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Chapter Text

"No!"

She's not sure which one of them screams it—doesn't even think it matters at this point—because, suddenly, there's a stabbing, searing pain in her side. Grace crumples to her knees, body shuddering as they collide with the cold, stone floor. She gasps, chokes, blood spilling past her lips.

Hands, warm and tender, land steady on her shoulders, easing her gently to the floor. "Grace!" Freddie's image wavers against her blurring vision, distorting the frantic movement of her hands. "Oh, no, no, no, no."

"Hey, Freddie," she tries for a smile, manages nothing more than a weak quirk of her lips. Freddie sniffles, tugging her onto her lap. Her side burns at the movement, spikes of pain travelling through her body. "Why do you look so sad?"

Like a boat

"Grace," Freddie exhales, a whining, keening thing. Her heart aches at the sound; far too sad for someone as bright as Freddie. "Why would you do that, Grace? You weren't supposed to do that."

"What?" She wheezes, grunting as Freddie presses her hands against the injury. She'd hate to think of how it looks now, red staining her skin. "You think I'd let you die? Farishta, you know me better than that."

Lost at sea

Tears slip past Freddie's eyes, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she tries to stop them from falling. Freddie reaches up, cups one hand against Grace's cheek. Her thumb swipes beneath her eye, a trail of blood left behind. She shivers as Grace leans into the touch, impossibly bright eyes dulling. "Please," she begs, leaning down to press their foreheads together. "We were supposed to have so much more time, Grace."

With no sail

Thundering footsteps echo off the shelves, bouncing around the labyrinth like the pounding of a drumline. Freddie doesn't lift her head, even as Persephone and Hecate turn the corner, too busy listening to the staggered breathing of her friend. "Oh, Grace," Persephone whispers, but she may as well have shouted with how loud it sounds against the silence of this maze. "You stupid, stupid girl."

Not a breeze

Grace's eyes slide over to her and Persephone feels her heart stutter in her chest; gone is the fire burning in her eyes, gone is the rebellious glint to her gaze. All that's left behind are traces of smug satisfaction—she should not look like she has won, Persephone seethes. Not while she lies cold and dying. She steps forward, falling to her knees beside them. Oh, how she wishes 'Queen of the Underworld' meant more than it does.

I am drifting

"Hey, Persephone," Grace rasps. She wants to tell the girl to shut up, to stop talking, but if this is all that will be left behind, then she wants—no, needs—to hear it. "I guess your plan worked after all." Grace hisses past clenched teeth, throat bobbing as she swallows. "I'm getting some serious deja vu right now." Her body aches as she forces out a laugh.

Cold waters

"Now is not the time for your jokes, Grace," Persephone chokes out. She reaches out, grabs Grace's limp hand in hers, interlacing their fingers. It is slick with blood, but Persephone has lived a long life. She closes her eyes when a weak squeeze is all she gets in response.

No star

Persephone knows the exact moment Grace stops breathing, the exact moment her limbs become dead weight and her eyes become dull. She cannot fight the flinch as Hecate steps forward, far too vulnerable in the aftermath to even fake awareness.

"She was not meant to die," the titan tells them, staring down at the body with poorly concealed confusion. "It is not written."

The words seem to kickstart Freddie into action, her head lifting from where it was pressed against Grace. Her fingers clench into fists, ruffling the fabric of Grace's leather jacket. "I don't care about your stupid book!" She screams, the sound reverberating off the walls. Even Hecate seems surprised, taking a step back from the rage-filled mortal. "If she wasn't supposed to die, then fix her."

"I have no power over life and death, only the fates do." She pauses. "I—I cannot save her." Freddie seems to recognize it as a lost cause even before the words are spoken, body shaking with muffled sobs, face pressed against the crown of Grace's head.

To be seen

Grace blinks, dazed. Her head pounds, phantom pains sending sharp spikes travelling up her body. "May I ask you why you feel so...adrift? You're so young. Surely your life is just beginning." The words filter in slowly, somehow making it past the river rushing through her ears. She swallows hard—she's supposed to be dead. Those, those—whatever they are—had just stabbed her. She had bled out in Freddie's arms. She's not supposed to be—she's not—

Bile rises in her throat, nausea swirling through her gut. She feels unsteady, off-balance—everything feels wrong.

"Grace?" She jerks back, hands held defensively out in front of her. Calliope—what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck—steps closer, covering her hands with her own, a concerned smile gracing her lips.

It takes her a moment to realize that she had been asked a question. She tries to remember how she'd responded last time—the first time—but it feels like a lifetime ago that this had happened. And, even then, Grace can't think past the image of Calliope lying dead on her apartment floor, blood staining her hands, seeping between the cracks of the floorboards.

"Um—uh," she stammers weakly. The smile turns sympathetic and Grace burns with it, wants to tell her to stop; tell her she doesn't deserve it. I couldn't save you, rests on the tip of her tongue. I could have saved you.

"I understand," Calliope tells her, soft and sure. "It's okay. Not to know where your life is going. To not understand why you feel so lost."

Grace is shaking her head before she's even finished. "That's not—" Calliope looks surprised as she tightens her grip on her hand and Grace can't find it in herself to feel sorry even as she digs her nails into the skin of Calliope's hands. Because Calliope is going to leave; is going to get herself killed and Grace can't just sit here and let it happen. Again.

"Don't leave," she blurts. She doesn't want to talk about herself, she wants Calliope to stay, to live, to reconcile with the Idols. Maybe, just maybe, it's for selfish reasons that she wants this—to learn the way Persephone would melt at the sight of her Muse. "I—I know you're not here to join the band or anything, but. But maybe I could still get to know you?"

Grace sees the hesitation, the way she steps back like she's preparing to run. Please, she pleads, hopes the desperation showing on her face is enough to make her stay. Just the once, it would be enough.

"I—okay," Calliope acquiesces with no little reluctance. Her eyes dart around but she doesn't immediately sprint off when Grace releases her hold on her hands, so she'll take it as a win.

"Okay?" Hope tears at her voice and Calliope softens with the sound. She nods, short and simple.

"Yes, Grace. I would love to get to know you." Grace deflates, tension leaving her body like a deflated balloon.

"Thank you," she breathes. For everything, she doesn't add.

Calliope places a hand on her shoulder, guides her out of the auditorium,  and Grace lets her with little resistance. "Don't thank me. Not for this."

Chapter Text

My Bard <3

I don't know what's happening anymore

[Message Failed To Send]

Everything feels wrong

[Message Failed To Send]

its like im still dying on that floor

[Message Deleted]

I could really use your help right now

[Message Failed To Send]

It feels like I'm losing my mind

[Message Failed To Send]

Hey, Fred!

Made a new friend after you left auditions.

Text you when I start heading back to the apartment.

Love you <3

Ooh, a new friend?

I expect to hear all about it when you get back.

Love you too!

Mwah <3

Grace has—if she's being completely honest—no fucking clue where Calliope is leading her. Which wouldn't necessarily be a problem except—

Except Grace is hard-pressed to be left alone with Calliope. Out in public. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling at the skin as she scans the sky for a helmed owl and glowing blue eyes.

Now that she's thinking about it, though, would Athena really be watching? That's—a stupid question. Probably. Yes? Did Athena know what Calliope was doing in the Reliquary? Does it matter now that Grace has waylaid the Muse's plan? She purses her lips at the thought, dragging her eyes back to the ground.

Calliope drifts through the pedestrian traffic like a ghost—with an almost ethereal grace. Fitting, she thinks as she lets herself be pulled through the crowds, feet fumbling over themselves as they try to keep up with the way Calliope weaves between bodies. She almost feels like a baby fawn, all awkward, gangly limbs and shaking knees.

Better than a boat caught trying to navigate a storm, Grace thinks with no little bitterness. Idol-hood and Choruses and Muses, oh my! She rolls her eyes, so distracted by her thoughts that she almost crashes into Calliope's back as they come to a stop. A hand on her arm steadies her before she can fall. "Careful, Grace," Calliope teases out of the corner of her mouth, smile tugging at her lips. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"Y-yeah," she laughs forcefully. "That'd be terrible. Uh, what is this place?" The change of subject is not lost on either of them but if Calliope won't point out her lack of tact, then Grace won't either. "I swear I've been down this street a thousand times before and I have never once seen this building."

Calliope grins, tugging the door open and gesturing her inside. At her behest, Grace steps inside, glancing around the interior, something familiar poking in the back of her mind. "It doesn't quite go out of its way to make itself known, hm? I guess it's easier to notice through a recommendation." It'd be hard to mistake the tone of her voice as anything other than pride.

It finally hits her why the sudden sense of deja vu. "Ah," she mutters under her breath. It's Pan and Olympus all over again. Calliope shoots her a curious look as they walk up to the counter but Grace waves her off with a dismissive wave of her hand.

'Ambrosia,' Grace reads, written in large, bold letters over the menu. How original, she thinks wryly, tuning back in as Calliope orders her drink, some kind of a tea that she doesn't quite catch. Grace herself orders a hot chocolate, figuring having coffee so late in the day would only be more trouble than it's worth.

She pats around for her wallet, protest on the tip of her tongue as Calliope beats her to paying. "Please," Calliope offers, taking her card back as the payment is processed. "Let me, I have a lot more money than I know what to do with."

"I'll pay next time then," Grace acquiesces, not blind to the way Calliope falters at the offer of a 'next time.' They make their way to a corner booth in the far back corner of the cafe once their drinks have been served, settling into the plush seats with a companionable silence.

Grace curls both hands around her cup, steadying herself with gentle warmth radiating from it. It'd been cold, then, like the shock of an ice bath—maybe it'd been the lingering cold from the metal blade. Blood isn't supposed to be warm, after all. She would know, it seems to stain her hands more often than not these days.

"Grace?" Calliope's voice draws her attention back, offering back a distracted hum as she looks up from her drink. "Are you okay?" The Muse tilts her head curiously with furrowed brows. Grace's hand twitches, as though to reach out and soothe the crease away.

She shakes the thought away, bringing the lip of the cup to her mouth and taking a slow sip to avoid having to answer. After a moment, she speaks. "You—earlier today, you asked me why I felt—feel—so...adrift." She trails off uncertainly and Calliope smiles warmly, reaching out to cover Grace's hand with her own.

For a moment, Grace wonders if this is her power instead; the ease at which she seems to offer comfort, the effectiveness of a simple touch. Or maybe Grace is just desperate for the contact, satisfied at the slightest brush of skin. She chuckles inwardly to herself at the thought.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." Calliope offers an out and Grace so desperately wants to take it and run; hide away from her problems like the coward she is. "As I've told you, I understand how difficult of a question it is to answer."

"Have you ever felt like you've failed at something someone trusted you to do?" Grace blurts before she can chicken out of it, forcing the words past her lips like they could choke her if she kept them down. "Like—like they've entrusted you to something that they've spent their whole life working towards; trusted you to reach that—that goal, or that ending, or—or..."

She pushes her drink away, liquid sloshing at the roughness of the gesture, because some part of her recognizes that having something so fragile—so breakable—in her reach runs the risk of her smashing it against the opposing wall. "And you've failed—because of course you do," she continues, rubbing a hand down her face and fighting the urge to scream and cry, except she might just do that anyway because why is it just so easy to spill every little thing she's ever felt to a girl she's met once in her life. Why not to her best friend who was so prepared to die for her? Why not to no one at all? "And now you're pretty sure that her friends hate you because she's gone and you're still here failing to do the one thing she's left behind.

"And maybe, maybe, you think that you deserve it because—because..." Grace cuts herself off, breaths heaving and tears burning behind her eyes. She bites her tongue, thanks every god she now knows exist that this place is about as dead as her current love life, and finally meets Calliope's eyes.

Her eyes are soft, a golden sheen cast over her pupils and Grace wonders how she never noticed it before. Calliope smiles, squeezing Grace's hands. "Perhaps it's time to let go, Grace. Take it from me, it's never worth it to hang on to ideas like those."

"But—" they are, she wants to say. They—you are worth it—Persephone is worth it. Because grief is funny that way and Grace has spent a long time mourning a life she never got to have. And the anger, and the blame, has always chased at her heels in the same way it did them. And she has—let go, hasn't she? Because she's no longer the Last Muse; there's nothing for her to chase after, no river she can follow. She's let go—she's just Grace.

Calliope shakes her head. "To put such a heavy weight on your shoulders. These burdens were never yours to carry, to force it on you is a cruel punishment." But you didn't mean to, she wants to plead. You never could have meant to. But this is the one thing she refuses to—can't—share because Calliope is here and she will remain here even if it takes every last breath.

"You are a brave woman, Grace," Calliope tells her when she fails to respond. "To be able to share this so openly with me. I'm glad we spent more time together. I have to go now but—I would love to get to know you without the shadows of our guilt looming over us."

And—this could work. This could work. It means Calliope will live, right? Because she wouldn't be offering if she knew she was running towards her death. Grace offers a shaky, but nonetheless genuine, smile as they get up to leave. "I think I'd like that."

Calliope leaves first after exchanging contact information. Afterwards, Grace sets her jaw as she stands alone in front of the cafe. She pulls her phone from her pocket, shoots a text to Freddie about her oncoming arrival, before beginning to dial an all too familiar number.

The person you are attempting to contact is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.

Beep—

"Hey, Persephone, it's, uh. It's Grace. Which, I guess, doesn't mean much to you since you don't actually know me yet. I—I don't think you'll know me at all, actually. I hope that won't be how it goes, though.

"Anyway, I, uh. I met Calliope again, really got to know her this time around and she's—she's every bit as wonderful as you and the rest of the Idols made her out to be. I can see why you lov—liked—no, no, loved—loved was right. I can see why you loved—or still love now, I guess—her so much. I probably would have too.

"I don't. I don't really know why I called, to be honest. Some part of me knew you wouldn't respond anyway. I guess I just wanted you—some version of you, at least, even if you're not my version—to know that Calliope is alive.

"Living, breathing. Just—alive. And I just, I really hope this is enough for you—for the rest of the Idols. I don't think you guys needed me to save you anyway. Not that I could have—not that I did.

"But Calliope, well. I think she just needed a little push to do just that. So, here I am—pushing. It's what I'm best at, after all. What did you say to me that day? Oh, yeah; I've got 'one big mouth on me,' don't I? I guess you weren't wrong. I shouldn't be surprised, you rarely ever seem to be."

