A moving red against tranquil white

by Thalaba

Hestia has spent the majority of her Immortal years emotionally alone but the passion between Poseidon and herself will not be denied. Sexual content, violence, language, Godly powers.

Title: a moving red against tranquil white
Fandom: Greek Mythology
Pairing/Characters: Hestia; Hestia/Poseidon; Poseidon; Moros; somewhat dubious Hestia/Moros; Zeus; Apollo; Thalia; Pan; others
Rating/Warnings: R (Het): language, sexual situations, incest (it's Greek mythology!), possible triggering content
Which Bang?: Big Bang (15k)
Summary: Hestia has spent the majority of her Immortal years emotionally alone but the passion between Poseidon and herself will not be denied. Doom is never very far behind however, and the punishment is more than Hestia could ever imagine when Zeus finds out. She never knew what reserves of strength lay within her.
Author's Notes: Written for heroinebigbang! The title comes from the poem Forest Fire by Elizabeth Coats, about a fire that comes from dust and circumstance and nothing can stand in its way. The Dead Pan is by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Prayer to Hermes is by Robert Creeley. Neither of these poems were consulted before I sat down to actually research/write Part Five, the only part that really needed to be researched as I've never been to either Brazil or the USA, but, happily, they helped develop the end of this story. Other used sources were Gods, Demigods & Demons: An Encyclopedia of Greek Mythologyby Bernard Evslin, and internet quotes of the work of Robert Graves.

Part One

They would meet only at night in the deepest caves far from the eyes of Mount Olympus. With Selene's silver orb dancing above, catching the delicate abalone or cascading amethyst that inevitably substituted for their bower, they would lie on a fragrant bed of seaweed wrapped in each others arms. She would often scold him, laugh at him, and say his construction was for one specific purpose: the thick, rubbery sheaves rolled with the motion of their bodies, inducing Hestia to cling tightly to Poseidon's speckled back, press her heels into his calves and muscled thighs for purchase as hips met hips and lips met lips. His response would be a rumble of sound, reverberating from his chest into her solid form beneath, and she would shiver.

8h8

"Where is your wife?"

It was not a question either one wished for or admired. The first time it left her tongue he was shocked into silence and Hestia refused her nature to comfort, to apologize for the dagger she had most assuredly stabbed into his side. She repeated the question and he answered and she had repeated the question before every assignation since.

"Where is your wife?"

It brought her no pleasure in the asking but that was the purpose. Hestia derived so much pleasure—more than she should, more than was possible, more than she even believed could be found—in the company and in the arms of her lover. She could not deceive herself however, that their love was not illicit, not forbidden, and not only because it had been foresworn on the GodKing's head, but because it had been decreed so by her own design.

Hestia had refused. Hestia had made a decision for the both of them. And Poseidon had found brief solace with another.

"Where is your wife?"

Before they embraced; before she felt the touch of his hand, his kiss; before he slipped the white opaque layers of her chiton from her gently rounded shoulders or removed gauzy veils that covered hair scented of almond oil and cedar: Hestia asked her question. It was done to place blame exactly where it belonged. It was done as a caution. It was done as a reminder to the Goddess that though she was considered the most serene, the most understanding, that she was trusted and kind, her actions (if known) would cause pain to another being and bring shame from all corners for her hypocrisy and broken vows.

"Where is your wife?"

The consequences were not enough, however, to persuade her into removing herself from Poseidon's attentions and company, from avoiding pleasure solely and purely for herself.

It was a painful question.

But it wasn't painful enough.

8h8

Amphitrite, a nimble, sleek creature, would arise from the waves to make a runway of the shorelines. Her legs glittering silver and onyx in a nod to her parentage, the scent of a seabreeze following in her wake: Poseidon spied her on the isle of Naxos and set about making her his bride.

There were no loving glances, no conversations. He would send caskets of coral and pearl, the scavenged remains of sunken ships only found through his powers of persuasion with foot and fist. He would buy her hand through any means necessary, would not leave to chance another spectacular rejection—but jewels would not impress, nor rare minerals, nor lost mortal cargo left beneath the horizon for as long as human lungs drew breath. Using the creative gifts that were as much as part of his design as his dominion of the Ocean, Poseidon would present a dancing fish of laughter and intelligence, leading Amphitrite to beg for more. These dolphins would pull her crystal chariot on their wedding day so long ago.

Hestia would greet her as a sister on her introduction to Olympus; she would anoint and bless dear Triton of the wreathed horn and fleet-footed Rhodes, gorgeous children, both dark and deep like their mother. Hestia would not weep over lost opportunities or her brother's choices, would not deny his offspring or his chosen bride. She would tend her Hearth and remain in Zeus' protection, loving the children that flocked to her arms and accepting Poseidon's cold gaze as her due along with her broken heart.

It would not be until many years later—a millennia, an eon—that Poseidon would once again sit beside her and slowly reach for her hand, where Hestia would raise damp eyes and see what Poseidon had learned long before but could not speak in such hallowed halls.

Amphitrite had not what he needed.

Amphitrite had not been stamped on his immortal soul.

Amphitrite had no fire.

And Hestia would make another decision.

8h8

Hestia rose and moved to the lip of the cave, daring a glimpse of Eos' morning star as the pink light of dawn spread inexorably across the horizon. Her body breathed and rippled with the waves gliding towards their secret cove, stones rolling and clacking in the melody with waking seabirds.

She had stayed longer than was wise.

The thought had barely percolated when an arm claimed her waist, dark orange hair tickling her flesh as it banded tightly, bringing Hestia up solid. She sighed and let her head fall back, supported by his strength and buoyed by his desire, after a more vigorous night than either had anticipated. Her chiton lay in tatters and his scent bled into her skin, possessive and intoxicating. Dangerous.

She had stayed longer than was wise and her eyes spoke the words her mouth would now not say, even as he raised an eyebrow and laid claim to one breast with a broad stroke and flicked her nipple.

"They will know," her voice came out in a gasp as his hand moved to brace itself purposefully between her soft thighs, Poseidon's mouth a strong line that reflected his momentary refusal to hear tell of her leaving once again. They stood together at the edge of the cave's entrance, and, with a terrifying sort of intimacy, watched each other from a mere hands breadth away while Poseidon brought Hestia over the brink of physical pleasure. Blunt, sea-roughened fingers worked steadily inside her; nostrils flared, and her mouth opened in a state of wonder; large eyebrows crowded his unnaturally bright blue eyes that seemed to demand something else of her this time—a glance, exchange, a promise: she came quietly, eyes shining.

"They will know," she whispered some time later, running her fingertips for the barest of moments down the smooth ginger hair that dressed his jaw before Poseidon turned once more to their bed and retrieved his cloak. It was of the darkest blue velvet with a jade clasp the size of her fist, deliciously weighty as he settled it around her shoulders.

"This is what they will know," he stepped back to peruse the image she made, wrapped in his own cloth, the ocean clinging to her skin. "Imagine them for the idiot children they are and fog their minds with a tale of your choosing. Their other senses will be ignored—you will be ignored. This is what they will know and thisis what they will remember."

Hestia said nothing in reply, allowing the unmeant sting in the truth of his words to drift to her feet. Their gazes met, and then Poseidon brought her veil to his face, breathed in her ember scent and dragged the material down his throat.

It was not returned.

8h8

The first face Hestia would see on her emergence into a brand new world of sound and light was not Poseidon's.

She lay somewhere in a viscous liquid, blinded and deafened by the onslaught of the surrounding fighting, equal parts uncertain and thrilled for the sudden lack of the thumping drum used to count since time immemorial; a marker for her existence in that dark, wet world where nothing happened and nothing changed and all she knew was the ferocious beat of her father's heart.

The first face Hestia would see was attached to the large, bloodstained hand that reached out, raising her roughly out of the muck and the mire, and smiling with the gleam of war and freedom, the air crackling around his lightly bearded face. Zeus had had a boy's face once.

"Rise up, Sister!" his very white teeth would flash and only then would Hestia see the awe-inspiring object clasped within his other hand. "The world is almost ours."

Perplexed, she would watch as lightning filled the sky above and thunder shook the ground beneath her feet—No. Not thunder. Zeus seemed to fly to the highest peaks. A tall woman with golden feet reduced her enemies with withering stares and a voice that would shatter ones own heart, another slicing combatants with a long curved blade, flowers falling with the spray of blood and gore. A man scented of mercury and lead, of emerald and ruby, would gather the darkness of this blinding night around him and send the most glorious of beings screaming into the pits, another. . .another walked with a steady purpose, the earth rising and falling by his design and a three pronged staff raised high in his fist.

They were warriors, her siblings.

She—along with the rest of the fledgling universe—would watch, (having missed the battle and not at all called to the violence but knowing it was right all the same), as Zeus brought Cronus to his knees, toss their father's manhood into the churning waters and watch as the Titan partly died in a pool of his own essence. Hades would take care of what was left.

