a sense of purpose (and impending doom) // moros (hades II) x reader
CURRENT // part 2 // part 3 // part 4
summary: a shade who yearns for a purpose beyond just doing what is required meets certain doom. literally.
tags: gender neutral reader, description of dying, no major story spoilers
w/c: 2316 // MASTERPOST
The River Cocytus whispered tonight, its current heavy with muted prayers and the unspoken laments of both the dead and the living. To most, its voice was a torment, a reminder of sorrow without end. To a lone shade perched at the edge of a weathered pier, it was a lullaby. They released a soft sigh, an echo of a habit from mortal days, lingering still despite their lack of breath or lungs, and let the night breeze drift through their half-corporeal form.
They had just returned from the surface giving their report to Odysseus, ever the shrewd mind of the Crossroads. Nothing unusual to recount: a handful of Chronos’s soldiers, though most of the trouble came from the lingering beasts that prowled the ruins of Ephyra. Routine and predictable. And so, with the night washed silver by the moon, the shade let their feet dangle into the dark waters and allowed their thoughts to drift back toward the affairs of the Crossroads.
Princess Melinoë had already departed once more into the depths of the Underworld. Another attempt, another impossible strike at Chronos himself. Such was her duty, the shade mused. A life of relentless striving, burdened with both expectation and somehow a predetermined notion of failure. Somewhere behind them, voices rose in animated chatter, but the shade did not listen. This moment was theirs. Visitors, duties, conversation, those could wait.
Then the voices fell silent. The shade almost turned, but the sound of heavy, measured footsteps reached them first. Nemesis. She strode past with her usual severity, flanked by two guardian shades likely bound for patrol. Her gaze swept over the pier without pause, passing through the lingering shade as though they were no more than mist, not to the surprise of the shade.
Once, that indifference had cut deep. Once, they had burned for her recognition, even dared to dream of training under the vigilant protector of the Crossroads. They had wanted greatness in death, to seize the second chance they’d never had in life, to carve a purpose that might endure time. But Nemesis had dismissed them without ceremony, disdain plain in her words. Unremarkable in life, unremarkable still in death.
The sting had dulled with time, though it never truly faded. What once burned as ambition had softened into something quieter. Not greatness, not immortality, just the steady resolve to do enough. Enough for Headmistress Hecate, for the Princess, for Odysseus and the other shades. Enough for the Crossroads. Enough to matter, even if only in small ways. A quiet yearning remained: to be better, to prove themselves worthy of trust. Suffering was common, almost effortless. Kindness, by contrast, was rare. And so they chose it, again and again.
But they had always been weak. In life, as in death. They could not protect anyone, not their home, not themselves. Their modest dwelling burned around them as the thieves rushed through, shoving every coin, every trinket, every cherished keepsake into their pockets. A knife had found its way deep into their abdomen, and they bled quietly in the corner. Smoke clawed at their lungs, stung their eyes, though perhaps it was only the blood filling them inside. Likely both. The thieves did not even look their way, granting them the final insult of being beneath notice. Such was the dignity of their death.
Only one gaze had lingered: a pair of deep, violet eyes. Unwavering, solemn. While the fire roared and the beams above split with a groan, while the thieves fled without a glance, those eyes remained. Watching. Bearing witness. To them, the tall, ashen figure was no terror, but a comfort. The only assurance that they would not die alone, when all else had already been stripped away.
In their haste, the last thief dropped a handful of coins. They scattered across the floor, one rolling, spinning, until it came to rest within reach of a trembling, bloodied hand. Wrenching their hands from Thanatos’ waiting grasp, their fingers closed around it, the searing metal burning their palm. They held it tightly, as if it were proof they had left the world with something still their own, something they can offer to the boatman. And as the ceiling gave way and the flames claimed them whole, their last breath was not a scream, but a sigh of relief.
The next time the shade saw those striking violet eyes was when Doom Incarnate himself, Lord Moros, appeared at the Crossroads, summoned at the behest of Princess Melinoë. Many had taken it as an ill omen then, to invite the bearer of calamity into their hidden refuge was a questionable decision at best. Even Headmistress Hecate had her doubts, and the gathered shades, all victims of fate’s cruelty, could not help but remember the violence of their own ends.
The shade drew their feet from the river’s edge and leaned forward. From the pier, if one leaned just far enough, one could glimpse where Lord Moros had stationed himself beside the Fated List. At that moment, he was speaking with Princess Melinoë. (Had she returned early? Perhaps her fight below had gone poorly.) From this distance, the shade couldn’t make out their words, not that it mattered, for conversations in the Crossroads were always held in hushed tones. The Princess shifted slightly, her gaze moving over something inscribed upon the Fated List.
The shade had tried more than once to steal a glance at that divine record during the rare moments when Moros was not standing sentinel, but to no avail. All they ever glimpsed were letters in ceaseless motion, shimmering and reforming across the gold-woven surface, a language alive yet forever beyond mortal comprehension. The Fates had not written those words for them, and the prophecies were not meant for unchosen eyes. Speaking of eyes,
They froze.
Across the dim expanse, Lord Moros’ violet gaze found them. The shade couldn’t make out his expression from such a distance, yet the weight of that look was unmistakable. Heavy, deliberate, knowing. It cut clean through the haze of death and memory alike, dragging to the surface the image seared into their soul: fire consuming the walls, smoke clawing at their lungs, the iron scent of blood, the knife buried deep, and that final, fragile breath of relief before the end.
The shade tore their gaze away and rose abruptly. If they still possessed a heart, it would have been pounding against their ribs. Never before had a god’s eyes fixed upon them with such intent, so direct, so singular, that for one impossible moment, it felt as though the lowly shade was the only being left in existence. The thought unsettled them. They weren’t sure they were ready to bear the weight of being seen so completely, to become, even for a heartbeat, the center of someone’s gaze.
They exhaled a shaky breath, trying to scatter the storm that encounter had stirred within them. (Was it even an encounter? He had been so far away…)
Nothing steadied the mind quite like battle, they had learned. Perhaps it was time to return to the surface, to the torn ruins of Ephyra. If nothing else, the city’s remnants still offered what could be put to use: bones, nectar, ashes… remnants of lives lost. And in clearing the way, they could carve an easier path for the Princess when she next ascended toward Mount Olympus.
Decision made, the shade turned from the Crossroads and vanished into the night.
—
It wasn’t long before the shade returned to the Crossroads. Their form was battered and faintly flickering, weariness clinging to every motion, but such was the cost of rushing headlong into battle. It couldn’t be helped. Inside their satchel lay a modest cluster of bones, there had been little else to find today, and the shade had no wish to wander deeper into danger. They were not yet strong enough for the true frontlines, however much they longed to be. This would have to do. A few bones for their trouble. Enough, for now.
The bones still had their use. The shade made their way down to the Wretched Broker, by the same pier where they’d sat beneath the moonlight not long ago. The Broker’s wares were few, but scarcity was a given in wartime. Still, fortune favored them: a single bottle of nectar remained. The shade traded the bones, receiving the neatly wrapped bottle in exchange.
Their first thought was to drink it there by the pier, a small indulgence for work done, however minor. Yet, as they turned, their gaze caught the ashen form of Doom himself, standing alone beside the Fated List. Shades passed him at a cautious distance, their silence heavy, their disdain edged with fear. For all his divine bearing, he looked… lonely. Something in the sight struck the shade deeply.
“Lord Moros,” the shade began, their voice naturally soft like a breeze, though not uncertain. The god’s violet eyes turned to meet them, steady, unblinking, curious. No shades ever sought him out, much less dared to speak.
“I bring you this offering of nectar,” they continued, holding the bottle carefully between their fading hands. “I hope it is to your liking.”
The glass caught the faint light of the moon, its surface glowing silver while the liquid within shimmered a deep amber hue. Moros remained silent, his expression unreadable, and the stillness between them stretched thin. The shade’s confidence began to waver. Had they done something wrong? Was the offering unworthy of him, or perhaps it was improper to speak to him at all? Unease crept in, and before they could stop themselves, words began to spill out.
“You were there… in my final moments,” they murmured. “And I wished to show my gratitude. I hope I’m not overstepping.”
