#borrowed egyptian gods

[diejager]

Bittersweet Devotion pt.2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, heartbreak, mention of cheating, mention of death, no happy ending, apology, tell me if I missed any. wc: 9.3k

Previous

Your universe, Earth-XXX, was a parallel one to Earth-616 in some sense. You had a Peter Parker, a Gwen Stacy and a Mary Jane Watson, it had everything down to the death of Ben Parker and the devastation it brought to your friend. It was the same year as Spider-Man 616’s world, it had the same political standing and same history. Your world, like many others, was a near carbon copy of 616, down to the smallest things; but like others in the spiderverse, you had differences. Some were minor changes in the course of its canon story, others were major changes in the characters and the era.

You - like Miguel, Miles, Jess, Hobart (he liked going by Hobie), Patrick and Patriv - were one of those major deviations in the original canon. You didn’t exist - or so you thought - in Peter B. or Peter’s universe even though you lived in the same year. The reason might be that in the reality, the sum of all potential universes that paralleled each other, created the multiverse - the Spiderverse. 

The concept of it seemed strangely unlimited, the infinite possibilities to a different ending or a different start for its world. The multiverse was, in some sense, as old as time, a culmination of everything made imaginable by man. Found in ancient texts - the Puranas, ancient Hindu mythology - that expressed the infinite number of universes with their gods and principles. Whereas Persian literature - tales - touched the idea of learning about alternate universes that were similar, yet distinctly different from theirs. 

Misconstrued by many, the strangeness of it was deemed a danger, the unknown possibilities were feared by people of older age, but venerated in the past as it was in the present for the unfathomable possibilities. It exists in fiction, where they borrowed the idea of many worlds within a reality from myths, legends and religion. Heaven, Hell, Olympus and Valhalla were all reflections of a familiar world, a material realm for the blessed, the sinful, the gods, and the worthy. The similarities sometimes frightened you, how close the people were to knowing of the reality you all lived in. The tangibility of crossing worlds and bringing about chaos to every string, every realm, every material form of the multiverse. 

They, after all, were real, Hell as much as Heaven in your universe. Gods from every religion, either monotheistic or polytheistic, some you’d personally seen are Thor and Loki, brother and sons of Odin the Allfather, and the God of Thunder and Mischief respectively. Another was a big crocodile lady, Ammit, from what you’d heard from the all-knowing Dr. Strange. From God to Norse and Egyptian gods, from angels and demons, and from humans to mutants, your plane of existence was as wide as it could go without drifting off the edge and causing a mass domino effect within the multiverse.

You were curious, naturally so for a scientist, exploring the worlds that felt familiar to you but you hadn’t truly grasped -  different, yet similar. You hadn’t given a second thought to exploring yours. After all, why explore yours when your horizon was as broad as you imagined it, unperturbed by any limits when it came to the multiverse? The eternal and unlimited growing number of realms in your expanding reality.

Perhaps that was the reason why you hadn’t known your universe had its own Miguel O’Hara. You rarely came back for anything, you had everything you’ve ever wanted in Nueva York, Earth-928. You have friends who could truly understand you, people who stood beside you when you fought, youngsters who looked up to you for mentoring and a dream- or it was a dream. Dreams, not dissimilar to wishes, were hopeful, naive in a way, they came and went. Some dreams would come true, while others fell, like the fallen stars that crossed the night sky.

Yours simply happened to be a fallen one, one not meant to happen and become greater. You let it go after he dropped you, after he turned his back and let his mouth run unperturbed. He brought her up, someone he swore he would remember but left in the past. A new chance to become something, to become whole again, and Miguel took it. He wanted to start anew, fresh with someone he never met, you wanted the same; you both had what you wished for, until he put his foot down, cutting the thin web that connected both your lives.

It broke your heart. Months of patience and anxiously stepping around each other, nervous about breaking the trust freshly built between you both, lost in a few weeks. You were brittle, heart fractured and threatening to fall further apart if someone was any crueller to you. The smallest glare, the tiniest scoff or the weakest remark would send you reeling into the abyss of heartbreak and the throes of anguish. Yet somehow, you found yourself being led away by a copy of the Miguel you loved. 

He mumbled apologies as he held you tightly, his arm over your shoulder as he cradled you under his umbrella, hastily urging you to follow his guidance. If it were any other person, you would’ve been wary, cautious of any strangers that touched you so closely and chaperoned you so quickly; but this was Miguel, a man you trusted and that you still trusted wherever he came from. Earth-XXX’s Miguel O’Hara was still similar to the one you knew, someone you could trust. You did.

He led you to his flat, someplace near Alchemax’s building in Manhattan, a safe neighbourhood for the richer citizens of Manhattan. A cozy place of neutral tones and muted colours, yet warm as he welcomed you - a stranger as of yet - into his home. He had machinery strewn around, reports stacked on his coffee table and smaller things he had been tinkering about decorating his home. As a geneticist, he liked to play with machinery, having drawn his designs and models, built his creations from scratch and worked from the base programming to make something better. At least Miguel from Earth-928 did, and it seemed this one did as well. 

You stood in his shower, where he left you in a frenzy to bring you dry clothes, drying out your hair with the towel he motioned you to use. You doubted that he had anything your size, his broad shoulders and his towering height, nothing he had in his draws - and the boxes he stowed away in his closet - would fit you. They would drag down your ankle and sit low on your collar. Granted, you were soaked down to your socks and had no temporary clothes to cover yourself with during your stay. 

You had stripped from your soaked clothes and patted down your wet skin, shivering from the cold that clung to your bones even after Miguel had increased the heater in the small confines of the bathroom. It was small but big enough to move around and stretch your arms comfortably. You hadn’t felt the cold until he brought you to his bathroom, the numbness of the past months weighing heavily on your shoulders and the bleeding of your heart made everything seem so meaningless. The colours draining from the world around you, a once bright New York turned grey, the monochrome tones of black and white mixing and interlacing to form even more boring shades. 

The vibrancy and life you once saw around you dulled and died suddenly, like the winters brought by Demeter’s devastation and sadness when her daughter was taken from her, stolen from the berth of flowers she liked frolicking about. How Demeter doomed the world to see her pain, to feel how she felt in the moments her daughter had to return to her husband than stay with Demeter. You felt laden by your faults and his actions. Doubtful of your relationship, of what led you both to such an ending. Had you been clearer or more forthcoming about your emotions, or had you confronted him for his behaviour, would you still be in his arms? 

Were you at fault for missing something you had relied on as comfort and safety? Could you be blamed for his reaction to your meddling in his affairs in the Society? Could you blame him for dropping those words on you? After all, being reminded or compared to a past lover was anything but gentle, the gut-wrenching envy and betrayal you felt flash through you was nearly drowning. It made you feel lacking, to be reminded of his old flame, the one he was about to marry and the person he seemed to love before all. Could you even compare to what she was; what she did? (Dina had cheated on him, you knew that, but he was truly happy in their moments of pleasure and domesticity. They were a family until she died.)

You were drowning in your self-made sorrow when his voice called you, grounding you to the room. Standing before a door, naked and shivering, arms wrapping the damp towel around your shoulders. He called again, cracking the door open to pass you the - his - clothes he thought would fit you. He coughed as you took your temporary wear, your cool fingers brushing his warm ones. It was a sudden and jerking contact, you pulled back jerkingly, a shamble of an apology and a thank you flew from your tongue. His chuckle was a reassurance in the complete quietness of the flat, his low voice reminding you of better times. 

The sweater hung loosely around you, dipping down your collar to expose your shoulder. It was warm, the cotton used to make it still soft after being stored away and the soothing scent of spice and pine deeply integrated into the fibres. The pants were stretched around your hips, the tight fabric thin and flexible under stress, hidden under the long shirt. The legs, however, swayed loosely around your limbs, too big for your calves, but tight enough to hug your thighs. He had certainly made sure to bring you clothes that would fit your frame. You hadn’t attempted to smell his pants, you thought it would’ve been too intrusive and disgusting to do so if only to smell a remnant of Miguel on his as you did on the sweater. 

Miguel was waiting for you in the kitchen, his back turned to you as you ambled towards him. His shoulders loose and back relaxed in the presence of a stranger made you appreciate how good-natured he was in most universes you’d been to. He turned his head, gesturing you to sit on the chair facing him on the island as he returned to something he was making while you changed. 

“I hope you don’t mind hot chocolate,” he started, voice light and hopeful as he turned to you, cup in each hand as he moved to stare at you. “I’m not one for tea.” He slid the warm mug into your hand, eyes watching your expression as he slowly sipped on the hot beverage. 

His eyes squinted slightly when your lips curled upwards, a smile hidden by the steaming mug. You cupped the mug, feeling the warmth of the freshly brewed drink, the steam rising in soft curls and melting in the cooler atmosphere. Tentatively, you brought the rim to your lips, slowly tilting the cup. The powerful taste of chocolate hit you strongly, the sweet and dark liquid melting the tension in your muscles until you could curl over the table with an appreciative sigh. 

“Thank you…” you knew his name, wanting to call him, but his reaction would be unwanted, the shock, fear and suspicion that would fill his beautiful, brown eyes. So you slurred your words, dragging out your voice until he could tell you his name himself.

“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara, ” he nodded, cocking his head upwards, pointing at you with his chin. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Hey every time I want to call you.” His lips broke into a cheeky smile, teasing you when he saw that you’d comfortably melted into the drink and his island chair. He wanted to ease the tense atmosphere from before into something much calmer, to help the accumulated tension in your shoulders to fall like the rain that clouded the streets of New York.

You let out a hoarse chuckle, your throat still fresh from crying, and told him your name, trying to stabilise your shaking tone. His cheeky smirk tugged at your heartstrings, you hadn’t seen Miguel laugh or smile this freely in months. You missed it. The casual banter you shared and the on-and-off insults you’d hurl at one another, all good-natured insults meant to rile him. 

“Thank you, Miguel,” you nearly choked when you uttered his name, the wound still so fresh and bleeding it slip from your tongue easily. It brought up so many memories, both painful and joyful. Your eyes glazed over, tears threatening to fall once again, to paint your cheeks with agony that you - him, or perhaps both of you - had brought on yourself. “Thank you…”

Miguel hummed sympathetically, eyes staring down at his drink, deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to invite you to share your problems, to tell him why you broke down on the street in stormy weather. Or maybe he was thinking of the fastest way to kick you out, to get rid of the mess you became. The silence, however, was reassuring, calming the nerves that followed the eerie calmness of Miguel’s den or the loud, hectic atmosphere of the Society. His warm, worrying gaze grounded you, the softness behind his concerned stare was heartwarmingly nostalgic.