There would be mighty cheers, such sound Hestia would never hear again, and again by his design the Earth Shaker would cleanse the view of carnage with a wave of his trident and the waters of his conquered domain. It would seem that from the beginning Hestia's eye sought out Poseidon. It would be many years before she observed his own but by then Doom would be firmly entrenched in the halls of Mount Olympus.

He had been there from the start.

Of the aftermath Hestia would remember little. She tended the exuberant wounded with an innate kindness and warmth that did not so much surprise as intrigue the Goddess, as physical signs of her inner fire made themselves known on her person. Veins seeming to glow with quicksilver would not bother her and neither would the thousand passing creatures stopping to touch her already scarred hands. She was aware and alive and time meant nothing to such as her kind.

Except when he touched her cheek.

He would kneel down next to her, and, with wet fingers that dried with a puff of steam disturb her concentration and press her gaze towards his. There was a smile about his mouth even though he did not smile, did not seem to like the action that came so readily to their youngest brother's lips—(as ridiculous a thought as she believed it to be)—and he immediately adopted a tone of censure.

"You did not fight."

Hestia would not rise to the bait and resumed bandaging the many-handed being at her side.

"I remained behind. Someone must if there is indeed a home. Otherwise a piece of earth is just a piece of earth."

"This is your home then?"

"Aye, Brother."

"Yes. . ." he would insolently push her hair back. "The eldest."

"Eldest. Youngest. Last to arrive but have always been." Smiling came rather easily to her lips as well, and when she laughed there was a curious expression on his face. And why wouldn't there be? What was laughter? She would not be able to explain.

"I am Poseidon, King of the Ocean."

It would take a moment to respond, as if she had to conjure a name for herself out of thin air, but eventually the plain and simple words would come.

"I am Hestia."

Part Two

"And whither had thou been, Grandmother?"

Hestia refused to be startled, refused to drop the poker forged by Hephaestus himself for her use on the Sacred Fire. Her patience, however, was severely tried by this particular immortal. More and more often of late, Moros, God of Doom, had been darkening her corner of Olympus. Hestia did not understand his newfound attention—did not wish to garner offense from any but certainly had not tried to encourage his greetings. Standing outside the bright center of her flame, his attractive countenance reflected back nothing of it's warmth nor compassion. Much to the Goddess' dismay his bottomless black gaze was unwavering once directed—misery filled, and cold. She had a memory of him being a quiet child, but Time is wont to play tricks on her kind.

"At my duty, Moros," Hestia replied kindly, embers rising in the air before her. "Mycenae calls with the births of hundreds, all requiring my blessing." It was not a lie. There had been a marked increase in births of late—the way of thing after so many battles—and Hestia had touched the newborn heads of countless infants.

"You tarry with common mortals now?" His robe of shadows and despair swirled on a breeze of his own design. An unfamiliar feeling of annoyance crept upon her at such dismissive speech at the mortals whom welcomed her so well.

"Who says this?"

"None," his cruel mouth curved. "Many. Your absence has been noted—"

"There is naught but my duty—"

"And none could miss the remarkable covering with which you returned upon your last excursion."

"My Brother honours me with his comforts." The cloak had been noticed of course, there had been comments of a complimentary nature and then nothing. The voluminous blue folds had yet to be returned.

"Is that what we shall call it?"

Tall and dignified, Hestia sat up; so minute a change overcoming her features that she was more startled to see Moros recognize it and smirk than she was to hear the subtle implications of his words. Annoyance grew and her brain produced and swallowed back unseemly phrases that we should be doing nothing in concert, that his presence was no longer welcome by her side, nor was it ever.

"Your Lord Poseidon would not wish to hear his gifts disparaged."

As swift as a slash in the dark, Moros' mouth contorted with disgust.

"My Lord? He is no Lord of mine. A son of Chaos and Night herself has no need for Lords!"

"Then why do you remain?" Hestia's question was soft, a thistle to the heavy oak of Moros' words still echoing amidst her soot-stained pillars. "This is a kingdom of Lords and you serve, as well we all do." His sneer was fierce and Hestia believed him prepared to step forward until he performed a prestigious bow and a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder.

"Zeus."

"You are loud and say little Moros," the King of Olympus rumbled without rancor. "Leave my poor Sister to her fire and more pleasant company." The near-shade left without a word and Hestia smiled into her King's face.

8h8

"—love them both. But I have no wish to marry."

"There are other avenues Sister than cold celibacy." Zeus' scowl was more incredulous than censorious, and Hestia continued to attend her fire in relative peace and quiet. Even the King of the Gods could not see into her heart.

"I do not—"

"Consorts are admired and desired," he pushed over her protestations as he did with everyone and so she should not have been as exasperated as she internally was. . .Today had been a trial. "Look to Demeter. Or Hecate! They claim neither man not husband and are farfrom desolate."

"My oath has already been sworn Brother, so your point is moot." Hestia did not expound on her respect and love for her agriculturally inclined sibling or her rather clandestine affairs. No one would dare lay criticism at Hecate's feet.

Hestia turned soft eyes towards Zeus as he approached and laid a hand of masculine comfort upon her head, his heavy palm resting over her veils, his thumb brushing her forehead. Oh how the rush of youth faded in such time, in such circumstances. Vital Zeus would always be, but even Hestia could see he was no longer a fresh-faced young man. Her hand had lain in similar state whilst making her oath today, swearing forever to remain chaste, untouched, and refusing both Poseidon's and Apollo's hand.

"My son would have made you a fine husband, Hestia."

She smiled and made it reach her eyes.

"My destiny was decided long ago. There is no reason a king should find a wife in me." Hestia glanced down at her marble seat, the smears of oil and soot. "This. . .this is all the home I ever desired."

8h8

"I forbid it."

"How?"

Another Goddess would have responded viciously. Another Goddess would have laughed in his face or tossed her hair over her flawless shoulder and ignored him outright. Hestia did neither but the excessive humour in her twinkling gaze as she asked the very curious question had Poseidon folding his arms and flushing an unattractive red.

"It isn't done. The throne is yours! You are the daughter of a Titan-"

"Of banished Titans."

"He brings only disorder and debauchery with him—"

"Which you induldge in, do not try and lie to me."

"You would give up all your power—"

"I had none to begin with in our circle."

"—and influence! Regulating yourself to this corner you are too far away to bend any ear to your greater sense."

She opened her mouth to reply but stopped, her head tilting to the side as her veils slid gently around her shoulders, smile gentling as well while the majority of the humour fled to be replaced with such compassion for her beloved friend.

"If you speak of Zeus," Hestia began, "you know as well as I how much he trusts me. Loves me. He would never harm me and often hears me. To have the first of every sacrifice: why, what more could I desire?"

Poseidon did not look pleased to be reminded of the failed attempt at Olympus' crown, the unplanned stunt ending with Zeus' praising of Hestia's loyalty and the King of the Ocean, (and others), being banished from the Sky kingdom for a hundred years. Hestia reached forward and touched his wrist, stepping closer as he avoided her eyes and linking her arm through his tight elbow. "As for how far away I am from others. . .a marble bench allows for closer contact—" she nudged with her shoulder, "and longer visits to sate my need for gossip of the mortal world."

His burgeoning grin disappeared with a huff as she finished, pulling her along with a roll of his commanding eyes.

"Hermes recites the most wondrous tales."

8h8

"Things are not well Grandmother."

All the eons of natural grace and politeness, of welcoming all and any who should care to join her at the Hearth, could not stop the shock from spearing across Hestia's face at Moros' unexpected appearance—more! The weight of one cold white hand threatened pressure to her right, which had closed fist-like around her poker; black robes moved with animation around him, along the marble seat on which they both now sat, and the Goddess swore the faded faces of the damned beseeched redemption from within those stark folds though none was in the offering of their hard hearted Master. She could feel the muscle in his thigh pushed purposefully against her own, the powerful limb belied by the delicate angles and features in his pale face, now washed harshly with the red light of the Sacred Flame.

Oh, aye. But for his eyes, the God of Doom was an attractive immortal. At the moment however, all he engendered in Hestia was as unpleasant nauseous sensation that raised the usually damp hairs on the back of her neck.

Too close.

There was no shrinking, though his darkness loomed and licked; Hestia would not have known how.

"Things, Moros?"

"Whispers on the wind. The tragedies of the world fly to me like eagles."

Like bats. The unkind thought was quick and, as if he had read her mind and knew her unease, his ghastly smile appeared just as quickly, reminding Hestia of Eris' laugh, Ares' severed limbs, and Atlas' straining screams. Her stomach lurched and she wished fervently for Poseidon's solid strength.

Strange. This God could not hurt her.

"Then why bring them to my door?" She stoked the coals, tossed in a handful of cedar chips and listened intently as they crackled. She did not care for the feel of his gaze on her face; it was unrelenting despite the cold smoothness of his voice.

