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Chapter Text

She is… not quite sure what draws Her to unfurl brown feathers and perch on a hospital windowsill to watch a mortal woman with curly, dark hair plastered to a twisted, reddened face scream and squirm as she pushes out an infant. She may be a goddess of childbirth, yes, but She does not make it a habit to supervise any but the most important of births, and this? This woman might be one of Her crippled son's lovers, but she certainly does not measure up to the queens and goddesses She has assisted in the past. Still, She remains in Her spot, watching, and sends along a minor blessing to see the woman's face smooth out as the pain recedes somewhat.

( In hindsight, perhaps this was, in fact, one of those births She ought to be present at, even if She did not quite realize it at the time, and perhaps the Fates realized it instead and made sure She was there regardless )

It takes several hours, although it would have taken more had She not been there, but eventually, the woman is allowed to rest with a bundle of a sleeping baby in her arms. And oh , what a baby it is, sparks dancing harmlessly over his blanket and in his soft tuft of dark hair.

She wonders, in the back of Her mind, if that is Her son's doing, a blessing of love for a partner he is particularly fond of, or if it is coincidence, a simple matter of chance — not quite random, as nothing in the world is without its purpose, but chance nonetheless.

The baby is healthy — small, but not dangerously so, and almost feverishly warm, according to the doctors. That is, of course, a result of the flames pumping through his veins, but the humans, so inherently mortal and oblivious, note it down for observation, though of low concern for now.

The woman knows, though. She can see her tired but nonetheless bright eyes tracking the arches of a particularly brilliant spark weaving in and out from between the folds of the blanket and her hand gently batting away another one bouncing around the infant’s face that was making his nose scrunch up.

Clear Sighted, then. That will serve them both well, with an infant fire child. She will be able to take precautions to keep his flames from consuming everything in their way. Hopefully, she will do so effectively, for both of their sakes.

(Leonidas, the mother calls him. Leonidas Valdez. Her little lion .)

( She leaves a fragment of Herself perched on the windowsill and only retrieves it once the two mortals are discharged .)

To storm or fire the world must fall.

Perhaps She should have realized how well the little lion fits into the lines of the Prophecy of Seven the moment She saw his sparks. Instead, it takes Her a few months to connect the dots and She strikes down several mortals in Her rage once She does before calming down. Her Husband barely takes notice of it, merely bringing Her a chalice of nectar when She is tending to Her gardens as She plans.

She does not like the implications of the prophecy, not the ones Her mind wanders to after mulling it over for so long. She knows Her kin is also wary of it, though not a word of it has ever been uttered in even the faintest of whispers. If it turns out anywhere near as bad as They assume it might, They will need the finest mortal heroes in millennia to fight with Them, however reluctant They may be about needing the aid.

She slips into a weathered disguise and stands in front of a worn door before She thinks about it much more. Her hand is not its usual pristine softness when She lifts it, wiry fingers curled into a loose fist knocking in a quick pattern. Rapid steps answer Her, and then She is greeted with a tanned face, brown eyes highlighted by exhausted bruising, and dark curls pulled into a sloppy bun. There are smears of black — presumably grease — on her grey shirt and dark denim overalls, though her skin remains clear of it, as far as She can tell. Her baby, already a good deal bigger than when She had last seen him in the hospital, is resting his head on her towel-protected shoulder, babbling quietly as he twists his tiny hands in her clothes.

“Hello?” the woman says, her voice rough but pleasant despite its hesitance. “Can I help you?”

“I am here to help you ,” She says and nods Her head at the baby. “It can not be easy to take care of him all on your own, can it? I wish to help you.”

The woman tightens her grip on her child, shifting to put herself more between the two of them, a futile barrier. If She wanted to, She could smite the two mortals with barely a flick of Her fingers — but alas, that is not what She is here for.

“Who are you?” the woman asks, the hesitance in her words replaced by a warning suspicion.

“You may call Me Callida.” She allows Her currently-hazel eyes to flash a too-bright gold, allows Her skin to thin enough for Her ichor to shine through, allows Her dark hair to shimmer silver-gold-blue, and Esperanza knows . She takes a half-step back, eyes wide and lips split open with a small, breathless gasp.

“You’re…” the woman starts and falters. She offers her a wry smile, clasping Her hands in front of Herself.

“I will not say, his father is not among My favourites. Regardless, I would not offer this under normal circumstances, even if he had been. I can, however, recognize greatness, and this one has an abundance of it, for a mortal.” She pauses, watching the human’s eyes dart to her son and the divinity woven through his every aspect, from the too-warm body to the too-orange eyes. “You see it as well, do you not? Fire so deeply ingrained into a hero’s soul is not common at all, dear. Why, there is only a handful of mortals that have ever been born as such, and each and every one of them was destined for greatness, just as your son is. I simply wish to help him harness it to the best of his abilities.”

The woman stares at Her for a long moment, lips gently parted and moving as she tries and retries to speak.

“He’s five months old ,” she eventually manages. “I know– I know your family is grown from the get-go, but humans aren’t . No matter how… how godly he might be in the long run, he can’t even crawl or talk yet! What “greatness” are you thinking of harnessing in a baby ?”

She hums, leaning forward a bit to look the child over better. He turns his head a bit, fist in his mouth, to look at Her with his large, flame-tinted eyes — not enough so that they would be instantly pinned as inhuman, but certainly enough to be considered unique.

“Perhaps not that much in the beginning,” She starts, moving back when the boy takes out his slobbered hand to reach for Her with a coo, “but he will soon exhibit much potential, too much for you to take care of properly.”

The human opens her mouth with a frown and She raises Her hand to stop her.

“I am not speaking of your capability as a mother; I am speaking of you, a mortal woman with not but the barest of experience with true power, taking care of one brimming with it. You know he will burn bright, and he will burn much as he grows. You do not have the knowledge to teach him how to control it, and that will not end well for either of you if left alone.” She eyes the exhaustion lining each taunt line of the woman’s body. “Moreover, you are but a simple mortal, left with a child you must take care of but no spouse or otherwise to help you. Am I wrong in stating that you could use rest?”

The woman purses her lips, eyes darting between the floor and the baby and Her before she finally allows them to settle on Her face and nods hesitantly. She steps back to allow passage into her home.

“Just– come in. We’ll talk about it, figure out what works for both of us.”

Human babies are fragile .

She had known this, of course. An adult mortal is just about made of spun glass, it is only reasonable to assume a young one is even more so.

Still, She had not realized exactly how helpless they are.

She knows the average human child cannot kill anything larger than a worm without coming to harm itself; it is the reason She sent snakes into Alcaeus’s crib, after all — a plausible enough way for him to die that could hardly be traced back to Her, and certain enough that She had not worried about it not succeeding. It had not worked, of course, much to Her chagrin, but he was a particularly godly half-blood since birth. It was easy to tell when compared to his twin who had but traces of divinity in his blood.

She supposes She expected this one to be similar.

“You’ve gotta help him stay up,” Esperanza says, hand splayed over her son’s back and apparently keeping him from falling over from his sitting position. “He’s not really strong enough to do it on his own yet.”

“Are you certain?” She asks, because mortal children are defenceless but this seems ridiculous, especially for a demigod child with enough ichor to taint his blood gold.

“Mhm. He’ll be sitting up on his own soon enough, but not just yet,” Esperanza says with a soft smile, dipping down to leave a kiss on the top of the child’s head. She watches it, a small flock of birds fluttering in Her chest for a reason She can not explain.

Why do you do that?

The thought crosses Her mind as quickly as it appears, and She blinks slowly with a small sound. Affection so freely, unashamedly, softly given is not something She sees commonly among Her Family. Too proud, They are. Too guarded. She has only ever seen Her Sister Hestia be quite so casual with Her love, fingers carding through Her Family’s hair and tracing patterns in Their palms while They allow Themselves to let go as much as They ever would. Zeus’s theatrical bastard, Dionysus, as well. His festivities always end with him murmuring softness into everyone’s ears, whether god or nymph or satyr or mortal — even She wakes with watered-down nectar by Her bed to help with the aftereffects of his alcohol, despite the animosity that usually stews between Them.

Others keep such acts private, with only a select few ever being graced with them, if They indulge in them at all.

Humans seem much more willing to showcase their affections to everyone. They might as well scream them into everyone’s faces, sometimes, it would be more subtle. The softness of their bodies reflects the softness of their characters well.

Leo catches Her pointer finger with his overly chubby, overly soft hand and coos with a toothless smile as he squeezes. Esperanza hides a chuckle behind her hand and She watches the boy, so weak and defenceless and so, so human in his softness.

She squeezes back.

“Tía! Tía!”

She looks up from the book She is reading — one of the cheesy romances Esperanza has too many of that she has called her “guilty pleasure” — to see Her charge stumble towards Her, hands clenched tightly into little fists filled with dirt. She raises a brow, closing the book to set it down next to Herself on the bench. 

“What have you found now, liontári ?” She asks. Leo flashes his three teeth in a wide grin and stops in front of Her, throwing his arms out in front of himself to let Her see. There’s an earthworm in his left hand and a few crumpled daisies in his right and he shows them off with the same pride one would parade a Hydra head.

She hums with the feigned interest She has learned to show after the first few times the boy ended up crying because he felt too little attention on him. Gently, She grabs his left wrist and nudges his fingers apart to pick the squirming worm out. She lays it out in Her palm and lowers it to Leo’s eye level to allow him to see it curling up in Her hand.

