Zeus claims the sky as
his domain, free and open and pure, and his it becomes.Hades goes to the
underworld, and it’s messy and horrible and heartbreaking, but he claimes it
uncontested, and his it becomes.Poseidon goes to the sea,
but it already has a sovereign.~
His first though is that
she’s beautiful. Skin the color of pearls and hair the dark, rich green of
seaweed. She’s tall with the type of aristocratic bone structure that would
make him think her delicate if not every other aspect of her was as fearsome as
Hera at her most irritable.“You come to my land
seeking to make it your own,” she says, and she’s not quite walking and not
quite swimming as she circles him. “Who are you to rule the sea?”He clears his throat, and
he’s a powerful god, he and his brothers are the most powerful gods that still
exist on this earth, but his knees shake before her. It’s not a good feeling. It’s
not infatuation – it’s fear. “I am Poseidon.”She tilts her head, and
her pretty blue eyes are as cold as sea floor they stand in. “Goodbye, Poseidon.
Perhaps your brother will be able to find what’s left of your corpse in his
underworld.”The water whips around
him, doing its best to rip him apart, forcing itself into his lungs and
suffocating him. He didn’t think he could drown, but he might be about to be
proven wrong.Then a net closes around
him, pulling him up so he breaks through the surface and takes a large,
grateful gulp of air. He’s hauled over the side of a boat and dumped on its
floor, the person who saved him wildly fighting the angry waves. “You must have
really pissed the Lady off,” a light, teasing voice says. Poseidon is still
coughing, his eyes watering and lungs screaming. This boat is going to capsize
and they’ll both die, so he doesn’t get how this person can sound so lighthearted.Except they’re not. Their
little boat is being expertly handled against the thrashing waves. Poseidon
blinks, and he’s inclined to say the person sailing is a woman, considering the
budding breasts and hips. But the hair is cut short, and the chiton is designed
for a man.“What’s your name?” he
asks.“Caeneus,” his unexpected
rescuer answers.That’s a man name, and
Poseidon opens his mouth to questions it – then closes it again. “Thank you,”
he settles on, “You saved my life.”Caeneus finally steers
them to land, and Poseidon dismounts to help him pull and anchor his boat to
shore. “Anytime,” he says cheerfully, “What did you do to make the Lady so mad,
anyway?”“You know her?” he asks,
staring. This man appears to be a mere mortal, yet how could a human know that
woman?He grins at Poseidon and
points out to the glittering sea. “We all do. She is the ocean itself, and just
as powerful and unknowable. You better be careful not to anger her again – I don’t
know anyone who’s survived her wrath twice.”“Right,” he says blankly,
even though that’s unavoidable. He’s to be the god of the sea, and if he has to
wrest the mantle of monarch from her corpse then so be it.Caeneus claps him on the
shoulder, his work-roughed palm more comforting than anything else Poseidon has
known since escaping his father’s stomach. “Come to mine, you look half dead. I’ll
make you something warm.”He takes a long look at
his savior. Skin a dark shade of brown, and his eyes are amber in the setting
sun. His black hair is cut short, and the muscles of his arms and legs shift
with each moment. “Very well,” he answers, and is inordinately grateful that he’s
too cold to blush.~
Caeneus takes him to his
home, a hastily constructed shack on the beach’s edge. The wind whips through
the cracks in the wood so that no matter where you stand you’re always chilled.
“This is the worst woodwork I’ve ever seen,” he says. He slides his hand across
the wall and is completely unsurprised when it comes away with splinters.“I’m a sailor, not a carpenter,”
Caeneus answers, intent on mixing together a bunch of ingredients Poseidon only
half recognizes. “It stay upright.”“Barely,” he returns,
cupping his hands around the cup that’s shoved at him.Caeneus doesn’t ask him
to leave. Instead they squeeze onto Caeneus’s too small bed. Poseidon curls around
the smaller man, tangling their legs and tucking Caeneus’s head under his chin.
