A/N- Written as a request for rakpolaris on tumblr.
In the dark dreary realm of Hades Underworld there was one sound alone that could make Rhadamanthys feel truly alive. The light, airy strands of Pandora's music which haunted the halls of Hades' Palace. Every night she played, for her own enjoyment, knowing or unbeknownst of the contentment she brought to others, brought to him, in this otherwise cold existence. They said she was not a goddess, but how could any but the divine make music as sweet as this? What mortal fingers could coax such sounds from an instrument? They said she was not a goddess, but she would never be less than one to him.
Rhadamanthys was restless. It was late, very late. Even without the sun to tell him this he knew. After being reawakened in the dark realm of Hades' Underworld as each age passed, you became attuned to its strange ways. The air felt heavier as the day drew on, smelled danker, death seemed to cling even closer in the late hours of the night. Yet even knowing the late hour, he could not find himself a way to settle.
Something was missing. The air was still. The air was quiet. Pandora's haunting tunes were not floating through the halls of the palace. They were not whispering strange comforts in his ears. He would not find the peace of sleep this night, not in this quiet.
He sought her out. In the deepest chambers of the palace, where one was only supposed to go when summoned. He hesitated at the grand arching door, wondered if perhaps he was making a mistake. Steeling himself, he decided the potential threat of her wrath would not be so bad as the certainty of a night without sleep.
He lifted a hand to knock lightly on the door. There was a pause, where he had just enough time to wonder if she was even inside, then she called softly from the other side. "Come in." There was no question or surprise in her voice at his unscheduled arrival. When he opened the door to reveal the grand chamber where she sat beside her harp, its strings still, there was no shock in her dark eyes either.
Her face, pale as snow, and sculpted with such perfection that it seemed a master sculptor had made it out of marble, was level, seemingly unsurprised to find it was him at her door. Her dark eyes, with irises of that peculiar shade of purple he had never thought possible for eyes, regarded him with a faint curiosity. "Rhadamanthys, what brings you here at this hour, without my request?" Her voice was soft and rich, almost as musical as the sounds that she played on the tall harp that stood beside the chair she sat in.
"I was-, that is I hoped-." He cursed himself to find that he was at a loss for words. What had brought him here? Could he possibly tell her that he could not sleep without the sounds of her music? Like a child which needed a candle burning besides its bedside? She would laugh, throw him out. Yet, what else could he say? Gathering himself, he regained control of his voice, "Would you play? Play your harp again?"
One delicately arched eyebrow rose at the request. "You wish to hear me play?" Was there a note of teasing in her voice? He hoped that was it, and nodded more eagerly than he intended. Did one corner of her mouth curve up at that? Was she smiling at his request? She turned from him then, regarding the harp beside her. "Very well," she said simply, as if his request was not out of the ordinary at all. She lifted her pale, spider-like fingers to the strings of the harp, and began to pluck against them, filling the room with her ethereal music.
He found himself leaning against the door, his eyes closing as her fingers flew across the harp, enticing increasingly more complex series of notes from them, twining the sounds together into a beautifully twisted melody. He couldn't stop himself from sliding down the length of the door, until he was sitting on the stone tiled floor. He didn't care what she might think of him, sitting on the ground, eyes closed in contentment. He just let the music wash over him in soothing waves, the one thing that made this living hell bearable.
Pandora let her fingers dance across the strings, turning to look at where Rhadamanthys now sat against the door. He had come, just as she had expected. It seemed she knew him as well as she had imagined. He's a tool, she told herself firmly, as she watched his eyes drifting shut. A means to an end and nothing else.
These thoughts didn't stop the soft smile that warmed the otherwise cool features of her face as she looked down on him. Neither did they stop her fingers from slowing on the strings, softening each pluck so that the melody grew into a haunting lullaby. The eerie notes soared into the stale underworld air, soon joined by the faint sounds of Rhadamanthys' snores.
Minos may fancy himself a puppet master, but no one could pull Rhadamanthys strings like she could.