shift the blame; a pan-centric mythfic.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another in my series of "mythfics", to borrow the term from my darling etzyofi. In order to fully appreciate these, be sure to look at the casting picspams.)
CAST:
shift the blame, a pan-centric mythfic, pg-13
A glimpse into the mind of the Lito's resident failure/bad boy.
And let's just say the scenery isn't that pretty.
Plus: A surprise revelation.
What it boiled down to was unreliability. He was never on time, never in the right mood, never helpful, never faithful. In his eyes, the world did nothing but conspire against him. Or he was simply indulging his nature. It was never his fault. Not ever. (4,399 words)
He had an excuse.
He always did. Millions of ‘em.
Traffic. The weather. Shitty service at the restaurant. Too much booze. Not enough booze. Loud music. His phone was off. She smiled. The wine had stained his shirt. He overslept. He was his father’s son.
What it boiled down to was unreliability. He was never on time, never in the right mood, never helpful, never faithful. In his eyes, the world did nothing but conspire against him. Or he was simply indulging his nature. It was never his fault. Not ever.
And no one challenged that. Because no one cared. Why would they? Caring implied connection; and while there were invisible strings stretching between the rest of the Olympians-some crisscrossing or knotted but still very much there, tethering souls and bodies alike, some like life-lines and others tripwires-he had cut his way out of the whole fucking tangle eons ago. Because he didn’t want to care. So why should they? He preferred standing apart, anyway. It made everything simpler.
His mistake was in thinking simple meant easier, or better. Simple frequently just meant empty and basic, boring and hollow.
Simple could just mean nothing.
-----
If forced to, and by dint of much effort, he could vaguely remember once trying to play happy families. At the height of the War, only months before the Pact, there had been a small apartment. A shared bed. A foreign concept called a relationship. It had been an entertaining distraction for a while. Hedone had been a drug he was glad to be addicted to, something he never had enough of. There was no way of counting how many times they’d fucked-in the bed, on the floor, against the walls, in closets. She had been desperate; he was always hungry. Occasionally he’d remember the way she’d bite on his hand as he covered her moans, the rest of the family on the other side of the wall and still within earshot as she came with a shudder and he ended with a last wicked thrust.
It had been amazing. For a bit.
But he’d wandered, as he always did. Off for greener pastures, softer legs, brighter eyes. He wasn’t meant for commitment. With millions of women out there, how could he ever shackle himself to just one? Fidelity was for chumps and the lazy, the assholes who weren’t willing to put in any real effort where it counted. Because what did a relationship turn into but predictable repetition? How fucking boring it must be to bone the same woman forever, no matter how sweet or hot or fun she was at the beginning. He refused to be satisfied with that.
If he actually bothered to keep the numbers they gave him, his black book would be several feet thick by now.
-----
In the immediate aftermath, when everything was still smoking and the shattered debris littered the battlefield, Psyche sat down with Hedone and explained things in a tone that helped salve the wounds.
“He’s never been held responsible,” she said. “He’s never been given a job that required serious effort. His father may be a thief and liar, but he’s also the messenger-sometimes he has to speak honestly, or arrive on time. But Pan… His duties have always been revelry without sense or purpose. He’s like a child, all greedy hands and complaining mouth. He refuses to grow up. While the rest of us are trying to move on and recreate ourselves, fashion new purposes out of modern needs, Pan can only think about his physical gratification. There’s a deep well of want inside him, and no amount of sex or drugs or alcohol will satisfy it until he learns about true value. And we can’t teach him that-he’s too immature to heed reason. Maybe someday…”
Hedone heeded all of this, and agreed with her mother, and felt better that she had walked out the door without looking back. But the scars he left her would take much, much longer to heal completely.
And the infuriating thing was that he hadn’t even been aware of cutting her.
-----
He thought about leaving. On nights when the dive bars threatened to pull him completely under and he realized that he wouldn’t care all that much if they did. After all, what was keeping him there? Every time he stepped out of his apartment and ran into one of the family there would be the typical sneers and judging glances and short reprimands for his behavior, his attire, his unpredictable hours and houseguests. Everyone stumbled over themselves to tell him how useless he was, and point out all of his mistakes and transgressions. Even his father. Especially his father. And to think: once they’d been as thick as thieves. Sometimes literally.
Not even the general finery at the Lito was worth it anymore. He was sick of being knocked back with every step, with being looked at with constant contempt. Fucking double standards. Fucking hypocrites, the lot of them.
It would serve them right if the whole place fell down around their ears. On especially bad nights, when he hovered between exhaustion and a sick hangover, he dreamed about taking a sledgehammer to the support columns himself.
He’d confided all of this in one person. Because she understood. She knew what it was to live with daily disappointment and anger. She understood how important it was to be true to your own nature. Besides, she was the closest thing to a friend he had. Sure, she smacked him around from time to time, when his mouth ran or his hands strayed. But it was to be expected. And they’d been a good team before. Maybe it could work again.
She never told him much, though. Little details, just enough to run errands or put things in motion, but never enough to see the whole picture. That pissed him off, when he thought about it. It denoted a lack of trust. He knew when to keep his mouth closed. When it counted.
He had before. And no one had been any wiser.
At least, he thought so.