“There are things you humans say about worms, you know,” She starts, batting Leo’s hand away from his mouth with a small downturn to Her lips. The boy is always so determined to shove everything and anything in his mouth, whether it’s edible or not. Esperanza laughs about it most of the time, but She refuses to let Her champion eat dirt . “Meek and weak they are, but even they will turn against the foot that trods on them eventually. Do not be like a worm in that sense. You will be, are , powerful, little lion. You will not grow into meekness and weakness if I can help it. You will stand against those you are meant to stand against without hesitation. You must not accept a second of anyone’s foot trodding on you. You must not be quiet, must not turn the other cheek, must not be docile. Not when those around you are loud, are aiming for your cheek, are aggressive.”

She pauses, looks the boy in his burning eyes. He coos curiously, lips wet with drool, and She knows he does not understand yet, but he will. She will make sure he will.

“But there is another aspect to the worm that more schooled mortals have noticed — they consume . They consume, and in that, they change everything that is in their way. What is in front of them, in their path, it gets consumed and changed and allows for something new, something better . You must consume and transform like the worm, little lion, but do not be meek about it. Be raging and wild, like your fire, but consume like the worm; do not destroy and leave little of the old behind to restart anew from ashes, however good growth people say might come of it.”

She sets the worm back in his hand and curls his fingers around it.

“Consume, my champion. Consume and transform . I know how it itches to be let out. Allow it .”

Leo giggles and squeezes and his hands are warm and there is fire in his veins and it is ash that falls from his fingers and smoke that rises from them.

There is crimson blood on the doorframe, is what She notices when She comes to the Valdez home that day. There are no flecks of gold, no sparkles of glitter, no shiny coating. It is not blood that belongs to anything divine.

She brushes Her fingers over the lock and it shifts and turns and clicks open. It is unnecessary, for a mortal door can not stop Her from entering — but it is a courtesy She has granted the woman, to wait until she can let Her in. Today, She settles on leaving the door untouched, unneeding of a repair or replacement.

The child is sobbing in his crib, She can hear, but Esperanza is not at his side to calm him as she usually is. It is odd, for the woman has proven herself to be a capable and attentive mother when she is by her son; it is unlike her to allow him to cry so pitifully.

That is the first thing She attends to.

The boy is hungry, She sees when She picks him up and cradles him to Her chest, allowing Her lips to ghost over his forehead in an imitation of his mother’s kisses. She does not offer Her own milk to him, She never does; She has learned her lesson with Alcaeus, and though She wishes for Her champion to be strong, that is not the path to it She will give him. Instead, She hushes him as She steps around the kitchen, pulling out his bottle and milk to prepare it. It is an odd thing, for Her, this modern thing. She would prefer to seek out another mother to feed him as She would in the past, but Esperanza insists this is sufficient and has made Her swear not to go knocking on others’ doors in search of a nurse when she is unavailable.

The boy is calmed quickly once he is suckling on the bottle, so She lays him on his playmat for the moment to follow the sound of short breathing into his mother’s room.

The door is not closed and She does not bother knocking before pushing it open. Something odd and cold swirls in Her chest at the sight that greets Her.

Esperanza lays curled on her bed, in her stained shirt and work overalls, blankets and pillows strewn about in disarray, the plush peacock She had given her as a peace offering laying crumpled against the wall, clearly kicked off by its owner. Her curls, most days a chaotic cloud tamed only by their oiliness and hair ties, stick flatly to her face and nape. Her face, hidden in the mattress and the curtain of her hair as it is, is read and shiny with sweat, and she clutches her right arm to herself tightly.

“Esperanza?” She asks, and it is not soft nor quiet, but it does lack the edge She gives Her words to make them Her protection. The woman lets out a low groan and shifts to look up at Her with puffy, red eyes.

“ Mami ?” she mumbles, and her voice is thick and muted, lacking the life she imbues it with every day. 

She frowns as much as She ever does, lips turning down slightly and brows drawing together a bit, and steps over to sit on the edge of the bed, next to the human. The bed is a far cry from what She is used to sitting on throughout all of Her millennia of life, but She has learned not to hate her home and her furniture; she says there is charm in the way everything is worn and broken in, and while She does not agree, She has decided not to fight about this , of all things. There is none of the gold and riches She deserves as Queen Of The Heavens, but She Herself does not present Herself as such in this cramped apartment, so She allows it with naught but a crooked look ever so often.

She lays the back of Her hand against her forehead, holding in the sound of disgust at the wetness of it.

“I do not believe this is the average human temperature, is it, my dear?” She says quietly. Her skin feels as warm as Leo’s; except Leo is always burning with the hearth in his heart. Esperanza has always felt blessedly cool in comparison.

Sickness is not in Her domain; it is Her Husband’s twin brats that hold dominion over it, alongside a plethora of minor deities and beings. She cares little for the intricacies of mortal illnesses and how to care for them. Right now, though… it feels as though there is a blunt knife trying to carve at where Her heart would be had She been human, and She has an uncomfortable realization that perhaps that feeling is care . Care for the mortal woman gasping breaths of air next to Her and her son pressing buttons on his playing mat in the living room.

She pulls those thoughts into a clumped little ball and locks it away for never .

Still, She brushes Esperanza’s hair away from her face and presses Her fingers to her temples. Sickness may not be Her specialty, but that does not mean She cannot relieve a human from a hopefully minor one. The woman’s skin shimmers with soft gold — just the smallest bit of Her power, for she is still mortal with not a drop of divinity to her name and therefore no resistance to it — and her face smooths out, the next inhale coming easier. Her eyes are not so absent when she opens them to look at Her from beneath her wet lashes.

“Callida,” she breathes. That is a certain thing She has come to expect of her. No titles, no epithets, no proper name — just Callida. That is, of course, what She introduced Herself as, said she is allowed to call Her such, but it is odd nonetheless; She expected more hesitance to calling the Queen Of The Gods, her lover’s Mother, by a mortal name so simple. And Esperanza knows who She is, of course she does, how could she not when She wears peacock feathers and pomegranates woven into Her clothes?

Nonetheless, the fake name continues to fall from her lips easily, as though She has no other to be called.

“It is me. It appears you fell ill,” She says. She tilts her head, a habit She has seemingly picked up from spending so much time among mortals, annoying in its humanity. “How did that happen?”

Esperanza stares at Her dazedly before her lips twitch up and she laughs dryly, which devolves into a short coughing fit. Her face twists and she tucks her right hand closer beneath her chin.

“Overworked myself, I think,” she replies, and She once again reels slightly from the fragility of humans. Working “too much” leads them to lay in their beds miserably, unable to even pick themselves up to calm their wailing children? It is a true wonder and miracle they have ever advanced as far as they have. Esperanza speaks up again: “Eventually realized I really need to rest when I cut myself because I got so dizzy.”

Her eyes dart to the hand She has been so concerned with observing already, and finally notices that it is wrapped in a bloodied cloth. She grabs her arm despite her pained whine, slowly unwraps the scrap of fabric that can only be called an improvised bandage by a large stretch of the term, and looks at the flood of crimson soaking Esperanza’s hand. It is dried and flaking, now, which does not seem to do anything to calm the dull thudding She can feel in the back of Her head.

“Why didn’t you call for me ?” She hisses, conjuring a clean handkerchief to start wiping away at the blood. Esperanza knows how to summon Her, though she has never done it. She knows the prayers, the sacrifices, the words that are sure to get Her attention in case of emergency; why didn’t she use that knowledge?

“M’fine,” she mumbles, fingers twitching every time She gets too close to the cut. “No reason to bother you.”

And that is– true, is it not? “Emergency” is a word meant for a sudden monster attack or Her Family finding out about Her little hobby or something along those lines, not a harmless, albeit heavily bleeding, cut she sustained during work.

She does not like the fact that She has equated those to each other in that moment.

“Correct,” She exhales, putting aside the soiled handkerchief to run Her fingers over the cut; healing may not be Hers, but the skin stitches itself at Her command regardless, leaving only a pale scar in its wake. “I do not know why I said that. Perhaps your foolish books have been getting to me.”

Esperanza chuckles, pulling her hand back to herself, and her eyes are still clouded but once again bright with mirth.

“Perhaps,” she nods, “or maybe you just care that much.”

She scowls, quickly getting up from the bed and crossing the room to the door. The ball of feelings tries to unfurl, but She clamps down on it viciously.

“Foolish human. You know I do not care beyond what the Fates have in store for you and your son.”

She does not say a word about the plush peacock that has found its way into Esperanza’s arms or the glass of water waiting at her bedside, her son peacefully tucked into his crib.

She does not expect Esperanza to be angry when she finds She has set Leo to bed in the fireplace. The boy was made with fire as his lifeblood, there has never been any risk to be acknowledged in him playing with fire; if anything, with Her watching over him, having prepared him properly just in case, the only outcome other than a warm nap could have been his mortality burning away. She sees no reason for the mother to burn her own arms to pull her child out; and yet, that is exactly what she did, right before turning on Her with a fierce scowl equal to one belonging to a Fury, and she screamed, casting Her out of her home as though She had committed some terrible crime.

“ He’s too young for your world! ” she had shrieked, face twisted uglily and child clutched tightly to her chest despite his wailing, and the words loop through Her mind as She transports to Her personal quarters, leaving an aspect of Herself fluttering in the boy’s bedroom window as She always does

Too young .

Ares had waged his first war when he was a little over two. Hebe had overseen her first feast when she was barely one. Eileithyia had helped deliver her first baby when she was merely weeks old.

They had not been too young.

