#myth retelling

[autumnmobile12]

The Epic Saga: Just A Man

Trigger warning for infanticide.

I want to talk about what an interesting choice it was in Epic's first installment for Odysseus to be the one to kill the infant.

In all versions of the story, the fate of Astyanax, son of Prince Hector, is always the same. He is thrown from the walls of Troy while the city is sacked. What varies from telling to telling is who does the deed, and it's usually between two people: Odysseus and Neoptolemus.

Most modern retellings make Neoptolemus the villain in this story, or they'll leave out this part entirely, because in the eyes of today's society, the senseless murder of a helpless infant is something only a villain would do.

Who's Odysseus? He's the man who won the Trojan War by engineering the idea behind the Trojan Horse, he's the guy who took ten years to sail home, he's the main character of The Odyssey. Odysseus is a hero. And heroes don't kill infants.

Who's Neoptolemus? He's forgettable. He didn't go on any heroic quests like Herakles or Perseus. He didn't slay any noteworthy monsters. Neoptolemus' biggest claim to fame are three things: He's the son of Achilles, he clubs King Priam to death in the sacking of Troy, and in some versions, he kills Astyanax. (He also enslaved Astyanax's mother.)

From the lens of the Ancient Greeks, a hero wasn't an upstanding guy who did the right thing. A hero was the guy who fought for what he wanted and did horrible things to his enemy in the process.

In the context of modern society, it's no wonder why the dubious credit of Astyanax's death goes to Neoptolemus. When that's the only real claim to fame he has, of course he's going to be a villain. We can't be having heroes killing babies because that's insane.

So let me tell you that when I first listened to The Horse and The Infant and I realized it was Odysseus who was committing the deed, that took me so off guard and I had to pause the song just to tell my poor sister how fucking crazy that is. I rarely saw this version. I mean, I understand the reasoning; it's setting up Odysseus' guilty conscious that'll plague him for the remainder of the musical. It's the flawed hero trope, which is a far cry from the brutality of the original myths.

And that in itself is testament of how mythologies have evolved over the centuries. It's why we have different variations of the myth in the first place. Societal views and values change and the stories told adapt accordingly.

Did Hades kidnap Persephone or did she go willingly to escape Demeter, her overbearing mother? Both versions are correct. All versions are correct. We cannot look for something as narrow-minded as a 'canon' version of mythology because mythology is a jumble of headcanons about the same basic concept thrown together by countless storytellers over literal centuries of storytelling.

In The Horse and The Infant, Zeus directly warns Odysseus that if Astyanax lives, he will take vengeance on him and his homeland. And after what the Greeks did to Troy, slaying the men, enslaving the women, and leaving the city in ruins, Odysseus is one of many Greek kings who have a lot to answer for.

Is Odysseus heroic for protecting his family by killing Astyanax because now the infant prince won't grow up to take vengeance?

Is Odysseus a flawed hero who carries the shame of his sins with him?

Is the deed committed by Neoptolemus and Odysseus goes home with his honor unsullied?

It all depends on interpretation. You can choose one that reflects a harsh history or you can pick the one that's been adapted to suit modern values. You don't even have to pick. You can appreciate them all for what they are.

And Epic: The Musical came out swinging.

[rs-hawk]

Icarus making sure to always save the best of anything he has to give as an offering to Apollo. He burns everything in a golden bowl. Icarus begging Daedalus to craft him a lyre so he can learn to play it because it makes him feel closer to Apollo. Icarus trying to raise bees so he always has fresh honey to offer Apollo.

Apollo receiving all these offerings and getting bullied by Artemis because he can’t stop blushing because what is this human boy doing?? Fuck it’s so cute though and he starts lingering above where they’re being held bc he wants to be closer to him for a second.

[ryebread-x]

Trygve x Loki fanart!!

I recently received some lovely fanart of my interpretation of Loki and Trygve (my interpretation of Loki's potential mortal farmer lover from the Lokasenna) by the amazing @clusterpuppy !!

