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Chapter Text

The thick perfume of flowers hung heavy in the air, as the young prince wandered through the gardens of Thessaly. It was hot, the sort of heat that multiplied the sickeningly sweet scent of the flowers, into something sour, almost like rot while bees buzzed lazily and the low rumble of waves crashed distantly over the shore. Alabaster walls that stretched up on all sides blocked his view of the ocean, but if he turned his head just so, he could catch a whiff of the sharp scent of salt, a pleasant contrast against the cloying sweetness he was surrounded by.

The kingdom of Thessaly was no seaside city, but it was close enough that front the garden, he often found himself looking out on the seaside, overlooking the waves that crashed into the hungry, toothy rocks where so many ships must have met their doom. His great grand-uncle’s domain, which crept up on the borders of all that belonged to him, a gaping maw that called to him like a siren song. He liked the sea, it was a place of transition—it was a good place to be when one wanted to think, and if his brother was to be believed, he was often in need of thoughts.

He abhorred the gardens, and their rotting, sick-sweet smell, but he put up with them so long as he could still hear the ocean. The gardens were not his of course, they were his father's, the foolish and senile old king. The aristocrats that walked its packed-dirt paths were not his, they were here to pay favor to his brothers. The walls that held them all in place were only there to keep him caged, but the ocean belonged to nobody, and never would. It was thrilling.

He nodded charmingly at the group of young women who walked down the path, and they blushed and giggled, ducking out of his way. The prince was handsome, and he knew this, at the age of five and twenty, he was tall and strong, with bronze skin and dark hair that he cut close to the nape of his neck. His brow was high and aureate, and he looked noble when he wore a crown. He could have any of the women in the court that he wanted, and a fair few of the men too. He pursued none of them, because they were tame already, each man and woman in the court. It was dreadfully boring.

They reminded him of cows, A different species from him entirely, placid and doe eyed and gentled. Already conquered, not worth even leading to slaughter. Everything in the garden has already been conquered, from the low gnarled trees, to the finely pruned flowers along the path. Already so perfect, already so empty. It seemed very much to him that there was nothing left to take for his own. Somewhere along the winding paths, he'd lost the group of nobles, and was now standing under the shade of a copse of olive trees.

They blocked the heat nicely, but they smelled sour. He kicked at the trunk, his ire leaping for a target, and having nowhere to go. His heel buried easily into the soft, rotted wood at the base of the tree, flaking away from the bark in yellowish pieces. He stood there, breathing harshly, glaring at the tree as he clenched his fists at his sides. 

"What did that tree ever do to you?" His head jerked up, realizing that he wasn't alone, a hot flash of shame burning in his cheeks upon realizing his unsightly display had been seen. He wheeled slowly on his heel, hoping to smooth over the interaction with whomever was intruding upon his tantrum. To his surprise it was a woman, and not a woman who appeared courtly. She was dressed in a simple tunic of rough fabric, the only indication of any sort of prestige being the strangely-shaped silver pendant that hung around her neck. She tilted her head, a twitching, birdlike motion which made the action strange. "It's dead already."

"So it is," he said drily, giving his foot another experimental shake. He'd have splinters after this, no doubt. "I apologize, I don't believe I've seen you in court." His words were somewhat barbed, she didn't look aristocratic or particularly wealthy, and if she were an intruder he'd have to have her jailed. A pity to be sure, she was very pretty. Her lips were full, the color of pomegranate, when they curled slowly into a sharp smile, as if she were sharing a particularly cruel joke.

"Oh, I'm not of the court," she said. "Merely paying a visit." 

"To whom?" He asked. He preferred to keep his finger on the pulse of the court, eking out the lifeblood of what little information he had access to, and he had not heard of any outside visitors. 

"Your father, Prince Sisyphus," the woman said, snapping him from his musings. His eyes widened at that. If she had spoken to the king, and her words were truthful...she must be very important indeed. And important people were powerful people, and powerful people were important to know. He schooled his expression into something more polite.

"Forgive me, but I don't believe I am privy to your name, my lady," he said in a tone that usually made women swoon. She merely smiled wider, her eyes crinkling with delicate crow's feet, displaying ceramic-white teeth.

"They call me Telute," she replied, and what a strange way to introduce herself that was!

"Well, are they correct in doing so?" He teased. That made her laugh, a bright, clear sound that rang like a bell, and rumbled like the waves.

"I do believe they are," Teleute said. "And now, would you answer me, what did that tree ever do to you?"

"It offended me, by way of blocking the sun," Sisyphus said. "Though now that you stand here, I find I do not need it so much." Her eyebrows raised fractionally, as if surprised at his daring.

"I would caution you against such words," she said, though she sounded less offended and far more bemused. Not the reaction he was seeking, but better she think him a clown than a rake. "Most are not so pleased to see me."

"Most are fools," he retorted, and she laughed again.  It made her face soften, lovely and warm, and Sisyphus was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he would do just about anything to hear her laugh, as many times as he was able.

"You sound rather like my brother, now," she said. 

"I'm sorry if I have offended your sensibilities, then, for I have never known a brother to be a pleasant companion."

"No, no," she shook her head. "I do not begrudge his company. Nor yours."

"For that I am glad," he said. Her smile, which had receded somewhat, returned in full force.

"I apologize for my bluntness," she says, "but I have to go. I have another appointment." She didn't wait for a dismissal, turning her back on him, and walking away. Sisyphus was left in mute shock, at her boldness, that she would dare leave, dare imply something was more important than the prince's time. He wanted to be angry, wanted that very desperately, but found instead a sense of wonder. He had been surrounded for so long by domesticated mares that he forgot the look of a wild animal.

A small smile graced his lips, he hoped to see her again. It would be amusing, if nothing else.

When the sun began to bleed the sky a pale shade of red, Sisyphus returned to the palace, its blocky structure silhouetting the clouds. He had whiled his day away in the gardens after Teleute left him, listening idly to the gossip of the aristocrats. Mainly, he gleaned complaints of a trade deal between their kingdom, and Attica. Petty squabbles, and while he learned what several of the more powerful people thought about it, there was nothing he hadn't already heard.