Granted, there is a difference between a god and a mortal, even one touched by divinity, but… well, that is exactly what She had aimed to fix, was it not? To bestow the boy with immortality, so that he could face what the Fates have planned for him without all the fragility his humanity brings him. Moreover, even disregarding the question of immortality, how can he be “too young” for a world he is so intrinsically a part of? For a world that drenches every beat of his heart, every breath of his lungs? Dangerous and treacherous for a half-blood it may be, it is what he is made for, what is intertwined with the threads of his life. That is why She cares for him, after all. To prepare him for what his life will inevitably bring him, to help him become the greatest hero he can be.

Too young .

She has told Esperanza of the prophecy that had brought Her to her son. The woman knows what is written in the strings of life for him. She should not be objecting Her training and protection if she wishes her son to survive long enough to be hailed a hero.

Cuckoo feathers rustle and She tilts Her head to look inside the room better. Esperanza had bandaged her hands and forearms and is now sitting in the rocking chair by Leo’s crib, the boy cradled in her lap. She is humming, petting his hair gently, the radio quietly playing Spanish ballads in the background. Her son is almost melting into her, thumb stuck in his mouth and eyes half-closed.

“Too young, chiquito ,” she murmurs into his hair, and She only hears it because of Her divinity. “Too young for monsters and gods and prophecies and quests. You’re my little boy, yeah? Not a hero that’ll save the world. Just my little boy, solo mi nene . I might not be able to protect you from the monsters when they come, but just stay my baby until they do, alright?”

Her son babbles unintelligibly before falling silent, soundly asleep against his mother.

Too young , Esperanza says.

She does not think She will ever understand how mortals work. She knows She does not want to.

Esperanza does not forgive Her for what she has deemed a terrible slight, but she has allowed Her around her son without supervision once more. It is more necessity than trust, She has been told, as the woman cannot care for her son, her workshop, and herself without the support She provides in place of the family that has cast her away.

Still, she continues to hand Her books to read and music to listen to and movies to watch. She continues to pull Her into a dance when her favourites play on the radio and she continues to explain to Her the processes behind every new mechanism she creates. There is more wariness in her body whenever she leaves for her workshop and cannot bring Leo with her and there is more suspicion in her words whenever She lets slip any news of the divine, but it is manageable. She has made Her swear Her solemn oath that She will not attempt to burn away her boy’s mortality again, and though She disagrees with her stance, the promise binds Her in that regard.

It is alright, though. The boy’s training does not need to be so noticeable; She knows now that he will not be the fighter of his quest, but the brains, and Esperanza is much more receptive to Her training and honing his skills in that aspect.

They both adore whenever his creativity flourishes .

“You cannot make it too thin or it will crack in the oven, and you cannot make it too thick or it won’t bake at all. You need to find a good balance, liontári , as you should with everything in life,” She speaks, rearranging Leo’s wet hands on the lump of clay slightly resembling a small flower vase. He nods with pursed lips, eyes bright with a determined flame, letting the clay spin through his fingers as he reshapes it according to Her instructions.

His mother is, regretfully, spending the day arguing with her family over things She does not care to remember; whatever it is, Esperanza will get it, She is sure. Instead, She will focus on the fact that it is Mother’s Day this week and Leo, in all his four-year-old genius, has decided to experiment with pottery for her. If there is anything Esperanza’s family is good for, it is distracting her from her home, allowing Leo’s surprise plans to run their courses — under Her supervision, of course.

“Can I use fire?” Leo asks, still utterly focused on his task. She hums, tapping a sharp nail against Her chin as though She has to think about Her answer. She knows what She wants him to do; there is, however, another thing to consider, unfortunately.

“What did your mother say, little hero?” She asks. The boy pouts.

“Not until I meet Papi,” he replies and She taps him on the nose, eliciting a small squawk before She pulls back.

“That’s a no, then, unless you convince your mother to change her mind. You might be the only one able to do so, you know.” It is not as though She cares so much for a mortal’s rules, but She is the Patron Of Motherhood, and so it does not feel right to trample over so much of Esperanza’s authority as Mother; not here, at least, not about this. Leo’s blood runs with fire; he will know how and when to use it when the time comes even with limited instructions from Her. She will focus on cultivating his mind in the meantime.

“I think that looks good for baking, don’t you think?”

She was wrong.

She was so, so wrong.

Leo is not ready for his fire. His fire is not ready for the world. He does not know how to consume to create change, yet; he only consumes to destroy , and it is a horrible, horrible mistake.

She flutters into the fire, a blur of brown, an aspect of Her so small the Earth Mother will not detect it. Leo will be fine, physically; She cannot hurt him, not yet. Esperanza, however, is a different story entirely.

Her divine sight and learned familiarity of the workshop are the only things that allow Her to find Her way through the smoke and ashes. The little heart that has bled its way into this form thumps wildly, pumping Her ichor rushing through Her veins. It is hard to keep course, like that, with Her wings beating out of sync in their franticness, with Her feathers ruffling and burning with every flap.

She finds her slumped against her workbench, a damp cloth pressed to her face and soot-stained clothes in a way they have never been before. Her eyes are frantic, darting around the space, reflecting her son’s fire in a way so different from those few times she had allowed him to light scented candles bought specifically for that purpose. This time, her eyes are not wide in pride and awe of the boy’s divine heritage; no, this time, they are wide with pure terror, tears leaking from them and sobs ripping from her throat when she tries to breathe through the smoke.

There is no way out for her, She realizes belatedly, and then curses Her thoughts. Of course there is no way out, no way for her fragile mortality to be saved; this is a death trap designed by the Eldest, executed by her own son’s desire to protect her.

Esperanza will not leave her workshop; not tonight, not any night in the future. This is where she will die, choked on ashes and burnt on her son’s lifeforce.

And there is nothing She can do about it. Not without alerting the Earth Mother, who will only finish the job Herself in that case; the death would lose its poetic irony that the Sun brat always spews about, but that does not mean it would not happen.

She lands on Esperanza’s knee and chirps insistently, shaking Herself of the ashes that had settled between Her feathers. The woman gasps, which quickly turns into a cough, and drops one hand from her face to hold it out to Her; She hops onto it without hesitation, allowing her to lift Her up to eye level.

“Callida?” Esperanza whispers, and her voice is rougher than gravel, than that time She caught her sick. There will be no more singing along to stupid love ballads for her anymore. “Why are you here?”

I cannot save you , She thinks and knows the human hears it in her mind by the way she startles, not with the Earth Mother here. I am sorry .

A new bout of tears starts up and Esperanza cradles Her to her chest, curling around Her protectively as though She is the one dying.

“It’s okay.” It is very much not , but She does not argue, not when there is only so much time Esperanza has left. “It’s okay. Should’ve– Should’ve expected this. You said–” she is interrupted by a coughing fit before she starts again; the fabric she is using as a filter is long dry: “You said he’s important, right? That he’ll be in a lot of danger. I signed up for this, didn’t I? I just– I didn’t expect it so soon.”

She is silent for a moment, the crackling of the fire and the crying of police sirens and the hoarseness of her breaths the only sounds around. Then, she speaks again, pressing Her even closer to herself:

“Can you– can you swear one more oath for me?” She chirps agreeably, so she continues: “Keep an eye on my little boy, yeah? Do what you can. I know you’ve– you’ve got your rules and– and all that, but do your best, alright? For me? For the shitty books I made you read and stupid movies we watched together?”

For you , She thinks, nuzzling into her already-charred shirt, I swear on the River Styx .

Esperanza laughs, and it is a broken, pitiful thing, and She knows it will be one of Her most revered memories.

Chapter Text

She has not paid much attention to the Valdez family outside of Her champion and his mother. They were of no concern to Her, beyond the fact that they occasionally took Esperanza’s time.

That is another lapse in judgment She has managed to make, She finds as She watches Esperanza’s sister curse her boy out in front of the mortal police. She blames him for her sister’s death. The human boy too fragile and emotional to poke a snake with a stick. The human boy who adores his mother above anything else. The human boy that has not stopped wailing since he woke up to no Esperanza by his side.

Humans are more than blind to the divine, She knows, but the woman seems to be oblivious to who the boy is far beyond that.

( She banishes the thoughts of the mortal children She Herself has blamed and punished for Her Husband’s unfaithfulness. )

Besides, if the wish is to bring Esperanza justice, casting her child away is not the way to do it. Even in her last moments, she had been wholly consumed by her love for him. She would want her son to be safe and happy, even if he could not be so with her.

And yet, there is now a sharp, red mark glaring from Leo’s cheek as he waits at the police station, sobbing and cradling the injury. She may not be his father, but heat and iron roil through Her being all the same at the sight, at the memory of a too–soft hand connecting with his face, shiny red nails scraping at the edges of the blemish the same way an empousai’s talons might.

It takes seconds for Her to shed Her feathers when She takes a step into the room. Her form is an unfamiliar one — short and round and black as midnight, clad in a flowy, orange dress, nails so short and blunt they could not scratch if She tried — but She moulds it to Herself nonetheless, if at least for the moment. It is good that it is not familiar; the further from what the boy knows, the better, She decides.

Leo barely pays attention to Her when She glides over to him, only wiping away at his tears once She kneels in front of him. It does not do much, with how much is pouring from his eyes, but the attempt is there. The boy has always enjoyed taking on challenges.

“Hello, little one,” She murmurs, raising a hand to card it through his hair, as She has done for him in the past, as Esperanza showed Her to do. He stiffens for a moment before leaning into the touch, sniffling and snivelling and leaking snot from his nose, and She is reminded of his mother pinned down by sickness. Except this time, She cannot simply brush Her fingers over him to relieve him of his ailment. The finickiness of human softness and emotions strikes once again. “You’ve been hurt a great deal, haven’t you?”

