a moving red against tranquil white (Post 2 of 2; R)
Title: a moving red against tranquil white
Fandom: Greek Mythology
Pairing/Characters: Hestia; Hestia/Poseidon; Poseidon; Moros; somewhat dubious Hestia/Moros; Zeus; Apollo; Thalia; Pan; others
Rating/Warnings: R (Het): language, sexual situations, incest (it's Greek mythology!), possible triggering content
Which Bang?: Big Bang (15k)
Summary: Hestia has spent the majority of her Immortal years emotionally alone but the passion between Poseidon and herself will not be denied. Doom is never very far behind however, and the punishment is more than Hestia could ever imagine when Zeus finds out. She never knew what reserves of strength lay within her.
Fanmix and Cover Art!: HERE!
Art!: HERE!
Author's Notes: Written for heroinebigbang! The title comes from the poem Forest Fire by Elizabeth Coats, about a fire that comes from dust and circumstance and nothing can stand in its way. The Dead Pan is by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Prayer to Hermes is by Robert Creeley. Neither of these poems were consulted before I sat down to actually research/write Part Five, the only part that really needed to be researched as I've never been to either Brazil or the USA, but, happily, they helped develop the end of this story. Other used sources were Gods, Demigods & Demons: An Encyclopedia of Greek Mythology by Bernard Evslin, and internet quotes of the work of Robert Graves. Thanks to my fabulous artist and mixer, who didn't jump ship when I sent them 10 million emails :)
Part Four
She would sleep and sleep and sleep, dreamless, blessedly blank and dark, weightless. There was no horror built from guilt and what was lost, nor the painful reality of present circumstances. And then. . .
Then.
It would begin as a simple touch upon her ankle: firm fingers, blunt nails, a calloused warmth. It would move along the curve of calve and knee and Hestia would be lost in the sensation of her clothing drifting over and about.
Desire would follow only after safety, the touch becoming an arm around her waist or shoulder, the arm then a body pressed close behind and surrounding, a kiss placed softly on her nape. At this she would be desperate, would move and shift herself into further touch and grasp with her mouth opening for his kiss. And then she would catch the scent. The lack of it.
She had learned to kick out first, to hit with open palms and fists until a grunt or laugh would register his surrender and removal. She had learned not to open her eyes to see her dream in action turn into vicious nightmares. She had taught herself not to cry.
After these nights Hestia would see his brothers shivering, disgusted at themselves and what he had made them do-what they would continue to do in their fear and in their nature. She would learn that Phanatos, Phobetor, and Morpheus were not the monsters she had been led to believe.
They were not Moros.
***
"My Lady, it is almost time."
No. Hestia had run out of time, watched it slip through her fingers while wrapped in misery and defeat. Once there could have been a chance. A possibility. The merest whisper of hope. But Hestia had crushed it by herself. Under no circumstances could she run to Poseidon. Where he was Hestia did not know, and even if she did the Goddess would never bring down her misfortunes on his head. Poseidon would never see Olympus again; Hestia wouldn't have Zeus nipping at his heels either.
However, the thought of sending word led to another thought at the risk her messenger would undertake. And if she would dismiss such concerns then there was the terrible blow that perhaps Poseidon would not protest her treatment nor answer any cry for help. Listening to idle rumour, reaching without thinking, had resulted in his banishment.
A heart could change in one hundred years.
Hestia felt numb. The coldness had not left, but invaded deeper: a hollow bloodless torso; no anticipation; no joy. Each moment spent in Apollo's company made her less and less, and there was no escape from her permanent position as audience or the dreadful façade of her duty. The Fire was little more than a spark; the Fire was air, insubstantial and insignificant, like her movements and breath and speech. And when Apollo wasn't standing near-directing, observing, commenting, and needing to somehow touch in increase-his eight ladies, (such elegant superior beauties), would sing of his exploits, their flat eyes disturbing and showing their likenesses for that of a scroll rather than a Muses of supposed vibrant spirit. Their beauty was only skin deep and their words were leeching what was left of Hestia dry. The ninth waited on tender hooks, silent, sequestered from her sisters, until her sweet voice and gentle hand would inform Hestia it was time to return to her chamber. The only place free of Apollo's presence.
To be expected to lay with him-
Hestia closed her eyes from the vision of the bride in polished silver, gripping a bronze goblet of ambrosia meant for Apollo's lips. Bare-armed, all creamy dimpled skin and a shower of gauzy gold to cover her modesty: the Goddess did not know what she had become. She was no maiden to be dressed and paraded like one of Hera's peacocks; she was no nymph, desiring the attentions of all and sundry. She was no Aphrodite and wished for no other to wake beside except-
But Poseidon had his own wife.
Hestia listened to Thalia's light steps and felt the Muse place one thin veil of sun beam upon her golden curls. She wanted to tear it off, tear off all the artifice of this concoted day and fly! She wanted to run screaming through the mountain to rail against the injustice-Yes! Injustice!-of her treatment by those who claimed to love her! To be her family! She was Immortal and it meant something! She was Immortal! Immortal!
Hestia's eyes flashed open with unexpected heat.
"All are gathered, Thalia?"
"Aye, My Lady."
"Open the window please. I would like a breeze."
The redhead's delicate robes fluttered as she crossed the expanse of the chamber and raised the latch. Hestia nodded. "Leave me. I'll come anon."
Heart pumping, vision clearing, Hestia felt warmth return as she reached up to remove her wedding veil and forcefully drained the goblet of each sustaining drop.
Another Immortal had once fallen from the glory and safety of Mount Olympus. Falling for three days entire, Hephaestus had broken back and legs, a cripple, but he had lived, and by the Good Graces, Hestia swore she would as well! Whilst Fear threatened again on spider fingers it would not sway her decision. The options before her were untenable and Hestia could not bear the reality of what was to come if she remained. There was no admiration or affection for comely Apollo-none above or beyond what there had always been and surely not enough to encourage physical demonstrations of whatever he may feel for her. Hestia had never wanted to ask, not after all this time.
Without pausing for observation of the clear sky, it's blue endlessness and depth, Hestia climbed onto her window ledge and jumped.
Neither the buffeting, freezing wind nor the vastness below alarmed half as much as the sudden swirling black shadows wrapping around and changing her descent, and at this she did scream. Sorcery! No! No, she would not be brought back! There was pressure at her shoulders, more underneath the bend of her knees, as the darkness solidified and brought a cold, wracking laugh to her ear. She squirmed but the new arms held tight. Robes emerged from the shadows and engulfed her legs and the laughter continued.
"You ruined my entrance, but I have always appreciated your flair for the dramatic." Moros' bottomless eyes peered at her. "You never cease to surprise me Grandmother."
"I will not be Apollo's wife!" Hestia's eyes were livid. Shock and terrifying vertigo were pulsing like exotic stars but she would stay with what was important. She had ended her life on Olympus and would not return, no matter how-or why-Moros had managed to act the unwanted net. He merely nodded and placed what Hestia would later think of as a rather patronizing kiss upon her brow, tendrils of black cloth securing her hips. As they disappeared over the horizon his cackle harkened to a murder of crows.
"Where would the fun be in that for me?"
***
Sticks, chips, grass, flint: Hestia was cold and had been cold since the second night of dwelling within the cave of the Sons of Night. It was not a cave of colour and gentle rest. There were no precious gems gathered in formation to create a starlit canopy; there was no seashell bower or ocean scent. She missed salt and seaweed and private sun rises. But that was long ago and far away and now a collection of grey sheets kept her warm at night. She had accumulated more scars. Calluses and torn nails, skin bitten in frustration: once again the Goddess was confronted with work. Different than duty, than numbing servitude, this was making fire from raw material where no spark existed. Away from moments of painful reminiscing, Hestia imagined herself akin to the first mortals awaiting Prometheus' illuminating arrival and his stolen gift. She no longer transferred a flame or continuously tended burning coals. Hestia forced fire from the Earth again and again and again.
"I've become bored."
