Work Text:
Blood trickled down her forehead, unlike the color of roses adorned by many. She’s cursed by the spectrum of the plague. Pitch black like void. You could say her blood was the color of the night sky. She’s the divinity of mother night after all. Coursing through her blood wasn’t any normal ichor, what she contained was dark matter of space. Absorbent of any light. You would be horrified to see her eyes glowing as she wore her own blood as a mask.
Blood and gore.
Blood and sweat.
Is this all she has? Is this all she can do?
Oh how she loathes to stand.
Loathe to grip that sword and be unable to do anything with it.
No swinging, just standing as she hilts and sparks to any individual that dares speaks to her.
Instead of standing. She walked out from the forest of Erebus, out from the training grounds, out to the Crossroads.
Blood trickled down her forehead. Puddles formed on the grass, they never reflected.
Dripping down from her fingertips. Nemesis groaned. She looked like ink splattered across her armor, but it was her own lifeforce. It wasn’t a pretty sight even to the great tactician that looked at her with concern.
“Have you gotten into a fight with Chronos himself, goddess? You don’t seem t—“
“I’m fine, thanks.” She snapped at him, walking past him.
Odysseus didn’t like being ignored, but what else could he do? He wasn’t going to fight with her because of her condition. Not like she can’t regenerate anyways. Many conversations of theirs ended up like this. She’d never let him finish his talks before she ended up making a snide remark that’d end up in her cutting the conversation short.
She’s never been the type to hold up conversations well. Not about herself at least. Never would.
Nemesis walked past the cauldron, past the tavern, past the Fated List, into the tent hidden into the corner. A trail followed her. It was guilt.
Stood tall, not even the candle on the table would be able to reflect on her armor. It was rough, scratched, bloodied and battered. There’s no admiration towards her anymore, nothing loveable about her.
That’s what she thinks anyway.
She stood there. Blood trickled down her forehead.
Soft hands pressed against it, pulling down the headband down to the table to have a soft towel bless her skin. Removing the mask she once had.
Armor pulled away gently by the hands of two. Red nails covered the hand of a green limb. A gentle clasp, a gentle stroke of a thumb. A very gentle smile came across the face of the two.
All that was left of her was her tethered red dress underneath. Further did those small hands wrap around the scarred muscles of the other with caution. Feeling up the sandpaper edges of her hands.
“Sit down, you know I’m too small to assess your wounds.”
A nod was shared, and she sat for her princess. Eyes looking up at her now with a sense of emotion. Eyebrows weren’t tensed and furrowed. They were relaxed and calm.
Palms came to her cheeks to bump foreheads. Love trickled down. Both were in their own embrace. Hands resembling tiny soft paws rested on the incarnate’s shoulders.
Eyes were closed. Hands were exploring. Although one muttered a spell redundant to do if the wounds would already close up by next night, it was the care. It was the energy shared amongst the two that mattered. It wasn’t about if and how she recovered, it was about whether she accepted care of her lover.
She never liked talking about her own emotions. Never did.
But Melinoë did. Melinoë enjoyed knowing more about that strong and powerful woman at her post every night and day.
Although their trek together led to one being forced to go back home as the other concluded their story. Was the success all worth it in the end if one of them didn’t make it? That thought cursed the two as they made their way across their separate journeys. Not wanting to have the other get hurt in the process.
Nemesis rested her face on Melinoë’s chest with her eyes still closed. Holding onto her with her hands covering her back. Soft hands exploring through her hair as it was pulled down from its unnatural hair bun. No words were shared, but somehow Melinoë knew that Nemesis needed this.
Afterall, she never liked talking about herself. But Melinoë doesn’t need to make her anymore. All she needs is her presence in her tent, and those yellow amber eyes to say what she cannot verbalize. Words are a struggle for the both of them, but what they don’t struggle with is the embrace of their fingers holding onto what they love the most.
Resting on her lap, a kiss hit Nemesis on her forehead. That blood and gore was gone.