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Melinoë never should have come to this party. She had felt a deep pang of envy when her father and brother departed earlier, having had the excuse of their blood curse to return home before exhaustion had the chance to set in. Release will only be granted to Melinoë when her blood curse catches up to her after Eos begins painting the sky in rosy tones. Her mother remained, though not even she could alleviate the guilt twined and coiled around her chest like miasma. Besides, Demeter had barely let Persephone out of arms reach for more than a few moments.
The party is allegedly being held in Melinoë’s honour—to celebrate the eradication of all remnants of Chronos and Typhon—though she has heard one too many speeches espousing the vainglorious might of the Olympians to believe it.
Melinoë is one of the few members of the Unseen who was invited, as the Olympians remained ignorant of their existence and their significant contributions to the victory being celebrated now. Hecate had also received an invitation but declined, citing that she was not one to enjoy such things. Meline was unable to refuse her invitation, as she was to be the guest of honour. Supposedly.
The initial novelty of being in the Palace of Zeus in all its glory had worn off quickly. Having only seen the courtyard, she’d had ample time to imagine its interior. It had remained untouched by Typhon’s onslaught, much unlike the rest of Olympus that still lies in rubble. No surface is left unadorned, either painted in vivid colours, carved with intricate reliefs, or covered in tapestries. The marble that everything is made from is blindingly bright, even in the absence of sunlight. It’s a far cry from the cracked and dirtied marble she usually saw on her ascents.
Melinoë finds some meager comforts in the vast amount of flora present—wisteria vines wind their way up columns and let their purple flowers hang in the air. Rows of hyacinths and lilacs line the walls; they had filled the banquet hall with a delicate sweet scent before getting overpowered by heady nectar and ambrosia.
The profuse feasting had ended a while ago, though Melinoë had barely eaten anything. The large servings of dead animal flesh on display were enough to banish what little appetite she had to begin with. She has been holding the same cup of nectar the entire night, only taking the occasional sip. Each sip has made her grimace at its unusually sour and bitter taste.
The air inside the banquet hall is stifling and cloying, much like the long skirt of her dress that keeps stubbornly wrapping around her legs. She longs for the dim and quiet of the Crossroads, where she is surrounded by only the sounds of hushed shades and wind weaving its way through the trees. The din of the revelry is oppressive, as if it has wrapped its hands around her head and squeezed. Pain blooms from her temple, feeling akin to a serrated dagger buried there, and spreads to behind her eye.
The pain flares whenever the Nymphs and Satyrs are particularly raucous; Melinoë suspects that most of them had come straight from Dionysus’ covert gathering, what with the way they arrived already stumbling on their feet and hooves. More than once, she had heard them lamenting the absence of a hot spring here.
She has found little enjoyment in conversing with the other guests—most of them are too intoxicated on nectar and ambrosia to make any sense and the rest she can barely hear over the din. The conversations she has been subject to have mostly all followed a rote pattern: a brief congratulations for at last accomplishing her task, inquires about returning to her duties in the Underworld, then ending on praise for the setting and venue.
The repetitive nature of it made Melinoë grip her cup tight enough her knuckles showed white. Some commented on the final prophecy of the Fates with disbelief in their voices, though they would never outright question the Fates’ judgement even now.
Melinoë had clung to Artemis’ side—as she was one of the few others who shared a distaste for large rowdy gatherings—but Artemis had sidled away earlier with two nymphs in tow, leaving Melinoë to fend for herself and burning with no small amount of envy.
There’s one Olympian who appears despondent despite the celebratory atmosphere. Ares has mostly kept to himself, grieving the end to the greatest war of his lifetime. Melinoë had attempted to converse with him earlier, and found him unreceptive to idle chatter. His demeanor only seemed to lighten when she suggested that there will likely be more wars yet to come. At least she isn’t the only one in an anything but convivial mood.
Melinoë has noticed how Zeus and Athena often brought their cups near their lips but stopped short of actually imbibing. It strikes her as odd, that Zeus would deny himself even the smallest of pleasures. Athena’s grey eyes are keen and not clouded by nectar in the slightest. While the other goddesses are wearing more formal, flowing gowns tonight, she remains in her armour as if she is anticipating a battle to be fought even now.
There is another guest who has abstained from the abundant nectar and ambrosia on offer. Prometheus has spent the night glued to a wall with Heracles, shunning the company of others. Her grandfather had approached Prometheus on multiple instances, only to be dismissed with a sharp look each time.
Despite Prometheus and Heracles’ proximity, they’ve barely exchanged any words. Begrudgedly, Melinoë has to admit she’s somewhat impressed that they had made it thus far without their alliance being discovered—no thanks to her having kept their secret. Others have attempted to speak with him and found themselves shunned.
Not for the first time this night, she wonders why Prometheus is in attendance. Willingly spending time with the gods who sentenced him to eternal torment seems not something he would do without sufficient motive. It also seems strange that he had even received an invitation in the first place. Doubtless the Olympians had little gratitude to spare for him for his role in ensuring time flowed freely forth, and significantly more animosity for having led the siege that destroyed much of their prized mountain.
Melinoë regards him warily, and thus has avoided him, suspecting that he’s biding his time and waiting for something specific to occur, though she isn’t sure what that may be. She knows Prometheus could be remarkably patient when he deems an outcome worthy of pursuit.
Her head begins aching again with twofold intensity, a relentless throb that demands all of her attention. No longer caring if she’ll be perceived as rude, she gathers her pleated skirt in one hand and turns to flee towards the nearest balcony for a moment of quiet solitude.