Hestia refused to respond, clacking stone against stone as Moros reclined on her pallet. His brothers hid in the walls, stretching through granite and damp, all tattooed heads and blue skin. Waiting to be released into the minds of mortal and Immortal alike, they tried to be kind.
clack, clack
"You have become boring."
"Then send me away."
clack, clack
"You never attempt escape anymore."
"There is no escape Moros," Hestia sighed, sick of old conversation. "You somehow saw to that."
clack, clack
"Stop with the stones."
clack, clack
"Are you mad?"
There was a scrambling and swiftly the stones were kicked from Hestia's grasp, black robes violently jerking across her vision as a puffing God of Doom scowled down on her.
"That is mad! Every day, stone against stone!" He moved away then came back with a roar. "Make the fire yourself!"
"Mad and blind." Hestia came to her feet. She had been in this position once before and she would not be hit again. "I have been making fire ever since you trapped me here."
"Playing in the dirt is not an act of creation, Grandmother," Moros hissed. "Do you even remember who you are?"
***
"Turn to me."
She didn't want to wake up. The arm around her waist, the warmth at her back, breath on her neck: reality was cruel; this wasn't real and oh, how she wanted it to be real. Her hip was caressed, wedding dress slipping higher-it was only adjustments, movements in her sleep-
Hestia gasped as true fingers brushed her inner thigh. She could hear the waves gliding, stones rolling on the shore.
"Turn to me."
Hestia's eyes flew open but she had been so tired, her body was sluggish as she fought to face the man behind her. Large eyebrows crowded his unnaturally blue eyes; his skin was the same sea-roughened she remembered, ginger hair on chin and head and arms.
"Where have you been?!" she cried. It sounded far away to her own ears and her arms were heavy as they tried to reach round his neck, to drag him to her and never let him go. He could not answer at first. Hestia had claimed his mouth in a desperate, needy kiss. Her eyes were wet, her tears sliding along their lips where he licked and drank of her. He was finally here when she never imagined to see him again. "My love. My love, my love, my love-"
"I have been waiting for you," he laughed at her exuberance, sounding as far away as she did.
"Where?" Hestia arched as he palmed her breast, again as his mouth descended to her throat. He bit.
"In our cave."
"I searched!" Hestia grasped his back. Clothes that were there weren't there and it didn't matter, not when his hand had returned between her thighs, skipping passed smooth skin and slipping in alongside wet flesh. She breathed out in a rush. "I searched!"
"And you found me." He rolled on top of her, weightier, heavier, and spread her legs, his hand a cool flat mass upon her mound as long, thin fingers caressed. A smooth thumb tapped. She could see a cascade of glowing purple above them and held on with all her strength. Their cave! He had come for her! Somehow he had saved her!
More pressure, less teeth. Her peak was languorous, old muscles sighing with a liquid heat. Breasts and core and heart. How wonderful it all could be-how perfect he was! She had not wanted to hope and here he-
"I love you," she stated firmly, sincerely, pressing her face close to breathe him in, lick the curve of one rough cheek.
Her countenance abruptly changed. Hands left the loving embrace around his waist to shove hard against his too thin shoulders, horror rising in her eyes. No salt! He did not taste nor smell of water and ocean winds-there was no smell at all! Her bed was not manufactured layers of fresh green seaweed; there was no give for push and pull and having nowhere to go but climb the magnificent trunk of his body in search of mutual release. There was a wave before her eyes, a falling, tumbling, like a curtain lifting, and the Goddess thought she would be sick. Limbs awoke, submersion ended, noises cleared.
"You are not Poseidon!"
Hestia's legs kicked out, arms and hands struck out, flesh and bone damning a stranger with the face of her beloved.
And then the laughter.
The Ocean God's visage dropped away like a passage of mist as sunburn and rough tan were traded for a palette of palest white. Black eyes, black hair, black heart: Moros watched Hestia weep as he tasted her wetness on his fingers.
"Like sweet ambrosia, Grandmother. You feed me."
***
"I know myself Moros," Hestia brushed her hands against the dull, rough fabric of her grey robe. "It is you I have never understood. To find such happiness in one being's misery and call it sustenance-to heap on more and more to see how it breaks?"
"I am as nature intended." Moros' sly smile was irritated. "We all play an unending role but at least I have never forgotten mine."
"Again you speak in riddles," Hestia frowned. "Rather that you had forgotten what you gleaned in my face for-!" She couldn't speak his name, not to this creature. "Go on your business of tragedy and leave me be." Moros' swirling shadows jumped, appearing once again before her as Hestia turned away.
"I would happily claim any misery of yours Grandmother, but the tragedy you speak of with the Gods is of your own making! Every choice or decision was your own. Each memory forgotten you wiped away. Zeus and his mortals. Demeter and her cruelty. On and on it went and how easy you made it all appear. Content in your little corner, no one of importance-It played well into their hands when you bowed out to Dionysus-trying to forget the evil you had sprung from and to which you still belong!"
"I am not evil!"
"And is that why you delight in punishing yourself?" Moros laughed. "In making sacrifice and obeisance and bowing to your precious guilt?"
Hestia shook her head frantically; she had been right the first time: Moros was mad and there was nowhere to go. Assuredly there were things she had preferred not to hear but what he said-Demeter cruel? Her hands tingled, itched to do something she knew not what, and she spied his brothers peek out from the walls. Dream and Nightmare and Sleep.
"I do not understand you! What has this to do with your lies to Zeus? Why would you mark me as traitor?!"
"What did you do in the Beginning?" Moros circled, ignoring her pleas, as his form of shadow limbs seemed to appear here then there. "What did you do until someone else came along? They didn't even have to take it. Much like your throne you gave it away willingly."
"I do not-"
"There was blood, and most likely thunder, and light the likes of which you had never seen. Enough to blind and ravage-"
"I do not-"
"Hera screaming revenge. Hades turning the Titan's dead against them. Zeus' laughter above it all-"
"I don't-"
"What did you do?"
"I don't know!"
But she did.
She did. A terrible awareness that had been hidden behind dismissed words and deeds and repressed memories. A place where she had polished rusted images of sibling, cousin. Herself. The rooms broke open inside her mind. She had been a healer. After the War. After so much death and blood and destruction-more than any should ever have had to face!-Hestia had healed the injured. The Hundred-Handed Ones. Hera's broken fingers. Zeus' slashed brow. She had healed them.
"Born into a family of warriors, you could not help but be one as well." Moros grasped her hands and would not release them.
"I did not fight-I did not kill!"
"Fire in the heart, fire in the belly." Moros brought her fists to press against his chest and lower torso, smirking. "The fire of passion. War and sex and death." Hestia pulled viciously away, staring unbelievably at the searing white light shining from beneath the lines of her scars. In pitch-perfect imitation Moros spoke, words she had forgotten even saying.
'"I remained behind. Someone must if there is indeed a home.'"
"Stop."
"Every war," he inched closer. "Every foot of land fought for and claimed. Every death. It was all in your hands, you pushed them forward, and you couldn't bear it." His shadow hands folded in great satisfaction. Hestia had backed herself into a corner, trembling, eyes unseeing. "So you gave away the war to Zeus' son."
". . .Ares."
"And you gave away bodily desires. For a time."
"Aphrodite."
"A glorious woman come from nothing. Most everything you had already given Apollo anyway so it was no wonder he wanted your body as well."
Apollo was a healer. His son Asclepius was a supreme healer-Oh Graces. Coronis. Incinerated through Apollo's jealousy and greed, it was just one memory pushed away-slain by his grandfather's thunderbolt. Apollo's grandsons were healers, Machaon and Podalirius in Troy. His followers, masters of music. Or art. Or drama. Or divination. The fire of creativity flowed like Mount Etna's furnace there.
