THE FIRST AND LAST

Hestia, in high dwellings of all, both deathless gods and men who walk on earth, you have gained an everlasting abode and highest honor: glorious is your portion and your right!

[adsperitas]

“we ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.”

[vestalesque]

ofproseandmusing:

It was funny, almost, how Colette could forget her own sister’s warmth. Their family was complicated and torturous in equally large parts, pieces that tended to eclipse all else; It was always easiest to remember the worst of what those relationships brought, it was always easiest to remember the hurts and the betrayals and the hatred and the grudges to the point where she sometimes lost sight of the good things, the easy things. Apparently, her sister’s smile and how it had always been a comfort was one of those things. 

“Oh.” It was a word whispered into a sigh, as she let the other offer comfort, as she simply accepted it for what it was and buried her face into the crook of the other’s neck for a moment, trying not to start crying again for the simplicity of it all and the realization that she had missed the other, failing utterly.

A wobbly smile slipped across face as she awkwardly wiped at face, “I’m so glad you came.” She hadn’t given any particularly thought to who would choose to answer her summons when she sent them, hadn’t wanted to nitpick names and individuals who all had lives just as complicated as her own had been, but she really was terribly glad that the other had been one who showed up on her doorstep. “It’s been much too long and that’s my fault.” This, she could accept fault for with no hesitance; She knew her sister and how she hated to leave. Part of her was surprised this had been enough to get her to do so, she had once joked that nothing would be. “Honestly, I got sucked into my life here. I do good work these days.” She couldn’t help but laugh at herself shaky as it was, just a touch, for wanting her sister’s approval for something that mattered so little, right now, for thinking work was an excuse that came before family. “Not that its a sufficient excuse.”

Heidi, as a rule of thumb, was not big on tears or crying of any sort -- for herself, that was. She hated very little in the world, but causing discomfort or making a scene ranked high up on her list of dislikes. But it was too much upon actually physically seeing and being with her sister again to hold anything back, much less a couple stray tears.

Pulling back and smiling down at her sister for a little while, unable to help a small laugh from escaping, she ran a hand over Colette’s hair, smoothing it before wiping at her cheek gently, trying her best not to fuss over her younger sister. And she stood there for a couple of moments, just taking in the sound of her sisters voice, the way she looked, like eons hung on her shoulders, despite not technically aging. (But who wouldn’t age, with a husband like Zeus, truthfully, much as she loved him as well.)

“As if I could stay away when my own sister called,” she said earnestly. “It’s not a matter of fault. We’re both here now, and that’s all that matters. If you have a good life here, Colette, that’s all that matters to me. I’m just sorry we had to meet under such grim circumstances; how are you feeling, dear?”

[vestalesque]

les-dieux-infinites:

His eyes caught the sight of her offering, giving her a nod of acknowledgement. He supposed it would seem greedy to consume the shot of hard liquor immediately …  but it would also be better suited as his chaser; something to drown out the taste of the beer. 

He took another long sip, answering, “ … m’good, I guess? Been in Italy for the most part, wine tasting.” Of course, Damien had done more with his time there but the details seemed irrelevant. The country simply suited him and that’s all that mattered ( there was culture and architect on every street, along with vineyards that stretched for miles ). He missed it already.

“What about you? How’d you keep occupied ‘til now?”  

"Italy sounds wonderful,” she said, slightly wistful. “Or so I hear from Parys. I have not left Greece in a long time,” she explained, swirling her wine more than she was drinking it. “But it’s alright. Paolo is in Greece as well -- and Parys visits once in a while. Keeps me occupied, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

She gave Damien a once-over, smiling lightly, still slightly awestruck at having everyone in such close quarters again. “And you’re holding up alright?” She asked gently.

