#hermes >> a refuge of understanding

[wildharesandboundteeth]

How Lord Ares feels to me

TW: mentions of a shitty legal system, abuse, mentions of death, mention of suicidal ideation, descriptions of starvation, ect.

Even if I've never been on an actual battlefield, even before He was a flicker in my mind, even before I formally met Him, my viscera knows Lord Ares well. Fight or flight. Wrath and restraint. Dogma and rebellion. Blood in teeth.

I recall it so clearly, and yet no matter how hard I try to put it into words, I can never do it justice.

The cold touch of the floor upon my skin. The gentle hands of Sleep soothing me, offerings of refuge both a mercy and a lethal temptation. Death hushing my rumbling stomach, His scythe carving away at my muscle and fat until my skin began to squeeze my bones.

After years of wishing for it, it seemed like I'd finally get my wish fulfilled.

My time was up. No more tricks, no more spells, no more wiles. No more running and hiding like a little mouse. No more twisting and slipping like a snake. No more snarling and biting like a dog. Couldn't even bat my eyes or roll over. Labelled as an animal, dying like one.

Above truth, above justice, above humanity. It's always been about appearances. Best ignore it. Let it die by itself. Let's not shatter the illusion, hm? So people don't know what they let happen. The law wouldn't save me- a truth I had beaten into me many, many times in childhood.

Though, it'd be wrong to refer to it as 'childhood' since I had been a child back when I first felt whispers death's merciful silence.

Yet even in the encroaching silence, I could could still hear my abuser's voice outside my prison. It was merry.

Carefree.

Even if my mind had finally grown as quiet as my body, I understood.

"I'm dying."

I wonder if it was Hermes that had called Him. He's been with me for years, even if I hadn't known it was Him guiding my hands as I learned His craft. I wonder if it was because He'd been there to drop off a delivery of dreams. Or if it was because it was because He was there to collect after Death had reaped. I wonder if He'd heard me on the phone as I begged my helpless sibling not to let me die. Did He hear their stifled sobs under my desperate ones? Does it haunt Him like it does me? Or perhaps He's seen it all before.

It only a mere few seconds, it was a thousand years.

A flicker.

"I want to live."

Even as my bones creaked in the absence of muscle and sinew.

"I want to live."

Even as my mind stayed blank as the static haze of fight and flight began boiling within my very soul.

"I want to live."

Even if the realisation was as quiet, it was as sure as my understanding of my end. A fact of life. Unseen yet just as real as the potential energy in a battery.

My heartbeat that had once slowed itself in resignation was beginning to beat like a war drum. All at once, steady and frantic.

Was it His twins that had sized my body, shaking it with terror and panic? Was it Them that shooed away starvation, that had asked Death for more time? Did the Sister of War and Discord choose to stay their gracious hands, waiting for my escape? It must be so, since I had somehow scrambled into the arms of Victory.

Even as lies and cunning weaved and twisted, I still wasn't thinking. Was it Hermes whispering in my ear? Or perhaps was it Ares running through the familiar channels of a weapon well honed. Maybe a little bit of both.

It's been years since that day. I still haven't recovered, and yet my viscera still sings the name of Lord Ares as loudly and familiarly as it has that day.

The Gods are old.

They have seen this exact story play out a thousand times and have seen a thousand different endings.

I know this and yet...

Whenever I reach out my scarred, bloody hands in prayer, I'm still so surprised when the Deimon of War itself does not flinch away. He does not offer empty pity. He does not offer dismissal.

He takes his own hands, a billion times more scarred and bloody than mine, and gently guides me along. Even when I fall and have to crawl back. Again and again, big gentle hands cradle mine as He pulls me up. The recovery after a battle, a war in and of itself.

And still, and still, and still, and still.

When the unwearying commander looks down upon me, I still cannot believe He is not disgusted or repulsed.

It is not the splendid laugh of darling Hermes, yet I am energised all the same. It is not the sustenance nor the tender love of pulchritudinous Mother Gaia, yet I am nourished all the same.

He just. Gets it.

Maybe it's because I've never had that deep, unflinching understanding before that point. Maybe it's because I'm still that dying animal in its death throes despite my efforts to cover it up. Maybe it's because I had never seen someone who bares so many wounds be so effortlessly gentle, wise, and kind.

Maybe it's because when I see Him, I start to wonder if I can be like that too.

Maybe it's because I'm starting to believe it when He says I've done well.

That He's proud of me.

That I'm someone to be proud of.

Maybe it's because He's just That Great.

But man, I love Lord Ares so goddamn fuckimg much.

[bestresalestoreintoronto]

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[pos-rhea]

Hospital (House of Hades?) | 2124 | @hermies

He’s got a box of electronics, going back an age. Tape recorders and drives that could be stored in a museum, built to last but still the sheer electronic degradation meant most of what was in the box was unworkable. It causes Poseidon to hesitate outside the door, reconsidering the ‘ get well soon / here’s something to distract you ‘ gift. Hermes was always more of a software than hardware engineer, as well, perhaps these wouldn’t -

Nah, the kid’s trapped in a hospital bed, they’ll want something to fidget with.

So he steps in, easy, for a moment considers just upturning the contents on Hermes’ lap, thinks better of it. Slides it onto the bedside table instead, and he sits down with a smile. “ You know, if you wanted to see me, you could’ve just texted. ”

[cielcreations]

Avian Instincts - Hurt [Sausage]

Sausage was used to animals or people getting hurt and coming to Sanctuary for refuge. That was the whole point of Sanctuary! A safe place for everyone and everything! However, he wasn't used to his friends coming to Sanctuary for help as an animal rather than, well, his friend.

He was walking around, gathering and trading with a few villagers when he heard birds chirping, squawking, and screaming.

"Mr. Sausage!" A bird flew over, Sausage offering his arm for the bird to land, "Mr. Sausage! Our friend is injured really badly! His wings, they're broken! He can't stand either! Please help him!"

"Of course!" Sausage nodded, "Show me the way!"

"This way!" The bird began to fly off, Sausage running after the bird.

Sausage listened to the squawking, the screeching, trying his best to understand what was going on. He ran through the jungle, who flew deep into it. They got to a small clearing, where a person had seemed to fall and slide into the dirt. Sausage gasped, recognizing the outfit the other wore.

"Solidarity!" He ran over, kneeling beside him, "Oh my god, are you okay?!"

Solidarity groaned, chirping weakly.

Sausage looked over his body, seeing two golden wings laying under him, one bent uncomfortably. He gently picked the dirty blonde up, he would ask about his avain features later. Sausage carried him into Sanctuary, the birds following him and asking "is our friend okay" or "he's not dead, is he?" Sausage reassured that he was fine and carried him into Sanctuary. They managed to get into the infirmary, the birds flying in and landing on whatever they can stand on as Sausage placed him on the infirmary bed.

"What happened?" Sausage asked as he brushed Solidarity's dirty blonde hair out of his face, cuts and bruises across his body.

"We were all flocking and flying together when an arrow shot at us! He got scared and tried to land normally, but the jungle trees are hard to navigate. He flew down and his wing hit a tree. I think that's why it's broken..."

Sausage nodded, gently spreading Solidarity's wings out. He pushed a bed on either side of Solidarity, laying his wings on those beds. The other birds began to help preen the dirty blonde's wings as Sausage made regen and healing potions. When he finished making the splash potions, the birds flew back to let Sausage splash Solidarity with them. The dirty blonde let out a tired chirp, the potions healing the avian.

The brunette smiled, making another healing potion, "There, the major wounds are healed."

"Hey, Sausage?" Someone called, "Are you in here? Some villagers said you came in here with someone!"

"J-Joel!" Sausage ran to the front door of the infirmary, "H-Hey! What're you doing here?!"

Joel blinked, confused, holding Hermes, "I told you I was coming by, remember?"

Oh, right... "S-Sorry, I forgot... Okay, um, I'm-"

The birds flew out, chirping and landing around the main office. Hermes giggled, reaching out to some of the birds as Joel chuckled.

"It's okay, Mr. Sausage! Joel knows about our bird friend!" One said, landing on his shoulder.

Sausage blinked before he looked at Joel, "You know about Solidarity?"

Joel's eyes widened, "...Is he in here?"

The two went to the room, Hermes behind them, playing with the birds. Joel gasped.

"What happened?" The god asked.

"The birds said they were flocking and someone shot at him. Solidarity got scared and his wing hit one of the jungle trees."

"Understandable, he..." Joel cut himself off, "No, I shouldn't, not my thing to tell."

"It's okay, I get it." Sausage reassured, pouring some of the healing potion on a napkin before dabbing it on the cuts and bruises that didn't heal, "I just wish he felt comfortable telling us..."

The two continued talking and fixing Solidarity's wings as Hermes giggled and played with the birds. As they finished up, the dirty blonde groaned, eyes blinking and slowly fluttering opened. He blinked and looked around.

"Oh, your awake!" Sausage smiled, "Are you okay?"

Solidarity hesitantly sat up before he groaned, his wings and back cracking. He chirped and the birds flew over, nuzzling into him and cheeping, tweeting.

"Our friend!" "Canary!" "You are alright!" "Thank goodness!" "Golden Bird is safe!"

"'Golden Bird?'" Sausage repeated, confused, "What do you mean by that?"

Solidarity went stiff before he shook his head, "Just-" He groaned, rubbing his throat as he tried not to chirp, "Just a nickname they call me, nothing important." He sighed, folding his wings back under his shirt, "I should go."

"Hold on." Joel stopped him, "Solidarity, you were really hurt! You're lucky Sausage found and healed you!"

Solidarity hugged himself, "I-I know. And thank you Sausage. B-But my wings..."

"I get that you're insecure or don't like them or whatever, but your instincts are taking over more and more. Fwhip told me he knew, I talked to Pix and he asked if you were being weird and so I knew he knew. And now Sausage. Soon, everyone is going to know." Joel said softly.

"Then I'll just push them back harder-"

"No, no!" Sausage moved to stand beside Joel, "Solidarity, that's not healthy! You really need to let your instincts go, at least-"

"I don't need to do anything." The dirty blonde hissed, "Listen just..." He sighed, "I don't want to talk about it. Please, just... excuse me."

The brunettes didn't stop him as he left.

[star-of-zeus]

Misconceptions of Zeus

@adri-le-chat​ has very kindly passed on an ask to me for an informative post talking about some misconceptions of Zeus and some epithets that counter them. I’m very excited for this opportunity to talk/rant about how great Zeus is and how he doesn’t deserve the bad rep he gets, so here goes! I’ll just be listing the misconceptions and explaining the epithets/general things that counter them below.

      1. He’s an absolute jerk. I would like to first point out Zeus's epithet Panellenios (of all the Greeks) to counteract the jerk part in a way - he's a very "accessible" god, contrary to popular belief. He’s not elitist, you don’t need to have specific qualifications/traits or anything to worship or work with him - you just need dedication! He is also called Zeus Pater (father), god of fatherhood/parenthood as well. How could I counteract this misconception without also talking about Zeus Xenios (of hospitality) and Zeus Phyxios (of refuge). How could a god of hospitality and of refuge be a jerk? He was the one that punished the jerks for being jerks and being mean to guests/refugees and such. 

      2. He will get angry at you easily. I saw someone on one of the discord servers I’m in talk about someone that said Zeus will sic demons on you if you misbehave and... what? Zeus Melikhios can translate to "merciful" and not just "mild" - his wrath could be appeased even if you incurred it. He isn’t an unnecessarily rage-y god, he is fair and just and if you got the punishment he doled out.... honestly you might have deserved it! He's divine justice, you're not gonna be stuck down by Zeus for making a small mistake. He's called Zeus Palamnios (punisher of m-rderers) not Zeus "punisher of you who forgot to give offerings that one time".

      3. Zeus is always a bearded old man This one is a more harmless misconception of course, but the thing that disproves it is quite interesting so I’m going to talk about it anyways. Zeus was worshipped as a giant snake and a child. Yes, you heard me correctly, a giant snake and a child.

Even if in one perspective Zeus Meilichios was simply one aspect of Zeus, in another he had to be treated as an independent figure. He was often portrayed differently too, as a gigantic snake. - p.91 of On Greek Religion by Robert Parker

Meilichios/Melikhios is a Chthonic epithet of Zeus, and it can also counteract the notion that Zeus is only an Ouranic god. In actuality, quite a few Ouranic gods had Chthonic aspects! Hermes, Demeter, and Persephone are “mixed” gods as well in that they have both Chthonic and Ouranic aspects.

There are at Aegium (in Achaia) other images made of bronze, Zeus as a boy and Heracles as a beardless youth, the work of Ageladas of Argos. Priests are elected for them every year, and each of the two images remains at the house of the priest. (Descriptions 7.24.4) - p. 38 of Priesthood by Leopold Sabourin

So, not only was Zeus worshipped as a boy, he had a whole priest for his worship as a child!

      4. He sleeps around a lot.

This is probably the most common misconception that people have about him, so let’s get down to it! As Zeus is a very powerful god and the king of all, kings and warriors alike would claim him as their father. Alexander the Great claimed that he was the son of Zeus-Ammon. As Ken Dowden puts it in “Zeus”:

If someone wishes proudly to claim that some hero or tribe is descended from Zeus, another adultery will usually be added to his list. This is how family trees (‘genealogies’) work.

Quite a few of his supposed adulteries simply stem from men who didn’t know their fathers and wanted to lay claim to importance through their heritage. People who also wanted explanations of how a place or thing came to be would do the same. Additionally, even when looking at the myths, Zeus doesn’t have a sh-t-ton of children at once, they take place over time, here’s an explaination that I found on labrandeus’s blog:

I’m not stating anything new when I say that in popular culture people like to portray Zeus as this horny guy who just can’t keep it in his pants. But what is new I think is when I say that the myths actually don’t support this. Yes, you heard me right. If you look at the myths carefully, it turns out that Zeus isn’t the hopeless womanizer many people think it is. The key factor here is time. When we think of the Greek myths, we often don’t have a clear time frame so we imagine them all taking place at the same time. But that’s not the case. The myths take place over a long period of time. I’ll give you an example to make it more clear: The Iliad names two living mortal children of Zeus: Sarpedon and Helen. Heracles lived one generation before them, he is already dead at the time the Iliad is taking place but one of his sons is fighting in the Trojan war. So, Alcmene, Heracles’ mother, is said to be the granddaughter of Perseus, son of Zeus and Danaë. Danaë again is a descendant of Epaphus, son of Zeus and Io. Epaphus and Sarpedon lived about 480 years apart (the Wikipedia page of Epaphus also has a nice illustration). That’s a long ass time.