Close ups:

Tysm for the fanart of these two!! They look so cute in your style!! <33

[gennsoup]

Love had indeed come armed to the teeth with an envoy brandishing a hate-infused sword its haft carved in cruelty

Gerður Kristný, Bloodhoof

[i-am-trans-gwender]

How come when it comes to Greek/Roman Mythology everyone is usually only called by their Greek names except for Herakles? He's almost always called by his Roman name Hercules even in stories where everyone else uses their Greek names.

[genericpuff]

Is there a real difference between something being a reimagining of Greek myths and something being inspired by it?

I mean, it's a difference that's kind of subjective IMO but the way I personally see it, it comes down to what the story itself is trying to be. Is it trying to be a retelling, or is it trying to be its own story that just happens to take elements from the myths for the fun of it?

A myth retelling will typically be doing just that, retelling a mythical story with its characters with maybe some aesthetic changes, artistic liberties, or tweaks to fit a new generation. Example: Stray Gods, Hades, Hadestown, Lore Olympus, etc. All these stories are retelling myths and tales while putting more modern or subversive twists on them. Hadestown may feature a version of the Underworld that's built on coal mines, but it's still the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Hades may feature a version of Hades and Persephone who genuinely fell in love (Persephone was born to Demeter and a mortal man instead of Zeus which also removes the incest, and Persephone genuinely wanted to leave Olympus and saw marrying Hades as her way out), but they still gave Demeter her affiliations with winter and grieving the loss of her daughter.

Something that's simply myth inspired isn't necessarily trying to be accurate to the myths or retell them, they're just yoinking elements out of myths either directly or indirectly for the sake of fun and creativity. A recent example is Attack on Titan which is clearly referencing a lot of Norse mythology by the end with Ymir. Though an even bigger example of this is JRPG's, a lot of them tend to reference Greek and Norse myth in obvious or subtle ways, but aren't necessarily retelling those stories. Persona 3 uses a lot of Greek myth as the foundation for its story. The Ascians in Final Fantasy XIV go by Greek myth aliases such as Hermes and Hades, while there are raids in the game with Greek naming conventions (there's literally a raid boss in the newest set of Asphodelos raids named "Athena"). Tales of Symphonia is WWII meets Norse mythology, featuring subplots that tackle deep topics like discrimination, segregation and genocide (the "human ranches" are literally concentration camps) while also taking artistic inspiration from the Norse myths featuring the Great Kharlan Tree (the tree of life, Yggdrasil) and even the final boss' name is Yggdrasil, in the game's final cutscene Lloyd is given the opportunity to name the new reborn tree and while the audio fades out before you can hear what he names it, when you learn of Norse myth and how it inspired the game you just know he named it Yggdrasil (unfortunately they played it safer with the name "World Tree" in the game's sequel Dawn of the New World, but we don't talk about DotNW lmao). There are also a lot of religious allegories in JRPG's, particularly with Christianity, but that's another topic.

Point is, something that's simply taking inspiration from Greek myth or other mythologies isn't necessarily trying to retell those stories directly or even at all. Sometimes a piece of work is simply referencing them or enjoys the naming conventions or messaging of those original stories that it makes for a good parallel.

Not every story inspired by mythologies are attempting to retell them, but every retelling is inspired by the mythologies upon which they're based.

[lastfinalgirls]

Every book I read in 2023

Comfort Me With Apples by Catherynne M. Valente

★★★★★ / 5

[evilios]

🌞 Aktis Aeliou, or the Machine of Margot's Destruction by Natalia Theodoridou

Spoilers ahead:

Okay! Alright! I did not know what to expect of this short story but it's now one of my favorite alluding to Apollo, it seems.

The web of meanings starts with the name: ἀκτὶς ἀελίου (light/ray of the Sun) is the beginning of the chorus in Sophocles' Antigone, line 100. This line is quoted by — supposedly — Apollo in Greek in this text. This is the chorus after Ismene and Antigone (in the play) talk about Antigone's decision which Ismene considers poor judgement. The light of the Sun is a short moment of respite before the tragedy.