...

"And Persephone?"

...

"In every universe, I really do think I could have—would have—loved you."

The recipient is currently unable to receive any new messages. This recording will be automatically deleted.

Chapter Text

AUG xx, 20xx

Dear Freddie,

You're probably never going to read this, and I'm definitely never going to be able to send this, but I figured I should write it anyway. Get things out in the open. Friends don't keep secrets after all, right?

I wanted you to know

I think you should know

It wasn't your fault. I need you to understand that it wasn't your fault, okay? I made a choice and I don't I will never regret it. I've always been a little reckless; act first, think later, you know? It's gotten me into a lot of trouble—it got you into a lot of trouble too. It was fun, though. But that's not the point.

Because I needed to tell you that I wouldn't change it for the world. Dying Everything that happened, I think it was worth it—to have had just one chance to meet all these people, to get to spend time with you.

It would always have been worth it.

I admit, I always thought I'd have a little more time; always thought we'd go on tour together, build the band, travel the world, fall in love. I would have loved that, I think.

I guess plans change though. It's not all bad, is it? Have you moved on yet? I'm not much to mourn after all. I hope you have. It's not good to dwell on things like this, after all. You shouldn't have to dwell on a person like me.

Take good care of yourself—you have the eidolon now, don't you? I think know you'll do great as the Muse; if I was chosen, then you were destined. You'll be exactly what the Idols need to keep going.

And, hey, maybe you'll get that band-life dream after all, huh?

Is it bad that I still miss you even though you're right here with me?

Are there versions of you I have to learn to mourn?

All my love,

Grace

Grace pushes the front door to the apartment open, plastering on a wide grin as she strolls in. "Guess who's back?" She crows, letting the door slam shut behind her. Freddie startles like a cat, almost physically jumping from where she's lounging on the couch, legs spread to take up as much room as possible and arms thrown around the back.

She fumbles for the remote, lowering the volume of whatever show she's chosen to obsess over for the week. "Grace!" She greets, opening her arms in invitation. She's quick to take it, falling into the hold with practiced ease, immediately curling into Freddie's side. Long arms wrap around her shoulder and Grace could damn well purr at the warmth seeping into her body. "What's this I hear about a friend, huh? I didn't know you knew how to do that," Freddie mutters, grinning at the responding incoherent spluttering.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Grace shoves herself up, fighting the urge to pout at the sudden lack of warmth. "I can make friends!" Freddie hums, shrugging. "I can," she hisses.

Freddie raises a skeptical brow. "Uh-huh," she agrees sarcastically, snaking her arm around for Grace's back pocket. She yelps when Freddie's fingers brush against bare skin. "Let's see," she drawls, Grace's phone in hand.

"Hey, what?" Her complaints are steadfastly ignored as Freddie unlocks her phone, typing in her password easily—which, rude. How did she even know it anyway? Is she really that predictable?

Yeah. Probably.

"Mhm," Freddie hums, offering her a smug smirk as she scrolls through her contact list. "Ah, there's me. Your parents, brothers. Kaz and Brian, of course." Grace winces because, yeah, that's about the extent of her saved numbers at this point and half of them she doesn't even talk to. So, that's something. "Oh  and here's one I don't recognize. Is this your new friend? Calliope," she reads, fingers tapping at the screen far too much for her to just be scrolling through her contacts. "Oh, that's pretty. Like the Greek Muse?"

Grace fights the automatic wince. "Ha. Ha," she laughs forcefully, reaching for her phone. "I guess," she agrees, biting back a curse when Freddie pulls away. Damn her and her long limbs. It shouldn't be this hard when they're sitting on the same damn couch.

"Have you talked to her since you guys split off?" Grace gives her a deadpan look, jabbing her harshly in the side with her elbow. Freddie folds like a fucking lawn chair, groaning as she covers her side with her hand. She uses the chance to take her phone back. "Ow, what the fuck, Grace?"

Like the mature person she is, Grace stuck her tongue out, looking down at her phone. "Hey!" She scowls down at her phone, thumbs tapping rapidly at the keyboard. "What did you do, Freddie?" She seethes, glaring down at the bubbles on her screen.

Freddie sighs, body deflating. She shifts, pulling away from Grace to lean her elbows against her knees. "Honestly, Grace? You've been—you haven't been yourself since the whole...college thing didn't work out." Grace grimaces. She knows she'd been—strange, after dropping out. Less herself, more closed off. She can admit that much.

"Yeah," she scoffs, moving to be on Freddie's level. She doesn't look up from the floor. "Well. I've needed some time to work shit out. You know this. What does that have to do with you texting my new..." She hesitates. "Friend," she settles on finally.

Freddie drags a hand down her face. "I know, I know," she groans, face twisting. "I understand, you know I do. It's just—I really did think that the auditions and the band and the—the everything!" She gestures wildly and Grace has to lean back to avoid getting smacked in the face. "Would help you, cheer you up or something. But it didn't, and I had to leave you to spiral. Again. And I had to go home alone. Again. Then you're texting me about some new friend you made and—it's just. You don't do people, Grace," Freddie tells her, meeting her eyes with the intensity of a raging fire.

It's not a look she sees often in her friends eyes. Usually for something or another but never for her. "What's that supposed to mean?" She feels like she should be offended, but all she can feel is the slow beating of her heart and the thrumming of the blood in her veins. "I hang out with you. I hang out with other people."

Freddie's voice takes on a slightly strangled quality and, through the haze of her running thoughts, she can see the way her hands curl into fists, nails digging into her palms. "That's exactly what I mean. You hang out with the people I hang out with. You don't go out  of your way to meet new people. You're basically a shut-in until I physically drag you out of the apartment."

"I..." Grace pauses, nose scrunching. She slumps in defeat. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—that's fair." She reaches out, gently nudging Freddie's hands with her own. they unfurl without much fuss and Grace is quick to replace that whitening grip with her own hands, fingers interlacing. "But, really, Freddie. You don't need to worry about me. I appreciate it, I do," she adds. "But I'm fine—I'm going to be fine," she amends at the sharp look she receives.

"Okay," Freddie exhales. "But can you try? For me? Just one night, that's all I'm asking." Grace has a refusal on the tip of her tongue, but Freddie speaks before she can. "You deserve good things, Grace. I don't need you—" She falters. "You punishing yourself. You're allowed at least this much, right?"

I hurt you, she almost says. I hurt her. I hurt all of them. Do I still deserve it? "Okay," she agrees, tongue heavy in her mouth. "One night."

Freddie beams, eyes glowing with the force of it. "That's all I ask."

Calliope

10:44 PM

Hello!

It's Grace, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow?

[Read]

10:53 PM

Hi, I'm so sorry about that.

My friend stole my phone.

We totally don't need to hang out if you don't want to.

Haha.

Sorry, again.

[Read]

11:52 PM

Hi, Grace. I'm sorry I'm responding so late.

Our conversation earlier today put some things into perspective and pushed me to try and reconcile some old relationships.

So, thank you for that.

Does that mean you aren't going to

[Message Deleted]

I'm happy to hear that!

If you'd like, we could get spend some time together tomorrow?

You can bring your friend along too.

And I could introduce you to some friends of mine?

No, no, no, no.

It's fine.

Really.

We don't have to hang out again.

Two days in a row is a bit much, am I right?

I wouldn't want to trouble you.

Oh, it's no trouble at all, Grace.

I'm sure you would get along well with my friends.

I don't think I could handle seeing them

[Message Deleted]

I'll see if we can make it.

I'll send you the time and address, then.

I really hope to see you there.

Have a good night, Grace.

Yep.

You too, sleep well.

[Read]

In the morning, Grace wakes up she wakes up she wakes up she wakes up she wasn't supposed to— feeling like she hasn't slept at all. She exhales slowly, forcing stiff muscles into motion. It takes a minute for her brain to catch up to her body and, by then, she's already stumbling her way into the bathroom.

Half-asleep, her movements are jerky and uncoordinated, nearly knocking over the products littering the vanity as she goes to brush her teeth. After rinsing out her mouth and splashing a couple of handfuls of cold water on her face, she starts to get ready for the day.

Grace tugs her sleepwear off, going to change into something more fitting for an outing. Halfway through putting a new shirt on, she freezes, something in the mirror catching her eyes. Slowly, she trails a hand up her side; a raised patch of skin, angry and red, almost the length of her thumb.

Unwittingly, her fingers trace the scarring, a sharp spike of pain pinching her gut as she presses into it. That's not supposed to be there, she thinks, the beginnings of hysteria bubbling in her throat. The wound—scar?—throbs, as though to remind her the reality of the situation.

Do people feel pain in dreams? She wonders, dragging her eyes away from the mirror to look at the real thing. Somehow, it's worse to see it on her actual person. The color that much more vibrant, taunting.

Bile rises in her throat, stomach churning. She spins away from the mirror, speed dizzying her as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her shirt, tugging the hem hard enough that her shoulder aches.

Grace stands still for a second, letting the nausea subside until the urge to throw up her internal organs is just a distant memory. It takes Freddie shouting for her that she starts to move.

"Grace?" Freddie calls, knocking twice against the bathroom door. "You ready?" Grace blinks, muscles twitching. She hums distractedly, hand hovering over her side. "Grace?"

Her head jerks to the side, movements stilted as she unlocks the door, twisting the handle to push it open. Worry creases Freddie's face as she exits the bathroom, lips parting to speak. Grace smiles, a little too wide, a little too much teeth. "Yeah, sorry. I got distracted."

She starts towards the door, a beat passing before the heavy fall of Freddie's boots follow. "Hey, are you—are you okay?"

Grace turns back to look at her, eyes falling to her outstretched hand. Freddie lets it fall to her side, shoving it into her pocket. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Freddie falters, lips pressing into a thing line. "All right," she drops it reluctantly, following her out the door. "I guess we should go."

"Get up," Persephone orders, voice quiet. So unlike the usual hard edges of her self-assured tone. "We need to go."

Freddie grits her teeth, burrowing her face deeper into the couch pillow. If she tries hard enough, she can remember the scents of Grace without the metallic cling. "Don't tell me what I need," she hisses, closing her eyes. "Grace is gone, Persephone." The creak of floorboards, the heavy thump of a boot. "Or are you so desensitized that you don't even care  anymore—"

"I loved her too!" Persephone roars and Freddie flinches as the sound seems to linger in the air. "Do not act like you were the only one who cared," she seethes, rage so potent Freddie imagines she can grab it. "I loved her too," she repeats. "And she—" Her voice falters, voice cracking.

'She loved me too,' Freddie knows comes after. "I know," she whispers, clinging tighter to the pillow. The painful sting of rejection burns in her chest, mixing with the new, heavy weight of guilt. "I know."

Persephone exhales a shuddering breath, stepping forward to rest her hand on Freddie's shoulder. "She would not want you to—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "She is gone, but you are not. We must finish what she started then we must..."

Freddie purses her lips, slowly pushing herself up. Right, she thinks. The trial. She lets herself breathe for a moment. The trial, then a funeral. She looks up, "Okay."

Persephone nods, one jerking, stilted motion, before leading her out of the apartment and towards Olympus.

Are there versions of Grace she'll have to learn to mourn? Ones she's never gotten the chance to meet?

Chapter Text

Hey! It's Grace, I can't come to the phone right now but I will get right back to you once I'm available. Feel free to leave a message after the tone!

Beep—

"Hey, Grace! It's Freddie. It's been a couple of days since you. Well. We went through with the trial, more of a confrontation, really. Ha. I guess even the God of Wisdom doesn't know everything... She—they all—asked where you were. I guess nobody told them."

...

"I had to tell them."

...

"Anyway. Persephone's in charge of the Chorus now. Temporarily. Apparently they're planning to disband. It makes sense, if you think about it. First step towards change and all that. I think they decided to reveal themselves to the mortal world too. Which seems like a pretty big jump but it's their choice.

"The point is: We did it, Grace. And I guess I just—I just wanted you to know that."

Hey! It's Grace, I can't come to the phone right now but I—

"Hey, Grace. It's Freddie. Again. It's barely been a day since the last time I called your phone. I know, I know: 'Geez, Freddie. Miss me already?'"

...

"I do. I really fucking do. I—the rest of the Idols do too. We're preparing for your funeral, you know? You didn't leave a will behind, but I guess you didn't think you'd die, huh? Is it bad that I wish you did? Maybe it'd make things easier—make things hurt a little less. I tried to call your parents but. I'm sure you guessed, they didn't pick up the phone."

...

"I'll tell you if anything changes."

Hey! It's Grace, I can't come—

"There's no—Persephone, there's no—they couldn't—Hecate—"

...

"Hey, Grace. It's Persephone. Freddie's not—well enough to talk to you yet. We just got back from the funeral. I think you would have loved it, Freddie planned it after all. It was a closed casket, whatever Hecate and Hermes did after what happened in the reliquary...

"Well, we weren't able to give ourselves closure in that way. We tried contacting your parents again, they didn't...no, I suppose you already know the answer to that."

...

"Hey, Grace. It's Freddie. Sorry to shove Persephone on you, I just—it just finally hit me that you were gone. Not like college gone, or before the band gone, just. Gone. Haha.

"We looked for you in Hades, you know? Persephone doesn't like talking about this part. To be fair, neither do I. We couldn't find you—you weren't there, Grace. You weren't—

"Where are you?"

Hey! It's Grace—

"Sorry. I just. Really needed to hear your voice again."

The recipient is currently unable to receive any new messages. This recording will be automatically deleted.

"Fuck. I really wish you were still here with me, Grace."

"Are you sure this is where Calliope said to meet her?" Freddie asks skeptically, squinting at the row of buildings. The streets are crowded this morning. But they suppose it makes sense on a weekend.

Grace shrugs, tugging lightly at her jacket collar. The faux leather has definitely seen some better days. Much better days, but there's a sort of comfort to wearing it, she thinks. Even if she, you know—well. That's not the point. "I'm not sure. I mean, we followed the GPS so I guess it's the right place." The best told lies, Grace learned, are the ones mixed with the truth. And Grace would really not like to delve into why she knows about some obscure club in a back alley that she really shouldn't know about.

