Chapter Text
57.
fruit of the union
As the odd passivity left in Anson's wake fades, Finola thoughts fall to the peculiar one of his well wishes.
I wish your child to be healthy and strong.
It is the second time this week someone has mentioned a child, burrowing into the back of her mind, plaguing her in moments of contemplation when she is left to her own devises. At first she had thought her sister to be merely anticipatory of a nephling, but now that Anson has mentioned it as well, Finola is beginning to think that it does not come from nowhere. It is possible. Six weeks since she had Bryan had consummated their relationship, her blood well past late.
Her eyes widen, her heart racing, and she turns back down the path she had come, set toward the agora. She tumbles with Bryan part way through, intending to collect her with the end of his conversation with Hermes, but Finola does not allow him more than one word in before she tugs him with her, bringing them both to the agora.
Some of the Court remains conversing in loose groups, Kathleen in debate with Zeus, Shelby and Asalah gossiping with Hera, and as soon as she spots her, Finola beelines for Hera. Tactfully, she cuts in, politely requesting for the Queen of Heaven to step aside so they make speak. Finola leads both her and Bryan into a more secluded bend of the agora, far enough away that their murmured conversation remains between them.
"Is everything alright, Persephone?" Hera inquires.
Though there is a moment where she hesitates, Finola compels herself to speak blatantly. "As the patron of mothers and marriage, are you able to tell if someone is with child?"
Beside her, Bryan startles, calling her name as a question that she does not reply to, focused only on Hera.
A baffled look passes across Hera's face, her head tilted in intrigue. "I am."
Finola opens her mouth though her words falter on her tongue, unable to voice the question that has suddenly consumed her, pointing to herself weakly. Hera, the attentive woman, picks up easily on the question she is unable to voice, regarding her with a sympathetic smile.
"I do not need to be divine to know that you are with child, Persephone," She says.
With wide eyes, Bryan breathes, "What?"
Finola's knees buckle, and Bryan has to catch her, settling her gently on a marble bench that is tucked beneath the shadow of one of the agora's pillars. In her shock, her mouth falls ajar, though there is nothing that comes of it, startled into silence, eyes sightless even as Bryan kneels at her side, taking her hand in his.
"Did you not know?" Hera asks, and there is surprise, as if she had expected them to be aware from the start.
Finola stammers, her reply breathless, "Of course not."
Hera's eyebrows knit. "You consummated your relationship as a means to remain in the Underworld, yes? That only works if fruit is born from the union."
Weakened in her shock, Finola can do nothing but raise a hand to her abdomen, feeling lightly along her belly, her other hand squeezing Bryan's from where it has tangled with his. She meets his eyes, no less dumbfounded than her.
Feebly, she whispers. "I am pregnant."
She carrying a child, one born from night of tender love with the man she adores more than anything. She is going to be a mother, the man who has become the center of her world with her as her child's father. She is going to be a mother.
The shock melts away to utter joy, her open mouth rising into a beaming, tearful smile.
"I am pregnant."
Tears simmer in Bryan's eyes as he wields the brightest smile she has ever seen on his face, and he sweeps her into his arms, rising as he twirls her, pale green robes swishing, laughing gleefully. He presses kisses to her face, enveloping her in his hold, lips nuzzling the junction of her jaw.
As the attention of the agora turns curiously their way, Bryan returns Finola to a steady stance yet refuses to let go of her, an arm curled around her waist, holding her close to him. Such a brilliant grin upon his face, even Asalah is startled, and he announces joyously,
"I am going to be a father!"
58.
let me love you (more than i already do)
When Finola awakes the next morning it is to nausea that churns in her stomach and swirls her head, pinching her eyes shut as pain flares to her head. She clenches her jaw, willing herself not to vomit, arm draping across her eyes as her other curls around her stomach. She sits still, motionless and patience, her mind caught between praying for the bilious sickness to pass and distracting herself from the glob that is stuck in her throat, sticky and queasy. At some point Bryan stirs beside her in their bed, and the moment he realizes that she is ill, he takes to worry, propping himself up as one of his arms curve over her belly.
"Are you alright, my love?" He asks, rubbing gently, soothing circles into her skin.
Finola grumbles, "I am pregnant."
Bryan puffs, a huff of amusement. "I will fetch us food," He pecks a kiss to her forehead, "and tea."
He leaves her with a second kiss to her lips, and there is a moment where Finola is tempted to refuse him release, to pull him back into their bed, to spend the morning lounging together in silks and satin, to ask him to make her forget her nausea. But she has not the strength, and the idea of tea and a bit of food is more alluring than the heat of his touch, so she lets him go, watching him dress swiftly in the barest, makeshift robes before he leaves.
Slowly, Finola tugs herself upright, plucking her pillow behind her back as she slumps against it. Though there is yet to be a bump, her hand roves across her stomach, skimming her skin. Her and Bryan's baby. Her heart flutters at the thought, warmth tickling where it rests in her breast, her hand resting cupped across her belly. She wants so desperately to hold her baby, impatient and restless, a desire spawned by a love that has burrowed its way to her core, an endless love for her husband, a festering love for their child.
"You are going to have a wonderful father," She murmurs to her baby.
Bryan reenters a short while later, wielding a plate of bread and figs and olives and a pot of tea which he sets down before her, pouring them both a cup of tea before he settles back on their bed, picking at their plate. Finola can not help but chuckle, warmly endeared and softly amused at generous servings, spotting the concern-born care of her in his little acts.
Bryan catches on, peering at her cluelessly as he sips from his tea.
"What?"
Gently, she shakes her head. "I have not even begun to show yet you are already doting on me."
"Of course I am," Bryan says. He sets his tea aside, inching closer, taking his wife's hand in his as he meets her with gleaming eyes. "You are the most precious thing in the world to me. I know you can handle yourself, but now that you are carrying our child, I want to take care of you. I've heard how difficult pregnancy can be. How risky it can be. So let me coddle you for these next few months, at least until our child is born."
Finola beams in the light of his love, and she cannot help but say yes, fluttering with his adoration for her, one that echoes in her own heart for him.
59.
such a little thing you are
Dark into the night, they have taken to their bedroom, settling down for the evening. As Finola sheds her day ware, Bryan catches the longing she regards her belly with, a hand roving smooth, heated skin, a pensive look resting gently upon her face. He ambles over her way, clasping his hands around her hips as sways her softly into him.
"What is that look for, my love?"
Part of him is worried that she is upset with their child to be. That the weight has settled in, that she is not yet ready to be a mother, that she does not wish to carry his child. It is not out of the question, not to him, a man of bloodied hands and broken origins, someone many find repulsive. It would not astonish him if she did not wish to mother the child of a man like he. A beast, he's been called. What self respecting woman would? But his fear that has haunted him since the day at the agora when Finola's pregnancy had been confirm quells as she regards her little belly with a shallow frown, her disappointment directed at it.
