Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“YOU KNOW SHE DESERVES IT, THEY ALL DESERVE IT! DO IT!”

Maybe it’s the searing heat from the wall of fire, or maybe it’s Ares’ palpable rage—the God of War unleashed at last—but there is a bloodlust pouring through Diana’s veins, and she sets her chin and tenses her arms to throw the tank, ready to wipe this pathetic human from the face of this wretched world. Flames are rising up around them like a precursor to hell; Dr. Poison has the gall to terrified for a fleeting second, and then...

“Hold on, wait a minute, we can’t all die!”

The sound of the roaring fires falls abruptly silent. Diana stands, breathing, and Dr. Poison makes a face, then turns to look over her shoulder with a glare.

“Really, Ares? You decided to wait until now to come to that conclusion?”

“I just realized,” he says defensively, strolling up to them. “Diana kills Ludendorff, you kill Steve, Diana kills you, I kill Diana—”

“In your dreams, brother,” Diana hisses, but Ares waves an impatient hand. Dr. Poison rolls her eyes and rises from the still-burning tarmac, casually brushing the debris from her jacket.

“Anyway, it’s barely 9:30,” Ares goes on. “Sunrise isn’t for another 10 hours, we need to... pace ourselves.”

Dr. Poison stares, then throws up her arms, waving an irritated hand in the general direction of the burning hanger.

“Well, my lab has conveniently been destroyed, so unfortunately, I have no interest in wasting time,” she snaps.

“Fine. Kill her, Diana,” Ares interrupts, turning his back with a disinterested air.

“I thought that’s what you just stopped me from doing in the first place!” Diana exclaims angrily, turning and throwing down the tank. It slams into the concrete with a hearty crunch, and the God of War ducks as bits of metal fly into the air. Dr. Poison crosses her arms, looking unimpressed.

“If we’re not killing anyone, could we at least relocate? Some of us have to breathe in order to survive.”

“You would know,” Ares snorts.

“Indeed,” she replies, her eyes glittering. Diana glances from face to face, frowning. 

“...do I always get stuck with a pack of fools,” Ares mutters under his breath, then he raises a lazy hand. “I’m transporting us, by the way, Diana.”

“She just said that…?” Diana says, her eyebrows drawing together.

“I know that, and I also know that you have a terrible fight or flight mode when you’re facing something strange—”

“Stop yapping and get us out of here!” Dr. Poison shouts as the just-thrown tank bursts into flames, throwing a merry shower of sparks over their yapping figures. Ares waves his hand, and all at once, they’re sitting around a table in a dark, dingy room. The bare lightbulb over their heads gives an ominous flicker.

“Not the God of Class, now, are you?” Dr. Poison grumbles. Ares throws a pack of cards onto the table, and empties a handful of poker chips from his pocket—apparently, his armor has pockets.

“I’ll go get drinks. Diana, deal,” he adds before strolling away.

“I don’t—” Dr. Poison begins, but the god has already disappeared. “—drink. Blast it.”

“Deal?” Diana asks, her eyes dark, as if it was a challenge.

“...the cards?” Dr. Poison says, raising an eyebrow.

“Cards? What, these?” she says, scrunching up her face as she cautiously reaches for the box.

“Have you never played poker before?” Dr. Poison asks, rising to scoop up the chips with gloved fingers.

“No,” Diana says, shaking the cards out into her palm and gingerly inspecting the strange pictures. 

“...have you never seen a pack of cards before?” Dr. Poison says after a pause.

Diana shakes her head and begins sorting the cards by color, and then, Wait, these shapes are different! and she begins sorting them by suit. Dr. Poison crosses her arms and watches, amused.

“They only had mead and wine, so I brought both—what are you doing?!”

The round kegs tumble from Ares' arms as he surges forward, apparently scandalized by Diana’s activities.

“The girl doesn’t know how to play,” Dr. Poison says, frowning at him. “And I don’t drink.”

“You’re not supposed to sort the—it defeats the whole purpose of the...” Ares splutters, lunging across the table to seize at cards, the horns of his helmet nearly jabbing Dr. Poison in the face. Diana slaps his hand.

“I’m not done!”

“Diana—sister,” Ares says through his teeth, his hands balled into fists. “The point of the game is to not know which cards you’re going to get, and then you strategize—”

“Oh, let her finish, Ares,” Dr. Poison snaps. “What, are you unacquainted with that new-fangled card-playing practice called shuffling? And take off that ridiculous armor, it looks like you made it out of a landfill.”

Ares grumbles and steps away from the table.

“I don’t see you telling her to take off her ridiculous armor,” he says, tearing off his helmet and throwing it to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Her armor is not in danger of poking my eye out, and anyways, it’s not… ridiculous,” Dr. Poison says, her visible lip curling into a sly smile. Ares rolls his eyes as he waves his hand, and his Sir Patrick disguise returns with a crack of lightning.

Diana throws down the last card, then says, “Where do these Jokers belong? They have no numbers, are they the most powerful, or the least?”

“You’ll find a few dozen of them Gotham City a hundred years from now, and literally no one cares. Are you finished?” Ares says impatiently.

“Yes, now what?”

“Drink something, and I will deal,” Ares snaps, pulling the cards across the table towards him. Diana shrugs, then rises gracefully to her feet and makes her to where the kegs have unceremoniously rolled into the wall.

“She doesn't know how to play,” Dr. Poison says in a low voice, waving a frantic hand in the direction of the goddess. Diana glances back at her and mouths, Do you want anything? from the kegs. Dr. Poison frowns and shakes her head.

“What? Who doesn’t know how to play poker?” Ares says incredulously.

“Decent people,” Dr. Poison retorts. Ares sighs.

“Fine, we can play War. You don’t have to know anything in order to play that.”

“Oh, really,” Dr. Poison says, her voice deliberately bland, then she rises and walks up to the bar without another word.

Diana watches as she pushes past, the tiny chemist stoutly ignoring the large flagon of mead resting in the hands that barely ten minutes ago had held her own life.

“Where is she going?”

“Presumably to find something suitable to her tastes—a dead body, most likely. Here, sister, these are yours.” Ares pushes her cards across the table towards her and leans back, taking a long drink of wine.

“What am I supposed to do—”

“Don’t look at them!” Ares shouts, and Diana looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together into a confused frown.

“The point of the game is to not—goddamnit, never mind, let the woman explain it to you,” he snarls, burying his face once more in his wine. Diana shrugs, and they sit in silence for a moment, swallowing down their bitter alcohol, not looking at each other. 

“Who is she?”

“Her?” Ares asks, his face half-hidden from the wine bowl he is currently gulping from. “Dr. Poison. Didn’t you see her during my monologue about human depravity?”

“Yes, yes, but who is she? Why is she here—and how?”

“She’s a scientist. And a woman. A woman scientist. Don’t ask me why she does things—the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“The who?"

“She is a walking, talking, scowling mystery,” Ares growls. “Stop thinking and drink your damn mead. The humans like to defy logic at every turn and if I had a drachma for every time one of them did something ridiculous…”

Diana waits, then says, “Then what?”