Freddie hums, crossing her arms and leaning all her weight onto one leg. Her hat tips to the side, flopping over her eye. Grace covers her mouth as she stifles a snort, smiling innocently at the heatless glare she receives. "Oh, fuck off, Grace," she scoffs, flicking the brim of her hat up. "Be useful and tell Calliope we're here, would you?"

Her grin doesn't falter as she pulls her phone out, heart light in her chest. For a minute, she can almost forget that she's not supposed to be here. "Yeah, yeah," she mutters, shooting off a quick text. "You're lucky I even invited you, you know? You should be grovelling at my feet, if anything."

"Oh, Grace," Freddie monotones, walking forward. "However can I repay you for having to drag your ass outside to socialize so you look like a functioning human being?"

Grace traces the familiar sight of graffiti lining the walls, gut clenching at the flickering fluorescents of the large neon sign. She rolls her eyes, bumping Freddie's shoulder with her own. "Well, you could tone down on the sarcasm, for one."

Freddie smirks, the muscles of her arm tensing as she tugs on the handle of the door. "But it's my one redeeming trait," she jokes mockingly. The hinges squeak in protest as the door opens. Freddie bows dramatically, gesturing her in with a flourish.

As she passes, Grace gives her friend an exaggerated onceover, calling over her shoulder as she passes the threshold of the doorway. "I can think of other things!" 

The sound of Freddie's spluttering is drowned out by the music blasting through the speakers, echoing off the walls of the club. Her blood pounds in time with the beat as she navigates through the crowd of drunken stumbling and flailing limbs.

She scans the floor as Freddie sidles up next to her, wondering if she can spot any familiar faces. Leaning forward, she rests her elbows against the counter. The cold marble sends goosebumps travelling up her arm. "Isn't it a bit too early to be clubbing?"

Freddie shrugs, drumming her fingers idly as she looks around the room. "It's nine o'clock somewhere?" Grace shakes her head, huffing out a laugh.

"I don't think that's how it works," Grace mumbles before waving off Freddie's questioning hum. One more look around the room and Grace concludes that there's no one here she recognizes. Holding back a sigh of disappointment, she turns away, burrowing her face into the crook of her elbow.

Time passes, she doesn't keep track of the minutes. Eventually, a hand on her shoulder startles her out of her thoughts and she spins around, fully prepared to throw a punch. "Hello, Grace and..." Calliope smiles at her, trailing off as she looks to Freddie.

"Freddie," she introduces, thrusting out a hand. "Until recently, Grace's one, and only," she tacks on just because she can. "Friend. Nice to meet you."

"Calliope," she offers. "Though I'm sure you already knew that." Freddie nods enthusiastically. "I'm sorry to have made you wait so long, I was having trouble convincing my friend to meet you two. I hope you didn't run into any trouble?"

"Trouble?" Freddie parrots, eyes widening. "Why would there be trouble? Were we supposed to expect trouble?"

Grace places a soothing hand on Freddie's bicep, noting the way she seems to deflate under the touch. "No," she says. "No trouble at all. Actually, we got in here pretty easily."

"Oh?" Calliope seems genuinely surprised, staring intently at Grace like she holds all the answers to the questions she isn't asking. "I'm glad to hear that. Are you ready?"

Is she? No, not really, she can admit that much. Too easy would it be to mix up this version of Persephone—a Persephone who has held grief in her hands until she could watch it wither under Calliope's burning presence—with the Persephone who held her as she died. Who knew her in ways Grace didn't know she could share with anyone but Freddie. Who whispered sweet nothings against each stuttering breath.

Is it selfish to wish it was her here now? Yes. But Grace has always been selfish in every way that matters.

"Sure," Grace answers, looping her arm around Freddie's. "Let's do this, huh?"

Freddie stares up at the frame. They're young here, recently graduated and a little naive. They're young here, so full of hope for the future. They're young here; have they always been this young?

She reaches up, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. It comes away with a layer of dust. How long have they had this up here? Pursing her lips, she tugs the picture off the wall.

It slips from her grasp, falling to the floor. Glass shatters at her feet. "What are you doing?" Freddie sucks in a sharp breath, blinking back the tears. She hadn't heard Persephone enter.

"Cleaning," she croaks. Her hands twitch at her side; can't she keep this one thing?

There's the sound of shuffling behind her, the sound of the flaps of the cardboard boxes being pulled open. "All of this..." Persephone starts, an odd sort of wonder in her voice. "This is hers?"

"Yeah," Freddie mutters, leaning down to brush the shards off the photo. They clatter to the ground and she clings to the frayed edges. "Her parents—" She scoffs, shakes her head. "They want me to send it over. Couldn't even bother to come to the funeral and now they want—" She presses a hand to her mouth.

Arms wrap around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. She clings to the fabric of Persephone's jacket, muffling her sobs into her chest, and pretends not to notice the growing wet s pot on her own shoulder.

Grace enters the office first, though, evidently, not by choice. Freddie lingers next to Calliope, making shooing motions with her hands when Grace fails to be quick about it. Emboldened by Calliope's encouraging smile, she slips through the crack, breath hitching.

It's exactly the same as she remembers it to be, dozens of visits (just to visit, never for anything. She'd never be the first to admit it, though she's sure Persephone already knew) seared into her memory. Yet, still, it's—lighter, somehow. Less clouded with pain and grief and centuries of history.

"You must be Grace." She stumbles in surprise, hand reaching for purchase against the wall. Persephone watches with thinly veiled amusement, idly swirling a glass of bourbon in one hand.

"Must I be?" She croaks, for lack of anything better to say. Inwardly, she chastises herself for her response. Apparently, acting cool is only a viable option in situations it doesn't call for.

Persephone laughs shortly, setting her glass on her desk. It hits the surface with a clink but she hardly seems concerned about it as she takes a step in Grace's direction. "I suppose I have you to thank for bringing my Calliope back to me?"

'My,' 'my,' 'my,' 'my.' It plays on repeat through her mind, the rest of the sentence lost at the whims of a singular, fucking word. Contrary to popular belief, Grace is not entirely oblivious. So, maybe, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had always known. Still, to have it confirmed, to hear it from word of mouth, it's—

Apollo steps forward from where he was lurking in the corner, placing a hand over Persephone's shoulder. Hovering, but never touching. "Careful, Persephone," he chuckles. "Before you end up scaring her off. It's a pleasure to meet you, Grace. I'm Apollo."

He offers a hand and, numbly, Grace takes it with her own. She hadn't expected to see him here and, in the back of her mind, she wonders if all it took was Calliope for the two to decide to make up. He smiles at her, undeterred by her lack of response, before shrinking back behind Persephone.

Calliope peers in, smiling sweetly at the two. They seem to melt at her appearance, the tense set of their shoulders slipping away from them as she comes into the room. "I see you've met Grace. And this is her friend, Freddie," she gestures at the aforementioned. "Grace, Freddie. These are my friends, Apollo and Persephone. She owns this bar."

"You look—" better. Lighter. Happier; could you have been this happy with me? "A bit young to be owning a bar."

Freddie's snort drowns out her, admittedly, poor save. "Your name is Persephone and you run a club called the 'Underworld,' that's a little on the nose, don't you think?"

If Grace weren't watching them so closely, she might've missed the way they all stiffened. And, if she weren't so closely watching Persephone, she might not have seen the strain of her jaw or the way her eyes narrowed or the—

Stop.

She looks away, jabbing an elbow into Freddie's side. To her credit, she barely even grunts this time. Next time, Grace thinks a little vindictively, she'll go for the knees. "Don't be rude," she hisses low enough that Freddie's the only one that can hear her.

"What do you care about being rude?" Freddie scoffs—like Grace clearly wasn't just trying to be subtle about it—bumping her shoulder. "I distinctly remember your senior year of high school—"

"Okay!" Grace cuts off, slapping a hand over Freddie's mouth. "We don't need to bring that up—" She yelps, pulling her hand away in disgust. Her face twists as she rubs her palm against her jeans. "Oh, ew. Freddie, why?"

The tension lifts with their banter, the group chuckling quietly at Grace's expense. Well, she scowls. If it works. "Oh?" Persephone leans back against her desk—

Something seems familiar about you.

"I disagree, Grace," she purrs. Persephone exchanges a look with the other Idols, smirk tugging at her lips. Oh, what she would do to wipe that smug little—"I'm sure we would all love to hear this story?"

"Perhaps, if Grace isn't comfortable with it, we shouldn't—" Apollo chimes in, inching forward a step from his little corner of the room.

"Oh," Persephone scoffs, waving him off. "Don't be such a bore, Apollo. We're supposed to be 'getting to know' each other. Right, Calliope?"

Have we met some lifetime ago?

Calliope laughs, light and airy like windchimes. "Oh, yes," she agrees easily, curling into Persephone's side. The goddess accommodates her easily, arm snaking around her waist. "It would be great to get to know the people I would be travelling the world with. If you'll still have me, that is?" She adds a little shyly.

"Yes!" Freddie pumps her fist as Grace fights to keep her jaw from dropping. "You're joining the band?" She spins around, shaking Grace by the shoulders. She lets it happen, rocking like a ragdoll. "She's joining the band! We would love to have you, Calliope. Oh, this is perfect. You'll fit right in!"

Calliope threads her hand through Persephone's, toying with her fingers. "Thank you. I look forward to it."

Persephone squeezes her hand once, shooting a hidden smile at Calliope as her thumbs rub idle circles against the back of her hand. "A band?"

Freddie puffs out her chest proudly, bowing at the waist and tipping her hat. "You're looking at the lead singer and drummer, respectively, of The Edge of Elysium. At your service."

Persephone tilts her head, a curious glint in her gaze as she eyes Grace. "Well, that's certainly a name to live up to," she comments with nonchalance Grace can tell is feigned by the minute twitch of her jaw. "Are you any good?"

"Well," Freddie falters, fiddling with her hands. "We haven't actually...played any gigs?" She squeaks, voice pitching the statement into a question.

Persephone hums, picking up her glass and tipping it back. The liquid pouring down her throat with ease. "I see," she smirks wryly. "I suppose you could always play here. As a, hm, sign of our newly founded friendship." If the way Persephone was looking at them didn't tell her anything, then the way she spat the words was definitely telling about how this whole friendship thing wasn't doing it for her. 

"Persephone—" She holds up a hand, effectively silencing Apollo.

"Quiet, Apollo. The big kids are talking." Okay, Grace thinks. Not quite made up yet, then.

"Friendly, my ass," Grace mutters under her breath, unable to help herself.

You've got one big mouth on you, don't you?

Persephone pauses, raising a brow. Her eyes flutter close as she huffs out a short laugh, turning her head just so to brush her lips against Calliope's temple before she slips out of her grasp. "I don't believe I heard you correctly. Would you care to repeat that?

Yet it's me who's closing in.

She steps closer, boots thumping against the carpeted floor. Grace has half a mind to put some distance away, but she had already backed herself into a corner—or the wall, in this case—the moment she entered the room.

Think I like that mouth on you, won't you?

"You think you're quite clever, don't you?" Persephone murmurs, leaning in. Grace swallows harshly, pressing her palms flat to the wall as she leans away. Her lips hover over the shell of her ear, each puff of breath brushing loose strands of hair. "I think I could be a fan of clever."

You've overstayed your welcome.

"Time to go home!" Grace blurts, steadfastly ignoring the sudden onslaught of muscles, abs, abs, abs making its way through her brain as she shoves Persephone off of her. The woman is startled enough that she actually does take a step back, enough room for Grace to slip past her and towards the door. "I mean, I'm going to go home. Long day, things to do, errands to run," she rambles, fumbling with the door handle.

"What 'errands?'" Freddie scoffs. "We cleared out our schedule specifically for you to go out and spend time interacting with actual human being—"

"Ha. Ha," she laughs forcefully, cutting her friend off as she finally manages to get a grip on the knob. She practically flings it open, stumbling over the threshold in her haste to get out.

"Did we make you uncomfortable, Grace?" Calliope asks and she almost caves right then and there. "You don't have to leave, Persephone is sorry. Aren't you, my love?"

Persephone scoffs, but obliges, offering a half-hearted apology. "No, no," Grace lifts her hands placatingly, backing away. "It's fine, you're fine. I'll see you at the next band practice. Nice meeting you, Apollo, P—Persephone," she stammers, words choking on her tongue. Turning on her heel, she makes a hasty retreat out of the Underworld.

Chapter Text

My Muse <3

[12:44 PM]

Hey, Grace!

You left pretty quickly.

Just texting to make sure you got home safe.

And to tell you that I'll give you some space if you need it?

[Delivered]

[01:26 PM]

I'm going to assume you read that and just didn't respond.

Because I know you're bad about that.

But please text just to confirm you're still alive and breathing.

Haha.

[Delivered]

[01:36 PM]

Okay.

Seriously, Grace.

I know you're not a fan of texting, but just one message would be nice.

[Delivered]

[01:53 PM]

Do you need more time?

I swear I wouldn't have told them about senior year if you didn't want me to.

You're not angry at me or anything, right?

[Delivered]

[02:09 PM]

Calliope is worried.

And Persephone.

I think.

She just always looks angry, honestly.

[Read]

[02:22 PM]

I can see you read my messages.

So I guess that means you're okay.

[Read]

[02:26 PM]

[4 missed call from My Muse <3]

[02:52 PM]

Hey!

Sorry I missed your call.

The club got loud.

Louder.

I can hear the music from Persephone's office.

Did you know she and Calliope are a thing?

Like.

They were a thing before.

But they're, like, a thing again.

[Delivered]

[03:01 PM]

[Call failed to connect.]

[03:06 PM]

Grace?

[Call failed to connect.]

[03:10 PM]

I'm coming back to the apartment.

[Delivered]

Bodies press against her, trying to pull her into the dancing masses. Lights flash overhead, bathing the concrete room in hues of blues, red, green. People have filtered in slowly, steadily. Until it's almost claustrophobic the amount of people jam-packed into a singular area. Blood rushes through her ears, noises muffled; it's almost like she's underwater. Drowning.

She can't breathe she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't—

Grace crashes bodily into the door, metal bar pressing against her gut. The bouncer (when did he get here?) glares down at her as she staggers. Awkwardly, she shoots a pair of finger guns at him as she stumbles backwards out of the alley, ducking her head as his glare turns contemptuous. It's some time just after noon, she assumes. Just by the light outside and the pedestrian traffic. It's easy enough to blend into the crowd; ducking her head and shoving her hands into her pockets as she brushes through the crowd.