Despite the mountain peak towering above all others, the night air is pleasantly cool and provides a desperately necessary reprieve from the suffocating interior. Demeter’s influence must be keeping the temperature reasonable at this altitude, free from the icy winds that plague the rest of the mountain. The din is still present behind her, but has lessened in intensity much like her headache.
The full moon hangs high in the clear sky, though the night has drawn on long enough that Selene has begun her descent. Her light is so bright tonight she outshines the stars; the sky is wholly black as if ink has been spilt across it.
Roses, as red as Melinoë’s blood, are woven throughout each lattice between the short marble pillars that compose the railing. Beyond the railing lies endless fields of clouds that shimmer and glow with moonlight, as the Palace rests well above the cloud line, situated entirely in Zeus’ realm of the heavens
Melinoë is wearing the same silk shawl and saffron dress she had worn while sitting for her family portrait. The shawl is just as maddening to wear as it had been that day, caught in a cycle of slipping off her shoulders and then having to readjust it. Her skirt still twists and cloys around her legs, a constant reminder of her preference for shorter hems.
With a sharp nail and a silent apology to the tailor, she cuts a slit in the fabric from her mid-thigh to the floor. It provides instant relief in the form of some air flow around her legs. Exhaling a sigh of relief, she rests her forearms on the railing, mindful of the thorns.
“I never said thank you, you know.”
Starling at the familiar voice, Melinoë nearly drops her nectar over the edge. She chastises herself for being so caught up in her much-needed break that she hadn’t noticed someone approaching.
Prometheus leans against the pillar on one side of the entryway, framed by wisteria branches. He’s dressed differently from the rest of the gods—a style that she cannot place the origin of, not having seen it worn amongst gods nor the few mortals she’s seen. It is a simple, practical outfit that lacks the ostentatious displays that her relatives so often favoured. The loose-fitting style seems apt for a more arid climate, perhaps belonging to a region that resides further east.
Prometheus wears a pale linen garment secured with a belt like usual, though this one is longer, extending to his mid-calves and has a soft fringe along its hem. His chest is half-covered with a blue shawl that hangs off him from his left shoulder to his right thigh; it is draped loosely enough that his scar is fully visible. Its edges are adorned with small gold tassels. Upon closer inspection, she notices that it is composed of interwoven threads of primarily teal and shades of blue, with gold and green for highlights. Like the surface of the sea, Melinoë realizes.
His jewelry is modest—he has traded his usual earrings for rectangular lapis lazuli stones that dangle from his ears. The dark blue stones are flecked with gold, giving them a subdued gleam in the moonlight. A necklace of alternating lapis lazuli and gold beads rests on his collarbones. Not for the first time since Melinoë has known him, the word handsome comes to mind.
It doesn’t escape Melinoë’s notice that his attire conceals precisely none of his scars, as if he is proudly putting them on all display. The absence of his falconry glove exposes the scar that encircles his left wrist, and the hem resting only at mid-calf shows the ones on his ankles. Once more, she wonders why he chose to accept the invitation and place himself amongst those who wronged him.
“For what?” Melinoë can hardly think of much she’s done that would warrant gratitude from Prometheus—that he should know of, at least. His foresight doesn’t work in liminal spaces such as where the Fates had resided.
He comes to join her at her side on the railing, resting his hands on the marble in a relaxed grip. “For asking the Fates to bring about the Golden Age for mortalkind,” he replies.
Melinoë’s heart stops for a moment. Her eyes whirl around, checking if anyone else is close enough to have overheard. Luckily, none are nearby and the revelry from inside is loud enough to drown out any curious ears.
“How do you know I did that?” she asks, voice low even though they are alone. Melinoë had not exactly lied when she delivered the Fates’ prophecy that the age of gods would end to allow for a golden age for mortalkind. She had just omitted the part where she convinced the Fates to do so, fearing that her loyalties would be called into question if others were to know. Zeus clings to his power and throne with a viciously tight grip; she does not wish to see his reaction if he were to find out that she is the reason why it will eventually be taken from him.
“Because you told me just now.” His lips curl into a smirk that alights familiar feelings of anger towards him. He is too clever for his own good.
Before she can reply with a biting remark, Prometheus continues, “I suspected as much. The Fates are rarely willing to weave prophecies that benefit mortalkind to that extent, unless an agent of change talked them into it.” He tilts his head, regarding her curiously. “Why did you do it?”
He is much unlike the other deathless, Melinoë thinks. While set on her task of eliminating remnants, doubt and regret had started to fester in her regarding how she restored the world to its former structures of power. The same structures that had permitted gods to curse mortals and lesser gods at their whim with no consequences. Bitter remorse has eaten away at her since, at the thought that she had enabled another Arachne or Echo to be created.
It had felt like too little too late to plead her case to the Fates, but she had to do something. The first time Prometheus had called her Agent of Change, she felt such scornful disdain that he presumed to dictate her role. Then, she never would have anticipated that she would end up fulfilling it.
Lost in thought as Melinoë is, she fails to reply to him.
“I remind you once again, Princess, that my foresight is not mindreading.” His voice has lowered like hers, making her feel like the world has shrunk to just the two of them. The change in title still catches her off guard—he had ceased calling her Agent of Change after she fulfilled that role by delivering the prophecy.
The words pour out of her freely, more easily than she could have imagined. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was so focused on completing my task that I didn’t consider the aftermath at all. I couldn’t see beyond what was directly in front of me. I was so blind, and unwilling to consider that there could’ve been another way.” Shame fills her at the confession that until now, has been sequestered away deep inside her.