He needed to speak to his father, he mused as he ducked past the crowds of wealthier merchants who'd set up stands around the outside of the walls. He'd like to ask him why he met so suddenly with that strange woman, and what they had spoken about. It would not hurt, he admitted to himself after a moment, to learn more about Teleute as well.

The palace seemed busier than usual as he approached, a sort of frantic energy filled the air and put him on guard as people darted to and fro with no acknowledgement of his presence. Frustration bubbled up in his gut in tandem with anxiety. Why was he seemingly cursed to be the last person to learn of anything in this damn country?

He caught the arm of one of the servant girls hurrying through the marble halls, catching her attention. Her eyes widened like a frightened doe's, prey caught in the jaws of a predator. He dropped her arm quickly, as if it had burned him, satisfied that he now held her attention. "What's going on?" He demanded. The girl just shook her head, tight lipped and fearful, and darted away. "Hey!" Sisyphus shouted, making to run after her, when his shoulder glanced off the side of his brother. 

"Running after servants, now, are we?" Asked Salmoneus, grinning wickedly. There was a manic look to him that Sisyphus did not find comforting in the least, his brute of a brother was never pleased unless something truly horrible happened. "Fancy yourself as Zeus?" Sisyphus's eyes narrowed at the casual blasphemy, taking a careful step back. He wasn't intimidated by his brother in the least, but he also recognized the slight advantage he had on sheer musculature. It was a...tactical retreat.

"If you must know, I'm trying to find our father," Sisyphus said tightly, and at that, Salmoneus burst into booming, full belly laughter. "Oh, what now, you damnable creature," Sisyphus snarled. Salmoneus looked up through tears, and there was a vicious glint in the dark pits of his eyes. 

"You haven't heard!" He said delightedly. 

"Heard what?" Sisyphus demanded, in exasperation. He was becoming deeply tired of everyone knowing things he didn't.

"Father is dead," Salmoneus said. "He died this morning."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The war raged for five years, far longer than anyone had anticipated or desired. Sisyphus, for his part, could see the writing on the wall. It was sage, he told himself, that a king should follow wise advice. And the advice Teleute had imparted upon him had been wise, indeed. He was also loosing. Badly.

With what little funds and allies he had remaining, he left the war torn shores of Thessaly and went South, to a land that was largely unoccupied, save for a few farming villages that did not care much either way if he claimed dominion over their lands-they were close to the sea and had been experiencing some difficulty with pirates, and Sisyphus and his men could offer protection they so sorely needed. There was some resistance, to be sure, but his sell swords were better trained than a group of peasant farmers.

Before long he was ordering a palace to be built in the new kingdom he christened Corinth, for it was his seat of power. His court was small, but the land was plentiful, and he was able to shortly broker a trade deal with Attica—the enemy of his enemy, being his friend, and all that. He did not care much either way for the mutilated corpse that was once Thessaly, being tossed amongst his brothers like dogs with dead vermin. That's what he told himself anyway, and ignored the bitter sting in his belly that told him he was a coward. 

He had his own kingdom to draw his focus now, his own court, which swore fealty to him, and him alone. Truly, it was all that he had ever wanted and more than he could have hoped for. He was willing to be honest with himself now, none had favored him in Thessaly and here things would be different. The kingdom was new, hesitantly flourishing, and needed legitimacy, which he could provide.

The city sprang up around him, taking to growth like young saplings—and on its year anniversary, Sisyphus hosted a party, inviting diplomats and nobles to his halls, which glittered with rare silks and jewels imported from the North. There were duels, and feasts, and tourneys, and he took great pride in the knowledge that he could afford this while his brothers wallowed in a debtors war. Sweeping into the great hall, a crown resting on his brow, he was not at all surprised when he caught sight of Teleute in the crowd.

He had come to the conclusion some years ago that Teleute was no mortal. There was some air about her, merely by being in her presence he could feel the truth in his very bones—not to mention, while he aged, his face becoming more lined in this thirty years of life, grey hair collecting around his temples—she remained utterly unchanged, as young and fresh-faced as she had been when he first laid eyes on her. Now what manner of being she was, nereid, nymph, or goddess, he had no way of knowing.

He supposed he could ask her, but he knew the stories. He knew just as surely that question could easily be taken as a slight, and would result in him being struck down or cursed. She also seemed to have an uncanny ability to slip past any and all guards, and it was better by far to be friendly with someone like that.

She was standing by the edge of the feasting hall, her face lit by the dim glow of candlelight. She was dressed more ornately than last he'd seen her, in a dark blue chiton that fit in neatly with the aristocrats that surrounded her. It rippled as she moved and brought to mind the dark, storm-tossed waves of his homeland. He could not help but wonder if it was purposeful, if she understood what such a place meant to him, had perhaps dressed that way to gain his approval. The thought coiled pleasantly in his chest, and made his strides more confident as he approached her.

"Your majesty," she said, inclining her head, having spotted him before he approached. Something about the way she spoke the word made it seem as if it rested foreign on her tongue, as if she was not someone used to paying deference.

"It is good to see you," he said earnestly. She seemed pleased at that, folding her hands carefully in front of her gown.

"So you continue to remind me."

"It is the truth. It is also good that we are meeting under more favorable circumstances." Her smile faded, her countenance clouded with deep melancholy, her gaze again drawn to some fixed point that he could not see.

"And yet the war goes on," she said, quietly as if whispering to herself. 

"Perhaps, but I no longer want any part of it. I would thank you for the advice you gave me, my lady. You were right, it was not an honorable war. And see now, how the gods have seen fit to improve my fortune, as I turned away from it."

"You have indeed risen far," she agreed, and he watched her crane her neck to look at the finery around her. He wondered suddenly if it all seemed ostentatious to her, if his expressions of wealth were off-putting. He felt suddenly as if he had to defend himself, and his choices.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" He asked, gesturing to the hall. It was one of the first places he'd had built, considering that a place to receive and entertain guests and envoys was the most important component to gathering allies. A smile tugged on the corner of Teleute's mouth.

"It is." So at least she agreed somewhat. Soft music drifted through the air, from the raised platform where a trio of performers strummed liars, danced, and sang. Sisyphus offered his hand.

"Dance with me?" Teleute seemed shocked for a moment, glancing down at his outstretched palm and back at his face. He worried she would disappear for a moment, but instead, slowly, she placed her hand in his, and allowed him to lead her away from the wall.