-----
Something was going on. He had some suspicions. He was pretty sure that Zeus had called a Council, for starters-and he hadn’t been invited. If it hadn’t been abundantly clear before just how little the family regarded him…
He’d walked into the greenhouse, a chilled bottle of champagne in one hand and a Hungarian model in the other, to find Psyche sitting on a bench with her phone to her ear. Judging by her stricken expression, she was getting some very unsettling news.
“Hey there, Psyche,” he slurred in greeting. “This here’s Irina. I think. Possibly. Never been good at Hungarian, and she can’t speak any English.”
Either she couldn’t hear him, too caught up in whatever drama was unfolding on the other line, or she was willfully ignoring him. So he lurched closer, dragging the supermodel in his wake, and tried again.
“I said-”
She stood so quickly he almost fell backwards in his haste to get out of her way. “Now is not the time, Pan,” she said sharply, shooting him a look as cutting as her voice, and hurried away. Just before she reached the door he clearly heard her say, “Come home as soon as possible. Bring Hercules and your friends. We have the room to spare.”
Ah, so it was Hedone. He idly wondered if she was growing her hair out again-he hadn’t liked it when she’d chopped it all off. It was better to have something substantial to grip and tug in the heat of the moment.
Possibly Irina said something. Judging by the lilt at the end, she’d just asked him a question. He shrugged and slapped on a sloppy, charming grin.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he said, lifting up the bottle meaningfully. “We’re still gonna have our little party.”
It wasn’t quite as fun as he’d hoped it would be, though. The girl was plenty fine, on the eyes and under his hands, and a quick roll in the ferns usually cheered him up like none other. But it took him ages to find the right rhythm, and he could tell she was getting a little put out by the wait. Even when he hit the spot and she was whimpering in the wave, bucking beneath him with mud in her auburn hair, he was too distracted to enjoy it. When he came it was like an afterthought; because the rest of his head was too busy thinking about Hedone.
She’d been like lava and honey. She’d always wanted it, so badly she’d beg for it. With her he was always in control. The horn to her cup. There had been no halfway with Hedone, no mere going through the motions. Every time had been desperate need and please! and oh yes! more!
These mortals could be fun diversions, and he always enjoyed hearing them scream his name, or cry for God-that would always be amusing, because the girls never knew the half of it. But it had never been so good since Hedone. Quantity over quality, that’s what it was.
And it sounded like she’d be back at the Lito, and soon. So what if she was bringing that idiot jock she’d picked up in California. Things like that had never stopped him before. And Hedone had never been able to get enough, not from him.
When Irina had pulled her skirt down and brushed the worst of the dirt from her back, he barely managed a goodbye smile. He simply buckled his pants and leaned back against an apple tree as she sashayed away.
…How should he welcome Hedone home?
-----
He was in the wine cellar when he heard the commotion above. The elevator running, doors opening, loud voices, the echoing footsteps of many feet against the marble hall. It took two tries, but he finally managed to lurch to his own feet-and nearly pushed over a rack as he stood, swaying. Perhaps that third bottle had been a mistake…
Dimly, though the hazy fumes, he recalled the fight with his father that had sent him down here. It had started over that little cunt Hermes had been fooling around with. And then it just devolved into a screaming match about disappointment and failure. Like he needed his father to put it into words; every look, every scowl, said it all plainly.
And whose fucking fault was that, huh? When someone turned out rotten, it was because their parents had been a fucking waste to begin with. Because they hadn’t been brought up correctly to start with. He was just a product of circumstances, right?
Hermes had actually punched him when he said that. Cold-cocked him right in the eye, with a hot anger blazing across his face that he hadn’t seen in some time. He’d actually fallen to his knees, at his father’s feet, and felt nauseous from the dizzy pain.
“Grow the fuck up, boy,” Hermes had shouted, hand flexing at his side. “It’s not charming any more. And you’re not a child. If mortals can take responsibility for their actions, you’ve got no fucking excuse. Your mistakes are yours, not mine. I’m done with humoring you. I wash my hands of your mess.”
“Typical,” Pan had managed to hiss as his father stalked away. “Leaving when the chips are down! When the fun stops! You’re no better!”
But even in his anger and frustration, he knew that wasn’t exactly true. He was the lowest and most common denominator at the Lito. On the last rung of the ladder. Everyone was better by sheer default.
So he did what he always did, which was ignore the hot thoughts swarming through his head and seek the solace and safety only drink could properly offer. He’d come to the wine cellar, face still throbbing with pain, and grabbed bottles blindly. He vaguely knew that Dionysius would have some words with him later for his excess. But when had that ever stopped him?
But now, hearing the excitement overhead, he felt it was important to go upstairs. Something he was looking forward to? Who could be visiting at this hour-oh, yes! Hedone had come home. There’d be some drama in California, and she’d come running back to her mummy and daddy. Because they cared about her and wanted to help her. How fucking marvelous of them. He stepped on an empty bottle, slid awkwardly into a half-split, and managed to catch himself on another rack before he fell flat on his ass. His hands and legs hurt now-hands sliced on the metal edges of the frame, legs sore from pulled muscles-in counterpoint to his throbbing head and swelling eye. He shook his arms irritably, heedless of the blood he splattered onto the concrete floor. The cuts would heal quickly enough.
It took several minutes for him to maneuver up the staircase. As he stumbled past the doorway to the Fates’ quarters, he heard loud rustling and the irritable clucking of old women disturbed from their sleep. That’d just be perfect-last thing he needed right now was to deal with the three blind old biddies in one of their moods. But their door didn’t open and he continued upward.