“I… thank you. I don’t quite know what to say to such kindness,” Lord Moros murmured, his voice low and resonant as he accepted the bottle from the shade’s trembling hands. The faint brush of his fingers against theirs sent a ripple through the shade’s body. Relief washed through them like warmth through veins long stilled. They dared to look up, at his face, though not into his eyes, and straightened from their bow, uncertain of what came next.
In life, they had made many offerings to the gods, but never like this, never face to face. Offerings were meant for altars, for temples, for unseen hands beyond mortal reach. There was no opportunity for an ordinary soul to stand so near to divinity, let alone offer a gift directly. And even if such a chance arose, encounters between gods and mortals seldom ended kindly for the latter. They were just beginning to step back, to retreat into the safety of silence, when Moros spoke again.
“I have not received offerings from mortals before,” he said, turning the bottle in his hand as though studying the way moonlight caught the amber within. “Only the Princess has granted me nectar until now.”
The shade froze. Surely this was a test, some divine trick meant to expose arrogance or ignorance. “H-how can that be?” they stammered, words tumbling out in a fragile whisper. “You… you play such an important role in mortal life, granting us dignity in our final moments. How could it be that my humble offering is the first of its kind?”
Moros’ expression softened, the faintest trace of something melancholic flickering across his features. “Mortals seldom see it as you do,” he said quietly. “They meet me in fear, not reverence. My presence is not a blessing to them, but an end to be fled from. It cannot be helped.”
The shade struggled to comprehend it. Death came for all, it was as certain as the turning of the stars. Why, then, did mortals despise the inevitable so fiercely? Why scorn the one who carried it with such quiet duty? Did they not see that life’s worth was shaped by its impermanence? And yet, unfairly, they condemned the bearer of their fate. Lord Moros, who spoke with such calm and courtesy, more so than the other gods the shade had heard tales of.
“Then I shall bring you more offerings,” the shade declared, their voice steadier now, each word lending substance to their half-corporeal form. “For all the ones you have yet to receive.” Gratitude laced their tone, and for the first time, they met Lord Moros’ gaze directly. The deep violet of his eyes flickered with surprise, an expression the shade had never seen, and one they were wholly unprepared for, however, strangely it did not deter them.
“Such a promise… I must confess, I am wary,” Moros murmured, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “The gods above are more deserving of your offerings.” Though not meant as a warning, the words carried the weight of one, a reminder of how easily a god could take offense, and the peril that could follow. It would be a pity if the shade standing in front of him now were to be hit with a calamity they were not deserving of. Yet the shade remained undeterred.
“The other gods receive countless gifts already,” they said softly, their lifeless eyes gleaming with quiet resolve. “Please… I insist.” Their tone dipped to a whisper, as if fearful the gods above might somehow overhear this act of defiance, though such a thing was impossible. The Crossroads were hidden, even from them.
“I shall find you something truly exquisite!”
Without waiting for a reply, the shade bowed deeply, saluted the god, and turned on their heels, already racing toward the ruins of Ephyra in search of something worthy. Odysseus’ waiting report was forgotten in the urgency, swept aside by the fire of their newfound purpose. Nothing mattered now but finding a gift befitting the Doom Incarnate, and honoring the quiet, improbable connection that had formed between mortal and god.
˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。
a/n: thank you for reading! i have yet to finish the game, so i hope i havent written anything that clashes with the existing lore aahahha,, ill try to finish the game by the time i start working on the next parts,, until then !!!
Fate is decided from birth, the Moirai weaving and threading the life of each one born, including the gods — something far preceding the existence of all, warmth and existence of night around the fates as she lets go of her daughters and her son.
There is no moving fate, and unless you were wise enough, there was no threading through the holes of life to abuse your aforementioned fate.
Moros understands the fates the most, his sisters raising him from youth, understanding that once a thread was cut, there was no way to restore it. Death would claim the soul, and they would live the rest of their days in the underworld. There is something far more concerning through all of it, his eyes curious as a child, watching as his sisters would tell him the fates of all those determined by it. The entire world would be in his hands as he watched his sisters thread and weave the fates of the world, strings twisting amongst each other to symbolize a meeting.
He had been shown his own string, one that could not be cut even if his sisters tried.
"Gods can not be cut, only threaded." Lachesis hummed.
"May I thread my string with someone else?" He blinks up, staring at the first thread of his life, the way it split from night's.
"Perhaps if you show us the desperation we seek."
Moros has no need to speak to anyone other than his assignments. When he approaches, someone is aware that their time is up. When he steps close to humans, most know that it is not far from the time that they will meet death. When he brushes his hands against a string, his sisters know that they do not have much time left. Even for Odysseus, when his fingers finally pinched at the string, the inevitable was coming, and it was more than apparent that there was a touch of doom to his skin, a touch of demise burned at his fingertips — fitting for the god people referred to as doom.
Even when he had doomed an entire family, his brother's assignments stacking until his own brother stopped functioning, he had not much of a reaction. Human emotion is fickle. The need to feel something specific was fickle. When his sisters threaded and weaved human lives like tapestry, he had no say or need to feel for the souls he would never meet. His portion was not in the house, but with his sisters, whom he both adored and feared, fingers reaching for strings when he deemed them fit. When he would bring the doom of one, then there would have been no say otherwise. Shortly after one's doom was always one's demise — death. Though, his younger brother had been out of service from the doom of his beloved. Perhaps he should not have messed with the string in the first place. Lachesis had felt bad, though Clotho had rambled about how amusing it was to her. There was no sibling relationship where unnecessary. Had night truly wanted them to feel for one another, she would have not sent everyone so far from one another.
Moros does not have time to stutter and stumble over fickle emotions.
"We have a small assignment for you," Atropos speaks. When she spoke, it always meant something important.
"Is it another thread?"
"No." She shakes her head, eyes closing. "Perhaps, you will find this one matters. Just let us do the weaving and do not touch the thread of this one."
Moros nods slowly, understanding his sisters as he is told where to go.
In the deep depths of the underworld, Moros is sent to greet someone in the depths of the underworld, a shade with something akin to charm that could have rivaled Helen of Troy. It did not matter to him, for all he was there to do was supervise. The shade had tried to escape the clutches of the underworld too many times, and it seemed that death himself could not stop them anymore, and perhaps doom could keep them in place and kill all hope that they would be able to slip onto the surface of the world. Moros finds it ironic that a person who could escape the fates would be left to his hands. Perhaps, this is fate as well.
So, your strand is tied into his hair, fastened to hide the existence of your fate in his hair, forever embedded in a part of him, perhaps. He knows his sisters have a plan for him, and he trusts that the most they would do is perhaps play a harmless joke, so he sits there as Clotho chatters about, detailing the shade and their life in Greece, fastening his hair into a delightful design as he stares at himself in the mirror, blinking slowly at the singular silver strand that reflects the light deeply hidden in the strands of his hair. He does not give so much of a reaction, thanking his sister instead, lips curled upwards sweetly that he always had, even as a child.
"Ehem." He coughs as he catches you sneaking to follow the prince through the gates to the temple.
"Oh... are you my new bodyguard? Doom?" You raise a brow, lips quirked up cheekily as he recalls the description given by his sisters. The prettiest human to have ever graced Greece. The person who had been so dazzling that perhaps they could lead nations to demise and countries to ruin. To him, such beauty was pointless. To him, his sisters will string the fate of the people around him, and there was no reason for him to care or attend to such pointless things. In such a way, perhaps he is apathetic to such things, but only a fool would be able to resist such a situation.
"Come on." You lean in to bat your lashes at him, grinning cheekily. "Please? Just one chance. I die to the lord each time anyway. Please?"
"No." He stares down at you through his own lashes, heart unmoving as you huff and stand straight.
"It's so boring here!"
"And the overworld is more entertaining?"
"Oh, gods, no." You wave your hand. "I prefer watching the young prince destroy the king in battle instead. Also, it is quite a sight to watch. Have you seen such?"
"I am afraid I am not in contact with neither the prince nor the king."
"Hm." You tap your chin, fingers reaching for Moros as he flinches back out of reflex, refusing to let you doom yourself in such a way. "Woah, woah. Formalest of apologies, doom. I was not aware you disliked being touched."
"No, that is not it." He sighs. "Do not touch me for the sake of yourself."
"Will I be cursed?"