“Difficult breakup?” His words seemed hesitant, unsure of his conclusion to the cause of your appearance. Unknowingly, he had struck gold, pinning down the right problem in your life with a few observations. Of course, he was observant and aware of his surroundings, why else was he so willing to bring you into his home? 

“How’d ya know?”

His sigh was telling, the deep, concerned and tired breath was only used when he knew that you wouldn’t tell him what ailed you, like the groan of a disappointed, yet worried father. 

“Because I know how it feels,” he says slowly, pensive over his words, picking them carefully to not damage you further than your ex had. He knew the pain of a harsh breakup, the pain and sorrow that followed, like a dark cloud that hovered over you whenever you were awake. 

“Why?” You croaked.

“Why?” he parroted, frowning at your question.

“Why did you invite me in? I’m a- a stranger to you, you don’t even know me. What if I’d been acting to mug you or potentially kill and steal from you? What’d you do then, Miguel?”

“I know the risks, but you didn’t, didn’t you? And wouldn’t, you don’t look like the person to harm another.”

You scoffed at his words. Didn’t and wouldn’t didn’t mean you would not do it later after gaining his trust, to stab him in the back after he helped you and nursed you. The simple, naïve idea that you didn’t look like a violent person was mind-blowing, it was stupid. How could he know if you didn’t mean harm later on? Like how Miguel never meant to harm you - he loved you - and yet in the end, he had. 

“That’s naïve,” you muttered, eyes closed as you drank the cooling beverage, the sugary drink trickling down your throat. 

“I’m confident in my ability to read people.”

He did seem confident in his ability, the straight back and the strong gaze in his eyes showed; and, maybe because you knew from experience that Miguel was observant and careful, he hadn’t gotten where he was by simply trusting people and following the herd. He tested and made mistakes, he learned from them each time and found a way to use it to his advantage. The Miguel you saw in every universe was similar in some ways, their good nature, their cunningness, their bravery and their intelligence. All aspects known to characterize Miguel O’Hara in all universes he existed in. 

You conceded to his will, head bowed and shoulders slack. You breathed shallowly, swallowing the lump in your throat:

“Yeah, what gave it away?”

You thought it would be the last of him you’d see in your life, you wished it wouldn’t, that you’d see him over and over, to feel what the Miguel from your universe had to give, but you knew it was wishful thinking, a wish thrown to the stars. Logically, he had no reason to call or text you after exchanging numbers days prior. He promised to call you, and he made you promise to call him if anything ever resurfaced, be it pain, anger, heartbreak or hate. You, instinctively, believed his word. 

You hated yourself for falling so easily to another Miguel, how you bent to his words and the sweet promises he uttered that night. There was no sign that he would keep his word, that he would see you again after your breakdown, except for his words and your belief in him. Then it wasn’t misplaced, all the trust and belief you had, since he called you, asking to meet up at a cafe. Miguel had set up a place and time for you when you replied with a croak, still feeling down. He had whispered reassuring words to you, urging you to meet him - he explicitly told you he’d feel offended to be stood up - and spend some time outside. The air was fresh and cool for an autumnal month, it wasn’t too cold that you were forced to wear a thick jacket, but it wasn’t warm enough for you to go out in a simple shirt. 

You were hesitant to take him up on his offer, knowing how easily you could rebound. You’d crash into Miguel’s open arms, searching for the love and affection he fed you like a lovesick puppy, but, then again, Earth-XXX’s Miguel was similar, yet different from his variant. It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn’t miss him, the soft smiles, the gentle touches and the affectionate words. You had spent so much time as his right-hand Spider that it felt odd not seeing him the following morning. It was a routine you’d formed: waking up in his bed, kissing him good morning, getting to work together and eating together. Everything you’d done in the past years was with Miguel from Earth-928 the routine, the rigidity, it was grounding, it was the only semblance of normalcy in the world you lived in.

Now, you had to face the possibility that you were too broken to see another Miguel, to hold a casual conversation and form coherent and normal sentences. The purposefully slow steps you took to the cafe picked after having a moment outside the glass front were telling in itself. You swallowed the little amount of saliva in your throat to soothe its dryness and walked through the doors of the quaint establishment. It was painted in calm, brown tones, rustic in design with a warmth that rivalled the comfort of your bed. It lifted a bit of the tension you had, shoulders slumping slightly as your eyes searched for a familiar mop of brown hair.

Laying against the brown sofa, he stared out of the wide window from his booth. The warm, morning lights caressed his cheeks, lighting up the sharp edges of his jaw and nose. He was sculpted in perfection, like the youthful beauty of Adonis, crafted with the meticulous and attention-catching hands of an artist that created what was thought to be a god’s beauty. You could spend your days watching him, catching every little detail of Miguel’s face under the changing lighting, but you were standing near the entrance and he was waiting for you. His words echoed in your mind: “Don’t forget about next week, I miss seeing you.”

His eyes flickered to you, blinking as he turned to you, flashing a smile. You returned the sentiment, a shaky smile lifting the corners of your lips. You sat across from him, eyes wandering the cafe to stare at anything but him, lest you wouldn’t be able to stop the rush of emotions that would light your face in a flush. He uttered your name, greeting you in a friendly manner. You nodded back, muttering his name, pushing down the wince whenever you said it. 

“Chocolate.”

The still-warm cup stared at you, light steam wafting over the reflective liquid. It was full, unlike Miguel’s cup, and drank down to the middle of the container. 

“Thank you.”

He probably wouldn’t let you repay him for the hot chocolate he bought you, the smile he gave you told you as much when your eyes flickered between his and your cup. The hot chocolate was a reminder of your night in his flat, where he lent you his shoulder to cry and his ears to listen. Embarrassment seemed to flash whenever you recalled the memory, how vulnerable you were to him, your walls broken down and your heart open. Though, Miguel didn’t seem to mind your fragility, giving you as much time as you needed. 

“How are you? I wanted to give you a few days to think before meeting again, I thought you might’ve needed the time alone.”

You nodded lamely, fingers curling around the warm porcelain, back slumped into the booth to hide from his knowing eyes. He was right, you had needed the time alone to clean yourself up, scour through your memories and tend to whatever mess you made of yourself. You were thankful. The last few days had brought revelations, how - both of - you had ignored the signs of a rupture in the relationship and continued to push on, like crossing a crumbling bridge. 

“‘M doing better. How- and how are you?”

He smiled at your attempt, you were trying on your own after a few - forced - encouraging words from Miguel. Maybe you’d learn to live with the pain, coexisting with the numbness that filled you until it dulled to a point where it would be barely acknowledged by you or anyone in your vicinity - where it wasn’t painted on your face with bright colours. Or the pursuit to forget it, pushing it into the farthest corner of your mind and heart, painting over the crack with glue. As long as you wouldn’t drown in your sorrows, ending up playing with dangerous substances to stay afloat while your mind sunk deeper into addiction and denial. 

He wouldn’t let you get that far, Miguel understood you and he lived through it as you did. Although his was a more violent breakup - she had cheated on him, his explosive reaction was natural - than yours, he hadn’t relied on anything but self-meditation and a lot of thinking. Like a friend - you were one by his standards, he’d invited you to his flat, you’d seen his organized chaos and ranted about your life while he comforted you with his shoulder and a cup of hot chocolate - he would stay by your side, hoping his support would be enough to help you.

“Great so far.”

His grin - somehow - grew even larger, enthusiasm gleaming in his eyes. 

Oftentimes, Miguel would be the one to call you, your phone ringing in the afternoon of the day prior with his soothing voice on the other end of the line. He spoke easily, finding the time to invite you out for the simplest reason, to talk, to make a drink, to have fun, and - your favourite by far - to see you. His initiative had you trying to double your efforts to heal, reaching outside of your boundaries and texting Miguel whenever you had a moment to yourself. You felt guilty that he was always the one to plan these outings, so you promised yourself that you’d become a better friend than you currently were. You even remembered his teasing tone when you called him for the first time:

”Aye, finally. I thought you’d never call me, chica. I felt neglected, thought you had forgotten about me for a second there.”

It started with the first coffee date, bickering about who would pay, pushing your card before the other while still seated at your table, frowning stubbornly and throwing promises about letting the other pay next time. Either way, Miguel rarely let you pay, coming atop as the winner of your little fight with his strength and height (you couldn’t exactly put all your force into your push, it could break bone and bruise the skin.).

Then it would be random meetings on the streets that would lead you to a random bench at the park, basking in the other’s presence, retelling your day and him nitpicking anything he could with a ridiculously criticising frown. He was playing, you knew he was. You did the same after you’d gotten more comfortable talking to him, it became easier to see him as a different - as his own - person. A few hits on the shoulder left and right, but it was mostly laughter at ridiculous expressions made to emphasize your disdain for a certain event.

The months that followed were a blur to you. Rather than going to a cafe or the park, you went to restaurants and crashed at one of your flats, yours if he wanted to play games and lounge about with food and drinks, and his if you wanted to watch movies (he had the best television you’d ever seen, such high definition and speed.) and tinker away at his inventions and theories. He was certainly happy that his new friend was another scholar in the field of genes and engineering (you were mostly into engineering than genes, but you knew a few things that you’d found interesting.). You could both gush - scientifically - about the possibility of gene splicing and lab-generated mutations in humans, like the mutant superheroes. 

You’d taken some liberties and went drinking, meeting at the same bar biweekly to relax after a few hard days at work. It served to loosen your nerves until either of you felt comfortable to chat up a storm about the most random subject. It’d been about the odd dent on the rim of his glass; then it’d be about how the sky was grey this week, there weren’t any warm, yellow rays blaring down on you when you went out; or it’d be about the distasteful cut of a man’s moustache. Drinking loosened your tongues, some words were said and some sentiments were shared, but none were truly taken seriously knowing you were tipsy - nearing drunk - those nights.

Every time you saw Miguel, you felt like you were rediscovering a part of yourself as well as him, the thing that made him so distinct and loveable. Miguel was expressive and honest, he slowly and gently let you down from whatever high you were, the pillar you needed to stand again after falling. He was so much different. It used to pain you how much they looked alike, but character-wise, they were like the two sides of a coin. It made you appreciate the delicate intricacies that made the multiverse.

You won’t - can’t - deny that you’ve grown fond of this Miguel as you did with the other one, but you couldn’t let yourself love him. He didn’t deserve someone broken and hashed into many lives: the masks you wore, the things you did, the secrets you hid, and the things you could do. He didn’t deserve someone who could bring him to his death; dying simply because he was connected to Spider-Woman; beaten simply because he knew Spider-Woman; kidnapped simply because they deemed him useful as leverage. All things that could go wrong haunt you. Miguel was human, he wasn’t a Spider, he wasn’t a superhero, and he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Miguel O’Hara, the geneticist working at Alchemax, with a brilliant mind and a kind heart. 

