THANK YOU for [M]aking this easy., A Modern Myth. Yalin x Blaire.

[blaire]

"IT IS THE AGE OF DISSONANCE”
and New York City is the world’s most beautiful wasteland. A madhouse too sweet for a
second bite, the Big Apple has a tendency to make one sick if he indulges in too much of it.
The people are decaying from the inside-out, but the politicians of the city find it tasteless
to mention. The streets are packed together with people keeping their eyes on their own
lives and, admits them, the juxtaposition of classes and cultures seem lost to each
individual. Artists and beggars share bus rides with businessmen and the thick, opaque
air of the city (reminiscent of all cities, really) makes it difficult to breathe in the crowded
streets. It is a fantastic display of smiling criminals and sneering saints, oppressors and
activists, suites and slums. In short, it is the perfect playground of the gods of today.

It is the age of dissonance and every man chooses his God. To the old powers frowning
upon the world – the Greeks and Romans and Egyptians that were the ruling entities of
their time – frown upon a sea of human hearts that have become pitifully secular and frail
over the passing years. No longer can man handle the thought of an array of Gods to
worship, but some are incapable of even loving the one that the so-called Abrahamic
prophets placed into power, dethroning the other deities. It is a sad state of affairs, but the
power shift has been lengthy and gradual – so subtly enacted that no one could’ve stopped
it had they tried. It is a shame, however, that the myths written years ago by blind
prophets, oppressed seers and ruthless priests were left unfulfilled, as well. The stories
sung about Ares and Aphrodite, Zeus and Hera, Apollo and Artemis – these, recorded so
fully in the fairytales of man, were so deftly interrupted by the introduction of new Gods
that the old ones had no time to enact them.

It is the age of dissonance and, to be honest, New York City has had its own Gods since the
moment it was born. Amongst the monarchs of today are God, or Allah, and Jesus; logic,
science, and rational; emotion, impulse, and terror; fame, wealth, and power; the body,
the brain, and the lover. Perhaps it is incensing to the old superpowers, watching as man
worships things obscure, abstract or inanimate while they lay forgotten in the tomes of
their temples - but then, the old pantheon isn’t entirely tempted to regain their old thrones.
There are those like Cynric Guiardo who are content with playing messenger: the king of
the urban underworld is all too pleased to let all the mortals in his damned city choose
their own God. Why not, when he has the pleasure of escorting them to him?

The Hades of today, dressed in a human pelt, is an oil tycoon with investments in every
successful mining company known to man. His hair is still dark in color and trimmed to
frame his angled face at a medium length. His skin is pale, although it is from pedigree as
opposed to a lack of light, and Cerberus still follows his heels as a monster of a dog. He
wears dark suits and jewel-tone ties, has thick, gold watches and glittering rings, and loves
his cigars as much as his gun. As before, he watches the mortals live and gathers the credit
for his death. Like before he has his servants to deal death for him when he desires it. He
is pleased with his existence in New York City; he is arrogant of his state of affairs.

Of course, like the other Gods, we must bear something in mind about this Hades: his
story is written down somewhere, but it isn’t finished yet.

“A SIMPLE MATTER OF POLITICS.”
The woman in question is barely even a woman – indeed, child or girl might be the best
manner in which to think of her. She is a charming creature, perhaps – tantalizingly
beautiful; he recognizes the type – and he knows what his brother-in-law wants even as
the politician gazes coolly out the window, as though watching for someone through the
tinted lenses of his sunglasses. The power-hungry man before him is waiting expectantly
for an answer to an unspoken question, but Cynric doesn’t bother to make it easy for him.
They are rulers of this town – they had been from the very beginning, when they’d first
decided to storm the five sectors of New York and make it their own – and they rarely have
to ask each other anything anymore, they know each other’s minds so well. Across from
Cynric is the corrupt King of Heaven – bright eyed Zeus in the form of Manhattan’s
favorite politician, a cunning and indomitable man if there ever was one. The silence
forces him to take the reigns of the matter, but his request (no, order – laughable, really,
that he should be making orders) is short.

“I’ll give her to you, Cynric. I trust she’s lovely enough for that.”

Dark-haired Cynric lifts a dark eyebrow, observing his younger brother silently before
placing his cigar between his teeth again and inclining his head in thought. A
dispassionate flick of his fingers sends the photograph skidding across the table top as he
inhales, then lets a puff of smoke obscure his face. “That. I know that girl. Her mother.
You been fucking with this one, have you? Want her gone because someone’s nosin’
around for her? Surely – surely you wouldn’t trouble me with something as simple
as that.”

“Bad publicity when her mother finds out. Too vocal, those two. For women.”

“You’d think,” he says deliberately, tone becoming dangerous. Reclined in his seat he looks
like a panther, and every time he opens his mouth he seems to show his teeth. “That that
wife o’ yours would have something to say about this. She’s pretty vocal herself. For a
woman, you know.”

For a moment, Malcolm – Zeus - considers him carefully, knowing there’s no easy way out
of this. “It’s for your sister, Cynric. Of course she knows. She wants her gone.”

The man in black lets his narrowed eyes rest upon the politician again. “So you’re giving
her to me, just like that? No thought at what I’d do to her?”

“Do what you like, as a present to Juno. I’ll make my payments in the usual way.”

Silence. Cynric leans forward, plucking the cigar out of his mouth and supporting his
angled jaw upon his hand. “You son of a bitch,” he remarks casually, then reaches over to
clap Zeus on the shoulder. “Next time you need me for something like this, I’ll kill you up
front. If my sister hadn’t been here first, I would’ve clipped you by now and blown your
brains out, babbo. Don’t you forget that next time.”

He smiles, a wolfish grin, as the man opposite him sits rigid in his chair, and cuffs the cane
corso under the table with the toe of his boot. The large hound starts with a growl, cocking
his head up and tensing in preparation to rise. “Eh, Cerberus, we got ourselves a contract.
And just for you, cafone, I’ll ice the girl myself and send you pictures, eh?”

Cynric rises, and leaves his companion to swallow down his quiet threats. If Malcolm
feels sorry for the girl, he shows no sign.

Even Guiardo can feel a bit of disgust towards him.

