Fic - And The Gods Smiled (Prompt 20)
Title - And the Gods Smiled
Author -
joely_jo
Format and Word Count - Fic, 2241 words.
Rating - R
Prompt - genre:romance
Warning - A bit of sex, though it’s nothing graphic
Summary - The path of mythology is often trod again and again.
Author’s Notes - Like Remus, I should get out more and stop reading dusty old books about mythology.
Cupid rarely smiled. She’d noticed that before, when looking at pictures of the fat, curly-haired god and she noticed it again, as she stared at the painting on the wall of the art gallery. It was slightly disconcerting, she thought, that a figure immortalised as the god of love should appear to not be enjoying himself as he lavished attention on the beautiful Psyche who lay couched at his side. Of course, she knew that Psyche could not see his face, so there was every reason for the blankness in her expression… but his? No, she couldn’t fathom that.
She’d been in the gallery for hours now, and had been standing in front of this one painting for over twenty minutes. It was not the sort of thing she normally wasted her time with, but today she was here because of a trail. A trail that had been planted by someone with a reason to bring her here, though she had no idea who the person was and, equally, no idea what the reason was. She read the card that detailed the background information on the painting once again, but came up with nothing new. All it spoke of was a brief explanation of the myth of Cupid and Psyche and some minor comments about the nature of the brush strokes used by the artist. There was no other note here, no pressed flower or book dust jacket or anything at all like the things that had led her to this place. The trail had, quite literally, run dry.
And now she found herself staring at the painting and wondering whether she was meant to do more than just admire it. She read the card again, then stepped closer to the painting and reached out her hand to touch the sharp relief of the oils. A voice stopped her: “Please don’t touch the painting,” it said, and she turned, guiltily snapping her fingers away.
A small man was standing behind her, wearing tweed trousers and a white shirt. His hair was greying and slightly longer than could be considered conservative, and he sported a carefully trimmed Van Dyck beard. Even though his words had been sharp, his face was kindly. She glanced down to his lapel and noticed a plastic badge that announced his name as Wilfred Donegal.
“I’m sorry,” she rushed to explain. “I didn’t mean… I…”
He smiled. “Not to worry,” he said and moved to stand beside her. He turned to look at the painting. “I noticed you hadn’t moved in about half an hour and I was wondering if there was something you wanted to know, something you were confused about?”
Tonks considered how to answer that. She was confused, but did she really want to reveal that this painting was the end of some bizarre, possibly romantic, treasure hunt? She scuffed her boot on the marble floor. In the end, the man provided the answer to his own question. “I think that you are confused,” he stated. “You have that look about you. Like you feel you should be getting something more from the painting than you are doing.”
Tonks huffed a breath out. “You could say that,” she observed. She backed up a few paces and regarded the painting again. “This painting is the end of a trail for me. I have an admirer, it seems.” She smiled somewhat ruefully. “Though, apparently, he’s not in the business of laying all his cards on the table. And much as I like treasure hunts, this one is really starting to get my goat.”
Wilfred Donegal chuckled. “Perhaps your admirer intends for you to learn something from this painting, or perhaps from the myth that inspired it.”
“Hm,” Tonks agreed. “I’ve read the card and I still don’t get how it could mean anything to me. I mean, Gods are highly unlikely to be hanging around the streets of London, are they?”
Wilfred shifted himself and stepped the few paces over to the card that hung on the wall beside the painting. “Well, perhaps that is too literal an interpretation. After all, art is like literature; one has to explore all the possible meanings.” He turned back to Tonks. “The myth of Cupid and Psyche speaks of Cupid’s love for a mortal woman, a mortal woman whose beauty marks her as unique amongst her kind. Cupid’s desire for Psyche results in him breaking the laws of Olympus to lie down with her, but, fearful of what would happen if she discovers what he truly is, he forbids her to light lamps. And so, Psyche lives in ignorance of the identity of her lover.”
Snorting, Tonks backed up and sank down onto the bench positioned in front of the painting. “That sounds about right. He certainly doesn’t want me to know who he is.”
“Perhaps that is the mystery within the myth,” Wilfred supposed. “Perhaps this admirer of yours does not want you to know who he is because he is afraid that his true identity would be damaging.”