"Everything," she murmurred. "He took everything. Even the Fire…" A poor substitute of an incense burner lightly perfuming his stage. Hestia tilted her head, confronted with a terrible truth. "It was not you who spoke to Zeus. Apollo. Apollo turned Zeus' mind, convinced My King-My Brother-of my complacency and acceptance in a plot to overthrow Olympus. All for his own ends. Apollo spoke first of. . .of. . ." Apollo had known of her broken Oath. What could have been gained if not for revenge and to steal the last bit of self that she claimed as her own? Everything he wanted. What was next? The Sun?! Her insides were drying up, churning. She had been strung along like a child's toy, her blind ignorance masked with hospitality and the appearance of trust. She was Immortal! Why had she turned her back on herself?
And now Moros smiled, wild and grotesque. Sharp bloody teeth ready to gnaw on her thoughts of what could have been.
"For someone who risked all to fuck a God, you tossed him aside as easily as the rest. Of what were you truly afraid?" He leaned close, closer, and again Hestia saw the muted faces of his victims traumatized within the folds of his robes. "Poseidon is not Zeus' son, one to whom you could give power. You offered much to these boys and for what? To make Zeus happy? Thankful? You've been paying off a perceived debt for the entirety of your existence, and when what you desired did not suit Zeus' needs you pushed it away! Since the moment Zeus called you forth from old Cronus' stinking gut you have never been your own. Simply another weapon. A tool." His whisper carried and was wont to drive her to oblivion.
Hestia opened her mouth.
And fire came out.
A primal scream was pulled from her lungs, ripped through bone and flesh and sinew to race as dangerously as a Pythian serpent up and around the cave of Night's children.. Heat rose from the soles of her bare feet and exploded through her palms, ichor expanding and ablaze in her veins and brain and heart. She glowed with a deadly Flame and a cleansing Flame. All sorrow and pain, sadness and guilt, rushed out of her in a blast of fiery inferno. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered other screams, terrors and burning flesh. She could not reach Apollo in his turret in the sky. The same spells laced to keep her in kept the Fire in as well, and Moros had not been quick enough. His brothers could not hide deep enough.
Immortal, yes. But they would hurt.
All Hestia saw, all she breathed, was flame. It filled the cave like water, scraping rock and bone; she burned from the inside out.
And then it was done.
Hestia collapsed, naked.
"Morpheus!" Wisps of smoke slipped passed her lips. Hestia knew not if he would respond, only that, like with her jump from Olympus, the Goddess was finished with being a puppet in this world, and was prepared to meet what happened after eternity, even if it was an expanse of nothingness. ". . .you tossed him aside. . ." Her words had been high and mighty indeed, but she had not fought for Poseidon and she knew it, could not forget it.
She had been living as a shell. No meat. No life. No Fire.
"Morpheus. Sleep."
Part Five
The layers of spells Moros had used to seal her inside faded with the old regime, and thus with the expansion of humanity her cave was discovered and no longer a prison. She did not have to reach for words to explain her bare presence to these first mortal explorers. "I was sleeping" sufficed, and her countenance bought welcome into many a cold village.
Hestia was never cold.
She was not worshipped; she had long ago diminished in the eyes of young mothers, no longer called upon to press the sacred oils to newborn flesh and hear the strong first cries of I Live! I Live! Prayers were not offered up to her at the first of meals, and Hestia was pleased. They had at least forgotten, if she could not, and she could meet with and speak to whomever she wished. She was not a Muse. There were no barriers, and all could gain.
She avoided seashores, stayed inland and would not see the ocean for another five lifetimes. The great cities of the world were dead to her, noxious. It took less than a day within their crowded streets to set her wandering again. Only forests breathed, tall trees swayed, pulsed with their own life, and Hestia created a nomadic existence within their various confines, sharing a fire with those who crossed her path. These voices were beautiful, full of idea and adventure. Germany, Russia, China, and back again through many little other blocks of land named and ruled by mortals that she never saw nor cared to see. Not like some of her ilk.
It was not until she swallowed her pride and crossed the frozen sea to discover a New World that Hestia finally laid eyes upon another Immortal.
***
"I'm not dead," he snorted, bitter smoke billowing from between thick mustached and beard. "I don't see you since. . .like. . .the Spanish Inquisition-and this is what you bring me? My obituary put to song?"
"An exaggeration. And only if you wish to sing it."
"Read me that part about Dionysus again."
"'He swoons'? 'Bound with his own vines'?"
"Oh that crazy drunk."
Hestia closed her mouth, lips squirming into a grin as Pan leaned back against his Kapok tree, hand-rolled in one hand and an old water canister in the other. She suspected cerveza. He had threatened to file off his horns the last time they had met (and many years had passed since that last time) but the curved protrusions were still there, ribbed bone beneath a substantial mop of dark brown hair. She was pleased. To remove them would have been akin to amputation-an arm, a leg, for a satyr there was no difference-and Pan had been traumatized enough in his existence. Her own braid had grown long again. Shorn every fifty years or so, it was a physical reminder that no life-however long-should remain static.
"You look nice."
"Thank you."
"I'm not hittin' on you. I'm just sayin'."
"Do you wish to hear this or not?"
"Lay it on me Momma."
Hestia had warned him about labels but there was little to be done if she wanted to retain a relationship with an Old One like herself. She rolled her eyes.
"'And his Maenads slowly saunter,/Head aside, among the pines,/While they murmur dreamingly,/"Evohe!-ah-evohe-!"/Ah, Pan is dead!'"
"I've never heard a Maenad murmur, dreamingly or otherwise."
"Screamers weren't they?"
"Did you just make a sex joke?" he took another drink. "They ain't slow either. Bitches be nuts."
"I don't like that word."
"I don't like revisionists."
"Pardon?"
Pan cleared his throat, picked something currently inedible from off his green guerilla-issue shirt, and proceeded to recite all thirty three verses back to her, as well as the six Hestia had purposely removed. Jove, Juno, Apollo. Herself. Others. She would call down no prayers, no names, and had thought Pan would have abhorred to hear Hermes' name mentioned alongside the words cunning and brave. Hestia stopped searching through her knapsack long enough to burn the hand written pages in her hand. He chuckled. "And still you won't light my cigarettes. What? Did you think I'd never heard that crap before?"
She folded her coat into a pillow and lay back, a moment of blessed silence falling as the night sounds of the Amazon came forth. It was glorious and morning would bring with it spectacular sights of colour. Lush turquoise waters, layer upon layer of unnamed greens, flora that belied description: this was no world of stark stone and hospice white. There was heart here and it beat in time with hers just as it did with Pan.
"How did you swing a whole stanza when the sibs had to share?" the former God burped. "That seems excessive for someone who didn't even have a throne. Did Browning owe you or somethin'?" Hestia didn't answer. "'In the fiery-hearted center/Of the solemn universe,/Ancient Vesta-'" She clucked her tongue.
"They always remember the fire."
"At least you ain't dead. Why couldn't I get a lament like Pops."
"'Yet questions/are tricks/for me--/and always will be'?"
"That's it," he grinned, small and bitter. "Dad gets a hymn you can set a drum to. I get a poem extolling the virtues of all you bastard Olympians. Sorry," he immediately held up a placating hand. "Those bastard Olympians."
"It doesn't bother me anymore."
"No?" Pan appeared less than convinced. "'Neptune lies beside the trident,/Dull and senseless as a stone'." He repeated the beginning of verse fifteen and coughed meaningfully when she remained silent. "Dude. Still can't say his name?"
***
It was plainly evident that Poseidon held no love for San Francisco.
Whatever the small region had ever done to the former god of Oceans and Earthquakes, whomever had chosen to battle over the little piece of land or taunt it's nearest previous deity, Hestia knew not. A land of development and industry, innovation, of many lights and vices, beauty and brutality-mortality engulfed the lonely little rock passed capacity and at the turn of a new century Poseidon had leveled it. She didn't know why, but when one lived as long as they a list of enemies was endless. His own reasons. More death. More destruction. Nothing changed except how she viewed the events to follow-small earthquakes with an ever present threat of major disaster, hurtling towards infinity-and Hestia long ago had to acknowledge that suffering was everywhere. She could do naught, feel naught for these few beings that were not of her creation, (when they were a mere spark in the inferno of mortals dead, dying, terrified, tortured), except deep down the gladness that Poseidon still wielded his trident at all.
