and desires aren’t aligned.”
He is precisely as evil and cruel as Melinoë initially believed about him. To bring her this far, and still tease and deny her.
Melinoë does everything possible to avoid admitting how much she wants him aloud. She frantically nods, digs her heels into his back to try and pull him down, claws at his shoulders with her nails. Nothing works—he doesn’t budge.
“Not good enough. I need to hear you say it.” He wraps a hand around his cock to rub it in teasing circles around her clit while he waits for her.
“Prometheus, please.” Tears are nearly springing to her eyes; she feels on the brink of death with want. She wishes she had the strength to flip Prometheus onto his back and take him on her terms. Melinoë tries to hide her face in his shoulder, but his hand weaves into her hair to gently, almost kindly, pull her head back so she cannot look away from him.
“Please what?” He feigns ignorance, as if there is any possibility he doesn’t know what she wants him to do. He aligns himself with her, and pushes only the head of his cock in. Despite how overwhelmed she feels, she doesn’t miss the way his composure falters as he withdraws. While his patience far exceeds hers, he is denying himself too.
Her instinct and rational thoughts wage war within her, what she wants and what she knows she shouldn’t want at odds with each other. Melinoë decides she is quite done with thinking tonight, and surrenders herself to desire.
“Please. I want you to fuck me, please, pl—“ She is cut off by his shuddering moan as he pushes in with one shallow thrust at a time. He attentively watches her, noticing when she hisses in pain from the burning stretch to accommodate his girth. Pausing, he waits for her signal before continuing to carefully fuck into her. The fact that he is so concerned for her comfort is somehow more intimate than him fucking her right now is.
Now fully buried in her, Prometheus gives her a few moments to acclimate before fucking her in earnest. He sets a slow pace that quickly turns relentless as the last remnants of his self-restraint vanish. Under him, between his arms, she feels completely enclosed.
He leans down into the crook of her neck, his breath ghosting over her ear as he whispers, “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
A tear escapes from one eye but she wipes it away, hoping he is too distracted to have noticed.
He pauses briefly, a sudden sense of emptiness as he pulls out of her to retrieve an extra pillow he left nearby earlier. With one hand flat on her sacrum, Prometheus easily lifts her up and tucks a pillow underneath her hips. Melinoë takes advantage of the opportunity, hooking her legs up on his shoulders. Smirking, as if glad she made that decision rather than another, he runs both hands along her thighs until they reach the back of her knees. He pushes down until her legs are pinned against the ground, spread wide for him. That sense of relief returns, at ceding control to him.
He teases her no longer, and reinserts his cock, immediately driving deep. The new angle enables him to penetrate even deeper than before, drawing gasps from both of them. Melinoë can feel his nails digging into her skin; she decides to return the favour by dragging hers along his back. He resumes his unrelenting pace, alternating between quick short thrusts and pulling himself nearly all the way out before slamming back in.
Prometheus starts to mutter a string of words, difficult to make out as his voice is breathless. She thinks she almost catches the word ‘beautiful’.
She imagines herself from his perspective: half-lidded eyes with pupils blown so wide they devour her irises, strands of blonde hair sticking to her sweaty face, a line of bruises running up her inner thigh.
His pace becomes stuttery and erratic, previous rhythm lost. His breathing is shaky, and she knows he must be close. Prometheus releases one leg to wind a hand between them, spreading her apart and thumbing her clit again to give her the last push she needs. Melinoë holds nothing back the third and final time, crying his name as she clenches down on his cock, pulling him over the edge with her. He spills himself inside her, the heat of it nearly burning her from the inside out.
He rests on his forearms until he catches his breath, chest heaving. Prometheus pulls out of her, a whimper escapes her at the abrupt hollow feeling. Tenderly, he sweeps strands of hair away from her face and lays a kiss on her forehead. He moves down, pressing another on the tip of her nose before meeting her lips. It is closed-mouth, and for no reason other than to show the depth of his affection for her.
Reluctantly, as if it pains him to do so, he pulls away from her and stands. A chill runs down Melinoë’s body, at the loss of his body heat and the sheen of sweat drying on her. The blanket underneath her contributes to the chill, soaked as it is with sweat and fluids. She rolls on her side towards the hearth, now reduced to flickering blue flames, and pushes herself up to sitting. Her field of view briefly narrows, head rushing from the change in position. She can hear Prometheus behind her, rummaging around through drawers.
Melinoë would get up and join him, but she doesn’t think herself capable of walking in a straight line ever again, let alone standing up. More blue light illuminates the room as he ignites flames on his hand and holds it under a clay basin filled with water until it emits steam.
She turns to face Prometheus, now wearing a simple chiton, resting her weight behind her on the heels of her palms. He kneels in front of her and sits on his calves, setting down the basin and new linens. Melinoë dips a cloth in and wrings it out, scrubbing her face and neck clean. She quickly rakes wet fingers through her hair to detangle it. He has started unwinding the wraps around his abdomen to rebind them, it having come too loose to be effective anymore. His movements are deft, practiced, as if he has done this hundreds of times before.
“Next time, I want you to be the one helplessly babbling on your back,” Melinoë says, the absence of shame or embarrassment allowing her to speak freely.
“There’s going to be a next time?” He lets out a gasp in mock surprise. Of course he has already foreseen that this would not be a one-time occurrence.