"I have get to gain a bump," She mutters.
Bryan glances down at her abdomen, his hands replacing hers as he brushes his thumbs along her skin.
"I say you have," He counters. "It is small, but it is there."
Though discreet and shallow in the way it pokes through her robes, Bryan can still spot the shallow curve to her abdomen, has watched it grow in the past week, his keen eye picking out the beginning of change. Such a little thing their child is, just barely poking through, but it is enough for him to kneel before his wife, pressing a kiss into Finola's flesh where their child lies. Their child. He rests his head against her abdomen, arms wrapping around her hips, holding them both close. It is still so surreal to him that he is to be a father with the woman he loves more than life itself, that she is willing to bare the child of discarded man, that she is no less impatient and joyful than he.
He lifts his head, chin resting against her skin, meeting Finola's eyes with a soft, amorous plea.
"Let me spend the night making love to you."
It is all Bryan wants in this moment, the need to caress Finola's form, to set her ablaze, to show her just how much she means to him, she and that little bump in her belly. She grins at him, carding a gentle hand through his hair.
"You know I can never say 'no' to you."
60.
a coming daughter (something lurks in the shadows)
As Finola closes on her twelfth week, her child has peaked through her robes, a shallow bump bends the silky drape of green linen. Bryan has taken to cuddling her every night, swathing around her, sheltering around their child, keen to protect them both. Her belly is more pronounced when its bare, and every time is it, Bryan is always attentive and gentle. Though he hasn't shifted in his kindness, he is growing steadily more protective of her and of their child, spending more time with her, watching her alertly, and accompanying her more often, especially when she won't be alone.
Now is no exception as they trail through her gemstone garden, one of Finola's hands tucked into the crook of Bryan's elbow, the other resting on her growing belly. It's peaceful here, quiet and serene, secluded to only them. She basks in the warmth and comfort Bryan's presence provides her, revels in their family outing as her hand roves across her belly, heart fluttering at the thought of her child growing up playing in this garden.
Bryan catches her smile, and with a soft nudge to her shoulder, he asks, "Pebble for your thoughts?"
Again, Finola's hand rounds her belly. "I cannot wait to show our daughter our home. We should make a routine of taking family walks through here."
Bryan's eyebrow plucks upward. "Daughter?"
Finola beams at him. "Mother's instinct. Our child will be a girl, I am sure."
Bryan nods, unable to keep the amused smile off his face. His open hand shifts to cover hers on her belly, holding their child.
"Have you told your sister yet?" He asks.
"I have," Finola says, and she feels light, untroubled and content, so blissful in domestic matters, "She has yet to reply, though I am sure she will be ecstatic. She used to pester me about having children so she could be the aunt who spoils them rotten."
Bryan laughs lightly. "Why does that not surprise me?"
Because it is Dee Dee, a loving woman at heart no matter how their quarrels may divide them for the moment, always returning together, eternally a family. Finola can only grin at the thought of her sister and how she may react to her elder sister's coming child, though remembering their exchange during their visit to the Goldlands, Finola is sure she already knows as the quick woman she can be. Though as Finola strolls onward, her smile fails beneath a wave that bids her dizzy, lightheadedness weakening her knees as they shake, sudden yet as strong as the tide. Bryan is quick to catch her before she can crumble, taking her weight with ease, concerned the second he notices that there is something bidding her ill.
"My love, what is it?" He asks.
Finola attempts to speak, but all that falls from her mouth is a whimper as her head spins. She has to close her eyes, has to take a moment to breath and steady herself before she is able to reply, testingly opening her eyes. Her head steadies slowly and her strength returns just as swiftly as it had been swept out from beneath her, yet she remains tucked into Bryan's side, seeping soothe from his warmth and his arms around her.
"I do not know," She murmurs, "Perhaps I am fatiguing and not aware of it."
It's the only explanation she can think of, never before having experienced a bout of lightheadedness such as she just had. She hopes that it is not tied to her child, that it indeed means nothing, as Finola doubts that she could handle any thing misfortunate happening to her baby. Even the thought of it is enough to nauseate her.
"Then perhaps we should return you to our quarters," Bryan suggests, watching her carefully, his eyes soft in his concern.
Though she would rather keep to the gardens, too restless to be kept in bed for the rest of the day, too adoring of this moment to together to have it end, Finola knows there is reason to his suggestion. Whether or not she is fatiguing, it is safer for her to be inside, somewhere safe, especially if she is to expect another bout of lightheadedness.
"Very well," She says, allowing Bryan to guide her onward
61.
you will be fine, my love, i assure you
Bryan is the first to rise the next morning as he always is, the routine of waking up with the mortal sunrise baked into his blood. However, when he lifts himself from his bed, he halts in his going about his routine, eyes pinned upon Finola. She's cold-sweating, an arm draped over her eyes, the other cradling her stomach, dozing with a sickly face, and immediately, Bryan is prickled by his concern, intense and commanding. He returns to the bed, sitting at Finola's side, brushing a gentle hand along her torso. Slowly, begrudgingly, she wakes, peaking an eye his direction.
"What is it?" She asks in a whispering, weak voice.
Softly, Bryan brushes the back of his hand across her cheek. She is pallid and damped, a tepid temperature when he shifts his hand to his forehead.
"Are you alright, my love?" He asks, and he cannot hide his seeping concern, the fear that festers quietly.
"No," Finola whispers, "I've fallen ill, but I do not know why. It does not feel like morning sickness."
Bryan glances down at her stomach, a hand resting over hers were it lays around their child. Gently, he pulls aside the blankets, scouring across her form. No blood, nothing discolored, everything as it should be. Yet she is ill nonetheless. Carefully, delicately, he helps her to rise, stuffing several of their pillows behind her back, tucking her securely beneath the silks of their bedsheets.
"I will fetch you tea and something light to eat," Bryan murmurs, "And as you break your fast, I will see to it that someone checks upon you."
Weakly, Finola replies, "What of your duties?"
"Damn my duties," Bryan replies, and though his voice is hushed there is a ferocity to his, clinging to Finola's hand, "You are my priority. So rest, and I will do what I can do alleviate you of your plague, my love."
He kisses her forehead, and Finola melts into it, slumping into his arms that wrap around her, cradling her close. Her head tucks beneath his chin, too weak to hold herself, relying on him to keep her upright. It leaves his heart sodden, her sudden bout of illness, her frailty, the fear of what it could mean, the chance of loosing her or their child or both. Bryan tightens his hold around Finola, basking in his wife's warmth, lingering around her until he hears a soft moan of pain. Gently, he returns her to her position inclined upon their pillows, insuring that she is comfortable. With another kiss to her forehead, Bryan leaves her, setting off to find help.
