It is not often that the Fates task Moros with an immortal soul - let alone one meant to safeguardhim - but nothing about the war has been what Moros had anticipated. Naturally, he knew of Melinoe – knew the destiny she had to fulfill, and who she was, but he never knew her.
He never knew anyone, really.
Often, he feels almost remorseful about his work. His face was not one that mortals liked to think of, or ever wanted to know, and his legacy left a bad taste in the mouths of many. The state of darkness, of bitter cold and bloodshed that the world seemed constantly plunged in left him never without work. A sentiment, perhaps, that only his brother Thanatos might have shared; if only Moros had enough of a connection with Death Incarnate to lament the role he was tasked with.
Yet he feels the pull of her untimely doom, mortal red sputtering out between ragged breaths, and briefly he is taken by her visage. He barely stumbles through the message he’s rehearsed to deliver, caught up in the way that she doesn’t stare at him like an omen.
“It’s been an honor,” He adds, bowing dramatically, before he compels himself away, ignoring the way she tugs at the recesses of his thoughts. Part of him feels the sorrow he does when the soul he claims was undeserving, fresh faced and ready to face a world it never got to see. But Melinoe also possesses the fiery burn of Lord Hades, her soul a maelstrom of emotion despite her soft features and wide eyes.
As it turns out, quelling his thoughts of her becomes harder to do when she not only makes the conscious effort to be part of them, but does what only a fool might do: invite him to her abode.
The shades at the crossroads are anxious for reasons he can fully empathise with, Hecate regards him with reluctant curiosity and Odysseus, despite the respect he has for the hero, is skittish with him. Nemesis has little regard for him, though there’s some comfort knowing she has little regard for anyone and he’s left with a talkative shade for company and the princess herself.
Truthfully, he is grateful. Without his sisters, he feels like he ambles without purpose, but Melinoe gives him some fighting spirit. He has never fought for anything, not in the sense of the word familiar to the Underworld’s princess – everything has been preordained, souls carefully extracted at the moment they were due. Even those that struggled, he knew would relent. Never had he had to wrestle with loss, grief, hopelessness and come out a victor.
Melinoe does this, inspiringly so. Every night he watches dutifully as she tends to her plant plots, salutes the shades and Gods at the Crossroads respectfully, brews in the cauldron and heads off to face her fate for the night, before she returns, brows furrowed, and posture slouched. Yet, it never stops her. The embers of her wreath never temper, and Moros believes that with every failure her resolve grows stronger.
She tries to eke it out of him, and every now and then, he nearly relents – drawn by the way she blinks doe eyes up at him under her lashes, sets her emerald lips in a playful pout. But an immortal life time of self-restraint and control sees Moros simply smiling wryly back at her.
“You know that I cannot share such things with you, princess,” He replies, sympathetically. “As much as I would like to, I am bound by an oath,”
“Not even if it was in a riddle – isn’t that usually how these prophecies go?” She thoughtfully tips her head to the side, equal parts ruby, and emerald boring into him.
“I fear princess, that you are much too smart to not make sense of it too quickly,” He gives her an apologetic bow. “However, I know you are capable enough to fulfil what the Fates have in store for you. Every step you make is a step forward,”
Moros is aware of all of his flaws – just as he is aware of all of his strengths. He has himself measured, as a deity, and has been nothing but dutiful for his whole life; a trait shared by… most children of Nyx. Hypnos, perhaps, the one exception, but lately even he has been up to par with his name.
But perhaps the one he did not expect, was to be so attentive to Melinoe’s comings and goings, the trail of fire she leaves in her wake like a beacon amidst the gloom of the Crossroads. Her persistence is his new constant, in absence of the thread of fate being woven, he observes it going through the motions in her. It tears his concentration away from his duty, as miniscule as it presently feels, and blooms anew a feeling he hadn’t encountered before.
Her steps falter from behind the list of minor prophecies, and he can hear the telltale murmurs of her confiding in her familiar, Frinos, before she falters out of her tent, her steps a little less nimble, her posture ever more slouched.
“Princess,” He greets her, inkling his head. “You look… weary.”
Melinoe’s laugh is bitter – but not without humour. “Weary, yes. Defeated? Never,” She brushes past him, her arm brushing his lightly, that unfamiliar feeling stirring within once more. “Would you indulge me in a walk, Lord Moros? I… wouldn’t mind the company, tonight,”
“Of course,” He obliges, falling into step beside her, both of them moving through the shadowy paths of Erebus. Tonight her spirit is weighed by something more; he notices this, this mood, from time to time, though often it is his more biting sibling that draws it out of her. Self-doubt.