[invictusxartem]

Paolo, Heidi, and Parys hangin’ out ‘Friends’-style

(@phoebian​ ; @vestalesque​)

absolutely laid over top of this photoset

[vestalesque]

ofwisdomxlove:

The Fallen Ones

Open To: All Olympians Location: Hera’s Place

Well, this was certainly a surprise. One email and the Gods and Goddesses of old were in an uproar, sheer chaos stemming out of their perfectly pristine formalities. It was all Adonis could do not to chuckle as his dark irises scanned the immaculate room, newly full of faces he recognized from ages past. Honestly, he hadn’t known Zeus very well, but he figured it was more the fact that he was murdered that brought everyone here so quickly.

Adonis himself had only arrived thirty minutes prior, fashionably late with his mother. They’d had to pack, after all. That was a lot of fucking clothes.

Luckily for him, Adonis’ job traveled with him, but most of the others seemed most displeased to have their lives so suddenly uprooted. More than that, what the fuck had happened? How did the king of Gods die? No one seemed to have an answer, which caused the tension to slowly increase as the minutes grew longer. 

Dinner was to start soon, but in the meantime the young God had slipped away to a comfortable corner, lips occasionally moving to sip at the glass of red wine in his hand. A soft smirk hid behind the glass as a figure sat beside him, not even bothering to make room for them because what was the fun in distance, really? “Nothing like a death to bring the family back together, hmm?”

It had been a long day -- in fact, things started feeling long the moment she got Hera’s email, the words Zeus and dead settling heavily in her chest, like weights layered on top of her. It was wrong of her to enjoy everyone being in such close quarters, but at the same time she was utterly exhausted. She did not leave Greece; that was just simply not who she was. And yet, here she stood in D.C., thousands of miles from home.

Anxiety from traveling, Hera’s palpable grief (sisters just know), exhaustion from people reacquainting with each other after so many years of radio silence, it all bore down on her. She gave up her throne because she was not a fan of fuss, was not one for conflict, and here she was, residing in the middle of such conflict, as everyone milled around, tensed and ready for fight or flight.

Hestia sank down, hardly noticing that someone was already there -- just wanted to escape the throng, escape the hawk-eyes of wary gods. She did not let Dionysus take up the mantle of the pantheon because she liked being in the midst of warring gods, after all. Where in the world had Paolo and Parys gotten to?

When Eros spoke, she gave a start before she mustered up a tense smile, murmuring a small apology in her surprise. She gave a breathy laugh at his statement, the sound coming out more of a sigh than anything. “Truthfully? I’m just glad everyone’s back,” she said gently. “But we can be both glad and still mourn his passing,” she said. “I only hope that Hera will...” she trailed off. “With time,” she finished, anxiously playing with her hands.

[vestalesque]

les-dieux-infinites:

The pub hadn’t been too noisy … probably because of the off-time. Maybe no one had a reason to drink at this hour; maybe he always had a reason. It was easier to accept the brutal truth if he felt the room spinning, that haze almost intoxicating. The death of his godfather would require more substance, more chaos, more ecstasy.

What he didn’t expect in the equation had been Hestia.

Damien owed her … for, well, everything. The youngest of gods somehow falling into the good grace’s of her. Perhaps she pitied him … perhaps she didn’t want that throne. Either way, drunkenness of the past didn’t really matter now. They were gods ( but only by creation ) . In reality, Damien hadn’t done anything ‘godly’ in years. Decades.

What was the point of all that power if they couldn’t use it? The bartender stepped forward, sliding the glass of beer towards him. His fingers reached for the drink, his lips claiming the cruel poison ( his favorite vice ). A few gulps later, Damien finally turns to her ( the taste of beer still lingering on his lips ), responding, “ … m’only getting started, love.”

“Long time no see.”

Hestia sighed, despite the slight thrill twanging in her chest at having everyone back, in close quarters, home -- although it was D.C. and not Greece. She sighed for the somber occasion they were all brought back for, sipping at her wine and rolling it around the glass gently, pinching at the stem.

