Never Forget, Lest We Fade
Note: ironically, for Eleos herself. Sorry if she is more demonic than you would have imagined, but I felt it wasn't all roses and daisies.
Eleos: Ironic, no, how the goddess of mercy is about the farthest thing from merciful as you can get?
4. Mercy
"I will say this one more time, demigod: who is your godly parent, girl?" Eleos, goddess of mercy, asks. Her tone is much more forceful and cold than you would think a goddess – of mercy, no less – would use. "Speak!"
"I . . . I don't know, miss," the little girl whimpers. Of course she doesn't. She cannot be but eight or six. She will not spare her; she was no Athenian. Only the Athenians worshiped her, and their time was long gone.
"Dispose of her, will you?" she says to a nearby monster – she doesn't look to see which kind – while she walks away. She hears screams, but doesn't turn around. [And, don't you know, your screams of terror will haunt me for eternity?]
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Her black hair sweeps around her, framing her angelic (deadly) face. Her red lips are pulled into a smirk. Heels, jet black, click on the tiles. "Hello, Miss Eleos, how may I help you?" asks the owner of the bar, a mortal who can see, politely, knowing one false move will cost him his death.
"Just taking out the trash, Albert." She can see him pale, even in the poor lighting. He thinks she means him.
"If I may so much as ask, Miss, why I—," he starts.
She laughs cruelly. "Oh, Albert, don't flatter yourself. I meant my dear ex-lover; heard he was going to be in tonight. Although if you wish I could make two stops today . . ."
The man again pales, white contrasting against the seemingly-bright colors of his clothes. "No, Miss, but if I may ask his name I might know of him." His suggestion brightens her mood incredibly.
"It's John. John Silver. Terribly cliché, isn't it?"
Albert doesn't answer.
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Please don't think too badly of Eleos, she's not who she once was, you see. She is no longer kind and graceful and just. No, she has been broken.
They have taken all her children. All her children over the years and tortured them 'till no more. They sent her the heads. She must serve them now; serve them so her last child will not suffer, will not die. The Titans have made her bitter.
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"Momma!" the little girl screams as Eleos walks in. She is two, probably, and lives in the drab places Eleos has the misfortune to own. The father was killed like the others; his sister offered to watch the child, provided she a place to stay and food to eat.
The little girl, Marie, runs to her mother in joy. She runs clumsily; mastered walking but not yet getting used to how fast she is while running. "Hello, Marie," she says, picking up her daughter. (You see, she still has some compassion; has not forgotten how to love.)
"Momma, why are you always away?" The question is asked innocently, casually, as if it is no crime to learn of such things; as if her mother wasn't a murderer.
"Someday, dear, when you are older, I shall tell you."