#also the robe here is a peplos

[allbeendonebefore]

Aegisthus has just come on stage and I'm nearly done but I need to tangentially gush about the (written) english ambiguity of wound (injury) and wound (in robes) when Aegisthus observes Agamemnon's body "This man lie wound in robes the Furies wove" like!!! good translation choice there

[kilmun]

ok so i also did a fake qoa trailer

BASED ON THIS EXCELLENT POST BY @whocalledhimannux AND THE OTHER ONES!! GO READ THEM IF YOU HAVEN'T

we open with a voiceover of nahusheresh’s report home. you know, “the queen of attolia has been very shrewd in her advisors to have stayed on the throne for this long…” this explains a little bit about how tenuous attolia’s hold on the throne is. meanwhile we see shots of attolia conducting court business. the court waiting in silence for her to speak from the throne. attolia’s attendants giving her a robe as she strides to the window to look at the moon. a shot of her from the back showing the headband and red peplos. this ends with nahusheresh saying “not only is the queen of attolia beautiful, she possesses that most admirable of feminine qualities: she is easily led.” immediately following this we see attolia’s first husband choke, followed by a queen’s guard shooting a crossbow quarrel just to the right of the camera, followed by a young relius at attolia’s feet.

this summer: the queen of attolia

now we get a shot of the magus at gen’s bedside: “Attolia sent an ultimatum that Eddis return the caravans or consider herself at war.” close up on gen, bedridden with the scar on his cheek. “your queen’s entire two-word answer: war, then.” cut to eddis, sitting among her ministers, wearing pants. she looks up from her work straight into the camera.

the music builds as we see quick shots of all the war-things: the aracthus flooding out of the reservoir. soldiers struggling to climb a mountain pass. the sounisian ships burning in their harbour. the attolians and eddisians turning against the mede army. gen’s hook, glinting. attolia on a horse, red cloak billowing behind her and crown glinting in her hair. gen and his father fighting back to back in the rain.

smash cut to the windows of the solarium shattering. “eugenides,” a gentle, terrible voice says. “nothing mortals make lasts; nothing the gods make endures forever. do you understand?” some pretty shots: eddis, eugenides and the magus in the clearing. the sailboat sliding into the harbor lit by the moon. the altar of eugenides. a close-up shot of the earrings glinting.

irene dancing in the orange grove. the amphora of hair oil falling in slow motion as eugenides screams.

here’s our final scene: eugenides’ intense struggle as he’s dragged into the dismemberment room, the flickering light, attolia in her green dress lit by the fire, the shine of the knife. finally a shot of eugenides strapped to the chair, panting. close up on his (bruised, bleeding) face while offscreen attolia says “eugenides. what can you steal with one hand?”

title card. boom.

[jeannereames]

Since you wrote about undergarments (and how Macedonian clothes were expensive)... how do you think Alexander and Co. dressed in general? Do we know if Alexander became more Persianized in clothing as he marched futher East? How "mixed" do you picture him dressed by the end of his life?

First, a quick clarification on clothing expense in larger context….

The ideal for an ancient Greek family was independence: meaning they could produce everything they absolutely needed at home. If we have the so-called “American Dream” (or whatever country), that was theirs.

To us today, in our highly interwoven society, this might be a startling expectation. It involved growing their own food, pressing their own oil, and making their own wine, raising animals for dairy and meat, plus some sheep for wool, and even making cheap pottery and wooden utensils. Surplus would then be sold. It left very little they had to buy (shoes, blacksmith-produced items, etc.). Also, more Greeks lived in villages and hamlets than in cities, and these villages and even hamlets might have the local blacksmith or potter. While there were certainly city dwellers pursuing craft occupations, and of course fishermen, Greeks elevated the farmer or landowner. Owning even a little bit of land for a garden was pursued by all (yes, sailors and craftmen as well). We have, in some towns, evidence for “urban gardens” with olive and fruit trees, etc., maintained by citizens.

Some items, such as olive oil, olives, bread, and pottery, were relatively cheap. That pretty painted stuff pulled out of tombs is NOT daily stuff. They went through pottery like we go through plastic—to the point broken pot sherds were used to scribble shopping lists, etc.

Due to the process from shearing through cleaning, carding, spinning, dyeing, and weaving, cloth production took a while. And yes, they could sew seams and such (just take a gander at fancy Minoan dress), but they figured out ways not to have to bother. But consequently, those big pieces of cloth, especially for a woman’s peplos or chiton, or a himation (either gender) was a significant investment. Normally, it was done by the women of the family. In fact, WEAVING, not baking, house cleaning, or child-care was considered the quintessential woman’s work.

If one was single and poor, without women in the family, and no household, or land, one had to BUY all those things, which were pretty damn expensive. So it kept one poor.

In general, the average farmer’s family would have two garments each, maybe three, plus a cloak, a pair of shoes, and a hat. Basically, you wore your clothes while the other set was being washed. Due to sweatshop labor overseas, here in the west clothing is now super-cheap. It didn’t used to be. The number of clothes that Americans have these days is a bit obscene.

Even for someone of Alexander’s rank, his clothes were made by his family. Weaving was a mark of pride for Greek (and Macedonian) women. There’s a story that Alexander accidentally insulted the Persian royal women by sending them some wool and looms! He meant it to be kind, in case they were bored. They assumed they were meant to be reduced to common laborers. In Persia, weaving was an industry, not something royals did. In short, Alexander wore clothes his mommy made him. :-D

Now, after the burning of Persepolis and Darius’s death, we know he did adopt some Persian dress, some of the time for state affairs. Specifically, the Persian long robe with the purple stripe down it, and the diadem (the white band tied around his head). He specifically rejected wearing trousers (NOT a Greek thing), and the upright tiara—that fluted hat on the head of the Persian king. Below, see a recreation of the hat, and then a picture of Darius the Great, seated on a throne, bearing a scepter and lotus flower, and dressed in the robe of the kings.*

On the Alexander sarcophagus (below), we see Alexander and other Macedonians wearing a long-sleeve chiton. Some have suggested that’s evidence of early “Medizing” in Alexander’s dress, as it’s not that different from what the Persians are wearing. Yet Macedonia got colder than the south, so the idea that they might have a long-sleeved version of the chiton is not only not a surprise, but I’d be shocked if they didn’t. it snows there. Not regularly in the lowlands, but it does snow, especially up in the mountains!

Alexander’s Macedonians, especially Philip’s veterans, were not charmed by Alexander’s clothing changes, seeing it as kow-towing to the very people they just defeated. They were pretty dismissive of Persians and quite ethnocentric.

I really need somebody to sketch for me a picture of an old Macedonian soldier in uniform with a red “Make Macedonia Great Again” petasos. That’s up there with “Alexander-the-Energizer-Bunny-of-World-Conquerors” sketch.

--------------------------

* Thrones—for kings—appear to have been an Ancient Near Eastern thing, not Greek until after Alexander, art historian Olga Palagia argues, soundly I might add. Up to that point in Greece, they were for gods and the gods’ priests/priestesses. That’s why, in Dancing with the Lion: Becoming, I have Hephaistion observe that Philip sitting on a throne was rather cheeky of him. He can get away with it because, as king, he was also high priest of the Macedonian royal cult. Whether Philip actually used one is unclear.

[author-morgan]

Oof I have a craving for Jealous!Alexios, but I can't decide between post-Deimos Alexios or just good ole Regular Alexios?? It's an ongoing struggle! But then I'm also intrigued at Alexios meeting Eivor, or post-Deimos Alexios fighting alongside Kass and absolutely LOSING it when she gets injured in battle? I... *sigh*... take your pick if any of these interest you! I trust you and your writing :P

sorry it took so long, but here ya go! went with jealous Deimos, hope you don’t mind.

Deimos!Alexios x fem!Reader

DEIMOS ADJUSTS THE bronze fibulae at his shoulder, shifting around on his feet —uncomfortable with how vulnerable he feels wearing the deep scarlet exomis. He is not used to being without the black-and-gold armor of the Cult nor without his sword but tonight duty demands it. Part of his unease fades as he watches you on the opposite side of the room.

The nigh threadbare material of your chiton puddles around your feet, but you are quick to slide into the deep blue peplos. “Aphrodite would be envious,” he remarks moving to stand before you, in his hand is a golden necklace with red and green stones. Warmth rushes to your cheeks at his flattery —he had been doing that often as of late. Pulling your hair aside, Deimos drapes the jewelry over your head, securing the hook clasp at the back of your neck.

“It’s not wise to invoke her wrath, Deimos,” you chide. The goddess rarely took kindly to being compared to mortals. He rolls his eyes and unwittingly reaches out, thumb tracing over your cheek —tinted pink with crushed rose and red wine. The urge in his heart says to give into years of longing and kiss you, but there is a lump in his throat, and it does not fade. You look up at him, wondering what thoughts plague his mind, and why he ignores the clear connection time has forged between you. Sighing, you step back, and his hand falls back to his side —clenching into a tight fist. “We should go,” you remind him. Deimos nods.

Samos is unlike the rest of the Greek world, despite the corruption of its leader —it is peaceful and prosperous. The agora of the polis is filled with famed Samian wine and oils coveted by Athenian citizens and Olympic athletes alike. Compared to the busy streets of Kirrha and the constant influx of pilgrims seeking wisdom in Delphi, you think a quiet place such as this would not be such a terrible place to live. The thought brings a distant dream back to the forefront of your mind as you look around the seaside city and to Deimos at your side. Maybe one day we can stay in a place like this, you think.

“I despise these things,” he says, brows settling into a deep furrow as you both stop at the villa’s entrance. Deimos preferred to keep to himself if he could not be with you, and he dreads large gatherings —like the one you must attend tonight. The Cult suspects Lasthenes of Samos is dealing information to their adversaries and slowing them from reaching their goals in the Southern Sporades. They have sent their champion to find if there are any truths in the rumors —you accompany him as a temper. Of all the people in Hellas, only you could quell the fire when it burned too hot in Deimos.

You reach for his hand out of impulse —surprised when he slips his fingers between yours. “I don’t care for them either,” you tell him, something about symposiums always puts you on edge, “but at least we’re together.” His lips kink into a fleeting smile, it feels like a small victory to know you are at his side. It does not last long, though as the ladies in attendance sweep you away into conversation, leaving the men to the andron and courtyard.

Time blurs with the droning gossip, tiring of the talk you slip down the stairs from the rooftop and back to the courtyard, eyes scanning those gathered for Deimos. He is not to be seen. Sighing, you turn your sights to the kitchen —eager to fill your belly with wine. Your plan is thwarted when Lasthenes approaches, a serpent’s smile crossing his pinched face. The leader of Samos is garbed in fine robes bought with the blood of innocents.

