#Blake's translation of Homer is from Emily Wilson who we love and respect and admire in this house
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fic preview: over the wide skies up above (and the earth below)
Pairing: Blake/Yang (RWBY)
Playlist: On Spotify
Notes: This is a preview of a thing that I may or may not be something I actually finish post ski!au. Basically, itâs all for @twelveclara who wanted a Greek Gods AU. Youâre lucky I adore you, you dumb bitch. Iâll fix this up and write more for you some day. Happy birthday. <3
                              âÂ
She was picking flowers: roses, crocus, and beautiful violets. Up and down the soft meadow. Iris blossoms too she picked, and hyacinth. And the narcissus, which was grown as a lure for the flower-faced girl by Gaia. All according to the plans of Zeus. She was doing a favor for the one who receives many guests. It was a wondrous thing in its splendor. To look at it gives a sense of holy awe to the immortal gods as well as mortal humans. It has a hundred heads growing from the root up. Its sweet fragrance spread over the wide skies up above. And the earth below smiled back in all its radiance. So too the churning mass of the salty sea
[From the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, translated by Gregory Nagy]
                              â
They meet on a Sunday morning, on the first day of Winter, under a cloudy and snow-filled sky.
Itâs a collision only barely avoided; she swerves, but the white petals still brush against her cheek, sticking out every which way and thus not as easily dodged as the form carrying them (barreling around the corner without any particular concern or hesitation). The juxtaposition hardly stops there, because the resulting stream of expletives feels in direct opposition to what follows it: an apology that â when directed at her â sounds soft and familiar, despite the lingering profanities. Â
The thought doesnât make any sense, but she hardly has time to consider its meaning when it first hits her; itâs quickly followed by a scent â floral and strong and overwhelming â that hits just as hard, turns the world over on itself, shifts the seasons, melts the ice around them.Â
âShit, sorry! Iâve got so many of these fucking things that I can barely see and Iâve got to get them to the greenhouse in like five minutes and Iâm really running late and are you okay?âÂ
The flowers â she can see them more clearly now: long-stemmed and white with a brilliant yellow center ringed in red â obscure most of the womanâs face. But her long blonde hair spills outside of the boundaries of the dozens of stems barely contained to the two large buckets she holds in front of her chest. Blake finds herself briefly distracted again (distracted from a distraction), this time by the looping curls, the different colors of gold that glint among the strands despite the overcast skies. But then the woman shifts, trying to see around the stems, and with the movement, a new wave of the scent hits her and itâs all she can think about again.Â
âWhat is that?âÂ
âWhatâs what?â The woman laughs and finally pokes her head through the flowers. The bright smile that appears is one that Blake cannot differentiate from the first bloom of Spring. âYou mean like, the daffodils or â whoa.âÂ
She canât pinpoint the reason for the change, but something makes the womanâs eyes (the color of the sky at 5:30 am in the middle of June) widen when they first meet Blakeâs. The surprise steals her smile, but it returns almost immediately, stronger than before.Â
âWhoa,â she says again. âWhere have you been?âÂ
Blakeâs a college freshman â one who got a fake ID at 16 and has been to frat parties and bars and clubs â and so sheâs heard the line before (or something like it, âall my lifeâ tacked on at the end), but sheâs never heard anyone say it like this woman does. The emphasis is in the wrong spot, the tone out of place, the emotion behind it incomprehensible.Â
(Stranger than all that, her instantaneous thought â one she only just keeps from escaping her own lips â is waiting for you.)Â
âI â what?â she says instead.Â
âItâs the day before Christmas break! Iâve been here all semester and Iâve never seen you before. Itâs not that big of a school. So, like, where have you been?âÂ
The girl shifts her cargo to the side â as though to give herself a better view â and the warm leather of her coat, the soft wool around the collar, belong on her frame as much as the dark gold belongs around her neck (a woven scarf, color deeper than her hair).Â
âNot in the greenhouse,â Blake settles on. âI didnât know we had one.âÂ
âYeah, I could have guessed that.âÂ
It comes with a laugh and Blakeâs not sure whether to be offended or not, but the woman quickly continues, before Blake can settle on any one expression.