The boy, in all his shakiness, manages a small nod, accompanied by a choking gasp. “My– my mami , I… I…”

She gently slides Her hand down to cup his unmarred cheek, swiping Her thumb over it with a small sound. “Shhhh, peque , you don’t have to talk. I know. Your tía isn’t a very nice woman, is she?”

His breath hitches and the tears flood over again. She shushes him again, softly, trying to get him to breathe. She might not exactly understand why air is so vital to human survival, but Esperanza has taught Her enough that She knows he needs it, even if his body is desperately refusing it in favour of crying. He babbles and bumbles, only every few words managing something intelligible, and She slips Her hands under him to lift him up, quickly sitting down in his chair and setting him in Her lap, allowing him to curl up in it and cling to Her, burying his face in Her chest.

She runs Her hand through his hair, down his back, rubs circles into his shoulder, hums one of Esperanza’s favourite songs. She keeps Her skin warmer than an average human, closer to a bottle of boiled water. That has always helped calm the boy down; with the fire raging in his chest, he could never have enough warmth.

“Look at me, little lion?” She slides Her hand under his chin, lifting it up. Leo resists, hands tightening on Her clothes and head pushing in more into Her, but eventually, he allows Her to pull it up. His face is redder than She has ever seen it, blotchy and wet and covered in snot, and Her lips pull down a minuscule amount. It is not only gross but also unbecoming, for something to drive Her champion to this state. How dare that vile woman do this to her own flesh and blood? To Her chosen mortal? “Very good, peque . Let me see?”

She traces the raised edge of the angrier redness that stands out on his cheek. He flinches and tries to duck his head down, hide it back in Her chest, but She holds him up. “I only wish to help, dear. Make it hurt less. May I?”

He stares at Her, eyes wide and glassy and darting, lip trembling like jelly, but he keens and gives the tiniest nod he can manage that She doubts She would be able to see without the sharpness of Her divinity. She runs Her fingers over the injury, touch feather-light and brief, and the redness recedes a bit, becomes a little… not softer , but less angry. The handprint smooths out and fades into the blotchiness, and the scratches close up with not a trace of sign that they were ever there. “There. All better now, aren’t we, darling?”

His little mouth drops into an o as he pats his healed cheek, and for at least a moment, the tears and sobs stop coming. Her lips twitch up in a smile and She tugs gently at one of his curls. He giggles wetly, wiping at his nose and eyes, and She pulls out a box of tissues to begin dabbing at his face as well.

( The boy falls asleep with tears still in his eyes, and She slips away between moments when an officer opens the door. )

( Rosa Valdez can never clean the manure and remove its smell from herself; her wedding band never stops cutting into her and so is forever bathed in her blood. )

She had known Leo as one for wandering off; She had not thought him one for running away.

And yet, She watches him tuck himself into a crevice between two buildings, hands bound in gloves and body curled over a small backpack of food, mere days after Esperanza’s death. The home the mortals had put him in did not fit him, with its white walls and beige couch and gray counters, yes, but She had still not thought he would rather sentence himself to the cold streets than stay.

He does not allow himself even a wisp of his flames to stave off the cold.

It is a pitiful display for what will become one of the greatest Heroes in existence, yet She does not feel Her typical urge to send one of Her Peafowls to nip an insubordinate half-blood to work.

Soft touches and warbling laughter have softened the point of Her Crown, have they not?

She cannot find it in Herself to be properly angered at the idea, irritating as it is. Instead, She picks a brown feather off Her dress and drops it in the wind, allowing the wind spirits to carry it away. Gossips as they are, this will be common knowledge soon — but it is not uncommon for Her to do so, so She carries no worry for it, and simply watches a peahen flap her wings to slow her fall to the dirtied ground of the boy’s chosen alley.

She clucks curiously as she lands, taking a few steps into the alley. Leo lifts his head a little, just enough to peek at the bird from beneath ragged curls — not yet dirty from the street, but overdue for the cut Esperanza had meant to give him. His face is red and blotchy, his eyes bloodshot and leaking seemingly endless tears, the same state they have been in since he woke up at the police station. His arms tighten around his bag.

The peahen moves closer, head shifting this way and that as she inspects the boy and the condition he is in. He shuffles back against the wall, stuffy nose now also peeking over the backpack as his legs fall apart a little.

“Tía- Tía liked peafowl,” he sniffles, hand rubbing fruitlessly at his cheek. The peahen snips at his fingers gently, forcing him to drop the hand. When she nudges his cheek with her head instead, a low trill in her throat like a purr, he giggles wetly, raising both hands again to move roughly down her neck; she allows it with naught more than a small tensing that convinces him to soften his petting, after which she pushes into his hand in search of the affection. Leo smiles weakly, repeatedly smoothing her neck feathers and running his hands down her back, his position opening up entirely into a cross-legged sit that allows the peahen to nestle in his lap with another chorus of giggles. He wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her back, and she curls her neck over his shoulder. His tears have stopped flowing so quickly.

( He falls asleep on a pillow of feathers and wakes to his foster parents plucking him up to take him home .)

( He stays there for a few months, fluffy down and snippets of vane glistening in his curls .)

Her boy is curled up in the pantry, lights off and hands caging his mouth, tears pouring over them. His upper arms are covered in rising, red-tinted strips, tiny specks of blood glittering with divinity scattered like stars where the skin is thinnest. Crying and clattering echo in the rest of the house, Teresa prowling for her next victim, a green glass bottle still clutched tightly in one hand, a belt in the other. The other three children are older than Leo, but have been with the wretched woman for less time — and that is saying much, as it is only Her boy’s fifth month here — and so have not learned to hide well when she returns. Today, Leo had been too distracted, helping his foster sister with homework, and so hadn’t made it in time to one of his hiding places after hiding the others.

Rage rises in Her chest, as it has done so often since Her boy first stepped through Teresa’s door. They are not even disciplinary, these beatings — it is pure malice, aided by Her Husband’s theatrical bastard’s life force.

And She cannot do much of anything about it. Not without risk of drawing attention, of the Earth Mother noticing and attacking him again — cruel as humans may be, their depravity is a mere grain of sand among the ocean of a Divine Being’s ruthlessness, an insignificant spec in the face of Their Power. She much prefers Her boy take a thousand more beatings from a mortal than once again become subject to the Earth Mother’s wrath before his time.

She wishes he would run, as he has done before — packed his bag with the stash of extra clothing, food, and mortal money and disappeared, forced the humans to chase after him again. He has left for lesser reasons, before. She knows he has mapped ways to get away, and if he did ever need a guide, She would provide one. He could leave tonight if he so wished.

But he will not, because the Fates choose Their heroes well and Esperanza raised him to be good, so he will not leave so long as his foster siblings are in danger of mortal malice — and Teresa does not give them a shadow of a chance for reprieve.

A tiny aspect of Her slips into the pantry between moments and quietly trills from the shelf of preserves. Leo glances up and keeps his eyes glued to Her as she flutters down onto his knee, his hacking sobs desperately muffled. She hops towards his arms and snips gently at his wrist, making it jerk closer to Her. She preens against it, focusing on the ichor pulsing in his veins, warming it up and sending it rushing through the welts marring him — not too much, for concentrated like that it could burn through his body, but divinity is healing, and if Her fixing him directly is too risky, this will have to do.

Leo scoops Her up and clutches Her to his chest, one hand still tight around his mouth, and his heartbeat thuds around Her frame in a familiar rhythm. He is so, so similar to his mother.

It is a workshop that She walks into when She steps into Leo’s dream. It is not Esperanza’s — it is not as familiar, as crowded with memories. She does not know it; She suspects it is one of Camp Halfblood’s, with the celestial bronze She can see littered all over the large space, plans and schematics covering every piece of the walls that is not covered in shelves or weapons.

Leo stands in the middle, just as She had seen him the day before: tangled hair, orange Camp Halfblood T-shirt hanging on his too-thin frame, magic belt strapped around his hips. He is not wearing gloves, She notes, pleased. He had not worn them during Her rescue, either, but She had chalked it up to necessity. This is confirmation that, perhaps, he is learning to live with his fire.

“Leo Valdez,” She speaks after a moment of watching him fiddle with wires and screws, twisting them into different shapes. His head whips up, hands tightening around the improvised toy before shoving it into his belt. She feels something smooth in Her chest as She remembers him playing in much the same way before Esperanza died. Habits die hard, She supposes.

“Tía,” he says, and it is tight and hesitant, lips pulled into a straight line and eyes unmarred by forced cheer. It is different from how he was when they last saw each other; then, he had not dropped his act, had not let go of the mask he holds onto so tightly. He had insulted Her, played into the role of a demigod hurt by Her, the one that the Huntress and the owl child fall into so effortlessly.

That is not all there is here, though, and he knows it just as well as She does. He is not like any other demigod has ever been to Her before.

Still, the word carries only the barest of traces of what it used to, before the Fire, and She cannot pin down the pricking under Her skin that the acknowledgement brings. It is as though She is one of Esperanza’s worn rag dolls, with the stitching worn and torn in places, the stuffing forcing itself out little by little. It is… odd. She is not sure what to do with it, as has become frustratingly common when it comes to the Valdez pair.

“I must thank you for your aid,” She says, hands elegantly clasped in front of Herself. Leo raises a brow with a small scoff, hands on his hips and foot tapping out a rhythm.

