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your gods & monsters fics are so beautiful!! I know you had Prometheus in the one with Pandora, but do you think you could do one with him when he was stealing the fire?
By her very nature Hestia is not supposed to have favorites,
but Hades has always been hers.
She is the eldest sister, and he the eldest brother. She
wonders if that is perhaps why they somehow end up being the responsible ones.
“I like it down here,” she says, curled up in his throne.
He snorts, head bent over the reams of paper, endless lists
of the dead. Somehow, she never sees Zeus with paperwork. “It’s dark, and
cold.” She glances around. The only light comes from the softly glowing
moonstones, from the bioluminescent designs etched into the walls.
She extends a hand, “I can–”
A cheerful fire crackles to life in the center of the room,
warm and sweet and smelling of cedar even though there’s no smoke. “Sister!” he
snaps, “Return that to Olympus immediately!”
She pouts, holding the fire steady, “Why? It’s my fire, I am
its keeper, am I not? I can give it to whoever I choose.”
“Zeus has decreed it is a privilege of those that reside in
the heavens,” he glares, “I will not see his wrath turn upon you. Put it back.”
Hestia closes her palm, and the fire snuffs out, returning
to its home on Mount Olympus. “Little brother Zeus would do well to remember
“I’m sure he would say the same of us,” Hades says wryly,
eyes dropping back down to his desk.
She is the keeper of the hearth, the bringer of fire, the
guardian of the home. The spirit of Mother Gaia pulses in her more clearly than
the others, no matter the claims Hera likes to make
Zeus is a little boy. A powerful little boy for sure, but a
child none the less. She and Hades grew in their father’s stomach together, his
was the hand she grasped through the years in their horrid prison.
She dislikes little boys telling her how to govern her realm
of hearth and home.
Prometheus was not a smart man, but he was a brave man, an
So when a goddess appears in front of him, offering him an
opportunity for glory, he does not refuse. He grins with eyes too bright and
says, “Fire? The tool of gods back in mortal hands? We could do much with
“Yes,” the goddess agrees, “but it will not come free. If
you succeed you will be sent to Hades’s realm, of this I am certain, and when
you are – you must bring fire to him as well. That is the price of our
“Agreed,” he says instantly, and does not question why a god
needs a human to get him fire. His is not the place to question gods.
Myths will say that he was a Titan, a god among gods, but
that is not true.
He was a lone, ambitious man. The act of a single person can
often be mistaken for the work of a god.
Hestia’s throne sits unused on Olympus, more concerned with
tending her hearth fire than sitting high above mortals.
Any being which must assert their authority through status
symbols likely has very little authority to begin with. “You’re planning
trouble,” Hera accuses one day, her clothing purposefully plain next to her
husband’s and her hair piled atop her head in an exhaustingly elaborate
Hera did not become wife of Zeus, Queen of the Gods, by
being stupid. She can be accused of many things, but stupidity is not among
“Whatever do you mean, little sister?” Hestia asks, reaching
a hand into the fire and watching the flames dance harmlessly over her skin.
None of her other siblings would be so fortunate, should they try to touch her
Hera cross her arms, lower lip jutting out, and Hestia’s
mouth twitches. They are all so painfully young still, now. Hera is little more
than a girl, and Hestia thinks she would be fond of her if she were not so
clearly hiding fangs behind her pretty lips.
Loving your family never meant having to like them.
“You won’t get away with it, whatever it is,” Hera declares
before turning on her heel and striding off.
Hestia cups a ball of flame in her hand, the warmth of it
seeping down to her bones. “Whatever you say, little sister.”
The climb up Mount Olympus takes him weeks. He’s exhausted
and hungry by the time he reaches the top, having run out of food some days
ago. But he makes it – something that no other human can claim.
He follows the goddess’s instructions to the letter, waits
until the moon is high in the sky before creeping into the palace. He doesn’t
touch any of the statues, the tapestries, the golden goblets or silver plates.
He doesn’t even let his gaze linger on them, for he is after a prize far more
valuable than wealth.
Fame. Notoriety. His name written in the heavens, never to
The hearth is in the center of the throne room, larger than
twice his size and more golden than red. He takes a trembling step forward,
eager and terrified all in one.
The goddess appears in front of him, more silhouette than
anything else. “This fire will burn you,” she warns, eyes fever bright and
sparking just like the inferno behind her, “It will kill you. It is only a
matter of when – not if.”
“I understand,” he says, because it doesn’t matter, death
does not matter. Death comes for all men. If he succeeds in returning fire to
humankind, he will be more than a man – he will be a legend.
“Very well.” She spicks up a globe of fire in her hand.
Prometheus reaches for it, but she does not hand it to him. Instead she opens
her mouth impossibly wide and places it on her tongue, lips closing around it
and her whole face turning red from the heat.
She grabs him by the front of his shirt and jerks him
forward, placing her mouth to his mouth and pushing the ball of celestial fire
onto his tongue.
“There,” she says, leaning back. “That will dampen it enough
for you to make it back to the land of mortal men, but you must not open your
mouth until you are ready – as soon as it’s exposed to the air it will consume
you. If you are not back in the mortal realm at that point, your death will be
It burns, it’s complete agony. He can already feel the fire
eating its way through the soft, wet muscles of his cheeks. But he gives the
goddess one sharp nod and then he’s sprinting his way out of Olympus.
He doesn’t have much time.
