This isn't bar brawling ---
With Lethe upstairs doing only who knew what and Strife asleep in his lap, it would have been (should have been) safe to assume that Pothos was sleepy and tired and obscenely drunk, as well. That his day, this day was over. That the alcohol had finally gotten to him and would soon, soon, soon lead him to the realms of Hypnos. But no, despite the poison (a mortal's choice of sweet, addictive, hypnotizing poison) running through him and the long, filled day he had --- Pothos was awake. And would be for some time.
Strife's words still rang clearly in his head, like the bells of Notre Dame on a clear autumn day. It reverberated and filled the silence occasionally broken up by a sleepy mumble from the god sleeping on his lap or the songs of the cicadas outside.
Was Strife right? Did he give up too easily? Too soon? Did he not fight hard enough? Long enough? If he ever fought at all.
There was something ironic about Yearning actually Yearning. But Pothos never liked irony. In truth, he hated it (hates it).
He promised Dite and he kept his promises --- but there were ways around promises.
Himeros loved him. He was sure of it. Now, he just had to prove it.
Flashing Strife and himself to his bedroom, view from the windows overlooking the by now dark, unfathomable waters of the Caribbean Sea, he carefully untangled himself from the god's slumbering form, whispering, "Sleep." And knowing somehow that Strife would. Swiftly changing his clothes - black form-fitting pants and a silk red long-sleeved shirt - because honestly, it wouldn't do well to smell like alcohol when you paid a visit to a god on Olympus (sarcastic, can you tell?). Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, seeing one particular face behind closed eyelids, and appearing on Olympus, in front of Zeus' temple no less.
Pothos called out sweetly (smirking), "Honey, I'm home!"
Come here, you pretentious little shite. You want to fight? I'll give you a fight.
Strife's words still rang clearly in his head, like the bells of Notre Dame on a clear autumn day. It reverberated and filled the silence occasionally broken up by a sleepy mumble from the god sleeping on his lap or the songs of the cicadas outside.
Was Strife right? Did he give up too easily? Too soon? Did he not fight hard enough? Long enough? If he ever fought at all.
There was something ironic about Yearning actually Yearning. But Pothos never liked irony. In truth, he hated it (hates it).
He promised Dite and he kept his promises --- but there were ways around promises.
Himeros loved him. He was sure of it. Now, he just had to prove it.
Flashing Strife and himself to his bedroom, view from the windows overlooking the by now dark, unfathomable waters of the Caribbean Sea, he carefully untangled himself from the god's slumbering form, whispering, "Sleep." And knowing somehow that Strife would. Swiftly changing his clothes - black form-fitting pants and a silk red long-sleeved shirt - because honestly, it wouldn't do well to smell like alcohol when you paid a visit to a god on Olympus (sarcastic, can you tell?). Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, seeing one particular face behind closed eyelids, and appearing on Olympus, in front of Zeus' temple no less.
Pothos called out sweetly (smirking), "Honey, I'm home!"
Come here, you pretentious little shite. You want to fight? I'll give you a fight.