Her phone buzzes incessantly in her pocket as she walks; Freddie, she knows, just by the timing between each message. She inhales, feeling the steady beat of her heart in her chest. One, two, three, four, she counts, passing a familiar street sign. Grace turns the corner. Her phone buzzes. One, two, three, four, she counts. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Onetwo, three, four. One, twothree, four. Onetwo, threefour.

Grace exhales slowly, feels the burn of each breath in her lungs. The rushing of her ears has turned into a dull roar. Onetwo, threefour. One, twothree, four. The slow increase of her heart, the pulsing at her fingertips, the dull ache behind her eyes. Her steps falter, the toe of her boot catching on a crack in the sidewalk. One, two, three, four. She feels unsteady on her feet, black dots dancing at the edges of her vision.

She reaches the front steps of the apartment complex. Her vision wavers, images swaying like she's drunk. Grace curls her hand around the railing, knuckles turning white with the strength of her grip. One, two, threefour. Onetwo, three, four. Her chest begins to ache, breaths coming out in short puffs as she stumbles her way towards her apartment. She presses the palm of her hand against the wall to steady herself, feeling like she's about to keel over.

Nausea swirls in her gut, sharp spikes of pain running down her side. Onetwo, threefour. One, twothree, four. Her hands fumble with her keys, the rattling of the metal crashing around her skull like the pounding of a drum. Onetwothree, four. One, twothreefour. Hands shaking, she unlocks the door, body wracked with shudders.

One, two, three, four.

Onetwo, three, four.

Onetwo, threefour.

Onetwothree, four.

One, twothreefour.

Onetwothreefour

Onetwothreefour

Grace reaches blindly for her phone, vision swimming. She can just barely make out the hazy image of her phone, text notifications lining her home screen. "Fre—" She chokes of her own tongue, bile rising in her throat. It rings. Once, twice, three times. Before sending to voicemail.

Onetwothreefour

She tries again. Her arm flails backwards, pushing the door enough to shut it. Voicemail.

Onetwothreefour

Then again. She feels like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. Each step sends another wave of nausea over her and she can tell she's swaying. Voicemail.

Onetwothreefour

And again. The phone slips from her grasp, crashing to the floor with a loud thud. The screen shatters, bits of glass sprinkling over the floor.

One

And the world

Two

goes

Thr—

dark.

"Grace," Freddie exhales, the gentle caress of her breath against her cheek sends pinpricks crawling up her skin—or maybe it's the blood loss. "Why would you do that?" They rock gently, the slightest sliver of movement. "You weren't supposed to do that."

"What?" Grace fights to get the word out past the blood choking her lungs. Was this how Calliope felt? Grace has to admit, she understands why the Muse had ran to her; it's a lot nicer dying while she's held. "You think I'd let you die? Farishta," she chastises, wondering what it would take to see her smile one last time. "You know me better than that." I'll wait for you, she doesn't add; knows how real that would make this.

Freddie shifts and Grace can't quite stop the grunt that makes it past her lips as hands press against the wound. Bleeding; bleeding lungs, bleeding hearts. Hah.

Tears, wet and salty, hit her face, trailing paths down the curve of her jaw; bleeding hearts, indeed. "Please," Freddie begs and Grace wonders who she's speaking to. "We were supposed to have so much more time, Grace."

Quantum entanglement.

The thought hits her randomly, out of nowhere, for no particular reason. No, not randomly. Quantum entanglement: a phenomenon occuring when two or more particles are so closely linked in a way that their quantum states can't be described independently, even when separated.

She remembers talking about it in class once.  Quantum entanglement, soulmates, string theory. Connections that transcend beyond boundaries, beyond distances, beyond the line splitting life and death.

Is this them?

Could this be them?

She hopes so.

"Oh, Grace." A smile twitches weakly at her lips, eyes falling to catch even a glimpse of Persephone. Barely even a week and the sight of her sends her heart hammering. Oh, the damages she could inflict. "You stupid, stupid girl."

Lost girl, little girl, stupid girl. How many times have they called her that? Still, they all seem to fit her so well. "Hey, Persephone," she curls her lips around the syllables of her name, forcing her tongue to form each letter. "I guess your plan worked after all. I'm feeling some serious deja vu right now." Was this how Calliope felt? Was this how Calliope felt? Was this—

Was she ever this lucky?

"Now is not the time for your jokes, Grace," she hisses, making a grab at her hand. She's too weak to lift it, to reach out halfway, but Persephone doesn't seem to mind, offering a desperate, pleading squeeze.

Quantum entanglement, soulmates, string theory.

The thrum of energy as Persephone laces their fingers together, the low buzz as Freddie presses their foreheads close.

The eidolon pounding in her chest, the slow trickle of memory, the centuries of history.

Is this them?

Could this be them?

She thinks so.

Grace takes their hand.

Freddie paces the office floor, wearing tracks into the carpet. She bites at the anil of her thumb on one hand, staring down at her phone in the other.

Grace had left so quickly she's barely even seen her leave. One minute Persephone (and, really? Persephone owning a bar called the Underworld, being friends(?) with some guy named Apollo, and a musician named Calliope. Freddie's heard of happy coincidences, but damn it’s like these people were searching for it) is whispering something that makes Grace flush to the tips of her ears and the next Grace is spouting nonsense about plans before she's disappearing into the crowd.

She didn't even wait for Freddie to follow after her!

Her thumb flies across the keyboard, shooting off several texts in quick succession. The little blue circle swirls before being replaced with a 'delivered.' She stares at it a little bit longer, waits for it to change to 'read.' It doesn't. She slips her phone back into her pocket.

Calliope peers at her beneath her lashes, holding a hand loosely to the edge of her jacket. "Is Grace okay?"

Freddie pulls her hand away from her mouth, rubbing at the rough edges of her nail. She shrugs, "She didn't respond. Maybe she hasn't gotten out of the club yet."

Persephone raises an eyebrow, but Freddie doesn't need to see the look to know that the woman is judging her. "Aren't you going to follow her? You are friends, are you not?"

Freddie pauses, winces. Remember the last time she'd followed Grace after she'd stormed out; the shattering of glass, the guttural screams, the desperate heaving breaths. The bill had been extensive and Grace was distraught for days—weeks, even—after the fact. "It's probably best to give her some space," she says after a moment of thought. "And she'll probably be heading back to the apartment anyway, so it should be fine. I just wish she'd text me back first," she mutters, sneaking a glance down at her phone.

"Stay here, then," Calliope offers, ignoring the loud click of Persephone's tongue.

Freddie hums thoughtfully, scuffing the sole of her shoe against the carpet. "Are you sure? I mean, we were mostly here because of Grace, right?"

She cocks her head slightly, drumming a slow beat along Persephone's forearm. The taller woman's glare seems to melt at that, eyes practically glowing at their proximity. Are they, like, a thing? Freddie wonders idly. "Any friend of Grace is a friend of mine."

Freddie snorts, walking the few paces to lean back against the table, heels of her hands digging into the edge. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?" The joke falls flat, an uncomfortable air settling. It's stifling and Apollo, the weird surfer guy with the unbuttoned shirt, shuffles restlessly on his feet.

He meets Persephone's gaze, seeming unfazed by the sneer forming on her lips even if it causes Freddie to flinch and glance away, hiding her face behind her phone to avoid being subjected to it next. Whatever look they shared seems to be enough for him as he leaves the room without so much a goodbye.

"So..." Freddie drags out, tapping her nails against the wood. "What do you guys do for fun?" She tries at the silence. "Besides flirting with my best friend, that is," she adds, a bitter taste on her tongue.

"Flirting," Persephone echoes with a scoff. "Is that what you thought I was doing? Flirting." She tilts her chin up, as if the very idea that she would flirt with anyone but Calliope was preposterous.

"Well. You were definitely doing something. Grace doesn't blush for just anything."

Persephone raises a brow, circling her desk to fall into her chair. She rests her elbow against the armrest, leaning her chin into her knuckles.  "And you would know a lot about making her blush, would you?"

Calliope shakes her head, amusement dancing across her eyes as she hops up to sit on the desk. Freddie splutters incoherently, heat rushing up her neck at the insinuation. "Wha- How- huh?!"

Her smirk only grows at Freddie's response and she seems to delight in rendering the people around her speechless. "Well, maybe instead of looking at me and Grace's relationship you should be focusing on your own!" She deflects, turning her head away—she catches her reflection against one of the glasses, firetruck red plastered high on her cheeks like paint.

Persephone's expression doesn't falter, in fact, it only seems to grow more smug. "I know exactly where Calliope and I stand," she states matter of factly, the self-satisfied aura rolling off her in waves.

"And?" She prods. Persephone says nothing. "Ugh!" Freddie throws her hands up. "You can't just leave me in suspense after saying something like that," she hisses between her teeth.

She and Calliope share a look, the latter shaking her head in fond exasperation. "And she," Calliope emphasizes. "Doesn't mind. Grace is rather cute, is she not?"

Music blares in the background, rattling the walls. It drowns out her thoughts, drowns out the words. In these moments she almost can't tell what she's saying, caught up in the rhythm of things, phone just out of reach of her fingertips until, suddenly, it's made its way against her hand.

Freddie glances down at her phone as they laugh and joke and tease. Blood rushes through her ears as she sees the notifications, spitting out a series of vulgar curses as she rushes out of the room, Persephone and Calliope hot on her heels.

[4 missed calls from My Muse <3]

"You're really dead, huh?" Hermes stares at her, some unrecognizable emotion twisting their features.

Grace shrugs, staring down at the golden wisps dancing its way up her arm. "I guess so."

Hermes rocks on their heels as the gate closes behind them, digging the toe of their shoe into the dirt beneath them. Dust kicks up at the movement, rocks crumbling beneath the weight of their foot. They let out a sharp whistle. "Did not see that coming. I really thought you'd—" They cut themself off, a frown tugging at their lips.

"'I' what?" She asks, glancing around as they start moving forward. The place is desolate, though she guesses that's to be expected; a few stray souls, masked and faceless, drifting around the crumbling ruins. The ground sinks beneath the weight of each step, like quicksand—or, just, regular sand, she guesses.

Hermes shoves their hands into their pockets, thumbs fiddling with their belt loops. "That you'd be the last for a long time," they say after a few beats of silence, drawing out the 'o' in 'long.' "But I guess not."

Grace shrugs again, glancing away. The phantom pain of being stabbed stirring against her gut. "Yeah, well. It was either me or..." she trails off.

"Yeah," Hermes agrees softly, slowing to a stop. "You're a good friend, Grace." They say, matter of fact. She has nothing to say to that, so she doesn't—glancing away to avoid meeting the earnestness shining in the golden hues of their eyes. "This is as far as I take you. Charon will handle the rest."

Grace turns her head to look past the edge of the cliff Hermes had brought her too. A figure—a great, hulking figure, tall in the way Hecate had been—rests upon a boat, glowing eyes staring down at her beneath the shadow of his hood, skeletal hands curled around a massive oar. 

Hermes rests a hand on her shoulder, smiling thinly. They look far older than they should like this, worry lines creasing their face—too many goodbyes, she thinks. "Say 'hello' to Calliope for me, would you?" They ask, giving her a gentle nudge.

She stumbles forward and they disappear behind a swirl of gold. Rocks cascade over the edge as she rights herself, splashing into the roaring river beneath her. Grace looks up at Charon as he slowly offers his hand as a bridge accompanied by unintelligible roars or grumbles. She can't tell.

She takes the offered hand, body swaying as she's set carefully on the deck. Charon starts rowing, oar plunging beneath the water as waves crash against the hull, shimmering water soaking the boards. Grace takes a step away from the edge.

Time passes, she's not sure how much; it's hard to tell when the sky is in a perpetual state of overcast. Eventually, they come to a stop, boat rocking as it hits the shore. Charon grumbles once more, extending his index finger.

She flinches as he reaches down to pat her on the head twice, mussing up her hair; stray strands falling over her eyes. He doesn't seem to mind her fear, cooing gently as he pulls away, pointing at a spot in the distance.

Grace brushes the hair from her eyes, staring up at him with wide eyes. "T-thank you?" She says, asks more like. A low sound rumbles from him, vibrating the ground—a humming, or a purr—that she takes to mean 'you're welcome' before he's rowing back the way he came.

"Grace?" She freezes mid-turn at the voice. "Oh," disappointment laces the heavy exhale. "I'm so sorry, Grace."

She turns, now, coming face to face with Calliope. Exactly as she remembers her—though there's not much to remember, is there? Right down to the outfit and the make-up and the world weary look in her eyes. "It-it's whatever," she shrugs, trying for comforting. But she'd just died and Calliope has been dead for days—and maybe she's a little more than confused. "It's not your fault."

"Maybe," Calliope agrees with a subtle smile, Grace can tell she doesn't believe it. She supposes it'd be difficult to not find fault for something like this. "But that's not what I'm sorry about," she continues, closing the distance.

Calliope grabs her hands, squeezing gently. She hadn't know ghosts—spirits?—could touch, well, much of anything, really. Maybe it's the product of the Underworld? "What are you talking about?"

The thrum of energy, the pounding in her chest (does her heart still beat?), the golden glows.

Quantum entanglement, soulmates, string theory.

"You weren't supposed to be here," Calliope tells her like that explains everything. Black dots dance at the edges of her vision. Her heart—something—pounds against her chest.

"Of course I am," she hears herself say. "I'm dead."

Calliope shakes her head (thrumming energy, pulsing at her fingertips). "You weren't supposed to be here," she repeats.

Her vision dances in and out of focus—like those old TVs with the antennae and the static screens. Grace groans, knees buckling. Calliope lets her fall, smile—sad and angry and hopeful and like saying 'goodbye' and 'hello' and 'did you miss me?' all over again—tugging at her lips.

'H-Hermes says 'hello,'" she chokes out, vision tilting on its axis.

"I'll see them again."

Quantum entanglement.

And the world

Soulmates.

goes

String theory.

dark.

Freddie pushes through the apartment door, a strange sense of deja vu washing over her at the sight of the slightly ajar door. "Grace?" She calls, paying no mind as Persephone and Calliope follow in after her.