You cherished every part of him. That’s why you can’t let your heart lead, dedicate how you’d react to Miguel after the months you spent together. He was so close, yet so far; he was touchable, you could hold him, kiss him and hug him, but he was unattainable, you couldn’t tell him how much you loved him. You watched him with hidden love, showing your affection as platonic, a friend watching another. You had hardened yourself to your heart’s cries, for loving Miguel was a dangerous game-

“I- what?” you gawked at Miguel, wide eyes and mouth agape. You were shocked at the words that left his mouth, his soft, wet lips moving as he repeated the words.

“I love you.”

His cheeks were flushed, burning a soft red, it trailed to his ears and nape. His open collar - his jacket hung on the back of his chair and his shirt clung below his collar, a skin-tight shirt that hugged his sculpted chest sinfully, it hid little to the seeing eyes of the crowd and your drunk self. His sudden words had all but sobered you, shaking you into clear lucidity of his confession.

“You… love me?”

He blinked dumbly at you for a second, as if taking the time to absorb what he told you and what you repeated. Miguel was tipsy, not drunk. He smiled and nodded, a bashfully affectionate grin on his beautiful lips.

“Yes, is it so hard to believe, chica?”

He often called you chica, you thought it was a friendly term of endearment between friends (truthfully and regretfully, you knew little of Spanish, even with being in a committed relationship with an Irish-Mexican.). You just realised it was his pet name for you. All this time, he had given you his heart, and yet, you had denied him of yours. He was more playful and less burdened by life, it made him more teasing and smiling. The term chica somewhat made sense, a cuter and more playful way of calling someone you loved than the deep-meaning ones like mi cielo and mi vida, a play of words like a small secret between you. This secret hid behind names given between friends, a well-kept one, close to his chest but gifted to you. 

It might’ve once been - started - as friends, but it grew and festered in his heart until he found the time to express himself, to tell you how he truly felt for you - how he grew to care for you. He deemed this moment fine, bordering tipsy and nearing drunk, he’d be open, brutally honest but still aware of the words that left him. He wasn’t a lightweight anyway. 

You wanted to tell him you also loved him, but you couldn’t do it, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed with heartbreak, you simply stared at him in hesitancy. You opened your mouth once to reply and closed it, open and close, again and again until all you could do was stare at him. How were you supposed to answer him after the bomb he dropped? 

”Yes! I love you too!”

”Oh, Miguel, I love you too.”

”I- I love you as well.”

There were so many ways to express your feelings to the man who confessed, but none seemed to convey the true emotions that lay in your heart. You wanted to tell him you learned to love again thanks to him, that the time spent with him had made you open your eyes to the beauty that you were blinded by the pain and you slowly grew to care for - love - him as much as you did with Spider-Man 2099. He had the same smile, the same mind, the same heart, but he was more innocent, less burdened by disaster and happier. 

So you simply nodded. It made his smirk grow.

“Aye- would it be better if I called you ‘mi tesoro’ instead? It’s more straightforward, no?”

Even now, his words were light and playful, his tone affectionate as he leaned closer to you. You could see the mischievous glint in his warm, chocolate eyes (you thought that was why he liked serving you hot chocolate, it reminded you of his eyes.) and the curve of his lips as they moved to form words. You were transfixed by his beauty, mesmerised by the comforting hues and the sharpness of his cheeks, missing how close he was to you. 

“Or maybe-”

Softness caressed your lips, a plush, warm feeling that made you flush. He was kissing you, those pretty lips on yours. Your breath stuttered and you froze, but it didn’t stop Miguel’s initiative, a hand cradled your nape, holding you in place as he pushed himself closer to you. He moved against you, tongue slipping from his mouth and tentatively laving over your bottom lip, asking for something. 

He was so warm, so caring. You could just close your eyes and follow his lead - you did. He pushed harder, yet the kiss stayed soft and passionate, he lightly nipped your lip and soothed the stinging with his warm tongue, beckoning you to open your mouth for him. Your lips parted, opening up for Miguel to dive in, muscle meeting yours halfway and curling over yours. He still cradled your head, fingers running through your loose hair and tilting your head backwards, giving him more space to show you how much he loved you. Your arms, somehow, found themselves wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as he was pushing himself against you. 

His kiss was loving, his hold was careful and his touch heartwarming. You almost regretted having to pull away, but you had to breathe, your lungs starving for air after having been devoured by Miguel’s adoring kiss. The moment you opened your eyes (you didn’t know you had closed them while you kissed), his smile greeted you, a lovesick one bubbling with unending joy. You almost choked from how it fit so well on him. 

“That’s- that’s one way…” you spoke between breaths, chest swelling with every erratic pant, matching his similarly worn-out breathing.

That was all he needed from you. Your kiss was enough for him to know you loved him the same, a patient and gentle love he was willing to give you. Your heart pulsed strongly, lips curving and eyes squinting, you pushed yourself closer to his heat, his all-encompassing warmth that wrapped around you when you wanted to feel safe and loved. Your world couldn’t be any brighter, like the vibrant colours of blooming flowers when Persephone was given to her mother, where the snow melted and colours washed over the lands once more, painting the blank white and dead grey in joyous tones. It glowed brightly and warmed you like the summers that followed the melting ice, the clear, blue skies of Olympus and as freeing as the soaring hawks and skipping elks.

Letting go was far harder than loving. To let the person who you let in leave felt emptying, it left a gaping hole in his heart. Where it was once calm, struck a raging storm of rejection and regret, crashing waves the size of Poseidon’s rage and violent storms the strength of Zeus’ retribution. It hurt watching you walk beside a variant of himself, a happier and lighter version of him without his mutations or duty. You were the Spider-Woman of your universe so there wouldn’t be a second one unless there was a catastrophic canon divergence. 

He hadn’t followed you at first, respecting your wishes of being left alone. He had to give you that much, at least, after those months spent beside his ignorant ass. He hadn’t seen it until it was too late, lost under the weight of his duty and fears that he’d forgotten he had people who cared, who felt, who loved. It was too late, it was always too late with him. If he couldn’t fix his first mistake, who’s to say he could fix this? He couldn’t save his first daughter or his second’s universe because it was falling apart. He couldn’t save anyone because he hadn’t realised his mistake in interfering in canon events, and he lost you because he couldn’t stop his vitriol, his violent temperament that had pushed you away. He always took things for granted until they were lost to him. 

Was it two or three weeks before he decided to check up on you? He didn’t know anymore, the weeks blurred until he finally amassed the courage to go against everyone’s words. Through the flat hologram of his orange screen, he watched you lament on your own, body curled into itself and shoulders shaking. Your sobs were heart-wrenching to watch while he had no means of contacting you; you would’ve reacted more strongly and aggressively if he’d contacted you after leaving. 

So he watched.

You stared vacantly from your window and left only for the bare necessities or to act as Spider-Woman. Crime never slept so you couldn’t stop even in your time of need. You swung from building to building so gracefully that Miguel was hypnotised by your grace. He watched these moments as a reminder of the missions he took by your side, webbing and catching anomalies all across the multiverse with fearsome speed and accuracy. You both had made a fearsome team, but that time was over, it was a memory long forgotten. 

So he watched.

Your flat was cold and empty, the space filled with spectres of memories, the cool rooms vacant of life that used to fill them with warmth and happiness. It was saddening from his perspective - the observer, the watcher and the reader of your story - of your time spent alone. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was watching you from afar, a silent protector that would only act if you were in imminent danger - as long as it wasn’t part of the canon. 

So he watched-

Besides you was Miguel - not him, another one - and he looked much too comfortable by your side for his liking. His variant seemed much too close for a friend, moving from sitting before you to beside you, arm slung over your shoulders and leaning back and, sometimes, towards you at a breath’s distance. He turned green with envy, a vicious monster brewing inside his body with the threat of bursting out, clawing at his chest. The other was too close to you for his liking. 

He watched as his variant bought you drinks - always, however long and loud you’d complained and fought, he never let you pay in the end - and paid for your dates. He abhorred it. How happy you looked with the other him. How calm and satisfied your smile was. How close his variant was to you. He wished he was at the other’s place, taking his rightful place beside you. He would kiss you, smother you in love and give you whatever you wanted, whether it be a hug, a kiss or his time, he would’ve given them to you. He wouldn’t dance around the edge of your affection and his love like he was doing, like a man unsure of his feelings and anxious to act on it. 

He thought the other Miguel was a coward - though he knew he wasn’t. He wanted to blame his variant and find fault for anything he did, but they were still the same person. He was Miguel O’Hara as much as he was. He wanted, but couldn’t, especially after seeing how both loved you the same, having a similar type. They were so much alike that he could’ve replaced his variant, yet so vastly different in other manners that he would’ve stood out. His history, his trauma, his curse, the other had none of them. He was normal while he was Spider-Man, a stronger, more brutal version of Spider-Man. 

Granted, he loved you with every fibre of his being, but he had never showered you with as much love and affection as the other, having his character muddled through long hours of work and long-lasting tragedy. You were another of his tragedies, where he found love again and lost it by his own making. He would have left too if the Society didn’t depend on him, leaning towards him for support and help in protecting the multiverse. It was something he couldn’t sacrifice for his whims.

So he kept watching and let his heart crack and envy fester.

He watched you grow even closer to him, shoulders and hands occasionally touching, making you jump and blush. He watched you move from simple coffee dates to full-blown restaurants and bar dates, drinking and eating at your leisure - something he could’ve never provided you. He watched you wobble around when you were drunk, your arm over his shoulder and his around your waist, supporting your drunk weight. He watched you kiss, the other pressing your bodies together and you reciprocating the loving embrace you had once given to him. 

He felt like crying. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his sharp cheeks in slow, thundering waves of his heartbreak. He clung to the desk, claws unintentionally popping out and bending the metal under his fist. The sound ripped through the silent room like the image that ripped through his heart. He was alone in his grief, shoulders slumping and arms shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He had locked the door, barricading it with a busy, do not disturb sign, warning the others that he was occupied and wouldn’t be reached unless there was an emergency. 

“Miguel…”

He’d forgotten Lyla was here - she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, with your help he had given Lyla an upgrade in her system that gave her access to every Spider that had the watch. She had access to every file in the database and his secrets. Lyla was loyal to him as much as she was to you, respecting your words with a promise of her own to leave you alone. That, however, didn’t mean that she wasn’t privy to his pains, watching him while his eyes were stuck to your universe’s screen, giving him some comforting words that were meant to lift his spirit. It never worked but the intention was there. 