“You’re so warm,” Caeneus murmurs, half asleep already, and Poseidon’s heart
clenches.He makes sure he’s asleep
when he carefully, so carefully, lowers his head and brushes his lips against Caeneus’s
cheek.~
When Poseidon wakes up,
the sun is bright and Caeneus is gone.He should go marching
back to the ocean, but first he has something important to do. He’s just not
sure how to go about it.He can’t ask Zeus, his
younger brother knows plenty of war and not much else. Which leaves –It’s easy enough to slip
into the underworld, although he regrets doing so the second he arrives. It’s
almost completely dark, and lonely. Lost souls are immediately reaching for
him, cold hands brushing against his skin.“What are you doing?” a
familiar voice demands, and Poseidon nearly wilts in relief when Hades appears
at his side and guides him away from the wailing souls. “It’s not safe here.”“What’s wrong with them?”
he asks, glancing back, his chest clenching at sympathy at their cries even
though he knows there’s nothing he can do for them.They slip through the
realm, and they land in front of a partially built stone castle. The goddess Hecate
guides them construction with her magic, her visage that of a young child since
it’s still morning in the mortal realm.Hades sits on the ground,
and the skin beneath his eyes is dark and bruised. He looks like a strong wind
would blow him over. “Nothing, everything, I don’t know. I’m working on it. Why
are you here?”“I don’t suppose you know
how to build a house?” he asks, though he doesn’t expect much. It seems he’s
not the only one having trouble claiming authority over his domain.His brother laughs, eyes
crinkling at the corners. “You’ve come to the wrong sibling, little brother.”Oh. That’s true. “Do you
think she’ll help me?”“Yes,” Hades answers,
lips still twitching. “Now leave me to my anarchy, I have more than enough
trouble to deal with without you causing more.”That’s fair enough.
Poseidon heads to Olympus
next, careful to peer around corners to avoid Zeus and Hera. Their marble
palace is already constructed, and he tamps down on the bitterness that they
rule unchallenged. In the center of the throne room, next to a roaring fire,
sits Hestia.“Sister,” he greets,
tentative. “I need help building a home.”She looks from her fire
to him, and when she smiles he feels all his tension drain from his shoulders. “Of
course, little brother. If it is help you require, then it is help you shall
have.”Hestia tears apart the
shack with a flick of her hands, says, “I’ll ask Demeter for some better wood,”
and is gone and back in the blink of an eye. They build it by hand after that,
and Hestia’s soft voice guides him whenever he hesitates or stumbles. They are
gods, so it doesn’t take too long, and when they finish they have a small,
beautiful house right on the edge of beach, one with a large bed and lots of
light, one with a fire pit in the center that has Hestia’s name inscribed in
the bottom so that she may look over this home she helped build.“Thank you,” Poseidon
says, the sun beginning to set.Hestia winks at him, “Anytime,
little brother,” and is gone in the next moment.He hopes Caeneus likes
it. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to stick around to find out.He has a queen to
challenge.~
He finds her again, in
her palace of polished rock at the bottom of the sea.“There’ll be no helpful
sailor to save you this time,” she says, head tilted to the side. Already the
water is colder around him, the current stronger.He swallows, “I am
Poseidon. I am to be the god of the sea.”She glances him over,
unimpressed. “Why do you want it so badly? There is nothing about you that is of
the sea.”“I am a god,” he answers
blankly, and doesn’t say that it was this or the underworld, and that wasn’t a
mess he was willing to take on.She snorts, a flicker of
amusement appearing in her emotionless gaze. “You are too soft, and too kind,
to ever be a master of the sea.” He opens his mouth, but she raises a hand, and
he closes it. She takes slow, deliberate steps towards him, and he swallows and
doesn’t look away. “I will make you a bargain, Poseidon, god of nothing.”“I’m listening,” he
answers, and tries not flinch when she places a cold hand against his chest.“I am Amphitrite,” she
says, “sister of Gaia, and I have lived long before your conception, just as I
will live long after your death.” Poseidon pales, and oh, he had no idea the class being he was dealing with here. This
is very, very bad. “If you wish to rule the sea, then you must rule me.”He swallows, “Lady, I – a
thousand apologies, I did not know–”“Silence.” His mouth
clicks shut. “I was born as I am, and I will die that way. But – I need not
live this way.” He doesn’t understand, and she must see that, because she
touches her own chest and says, “I have a heart as cold and dark as the oceans
I bore. I will give it to you, and I and the sea will be yours to command. But
I require your heart in return, so that I may know kindness and softness.”He doesn’t know what to
say. Hearts aren’t things to be given away lightly. But he must become lord of the sea.“Take time, if you must,”
she says, that same cold amusement in her eyes. “I am as immovable as the ocean,
and I will be here when you make up your mind.”He’s propelled up and
onto the shore, far more gently this time around.“POSEIDON!” he barely
turns when a body slams into him, and lips press against his. Caeneus pins his
wrists to the sand and kisses him, long and slow and more than distracting
enough to make him forgot about the offer from the personification of the sea
itself. “You built me a house,” he murmurs, “You built me a house.”“Do you like it?” he
asks, dazed.Caeneus grins above him,
wicked and beautiful, and rolls his hips into Poseidon’s. “Come with me, and I’ll
show you how much I like it.”~
Poseidon means to go back
to the sea, to Amphitrite, but every morning Caeneus kisses him good morning.