Tonks paused a moment as she considered the new interpretation. Wilfred shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, there are other interpretations and there is more to the myth,” he began, but Tonks interrupted him,
“No,” she said, slowly. “I think you might be on to something there.”
“You know someone who might think his true identity would damage you?”
“I think there’s someone that fits that bill, yes…” She turned and began to walk away, pausing only to glance back to Wilfred. “Thank you, Mr… Donegal… you’ve been great.”
Wilfred smiled. “My pleasure, Miss. I hope you solve your mystery to your satisfaction.”
“So do I,” Tonks called back.
****
Grimmauld Place was quiet when Tonks returned to headquarters. She was certain to make a reasonable amount of noise in the kitchen as she set about making a cup of tea, expecting one of the children to come running, but nobody showed. She reasoned that Sirius must be sulking upstairs somewhere, so she decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet and try to consider how best to proceed with what she’d just discovered. But, her peace and quiet lasted all of three minutes when Sirius slunk into the kitchen, looking like he’d not bathed in days and smelling of hippogriff. Her nose curled as he walked past her.
“Tonks,” he greeted. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
She grunted in reply. “I am entitled to two days off a week, Sirius,” she complained as he poured tea into her mug then took a deep slug of it. “And that was my tea.”
Sirius looked down at the mug in his hand and shrugged. “Oh, well, the bags are still good. Just be sure to conjure a bit more hot water.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but went ahead and did as he suggested. “And I apologise for the smell,” he said, throwing his feet onto the table and crossing them at the ankle. “I’ve been cleaning out Beaky. I think the smell was starting to get to Molly. She told me she’d turn me over to the Ministry herself if I didn’t do something about it today.”
Pursing her lips, Tonks ignored Sirius and sank down into the chair at the head of the long table. She took a slow sip of her tea. “Something the matter?” enquired Sirius.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh, you look absolutely peachy.”
Tonks glared at him across the table. He had a way of insinuating himself into every conversation and now that he had little to fill his days with, he had developed into something of a gossip monger. He continued, “How did your little treasure hunt go, then?”
Startled, Tonks looked up. How did he know what had gone on? The first step of the trail had been laid outside her own flat and Sirius had not even been over the door of Grimmauld Place in six months. He smirked at her expression. “It’s all right, Tonks, I know everything,” he said in a deliberately spooky voice and rolled his eyes into his head.
“Yeah, right,” she replied. “You mean, the person who sent me on this wild goose chase told you.”
Sirius grinned toothily. “Something like that, yes.”
A moment passed as Tonks considered this new information. There was really only one person Sirius confided in and that person was the same person she’d considered as her mystery man in the gallery.
Remus Lupin.
She stood up from the table and moved towards the stairs that led back up to the ground floor. “Hey!” Sirius called after her. “Tonks! I didn’t mean to upset you…”
But she ignored him. She went into the drawing room and cleared the window seat of junk so she could sit and look out across the garden. It was a dull day and there was just the hint of a shower having passed in the recent hours. The early spring bulbs were in full bloom and a crowd of starlings were plucking hopefully at the lawn, digging for worms and grubs. Tonks sighed.
Her thoughts turned to the way that Cupid had stared out of the painting, unsmiling, and how his eyes had seemed so blissful and yet so torn, as if he knew that the pleasure he was experiencing laying in the arms of his lover was utterly wrong and was certain to end any moment. She rocked gently on the windowsill.
Remus Lupin…
The thought itself was enough to make her mind start to buzz. But the question was, what did she do with the information now that she’d found it? And, if she decided to act on it, would he allow himself to follow where she led?
****
Remus Lupin did not smile. He was balanced on the palms of his hands, one placed on either side of her head, his body sloped over hers. His eyes were closed, his face turned slightly to the side, but she did not feel that he was ignorant of her presence. She could tell from the way he moved, the way he responded to every hitch in her breath, every quiet sound, that he was acutely aware that it was her with him, beneath him. He looked, she thought, in some turns of the light, both ageless and like a child.
Cupid.
