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The Princess of the Underworld would be lying if she said the verdant scenery of Erebus, the endless wave of wretches, this cycle wasn't starting to stale. Though with each run she's developed a quickness incomparable to her first attempt. Fleet as foot, she sees it in the way she's quicker to dodge the onslaught of slashes by the Root-Stalker, by Headmistress Hecate's magicks even when she feels her back hit the bark of the tree, every wave of her staff, every stab, thrust. Death to Chronos, death to Chronos.
A promise, a prayer often repeated. But could she really do it?
Her life's purpose. She was the embodiment of her Headmistress' faith. So why did she feel the tendrils of doubt begin to creep up on her yet again?
The Stalker raises its arm, though this time-unlike the five other times, the arm crashes right against her, sending her footing in disarray. Her ears are ringing now. There's an unbearable weight on her chest, a sharp pain that threatens to knock her completely off-kilter, the weight of the Headmistress' expectations of her, Nemesis' scrutiny, the ticking Time that races against the lives of her father, mother, brother.
She couldn't breathe.
She was supposed to be stronger than this. She was stronger than this.
Her resolve comes a moment too late when she completely misses the arm that emerges, brings her arm up to block the impact to no avail. There she hears the start of a bell toll. Now death defiant, the pin sat above her breast goes alight. Of course, the gift from Lord Moros. The artifact grants her a second chance at life, though not for a price.
Ten. She hears Doom begin his count, then makes a swift dash to her right.
Nine. With a wave of her staff, the princess channels Hestia's fiery blessing, continuous blasts trailing straight through the Stalker, scorching its husk.
Eight. She makes quick work of the smaller wretches that dare make its way to her.
Seven. She could not falter, not as the only form of hope for her family.
Six. A string in the Three Fates' tapestry, was she their only possibility?
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Visibly confused by her choice to disengage momentarily, Melinoë emerges from the shadows to deal the final blow. The Stalker dissipates the same time the count stops. The princess breathes a sigh of relief.
Should she find him there back home, she'd have to thank Lord Moros again.
Return to shadow, now.
Dora isn't there to greet her this time, but the Princess feels her steps quicken when she notices a familiar figure stationed by the List. There is a group of shades visibly shaken by his presence, but are quick to disperse once she nears. Moros turns, a brush of a smile the same time he dips his head in greeting upon seeing her, "Princess."
"Hail, Lord Moros." she returns his smile.
The long-haired man was considerably taller than the Princess, the train of his vision because of this was obvious. Though she does not miss the way his violet eyes swiftly move from her neckline, then back up to her mismatched ones, "I'm glad to see you are making use of the artifact I gave to you."
The princess brushes her hand over the Pin, feeling the ridges of its design kiss her thumb, "I had actually wanted to thank you once more for it. As embarrassing as this is to admit, I was struggling... tremendously. The final moments you gave me, they had been enough to get me back on my feet."
"You flatter me, Princess. It is by your own strength that you managed to emerge victorious."
Melinoë shakes her head, "I truly mean it, Lord Moros." she manages a laugh through the words, but it comes out choked, self-deprecating, "It was the frailest I've felt. I allowed my emotions to cloud me, but then it felt like you were out there with me."
The emissary blinks, then his face softens to a degree unlike she has ever seen of him.
"That Keepsake is a symbol of my belief in you and your cause. Wheresoever you walk, down this path—one which is no doubt filled with uncertainty, I hope it, I, can continue aiding you."
She feels a jagged ache in her chest again, though nothing like the near-suffocating one she felt amidst her run earlier, "And I shall continue to cherish it."
"That you shall." there's a cheekier reiteration of a smile on his face now, an expression on Doom Incarnate no mortal would ever lay their eyes upon. Melinoë thinks herself lucky.
"Though if I may, Princess." he says questioningly, slightly stern, "If there are still any remnants of such uncertainty from earlier on your mind, if you'd like, I would be happy to lend an ear."
She looks ahead to the empty pier, then back to the awaiting Doom, "I would love to take you up on that offer only," she waves a hand between them, then gradually, a familiar flask of nectar materializes atop her palm, "if you would care to share this with me?"