“Then I could pay Charon to ferry me back and forth across the Styx for eternity, that’s what!” Ares explodes, turning away in a thundercloud and refilling his bowl of wine, spilling half of it onto his fine woolen coat. “Are all of the Amazons blessed with the ability to ask so many infuriating questions?!”

Diana doesn’t honor this with a reply, choosing instead to watch as Dr. Poison returns with a tray. She looks suspiciously from face to face.

“Refills already?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at the wine sloshing around in Ares’ bowl.

“Tea?!” Ares snorts, glancing over the contents of the tray in disgust.

“I hope you didn’t talk like that when you were representing the British on their so-called Supreme War Council,” Dr. Poison snips, and Ares just grumbles, taking another deep draught of wine.

“Anyway, what is this game?” Diana asks. “And may I?”

Dr. Poison glances at her and nods shortly. Diana reaches out to take one of the cups from Dr. Poison’s tray and pours herself a cup of tea.

“Yes, explain the rules of the game, bitte schön, Doktor,” Ares says mockingly.

“Take the card from the top of your desk and throw it face up onto the table, and whoever has the highest number takes the others,” Dr. Poison says. “And keep this conceited warmonger from cheating.”

“Excuse me,” Ares snaps, seizing his pile of cards as Dr. Poison cackles.

The first round goes smoothly. Diana wins. Dr. Poison fishes a sixpence from one of her many pockets and tosses it onto the table. Ares asks her how many different types of currency she keeps on her person and she scowls and flicks a card at him like weapon. The benign figure of Sir Patrick Morgan ducks with the agility of a much younger man, and the card sails over his head to happily embed into the crumbling wall. Ares takes a long drink and doesn’t pursue an answer.

When Diana loses a round, she drinks deeply from the keg of mead, and when Ares loses, he pours himself a deep bowl of wine. When Dr. Poison loses, she reaches into her pocket and adds to the pile of random currencies, test tubes, capsules, and vials on the table. And as the night goes on, she primly sips her tea as the kegs gradually empty, and the gods gradually descend into the slurred, stupid stupor of drunkenness.

“Seven o’clock,” she announces at seven o’clock, and the gods rouse themselves from their mechanical motions of tossing down and sweeping aside cards.

“Last round?” Ares mumbles. 

“Losers die,” Dr. Poison agrees. 

“No cheating,” Diana says, brandishing the lasso in her hand. Ares rolls his eyes and deals for the final time.

The cards fall.

Diana takes some. Ares takes some. Dr. Poison takes some.

And then some more.

“You know, I never did believe my father when he bragged about you.”

“What are you going on about now?” Diana snaps, rubbing her tired eyes.

“My father, Zeus. Zeus the Fool. Zeus the Bastard, Zeus the Whore—”

“Stop whining and play a damn card,” Dr. Poison orders, fingers tapping impatiently against the dirty surface.

“He said he had seduced the Queen of the Amazons, and that the child from their union would conquer the world.”

“Yes, yes, that sounds like a wonderful story,” Isabel says, sweeping her arm across the table to collect their cards.

“Stop, that’s my mother,” Diana says in disgust. “She never would’ve…”

“The strange thing about it was my mother,” Ares says, the cards nearly spilling out of his hand and onto the table as he reaches for his empty bowl. “Zeus sleeping with another queen like that—she would’ve been the first one to try to kill you. But I never heard a thing from her, and he boasted openly about you, in open council.”

“Well, in a few minutes, you can ask her about it yourself,” Dr. Poison says briskly, plucking the last card from Ares’ hand, adding it to her neat pile, and rising to her feet. “You’ve lost. Let’s go.”

Ares stares, his mustached mouth hanging open.

“You… you cheated!”

Dr. Poison shrugs.

“Did I?” she says, clearly unmoved. “Prove it.”

“You cheated!” Ares says again, surging to his feet, and promptly toppling sideways onto the floor. The wine bowl clatters down onto the floor next to him, and he lets out a loud groan that sounds suspiciously like, Cheater.

Dr. Poison rolls her eyes, then she turns to Diana.

“I shall see you on the other side. But not soon, I hope.” Then she turns back and delivers a meaty kick to the God of War’s side. “Get up, you great fool. It’s time to die.”

"Good-bye, brother."

There is lightning crackling up and down her bracers, and Ares is staring up at her, and his helmet is gone, and there's a little figure of a woman limping away as fast as she can, trying to escape...

And then she crosses her arms, and Ares is blasted from the face of the Earth, and somewhere far below the surface of the world, a pack of angry gods and goddesses are swarming their new arrival...

Diana lands on her feet. The shy is beginning to lighten. The sun is beginning to rise. The uniformed figures scattered across the airfield are beginning to rouse, as if from a deep sleep, and there—the faces of her friends: Sammy, Napi, Charlie.

Ares is dead. Dr. Poison is gone. The war is over.

Chapter Text

No more.

Every night, Diana returns, shell-shocked, disoriented, breathless, numb. Every night, her voice is a shaky whisper, her eyes barely open as she lays her head down onto Isabel’s lap. And every night, the chemist strokes her hair, kisses the worry lines away from her forehead, whispers to her, scolds her, quieting her fears, her worries—her rage.

Humanity continues to fall. The old gods die. The new gods die. Now, it is only the humans who are left to play, and they do so with no greater wisdom than the immortals who came before them.

No more.

Animals kill for food. For a mate. For leadership over the pack, the pride.

But the humans kill for fun.

One day, they come for her. And they steal her away. And Diana scours the surface of the earth, sifting through the dirt, digging down to the very core of the planet, swimming through the depths of the seas, and the universe itself—but she is too late when at last she finds the empty shell of her beloved.

Once, she believed that the suffering was over. Once, she stared up into the fiery sky and swore that this would never happen again. Once, she vowed that she would not bury another loved one; once, she squared her shoulders, raised her sword, and promised—

No more.

But. More… came. More happened. More… and more and more and more…

And so she snaps.

She dries her tears, picks herself up, and brushes the ash from her armor. Presses a final kiss to those brittle lips. Tucks a strand of hair behind that charred ear.

Her hands are shaking as she unclasps her bracers. She sets them down beside Dr. Isabel Maru’s dead body.

And then she leaves to seek her vengeance.

The League is long dead. Those who would hold her back are tossed aside like the puny figures they are.

No more.

Once, she believed in mankind. Once, she believed in goodness, in kindness, in compassion. Once, she stood alongside them, fought for them, rescued them, was champion to them.

No more.

Once, she believed in life. In peace. In hope. Once, she would have stayed her hand, sought a negotiation, pleaded for a path away from violence. Once, she had been a force for good.

No more.

Once, she had believed in love.

No.

More.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, she just needs someone to talk to.

After Jonathan died, the pastor from church (the old pastor before Daniel Leone stepped in) had taken her aside and told her to lay her burdens of grief and loss at the foot of the cross, and if Clark hadn’t been standing next to her, she would’ve told that old man to take her burdens and her foot and shove them somewhere unkind, but she’d just reached out and tucked a dignified hand into the crook of her son’s arm, and the other parishioners in the narthex had been shooting her pitying glances, as if anticipating that she was going to start wailing at any moment, and she’d never hated anyone more—she was Martha Kent, for God’s sake, Martha Clark Fordman Kent, and this wasn’t her first run around that horrible block of widowhood, and at least this time it was quick and painless, and it was the way Jonathan would’ve wanted to go, some sort of twisted, noble self-sacrifice; she’d never have to sit by his bedside, monitors beeping, watching the life being eaten away from him day by day, moment by moment...

