Chapter Text
Calliope is standing by the window when the police arrive.
It’s a place she finds herself often, especially when Madoc is away, offers a chance to steal a look at the world she’s kept locked away from. The day has already been strange—shouting from outside, the shattering of glass, crashing sounds of destruction—because within five minutes of standing there Calliope had seen a fire begin to blaze in the distance. It was swiftly joined by another, then another, and still more until the sky glowed with the heat of it. There’d been something in the air, something she’d recognised, a previously favoured scent now gone so very sour. Morpheus’s power had been on the wind, a twisted version of it, somehow corrupted as if brought low enough that it could be reached by greedy hands.
A star grappled to earth, lessened as it fell.
Whoever had done it obviously had no idea what they really had, possessed even less of the ability to wield it properly.
The air stunk of it, putrid with rot, twisted and wrong—
There was nothing Calliope could do about it.
Instead she’d been standing there for most of the day, gazing out at the darkening sky, hands clenched into fists at her sides as she’d tried not to breathe in the smell. Calliope knows she wouldn’t have been the only one to have recognised this misuse of her former husband’s power. It means something. The Fates had said he’d been trapped, grinned even as they’d given no further details, goading her to ask. They’d taunted Calliope with what she had already known, the Fates fully aware that she’d been bound to Erasmus Fry a full decade after her former husband had gone missing.
The details are what she doesn’t have, the why and the how.
The who.
Had this been part of it?
Had it been these slimy hands, grabbing and twisting at the edge of her senses? Calliope may not be human but she has a mind like any other, dreams like any other, and she knows that Morpheus can reach into a God and pluck out whatever he pleases. He doesn’t need to be gentle, of course, but he can, has the skill to slip in unnoticed and tease a secret out.
This falsehood—this defilement of power—had done nothing of the sort.
It tried to sneak in, to violate, but it was nowhere close to the strength of Morpheus, to the strength of her, and Calliope refused to let it desecrate what had so far been left untouched. So she waits the hours it takes before the spell breaks, until there is a sudden snap, an abrupt change settling in the air like a sigh of relief. Calliope sighs with it, takes a deep breath, inhaling fully for the first time in hours, already beginning to wonder what might have changed as the wail of sirens can be heard outside.
There is hope—of course there is hope, there is always hope—and she wonders if this means she might be able to contact her former husband after all.
Calliope wonders if—
A crashing sound from below her. The groan of splintering wood. Voices and footsteps.
There are humans in the house.
Surprise pulls her gaze away from the window, makes her frown, suddenly uncertain, because this is something she’s never even considered a possibility. Is it a break in? Did someone see her face in Madoc’s window? Calliope doesn’t know, but she can tell that there is more than one intruder. She hears them find their way to her door, to the locks barring entry, and she listens to the muffled conversation as they debate how to get in. After a few moments she hears a singular voice, louder now, speaking to her through the door.
“Ma’am?” The speaker is undoubtably a woman. “My name is Jane, I’m with the police. Please don’t be afraid, we aren’t here to harm you. May I check that you are safely away from the door?”
It’s the first new voice to speak to her in decades.
The first to address her with respect, with care, to ask a question rather than demand an answer.
It is also the first woman.
The Fates don’t count, are and aren’t women, and they had refused to be so kind even when she’d begged them for help. They had refused to pay her such care. Calliope doesn’t know how these humans found her here, how it’s possible that human law enforcement even know that she exists, but perhaps this is the chance she’s been waiting for.
“I’m over by the window.” Calliope replies.
“Alright ma’am.” Jane calls back, something so very gentle in her voice. “Please stay where you are.”
They break down the door and it falls open in a shower of wood. Calliope doesn’t flinch, remains still by the window, watching as a woman steps carefully into the room. Jane is tall, with long black hair braided down her back, dark hazel eyes and an encouraging smile. She approaches slowly, doesn’t hover, doesn’t crowd, and Calliope wonders how she knows to do that. This world is one she knew, of course, but details like this haven’t been lived in a very, very long time.
Jane asks her name.
Calliope doesn’t know what this person sees when she looks at her—standing alone in a thin nightdress, lacking shoes—because Madoc had also looked and not seen a goddess. He’d seen a resource, a way out, something to serve him.
It doesn’t matter what this person sees, she is still—
“Calliope.” She replies.
There is something of surprise in Jane’s expression—probably because the accent with which she speaks is unexpected—but it doesn’t give her pause for long.