“Tell me, Lord Moros,” She finally says, though her voice is quiet. “Do you believe that the Fates… that they always speak true?”
“I have never doubted it. Neither should you. You push against the fabric of destiny, I know. It is no small burden,” He observes the way she slumps, rubbing at her temples as if to ward off a persistent ache.
“What of your burdens, Lord Moros?” She inquires, and he doesn’t need to turn his head to know the expression she must wear.
However, the question does catch him off guard – a rare occurrence for someone so accustomed to the predictability of fate. He pauses to consider it – has never once been provoked to.
“Burden is a companion I am well acquainted with, Princess,” He tries to stave off the melancholic timber in his voice, to little avail. “Every soul met, is a reminder of the inexorable march towards an end. My journey has always been lonely, observing lives as they flicker and fade,”
She slows them to a halt – where they are is quieter, the trees hanging like willows, sheltering them from an audience of shades. Her thoughtful expression wears an understanding Moros is grateful for. “And yet, you carry on. Is it duty alone that drives you, or is there something else?”
He laughs, quietly, though for whatever reason, he’s not sure. “I think it’s the fact that I have never known anything else. This has been my life, and it will continue to be,” The words don’t feel right, as if the threads of fate have woven a different path for him already. “…Although, I suppose things feel different now. I know that I was meant to be here and aid you Princess but, I have yet to feel like I’ve made any headway there,”
“Join the club,” She laughs bitterly, gesturing that he sit with her against a felled tree trunk. The wood is cool, mildly damp too, but he ignores that aspect of it. “It’s easy to feel like I’m treading water. No matter how hard I fight I’m always just one step behind. It’s hard to think that I would be made for this, not someone stronger, more capable. More willing, even,”
“Like Nemesis,” He is no stranger to the arguments the two have, nor is anyone else around here apparently. Nemesis wears disdain in her features, disobeys Headmistress Hecate as if it were a responsibility, and taunts Melinoe relentlessly. He knows it stems from a similar place of wanting – their mother too, is trapped. And what better retribution, than to slay the Titan responsible for it? But Melinoe has just as much at stake, if not more. “Not that I believe her better suited, but I know that she does,”
“Like Nemesis,” She sadly echoes. “Sometimes it’s hard not to believe her. That she is everything she says I am not. Relentless, ruthless, unyielding. I couldn’t even deal her a hard enough blow to be worthy of her coin,” She scoffs. “Sometimes… I think she’s right. That it should have been her instead,”
“Nemesis may be many things, but she lacks what you possess in abundance: compassion, resilience, and the ability to inspire others. Strength isn’t just about brute force, or the willingness to kill. It is about enduring and persisting, even when the odds are stacked against you,” The words tumble out faster than he can stop them, but it’s worth it to see the glimmer return to her eyes.
“Do you truly think so?” She asks, quiet as a mouse. To think, this was the Goddess who stared Doom in the face and then beckoned him to stay in her abode.
“Truly,” He smiles. His fingers itch, to take hers in his own, though the motion seems embarrassing to consider. “Failure is only final if you give up. And I do not see that happening. Call it… fate,”
“Thank you, Lord Moros. Your faith in me means more than you know,” She stares down at her feet, before fiddling with her purse. “Ah – that reminds me,”
Before he knows it, she’s brandishing a bottle, ribbon around the cork of it and despite never knowing the taste of it he recognises it immediately as Nectar of the Gods, glittering and gold. “To make your stay more comfortable, as our honored guest,” She shifts uncomfortably.
He’s no ones honored guest but hers, but that if anything sweetens the deal. “Nectar of the Gods!” He exclaims, daring to reach out and brush against the glass bottle. “Thank you Princess. I’ve… not received an offering before,”
He hesitantly and gently takes her gift, and lets his eyes wander across it, before they flicker back up to her, where she now bashfully regards her knees. “I like to come prepared though. So,” His hands glide along his zoster, until his fingers halt on a pin, unplucking it for her.
It’s small, unassuming yet intricately engraved. A token, that he knew he would one day part with. Today is that day. “Here. From me to you,”
He doesn’t miss the way her hands cup his when he extends it to her, so much smaller compared to his own, or how her palms are calloused from her extensive weapon training as they glide off his.
“How thoughtful. I accept,” She graciously bows at the waist from where they are seated, and Moros, for the first time, considers the possibility of choice.
When she sidles up to where he is, a small vial of salts in her hand, he doesn’t anticipate the question she asks – a running trend it seems, to be surprised in her presence.