Apollo is a tragic character in this story. It's about the destined tragedy of loving a God. To me, the main heroine is a total sum of Apollo's women while the total sum of Apollo's men are the distant memory. The major meaning, to me, is in the line, "if I love you, you shall die; do you want to die?"

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

I wonder what it would be like to have an Orpheus/Eurydice story where Eurydice starts out as this innocent and naive young bride who has zero real world experience and it's never occurred to her to get some until she dies.

As soon as she hits the underworld, she's exposed to all sorts of people from all walks of life, and her character is enriched by it and she becomes this robust, fully formed character in her own right, rather than as the wife of a famous musician.

Meanwhile Orpheus remains kind of flat and one-note in his sensitive heroic artist persona, even as he's helped through the underworld after Eurydice by kind souls who came to like her-- only to be treated as a sort of requisite stepping stone by him. Of *course* they're supposed to help him, he's a *hero* for coming down here after the love of his life.

When he strikes the deal with Hades, he starts leading the way out, with Eurydice trailing behind. Part of her wants to go home, yes, but she doesn't want to go back to how she was. She's shed her old skin, and she can't climb back into it.

She's asking Orpheus questions, pushing about how he truly feels about her, how he truly sees and treats the world around him, and this is where his entitlement and subtle misogyny rears its ugly head.

He gets more and more terse with her, and he finally snaps and whirls to shout at her, only for her to blink out of sight as she's banished back to the underworld.

For him, the outcome is the same as the original myth-- he's mourned as this tremendous artist with a sensitive soul who did his best to save his wife but in his desperation to see her again, loses her forever.

But the AUDIENCE knows the truth. That Eurydice's tale is a cautionary one about a man's anger, how quick he might turn if his perception of you is challenged in any way. How even the most sensitive and tender of souls can be and are shaped by the society around them, to the deteriment of themselves and those around them. How entitlement and ego can sour if they're not appropriately fed.

How a single moment of anger can undo an epic's worth of work, and end a story before it can even start.

[headcanonforthought]

Mythology headcanon thing?

When Daedalus and Icarus are imprisoned Daedalus is SURE he can make the wings and fly them out. But it's in the night that a shadow ridden god appears to Icarus, telling him his father will never escape the tower. Icarus begs for an answer on how he can ensure his father's escape...

He's told only by the sacrifice of his own life. He'll be held in high regard in the Underworld if he sacrifices himself for his father's escape. But if Icarus should choose to not die, his father and him both will be transported back to the tower, doomed to fail again and again.

Icarus flies to near the sun. Not because he is stupid. But because he has been told by a god this MUST be his sacrifice for freedom. And the god didn't lie. Daedalus lives on and is never returned to the tower. Understanding that days horrible events fully when he enters the underworld and his son explains the vision he received.

[dani-musings]

ANNOUNCEMENT: ✨I’m so happy to announce that my short story inspired by the Norse Myths has been accepted for publication in The Mythic Circle by The Mythopoeic Society! 🤩

This tale about Loki and Sigyn that I wrote is really special to my heart and I can’t wait to share it with the world! ☺️♥️

Here’s a moodboard that I made to capture the story’s aesthetic and aura and here’s a short blurb:

the story’s blurb: Sigyn, the wife of Loki & goddess of mercy & loyalty, considers whether she is being admirably loyal or foolish for staying by her husband’s side. If she stays, she loses the future of her eternal life. If she leaves Loki, she risks losing him forever.💔✨

I’ll keep everyone posted about this publication and when & where you can get your copy! 📚

Thank you all for your support! 🥰 My (published) author adventures are just beginning! 🌟

~Danielle🪽

[rs-hawk]

Me going feral over the idea of Mishipeshu x his human lover. He lurks in the lake, waiting for her to come back. He only attacks boats and anyone passing over now because he’s trying to find her. He knows that she was taken from him as a punishment for him daring to try to be more than what he is-a monster. Just because a human saw beyond his appearance doesn’t mean that at his core- that isn’t what he is. He’s a monster. That’s why he’s confined to the lake, only able to slip out through tunnels hidden from humans view for short periods of time. Eventually he has to come home, defeated and deflated. No matter how much human magic he learns, he can’t turn back time, and he can’t regain even a smidgen of the humanoid form he had when she was able to do it for him.

