#in my mind this poem is apollo talking to himself

[eucalyptgem]

Young Apollo,

how your passion scorches.

Melting wax on a young boy's back;

Molten iron wreathing a lover's crown;

Your tears cannot extinguish celestial storms.

Blame that vengeful wind

though it did not throw the sparrow to the sea

nor toss the disk to the sky.

No, fate does not vindicate causation.

You did this.

Sing laments from afar;

Apportion your gift to others,

but don't let them spark.

Do not ask who is there to warm you -

the feathers are gone

(Ai, ai)

The flowers are all that is left,

and those can become ashes, too.

Don't you dare threaten their mourning.

[nebbyy]

Lester Papadopoulos/Apollo x reader - It's Over, isn't It?

A/N: okay so a few weeks ago I was listening to the song “It’s Over isn’t it” form the Steven Universe series and this scenario came to my mind, so I thought I’d just make it a fic! For this piece I didn’t see a point in assigning a gender to the reader, so we go with gender neutral all the way😎😎(neither your godly parent is specified since it doesn’t really add anything to the plot, so you can choose whichever you prefer)

PART TWO IS HERE

Warning: insecurity, jealousy, angst (WITH comfort tho), mentions of suggestive activities

Word count: 3209

You kinda hate yourself right now, and you hate yourself because you are so angry right now.

Well maybe angry is an exaggeration, but still, you’re really, really upset.

And you know you should be anything but upset right now. I mean, the love of your life finally has the chance to go back to his home in the Olympus, regain his honor and his status as a god. Those were all good things that you should be ecstatic about, right?

Well, wrong.

Just thinking of it made you feel like you could throw up at any moment. Thinking about the fact that Apollo. Because, what will be of Lester, your Lester?

Your whole relationship had started because he wasn’t Apollo. He wasn’t the tall, tan, handsome and all mighty God of the Sun; he was just a normal teen, whose only things that made him stick out were his acne, his clumsiness and a somewhat nice voice. His mortal condition didn’t even give him a single chance to act in his usual exaggerated, narcissistic self. He had to start off from the start, build a personality that wasn’t based on his godly qualities, but on something more real.

And in that situation he found himself in, with his new eyes he had seen you, and you truly seemed like a deity to him. 

How could you be anything less to the rest of the world, he thought. You were your godly parent’s greatest hero, you were liked and admired by most campers both because of your victories and your looks. And he spent oh so many nights fantasizing about taking you back with him in Olympus, giving you the godly status that should be rightfully yours. But hell, with the body he’d found himself in he’d barely the courage to come up to you to talk.

He told you so many times how absolutely surprised he was when he found out that you actually liked him back, even if he looked like any 17 year old loser, his actual words. And you remembered too, how his voice was so shaky as he tried to muster up a coherent sentence, how his cheeks shone a bright red, how his hands were trembling as you took them into yours and his palms sweating. But in your mind, that was more beautiful than any sonnet, any haiku, any poem, any grandiose, Apollo-like gesture. Because that was Lester, not Apollo; and in your eyes, Lester’s awkwardness was what made him stand out, because it was purely genuine.

Now ever so often you wonder, if he used to feel like you’re feeling right now, like you’re no match to the person you love. You look at your reflection in the mirror of the bathroom, and the mean joke that played your mind made you highlight all the flaws you could spot in yourself. All things that a god could never accept in their lover. You feel so wrong, so flawed that you just wish you could turn yourself into mud and reform your appearance completely.

Gods, you’re being ridiculous right now, you think, you just want to slap yourself in the face and yell at your reflection to get a grip goddamnit! You’re one of the greatest heroes of your time, you survived two wars, you can’t possibly draw the line at a failed relationship with a god. 

At one point someone might think: but why are you so opposed to the idea that your boyfriend is finally becoming a god once again? How ungrateful can you be??

But the point is, you know damn well that the whole point of the creation of Lester was forcing Apollo into a form that would’ve been the total opposite of who he is.

Because Apollo is naturally flirty and superficial, he loves to love and be loved, and he pursues anything and everything that he finds beautiful. But he got bored easily of his love conquers, hence why he has so many kids. So in your mind, it was only natural that as soon as he was back to normality, he’d grow tired of you and move to the next mortal that piqued his interest, maybe even leaving you a single parent to a new demigod.

That’s why you couldn’t stop that nagging feeling deep into your core, as you walked out of your cabin, hearing all the girls already speculating about how beautiful, handsome, shiny and dashing Apollo will be once he goes back to his form. “And who knows, maybe he’ll set his eyes on some of the friends he made in here” squealed a girl, from which cabin you did not know nor care. Her friend replied: “Yeah I mean, ain’t no way he’s gonna keep staying with the same partner forever. I mean, come on, he’s Apollo!” They both giggled like school girls, then kept gossiping about something else, but you did not care enough to keep eavesdropping their whole conversation.

You really hated yourself for being like this right now.

Of course, you know that those two girls meant no harm, it wasn’t their fault if they knew just as much as you did about Apollo’s tendencies. And about that you’re already came to terms with, but there’s something else you hate yourself for…

You stopped reaching out to him. Or even worse, you even started to avoid him. 

Not also him, but your friends and siblings as well. You closed yourself off of everyone else in your life, opting to spend your free days in Camp by yourself, whether it is in your cabin, sparring or all alone in your favorite spot in the forest.

Which is exactly where you’re directed to right now, as you put your headphones in your ears, wasting no time to press play and then abuse the volume up button to muffle any sound from the outside. You walk past the two girls, past another group of guys that were training with one another, and past your friends too, who you didn’t noticed as they were calling and waving at you to join them for a quick snack, leaving them rather confused and preoccupied as it seemed that you were stuck in a trance, locked out in another dimension of your own.

You didn’t even see Lester excusing himself from the group to subtly start following you wherever you were going.

It’s a quiet place, the one in the forest, protected by a thick layer of trees and bushes that makes it hard to reach it; but it’s worth all the climbing and scratches for the beautiful sight of a clear waterfall that fell right into a circular body of water, surrounded  by a rather big field of moss, so soft and fresh to lay on during the hot summer nights.

And so you did, letting yourself fall on that natural mattress, then closing your eyes to feel the light breeze on your exposed skin, and let the words of the song that’s blasting at full volume at the moment fill your ears, although you can barely focus on what they’re saying

It really seems unfair, all of this. That you thought you had fallen in love not with a god, but with a boy. Somehow forgetting that boy and god mixed in Lester, two sides of the same coin.

And maybe he forgot too, because every time the two of you were together, he suddenly couldn’t bring himself to think of the responsibilities that were waiting for him. With you, he forgot about his lost and very much missed abs and tan, he forgot about his chariot and his comfortable place in Olympus. Hell, you even made him forget about all his old lovers. It was really only you in his eyes, just as he was in yours. If only he’d ever told you all of this though…

Your mind keeps swirling in a million thoughts, until it fixates on one memory in particular.

You and him, alone on that very same spot in the forest. In a similar situation as you were now, too, with your crappy phone playing music softly in the background, as the the two of you laid together, one next to the other. You turn around to look at him briefly, only to find him already looking at you. “What, do I have something on my face or..” he just shake his head with the most lovestruck eyes you’d ever seen, batting his eyes slowly before looking at you once again, “I just really want to kiss you right now”.

Your eyes widen. His eyes widen. Did he really just say THAT?

Neither of you were sure how or why, thinking back to it, you wonder if it was his godly charm poking at the back of his head. But that didn’t matter at the time, the future in which he came back to his godly state seemed so far from you, it wasn’t even an option in your head.

Nevertheless, after the initial shock from his words, you silently answered him with a slow, almost numbed movement of the head, nodding slightly, almost scared that if you moved to fast you would’ve whisked him away, or that he could’ve changed his mind already.

But that nod was all that he needed before crashing his lips against yours, one of his hands flying to grab the side of your head, while the other stayed put on its place against the ground to keep him from falling on top of you.

The kiss was an absolute mess: teeth clashing, nose bumping against each other,... but it was perfect that way to you. You broke away from each other for a brief moment to catch your breaths, and you just look into each other’s eyes. With chests heaving, breaths mixing, you both started laughing, if only for a moment, a laugh of disbelief at what had just happened.

But that laugh didn’t last long before he moved his head closer once again, this time more slowly, more confidently. The kiss was in fact much less messy, your lips found their place against each other, the panic from before had morphed into pure butterflies in your stomach and fireworks in your eyes.

After a minute at most, you broke apart once again, but only for Lester to reposition himself on top of you in a more comfortable position. Your bodies closer than ever, you could feel everything of him….

What happened after still makes your cheeks flush red at the mere thought, but it also causes a frown to form on your face. Those times, when it was just the two of you are over. Maybe it was just a time of crisis that brought you two together, the shock from a morta perspective might have caused him to cling onto the closes person he could find. You can’t help but imagine Leste- Apollo in that moment, laying in the clouds of Olympus in a much similar scenario, maybe with a beautiful nymph or a smaller deity, or a mortal he laid his eyes on while he was on this earth-

“There you are! I should’ve known that if you’re not around you’re definitely in here.” If it were a normal, mortal voice, you wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the deafening high volume of the music blasting in you ears. But it wasn’t a mortal voice.

It was loud, it was melodic, it resonated in the air like the echo of the most beautiful of songs,…

You wouldn’t even need to turn around to know that that voice came from no other than Apollo. That’s right, he probably came back to his true form already. You can’t even imagine what a scene that would’ve been, to see the handsomely perfect god walking around Camp Half Blood, how many boys and girls had probably followed him around drooling over the sight of him. 

You wish you could just stay put, coldly dismiss him and let him go for what probably is the rest of your life and his eternity. But, curiosity gets the best of you, and you can’t help but turn around tentatively, eager to see what your boyfriend really looks like.

Your mouth quite literally hits the floor at the sight. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve always found Lester really attractive, but this.

This was something beyond the concept of handsome or beautiful.

This, him, was beyond what humans can perceive and comprehend.

Yes, you knew that his skin was tanned, but as he stood in front of you it seemed as if his body was made of bronze.

And yes, you also knew that his hair was blonde, but that didn’t make them justice. They flew, like rays of sun through a clouded sky.

Of his eyes you knew nothing about, but you were pretty sure at this point that no description could really depict just how deep, bright, captivating, alluring, even, they really were.

Your mouth quite literally hit the floor at the sight. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve always found Lester really attractive, but this.

This was something beyond the concept of handsome or beautiful.

This, him, was beyond what humans can perceive and comprehend.

Yes, you knew that his skin was tanned, but as he stood in front of you it seemed as if his body was made of bronze.

And yes, you also knew that his hair was blonde, but that didn’t make them justice. They flew, like rays of sun through a clouded sky.

Of his eyes you knew nothing about, but you were pretty sure at this point that no description could really depict just how deep, bright, captivating, alluring, even, they really were.

Your throat felt tight, your mouth dry, and your whole body gives you this tingly sensation. With all of your strength, you took a deep breath to try and calm yourself down, before mustering all of your strength to speak without a pathetic shaky voice. “I thought you were going back as soon as you got your body back.“

“Ain’t no way that I wasn’t coming to kiss my beautiful partner goodbye.” He grinned as he swiftly took a seat right by your side, propping himself on his elbow, his eyes never once leaving yours. You swore his smile was intoxicating, you’d say contagious even if the thought that this might’ve been your last moments together didn’t fill your mind with sorrow.

You wanted to protect yourself from this, detach your mind and heart from him before he does it first, leaving you with an aching heart and moving on with his eternal life.

You felt a hand come up to your cheek, holding it softly as the sweetest melody came from his lips, “I’m gonna miss you madly once I’m back there, you know?” At that, you can’t help the deep anger that fills you from inside, a feeling that expresses through icy, stinging words, as you turned your head away from his touch, “I’m sure you’ll move on in no time.”

He frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he expected from you at all, but he didn’t really take it personally, it was so obvious that there was something troubling you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” your voice is louder, a mixture of frustration and anger. But also so much sadness, that can be felt by just how strained the sound that came from your throat is, almost as if you were fighting back tears. You swallow hard, trying to recollect yourself, “I mean that you are a God, I am just a mortal. One of many. I’ve got nothing special to be remembered for, to be remembered by you for the rest of eternity. And Im okay with it, really. Our destinies were never meant to combine, I was just another one of your lovers.” As you spoke those last words you couldn’t help but let the tears flow from your eyes, those who always looked at Lester with a mix of love and mischief, now only filled with a never ending sadness.

Slowly, as to avoid scaring you off, the renewed god took your wet face in his warm hands, pulling you closer and wiping your tears off at the same time. Gently, he spoke: “My love, you couldn’t have said anything more wrong. You are special to me, and I could never forget you. In thousands of years that I’ve existed, no one had ever treated like you did, like I wasn’t a god. Sure, it was temporary and you knew I could’ve incinerated you as soon as I got back to… this.” He looked down, gesturing at his body, a sight for sore eyes that could’ve really made you unfocus on anything were you not so taken by your talk with Apollo at the moment. “But that didn’t stop you from treating me like we were equal. And I hated it, at first. I thought it would be part of my punishment. But as time passed, I realized that being your equal was the highest of honors I could ever get. You’re… you’re crazy strong, incredibly smart, unbelievably beautiful, way too kind for your own good, especially with those brats of the kids in this Camp.”

You giggled at his words, a consistent contrast with your tearful eyes and quiet sobs, “Some of those brats are your children too, genius.” “Well then it must run in the family.” You laughed again while shaking your head, but only for a moment before returning your full attention on the boy in front of you. He took the sign to continue.

“What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think I could ever be able to let you go. Over all the lovers I had through the years, which I’m sure you know are many, you’re the only one that saw me and treated me with true love and care. Not with fearful devotion, never fearing what I was capable of. I only ever saw this kind of love in Sally Jackson, and I mocked Poseidon for letting a mortal like many treat him so casually. But now, now I get it, and to be honest I can’t help but think that you’d deserve to be called a deity far more than many others who already are. Maybe even more than me. So I refuse to ever let go of this blessing that fate has given me. And if in order to do so I have to take your soul and put it on the sky above, to rest as a star forever by my side, so be it. But trust me you’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

You crumbled like a sand castle at his words, that he spoke with the very same tone, on the very same spot when you still called him Lester, and you promised to stick by each other’s side for the time you had left, only a few months before this whole encounter. You let your head fall into his broad chest, sobbing softly as you desperately clung to him. Your tears weren’t of sadness anymore, but of relief, for you had just been given the confirmation that your lover was still yours.You spent the rest of the night there, cuddling as close to eachother as possible as you rested in peace. 

The morning after, at dawn, when he had to officially go back to his daily duties, he begrudgingly got up from his place in your arms, placing butterfly kisses on your arms and neck, careful not to wake you. He left a little not right next to you, one that read: 

“I had to go, didn’t want to wake your pretty face this early in the morning.  Meet me here at dusk tomorrow, Forever yours,  A.”

It made you smile, seeing that note as soon as you opened your eyes, almost made you forget the lack of your boyfriend next to you,… and the yelling of your friends and siblings calling for your name in the distance.

You wasted no time walking towards those voices, and when they asked you just where the hell have you been all night, you just smiled and brushed it off, but everyone noticed how your usual bright self had mysteriously came back after days of brooding.

Hours later, you were calmly eating dinner with the other campers, laughing and talking and eating seemingly decent food. You were totally clueless as to where exactly Apollo was, but you guessed he was on his chariot, on his way to let the sun set and go to your secluded spot. But little did you know, he was in neither of those places. He was actually walking up to Zeus’ throne, tall and proud as he respectfully bowed to his father. “Apollo, I see it took you no time to get used to your old life once more. I trust you have learned your lesson.”

“Indeed, father. And I came here to thank you for it all. It was… better than I expected.” Zeus lifted a brow suspiciously, eyeing his son as if trying to make out what’s in his mind just by his appearance. “Mmh I hardly believe that you only came here to thank me for your punishment.” “Heh, you’re not wrong, father. I came here to make a request.”

“Depends. What is it that you desire?”

“How do you make a demigod immortal?”

[apollodrider]

Hello sunshine.☀️ could you do apollo headcanons with a female human reader? Thank you, have a good day.🌻

Thank you for the request!

I tried my best <33

Apollo x (Fem) Human! Reader

HEADCANONS

____• MAYBE gods and mortals interacting wasn't so ideal. You sometimes get nervous when interacting with him because of that. Apollo doesn't mind, he waits patiently for you to open up to him.

• Apollo does pursue you, he's not the demanding type, he instead works to win you over.

• Apollo likes to go through what we call 'courting', he finds the idea cute. He'd bring back silly gifts to you just to see you smile. He would write poems and dedicate to you. He'd sing you songs and play the lyre for you.

• He always make sure to treat you gently.

• “What's your love language?“ You ask him, curiously. “All five, darling. You deserve to experience all five.“

• I believe Apollo likes to show all the love languages to prove his love for you.

• Physical touch : Apollo lets you lay your head on his lap and rest as he caresses your hair. Whenever he sees you, he gives you a kiss on the back of your hand. He makes sure to give you lots of hugs and kisses. Sometimes, just to tease you, he'd give you a kiss on the lips before leaving. Like a goodbye kiss. He loves to hold your hand, your wrist, your waist, and all of that. It feels like heaven to him, you're just so beautiful.

• Quality time : Apollo would always visit you at completely unique and unexpected times. Sometimes early in the morning and sometimes around the afternoon. He'd drag you and take you to places, taking you out on dates, like picnic dates under the sun or under a tree. Other times, he's just there to keep you company and listen to you speak.

• Words of affirmation : Apollo loves to praise you a lot. In his eyes, you're gorgeous. He constantly compliments you, whether your appearance or your personality. He gives you reassurance whenever you're down.

• “I'm not very beautiful-“ You tell Apollo and he immediately looks at you, a frown on his face.“{Y/n}, you're as gorgeous as a star.“ Apollo said, complimenting you wholeheartedly. You raise a brow at that. “What is that supposed to mean?“

“Your beauty is shining, blinding, infact. You're a star, special and unique.“

• Acts of service : When you go out together and you have stuff to hold, Apollo carries them for you. Whenever your legs hurt from walking, he carries you. Whenever you're sick, he's there to take care of you. He's always worried about you, not wanting to see that you have even a single scratch on your skin.

• Gift giving : He loves giving you gifts. Apollo draws you often, making sketches, and paintings about you. He'd give one to you and keep some for himself, to admire you when he can't see you. When he sees something that reminds him of you/thinks you would like that, he gets it and gives it to you. Most of his gifts are cute, like stuffed toys, clothes, flowers, or food.

• Apollo always make sure to make you feel special. If he ever finds out someone hurt you, he'd have a talk with them and force them to apologize.

• You smiled at Apollo, holding back your laughter before you suddenly burst out into laughter. Apollo froze at that, surprised. He admired you. With glistening eyes, he watches you laugh and finds you adorably pretty when you do. “You're funny, Apollo.“ You comment, finally calming down.

From that day on, Apollo always made sure to crack jokes just to see you laugh.

• Apollo would take you to gardens, or flower fields. You'd both make flower crowns for eachother and wear it. He loves doing that a lot, it makes you happy, and it makes him happy too.

• You and Apollo have a sun and moon relationship in your eyes. But in Apollo's eyes, you are the sun to him. His sunshine. That may sound odd, but sometimes... the sun needs it's own sun, it's own sunshine that brightens his world since he makes other's day, but who will make his? Well, you of course.

[whispersinthedawn]

Concealed in the Coriolis ch 3

“Is this ... an assassination attempt?” the voice of the priest asked from behind him, sounding bemused.

Abruptly, rage filled Percy’s veins. The man had just watched Percy attack someone unprovoked and hadn’t even attempted to help – merely stood by as an indifferent observer unrelated to the happenings.

Percy whirled around. “Why, are you important?” he sneered.

He crawled a threatening inch closer to the man, willing to claw at his face and leave him as disfigured as the putrid nature of his soul if he wouldn’t lift a single finger to help a woman possibly dying right in front of him.

Lee would have never allowed any of this. This man didn’t deserve to share any resemblance to a boy who had unflinchingly rushed into battle with giants even knowing the consequences, who had once poured all his energies into healing a demigod until forcefully dragged away because the body in front of him had long since gone cold.

Galene could be slipping beyond the Styx. She could be dying inch by inch that very moment, even her sluggishly flowing blood not enough to rejuvenate cells deprived of oxygen for too long.

The priest didn’t even glance at Galene.

“I am Apollonius!” the priest growled out, flapping his cloak so that the winglike protrusions on it flared into view.

