Gods!AU: weakness
Warning: references to abuse.
"Please bring warmth to this cold house."
The girl offering the prayer is small, with sandy curls, her hands clasped together in front of her, kneeling at the end of her bed. Upon the other bed in the room is a boy, younger than her with the same sandy curls, sleeping through the loud argument between their parents. The goddess Hestia turns away just as the father raises a hand to the mother.
It's not the first time that she has heard a prayer like this in the time since she's taken up the mantle of Hestia. But everytime she hears a similar prayer, a part of her breaks. She understands now why Hestia gave her immortality to another and then why they passed it on — there's only so long a person can hear these prayers before they break completely.
"I will try," she whispers.
Zeus has forbidden the interaction with mortals, but Hestia leaves her wooden throne behind because Zeus is the first to break the rules that he's placed. Zeus never realizes that she's gone, since she always is non-disruptive in her interactions with mortals. Most of the mortals that pray to her just want some warmth in their lives; that's exactly what she provides until it isn't needed anymore.
So she watches the girl for a few days from steps of her temple in Olympus, figuring out the best way to approach her.
By the time that she gets back to her throne that day, there is a woman already sitting in it. Her features are dark and beautiful, and a she-dog and a polecat lay at her feet, which both raise their heads to look at she as she enters. They lay their heads back down.
"Hecate," Hestia greets.
Hecate is the one of the few that hasn't passed on the mantle of their names in exchange for a mortal life. The goddess gives her an unimpressed look, and she supposes after centuries of life that not much can impress an immortal being.
"Hestia," Hecate says, "or should I say Clara."
Clara smiles at the use of her mortal name. "What do I owe the pleasure?" she asks. "Can I offer you some of my offerings?" She gestures to the long table in her temple that has pig, a variety of cheeses, some deserts, several different types of wine.
Hecate waves a hand dismissively. "I came here to warn you. You are at crossroad that, either way, will end badly."
Clara frowns. "I thought Apollo was the god of prophecy."
Hecate stands. Her animals stretch lazily. "I may not be the goddess of prophecy but I am the goddess of crossroads," she says sharply. "And what you decide to do now will have consequences."
"What do you suggest I do then?" Clara asks.
"I would tell you to leave this prayer alone," Hecate answers. "But, like the others before you, I doubt that you will heed my warning."
Understanding passes through Clara. "You're saying that I will have to choose between being Hestia and helping the girl. What is different about this mortal?"
She places a hand on Clara's shoulder. She meets Clara's eyes with eyes that remind her of her mortal father. "You are lucky that I am not Apollo and that I don't speak in riddles. This mortal will be your weakness. If you follow through with what you're planning, it will destroy you."
"It will destroy her if I don't."
"My apologies. That is the crossroad." Hecate's voice is hard, but Clara can hear a little remorse in it.
Clara nods. "I understand. Thank you for the warning."
She takes her seat and watches at Hecate walks away. Hecate is almost out the door when she turns back to Clara.
"This girl isn't the first to be destroyed nor will she be the last; mortals destroy themselves all the time. However, they can always rebuild themselves after. But we are destroyed in irreparable ways. If it's to destroy you, make sure it's worth it."
Hecate's warning sits heavily in Clara's heart. But it doesn't stop the part of Clara that breaks when she hears the prayer again. Maybe she's already being destroyed.
"Please bring warmth to this cold house."
Earth hasn't changed much since the last time she was here. She's glad that she can change her appearance at will. Since most of her worshippers are children, the appearance of a young girl feels natural to her now.
She sits on the wall, on the corner of the street the girl lives of, swinging her legs back and forth. The girl's bus picks her and her brother up from here. Clara's decided it would be the best place to approach her.
The sun is breaking the horizon when the girl and her brother make it to the bus stop. She smiles warmly as the fire in her temple. "Oh, I am in the right spot then!"
The girl narrows her blue eyes at Hestia. She moves in front of her brother protectively. "You're new."
She laughs. It sounds like a harp. "I just moved here from Birmingham," she says.
Deciding that she is telling the truth, the girl introduces herself. "I'm Harry."
The boy comes from behind Harry. "And I'm John," he says proudly. "What's your name?"
"Clara," she answers. When she comes to help, she prefers her mortal name over her title. Clara hops down from the wall. "It's nice to meet you, Harry. And John," she adds.
John giggles, and Harry manages to smile at her. Harry looks a lot more like the child she is when she smiles.
Maybe Clara can help after all.