From the way his eyes have dimmed in focus, Melinoë knows she has his rapt attention. “What changed your mind? The goddess I first met upon this mountain wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help mortals.”
She knows the answer, yet hesitates. Prometheus already thinks quite highly of himself, the last thing she needs to give him is more reason to believe so. But she decides that he deserves to know the answer—that all his efforts were not in vain. “You. I just realized it too late,” she mutters, bitterness lacing the edges of her words.
He seems lost for words for once; the only response he gives is a soft huff of breath. His expression is unreadable, though his gaze is as intense as ever.
It feels like she has unblocked a dam, as more words rush out of her. “I’m sick of this blasted party. I’m sick of them,” she hisses, gesturing at the party behind her. “I hate that I have to make nice and be cordial with the gods who cursed my friends. I hate that they know exactly what they’ve done and they don’t care. I hate that it was expected of me to come to their aid, but if it weren’t for Chronos besieging Olympus and unleashing Typhon, I doubt they would’ve lent me much aid, if any at all. They likely would’ve claimed that the Underworld is beyond their purview and should handle its own problems.”
The thought of hurling her cup over the railing is a tempting one, but she realizes that leaving shards of it strewn about the mountainside would make her no better then Eris polluting the Crossroads. She settles for clinking her nails along the railing.
“All I want to do is shatter one of their perfect statues but I hate that I fear incurring their wrath. This peace feels… tenuous, and I’ve never known a world without war. I can’t ruin everything we fought for by starting another one.” Her voice drops even quieter, the profane words barely above a whisper as they escape her lips. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve let them destroy this mountain.”
Prometheus’ eyes widen slightly at the admission; Melinoë wonders if he had ever foreseen it as a potential outcome. She drops her gaze from his, and turns to look out at the clouds that stretch into the horizon, scattered mountain peaks piercing through like islands in an ocean.
She continues, “So I did the only thing I could, and argued with the Fates until they wove that prophecy. I wasn’t going to leave until they did. Truthfully, I think they agreed just to get me out of there,” she says with a humourless laugh.
He is quiet for a few moments while he takes her words in. Despite keeping her gaze fixed forward, she can still feel him studying her, his stare as tangible as physical touch.
“It is a waste of even our infinite time to ruminate on what could have or should have been. The past is immutable; all we can hope to control is what is yet to come. The Fates never seemed to care much for the outcomes of their weavings, detached from the results of them as they are, or should I say, were.” A trace of rancor tinges his voice, then vanishes as he continues, “But you brought about the same result, regardless of their reasoning.”
Melinoë feels like a crushing weight has been taken off her chest, finally allowing her to breathe freely since the completion of her task. She is used to regarding him with wariness, putting up a front to dissuade him from trying to sway her, yet now he is the only one whom she can confide in. She can’t help but feel a small twinge of gratitude that she has had this opportunity to speak to him; otherwise her regrets would’ve continued swirling inside her, concentrating into a miasmic mixture that consumed her entirely.
Something clicks into place in her mind—why Zeus and Athena were abstaining from drink, why they seemed to be anticipating a fight, all their talk of finding a suitable punishment for Prometheus must have come to a head. A plan that is to be enacted tonight. They would just need to capture him first, and doing so in their Palace would provide them with an advantage. She wonders if he is cognizant of the snare slowly tightening around him. With his foresight he has to be, unless they had found some way to catch him unawares.
It feels like yet another preventable injustice—that he would be bound in chains once more after only having had a glimpse of freedom. She spares a glance at him, and sees his expression is one of total calm and self-assurance.
“You must know what my lord uncle is planning for you this eve. He shall grant you no clemency for your theft and former alliance with Chronos.”
“I am well aware.” He idly studies the hem of his shawl. “Athena personally delivered my invitation. I had the sense that my acceptance surprised her, as I heard her stammer on her words for the very first time.” His gaze hardens. “It is a monument to their arrogance to believe that I would allow myself to be taken that easily.”
Privately, Melinoë thinks to herself that Prometheus did allow himself to be captured after his theft of fire. He must have foreseen a way to elude their grasp this time.
“Then why have you come tonight?” she asks. He is nothing if not cunning—there must be some ulterior motive for him to be risking re-imprisonment.
He remains silent for a few moments, watching her, before replying, “I saw a vision that… intrigued me.” His voice remains low, warming her blood and loosening her limbs as if she has drunk a few bottles of nectar. The vision evidently is enticing to him, to have persuaded him into coming tonight. She returns his gaze, and feels her throat dry up at the way his eyes are burning into hers, as if she is the only thing that matters to him right now.
Melinoë can feel a shiver starting at the nape of her neck. Some obstinate part of her doesn’t want him to know the effect he has on her, so she deflects. “Let me guess, it’s my Lord Uncle Poseidon making a fool of himself?”
He scoffs. “The oaf has already done that too many times to count tonight. All he’s capable of is making loud boasts and jeers. He’s no better than your cousin who finally ceased his interminable partying only to immediately arrive at this one. Doubtless that one shall find another inane reason to continue his hedonistic endeavors,” he mocks, scathing judgement suffusing each of his words.
Prometheus’ hatred of the Olympians runs deep; Melinoë is certain he could articulate any number of reasons as to why he disliked each and every one of them. He has never concealed his contempt behind flowery words and gestures—instead entirely disregarding the stilted decorum her relatives pride themselves on.
Melinoë cannot deny that his observation is accurate. The dimmed communication through boons had not prepared her for how boisterous Poseidon could be, and Dionysus’ actions seemed to be driven more so by madness than any semblance of sanity.