She’d marched out of those glass doors before she ended up saying something she’d regret, and after they got home, she’d sent Clark out to walk the dog, and then she’d gone upstairs to change out of her church clothes, and as she was stepping out of her summer dress, the stairs had creaked, and she’d thought for a fleeting second that Jonathan was on his way up, and then he’d come in and catch her half-dressed, and if she was lucky, he’d give her that shy little smile, and they’d start their Sunday afternoon routine a little early—

And then the material had pooled around her feet, crushed flowers against a cotton background, and there was a lump in her throat, a knife in her back, and when she went down to pick up her dress from the carpet, she hadn’t made it back up...

If Clark heard her sobbing to herself as she curled up into a little ball on the bedroom floor, trying to muffle her tears with her wadded up dress… well, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t appear at the door, doesn’t meet her eyes when she finally comes downstairs and starts to make lunch. 

In a way, she’s almost angry that he doesn’t. 

It’s not that Jonathan was ever much of a talker, but somehow, it’s like they don’t know how to fit together as a family without him, as if his strong, silent figure was the glue keeping this whole thing from falling apart, and without him, they’re left to float along in outer space: helpless, hopeless, speechless.

Hippolyta asks her about it, but the truth is, growing up in Kansas wasn’t really that hard per se, because there was never a moment where exploring the “other side” was an option. There was a sick sort of comfort in that, in the safety of repression, in the knowledge that she would live a normal life and marry a man and have a family, just like her mother before her, and her mother before her, all the way back to when God took a rib from Adam’s sleeping form and used it to create a woman.

But she didn’t get her happy ending, she didn’t settle for safety, not true safety, and after losing her first husband, and then losing her parents, and then not being able to conceive a child with Jonathan, and then losing Jonathan, and then getting attacked/kidnapped twice, and then losing Clark… after all that, she was somewhere on the verge of a nervous breakdown anyway, and then when Clark comes back from the dead, she doesn’t want to be selfish, so she watches him leave Smallville for Metropolis, and just as she’s about to crumble from the mammoth task of unpacking the house and starting her life all over again, that beautiful woman from the Batcave (the one who’d killed herself, and who’d lost her child and presumably her husband, too) had appeared out of thin air, like the guardian angel she was, and Martha slid down to her knees and begged,

Please take me with you…

When Clark was growing up, the neighbors were already starting to talk, and Jonathan was adamant that they’d ostracize him or worse if they found out about his powers, and he didn’t even want to talk about it beyond that within his own family, because what good would it do to the boy except remind him of how different he was, and discourage him from fitting in?

Sometimes one of the neighbor boys would call and ask if Clark wanted to come over to play ball, or ride their bikes around, or go to the movies. And sometimes Martha would cover the phone with her hand and turn around to see Clark gazing back at her through the banister, his face pressed against the bars like a little prisoner, and she’d gaze back at him for a moment, then she’d give her head the smallest of shakes, and he’d retreat back up the stairs. And after she got off the phone, she’d go after him, and he’d be pouting in his room, and she’d pull him into her arms and tell him how much she loved her little pea pod, and how special he was, and how, one day, everything would be better, and everything would make sense, even if it didn’t make sense now.

Martha wants to help, but at some point, running to school and soothing her son’s panic attacks wasn’t enough, and the family was already fraught, with Clark trying to find his place in a world and family that he knew wasn’t his… and then in an instant, Jonathan is dead.

And in that instant, the one person who she could count on to listen, however begrudgingly, to her worries about this wild, incredibly frightening situation was gone. They’d isolated themselves, and for good reason, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s utterly alone in the world now; now, the only one she can talk to about Clark is… Clark. And she would never do that, she’s his mother, his support, his rock, his reminder of how normal he is.

He leaves a few months after his high school graduation, working through the summer so then he has a little extra cash for wherever his hitchhiking takes him (Martha offers him money, but he refuses to take it—Buy yourself something nice, Ma. You deserve it, he says, and Martha snorts, because she doesn’t know what she deserves, but it probably isn’t nice).

And then time goes on, and the crops don’t sell as well as she’d hoped, but she can’t wait for a better price with all these bills to pay, and the farm falls into disrepair, and then there’s a whole ruckus with aliens, and a group of idiots in spacesuits throw her truck right through the house, and Clark gets a new outfit, and Martha watches in horror as half a city is destroyed, and thousands of people die, and finally, mankind is introduced to the Superman.

And the world begins to talk.

It’s not so much that she had to repress her feelings for women her entire life—she can daydream and gaze and imagine all she wants: it’s that she can’t talk about it. Sure, there's gossip about crushes during sleepovers, whispers under the covers with Laura Lang, the infamous “lapdance” incident… but when it came down to it, people like her, people who felt the things she did when she saw a pretty girl or an attractive woman… people like this were discouraged. 

Strongly discouraged.

She didn’t even have a word for it until one of the girls at school mentioned having a gay uncle, and Martha had said, A what uncle? and the girl—still a child, not even a teenager yet—had flipped her hair and said, It’s a man who has sex with other men. The other girls had shrieked in horror, and Martha had shrieked with them, and that had been that.

It wasn’t until later that she realized that women could love other women, too.

It’s the silence that gets to her.

Martha has to listen as her coworkers talk about aliens, about the invaders, about the destruction to their own town, about the Superman.

She has to watch, suffering alone, as the political climate goes from bad to worse, as people on the television debate the legitimacy and necessity of her son’s existence. She has to watch, as the politicians in Washington bring her son to trial, as if he were a criminal, not a hero. And then she has to smile at customers and shout orders into the kitchen and wipe down tables as if nothing was wrong, nothing at all.

When Clark dies, the world ends. She can’t be strong anymore. There’s no one to be strong for. They bury her baby boy next to his father, and Martha nearly forgets to pay the funeral director.

After she loses the farm, she goes to see Lois Lane.

She goes because it’s been nearly a year, and she hasn’t been able to talk to anyone about it. Oh, she can talk about Clark, her child, Clark, her boy all grown up gone to become a big reporter in Metropolis, only to die while reporting on Superman, Clark, her son.

But there’s more. There was always more.

And she has to look into the eyes of someone else who knows, she needs to talk to someone who knows who her son was, what he did, who he was trying to be, who he was struggling to become.

And Lois… she’s not much of a talker, but she is a listener. She’s an investigative reporter, it’s her job to listen and search for answers. She opens the door, and when she sees a frumpy old woman from Kansas standing out on the porch, she reaches out without hesitation, and pulls her into her arms.

There was a moment.