"Perhaps there is a fate that is worse than death. Do not wish to find out."
"Hm..." You tap your chin again, leaning against the railing of your place as you stare down at the bull and king return to their original positions, willing to fight whomever had the guts. "Say, Doom."
"Yes?"
"If I defeat the bull man and the king, may the fates grant me a small wish?"
"I am not the fates."
"But surely, they sent you here?"
"I can not change fate."
"Surely, you can convince them?"
"I can not. They are far less forgiving than I."
You shrug anyway. "How about from you?"
"I do not gain much from watching you seek thrill, young soul."
"Perhaps you will. If you are entertained, shall you grant me a small wish?"
"And what might this small wish be?"
"I wish to meet the fates."
"That will not be possible."
"Then how about some knowledge about you? It does not need to be related to the fates. You are my new guardian, after all."
He blinks twice — which you take as a confirmation, hopping over the ledge of the seats in the colosseum, weapon forming in your hand as the king laughs at you for challenging the two. Moros settles in the crowd of shades, hood thrown over his head to cancel his identity, watching as your axe swings and swings, spinning in circles as you cut and tear at the other two shades, your laughter growing manic by the moment as you strike down the bull first, the shield clamoring as you strike again and again, aiming for his head. Doom sees the death of mankind often, though not the mania that was moreso visible on your face.
He ponders over just what he should tell you about himself. Perhaps that he was raised by the fates? Or that he knows not much of his mother? Or perhaps, he should tell you that the horns on his head are fake. He is not accustomed to getting to know others, so perhaps, your curiosity was warranted. For the doom of mankind himself to force a shade to stay still was more than entertaining enough. Perhaps he was sent here for the entertainment of his beloved sisters. Thus, when your axe finally slices through the king while he shifts, victory hangs over your head as you wink up at Moros. The crowd gasps as another shade swoons, and Moros understands perhaps why you were so valued even during your time alive.
"Help me up, would you, dearest doom?" You wave your axe to work as leverage, and Moros towers over instead, leaning down to grab your wrist to pull you back up. You flip back up with ease, the weight of your body long gone after you had become a shade.
What would he say in a situation like this? Well done? Good job? "Well job." He pauses. "My apologies. Good job."
You laugh, mouth open as your body shakes, hunched over as Moros collects himself and grimaces at his own awkwardness.
"Is that your fun fact? That you can't speak around people that even the gods are jealous of for their visage?"
"That is not, brave shade. There is no amusement in revealing such things at such haste."
"Then what would such a fun fact be?"
"The horns on my head," He hums, leaning down to tower over you. "Are not part of me."
"So they are part of your accessories?"
"You could frame it that way." He hums.
"Okay, well, fun fact about me." You point at yourself, axe dissipating as you hum. "You found the wrong shade, quite unfortunately. The fates did not send you to me."
Moros raises a brow.
"My sister recently broke out." You pause, glancing at the rest of the shades as you close your eyes. "There are two runaway shades, and quite unfortunately for you, it just so happens that my sister is the prettier of us two."
"And you, brave shade?"
"The distracter." You grin, hopping on your feet as you shift around him. "She'll be back in a little! Looks the exact same as me!"
Moros finds that there is another shade with the exact same visage as you, and she huffs when Moros approaches, stuck in place as she meets eyes with him and blinks rapidly.
"Fuck." She huffs. "Let me through, won't you? I only wish to fight the lord..."
"So you are the shade." He hums.
"Did my sibling tell you that?" She huffs. "I only wish to fight the lord. They are content with the bull and the king, but I am not. If I defeat him, then I would be granted immortality, no?"
"That is not how it works." He sighs. "You are no Odysseus nor Heracles. You can not escape the clutches of the fates."
Your sister only grins at him, knowing something that it seems he does not.
"Four slipped past the hands of fate and left the underworld." She points. "One controls the fates the same amount. Though, worry not. I am not that one."
"The fates will make sure you do not escape. My fingers will brush through your thread." He hums, pinching at the strand in his hair. The shine and luster fade immediately with the pinch of the strand, and your sister huffs, finding that her weapon has been removed from her hands and she is officially bound to Elysium. She grumbles, sulking on the side as the king and the bull return to fight the prince.
"Ah, would you look at that." She grins. "The prince got a helper."
The prince's blade slices through the bull as you spin, knocking again and again against the king's armor, bloodthirst visible even from where Moros is standing. If there were a personification of him to the people, it would have been you. He does not have the luxury of questions, watching as you finish the king as he turns around, the prince grabbing you as the two of you storm off. It is not his place to interfere. He has doomed your sister to stay in place forever. That is enough. His assignment is over, it is that simple.
He returns to his sisters, their fingers delicate as they discard of the string in his hair.
"I met the young girl's twin."
"We know." The smile.
"Do tell, sisters, who might they be?"
"A shade that is not to be worried over." Atropos is the one to answer. "It does not matter what that shade does, since their string has long been absent."
"Was it stolen?"
None of his sisters reply to his question.
"It is fine," Lachesis hums, rethreading your sister's string into the tapestry. "We only needed you to take care of that one."
"And not the one I met?"
"No." Clotho stares up at the remaining threads. "However, since you there is not much to do in the time being, feel free to visit the shade."
"That would not be possible. I would interfere with the young prince's day to day excursions." He recalls the way you had joined the prince so simply, almost as though it had been a normality.
"Is that so?" Lachesis grins, almost knowing something he does not.
"It worries me when you smile like that." He blinks.
"It does not hurt to visit the shade. We will summon you back for any needs."
"Can the human race live without doom?"
"Not if you doom everyone at once." Atropo points at a section of string. "Brush."
Moros brushes their strings with his hand, pinching some, brushing down others. The darkness that imitates death seeps into the strings of the living.
"Halt." Lachesis panics. "Moros, young child, that is quite enough."
He stares at the soldiers in war that he has just doomed.
"I wish he would have picked up some of my kind sentiment." Lachesis mumbles. "Off you go now, brother."
Moros ends up back where your sister is — in the stands in the final room of Elysium, watching as your axe mutilates and mangles the shield of the king, switching with the young prince of the underworld when he delivers a final blow to the bull. Your sister catches him up on what has happened since he left, and he watches as the prince takes you to lead you outside. You are not bound to Elysium, but you are bound to the underworld. A shade could not escape no matter how many attempts it took. Or, perhaps you were simply a shade that would die against the lord.
Moros nods at your sister as he follows you to the temple, staring at the prince as he blinks.
"Why, hello? Who might you be?"
Moros nods his head, holding out a boon for you instead, watching as you observe it.
"What happened to no shade leaves the underworld?"
"Perhaps it is the simplicity of being given free reign over you."
"Wow... your sisters must really love you." You mumble. "It is doom, your highness. Moros."
The prince nods. "Honored to meet you."
"Honored to meet you as well, your highness." He nods.
"Will this let me one-shot the lord?" You twist the boon into your axe, watching as the blades thread with the purple of doom's eyes.
"No, but it works similar to death." He takes a step back, bowing at the prince as he disappears from view.
"So... 9999 damage?"
"Your summon only does 3500, does it not?" You raise a brow.
"Yes. Perhaps you will escape unscathed this time from the underworld." The prince grins.
Moros watches as you kill the ruler of the underworld, the prince watching in awe as you accidentally snipe the lord himself with a concerned look on your face. To inflict doom on someone it different to the person, so the doom of the ruler of the underworld would have simply been to die without getting to fight. You glance at the boon on your axe, taking two steps back as you watch Moros appear before you.
"Doom."
"Did you enjoy the boon?"
"It is rather sly, you are aware? I may be punished for it." You speak, waving goodbye to the prince as he rushes to tend to his mother's cottage.
"Nothing the fates can not fix."
"That is a shame, dearest doom." You shake your head. "I am the determiner of my own fate."
"Is that so?" He raises a brow. "When your string resides with the fates?"
"Perhaps."
To Moros, it does not matter — he finds that it is just how you are. You thank him for the boon, offering to return it to him, but he shakes his head, following you as you rush into the overworld, settling yourself in the queen's cottage to tend to the plants with the young prince before he returns to the styx. You, on the other hand, make no move to return. Instead, you call the boatman to return you to your place, thanking him with a couple of obols as you wave goodbye to him.
