Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy (Classical Mythology, Psyche/Eros)
lilyayl poked me for a Yuletide New Year's Resolution Challenge (where you do an unfulfilled prompt from Yuletide). See further details here. It looks like I can't actually post this to Yuletide until after sign-ups for this year end on the 18th, but I can post it here. :)
The prompt was Psyche/Any - Mount Olympus strikes me as very high school. Wonder how they treated the new girl.
The title comes from "Ode to Psyche" by John Keats.
Title: Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy
Author: cinaed
Fandom: Mythology - Greek and Roman
Rating: PG
Characters: Psyche, Eros, Aphrodite, Dionysus, and Athena
Summary: When she lowers the goblet from her lips, her beloved takes it from her, smiling like the sunrise.
Length: 1,270 words
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
The ambrosia is sweet, almost painfully so, and lingers on her tongue long after she has swallowed. Psyche finds herself wishing for a few sips of water, if only to lessen the taste that assaults her senses. Perhaps she will grow used to the taste, as she eventually will grow used to the immortality Zeus has bestowed upon her.
When she lowers the goblet from her lips, her beloved takes it from her, smiling like the sunrise. Smiling back, Psyche thinks for a moment of those lonely hours being admired by visiting princes and kings as though she were a statue rather than a living woman, of those dark nights where she was not allowed to see her own husband’s face as she lay beside him, and of all those laborious tasks which Aphrodite forced her to endure.
Still, as she looks at her husband, she feels all of those bleak memories diminish and fade away to nothing. What price would she not pay, that she might see her beloved in all his glory, that she might be welcomed as his wife and given a place upon Mount Olympus?
Eros leans forward, brushes a kiss upon her lips that makes her tremble and almost swoon. “Now we are truly wed, dear Psyche, before my mother and all the gods of Olympus,” he murmurs in her ear, and Psyche cannot help but wonder what he considers the ceremony months earlier. Was that not a wedding? Had she not waited, chaste and loyal to her future husband, until their wedding night?
She forces herself to smile. Surely her husband meant their wedding was now at last approved by his mother and their marriage would be filled with joy and wonder rather than trials and tribulations.
“A ceremony before the gods,” she answers. “Never did my parents believe that this would be my fate when they led me, weeping, to be wed upon that lofty mountain-top to a monster.”
Eros laughs at that, a low, musical sound which thrills the ear. He kisses her once more, this time upon her forehead, and says, almost absently, “I shall send Hermes to tell of our nuptials.”
“I would like that,” Psyche says, but her beloved is already turning away, his gaze searching for someone amidst the gods and goddesses who mill around the banquet table. She watches him embrace his mother, press a hand to her cheek and whisper something soft until the sternness of her gaze eases and a smile lights her face.
Psyche’s chest aches, suddenly, and she blinks. This is foolishness. Eros is merely taking steps to soften his mother’s heart towards her. After all, he does not wish to see the two women he loves most in the world at odds. He will return to her side soon enough, and they will celebrate her newly-gained immortality together.
“O, the loyalty of a son to his mother,” someone remarks behind her, and when she turns, it is Dionysus himself who stands there, a half-filled cup of wine in his hand. He smiles, but it does not quite reach his eyes, which contain a melancholy gleam. For a moment, she is puzzled at the sorrow she sees. Then she thinks of the priests telling of the story of Dionysus, how his mother did not live to see her child born, instead destroyed by the blazing splendor of Zeus’s true form and Hera’s cruel jealousy. Does he still mourn for the mother he never knew? It does not seem right, that a god should grieve.
Interrupting her thoughts (which begin to match the melancholy in his eyes), Dionysus lifts his cup in a toast. “To your wedding.”
“Thank you,” she says, a trace of uncertainty in her voice. She realizes that it will take some time to get used to living among the gods she so recently used to worship, but now, only a few short minutes after drinking the nectar of the gods, Psyche cannot help but stare at the thin vines and leaves which adorn Dionysus’s flowing hair, at his beautiful features that most women would envy, and marvel at being face-to-face with the god of wine and revelry.
He smiles once more, and this time the warmth reaches his eyes. “Drink, fair Psyche. Enjoy the first of many banquets in the home of the gods.” He waves his free hand, and suddenly Psyche holds a goblet which overflows with wine. Before she can thank him, though, he is gone, leaving only the scent of grapes behind.
She stares for a moment, and then cautiously sips at the wine. The flavor chases away the taste of ambrosia from her mouth, leaves something behind that is bittersweet. A few more sips ease a tension beneath her breast she never noticed until it lessens, and the melancholy that shadowed her joy vanishes as well.