âThe Botany program is pretty small. Not too many people other than us visit the far field, let alone the Greenhouse.â
âBotany?â Itâs not what she expects, but it feels right.Â
(Blakeâs not sure how she knows what feels right. But she doesnât question it either.)
âYeah. Plants are sort of my thing.â The girl lifts one of the buckets as though to prove her point, and Blake is once again reminded.Â
âYeah. What are those? They smell â â
(Perfect. Like something sheâs been searching for.)Â
âReally good right?â She laughs again; a breeze, but one strong enough to bend the trunks of trees. âYeah, people use it in perfumes all the fucking time. But I think I like the pure version of it best.â Leaning forward, the woman tips the bucket in Blakeâs direction, allowing her to get another whiff. âPoetâs Daffodil. Narcissus poeticus, if youâd be into me showing off.âÂ
Sheâs leaning in, breathing in deep, but her surprise at the name is such that it nearly sends her rocking off balance and crashing face-first into the delicate stems.
âOh, you are into me showing off.â The woman shifts again, but the flowers canât obscure the brightness of her grin. âHold on, let me take some notes for future reference. Is it the Latin, foreign languages in general, or the vast depth of knowledge that does it for you?âÂ
âNo, I â â Blake barely recognizes the laugh that escapes from her own lips. âNo, itâs just. Iâve never seen it before. The flower version of Narcissus, I mean. But Iâve read about it a hundred times. The man, at least.âÂ
The womanâs head tilts in thought, but her expression clears quickly.
âMythology nerd, huh?â
âClassics major.âÂ
âOh, super mythology nerd.â She tips the bucket forward again. One of the flowers slides against Blakeâs cheek. âYou better take one then. You can show it off to all your friends. Spin it however you like. Something like, you got a mythological flower from a mythological girl.â She pauses. âOkay that didnât actually make sense, I donât think. I meant like, you got a flower from a goddess. Because Iâm like -- uh, I dunno -- whatâs the hottest goddess?âÂ
âThe last person who answered that question got into an awful lot of trouble, in the end,â Blake quips, but finds her smile aches. (She also finds she has an immediate answer, though itâs not one of the three that Paris had to consider in the contest that lead to such trouble for the Greeks and Trojans both.)
âI think I remember the basics of that one. How about you take the flower and my number instead of a golden apple and weâll skip the bad ending.âÂ
Itâs sudden, but it doesnât feel like it. It feels like Blakeâs been waiting for a while.Â
âForward,â she says despite all that, because itâs almost as though she has to. As though there are steps to take that sheâs not allowed to skip, lest she upset a balance she wasnât aware existed before now.Â
Itâs a dramatic thought; sheâd laugh at herself if â when she reaches into the bucket to grasp one of the stems â she didnât feel the world sigh in relief. Â
âIâve never really seen the point of wasting time.â The woman shrugs, tone and words light, but only in the same sort of way (required, practiced lines). âThereâs just not enough of it.âÂ
âYou sound like youâre a hundred years old and on your deathbed,â Blake laughs, but oh, her heart is clenching. And sheâs taking out her phone. Sheâs making a new contact. Sheâs already thinking about the first time sheâll text this woman and she doesnât even know her name.Â
(There isnât enough time. Somehow, she agrees, and that makes her want to get all of it in now, while she has a chance.)