When he finally wrenched open the door and staggered into the hall it was empty. The elevator door had just dinged shut and was now beginning its slow ascent. He spat angrily and let the door swing shut loudly behind him. He stood for a long, bewildered moment, staring at the numbers above the elevator as they progressively lit up.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. Eros and Psyche’s level, of course. And then it started to descend again. Pan straightened from his slouch.
The doors slid open, and she walked out.
“You’re not Hedone,” he said, voice thick with confusion.
She gave him a surprised look, eyes hesitating over him as she took in the wrinkled clothes, black eye, bloody hands. “…No, I’m not,” she said, the highland hills rounding her words. “You okay there, mate?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You look a mess.”
“Always do. Who’re you?”
“A friend of Hedone’s,” she said, pulling back her flame-red hair. She looked tired, drawn, and very pale, but then it was late and she had no doubt been on a plane not long before. She was wearing red leggings and a loose black cotton dress. She was also stunning, with dark eyeshadow over her hazel eyes and red lipstick on her full lips. “And you are?”
“Family. Sort of.” He stepped closer, shoving his sticky-damp hands into his pockets. “But what’s your name.”
“Uh, Pandora,” she said quickly, glancing around. “Look, I just came back down for my bag. There it is.” She hurried over to the leather sofa against the wall, where a small gold purse lay. Her ballet flats made soft squeaks against the floor. “And I’m sort of exhausted with traveling, so I’m going straight back up.”
“Pandora, huh? I like it. It’s a nice name.” He stopped in front of the elevator, shoulders squared. “Staying long?”
“Not sure yet,” Pandora said, holding on tightly to her purse. “Can you move, please?”
“You’re really gorgeous. Are you a model? An actress?”
“No.”
“If you’re gonna be around for a while, we should go out. I know all the best places. Thinking about getting a group together for a night on the town tomorrow. Interested?”
“Not really. I’m not in the mood for clubbing right now.”
“Aw, that’s no good. Gonna have to do something about that…”
“Listen, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and everything,” Pandora said sharply. “But you’re also obviously pissed, and it looks like you’ve had a rough night already, so why don’t we just say goodnight like proper people? I’ll go back upstairs with my group and you can go to bed and recover, alright?”
He felt a surge of raw anger. How dare this mortal talk to him like this? So dismissive and condescending. He had a sudden urge to slap that porcelain face, leave a bright red mark in the shape of his hand on her cheek, the same color red as her hair.
“You said you’re Hedone’s friend, right?”
“Yes.”
“Might not be a smart idea.”
“Oh?” Pandora demanded, lifting a dark eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“It’s not safe, being friendly with those from the Lito. Or staying here too long. Could be some nasty business coming down the tracks. Very nasty. Wouldn’t want you caught in the blowback.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quickly, though the way her eyes flickered and the little stutter in her voice suggested that she had some idea. “And I don’t know you from Adam, so why should I listen to you?”
“Because I’m better than Adam,” he said roughly, grabbing her arm with a snake’s speed. “I’m the apple of temptation that led to his downfall, precious. I’m a god. You little bitch. Pan of the Horn and Pipe, and you’re a speck of insignificance. I should just teach you a lesson right-”
Her knee moved before he could react, slamming him right in the crux he valued the most, as crushing as a cannonball, and he released her with a high-pitched scream of pain. His bloody handprint was bright on her upper arm, framing the soon-to-bruise marks left by his fingertips, but she stood firmly on her own feet as he folded in on himself and collapsed backwards. He was so focused on the bright blossom on pain that he didn’t heed the bell as the elevator opened again.
Bellerophon stepped out, leaning heavily on his cane, and stared at the tableau before him. Pandora was gasping for breath, still frightened and shocked from the suddenness of the outbursts. And there was a strange man crumpled on the floor in the fetal position, sucking in air between keening noises of agony.
“And what’s this?” he asked in a voice deceptively calm. His hand was tightening imperceptibly over the silver handle of his cane.
“This,” Pandora spat out in disgust. “Is Pan. I should have guessed as much, after everything Hedone told me. He’s little more than a slug-he’s no god. He’s not even a man,” she added contemptuously, and couldn’t stop herself from kicking him sharply in the side. He rolled back with another gasp, tears streaming down his blotchy face. “How dare you threaten me.”
Bellerophon reached out and took her hand, squeezing it slightly. She looked at him, eyes flashing fire, and nodded slowly. She stepped away from the prostrate god and closer to her boyfriend, who had tucked his cane under one arm and was pulling a large handkerchief from a pocket.
“This is none of yours, I hope,” he said quietly as he pressed the fabric to her arm, wiping away the red smears.
“No. It’s his. He was already injured before I kneed him in the bollocks.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and let Hedone know what happened,” he continued in the same even tone. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.”
The pain was beginning to dull slightly. The worst of the fireworks had stopped exploding behind his eyelids. There was just the hot and angry throb left. His hands were aching, too, far worse than he had expected. Such simple wounds should have fused shut already-
He choked for breath as a sudden, sharp, and very precise pressure crushed his throat. His eyes flew open, bulging slightly with surprise. There was a man standing over him, a man he’d never seen before, who looked like a scarecrow in a tailored suit. The face was blurry and indistinct so far above him, but he could feel the anger blazing across it.