“It’s nice to meet you Calliope.” Jane smiles; a warmth within her that seems so new, a novelty in how it has been so long since someone has looked at Calliope like this. “Would it be alright if I walked with you outside?”
She nods.
The officer’s expression tightens when she realises Calliope doesn’t have any shoes. Jane turns back to the door, calling to those still waiting outside—Lenore and Cindy, Calliope later learns—and after a bit of back and forth Calliope finds herself offered a pair of sturdy boots. She is baffled by the gift, stunned even as she sits down to lace them up.
They tell her Madoc confessed.
Calliope knows it has something to do with this strange day, with the theft of Morpheus’s power, just as she knows that confession isn’t enough. The spell is still active; the binding is slimy, cold, the bond to Madoc a cage around her gift, a dark oily thing. It’s still there when Jane offers her a blanket to wrap around her shoulders, still there when she gently escorts her to a car outside. Calliope had followed Madoc from a house once, a coat wrapped around her just like this.
She was as free then as she is now.
“Please I need her, you can’t—”
The police officers expression remains stony. “Richard Madoc you are under arrest.”
They take her to a hospital.
It’s chaos from the moment they step through the doors.
Calliope has seen similar in the streets as they’d driven here—a world in turmoil as it tears itself apart, ambulances racing by, sirens blazing a trail of light—and knows it’s further evidence of her husbands misused power. There is a difference here though, somehow, noticeable from the moment she walks in, but it still takes Calliope a while to identify exactly what it is.
The hospital is loud, of course, and busy, filled to the brim as the wards are inundated with an unending stream of new patients. It is more people than Calliope has seen in one place in a very, very long time. There is a man on the floor, hands held over his leg, blood gushing around his fingers. Nearby, a woman holds a bundled up wad of cloth to her forehead. It’s soaked a dark red. There are more, many more, these are only two examples, two stories in this place that overflows with them. Even as that man is lifted up onto a stretcher, even as that woman is attended to by a gentle nurse, there are more people rushing through the doors, yelling for help or for people to move out of the way. It’s chaos.
Yet somehow it seems ordered.
It’s almost as if these humans—all the ones who work here, and even some that don’t—are gripping tight to hold it all together, as if they are digging their heels in and holding back the tide. She knows that it’s a fight; even as the staff are calm, because Calliope is old, very very old, and she can see the cracks they hide from each other. She can see the tears when they turn away, the split second of breaking before they turn back with a smile, because despite it all they are steady and sure.
They are hands that don’t shake.
Calliope looks closer.
It's a bright place; well-lit despite being sterile and impersonal, but the warmth Calliope finds is not in those dull, featureless walls. This place is built to be versatile, to stand through shaking foundations, and the people are too but they have something else. They make it what it is, this place of healing, this place of desperate hope.
It calms the wildness of the night.
And it’s unbeatable in the face of whoever had tried to corrupt them.
The ruby is definitely back in her former husband’s hands, Calliope knows, understanding what she sees even if she’s missing the why, and that matters too. The insanity that had caught these humans like a vice is gone, pressure released, and they’re left to deal with the fallout. She sees the certainty of that all around, the effect of it, the way it’s purified, the truth of what they really are reflected back at them rather than warped by a defective mirror.
Calliope sees the confusion, sees a mother holding her child, face stricken because she can’t remember how their arm was broken. It is for the best; Dream is interceding, soothing as far as his power allows, because this world is theirs and he won’t fix it.
That’s up to them.
“Sorry about the noise.” Jane says as they move towards the lifts. “We’ll get you somewhere quieter.”
The apology puzzles her.
Calliope realises she hasn’t been paying attention to the women accompanying her— too distracted by the activity around her, fascinated by it—but now she recognises concern in their faces. They seem conscious of the crowd, have kept a careful distance of space around her, and now they guide her through a suddenly quiet corridor.
They’ve somehow found her a private room.
The room is bare, a hospital bed and not much else, but it’s what she’s expecting and it doesn’t feel cold. It doesn’t feel empty. Calliope sits on the edge of the bed, watches as Jane smiles that same encouraging smile. The two other police officers are standing outside, stationed either side of the door, the women who had accompanied her here with Jane.
One of them had given her shoes.
“It’s only temporary,” Jane says apologetically, hazel eyes soft as she keeps her careful distance. “I’m sorry it’s not much too look at.”
Calliope smiles. “It’s fine, thank you.”
They wait together for the doctor.
