#god of war hermes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thhouseofblack · 1 month ago

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Deleted scene from "My Love I Kept You Well"

HERA

Hera moaned elegantly as she sunk into her divine divan, swirling the delicious wine in her goblet as she watched Athena stalk back and forth like a caged peacock. Her armoured sandals clacked sharply against the marbled floor of her abode, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her cloak billowing with every sharp turn. The air thrummed with the weight of her divine wrath, each breath she took an effort to contain herself.

Hera took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, savouring its taste.

Let her work herself into a frenzy.

Darling Athena always did.

Finally, she stopped mid-stride, her wild eyes locking onto her. “How can I tell him?” she demanded, her voice taut, trembling – obviously not with fear, but with fury. “How can I look him in the eye and tell him that his wife – his loyal, faithful, loving wife – is being…” She sucked in a sharp breath, unable to say the words, her hands shaking with rage.

“That that thing – that vile creature – forces himself upon her, and she cries for his name? His name, not the bastard’s who holds her!”

Hera did not move. She only observed, chin propped upon one hand, the other still idly playing with her goblet.

It was a true pity, and she had done her dues with regard to the disrespect to her domains that goat boy had shown twice over now.

Ugh, some mortals think they are so above it all just because some silly goddess had their ego boosted by them.

Athena’s face twisted further, her pacing resuming with greater fervour. “And how, by the gods, am I supposed to tell him this and then preserve his life still?” she went on, words tumbling out in rapid succession. “The moment he hears, he will throw himself at the walls of Troy as though he were a foolish mortal like the rest of them, as though he has not spent months upon months unravelling this war with patience and cunning! He will rush, he will climb – he will do something so utterly Odysseus and let his grief and fury devour him whole!”

Hera sighed. “Yes, well. That does sound like your precious little boy.”

Thinking of Athena’s Precious Odysseus always made her wish to giggle. Such a charming little thing, so full of light and love and devotion to his wife and wife alone. She was incredibly impressed by all of it. Why she had blessed the hero so that when he would return to his homeland, he and his wife could fill their pretty castle up with all the children they wished for.

Hera took another savoury sip.

Athena ignored her. Her fingers pressed against her temples as though attempting to force order into her mind, as though divine thought alone could undo the madness of the situation they had at hand. But then – her hands dropped, and something darker flickered across her face.

Aww look at her plotting war and death – how adorable she was.

“What if,” she murmured, “her womb quickens with that wretch’s child?”

Hera let out an inelegant snort.

Athena blinked, startled.

“Oh, do not be ridiculous,” Hera said, waving a lazy hand, careful not to let her wine spill. “I have seen to it that Paris is utterly, entirely, and quite irreversibly impotent.”

Athena froze.

Hera arched a brow. “What? You are surprised?”

“…You did that?”

Her mouth thinned. “She is from Sparta,” she said pointedly, sitting up now, setting her goblet down with a sharp clink. “One of the three cities – along with Argos and Mycenae of course – that I love the best. And one of the few places that worships me as I am meant to be worshipped.” Her expression hardened. “Of course I watch over that child.”

Athena let out a slow breath, pressing a hand over her heart, her fury not quelled, but momentarily steadied. She nodded – not in gratitude, but in understanding.

A new thought, it seemed, came swiftly to her dear girl. She turned sharply to Hermes, who had been lounging off to the side, silent and watchful as always, his eyes gleaming with some secret amusement that Hera did not care to unravel.

“You,” Athena said, striding toward him, urgency returning to her voice. “Can you not take her? Whisk her away as you have done before to others? She is the wife of your own great-grandchild, Hermes. She holds in her embrace another one of your descendants. Would you not see her safe?”

Hermes tilted his head, a slow, knowing smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “By that logic, dear sister,” he said, his voice rich with amusement, “should you not have gone to Zeus first? After all, is Penelope not of the blood of Perseus’ only daughter? Surely her great-grandfather would be most concerned for her well-being?”

On the other side of the chamber, a deep, rumbling snort cut through the air.

“Oh, please,” Poseidon muttered, rolling his eyes as he lifted his own cup of wine to his lips. “By that logic, Zeus should be running about rescuing everyone and their mothers. Half of Olympus and half the mortal realm are of his blood.”

Hera’s frown deepened.

Because unfortunately, Poseidon had a point.

Which infuriated her.

Ugh. She hated when her stupid younger brother made sense.

Her fingers tightened around her goblet. Yes, she knew Zeus went around “spreading his blood,” as he so delicately liked to put it. She knew it, had suffered it, had spent centuries exacting her vengeance for it.

And oh, how irritating it was.

Sometimes – sometimes, she thought – if only she could lock Zeus in a little cage, tuck him away where no one else could touch him. Play with him as she pleased, twist and mould him into exactly what she wanted. A husband who belonged to her and her alone.

The thought was so delightful, so deliciously entertaining, that she let out a quiet, delighted giggle.

Silence followed.

All eyes turned toward her.

Athena blinked, Hermes arched a brow, and even Poseidon paused, his cup still halfway to his mouth.

Hera only hummed to herself, reaching for her goblet once more, taking another slow sip of her wine as if she had not just sent every god in the room into mild concern.

“Shut it, Poseidon,” she said airily, waving a hand in dismissal. “You may be my favourite brother but let us not pretend you are any better than Zeus when it comes to your lovers. If anything–” her lips curled, her gaze flicking lazily over to him– “you are infinitely worse.”

Poseidon scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow. “Would you like for me to bring about a list of both your progeny and compare who has fathered the most?”