Her hands skimmed across his shoulder blades and, suddenly, they were strained like wings beneath his skin. She heard his breath catch in his throat and let her fingers grip his waist, feeling the play of muscle and the soft sheen of sweat. As he moved, she felt herself beginning to move with him, following the gentle rhythm he provided, and her body began to rise up, as if lifted by an other worldly force. It felt for a moment like he had granted her wings.
Pleasure began to buzz inside her, gathering with the strength of a newborn cry. She stared up at his face and saw his eyes blink open and focus in on hers. His face was flushed and lit from within, shining. His eyes darkened with nervous love.
In that moment, he seemed peaceful, complete and filled with regret, all at the same time. “Remus, don’t…” she murmured, seeing the conflict on his face.
Don’t turn on the light, she thought. I do not want to lose this moment.
There was a pause as he took in her words, then he surged into her, hips pressing down. She arched her back and, suddenly, she was alive inside and a great fluttering filled her, taking her up and up and up. She cried out.
But, he was silent when he came, falling utterly still, as if someone had frozen him in time. The covers had fallen clear of his hips and the glow from the candle beside the bed gave his skin an ethereal quality. He sank atop her and she curled her arms around his neck. He murmured something she couldn’t quite hear and barely wanted to understand.
She stroked the damp hair back from his head as he rose up to look at her and their eyes fixed. Abruptly, she wanted to tell him that it was the trail he’d sent her on that had delivered them to this moment; that his strange choice of painting had inspired her to think of them in this way. Had he known what would happen all along? Had he taken the same interpretation from the painting as she had? It seemed perfectly likely. She remembered the surprise she’d felt when he’d returned her kiss and then the look on his face as he’d pressed himself inside her, an unsmiling mirror.
The story she’d read in the gallery flickered back into her brain: Psyche had had to fight for Cupid and show him her love despite the challenges that were thrown at her. And it was then that she realised that the look on Cupid’s face was not something to be afraid of, but something to be embraced, for Cupid had fought for Psyche in the end, and she was suddenly sure that Remus would fight for her in the same way. She knew it. She felt Remus shift above her and allowed him to roll off her, tucked herself under his arm and listened to the thumping of his mortal heart.
The End.
Author -
joely_jo
Format and Word Count - Fic, 2241 words.
Rating - R
Prompt - genre:romance
Warning - A bit of sex, though it’s nothing graphic
Summary - The path of mythology is often trod again and again.
Author’s Notes - Like Remus, I should get out more and stop reading dusty old books about mythology.
Cupid rarely smiled. She’d noticed that before, when looking at pictures of the fat, curly-haired god and she noticed it again, as she stared at the painting on the wall of the art gallery. It was slightly disconcerting, she thought, that a figure immortalised as the god of love should appear to not be enjoying himself as he lavished attention on the beautiful Psyche who lay couched at his side. Of course, she knew that Psyche could not see his face, so there was every reason for the blankness in her expression… but his? No, she couldn’t fathom that.
She’d been in the gallery for hours now, and had been standing in front of this one painting for over twenty minutes. It was not the sort of thing she normally wasted her time with, but today she was here because of a trail. A trail that had been planted by someone with a reason to bring her here, though she had no idea who the person was and, equally, no idea what the reason was. She read the card that detailed the background information on the painting once again, but came up with nothing new. All it spoke of was a brief explanation of the myth of Cupid and Psyche and some minor comments about the nature of the brush strokes used by the artist. There was no other note here, no pressed flower or book dust jacket or anything at all like the things that had led her to this place. The trail had, quite literally, run dry.
And now she found herself staring at the painting and wondering whether she was meant to do more than just admire it. She read the card again, then stepped closer to the painting and reached out her hand to touch the sharp relief of the oils. A voice stopped her: “Please don’t touch the painting,” it said, and she turned, guiltily snapping her fingers away.
A small man was standing behind her, wearing tweed trousers and a white shirt. His hair was greying and slightly longer than could be considered conservative, and he sported a carefully trimmed Van Dyck beard. Even though his words had been sharp, his face was kindly. She glanced down to his lapel and noticed a plastic badge that announced his name as Wilfred Donegal.