Someone touches her wrist with light, callused fingers, and this time when Psyche looks up, she meets a gaze so knowing and grave that she flinches. Athena’s hand drops at that, but her look is steady and Psyche can detect no trace of anger in her grave expression. “I see that Dionysus has already given you his wedding gift.”
“Yes,” Psyche agrees, and cannot help but stare at the spear that Athena holds so casually. There is silence for a moment, a quiet which warms Psyche’s cheeks and twists her stomach with anxiety. What do you say to the goddess of wisdom that will not sound foolish? “I-- I hope you are enjoying the banquet.” There. The sentiment is trite, perhaps, but heartfelt.
It seems to please the goddess at least, for Athena’s mouth curves into the faintest semblance of a smile. “I am.” That gray, knowing gaze pierces Psyche through, pinning her in place as Athena adds, “Be wary, Psyche. You are young still, both of the world and of godhood. Tread carefully. Even here, the gods and goddesses can be…unkind.”
“Unkind?” Psyche echoes, but Athena turns away and gives no answer. Psyche stares after her, and feels the first stirrings of trepidation in her breast. Has she not earned her place among the gods? Will they truly think less of her that she was born of two mortals?
The bittersweet flavor of Dionysus’s wine flares on her tongue, and she struggles not to gag at the sour taste. Again, she wishes for the purity of ordinary water, that cold, crisp taste which chases away all others.
She looks around, but both Eros and Aphrodite are out of sight. “Beloved,” she calls. It is only when several of the gods look askance at her that she realizes her voice is sharp with urgency. She attempts to control her tone, but when she calls out again, her voice is just a touch less sharp. “Beloved!”
Eros reappears at her side, one slender arm wrapping around her waist and drawing her in close. “What is it?” he asks, concern in his eyes. His wings flutter with agitation.
Psyche swallows, feeling suddenly young and small and foolish. She can feel the coldly curious gazes of the other immortals upon her as she closes her eyes and lowers her head to his chest. “I am just…overwhelmed at the beauty of it all, husband,” she says at last, grateful when her voice does not tremble and betray her. “Could we retire to our chambers?”
“Of course,” he says, and his arm tightens around her. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Come, my sweet.”
Psyche follows obediently, and tries not to wonder how long immortality truly lasts.
The prompt was Psyche/Any - Mount Olympus strikes me as very high school. Wonder how they treated the new girl.
The title comes from "Ode to Psyche" by John Keats.
Title: Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy
Author: cinaed
Fandom: Mythology - Greek and Roman
Rating: PG
Characters: Psyche, Eros, Aphrodite, Dionysus, and Athena
Summary: When she lowers the goblet from her lips, her beloved takes it from her, smiling like the sunrise.
Length: 1,270 words
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
The ambrosia is sweet, almost painfully so, and lingers on her tongue long after she has swallowed. Psyche finds herself wishing for a few sips of water, if only to lessen the taste that assaults her senses. Perhaps she will grow used to the taste, as she eventually will grow used to the immortality Zeus has bestowed upon her.
When she lowers the goblet from her lips, her beloved takes it from her, smiling like the sunrise. Smiling back, Psyche thinks for a moment of those lonely hours being admired by visiting princes and kings as though she were a statue rather than a living woman, of those dark nights where she was not allowed to see her own husband’s face as she lay beside him, and of all those laborious tasks which Aphrodite forced her to endure.
Still, as she looks at her husband, she feels all of those bleak memories diminish and fade away to nothing. What price would she not pay, that she might see her beloved in all his glory, that she might be welcomed as his wife and given a place upon Mount Olympus?
Eros leans forward, brushes a kiss upon her lips that makes her tremble and almost swoon. “Now we are truly wed, dear Psyche, before my mother and all the gods of Olympus,” he murmurs in her ear, and Psyche cannot help but wonder what he considers the ceremony months earlier. Was that not a wedding? Had she not waited, chaste and loyal to her future husband, until their wedding night?
She forces herself to smile. Surely her husband meant their wedding was now at last approved by his mother and their marriage would be filled with joy and wonder rather than trials and tribulations.
“A ceremony before the gods,” she answers. “Never did my parents believe that this would be my fate when they led me, weeping, to be wed upon that lofty mountain-top to a monster.”
Eros laughs at that, a low, musical sound which thrills the ear. He kisses her once more, this time upon her forehead, and says, almost absently, “I shall send Hermes to tell of our nuptials.”
