heartsonghq - Tumblr blog

heartsonghq · 1 day ago

Text

The shadows at the edge of the temple stretched unnaturally, bending toward Stanis like reverent onlookers as even the shades lingering about the temple opted for a chance to see the son of the dead king. Fear on the chill of a solemn hush washed over the marble of the stones, the statues - brilliant and gleaming - seemed to gray as the candles dimmed without cause.

To some Hades was the permanent specter in the invisible helm, perpetuating the idea that one could never truly know what corner the King was waiting around. His presence rose behind his statue, tall and slow as moonlight over a forgotten field. Those same shadows peeled away like bark to reveal the God himself, Lord of the Dead, cloaked in a mantle of the richest and purest black - drinking in the light with his very presence.

His features were a stone left out in eternity - chiseled and weathered. His beard well- groomed, dark, and salt-touched. His eyes - piercing and pale - settled upon Stanis with a mote of what was so rare from Hades: pride.

Hades spoke, and from the light of the candles to the dust motes drifting through the air - all seemed to stop, holding their breath, and listening.

"My son." He stepped forward, boots echoing softly despite the temple's stone. The offerings were glanced at - each one recognized, each one accepted. "I have heard every whisper, every prayer you gave to the stone, even when no words passed your lips. You seek understanding, so understand this: kindness is a currency reserved for charity - I am a King with troubles beyond the grievances of life,"

He knelt to be eye-level with Stanis, greeting his son in a way that he would do for none beyond his flesh and blood - save perhaps for his wife. "You ask what I want of you, but this is the wrong question. We gods are demanding creatures, but with you and your brother -" his brow lowered faintly, with a flicker of contempt for his kin, but with it came a softening of his hardened features when he placed a hand on Stanis' shoulder "- you get to choose. You, who do not ask for easy roads, who sees misery but does not turn from it."

There was a moment of reprieve, quiet, contemplative, and still in the heavy beat that prolonged the short silence. "Stanislaw, the best leaders are not born from those who are the strongest, or even the wisest. They come from those willing to make the difficult choices and live with the consequences." He'd been present through the other's trials, but successes and failures - celebrating each in his own, quiet way. They could not intercede before, but now the law was lifted. "Neither I nor my brothers were alone when we ascended, it will take all of you to face the mounting threat."

Speaking from experience, Hades continued, "Choose your companions with care. This weight... this command has a way of hollowing, if you let it. Surround yourself with those who challenge you to be more - I was fortunate to find this in my Persephone. Lesser men will cling to you, drawn to stand in your shadow... but do not concern yourself with them: they are trifles, who only seek to follow or flatter." When he stands, Hades' hand brushes lightly against the crown of Stanis' head, "In silence, in shadow, in stillness: know you have never walked this path alone."

Shadows swallow Hades in an umbra and with his absence the candles regain their light, noise finds its way to the temple again, and all things living were permitted to breathe once more.

[STANIS HAS RECEIVED AN EXTRA CHARGE]

a prayer for father the king of silver and gold;

It was a long time coming.

It was not the first time. He'd been there before, sitting at the temple, looking at his father's statue. Large, imposing, less visited than the rest.

Hades was regal, Hades exuded power. Even there, a hint of the underworld seemed to cling to him, giving him a gravity that wasn't there for the rest of them.

Arthur had reminded him it was said even the gods feared him. He could understand.

It was not the first time he came to speak with the statue, but it was perhaps the first time real words were used. He had met the man, drank his ambrosia and looked into his eyes. He'd been welcomed by him, but then he was gone. No time for talking, no time for questions.

And since then, silence.

Well, not silence. Hades had never been silent, he thought. There were whispers, there were hauntings.

Glimpses of his realm, seeping into Stanis' life.

"Father." He greets the lord of the dead, king of the underwold. Hades was a ghost to him most of his life, the mysterious, enticing figure who not only promised but delivered his father the world. Took him out of misery with hell being the only price.

Now he was real. And the hauntings changed, now there were voices on his ear. Whispers, dead following him around wherever he went. Even now he could feel them at his back.

"I had hoped you'd come for me. I had imagined..." He sighed, "I spent the last years chasing you, hunting shadows, seeing misery and death firsthand. I looked for you everywhere. And now that I'm chosen, one of the chosen. The second. And not a word..."

He opens his bag, the coal from the mines. Displayed in front of his feet, pointing north. He fails not to think of Samson and his father as he moves on.

"You welcomed me, into your realm, into your arms. You called me to battle. Yet I do not understand..." He continues, "What designs you have for me. What your embrace means."

He places golden drachma coins in front of him next, pointing south. Ones he found at his feet when he walked through camp, the good fortune his father brought, the rich and gold, blessed by Stanis' powers. As befuddling as they can be.