Neither of them were...particularly good at dancing, they were not performers, but Sisyphus was the king and none would dare to criticize him. At the very least, Teleute seemed to be enjoying herself, grinning unabashedly, as she twirled in time to the song.

"You're terrible at this," she teased.

"You're not so talented yourself," Sisyphus retorted, when the song ended, a bit breathless. Teleute seemed to be suffering under no such burdens, giggling quietly.

"No, I am not. But it is fun." Sisyphus shrugged, unbothered.

"What is life, if not for living as joyfully as you are able?"

"Would you give these people a joyful life?" Teleute asked, leaning forward on her toes, as if she were about to leap back into the fray,

"I would like to try," Sisyphus replied sincerely.

"I think I would like to see that," Telute said, and hope bloomed so fiercely in Sisyphus, he was almost knocked to the ground by it.

"Will you be staying long?" He asked, hating how plaintive he sounded. 

"I...I do not know," she said, furrowing her brows. "I'm very...busy." Once again, she failed to elaborate, leaving Sisyphus grasping weakly at strands of hidden meaning.

"Then why waste time here?" He asked, and winced at the tone of his voice. He sounded accusing, desperate. It didn't seem to anger her though, only cause her to bow her head, and fiddle restlessly with the ties of her gown. Her jaw worked open and closed as if trying to find the words. 

"It is...it is nice," she settled on. "That I am wanted here. It is not often I find a place where I am not only tolerated, but welcomed."

"You are," Sisyphus was quick to assure her. "You are wanted here." Her eyes were wide, and infinitely dark when their gaze met again. 

"Truly," she said, as if she could not believe it. 

"I swear it." 

"Then I suppose," she said, turning away quickly, brushing furiously at something on her eye. Sisyphus turned away politely, it was unkind to watch a lady cry. "I suppose I shall have to return, then."

"I suppose you shall." He said, but when he turned back to face her, she had vanished. 

True to her word, though, she appeared more frequently. Usually outside of the palace walls, as if they disquieted her. It was not unusual to exit a council meeting to find her waving up at him from below a window. 

In all honesty, for all her talk of being so very busy, she was there more often than she was not. He supposed if she was a goddess she must not be a very important one, more likely she was a nymph of some sort, though at this point he didn't bring it up because it seemed rude.

Instead, he brought her gifts. He presumed that she had no love for jewels or gold, so instead he went searching for flowers or pretty stones and shells. Each gift delighted her more than the last, and she'd taken to wearing the blooms he'd gifted her in her hair, the yellow and white buds standing out in her bright curls. They never seemed to wither, and that only made him wonder if perhaps she was a dryad.

Her hands were always pleasantly warm, when she allowed him to hold them. She was rather cagey about that, actually, as if she feared he would drop dead simply from reaching for her. She certainly must have a high view of herself if that was the case. The only thing that made her hands special, was the very fact that they were hers.

Most of their time together was spent outdoors, walking along the shore of the beach or the gardens which he would never admit he was cultivating for her, because she always seemed more at home in the sun, among the living greenery. He kissed her there, the first time, in a field of peonies that matched the color her eyes took on in the sun.

"You have been very kind to me," she said, once, her eyes crinkling where she smiled up at him. They were in the gardens as they often were. It was in the height of summer, the southern heat beating down on the back of his neck where he sat in the grass. He could not find it in himself to mind too much, because Teleute was at least shaded in the grass where she lay. 

"As have you," he said, for he was fairly certain the bountiful harvest his farms had just undergone was in part thanks to her.

"Yes, well," she rolled onto her stomach, and then sat up, placing a delicate kiss on the tip of his nose. As she pulled back, she appeared somewhat bashful, not fully meeting his eyes. "My family is having a...a gathering. In a fortnight. I would very much like for you to be there." Sisyphus did not know much of her family, beyond the fact that she had several siblings and they did not often get alone. Teleute was often reticent with details of her own life, and he was perfectly alright with this. Most women talked too much as it was. He cupped her cheek, before she could pull away.

"I would love to," he said, and her smile softened with relief.

"Oh. Wonderful. Um. I would caution you, though. They're...a lot." Sisyphus raised an eyebrow, utterly confident. He was a king, and growing more powerful by the day. He imagined that he could come before even Zeus, and not feel afraid. 

"I am sure it's nothing I can't handle," he said, and Teleute just shook her head, laughing quietly.  

"We can only hope."

Chapter Text

True to her word, within the fortnight, Teleute appeared in his chambers. She had provided no warning, but Sisyphus found he was becoming accustomed to that—the timetable of the gods, it appeared, cared little for his paltry mortal duties. (But then, she never did appear when he was truly unavailable, he liked to think she was at least somewhat aware of his life.)

She was perched on the edge of his kline, her legs crossed below her dark chiton, nearly blending into the night. If he didn’t know better, he’d nearly say she appeared anxious, her hands twisting absently in her lap. He covered them with his own, marveling once more in their unchanging nature, while gnarled veins were beginning to cluster at the surface of his skin. Sisyphus could no longer, by any stretch of the imagination, be called young , and with that knowledge came a looming fear of the unseen one. Teleute brought his hands to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles and breaking him from his musings. He pulled away, resting his chin upon their clasped hands, looking up at her, supplicating. “What troubles you?” He asked, remembering what he had noted earlier.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just…it never goes well, does it? Meeting the family?” Sisyphus frowned in confusion. That was, in his opinion, usually a good sign. It meant, likely, that the head of the household approved the union. That marriage was on the horizon. Sometimes, Teleute spoke in such strange ways. An effect of her divinity perhaps, but one which baffled him all the same.

“It will be alright, my love,” he said, and she smiled at that, radiant. “I doubt anything your kin can say will dissuade me from my courtship,” he said, speaking the words in between chaste kisses that he scattered across her face. Teleute dissolved into hiccuping giggles, capturing his mouth in a proper kiss. 

“You say that now,” she said, as she leaned back, standing and offering her arm. He accepted it, the warmth and steadiness of her body pressing against his side. It was the only constant though, for as soon as his fingers brushed her skin, they were suddenly no longer in his room.

In fact, it was no longer night at all. He had to focus on Teleute’s nearness, as his senses struggled to adjust.