“Wasn’t my choice, gotta tell you that. I just wasn’t gonna let Jason and Piper go risk their lives on a quest alone.” His tone is biting, scathing, sharp in a way that only years of forging words into swords can make it. “I wasn’t exactly raring to go to save you . You could still be rotting away in that cage for all I care if not for the fact that the world could end if you did.”

Her fingers twitch, wisps of Her Power surging forward with habit– She clenches Her hands tighter, reining in Its flow. She does not allow any ordinary mortal, even the ocean brat or owl child, to insult Her so without punishment; yet, as he has proven time and time again, Leo Valdez is no ordinary mortal in Her eyes — he is Her mortal, Her Champion . She can forgive an insult falling from the same mouth that used to gnaw on Her fingers and babble into Her shoulder.

“I see,” She says instead, flat and bland. He blinks at Her, shoulders dropping and fists unclenching from their aggressive positions. The scowl melts off his face into an uncomfortable grimace, and his hand raises to clasp onto his forearm, shielding his chest. It is a gesture She recognizes from every time Esperanza had arrived home following a meeting with her family, though she would usually curl up on the couch or her bed and nestle in a nest of blankets and pillows as well. It is silent for a few moments before he speaks up:

“So.” He pauses, chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes darting around Her. “ So . Did mami – did she know ?”

She blinks, tilts Her head, allows the corners of Her lips to twitch marginally. It is not an unexpected question — the boy has always had a rightful thirst for knowledge that She and his mother gladly cultivated, and Esperanza had known his fire; of course he wishes to know how much she had truly known.

“Yes. I had come to her door a few months after your birth and revealed Myself and your Fate. She agreed to allow Me to assist in raising you.” Not that She would have accepted a refusal, but, well. Mortals are so fond of their choices, and She will not strip Esperanza of hers in this retelling.

She steps closer, and he flinches but does not move away, jaw tight with tension. When She moves Her hand to cradle his cheek, he is very still, eyes flashing with internal flames; yet, once a few moments pass, he leans into the contact with a scrunched nose, forcefully loosening his body. He does not look at Her face, but does let out a small, sharp exhale, like a taut string suddenly being let go of, and drops his hand from his forearm to fiddle with his belt.

She tilts his head this way and that, his eyes resolutely avoiding Hers, and examines his face up close for the first time in years. A faded scar from the edge of a table cuts along his left jawline, a handful of indents from incessant scratching are scattered over his cheeks, a crookedness from repeated breaks shapes his nose. His lips are bitten through and chapped, specks of dried blood still staining them from his latest bout of nervousness. Oily curls limply spill down to just above his chin, coiling around his ears and falling over his forehead. His teeth are crooked, and the front ones are chipped irregularly enough that She is certain they scrape against each other uncomfortably.

“... Are you done?” Leo mumbles after a few minutes of Her ministrations and She lets go of his face, instead laying Her hand on his shoulder. He does not shrug it off, merely shifting from one foot to the other.

“You look just like her,” She says, and that finally draws his eyes up to Hers. His lips are parted gently and his brows are furrowed, as though he cannot decide between confusion and awe. The corners of Her lips tick up in the faintest of smiles. “Even the eternal lack of care for yourself, you have inherited from her. The bruises under your eyes match hers exactly.”

He lets out a baffled snort and runs his hand through his hair, then down his face, and leans into Her hand. She lifts Her remaining one to set it on his other shoulder, and that seems to prompt him to tilt forward into Her chest with a worn, drawn-out exhale, hands rising to twist fingers into Her robes. Quickly, She moves one hand to caress the back of his head, tangling into his curls.

He is both familiar and not in Her arms. The warmth of his skin, the ichor mixing with blood in his veins, the nest of unkempt hair — those have remained the same, clicking back into their spots in Her Being as they should have been since the moment he first smiled at Her, never gone. Yet, he is larger now, his edges sharper and rougher, his cheeks hollowed and his limbs gangly; he is simultaneously too large and not nearly large enough to fill out the empty space deep inside of Her.

She is unsure what to do with that revelation.

“... Is it bad that I missed you?” Leo whispers. She stills, silent, his rough breathing echoing through Her. “I mean– fuck , I should hate you. I do hate you. You put me in a fucking fireplace when I was two and– and tried to teach me how to use a dagger as soon as I could hold one up, and so much other bullshit . I hate you .” He pauses with a rough sniff. She worries he might start crying. “But I also– mierda , mami wouldn’t’ve gotten by without you, would she? She needed you, and she needed you to take care of me, no matter how– how little you understand about– shit, mortality, I guess? And you did it. And you were shit at it and if you were human you would’ve been arrested, but– but you still did it and that’s better than Aunt Rosa and– and the others, isn’t it? And– and you helped me figure out pottery, and you never let me even think about my fire being a curse, and– and–”

He sobs dryly, fingers tightening in Her robes and face burying into Her. She begins untangling his hair, humming one of Her Mother’s old lullabies. This is… not comfortable territory, but a familiar one nonetheless. She had done this before, several times, whenever Leo came home from a bad day at school and devolved into a crying, snotty mess the moment he touched Her. It is lacking all the tears and other bodily fluids now, and She does not have to bend down or pick him up for him to sob into Her shoulder, but that is ultimately irrelevant when She slots Herself into the spot Her boy needs Her to be in.

( They end the dream on the workshop floor, Leo quietly recounting all the memories he has of Her, cursing Her during the good ones and burying deeper into Her side during the bad ones. )

( He wakes with a lotus flower crushed in his grasp and pomegranate on his breath. )

Chapter Text

It is… difficult, to track Her boy’s Quest, while fleeing Her Husband as Her Selves fought each other at every decision. Leo is far from Her current Seat of Power; it takes effort She cannot afford if She wishes to avoid Her Punishment, regardless of the pull to observe in Hera’s chest.

Under no circumstances will Juno chase after a Greek, mortal child like a scorned mutt.

And yet, when he screams, the Threads of Her Being tighten and solidify if just for a moment in Her Existence, coiling upon Themselves and spilling into a battleship’s stables.

The owl bastard’s marble face peers up at Her impassively. Right. The demigods had retrieved her oh-so-beloved statue. She had been vaguely aware that the owl child was to be the search’s newest victim; it seems she had achieved what hundreds before her could not.

She would feel a modicum less anger about this if Her boy was not currently panting over his tools, bloody fists beating the cold marble and throat being torn raw by bouts of unintelligible screaming.

She glides closer to him, silk and jewels melting into a worn cardigan and wooden beads. He does not give even the smallest of signs that he has noticed Her, too consumed by his rage.

“ Liontári ?” She is as quiet as his mother had told Her to be when putting him to sleep, gathering Her silver-streaked hair into a bun. Esperanza had enjoyed occasionally doing Her hair when She allowed it, and it seems She has not moved past the habit of leaving it down when entering this Form despite preferring it tied up when running after fire-born children.

Leo’s bloodshot eyes snap up to Hers, torn knuckles immediately freezing against the statue’s white surface. He continues panting for a few more moments, chest heaving, but the screaming stops despite the wild look in his eyes, which She is glad for. His voice already seems hoarser than it had following a flu season that had both Valdezes vomiting for a week.

She cards a hand through his oily hair, clicking Her tongue at its state, and he leans into Her hand limply, shoulders dropping slightly and face losing a sliver of its angry edge. He lets out a long, low groan that ends in a dry sob, hiding his face in his hands. Streaks of his blood bite into the pure marble like fire in an evergreen forest.

“Why are you here?” he asks roughly, shifting to lean against Her leg. “I thought you were busy having an identity crisis.”

“It is far beyond a mere identity crisis, my dear,” She scoffs, trailing Her nails down his scalp to dig into the base of his neck for a moment. He jerks just enough to be noticeable before relaxing back into Her hand laid against his nape. His hands have dropped to hug his knees to his chest. “Juno does not see you as favourably as I do and fights much to prevent Me from even observing you, but there are things that can force Her to stop struggling against Me.”

She pauses, weighing how much She wishes to share with Her Champion. He tilts his head back and blinks at Her from below, eyebrow raised. It pulls the corner of his lips up in the same skeptical grimace as his mother. She brushes his hair from his forehead, hand slipping down to cup his cheek.

“... you are upset,” She finally says. His eyes widen and he ducks his head, shoulders hunching. She stares at the blood marks on the statue before crouching down, still looming over Leo’s small, curled-up form. She lays a hand on his shoulder. “What is it that angers you so much you forget yourself? You have always been careful to not dirty things with your blood or wake those around you with your screams.”

“... we’re too far for anyone to hear,” he says, partially muffled in his sleeves. She taps him on the side of his chin, coaxing him to lift his face. Their eyes meet and She tilits Her head, examining him closer. Emotions have always been a difficult thing, but are even more so now that he has learned to mask them. She cannot tell what type of “upset” he is. She draws Her brows together, lips pursed.

“That is hardly an answer, little hero. Speak clearly and tell Me what happened,” She commands and he flinches, but does not move away or drop his gaze again. His eyes smoulder with fire, flames dancing within his irises. It is a wonder they do not disperse darkness from wherever he looks, bright beacons as they are.

He blinks, nails digging into his forearms and teeth gritting together, but he cannot look away. They stare at each other in still silence, the world outside of the room they are in nonexistent if just for a few brief moments.

Finally, Leo hisses out a breath, and his face crumples into despair before, as fast as he can, he blurts: “Percy and Annabeth fell into Tartarus and it’s my fault and they did it to recover this stupid fucking statue and I can’t even figure out how it works so what’s even the point –”

He tips into Her arms and shoves his face into Her shoulder with a new scream. She reaches up to embrace him, the gesture coming to Her much easier than the last time She saw him. He is a little fuller in Her hold, a little larger and softer, though not by much. An effect of improved nutrition, though She is unsure if it is entirely proper yet. He does not have the roundness he used to, but Esperanza had called some of that chub “baby fat” that humans are meant to lose by Leo’s current age, and he has always been small next to his peers.