Moros laughs at this, a heartier, much, much fuller sound than the brief huffs she's heard.
"Of course. I accept."
The next run she does goes incredibly well. She weaves her way through the descent at an almost alarming speed. Artemis tells her she's in great form, Arachne's silk woven chiton feels light against her skin, a deep blue, it lets her dance effortlessly around her adversaries. The Root-Stalker is of almost no concern this run, and in its place where it crumbles, a familiar pink boon.
Melinoë approaches it, hand hovering the orb.
In the name of Hades! Olympus, I accept this message.
“Hello there, gorgeous. That's a lovely color on you,” greets the Goddess of Love herself, the teasing drawl to her voice ever present. “Which one of my blessings do you require to strike a bloody path through those wretches this time?”
"Thank you, and just the usual for now, Lady Aphrodite." she says, instantly feeling the familiar surge of power.
"Hmm," the Goddess hums in thought, leaning forward to cast a proper glance over the Princess. She smiles, bringing a manicured hand to her cheek to rest it there, "My heart tells me you hold affections for," she gasps in mock surprise, "Doom himself, is that right?"
That would explain the numerous aches in my chest.
She thinks to the night before, his patience when she tells him about her family. How much do you remember? he had asked, a question most simple, but every bit of frustration almost bubbles out of her. Not much, she said, not enough. Vengeance for a family she couldn't even remember. All I have left of them is a painting of the four of us, Headmistress Hecate says it serves as a reminder, of their love for me, even if I have no recollection of it.
That alone is drive enough, he said.
You are getting closer each day, Princess. Once they are by your side once more, you will have aplenty to make up for the Time he has taken from you.
It gave her the solace she needed that day. Then there was the fact that he was so different to what little she had known about him. To think that Doom would take its form in someone so soft-spoken, who was oddly enough a fan of Odysseus of all people, who knew to jest.
Melinoë chooses her next words carefully, as if threading through knee-deep murky waters, "I do not deny that I hold Lord Moros in... extremely high regard," is what she settles on. Lady Aphrodite does not look amused, nor convinced for that matter, so she continues, "and that I value his company," the goddess quirks an eyebrow, "... above... all others. Um, no offence to you, of course, Lady Aphrodite."
Aphrodite giggles, "None taken but my, how scandalous! The Underworld's Princess and Doom. Such an unlikely pair, defying odds together." she sighs dreamily, "Will you tell him? I wonder."
"I believe... that love and vengeance do not go hand in hand."
"They are meant to be distinguishable, yes. But I believe love," she emphasizes with the wave of a finger, "can save you from being overcome."
"Perhaps..." Melinoë gives it some genuine consideration.
"He really is quite the looker, isn't he?" Aphrodite provides wistfully, like the very sight of Melinoë's quiet contemplation moves her.
"He is." she says, and surprises even herself by how bashful she sounded.
“I cannot help but notice you’ve a spring in your step, Moros." the tactician smiles wryly, a slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes, "Is it safe for me to assume Hecate’s lessons have been treating you well?”
“Oh,” he simply says, puzzled by the man's sudden acknowledgement. It's true that the Lady Hecate's lessons were a great way for him to pass time around the crossroads, and he would consider his interest in the art far past the point of merely being piqued, “They have been, yes. She's given me great insight to witchcraft.” he says stiffly, not quite knowing what else to say in reply.
“Hmm,” Odysseus hums thoughtfully, “Missed the mark, have I? In that case…” he raises a hand to his chin, tapping his index finger there once, then twice, “I don’t suppose a certain goddess has anything to do with your change in demeanour, has she?”
Goddess? He must be speaking of the goddess currently carving a path towards Tartarus. The same one who frequents to his station, some days with a query, the others for just small talk. And every one, keeps Moros in anticipation.
But oh, he hopes, prays that his intrigue towards said goddess has gone unnoticed by other individuals residing in the crossroads. Odysseus was tough to fool, his cunning, calculating nature befitting of a man his caliber. Moros wasn't exactly expecting his expertise to bleed into... matters such as this.