So, even in the adultery that Zeus does commit (also keep in mind, of course, that the myths are a product of their time and do not reflect the gods in their full capacity) it isn’t a series of children in quick succession, it’s some children over time. His children in myth also had importance and a role: a lot of them moved on to defeat monsters that were plaguing humanity. As Adrian and I like to say, Zeus plays 5-D chess.  I hope that this post helped clear up some misconceptions that people had. Zeus is a wonderful and multi-faceted god who I am honored to serve and call my patron. He doesn’t deserve the bad rep he gets in pop culture and modern media, and I hope a few of you understand that better now then you did before. :)

[godsofhumanity]

BOOKS XVII-XXI | HOMER'S ILIAD | LITERATURE REVIEW

SUMMARY: War ensues over the body of Patroclus. Achilles hears word of Patroclus' death and mourns greatly. He appeals to his mother Thetis who commands him to not return to the battle until she has given him armour crafted by Hephaestus. Polydamas advises Hector to retreat momentarily, but Hector ignores his advice. When Thetis presents new armour to Achilles, and Agamemnon returns Briseis to Achilles with apologies and gifts. Achilles' horse Xanthus warns him of his impending death. Zeus permits the gods to actively take part in the war once again, and Achilles wreaks havoc on the battlefield. Hera, Athena, Poseidon, Hermes, and Hephaestus fight on the Greeks' side against Apollo, Artemis, Leto, Ares, Aphrodite, and Scamander on the Trojans' side. Pushed into a corner by the strength of the Greeks, the Trojans take refuge within Ilium's walls.

previous book / all books / next book

i'm covering 5 books in today's post, which i know seems a lot, but honestly, most of the story just covers the war, and from a techniques perspective, there isn't much new to discuss, so i'll try to keep it brief.

if you forgot what happened in the Book XVI, we left off with Patroclus dying at the hands of Hector, and Hector stripping him of his armour.

now, in Book XVII, we begin with the chaos surrounding the body of Patroclus.

if you recall, the person who actually kills Patroclus is not Hector, but Euphorbus- he rushes forward through the ranks and stabs Patroclus. this isn't so much an explanation, but an observation that i noted when reading the description of Euphorbus as he fights against Menelaus for the body of Patroclus:

"His hair, which was like that of the Graces, and his locks so deftly bound in bands of silver and gold were all bedrabbled with blood. As one who has grown a fine young olive tree... the plant is full of promise... till the blasts of some fierce hurricane... [levels] it with the ground- even so did Menelaus strip the fair youth Euphorbus of his armour..."

usually, a comparison to the appearance of a goddess (i.e., the Charites) should be insulting- it's saying that Euphorbus looks feminine, and as such, we would assume the comparison to be degrading for a man.. but in the next line, Homer contradicts this assumption with the comparison of Euphorbus to an olive tree "full of promise".

through this new comparison, i think we're meant to come to the understanding that Euphorbus, youthful as he may be, is not weak or cowardly, but is actually a great soldier, or at least, in time he could have been.

anyhow, that scene doesn't have too much impact on the rest of the story, but i thought it was interesting how the readers' thoughts from a modern perspective are corrected by Homer's storytelling.

moving on, we see Hector, in the midst of the battle, cowering away from the might of Ajax under the shield of his own men.

this particular scene is interesting to me because, from the start, we know that Hector is meant to be a very noble, and valiant guy. he's brave, he's smart, the gods love him, the people love him, he's almost perfect.... almost.

in the Iliad, there is no mortal who seems to be perfect through and through- such an archetype just doesn't exist in Homer's world. every character seems to have the strengths and weaknesses, and Hector, noble as he is, is no exception to his.

here, we see that Hector is not as infallible as he seems (actually, this isn't the first instance of it!). Glaucus has to actually rebuke Hector, and remind him of what's at stake, and then Hector's true character returns in full force. he retorts back at Glaucus, and then dons on Patroclus' own armour (which is actually Achilles' armour):

"Standing for a while apart from the woeful fight, [Hector] changed his armour... he put on the immortal armour of the son of Peleus, which the gods had given to Peleus, who in his age gave it to his son..."

beyond the role of Achilles' armour as Hector's spoils of war, i think that, in the process of Hector exchanging his regular mortal armour for Achilles' immortal armour, Homer is outlining a change in Hector's character- he is becoming too cocky, too self-confident. he deems himself worthy of wearing the armour of the gods.

and Homer confirms that this is indeed the case when Zeus is shown to disapprove of Hector wearing the immortal armour:

"When Zeus... saw Hector standing aloof and arming himself in the armour of the son of Peleus, he wagged his head and muttered to himself, saying: 'Alas! Poor wretch... it was not well that you should strip the armour from [Patroclus]... I do indeed endow you with great might now, but as against this you shall not return from battle to... Andromache.'"

we know that soldiers taking the armour of their victims was common practice during wartime, so there's no real reason for Zeus to be angry with Hector taking Patroclus' armour (especially when he sanctioned Patroclus' death) unless the armour itself is particularly relevant to Zeus and to Olympus, and that Hector wearing it is symbolic of something other than victory in battle.

now, i want to talk a little about Menelaus who, to me, is an extremely interesting character in the Iliad.

there are times in the epic when he seems to be weak and doubtful. he's unsure of himself often, and his ability to lead his people is inconsistent. strictly speaking, he doesn't have much compared to many of his peers- he's not a "great" king like his brother Agamemnon, he doesn't have fighting prowess like Achilles, or cunning intelligence like Odysseus.

and yet, somehow Menelaus still proves himself in his own way. in his fight against Paris, he bravely stood his ground and may have won had Aphrodite not intervened. and now, in Book XVII, even Apollo speaks praise (though not directly, and certainly not intentionally) of Menelaus to Hector:

"Hector, who of the Achaeans will fear you henceforward now that you have quailed before Menelaus, who has ever been rated poorly as a soldier? Yet he has now got a corpse away from the Trojans single-handed, and has slain your own true comrade, a man brave among the foremost, Podes, son of Eëtion."

even though Menelaus isn't as great or noble or valiant as his peers, he somehow still manages to make a name for himself, so to speak. there's something about his persistence that is admirable to me- the lengths he goes to get Helen back and right wrongs, his commitment to protecting Patroclus' corpse- Menelaus has many shortcomings, but it seems to me that he still puts in the effort to be great... though he doubts himself sometimes, i don't think that "cowardly" would be a word i use to describe Menelaus.

in Book XVIII, we go back to Achilles who is summoned by Hera through Iris to appear on the battlefield and invigorate the Greeks.

i only have two points of discussion for this book- 1) Hector's treatment of Patroclus' body, and 2) the degree of intervention of the gods in the war.

for the first point, i'd like to point out this line which Iris addresses to Achilles:

"...Hector is the most furious of them all; he is for cutting the head from [Patroclus'] body and fixing it on the stakes of the wall. Up, then, and bide here no longer; shrink from the thought that Patroclus may become meat for the dogs of Troy."

in most of the modern adaptions of the Iliad- i'm talking about Troy (2004), and Troy: Fall Of A City (2018), etc., i think that Hector is often portrayed as extremely noble, and pretty much perfect. and because of this, Achilles' later fight with Hector, and his treatment of Hector's corpse seems unnecessarily violent and undeserved- it makes Achilles quite savage and barbaric.

don't get me wrong, i think Achilles definitely has anger management issues- we've already seen that in his decision to withdraw from the war, and that time when he nearly killed Agamemnon before Athena told him to cool his jets- but, we know already how dear and important Patroclus was to Achilles.

now, Iris paints a very brutal and gory image of Patroclus' body being defiled and sprawled across the Trojan walls for all to see.. it's quite awful... and though it's tempting to see Hector as saint-like, it's true that the fate of Patroclus' corpse could very well have been to become Troy's latest porch decoration. this is a war.. and both sides are capable of very terrifying things (though of course, this would have been the normal course of war for the time).

anyhow, the reason why i'm bringing this up is because i think it just offers a little more insight into Achilles' rage, and his absolute refusal to permit Hector a proper burial until the gods themselves are forced to intervene.

now- to my second point.

we know that the gods are always orchestrating the course of the war from behind the scenes (or rather, behind the clouds haha lol). but just how much of the war is the responsibility of the gods, and not of the men fighting it?

in sort of the middle of Book XVIII, Polydamas suggests to Hector that they need to retreat into Ilium for a little bit, but Hector, high on the thrill of war and victory, refuses- he given a good speech that invigorates the Trojans and motivates them to continue fighting against Polydamas' advice.

and there's a very curious line that Homer adds in after Hector speaks:

"Thus spoke Hector, and the Trojans, fools that they were, shouted in applause, for Pallas Athena had robbed them of their understanding. They gave ear to Hector with his evil counsel, but the wise words of Polydamas no man would heed."

so we learn that, in fact, it was Athena who was meddling around with the Trojans and blurring their judgement. but it's interesting to question how much she and the other gods were involved.

was Hector blinded by Athena too? was his "evil counsel" something that he was compelled to give out by Athena, or the other gods? and if Athena had not intervened, would Hector have listened to Polydamas, and maybe lived a little longer?

personally, im not sure that Hector himself was directly influenced by Athena- recalling the scene where Hector dons Achilles' immortal armour, i think Hector was already too self-confident and cocky, and wasn't in the mood to retreat. but i do wonder if, had Athena not intervened, would some of Hector's other advisors and companions spoken in support of Polydamas? could they have changed Hector's mind?

ultimately, i guess we don't know!

in Book XIX, i honestly didn't find anything worth commenting on.

we have Achilles' horse Xanthus foretelling Achilles' death:

"...it is your doom to fall by the hand of a man and of a god."

and of course, Achilles doesn't care, for he already knew that he was going to live long, and he charges ahead for battle anyway.

in Book XX, again, i didn't find anything particularly interesting, though i feel the need to comment on the pure, unintentional comedy of Hades minding his own business in the underworld, while Poseidon, in his earth-shaking rampage, nearly cracks Hades' roof and scares him:

"Hades, king of the realms below, was struck with fear; he sprang panic-stricken from his throne and cried aloud in terror lest Poseidon, lord of the earthquake, should crack the ground over his head..."

Homer didn't have to include this scene, but im very glad that he did LMFAO, rip hades.

we then have an interesting comparison between Aeneas and Achilles- who is greater? the son of Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, or the son of Thetis, daughter of some old sea god?

"Then said King Apollo...: 'Nay, hero, pray to the ever-living gods, for men say that you were born of Zeus' daughter Aphrodite, whereas Achilles is son to a goddess of inferior rank... let him not scare you with his taunts and menaces.'"

unfortunately for Aeneas, Achilles has Hephaestus' super-armour and it protects him from Aeneas' blow.. so it isn't truly a fair fight,, but, nonetheless, Aeneas is saved from certain death by Poseidon.. he truly is a lucky guy.

and finally, we come to Book XXI.

Achilles gets harassed by a river, Athena beats up Ares (again), Apollo refuses to fight his uncle Poseidon, and Artemis taunts Apollo for his "cowardice" but quickly gets schooled by Hera and runs home crying, Hermes forfeits his fight to Leto on account that she's his dad's ex-wife. so, just another day in the Olympians' lives.

anyways, it was a pretty short book, so i don't have much to say about it either.. so, that's that.

in Book XXII, the climax of the Iliad, Hector and Achilles face-off, so that's up next!

[aboutanancientenquiry]

“Egyptomaniacs

By Rhakotis Magazine

Post date  March 7, 2018

Egypt: Lost Civilizations by Christina Riggs

Christina Riggs’ new book on Ancient Egypt examines the long history of Ancient Egypt. It begins with a baboon statuette on the desk of Sigmund Freud. Bought in Vienna, it can now be found in St John’s Wood where the Freud family sought refuge from the Nazis. The baboon may portray Thoth the scribe god. It was made during the period when Egypt was under Roman control. During this late period, Egyptians may have sought solace in their animal gods (theriomorphic) as an “Egyptian” alternative to foreign human gods (anthropomorphic). Thoth was honoured for millennia after “the end of Egyptian religion” as Hermes Trismegistus, a sage-like magician.

Individual objects when analysed can have such a richness of meaning. Christina attempts to do this for an entire culture. Whilst she cannot read closely the millennia long history of Egypt, she nevertheless offers a deep interpretation of Egyptian’s long history that needs to be read.

The Louvre

The Science of Egyptology

Christina foregrounds the politics of archeology and history. “Wherever we look for the lost civilization of the Egyptians, we cannot help but find ourselves”.

Modern Egyptology has colonialist origins. This is indubitable although it is often brushed under the carpet in the public arena. Napoleon’s conquest of Egypt, the decryption of the Egyptian hieroglyphs and the publication of Description de l’Égypte are all seem as beginning the period of modern scholarship in Ancient Egypt.

Many early assumptions in Egyptology were informed by racist belief systems. The ideologues Nott and Gliddon partly based their racist “Science” of craniology on mummy skulls. This work was a historical justification for US slavery. They argued that the pharaohs were caucasian and relied on a black slave force. I have not read this work and so I am unclear whether in the minds of the authors the Hebrew slaves were black and what this meant for the progeny (including those of the House of David). I am assuming the authors were Christian. Flinders Petrie also believed in this science. The Petrie Museum in London has not shied away from this; acknowledging and critiquing this part of Petrie’s work.

Egyptology does not just perform colonial acts, but it also privileges European scholars. Ahmed Kamal, the talented scholar contemporaneous with Petrie, was overlooked for work in the European-ran Services des Antiquitiés in favour of European scholars. He nevertheless inspired an entire generation of Egyptian scholars to work in the field of Egyptology. Again the Petrie Museum has done much work on naming and praising the highly trained and scholarly Egyptian archeologists who worked with Petrie, but it is no comfort to scholars like Kamal.

The Nile is dry now

Egypt in ancient texts

Christina foregrounds Medieval Arabic engagement with ancient Egypt. She provocatively argues that “Arabic scholars of the thirteenth century were better informed than their European counterparts about ancient Egyptian history – yet today it is Herodotus, not al-Baghdadi, who is quoted in every survey of Egyptian civilization”. This is true and much work needs to be done to bring this scholarship to a popular Western readership or audience.

Egypt is an unstable category in the texts of the ancient authors. Although several ancient authors engaged with Egypt, the depth of this engagement is always hard to summarise. Herodotus was the first author, who survives, to have engaged with Egyptian history. To simplify a major area of scholars dispute some modern scholars think Herodotus had a developed understanding of late Kingdom Egypt and some do not. Christian thinks that Herodotus knew a lot about Egypt, as do I. Amongst many things, Herodotus wrote how each region of Egypt revered and reviled different animal gods.