âOr Iâm someone who is very late in dropping off some daffodils that donât really like the cold much. Even if I have a very valid excuse in wanting to stick around.â She pulls away with several long strides backwards; it seems genuinely regretful, but she brightens a little, seeing the flower clutched in one of Blakeâs hands (and her phone in the other). â818-815-6247. Let me know if you want to see the greenhouse. Or tell me about the prettiest goddess. Or do anything at all.âÂ
She takes another step back and Blake nods twice, before realizing sheâs missing something.Â
âWait! Iâm â â It comes out sounding a little more desperate than she would have liked, but then, the woman turns back towards her quickly enough for a single petal to fall off of one of of the flowers, so maybe pretenses arenât really something either of them are concerning themselves with. âI donât know your name.âÂ
âYang.â Itâs not the name she expects, but it slides into place easily enough.Â
âBlake.â (Somehow, thatâs not the name she expects either, even though itâs her own.) âIâll text you. Call you. Soon.âÂ
âGood.â She catches another flash of that smile before Yang turns away. âAnd Iâll be waiting. Or â trying to. Iâve never been very patient, though youâd think I would have learned by now.âÂ
âA lot of practice?â Blake calls after her, takes a step towards her (doesnât notice).Â
âToo much, I think.â Her laugh carries, blonde curls whip in the wind as she walks off. âSo try to have mercy on me this time.â
Afterwards, she smells of daffodils (of dark green leaves, of a meadow that stretches on and on and on, of mint and hay and dirt and weeds and the whole of spring), as though itâs coming from her pores rather than the flower she places in a small glass on her nightstand. The scent persists through showers and nights out and all the smells that come with living in a coed freshman dorm. It lasts for days (or eons) and stretches back in time, too; she finds it tucked away in memories where it has no place, couldnât possibly exist.Â
(Sheâs five and her mom takes her to pick blueberries, sheâs fourteen on a field trip to the botanical gardens, sheâs seventeen and trying to find a perfume that suits her, sheâs nineteen and stepping out of her late night Byzantine history seminar. And itâs there â itâs always there â just out of reach: the field over, the next flower, a slightly different perfume, a whiff on the wind that she chases across campus for ten minutes before giving up.)Â Â
(Sheâs older â ageless â and she doesnât recognize herself, but itâs there too.)Â
The scent of flowers lingers and Blake doesnât mind.Â
She also texts Yang before it can begin to fade.
â
They first meet on Heliosâs Day, on the morning of the vernal equinox, under a bright and clear sky.
She watches from behind the treeline, but even from a distance, itâs obvious, the way the ground rises to greet her when the woman walks past: stalks lengthening, flowers unfolding, grass brightening into a more vibrant shade of green with each step she takes. The world is in bloom and it follows the unspoken instructions of only one creature that roams its face.Â
Hesitation is not a trait often associated with the gods, but the god of the underworld feels it now, unwilling to interrupt the celebration that the very Earth seemingly wishes to partake in, but desiring it all the same. She is used to the damp, dark coolness of the world below, and the sun always seems beats down with an unfamiliar and uncomfortable heat, but today it feels indomitable and irresistible.Â
Today, she wants to step out into the light.Â
Vines wrap around her as soon as she does â nothing binding or restrictive, but welcoming â a soft touch that greets her in time with the smile of the one who controls them. She does not appear surprised at the intrusion, nor displeased, but when she walks closer and white flowers â fragrant and familiar â spring up all around them, certainty sprouts as well.Â
âThe receiver of many guests. Giver of good counsel. Itâs not often we see you up here.â The tone is teasing, different from what she typically hears, and it warms her cheeks, places a shade of color there that others would not recognize. (She barely recognizes it in herself.) âWhat have you come to the surface for?âÂ
She has an answer to the question, but itâs an honest one, not one she typically gives freely.Â
She gives it freely now. Â
âSometimes, I miss being around things that are alive.âÂ
The goddess doesnât belittle when she responds â though her smile stays playful â like so many others would.Â
âI may be able to help you with that.âÂ
The ground shifts again and one of the flowers at her feet lifts, stem lengthening to four times what would be natural, until itâs sliding between her fingers, depositing itself in her palm, releasing itself from the Earth when she lifts it to her nose and breathes deep.Â
âEverything dies when I go below,â she says softly, and with regret.Â
âNot this.âÂ
She stares into the goddessâs eyes (crocus, monkshood, bellflower, wisteria, lilac) and believes her words, impossible though they are.Â
âIâm Kore.â The name doesnât quite suit her, though the king of the underworld had known it before now. âYou should call on me whenever you want to feel something that is alive.âÂ
âAnd what if I feel that always?âÂ
Kore laughs. The whole of the clearing blooms.Â
âThen you should call on me always, Hades. Whenever you please.â
â
Thereâs no need for any pretense. No desire for it, besides.
They graduate from text to voice quickly â within the span of a week â and when Blake calls, Yang answers on the first ring. When Blake asks if she wants to hang out, Yang rattles off seven different options without pause.Â
(âIâve been thinking about what we should do together since we first met,â Yang says, not really an admission, not when the truth is so easily accessible.
âThat was four days ago,â Blake feels she has to add, but Yang just laughs.)