The soft, blue cast of night had vanished, and the sun burned high in the sky. The rhythmic rumble of waves and the salty scent of the air let him know they must be near the ocean. Seagrass rustled around his ankles, and when he finally forced his eyes open, he realized the two of them were standing in a field, a little ways from the ocean. Strange trees dotted the landscape, pale and thin and foreign. They had seemingly been transported, not only to a different time, but a different land. Teleute at least had the decency to appear apologetic.

“I should have warned you,” she said, “I apologize.”

“Where…” Sisyphus began, but his voice failed him, as he reeled around in a perplexed circle. Teleute tilted her head, seeming to scan the horizon, always, always searching for something beyond his understanding.

“Assateague, I think,” she said, and before Sisyphus could ask where that might be, she began to walk, cresting the sandy ridge and disappearing behind the sparse brush. Sisyphus hurried to catch up, stumbling through sand that was rougher than he was accustomed to.

Beyond the ridge, if he squinted, he could see figures in the distance. They milled around a center point, and as he hurried to keep pace with Teleute, the figures became clearer.

There were six, in total, sat around a great marble slab, upon which every manner of conceivable delicacy was piled.

He immediately zeroed in on the hulking shape of an armored man, still clad in his helmet, shadowing his features. It appeared to be made of hammered silver, and glinted in the light. Next to the man was a skinny child, clad in rags. To look at her too long was difficult, as she seemed to flicker in and out of existence. A wizened man sat hunched at the head of the makeshift table, his near-translucent hands resting against the stone. His head lifted as Sisyphus approached, his milky eyes staring sightlessly. Sisyphus wondered if this man might be Teleute’s father, the man he should be paying the most deference to, when he stood and addressed Teleute.

“Sister,” he said, and his voice was the sound of dry parchment, of embers crackling in the flames. Teleute hurried to his side, and embraced him, and it seemed to Sisyphus that without her support, he might topple over.

“This is your human, then, my sister?” Another voice chimes in. Sisyphus found his gaze drawn to another being at the table—one that was neither man, nor woman, but something else. They were beautiful, and Sisyphus could not tear his gaze away, as if his center of gravity had suddenly shifted, all of reality rippling inward around a single point. Sinking, ever deeper, into their golden eyes.

“ Stop it ,” Teleute snapped, and Sisyphus took a jerky step back, before he realized Teleute was not addressing him, but rather the golden-eyed being who was smiling with fox-like glee.

“Come on now, sister,” they started, but something in her gaze stopped them short. They sighed, loudly and melodramatically, before uncrossing their long legs and offering a slender hand to Sisyphus. “Epithumia,” they said, “charmed.” Sisyphus shook their hand, somewhat warily. Something about their terrible beauty made him uneasy. Teleute returned to his side, and he was grateful for her arm laced in his, lending him some comfort, and the reminder that he was here as her guest. 

“Yes, I suppose introductions are in order,” she said, a tremulous smile gracing her lips.

The young, ragged girl, bounced between him and Epithumia, her mismatched eyes wide. “I’m Mania,” she said, without preamble. Sisyphus felt his very mortal heart stutter in his chest. The goddess of madness stood in front of him, her skinny arms crossed defiantly across her chest. He dropped to his knee, bowing his head.

“My lady,” he said, voice shaking with terror. He was certain any minute now, he’s be struck low with a bolt of lightning—should have known , he chided himself. Should have known! He knew the stories, knew what gods did to mortals who disrespected them. And he had gone and shaken the hand of a god as if he were an equal! Could not even remember what Epithumia was the god of, could not fathom what power Teleute might have.

“Wasn’t me,” Mania mumbled, shuffling backwards, “didn’t make him go all crunchy.”

Sisyphus felt a soft hand on the nape of his neck, before Teleute’s face entered his field of vision. “It’s alright,” she said, seeming faintly amused. “You don’t need to bow to anyone.” He looked up warily, meeting her gaze, and found no coldness—only the kindness he’d come to life. He stood, slowly, his cheeks burning with shame, to meet the gaze of the rest of the family, still feeling unsteady. That was the confirmation he’d needed, wasn’t it? Teleute was a goddess. Something quite like pride was blooming in his chest. His lover was a goddess . Surely none of his brothers could boast the same. Teleute seemed to notice his confidence returning to him somewhat, and patted his hand encouragingly.

“This is my elder brother, Potmos,” she said, gesturing to the old man. He did not look up again from the table, where he had returned to his seat. “My younger brother, Oneiros,” she gestured to a pale, dark-haired youth who had not stood from the table to greet him. Sisyphus had not even noted his presence at the table, he seemed to be the least bombastic of the group, save for his eyes, which were dark pools of glittering night sky. Oneiros did not acknowledge his appearance, carrying on eating as if he had heard nothing. “You’ve been introduced to Mania and Epithumia—that is my brother Olethros,” the man in the armor smiled up at him, what little of his face that Sisyphus could see was the perfect expression of joviality.

“It’s good to meet you,” he said warmly, the first uncomplicatedly positive greeting he’d received. 

“And that is Aponia,” behind Epithumia was a dark figure, a woman, whose face was so morose, Sisyphus could not comprehend how he had not seen her before. She seemed to only materialize once he looked at her, and like Oneiros, she did not acknowledge him. “Everyone, this is Sisyphus,” Teleute said. The silence that followed felt charged with unspoken words.

“We are glad to have you here,” Potmos said at last. “We are glad to see our sister has found happiness with you.” Teleute seemed to relax somewhat after that slight approval, moving to sit beside Oneiros, and motioning for Sisyphus to join her. It was as if time resumed once he returned to his seat, all six of Teleute’s siblings threw themselves on the feast set before them with wild abandon.

Sisyphus reached hesitantly for the food he recognized, a few dates, and bread sliced thickly with honey. The food tasted like…food, good food, but food all the same. If this was the flavor of ambrosia, Sisyphus thought, the poets had embellished heavily.

Epithumia, who’s searching, golden eyes had not left his face since he sat down, smiled their feral, sharp smile. “Is it not to your liking?” Cold panic grasped Sisyphus, as he realized the god must have gleaned what he was thinking. “You’d hoped the food of the gods would be more impressive,” they continued.