"What is your design? What role do you wish me to play in this? I am no healer. When you left my father, he chased you in every place, in every moment. You left no map, no guidance. He built altars in your honor, he created hells and now both your subjects haunt me at every turn." He breathes, eyes closing then opening. "You promised him the world and delivered. You promised me power, you promised me your realm but I need clarity, I need..." You. He had tried to move past his father's obsession, past the man who meant everything to him, he sat on top of the world, he saw every place someone could wish to visit and yet he found himself back here. At Hades' feet.

He pours dark coffee, recently brewed into a cup, places it east. He offers the best chocolate he's tasted in Belgium, the smell takes him back to lazy mornings in the countryside, to trying to be free and realizing that would never be true until he faced what was in his past. That his father's doings would always follow him, that now those were intimately tied to his own doings and would be, forevermore. There was no running from what made you you.

"Clarity. I need clarity, father. Your design in all this. What being welcomed by you means. Olympus has not been kind to you, yet here you stand, here we stand. Are we with them, despite it all? Or are we the outsiders it feels like we are. What role have you for your son? Is it the same as my brother's? Should I listen to the dead as they cry and beg and demand or send them back where they belong?"

West he carefully places Asphodel flowers, collected on camp where one restless soul guided him. Their beauty and their scent not at all reminiscing of the glimpse he had of the Meadows in the Underworld during his vision. He had no way of knowing if that was truly it, or if there was some lost beauty to it. He longed for another glimpse, even if the experience had been harrowing then. He wanted to know his father's realm as intimately as he knew his mortal father's empire but despite his welcome, an invitation had not been extended.

"You've been silent for too long father, guide me. Help me. Answer me." He swallows, fingers stilling, reaching gently. "You've left my father wandering and wondering, waiting. He longs for answers I don't know how to give. Talk to me, help me make sense of the tale you've created. Let me take my rightful place, sure of my role in all this. Let me look you in the eyes lord Hades and know you see me as I see you, father."

Who was Hades truly? What was his Underworld like? Should he believe the tales, the Olympians... Should he fear and cower, or stand proudly beside him? Was he a mirror to his godly father, like he'd felt upon seeing him the first time, or was he simply a lost child?

Did Hades truly care for him? For his father? Did he love Persophone or had he truly tricked and kidnapped her. Trapped her in his hell with him for as long as he could...

Stanislaw does not know what'll he do with any answers he might be given, does not think he could reject one father's sins more than the other but the questions rung in his mind anyway. Even as his fingers find the last of his offerings.

Pomegranate seeds, collected from the fruit of the tree that, strangely enough, grew in the backyard of his father's favored manor. It was a treat he adored, something else they shared it seems.

He places the seeds gently over the center of his little circle. Spreading them with careful movements of his fingers. His eyes met the face of the statue. He breathes out. There are no more words, like his father, he now communicates in silence. Respect, devotion, quietness.

He lights incense with a snap of his fingers, the smell of it heavy and sweet, he thinks of his fathers. And he waits.

#heartsonghq ( a prayer answered )

4 notes · View notes

heartsonghq · 4 days ago

Text

as merrick finishes his prayer to his mother, silence seems to consume the temple for a few moments. had his pleas gone unanswered and he simply forgotten by the triple goddess? her statue seemed to loom over him, those marble eyes seemed to stare directly through her son.

did she see him the way he saw himself? weak and a second choice?

the silver beam of moonlight pierced through the temple, spilling over merrick and the triple goddess’ statue. those same eyes that seemed to pierce through his soul light up and hecate herself stood before her son. she stood as tall and regal as he remembered, though you could see the concern on her face.

was it shame? regret for claiming him as one of her heirs? had merrick let her down so far?

“my beautiful son,” that voice seemed to echo through the temple like an enchantment, softer and sweeter than the day he met her in this same temple. while it had only been a few weeks, it may have felt like a lifetime for merrick. a door he couldn’t close, a world he not only knew about now but was actively a part of.

the goddesses hands cup her son’s face, guiding his face to meet her own. “i designed you with my own magic, in my own image.” she could feel the doubt in his words, he had a rough start to this journey. “you are as strong as you need to be, merrick.”

“you may question why i brought here you second, after your brother, but that’s not because i value one of you more than the other.” she looked down at her son. “stephanos is my shield but you, merrick, you are my sword. one is not complete without the other.” and then there was a moment of silence.

“i chose you for a reason, my son. not only were you made for something greater in this life, but you’ve carved that path out yourself.” there was no doubt in her words. “everything you’ve done, every decision you have made, has turned you into a man worth my legacy.”

she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead. “a man i am proud to call my son.”