It doesn’t take long for her to arrive, a blond woman with a soft smile who introduces herself as Annette, and Calliope finds it easy to smile back even as she feels more than a little out of her depth. She has no medical records, no identification, and Calliope cannot answer any of their questions regarding her health. Vaccinations? Prior conditions? The questions makes her frown. Even then, even with tired eyes from what has obviously been a long night, Annette does not push.
Instead she asks if she can run some tests.
Jane remains with her.
“Is it alright if I check your blood pressure?” Annette asks gently, this woman with golden blond hair, her eyes a shade too dark for jade. “And have a listen to your lungs?”
Calliope nods, lets the blanket slide from her shoulders and offers her arm when asked.
The constriction of the cuff is a surprise; more a novelty than something truly alarming, too alien to remind her of anything resembling human hands. Next some strange device checks her temperature, beeps, shows a reading Calliope doesn’t know how to interpret. Annette seems pleased, nods and makes a note, then asks if she can listen to her lungs. She is careful when she checks Calliope’s breathing; the stethoscope must go behind her, must rest on the bare skin of her back, and somehow Annette does it without having to leave her line of sight.
Fingers don’t even touch her skin.
There is a small pause, a moment of reprieve while Annette fills out some forms, but then she asks about sexual activity and Calliope responds truthfully even as she knows what is coming next. Jane’s encouraging smile is suddenly sour, suddenly makes her skin crawl, because there is a word bubbling up in her throat like bile. Calliope is almost sick with the repetition of it, this taunting prophecy, this constant scar, and when Annette finally turns to ask her gentle question Calliope feels her fingers clench into fists.
“Is it alright if we examine you further?”
“No.”
There is no shame in what has happened, Calliope holds her head high, knows that Madoc has not broken this goddess. The cruelty of the spell is what it takes by force, the fight it doesn’t even allow her. It’s defeat without entering the field, without raising a sword, the laws that bind her ensuring a loss by default. And yet she’d still left marks on him in return, drawn first blood, and it might not have even given him pause but that victory had been hers.
It’d been a choice.
Just like this; her choice to refuse an examination, and Calliope can’t help but sit there with blazing eyes and a straightened back, regal as she stares Annette and Jane down.
A queen need not ask twice.
A goddess rarely has to ask once.
Madoc hadn’t cared for that; had been made brave by the trap that rendered her bound to him, tempted by the power, the same greedy selfishness so characteristic of the Greek Gods of old. She’d known he’d only change his mind if fear could find him. And yet it isn’t fear that gives these humans pause, isn’t pity either, and even as she sees the surprise—the truth of how intimidating they find her—Calliope knows she has not needed to use brute force.
Annette merely nods her head, backs off, easy as anything. As easy as if all she needed was to hear the word to listen to it.
It’s the first ‘no’ to be respected in decades.
It’s the first touch that isn’t forced.
“That fucking piece of shit Madoc.”
“Agreed.”
There are more firsts.
A nurse—short, dark haired, smiling and asking her to please, call me Holly—brings her a tray of food. She seems exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes, proof of how much this day still harries her, but despite it all the smile is bright.
Undimmed.
Holly asks if Calliope knows her clothing size, smiles in reassurance when she stares more than a little blankly, expression turning thoughtful. She leaves to hunt down some clothes, somehow unwilling to have Calliope change into one of the hospital gowns, and when she returns Holly hands her a pair of pyjamas with a triumphant smile. They are long, soft, warm, and when Calliope puts them on they cover more than the slip of a dress ever had. There is a moment where she stands there—silken dress in hand, feeling swept up in a moment of transformation, of freefall turning to flight—and she understands why Holly had been so adamant.
It’s the first new thing she’s worn in years.
There is a vicious pleasure in tossing the dress aside, discarding it, a freedom in knowing she’ll never wear it again. Calliope is left to sleep and sleep she does, wrapped in those borrowed clothes, and she finds that for once she doesn’t wake in the night.
Calliope no longer needs to worry about someone coming through the door.
Holly brings her some more donated clothes in the morning, still second hand but obviously well loved. The choice of what to wear is like an old friend returned, a dignity so long out of alignment now slotted back into place. Perhaps it would have overwhelmed her if she were human, but Calliope is a goddess. It invigorates her, fills her with warmth. She picks light grey jeans, high waisted, skinny but with the slightest bit of give. Comfortable. The jumper she chooses doesn’t match the weather, too thick to compliment the summer warmth, but Calliope likes the way it falls over her fingers.
She ignores the tug of Madoc’s spell, the grope of it within her, a clawing defilement, because she is already considering what to do.
Calliope already knows what she can do.
Holly asks her what she likes, if there is anything they can bring for her.