“Can I have a hint?” she asks, knowing he rarely shares his premonitions—only vague allusions at most—but hoping that perhaps tonight he will make an exception for her.
A knowing smile creeps onto his face. “It involves you doing something that would cause outrage amongst the gods if they were to find out.”
The possibility of acting on her resentment without facing any consequences is a tantalizing one, and hearing that she may act on it tonight surprises her little. Confiding in him had loosened the tight grip she had had on her pent up emotions. Now, they rattle around inside her, seeking further release. The air feels warmer than before—Melinoë realizes he has shifted slightly closer to her.
“Causing outrage amongst the gods sounds like something you’d do. Are you involved as well, or is it just me?”
She doesn’t miss the way his gaze drops to her lips as he replies, “It depends on you, Princess. If you’ll have me tonight, that is.”
Melinoë suspects there is more than one reason why he had chosen an outfit that would reveal the scar across his torso, and with it, most of his toned chest. Her eyes are drawn to his bare skin, lingering on the scar before trailing down to his hands, and she allows herself to wonder how firm they would feel if they were holding onto her body.
“I think I’d like it if you were to desecrate something of theirs with me,” she replies, observing his grip on the railing tighten in response. Melinoë finds that she wouldn’t mind fulfilling this premonition of his. In fact, she’d rather enjoy defying her relatives tonight and releasing some suppressed resentment in an audacious manner.
“We shouldn’t be seen leaving together. I’ll leave now; give it a bit of time, then come meet me in the courtyard,” Prometheus says quietly. With a quick glance to the party behind them, he moves from the railing, keeping one hand on it and moving the other to cage her between his arms. Hidden from any possible prying eyes, Melinoë looks up at him and feels her pulse quicken when she sees the depth of want in his expression.
He leans in, craning his head down until his lips brush against her bare right shoulder. He trails down her arm—warm breath ghosts over her skin, making it pebble in response, while one hand comes to the underside of her arm to lift it up. His lips finally reach her hand, and he plants a feather-light kiss on it before turning and walking away back into the party.
Prometheus might as well have lit her arm on fire, what with the way her skin now feels overly sensitive to the breeze. Said breeze now feels chilling in his absence. Stunned into place, Melinoë watches him leave. He disappears quickly into the crowd; few seem to take notice of how his steps are sure and steady, lacking the stumbling stagger of other guests. He’s behaving rather boldly, though he has never been one to cower in fear of potential consequences.
She waits until her heartbeat slows to a normal rate and is no longer thudding in her ears before returning inside. When Zeus and Athena appear to be sufficiently distracted in conversation with each other, Melinoë makes her escape and slips away into a hallway that leads to the courtyard, ditching her nectar on a table already crowded with cups.
The din lessens in volume as she walks along the vacant hall. If it weren’t for the way she can still feel his lips on her arm, perhaps her more reasonable senses would get the better of her and make her turn around. Melinoë can’t help the mirthful smile that creeps onto her face—at how light she feels after offloading her burdens that she had been drowning in. Excitement flutters in her, making her skin feel tingly at the thought of acting on the resentment towards her relatives that has been simmering in her.
Melinoë arrives at the courtyard and finds it as empty as the corridors. Pleasant floral scents of lilacs, roses, and lilies waft on the light breeze. She drapes her shawl across her back and leans against one of the columns while she waits for Prometheus. The pediment it holds up casts her in shadow from the bright moonlight.
Memories of exchanging vapid pleasantries here with Zeus and Hera flit through her mind. They had barely offered Melinoë a thank you for defeating Typhon, only questions of when she would vanquish him in a more permanent fashion. She can still vividly recall the sting of her proficiency being dismissed as a fluke by Zeus. Not for the first time, a pang of regret strikes her that she had not acted on her doubts sooner, as they only began to take shape after she set to eliminating the remnants.
She was initially taken back by the beauty of the Palace, but now she sees it as a superficial facade to hide the cruelty of the Olympians. The statues of her relatives look down at her, projecting an imposing and pompous image of themselves. The cold marble accurately captures their callous nature. Melinoë recalls how her skin had crawled with embarrassment when she first saw the statues of herself in the training grounds. Conceited, she thinks, to surround oneself with depictions of their own heightened grandeur.
Her heart skips a beat when she hears footsteps. Possible excuses run through her mind, that she merely wanted some fresh air, or a feigned ailment. She sighs in relief when she sees it is Prometheus. He must have taken a more circuitous route than her direct one.
“I’d be quite happy if I never had to see marble again,” Melinoë quips to him.
The corner of his mouth curls slightly. “The sentiment is shared.” Now that they are alone and free from prying eyes, it seems as though there’s nothing that could make Prometheus tear his attention away from her.
Words elude her as a warm flush spreads down her body and her breathing becomes shallow. She reaches out and runs her spectral hand up his bare right arm, noting how shaky his exhale is when she gently rakes her nails along his skin. She decides to indulge her curiosity, and squeezes the firm muscles on his upper arm. Raised up on the balls of her feet, Melinoë manages to grip him by the back of his neck and pull him so he’s crowding her against the column. He obliges her, leaning down close enough to brush his nose against hers.
Relief fills her that the pediment overhead conceals them from Selene’s watchful eye. She wishes that his hands on her hips were hot enough to burn straight through the pleated fabric. All she wants is for him to deeply kiss her there against the column while hiking her skirt up. He seems to have other plans though, as he merely brushes his lips against hers before withdrawing, making her grimace in annoyance. Melinoë never would have taken him for a tease.