62.
jealousy is like a plague (it rots and withers and destroys)
By the time that the height of the day passes, concern has gathered man to Finola's bedside, Asalah the first to take to worry, then Hermes as he commutes between the Underworld and Olympus, and now Shelby and Hera, one the patron of medicine and the other of mothers. Bryan had summoned them both, believing them to be the most qualified to address his wife's illness, and now they stand around Finola's bed-prone form, Bryan sat at her side. Though Asalah and Hermes give them the dignity of privacy and space, Bryan knows they're outside the door waiting in their own simmers of nerves, seeking the announcement that their friend is okay.
However, the perplexed, torrential expressions upon Shelby and Hera's faces fester unease in Bryan's gut, slicing away at his hope for good news.
"I cannot tell what is ailing her," Shelby says, "It is not the pregnancy, but neither is it a disease nor injury."
Finola sighs wearily, her body slumping in her exhaustion, and Bryan's heart clenches. Though it knows it not to be the cause, part of him regrets their union, for maybe if he had been more careful then she wouldn't be in pain now. The saboteur in his mind tells him that it's his fault, that his child of his tainted seed is killing her, and Bryan's hand grasps Finola's, entwining together. But Shelby believes it's not the cause, which means the saboteur is wrong. Bryan hasn't damned his wife, the one person in the world who means more to him than anything or anyone else. Their child is one of love, not plague.
Shelby shifts forward, his arm extending with a quiet 'may I?' toward her robes, intending to examine her bare stomach. Finola whispers 'no', but in her frailty her voice is weak, unheard by Shelby as he continues his intention, and Bryan snaps forward, seizing his wrist. Shelby startles, wide eyes watching Bryan fearfully as his skin pinches white beneath Bryan's vice grip, spurred into alertness, more protective than what he normally is.
"You've done your examination," Bryan states calmly to ease both himself and Shelby, "Do not touch her again."
Shelby nods with a gulp, and Bryan releases his grip, letting his hand fall to curl over Finola's stomach. She leans into him, head resting against his shoulder, seeping comfort from his warmth, and Bryan cradles her gently.
"Has this occurred to anyone else before?" Hera asks.
"No," Bryan says, "She had experienced lightheadedness yesterday, but that is all. No one else nor any other precedents."
Hera and Shelby glance between each other, a silent gauge of the other's thoughts. There is nothing kind on their face, their expressions twisted by confusion, warped by the mystery set before them with no seeming answer. Fear churns in Bryan's gut as their silence lingers, strengthening the hold around his wife as she curls further into him, her hand twisting into the fabric of his robes. He catches the way her arm sinks around her stomach, protective and unmoving.
Weakly, Finola asks, "What is it?"
Bryan looks to Shelby with the inquiry, who then looks to Hera, neither wielding even a guess as to what could be the cause. Quietly, Hera sighs, a reluctant intake of breath as she delays her reply.
"I believe that it could be Phthonus," She says.
Shelby's eyebrows knit together. "Phthonus?"
"Jealousy?" Bryan inquires in his confusion.
"What is it the mortals say? 'Jealousy is like a plague'?" Hera's eyes flick to Finola before returning to Bryan. "It has only been good things happening recently, from the rapid ascension of several gods to the impending arrival of the Underworld's first born child."
Unease churns nausea in Bryan's gut, made all the more bilious by instinctual anger, fury that his wife must suffer the pain of another's jealousy.
"Then why her?" He spits, "Why any of the divine? Is it a spiteful mortal?"
"Perhaps," Hera speaks cautiously, "Or, it could be someone you know. Someone among the dead, perhaps? I doubt this is the fault of any living being, mortal or divine."
Bryan falls quiet in his thought, shaking his head. No, nothing comes to mind, no person, no face, no name. Who could possibly despise him this much to rot into Phthonus and target his family? Who could ever wish suffering upon Finola? Who could ever want to do their child-to-be harm?
From where she has curled into his side, Finola speaks in a ragged, hushed voice.
"Rhadamanthus."
64.
my love, i fear to loose you (there must be a cure)
With an ensurance that Finola will be alright for the moment that he his gone, Bryan storms from their bedchambers in an air of fury. Asalah and Hermes, both of who had be waiting quietly outside the bedchamber's doors to hear of their friend's condition, startle as he marches through. They chase after him, but their calls for his attention, their questions and his name on their voices, fall upon unhearing ears. There is only one man Bryan wishes to hear from in this moment, the only person on his rage-darkened mind, narrowed onto him like a hound would be on blood.
Rhadamanthus is in the archives when Bryan finds him, fishing through books in a quiet, mild demeanor that makes his eyes lidded and his interest only half-hearted. He glances up from the book in his hand when he notices the king headed to him, only to yelp as he is snatched by the collar of his robes and shoved against the shelf, his book smacked to the floor as he raises his hands, palm open. His alabaster eyes widen in their fear yet Bryan feels no mercy for him, no ounce of sympathy, for he had damned his wife and his child. There is only rage, burning and fierce, operating him like a puppet pliant to its master.
"What are you doing with Phthonus?" Bryan demands, his words seething, a hiss that spawns spittle from his mouth.
"Phthonus?" Rhadamanthus says, his voice shaking, "What is Phthonus?"
"How dare you play a fool," Bryan hisses, his fists tightening their hold in the Judge's robes, pressing closer, "My wife and the child she caries are bed-ridden and ill because of your plague."
Rhadamanthus sinks beneath the king's rage, surrendering beneath his hold in an attempt to deescalate the situation. He is calm even when trapped beneath a blaze, and Bryan will admit that he is impressed by such levelheadedness. However, behind his eyes he can see the prone form of Finola, weak and sickly, all color drained from her cheeks, and that fear for her life ignites his wrath, feeding into each other cyclically, his fist so tight around Rhadamanthus' collar that it begins to rip in how tautly he pulls in in opposing directions.
Hands wrap around his arms and pry him off of Rhadamanthus, and though Bryan thrashes at first, so caught of guard that his brain falls to instinct, Bryan is quick to recognize Asalah on his right and Hermes on his left. Though he has to grit his teeth to keep his fury from boiling over, he lets them pull him back, and their grips remain strictly around his arms, keeping him in place, holding him back, and though it irritates him to be restrained he knows that they are right to do it.
"Easy, Bryan," Asalah says, "Rhadamanthus speaks the truth. It will do nothing to torment him further."
"My wife is dying!" The words are ripped from his chest before he can understand them, bellowed into the library, "Do not tell me what is best!"
The heat of his rage is so fierce that he can no longer tell if it burns him or freezes, like a buzz in his head that that evicted his reason, so fearful than ever before that tears prick in his eyes. Bryan's knees give out beneath the weight of his fury, and slowly, Asalah and Hermes lower him to the ground where he is safest. In his daze, Hermes nods Rhadamanthus on, and the Judge retreats is a hastened way, fleeing to his own safety.