[ryebread-x]

I realized I never really went into too much depth about my au/retelling of Myth! Sigyn. But I feel like talking about her, so here I go infodumping. I ended up making her more terrifying. But not in a "badass valkyrie" type of way. More in a "bloodthirsty, slightly murdery goddess" sort of way. She likes to wager sides of battle with either Odin,Freyja, Tyr, or even some valkyries. Whenever she wins, she revels in her victory. She's not the kindest goddess, either at least to most of the other gods. Odin isn't too fond of her.

When it comes to her relationship with Loki, they met when Loki witnessed Sigyn win a wager against Odin. Loki was impressed by Sigyn's cunning and ability to flaunt her victory in front of someone like the All-Father. When the two got to talking, Sigyn liked the fact that she felt Loki was on the same playing field as her. In their own individual ways, they are both kinda assholes. Though Loki's sheingains, while often getting the Aesir in trouble, are mostly harmless and sometimes helpful. The same can't really be said for Sigyn she often gets in a lot of trouble herself(though she always finds a way out of her sheingains). But they like that about eachother, neither of them are perfect.

However, she is still loyal to a fault, at least to those she can trust. She isn't stupid either she will take revenge out on those who she feels have wronged her or her loved ones. She cares, but sometimes that can be dangerous.

Anyways, thank you for listening to my ramblings.

[gennsoup]

"There is a difference between understanding and forgiveness. It's possible to have one without the other."

Genevieve Gornichec, The Witch's Heart

[oleandereye]

o Icarus

a comic about the thrill of choosing the fall.

[suddalgi]

You grew up waiting for the day that you can honor your household in service to the patron of your valley, a mysterious faceless mountain god. The day of the ceremony, you find yourself in the clutches of a being that both terrifies and intrigues you. ➶genre: fantasy au (mythology retelling), slow burn, power dynamic, soft dom! dk, arranged marriage vibes, 18+!➶ w.c: 3k ➶ chapter warnings: none

➶-͙˚ ༘✫ ➶-͙˚ ༘✫ ➶-͙˚ ༘✫ ➶-͙˚ ༘✫ ➶-͙˚ ༘✫ ➶-͙˚ ༘✫

chapter one

---

            “The fire burns hot under the feet of the lamb! The mountain god is pleased! Let her be honorable and worthy of his jealousy!”

            You had barely stepped to the altar when the flames in front of you leapt high enough to scorch the ceiling, the sudden heat stealing the air from your lungs. The light was everywhere, the noise and burning and smell of incense closing around you like a trap.

Cheers. Deafening, suffocating.

            They were elated. Wails of relief and joy and worship mixing with the shouts as the glow of the sun was swallowed in darkness. Turning to flee, the last thing you saw was the face of your father. In the frenzied crowd, his face was a wall of stone, betraying nothing as your vision was stolen from you.

            This summer had been so warm, but now you were cold and alone. Even the shouts and the burning of incense in your nose faded away as His presence wrapped around you, as tenderly as a mother cradling a child, and then the crowd was gone.

Even the ceremony felt like a distant memory now. Another life. A fading dream, beautiful until the moment that you wake up.

            If you woke up, it was long ago. The cold of the courtyard has begun seeping through your skin, sinking claws into your bones. The grass underneath you is wet with dew, each brush of mountain wind across your face filling your nose with the smell of frigid water and long untouched forest.

            You’re alone here. Whatever had brought you was gone, you had made sure of it. The perimeter of your prison was beautiful, but damningly simple. Four walls of high, white stone, the intricate and moss-filled carvings almost antagonizing in their stunning beauty. If it weren’t so dark, you would study the mosaics that lined the walls and probably recognize the stories they told. The same ones you had grown up hearing. They had lost their luster now.