“Oh, hush,” Teleute chided, rolling an apple between her palms.

“This one,” Epithumia carried on, as if they had not heard Teleute’s admonishment, “this one wants . I can smell it in the air. His ambitions .” Sisyphus clenched his jaw, fighting not to say anything—falling back on years of court experience—to not snap at the god who mocked him.

“He dreams of power, too,” Oneiros said suddenly, the first words he had uttered. Olethros laughed suddenly, booming and warm.

“What mortal does not?” He asked, winking at Sisyphus from across the table. Sisyphus smiled gratefully, while Oneiros’ mouth thinned into a small, unhappy line. He did not speak again.

Mania was building what appeared to be a miniature model of his castle, complete with a garden which appeared to be made of dried seaweed. When she caught Sisyphus looking across the table, she smiled with a mouth full of shark’s teeth, and offered him a small figure that looked suspiciously like himself. Though, much older, and wizened with a scowl on his mushy food-face. There was something in his hand, though the model did not provide much by way of detail. Whatever it was, his tiny food-self was clinging to it with abandon. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, though he accepted the figure. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“Oh, don’t encourage her,” Aponia said, picking listlessly at her meal. There was a truly astonishing amount of food piled upon her plate, but she was utterly uninterested in eating it, seeming more pleased with pushing it around. Mania stuck her tongue out at Aponia, and returned to her miniature building. 

“What are your intentions with our dear sister?” Epithumia asked suddenly, seemingly most delighted by teasing Sisyphus. They leered across the table, and he realized quickly that the rumble of conversation among the siblings had stopped, all seeming interested in his answer. Teleute’s hand found his behind the table, squeezing comfortingly. Sisyphus inhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“To love her,” he said honestly. “I am only a mortal, but I am a mighty king. I would…I would be a good and faithful husband.” Epithumia raised an eyebrow at this, but sat back, evidently satisfied. Teleute’s hand had stilled in his, though, and she stood suddenly.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I’ve got to, uh. I’ve got to go.” Sisyphus watched her retreat back over the small hill, aware suddenly of the heavy gazes of the rest of the family.

“Well,” said Olethros, “you’d better go after her, lad.” Sisyphus nodded, and followed her.

“Teleute!” He called, when they were out of sight of her family, solidly behind the bushes. To his relief, she had not vanished as she often did, standing at the shoreline and staring blindly at the ocean. “Teleute…” he repeated, reaching hesitantly for her hand. She was trembling when he did, and he realized that she was crying. He did not dare contemplate what the punishment might be for making a goddess cry. “I’m…so sorry, if I presumed .”

“No!” She said quickly, swiping at her cheeks with her free hand. “No, I’m not upset, I just…I didn’t know that was something you would want , I never let myself think -“ she hugged him then, suddenly and fiercely, clinging to him with an inhuman strength. He let her cry into his tunic, stroking her hair as soothingly as he could manage.

When her tears had subsided, she pulled away, studying his face. “You did mean it,” she said, though it wasn’t really a question.

“I did,” he said. “I thought you knew, since I was meeting your family.”

“Right!” She said, laughing, still teary. “Yes, I suppose I didn’t even think…” she shook her head, in disbelief. “I’m sorry, I’ve really made a mess of this.” 

“You haven’t,” he said, tilting her chin up gently with his fingers. “And the offer still stands.”

“Does it,” she asked, a half-smile growing on her lips.

“I said you were always wanted,” he said firmly. “I meant it.” She laughed again, seizing his face and kissing him with the conviction she possessed in all things.

“Yes,” she said, joyfully. “Yes, you did.”

Chapter Text

Teleute was, perhaps unsurprisingly, very, very enthusiastic about the wedding.

Sisyphus did his best to humor her, nodding and smiling in the right places as she chattered on about her idea of a Spring wedding. And perhaps he was too agreeable, because almost overnight the gardens surrounding the palace had burst into full bloom in the middle of Autumn--as cold as it was. He had never held any great love for flowers, but they certainly made Teleute happy. Most things did, he found. She was very easy to please, a simple nod and smile in the hallway, honeyed wine, or a kiss on the cheek, would have her beaming like the sun. 

There was a time, he thinks, when this would have bothered him. A docile nature would have set him immediately askance. Perhaps he was growing soft in his old age, or perhaps it was different, because Teleute was his wife, in everything but name. And so, despite how she pushed for a more simple ceremony, he refused. "It should be fitting of a goddess, my love," he insisted, framing her face with his hands, and watching her eyes study his face intently. "Let the people see. It will be good for them. To see their queen."

She tilted her head, a wry smile creeping onto her lips. He would do this on occasion, speak of names and titles in the hopes of gauging her reaction. She had truly told him so little of herself, and though he knew of her family, he knew little else. He loved her regardless, of course, and it had become a sort of game. To name increasingly obscure gods and watch her eyes twinkle with delight.

"Politics," she murmured.

"Politics," he agreed. The burden of rule had been creeping upon him, increasingly so. Corinth was no up-and-coming kingdom anymore, its borders having expanded, largely peacefully, for several years now. Creeping over the golden fields and dense forests, with ever increasing hordes of peasants eager to offer their tribute for royal protection. And in return the treasury and military swelled, which made Corinth powerful. Which made Corinth a target. Sisyphus could feel it, like an itch under his skin, the hungry eyes of the other kingdoms watching and waiting for any chinks in the armor where they could sink their swords and puncture skin. 

Sisyphus, for his part, was at loathe to give them an opening. It was his kingdom, flourishing under his rule. There would be no rebellion, there would be no subterfuge. He held feasts, made grand shows of declaring allies with other kingdoms, magnanimously offered resources, while simultaneously displaying his army. Behind every glittering smile, a barbed mandible waiting to strike. Teleute, for her part, stayed far from such gatherings.

"It's all far hostile," she explained, wrinkling her nose. Sisyphus leaned on the balcony, watching the neighboring king's entourage parade towards them. "It all reminds me too much of family dinner, you know?" Sisyphus did know, but he would have to explain to her that sort of behavior would be unacceptable when they were married. A queen would need to make an appearance after all. But such conversations seemed so terribly unpleasant, it was a warm evening and the honey glow of the sun cast a halo around Teleute's face, bathing her in gold. Such unpleasant conversations ought to wait for the cold light of morning, despite the uncomfortable curl of irritation in his gut. For the moment, he gave her hand a quick squeeze. 