“Aphrodite has come to visit Samos it seems,” Lasthenes remarks, lifting a jeweled hand to your cheek. You step away from the leader, turning your cheek away from his unwelcome touch. Deimos lingers just out of sight, the blood in veins beginning to boil. “Tell me how I know every face on this island–” Lasthenes steps toward you again, you back hitting one of the marble columns surrounding the perimeter of the courtyard “–and yet I have never seen yours.” It was uncommon for strangers to be invited to his symposiums —even the hetaerae had familiar faces.

You know why Deimos had been sent to Samos and Lasthenes would be more apt to dispel an accidental truth to you rather than him. Drawing in a long breath, you decide to play along. “I have traveled all the way from Delphi to be here tonight,” you tell the leader, taking the offered cup of wine. That much is true, you and Deimos had sailed from Phokis nigh a week ago and had spent two nights on Samos, waiting for tonight.

“The Goddess of love and beauty has travelled far, then,” Lasthenes says, silver-tongue not missing a beat. You laugh, brushing back what hair slips from its bindings and taking a gulp of the sweet watered wine. “Is it to your taste?” He inquires. You nod in response, though before you can speak another man, garbed in Persian robs interrupts —leaning close to whisper something in his ear.

It is not so low that you cannot overhear, though. He speaks of a meeting between a Spartan general and Persian merchant and you can make out the name Perikles on the man’s lips, too. “I’ll be there shortly,” Lasthenes replies, turning his attention back to you. “Those affairs can wait,” he assures, resting his hand on your arm, “I’d like to learn of the goddess before me.” You force a smile and however insincere it may be, Lasthenes takes no notice of it.

When the leader motions toward a private room, you spot Deimos among those gathered alas. His face is almost as red as the exomis he wears, and his hands are clenched into fight fists at his sides. You recognize the cold anger in his dark eyes, but there is something else too. Deimos storms from the villa. Had it been up to his digression, Lasthenes would be dead —anyone suspected of trading secrets would be inclined to actually do it for the right incentives. But that is not all that weighs on his mind as he leaves the symposium.

Your gaze follows Deimos until you can no longer see him. “I have to go,” you announce, somewhat apologetic while looking back over your shoulder at the leader —noticing the suspicion growing in his stare. Lasthenes says nothing as he watches you leave.

Finding Deimos is not difficult as he often ends up on a beach when something has gone wrong or is bothering him. He paces back-and-forth on the white sand before the villa. To anyone else he is a caged animal in these moments —dangerous and to be avoided— but to you he is still Deimos. You step into his path, placing your hand on the center of his chest. “Deimos,” you sigh, “what is it?” His dark gaze flicks downward before he looks at you.

Then you see the glint in his tawny-gold eyes and understand why is acting this way. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” you tell him, lips turning upward into a smile. He huffs, brows furrow, though now his anger has faded. You move the hand on his chest up to his cheek —tracing over the scar below his eye. Had it not been for having to leave earlier, perhaps something could have happened between the two of you.

Without thinking, you push up onto your toes, if Deimos will not act then you will. Your lips find his under the silver light of the moon and stars. His hands are quick to settle on your hips, pulling you closer. It feels like a dream and if it is, Deimos never wishes to wake. All his unease fades into nothing. Feet entangled in the excess fabric of your peplos, you topple forward —not expecting it, both you and Deimos fall back into the sand.

“You don’t have to worry about anyone else, Deimos,” you confess. Flattery and gifts could never buy your love or affection, for your heart already belonged to another. His fingers brush your cheek, moving back into your hair. Despite his sour mood and what had transpired at the symposium, his gaze is soft as he fights to hold back a smile. “My heart is yours.” It had been for some time.

You do not expect Deimos to say anything in turn —he is a man of few words and it may take him a while to find the right ones to say. But the way he kisses you is more than enough for now. Deimos holds you close under a clear night sky —waves breaking softly on the shoreline— as you exchange tender caresses and slow kisses, making up for lost time.

[@novastale @fjor-ok-skadi ]

[crownarg-the-watchers]

Old Favorites

The royal Scribe leans against a tall bundle of straw, the wooden planks of the boat rocking beneath him with the waves. It itches against the back of his neck, through the collar of his silk robes, and he sits forward to pick up the small cup of rice wine, the tilt of the floor beneath them sending his drink splashing precariously up against the cup’s sides. With the thick fog, he can hardly make out the matching bundles of straw on the opposite side of the boat, but he can see the man in front of him’s smug and accomplished smirk. Around them – the thundering beating of drums, forcing the Scribe to speak loudly in order to be heard.

“Respectfully, you are absolutely certain that this will work? If it does not, your execution is an unavoidable outcome.”

“The outcome is certain,” the statesman replies, taking a sip of his own wine. “Just as war is certain, and this fog was certain, so much so that I knew of it three days in advance. Just as you asking to accompany me was certain, Scribe.”

“It is true what you say,” the Scribe says, and shoos a glowing red eye back into his long sleeves. “And what you predicted – it is also about to become true.”

A sound like cracking whips and rushing wind and leaves under boot is drowned out completely by the sudden thump of thousands of arrows into straw bundles and wooden shields all around them. The drummers go on, shouting and pounding their instruments like a war cry, and in beat with the rhythm, arrows thud into wood and grass all around them.

“His imperial majesty will be greatly pleased,” the statesman tells him. “And also greatly displeased.”

“Displeased?” the Scribe asks. “You have achieved exactly what you were ordered to do.”

“Friend, you know very well that his imperial majesty ordered upon me this impossible task, and rejoiced when he was certain I would fail,” the statesman says with a smile. “It is a foolish man who cannot see that his majesty only wanted a reason to kill me.”

“I am not so foolish. I simply wanted to hear it from you.”

-=-=-=-

They watch from within the growing crowd as the bearded poet sings a long story of his own creation – he had been standing on the stone steps reciting it since early that morning, with his Muse always nearby to listen. Their dark hair is hidden beneath a curled wig, their face behind a sheer veil. Dressed in long chiton and peplos, the Muse can still see their poet with their eyes hidden, his gaze landing on them briefly as he continues –

“...for all the pain his lays may cause me I will salute him nonetheless; bards are honoured and respected throughout the world, for the muse teaches them their songs and loves them.”

The Muse tilts their head, smiling secretly to themselves. They are a keeper of stories, not one who tells them, but the prose of the writer and aoidos was something they would lend their memories to willingly. To play the role of Calliope, a minor goddess though she was, would surely have their poet scolding them for their hubris, though it was no such thing. It isn’t overconfidence if it is true, after all – but Calliope was a name they would have to abandon soon.

It was a performance, a story of length that was recited from dawn to dusk, in the beating sun on stone steps, no food and little water. The Muse helped their poet to his inn, and over his evening meal told the last words of that decade-long war, of snakes that strangled a prophet to death, and a princess who perfectly mimicked the voices of those women who she had never met. Their poet drank wine and remembered, and his Muse disappeared in the night.

-=-=-=-

The Archivist waits by the city gates late into the night, a red glow and faint crackle emanating from her as she looks out into the night. Distantly, a part of her can hear the numerous thundering of footsteps marching towards the city, the steady clang of swords against armor against bronze shields. From the city itself, there is a skid of sandals against a stone yet unnamed, a girl with hair done up and eyes powdered sliding down towards the gate. She sees the one waiting and tenses, and the Archivist knows exactly how she looks.

Dark hair loose from braids or even curls, with her palla worn as a dark hooded cloak over a men’s tunic, and a red glow lighting her inhuman and foriegn-shaped face. She must look like the goddess Trivia or Invidia, here to strike the girl with justice from the heavens for her attempted treachery. The Archivist plans to do nothing of the sort.

“Come down from the rock, daughter,” she calls, and the girl slides down to the gate. She is trembling.

“I’m sorry, goddess, for my treachery,” the girl cries, falling to her knees. “Punish me, Vesta, goddess of fire with your burning eyes. I hear the crackle of flames around you. I am by nature a fool, and a traitor, so greedy as to seek to be above my honorable station, of which I am not worthy – and I am undeserving of you to appear before me.”

Being not Vesta, nor anything of the sort, the Archivist puts a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, and helps her to her feet.

“You wish to be punished, daughter?” She asks, and the girl nods frantically, torn with guilt. “This is not the great empire I once knew it to be. This invasion will either strengthen it and make the Empire stronger, or the Capitol will fall. Daughter of Vesta: when the soldiers come, open the gate in exchange for that which they wear on their arms – then you shall be punished for your treason, and the Empire will be tested. Now – I hear the march of their armies. Fare well.”

Deftly, the Archivist opens the gate and slips out into the dark night, closing it on the still-kneeling vestal behind her.

-=-=-=-

There is a demon in her closet – there is a Watcher in those shadows. He is dark haired and black-eyed, and he is not human. The other girls under her aunt's care often bring men into their rooms to share their beds, but the Watcher knows his presence meant that the girl that he watched would not dare to do the same.

After all, she is only thirteen, and so lonely that she would tell him whatever he asked of her – and so he is careful to ask after only her music lessons, and gossip among the other girls. Not of her family, who gave her to her aunt because of poverty, nor her thirty-six year old music teacher, whom he knows follows the girl around at parties.

She comes crying to him, and she is a sweet girl still – kind despite her family and absent aunt, her music teacher and the other girls. As much as she cries, she laughs easily as well, and after a flash of red in his bedroom disturbs the much older man away from her, she looks forward to dances again. The Watcher is glad for her, for the girl that treats them like a journal to talk to every day. He knows he is the only man who doesn’t make her skin crawl when he looks at her, and he is not even a man, not truely. Still, she speaks to him in shift only, sometimes, and though he does not cover his eyes, they do not stray from her face.

Still, she brings up to him a dog from the courtyard, and coos over it while still holding it up high enough that it doesn’t track mud across her carpets. She is not broken yet, and the Watcher encourages her to take a break from her studies with a soft smile, a puppy sat contented in her lap.

“Pet ‘t, dearest demon! Is it's fur not so soft and inviting? Thou knoweth thee wanteth to, and the mistress wilt soon returne home, and maketh me bringe ‘t back to the courtyard,” she calls, pushing the dog towards him. He does so, and her face lights up.

“‘t likes thee as much as thee doth love ‘t, mine dear. Just recall to returneth ‘t ere thy mistress make thee, or thou wilt bet troubled greatly.”

The girl smiles, and her eyes are bright. The Watcher is not eager to watch them cloud over, not just with tears but with despair – but he knows some of what is to come. “Thou art correct, but at which hour art thee not? I wilt speaketh with thee again, and doth wish for me that none of the servants or other girls see me passe.”

“I wilt wish for thee. Wend, and hie back.”