"You were always just Doom and Gloom the first few visits, scared even me for a bit." he continues when Moros elects to remain silent.
"I," he starts, half-heartedly, close to swallowing the rest of his words, "I think she's become a good influence on me."
"Hah," Odysseus' shoulders shake as he laughs, "So it would seem she has that effect even on Doom."
Moros watches Odysseus' expression change, he looks serious now, bringing a hand to rest on his shoulder.
"Never thought I'd be telling you this but keep cheering her up, will you? She has a lot weighing on her."
"I will."
Moros half turns, a means to swiftly exit the conversation lest Odysseus finds some other way to pry the affection he has for the Princess like they weren't on the very precipice of his tongue. But he stops midway, eyes finding the shade once more.
"A question, if you would indulge me, Odysseus."
The tactician raises his eyebrows, then shrugs slightly, "Fire away."
"How did you um, know? With... Penelope."
Odysseus lets out an exhale, a clouded look to his eyes, "I simply did."
Moros easily drowns out the hustle and bustle of the Crossroads today. He thinks Lady Hecate is busying herself with an incantation, judging by the large group of shades crowding her much larger stature.
He's spent far too long being apart from the Three Fates. They have not called for him since, he who was their guardian, their blasted errand boy. He was in no means some overbearing brother, he trusts in their judgments, their weavings. The problem laid in the fact that such weavings usually included some manner of his knowledge, and this feeling of trepidation, was something he was completely unaccustomed to. He sighs, he needs only be patient.
Lost in the meanderings of his thoughts, Night-colored eyes unfocused, Moros does not even seem to notice Melinoë coming beside him, not until he hears the Princess call his name once, probably twice now.
"Ah," he visibly deflates, "Apologies, Princess."
She shakes her head as if to say it's alright, "Nectar for your thoughts?" in her hand, heavenly pleasure in a bottle. They seemed to have an abundance of those where she went, and that she would choose to share each one with him. Then there was his gift to her, still pinned over her chiton. A piece of him she brings with her. The feeling takes form like a serpent coiling around his gut.
"You ought to be careful." he couldn't help but smile, at least when with her, "Several offerings like this can make even Doom grow a big head."
"Would that include your... horns? Or without?" she laughs, breathy and light.
"Some adjustments would have to be made, I'm afraid."
He lets Melinoë lead the trek towards the pier, sees the soft crackling of flame from her laurels, the sheen of Moonlight that never seems to leave her. There's undoubtedly beauty in respect, in his brief time in the Crossroads, he hears through the soft groans of the smattering of shades loyal to her. They speak of her kindness, the grace in her curtseys, the curve of her lips, perfectly shaped—though he supposed he was to omit that part in the conversation, but it sticks to him either way. Yet it brews some sort of discord in his heart. It was not a proper thought to have but he had no authority to level the shades in question with a gaze more befitting Doom, not when he feels the same. Odysseus was right. It would seem he was quite... taken, to the Princess.
She has a reputation unlike his, he who emanates fear, weaves the tale of one's last breath, handpicks the choice to make it a spectacle or a quiet embrace in the arms of a lover.
In the same breath of their reverence towards her, he hears the whispers of worry, that he means a bad omen for her. Surely his sisters had not sent him to her side to be a hindrance to her. The lack of foresight was like a growing itch on his skin, and right now he felt helpless.
They take their seats on the pier, legs dangling from the planks elevated from the green waters.
The Princess unscrews the cork of the nectar before she brings it to her lips for a sip. Moros is too aware, all too aware of the thin coat of gods' vintage that paints her lips. A thin veil that catches in the light when it parts from the rim. Why in the Fates did he let those blasted shades put such a thought in his head?
"Here," she passes him the bottle, moving to rest her palms down the sides of her thighs. He takes a swig that is far too quick for his liking.
Moros wonders how differently it would taste directly from her lips.
Best to get this off his chest, fast. It would do him no good.
"It's proving to be quite difficult for me as of late. I feel... a sense of uncertainty I can't seem to shake off. Not just in the grander scheme, it carries from one evening to the next. I'm still unused to it."