"You needn't attend if you don't want to," he assured her, and she cast a grateful smile in his direction that seemed to warm the air around them by several degrees. 

Leaving that battle for another day, Sisyphus left Teleute to greet his guests. It was unwise to allow this; but his enemies had begun to blur together. Perhaps an effect of everyone outside his borders being perceived as some sort of threat. The attitude lent to a sort of haze when interacting, knowing that the laws of Xenia would not allow his guests to harm him. 

The self styled king who sat at the head of the table disgusted him--a lean, grasping sort of man whose beady eyes reminded Sisyphus far too much of his brothers. It put his teeth on edge even as he lifted his glass in salute, filled with his most expensive wines. The guests surrounding him began to eat, humming and muttering appreciatively at the quality and quantity of the food.

And looking back on it, he liked to think he would have done it the same. He liked to tell himself he had no regrets. It made things easier. 

Looking back at it, he liked to think that even if he knew how it ended, when the foreign king bragged of his wealth, when the king commented casually that should he die the land would likely fall to Sisyphus, when he thought about Teleute and felt that spark of anger in his gut--well, he liked to think he'd have done the same even if he'd known. 

"A toast," Sisyphus said, rising to his feet, the wince at the ache in his aging knee easy to cover by a wide smile. "To our friends." The foreign king's crooked smile reminded him, uncomfortably, of Salmoneus. If he squinted just so, it really was his brother, glowering at him from across the table. Sisyphus passed the meal in a haze of latent, long forgotten rage, his fists clenching and unclenching under the table, his mind inevitably circling back to a single though that gleamed like a beacon in his mind: Teleute would never have to know. 

Which was how he found himself calling his generals to him that night, men who served out of loyalty, not out of greed. The night felt strangely sticky, the air heavy with potential, as Sisyphus carefully smoothed the map over his marble table. Corinth nearly stretched to his great grandfather's domain, nearly owned the entire coast. He could take the kingdom, with a war. But so many would die. And Teleute had been right all those years ago: needless death was not the answer. Only one had to die tonight, and Corinth could continue to grow unchecked. It was a breach of Xenia, but truly, what was the greater crime? To sacrifice one life, or thousands? He would plead his case before Hades himself, it was an easy enough decision. Sisyphus tapped a finger against the stone firmly. "The kingdom will be ours," he said. "Tonight."

And then he retired to bed.

Teleute was not there, which was expected. She did not often spend the night, and Sisyphus often suspected she either did not sleep or did not need to. It would make sense, he supposed, and tried to fight back the bitter sting of his own mortality.

His sleep was deep and dreamless, and when he woke Teleute stood in front of his bed. 

He smiled sleepily on instinct, before he realized she appeared livid. Which was certainly new. He'd seen her displeased. He'd seen her upset. He'd seen her cry and laugh, and a million other expressions grace her dear face. He'd never seen her truly angry, and it chilled him to his core. It twisted her into something darker. Bigger. More than herself. More than him. He didn't like it. 

Sisyphus drew himself to his full height, standing warily before her. "Teleute-" he began.

"Why did you order him killed?" She demanded, without ceremony. Straight to the point, as she so often was. Sisyphus felt a flash of panic, mind already scrambling--who could have told her? Who was not loyal, who must be executed--but he fought it down, smoothing over his expression.

"I don't know what you're talking about, dear," he said, taking a step forward. Teleute jerked backwards.

"Stop lying to me," she demanded. "Why are you lying to me?"

"You're hysterical, please, just a moment-"

"No." 

The voice that crackled from Teleute's lips was not her own. The room seemed to cool several degrees. Teleute had not moved, was the same slight girl, had the same unruly hair braided with his flowers, but she seemed suddenly so much...more. Grander, perhaps. For the first time since discovering Teleute's sister was Mania, Sisyphus felt true fear. Surely, his mind struggled to rationalize, surely a nymph would have no way of knowing--but she knew, somehow she knew and she was going to kill him for it. Sisyphus remembered all his grand insistence from the night before that he would plead his case before Hades-how quickly that conviction had crumbled! 

Only...she didn't look angry, not really. She looked sad. "Why, Sisyphus?" She asked again, softly. He looked at her carefully, and decided on the truth.

"I would not fight a war for his land," Sisyphus said softly, carefully, "as you advised me. No innocent life need be lost." Teleute looked stricken, and Sisyphus felt a vicious pang of satisfaction. She could lord her immortality and her high and mighty morals over him all she wanted, but she would never understand the true sacrifices it took to run a kingdom. She was nothing but a hypocrite, he saw that clearly now.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," she whispered, as if responding to his thoughts. "You...you can see how that's not what I meant, right?" She sounded...pitying, she dared to talk down to him! Him! The king! This was his palace, his land, she was his!

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Sisyphus said sharply, "as if you know anything of real responsibility. As if you do anything but hide from the court. Hide behind your family, all because you're what? Some dryad? Some sort of naiad? You're nothing." As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back, even a dryad could turn him into a fucking tree--But it was too late--Teleute's face had contorted, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

"Responsibility," she said flatly, and nodded, stepping back again. "Oh that's...that's funny. Okay. I'm going to go now." Seized by a sudden desperation, Sisyphus lunged forward a grabbed her hand, wincing as his sore muscles protested. Telute stared at him, her eyes dark and fathomless, and suddenly devoid of feeling. He opened his mouth to say--to say what? I'm sorry, I was wrong, don't go, how do I explain that you left? How can I be anything when you're gone? Instead he said:

"Who told you?" Teleute scoffed, wrenching her hand from his grip. And that was when Sisyphus realized the creeping chill was not within his imagination. The room had darkened, two massive pools of shadow on either side. Shuddering, his gaze fell back upon Teleute, and he stepped back. Two shapes of pure darkness emanated from her, from which he could loose himself, could see the abyss, his own dead father's pained face staring back at him from the pools. No, not pools. Wings.

Sisyphus was not the most pious man. But he was no fool. He knew the God of Death when he beheld it. And instead of falling to his knees, like a sensible man, he snarled.

"You lied to me." 

