Chapter Text
Moros waited as he always did for Melinoë. It was a strange twist of fate that had placed him in a position at the crossroads such that he was always the first to see her emerge from her tent. It was a privilege he jealously guarded, to be the first one to observe her expression, to know if she appeared in triumph or defeat. Only her familiar, and the shade Dora knew more. However, he could hardly begrudge her oldest friends in the world that position.
He had a feeling about this night. There was something electric in the air he couldn't quite place. She'd been gone a long time; longer than usual, and that almost always boded well for her success. The crossroads were fully populated as well. He could see Odysseus pace near his map table, and even the restless shuffle of normally placid Nemesis as she stood on guard. Eris had flown in earlier, giving him her usual nasty side eye as she did. She had seemed in a particularly foul mood and had pointedly scattered trash all over the clean pathways as she went. There was no point in reprimanding her about it. Getting angry at Eris was like shouting at a cat. She might turn around and scratch, or act as though nothing at all had been said. It was impossible to tell which reaction you would get on any given day.
Only Hecate seemed unaffected by the mood. She never was. She would consult with the strategist, or chant over her cauldron, or even just stand in silence, staring out at something none of the rest of them could see. Still, the restlessness of the others was almost enough to make him shift from foot to foot as well. Almost. It was then that his keen ears caught the rustling of fabric, and he turned his head so he could watch her emerge.
Melinoë was radiant. Her wheat gold hair haloed her face, flushed with victory. Her mismatched eyes shone brightly, and he was pleased to see that they sought him out. He knew he was smiling, the expression still unfamiliar on his face after attending a millennium of tragedies. She had no such burden, and she smiled happily at him. She didn't have to say anything. She had won, he knew, defeated Typhon at the top of the mountain, and come back down victorious.
He opened his mouth to congratulate her, to speak the words he always did when she succeeded. They had not been lovers for long. Only a few weeks in the grand scheme of their immortal lives. But already they had fallen into a pattern that felt engraved in his soul. When she succeeded, they would share this private moment, just long enough that he could bask in her joy. Then she would go to share it with the rest of her friends at the crossroads. She always insisted it was their victory, not hers alone, even though she had done the lion's share of the labour. On those nights, she would take his hand and lead him into the woods, to the private place they had carved out to be with one another that no one else knew. He would pour his praise into kiss and touch, and she would ride out the exhilaration against his body, demanding whatever he could give, over and over until her throat was raw from crying out in pleasure, and he was left bloody from the scratches of her nails.
On those nights when she was stopped before reaching her goal, he was still there to share her feelings with her. He would hold her gaze, see what it was she needed from him. There were days that those failures only drove her on harder, and they shared only a glance and a nod before she was back out again, charging into the unknown to face their foes. Other nights, she had news to share that couldn't wait, and they had no more than that meeting of eyes before she had to speak to Hecate or Odysseus. She would never leave without also coming to see him, even if all he could give her was a chaste kiss against the knuckles of her hand and his sincerest wishes for her victory. On the darkest nights, when she would arrive back haunted and exhausted, he would go to her - take her to the hot springs, or her tent, or that private place in the woods. He would brush the sleep from her eyes, wash the pain from her skin. He told stories of warriors he had known, or listened to her as she tried to express the inexpressible emotions she had felt while out in the dark. Sometimes they made love, slow and gentle, or hard and fast.
But always she would be restless. Before long, she would be up, pacing, ready to run into the dark and face the horrors out there. He was temporary - a diversion in her greater destiny. He had always known he would be. After all, he too had a destiny that didn't include her. They had agreed that it didn't matter. He wanted to be with her, and she with him. He tried to make himself believe that was all they needed, as if her every success did not bring them closer to ultimate victory and the end of all that they were now.
So he opened his mouth to congratulate her, to smile and say the words once again. He would pour his feelings into her later in the clearing and hope that she didn't feel how desperate he was when he did.
But something else happened. Her gaze snapped away from him and up into the sky. Her face broke out in a smile more brilliant than he'd ever seen before, directed at him.
"Icarus!" She cried, and he was forced to look upwards to see the dark shadow of wings. Melinoë dashed towards the center of the crossroads as the shade of that youth swooped downwards for a landing.