“AT LAST, THE TALE CONTINUES”
he was looking for his niece, Sasha - the Artemis of this tale, but her twin brother surely
would be with them, too, reporting on the rally – because he knew that the bitch would be
holding hands with Reycee, would be able to find her. He was looking for the tell-tale
flashes of blonde hair; the musical voice of the one hair; and the tall, too-womanly figure
of the other. From where he stood with the other executives, gazing out the windows with
their aides pleading with them to stay out of the spotlight, he could only perceive a rush of
flashing cameras and the roar of the protestors en masse. Goddamned idiots – if only they
would be quiet for a moment. It was irrational of him, perhaps, to think – even
unconsciously – that he should be able to hear any one voice in a crowd like that, or that
they would stop their protests to accommodate him. They were furious to make change,
he knew (and how it irritated him!). They were so hasty to make change, he knew, that
they wouldn’t care if they destroyed themselves - or if someone else (someone like him)
looked down and decided to destroy them himself.

Patience, he thought to himself, have patience. You can’t bring judgment on
everyone. “I’m not going to wait,” he murmured quietly, though it caught the attention of
those around him – and would soon do the same for everyone in the room. “I’m not going
to wait,” he said, louder now, “for a bunch of liberal children to herd me out of this
building. Unlock the doors, for god’s sake, and get the hell out!” Malcolm, watching the
short-tempered man with care, echoed the order.

“For Christ’s sake! Won’t you call the police? We have places to be!”

It was never pleasant, the others knew, to be locked in a room with Cynric Giuardo, and it
might’ve been this factor more than anything else that made his aides come to a resolution.
It was another half hour before security had beaten back the mob far enough for the
‘safety’ of their charges and had brought the cars along; the front doors swung open, and
the incessant cries of the protestors filled his ears. He didn’t care, really, what they were
crying about this time – something environmental, Cynric supposed, that was probably his
complete fault, or another such small, obscure topic – but instead he searched the crowd
for the twin’s and (of course) the target. He was still entertaining the idea of how he would
get a hold of her – he wanted the death to be private, of course, to accommodate Juno and
Malcolm (or, perhaps, his own amusement) – when Malcolm gazed grimly at the crowd
from his other side and fixed itself on an unfamiliar face.

“There,” the politician murmured. “Do you see her?”

“So I do,” replied Hades, our Cynric, as they approached her position in the crowd. “Call
her, Malcolm.”

[Yalin]

Life in the political spotlight of New York City – even when still only being cast in half light – was an endless battle against publicity and fellow politicians. Reycee Williams was getting an early start. Eighteen years old and an avid liberal, the daughter of Deborah Williams clearly had inherited the family legacy for activism, having organized protests for the youth of New York City and participated in a multitude of protests and rallies. The young woman was the faith of youthful participation in politics: all the girls wanted to be her and all of the guys wanted to bang her. The perfect combination. From a young age, the girl had started dying her blonde locks a deep red, projecting a much more serious and professional – not to mention far more adult – appearance.

This woman was making her way also through the crush of reporters and protestors, flashing her winning smile at the results of the protest to the cameras. She was generating a small disturbance in the sea of faces, attention drawing inward to the petite, white-faced young woman. A rush of questions met her as she attempted to follow her security men, pressing their way to her specialized (and of course, environmentally friendly) vehicle. Realizing that there was no way that the crowd was going to let her pass without a few words about this particular protest, she paused, giving a charming smile to the cameras once again. With the immediate crowd around her shushed, she stated in a clear voice, “I just want to thank all the people for showing up today and making this protest a success. We need to send a loud, forceful message to Cynric Guiardo and his corrupt monopoly on the world’s oil resources, as the very customers to whom he is catering.” With a pause to look directly into the camera, knowing that he would see it on television later, she addressed him directly, “Mr. Guiardo, the youth of New York City will not be satisfied until you have reduced your negative impact on the environment. We will protest your corrupt dealings and environmental irresponsibility to the highest legal means, and you can count on that.” With that, the pretty activist pressed her way through the crowd, uttering a polite “Thank you” to the media and her supporters, finally pressing through to her car.

With a tired sigh, the smile melted off of her face as her security men climbed in on either side of her. The girl was exhausted, and no wonder, with so many responsibilities and expectations thrust on her so early in life. She sank into the comfortable seat of her chair, not even glancing up at her driver or her security men, only murmuring, “Home.”

From the front seat, she heard a familiar laugh. “Awh,” the voice cooed, tinged with amusement, “I think little baby Reycee is getting tired. She’d better toughen up if she ever wants to get out of city-level politics and swim with the big fish.” Sasha glanced back at the girl, wearing a grin that could have made even a stone-cold person smile back.

Reycee rolled her eyes and laughed back, shaking her pretty little head in response to her friend’s antics. “Sasha,” she giggled, a smirk twisting at her lips, “you’re just jealous that it won’t be you in Washington.” Reycee watched her friend, noting her tomboyish looks. The woman’s brown hair was swept back into a simple ponytail, no makeup marring her face, and no pressure on her to conform to the styles and pressures of appearances. She was pretty enough, in an almost wild sort of way – she preferred hiking and hunting to climbing social ladders and shattering glass ceilings.

Sasha laughed and shook her head, studying her friend as well – it had been a while since they’d last seen each other. “You’ve grown up,” she commented, taking in Reycee’s bountiful figure with a wary eye. There was something different about her – something strange in the way she carried herself. The modern cut of her hair and the sultry makeup that she knew she so innocently applied had nothing to do with it. She had retained the spark of vitality in her dark eyes, but there was definitely something strange and different about her long-time friend. She smirked and asked, “Reycee…did you snag a man already?”

Reycee blinked at her and almost choked, shaking her head and laughing. “Sasha,” she responded, wrapping a jacket around her slender figure, “you know I don’t go for the sharks they keep around here. Any man I meet in politics is nothing but trouble.”

Sasha replied, “Ah, but you forget – ANY man is nothing but trouble.” Before Reycee could make her obvious retort, the older woman added, “Yes, even my brother.”

Reycee blushed prettily, a bashful smile spreading across her face at the mention of her brother. “Sasha…You…you’re terrible, do you know that? Oh! Hold on.” She held up a finger and pulled out her cell phone, flipping it open. “Hello?” she asked tentatively, her smile once again melting off of her face. This wasn’t a man – this was business. At least, that was how she looked at it. She hardly noticed when the car pulled aside to pick up another passenger and a handsome young blond slid into the car.

It was Malcolm. With Sasha in the car and her twin brother just entering, his timing made her stomach sink to the floor. No, this was not a man, as she kept telling herself. This was strictly business. She bit her lip and flipped open an address book, glancing through it. “Uhm…Well, how about we have dinner tonight? It’s the only night I have free for the next few weeks, so if…if there’s any time that you’re wanting to set up a meeting, it will have to be tonight. Just name the place.” She would accept anything he offered without question, of course. A date with the top politico in New York City was not something to blow off.

