FIC: Sensibility
Title: Sensibility
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Characters: Hera
Notes: So, Hera's pretty much the wicked witch/step-mother of the Greek pantheon. Which makes her a challenge to RP because how do you make a character that everyone hates dimensional? This fic is the result of me thinking through Hera's psychology and finding motivations and reasoning behind her actions that are understandable and human. I think a lot of her character is due to her being created by a culture that has massive values dissonance with our own, and that's touched on a little. Ultimately it's a result of women being completely powerless in Greek society. Look, I could wax academic about this for pages, so I'll just stop now. Enjoy.
Thanks to madri and greenconverses for beta'ing.
If you can think me capable of ever feeling - surely you may suppose that I have suffered now. - Elinor Dashwood
She had never intended to become so cold.
It had built up slowly over the centuries, consciously at first, so people would leave her alone when she needed space. But as time wore on, it seeped into her personality; more and more it became her mode of existing.
She noticed it when her sister's attitude towards her altered. Hestia, instead of being motherly and affectionate, became distant and unsure. It was plain she wanted to help, it was written all over her face; but she hesitated, unsure if the terse "Fine" was an annoyed reply or a call for help.
Her relationship with Demeter, on the other hand, had been dashed like a child's skull on concrete. They had argued viciously, ignoring Hestia's timid pleas for reconciliation, and she had never seen fit to retract her sentiments when she called her sister a whore. She alone took bitter enjoyment from Persephone's kidnapping, and afterwards Demeter's annual emaciation.
The rupture between herself and Demeter had been over the affair, of course. It was hard enough to deal with her husband's constant adultery - hence her emotional withdrawal from the world - without him deciding to impregnate her sister. At times she felt as though he had slept with every female on Olympus, barring Hestia and his... daughters.
And she could do nothing. She was subordinate to him in every way. He was her brother, her husband, her king. Acting in defiance of his orders would be dangerous; acting directly against him would be suicidal. She would be disgraced, her reputation shattered. And a reputation was all a woman had. It was her most precious possession. So rather than confront him, challenge him decisively, she stripped the reputations of his whores and clung to him tighter.
It started well enough. She would curse them, annoy them, disgrace them. But soon enough, the tide gathered against her. In their minds, she became a jealous, bitter shrew, harming the innocent victims of her husband's sexual advances rather than doing everyone a favour and stringing him up by his testicles for his exploits. The criticism was overwhelming; she withdrew inside herself. She hid behind a hard, thick skin; she became what they told her she was.
But it was not who she was. Not really. She could still feel, and she did so: as wholly and as passionately as she ever did. Some nights she would cry long into her pillow, her frustration, anger, and helplessness consuming every positive notion. Other nights he was there, and they made love, and it was like they were young again, in the first flush of love. Their physical relationship consumed her as completely as her anger: it was passionate and raw and loving all at once. And when he collapsed on top of her, spent, and whispered "I love you" into her ear over and over and over she believed him.
She hated that he had affairs. But slowly it began to dawn on her. He rarely slept with women - or men, for that matter - more than once. Once he had slept with them, that was it: the game was won, he had conquered that territory. He got bored and moved on. They didn't mean anything to him, they were just check marks by his name on some imaginary score card. When she made this realisation it was only a short journey to the next one: he still slept with her. Yes, they were married. But the marriage had been consummated long, long ago. She had borne several children by him. The game was won, and long over. There was no need for him to keep making love to her. Yet rather than climb into bed and turn his back to her, he held her, touched her, made love to her. In fact, no matter how long it had been, no matter how many others he had slept with, their sex was always amazing. It made her feel so much all at once, and afterwards, when they lay naked in one another's arms, whispering lazily, their room became the entire world. Nothing else had ever existed or would ever exist that was worth contemplating in those intimate moments.
The revelation that he loved her as completely as she loved him was calming. Suddenly, her heart was a still, clear pool instead of a churning ocean. It became her anchor. People still scoffed at her, derided her, called her blind, foolish, wicked. She still punished them - after all, it did well to remind them of their place in the world - but the slanders no longer held. She still got angry, but it was no longer the all-consuming anger that overwhelmed her from the inside. She knew to the core of her being that he cared about her, that he needed her, that he loved her as intensely and as wholly as she loved him. That was all she needed.