The last expression Sisyphus could clearly make out on her face could only be described as agony. He almost reached out--almost. 

With the deafening bellow of mighty wings, Thanatos disappeared.  

Chapter Text

He would have done the same, if he had known.

That is what Sisyphus told himself as the grateful citizens of the late king flocked to Corinth, begging for protection and stability. He would have done the same, if he’d known—because Corinth was prospering, the preeminent power on the shore. All who wished to pass through the land owed him tribute, the memory of his father’s repression little more than a memory.

He would have done the same thing if he’d known, he told himself when Thanatos disappeared in a swirl of shadow that sounded almost like a mournful cry. He would have done the same, he reminded himself as he lay in a cold and empty bed, his bad knee aching—pulsing in time to his mortal heartbeat.

He would have done the same, he knew he would have, and so he lost no sleep over it. And if he woke up at odd hours, from horrific nightmares, reaching desperately for a hand that isn’t there…well, that was no one’s business but his own.

He worried over the retribution of the gods, that, he did loose sleep over. So Sisyphus busied himself in the matters of piety. He sent priests into the mountains by the dozens, sacrificing at temples to Zeus, to Athena, to Ares. To any god who might offer protection. The months dragged on though, with no clear sign of change either way.

And so there were generals to promote and colonies to direct, and as the coffers filled he found himself feeling more secure in his footing. Though each day, more silver strands bunched at his temples, wrinkles deepened on his cheeks. When he looked at his own aging face in the mirror, he could not help but feel the pull of dread he’d felt at the sight of Thanatos before him. The way the floor seemed to disappear from beneath his feet, sending him tumbling into that endless abyss. It was disconcerting, aging. To see the way his skin greyed and sagged, as if the light was already fading from them. It angered him. And worse than that, it frightened him.

It was the eve of his forty-ninth year, almost a full year since Thanatos betrayed him, when his advisors hesitantly suggested he might try to marry again—they did not know what had become of his previous lover, only that she had disappeared under strange circumstances the night that the foreign king was killed. There were rumors of an affair, that Teleute had been unfaithful and so Sisyphus ordered them both killed. Sisyphus made no effort to correct them, lest his subjects think him weak.

He much preferred them to cower, as his advisor was now, hands folded delicately behind his back as he stumbled over a way to not acknowledge the age of the king that currently reclined in the throne above him.

“It is only that…sire, you do not have an heir. And it would do your kingdom well to have a queen—” the advisor blanched at is, as if suddenly remembering the circumstances of Sisyphus’s prior engagement. “Considering what happened, I mean…it would be good for the people,” the man finished lamely. Sisyphus was silent for a moment, letting the man squirm. It was not that he didn’t agree, he felt the urgency as much as the rest of his court. But only he knew the dangers of marrying too soon—if the gods had not truly turned their eyes away, would he be jealously punished? But the longer he waited, the more dire the situation got.

Thanatos wanted nothing further to do with him. That was what he told himself when he finally spoke.

“I agree,” he said. The advisor exhaled, relief palpable in his expression.

“Oh, thank you, your majesty. The court will prepare a list of eligible persons.” Sisyphus nodded, waving his hand dismissively.

Her name was Merope, the nymph daughter of the Titan Atlas. Her face was fair as the dawn and stars danced in her eyes. She was also dumber than a rock, and just as powerful. Though he was no longer the sprightly youth he had been, Sisyphus knew he was still handsome. It was very little trouble to show Merope the power of Corinth and convince her that the daughter of a disgraced Titan could do no better than a powerful mortal king. A deal which Merope seemed happy to accept.

She wed Sisyphus in a grand celebration, beaming at the decorations and the adoring cries of his subjects. “And…I am queen now?” She said, a stupid question. Sisyphus smiled indulgently, patting her shoulder. (She was over a hundred years of age, and ought to know better by now.)

“Of course, my beloved,” Sisyphus said. “And the people love you.” Merope beamed at him, brilliant and warm as a heath fire, giggling and almost giddy with joy as she waved at the peasants standing below their balcony.

“I love them too,” she said, as if she had any way of knowing them at all. Still, she was easy to please and liked nothing more than to sit in on council meetings, though never with anything insightful to add. Corinth was pushing up against the borders of the other kingdoms, and Merope came forward hesitantly with suggestions. “Perhaps we could just…befriend the king,” she’d said once, looking over the maps spread across the table. “We might be able to trade.” As if they did not already trade at every border. She then turned to smile at the head of the table where Sisyphus sat, a hesitant sort of expression, as if searching out his opinion. Sisyphus fought the urge to sneer.

As a nymph who needed nothing, Merope could not possibly understand that their kingdom needed to expand. They were powerful, certainly. Corinth excelled in all sorts of trade, attracting artisans and philosophers, but lacked the land needed to support proper agriculture. Still, he forced himself to smile and nod supportively.

She was, in all respects, a perfect wife. She enjoyed being inside. She wove beautiful tapestries, and was silent when she was asked. And yet Sisyphus found himself cursing her presence.

He’d once held the attention of a God. The God of death, mind you. And now he had to settle for a lowly nymph, a nymph who lived in such disgrace she’d married a mortal! He found himself disgusted by her when they lay next to each other in bed. Her wide, trusting eyes revulsed him. When she fell pregnant with their child, he avoided her as if she carried some sort of terrible plague.

Despite all his power, she was the very picture of his failure—a reminder that no matter what he aspired to, he could only ever climb so far.

After having Porphyrion, their first son, Merope spent all day with the child. So the gods did bestow few blessings. And so time marched on, as it always did. Merope would give him another son, as if the one running through the castle at odd hours of the day was not enough. He could not help bud avoid the child as well. They looked so like their mother, with wide, pale eyes and vacant stares. He tried not to imagine another child, one with a dark and clever gaze. One who might have enjoyed walks in the garden with their mother. He would not allow himself to think about it.

Years had passed and they were no closer to pushing their northern border. It angered Sisyphus, caused him to lash out to his advisors and subjects alike. His children avoided him, fleeing the hallways with their wide eyed stares. A decade from Thanatos’s warning, and nothing had changed. Perhaps the real curse was stagnation.

He beckoned his most loyal guards to his side, and made his declaration. The neighboring nobles would be invited to Corinth. There would be a grand celebration. And then when they slept, he would slaughter them all.