She appears at the bus stop each morning, waiting for Harry and John to make it there. She spends the bus ride sitting across from siblings until they get off at school. Today is different; both siblings are quiet, clinging to each other. Neither of them say much besides "hello" and "goodbye."
Clara studies them from her seat. Something happened, but Clara cannot put her finger on it. She wants so much to figure out why they look miserable, but she doesn't want to push.
That night, like every night before, she hears Harry's prayer, like a mantra.
"Please bring warmth to this cold house."
Clara swears to try harder the next day.
The prayer stops next night. Clara doesn't realize it until Monday morning when she is sitting on the wall, waiting for Harry and John. She waits.
And waits.
And waits.
But Harry and John never show up. The sun has long since rose above the horizon. It beats down on Clara's neck for a while before she decides that they aren't coming today.
She goes back to her throne. She's tempted to peer into their home to see the reason, but she doesn't. Clara listens to the prayers and tries to find Harry's voice among them. It never comes.
Clara doesn't go back to the bus stop. She spends her time helping other mortals.
"If you are listening Hestia, please bring warmth to this cold house."
Clara straightens at the sound of the prayer. It's been a long time since she's heard those exact words. Not long enough since she's heard a prayer like it, but the familiarity of the words strikes Clara's heart.
She peers to Earth to make sure that it's really Harry praying to her again. A lot of time must've passed because there's a young woman, her sandy hair is long and messy and falls around her shoulders in waves, but it's unmistakably Harry. She's laying on a bed, her eyes closed, a pillow hugged to her chest as she curls around it.
Clara can't help the rush of excitement that rushes through her veins. But it is quickly tempered when she notices the room is littered with empty bottles of alcohol.
Tomorrow, she'll work on this. Tomorrow, maybe she can change something. Right now, though, it's ill-advised to appear to Harry.
It takes a few days to gather Harry's schedule. Clara manipulates her appearance to match the age of Harry. And then she times it perfectly. Harry is walking to work when Clara is walking in the opposite direction. She bumps into her hard enough to send Harry's purse flying, her things scattering across the pavement.
She stops to help Harry pick them up. "I'm so sorry!" She is handing Harry back her things when she glances up and smiles. "Harry?" she asks.
Harry's blue eyes are bright as she looks at Clara. She tilts her head. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
"Clara," she says, extending her hand. "We rode the same bus for a while when we were younger."
Harry doesn't take her hand. Instead, she frowns. And then realization flashes across her face. "That was a long time ago," she says. "I'm surprised you still remember."
Clara shrugs as she drops her hand. "I guess you have a memorable face," she replies. She glances around. "Would you like to get some coffee and catch up?"
Harry's eyes dart around before she nods. "How about Notes on St. Martin's Lane? Say around 3 tomorrow?"
"Sounds great. I'll see you there."
Harry gives her a half-smile before she walks away. Clara goes back to her temple on Olympus feeling like a job well done. And then she hears the prayer again.
Clara is sitting in the coffee shop the next day, early, sipping on coffee with a scone in front of her. She watches the clock as three comes and goes. It's almost five o'clock when Clara is about to leave. Then she sees Harry come through the door.
Her blonde hair is a mess and her eyes are red and puffy. She takes a seat across from Clara, putting her purse in the seat next to her. "I would make up some stupid excuse, but I really just forgot about this today." Her voice is rough.
Clara frowns. "Have a bad day?"
"Something like that," Harry replies, noncommittally. "Anyways, I bet you didn't come here expecting this," she says gesturing to herself. "I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize," Clara says softly. "You can talk to me about it, if you'd like."
Harry stares at the table, her hands fiddling with a napkin. She glances up. Clara doesn't remember the last time she's seen a mortal look so vulnerable. "You remember my little brother?"
Clara nods. "John, right?"
Harry gives her a watery smile. "You are really good at remembering names. But yeah, John. He's got our father to consent to him joining the Army."
"Isn't he too young for that?"
"With parent's permission, you can join the Army at sixteen," Harry answers bitterly. "I should be glad that he's waited until he's almost seventeen to do this, but I'm not. He's leaving me."
Clara reaches across the table and takes Harry's hand in her own, stopping the other girl from playing with the napkin and causing her to look up. "There isn't anything you can do? Your mum?"
Something flashes across Harry's face that Clara doesn't recognize. "You remember when we stopped riding the bus?" She waits for Clara to nod. "Mum died and dad sent us to some boarding school because he couldn't stand to look at us."
Clara gapes. "Harry…I'm so sorry, I didn't mean -"
The blonde laughs hollowly. "It was a long time ago," she says dismissively. "But to answer your question: no, there is nothing I can say to John to make him stay. He wants to get away as badly as I do, but he can actually do it."