“I’m sorry,” she rushed to explain. “I didn’t mean… I…”
He smiled. “Not to worry,” he said and moved to stand beside her. He turned to look at the painting. “I noticed you hadn’t moved in about half an hour and I was wondering if there was something you wanted to know, something you were confused about?”
Tonks considered how to answer that. She was confused, but did she really want to reveal that this painting was the end of some bizarre, possibly romantic, treasure hunt? She scuffed her boot on the marble floor. In the end, the man provided the answer to his own question. “I think that you are confused,” he stated. “You have that look about you. Like you feel you should be getting something more from the painting than you are doing.”
Tonks huffed a breath out. “You could say that,” she observed. She backed up a few paces and regarded the painting again. “This painting is the end of a trail for me. I have an admirer, it seems.” She smiled somewhat ruefully. “Though, apparently, he’s not in the business of laying all his cards on the table. And much as I like treasure hunts, this one is really starting to get my goat.”
Wilfred Donegal chuckled. “Perhaps your admirer intends for you to learn something from this painting, or perhaps from the myth that inspired it.”
“Hm,” Tonks agreed. “I’ve read the card and I still don’t get how it could mean anything to me. I mean, Gods are highly unlikely to be hanging around the streets of London, are they?”
Wilfred shifted himself and stepped the few paces over to the card that hung on the wall beside the painting. “Well, perhaps that is too literal an interpretation. After all, art is like literature; one has to explore all the possible meanings.” He turned back to Tonks. “The myth of Cupid and Psyche speaks of Cupid’s love for a mortal woman, a mortal woman whose beauty marks her as unique amongst her kind. Cupid’s desire for Psyche results in him breaking the laws of Olympus to lie down with her, but, fearful of what would happen if she discovers what he truly is, he forbids her to light lamps. And so, Psyche lives in ignorance of the identity of her lover.”
Snorting, Tonks backed up and sank down onto the bench positioned in front of the painting. “That sounds about right. He certainly doesn’t want me to know who he is.”
“Perhaps that is the mystery within the myth,” Wilfred supposed. “Perhaps this admirer of yours does not want you to know who he is because he is afraid that his true identity would be damaging.”
Tonks paused a moment as she considered the new interpretation. Wilfred shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, there are other interpretations and there is more to the myth,” he began, but Tonks interrupted him,
“No,” she said, slowly. “I think you might be on to something there.”
“You know someone who might think his true identity would damage you?”
“I think there’s someone that fits that bill, yes…” She turned and began to walk away, pausing only to glance back to Wilfred. “Thank you, Mr… Donegal… you’ve been great.”
Wilfred smiled. “My pleasure, Miss. I hope you solve your mystery to your satisfaction.”
“So do I,” Tonks called back.
****
Grimmauld Place was quiet when Tonks returned to headquarters. She was certain to make a reasonable amount of noise in the kitchen as she set about making a cup of tea, expecting one of the children to come running, but nobody showed. She reasoned that Sirius must be sulking upstairs somewhere, so she decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet and try to consider how best to proceed with what she’d just discovered. But, her peace and quiet lasted all of three minutes when Sirius slunk into the kitchen, looking like he’d not bathed in days and smelling of hippogriff. Her nose curled as he walked past her.
“Tonks,” he greeted. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
She grunted in reply. “I am entitled to two days off a week, Sirius,” she complained as he poured tea into her mug then took a deep slug of it. “And that was my tea.”
Sirius looked down at the mug in his hand and shrugged. “Oh, well, the bags are still good. Just be sure to conjure a bit more hot water.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but went ahead and did as he suggested. “And I apologise for the smell,” he said, throwing his feet onto the table and crossing them at the ankle. “I’ve been cleaning out Beaky. I think the smell was starting to get to Molly. She told me she’d turn me over to the Ministry herself if I didn’t do something about it today.”
Pursing her lips, Tonks ignored Sirius and sank down into the chair at the head of the long table. She took a slow sip of her tea. “Something the matter?” enquired Sirius.
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh, you look absolutely peachy.”
Tonks glared at him across the table. He had a way of insinuating himself into every conversation and now that he had little to fill his days with, he had developed into something of a gossip monger. He continued, “How did your little treasure hunt go, then?”