-=-=-=-

The pine needles are soft under the Observer’s boots, snow lying in drifts at the sides of the path. Whistling through the trees, a winter wind blows him reassuringly in the right direction, towards the rumors and the exceptions and the outcasts. That was, he knew, where the stories were made – with the solvers of impossible puzzles, set upon them by unreachable figures. With the writers, and the storytellers, and the investigators, who get their hands dirty to make history accessible. Stories laid with the traitors and the rebels and the guilty consciences, with those who had been wronged by whom they should have been able to trust.

The Observer had sought out his entertainment for eras, and – as he rubbed his hands together and blew out white steam – this mineshaft in the woods had the makings of something truly interesting.

[thewingedwolf]

Not Telling: A Study in How Much We are Actually Told About The Characters, Part One of Two

AKA that meta I started writing/promised to post fully a year ago and then never finished or posted bc I’m a mess. It’s being posted in two parts because it got a bit long.

So we all have our own idea of what the characters look like although many people believe the characters look roughly the same, with some minor differences from headcanon to headcanon. But what does the text itself tell us? The answer is...both more than I expected but also in keeping with Not Telling, not a whole lot at all.

I want to start this with a caveat that I kept very good notes on TT, ACoK, and TaT, mediocre notes on KoA and passable ones for QoA lol. however, it does give us a decent picture of what everyone looks likes. This is like 70% quotes and 30% extrapolation, but I try to explain my thought process on some of my conclusions.

Eugenides:

There’s a few instances that I remember reading (mostly in The Thief) that I forgot to mark but I know all of those dealt with his height and hair - that his hair is long, that it’s dark, and that he’s smaller than Pol and the Magus. So here we go:

“..the man wearing it was tall. Taller than I was, of course, but taller than the magus as well.” - Note that he’s talking about the one of the gods here, which indicates that

eugenides is very short at this point

the magus when compared to other people is probably pretty tall

“Scabs that were black against my prison-fair skin.” - Indicates that his skin has lightened noticeably since he was in prison although that’s the only indicator we get about what he looks like until literally the very ending with...

“He mentioned an Eddisian mother to explain his dark coloring.” - Which is exactly what I mean in Not Telling - we are told enough to have a clear blue print of him, but we are left to fill in the details of how he looks.

About his wound: “it’s taken a divot out of your face...it might heal clean.” and “I was quite certain I’d have a feather-shaped white scar.” - Note that Eugenides thinks this is a sign of approval from the Eugenides the god.

We get just as little in The Queen of Attolia, although note that this is the first time we are getting Gen from someone else’s point of view, instead of him describing himself:

“...his dark hair covering his face...He’d grown...he was not quite her height, but with his hair cropped short under his helmet, she hadn’t looked twice at him when she had seen him.” - that’s the only real description we get of him in the beginning of QoA before It Happens, and it’s from Irene’s point of view. There’s also several references to him looking “young” “naive” and “guilless” - young pops up about half a dozen times, and she remarks often on him being “a boy” and “half-grown.” Obviously part of that is guilt, but I did want to note that when we’re in Gen’s mind, he doesn’t focus on how short or young he looks, but when we’re in someone else’s mind, they immediately zero in on how young and small Gen is.

There’s a lot of descriptions of him after The Thing but it’s all involved in how sick he looks ie bruises showing against his yellowed skin, being so pale that his scar looked dark against his skin, that he’s lost a lot weight, stuff like that. It gives us the sense that he is very sick but no real indication of how he looks when he’s not suffering from fever and blood loss.

“His dark hair blended into the darkness behind him…” - first physical description in KoA

“The Queen was several inches taller than Eugenides…” in KoA during the dance scene

“His usually dark skin was so pale the scar on his cheek showed against the lighter skin around it.” - during the assassination attempt

“Costis was sufficiently taller than the king…” - I think this is our first reference to Costis being very tall, but of course nowhere near our first reference to Gen being short.

“His face was pale, his normally dark skin yellowed.” - My note has nothing to do with his look, but the fact that his skin is usually dark but is now both pale AND visibly yellow makes me think his liver was damaged by the assassin and that’s why it took so long to heal.

“He chose Mede coats with the long bell sleeves because no fighting man who’d seen the muscles in the king’s wrist would have underestimated him the way the Attolians had. His other wrist with no hand at the end of it appeared oddly narrow and delicate. Costis tried not to stare and found himself looking instead at the king’s scars. The long line across his belly was an angry red, but there were other marks: ragged tears around his knees and elbows, and lighter shining bands around his ankles that could only be the mark of fetters, as well as the various lines left by edged blows on his chest and arms, and one long one on his thigh. There were also a number of bruises, some newly purple and black and some fading almost to nothing. Costis wondered where they could have come from.” - WHEW long description for the first time and its all about Gen’s scars.

“...skinny and prison pale, incongruous with the clean clothes the Magus had picked out for him.” - Sophos’ PoV from AcoK. This seems to imply that Gen is usually darker than he is in the Thief - which we’ve been told before, that he’s darker skinned but stints in prison and a number of serious injuries seem to frequently make him look sickly and pale - but also that he’s usually heavier - whether that means, like Sophos believes, that Gen is normally not as skinny or that he’s gained weight since becoming Attolis is anyone’s guess.

“I kept going until I could see his face, see every detail—the quirk of his eyebrow, the twist at the corner of his mouth, the mark on his cheek, where he’d said the Attolian guards had once shot him when he was running away…” - Kamet’s description of him.

“I remembered him as a boy, small for his age. I found him taller, broader in the shoulder, much older than the intervening years would explain, with a hook where his hand had been—wholly changed, in fact, but for the scar on his face and that smile.” - Gen is finally like a normal height lmao, but also he’s gotten bigger in general, which seems to imply IMO that re: Sophos’ assessment earlier, most of the weight (and likely muscle as Costis points outback in KoA) is the result of his time in Attolia and not weight he lost in jail. But whether THAT is due to him like, eating more potentially or having a different fighting style/routine that is bulking him up, or just a natural consequence of getting older or a combination of the two is again, your guess.

Helen:

“By far the least attractive of the women stood up.”

“She had black hair, like Attolia, and her gown was red velvet...tended to stand like a soldier. The ruffles on her shoulders made her arms seem long enough to reach to her knees. Her nose had been broken and reknitted crooked, her hair was cut short like a man’s and curled so much over her simple silver crown that crown itself was nearly invisible.” - all Gen’s point of view.

“She was short and too broad to be called petite. Her father had been broad shouldered, Attolia remembered, and not over-tall. Eddis had a serious expression.” - From QoA, in Irene’s pov. It seems the shortness of Gen is something that runs in the family.

“She’s ugly...she’s short, she’s broad-shouldered, and hawk-faced with a broken nose. I would say no, she is not ideal...I’ve seen men fall on their knees and get to walk across hot coals for her after one of those smiles.” - Gen talking about her with the Magus. I feel like it’s relevant that Gen calls her “the least attractive” when he’s with her, but only “ugly” when talking about her with other people.

“You look a little vulpine yourself.” - probably more a personality quirk than anything, but I still wanted to include it.

“Eddis reached to touch her own crooked nose. ‘If I laughed,’ she said, ‘it is only at the idea that we make a matched pair now, you and I.’” - for both her and Sophos here. Love flirting in the form of pointing out your irregularities, girl’s got game.

“The queen of Eddis is as beautiful as the day and as brilliant as the sun in the sky..he chuckled and quoted Praximeles about beauty being in the heart and not the eye..” - obviously Sophos’ opinion is colored by his love for her, but STILL, he does offer a description that she’s beautiful, is immediately contradicted by Akretenesh, and then basically thinks “it’s not my fault you’re stupid as fuck.”

Irene:

“Her hair was black and held away from her face by an imitation of the woven gold band of Hephestia. Her robe was draped like a peplos, made from embroidered red velvet. She was as tall as the magus, and she was more beautiful than any woman I had ever seen.” - Gen’s PoV in the Thief. We have a hint of his feelings for her in the way he describes her, and also there’s her Hephestia cosplay as well.

“Her hair was held away from her face by the ruby and gold headband that crossed her forehead just above her dark brows. Her skin was flawless and so fair as to be translucent. She dressed as always in an imitation of Hephestia.” - Gen calling out her Hephestia cosplay lmao. I also notice that she’s specifically not just “fair skinned” like Sophos or other Attolians, she’s described as almost weirdly pale.

Sophos:

I KNOW I forgot to mark a scene where Eugenides describes Sophos in TT as like...fair or pink-cheeked or something like that but I’ll be damned if I can find it.

“They were both obviously well bred...I wondered if they were brothers...the older one had darker hair and was better looking.” - obviously the older is Ambiades.

“One member of the crowd, a young man with a broken nose, a lip twisted by scar tissue, and dirty clothes that combined to suggest a person of violent and criminal habits…” - good description that also tells us that Useless the Younger looks significantly different since we saw him four books (and several years) ago. It’s not just that he’s older, or scarred, it’s that he *looks* dangerous now.

“I was taller than Malatesta by inches.” and “I wasn’t heavier than [Hyacinth] but I was taller and bore him to the ground.” - both give us an approximation of his height, weight, and strength.

“I felt my upper lip and rubbed my thumb against the scar tissue. I could feel it distorting my mouth. My nose had a new bump in the middle of it as well.” - scar healing badly

“Measuring myself against [The Magus], I realized we now saw eye to eye.” - considering several references to how tall The Magus is (which we’ll get to), this means Sophos is incredibly tall.

“...my hair all cut away and ragged.” and then they mention they dyed it. Once they get to Attolia however, “A barber came in to trim and shave us, taking off the last of my darker hair and leaving it tidy, if short.” So it’s gone back to his natural color, but this implies he usually wears his hair long.

There’s also a mention of him eating a lot, which isn’t a physical description, but does, IMO, imply something to his size - like how many sheer calories a lot of Olympic athletes have to eat a day.

“I smiled until I felt the scar tissue tighten...I had never let him see what I looked like when I smiled: my uncle.” - ICONIC.

ALSO - Sophos is frequently compared to animals. These animals include a lamb, lion, rabbit, bunny, puppy, and then back to lion.

Costis Ormentiedes:

I couldn’t find any description of him beyond a few references to him being tall in KoA which either means that I just missed it bc I got to emotional over KoA (which is likely) OR we don’t get a real description of Costis until TaT which is an interesting choice. ONWARDS:

“He was a very large Attolian…” - Kamet’s first impression of Costis, yet again reminding us how big Costis is

“He was a typical Attolian: sandy-brown hair, a broad face, light-colored eyes. Altogether he had a simple, straightforward look to him, and he seemed perfectly serious.” - gives us a general idea of what Attolians as a people look like.