The memory of the first time Harry prayed to Hestia hits Clara like a freight train. Anger courses through Clara's body at the thought of Harry's father hitting her too.
Harry is looking at her in amazement. "Your eyes look like fire."
She can feel herself losing control. She takes a deep breathe and reels her anger back in. "I -" she breaks off. She doesn't have an explanation.
Harry gives her the first real smile Clara seen since Harry was young. "It makes your eyes look even more beautiful. I mean, not that you aren't already beautiful, because you are."
Clara feels her cheeks burn. "You're beautiful, too."
Harry picks up her purse. "I have to go," she says suddenly. I have work early tomorrow."
Clara frowns. "Can we do this again?" she asks. "I like talking to you."
Harry considers this. And then she digs through her purse until she pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen. She writes out her number in it and hands it to Clara. "I have a crazy work schedule, but you can call and we'll work something out."
"Thanks," Clara says. She gives Harry her warmest smile. "I look forward to our next date."
Harry looks like she's about to protest the usage of the word "date" but she nods to Clara. "Me too."
And then Harry is gone from coffee shop.
Clara invests in a mortal cell phone to keep in contact with Harry. She hides it in different inconspicuous places around city.
Harry doesn't pray every night. But when she does pray, Clara calls her the next day to arrange a meeting.
But it doesn't matter how often Clara sees Harry; nothing changes in Harry's eyes. Clara doesn't know what else she is supposed to do. She can't spend day and night with Harry. She had her godly duties to do as well.
There's only one thing left for Clara to try.
Clara is surveying her offering table, trying to decide what she wants to eat, when she hears her temple door open. When she turns, she is greeted by Aphrodite. "Welcome," she says. "Offerings?"
In mythology, before Clara realized how real it was, Aphrodite was blonde. If she wouldn't have known the mantle of the name can be passed on, she would've never believed this woman to be Aphrodite. The woman standing before her has short chestnut hair and a piercing gaze whose name was once Irene. She walks with all the confidence that Clara lacked in her mortal life. She's beautiful and alluring.
Aphrodite waves her hand dismissively. "I didn't come for trivial things," she says. "I came to talk about Harry."
Clara freezes, a grape halfway to her mouth. "What about Harry?"
"You're in love with her. I'm simply wondering what you are going to do about it."
"I'm picking a mortal to pass the mantle of Hestia onto," Clara answers after a long pause. And then she finally eats the grape she is holding.
Irene arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow at her. "Gods and goddess fall in love with mortals all the time," she says. "That does not mean that the mantle has to be passed on."
Clara gives Irene a sad smile. Irene makes a good, sometime terrifying, Aphrodite and she's going to miss her. "You know how it started," she says, but it sounds more like a question. She leans against her offering table and crosses her arms. "She prayed for help. I've tried helping her as a goddess. I think I need to try helping her as mortal."
Irene leans across Clara and grabs a grape. She pops it into her mouth. She chews as she debates how to answer. "Love doesn't heal mortals. In fact, love doesn't heal at all."
"I have to try."
"This will destroy you," Irene warns.
Clara nods. "I know. I've known from the beginning. But I couldn't be Hestia and ignore Harry's prayer. It would've gone against everything Hestia, everything that I stood for."
Irene takes another grape. "As long as you know what you are walking into."
"Love isn't always blind," Clara says, grinning. It doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"To mortals, it is. But love could never be blind to the likes of us," Irene replies. "Pick a worthy replacement."
And then Irene disappears through the door, leaving Clara with her offerings and prayers and her own thoughts.
Clara picks a brunette that prays to her daily. In amidst the prayers for help, Molly has always gave her thanks to Hestia. Molly took the gods existance in stride. She even listened patiently as Clara explained what she wanted; how to be goddess; what to expect.
Passing the mantle on is surprisingly anticlimactic. She doesn't feel any different than she did with her immorality. Only, now she knows that she can hurt or killed with mortal weapons.
Molly's eyes blaze like the hearth that Hestia is known for. Clara knows, deep down, the fire in her eyes disappeared. Molly gives her a soft smile. "Thank you, Clara, for this gift."
"It's a gift and a burden. But I can tell that you will be amazing at this. Good luck."
She diverts her eyes as the new Hestia disappears in a bright light.
As Clara stands in the house that once belonged to Molly, she's happy with her choice. The brunette is a kind-hearted soul, just the right type to bring warmth into people's hearts.