"Meli! You did it!" The young man alighted on the ground, and Melinoë ran towards him, delighted. He caught her up in a motion that seemed to surprise them both, and swung her in a great circle that had them both laughing like children. They stumbled together, and it looked like they were about to fall, before Moros realized that they weren't falling. They were kissing. The shade had kissed Melinoë, bending her almost double in a swoon, and she had kissed him back, and he wasn't jealous, he wasn't. He had no right, he had said, he had told her that he wouldn't stop her from pursuing others because he couldn't be hers forever, because of fate and destiny and damned, damned prophecy.
Nemesis was glaring at him across the clearing, disgusted. Her eyes said he was a fool, to be standing there, watching this, doing nothing. He was a fool, she was right, but what could he do?
Then Melinoe dropped to the ground, and her head bounced against the hard dirt. He moved then, dashing across the clearing so he could arrive before Odysseus even had time to react. He knelt to help her sit, as she winced, gingerly touching the back of her head. He had one of her hands firmly in his, and the other at her back to support her.
"Are you alright?" he murmured, looking into her eyes to check for signs of greater injury. But she was looking at the shade, her concern clearly for him instead. He looked over and saw the boy was standing there frozen, shock writ large on his face. He was staring at his hands in horror.
"Icarus?" Melinoë asked, tentative,
"Meli, I'm sorry I shouldn't have," he stuttered, starting to back away.
"Wait!" She said and started to reach out for him. But he only stepped back further.
"I have to go, I'll ... I have to go." He repeated and then turned, taking a few steps before pushing up and into the air, flapping those great wings to push himself higher and higher.
"Icarus!" She cried and scrambled up to her feet. Moros helped her as she did and watched as she gazed off after him. Eris chose that moment to saunter up.
"Ooooh, little pigeon can't measure up, can he?" She taunted, "I know Moros is a total bore, but I didn't think he was so dull that you'd resort to making out with ghosts, babe. Not that you can really, they all fall apart before long. But I guess you already knew that." She added.
"Shut up, Eris," Melinoë said with uncharacteristic viciousness,
"You want me to go after him? He hasn't got real wings, so I could catch him pretty quick," Eris continued, regardless.
"Leave him alone." She snapped back.
"Aww, but it'd be fun," Eris said, eyes gleaming.
"Eris," Moros said, and put the weight of his office behind the word. A black dread descended over the crossroads, heavy and oppressive. It smothered the rising chaos so quickly that even Melinoë was startled. He realized then that he'd never really used his power around her. Not his real power, anyway, the finality and the weight of doom.
"Spoilsport," Eris muttered, annoyed. The goddess of strife turned her back on them and took off into the air herself, thankfully in the opposite direction Icarus had gone. Melinoë was still gazing out, watching where Icarus had flown. He had already disappeared, obscured by the night and clouds.
She turned to him then, worry in the lines of her face.
"Moros, what if he never comes back?"
"He will," He said, soothing.
"The last time he left, it was years before I saw him again. He doesn't have a home, Moros, not like we do here. I couldn't stand it if - if" She looked on the verge of tears.
"I'll go after him," he said, before he could stop himself.
"He's already out of sight," she protested.
"I know where he'll go."
Icarus was dreaming. Of course, shades didn't dream, not really. They had no physical form, no real eyes to close, no bodies to lie down to rest.
So when there was nothing else to hold their attention, they remembered.
He stood at the window of the tower he had been imprisoned in with his father. It hadn't always been so. When he was young, they lived in a house. There had been a stream that ran next to the workshop, and his father had made for him small boats that he raced against each other in the fast-flowing water. When he was old enough, he'd made his own boats, always striving to make one that would dart through the current swifter than his father's creations.
Now all he could see were boats, tiny and distant enough through his window that they resembled the boats of his childhood. Their white sails flashed in the sun, getting lost amongst the white capped waves.