Nathan glanced at his sister, who shrugged in response to their friend’s furrowed brow. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and teasingly kissed her cheek, garnering a giggle from the young woman, who shoved him away, switching her phone to her other ear. She covered the phone, presumably while the person on the other line was talking and hissed, “Nathan! Bug your sister – this is an important call!”
Nathan smirked and turned back to Sasha, who had already turned to face the other direction by this time. “Try it,” she said with a teasing lilt, “And I will break your fingers off. You know I can.”

Nathan replied, “Oh, I don’t doubt it, Sasha.” Yes, that was his most notable feature – his voice. It was amazingly beautiful and musical with almost a lyrical quality to it. He hummed quietly, running his hands through his blonde hair – subtly primping to make sure that he looked his best for his “friend.” He was wearing khakis and a nice button-up shirt: nothing too dressy, though certainly less well-dressed than she was. He let his eyes rove over her clothes, noting the subtle hints of womanhood that had emerged so slowly. She was finally shedding her little girl looks and beginning to look like a real woman, and the pencil skirt that she wore in combination with the green ruffled shirt accentuated every new curve she had acquired, displaying it for all interested suitors to see. The Apollo of our tale was definitely interested. His bright blue eyes quickly averted themselves when he felt his twin’s glare boring into the back of his head. He faced her and gave a smirk, met by a disapproving and scolding look. Both now waited for the girl to end the conversation so they could at least entertain each other through the slow trek through the swamped streets.

[blaire]

"THE KINGS, THE LIE, THE RUSE”

Malcolm’s face was brisk and businesslike as he spoke, the muscles in his jaw tight as he crooned into the phone. The juxtaposition of the warmth of his voice and the terse ferocity of his expression made the Cynric’s organs crawl with a mixture of revulsion and delight. He was a despicable man; a cunning actor; an arrogant saint. He was a politician through and through, that Malcolm Vancelli, and this was him at his finest. The man before him wore an infuriated, almost pained expression, as though he didn’t want to do this – but oh, how he did! The voice he addressed the girl on the other line with – it was charming, adoring; a low rasp of a purr.

“How about,” Malcolm murmured lowly, lovingly, perhaps hearing the voices of his children in Reycee’s care. “I pick you up tonight in front of Sfoglia tonight? That should be a fairly unobtrusive place to meet… it’s a city favorite, after all. And then, perhaps, I can take you somewhere special tonight…? There’s someone I want you to meet. I had Julian deliver something to your room this afternoon.” Julian – Eros. Perhaps Aphrodite had leant her ear to Malcolm’s affair, but her son had long been his messenger to young Reycee – the inoffensive cover to all of their sorties.

“Perhaps you’ll wear it tonight, if you have no objection to it?” he was continuing conversationally, innocently, even as he heard Reycee giggle and his driver opened the door to his polished black car, the expensive vehicle screaming of wealth and indulgence. “You deserve quite the celebration tonight, after how much effort you’ve put into this rally… it was just the push we needed…”

Meanwhile, Deborah glanced back at her daughter fondly, acting as the driver in this little foray. The woman was reminiscent of a gypsy, and her features at thirty-seven were lined but still fresh and delicate. She wore very little make-up, like Sasha, and was still impeccably beautiful in her serenity. A figure of draped shawls and carefully selected prints, she looked like an oriental doll but somehow managed a slightly professional edge for her daughter’s sake. The loose spirals of her auburn-gold hair brought out the green in her eyes, and she smiled back upon the teasing youths – her smile widening at Nathan’s actions in a shark-like manner, warning him to behave himself.

“Is anything the matter, dearest? You have the most unnerved expression on your face.”

This, said to Reycee, made it clear just how much Ms. Williams was unaware of when it came to her beloved daughter. On the other line, a warm, inviting voice gave one last word to his lover of choice: “I’ll see you tonight, love.”

“HELLO DEAR DARLING, SWEET INNOCENT.”

Sfoglia is a warm, inviting restaurant on the Upper East Side. An Italian favorite, the place was known for its impeccable cuisine and fine wine. Despite the six-week wait for reservations, it was more the type of place for a cozy date than a celebratory dinner with a celebrity politician. It was too crowded; too familiar; too loved by the public to be an appropriate hideout for a man like Malcolm Vancetti and his barely adult lover: a girl the same age as his hotheaded twin children.

The man’s hands were fisted in his lap, his expression one of ferocious calm. As they passed the streetlamps and streetlights of New York, flares of brightness surged through the tinted windows and illuminated Malcolm’s face. There was a tenseness in his shoulder and a slight panic in his eyes that betrayed him, and his normally powerful figure made the politician look ghostly in his seat. Across from him, the owner of the Mercedes limousine merely lounged where he was perched, the fingers of his right hand hooked along the gleaming, silver-plated gun in his hand and the suit coat he wore discarded somewhere to his right. His seat was parallel to the door, so one could look into the vehicle and miss seeing him there. A wine bottle was in his left hand, and he swirled it absently before taking a casual sip from the mouth of his bottle, tilting his head back in an elegant fashion. His movements were rich and fluid, and he seemed as pleased as a cream-filled cat.

“Why so stiff, brother?”

Malcolm fought against responding. He locked his eyes on the monstrous dog sprawled on the seat across from him. Cerberus’s malevolent grin seemed to be knowingly fixed on the politician, as though thrilled to see the stupid human nervous. It wasn’t unlikely that the canine could smell the apprehension and anger radiating off the younger God.

“This is an easy game. She gets in. You get out. She dies.” Another sip as the car slowed down, and the lights in the car were dimmed after a lazy knock on the solid cover of the driver’s screen. “You’re whore’s waiting, Malcolm.”

The game begun as they reached the restaurant’s mouth, Malcolm’s driver nowhere in sight. For all it looked, he had pulled up this care for a special occasion, but there was a delay in him getting out. He gripped the door handle for a moment, steadying the angry tremor in his hand, and looked up at his brother-in-law. Juno. Of course Juno would find out about this. She always found out – and it didn’t matter that he had asked for Reycee’s murder (not in the least). What mattered was the way Juno had gone to Cynric and how Cynric wasn’t just killing a girl for the politician, but threatening to kill Malcolm, too, if the young lady’s life didn’t end in a deliciously painful manner.

“Go,” Cynric drawled and, casting furious eyes on his elder, the politician’s face rearranged itself into one of collected calm. He drew himself up, the treacherous servant, and slipped out of the car.