The floorboards creak beneath her weight as she scans the room. A low groan. She looks down. Pale skin, a sheen of sweat across her brow, shattered phone, tremoring limbs.

"Grace!"

She rushes forward, sliding on her knees to pull her head into her lap. Grace twitches but doesn't wake and, with gentle movements, Freddie pulls her hair aside to check for bleeding. Her forehead burns with fever against the back of Freddie's hand, eyes moving back and forth rapidly behind her eyelids.

Her veins stand stark against her whitened skin, an odd golden glow emitting from them that she attributes to the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. Calliope and Persephone murmur to each other in low tones, words she can't hear past the building panic. "Help me get her on the couch," she orders, standing. They do so without complaint, Persephone's biceps flexing as she lifts Grace bridal style.

Freddie gathers a bowl and a washcloth, sits at her side, and waits. Let the two of them talk, let them whisper meaningless words in her kitchen. For now, she'll sit here. And she waits.

Chapter Text

“Persephone?” Freddie lifts her head, dropping her phone onto the table. The aforementioned steps further into the apartment, lips pressed into a hard line, Apollo following shortly after. “And. Apollo…” she adds belatedly, too surprised at seeing the two of them together . “What-what are you guys doing here?”

Persephone sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She jerks her chin up, gesturing at Freddie to move. She does exactly that, inching over to make room. The god falls back against the cushions, throwing one arm around the back. “Apollo,” she starts, lips curling at the sound of his name on her tongue. “Had approached me recently with some… suggestions .” Freddie can feel her expression contort in confusion. The two of them? Willingly speaking to each other? Persephone laughs humorlessly; she’d been doing that a lot recently, actually. Ever since Grace–”Yes,” she agrees, clicking her tongue. “I was as surprised as you.”

Apollo grimaces, curling deeper into himself as he steps forward to close the distance between the three of them. He shoves his hands further into his pockets, glancing away to avoid meeting their eyes. “While I admit that I may not have been the best in terms of–”

“Oh, get on with it, brother,” Persephone cuts him off with a sneer. “We didn’t come here to discuss your inability to be a decent brother, now did we?”

Apollo sighs, running a hand down his face. He looks tired–well, more tired than usual, that is–the bags beneath his eyes having seemed to grow more prominent over the span of only a few days. “I don’t wish to get your hopes up, Freddie,” he prefaces and, well, that never bodes well for the rest of the conversation. “But there is a chance–”

“Oh, for the love of–” Persephone snarls. “Must you drag this out, Apollo? I refuse to spend another second up here while we could be–”

“Perhaps,” Apollo starts, a hard edge to his tone. “If you would allow me to speak, I might be able to get through this conversation, sister .”

“Well, look who’s finally grown a backbone! It only took you, what? A couple of centuries ?” She jeers with a condescending smirk.

“Must you turn everything into an argument,” Apollo scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s always something with you, isn’t it, Persephone? Even this?”

“Will you both just–” Freddie growls, cutting off whatever scathing remark Persephone had lined up on the tip of her tongue. “Tell me why the hell the two of you are here! Instead of arguing like a bunch of fucking children . I mean, you’re gods, aren’t you? You’re thousands of years old. Act like it, ” she rants, throwing her arms around angrily.

Persephone falters, expression falling into something like longing–like some kind of a bone-deep yearning. She laughs softly, turning her head away. Not quite quick enough that Freddie can’t catch the teary film forming over her eyes. “You and Grace really were close, weren’t you?” She asks, voice cracking on her name. “I can see so much of her in you, did you know? All that passion and quick witted anger. Sometimes it’s hard to forget that she’s really go-gone.”

Freddie swallows thickly, throat aching as she fights to stop from crying. “Well,” she jokes, covering her mouth like it would be enough to stop all of her emotions from spilling past her lips. “She gets it from me.”

“I bet she does,” Persephone agrees, voice no higher than a murmur. “I bet she does.”

“But you didn’t come here to talk about that,” Freddie guesses, chancing a glance at the pained expression on Apollo’s face. “Did you?”

Apollo closes his eyes, shaking his head. “May I speak now, Persephone? Or do you have more to say?” Persephone scoffs, waving a hand dismissively in his direction. “You are aware of Persephone’s title as Queen of the Underworld, correct?” Freddie nods slowly, not quite understanding where this is going. “There’s a chance that Grace may have…Well, her soul might have ended up in Hades.”

Freddie chokes, muscles twitching. “ What? ”

“Athena may have banned me from going there,” Persephone picks up, crossing her legs. “But Apollo approached me with a way to get us down there.”

“Yes,” Apollo agrees with a nod. “And, while I may not like it, I do understand that this is something that you–the both of you–might need right now. Especially with the trial coming so near. And, while I cannot join you, I can still help you.”

A beat passes as Persephone purses her lips, glancing away. “And…I appreciate it, brother,” she tells him softly. The tension in Apollo’s shoulders seems to melt away, reaching a hand up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“But we can’t bring her back,” Freddie states more than asks, falling bonelessly against the couch. It’s expected, though no less disappointing, when both Persephone and Apollo shake their head in response.

“No, but you get a chance to say goodbye and…” Persephone trails off with a sigh, offering a stiff, comforting pat to her shoulder. “That’s a lot more than most can say they get.”

Freddie inhales shakily, the breath rattling her chest. “Okay,” she clenches her jaw. “Let’s go visit Hades.”

Grace wakes up cold—an invasive type of cold that burrows beneath the skin and digs its way into your bones; she wakes up cold and heavy, like a weight is being pressed against her chest, dragging her down. There’s a moment of blissful, peaceful numbness , before it shatters, splintering like lightning. Her body jolts, vision swimming as she forces her eyelids open. She chokes on nothing, air catching in her throat, mixing with bile and the painful swirling of nausea in her gut.

She twists on her side, scrunching her eyes shut as the light burns her retina. The ground falls out from beneath her and her muscles ache as she forces her arms under her, elbows crashing into the floor. Her body wracks with the force of her coughs, pain clawing at her throat as she spits out nothing but stomach acid. Hands on her shoulders hold her steady–too tight, yet not tight enough. She’s untethered; like she’ll drift away if they let go. She doesn’t want to go– she doesn’t want to go .

“Grace, you need to–” She can’t hear the rest of it, like a broken radio; in and out of signal, out of focus– out of time . “Grace, please–” She curls her fingers into the carpet, feels the rough texture of the fibers. “–breathe, you need to breathe .” Grace hums, low and gravelly, saliva dribbling down her chin.

She is breathing, she wants to tell the voice. But her tongue feels like lead in her mouth, heavy and tied. She tries to inhale, the air pushing against her lungs–it burns and she chokes, trying to curl in on herself. Her side, too much, can’t breathe. A pitiful whimper escapes her throat and the touch flinches, the warmth leaving her for a fraction of a second.

“Fr- ed ?” Grace whines, tears slipping down her cheeks. Her body moves, lifting off the ground onto something softer. She peers up at Freddie through a half-lidded eye, blurry vision just able to make out the fear on her face.

“I’m here, Grace,” Freddie whispers, low and comforting–so familiar, it almost brings a smile to Grace’s face. “I’m right here. You’re okay, okay?” They rock slowly, and Grace isn’t sure if it’s on purpose or if Freddie is just shaking. “You need to be okay, Grace. I need you to be okay, please , Grace?” She turns her head down, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears fall, landing against Grace’s temple and running up to her hairline.

She exhales, shaky but controlled, feels the pressure slowly loosen in her chest. “Hur’s,” she slurs, bumping her forehead against Freddie’s thigh. “I’ hur’s,” she repeats, blinking blearily. “‘m scar’d, Fred. I’ hur’s .” Electricity thrums in her veins, something powerful pounding behind her eyes.

“Grace?” Freddie asks, tapping her fingers gently against her cheek. Grace forces her eyes open, meets the worried gaze of her friend. “Grace? Hey, you gotta stay awake.” She winces at the sound, eyes slipping shut. Something heavy settles in her bones, dragging her down, down, down.

“Gra–!”

“Should I wait here, or…” Persephone arches a perfectly sculpted brow, leaning her weight back on one leg and crossing her arms as they stall around the corner. Apollo rubs the back of his neck, peering around the wall to where Hermes stands by the trunk of a car, sipping idly from a bottle.

“No, no,” he mutters, stepping forward. “Hermes has always helped me. I won’t lie to them.” Freddie and Persephone trail behind him and Hermes perks up, grinning as they approach.

“Freddie!” They greet cheerfully, extending a hand for a fist bump. Freddie returns it with a weak smile. “You’re here with Apollo and…Persephone.” Hermes laughs, a tinge of confusion coloring it. “The gang’s all here…why are you here?” Their eyes flit between the three of them, quicker to bounce away from Persephone’s gaze than the rest. Freddie can practically taste the fear they’re radiating.

“Um, we’re here for me, actually,” Freddie laughs sheepishly, she can feel her heart in her throat as she swallows. Hermes stares at her, a single-minded focus that seems to trump even their fear of Persephone. Their hand shakes imperceptibly, only noticeable by the way the liquid sloshes inside the glass. Freddie knows they know, how could they not—how could they not . “You know why, don’t you? So, please–“ Her voice shatters in her throat and she cuts herself off, stifling the rising sob.

Hermes looks away, remorse coloring their features. “Athena told me I’m not supposed to let anyone into Hades.” They rub the back of their neck, grimacing.

“Hermes, please ,” Freddie begs, stepping into their space. Hermes exhales, the back of their legs hitting the trunk of the car. “It’s Grace . I know it’s a lot to ask, but we’re just there for her, I promise.”

Hermes glances up, seeking Persephone’s eyes like they’re searching for confirmation. It’s strange, the way it seems to be her turn to find trouble in making eye contact. Freddie understands why when she finally looks at them, eyes rimmed red and puffy. “That’s all we’re here for,” she agrees, voice quiet.

“Okay,” Hermes agrees after a moment’s hesitation. “Just–signal when you’re ready to come back.” They toss open the trunk, swirls of gold coiling around the metal, lashing like whips. She and Persephone spare them a thankful glance before plunging into the portal.

The ground beneath her sinks as she steps forward, the texture a mix between gravel and dry dirt. Dust kicks up as they begin walking, Freddie would almost call it a companionable silence if she wasn’t violently aware of the situation they’re in. “It’s so empty here,” she murmurs, glancing around. Hues of green as far as the eye can see yet scarce few souls to be seen.

They approach the edge of the cliff, the silhouette of a boat drifting down the raging river. “Everything here is fading away,” Persephone murmurs, looking out at a distant point. “But we are not here for that,” the words seem painful for her to say, yet she pushes on. “We are here for Grace.”

“Couldn’t we do–both…?” Freddie offers, stepping closer.

Persephone shakes her head, crossing her arms. “Do you know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice?” She asks; Freddie startles at the seemingly abrupt change in topic, but nods anyway. “Hades is dead and Orpheus–Orpheus has been angry for a long time. And since I was there during his quest…” Persephone trails off.

“He’s angry at you, now,” Freddie finishes.

Persephone nods, a quick jerk of her head. “Yes. Perhaps we might have been able to defeat him with the power of the Muse but, for some reason I cannot fathom,” her brows furrow and Freddie’s heart stutters as she reaches out, pressing her fingers against Freddie’s chest. “The eidolon didn’t transfer and we do not have that type of insurance any longer.”

Freddie frowns as the hand pulls away, replacing it with her own. Her skin is warm in the way Grace’s had been after she’d become an Idol, but there is no eidolon beneath her skin like Grace had had. “Why is that? I thought they always transferred after death if there was someone there to receive it.”

The Idol shakes her head, pursing her lips. “That’s not a question we can answer right now. Nor one we should be focusing on either. Charon!” She calls as a boat draws nearer. The skeletal figure groans. “Someone passed through here recently, where did you bring her?”

Whatever Charon responds with, Freddie doesn’t understand, but Persephone seems to. She rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh, tilting her chin high. She exudes a sort of presence that makes you want to kneel before her; fitting, Freddie thinks, for a Queen. “I am Persephone, also known as Despoine and Kore Soreira, once Queen of the Underworld. And I come seeking a soul lost too soon. You guided her across the river, Charon, now I am asking you to guide us to her.”

He mumbles something low and gravelly, bony fingers drumming against his oar. “No, Charon,” Persephone huffs. “We don’t have time for any games nor did we bring any.” A groan. “It would be difficult to play I Spy when the entire place is green.” More insistently. “She didn’t bring anything either.” Charon deflates but, nevertheless, extends his hand. Persephone tugs her impatiently along.

“Sorry, friend-o,” Freddie laughs weakly as he starts to row. “Maybe some other time? When we aren’t here for business?” She offers. The joy Charon emits is contagious and, for a short moment, her chest isn’t as heavy.

Even Persephone seems amused, her body less tense and the crossed arms less defensive. “You indulge him far too much,” she murmurs, low and light.

“You don’t indulge him nearly enough,” she retorts, leaning against the edge of the boat. She can feel Persephone’s gaze burning a hole in the back of her head but, when she turns to look at her, the Idol is staring resolutely out at the river. “Do you really think she’s here?” Freddie can’t help but ask when the silence has become too much.

“…No,” Persephone admits and Freddie jolts, nearly throwing herself over the boat. “But I have hope,” Freddie turns around, watching the way Persephone clutches at her heart, eyes blazing like a fire. “I have hope that she’s waiting there for us.”

“Me too,” Freddie whispers. “Me too.” They exit the boat with the help of Charon and she responds to his enthusiastic waving with her own as he sets off back down the river. She’s not blind to the way Persephone stares longingly at the Throne Room, so close yet so far. “We could still try, if you wanted. Even without the Muse.”

She shakes her head. “No, I may have needed it long ago but…But there’s something I need more now. Come,” she beckons Freddie forward and she obliges, falling into step behind her. Freddie doesn’t know how long they walk for, but the sound of dirt falling away beneath their feet, the crunch of rocks, the kick of dirt all becomes background as they trek.

Until, finally, something stops them. Persephone extends an arm and Freddie rams hard into it, grunting as it doesn’t budge. She shoots Pesephone an odd look but she doesn’t even look at her, staring ahead at an approaching shade. They reach a hand up, pulling away their mask and–

Persephone’s breath hitches, arms falling limp at her sides. “My love,” Calliope greets with a brittle smile. Persephone staggers forward, reaching out to cup Calliope’s cheek in her hand. ‘My love?’ Freddie mouths incredulously, watching the scene with wide eyes.