Pan scrabbled at the end of the cane that was pressed against his neck, bloody hands sliding against the smooth black wood.
“I’ve never been a patient, forgiving man,” Bellerophon said in a low voice like the rumbling approach of thunder. “Quick to anger, that’s me. I take things too personally. And the thing is I’m already balancing over the precipice. Unlucky for you. Because just the other day someone tried to hurt the person I love the most. Left her shaken and frightened and sick at heart. Now, I couldn’t do anything then. Not to stop it and not against the cause of it. That stuck in my heart like a knife, like a stiletto knife, and it’s been digging at me ever since.”
He leaned more of his weight against the cane. Pan’s face started to turn purple.
“So we come here because it seems like the safest place, and I’m willing to do just about anything to make Pandora feel safer. And here you are, with your charming manners, and now I’ve had to see fear and nausea in my lover’s face again. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel, you fucking pig?”
“You can stop now, Bello.”
The pressure vanished and Pan coughed frantically for air. Bellerophon straightened and stepped back, face blank and expressionless. “If you say so, Hedone.”
“This is something the family will handle. Something we should have handled a while ago.”
Pan rolled over and struggled up onto his knees. He was crying, wheezing, bleeding-and they were just staring at him. Watching him suffer, and probably enjoying the spectacle, because he was always the one who was kicked around. Always. As the blurry haze dissipated, he grasped the full extent of the crowd. Not just Hedone and her little group; Persephone and Hestia had just stepped into the hall from the greenhouse, and Galatea, Apollo, and Aphrodite had just walked in from the garage. And there was Hera, framed in the golden light of the opened elevator, and standing beside her with a terrible thunderstorm spreading across his face was Zeus.
“Damn you all to Tartarus, the lot of you,” Pan managed to curse, voice harsh and unsteady. “I barely touched the bitch.”
It happened so quickly the others actually jumped back in startled fear. One moment, Zeus was standing with crossed arms glaring down at his most wayward nephew. And in the next, he had bodily lifted him from the floor and slammed him against the wall, powerful hand at his throat and lightning in his eyes. The force of the impact was so great, the wall actually cracked in an immense spider web pattern and bowed inwards.
“You never should have touched her at all,” Zeus shouted, and the furious echo left ears almost deafened. “A friend and ward of this family. You forget your place; you forget the Pact.”
“I-”
“SILENCE.”
Pandora’s hands were around Bellerophon’s arm, and he could feel her shiver. Seeing the King of the Gods so enraged was thrilling-he was a snarling alpha wolf, seconds away from ripping out the wayward omega’s throat, and the whimper that escaped Pan only enforced the image. But it was also terrible. If this was Zeus at only a fraction of his power, how terrifying must he have been back on Olympus?
“These mortals are worthier than you,” Zeus said, biting at the words. “More noble, more honorable. You are a disgrace to this family. I should cast you out. Strip you of the last of your power. Make you a wanderer without a home.”
“Do it, then,” Pan managed to say in a strangled whisper, eyes rolling up to the bloodshot whites.
“My Lord. Hold.”
Everyone turned in shock, even Zeus, to stare at the one voice of dissent.
“He is still my flesh and blood, wasted as it may be,” Hermes said slowly, edging closer with hat in hand and head bowed in submissive respect. The usual mischievous light in his eyes had been banked down. It was hard to believe that Hermes would speak on behalf of his son; what made it surreal was his seeming sincerity. “There may yet be some purpose left in him.”
“But for good or for ill?” Hedone said in a clarion voice. “Pandora told me of his threats. He suggested a catastrophe was about to fall upon us. How would he know, unless he was directly involved? A conspirator?”
“Even more of a reason to keep him close then?” said Hermes. “My Lord, I do not deny that he is in need of punishment. Severe punishment. But perhaps it would be best to keep him close at hand and under our eyes until everything is clear?”
Zeus turned back to the silent, gaping Pan, still dangling several feet above the ground, his only support the king’s firm hand.
“Hermes and Hedone both have solid perspectives,” Hera said quietly, stepping forward to lay a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “Bind him for now, King, and hold on final judgment until after further thought.”
He released him, stepping back as the battered Pan slid to the floor in a jumble of limbs. “As you wish. Hestia, fetch Hephaestus. We are in need of manacles.”
“Zeus,” Psyche said quietly. “There is something I wish to bring to your attention.”
“Yes?”
“The blood.”
Zeus stared at her for a heartbeat, then looked down at the crumpled figure at his feet. “Pan, what happened to your hands?”
“Cut them,” he said dully, glassy-eyed. “In the cellar. On the wine racks.”
“On simple metal?”
“Yeah. Hurt an awful lot. Been bleedin’ for ages now.”
Zeus brow furrowed. “Someone bring Morpheus to me. Immediately.”
“How is that possible?” Hera whispered. “Nothing mortal can truly harm us.”
Psyche knelt and reached out to lift Pan’s chin. He looked blearily at her, unable to focus, the last of his adrenaline giving out as the assorted pains took hold again.
“…There is something very wrong,” Psyche said in an undertone, for the ears of the King and Queen only. “Looking into Pan’s eyes, I see a man looking back at me. Not a god. Something or someone has changed him. Stolen his power.”
Somehow through the haze, Pan heard Psyche’s words. For a brief instant his eyes flashed with anger and fear. “That fucking bitch!”
