(no subject)
Title: Beware Greeks with Gifts (1/6)
Characters: Hestia, Moros, Priapus, others
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Part One
It had been a wonderful wedding.
Plion had been wise to invite everyone to his only daughter's wedding. None could claim prejudice now; none could claim a spurned ego and revenge against the tremendously happy couple. The old king had spared no expense: magnificent topiaries dotted the landscape, casting delightfully bestial shadows as Helios' golden orb dropped lower and lower; gauzy canopies offered relief from the assortment of insects and pests that called Earth home but that the assembled Immortals had no patience for-they covered large recliners gilt in gold and precious velvet; musicians whom seemed never to tire played upon fine tambours and lyres, the sweet notes accompanying the tinkle of bells covering the bride, marking her as the Lady of this celebration and touchable only to one and one alone. Dancing! The ground shook with hearty steps and graceful flourishes as nearly each Goddess attempted their own interpretation of the player's songs. Their male counterparts were content to sit and watch appreciatively-some using the time to discuss the merits of several mortals present or political restructuring in this new bright age of Olympic freedom-with Dionysus the only exception, the God of Revels being equally at home among rowdy females as rowdy men.
Not one guest languished for want of food or drink. Mead and the usual sour wine loved by mortals flowed freely from barrel to cup, barrel to cup, the servants barely giving the honoured guests time enough to consider the emptiness of their vessels. From the end of the ceremony food had been carted out onto the field from the castle kitchens in long lines, burly serving men holding aloft trays of giant boar and deer, fruits or every imaginable size and colour. Plion had been wise in this point as well. Local priestesses had made sacrifice during the preparation of each course, thus insuring that no prayers were to be missed during the inebriated event to follow.
Plion had been very wise indeed.
Unfortunately, Hestia could not currently claim the same virtue.
The gentle Goddess would have been pleased enough with returning to her fire after gladly bestowing her blessings on the glowing bride, but her siblings would have none of it and stationed Hestia amongst themselves. For a time. As each hour passed so did more and more drink, more rich delicacies, more beautiful willing mortals, and thus one sister was quite easily forgotten in the congenial mood that pervaded all on such on occasion. Hestia did not mind and had quietly removed herself when it became clear that Zeus was eager to examine the affects of mortal wine on his splendidly arrayed wife as well as the softly muscled boy who waited on them as ever he had on Olympus.
The field was dark, only sweetly scented scones burned, flickering besides the wedding canopies and painting a macabre image of those still inside. Hestia averted her soft grey eyes as she walked, following the rolling sounds of the sea and the kingdom that was locked to her by her own volition. It was still a beautiful night, still a beautiful wedding, and as she gazed up into the inky blackness dotted with blazing crystals Hestia simply accepted the wares of a passing tray without judgement, the heady scent of spiced mead overpowered by the salty sea air. The cup was empty before she knew it, before she realized she was seated on the ground in the dark, her robes fluttering in the wind, her veil hanging loose about her shoulders and leaving her golden tresses bare to the night.
Hestia could feel the warm liquid travel within her, so unlike the clear water which was her staple. Anything else near fire was irresponsible and so the Goddess was unprepared for the confusing effects, the heaviness of her limbs, or how the small world around her seemed to feel so much softer. A smile graced her calm visage, not surprising but almost new, as if the quirk at the corner of her mouth would inform an observer that the virginal Goddess, sister of Kings, had just learned a secret in her solitude. There was still music floating in the air, still voices coming from secluded places. Still. Hestia stretched an arm out and lay down, resting her head in the curve of her elbow. Everything was still. Even when she felt the hand on her shoulder Hestia's lids continued to fall. There was someone above her and she blinked tiredly, unable to raise a protest as her chin was turned and fingers ran down her unmarked throat.
But she knew this one. Had it been one hundred, two hundred years since she had last watched him play with his cousins and half-siblings? She had seen him frighten them, watched as his father laughed: Hermes and Aphrodite's son, Priapus.
This wasn't right, and she tried to twist away but it only appeared as another stretch, her forehead furrowing as the former content aura slipped trough her grasp while his solid palm found purchase underneath her naked knee. How had he pushed aside her voluminous fabrics so quickly? And where. . .where was her family? He was rubbing, grinding, and her unnecessary but eternally-used breast bindings were being loosened with each breath that she took. "Stop. . ." Hestia's hands were like smoke, useless where they lay, too fish-like to shove, and her loving eyes, eyes that captured the adoration of children, could not plead or remain open. ". . .Stop."
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, Priapus' weight was gone, leaving only the cool breeze to move across her uncovered breast bone and shoulders, to raise the pale hair along the sides of her thighs. She was glad and gave in to the fatigue.