“He was large, as I already knew, and a soldier. He had the scars on his hands and forearms and the unmistakable muscles from swinging a sword day in and day out. I had no doubt he was good at what he did - he rather reminded me of an ox, very strong, not terribly quick - but I thought killing was his work, not his pleasure….he moved easily, so he was no veteran crippled’s in his country’s service, but he was too young to have done his twenty years - my own age, or perhaps younger.” - Lots of information here from Kamet. The ones that stick out to me are: moves easily, which means Costis has likely not even been minorly injured before, but he has scars, which of course means he’s had a lot of flesh wounds. The other thing is that Kamet instinctively knows that Costis doesn’t like killing - I don’t know if that means Kamet is a good judge of character or if there’s something about Costis, whether it be the way he carries himself, or something physically like his expressions, his youth, his eyes, that tells Kamet this, but it *could* be something physical.

Kamet makes several references to Costis being hot lmao. He uses the word “attractive” several times in several different chapters and others agree with this assessment.

“She sent him to the potter to see if he could use a young man with a strong back.” - more comments about how ripped Costis is.

Kamet

Couldn’t find any description of Kamet in QoA, and he doesn’t really describe himself in TaT. I’m worried I missed something, but this is what I found:

“Normally as warm-toned as myself…” - Kamet comparing his own skin tone (undertone?) to Laela’s.

He also describes himself as small and skinny compared to Costis several times - once saying his face is roughly at level with Costis’ chest - and mentions flogging scars on his back.

EDIT: THANK YOU FOR COMMENTS, we get this like in QoA about Kamet: “The slave’s almond shaped eyes and red-brown complexion set him apart from the Attolians.”

—————

Not sure how to end this but anyway that’s what we’re given for the main PoVs. Surprisingly, we get more description for Helen than we do for Irene, and barely any for Kamet. There were some things that I had misremembered - I thought Gen was described as “brown skinned” but instead it’s “dark skinned” or “dark coloring” and I thought he described Helen as ugly more than once, but it’s just to the Magus, when they’re discussing Sounis’ potential marriage, which is....interesting to me, and sounds a lot more like Gen trying to downplay his cousin so the Magus will fuck off, especially when he offers Agape as an alternative that is, notably, prettier and also holds significantly less power. I also thought Costis was described as “blonde” or “fair haired” like Sophos but instead he’s “sandy brown” and I think the idea of him being Blonde was a fandom thing that I just misremembered.

[secondgenerationnerd]

Can you do a drabble about all the girls just hanging out in Themiscera?

Of course! Can we also appreciate the ancient Spartans and how fucking progressive they were? Especially with Women in general.

-------------

“I’ve decided,” Lian breaks the silence, tilting her head back as the sunshines down on them, “I’m moving here.”

“Oh?” Mar’i laughs, looking upside down at her friend as she balances on the low stone wall. “Why’s that?”

“It’s always beautiful. Island full of bad ass women. Training that goes back to basics not a bunch of computer simulations.” Lian takes a deep breath in. “Hell, even wearing these dresses aren’t that bad.”

Milagro laughs, re-braiding Irey’s fiery hair, “Thank the Spartans.”

“Ooo, hit us with some Fashion history, Mil.” Irey smiles, eyes focused on one of the scrolls the scholars had given her. Reading about Archimedes’s inventions has nothing on reading Archimedes’s notes. 

“In Sparta, women were expected to be as fit as the men. So exercise is an important part of their daily lives, often naked actually.”

“Reminds me of the Queen’s guard on Tamaran.” Mar’i flips onto the stone pathway. “Best way to move around.”

“I’ll stick with leggings.” Milagro snorts. “Day to day, they  wore these practical robes that had high slits in the sides. If I’m not mistaken, they were called Dorian Peplos.”

“Sounds spicy.” Lian teases her friend’s natural accent.

“Irey?” Milagro pulls more hair into the braid while Irey flips the archer off. “Spartan women actually wanted to wear less, since they were more active. Fun facts: Women in Sparta could get divorced without losing her reputation or custody of her kids, could own property, and were given formal educations. Oh, and men got their names on their gravestone if they died in battle. Women if they died during childbirth.”

“Soooo you’re saying the best time to be a woman was acienct Greece.” Lian notes.

“That or any viking era.” Irey rolls up the scrolls. “Women did the finances because they believed it was ‘witchcraft.’“

The girls exchange a knowing look before laughing. Gathering their things, they head to the dining pavilion for what smells like another delicious meal. After a day of training, before another night filled with stories and laughter, they can’t think of a better way to spend their summer.

[rupertgayesarchive]

Title: First Time it Meant Something Pairing: Ryan/Michael Word Count: 6300 Summary:  Ryan enters the strange and dangerous (though quite rewarding) process of being romanced by a god.

A/N: My entry for day one of Myan Week 2017! For the day: First, it’s a continuation of my myan mythology!au. It’s kind of a fusion of a few suggestions I’ve gotten from anons since I put out the first fic. Hope you enjoy!

Also on AO3!

-

i.

A human being loved by a god – a rare, though hardly impossible occurrence. Certainly it was a circumstance that occurred often enough for so many stories to appear on the subject; Ryan had heard a fair number of them – Endymion, Europa, Ganymede, and the dozens of other human lovers that particular gods had amassed over the ages. He was also more than familiar with the unfortunate ends – or beginnings, or even sometimes middles – most of those love affairs entailed. If he had half a mind when Michael had first laid eyes on him, he may have decided to shoo the god away instead of so gallantly welcoming him into his bed. But it had been such a long night, and Michael was so beautiful and warm and that first kiss had awoken something deep within him, something he had long thought was dead –

He hadn’t turned Michael away, was the point. And despite the heaps of evidence that suggested his life would now be tragically shortened because of that fact, he couldn’t quite bring himself to be worried.

For one, Michael’s supposed wife was not actually his wife, or a woman at all. “Lindsay – her true name. She was originally the goddess of love, but she didn’t care for it. It attracts a lot of creeps, she said.” They were in bed, lingering together and unwilling to fall asleep despite the late hour. “She got someone else to switch with her – a once minor god named Blaine. If you want someone to symbolize reckless passion then he’s the one for it. And Lindsay moved on to other responsibilities, something with witchcraft and cats and necromancy, or something. She’s in the underworld often and left to her own devices.”

“That must be lonely for you,” Ryan ventured.

Michael turned over to look at Ryan properly, dark eyes shining with impishness. “Why? I have you.” His hand brushed down the expanse of Ryan’s naked back, and the wave of heat made him shiver into the mattress.

So there was no jealous lover to strike him down, at the very least. If something tragic were to befall him, it would most likely be from Michael himself.

But Michael was… How to describe him? It was confusing, how such passion and fire – even rage at times – could smolder and grow without ever scorching him. How Michael’s words and gaze and touch were burning, but around him, always playful, affectionate, careful.

As silly as it was, he felt that he wasn’t so out of line to believe, deep within his heart, that Michael loved him, and did so ardently.

Maybe it was foolish thinking, but the  god was always so eager to visit him for any little thing, and nearly always arrived with some sort of gift – food, wine, clothing, pottery – even swords, though Ryan had no idea what he was meant to do with that. His days in the military were brief, boring, and had occurred over a decade ago by now. He was left to sell the blades to a few customers who had seen them hanging on his wall. Even then, what may have been a capital offense to other deities, Michael had just pouted, and asked what type of items he could shower Ryan with, instead.

“I don’t appear to be any good at giving you gifts,” he remarked, once he realized that he was the one who drank most, if not all of the wine he had given to Ryan.

“I don’t need gifts, Michael. You’re here, are you not?”

“I am.”

Ryan sauntered over to him, putting a hand on his chest. He could hear the beating of an immortal heart that was over a thousand years old, and feel the heat that radiated through the fabric of his robes. “Then that’s all that I need.”

Michael took Ryan’s hand and kissed the knuckles. “You don’t know how rare it is for someone to say that to me.” He pressed the human’s hand to his cheek. “Supplying all the gods and goddesses with weapons, armor, saddles – they drive me like a pack mule, honestly. Even after making an army of automatons to do it when I’m not there.”

Despite the domesticity of the moment, a strange word drew Ryan’s attention. “Automatons?”

“Yes, machines I built. They can run through some limited instructions. I feed them into their machinery – I made them from iron and bronze – and they can make, well, whatever I want them to.” He laughed, seeing Ryan’s look of amazement. “What, interested?”

“I’ve never heard of that sort of thing before! How are they powered? Do they look like men, or – how can they move? Can they speak?” Michael continued to laugh, taking Ryan’s hand and spinning him around the small room like a dance.

“If you’re so curious, why don’t I take you to see them yourself?”

“M-Me? On Olympus?”

“One of the peaks is my palace – and workshop.”

“Isn’t it… forbidden?” Ryan’s own heart thudded so loudly he could feel it in his temples. This was sounding like the beginning of his own destruction.

Michael just smiled, however. “We’ll only get punished if we get caught. I’ll take care of you – and like I said, no one stops by unless they need something. There are plenty of places to hide you even if that comes to pass. So.” He yanked Ryan’s hands forward until their chests were touching. “Do you want to?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid – there was no way he could go, or at least, no way he’d survive such a visit. But, if Michael had machinery that looked like that… This would be his only chance to see the splendor of such things, and Michael seemed so pleased at the thought. “I’ll do it,” he said, watching Michael’s eyes light up with joy, dimples showing on his cheeks as he grinned wide. He leaned up and pressed a hot kiss to Ryan’s mouth.

“I’ll leave now, then,” he murmured, “and tomorrow, I’ll take you.” He let go of Ryan’s hands and stepped away, vanishing in a gust of ash that disappeared into nothing.

The feeling of Michael’s mouth on his own was still seared to his lips long after any evidence of the god had gone.

ii.

Ryan was out in the garden when he smelled fire, and a breeze tickled his hair, and he knew Michael had appeared behind him.

He was greeted with a kiss, Michael smiling wide against his mouth, and when he pulled away he noticed Michael was holding a long strip of fabric. Ryan lifted the edge of it, and felt it to be silk, like the robes Michael wore. “What’s this?”

“It’s yours. I had it made for you to wear.”

“Me? I don’t –”

“Well, you can’t go to Olympus in that, can you?” Ryan looked down, fiddling with his own robes. He had been used to the impure white of his cloaks, the bulky pins and braided rope belts. Surely, if he really was going to be residing in Michael’s palace - and his workshop - he would need clothes he wouldn’t mind dirtying. But Michael wouldn’t even entertain the idea.

“What if I ruin it?”

“Then I will take great satisfaction in taking it off of you, just as I will take great satisfaction in taking these robes off of you now.” He fiddled with the staying pins of Ryan’s outfit until his clothes fell down his body, onto the floor. He quickly stripped the rest of his garments off, Michael’s gaze hot on his bared skin – which was hardly a new sensation, though it was one he had yet to get used to.

Michael seemed to notice his hesitance. “Something wrong?” he asked, hands hovering above Ryan’s body.

Ryan looked over his shoulder at the other houses. His garden was constructed in the conventional style, and was partially enclosed by a rock wall, but the walls were only chest high, and his neighbors were merely a stone’s throw away. “We’re a bit, close, don’t you think?” He nodded over the garden wall.