Then he collapsed completely, slumping onto his side.
CAST:
shift the blame, a pan-centric mythfic, pg-13
A glimpse into the mind of the Lito's resident failure/bad boy.
And let's just say the scenery isn't that pretty.
Plus: A surprise revelation.
What it boiled down to was unreliability. He was never on time, never in the right mood, never helpful, never faithful. In his eyes, the world did nothing but conspire against him. Or he was simply indulging his nature. It was never his fault. Not ever. (4,399 words)
He had an excuse.
He always did. Millions of ‘em.
Traffic. The weather. Shitty service at the restaurant. Too much booze. Not enough booze. Loud music. His phone was off. She smiled. The wine had stained his shirt. He overslept. He was his father’s son.
What it boiled down to was unreliability. He was never on time, never in the right mood, never helpful, never faithful. In his eyes, the world did nothing but conspire against him. Or he was simply indulging his nature. It was never his fault. Not ever.
And no one challenged that. Because no one cared. Why would they? Caring implied connection; and while there were invisible strings stretching between the rest of the Olympians-some crisscrossing or knotted but still very much there, tethering souls and bodies alike, some like life-lines and others tripwires-he had cut his way out of the whole fucking tangle eons ago. Because he didn’t want to care. So why should they? He preferred standing apart, anyway. It made everything simpler.
His mistake was in thinking simple meant easier, or better. Simple frequently just meant empty and basic, boring and hollow.
Simple could just mean nothing.
-----
If forced to, and by dint of much effort, he could vaguely remember once trying to play happy families. At the height of the War, only months before the Pact, there had been a small apartment. A shared bed. A foreign concept called a relationship. It had been an entertaining distraction for a while. Hedone had been a drug he was glad to be addicted to, something he never had enough of. There was no way of counting how many times they’d fucked-in the bed, on the floor, against the walls, in closets. She had been desperate; he was always hungry. Occasionally he’d remember the way she’d bite on his hand as he covered her moans, the rest of the family on the other side of the wall and still within earshot as she came with a shudder and he ended with a last wicked thrust.
It had been amazing. For a bit.
But he’d wandered, as he always did. Off for greener pastures, softer legs, brighter eyes. He wasn’t meant for commitment. With millions of women out there, how could he ever shackle himself to just one? Fidelity was for chumps and the lazy, the assholes who weren’t willing to put in any real effort where it counted. Because what did a relationship turn into but predictable repetition? How fucking boring it must be to bone the same woman forever, no matter how sweet or hot or fun she was at the beginning. He refused to be satisfied with that.
If he actually bothered to keep the numbers they gave him, his black book would be several feet thick by now.
-----
In the immediate aftermath, when everything was still smoking and the shattered debris littered the battlefield, Psyche sat down with Hedone and explained things in a tone that helped salve the wounds.
“He’s never been held responsible,” she said. “He’s never been given a job that required serious effort. His father may be a thief and liar, but he’s also the messenger-sometimes he has to speak honestly, or arrive on time. But Pan… His duties have always been revelry without sense or purpose. He’s like a child, all greedy hands and complaining mouth. He refuses to grow up. While the rest of us are trying to move on and recreate ourselves, fashion new purposes out of modern needs, Pan can only think about his physical gratification. There’s a deep well of want inside him, and no amount of sex or drugs or alcohol will satisfy it until he learns about true value. And we can’t teach him that-he’s too immature to heed reason. Maybe someday…”
Hedone heeded all of this, and agreed with her mother, and felt better that she had walked out the door without looking back. But the scars he left her would take much, much longer to heal completely.
And the infuriating thing was that he hadn’t even been aware of cutting her.
-----
He thought about leaving. On nights when the dive bars threatened to pull him completely under and he realized that he wouldn’t care all that much if they did. After all, what was keeping him there? Every time he stepped out of his apartment and ran into one of the family there would be the typical sneers and judging glances and short reprimands for his behavior, his attire, his unpredictable hours and houseguests. Everyone stumbled over themselves to tell him how useless he was, and point out all of his mistakes and transgressions. Even his father. Especially his father. And to think: once they’d been as thick as thieves. Sometimes literally.
Not even the general finery at the Lito was worth it anymore. He was sick of being knocked back with every step, with being looked at with constant contempt. Fucking double standards. Fucking hypocrites, the lot of them.
It would serve them right if the whole place fell down around their ears. On especially bad nights, when he hovered between exhaustion and a sick hangover, he dreamed about taking a sledgehammer to the support columns himself.
He’d confided all of this in one person. Because she understood. She knew what it was to live with daily disappointment and anger. She understood how important it was to be true to your own nature. Besides, she was the closest thing to a friend he had. Sure, she smacked him around from time to time, when his mouth ran or his hands strayed. But it was to be expected. And they’d been a good team before. Maybe it could work again.
She never told him much, though. Little details, just enough to run errands or put things in motion, but never enough to see the whole picture. That pissed him off, when he thought about it. It denoted a lack of trust. He knew when to keep his mouth closed. When it counted.
He had before. And no one had been any wiser.
At least, he thought so.
-----
Something was going on. He had some suspicions. He was pretty sure that Zeus had called a Council, for starters-and he hadn’t been invited. If it hadn’t been abundantly clear before just how little the family regarded him…
He’d walked into the greenhouse, a chilled bottle of champagne in one hand and a Hungarian model in the other, to find Psyche sitting on a bench with her phone to her ear. Judging by her stricken expression, she was getting some very unsettling news.