He couldn’t look at her, still facing the hologram of you kissing. He felt the surge of too many emotions to be able to think clearly, his self-control tethering on a thin line of fragile web. If he turned, he would explode on Lyla, giving her the brunt of his suffering even though she didn’t deserve it, she felt and laughed as much as any other human. He remembered programming in emotion with you, laughing about how much she would be as teasing and annoying as you. Lyla was another gift to him by you, so it would hurt him more. 

“Miguel-”

“Don’t- Do not say another word.”

For a man in tears and pain, his voice was curt and stoic, playing the leading figure he’d taken for so long. It betrayed his shaky figure, fingers crushing the metal loudly and shoulders jerking with ever-wrenching choked sob. His world was crumbling around him, rippling and cracking from the seams and folding into itself. The control of his state was failing miserably as he kept staring at your mirthful smile after the kiss. It tore him apart knowing he pushed you further away and into the arms of another. It hurt him deeply. 

Through everything, he heard Lyla whisper a small sorry before she popped out of existence, her small holographic body vanishing along with her orange light. Gone was her familiar light, gone was the nostalgic memory of programming her, and along her, was the support of another person. He was truly alone in this moment, to fall on his knees and let himself drown under the weight of everything. 

If your love was a tangible thing, he would’ve cradled it between his warm palms, holding it tightly to his chest to feel the soothing effects you had on him. Like a balm to burns, you cooled the searing pains that the world inflicted upon him, the warm blanket that covered him when he needed rest and the pillar that held him when he fell. He’d lost something he couldn’t gain a second time, clutching his head in his misery, drowning and howling.

It felt surreal until it wasn’t until it all sunk in. He truly couldn’t grasp the utter loss and betrayal he felt. The realisation that he truly lost you to none other than himself. The irony of it all slashed deeper, how he drove you closer to another him by his own doing, making you love a Miguel with more gentleness, more kindness and time than him, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man from Nueva York, Earth-928. Everything he had was lost in time, his spiralling thoughts of loss and misery clouded his vision, bringing tears forward in bigger waves. 

Was he doomed to lose everything he cared about? Was he bound to love and lose? Why couldn’t he have a happy ending like everyone else? Was it because he was different? Perhaps it was, there were other O’Hara Spider-Man, but none were mutated like him, a product of self-infliction and sabotage - none had their DNA spliced and mixed with a spider’s. He was simply too different from the others, they were lean but still had a strong musculature, muscles tightened to create more strength and defence; none were big and broad as he was, with rough edges and mean streaks. They were nice and happy, faced losses of their own, but always came out on top (there were some minor - sometimes major - variants of Spider-Man here and there, but they all had some similarities in their stories of becoming.). He saw the devastation and grasped onto the thinnest silver lining he could find, holding onto it to stay afloat while others thrived where they were. 

Maybe it was truly because of him. He was realistic - near cynic -  he couldn’t see things optimistically, life had made him that way. The silver lining he saw in things was small, nearly extinguished by his near-pessimistic way of life. Did that have an impact as well? It most likely did, at least partly. Fate had given him a bad hand in things, he couldn’t be completely blamed for how things turned - or so he thought, hoped. A man wasn’t only the result of what he’d done, but also of what he was given. When push comes to shove, Miguel acted in a way he thought meant well for him and the others even if it didn’t seem like the right decision at first. He rarely doubted his actions while he did them, only after, could he let himself face the consequences of what he’d done. Miguel simply didn’t have the pleasure of waiting. He needed to act when it was called.

If he had waited, if he had been patient and sought out others for support, if he had spent time thinking before acting, would he still have his little girl beside him? Would he still have you in his arms? If he had shown you more affection, would you have still loved him?

Did you still love him?

Miguel didn’t know what he was doing. Standing before your apartment door in civilian clothing and a bouquet of twelve, beautiful white tulips - the meaning not lost to him. It was an attempt at apologizing for his mistakes, a desperate one led by heartache. He brushed his hair back, trying to look as kept as he could in his situation: dark bags and sickly skin, tense muscles and sore back. This was a daring move from him, it would end up catastrophic if the Miguel from your universe saw him at your front door; but he checked, making sure his variant was elsewhere before opening a portal to your place. 

He hadn’t moved in a while, listening to you move around your flat, the sound of your soft steps shuffling from behind the door, a wall between you and him, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to cross it unless you welcomed him. He held the bouquet in one hand and knocked with the other, his knuckles hitting the wood softly and hesitantly. There was a pause between every knock, drawn by his nerves and the anxiety that gripped him. 

You moved and closed in on the sound at the door. He saw your shadow dance under the small gap on the floor and pause. You knew. You knew it was him even without peeking through the peephole, your spider-sense aiding you in recognizing the unknown. Although your hand rested reluctantly at the knob - perhaps still too raw from your break as he was - you opened the door for him, figure small and apprehensive. 

“Miguel,” you muttered his name, greeting him with a slow nod. You stepped back and opened the door wider for him, he took it as a good sign that you let him in rather than shut the door in his face.

He nodded back, saying your name. He took a step forward, foot breaking the barrier to your flat. The second one ensured he was fully invited, both feet strongly rooted on your side of the door. He wanted to make himself smaller, to appease you, but he knew you wouldn’t have liked that. He squirmed under your stare, a mix of curiosity and concern. 

He nearly sighed audibly when you gestured at him to sit and he moved to the sofa he remembered sleeping on with you, cuddling under a warm blanket while you watched a movie. He knew your home by heart like you knew his, the memory washed over him with melancholy. You sat on the armchair to his left, your back to the kitchen. He swallowed thickly and handed you the bouquet, freshly cut tulips glistening with pearly drops under your lights. 

Your shoulders shook as you leaned in to take the bouquet, jolting back when your fingers grazed him. Feeling your skin felt invigorating, it breathed back life into him, even slightly. You thanked him with a slow nod, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. Was it a gift? Was it an apology? Was it a farewell sign? He figured your mind was running in circles trying to understand the meaning of the pretty bouquet he handed you. You were always an overthinker, but your mind worked brutally well. That’s something he always appreciated about you. 

“I-” Miguel started, seemingly stopped by something that he couldn’t get out of his throat. Maybe a ball of dread or needles of anxiety, but it held him from giving you the words he spent nights thinking over, to give you the message he built from the deepest crevice of his heart. “I’m sorry, (Name).”

You stared at him, understanding that he needed a moment of silence to truly convey his feelings. You hadn’t uttered a word since he first started, expression neutral, not betraying whatever brewing storm you locked inside of you. He was grateful, truly. 

“I know- I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really, really sorry, mi vida.”

He sensed you tense, the muscles of your back contracting and rippling under your shirt. Every unseen fibre moving was bare to him, he could see and feel better than most, if not, everyone else. 

“I acted out of anger and lack of sleep, but that doesn’t mean you deserved that- never. I just, my mutation makes me more animalistic, more… aggressive than the other, and I hurt you. You didn’t deserve any of that and I can’t always blame it on my mutations. I should’ve been able to control myself. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you in those ways.”

He lowered his gaze to his hands, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing his palm, trying to coax himself into relaxation. Although your breathing softened, a calm breeze in an atmosphere thick with tension, he didn’t dare look up and see the face you were making. 

“I was a bad boyfriend and a horrible friend. I’m- I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t want you to forgive me, but- I just needed to tell you how much I regret hurting you. I want to apologise, I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how to fix this.” He breathed deeply, collecting every ounce of confidence and honesty to brave your reaction. “I’m sorry, mi cielo.” 

He shuddered, body rippling with his pained breath. He hadn’t realised how painful it would be to face you with his fears and confession, with the threat of abandonment and rejection fresh in his mind. He was a man of pride and strength, rarely facing anything with trepidation and hesitance. 

“I’m really sorry, mi cielo. I’m so, so sorry.”

He sat in silence, letting it hang over him like the blade of a guillotine, silent and brunt. Perceiving the flash of the sharp blade before it fell on his neck, sentencing him to a quick downfall with a long, lasting agony that would sting his neck as long as it would hurt his heart. The French used it for executions, the thing that spelled people’s end. At its height, it was used as an apparatus to behead traitors or people who were deemed dangerous to the people of the new republic. Down the blame went and off the head popped, like it would happen to Miguel if he wasn’t prepared for it. He truly didn’t know whether he had prepared for his rejection, for the death of his heart, to watch the flickering sparks of his flame wither out.

“I’m sorry too, Miguel-”

The rope strained, knots twisting and rippling in the tightness of the pull. It shook, whipping in the air as it straightened completely, held closely by the hand of the executioner. The wind blew but it was sturdy, withstanding the violent gales that slammed against the body of it.

“-it means a lot that you came here to apologise- ”

The crowd was filled with silence, the emptiness of the area a mock of a ghost town. Abandoned to be sentenced to death without anyone to witness. They deemed him not fit for their acknowledgment before his death, before the sparks of his life extinguished. His fate wasn’t worth their time, unlike the poorest criminals who stole for money, unlike the richest pigs who fed from the poor with their silver spoons and golden crowns, unlike the cruellest killers who gutted and left men, women and children to bleed out, and unlike the guiltless innocents cursed for something they hadn’t committed. 

“-but, I can’t.”

The rope was let loose, its tail flying and whipping in the air as the blade descended with its weight. The wood chafed against its support beams, yet it flew gracefully and rapidly, singing the doom of its prisoner. The blade gleamed under the moon’s bright light, the silver whispers of peace and sleep deaf to his ears.

“I can’t love you anymore.”

It cracked down on him, his life flashing before him as it cut into him. Severing his control over his body, putting out the dying embers of hope. He clung to desperation in his last moments, wishing to relive the moments of happiness, bright oblivion and cherished love. 

He wished that he could’ve seen your shadowed figure hidden in the darkness, tears lining your cheeks as you watched him take his last breath. The only person who came to see him leave, the one who he would’ve burned the world for. In the end, after everything he’d done, you still gave him a small moment of your time to witness his fall, you deemed him worthy of such an act. You offered him your kindness. 

My extensive tag list of extremely patient people pt1.:

@iseizeyourmom @raynerainyday @etherealton @sciencethot @coffee-obsessed-freak @thesecretwriter @beepboopcowboy@bontensh0e @aikoiya @allysunny @fandoms-run-my-life @brittney69 @aranachan @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @konniebon @starlightaura @redwolfxx @aniya7 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bvbdudette @wwwelilovesyou @wwwellacom @akiras-key @bobafettbutifhewasgay @opiplover @rinieloliver @uniquecroissant @yas-v @xrusitax @blkmystery @darherwings @ariparri @notivie @vr00m-vr00m @battinsonwhore05 @irishbl0ss0mz @mivanda @saint-chlorine @livelaughluvmen @battinsonwhore05 @notivie @lililouvre @giasjourneyblog @ykyouluvme @skullywullypully

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: 5 Symbols

for your next poem/story (pt. 1)

AESCLEPIUS WAND

The Wand or Rod of Aesclepius is a symbol of the medical profession.