Asalah crouches beside him, a hand on his arm and another rubbing his back, an attempt to soothe him. Bryan cannot veil his inner turmoil, cannot control the utter fear the further Finola remains in such a condition, cannot hold himself upright as if he is fine. His wife his dying, and their child with her.
"It is not hopeless," Asalah says, "Take a moment to breathe. Finola is a strong woman. She will survive."
Bryan covers his eyes, trying to rub away his tears, trying to keep himself from breaking because his wife and his child need him right now. But even as Asalah attempts comfort, Bryan's subconscious subverts her and his reason, the fear that he will loose both Finola and their baby festering in the back of his head. Finola is strong, but when does that strength fail? He has yet to see her reach her limit and as no idea where it lays, leaving him in the unknown as to how long she can hold on.
"I need to get back to her," Bryan murmurs, "I need to do something. I need to save her."
"We stand in a library," Hermes says, "Why not begin here? Perhaps there is a book on - what is it? Phthonus?"
Bryan nods, rubbing a hand down his face as if he can just wipe away his fear. "Jealousy. But even Hera and Apollo fail to come up with any cures."
Hermes lifts his arm, urging him to his feet. "Hera and Apollo are not all-knowing, Hades. There is a cure, I am sure of it. So let's begin here."
Bryan grits his teeth, swallows his tears, and forces himself to his feet because Finola and their baby need him, and he will do anything he can to save them both.
65.
cure
"I have found something!"
Asalah's voice rings throughout the library like a blessing to Bryan's ears. For hours they have been at this, carefully, attentively scraping through the library, reading through every book that talks of a subject even close to Phthonus, scouring through literature on the psyche, on disease, on emotion, anything even the littlest bit relevant. Bryan has not stopped to rest once, flipping through the books like a madman, desperate to save his wife and his child. The moment Asalah speaks, however, he drops the book in his hand and races over to her, met by Hermes. From the book she holds, she reads aloud,
"The daimon, Phthonus, feeds upon jealousy, often the unconscious kind. She whispers in the ears of men to bring upon them unkindly and cruel thoughts that spawn unkindly and cruel action. However, when action fails yet jealousy toward a particular person is sustained in too great of an amount, she may show herself in the form of sickness seemingly out of nowhere."
She skips ahead, her finger tracing the Greek script, "There remains no physical cure. The most effective treatment is to address the individuals from which the jealousy spawns and attempt to assuage it. As for the afflicted, the best that can be done is care to the symptoms they experience and ensure they are at ease."
Bryan's heart of hope sinks lower and lower as she speaks until it becomes a weighty stone of dread that sits biliously in his gut. There is no cure. It repeats in his head like the taunting voice of misery. There is no cure.
But maybe, he tells himself, maybe he can figure this out. Phthonus has a root from which it grows, a tainted seed he must find and kill, but who does it lay within? Who, out of the dozens of people he knows, out of the thousands of mortals, out of the millions of dead is so jealous that their jealousy has become poison? There are too many possibilities yet, at the same time, not enough.
"Finola named Rhadamanthus specifically," Bryan says.
There is a saddened gleam that takes to Asalah's eyes, a sort of knowing sorrow.
"Perhaps it is worth it to speak to him," She says, "Calmly and levelheadedly."
There is something within her eye that tells Bryan he cannot argue with this. There is something that she's aware of that he isn't, something grieving, mournful. Frightens him, in an odd sort of way, the fright of what he does not know, cannot name.
Bryan murmurs, "Very well."
66.
garcia
Bryan finds Rhadamanthus in a common room of the Judges' residence within the House Hades. He rises from his book-shrouded seat rather abruptly the moment that he hears the King enter, a widening of uncertainty in his eye. Immediately, Bryan lifts his hand, a placating gesture that encourages him to ease as he murmurs that it's alright. He does, but only slightly, uncertainty yielding yet retaining his rigid posture of formality. There is a moment where Bryan pauses, a realization of his overreacting confrontation in the library, aware of how awkward that makes the air between them.
"My apologies," Bryan murmurs, a feeling of obligation compelling him, "for how I acted in the library."
"No, it's - " Rhadamanthus pauses, "I heard what happened to the queen. I am - My reaction would've been something similar. Still, I must ask that it is not repeated."
"No, of course not. I come in peace," Bryan says.
Rhadamanthus nods, but then comes another still air of awkwardness, taut and tepid between them, creeping across his skin like the humidity of summer. Neither know what to do, wordless and mannerless, shifting from foot to foot. Bryan opens his mouth, but the appropriate words fail him as it closes again. A moment later, he makes his second attempt to speak,
"Are you aware of what Phthonus is?" He asks, minutely meek.
"I am not," Rhadamanthus says, and he is hesitant, inching back once, wary of such a topic considering what wrath it had pulled from Bryan only hours ago, "but you had mentioned it."
"It is jealousy. A jealousy so powerful and deep-seated that it turns into plague," Bryan says. He steps closer, nearer Rhadamanthus, pinning him in place, "It has plagued my wife. It is killing my wife. Are you certain you know nothing?"
Though Rhadamanthus averts a verbal response, he shakes his head firmly, an honest reply that shoos him away in it's certainty. Rhadamanthus does not wish to be subject to his wrath again, that much is clear, but Asalah did not mean for him to have a simple conversation that ended with one question in her recommendation to talk. There is more, and Bryan knows it. He steps closer and grabs Rhadamanthus' hand.
"Rhadamanthus, tell me you know nothing of jealousy," He demands, firm and clear, unyielding.
Rhadamanthus does lift his head and does tighten his grip, yet he pauses in his speech, his eyebrows furrowing as he searching Bryan's tone. What he searches for, Bryan does not know, but he knows that he has breeched the barrier into that unknown topic Asalah had been aware of.
After a moment, Rhadamanthus speaks, and though his eyebrows remain furrowed as if he is angry, his voice is distant and meek, like a child,
"Do you truly not remember me?"
Bryan stills, hollow in the wake of confusion, his own eyebrows knitting. What is there to remember of Rhadamanthus? He came down to the Underworld hundreds of years ago and made his nest as one of their true and trusted Judges of the dead. What is there to remember? What is it he is missing?
His expression of perplexity, bewildered and silent, is enough to be his response. Sorrow casts sodden shadows upon Rhadamanthus as his expression sinks, his shoulders curved over, his lips a frown, and a dull wash to his eyes.
"Do you not," He whispers to himself. He steps closer, "It is me, Bryan. It is me, Garcia of Empuries."