To the fates, it only mattered when their conflicts were in conflict with their brother. They have no problem with the young one deciding his own fate — a benefit of being raised by them, perhaps.
Atropos notices the way Moros' string starts fraying ever so slightly.
"Should we worry?"
"No. If it falls, then it would simply belong to him. After all, he is our dear brother."
Moros glances at the threads of color in your hair reflected under the sun one final time before he returns to his sisters. Color, reminding him of something far too familiar for comfort. So, he listens to the order from his sisters, fingers brushing the correct strands, pausing when he goes to check on his own string. His own string is fraying, and although he would not die, it was still worrisome.
"Atropos, did I do something?"
"No, child." She shakes her head, continuing with the tapestry. "It seems there is something else causing it to wear down."
Moros stares at his string, watching as it frays further.
"Is this someone else's work?"
"That is for you to find out, dear child."
Moros returns next to you, boon still in your axe as you slam the bottom in the ground, the young prince landing a particularly lucky hit as both the bull and the king die, grinning at you with a thumbs up as he throws you over his shoulder to bring you with him. He lingers close to you, watching as the lord falls to your blade again, and you stay behind to greet him. Perhaps, you find it a formality — something he wonders if you would ever consider to be a routine to you. Perhaps he could weasel — no. To have such thoughts is not possible. He is moreso curious to know who just this interferer with fate is.
You tilt your head. "Much on your mind, dearest doom?"
"That is not the case. Why do you stay behind each time?"
"I prefer to spend as little time around the garden as possible when the prince is present." You glance at the fish that shows up, stabbing down with the bottom of your axe as you fish out a sturgeon. "Ever had fish?"
"Gods do not need to eat to survive."
"Doesn't stop the olympians from feasting and partying all day." You shrug, glancing at the fish. "I should get to the prince soon."
"Is that not a rare fish?" He raises a brow.
"Not sure." You hand the fish to him, the river denizen dying in his hand as you do, his brows pulled together in a furrow.
"Guess that fish's worst fate was to die." You step past the entrance to the underworld, pausing as you wait for Moros to follow after you.
Moros finds comfort in the strange silence you offer him, watching as you take over the garden as the young prince falls to the ground and returns to the Styx, your work only a short while after before the boatman comes to bring you back. His older brother does not care for the lord, it seems. Much like the Moirai, Chaon does not care whether or not the lord of the underworld cares for such small matters. You step onto the boat, him following after shortly, watching as you stab at another fish in the Styx, tossing it onto the boat as the boatman groans in disapproval.
"No fish in the boat?"
"Haaarhh."
You toss the fish back into the river, watching as it comes back to life.
"Shade."
"Yes, dearest doom?" You tilt your head, raising a brow.
"The strand snaking around your handle." He glances at the way a string shimmers from the inside. "What is it?"
"Oh?" You grin. "Surely you know, dearest doom."
"Is it the string from the Moirai?"
You grin. "My string has always been for myself."
"I was not aware that the fates gave shades their own string." They do not. Moros wonders if he can pry the truth from your lips so he does not need to break the trust he has established with you so far. Perhaps, he is hoping you'll be honest and truthful with him, telling him that you had stolen the string. Perhaps, he was foolish to think of you as a thief. Perhaps, he had just not wanted to acknowledge you as anything else.
You laugh instead, refusing him an answer.
Moros finds that it's a little worrying, but as he steps out of the boat and offers you his hand, he wonders if he could just play dumb.
You take his hand, thanking the boatman as you hand him the obol once more.
"Doomed now, are you not, brave shade?"
You glance at his hand, laughing. "Perhaps my doom is to fall in love with you."
Moros flushes with color at your words, cheeks warming and skin darkening with your flirty remark. "You worry me, brave shade."
"Am I interrupting your work?"
"I am but my sisters' helper." He hums.
"Mm. I see." You step foot back into Elysium, sliding down the cliff to find your residence. Moros follows after you, uncertain of how to go about all of this. Perhaps this is what his sisters meant when they had told him to visit you. It is not a visit, but a stay, perhaps. He is stuck by you, returning only on occasion, spending his days with you as you fight your way out of Elysium with the prince. He takes notice of the way you deactivate his boon while fighting on occasion, the prince's boons taking over for the most part, watching as it seems that there is always some higher deity playing the cards perfectly for the prince to win.
Moros wonders if you are some sort of deity since your thread is missing from the fates.
"Brave shade." He tilts his head, watching as you send the prince down the river.
"Yes, dearest doom?"
Perhaps there is a sense of realization at the name that you have given him, but he fights every single part of his body that reddens and flushes at the name that he should have grown used to by now. "Would you tell me how you received your thread?"
"I was born with it, dearest doom." You glance at your axe, waving as the prince returns with the satyr sack for the guardian. "I am not a thief nor a genius. I am simply lucky."
Moros wonders where he has heard that before.
"Will you take me to meet the fates?"
"I can not do that." He shakes his head, still, following you as you follow the prince to the fight with the lord. The prince wins without much aid, and you wave goodbye to him as he rushes off to the cottage, leaving you alone with Moros once again.
"Not at all?"
"There is no chance, brave shade." He hums.
You sigh, stepping past the gates of the underworld to the queen's cottage, helping out the prince before he passes. Though, this time, Moros finds that you do not leave.
"Are you not returning?"
"Mm..." You hum, lying down in the grass, eyes closed. "Just a little longer."
"And how much longer is this... longer?"
"Just lay on the grass. It is the queen's domain. There is no doom for the grass."
"Every other footstep of mine killed the grass, brave shade."
"The float." You yawn, closing your eyes. "Dearest doom, entertain my thoughts, would you?"
"And what might those thoughts be?"
"If I cut my own string, would I pass?"
"Only Atropos can cut the threads."
You sigh, reaching for his hand in the grass, lacing your fingers with him.
"You'll—"
"It is fine." You hum. "I will be fine, I assure you."
"Brave shade, pray tell, why do you not call me by name?"
"I fear that you will get attached to something fleeting." You hum, turning to your side to grin at him. "Just as I do not refer to you by name, you do not refer to me by name."
"And if I wished to?"
"That is a shame, dearest doom." You grin. "The fates would not allow that."
"And how would you know?"
"Call it instinct."
Atropos notices first — Moros' thread falls completely down, broken from both night's and their own threads, on the ground as Clotho picks it up to hold on to. Lachesis notices shortly after, watching as Atropos ponders over what to make of Moros' thread. They do not bring him back just yet, curious to see just how desperate he was to continue the arrangement with you, fingers laced with yours in the grass, his ability to doom torn away from him for the time being.
"I wonder how desperate he is." Atopos hums. "Let us start."
It happens all too fast.
Moros is called back, watching as the underworld falls to time, although safe with his sisters, he is unsure as to whether or not you are safe — and when he retrieves the list of minor prophecies, his sisters disappear as well. He is alone, he realizes. He stays at the crossroads with the young princess, stumbling and stuttering over his words, cursing himself when he remembers that he is no different than from when he first met you. Perhaps you are doing well elsewhere, but he can not help but think of you while at the crossroads.
It is until the princess brings back an axe that is eerily similar to yours as her weapon that Moros wonders if perhaps you are alive.
"Is this a different aspect, princess?" He tilts his head at the axe.
"Oh, why it is." She agrees. "The aspect of Tyche. It seems to help me dodge, and the weapon feels much lighter. Is there something wrong, Lord Moros?"
Moros shakes his head. "It looks familiar, that is all."
"Well, uncle gave me the awakening phrase."
Moros hums, tilting his head as the princess hands the weapon to him, letting him observe the axe as he notices his boon is still there, just dull.
"Do you wish for an enhancement?"
"Hm?" The princess tilts her head. "Is that possible?"
Moros reaches for his boon, purple glowing once more, threads reweaving across the blade, stopping when the boon glows and the princess tries swinging again, accidentally breaking something in the process, pursing her lips.
"Lord Moros, do tell... how much damage does this do?"
Moros averts his eyes. "You may want to ask war of such."
The princess blinks at him, jaw hanging before she closes her mouth. "Will I kill time?"
"I am unaware of how much health time has, thus I am unable to answer."
The princess returns much quicker, this time around, Moros glancing at her and bowing as she holds the axe and grins, almost wincing.