“Of Rhodes?” Percy scorned. “Because that’s the only Apollonius worth remembering.”

And that in itself was a comment about his lack of remarkableness since all Percy could recall was that Annabeth both admired and resented the man. Something about a talented poet with a habit of choosing deplorable topics on which to compose a poem. 

History would just have to make do with one less epic poet if this priest was Apollonius of Rhodes.

Apollonius barked a sharp laugh full of rage. “Do you think your status as a princess will protect you from my wrath?” he hissed. “You, who have already proven your inability to recognise your family, displayed a callous willingness to kill trusted retainers, and have fortuitously removed any witnesses from the room? Who is to gainsay me if I were to say you attacked me?”

The Iliad’s beginning ran through Percy’s mind. Sing, oh goddess, of Achilles’s rage. The tale of animosity between Achilles and Agamemnon, two of the greatest Greek warriors – and yet, was the anger of Achilles not incited by Apollo when he set plague loose on the Greeks? All because of a love for his priest, who failed to ransom his daughter from Agamemnon.

The God of Truth might discern the truth of his priest’s falsehoods, but who would dare risk divine wrath by harbouring someone who would harm a priest?

Percy clenched his teeth together, fuming, heartsore, but with the faint flickers of cold reason cooling his impetuousness. “She is not dead,” he said stiffly. “You may check for yourself.”

‘Not due to your lack of trying!’ Coronis accused him.

“I didn’t try to kill her!” Percy shouted at her.

He hadn’t, he hadn’t. Why couldn’t she just understand that and stop transmitting hatred, panic, and rage at him? Didn't she know he couldn’t think with her emotions running rampant through his head?

A moment of silence before Apollonius asked, “Who are you talking to?”

Coronis’s silver, translucent eyes widened. ‘Can you see me?’ she asked the priest.

Percy experienced a moment of mingled hope and terror, but Apollonius just studied him with cold calculation in his eyes. 

“Someone ...” Percy started before pausing. What guarantee did he have that this priest was not a gingerbread house built to conceal the cauldron to boil his flesh? Simply because he invoked a trust and longing that rightfully belonged to Lee? Was that not a tally against the sincerity of this illusion?

Someone who reminded Percy so acutely of Lee might as well have been built with the son of Apollo as the template. And Ixion – couldn’t that be the Triton Percy had hoped for in fanciful dreams he’d nonetheless half-convinced himself to be prophetic instead of the stiff, resentful merman who’d confronted him in Atlantis instead? There was even something of a resemblance.

Phlegyas – Phlegyas might as well be a Poseidon who had foresworn his wife and the gates of Olympus, or a kind-faced Paul who had raised Percy. And Cleophema the version of Sally who had never ruined her life to protect Percy’s, who had never torn apart every shred of her happiness to chain herself to Gabe and wasted her youth for Percy, who was queen of a prosperous kingdom, had a Muse for a mother who’d bless all her literary leanings, and a husband who’d stand by her side.

“You’re just an illusion,” Percy breathed out in relief. “You’re not real.”

‘You’re delusional,’ Coronis whispered in horror. ‘You don’t even think we’re real. None of us – you're going to just kill everyone because we aren’t alive in the first place.’

“Just because you’re not real doesn’t mean I’m going to kill everyone,” Percy protested. He wasn’t – he hadn’t even tried to kill Galene. Merely remove her from the way with the means at his disposal. Or would Coronis have preferred that he crack Galene’s head open just like her own had been?

Percy swayed with dizziness.

But Coronis wasn’t real either.

“Can you sit down, dear?” Apollonius asked softly, eyes pinched in wariness. “You look like you’re in pain.”

‘Don’t be taken in by him!’ Coronis shouted in warning. ‘He’s going to hurt you too!’

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Percy snapped, losing his temper. He wasn’t a monster lashing out indiscriminately at everyone around him. This was the priest he’d planned to obtain aid from.

But whatever glimpse of his intentions Coronis received from the river flooding their two banks instilled the deepest panic in her.

She rose to her feet, the caved-in side of her head with its matted strands on full display, and flung herself at Apollonius, shrieking, ‘You have to leave.’

She passed straight through the priest and crashed onto the floor behind him but Apollonius ... froze.

“What was that?” he breathed out, lips barely moving.

Percy stared at the spooked priest in shock. Had ... had he felt Coronis? Had a figment of Percy’s imagination experienced the healing rush, the cooling breeze, the eerie intermingling, with another figment of Percy’s imagination?

A crack appeared in the wall around Percy’s mind that he frantically shored up with wet sand and limp hopes.

“Did you feel something?” Percy asked in Coronis’s tiny voice.

Apollonius trembled.

Tentatively, uncertain yet unable to abandon all hope, Coronis swiped a hand through Apollonius’s bare calf.

This time the reaction was more prominent. Apollonius shivered and swivelled around in a panic, but try as he might, his wildly darting eyes failed to find anything. He backed towards the wall, suspicion settling into harsh lines on his face.

“What are you?” he demanded.

‘I’m Coronis,’ the dead spirit on the floor cried out.

“I’m,” Percy tried, instantly drawing Apollonius’s attention.

Coronis screamed – a high-pitched shriek that had Percy slamming his palms against his ears.

And threw herself at Apollonius.

The wall, perhaps spelled to repel spirits or perhaps it was merely a remnant of her soul’s belief that humans couldn’t cross ten-foot tall obstacles of mud and wood plastered with tiles, crushed her nose.

But for a few fraught seconds, Apollonius and Coronis shared the same space, breathed the same air, and might as well have been the same people.

‘Kill him, kill him, kill him,’ Coronis chanted.

“Who are you?” Apollonius whispered again, eyes glowing with the impending signs of a magical outburst.

“I’m, I’m Percy,” Percy stuttered. “And that’s Coronis. I just woke up in her body. And ... and I think she’s dead. She's dead and this isn’t real, and I just want to wake up.”

‘Kill him, he hurt Galene, he’s going to hurt everyone,’ Coronis pleaded.  

“An eidolon,” Apollonius concluded.

“No, this is a Mist illusion,” Percy corrected like a broken tape recorder.

He hoped this was an illusion.

The alternative was too terrible to contemplate.

“An illusion, you say?” Apollonius asked, voice a strange sort of dispassionate that made Percy wary.

“Yes.”

'Please, you must stop him. I can’t. I tried, but I just pass through him. It's my body but he keeps doing terrible things with it!’ Coronis cried out, lying without shame.

Percy glared at her, and indirectly, at Apollonius too. Percy had committed only one terrible act with Coronis’s hands, and even then, had he but known Galene was the shade of loyal who would let her mistress kill her, he would have simply insisted harder that she leave the room.

But he hadn’t known. Because he wasn’t Coronis. Even though he’d displaced her from her own body and replaced her with no one the wiser, which he supposed gave her ample reason to claim he’d committed atrocities.

He'd stolen her body.

Except this was an illusion so no one had stolen anything.

Apollonius blinked before his drawn-up shoulders relaxed into a loose-limbed fighter’s stance. He smiled. “Illusion, delusion, or displacement – there's a very simple way to find out.”

***

Because most of the comments on Coronis on AO3 seem to be how much people dislike her - as far as she knows, she got murdered so Percy could steal her body, seduce a god with her body, then cheat on Apollo so obviously that he kills her and sends her father to Tartarus. And, even if she were to withhold judgment because he doesn't particularly want to do this, Percy goes and nearly kills the woman who might as well be an aunt. Percy is the villain in her story, and if she must get her body made permanently beyond habitation, then that's what she will do. Because that's what heroes do. Sacrifice themselves to protect others.

***

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[kuroopaisen]

imitheos. (oikawa tooru)

➵ oikawa barely recognises the god he used to be. 

wc: 3.8k

warnings: gn!reader, greek god au, melancholia? angst? is that something to warn people about?

a/n: so this got away from me, and ended up half a character study, but,,, @kacchand (sorry for tagging this one but i couldn’t tag @kacchand-archive aa) thank you so much for the warm, lovely things you’ve said to me ever since stumbling across my blog, and for complimenting my oikawa specifically. it’s those sorts of compliments that makes me feel all soft!

Oikawa Tooru. He’s still not sure of the name. He never chooses them himself; they come to him, quite naturally, each time he assumes a new form. Each time he knits himself a backstory, he wonders what this life will bring. If it will be better than the last.

He hasn’t always been Oikawa Tooru. He’s been many other forms littered throughout history, recycling the same ego. And before each of those, he was Apollo.  

Apollo had been a god amongst gods, deity of so much and so many. He could absolve men of guilt, gift mortals with the power of prophecy, balance their lives in his hands as he commanded the fate of their crops. Even the gods feared him, loved him, revered him.

But he is no longer Apollo. He is a whisper of him, a half-forgotten shadow.

His old name is everywhere. Rocket ships, theatres, philosophical concepts. He’s watched countless effigies to his old self shoot themselves into the sky, chasing a distance once thought unreachable. They always seem to take the light with them, blazing into the darkness.

But Apollo is just a name, now. Everything he used to symbolise seems to pass through him like white smoke.

It’s so hard to find the light in this endless winter.

Archery is just a niche hobby, now. Wars are won through other means.

Disease and the means to combat it are far past his sphere of influence now. Both continue to take on new and frightening forms that even he couldn’t conjure.

There is no space in this world for prophecy anymore. Such things are considered untruths, the trade of hackneyed swindlers masquerading as fortune tellers.

But poetry. Poetry refuses to die.

Sunday afternoon. The sky is already dark. Slam poetry night at a dingy little coffee shop. He’s sat in his usual spot, a dark corner that grants him a clear view of the makeshift stage at the back of the shop. It’s the best spot to melt away into, to become a true observer. 

He’s not sure why he’s come here. The coffee itself isn’t particularly good, nor is the atmosphere of the place much to his liking. It’s a little dingy, reliant on weak oil lamps for light. He knows that it’s supposed to give off a retro vibe, but he thinks it just makes it miserable. There’s the smell of musk too, permeated through both wood and cushion. 

 But something is drawing him to this place. Something, beating against the fabric of the universe, is telling him that this is where he’s supposed to be.

He still doesn’t know why.

You smile at him from across the room, giving him a small wave. You usually work Sunday afternoons, right until close. He isn’t sure of your name, and usually, he wouldn’t care.

But every Sunday, you seem to take it upon yourself to fulfil his orders. Once upon a time, he would’ve been sure that it was his charm that induced you to do so; mortals often found it hard to resist the gods, after all. But he’s not so sure he can still claim that allure.

“You’re becoming a bit of a regular,” you smile, setting his drink down in front of him. Something made with honey, but he’s not sure what. He never pays much attention when he orders.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re always here on Sundays,” you nod, daring to meet his gaze. “But you’ve never performed yourself.”

Oikawa smiles. One person, at the very least, has noticed his existence. That’s as powerful as a prayer these days.

“I take it you’re a fan,” you remark, eyes scanning his face.

Oikawa nods. “You could say that.”

You smile. It’s small, and he wonders if it’s merely a nicety. “Of slam poetry in particular, or…”

Ah. Yes.

He wants to say it’s because he’s tired of typical poetry. Tired of all its embellishments and platitudes. Slam poetry is newer, younger, angrier. There’s a rawness to it, a rage that speaks to something more visceral in him. Pretty words are not enough anymore.

It’s an offering of something else, of a yearning he still struggles to place. It’s a call for something better, for change, for vindication.

But he won’t bore you with that. You’re just a waiter, making small talk to be polite.

“My preferences change often,” he shrugs.

He appraises you for a moment, clad in a button-up shirt and dress trousers, a charmingly small apron wrapped around your waist. He’s not paid you much mind before; maybe because he’s been looking too hard.

He once thought that this café was drawing him towards a modern muse, an echo of Melpomene. Or perhaps Erato? But it hadn’t been that at all. It had been a call to draw him to you.

For what, he can’t say. But this small moment, this little recognition in the back of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday afternoon in the midst of winter, is the closest he’s felt to worship in aeons.  

He fears, for a moment, that you might be Daphne. Or maybe Marpessa. He’s already lost another Hyacinth; not to death, but to the rhythm of life. The pull of a world to which Oikawa couldn’t follow. How long had it been since Hajime left?

Oikawa can’t say.

But he’s been so lonely. So faded.

Whoever you are, whoever you were, does not matter.

What matters is that you’re the first person in a very long time who can see him.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Back again,” you smile. Another drink with honey is placed in front of him. It’s the only thing he’s been ordering for the past few weeks.

He nods, looking up at you with a smile. He knows it’s dead behind the eyes, but he’s trying. He hopes, quietly, that the darkness will mask it. 

“You must really enjoy the poetry,” you remark, looking over your shoulder.

One girl has just finished, face flushed with both nervousness and pride. She is young, perhaps barely seventeen, but with the fury of someone who knows too much about the horrors of the world. She’d done quite well by Oikawa’s account. He hadn’t derived much joy from it, but she certainly has potential.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

“Do you prefer more…” You pause, brow furrowed as you search for the words. “Traditional poetry?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

Perhaps his tastes would err more to the modern, if he knew more about it. But the fact of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have a clue. Too much time spent with volleyball preoccupying most of his thoughts, and very little time keeping up with the artistic scene of the last decade and a half.

He can’t speak as an expert. But he can speak as the god who invented poetry, who gave mortals the means with which to express their magnitudes. A gift, he’d said. To turn the human experience into something beautiful. But was it for them, or for him?

“The anger is sincere,” he muses, “And they all seem to have poured their soul into their poems.”

You nod, smiling at him. “I wish I was that creative, at their age.”

He looks at you. You look about the same age he should be; twenty-something, maybe? Young, perhaps still in university.

You’ve been spending your breaks with him for a few weeks now.

He doesn’t mind; in fact, he enjoys the company. And, you seem to care about what he has to say, which certainly fluffs his ego.  

Why you would care so much about an odd, discreet man sitting in a dark corner of a coffee shop is beyond him.

But he wants to know why. Know more about you. What you love. What you desire.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

The question is sudden, perhaps a bit invasive. It flies from his lips before he has time to reassess it, to craft it into something a bit less intense. He fears, for a moment, that it might scare you – that it might be a bit too much.

But you laugh, tilting your head at him. “That’s a bit of a big question, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “You must have some idea.”

You sigh, shrugging. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I need to survive university before I can start worrying about that sort of stuff.”  

He hums.

“What about you?” You ask, polite smile gracing your lips.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his brows creasing. “Not sure.”

He might have dreamed of greatness a while ago. He would’ve chased volleyball, brilliant and vibrant as he was.

Who would have thought that Apollo would find his heart in something so coarse as sport? For a moment, however brief, he’d felt like he might be able to shrug off this immortal shackle. To exist for himself, and not as a mere echo reliant on mortal belief. To maybe, finally, have a chance to live as he wanted to, dictated by his own desires.  

That last spark of vibrant humanity had spluttered out the day they lost that one fateful match.

He had wanted to chase his own dreams, the tangible passions he’d discovered as a mortal. He hadn’t wanted to be this, a pathetic half-god that was fading into the grey. But that was the trappings of his dying godhood – a life half-lived, a dream unfulfilled. Where would he be, if he had been able to take on the world as Oikawa Tooru?

Happier, he supposes. Though, he can’t be sure. Because maybe this early evening, grey and cold and bitter, almost tastes like happiness. Almost. And he knows why.

☉ ☉ ☉

There’s a glow to him. He doesn’t notice it; he’s been brighter in the past, blindingly radiant. He was once considered the most beautiful of the gods for a reason.

But to you, this distant, peculiar man is beautiful. There’s something of a fallen giant to him; is he the sort of person whose glory days has long since passed? Had he been a high school hero maybe?

There’s something else to him, too. Something strange. Something esoteric.

You don’t quite know how to explain it.

It’s like he’s asking – no, begging someone to acknowledge him. To breathe new life into him.

And for all his strange, aggressive indifference, there’s a little flame in him. One that seems like it’s been burning for centuries, too stubborn to flicker out.

You haven’t missed how it’s getting brighter.

He only comes in on Sundays, staying from three until eight. If his prolonged presence bothers your co-workers, they don’t mention it.

Perhaps it’s silly to be so fascinated by a complete stranger, especially one that simply sits in a corner and watches. Perhaps it is even sillier to spend your breaks with him. But it’s as if you can’t help yourself; something pulls you towards him, even if you don’t understand it.

“What about the Greeks?” You ask one evening, sitting next to him in his booth.

His smile is bemused at best. “What about them?”

“Well… they’re classics,” you muse, “Are you a fan, or…?”

“Homer can suck my dick,” Oikawa grumbles. He never quite forgave that man for the unflattering portrait of his godliness.

You laugh. There’s an echo of a lyre in it. He wonders, for a moment, what you might look like with a laurel woven through your hair, smiling on a Pierian coast in the height of a blistering summer.

He doesn’t let his mind wander too far.

“I’m not really one for poetry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

“Is that so?” Oikawa smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm after sitting on the table for so long, but he doesn’t mind.

You shake your head. “I find it difficult to wrap my head around. It makes me feel kind of stupid.”

He nods. He used to understand poetry so well – in the darkest of nights, it was often the only thing he understood. It used to be laced with his very being, threaded through his body like veins. But now, it just fills him with bitterness.

“I like the classics, though,” you smile softly, playing with your fingers. “There’s something about the simplicity and straightforwardness of the language that appeal to me. And, I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “Some emotions seem to transcend time and culture. And some of the classics are so… raw. So… human.”

‘Human.’ He gazes at you, that word in particular playing over in his mind. There’s some truth in the classics, he supposes. Something in them that echoes across the centuries. But he’s been around far too long to care for patterns and parallels.

“Sorry,” you blush, smoothing your apron. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Oikawa shakes his head, leaning towards you. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cold now. “So, you’re a history buff, then?”

Maybe you are Clio, after all.

You shrug. “Only ancient history, really. But I haven’t read as much about it as I should’ve.”

“Are you a fan of the myths?” He asks, a playful lilt to his voice. He knows you won’t get the joke, but he doesn’t mind.

“Some,” you nod. “Why?”

“Know any about Apollo?”

“Apollo?” You smile. His old name sounds like a melody on your lips. “As in the god?”

“Sure.” Who else could he mean?

You pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. It’s a beautiful silence.

“Have you read Plato’s Symposium, by any chance?” You ask, gaze meeting his.

He nods. He doesn’t mind Plato; the man had been grateful for the gift of music, after all.

“There’s a story in it I really like,” you murmur, eyes turning towards the roof. “Well, it’s more of a myth, but… it’s the one about soulmates.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know it?”

“Vaguely.” Of course he knows it. He just wants to hear it retold in your voice.

“Well, alright,” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. “There were three kinds of humans, descended from the sun, the earth and the moon. All had four arms and four legs, two faces, et cetera. But, the gods felt they were too unruly and powerful. By Zeus’ count, this was unacceptable, and he wanted to humble them.”

Oikawa hopes his expression is neutral enough. How is Zeus? Is he still around?

“Instead of simply destroying them, he split them in two,” you continue. “And that made us miserable.”

Your use of the word ‘us’ intrigues him, but he wants to save his questions for later.

“But, Apollo took pity on us,” you smile. “He decided to patch us up, and shape us into, well… the form we have today. The story goes that our navel is where he sewed our broken skin together. But he turned our heads around to what had once been our back, so we’d have to look at that mark as a reminder of our punishment and how incomplete we are.”

It does not matter to him if there is any truth in this story. Regardless, it certainly sounds like the folly of the gods.

“Once we were split, the two halves were flung to the far ends of the earth. From then on, each of us yearns with both body and soul to be reunited with our other half.” Your voice is so lyrical, so comforting. It is, perhaps, the closest thing to music he’s heard in a while. “Those of us who are lucky enough to find them supposedly know no greater joy. We’ll never feel so understood, so complete. Most of us though, will never know that joy.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t deserve the reverence they got. Perhaps they really had been tyrants, all along. But then again, there was little love between gods and mortals; if anything, worship was simply a reflection of the fears the divine inspired.  

A new question itches at the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in life after death?” He asks.

You blink at him, eyes wide and round. “Well, I… I don’t know, really.”

He knows it’s a heavy question. He knows that he didn’t prepare you for it, and that it’s only tenuously connected to the conversation at hand. But, he always found that people were at their most honest when they were caught off guard.

 “I don’t like thinking about it,” you admit, looking down at your hands. “It makes me all existential.”

Oikawa nods. Most humans react like this.

The relationship between mortals and death has always fascinated him. Fear, loathing, regret. It’s all bundled together. Sometimes, there is comfort. Sometimes, there is a sense of calm. But it is never easy to face the unknown, after such a brief stint of being alive.

