A/N: Technically, there's no time period when this could have happened, but humor me anyway. It's a night of one-shots devoted to Reload, that will never come true.
La donna è mobile
Qual piuma al vento,
Muta d'accento — e di pensiero.
Sempre un amabile,
In pianto o in riso, — è menzognero.
È sempre misero
Chi a lei s'affida,
Chi le confida — mal cauto il core!
Pur mai non sentesi
Chi su quel seno — non biba amore!
The Thourm was his wife.
He shivered suddenly.
How could it have been, after all these years, that he still didn't know her?
Know that she had been insane, known that she was corrupt, known that she had engineered his end while always insisting that she cared about him.
And to think he had thought himself the evil one for all this time.
Her cold black eyes that had once been that light, almost translucent brown had given her away. Revealed to him that no matter why she said she had done it, for whom she had done it, she was still utterly wicked.
The children who followed her didn't understand, thought of him as their enemy.
His hands balled into fists. I'm not your enemy. I'm trying to save you.
They had said that they were safe. That there was no better future for them than at the Thourm's side.
His enraged scream echoed through the Parthenon. Most of the gods simply ignored him.
Leges hurried to his side. "Is everything alright, sir?"
He stared at Leges, knowing that his eyes betrayed most of his pain. "I'm fine. Please leave me."
Leges obeyed, as the demigod always did, but not without a departing glance.
His eyes followed Leges, glad for something to do that wasn't introspective.
After all, he wasn't having the usual epiphany, the sudden realization that no matter what, he still loved her. No matter what, he could forgive.
This time, he understood, there would be no epiphany. There would be no love. Because there was no love anymore.
Maybe Brendan loved Marc, but he could never love the Thourm.