Golden blood that slowly turns red
She is getting weaker, you can tell. She avoids knives, swords, anything that cuts now where she used to be drawn to them. Drawn to fighting, no matter how much she scoffer and rolled her eyes and said she was smarter than that. She looks at them with longing, these swords hanging on your walls, but she doesn’t dare. You hate seeing that light she used to get leave her eyes, but you’re not going to speak. Even if it feels like the words are nailed to the walls of your throat, hurting you as long as you keep them in. You love her too much to hurt her by releasing words she wants to collect dust.
She is getting weaker and you can tell, because she used to be able to carry you with one arm and a laugh on her face. Now , when she picks you up, it’s with a little strain. Not much, she is still like a bodybuilder, and even more but enough to know that now when she does it one-handed, it’s hard work. You never tell her, for she would only start to hide more and make sure she seems as strong as ever. You make sure your eyes never linger on the straining muscles, that they never fill with worry. You love her too much to show her worry that would only lead to her hurting herself.
She is getting weaker and you can tell, because her skin is gathering scars. She used to heal miraculously. Golden liquid would be swallowed and skin glowing with golden droplets would sew itself back together. Bruises on that skin would fade. Now, there are vague lines where she was stabbed, marks from where her half-brother tried to burn her and marks she won’t even let you see. You don’t turn the light on, because she is adamant in not wanting you to.
She is getting weaker, and you can tell. She squints as she tries to read posters, eyes deteriorating because half of her life, they are stuck to pages filled with words. She brings books closer and closer until they’re practically touching her nose . She refuses to buy glasses to match yours, pretends like losing sight isn’t freaking her out. You never force her to buy glasses, because she is too stubborn for that to be anything but angry words going back and forth.
You’re mortal, so you’ve only known her since you were nineteen years old and she first entered your favorite library in that haughty way of hers. You have only known her since you spent weeks reading side-by-side, whispering little remarks back-and-forth until you finally had saved enough courage to ask her on a date.
But this weakening has started far before that. She doesn’t like to talk about the days that her golden blood burned like the sun, that her temples were a startling mess of colors and that mortals fell on their knees for her. Her eyes lose all life, her teeth nearly break each other and she becomes that callous woman made of walls again.
She never says so, but she misses it. She is terrified and confused and lost, addicted to the power and glory she had before. It has taken you many whispered promises, has led to you being ignored and verbally attacked but you’ve managed to pry some memories from her.
My father’s voice was booming… but far too often angry, and he was self-righteous
She says one day, looking away and keeping her voice like ice. (she sees her father once a month. He is losing his mind, pretending he is still a legend that even the Gods have to bow to)
There was always something to be mad about.. some mortal whose story ended with tragedy
She doesn’t look guilty about this, not really, but there is a flash of remorse in her eyes. Like she is only just starting to understand Arachne’s story and Medusa’s and Selene’s and Callisto’s as well as a thousand others should’ve ended more happily. (that her family’s touch wasn’t golden, but rotten)
When Dad threw parties, even I drank goblet after goblet, hummed to songs and pretended that ‘our family’ wasn’t a broken mess of anger and dangerous pride
She says this looking at the cup of tea she is drinking, like the past is appearing in the green-tinted water. You and I both don’t really like parties. You wonder whether she doesn’t like them, because she is used to better ones.
During the Roman times, we were still drunk on power. Christianity was introduced, and we were sobering quickly. Modern times and there are too many atheists to be anything more than ‘very powerful’. Invincible, omni-potent… it all doesn’t exist in us anymore.
She hates admitting weakness, even after having centuries to learn she isn’t without flaws. She hates admitting her flaws too, never says sorry until your eyes are brimming with tears and screaming at her to leave you alone. And even then, the words leave her mouth like teeth being pulled out.
Still, she is sweet behind the walls and coldness. There wasn’t much room for kindness and warmth she admits, your head on her lap and her eyes focused on the book in her hands. Now she is learning, bringing you flowers that mean love and leaving post-it-notes with poems copied from your favorite books, or book titles. You have to guide her a lot of times, explain mortality to her (how much more important people are when you know you can lose them and they you) and she stumbles a lot. It’s not in her nature you think, but you love that she is trying for you.
She is getting weaker and yet more terrified. She never cries or even speaks the words, but you read them in her eyes when she stares at scars like they’re labyrinths with their own minotaur or when she checks her hair for the grey she only wants in her eyes.
In medieval times… we faded for a bit. Like sleeping, but deeper. And then the renaissance came and we awoke. We weren’t… we weren’t like before. But we were strong enough for death not be a thing to be feared.
She tells you all of this while she is teaching you to dance. She is more patient than you expected, but still strict and demanding. You grit your teeth and force your aching muscles through her instructions, laugh when you finally are good enough to earn yourself a satisfied smile from her.
World war one… it was horrifying. We were closer to mortals than we had been on top of Olympus and even I…it was just inconceivable to the others that people could use such cruelty as mustard gas or worse. Then World War two happened and we didn’t think humanity was human anymore. Even us, capable of using humans and throwing them out like thrash, were struck dumb with horror at the sight of so many people dying.. or worse..
The great goddess of war sounds heartbroken at that memory. Her grey eyes are pained, her nails buried into the chair she is sitting in… if you ever doubted her heart, you can’t anymore after seeing it shown so plainly in her face.
You’re mortal, just an intelligent person with an intense love of words. She is a goddess losing her immortality, power still at her fingertips. Perhaps you shouldn’t work, shouldn’t understand each other nearly perfectly but you still do. Somehow.
You live your life in the arms of a wisdom goddess and you never miss what you could’ve had with someone less complicated, less scarred… someone who would have loved you a little easier.
She is a mess of a woman and you wouldn’t have her any other way.
I don’t own Greek mythology.