            The courtyard itself was expansive, winding paths shaded by ferns and bent, drooping branches, filled with flowers you could hardly even name. The air was perfumed with them, rich and decadent, lulling your senses with a warm the bloomed through your every limb. Birds sang high above your head, and their songs were soulful and haunting, like weeping.

            You sat underneath them now, with little else to do but wait. The humiliation and fear that roiled in your chest earlier that day had settled to a resigned, agonizing glowering like dying coals. You couldn’t even believe you had been so excited for the rites before. You still wore your ceremonial hanbok, though your adornments and heavy jewels now lay unwanted next to you in the grass. Pointless excess, in a garden with nothing but indulgent abundance.

            You looked at your fine gold jewelry where it lay under the moonlight, watching with contempt as the glimmer of its surface stared back at you. Maybe it was the finery that brought you here. Maybe your dress had allured him, an exception from your usual simple robes you wore to pray at the temple. If it was your beauty that caused him to choose you, you would curse your reflection a thousand times if it meant you would be rid of it.

Who was it, the shadow that had brought you here? Would you be scattered in pieces across the valley of your village by some horrible beast? Even the priestesses barely understood him—it was a sin to even look upon him, a greedy and prideful act that the god of the mountain punished by death. He could be a monster, unknowable in terror, rending mens’ minds apart with only his face.

Surely a god like that would not seek something as trivial as companionship from someone as simple as you.

            No. The truth was even more damning than that, a weight that pressed into your chest like a closing fist. There were plenty of girls in your village with prettier faces, soft features, fuller forms, nicer dresses. You were not special. And soon, he would know it too. And then you would die here.

            The sobering realization was colder than the night air, sinking deeper past your bones and into your mind as you laid back into the grass, letting it embrace your shivering body. Did all the girls that he took end up this way? How long did they sit in his garden, before he grew tired of them?

            In your mind, you can feel the dying sputtering flame of exhilaration at the idea. Since birth, you had known it was an honor to be chosen by the mountain god. The price of your life would pay for thousands more, sparing them from poor rain and pestilence and blighted fields. Winning the favor of the Mountain was more sacred work than any priestess’ sacrifice in the village temple. In a way, it made you a saint.

            You didn’t feel like a saint. The excitement inside your stomach felt perverted, wrong, like a death sentence. Do those little white doves feel blessed, under the shaman’s knife? Do they hope that their family will live, by their blood?

            Even doves are not that foolish.

            It had occurred to you to cry, but perhaps the cold had found its way to your heart. You could feel nothing, not even the sting of the dew against your skin. Waiting to die felt simpler.

            Above your head, the birds stopped singing.

            You sat up, the finality of the sudden silence roaring in your ears as you looked around the garden. A moment after, the caress of the breeze against your face grew still, as if the garden was holding its breath. The silence began to fill with the pounding of your heart.

            The delicate gown and mantle over your shoulders suddenly felt as thin as paper, and you wrapped your arms tight around yourself as you searched the still courtyard. There was no fire or light anywhere, only a few low candles like orange eyes that watched you from their distant wall sconces.

            There has to be a reason for this, you told herself resolutely, trying to focus your thoughts. A reason he accepted me. I can talk to him, I can reason with him about all of it.

            The dull boom of heavy doors opening somewhere in the temple brought your nerves back to alert, and you leapt to your feet. The sound faded back to quiet, and you strained to hear any footsteps, voices, anything—there was nothing, except the chill around you that seemed to deepen with every passing moment.

            You took a deep breath to steady your nerves, and your breath came before your face in a soft plume of smoke. Your heart dropped to your stomach at all once.

            Don’t be a coward, you told herself firmly. This is shameful behavior, you’re the woman of your house.

            Your fists balled at your sides as you looked around the garden, to the wide doors on the far wall where they had come. Attempting some kind of escape felt foolish—you barely understood the garden, much less the path you had taken to get here. He had swept you up, covering your eyes the entire way, leaving only your ears to guide you. If you had any scrap of memory of the way here, panic had erased it from your mind.

