ᴾʰᵒᵇᵒᵖʰᵒᵇⁱᵃ [ᴶᵃˢᵒⁿ ᴳʳᵃᶜᵉ]

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THE beige walls now hosted a labyrinth of cracks and peeling-paint dead ends; crumbles of the popcorn ceiling dusted the scuffed hardwood. Her home never held warmth or life, but even her apathetic mother cared enough to keep the apartment spotless as if expecting friends at any moment – no one ever rang the bell, but Natalia kept fresh blue hydrangeas on the kitchen table and replaced them weekly.

Aza nearly bent over and added bile to decorate the floor; she grabbed onto the back of the couch to stabilize the couch and watched the blonde pass. The woman, covered in a white apron, didn't meet her eyes, but it wasn't abnormal. Humming a springy tune, she watered a small clay pot of marigolds before clicking on the television and settling down.

She'd never seen her mother... content, with a healthy, happy blush painting her cheeks in the lamplight. Her hair was chestnut, now, the same shade of the roots she used to hide. Smiles, still withdrawn and masked, from the woman were once tucked away in a memory box, but never once had Aza seen one so free. Gods, she hated her mother more than words or weapons could say; she would be all too pleased if they never locked eyes again, even from the depths of Hades.

Still older than Aza, the large square television took a moment to light and took Aza back to a time of couch-forts and self-read bedtime stories. She was six once more, unable to tear her eyes away from the Man in Black. With his hands behind his head, he barked, "Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something."

Her mother, who so rarely held her daughter, leaned back so her shoulders rested against Aza's fingers and blanketed them in a ghostly warmth. She yanked her hands away and firmly rubbed her biceps. As if Natalia felt her daughter, the brunette swept a hand over an untouched section of the couch, marred only by the arm's small spaghetti stain.

There was something about their old television's grainy graphics that demanded attention. Over her mother's head, Aza watched Princess Buttercup push her lost love down the hill, and as Westley tumbled down the hill he shouted, "As you wish!"

At the same time as Buttercup, Natalia breathed, "What have I done?"

Rather than sulfur, mixed with bronze blood, an overwhelming floral scent assaulted Aza's nose. She didn't have to turn around to greet the woman. "Aphrodite. Well, this is new."

"Please, call me grandma," she crooned, holding the note until Aza turned. "It's just us, after all. There's no need for formalities, ma chérie."

Only her tanned skin remained constant, as if to punctuate their relationship – not that there was one, Aza thought. For a moment, they looked almost identical – long, shaggy hair and bangs to frame russet eyes – but the goddess' melodious laugh bore a harsh reminder. "I know, I know, I'm beautiful, but staring is rude."

Her hair coiled and crept to her collarbones; she pushed aside a fiery curl and covered her mouth with a gloved hand, muffling the last of her giggles. "I'm still waiting for a 'hello,' you know." Aphrodite raised a hand before Aza could open her mouth, "Shh! Shh! This is my favorite part. Awww."

Aza's lips curved despite herself; the three women, in their varying divinity, couldn't help themselves from mouthing alongside Westley as he felt the embrace of his lover for the first time in years. "Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a little while."

"Ah, I couldn't have said it better myself," Aphrodite fanned herself. "Except, of course, I helped inspire it. I've influenced all the greatest works of art, you know – love and beauty is the artist's bread and butter."

Aza blinked and raised a bushy brow. "Does my dad ever seem interested in this? Because, and correct me if I'm wrong, last time I checked, he doesn't spout shitty haikus."