Prometheus is long gone by the time Hera drags herself to
the throne room, sleeping robe askew and Zeus’s teeth marks on her collarbone.
She’s older than her husband but still so terribly young, and for a moment
Hestia pities her.
“What did you do?” Hera demands, voice coming out rough.
Hestia can’t see any bruising on her throat but that doesn’t mean there isn’t
any. “I know you did something!”
She knows the woman Hera will grow into, has seen many girls
become that same woman, and as the wife of Zeus it’s nearly inevitable. But
she’s not a woman yet, just a girl who’s gambled everything for a play at power
and hasn’t yet figured out if she’s won or lost.
“It’s cold in Zeus’s chambers,” Hestia pats the empty space
beside her, “Won’t you sit with me, little sister?”
Hera stares at her, mistrust heavy in the air and plain on
her face. She will learn to hide her thoughts better one day. “It’s not cold in
“Isn’t it?” she asks simply, and for a split second Hera’s
face crumples. “Come, little sister.”
Hera takes one hesitant step closer, then another,
eventually stumbling to her knees beside her and staring into the fire, Hestia
is sure, so she has an excuse for her eyes to water.
“None of that now,” she adjusts Hera’s robe and pulls her
hair from her face, the normally immaculate locks frizzy and tangled. She
summons a brush and runs it through her sister’s hair, careful and steady.
The tension leaves Hera’s body by degrees until she chokes
out, “It’s warm here.”
“As it always will be, when you are beside me,” she says,
because she can promise that at least. Whether Hera will choose to sit at her
side in the future is another matter entirely.
Burns have surfaced all across his body, blistering legions
turning into bloody caverns of ash where he once had flesh.
Most of his lower face is gone, his jaw open and gaping and
only bone. The ball of celestial fire is nestled at the bottom of his throat;
it’s burned through until only a thin layer of skin separating it from the open
air. He has to hurry. Every step is agony, he hasn’t been able to take a breath
for several minutes, and at this point death can only be a relief.
He will not die in vain.
Prometheus finally, finally steps upon mortal soil, but he
does not stop there. He runs home, to his city, to the center of the square.
People recognize him, even with half his face burned away, and there are
He collapses in the city square and reaches what’s left of
his hand into his throat. He pulls all but a spark of the celestial fire free,
and opens his hand.
He’s consumed in an instant, and his last sight is of fire
flying – into stoves, lighting hearths, candles twinkling to life.
They will carve his name into the skies for this. He dies
“How could this have happened?” Zeus rages, “How dare he
steal from the gods! I will have Hades destroy him in every possible manner!”
“Yes, my king,” Hestia murmurs. She doubts he’ll ever make
note of the contempt in her voice at his title.
King of the Gods. As if gods have ever cared for kings.
Hera remains remarkably, carefully silent at her husband’s
side, hair neatly coiled the exact circumference of Hestia’s fingers.
It wasn’t something Hestia asked of her, nor what she was
expecting. It is, however, a very pleasant surprise.
Maybe there’s hope for her yet.
Prometheus opens his eyes, which he wasn’t expecting.
Everything still feels like it’s burning, but his body is back in more or less
He’s in a place both dark and cold, and when his sight
adjusts he realizes Hades, god of the dead, is standing before him.
“You’ve angered my brother greatly,” the god says, but he
doesn’t sound all that upset. “I’m to give you the worst punishment imaginable
for your transgressions.”
Prometheus opens his mouth, and out drops the smallest
flicker of a flame. “From the goddess,” he says, and the spark goes twirling,
dancing across torches and leaving them lit, passing by a hearth so it roars to
Hades eyes widen as he watches the sparks progress, until it
disappears down the hallway to light the rest of his realm. “Foolish older
sister,” he says, softer and kinder than Prometheus thinks the god of the
underworld is supposed to look.
The whole place looks brighter with the fire, it goes from
ominous to nearly – homey, a place not only to arrive at but one to return to.
Hades slides his gaze back to him, “Those burns are from
celestial fire. I cannot heal them – you must live with them.”
“I understand,” Prometheus says, even though he doesn’t. If
he’s to be subjected to the worst punishment imaginable, what does it matter if
he’s burned or not?
The god smiles, as if he’s reading his thoughts, and says
The next thing Prometheus knows, he’s back in the lands of
mortal men. Different, perhaps – but alive.
Fires are lit in her name, each home’s hearth dedicated to
her, and Hestia smiles.
me: it’s been exactly one year since the groundbreaking release of the forever refreshing, colourful and energetic bop aju nice, the masterpiece created by a self-producing group of 13 young men who perfectly captured the essence of summer and the inexplicable wonder that cradles a first love. it’s also been exactly one year since this godsend of a group did NOT receive a win for their relentless efforts, despite the summer song being a complete sensation not just within the nation, but around the globe, garnering mass attention due to its hard hitting beat, eccentric build up near the chorus, diverse range in vocals, and its sharp yet fluid choreography. prior to the release of this flavourful arrangement, the boy group blissfully scored their first ever music show win with another *insert 10 thousand adjectives* bop labelled as “pretty u” which was deemed as their big break and a chance for them to truly express the seventeen style that CANNOT ❌ BE 🗣 COPIED 💎 though their hot streak was possibly expected to continue, aju nice did not receive a win, resulting in one of the world’s biggest mysteries, and here, on this elegant summer’s day, i say to thee, NEVER 👏 STOP 👏 SHOWERING 👏 THEM 👏 IN