Michael chuckled. “As if they haven’t seen this at the gymnasium? Or when you go to bathe?”

“Well, you’re not with me when I do those things.”

“Don’t be too sure,” he said with a wink. “I might be some little cat, or a bird, coming down to check on you.”

“Now, why would you do that, when being in your regular form is much more convenient for coming onto me?” Michael shrugged playfully, but made quick work of wrapping the new garments around Ryan, clothing him again.

Gone was the white wool, the worn sandals, the rope. Michael presented him with the softest tunic, made with silk, dyed multi-color, and sewn with gold thread. It was fastened with jeweled buttons and clips that glittered in the light of the hearth, so many that Ryan eventually had to give in and let Michael help him dress.

The belt came next. Luckily this was merely leather, as soft as well-worn boots but black as pitch. Michael tugged it over Ryan’s narrow waist and fastened it with a smile. Ryan stepped into shoes and Michael laced them up his ankles; they too were leather, as his old ones were, but they were as comfortable as being barefoot on sand.

“Is that it?” Ryan asked quietly, trying not to sound nervous of what would come after Michael pronounced him ready. Of what would become of him so soon.

“The peplos,” Michael reminded him, unclipping his own garment from his shoulders - it was nearly translucent linen, more fit for being a makeshift sieve than offering any sort of elemental protection. It still managed to sparkle, though, more shining gold thread being thrust upon him and fastened by Michael’s steady hands. The fabric fell down Ryan’s side, fluttering against his skin. He looked down at himself; he had doubts a human could even assemble such an outfit; he had never seen one so fine in Lemnos itself, much less one that he could ever find or afford.

“I look like I’m on fire,” he murmured, eyes wide in realization. The tunic itself went from yellow to orange to red in a marvelous fade, all the colors seamlessly blurring together like some fanciful artist had painted the outfit on him.

“Is it not fitting, for the beloved of fire and forge himself?” Michael asked with a raised brow, a cocky expression flitting across his face. Ryan didn’t rise to the bait, feeling too nervous to move, much less flirt with the other.

“Is that all?” he managed, wrapping an arm around himself.

“I suppose… though I do have one more thing.” Michael made a crown of golden laurels appear from nowhere, placing them atop Ryan’s head. They nestled into his hair, and he felt his face flush from embarrassment. “They suit you.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You need to dress impressively,” Michael replied easily, fingertips brushing along Ryan’s arm.

“And who am I trying to impress?” Michael paused at that. “Are your automatons very picky about who they let into your workshop?” Michael grinned.

“Precisely that. Though I can’t deny that I like to give you fine things – and if you say you can’t use them in your day to day life here,” he said pointedly, “then perhaps this is a special enough occasion to warrant something elegant, don’t you think?”

“If you wanted me to wear nicer clothing, you could have asked.”

“It’s not like that,” Michael said with a wave of his hand. “Merely… I can give you nice things so easily, there’s quite a bit of temptation to do so. And besides, if I gave you a dozen fine robes to wear, would you have put them on?”

“Probably not,” Ryan admitted.

“Well then,” Michael said; comment enough. “Shall we go now?” He slipped his hand into Ryan’s, and Ryan immediately interlaced their fingers. As usual, the points where he and Michael touched were an unburning fire, an endless source of heat. He looked into his eyes.

“I suppose there’s nothing else to do here…” Ryan said, casting a final look around his home.

“Keep a tight hold on my hand. And… you may want to close your eyes – I don’t want you to get sick.” Ryan immediately nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and grasping at Michael’s hand. He felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, like he was deep in the ocean, being tossed about by waves; even the floor seemed to vanish beneath his feet. The only thing that remained certain was Michael’s hand in his own, and the radiating heat from where their skin was pressed together. Ryan focused hard on that, and some seconds, or some minutes later, Michael shook their arms and said, “You can open your eyes now.” And Ryan did.

Ryan knew that a god must have lived in splendor, but what he saw was so magnificent it stood incomprehensible to his very eyes. They were walking out amongst the clouds, and their matter made his feet damp, but he did not fall through them, held either by Michael or by whatever the environment was enchanted with. Overhead were rustic spires that held Michael’s palace, all shining and gleaming as bright as molten ore. Michael was already walking him towards the entrance, but he still craned his neck as far back as he could to see the towers, their glistening bodies only interrupted for the occasional gape of a window or balcony.

Michael waved his hand, and two doors – as large as three men stacked on top of each other – silently opened for them to pass through. The hard marble floor beneath his feet was almost too solid after walking on air, and he needed to take a moment to steady his feet. He looked down, and realized the marble beneath him was made of millions of shards, placed so precisely that there wasn’t a single space between them, and the walls were all painted murals, depictions of Michael on some great adventures. Small torches placed along the room illuminated everything as though the sun was shining directly on them. “What do you think?” Michael said, voice sounding distant. Ryan reflexively squeezed the god’s hand, finding they were still connected there.

“I might faint,” Ryan answered truthfully, eyes roving around at the grandeur, the impossible level of labor that must have taken place, the sheer scope and size – it boggled his senses.

“Would you feel more comfortable in my workshop?” Workshop – with bellows and metal and those automatons Michael mentioned.

“Well,” Ryan swallowed. “Can’t be any worse, can it?”

Michael walked them through room after room, large and precisely decorated. As he paid closer attention to the figures in the murals, Ryan could make out a few familiar gods based on what they were depicted with. “You spend an awful amount of time in the underworld,” Ryan observed at length, “The - the ruler there looks younger than I expected..”

“Oh – yes, with Gavin. He’s an interesting guy. You may end up running into him at some point.” Ryan balked at the idea of the king of the underworld showing up in his garden next. “He’s quite friendly, don’t worry. And anyway, his domain resides under the earth – the best metals and gems I get come from him.”

“Oh,” Ryan answered, dumbly.

“Lindsay also resides down there, sometimes. She keeps Gavin’s lover, Meg, company, the months she’s down there.”

“Gavin has a lover?”

“Oh, sure. I mean, she kind of followed him down there one day – curiosity and everything – and him, being an idiot, tried to give her food to eat to make her more comfortable! She accidentally ended up binding herself to the underworld for half the year. Her friend got all pissed about it, still rages on with snowstorms and everything when she goes to be with Gavin, more out of habit these days than anything else. But that happened eons ago.”

Ryan frowned. “Are you telling me that Gavin inadvertently caused the seasons to change?”

“Well, yes.”

“Please tell me you never stumbled into any creations of your own,” Michael shrugged, sending a playful smile back to Ryan before going through another set of larger than life doors – these ones finally leading to Michael’s workshop.

It was hotter here, steam filling part of the workshop as metals were constantly heated and cooled. The reverberating bang of metal on metal carried throughout the room, and he could see moving creatures ducking and roving about, hitting or cutting or pouring or polishing, all sitting at long benches or before enormous machines. The flurry of movement stretched in front of him farther than he could see, and when Michael took his arm and led him between the benches he nearly reared back and begged to stay in place.

“This – this is amazing,” Ryan managed after a few minutes, eyeing some of the automatons at work. The nearest one was sharpening a golden arrow, its entire body made out of gleaming metal, instead of feathers; after finding it to be of an appropriate quality, it dropped it into a quiver by its feet. Ryan crouched down, reaching out a hand to feel the arrow himself.

Michael put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t touch that. It’s for the cupids.” Ryan cast a skeptical glance up at the other. “If you prick your finger you fall into a blinding lust for the first person you see.”

Ryan stood up, taking a step back towards Michael.

“I imagine you wouldn’t want to be taken over by eros,” Michael added. “Always seemed more of a pragmatic lover to me.”

Ryan looked over his shoulder at Michael. “As if you wouldn’t be pleased with me having to deal with that. Don’t you complain that I’m not insatiable enough?” He nearly yelped when Michael wrapped his arms around his middle, a hand sliding up along his chest.

“Only in jest,” Michael defended, nuzzling into his neck. Judging by the way his skin heated up, Michael was brushing his lips along his throat. “I’d never want to turn you into something you’re not. As… appealing as the image of you overtaken with lust seems, I think I’d rather turn you into that myself.” He slipped away from Ryan and began walking further into his workshop. “Come along, I want to show you the rest.”

Ryan shook himself and followed on Michael’s heels, realizing that the workshop was so large it was as though it had no end; it seemed as though his eyes failed him before he could see the opposing wall.

After some minutes spent walking he realized why this was; the workshop itself had no opposing wall; instead, it opened into the heavens, and the vast clouds of steam that rose from the cooling of metals traveled up into the sky, effectively hiding the workshop’s opening from anyone who might have been able to reach this height.

“If any god is eager to see me, they usually come through the clouds,” Michael explained. Ryan tensed. “Relax, I’m not expecting anyone now; moreover, they all like to make an entrance, you’d have some warning.”

“That doesn’t reassure me much.” But of course, Ryan’s curiosity got the better of his sensibilities, and he was quickly drawn into seeing how Michael directed his automatons, from the smashing of ore into usable pieces, the forming of moulds and heating of metals, to the finer points of detailing and soldering slight pieces together.

Unlike humans, the automatons didn’t tire, but instead worked at a continuous pace, each performing a small task allotted to them before passing their work to another further down the line. There was something hypnotic in the pattern of the movements, and the heat of the room and the motion of air circulating from the great hall into the sky outside made the head dizzy. He and Michael watched the process continue - for multiple projects in multiple lines, all taking place on multiple tables - until they reached the doorway to the workshop, seeing a finished project in the matter of half an hour or less. By the end Ryan felt exhilarated and exhausted at once, as though he was the one who had personally manufactured a dozen swords and shields, one hundred arrows, and a suit of armor capable of bringing a division of men down. He touched the latter of these, a gauntlet to be exact; it was still warm from its processing.

“I think I have an order of lightning bolts that need to be completed, too,” Michael supplied, watching Ryan. “But shall we do something else instead? A tour of my rooms, perhaps?”

Ryan would have been content to stay in the workshop, examining this and that, observing how so many wonderous things were made at inhuman speeds. But before he could come to such a decision one way or another, there was the sound of a crash in the distance - near the open entrance of the workshop. A moment later, a person swore.

Rather, a god.

Ryan felt his blood freeze, holding his body in place. Michael didn’t look much better. Apparently he never intended for guests to arrive at the palace. He hurriedly looked around before spotting a large wicker basket - within which contained the finished swords, all gleaming. Michael knocked it over, shoving the swords out before beckoning for Ryan to crawl inside.

“Hurry!” Michael pleaded, when Ryan cast a glance behind him. He wriggled inside, his head near the opening, and using strength that Ryan usually forgot Michael possessed, the god turned the basket back to its rightful place. With the way Ryan crouched, he was well hidden, if still just one peek inside away from being exposed.