“Why would their fall be your fault, cub?” She asks, winding a slick strand of his hair through Her fingers, leaving faint black smudges on them. When was the last time he had taken a bath?

“I opened the cookie Rosa gave me,” he mumbles. She stops, looks down at him.

“Rosa? When did you see her?” She does not hide the edge in Her voice, the thrumming beneath Her skin at the name. The wretched woman is best left forgotten and far away from Her boy.

However, Leo frantically shakes his head, leaning away from Her to cross his arms in an “X” in front of him. He chuckles nervously, then quickly corrects himself: “Not the actual Rosa! I haven’t seen her since… since . This was– it was Nemesis, looking like Rosa. She, uh. She gave me a fortune cookie, said I’ll open it when I need it most and pay the price later. I, uh, I used it to save Frank and Hazel.” He quiets, staring blankly at Her shoulder and chewing on the inside of his cheek. She pats him on the shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts and coaxing him to continue: “... the price was Percy and Annabeth falling, I’m sure of it. It has to be. They’re too– they’re too good for that to happen without intervention. And– and it won’t even matter unless I figure out how to get the damn statue working but there’s nothing. Nothing ! I’ve spent two days looking at every nook and cranny it has and there’s nothing ! I don’t know what else to do to get it working!”

He buries his hands in his hair, pulling it. She tugs them away with a hum and clasps them in Her own. They are small and calloused, spindly and warm. Gloveless. They clutch at Hers, large and cool and withered, as though Her hold is the only thing keeping him from collapsing into his woes. He has always clung onto Her fingers with a hard grip, an effect of still getting used to his body if Esperanza is to be believed, but it had never been this desperate, looking at Her with such open agony.

“Firstly, I believe you are overworking yourself,” She finally starts, rubbing a thumb over the back of his hand. “That is a thing mortals experience, is it not? I remember your Mother falling sick due to insufficient rest. You are half god, yes, and have clearly inherited both your parents' work ethics, but you look so very much like her on that day I must say you require the same amount of rest as a regular human.”

He sighs and looks away, silent. She takes it as an agreement and continues: “Secondly, I am not certain you can do anything about the statue. It may be fine craftsmanship, but it is more magic than mechanics that courses through it. I do not believe it is yours to figure out, in the end.”

“...Oh.” He looks at their conjoined hands and shifts them to weave their fingers together. His tan but dull skin stands out starkly against Her splotched fairness. “So– so what am I supposed to do? Just leave it alone?”

“First, I believe you should bathe and eat something, and then rest,” She says and his cheeks flare up with heat. When he was younger, this would be paired with a flame starting at the tip of his nose or ear. Now, although She holds his bare hands, it is not.

Then, he yawns. She raises a brow at him and he chuckles sheepishly. “I… guess I could use a nap.”

“Clean up first,” She commands, glancing around the mess surrounding Her. She does not know where the bathroom is, or where She could find a change of clean clothes his companions will not question, but it is no trouble to learn Her boy’s ship.

Leo groans and leans forward to rest his forehead on Her chest. “I’m pretty sure if I try to shower right now I’ll fall asleep standing, tía. Can’t you just… I dunno, magic me clean?”

She could. Certainly, She could. It would not take even a fraction of Her Power to do so. However… there is a process, to bathing, that Leo could use right now. Scrubbing himself of filth would be good for him — it was for Esperanza, whenever she came home smeared with failure and rejection. She always bathed those nights, regardless of whether she was covered in grease and oil or not. A way to physically clean oneself of those emotions.

And Leo, if nothing else, is his Mother’s Son.

She summons a basin of warm water.

“At least clean your hair, then. Then sleep and take care of the rest in the morning.”

He looks to the basin, then to Her, then back to the basin, then back to Her. His eyes are wide, his mouth gaping a little. Then, he shakes himself off, pulling his hands away from Hers and scooching towards the basin. He dips his hand in the water and sighs with a small smile. He looks back to Her.

“Any soap to go with the bath, Your Highness?” Between moments, She is handing him a pale pink bottle. He takes it, turns it around in his hands, opens it and sniffs it. His eyes widen again and he stares at her. “Is this…?”

She nods. “Esperanza used the same one.”

He looks back at the bottle with a mystified expression, then clutches it to his chest. She smiles faintly and sets a rinse cup next to him.

Her Essence curdles within Her, sharpening and tossing Her form off-balance. She flickers between Greek, Roman, and mortal before pulling Herself back into Callida.

Her boy does not notice.

He does, however, notice when She stands up, dusting off Her skirt, and reaches out for Her before snapping his hand back to his chest. She draws Her brows together.

“Do you need anything more?” She asks and he hunches in on himself, twisting his fingers.

“No, I just– um. I was thinking, maybe, uh…” he trails off. She bats him on the head.

“Out with it, liontári . I thought we taught you not to leave your thoughts unfinished,” She scolds. He inhales deeply, then rushes out:

“Can you wash my hair?”

She blinks. His cheeks are (metaphorically) flaming red, head ducked and shoulders hitched up to his ears.

She is fighting Herself, but She is certain She can keep Her hands steady for a few minutes more.

She kneels down next to him and picks up the rinse cup.

“Very well, my dear. Is the water warm enough? I set it at the temperature you liked it as a child.”

He grins disbelievingly and nods quickly.

“Yeah, it’s good.”

Chapter Text

The last time She had cloaked Herself in mournful black and white was the Fall of Greece.

She does not go so far as to strip all Her decorations, but She veils Her face and shrouds Herself in iridescent shadows, taking to Her own rooms to avoid Her Husband's questions and requests that She does not wish to deliver upon. He follows after Her, seeking Her peacock train and pomegranate-red lips, and only allows Himself to be dismissed when She hands Him an imitation of a heart from Her chest, dripping with gold that now stains Her breast.

She is left to Her gardens after that, no one too eager to bother Her as She grieves something they do not know.

She had not grieved Esperanza so openly — had not allowed Herself to, wary of Her Husband’s eye and the Earth Mother’s touch. She had contained Herself to raging in the depths of Her Foster Father’s domain, Her destruction muffled from Her Family and the Earth Mother by Her Foster Parents’ embrace. She had raged about Her inability to protect what is Hers, about Her failure to predict the situation, and, most of all, about Her rage itself. About Her feelings . Her impossible attachment to the bastard child She was raising to slaughter and the mortal who had borne him.

( Her tears had been lost to the salty depths )

She had only meant to ensure the boy would grow into his role, but they left Her missing pieces of Herself.

She had known they would only last a blink. Through every Friday diner dinner, every movie night that left Esperanza sobbing from either laughter or misery, every drawing of Her made in bright crayon, She had known that they were glass next to Her steel. She had hand-raised Leo to be a capable sacrifice at the time of his reckoning. It had not been a certainty that he would die, but it had been the expectation.

They were both simply so mortal , it had been impossible not to know about it; each time Esperanza overworked herself, each time Leo scraped his hands and knees, each time they were confined to their beds due to illness — each time, She saw Thanatos trailing their every step, as he does with every soul.

She has seen countless mortals come and go. She had known.

And yet, She cannot keep Herself from cradling a little clay cow in Her hands as though it is one of Her Children, silver dripping from Her eyes.

The figure is a clumsy thing, with a smooshed leg and fingerprints pressed into its surface and specks of unintentional colour scattered throughout. Its eyes are too large, the left one crooked and more oval than circle, and the tail had broken off during the baking process.

Leo had made it for Her during a school workshop for Mother’s Day, to match the rabbit he had given Esperanza. He had been vibrating when She came by the next day, all too eager to gift it to Her. Esperanza had laughed at Her marginally widened eyes as She held the thing before coaxing Her to thank the boy.

It had become a rather precious thing, following the Fire, and She had kept it among Her most sacred offerings, next to royal wedding veils and childish promise rings.

And now, She holds it to Her breast, its horns digging into Her heart wound as She mourns the hands that made it.

She wishes She could drag the two mortals from Her Brother’s Kingdom, place them in Her gardens where they would be free to live as they pleased. No more estranged family, no more long nights to make ends meet, no more skipped presents, no more death . No more prophecies and the Fates’ tapestries pulling them into the fray. Just… them. Breathing, and laughing, and creating. Them .

Her Brothers would never allow it, but She wishes. 

Instead, She must satisfy Herself with the red seedlings sprouting around Her and the salamanders basking among them.

She had never been one for remembrance, not they way the sun bastard has always done it, with his flowering grief and melodic misery. She had never lost that way, and what little She did grieve, She did so within Herself, as The Queen ought to.

But the Valdezes are special , a pair of precious little things that have wormed under Her skin like parasites She is not so eager to remove.

So a red, black-striped salamander had slipped from the flames of her workshop, and now yellow flowers drip from red stems at Her feet.

( She had asked Leo, once, not long before Esperanza forbid Her from coming for the final time, what he would like to be when he died; he had blinked at Her, smiled a gap-toothed grin, and ran off to come back with a handful of wildflowers. “Mama likes flowers!”, he had said, shoving the little, torn bouquet into Her hands. She had passed it onto Esperanza, but added a squished knapweed between Her feathers )

It is not nearly enough to encompass the two mortals, but She strokes the back of one of the creatures and plucks up a flower to twirl between Her fingers, presses the little cow figure further into Her chest.