“Hey there, Psyche,” he slurred in greeting. “This here’s Irina. I think. Possibly. Never been good at Hungarian, and she can’t speak any English.”
Either she couldn’t hear him, too caught up in whatever drama was unfolding on the other line, or she was willfully ignoring him. So he lurched closer, dragging the supermodel in his wake, and tried again.
“I said-”
She stood so quickly he almost fell backwards in his haste to get out of her way. “Now is not the time, Pan,” she said sharply, shooting him a look as cutting as her voice, and hurried away. Just before she reached the door he clearly heard her say, “Come home as soon as possible. Bring Hercules and your friends. We have the room to spare.”
Ah, so it was Hedone. He idly wondered if she was growing her hair out again-he hadn’t liked it when she’d chopped it all off. It was better to have something substantial to grip and tug in the heat of the moment.
Possibly Irina said something. Judging by the lilt at the end, she’d just asked him a question. He shrugged and slapped on a sloppy, charming grin.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he said, lifting up the bottle meaningfully. “We’re still gonna have our little party.”
It wasn’t quite as fun as he’d hoped it would be, though. The girl was plenty fine, on the eyes and under his hands, and a quick roll in the ferns usually cheered him up like none other. But it took him ages to find the right rhythm, and he could tell she was getting a little put out by the wait. Even when he hit the spot and she was whimpering in the wave, bucking beneath him with mud in her auburn hair, he was too distracted to enjoy it. When he came it was like an afterthought; because the rest of his head was too busy thinking about Hedone.
She’d been like lava and honey. She’d always wanted it, so badly she’d beg for it. With her he was always in control. The horn to her cup. There had been no halfway with Hedone, no mere going through the motions. Every time had been desperate need and please! and oh yes! more!
These mortals could be fun diversions, and he always enjoyed hearing them scream his name, or cry for God-that would always be amusing, because the girls never knew the half of it. But it had never been so good since Hedone. Quantity over quality, that’s what it was.
And it sounded like she’d be back at the Lito, and soon. So what if she was bringing that idiot jock she’d picked up in California. Things like that had never stopped him before. And Hedone had never been able to get enough, not from him.
When Irina had pulled her skirt down and brushed the worst of the dirt from her back, he barely managed a goodbye smile. He simply buckled his pants and leaned back against an apple tree as she sashayed away.
…How should he welcome Hedone home?
-----
He was in the wine cellar when he heard the commotion above. The elevator running, doors opening, loud voices, the echoing footsteps of many feet against the marble hall. It took two tries, but he finally managed to lurch to his own feet-and nearly pushed over a rack as he stood, swaying. Perhaps that third bottle had been a mistake…
Dimly, though the hazy fumes, he recalled the fight with his father that had sent him down here. It had started over that little cunt Hermes had been fooling around with. And then it just devolved into a screaming match about disappointment and failure. Like he needed his father to put it into words; every look, every scowl, said it all plainly.
And whose fucking fault was that, huh? When someone turned out rotten, it was because their parents had been a fucking waste to begin with. Because they hadn’t been brought up correctly to start with. He was just a product of circumstances, right?
Hermes had actually punched him when he said that. Cold-cocked him right in the eye, with a hot anger blazing across his face that he hadn’t seen in some time. He’d actually fallen to his knees, at his father’s feet, and felt nauseous from the dizzy pain.
“Grow the fuck up, boy,” Hermes had shouted, hand flexing at his side. “It’s not charming any more. And you’re not a child. If mortals can take responsibility for their actions, you’ve got no fucking excuse. Your mistakes are yours, not mine. I’m done with humoring you. I wash my hands of your mess.”
“Typical,” Pan had managed to hiss as his father stalked away. “Leaving when the chips are down! When the fun stops! You’re no better!”
But even in his anger and frustration, he knew that wasn’t exactly true. He was the lowest and most common denominator at the Lito. On the last rung of the ladder. Everyone was better by sheer default.
So he did what he always did, which was ignore the hot thoughts swarming through his head and seek the solace and safety only drink could properly offer. He’d come to the wine cellar, face still throbbing with pain, and grabbed bottles blindly. He vaguely knew that Dionysius would have some words with him later for his excess. But when had that ever stopped him?
But now, hearing the excitement overhead, he felt it was important to go upstairs. Something he was looking forward to? Who could be visiting at this hour-oh, yes! Hedone had come home. There’d be some drama in California, and she’d come running back to her mummy and daddy. Because they cared about her and wanted to help her. How fucking marvelous of them. He stepped on an empty bottle, slid awkwardly into a half-split, and managed to catch himself on another rack before he fell flat on his ass. His hands and legs hurt now-hands sliced on the metal edges of the frame, legs sore from pulled muscles-in counterpoint to his throbbing head and swelling eye. He shook his arms irritably, heedless of the blood he splattered onto the concrete floor. The cuts would heal quickly enough.
It took several minutes for him to maneuver up the staircase. As he stumbled past the doorway to the Fates’ quarters, he heard loud rustling and the irritable clucking of old women disturbed from their sleep. That’d just be perfect-last thing he needed right now was to deal with the three blind old biddies in one of their moods. But their door didn’t open and he continued upward.