It’s something he cannot understand in this existence of his that stretches itself thin across the millenniums.

What is death to a god? He imagines it must be something like relief.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Do you write yourself?” It’s a little question, one he knows was coming.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

You sit next to him in the lamplight, eyes sparkling as they always do. If he was more human, maybe he would compare them to the stars. Or perhaps the ocean after a storm. But he is not human, much less a poet.

How does he say that he’s never needed to? That his patronage, his presence alone was enough to inspire those classics you so dearly love? That he himself has never put lyrics to the human experience?

He has always been a god. There is no beauty to his experience; only in those small pockets of human intimacy he’s been granted across the centuries. There is no beauty to the life of a god – only fire, and fury, and hubris. Even his body is unlike yours; he has no heart, and he bleeds ichor.

“Not really,” he shrugs. It’s all he can say.

“‘Not really’ implies that you write at least a little,” you smile, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have time to do something like that.” He pauses for a moment. Should he tell you? Should he reveal more of himself than is maybe wise? “I played volleyball in high school.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

“I was good, too,” he sighs, brow furrowing. “But my team never made it to nationals.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. There’s little else to do.

“I wanted to go further,” he admits. The lamplight casts a long shadow on his face, each feature soft and delicate as marble.

Each form, each reiteration, wants more.

So much of what he’s done this time doesn’t echo the traditional Apollonian figure. There is no art, this time. No song.

There was drama in sport, but it was different. It had filled him with a passion he’d never felt before, beating in his chest just like a heart would. It provided that rush of adrenaline, the brutal awareness of the importance of just one moment. Eternity stretches on forever for a god, but a game must end. Perhaps, in some way, death is very much the same. 

He wants that closure. That passion for the now. 

Now, more than ever before, he wants to be mortal. To lose himself in the storm that is being human – he wants it all. He wants to let go of the god he no longer is.

Where does Apollo end? Where does Oikawa Tooru begin?

☉ ☉ ☉

Time is passing again. Each day is over before it’s even begun, slipping through his fingers like a lucid dream. A heartbeat that isn’t his own thrums in his ears, quick and loud and frantic.

And yet, he finds himself outside the coffee shop, standing on the curb. You’re next to him, hands dug deep in your pockets. He’s arrived earlier than usual, catching you right at the beginning of your shift.

There’s something he wants – no, needs to say. Something that can’t wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, looking up at the sky. It’s pale, a shade found in-between blue and grey. A perfect winter sky, one you might find on a postcard trying to capture the beauty of the season.

Something is pressing on his chest, heavy and immovable. It feels like a goodbye.

“What for?” You laugh. It really is a delightful sound.

Where to begin? You couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor would you believe him. If he speaks too frankly, you may not remember him fondly.

“For the coffee,” he says.

There’s more he wants to say. Something about how, maybe, in another life, there could have been something more between the two of you. Something quite beautiful.

But he knows it’s wiser not to speak that into being. If you feel even a modicum of these emotions, then silence would be an act of kindness.

“Are you… going somewhere?” You ask, all signs of levity gone from your face. He regrets speaking at all now.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. It’s the closest he can get to the truth.

A long silence ensues. Oikawa doesn’t know if he should try to fill it; perhaps he should just let it sit for a while? To enjoy this little moment with you, standing with you in front of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday night in the midst of winter.

Because this moment cannot last. Because nothing can.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eyes lingering on his face, as if you’re committing each detail to memory.

He smiles at you. He’s not aware of it, but it’s almost blinding. It brings a warmth to his face that you’ve never seen before, a warmth that makes him so striking, so beautiful, that you know you won’t be able to find the words to praise it.  

“I hope I’ll see you again,” you murmur. It’s the best you can manage, keeping your feelings in your heart as best you can.

“Me too.”

He means it.

It’s time to go. Where, he’s not sure. But, with all the courage he could muster, he turns his back to you, making his way down the street.

There’s a space in his heart for fear. But it’s empty. Whatever’s coming, whatever’s about to change – he’s ready for it.

He welcomes it.

☉ ☉ ☉

He opens his eyes. He’s tangled in blankets; his own, or someone else’s?

One thought.

My name is Oikawa Tooru.

In the haze of a Sunday morning, he knows nothing else. His eyes flick to the blinds as they flutter with the wind that whispers through his window.

The light floods in.

It’s finally spring. 

[celestialmazer]

Julie Mehretu, Untitled 2, 1999. Private collection. Courtesy of White Cube. © Julie Mehretu

Julie Mehretu, Hineni (E. 3:4), 2018. Centre Pompidou, Paris, Musée national d’art moderne/Centre de création industrielle; gift of George Economou, 2019. © Julie Mehretu. Photography:Tom Powel Imaging

Julie Mehretu, Mind-Wind Field Drawings (quarantine studio, d.h.) #1, 2019-2020. Private collection, courtesy Marian Goodman Gallery New York/Paris. © Julie Mehretu. Photography courtesy Marian Goodman Gallery

Julie Mehretu, Mogamma (A Painting in Four Parts) Part 1, 2012. Guggenheim Abu Dhabi. © Julie Mehretu. Photography: White Cube, Ben Westoby

Julie Mehretu, Conjured Parts (eye), Ferguson, 2016. The Broad Art Foundation, Los Angeles. © Julie Mehretu. Photography: Cathy Carver

Julie Mehretu, Migration Direction Map (large), 1996. Private collection. © Julie Mehretu. Photography: Tom Powel Imaging

At home with artist Julie Mehretu

CAMILLE OKHIO - 25 MAR 2021

Julie Mehretu speaks with the joy and conviction of someone who has had the freedom to investigate all their interests. Curiosity has led her to the myriad topics, objects and moments that inform her work, among them cartography, archaeology, the birth of civilisation and mycology. Since the 1990s, her practice has expanded outwardly in all directions like a spider web. A lack of understanding and preconceived notions among reviewers have often led to her work being flattened – simplified so that it is easily digestible – but in reality, her work is far from a simplistic investigation of any one topic. It encompasses multitudes.

The artist’s recent paintings are mostly large scale, but her early works on paper (often created with multiple layers – one sheet of Mylar on top of another) are as small as a six-inch square. The works often comprise innumerable minuscule markings – tremendous force and knowledge communicated through delicate inkings and streaks. Their layers reveal, rather than obfuscate. And though Mehretu’s creative process springs from a desire to understand herself better, the work itself is in no way autobiographical. 

Born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, on the tails of a continental rejection of colonialism, and raised there, then in Michigan, Mehretu has a flexible and full-hearted understanding of home. It is not one physical place, but many, all holding equal importance. On 25 March, Mehretu will present her first major retrospective at the Whitney Museum of American Art, with works spanning 1996 to 2019. The institution is an important one for Mehretu, as it played host to several pivotal shows in her youth.

Her exhibition has served as an impetus for Mehretu to look back at her already prolific career, observing and organising the thoughts, questions and answers she has put forth for over two decades. The six years it took to bring this exhibition together proved an incredibly valuable time of reflection, fatefully dovetailing with a year of quarantine. 

Wallpaper*: Where are you as we speak?

Julie Mehretu: I’m in my studio on 26th Street, right on the West Side Highway. I’ve worked here for 11 years.

W*: Are there any artists, writers or thinkers that have had a meaningful impact on you?

JM: I don’t know how to answer that because there are literally so many! It’s constantly changing. Right now, Kara Walker, David Hammons, William Pope.L, and younger artists like Jason Moran (who has made amazing work around abstraction). There are so many artists that have been informative and important to me: Frank Bowling, Jack Whitten, Caravaggio.

I also look at a lot of prehistoric work, from as far back as 60,000 years ago, as well as cave paintings from 6th century China and early prehistoric drawings in the caves of Australia. 

W*: What’s the most interesting thing you have read, watched or listened to recently?

JM: For the last few weeks I’ve been immersed in Steve McQueen films. I’ve been bingeing on lovers rock music. And a TV show that really moved me was [Michaela Cole’s] I May Destroy You. It’s difficult, but it was really well done and powerful. 

Ocean Vuong’s novel On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous is amazing. The Mushroom at the End of the World by Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing is a really incredible book too – she studies this mushroom that became a delicacy in Japan in the 7th century. It started growing in deforested areas – it’s in these places destroyed by human beings that these mushrooms survive. [I find it interesting] that this mushroom grows on the edge of precarity and destruction. Like with Black folks, there is a constant aspect of insisting on yourself and reinventing yourself in the midst of constant effort of destruction. 

W*: What was the first piece of art you remember seeing? How did you feel about it?

JM: One of the first times I remember being moved by a work of art was looking through my mother’s Rembrandt book. We brought so few things back from Ethiopia and that was one of them. [Particularly] Rembrandt’s The Sacrifice of Isaac. That story is so intense. I was so moved by the light and the skin and the way the paint made light and skin. 

W*: Do you travel? If so, what does travel afford you, and what have you missed about it during Covid-19?

JM: I travel a lot, but I haven’t travelled this year. There has been this amazing sense of suspension and a pause in that. I miss travelling, but going to look at art, watching films, reading novels and listening to music is the way I travel now. For instance, I’ve been listening to Afro-Peruvian music and now I want to go to Peru.

Before I know it we will be back in this fast-paced, zooming-around environment – there is something I want to savour by staying here, now, in this time and absorbing as much as I can.

W*: You are said to have a vast collection of objects and images. Walk me through your collection – what areas, materials, makers and things have the largest presence and why?

JM: When you enter our home there is this long hallway. Framed along the wall we have around 20 fluorescent Daniel Joseph Martinez block-printed posters he made with words – almost poems. Our kids grew up reading those. One says ‘Sometimes I can’t breathe’ and another one says ‘Don’t work’, while some are really long.

We also have a great Paul Pfeiffer photograph of one from the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse series. We have a group of Richard Tuttle etchings right over our dining table. We have an amazing David Hammons body print as well, and my kids’ work is all over the house.

W*: As the daughter of immigrants and an immigrant yourself – how do you conceptualise home and how do you create it?

JM: There were a lot of times I felt very transient – as a student and a young adult, going in and out of school and residency programmes. It always came back to music and food. There are certain flavours, foods, music, smells that you take wherever you go. Also as a mother, I’m building a home for my children. Home becomes something else because of them. They are the core of home now. 

W* How has motherhood affected your practice?

JM: I became much more productive when I had kids for several reasons – one is that I felt a lot of pressure to make [work] in the time I wasn’t with them, which of course is unsustainable. A large part of making is not making – thinking and searching. 

When I got to work I could get into it much more quickly. Kids grow and change so fast, you feel time is passing so you need to use it. I wasn’t going to stop working, that’s for sure. All women who are pushing in their lives make that choice. 

W*: What is your favourite myth and why does it hold importance for you?

JM: Right now I’m reading Greek myths to my ten-year-old. We’ve read them before, but he wanted to read them again. I still read to him at night even though he’s a voracious reader himself.

The myths I remember the most are myths I’ve come across in visual works. Titian’s Diana and Actaeon – I know that myth so well because of his painting. Bernini’s mesmerising sculpture of Apollo and Daphne I saw in Rome, where her body becomes a tree. The leaves are so delicately carved into the marble, it’s a work of incredible beauty. I’ve been considering this deconstructionist approach to mythology. Storytelling becomes this place to interrogate propositions, which is what I think mythology does.

W*: Have you experienced a flattening of your work?

JM: I’m always concerned with flattening and pigeonholing. That is something that happens to artists like us all the time. When I first was working and showing there was a bit of that happening with my work. It was put into the space of cartography or an architectural analysis of it. It was said to be autobiographical work.

The art world tries to consume. There is this desire to flatten and the desire for Black artists to be a reflection of their experience. I don’t think any artist is like that at all. In reality, none of us are flat. We all contain multitudes and are complicated – that has always been the core of the Black radical tradition.

[timothypines]

The Fire of Achilles (Essay)

“He was like a flame himself. He glittered, drew eyes.” (pg. 43, Miller) Throughout the novel The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller and the epic poem The Iliad, Achilles is often compared to fire. In The Iliad he is referred to as “brilliant Achilles”—meaning to sparkle with light or luster; however, this comparison is not always positive, as the destructive side of fire is not forgotten when describing his unstoppable rage. The double-sided nature of fire perfectly encapsulates Achilles. The brightness and openness he emulates, much like the welcoming of a controlled fire, attracts the soldiers to him, while uncontrolled his rage can destroy armies like a forest fire pushed by rushing wind. But while most people can only see the war in him, the rage in him, he would never have gotten as far as he had without his gentle warmth.

The Song of Achilles shows much more of the softer side of Achilles’ flame, however, I do not think this makes Madeline Miller’s interpretation any more or less correct in the characterization of Achilles; rather, it deepens what is shown to us in The Iliad. In the early moments of the book (The Song of Achilles), it is shown that just as Achilles speaks his mind freely and absolutely, he expects the same from all others; this leads to him being overly trusting in many ways. “He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?” (pg. 44, Miller). This is seen in The Iliad also, in his rage against Agamemnon when the king refused to return the priest’s daughter after the priest offered ransom. Most would never speak such things against a king, but he did not fear a thing, no, he was completely honest with Agamemnon, reminding the king that it was he who was needed, he who was asked to fight, “It wasn’t the Trojan spearmen who brought me here to fight. The Trojans never did me damage… we all followed you, to please you, to fight for you, to win your honor back from the Trojans.” (pg. 82, Book 1: The Rage of Achilles, Homer). Yes, the dishonoring of him is what causes this great rage, but his honesty is part of that too. But even though this rage appears to come from unbreakable pride, I feel that it came not from a place of pride, but rather rage at Agamemnon for not being at all reasonable. While he keeps his honor close to him, he is not prideful of his abilities. “‘I will be the best warrior of my generation.’ It sounded like something a child would claim, in make-believe. But he said it as simply as if he were giving his name.” (pg. 38, Miller). In this sense, I agree with Miller’s interpretation of Achilles’ feeling in this moment and how even though his honor is important to him, he is not particularly prideful. This rage, I feel, comes more from a great feeling of unfairness, which Achilles seems to value more than anyone else in the army. Agamemnon made the mistake of not returning the priest’s daughter, out of his unyielding pride, and now he is unwilling to admit to his mistake and is instead punishing Achilles, who was the only one trying to end the great plague. I am in no way saying that Achilles’ actions to call the gods to punish the entire army so relentlessly were justified, however, his feelings of rage toward Agamemnon cannot be blamed on just himself, and therefore, neither can the punishment that falls upon the army.

It seems silly to try to talk about Achilles and leave out what he loves most. Now, in The Iliad, before we get to the aftermath of the death of Patroclus, it could be fair to assume that what Achilles loves most is his honor; damage to his honor is what caused him to call for the army’s suffering and destruction, the very army he had been fighting with for nine years. However, it is very clear that after the death of Patroclus that it is he whom he loves most. Once Patroclus has died, Achilles does not care to act honorably, he does not care if Agamemnon apologizes, he simply wants the person who took his love from him to suffer. Even his own life does not seem precious to him anymore. For the brief moments that Patroclus is shown in the epic, his character is made very clear. He appears to be kind, gentle, to carry himself with a strong grace. No one has ill-will towards him; he is a good man universally in the eyes of the kings and soldiers. This is what makes his death so impactful. This version of Patroclus that we see in The Iliad I feel is lacking when reading The Song of Achilles. In the epic, Patroclus can fight, he is quite good at it and it does not feel a surprise, “And then and there the Achaeans might have taken Troy, her towering gates toppling under Patroclus’ power heading the vanguard, storming on with his spear.” (pg. 435, Book 16: Patroclus Fights and Dies, Homer). The Patroclus we find in The Song of Achilles is awkward, unwilling to fight, even just before this moment at Troy, “The wheels gave a little lurch, and I staggered, my spears rattling. ‘Balance them,’ he told me. ‘It will be easier.’ Everyone waited as I awkwardly transferred one spear to my left hand, swiping my helmet askew as I did so.” (pg. 327, Miller) When reading The Iliad, I felt none of this from Patroclus. While it may have been surprising that he ended up at the wall of Troy, it certainly wasn’t surprising that he had fought and fought well.  I will say that both works made it heart-wrenching to see Patroclus slaughtering people, however, the epic held more integrity than the novel had. This can especially be seen when Patroclus and Hector meet on the battlefield. This is the interaction we get from The Iliad, “‘Hector! Now is your time to glory to the skies… now the victory is yours. A gift of the son of Cronus, Zeus—Apollo too—they brought me down with all their deathless ease, they are the ones who tore the armor off my back… You came third, and all you could do was finish off my life…” (pg. 440, Book 16: Patroclus Fights and Dies, Homer). And this is what we get from The Song of Achilles, “He is coming to kill me. Hector… He must live because his life, I think as I scrape backwards over the grass, is the final dam before Achilles’ own blood will flow. Desperately, I turn to the men around me and scrabble at their knees. Please, I croak. Please.” (pg. 334-335, Miller). Although Achilles’ stubbornness killed both versions of Patroclus, at least in The Iliad Patroclus died strong in himself, while the Patroclus from The Song of Achilles died a shell, lacking any self, just filled with thoughts of the fire that is Achilles.

One thing that no version of the story could ever take away is how much Achilles loves Patroclus (even if they decide to make them simply cousins for some reason). It is devastating to read Achilles discover that his lover is dead; this is not lacking in either version of the war. Something I especially enjoyed from The Song of Achilles is how much more deeply Miller built the relationship. While reading I could really tell that Patroclus was Achilles’ heart; he was the only one who was immune to Achilles’ rage and the only one who had a chance of getting through to him. “I had found a way through the endless corridors of his pride and fury. I would save the men; I would save him from himself.” (pg. 325, Miller). The building of their relationship before this moment where Patroclus begs for Achilles to fight made for a deeper understanding as to why, after so long, after so much suffering of the Achaeans, Achilles was willing to do something to help, no matter what that was. In The Iliad we are given a mention of how close they are and that is supposed to reason Achilles’ willingness to bend slightly. This deeper understanding of their relationship also makes Achilles’ reaction to Patroclus’ death all the more painful to watch happen and his actions during the beginning of his morning also make more sense to the reader.

Achilles’ relationship with the war of Troy is somehow both extremely complicated and overly simple. It is complicated in terms of what he should bring into the war, what he owes Menelaus and Agamemnon, and how fate plays into it all. It is simple, however, when it comes to him having to perform the act of war itself. I feel that what Miller added to the story regarding this area really deepened and strengthened Achilles’ character; she really tried to show the struggle in Achilles when he was dealing with all of these complexities that came with the politics of the war, between both the mortals and gods. This is the war he was fated to have such a large part of; he was to kill the Trojan’s greatest hero, Hector. But fate isn’t the only thing forcing him to back and fight in the war against Troy, the Achaean kings he fights along side with also feel entitled to him and his abilities. In the end, however, Achilles does not feel attached to the war in actuality. “‘The Trojans never did me damage.’” (pg. 82, Book 1: The Rage of Achilles, Homer). He doesn’t hold any rage toward the Trojans, that is until Hector kills Patroclus, and even then, his true rage is only toward Hector, it is only the magnitude of it that takes down the mountains of Trojans he slaughters. He is in a war he was expected to be in simply because of that fact, he was expected to fight. When discussing the war with Patroclus, Patroclus asks if he is afraid to fight, Achilles answers, “‘No… This is what I was born for.’” (pg. 220, Miller). So, if he was fated to be in the war, the Achaeans can only win if he fights, and every Greek kingdom expects him to fight, then what does he owe to his fellow Greeks? To Menelaus and Agamemnon? Simply put, in reality he owes them nothing, his father doesn’t even force him to go, telling him it’s his choice (The Song of Achilles), however,  the issue and complexity doesn’t come from what he actually owes the kings, but from what they believe he owes them. Here are two interactions between Achilles and Agamemnon from both works. “Agamemnon stepped forward. He opened his hands in a gesture of welcome and stood regally expectant, waiting for the bows, obeisance, and oaths of loyalty he was owed. It was Achilles’ place to kneel and offer them. He did not kneel. He did not call out a greeting to the great king, or incline his head or offer a gift. He did nothing but stand straight, chin proudly lifted, before them all. Agamemnon’s jaw tightened.” (pg. 194, Miller). “‘This soldier wants to tower over the armies, he wants to rule over all, to lord it over all, give out orders to every man in sight. Well, there’s one, I trust, who will never yield to him! What if the everlasting gods have made a spearman of him? Have they entitled him to hurl abuse at me?’