She pushed the shot over to the younger god -- olympians loved their offerings and this was not something she forgot, over however many years. Wisdom rode on the back of tradition, and in trying times such as these, the offering was a nice nostalgic note that sang of better times.

“It’s been a very long time. How have you been? I suppose, more importantly, how are you?”

[vestalesque]

les-dieux-infinites:

He rolled over, the sunlight shining through his window, casting a warmth into the room. His sheets were a mess, his memory equally foggy. He can’t remember how many drinks he had last night… he couldn’t remember anything. There was a person laying next to him whose face he can’t quite recall, with name not sweet like rosé ( otherwise he would’ve remember it ). Damien groaned, moving slightly, reaching for his phone.

The screen’s brightness glared back at him as his eyes try to read all the messages and emails that plagued his phone last night. One email stood out in particular, causing him to sit up quickly, his body aching for the sudden movement. 

Z— dead. We need to talk. 

He blinked, the words finally settling to the pit of his stomach ( like a shot of tequila ). The rest of the day consisted of grogginess and slow packing. Soon, he found himself at the airport – sober for once – and on a plane that served limited alcohol. His mind remaining heavy with the sudden news;  his godfather was dead. Zeus was dead.

Damien closed his eyes, trying to get some sleep on this long flight ( trying to kill his never-ending hangover ). He would miss the vineyards of Italy, along with the culture. He hated cities, they were too noisy and the bars too hyped. Washington DC was no exception – a land of politics and filth ( how ironic that this had been Hera’s hiding spot ). 

Not able to check into his hotel yet, and eager to fight his jet lag, Damien decided to visit a local pub. He slumped against the bar, his hand running through his disheveled hair, his eyes quickly peering at the menu before ordering, “one guinness… for now.” 

She was the goddess of family, of all kinds -- not just blood relations. She watched over ragtag street kids spraying painting walls at night, war-torn soldiers beating their chests and dying for their brothers and sisters, anywhere where family loyalty pounded heavy and heady in their veins, and surprisingly, bars always had a sort of pull to her.

Intoxication had a way of making everyone your family -- it made your bartender a priest, the man beside you your brother, the teens with fake IDs your children. Found families, she thought fondly, walking through the bar.

Hera’s place, though it housed her family, was all sharp edges and greetings dulled by years of silence and awkward elbows, reacquainting themselves with a family they sought to leave behind. She was the physical reminder of their guilt in that matter -- so she sought to alleviate it by leaving, which rubbed her all wrong, but was the only foreseeable solution.

She smiled at the sound of Dionysus, ordering a beer. Trust that he would be in a bar -- and perhaps that was half the reason why she found herself frequenting bars as well.

“Are you starting with just a beer? You sure you don’t want anything stronger, dear?” She flagged the bartender down, ordering wine for herself and a shot of top-shelf liquor. “I believe our situation excuses any sort of drinking you so please.”

[vestalesque]

phoebian:

hermes;

Closed: @phoebian & @vestalesque Location: Barcelona Time: post email

Parys’ shoulders hurt from the weight of his backpack, he’d been carrying it since early that morning, wandering around Barcelona without a hostel to shove it into and switch to his daypack. The situation wasn’t the best, he was supposed to be going from Barcelona through France, but a sudden email from someone he’d long pushed to the corner of his mind (for fear of wanting to reach out and contact her — Hera herself) made him change his plans.

He’d called Paolo as soon as he’d gotten the email. Told them to meet him in Barcelona, so they could all fly to D.C. together.

Adjusting the straps of his backpack, lifting the weight up for a second, helped with the soreness pressing into his shoulders, as he walked through the streets of Barcelona. Backpack jingling with all sorts of trinkets he’d picked up through the six weeks he’d been travelling.

He rounded a corner, finding the café that Paolo and him had agreed on. They’d decided to meet for lunch before their flight, for why not catch up? Even though Parys’ original plan had been disrupted — as he’d been planning to make it to Greece near the end of his trip, and of course visiting Paolo and Heidi during that — and had been disrupted in the worst way possible, with the murder of Zeus himself, Parys considered himself lucky.