When he finally wrenched open the door and staggered into the hall it was empty. The elevator door had just dinged shut and was now beginning its slow ascent. He spat angrily and let the door swing shut loudly behind him. He stood for a long, bewildered moment, staring at the numbers above the elevator as they progressively lit up.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. Eros and Psyche’s level, of course. And then it started to descend again. Pan straightened from his slouch.
The doors slid open, and she walked out.
“You’re not Hedone,” he said, voice thick with confusion.
She gave him a surprised look, eyes hesitating over him as she took in the wrinkled clothes, black eye, bloody hands. “…No, I’m not,” she said, the highland hills rounding her words. “You okay there, mate?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You look a mess.”
“Always do. Who’re you?”
“A friend of Hedone’s,” she said, pulling back her flame-red hair. She looked tired, drawn, and very pale, but then it was late and she had no doubt been on a plane not long before. She was wearing red leggings and a loose black cotton dress. She was also stunning, with dark eyeshadow over her hazel eyes and red lipstick on her full lips. “And you are?”
“Family. Sort of.” He stepped closer, shoving his sticky-damp hands into his pockets. “But what’s your name.”
“Uh, Pandora,” she said quickly, glancing around. “Look, I just came back down for my bag. There it is.” She hurried over to the leather sofa against the wall, where a small gold purse lay. Her ballet flats made soft squeaks against the floor. “And I’m sort of exhausted with traveling, so I’m going straight back up.”
“Pandora, huh? I like it. It’s a nice name.” He stopped in front of the elevator, shoulders squared. “Staying long?”
“Not sure yet,” Pandora said, holding on tightly to her purse. “Can you move, please?”
“You’re really gorgeous. Are you a model? An actress?”
“No.”
“If you’re gonna be around for a while, we should go out. I know all the best places. Thinking about getting a group together for a night on the town tomorrow. Interested?”
“Not really. I’m not in the mood for clubbing right now.”
“Aw, that’s no good. Gonna have to do something about that…”
“Listen, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and everything,” Pandora said sharply. “But you’re also obviously pissed, and it looks like you’ve had a rough night already, so why don’t we just say goodnight like proper people? I’ll go back upstairs with my group and you can go to bed and recover, alright?”
He felt a surge of raw anger. How dare this mortal talk to him like this? So dismissive and condescending. He had a sudden urge to slap that porcelain face, leave a bright red mark in the shape of his hand on her cheek, the same color red as her hair.
“You said you’re Hedone’s friend, right?”
“Yes.”
“Might not be a smart idea.”
“Oh?” Pandora demanded, lifting a dark eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“It’s not safe, being friendly with those from the Lito. Or staying here too long. Could be some nasty business coming down the tracks. Very nasty. Wouldn’t want you caught in the blowback.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said quickly, though the way her eyes flickered and the little stutter in her voice suggested that she had some idea. “And I don’t know you from Adam, so why should I listen to you?”
“Because I’m better than Adam,” he said roughly, grabbing her arm with a snake’s speed. “I’m the apple of temptation that led to his downfall, precious. I’m a god. You little bitch. Pan of the Horn and Pipe, and you’re a speck of insignificance. I should just teach you a lesson right-”
Her knee moved before he could react, slamming him right in the crux he valued the most, as crushing as a cannonball, and he released her with a high-pitched scream of pain. His bloody handprint was bright on her upper arm, framing the soon-to-bruise marks left by his fingertips, but she stood firmly on her own feet as he folded in on himself and collapsed backwards. He was so focused on the bright blossom on pain that he didn’t heed the bell as the elevator opened again.
Bellerophon stepped out, leaning heavily on his cane, and stared at the tableau before him. Pandora was gasping for breath, still frightened and shocked from the suddenness of the outbursts. And there was a strange man crumpled on the floor in the fetal position, sucking in air between keening noises of agony.
“And what’s this?” he asked in a voice deceptively calm. His hand was tightening imperceptibly over the silver handle of his cane.
“This,” Pandora spat out in disgust. “Is Pan. I should have guessed as much, after everything Hedone told me. He’s little more than a slug-he’s no god. He’s not even a man,” she added contemptuously, and couldn’t stop herself from kicking him sharply in the side. He rolled back with another gasp, tears streaming down his blotchy face. “How dare you threaten me.”
Bellerophon reached out and took her hand, squeezing it slightly. She looked at him, eyes flashing fire, and nodded slowly. She stepped away from the prostrate god and closer to her boyfriend, who had tucked his cane under one arm and was pulling a large handkerchief from a pocket.
“This is none of yours, I hope,” he said quietly as he pressed the fabric to her arm, wiping away the red smears.
“No. It’s his. He was already injured before I kneed him in the bollocks.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and let Hedone know what happened,” he continued in the same even tone. “I’ll keep an eye on this one.”
The pain was beginning to dull slightly. The worst of the fireworks had stopped exploding behind his eyelids. There was just the hot and angry throb left. His hands were aching, too, far worse than he had expected. Such simple wounds should have fused shut already-
He choked for breath as a sudden, sharp, and very precise pressure crushed his throat. His eyes flew open, bulging slightly with surprise. There was a man standing over him, a man he’d never seen before, who looked like a scarecrow in a tailored suit. The face was blurry and indistinct so far above him, but he could feel the anger blazing across it.