‘Yes!’—blazing Achilles broke in quickly— ‘What a worthless, burnt-out coward I’d be called if I would submit to you and all your orders, whatever you blurt out.’” (pg. 87, Book 1: The Rage of Achilles, Homer). It doesn’t just matter what Achilles feels he owes Agamemnon because the king feels he is owed not only Achilles’ spear, but his total loyalty and an oath of such.

Despite this complexity with his motivations and responsibility to fight, when it comes to the fighting itself, it is as simple as breathing for him. As told in The Song of Achilles, “What he lived for were the charges, a cohort of men thundering towards him. There, amidst twenty stabbing swords he could finally, truly fight… With a fevered impossible grace he fought off ten, fifteen, twenty-five men. This, at last, is what I can really do.” (pg. 240, Miller). The war wasn’t truly a conflict for him, the true war was in the politics of men and gods; this notion agrees with what is shown in the epic.

While the men in power may not particularly like Achilles, the soldiers of the Achaean army do indeed, from the very beginning (at least in the interpretation that is The Song of Achilles). Here is the moment he introduces himself to the entire army, “‘I am Achilles, son of Peleus, god-born, best of the Greeks,’ he said. ‘I have come to bring you victory.’ A second startled silence, then the men roared their approval. Pride became us—heroes were never modest.” (pg. 194, Miller). Miller choosing to have the soldiers have these types of feelings towards Achilles makes sense. Up until the moment he declares he will no longer fight for the Achaeans, he is their hero, the one they look to and follow; in a society that values glory and heroes above almost all else, second only to the gods, he most-likely would have been viewed that way by the general public, those uninvolved in politics. An example of how deep this goes is shown just before the war begins, as the Phthians are sailing towards Troy’s beaches, “We stood at the prow with Phoinix and Automedon, watching the shore draw closer. Idly, Achilles tossed and caught his spear. The oarsmen had begun to set their strokes by it, the steady, repetitive slap of wood against his palm.” (pg. 212, Miller). Even subconsciously the men are following Achilles’ spear.

Achilles isn’t the only person for whom Miller develops a good relationship with the common soldiers—this  is done for Patroclus as well. I also agree with her decision to do this; it helps solidify the emotions the people feel toward Patroclus which are only mentioned and implied in The Iliad. Miller decided to make Patroclus a healer, “I developed a reputation, a standing in the camp. I was asked for, known for my quick hands and how little pain I caused… I began to surprise Achilles, calling out to these men as we walked through the camp. I was always gratified at how they would raise a hand in return, point to a scar that had healed over well.” (pg. 261, Miller). This use of his character makes sense in my mind when regarding the character shown to us in the epic; being a gentle and kind man. It also makes his motivations when trying to convince Achilles to fight all the more authentic, “All around me are men carrying fallen comrades, limping on makeshift crutches, or crawling through the sand, dragging broken limbs behind them. I know them—their torsos full of scars my ointments have packed and sealed.” (pg. 319, Miller). So, even though I do disapprove of Miller’s decision to make Patroclus seem too awkward and weak to fight, I cannot say her making a healer of Patroclus is without any merit. 

“What has Hector ever done to me?” This phrase is echoed throughout The Song of Achilles, creating a sort of foreshadowing sprinkled throughout the novel. This sentiment rings familiar from The Iliad where he expresses that he holds no feelings of hatred nor resentment towards the Trojans. The role that Hector plays in The Song of Achilles is slightly different than seen in the epic, though this is unsurprising as the novel is from the perspective of Patroclus and therefore cannot show much of Hector. Despite the lack of Hector, however, Miller included moments that are reminiscent of what we saw of Hector in The Iliad. Here is a domestic moment shared between Hector and his family when he returns from fighting, “shining Hector reached down for his son—but the boy recoiled, cringing against his nurse’s full breast, screaming out at the sight of his own father, terrified by the flashing bronze, the horsehair crest, the great ridge of the helmet nodding, bristling terror—so it struck his eyes. And his loving father laughed, his mother laughed as well, and glorious Hector, quickly lifting the helmet from his head, set it down on the ground, fiery in the sunlight, and raising his son he kissed him,” (pg. 211, Book 6: Hector Returns to Troy, Homer). Now here is a moment between Achilles and Patroclus when Achilles is coming back from battle, “I woke to his nose on mine, pressing insistently against me as I struggled from the webbing of my dreams. He smelled sharp and strange, and for a moment I was almost revolted at this creature that clung to me and shoved its face against mine. But then he sat back on his heels and was Achilles again.” (pg. 222, Miller). These are two moments of domesticity between warriors, great heroes, and the loved ones they returned to. In these moments war is more real, and it is harder to separate the men on the field and the men that return home. 

None the less, the phrase “what has Hector ever done to me?” is also meant to show Achilles’ active struggle against his fate that came with the war. He wants glory but is unwilling to make sacrifices to gain it. It is only once Hector does personally harm him by killing Patroclus that he does not care to avoid fate, in fact he does not care about glory or honor after this. In a way, it is Patroclus’ sacrifice that gives Achilles glory, which is ironic seeing as he does not fight for glory anymore, but revenge. This can be best seen in how he treats Hector’s body after he defeats him. “He rises at dawn to drag Hector’s body around the walls of the city for all of Troy to see. He does it again at midday, and again at evening. He does not see the Greeks begin to avert their eyes from him. He does not see the lips thinning in disapproval as he passes.” (pg. 346, Miller).  “The memories flooded over him, live tears flowing, and now he’d lie on his side, now flat on his back, now facedown again. At last he’d leap to his feet, wander in anguish, aimless along the surf, and dawn on dawn flaming over the sea and shore would find him pacing. Then he’d yoke his racing team to the chariot-harness, lash the corpse of Hector behind the car for dragging and haul him three times round the dead Patroclus’ tomb, and then he’d rest again in his tents and leave the body sprawled facedown in the dust. But Apollo pitied Hector—dead man though he was—and warded all corruption off from Hector’s corpse…” (pg. 589, Book 24: Achilles and Priam, Homer). In The Song of Achilles the Greeks, and gods, are not pleased. In The Iliad the gods see this as a disgrace. 

Where Achilles redeems himself greatly in The Iliad is not as significant in The Song of Achilles which left me extremely disappointed. The moment when Achilles is meant to show what a great character he is and how willing he is to forgive, even after such a significant loss, is in Book 24: Achilles and Priam. It is here when Priam and Achilles share a very vulnerable moment with each other in which they hold no contempt towards one another and the people they have taken from each other, but they cry, together, for the horrible losses they have endured in this long war. Miller makes this moment so much less vulnerable and emotional, making it feel significantly less important and character defining as it had been in the epic. Here is the moment as shared in The Iliad, “‘I put to my lips the hands of the man who killed my son.’ Those words stirred withing Achilles a deep desire to grieve for his own father. Taking the old man’s hand he gently moved him back. And overpowered by memory both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely for man-killing Hector, throbbing, crouching before Achilles’ feet as Achilles wept himself, now for his father, now for Patroclus once again, and their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.” (pg. 605, Book 24: Achilles and Priam, Homer). And this is the very same interaction as written in The Song of Achilles, “‘…it is worth my life, if there is a chance my son’s soul may be at rest.’ Achilles’ eyes fill; he looks away so the old man will not see.” (pg. 350, Miller). In Miller’s version there is not even a mention of the agreement that is come to in the epic that allows Priam to host a full funeral for Hector. This left Achilles feeling cold and unfeeling, which goes completely against his entire characterization in both the novel and the epic. For me, the watering down and diminishing of the conversation between Achilles and Priam was the biggest misstep in Miller’s novel and was a major disappointment especially since I felt she characterized Achilles so well for the majority of the novel.  

“His anger was incandescent, a fire under his skin.” (pg. 283, Miller) The comparing of Achilles to flame and fire strikes most true. He is never an emotionless man, never achieving a moment of utter stillness, instead he is always flickering under the surface. Even in times of calm he radiates warmth, and in times of great anger he rages in a great blaze. It is fire that is the perfect essence of Achilles. But this is what also makes him so controversial in the eyes of modern men. Some today still find themselves drawn to his wild flame and the brilliance of it, while others see the ash trails of his destruction and feel he is no good man, no hero. Achilles himself, I think, would agree with the sentiment that he isn’t a hero. In the end with Priam he felt shame for how he treated Hector’s body, his greatest love died because he couldn’t let go of his honor. In class people questioned why Achilles is remembered the hero and not Hector or Diomedes. I think Achilles achieved the fame he has because he is a good man who let his emotions drive him to do bad things, things looked down upon even in times of war. However, in the end, he redeems himself. He is a brilliant, shining character with intense emotions who manages to redeem himself—of course he has become the main hero of the story. Madeline Miller, in my opinion, did a very good job with the interpretation of his character, however, there were a few missteps with him and other things that were very important to his development. But despite these missteps, she has managed to bring Achilles’ light back into the lives of modern people, which is a wonderful thing. “As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun.” (pg. 47, Miller)

[therainbowwillow]

https://therainbowwillow.tumblr.com/post/640994942684151808/therainbowwillow

Part 13.

Premise/last time: On Olympus, tensions are high. The pantheon is forced to choose sides: an innocent poet or the man who stabbed him. Hermes only grows increasingly anxious about his approaching trial. If he’s not ready to sing, he’s afraid Orpheus will take the fall.

—————————————

Thanatos stands, exhausted at the gates of Olympus. The walk out of Hadestown had been longer than he’d expected. Hypnos hadn’t woken after the third night. He’d been in and out of consciousness since.

Thanatos calls out to the gods, pleading for aid. Their lack of ambrosia had taken its toll on himself and his brother. Despite his near-constant unconsciousness, Hypnos looks as if he hasn’t slept for weeks. The blinding lights of Olympus do him no favors. The bags under his eyes look even more pronounced here.

Pasithea steps up to the doors and slams her fists against them. “Please!” She cries. Still, they’re met with no reply. She sinks to the ground and buries her head in her hands. Thanatos forces himself not to collapse under his and his brother’s weight. 

It feels like an eternity before a man arrives at the door: golden hair, blue eyes. He looks just like his father. “Asclepius.” Thanatos bows his head to his old enemy. A doctor so incredible he’d resurrected the dead. Zeus’s punishment hadn’t held him down long. Now he’d become a god himself.

“It took me a moment to convince Zeus to let me take my leave. Come in. Speak to no one. Keep your heads down,” he directs. He helps Pasithea to her feet. “You must be out of your mind to come here, Thanatos. If Hades learns of your presence-”

“Hades is here?” Thanatos inquires, forcing back his panic.

“Yes,” Asclepius answers. “He arrived, worse off than you, a few days ago. It seems his years of pushing around his workers finally caught up to him.”

He opens the gates and guides them through the city’s oddly silent streets. Quieter than Hadestown, Thanatos observes. Down below, a pickaxe always swings. A foreman’s shouts are always audible. Here, there is nothing but stillness. “I mean you no offense, my lord, but I believe my storage cellar may be the best place for you to take shelter,” Asclepius says.

“None taken. We’ll take what we can get.”

“If I might ask, what happened to your brother? I will treat him, as he clearly has taken a hit to the head. How long has he been unconscious?” Asclepius asks.

“Hades’s doing,” Thanatos replies, curtly. “He’s been in and out of consciousness for six days.”

Asclepius opens the door to his residence and ushers them inside. “I suspected as much. I assume you fled without carrying ambrosia with you?”

Thanatos nods. “We had no time.”

“I don’t blame you.” Asclepius takes a few pillows from his bed and tears off the sheets. He guides them down a short staircase into a dimly lit cellar. It smells of herbs. The sweet scent of nectar reminds Thanatos of his hunger. Asclepius tosses the pillows against a shelf and rests Hypnos against them.

“Make yourselves comfortable. You may have as much ambrosia as you wish. I will not tell the counsel you’ve arrived. If they come looking for you, hold the door shut and stay quiet. I shouldn’t be long,” Asclepius tells them. He turns to leave.

“Asclepius, I’m sorry for the circumstances of our last meetings,” Thanatos apologizes.

He smiles. “I’m lucky I got off so light. You helped the boy escape, didn’t you? That is why you are so afraid.”

“I’m the god of death. I have nothing to fear,” Thanatos attempts to convince himself.

“Angering Hades gives anyone something to fear, mortal or divine. But I believe Hermes and Orpheus are in far danger than yourself. Regardless, take care. I won’t be long.” He shuts the door behind him.

Thanatos immediately turns search the shelves for nectar. He finds a bottle, flicks out the cork and drinks half of it. The rest, he hands to Pasithea.

Hypnos rubs his eyes. “Ugh...” he groans. “Where are we?”

His wife briefs him of their journey. “So... we’re locked in Asclepius’s basement? On Olympus?” He smiles slightly. “These pillows are almost as good as mine. Comfy. I could almost forget that the furies cracked my skull open.”

“Do you ever stop?” Thanatos mutters.

“Like I said! Vacation, Than. Sure, it’s not a beach, but to be fair, there’s no difference. I’d sleep either way. Give me some of that nectar.” He tips the bottle and swallows. “Mm. Not bad. The underworld ages it better.”

“Hades is here,” Thanatos blurts. “So would you shut up and let me think?”

“He is? Didn’t Hermes steal the train... oh my gods! He walked? Ha! I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“Would you listen?” He snaps. “Hades wants us punished. You’ve seen what happens to mortal traitors. We can’t let him find us, Hypnos.”

“And that’s why I’m not going anywhere. Not that I could. Pretty sure I can’t walk. Or at least I wouldn’t want to deal with the headache,” he replies. “Now. What’s the plan, Thanatos?”

“I... don’t know.”

“So we are in trouble then! I... have an idea, but I’m not sure we should rely on it.”

Thanatos exhales. “I’ll hear you out. Maybe a bad plan’s better than no plan.”

“Hades will summon Orpheus and Hermes to trial, right? If that song was as good as it sounded and if I didn’t hallucinate the change in weather, I’d say other gods will side with Orpheus simply because his song has power. Maybe we ought to take their side. Show ourselves and proclaim our support?” Hypnos says.

“Hades will call it a second betrayal.”

“What do we have to lose, Thanatos?”

He sighs. “If they win the trial, it’ll give us a chance. Even that’s better than nothing. I agree.”

—————————————-

“Hermes.” He jumps at the sound, startled awake.

“Apollo.” He crumpled the letters and stuffs them into his pockets.

“You’re anxious. Panicked. What are you afraid of?”

Hermes rolls his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that? I know how I feel without you telling me.”

“Sorry, but you’ve hardly spoken to anyone for days. You’re hiding something. You secret would be safe with me.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t believe that for a second,” Hermes retorts. “You’ll blab to your boyfriend the second you walk out the door.”

Apollo leans slightly more of his weight against the crutch he’s using to walk. “I won’t,” he says, softly. “Hyacinthus is a good man, but this is clearly more than he needs to worry about.”

His tone is honest. Still, Hermes doesn’t back down. “It’s more than you need to worry about. Go write a poem or something, o god of music,” He replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Hermes, look. I know we’ve had our disagreements, but... I do care about you. I guided you through your childhood; I taught you how to function on Olympus. I tried to protect you. From what I understand, you broke your contract with Hades and you’re afraid of what he’ll do to you. Why won’t you speak to us? We know, Hermes,” Apollo tells him.

“No, you don’t know!” He snaps. “I’m not afraid of what he’ll do to me. You called me Prometheus yourself. I’ll suffer, but I can manage. But it’s not me they want. I know Orpheus will take Hades’s punishment in my place. He’s young. Afraid. He won’t survive,” Hermes draws in a shaky breath. “We have no defense.” He hands Apollo the letters. “Read.”

His eyes pass over the words on the pages. “Hermes, we’ve been summoned immediately.”

“I know. We can’t go. Not yet. Orpheus needs to rest. And...” he exhales. “I haven’t told him.”

“He deserves to know. Why do you keep this from him?”

“Because he needs to recover. If he knows, all he’ll do is sing and sing. He’ll forget all else if he thinks he can protect me and Eurydice. That boy, my son, he feels with the whole of his being. He loves with such kindness, such passion, that his love alone brought flowers to the realm of death. He’d give his life if it meant protecting us and I can’t let him do that.” His voice rises. “If Zeus wants my blood, fine! Let him torture me. He won’t touch Orpheus.”

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. We’ll win the trial. You have nothing to worry about! We’ve got Athena on our side and even I’ve argued a few cases. With Orpheus’s song, we’ll be undefeatable.” His words are encouraging.

“I have to tell him,” Hermes mutters. 

“He needs urgency. I hate this as much as you do, but we do what we must.”

Someone pounds on the door. Hermes bristles at the sound. “Who’s there?” He calls.

“Hermes...” Three voices in harmony.

He strides across the room. “Don’t open the damn door!” Apollo snaps.

“Orpheus is next on their list,” he replies. He turns the handle. “What do you want?”

“You cannot defeat fate. You will see. What is coming.”

Hermes slums against the door frame and sinks to the ground. Orpheus is singing. His voice falters. He cries out, “No! No!”. Eurydice screams. The metallic stench of blood hits him. Hermes tries to stand. His wrists are bound in chains. It’s dark. He can’t tell if his eyes are open. 

He gasps and the room returns. Apollo kneels at his side. “Orpheus,” he chokes out. 

“He’s fine. Hermes, what did you see?”

He takes a deep breath. “Orpheus screamed. I couldn’t reach him. Apollo, this is fate. It’s unchangeable.”

“Don’t talk like that. I know how prophecies work. They’re misleading by nature.”

“There wasn’t nuance. We’re going to fail. And when we do-”

“No. Hermes, we’re going to win.” He puts his hands on Hermes’s shoulders. “I swear we’re going to win.”

“We have to tell Orpheus.”

“I can do it if-” 

Hermes cuts him off. “No. He’s my son. I need to tell him myself.”

Apollo doesn’t argue. 

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

Orpheus strums his lyre. His voice sounds a little better today, he notices. Still, he struggles to reach high notes. His voice breaks or he coughs in between lines. He’s begun to realize that it isn’t going back to the way it was. Eurydice doesn’t mention it. He hates to think about the possibility, but he knows he’ll have to eventually. 

He reads over his sheet music. He starts another paper. He tries humming his melody, replacing his higher notes with low ones. Eurydice perks up at the new song. “That was beautiful.”

He cracks a smile. “You think?”

“Sing it again.” 

He repeats it, louder this time. 

“Orpheus!” A carnation blooms in his hands. “My gods, that’s incredible.”

Again, he sings, this time plucking the lyre to the tune of his old song. The harmony hums in the air. Flowers spring up in his hair. 

“How’d you do that?” She’s grinning. 

“I don’t know! I thought maybe it’d be easier on my voice.”

“Is it?”

He nods. “I think so. I don’t feel like hacking my lungs out at least.”

“I love you, Orpheus. So, so much.”

He blushes. “I know.”

“I know you know. I just needed to tell you again.” She marches to his bedside and kisses him before he gets in another word. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

He turns as red as the carnations dotting his hair. “I- mmmph!” She kisses him again. 

“Shush.” She places a finger on his lips. “Just kiss me.”

“O-okay!” He awkwardly presses his lips against hers. She wraps her arms around him. 

“Gods, I love you,” she whispers in his ear.

He remains in her embrace for a while until she pulls away. “You wanna sing that song again, lover?”

He’s smiling like an idiot. “Yes.”

“Well, sing it then.” 

“La, la la la... ha ha!” He laughs. It sounds ridiculous through his ear-to-ear grin. 

There’s a knock at the door. “I’ll get it!” Orpheus proclaims habitually. “Oh, wait.” Eurydice stands to open it. “No, I said I’ve got it! Come in!” Orpheus calls. “See?” he says, winking. She laughs. 

The door opens. Hermes stands in its frame, looking exhausted. “We need to talk. Both of you.”

Orpheus frowns. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. No... I don’t know, kid.” He considers just handing Orpheus the letters. Instead, he continues. “I’ve been receiving summons to Olympus since we arrived. I didn’t want to worry you, but I can’t keep you in the dark any longer. Hades has convinced Zeus to put us on trial before the counsel. The charges against you are baseless. But... I did break my contract and I’ll face the consequences.”

“No, Hermes, we’ll win! You said yourself I could convince Hades of anything.”

“Orpheus, broken contracts don’t go unpunished. I just don’t want you to feel the consequences of my actions.”

“Hermes, I don’t want them to hurt you!” Orpheus begs.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to worry over my fate, kiddo. I’ll do what I can. I just didn’t want to leave you in the dark about all this.”

“My song has to work. It will work,” he repeats.

“It will,” Eurydice agrees. “It can do all this.” She gestures around the room. Flowers have pushed through the floor boards. They line the fireplace and decorate Orpheus’s nightstand. “It can save us.”