"How was the weapon, princess?"
"Who wielded it before me? It seems you know of its previous owner."
"The wielder was a shade I knew." He hums. "They were not bound to the underworld."
"Then, perhaps they were not a shade at all." The princess offers. "Perhaps, they were Tyche herself."
"There is no confirmation for such. Had it been such, I would have known." He pauses, brows furrowing as he notices the strand still wrapped around the weapon. "May I see it once more, princess?"
"Of course." He hands him the axe, watching as he forces his finger into the wrapping around the handle, expression darkening as he notices the lack of string. You are dead. Unless you had wrapped and stolen your own string embedded into your axe, there was no way you could have survived if someone else held onto your string.
"Is something wrong, Lord Moros?"
"There used to be a string of the fates embedded in the wrapping." He hands it back to the princess. "If the goddess contacts you through the weapon, do tell."
The princess nods. "Were they important to you, Lord Moros?"
Moros is quiet, closing his eyes. "A brave shade, they were."
"And you, to them? If I am not prying."
Moros goes quiet, averting his eyes instead.
"My apologies, Lord Moros."
"Do not fret, princess." He smiles. "May you defeat time once more."
"Thank you."
In a way, Moros wanders through the crossroads and wonders just how you were. It is unsafe to be in the house of the lord, but perhaps you are caught there. Or, perhaps as the other shades are, you are stuck where they are. He is unaware of if there is ever a possibility that you could have survived if you had not been a shade. The Olympians armed themselves relatively quickly, though failing again and again to defeat time. It is not an easy feat, he believes. While he is sure that the princess will succeed, he wonders if the princess will have the same luck that the young prince did in the days that he had fought alongside you.
When the princess returns, she is ecstatic.
"Lord Moros!" She rushes, and it feels a little strange to see the princess so overjoyed.
"Yes, princess?"
"The goddess contacted me!" She notes. "She sends you here greetings. Do you know her, perhaps?"
"Did she leave a message?"
"No, she had only mentioned your boon and to thank you. Perhaps the brave shade is none other than the goddess?"
"That would be quite the predicament, princess." He hums. "Though, I am sure there has to be a better explanation."
"Surely. I shall ask if I see her again." The princess hums. "Shall I convey some words?"
"I would like to meet the goddess, if possible."
"Oh, how surprising! I will convey such words. All the best." She waves, rushing off as Moros ponders over just what that greeting could mean.
Moros wanders about the crossroads, taking note of a handful of things, pondering over the things that you had once told him when you were with him. You adore the color of his eyes — finding that he looks best with longer hair, and despite your hatred for how his horns looked at times, you always helped it back on his head when he finished laying in the grass. When he catches reflection of himself in the waters, he ponders just for a moment whether you were lucky enough to escape the grasp of time.
When the princess returns, she brings news of the weapon.
"The one who provided the weapon is still alive." The princess reports.
"Alive? Provider?" Moros senses some strange sense of hope snake up his back. Perhaps, you are... alive. Perhaps, you... escaped. Perhaps, you were spared the cruelty that the rest of the house received from time. He wonders if he could ever recall the name of your beloved weapon that the princess now wielded. Hope, you had called her. He does not recall the goddess of whom had blessed it prior to holding his boon. It is a predicament, he finds.
"Yes." The princess hums. "I had run into a shade near the surface."
Moros frowns. It could be you, but he doubts that time would have given anyone the grace to flee or transform.
"The weapon has a name, according to the provider."
"Do you know of it?"
"No, I was not informed." The princess mumbles. "Though, the axe used to be a shield, according to the shade near the surface."
"A shield..." Moros mumbles. "Thank you, princess. I wish you luck on your next run."
Moros ponders just where his sisters might be. They had disappeared, leaving behind the threads in the room — all of them turning into webs for arachnids rather than strings that would resemble the strings of life. Perhaps, they had been restricted willingly rather than out of surprise. In order to throw off time, they had taken the sacrifice, and it bothers him to no end that perhaps they too are stuck in time. The human world must be in shambles at the moment. It must be exhausting to deal with so much at once.
"Lord Moros."
"Yes, princess?"
The princess pauses before asking. "What were the fates like?"
"Lachesis is kind, Clotho speaks often, and Atropos is the cutter."
"Mm." The princess nods. "Have you gone to the springs? They are good for relaxation."
"I suppose I am due for one, princess, but I am unable to do so at the moment." He smiles. "Shall I save the salts for some other time?"
"Up to you, Lord Moros." The princess smiles. "Best of luck."
When the princess returns to the shade, she finds that they are a person this time. Perhaps not the goddess, but similar in appearance, similar in beauty. The princess greets the goddess on the surface, coughing up blood and fighting every last doom in her body to be able to stay just long enough to invite the goddess back with her, the symbol of her boon replaced with a full moon as the princess coughs.
"Oh, dearest, what has happened?"
"Oh, goddess, I ask of you, would it be possible for you to return with me to the crossroads? Lord Moros has requested of your presence."
"It is a shame, I do not know how to get there without the boatman. Are you able to take us both, goddess?"
"Yes, I am." The princess offers, holding her hand out. "Though it will hurt since I must die for it."
The goddess laughs, taking her hand. "What is godhood if not a death every once in a while"
The princess returns, catching her breath as she blinks, squeezing her hand a little to see whether or not the goddess had come with her, pleasantly surprised when she has. She had not tried it before, but she supposed that
"You know, it's a real pain to travel like this all the time, princess. Why don't you just do it the olympian way and teleport?" They raise a brow, squatting down to catch their breath from the aftereffects.
"Unfortunately, this realm is only accessible by magic."
"Ought to hurry up and beat the life out of time, then." They sigh, standing up as Moros locks eyes with them.
"Dearest doom?" Their lips quirk up, stepping towards him as he blinks twice to confirm he's not as so desperate as to start hallucinating you. They do the work for him, fingers reaching for his bicep as their palm smoothes against his skin, his heart shaking as he stares at you, blinking slowly. It is an attachment. He does not have your string, nor does he have his own, yet he is here, heart rattling against the bars of his chest, staring down at you as you beam. "Dearest doom."
Moros knows it is not you. Your hands are warm and your body is the same, but he knows it is not you. To him, it is not you, it is someone else in your skin.
"... you are not the shade." Moros frowns, yet making no move to recoil from their touch. Your touch is the same, but you are not the same person. There is an uncanny feeling in his body as he takes a step back, blinking a second time. "I sealed you to Elysium. Did the Moirai send you here?"
"Ah, it's a shame. It seems you recognize our differences immediately." Your sister sighs. "Alas, a nymph can not imitate a god."
"There is no way they are a god."
"Perhaps." Your sister shrugs. "Though, I am unaware of their presence either. I only received the luck of fleeing with their weapon."
"And the shade?"
"Your brave shade is missing, doom incarnate." Your sister grins at the princess instead. "Apologies, princess, but I am not the one doom is looking for."
"Whom are you looking for, Lord Moros?"
"A brave shade." He hums. "They will recognize the name."
"Perhaps, once the underworld is restored, you will find them." The princess hums. "Nymph, do you know of said shade?"
Your sister shakes her head, turning to stare at the axe instead. "I may not be of help in finding the shade, but do grant me the honor of blessing their weapon, if you would."
"Of course." The princess watches as the nymph presses her hand to the weapon, blue swirling down the handle of the axe, water replacing where the thread of fate had once been, swirling up and down the weapon.
"It is not much, but it shall enhance the boons you receive from other olympians." She hums. "May your battle be smooth, and your wins be bountiful."
The princess nods, rushing off as your sister spares a glance at Moros.
"Do you miss them?"
"Miss is perhaps not the word."
"Long?"
"Along those thoughts." Moros hums. "Did you see them before the underworld was taken over?"
"I did not. I was handed the axe along with a blessing, and next I knew, I was in Olympus with the gods." She hums, watching as the princess leaves. "They are not as stupid as to vanish without a plan, however."
"Surely, they are alright." Moros pauses. "At the very least, still around."
"They are around. We are weakly connected by the same source, after all." Your sister hums.
"Pray tell, young nymph, of our brave shade?"
"Well, I do not know much of them." Your sister is frank. "All I knew was that they had found me in the underworld and adored smothering the prince in battle due to his hard-headedness. Perhaps they found the untameable tempting. To them, the prince was just another entertaining character in their life."