He learns of the sea, though. He goes out with Caeneus each day and learns it
motions and its temper, the taste and smell of it. Learns how to understand it,
and learns how completely and totally uncaring it is, how the coldness of its
depth is the totality of it.The sea is not kind. It
has no sympathy, no love, no capacity for such small things as forgiveness or
mercy.He means to return to
her, but it becomes harder and harder every day.Days turn to weeks turn
to months. He and Caeneus grow closer, and closer, and Poseidon has no idea how
he’s supposed to turn his heart over to Amphitrite when it’s now held by a
mortal with amber eyes who leaves mouth shaped bruises all along Poseidon’s
collar bones.“Poseidon,” Caeneus says,
quiet in the oppressive stillness of the night, head on his chest and curled
into his side. The moon is large and high, and pools silver on their bedroom
floor. “You’re a god, right?”“I am,” Poseidon says,
amused. Caeneus knows what he is, but this is the first time he’s mentioned it.Caeneus pushes himself up
so he can look down at him, and Poseidon reaches up to cup his face. Caeneus
leans into it, covering his hand with his own. “Could you make me into a man?”“You are a man,” he says
automatically.He rolls his eyes and
pulls himself up so he can swing his leg over Poseidon, straddling his hips. “You
know what I mean.”Poseidon shifts enough
that both their breaths hitch, and he says, low, “No. I’m sorry. I’m not – I have
no domain, and my powers are limited.” He could maybe do it, but transformation is not among his natural talents,
and Caeneus is too precious to risk unless he is certain.He’s disappointed, but
smiles through it, and leans down to kiss him. “It’s all right.”It’s not. If Poseidon
were the god of the sea in more than name, if he had taken Amphitrite’s offer,
he would be able to transform his lover like he desires.He’s a god, brother of
Zeus, and he can’t give Caeneus the one thing he’s ever asked of him. What good
is he, what good is any of his power, if he can’t make the people he loves
happy?He’s flips Caeneus over
and kisses his neck so his lover won’t see the self-hatred that’s plain on his
face.~
Poseidon sneaks away in
the middle of the night, presses a soft kiss to his sleeping lover’s slack mouth,
and enters the ocean.“You’ve decided then?”
she asks, head tilted to the side.“I will not be a loyal
husband,” he declares, back straight. “I love Caeneus.”She laughs, and for the
first time he’s not afraid of her. “Do with your mortals what you wish. It’s no
concern of mine.”“Okay,” he says, and
steels himself. “Okay. I accept your offer Amphitrite, sister of Gaia.”She holds out her hand,
nails more like claws, and tears open her own chest without flinching. Her
blood slick and dark as it pours from her, swirling in the water around them
She pulls a dark, round thing from her chest and holds it out to him.“I,” he looks down at his
chest, and he doesn’t – he’s not sure if he can do what she’s done, and he
would feel foolish asking for a knife. She
steps forward and places her hand with its claws against his chest, slippery and
warm with blood, and cuts open his chest for him.It’s excruciating, and
his knees buckle against the pain of it. Amphitrite holds him up, and waits.She can’t to this part.