“How long do we have?” Orpheus asks.

“Maybe two weeks,” Hermes answers, “at best.”

“I’ve almost got it, Hermes. I’ll be ready to sing by then.”

“Thank you.”

“It will work. I promise.”

[musicallisto]

hi i was wondering if i could request a percy jackson, harry potter, & mcu ship? i am a gryffindor who strives to do the right thing & can tackle any given challenge; i am a child of apollo; i'm kind-hearted, supportive, & friendly - and very ambiverted. i like reading, daydreaming, & being with my friends; i tend to fall in love with my friends. my favorite classes are language ones & i hate math so much. if there's one thing i wish i could do forever, is travel & see the world. thanks!

I Ship You With...

Luke Castellan (Percy Jackson)

Luke is already pretty bold and reckless on his own, but his bravery gets multiplied when he’s with you. You have the kind of energy that gives him confidence to tackle anything, but at the same time you’re there to keep him grounded and rationalize his hubris. When he gets the idea of something too arrogant or stupid, like, I don’t know, bringing the Titans back to life as payback against the gods for being selfish divas, you advise him against it pretty adamantly. It’s true that he sometimes gets caught up in his grand ideas of revenge and glory, but you remind him that there’s no point in all of that, and that if he gets some funny ideas you’ll be there to pry them away from him in an instant.

Luke may be a charismatic leader, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys the company of others - he’s more of an introvert, actually. But he enjoys spending time with you, even when he’s drained, because you don’t feel like another presence, rather a comforting source of light, finally a beacon of hope sent by fate so he doesn’t go mad. Also, talking with you is a way for him not to wallow in his hatred and ire.

You help him open up to your friends, and to the rest of Camp Half-Blood. After ostracizing himself, turning his back on his former friends, and not dealing properly with his grief after Thalia’s disappearance, you’re able to help him reconcile with his past and his old wounds. You’re not here to heal him, and you make it clear, but he’s motivated to be more open and affable when you’re around. Your friendliness is inspiring, and he finds out that he actually wants to be a par of the warm dynamics inside your close-knit group of friends. It takes a litle while, but Luke is finally able to trust and love other people without fear of being abandoned, like his father did to him.

Still, there’s no one he’ll trust or love as much as you.

Sirius Black (Marauders Era)

Well, your relationship is not necessarily what most people would have bet on at Hogwarts. Actually, it took a few years after leaving school for you two to finally get together, although those with the keenest eyes had been able to decipher the strange tension between you two. Sure, you were friends, but your personalities so different - you so very sweet and kind, somewhat popular but far from cocky, hardworking student and bookworm; and him, not a bad apple by any means, but definitely much less well-behaved. You, pastel tones; him, neon hues. Well, turns out it worked, and much better than anyone anticipated - even his friends.

You notice a rise in your creativity when you start dating Sirius, especially when it comes to your poems and general writing. It’s as if you’ve finally found your muse, and you overflow with words to describe him, to elevate him, to love him in the best manner you can. Sirius reads and loves every single one of your poems, but he loves them even more when you slip them in his things in the morning without him noticing. Whenever he leaves your shared apartment to go to work or something and he finds the familiar parchment with your perfume still adorning it, he can’t stop the huge smile from spreading on his face.

When it’s his friends from Hogwarts he’s out to meet, they obviously tease him about how much of a softie he’s become, and at first he will try to defend himself because that’s what guys do when they’re with their friends, they become ten percent dumber, but at some point he’ll just admit with a chuckle that he doesn’t mind being a softie if he gets to be with you. To which James will pretend to gag, until Remus reminds him of all the scenes they had to suffer through - Lily this, Lily that -, and he eventually shuts up.

That’s alright - you can be softies together.

Peter Parker

Peter is so cute and sweet that it practically takes him half a million years to admit his feelings for you. By then, you had guessed them already, and it didn’t come as a surprise to you at all. To be fair, the boy isn’t especially subtle either... but it was a lot of fun to see him struggle to hide his true feelings and the blush that crept on his cheeks whenever you would cross paths in the hallways.

Needless to say, he’s more than relieved when you tell him that you share the feelings, and that you’re more than eager to go on a date with him. He thought he might have to do some convincing and that, he was definitely not ready for.

Your first date is simple and lowkey, merely grabbing milkshakes at a cute but still active place in SoHo, and talking about your common interests and your childhoods. Coincidentally, the spot you chose for your date happens to be on a street where a tremendous amount of dogs pass by. There may have been a lot more dog petting than actual deep conversation. Well, who said petting dogs together is not a bonding activity? At least you learned that Peter is a dog person - actually, he’s an animal person, and you couldn’t be happier about that.

You go on other dates with him, each more fun than the last, if it’s even possible. Your favorite remains the one where you went to a karaoke bar with him and discovered that he knew the lyrics to a lot more Ariana Grande songs than you imagined. Your rendition of Into You might have been horrible, but at least you had a lot of fun, and now you know what artist you’ll be desperately awaiting tickets for when she comes to Madison Square Garden.

[zartemisforever]

Finally the sky began to lighten. Artemis muttered, "About time. He's so-o-o lazy during the winter." "You're, um, waiting for sunrise?" I asked. "For my brother. Yes." I didn't want to be rude. I mean, I knew the legends about Apollo—or sometimes Helios—driving a big sun chariot across the sky. But I also knew that the sun was really a star about a zillion miles away. I'd gotten used to some of the Greek myths being true, but still… I didn't see how Apollo could drive the sun. "It's not exactly as you think," Artemis said, like she was reading my mind.

"Oh, okay." I started to relax. "So, it's not like he'll be pulling up in a—" There was a sudden burst of light on the horizon. A blast of warmth. "Don't look," Artemis advised. "Not until he parks." Parks? I averted my eyes, and saw that the other kids were doing the same. The light and warmth intensified until my winter coat felt like it was melting off of me. Then suddenly the light died. I looked. And I couldn't believe it. It was my car. Well, the car I wanted, anyway. A red convertible Maserati Spyder. It was so awesome it glowed. Then I realized it was glowing because the metal was hot. The snow had melted around the Maserati in a perfect circle, which explained why I was now standing on green grass and my shoes were wet. The driver got out, smiling. He looked about seventeen or eighteen, and for a second, I had the uneasy feeling it was Luke, my old enemy. This guy had the same sandy hair and outdoorsy good looks. But it wasn't Luke. This guy was taller, with no scar on his face like Luke's. His smile was brighter and more playful. (Luke didn't do much more than scowl and sneer these days.) The Maserati driver wore jeans and loafers and a sleeveless T-shirt. "Wow," Thalia muttered. "Apollo is hot." "He's the sun god," I said. "That's not what I meant." "Little sister!" Apollo called. If his teeth were any whiter he could've blinded us without the sun car. "What's up? You never call. You never write. I was getting worried!" Artemis sighed. "I'm fine, Apollo. And I am not your little sister." "Hey, I was born first." "We're twins! How many millennia do we have to argue—" "So what's up?" he interrupted. "Got the girls with you, I see. You all need some tips on archery?"

Artemis grit her teeth. "I need a favor. I have some hunting to do, alone. I need you to take my companions to Camp Half-Blood." "Sure, sis!" Then he raised his hands in a stop everything gesture. "I feel a haiku coming on." The Hunters all groaned. Apparently they'd met Apollo before. He cleared his throat and held up one hand dramatically. "Green grass breaks through snow. Artemis pleads for my help. I am so cool." He grinned at us, waiting for applause. "That last line was only four syllables," Artemis said. Apollo frowned. "Was it?" "Yes. What about I am so big-headed?" "No, no, that's six syllables. Hmm." He started muttering to himself. Zoe Nightshade turned to us. "Lord Apollo has been going through this haiku phase ever since he visited Japan. 'Tis not as bad as the time he visited Limerick. If I'd had to hear one more poem that started with, There once was a goddess from Sparta—" "I've got it!" Apollo announced. "I am so awesome. That's five syllables!" He bowed, looking very pleased with himself. "And now, sis. Transportation for the Hunters, you say? Good timing. I was just about ready to roll." "These demigods will also need a ride," Artemis said, pointing to us. "Some of Chiron's campers."

"No problem!" Apollo checked us out. "Let's see… Thalia, right? I've heard all about you." Thalia blushed. "Hi, Lord Apollo." "Zeus's girl, yes? Makes you my half sister. Used to be a tree, didn't you? Glad you're back. I hate it when pretty girls turn into trees. Man, I remember one time—" "Brother," Artemis said. "You should get going." "Oh, right." Then he looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. "Percy Jackson?" "Yeah. I mean… yes, sir." It seemed weird calling a teenager "sir," but I'd learned to be careful with immortals. They tended to get offended easily. Then they blew stuff up. Apollo studied me, but he didn't say anything, which I found a little creepy. "Well!" he said at last. "We'd better load up, huh? Ride only goes one way—west. And if you miss it, you miss it." I looked at the Maserati, which would seat two people max. There were about twenty of us. "Cool car," Nico said. "Thanks, kid," Apollo said. "But how will we all fit?" "Oh." Apollo seemed to notice the problem for the first time. "Well, yeah. I hate to change out of sports-car mode, but I suppose…" He took out his car keys and beeped the security alarm button. Chirp, chirp. For a moment, the car glowed brightly again. When the glare died, the Maserati had been replaced by one of those Turtle Top shuttle buses like we used for school basketball games. "Right," he said. "Everybody in." Zoe ordered the Hunters to start loading. She picked up her camping pack, and Apollo said, "Here, sweetheart. Let me get that." Zoe recoiled. Her eyes flashed murderously. "Brother," Artemis chided. "You do not help my Hunters. You do not look at, talk to, or flirt with my Hunters. And you do not call them sweetheart."

[adapembroke]

Reading Tarot Like The Empress

There is a story told about the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Finding himself in a state that we would now call writers block, he got a job as a secretary to a sculptor he admired, Rodin. (You might know Rodin but not know you do. He is most famous for the sculpture called “The Thinker,” the guy sitting with his head in his hand like he’s nursing a headache.) Rilke was young when he went to work for Rodin, but not completely inexperienced. He had a couple of books of poems under his belt already. He had even developed a style and a method. Like the High Priestess, his process was an introverted one. He looked within. Inspiration came from his inner life and memories, and he waited around the shore of his unconscious for inspiration to strike. When he went to work for Rodin, this process was failing him. He didn’t want to sit around and wait for the muse anymore. He just wanted to get to work. Rodin had a reputation for being a craftsman, for setting his mind to a project and making it without theatrics, and Rilke wanted to learn how to do that. He hoped that by spending time around the artist, he would learn Rodin’s secret and become a craftsman of words. 

One day, Rodin asked how Rilke’s poetry was going. Rilke told him about his troubles, and Rodin gave him this advice: Go to the zoo. Choose an animal, and look at it until you really see it. It might take weeks, he said, but Rilke should be patient. 

Rilke went. He chose the panther and sat in front of its cage until he was inspired to write the poem “The Panther.” When I read that poem, I see this: That man is bored. He is so tired of looking at this big cat walking back and forth in front of iron bars, he can’t stand it anymore. There is nothing else in the world but this cat and this cage. He can’t move until he really sees this thing, whatever that means. The only thing he knows is that it isn’t happening. Every once in awhile, he thinks he has a flash of inspiration, but then it vanishes, and he’s not sure of anything anymore. 

I imagine Rilke walking away from the Panther’s cage clutching the notebook that will hold the collection that he will eventually call New Poems. The notebook is ragged from his constant handling it of but the pages are blank, all except for one, and that page contains only a single short poem about a panther. 

At least, after all of that, I got a poem, he must have been thinking. 

Turning Toward The World

In Rilke’s path through the Fool’s Journey, “The Panther” is the turning point between the High Priestess and the Empress. The High Priestess looks within. Just like your eyes need a moment to adjust when you have been staring at a book for hours and then look out the window, this poem is the process of Rilke changing the focus of his vision from his inner world to the outer world. 

In “The Panther,” he doesn’t quite escape the inner world. It’s hard to tell if the poem is about the poet or the panther. 

But then something extraordinary happens. 

He conducts the experiment again. This time, he looks at an ancient, headless sculpture of Apollo and writes “Archaic Torso of Apollo.” The poem begins with the same structure, a description of the sculpture, a poetic version of the type of work visual artists do when they are rolling around an idea and make a lot of sketches just looking at what they want to draw. Instead of focusing on what he sees, though, he cheats a little and focuses on what you can’t see, beginning his poem with, “We cannot know his legendary head.” 

Then he has an epiphany: 

From all the borders of itself,

burst like a star: for there is no place 

that does not see you. You must change your life. 

His epiphany is the shock of recognition. The panther had eyes but saw nothing. The statue, despite the fact that it has no head, sees him, and in that moment Rilke’s eyes are opened, and he sees. 

What was that moment of recognition like? What burst like a star? He doesn’t say, and if you’re feeling in a particular mood you might make guesses in a certain direction. But. I’m going to take what he said about “stars” and go a bit further with it.

The process by which stars burn is called fusion. When stars burn, a practically infinite number of chemical reactions happen in which two atoms join—fuse—together and become a third thing. 

“The Panther” is, really, about Rilke. The panther is the object onto which he projects his inner world. It’s a great poem as a poem, but he’s trying to break out of that High Priestess mode, and he’s just not getting it yet. It’s still all about him. The panther is a metaphor for himself. In “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” it starts being about his gaze, and then his gaze and the statue’s gaze meet, and those deeper eyes, the ones that refused so frustratingly to open in “The Panther,” open wide in shock at the spectacle of seeing something that is not Rilke himself. In “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” he stops considering the statue as an object to play his own heart strings on and encounters it as an Other, what the philosopher Martin Buber called a “Thou.” The object of Rilke’s poem is not longer an “it,” an object to use or experience. The statue is a being with whom he can have a relationship of dialog. Rilke’s seeing talks to the statue’s seeing, and they (or Rilke, at least) find a mutual understanding. This Other sees him, and Rilke sees this Other, and, in really seeing, Rilke falls in love, and fusion happens. The resulting work is a love poem to a ruined work of art, a third thing that comes from these two seeing each other. 

The Empress Of The Senses

If you read Tarot books, you’ll be told that the Empress is about the senses. The focus here immediately goes to pleasure. You are often told to savor sensual experiences. That’s great. Sometimes when the Empress comes up in a reading, all you really need is a bath with lots of sparkly things in it. 

But there is a tradition in many cultures of seeing empresses as divine. If the Empress was a goddess, what would that mean? What if you really held the senses to be sacred?  

The senses are by their very nature an encounter with the Other. You see seagulls. You taste the bitterness of your tea. You smell the heady, spicy, slightly trippy smell of frankincense. You hear the wind blow. You feel your lover’s hand on your leg, palm up, waiting for you to take their hand in yours. These encounters, if you are vulnerable and open yourself up to them, are sacred, encounters with the Holy Other. It is through these encounters that we experience the Holy Thou.

Empathy is a high-flying abstract word that has somehow managed in certain communities to become a burden and a point of pride. A similar, maybe better, term is ”resonance.“ Resonance happens when a thing that happens to one thing also happens to another thing. Andrea Gibson captures it beautifully in her poem, “Say Yes.”

When two violins are placed in a room

if a chord on one violin is struck

the other violin will sound the note. 

Resonance an essential element in divinatory readings. We’ve talked about how to read like the Fool, how to open yourself up to enchantment while working with the Magician, and how to tap into your own intuition in the High Priestess. The wisdom of the Empress in readings is the wisdom of relationship. There’s a huge Venus glyph in a heart on the RWS card as if Pamela Coleman Smith wanted to shake us and say, “It’s about love, people!”

When I do a reading for someone, I lay out the cards or pull up the birth chart. When I first look, the symbols are just “its” to me. They’re tools for me to use to work my craft. I stare at them for awhile. I make connections. I build associations. I connect what I’m seeing with what my intuition is saying. When I’m doing a past life reading, I’m reading the birth chart specifically with the goal of figuring out what a person’s mistakes have been. I take my little candle and set out into the darkness of the human heart, but when I really sit with a chart when I’m doing a past life reading, there never fails to be a moment when I snap into Empress mode. The experience is just like how Rilke describes it. It’s like a star suddenly bursts into life. An image comes to me—usually literally when I’m doing past life readings—and I see the person I’m reading for as a person. It’s no longer about the Hermit or the Star or Judgement. It’s about a very lonely person who wants so badly to shine but is afraid of being judged. I encounter them as a “Thou.”

The Peacemaker Queen

We discussed the High Priestess as participating in the Dark Goddess archetype. The Empress is the other divine feminine archetype in the major arcana. She is the Mother Goddess, an archetype she shares with Demeter, Gaia, and the Virgin Mary.

The archetypes of the RWS are deeply rooted in the roles of Medieval Europe. In Medieval Europe, the queen had two roles. The first was to make babies for the king. The second was to be an angel of mercy. It was the special right and responsibility of the queen to show compassion. A medieval king couldn’t be merciful, even if he wanted to. It would have made him look weak, and he would have been swarmed by his lords and assassinated as soon as they could get their weapons together. The queen had to carry all of the mercy for the two of them. She could appeal to the king publicly to spare condemned criminals. She could ask him to make peace in a time of war. He could listen to her without ruining his reputation and opening himself up to attack.

Much has been made of the sexism in this role, so I won’t dwell on it here. Instead, I will point out that this role is descended from a sacred office. The right to come between two armies and stop a war was one that belonged to the ancient Druids. They had to spend twenty years studying to earn that right—which says something, I think, about how much the Celts loved war. Much of that study was in learning to divine, and I suspect that in a warrior culture, no small part of that was about learning to find the Thou in the enemy and have the courage to show compassion. I doubt the monarchs of Medieval Europe remembered this old Druid role consciously when the queens took on this role—or I doubt the queens would have been allowed to take on that kind of power—but it is there in the cultural memory, the leader whose power comes from their ability to find that which is worth saving in the heart of the criminal, warlord, and traitor.

To me, this is the heart of the Empress. It’s about looking until you really see, listening until you really hear, touching until you really feel, tasting until you really taste, and smelling until…you get the idea; and through the senses encountering another self, finding what there is to love in the Thou you’re encountering. When you do that, you’re participating in the very force that makes the stars burn.

This post was originally published on Aquarius Moon Journal on 21 March 2020.

[foxtsumus]

Sorry to ignore explicit instruction, but I very much am going to ask you to elaborate on ur aeneid post b/c i am sensing some sexy thoughts, like people think God can.

ok. ok ok ok so this is wildly underdeveloped and i wasn’t specific enough in the original post, i’m rereading books ii and xii for a paper rn so i can talk about animal sacrifices vs human sacrifices and how they’re both used as a vehicle for and justification for the actions of an empire, but the latter’s usage in the mythical origins of rome underscores just how fucking costly rome really was. w/e man i’m not super interested in what i’m arguing in that paper but hey i’ll do my best on it. anyway The Post

yeah i’m specifically thinking about book ii vs book xii here bc reading them back to back drove me nuts. the dichotomy between the perspective of the two is enough to give me whiplash, i swear. anyway, in the light of my life, book ii, aeneas is the one telling us all of the events of book ii, and therefore the perspective for the fall of troy is from one of the many humans involved in it. the triangle is pointing up, sure, but the base is on the ground. the story is told by humans on the earth with an eye on the g-ds in the heavens. this results in something that kills me every time i read book ii- this story cannot be told from above bc there are no g-ds present to tell it.

sinon’s lie, the thing that succeeded where ten long years and thousands of ships failed, lays claim to the will of the g-ds, but it’s still a lie. the g-ds are in the minds of the listeners, but the listeners are still ultimately people on the earth, who are metaphorically looking up at them. of course, the g-ds aren’t actually present bc it was all a lie.

this book also contains the end of the proud city of troy, but according to aeneas, the g-ds aren’t there either. plenty of mention is made of their icons and their servants, from dream!hector telling aeneas he needs to save the relics and rites of their ancestral g-ds, to panthus and cassandra not being helped by apollo, to priam dying on an altar, but aeneas outright says that “when g-ds are contrary, they stand by no one”. (aeneas’ focus on the g-ds in his retelling of these events is his gaze still being turned towards them!!! the triangle is still pointing up!!!!) multiple ppl aeneas interacts with during the fall of troy have an eye on the g-ds, but they’re still stuck on the ground floor of a city that is falling.

aeneas says that venus was there, but arguably only to ensure that ascanius gets out alive and can go on to found alba longa and the julian line. the fall of troy is by this point guaranteed, but the foundation of rome is not. the g-ds now act in service of the latter, not the former. therefore, confirmed attendee venus can’t be the POV for the destruction of troy, because while she may have been present for it, she wasn’t there specifically for that.

book xii, meanwhile, sees the direct and indirect interference of multiple divinities, including turnus’ nymph sister juturna, who fakes an omen for the augur tolumnis early on. (it’s an EXTREMELY sexy reference to/inversion of what happened to laocoon earlier; we know exactly who caused this one and why instead of having to work with the trojan assumption that laocoon’s death was a punishment.) later, venus heals aeneas so he can go back out and fight turnus, and eventually jupiter himself tells juno to lay off and scares away juturna so that aeneas can fulfill his destiny. book xii’s main events are caused by the g-ds doing whatever they feel they need to in this situation, and as they gaze down on the ever-narrowing space between aeneas and turnus, you can almost feel fate closing in like a vise grip. the base of the triangle is now in the heavens as the attending g-ds react to fate in their own ways. book xii, very much returning to the familiar storytelling style of the g-dly parts of the iliad, is about the will of the g-ds, not of men--even when they tried to avoid a large-scale battle, juturna (and juno, implicitly) intervened--and it is certainly not about the will of aeneas. aeneas has been living in a divine fishbowl ever since the flames appeared above iulus’ head, but never more so than the moments before his final confrontation with turnus, when g-ds outnumber men and all of the g-ds with skin in the game are watching. the real action is up above, they’re just looking down.