“Reycee,” he breathed, looking up at the figure at the restaurant front. He seemed enthralled with her, completely absorbed as he drew near. Reaching forward to brush her cheek with his hand, Malcolm appraised her quietly, an adoring smile on his lips.

“You look lovely,” Zeus murmured, moving to press a light kiss on her lips, subtle affection in his gestures – the treacherous serpent beneath a guise of human flesh. “Let me help you into the car… I have a surprise for you tonight.”.

[Yalin]

Reycee listened to her “lover,” nodding and gently biting down on her lip. She noticed her mother was the driver and smiled at her – rather, for her sake – nodding to the man on the phone. “A-all right,” she murmured, not particularly excited about this meeting. The man was dangerous. If his wife found out, who knew what would happen. She had one recollection of Juno: When she was small, she had broken something minor in her house while playing with Sasha and Nathan. Juno had slapped her and thrown her outside. From what she knew of the woman, she didn’t like her. “Tonight, then. I’ll be there. Bye.”

She looked up at her mom and waved as she hung up the phone. “Hey Mom,” she chirped, stretching lazily, “Nope. I’m just tired from the rally.”

Nathan quipped, “She does get rather strange expressions when she’s tired. Remember that one time she came back from that one fundraiser? She looked like death.”

Sasha did not smile, perhaps because of the subtle difference in her friend’s expression at the mention of that night. “I do remember that, but I think she might have been upset then.”

“Actually,” Reycee said, “Truth be told, someone had slipped something into my drink that night. I felt a little woozy.” Well, she had felt a little more than “wooziness” on the night they were all remembering. That was when Malcolm had approached her for the first time for reasons that were inappropriate. It was only a few months ago, but it was when she was a minor. He had had someone slip a drug of some sort into her drink, making it look like she was a little tipsy. He offered to escort her out, and instead pulled her into another room. That was when it had all began. No doubt banking on the fact that she would be in shock, he waited to blackmail her into returning. She hated Malcolm, but this was good for her business career. After all, she had to look at something in a positive light, or she would die from shame and probably shut down. He was everything that was wrong with politics: he was corrupt, he was a womanizer, and he got whatever he wanted – whenever he wanted. WHO-ever he wanted.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to end it. It wasn’t long until this desire to end it turned into resolve. No, she would end it. Tonight. It wouldn’t matter who had started it once the media caught hold of the story, and if the stories about Juno were true…she could easily be dead. That would just crush her own mother.

Sasha snapped her fingers in front of Reycee’s face and said, “Reycee, come back to me…”

Reycee started and shook her head. “Sorry,” she stated, glancing at the cars inhabitants. “I…I think I’m going to nap while I’m here in the car. I have a celebratory meeting with the rest of the youth who arranged the rally tonight, and by the time we get there, I will already have to be getting dressed. And I’m beat.”

Sasha nodded and punched Nathan in the arm when he looked like he was about to say something. Nathan looked hurt and asked, “Now what was that for? I was just going to say…OW!” Sasha had punched him in the shoulder again, warning him to behave. Nathan seemed to have reluctantly agreed.

“You can use me for a pillow, Reycee,” he teased, winking at the girl.

Reycee murmured, “Mhm, I’m sure you would let me, but I already have a pillow for such an occasion as this.” With that, she pulled out a pillow and reclined against the seat, falling asleep.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Reycee was there as promised, wearing her new dress and everything that came along with it. To be honest, she liked it. It complimented her hair-color well. She held a cream-colored clutch with it from her own wardrobe and she had managed to find shoes to match perfectly. She stood waiting, concentrating on remaining poised and collected for Malcolm. This definitely was not love. She hated that man. It was no longer even business – it was survival of sexual exploitation. Her heart still managed to catch in her chest in a combination of fear and adrenaline when the car pulled up to the curb.

When Malcolm stepped out, she forced a smile onto her face – it was the smile she showed to the cameras, but still a smile nonetheless. She took in his appearance, kissing him back with appropriate affection when he pressed a kiss to her lips. There was a certain tension in her body that an observer would have been able to note as she glanced up at her lover. “A-all right,” she stammered, fighting every instinct within her not to bit her lip or show her nervousness. She wasn’t entirely sure who Malcolm wanted her to meet, but she would much rather have slept tonight and met him tomorrow. She did not protest as he helped her in the car, thanking him politely as she slipped inside. She arranged her skirt and slid over for him to get in beside her.

For that, she kept waiting. She heard him murmur some excuse and shut the door, leaving her inside in the dark. She hadn’t yet noticed the other man in the car, and unless he said something, she seemed too distracted within her own mind to notice him. “You can do this – you can end this,” she muttered to herself, fixing her hair. Her hands shook as she clasped them together – the girl hated that man. She put her clutch beside her and looked up, eyes widening and giving a half-scream at the sight of someone else in the vehicle. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, her blush creeping over her face at the realization that someone else had been in the car for her short little pep talk to herself, pathetic though it may have been.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she realized who it was and scowled, “Oh. I thought I smelled cigar smoke in here. Seems we at last have the privilege of meeting face to face.” If she managed to veil her disgust for Malcolm, she didn’t even attempt to for Cynric. “To what do I owe this ‘honor’? To my little message this afternoon?” she asked, clearly annoyed with his presence. She was far more disconcerted when the car moved away from the curb. She glanced aside and froze, her expression molding from one of typical teen-aged annoyance to one of genuine fear and then back to the mask of a politician she wore so well. “Wh…What’s going on?”

[blaire]

.

“If you’ll just give me a moment to pick something up from the bar –“ the man murmured apologetically, moving away from Reycee before shutting the door. He turned, without hesitation, towards the front doors of the establishment before entering; while the doors swung shut behind him, Cynric’s car sped away and, in its place, an identical limousine pulled up in its place – one in which Juno rode, wine had been broken into, and political aides had long since been pulled into.

To the outside eye, the switch seemed completely beyond Malcolm, who entered the car a moment later with a casket of wine, unperturbed, without any outward sign of the new people inside of it.


***

She had entered, as planned, completely unsuspecting.

Cynric swirled his bottle gently as she muttered softly to herself, completely oblivious to the new presence within the limousine. He observed her – a nervous little whore playing with her scarlet hair – and felt bemused by the pretentious gifts she was adorned him. The gown, a pretty penny of a thing in midnight green, looked charming upon her; the necklace gave the child some semblance of elegance, at which the man almost scoffed. A dressed up prostitute, a very good whore, and here she was, chanting to herself – as though she were trying to empower herself. Too late, he mused wickedly, gently: too late!