She doesn’t try to suppress the soft laugh that escapes her. He smiles, its warmth feeling like its own sun. It’s the first time Melinoë has seen him smile without any undertones of scorn or contempt in it.
Taking a fresh cloth, Prometheus guides her knees to fall to either side as she leans back and supports her weight on her palms. He wipes away the come leaking out from between her legs, yielding a sharp hiss—she is still oversensitive. He tugs out the linen from under her, tossing it aside, and replaces it with a clean one. He takes another blanket, somehow warm, and wraps it around her body and embraces her into his arms.
Drowsiness tugs at her eyelids; between the warmth of the blanket and his chest she feels like she is melting in his arms. Each and every one of her barriers constructed to keep him out of her heart has been dissolved. A warm haze envelops her mind, making it possible to voice something Melinoë has been wondering about.
“Does it not bother you? That you feel more deeply for me than I for you?”
“As I said, I’m good at waiting.” He kisses the top of her head before tucking it back under his chin. His arms around her back and under her knees are secure, holding her to him.
“And what if I can’t ever express myself as openly as you do? Or if I change my mind?”
“Even if you grew apart from me, you know I can endure what others would deem unbearable suffering.”
The specific fear Melinoë has sits like a heavy lump in her stomach. She has buried it, shunned it, stubbornly refused to acknowledge it, in hopes that it would just go away. It’s dangerous how safe Prometheus makes her feel, like she can give voice to her deepest burdens.
“I can’t see any way this ends well for us. If the Olympians prevail, they’d see to it that you were bound once more. If Chronos wins, he would imprison me with the rest of my family. Don’t you see? Why I fought you so hard. I don’t know how I could handle having you, only to then lose you.” Melinoë asks the question she doesn’t want to hear the answer to. “What have you foreseen? What happens to us?”
He hesitates, brow furrowing, before replying, “...I can’t answer that. I see possible outcomes, and as of now I cannot be sure which is our destination. All of our lives, even mine, are based around unknowns. We can only rely on ourselves to bring about the future we wish to see realized.”
Every aspect of Melinoë’s life had been planned and laid out in a sequential fashion for her to follow. To break free from that, to carve her own path and trust in unknowns evokes a deep feeling of powerlessness. Paradoxically, it also brings a sense of volition. Her future could belong to her and her only.
Prometheus continues, “I cannot make you promises about what the future holds, but so long as our paths are intertwined, I shall be here with you.”
Her heart stutters in her chest. No longer would she have to confront the future, the conclusion to her task, alone. She winds a hand into his hair, pulling him down into a kiss.
“There’s a third potential outcome, you know, where neither prevail,” he murmurs, shaping the words against her lips.
“Who would rule, then?”
“Nobody.”
His Golden Age that he believes her utterly capable of ushering in. A world with no divine rulers and no Fates, where they are free to choose whichever paths they wish. A world where Melinoë would be free to fully release herself from her blood curse.
A smile tugs at her lips. The possibility ignites a flicker of hope within her, something to fight for. Her eyes flutter shut as she succumbs to her weariness. Just before Melinoë is pulled under, she feels Prometheus close his hand into a fist to extinguish the firelight.
***
Melinoë looks so peaceful asleep, her features relaxed into a serene expression. While her fierce determination and venomous anger are familiar to Prometheus, he cannot say the same of her at rest. Her breathing is easy, marked with an occasional deep breath as she curls in closer to him. He had foreseen this as a possibility since near the end of his imprisonment, though the vision did not include the depth of his feelings for her. What he would do to ensure she would remain at his side. Once Prometheus had met her in person, he had grasped this outcome out of many and held fast to it, letting it guide his actions and choices.
There had been other potential outcomes where Melinoë chose to stay loyal to the Olympians, Prometheus remaining only a treacherous thief in her eyes. They were like tapestries in his mind, woven by the Fates and depicting events yet to happen. He had plucked loose threads from these tapestries, and pulled until the entire possibility unravelled. The only tapestry that remains now is the one where she becomes his Agent of Change.
Soft mauve light enters the room, muted by the drapes. Eos must be traversing the sky in her chariot, rosy fingers bringing the dawn with her.
Melinoë stirs in his arms, awakening with a small jolt as memories rush back to her. Something new is in her mismatched eyes, now that she has at last shed her doubts and hesitancy. Warmth and affection, no longer masked by hostility.
Her gaze flicks to the window, the new light catching her attention. She wriggles free from Prometheus’ arms, keeping herself wrapped in the blanket. It hangs off her frame like an elegantly folded chiton. Melinoë stands, gripping his shoulder for balance. Her fingers trail down his arm, until she reaches his hand and laces her spectral fingers with his burnt ones. With a shy smile, she pulls him to his feet and tugs him over to the window. He thinks there aren’t many places he wouldn’t let her lead him to.
Melinoë pulls the drape aside just as Helios crests the horizon, filling the land with his golden light. Though Prometheus knows the garden truly comes alive in sunlight, it is not enough to draw his eyes away from Melinoë and her radiance.
Her flaxen hair shines like liquid gold and her pale skin is luminescent like pearls. Ethereal, he realizes, that a goddess born in shadows could reflect sunlight like this. Her green eye is the same vivid green of new spring growth, though she is squinting to shield her eyes from the bright light.
She will have to leave soon, her blood curse bidding her to return to shadow, but Prometheus finds he is perfectly content to not think about the future and remain in this present moment with her.