It meant he survived.
It meant she had a place to start.
Like in the old days everything had a name. Water, their roads, sculpted pieces of land: all named for other mortals, heroes or great dreamers, explorers. But Hestia searched for something simpler. A cable car brought her to a park on Fisherman's Wharf, where she elbowed through crowds and smells of slaughtered Dungeness crab and yeasty chowder. Eat eat eat eat eat. Constant moving mouths and snapping jaws, people that hummed with their own vitality but said little, made no eye contact, had no neighbours in the truest sense of the word.
She walked on towards distinct sounds. There was a tempered wailing, a conversation in grunts and sniffs and barks as she watched vast masses of slippery whiskered mammals sun themselves. The poses and combined indifference mesmerized her and she waited to watch amidst small flashing lights, the laughter and applause and human questions, and felt as if these were the first infants to ever cross her path. She was so utterly taken in.
And an Apollo-ruled sun dipped and darkness gathered.
And Poseidon was not there.
***
"Why do you stay?"
". . .Is that a serious question or are you gettin' metaphysical on me?"
He carried a large blade, the dull side spotted slightly with the beginnings of rust whilst the other gleamed deadly cutting strokes down upon the brush they were only halfway finished hiking through; the forest floor was mud and frilled fungi and above leaves imitated monstrous lily pads but could not make a shade from the heavy weight of Equatorial heat. Their Immortal bodies were mostly unstoppable. And drenched.
The forest itself was smaller than it had been yesterday, and the day before that, and on and on as far back as travelers had come seeking purposed medicines and profit, and a greater land mass as so far still brimming with fertility. They had come for golden cities and conquest, with flame and blood, steel and disease. The forest had protected many secrets. Nothing would last, but Hestia knew he could feel it, little tendrils of roots and spangle filtering through the system of the great continent pulled up and spoken for no more. For some reason it was sacrilege next to Pan's knife. Pan's land.
"You have lived here a long time. You don't leave and are not remembered." She reached out and placed a scarred hand upon moss-covered bark, the spongy growth above her fingertips as white as a pearl. "Why do you stay?" There was an uncharacteristic lengthy pause, where Hestia silently watched her companion's eyebrows furrow, mouth twitch, and dark eyes consider both sky and stone. Then finally:
"They ain't my people," he shrugged, almost eloquently, backpack rising and falling. "I've. . .never really had people, so being remembered isn't much of an issue-"
"Untrue."
"Yeah I like attention. Anyway." Pan began moving again, sure steps through land traversed a million times, a hundred lives. "I stay 'cause. . .Shit, I don't know. It's a calling."
"A calling."
He turned swiftly, eyes instantly apologetic as she jumped back from the blade though those particular words didn't manifest. His voice was firm. "It's in my blood. My chest. This sun and this earth and these smells-it's all me. Nowhere else is right like here is right, and I can't explain in one reason why, it's so deep down and. . .and. . ." He puffed wordlessly, not frustrated but not completely happy. Hestia finished for him.
"It's your home."
". . .Yeah. Yeah."
He nodded and moved back to touch the damp bark too. "Where's yours?"
***
There was sacred mortal land north of San Francisco.
There was sacred mortal land all over their sliced pockets of named land, but just as the immensely crowded piece of property had been a good starting point, journeying to Point Reyes National Seashore seemed the best next move.
There had been weather warnings-which she took as a good sign despite the hammer that had suddenly been forged inside the thin structure of her ribs with the bellows of her lungs-and as she crossed the Coast Trail unseen by officials or adventure tourists, danger signs popped up mantra-like, spell-like. An outstretched palm, a fallen oak, a ruined bridge, a neon red flashing light: she had once been bent and she had once been broken but Hestia was neither now and these signs would not sway her.
She had not been expecting an olive branch.
She had not been expecting anything of any consequence.
Except. . .
Herds of elk grazed in the wet grassland, quirking unblinking eyes at her passing, dropping majestic heads once more to feed. She needed to reach the coastline; did so, trudged through sand and moving water and the potent smell of salt and breeze brought forth a gasp of air. It said she would never breathe again. It said she could turn around and walk on, to ignore. It said there would be pain at the end. It said there would be an ending. It said there would be a beginning.
It did not say she would enjoy any of it, but Hestia had to see.
Poseidon was here.
He was beautiful. Still. Always.
And as they stood approximately ten feet apart-he with his fishing rod of long bamboo thrown expertly into crashing waves that should never have accepted the bait, and she with a knapsack that had been sewn back to usefulness too many times to count-Poseidon did not look at Hestia, and, once her steps were finished, Hestia did not look at Poseidon. He spoke first however, and rightly she imagined the anger in his indifferent tone, imagined the sea stones roll away, imagined the outline of a trident that proved he was neither dull nor senseless.
"You've been traveling."
"Aye, everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
"Yes."
"Funny that." He pulled deftly on the rod and a thick filament glittered, running from the wood deep deep down into the unknowable depths of the Pacific. No. That was wrong. He knew them. "I've traveled quite a bit myself and I have never seen your trail."
I love you. I've always loved you. Look at me. Look at me and do not hate me. I have hurt you more than I can ever repair but don't hate me. I will leave if you ask but I needed to see you. I can live without forgiveness as long as you do not hate me. I've lived so long believing you hated me and the rumour is better than the fact if it's the truth. I've stayed away for such selfish reasons. I cannot bear the knowledge of your hate. You. . .You-
"You've heard my stories, I'm sure."
"I have." She didn't care.
This was agony. All her hard-won composure was fracturing. She was never cold. She did not cry. There was no guilt to run her life or practiced shame to hide behind anymore. He was the exception to every rule, and she worried that he was enough to call back everything Fire had purged from within so long ago.
She was the first to turn but he quickly followed and she soaked in that line of jaw, that smooth beard and rough face like lines of melancholy prose etched into his flesh. Oh the salt and seaweed, it surrounded him still, had never left she supposed, and something rose in her gut the likes of which she hadn't felt since burning three gods to ether in a lonely dirty cave. Her Fire recognized Poseidon-not form or feature, but his essence. Being. It called to her like a sullen horse, unbroken and indignant at being pulled where it did not wish to go.
Furious at being left behind.
And there was only one question to ask. What should have always been asked when they met in that cave of amethyst and abalone, when she knew not only happiness within his arms but perfect contentment to sleep and lay and wake beside him, when she gave and took and felt.
"Can I touch you now?"
Hestia's voice broke at the third, a pitch, a swallow, and tears flowed and she knew why.
She watched Poseidon's hard jaw circle, cheeks pucker and puff and his whole face redden as if an explosion wanted out and could only find means of escape through his own wet eyes. The bamboo rod snapped within his grip, the longer section soaring like a wingless dragon to disappear beneath white capped waves.
"I was strong," he bit out, taking a slow jagged step towards her, crushing the remnants of the handle until powered shards fell like sawdust from his open fingers. "I was stronger than you ever believed."
"I know," she nodded fiercely, matching him step for step. "I was too. More than I ever believed."
And then it wasn't important who grasped whom first. Simply that they did.
"Are you real?" Hestia whispered, hushed into his throat as she inhaled, only realizing after that he was doing the same; her hair was undone, whipping madly, freely, and Poseidon had gathered a fistful to his face, breathing her in great gulps. Her hands dug in, clasped with unbreakable strength to the lines of shoulders and back and arms that rested underneath the folds of mortal clothing gathered in her fists.
Inside she raged wild, soared, wanted him covered in ember and spark and her arms everywhere. He was her rock in the storm, what her Fire could cling to and never burn. And she would never have cause to fear containment because his spirit was as strong as hers, as wild, as needy and demanding.
A continuous tide, meant to carry the world weary traveler home.