It had been a few weeks after, and Clark had been out at a graduation party, and Martha had been washing up the last of her dinner dishes and feeling melancholy as she watched the sun set over the fields—and that’s when Nell Potter had banged on her front door and invited herself in and shoved a pie at her, and she hadn’t shown her face at the church ever since word got out about her divorce and why (it wasn’t because her husband had been cheating), and she’d reached out and rested a hand against Martha’s elbow and said, Anything you need, really, and Martha had opened her mouth to offer her some coffee, because for a moment, she’d thought that they were going to talk, just sit down on the couch and talk for a while, but the woman was saying something about the diner, telling her to stop by anytime she and Clark needed a hot meal, and then she’d whisked out with nary an embrace, and Martha had watched her car pull out and roar off down the long driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake…

Clark had been so quiet when he came back home, he’d caught her crying into a half-eaten cherry cream cheese pie, and he’d tried to hold her, but she’d pushed him away and said she was fine.

She’s still in Metropolis when they bring him back to life. Alfred Pennyworth had invited her to the Batcave to watch the showdown in Russia, and she’s standing in the background, a hand over her mouth as they lay down the body of their fallen warrior, a girl who looks about Clark’s age.

She’s there when the door breaks in, and she finds herself staring into the face of someone who knows, someone who knows the fear of raising a superpowered child, who knows the angst of letting that child go out into an unforgiving world… and who knows the grief of losing that child.

Clark—no, let her go. Let her go.

Later, she sees her standing on the balcony, staring off into a distance, a lone woman facing the dark world… and for a long moment, Martha lingers in the shadows, watching as the proud figure trembles slightly, whether from the chill of the morning, or from the terrible realization that the sun is about to rise, and for the first time in years, the body laid out inside is not alive to see it…

Excuse me. I thought you might like… it’ll warm you up.

And the Queen of the Amazons looks down upon her, tears still gleaming in her eyes, this Goddess among Gods, Queen among Queens...

And they begin to talk.

Chapter Text

Let me tell you a story:

Time and time again, the Amazons fought. Not many people know this. 

Yes, they were sent to Themyscira and they lived in peace and recovered from the disaster that was their attempt to lead mankind in love and peace. All this is true.

But after a brief time, their warrior blood ignited once more. They petitioned for their Queen to look into the Magic Sphere, and when she saw injustices being done upon the people, she led a group of handpicked warriors back into Man’s World to right the wrongs they had seen. They moved like shadows, and the world of man did not recognize them before they had disappeared once more, already sailing back to the sacred shores of their hidden island.

From then on, each Amazon trained, pushing themselves harder than ever before, preparing their hearts and their bodies for the honor, the privilege of being chosen to accompany their Queen to Man’s World, to defeat evil, one battle at a time.

When your sister was born, the Queen sought to protect her. When she was old enough to ask questions, she was told that there were feasts, hunts, rituals that she could not partake in until she was worthy, until she came of age. But she was impatient, and she began to train against her mother’s wishes, hoping to learn of these wondrous things that were forbidden to her.

In time, she learned everything: the true history of the Amazons, the true nature of their role as the protectors of mankind, the true reason the goddesses had blessed the Queen with a child when all of the other Amazons were barren.

The Queen refused to let her step foot into Man’s World. As time passed, their arguments grew more and more heated, and soon, she refused to look into the Magic Sphere at all.

It was then that a man arrived on the shores of Themyscira, sent, perhaps, by the gods as a plea for the Amazons to restore order upon Earth once more. 

Your sister insisted that the Amazon Army be deployed in full to fight alongside mankind and protect the innocents. Your mother refused, and they parted in bitterness.

And ever since that day, your sister has protected the world of man. For a hundred years, she has fought for justice and peace and dignity for the humans.

But she is tired.

She has grown tired, just as the Queen grew tired before she sounded the retreat. She has grown tired, just as Earth grows tired of spinning on its axis, and the sun grows tired of its trek across the sky. She is tired, and don’t tell your mother, but I believe that one day, you will have to—

Don’t tell me what?

Shush, Hippolyta, I’m telling a story.

Hmm. Very well, go on.

As I was saying… don’t tell your mother I told you this, but one day, you will have to bury me on Earth. One day, I will die. And you will have to—

This is a terrible bedtime story, Martha Kent.

…no one is listening, anyway, look: All sleepy eyes and sleepy ears.

I am not asleep.

Well, of course not. I have a different bedtime story for you…

Chapter Text

The lone figure of Martha Kent is not one that often graces the edge of the training field, but it is a welcome sight, nonetheless. Antiope smiles as she notices her silhouette against the sun, looking lost and uncertain, surrounded by these fierce, half-naked warriors.

“Welcome, My Lady,” Antiope says as she strolls over, offering up what she hopes is an encouraging smile instead of the tell-tale smirk her sister complains about so often. “Are you here to begin your training at last?”

Martha lets out a nervous laugh, managing to look both frightened and amused at the same time.

“I—no, that does not sound like a good idea, for you or for me,” she says, blushing and glancing away as the women marching past on the field greet her with wide smiles and murmurs of, Good morning, My Lady. “I wondered if we might talk… in private.” 

Antiope raises an eyebrow, but she gives a short nod toward one of the armored warriors who is standing guard, then leads Martha off the field. They walk a short distance down to one of the lowest buildings of New Themyscira, almost a hut set into the limestone. Martha follows timidly as Antiope swings open the door and waves her forward.

The inside of the building is snug, minimalist, almost cabin-like: a sheer contrast to the open and airy rooms of the palace. A simple bed lies tucked against the wall, and an even smaller kitchen is set beside the door.

“On Themyscira, just as much of our training was done in the city as in the wild. Menalippe and I had no use for elaborate rooms or carved hallways. We made our homes in the places where we laid our heads at night, whether it was upon feather pillows, stinging sand, roots and stones.”

Antiope brings out a chair and gestures for Martha to sit. She does, folding her hands into her lap, then she takes a deep breath and tries to force herself to relax, or to at least keep her knees from shaking.

“Now.” The Amazonian general seats herself and leans forward. “What has my foolish sister done this time?”

And Martha gives a small smile, shaking her head.

“It’s nothing foolish, it… I just don’t know who else to talk to, who else to ask.” Martha glances away, wringing her hands. “The Queen and I are… engaged. We’re going to be married.”

Antiope doesn’t react.

“Well done.”

Martha nods once and goes on.

“Yes, but… before, we had this long discussion about—I don’t even know. She seems so concerned about what I want, about making sure that I’m not unhappy, and it’s almost to the point of, she… she gives me what she thinks I want, instead of what I say I want. It’s not quite that, but it’s something similar. It’s like she’s hyper-worried about me being unhappy.”

“Hmm.” Antiope’s startlingly blue eyes—lighter than her sister’s, sharper, somehow—gaze back at her for a moment, then she turns in her seat and seizes the pitcher of water from the wooden shelf behind her.

“Is that a bad thing?” she says casually, pouring herself a glass and offering one to her guest. Martha shakes her head with a murmured, No, thank you.

“I mean, no, not in theory,” Martha says quickly. “But it’s not realistic, no one is happy all the time. And especially not me.”