“Have you experienced our hotsprings yet, Lord Moros? The waters cleanse the body and mind. I’m headed over,” She pauses, a beat, and her face lights up in a way that he could only describe as nymphlike. “If you’d care to join me,”
The Gods have no place for shame, and an eternity alive makes one rather candid about being disrobed and the like, until it all boils down into the arbitrary. Especially so, when half the deities could change their shape at will. Yet, Moros founds himself a touch flustered by the implication, hopeful that his curtains of hair shield the gold that rises to his cheeks.
“Why I…” He stutters, his grasp on his rapier tightening. “I… don’t see why not!” He winces at his enthusiasm, soothing it with his next words. “I’ve seen and heard about such springs as these, though never been,”
He averts his gaze when she discards her saffron robe and preoccupies himself with neatly unfastening his armor, gorget, shendyt, tassels and circlet, before he sinks into the water. The relief hits him faster than anticipated, like every nerve in his primordial body unwinds and softens. He hears the Princess follow suit, his eyes having fluttered shut.
“So, what did you and the Fates do for recreation where you’re from anyhow?” He dares to look at her, and thankfully, talk of his sisters keeps him from focusing on the way that her damp hair curls in the misty green light of the springs, her pale shoulders dewy with bathwater.
“Have I mentioned that they liked to weave?” A smirk plays on his lips. “Their weaving was their occupation and their passion. I never got too good at it myself, and all they needed was the three of them so…”
“I know an excellent spinstress who could maybe help with your technique,” Arachne, no doubt – a soul he was familiar with, before Athena reclaimed her soul in the body of a spider. “What did you do while they were busy spinning away?”
What he did, and what he did recreationally, were two very different questions – though, Moros is lost for an answer on the latter. “Well… I would travel the world! To witness mortals in their final moments. Look them square in the face as they perished…” Used to it, yes, but never something he delighted in. “…Often in horror...”
“…You do this for recreation’s sake?” If she notices his shift in tone, she turns it into a playful ribbing, more so than anything that might make him feel vulnerable under careful concern.
“The nature of the role leaves little time for recreation,” Not, that he had spent much time thinking about recreation to begin with. “And it’s all I could do to make those final moments dignified… though I don’t think the gesture always comes across,”
There it is – the sympathy that wears away at his resolve. “I’m sorry,” She turns to face him, and it looks, for a moment, like she might place a hand, her phantasmal one perhaps, gently against his arm.
“There’s no need, for it’s the life I was given. I’ve been lucky to find purpose in it even if it isn’t always… pleasant,” She nods, more understanding flickering in her eyes. Countless mortals have faced Doom in their final moments, yet it is Melinoe’s gaze that finally makes him feel seen. “And moments like these, talking with you about it. It makes it feel less lonely,”
Her smile in response is gentle, encouraging. They talk longer than Moros thinks he has in centuries, and conversation feels ceaseless, perhaps in part to the constant ebb of the waters gently lapping at their skin. When she goes to pull herself out of the waters, once more he quickly averts his gaze and follows suit.
“I’ve not felt so refreshed in…” Ever, really. “Well. It’s been a while now. Thank you again,” He says, having returned to his place, the way that Melinoe fiddles with her belt a sure sign that she’s headed off to the lowest reaches of the Underworld once more.
As it is with Melinoe he finds, the surprises don’t stop. His mind feels foggy under the weight of constant distraction, and in her absence, he catches himself wondering when he might next see her, have a chance to talk to her. Indulge in the springs with her, even.
“Never took you to be this sloppy Moros,” Nemesis’s voice rasps from beside him, pulling him from his reverie.
“Pardon?” The stutter is barely schooled from his voice this time, his gaze ripping away from the chthonic nymph throwing petals into the cauldron.
“You know brother, you are a whole lot more obvious than you think,” Her gaze is piercing as she studies him, a smirk curling at her lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re not usually one for distractions, but here you are, daydreaming like a lovestruck fool,”
Moros stiffens, his posture straightening on instinct. “I was merely lost in thought. Nothing more. You should know that a lot weighs on my mind. All our minds,”
“Uh huh. You two have spent a lot of time together lately. Disappearing off for your little chats. Loitering at the springs. You sure that’s not what’s weighing on your mind?” She drawls, leaning in a little closer like she might sense the answer under his skin.
He chooses his words carefully, though he’s sure she sniffs out his hesitation like a bloodhound. “I have found Melinoe’s perspective on things refreshing. And I am here to aid in her cause, after all,”
“Whatever you say, brother. Just don’t forget, there’s a reason why Ares and Aphrodite, go so well together,” She sneers, before she strides off, the weight of her heavy armour clinking off back towards her post. A twinge of irritation courses through him, courtesy of Nemsis’s art of making even the simplest conversations feel like a battlefield interrogation. But, there is a kernel of truth to her words.