The symbol belongs to the Greek God of Healing whose name it bears.

Although the origins of many symbols are indeterminate, there is a theory that the Aesclepius Wand came about due to the method of removal of a certain parasite that was drawn gradually from the body by winding it around a stick.

However, the serpent is a powerful symbol of healing, despite its toxic nature.

In general, the symbol of the serpent rising up toward the top of a pole or tree is representative of matter transforming into spirit and of enlightenment.

AKWABA

This is an African fertility symbol belonging to the Ashanti tribe.

The Akwaba is a doll, usually carved of wood, which commands the same attention as a real infant.

It is dressed, washed, and even “fed” until the human child is actually born, an example of sympathetic magic believed to ensure the arrival of the true baby.

AMULET

Although it is worn on the body as a piece of jewelry, the amulet is different from “normal” jewelry in that it holds a magical significance that is peculiar to its owner or wearer.

Generally, the powers of the amulet fall into two specific categories, either to bring luck or to avert evil;

either of these qualities arguably reflect a positive or negative attitude on the part of the owner.

The talisman is effectively the same thing as an amulet although its name derives from an Arabic word meaning “magic picture.”

A charm made specifically and inscribed with the names of the spirits, the Seal of Solomon, and other mystical symbols is more likely to be referred to as a talisman.

Significant symbols for use as amulets include birthstones (or other gems according to their magical powers), astrological signs, specific symbols such as the Hand of Fatima or the cornus, and symbols specific to the religious and spiritual beliefs of the wearer, such as the cross, the star, words, names, and numbers.

Incidentally, both amulets and talismans are referred to as “charms;” the origin of this word has the same root as the Latin word for “song,” indicating the link between a magical sound and a magical intention.

ANKH

Essentially the tau cross surmounted by a loop or circle, the ankh is a prominent feature of Ancient Egyptian reliefs, artworks, and funerary paraphernalia.

Like the tau, the ankh is a letter; specifically, it is a hieroglyph meaning “life.”

The volume of meaning that can be squeezed from such a simple symbol is awe-inspiring.

The ankh represents the male and female genitalia, the Sun coming over the horizon, and the union of Heaven and Earth.

This association with the Sun means that the ankh is traditionally drawn in gold—the color of the Sun—and never in silver, which relates to the Moon.

Putting aside the complexities of these separate elements, though, what does the ankh look like?

Its resemblance to a key gives a clue to another meaning of this magical symbol.

The Egyptians believed that the Afterlife was as meaningful as the present one, and the ankh provided the key to the gates of death and what lay beyond.

Powerful symbols frequently stray across into other cultures despite their origins, and the ankh is no exception.

Because it symbolizes immortality and the Universe, it was initially borrowed by the 4th century Coptic Christians who used it as a symbol to reinforce Christ’s message that there is life after death.

The ankh is used by the Rosicrucians too.

Even though its actual invention is shrouded in thousands of years of mystery, the ankh symbol can be bought in any high street jewelry store anywhere in the world.

ARROW

Symbol of flight, penetration, and direction.

As a weapon, the arrow is a symbol of the power of the person who carries it, along with the bow.

As a sacred symbol, it is the attribute of the Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis/Diana, as well as of Eros, who uses his arrows to pierce the people’s hearts with love.

The arrow also serves as a phallic symbol and an emblem of masculine power.

The symbol of the heart pierced with an arrow, popular on Valentine’s Day cards, is a covert symbol of sexual union.

As a symbol of direction, it works on a physical level and a metaphorical level.

The arrow that shoots high up into the sky is an emblem of the link between Earth and Heaven, a symbol of an idea, or of a message being carried directly to the Gods.

The arrow is used, too, as an analogy for swiftness and sureness, since the arrow travels in the direction in which it is shot.

The astrological sign of Sagittarius, the hybrid creature that is always depicted in the process of shooting an arrow from his bow, has a Latin root, sagitta; this means “arrow” and is derived from a verb, sagire, that means “to perceive keenly or quickly.”

Therefore, the arrow is symbolic of quick-wittedness and intuition.

Arrows were used by the ancient Arabians, Chaldeans, Greeks, and Tibetans in a form of divination called Belomancy:

This was practiced by shooting arrows in the air and reading a meaning from the direction of the arrows or their positions in relation to each other.

For example, crossed or touching arrows meant “no.”

Later, the arrows had words written on them to make any answers even more definitive.

Source More: On Symbols

[givemearmstopraywith]

i just watched someone saying "christianity is and always will be the cultural appropriation of religions" and they mentioned the resurrection, which surprises me a little. do you know what they could be referring to? they also called it a very common trope and i'm no theologian, don't know that much about other religions or mythology, so maybe you could help?

resurrection narratives are absolutely not unique to christianity. there are resurrection narratives in the religion of ancient egypt (osiris), greece (adonis, zagreus, dionysus, and attus), and sumer (dumuzid and inanna). all of these predate christianity by centuries. to consider resurrection myths appropriation is, however, rather ignorant: the mythologies of the ancient near east are absolutely woven together, to the point where they are almost indistinguishable from each other, especially in the early history of the hebrews. the roman empire was heavily influenced by hellenic culture, religion, and philosophy. consider dionysus, the god of wine: plutarch stated that the stories of osiris and dionysus were identical and that the secret rituals asociated with them were obviously paralleled: the second century AD saw the emergence of greco-egyptian pantheons where the god serapis was synonymous with osiris, hades, and dionysus. this is also similar to the interrelationship between inanna, ishtar, asherah, astarte, and multiple other near eastern female deities (and she likely played an influence in the development of lilith as well). how much did the cult of dionysus influence later rites of the wine and the eucharist in early christianity, especially given that within fifty years of christ's death most christians were greeks? romulus and remus were said to have been born to a virgin, and so was the founder of zoroastrianism, zoroaster, a religion that influenced platonic philosophy and all abrahamic faiths.

christianity is more guilty of appropriation that most other faith practices of appropriation because of the crudeness and hatefulness with which it borrowed judaism and then turned on the jews. but attempting to divide western and near eastern religious traditions into pure (original) and impure (appropriated) is next to impossible. otherwise we can start trying to particularize everything as either pure or impure and discard what we deem as "impure" or unoriginal because we think it is valueless, hackneyed, or unethical. religion does not work like that. christianity does require critical consumption and practice because it has both appropriated judaism and because the way in which it exerted itself as a dominant religion over other faith practices. and the appropriation of judaism must be especially viewed as troubling, because judaism cannot be compared, historically, to religions like those of ancient egypt and greece because until the state of israel it was never a dominant or state religion, and the fact that it survived some odd thousand years without being recognized as a state religion is part of why it's particularly interesting. of course, that has changed now, but this ask isn't about israel/palestine and i won't dwell on it this issue much except to reaffirm that christianity appropriating an oppressed minority religion that emerged out of colonial contexts is very different than christianity utilizing aspects of ancient greek religion or zoroastrianism, and also different from jesus being included in islam, for instance.

interestingly, quetzalcoatl, from the ancient aztec religion, was the patron of priests and a symbol of resurrection. this gestures to the hidden sacred, eliade's hierophany: the hidden holiness, the sacrality and beingness of something beyond ourselves, that underlies all existence, with its own explicit truths that emerge consistently in faith practices that, unlike those of the near east, never interacted. maybe we all carried the same stories out of the cradle of civilization; maybe there is a perpetual and accessible truth that transcends boundaries. i don't know. but everything is borrowed. everything is copy. humanity is not capable of true originality: and isn't that beautiful? everything is taken in communion. everyone is interconnected. everyone wants to believe something, and we seem to be universally compelled by the same truths, motifs, meanings, and stories.

[diioonysus]

it's always a joke i see passed around, but it's also based in a misconception of it, but roman and greek mythology are vastly different.

roman gods and goddesses were named after objects and did not possess a gender, whereas greek gods were decided by human characteristics and traits.

2. greek gods had heavy emphasis placed on their physical appearance, both beauty, and unsightliness. the description of their physical appearance would come from the myth itself. greek mythology would describe the gods and goddesses as having strong characteristics. these characteristics would have a direct impact on the physical appearance they were given, while roman gods were not described in such a way. roman gods had less emphasis put on their characteristics; therefore, their physical appearances were less strong if there was a physical depiction of them at all.

3. many myths are told differently like the trojan war and odysseus' return.

4. in greek mythology, mortal greek heroes were just as important as greek gods and goddesses. greek heroes often had roles that taught life lessons that were just as important as the myths that were told about greek gods and goddesses. greek mythology emphasized the importance of good deeds mortals performed on earth. roman mythology was different in this way. roman mythology did not put emphasis on the works of mortal heroes in regards to their life on earth because roman mythology believed in an afterlife (greeks did too but not in a strong way as romans did).

5. the greek culture viewed deities as an unattainable being. this means that mortals would never be able to reach deity status and have a place among the gods they worshipped. instead, they would have to do good works on earth to have the honor of the gods during their time on earth. roman culture was different. romans believed that mortals should try to aspire to be like the gods they worshipped. part of the reason is that they used the roman gods and goddesses as an inspiration to live life the right way. the other reason is that they believed in an afterlife that they would attain when their life on earth was over.

6. the gods had much different attributes differing from greek and roman; ares was the unpredictable spirit of war, and he wasn't the most popular god, but in rome, mars was hugely popular and was worshipped much more than the greek ares. demeter was the goddess of the harvest and grains, while ceres was those things as well plus art and culture.

7. in greek mythology, the afterlife does not hold much importance. in fact, gods and mortals are regularly snatched from the afterlife and brought in to the present showing no concern for the afterlife. the greek perspective is much more concerned with the physical life on earth as opposed to the afterlife. mortals are remembered and rewarded for their good deeds on earth. in contradiction, the romans did good deeds to secure their place in afterlife. they could even earn a place among the gods and through their life on earth strove towards this goal.

i know it's funny to be like "romans copied greeks," i don't view it as copying and pasting, i view it as the being inspired by greek gods and greek mythology and applying it to their own religions, and that's not a weird, uncommon thing. greeks also borrowed from other cultures to form their own gods. ancient greeks borrowed from minoans, mycenaeans, egyptians and phoenicians. THAT IS NOT A BAD THING! greek language also helped expand the italian language as well, they expanded their own knowledge with knowledge they learned from greeks, and other cultures they came across.

another complaint i see is "they conquered greece, so greeks didn't have a choice." i don't know how to tell you this in the most polite way, but conquering land in this time was gigantic and very common and normal! how do you think the mongolians became so powerful, they didn't do it through peaceful encounters. everybody did it, it's how culture spread so rapidly through the ancient world, not to mention through trade.

i know it's funny to say the italians copied greeks, but get over yourself, it's not funny nor is it correct.