[ MERRICK HAS GAINED +2 TO STATS AND ONE ABILITY ]

merrick cross has never been a religious man, not in the normal sense. he has revered many things—ancient artifacts, adrenaline, his father, samson hart—but he has never been one for prayers. action would give way to a result if he worked hard enough for something, as he's done most of his life.

sometimes, when actions don't make sense, prayer is necessary. it's what he's turning to now, at least.

the waning gibbous hangs in the sky and knowledge of what that means fuels merrick into action, prayer yes, but still action. he's slipped out of the hecate cabin, a bag slung over his shoulder full of supplies he'd need for this ritual, intent finding a nest beneath his ribs. each heartbeat is a foot step closer, each footstep sends his mind thundering.

he is a child made of magic, of incantation and runic markings, and he's only attempted a few spells. conjuration of his sword, imbuing himself with power. he isn't stephanos, stepped in rituals and spellwork, but he can feel magic at its source, burning within him. he only needs to reach for it and let it out, to push his will power outward and will a result. he hopes it's as easy as that. he has not been so lucky since arriving at camp. if anything, he's been humbled by his inadequacy and driven to push himself toward success. this is a step in that direction.

inside the temple, he goes around and snuffs out the laterns and torch light until there's only a faint glow around the hecate statue. she stands tall, proud, the triple goddess representing everything that a maiden, mother, and crone should represent.

he gets to work. he methodically unpacks his equipment, setting it up for ease of use and to double check that he didn't leave anything behind. he starts with a thick piece of chalk and a bag of strangely colored sand. starting in the north, he begins to draw a circle. first with the chalk, then with the sand, that stretches enough so if he were to lay in it, he would be in the circle at all angles.

"mother hecate, goddess of the crossroads, she who all witches sing praise. hear me." the last of the sand falls in the circle and he can feel magic taking hold. he sits in the center and picks up a bundle of herbs—sage and lavender, laurel and olive branches—and he holds it near his forehead and whispers words. slowly, the herbs ignite. he wafts the smoke around him, starting from the north, going in the circle, and then lets them continue to burn on a rune marked plate.

next, in a golden chalice, he pours a mixture of water and ambrosia. he swishes it around three times clockwise and dips his fingers into it, anointing himself on his forehead, his throat, and his heart.

"i am your will, i am your voice, i am your heart." he repeats this two more times, anointing each spot again. finally, he pulls out a silvered dagger, a ritualistic one, and gold and midnight blue chords entangled in one another, similar to the bracelet he'd made for samson. he ties it around his left wrist and slices his palm, allowing blood to drip down onto the chords before he unties it and leaves it on a golden saucer.

he pulls out a journal next, battered and leatherbound, pages jutting out in odd positions, dog eared and well loved. he places it on top of the saucer, his offering.

"i come to you now, a man who has never known a mother, but was raised by a father who spoke highly of the goddess of witchcraft. he made me a believer before i believed in myself, he spoke of your torches and to always look for them as they would guide my way." the words are spoken fondly, memories of the lessons with his father playing in his mind.

with a sigh, he closes his eyes and raises his hands toward the statue, blood trickles down his arm, droplets falling to the marbled floor around him. "i call on you now, maiden, in all that you are and all that you will be. i call on you now, mother, in the power that you have claimed and call your own. i call on you now, crone, in all your arcane wisdom that you may pass it down from generation to generation." the circle around him ignites into flames, dark and blue, and they do not burn.

"i am your son, your blood, your magic, and i need your guidance. hecate, gatekeeper, guardian, guide, light your torches so i may follow tonight."

he repeats the second part of that sentence two more times, eyes closed, hands clenched, causing more blood to drop from his cut open palm.

"this is not a prayer for love, this is not a prayer to forget, this is not a prayer for power." his words come out a whisper, hoarse, but audible. "for the first time in my life, i don't know what to do. i don't know where i stand. i don't know what i want. i. don't. know." his hands drop to his lap, he looks at the opened cut. he's silent for moments, then he reaches forward and opens the journal.

"i give you my thoughts, unhindered, over the last few years. so that you may know me and understand. i give you all that i am and who i have become so that i will know that the path i walk is the right one. i have never been unsure of myself as i have been these last weeks." he thinks of the countless hours training, the defeat in a training exercise, the misunderstandings with samson, how he aches and still wears a smile because he is not one to wallow in his misery.

"show to me that i am who you've chosen, not first, but second, and that i belong. light the path for which i should walk so that i don't have to second guess myself and wonder if the decisions i make are the ones that will rip me from him forever." this, in truth, is about samson. he doesn't need samson to be his again, as much as he would enjoy that, but he feels like every interaction they've had recently has gone wrong and that he's only pushing the other man away. ten years has changed them both. ten years and he's not sure if what they had could be healed.

"hear me hecate, your magic and your blood, and allow me to prove to you that i am worthy." he summons his runes and they dance around him before searing themselves into his flesh. runes of power, of protection, of healing, of love, of being. he extends his arms, like a hug, and opens his eyes to gaze upon the face of his mother's statue.

"gatekeeper, guardian, guide, light your torches so i may follow tonight."