Little things. So many little things. They were so little, so inconsequential and minor in the Great Tapestry, and yet. And yet .

There are songs in Her mind, woven through with the crackle of an eternally-dying radio and Esperanza’s off-key singing. She sneaks glances at mortal movies, childish cartoons and cheap horrors and cheesy Hallmarks, and makes popcorn by keeping it in the microwave for too long. Several Harlequins are stowed around Her quarters, where Her Family will not find them, and nectar tastes like black tea with lemon and raspberry juice when She reads them. Leo’s crayon drawings are kept with Esperanza’s blueprints, all scattered with hearts and equations.

Little things. Dozens of nothings that have gathered to become part of Her Everything without Her noticing until it was far too late to remove them. That have sunk their needle teeth and claws into Her Being and refuse to let go — not that She is, truthfully, trying very hard to discard them.

Dozens of imperfect little nothings far below The Queen of Heavens, yet She indulges in them as though they are ambrosia, as though She is mortal and they are air, as though She is a Valdez and they are technology.

She lays in Her gardens, among Leo’s flowers and Esperanza’s salamanders, silver clinging to Her lashes and cheeks beneath Her veil, cloaked in layers of black and white, a little cow figure pressed into the gaping, golden wound on Her breast, and, with Esperanza’s familiar endearments and Leo’s bittersweet complaints in Her ears, She wonders:

Is this what mortals call love?

Chapter Text

She is with Her Sister Hestia when She feels it, thrumming through Her Core like a heartbeat.

Hey, uh, hey tía. It’s been a while, huh? A lot of things have happened, you might’ve noticed. The Earth almost came to life but I exploded it! And, uh, myself in the process. Don’t recommend it, zero out of ten experience… but I got better! And I, uh, I thought it might be… nice, if you heard that from me over anyone else. So, uh, yeah. This is me letting you know. Toodles!

It comes with the scent of cooked fish and fries, woven through with Leo’s signature embers.

Her hand slips on Her weaving, and She curses as She has to correct the strings’ arrangement.

“Sister?” She looks to Hestia, Her own tapestry set to the side and one hand hovering over Her Queen’s knee. She tilts Her head in assent and the hand lands, warm and solid even through the layers of silk separating Their skins. “What seems to be the matter?”

She takes an unnecessary breath, at which Hestia raises a brow — such a human gesture questioning Her own human habits… She does not comment on the irony, for Hestia’s mortal quirks have long been accepted as a precious Element of Her Being as the Hearth.

“It is… it is just a prayer. One I did not expect,” She explains. Leo is meant to be dead . He was dead, She had checked Herself. Her Brother would not let him come back, not so easily, not without godly intervention. She would know if there had been an attempt at bringing Her boy back; quests for immortality or revival do not pass by quietly.

And yet, the prayer beats in Her chest steadily. She wishes to track it down immediately, but Hestia is right there, staring at Her with flickering flame eyes.

“What about this prayer surprises You so? I did not believe that to be possible, after millennia of listening,” Hestia says. She cannot explain — Her affection for Her mortals is a hidden thing, and even Hestia, the Hearth and Family, cannot be expected to react too well to news of an escaped soul.

She carefully looks back to Her weaving, fingers picking through the strings with a focus too intense for the familiar movements and says nothing. Hestia’s hand squeezes Her knee.

“I hear all prayers that come through My Hearth, You know this,” She begins. She tenses Her shoulders minutely at the reminder, but hearing prayers does not mean paying attention to them. Perhaps there is Hope that Hestia is unaware of his undeath.

( There is not. Her Sister always did like to start Conversations with gentle prodding and reminders that She knows what They refuse to tell Her )

“Ones about family stand out among most others. They always catch My attention,” She continues. She tightens Her grasp on Her tapestry and does not look up. “Especially when they are about Our Family. I believe Your fire would like to see You, Dear Sister.”

Hestia cups Her cheek and tilts Her head to look at Her. Her hands are steady among Her strings, but She slips up again. She stares into Her Sister’s soft, flaming eyes; She can See Her Mother, and Her Husband, and Her Daughters Eileithyia and Hebe, and Her Son Ares… and Her mortals Esperanza and Leo.

She tears Her eyes away, focusing on Her Sister’s nose instead.

“He is meant to be dead,” She says flatly. Hestia’s giggle as She takes Her hands away sounds like the bells on Leo’s first Christmas sweater.

“Can We truly Know what someone is meant to be without looking at The Tapestry?” She questions, voice underlaced with childish mischief. She has shrunk from late to early teens, matching the tone. “Maybe he was always meant to come back. Regardless, he is back right now, and one of the first things he did was let You know. That is a sign that he wishes to see You no worse than any other. You should go.”

“He is meant to be dead,” She bites again. “He is dead. I do not know how he has escaped, but it will not last long, You know this. He is dead.”

Hestia sighs. “He is not. Not yet. He has so little time already, even less if You are correct and Our Brother chases him down; why not take advantage of what there is?.” She pauses, as if waiting for a response, then continues when She does not receive one: “You have spent so long mourning his death, since long before he graced the Underworld. Spend at least a little bit of time celebrating his life , Dearest Hera. Preferably with him.”

And it is– the thing is, She would like to. She would like to swoop down and cradle his face and groom his hair and a dozen other things. Sway along to a crackly song while preparing dinner, sit close together reading a book. All the little things She had found unbearably human and had taken for granted, only realizing the space they filled in Her after She lost them.

The realization pricks up along Her spine and fuzzes the edges of Her Being, Her Form wavering as She keeps it from slipping into Callida. Just as Hera had no place in the Valdez home and workshop, Tía Callida is not allowed on Olympus.

But.

She wishes to see her boy right then and there, run Her hands down his face and arms, check him for injuries and heal them — but She does not know if She can . Disregarding Her Family’s rules about interactions with mortals, She does not think She can see him for a painfully, horribly human reason:

Hestia is right in that She has grieved.

She has grieved. She has spent the past few weeks in mourning garbs, avoiding Her Husband and conversations. She has moulded petals to Her will, mixed them with Her tears and matched them to the lizard She had formed so long yet so little ago. She has grieved .

She is uncomfortably unsure of whether She can do it again, especially for the same person. Especially for Her Boy , who She had watched take his first steps and blubber his first words and craft his first invention.

She has grieved, but She is not experienced in grief, does not know how to handle so much of it. She does not know how Her Son Ares does it, with his wall of bloodied dog tags, or how the sun bastard does it, with his garden of bloodstained vegetation, or how the theatrical bastard does it, with his main domain based upon the blood of his mortal lover, or how so many others do it with their own collections of bloody grief.

She does not know . 

She is not made to know. 

She is Queen, and She is Mother, and She is Wife, and She is not meant to get attached, not to things that are but a brief blip in The Tapestry. Not to mortal things, fragile and temporary as they are. She is not meant to and She does not want to, for it tears at Her Core like it wants to shred Her into Khaos.

She is not meant to be capable of grief.

The Valdezes have found a way to make Her experience it anyway.

“... I do not know if I can,” She finally murmurs, shifting towards Her Sister. Hestia opens Her arms, allowing Her to melt onto Her lap as Younger Sister rather than Queen. It is not common that She seeks this position, as Queen and Mother and Wife, but, well. Hestia is the one to seek if She wishes for something akin to the Valdez household.

Her Sister pets Her hair gently, twisting the strands out of Her Crown and around Her fingers.

“It is difficult, yes,” She says, the crackle of fire in Her voice, “but it is worth it.”

“Is it?” Hestia pauses and cups Her cheek, turning it to meet Her flickering eyes. She smiles, impossibly soft.

“Is it not? Can You truly, swearing upon Your Crown, tell Me that You would trade away the time You have spent with them so that You may avoid this pain?” She turns Her face into Hestia’s stomach, silent; clearly answer enough for Her Sister, who returns to playing with Her hair with a satisfied hum.

The decision has been made for Her, She supposes.

She will see Leo Valdez by morning.

He notices Her as soon as he steps into the cheap diner, a young woman by his side — the Titaness nymph. She has not seen her in millenia, even after the sea brat ended her punishment; it seems Leo had ended up on her Island and helped her leave it. Her eyes roam around the diner, wide and taking in the modernity she had not been allowed in her prison. Leo is holding her hand, playing idly with her fingers like he has been in the habit of since childhood. He tugs her down gently to speak into her ear over the cacophony of the diner, and her gaze immediately lands on Her, sharp as a hawk and furrowed with hatred. Still, she nods her head once and pulls away from Leo, going off to the other side of the diner as he approaches Her.

He slips into the seat opposite to Her, and She pushes a plate of catfish and fries towards him. It is not the same, not as good as from the restaurant of his childhood, but his eyes light up in recognition and hunger all the same.

“Please do not choke. I believe your Mother has said it can be fatal,” She says, lips quirked up as he takes off his gloves and digs in. He rolls his eyes but there is a smile on his face, so She figures the annoyance is for show. The smile scrunches the scar tissue making up his left cheek and dipping below his shirt collar. 

“Yes, the literal Earth couldn't defeat me, but a little fish and fries will take me out,” he drawls, voice rough as though he has spent the past several days inhaling pure smoke.

She pushes a glass of water closer to him and he drinks half of it in one gulp. His breaths come a little smoother once he puts the glass down. His clothes are covered in soot, but seemingly unharmed; the nymph’s magic, She figures.

“How did you not stay defeated? You were dead,” She says, carefully blank and not looking him in the eyes, instead playing with the rim of Her own glass. He snorts, but there is no humour in it.

