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Homer stares up at Kore, tracking the lines of his handsome face, and wonders how he could ever write this god as a maiden.
“Would I be able to write in Elysium?”
“Of course,” Kore leads him closer to the gates. “I can show you what awaits you before you declare a choice.”
Homer breathes out in relief. “Thank you, I’d like that.”
They arrive at a humble home on the edge of a clear-bottomed lake. At the water’s edge, nymphs frolic and giggle when they spy Kore. He shakes his head, amused by their flirtatious coos. “Don’t worry, they do that to everyone,” Kore assures Homer as he opens the front door to the small home.
“You’ll have to get used to more modern amenities, but you’ll enjoy them once you learn,” Kore assures him. The god makes himself smaller, leading Homer into the home with the same body of a mortal. Before Homer can ask how that feels, Kore leads him to one of the two rooms in the house. The furniture is different than what Homer remembers from his life, but he’ll manage. It’s the thing on top of the wooden shelf that confuses him.
“What’s this?”
“A typewriter. Old technology, but I figure I’ll teach you this before we move on to the tablet.”
“I know what a tablet is,” Homer replies with affront, forgetting for a moment he’s speaking to a god.
Kore takes no offense to Homer’s tone, waving a hand at him as he leads Homer closer to the contraption. “I promise the tablet will make your head implode, so we’re going to start here.” He gestures for Homer to sit in the leather chair. As Homer does he releases a pleased sound—it’s like sitting on a cloud.
“I assume you’ll want to rewrite all those stories you got wrong?” Kore asks.
Homer nods his head, shame coloring his cheeks.
“Well, the typewriter will help. Here’s how it works.”
His fingers hover over the various symbols, and as he presses the metal down a clack sounds and a little arm puts that symbol onto a thin sheet of papyrus.
Homer watches with a slack jaw, and forgetting himself pats Kore excitedly on the shoulder demanding he show Homer again. Kore seems pleased with his reaction and writes out whole paragraphs with ease.
They carry on like that for hours, Kore explaining the keys, the ribbon, the sheets of paper (loading and unloading them). The entire time, Homer absorbs this fascinating information with a gleeful expression.
“Do you think you understand now?” Kore asks, checking some sort of moving dial on his wrist.
“Yes. Thank you so much, my king.” Homer remembers himself then and bows his head, grateful to this contraption and the leniency Hades and Kore showed for his misunderstanding.
“It’s been my pleasure,” Kore assures him. “I’ll take my leave now. I’m sure others will find you here. Especially when they hear you’re rewriting the histories you got wrong.” There’s amusement on Kore’s face, no sign of annoyance or exasperation for Homer’s stupidity. Rather, he seems fond as he pats Homer on the top of his head like a trained pet, and says, “Be well, myth weaver.”
As Kore turns to leave, Homer dares call out for him to stop. Kore does, and glances back at Homer with surprise lifting his brows and wrinkling his forehead.
“Yes?” Kore asks when Homer remains silent in fear.
“Did you…” he hesitates. Swallowing his terror, Homer continues, “Did you ever have a daughter to tell your story to?”
Kore’s face softens with an expression Homer cannot name, his smile another private and elusive curve on Kore’s beautiful mouth. Silence blankets them, not uncomfortable but pensive, and after a time Kore responds.
“You tell me, Homer.”
His grin grows teasing, impish and playful as he leaves Homer in his new home.
Homer turns to the ivory-colored keys on his new typewriter, his fingertip—returned to youth in this place—traces the letters with reverence.
I wonder if I’ll ever discover they had a daughter. Queen Hades seems like she’d be a wonderful mother, and King Kore would be a magnificent father.
I hope the Fates gave them all they wanted.