It has to be him. He reaches inside his chest and pulls out his heart, beating and
warm. He clumsily places it in her chest. It’s startlingly, violently red
against the dark green color of the rest of the inside of her. She does the
same, slipping her own heart into his chest.Their skin heals over
instantly. Amphitrite’s mouth drops open, and her cheeks flush pink. She
smiles, small and soft, and for the first time she looks – happy.Her heart in his chest
cold as ice, and its chill suffuses his body, edging out to fill him entirely.He can feel the ocean
now, all of it spread across the globe, the tides and the creatures the reside
in it, it’s plants and animals and nymphs. “It’s so much,” he says, and is surprised
at the sound of his own voice, at its curtness.“You feel only part of
it,” she says, stepping forward, “It is a force too powerful for a god to
control. I am a force to powerful for
a god to control. However, you hold my heart. As I will now obey you, so will
the sea.”“You could overpower me,”
he says clinically, knows the power she wields by what he can’t feel rather
than what he can.She presses a hand to his
chest, and they both startle. She’s warm now. She wasn’t warm before. Or
perhaps he has simply grown colder. “I could,” she says, “but I will not.”He has no reason to trust
her, but he’s painfully aware that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “I’m
going to Caeneus,” he says, and a sense of unease grows within him. Even the
shape of his lover’s name in his mouth doesn’t feel the same anymore.“Do as you wish, husband,”
she turns from him, going deeper into her – their – palace.This time, he uses his
own powers of the sea to push him to the surface.It’s not as satisfying as
he thought it’d be.gods and monsters series part x
Tag: theoi
‘The old gods are dead’ they tell you.
You smile and nod and wipe out another glass. Your eyes dart to the old man in the corner booth. You never see him come, but you always see him leave. Each night a new young lover on his arm.
You pretend not to see his wife watching with jealousy blazing in her eyes and peacock feathers printed on her dress. Her sharpened nails tap, tap, tapping a beat you can hear over the din.
‘If they were still around, where are they?’ They continue with a wild wave of their arm. The man next to them looks up and grins and raises his glass at you in a toast and buys them another round. It’s only after he’s turned away you realize his teeth were too sharp and that the glint in his eye was something more than delight.
On the stage a young man sings. He’s there every night with his golden guitar and his golden skin and his golden hair. He sings of love and loss and boys who fly too high, only to fall. You know the song, he plays it almost every night.
His sister stands in the corner, watching, on edge. You keep half an eye on her. She seems constantly in motion yet when you focus, she is still. Last week she broke a man’s arm. You never saw her move.
‘The old gods are dead.’ They say with finality.
You look around the room and meet old and tired eyes in hungry faces.
‘Maybe,’ you begin and pause as the room seems to go quiet, holding its breath. ‘Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough.’
-gods never die
This is beautiful.
Modern Greek Mythology
Hestia comforts the children of broken homes, she appears to
them as a school councilor that always has cookies. They cry in her arms, and
she lets them stay with her for as long as she can. She stopped calling home,
stopped making strongly worded comments to the parents. All there is left are
broken homes and suffering children.Hera sits next to her sister, holds her hand and thinks
about the broken marriages that lead to broken homes. She listens to the
couples yelling at each other while she walks on the streets. She holds the
crying women, she listens to the hopeless men. All of the power that a goddess
of marriage possesses cannot help the people who were betrayed by their closest
ones.After a long day, Demeter sits on the ground in her garden, holds
a cup of tea in hands that have dirt all over them. She wishes that more people
would remember what is under all of the concrete. She feels the dying of her
world, and curses those who do not care for it.
Goddess Hair
Hestia’s:
Soot trailing behind her, every strike of strands causes a glow, ashes threading the night. It beckons softly.
Artemis’s:
Split tree bark climbing ever higher, a bear’s hide, the deer’s antler, sharp and unforgiving.
Hera’s:
White clouds that rumble with thunder, wedding veils and golden crowns, grasp for it as it slips away.
Aphrodite’s:
Rocky depths of the seas, barnacle clad and growing seashells, the smell of salt and biting.
