In as young a goddess as she is, there was surely an immeasurable amount of seconds, of minutes, of hours spent on the colorful stretches of blankets, under the gently swaying canopy of her tent. Curled up with Frinos, or laying out on her stomach, or with a small pile of books neatly tucked around her (to be reshelved the moment she is done). Those seconds, minutes, hours, spent with her family, as she imagines them with her.
And she with them.
The time spent sitting under an unfinished painting, where she could make out only the barest details of her father's, her mother's, her brother's faces. She would lay there and imagine: conversations, impossible scenarios, arguments that were important only for their frivolity. Introducing her brother to Frinos (had she imagined some similarities in their expressions?) She would pick wildflowers and offer them to Mother. She would reach up a hand, and Father's would encompass her small hands entirely with one of his own. They would talk of everything that the young goddess knew, or was learning, or had learned. Spells, boiling new concoctions, or how to skin a newt (she had refrained from practicing, she insisted, with a wrinkle in her nose.)
But most important of all her imaginings was this: the way their first meeting would fare. It would be like no time had passed, wouldn't it? Would they embrace her, as they did in the painting? Would Mother smile as if the moonlight lit her from within? Would Zagreus allow her that final step she could not take before, to show her his chambers? To see the heart of him?
Would Father still bear the chains that Cronos shackled him in?
All her imaginings, and it was never this. It was never the cold, pressing air of the surface around her as she glanced at a man from the corner of her eye: a man with choppy, dark hair, whose feet left fiery imprints, who moved like the very hounds of Hell chased his every step --
"Wait!" The word is sharp, stripped from her, demanding he be still so she can push this illusion aside. This can't be real. It can't. Cronos was dead, but he would not be dead for long. And he still had his hold on them. She only needs him to be damned still, for a second, and that is long enough to prove --
"Hold!" She calls, crossing the space with a sprint, leaving only the hints of crisped grass behind. When he stills, she takes him in. What she does not expect to meet is a gaze that matches hers, exactly, but mirrored. In the painting, his eyes were downcast. She had never seen their true colors; it had never the most important detail. Maybe, even, the artist meant to return to them.
Her better judgement begs her to accept this must be an illusion. Something Cronos has brought to her, shaded across her eyes, to eke out her weaknesses. Her better judgement also knows better; she is no fool to fall for such trappings, not even in her own mind.
"I..."
Her imagination had never supplied a moment where she would not know exactly what to say to him. Things had always played out as if they were fated to. There would be ease, and knowledge, and she would know him. Now she feels disjointed, out of Time, out of place, with a few awkward mortal eyes thrown her way after her sudden outbursts and even more sudden run to him.
"Salu... salutations."
Oh. Damn it.
For one, she would have sounded much more sure of herself. She would not be so convinced this was another dream, in a world she has only just stepped into. (Away from her calling, her purpose. And yet here part of that purpose stands.)
BIG BROTHERRRR
And she with them.
The time spent sitting under an unfinished painting, where she could make out only the barest details of her father's, her mother's, her brother's faces. She would lay there and imagine: conversations, impossible scenarios, arguments that were important only for their frivolity. Introducing her brother to Frinos (had she imagined some similarities in their expressions?) She would pick wildflowers and offer them to Mother. She would reach up a hand, and Father's would encompass her small hands entirely with one of his own. They would talk of everything that the young goddess knew, or was learning, or had learned. Spells, boiling new concoctions, or how to skin a newt (she had refrained from practicing, she insisted, with a wrinkle in her nose.)
But most important of all her imaginings was this: the way their first meeting would fare. It would be like no time had passed, wouldn't it? Would they embrace her, as they did in the painting? Would Mother smile as if the moonlight lit her from within? Would Zagreus allow her that final step she could not take before, to show her his chambers? To see the heart of him?
Would Father still bear the chains that Cronos shackled him in?
All her imaginings, and it was never this. It was never the cold, pressing air of the surface around her as she glanced at a man from the corner of her eye: a man with choppy, dark hair, whose feet left fiery imprints, who moved like the very hounds of Hell chased his every step --
"Wait!" The word is sharp, stripped from her, demanding he be still so she can push this illusion aside. This can't be real. It can't. Cronos was dead, but he would not be dead for long. And he still had his hold on them. She only needs him to be damned still, for a second, and that is long enough to prove --
"Hold!" She calls, crossing the space with a sprint, leaving only the hints of crisped grass behind. When he stills, she takes him in. What she does not expect to meet is a gaze that matches hers, exactly, but mirrored. In the painting, his eyes were downcast. She had never seen their true colors; it had never the most important detail. Maybe, even, the artist meant to return to them.
Her better judgement begs her to accept this must be an illusion. Something Cronos has brought to her, shaded across her eyes, to eke out her weaknesses. Her better judgement also knows better; she is no fool to fall for such trappings, not even in her own mind.
"I..."
Her imagination had never supplied a moment where she would not know exactly what to say to him. Things had always played out as if they were fated to. There would be ease, and knowledge, and she would know him. Now she feels disjointed, out of Time, out of place, with a few awkward mortal eyes thrown her way after her sudden outbursts and even more sudden run to him.
"Salu... salutations."
Oh. Damn it.
For one, she would have sounded much more sure of herself. She would not be so convinced this was another dream, in a world she has only just stepped into. (Away from her calling, her purpose. And yet here part of that purpose stands.)
"Zagreus."