@heartsonghq

#heartsonghq ( a prayer answered )

2 notes · View notes

heartsonghq · 4 days ago

Text

with cooking comes a magic of its own. as stephanos' works and speaks, his intentions set, the elements themselves are used to enact his magic. water and fire, air and earth, all mixed together in various ways to create.

when the plates are set, the circle closed, there's a shift in the air. at the table setting meant for hecate, three circles in brilliant, golden light begin to weave in the air until a triquetra forms. it glimmers and vibrates with magic and then, like a door, it opens. stepping forth and sitting down across from her son, is hecate, goddess of witchcraft, keeper of the crossroads. she's dressed regally, in shades of blue, and smiles softly as she picks up the fork and knife and takes the first bite of the offering.

her eyes close, she chews and swallows. she smiles.

another bite and she focuses her gaze on stephanos.

"i'm often associated with the maiden, the mother, and the crone. you, too, have associated yourself with these—the bachelor, the father, the sage. it's not all we are. they're monikers to help others understand what stage of life we are, but like all stages, we cycle through them and create something new."

she lets him ponder on this for a moment as she continues eating the pork. she has a pleased look on her face as she does so, savoring it.

she thinks on what to say next, choosing her words carefully. "is it so bad to want more?" she lets him think on this for only a moment before she continues. "you have lived your life, largely, on the whims of others. you have three beautiful children, but it was a loveless engagement. now, you're one third of a relationship, new and exciting, and yours." she's referring to adam and prospero. "you can have more. you don't need permission to want it or to go after it."

she reaches a hand across the table, grabbing hold of his, giving it a squeeze like a mother would her child. "you can still be the sage for those who need it while living in a different cycle for yourself." with her hand still holding his, she gets a forkful of potatoes and chews on them. she let's those words sink in, a lesson that all those who live in cycles must come to face.

"if complacency is something you enjoy, you would not fear how easily you find yourself in it. you would not need me to guide you because you wouldn't feel the need for guidance." she stares at him from across the table and something flashes behind her eyes, perhaps different futures showing themselves to her, different versions of stephanos that could be sitting across from her instead, the different path ways that he could walk. "yes, there is comfort in it, there always will be, because it's within those confines that we know; the predictability of it, the knowledge of what we know will happen on the day to day, the simplicity of routine."

she takes the last bite of her pork and salad before she begins on the dessert. her lips curl upward in satisfaction as she bites into it. "oh, this is delicious." she compliments, taking another bite. then, with a smile on her face, she peers at him with fondness in her eyes. "i believe that, above all else, you want to grow, stephanos. complacency will not allow that to happen, not fully. if you want more of anything—knowledge, power, capability, love, anything, then go after it. your life is changing, transitioning from what you once thought it would be to something entirely new with endless possibilities."

another bite of the dessert, another moment to let her words sink in. she finishes her food and moves from the table. she stands beside him and wraps her arms around him, hugging him to her. "trust what stirs in your soul, stephanos. you will never be lost while our fire burns inside of you." she presses a kiss to the top of his head and steps back. "you're made of magic and magic is everywhere. you are limitless as long as you allow yourself to be."

she weaves her hands in front of her, the golden threads of magic pouring from her hands as another door opens and she steps through it, leaving stephanos there to ponder on what guidance she gave him.

[ STEPHANOS HAS BEEN GIVEN AN EXTRA CHARGE. ]

there it is again. that pleasant prison, contentment.

stephanos wasn't fully aware of his return to complacency, until dawn bled through the blinds of another bedroom. adam's? prospero's? he wasn't sure which, and even that was routine, gentle collisions in some configuration of two or three, or even chasing the scent of the one missing by sleeping in their space. the schedule was loose, but it was present; meals at similar times, study at similar times, infirmary work at similar times, rest, things wholly aside from rest, and then rest once more. a pattern. a beautiful pattern, mind; a comfortable pattern, a warm pattern, with teeth that sank in and pulled, tugging, affectionately. a pattern that'd make many similarly-configured men fluster.

a pattern just complex enough to elude stephanos' perception, until he was surrendered to it, utterly.

a pattern that could trap him. for another twenty years, perhaps? it'd be a happy few decades, certainly. strange powers and regular vacations, punctuated with danger and desperate measures, only to return home and fall into each others' arms, as if the purpose of the excursions was purely to sweeten the taste of each other.

a pattern that needed to be challenged, before the door would close and he'd never find it again, until he didn't know where all the time had went.

word had gotten around about praying to their parents; an odd notion, seeing as they'd met them in person, not so long ago. the compass-pointed round of his own laurel crown, his first ritual circle, hung from his door as a wreath. welcoming and warding, in equal measure. and he had to wonder, would he pray to hecate? did he feel something strongly enough to do so?

ruminating on the topic, he did have some thoughts to share. perhaps not as a prayer, as a devotional, but as a conversation. reaching out, as much as reaching up. an adult child attempting to meet a long-estranged parent on more middle ground.

with the taste and composition of adrian's honeycakes in mind, stephanos set to work.

cooking could be compared to rituals, to alchemy, to magic itself, in a way. transformation, transfiguration. clear steps to achieve a result. afflicting his will on reality, creating sensation and sustenance from more base components.

stephanos called the elements around his own kitchen, circle in place around the space, and set to work. as a professional cook would return home to help in a holiday dinner, stephanos spoke into the space, as part of the ritual. sharing space with hecate, should she decide to join him, or merely accept the experience as form of devotional; however she would choose. his part, was to offer. how or whether she chose to receive, was her decision.