"Much like the fates, no?"
"I'm afraid not." Your sister pauses to think of her next words. "Similar, but not the same. There is nothing you can do in the face of luck, after all."
"The face of luck... surely they had blessed the prince with it?"
"Perhaps." Your sister quirks a lip up in the sneakiest of smiles.
And Moros wonders, just perhaps, you had loved her too.
When the princess returns, she greets the two with a bow, before starting with her report, bringing to light that her father was still alive, though chained. The two listen, eyes focused on the princess as she asks for aid of your sister.
"I can not help you with such, princess." She shakes her head. "Though, our brave shade did indeed mention noticing the cracks in the walls. You are never sure of what creeps between the tiles of the residence."
The princess takes note of watching the cracks in the wall, defeating time again and again, wondering as to which crack in the wall that shade could have been referring to. Though, near her fourth time, she takes note of the crack on the mural being larger, just enough for her to peek through the debris, seeing the same glow of doom and her magic behind, noting a singular shade stuck in place, unmoving. Dead. The shade does not move nor act, and it is stuck in place, staring into seemingly nothing as the princess continues observing for as long as she is able to.
Then, a snap of the neck, a meet of the eyes, and the princess leaves.
It is eerie. The shade does not look real, pupils dilated, missing a soul. The stare lacks life, though it seems as though the depths of the underworld were reflected in its eyes. It is a shade that keeps its human form, though not significant enough for the princess to actually note who they are. Perhaps, she would ask around, but she would not get the time.
"There is someone behind the mural in the main hall." The princess notes, glancing at your sister. "Is it them?"
"Do you remember the way they looked?"
"It is hard to describe, but those eyes... lacked a soul." The princess looks down. "It is a shame. I shall see if I may get a better look."
When the princess defeats time once again, she takes note of the crack in the wall, peering behind it as he spots the shade once more. That enough is an incentive, her magic blasting through the wall as she steps through, staring as the shade mutters quiet nothings to themselves, pupils dilated, quiet mumbling heard by no one. The princess stares, watching as the shade takes a step forward, eyes widening further at the sight of their weapon. The princess takes another step back, staring at the webs across the room, webs of what she can only assume as string similar to a spider's weaving across the room with the shade in the center.
"Elpis... Elpis." They scramble, reaching for the weapon as the princess jumps back, ready to attack. Rather, the axe does not listen, halting as the shade steps forward again, chains around their feet stopping them as they drop to their knees and stare at the weapon in the princess' hand. The princess stays still, hearing time tick behind her as she is forced to flee, trying to pull the weapon with, only to realize it has started making its way towards the shade.
"No!"
"Elpis." The shade cradles the weapon, forcing the princess to flee without it.
In her final glance, she notes the way the block around the shade seems to shatter, and the mural rebuilds itself — the princess wondering just who the shade was.
Once returned to the crossroads, your sister seems unimpressed.
"I lost my weapon." She stares up at both your sister and Moros, dejected, brows furrowed.
"The weapon must have heard its name." Your sister hums. "It is unknown, as only the owner of the weapon, in this case, our brave shade, can call for it."
"It must have been a bad memory." The princess mumbles.
"I doubt it." Moros watches the summoning grounds of the crossroads. "I shall keep an eye out for them. They have always been lucky."
When the princess returns a second time, she enters once again, noting how the webs have disappeared and the shade has started threading with the string.
"Dear shade."
They continue to mutter to themselves, pupils dilated as they continue knitting with two of the hardened strings from the weapon, the axe now discarded to the side.
"Dearest shade, may I retrieve the weapon?"
They do not spare her a glance, fixated on the weaving of the tapestry in their hand.
The princess retrieves it anyway, watching as the shade looks up to stare at her, unbothered, unimpressed, a stare unnerving the princess.
"Dearest shade... are you bound?"
They stand up, shackle around their ankles worn out from time, and they pull along the thread, following the princess with her weapons as they pull and pull, pulling until all of the threads weaved across the roof of the room are in their hands, rushing after the princess as she brings them to the crossroads. The threads all follow them through the magic, landing on the ground with a heavy thud as they settle themselves in the corner to continue weaving.
Moros recognizes your soul at an immediate glance, leaving his place to help you untangle the string in your hand, stopping when he remembers he knows not of whose thread is whose and who he is dooming.
"Brave shade."
You are not a brave shade anymore, pupils far too dilated to be safe, hands brash as you untangle the threads, coverings on your hand as you pull and pull, laying each thread to the side as you continue searching. You are looking for a thread, and whether it be yours or his, he is unaware, but from the few threads weaved through your hair, he finds that perhaps you are not searching for either of your strands.
"My sisters." Moros rests on one knee, glancing at you as you do not react to him. "Are they safe?"
You ignore him, continuing with the string, work frantic and paced as you continue threading through them.
"Who are you searching for?" Your sister helps you sort, and you glance at her, voice scratchy, barely a whisper, as you speak.
"T-time." You start again, discarding thread after thread as your sister sits down to help you.
"Whose threads are these?" She hands you another one, pausing when you barely muster an answer once more.
"N-non." You continue, reading the threads between your fingers as Moros is forced to stare. He finds himself glad that he did not rush immediately to help you out. If all creatures other than the humans' threads were in your hands, then surely there could have been bad news had he doomed the wrong one.
"Go on." Your sister stares at the princess. "You must continue to fight while we continue with this. May Elpis guide your way."
The princess takes the axe, rushing back towards the underworld as she takes one final glance at the three of you.
"Do you have Atropos' scissors? You can destroy one's godhood with one pair."
You glance at Moros, baring your teeth as he blinks.
"You have become the scissors."
He notes down who you have found, watching as you bite certain strings and rip them. In a way, you have become someone he does not recognize. You bite and tear at certain strings, and he wonders if it is to help the princess or to destroy the trouble in the underworld, but as you find that golden string of time, he watches as you hand it to him, eyes wide as he blinks.
"I am not able to doom a titan."
You shove it at him once more, watching as he takes it from your fingers, the parts that he holds turning dark.
"Keep it." Your sister stares at the way he holds it.
You stand up, holding your hand out for his, wrapping the string around his fingers as though it were some sort of decoration. He wears it, glancing at the way your fingers seem so much softer than during the times that you wielded an axe, almost as though you had been forced to regress in time and become someone who knows neither him nor anyone else. Perhaps, this is who you simply are now. Perhaps, you will return once time is broken.
"Doom." You blink at him, reaching back for your project as you thread and thread again.
"Dearest, doom." He tries, and you blink at him, unreceptive of his words.
"Doom." You point at the decoration on his fingers, staring as the entire string turns dark.
"My time is up," Your sister stares at her fading fingers. "Stay safe. I must return to Olympus now that you are here."
You nod at her, waving as she disappears. Perhaps deep down, you are still aware of the bond that you shared with your sister. While he is not family to you, she is — so it is really not all that much for you to remember that she is your sister, trust placed in her so much more vivid than the one placed in his hands. It is deserving, he finds. You have forgotten all of the time that you spent with him due to the regression in time. Rather, you still trust him enough to brush your fingers against his skin and understand that his doom will not hurt you.
"Brave shade."
You stare up at him, batting your lashes as he stares.
"Brave shade." He tries again. "How are my sisters?"
You tilt your head.
"The fates. The Moirai. How are they?"
You blink at him. "Safe. Moved. Safe."
"Moved." He exhales. "Then why do you hold the strings?"
You stare at him blankly, going back to weaving. It is as though you are possessed, but it reminds him of someone his sisters once had mentioned to him. Someone who had weaved the fates during the times that they had been raised by mother night. Perhaps, you have become them. There is a sense of uneasiness as you settle down next to where he typically stands — next to the prophecies as you thread and weave, fingers making quick work, only greeting the princess with a quick nod while you listen to Moros speak to the princess.
"Lord Moros, how long do you suppose I am stuck fighting time?"
"Twenty four." You speak instead, still working on the paper. "Every hour."
"Once each hour?" She blinks, horror written all over her face.
"Cycle. Rotation." You go back to weaving, going quiet as the two ponder over your words.
"Princess, how many times has it been?"
"Well over twelve."