"Are you?"
Hestia nodded.
She was home.
Fandom: Greek Mythology
Pairing/Characters: Hestia; Hestia/Poseidon; Poseidon; Moros; somewhat dubious Hestia/Moros; Zeus; Apollo; Thalia; Pan; others
Rating/Warnings: R (Het): language, sexual situations, incest (it's Greek mythology!), possible triggering content
Which Bang?: Big Bang (15k)
Summary: Hestia has spent the majority of her Immortal years emotionally alone but the passion between Poseidon and herself will not be denied. Doom is never very far behind however, and the punishment is more than Hestia could ever imagine when Zeus finds out. She never knew what reserves of strength lay within her.
Fanmix and Cover Art!: HERE!
Art!: HERE!
Author's Notes: Written for heroinebigbang! The title comes from the poem Forest Fire by Elizabeth Coats, about a fire that comes from dust and circumstance and nothing can stand in its way. The Dead Pan is by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Prayer to Hermes is by Robert Creeley. Neither of these poems were consulted before I sat down to actually research/write Part Five, the only part that really needed to be researched as I've never been to either Brazil or the USA, but, happily, they helped develop the end of this story. Other used sources were Gods, Demigods & Demons: An Encyclopedia of Greek Mythology by Bernard Evslin, and internet quotes of the work of Robert Graves. Thanks to my fabulous artist and mixer, who didn't jump ship when I sent them 10 million emails :)
Part Four
She would sleep and sleep and sleep, dreamless, blessedly blank and dark, weightless. There was no horror built from guilt and what was lost, nor the painful reality of present circumstances. And then. . .
Then.
It would begin as a simple touch upon her ankle: firm fingers, blunt nails, a calloused warmth. It would move along the curve of calve and knee and Hestia would be lost in the sensation of her clothing drifting over and about.
Desire would follow only after safety, the touch becoming an arm around her waist or shoulder, the arm then a body pressed close behind and surrounding, a kiss placed softly on her nape. At this she would be desperate, would move and shift herself into further touch and grasp with her mouth opening for his kiss. And then she would catch the scent. The lack of it.
She had learned to kick out first, to hit with open palms and fists until a grunt or laugh would register his surrender and removal. She had learned not to open her eyes to see her dream in action turn into vicious nightmares. She had taught herself not to cry.
After these nights Hestia would see his brothers shivering, disgusted at themselves and what he had made them do-what they would continue to do in their fear and in their nature. She would learn that Phanatos, Phobetor, and Morpheus were not the monsters she had been led to believe.
They were not Moros.
***
"My Lady, it is almost time."
No. Hestia had run out of time, watched it slip through her fingers while wrapped in misery and defeat. Once there could have been a chance. A possibility. The merest whisper of hope. But Hestia had crushed it by herself. Under no circumstances could she run to Poseidon. Where he was Hestia did not know, and even if she did the Goddess would never bring down her misfortunes on his head. Poseidon would never see Olympus again; Hestia wouldn't have Zeus nipping at his heels either.
However, the thought of sending word led to another thought at the risk her messenger would undertake. And if she would dismiss such concerns then there was the terrible blow that perhaps Poseidon would not protest her treatment nor answer any cry for help. Listening to idle rumour, reaching without thinking, had resulted in his banishment.
A heart could change in one hundred years.
Hestia felt numb. The coldness had not left, but invaded deeper: a hollow bloodless torso; no anticipation; no joy. Each moment spent in Apollo's company made her less and less, and there was no escape from her permanent position as audience or the dreadful façade of her duty. The Fire was little more than a spark; the Fire was air, insubstantial and insignificant, like her movements and breath and speech. And when Apollo wasn't standing near-directing, observing, commenting, and needing to somehow touch in increase-his eight ladies, (such elegant superior beauties), would sing of his exploits, their flat eyes disturbing and showing their likenesses for that of a scroll rather than a Muses of supposed vibrant spirit. Their beauty was only skin deep and their words were leeching what was left of Hestia dry. The ninth waited on tender hooks, silent, sequestered from her sisters, until her sweet voice and gentle hand would inform Hestia it was time to return to her chamber. The only place free of Apollo's presence.
To be expected to lay with him-
Hestia closed her eyes from the vision of the bride in polished silver, gripping a bronze goblet of ambrosia meant for Apollo's lips. Bare-armed, all creamy dimpled skin and a shower of gauzy gold to cover her modesty: the Goddess did not know what she had become. She was no maiden to be dressed and paraded like one of Hera's peacocks; she was no nymph, desiring the attentions of all and sundry. She was no Aphrodite and wished for no other to wake beside except-
But Poseidon had his own wife.
Hestia listened to Thalia's light steps and felt the Muse place one thin veil of sun beam upon her golden curls. She wanted to tear it off, tear off all the artifice of this concoted day and fly! She wanted to run screaming through the mountain to rail against the injustice-Yes! Injustice!-of her treatment by those who claimed to love her! To be her family! She was Immortal and it meant something! She was Immortal! Immortal!
Hestia's eyes flashed open with unexpected heat.
"All are gathered, Thalia?"
"Aye, My Lady."
"Open the window please. I would like a breeze."
The redhead's delicate robes fluttered as she crossed the expanse of the chamber and raised the latch. Hestia nodded. "Leave me. I'll come anon."
Heart pumping, vision clearing, Hestia felt warmth return as she reached up to remove her wedding veil and forcefully drained the goblet of each sustaining drop.
Another Immortal had once fallen from the glory and safety of Mount Olympus. Falling for three days entire, Hephaestus had broken back and legs, a cripple, but he had lived, and by the Good Graces, Hestia swore she would as well! Whilst Fear threatened again on spider fingers it would not sway her decision. The options before her were untenable and Hestia could not bear the reality of what was to come if she remained. There was no admiration or affection for comely Apollo-none above or beyond what there had always been and surely not enough to encourage physical demonstrations of whatever he may feel for her. Hestia had never wanted to ask, not after all this time.
Without pausing for observation of the clear sky, it's blue endlessness and depth, Hestia climbed onto her window ledge and jumped.
Neither the buffeting, freezing wind nor the vastness below alarmed half as much as the sudden swirling black shadows wrapping around and changing her descent, and at this she did scream. Sorcery! No! No, she would not be brought back! There was pressure at her shoulders, more underneath the bend of her knees, as the darkness solidified and brought a cold, wracking laugh to her ear. She squirmed but the new arms held tight. Robes emerged from the shadows and engulfed her legs and the laughter continued.
"You ruined my entrance, but I have always appreciated your flair for the dramatic." Moros' bottomless eyes peered at her. "You never cease to surprise me Grandmother."
"I will not be Apollo's wife!" Hestia's eyes were livid. Shock and terrifying vertigo were pulsing like exotic stars but she would stay with what was important. She had ended her life on Olympus and would not return, no matter how-or why-Moros had managed to act the unwanted net. He merely nodded and placed what Hestia would later think of as a rather patronizing kiss upon her brow, tendrils of black cloth securing her hips. As they disappeared over the horizon his cackle harkened to a murder of crows.
"Where would the fun be in that for me?"
***
Sticks, chips, grass, flint: Hestia was cold and had been cold since the second night of dwelling within the cave of the Sons of Night. It was not a cave of colour and gentle rest. There were no precious gems gathered in formation to create a starlit canopy; there was no seashell bower or ocean scent. She missed salt and seaweed and private sun rises. But that was long ago and far away and now a collection of grey sheets kept her warm at night. She had accumulated more scars. Calluses and torn nails, skin bitten in frustration: once again the Goddess was confronted with work. Different than duty, than numbing servitude, this was making fire from raw material where no spark existed. Away from moments of painful reminiscing, Hestia imagined herself akin to the first mortals awaiting Prometheus' illuminating arrival and his stolen gift. She no longer transferred a flame or continuously tended burning coals. Hestia forced fire from the Earth again and again and again.
"I've become bored."