"three seems to be an important number for us," he'd began, as he worked through his mise en place. chopping, counting, weighing, setting aside. everything in its place. in this case, three courses. a meal to be shared. a family gathering, of sorts; there were plates to be set aside for merrick, as leftovers were as much an important part of gatherings as the meal itself. "I cannot help but wonder if that is your influence, active or otherwise." was he intrinsically drawn to triplicate? did rita want to stop at three kids, or had he simply completed another triangle? was he always meant to be with two people at once? "one can even say I've known three sons of hecate, including myself." the other only by word and the wake of his actions, that page still in his book. "but I try to keep in mind that thinking of a pattern makes us seek to repeat it. the fortune teller implies that a man with a blue hat will change your life, so you seek this man out, and feel changed. you own a car of a certain make and model, only to begin to see it everywhere." patterns seen, as much as mere attention and awareness.

the effort progressed to an appetizer; brief research informed the menu. a salad of arugula with charred onion and roasted garlic, dressed in a honey and pomegranate vinaigrette. specifically configured, but also balanced for taste; he did intend to enjoy the meal himself, aside from the saved portions.

tossing everything in the bowl, mixing the dressing, he continued-- "as someone apparently destined for crossroads, I find myself more attuned to cul-de-sacs." endpoints. loops. moving pleasantly and endlessly in a circle, with the exit in sight, but not at all desired. "are these points of transition? does repetition charge the eventual exit? is the purpose the crossing, if those moments are so brief between long bouts of stability?" not exactly light dinner conversation, but this wasn't the table quite yet-- this was the kitchen. politeness would give way to creation, to transformation, to transition. most cooks he knew didn't keep it polite in the kitchen. he kept it orderly, not soft or silent.

with a brief detour to dessert -- as he wanted to use his oven to bake, rather than risk a mishap with his enchanted 'stovetop' -- stephanos folded the lavender and the poppy seeds into the lemon loaf batter. he'd intended to combine the experience of a glass of lavender lemonade with the cool bite of a lemon poppy seed muffin, and the recipe was more of a tester than a known factor. the offering was as much in the making, as sharing the space, as it was in the dessert itself; if failure prevented divine affection, then why try at all? as one must fail, in order to learn how to better and best proceed.

glaze cooling and loaf baking, he arrived at the matter of the entree. milk-simmered potato mash, and cinnamon-spiced pork, paired with apples and carrots. the menu tended a bit sweet, but there didn't appear to be many savory offerings to hecate. "do all gods have a sweet tooth?" he asked, daring to tease-- "or is it just the titans?" his grin was as private as hecate would prefer, whether she'd witness it or leave it on record. "that aside, what I'm reaching out to say, is this." replacing the cake with the pork, he put desert to chill as he begun work on the potatoes. "you marked the transition of my life from fatherhood, to that of a guide for others. not the hand that rears, but the mind that lends its learned experience to others, so that mistakes don't have to be repeated." what mistakes has he made? far too many to count, most likely. "what I must ask now -- or, more likely, talk through with you present -- is where to go next. I have to resist the temptation to accept what I have, and not reach for more." stephanos' caution has always led to contentment, happiness in what one has, rather than what one doesn't. his hands on the oven handle, he turned to face the middle of the room. imagining her there, to continue the conversation. "I love what I have. I appreciate what I have. attempting to attain more-- more knowledge, more power, more capability, is not a disrespect to all that I currently have, and all I currently am." an affirmation, or if he dared it-- an oath. "I thought about inviting adam and prospero, or even merrick, but I realized this was a conversation for us to have, ourselves. or me, to the imagined effect of you, so I can process how to proceed."

rather than relying on a timer, he'd attempted a minor effect; the same alarm that'd alert him of someone crossing the threshold, applied to the meat reaching a certain temperature, at its deepest. pulling the pork out to rest, stephanos returned to the cake to get it glazed and cooling once more.

"I offer this evening of conversation. companionship as I would my own mother. sharing the act and effort of crafting a meal, of sharing one's affection and creativity through sensation and nourishment." nodding as he pronounced each word specifically, deliberately, carefully. "I offer a serving of this meal. I offer a seat at the table, to share it." salad, tongs into bowls. potatoes scooped, pork sliced and laid across the bed of them. "I offer time shared, open thoughts, and consideration." loaf sliced, and it smelled just right.

three courses. three portions of each. one for stephanos, one for hecate, and one to be set aside for the brother he's met. a pattern that seemed more right to maintain.

"in return, I request clarity. from myself, or from guidance at your hand. for I fear the ease with which I return to complacency, as much as I understand and welcome the comfort."

with the meal served, stephanos raised his hands, and closed the circle.

he'd have to leave the ritual space to set the table, so that was just being polite.