Hecate’s:
Smoke billowing outward, frankincense and sage sliding through the wisps. There is something hidden behind the curls.
Athena’s:
Dripping with sweat, blood draining down her shoulders, owl feathers loop, encrusted in the swords at the ends.
Persephone’s:
Vines swiftly cusp the sun, buds growing and dying and growing again, winter’s cold in her locks.
*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~
“Your tapestries are so
fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess
Athena.”Arachne tosses her
head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall,
“What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”The merchant blanches
and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy.
Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his
time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”He pays her for her
wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with
grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled
hands curled over a cane.Arachne is not stupid,
but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes
and declares, “Athena should thank me,
since my talents earn her so much praise.”She pushes past her and
keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the
crowd.They will tell tales of
her hubris. They will all be true.~
The next day she bumps
into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.“Know your place,
mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and
Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is
say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.She will not lie.
“I do,” she says
coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”She is not honest as a
virtue, but as a vice.Athena challengers her
to a weaving contest. She accepts.~
Gods are not so hard to
find, if you know where to look.“It’s a volcano,” the
baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking
money from someone who’s clearly not all there.She grabs her bag of
sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders,
“Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the
first dozen times.“Thank you for your
help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.She walks. She grows
hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The
sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s
tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to
overwhelm her.But Arachne does not
believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales
will be true.She ties a scarf around
her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to
her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and
begins her slow ascent.~
The muscles in her legs
and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white
dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body
and drips down her back.“What are you doing?”
Arachne turns her head
and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily
to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She
swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”The creature tilts his
head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be
smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”“Is it true?” she
repeats, refusing to flinch.“Yes,” he says, looking
at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”“There’s some sweet
bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”His hands are big
enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead
he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically
small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks
his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the
second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”“I’m the weaver
Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”~
They tell tales of
Hephaestus’s ugliness.They are not true.
He’s got a broad,
angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face,
and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs
only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire,
replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.“Had your look, girl?”
he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a
coughing fit.“Yes,” she says, and
doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.His lips quirk up at
the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside
the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that
she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me,
girl. What do you want?”She slides her pack off
her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have
woven her a cloak.”He raises an eyebrow
and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands
could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”They will tell tales of
her hubris.“Yes.”
They will all be true.
With a gust of wind the
oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place
stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her
husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest,
richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of
Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.“Let’s see it then,”
she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.It unrolls beautifully.
It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges.
The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up
along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and
her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced
artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.Her lips part in
surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus
says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take
offense.The goddess smiles and
Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite
is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the
goddess says, “you have my attention.”Arachne swallows.
Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says,
“She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”Their faces somber.
Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will
lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”“I know,” she says,
“you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”There are no tales of
their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why
wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both
happily married.Gods hate being made to
feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say
Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins
the weaving contest.“Clever girl,” Hephaestus
says, smiling.Aphrodite stares at her
reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus
left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says,
not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench
upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at
her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave
me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”A gown as exquisite as
the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.They will tell tales of
her hubris.“I accept.”
They will all be true.
~
The contest goes as
expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.The goddess’s face goes
red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the
death blow coming for her.The blow comes.
Death does not.
~
She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s
volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no
hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –She doesn’t believe in
defeat, in loss.It was a terribly long
journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she
has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in
between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of
sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.Athena’s cruel joke of
allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow
color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.~
It takes seven years
for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that
time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s
a large insect, but not that large.She arrives just as the
sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the
earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.Arachne doesn’t return
to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries
and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for
and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.“Huh,” Brontes looks
onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”She cautiously skitters
down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that
a piece of a honey bun?”She looks up at him,
waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand
–His face slowly fills with
a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?” She
jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his
massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”She jumps down, landing
in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running
after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too
small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for
several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself
out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”There’s that same
breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes,
that you had to yell?”Arachne sees the exact
moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made
entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush
down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”She warms at that, that
Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven
years.They’ve told tales of
her hubris.They are all true.