The Roman satirist Juvenal was not a historian of Egypt, but he may have picked up on some of the themes from Herodotus. In Satire 15 he portrays an Egyptian riven by factional infighting between different districts and villages which revered different animals.

Who knows not the infatuate Egypt finds Gods to adore in brutes of basest kinds? This at the crocodile’s resentment quakes, While that does the ibis, gorged with snakes.                                                              Satire 15

An interesting example of ancient engagement with Egypt is The Life of Severus by Zachariah of Mytilene dating from the fifth century CE. This very short biography of the young manhood of the eminent cleric Severus tells how a crowd of Alexandrian students destroyed an ancient Egyptian temple. When the crowd arrive at the temple, the altar is hid behind a false wall. After destroying this wall they enter a chamber. The statue of Chronos (possibly Geb or Sobek) is splattered with fresh blood. The chamber contains multiple statues of animals: dogs, cats, apes, crocodiles and reptiles and in pride of place the idol of the goddess Isis in her snake form (Isis-Thermouthis). This portrayal draws on images and concepts of Egypt. Even though Zachariah claims to have been an eyewitness of these events, it is unclear to what extent this passage is an accurate description of events or just a retelling of what everyone knew about Egypt from books.

Yet the Egyptians were active agents in this ambiguous portrayal of their own distinctness. As Christina argues the theriomorphic gods of Egypt may have become more popular during the period as a rejection of more cosmopolitan religions.

In terms of religion, some scholars talk about Greek gods and Egyptian gods in Egypt during this period. It is assumed the “Egyptians” would revere the “Egyptian” style gods, including the famous animal gods, and “Greeks” would revere “Greek” style gods. The god Serapis is sometimes used to exemplify this. Ptolemy I supposedly introduced the god as a Greek version of a popular Egyptian god in order to unify his new dominions. The origins of Serapis are murkier than this, however.

On closer examination the dichotomy between Egyptian and Greek breaks down. We know from inscriptions (epigraphy) that Greeks in Memphis revered the bull-god Apis before the period of Greek rule in Egypt. The Greek speaking Isidorus engaged with the rituals of the snake goddess Isis-Thermouthis at Medinet Madi, albeit praising her in syncretic terms in elegant Greek verse. It is difficult to identify ethnic groups behind different cultural expressions.

Later during the Egyptian Byzantine period and into the Umayyad and Abbasid period, the Miaphysite “Coptic” Church portrayed itself as the one true church and the national church of Egypt. In texts, like the History of the Patriarchs, the Greeks are portrayed as being punished for their false beliefs and chased from the country by the new Arab rulers.

Egypt in modern texts and art

Napoleon’s conquest of Egypt, the decryption of the Egyptian hieroglyphs and the publication of Description de l’Égypte etc. led to a burst of Egyptian inspired architecture, furnishings and flatware, although such Egyptian furniture was always a “niche taste”.

This vogue was sometimes called “Egyptomania”, but why Christina asks was the similar “craze” for Greek and Roman motifs not called a mania? “No matter how familiar it became, ancient Egypt kept a touch of the alien and other, which only a ‘mania’ could explain”. To some degree this is true. The Egyptian inspired items always had a touch of the oriental, but it may be reading too much into the word “mania”. The use of mania was lighthearted but it does reveal concerns and ideology. A comparison to the slightly later Victorian vogue for ferns called Pteridomania or Fern-Fever might reveal similarities. Again the word “mania” is tongue in cheek, but examining the literature and images reveals a concern for female sexuality which was expressed in humour.

Sphinx on Picasso Museum

Following the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun, a vogue for Egypt returned in the ’20s. In London Factories and cinemas were decorated in the Egyptian style. Egyptian motifs and themes can also be found on several buildings of the period. Egypt denoted luxury, excitement (exoticism) and a turn away from older styles (classicist and neo-gothic).

The Carreras cigarette factory in Camden

Artists of the “Harlem Renaissance” also engaged with Egyptian themes and artistic motifs,  at the same time. For the black artists of the ’20s, Christian writes Ancient Egypt was an unstable category. Drawing on both religious motifs (originating with Exodus) expressed powerfully in hymns and spirituals, and also the excitement of the Tutankhamun discoveries artists like Aaron Douglas, Meta Warrick Fuller and Lois Mailou Jones created powerful and inspiring art of the black experience which is often sidelined in favour of “Egyptomania” art-deco architecture.

Christina focuses on Egypt’s own engagement with its past. From the Al-Firawnuya art to El Zeft’s portrayal of Nefititi in a gas mask, modern Egypt has engaged with its ancient past as deeply as Western counties.

Sewing machine from Egypt

Egypt before Napoleon

If I had one small criticism, I would have liked to have seen more about European engagement with Egypt pre-Napoleon. This is because I do not know much about this period of study. It is likely that the two main sources for Ancient Egyptian history during this period were the classical authors and the Bible. In his list of fallen devils in Paradise Lost, Milton describes the Egyptian gods in tones resembling both Juvenal and Moses.

After these appeared A crew who, under names of old renown— Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their train— With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms Rather than human. Nor did Israel scape Th’ infection, when their borrowed gold composed The calf in Oreb; and the rebel king Doubled that sin in Bethel and in Dan, Likening his Maker to the grazed ox— Jehovah, who, in one night, when he passed From Egypt marching, equalled with one stroke Both her first-born and all her bleating gods.

Another interesting example of this secondhand engagement with Egypt is this small ceramic sphinx from the Fitzwilliam Museum (Cambridge).

Sphinx with a lady’s face (maybe actor Peg Woffington) c1750-55 @FitzMuseum_UK #reception Georgian #egyptomania pic.twitter.com/9MPszC2Kxr

— Simon Bralee (@Braleebatch) November 14, 2017

It predates Napoleon’s Invasion of Egypt, but shows an engagement with Egypt as the land of theriomorphic dieties. The sphinx was popular in Greek areas and so may have nothing to do with Ancient Egyptian. The Sphinx soon became an obvious symbol of Ancient Egypt however, as these sphinxes outside residential houses on Islington demonstrate.

Sphinxes in Islington, riddle me this #egyptomania pic.twitter.com/H1R2g8DUAj

— Simon Bralee (@Braleebatch) September 29, 2017

Summary

Otherwise this book is brilliant. It covers an immense subject field and balances depth and brevity. It challenges us to rethink assumptions and beliefs and question the extent to which colonial thoughtprocesses still inform our reading of Egyptian history.

It is a stirring call for the decolonisation of Ancient Egyptian history.”

Sources of text and pictures: https://rhakotis.com/2018/03/07/egyptomania/

Christina Riggs is a British-American historian, academic, and former museum curator. She specializes in the history of archaeology, history of photography, and ancient Egyptian art, and her recent work has concentrated on the history, politics, and contemporary legacy of the 1922 discovery of Tutankahmun's tomb. Since 2019, she has been Professor of the History of Visual Culture at Durham University.[1] She is also a former Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford.[2] The author of several academic books, Riggs also writes on ancient Egyptian themes for a wider audience.[3] Her most recent books include Ancient Egyptian Magic: A Hands-On Guide and Treasured: How Tutankhamun Shaped a Century. 

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christina_Riggs

[shofics]

So tumblr ate the ask (thanks! I hate it!) but @knifemartin sent the prompt 13. pirate au but make it... sky pirates with Earhart, Zolf, Sasha, and Wilde! This got frighteningly long so I had to put it under a cut, I hope you enjoy my ramblings. <3 They’re going to kill a dragon!!

I think I genuinely might clean this up and make it into a proper fic. Watch this space. 

Zolf Smith is a miner. Zolf Smith dreams of the sky. Zolf Smith kills his brother. Zolf Smith takes flight.  

The Meritocracy doesn't have air forces- don’t really need ‘em when you’re a huge fuck-off dragon who can fly- but they’re worried about the increased presence the separatists are having in the skies above their lands, so they’re building one. Zolf leaps upon it like a life raft.

When the ship goes down, there are two reasons he doesn’t die; his past, and his god.

The Reliant answers the emergency call, and that surprises Zolf- a known separatist vessel, making an attempt to save the crew of a ship in the Meritocratic Air Force- but a lot of things surprise him about Captain Earhart. It’s not the Reliant’s fault that he is the only survivor. It is due to the Reliant that there is an only survivor at all.

His family were Harlequins. Captain Earhart recognises him, visits him in the sick bay as her medics do their best to save his legs, asks after his father, asks after his brother. Gives an understanding nod when he refuses to speak about them. Offers him a job, because he desperately needs one.

It’s a lot all at once, and they can’t save his legs, but he finds he doesn’t need them. Dwarves don’t have the build that most of the Hermes lot have, but he’s never let not fitting in stop him. The feeling of the wind in the rigging is like wings on ankles he doesn’t have anymore. He’s freer than he’s been his entire life.

//

When he is thirteen years old, Brock Rackett successfully makes it out of Other London and out of the clutches of the Rackett clan by chopping off his ring finger and escaping on the first air vessel that will take him. At least, this is what Sasha believes. She’s sad he left without her, but she knows well that when an opportunity comes, you take it. She hopes he made it out safe.

Nine years later, at twenty-two, Sasha’s opportunity finally comes. She heads for the aeroport. Maybe she’ll be able to find him.

Barrett’s men are following her, she can feel them on her tail all through the crowd like a bad smell; she needs a cover, needs somewhere to hide. There’s a drunk in the corner of the bar, some once-foppish-looking dandy, and Sasha decides to make him her cover.

She slides into the seat next to him and tries to be as inconspicuous as possible, but the drunkard starts and leaps to his feet, swaying. “Keep your trousers on,” she hisses, jumping up to pull him back down in front of her- he’s tall enough, he should provide good cover.

The man staggers out of her grip and produces a dagger from nowhere. He tries to fend her off with it- poorly- and then his eyes roll up and he collapses. Sasha just barely manages to catch him before he hits the ground.

//

Wilde knows the Meritocracy is crumbling. He can feel it in the air; something big is coming, something very bad, and he really doesn’t want to be here when it finally arrives.

Though maybe the sense of impending doom he’s getting is just from lack of sleep. But he’s sure that’s fine. It’s fine. He’s fine.

So he puts his bardic talents and his espionage training to work, following the trail of the odd orders and the disappearing agents, and realises quickly that if he stays, he’ll probably end up disappearing as well- or worse, become one of the people giving the odd, conflicting orders. He doesn’t know what that’s about. He doesn’t want to find out.

Wilde fakes his own death in the hopes it will throw off the scent, and decides, like so many others seeking the separatists, to head for the Americas.

In a bar at the aeroport he is accosted by a mugger, and he knew he was being conspicuous, but with everything blurring and the ringing in his ears he’s in no shape to properly defend himself. Instead of killing him, though, the dark figure hauls him up and runs.

He’s not lucid enough to take in the scene of the room she drags him into, and so he doesn’t resist as someone snaps something cold around his wrist, and he at long last sinks into a deep and dreamless sleep.

//

Earhart knew the look of people like Zolf Smith- lost, angry, needing. She’s seen plenty of it, in her years as an airship captain, because there are only a few reasons why people set out for the skies. And so she took him on, and he proved a fantastic first mate, knew his stuff inside and out and indulged her more reckless tendencies.

Plus, he’d been fleeing the Meritocracy. That automatically put him in Earhart’s good books.

Famous (and infamous) Harlequin airship captain Amelia Earhart was, by that point, becoming famous and infamous enough to become a thorn in the Meritocrats’ sides. They decided to target her. The fact that they tried to take down the Reliant was not her fault. The fact that she turned the whole ship around to attack back, causing a wreck that killed almost all of her crew and blew the Reliant into unsalvageable bits… that was.

The only reason she hasn’t drunk herself to death by this point is her ‘fantastic’ first mate (she’s regretting that now, in an angry way), who for some unknowable reason is unwilling to let the guilt swallow her whole.

//

Zolf Smith was an airman. Zolf Smith dreams of gods and wings and roads not taken. Zolf Smith is given a choice. Zolf Smith chooses no.

Zolf Smith loses his magic.

Earhart is trying to die, and he’s doing his best without access to his healing magic, but it won’t work forever, not when she’s this determined to let herself waste into nothing. He’s not good at talking, and that’s what she really needs- someone to talk to. Someone to listen. But he’s got no legs, and he’s got no magic, and he’s got almost no hope left, and nowhere to go.

They take refuge in a seedy bar in the closest aeroport and report the crash; two survivors, him and Earhart. They’ve been there a month and a half when the door to their room bursts open and a terrified kid with dark shaggy hair and an enormous jacket practically falls through the doorway, lugging an unconscious man in a blue and green waistcoat.

For a split second they all just stare at each other- everyone except for the unconscious man, of course, being as he is unconscious (and bleeding, from the nose and from the ears, and Zolf may not have magical healing but he has medical training and he knows that’s bad)- and then the kid drops her charge like a sack of potatoes, slams the door closed, and dives under the bed.

“Are you in trouble?” is all Zolf asks, and the kid nods, petrified and utterly silent. “Fine. Stay there.”

The unconscious man begins to shake and cry out as Zolf manhandles him into his bed, as though having a nightmare. He wakes with a scream, eyes wide and terrified. Someone bangs on the door. “Do you mind?” Zolf yells. “Little busy in here!”

The door bursts open a second time- those poor hinges- and two men of the kind who aren’t holding knives until you look at them from the right angle, and then they definitely are, and they’re pointed right at you, appear in the doorway. They take in the sickroom and the man with the two prosthetic legs, look nonplussed for a second, and then one nudges the other and tells him to “get a move on, she’s in here somewhere,” and they disappear down the hall.

Zolf pulls the door shut behind them and goes back over to the man in the waistcoat. It takes a bit of figuring out, but eventually, in desperation- the man is obviously dying- Zolf fishes out the anti-magical handcuffs issued to him as soldier and medic in the Meritocratic Air Forces, and clips one around his wrist. He goes limp.

He turns around to find the dark haired kid staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers. “Were they lookin’ for you?” he asks, and her eyes narrow.

“Why do you want to know?” she asks defensively- as though they could be looking for anyone else. The kid has ‘runaway’ written all over her.

“‘Cause I’m tryin’ to save your life,” Zolf snaps, and that seems to shock her, “so if you could work with me here, that’d be great, I’ve got enough on my plate tryin’ to save her life-” jerks a thumb to Earhart- “and apparently this one’s as well-” to the now asleep man taking up his bed. “Who are you? Who’s he?”