"Your door is forever open, Grandmother. I've long believed you would admit anyone."

Eyes lifted and met his, throat choked and lips dry from more than the heat: Hestia felt a most despicable thing.

"There is a sting to your words that I do not understand—" She swallowed back ember and spark as one cold white hand pressed boldly against her jaw, Moros' hissed breath a pleasured sigh at the first burn of feeling Hearth and Home when all he was was emptiness. Hestia's face was wide-eyed outrage but even this made him smile.

"Your agonyis sweet ambrosia on my tongue." Each word was a leer, an indrawn breath, and his robe gnashed like a gaping maw. "No Immortal has so willingly called down my judgment; you are bed and wine to my deprived psyche—"

"Depraved."

"That too." He grinned, pressing fingers into her skin as if to catch the words that came from where she knew not. "I attend my favourite faithfully and wish to give you faithfuladvice."

"Advice? To take from you is said to be folly indeed." He had still not released her face.

"Not for you Grandmother. Your folly is of your own making. As I said: this is a gift."

Hestia was confused. The despicable thing had not left, retaining the hated thought that though the God of Doom spoke now in circles, he had somehow learned her greatest secret and would see her walk off the cliffs of Hellespont with it wrapped around her neck. Why would he not let her be? Why did his touch bring her back to her first touch, her first shock of fingers pressed into her face?

"Gifts are pleasant things," she whispered, an odd coldness in her spine appearing as his bottomless eyes latched on to her bottom lip. "And your own words hold no pleasure for mine ears."

He laughed in her face and Hestia jerked back, the scrape of his fingertips a frozen trail.

"You throw it back at me?" Moros asked, all delighted astonishment. "I offer you advice—against all will and character—and you refuseto hear me? Oh my Lady!" He breathed deeply, still smiling.

Hestia liked this not at all and would have requested that he leave her sphere in peace, but, like the faded souls secreted in his robe, he offered her no more chances. "Then live your life, Grandmother, and take what. . .pleasure you can hereafter find in it. Simply know this: the mortals are warring and Poseidon is in the thick of it." He smirked. "Perhaps a prayer for your brother would be in order."

The flap of his robe was shattering as he departed.

The despicable feeling followed Hestia as she escaped her seat, prayers dropping from her lips.

8h8

They would meet only at night, in the deepest caves far from the eyes of Mount Olympus. However, as Hestia's frantic hands and eyes caressed the delicate abalone, a blazing, roaring Sun paraded boldly across a cloudless sky.

Poseidon was not there.

Hestia would listen absorbedly to Hermes' latest tale of sea adventure behind an indifferent façade of veils and smoke, a searing fist folding fast to her heart. The mortals were indeed at war and the God of the Oceans was unaccounted for. He was involved.

And Hestia would be overcome with terrifying visions; they would call her from the safety of the Hearth and demand she seek out their one place of comfort.

Poseidon was not there.

And the despicable thing would now have a name.

Fear.

8h8

Steady feet had led her to stand before the golden thrones and she wished their nerve would move higher and give strength to her light hands; clasping and re-clasping the thick fabric of her chiton like the wings of weak-willed moths, Hestia's scarred hands felt curiously powerless without the artifacts of her trade. Hephaestus' poker lay clean and bright upon her bench. A vase of almond oil and one of water sat near the readied cedar. They would wait but thiswork would not.

"Sister?"

She offered Zeus a smile though her gaze faltered along the way to land heavily on Poseidon's empty seat. The emptiness in and of itself was not an oddity; it had been bare once for a hundred years together. And even after his banishment, Poseidon found little need to occupy his official place on Mount Olympus. But Time…Time told Hestia her Brother had been absent too long. She had barely kept up a falsity of duty, leaving her marble seat indiscriminately to make a pilgrimage of the Mediterranean shores and stand vigil in their amethyst cave. Hestia kept his cloak close, could see and touch the heavy blue velvet each morning as she awoke, Fear an eager companion clinging to the back of her neck until Hestia was positive she heard whispers behind the pleasant eyes of her Immortal family.

Fear.

They were Immortals, but the Titans had believed themselves such as well. Untouchable. Unstoppable. And now to see them, locked inside the cold black depths of Tartarus' walls—a prison built and hidden by their own children. Poseidon's dominion reached far and wide and there were lower gods constantly reaching for power and mortals ever ready to humiliate or humble.

Her lover's arrogance and temper—

Guilt followed upon Fear as much as Hestia detested it, mind numbing in it's persistence yet enough to set her skull asunder and spread her entrails upon the floor of Olympus' heart. But Zeus must help, mustknow something, and Hestia could no longer sit by with thoughts of captivity and torture swirling through her brain.

Poseidon had not come, so she must speak.

"Poseidon has been long gone from these halls, Brother."

He shifted slightly, his own eagle eye touching momentarily on Poseidon's seat, greenish with accumulated salt water dried over the eons. A grin twinkled in the corner of her bearded mouth.

"If you would bestow your presence more often Sister, you would know as we all do that the mortals are at war. Poseidon has his part to play in the farce." There was a scroll in his lap and he unfurled it with obvious pleasure. "I don't suppose you have chosen sides. Hermes has created quite a tally of. . ."

Farce?This was not something Hestia wished to hear and it was dismissed like many of the cruelties of which she overheard.

"But so long, My Lord?" she interjected, one moth hand pushing aside a length of veil that had tumbled over her shoulder. Away from her Sacred Fire and physical labour Hestia should not have felt the heat but feel it she did, a flush blossoming and seeming to carve chunks of her chest and throat. "Is it not time this mortal war was brought to it's conclusion? Battle is not the way to keep them in your thrall, and surely Poseidon's power would be better served helping them reform and rebuild. Do you see his whereabouts? Does he succeed or fall?"

He leaned over large legs to regard her oddly.

"Is it his judgment or mine that worries you?"

"I. . ."

"No response? I never would have deemed you an interrogator Sister. Are my commands no longer sufficient?"

Once again Hestia opened her mouth and felt all the words slip back—a putrid mass made so by the tilt of Zeus' angrily assessing eyebrow. What was this? She was at a loss as to the hows and whys of this underlying conversation that was flying away from her like so many cinders. Interrogate? No!

"My apologies Brother," Hestia replied, confused. "But how have I offended?" Zeus pushed himself up, all muscle and deceptively silent pressure as he tossed aside the scroll and made his way towards her. "I fear for Poseidon's well being and wish to learn of his whereabouts."

"Then maybe you should ask his wife."

About to question her offences a second time, Hestia's throat abruptly thickened, eyes widening in unconscious acknowledgement of Zeus' tone. She raised her chin but it wobbled and her breath hissed out like old snake skin through dry grass.

"Brother. Of what do you speak?"

"Liar." He stepped in and glared, a hairsbreadth away. There was lightning behind those eyes and while fire blazed up her cheeks Hestia stood frozen before his anger. "Oath breaker."

A sword through the soft flesh of her stomach. A searing brand. Hestia's mouth opened as her face crumbled and nothing could be said. No. Nonononononononononoononono—

Moros.

Moros knew.

Moros had spoken first.

Hestia thought she was going to faint. The marble had dropped out from beneath her and she was going to fall and never get up.

"Brother—"

"Enough!" He roared and the thunder was his heartbeat. "No questions—they are neither your privilege nor right! To question me and in a realm of observation in which you know nothing!" A rough, unfriendly chuckle echoed in his throat as Zeus began to circle. The last time Hestia and her King had spoken there had been warmth and humour and love. How could only this menacing contempt remain? Her red cheeks were wet. How could that be? "To think, how well you played the quiet maid," he spat, "keeping your place away from the machinations of our world. Docile and content. It was then that I loved you, knew you were wholly mine—Sister and loyal subject. Trusted."

"Brother—"

"But to know you conspired all this time!" Zeus threw out his arm, and while flesh did not connect with flesh, Hestia felt the power all the same and was thrown back, sliding on the floor until she collided with a pillar. Shock coursed through her, enough to ignore the short pulsing glow of her scarred hands. Hestia had never been struck. Never. The physical pain was nothing compared to the knowledge that it had been at the behest of someone she loved. The thought kept circling in her head until the accusation leapt forward.

"Never have I conspired against My King." Her voice was hoarse and she coughed. There was no need to ask who said these terrible lies against her; again, the God of Doom was at work.

"You let him convince you," once more Zeus moved forward, standing above her. "Enough to break your Oath and lay with him." She thought he looked pained but quickly that chuckle returned and his words made her flinch. "You could have fucked whomever you wished. I would have let you continue by the Fire but you simply couldn't hide your nature."

"Poseidon—"

"Poseidon," Zeus drew a deep breath, his hand raised sharply, though he stopped when he saw her shrink back. His face closed in. "Poseidon has tried for my throne once before. Never again will he set foot on my mountain; his banishment is complete."