Across from her, Cerberus licked his chops in anticipation, making a noise of impatience as young Ms. Williams finally realized what stranger was in the car with her. The massive dog gave a low wine as her voice hit the air, as though begging to be upon her at last. The hungry eyes with which the demon looked upon the pretty girl suggested too much familiarity with the flesh of men – the eerie eyes of the beast fixed upon her curves the same way a man appraised meat, completely focused on how much he could tear from her body and if the one victim could sate his appetite.

“Buona sera, mia bella!” he purred softly, taking a swig of wine and lifting the gun in his left hand. As he did so, the click of the safety mechanism broke the air, the nose leveling itself with Reycee’s chest. The fact that he was preparing the weapon to fire didn’t seem to perturb him; in fact, Cynric seemed to dismiss the action in the callous manner of one who had done it frequently. Nearly snorting into the bottle as she spoke, her hostility clear, his lips quirked into a ruthless grin and he looked up to her again. “Now, now… No need to be so cruel. You’re my guest tonight! Surely we can put aside our differences?” Crossing one leg over the other, he reached over to her with his left hand, offering the wine bottle. “Have a drink! Relax a little! You can’t be so serious all the time, my dear… Though…”

He drifted off, leaning forward conspiratorially, lifting the gun slightly so the nose of the barrel drifted towards a face. “I think you and I have to talk about this afternoon before you die, miss Williams. I think I know some people who are rather upset with your behavior… But of course, now, is not the time.”

Oh, how he loved to play with his prey.

Leaning back into his seat, he gave a low, deep-throated laugh, eyes critical as though the sight of her – her lovely clothes, the expensive accessories, her carefully-made appearance – repulsed. “Now, of course – relax! No need to be so tense. Cherciamo di essere amici! I am only, after all, the last person you will ever see… Let us do this properly. I am Cynric Guiardo, Malcolm’s brother-in-law. And you are – but of course, I must mind my manners. Introduce yourself as you would.”

[Yalin]

Reycee started when she saw the gun, placing a hand over her stomach in an almost protective manner. She barely heard what he said - only registered that it was in another language. She bit down on her lip so hard that it bled, time seeming to freeze as the gun tilted upwards towards her face. Then, suddenly, he was introducing himself and asking her to introduce herself. "Y-you know who I am," she managed to choke out, her mouth dry from adrenaline and terror. However, the last thing she wanted to do was aggravate the situation. She added, "But I'll play along. I'm Reycee Williams, the mother of your brother's unborn child...so I'll pass on the alcohol."

She rubbed her arm awkwardly, as if remembering some old pressure or injury on it. She would never drink alcohol again, if she could help it. Once again - that was how she got into this mess. "S-surely you wouldn't shoot a pregnant woman. You cannot be that heartless," she stated, her voice lowering from softness to a nigh whisper. She swallowed hard, hands shaking as she tucked her hair behind her ears, obviously having no idea what to do. "Pl-please, you...you don't understand the situation! I will not deny what your brother and I have done...but..."

She realized that there was very little that she could do to make her situation better. She hadn't even brought her cell phone along so that she could say that she had just accidentally left it in her room when her mother started worrying and calling. Now...now there were going to be no concerned calls from her mother or anyone else, for that matter. She shivered, placing both arms around her still-slim middle, although the presence of a child did explain the sudden increase in her curves and her chronic fatigue.

She kept her eyes on the gun constantly, curling her legs up and hugging them to her chest now. She knew there was a reason that she was keeping this baby - some of even the most cold-hearted killers wouldn't kill a pregnant woman. She just hoped that Cynric was one of those people who wouldn't kill her. He was conservative enough, to be sure. "If...if you just let me go...I will never go near your brother in law again. I swear! I'll leave the country - the hemisphere!" She just hoped that he would let her live long enough to have the baby. If she could survive that long, she could pull another card out of her sleeve:

If he killed her then, the child would be devoid of both parents. Unless he wanted to be saddled with raising a child of questionable origins by himself, he would probably want to keep her around. There again, he could always put the child up for adoption, but...she would have to find his soft spots and exploit them. "I...please, Mr. Guiardo, don't deprive my child of life, and...I'd give anything for the opportunity to be a mother the baby." Tears filled her eyes in a surprisingly sincere plea. There she was, a politician, who seemed very much concerned more for the well-being of another than for herself.

A curious specimen indeed.

[blaire]

.

The man lifted a brow as she spoke, a delicate movement that seemed, somehow, to accentuate how pristine he appeared. His eyes narrowed, a cold glitter decorating them for a moment, his features rearranged into a look of disdain. Extending his arm, straightening it, it seemed as though he was preparing himself to fire – or else, making his warning a little clearer. Despite the casual sprawl of his body, his shooting arm was poised and ready. Despite the swig of alcohol he took to hide his scowl, his gaze was bright and sober. Licking his lips lightly, he murmured a disgusted spell of Italian, before finally repeating himself in English: “a very good slut will say anything to her benefit. That man is not my brother. Not in this skin. Juno, however…”

It was horrifically unlikely that all of Reycee’s terror and tears would be enough.

“I rather love my Juno,” he told her simply, “and Juno wants you dead. Do you think it would matter to her about your unborn child? It isn’t as though death discriminates, either… that is to say, of course, if you even have a child to speak of.” He could almost see her thoughts, whirling in her head as she analyzed the situation and tried to worm her way out of it with that politician’s tone.

Politics. How he hated politics. In fact… “If you give me such a disgusting tone of voice, I won’t take care about how I hold this gun. To be honest, I’ve been having trouble with it, little Reycee. Sometimes it fires all on it’s own! I would take care, lest I don’t pay attention, and it shoots at you!” Voice thick with contempt, he turned away, speaking in a half-groan as though her very demeanor made him want to wretch. Nevertheless, he lowered the gun – aiming it instead at the clutch of limbs she used to cradle her abdomen, hoping to defend a child she wasn’t thinking about just moments ago.

“I think you misunderstood the situation. I thought I’d introduced the concept of it all well enough.” Tone dark, he clicked the heel of his shoes against the floor and Cerberus cocked his head, lifting his lips to snarl hungrily at Reycee with a wicked grin.. “I’m going to be your murderer. Nothing you offer to do wil l change that, my dear… if ‘corrupt Cynric Guiardo’ is going to get rid of you, he’s going to get rid of you, you useless bitch, not let you run away from him. But why don’t we ask Juno? In fact – why don’t you ask Juno, and see what she thinks about you and Malcolm’s so-claimed bastard, hm?

“But enough about you and your hysterical lies. As if I hadn’t heard such an old excuse before… Do you like that dress? I picked it out, just for you, and arranged for dear Malcolm to pass it alone.”