#heartsonghq ( a prayer answered )#miindkiiller

3 notes · View notes

heartsonghq · 4 days ago

Text

the smell of flora and the sun's warmth seem to be an overwhelming stimulant to the son of demeter. the mixture of the two is something he knows well—for he is the flower and cassidy is the sun—and yet, now, it feels different.

weighted.

a breeze enters through the temple on this, the longest day of the year, when myths suggest that persephone is reunited with her mother and demeter experiences happiness once more. now, perhaps, she experiences happiness from a different child.

it blooms full in the pit of briar's belly and then, carried on that breeze, are leaves and flowers and the scent of them. before his eyes, those leaves begin to take shape, lithe and spry, until a woman stands before him. her smile is as warm as the sun, as full as a garden, and he remembers this face from the day she placed a crown atop his head and fed him ambrosia.

"hello, sunflower." she reaches out, cupping his cheek before she bends down to collect the offering presented. she examines the bottles, strands of green tinted magic twisting around her forearms and fingers like vines, illuminating her eyes in the same hue. "you've been busy since accepting your divinity." she laughs and it's the sound of petals falling from the sky, bright and beautiful and brilliant.

the vials vanish, the offering accepted.

"there's still so much for you to learn and experience. so much fulfillment for you to enjoy." her hands rest on his shoulders now, eyes looking into his. "continue on this path. seek out what you desire and i'll be there every step of the way." she presses a tender kiss to the center of his forehead.

"in summer we bloom before winter approaches. now is your time to bloom, unfurl your petals and be who you're destined to be. don't hold yourself back. promise me that." then, she stands tall, looking down upon her son with fondness in her eyes, warmth in her heart.

"you, my son, as brittle as a petal and as beautiful as a rose, i imbue you with my power." from her palms, those same green strands of her heartsong reach out, wrapping around briar, sinking into him, filling him from the inside out. "you are a force of nature, made from the seasons, and will always endure. remember that. remember who you are. remember who you will be." he can feel his heartsong humming beneath his veins, connecting with his mother's. she leans forward once more, giving him another kiss on the forehead.

then, as quickly as the breeze came, it went and with it, demeter, too. briar, though, feels different. struggles from his childhood, the fragility of his bones and the heaviness of his limbs seems...lighter. like a resilient flower emerging from winter, he's born into himself again.

[ DEMETER HAS IMBUED HER POWER INTO HIM AND INCREASED HIS STRENGTH SCORE TO 10. ]

LOCATION: THE TEMPLE. TIME: MID DAY OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE.

As the sun rises Briar takes his time to walk the greenhouses of camp. Through the rows of growth he sought out those that had been first to ripen, to blossom and bloom, to reach the height of their cycle. For while the magic that ran the garden did speed up the life cycles of these plants, constantly encouraging growth and production, they still were bound by those cycles that they followed. Thus through his domain he called out to those that had been first on today of all holy days. Gentle hands carefully plucking Summer's first harvest.

By mid day his collection was bountiful. A full basket in hand Briar begins the long walk up to the temple doors. Winding his path through camp. As he passed satyrs and nymphs he gave polite nods, they knew by now he rarely smiled, but they had grown to know his gestures in kind. He was not feared like he was back home. Not seen as the dark shadow that loomed amongst the gravestones no matter how much black he wore.

Stepping into the temple he looks towards his mother's statue. The golden light from outside seeming to halo around his mother. It calls to him, and before he knows it he's speaking aloud.

"Blessed Demeter, granter of the most precious of gifts, yours is the sweet fruit that hangs from the trees. Yours the field of golden grain flowing in the wind, yours the life that fills our hearts with love and thankfulness."

Before her statue he begins to place out the items that he had brought with him. The first harvest of the summer, the first grown to nourish the camp for the coming season. Though amongst the bounty is a scattering of small jars. Each filled with an oddly colored liquid in the most vibrant of colors.

"Demeter, O Mother, mistress of seasons, goddess whose hand guides flowers to bloom and fruit to ripen, whose might turns spring into summer, to fall and to winter. She who grants well-deserved rest to the laboring soil, I praise and honor you, I thank you for your blessings."

Within those glass jars, the vials that shimmer so sickly sweet in the summer's sun are the first collections of poisons he's made. The true first harvest of Briar Rhode, collected as his powers bloomed, as the heartsong claimed him. This too would be given to his mother freely. Like a child presenting a drawing or craft project he carefully lays them out before his mother's statue. "On this, the longest day of the year, I lift my voice so you may hear."

There's a pause, his eyes shifting towards the beautiful light of the sun, and he can't help but hear another's voice. Sunflower. A smile creeps upon his lips, a blush tinting his cheeks. It is the longest day of the year, and if it not for both of them he would never have known him.

"As the sun stands high, and the fields are bright. Bathed in your love and Apollo’s light. I thank you for all you have given, for all that is yet to come. I thank you mother for all that I am."