Hestia could not find the words to defend herself; none of this was real. This was not the Brother whom she adored, respected. Lies. You made your decision to take Poseidon between your thighs. You chose to break your Oath. Aye. Willingly. Of this Hestia was guilty. But never a betrayal against the Kingdom. Oathbreaker.

"I saved you once," Hestia whispered as Zeus knelt beside her. "I saved you." His blunt fingers that dispensed justice so easily touched her chin.

"I know. That's why you will only have one hundred years."

". . .Of banishment?"

"Of age."

8h8

Her movements had been measured. She would wait until the revels had ceased and libations slowed to a dribble when she knew her families arguments would begin in earnest. To take the Kingdom required one act, to keep it would require another, and while Hera, Athena, Poseidon, Hermes, Demeter and Hephaestus had worked well in trapping Zeus, the second stage of their plan would be their undoing. None would submit willingly to the other when each would be a constant threat.

"Those that would defy you?" she would sigh now unconcerned, placing the links silently in heavy piles. "Yes. Hera bickers more than ever, and while you are not known for debate, none of them could equal your prese

Hestia's loyalty had been set in the Beginning. First face to see, first power to know: Zeus had been the one to bring them all out of darkness and she would see no other Ruler of Olympus. She knew his wrath would be severe but hoped her sentiment would sway him against destruction of wife, brother, sister, and children. Hestia had no wish to see harm befall any but there could be no actions in haste.

She would beseech the help of Briarius, claiming her debt from healing the Hundred-Handed-Ones after the War, and sneak the creature onto the mountain. With Ares' help—loyal to his Father though she would later turn away from his bloody methods—Briarius' strength reclaimed the thunderbolts from where Hermes had hidden them while Hestia freed Zeus from the chains that bound him. Tied to his throne with Hephaestus' forged magic, only peaceful hands could remove the chains and a mind that sought no revenge.

"Sister?" Zeus would look upon her with a desperate, unbelieving gaze, his visage strained, power draining with each futile tug and pull. "You would defy them?"

"Those that would defy you?" she would sigh now unconcerned, placing the links silently in heavy piles. "Yes. Hera bickers more than ever, and while you are not known for debate, none of them could equal your presence in the face of our enemies." He would rise in a stretch, colour returning, muscles rippling, and Hestia would place a hand upon his arm. "You shall have to be a benevolent King if we are all to survive eternity." Zeus' answering look would send one feminine finger prodding sharply at his chest. "They are not evil, simply tired of your foolishness. You are a God who wishes to rule Gods? Then rule us well Brother. You are not a boy, though I still love you as one." She would lift up and kiss his cheek and he would place his powerful arms around her.

"Aye Sister. All trust, all honour is yours, this day and every day! My fair and loyal one, what is it you desire? Name it!"

"Peace, Brother. You have just given me the rest."

"For all time."

Part Three

There were folds in her skin, hanging flaps that made sitting, shuffling, sleeping, uncomfortable as they crowded around her throat, her spindle legs and hindquarters. Her chest had shrunk to dry husks, darks beige and brown spots dotting over wrinkled flesh that had once known the most pleasant of touches. Her eyes were rheumy and stung and what teeth remained were yellowed with decay. They hurt. She hungered and she knew thirst but there was no respite. Her hands shook but she was forced to remain at her task. The Hearth was a task now; there was no beloved duty or gentle movements, and she took no joy in the scent of almond oil or cedar. She could not smell it.

There was no conversation. Hermes appeared once, but that was long ago…

Time played tricks on her. Hestia supposed it must on all Immortals, and it shamed her to think on how often in her life she had placed so little importance on time—and there was nothing to do butthink. Eons? Minutes. Surely one hundred years had passed over and over again. Was this truly how mortals ended their lives, not understanding their bodies and barely their minds? Did they flounder in pain and confusion without hope of release? One hundred years. And in the millennia of millennia's since she had first drawn breath had she ever told Poseidon she loved him?

8h8

Hestia thrust her poker against the low burning coals; her eyes had closed and she had fallen asleep on her seat. With a groan she leaned over and grasped a handful of wood chips, several falling from her shaking fist before finally dropping into the flames. Her stomach rumbled but that was merely felt now, deep in her empty cavity. Somewhere. . .somewhere there was music. She could remember music.

Apollo.

Hestia blinked. He sat on the floor, just within the circle of the Hearth's heat, leaning forward as if to embrace his knees; but those supple limbs were crossed, stabilizing a shining lyre which Apollo strummed and caressed to dizzying heights, to perfection. His hands did not shake. They were strong, with taut smooth skin, unscarred and unmarked. He glowed with youth and vitality, his short tunic emphasizing strength and lean muscle: long legs, tight arms, hard chest. Cold bronze. Hestia, (with bent spine and sharply rounded shoulders), felt utterly ashamed of her weakness in the face of Apollo's immense Immortality. It was a painful scald and she threw a fragile arm over her eyes to weep.

He didn't leave, simply played with a firm thumb and casual air, while Hestia's tears fell and dried and fell again. The songs were long and involved and continued when Apollo returned to the Hearth the next day. And the next. And the next. Hestia's original tally disappeared and she began to count the days to the tune of the lyre and Apollo's burnished head. Perfectly played, perfect pitch, excellent form: it could not move her. Her blood had congealed with her failure and service and her heart was anchored with the weight of punishment.

She was here.

And Poseidon was not.

8h8

"My Lady?"

There was a touch upon her brow; the voice was friendly and expectant and impossible. Hestia had no attendants. No one saw to her comforts. In her age and infirmity she had cleaned her own garments and muddled through the shame of soiled bed sheets. Not that any dare approach an object of Zeus' wrath, Hestia dared not ask, dared not allow any to tend to her disgrace or see how her treachery had brought her so low.

Lies upon lies.

She had fallen asleep the night before, uncomfortable and untidy—had Helios' orb already arrived? Hestia breathed. Deeply. Impossible. Her chest rose and expanded and there was scent: lavender and wind and sweet ambrosia. Hestia blinked, eyes large, and it was as the first time—a blinding light, the glare of morning along her naked walls that quickly became lines and clearly defined shade and peripheral vision.

Red!

Before the face of the beauty beside her became clear, the vibrancy of the young woman's long curls forced itself upon Hestia's sight. It was the red of roses and painted lips, of silk. And the attached visage bore a remarkably open smile.

"Oh, My Lady! I'm so pleased to see you!"

Again Hestia blinked, still prostrate on her bed. It struck her that she knew the woman, with the radiant smile and cheeks awash with bronze freckles.

"Thalia?" The woman nodded, seeming to vibrate with surprised happiness. Why did a chosen follower of Apollo, one of his nine Muses, decide to help her greet the morn? Hestia slid her arm up, hand gliding over the sheets in preparation to roll over—for there was always a process: sore hips, crooked back, a clack and crack of bone. Everything stopped when she glimpsed her fingers.

The skin, her skin, was fresh! The thin, barely there scars were just that; her veins were no longer bloated and the ichor ran smoothly below the surface. She did not remember sitting up but her hands slapped against her face—smooth!—and dragged through long, thick, golden tresses. Her eyes stung and her stomach rolled. "It is the day after, My Lady," the Muse explained. "Do not weep! Everything is as it should be. I have been sent to be your guide." Hestia stopped brushing the wetness off her chin.

"Where am I going?"

It was then she noticed it. It's absence.

"Where is Posei—"

Thalia's fingertips were pressed firmly against Hestia's plump lips, the young woman's laughing eyes incredibly serious. No words were spoken, only a slow shake of her head and a very deliberate movement of her lips.

You must never speak his name.

No more tears. No gentle breezes. No scent, no breath; for Hestia, for that moment, it all seemed to stop. Poseidon was banished. Zeus had not forgotten…but to steal his cloak from under her nose? To steal his name from her lips? Hestia's beautiful, soft face turned grim. Poseidon could notbe ripped from the mouths of each individual on Mount Olympus. Surely! He had other siblings, nieces and nephews. Children. Hestia tossed aside her sheets—and immediately stuttered at her lack of coverings. Her body was her own again: breasts and stomach, thighs. Young. Resilient. Painless. It was too fast.

"Please," she looked to Thalia, not understanding the cracks in her smile. "Help me dress."

8h8

The booming salutation had had no time to echo before Hestia was gathered into familiar arms, her uncharacteristically sheer layers of robbing and veils puffing up around newly supple limbs and soft waist threatening to smother. (The chitons she'd worn for the last hundred years were gone.) Zeus' grip was warm and sure; she was spun swiftly in several circles, and part of her wished to remain thus, protected and spinning as Zeus' beloved Sister. But Hestia no longer felt safe within said arms. Much had changed and it tasted as grotesque as Fear. Zeus had not spoken to her in—

"What a beauty you are Sister," she was put down. "We have been waiting eagerly for your return; there is to be a marvelous celebration!"