(which makes it even more affecting when the g-ds fall away and it’s just the two of them and aeneas makes the choice to kill turnus. no g-d pulled his eye to pallas’ belt. no g-d whispered rage into his ear. in this moment of reckoning, aeneas, the primogenitor of rome, chose to do this. and then you go back and you read the latin and it says “ferrum adverso sub pectore condit fervidus”, 12.950, and “conderet urbem”, 1.5, and you wonder whether aeneas the character ever really had a choice at all. what is a story if not a divine fishbowl. this poem makes me insane.)

tl;dr: book ii (△) is humanity looking up to the heavens and thinking they’re looking at the g-ds, but they’re actually just looking at destiny, which is past the point of no return. the g-ds are not there. book xii (▽) is the g-ds looking down at two humans but thinking they’re looking at destiny, which is at the point of no return. then, in only 15 lines, that point is passed with violence and fury and it was not by destiny, it was by one human. 

you, the reader, are still looking at destiny.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Greek Life

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Taehyung / Reader

Word Count: 3,218

AU: Demigod / College Fraternity

Dialogue Prompt: "Are you suggesting an orgy?” (warning: this got a bit darker than intended but there’s light at the end!)

↳ part of my AU drabble game

“Alright.” Both arms crossed over his chest, Seokjin glared at Hoseok, son of Apollo. “I just want to be clear about one thing tonight.”

Without glancing up from his phone, Hoseok pushed dark Gucci sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Yes, brother?”

“Not brothers,” Seokjin corrected. “Anyways, this is me reminding you that your set volume cannot be over 100 decibels tonight. If we get another noise complaint, this house is toast.”

If Hoseok did roll his eyes, Seokjin couldn’t see through the sunglasses. The generally dismissive slouch of his posture was answer enough.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Hoseok drawled.

Seokjin’s frown deepened. “Yeah, I’m afraid I’m gonna need more than that. The last time you said you’d keep it down, we hit 125 decibels and the house nearly collapsed.”

“A gross exaggeration,” said Yoongi, son of Hades, currently curled up on the sofa. “As the demi-god of earthquakes –”

“Actually, Poseidon is in charge of earthquakes.”

“– seeing as we have no son of Poseidon in this house, I am demi-god of earthquakes, and I can inform you that the house was not close to falling down.”

“Irregardless,” Seokjin said.

“Irregardless isn’t a word!” 

Namjoon’s voice drifted from somewhere on the third floor. As son of Athena, goddess of wisdom and strategy, Namjoon took grave offense to grammatical errors.

Seokjin sighed. Rubbing his forehead, he contemplated whether his continued attempts at decency were worth it. At least if he tried, he could tell himself he did everything he could to stop chaos before it arrived. Decision made, Seokjin fixed Hoseok with his best no-nonsense glare. It was a good one, to be sure. As the son of Demeter, goddess of harvest and earth, Seokjin was the most grounded one in the fraternity.

“Hoseok,” he said. The younger demi-god looked up. “You will keep it down or I’ll personally call your father.”

The smirk disappeared from Jung Hoseok’s face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.”

Seokjin sounded so stern, Hoseok didn’t feel like calling him out. Despite his cooler-than-thou appearance, Hoseok had major daddy issues – as in, he hated his. Apollo was a difficult guy to be be cuddly with, to be fair. On the surface, he seemed everything a father figure should be: personable, warm and awe-inspiring. Apollo was the god of the sun, healing, prophecy, music and poetry. As one might expect from the god of the sun though, he had rather high expectations for his offspring.

Hoseok didn’t care about greatness, so long as he had a good tune and good times. One time, he semi-jokingly proposed to Apollo that he become the demi-god of DJ’s and sick beats. Apollo wasn’t amused by the suggestion.

“Fine.” Hoseok placed both feet on the floor. “Dearest Seokjin, I will try to keep it down but know this,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “You have ruined the soul of an artist.”

Seokjin tried not to laugh. “Yeah, cool. I’ll take my chances.”

Turning around, Seokjin exited the living room into the main hall. There, he found himself face to face with what could only be described as chaos. Taehyung, son of Dionysus, absently twined grape vines up the stairs while Jimin, son of Aphrodite and Jungkook, son of Zeus, argued in front of the door.

Taehyung cocked his head while he stared at the bannister, trying to make sense of it all. As the son of Dionysus – god of wine, fertility and ecstasy – he was not unaccustomed to parties. Even his origin story at the frat involved one. When the other men showed up this year for their first day of campus, they found Taehyung entrenched in their backyard, midway through the biggest beach rager the University had ever seen.

As to his method of arrival and when, even Taehyung was not sure on the details. General merriment seemed to follow him wherever he went. The moment he decided to attend University, obviously the party followed him to his new destination.

Regardless, Taehyung was welcomed into Beta Tau Sigma (BTS) with open arms, due to the similarities he had with its other members. Taehyung was descended from a god of the Greek Pantheon, as they all were. Most mortals were shocked to learn gods and demi-gods still walked amongst them. Most mortals were blind, though and rarely saw what was beyond their noses.

Taehyung looked up, surveying the chaos before him. Kim Seokjin, eldest of the house, usually adopted a parental role to the others. At that moment, he had both hands on his hips and was attempting to mediate a fight between Jimin and Jungkook.

Already, sparks leapt from Jungkook’s fingers while Jimin’s gaze burned ruby-red with his anger.

Jimin, son of Aphrodite. 

Sweet and beautiful, with a temperament to match until you spoke ill of his loved ones. Then, all bets were off and as lovely as Jimin could be, his temper was far worse. Sweet words turned poisonous when spewed from his lips, since Jimin was also armed with the gift of persuasion. Jungkook attempted to avoid said power by not looking Jimin in the eyes.

“Look!” Jungkook said, one hand over his face. “I didn’t say your mother was easy! I just said she has a lot of demi-god children. That’s all!”

“She’s the goddess of love,” Jimin hissed, attempting to swat Jungkook’s hand down. His gaze burned scarlet in an otherwise calm expression. “Obviously she has children! You’re one to talk, anyways. How’s good ‘ol dad doing? Impregnated any mortals recently? Turned himself into a ray of light? A cow?”

“Hey! He turned Io into a cow, not himself!”

“How is that better?”

Shrugging, Jungkook nearly stumbled as he crashed into an a thousand-year-old lamp. 

Appearing from nowhere, Yoongi deftly caught this and replaced it on the counter. “Welcome,” he mumbled, drifting into the kitchen.

For a minute, Jimin and Jungkook forgot their fight and stared. 

“Dude needs to announce himself more,” Jungkook said, momentarily thrown.

Shoving both hands into the pockets of his hoodie, Jungkook revealed a small rip in the seams. Despite his grunge, Jungkook was still one of the most handsome guys around campus. It was hard not to be with his chiseled jawline, tousled hair and dark, piercing gaze. If there were a student vote on who was most likely to be a demi-god amongst them, Jeon Jungkook would be the unanimous favorite.

Still, he had problems of his own. Mainly that despite all his achievements, his father continued to insist he failed to meet expectations. A demigod of Zeus was powerful and as such, was expected to accomplish great feats. So far, Jungkook had only been the youngest person ever to climb Mt. Everest, written a collection of poems reviewed in Time Magazine, discovered a purpose for the appendix not previously thought of and contributed several designs to NASA’s most recent launch.

Zeus called it all child’s play. 

Shortly following, Jungkook stopped trying to impress his father and enrolled in University. Still, it wasn’t unusual to run into Jungkook at odd hours of the night, muttering corrections of Machiavellian theory with a bottle of wine in one hand.

All of this went to say that Taehyung understood why Jungkook was sometimes an ass. Jimin was lucky amongst them, as far as demi-gods went. He had intense, emotional power but he also had a goddess who loved him. Taehyung, on the other hand, had rarely seen his father since he had discovered what he truly was. It was hard having a father in charge of general celebration. It meant Dionysus was often called elsewhere, usually interrupting any father-son bonding time.

“Listen.” Seokjin rubbed his forehead. “You two are giving me an Athena-sized headache. Stop bickering and help Taehyung – his vines are out of control.”

Glancing at his hands, Taehyung realized Seokjin was correct. While he had been watching them argue, his vines had taken on a life of their own. They twined around his legs, the banister and sprouted large clusters of pomegranates (which, frankly, didn’t make any sense). Absently, Taehyung plucked one of them and took a large bite. Lately, he’d been very interested in pomegranates.

Clomping his way downstairs, Namjoon batted vines out of the way. “Are you going to clean this up before tonight?” he said to Taehyung, who nodded. To Seokjin, he added, “And watch what you say about my mother.”

“I was being literal!” Seokjin protested. “Your mom was literally born from Zeus’ mind, so obviously her birth was a headache. I don’t make the rules –”

“Thank the gods for that.”

“Shut up, Jungkook.”

This last statement was exclaimed by Jimin, Seokjin and Namjoon combined. Abruptly, Jungkook turned around on his heel and exited the lobby. Once he was gone, some of the red dissipated from Jimin’s gaze.

He looked sympathetically at Taehyung. “Need help cleaning?” Jimin offered, laying a hand on the bannister. 

His touch instantly trimmed the vines, sending blossoming roses over the rest.

Taehyung wrinkled his nose. “This looks… somehow worse.”

“Sorry, man.” Jimin’s lips twitched. “My botanical powers only go so far.”

With a wave of his hand, Seokjin transformed the mess into neat, tidy rows of vines up the staircase. As the son of Demeter, he had the best grasp over all earthly elements.

“There.” Satisfied, Seokjin dusted both palms on his pants. He looked curiously at Taehyung. “You alright, man? Lately, your powers have been, uh…”

It was considered impolite to comment on another demi-god’s powers; hence why Seokjin trailed off at the end. 

Taehyung tilted his head. “They’ve been what, exactly?”

Seokjin seemed distinctly uncomfortable. “Off?”

“On the fritz,” said Jimin helpfully.

“Borderline chaotic,” Namjoon added.

Taehyung considered their input. “Borderline chaotic is kind of my nature, no?”

“Yes, but…” Namjoon shook his head. “Not like this.”

Chewing on his lip, Taehyung was forced to admit they were right. His powers had always been intense, but they were usually controlled. Despite the influence he exerted over others, Taehyung could never party or grow drunk on his own power. In his opinion, this was his great curse. No matter what Taehyung did, he always found himself the eye of the hurricane, the center of the storm. He could never lose himself in the relief he provided to others; could only watch while they did.

Lately though, his powers had changed. They were darker, less controlled and had a frustrated edge. Glancing down at the pomegranate he held in one hand, Taehyung saw the seeds were an ominous shade of dark purple.

“It’s because of Y/N,” Jungkook said as he entered the room.

Taehyung’s head snapped up.

Leaning his shoulder to the wall, Jungkook stared lazily back. Power crackled restlessly about him like thunder. 

“What?” He arched a brow. “You know I’m right.”

Though Taehyung’s lips parted, he had no response because Jungkook was correct. If Taehyung retraced his magic to the moment it changed, it was around the time he met you. Or, more accurately, it was around the time you rejected him. 

Taehyung’s stomach twisted.

“Who’s Y/N?” Namjoon asked, glancing between them.

Taehyung tried and failed to look casual. “No one.”

He could barely push the words past his lips, which prompted Namjoon to arch a brow. “Doesn’t seem like no one.”

“She is,” Taehyung muttered. “She wants nothing to do with me – rightfully so. Which means that she’s no one.”

“That seems harsh, Tae,” Seokjin chastised. “How do you know?”

His gaze softened looking at Taehyung. Taehyung was the youngest amongst them aside from Jungkook, so the other demi-gods felt the need to protect him. No one else thought to, thanks to Taehyung’s abilities but in him, the others saw their younger selves. His powers drained him so often and left him feeling exhausted from their personal nature.

When Taehyung said nothing more, Jungkook sighed. “Just the usual,” he said, a bit gentler. “The same girl came to a few of our parties. Taehyung liked her. His powers got out of control. When she tried to kiss him, he pulled his powers away and she freaked. Ran out of the party before he could explain.”

“What would I explain?” Taehyung said, unable to help himself. The vines at his feet withered and turned an unnatural shade of black. “Hey, sorry about that! I’m just the demi-god of parties and wine. You got too buzzed on my power, so I tried to pull back and return your free will. Wanna hang?”

Even Namjoon had no response, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or,” he suggested. “You could just apologize about the party and offer to buy her a coffee.”

Taehyung looked up. “That’s just a temporary fix, right? Eventually, I’ll have to tell her and – let’s face it – who would stay? I’ve seen what these powers do to my dad. I’ve seen what they did to his other children. It’s pointless to become attached to a mortal.”

Out of all Dionysus’s children, Taehyung was the only one currently living. Most had been famous throughout history – musicians and actors known more for their parties than the talent they had. Many died young, unable to cope with the effects of their powers. Taehyung knew it was smart to push you away, since he couldn’t control himself and his powers often proved lethal.

Still, a pang entered his stomach whenever he thought of you. Whenever he remembered the shape of your lips, the way that you smiled and the uncertain way your fingers curled in your sundress. You laughed in two ways when you talked. One was a quiet, self-conscious giggle, but other was Taehyung’s favorite. It was more of a snort than a laugh, granted whenever Taehyung said something particularly funny.

The memory of this made Taehyung’s heart twist and he swallowed, looking away from the others.

At the bottom of the stairs, Jimin seemed distressed by his pain. He probably was; oftentimes, Jimin confused other people’s emotions for his own.

“I’m sorry, Tae,” he said softly.

“S’alright,” Taehyung muttered, even though it wasn’t.

“Can I do anything to help?” Jimin brightened. “Want me to use my powers, or something?”

Jungkook looked at him in amazement. “Are you suggesting an orgy? Dude, this hardly seems like the time.”

Jimin glared. “That’s not all my powers are good for, you jackass. I can make people forget their troubles, you know. At least for a little while.”

The tips of his fingers glowed faintly pink and Jungkook glanced at his hands, thoroughly unnerved. Jimin’s power of persuasion extended beyond simply telling others what to do. He could make someone else feel happy, sad, tired or angry – a hefty power, although it wore off after awhile and wasn’t quite as good as the real thing.

Taehyung shook his head. “No, thanks. Appreciate the offer, though.”

“Anytime.”

As he climbed the stairs, Seokjin clapped Taehyung on the shoulder. “Sorry, man,” he mumbled, understanding the fear. Truly, they all did. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m gonna bake later if you wanna stop by.”

Taehyung smiled despite himself. If there was one earthly power which could cure his longing, it was Seokjin’s cookies. “Thanks, man.”

Shooting him a sympathetic look, Jungkook nodded and Jimin poked him hard in the ribs. “C’mon,” Jimin said, jerking his chin. “Let’s go help Hobi with his playlist before Seokjin pops a vein worrying.”

A giant grin stretched over Jungkook’s face, which the rest of them should have found worrisome. 

“Cool.” Head bobbing, he followed Jimin down the hall. “Yoongi showed me this great eastern European doom metal band. Gonna see if I can get Hobi to play it tonight.”

Jimin snorted, his voice growing softer the further away he got. “Get the demi-god of the sun to play doom metal? Good luck with that, man.”

“Maybe if I tell him Mariah Carey covered it.”

The sounds of their conversation faded to nothing, leaving Taehyung alone in the hall with Namjoon. Turning quickly, Taehyung attempted to leave but was halted in his descent by Namjoon clearing his throat. 

Slowly, Taehyung looked up at his friend.

Namjoon looked back. 

No one could stare quite like Namjoon. He had a piercing gaze, as though he saw every piece of your soul and was able to size you up to expectation. It made Taehyung wildly uncomfortable, as it did most people.

“You know you’re only a half god, right?” Namjoon tilted his head. “Part of you is also human.”

“I know.” Taehyung’s voice came out somewhat petulant, though he did not mean it to be.

Crossing both arms, Namjoon leaned a shoulder against the wall. His irises glowed the gentle gold of Athena. “It’s hard to control our powers,” he admitted. “It is, but there are difficulties in any relationship. Don’t give up on your own happiness.”

A wan smile crossed Taehyung’s lips. “Are the difficulties in most relationships that the guy semi-drugs his girlfriend whenever he loses control?”

Namjoon winced. “You don’t drug them.”

“Feels like it,” Taehyung muttered, glancing down.

“Their natural impulses are already there,” Namjoon pointed out. “Your presence at parties doesn’t make people drunk. People drinking makes people drunk. You only lower their inhibitions, call out their truth, give people the freedom inebriation gives without intoxication. You grant people their truest form – which is a gift, not a curse.”

Taehyung didn’t respond. He knew Namjoon was right, at least in part. Still, there existed within him a kernel of darkness he couldn’t control. His power was linked to such horror and melancholy; it was hard sometimes to see the light.

“Hey.” Namjoon took a step closer. His voice took on that maddening wisdom which came from the goddess. “We all have burdens. Humans do too, along with demi-gods. Our greatest strengths are often our greatest weaknesses. Someone who’s confident is prideful. Someone who’s humble? Inactive. Someone who rationalizes, often fails to empathize. It’s why relationships are necessary, Taehyung – they provide balance. You can’t simply close yourself off from the rest of the world.”

Taehyung’s gaze sharpened, looking up from the floor. The vines at his feet unfurled, reminding them that while Taehyung’s power was mostly parties and fun, there was a dark side of revelry which couldn’t be forgotten. Madness and misery emerged just as often as goodness when he called true selves forth.

“Okay.” Taehyung kept his voice level.

Seeing he wouldn’t budge on the matter, Namjoon sighed.

Truthfully, Taehyung heard his advice and longed to accept it, but found it too hard. It was difficult when his chest ached for you, when he couldn’t stop chastising himself for the moment you ran from his house.

Namjoon nodded and turned down the staircase. “Let me know if you need anything,” he called over his shoulder. “Gonna go and make sure Yoongi hasn’t turned the basement into another séance, or something.”

As he left, his footsteps growing quieter, Taehyung stared the sight of his retreating back. Uncertainty entered the pit of his stomach, wondering if perhaps Namjoon was right. The sanest to date Taehyung had felt was the past year in the house, living amongst others who understood what he was.

Maybe it was foolish of him to push you away.

As soon as he thought this, his phone chimed in his pocket. The sight of your name at the top of his screen sent his heart soaring, wondering if this coincidence was something he couldn’t ignore. Pushing blue-black hair from his eyes, he unlocked your text.

Y/N: hey. I just wanted to apologize for leaving so quickly. I think I drank too much, got carried away but… I really liked our conversation. Would you want to get coffee sometime? [4:15 PM]

Taehyung’s heart constricted, his hands trembled and before he could stop himself, he was responding.

Taehyung: yes, please. When?? [4:16 PM]

 Author’s Note: hey, I just got service at the hotel so I’m posting but I haven’t proof-read as much as I usually do! Please forgive any errors, I promise to read over it again in the coming days :) thank you!