“Michael?” a voice ventured, still some distance away. Ryan looked frantically up at Michael, wanting more instruction, more reassurance than what he had been giving.

“It’ll be fine,” Michael said, eyes darting behind him still. “I think I know who it is - I’ll get him out of here in no time. Just -” He looked desperately down at Ryan, like he wanted to say or do something else. “Be still and quiet.” he said eventually, before running off towards the source of the noise.

Ryan heard nothing for a time. Just his own breathing and rapid pulse, which he tried to coerce into peaceful rhythms, somewhat unsuccessfully. Still, it was five minutes or so and he had yet to hear anything. No arguments, no struggle, the sound of Michael getting slaughtered for keeping a mortal man in his midsts - none of that.

“…And then Gavin had the nerve to try to wrestle me for the gold.” That was Michael’s voice, and Michael’s shoe on the tile floor, coming closer.

“Did you win?” A man’s voice asked.

“Of course I won! I know Gavin’s the ruler of the underworld and whatever, but he doesn’t have to have the strength of a skeleton to boot.” The stranger laugh, loud and bawdy, like he was a cup of wine short of being inconsolably drunk.

“I wish I could’ve seen it, what a prick,” The man spoke in such a fond way, despite his words.

“I know, Geoff. Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t stay with you longer. Burnie’s been on my ass about the lightning bolts, and then there’s the arrows to make and -”

“What happened to all your swords?”

Ryan sucked in a breath and held it. He tried to crouch even further down into the basket, if that were possible. He saw a flash of cloth and nearly yelled, before he saw the color and recognized that Michael was leaning up against the basket, using his body to somewhat protect him. He heard the other god stumble around nearby, probably looking at all the felled swords.

“Right, they were defected. All of ‘em - impure metals,”

“Huh, they look fine to me.”

A pause. Ryan bit his lip and clenched his hands around his bent knees. “And that’s why you’re the god of grapes, Geoff.”

“Hey, that’s not fair!” There was an indignant sniff. “I’m also a patron of the theater.”

“Right, so sorry, oh cultured sir.”

“Yeah, yeah. Do you need help with -”

“No, no! That’s what, um, the automatons are for. Really, Geoff, any other time would have been fine, but I’m too busy now. I’ll see you as soon as I’m done, promise. Just give me a few days.”

Ryan’s legs were cramping, and it was becoming harder to remain curled up. He tried to force the thought into Michael’s head, hoping the other would be able to usher Diony- sorry, ‘Geoff’ away. Instead he heard Geoff sigh.

“You know you wouldn’t be doing all this now if you spent more time in the workshop and less with the humans downstairs.”

Michael shifted, like he wanted to spring up, but he resolutely remained planted in front of Ryan’s hiding spot. “How do you mean?”

“Well, you’re never here when me or any other god calls on you. You’re not with them or Gavin, so -” Ryan imagined the other shrugged at this moment, “What else would you be doing?”

“It’s not a crime to go and mingle with mortals every once in awhile.”

“Sure, sure, but Michael, you haven’t done that since when Lindsay changed her patronage and left you for the underworld. And that was just - eons ago!”

“Has it really been that long?” Michael asked, forcefully aloof.

“Is there… someone?” Geoff asked. “I’ve been dying to know. Or a whole army of someones? A bunch of pretty, starry eyed men and women you’ve found?”

“Geoff, I don’t want to offend you, but if I even hint at what I’m doing, everyone on Olympus is gonna know.”

“Alright, alright. You’re off the hook this time. But there’s nothing to be ashamed of. They’re cute, you know? Funny little creatures.”

“Imagine if Griffon heard you say that.”

A moment of sputtering ensued. Ryan was too preoccupied with not groaning in pain from his numb legs to try and puzzle out where he’d heard the name ‘Griffon’ before.

“She’s an exception!”

“Of course, Geoff. Come on - you’ve done a good job at distracting me, but I really do need to make headway on these things. Let me walk you out, through the front door this time.”

“Sure, sure. I can see when I’m not wanted…” Michael moved off the basket and walked towards the workshop’s doors, Geoff’s feet dragging behind. Several seconds later a great door slammed shut.

Ryan knew, in the grand scheme of things, that moment wasn’t so much an out and out threat and more of an unfortunate melding of circumstances. Geoff wasn’t there to snuff out a human, and he hadn’t besides. But all those stories and plays flashed in his mind nonetheless, and he remained crouched in the basket, unwilling to move despite the painful protests his muscles made.

He could have been killed where he stood, if he had been found out. Or Michael could have pretended to hide him, only to present him to Geoff as some ill-meaning man who had snuck into his palace and was deserving of some terrible fate. Eagles pecking out his liver or an eternity spent in fire. He shivered at the thought, and couldn’t even rouse himself to poke his head out when he heard the door opening again, and Michael calling out his name.

Michael’s face appeared above the opening of the basket. “He’s gone, doesn’t suspect a thing.”

“Except that you’re spending time with humans - or just one human,” Ryan managed, miserable.

Michael tsked and held out his hand. “As if Geoff’s one to talk. That Griffon girl I mentioned? She’s a princess on some island near yours. He’s been sweet on her for years, visits her all the time, no one’s given him shit for it.”

“Griffon’s a noblewoman - not a,” He paused, as he took Michael’s arm and wrestled himself out of the basket, standing on shaky legs. “Not a random blacksmith you plucked up off the streets and shoved in silk robes.” He glanced down, noticing that getting shoved into a woven basket had left a few small tears in his paplos and knocked the crown of laurels clean off his hair. He took off the crown, fiddling with it in his hands. “Damn it all!” If the crown was his he would have thrown it, but instead he clutched it tightly to his chest instead, looking at all the discarded swords on the floor.

“Ryan…” Michael drew closer, and after a moment, put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “You’re upset. I told you I would keep you safe here and let a god come through here. I’m so sorry. I never thought -” He shook his head, sadly, and Ryan immediately felt worse off to see Michael glum. That was the sort of affection they had for one another; when one was happy the other followed, when one wallowed and sighed, the other felt wrong until it was fixed.

“I don’t blame you,” Ryan managed. “I’m glad you thought fast, and that Geoff wasn’t as, um, aware of his faculties as some other god may have been.”

“True enough. Come, let’s not spend any more time here.” Ryan wrapped his arm around Michael’s and they made for the workshop doors. “Let’s get you out of these clothes, hm? A bath perhaps - I promise my washroom is quite impressive.”

Ryan laughed, though more because he had to than anything else, but he let Michael lead him out of the workshop all the same. He tensed as they approached the foyer of the palace, expecting to see someone there to capture him, whisk him away - but the foyer was empty, and the grand, winding staircases leading upstairs, and the great washroom as well. The only thing that moved was a flurry automatons that left shortly after they entered, all with dripping buckets of steaming water that they had just poured into the tub.

Ryan was pulled from his morose mood by observing the new room. It was smaller than the workshop, but there was ample room left over considering the size of the bath itself. It could easily fit four men - not quite the pool he had seen at the gymnasium, but it was more impressive for what it was made from. A gargantuan piece of violet quartz had been hollowed and cut to form the tub. The outside was faceted with a hundred sharp cuts along its surface, producing pronounced edges along the surface that were less dangerous than the original outside of such a stone, but wasn’t exactly comfortable to lean against. He ran a hand along the inside of the surface, however, and found it was as smooth as the silk clothes he wore. “How marvelous,” he murmured. Michael grinned at him.

“Made it myself. The whole stone was quite a beauty.”

“I could imagine!”

Michael instructed him towards a large shelf on the side of the room, to select some soaps and oils he found pleasing to dump into the bath. Michael was already disrobing, throwing his robes over a folded out screen nearby. Ryan selected orange blossom, jasmine, all the bottles carefully labelled and numerous. He dumped them into the hot water as per Michael’s instructions, slipped his own fineries off, and joined Michael in the bath.

It was warm, luxurious. Ryan sank down enough for his head to go under the water, and when he came back up Michael was chuckling.

“What?”

“Nothing, just -” Michael put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, “I’m glad some part of you coming here wasn’t a total disaster.”

“Well, the whole thing wasn’t a disaster,” Ryan managed, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It was just an especially bad twenty minutes.”

“You weren’t that excited about the clothes,” Michael added. “Or all the other gifts, before that.”

“Well, I’m not that used to wooing. Being wooed.”

“Oh, believe me, you can woo,” Michael glanced appreciatively along Ryan’s exposed chest, prompting a light splash in his direction. “Hey!”

“I’m sorry, I can see why getting splashed with water while in a tub is a horrific offense, please forgive me.”

“Forgive you my ass, you’re such a cheek.” Michael managed to sidle closer anyway, nearly on top of Ryan’s lap as he pressed a fond kiss to his mouth before leaning back, scanning Ryan’s body, eyes hungry. The human had a feeling that Michael’s restraint was running low.

“Have you ever had any… guests intruding on you while you bathed?” Ryan supposed, tracing a dotted line of freckles across Michael’s shoulder with the tip of his fingernail.

“Thankfully, no. I don’t even think any god knows where it is, it’s not like they make a habit of -” Ryan leaned forward, kissing Michael intensely, pressing him against the side of the tub as he took in the deity’s heated skin. A hand went along his shoulders, another following his spine and disappearing below the water. With Michael pressed so close, the sweet smelling water felt nearly tepid. He bent down and bit the juncture of Michael’s neck and shoulder, hearing the other moan. “Gods, Ryan,”

“Didn’t you get me into the bath with the explicit reason of doing this?” Ryan managed, glancing up at Michael’s eyes.

“No,” Michael said lowly, “I got you in here to do far more than kiss.” Then it was Michael who was pulling Ryan into a frantic kiss, pushing him against the smooth stone of the tub, and doing far, far more than kissing.

iii.

“Ryan?”

Muscles twitched. An eyelid fluttered.

“Are you awake, Ryan?”

A deep breath was taken; resignation. “I seem to be. What is it?”

“I got tired of admiring you and not having an outlet for all of compliments I wish to shower upon your form.” Ryan sighed, rolled over onto his stomach, and buried his head into a pillow. He felt a warm hand on his upper thigh. “What an inspiring change of view.”

“Very funny,” Ryan said, though he was too satisfied to feel anything but extremely content. Michael had as much stamina as Ryan supposed - that is, far too much for him. And after the two rounds in the tub, half of one in the hall, and a big finish in the luxurious bed he now found himself in, he had slept with the hope that he’d be dreaming for a hundred years or so. Michael had woken him early, though. Ryan stretched, resigning himself to waking fully and, most probably, dealing with all the love bites and jelly-like limbs tomorrow at work. He voiced as much to Michael from over his shoulder.

“Who says you need to go to work?” Michael asked, wrapping his arms around Ryan, pressing his cheek into his back. “We could stay up here forever, you and me. Never getting bothered by anyone, no one taking you away from me.”