Hestia smiled and attempted to feel gratitude. Her own actions had been to blame; Zeus had been dispensing his justice; if only she had—

It wouldn't work. Hestia felt desolate and wished for a return to her Hearth. "That is good, My King. For now I wish only to attend the Fire."

"Thalia will escort you." Zeus made a gesture but laid a hand on Hestia's arm before she could pass. "Duty is important, Sister. It is well to focus on your place. And on the future."

She almost called him a liar, and confusion bracketed her from all sides. What did he wish to imply? The Hearth was all that she had, all that she was, and there was no future butthe Hearth. No future with Poseidon.

Thalia touched her back.

"Of course. Brother."

8h8

She said nothing as Thalia led her in the wrong direction, receiving a very strong impression from the young woman that questions would be detrimental to at least one of them; however, she was also lost in the vitality rushing through her limbs. One evening and her world had changed. She schooled her features as the haunting sound of a wailing choir reached them, followed later by the desired scent of cedar and coal. No. No coal. There was no soot where Thalia led, nor any comforting corner of flame and quiet.

The Muses were singing, Apollo was playing, and there was a small marble seat by a small tiered fire—little more than an incense burner where a tendril of grey smoke wound its way upwards. Her amphora of almond oil was missing as was her jug of water; there were no walls, no play of shadow and warm orange light. The light was white and blinding.

"My Lady."

The music had stopped without halting, the singing without an off-note; they were an orchestra and Hestia's appearance had merely tuned them in another direction. Beauty and grace. Too much light. Why had she been brought here? Apollo approached, all smooth step and glittering eye, and as the Olympian's hands met Hestia was troubled by how Thalia shrank back.

"I mean no offence," Hestia bowed her head, wishing for another veil; she remembered Apollo's presence and his songs in her sorrow. "But why am I here?"

"Ah, My Lady," he gently kissed her knuckle. "I rejoice to once again see you as eternity created." She allowed the flattery and didn't object as he retained her hand, urging her closer to the silent singers and thus closer to the marble seat. "My Father thought this would please you Hestia." His features became almost coy. "Is he wrong? I believed my music brought some little comfort during your. . ." Punishmentwent delicately unsaid.

"Zeus is not wrong. . ." she hedged. Brunette, auburn, flaxen-haired: Hestia glanced at the perfectly poised women, all lithe and buxom and ethereally lovely. "This is very kind, and I shall enjoy and appreciate being your audience today—"

"Hestia. You do understand why Father thought this for the best?" She had startled at his sudden squeezing grip but truly stopped at his tone. Would she now have to listen to Apollo speak on her carnal sins and broken oaths, (could Zeus have been so cruel?). Would henow speak Poseidon's name when she could not? Hestia suddenly wished for it fiercely like a flood-gate, to hear the syllables and imagine Poseidon still wished for hers. "He saw the light in this solution. A social place. An open place. It was only proper given the company that used to bend your ear."

Ah.

Moros.

Her cheeks flared, and while she knew it should have been in shame for the knowledge to which Apollo had been privy—an embarrassment with their long ago shared history—Hestia felt only anger.

This emotion she knew well, had endured it trying to become a bitterest gall inside her chest as she shambled in her age and seclusion. It would not take her. Reason had not deserted her. Manipulation had been his gift and Hestia had accepted with open arms, fool that she was. But she did not have to like it nor forgive him for his nature. I will not forgive his tales or the distrust he has sown in my Brother's heart. Would that he had left me alone!

"Your brow is furrowed. Do not be displeased." Hestia blinked. How did he get so close? He would not release her hand even as she put space between them. "Do you sing?"

"No." So much did the question catch her off-guard that Hestia felt herself flinch. "I have no talent for it."

Apollo closed the distance and placed the full length of his hand along her jaw. Masculine fingers brushed the fragile skin of her throat as his thumb pressed over the bow of her mouth.

"I will find a way to make you sing."

8h8

"And Poseidon has never returned."

"Never."

Hestia's nails clutched at the airy fabric of her robes, keratin digging into the flesh of new thighs until the pinch brought tears to her eyes; the Goddess inhaled and blinked, turning her gaze to the ceiling far above her. New thighs. New wardrobe. New face. And what was she to make of Apollo? You know an intimate touch. That was not kindly or generous or self-sacrificing. That was. . .perverse.What had Zeus decided in her infirmity? How in all the ages of the Graces had Moros turned her Brother so indefinitely against her?

"My Lady? See?"

Hestia could find no joy in Thalia's antics: dancing, jumps, falling, various comical faces. The redhead now juggled perfumed satchels, fragrant dust motes swirling amidst the colourful bags, crowding the Muse's long curls. Hestia looked back from her position on the bed, 'celebration' ricocheting through her skull.

"Am I to become Apollo's wife?"

The satchels dropped and Hestia had her answer.

"My son would have made you a fine husband."

She felt herself turn cold: a stone in this high tower of clouds and beauty. It was not the same Fear as when she believed Poseidon lost to her through war and death. Her chin was steady as she continued to regard the poor Muse.

"Has he ever found a way to make you sing?"

Part Four

She would sleep and sleep and sleep, dreamless, blessedly blank and dark, weightless. There was no horror built from guilt and what was lost, nor the painful reality of present circumstances. And then. . .

Then.

It would begin as a simple touch upon her ankle: firm fingers, blunt nails, a calloused warmth. It would move along the curve of calve and knee and Hestia would be lost in the sensation of her clothing drifting over and about.

Desire would follow only after safety, the touch becoming an arm around her waist or shoulder, the arm then a body pressed close behind and surrounding, a kiss placed softly on her nape. At this she would be desperate, would move and shift herself into further touch and grasp with her mouth opening for his kiss. And then she would catch the scent. The lack of it.

She had learned to kick out first, to hit with open palms and fists until a grunt or laugh would register his surrender and removal. She had learned not to open her eyes to see her dream in action turn into vicious nightmares. She had taught herself not to cry.

After these nights Hestia would see his brothers shivering, disgusted at themselves and what he had made them do—what they would continue to do in their fear and in their nature. She would learn that Phanatos, Phobetor, and Morpheus were not the monsters she had been led to believe.

They were not Moros.

8h8

"My Lady, it is almost time."

No. Hestia had run out of time, watched it slip through her fingers while wrapped in misery and defeat. Once there could have been a chance. A possibility. The merest whisper of hope. But Hestia had crushed it by herself. Under no circumstances could she run to Poseidon. Where he was Hestia did not know, and even if she did the Goddess would never bring down her misfortunes on his head. Poseidon would never see Olympus again; Hestia wouldn't have Zeus nipping at his heels either.

However, the thought of sending word led to another thought at the risk her messenger would undertake. And if she would dismiss such concerns then there was the terrible blow that perhaps Poseidon would not protest her treatment nor answer any cry for help. Listening to idle rumour, reaching without thinking, had resulted in his banishment.

A heart could change in one hundred years.

Hestia felt numb. The coldness had not left, but invaded deeper: a hollow bloodless torso; no anticipation; no joy. Each moment spent in Apollo's company made her less and less, and there was no escape from her permanent position as audience or the dreadful façade of her duty. The Fire was little more than a spark; the Fire was air, insubstantial and insignificant, like her movements and breath and speech. And when Apollo wasn't standing near—directing, observing, commenting, and needing to somehow touch in increase—his eight ladies, (such elegant superior beauties), would sing of his exploits, their flat eyes disturbing and showing their likenesses for that of a scroll rather than a Muses of supposed vibrant spirit. Their beauty was only skin deep and their words were leeching what was left of Hestia dry. The ninth waited on tender hooks, silent, sequestered from her sisters, until her sweet voice and gentle hand would inform Hestia it was time to return to her chamber. The only place free of Apollo's presence.

To be expected to lay with him—

Hestia closed her eyes from the vision of the bride in polished silver, gripping a bronze goblet of ambrosia meant for Apollo's lips. Bare-armed, all creamy dimpled skin and a shower of gauzy gold to cover her modesty: the Goddess did not know what she had become. She was no maiden to be dressed and paraded like one of Hera's peacocks; she was no nymph, desiring the attentions of all and sundry. She was no Aphrodite and wished for no other to wake beside except—

But Poseidon had his own wife.

Hestia listened to Thalia's light steps and felt the Muse place one thin veil of sun beam upon her golden curls. She wanted to tear it off, tear off all the artifice of this concoted day and fly! She wanted to run screaming through the mountain to rail against the injustice—Yes! Injustice!—of her treatment by those who claimed to love her! To be her family! She was Immortal and it meant something! She was Immortal! Immortal!

Hestia's eyes flashed open with unexpected heat.

"All are gathered, Thalia?"

"Aye, My Lady."

"Open the window please. I would like a breeze."

The redhead's delicate robes fluttered as she crossed the expanse of the chamber and raised the latch. Hestia nodded. "Leave me. I'll come anon."