“Not here, I have a better location in mind. Follow me.”
She thinks she would follow Prometheus anywhere right now. Warmth pools low in her stomach, convincing her that her best course of action right now is to twine her fingers between his—her unexpected ally in this secretive endeavour—and let him lead her away from the courtyard.
Aside from the courtyard and banquet hall, Melinoë has seen little of the Palace. They stay in shadows; the winding corridor they walk along is thankfully free of other guests. She wonders if he had foreseen a route that would allow them to remain unseen. Her shawl slips from her shoulders again. This time, she lets it fall and trail along the tiled floor, uncaring if it picks up dust.
Moonlight streams in through windows; Melinoë adheres herself to the opposing walls to avoid it and stays in Prometheus’ shadow. She has nil regrets about having ripped a slit in her dress, having noticed how the pale skin of her leg peeking out when she steps has drawn his eye multiple times.
The hallway curves, leading them to a secluded temple. It is modest by Olympian standards, high-ceilinged and with a main walkway framed by a row of columns on either side. Ivy spirals around the columns, partially obscuring the designs in their marble. The pillars emerge from shallow pools, the surface of which are covered by water lilies. Sconces along the walls emit a soft, warm light from their flickering flames.
Melinoë is unsurprised to find that the Olympians have temples devoted to themselves in the Palace. A vast mosaic decorates the far wall, depicting Zeus driving back Typhon with his thunderbolt and burying him under Mount Etna aeons ago. Memories of Zeus taking more than his fair share of credit for her feat echo in her mind. He had aided her, yes, by stunning Typhon and allowing her to attack him with her full might, but it was her who sent him toppling down from the mountain night after night. If it hadn't been for Melinoë, they’d still be driving Typhon back even now.
On a slightly elevated platform is yet another statue of Zeus proudly wielding a thunderbolt, with an altar made of pure marble resting before it. Etched on its sides are relief carvings of the Titanomachy—including Chronos being hewn into pieces by the very same Olympians who are currently sharing ambrosia with him. Incense burns on the smooth top surface; frankincense, judging by the earthy scent that fills the room.
The depictions of Zeus’ might and conquests serve to reinforce that his judgement is to be held in the highest regard simply because of his position as King of the Olympians. It had ensured that there could be no tolerance for any open refutations of his will, which led to creating enemies that sought vengeance and retribution, or one goddess covertly convincing the Fates themselves to end the age of gods.
“You once told me that the reason why your punishment had been so severe was because Zeus asked you who would be the one to bring about his downfall, and you refused to tell him.” A question has been lingering in Melinoë’s mind since speaking to the Fates—there’s no better time to ask it than now. “It was me, wasn’t it?”
He nods in confirmation. “My premonition was hazy then, so far ahead in the future as it was. I only knew his downfall would be a goddess veiled in saffron and kin to him. For aeons I wondered who it could be. As soon as I met you, your fate became clear to me, and only me, as you stubbornly held onto your godly pride until it was nearly too late.”
Guilt pricks at her like a fine needle. His expression softens, and he continues. “You must see now, why I could not have shared this with you, lest the final outcome be altered from what I desired.”
In any other circumstance, Melinoë is sure she would have some apt reply to that. But now, her focus has been captured by the altar that is stealing her more sensible thoughts away and replacing them with ones that would cause great offence to her relatives.
The altar is big enough for her to comfortably lie down on, Melinoë notes with defiance sparking inside her. She glances at Prometheus beside her, and knows he is thinking the same thing by the way he looks at the altar and then her.
“None shall disturb us here?” she asks.
He shakes his head, confirming that she would get to have the best of both worlds: defy her relatives with their enemy and they won’t find out—thus maintaining the fragile new peace.
With one smooth sweep of his arm, Prometheus clears the incense off its surface, sending it scattering to the floor and into the pools of water. Fire alights on her hips when his hands come to grip them, his heat apparent even through fabric. They travel down to the backs of her thighs, and Melinoë practically leaps into his arms so he can lift her up onto the altar. She’s almost eye-level with him, for once. She wraps her legs around his waist, feeling a jolt of pleasure when she realizes the altar is at the exact height of his hips.
He plants kisses along her jaw and what he can reach of her neck, the golden gorget obstructing him further. Tired of his meandering path, she catches his jaw in her hands, angling his head correctly and pressing her lips to his. Immediately he kisses her back, lips warm and softer than she’d expected.
A whimper escapes Melinoë as his tongue slides out and parts her lips. He kisses like he fights, with a single-minded focus targeted at her and only her. Following familiar patterns between them, she counters by drawing his bottom lip between her teeth, and bites down on it ever so slightly before running her tongue along it.
Her hands move to his shoulders, and without breaking the kiss, she pulls Prometheus down with her as she lies back on the altar. The cold marble bites into her bare upper back, though it does provide a small bit of relief from the overwhelming heat of his body. He tugs her shawl off her, quickly folding it and placing it under her head.
She bends one knee to brace her heel on the edge, her leg parting the slit and exposing her thigh. The new bare skin on display doesn’t escape his notice, and he runs his fingers up along her inner thigh until they disappear under the saffron fabric.
It’s almost embarrassing how slick she is for him already—his finger easily parts her swollen sex to find her clit. He starts rubbing small circles on it, making her whine against his lips and splay her knee outwards for better access. Melinoë cries out when he works one finger in, and yet it’s not enough of him. She hooks her other leg around his waist and pulls him until she can feel his hardness pressing against her.