Antiope drinks, but her eyes never leave Martha’s face. She doesn’t speak, and Martha stumbles on,

“I mean… I am very happy here. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. And Hippolyta is wonderful, I love her, and I can’t wait to be married to her. But I can’t seem to get her to understand that I’m here by choice, that I want to be with her, that… that her entire world doesn’t have to revolve around me, and making me happy. I’m not that high maintenance, I was on my own for years, I don’t need to be coddled. And it’s not—it’s not that she’s coddling me. That’s not fair. It’s just… I’m afraid of showing some sides of myself to her, because I know she’ll try to fix it. And sometimes I don’t need someone to fix it, I just need someone to listen, and be there. Sometimes that’s enough. Do you…?”

“I understand, Martha Kent,” Antiope sighs, leaning back in her chair, stretching out her legs in a way that almost seems nonchalant. “I’ve heard it before. Why do you think Diana trained with me instead of with her?”

But Antiope waves her hand impatiently before Martha has a chance to form some meaningless answer.

“The Queen… is very protective. She was before the Amazons’ enslavement, but after… it became unbearable to her, the thought of any of those under her protection being in pain. It took centuries for her nightmares to stop, centuries of Mena staying up with her, praying over her, plying her with sleeping draughts. The Amazons know, and they understand, and they love her for it. None of us blame her for what happened, we all welcomed the men with hope and optimism. But she took the weight of what happened upon herself, and for so long, love and pain—romantic love—were one and the same.

“She has loved no one since Heracles, did you know that? In order to truly understand her, you must understand the depths of her rage at his betrayal. If her had wronged her only, perhaps… but he overtook her country, enslaved her people, stripped her of her rule for a hundred years. And she has forgiven him now, of course, it has been thousands upon thousands of years—do not think for a moment that she is still living in the shadow of a man. But it changed her, frightened her. I urged her constantly over the years to move on, to allow a woman to soften her, forgive her, to let go of this damned guilt. We were free. It was time for her to live as a free woman, to enjoy the life that we fought so hard for. And I do believe she tried. She truly tried. But until you, she found no one who could love her and soothe her like you apparently can. So you are the one who must be patient while she deals with all of these issues that she has not faced since Heracles.”

Martha stares down at her knees; they’re trembling now for a different reason.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

“It is very likely that she didn’t want to upset you,” Antiope replies, rolling her eyes. But her face is not unkind as she reaches out and grips Martha’s hand. 

“She may be a Queen, Martha Kent, but she is still a warrior. Get in her face and tell her, and do not back down when she tries to withdraw. She will listen to reason if you persist, but not a single moment before.” 

Antiope rises and tosses aside her empty glass of water, apparently finished with this conversation, but she pauses and glances back down at Martha’s miserable figure.

“But… do it in private. The Queen hates being accosted in public. It is a lesson Diana never learned.”

Martha finds her target in her office that night, sitting at her magnificent desk, reading through a stack of scrolls: reviewing the business of the day, scanning through the business of tomorrow. She looks up when Martha steps in, and gives a small smile of welcome.

“Little one.”

“May I… I’m sorry to bother you, I’ll wait til you’re done, I just wondered if I could speak with you.”

“You can always speak with me,” Queen Hippolyta says, an eyebrow raised, concern seeping into her expression, but Martha reaches over and lays a hand over hers.

“Hippolyta—darling. Finish your work. I’ll just be right here.”

And the Queen studies her for a moment, then she nods slightly and goes back to her scrolls. The engagement ring looks so beautiful on her hand, and for a moment, there’s a lump in Martha’s throat as she seats herself on one of the low benches along the limestone walls, and it’s because she put that ring there, she picked it out, and knelt before her, and put it onto that finger, and they’re doing this, they’re in it for the long run, and sometimes they’ll be running with the wind at their backs, holding hands and laughing as they fly together toward the sunset, but other times…

Hippolyta’s hand is a blur, and the next thing Martha knows, the sound of rustling parchment is startling her, and Hippolyta is facing her, opening her arms.

“Come here.”

And Martha goes to her and sits in her lap, wraps her arms around that long neck, and kisses those red lips.

“Now, my patient one… tell me what it is that has put these lines of worry over your forehead.”

And Martha wants to snuggle closer, to say, Oh, it’s nothing, and enjoy her lover’s touch for just a little while longer, but she knows she must speak, and so she sighs and raises her head to look the Goddess of Death in the eye.

“I… went to see Antiope today.”

“Oh? What did my reckless sister do now?”

“You know, she said something quite similar about you,” Martha says with a faint smile.

“I’m sure she did,” Hippolyta says, but her face is open, expectant, and Martha stumbles on.

“I… I want to tell you something. And I want you to listen, don’t—just let me finish. Okay?”

Hippolyta looks mildly surprised, but she nods and waits as Martha bites her lip, then begins.

“I’ve been unhappy a lot. For a lot of my life, just… so many deaths, and not being able to live and express this part of myself freely, and… it was a lot. And it got even harder after Clark died, it just felt relentless, one bad thing after another, the farm, and the house. When… when I went to see Lois in Metropolis, I was at the end of my rope. I was ready to give up, I was ready for it to be over. My family was gone, the farm, my husband’s legacy, everything, it was like I was at my wit’s end. 

“And maybe if my life had been easier from the beginning, I would be a happier person. And I’m not saying everything was horrible but… it was a struggle, and it took its toll. I’m not a naturally happy person, Hippolyta. Most people aren’t. And sometimes… it feels like you don’t give me permission to be unhappy. Like, it’s natural to not be happy all the time, it’s natural to have bad days. And I feel like you’re afraid of that. And I want you to know there’s nothing to be afraid of, I’m right here. I’m staying right here, in sickness and in health, on good days and bad days. I want to be with you. You could give me a—a magic scepter right now that would let me fly back home, and I wouldn’t go. I’m with you. I want this. And I need you to believe that, or at least try. I just… I can’t have that conversation anymore, that conversation of am I happy, and is this really—I’m happy, and if I’m not, and there’s something you can do to change that, I promise I’ll let you’ll know.”

Hippolyta gazes back at her, and for a moment, Martha thinks that her eyes are beginning to get watery, but the magnificent Queen only pulls her a little closer and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, as if to kiss away her wrinkles of worry.

“Very well.”

Martha waits, but apparently Hippolyta isn’t planning on adding any more.

“‘‘Very well’, that’s it?” she says, her voice a bit too cranky, but Hippolyta just leans back a little so she can tuck a strand of hair behind Martha’s ear.

“All you have said is true, little one. It is your truth, and I have not wished to see it. And perhaps I have been too careful with you—Antiope told me countless times when Diana was a child that I was too protective of her, that my love was suffocating her, stunting her growth, limiting her potential. And with you… you are a human, Martha Kent, and you are fragile as all humans are, and this has not been easy for you: I have seen your discomfort amongst my warriors, your doubts at your place at my side, your longing for your homeland.

“But you are also strong. You are stubborn, and you are determined, and willing to work hard at this, at us, and this… this is something we will do together. We will lead each other, and grow together, and we will speak honestly with one another when things are amiss.”