"Then, twelve more times." He closes his eyes. "We are the closest you can be to the fates at the moment."
You thread another string through, watching as the princess leaves.
"Brave shade, do you believe she will succeed?"
"Must."
Your words are more than enough comfort for Moros as he watches the princess return again and again. Must. Not yes, nor no. You have just enough faith in the princess that she will succeed, even if it kills her. The gods can not die, you seem to be aware. Even while brushing your own hair, covering of your hands missing at times of such, strings in your hair glowing with each brush of your fingers.
"Lucky shade." He hums. "Dare I say, lovely shade."
You pay no mind to his words, tugging at the string and throwing the tapestry out to check the design.
"For someone?"
"No." You go back to it, focused the entire time through as Moros continues to greet the princess. She reaches her final leg of the run, close to ten, though, you stop her before her final run, staring up at her as you offer her the tapestry in your bare hands, marks from the weaving and threadwork visible on your hands as you try to get up — only to stumble from your lack of muscle.
"You're alright, lovely shade." Moros catches you, steadying you as you hand it to the princess.
"Cover time." Your instructions are simple, and it makes Moros wonder just who you were. The princess leaves her axe with you, leaving with her weapon. Perhaps, you knew the fates similar to the way he did. Though, as you settle back onto the floor, threading your fingers through your hair with a closing of your eyes, waiting for the moment that the princess would follow your orders, and you would be freed for enough time to give her proper instructions you had learned on pure chance while collecting the threads of fate in the room.
There is a sudden strike of the bong of doom as the princess follows your orders, and you waste no time racing through the underworld — gone in a blink of the eye as you steal the axe, Moros feeling every slash of your weapon as a result of his boon, your summon of him too quick for him to react, only arriving once you enter the residence. He dooms the shades that would have attacked, standing guard as you reach the princess.
"Stay still, princess." You tie the bottom of the orb, axe striking down as his soul shatters, body no longer capable of hosting his soul as you tie the pieces into the threads of the tapestry. There are never enough sacrifices — never enough people with a soul as shattered as time's. You order the princess what to do, and for the first time, Moros wonders if he is the servant or you. It seemed that you always knew how to outplay fate just by a slight step.
The princess listens surprisingly well to you, following your orders as you hand Moros the tapestry you wove.
"Take this to the fates. They have returned."
"And you are certain, lovely shade?"
"Certainly, my Moros." You turn to stare at him. "Drop not even a single piece."
"You can not order the Moirai as such."
"Tell them the brave shade ordered it. Go on." You bare all your teeth at him once more, teeth no longer metal to cut life, eyes back to the familiar look that Moros had grown so used to. He takes note of the lack of threads in your hair this time, finding them in a satchel instead. Moros takes everything you instruct him to, returning to where his sisters once resided.
His sisters are back, surprisingly. They waste no time in glancing at the thread of time woven around Moros' fingers, chuckling as they put everything back up, staring at the tapestry of dead strings and fragments of time, wondering if there was something their sweet brother had wanted them to do with it.
"The brave shade." He pauses. "Mentioned you would know what to do with such."
Lachesis laughs, taking the package from Moros as she kicks open one of the boxes. The package is dropped within and sealed away.
Moros blinks at how even Atropos cracks a smile.
"Should I know something... of the shade?"
"Worry not of them." Clotho hums. "They are the sly one, that shade."
"Did you employ their help?"
"No. Though, it would be best for you not to know."
Atropos places her scissors down, retrieving a string as she places it in his hands.
"Mine own?"
"We have seen that desperation that so wracks through your body." Lachesis hums. "You asked us once, if your string could be in your possession."
Moros takes it, staring at the thread of doom in his fingers, pondering just what he could do with it.
"Now, go on. You have little time while we reorder everyone's fate." Clotho hums. "Go on."
"Much obliged and appreciated, dearest sisters."
Moros makes his way back to you, watching as you break the constraints of time with your axe, luck perpetually on your side as everyone comes out unscathed, even as far as barely missing the feet of the lord himself with the breaking of his chains. You do not give instructions to any of them, only bowing and staying quiet as you lead them back to the hall, eyes glued on the prince as he reunites with his lovers and family. A gentle nudge from you is enough for the princess to join them, a smile on your face as you grin.
"What is after this?"
"Nothing much, my Moros." You glance up at him, grinning. "Death is restored."
"It shall take some time for them to be able to rest."
"We are aware. Shall we return to the meadows?"
"Perhaps in time." You meet eyes with the lord, bowing as he nods.
"Olympus seeks thee."
"I will be there, your majesty." You bow. "I trust you shall do well with the fates for the time being."
"I suppose." Moros nods. "I have a gift for you, from the fates and I, lovely shade."
You stare up at him as he loosens a thread from his hair, placing it in your hands as you stare at it. You hold onto it, loosening a thread from your hair as well, grin on your lips as you twist the two together, letting your axe fall as you wrap the handle once more. That enough has you pleased, lips curled upwards as Moros watches the string replace the water once more. Now, rather than the string of your own fate from long ago, it is both of you entwined for eternity.
"Now, you are with me all the days, wherever I go."
"Do not break it, lovely shade."
"I would not dream of it, my Moros."
You assist the princess in the overworld, letting the princess last as long as possible with the blessings from Olympus, on the final stretch now that time itself was destroyed. His loyal subjects and the dead struggle more now that their ruler is gone, falling in greater numbers and failing to get up as you back the princess up. In a way, it almost reminds you of the prince and his runs again and again. Perhaps, you were simply fated to take care of the two. You had long forgotten your age, after all.
"Princess," You glance at her, offering her a hand as she catches her breath. "Take a small break here."
She heaves, grumbling to herself as she reasons with you that she must go on."
"There are no reinforcements coming from time's side." You nod. "I assure you. How is your weapon?"
"I am alright. Thank you... shade?"
"Brave shade is fine." You nod.
"Pray tell, if I am not prying, of your relationship with Lord Moros?"
"It is hard to describe." You hum. "I am not too certain of it either. Perhaps the answer will find us both eventually."
The two of you work your way up to Olympus eventually, helping clear out the remainder of the troops and breaking through the siege with ease, laugh on your lips as the bong of doom rings again and again with each swipe of your axe. You become something akin to a sign of doom despite the nature of your presence for certain people. Are you violent? Perhaps. You prolong the ability of the princess to stay on the surface and Olympus, fingers smoothe against your axe as you cough up the grime from all of the blood on you. You smell of metal.
"We have arrived, it seems, good shade." The princess stares at the gates, and you grin.
"Shall we?"
"If you would." She pushes open the gates, blood following where she goes, gunk around her as she grimaces at the attacks. You find that she is stronger than her brother in that sense. She is capable of undoing the incantation of the fates — fighting even up to Olympus. It is commendable, you find. You are sure the prince would have liked to have been able to break free of the fates in such a way. Though, as the princess finishes the rest of the forces alongside the Olympians, you find that there is not much to worry of.
"I wonder if the prince could do the same." You open your arms for your sister, a relieved cry on her lips as she sighs.
"You're back."
"Yes. Time has been restored."
"Restored or destroyed?"
"Something akin to that." You hum. "Worry not. The fates hold time now."
The concerned look on your sister's face is more than enough to make you laugh.
You leave the princess with a bow, returning to the underworld, back to Elysium where your cottage is, lips pulled into a grin as you find Moros waiting for you. He stays outside your door, almost as a guard, though not quite one. You stand there, waiting for him to take notice and open his eyes from a moment of rest. You find it amusing that what the mortals feared so much was resting simply outside of an abode that you reside in.
"My Moros." You raise a brow as Moros looks up at you, getting off his knees. "Join me for a little? It appears both the princess and prince are fighting their way out at this time.
"Has Elysium been restored?"
"It appears so." You grin. "The princess had returned shortly after I had."
"How long had you been watching me?"
You grin.
"Then, I suppose if that is what you will for, I shall comply. I have just a handful of time before I am to return to my post."
"May I join you after?"
"Perhaps another time."
Thus, Moros finds himself back in the colosseum where he first met you, watching as you glance at both the prince and princess fight the bull and king. The colors remain the same, and in a way, time has been restored, back to how things should be. Had he not been there for it, perhaps he would have thought of the fall of the house as something that could have been written in the myths. He is sure the princess would have told Homer to be quiet in such a situation, but he finds that she is too occupied with dealing with the king, trying what her brother had done so many times.