“So tight around just my finger,” Prometheus breathes into her ear. He adds a second, making her hiss at the stretch to accommodate it. “How could you possibly hope to take me right now?” he taunts, though there’s no derisive edge to it.
He places his other hand on her hipbone, firmly holding her in place before curling his fingers inside her, hitting the spot that always makes her hips buck. Now, she can do nothing more than strain against his hands, and she feels him smirk into the crook of her neck.
Her skirt has pooled around her hips, the fabric feeling heavier and more constrictive than it did before. The gorget feels like it has somehow tightened around her neck, a maddening sensation that makes her want to claw it off. Its ties come undone easily under her fingers, and she removes the pieces and discards them somewhere on the floor with a clatter. Despite his hand on her hip and fingers working their way in and out of her, Melinoë manages to work one hand behind her back to remove the belt as well. The metal is no longer cool to the touch, having warmed from its proximity to him.
Freed from her gold adornments, Prometheus starts mouthing at her neck, working his way back until he finds the tie to her dress. Biting down on a loose end of the tie, he pulls until the knot has fully unravelled.
He removes his fingers from her, drawing a whine out of her at the loss of satisfying pressure, to slowly pull the saffron fabric down her body. Each new exposed bit of Melinoë’s skin receives biting kisses that make her back arch into his mouth.
When he exposes one of her breasts, her nipple hardens in the cool air. The chill is quickly replaced by the heat of his mouth as he sucks hard enough to leave a bruise. He leaves a matching one on her other side, making her exhale shakily, partly in relief that he’s mindful enough to ensure that the evidence of him will be concealed when she redresses.
Prometheus continues his path downwards, removing her dress at a teasingly slow pace. She props herself up on her elbows, not wanting to take her eyes off him for even a moment. He places open-mouthed kisses near her navel, igniting fires underneath her skin. Her dress sits crumpled about her waist, and she eagerly lifts her hips up to allow him to fully remove it. If he delays further to tease her, Melinoë thinks she might have to kick him. Thankfully, he obliges her, pulling it all the way off and she kicks at the fabric as it slides down her legs.
Her hands drift to her laurels, the last adornment she has on. He grabs her wrists, halting her.
“Leave them on, I want to know who I’m going to fuck.”
A flush burns on her cheeks in reaction, spreading like flames down her neck. He studies her for a moment, as if to admire the desperate state he has put her in. She allows herself to indulge in a little bit of godly pride at the way her bare body draws out a glint of something viscerally hungry in his eyes.
“Oftentimes I find myself reminded that foreseeing my premonitions is not the same thing as experiencing them,” Prometheus says with something akin to breathless awe in his voice.
It only adds to the growing ache between her legs when he catches the back of her knee in one hand and pins it down, lowering himself until her other leg comes to rest on his shoulder. The material of his shawl is surprisingly soft under her heel. The biting kisses resume on her inner thighs, making her hands ball into fists and her head to loll back in reaction, and she catches a glimpse of the statue of Zeus out of the corner of her eye. His breath ghosts over her sensitive skin, causing a shiver to run down her spine.
Melinoë spares a glance down, and sees scattered red bruises marking her inner thighs. Relief floods her that her dress will be plenty long enough to cover them afterwards. To her dismay, his mouth seems to be making his way down towards her knees. She slides her heel off his shoulder and down his back, digging in between his shoulder blades to bid him to attend to her aching sex.
It is like trying to urge a wall to move, but Prometheus heeds her will nonetheless, licking a strip up her centre and making her spasm at the sudden heat of his mouth. Her breaths come in ragged pants as he licks at her clit, dissolving her strength and making her collapse flat against the marble. Her hands relax just long enough to wind their way into his hair and curl into fists once more.
Melinoë truly understands, then, why he had shown up to the Palace. If she had foreseen the sight of him between her legs with her fingers tangled in his hair, she would’ve risked re-imprisonment to see it realized as well.
She hears herself gasp when he inserts two fingers again and starts slowly fucking her with them, easing her open. Combined with the flicks of his tongue, she succumbs fully to him, uncaring if it inflates his ego that she’s so desperate for whatever he gives to her.
Her free leg raises off Prometheus’ shoulder, slowly crawling up until it comes to mirror her other one that is still pinned in place by his hand. Spread like an offering for him, he squeezes the back of her knee, his firm grasp only making her keen and pant harder as pressure builds low in her stomach.
It culminates when he switches from licking to sucking, dragging her climax out of her with breathy moans that taper into little whines. She clamps down on his fingers and grips his hair even tighter as waves shudder through her. Now boneless in the aftermath, her hands go slack and slide out of his hair; she almost expects to see strands come out as well.
Her free leg quivers uselessly in the air, until his hand, fingers wet with her own slick, slides up the back of her thigh and grips the back of her knee to match. He’s not finished, Melinoë realizes—he doesn’t intend to let up until her mind is rendered to mush.
His tongue replaces his fingers, resuming the hot slide in and out of her. Her hands settle on his forearms, digging her nails in nearly hard enough to break skin when he resumes licking at her still overly sensitive clit. Her eyes squeeze shut at the sensation of growing tension that encompasses her entire body—she can barely writhe to relieve it, pinned down as she is. It builds until she spills over again, coming hard enough that her ears start to ring.
Releasing her legs, Prometheus draws back and stands up. Two of his fingers slide into her effortlessly now, and she barely notices when he adds a third. Her eyes flutter open, and through the haze of her vision she sees a pleased expression on his face at how receptive she is to him now.
