“It isn’t every day that self proclaimed gods and goddesses grace me with their presence.” Every day. Hell. It wasn’t every millennium they did. It happened so often that the devil forgot there were such people as blasphemers.
The devil chose to seat himself in one of many chairs, particularly one adjacent from a desk. He propped his heels upon the surface. Hands went behind his head after leaning back in his seat.
“Oh?” Intrigue was accomplished. If that was Hera’s intention, the goddess succeeded. “Only a tiny chance, Hera? You wound me.” Mockery.
He stood from the seat. A simple slide across the edges of his desk before settling on the corner. “Of all the other creatures, misfits, has beens, and deities, the mother of blasphemers chooses the devil.”
A cunning smile played against his features.
Self proclaimed? Oh, that was right. How come she hadn’t smelled his delusions like the bad breath of a hobo sitting on the curb outside a fast food join, begging for scraps? Monotheistic faiths and their followers had to beginning amused her - they had been children bickering and fighting and crying when they scraped their knees. But now? Now they’d grown up to be bullies, cruel and without respect for the world’s history, and Hera did little to hide her cold amusement when the words ‘self proclaimed’ dripped from his tongue. “You sound lonely, dear.”
Her regal stare never once left him, eyes amused and colder than the dark side of Pluto; a planet, for the record, her brother was very protective of. And it was a nice metaphor for how Hera viewed the world. They, her own pantheon, were the planets. Large and powerful. The Semitic religions were the stars. Glimmering, glistering and far, far away from reality.
”Oh, that wasn’t my intention,” she cooed in a perfect blend of matronly pity and coy viciousness. “If I had known how frail your ego was I would’ve put on my silk gloves before descending.”
High heels - a modern touch to her otherwise traditional appearance - clicked against the stone floor when Hera approached the desk. ”I think that sounds like a perfect match. Don’t you?” Mother of blasphemers; now that was a new one. She quite liked it.
But Hera would’ve preferred your majesty, naturally.
"Maybe not but mine is much better. First of all, whatever junk you’re putting on your nails burns enough as it is but… are you also wearing perfume?”
”Better? How about more sensitive? It’s nothing but iron oxide and carmine, Pathos. Surely you ca—… perhaps. Why? Does it burn as well?”
“No need. Simply on a visit.”
Michael stopped in place. She wouldn’t have
gone to see the Pagans, unless it was to smite them.
She didn’t realize that God had left until that morning.
Perhaps he had simply taken a visit to the Pagans, she
thought. Heaven didn’t know that the Archangel was
gone either. Leaving Raphael in charge, Michael left
to look for God immediately.
"Have you perchance seen my Father?
He was missing this morning.”
”There is no such thing as ‘simply a visit’ anymore.”
A thousand years ago, maybe. When segregation
existed because of boundaries and not political or
religious beliefs. When temples, churches, mosques
and shrines were build to honor them and not rented
out to guided tourist tours. It’d been easier back then
when mortals had believed so much those who depended
on their faith could share the fickle little lives. One to Anubis,
one to Hades, one to Lucifer, one to Hel. Nowadays they fought
over the few believers like vultures around a fresh corpse.
But I am not going to give you any information willingly.
Who do you take me for? Frigga? The Greek queen gestured
for Michael to come closer. The peacocks spread their tails and
Argos’ hundred eyes stared at the arch angel.
"Everyone returns home eventually, it is how the world works. Olympus is their home as much as it is yours, even if you would not like to admit it." Hestia pokes at the base of the hearth in front of her. "The warmth of home calls to them, begs them to return and I remain here to greet them."
”This is not their home,” the Queen spat. The famous temper - fire and spite acid enough to corrode entire families - flared like a beacon from ancient times before Hera suffocated her own spark, green eyes turning cold and distant. “My temple is the oldest building on Olympus. I was here before Heracles, before Alexander, Perseus, Minos, Sarpedon, Rhadamantes. Do not tell me I have no control over my own home.” Do not tell me I have no say over my own kingdom.
Dr. Lecter nodded in response. “Of course … children can do that, I suppose.” Hannibal had no personal experience with children, but could only imagine. Occasionally, she felt maternal, such as with Abigail Hobbs, but she tried not to make a habit out of it. “Yes, of course. I’m free right now. Come on in.” She stood back to let the woman through.
Hera - Helena - smiled. It had been so long since her sons and daughters were children. Hephaestus with his crippled form looked like he’d entered the autumn of his life and Ares stood proud and tall. The very epitome of Aristotelean beauty. Hebe had lost her innocence and Eris’ frown lines were deeper than the Mariana trench. But they were here children, her precious pure legitimate children, and Hera was known for being partial. “Thank you,” she said and louboutins clicked against the hardwood floor when she stepped into the office. “How long are these sessions?”
"If you could smell what I’m smelling, I don’t think you’d be talking."
”There is nothing wrong with my olfaction, thank you very much.
… What are you smelling?”
”Don’t be such a whimp.”
why don’t you guys send me your characters name and i’ll put it in this generator and write a starter based on what comes out
“You can’t be understood.”
Fact: Greeks are delusional.
Fact: they take their cues from three old ladies sharing one eye.
Fact: they allowed humans to invent democracy.
Now what did that say about them, hmm?
"Mediocrity? I am the son of God, first of his blood.
Not the fifth generation born from incest, rape and
wickedness. A tradition I hear you’ve been carrying
on. How are your children doing, my Queen?”
Lucifer rose when she slapped him. Hera’s golden hand left a red imprint on his dark skin. It looked like a thin layer of dust and ashes covered him and when Lucifer straightened up to his full height a pitch black shadow merged with Hera’s. She stood in his darkness and he had never seen anyone take to it so well.
"Ah, but I am no man, my Queen." Semantics, a voice
in the back of his head laughed. Lucifer tried to shut it
out. Shut up, shut up, shut up. He took Hera’s hand,
brought it to his lips, kissed the back of it. Ah, there.
“Not by commoners, no.”
Poor little lost boy. Thrown down from heaven by his father, only a handful of brothers and sisters stepping over the edge to follow him. Delusional, self-centered, the father of hubris. If she hadn’t despised him so much Hera would’ve pitied Lucifer. He reminded her of Hephaestus. Too ugly to remain among the divine. Too rotten on the inside to belong above the clouds. Disgusting.
"They are sitting comfortable at the foot of their father’s throne, waiting for the day when he will step down and they’ll ascend to what is their birthright. I believe you watched Jesus doing the same. How long do you think it’ll take before the true son of your father, a boy born from a mortal woman, will start ruling in his father’s stead, hmm?"
Was there nothing else they could throw at her? For thousands of years people had been talking about her incestuous marriage and the circumstances leading up to the conception of her first son. They talked as if she was to blame, as if they expected her to become defensive and angry. Her hands were clean, did they not realize that?
"Oh, don’t let your impotence make you think less of yourself, dear." It was a cheap shot but Hera couldn’t resist. They had all heard the prophecies. One after another. The anti-christ shall rise again when Lucifer fathers a child and so forth, so forth. It was pathetic. "Answer my question, why are you here?"
She blinked in surprise when he kissed her hand and quickly pulled back, wiping the back of her hand against the purple fabric of her dress.