Brontes points at the
web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the
goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,”
she says, “but I know someone who can.”Then they are in front
of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess
Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”“Thanatos,” she
returns, “I need to see Persephone.”The man’s face stays
cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck
in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available
for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please
come with me.”~
Arachne weaves a dress
for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.“I can take you
somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”Arachne pauses at her
loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you
like me to leave?” she asks instead.Aphrodite scoffs, “Of
course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the
spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the
goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a
moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”She looks up at the
goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else
would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”To declare your company
equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.They tell tales of her
hubris.“An excellent point,”
Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.They are all true.
gods and monsters series part iii
Tell me a bedtime story.
His father told him: “Do not fly too high, because the sun will melt your wings, and you will fall. Do not fly too low because the salt water will soften the wax, and you will fall.”
He didn’t listen, because he never listened. He didn’t listen.
If he had – he would have realized. No matter what, he falls.
He falls.
~
Apollo was very pretty. He kissed Icarus’s skin and called him a darling boy, and soon every time sunlight hit his skin it felt like a lover’s touch. He said come to me, come to me, and I will worship you, my days are full and busy and I will not have much time for you – but my nights are yours.
Who could refuse a god? Who could have god offer to worship them when they are nothing more than an aging inventor’s child, and say no?
If he’d listened to his father, he would have known – the sun never truly sets, there is no night, only places where the sun is absent.
Maybe if he’d listened to his father he could have refused Apollo, could have told the golden god of sunlight that he was happy where he was.
(He wasn’t, but if Apollo was going to lie to him it only seemed fair that Icarus did it in return.)
But he never listens.
~
So Icarus flies too high, leaving his father behind. He thinks if he can fly high enough fast enough then Apollo will be able to catch him, pluck him from the struggles of this mortal world.
But Apollo doesn’t come for him, and his wings melt. He goes crashing into the sea, and he doesn’t even have the time to tell his father he’s sorry.
He would have told his father that he was sorry.
~
He doesn’t die.
Poseidon is powerful and curious and considers Icarus to be a beautiful, curious thing.
Icarus did not know he was beautiful. Poseidon runs powerful hands over his hips, and Icarus doesn’t think Poseidon and Apollo know the same definition of beauty that he does.
When he thinks of beauty he thinks of his father’s machines, of stone walls that have been smoothed down so perfectly that they almost shine silver, of shadows dancing elegantly from a fire’s grasp.
He doesn’t think he’s any of these things. He doesn’t know what they mean when they call him beautiful, but he doesn’t think he likes it.
~
He is tired. Poseidon is very demanding, and every time the god comes to his bed Icarus feels likes he’s dying. It would be easier if Poseidon were a worse man, but he’s kind and thorough and Icarus always ends up having been satisfied but never really feeling satisfied.
He expects Poseidon’s wife to be angry with him, to hate him. He bumps into Amphitrite in the hall once. He bows low at the waist immediately, “I’m deeply sorry, my lady.” He wonders if she’ll kill him. He wonders if he’ll care.
She laughs, and it sounds like calm waves lapping at a shore. She presses two fingers underneath his chin and forces him to rise, then gently tilts his head to the side so she can see the trail of bite marks her husband has left down his neck. “Better you than me, my dear.” She pats his cheek twice and walks away.
What does that mean?
~
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Not more than a decade, he thinks, though he hasn’t aged.
Nothing ever changes. The bite marks never truly fade before Poseidon adds more.
Icarus waits for Poseidon to be slumbering beside him one night before wrapping the sheet around his hips and tip toeing out of the room. He doesn’t hesitate before stepping outside of the palace walls, and instantly he’s drowning. He’s so deep in the sea that it’s a toss up about what kills him first, the pressure on his tender organs or the lack of air in his lungs.
Not that it truly matters. No matter what, Icarus dies.
~
He wakes up. Again.
“My lady,” he greets, bowing before a goddess with skin the color of potting soil and hair the richest red, like rubies, or – “Pomegranates,” he finishes, and Persephone, queen of the underworld, smiles.
She says, “I’ve had my eye on you.”
She says, “Amphitrite speaks well of you.”
She says, “I am gone six months out the year. My husband gets lonely.”