“Your possessiveness is showing,” Ryan teased.

“But doesn’t it look rather handsome on me?”

Ryan laughed. “You look handsome in anything - but it was just for a day, you promised!”

“You’re right.” Michael paused, went pensive. Ryan had closed his eyes, already starting to doze off again until Michael spoke up:  “You’re right. But perhaps one day I’ll keep you here.” A wistful sigh here. He felt fingers playing along his spine. “I should like it more than anything else.”

“You talk like I’m the first human you’ve ever loved – in all the stories I read, I’ve never heard of a god being so taken with a mere mortal –” Ryan was cut off when Michael rolled them over and pressed Ryan’s back into the bed, holding his arms as he straddled over his body. For a moment the god’s eyes were blazing, an element Ryan knew he could never control.

Michael leaned forward, voice quiet. “Perhaps I’ve enjoyed the company of a few humans before,” he admitted, running warm fingers along Ryan’s face, “but nothing has ever hit me like this. This – this fascination, this desire to share everything I have. I’d give you anything you ever wanted without a second thought.”

Michael’s speech was almost too much for Ryan’s brain to puzzle in that moment. But he managed, finally finding his voice. “All I’d ever want is you,” he replied at length. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Michael said, sounding almost surprised as the words came out of his mouth. He ran his thumb along Ryan’s jaw. “I’ve loved many others, but – this is the first time it feels different. This is the first time it means something.”

Ryan couldn’t find anything to say to that. He silently took Michael’s hand from his face and pressed kisses to his fingers, palm, and wrist, before Michael moved to lay down at his side. Their arms naturally went around one another, legs tangling like roots, fingers intertwining. Some minutes passed, they could have been sleeping, the sensation of peace of comfort overpowering for both.

Ryan tried to imagine living in Michael’s palace, but found that he couldn’t. The place was gargantuan, brimming with strange technology or - more apropos may be to say magical features - and beyond that there was a scale of grandness that he would never see in Lemnos, perhaps not even in Athens itself. And Michael wanted him to stay there. Not to keep him as a trophy or entertain him with his creations, but because he loved him. Wanted him here, closer to the heart. It was a pipe dream, he thought - he had a home, and mortals weren’t meant to dwell on Olympus.

But that was not to say that a god and a human couldn’t be together in a way that didn’t end in heartbreak or tragedy or death. And if there was ever a couple more deserving of a gentle life together, well, Ryan had never heard of them.

“I think,” Ryan began, voice barely above a whisper, “this might be the happiest day of my life.”

He heard Michael chuckle, breath against his cheek. “I can’t wait to make you say that a thousand times over.”

[safyresky]

37, 43, 46, 48 with Jacquie, Elle, Dite, and Jack (again), Christmas party addition?

Ahahahaha you are really liking this combo, aren’t you mellobean? (I know I kinda am, and it’s gr8 practise for me to write Dite tbh.Also!!! If you’re predominantly on mobile and read mores don’t wanna work letme know and I’ll get rid of the read more and just tag it as a long post)

37:  “Can you just shut up for five minutes?” 43:  “Why are you/we whispering?” 46:  “Shut up, I am a delight!” 48:  “Now, just hold on a diddly darn minute.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a hassle though?” Dite asked, grabbing anotherglass of cider as an elf with a tray passed by.

“Not really,” Jacqueline replied, helpingherself to a glass as well. “I mean icicles are a really hard medium towork with, of course, especially on a dress, but it reallymakes the look, you know?”

“Well for your super-fancy-formal-wear yeah, I suppose…butI like the frosty dress a bit better,” Dite said. “It looks less like it’sstrangling you.”

Jacqueline blinked. “I’m flattered,” she said, smiling,a slight blush on her face. “And it’s not strangling me, it barely touchesthe neckline Dite.”

“Jacqueline, sweetie. It looks like a corset. You know howawful those things are.”

“Yeah, I do, that’s why I don’t wear one.”

“That’s relieving to know. I’m glad you’re not beingstrangled by clothing.”

“Thanks, Dite.” Jacqueline paused, staring at her friend.The goddess seemed a little off today, and she wasn’t sure why. She keptglancing at Elle and Bernard, looking very thoughtful which could be veryconcerning, depending on the thought.

Jacqueline slid closer to the blonde, until Dite’s left wingwas almost wrapped around the sprite. “What’s got you so bothered?” shewhispered.

“You told me that the North Pole Christmas party isfor every elf to chill out,” she whispered back.

“It sure is. You’ve been here all night, you saw how it wasafter launch. That was pretty chill, by my standards.”

“Well look who is not chilling.”

“Bernard? He never chills. Unless Elle convinces him to. Orhe actally takes a break. I think he’s going to work himself to death one ofthese days.”

“Unless Elle convinces him to. Well, where’s Elle?”

“She’s right beside him—oh. She is not.” Jacqueline paused,frowning. “I think I’m beginning to see your point.”

“Why are we whispering?” said a voice. 

The two Legates jumped, both realizing at the same time thatElle had snuck behind them and that’s why they hadn’t seen her anywhere.

“No reason!” Jacqueline said, clearing her throat anddusting off her dress.

“We were whispering? Wow, I didn’t even notice,” Dite added.

“You sound spacey, Aphrodite. Is everything okay?”

“Yes! I’m just dandy. What a lovely party! When Jacquelinetold me how crazy it got here I did not believe her.”

“I bet you do now,” Elle grinned. 

“Absolutely. So how come you aren’t chilling out?”

Elle’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry?”

Jacqueline made a weird sound in her throat.

“You aren’t relaxing. I would assume, being Elf number 2,you work exceptionally hard. So why aren’t you winding down right now? Withyour boo?”

“Well, we have lots of time to relax later. But since Santais still out we’ve still got to work a little bit, the two of us. Then there’smaking sure everyone is enjoying themselves—Jacqueline, what’s so funny?”

“Dite called B-Man your boo.”

“You’re so mature,” Elle said, grinning.

“She’s the picture of sophisticated grace,” Ditesaid, smiling. “Now then, I can’t sit around here and watch a match such asyourself and Bernard not have fun together. C’mon,” Dite said,grabbing Elle’s hand and rushing away.

“Now just hold on a diddly darn minute—” Elle began, butDite paid her no mind. Jacqueline watched them go, thinking of what Dite might be planning and if she should go tell the love goddess to tone it down a notch.

“So, Cupid’s niece, huh?”

“What?” Jacqueline said, startled for the second time thatnight.

“You have…feelings…for Cupid’s niece?Aphrodite?”

“You’re reading into things, Jack.”

The Legend shrugged, serving his sister with an infuriatingsmirk. “Am I? I mean, you did bring her along as your date, did you not?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have a thing forher.”

“I don’t know, you two were looking mighty cozy before Elleinterrupted. And those wings do not look cozy.”

“Dite’s wings are soft and fluffy and make her hugs verygreat,” Jacqueline defended.

Jack smirked. “I knew it.”

“Can you just shut up for five minutes? Dite and I aren’tlike that! I don’t have a crush on her! She’s just someone I really like andwould stare at for days and if I don’t see her for a while it sometimes ruins my week!”

“You know what Jacqueline,” Jack said, holding up a hand indefence, “you are completely right. That is definitely not a crush, howcould I have been so wrong.?!”

“You’re the absolute worst.”

“Shut up, I’m a delight!”

“Whoever told you that lied.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I can see I’ve hit a touchysubject so, I’ll move on. At any rate, it’s not like you were getting veryfar.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well you were all cozy up there but then Elle came alongand so much for the coze, as you call it.”

“My slang does not suit you.”

“I know. It felt weird to say.”

“Now are you implying I couldn’t get the coze back?”

“Yes.”

“Listen. I don’t have a crush on Dite but I would like youto know I’m totally capable of cozying up to anyone.”

“Really now?”

“Really! And I’ll prove it!” Jacqueline shouted, stompingoff. “I have to go make sure Dite doesn’t go love crazy anyway!”

Jack chuckled to himself, heading back to the dessert table.

By the time Jacqueline made it over to Dite and Elle, stillin a bit of a huff, the two girls were giggling like mad.

“What are you two planning?” Jacqueline asked, eyebrowraised.

“Well, you promised me the whole Christmas experience,” Ditesaid. “And do you know what’s missing from the whole Christmasexperience?”

“Eggnog? Because there’s some over by the Naughty and NiceCentre—”

“Nope! Mistletoe,” Dite said, grinning.

“Oh dear.”

“And since Elle and her fine elven gent over there haven’twound down, and you said that usually Elle is the one to convince him to relax,I thought ‘hey, why don’t I throw them under some mistletoe?’ and I toldElle and she thought—”

“I think it’s brilliant!”

“And thankfully, I managed to come by some mistletoe,” Diteadded.

“Yes, because you wanted to make your peplos allChristmassy, so you had me help you put mistletoe on it. And the holly aroundthe bottom which hurt a lot why is that stuff so sharp?”

“We’re actually working on a softer version of holly down in Botany—”

“Elle. It’s Christmas. Seriously, stop thinking about workfor a bit,” Jacqueline teased.

“Hey, at least I’m not a Bernard,” Elle said, shrugging.

“Speaking of, I hung up the mistletoe,” Dite said, pointingto one of the archways in the Workshop. “Go make some romance happen,Elle. Do me proud!”

“I won’t let you down!” Elle said, saluting (a bit over dramatically,Jacquie thought proudly) and rushing over to Bernard.

“I’m so excited,” Dite said. “You know Jacquie, when Ido my rounds around this time of year, a lot of mistletoe shenanigans tend tohappen. They’re all lovely, of course, but it’s nice to see one that I didn’tmake happen myself. Well, completely,” the goddess said, blushing.

“Then let’s get you closer. after all, you never work from too far away.”

Ditegrinned and grabbed Jacqueline’s hand, rushing them over to the table filledwith cookies nearest to Dite’s mistletoe. They watched as Elle ran by, dragging a very confused but smiley Bernard behind her.

“I just want to show you something, B.”

“Elle, I have to go check in with Santa and—”

“Look up!”

“Is that mistletoe?”

“Heck yes.”

“Well then, if I may?”

“Heck yes!”

The two elves smooched, and Dite grinned so wide Jacqueline was afraid her face would break in two.

“You know what Elle, it’s Chirstmas Eve. Santa’s fine, and you’re right. I really do need to unwind. Want to dance?”

“Happily,” Elle said, taking the hand he offered as the two headed to the large crowd of elves dancing in front of the speaker set up.

“That was even better than I thought,” Dite said, picking up her robes and walking towards the mistletoe. Jacqueline followed, smiling to herself as she stopped beside Dite—right under the mistletoe. “Mind helping me put it back on? It was acting as one of my fibula,” Dite said.