↳ part of my AU drabble game

Greek Life!All + brainstorming fundraiser ideas for the frat

[aparecium-muses]

@itswasteland Plotted Starter From Harry to Apollo

Harry had been use to people trying to get him to date them, vying for his attention. From the humiliating love poem from second year, (he still cringes from embarrassment when people mention pickled toads) to chocolates, flowers, gifts of all shapes and sizes but no one seemed to care about what he wanted. They gave him what they thought he wanted, what the 'Savior', Harry Potter wanted. No one cared to find out what his favorite chocolates were, or what flowers he thought were pretty, (not that he would know the name of them. He just remembers this flower he saw in the neighbors garden where the petals were red but yellow in the middle. It made him think of a sunset) or what gifts he would have some use for. Harry had hated Valentine's day, since then, and how people threw themselves at his feet.

Until something changed. And it all started with a boy named Apollo.

They had a few classes together, paired up on a few projects and he had found himself warming up to the Hufflepuff. Chin in hand, brown eyes ever-observant Apollo listened to him while he spoke; he even talked back to him as well! He found the boy was sincere, painfully so, in a way, he never thought a person could be. Before Harry had tried to avoid romance like the plague; even when he was being pestered by the others for his abstinence. Yet, he found himself not minding as much if it was Apollo who wrote him romantic poems, gifted him with things, giving him flowers, and had remembered the things he liked. For Apollo didn't chase after him for glory, to up his status, he did it because he wanted too and that had been the most puzzling thing of all.

He was coming down from the air, his head having been lost in the clouds literally and metaphorically, spying Apollo on the pitch below. He could feel his face heat up at the sight of the other winking at him. It brought him back to one of their more recent conversations. Apollo had told him the first thing he noticed about him, was how happy he looked on the pitch. He didn't talk about his famous scar, nor his eyes, or even his messy hair. It had hit him in some sort of way he couldn't explain to anyone else, his chest had felt lighter, his smile easier. He hadn't realized he was falling in love until he was in too deep.

Sliding off of his broom he waves Ron off, who only seems to shrug before going to the Gryffindor locker room to get clean. Clutching the broom, he makes his way over to where Apollo was, feeling his heart skip a beat.

"Hi," he blurts out after having stared at him for a bit longer than normal, eyes having glanced at Apollo's lips subconsciously. He glances away shyly at his single worded greeting; biting the inside of his cheek. He had meant to say more but somewhere along the way he got lost in Apollo's eyes and forgot what he was going to say. His breaths were still quick, from nerves but also from his adrenalin pumping high from flying around on a broom. He licked his chapped lips, taking a steadying breath. "Um- I know you've been sorta waiting for my reply for a long time. I wasn't, really into romance when you- you first asked me out because- well you know," there was a hint of bitterness in his words at the hint of his other 'suitors'. "But," another deep breath, jittery with nerves and something else. "You've been nothing but sweet to me," his voice and turned soft, taking another tentative step forward. This moment was meant for only their ears after all. "You didn't push me and I'm ready now. I want to go out with you." His eyes shine bright, with hope and want, as he reached out as if to take the other boys' hand only if he's allowed to do so.

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 8

Interlude: David

“Talk to Nightingale,” Peter had said. Of course David was going to converse with Thomas, frequently and on all manner of subjects. The matter of the missing crystal ball, however... well, it couldn’t hurt for David to ask around in his spare time, and catch up with Thomas on the matter at his leisure. Perhaps when he already had something to show for his efforts. Oh, Thomas would be delighted. Certainly, he was going to try to hide it and insist on him following the rules and not interfering with investigations in the future, but beneath that, he’d be glad to have this task taken care of. Then he’d see that David could still make a valuable contribution to the modern Folly.

So, inferring that Peter didn’t want to be bothered looking for that crystal ball, David ventured out (with what he dearly hoped was Peter’s covert permission) to see if some of his old contacts from the demi-monde were still around. Certainly, he expected to find the demi-monde as much changed as everything else, but some people stuck around for a seemingly indefinite amount of time.

Oberon had apparently wed one of the new river daughters, acquired some children with her and was now hosting something called ‘art therapy’. Well, David had always loved to draw. He accepted the offer of an easel, canvas and paint and got to work.

“And I may choose what I draw?” he asked.

“Of course,” Oberon told him. “The aim of this procedure is for you to confront upon the canvas whatever you feel you must.”

David nodded.

Oberon’s place was spacious in a way that was not to David’s taste, but he claimed the minimalism was conductive to his creative process. There was coffee on for him - sweet and almost white with milk, the way he preferred it - and a plate of snacks (no obligation). The food was kosher, Oberon informed him. David hadn’t often been in a position to keep kosher (it had been unheard of at the old Folly, at Casterbrook everyone had received the same boarding school lunches, and during the war you ate what you could get) and thus couldn’t claim he had been afforded even the opportunity to miss it, but it was a nice touch.

“This looks as though you knew I would return here,” he said.

“I suspected it,” Oberon said smoothly. “Your return has made little waves already, and I assume it will only make larger ones.” Apparently the orisa Peter was involved with was a sister to Oberon’s wife, and thence the news had travelled.

“Are you glad to have me back, old friend?” David asked softly. He kept his eyes fixed on the canvas, where his sketch was coming along. It would be a simplistic little thing, compared to his usual work: his hand was quite out of practice after six years of handling his staff and rifle with nary any time for anything else.

He had kept a notebook tucked into his breast pocket, where some of the other men had carried bibles, quite worn by the end of the war. Beyond drafts for new spells, notes on troop movements and strategy, and idle thoughts of his scientific work that he had let his mind drift to during the lulls, there had been little sketches there, and snippets of poems. He had drawn most of the men in his unit at some point. His poems had been dilettantish, and they had shifted focus with the time: what had started out as paeans to sweet Phoebus Apollo, the boyish god of the eyes of sun, had turned, later, to the warlike deities. He had read one aloud once, one he’d deemed sufficiently disguised, and the lads had teased him for weeks about what a harridan of a girl he must have at home, that she must compare to Athena of strategy, while their Captain had watched on with a lopsided smile.

(”What happened to Apollo?” Thomas had asked later, when they’d been alone, the only ones awake during the first watch of the night.

“The war changed him,” David had replied.)

(He’d never shown Thomas the poems to Thanatos, the angel of death.)

“I am glad you ceased the abandonment of your post,” Oberon said. “I am glad you stopped hiding.”

“It was rather chosen for me,” David argued. “The abandonment as well as the return.”

Oberon gracefully nodded his assent. He was always rather graceful in his movement. David liked to look at him, had always rather. All the controlled strength to him, the fluid, natural elegance of him. Masculinity misted off him like a golden vapour. Perhaps he should ask... but no. A wife, children: potent obstacles to that sort of thing.

For some reason, he had to think of Peter for a second. He shrugged it off. If Thomas truly hadn’t figured that one out yet, well, what on earth was David to do? Perhaps it was best to let the young man be, and look for suitable candidates for some... little adventures later. Or perhaps he was being overly optimistic, seeing as Thomas still barely gave him the time of day.

“And what is it you seek here now?” Oberon asked. “Hopefully not to disappear again? Because I am unsure of whether I would lend my hand a second time.”

David shook his head. He had wanted to disappear so badly, then. Oberon had taken pity and helped him find someone who might assist in that, who would create for him a replica of a dead body - his dead body. Now, funny enough, it was the furthest thing from his mind.

“No more running,” David said. “I am assisting the Folly in an inquiry.”

“What is your capacity within the Folly now?” Oberon asked. “I hear tell from my wife that certain elements will want to know, and soon.”

David didn’t know what certain elements meant, nor the answer to the question. “It is yet to be determined,” he said. “The Folly are looking for a dangerous magical object, that might have recently been sold to someone unaware. I don’t know my way around the demi-monde as well as I used to, my friend. With whom would I begin a search for such an object?”

Under David’s hands, the canvas began filling up with landscape. Not so simplistic after all, apparently. He couldn’t recall consciously deciding what to draw, but now he had already started, and it was going to take itself to some sort of conclusion. He had drawn the snow, the overcast sky, now for the leafless trees. He added the dark trunks, tall and imposing, and a clearing in the middle.

“I will outfit you with a list of names, and places to start,” Oberon said. “The goblin market has changed little since you last visited. The faces differ, but the customs remain.”

“That is heartening,” David replied. Satisfied with the look of his painted landscape, he started populating it. The dark shapes, so still in the snow, pitiful heaps of humanity, sunken now, vacated of their souls. A corpse, a carcass, where was the difference? The werewolf, writhing in the snow. Beaten but not yet knowing it.

“Mind where you step, though,” Oberon said. “The relationship of the demi-monde to the Isaacs has hardly grown any more cordial.”

David looked up from the canvas. “What happened?” he asked.

Oberon shrugged. His tight shirt left little to the imagination, and David watched the ripple of his muscles below the fabric with appreciation. “The Starling is working on doing things a new way, reaching out, establishing relations between the community and the Folly, but the Starling is... a recent phenomenon.”

“Pardon me. The... who now?”

“Peter Grant. Nightingale’s Starling. Some interesting ideas, that one.”

Peter Grant. David hummed thoughtfully. Peter was turning out to be a more interesting person by the day. New ideas. Peculiar methods. A man after David’s own heart, it seemed, and handsome too. And... Nightingale’s Starling, really? Then he remembered the actual topic of conversation, and mentally walked himself a few steps back.

“What does Thomas say to that?” he asked.

“Not much.” Oberon rolled his shoulders. He was doing it on purpose, David was sure. “The Nightingale keeps to himself.”

There was something odd to that statement. David picked up a smaller brush, to finish off the contours of the werewolf in its death throes. “Hm? Strange. Thomas was always the social butterfly.”

Oberon gave him an expression somewhere between amusement and incredulity, which to David was entirely weird. “Is that so?”

“I can’t imagine Thomas never popped ‘round to mingle. Sure, he wouldn’t have before the war. But he is technically fae now, and it does seem like the kind of thing he’d do, barring any other society... no offense meant.”

Oberon shook his head. “The Nightingale can barely show his face in any demi-monde pubs without half the clientele fleeing through the back door. His arrival heralds emergency, and most likely combat. Nothing else. He’s not... widely trusted by anyone in my circles.”

“I don’t understand,” David said. His hand holding the paintbrush sped up a little. The outline of the soldier, the only one upright, bent over the werewolf, got a little messy, so he corrected himself. He had not forgotten this moment, even after there had started to be many like it. The bayonet affixed to the rifle, pointed forward and downward, soon to arch for the werewolf’s throat. The staff, too, strapped to his belt. And then, out of some inexplicable impulse, David gave him wings.

These were not the serene, down-feathered wings often featured in depictions of biblical angels. These wings were breaking out of the man’s shoulders in a way that should not be, wrong and painful and bloody and raw. At last, David took another paintbrush, dipped its stiff bristles into the scarlet paint and flicked it with his index finger against the canvas. A fine red mist.

“Are you finished?” Oberon asked.

David nodded.

“Well, let’s see your offering for today.” Oberon crossed the room to stand behind David, scrutinizing the painting.

“This is a scene that you witnessed?” he asked.

“Well, the wings are an embellishment,” David said, “but otherwise, yes.”

“Is this figure supposed to be you?”

“I don’t have wings.” David shook his head.

Oberon crossed his arms. He chortled. “Oh, but you do. False wings, of wax, and the foolish hope to boot.”

“I’m Icarus,” David surmised, “my hubris caused me to fly too close to the sun and I plummeted. Very on the nose, my friend.”

“Oh, not at all. You’re Daedalus. You made these wings, you gave them to him, and you are watching all you ever loved take a nosedive off a cliff, and you’re asking yourself what you have done.”

There wasn’t much David could say to that. He wondered where Oberon had received that information. He wondered how Oberon knew what he had done.

Oberon cocked his head and gestured again at the painting. “This is the Nightingale, then.”

“I do wish everyone would stop calling him that,” David said. “The Nightingale is a construct that served to maintain troop morale. I am told that over seventy years passed since then.”

“A blink of an eye to some of us,” Oberon stated. Of course, David thought, he was much older. But that wasn’t the point.

“The point is,” he said, “I want to know what happened. I want to know how almost eight decades went by and this...” He gestured at the painting. “...is still the reality.”

“Maybe,” Oberon said, “I am not the person to ask this question.”

----

It really was a nuisance, David reflected, to be without his own vehicle. In town, it would do, but not outside of it, and as far as he remembered, his new destination was quite a drive out. He had only been once or twice, but he was certain that, outfitted with the navigation device on his new phone, if he figured it out correctly, he might get there without much trouble. But the problem of the car remained.

Well, Thomas and himself had had an agreement, back in the day, to share everything they owned between them. What’s mine is also yours, it had run. They never reneged on that agreement, and David figured this was important enough to infringe upon Thomas’s Jaguar again. At least this time around, Peter couldn’t possibly get caught in the crossfire.

As he was leaving London, he switched the radio on. Modern music was something he hadn’t gotten around to discovering yet, but he expected it to be as changed from what he remembered as everything in this new age. What he got was a mellow-voiced man singing (he would only later learn that the song was about as old as the car he was driving),

Try to see it my way Do I have to keep on talking till I can't go on? While you see it your way Run the risk of knowing that our love may soon be gone We can work it out We can work it out

While the lyrics were a little bit somber at times, the melody was upbeat and had David humming and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. It was repetitive and by the second iteration of the chorus he was singing along. His singing voice wasn’t anything to write home about, not at all like that of Thomas, but it raised his mood a few notches and that, he supposed, was rather nice to have.

The melody stuck, and still coursed through his mind when, hours later, he arrived at that strange little tower. He got out of the car and stretched his stiff limbs expansively before walking up and ringing the doorbell.

The door was opened by... oh boy!

The door was opened by, there was no other word for it, a fuzzy young woman. Owing to the rather warm weather, she was in shorts and a black-and-gold top of some sort that, David observed, cut off an inch or so above her navel. It was very plain to see, because of this, that the whole of her was covered in a fine golden fuzz, like... like the fur of a bee, if the hairs on a bee were indeed called that. A single tendril of a glamour beckoned, almost probing, testing the waters out of routine rather than genuine interest, telling of the taste of honey and the steady buzz of the swarm and a... fuzzy embrace. As per usual with fae of the female persuasion, this left David largely unaffected.

“Yeah?” the young woman asked.

“I am looking for Hugh Oswald,” David said. “Does he still live here?”

“Sure, grandad still lives here,” the young woman replied. “Why, what do you want from him?”

Grandad. Indeed, David thought. Hugh always did ensure us rather too profusely that he was interested in beekeeping a normal amount.

“I’m come from the Folly,” he said.

“Oh,” Hugh’s granddaughter said. “They have another guy now?”

“They’ve had me for a while, in fact. Long story.” For once picking up on his opposite’s reluctance, David said, “He will want to see me. I know him quite well, we served together.”

The young woman - just now it occurred to David that he hadn’t asked her name, was it awkward doing it now? - cocked her head in a deeply sceptical way. “But you’re not the Nightingale.”

So she too knew that moniker. The Nightingale. David felt anger bubbling up within him. He took a deep breath to contain it. “No. But he is why I’m here.”

“I don’t know about this,” Hugh’s granddaughter said. “I don’t want to stress him out.”

“He will very much want to see me,” David insisted.

“I’ll go ask him if he’s up for it,” the young woman said, and slammed the door in David’s face.

David waited a minute that felt approximately like a thousand minutes, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy, picking at his collar as always when he was agitated. He’d never known why very little other people tended to have these little nervous habits, but to him they seemed natural as breathing. One plucked at one’s clothes when one was nervous, and one flapped one’s hands at about chest-height when one was in extreme happiness. That was how feelings were appropriately expressed. Curtailing these expressions could feel grating to the point of extreme discomfort, so he had never put much effort in trying, even when people stared sometimes.

The door opened again, revealing the bee... woman. “He says you can come up.”

David nodded. “Splendid.” She waved him to come in, and in he went. Not much had changed from his vague recollection of Hugh’s weird tower. Some furniture had been replaced or positioned differently since, but it was still much the same place.

“Out back,” Hugh’s granddaughter waved a hand in the direction of the staircase. “He’s in the garden.”

“I know my way,” David said, and yet still she followed one step behind him. Should he ask her name now? He did not.

They stepped out into the garden and David registered the omnipresent buzz of the swarm, the many bee-friendly flower arrangements and fruit trees before he registered the old man in the wheelchair. “Hugh Oswald,” he said, “We’ve much to discuss.”

The old man made a startled sound and recoiled so violently he almost toppled his chair over. David winced in sympathy and started towards him hands raised, not sure what to do to help but needing to do something, but Hugh’s granddaughter beat him to it. She rushed to her grandfather’s side and steadied him, stroking his back soothingly, then turned her head to throw David a look of pure venom. For a moment, he felt a prickle down his arms, like the painful little stings of a myriad bees.

“See,” she exclaimed, “this is why I didn’t want to let you in here, moron!”

“Mellissa...” Hugh Oswald gasped. His voice sounded as frail as he looked, god, he looked wizened, he looked like he’d disintegrate into dust at a careful touch, this couldn’t be, this wasn’t Hugh, Hugh was twenty and strong and full of the brimming vigour of youth, Hugh wasn’t old, couldn’t be old, and David was beginning to tremble- “Mellissa, you see him too?”

“What?” Hugh’s granddaughter snapped. (Mellissa, she was Mellissa, that was her name.) “Of course I see him. The idiot! I had no idea he was going to scare you!”

“But...” Hugh raised a shaking hand, pointing in David’s direction. He had trouble catching his breath, and his other, gnarled hand clawed into the armrest of his chair as he gasped. “David Mellenby is buried.”

“No, Hugh,” David said softly. Oh, he was still trembling, he felt like he should faint, but he couldn’t now. “No, I’m quite alive. Please, we can sit together and I can explain.”

“Nope,” Mellissa said. “You’re leaving. Right the fuck now, or I’ll have the hive on you.”

The bees seemed to buzz louder. David began to retreat.

“Wait,” Hugh Oswald said, sitting up a little straighter with a small amount of struggle. “Wait, Mellissa, let him stay. I want to hear...”

“Grandad, I don’t think you should...”

“If he’s really here and not dead, I want to know why,” Hugh Oswald said, his voice a tad firmer now.

Mellissa seemed extremely reluctant to agree to this, but she relented. “I’ll be close by.” She glared at David one last time as she went back inside the tower. “You pull any shit at all and I’ll see you chased out, Mr. Folly.”

David could do nothing but nod.

He picked up the spare chair and sat across from the old man. When he looked into his face, he could just about see, beneath the fine net of wrinkles and the wisp of thin, white hair, the boy Hugh Oswald he had known. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t realized...

He hadn’t realized until that moment what ‘eighty years’ really meant. At times, it felt like he had simply been transported into a kind of fairyland, a place where up was down, being... the way he was was legalized and celebrated with parades, but his lover was determined to never let him near again. A dimension of opposites. But Hugh, here, like this, showed him plainly that it was the same world, although having turned times upon times without his active participation. Hugh Oswald had grown old in his absence, so very old it seemed a miracle he was upright still. How many survivors of Ettersberg had died in those long interim years, simply from a too-long life? How had David not thought to ask?

“Yes,” Hugh said, “it’s not looking too well, is it?”

It took David a second to realize he meant himself. “You look fine,” he muttered, drawing patterns on the tablecloth.

Hugh Oswald made a wheezing sound. David grew worried, but then realized it was laughter. “Still a miserable liar.”

“I’m not...!” David started, but was there any use in denying anything now? Hugh looked frail, and that was obvious enough.

Hugh waved it off. “Do tell, old friend,” he said, and while he was trying very hard to put a calm face on it, the tremor was still present in his voice, “what brings you here, back from the grave? I found your body...” His voice caught, and splintered on the last word, and for an endlessly, agonizingly long moment, he fought to maintain his composure.

David felt like dirt. What had he done to the boy? How could you do this to Oswald, Thomas had asked him, a few days ago in that cave, and he had been right to ask.

“Never, in fact, in the grave.” In short, David summarized what had happened to him, his heedless flight into the countryside, the faerie he’d met, the long sleep. “I’m dearly sorry,” he said, something he seemed to be saying often these days, “of course I should’ve remembered that my sudden appearance would startle you. Only, I assumed Thomas had already told you I was back. You would’ve been the first to call, no?”

Hugh Oswald wheeze-laughed again. “Thomas? Hah! The Nightingale hasn’t spoken to me in over twenty years.”

David blinked.

David blinked again.

David blinked back to the year 1944, to Arnhem, Private Hugh Oswald’s first engagement. The boy had barely been of age. After the dust had settled, he had broken down weeping, and David had found him later cradled in Thomas’ arms, head resting on his shoulder, both hands clutching his Captain’s jacket, tears and snot leaving a growing stain on Thomas’ uniform. Thomas had shushed him, muttering that yes, he knew, yes, he understood. Oswald had become one of Thomas’ boys, a favorite, maybe. Thomas had always had a way of almost obessively mothering the youngest recruits. And David, of course, as Thomas’ lieutenant and partner (although no one would have known about that latter part, obviously) had, as a matter of course, shouldered his part of the weight.