“Had a cure. It was, uh. A bit of a gamble, really, but I had to try. “To storm or fire” and an “oath to keep with a final breath”, y’know? No way to defy Fate, but I’m pretty good at finding loopholes.” His voice is shaky, hoarse, and he has to put down his fork because his hand, already holding it stiffly and awkwardly due to scar tissue, cannot keep hold of it when it starts trembling. “S’what I was born for, isn’t it? That’s what you raised me for.”

She wants to deny it, even opens Her mouth to do so, but– they both know She cannot. It was the Prophecy that brought Her knocking on Esperanza’s door, though the mortals might have been what kept Her coming back nearly every day. Every test, every challenge, every threat She placed in his way was to prepare him for the battle against the Earth Mother; She might not have wanted him to die, but a sacrificial lamb She made him into regardless.

He had played his role perfectly, and She cannot help but hate that.

“What oath do you speak of?” She asks instead, reaching over the table and clasping his shaking hands in Hers. Immediately, he twists his fingers to hold Her back, tightly, and they are rough with scar tissue rather than callouses. His face flushes and he ducks his head to the side.

“I ended up on Calypso’s island during the quest and swore that I’d come back and get her out. The only way to do that was to… die, I guess, because someone ”, he turns back to face Her, and this time his face is furrowed with anger, “trapped her for literally thousands of years. You were pissed about a few days , tía.”

She purses Her lips. “I was not the one to decide upon the Titans’ punishments; I was not even Queen yet, boy. And regardless, she had been released recently; it is hardly My fault that she failed to notice that. If you wish to be angry at someone, be angry at the thieving bastard who was meant to ensure she was aware of her pardon.”

He glares at Her for a few more seconds before sighing and cracking a smile, tilting his head to the side like a dog. “”Thieving bastard”? You mean Hermes? Do you have nicknames like that for all of the gods?”

She huffs, head high as She lets go of his hands and pulls away to allow him to continue eating; he takes the chance eagerly. “It is hardly a nickname when it is a sheer truth. And I would be careful with calling his name; he is the one who leads lost souls to My Brother’s Gates.”

“I thought that was Tha–” He cuts himself off at Her glare and rolls his eyes before continuing: “I thought that was the wingy guy. The one Hazel, Frank, and Percy had to save? Isn’t he death, collector of souls and all that?”

She nods. “Yes, he is, but domains are far more fluid than mortals realize. The thieving bastard is a psychopomp, and annoyingly good at tracking those lost. He would be quick to take you back, if just to appease My Brothers.”

Leo points at Her with his fork with a crooked grin, eyes bright and flickering; She can see Esperanza within them. “But I’m hardly lost . I’m with you, and you wouldn’t let that happen, would you now? Or you wouldn’t be talking to me right now, tía.”

She sighs. “No. No, I would not. I have been in mourning since the battle. Negotiating for your soul would only let Them know why that has been. It is not like They can do much about it regardless — aside from My Husband, but I believe that, if I say keeping you would bring Me back to Our bed, He would hardly argue.”

He almost spits out his food, then cringes spectacularly at Her. She raises a brow and he groans, dropping his face on the table next to his plate.

“I absolutely do not want to hear about your godsdamned sex life , tía,” he mutters heatedly. She blinks for a second, then raises Her hand to Her mouth to cover Her chuckle. He peers up at Her from the table, and he still looks upset, but there is a brighter spark in his eyes.

“I am Goddess of Marriage and Wife to My Husband — surely I did not disregard your education enough that you do not know how He is? You can hardly expect Us not to share a bed.” He groans again, covering his head with his arms.

“I know! I know sex is a thing, but I don’t really want to hear about it! Especially not from you!” he grumbles, and She titters again, a fluttery feeling in Her Core.

“Who else? The nymph hardly has any experience, and I doubt your friends will be particularly open about it, Leo,” She teases, watching his curls bounce as his head shoots back up, twisted in an odd grimace.

“First of all,” he snaps, “I don’t want to hear about any sex, at all, ever. Not my thing, tía. Second–” He pauses, scrunching his nose further as though he has smelled something foul. After a second, he shakes his head like he is shaking off water and bares his teeth in a smile-scowl mix. “ Second , that was weird. Ew. Don’t call me that.”

She blinks. “Your– you mean your name?” She does not think She has ever been so baffled, even when Esperanza deliberately sprayed Her with paint when they were helping Leo make a birthday gift for his favourite teacher. The boy had followed in her stead with laughter, and they had all ended the night entirely covered in bright splatters, with Her still none the wiser as to why it had happened.

Leo shrugs awkwardly, face dropping into an uncomfortable frown.

“You’ve never– it’s weird. You don’t call me by my name, you’re always using nicknames — even with the gods, it seems. I guess sometimes it’s a respect thing? With the whole “names have power” shtick and your weird godly hierarchy. But it’s just– I don’t think you’ve ever called me by name before we saved you from that Giant, and even then it was a full name and just–” He stops, one hand resting on the back of his neck, the other twisted in his hair, his face a burning red. He shrugs again, facing away from Her. His voice is quiet when he continues: “I dunno, I guess I like the nicknames? It’s like. It’s like our thing, y’know? ‘Cause you’re Tía Callida and I’m your liontári, or lion, or champion, or hero, or dear, or darling, or cub, or– I dunno. S’weird when you call me by name. You only do that when you’re being Hera, and I like Her considerably less than I like you.”

He is…

Not wrong. She does not recall ever calling him by name when speaking to him — not unless She had to. And there is a– division, She supposes, between Callida and Hera, though She did not intend it. She had not realized the division went beyond Her Form, but it does . Hera is Queen, and She is Mother, and She is Sister, and She is Goddess, while Callida– Callida is Tía , and perhaps She is Friend. Not mortal , never mortal, but. Perhaps a little human, at least. Certainly more than Hera has ever been. 

She wonders if this is how the others feel, when They choose to walk the Earth and mingle with mortality.

She smiles and reaches over to disentangle Her boy’s fingers from his hair and replace them with Her own, carding gently through the curls. He shoves his face into his elbow with a light, embarrassed groan.

“Very well, my lion. No more of your name from your Tía.”

It only takes a few weeks for Her to sneak Her Boy into Her Gardens. He flutters from bush to bush, from tree to tree, from critter to critter, and She watches him from the spot She had chosen for their lunch — a little sunny clearing with a creek running by, filled with salamanders and wildflowers. 

She has elected not to tell him about those yet. He has been grieving himself plenty – he does not need to be bogged down with Her grief, much as She thinks he would like Her little creations. 

A peahen settles by Her lap and nudges her head into Her hand, so She begins petting it obligingly. It only takes a few moments for Leo to appear behind her, watching her very intensely. She raises a brow, a soft smile quirking Her lips. 

“Dear? What is it?” He blinks up at Her as though broken from a trance, then points at the peahen with a complicated expression on his face. 

“Is– she's the one who helped me, right? In that alley, when I first ran away.” She glances at Her bird, brushes Her fingers through her feathers, and–

“Yes, it appears so,” She says and beckons him to look closer. He does, and She parts the feathers at the base of her wings to reveal a splotch of ruddy orange down. “See? Many of My animals have a mark denoting the purpose of their creation. This one was made to protect you, so it has a mark of your colour.”

He grins. “ My colour? I'm flattered.”

She bats him on the head lightly and receives a bout of laughter in return, which seems to annoy the peahen enough to rise and move to the other side of the clearing. Leo just laughs harder and leans against Her, shaking. She tugs him down into Her lap in the peahen’s place and he goes willingly, shifting to make himself comfortable. 

They exist in soft comfort for several minutes, with Her carding through his hair and humming, before Leo finally speaks up again:

“Can you tell me about her?” She looks down at him, hand pausing against his cheek. He shifts a bit, turning his head to look up at Her from under his lashes. His eyes are glossed over but no tears fall. The small, shuddering breath that leaves him is the only hint of the turmoil raging in his mind. She brushes Her thumb under his eye and tucks a stray curl behind his ear; She knows exactly who he is talking about, and is not surprised about it. They have avoided her topic for years. Still, She had hoped they could exist in the joy from moments ago for a little longer.

“What would you like me to tell you?” She asks softly, unwilling to break the serenity of the scene. He shrugs lightly, smooshing a cheek into Her stomach and closing his eyes.

“What was she like? When she wasn’t being my mom.”

She thinks of bruised eyes lighting up fiercely around presumed danger. She thinks of soot-stained clothes and oily hair. She thinks of blood-bitten lips and bandaged fingers. She thinks of scarred skin and sharp words. She thinks of defeated sighs and furious screams. She thinks of broken laughter and burning flesh.

She thinks of Esperanza Valdez, the Mother, the Protector, the One Who Sacrificed All For Her Son.

She traces the burn scars on Leo’s face with a sharp nail. He scrunches up his nose but does not protest.

Her boy knows all of that, already. That is not what he wants to hear, now.

Instead, She opens Her mouth and says: “She loved Harlequin books and love ballads, though she would never admit it.”

She speaks of movie nights and burnt popcorn. She speaks of crackly radios and uncoordinated dances. She speaks of off-key songs and overly sweet drinks. She speaks of love-worn furniture and scrambled project rants. She speaks of twirling skirts and eyesore shirts. She speaks of snorting laughter and calloused, gentle hands.

She speaks of Esperanza Valdez, the Sap, the Singer, the Reader, the Risk-Taker, the Everything .

She speaks of Esperanza Valdez, the Friend. Her Friend.

For once, grief is not wholly bitter.

For once, grief is a little sweet.