Startled, Tonks looked up. How did he know what had gone on? The first step of the trail had been laid outside her own flat and Sirius had not even been over the door of Grimmauld Place in six months. He smirked at her expression. “It’s all right, Tonks, I know everything,” he said in a deliberately spooky voice and rolled his eyes into his head.
“Yeah, right,” she replied. “You mean, the person who sent me on this wild goose chase told you.”
Sirius grinned toothily. “Something like that, yes.”
A moment passed as Tonks considered this new information. There was really only one person Sirius confided in and that person was the same person she’d considered as her mystery man in the gallery.
Remus Lupin.
She stood up from the table and moved towards the stairs that led back up to the ground floor. “Hey!” Sirius called after her. “Tonks! I didn’t mean to upset you…”
But she ignored him. She went into the drawing room and cleared the window seat of junk so she could sit and look out across the garden. It was a dull day and there was just the hint of a shower having passed in the recent hours. The early spring bulbs were in full bloom and a crowd of starlings were plucking hopefully at the lawn, digging for worms and grubs. Tonks sighed.
Her thoughts turned to the way that Cupid had stared out of the painting, unsmiling, and how his eyes had seemed so blissful and yet so torn, as if he knew that the pleasure he was experiencing laying in the arms of his lover was utterly wrong and was certain to end any moment. She rocked gently on the windowsill.
Remus Lupin…
The thought itself was enough to make her mind start to buzz. But the question was, what did she do with the information now that she’d found it? And, if she decided to act on it, would he allow himself to follow where she led?
****
Remus Lupin did not smile. He was balanced on the palms of his hands, one placed on either side of her head, his body sloped over hers. His eyes were closed, his face turned slightly to the side, but she did not feel that he was ignorant of her presence. She could tell from the way he moved, the way he responded to every hitch in her breath, every quiet sound, that he was acutely aware that it was her with him, beneath him. He looked, she thought, in some turns of the light, both ageless and like a child.
Cupid.
Her hands skimmed across his shoulder blades and, suddenly, they were strained like wings beneath his skin. She heard his breath catch in his throat and let her fingers grip his waist, feeling the play of muscle and the soft sheen of sweat. As he moved, she felt herself beginning to move with him, following the gentle rhythm he provided, and her body began to rise up, as if lifted by an other worldly force. It felt for a moment like he had granted her wings.
Pleasure began to buzz inside her, gathering with the strength of a newborn cry. She stared up at his face and saw his eyes blink open and focus in on hers. His face was flushed and lit from within, shining. His eyes darkened with nervous love.
In that moment, he seemed peaceful, complete and filled with regret, all at the same time. “Remus, don’t…” she murmured, seeing the conflict on his face.
Don’t turn on the light, she thought. I do not want to lose this moment.
There was a pause as he took in her words, then he surged into her, hips pressing down. She arched her back and, suddenly, she was alive inside and a great fluttering filled her, taking her up and up and up. She cried out.
But, he was silent when he came, falling utterly still, as if someone had frozen him in time. The covers had fallen clear of his hips and the glow from the candle beside the bed gave his skin an ethereal quality. He sank atop her and she curled her arms around his neck. He murmured something she couldn’t quite hear and barely wanted to understand.
She stroked the damp hair back from his head as he rose up to look at her and their eyes fixed. Abruptly, she wanted to tell him that it was the trail he’d sent her on that had delivered them to this moment; that his strange choice of painting had inspired her to think of them in this way. Had he known what would happen all along? Had he taken the same interpretation from the painting as she had? It seemed perfectly likely. She remembered the surprise she’d felt when he’d returned her kiss and then the look on his face as he’d pressed himself inside her, an unsmiling mirror.
The story she’d read in the gallery flickered back into her brain: Psyche had had to fight for Cupid and show him her love despite the challenges that were thrown at her. And it was then that she realised that the look on Cupid’s face was not something to be afraid of, but something to be embraced, for Cupid had fought for Psyche in the end, and she was suddenly sure that Remus would fight for her in the same way. She knew it. She felt Remus shift above her and allowed him to roll off her, tucked herself under his arm and listened to the thumping of his mortal heart.
The End.