His eyes close. Basking in the warmth of his mother. Letting his mind settle as he listens to the song that sings within his veins. He can't be sure that his mother will hear his prayer, but even just speaking here he is comforted by the song, by the connection to someone he always yearned to know.

"Though it might be simple... May this, my first harvest collected by my own hand bring you joy."

#heartsonghq ( a prayer answered )#scythesandscepters

3 notes · View notes

heartsonghq · 5 days ago

Note

Would Titans be allowed as our muses parents?

hello! right now, we have a selection of godly parents that can be picked. any outside of those (that aren't currently taken) would not be permitted!

#heartsonghq ( answered )

0 notes

heartsonghq · 8 days ago

Text

please follow the newest addition to our roster.

@strifesworndavid

#heartsonghq ( follow )

0 notes

heartsonghq · 9 days ago

Text

your name sings in our ears.

well met & welcome max! your journey to divinity begins now. may the song in your veins sing to the skies and fall upon the ears of the gods ! continue forth, awakened demigod, and follow these next steps to begin your journey in the divine!

( niko terho, bisexual, male + he/him, fighter ) «—◦—→ well met, DAVID KING! the divine born child of ERIS. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 26 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a SCUBA INSTRUCTOR and were living in BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS. history and myth will remember them for their CAREFREE, FUN LOVING, AND WIT but will also magnify their THRILL SEEKING, IMPULSIVE, AND REACTIVITY if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.

#heartsonghq ( accepted )

2 notes · View notes

heartsonghq · 9 days ago

Text

ATTEND YOU ALL, THEY COME.

since we have allowed our current members to have second characters of the same demigod, and invited someone to join our ranks, we've realized that there's not enough demigods for everyone to have a different godly parent for their second character. with that in mind, and for some cushion in case of character death (if could happen!) four new godly parents have decided to call upon their children's heartsongs, ushering them to camp.

HYPNOS, THE GOD OF SLUMBER & DREAMS — while most of his lore is about slumber, we've decided to put some dreamweaving into the mix to allow for more dynamic abilities.

IRIS, GODDESS OF RAINBOWS & MESSENGER — while she may be similar to hermes in some ways, we believe we can create different, dynamic abilities and lore featuring her. we've already heard her once as she ushered in hera!

ERIS, GODDESS OF DISCORD & CHAOS — need we say more? chaos is something the world is in and the gods have her on their side! time for her to use her children to help save the world!

NIKE, GODDESS OF VICTORY — forever seen by zeus' side, the goddess of victory has called upon her children to tilt the scales in their favor as they uncover more and more of what is coming.

these godly parents are now available! we hope you like these new additions!

#heartsonghq ( announcement )

1 note · View note

heartsonghq · 11 days ago

Text

for long moments after the wine is consumed and the silence fills the air, charlie waits. a stillness seems to settle, like a heavy weight on his chest, like the nerves before the curtain's rise and show time begins. it feels electric and the magnitude of this moment isn't something lost on the son of dionysus. prayers are, if nothing else, a monologue to their parents and, rehearsed or not, his is now floating in the sinking silence, waiting to be heard.

the wine in the glass that was given as an offer vanishes. charlie can see each droplet, nearly one by one, floating upward from the wine glass and disappear, like bubbles being popped. slowly, pooling out from the cup, a purple haze begins to drift outward, engulfing charlie in it before it spreads, thins, and eventually, dissipates.

now, standing there, dressed casually in modern clothes, shirt unbuttoned passed his pectorals, with neatly pressed trousers and a hand in his pocket, is dionysus himself.

"charlie, charlie, charlie." dionysus starts, his voice is mirthful, friendly. "don't tell me you don't remember us being there to witness your divine birth." he tsks, though his voice is deep, sultry like a well aged wine. "come on, my boy, remember." and dionysus presses a singular finger to the center of charlie's forehead.

and charlie remembers.

the night of the ambrosia, going into the temple, seeing the gods lined up in a crescent with him standing before dionysus. no other demigods were there, but he heard the speech made by zeus, he saw his father present him with a laurel and wine leaf crown, held the goblet of ambrosia for him as he drank it down.

he remembers his experience and how things shifted, changed. and how, at some points, darkness swallowed him entirely. now, with that singular press of a fingertip to his flesh, things are clear.

focus comes back in fractured images, the darkness subsides and in the orange glow of lantern light, charlie can see dionysus still standing there before him, now leaning back against his statue. it looks like him but it also doesn't. it's someone's depiction of him, etched into marble. his eyes are glowing faintly, rich and purple, like a ripened grape. dionysus is smiling at him.

he pushes away from the statue to stand in front of charlie. he places a fingertip beneath his chin and motions for him to stand. he keeps their eyes locked, glowing faintly, and speaks lowly, barely above a whisper, but just enough for charlie to hear him.