“I would like that,” Psyche says, but her beloved is already turning away, his gaze searching for someone amidst the gods and goddesses who mill around the banquet table. She watches him embrace his mother, press a hand to her cheek and whisper something soft until the sternness of her gaze eases and a smile lights her face.
Psyche’s chest aches, suddenly, and she blinks. This is foolishness. Eros is merely taking steps to soften his mother’s heart towards her. After all, he does not wish to see the two women he loves most in the world at odds. He will return to her side soon enough, and they will celebrate her newly-gained immortality together.
“O, the loyalty of a son to his mother,” someone remarks behind her, and when she turns, it is Dionysus himself who stands there, a half-filled cup of wine in his hand. He smiles, but it does not quite reach his eyes, which contain a melancholy gleam. For a moment, she is puzzled at the sorrow she sees. Then she thinks of the priests telling of the story of Dionysus, how his mother did not live to see her child born, instead destroyed by the blazing splendor of Zeus’s true form and Hera’s cruel jealousy. Does he still mourn for the mother he never knew? It does not seem right, that a god should grieve.
Interrupting her thoughts (which begin to match the melancholy in his eyes), Dionysus lifts his cup in a toast. “To your wedding.”
“Thank you,” she says, a trace of uncertainty in her voice. She realizes that it will take some time to get used to living among the gods she so recently used to worship, but now, only a few short minutes after drinking the nectar of the gods, Psyche cannot help but stare at the thin vines and leaves which adorn Dionysus’s flowing hair, at his beautiful features that most women would envy, and marvel at being face-to-face with the god of wine and revelry.
He smiles once more, and this time the warmth reaches his eyes. “Drink, fair Psyche. Enjoy the first of many banquets in the home of the gods.” He waves his free hand, and suddenly Psyche holds a goblet which overflows with wine. Before she can thank him, though, he is gone, leaving only the scent of grapes behind.
She stares for a moment, and then cautiously sips at the wine. The flavor chases away the taste of ambrosia from her mouth, leaves something behind that is bittersweet. A few more sips ease a tension beneath her breast she never noticed until it lessens, and the melancholy that shadowed her joy vanishes as well.
Someone touches her wrist with light, callused fingers, and this time when Psyche looks up, she meets a gaze so knowing and grave that she flinches. Athena’s hand drops at that, but her look is steady and Psyche can detect no trace of anger in her grave expression. “I see that Dionysus has already given you his wedding gift.”
“Yes,” Psyche agrees, and cannot help but stare at the spear that Athena holds so casually. There is silence for a moment, a quiet which warms Psyche’s cheeks and twists her stomach with anxiety. What do you say to the goddess of wisdom that will not sound foolish? “I-- I hope you are enjoying the banquet.” There. The sentiment is trite, perhaps, but heartfelt.
It seems to please the goddess at least, for Athena’s mouth curves into the faintest semblance of a smile. “I am.” That gray, knowing gaze pierces Psyche through, pinning her in place as Athena adds, “Be wary, Psyche. You are young still, both of the world and of godhood. Tread carefully. Even here, the gods and goddesses can be…unkind.”
“Unkind?” Psyche echoes, but Athena turns away and gives no answer. Psyche stares after her, and feels the first stirrings of trepidation in her breast. Has she not earned her place among the gods? Will they truly think less of her that she was born of two mortals?
The bittersweet flavor of Dionysus’s wine flares on her tongue, and she struggles not to gag at the sour taste. Again, she wishes for the purity of ordinary water, that cold, crisp taste which chases away all others.
She looks around, but both Eros and Aphrodite are out of sight. “Beloved,” she calls. It is only when several of the gods look askance at her that she realizes her voice is sharp with urgency. She attempts to control her tone, but when she calls out again, her voice is just a touch less sharp. “Beloved!”
Eros reappears at her side, one slender arm wrapping around her waist and drawing her in close. “What is it?” he asks, concern in his eyes. His wings flutter with agitation.
Psyche swallows, feeling suddenly young and small and foolish. She can feel the coldly curious gazes of the other immortals upon her as she closes her eyes and lowers her head to his chest. “I am just…overwhelmed at the beauty of it all, husband,” she says at last, grateful when her voice does not tremble and betray her. “Could we retire to our chambers?”
“Of course,” he says, and his arm tightens around her. He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Come, my sweet.”
Psyche follows obediently, and tries not to wonder how long immortality truly lasts.