Martha tucks her head underneath Hippolyta chin, so she can feel the Goddess’ cold collarbones pressing against her skin, and Hippolyta tilts her head just slightly so then her cheek is resting against the top of Martha’s head, and she pulls her a little closer, and it fits, it just fits, they fit, and it’s good, and it’s comfortable, and Martha doesn’t want to be anywhere in the world but right here, just… right here—except, maybe they could move to a soft bed, and they could hold each other even closer, that would also be nice—

“I do have a suggestion, though, little one,” Hippolyta’s voice rumbles against Martha’s fragile human body, and she shivers.

“Uh oh,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t mean it, not really, not half as much as she minds when Hippolyta gently pushes her back a few inches so that she can look her in the eye.

“There is a priestess, an Oracle from the days of the Gods, a healer of the mind. I think it would be beneficial if we spoke with her, both together, but also separately. She is wise in the ways of humans and other sentient beings, and is deeply compassionate; she has helped me and many of my sisters in our healing process, as well as many others in their transition from life to death.”

Martha doesn’t like the idea of telling a stranger all about her private life, but it’s a good one and she knows it.

“Fine, I’ll go see the shrink,” she sighs, but she kisses Hippolyta’s cheek and seizes her hand as she hops off her lap, tugging her away from the desk. “Honestly, I probably should’ve gone a long time ago.”

“Why didn’t you?” Hippolyta asks curiously, without a single shred of judgement in her voice, but Martha just tugs harder at her hand.

“We can discuss that with the marriage counselor, Queen Hippolyta,” she says, practically dragging her down the hall toward their bedroom now. “There are other things we can do now to strengthen our future marriage…”

Chapter Text

She comes alone, but Antiope is still wary.

My wife has seen a vision. You were there. It was not pleasant.

But Circe only laughs and pushes her way past the second-greatest warrior in the Amazon army, knowing all too well that the General dares not attack her with anything sharper than her tongue.

Tell your wife to stop spying on me. If there is something she desires, she is welcome to ask.

If Hippolyta had been alert and at her place in the Embassy or the Senate, she would have beckoned the sorcerer forward anyway: their lust for one another is no secret to the Amazons—especially amongst those who happen to live near the palace, and are so unfortunate as to leave their windows open during the woman’s visits. But Hippolyta has been distraught ever since she returned from her months of scouring the seas, searching for her missing sea monster. Antiope watches with suspicion as Circe makes her way through the Palace halls, but she lets her go without further complaint.

Perhaps a visit from the sorcerer will give their Queen reason to rise from the bed she has refused to leave these last several days.

Hippolyta.

It is a voice from the deeps, but it is not accompanied with the soft, velvety touch of her missing friend; instead, the fingertips pressing against her bare shoulder are firm, fiery, powerful, like the Goddess she is.

“I bring news, Lyta. News of your lost sheep.”

Hippolyta does not open her eyes or move, but Circe can hear the way her heart skips a beat.

“The creature is being held in the hidden caves beneath Atlantis.”

And Hippolyta rouses herself at last, turning over to gaze upon Circe’s watching face. To the sorcerer’s great credit, her expression does not change as she takes in the Queen’s disheveled state: sheets tangled, hair wild and untamed, face puffy and streaked with tears, still smelling faintly of the salty sea.

“I searched the caves beneath Atlantis, I did not see—”

“I said hidden caves, My Queen. Your grief has made you deaf.”

But despite her harsh words, Circe has deigned to seat herself upon her rumpled bedspread, and her hand is gentle as she brushes her knuckles over the Amazon’s skin.

“Did you speak with her?” Hippolyta says, sitting up and reaching out a shaking hand to grasp at Circe’s elbow. “Is she… well?”

“I only saw it in my glass, barely more than a vision. The creature was sleeping, and I saw nothing else, I promise. Stop pawing at me, woman.”

Hippolyta releases her arm and allows herself to fall back onto her pillows once more, but this time, her eyes are bright with anticipation instead of grief.

“Perhaps there is a way to send a message to her, a way to contact her through the glass, to see if she is—”

“I will do nothing more,” Circe says flatly. “Scrying into Atlantis was risky enough, and what, with their stupid king being Poseidon’s son—I prefer my island home above water, Hippolyta.”

“Circe.”

“I said no.” But the sorcerer is beginning to smile, and she does not push away Hippolyta’s hands as they reach for her once more.

“But I love her.”

“You love everyone,” Circe retorts, allowing Hippolyta to draw her forward, into her arms, and her eyebrows furrow as the sheets are tossed aside, and their bodies press together. “Titans—how is it you have spent a full week bedridden, and you are not disgusting? Men need only spend a single night in bed, and by morning they have already ruined the sheets with their sweat and stink and—”

“Not all men are terrible, Circe,” Hippolyta murmurs, pressing her sweet lips against the corner of Circe’s mouth.

“Not all men, she says,” Circe mocks, pushing Hippolyta’s head down to her throat, urging her to bite. “Not all men are disgusting pigs, Circe.”

“Some are noble, and strive to do right—”

“Hera is a troubled creature, Circe, and she deserves our sympathy,” the sorcerer interrupts, hands sinking into Hippolyta’s tangled hair, gripping hard.

“Do not speak ill of that woman,” Hippolyta frowns, bending and biting hard enough to make the Goddess gasp, just as she intended. “She has been forced into an impossible position—”

“She is a cow, Lyta, and a manipulative one at that,” Circe snips, but whatever she was about to say is interrupted as Hippolyta moves down, tearing aside her robes with her teeth and enveloping a hard nipple with her hot mouth. A firm hand is caressing hungrily over her other breast.

“Titans, Hippolyta…” she groans, but she grits her teeth and pushes Hippolyta away, flipping her over, pressing her down onto her back, one hand gripping at the Queen’s throat, the other still buried deep in her hair.

“What next, My Queen?" Circe demands. "Will you tell me next that the creature you adore so much is a better lover than me?”

“She is a better lover than you,” Hippolyta says, but her eyes are as teasing as her mouth. “She is kind and generous and thoughtful. You… you are cruel, and angry. And small.”

Circe shrieks, and there is a tussle of arms and legs and mouths and teeth and laughter and tangled sheets and thrown pillows and glowing ropes and restrained limbs and gleaming eyes and smug claims of victory and angry thrashing and teasing lips and skilled fingers… 

When it is over, Circe drags her lover to the rooftop, and they lie for a long moment in the hot pool, gazing up at the stars, watching as the moon begins her trek across the sky. The Amazons are beginning to gather in the town square for the evening meal, and the distant clamor of clanging dishes and boots against stone and hearty warrior voices is rising up even to this great distance.

“Your sister dislikes me more every time we meet.”

“Hmm.” Hippolyta is too warm and tired and content to pay her mind, and Circe kicks at her.

“When I arrived, she babbled something at me about visions. Her wife seeing visions.”

“Yes,” Hippolyta says drowsily. “She has foreseen that you will break my heart.”

Circe snorts, but she leans her head back, and her eyes are fixed on the stars, and if Hippolyta had opened her eyes and glanced over to her, she would have wondered at the strange look of melancholy on the sorcerer’s face.

“Please. We both know that it is you who will break mine.”

Hippolyta sinks even lower into the water, and Circe seizes at her shoulders before her head can slip beneath the surface.