"being my son is a blessing and a curse. madness runs rampant through us, comedy and tragedy are our best friends and worst enemies. they'll play tricks on your mind and make you feel as strong as a mountain or as fragile as a grape." the demonstrate, a grape appears between his fingertips and he makes it burst. he licks the grape juice from his fingertips, eyes falling shut. "but don't worry, my son, those with madness in their veins always finds a way back to sanity. never forget that." he cups charlie's cheek, smearing it with some grape juice, before he spins in a circle, away from his son.

he comes to a stop, eyes now focused in fiery determination on charlie. "but you've asked for guidance, for love, and for care. my, my, my, i will surely provide!" tendrils of deep, merlot colored threads move from around dionysus and begin to twist and turn around charlie. "you are so young, still so new to your life and even newer to this. the world is your stage, charlie, but do not squander your opportunities. you will need to make a choice, one day. to fully emerge yourself in this new life or live as you are now: half in and half out. one is worse than the other. i cannot decide that for you, only you can." the threads pierce into him, harmlessly, and charlie can feel himself getting stronger, can feel a change taking place in the very core of his being.

he hears it then, the sound of his heartsong, singing along to the tune of dionysus'. dionysus, a master of performance, begins to hum aloud, deep reverberations of it echoing throughout the temple, causing the hairs on charlie's arms and the back of his neck to stand on end. dionysus smirks, stepping away, picking up the wine glasses before he snaps his fingers. they're filled now, with his own wine.

"now, son, drink up. this is a parting gift." he chugs his, circling the glass once before he licks his lips. he vanishes the glasses when charlie is done. "savor it, bask in it. remember who you are." he leans forward and kisses charlie's forehead and then, in a waft of purple smoke that sounds like a billowing cape or a curtain closing, dionysus is gone and charlie is left there to ponder. he feels different, though. there's a piece of him at ease and a piece of him eager to get to work. his prayer was answered, though, and he now knows that his father has seen him, ever since the beginning.

[ CHARLIE'S CHARISMA IS BOOSTED TO 20, THANKS TO HIS FATHER'S BLESSING AND IMBUING HIM WITH MORE POWER. ]

" Of Fruit and Wine." 𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: The Temple 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂: 3am.

There was something deep in Charlie's soul that didn't sit right with the temple. Ever since his first night here—waking up in the middle of the night, being drawn to enter the temple, drinking the ambrosia—he'd felt like he was missing something crucial. All the other Godlings saw their parents, they saw all the Gods, but Charlie had only seen Hermes. He didn't know why his trial was so different from the others, so lackluster and hollow. But even as he stood in the pitch-black antechamber with the ambrosia sitting on its pillar, basked in moonlight, he sensed eyes watching him from beyond the shadows, Maybe they were really there.

He was being pulled both ways—wanting to visit the temple to talk to his father and ask questions, but feeling dread hit his chest every time he approached the building. Eventually, he had to move on with his life, though it only felt right to go at night again. During another sleepless night, Charlie found himself drawn back to the temple, this time bringing a lantern, The gold carvings of grapes and vines on the lantern cast dancing shadows onto the stone walls as Charlie stepped trough the holy temple. Holding the lantern into the air, Charlie's used it's light as he looked over each statue, looking for the statue of his father, Dionysus. With finding it, Charlie set the lantern on the ground before moving to sit on his knees, the cold stone floor finding it's way through his pajamas, chilling his skin. Digging through a basket, he pulled out a bottle with no label and full of a red liquid, it was his wine. After Leo let him in on their powers and what to try out, Charlie got to work. After several failed attempts of nasty liquors and discolored wines, Charlie had made something quite delicious and felt it was only right to share it with his father. He poured two wine glasses, putting them in front of him before looking up at the statue, it's grandness making it hard to see his father's eyes over the huge body of the man. Charlie took a breath, centering himself as he started: "Of Madness and Stage To Grape and Vine I call you father, To share this wine." He held up a cup before bring it to his lips, leaning his head back as he drank it. Because he had been practicing and also believing that it would help him connect, Charlie let the wine into him, fogging his best and wetting his lips, it only felt right to be a little tipsy.

" I do not know why I haven't met you yet, I do not know why I came here alone, I don't know a lot of things in regard to this camp, I ask for your guidance and support for you love and care." He looked back up to the statue, " I am...lost, cloudy, fuzzy."

" 𝑼𝒏𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅," Said a voice.

Jumping, he looked back into the dark, the lantern pooling orange light onto the stone and outward, but not far enough to reach the other side, another voice beyond the darkness. He sat there, waiting for someone to come out, but in the end he felt he just was hearing things.

" Father," He asked, turning his attention back, " I do not even want to assume as to why I was called here, but in the end, I am happy that you made yourself know to me, that you made this world known to me, I am looking forward to my new life here and I do hope to meet you one day."

With a bow of the head and Charlie stood up, grabbing the bottle and full wine glass, setting both at the feet of his father before placing his hand on the stone, closing his eyes once more.

" I thank you God of Fruit and Wine and hope to see you down line."

#heartsonghq ( a prayer answered )#forginxmadness

3 notes · View notes