“I dunno,” says the kid, “he just kind of fell over.”

//

Sasha does not make the decision to trust him then. She doesn’t even tell him her name. She makes the decision to trust him when he tells her, a day later, as they sit against the wall and watch the man in the waistcoat mumble in his sleep, that he used to work on an airship.

“I’m Sasha,” she says. “Can I come with you?”

The white-haired dwarf named Zolf Smith- he looks too young to have white hair, but Sasha knows not to judge from appearances- grimaces. “I mean,” he says. “Dunno why you’d want to.”

“I want to see the sky,” says Sasha, who has spent her entire life underground. Zolf looks at her and seems to see something in her that pains him.

“I dunno where I’m goin’,” he warns her mournfully, looking back at Earhart, who is also sleeping. “But you can come with if you want. ‘S your choice.”

He doesn’t ask Sasha’s surname. She decides to trust him.

//

The name of the man in the bed next to her is Oscar Wilde, and Earhart starts frantically reaching for a gun, any gun, forgetting in her automatic fury that Zolf had taken them all off her weeks ago. A Meritocratic agent-

“Ex-agent,” says Wilde politely. “Please don’t shoot me, Captain, I’ve almost died once this week and I’m not really eager to repeat the experience.”

Earhart feels more lucid than she has in ages as she listens to him describe the strange series of events that brought him there, how sure he is that something is brewing within the Meritocracy’s upper ranks, the disaster that is coming. She can feel Zolf’s eyes on her as all her grief and guilt and despair and boiling anger calcify inside of her.

Wilde is like her, like Zolf, like Sasha- lost, angry, needing.

Wilde has information she can use.

“Mr. Wilde,” Earhart says, her voice hoarse with disuse but filled with more fire than she’s felt since the crash, “you are going to help me kill a dragon.”

//

She didn’t like him at first- he talked down to her, and his posh affectations grated on principle- but Sasha has to admit that Wilde is smart. She stares in disbelieving wonder as he produces a bag of holding full to the brim with more gold pieces than she’s ever seen in her life. His Meritocratic funding, he tells the spellbound group, because he can spellbind even without his magic. He liquified as many assets as he felt he could get away with before leaving.

“Pick a ship,” he says, “any ship. We can buy it. No need to steal.”

“We’ll need elementals,” Earhart says. “At least two.”

Wilde turns to Zolf. “You’re a cleric, aren’t you?” he says. “You can summon elementals.”

“Not anymore,” Zolf bites.

“Why?”

Zolf makes a face. “I don’t- when- okay.” He sighs. “Look-” and casts Spark into the fireplace. He jumps back in shock.

“I… don’t see the problem?” Wilde says after a good minute of silence, looking from the roaring flames back to Zolf. Sasha gets up and goes to dry her hair by the fire; the weather around the ports has been awful lately. Zolf stares into the flames in surprise.

//

Zolf Smith was a cleric. Zolf Smith dreams of a new ship. Zolf Smith finds a team, full of people who need healing, the kind he can now provide. Zolf Smith has hope.

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker - Reward

It’s a world rife with magic and monsters. Full of fantasy and witches and fate.

Tony cares little for those. He’s an inventor. A mechanic. An artist. He hones his skill, his craft, every day for twenty years, and then another twenty years. Worn and scarred, fingers thick and nimble, tremble-less. He knows little of magic and monsters. Of fantasy and witches. Those things that change and shape the world.

He uses his craft and he earns his power.

He’s a court favourite. The King likes him well-enough. That’s as much as anyone really likes Tony. Well-enough.

“You’re too tough. Too sharp. People don’t like that.” His mother had warned, even as she smoothed her fingers through his hair.

He hadn’t heeded her advice. His eyes had been on her loom. “There must be a better way,” he had said, “for that to work. So you don’t have to weave the cloth yourself.”

There is little to be said of gallantry. Heroes who have slain monsters come into the golden halls. They show King Brock the latest head of some nymph, or some great, long lost treasure, but in the end they must go on other adventures.

Tony, a court favourite, has a place in the palace always. A little wing to call his own. When he asks for iron, he is given iron. When he asks for silence, people hush.

Of course, when Rumlow demands an invention, or a maze to house some monster, Tony has to stop the whirrings on his mind to tend to those whims. He does not fight that. HIs mother was right, he’s rough and sharp, but he is no fool.

So, when he’s summoned for the King, he sets down his welders tools and follows the guards. He chatters at them, trying to see them rile, but they only smile tightly. Something weighs on them.

“Stark,” Rumlow beams, too encouraging, “men, leave us.”

The guards disappear. Smoke in the wind.

“My lord.” Tony doesn’t get down on one knee. But he inclines his head and Rumlow lets him have it.

“I have a task for you.”

“Name it, sire.”

“Years ago, I was shipwrecked across the strait.”

Tony nods. A sea-farer, perhaps a boat, a new oar. He can design something. Plans start to form in his head.

“I was given refuge upon a tiny island. It housed a demi-goddess. I lay with her.”

Tony waits. It doesn’t click. He doesn’t understand.

“It has become apparent that she had a child. My son. His name is Peter. He is mortal, but his blood, I believe, carries some trace of the gods. Because of this, they give him favour. My heroes have not been able to slay him. The seas that should kill, full of sirens and monsters, give him way. I have sent assassins and witches, and they fall prey to his charms.”

“Magic?” Tony asks, intrigued and a little disgusted. The petty foulness, the ease of magic. The fact the King is trying to kill his own blood, that is of little consequence. There are at least a dozen princes and princesses that flit about the kingdom now. Bloodshed will come once Rumlow dies as they battle for the throne. One less contender should shorten the battle.

“I had hoped it was magic.” The King sighs. “I fear it is him. He is…” the King sneers. “Beloved. They fall to him. Pledge their allegiance as if he were already their King.”

“I don’t understand.” Tony confesses, a hardship. “What would you have me do?”

Here, Rumlow smiles. Like the monster that prowls beneath the palace. “I would have you kill him, Tony. Don’t you see? You’re the only one who could. Who would not fall for his doe-eyes or sweet words. You are hardened. Use your mind, that cunning tool, or any of your inventions, and slay him. I can promise you rewards.”

Tony nods, already exhausted. This is not his domain, but the sooner it is begun, the sooner it is done. “What about the ire of the gods? You said they have given him favour. Will this not beget their anger?”

“Gods are fickle.” The King waves him away. “I have a hundred lambs all ready to be slaughtered for them. Pilgrims ready to visit their temples. I have had a boat prepared for you to leave this evening. I have heard from Cleo that Peter dwells on an island off her shore. My men will guide you.”

Tony grits his teeth a little at the lack of control, but it is a familiar ache. “And what proof of his demise? His heart?”

The King laughs at that. “You speak like a solider, Stark. I do not need proof. I will trust your word and the darkening skies.”

It goes unsaid, of course, that failure means death.

***

Tony likes sea-travel. The allusion of freedom on that endless horizon. The rough work of rigging. The smell. He used to pour over his father’s atlases, used to dream of travelling the world.

He has made himself content with Rumlow’s palace. The golden walls. His inventions.

They reach the island swiftly. The seas are much calmer. It must be Peter’s presence.

“We can go with you no further.” The men say. “Rumlow forbids it. He believes Peter would affect our minds.”

Tony wades through the water to the craggy edges. Rocks black with wet, gulls screaming.

“Sailor, let me help.” Comes a voice, soft as a siren, and Tony looks up and sees- him.

For it must be. Gold eyes. Eyes of a god. Traces of that divine lineage, but so devastatingly mortal. And it’s devastating, because Tony knows he cannot kill such beauty.

There’s no magic, but it feels like it. Carved like one of Romanov’s marble statues. It’s hard to believe such a thing could be part Rumlow.

He takes the lily hand, bronzed with sun, and lets himself be pulled up.

It’s but a boy. Not old enough to command armies. Barely a man.

“Peter.”

Peter smiles at him. “It never fails to surprise how many know my name. Where do you travel from?”

“From your father.”

Peter nods. He helps Tony manoeuvre the slippery rocks onto the sandy beach. There, he stoops to collect perfect white shells. “He would see me dead.”

“Yes.”

“I do not desire his throne.”

Tony smiles a little at that. “I don’t think it much matters.”

“Maybe not.” Peter’s eyes appraise his form. Tony puffs like a bird. “You’re no sailor. What are you?”

“An inventor.”

“An inventor.” Peter breathes, looking up at him in awe. He says the word with sacrilegious reverence. “What a gift my father has given me. I have been searching for an inventor my whole life.”

Tony itches to touch him. His skin prickles with a strange desire to taste. He’s had lovers in the past, in the endless escapades of youth, but Peter would be the only one that Tony would remember. “Hardly twenty years then.”

Peter laughs like music. “Will you help me?”

“Do you command me?”

“Of course not.” Peter humms, his eyes sparkle. “The God’s command. King’s demand. I am neither.”

“You are both. Son of a king and a goddess.”

“Bastard son of a king, and of a demi goddess.” Peter bows his head. “For some reason people help me. I cannot say why. I appreciate it, but I do not expect it. Your king would have you kill me.” Peter looks up at him. Eyes glazed like honey. Lips like wildflowers. “Will you?”

Throat dry, Tony croaks: “No.”

“I would ask for your help. Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Peter whispers, genuine, artless. He is pure, an unwilted flower. He could command strangers. Unite enemies. “I need a boat that would withstand the river of the underworld.”

Tony recoils from this. Unnatural. “I deal with inventions, not magic.” He spits. 

“They are one.” Peter insists gently, but sees Tony’s face. “You build. I’ll do the magic.”

“You can command magic?”

“Barely. Basic charms. The ingredients are kind to me.”

“As is all of life, it seems.” Tony quips.

Peter’s smile is indulgent. “If that were true, I would need no ship.”

“Who are you collecting from the underworld?”

Peter’s eyes scan over the horizon. In the distance, the boat Tony came on bobs. Peter tilts his eyes to the sky: the countless, silent, watching Gods. “Later.” He vows.

Tony believes him.

…

He seems older than his face suggests. In the same way Gods that saw the beginning of the earth have scarce a mark of time upon their face.

Tony wonders if it is his divine blood.

A ship to withstand the underworld needs to be very slim indeed. The rivers below are narrow, sharply turning. Tony cuts and shapes the wood, methodical in his work.

Peter, meanwhile, gathers roots and strange plants, grinds them into paste, spreads them onto the wood planks and whispers. They glow under his touch, seep into the wood. “Protection,” Peter will say after one, “courage,” after another, “safety”, “resistance”, “resoluteness”, “fierceness”.

In the evenings, Tony is led to Peter’s home. It’s a small castle, grand in it’s own right, teeming with treasures but empty of attendants. They sit before the hearth and Peter brings out salves, and rubs Tony’s hands; eases out the splinters and sprains of the day’s work.

“There is no need.” Tony insists, though the sight of Peter on his knees before him is one that will haunt him.

“There is every need. You do me a great kindness.”

“This is my reward?”

“No.” Peter hums, “this is my reward.”

His fingers unfasten the belt of Tony’s britches, the hot, wet mouth tight and stomach-lurching. It’s all Tony can do to breathe, jerking in his chair, sparking with pleasure.

When he’s finished, Peter tucks Tony away. Cleans him up. “Is there a deity you worship?” He asks, and Tony wants to say you but knows the gods would scorn him for it.

“Hermes is well-travelled.” He says instead.

“I will ask him to give you favour.”

“There is no need-”

“You say a lot about need.” Peter laughs, airy, nymph-like. “I suspect you understand very little of it. Your own are so tightly bound within you. I do not need, but would very much like you in my bed tonight. How is that?”

Tony’s throat is dry, blood already hot. “That is well.” He whispers.

*

A smarter man would delay the building of the ship. Spend more seasons with Peter on this island.

But the only thing that can rival Tony’s passion for the boyy, is his desire to work and invent.

As he sands the boards, he notes the cove they take shelter in. The shadows that hide them from the gods of the sky. “Who,” he says quietly, the waves lapping at their toes, “do you seek to bring from the Underworld?” A parent, who has died? A dear friend lost in battle? Worse- a lover. Tony almost could not bear it.

“I will bring an army of the undead,” Peter says, and Tony drops the block of cinder from his hand. It clatters to the deck. Peter continues to hum, binding rope with moss for strength.

Tony must be deceived. But there is no lie anywhere in Peter’s body. Just slim, muscled, beauty.

“Do not look so shocked, mortal.”

“Mortal?” Tony croaks.

Peter laughs. Musical. “I confess to you then. My mother was no demi-god. She was Zeus’ first born. I am no human. I’m more powerful than that.”

“You are not a god.”

“And grateful for it. Gods cannot go into the underworld.”

“You want war. Against who?”

“Rumlow. I will take his city. I will rule Attica.”

Tony laughs in disbelief, trembling with fear. He has been taken here for a fool. This is no kindness. This boy is vicious and cruel, like any God. “Attica cannot be united-”

“An army of the undead will unite them. The fates have written it. Led by me.”

Tony turns from him, shaking, eyes stinging. “I thought you good. I loved-”

Peter is before him, hands gentle on his face, smoothing through the inventor’s beard. “You love me with your mortal heart, dear sweet, Tony,” Peter whispers, kissing him. Melting into him, seeping into him, taking him over. Tony feels the eagerness against his thigh. Wants to jerk away but cannot bring himself to. He clutches Peter tighter. “I will reward you for it.”

Peter’s hand slips into Tony’s trousers. Tony is hard. Throbbing. But he resists. “I want no reward from you who brings such bloodshed.”

The boy, not a boy at all, laughs. Even as his hand works at Tony, spreading wetness, teasing, touching all the right ways. “This is not your reward. Your reward is much greater,” his teeth find Tony’s ear, nipping. “I will make you a god.”

Tony moans, Peter works him harder, he’s shaking, closer, trying to resist. “M-mortals cannot be made-” he gasps for breath, “-into gods.” He knows little of magic, but he knows that. Peter is pressed flush against him, hand moving between them.

“It must be written in Fate. I chose you, Stark. I had Rumlow choose you. I orchestrated it all. You are fated to be a God. Inventor who trapped the Minotaur, it is your destiny. You will be powerful and eternal and you will be mine.”

“I will be a god, and you not- you will die.” The thought is arresting. “I will have to continue without you.”

“There are tricks,” Peter grins, “Goddess of beauty is charmed by me. She will keep me young and beautiful forever. I will do a favour for the Underworld harpies. They will not take my soul.”

“What is this favour?”