“We both know you do not have a heart, Circe.”

Hippolyta is practically unconscious, her voice slow and slurred as Circe pulls her close, cradling her head against her chest. She has already fallen into the endless abyss of sleep by the time those soft, deceptive lips press against her forehead.

No. Not since I gave it to you.

She holds her tight for a moment longer, and then she is gone, gone with a forbidden confession and a whispered spell, reappearing instantly on her precious island, leaving Antiope to find her sister lying half submerged in the rooftop pool several hours later, naked and ravaged and content, sleeping soundly for the first time in days.

Chapter Text

I. Johanna Schröder/Isabel Maru

But she is beautiful.

She is beautiful in a way that is so unlike her country: cold and hard and seething with anger and blame. She has somehow escaped the bitterness that accompanies and protects the other women in their department, a necessary shield that the scorn and skepticism of their male colleagues cannot penetrate.

She is good and gentle and believes in these things in her heart, and when Isabel with her, when Isabel is near her, it is not so difficult to indulge such ideas, even though she knows in her own heart, knows in her very soul that the world is a cruel place, and that men thrive and delight on such things.

You work too hard, Isabel.

She is here, and she is dressed formally, face painted, smelling of perfume. She is recently returned from an evening on the elbow of one of Germany’s many men, most likely: recently returned from an evening of dining—openly, with one of the many students or faculty members of their university; recently returned from an evening of sitting—openly, at one of Germany’s many theaters or concert halls beside one of the many men that crowd these cold and lonely streets; recently returned from a night of sharing company and laughter and conversation—openly, with one of the many cursed males that swagger through her cursed country—

“Paula said you have have not left the lab since midday.”

Her voice is cool, its usual warmth chilled over with concern, and Isabel finally deigns to look up. The woman is offering her a lumpy package wrapped in newspaper; dark patches of grease are already beginning to seep through the crisp paper, blurring the inky print.

“Charlotte spoke again on Mary Wollstonecraft.”

Isabel accepts the package and opens it to reveal several round Krotetten, potato dumplings stuffed with chopped meat and deep fried in oil, painfully similar to Spanish croquetas. The smell is sickening, but Johanna’s expression has grown worried at Isabel’s hesitation, and she cannot bear to see such a sight, cannot bear to cause such a sight, and so she begins to eat.

“So. Not a man, then.”

A meeting of feminists in an upper room is far less alarming than a downstairs meeting between a man and a woman, and perhaps Johanna is too innocent to hear the scorn in Isabel’s voice, and perhaps she is too gracious to notice her relief. Or maybe she does hear and notice, but the sheer purity of her heart does not allow her to truly comprehend such things. Her goodness would always remain an enigma to Isabel in their ten years together, unwavering, unflagging, unchanging, until—

Until it wasn’t.

II. Diana (Wonder Woman)/Isabel Maru

She is not blameless, Diana. You may have forgiven her, but her crimes were not against you, only. If the wronged desire justice, you cannot stand in their way.

And maybe it isn’t fair that the chemist should be allowed to live with her guilt of those who were killed by her inventions. Maybe it isn’t fair that she should be allowed to retreat to paradise and recover in the arms of a Goddess. Maybe it isn’t fair that she should be allowed to go on, when it was her work that took this privilege away from so many others.

But the war is over. And the alliances—shaky though they may be—have been written, and the people are left to go on with their lives, picking up the pieces, mourning their dead, and vowing that this can never happen again, that this, surely, must have been The War to End All Wars.

Isabel is kneeling in the garden, digging in the dirt, her pale skin shaded by a wide-brimmed hat that she had pretended to hate when Diana first presented it to her. Today, she might be any old woman, a snappy little thing who has endured much in her living years, and who is allowing herself a blessed moment’s peace. But the Queen is right, even as she looks down upon them from her magnificent steed, even as she looks with thinly veiled disdain upon the secluded home that her daughter has made for herself and her wife on their hidden island. It is a simple place, a humble shack rendered nearly invisible against the cliffs, but in the morning, the sunlight spills over the mountaintops to beam over the plot of dirt at their doorstep, and in the evening, the setting sun paints the open sky and endless sea with golds and reds and blues, and there is an outlook, a clearing nearby from which to watch the stars, the constellations and heroes marching their way across the night sky.

Love is blindness, Diana. Take care that it does not blind you to the truth.

Queen Hippolyta had given the humans over to themselves thousands of years ago, and that is her truth.

But Diana still has hope. And perhaps it is beyond all reason, perhaps it is beyond all evidence—perhaps the very reason she believes in such things would scoff at her, scowling in that way that makes her look so frightening and adorable at the same time—

Someone should’ve wiped the humans out long before this, Princesa. Don’t pretend that there is any point in all of history where the humans have made things even a little bit better.

Eighty years later, a man would barrel his way into their lives and throw out his chest and growl, Men are still good, and Diana would thank the Gods that Dr. Isabel Maru is not present to hear such things, because perhaps Bruce Wayne does need to hear the extended version of The History of All Mankind—beginning at the First Sin of Adam, continuing with the Murderous Vengeance of Cain (Man—singular, has never been “good”, Mr. Wayne, she would say, And men—plural, were clearly a waste of space)— but there is work to be done, and these men need work, they need to put aside their bitterness and stubbornness and insecurities and grief, and if they can accomplish this great miracle, then perhaps they can all live another day to debate such things.

III. Hippolyta/Martha Kent

For centuries, she believed it was a curse from Hera.

There have been women, countless women, strong women, beautiful women, talented women, intelligent women. But they had all been flawed, made imperfect, perhaps, by the sheer availability of others who are waiting, begging to throw themselves at her feet. 

Antiope is equally amused and disgusted by such behavior, but the Amazonian General has already found the partner of her heart, and she was so fortunate to have found her early on, that they could spend many centuries together. And she may be a member of the royal monarchy, the head of the entire army, but she is not Queen, and this has been disquieting in Hippolyta’s mind, an understanding that the burden of receiving her heart is not just in loving a strong, formidable woman; it also carries with its weight the responsibility of moving amongst the Amazons with grace. Her prospective lover must understand that she has nothing to fear from these powerful warriors, but neither has she the power to lord over them, to order them to do her bidding. 

A woman like Hera would have drawn them into her tangled webs without remorse, fashioning deadly protections for her people, an army for herself. A woman like Circe would have scorned them as much as she feared them, struggling to assert herself and her own powers over theirs. A creature like the Karathen would have made friends with the warriors and distracted them with her tricks and playfulness. A man like Heracles…

“I saw this book at the library with Jon, and it was so cute, I bought a copy so you could read it, too.”

A small pair of hands is thrusting a picture book onto her lap, and Hippolyta looks up, startled from her thoughts by the best of distractions, a beautiful little human with a shy, impatient smile.

“It’s called, The Missing Piece. It’s about a piece trying to find its piece. I mean. It’s about a circle trying to find its piece.”