“You’re here, but–how are you here?” Persephone sniffles quietly as Calliope leans into the touch, resting her hand over Persephone’s. “Your eidolon and–and Grace…”

“They are nothing but memories; echoes of the past, a reflection.” Calliope explains. “You knew that once too, long ago.”

“If you’re here,” Freddie cuts in, stepping forward. “Then Grace–“ Calliope doesn’t let her finish, shaking her head with a sad smile. Whatever joy, whatever hope either of them had at seeing Calliope here–it shatters like glass. “But–but Hermes ,” she tries to reason.

“And Charon wouldn’t have led us here if she hadn’t–“ Persephone adds, voice just on the edge of begging.

“I’m sorry,” is all Calliope offers– can offer–them.

“Grace? Grace!” Grace’s eyes slip shut, her head lolling to the side and knocking against Freddie’s hip. She can feel the heat radiating off her even past her clothes. “She isn’t waking up, why isn’t she waking up?!” She looks up–desperate, pleading–at Calliope and Persephone, her hands hovering uselessly over Grace’s body. Sweat gathers on her skin, soaking Freddie’s jeans as her breaths come out in labored pants. “Help me! Please . I don’t–I don’t know what to do. What do I do?!”

“Tsk,” Persephone clicks her tongue, stepping forward. Automatically, Freddie curls herself protectively over Grace, poking an eye over her arm to shoot her the harshest glare she can muster. “I am trying to help her, stupid girl,” she drawls, lips curling.

Freddie inhales, scanning her face. Behind that strong facade she can make out the barest hint of worry, much more obvious on Calliope who doesn’t even seem to be bothering to try and hide how she feels right now. “Please, Freddie,” Calliope asks, eyes pleading. She twists the rings on her fingers, flicking between watching Freddie and watching Grace.

She exhales, slowly uncurling her body even as every instinct screams at her to stay close–to make sure Grace doesn’t get hurt. To make sure that these people don’t hurt her. But she’s already hurt, isn’t she? It’s painful to admit it, but Grace looks like she’s actively dying –with a too high fever and short, gasping breaths. Freddie is scared –so. Fucking. Scared .

There’s never been the threat of losing Grace. Not like this. They’ve always been attached at the hip, even when they were in different cities; even when Grace was in college, chasing a degree she didn’t care about. There was distance , sure, but there was never the fear of loss .

Persephone grabs Grace from her grip and she slips through like grains of sand falling through her fingers–like water pouring from a broken glass. A low, keening whine slips from her throat but they pay her no mind, propping Grace back onto the couch with some pillows they’d stolen who knows when from Grace’s bed. She lays the back of her hand across Grace’s forehead, pulling away with a pained hiss. “She’s burning up,” Persephone mutters, a crease forming between her brows.

Slender fingers drag along her hair, pink strands falling over her face as she stares down at the feverish girl. It’s strange, Freddie thinks. Despite not knowing the woman for long–or at all , really–it’s weird to see her so unkempt, so out-of-place. Grace has always been good at bringing out every facet of a person, even if she’s not awake to see it. “How was she even conscious?” Persephone asks under her breath, more to herself, it seems, than to the room.

Freddie huffs impatiently, levering herself up off the floor. Her legs tremble beneath her weight and she’s forced to steady herself against the coffee table as Persephone’s muttering turns into incoherent muttering that she doesn’t even want to bother to try and decipher. “ Well?” She demands, breaking Persephone out of her stupor. “Can you help her or not? Does she need a hospital?” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Why am I even asking you that? I’m taking her to the hospital–”

She goes to step closer but suddenly Calliope is standing between her and the path to the couch, her arm thrown up in front of her. They both freeze in shock, neither of them expecting the reaction. “You–you can’t do that, Freddie. I’m sorry,” Calliope says after a moment, dropping her hand back to her side; her thumb twisting at the ring around her pointer finger. “She’s- We’re not sure what’s wrong with her, but the hospital–regular doctors–won’t be able to help her.”

“‘Reg-regular doctors!’” Freddie splutters, equal parts astonished at the audacity and indignant at the implication. “So, what? You wanna take her to some kind of spiritual healer ? Look at her soul, see if some kind of darkness has taken over it?” Her voice pitches in sarcasm and Calliope winces but doesn’t respond. The non-answer is enough of an answer. “No–no. I don’t know what I was expecting when Grace said she found a new friend. But I didn’t expect for the two of you to be absolutely insane! ”

“She–” Calliope’s eyes widened, turning her head to glance back at Grace who looks–not better . No, she’s still pale and each breath still seems to be painful, but the flush of her skin had faded to something lighter, the slightest golden undertone beneath the red. And that’s–good, right? People always say people are the healthiest when they’re glowing, Freddie reasons. “She considers us friends?” Persephone lets out a strangled sort of sound, like a feral cat being shown affection for the first time.

The hysterical laughter that had been bubbling in Freddie’s chest finally breaks free, unrestrained and closer to a cackle than a laugh. “Really?” She asks. “ Really ? That’s what you’re focusing on! Not–not Grace! and the fact that she’s glowing.” The words hit her and Freddie does a double take, scrambling forward to get a better look at her friend, her veins alight beneath her skin like the crackle of lightning and that is definitely not sunlight. “Why is she glowing?”

Persephone and Calliope take one look at Grace before sharing a look–a knowing, yet somehow equally as confused look–and Freddie is pretty sure the only emotion showing on her face is the complete and utter panic because– what the fuck ? “Why the fuck is she glowing ?” Freddie snarls when they don’t answer.

Persephone pinches the bridge of her nose, laying her hand comfortingly against Grace’s scalp. Her friend seems to deflate beneath the weight, the agony twisting her features relaxing. For a minute, Freddie can almost convince herself that Grace is just sleeping–that there’s nothing wrong with her, like she hadn’t just passed out in Freddie’s arms begging for help and– “This is not how I thought my day would be going,” Persephone mutters.

Calliope smiles awkwardly, a little too widely and with a little too much teeth to be anything but forced, looking equal parts guilty and anxious. “I–I didn’t want to do this to you,” she starts, glancing to the side. Freddie’s not sure it’s even directed to her at this point with the way she refuses to meet her eyes. “Not like this.” She inhales deeply, steepling her fingers together as though to fight the urge to start fidgeting. “The Gods are real. And we think Grace may be one too.”

Chapter Text

Dear Grace,

At what point do letters become the only way to communicate with people that no longer exist?

I have called your number so many fucking times and every single goddamn time I hear your voice I expect—the recording isn’t there anymore, did you know? I wish

Apollo made us do this, actually—with the help of Oracle, of course, because god knows how badly this would’ve turned out otherwise—apparently we’ve been sadder than him. Impossible, I’d told them, yet here I am with a pen in hand and a stack full of paper with half-formed thoughts and pleas for you to come back.

Writing this makes me feel younger; like we’re all of twelve years old, hidden in the fields burying messages to our future selves. Are they still there? Buried beneath wet soil, worn and trodden. How many years has it been since we said we’d dig it up? We’re there now, aren’t we? We made it, didn’t we? Except you’re twenty-three years old grinning up on stage to a drunken crowd and I’m still growing.

I’ve always been honest with you, Grace. You make it so easy. When I first met you, you were the most intimidating person I knew—lonely, too. To learn that you had become a god. It was the scariest day of my life. You were my everything; like a star, I wanted nothing more than to fall into your orbit.

So here’s a confession I never wanted you to hear: I wanted to die for you. So why do you always insist on burning for the people you love?

I love you

Please come back

Mourning means you’re really gone—can I really let myself think that?,

Freddie

“Wait, wait, wait,” Freddie waves her hands in the air, cutting Calliope off before she can start her explanation. “The Gods?” She asks incredulously. “As in, the Greek Gods. As in, Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, Goddess of Spring, kind of Gods?”

Persephone’s lip curls and Calliope reaches out, resting a steadying hand on her arm. She deflates under the touch but the tension lingers, muscles pulled taut, but no longer a dangerous sort of defensive. She nods, lips curling in sympathy as Freddie drops her head in her hands with a long, pained groan. “Right, yeah, okay,” she laughs, a twinge of hysteria colouring her voice. “That makes sense, sure. The Gods are real, I can live with that.”

“If you need a moment,” Calliope offers, leaving the ending open. Freddie inhales slowly, fingers curling against her scalp. There’s a tense beat of silence, filled only by the creaking couch as Freddie’s leg bounces.

Finally, Freddie exhales, a harsh puff of air that has even Persephone wincing with the way it drags at her throat. “Okay, the Gods are real,” she mutters with a tense jaw. “And you’re Persephone, the actual Persephone. And you’re Calliope, the Muse.”

“Right,” Calliope nods, letting her smile turn into something a little more genuine. It’s certainly a… smoother transition than the ones they’re used to. A welcome change after the stress of finding Grace passed out on her apartment floor.

“And I guess Apollo is Apollo ?”

“That’s correct.”

“So—” Persephone cuts her off with a growl, low and impatient. Her finger taps rapidly against her arm crossed arms, brows furrowed into a glare as she stares hard at Freddie.

“Yes, yes,” she grunts, lips curling into a scowl. “The Gods are real, we are Gods. Hurry up and ask so we can move on, little girl.”

Freddie splutters, crossing her arms. “I’m only, like, a couple inches shorter than you.”

“And a couple thousand years younger,” Persephone smirks, a smug expression crawling onto her face. “So?”

Freddie curls her hands into fists, as though imagining them curled around Persephone’s throat, stealing the breath from her lungs. “You are–” she groans, lips pressed into a thin line. “An infuriating woman, has anyone ever told you that?” Persephone hums but doesn’t say anything more, waiting. “Ugh, okay,” Freddie gives because, as much as she hates to admit it, she wants—no, needs, for Grace’s sake—to know. “If you guys are only gods because it was passed onto you, then how did Grace become one?”

“We’re not… entirely sure,” Calliope admits, wringing her hands. “But we have theories. Or, rather, one theory.” Freddie gestures impatiently for her to continue when she hesitates. “ Some Idols had been lost in our journey here,” she continues hesitantly. “We believe that, perhaps, one of them could have found their way back?”

Freddie drags her fingers along Grace’s veins, no longer golden—blue paths trailing beneath pale skin. She feels her pulse jump beneath her touch, watches eyelids flutter, and thinks: who will you be when you wake up? And thinks: will it change how much my heart beats for you? And thinks: never .

Grace swirls her glass in a slow circle, the amber liquid dancing at the bottom. She downs it in one quick movement, relishing in the burn as it travels down her throat. “Grace?” She looks up at Freddie, shoulders wrapped in a fluffy blanket, leaning against the doorway of her bedroom. The lamplight halos around her—she looks ethereal. “Are you drinking?” Her lips purse, as though rethinking her words. “Are you okay?”

“I spoke with Persephone. At the club,” she adds needlessly, leaning back against the couch. The cushions sink beneath her weight. She used to find comfort in the thought that she could pretend that if she folded herself small enough she would disappear between the cracks. “We spoke of, ah, the Eidolon. Memories…Calliope’s memories, that is.”

“And?” Freddie prods gently, stepping forward to fall onto the couch beside her. The blanket is warm against her skin and she rubs a thread between her fingers, snuggling into her friend’s side as an arm curls around her shoulder.

Grace swallows, rubs her thumb against the spot the Eidolon had entered. It’s warm. Her heart pulses beneath the skin. “You know the Ship of Theseus? Whether a ship that’s had all its parts replaced is still the same ship? If those parts are taken from a different ship, is it still the Ship of Theseus?” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, hands trembling despite the warmth she’s surrounded by. “When Calliope’s memories start to bleed in—” She cuts herself off. “There’s so many of them; she’s lived dozens of lives and I’ve barely lived one. When Calliope’s memories return, who will I be? Will I still be Grace?”

Freddie exhales, burrowing her face into the crook of Grace’s neck. The touch sends shivers down her spine. “Whoever you become,” Freddie whispers, breath ghosting across the hairs on the back of her neck. “Will be exactly the same person I promised to follow to the ends of the world.”

Grace comes to slowly—because of course she does. Everything she does is slow—opening her eyes, forcing her limbs into movement—like wading through a sea of tar, or syrup, or whatever the hell else a person probably shouldn’t be wading through.

She bites down hard on the groan threatening to slip past her lips, forcing her eyes to open—and stay open, this time. The fluorescent lightbulbs of their apartment— thankfully , their apartment and not a hospital—glare down at her, flickering and dim and she has the idle thought of having to change them soon before it dies out on them completely.

Pain can be ignored , she thinks with a hint of humor. There are more pressing things to attend to, after all: like what the actual fuck is happening? But it doesn’t change the slow building ache in her side or the nausea building in her throat; it doesn’t change the croaking of her throat when she tries to speak or the needle-sharp sensation buzzing through her muscles. Pain can be ignored , Grace thinks, but by the gods if it isn’t still pain .

She clamps her jaw shut, twisting onto her side and, mercifully, not falling off the edge of the couch this time. With shaky breaths, she props herself onto her elbow, running her free hand through her hair and grimacing at the sticky line of sweat beading along her forehead.

She glances up to three worried stares and, even with the worry lines creasing their brows, or the tear stains trailing down Freddie’s cheeks, Grace finds that she has never ached for anything quite like this. Has never wanted for anything more than to just exist in a room where all four of them existed at the same time. Grace shakes the thought away, blinking back the spots creeping their way at the edges of her vision.

There is blood on your lips and it tastes a little bit like love; like how you imagine the gentle nip of your teeth against her lips until it’s red and raw. It spills from your mouth, staining the tiles red, seeping in between the crack until it is—until you are —overflowing.

“Hey,” she rasps, forcing a grin even as her throat protests even the smallest of sounds. “What did I miss?” Freddie lets out something between a chuckle and a sob.

She’s holding your hand. You try to squeeze back but you can’t feel your fingers—like you’re both fifteen, the cold winter air seeping through the fabric of your gloves. Snow fell like ashes from your fingertips and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t seem to keep it. She smiles, and you think you managed even when you can’t tell.