“Do not fret,” Peter coos, licking Tony’s lips, grip merciless, taunting, Tony’s so close. Hips thrusting. “I have taken care of you now, have I not? I will give you all you desire. Every invention to make, all the means. I will care for you and not ask much in return. Let me do so for eternity. You can release, god.”

Tony cries out, does as he’s commanded.

An eternity. Ruled by Peter. A mystery wrapped up like a kindness. He’s hungry for it. He is no fool, Peter will ask for few, but terrible, things in return. Inventions that will turn Tony’s stomach. Wings of wax to trick a father and a son. A sea-spider to eat good sailors. A poison sword and arrow to destroy demigods. And he’ll make them all. Just like he’s made this ship. He’ll obey.

And if he’s good, Peter will reward him.

[bright-eyes-strawberry-lies]

The Life Of Luke Castellan

This is a timeline of Luke’s entire life, written because a lot of you have really really bad takes on who he was, what he wanted, and what he actually did. Everything written here is a fact taken directly from the books. 

Luke was with a mother who inadequately took care of him from the age of one year old onward. Hermes left May and Luke shortly after May tried to host the oracle and went insane. 

May Castellan scared Luke so much that he hid in closets so that she wouldn’t find him.

When he was nine years old, Luke ran away from home.

Luke spent two years of homelessness alone. 

Luke taught himself to fight monsters and survive on the streets.

Luke tried to share his godly heritage with mortals but they didn’t understand why being a demigod was bad and Luke eventually moved on. 

Luke was in a dragon’s cave when he found Thalia (it had been Thalia’s first night of homelessness). 

Thalia held back a lot of information from Luke (her family, the goat, etc…) 

Luke is easily manipulated by affection and compliments. He will immediately do whatever someone wants him to if they praise him. 

Luke and Thalia are homeless together for three years. 

Luke and Thalia meet Halcyon Green when they’re 14 and 12 respectively by running into a trap. They’ve never met an old demigod. Hal kills himself so that they can escape the trap. 

That very same night, Luke and Thalia meet Annabeth (who has been homeless for a couple of months and looked after by Athena). Luke is the one who senses another demigod nearby. Luke loves Annabeth immediately and decides that he’s going to be her dad. They make safe houses everywhere with emergency supplies. 

A short while later, Thalia is injured and they go to May Castellan’s house for refuge, where Luke meets his father, Hermes, for the first time. 

Hermes tells Luke that he should not have come home and that he’s getting too old to be on the run without help. He says that he will arrange a quest for Luke so that Luke can do one great thing before his life turns sour. 

Hermes points Luke, Thalia, and Annabeth in the direction of Camp Half-Blood. 

They leave May Castellan’s house that same night. Luke is angry and upset. He’s convinced that his dad doesn’t love him. 

Sometime after this, they meet Grover, who has been sent to escort ONLY Thalia to Camp Half-Blood. Grover and Thalia didn’t want to leave Annabeth and Luke behind. 

Luke challenges every monster they come across. 

However, they’re being hunted down by a lot more monsters than usual because Hades is sending monsters after Thalia. Hades is doing this because Zeus killed Maria Di Angelo, a mortal whom Hades loved and had two kids with. 

Grover got nervous and got lost, they took a wrong turn and wound up in a Cyclops lair. The cyclops used his voice mimicry to confuse Thalia, Luke, and Grover, and then tied them up. Annabeth untied Thalia and Thalia saved them. But that gave the monsters enough time to catch up to them. 

There’s a final confrontation between Luke, Thalia, Annabeth, Grover, and the monsters on Half-Blood Hill just outside of Camp’s boundaries. Thalia stays to hold off the monsters and is slain. 

Zeus appears and turns Thalia into a pine tree as she’s dying. To prevent this from happening again, he decides to erect a magical border at the Camp, which will protect the demigods inside. 

Luke moves into the Hermes Cabin, which is overcrowded with the unclaimed demigods and the children of minor gods. 

When Luke turns 17, he’s given a quest by Hermes to seek a golden apple from the Garden of Hesperides. He’s honored until he realizes that his quest isn’t important and has already been done before. While he fails to get the golden apple and is physically scarred from the ordeal, Luke does manage to take one of Landon’s claws as a trophy. 

The campers treated Luke with pity after he failed his quest. Luke’s anger and bitterness grew. Annabeth notes that he was never the same. 

Shortly after this, Kronos began to appear in Luke’s dreams and persuaded Luke to join his cause in bringing down the Gods. 

During the winter solstice, when Luke is 18 or 19, the year-rounders go on a field trip to Olympus. Luke steals the master bolt and the helm of darkness from the throne room.  Luke is caught by Ares because he got overconfident. Kronos was the one who gave Luke the words to say to convince Ares not to kill him and to start a war between the gods. 

After being caught by Ares, Kronos punishes Luke with nightmares. He eventually tells Luke that a hero who can be easily tricked will arrive at Camp and they’ll be able to deliver the bolt and helm to Tartarus for Kronos. 

When Luke is 19 years old, Percy Jackson, 12-year-old son of Poseidon, comes to Camp Half-Blood. Luke is kind to Percy and takes him under his wing. 

During Capture The Flag, Luke summoned a Hellhound to make Chiron think that Hades was after Percy and that the Camp wasn’t safe for Percy. 

Luke wins Capture The Flag (this win is later revealed to be something Annabeth set up).

After the hellhound attack, Luke teaches Percy sword-fighting one-on-one. None of the other campers want to be around Percy. 

Percy, Annabeth, and Grover are set to go on a Quest. Luke almost misses them leaving, but just catches them to give Percy a pair of winged sneakers. 

Luke hugged Annabeth goodbye, patted Grover on the head, and shook Percy’s hand. 

While the three are gone on their Quest, Luke is at Camp and asks about Grover and Annabeth. He says that the Campers are dividing and breaking out into fights. He calls the person who summoned the hellhound a scumbag (he’s calling himself a scumbag) and says that they leaked information which started the fights. Luke plants seeds of doubt in Percy’s head about Annabeth stealing the Master Bolt. He calls Annabeth his little sister. 

During the summer, Kronos gifts Luke with Backbiter, a sword that can dismember Gods and Titans. Luke is the one who named it Backbiter because he’s biting back against the gods. 

After the Quest, Luke announces the bead for the summer and gifts Percy with his leather necklace. 

Two months after that, Luke hacks the training dummies to pieces. He lures Percy into the woods with the promise of coca-cola and asks him if he missed being out in the real world. 

Luke admits that he feels like his Quest was for nothing, that his dad doesn’t care about him now that his one Quest failed, and that if he can’t have a normal life, then he doesn’t want to be left in obscurity. Luke is tired of being a pawn of the gods, who are only able to hold on to power because of their demigod children. He says that he brought Percy down to say goodbye and summons a pit scorpion. He admits that he wants to explain to Percy but he doesn’t have time to. 

Luke tells Percy that Kronos seduced him via flattery and sympathy and talked him into stealing something worthwhile to show off what a good thief he is.

Luke tells Percy that things will be set right and Percy will be killed. He also says that he isn’t as easily baited as Ares. Luke slashes the air with Backbiter and disappears into a ripple of darkness. 

During the winter, Luke has been convincing demigods to join their cause and has been training them.

Kronos convinces Luke to poison Thalia’s tree to get the Gods to send the campers on a quest for the Golden Fleece. Kronos needs the Golden Fleece to reform quicker. He promises Luke that after Kronos has been reformed, Luke can use the Fleece to heal Thalia’s tree. So Luke poisoned the tree.

Luke bought a yacht called the Princess Andromeda. He’s cleaned up his appearance and is enjoying the luxury of the cruise ship. He can now use telekinesis though it’s unclear if this is a power he had before or if he gained it from Kronos. 

Luke knew that Percy, Annabeth, and Tyson spent the night on his ship and left them alone until they went snooping. When he does catch them, Luke calls Annabeth and Percy his favorite cousins. He tries and fails to convince them that they’re on the wrong side of the war. 

When they refuse to join him, Luke sends them away with the incompetent giant brother, Oreius (rather than the more competent giant brother, Agrius) to be fed to the drakon. Doing this makes him nervous enough to glance at the golden casket that holds Kronos’ body. Later, Percy and Annabeth agree that he let them get away. 

Luke and his army have been tailing Percy and co. He captures them and brings them aboard the Princess Andromeda to question them about the Golden Fleece. He’s genuinely upset when he realizes that they don’t have it. 

Luke and Percy fight but despite having many chances to kill him, Luke only grazes Percy. The only serious wound Percy gets is a cut on his leg. Before striking a killing blow, Luke stops and tells Oreius that he can eat the others. Because of this pause, the party ponies bust in and Percy, Tyson, Annabeth, and Grover are able to escape. 

Sometime after this, Luke is no longer in charge of Kronos’ army. He’s been demoted and Atlas takes over. 

Luke holds up the sky to free Atlas. His face is scratched, his clothes are in tatters. 

Thorn brings Annabeth to him and Luke begs her for help. He tells Annabeth that she shouldn’t trust him because he’s been terrible to her, but he’s going to die if she doesn’t help him. It is later revealed that Annabeth wasn’t supposed to be the one brought to him (it was supposed to be a child of the Big Three) but Luke came up with a plan to make it work out anyway. 

Annabeth takes the weight of the sky. Luke thanks her, then tells her that her help is on the way and to try not to die in the meantime. 

It’s sometime later that Luke returns to Annabeth and sees that she’s in bad shape. He urges them to hurry the plan along because Annabeth is going to die soon. Artemis takes Annabeth’s place. Luke does not want to kill Annabeth, making excuses to keep her alive. Luke carries Annabeth away to take care of her injuries. 

Luke looks like he’s aged ten years. His skin is pale and his hair is gray. The scar on his face had been reopened. He seems to be able to sense when Percy is near, as he’s looking straight at the spot Percy is hiding and he says it’s Percy Jackson who is interrupting. 

Luke tries to get assigned to taking out the Hunters and Thalia. His request is denied. 

Luke doesn’t like that Atlas calls his army on the Princess Andromeda insignificant. Atlas admits that they’ll make a good Honor Guard for Kronos and brings up that Luke will become Kronos’ host. Luke is scared of becoming Kronos’ host. 

Luke is trying to get Thalia to join their side. He is terribly weak and speaks as though every word is painful. Luke is trying to get Thalia to agree because he wants his family together and also because if Luke fails at persuading her, Kronos will use Luke’s body as his host (which will kill Luke). 

Thalia immediately attacks Luke. Despite how fragile he is, he can still hold his own against her. The shield Thalia wields scares him and this annoys Luke. Luke has a bloody slash across his chest from Thalia. Thalia disarms Luke and wants to kill him.

Luke is afraid that she’s going to kill him. Thalia kicks Luke over the edge of a cliff. He’s afraid when he goes over the edge of the cliff. Until that very moment, Luke truly believed in his friends. Afterwards, he realizes that there’s no one he can count on. 

It is unknown if Luke died and was resurrected or if he lived through the fall. 

During the winter, Luke goes to visit Annabeth under a flag of truce. He told her that Kronos was going to use him to take over the world and he wanted to run away, like the old days. He was very scared and when she refused to run away, Luke tells her that she had better fight (kill) him right there because it would be the last chance anyone would get. 

Luke is forced by Kronos to bathe in the River Styx. It is said that Luke had to be pressured in many ways before he would do it. Before he does, he visits May one more time to get her blessing. It’s been 7 years since he last saw her. 

Between then, and the next summer, Luke turns 21. He starts paying good money for demigods. Geryon is helping to get him demigods. 

Luke no longer has Backbiter with him. The sword is being remade into a scythe. 

There is a plan to attack Camp Half-Blood. Luke is reluctant to do it. He is still afraid of becoming Kronos’ host but he shows no weaknesses in front of his army. 

It is heavily implied that he and Kelli, an empousa, are having sex. 

Luke finds Quintus (Daedalus) and they speak several times. Luke tries to persuade him to join Kronos. Luke asks him how to get through the Labyrinth. Quintus tells him that a mortal with clear sight can do it. Luke doesn’t like that answer and tries to find other ways. 

Luke sends solo explorers through the Labyrinth because the larger the group, the easier it is to get lost. As far as we can tell, none of them returned. Luke has a map but it isn’t working. He goes to Quintus and gets the String of Ariadne to help navigate the Labyrinth. 

Although Luke was previously buying demigods and accepting defects before that, they must now fight to join the army. 

When Percy, Annabeth, and Rachel stumble upon Luke in the Labyrinth, Luke is so busy staring at Percy that he doesn’t notice Annabeth until she shouts his name. 

Luke arranges it so that Percy and Antaeus fight to the death. He knows that Percy will win, killing Antaeus and allowing his army free passage through the territory.

Luke orders his monsters to kill everyone (quickly) except Annabeth. He wants to speak to her before the upcoming battle. He doesn’t even rise from his seat to relay the order and Kelli is thrown into his lap when Mrs. O’Leary is summoned by Percy. 

Annabeth notes that Luke looked nervous. 

Luke turns on Quintus, sending Minos directly to him. 

One day after the fight in the Labyrinth, Luke becomes the host for Kronos. Percy finds him lying in the golden coffin, looking very dead. There’s a hole in his chest, black and right where his heart should have been. 

Kronos awakens in Luke’s body. His chest is mended and his eyes are gold. He says that Luke feared Percy, that his jealousy and hatred have kept Luke obedient. 

When Rachel Elizabeth Dare threw a hairbrush at Kronos/Luke, it was Luke’s voice that said ow. 

Kronos/Luke do not lead the attack against Camp Half-Blood. 

Luke continuously fights against Kronos in his body. It’s noted by Ethan Nakamura that Kronos should be fully settled into Luke’s body by the following summer. 

Kronos leads the first wave against the demigods in Manhattan. Luke is not mentioned. 

At the bottom of the Empire State Building, Kronos leads his army. Chiron and Kronos/Luke fight. Chiron says that Luke was a good hero before Kronos corrupted him. Kronos says that Chiron filled Luke’s head with empty promises and then Luke broke through and said “you said the gods cared about me!” 

Annabeth attacks Kronos and says that she hates him. Kronos admires Annabeth’s spirit and says he sees why Luke wanted to spare her. 

Kronos destroys Olympus with the scythe Backbiter as he travels to the throne room. He does this because he promised Luke that he would tear down Olympus brick by brick. 

Kronos looks just like Luke, offering up the same sweet smile to Percy and Annabeth that he did while welcoming Percy to Camp. 

Kronos doesn’t hesitate to fight Percy. He touches Zeus’ throne and gets electrocuted, face covered in burns and hair smoldering. 