Now, she has a mortal life again. Maybe she can help Harry now.
The first time Clara goes over to Harry's apartment, it's not what she expected. Harry cleaned up for Clara, but she didn't take the beer out of the fridge.
Though, Harry doesn't touch the alcohol while she is there, which Clara is thankful for. Harry turns on the telly and brings up Netflix. Clara feels a sense of easiness as she sits beside Harry on the couch.
They share take out and Clara notices that Harry smiles more than she ever has before.
Clara goes home with a smile of her own and sense of accomplishment.
"What are we doing?" Harry asks. She's paused the show they are watching. She looks at Clara questioningly.
Clara tilts her head. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Are we dating?" Harry asks bluntly. "I don't want to assume anything, but you've been over here almost every night for the past week and a half."
"Is that something you want?"
Harry laughs loudly. Clara loves the sound of it. "Are you serious? You haven't noticed...you haven't realized that I've been falling in love with you?"
"I thought you just wanted company," Clara replies honestly. "So no, I didn't realize that the feeling was mutual."
Harry's eyes widen. And then she grins. Clada cannot help but think that she looks beautiful when she grins.
Harry places a hand on Clara's neck. "I'm going to kiss you now, if that's alright."
Clara closes the distance before Harry can. As she kisses Harry, it feels like the hearth she watched for so long. It feels like coming home.
When they pull apart, Harry leans her forehead against Clara's. "I've been waiting to do that for a long time."
The beer in Harry's fridge goes untouched, until it won't taste good to drink and Harry throws it out. Clara spends most of her free time at Harry's.
Harry smiles more, laughs more, looks happier. She thinks that she's finally helped the blonde. Until Harry comes stumbling through the door, her breath smelling like alcohol, her eyes glassy.
"Harry?" she questions.
Harry's gaze is unfocused. "Hey, Clara," she slurs.
Clara leads her to the couch. "What is going on?"
It takes Harry a few minutes to reply, but when she does, all Clara gets is a, "bad day," before Harry is standing and stumbling her way to the bedroom.
Clara naturally follows. "You know you can talk to me instead of getting drunk."
"I can do what I want!" Harry snaps.
Clara shakes her head. "I'm going home. Call me when you're sober and not before."
Harry doesn't argue or beg her to stay. Clara walks back her place, anger coursing through her veins. She prays.
"I need warmth tonight, Hestia. Warm my heart, please."
"Harry, give me the bottle," Clara pleads. Her hand is outstretched, open and waiting.
But Harry tips it back again. And Clara watches as she swallows the liquor until the rest is gone. Harry's eyes are glassy as she stares past Clara. "I prayed, you know? Almost every night, to Hestia; I thought maybe she could warm my father's heart. Or at least mine."
Clara bites her lip to keep from blurting out, "Yes, I know. I heard. I answered."
Harry turns to meet Clara's eyes. "And I thought the gods were listening to my prayers - they sent me you after all - but now I know they weren't. Perhaps they never did. The bottle listened better than the gods ever did."
"You don't know that," Clara argues.
"Why would they even care?" Harry asks. Her hand tightens around the neck of the empty bottle. "We're mere mortals while they are immortal and perfect. Fuck them for not helping," she says. She shakes in anger. "Fuck mum for leaving, for making me think they could. Fuck John for leaving. Fuck them all."
The anger drains out of Harry's body as quickly as it came. "I need another drink," she says as she stands.
Clara watches as Harry sways, gets her orientation, and stumbles from the room, empty bottle still in her hand.
And Clara shatters. Because Harry's breath is heavy with the stench of alcohol. Clara can't remember the last time she didn't smell alcohol on Harry. There's no amount of love, no amount of help that Clara can give her to fix Harry's problems. And Olympus knows, she's tried every way that she could.
She thinks back to the when Hecate came to her as a warning. She now understands what she meant; there's nothing that can heal Clara. She can't take back up the mantle of Hestia and her heart belongs to Harry - fully, completely, always - but she can't be with her.
Clara cannot and will not watch as Harry drinks herself to an early grave, no matter how much she loves her. Because Harry clearly doesn't love her more than she loves the feeling she gets with alcohol in her system. Clara closes her eyes against the tears threatening to fall. She gathers her things and makes her way to the front door. Hesitating as she goes to close it, she looks back toward where she can hear Harry banging around in the kitchen.
"Maybe it wasn't worth it after all, Hecate," she says to the goddess. She knows Hecate can hear her. "Because Aphrodite was right; love cannot heal mortals. And it definitely can't heal me."