His tone became conversational again, threatening her to comply – goading her to lose her cool, damning her political done with his revulsion as the streets of New York slipped passed them through the windows –

And then nothing could be seen outside, and the lights went on inside the vehicle. The windows had been screened automatically from the outside.

[Yalin]

The poor girl really couldn't win. She wiped the stubborn tears away from her face, not saying anything more for a few moments. Finally, she seemed to have come up with her answer. She muttered, "Cynric, honestly, you wouldn't believe me even if you knew the whole truth." She barely flinched as the screening on the windows rolled up, concealing her entirely from the city's view. "And as for you being corrupt...you're just proving my point," she added as an afterthought. Her mask had dropped entirely as she faced the almost certainty of her death.

She looked much younger now that the expressions that she had trained her face into were dropped, exposing her for what she truly was: A very frightened child who had no idea what she had gotten herself into and was absolutely certain that she wouldn't get the opportunity. She sniffled, keeping her hands securely wrapped around her middle even as she lay down on the seat of the limo, curled up into a small ball. A shiver chased itself through her body even as she closed her eyes, trying to gather her composure for what she believed to be her last few moments of life.

"If you're going to kill me," she murmured, opening them again, "Just do it quickly. Don't taunt me." Her small body shook from her fear as her mind attempted to rationalize what had happened to her - what was going to happen. With a start, she seemed to have a moment of clarity. This was a situation she didn't have to analyze. Whatever she did right now - it didn't matter - the result would be the same. She would be dead in a short amount of time, and nothing that she said would matter.

A humorless laugh escaped her as she looked back up at her to-be murderer. "I'm being murdered in your car because of a spiked drink I accepted in your brother's car. Irony," she commented, wiping her tears away. "I suppose that nothing truly matters now, as the end result will be the same." Her arms remained firmly over her stomach - it very well might have been that she was telling the truth about her pregnancy. Under the dress she did have a small bump, and that was all that her mind was currently actually worried about.

Yes, she was ignoring him, her mind preoccupied with what exactly she wanted her last few minutes to be like. Or moments, judging by how her captor was acting. There was nothing left for her to say, but she glanced up at her captor, just waiting for the inevitable. She wished he'd just get it over with.

[blaire]

As the politician melted away, dripping off little Reycee William’s face like wax coming off a candle, Cynric offered her nothing but icy observation, charmed by the fire of fear he had lit behind her eyes. How desperately she scratched the tears away! Stupid slut; she could’ve saved herself yet from all the grief she would experience now. She blamed, and blamed and blamed – it wasn’t her fault, no, that she carried Malcolm’s child, nor was it her fault that she compromised herself and let Malcolm draw her drugged little self into her lap (would Sasha ever make the excuse? Never!) – and all he could think about (and it would’ve pleasured him to laugh mockingly at her for it) was how happy the pretty idiot would be once he took a bullet through her womb and slammed a tombstone through the bloody fetus’s face.

There she was, Deborah – his Demeter’s – daughter, looking like the child she was, fresh into the world in comparison to his centuries of experience. Wouldn’t believe her? Really, what a pitiful creature. He was death – the ultimate force in the world, the one for which every human confessed its sins and pleasures and will – its injustices. Do it quickly? Why not? She was a tedious thing, all done up in the gown he’d ordered for her, and the diamond necklace he’d put over her throat through Malcolm’s underlings. She had the chance to make her death dignified, political – but no, it was laughable. It hurt how comical she was, writhing in despair, curling up and clutching her belly as though the monster she carried was of any importance to him.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered in exasperation, rolling his eyes as he drained the last of his wine and promptly hurled the bottle at Reycee’s terrified form. “Shut up.” No sooner had the word left his mouth than he had aimed for the smooth joint of her shoulder and pulled the trigger of his revolver, lips twisted into a look of disdain.

Such an ungainly child. Certainly, she must be human in full; Sasha, gallant Artemis, had driven into death whenever she had locked eyes with it, and her bravery had always let her conquer it. This child? Poor Demeter. This child was irrevocably human and now… Now, she belonged to Cynric, just as all the dead ever had – though, perhaps he was counting his hens before they hatched. After all, he hadn’t shot to kill…

But she would die soon enough.

“I prefer not to disprove peoples’ assumptions of me,” he responded dispassionately, looking away even as Cerberus began to bark excitedly, trembling with delight on the limo seat as he nosed the air for the scent of Reycee’s blood. “It’s terrible for my reputation, you know, as a man who controls this city…

“Die slowly,” he asked, in quite a polite tone. He frowned down at his gun, seeming displeased that he had shot her already and seeming to hope to do it again. “And scream prettily for my amusement, little whore. I need to make a call before I decide what to do with you after you die.” And with the flick of a button on the arm of his chair, his attentions were elsewhere as the speakers crackled to life; he was going to speak with Juno. He analyzed a myth carefully in his mind and dismissed it before a voice broke out in smooth Italian.

Had his sister been expecting Zagreus’s birth anytime soon?

[Yalin]

Tears welled up in her eyes at her executioner's unkind words, even as he threw his wine bottle at her. The wine bottle she could stop - the bullet that lodged in her shoulder, jerking her hand away from preventing the bottle from hitting her? No. She could not stop that. He was actually going to kill her, and her mind was racing; exploding with searing agony as the bullet tore through joint and scraped against bone, lodging somewhere in her back even as the bottle struck her in the chest, bruising her white skin and mottling it red for now.

Outwardly, she did indeed scream, but it was hardly earth-shattering in its nature. A scream of pain - she would not let him know the agony she was experiencing. She wouldn't give him that pleasure; well, she had an idea that she wouldn't have a choice soon. She could not move her arm at all, so she could not brush away the tears that welled up and spilled over her cheeks - and once again she was lost within herself; lost to anything that he was saying. Silent sobs shook her body as she closed her eyes, looking for any escape - any shred of hope.

Of course, she found precious little else but the hope that it would soon be over. It was when she came into the acceptance that she was indeed going to die that everything seemed to look different. Her blood was staining the back of his car, turning all things crimson. Her white face and arms were spattered with blood as she shivered, growing cold from her blood loss that went unstemmed. She opened her eyes, looking at the river of blood that was still pumping out of her body: she didn't try to staunch it. It seemed far too fascinating to her. Torn between consciousness and unconsciousness and hovering close to death, she was seeing things that were extremely odd to her: Did her blood glow? Impossible to tell with the lights so brightened. Hm...that was odd.