Kronos opens a fissure in the ground and Ethan falls through the sky. 

Kronos announces that Luke Castellan is dead and his body will burn away as Kronos assumes his true form. Annabeth knows that Luke has been fighting Kronos the entire time. Kronos/Luke is disarmed and Backbiter falls into the hearth fire.

When Luke sees the blood on Annabeth’s face, he regains control of his body. Kronos is ready to shed Luke’s body like a chrysalis but Luke pleads for Percy to give him Annabeth’s dagger and so that he can kill himself. Kronos burns his hands trying to pick up Backbiter. 

Luke begs until Percy gives him Annabeth’s dagger. He stabs himself in the armpit, which is where his mortal spot is. Kronos is banished from Luke’s body.

Luke’s entire left side is bloody. His eyes are blue again. He’s dying. Luke is in a lot of pain. He tells them that he’s going to go for rebirth and try for Elysium three times so that he can reach the Isles of the Blest.

Luke asks Annabeth if she loved him. She says like a brother. Luke is satisfied with this answer. He tells Grover that he’s the bravest Satyr ever. Luke grasps Percy with a hand still hot and burnt and begs him not to let it happen again. Percy promises that he won’t let this happen again.

At age 22, Luke Castellan dies.  

[matty-de-clermont]

End of an Era...

Far from a happily-ever-after, the emergence of a new threat brings the next generation of the De Clermont family into a fight for the survival of all creatures and their family when it strikes at the very heart of the ancient clan.

WARNING: Major Character Death

SPOILERS: Book of Life and Time’s Convert

———

“Rebecca, go to the library!” Diana demanded, failing to keep the faint trembling from her voice.

“Eric, where is he?’ The eighteen-year-old bright-born asked instead, her blue eyes searching out the answer from her cousin.

Gallowglass said nothing and instead looked to his aunt for guidance.

“Do as your mother says!” Matthew demanded, his tone much sharper than usual.

“Take Andrew upstairs,” Diana lifted the infant from his cot and placed him in his sister’s arms, “tell Philip and Jack to stay there and the three of you mind Andrew, Sarah and Christopher until we call for you.”

Rebecca had ample experience in knowing when to argue with her parents and when not to, this situation was the latter, even if she wanted an answer to her question.

Instead, she took her brother upstairs.

Philip looked up from his chess game with Jack when they both entered the library, the worry etched on his face also.

His griffin Apollo sat curled near the fire, his large body curled around Christopher’s smaller Hippogriff, Hermes.

“Gallowglass has come back, alone?” Phillip asked her.

“Yes, but I don’t know what happened, I was banished up here,” she explained, placing the infant in her arms into a playpen, his other two siblings already asleep.

“Can’t you, y’know?” Jack asked Philip.

“You think I can weave an eavesdropping spell without Mom sensing it?” He asked, incredulous.

Rebecca shook her head, knowing he was right, her eyes cast out over the grand canal, watching the lights of the boats go to and fro.

Venice had become their home, sanctuary and refuge after Hubbard, her youngest brother’s namesake, was killed whilst helping them escape London.

Marcus and the depleted Knights of Lazarus took up residence in the cleared out Isolla Della Stella after the creatures of Venice rose to the aid of the Bishop-Clairmont’s and expelled the non-friendly congregation members.

There was no Congregation, only angry humans demanding justice for the millennia they had been used as pawns in the games of creatures. The world wars, atrocities engineered and guided, much of the time by Philippe De Clermont himself.

“Has anyone told Miyako?” Rebecca asked.

“I’m sure Dad has.” Jack assured.

“I swear, if they-“ Rebecca stopped, half fury and half fear.

“Becca, remember who you’re talking about. Uncle Baldwin’s not someone we need to worry about.” Philip tried to comfort her.

“They have him, Pip, that fucking psycho bitch and her sycophants have him locked in their dungeon doing god who knows what to him.”

“I know, and he’ll be fine.” Philip pulled her into a hug that made her feel momentarily better.

“Mum’s here.” Jack announced before the door opened.

Diana entered, the sound of yelling and broken pottery clearly audible from downstairs before she closed over the door.

“Where is Uncle Baldwin?” Rebecca demanded.

Diana shook her head and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry my darling,” she caught her daughter before she fell, one arm around her shoulder as she used her free hand to beckon the boys to join also.

Baldwin had been given a traitors death, beheaded and burned.

As was the case with his elder brother Hugh, there was nothing left to bury. No loving family members had been permitted to provide the Roman custom of ‘the last goodbye’, a kiss to free his soul to travel to Elysium.

Every church in Venice rang their bells on the hour for twelve hours for the twelve days of mourning in protest at the loss of one of their guardians.

Rebecca bit down on her rage for those twelve days, whilst her family and their friends, Baldwin’s brothers in the Knights, her cousins - including Baldwin’s own daughter Miyako - all tried to imagine a world without him in it.

On the thirteenth day, the business of managing the family took centre stage.

Gallowglass fought like a bear to shake off the shackles of De Clermont family leadership both Matthew and Ysabeau placed upon his shoulders.

Since all of Philippe’s son’s were dead, the responsibility passed to the eldest surviving heir of the eldest deceased son, much to Verin’s disapproval. Gallowglass would have happily handed to her if he could.

He could not, and instead bent to the demands of his family expectations, starting with his addressing the remaining Knights, including his cousins.

“We have mourned for twelve days, despite the fact that Baldwin himself would have found that excessive,” Gallowglass broke the tension with the light joke, “now we must do as he would have ordered us to, look to the future and survival of our family. He died-“

“He was murdered,” Miyako interrupted from the doorway, “he did not die in battle, Eric!”

“Miyako,” Matthew addressed his niece, “I promise he will be avenged.”

“No need, I’ll kill her myself!”

“I appreciate your grief but you will not.”

“I do not answer to you Matthew!”

“No, you answer to me,” Gallowglass boomed, “Matthew is right, I will not lose you too and you will no longer refer to me by that name, we are not of equal rank. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, Sieur. Might I be excused?”

“You may.” Gallowglass gave his permission and she turned, momentarily catching Rebecca’s eye as she did so.

What followed was tedious reports from those gathered regarding everything except a plan to horribly murder each and every creature that had a hand in Baldwin’s death.

“I need some air.” Rebecca told her mother as she stood up and left.

“I’ll go with her.” Diana decided.

“No, you need to stay, in case this place erupts,” Philip argued, “I’ll go.”

Diana nodded, Philip was always the best at getting his sister to calm down.

He found her in an empty room, pacing beneath the oculus in the ceiling.

“I don’t understand,” Rebecca spoke up eventually, “why did she hate him so much?”

“She was turned by Him,” Jack, who had followed after them, still never said his grand-sire’s name, “it’s what allowed her to take the De Clermont seat. He must have hurt her, bad, it’s why she wears that creepy mask, and needs a witch to speak for her.” Jack added.

“You pity her,” Rebecca accused, “after what she did?”

“You’d be surprised at what He can make you do.” Jack answered, ashamed and Philip placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Benjamin Fox has been dead for almost eighteen years, she appeared three years ago, why wait so long and why? Is she acting out of revenge for her sire’s death, or looking to kill all of us because of what he did to her, whatever that was.”

“Becca-“ Philip tried to stem the tide.

“Who was she before, was she a human, a witch, daemon? How old is she, when was she turned? How do we not have an answer to any of this yet?” Rebecca’s mind spun.

“Finally,” Miyako commented from above them on her perch at the edge of the oculus, “someone’s asking the right questions.”

She dropped down with the grace of a cat.

“Dad will find out, Marcus will gather the Knights and-“ Philip started.

“And what? They get captured too?” Miyako shook her head.

“You can’t go after her yourself,” Philip told his cousin, “Uncle Baldwin was three times older and more experienced than you are and she still managed to trap and kill him.”

“I don’t mean now, I mean then!” Miyako told him.

“No, don’t even think it.” Jack shook his head.

“You’re giving me orders?” She hissed.

“Let’s take a breath,” Philip suggested, ever reasonable, “Miyako, what are you saying?”

“She wants you to take her on a Time-Walk, kill the masked vampire when she was vulnerable!” Jack explained.

“We can’t play with the past like that!” Philip reacted with horror.

“What do we need to find out who she was?” Rebecca asked.

“You are not doing this Rebecca, Mum will go nuts!” Jack agreed with his brother.

“I’m not saying we time-walk, I’m saying if we find out who she was it will give us an edge in defeating her now!” Rebecca lied, giving Miyako a pointed look.

“What do we need?” Miyako repeated.

“Pip?” Rebecca prompted but he remained silent.

“Father was just the beginning,” Miyako argued, “he loved you all and it is now my duty to protect you. Tell me what you need to weave your spell and I will acquire it.”

“I promised mother I wouldn’t use my magic for those purpose in case it hurts any of you, but-“

“But what?” Miyako prompted.

“If she was able to kill Uncle Baldwin then no-one is safe. We need a sample of her blood but that’s not going to be possible.”

“Let me worry about that!” She replied curtly.

Jack shook his head, the proceedings moving too fast for his comfort.

“Mum and Dad will have a plan, we should wait until we find out what it is.”

“I agree with Jack,” Philip nodded, “if we act now it could compromise what they’ve planned.”

“So, we wait?” Jack asked hopefully.

“Yes, we await our orders.” Philip agreed.

“And if those orders are to stand down and do nothing?” Miyako challenged.

“Then, and only then, will we act!” Philip decided and was met with grudging agreement from Rebecca and Miyako and relief from Jack.

———

PART 2

[thedancingwalrus-blog]

Practical compassion

Since I found the cottage-core blogs I’ve been thinking a lot about practicing compassion. Because I do love the cottage-core content on here, the plants and home cooking and friendly welcoming positive atmosphere. The gentleness of it and the romantiscisation of everyday life. 

But at the same time I don’t feel like I can really be part of it. Despite my garden and love of cooking and crafts. I don’t feel that I can create that welcoming, gentle atmosphere; that there’s rather more Granny Weatherwax and Greebo in my soul. 

But the thing about compassion is that it takes more then one form. Like Hermes it shifts to fill the situation it is in. 

There isn’t a pretty aesthetic for raising awareness about torture and slavery. And I can’t even really talk about testing medicines because confidentiality laws are embedded in the industry.  

I admire people who can make themselves a place of calm and refuge. Perhaps I will be able to do it one day. But until then there is meaning in this too, in anger and trying to claw out one more day for a stranger and striving to understand the dark. 

Looking at my own hard edges make me sorrowful but I feel still as if there is a need for both. For those that comfort and those that cut for stone. 

I’m glad we’re both here. 

[shirlleycoyle]

Why I Quit Being a Climate Activist

In 2013, Typhoon Haiyan battered Southeast Asia, killing 6,300 people in the Philippines alone. The three-storey surge rolled over parts of the city of Tacloban, hitting my family’s neighbourhood the hardest. Schools that were designated storm shelters entombed those taking refuge from the rising waters. My aunt, like many women in the Philippines—a country made up of 7,000 islands—can’t swim. She, my uncle, and cousin were missing or presumed dead.

We only found out they survived after three grief-ridden days, from a family member who had made his way through the ravaged province with the military. Their home and the fish farm they depended on for their livelihood were devastated, and they still haven’t fully recovered.

As a climate activist in Berlin, I felt required to tell my Filipino family’s experience during speeches and rallies because this form of “storytelling” was the only thing that would move a mostly white European audience to an emotional response of climate urgency—even though it was exhausting telling the story, especially since any mention of hurricanes in the news gives me anxiety.

I would hear “great speech,” “so emotional when your voice cracked.”

But after a while I realized I would only be called upon when climate organizations needed an inspiring story or a “diverse” voice, contacts for a campaign, or to participate in a workshop for “fun” when everyone else on the (all-white) project was getting paid.

Whenever I would question the whiteness of these spaces and how strategies didn’t take race into account, I would be met with uncomfortable silences. The last time, at a nationwide movement-building workshop last April, I was asked, “Well then, why are you even here?”

So I decided not to be there anymore. After four years of helping organize direct actions, speeches, workshops, and countless video calls, I started hiding and declining requests. I was burned out.

Karin Louise Hermes in Sibaltan (El Nido) on Palawan in the Philippines. Photo courtesy of author

I felt guilty—like I was letting my people down. But I also felt let down by the lack of support when I had gone to the streets. I stopped talking to people who didn’t relate, including friends who were telling me to come join them now that the marches were becoming more popular. I was also in bed sick a lot. I stayed at home from climate marches telling people my knee was injured and kept to myself, needing to regain all the energy I had put into organizing.

Even being present doesn’t always mean being seen or heard. Last week Ugandan activist Vanessa Nakate found herself cropped from a picture and dialogue as the only African on a youth panel in the Davos World Economic Forum. She said the erasure “showed how we are valued.”

Many other climate activists of colour have described similar experiences of tokenism. Māori and disability rights campaigner Kera Sherwood-O’Regan (Kāi Tahu iwi from Te Waipounamu) found that as an Indigenous person at the UN climate conferences, organizers would suggest showing support and “passing the mic,” but the same people would be the ones taking up space in negotiations and speaking to the media.

At the same time, because I am Filipino-German and look ethnically ambiguous, it’s hard for me to emphasize the urgency or danger of climate activism as a Filipina—I am German too after all. Similar to what Colombian American climate activist Jamie Margolin said, my presence “toed a line between inclusion and exclusion.”

When I voiced my exasperation on Twitter, Jefferson Estela, a 21-year-old activist with Youth Strike 4 Climate Philippines, replied, “People are expecting us to do so many things, but when we ask for support no one hears us. White activists can protest whenever they want because they have homes, jobs, a huge amount of freedom of expression. BELIEVE ME, WE WANT TO DO BIG THINGS, but what's stopping us? A future and life that is at risk.”

Climate activism in Germany is mainstream thanks to the longevity and popularity of the German Green Party, which was formed in 1980. But generally the German climate movement is a white space, where there is little awareness of global inequality in the climate crisis.

Sometimes it’s the seemingly little things, like climate action meaning “die-ins,” lynching reenactments, or dancing in the street to disrupt public transport.

Sometimes it’s being asked time and again what whiteness, capitalism, and inequality have to do with climate change.

Other times it’s more major, like how activists here promote veganism as the single biggest way to reduce their carbon footprint, but ignore how people have been killed after protesting against the sourcing of plant-based foods like palm oil on Indigenous lands.

The movement’s failure to address these inequalities is ultimately why I found myself needing to walk away.