The name is familiar. The name is so familiar that something spurs within Bryan, hanging off the tip of his tongue, looming over his thoughts so closely, right there, yet he cannot grab onto it. Garcia of Empuries. Garcia of Empuries. Garcia of Empuries. He knows that name. But how?
"I am sorry," Bryan says, "I cannot remember you. I do not know why."
Garcia's gaze falls, his head with it.
"I have suspected that the chthonic divine brain does what the dead brain does. Your subconscious has erased any memory of the surface that could be enough to draw you back to it. The dead are meant to stay dead, therefore there can be nothing so desirable that the dead might attempt to return for it."
Such a possibility leaves Bryan ill with unease. How much of his life has he forgotten? Does that mean he is dead? But he is not a spirit like the mortal dead. He is to be a father. He can consume food and drink. He can return to the surface world. The dead of his realm can do one of those. So he is not dead, yet still, the curiosity, the fear over how much of his own life he cannot remember bids him nauseous and cold as it prickles the hairs on the arms.
"Garcia of Empuries," He mutters beneath his breath. So familiar, so familiar, but who? How? Why? "Does anyone else know?"
"Asalah," Garcia says, "She was with us, when we were mortal. It was three of us in the war against Sparta. She was killed, you disappeared, and I was poisoned decades later. And Finola knows as well."
Bryan can remember Asalah, though he thinks that is only because he had never learned to let her go. His grief over her dead had persisted even though his transition from mortal to divine, a transition that was matched by her own, a grief so overpowering that it had stuck to him, stained his skin and heart and nightmares. Yet Garcia had died after Bryan had been made Hades, when he had been made to forget anything that could draw him to the surface, his allegiance to Athens and those individuals within his armed forces. He knows he had fought against Sparta, he knows he had been a soldier, but Garcia, the name of his commander, the faces of his brothers are all but forgotten. The ties which could've been enough for him to abandon the dead and his role within the Underworld.
His situation is unique, Bryan thinks. He had never undergone the ceremony of Olympus, had never been made an Olympian, unlike his wife, unlike Asalah, unlike the twins. Death had consumed him, claimed him as theirs, brought him down to the Underworld without a proper death. He had never consumed ambrosic nectar, had only found himself at the doors of House Hades and knew that that was where he was meant to be, what the Fates had written for him. Perhaps that is where this had all gone wrong. He is not dead yet neither is he a divine such as the others. None of the chthonic divine are, with the exception of Persephone. All but her had had their positions, their divinity given to them by Fate, not nectar nor Zeus. So for him to have forgotten the richest parts of his life in an effort for him to remain in the Underworld is entirely a possibility.
"Garcia of Empuries," He mutters once more.
Bryan closes his eyes and breathes slowly, steadily. He is a child, Bryan of Italia. Bryan, son of Marco, the tradesman from Beneveto, skipping along at his father's side as they undergo the trek to Naples. Naples, where the Hellans have made a central port for trade, he hears both Latin and Greek, learns both, speaking fluently by the age of fifteen. He is a boy, sailing across the Mediterranean, nineteen years of age, fleeing his father's lack of care to the dawn of a new morning. Athens is a rich city of beauty and philosophy and the sciences. Men and women draped in fine silks, each handsome in their own right, schools of fine education, schools which he is denied access to as a poor Italian of no noble background, no Hellenic background. Then comes Asalah, a scholar of Persia brought to Athens in the pursuit of knowledge, her voice as soft as birdsong and a skill in instruments as solicitous and stirring as the human heart. Then comes war, a fight of death and blood and fear between Athens and Sparta that calls Bryan to its ranks. He's handed a sword and told to march, told to fight, told to survive, to make Athens proud. Bryan of Athens. He's a man now, a man bathes in blood, his hands and head tools of death, the unseen. Hades. And amongst it all comes Asalah and - and - and - Garcia?
His memory blanks, falters, nothing but the blurred silhouette of a man. He's the same height as the Judge who stands before him now, but the face, the voice, the personality have all vanished, leaving behind a vaguely familiar ghost. Bryan opens his eyes and returns to Garcia.
"I do not remember you," He says, "But I believe it is there. My memory is like a wilted flower. Though its petals have withered, its stem browned, the roots remain. They just need to be replenished."
For the first time since he has known him, Garcia smiles, relieved and soft and genuine.
67.
pain (what will it take for it to ease?)
It is a slow and steady pace taken with the recovery of Bryan's memories. They are foggy, obscured, but the base picture is there, enough for him to piece together all exactly he had forgotten. Enough for him to realize how much he had forgotten, slowly sucked away into the dark, abysmal depths of the Underworld. There is a renewal of the bond between him, Garcia, and Asalah, not like they had before but something close, soft yet fragile yet comforting.
Slowly, Finola's illness wanes. She takes to a familiar schedule again, out of bed and able to move around, however, she's not entirely well. She still is plagued by fatigue and nausea and faint spells, and while it could be pregnancy related, she swears it's not. It's too harsh for it to be her pregnancy alone. Phthonus remains, its second source hidden somewhere in the depths of the unknown.
And of course, it has Bryan concerned. As Finola reaches her sixth month, her child has become cumbersome, imparting upon her backaches and fatigue and cramps, pained more often than not, worsened in the haunt of Phthonus. Bryan has picked up on her discomfort, gentle in how he handles her, more stubborn in his care for her. He has begun to steal away some of her workload, filling in the grind of the Underworld which usually falls to her, growing vehement in his persistence that she rests. However, rest affords her little ease, too fidgety and too awkward to sit still for long. Neither does roaming give her comfort though, too easily fatigued to take to the gardens or to a full day's wok, abandoning her in a constant state of minute agitation, aching one way or another.
Bryan comes to her early this night, leaving his work for the next day as he greets her with a sweet kiss, taking her in his arms. Her belly presses against his, a bubble between them that keeps her from sinking in as closely as she used to.
"Come with me," He says.
Hands entwined, he leads her from their bedroom to the bath, an annular pool set among terracotta stone. It is steaming with freshly hot water, scattered by rose petals and narcissus, a pot of honeyed tea and soft, pillowy towels set to the side.
"You are always in pain," Bryan murmurs. "I wished to ease it, if only for a few hours."
In her endearment warmth melts her heart, and Finola takes his hands in hers, kissing him softly, slowly. One hand trails lightly up his chest, rising to cup his cheek, as his own finds the folds of her robes, unraveling them from her body gently as though she is precious. His own robes follow not long after, and he leads her into the bath, assisting her into the rose-scattered waters. As she steps in she hums delightfully, the heat of the water soothing as it eases the tension coiled within her body, sinking to her bones as it slowly mollifies her pain.
Her skin prickles as Bryan's hands rove her body, carrying upon them soap as he bathes her tenderly, careful to be soft as his fingers card through her hair, skim across her back, brushing the curve of her arms. She leans back into him and his arms wrap around her belly, cradling their child as he kisses the junction between her neck and her shoulder, fingers tracing the stretch marks that trail across her stomach like branches of a tree.