[magical-forest-world]

КАРАВАЙ-KARAVAI

፠ A loaf is a popular ceremonial bakery product of the Eastern Slavs, which in most cases was served at a wedding celebration as a treat for all guests. The tradition of baking this artful bread was borrowed by the Slavs from the Egyptians, who made round products symbolizing well-being and prosperity.

𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰

፠ The Slavs at that time worshiped the pagan gods of the sun — Yarilo, Dazhbog, Horse and Svarog, so the loaf was baked in the shape of the sun, that is, round. In this form, he also personified prosperity and prosperity, which is why the loaf was prepared on the eve of holidays and important events.

𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰𖠰

፠ There are many interesting traditions associated with the loaf. So, earlier, to taste a piece of loaf with salt meant to enter into friendly relations with the owner of the house, as well as share all the hardships and worries with him. In addition, the Slavs had a traditional rite of marriage — evidence that the parents of the bride and groom had concluded an agreement on the upcoming wedding. The most important attribute of this ceremony was a loaf. The fathers of the future newlyweds joined hands, and the matchmaker carried the loaf three times under their hands. After this action, the bread was broken in half — half for each parent.

[casuallygoingoutofmymind]

My PJO fandom story

I first heard about Percy Jackson and the Olympians when I was like eight. I’d started reading The Kane Chronicles, and saw that in other books written by Rick Riordan. I was more interested in Egyptian mythology over Greek mythology at that time, and we didn’t have the books at my school library. When I was twelve, I saw several of my friends reading the books and still didn’t understand what all the hype was about. I thought it was overrated, so I looked it up to see if I was right. I saw the first book was The Lightning Thief, and a friend of mine had the entire series at her house. Naturally, I asked to borrow it, and naturally, I became hooked the moment I read the first sentence. I finished all the books in the span of two months and began The Heroes of Olympus series afterward. I cannot believe I ever thought I would hate those books.

So far, these are the Rick Riordan books I’ve read, in order of when I read them: The Red Pyramid, The Throne of Fire, The Serpent’s Shadow, The Son of Sobek, The Staff of Serapis, The Crown of Ptolemy, Percy Jackson’s Greek Gods, The Lightning Thief, Sea of Monsters, The Titan’s Curse, The Battle of the Labyrinth, The Last Olympian, The Lost Hero, The Sun and the Star.

The books that I still have to read: The Singer of Apollo, The Son of Neptune, The Mark of Athena, The House of Hades, The Blood of Olympus, The Chalice of the Gods, Wrath of the Triple Goddess (Coming September 2024!), The Hidden Oracle, The Dark Prophecy, The Burning Maze, The Tyrant’s Tomb, The Tower of Nero, The Sword of Summer, The Hammer of Thor, The Ship of the Dead, Percy Jackson’s Greek Heroes, The Demigod Files, The Demigod Diaries, Camp Half-Blood Confidential, Percy Jackson and the Olympians: the Ultimate Guide, Camp Jupiter Classifed - a Probatio’s Journal, Hotel Valhalla - Guide to the Norse Worlds, Brooklyn House Magician’s Manual, Daughter of the Deep

POVs these books are in:

The Lighting Thief: Percy Jackson, First Person

Sea of Monsters: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Titan’s Curse: Percy Jackson, First Person

Battle of the Labyrinth: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Singer of Apollo: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Last Olympian: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Lost Hero: Jason Grace, Piper McLean, Leo Valdez, Third Person Omniscient

The Son of Neptune: Percy Jackson, Frank Zhang, Hazel Levesque, Third Person Omniscient

The Mark of Athena: Annabeth Chase, Leo Valdez, Piper McLean, Percy Jackson, Third Person Omniscient

The House of Hades: Hazel Levesque, Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson, Jason Grace, Frank Zhang, Piper McLean, Leo Valdez, Third Person Omniscient

The Blood of Olympus: Jason Grace, Piper McLean, Leo Valdez, Reyna Ramirez-Arellano, Nico di Angelo, Third Person Omniscient

Chalice of the Gods: Percy Jackson, First Person

Wrath of the Triple Goddess: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Hidden Oracle: Apollo/Lester Papadopolous, First Person

The Dark Prophecy: Apollo/Lester Papadopoulous, First Person

The Burning Maze: Apollo/Lester Papadopoulos, First Person

The Tyrant’s Tomb: Apollo/Lester Papadopoulos, First Person

The Tower of Nero: Apollo/Lester Papadopoulos, First Person

The Sun and the Star: Nico di Angelo, Will Solace, Third Person Omniscient

Percy Jackson’s Greek Gods: Percy Jackson, First Person

Percy Jackson’s Greek Heroes: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Demigod Files: Percy Jackson, First Person

The Demigod Diaries: Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson, Leo Valdez, Dr. Claymore, First Person or Third Person Omniscient

Camp Half-Blood Confidential: Third Person Objective (?)

Camp Jupiter Classified - a Probatio’s Journal: Claudia, First Person

The Red Pyramid: Carter Kane, Sadie Kane, First Person

The Throne of Fire: Carter Kane, Sadie Kane, First Person

The Serpent’s Shadow: Carter Kane, Sadie Kane, First Person

The Son of Sobek: Carter Kane, First Person

The Staff of Serapis: Annabeth Chase, Third Person Omniscient

The Crown of Ptolemy: Sadie Kane, First Person

Brooklyn House Magician’s Manual: Carter Kane, First Person

The Sword of Summer: Magnus Chase, First Person

The Hammer of Thor: Magnus Chase, First Person

The Ship of the Dead: Magnus Chase, First Person

Hotel Valhalla - Guide to the Norse Worlds: Magnus Chase, First Person or Third Person Objective

Daughter of the Deep: Ana Dakkar, First Person

[talonabraxas]

"As above, so below. The microcosm corresponds to the macrocosm, and we must therefore seek in man the Kether above the head which shines with a pure white brilliance in Adam Kadmon, the Heavenly Man.

The rabbis call it the Yechidah, the Divine Spark; the Egyptians call it the Sab; the Hindus call it the Thousand-petalled Lotus. But under all these names we have the same idea-the nucleus of pure spirit which emanates but does not indwell its many manifestations upon the planes of form."

"The Spiritual Experience assigned to Kether is said to be Union with God. This is the end and aim of all mystical experience, and if we look for any other goal we are as those who build a house in the world of illusion.

Anything that holds him back from the straight path to this goal is felt by the mystic to be a bond that binds, and as such to be broken All that holds consciousness to form, all desires other than the one desire-these are to him evils, and from the standpoint of his philosophy he is right, and to act otherwise would invalidate his technique."

"The virtue assigned to Kether is that of Attainment, the Completion of the Great Work, to use a term borrowed from the alchemists. Without completion there can be no attainment, and without attainment no completion. Good intentions weigh light in the scale of cosmic justice; it is by our completed work that we are known. True, we have all eternity in which to complete it, but complete it we must, even to the final Yod. There is no mercy in perfect justice save that which gives us leave to try again."

"Kether, viewed from the standpoint of form, is the crown of the kingdom of oblivion. Unless we have realisation of the nature of the life of the pure white light we shall have little temptation to strive for the Crown which is not of this order of being at all; and if we have this realisation, then are we free from the bondage of manifestation and can speak to all forms as one having authority."

— Dion Fortune - "The Mystical Qabala"

[practically-an-x-man]

I'm having a scatterbrained day, so for talk shop Tue, can I get a commentary reel/directors cut style talk about how WWFA came about? How you got the idea, how Kat was developed and how you decided to insert your plot into the movie canon?

Oooh man, great question!! Thank you!!

So first things first... there were absolutely elements of Katherine and her story that were logically chosen for a specific position, and as with all of my stories, I did have the plot in place before I started writing, but there was a lot of this story in particular that evolved as I wrote it.

So WWFA? first came about after I went through a huge NATM hyperfixation in late 2021. The movies have always been really comforting and close to my heart, especially as a history and mythology buff, but there was something about that time rewatching it that just sent me headfirst into it. I don't remember how specifically I came up with Katherine as a character, but the first little inkling of plot came from the idea of an artist leaving sketches for the night guards and janitors to discover, not knowing that it was the exhibits themselves who ended up appreciating them.

So that's where I started the story: Katherine, leaving her drawings, simple and sweet. I had my point A (her leaving the drawings), my point B (following the third movie, the tablet dying and being restored), and my point C (hush now, we haven't gotten to that yet), but hadn't quite gotten all the details of how I was going to work Katherine into the story. I always had her coming along for the ride, but it's safe to say that the original concept did not have her nearly as deeply woven into the story as her final version does. She brought her drawings to life, building off the idea of the tablet bringing museum artworks and exhibits to life, but at that point I didn't have much of an explanation as to why her.

And then I started college. I'd always been a history nerd and had a good base of knowledge to start the story, but then I was a history nerd taking various college-level anthropology, history, and archaeology classes, and it took my knowledge to a whole new level. I've said this before, but I nearly wrote a paper on how I believed the Egyptian god Tutu was borrowed from the Babylonian god of the same name (though that fizzled when the Egyptologist I tried to contact never emailed me back, and he was the only expert in that particular god I could find). I love that sort of thing, and if college had been a better fit for me it might've ended up being my lasting career. My knowledge skyrocketed, so did my inspiration, and that's what springboarded the fic into its present mythology-heavy form.

As for how Kat was developed... it was a lot of those more spur-of-the-moment decisions. She became descended from Bastet on a whim, and that ended up being a driving force that worked so well for the rest of the story. Her name, Katherine Johnson, is a reference to the NASA scientist who contributed to the moon landing, but that reference itself was just sparked from the fact that I couldn't decide on a name at first. Her physical appearance, her backstory, whatever else? I just wanted to create a fun, dynamic character, someone who really felt like a real person rather than a plot device - and part of how I do that is just to stop thinking too hard about it and let things just flow.

Idk, it's kind of hard to describe. I don't want to say I was flying blind at any point, but there were a lot of areas in which the story just fell together as I wrote it. Most of my work came from creating Katherine and establishing her within the first few chapters - after that, she just seemed to fall into the story.