Heart pumping, vision clearing, Hestia felt warmth return as she reached up to remove her wedding veil and forcefully drained the goblet of each sustaining drop.

Another Immortal had once fallen from the glory and safety of Mount Olympus. Falling for three days entire, Hephaestus had broken back and legs, a cripple, but he had lived, and by the Good Graces, Hestia swore she would as well! Whilst Fear threatened again on spider fingers it would not sway her decision. The options before her were untenable and Hestia could not bear the reality of what was to come if she remained. There was no admiration or affection for comely Apollo—none above or beyond what there had always been and surely not enough to encourage physical demonstrations of whatever he may feel for her. Hestia had never wanted to ask, not after all this time.

Without pausing for observation of the clear sky, it's blue endlessness and depth, Hestia climbed onto her window ledge and jumped.

Neither the buffeting, freezing wind nor the vastness below alarmed half as much as the sudden swirling black shadows wrapping around and changing her descent, and at this she did scream. Sorcery! No! No, she would not be brought back! There was pressure at her shoulders, more underneath the bend of her knees, as the darkness solidified and brought a cold, wracking laugh to her ear. She squirmed but the new arms held tight. Robes emerged from the shadows and engulfed her legs and the laughter continued.

"You ruined my entrance, but I have always appreciated your flair for the dramatic." Moros' bottomless eyes peered at her. "You never cease to surprise me Grandmother."

"I will not be Apollo's wife!" Hestia's eyes were livid. Shock and terrifying vertigo were pulsing like exotic stars but she would stay with what was important. She had ended her life on Olympus and would not return, no matter how—or why—Moros had managed to act the unwanted net. He merely nodded and placed what Hestia would later think of as a rather patronizing kiss upon her brow, tendrils of black cloth securing her hips. As they disappeared over the horizon his cackle harkened to a murder of crows.

"Where would the fun be in that for me?"

8h8

Sticks, chips, grass, flint: Hestia was cold and had been cold since the second night of dwelling within the cave of the Sons of Night. It was not a cave of colour and gentle rest. There were no precious gems gathered in formation to create a starlit canopy; there was no seashell bower or ocean scent. She missed salt and seaweed and private sun rises. But that was long ago and far away and now a collection of grey sheets kept her warm at night. She had accumulated more scars. Calluses and torn nails, skin bitten in frustration: once again the Goddess was confronted with work. Different than duty, than numbing servitude, this was making fire from raw material where no spark existed. Away from moments of painful reminiscing, Hestia imagined herself akin to the first mortals awaiting Prometheus' illuminating arrival and his stolen gift. She no longer transferred a flame or continuously tended burning coals. Hestia forced fire from the Earth again and again and again.

"I've become bored."

Hestia refused to respond, clacking stone against stone as Moros reclined on her pallet. His brothers hid in the walls, stretching through granite and damp, all tattooed heads and blue skin. Waiting to be released into the minds of mortal and Immortal alike, they tried to be kind.

clack, clack

"You have become boring."

"Then send me away."

clack, clack

"You never attempt escape anymore."

"There is no escape Moros," Hestia sighed, sick of old conversation. "You somehow saw to that."

clack, clack

"Stop with the stones."

clack, clack

"Are you mad?"

There was a scrambling and swiftly the stones were kicked from Hestia's grasp, black robes violently jerking across her vision as a puffing God of Doom scowled down on her.

"That is mad! Every day, stone against stone!" He moved away then came back with a roar. "Make the fire yourself!"

"Mad and blind." Hestia came to her feet. She had been in this position once before and she would notbe hit again. "I have been making fire ever since you trapped me here."

"Playing in the dirt is not an act of creation, Grandmother," Moros hissed. "Do you even remember who you are?"

8h8

"Turn to me."

She didn't want to wake up. The arm around her waist, the warmth at her back, breath on her neck: reality was cruel; this wasn't real and oh, how she wanted it to be real. Her hip was caressed, wedding dress slipping higher—it was only adjustments, movements in her sleep—

Hestia gasped as true fingers brushed her inner thigh. She could hear the waves gliding, stones rolling on the shore.

"Turn to me."

Hestia's eyes flew open but she had been so tired, her body was sluggish as she fought to face the man behind her. Large eyebrows crowded his unnaturally blue eyes; his skin was the same sea-roughened she remembered, ginger hair on chin and head and arms.

"Where have you been?" she cried. It sounded far away to her own ears and her arms were heavy as they tried to reach round his neck, to drag him to her and never let him go. He could not answer at first. Hestia had claimed his mouth in a desperate, needy kiss. Her eyes were wet, her tears sliding along their lips where he licked and drank of her. He was finally here when she never imagined to see him again. "My love. My love, my love, my love—"

"I have been waiting for you," he laughed at her exuberance, sounding as far away as she did.

"Where?" Hestia arched as he palmed her breast, again as his mouth descended to her throat. He bit.

"In our cave."

"I searched!" Hestia grasped his back. Clothes that were there weren't there and it didn't matter, not when his hand had returned between her thighs, skipping passed smooth skin and slipping in alongside wet flesh. She breathed out in a rush. "I searched!"

"And you found me." He rolled on top of her, weightier, heavier, and spread her legs, his hand a cool flat mass upon her mound as long, thin fingers caressed. A smooth thumb tapped. She could see a cascade of glowing purple above them and held on with all her strength. Their cave! He had come for her! Somehow he had saved her!

More pressure, less teeth. Her peak was languorous, old muscles sighing with a liquid heat. Breasts and core and heart. How wonderful it all could be—how perfect he was! She had not wanted to hope and here he—

"I love you," she stated firmly, sincerely, pressing her face close to breathe him in, lick the curve of one rough cheek.

Her countenance abruptly changed. Hands left the loving embrace around his waist to shove hard against his too thin shoulders, horror rising in her eyes. No salt! He did not taste nor smell of water and ocean winds—there was no smell at all! Her bed was not manufactured layers of fresh green seaweed; there was no give for push and pull and having nowhere to go but climb the magnificent trunk of his body in search of mutual release. There was a wave before her eyes, a falling, tumbling, like a curtain lifting, and the Goddess thought she would be sick. Limbs awoke, submersion ended, noises cleared.

"You are not Poseidon!"

Hestia's legs kicked out, arms and hands struck out, flesh and bone damning a stranger with the face of her beloved.

And then the laughter.

The Ocean God's visage dropped away like a passage of mist as sunburn and rough tan were traded for a palette of palest white. Black eyes, black hair, black heart: Moros watched Hestia weep as he tasted her wetness on his fingers.

"Like sweet ambrosia, Grandmother. You feed me."

8h8

"I know myself Moros," Hestia brushed her hands against the dull, rough fabric of her grey robe. "It is you I have never understood. To find such happiness in one being's misery and call it sustenance—to heap on more and more to see how it breaks?"

"I am as nature intended." Moros' sly smile was irritated. "We all play an unending role but at least I have never forgotten mine."

"Again you speak in riddles," Hestia frowned. "Rather that you had forgotten what you gleaned in my face for—!" She couldn't speak his name, not to this creature. "Go on your business of tragedy and leave me be." Moros' swirling shadows jumped, appearing once again before her as Hestia turned away.

"I would happily claim any misery of yours Grandmother, but the tragedy you speak of with the Gods is of your own making! Every choice or decision was your own. Each memory forgotten you wiped away. Zeus and his mortals. Demeter and her cruelty. On and on it went and how easyyou made it all appear. Content in your little corner, no one of importance—It played well into their hands when you bowed out to Dionysus—trying to forget the evil you had sprung from and to which you still belong!"

"I am not evil!"

"And is that why you delight in punishing yourself?" Moros laughed. "In making sacrifice and obeisance and bowing to your precious guilt?"

Hestia shook her head frantically; she had been right the first time: Moros was mad and there was nowhere to go. Assuredly there were things she had preferred not to hear but what he said—Demeter cruel?Her hands tingled, itched to do something she knew not what, and she spied his brothers peek out from the walls. Dream and Nightmare and Sleep.

"I do not understand you! What has this to do with your lies to Zeus? Why would you mark me as traitor?"

"What did you do in the Beginning?" Moros circled, ignoring her pleas, as his form of shadow limbs seemed to appear here then there. "What did you do until someone else came along? They didn't even have to take it. Much like your throne you gave it away willingly."

"I do not—"

"There was blood, and most likely thunder, and light the likes of which you had never seen. Enough to blind and ravage—"

"I do not—"

"Hera screaming revenge. Hades turning the Titan's dead against them. Zeus' laughter above it all—"

"I don't—"

"What did you do?"

"I don't know!"

But she did.