His hands drift to the bronze pin on his right hip that secures the shawl in place—a borderline intimate urge arises in Melinoë, to touch and run her hands along as much of him as possible. She sits up; the sudden movement makes her head swim.
Somehow, she manages to string enough words together to coherently say, “I would see all of you at once. Allow me.”
His hands still in response. With a slight tremble, she reaches for the feather-shaped pin on his right hip that secures the shawl in place. The metal has a red hue to it; she realizes that it’s actually made of copper. It is a finely made pin, each indentation engraved with care and intent. Nonetheless, she drops it onto the floor.
The blue shawl slides easily off his body at her tugging, exposing more skin that she rakes her nails down on, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His skin is unexpectedly soft, smooth, except for the edges of where his scar meets skin. The scar becomes rougher, more corrugated in texture, where it extends over the upper right area of his abdomen. The bandages had covered the extent of damage before, but Melinoë had seen glimpses at the end of their clashes when they had loosened and unraveled.
Not wanting to linger on the past, her hands continue downwards until they reach Prometheus’ hips, and she dips her fingers into the hem—which also allows her to pull him in closer—and finds the tie to his belt.
With no small amount of gloating, she ignores the tie, and instead trails the back of her hand along the outline of his cock, drawing a ragged groan from him. His hips jerk slightly, chasing her touch. Needy, like her. She grinds the heel of her hand against him, palming him, and feels herself slicken more in anticipation at his size. Meeting his gaze, she finds his eyes hazy with want.
Melinoë wonders what it would take to make him beg. But she lacks his level of self-restraint, and so the question would remain unanswered. She nearly opts for simply cutting the tie with her nails as it would be faster, but the knot comes undone quickly enough. The linen falls to the floor, settling in a puddle around his feet and leaving him entirely bare, save for his jewelry.
Up until this point, she had not felt one shred of doubt or hesitance. She had been desperate for a reprieve, a distraction, from the unbearable party and also an outlet for her frustration. The desperation clouded her mind—she should have expected that his being a Titan, thus physically larger than her, would equate to being larger everywhere. She can’t see any possibility in which his length would fit inside her smaller body.
“It’s not going to—I can’t,” she sputters out, resisting the urge to cross her legs.
“You can. I know you can,” Prometheus says, with such conviction that she almost believes it herself. He winds his fingers into the short hairs on the nape of her neck to tilt her head up so he can kiss her deeply. There’s an unsaid promise in it—that he wouldn’t dare to hurt her in this way.
Her apprehension melts away and she lets him lay her back down, a strand of saliva connecting their lips for a moment as he pulls away. When she sees that his cock comes to her navel, she nearly regrets trusting in him.
Some sort of unwavering resolve arises in her; she had never let herself be daunted by him before, and so she wouldn’t start now. Her legs come to wrap around his waist, securing him to her, and she swallows hard when his hands run up her thighs to settle on her hipbones.
He nudges at her entrance, and she meets his gaze to find his eyes dim enough that she can make out his pupils, blown wide. He’s paused, awaiting her permission. Melinoë gives one shallow nod, and squeezes her eyes shut when he starts to slide into her slowly, filling her and stretching her beyond her assumed limits.
Fighting the urge to tense up, she tries to keep her breathing as steady as possible. A strangled sound escapes him when she can’t help but tense around his cock, before willing herself to relax again with a shuddering exhale. Her hands cover his, digging her nails in for some outlet. He frees his left hand from under hers, turning it so that he can twine their fingers together.
Prometheus stills, and she realizes that it’s because his hips are finally flush to hers. He brings their joined hands to her abdomen, and flattens her hand palm-down. She can feel something hard underneath her skin, and assumes it’s her clenched muscles until he withdraws slightly and she feels the hardness move with him. Daring to open her eyes, she looks down and sees a slight distension under her hand—him. The sight incites a new wave of insatiable desire, making every bit of her body feel as if it is consumed by flames.
He begins to languidly rock in and out of her, granting her more time to acclimate to his size. Gasps and whines spill from her lips as he speeds up, and she snaps her head back, grateful for her shawl providing a small amount of cushion.
Through half-lidded eyes, Melinoë’s gaze drifts to him and she sees him staring up at the statue of Zeus. There’s a flicker of pure smug contempt in his expression before it’s overtaken by want when he returns her gaze. Each thrust of his hips reminds her of the obscene nature of what they’re doing. Their arrangement tonight has been one of mutual benefit—using each other to desecrate a temple in the vaunted Palace of Zeus.
He leans down, caging her between his forearms. Panting and groaning into the crook of her neck, he’s quickly losing his composure. She feels a sense of wicked satisfaction at ruining his infallible self-control, reducing him to senselessly chasing his pleasure with snaps of his hips.
While she’s fully acclimated to his size now, he still fills her full enough that it stimulates everything, bringing her closer to another climax. He snakes one hand between their bodies to rub her clit, making her gasp and tighten her legs around his waist, bringing them so close together his hand is nearly crushed. He’s undeterred though, rubbing at her until she loses enough sense to cry out his name. It incenses him, and his pace starts to stutter, losing its fluid rhythm of earlier as she comes, clenching around his cock in waves. He follows not long after, coming with a raspy moan and full-body shudder against her.
It’s quiet, save for the sounds of their heaving breaths. Melinoë can do little but let herself go completely boneless—legs sliding off his waist and now dangling off the edge. Thoughts slide out of her head, lost like water running down a river. He withdraws from her, making her hiss at the slight sting and sudden empty feeling.
She distantly registers the sound of Prometheus saying her name, trying to get her attention that is currently far away in the most primal parts of her mind. He cups her jaw, tilting her head so that her unfocused eyes meet his.