There is an unmistakable tug at his heartstrings, these days, when she draws near. Never in his agelessness has he encountered Lady Aphrodite, aside from the havoc she had wreaked up above – what mortals would do for love, what Gods would do. He has some understanding for now.
But never had he considered in the grand design of things, that this would be in his cards. Hopelessly, he casts a forlorn glance back at the list of prophecies, as if one for him might be spelled out within it.
“Ambrosia for your thoughts?” Melinoe asks, dispelling his troublesome thoughts, a glistening bottle in her grasp, alongside two glasses she was precariously balancing in her phantom claws.
“My I…” He considers Nemesis’s words, but as it would be, he cares more for Melinoe’s company. “Always,”
There isn’t much to make of her tent, and though she makes the most of it, he’s saddened that she had never seen the splendour of the House of Hades in her lifetime. The procession of shades, the lounge that her brother Zagreus had somehow breathed life into, the garden her mother tended to… lost in time.
“So, what’s got you looking… should I say, morose?” She asks, swirling the amber liquid about in her glass. They’ve cushioned themselves on her rugs, the unfinished portrait of her family sitting above her in her makeshift alter.
“Pardon me princess, but that was,” He chuckles, the affects of the drink seeping into his veins. “That was awful,”
“I know, I know, I had to try though. And it worked, since you’re smiling now. Hopefully my abysmal sense of humour isn’t what’s got that frown etched on your face?” She laughs airily at him, and it cuts through the gloom of their surroundings.
He is smiling, the corners of his mouth lifting into a rare expression of genuine amusem*nt. “Nothing has me down, Princess. I think… actually it’s quite the opposite,”
“However do you mean?” She asks. “And- enough with the formalities. I think that we should adopt a first name basis – so, call me Melinoe. Mel, even,”
He thinks the nickname in his head but cannot bring himself to say it. Not just yet. His gaze once more drifts to the unfinished portrait – a poignant reminder of the family she fights for, the legacy she hopes to reclaim. “Melinoe,” He begins, tasting her name. “Do you ever think about what it will be like when this is all over? When you’ve fulfilled your destiny?”
Her eyes grow hazy with distance, and he’s readied an apology, but she interrupts that thought. “All the time. But it’s hard to imagine, you know? I’ve spent so long fighting, struggling… the idea of peace almost feels foreign,”
He nods, understanding her sentiment all too well. “It can be daunting, envisioning a life beyond the conflict, especially when it has consumed so much of your existence,”
She sighs, lithe form sinking back into the pillows with a distant gaze. “What about you, Moros? Is it alright if I call you that? When you’re not ushering souls or… fulfilling ominous prophecies, do you dream of anything?”
“Of course,” He feels warmth bloom under his skin at the way his name rolls of her tongue, formality absent, but can’t tell if it’s the ambrosia taking effect or not. “I… I’m not sure if I have an answer pr—Melinoe,”
He does, however, hold her gaze, as if that is an unspoken answer. What he dreams of is for a time where his presence is not so necessary – not because of any reverence of his work, but because everything about his role means the worst has come.
And selfishly, he dreams for more than solitude. He dreams of understanding, of ember wreaths nested in wheat colored hair, while his fingers tangle in it. He dreams of what her lips taste like, coated in ambrosia – if it tastes like the bottom of his glass.
Unconsciously, his eyes flicker down to trace the curve of her lip, the way it parts – a heartbeat far too long before he catches himself. Surprise, but also curiosity blossom in her gaze, and her breath hitches; this one he hears in addition to seeing.
“Moros…” She whispers, her voice barely audible over the quiet crackle of the nearby fire. The sound makes his heart, a thing of cosmic thread, beat erratically. In fact, it utterly undoes him.
Aphrodite plays him like a puppet, as he reaches out, brushes a cautious thumb over the supple skin of her cheek, and the way her eyes flutter shut is a silent assent that draws him in.
It’s brief, but stars explode behind his eyes regardless, her lips brush against his, and he dimly registers the embarrassing noise that catches in his throat at the feeling. Moros feels himself pliant under the tremor of her touch, surprised that she’s the one that dares to lick the nectar of his lips, which prompts his hand to cup the back of her head and pull her closer.
Desire coils within him, but the minute he takes notice, is the minute he pulls away, worry clutching at his heart.
“I shouldn’t,” He murmurs, his voice a low rumble of regret. “This—us—it’s not meant to be. My very essence is doom, Melinoe, I would be nothing but an omen to your prophecy,”
He has yet to truly disentangle from her, her hair soft between his fingers, the scent of bath salts and sea salt mingling delightfully on her skin. Her eyes open slowly, expression unreadable. If one thing is doomed – it’s whatever shot he had; but he doesn’t entertain that idea. That this was an option to begin with.
