Work Text:
--
Have you never thought to take a bride, brother? screeched the Eagle, and its voice carried far and wide over the mountain tops in triumph.
The Serpent—held tight in the grasp of his talons as it rode the wind—hissed, irritated and despondent. The Eagle, its gloating squawk sounding more and more like claps of thunder, resonated through the trees as the pair soared together above green fields.
You spend far too much time alone, left to your thoughts and your tasks, the Eagle chirped, dropping the Serpent into an olive branch near the edge of Nysa—where plains of lush grasses and wild meadow flowers lifted fragrance into the air, pleasing the gods and none was more pleased with it than Demeter, who frequented the fields of Eleusis with her young daughter.
The Serpent coiled itself around the branch and lifted its head, darting its tongue out as the Eagle perched beside, flaunting its wide wingspan as it stretched and yawned in the open air.
My tasks are a burden and a privilege, the Serpent reminded the Eagle with a soft hiss, and though it was not without some resentment, it was also not without appreciation.
Your burden was never meant as punishment, the Eagle replied, preening the feathers of its neck, ignoring the alert eyes of the Serpent as it hunched down into the olive leaves. I do not wish to see you confined to solitude.
The Serpent did not ask if the Eagle has ever thought of its wishes.
I have no desire for fleeting companionship, and I have no need to sow oats as you do, it sighed with a dart of its tongue to smell the fresh air of the field below, catching the sweet hint of iron on the breeze, the tang of blood. It can sense the vibrations of something young below; it can see the silhouette of a vibrant, heated figure rolling along the ground in glee, but unlike the Eagle, it cannot hear the sweet song of the young girl, just beginning to blossom into adolescence, her dark hair crowned with honeysuckle and bee balm.
The Eagle seemed to cackle, pleased. My oats are not sown without purpose, it countered, bowing its head toward the figure in the grass. They are each precious, in their way. Unique.
The vibrations from the youth at the base of the tree came steady, though varied in pitch, and the Serpent considered this. And this one? it queried of the Eagle as it hung its head down to further inspect.
The Eagle fluffed its feathers, seemingly nonplussed, but the Serpent recognized this as bait. It was a favored tactic of its brother, across good and ill will alike.
This one, the Eagle answered carefully, is the apple of her mother’s eye, and that mother would be content for her to remain a child forever.
The Serpent understood this. The Serpent, having spent eternity with the dead, understood the desire to preserve innocence, and had no inclination to corrupt it. Such a mother—and a sister—would never condone making a gift of such a daughter to anyone, it probed of the Eagle as its scales coil and scrape the branch.
A gift? No, the Eagle returned cryptically, and its mouth nearly curled into a smirk, gold eyes shining. And certainly to no serpent, as that is how she found herself to become a mother.
The Serpent, hardly amused, chose to focus on the figure below, the tender heat wafting upward from the ground, the gentle vibrations, and found it wanted to know them more intimately.
Not a serpent, then, it agreed and—loosening its body from the branch, dropped toward the ground. No sound was made on impact, for there was none; mid-flight the Serpent transformed in the glistening sunlight to a Hummingbird Moth, with delicate wings that dipped and fluttered rapidly as its tiny body approached the dark-haired maiden at the base of the tree. She was weaving a crown of flowers—for her mother, perhaps—and the bright purples of the bee balm and the golden yellows of the honeysuckle were pleasing to the Moth, but nothing was as pleasing as the girl’s voice. The frequency of the pitch sent vibrations throughout the Moth’s sensitive body, and it hovered near to listen. To feel.
It could drink of the honey of her gentle voice, would that the Moth could flutter close to her mouth, but it maintained a respectful distance as it took her into the many facets of its eyes, her kaleidoscope of color and beauty and awe. And there the Moth landed, so feather light upon her fingers, as they wove the stems of the flowers together into a circlet fit for a queen.
“Oh, hello,” the maiden breathed with delight, lifting her fingers to inspect the Moth with her wide doe eyes, untouched by fear, or hatred, or sadness.
Her smile was the sun.
Hello, little Kore, the Moth answered, and decided, then, perhaps a bride—someday—was not entirely out of the question.
--