Characters: Hestia, Moros, Priapus, others
Rating: PG-13 (I think)
Part One
It had been a wonderful wedding.
Plion had been wise to invite everyone to his only daughter's wedding. None could claim prejudice now; none could claim a spurned ego and revenge against the tremendously happy couple. The old king had spared no expense: magnificent topiaries dotted the landscape, casting delightfully bestial shadows as Helios' golden orb dropped lower and lower; gauzy canopies offered relief from the assortment of insects and pests that called Earth home but that the assembled Immortals had no patience for-they covered large recliners gilt in gold and precious velvet; musicians whom seemed never to tire played upon fine tambours and lyres, the sweet notes accompanying the tinkle of bells covering the bride, marking her as the Lady of this celebration and touchable only to one and one alone. Dancing! The ground shook with hearty steps and graceful flourishes as nearly each Goddess attempted their own interpretation of the player's songs. Their male counterparts were content to sit and watch appreciatively-some using the time to discuss the merits of several mortals present or political restructuring in this new bright age of Olympic freedom-with Dionysus the only exception, the God of Revels being equally at home among rowdy females as rowdy men.
Not one guest languished for want of food or drink. Mead and the usual sour wine loved by mortals flowed freely from barrel to cup, barrel to cup, the servants barely giving the honoured guests time enough to consider the emptiness of their vessels. From the end of the ceremony food had been carted out onto the field from the castle kitchens in long lines, burly serving men holding aloft trays of giant boar and deer, fruits or every imaginable size and colour. Plion had been wise in this point as well. Local priestesses had made sacrifice during the preparation of each course, thus insuring that no prayers were to be missed during the inebriated event to follow.
Plion had been very wise indeed.
Unfortunately, Hestia could not currently claim the same virtue.
The gentle Goddess would have been pleased enough with returning to her fire after gladly bestowing her blessings on the glowing bride, but her siblings would have none of it and stationed Hestia amongst themselves. For a time. As each hour passed so did more and more drink, more rich delicacies, more beautiful willing mortals, and thus one sister was quite easily forgotten in the congenial mood that pervaded all on such on occasion. Hestia did not mind and had quietly removed herself when it became clear that Zeus was eager to examine the affects of mortal wine on his splendidly arrayed wife as well as the softly muscled boy who waited on them as ever he had on Olympus.
The field was dark, only sweetly scented scones burned, flickering besides the wedding canopies and painting a macabre image of those still inside. Hestia averted her soft grey eyes as she walked, following the rolling sounds of the sea and the kingdom that was locked to her by her own volition. It was still a beautiful night, still a beautiful wedding, and as she gazed up into the inky blackness dotted with blazing crystals Hestia simply accepted the wares of a passing tray without judgement, the heady scent of spiced mead overpowered by the salty sea air. The cup was empty before she knew it, before she realized she was seated on the ground in the dark, her robes fluttering in the wind, her veil hanging loose about her shoulders and leaving her golden tresses bare to the night.
Hestia could feel the warm liquid travel within her, so unlike the clear water which was her staple. Anything else near fire was irresponsible and so the Goddess was unprepared for the confusing effects, the heaviness of her limbs, or how the small world around her seemed to feel so much softer. A smile graced her calm visage, not surprising but almost new, as if the quirk at the corner of her mouth would inform an observer that the virginal Goddess, sister of Kings, had just learned a secret in her solitude. There was still music floating in the air, still voices coming from secluded places. Still. Hestia stretched an arm out and lay down, resting her head in the curve of her elbow. Everything was still. Even when she felt the hand on her shoulder Hestia's lids continued to fall. There was someone above her and she blinked tiredly, unable to raise a protest as her chin was turned and fingers ran down her unmarked throat.
But she knew this one. Had it been one hundred, two hundred years since she had last watched him play with his cousins and half-siblings? She had seen him frighten them, watched as his father laughed: Hermes and Aphrodite's son, Priapus.
This wasn't right, and she tried to twist away but it only appeared as another stretch, her forehead furrowing as the former content aura slipped trough her grasp while his solid palm found purchase underneath her naked knee. How had he pushed aside her voluminous fabrics so quickly? And where. . .where was her family? He was rubbing, grinding, and her unnecessary but eternally-used breast bindings were being loosened with each breath that she took. "Stop. . ." Hestia's hands were like smoke, useless where they lay, too fish-like to shove, and her loving eyes, eyes that captured the adoration of children, could not plead or remain open. ". . .Stop."
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, Priapus' weight was gone, leaving only the cool breeze to move across her uncovered breast bone and shoulders, to raise the pale hair along the sides of her thighs. She was glad and gave in to the fatigue.