Her fingers touch her lips where his were just moments ago and he fights to not remind her of what it feels like. “You are more than just doom, Moros,” But in that same breath, she pulls away – as does he, and the moment elapses as if it never passed. “But I understand. We are both duty bound, and we both have little room for… whatever desires we may hold in our hearts,”
He nods, compelled to stand and leave, though he feels a chasm widen between them. “It’s better this way,”
Dreadfully, he turns to leave, just as he faintly hears her say, “Is it?”
“Heyyy so I know you’re like the harbinger of Doom or whatever, but like, you don’t usually seem this down in the dumps,” He’s found a place by the pier, though he merely stands stiffly, staring out at the nearly unmoving waters.
“Don’t I?” He inclines, regarding Dora’s ghostly form as it drifts towards him – it’s always been of great curiosity to Moros how her form has morphed, somewhere between human and shade. Like her humanity was touch and go.
“Nah. I mean. Maybe you do, I don’t spend much time staring at you, assessing your expressions. Et cetera,” She shrugs – he thinks – and smirks his way. Something about this feels like it’s going somewhere else, however. “Also, Mel has been super mopey these last couple weeks since you two made out in her tent,”
His back goes rigid, and he resists the urge to smack himself across the head. Ever careful Moros, forgetful of the simple fact that Melinoe has a relentless shade attempting to haunt her tent. Of course she would’ve bore witness to that incident – though he’s silently grateful it didn’t amount to more under her watchful eye.
“Of course she has been,” He mutters, more to himself than Dora. In some ways he may as well doomed her to the streak of miserable attempts to get past even Scylla, or so he’s heard. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,”
Dora raises an ethereal eyebrow, drifting closer. “Didn’t mean for what. The kiss? Or her to care so much?”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “…Both, I suppose. It was a moment of weakness – a lapse in judgment on my part. She deserves better,”
“You’re both terrible at hiding your feelings,” She yawns, though he knows for certain that she no longer feels fatigue. “Aren’t Gods supposed to be master of deception or something?”
“Or something,” He replies quietly. “Say – Dora, why do you have such a vested interest in this?”
“Oh, well, she’s just no fun. I’ve come up with some of my best haunts to date – which might not be true but is also saying a lot since I’ve been dead so long – and she didn’t even respond in her usually fond annoyance! She just grunted at me and walked past!”
He spares her a chuckle, however short lived – until he remembers that he is the cause of Melinoe’s newfound dour mood. “I understand. I will talk to her… see if I can lift her spirits a bit,”
“Puhlease,” She groans. “It’s bringing me down, and again, I’m the dead one. I got a lot to be down about. Not a rabbit hole I wanna go exploring. And ‘sides – I think this whole doom and gloom shtick? If the fates didn’t want you guys here, you would’ve never kissed. Just sayin’,”
She’s no Aristotle, that is for certain, but he understands her point.
“For that I’m not sure. But I do think I have sullied our relationship more than improved it, despite my best intentions,”
“You’re overthinking it,” Dora floats around him, her ghostly form flickering like a restless flame. “You’re here for a reason. Maybe – just maybe, that reason includes her. Sometimes what seems like a curse, can be a blessing in disguise.,” She pauses, and briefly, Moros thinks she could even be considered introspective.
Until she says, “Like me, for instance,”
He paces, unusually so outside her tent, until he convinces himself to go up to it. There really isn’t any right way about this – there’s a flap and nothing else, no door to knock on, so he clears his throat to make his approach known, until she looks up from the scrolls she’s poring over.
“Moros. I… wasn’t expecting you,” She startles, though he does note the exhaustion that her body emanates.
“I know. I don’t think I gave you much reason to, after my abrupt departure last time,” He doesn’t fidget, but he traces the hilt of his rapier, conveniently shaped like a needle. “I… wish to speak with you about what happened. And what didn’t happen afterward,”
“Moros—there’s really no need—” She begins, averting her gaze.
“No there—there is need. I care for you, deeply, Melinoe, and it upsets me to know that I am causing you distress,” She co*cks a brow at him. “…Dora might have told me. And, I have spent eons perfecting the craft of observation. It doesn’t escape me, that you have been unlike yourself as of late,”
He extends his palm, a vial of salts resting in it. “Perhaps, a trip to the springs might ease your aches and soothe your mind?”