Sisyphus climbed into bed beside Merope that night, her expression smooth and unmoved as a pond. He felt, for the first time in many years, a sort of peace come over him. Or perhaps, merely, a certainty.

“Sisyphus?” Merope mumbled sleepily. Sisyphus hushed her, patting her shoulder.

“Hush now, dear, all will be well in the morning.”

Chapter Text

The years passed, uneventful, and Sisyphus began to believe the gods had truly turned from him. He could not believe his good fortune, leaving offerings daily in the temples of Zeus. Regularly, he broke Xenia, and yet no punishment had been brought upon him. Privately, Sisyphus believed that the gods recognized his potential. That they knew to depose the king of Corinth would spell disaster for the surrounding lands, and buoyed by that belief, he lived to a ripe old age doing as he pleased.

But he was becoming increasingly aware of the things he could not change with a decree, a convenient murder, or a wave of his hand.

He was getting old.

While foolish Merope remained unchanged, fresh faced as the day he married her, Sisyphus awoke with cramps in his leg and found he needed assistance to walk through his own halls. It disconcerted him, along with the knowledge that, when Thanatos came for him, there was nothing he could do. So he did what he did best: Sisyphus planned. And he waited.

The day that Thanatos appeared to claim him was much the same as any other day.

It was late in the morning, the sun having long since risen over the horizon and kissed the rolling hills of Corinth. Sisyphus could see the endless blue of the sky, and somehow he knew. Perhaps it was because his gaze felt clearer. Or perhaps because he had no trouble slipping from his bed to the warm tiles of the floor.

Still, though he was expecting it, when he turned to see her, he nearly fell to his knees.

Teleute—no, Thanatos, stood before him, looking much the same as that fateful day she’d left. Only this time, in her hands she held something. Upon studying further, Sisyphus realized they were chains, gleaming softly in the morning light, clearly not mate of any earthly metal. Thanatos smiled, her sad eyes slightly self effacing, as she studied him in turn.

“Hello, Sisyphus,” her voice was the sound of the sun coming out from behind the clouds, of the first flower of spring.

“It’s my time,” Sisyphus said, his mind whirling frantically, his gaze flicking rapidly from the chains to her face. This was too easy. Thanatos mistook his contemplating for confusion. She hefted the chains in her arm, frowning with distaste. 

“It’s a bit much, I know,” she said. “It’s just…I owe a favor to Hades. While back, I let my nephew go poking around down there and—” the chains clanked against the floor as she waved a hand flippantly. “Well, I owed him. And he’s not…thrilled.” Perplexed by her relaxed demeanor, Sisyphus almost didn’t realize what she’d said about the unseen one. He swallowed hard against the panic clawing at his throat.

“The lord of the dead wishes to…to chain me.” He stated. Thanatos flinched, closing her eyes as if that would lessen the pain of the words.

“Yes.” Sisyphus fought back the rage he felt at that simple agreement. She must have had something to do with it, he thought mutinously. Must have…have told the gods that he was some sort of monster! Must have lied, like she always did, and claimed he was seeking to harm his kingdom—when really everything he did was for his kingdom! For his people! Something which once had delighted her. He wanted to shout at her, wanted to tear that sympathetic smile from her lips and tell her what he really thought. But he had to be smart. If he ever stood a chance of setting the record straight—he needed time.

Sisyphus affixed a simpering smile on his lips, taking a step towards Thanatos. This seemed to take her aback, her eyes widening. “How I have missed you,” he murmured, horrified by the fact that his words are entirely truthful. Thanatos carried on smiling, but her eyes seemed faintly wet, as he reached out and placed a withered hand on her cheek. He had aged. She was exactly the same as the day he saw her in his father’s garden. Still, she leaned against his hand with a soft sigh, as if she were not disgusted by his appearance—as if he had not changed either.

Sisyphus began to wonder, halfheartedly, if he could merely persuade her—if he didn’t need to lie—if she was truly so weak willed that he could talk his way out of this.

But then she stepped back.

“Time to go,” she said, offering her hand. Sisyphus remained where he was, still staring in mock adoration. “What?” She asked.

“I just…don’t understand why you never told me, goddess. You’re beautiful.” That was a lie. She was great, and powerful, and terrible—but those things did not make her beautiful. They made her dangerous. To him, specifically. Thanatos briefly cast her gaze to the ceiling, as if searching for some hidden support, her hands tightening on the chains.

“Sisyphus. Please. I don’t want to do this right now. I don’t want to have to force you.” The anger reared again. As if he gave a damn what she wanted while she sought to drag him to hell. Still, he held up his hands, hoping he appeared contrite.

“And I don’t want to make you.” He paused, hesitating. “But…may I hold the chains for a moment?” Thanatos’s brow wrinkled. “Please…I’ll bind myself, I just…” he looked up, meeting her gaze. “Teleute, I’m frightened.” That seemed to shake her composure somewhat.

“I–okay. Dammit, Fine.” She thrust her hands forward, as if trying to put as much distance between herself and Sisyphus she was able. Still, as he placed his hands on the chains—ice cold and thrumming with godly power that he’d never have the chance to harness—he leaned forward as if to kiss her. As Thanatos’s eyes widened in surprise, he grabbed the chains, wrenching her wrists together. “What are you—” she choked out, pulling away, but with her hands bound, she was only a woman and stumbled quickly to her knees.

The chains shivered, snaking tighter around her as if they were living beings, until the seemed to bite into her flesh, leaving her still on the floor. Sisyphus towered over Thanatos, the roles of power reversed once and for all. But she didn’t look frightened, which only angered him more.

“Don’t do this,” she said, not even pleading, but commanding. Sisyphus snarled, a wordless, animal noise as he wrenched her face up by the chin to meet his eyes.

“I’ll do what I please,” he hissed. “I am king.” Thanatos’s gaze was steady, even as his vise-like grip became tighter than the chains.

“You’re making a mistake.” She said. They were silent for a moment, neither willing to break the gaze first. But finally Sisyphus let go of her.

“I think you’ll find that you’re the one who made a mistake.” Sisyphus promised. “You should never have left.” Thanatos remained silent, and Sisyphus growled in frustration, turning his back on her.

There was still so much to do.