[thenightling]

Wicca and "Cultural appropriation"

I am sick of other Neo Pagan sects deciding that Wicca is "cultural appropriation" and "problematic." Tonight someone tried to scold me and tell me that I should not say that Wiccans celebrate Yule (it was actually a post with a list of Neo-Pagan faiths that have a version of Yule) because they "appropriated" it from Scandinavian religions that had it first and Wicca was "only created in the 1950s." Okay, let me break a few things down here. 1. Yes, it's easy to say Wicca is "new" because it wasn't an official religion in the UK until the 1950s but let's consider an important point. Until the 1950s Witchcraft was still illegal in the UK. No religion was allowed to be officially recognized that practiced witchcraft until then. America didn't even acknowledge Wicca as a religion option for military personnel until 2007. Scooby Doo acknowledged Wicca as a religion before The American government. The actual word Wicca Is Old English for Witch (masculine spelling). The feminine spelling was Wicce. They were pronounced as Witch-ah and Witch-uh. There was a very slight difference for gender specification. Eventually middle and modern English would drop the a and e at the end and settle on "witch" as an (intended) gender neutral term. Like the word Wizard (which came from Wizened) the word Witch meant (Someone who had their wits about them. Until the early middle ages the word meant "Wise person." And that's how Wiccans use the term now. 2. It's become fashionable to pearl clutch and say all cultures should stay separate and not borrow from each other because it's "cultural appropriation." Some "helpful" people even DMed me Youtube videos about why Wicca is a "Problematic" element in Pagan communities solely because it borrows from multiple religions. But literally every religion does it if you look at it long enough. So does Christianity, and Judaism, and Islam. And even Hermeticism which is part Greek, part Egyptian. Merging the two together. (And a LOT of Neo-Paganism is Hermetic) How come all of those can do it but when Wicca does it, that's the one called out where people are shamed? The people practicing "Real Paganism" forget the "Neo" part. That means "new." It's cobbled together from things that were suppressed and often lost to history. Even the Nordic Eddas are incomplete and were first written down by Christian Monks who altered things to (among other things) make Loki more of a Satan figure than he actually was. Almost all Neo Paganism uses hermeticism. Do you know what that is? It's from an era in Greek history where the Greek God Hermes was merged with the Egyptian God Toth. The two were merged into a single being and that's where a lot of Neo Paganism comes from. The teachings from that period where there was Greek / Egyptian appropriation. The Roman Gods evolved from the Greek Gods. Even when we discuss the beliefs of the First Nations there are overlaps because one Nation borrowed from another and beliefs spread. Modern Voodoo is a mixture of West African, Catholic, and Hattian folk beliefs. Mexican Catholicism is very different from French Catholicism. Imagine The Day of the Dead and Saint Death in Paris. When you believe something, truly believe it, you don't covet it as something only certain people are allowed to believe in. If you think of it as truth - as fact, you want others to believe it too. This is not cultural appropriation. This is cultural appreciation. 3. If you think Wiccans shouldn't be allowed to call their winter holiday Yule, you are essentially saying it's okay to call Christmas by Yule and the Christmas season Yuletide. And Christians can even burn Yule Logs but you'll Pearl clutch "How dare Wiccans call their festival the name of the millennia old Scandinavian festival!" Because Wicca = Bad? Christian = Well, they did that a long time ago and Wicca's new-ish despite being a re-adaption of a lot ancient practices.

Yes, Wicca is a hodgepodge religion of many beliefs cobbled together. So are most religions when you break them down. None are truly safe from "contamination" from other religions. This separate yet equal / segregation and "Wicca's bad because it appropriates" needs to stop. Aren't there enough prejudices that ALL Neo-Pagan faiths need to worry about? We don't need this "in-fighting".

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

OMG fid you notice that Ortho and the dogs kind of look like the basenji or jackal which resembles Anubis’s head? It’s not Greek but Anubis is the ancient Egyptian god of funerary rites, protector of graves, and guide to the underworld. Love the details in every new look the boys get!

[Referencing this post!]

Yeah, I noticed the ear shape almost immediately!! It’s so cool how the design integrates the imagery of Cerberus from Greek mythology with Anubis from ancient Egyptian mythology. They’re both (broadly speaking) dogs that associated with the Underworld, just different interpretations in the finer details (Anubis guides the dead there, Cerberus protects the gateway, etc).

I really enjoy TWST’s design philosophy when it comes to clothing! It’s a very eclectic blend that borrows from many cultures and inspirations while also staying (relatively) practical. You wouldn’t think that Greek + ancient Egyptian cyberpunk battle armor would work, but it somehow does 😂

I hope the new gear provides some extra defense against lightning seeing as how Ortho didn’t take to it too well in episode 6… (and OB Malleus just might whip out lightning spells 💦) No beating up Ortho allowed!! 😤 Only Ortho beating others up allowed!!

Side note: there’s a theory floating around in the Japanese fandom that every character will get a SSR based on the new player titles granted for owning 10 cards of a particular character. For example, 10 Ortho cards gives you the title “Guardian of the Underworld”, which is what JP fans believe the doggo Ortho art is. After all, Cerberus is known to be the guardian to the Underworld!! (If you’re curious about what the other characters’ titles are, see this post!) I wonder if this (theoretical) new series would be based on the boys post-major character growth…? Or maybe it’s each of their “ideal” or “hero” selves from their dreams?

I don’t think there’s been an instance of static art that shows up in Tokyo train station ads that haven’t been new cards, but it would also be strange and a little unfair if Ortho was the only character to get a new SSR (because look at that fancy art; no way is it NOT a SSR). He was the first to ever get a main story-linked card, but a R is weak and common enough to just throw out as a freebie. If we think of this as series of SSRs with Ortho as the first in it… 👀 then mayhaps new looks for all 22 boys??? Maybe even leading into TWST’s second main story arc??

[thorraborinn]

I know you've written about the Gullveig/Freyja theory but I keep seeing the equation of Angrboða with the witch whose heart Loki ate according to Voluspa hin Skama and both of them being equated with Gullveig. I want to know where this idea comes from. I mostly see it on FB in the Norse Gods Discussion Group and a couple Lokean groups {although, not as much anymore}. I honestly think this is just too much of a leap in logic. I know Genevieve Gornichec put Angrboða as Gullveig in her book, but I'm not sure if she equated them with the heart eating thing. I didn't read it.

I'm asking because I've been looking for good fiction about Norse mythology but keep running into the idea that Loki is an abusive husband but also that killed his mistress and ate her heart, which kinda doesn't make sense to me because why wouldn't he have just slept with her if he wanted more children or whatever.

I'm going to stick to Greek or Egyptian mythology based fiction like ENNEAD for now, whilst looking for good Norse ones.

The first author that I know of to describe Gullveig/Heiðr, Angrboða, and the heart into a single figure is the 19th century Swedish author Viktor Rydberg (he also included Aurboða and Hyrrokkin in this complex). Rydberg was convinced that there was a single original epic narrative that was shared by all the Germanic-speaking peoples, and that myths, legends, and folklore of Germanic Europe was made up of the decayed, corrupted fragments of it. He also believed that he knew how to put it back together, sometimes even borrowing from non-Germanic narratives.

In order to make that make sense, a lot of his work is very preoccupied with merging different figures together, because he can't really allow any loose ends. His work is also characterized by a fairly strict polarity between the gods (unambiguously good) and their enemies (unambiguously bad) which, to be fair, was not uncommon among scholars in his day. He had some things to say that were important for the 19th century, but his work should not be taken seriously today.

He does still have a small but very prolific following among modern heathens including the authors of the so-called "Asatru Edda" and whoever runs www.germanicmythology.com.

I'm not sure if more recent Lokean/Rökkratrú theorizing about Gullveig/Heiðr and Angrboða is related to Viktor Rydberg or not. I could imagine that the sort of Þursatrú/Nordic Satanism types might have some things in common with the Rydberg-inspired heathens, taking the same black-and-white, hardline good-vs-evil view, but siding with the opposing team, and being favorable toward the Gullveig/Angrboða/Aurboða/Hyrrokkin complex; and then this could filter into other Lokean or Rökkatrú spaces. To me, the burnt heart seems to point to Rydberg. I don't think that Völuspá in skamma gives an impression that the heart that Loki eats belongs to Angrboða. Rydberg only came to that conclusion by inserting Völuspá into the context of Völuspá in skamma, so that Angrboða is mentioned as the mother of Fenrir, then is burnt (as Gullveig), then the burnt heart is eaten before she's resurrected. I find this pretty unintuitive, and unlikely to be thought of twice independently of each other, but I could be wrong.

On the other hand, sometimes ideas just go into circulation without anyone knowing where they come from, not thinking to question it. It's possibly that Rydberg was the ultimate origin of this, but that nobody spreading the idea knows it.

There are also a lot of heathens who worship Angrboða, but since she's only mentioned by name once in all of Norse mythology (twice if you count Snorri, but it seems like he's working from Völuspá in skamma, so it's probably just the first reference again), it seems natural to look for traces of her elsewhere. Merging her with other figures like Gullveig/Heiðr might be a way of adapting other lore so that their goddess has more written about her.

As an aside, if a figure from Völuspá is to be identified with Angrboða, I would expect it to be the unnamed in aldna í Járnviði, whose children are "Fenrir's kind."

I'm not really very familiar with Lokean groups or even really Facebook heathenry in general anymore, so it's very possible I'm missing some things. I don't really know anything about Norse mythology-inspired fiction.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Exodus 3

1 Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb.

2 And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed.

3 And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.

4 And when the Lord saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I.

5 And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.

6 Moreover he said, I am the God of thy father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. And Moses hid his face; for he was afraid to look upon God.

7 And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows;

8 And I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land and a large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey; unto the place of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites.

9 Now therefore, behold, the cry of the children of Israel is come unto me: and I have also seen the oppression wherewith the Egyptians oppress them.

10 Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the children of Israel out of Egypt.

11 And Moses said unto God, Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt?

12 And he said, Certainly I will be with thee; and this shall be a token unto thee, that I have sent thee: When thou hast brought forth the people out of Egypt, ye shall serve God upon this mountain.

13 And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I say unto them?

14 And God said unto Moses, I Am That I Am: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I Am hath sent me unto you.

15 And God said moreover unto Moses, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, the Lord God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name for ever, and this is my memorial unto all generations.

16 Go, and gather the elders of Israel together, and say unto them, The Lord God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, appeared unto me, saying, I have surely visited you, and seen that which is done to you in Egypt:

17 And I have said, I will bring you up out of the affliction of Egypt unto the land of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites, unto a land flowing with milk and honey.

18 And they shall hearken to thy voice: and thou shalt come, thou and the elders of Israel, unto the king of Egypt, and ye shall say unto him, The Lord God of the Hebrews hath met with us: and now let us go, we beseech thee, three days' journey into the wilderness, that we may sacrifice to the Lord our God.