Hippolyta can read English, and she can certainly recognize shapes, but she pulls Martha Kent into her lap and solemnly opens this thoughtful gift that she has been given, and she slips a strong arm around her wife’s waist so that she cannot fall or escape, and the woman begins to read to her, pointing to the pictures like she is reading to her grandson, and she is kind, and innocent, and bitter, and impatient, and worried, and anxious, and thoughtful, and steadfast, and good-natured, and compassionate, and she is everything that these humans can be, everything that these humans should be, and she wears every emotion on both sleeves, and perhaps they were both complete when their worlds collided, perhaps they were both fully formed, fully at peace with their lives and their places in the world, but they looked upon each other for the first time and—

And the curse was lifted. The famine was over. The plague was ended.

Who are you? she had said at their first meeting, their first exchange of words, in the most unfortunate of situations, the most cursed of earthly caves, and Martha Kent had looked up at her and given her excuses, and perhaps she was playing hard to get, or maybe she wasn’t quite sure herself now, just as Hippolyta didn’t know herself now, now that she had found herself, her completed self, her missing piece.

“Lyta. You weren’t even listening to half of the story.”

“I am sorry, little one,” Hippolyta says at once, bending down and pressing a kiss to the corner of those frowning lips. “I was thinking of how much I love you.”

And Martha Kent scoffs, but she is smiling, and there will be time enough for reading later, perhaps sometime later tonight, when she decidedly does not want it to be the time for reading, but their precious sliver of time alone is already at an end; there is the sounds of twin-ly laughter and running footsteps upon the cobblestone, and soon they will burst in, and the room will be filled with laughter and stories and loud voices and the most silly antics that they certainly did not inherit from Hippolyta, and Martha Kent has heard them now, too, and she is already rolling her eyes and climbing out of Hippolyta’s lap, pressing a final kiss to her lips before the children arrive, and perhaps Hippolyta’s life was just as complete when she was a mere glimmer of light in the well of souls, perhaps her life was just as complete in the moment when Hera grasped her hand and pulled her to the shore, perhaps her life was just as complete as she led her people across the plains, across the pages of history, and perhaps her life was never so complete as when she lifted her miracle baby to the sky, the Princess of Themyscira, a blessing from the Goddesses…

Mother, tell her to stop biting me! It’s not allowed! No, it’s not! Biting’s not allowed!

But it never felt quite so complete, so satisfactory, so deep-in-her-bones exhausting as this. 

IV. Yun/weaver

But she is beautiful.

She has always been beautiful, from the first moment she strolled across the dusty town square toward them—the daughter of the weaver, and the daughter of the carpenter, sitting behind their wares, talking like children about things they didn't understand—and the warm sunlight had been beaming down on that noble face as she approached, dark skin and darker hair, two tiny mirrors in her hand. They would have been cheap trinkets to her, no doubt they had thousands tucked away in one of their wagons to be brought back to their people, gifts from the Empire for those commoners who were pleasing to the Chanyu. 

A strong hand thrusts the gifts forward, and they are left to cower before her. Her mother, already famous and infamous for her sacrifices and sins, had been waiting on her magnificent stallion, watching gravely over all, looking less like a lady, and more like a soldier…

A gift from the Queen to the two gossips sitting in the dirt.

But perhaps it is a false memory, lovingly polished and cherished from constant perusal.

Perhaps the brilliant blue of the sky had been veiled with dusty grey clouds, shapeless and drab and fast-moving over the hills that lumber down from the North, and perhaps the sun’s light was barely strong enough to throw a shadow, much less provide a sliver of warmth, and perhaps it had been cold, colder than reasonable for sitting outside, but for the fact that they had wanted to wait until the very last moment to pack up their wares, to wait for that last chance to trade a scrap of cloth or a cheap wooden trinket of their own—and that’s why her hands had been calloused and cold as she shoved the gifts toward them, and that’s why her eyes had been chilly and hostile—despite all of her later protests that it had been love at first sight—it had not been love that first sent the blood speeding through the weaver's veins, numbing her limbs, rendering her mute and unintelligent as she knelt beside the dusty road: it had been fear of the warrior towering over her, fear at the disdain in that face despite the gifts in her hands.

But she is beautiful. And because she is beautiful, of course the sun was shining, and of course the clouds of dust swirling up behind their horses’ hooves were beautiful, like smoke caught in the light, graceful and fleeting and intangible, and of course it was warm, unseasonably warm, and her hair must have been free and tousled and thick, dark as onyx, and her skin ruddy and flushed and beaming, and when she stood before her, hand outstretched, of course her eyes were curious and kind and teasing, and she is smiling, and she is beautiful, and this is the moment that the world ended, this is the moment when the weaver lost all semblance of self, and she transcended her own mortal body to reach for the Heavens, and the answer is yes—

The answer is yes, still yes, will always be yes, even when the weaver's feet lead her away through the clumps of withered grass—old and rotten from their months beneath the frozen chokehold of snow—even when, moving with maddening speed in the opposite direction, the Xiongnu begin their long journey North, where they will reunite with the other tribes, and there will be greetings and laughter and tears and wrestling and feasting and hunting, and all of these things will take place hundreds of miles from this tiny village that lays unmoving at the bottom of the hills—her home—and the horizon will no longer be dotted with their tents, and the steppes will once more be transformed into the endless, empty sea of grass, and they will no longer be together; she will not be here to see this, to stand at her side and watch as Winter gives way to Spring, and Spring transforms to Summer, and Summer bows knee to Fall, and the world is made alive.

Well, weaver, we shall meet again in a year’s time. Farewell.

Her name is Yun.

Wandering Cloud, her mother calls her, her firstborn, fearless and reckless and bold, caught up in the dreams of both her parents, dreams of peace and intellect and the preservation of life, traditions, hope. She is captivated by the impossible, spurred on, perhaps, by the impossibility of her own creation, by the paradox of her own existence: fluent in two worlds, and accepted by neither.

But she is powerful enough to conquer both: disarming enough to soothe the hatred of her mother’s people, ruthless enough to quell the bloodlust of her father’s, and intelligent enough to balance the constantly shifting power struggles within and between both forces—forces powerful and unstable enough to wash the never-ending sea of the steppes with an ocean of blood. 

And she is beautiful.

And when she is here, and they are alone, and the cold moon is shining over the frozen fields of snow, and the fire is low, and they are in her bed, surrounded by furs and woven cloth finer than anything she could ever fashion at her loom, and her skin is warm against her own, and her kisses are soft, and her voice is a low murmur, tender and thrilling…

Here, it is easy to forget.

Later, she would grow to love these other things, would learn to relish that wild ruthlessness, that cruel intelligence, that murderous rage against injustices and broken promises. Later, she would understand the despair and helplessness that comes with crumbling power, lost battles, lost souls. Later, she would understand the endless turnings of the Earth, a lonely planet suspended in space, held captive by the constellations that march across the sky, and she would understand the rise and fall of empires, the heartbreak of surrender, the quiet strength of tradition, the fragility of her species. 

“You are distracted tonight, weaver. Am I failing to amuse you?”

But the weaver gives a small smile and does not reply. She could speak, and Yun would understand, as Yun understands all things, but tonight they are young, and they are beautiful and foolish and optimistic and drunk on lovemaking and the tantalizing promise that there is nothing they cannot do when they are together, and later—

Later, there will be time enough for the truth.