He’s dead. There’s nowhere else for him to go.
“Okay,” he says.
~
The snow begins to melt. Persephone leaves, and the underworld itself seems to mourn her absence. He waits tense in his room that first night, but no one comes.
Nor the second night.
Nor the third.
He can think of nothing more unpleasant than Persephone’s wrath, so on the fourth night he goes to Hades’s room. When the god answers he bows low and says, “Your wife the Lady Persephone sent me.”
Icarus doesn’t dare look up when Hades says, “My brother is quite cross with me. He came demanding you back. I was willing to hand you over, but my wife said she had use of you.”
He can’t return to Poseidon. It’s cold and dark and makes him feel worthless. Even if Hades is a harsh lover, he’s better than his brother. “She wishes me to provide you company. She says you get lonely.”
“Does she,” Hades drawls, and Icarus cringes. “Boy, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
So Icarus does. Hades has nothing to the perfect symmetrical beauty of Apollo, nor the wild strength and power of Poseidon. Hades has skin like bleached wood and hair the color of machine oil, with dark, expressive eyes and a nose a little too strong for his face.
He looks like a person. Like Icarus’s father might have looked as a younger man. Like Icarus might have looked if he was allowed to grow old. He looks beautiful.
“Come with me,” he sighs, “if my wife wants you to keep me company, then you shall.”
~
He follows Hades around everyday. As he maintains the circles of the underworld, the lost souls, attends to the gods and other non-dead things that make their home in his domain.
Icarus starts helping. Hades is without his queen, and what he would normally do with her he now does alone. So Icarus looks over the passenger logs for ferry over the River Styx, addresses the complaints that are grave enough to filter their way through the palace, and when Hades looks particularly tense and lost Icarus brings him pomegranates.
Hades still doesn’t sleep with him.
Icarus doesn’t know if he’s disappointed by that or not, but he thinks he’s happy here.
~
“You know,” Hades says one day while they’re looking over reports, “they call you Thanatos.”
Death god. “Why?” he demands. He’s not afraid of Hades anymore. When Hades is upset he screams and yells, then he goes and sits in the garden Persephone made for him. He doesn’t lash out to hurt.
Hades smiles and doesn’t answer.
~
Icarus is there to help Persephone off of the ferry. “He’s missed you,” he says, holding out his arm for her to use as balance while she steps out of the boat.
She raises an eyebrow, “You know, they used to call me Kore.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “Thank you, Thanatos.”
~
Two hundred years later, in the midst of summer, Icarus gathers his courage and kisses Hades while both their hands are stained with ink and another war has made the lower levels of the underworld smell like corpse rot.
Hades kisses him back.
In two months, Persephone will kiss him
for the first timeas he helps her out of the ferry. Sometimes when things get stressful or Hades is upset, Icarus will climb into his lap and kiss him slowly.
They never sleep together.
Icarus is happy here.
gods and monsters series: part i
I read that poem about Hestia and I like it, don’t get me wrong but I actually always view Hestia as a goddess of necessity, rather than one of luxury. She’s the safety of home and the nutrients of breakfast. She’s tea and coffee and all that, yes, but that’s hardly luxurious at least not when compared to the other Theoi esp Aphordite and Dionysus. Good poem though.
Au contraire dear anon! Just a glance at the Orphic Hymn 24 to Hestia indicates otherwise:
“Hestia, you who tend the holy house of the lord Apollo, the Far-shooter at goodly Pytho, with soft oil dripping ever from your locks, come now into this house, come, having one mind with Zeus the all-wise —draw near, and withal bestow grace upon my song.”
I would like to bring the focus to the phrase “with soft oil dripping ever from your locks”, because that is indicative of the luxury surrounding Hestia, and the Theoi as a whole.
Remember that the ancient world was a fairly smelly place. Running water was a rare occurrence, and daily or even weekly bathing was a luxury that few could afford. Domesticated animals such as goats and cows milled about the polis with the public, adding certain aromas to the marketplace. Without modern air conditioning, even the wealthiest of Hellenes were likely sweaty messes throughout the day, and commoners were a hopeless cause as far as keeping the stink out was concerned.