She considers the offer, and he considers it a small win when she pulls herself from her chair, striding over to him with a confidence he’s begun to miss. “Why, that is rather forward of you, Moros,” With an impish smile, she swipes the salts from him, the contact sending an uncharacteristic shiver through him.
“Simply returning the favor, Princess,”
It is no less awkward, and he does not focus his gaze on her anymore than he did the first few times they found themselves here, until he feels the gentle touch of her hand on his under the water. “You said you wished to talk?”
In hindsight, having this conversation bare, in steamy hot waters that bring a flush to her face and shoulders, was not the wisest idea. “Indeed,” He manages. “About the other night I reacted well—hastily, perhaps,”
Her gaze softens, but there is a quiet ache he thinks he sees. He’s hopeful for it. “You were honest, Moros. It’s more than I can ask for, given your nature and duties,”
Moros has always been sure of things – his purpose, his role, the sands of time. Melinoe makes him feel none of those things. “That’s not entirely true. I might have been honest but not open. I… still do not know, if this is the safest choice. But denying how I feel, pretending I don’t feel the affects of it, would be a disservice to us both,”
Her eyes search his, even when he draws his gaze away, focuses on the steam rising from the baths. “And how is it that you feel?”
“Distracted,” He blurts. “By you. I enjoy our talks, our walks, our… time in the springs. I even enjoy fishing, as pointless as I feel it may be. But I enjoy it because… you still the disquiet within me. I have never felt greater peace than in your company,”
“And I think that I have learnt a great deal from you, Melinoe. Most of all, that perhaps, we are more than just our duties,” His voice steadies, but the intensity of his tone does not waver. “And I think that we have a greater capacity to choose than I have told myself. I cannot ignore how deeply I care for you, any longer. That is a choice I am making,”
He takes some pride in how her breath catches, her wide eyes searching his face for any hint of hesitation. “I… I’m not sure what to say,” Bashfully, she tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear, a subtle bloom of pink across her cheeks. “I truthfully thought I was alone in that feeling – the distraction, the feeling of unrest whenever you were near,”
“That makes both of us,” Daringly, he weaves their fingers together, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I am… these feelings are new to me. Forgive me, if I have not been gracious with them,”
“I know how we can start,” She murmurs, using their interlocked hands to drag him slightly closer, before leaning up on her tiptoes to press his lips to his.
“Dora?” She calls, shading her eyes to squint around her tent for the shade. “She doesn’t appear to be here,”
Truthfully, if Moros had the choice, he would’ve been content to stay in the springs, experienced the way her body melded against his own as it did in their embrace, his hands exploring the planes of muscle on her back, how she felt flush against him under the water.
But he was also the one who pulled back, breathless and a little too worked up to go unnoticed and said: “Perhaps it’s best we extract ourselves from the water, lest someone else wish to use it,”
Melinoe raises a perceptible eyebrow, and the playful smirk she shoots him goes straight south. “Are you saying we’ll be occupied a while here?”
“I’m not—I did not mean to imply—it’s simply that, these springs are a place of purity and—” He curses under his breath, trying to steady his voice.
“Oh, are you having impure thoughts now too, Moros?” She drops her voice, bats her lashes up at him and he has half a mind to indulge. They’re immortal – their skin will not wrinkle in the water, and her incantation has kept it steaming this whole time, but truthfully, this does feel like a sanctity of sorts, and he would hate to conduct himself so improperly.
“I am distracted – is that sufficient?” He groans, though it does not last long with the small laugh she gives him, a joyous sound. “And there are other places where propriety might not be our greatest concern,”
“You’re not wrong there,” She withdraws, only to slide herself out of the water, and Moros once more finds himself hastily trying to look away. “Though I think we might have some trouble if you still struggle to look at me,”
“Melinoe, I think we will have trouble getting anywhere if I were to look at you right now,” He admits, and to her credit, he hears the rustle of her clothing.
And thus, they find themselves back here, settling into the pillows and rugs. “Ambrosia?” She offers, and when he looks up, she’s fidgeting with the edge of her robe. “I find it helps with… clarity,”
She’s nervous, He thinks to himself, watching as she averts her gaze again, purses her lips and fiddles with her hem. “I would like to be of sound mind – but, I must confess, I have been curious,”
“Curious?” She repeats. Her hair is still slightly damp, hanging in soft curls around her dewy skin.
“How it might taste, in your mouth. I never got the chance to fully experience it last time,”
She squeaks, colour rushing to her cheeks – but her recovery is swifter than his own. “When did you get so bold?” She chuckles, pouring out the respective glasses, if only to give herself something to be busy with. Then, she throws back half of her own, sets his glass beside him, and crawls over. “Well – whenever you’re ready, I’m waiting,”
He swallows thickly, with so much to focus on; her hands, caging his own kneeling knees, or her half-lidded gaze, or how she licks her lips purposefully which only makes his breath catch. “You’re teasing me,” He states, though he leans in closer, lets her undo his circlet of antlers to cast aside.