“I cannot remain for much longer,” he says regretfully. “Their snare is tightening around me and I’m running out of time.” He gives her one brief closed-mouth kiss before drawing away and gathering his clothes.
With no small amount of difficulty, Melinoë sits up and gets off the altar, landing on unsteady legs. The fine sheen of sweat on her skin is drying, leaving a chill behind. Her dress lies in a pile of saffron and her adornments are strewn about the floor. His spend starts to run down her inner legs, and with a sigh she cups a few handfuls of water from the pools to wash it off before putting her dress back on and straightening her laurels.
He’s dressed himself in a matter of mere moments. To her surprise, Prometheus doesn’t leave immediately, instead staying to help fasten her belt at the small of her back. He picks up the two pieces of her gorget and places them on her, re-tying the secure knots with nimble fingers. He grabs her white shawl from the altar and smooths out the wrinkles in it before draping it over her shoulders.
He bids her to do a quick spin, meticulously inspecting her to ensure not a single hair is out of place. Each piece of evidence, every bruise, is neatly concealed as if it never happened.
Some part of her wants to spend more time with him, to wring every last moment from him, but another, more rational part, knows their time together is up.
Melinoë wordlessly inclines her head towards the door; at least she could see him out of the Palace. She stifles the urge to grab his hand as they leave the temple—this is a departure, no longer two deathless slinking away in the shadows for a clandestine meeting.
At the first window, Prometheus pulls away from her and starts swinging one leg over the edge.
“What are you…” she trails off, furrowing her brow in confusion. Peering out the window, she sees only the rocky mountainside and icy snow awaiting him beyond. The sky has lightened from black to a deep blue, similar to his earrings. The moon hangs lower in the sky now; Eos will soon be stirring awake.
“Athena has noticed my absence and is searching for me. If I go back the way we came, I’ll encounter that one and it will be a fight I can't win,” he explains while swinging his other leg over and lowering himself until his crossed forearms on the ledge are all that’s holding him up. It would be a steep and difficult climb down, but he had endured far worse.
Apt words elude Melinoë, as she is unsure what kind of parting this is. They haven’t been true enemies since she delivered the prophecy, thereafter becoming something between allies and rivals. And tonight, the lines have blurred even further.
Prometheus pauses, as if sensing her hesitance to see him leave. “This won’t be the last time we see each other,” he says with a level of assurance only foresight can provide.
Illuminated by moonlight, he looks up at her with a soft expression, and sentiment tugs at her heart. It’s an unfamiliar angle to her, now that she’s taller than him for once.
Hoping Selene’s gaze is currently pointed elsewhere, she cups his jaw and leans down to give him one last kiss. It’s tender, almost like how lovers would kiss.
“Thank you, Prometheus.” She hopes it conveys the depth of appreciation she harbours for him.
His lips twitch at one corner, as if he is suppressing a smirk. “For listening to me earlier,” she clarifies, not wanting him to think too highly of himself.
“You should speak your mind more often,” he replies with a wry smile before climbing down the outer wall and disappearing from her sight.
She turns and begins to retrace the route that leads back to the party, keeping her head fixed forward. Her steps are measured, paced, giving a nonchalant impression as if she had left for a simple walk and nothing more. There’s a sense of levity brimming inside her—the burdens that had previously weighed her down now melted away.
A corner nears, and she hears the sound of clinking armour growing louder. She steels herself, preparing for any flurry of accusations Athena could cast her way. Melinoë rounds the corner, and finds herself face to face with the grey-eyed goddess. Her spear is in hand, its sharp point gleaming in the low light. Aegis meets Melinoë’s gaze with haunting eyes like always.
“Hail, cousin. What are you doing out here?” Athena asks bluntly, as she is not one to fill her speech with unnecessary fluff.
“Greetings, Lady Athena,” Melinoë replies with a small dip of her chin, grateful that the dim light conceals the flush that surely still lingers on her cheeks. “Please pardon me for not excusing myself earlier—I felt afflicted by a terrible ache in my head and sought some fresh air to alleviate it.”
Athena’s eyes narrow, regarding her with what could be the mild suspicion she casts on everything and everyone, or actual disbelief at Melinoë’s deception—techncially, a lie only by omission. Her chest feels like it’s constricting from the apprehension rising in her. It would take more than a paltry excuse to divert Athena’s wary eyes that seem to be calculating the probability of every single possibility.
Melinoë begins chattering aimlessly about how she also got distracted by the various flora about the Palace, and their applications to her craft as reagents. When Athena’s eyes glaze over with disinterest rather than suspicion, Melinoë knows she suspects nothing more than a wandering witch.
“I’m searching for Prometheus; he’s disappeared somewhere and has eluded me thus far,” Athena cuts Melinoë off as she’s exalting the versatility of crocuses. “I believe that he has something planned for tonight, as I strongly doubt he would’ve accepted the invitation otherwise. He is dangerous and unpredictable, and has demonstrated many times that he lacks loyalty to anyone other than himself.”
An errant drop of come that she must’ve missed runs down her inner thigh, tracing over the bruises left there. In what Melinoë hopes is a subtle motion, she crosses one ankle over the other to halt its path, relieved once again that all remnants of him are hidden under her dress and its long skirt.
“Should you encounter him, see to it that you do not let him escape,” Athena says, grey eyes hardening into iron.
Melinoë only nods in response. Athena bids her farewell, and continues her search that Melinoë knows will fail.
In far better spirits than before, Melinoë continues making her way back to the celebration.