The titans seemed to be closing in just that smallest bit, and that worried him.

Parys ordered a café con hielo, and sat himself on the outdoor seating once it was made, enjoying the sun and knowing that Paolo would as well. He carefully let down his backpack — careful not to break anything in it — and sipped at his coffee. He knew that the pair of them would be there soon enough.

Hestia hadn’t let go of his hand since they’d left the airport, white-knuckled and anxious in a way that even he was beginning to feel. Then again, that would be the logical emotion, wouldn’t it, when they were leaving Greece to confront the reality of a murdered God? Zeus, the God, King of Olympus, Slayer of Titans, He of Large Libido and Little Sense. Anxiety wouldn’t be an unwarranted emotion to feel. 

Yet Apollo didn’t. Not now, he was sure it’d creep up to him later when their plane had landed, the same low queasy feeling that meant somethingbadcoming, but after weeks of that vague premonition turning his stomach, it was a blatant relief to finally know the cause. He’d had enough to fretting to last him the rest of the decade.

“Don’t be so worried,” Apollo quipped as they strode through the streets together, glancing down at her as he attempted to soothe the jittery goddess by his side. “You listening?” By the distant look in her eyes, she was back in Greece again. Less a frown and more of a small moue of concern passed his face, Apollo plucking at her sleeve before they turned into the small cafe, trying to catch her gaze. “Listen.” There – got her, and his lips quirked up in a broad smile. “It’s a beautiful day, we’re going to have a good lunch with Hermes, and we’ll be in DC before you know it. A day with no dishes for you to clean, enjoy it.” 

And there the third member of their trio was, looking perfectly, harmlessly mortal in his chair in a way that made Apollo laugh, squeezing Hestia’s hand as he pulled them both over to join him. “I don’t know how you do this so often,” He exclaimed, dropping into a free seat and leaning into Hermes’ space conspiratorially, “The planes, they’re horrible, I have too much leg for economy seating and they only gave Hestia one packet of salted pretzels.” 

With barely a pause, he snagged the waiter long enough to order a cappuccino and defer the man to Hestia, “This isn’t quite the visit we thought we were getting from you, but it’s something, isn’t it? Think darling mother is going to let us all crash on her couch?” 

Hestia had never left. Even as her siblings dispersed across the world, no longer bound by the balloon strings of worship anchoring them to Greece, she stayed. Greece was her eternal flame, her hearth -- something she was to tend to, even in their absence. She wasn’t able to leave home; she was, for all intents and purposes, home -- and home did not pack up its bags and leave, it waited, forever, if it had to.

She tried, once. Hermes invited her out to experience a piece of his bright kaleidoscope life, bought her the plane ticket even (and for the patron god of thieves to buy a ticket for her, well, who was she to refuse?), but found, upon hearing her section boarding, that her legs had all but calcified, heavy with the marble dust of these long forgotten gods -- and she fled home, back turned to the tune of Heidi, Flight 9381 to Paris is leaving, ran home and cried in Apollo’s arms and sent a simple sorry to Hermes.

He showed up on their doorstep the next day, but that was far from the point -- the point was: she did not leave. So she swallowed anxiously, walking in this foreign airport, apprehension weighing heavy in the pit of her stomach. She gripped Apollo’s hand tighter despite the stressed bone-white of her knuckles, using him to ground her, keep her from fleeing back to Greece. He was worried, and she was sorry for causing him to worry.

So when he plucked at her sleeve and asked her to listen, she did. She met his luminescent grin with a weak one of her own and a heavy nod, lifted their conjoined hands to her lips in tacit gratitude and counted each step taking her farther from Greece until they met Hermes. She followed Apollo, letting him talk and jest with Hermes before the joy at seeing Hermes overwhelms her anxiety. She released Apollo’s hand for a minute, reaching over to cup Hermes’ face and press a flurry of kisses to his cheeks.