            After a few more moments of long silence, you dared to creep to one of the tall arching pillars in the walls that opened up to the blue-black sky, pressing your palms on the icy stone. The world outside was so close, but so unattainable. Your stomach twisted into a knot as you swallowed hard. The idea was too sickening to even consider; that you were really meant to stay here, that the sky you could see now was all you would see until—

            Every muscle turned to stone as a warm breath, as close as your own, cut through the strange arcane chill in the air as it brushed cross your neck.

            All thought abandoned you in that moment as you stared at the marble wall in front of you, just as a shadow shifted silently behind you in the flickering candlelight. The shape of it was as ordinary as a man’s, but the presence behind you felt impossibly large. It seemed to fill the entire room, fill your mind, crawl under your skin and tear your soul apart.

            Before you could collect herself you found you were turning toward the light, a protest already on the tip of your tongue—a plea, maybe, desperate enough to shame your family’s name forever.

            “Stay as you are,” came a voice, whether in the garden or in your mind you could not say. It was slow, warm and smooth like a river in the summer, every word wrapping soft, caressing fingers around your mind. “Facing the wall.”

            Anything you were going to say was swallowed up in terror, and you complied. Staring at the shapes of the marble, you tried to measure your shallow breaths. Don’t look at his face, you fool, you were screaming at herself.

“God of the mountain—” you started. Your voice sounded pathetic even to your own ears. Is this really how a saint should behave?

No. Not a saint. A dove.

            “I have a name.”

            The soft voice trickled over your every thought like rain, and tears pricked your eyes.

            “I… forgive me, but I don’t understand.”

            You spoke before you even realized that you were—maybe it was desperation that tore the words from your lips, an attempt at diplomacy, a negotiation, something. Even more haunting than the one standing behind you was the looming promise of eternity. Finality, here among these flowers and high marble walls.

            A moment of stillness. Even the shadow on the wall in front of you barely moved, a shape you couldn’t decipher even if you tried. All you could make out was a sort of veil over a tall, lithe frame—the candlelight that came through the strange material refracted as he shifted slightly.

            “Did the temples not teach your children of me?” he asked.

            You tried to swallow, but your mouth was as dry as paper.

“You don’t want me.” There was no controlling the tremor in your voice. “During the sacrament, there were girls there who had spent their whole lives waiting to be chosen by you.”

A shift from behind you, finally something to hear in the silence—the rustle of soft, sheer clothes. The breath came again, closer this time, and there was a hum of what could’ve been curiosity. The voice reminded you of music, like the songs the farmers in their fields would sing when the weather was fair.

“I did not want them.”

“They can serve you far better than I could.” You pressed. It was all you could do to keep your eyes on the wall, to not turn and shake him by the shoulders and beg him to let you go. “I’m no one. I’m not a queen, or a priestess of any kind--”

“You are not at any of your palaces, or your temples.”

“You don’t want me,” you continued, like a child, and each word fell more trembling than the last as you dared to turn her head just an inch. You could see the dark shape of feet just a step or two behind you. “I’m a diplomat’s daughter, I know nothing else I can only speak well, s-somewhat well…”

“Did you think you would sway me with well-spoken words?”

            The question was not antagonizing. It held an air of almost innocent curiosity, heart-wrenchingly human as the voice grew closer to your ear. You could hear his breaths now—even they seemed to carry a music to them, light and warm as sunlight but quiet and heavy as smoldering fire. You could almost believe a man, nothing more, was standing behind you.

            “I don’t know what you want,” you finally whispered. “I don’t know how to please you.”

            You will die here, came the thought again, ringing truer and truer as the silence persisted over both of you. It almost felt like he was picking apart your words like one would poke at a sickly, stray cat, curious but wholly omniscient, with all the power of an executioner.

            “I am not so unlike your men,” he told her. “Many of your desires are also mine.”

            “I want… I want to go home.”

            Immediately you clamped your teeth shut, a surge of panic igniting every nerve. Every thought was a chaotic, useless mess of static, and somehow the impertinent remark had slipped past your lips. Stupid, stupid. No wonder the gods had ill favor with you.

            “You will live in the mountain,” he said.