Hestia refused to respond, clacking stone against stone as Moros reclined on her pallet. His brothers hid in the walls, stretching through granite and damp, all tattooed heads and blue skin. Waiting to be released into the minds of mortal and Immortal alike, they tried to be kind.
clack, clack
"You have become boring."
"Then send me away."
clack, clack
"You never attempt escape anymore."
"There is no escape Moros," Hestia sighed, sick of old conversation. "You somehow saw to that."
clack, clack
"Stop with the stones."
clack, clack
"Are you mad?"
There was a scrambling and swiftly the stones were kicked from Hestia's grasp, black robes violently jerking across her vision as a puffing God of Doom scowled down on her.
"That is mad! Every day, stone against stone!" He moved away then came back with a roar. "Make the fire yourself!"
"Mad and blind." Hestia came to her feet. She had been in this position once before and she would not be hit again. "I have been making fire ever since you trapped me here."
"Playing in the dirt is not an act of creation, Grandmother," Moros hissed. "Do you even remember who you are?"
***
"Turn to me."
She didn't want to wake up. The arm around her waist, the warmth at her back, breath on her neck: reality was cruel; this wasn't real and oh, how she wanted it to be real. Her hip was caressed, wedding dress slipping higher-it was only adjustments, movements in her sleep-
Hestia gasped as true fingers brushed her inner thigh. She could hear the waves gliding, stones rolling on the shore.
"Turn to me."
Hestia's eyes flew open but she had been so tired, her body was sluggish as she fought to face the man behind her. Large eyebrows crowded his unnaturally blue eyes; his skin was the same sea-roughened she remembered, ginger hair on chin and head and arms.
"Where have you been?!" she cried. It sounded far away to her own ears and her arms were heavy as they tried to reach round his neck, to drag him to her and never let him go. He could not answer at first. Hestia had claimed his mouth in a desperate, needy kiss. Her eyes were wet, her tears sliding along their lips where he licked and drank of her. He was finally here when she never imagined to see him again. "My love. My love, my love, my love-"
"I have been waiting for you," he laughed at her exuberance, sounding as far away as she did.
"Where?" Hestia arched as he palmed her breast, again as his mouth descended to her throat. He bit.
"In our cave."
"I searched!" Hestia grasped his back. Clothes that were there weren't there and it didn't matter, not when his hand had returned between her thighs, skipping passed smooth skin and slipping in alongside wet flesh. She breathed out in a rush. "I searched!"
"And you found me." He rolled on top of her, weightier, heavier, and spread her legs, his hand a cool flat mass upon her mound as long, thin fingers caressed. A smooth thumb tapped. She could see a cascade of glowing purple above them and held on with all her strength. Their cave! He had come for her! Somehow he had saved her!
More pressure, less teeth. Her peak was languorous, old muscles sighing with a liquid heat. Breasts and core and heart. How wonderful it all could be-how perfect he was! She had not wanted to hope and here he-
"I love you," she stated firmly, sincerely, pressing her face close to breathe him in, lick the curve of one rough cheek.
Her countenance abruptly changed. Hands left the loving embrace around his waist to shove hard against his too thin shoulders, horror rising in her eyes. No salt! He did not taste nor smell of water and ocean winds-there was no smell at all! Her bed was not manufactured layers of fresh green seaweed; there was no give for push and pull and having nowhere to go but climb the magnificent trunk of his body in search of mutual release. There was a wave before her eyes, a falling, tumbling, like a curtain lifting, and the Goddess thought she would be sick. Limbs awoke, submersion ended, noises cleared.
"You are not Poseidon!"
Hestia's legs kicked out, arms and hands struck out, flesh and bone damning a stranger with the face of her beloved.
And then the laughter.
The Ocean God's visage dropped away like a passage of mist as sunburn and rough tan were traded for a palette of palest white. Black eyes, black hair, black heart: Moros watched Hestia weep as he tasted her wetness on his fingers.
"Like sweet ambrosia, Grandmother. You feed me."
***
"I know myself Moros," Hestia brushed her hands against the dull, rough fabric of her grey robe. "It is you I have never understood. To find such happiness in one being's misery and call it sustenance-to heap on more and more to see how it breaks?"
"I am as nature intended." Moros' sly smile was irritated. "We all play an unending role but at least I have never forgotten mine."
"Again you speak in riddles," Hestia frowned. "Rather that you had forgotten what you gleaned in my face for-!" She couldn't speak his name, not to this creature. "Go on your business of tragedy and leave me be." Moros' swirling shadows jumped, appearing once again before her as Hestia turned away.
"I would happily claim any misery of yours Grandmother, but the tragedy you speak of with the Gods is of your own making! Every choice or decision was your own. Each memory forgotten you wiped away. Zeus and his mortals. Demeter and her cruelty. On and on it went and how easy you made it all appear. Content in your little corner, no one of importance-It played well into their hands when you bowed out to Dionysus-trying to forget the evil you had sprung from and to which you still belong!"
"I am not evil!"
"And is that why you delight in punishing yourself?" Moros laughed. "In making sacrifice and obeisance and bowing to your precious guilt?"
Hestia shook her head frantically; she had been right the first time: Moros was mad and there was nowhere to go. Assuredly there were things she had preferred not to hear but what he said-Demeter cruel? Her hands tingled, itched to do something she knew not what, and she spied his brothers peek out from the walls. Dream and Nightmare and Sleep.
"I do not understand you! What has this to do with your lies to Zeus? Why would you mark me as traitor?!"
"What did you do in the Beginning?" Moros circled, ignoring her pleas, as his form of shadow limbs seemed to appear here then there. "What did you do until someone else came along? They didn't even have to take it. Much like your throne you gave it away willingly."
"I do not-"
"There was blood, and most likely thunder, and light the likes of which you had never seen. Enough to blind and ravage-"
"I do not-"
"Hera screaming revenge. Hades turning the Titan's dead against them. Zeus' laughter above it all-"
"I don't-"
"What did you do?"
"I don't know!"
But she did.
She did. A terrible awareness that had been hidden behind dismissed words and deeds and repressed memories. A place where she had polished rusted images of sibling, cousin. Herself. The rooms broke open inside her mind. She had been a healer. After the War. After so much death and blood and destruction-more than any should ever have had to face!-Hestia had healed the injured. The Hundred-Handed Ones. Hera's broken fingers. Zeus' slashed brow. She had healed them.
"Born into a family of warriors, you could not help but be one as well." Moros grasped her hands and would not release them.
"I did not fight-I did not kill!"
"Fire in the heart, fire in the belly." Moros brought her fists to press against his chest and lower torso, smirking. "The fire of passion. War and sex and death." Hestia pulled viciously away, staring unbelievably at the searing white light shining from beneath the lines of her scars. In pitch-perfect imitation Moros spoke, words she had forgotten even saying.
'"I remained behind. Someone must if there is indeed a home.'"
"Stop."
"Every war," he inched closer. "Every foot of land fought for and claimed. Every death. It was all in your hands, you pushed them forward, and you couldn't bear it." His shadow hands folded in great satisfaction. Hestia had backed herself into a corner, trembling, eyes unseeing. "So you gave away the war to Zeus' son."
". . .Ares."
"And you gave away bodily desires. For a time."
"Aphrodite."
"A glorious woman come from nothing. Most everything you had already given Apollo anyway so it was no wonder he wanted your body as well."
Apollo was a healer. His son Asclepius was a supreme healer-Oh Graces. Coronis. Incinerated through Apollo's jealousy and greed, it was just one memory pushed away-slain by his grandfather's thunderbolt. Apollo's grandsons were healers, Machaon and Podalirius in Troy. His followers, masters of music. Or art. Or drama. Or divination. The fire of creativity flowed like Mount Etna's furnace there.