“Traveling is exhausting,” she agreed. “It probably feels even more so because you have to travel with me, Apollo,” she teased, her apology going unspoken, busying herself with pulling out aforementioned singular pack of salted peanuts and putting it next to Hermes as an offering.

She ordered the same drink as Apollo and sat back, content to listen and let them distract her from being away from Greece, her fingers twiddling anxiously.

[vestalesque]

ofproseandmusing:

To: Emergency Only (Group Contact) From: [email protected] Subject: Urgent

Z— dead. We need to talk. 410 E St. SE, Washington, DC 20003 Come if you can.

✘. H—

The email was typed and sent with no hesitation as soon as time and circumstance allowed; Colette hadn’t expected this, hadn’t allowed herself to consider this option. True, they had been hiding for what seemed like forever and the possibility of death was simply part of the reality within which they existed, but still, not this. However, now that it had happened, what other choice was there but to be the bearer of disastrous news? 

The King was dead, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to stop acting like the Queen. 

Yet, there was still time for herself in the moments after and it was then that she allowed herself the tears, in the hours before anyone showed up; Once everyone was here, she doubted she’d have much time to herself and though things hadn’t been even remotely perfect between them, she was still going to mourn for the God whose ring she had long worn, for the one who had both her love and her loathing.

It wasn’t ever simple.

Grief didn’t turn to exhaustion, and so it was sleepless time spent trying to keep remembrances of blood splatter and violence from thoughts and little more than copious amounts of tea and quiet to keep her company, until eventually, she lost track of time, falling asleep on a couch, wrapped in a soft blanket.

It was the doorbell that woke her, ringing, belated she realized, not for the first time. Seconds ticked by as she shook the sleep from herself, enjoying the thirty seconds where she forgot, before reality washed back over her, bringing forth caution. As such, it was a tentative approach to the door, eye looking through a peephole rarely used, before she opened the door and offered the one standing on the other side a nod, subsequently stepping aside. “Come in.”

Hestia kept tabs on everyone. It was simply in her nature to do so -- of course, she kept more diligent tabs on some more than most, out of circumstance. It was easy to keep track of Apollo, even before they had begun living together, before she had finally broken after no one came home, seeing as they both refused to leave Greece, but the same could not be said for her own sister. 

An email, simple, efficient -- classically Hera, and it was a shot through the heart. She was far from stupid; she knew that their ‘family’ was a complicated and complex winding path of grudges and different relationships, but she could never bring herself to hold any of it against them -- and despite the eons they all had been separated, Zeus’ death and Hera’s grief, it still left a pit of melancholy, of mourning.

She flew in with Apollo (Paolo, she reminded herself, it was time to remember that everyone went by modern names, and hers was Heidi. She wasn’t in their little villa in Santorini anymore, wasn’t Hestia any more than he was Apollo and her sister Hera.) and Parys, but elected to visit her sister first, letting them settle down wherever they so pleased; she wasn’t picky.

She swallowed down the apprehension, the burgeoning nerves -- and yes, the slight excitement she got from knowing Colette was just on the other side of that door, ringing the doorbell and waiting patiently, a tentative smile upon her lips when the door opened.

Colette stepped aside, presumably to let her in, and she took a hesitant step in, taking a moment to let everything sink in before she opened her arms to embrace her, pressing her cheek to her shoulder in a show of familiarity and solidarity and comfort and everything she had been missing all these years, breathing out a soft greeting, a hello and a sorry all rolled into one. “It’s been too long,” she said, a gentle chiding wrapped in her usual layered tones of warmth. “But never mind that. I missed you.”

[moonwhispers]

I relate to empty jars of honey. I run my fingers along their insides tasting the remnants of something sweet.

Zoë Lianne, “Honey”  (via blackshivers)