I S I S

                  gentle  eyes  scan  the  spines  of  the  books,  but  a  familiar  mischievous  fire  burns  within  them  for  those  who  know  to  look.  few  might  expect  the  greek  trickster  to  be  found  within  a  library,  but  once  upon  a  time   (   if  you’ll  excuse  the  example  phrase   )   he  could  have  been  found  here  as  well ;  words  fell  from  his  lips  with  ease,  bending  language  to  do  his  bidding.  hermes  the   liar   ——   remember,  remember  that  liars  must  tell  better  stories  than  honest  souls   !   yet,  the  point  was  not  to  read,  nor  was  it  to  write.  beyond  tall  tales,  hermes  was  a    trickster,   a  glorified  thief  from  barely  after  the  time  of  his  birth.  he  had  come  to  believe  over  the  centuries  that  it  was  not  about  stealing  what  you  needed   (   what  exactly  might  a  god  need  ?  even  he,  weary  vagabond  as  he  might  appear   ),  nor  was  it  about  stealing  the  most  valuable  thing  in  a  space   ——   and,  yes,  that  meant  the  old  first  edition  copies  in  the  basement  would  sit  undisturbed.  it  was  about  stealing  the  right  thing  to  create  the  most  amusement.  in  this  moment,  that  meant  carefully  cutting  out  page  321  from  every  copy  of  a  particular  novel  that  was  on  hand.

                  oh,  also,  most  of  the  books  had  been  rearranged.  call  it  redecorating.  the  dewey  decimal  system  was  practically  as  old  as  he  was,  or  so  he’d  claim,  they  might  learn  to  shake  it  up  a  bit.  

                  hermes  drags  a  pen  knife  carefully  over  the  edge  of  the  page,  leaving  the  book  so  that  if  you  had  not  known  there  was  previously  a  page  there  you  might  not  have  noticed  at  all.  he  pulls  the  now   missing   page  and  dexterous  fingers  peel  it  back,  slipping  it   (   carefully  &  unfolded   )   into  a  messenger  bag  by  his  side.  as  his  eyes  drift  upwards  from  the  task,  he  finds  himself  looking  at  someone  new   ——   but  someone  who  emanated  a  certain  power  from  them  to  signify  they  were  of  the  same  ilk.   ‘   here’s  to  hoping  you’re  not  a  patron  of  libraries,   ’   he  says,  practice  charming  smile  finding  it’s  place  again,  like  an  ancient  mask  that’s  grown  comfortable  on  the  face  it  serves.                  @duatdweller·

what a BLASTED FOOL . he may be of her own kind ( sheer power radiates off him in waves , enough to signify that he is not a mortal nor bleeds crimson , but posses ichor , the blood of the gods ) but he is not one she would willingly accept , nor want to speak to OTHERWISE . for vandalizing books . . . it is what would likely set her cousin THOTH in an uproar , one that may even lead to the decimating of towns , and the leveling of land that is teeming with mountains. no . . . it would be far better for her to deal with this one on her own terms .

  ❛   indeed I am not .  ❜   says the goddess rather curtly , giving a somewhat slow one-over to the other god before turning . it is a dismissal , one that is meant to signify how she deigns him unworthy of her time and attention .    ❛   but i did not know beings such as us found that vandalizing was an appropriate way of spending our time.   ❜   

far more words than she would have preferred , perhaps ; but her words are tinged with the authority of one who has spent millennia roaming the earth , and does not particularly enjoy stumbling upon scenes ( such as this one ) that DISPLEASE her. 

osiris stood again upon two legs and his laughter was no longer the same. their touch was foreign, and her heart turned black and cold, for she had not known herself capable of what had been done in the name of her love. perhaps it had been a good thing, for her love for both her husband and son was not to be doubted. but she had been bloodthirsty and ruthless, had only spoken the language of pain and wrath, and she no longer recognized herself when she saw her reflection on the river nile. it seemed that resurrection did not heal the wounds of the mind as it did with the body. she did not know peace.