Remember that our modern alcohol-based perfumes didn’t come into vogue until the Elizabethan era, so perfumes were made up of scented oils, which required a much larger quantity to mask body odor and sweat. The wealthy were often smeared head to toe with oils and were particularly pungent with the scent of flowers and incense.
The ancients would have envisioned their gods in the same manner as their beautiful and wealthy citizens. One could imagine that the Theoi were exceedingly fragrant, and likely shined with the amount of oil that bathed their godly skins. Indeed, Hestia appears in the hymns as having oil “ever-flowing” from her hair. This is a symbol of the very luxury that exemplifies Olympos.
You’re correct that Hestia seems to be a “simpler” goddess than her siblings. However, this is indicative of her role as an intermediary between mortals and gods. She receives our prayers and takes them to the foot of her holy brethren, but even more importantly, she brings the light, glory, and yes, the luxury of immortality into our very homes. She is a light-bearer of the grace of the Theoi, and it does her, and us, a disservice to downplay that godly nature.
Hellenic Protection Blessing for LGBT Youth
May Hestia help your family to be more accepting of who you are, and not try to change you.
May Zeus help repeal any laws that put you in harm, or try to deny you any basic human right.
May Hera bless your current or future marriage, with a gorgeous ceremony where you and your beloved are entirely safe.
May Demeter make sure you have enough food during any dark times when you don’t know when your next paycheck or meal is.
May Poseidon keep you safe from harassment during those dreaded swim trips before transition.
May Artemis protect you from sexual assault, especially Her sapphic daughters.
May Apollo aid you with smooth hormone therapy, and surgeries without complications, especially His achillean sons.
May Athena give you the strength to deal with ignorant bigots, and explain your identity so they understand.
May Hermes help you stay financially secure through abusive homes and relationships, transition, lost jobs, and moving out.
May Aphrodite bless your love life to find a partner who understands and supports you, and so that you love yourself a little more.
May Hephaestus help you be creative in coming up with new ways to pass a little more, while still being safe.
May Ares help you protect yourself from people who wish you harm, so that you can fight back the oppression.
May Hades comfort your lost brothers and sisters who are now with Him, and help you keep hope.
May Dionysos protect His trans children from fatal self-hatred. There is nothing wrong with you, for Dionysos, a God, is just like you. You are lovely, and you are ethereal.
hey! do you have any songs you associate with any of the theoi?? (particularly hermes but i’m here for any)
Here are my favorites! In no particular order.
Zeus-
- Songs About Rain by Gary Allen
- Hurt, the Johnny Cash cover
- Anything But Mine by Kenny Chesney
- I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face by Dean Martin
Hera-
- Peel Me a Grape by Diana Krall
- I’ve Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra
- Let’s Fall In Love by Diana Krall
- Don’t Go To Strangers by Etta Jones
Hermes-
- Georgia On My Mind by Ray Charles
- Have You Ever Seen the Rain by CCR
- Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde by Travis Tritt
- Hotel California by the Eagles
- Stuck In The Middle With You by Stealers Wheel
Apollon-
- Sounds of Silence, the Disturbed cover
- Can’t Stop The Feeling by Justin Timberlake
Persephone-
- Die Young by The Band Perry
- Ain’t No Sunshine by Bill Withers
- Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Rey
Aphrodite-
- Fooled Around and Fell in Love by Elvin Bishop
- Once in a Lifetime by Sarah Brightman
- Chains by Nick Jonas
- Jealous by Nick Jonas
- Good For You by Selena Gomez
- Come And Get Your Love by Redbone
Ares-
- Bulletproof by La Roux
- Much Too Young by Garth Brooks
- Sail by AWOLNATION
Dionysos-
- Chandelier by Sia
- Lights by Ellie Goulding
- Young And Beautiful by Lana Del Rey
- Take Me To Church by Hozier
- Black and Gold by Sam Sparro
I didn’t realize how accurate these were until I saw this list
Found this super neat thing at HellenicGods.org on
Pronouncing the Names of the Theoi
so I thought I’d copy-pasta it here so I could archive it. Full credit goes to the author at hellenicgods.
The Carving Witch 