            “I don’t know how to serve the gods,” you insisted. Gods, you couldn’t stop talking, you were going to die before the night was over.

            “I will teach you.” A pause, contemplative and quizzical. The voice drew even closer, until the warmth of his presence was tangible against your bare skin. You felt so small underneath him, so inconsequential and irrelevant.

            Your eyes pricked as a lump rose in your throat. The warmth of him was as familiar as early summer, stone roads baked in the afternoon, golden wheat fields and the tang of pomegranates on your tongue.

            The fear inside your stomach twisted, burrowing lower into your stomach and turning to something you didn’t recognize at all. Every incoherent thought screamed in unison, a prey animal’s dying breath—don’t trust the sunlight, hide in the shadows.

            And another voice, as close as your own breath. It made your hair raise. Turn around.

            “Close your eyes,” he finally said.

            Your eyelids fluttered closed without a second though, conceding to the ringing command of his gentle, river-water voice.

            “Turn to me,” he continued. “So I may look at you.”

You could hear a gentle lisp in his voice, such a human flaw in something so unknowable. It did nothing to alleviate the compounding dread squeezing against your lungs as you turned in place, each step causing your heart to roar louder in your ears.

            When you knew you were facing him, you stopped with your eyes screwed shut. Even against everything you knew, your mind wondered what would await you if you opened your eyes—if the death would be slow, or beautiful, or something completely unfathomable.

            Your knees buckled under your weight, and it was only then that you realized you were shaking. Every muscle betrayed you, numb to any attempt at movement. Your breaths were heavy, trembling and ragged through your nose as you waited in the darkness behind your eyelids. Curiosity turned to fear, and then horror as your imagination overcame you.

            “Do not cry,” he murmured, and you felt the warm caress of breath across your face.

            You clenched your jaw tight, but the tears came all the same. You could feel moisture hot on your cheeks as you closed your fists tight at your sides around the thin fabric of your hanbok. If you stood any longer, you were sure your legs would give out—

            You barely felt the stone path collide with your knees as you fell onto them, reaching out with your palms to steady yourself. All at once, the world that had grown so small around you was spinning. Any breath you tried to take was stolen from you, but above every other thought was the desperation determination not to cry. Even as hot tears slid down your cheeks, you bit back every whimper with dutiful silence, your eyes opening to nothing but mossy stone underneath you.

            “Forgive me,” you whispered, the only words you dared to utter through the lump in your throat. Past your blurring vision, you could see the silken hem of his hanbok against the tile, shifting and glowing like water under the moonlight.

            He only stood there. If your apology was heard, he did not acknowledge it. Maybe he wanted you to grovel at his feet. Somehow you did not think that would please him at all.

            “You are afraid,” he said. “I’ve taken you to my home, safe in the walls of my garden, and you fear my wrath.”

            “N-No!” you blurted, your hands reaching across the tiles as if they will steady your spinning vision. “No, I—I am grateful for your kindness! Forgive me, I… I know nothing, I do not even know your name.”

            “Have your shamans ever wondered enough to ask?”

            If there was a right answer, you did not know it. More tears dripped hot down to your chin. “I-I am not a shamans, god of the mountain. I am just, just a girl…”

            When he spoke, there was a softness to his voice that sounded almost like sadness. Gentleness, but immovably final in its fragility. It tore at your heart despite the fear that was ravaging every thought, another apology already on your lips. He turned away.

            “Cry if you must,” he said. “Until your tears are spent. You will have no use for them here any longer.”

            A sob choked you, but it did not spill over. Foolishly, you raised your head, as if to call after him, beg him to erase this day and return you back home, something.

            The words died in your throat, though you wondered if you could speak them at all—when your eyes opened, the garden was empty again. The crush of elegance and immortalized beauty around you was the only thing that remained. It taunted you with its silence, and for a long while you simply stayed there on the ground and cried.

            You were a dove, your wings clipped and your lovely white feathers drawing closer and closer to the consuming altar fire. And you knew whatever this terrible creature of a god wanted for you, it would be a long time before you burned.