Melinoë nods in understanding, watching the sway of her own legs, "There can be pleasure in the unexpected. It's no surprise that you would think that way, having been blessed with the gift of foresight for most of your time." she looks up, eyes casted towards the far distance of the water, "For me, it helps to focus on a present state of mind. In being here right now."
Moros' heart lurches at the melancholy seeped into her words. How hard must it have been for her he wonders, not to think of the possibilities that surround the Fates of her family, endless. At this, his respect for her grows even more.
"The now..." he murmurs, watching the contents of the vintage slosh about, "Thank you, Princess..."
He takes another sip, placing the bottle by his side when the Princess shakes her head in offering.
"Look at me, bringing the mood down when Odysseus told me to be the one doing the cheering up."
"Nonsense!" she bumps their shoulders togethers lightly, it makes Moros stiffen briefly at the contact, "You've cheered me up plenty before, let it be my turn this time. Though what's this about Odysseus?"
Oh. He shouldn't have brought that up. Now he wishes Poseidon would come down to summon a torrent in the waters below them to swallow him whole.
"He was surprised to see that I have changed." he winces through the words, "after spending much of my time here, and meeting you."
Her face is unreadable, Moros is half contemplating leaping into the depths instead if The God of the Sea doesn't heed his plea. Melinoë leans close, the press of her shoulder against his more purposeful than the first. It was a feather-light touch against his skin, but it makes him feel as if he's gotten the air knocked out of him. Oh, sisters. Tell me, what does my future say?
"It was unexpected, I had come face to face with Doom merely out of fulfilling a prophecy, then invited him to my abode. I hear the rumblings every day from those around me, their fear of you, but you yourself had been a pleasant surprise. Soon, I realize I've come to enjoy our evenings here, Lord Moros, selfishly asking for your time and your unceasing kindness with the promise of but a small taste of the gods' dining." Melinoë whispers, and that's when Moros understands. This growing fondness he has for her, it would seem she feels the same of him.
"Princess..." he breathes out, "I am always happy to oblige."
"Could I ask you to oblige another request of mine then?" Moros feels a brush of warmth against the back of his hand, the curl of Melinoë's fingers filling the gaps between his effortlessly.
"Yes." he rasps.
In his eyes, Moros is quite sure he surges forwards first, though it is Melinoë who upends his pace when her hands find home tucked below the dip of his cheekbones, some strands of his bone-white hair catching through her fingers to bring him in for a searing kiss. One of his finds purchase on her waist to keep them both upright, then the other, and the Princess positively melts in his arms. He finds his curiosity is quickly quenched, one swipe of his tongue so he tastes it, the honey-sweet nectar, and when she parts her lips to give way, he tastes it in the depths of her mouth instead. The same way he wants her to confide in him her growing pains, he wants the Princess to make every one of her desires apparent, her needs.
Her left spectral hand falls to the generous expanse of his uncovered chest, raking the skin there with the length of her nails in her pursuit to feel him. Moros squeezes her waist in return, and the moan she weeps into his mouth, the sound makes heat shoot straight down to his core. Easily, he gets lost in the heady exchange, hand roaming the side of her bare thigh, past the band tied around it, hiking the fabric up till its placed precariously beneath her ass. He starts hearing murmuring nearby, pays it no mind, but the Princess tenses in his arms.
"Lord Moros," she breaks away to pant into his ear, freezing the hand steadily moving towards its destination of desire. She laughs, completely breathless, the bashful quality to her tone completely unlike her boldness earlier, "Another time," she promises, "when we're not... um, in company."
Moros is embarrassed now, eyes searching for anywhere but the train of shades trying (and failing) to look elsewhere but at them. He underestimated just how starved he was to touch her, to feel her fall apart at his ministrations, feel the tautness in her shoulders slacken for once. Word would travel very soon. He's already not looking forward to Odysseus' knowing glances, the earful Nemesis will give him, oh gods, Lady Hecate.
Hilarious though it may seem, in that very moment, Moros resolves to brave the here now. And between the number of possibilities, inevitabilities, he weaves a tale in Fate of his own, one with the Princess of the Underworld's hand firmly in his.