Yang â without flowers blocking her face â is more beautiful than anything Blakeâs ever seen. Itâs more than the sharp cut of her jaw or the muscles of her forearm or the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles; Yang is attractive and anyone would agree, but itâs more than that. (Something curls in Blakeâs stomach and settles in place at the sight, roots growing quick and deep.) And maybe itâs more for Yang too, because her expression â when Blake steps into view, climbing up over the crest of the hill that marks the start of the far field â holds more than Blake can measure.Â
College is strange, and the relationships formed within it, stranger still. Sheâd met Sun at a freshmen karaoke mixer that sheâd been dragged to by her roommate, and in the span of a few hours, theyâd gone through every stage of a relationship imaginable: strangers (the awkward first meet), rivals (when he and Ilia had picked the same song and Blake had been dragged along in solidarity), possible partners (when mixer had become unofficial and the alcohol had come out), and (finally) best friends (when the awkward flirtation and intoxication was behind them).  Â
But this â Yang taking her hand and leading her towards the greenhouse â is different, and that must be apparent to both of them, because Yang hardly looks surprised when Blake doesnât step away, even once theyâre inside.Â
âWhy botany?â Blake asks, tone softer than the question merits.
Yangâs lips curl and Blake gets caught on the corner like itâs a hook; she wants to press her fingers against the indent, and then do the same with her mouth.  Â
âI like making things grow. Wherever I go.â Her smile is unabashed, even when she continues. âCheesy, I know. But I like making things come alive.â
(Blake thinks of vines growing in places they shouldnât be able to, thinks of flowers sprouting from the cracks in pavement, thinks of the roots of trees spilling out over and digging into rock. She thinks â most of all â of Yangâs hands on all of them and on her as well, a different sort of challenge that Yang never took as such.)Â
âItâs not cheesy itâs â â As she searches for the word, Yangâs gaze does something similar with the planes of her face (searching, though Blake doesnât think she finds what sheâs looking for, and finds herself coming up similarly short). â â sincere? Earnest?â She shakes her head; neither are quite right. âWhatever it is, the world needs more of it.âÂ
The honesty doesnât sound as sweet coming from her lips, but Yang doesnât appear to mind. She smiles again, wider this time, and the plants around them pulse with a soft sigh, a tangible exhale of oxygen. And when Yang walks along the rows -- running her fingers gently along the leaves and petals and stalks -- when she speaks each of their names, Blake could swear the vegetation leans into her touch.Â
The thought is less strange when coupled with her own: that she wants to do much of the same.Â
She searches for patience, then.Â
Sheâs had practice with it too.Â
(She used to have more of it.)Â
â
She doesnât last long.Â
But then, how could she?Â
Only a week later, one of Yangâs friends throws a back-to-school party and Blake gets pulled along, as seems to be the new trend.Â
(âItâs weird,â Yang says, much in the same way she always does, with a grin lighting her face. âSheâs normally a lot more particular about her guest list.â)Â
Thereâs alcohol waiting for them as soon as they walk in, and they each throw back a shot before moving any further, though the (surprisingly) fancy cocktail Blake picks up shortly after is one that she nurses for the rest of the night, at least until her hands find better uses.Â
Yangâs hands find them more quickly than Blakeâs; sheâs tactile and gregarious and fun and she touches people as she greets them, throughout conversations, when she says goodbye. But she touches Blake most of all: her hand on the small of her back, her fingers threading through the hair that rests at the nape of her neck, her chin resting on Blakeâs shoulder.Â
It builds and builds and thereâs not enough time and so Blake reaches down, tugs on Yangâs hand and pulls her outside. It feels like the only place they can be â tucked into the corner of the balcony of Yangâs friendâs lavish apartment with the night sky overhead â when she kisses her.Â
Thereâs no surprise in the action, but thereâs plenty of everything else.Â
(Blake considers all the Greek words for affection, for feeling, for lust, for every form of love known to the poets, and disregards them all.)Â
Her lipstick is dark, and itâs smeared over Yangâs mouth when she pulls back (later â that night and in the upcoming weeks and months and years â sheâll find it in other places: Yangâs neck, her thighs, her sheets). The stains Yang leaves is of a different sort, but Blake first notices it in the taste left on her lips. She runs her tongue along it, brow pinching in thought, and Yang laughs as she watches her try to figure it out.Â
âPomegranate,â she explains. âItâs the lip balm.âÂ
Blake canât see how that accounts for all of it and kisses her again, just to be sure.