The girl turned her eyes again to Hades, another shiver wracking her frame. It seemed as though a second pair of eyes opened in her, seeing him for what he truly was. Her tears and shivers were interrupted by a gasp and then...strangely enough, she managed to blush. Somewhere inside of her, she knew, and her story looked much different than the kidnapping and murder of a politician. This story would not end with her death, she realized with a shaky breath. "Wh-why," she choked out, head spinning and face paling, "take me," another shallow breath, "away? Is...is not my death enough of a prize for her? Why...why the torment of captivity?"

She was going to be with this creature forever. This cold, unfeeling man who treated her as though she were nothing was to be her captor for all eternity. A shudder made its way through her body at that thought. Juno hadn't just begged her death - she had begged her eternal captivity with one who hated her. A spark of anger lit itself in her heart, even as her eyes sharpened their focus. She could hear Juno's cruel voice, at which she tensed, a brief glimmer of hatred showing through. This was the woman who was robbing her of everything! She knew she had another home - she knew now that this man (indeed, she knew the players, but seemingly not by name) owned her now. "What could you possibly," her voice was growing weaker even as her anger tried to strengthen it, "want with me for an eternity?"

[blaire]

Tears, pretty tears, like drops of crystal ecstasy – thrilling him, pleasing him, in that sadistic manner that all men feared of him. This like of sorrow, of bitter death, was something Hades had acquired in mortal form as a man who could kill and be killed. As a God it wouldn’t have pleasured him but this – this savage, primal delight, of murder, of massacre – was something that he could not deny in his current shape. Beneath it all was a grim awareness of everything he had done; his request, as a God, that Zeus provide him with a bride; the mythological dishonouring of Persephone, which had never happened; and the awareness that someone, somehow, had seen Zeus leave the car and come out to another one. The prediction that someone would hear of it. The knowledge that Deborah, his dear Demeter, to whom he once played consort, would never respond passively to the abduction of her daughter. All he heard was Juno’s languid voice, however, and a strange acceptance of his state of affairs – a recognition of what was his due, and a quiet acknowledgement of victory.

He had won a whore, certainly, but a very fair goddess – and now that the other half of her stirred, he realized exactly who she was.

Her fascination with her gory wound and the blood that streamed from her wasn’t lost on him; to her, the concept of death was entirely more sensitive than that of any other human. He checked Cerberus with word and movement, slinking forward, balanced despite the movement of the car. Gazing apathetically upon her, he reached forward to take her chin in his hand, caressing her soft throat with the nose of his weapon, and examining her face objectively, as though relishing the expression. His balance was surprising and he propped a knee up onto the seat beside her, listening for a moment to her question and allowing a cruel smile to chance upon his face.

The silence that met the Reycee’s inquiry was sublimely furious, the voice on the other end of the line crackling with energy and anger. “Because,” Juno replied, seeming to realize something, and giving a strangled, enraged little cry. “Because we are saving you face, you brazen little bitch; because we are saving your mother the agony of finding out about you. And because my husband, the damned King, wants his beloved son back for one lifetime, at least – but I will have none of it. I mean to kill Zagreus again, and put his mother in her place once and for all.

“She is yours, Hades.”

The reply was clipped; ruthless.“With pleasure, dear Queen.”

He reached forward to kiss her forehead gently, and pulled the trigger before she could forget the feeling of his lips. To his throne room at last; he, the king of hell, suffering the mother of man as his bride if only to punish her on his beloved sister's behalf - and at his own ancient request...

[Yalin]

By the time Juno had made her enraged explanation, the girl had already bled far too much to comprehend what was being said. When Hades studied her face, she did not see or comprehend the cruelty. In fact, it was probably a blessing that she was incapable of understanding what was being said or done, for she was aware only of a soft kiss being pressed to her forehead - not of the inky blackness that followed.

It felt like waking from a deep sleep - and it very well may have been just that, for all the young goddess knew. The life that she normally felt was absent, despite the fact that she herself still lived. Nevertheless, it felt right. This was her fate, no doubt decided for her before either she or Hades had been born. But she had not yet realized where she was - she still felt as though she were waking for sleep.

Then at once, her eyes opened, revealing...darkness. Her gently radiant skin and its subtle glow provided the only light for the goddess of spring to see. She gave a small gasp at how pervasive the silence and the darkness were - she could feel it. Last she knew, she had been dressed rather strangely. Now, she hardly seemed to be wearing anything, save perhaps a thin sheet of material. She drew in a sharp breath as the coolness of the Underworld touched her flesh, glancing around for any semblance of light.

She wasn't really dead, right? She couldn't die. No, she wasn't dead. She was still thoroughly solid. Then why was she here? The memory of what had happened slammed into her mind, nearly pitching her forward. She pressed her delicate white hands to cover her face at the realization. "Wh-what have I done?" she inquired of the darkness, her voice thick with tears. "I didn't know," she moaned, her conclusion sounding more like a lament than an obvious answer to her question. Yes, the young girl seemed thoroughly aware of the stupidity of what she, in her mortal form, had done. Of what Hera had done. Of what her own father had done.

She could no longer count on any of the Olympians for assistance. No, she was not of them any longer. Could she accept that? Well, she supposed so. What had they done but rape her and banish her to the Underworld? That wasn't to say that the Underworld was entirely unpleasant. She knew a few things - the idea that the realm of Hades was a desolate place devoid of joy was flawed. Hades ruled Dis, which was the realm she was now a part of.

Then...then she remembered that prophecy. Her face paled even whiter (if it were even possible) when she remembered it. Her mother would be furious. Speaking of her mother...she would not be able to see her whenever she desired as she used to. As tears welled up in her eyes at this contemplation, she whirled around, certain that she'd heard something. No, this was no time to cry about her mother: she had far more important matters to attend to. She whimpered, "H-Hades?" Her voice sounded very small and shaky in her own ears - she could not imagine how he would have been able to hear it.

[blaire]

It took only a whisper of a moment before she was dead and Cynric’s attentions turned elsewhere – outside his mortal body, back to his throne beneath the earth, down to the cold of his forbidden kingdom. The smell of gunpowder and the burn of his hand were dismissed accordingly, and with a careless though he set Cerberus upon the maiden’s human body, knowing that he’d leave no means for her to return to that world on her own. No, Persephone was trapped; she would have no exit from his domain. In his mind, the old myth seared through his thoughts, taunting him. In response, Cynric Guiardo merely fell back in his seat, propping his feet up as though preparing to rest, a new bottle uncorked so he could further indulge in the joys of his wine.

