"He used to call me Pandora"
A.N.: So…this is actually part of a much longer story of "real" fiction I'm writing (specifically, the backstory) but it works well as a stand-alone, so I thought I'd put it up and see if I could get any concrit. And soooo…I humbly beg you all. PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE BE HARSH!!!!!!!!!
If you review…you *might* get a mention in the finished novel… :) *chuckles wickedly*…and I GUARANTEE a personal response! So come on, people – REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hera had not been afraid of possibility, once. When the world was young, and bright, and cruel, and a cuckoo had flown to her window in the guise of a god to beg asylum from the storms of immortals more powerful than him or her, and sung a song of possibility so beautiful she had followed the faded, bittering taste of it for the rest of her life. When she had let him in, it had not been deception. She had known the cuckoo for what he was at once. She had known him, that night and many times since then.
Love wasn't the possibility – She did not know when love had died. Certainly before possibility, certainly some time after hope. Love had grown violent, and angry, and finally cool and smooth and meaningless with use.
Love was not the possibility that took her breath away that night with gilding over the (already superflous) perfection of Zeus. That bound her to him. He came with an idea far newer, far more radical than love: peace.
Armistice.
Alliance.