“Correct you are,” She hums, nimbly working her way down to the rest of his attire. “Say – I don’t know why we both put back on all our armour? It feels a little tedious,”
“Habit, I suppose. That and, I think it would have been a little eye catching for us to be carrying it all by hand back to your tent,” He points out, as her hands glide around his gorget to undo its fastenings nimbly.
“Fair point – I have had a bit of an issue with nosy shades lately…” The pauldrons follow suit, leaving him bare from the waist up, and considerably more vulnerable. She ghosts over the intricate markings of his biceps, tracing the lines of it and Moros bites his tongue, dutifully biding time until she was ready to continue. “There. Slightly less encumbered now,”
“Thank you,” He mumbles in return, tucking hair behind her ear so his fingers can linger on the shell of it, before tracing a line down her jaw. In his lifetime he’s had very little reason for courtship, and despite his boldness with kissing her, he still feels amiss initiating much else. He would be content to study her features, deal in gentle touches and nothing else if she said the word.
She smiles into his reserved touch, before she leans back on her haunches, raising a glass in a toast. “Well then. To clarity,”
“To clarity,” He quietly echoes, clinking his glass against her own. A dent is hardly made before she sets her glass aside, shuffles closer until her knees brush his own, and leans forward.
“Say, were you by any chance still curious?” She whispers, a clear invitation.
Moros would be a fool not to accept.
“Yes,” He rasps, before he leans in with her, their noses brushing. “May I?”
“Moros, please just kiss me already,” She breathes quietly, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. His lips slot against hers, where they both sigh in unison, and this time, he’s the one to lick at the seam of her lips, ambrosia and Melinoe overwhelming his senses. It’s enough to distract him from her crawling into his lap, until he feels her thighs tighten around his waist.
On instinct, his hands find her waist, while more boldly, she scrapes at his neck, writhing closer in a way that fogs up his train of thought. She is so slight, so lithe and petite against him, yet she so easily takes charge of this. She nibbles at his lower lip and pulls gently at his hair, which draws another sigh of want from him that she swallows up greedily.
Heat, so unfamiliar, pools within him, a molten rush that eclipses all other concerns that he’s had. He finds the fastenings of her neck brace, and deftly work them apart, pulling back momentarily to seek permission.
“Melinoe, do you mind if I—” He begins, but is interrupted by her reaching up herself, undoing the final clasp, and letting her robe pool at her waist, over her belt.
“Does that answer your question?” She asks, sliding her hand up to cup his jaw, keeping his eyes trained on her.
“Plenty,” He manages to respond, though the quality of his voice has become hoarse. As much as he wants to burn the image of her, bare body, smooth muscles, supple breasts into his memory, he would much rather touch. So, he does – slow, deliberate, and seeking; he bends forward, lips finding the pulse of her neck, so warm in contrast to his cool skin.
Her pulse quickens, the sensation of it stirring a primal urge deep within him. He traces the delicate lines of her collarbones, her arms, lean with muscle, surprised to find such warmth emanating from even her ghostly limb, until they wind up back on her waist. She’s not content with this though, pushing herself into his touch.
“Moros,” She breathes, urgent yet tender. “Please,”
She finds his hands with her own, guides them to explore more of her body and he wills himself to let her take the lead. He brushes a thumb under her breast before he moves to cup it, feeling the weight of it in his palms. Leaning down, he captures a pert nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. Melinoe responds immediately – punctuates her desire with a soft moan that only further provokes him to explore.
“Yes,” She gasps, arching into his touch. “More,”
Moros obliges, lavishing attention on both of her breasts, hands and mouth working in tandem to elicit more of those intoxicating noises from her. Eventually he obliges himself, feeling his way down over the curve of her hips until he reaches the swell of her ass, lifting her until he could gently lay her down against the rugs. She takes this switch in their position to disrobe entirely, ridding herself of the belt and shimmying out of her dress.
“Lost for words?” She smirks coquettishly, her eyes sparkling with desire.
He swallows hard, lets his eyes rake over the expanse of her bare body, breath catching in his throat. “Melinoe you are… breathtaking,”
She blushes, but despite that, maintains her mission to tease him. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Moros,”
He chuckles softly, surging forward to lavish kisses along her cheek and jaw. “I intend to do more than just flatter you, Melinoe,”
It’s enough to spur her to reach up and tangle in the hair that pools around them, pulling him in for another kiss. This time it’s urgent, less controlled and he too feels his composure fading as he roams, exploring the firm muscle under the soft skin of her belly, until he reaches the heat between her legs.