Darkness – he was aware of that, too, when he came to meet her. Centuries in the shadows and mere years in the light had made him hypersensitive to the difference, even though his existence preferred neither. Before him, the river Styx was in turmoil, the waters splashing against the shore and reaching vainly for Demeter’s daughter, hoping to incense her in a fit of hysteria. He, himself, felt a rush of discontent at the sight of her terrified figure. She was radiant here, too, the soft light of her skin making her a delicate beacon to those restless creatures that roamed the fringes of his territory. Her voice reached his ears, but he could only consider it dispassionately. Yes, yes child – what have you done?

Silent were his footsteps, and difficult to catch as the coming of death, and at her quiet prompt of his name his fingers were in her hair – drawing back the curtain which should’ve been fair – and reaching forward (his calm maddening) to slip a step behind her ear. She couldn’t see the white petals of the narcissus, and doubtless she had never caught its fragrance before. His Queen seemed to draw in on herself as though unable to find an external comfort in his cold world, and he couldn’t help but let a soft sound of discontent break passed his lips.

“Hm.”

The prophecy flared in his mind at this – at her unhappy form, her humanity purged from her perfect being – and his body was filled with honest displeasure. The foolish creature had plucked the narcissus proverbially. She had taken the pretty trinkets lain for her in trap and rooted them up, dragging all manner of darkness to her from the soil beneath. “Hades,” he mused thoughtfully, considering her with cold, glittering eyes. He was dressed in polished clothes and, somehow, it was difficult to decide whether his fashion was modern or ancient; it looked wrong for any time period one tried to fit it into, perhaps a foreign fashion distinctive of the dead. His fabrics were dark and strange in texture, but his face was very much the same. It seemed he liked this face and form, and had taken it to earth with him; Reycee, though, he found changed in death.

“Why do you call for me, beloved?” And Cynric said the word as though he didn’t care for the term – for the stupid, promiscuous beast that had so displeased his Queen sister – and reached to tilt her face towards him, observing Reycee’s tear-filled eyes languidly.

[Yalin]

Reycee was not oblivious to the edge in his voice, and it was clear that even as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she recognized him. She averted her eyes respectfully, making no movement to flinch away from his touch. Contrary to what he believed, she was not by any means stupid. Young, definitely; not stupid. She was not going to do anything to further anger him, and she would let him do with her as he saw fit. He was, after all, her uncle.

"M-my lord," she murmured almost silently, squeezing her eyes shut at the tension in his voice and opening them just before she spoke again, "I ask only that in dealing with me you remember your other sister, my mother. She...she will worry, but I merely ask that she have no reason to." Her eyes flicked back up at his face as her cheeks colored - from the cold or from the situation she was in, she didn't even know. "I will submit to your will," she concluded, looking away and turning her eyes downward before added, "whatever it may be."

Yes, it was indeed that easy. She did not want to return to the light - how could she now allow others to see her face? How could she ever face her mother - her father? She was barely summoning the willpower to face her uncle...her new husband. He did not want her. Though she would never admit it, his coldness pricked her heart. He did not need to know that the reason those tears fell over her cheeks was because of her grief over her fault - not being bereft of her mother. Here, she was alone; here, she was getting what she deserved for not seeing through her father's trick.

The coldness of Styx permeated the very space around her, making the silence almost suffocating. She closed her eyes for a moment, as though considering what she would do next - there was nothing that would touch her uncle. There were no words that could sway him and no acts that would change his coldness. For some reason that she didn't understand, the idea hurt her worse than the darkness and the maddening oblivion of Styx. Setting her features resolutely in a neutral expression, she glanced back at him. "I have no desire to return to the light," she announced almost silently, "And I swear on Styx that I will make no attempt at escape."

An oath on Styx was the most solemn promise she could make him. Hopefully, he would not merely find her statement annoying...or foolish. She made her promise with a sincere heart, and had hope only of finding some solace in the lonely darkness under the earth. Perhaps eventually he would take pity on her and visit her, but she didn't even expect that much of him. She would settle for sitting in whatever space he gave her (if any), and not trouble him with her company and ramblings.

She made no move to touch him or look at him, and she hardly seemed interested in saying anything more. Her frame shook slightly, almost as though fearing some abuse. She was, after all, at the mercy of Hades, and he was none too pleased with her as it was. Her will had resolved itself, though. Persephone would remain with him and do as he commanded her, content to be ordered as a servant even if she were given to him as a wife.

This was, after all, what she deserved for her stupidity.

[blaire]

“Really?” he inquired, dissatisfied, and pressed his lips against her own – reminding her, even then, that he was an unpleasant master, and her submission was doubtless a reckless thing to promise, “By the river Styx… do you remember, Proserpina, the repercussions to breaking a vow on these waters? Do you really dare to make yourself humble before Hades – when doubtless you will take the first opportunity offered to you to return to the world above?” His expression was incredulous and he moved to pass her; he made a gesture with his hand, casually throwing it out at his side, and the stone at his arm quivered and knotted upwards to reach his flesh.

Over the banks of Styx rose a great bridge, carved out of the earth and glittering with the stones so prized in Hades’ mines. From the tendril of earth he had ripped up with a mere gesture, a red-eyed stallion came snorting up to create them – life created from the land of the dead. It seemed to sneer at Reycee as Hades’s hand darted back to catch a fistful of her lovely hair, his movement calm and collected but harsh on the young girl. Without pause he roughly released her against the beast’s side as he put a hand to the creature’s head, treating the animal with a tender hand where he had no concern for his wife. He bid her to climb with silence and a sharp, furious look, and continued with his musings.

“I have little love for Demeter on this day,” the god informed the other ruthlessly, as though thinking nothing of her heartfelt pleading. “May she be shamed by you, and shame my brother’s kingdom for what you have done. Malcolm, indeed! Of course Malcolm would do something such as this. It is his nature, foolish beast – and now, it will serve the vain lord right to have his kingdom struck at by your wrath-filled mother. The pair of you should’ve realized exactly who you dealt insults to…”

“Mortal and immortal name alike.”

It was obvious that Reycee’s declarations held no weight to the cruel man; by human standard, there was no kindness in his actions – only the abrupt disregard of his element. In a momentary choice that portrayed an illusory compassion, he removed his coat and roughly slung it over the goddess’s shoulders as though to fend of the cold of the desolate outskirts upon which they’d met. He wondered if she realized it was human flesh stitched into the inner surface; he hoped it reviled her. “You will, of course, be permitted to the upper world as my consort,” he told her, all orders, allowing no room for disagreement, “as I see fit. But never forget this: you are my possession now, and I will abuse you as I see fit for your crime.”