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Characters: Hera
Notes: So, Hera's pretty much the wicked witch/step-mother of the Greek pantheon. Which makes her a challenge to RP because how do you make a character that everyone hates dimensional? This fic is the result of me thinking through Hera's psychology and finding motivations and reasoning behind her actions that are understandable and human. I think a lot of her character is due to her being created by a culture that has massive values dissonance with our own, and that's touched on a little. Ultimately it's a result of women being completely powerless in Greek society. Look, I could wax academic about this for pages, so I'll just stop now. Enjoy.
Thanks to madri and greenconverses for beta'ing.
If you can think me capable of ever feeling - surely you may suppose that I have suffered now. - Elinor Dashwood
She had never intended to become so cold.
It had built up slowly over the centuries, consciously at first, so people would leave her alone when she needed space. But as time wore on, it seeped into her personality; more and more it became her mode of existing.
She noticed it when her sister's attitude towards her altered. Hestia, instead of being motherly and affectionate, became distant and unsure. It was plain she wanted to help, it was written all over her face; but she hesitated, unsure if the terse "Fine" was an annoyed reply or a call for help.
Her relationship with Demeter, on the other hand, had been dashed like a child's skull on concrete. They had argued viciously, ignoring Hestia's timid pleas for reconciliation, and she had never seen fit to retract her sentiments when she called her sister a whore. She alone took bitter enjoyment from Persephone's kidnapping, and afterwards Demeter's annual emaciation.
The rupture between herself and Demeter had been over the affair, of course. It was hard enough to deal with her husband's constant adultery - hence her emotional withdrawal from the world - without him deciding to impregnate her sister. At times she felt as though he had slept with every female on Olympus, barring Hestia and his... daughters.
And she could do nothing. She was subordinate to him in every way. He was her brother, her husband, her king. Acting in defiance of his orders would be dangerous; acting directly against him would be suicidal. She would be disgraced, her reputation shattered. And a reputation was all a woman had. It was her most precious possession. So rather than confront him, challenge him decisively, she stripped the reputations of his whores and clung to him tighter.
It started well enough. She would curse them, annoy them, disgrace them. But soon enough, the tide gathered against her. In their minds, she became a jealous, bitter shrew, harming the innocent victims of her husband's sexual advances rather than doing everyone a favour and stringing him up by his testicles for his exploits. The criticism was overwhelming; she withdrew inside herself. She hid behind a hard, thick skin; she became what they told her she was.
But it was not who she was. Not really. She could still feel, and she did so: as wholly and as passionately as she ever did. Some nights she would cry long into her pillow, her frustration, anger, and helplessness consuming every positive notion. Other nights he was there, and they made love, and it was like they were young again, in the first flush of love. Their physical relationship consumed her as completely as her anger: it was passionate and raw and loving all at once. And when he collapsed on top of her, spent, and whispered "I love you" into her ear over and over and over she believed him.
She hated that he had affairs. But slowly it began to dawn on her. He rarely slept with women - or men, for that matter - more than once. Once he had slept with them, that was it: the game was won, he had conquered that territory. He got bored and moved on. They didn't mean anything to him, they were just check marks by his name on some imaginary score card. When she made this realisation it was only a short journey to the next one: he still slept with her. Yes, they were married. But the marriage had been consummated long, long ago. She had borne several children by him. The game was won, and long over. There was no need for him to keep making love to her. Yet rather than climb into bed and turn his back to her, he held her, touched her, made love to her. In fact, no matter how long it had been, no matter how many others he had slept with, their sex was always amazing. It made her feel so much all at once, and afterwards, when they lay naked in one another's arms, whispering lazily, their room became the entire world. Nothing else had ever existed or would ever exist that was worth contemplating in those intimate moments.
The revelation that he loved her as completely as she loved him was calming. Suddenly, her heart was a still, clear pool instead of a churning ocean. It became her anchor. People still scoffed at her, derided her, called her blind, foolish, wicked. She still punished them - after all, it did well to remind them of their place in the world - but the slanders no longer held. She still got angry, but it was no longer the all-consuming anger that overwhelmed her from the inside. She knew to the core of her being that he cared about her, that he needed her, that he loved her as intensely and as wholly as she loved him. That was all she needed.