“You’re awake,” Freddie breathes, hands fluttering at her sides as she kneels beside the couch. “How are you? Can I get you anything?”

She brushes her lips against your forehead and you follow the movement with your eyes until the strain of it is prodding behind your skull. If you try to move your head it’s like you’re diving underwater—you’re too scared of the dark right now to be pulled beneath the waves. You hope she’ll keep you afloat but you’ve always been good at slipping away.

“Something to drink?” Grace asks, letting herself fall limp against the cushions until her muscles stop aching as much, tuning in to the gentle thump of Freddie’s footsteps and the sound of a running faucet. The springs squeak beneath her weight, but the soft fuzz of the couch is a balm to her wounds.

The floor vibrates beneath you and you’d always thought that the last thing you would smell would be the sterile hospital air. You think you prefer this, though: the vague scent of spring and the faintest taste of citrus to combat the metal on your tongue.

“Grace,” Persephone—and it makes her chuckle at how easily she would be able to pick her voice out from a crowd—says, voice a little strained.

She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. You can see it in her eyes—you don’t want everything, you had told her. And maybe it had been a lie. Because surrounded by the two people you think you could love the most; you think that might just be everything.

“That’s my name.” A smile tugs at her lips and Grace stifles the chuckle as the pull of her lungs begin to burn. “Why do you sound like someone just died?”

She holds your hands—she’s always holding your hands, you notice. Once, at the auditorium, when the world was a little too much and her touch grounded you from sinking beneath the waves. Then, in the apartment, when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and her fingers played a melody against your skin that sounded a little too much like a goodbye. Now, when the world is the damndest green and the floor is caving beneath you.

“You could have,” Persephone states, solemn but honest. You could have , she says. I should have , Grace thinks. She shoves the thought down. It’s no good here: when she’s alive and breathing; when she can feel the dull beat of her heart against her chest, when she can feel the low pulse at her fingertips.

And the world caves beneath you. You grasp at what you can, every thought, every memory, every emotion. You hold them close to your chest until it’s everything you are— because it’s everything you are—and you let yourself fall.

“We have something to tell you,” Calliope tells her as Freddie sets the glass on the table, water sloshing dangerously close at the edges. And Grace has the darndest feeling that she’s not going to like what she’s about to hear.

Dear Freddie,

Since when did it start feeling like you no longer exist?

I wrote a letter to Persephone recently—I know, I know: “But Grace! Why wouldn’t you write to me first?” I did, believe me. I did—I have. I tried so hard to get everything I ever wanted to tell you onto that first sheet of paper—there was a lot of paper and only one of them made it out alive—but it didn’t seem enough. But the words never felt right and the amount of times I had to restart. Well, that’d take a hell of a lot of paper too. I’m trying again now.

There has never been a point where you haven’t been in my life. It feels like you’ve always been a part of it, in fact; from the first day I met you, to our first steps out into the real world together, and then to every point thereafter. And isn’t that funny? That you could be such a pivotal piece of me—that you could be standing right there next to me but it still could still feel like you aren’t there at all. Because we’re both twenty-three years old just off a drunken stupor and I feel so much older .

I could never manage to be fully honest with you, no matter how easy you made it feel. When I first met you I was so afraid you would leave—maybe I still am, maybe I always have been. I was nothing before I met you; like a black hole, I wanted you to devour me.

What’s a confession if not something I could never force myself to make? I wanted to be more than I was am to you. What am I if not the pieces I can offer to you?

I could have

Did you know

Why does it feel like a betrayal if I start to mourn you?

Grace

Chapter Text

Dear Persephone,

How do you begin to write letters to people that no longer exist?

To you, to Freddie, to everyone I’d left behind; I’ve written thousands of words, scribbled my mind onto paper like a dying man writes his will or some other apt synonym. It never seems enough. I think the problem with letters is that it gives me too much space to think—to second guess every sentence, every thought I’ve never had the chance to share.

I still have each and every single one of them; I couldn’t find the heart to throw them away. Crumpled edges and half-baked thoughts I wished I’d had the courage to tell you; envelopes with your address, your name scrawled in flowing penmanship; tear-stained papers and coffee rings.

When I first met you (can I really call it meeting you?), I was terrified. You were six feet tall with a glare that could set the world on fire, one I would have gladly burnt down with; you seemed so much larger than life, like a god. Ironic, isn’t it? How terrible is it that I wanted to impress you the most in that moment?

Did I manage it? Was it even worth it? What’s so impressive about a carefully crafted facade - of staring death in the eye and coming out unscathed in every way that matters? It’s selfish; I tried so hard to get you to help.

Do you regret me it? I’ve never wanted for much, Persephone, but maybe you could have been a start.

So, here’s my confession to you, Persephone: I wasn’t prepared to die. So why does it feel like I had always spent my time looking for it?

I loved—still love—

I’m sorry I didn’t

Did you

Say hi to everyone for me, will you?,

Grace

“Huh,” Grace mutters, keeping her face carefully neutral. Freddie splutters, dropping her hands from the air and staring at Grace in shock.

“That’s it? Just ‘huh’ ?” She asks incredulously. “You’re not going to say anything else? You just believe me? Us?” Freddie corrects, glancing at Calliope and Persephone.

Grace shrugs, scratching at a loose thread on the couch. “You don’t have any reason to lie to me,” she says, because, yeah , she knows; has known for far longer than she could reasonably explain to them. Of course she believes Freddie.

“You’re taking this rather well,” Persephone notes, an almost impressed look crossing her features. “Your friend here was a little more than disbelieving when we told her.” She quirks a brow, lips twitching in amusement and Grace watches Freddie’s face blush in embarrassment, wondering idly what could have happened while she was—asleep. “I didn’t realize existential crises could happen at such a young age.”

“Leave the poor girl alone, love,” Calliope chastises half-heartedly, hiding her own smile behind a faux stern expression. “Freddie still has something to share with Grace.”

Grace stands on shaky legs, knees threatening to buckle under her weight, cocking her head curiously as she moves into the kitchen. She needs something to do, maybe grab another cup of water or wash the sweat from her face— anything to deal with the fact that she wasn’t supposed to know , they were never supposed to tell her . Listening as the three of them trail behind her like lost dogs. “More?” She asks. “Can’t be more exciting than gods being real,” she jokes lightly, running the faucet as she forces the bile down.

“Okay,” Freddie starts. “I need you not to freak out when I tell you this.” Grace opens her mouth to crack another joke but Freddie is speaking before she can.. “You’re a god now too,” Freddie blurts before Grace can speak, and her jaw clamps shut with an audible click. There’s the coppery taste of blood followed by the sharp stinging against her tongue and she leans her head over the sink.

“Bit my tongue,” she wheezes, waving Freddie off when she steps forward to help. “Say that again? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I believe you heard her quite clearly,” Persephone huffs, cocking her hip against the counter as she watches Grace with a calculating glint in her eyes. “You’re a god, Grace. Congratulations.” An image flashes through her brain, the four of them surrounding a cake with ‘Happy Godhood!’ or something equally as stupid printed across in yellow icing; it’s not a very funny image but the thought makes her want to laugh anyway.

“God?” Grace asks, a furrow forming between her brows. She lets out a stilted chuckle, spitting a mouthful of blood into the sink. It runs down the sink, a trail of pink staining the metal. “No, no,” she denies as she drags the back of her hand against her chin. “I’m not a god, not—“ anymore , she tries to finish. Her breath hitches and she grips the edge of the counter hard, trying to breathe past the sudden blockage in her throat.

“Grace?” Freddie asks, laying a hand against space between her shoulder blades. Grace exhales a shuddering breath, shaking her head as it rattles her chest. Her tongue is—she can’t— why can’t she— “Grace!” She jerks her head up, meeting Freddie’s worried gaze. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? I know this is a lot, I didn’t believe it when they told me either, but they had a lot of proof.”

“You don’t understand,” she spits out past whatever is holding her voice hostage. It feels like the words are tearing at her throat, clawing red marks against her flesh until it fills her lungs with blood and bile. “I’m not a god. I can’t be. I—“ died. But nothing comes out, and she’s choking again—and when did it get so cold?

Grace shudders, biting down hard on her lip until copper runs down her throat and, fuck , she just washed away the taste. Calliope—god, fucking Calliope (“I’ll see them again.”) —lays a hand against her arm. Don’t, she wants to tell them, shrug the warmth of that touch from her skin until she’s encased in ice. Don’t touch me so gently, like I’m something that was made to be held. Her and Freddie and Persephone. “You are,” Calliope tells her and it takes Grace entirely too long to understand what she’s talking about. “And, whatever you’re thinking, I think that there was no better person to be chosen than you, Grace.”

“Then you thought wrong ,” she rasps. Spits it with all the vitriol she can manage to a woman she could never learn to hate despite it all. Wrong, this is wrong. “I wasn’t—“ She cuts herself off before someone else can do it for her, tongue darting out to wet cracked lips. “I wouldn’t make a good god,” she corrects weakly, flexing her hand. Her knuckles ache as she stretches her fingers, like they’re bruised and broken; like she’s newly twenty-one filled with rage, slamming closed fists into walls. Is she angry now?

“Nobody—“ Persephone and her poison coated tongue and the portrait of a woman once— still —loved; Freddie and her worried eyes and outstretched hand; and Apollo; and Athena; and Aphrodite; and the sting of a blade between her— “Would want a god like me,” Grace finishes, blinking away the images. Her heart feels heavy in her chest, something so akin to grief that Grace could cry. What is there to grieve, though? Memories of things that will never happen? She made sure of that, didn’t she?

“Take a seat, Grace,” Persephone orders and she lets them ease her away from the countertop, tugging her gently back towards the couch. She lets her body flop weightlessly into the cushions, Calliope taking up the empty space next to her and Freddie a steady presence on the armrest.

“Listen to me, Grace,” Calliope orders and Grace looks up, meets that beautiful gold that reminds her of ‘if only’s and thinks— what did you see when you looked at me? What was I to you? What did you want me to become? And thinks— is that still what you see now?

And Calliope tells her, earnest like nothing else could be the truth as she holds Grace’s fingers in her hands. “I think the world will love you.” She smiles, all crooked with too much teeth, yet it’s still the prettiest thing that Grace has ever seen. “I think that you’ll be beautiful, Grace.”

And Grace thinks of blood spilling between the gaps of her fingers like a rushing tide; of red staining the cracks of her palms; of limp limbs like puppet strings; of empty eyes where there should be fire and—”You made me beautiful,” she murmurs, fights the urge to burst into a sobbing mess because fuck. this .

“Let’s go!” Freddie orders impatiently as she bounds towards the door, fingers brushing featherlight against Grace’s arm.

A smile, small and wry, tugs at her lips and Grace nods for her to go on ahead, violently aware of Persephone at her back and the subtle purse of Freddie’s lips. Jealousy, she thinks, is a familiar look on both of them. Still, Freddie leaves after a moment’s hesitation, door clicking shut behind her.

A minute passes, a tension of unease that Grace allows to grow before she turns to face Persephone. She counts her breaths: in for four, hold, out for four. Her pulse is steady against her fingers as she wraps them around her wrist. Persephone moves, a minute shift of balance; Grace doesn’t say a word.

The muscle of her jaw ticks, brows furrowing as she reaches out a hand to touch her arm. Grace pulls away from it, disguises it as shoving her hands into her pockets. The look in Persephone’s eyes turns sharp but she doesn’t push for it. “Are you ready?” She asks instead, crossing her arms once more. “The memories,” she starts. “They may be a bit much to handle. It hasn’t been long since…” She trails off.

And there it is, Grace thinks: that tinge of worry coating her voice, the barely there softening of her features. She swallows hard, the sound ringing in her ears. “I don’t…” She starts, working her jaw; it aches after so many minutes of being clenched. “I don’t understand you,” Grace admits, ducking her head when tears start to sting at her eyes. “One moment you’re touching me. Holding me—” Soft fingers grabbing at her chin, the gentle scrape of nails against her skin; a weight against her chest as her legs shake, threatening to buckle beneath her weight; the harsh pinch of wood digging into the palm of her hands. “And the next you’re—” Gone. Away, somewhere she can’t reach or follow. “And now you’re worried again. I don’t know—what do you want from me, Persephone?”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Did you ever really have me in the first place?”

Persephone exhales, slow and shaky. “I want to give you everything, but—” Her face shutters and Grace knows, gods does she know ; and gods does it hurt, does it ache like nothing before.

She takes Persephone’s hands in hers, pulling their chests flush against each other until their hearts are beating in tandem; until she can feel the rumble of it in her throat and the taste of it on her tongue. “I don’t want everything,” she promises— begs . Just you, she doesn’t say. If she says it, she’ll never leave; because something happened in that Reliquary. And saying it sounds too much like a goodbye.

“I can’t believe I’m the one that has to say this,” Persephone sighs, brows furrowing as she crosses her arms. “But we need to inform the others.” Calliope tenses, hissing through her teeth at the suggestion. Her grip goes tight on Grace’s arm and, if she weren’t so shocked at the sudden declaration, she might have yelped at the pain.

“Screw Athena’s rules!” Calliope snarls and Grace wonders if this is what everyone meant about Calliope’s anger. Like a wildfire, licking flames; sparking and violent. “You would throw Grace to the wolves and for what? Because Athena demands it?”

“This isn’t about Athena,” Persephone protests, throwing her arm out. Grace meets Freddie’s eyes over the back of the couch, sharing a look. They really shouldn’t be here for this. “Grace is a god , now, Calliope. Don’t you understand?” She tries gently to pry the fingers from her skin, grimacing at the distinctly crescent shaped marks left behind. “You and I both saw—the evidence is there, there’s no denying its truth.”

Calliope scoffs, standing from her seat. Even the difference in height is not enough to make her any less intimidating, matching the strength of Persephone’s glare with her own, “We are here now, we can be the ones to help her.”

“Somewhere, buried behind the gold of her eyes,” Persephone whispers through clenched teeth, “could someone that we know. Could be someone that we all used to know.” She rests her hands on Calliope’s shoulders, holding her static. “Don’t they deserve to know that?”

“Fine ,” Calliope concedes, voice barely louder than a whisper. Freddie holds onto her hand as tightly as Grace holds onto her because shouldn’t she have a say in this? “Fine.”