She did. A terrible awareness that had been hidden behind dismissed words and deeds and repressed memories. A place where she had polished rusted images of sibling, cousin. Herself. The rooms broke open inside her mind. She had been a healer. After the War. After so much death and blood and destruction—more than any should ever have had to face!—Hestia had healed the injured. The Hundred-Handed Ones. Hera's broken fingers. Zeus' slashed brow. She had healedthem.

"Born into a family of warriors, you could not help but be one as well." Moros grasped her hands and would not release them.

"I did not fight—I did not kill!"

"Fire in the heart, fire in the belly." Moros brought her fists to press against his chest and lower torso, smirking. "The fire of passion. War and sex and death." Hestia pulled viciously away, staring unbelievably at the searing white light shining from beneath the lines of her scars. In pitch-perfect imitation Moros spoke, words she had forgotten even saying.

'"I remained behind. Someone must if there is indeed a home.'"

"Stop."

"Every war," he inched closer. "Every foot of land fought for and claimed. Every death. It was all in your hands, youpushed them forward, and you couldn't bear it." His shadow hands folded in great satisfaction. Hestia had backed herself into a corner, trembling, eyes unseeing. "So you gave away the war to Zeus' son."

". . .Ares."

"And you gave away bodily desires. For a time."

"Aphrodite."

"A glorious woman come from nothing. Most everything you had already given Apollo anyway so it was no wonder he wanted your body as well."

Apollo was a healer. His son Asclepius was a supreme healer—Oh Graces. Coronis. Incinerated through Apollo's jealousy and greed, it was just one memory pushed away—slain by his grandfather's thunderbolt. Apollo's grandsons were healers, Machaon and Podalirius in Troy. His followers, masters of music. Or art. Or drama. Or divination. The fire of creativity flowed like Mount Etna's furnace there.

"Everything," she murmurred. "He took everything. Even the Fire…" A poor substitute of an incense burner lightly perfuming his stage. Hestia tilted her head, confronted with a terrible truth. "It was not you who spoke to Zeus. Apollo. Apollo turned Zeus' mind, convinced My King—My Brother—of my complacency and acceptance in a plot to overthrow Olympus. All for his own ends. Apollo spoke first of. . .of. . ." Apollo had known of her broken Oath. What could have been gained if not for revenge and to steal the last bit of self that she claimed as her own? Everything he wanted. What was next? The Sun? Her insides were drying up, churning. She had been strung along like a child's toy, her blind ignorance masked with hospitality and the appearance of trust. She was Immortal! Why had she turned her back on herself?

And now Moros smiled, wild and grotesque. Sharp bloody teeth ready to gnaw on her thoughts of what could have been.

"For someone who risked all to fuck a God, you tossed him aside as easily as the rest. Of what were you truly afraid?" He leaned close, closer, and again Hestia saw the muted faces of his victims traumatized within the folds of his robes. "Poseidon is not Zeus' son, one to whom you could give power. You offered much to these boys and for what? To make Zeus happy? Thankful? You've been paying off a perceived debt for the entirety of your existence, and when what you desired did not suit Zeus' needs you pushed it away!Since the moment Zeus called you forth from old Cronus' stinking gut you have never been your own. Simply another weapon. A tool." His whisper carried and was wont to drive her to oblivion.

Hestia opened her mouth.

And fire came out.

A primal scream was pulled from her lungs, ripped through bone and flesh and sinew to race as dangerously as a Pythian serpent up and around the cave of Night's children.. Heat rose from the soles of her bare feet and exploded through her palms, ichor expanding and ablaze in her veins and brain and heart. She glowed with a deadly Flame and a cleansing Flame. All sorrow and pain, sadness and guilt, rushed out of her in a blast of fiery inferno. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered other screams, terrors and burning flesh. She could not reach Apollo in his turret in the sky. The same spells laced to keep her in kept the Fire in as well, and Moros had not been quick enough. His brothers could not hide deep enough.

Immortal, yes. But they would hurt.

All Hestia saw, all she breathed, was flame. It filled the cave like water, scraping rock and bone; she burned from the inside out.

And then it was done.

Hestia collapsed, naked.

"Morpheus!" Wisps of smoke slipped passed her lips. Hestia knew not if he would respond, only that, like with her jump from Olympus, the Goddess was finished with being a puppet in this world, and was prepared to meet what happened after eternity, even if it was an expanse of nothingness. ". . .you tossed him aside. . ."Her words had been high and mighty indeed, but she had not fought for Poseidon and she knew it, could not forget it.

She had been living as a shell. No meat. No life. No Fire.

"Morpheus. Sleep."

Part Five

The layers of spells Moros had used to seal her inside faded with the old regime, and thus with the expansion of humanity her cave was discovered and no longer a prison. She did not have to reach for words to explain her bare presence to these first mortal explorers. "I was sleeping" sufficed, and her countenance bought welcome into many a cold village.

Hestia was never cold.

She was not worshipped; she had long ago diminished in the eyes of young mothers, no longer called upon to press the sacred oils to newborn flesh and hear the strong first cries of I Live! I Live! Prayers were not offered up to her at the first of meals, and Hestia was pleased. They had at least forgotten, if she could not, and she could meet with and speak to whomever she wished. She was not a Muse. There were no barriers, and all could gain.

She avoided seashores, stayed inland and would not see the ocean for another five lifetimes. The great cities of the world were dead to her, noxious. It took less than a day within their crowded streets to set her wandering again. Only forests breathed, tall trees swayed, pulsed with their own life, and Hestia created a nomadic existence within their various confines, sharing a fire with those who crossed her path. These voices were beautiful, full of idea and adventure. Germany, Russia, China, and back again through many little other blocks of land named and ruled by mortals that she never saw nor cared to see. Not like some of her ilk.

It was not until she swallowed her pride and crossed the frozen sea to discover a New World that Hestia finally laid eyes upon another Immortal.

8h8

"I'm not dead," he snorted, bitter smoke billowing from between thick mustached and beard. "I don't see you since. . .like. . .the Spanish Inquisition—and this is what you bring me? My obituary put to song?"

"An exaggeration. And only if you wish to sing it."

"Read me that part about Dionysus again."

"'He swoons'? 'Bound with his own vines'?"

"Oh that crazy drunk."

Hestia closed her mouth, lips squirming into a grin as Pan leaned back against his Kapok tree, hand-rolled in one hand and an old water canister in the other. She suspected cerveza. He had threatened to file off his horns the last time they had met (and many years hadpassed since that last time) but the curved protrusions were still there, ribbed bone beneath a substantial mop of dark brown hair. She was pleased. To remove them would have been akin to amputation—an arm, a leg, for a satyr there was no difference—and Pan had been traumatized enough in his existence. Her own braid had grown long again. Shorn every fifty years or so, it was a physical reminder that no life—however long—should remain static.

"You look nice."

"Thank you."

"I'm not hittin' on you. I'm just sayin'."

"Do you wish to hear this or not?"

"Lay it on me Momma."

Hestia had warned him about labels but there was little to be done if she wanted to retain a relationship with an Old One like herself. She rolled her eyes.

"'And his Maenads slowly saunter,/Head aside, among the pines,/While they murmur dreamingly,/"Evohe!-ah-evohe-!"/Ah, Pan is dead!'"

"I've never heard a Maenad murmur, dreamingly or otherwise."

"Screamers weren't they?"

"Did you just make a sex joke?" he took another drink. "They ain't slow either. Bitches be nuts."

"I don't like that word."

"I don't like revisionists."

"Pardon?"

Pan cleared his throat, picked something currently inedible from off his green guerilla-issue shirt, and proceeded to recite all thirty three verses back to her, as well as the six Hestia had purposely removed. Jove, Juno, Apollo. Herself. Others. She would call down no prayers, no names, and had thought Pan would have abhorred to hear Hermes' name mentioned alongside the words cunning and brave. Hestia stopped searching through her knapsack long enough to burn the hand written pages in her hand. He chuckled. "And still you won't light my cigarettes. What? Did you think I'd never heard that crap before?"

She folded her coat into a pillow and lay back, a moment of blessed silence falling as the night sounds of the Amazon came forth. It was glorious and morning would bring with it spectacular sights of colour. Lush turquoise waters, layer upon layer of unnamed greens, flora that belied description: this was no world of stark stone and hospice white. There was heart here and it beat in time with hers just as it did with Pan.

"How did you swing a whole stanza when the sibs had to share?" the former God burped. "That seems excessive for someone who didn't even have a throne. Did Browning owe you or somethin'?" Hestia didn't answer. "'In the fiery-hearted center/Of the solemn universe,/Ancient Vesta—'" She clucked her tongue.

"They always remember the fire."

"At least you ain't dead. Why couldn't I get a lament like Pops."

"'Yet questions/are tricks/for me-/and always will be'?"

"That's it," he grinned, small and bitter. "Dad gets a hymn you can set a drum to. I get a poem extolling the virtues of all you bastard Olympians. Sorry," he immediately held up a placating hand. "Thosebastard Olympians."

"It doesn't bother me anymore."