“Books.” Calliope says.
The nurse brings her a bag full of them.
Calliope spreads them out on the bed, so very careful, unable to stop herself from smiling as she trails the tips of her fingers over the worn covers in gentle reverence. It’s easy to see that they are well loved; obvious from the wrinkled paper, the bend in the spine, because clearly they’ve been read more than once. Calliope breathes it in, something in her straining to reach out, to connect, and there is nothing strong enough to keep her from feeling the sheer amount of care that went into writing each one of them. She senses the imprint of the authors yearning soul, smiles at the echoes of hours spent swearing while typing, the years spent solely focused on getting it exactly right.
No, Madoc’s binding can’t keep her from this, from the words, from the living thing that began as a tentative idea, now blossomed into its own eternal spring. There is warmth here, there is light—
There is love in every page.
It can be felt still; in what has always been a partnership with the reader, a hand outstretched in invitation, a whispered ‘come journey with me’, wonder and excitement shared like a beacon in the dark. The echo is twofold. Calliope hears something for every time they’ve been read; the gasps at the twists and turns, the sighs at a well-chosen word, knows all the tears that have fallen onto these pages.
Calliope looks up. “Thank you.”
Holly beams at her, bright like a little sun, something achingly familiar shining within her, and Calliope wishes she could reach out to her too. There is a chain around her neck, a leash that pulls her up short, the trap of Madoc’s binding holding tight with all the possessive jealousy it can muster. Calliope won’t let it ruin this, settles with a deep breath when Holly leaves her to read, sits crossed legged on the bed. There is a moments indecision on what to pick, hands hovering, but as soon as she starts she’s absorbed entirely.
It feels good to read again.
“Enjoying the books?”
It’s Holly.
Calliope nods. “Very much.”
“Do you have any requests?” The nurse asks, fidgeting where she stands, as if embarrassed by her own question. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask before, but I can bring some more for you to read, my husband has a pretty extensive library.”
Mine did too, Calliope thinks.
“Do you have a favourite?”
The smile that blooms bright is becoming familiar. Still so genuine. “I’ll bring it in.”
Calliope is reminded of human kindness.
She knows, of course she does, but it’s been so long and Calliope had spent so many years secluded from the world even before Erasmus Fry had bound her. Now she can see it, live it again instead of having to chase its recollection, immerse herself in it instead of having to sneak glimpses from a window. Now it’s proven, a theorem rather than a guess, a scrawl of calculations across a blackboard proclaiming its undisputable truth.
Calliope no longer has to rely on trust to know that some people are good.
“Greek?” Confusion. “I’ll liaise with their law enforcement and see if we have any matches. This could be international.”
Jane returns just after Calliope has had lunch.
“Madoc is in custody, he’s being investigated, but the Detective in charge of the case will want to meet with you.” Jane smiles encouragingly as she pulls up a chair. “I’ve worked with him for a few years, he’s a decent bloke. Though you don’t have to speak to him if you don’t want to, I’m going to be making the initial report anyway.”
Calliope appreciates the gesture.
“Madoc won’t hurt you again,” Jane adds, promises, holds Calliope’s gaze boldly because she means it. “He’s going away for a very long time.”
“I am not yet free,” Calliope replies.
The words are out before she’s thought them through, bubbling up as a fact. Not a protest. A statement.
Jane’s face falls—
Calliope understands the confusion; Jane doesn’t know, has no reason to believe there is any danger, cannot feel the spell that still binds her so tightly. It’s power defiled, forced to serve another. This is creativity tarnished. It’s supposed to be a gift. She’s supposed to choose. It isn’t sustainable. There is only so much that can be taken, her power incompatible with being used like this, because like Erasmus before him Madoc’s well will dry up. Even if he finds her again, traps her back in that house, the books will start to lose their lustre, the ideas tarnishing, revealing the rot beneath. Madoc can’t steal true inspiration.
He can’t cheat to it.
Just as he can never take the body that is, and always has been, hers.
Jane thinks her words are a sign she’s giving up. Calliope doesn’t know how to tell her the truth of it, because she may be out of the house but she isn’t out of the trap, and she is determined to take this half measure over the line. Calliope isn’t scared, this isn’t the same position she’s been in for decades. This is hope on the edge of a knife. There have never been chains to hold her down, but there have never needed to be, because even the lock on her door had been for show.
Calliope remembers walking out of Erasmus Fry’s house with her new jailer and knowing she could not run.
They think she is free.
Calliope knows she isn’t.
Not yet.