Poseidon scowled. Hermes, meanwhile, smothered a laugh behind his hand.

But then, in a truly devious display of perfect timing, Hermes straightened, his smirk returning in full force as he leaned toward Poseidon, eyes alight with mischief.

“Speaking of which,” he drawled, “how is young Thetis’ boy faring? I had heard you had taken it upon yourself to give his little lover – another of Father’s grandchildren, some– shall we say – personal lessons in how to ride a horse?”

The room exploded.

Athena choked on air, nearly knocking over an entire golden brazier in her sputtering. Poseidon, mid-drink, actually coughed – her precious wine spilling from his lips as his entire face twisted into one of pure outrage.

Hera laughed, full-bodied and bright, draping herself over the cushions as she clutched her goblet. “Oh, my dear brother,” she purred, her voice rich with amusement. “You’ve upset Thetis, you know. Last I remember she was in quite the state over it.”

Poseidon, still wiping the last drops of wine from his beard, scowled. “Over what?”

Hera smirked. “Over you.” She stretched out her fingers, enjoying the way the light caught on her golden rings. “Her son is distraught, you see. Apparently, he was most displeased that his dear lover was stolen away and ravished by none other than the Lord of the Sea.”

Athena let out a sharp noise of disgust. Hermes all but howled with laughter.

Poseidon groaned, setting his cup down with a loud thud. “Oh, come now,” he muttered. “It was not as though the boy fought me on it. He was so sweet, so pretty–” He sighed wistfully. “And such a lovely, gentle heart. How could I resist?”

Hera cooed, reaching out to stroke his hair, knowing he will relent because it was her. Her fingers combing through the sea-salted curls as one might pet their favourite cow – though she did not have favourites, she loved all her cows equally and dearly.

Much like her children.

“Of course you could not,” she soothed mockingly, her voice dripping with indulgence. “You would have needed self-control for that, and we all know you’ve never possessed a single grain of it.”

Hermes howled again, slapping his knee as Poseidon pouted up at her, brows furrowed, looking for all the world like a sulking child.

Hera chuckled, ruffling his hair fondly before withdrawing her hand and reclining once more against her divan. She lifted her goblet and took another long, luxurious sip, wholly unbothered by the absolute mess her younger brother had made of things.

But then–

Athena snapped.

“For Olympus’ sake!” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. “Can we focus?”

Hera glanced at her, as Hermes wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. Poseidon only raised a brow, reaching for his wine once more.

Athena, however, was undeterred.

Her gaze locked onto Hera’s, sharp and determined, her mind already racing ahead of them all. “You must go to Grandfather Oceanus and Grandmother Tethys,” she ordered. “Tell them to send Periboea to Ilium, to Penelope’s side.”

She hummed, tilting her head. Hera traced a finger along the rim of her goblet, considering.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “I can attempt to sneak Periboea in.”

Athena’s eyes brightened, hope flashing across her face.

“But,” Hera continued smoothly, “there is little else I can do. You know as well as I that Troy is Zeus’ own city.” She swirled her wine, watching the deep red liquid dance against the gold. “He adores it more than any other in the world, and he does not appreciate our interference – especially when it does not serve his interests.”

Athena’s jaw tightened.

Hera smiled at her, slow and knowing.

“You know this, dear girl,” she said softly. “Do you think he will let me play my hand so easily?”

She rested further into the silk-laden comfort of her divan. She ran her fingers idly along the stem of her goblet, watching the light of the heavens dance along its intricately made designs. Her precious Hephaestus made such wonderful gifts for her.

“I like it not,” she admitted, her voice softer now, more pensive. “I, too, am fond of Penelope. It was my blessing – a gift to Mother Tethys, for her Periboea who had borne seven sons and yet still not the daughter she longed for, that resulted in her birth after all. She is a rare one among mortals – steadfast, wise, and loyal beyond all reason.” Her lips pressed together. “But, my dear girl, you must forget her. Ignore her plight for the moment and turn your mind to what truly matters.”

Athena’s face darkened, but before she could protest, Poseidon let out a heavy sigh.

“Hera is right,” he said, his voice weighted with something uncharacteristically serious. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his expression thoughtful. “We want our victory over the Trojans, and to achieve it we must turn our attention to Troy, you must turn your attention to bringing down the infallible walls of Troy. That is what matters.”

Athena’s jaw clenched, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. She could understand how her brilliant girl was feeling – one of her chosen being treated in such a demeaning manner. But she would not find sympathetic ears in the company of Hermes and Poseidon – or most men – in this qualm of hers.

“Oh, there he goes, bragging again,” she drawled, swirling her wine as she cast Poseidon a dry look. “Yes, yes, we all know you built the damn thing.”

Poseidon smirked. “And thus, I know it will not fall easily.”

Athena inhaled sharply through her nose. Oh, Hera’s precious girl. She was clever – cleverer than all of them, in truth. She surely knew this was the best course of action, but that did not make it easier to swallow.

Then, with impeccable timing, Hermes – ever sly – rose smoothly to his feet and strode toward Athena. With an exaggerated sigh, he draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his easy embrace.

“Dearest sister,” he crooned, “if we bring down the walls of Troy, the matter of darling Odysseus’ wife will be solved before we know it.”

Athena did not move, but her shoulders loosened – if only slightly.

Hera tilted her head, gazing at her gently. She had seen Athena furious before. She had seen her livid, seething, ready to tear the world apart. But this – this was something quieter. Something more dangerous.

They had done what they could for Penelope.

Hera reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over Athena’s knuckles.

“We have done all we can,” she murmured.

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