There were few things that would fill the goddess of hate with fear. The first had been the betrayal of her husband, but that was old news and moot at this point. The second was anything happening to her children -that would strike fear into the heart of any self-respecting mother. The third was something happening to her more extended family: her siblings, her parents and so forth. Mostly, that was it.
There had been a point in her life where hearing a gleeful shout of, “Styxie,” would have her stiffen in fear for the impending tackle of hugs she knew was inevitably going to happen. Then it was always awkward because she never knew how to react.
She was not soft. She did not give squishes or cuddly embraces. She didn't even care to be hugged, at least not in days past and not from people other than her children. But no matter how much protest Styx gave, no matter the shoves and the attempt to peel the limbs that were wrapped around her off... it persisted.
That was how Philotes was. She was a persistent little thing. Apparently her persistence had paid off because as the nickname Styx hated echoed through the hall -a nickname that had anyone other than Philotes said there would have been severe repercussions, rather than protest Styx simply braced for the impact of her sister wrapping herself around her. It was inevitable. Lottie was a hugger.
At collision and the subsequent hug, Styx smiled and choked out a simple hello. Over the ages, Philotes had worn down the walls Hate put up against softness and made a Lottie sized hole to squeeze into. Styx loved all her siblings, but Philotes was a special case. She was impossible to not love. Even so, Styx didn't hug. At least not in the traditional sense. She gave her sister a quick squeeze, quick so no one else might see it -Moros would never let her live it down, and only with one arm.
“Going to dinner?” she asked with a smile. It was her way of admitting that she loved and missed her sister without having to change the very core of what she was.