“Of course. But first I would like to point out that we are, in fact, underneath the mistletoe.”

Dite blinked, then coloured. “Oh, geez, we are would you look at that!”

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Dite paused for a minute, then smiled. “Sure. Just not on the lips,” she said.

“I know,” Jacqueline replied. She stepped on her tippy toes and gave Dite’s nose a very light kiss. “Now you’ve had the full Christmas Party experience,” the sprite said, grinning.

Dite laughed.

Out in the crowd, Jack smiled to himself. “Boy Jacqueline, you sure showed me,” he said outloud, to nobody in particular.

I know I did, Jacqueline’s voice replied in his head.

dear @mellomadness and @lovelypidge, I hope u guys wanted your evenings with a side of death by fluff because HERE YOU GO, HERE’S SOME FLUFF

Thank you for the prompts, mello!!! this one was so much fun. I almost ended it after Jack said “I’M A DELIGHT” but then I was like “no I gotta keep going, I gotta make both the otps adorable”. This is sorta canon, bc I have a canon way Diteline ends up happening and maybe I’ll post it one day as a lil drabble or whatever :p

Uhh and some definitions: 

Peplos is a Greek garment worn by both sexes, I believe. It’s body length with the top edge folded down half way to make it look like a second garment. It goes to about the ankles.

fibula were fancy pins used to hold up various garments in the classical world. For Dite’s outfit, they would be sitting at the shoulders, where the top edge of the peplos folds down.

This piece melted my heart tonight so I hope it does the same to you lovelies >:D

[ofbloodandfaith]

26 May 2020 | 3 Skirophorion

Arrephoria Festival | Athena

Arrhephoria was a feast among the Athenians, instituted in honor of Athena. The word is derived from the Greek term Ἀρρηφόρια, which is composed of ἀρρητον, "mystery", and φέρω, "I carry". This feast was also called Hersiphoria, from Herse, the daughter of Cecrops, on whose account it was established.

On the Athenian Acropolis two girls aged between seven and eleven were elected to live for a year at a time as arrhephoroi, tending the sacred olive tree and weaving, with the help of other women, the new robe for Athena. Proud parents commemorated their daughters' service by making dedications on the Acropolis. At the annual festival of the Arrhephoria the girls (according to Pausanias) placed on their heads what the priestess of Athena gives them to carry. Neither the priestess knows what it is she is giving them, nor do the girls. In the city there is a sacred precinct not far from that of Aphrodite in the Garden and through it runs a natural underground passage. Here the virgins descend. Down below they leave behind what they have brought and take something else and carry it, veiled as it is. These two virgins are discharged forthwith and others are taken up to the Acropolis in their place.[1]

Interpretation of the festival is difficult because of the lack of sources, but it is clear that the virginal arrhephoroi are chosen from the noblest families of the city and are deployed in a context of impregnation (dew), sexual power (Aphrodite and Eros), and birth (Erichthonios). The word "arrhephoros" etymologically probably means "dew carrier", which at first sight does not help. The arrhephoroi were charged with weaving the peplos (garments) for Athena. The aletrides ground the grain for Athena. The arkios were the priestesses who celebrated a rite intended to forgive an offense against Artemis. The kanephorai were the girls who carried the baskets with all of the offerings to the festival.[1]

Archaeological evidence reveals that from near the Erechtheion a secret stairway led off the Acropolis past a small rock-cut shrine of Eros and Aphrodite, near which was the precinct to which they were going. The mythical associations of the arrhephoroi are with their starting-point the Erechtheion. Kekrops, the first king of Athens, whose tomb was in the complex, had three daughters, Aglauros, Herse, and Pandrosos. The mystery revolves around innocence, obedience, and fecundity. They were given a closed basket by Athena who forbade them to open it. One night Aglauros and Herse gave in to curiosity, opened the basket, and saw Ericthonios, the mysterious child of Hephaestus. Snakes also appeared out of the basket, and in terror the two girls jumped off the Acropolis to their deaths. The sanctuary of Aglauros lies at the foot of the cliff; it may have been the precinct to which the arrhephoroi descended. Pandrosos, who did not succumb to this fatal curiosity, has a shrine next to the sacred olive tree on the Acropolis itself.

In the fifth century B.C. Aristophanes wrote Lysistrata which explained the stages of the women during this festival:

"When I was just seven, I was arrephoros, then at ten, I was aletris for the archegetis, then I carried the orange robe as arkios (bear) at Brauronia, and finally, having become a beautiful girl, I was kanephoros, with a necklace of dried figs."[1]

These stages have certain tasks which display the ancient system that all girls must go by when reaching puberty. The stages of this "initiation" are as follows. The arrhephoroi comes first, and is a time when the girl dresses in white and begins to weave for the offering to Athena. This is an art that was frequently performed by women during the time, and therefore must be taught at a young age. The second stage is to teach the girl how to bake, specifically, how to bake bread. The third step is considered a symbol of death and resurrection. The girl must attend and participate in the festival with the older women. These stages are all tasks that the girl will use for the rest of her life, and therefore are held with high importance and expectation.

It is believed through sources that Attica was one of the first in history to have one of these festivals.[1]

Modern followers of Hellenism (religion) celebrate it 3 Skirophorion, in accordance with the Attic calendar.[2]

[thewingedwolf]

Not Telling: A Study in How Much We are Actually Told About The Characters, Part Two of Two

There’s some people I wanted to include but we don’t get descriptions of them physically. I wanted to include Gen’s atendendants but the only real description we get of any of them are Sejanus and Hilarion and that’s it so. This one is more subject to some updates if I can find more descriptions of other notable characters.

But here we go!!!!:

The Magus:

“He had the high bridged nose of most of the people in the city, but his eyes were a very light gray instead of brown. HIs forehead was covered by wrinkles brought on by a lot of sun and too much frowning.” - this gives us two things

A description of the magus

a description of the way Sounisians look in general - high noses and brown eyes are common

And the aforementioned comment about him being taller than the average man.

“He was in the company of an older man, unscarred, but no less shabby, who boosted him up…” - first description in AcOk. Note that The Magus is still strong enough to boost up a much more grown Sophos.

“He leaned against the higher side, leaving his arms and legs dangling over the lower edges and looking something like a pale spider, but more like an overturned terrapin.” - Firstly, a terrapin is a turtle, which I had to google. Secondly, I think this tells us that the Magus has long, spindly limbs, and maybe a *little* bit of a gut, but that’s just my interpretation of the comparison.

Sophos also comments that the Magus looks very old after they first meet with Gen and Irene.

Dite/Sejanus:

“He was much like his brother, Sejanus, though he wore his hair long and curled in the fashion of the elite young men of the Queen’s court.”

The Minister of War

“He was taller than average, but not noticeably so, a little heavier, but not stocky. His closely trimmed beard was gray, as was most of the hair on his head.” - again, it seems as if the shortness of Gen runs in the family and isn’t completely attributable to the fact that he’s still in the throes of puberty (lmao) when we meet him.

Godekker

“He was extremely dirty and short to the point of being stunted, with the shoulders and beefy arms of a laborer. He wore a freedman’s cap and, judging by his leathery skin, had probably been a field slave for most of his life. He might have been well into middle age, but field workers have hard lives, and he could have been much younger.”

Sounis:

“He was short, just as his father had been, and stocky. His hair was a dark gold color and curled around his ears. It would have looked effeminate on anyone else...He was too short and too oily, and he was a shade too fat to be elegant.”

Relius

We don’t get a real description in KoA beyond a description of his injuries.

“As he pulled his robe around him before sitting, I saw his hands were misshapen, badly broken and healed, with two of the fingers missing. I looked from them to his face and quickly away. They had been undamaged when I had seen him last.”

Teleus

“No matter that Teleus was nearly a head taller than the king.” - Costis in KoA

“...a soldier as big as the Attolian, but older, with gray in his hair and a fancy badge on his breast, stepped up to the Attolian.” - Kamet in TaT

Melheret (ambassador in Attolia)

He was as tall as Sounis, but more slender, with gray in his beard and in the hair at his temples. His narrow face was weathered by time in the sun, and he had probably been a soldier before he was an ambassador. He gave the appearance of good health and radiated a confidence that Sounis envied.” -- I want to note that this also tells us again that Sophos is tall, but also that he’s got some weight on him, probably a lot of muscle and likely a decent amount of fat as well. I sort of imagined him built like Jason Momoa in his off-filming time lmao

The Gods In General

“And that is why Eugenides, alone among the gods, is dark-skinned like the Nimbians on the far side of the middle sea.”- about Eugenides BUT this is later disputed as we see next:

“His skin was not black like the Nimbians’. It was deep brownish red, like fired clay, like that of the ancient people who’d left their portraits on the walls of the ruins on islands in the middle sea. His hair was dark like his half sister’s, but her hair reflected the light in flashes of gold and aubourn; his was black like charcoal. His face was much narrower, his nose sharper. On one cheek was a lighter scar of a burn mark, shaped like a rounded feather. He was smaller than the other gods, dressed in a tunic of plain gray.” - About Eugenides but also a bit about Hephestia- there’s a resemblance between them but he has darker hair and skin than she does while her features are broader than his, and she is taller.

“Their skin was lighter or darker, but always unblemished, their faces symmetrical, their eyes clear. There were no scars, no bent limbs, no squints in those eyes.” - This is interesting to me in that it seems to imply that the gods aren’t all homogenous except Eugenides, contrary to the first quote. It seems implied that Moira and Hephestia are maybe on the lighter side complexion wise, but that the gods aren’t all Pale and Fair.

“She wore a robe cut from deep velvet, its reds darkest in the hearts of its foldes and brightest in its ridges. Her hair was held back from her face by a woven ribbon of gold set with red rubies.” - about Hephestia. Not a lot of description besides her hair being long enough to be held back HOWEVER the outfit is important to keep in mind because when the reader meets Irene, she’s dressing up as Hephestia in this exact outfit.

“Tall even for a man, and much more so for a woman, she wore a white peplos and looked just as if she had stepped from an ancient vase painting. She was like the Goddess appearing as the mentor in an epic, and I felt like a young Oneius.” - this feels very much like a Not Telling moment lmao. Sort of a Classical Beauty look to Moira is what seems to be implied here.

“A stranger stood before me, taller than the Attolian and slim, very elegant. He had a long, narrow face darker than my own and a heavier beard than I will ever grow. The patterns at the edges of his soft skullcap, and the ones around the collar and hem of his belted shift, marked him as a traveler from beyond the Isthmus.” - the mysterious stranger’s description

“instead found a single burly older man in a handsome robe, imposing and obviously wealthy. He was also obviously a former soldier. He still had the bearing and the scars—he was missing his right eye—but he was certainly not the palace guard, nor one of the city’s Enforcers of the Imperial Peace.” - the “wine merchant” that helps Kamet

————

There we go!!!!