#dontcallmealyre

[maidofmoonlight-blog]

“Who taught you how to dress, Artie?”Owen nudges her with his elbow as they weave among the trees.

“What’s wrong, dear? Not sure what sort of tree you’d like?” the older woman asks.

“Oh, I am… I’m not looking,” the Greek says easily, with a smile. The pair stops, looking almost confused and sort of mortified.

“You’re not looking for a tree?” Owen asks. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those that has one of those aluminum ones sitting in a dusty box in the attic.”

Artemis shakes her head. “I’ve never had a tree.”

And that gets her a weird look as well. Surely they knew that not everyone celebrated Christmas? Of course, they assumed that she was just a run-of-the-mill American woman, fresh out of college, or whatever it was that women who looked her age did. It occurs to her how woefully unadjusted to human life she was, and she refrained from biting her lip. It was a nasty habit that she seemed to be developing more lately.

“My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” she says slowly. Yule, maybe? That would be the closest thing that would seem appropriate as a former Pagan goddess, but not Christmas.

Miriam takes her hand. “What of your roommate? Do they not celebrate Christmas?”

Artie’s mind drifts to Apollo. He would think it silly, assure her that they were Greek Gods, not mortals, which would result in her telling him that she wasn’t immortal anymore, and was, in fact, a mortal. Or it might. She wasn’t sure that he would talk to her, or even look at her. Seeing him actually register that she was sitting in front of him, in this universe and not all of them? That would be nice. Arguing with her brother again would be a blessing that she had been praying for, but she doubted that the Gods heard her prayers anymore. The thought made her physically ill.

She shakes her head. “No. He’s never there enough to celebrate with me, even if he did.” And that was true, though they probably didn’t understand her meaning. They would think that she meant physical absence, where she meant mental absence.

The older woman obviously was not happy with this, and immediately began talking the young woman’s ear off to tell her so.

By the time that she returned home, it had gotten dark, and her face stung from the cold. The house is warm, it’s always warm, but quiet also. The lack of sound after being coerced out of the house with Owen and Miriam is very nice, and she doesn’t even bother breaking it with her voice, only with the sounds that she makes preparing tea.

The smell of pine needles unnerves her for the first time in centuries.

[iamthetrickster]

Dealing

Gabriel feels them watching him as soon as he lands on Earth; he's only planning on being there briefly, to check in on things there, but he's gotten tired of them all dancing around each other. If they're going to be following him around, he's at least going to let them know that he knows what they're doing.

"You know," he comments coolly to the empty field he'd landed in, "hiding in the shadows is usually considering cowardly."

"You would know, wouldn't you?" a voice asks, and Gabriel turns. Chemosh stands, flanked by Marzanna and Osebo. Gabriel's a little surprised Osebo's there, considering Anansi's death likely meant a lot more security for the Tiger. Marzanna doesn't surprise him, though; she'd been bitter and cold for years, and now that Czernobog's gone she's alone in representing the darkness of winter for her pantheon.

"Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't," Gabriel responds, his voice calm despite the natural instinct to find a better standpoint to speak from. He doesn't know how many are in the group that he can't see. "But that's not why you're following me, and it's not why I'm talking to you right now, is it?"

Oseba raises an eyebrow. "You talk more than Spider," he comments, his voice deep and dangerous-sounding, like a growl. Gabriel laughs.

"And I say more, too," he adds. "You want to teach angels a lesson, I'm guessing? Probably the Winchesters, too."

Marzanna makes an angry little sound, and Gabriel knows very well that it's him she wants dead. 

"Can't have 'em," he tells them flatly. "And you can't kill me without starting a pagan war. I'm still worshiped, doncha know."

"What do you propose, then?" Chemosh asks, moving slowly to circle Gabriel. Gabriel has to fight to stay still as Chemosh walks behind him.

"You get me. No killing, you leave everyone else, and if I get out, you let it be," he suggests with a little shrug. "Those are my conditions. Other than that...I'd be yours to do with as you please."

He knows it's not the ideal situation, and he knows that his Father most likely didn't mean for him to 'get through' the potential war, but he'd rather have one loss -- and really, he's not even dying, it's hardly a loss at all if he gets out -- than risk losing family.

He waits, watching Chemosh make a full circle, then raises an eyebrow. 

"'Course, Kali and Apollo want me dead--" but Marzanna laughs, the sound chilling and grating.

"You think we work with the Greek?" she asks mockingly. "Who took prayers for himself only and left us none? No."

Gabriel shrugs again. 

"Then it's me or a war nobody's gonna win," he informs his once-allies. They glance at each other, looking dubious. 

"Speak to Kali," Chemosh says finally. "But I would certainly look forward to making you wish you'd allowed us to kill you."

The gods disappear, and Gabriel gets the distinct feeling he's just screwed himself over.

[minesbiggerdarlings]

dontcallmealyre replied to your post: You can stop now. No more prayers.

Start keeping track or I’ll do to you what I did to Atropos and then some.

I can't stop it, Apollo. It's up to them now.

[youreallywantthetruth-blog1]

Unblocked.

“Mama, wh-what are you doing?” the little girl questions her, shifting from foot to foot.

“Not what I’m doing,” Veritas pops the lid off of a paint can, looking up at her chid with a smile. “What we’re doing.”

The Nephilim tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. The Goddess smiles.

“You still wanted to paint with me, didn’t you?”

Almost instantly the child lights up happily. To anybody else, it would seem defensive, as if the girl were lighting up to ward off some sort of predator. In actuality, she was glowing from the inside, a show of excitement and happiness.

Veritas offers Lux a can of bright blue that she’s already stirred, smiling a little brighter as the girl looks up at her as if asking for what rules she had.

“Rules: Be as messy as possible, but make something of it, okay?”

Lux nods, setting the jar down in front of one of the clean canvases. Veritas follows with a few cans of her own, and is pleased when Lux follows her example, dipping her hands into the paint and taking them to the canvas.

She watches her daughter for  a while, blue and purple paint dripping from her hands and down the canvas. Lux is using the brighter colours, and it’s hard to tell just yet what the little girl has decided to paint, sitting cross-legged in front of a surface that nearly dwarfs her. Veritas herself is thinking in blood reds, haunting blacks, warm golds, and harsh whites. The clash of armor, the glint of ichor… It all rings in her mind. She can feel the white hot heat at the back of her neck, still imagine that all too familiar red glow, and it’s a hard fight for her not to reach for the colours she sees in her mind’s eyes.

“Mama, can you-“ Lux gestures toward her, accidnetally flinging paint that strikes her mother across her middle in vibrant red.

Shocked by the sudden cold, Veritas gasps and tenses, slowly opening her eyes to look down at the stunned godling looking back up at her.

“You are in for it now, little miss,” she laughs. Lux is on her feet, trying to run to the opposite side of the room, but Veritas flings a handful of paint –light purple- at the little girl, who squeals as she’s hit.

That only ends in retaliation, which turns into painting each other, then painting the canvases together.

“It’s time for a bath, I think,” Veritas tells her daughter as she ties her hair back into a messy, paint-stained bun. The little girl doesn’t argue, leaving a yellow handprint over where her mother’s deep green one sits drying on the canvas. Hand in hand, mother and child leave the plastic covered room, Venice, Pairs, and the cosmos drying behind them.

The Goddess feels as though a weight has lifted from her. A block moved from her way, if you will.