19 And I am sure that the king of Egypt will not let you go, no, not by a mighty hand.

20 And I will stretch out my hand, and smite Egypt with all my wonders which I will do in the midst thereof: and after that he will let you go.

21 And I will give this people favour in the sight of the Egyptians: and it shall come to pass, that, when ye go, ye shall not go empty.

22 But every woman shall borrow of her neighbour, and of her that sojourneth in her house, jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment: and ye shall put them upon your sons, and upon your daughters; and ye shall spoil the Egyptians.

[bijoumikhawal]

Some of the Elephantine papyri deal with a woman called Tamet. Tamet was a freed Egyptian slave, a wife to Anani son of Azariah. Anani was an official or ritual servitor at the Temple in Elephantine: his title was "lanchan of [Tetragammatron] the god who dwells in Yeb the fortress". Lanchan is a term borrowed from Akkadian that refers to a Temple functionary. It is unclear what the duties of this office were, but some have suggested that Anani may have supervised the musical parts of the ritual, as the Levites did in the Temple in Jerusalem. Anani owned a house that shared a wall with the Elephantine Temple.

After Tamet became Anani's wife, the two sold their home. In the sale document, Tamet is called "lachanah of [Tetragammatron] the god who dwells in Yeb the fortress". Lanchanah is the feminine of Anani's title. In Egypt, family units often shared ritual roles, so Tamet may have been a musician or other officiant at the temple. In the document of Tamet's manumission, it says she is "released to God", a phrase known from other documents to mean that she joined some sort of religious community.

Pg 24, the Hebrew Priestess

[venticuliao]

loose theory about temple of silence

im just basically grasping straws but its hoyoverse's fault for not offering lore crumbs 🗿

warning: mention of corpses

Cyno has a strong connection with death because of the Anubis inspiration from egyptian mythology, and we know the spirit is named after the syncretism (the practice of combining different beliefs) with greek god Hermes.

on that note, his name's possible etymology is also from greek, meaning dog.

coincidentally, dogs in zoroastrianism (ancient persian religion that a lot of sumeru's lore is based on) are associated with death in a positive sense as well. they guard the bridge where souls are judged before entering the afterlife.

Chinwad Bridge to Heaven is said to be guarded by dogs in Zoroastrian scripture, and dogs are traditionally fed in commemoration of the dead. Ihtiram-i sag, "respect for the dog", is a common injunction among Iranian Zoroastrian villagers.

in addition, dogs are considered to possess spiritual virtues in detecting and driving off daevas (demons), including that of the corpse matter demon Nasu.

in zoroastrianism belief, when a person dies their body is immediately possessed by this demon upon losing consciousness, and their corpse is therefore contaminated. if a living person comes into contact with it, they will also spend their entire lives spiritually contaminated (which is what dogs are used for in detecting and purifying it from the person).

for this reason, their funerary rites are conducted by two specific people instructed on the job, nobody else is allowed to touch the corpse.

zoroastrians believe the elements are sacred creations of their god, so burying, burning or throwing the contaminated corpses into rivers is prohibited. they instead have these two designated people transport the bodies to the top of a tower where scavenger animals will consume them over time. afterwards, the bones are hidden in the bottom.

They shall lay [the corpse] down on earth, over which the corpse-devouring dog or the corpse-devouring bird may certainly know him.

the name of this construction is Tower of Silence

the only information available about the Temple of Silence at the moment (besides the fact Cyno is affiliated to it and the staff knows Alhaitham) is this note found in the desert:

"by order of the Temple of Silence, all machines from Khaenri'ah shall be sealed in accordance with the Revelatory Monument's format"

using the zoroastrian tower as a parallel, and considering the contents of this note, maybe the khaenri'ah machines are under Temple of Silence's jurisdiction the same way the Tower of Silence stores corpses?

now on the realm of making shit up:

the term "Revelatory Monument" in chinese (说法处) and korean (설법처) seem related to buddhism, sort of like a place where the buddha imparted his teachings.

"temple" gives the organization a religious connotation, which is why the buddhism term might have been borrowed in the original text, so translating it as "revelatory" could have been done with the same intention (like bible revelations, the final book of the new testament). perhaps it means some kind of specific teachings or ?? a department with authority within the temple.

we know khaenri'ahns first used azosite (pure elemental energy) to power their machines, but then turned to abyssal energy which could explain why a specialized organization like the Temple of Silence would have to keep them under watch and seal their power.

if that's so, then maybe the so called Revelatory Monument "format" could be something like what Cyno used in the comic to seal the god in Collei's body.

and i mean since it's spoken words maybe alhaitham as a haravatat scholar has been involved in it idk maybe that's deshret script who knows

[theenpcbracket]

Seeding Round: Poll 7

Image IDs included! Click the images to see the full character please!

More about each NPC below the cut!

Character Descriptions are in the order of their appearance in the poll!

Character 1

Name: Eris Party: Rigsby Raiders Relationship to party: BBEG, general nightmare

What makes them the best NPC: Eris was one of the BBEGs for an ancient mythos-centered game. Her inspiration comes from both the real Grecian goddess of chaos and strife and the Eris in the movie Sinbad because it chemically altered our DM as a child.

She's chaos embodied. She once disguised herself and gave a PC drugs so powerful he met Bacchus on a different plane. She and her angel goon assassinated another PC with a weapon that left literally no trace of him behind (DM had player consent). Once, the party was so stressed they declared they were taking a day off and Eris was so impressed by their chutzpa that she just. Let them. She kidnapped two PCs to kill them and decided that it could double as a chance for Sleepover Talk, which included her playing relationship counsellor and increasingly weird games of FMK.

Her ultimate goal was to end the world and reunite with her other half: Heh, the Egyptian god of infinity. They'd built the universe together, chaos and infinity. An... argument resulted in Heh hiding from her for thousands of years, but she still was obsessed with him. Returning the universe to nothingness meant they'd be all that was left and he couldn't avoid her. Heh was ultimately the one to take her down as he, joining her in a genuinely loving embrace, threw them both into the pits of Tartarus while the party foiled the rest of her plan.

Quote:

“What do you do when the only person who’s real to you leaves? You try to get them back.” -Promethus, explaining why Eris is doing what she's doing

“Elysia, can I borrow your finger? I want to make a birthday cake for Imhotep and I need a candle.” -Eris, during her impromptu sleepover

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Character 2

Name: Sprout Bloodfeast III, Esquire Party: The Fruity Four Relationship to party: The cooshee the party rescued from orcs and then adopted

What makes them the best NPC: The best most goodest boy. Literally such a good dog who warns us of danger and rips monsters throats out. Also one of our party members is convinced Sprout is homophobic because Sprout keeps staring at him, despite the whole party being queer. In summary, they're good dogs Brent.

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Character 3

Name: Chronos Goodman, Time Attorney At Law Party: Pandeia Boys Nite Relationship to party: The party's legal aid after our psychic was caught breaking the time-space continuum

What makes them the best NPC: He is an unfathomably powerful time walker with unknown power who opted to help 3 gay men beat the temporal anomaly allegations. He also wears a white dragon scale suit and generally fucks severely. Yes he is corrupt but he is corrupt for us <3

[the-six-that-thrive-if]

MONSTER MONTHLY: MARCH

Monster Monthly is where, for each chapter of release, information about a creature and or monster shall be revealed and talked about. As Well as what they represent within the story. This will be featured by Demon, F-24. For this issue, today we’ll be talking about the fearsome and dreaded Fire Demon Bloodhound!

Fire Demon Bloodhounds have existed since the age of gods and the creation of men. Bloodhounds, in a sense, are guard dogs and herders. Bloodhounds herd and chase the humans that have forsaken the gods and sent them to hell for eternity. Humans that attempt to escape Hell, Tartarus, and or the Underworld, have bloodhounds sent after them and dragged back for even further punishment.

Fire Demon Bloodhounds were all once human and turned into a hound for punishment and suffering. Forever stuck within the shape of an enormous wolf-like animal. Unlike the other monsters and creatures, they do not have the ability to shapeshift, and must instead borrow and change an already-formed human body to fit their needs. Most human bodies last only for a few hours before another body must be found. Due to a bloodhound’s abnormally high temperature, they constantly melt the flesh of the body they borrow and stick to their animal form.

Bloodhounds range from personality to being hot-headed or calm and collected. Though most are sadistic and loyal to their owners. As long as you treat them right, they are sure to listen.

Demon hounds act as wolves do, they operate in packs. Though there is no pack hierarchy, there are no alphas nor omegas. There are levels of respect, which are defined by the color of a bloodhound’s flames.

White & Black~ Highest Colors one can produce in flames

Blue ~ 2nd Highest

Red, Orange, & Yellow ~ 3rd Highest

Green, Pink, & Purple ~ Avg Flame Color

Grey ~ Weak Flame Color/Underdeveloped Flames

The higher the flame color and intensity, the more respect a bloodhound gains. Now let’s talk about owning BloodHound Tips!

DIET:

When owning and having a bloodhound, one must always remember they are carnivorous hunters. They eat meat only, fresh raw meat is always best. Due to their high heat, the meat is cooked within their stomachs and makes digestion easier.

EXERCISE:

Daily walks and chases. They are canines and require a lot of exercise to keep their body temperature low. The more stressed, hungry, and annoyed a bloodhound is, the hotter the surrounding temperatures become and could cause an uncontrollable fire. Until the hound gets what it needs.

BUILD:

Bloodhounds in natural form are quite big. Ranging from 6ft tall on all fours and with a length of 6ft. They take up a lot of space and are the size of most large cars and require a big space. If you don’t have space for a large wolf in your home, then the next option is to get a human body. Yes, it can be inhumane, but the fresher the body, the better. Allow your bloodhound to pick and mold to their liking. After a few minutes, their new body is ready. Make sure that there are no others around, for humans, it can be quite painful.

AND FACTS WITH OUR GUEST

Fact One:

F-24: Feline Type Monsters/Creatures are Bloodhounds’ mortal enemies. Some say it has to do with the ties both bloodhounds have with Tartarus and the god, Hades. Bloodhounds are also believed to have to share the blood of the Guard Dog Cerberus. While felines align with punishing evil and demons and come from the Egyptian Mythos. Bloodhounds are inherently evil. Felines are inherently good.

Fact Two:

F-24: The ability to take another human's body was seen as a gift and curse. That even though bloodhounds broke divine rules, they could still experience life. Though since earliest times, bloodhounds have used this ability to lure and trap humans. To grow their population since the age of gods has fallen.

WELP! That is all for the Monster Monthly Issue! Make sure to sign on for Next Month as we discuss Angel Harpies!

ISSUED BY H.E.A.V.E.N FACILITY, DISTRICT 48