He would sail one of those boats one day, he decided. He and his father would escape this place together, leave Crete behind and start new lives, building things and exploring the world together. He leaned out the window further to feel the wind ruffle his hair. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. Sun and wind together, that was as close as I could feel to being free. If only now he could catch the salt spray on his tongue and -
He opened his eyes. There was no sun, and if the wind blew, he couldn't feel it. There was only moonlight and the stone beneath him where he sat. It was easier to recover memories where they had occurred. The tower that he and his father had been imprisoned in may have crumbled long ago, but it had occupied this spot on this barren cliff face. He hadn't finished dreaming the memory in full, but he sensed that he was no longer alone.
There, pale as the moonlight itself, stood Doom. He was tall and very straight, from the silver strands of his hair, the grey gleam of his skin and the upright bearing of his posture, holding up his antlered crown. This was how he'd appeared the first time Icarus had ever gotten a glimpse of him, in the spare moments before he and his father had started the doomed journey that had taken his life. They said sometimes that the gods would appear to mortals who were especially favoured. He had thought then that their journey had been blessed, for though he hadn't known which God he'd glimpsed, surely they had come to see something amazing, for his father's inventions never failed.
"It's alright." He said and turned his face away from the shining figure. He wrapped his arms more tightly around his knees, "You don't have to warn me off. I know my place, I won't be back again."
"That is not what she wants," Doom said.
"It should be," He responded, "I only cause trouble for her really,"
"That's not what I heard. She says you've been a great help to her, out on the straight of Thessaly." Moros stood next to him now and looked out over the view. The ocean was quiet, the shore so far distant below them that even the lapping waves were barely more than a whisper.
"I daresay the hammers are useful enough," he shrugged, "I'm sure Charon will carry my other inventions to her if I ask."
The god said nothing, just gazed out over the ocean.
"He could deliver messages to Odysseus too, if I have them," He continued, "So she needn't see me to get my help."
"I did not know you had such a congenial relationship with the boatman." That made Icarus wince. He had not been a good passenger. He had cried and fought and screamed while Charon paddled him down the river, implacable in the face of mortal grief.
"I'll find some way." He said stubbornly.
"If you're going to leave and never see her again, why bother to help at all?" Moros asked, placid and calm as ever.
"Because I'm a man of my word!" He snapped and stood up, finally facing the tall figure, who looked down on him cooly, "I said I'd do everything I could to help her and I will." He glared back, furious. Then he remembered he was shouting at a god, and winced, "My Lord," He muttered, stepping back and dropping his gaze.
Moros stepped in closer, and Icarus could almost imagine that he could feel the heat off of his body. That wasn't possible, of course. All but the most intense of sensations were lost to him, and he was as strong a shade as they came. Then he felt cool fingers on his chin as the god moved his face to look into his eyes.
He gazed at him in shock. He could feel the sensation of fingers on his skin. The pressure of the grip, the temperature of the touch, the bite of one fingernail where it grazed his cheek. He tried to speak, but no sound left him. Even touching Melinoë, holding her, kissing her, had not felt as real as this. It had taken every ounce of his will and power, fueled by his joy at seeing her succeed at the top of the mountain, to stop her body from passing right through him, to have enough physical presence to interact with her the way a real living person would.
"You will return to her," Moros commanded, holding his gaze with intense amethyst eyes.
"I don't understand," He choked. He really, really didn't.
"There is nothing to understand," Moros said coolly, "Melinoë values you. She needs your vigilance as an ally, and she wants your presence at the crossroads. You have stated your oath to help her. You will return." Moros released him then, and he was able to think again, at least about anything other than the sensation of touch against his skin
"But I kissed her," He blurted out, "Aren't you and Meli... " He didn't know what they were. But the god had rushed across the crossroads so quickly, had held her so tenderly. He'd seen Meli steal glances across the way at Moros as well. Glances that progressed from curiosity to something more intense, something more like desire... and well. People talked. No one had explicitly told him that they were together, but what they hadn't said spoke volumes.
"... Together." He finished lamely. Moros raised an eyebrow.
"What I have with Melinoë has no bearing here. Will you return?" Moros asked, though it was less of a question and more of a command.
"What does that mean?" Icarus asked.
"Will you return?" was all he asked.
"I ... Yes, I'll return," He responded, bewildered. Then Moros disappeared, gone in a swirl of smoke that itself vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He sat back down on the ground.
"What in Hades just happened?"