â
The first time they kiss, the world springs into revelry.
The humans flourish under the bountiful harvest; their yields triple, they write songs about the season, they throw feasts without excuse, and each of the gods benefit from an upsurge of tributes, from the smallest villages to the largest city-states.Â
She hardly notices.Â
Instead, she focuses on memorizing the way Kore tastes.Â
 â
She meets a boy in her Ancient Greek Lit class, finds his translation of the first line of the Odyssey to be interesting. The word polytropos, he argues, should be taken as an active description; Odysseus is not controlled but in control of his fate. âSing to me, Muse, of a compelling man; sing through me the story of a man who could shape the world around himâ, the boy writes, and Blake gets caught on the intensity in his expression as he reads it, is taken by his confidence and passion (forgets to argue against the lengthiness and the clear liberties he takes).Â
He greets her after class, suggests they study together sometime, and thatâs what Yang finds them doing a couple days later, tucked away in a corner of the library, pouring over words translated a thousand times, Adam finding a way to disagree with every previous version of them. Yang slides into the conversation and the seat next to Blake without needing to be invited, her warm smile at ease even when Adam switches to Greek, speaks fast and condescending.Â
âWell I donât know anything about any of that,â Yang says easily. âBut Blake told me that myths were supposed to be enjoyed by everyone, right? That they were passed on from generation to generation, like bedtime songs or campfire stories. Seems like getting all wordy and pretentious doesnât really fit that idea, right?â She smiles, and Blakeâs gaze shifts towards it, away from the clear ire in Adamâs eyes. âIâd go with Blakeâs version.â
In the hour theyâd been at the table, Blake hadnât offered her own translation (hadnât been asked), but itâs scribbled there, within the margins of the pages of printed out Greek, and Yangâs fingers brush against the pen strokes as she leans in, their shoulders brushing against each other.Â
âTell me about a complicated man,â Blake reads, voice soft.Â
âYeah.â Yang nods and completely ignores Adamâs glare. Blake finds doing the same to be easy, his magnetism fading away, swept aside by stronger forces. âSometimes youâve got to admit that something like that canât be totally summed up in a word or even in a sentence. Thereâs something kind of beautiful about that too â I think â admitting the complexity in such a simple way.â
âI⌠think so too.â Â
Adam doesnât last for much longer, quickly tiring of not being the center of attention. He slams his books shut and shoves his chair out with force when he stands and Blake canât remember what it was about him that appealed to her in the first place.
âI donât like him,â Yang says after he leaves, a simple declaration as she steals a sip from Blakeâs water bottle.
Blake blinks. Considers. âYeah. I donât think Iâll be studying with him again.âÂ
And she doesnât.Â
(Itâs not normally that easy, she thinks, later on, and isnât sure what she means by that at all.)
â
The humans tell tales about them, before their story is finished.Â
Time is odd like that when you are immortal and infinite. Beginnings and ends and middles get jumbled in a way that they never do for those who have a life to live in a linear manner. Â
It starts small: maidens whispering to each other, children making up rhymes, mothers telling stories to put their daughters to sleep. Thereâs a soft reverence in these traditions, and though she does not catalog the words they use, she picks up on the meaning. It settles in her chest â the warmth of it â different from the sort that presses at her heart when Kore is near, but significant in a distinct way.Â
The tales change over time, warped by the teller and the listener alike, move further from the truth. But the humans could hardly know of the color of Koreâs hair, the tone of her skin, the color of her eyes, and what did it matter when the genders were confused or the courtship was pressed into a single day? The meaning persisted, the good intentions enough to sate the both of them.Â
The stories lengthen, turn into poems, turn into songs, turn into performances, turn into epics. And one day Hermes tells them â amusement in his voice â that they have started to record them, to actually write them down.
But they carry on, much in the same way.Â
What harm could human words -- written or no -- have on the lives of the gods?
#rwby#bumbleby#writing#this fic would be such a huge undertaking but here's a disjointed start just for you#Greek Gods AU#kinda#hfkjsadhfhalsd#gay egotistical bitches#Blake's translation of Homer is from Emily Wilson who we love and respect and admire in this house
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