They hadn’t talked for twenty years? Why? How?

“What happened?” he asked.

At this point, Mellissa came back out with a cup of tea which she placed in front of her grandfather, and nothing for David. David decided not to mind.

“What happened?” Oswald carefully took a miniscule sip of his tea, testing the temperature. “Time passed. I grew older. Thomas grew younger. It... pains him, I suppose, seeing me this way. It pains you right now.”

David waved it off. Yes, it... shocked him seeing Hugh like this. But that shock was his own thing to overcome. “People grow old. Surely Thomas is not so thin-skinned as to break contact with one of his closest friends over this alone.”

Oswald shrugged. “I don’t know what else it might have been. We used to meet fairly regularly up until the late sixties. I can’t recall exactly when, but he broke contact fairly shortly after the rejuvenation event. We didn’t see much of him after that.”

“Who else is still standing?” David inquired.

“Ah. Arkwright is still alive, Patterson, Simpkins, Gerald and Mercier - John, not Edwin, obviously. Giles the younger and Rooney, although he’s been having heart problems. Blaine and Gardiner. A few others. Thomas doesn’t talk to them, either.”

David began drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Have you fellas asked him why? Has he ever explained himself?” It seemed impossible that Thomas should, for any reason, leave his ducklings behind. A world of opposites, again.

Hugh Oswald looked out at his garden. “We weren’t going to make demands of him. He’s... he’s the Nightingale.”

The flat of David’s hand hit the table so hard it smarted. “No!”

Oswald winced. “Wh- what...?”

“Perhaps Thomas stopped talking to you because you insist on doing this!”

“Doing... what?” Oswald cocked his head, confused at David’s sudden ire. Oh, yes, they all tended to forget he could be angry. Had always tended to forget that. Lieutenant Mellenby had always been the soft, pale shadow attached to Captain Nightingale, until they’d learned that he had been made Lieutenant for a reason, that he held ferocity within him rivalling, and sometimes surpassing, that of Thomas.

“The Nightingale. You really kept that up all these years, hm? He is still going about his life like that, isn’t he! The war has been over for such a long time! How old are you now, Private Oswald, hm? You must be pushing a hundred. Did you lads have him carry you all on his shoulders for the entire duration? And then you did not even have the common civility to reach out and inquire whether he was struggling?”

Because Thomas was having troubles, as much was clear. David remembered the other night in the reading room in stark detail, remembered how something had been revealed to him there in its sudden vulnerability that he could not categorize.

“It was just his way. You don’t...” Oswald interrupted himself, but David could guess at the end of that sentence. You don’t ask the Nightingale whether he’s struggling. Goodness but he wanted to drop his head into his hands and stay like that for a while. Thomas had gotten that nickname when he’d joined the school choir. In this moment, David wanted very much to chuck a fireball at a few of Oswald’s pretty flower arrangements, and was almost thankful for the inhibitor cuffs.

“Well, you didn’t know him before the war like I did.” David sighed. And how indeed would Oswald know? He was much too young. “I see how it all changed him. And it’s not improved a bit, it seems, in all the years. He doesn’t seem to have one true friend in all the world. He secludes himself even from me, and I’m his lover.”

Oswald shifted in his seat. “You...?”

“You heard me right, his lover.” He didn’t originally come here to unload this on Hugh, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was allowed now, the law was on his side now, and there was nothing Hugh could do but sit and take it. “Do you understand me? We are as Orestes and Pylades, Achilles and Patroclus, we are as Wilde and Bosie Douglas, we are two Alan Turings. We are Friends of Mrs. King. We commit acts of buggery upon each other, and we do so extremely well. We-”

“I know what a gay man is, Davey, you can quiet down,” Hugh Oswald said with a tired wave of his hand. “Look, none of us knew this for certain about the two of you, but a fair few of us suspected. We thought it best not to pry at the time. What makes you tell me now?”

“I’m...” David rubbed his eyes. They stung a bit. “I’m telling you in part because I can, I suppose. And because I need to impart to you that Thomas is a man who bleeds red. He lost everything too, you know. He lost me, and that is my own shame to bear, but he would have needed a friend, and what he got appears to have been a gaggle of mouth-breathers chorusing ‘If the Nightingale can do it, so can I’. Yes, you lads needed something, too. But you went back here and lived out a life in peace, and Thomas has kept on fighting the war every second since. And you’re surprised he didn’t show at company reunions? You gave him notice of my ‘death’, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Oswald gripped the edge of the table with both hands, attempting perhaps to keep his calm. “He sort of nodded, and dismissed me from the hospital room. ‘Thanks for telling me’, he said, ‘Dismissed, Private’. And he did that blank face of his. And that was it, that was all of it.”

David ran his hands across his face. He couldn’t begin to imagine how they both had to have been hurting. I’m such a bloody idiot. “This is a mess,” he groaned. “This is a mess and I’m not equipped to fix it.”

“Well, well.” Oswald patted his hand. “You’re back now, isn’t that enough?”

“No,” David said. “It’s too little too late. I fear we all broke Thomas, and there’s no unbreaking him.”

----

Back at the Folly, David parked the Jag, snuck in through the back door and collapsed on a couch in the drawing room. He felt drained. Driving from Herefordshire had taken a while. It was late, darkness was beginning to fall, and he was tired.

He felt more than saw Molly enter. When he turned and beheld her, she was carrying a tray with tea and small sandwiches. The small dog they had here now was following on her heel, hoping to catch a bite. David noticed just then that he had missed lunch and dinner, and he was quite hungry.

He gave Molly a small smile. “Oh, are these for me?”

Molly nodded, and set the tray down on a coffee table. The Folly was full of these rooms, David thought idly, rooms of artfully arranged armchairs and little tables, rooms that nobody now used. What a waste, what a tremendous waste. He took a sandwich. The dog - his collar said Toby - immediately begged, and David bent down and stroked his fur. Good boy.

“I still don’t understand it, Molly,” he said. “I saw Oswald, but he gave me more questions than answers. Why were things permitted to get this way? Yes, Hugh is old now, and frail, but he had a life, in his way. He continued doing what he loved to do. He fucked a bee, somehow. Why was this not a possibility... here?”

Molly tilted her head to the side. The look in her eyes was... calculating, somehow. Do you want to know? she seemed to be asking. Can you bear the knowing?

“I want to know anything anyone can tell me,” David told her. This was his penance. And more, he couldn’t stay his natural curiosity. He had to empty this cup to the bitter dregs.

She took a step forward, reached out her hands, and suddenly was touching him. In all this time, she had never touched him--

He blinked his eyes, and a brief bout of blackness enveloped him, and he was suddenly elsewhere. He was in his own bedroom. How had that happened? It was night, not dusk. He quickly cycled through, and dismissed, half a dozen hypotheses. He had certainly not sleepwalked, and Molly certainly hadn’t carried him here. This felt too strange to be any of those. And the room was different, clothes and books and magazines lying about that he didn’t own anymore and hadn’t in a long time. What...?

There was someone in his bed.

When David went closer to investigate, it felt like he was floating rather than walking. It took him a few seconds to identify Thomas there in his bed (where he had every right to be) because so much was different. This was not Thomas of present days, except if he’d fallen very grievously ill very quickly while David had been away. He was gaunt and sickly pale, messy, unwashed strands of his hair hanging into his face, his jaw littered with chestnut-coloured scruff. He was fully dressed, down to his combat boots, and clutching to his chest a piece of fabric - a jumper, one of David’s own old favorites.

He waved a hand in front of Thomas’s eyes and got no reaction. Just a vacant, empty stare fixed at the ceiling.

The door was cracked open, slowly, carefully, and Molly entered. She was carrying an empty laundry basket under her arm.

Oh, this had to be a memory, David thought. A memory that Molly was now sharing with him. How fascinating. How did she do that? Had she always been able to do that?

Molly approached the bed and gestured with her free hand in the vague direction of it. No reaction came from Thomas. He seemed catatonic, wholly somewhere else, or maybe nowhere at all.

Molly hitched the laundry basket higher up her hip. Still no reaction.

She gestured again, perhaps a bit frustratedly. When there was still no movement in response to this, she bent down and carefully, with the very tips of her fingers, reached for the jumper in Thomas’ hands.

“No!”

Immediately, Thomas snapped to, curling protectively around the bit of fabric. One of his hands twitched and his shield came up, with the same intensity as on the battlefield, with a whoomph of raw energy that, as always, even just in this second-hand memory, felt like it made David’s teeth rattle.

Molly threw up a hand almost in exasperation, and gestured again at the bedsheets, the jumper - a cream-coloured one - then at her laundry basket.

“No... no. You can’t... can’t.” Thomas looked up at her out of wild, red-rimmed eyes. His voice sounded like he’d screamed it hoarse. David thought of his boyfriend as he’d met him, with that easy grin and the sun on his face, thought too of his revered Captain, sure as a rock in every crisis, a force of nature when unfettered on the battlefield. This iteration of Thomas looked feral.

“It smells like him,” Thomas muttered. “It does, still, a bit. Nothing else does anymore.”

Molly shook her head, enveloped by deep pity.

“Do you understand, nothing else... Molly...” He began rocking himself back and forth, cradling David’s jumper to his chest like a mother her baby, like a child a favorite doll. “Please don’t take... please, please don’t make me...”

Thomas Nightingale, pleading.

Molly stepped back, and the shield broke apart, and Thomas buried his face in the cream-colored wool, and David could hear his flat, hitched sobs, like they were being torn out of him, and he wished to never have been born to cause such grief.

Beyond the window, the light changed. It changed rapidly, light and dark and light again, and David watched as Thomas remained still and unmoving on the bed, barely changing position, watched in fast-forward as his hair and beard grew, as he got ever thinner, as Molly came and went and tried and more often than not failed to force some food upon him, and the days turned to weeks turned to months--

“Stop,” he cried, “Stop, Molly, stop, I can’t see any more!”

Seemingly Molly had heard him and was complying, as David felt a huge, yanking tug and was back in the drawing room, breathing heavily and slightly nauseous and... still... holding a sandwich. He put it down for Toby. He wasn’t hungry now.

“Damn,” David said. He pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them, not caring if it didn’t look proper, there was no one here but Molly to witness it. “Was it like that all of the time?”

Molly vaguely waved a hand.

“But it’s better now. It is better now.”

Molly shrugged. She had always been able to communicate much with sparse gestures. She then lowered her hands, and looked at the floor.

“Listen, don’t you think that. You’ve done more than enough, I’m sure. You’ve given your all. You still do, don’t you?”

There was some movement at the door, and David looked up to see the second fae had appeared, the new one - Foxglove. Molly’s... sister?

She moved - in that gliding way the high fae moved - closer to Molly and opened her arms. Molly stood still as a statue for a second, then she accepted the comfort, hugging her sister, resting her head on Foxglove’s shoulder. Even amidst all the misery, David’s heart felt a flush of that comfort, too.

This is good to see, he thought. And he knew what he had to do next.

----

The light was still on in Thomas’ bedroom, pouring out under the door in a warm, golden sheen, so David knocked and then let himself inside.

Thomas hadn’t undressed for bed yet; he was seated at his desk, pen in hand, finally correcting Peter’s homework. It was good to see him, not whole by a long shot, but at the very least not driven frenzied by grief.

Thomas put his pen down. “What is it, David? Come to apologize for disappearing with the Jag a second time?”

“I’m sorry,” David said. He couldn’t bear to look at Thomas’s face and see that cold disapproval there now, so he hung his head, and scrutinized the carpet.

“You do realize you cannot just go off like that?” There was a small scraping sound as Thomas pushed his chair back and stood.

“What’s yours is mine,” David muttered. “What’s mine is yours.” He felt so very tired.

He felt the sigh more than he heard it. He knew without looking up that Thomas was rolling his eyes now. “Look, certainly it annoys me that you keep spiriting my car away, but there is more to this than me feeling territorial about my property. I didn’t know where you were all day. You only recently got back. We’ve not gauged yet how deeply you’re affected by what you’ve experienced, you might endanger yourself going off alone, you might be volatile...”

And now Thomas was stood before him, and David felt his hands resting on his shoulders - Thomas had such beautiful hands, fine and graceful, he had always loved them - cupping his face, combing through his hair, like Thomas was reassuring himself that David was really here. Searching. David laughed.

“I might be volatile? I? Me?”

“You’re something, that’s for sure.” A hand lifted his chin, gentle but unyielding. “Look at me, Davey. What’s going on?”

And David met those clear, grey eyes and something in him bubbled over. He threw his arms around Thomas with abandon, and pulled him close, and held him there. “Oh, Thomas. Oh, Thomas.”

A hand was carding through his hair, and it felt so good after the day he’d had. “David...”

“I went to see Oswald.”

Thomas’ hands withdrew, and he took a step back, disentangling them again. “You...?” For a moment, something flashed in his eyes, and was suppressed too quickly for David to decipher. “How was he?”

“He was old... very old. His granddaughter is a bee. But Thomas, I understand now. I understand it all.”

David laughed again. His head spun. “I understand why you are this way now. And you’re not mad at me because I ran away, you don’t even bear a grudge against me because of Ettersberg. Or perhaps you do, but that’s hardly the point, is it? You’re not angry, you’re scared.”

And there it was again, something flashing in the depths of those grey eyes, a flicker of uncertainty, ruthlessly smothered. “I beg your pardon,” Thomas said.

“For all these years you’ve had to go it alone,” David replied. He felt fevered in that way that resembled emerging from a week-long series of gruelling and time-intensive experiments crowned at last by success. How everything fit together so smoothly at last! Hypothesis, experiment, conclusion. “Letting no one close was where your salvation lay. You stopped contacting the lads because they couldn’t see that you were struggling with them starting to age past you. That you felt some sort of way about it. You’ve been Hugh’s Greek hero for so long. You don’t know how to step off that plinth and be human again. You have reason to fear that it will get bad... very bad, if you try it.”

David grinned, and seized Thomas by the lapels, and would have picked him up and spun him around the room if he didn’t feel so light-headed, so very drunk on the exhilaration of everything coming together at last. “But that’s all right now, my sweet songbird. I’m here! I will take good care of you. I understand you, fully. You’ve had to build these walls, but me going past them is a good thing. You can finally put that all down - that sword and shield, all down and away. And I will stand guard. Won’t that be good?”

Thomas tore himself away.

The exhilaration shrivelled, all joy in David took a fatal plunge at the cold rage in Thomas’ face.

“Lieutenant Mellenby,” Thomas said quietly (oh, he never raised his voice when he got angry anymore, he grew quieter), “What the fuck did you just say to me right now?”

David felt tears threatening to spill at last. He was no longer light. He was miserable and anchored to this carpet, his body a lead weight. “Thomas...”

“You have no right. No right at all. How dare you? How... dare you? After Ettersberg? After all you’ve caused to happen?”

“I only meant...”

“There’s the door. Leave now, before I start throwing fireballs.”

[spoonmebabyy]

She was on her way to becoming a college graduate

Wouldn't even stop to talk to the average kid

The type of Latina I'd sit and contemplate marriage with

Fuck the horse and carriage shit, her love was never for hire

Disciplined, intellectual beauty's what I desire

Flyer than Salma Hayek or Jennifer Lopez

Everyone told me, kicking it to her was hopeless

At first I just thought, she didn't mess with broke kids

The thug niggas always talking about, how they smoke kids

But the rich-sniff-coke kids got no play

"I'm not even interested, " is what her body language would say

Everyone around the way, gave up trying to get in it

It didn't matter how good your game was, she wasn't with it

On the block, bitches was jealous, but wouldn't admit it

Talk shit, and deny to everyone that they did it

Cause they regretted the long list of niggas that they let hit it

And no one ever gave them shit except McDonald's and did-dick

Smoking weed with thoughts of envy, whenever they lit it

She spoke intelligently and they bit it, always trying to copy

But when they tried to use her vocab they sounded sloppy

She had a style, all her own, respectful and pure

I was sick in the head for her, and there wasn't a cure

Don't you know that, time waits for no man

My fate, it's all planned

I'm blessed just to know you

I've loved and I've lost just to hold you all night

Can't find, a reason why

God came, between you and I

If I had the chance again, I'd never let you go

Hold tight to your love, cause you never know

Her eyes are brown and beautiful, yet empty and sad

I used to talk to her occasionally, and she was glad

That I wasn't just another nigga trying to get in it

So every now and then we'd stop and talk for a minute

I didn't have a gimmick so the minutes turned to hours

On her birthday, I gave her a poem with flowers

Then I took her out to dinner after her cousin's baby shower

We talked about, power to the people and such

We spent more time together but it was never enough

I never tried to sneak a touch, or even cop a feel

I was too interested, in keeping it real

Perfectly honest and complete, she would always call me "cariño"

And never Technique, bought me a new book to read every 2 or 3 weeks

Forever changing the expression of my thoughts when I speak

It was because of her, I even deaded all of my freaks

She convinced me, to stop hanging out on the streets

To stop robbing and stealing, from people like you

Instead I took her out to the Apollo and the Bronx Zoo

Museo del Barrio and the Metropolitan too

Got to the point when I was either with her or my crew

So I decided one day, to tell her my feelings was true

I couldn't live without her so I told her, facing my fears

But honey's only response, was a face full of tears

She could only sob hysterically, holding me tight

I tried to speak, but she wouldn't stop until I left sight

I felt like a moth who got himself too close to the light

Except I didn't burn, I turned cold after that night

Don't you know that, time waits for no man

My fate, it's all planned

I'm blessed just to know you

I've loved and I've lost just to hold you all night

Can't find, a reason why

God came, between you and I

If I had the chance again, I'd never let you go

Hold tight to your love, cause you never know

I went on with my life, college and my career

Ended up locked up like an animal for a year

Where the C.O.'s talk to you like they were the overseer

Then I got sent to the hole, when my exit was near

At night in my cell, I'd close my eyes and I'd see her

Hold her close in my dreams, but when I woke she disappeared

Just an empty cell until the state gave me parole in the summer

Came back, in tact and on track

But the fact of the matter, is I still felt cold

Even after my mother, hugged me, crying at home

My real niggas would catch me thinking, outta my zone

Fucking lots of different women, but I still felt alone

Relatively well-known around the New York underground

But I kept thinking of her and how we used to be down

The sound of her voice, and the beautiful smell of her hair

Though gone physically, somehow it was still there

I had to do something, because the shit was too much to bear

So I went and visited the building where she used to live

The world looks a lot different after you do a bid

The way your life done changed

While primitive minds are still stuck in the same game

Like her cousin who was on the corner slanging cocaine

Stepped in the lobby and tapped the button next to her last name

Her mom buzzed me up and hugged me up, like a mother ought to

But her facial expression changed, when I asked about her daughter

Don't you know that, time waits for no man

My fate, it's all planned

I'm blessed just to know you

I've loved and I've lost just to hold you all night

Can't find, a reason why

God came, between you and I

If I had the chance again, I'd never let you go

Hold tight to your love, cause you never know

She told me that there was a note for me, that was left behind

She had left it there waiting, for such a long time

I was inclined to ask about it but she brought it up first

I saw a tear swelling up in her eye, and then she cursed

She told me where the letter was and I started thinking the worst

Reversed my position, stepped over and opened the door

And sure enough there was an envelope with my name on the floor

"Nobody loves you more than me, cariño" is what the letter said

"By the time you get to read this, I'll probably be dead

But when you left in '97 a part of me went to Heaven

I thank God at least I got to know what love really was

But it hurt me, to see what true love really does

Cause even though we never made love, you were all that there was

It was because I loved you so much that I had to make you leave

You made me doubt the way I thought, you made me want to believe

And then I slipped up, and I let you get close to me

It was hard to not be openly when people spoke to me

This was not the way I thought my life was supposed to be

Baby don't you see, I had a blood transfusion that left me with HIV

Hope didn't exist for me since late in 1993

I died a virgin, I wish I could've given myself to you

I cried in the hospital because there was no one else but you

Promise that you'll meet me in paradise inevitably

No matter what, I'll keep your love forever with me"

What happened for the rest of the day is still a blur

But I remember wishing that I was dead, instead of her

She was buried on August 3rd

The story ends without a sequel

And now you know why Technique, don't fucking fall in love with people

Hold the person that you love closely if they're next to you

The one you love, not the person that'll simply have sex with you

Appreciate them to the fullest extent, and then beyond

Cause you never really know what you got, until it's gone