In recent years, the Philippines has had the highest number of environmental defenders murdered, where arrests and disappearances have been attributed to combating “communist insurgency.” Targeted groups include the Filipino research NGO I volunteered with during the UN climate conference in Bonn, Germany, and the Filipino women's collective Gabriela, which I also worked with in Berlin before I stepped back.

Anti-racism and anti-capitalism need to be made part of organizing. If “Green” policies fail to consider anti-racism and migrant rights, how is any person of colour supposed to feel voting for them or organizing in the same spaces?

Fortunately, there is now a growing BIPOC Environmental & Climate Justice Collective in Berlin, where we share these experiences of being silenced or tokenized and work together on how to link anti-racism and inequality in climate justice.

As Sherwood-O’Regan said, “As we grow and climate change becomes a harsher reality, privileged activists need to learn to de-centre themselves and meaningfully support Indigenous, disabled, queer, global south, POC, and other marginalized people who are on the frontlines of climate change.”

We need to feel respected and feel valued in our climate activism. Until the rest of the movement understands that our stories may also provide solutions, I am sharing my activism on my own terms.

Karin Louise Hermes has lived in Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, Hawai‘i, and the Philippines. She is currently a PhD Candidate in American Studies based in Berlin, Germany. Follow her on Twitter.

Have a story for Tipping Point? Email TippingPoint@vice.com.

This article originally appeared on VICE CA.

Why I Quit Being a Climate Activist syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[tipsycad147]

Who is the Goddess Demeter?

Demeter Greek Goddess of the Bountiful Harvest and the Nurturing Spirit. Demeter is both a Mother Goddess and an Earth Goddess.  As the Mother Goddess, she is a life-giver and source of nurturing, devotion, patience and unconditional love.    As an Earth Goddess, she brings life to the plants and crops in Spring, and teaches her people how to plant, harvest and use the grains. In Greek mythology, the Goddess Demeter was beloved for her service to mankind in giving them the gift of the harvest, the reward for cultivation of the soil.  As harvest Goddess, she taught humans how to grow, preserve and prepare the grain, and was also thought to be responsible for the fertility of the land. Demeter held a deep empathy for the suffering and grief of humans because she experienced it herself when her daughter Persephone was abducted by Hades and taken against her will to the underworld.  Persephone was also known as the child Kore, her father was Zeus the ruler of the Olympians. When Persephone was kidnapped by Hades, Demeter heard her screams but couldn't find her.  Demeter carried a torch and searched the world over for her beloved Persephone. While Demeter was searching she attracted the attention of Poseidon the Sea God who pursued her with lustful intent.  Demeter changed herself into a horse amidst a herd or other horses to trick Poisidon into thinking that she had escaped.  Unfortunately, Poseidon wasn't fooled and he turned himself into a stallion and had his way with Demeter. As Demeter continued to search for Persephone, she encountered an impoverished old man who invited her to dinner at his home.  Demeter refused saying that she must continue to search for her daughter, the old man said that he understood and wished her well and said that he understood her worry and unhappiness because he had a son at home who was dying.  Demeter took pity on the old man and went with him to visit the son.  Along the way, she picked some poppies.  When they arrived at the home of the old man and his dying son, Demeter kissed him on the cheek and restored his health with her love. Along the way, she encountered Hecate, who advised her to speak with Helio, goddess of the sun who had been riding in her chariot (the sun) in the sky and may have seen what had happened to Persephone. Helio told Persephone that she had seen Hades abduct Persephone who was now Hade's wife and Queen of the Underworld.  Helio also told Demeter that it was none other than Zeus, Persephone's father who gave Hades permission to abduct her. Demeter was extremely angry with Zeus and all of Mount Olympus, she swore that she would withdraw her Divine duties, the earth would become barren until Persephone was restored to her.  Disguised as an old woman took refuge in the city of Eleusis where she met two young daughters at the well who invited her to return home with them.  At the girl's house was their mother who was holding her newest baby boy, seeing the mother loving her child created such longing and melancholy in Demeter that she became even more unhappy and refused to speak.   The whole household tried everything to restore Demeter's happiness with no success until one of the household servants named Baubo sat with her joking and making lewd comments until finally Demeter smiled then laughed.  Her good humour restored she was hired to be the nursemaid for the infant son.

Demeter soon came to love the infant Demophoon and decided to make him immortal.  One evening as Demeter was performing rites to make Demophoon immortal his mother came in and freaked out.  Apparently, part of the ritual for immortality involves holding the infant's feet over the fire and Demophoon's mother didn't understand that Demeter wasn't hurting the baby and she began to scream.  This startled Demeter into dropping her "old woman" disguise and revealing her true Goddess beauty;  she then berated the woman for stopping the ritual that would have made her son immortal.  She demanded that a temple be built in her name and after it's completion she sat alone in her depression and grief for her lost daughter.  The earth was still barren, no crops grew and an unending winter came upon the land. With the earth in perpetual winter, Zeus soon began to see that he had made a grave mistake when he allowed Hades to abduct Persephone. Zeus apologized to Demeter and asked her to return to her duties and restore the land.  Demeter refused until Persephone was restored to her.  Zeus sent Hermes to command Hades to release Persephone. Persephone, upon hearing the news, rejoiced for she had missed her mother sorely.  As she was leaving, Hades offered her a pomegranate to eat. Persephone had refused all food while she had been in the underworld, and was very hungry. Because Persephone knew that those who ate anything in the underworld were not allowed to return to earth she ate only the seeds.  Hermes brought Persephone home to her mother at last and Demeter restored the fertility to the earth. Because Persephone had eaten the pomegranate seeds, she would have to return to the underworld for 4 months of each year.  Each year Demeter misses her daughter and withdraws her favours from the earth for the 4 months that we call winter, but Persephone returns each spring bringing life, flowers and abundance to the land. Demeter was not pleased that Persephone had eaten the pomegranate seeds and would have to return to the underworld for four months during each year, but was otherwise overjoyed to be reunited with her daughter. Happily, Demeter resumed her divine duties and restored the fertility of the earth.  Each year the goddess Demeter longs for her absent daughter and withdraws her favours from the earth for a period we know as winter, but Persephone returns each spring to end her desolation. Demeter decided to return to her Temple where she developed the Eleusian mysteries, a series of profound religious ceremonies that taught her initiates how to live joyfully and how to die without fear.  Sacred rites were held at Eleusis in March and September to coincide with the sowing and the harvesting of the grain. Sacred to the Goddess Demeter Symbolism : Cornucopia, Sheaves of Wheat, carries a torch to help search for Persephone Birth and Genealogy: Daughter of Cronus and Rhea and mother of Persephone. This Goddess had five siblings all of whom played important roles in Greek mythology, they included: Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, Hestia, and Hera. Sacred Animals:  Pigs and snakes (her chariot was pulled by two winged serpents). Sacred Birds: Screech owl. Sacred Plants:  Wheat and barley, penny royal a type of mint  (part of a drink consumed at her temple in Eleusis)  the poppy (her priestesses wore poppies as her emblem), the chaste tree and sunflowers Incense: frankincense, myrrh

http://sacredwicca.jigsy.com/demeter-

[stacylaughs]

April 25 - May 3, 2019

I had some misconceptions of the City of Light before I arrived, but honestly, I love it now. Paris is so beautiful I feel like I’m in a Disney movie when I’m there. 

The Eurotunnel connects the UK with the rest of the continent, so it’s recommended to take the Eurostar from London St Pancras International Station to Paris Gare du Nord, but that was more expensive than easyJet (£85.38 + £16.49 for hold luggage aka a checked bag). If you’re after a cheaper way to reach Paris, budget coaches make the 10-hour journey daily.

It seems like everyone speaks perfect English but they don’t want to, which is fair, as it’s their country I’m visiting. The worst part of Paris is the ongoing cloud of cigarette smoke everywhere, and partially because of this, I smelled some of the worst body odor on others, but also some people had the best perfume I’ve ever smelled before. So, hmm.

I flew into Paris Charles de Gaulle (CDG), and it was super easy to take RER and the Paris Métro into the city. The RER has its own separate charge, but I bought ten tickets for the Métro to get one free ticket. Then, using Google, it was very easy to map out directions for the rest of my trip.

The first night I stayed at St Christopher's Inn Canal for €26.90. I enjoyed the location, right by Canal St Martin, where it was easy to grab a drink or bite to eat, sit by the canal and enjoy Paris the local way. 

While there, I also enjoyed:

Parc des Buttes - A beautiful park that offers some of the best panoramic views over Paris. And it has a waterfall!

Parc de la Villette - This massive park houses museums, concert halls and theaters. Going down the SLIDE, and, then, seeing la geode was a highlight of my trip.

Pere Lachaise Cemetery - Spend an hour exploring one of the most prestigious and popular cemeteries in the world. Come pay your respects to Jim Morrison or Oscar Wilde.

Le Cent Quatre - An artist space hosting performances and events from all corners of the globe. Sit there and watch some local dance crews rehearse.

My favorite to place to stay was MIJE Fourcy Fauconnier Maubuisson for €28.37 a night, because of the location, within walking distance of L'As du Fallafel (the best!), Notre Dame Cathedral (can you believe the fire happened days before I arrived?!), and Saint Chapelle (simply gorgeous). I also stayed at Aloha Eiffel Tower for €27 a night, but did not like the location (more residential and so far south) or accommodation.

Just a few notes:

I was there for the riots they expected on May Day - the French being French, I suppose. Métro was not running and I wasn’t sure what would be open, so I saw Avengers: Endgame, which was a great three hours!

I ate croissants for every breakfast, baguettes with fresh cheese and cured meats for lunch, and casseroles and steak frittes for dinner. I made sure to have eclairs and meringue, but regret not having macarons or a crêpe smothered in Nutella chocolate spread from vendors on the street. 

If you scheduled your days right, you could get a museum pass to save money, but I couldn’t be bothered to see so many things in a short period. A lot of Paris museums are free the first Sunday of the month, which would be great if you’re around, but I’m sure they’re very busy.

The Musée d’Orsay was disorganized in layout, in my opinion, but I thoroughly enjoyed the entire top floor. I purchased the joint ticket (€21) which included the Rodin Museum, which was just alright. Had to see The Thinker, I guess.

If you spent 60 seconds looking at each of the objects at the Louvre (€17), going steadily for eight hours a day, it would take you 75 days to see them all. It is simply enormous. I chose to book a 2-hour tour on Airbnb with Hugo ($43.61), which was well-worth it.

I personally enjoyed the bookstore, Shakespeare & Company, because I found a quiet corner to read a book for an hour -- but I understand most people find it chaotic. 

I loved walking around the Montmartre district and up to Basilica of the Sacré Coeur, but didn’t make it to Moulin Rouge (nearby). 

Visit the Champ de Mars and then walk around the iconic Eiffel Tower or pay to take the stairs up for views over the city (because the elevator takes too long).

Spend a day at the Palace of Versailles (€27)! Check out Kaitlyn’s guide to Versailles here. I’ll never forget the swans swimming in the grand canal at sunset.

I enjoyed drinking Angelina’s hot chocolate while walking through Tuileries Garden and then along the Seine River.

I liked viewing the ceiling of Galeries Lafayette Haussmann and jumping on the suspended trampoline. 

I flew out of Paris Orly Airport (ORY) because it was closer, and a convenient €19 Uber ride. I did have to search my flight number on Google to figure out my terminal, because it was nowhere on my ticket or invoice.

I’d really love to return to Paris and visit these spots (in no particular order): Moulin rouge, Opera garnier, Refuge des fondus, Phonomuseum, the catacombs, Luxembourg Gardens, Grand Palais, Musée national des arts asiatiques, Pompidou centre (national museum of modern art), Église Saint-Eustache, Bistro Paul Bert, Merci department store, La Gaite Lyrique, Anticafe work spaces, Harry NY bar (where Bloody Marys were invented), Arc de Triomphe, Pierre Herme pastry, Popelini cupcake, and Centre Pompidou.

[easkyrah]

Aeonian AU Series part 1

A Nessian Greek Mythology based fic and a darker twist to this ship. There will be this Aeonian series (Nessian) and an Antiscians series (Elorcan). 

“Well, aren’t you a little ray of pitch black?”

Aeonian 1

I.

“Poor Nesta,” Ianthe chided. “No longer a virgin.”

Nesta’s fingers wrapped around her fork, tightly gripping the cold metal.

“No God would want a deflowered woman,” the blond crooned. “Especially one who thinks she knows her place.”

The brown-haired woman stabbed at a piece of salad, and shoved it into her mouth. Chewing slowly on the hard leaves, she quelled the chaotic waves surging within her. She refused to give into her anger—to allow the resurfacing memories of Tomas to have the last hold on her.

“You always talked about not wanting a God.” The other female smiled, sharp as a blade. “I guess Tomas Mandray really did you a favor.”

That was the last straw for Nesta. Yes, no God would want to claim a non-virgin—which was perfectly fine with her, especially after all Feyre had been accounted for, still missing to this day—but for Ianthe to dare—have the audacity to—rub assault in her face, even from the dark times of three years ago—

The eldest Archeron sister twirled the fork in her fingers, staring hard at the dried, yellow leaves and mottled, squished fruit in front of her. It was against the law to attack a priestess, but an even greater sin to murder the village’s Head Priestess.

But no one said anything against accidents.

With a flick of her wrist, Nesta sent the fork flying out her hands and at Ianthe’s right eye.

A perfect execution. A warning that a line had been crossed. A sign that they would never see eye to eye—that Nesta’s gaze would never waver. Unblinking, and unflinching. 

A loud gasp escaped from Nesta’s mouth, and she lunged forward, knocking Ianthe to the floor. The High Priestess’s shrill pierced the air, and Nesta moved quickly, digging the edge of the fork deeper, twisting the metal. Even through the metal, she could feel the edges grinding against the root, white and pink liquid swirling.

“I’m so sorry!” Nesta cried. She pretended to feebly shake the hand gripping the fork in Ianthe’s eye and slipped on a mask of horror, climbing on top of the over female so the Priestess could not escape. Nesta’s hair fell across her face, a shadowed curtain—and she allowed Ianthe to see the dark smile cutting across hers face, sharper and deeper than any mortal blade.

For three years, the darkness’ isolation had cultivated into something icier and harsher—a ghost of a phantom whirling within her. She’d shown Ianthe just a pinch.

As the High Priestess shrieked, bodyguards stormed into the diner, clad in plates of metal, faces shadowed by a thick, black masks. Nesta allowed the memories of three years ago to consume her, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Loosening her grip on the fork, she curled into herself, rocking on her heels.

