This Tale of the Navel involving Juno, regular customer to the Navel was the result.
Jupitre gazed up at the moonless sky, a heavy layer of darkness covering everything and everyone below.
There should have been a lightning bolt, illuminating the heavens. It should have been in his hand, ready to cast upon the mortals shivering beneath him.
Only now he was one of the ones who shivered.
Lightning had once been part of him, racing through his brains, his loins, overflowing his body, shaping him into being one with it. How easy it had been to let go of flesh and sinew, delighting in the electricity throbbing through him, pulsing in his biceps and fists. Quickening with anticipated release upon whatever target he might fancy.
Only the lightning had abandoned him along with the power of the storm. It played in the sky, hiding beneath the clouds, free of him.
It had left Jupitre nothing more than a broken, twisted man.
“Look what I have, dear!” His wife chirruped at him, brandishing a package in his face. “Just what you need.”
He nodded, watching Juno waddle across their cottage floor to open the package, emptying some of its contents into a pretty little china pot, painted with flowers and blades of grass.
The kettle sang a mocking tune on the hearth. Juno went to collect it. She carried it the pot, only to pour the contents from the kettle inside. Fumes rose in the air from his tea, quieting some of his rage, the emptiness. This collection of dried leaves from the Navel was the only thing which could fill it.
A tea his wife made. How pathetic Jupitre had become.
“It’s so nice to see you all quiet and contented these days, dear, oh yes!” she chattered, lifting the kettle up. “You used to be so discontented, unable to sit still, eyes constantly roving.” She tittered.
Ah, yes, his eye had been in constant motion, in search of a pretty face. Once he’d spotted her (or him), he’d don a number of forms to seduce or ravage his prize.
Thus he’d once claimed his wife. What had he been, a bird with a broken wing? Juno had always had a passion for the fragile.
No wonder she prefered her husband in this weakened state.
“It’s so much better to stay in one place, appreciating what you have.” Juno bustled around the teapot, putting together a plate of cookies. “That’s the key to a contented existence.”
Be content with what you’ve got? Jupitre sneered at the dumpy figure, waddling about. Look at you woman. Once you were a goddess, a contender for the title of the loveliest of immortals. Now you’re a fat, middle-aged woman, chattering, making tea.
“How can you be happy?” He forced his slack, numb lips to form the words. “We’ve lost so much.”
“Ah, but did you really enjoy any of your former glory, dear?” Juno carried the tray over to him. “You possessed all that power, but you had to guard it constantly. Never knew when one of your countless offspring might snatch it away from you the way you snatched our father’s, hmm?”
She settled the tray on the table in front of him, lifted the pot, and poured a cup of tea. “Really, you were lucky to escape to this quiet life after all the things you’d done, all the people we’d hurt, don’t you think?”
“I don’t,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Shh, dear.” She offered him a steaming cup. “Drink your tea and you’ll no longer be discontented.”
Jupitre took the cup, glanced down at the tea tray. “Three cups,” he said, noting the additional cup and saucer. “Who is it for?”
“Oh, dear, you haven’t forgotten our daughter again, have you?” Juno clucked her tongue in disapproval. “She poured your wine for you once, until you took a fancy to that boy and replaced her with him.”
His daughter. The one who’d once poured his wine before he found his cupbearer. Ah, he remembered that boy with his luminous eyes, glossy hair, and supple limbs, but he couldn’t recall the girl. He’d had many magnificent daughters, goddesses within their own right, battling with weapons, wit, or beauty, but he couldn’t recall one who’d poured the wine for him.
“Hebe.” Juno narrowed her gray eyes, which glistened with a cold, malevolent light. “She was at your side during every banquet until you turned her out for that catamite.” Juno lowered her head to gaze at the third cup. “I always set a place for her at teatime, but she refuses to sit with you.”
Refuses. A child of Jupitre’s refused to spend time with him. Once he would have made her suffer for such insolence. He could no longer remember such malice. The fumes coming from the teacup in his hand soothed his wounded ego, his rage, his discontent.
He took a sip. It burned, going down his throat, scorching his restless emptiness. Ah, yes, it was so much better when he drank the tea.
“This makes me so calm,” Jupitre said, gazing down at the murky contents within his drinking vessel.
“Ah, yes, it does seem to appease you like nothing else.” Juno heaved a sigh and picked up the pot to pour herself a cup. “If only it could do the same for me, my dear.” She glanced up at her husband with moist gray eyes. “If only.”
I wish tea did that for me! ~grin~ I'm the fat, middle-aged version of Juno, sad to say. Happy Writing!
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