"Say, my Moros." You turn to glance at him, his own heart racing as you grin at him. To him, there is no greater luck than to be able to spend time with you. Even when his sisters call him every now and then for the doom, he finds that he prefers spending time in your presence, staring at the threads in your hair as he reminded of his own sisters, some strange sense of familiarity deeply embedded in your own souls and threads as he stares at his thread entwined with yours, always. "Moros?"
"Yes, lovely shade?"
"Will you grant me some knowledge of you if I were to defeat the bull and king?"
"Not to meet the shades this time?"
"No, my Moros." You grin. "Knowledge of you."
"You possess the thread of my fate, why fight the king and bull for something I can give you?"
"So you would tell me well job again." You hop down, axe forming in your hand much like the first time you fought in Elysium while he was present — except this time, Moros is aware of what to tell you. Even if he does not profess it, he is sure that you would know better than anyone of such emotions. He is certain that you would not turn him down — your own emotions embedded deeply in the acceptance of his fate with yours. To him, perhaps you will spend eternity beyond together, his hands only warm against your skin and not harming. He has little to worry of, yet he offers you the choice anyway because he loves you.
You finish both the bull and the king, waving at Moros as you wave your hand for a lift upwards, his hand warm against yours as you settle next to him, grin on your face indicating and awaiting an answer to your request. You blink up at him expectantly, wondering just what it was that would take him so long to answer you to. Though, as his skin flushes with warmth from the time you had spent together, he hums.
"Knowledge of me, lovely shade?" He holds onto your fingers, thumb brushing your knuckles as he closes his eyes to think.
"Nothing left, that I do not know of?"
"That I adore you to the ends of the fates, perhaps." He hums, clumsy smile on his face as you blink at him.
"Truly?"
"Truly, truly, do I adore you." He smiles. "Until time itself dies, do I adore you."
"Enamored, even?" You tease, watching as his skin darkens from embarrassment, words still coming out nonetheless.
"Why of course." He hums. "After all, you are stuck with me for eternity now."
writers are crafted through pain, and only some (the lucky ones) find love through that. think of the greatest writers: how many of them never bled? zero. because without knowing how bad the suffering is, you cannot know how good the joy is. and, we often find that joy in that suffering (though it can often turn into deformed lust).
^^^ moros is not a writer, but this is a sentiment I think he would agree with when it comes to Reader.
OLETHROS IS MOROS’ MAIN EPITHET MEANING “DESTRUCTION” (though it typically carries a positive connotation, representing renewal and the natural cycle of ending & beginning. yes this is relevant to the plot).
warnings: angst, reader keeps dying. no beta, no editing, we die like men.
You’re the embodiment of love. You’re the definition of light. He’s always been the dark, perpetually sad and hurt. His heart has failed to beat his whole life, but it awakens when he’s with you.
Your hands could breathe life into anything. With a brush of your fingers on the porous limestone, you shaped creations and gave birth to new life.
The statue stared back at you, and you cupped his face with one hand. The other hand holds your chisel, and you lean in as you form his lips. Moros, doom incarnate, appreciate this offering.
When you place the sculpture in the temple, you grin up at it— dust covering you, sticking to your face.
He was beautiful, carved to perfection. The outline of his eyes, the shape of his body. The statue could bring a warrior to his knees in worship. This is who high-priests spoke to, mortals feared. This is your creation, and you bask in the pride that swells in your chest.
You come back a few days later, only to find a strange man staring up at your statue. You blink at him, taking in his form— his grey-tinted skin, his long hair.
The rich fabrics of his clothing that did little to actually cover him, his full abdomen exposed. This couldn’t be some random traveler, too beautiful and too divine.
In your thoughts, his gaze flickers to you. You don’t notice the unsureness in his look before speaking, nor the slight awkwardness in his form.
“Hello, Mortal.” He speaks. You would’ve expected the mans voice to be cruel, cold and unforgiving. But the steady flow of his warm tone brings a smile to your lips, and as you get a closer look at him, visuals of mythos and tales flash before your eyes.
“Olethros.” You greet him, your voice ringing out as you offer a graceful bow. When you rise, you come closer to him. “Do you like the sculpture, my lord?” The note of hopefulness in your throat makes him swallow, and the look in your eye is almost ethereal— pure beauty.
But Moros has never been one for beauty. All he brings is doom, and doom is something sinister. Beauty is a form of righteousness, you cannot be good nor strong without that beauty, which then brings grace. If he dooms everything he touches, why would he touch anything beautiful? Beauty, love, is not made for him to doom.
“It’s quite nice.” He replies, and you beam. The light you exhibit could rival the sun, and he’d become like Icarus. A madman tearing his hair out as he flies towards you.
He only nods in response, because he is not deserving of such things, no trace of you can be found on him because it would only make you bleed.
Moros stays with you for a little while that day, until he is called back up to his sisters, he has more people to doom.
As he excuses himself, you reach out a hand to stop him. Moros backs away, but you ignore that. “You know you’re welcome anytime, Lord Moros. My door is always open.”
Again, he only nods in response. But, an understanding fills his mind: he won’t ever come to visit to again.
Two weeks later he finds you slaving away on a new sculpture.
You turn with a curious glance, and look victorious when you see him. “It took you long enough, Olethros.”
Moros approaches you, eyes set on the new sculpture. “Who is it?” He asks. You turn and return to your work, a quiet giggle escapes your lips. “Adonis, my lord.” You answer softly, almost wistfully.
He stays with you till his sisters call him back, when he leaves you invite him over again, and you swear you see a small smile on his face. Once again he nods, disappearing to wherever he’s been called.
Months and months past, and your relationship shifts. From god and worshipper, to (slightly hesitant) friend and friend.
It was when you were adding finishing touches to a sculpture of Aphrodite that you first touched him. You stood on a nauseatingly tall platform, when it began to shake from beneath you. You thought nothing of it till the planks creaked and you decided to get off.
In your struggle, you gripped Moros’ shoulder and helped yourself down. At the feeling of your touch, he stepped away, his eyebrows furrowed.
”Y/n—“ Moros says your name, you smile at him. “What, Olethros? Afraid of a small touch.” You reach out again, hand on his bicep, he pushes your hand off of his arm.
“I do not fear you, Doom. And I will not shy away from you. Do you hear me?”
“I hear a fools words.”
You grin at him, and only take a step closer, your chest brushing his. Moros scoffs, “you create your own ruin, you doom yourself—“
“And I will happily do so. Gods know it’s what fate has in store for me.”
Moros thought of the Fates, his sisters. Ever-lovely and so far away, his fingers twitch. They would like you, that’s not a good sign.
Moros, beautiful and terrifying to any other mortal, only bows his head. Conflicted. He leaves with his head bowed as well, throwing you a glance with a glimmer of a small smile, one you’ve become accustomed to. You grin back at him, coughing at the dust that floats through the air.
He comes back two days later, only for his soft smile to fade. You aren’t in the foyer, your Aphrodite statue is long-abandoned. With his eyebrows creased, he searches the temple and your private living spaces. Your name is the only thing on his lips, having found its home there within the past few weeks. Finally, he proceeds to check the last room— your bedroom.
You are laid motionless and cold on your plush bed. And there’s a moment of hesitation before he’s at your side, his hands hovering over you.
“Y/n.” He says, voice echoing in the dark room. “Mortal.” He says again, louder. The notes of panic in his voice is something foreign. He was doom itself, he had nothing to fear.
Except the loss of you.
When he returns to his sisters, he asks how you died— what had happened.
“Pneumoconiosis.” Lachesis answers him. Dust in the lungs. That was your doom.
So, Moros continued on. Mortals were born, mortals died, and still he doomed them with his hands. The hands that aided in your death. What else could’ve killed you?
There’s always been a shadowy crook within Moros’ soul— made not to love or be loved, but rather he is made to be evil. Because he is tainted with blood, and blood is anything but pure— and is evil not the absence of purity? This crook has never been important or dark enough to be fully recognized. But still, it follows Moros everywhere. A cut that always bleeds, a bruise that is too stubborn to heal. That crook, that wound, consumed him at the moment of your loss.
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