"Everything," she murmurred. "He took everything. Even the Fire…" A poor substitute of an incense burner lightly perfuming his stage. Hestia tilted her head, confronted with a terrible truth. "It was not you who spoke to Zeus. Apollo. Apollo turned Zeus' mind, convinced My King-My Brother-of my complacency and acceptance in a plot to overthrow Olympus. All for his own ends. Apollo spoke first of. . .of. . ." Apollo had known of her broken Oath. What could have been gained if not for revenge and to steal the last bit of self that she claimed as her own? Everything he wanted. What was next? The Sun?! Her insides were drying up, churning. She had been strung along like a child's toy, her blind ignorance masked with hospitality and the appearance of trust. She was Immortal! Why had she turned her back on herself?
And now Moros smiled, wild and grotesque. Sharp bloody teeth ready to gnaw on her thoughts of what could have been.
"For someone who risked all to fuck a God, you tossed him aside as easily as the rest. Of what were you truly afraid?" He leaned close, closer, and again Hestia saw the muted faces of his victims traumatized within the folds of his robes. "Poseidon is not Zeus' son, one to whom you could give power. You offered much to these boys and for what? To make Zeus happy? Thankful? You've been paying off a perceived debt for the entirety of your existence, and when what you desired did not suit Zeus' needs you pushed it away! Since the moment Zeus called you forth from old Cronus' stinking gut you have never been your own. Simply another weapon. A tool." His whisper carried and was wont to drive her to oblivion.
Hestia opened her mouth.
And fire came out.
A primal scream was pulled from her lungs, ripped through bone and flesh and sinew to race as dangerously as a Pythian serpent up and around the cave of Night's children.. Heat rose from the soles of her bare feet and exploded through her palms, ichor expanding and ablaze in her veins and brain and heart. She glowed with a deadly Flame and a cleansing Flame. All sorrow and pain, sadness and guilt, rushed out of her in a blast of fiery inferno. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered other screams, terrors and burning flesh. She could not reach Apollo in his turret in the sky. The same spells laced to keep her in kept the Fire in as well, and Moros had not been quick enough. His brothers could not hide deep enough.
Immortal, yes. But they would hurt.
All Hestia saw, all she breathed, was flame. It filled the cave like water, scraping rock and bone; she burned from the inside out.
And then it was done.
Hestia collapsed, naked.
"Morpheus!" Wisps of smoke slipped passed her lips. Hestia knew not if he would respond, only that, like with her jump from Olympus, the Goddess was finished with being a puppet in this world, and was prepared to meet what happened after eternity, even if it was an expanse of nothingness. ". . .you tossed him aside. . ." Her words had been high and mighty indeed, but she had not fought for Poseidon and she knew it, could not forget it.
She had been living as a shell. No meat. No life. No Fire.
"Morpheus. Sleep."
Part Five
The layers of spells Moros had used to seal her inside faded with the old regime, and thus with the expansion of humanity her cave was discovered and no longer a prison. She did not have to reach for words to explain her bare presence to these first mortal explorers. "I was sleeping" sufficed, and her countenance bought welcome into many a cold village.
Hestia was never cold.
She was not worshipped; she had long ago diminished in the eyes of young mothers, no longer called upon to press the sacred oils to newborn flesh and hear the strong first cries of I Live! I Live! Prayers were not offered up to her at the first of meals, and Hestia was pleased. They had at least forgotten, if she could not, and she could meet with and speak to whomever she wished. She was not a Muse. There were no barriers, and all could gain.
She avoided seashores, stayed inland and would not see the ocean for another five lifetimes. The great cities of the world were dead to her, noxious. It took less than a day within their crowded streets to set her wandering again. Only forests breathed, tall trees swayed, pulsed with their own life, and Hestia created a nomadic existence within their various confines, sharing a fire with those who crossed her path. These voices were beautiful, full of idea and adventure. Germany, Russia, China, and back again through many little other blocks of land named and ruled by mortals that she never saw nor cared to see. Not like some of her ilk.
It was not until she swallowed her pride and crossed the frozen sea to discover a New World that Hestia finally laid eyes upon another Immortal.
***
"I'm not dead," he snorted, bitter smoke billowing from between thick mustached and beard. "I don't see you since. . .like. . .the Spanish Inquisition-and this is what you bring me? My obituary put to song?"
"An exaggeration. And only if you wish to sing it."
"Read me that part about Dionysus again."
"'He swoons'? 'Bound with his own vines'?"
"Oh that crazy drunk."
Hestia closed her mouth, lips squirming into a grin as Pan leaned back against his Kapok tree, hand-rolled in one hand and an old water canister in the other. She suspected cerveza. He had threatened to file off his horns the last time they had met (and many years had passed since that last time) but the curved protrusions were still there, ribbed bone beneath a substantial mop of dark brown hair. She was pleased. To remove them would have been akin to amputation-an arm, a leg, for a satyr there was no difference-and Pan had been traumatized enough in his existence. Her own braid had grown long again. Shorn every fifty years or so, it was a physical reminder that no life-however long-should remain static.
"You look nice."
"Thank you."
"I'm not hittin' on you. I'm just sayin'."
"Do you wish to hear this or not?"
"Lay it on me Momma."
Hestia had warned him about labels but there was little to be done if she wanted to retain a relationship with an Old One like herself. She rolled her eyes.
"'And his Maenads slowly saunter,/Head aside, among the pines,/While they murmur dreamingly,/"Evohe!-ah-evohe-!"/Ah, Pan is dead!'"
"I've never heard a Maenad murmur, dreamingly or otherwise."
"Screamers weren't they?"
"Did you just make a sex joke?" he took another drink. "They ain't slow either. Bitches be nuts."
"I don't like that word."
"I don't like revisionists."
"Pardon?"
Pan cleared his throat, picked something currently inedible from off his green guerilla-issue shirt, and proceeded to recite all thirty three verses back to her, as well as the six Hestia had purposely removed. Jove, Juno, Apollo. Herself. Others. She would call down no prayers, no names, and had thought Pan would have abhorred to hear Hermes' name mentioned alongside the words cunning and brave. Hestia stopped searching through her knapsack long enough to burn the hand written pages in her hand. He chuckled. "And still you won't light my cigarettes. What? Did you think I'd never heard that crap before?"
She folded her coat into a pillow and lay back, a moment of blessed silence falling as the night sounds of the Amazon came forth. It was glorious and morning would bring with it spectacular sights of colour. Lush turquoise waters, layer upon layer of unnamed greens, flora that belied description: this was no world of stark stone and hospice white. There was heart here and it beat in time with hers just as it did with Pan.
"How did you swing a whole stanza when the sibs had to share?" the former God burped. "That seems excessive for someone who didn't even have a throne. Did Browning owe you or somethin'?" Hestia didn't answer. "'In the fiery-hearted center/Of the solemn universe,/Ancient Vesta-'" She clucked her tongue.
"They always remember the fire."
"At least you ain't dead. Why couldn't I get a lament like Pops."
"'Yet questions/are tricks/for me--/and always will be'?"
"That's it," he grinned, small and bitter. "Dad gets a hymn you can set a drum to. I get a poem extolling the virtues of all you bastard Olympians. Sorry," he immediately held up a placating hand. "Those bastard Olympians."
"It doesn't bother me anymore."
"No?" Pan appeared less than convinced. "'Neptune lies beside the trident,/Dull and senseless as a stone'." He repeated the beginning of verse fifteen and coughed meaningfully when she remained silent. "Dude. Still can't say his name?"
***
It was plainly evident that Poseidon held no love for San Francisco.
Whatever the small region had ever done to the former god of Oceans and Earthquakes, whomever had chosen to battle over the little piece of land or taunt it's nearest previous deity, Hestia knew not. A land of development and industry, innovation, of many lights and vices, beauty and brutality-mortality engulfed the lonely little rock passed capacity and at the turn of a new century Poseidon had leveled it. She didn't know why, but when one lived as long as they a list of enemies was endless. His own reasons. More death. More destruction. Nothing changed except how she viewed the events to follow-small earthquakes with an ever present threat of major disaster, hurtling towards infinity-and Hestia long ago had to acknowledge that suffering was everywhere. She could do naught, feel naught for these few beings that were not of her creation, (when they were a mere spark in the inferno of mortals dead, dying, terrified, tortured), except deep down the gladness that Poseidon still wielded his trident at all.