He settles them against the wall of the bath, her between his legs, back resting against his chest, and his hands take to roaming her swollen belly slowly, his touch light and warm and tender. There is a foot that kicks at him from inside.
"I think she likes when her father holds her," Finola murmurs.
Softly, Bryan chuckles, but his reply is made as a tender kiss to her neck, and she turns to him, catching the reverie that rests upon his face.
"Pebble for your thoughts?" She asks.
Bryan shakes his head, a smile curving his lips, gleaming beneath the spark of bliss. "When I first saw you, I thought you to be the most beautiful woman of the world. I had dreamed of holding you, and when we would take to the river I so badly wanted to touch you. Now, not only are we married, but you are carrying my child."
His arms swath her, wrapping around her as his hands shelter around the curve of her belly, nestling his face into the crook of her neck as his lips skim her skin, breathing her in as if she is the only thing that keeps him afloat.
Into her flesh, he whispers, "You have me for all eternity."
She leans her head against his, one hand covering his where they rest around their child, the other cradling the side of his head, melting into him as her heart warms with the sweetness of adoration.
"There is no one else I could ever want," She murmurs back.
Bryan's hold on her tightens, as they linger in the swathe of only each other Finola catches the flutter of words against her neck, whispering promises into her skin. I will always love you. I will always protect you. I will always care for you. They break off softly as he rises, kissing her jaw, then the hollow of her cheek, then her temple.
"How are you feeling?" He asks.
Finola hums contentedly, euphoric as her body is enveloped by warm waters that ease the ache of her heavy belly, settled in the hold of the man she loves more than anything.
"Perfectly at peace," She murmurs. "Thank you for this."
Bryan nods, kissing her head. "Let's make this routine, then. Every week's end I will finish my work early, draw you a hot bath, and then spend the rest of the night making love to you."
She glances back at him in the wake of his finishing words, watching him carefully, more than willing to fold beneath his hands if he intends make this night the first to fulfill his promise. Sly, the corner of his lips rises, as does his hand which dips beneath her chin, raising her lips to his.
"I want to worship your body," He mutters.
He consumes her into a kiss, taking her lips with his hungrily, his other hand sliding along the curve of her swollen belly and further down, setting her skin aflame.
68.
a letter
When Bryan finds his wife the next morning, she is sitting in a cushioned alcove, distant as she watches the view outside their window, the hellish glisten of her gemstone garden. A piece of paper hang limp in her grasp, and as Bryan finds the crest of the House of Goldland stamped upon its envelope, he assumes it to be the source of her abstracted appearance.
"My love?" He murmurs.
She hums as her head snapped to him, just now realizing his presence, a wordless question of what he needed, what he had said that she might've missed. He leans against the wall beside the alcoved seat, gazing down at her with a softened gaze riddled with concern.
"What it is?" He asks.
Softly, Finola sighs, weakly lifting the letter in hand so she may glance it over once more.
"It is Dee Dee," She says, "She had finally wrote back to me about our baby. Three months after I had sent her the news. She is... not thrilled."
Her voice wavers, disappointed, discreetly tear-struck, the dismay over something she had been so excited for taken to heart. Though he knows they are family, Bryan cannot help his instinctual distain for Dee Dee at how torn she has left Finola, and over her own, precious child. He takes the letter and glances it over himself, and though the letter is polite enough, Bryan thinks it too formal, too distant that what is appropriate between sisters. He can ready the spite left between the lines, the bitterness that lingers like acid in his mouth. It infuriates him, especially that the subject is his child, yet as he glances at Finola, his fury dissipates into care.
He sits down beside his wife, carefully folding the letter up and setting it aside, his hand resting on her thigh.
"What do you wish to do?" He asks gently.
Finola's gaze is on her hands where they twist into her dress, something that's either guilt or sorrow in her eyes. "I wish to visit her. Perhaps to smooth things over."
69.
left behind
House Goldland feels colder than the last time before, as it feels colder with ever visit Finola makes the older she becomes. Though it's most likely her imagination, the hearth isn't as homely as it once was, the sunlight through the window is grayer than last, there's a thicker shroud of dust upon the shelves. Like the house is grieving.
She calls out to her sister yet there is no answer, leaving her to twist through the house as Bryan remains in the foyer, too unsure to follow. Eventually, Finola finds her little sister in the drawing room, sat at an empty table with only a lukewarm cup of tea that she rests her hands around. Hesitantly, Finola wavers in the doorway, eyes upon her sister, unsure whether or not to proceed.
"Hi," She murmurs.
Yet Dee Dee says nothing, leaving Finola to creep slowly in. As Dee Dee remains silent, Finola settles herself at the table, taking Dee Dee's silence as it is - nothing.
Eventually, Dee Dee speaks, still not facing her, gaze aimed out of the window to the gardens beyond.
"What ever audacity you had to come here, especially with that belly, I envy."
Finola hestiates with such a response, both shocking yet entirely expected, Dee Dee's letter clear on her feels toward her soon-to-be niece. However, an adequate reply, or any reply at all falls dead on her tongue, and in her silence, Dee Dee finally turns to her. Her eyes are shadowed, lidded into a mild expression of distain, yet there is the red-hot spark of anger hidden ill beneath it.
"Dear sister, why has my child brought you ire?" Finola asks, "You spoke with lightheartedness last time Bryan and I visited. Surely you knew then. But now... what changed?"
Dee Dee shakes her head, her gaze averting to the window once more, focused on anything but her sister. Her mouth tightens, a sardonic smile, a grimace rather than a grin, irritation rather than joy.
:"You would never understand," She hisses.
"Then explain it to me so I can," Finola asks, "I want to understand. You're my sister."
"Then why do you keep leaving?"
Dee Dee's question is sharp, her gaze snapping to Finola, her ire bled through. She pauses, a tight breath through pinched lips, and then continues in a no less bitter tone.
"I knew you were pregnant when you came to visit," She says, "I thought I was going to be overjoyed when you confirmed it. But hearing it confirmed, reading those words on a paper, I felt nothing but indignation. I was alone." Dee Dee pauses, a sheen veiling her eyes, a sheen of unshed tears. "I am alone. Mum is dead. You and dad and even Lord Ash have ascended to an incomprehensible plane above humanity. You have Bryan and your child, a family as though your first never existed. And I am here, mortal and alone, left behind in the dust without another thought."
There is such wrath and indignation within Dee Dee's tone, shadowing her eyes, that she is icy, a repellant spike of ice and frost. Yet, beneath it, Finola can spot the frightened, saddened little girl that stand's within her sister's heart, the child who is forgotten, abandoned, left to her own at too young an age long before she had been ready. The head and heart of an elder sister kick in, and Finola knows she must find a way to soothe that child, anything, before she looses her sister for good.