"No?" Pan appeared less than convinced. "'Neptune lies beside the trident,/Dull and senseless as a stone'." He repeated the beginning of verse fifteen and coughed meaningfully when she remained silent. "Dude. Still can't say his name?"

8h8

It was plainly evident that Poseidon held no love for San Francisco.

Whatever the small region had ever done to the former god of Oceans and Earthquakes, whomever had chosen to battle over the little piece of land or taunt it's nearest previous deity, Hestia knew not. A land of development and industry, innovation, of many lights and vices, beauty and brutality—mortality engulfed the lonely little rock passed capacity and at the turn of a new century Poseidon had leveled it. She didn't know why, but when one lived as long as they a list of enemies was endless. His own reasons. More death. More destruction. Nothing changed except how she viewed the events to follow—small earthquakes with an ever present threat of major disaster, hurtling towards infinity—and Hestia long ago had to acknowledge that suffering was everywhere. She could do naught, feelnaught for these few beings that were not of her creation, (when they were a mere spark in the inferno of mortals dead, dying, terrified, tortured), except deep down the gladness that Poseidon still wielded his trident at all.

It meant he survived.

It meant she had a place to start.

Like in the old days everything had a name. Water, their roads, sculpted pieces of land: all named for other mortals, heroes or great dreamers, explorers. But Hestia searched for something simpler. A cable car brought her to a park on Fisherman's Wharf, where she elbowed through crowds and smells of slaughtered Dungeness crab and yeasty chowder. Eat eat eat eat eat. Constant moving mouths and snapping jaws, people that hummed with their own vitality but said little, made no eye contact, had no neighbours in the truest sense of the word.

She walked on towards distinct sounds. There was a tempered wailing, a conversation in grunts and sniffs and barks as she watched vast masses of slippery whiskered mammals sun themselves. The poses and combined indifference mesmerized her and she waited to watch amidst small flashing lights, the laughter and applause and human questions, and felt as if these were the first infants to ever cross her path. She was so utterly taken in.

And an Apollo-ruled sun dipped and darkness gathered.

And Poseidon was not there.

8h8

"Why do you stay?"

". . .Is that a serious question or are you gettin' metaphysical on me?"

He carried a large blade, the dull side spotted slightly with the beginnings of rust whilst the other gleamed deadly cutting strokes down upon the brush they were only halfway finished hiking through; the forest floor was mud and frilled fungi and above leaves imitated monstrous lily pads but could not make a shade from the heavy weight of Equatorial heat. Their Immortal bodies were mostly unstoppable. And drenched.

The forest itself was smaller than it had been yesterday, and the day before that, and on and on as far back as travelers had come seeking purposed medicines and profit, and a greater land mass as so far still brimming with fertility. They had come for golden cities and conquest, with flame and blood, steel and disease. The forest had protected many secrets. Nothing would last, but Hestia knew he could feel it, little tendrils of roots and spangle filtering through the system of the great continent pulled up and spoken for no more. For some reason it was sacrilege next to Pan's knife. Pan's land.

"You have lived here a long time. You don't leave and are not remembered." She reached out and placed a scarred hand upon moss-covered bark, the spongy growth above her fingertips as white as a pearl. "Why do you stay?" There was an uncharacteristic lengthy pause, where Hestia silently watched her companion's eyebrows furrow, mouth twitch, and dark eyes consider both sky and stone. Then finally:

"They ain't my people," he shrugged, almost eloquently, backpack rising and falling. "I've. . .never really had people, so being remembered isn't much of an issue—"

"Untrue."

"Yeah I like attention. Anyway." Pan began moving again, sure steps through land traversed a million times, a hundred lives. "I stay 'cause. . .Shit, I don't know. It's a calling."

"A calling."

He turned swiftly, eyes instantly apologetic as she jumped back from the blade though those particular words didn't manifest. His voice was firm. "It's in my blood. My chest. This sun and this earth and these smells—it's all me. Nowhere else is right like here is right, and I can't explain in one reason why, it's so deep down and. . .and. . ." He puffed wordlessly, not frustrated but not completely happy. Hestia finished for him.

"It's your home."

". . .Yeah. Yeah."

He nodded and moved back to touch the damp bark too. "Where's yours?"

8h8

There was sacred mortal land north of San Francisco.

There was sacred mortal land all over their sliced pockets of named land, but just as the immensely crowded piece of property had been a good starting point, journeying to Point Reyes National Seashore seemed the best next move.

There had been weather warnings—which she took as a good sign despite the hammer that had suddenly been forged inside the thin structure of her ribs with the bellows of her lungs—and as she crossed the Coast Trail unseen by officials or adventure tourists, danger signs popped up mantra-like, spell-like. An outstretched palm, a fallen oak, a ruined bridge, a neon red flashing light: she had once been bent and she had once been broken but Hestia was neither now and these signs would not sway her.

She had notbeen expecting an olive branch.

She had not been expecting anything of any consequence.

Except. . .

Herds of elk grazed in the wet grassland, quirking unblinking eyes at her passing, dropping majestic heads once more to feed. She needed to reach the coastline; did so, trudged through sand and moving water and the potent smell of salt and breeze brought forth a gasp of air. It said she would never breathe again. It said she could turn around and walk on, to ignore. It said there would be pain at the end. It said there would be an ending. It said there would be a beginning.

It did not say she would enjoy any of it, but Hestia had to see.

Poseidon was here.

He was beautiful. Still. Always.

And as they stood approximately ten feet apart—he with his fishing rod of long bamboo thrown expertly into crashing waves that should never have accepted the bait, and she with a knapsack that had been sewn back to usefulness too many times to count—Poseidon did not look at Hestia, and, once her steps were finished, Hestia did not look at Poseidon. He spoke first however, and rightly she imagined the anger in his indifferent tone, imagined the sea stones roll away, imagined the outline of a trident that proved he was neither dull nor senseless.

"You've been traveling."

"Aye, everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"Yes."

"Funny that." He pulled deftly on the rod and a thick filament glittered, running from the wood deep deep down into the unknowable depths of the Pacific. No. That was wrong. He knew them. "I've traveled quite a bit myself and I have never seen your trail."

I love you. I've always loved you. Look at me. Look at me and do not hate me. I have hurt you more than I can ever repair but don't hate me. I will leave if you ask but I needed to see you. I can live without forgiveness as long as you do not hate me. I've lived so long believing you hated me and the rumour is better than the fact if it's the truth. I've stayed away for such selfish reasons. I cannot bear the knowledge of your hate. You. . .You—

"You've heard my stories, I'm sure."

"I have." She didn't care.

This was agony. All her hard-won composure was fracturing. She was never cold. She did not cry. There was no guilt to run her life or practiced shame to hide behind anymore. He was the exception to every rule, and she worried that he was enough to call back everything Fire had purged from within so long ago.

She was the first to turn but he quickly followed and she soaked in that line of jaw, that smooth beard and rough face like lines of melancholy prose etched into his flesh. Oh the salt and seaweed, it surrounded him still, had never left she supposed, and something rose in her gut the likes of which she hadn't felt since burning three gods to ether in a lonely dirty cave. Her Fire recognized Poseidon—not form or feature, but his essence. Being. It called to her like a sullen horse, unbroken and indignant at being pulled where it did not wish to go.

Furious at being left behind.

And there was only one question to ask. What should have always been asked when they met in that cave of amethyst and abalone, when she knew not only happiness within his arms but perfect contentment to sleep and lay and wake beside him, when she gave and took and felt.

"Can I touch you now?"

Hestia's voice broke at the third, a pitch, a swallow, and tears flowed and she knew why.

She watched Poseidon's hard jaw circle, cheeks pucker and puff and his whole face redden as if an explosion wanted out and could only find means of escape through his own wet eyes. The bamboo rod snapped within his grip, the longer section soaring like a wingless dragon to disappear beneath white capped waves.

"I was strong," he bit out, taking a slow jagged step towards her, crushing the remnants of the handle until powered shards fell like sawdust from his open fingers. "I was stronger than you everbelieved."

"I know," she nodded fiercely, matching him step for step. "I was too. More than I ever believed."

And then it wasn't important who grasped whom first. Simply that they did.

"Are you real?" Hestia whispered, hushed into his throat as she inhaled, only realizing after that he was doing the same; her hair was undone, whipping madly, freely, and Poseidon had gathered a fistful to his face, breathing herin great gulps. Her hands dug in, clasped with unbreakable strength to the lines of shoulders and back and arms that rested underneath the folds of mortal clothing gathered in her fists.

Inside she raged wild, soared, wanted him covered in ember and spark and her arms everywhere. He was her rock in the storm, what her Fire could cling to and never burn. And she would never have cause to fear containment because his spirit was as strong as hers, as wild, as needy and demanding.

A continuous tide, meant to carry the world weary traveler home.

"Are you?"

Hestia nodded.

She was home.