Persephone sighs, cupping Calliope’s cheeks in her hands and Grace swallows hard enough to make her throat ache. It feels like they’re intruding on a private moment, the warmth seeping into Persephone's eyes as she forces Calliope to meet her gaze. “I want no harm to come to Grace the same as you do, you know that, don’t you, Calliope?”

Calliope exhales, leaning into the touch, covering one hand with her own. “I know, my love. But Athena…” She sighs, defeated. Whatever there is left to be said is said through and for their eyes alone. A soft, gentle and waning like the breeze, smile spreads across the Muse’s face. “Grace? How would you like to meet the rest of the gods?”

“I have a feeling I won’t be getting much of a choice,” she deadpans to the amusement of Persephone.

For a moment, held in the familiar arms of her oldest friend and basking under the warmth of an eternal love, Grace can almost pretend that nothing is about to go wrong.

Dear Grace,

What do you even begin to say to someone that no longer exists?

I have never been one to write letters. Or maybe I had been, some lifetime ago; a memory of me I no longer hold. Apollo suggested I - we - do this, actually, if you can believe it. To place our confessions onto paper; lift that weight from our shoulders. I suppose those therapy sessions had to be good for something. I’m not entirely sure how to begin this—how I could possibly put pen to paper with the magnitude of my thoughts. I think it best that I start at the beginning:

When we had first met - though could it truly be called a meeting? - you were this tiny figure of a thing, drowning beneath a facade of nonchalance, hands stained red with blood. I admit, it had not been the most ideal setting for a meeting - to be accused of murder, to be placed beneath the weight of death - in such little time. Perhaps that’s what angered me the most, mangled with the grief at Calliope’s loss, that she had chosen to run to you; that you could appear so unbothered in the aftermath.

You weren’t, though, were you? I recognized it, the look on your face - maybe I hadn’t realized it then, blinded by rage as I was, but I realize it now. It might be the reason I hadn’t fought as hard as I could have to keep you from having a trial, to have you killed then and there. Because I know intimately the way your hands shook, the fear, the realization; an image of myself and it was maddening. Then, that surge of power you displayed mere moments after gaining the eidolon - for a moment it was Calliope standing there, face twisted with fury, and I wanted so badly to be selfish.

Had I been? I think so. You fought so hard to get me to help and when it truly mattered—I don’t regret it. You are were so much, Grace; maybe you didn’t want everything, but there was still so much more I wanted to try to give to you.

Here’s my confession to you, Grace: I wasn’t prepared for you to die. Then why had I always spent so much of my time expecting it?

I wanted to learn to love you,

I miss you,

Persephone

Chapter Text

Aphrodite hadn’t known Grace for long. None of them had, really. Yet she’d barged into their lives, broken down walls centuries in the making, with an ease that astounded even Apollo; had surprised even Persephone. Apollo, swallowed by his guilt; Persephone, consumed in her anger—Aphrodite, devoured to her grief.

The funeral is a quiet thing. She’d never thought anything regarding someone like Grace could be associated with that word. ‘Quiet.’ Like anything she has—had—ever done had been quiet. Like the songs she sung, the words she’d weaved between the beats of their hearts, had ever been anything but this rushing storm of a thing.

The apartment is cold. Hollow.

Aphrodite imagines it as bright once. Sun seeping through old, tattered curtains, door hinges creaking as they woke, fire crackling on the stove, oil sizzling in the pan. She wonders at the pictures hanging on these four walls, unable to fathom the people they had grown to be; empty eyes and hollow smiles.

I’m sorry for your loss, she had told Grace’s friend, Freddie. What else could she say to a room like an empty casket? What else could she say when death had always been a passing thought? A means to an end.

Why would you be? Freddie had asked, something kind filling the edges of her lips. It was your loss too.

“Mother?” Aphrodite turns, coming face to face with Eros, a crease forming between his furrowed brows, “What are you doing—“

“—over here all alone?” Aphrodite asks the young Idol. Grace looks up from her hands, fingers stalling in their motions. Frozen, like a deer in headlights—oddly reminiscent of a child caught with their hand stuck in a cookie jar. It’s cute, Aphrodite thinks, even if she doesn’t know why she looks like that. “Everyone is looking for you; your friends, especially. They worried when you disappeared so suddenly.”

“Ah,” Grace exhales, dragging her fingers against the smooth textures of the wall. “Are they? Did they?” She asks, a curious quirk to her lips. She pushes off the wall, boots thumping against the marble floors, the sound echoing off the high walls. “What’s there to be worried about?” Grace asks, fiddling with the hem of her shirt, a rictus smile fixed on her face.

“They’re your friends,” Aphrodite frowns, resisting the urge to reach out and thump her lightly on the head like she might do with Eros when he gets a little too into his head. “Of course they worry.”

She shrugs, shoulders lifted in an aborted sort of motion. “Why?” She asks again, a light laugh spilling from her lips—the kind you would expect from someone of her stature, quiet and timid, but not something you would expect from Grace (who laughs bright and loud and echoing off the walls like music pounds off stone walls, alluring like a siren’s song). “I’m good at this.” Aphrodite’s frown only deepens at the confession, confusion pulling at her brows. “At pretending,” Grace clarifies, rocking on her heels as her eyes dart around the room, empty of the crowd mingling in the main area. “Like I belong here. Like I’m supposed to be here.” She lowers her voice in a whisper, like she’s sharing a secret and Aphrodite wonders about the heavy feeling behind the words. “Do you guys do these often?”

Aphrodite startles at the sudden change in topic but takes it in stride, regaining her composure. “The parties? Oh, plenty,” she admits easily. “Us Idols do love our celebrations,” she jokes with a stilted laugh. She turns away from the girl and her curious eyes, slotting herself onto one of the many benches lining the wall. There’s a beat followed by the heavy thump of boots as Grace takes the empty seat beside her.

“You’re good at pretending too,” Grace comments idly, staring vacantly at a point ahead of her. Aphrodite can barely form a thought let alone a question before she’s speaking once more. “They look at me like they’re waiting for me to remember.” She turns to look at Aphrodite. “They look at you like they’re waiting for you to forget.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, body stilling as Grace lets her body fall into Aphrodite’s side. Hesitantly, she reaches out a hand, threading her fingers through dark strands. “Did they tell you how we pass our eidolons on?” Aphrodite asks finally, finds comfort in running her fingers through the girl’s hair. Grace blinks languidly up at her, like a cat basking under the sun, leaning into the touch.

Her lips part but she doesn’t speak, nose scrunching like there’s something she wants to say. “No,” she answers eventually, eyes fluttering closed as Aphrodite’s nails scrap against her scalp.

Grace says nothing more and Aphrodite stares down at this girl—this child turned god—and wonders how it is that she can be so calm. “You don’t want to know how?” The words slip past her lips before she can stop them and she finds herself blinking in shock at her own lack of self control.

Grace’s lips twitch in tired amusement as she pulls away. Aphrodite lets her, bringing her hand back towards her body as Grace tilts her head up to stare at the ceiling. “How?” She indulges, her legs swinging over the edge of the bench. The toe of her boot skims the tiles as she brings it back, and forth, and back again.

Aphrodite exhales slowly, finding herself wanting to lie to her even as she was the one who prompted the question. How could she tell the truth to someone so young— to someone with such bright eyes? Grace’s gaze flit to her, a knowing look in her eyes that disappears so quickly she almost wonders if she’d imagined it. “We die,” she blurts with abandon. “And, for a moment, we are nothing ; for a moment there is nothing. Nothing but the memories of what it means to love, and hope, and live. ” To have the truth in the open air without the sugar coated layers—she feels weightless, unchained.

She feels hollow.

“Is that what you do?” Grace blinks up at her with wide, curious eyes—and she looks every bit the child Aphrodite knows she is. Aphrodite flinches at the sudden touch against her chest as Grace leans forward, pressing an open palm over her heart. “Is that what you want?” Grace asks so low she wonders if she was even supposed to hear it at all. She doesn’t get a chance to find out as Grace pulls back with a murmured apology, eyes shining gold.

Aphrodite can feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, the thump of her heart beating against her rib cage but—nothing happens. Grace blinks and, just as she turns her head away, Aphrodite catches the gold fade to give way to black irises. Something tugs inside her chest, something sweet against her tongue and—“I’m tired,” she admits, tripping over the words. “Of waiting for something to change— of waiting to forget .” Aphrodite sucks in a breath and feels it stutter in her throat as she chokes on each word. “I want what comes after. I want—”

A sob wracks through her, body curling inward. Warm hands grab her own, threading their fingers together and giving a gentle squeeze. It grounds her, even as each breath scratches at her throat. “Sometimes it can feel like all that’s left in life is waiting,” Grace murmurs, ducking her head to meet Aphrodite’s gaze. She couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. “But it doesn’t have to be.” Her heart throbs, Grace’s voice is low and quiet, but layered with conviction. It’s difficult not to believe, and by the Gods , does Aphrodite want to believe her.

“What else is there?” She begs, a heavy stone of guilt forming in the pit of her question as Grace’s eyes flash with something like fear. Above all else, Aphrodite thinks, Grace is a child—a child who had been dragged and immediately abandoned into this world. But Aphrodite needs an answer and, if anyone, Grace would be able to give it to her; Grace with her warm hands and knowing looks.

Grace pauses, tongue darting out to wet her tongue, before she tugs Aphrodite to stand. She stops at the doorway, peering around the bend, and jerks her chin sharply as though telling Aphrodite to look; to find; to see . So she does, resting a hand against Grace’s shoulder as she tries to find what she’s supposed to be looking for.

And, through the blur of tears, she does: Eros smiles, a heartbreakingly timid thing that’s still somehow filled to the edges with love. He brings his glass forward, knocking the rim to Venus’, the liquid sloshing against the edges. And the girl laughs, loud and bright and free .

Grace knocks their shoulders together, sending Aphrodite stumbling into the open room—and Eros looks at her, a gentle curve to his eyes as his smile turns into something more private. “Hollow spaces are just something waiting to be filled,” Grace tells her, and she smiles then, curling her fingers into the fabric of her shirt. “Go,” she orders, taking a step back—away from her, from the crowd, and Aphrodite wonders why she looks so scared. “They’re all waiting for you to come—“

—home. What a fickle thing, Aphrodite thinks.

Eros is home.

Venus is home.

Grace had started to become home; little trinkets littering the shelves of their house, passing words of comfort (how much time had she spent with them after the party that could have been spent trying to save her own life? Too much. Not enough.), and gentle touches.

“I thought it would—I thought all I needed was that gentle push,” Aphrodite admits, staring down at her hands. “And Grace gave that to me; gave me that courage to save myself.” She curls her hands into fists, feeling her nails dig against her palms with a dull ache. “But now she’s gone and I’m not sure…when does it get better?” She asks and the sky weeps, tears staining the stone black.

Eros stares down at the disturbed patch of dirt, lips set in a thin line. “It doesn’t,” he admits, kneeling down. His fingers brush against the blades of grass, curling them around his hands until they break from the earth. “But, eventually, you just learn to live with it better.”

“Did you?”

A pause.

“No. But she helped with that.”

“Mother,” Eros greets, weak and strained. Tired . Gods, does he sound tired. He offers his glass as though it might be enough to create a barrier between them. Aphrodite takes it, if only for a moment, swirling the red liquid around before she sets it on the white cloth of the table.

(Oh, how easy it would be to stain.

Red is the color of roses—of love and devotion; not enough to stay, never enough to stay.

Red is the color of blood—staining the teeth and the eyes, spilling drops on harrowed hands.)

“My son,” Aphrodite chokes, drawing him in for a hug, holding him as close as the laws of the universe will allow (it is not enough, but it will be. They have to believe that) . “My love,” she murmurs, pressing her lips against his forehead. He clings to her dress and—he is still a child, she realizes, still young and growing.

How much of that had she missed? How much of those memories had she lost? Too much.

“Stay,” he croaks, his tears staining her dress. “Please.” She presses her hand to the back of his head, reaches around him to grip Venus’ hand, and lets herself cry—lets herself feel the warmth of her skin and the unsteady rise and fall of her chest and knows with no uncertainty that this is real .

“Yes,” she says, like she’s daring the universe to say otherwise. “Always.”

“I saw you talking to Aphrodite,” Calliope comments casually, leaning back against the table as she not-so-subtly watches Grace from the corner of her eye. Grace hums, tracking the tears as they run down Aphrodite and Eros’ cheeks—if tears could be gentle, she thinks, she imagines it as something like this; like the slow rush of a stream, or rainfall pattering against the windows. “She looks happy. I told you you would be incredible; that they would love you."

“She’s crying,” Grace murmurs, grabbing a glass of wine from the table if only to have something to do with her hands. She palms the bottom of the glass, stem pressed between her fingers. It’s cold. She switches her grip, rolling the stem between her thumb and forefinger—wonders what would happen if she dropped it; how loud would the sound of glass shattering be? As loud as the end of the world? (But it wasn't loud, was it? Stilted, choking, whimpers—clawing fingers against an already bleeding throat.)

“But she’s smiling,” Calliope says, like a chide. She grabs the glass from her hand like she’s afraid Grace will down it like a shot and do something stupid. Her worries probably aren’t unfounded, Grace thinks, even as her eyes trace the motion of it being set back down on the table. “You did good, Grace. Find pride in that.”

Grace licks her lips, they’re dry and cracked—probably from her half-day stint unconscious. “Where’s Freddie?” she asks instead of acknowledging those words; because Freddie is safe, Freddie is constant—Freddie is home .

“With Persephone,” Calliope allows the subject change with a comforting smile. “They’re waiting to greet Athena when she arrives.” Grace jolts as though she’d been struck, as though the ground has begun to shake beneath her feet. The wine glass shudders, liquid pouring over the lip as staining the pristine white cloth in a splotchy red.

The door (“It’s, uh, Grace, yes?") slams open. The room (“Allow me to introduce myself: I am Athena.”) goes silent. Steps echo in the stillness (“I know this will come as a shock…”), bouncing off the towering pillars (“...and I’m so, so sorry to say it, but…) as they draw nearer.

It stops.

Grace looks up—”Welcome everybody, thank you so much for joining us for this momentous occasion.”—meets grey eyes and clasped hands—”You must be our new Idol. It’s Grace, yes?”—and her heart (“I’m afraid you have to die.”). Stops.