empires rose and crumbled, fleets had been torn and sent to the floor of the ocean in her wrath, and gods had risen from the dust and been given power, as had been bestowed upon her and her brethren. the years were numbing and they were long, and isis often found gaps within her memory, for those were the years spent away from osiris and tainted by crippling grief and sorrow. isis did not know who she was nor did she remember what it had been like to be a daughter of the five, to be power itself, an immortal that existed before all others. she did not know the difference between the monsters that plagued her nighttime thoughts and the ones that walked during the day. only that she could not remember who she had been before. 

amber eyes flecked with gold and curls that reach towards the heavens ; isis is perhaps as whole as she has been before lord-of-fury-and-anger-set had done what he had done, but emotion is a slumbering beast that has yet to be awoken. isis is as brash and ruthless as a warrior from the past, with a heart that simply exists yet will cave on itself if there is harm given to those she loves. the names are few and their flaws many, but for those she loves, she will not hesitate to set the world ablaze and let the ashes be scattered on the western wind. immortality is a gift and it is a curse, and if isis does not find it in herself to tame the demons that have not been vanquished, it will lead to a day of reckoning.

               *      often    –    maybe    too    often    –    he’s    run    into    the    seraphic    beings    that    are    all    too    similar    to    him    .    ones    who    walk    with    a    stride    of    power    ,    ones    who    hold    their    heads    a    little    higher    than    even    the    most    hubristic    of    men    ,    ones    whose    eyes    hold    raw    potency    that    would    make    kings    kneel    before    them    .    oh    ,    bacchus    is    young    –    he    doesn’t    hold    the    same    years    as    his    seniors    do    ;    compared    to    the    rest    ,    the    roman    empire    is    young    ,    him    even    younger    (    the    other    gods    are    constant    reminders    that    he    is    a    child    next    to    them    ,    it    isn’t    something    he    favors    ,    though    these    days    ,    it    isn’t    something    he    cares    much    for    )    .    he    looks    at    her    extended    hand    ,    knows    what    she’s    asking    for    &    still    stubbornly    chooses    to    hide    it    despite    her    amiable    nature    .    he’s    selfish    ,    by    nurture    –    not    nature    .        ❛         why    don’t    you    guess    ?         ❜        immature    ,    is    the    next    thing    that    comes    to    mind    .        ❛         what’s    my    vibe    ?    if    you    say    greek    ,    i’ll    never    talk    to    you    again    for    at    least    five    years    .         ❜

there it is ; refusal , which has her seeing crimson and gold , an emotion that has her slightly confused ( for when has the queen consort of the underworld , the mother to her kind ) been DENIED that which she wants ? her hand remains where it is , and gold-flecked eyes do not falter , nor do they shift .   ❛   the alcohol , godling . and i will not repeat myself again .  ❜   he would do well not to test her patience ; she has seen empires rise and crumble , has lain waste to those who have not paid her tribute , wrecked entire fleets in her FURY . no , it would not do well to poke at the slumbering bear that has not risen within centuries . he is not as selfish , it seems , as those who she would rather die than converse with ( the vain Greeks , who are as insufferable as they are powerful ) but somewhat . . . refreshing . a mirror of her empire , of her own kind . a roman , she assumes . and with a temperament such as his . . . the mirror to the concerning dionysus .   ❛  i may be cruel , young one , but i would never insult you in such a manner !   ❜   she sniffs , as if in disgust . the nerve ! the gall ! she may skip courtesies , but she has manners .   ❛  i am well aware of who you are , bacchus . and you are quite possibly the most tolerable out of all your brethren .  ❜

       ❛   you’re late .     ❜   says isis in greeting ; there is no shifting , no movement made to embrace the god she has spent millennia alongside . there is simply acknowledgement and her own form of teasing , for her counterpart is perhaps two to three seconds past the expected time at most . but what is eternity if it is not spent honing talents , and crafting spells to alert her to the must curious things ? to manners of tracking time and the matter of movement , even regarding light itself ? perhaps her curiosity will be her downfall , but until then . . . it will be a method of spending time and growing in power . she waves a hand , as if to tell him to sit next to her before she leans forward and grabs a pair of gold encrusted tongs . the coals on the hookah need to be tended to , flipped and dusted off as to keep the sweet , flavored tobacco from burning . shisha is perhaps a reminder of their realm , of those who still remember them , cherish them .         ❛   i have not seen you in a decade .    ❜   and the words , perhaps , would be viewed as curt if there were not a flicker in her eyes that betrayed some hint of emotion , although a name cannot be put to it.       ❛  and i do suppose it’s nice to find that you are in one piece ; i would hate having to do what i did the last time that was not the case.     ❜   

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬     ──     𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍   ,    to    all    .

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧     ──     somewhere    ?    in    central    park   ?

               *     dusk    has    come    &    gone    ,    leaving    him    washed    in    the    glow    of    the    darkness    .    there’s    a    god    for    that    ,    he    thinks    –    someone    who    bestows    the    shadows    upon    mankind    ,    someone    who    painted    all    the    stars    in    the    sky    &    gifted    moonlight    to    the    unworthy    .    his    body    is    long    ,    draped    along    a    bench    as    his    head    rests    awkwardly    on    an    armrest    ;    a    lamenting    sigh    falls    from    his    lips    ,    sitting    up    as    company    approaches    .    he    sends    them    a    look    ,    taking    a    sip    from    a    bottle    of    deep    scarlet    that    appears    from    underneath    a    coat    he    doesn’t    need    .        ❛         shouldn’t    you    be    in    bed    ?    it’s    late    out    ,    you    know    &    i’ve    learned    that    people    are    more    diurnal    than    nocturnal    .         ❜        he    shrugs    ,    hiding    his    bottle    again    &    comfortably    sitting    back    in    the    center    of    his    claimed    throne    .        ❛         though    ,    personally    ,    i’ve    always    favored    the    night    .         ❜

the thrum of power disrupts the atmosphere of the mundane realm ; it is an entity as old as time itself , made in the eddies of the universe , with star flecked hands and the kindness of the mother , who had given a piece of herself to each of her children . . . for a god would not survive in this world without POWER . WEALTH . DEATH . it is enough to pique her curiosity , a cat that would better be off dead , but who is she without inquiring ? without seeking to find answers that elude her grasp ? immortality would be different without it , far more boring . and who better to taunt the fates than ISIS herself ?       ❛  i find that the darkness of night is more inviting than the light of day .   ❜   announces the goddess , her voice bright and ringing . a seat is taken on the bench without hesitation , and she extends a hand . she knows of the drink , and she would prefer some .        ❛  what are you ?    ❜   she muses .         ❛  greek ? roman ? or even celtic ? and lets not lie - - - we must be honest with one another , godling .    ❜  

a   long   time   ago   ,   gods   were   never   to   be   found   cleaning   ;   it   was   most   certainly   a   MORTALS’   chore   .   time’s   change   ,   of   course   ,   and   last   night   persephone   found   herself   picking   up   the   bartender’s   shift   at   elysium   after   the   usual   called   in   sick   .   she   paid   it   no   mind   ,   and   continued   to   clean   up   the   bar   (   even   finding   the   mindless   activity   relaxing  )   ,   while   soft   music   played   from   her   phone   .   with   her   back   turned   from   the   rest   of   the   club   ,   a   dry   towel   in   her   hand   wiping   out   the   wet   shot   glasses   ,   &   she   heard   the   heavy   doors   to   the   club   open   ,   and   footsteps   approach   the   bar   .   without   turning   around   ,   the   goddess   mentally   scolded   for   forgetting   to   lock   the   front   doors   and   called   out  ,   —    ❝   we’re   closed   !   i’d   say   it’s   a   little   to   early   for   PARTYING   ,   right   now   .   you’re   welcome   to   come   back   at   eight  .    ❞

     ❛  a way to greet a late guest , but not me .   ❜     the goddess perches herself atop a stool , grimacing at a spill of liquor a few feet away from her , coating the otherwise immaculate tiling with a sticky , brown substance . there’s a twinkle of amusement in her amber eyes , though ; she doesn’t know why her closest acquaintance insists on working these utterly mundane jobs , but who is she to judge ? she still listens to music that is severely outdated and plotting against set , who , quite frankly , has not done anything lately .     ❛  it’s also never too late to party . that’s where you’re mistaken . these mundanes are outdated . . . i find that their counterparts from before were more fun . more willing to indulge in . . . danger , don’t you think ?    ❜