Pan scrabbled at the end of the cane that was pressed against his neck, bloody hands sliding against the smooth black wood.
“I’ve never been a patient, forgiving man,” Bellerophon said in a low voice like the rumbling approach of thunder. “Quick to anger, that’s me. I take things too personally. And the thing is I’m already balancing over the precipice. Unlucky for you. Because just the other day someone tried to hurt the person I love the most. Left her shaken and frightened and sick at heart. Now, I couldn’t do anything then. Not to stop it and not against the cause of it. That stuck in my heart like a knife, like a stiletto knife, and it’s been digging at me ever since.”
He leaned more of his weight against the cane. Pan’s face started to turn purple.
“So we come here because it seems like the safest place, and I’m willing to do just about anything to make Pandora feel safer. And here you are, with your charming manners, and now I’ve had to see fear and nausea in my lover’s face again. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel, you fucking pig?”
“You can stop now, Bello.”
The pressure vanished and Pan coughed frantically for air. Bellerophon straightened and stepped back, face blank and expressionless. “If you say so, Hedone.”
“This is something the family will handle. Something we should have handled a while ago.”
Pan rolled over and struggled up onto his knees. He was crying, wheezing, bleeding-and they were just staring at him. Watching him suffer, and probably enjoying the spectacle, because he was always the one who was kicked around. Always. As the blurry haze dissipated, he grasped the full extent of the crowd. Not just Hedone and her little group; Persephone and Hestia had just stepped into the hall from the greenhouse, and Galatea, Apollo, and Aphrodite had just walked in from the garage. And there was Hera, framed in the golden light of the opened elevator, and standing beside her with a terrible thunderstorm spreading across his face was Zeus.
“Damn you all to Tartarus, the lot of you,” Pan managed to curse, voice harsh and unsteady. “I barely touched the bitch.”
It happened so quickly the others actually jumped back in startled fear. One moment, Zeus was standing with crossed arms glaring down at his most wayward nephew. And in the next, he had bodily lifted him from the floor and slammed him against the wall, powerful hand at his throat and lightning in his eyes. The force of the impact was so great, the wall actually cracked in an immense spider web pattern and bowed inwards.
“You never should have touched her at all,” Zeus shouted, and the furious echo left ears almost deafened. “A friend and ward of this family. You forget your place; you forget the Pact.”
“I-”
“SILENCE.”
Pandora’s hands were around Bellerophon’s arm, and he could feel her shiver. Seeing the King of the Gods so enraged was thrilling-he was a snarling alpha wolf, seconds away from ripping out the wayward omega’s throat, and the whimper that escaped Pan only enforced the image. But it was also terrible. If this was Zeus at only a fraction of his power, how terrifying must he have been back on Olympus?
“These mortals are worthier than you,” Zeus said, biting at the words. “More noble, more honorable. You are a disgrace to this family. I should cast you out. Strip you of the last of your power. Make you a wanderer without a home.”
“Do it, then,” Pan managed to say in a strangled whisper, eyes rolling up to the bloodshot whites.
“My Lord. Hold.”
Everyone turned in shock, even Zeus, to stare at the one voice of dissent.
“He is still my flesh and blood, wasted as it may be,” Hermes said slowly, edging closer with hat in hand and head bowed in submissive respect. The usual mischievous light in his eyes had been banked down. It was hard to believe that Hermes would speak on behalf of his son; what made it surreal was his seeming sincerity. “There may yet be some purpose left in him.”
“But for good or for ill?” Hedone said in a clarion voice. “Pandora told me of his threats. He suggested a catastrophe was about to fall upon us. How would he know, unless he was directly involved? A conspirator?”
“Even more of a reason to keep him close then?” said Hermes. “My Lord, I do not deny that he is in need of punishment. Severe punishment. But perhaps it would be best to keep him close at hand and under our eyes until everything is clear?”
Zeus turned back to the silent, gaping Pan, still dangling several feet above the ground, his only support the king’s firm hand.
“Hermes and Hedone both have solid perspectives,” Hera said quietly, stepping forward to lay a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “Bind him for now, King, and hold on final judgment until after further thought.”
He released him, stepping back as the battered Pan slid to the floor in a jumble of limbs. “As you wish. Hestia, fetch Hephaestus. We are in need of manacles.”
“Zeus,” Psyche said quietly. “There is something I wish to bring to your attention.”
“Yes?”
“The blood.”
Zeus stared at her for a heartbeat, then looked down at the crumpled figure at his feet. “Pan, what happened to your hands?”
“Cut them,” he said dully, glassy-eyed. “In the cellar. On the wine racks.”
“On simple metal?”
“Yeah. Hurt an awful lot. Been bleedin’ for ages now.”
Zeus brow furrowed. “Someone bring Morpheus to me. Immediately.”
“How is that possible?” Hera whispered. “Nothing mortal can truly harm us.”
Psyche knelt and reached out to lift Pan’s chin. He looked blearily at her, unable to focus, the last of his adrenaline giving out as the assorted pains took hold again.
“…There is something very wrong,” Psyche said in an undertone, for the ears of the King and Queen only. “Looking into Pan’s eyes, I see a man looking back at me. Not a god. Something or someone has changed him. Stolen his power.”
Somehow through the haze, Pan heard Psyche’s words. For a brief instant his eyes flashed with anger and fear. “That fucking bitch!”
Then he collapsed completely, slumping onto his side.