It meant he survived.
It meant she had a place to start.
Like in the old days everything had a name. Water, their roads, sculpted pieces of land: all named for other mortals, heroes or great dreamers, explorers. But Hestia searched for something simpler. A cable car brought her to a park on Fisherman's Wharf, where she elbowed through crowds and smells of slaughtered Dungeness crab and yeasty chowder. Eat eat eat eat eat. Constant moving mouths and snapping jaws, people that hummed with their own vitality but said little, made no eye contact, had no neighbours in the truest sense of the word.
She walked on towards distinct sounds. There was a tempered wailing, a conversation in grunts and sniffs and barks as she watched vast masses of slippery whiskered mammals sun themselves. The poses and combined indifference mesmerized her and she waited to watch amidst small flashing lights, the laughter and applause and human questions, and felt as if these were the first infants to ever cross her path. She was so utterly taken in.
And an Apollo-ruled sun dipped and darkness gathered.
And Poseidon was not there.
***
"Why do you stay?"
". . .Is that a serious question or are you gettin' metaphysical on me?"
He carried a large blade, the dull side spotted slightly with the beginnings of rust whilst the other gleamed deadly cutting strokes down upon the brush they were only halfway finished hiking through; the forest floor was mud and frilled fungi and above leaves imitated monstrous lily pads but could not make a shade from the heavy weight of Equatorial heat. Their Immortal bodies were mostly unstoppable. And drenched.
The forest itself was smaller than it had been yesterday, and the day before that, and on and on as far back as travelers had come seeking purposed medicines and profit, and a greater land mass as so far still brimming with fertility. They had come for golden cities and conquest, with flame and blood, steel and disease. The forest had protected many secrets. Nothing would last, but Hestia knew he could feel it, little tendrils of roots and spangle filtering through the system of the great continent pulled up and spoken for no more. For some reason it was sacrilege next to Pan's knife. Pan's land.
"You have lived here a long time. You don't leave and are not remembered." She reached out and placed a scarred hand upon moss-covered bark, the spongy growth above her fingertips as white as a pearl. "Why do you stay?" There was an uncharacteristic lengthy pause, where Hestia silently watched her companion's eyebrows furrow, mouth twitch, and dark eyes consider both sky and stone. Then finally:
"They ain't my people," he shrugged, almost eloquently, backpack rising and falling. "I've. . .never really had people, so being remembered isn't much of an issue-"
"Untrue."
"Yeah I like attention. Anyway." Pan began moving again, sure steps through land traversed a million times, a hundred lives. "I stay 'cause. . .Shit, I don't know. It's a calling."
"A calling."
He turned swiftly, eyes instantly apologetic as she jumped back from the blade though those particular words didn't manifest. His voice was firm. "It's in my blood. My chest. This sun and this earth and these smells-it's all me. Nowhere else is right like here is right, and I can't explain in one reason why, it's so deep down and. . .and. . ." He puffed wordlessly, not frustrated but not completely happy. Hestia finished for him.
"It's your home."
". . .Yeah. Yeah."
He nodded and moved back to touch the damp bark too. "Where's yours?"
***
There was sacred mortal land north of San Francisco.
There was sacred mortal land all over their sliced pockets of named land, but just as the immensely crowded piece of property had been a good starting point, journeying to Point Reyes National Seashore seemed the best next move.
There had been weather warnings-which she took as a good sign despite the hammer that had suddenly been forged inside the thin structure of her ribs with the bellows of her lungs-and as she crossed the Coast Trail unseen by officials or adventure tourists, danger signs popped up mantra-like, spell-like. An outstretched palm, a fallen oak, a ruined bridge, a neon red flashing light: she had once been bent and she had once been broken but Hestia was neither now and these signs would not sway her.
She had not been expecting an olive branch.
She had not been expecting anything of any consequence.
Except. . .
Herds of elk grazed in the wet grassland, quirking unblinking eyes at her passing, dropping majestic heads once more to feed. She needed to reach the coastline; did so, trudged through sand and moving water and the potent smell of salt and breeze brought forth a gasp of air. It said she would never breathe again. It said she could turn around and walk on, to ignore. It said there would be pain at the end. It said there would be an ending. It said there would be a beginning.
It did not say she would enjoy any of it, but Hestia had to see.
Poseidon was here.
He was beautiful. Still. Always.
And as they stood approximately ten feet apart-he with his fishing rod of long bamboo thrown expertly into crashing waves that should never have accepted the bait, and she with a knapsack that had been sewn back to usefulness too many times to count-Poseidon did not look at Hestia, and, once her steps were finished, Hestia did not look at Poseidon. He spoke first however, and rightly she imagined the anger in his indifferent tone, imagined the sea stones roll away, imagined the outline of a trident that proved he was neither dull nor senseless.
"You've been traveling."
"Aye, everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
"Yes."
"Funny that." He pulled deftly on the rod and a thick filament glittered, running from the wood deep deep down into the unknowable depths of the Pacific. No. That was wrong. He knew them. "I've traveled quite a bit myself and I have never seen your trail."
I love you. I've always loved you. Look at me. Look at me and do not hate me. I have hurt you more than I can ever repair but don't hate me. I will leave if you ask but I needed to see you. I can live without forgiveness as long as you do not hate me. I've lived so long believing you hated me and the rumour is better than the fact if it's the truth. I've stayed away for such selfish reasons. I cannot bear the knowledge of your hate. You. . .You-
"You've heard my stories, I'm sure."
"I have." She didn't care.
This was agony. All her hard-won composure was fracturing. She was never cold. She did not cry. There was no guilt to run her life or practiced shame to hide behind anymore. He was the exception to every rule, and she worried that he was enough to call back everything Fire had purged from within so long ago.
She was the first to turn but he quickly followed and she soaked in that line of jaw, that smooth beard and rough face like lines of melancholy prose etched into his flesh. Oh the salt and seaweed, it surrounded him still, had never left she supposed, and something rose in her gut the likes of which she hadn't felt since burning three gods to ether in a lonely dirty cave. Her Fire recognized Poseidon-not form or feature, but his essence. Being. It called to her like a sullen horse, unbroken and indignant at being pulled where it did not wish to go.
Furious at being left behind.
And there was only one question to ask. What should have always been asked when they met in that cave of amethyst and abalone, when she knew not only happiness within his arms but perfect contentment to sleep and lay and wake beside him, when she gave and took and felt.
"Can I touch you now?"
Hestia's voice broke at the third, a pitch, a swallow, and tears flowed and she knew why.
She watched Poseidon's hard jaw circle, cheeks pucker and puff and his whole face redden as if an explosion wanted out and could only find means of escape through his own wet eyes. The bamboo rod snapped within his grip, the longer section soaring like a wingless dragon to disappear beneath white capped waves.
"I was strong," he bit out, taking a slow jagged step towards her, crushing the remnants of the handle until powered shards fell like sawdust from his open fingers. "I was stronger than you ever believed."
"I know," she nodded fiercely, matching him step for step. "I was too. More than I ever believed."
And then it wasn't important who grasped whom first. Simply that they did.
"Are you real?" Hestia whispered, hushed into his throat as she inhaled, only realizing after that he was doing the same; her hair was undone, whipping madly, freely, and Poseidon had gathered a fistful to his face, breathing her in great gulps. Her hands dug in, clasped with unbreakable strength to the lines of shoulders and back and arms that rested underneath the folds of mortal clothing gathered in her fists.
Inside she raged wild, soared, wanted him covered in ember and spark and her arms everywhere. He was her rock in the storm, what her Fire could cling to and never burn. And she would never have cause to fear containment because his spirit was as strong as hers, as wild, as needy and demanding.
A continuous tide, meant to carry the world weary traveler home.
"Are you?"
Hestia nodded.
She was home.