The nearest guard grabbed her elbows and set her roughly onto her feet.

“What the hell happened?” he gruffly ordered, shaking her shoulders.

Ianthe let out a hiss, but Nesta’s contempt was a gaping abyss full of raw will.

The eldest Archeron sister harshly rubbed away stray tears seeping down her cheeks, and forced down the sick smile threatening to erupt across her face. “The High Priestess came out of nowhere—” Nesta hiccuped “—my reflexes spun out of control—”

“Psychopath!” Ianthe screeched. “Chain her! Whip her!”

When the guard reached out for her, Nesta collapsed onto her knees, and laid her palms against the Priestess’s heart. “Forgive me,” she loudly cried. “I meant no malice.”

She leaned in closer to Ianthe’s face, as if she were to kiss her cheeks, the fallen woman sobbing and shuddering. Nesta brushed a finger against the golden-haired woman’s forehead as an almost tender caress, and wrapped her hand around the emblem pinned to Ianthe’s robes. Pressing her lips against the High Priestess’ ear, Nesta whispered, “Now you can see half the darkness I do.”

Ianthe kicked upwards, trembling fingers grasping the hilt of the fork. Nesta rolled off of the blue-robed woman, burying her hands into her pockets and hunching her shoulders—the image of a thoroughly scared woman.

Ianthe’s throat elicited squeaks of gagging and gurgling noises, but her right eye pinned on Nesta’s form. Her mouth pinched, then hissed out, “Put her in an empty cell!”

The guard trapped Nesta’s wrists, tugging her away from the High Priestess. Two more went at her sides, caging her in. Little did they know cornering a wildcat, bred from the savageness only the true seers of society saw, would end in detrimental dysfunction. 

Nesta schooled her features into a blank, empty face, struggling within the solid grip. She spared a glance towards the blue-robed woman. “The only cells missing are those in your eye.” 

Stepping over the boots and knocking herself forward as she were tripping, Nesta twisted herself out of the guard’s grasp, using the falling momentum to bring him down on his back.

Plates of metal lumbered towards her, and Nesta tore out the the diner, blocking the sounds of Ianthe’s feeble cries of my eye, my eye, my eye over and over again.

Fixing her sleeve, a darker and sharper smile shot over Nesta’s face.

She didn’t even have to pay for that shit excuse of a meal.

II.

Nesta stole through the night and into the forest. Here, the darkness draped over her already black-clad frame. She knew this path at the back of her mind, weaving through thick tree trunks and sailing over high-branched roots. Slowly, the heavy clanging sounds of armor receded from her ears. Nonetheless, Nesta picked up her pace.

Ever since Feyre had been taken three years ago and Tomas had yanked her into a barn, Elain and Nesta had taken refuge in seven villages—this one included. Both Archeron sisters turned into wanderers, fleeing with the wind. Trust was reduced to bread crumbs, and even they could barely afford for the tiniest slice.

What God had taken Feyre—Nesta had no idea, but had her suspicions. It had been any other morning, Nesta serving buttermilk pancakes while Elain had went up to fetch Feyre from the drawing room. Rather than seeing their middle sister painting with her hair twisted up into a messy bun, the stench of alcohol and grapes had permeated the room.

Elain had screamed. Nesta came up running with a knife in her hand.

Feyre’s hunting clothes had been strewn all over the floor, a purplish-green scrap of fabric littering across a canvas. It was as if the their middle sister had given them a warning and a signal that she’d been claimed—by a God.

Nesta knew the rules. When Gods claimed humans, they dressed them in their ornamental colors and symbols. Yet green and purple were common colors, even found among the varying masses of minor Gods.

It was then Nesta banished all hope of desiring to be claimed by a God. She’d once dreamed, among the others, to be one with another force, to see through another set of eyes, and to ascend the mortal limits.

She’d once set apples and pears along the mantle of Athena, the one God she’d revered the most. Three years ago, she’d pray to the God of Wisdom, asking for guidance. Now all she did was pray to the minor Gods of vengeance and fear, demanding divine retribution for those who had wronged her—because it hadn’t just been her who’d been afflicted and twisted.

Nesta had watched Elain spiral into the coldness as well. The youngest Archeron no longer made honeyed offerings to Demeter, the goddess of the Earth. Instead, the roses the youngest Archeron grew turned dark and far more thorny, picking their fingers as if lines of blood served as penance. 

It was as if the darkness of the demons had descended upon the Archeron sisters.

No happiness, no protection, no understanding.  

A branch snagged the sleeve of her arm, and Nesta hissed. Despite the village’s soldiers pursuing her and having to move to another village, she felt oddly safe and warm, a blanket of false security coating her.

Perhaps it was because she’d stolen the golden emblem from the High Priestess, the coin tucked securely under her sleeve. The price would last them another to journey to another village.  

The moon casted swirls of strange colors of white against the darkness and the green of the forest. She slowed to a walk, taking in her surroundings. The branches hunched low, creating scattered, estranged shadows curving in odd shapes. Nesta slowly angled her body and slid through a cluster of vines.

The myths had become reality a long time ago, the Gods deciding to end their supposed boredom in waiting. The beginnings of their reappearance into society was more than often bloody, spurring jealously in both claiming humans rampant and in being desired to be claimed.

Their father had worshiped Hermes, the messenger God, and named the Archeron fortune in his name. Nesta had considered it justice when a business company across the sea had sunk their father’s ship, and had stolen every commodity on board.

Their father had never returned the sail back, his reputation reduced to a merchant following the God of Thieves who saw the end, robbed of life and fortune.

The obsession with the Gods had seen the decline in family values, many children left alone or pitted against each other. Their father had been no exception, travelling to Athens, Greece, in hope of appeasing Hermes.

Death had been his answer.

While Nesta believed it to be foolish to devote a lifetime in praying for Gods, the higher beings indeed chose humans. Those taken under their wing received immortality. It could be eons before Feyre would be brought back to them willingly and unwillingly, and there was a high chance Nesta and Elain would be six feet under in a coffin or reduced to ashes by that time.  

It had taken Feyre’s kidnapping for Nesta to realize that being trapped in a powerful body with no regard for lesser creatures and their emotions and past was something she did not want.

So by the fifth village that had been outcasted to, she’d stopped praying and stopped her offerings.

Elain had followed suit.

Both sisters had been shunned from their original village in consequence.

Now that Nesta had harmed Ianthe, it looked like they’d have to move again. Whisperings of rumors and fault had followed the Archeron sisters as they traveled, and it never seemed the words would never cease.

Cursed.

Yet solace stirred within her, and Nesta scowled at the feeling akin to comfort’s cost crawling within her.

Elain would be beyond worried by now. Nesta knocked away the thin branches and ducked under a canopy of large ivies she knew would reveal a large clearing only a couple of meters away from their temporary home. Soon, she’d be running in the veil of the night, holding Elain’s thin hands again.

Her head rammed into steely hardness.

She rubbed her nose and slowly backed up.

Seething, Nesta untucked a dagger hidden under her sleeve, and pushed the wall forward with her other hand.

It didn’t move.

Squinting through the darkness, Nesta realized that streaks of dark, dried red pooled down silver plates, sheer power exuding from the figure.

A soldier.

The amount of blood could only mean a dead man.

But if a soldier was here, then the chances of Elain’s safety was very low. She had to get out of here, quickly and quietly. 

Cursing under her breath, she turned around back under the canopy, but a gloved hand with a huge, red jewel pulsating at the center lashed out and captured her wrist.

It was a solid grasp, almost crushing her bones.

This was not the ordinary soldier’s strength. And it was a very much alive man.

She dropped the dagger into her other hand and sliced it vertically towards the hand.

Her blade merely bounced off, falling to the ground.

With a yank, the hand jerked her back against a chest of steel and coldness. Yet Nesta felt warmth pour over every vein and crevice in her body.

The male towered over her, dark, hazel eyes cramming into her own soul, sheer strength emanating from him, broad shoulders with muscles roping around an enormous form.

A purebred, dangerous warrior.

Those piercing orbs raked over her, starting from the bottoms of her torn boots to over her clothes and under the slope of her breasts, up to her collarbone and into her own stormy eyes. Black boots, black pants, black sleeves—and if he looked close enough, he’d see a black painted heart.

A brow flicked up. “Whose funeral?”

Nesta shuddered at the low, husky voice that shot down her spine. She refused to be weak again—the last time she was in a male’s embrace three years ago. She would not be fooled again.

“Get off me,” she hissed instead, and squirmed fruitlessly in his grasp.

His dark inked hair and ruggedly shaven face rang a bell, but Nesta didn’t care, not when Elain had been alone far too alone. The predatory glint in the male’s face heightened memories of three years ago, but her body remained strangely calm and soothed.

“That’s no way to treat a God.”

Nesta realized the blood seeping from the armor was not from the male’s, but a head hanging from the canopy above, a thin river of red raining down.

Nesta arched her own brow. “I’d suggest planning his funeral soon.” She could see the outlines of the dead body strung along vines and branches, gutted and torn apart.

The male shrugged. “If you want to plan a murdering liar’s funeral, then be my guest.” The arm around her waist hitched up to rub circles across her back, almost daring her to string the body back to pieces.

Nesta didn’t find the action disturbing, but rather reassuring. Perhaps he was a minor god in infatuation or magic along those lines. The gaze no longer seemed of predatory possessiveness, but of amused affection. 

A dangerous smile appeared on those rough-hewn features, as those seemingly pulsing eyes studied her. “I like women who can handle blood.”

“I like men who can respect boundaries.” Nesta damned her cover and swore if he didn’t let her go, she’d scream—even if it meant drawing the village’s soldiers here.

The male seemed to read her thoughts. “You think humans are match for a God?”

Nesta didn’t reply, and cursed her own traitorous body sinking into the comfort and warmth the male seemed to offer.

He leaned in closer, a hand stroking her hair. “A match for the God of War?”

Nesta’s eyes widened. “You lie.”

It was one thing to meet a demi-God or a minor God, but one of the Twelve Olympians?

“Now why would I lie, sweetheart?” The God leaned down and brushed his mouth against her ear. “Especially to one I want to claim?”

Another last straw for Nesta. She lashed out, but the God easily cupped her knee cap with one hand—just hovering over the V of his hips—and the other hand flattening a palm against her back.

“A cheap shot.” A grin.

Nesta went up on her toes, her hands cupping the God’s cheek. His skin was warm and sent delicious trills down her. The God leaned down as well, his eyes darkening, a low growl erupting from his throat, hands folding around her waist. Just before his lips closed on hers, Nesta’s knee collided with her aim.

It was a pity his armor covered his torso, but the God still doubled over in pain, a foul curse leaving his mouth.

Nesta didn’t wait before she sprinted around the clearing and to the house where Elain was waiting. Running past the locked front door, she hurdled over a bush into the back.

Slipping through the window and into their shared room, Nesta grabbed her bag, stuffing the nearest clothes into the brown material.

A frail figure rose from the tiny bed, and Elain rubbed her eyes. “Nesta?” she whispered, a sigh of relief escaping her chapped lips.

“Pack,” Nesta ordered. “We’ve got to move again.”

Elain immediately hauled herself out of the bed, rapidly opening all the tiny cupboards and sweeping the contents into bags. “What was it this time?”

“Ianthe, soldiers, and a God.” Nesta folded all the blankets and stuffed the pillows.

“The High Priestess?” Elain said, heading to the bathroom. When she emerged, all the toiletries had been zipped into bags and stuffed into a larger sack. “What God?”

A God of War.

One that made her feel alive instead of merely existing.

Instead, Nesta said, “Just a minor one.” She beckoned Elain to head to the kitchen so pack their last rations, the cold air seeping into their skin. She gave the guards about another hour before they found their refuge.

Locking the window shut, Nesta froze when Elain’s scream shattered the air. The oldest Archeron’s blood ran cold, the hair on her arms prickling. Not again, not again, she desperately prayed to anyone listening. She didn’t know what she would become if her another God took her other sister from her.

But that was what he was compared to them.

“Just a minor God?” the God tsked his tongue, staring at Nesta—as if Elain were invisible and as if he could consume Nesta right there and then.

“Get out of my house,” she seethed, and nudged Elain away.

Elain levelled Nesta with a clipped stare. “Really, Nesta? The God of War? Ares?”

Ares.

The name sent shivers down her spine. It made the situation too real, too risky. By no means was this some minor God, as Elain had realized, trembling. 

She supposed it was the small mercies—the God allowing Elain to bolt away—that mattered.

An eyebrow cocked towards her. “It’s won’t be your house much longer will it, Nesta?” When she didn’t answer—her veins on fire—he pushed further. “Guards are searching for you and closing in. I smell all sorts of war, and the encounter will not leave either of you—” the God briefly glanced at Elain—“unharmed.”

“What do you want?”

The God rose from the chair, the darkness wavering around him. The red jewels on top of each of his gloves exuded another type of power. A set of dimples winked down on her and those deep, brown eyes stared unfathomably at her. “I want to claim you.”

Nesta swallowed. This was her last defense, her last barrier to remain free: “I’m not a virgin.”

With swiftness beyond reason, the God moved so he was in front of her. He studied her eyes and the pulse along her throat—the fury and the rage in her own eyes and the quicker, beating pulse in memory of three years ago. Seconds passed before his eyes narrowed, and he gutted out, “Who?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You resist my claim, and the guards will be here sooner than you think.”

Nesta shivered. “Then you’re just as bad as him.”

The male who had taken her away three years ago.

The God of War looked down at her, and gently reached out a hand, traced with scars and bruises. When she didn’t bat it away, his knuckles slowly caressed her cheek. “I can help you, sweetheart.”

She’d wasted enough time. “Help is just another word for control.”

“Who hurt you,” the God snarled, the red stones flaring. Lethal dark oozed from them.

A crash sounded from the other side, and Elain meekly peeked up from under the countertop. “I packed all the kitchenware.”

The God of War didn’t spare a glance in the other direction, determinedly staring into her soul—seeing the darkness. “I can help you and your sister. You’ll be safe. You won’t have to run again.”

“At what cost?”

He leaned down so that his forehead touched hers. Warmth shot through her at the contact, and in that moment, she felt safer than she’d even been in his life.

“I claim you,” he murmured, voice dark and dangerous, deep and deadly. “As mine.”

“And if I refuse?”

A glimmer of amusement in those hazel eyes. “I hear cells in this village are quite cold.”

“Threatening a mortal?”

“What can I say, sweetheart?” A cocky, dark grin, honed from insanity and lunacy in the battlefield. “All’s fair in love and war.”