"You don't have to be alone anymore," Finola says, "You are a daughter of Demeter. I'm sure Olympus would welcome you."
Dee Dee shakes her head, her jaw taut. "I don't want to be a divine."
That gives Finola pause, her head tilting in a silent convey of confusion.
"I am meant to be mortal," Dee Dee says, "And mortal I will stay. I am content to live fleetingly and impermanently. That is the beauty of humanity. That is what gives me courage to do something, anything that will leave something behind as proof of my existence. I don't want to be a divine, standing within some clouded palace, ascended above humanity. I want my sister."
Her final sentence, those last four words rise in volume, sharpen in tone, a tear sprung unshed in her eye. It is insistent, a furious plea, a desperate plea to be heard. There is no comfort in divinity for her, and though that doesn't surprise Finola, it does leave the sunken depression of disappointment. It raises a barrier between them, a separation in their relationship, a hurdle they must pass with every attempt to connect. Finola will remain at twenty and six, youthful and bright eyed, for eternity. Dee Dee will wither and age. At some point, she fears, they will no longer recognize each other. Whether in old age or the Underworld, at some point their bond will wither and shrivel and decay. And while there is the urge to persuade her sister otherwise, Finola must acknowledge that it is not her decision to make. So,
"Then you have me," Finola murmurs, "For as long as you want."
For the first time, Dee Dee's tears drop, one at first before another comes and then another and then she is crying, sniffling, wiping at her face as she attempt to keep herself dignified. Finola rises from her seat quietly and takes Dee Dee into her arms, and though her belly is a bit cumbersome in their hug, Finola adjusts to envelope Dee Dee in her arms, just as they had when they were children. As they had when thunderous storms had wracked fear into Dee Dee's little body, a little body that had fled to her elder sister's bed and tucked into her side beneath the covers, hidden from the storm as Finola spoke stories of gods and men brought to her ears from across the world.
Slowly, Dee Dee's tears wane, and though her cheeks remained damped, she has quieted, stilled, her head resting on Finola's shoulder.
"Stay," She whispers, "For as long as you can."
"I will," Finola promises.
Gently, Dee Dee's hand ghosts her belly, though Finola cannot tell what is spoken upon her face, a tired look in her eye and mouth a thin, indifferent line. Neither joy nor disgust. Merely acceptance.
"Have your child here," Dee Dee murmurs, "Where all Goldlands before have been born."
While that had not been the plan originally, seeing Dee Dee in so desperate need of her presence, Finola is swayed already. It may be nice, anyhow, to have her daughter in the same home where she was born and her mother before her.
"I'll speak with Bryan, okay?" She asks.
Dee Dee whispers, "Okay."
She doesn't budge from the hug.
70.
melon
While Bryan must return every few days to the Underworld to ensure his duties are taken care of, that the flow and guardianship of the dead remain intact, Finola remains on the surface world. Admittedly, it is nice, the sunlight warm on her face. After the first few weeks, Dee Dee had commented that her cheeks were golden again rather than the pallid shade brought upon by the fire-lit Underworld. It becomes customary for them to break their fast together in the morning and to spend the afternoon at tea. Every week's end, they stroll through a market, though as her ninth month creeps closer, that stops.
With Dee Dee and Garcia both settles, Phonthus has disappeared, leaving Finola in the best of health she's had all pregnancy. However, the healing of Phonthus had not relieved the pain or fatigue or sickness of carrying a child, and as she grows into her last week, she finds little comfort.
Bryan has returned until their child's arrival, and as they ready themselves for bed, he slinks behind her, wraps his arms beneath her belly, and she leans back into him, against his chest. He's warm, his presence a comfort so soothing, and he kisses her neck, a second further up.
"I feel as though I have become a melon with two arms and two legs," Finola grumbles.
"A beautiful melon," Bryan counters.
Finola groans at the comment, yet still it manages a smile from her, and she rolls her head back to meet Bryan's eyes.
"You are blinded by the arrows of Eros," She teases.
"Maybe so," Bryan says, "But I'd argue that he has blessed me for I have been given you."
A foot kicks him from inside her belly.
"And you," He tacks on.
Finola chuckles softly, and though her feet and back both ache, the lift of her heart is enough for it to be tolerable. She has found her joy, her home here, in the arms of her husband and their child to be, no where more perfect than here. And here sister too, she thinks, a lightness in her heart that had been missing for a long time, long before her divinity. A lightness she had lost the moment she had left Britain. It all has been soothed now, in the cradle of her family.
Finola tilts her head, finding Bryan's lips as he finds hers, and together, they melt into one.
71.
imogen
Her daughter squeals with her first breath, bellowing a mighty little cry as Finola lifts her into her arms, cradling her so gently. Tears well in her eyes as her daughter nestles into her hands, cries soothing into hums as her daughter's fists bunch together, a precious little being of soft skin and dark hair that curls into tiny rings around her head. She coos as she settles in her mother's arms, Finola's hold around her tightening, folding her daughter close to her bare chest, pressing skin to skin. Fiercely, the blaze of love warms Finola's heart, set alight to finally cradle her daughter, a creation of her and Bryan's own making, a testament to their love and the future to come. There is nothing in the world more valuable than her, Finola thinks, nothing that could ever replace her, nothing that could ever best the place that she has claimed in her heart, already so important to her even in the first few minutes of her life.
Bryan sits beside her, his arms curling around Finola, enveloping both his wife and his daughter in his embrace. His forehead falls to hers as he peers with adoring eyes down at their daughter, and oh so gently, he brushes his finger against her pudgy cheek, tears pearling down his cheeks as she gurgles contently, mouth opening and closing,
A sodden chuckle escapes from Finola's lips, and gleefully, she says, "Hi there, sweet Imogen."
Imogen burbles quietly at her mother's greeting, a tiny hand stretching out, wrapping around Finola's finger when she offers it, and she squeezes, little hand clenched around her mother's finger, never wanting to let go.
"She's strong," Finola murmurs.
She glances at Bryan only to see dampened eyes, a contented glow to their green even in his tears, softened and tender as his thumb brushes gently over his daughter's curls. He leans forward, kissing Imogen's cheeks with the utmost delicate touch, then his hand cups Finola's cheek, pressing a trail of kisses that leads to her mouth, and he sweeps them both into his arms, into his lap, swathing them into a hug as Finola settles into his chest, beneath his chin, sheltering his little family.
"Thank you," He whispers, and when Finola lifts her head she can spot a tear glisten down his cheek.
With a gentle hand she wipes it away, and he leans into her touch, sighing softly at the comfort it gives him, mollifying his tears, yet there is an ardor that remains fiercely, stubbornly, sustained as he cradles his wife and newborn daughter, his embrace protective and warm.
