mythopoeics

( let the flames begin )

All she wants is to lose herself to the looming fit of despair, but she knows she must stand strong. Mordred only asks that she be there, and she is, as constant as any wife could be. Yet even then there is a higher cause. This child, the little creature that steals life and love from her, must live. Real or imagined, it must be carried to fruition. One time, at least, she wants to be a mother. A strong mother, a mother worth looking up to. Even for a child that will never grow old with her, that will not share its milestones with her, that will never utter the words I love you.

Unless this world is final.

Yet even with the life growing within her, even with the happy marriage her union with Mordred is turning out to be -- this is a world Gwynevere knows she cannot live in.

Mordred is not the only one between them to have lost brothers. Heimdall is dead, and it is all Gwynevere can do to keep from losing herself to grief.

Isis wasn’t sure how she felt about Set’s death. He was, after all, the man who had murdered their brother – her husband – who had gone as far as desecrate his body and divide him throughout the land of Egypt. In her eyes, his crimes were immense, eternal and impossible to forgive or forget. If she did, who else would remember the crime? Still, in a small part of her, the one who had stayed her own hand when he faced Horus, the one who hesitated in shedding his blood…

Was it even possible that that part mourned, even though Anubis’ death rang clearer, louder, more painful than any words could express?

One of her children in this world grabbed the hem of her dress and tugged, giving her a smile that was everything of sweet and innocent; demanding her attention shamelessly. Isis gave it all. It distracted her, yes. And it made sure she didn’t ask questions of herself for which she didn’t know – or wanted to know – the answer.

Next time, I would prefer if we ended up anywhere in Egypt. We were far more evolved, no matter what these people say. In fact, if we don't get out of here soon, I might just find a ship that will take me across. Somehow.

Her sisters were dead. Hades was dead. And without Zeus and Demeter, that meant she was alone. Oh, she had other sisters here, her dear cousin. But none of them were him, the one who should have never died in the first place.

It had been a couple of days since Hades' death. Persephone had thrown herself into silent, numb grief. It differed from the one she suffered when she first was brought to the Underworld. Then she had cried more openly with the grace of an innocent who didn't have the strength to deal with the shock and change. It hadn't been attractive in the slightest (no one ever looked good while crying, she could assure them of that).

Now the tears slipped down her face and she doesn't make a sound. An Iron Queen shouldn't cry, she knew that, but this was the Underworld King, her husband. Her Hades. Death came to them but not like this. Never like this. The heels of her hands scrubbed at her damp cheeks as she ignored the worried servants moving around her, whispering and fretting. Nothing would be alright until he came back. If he came back. In the case that he did not...

A chill swept over her inside and then anger. She would hunt down Khaos and would, if it came to it, perish trying for revenge. Going on without doing anything (without him) would never do.

Well thank fuck that's over with.


[Private]

It was nice of Khaos to let me have a son even if for only a couple of weeks. I haven't even tried to have a child in this lifetime, but I have to be very picky. Not just anyone will do.

[Filtered to his Roman family.]

Although we are no longer related I still wanted to see how you all were doing.