My first fanfic, but I have been really enjoying reading these Greek God AUs. I hope you enjoy!
Alone in a field of blooming flowers, the young goddess of nature danced. Her eyes alight with childlike joy, she plucked and weaved the blooms into a delicate crown, reviving the wilting ones with a gentle touch and a furrowed brow.
She was the essence of the beauty surrounding her, encapsulated in a delicate slip of a girl. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a simple braid, stray strands framing her pale face and large, adoring brown eyes.
"Molly?"
Molly's head lifted up from the in-progress bouquet in her hands and towards the voice. A woman at the edge of the field, still as beautiful but not as youthful, smiled down at her daughter. The mother's eyes were darker than her daughter's, and showed her innumerable years.
"My dear, come in soon, would you?" Demeter affectionately asked. "Do not deprive me of your company much longer."
Molly smiled, adoration shining through her eyes. "Of course, Mother." Her voice was high and clear, innocent and devastatingly trusting.
Her mother nodded and slipped away, out of Molly's sight. Molly watched her go, then bent over to pluck one last flower from the ground. She frowned slightly, and caressed the blue petals lightly. The flower became all the more radiant, and Molly's face smoothed out as she laughed with happiness.
From afar, a man of shadows watched.
...
"I want her, Mycroft."
The god of the skies, ruler of Olympus, sighed and leaned back in his throne. He gave off an uninterested air, but his eyes were clear and calculating, rapidly cataloging any movement coming from his brother. Mycroft straightened his robe idly. "Must you be so mundane, Sherlock? It's tiresome."
Sherlock growled. "You speak of mundane to me, Mycroft? You, who must take a new lover every night? You might as well be a mortal, brother." His aura was darkened, and the spirits of Olympus shuddered and kept a wide berth. Bright flowers shivered and wilted.
The god of the dead was a stark contrast to the splendor of Olympus. The land of the gods was dazzling, bright and blinding. Sherlock was forbidding, his demeanor stern and bleak. His appearances at Olympus are few and unwanted, his black moods leaving destruction behind.
Mycroft lazily traced a finger along his ornate throne. "It matters not, Sherlock. Demeter would never consent."
Sherlock stalked around the throne room, and metals, proof of the luxury the Olympians were living, began to quiver with his anger. He whipped around, his black cape swirling behind him. He snarled, "Don't you think I'm aware? It changes nothing - "
"The daughter of Demeter is too precious to her. She, nor the child, would ever be a willing participant in your union." Mycroft's voice rang out with his characteristic 'I-will-have-the-last-word' tone, and his eyes were stern - but Sherlock suddenly stopped. He slowly turned around, his lips curving up into a wicked smile.
"Then unwilling it is."
With that, the god of the dead stalked out of Olympus, in search of his goddess. And outside, a storm brewed.