To find her slick to the touch reminds him of the deep, aching pulse that demands fulfilment, one that Melinoe is keen to uncover herself as she makes quick work of his belt and shendyt, until they’re both equally nude. As much as he wants to relieve his own burgeoning lust for her, he just as equally wants to worship every part of the goddess that lies before him.
Her breath catches when his fingers brush against her, exploring her with a gentleness that belies his overwhelming need. She is so warm, so wet, so inviting and her body opens to his touch like a flower in the sun. Her back arches beautifully and her lips part in a silent plea for more.
Encouraged, he parts her folds with his fingers, exploring the velvet heat of her core. Her hips lift into the movement, trying to chase it and draw him in closer, deeper. His touch becomes more insistent, and he circles the sensitive bundle of nerves with a thumb before he ducks his head lower to press his tongue against it for the briefest taste.
“Moros!” She cries, the sound making his co*ck jump between his legs. He himself, grounds out a moan against her, her sweet nectar on his tongue better than the ambrosia that sits across from them. When her hands claw at the rugs, before insistently seeking purchase in his hair once more, he responds by shifting where she wants him.
“I want to feel you,” She rasps against his mouth, and to make her point, she wraps her hand around him, drawing out a gasp from him. Fates be kind, he thinks as pleasure shoots through his body from just the brush of her thumb against his arousal.
He lets her guide him to her entrance, chokes on a moan at the way she feels, even just against his very tip. “Are you sure?”
“More than I’ve ever been,” She assures him, rolling her hips forward. “Now be a gentleman and take me,”
With a reverence befitting the moment, he slowly pushes in, inch by inch until their bodies are flush against one another. He’s barely got a grasp on his composure anymore, sweat beading at his temples and his body demanding more. Melinoe’s eyes have squeezed shut, her lower lip between her teeth, and when he finally settles into a slow and deep rhythm, he takes pleasure in the way that her mouth forms the sounds of her pleasure.
But, as it would be, desire wins out. His insistent need to take things slow and steady is outmatched by the roll of her hips, her nails scoring down his back and the tight squeeze of her body around his own. “Moros,” She breathes, her voice a melody of pleasure and longing. “Stop holding back,”
He makes a heady groan in response, restraint snapping. Desperately, he clutches the back of her knee for leverage and drives into her with newfound urgency. In turn, he feels the fiery warmth of her heels dig into his lower back to urge him on.
Her breaths come in short, sharp gasps, and he feels every way that she tenses and trembles underneath him. He’s not faring any better though, broken gasps and breathy moans the only noise he’s capable of, besides the occasional roughly ground out, “Mel,”
Melinoe stiffens suddenly, a telltale sign, and he slows momentarily, shifting angles until she gasps, clutches at him desperately and buries her face in his neck. “Moros!” She cries out with the intensity of her climax, which unravels him.
Pleasure crashes over him in waves, his body shuddering with the force of his release as the coil inside snaps. Melinoe rides out her own high underneath him, cries of ecstasy echoing in his ears as her body tightens around him. As the storm of pleasure subsides, leaving them breathless and spent, Moros collapses beside her, gathering her in his arms.
For a long moment, they simply lie there, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking, the world beyond their intimate cocoon seemingly irrelevant. “I… admit I had not foreseen this outcome,” He finally breaks the silence, his fingers having found a rhythm of stroking through the wisps of her hair.
“Neither did I – how does it feel, defying expectation?” She chuckles softly, curving a gentle smile up at him.
“Freeing, I think,” The warmth of her skin under his touch does too. As does everything about her. “Though I think I felt that way the moment we met, Melinoe,”
“Are you sure you’ve never courted anyone before? You have quite the way with words,” She jokes, tracing idle patterns into his chest.
“I’m sure,” He laughs. “It’s just you. Truthfully, I am beginning to believe that it was always meant to be you. I have never felt… quite as light, as I do with you. So unrestrained.”
The Titan of Time might wait ominously for her in the pits down below, but here, time itself feels as if it slows so they may savour the moment.
“The feeling is mutual. Maybe the best destinies are the ones that catch us by surprise,”
“Maybe so,” He gently catches her hand in his, lifting it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. “I always believed choice to be a luxury not intended for me. But it feels like the only right course of action with you,”
“To choosing,” She yawns, leaning up to press a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. He catches her in the movement, finding her lips with his own.
Yes, he thinks. To fate, right here with you.
 - Shopify South Africa)