"You have given me more than I ever could've asked for," He murmurs.
Finola smiles, heat dusting her cheeks, her own tear finally falling.
"And you have given me more than I could ever want."
He presses a kiss to her head as she nestles into his chest, his embrace around her and their daughter tightening.
72.
nothing i would not do, sweet child of mine
There is no better place in the world for him to be, Bryan thinks, as his wife sleeps at his side, his daughter cradled in his hands. As Finola's rhythmic breath echoes softly beside him, his newborn daughter rests in his hold, hands flexing and clenching where they tuck into her chest, her tiny mouth gurgling, the curls atop her head so little and frail. His heart blisters as he watches her, his love of her so fierce it may burn his chest forever, and he thinks that there is no one more precious than her, a tiny child of his and Finola's blood.
Imogen is a reality Bryan never thought he could have. A broken tin soldier, keeper of the dead, he should've never been able to nurture life, especially not one so tender as hers. Yet here he is, cradling his daughter, so much of Finola in her face and of himself in her tiny green eyes, as soft as her mother and as strong as he. There is a moment where he almost believes himself unworthy. That there is too much blood on his hands for him to hold something as innocent as a child. But Imogen is his daughter, born of his wife, a family that he and Finola created both of their love. He is worthy for none of this would've happened if he hadn't been, and the last thing he will ever do is let his own foolish self-guilt hinder his dedication and adoration of either of them.
Imogen yawps softly, and Bryan curls his daughter into his arms, tucking her into his chest. She is so tiny, so soft, so tender, and he knows for certain, in that moment as he cradles her tightly, that there is nothing he would not do for his daughter, little Imogen Beneventi.
74.
aunty dee
Dee Dee comes to see the newborn the moment that Finola permits her to, entering into the visiting couple's bedroom without a moment's hesitation. However, her confident pace diminishes as she spots the infant Imogen cradled within her sister's arms, eyes widening as she slows to a stop at Finola's bedside. She has yet to acknowledge either Bryan or Finola, left still in her silence, eyes pinned upon the newborn babe in what seems to be a mix of awe, uncertainty, and perhaps even fear.
"That is quite a reaction," Finola teases.
Dee Dee shakes her head. "Should a child even be that small?"
She reaches forward a hand, offering her finger to the infant, who takes it gingerly at first.
"How is it possible for fingers to be that small?" Dee Dee mutters, and then swiftly draws back with a sharp 'ow' hidden beneath her breath as Imogen's grasp turns vice. "It seems infant grip is true."
Still, she continues in her observance of the babe, wide eyes taking in pudgy cheeks and a little mouth and little green eyes and little black curls. Something in Dee Dee's observation lifts, a sway toward appeal, yet she appears hesitant still, unsure of what to do in the presence of a child so small.
"So Imogen?" She asks.
"Imogen Beneventi," Bryan introduces, wielding a bright, toothy smile.
"Do you wish to hold her?" Finola asks.
Dee Dee nods once, already reaching forward for the infant, and though Imogen squirms as she's handed off to her aunt, she doesn't cry. There is a moment where Dee Dee tenses as she's given the babe, the tension of uncertainty, never before handled a babe so young, yet she is careful of how she handles Imogen, and soon enough she's cradling her gently as an parent would. There is a soft smile that lifts her lips, tender and endeared, and Dee Dee needs to say nothing for Finola to know that her younger sister is already attached to her daughter.
"Her cheeks are too chubby to be possible," Dee Dee murmurs, "And her eyes are too sweet. And her hands are too little, like -"
She is interrupted by a cry from Imogen, the babe yawping as her aunt's cradle of her shifts in observation of her little body, and immediately, Dee Dee curls her back into her chest. She shushes her softly, murmuring,
"No, sweet babe, you're okay. Aunty Dee has you."
Finola grins at the tenderness of her sister's interaction, sharing a glance with Bryan, and his is just as knowing and endeared as Finola. Yes, they had a perfect little family.
75.
melinoe
The infant glow of dawn gleams upon the pillowy clouds of Olympus, their delicate white color painted by pastels of peach and gold. The Court of Olympus has gathered in the agora to greet the newborn daughter of Hades and Persephone, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the infant babe. Just outside the agora, before the archway that leads into it, Finola tucks her daughter securely into her arms, ensuring again that she is secure and snug and safe. Imogen, her little baby, is dozing, tiny green eyes closed and little mouth ajar as she snoozes. Beside her, Bryan reaches forward and brushes a gentle finger through their daughter's hair, a soft touch that draws a coo from little Imogen.
"Ready?" Bryan asks.
Finola meets his eyes, a small smile on her face. "Ready."
As one, mother and father and daughter, they stride into the agora, chins lifted in pride. The court falls quiet at their entrance, though Finola can spot the bright-eyed intrigue of Asalah as she spots the baby in her arms, the the lifted smiles of Shelby and Kathleen, the inch of Hermes closer to get a better look for himself. And Anson, though he does not smile nor move even a bit, does look their way, does acknowledge them, does offer them respect.
George is not among them. Though it stings, it does not surprise either of them. George had disapproved of their relationship from the start. It is quite on character for him to miss the introduction of their daughter.
Still, their heads are held high. It is only pride that they wield, dignity in their name, joy in their family, leading the way to the fountain where Hera and Zeus stand. As the pause before the King and Queen of Heaven, Zeus steps forward.
"Today, we gather to celebrate the arrive of the firstborn of the Underworld in hopes that she, though young, may join among our ranks. I ask for the parents of the babe Imogen of the Underworld to step forward."
As one, Bryan and Finola move forward, Imogen cradled within her mother's arms. Zeus signals for them to both kneel before the pool, and they obey, carefully placed shoulder to shoulder. Though he is lighthearted, Bryan is tense at her side, attentive eyes trained carefully on his daughter and the man who takes her pudgy, little hand gently. With a golden needle, as thin as a hair of hay, Zeus pricks the babe's finger. Imogen cries as her blood is squeezed into the pool below, and the moment that Zeus releases her, Finola curls her baby closer to her chest as Bryan nabs the pricks hand. He wipes it clean of blood, and though soft my the love of a father, applies pressure to it. Tenderly, Bryan kisses his daughter's head, attempting to soothe Imogen as Finola runs a finger across her daughter's soft cheek.
Imogen's blood sinks as both her parents' had, bleeding into a yellowish-green color that creeps along the bottom of the pool. Zeus spares it a moment of contemplation before he signals them to rise, turning as one before the Court of Olympus, Bryan Beneventi, Finola Beneventi, and Imogen Beneventi.
"Today we welcome Melinoë, daughter of Hades and Persephone, goddess of the blessed death."