Hades Devotee

I know death is part of life, I know this will be painful, but this is still a lesson.

But I still know that you will take care of him, of those who pass away.

Thank you.

Thank you, Persephone, for this lesson.

Styx Titan Goddess and Goddess of the River Syx

AND THEN THIS DRUNK GUY COMES TUMBLING OUT OF THE CONVENIENCE STORE AND BARFS ON ANOTHER LADY’S CAR

Serendipitous and full of wealth.

He holds in his heart a love for his oikos,

And the family which dwells within.

I call to you, my household snake,

To worship and adore you;

For your presents to us are gifts from the gods,

And the power of Zeus who sends you.

Your scales are articulated across the carpet,

The wood, and linoleum of our homes.

There isn’t an inch that you don’t bless

When offered and pleased as you should be.

Your glory slinks across the walls,

And burgeons in the vents.

We hear your hiss and know we’re safe;

We smell your honeyed breath and praise your name.

Thank you great Daimon,

Thank you Good Spirit.

Thank you for protection

Abundance and memories with friends and family.

I sing of your wonderful tidings,

And how your presence means you feel welcome.

Let us honour you, let us glorify you.

And teach us your wise ways of success.

Praise be to our Agathos Daimon,

The serpent who resides in our home!

Amarantos Argyris

Zeus

Oak

Carnations

Olive branches

Styrax incense

Eagle, bull, swan images

Hera

Lilies

Peacock feathers or images

Pomegranate

Incenses

Cuckoo images

Athena

Olive branch/oil/fruit

Weavings

Myrrh incense

Perfume

Owl images

Apollon

Laurel

Red roses, sunflowers

Frankincense (manna) incense

Palm tree

Raven, swan, wolf, mouse, dolphin images

Artemis

Cedar, palm and cypress trees

Tokens of deer

Jasmine

Myrtle, white flowers

Frankincense (manna) incense

Amaranthus

Peanut

Wormwood

Deer, dog, bear, partidge, quail images

Hestia

Incenses

Chaste-tree

Pig images

Poseidon

Sea anemone

Myrrh incense

Pine

Bull, dolphin, horse images

Dionysos

Ivy

Grape vine

Pine

Styrax incense

Leopard, panther, donkey, bull images

Hermes

Tongue-shaped tokens

Rosemary, saffron

Almond tree and pine tree

Frankincense and styrax incense

Mint (for Kthonios epithet)

Cow, ram, hawk, turtle, hare images

Wild strawberry (purslane)

Ares

Bronze weapons

Frankincense (manna) incense

Swan, vulture, dragon/poisonous snake, owl images

Aphrodite

Roses, myrtle, anemone (poppy)

Quince

Apple, pomegranate

Perfumes and fragrances as incense

Dove, goose, sparrow, turtle images

Hephaistos

Daisies

Frankincense (manna) incense

Donkey, dog, crane images

Asklepios

Frankincense (manna) incense

Bread

Serpent, dog, goose, rooster images

Pan

Pine, beech trees

Fern

Wild flowers

Herbs burnt as incense and the smell of perfumes

Reeds

Goat, turtle images

Demeter

Poppy

Tokens of pigs

Styrax incense

Mint (for Kthonia epithet)

Wheat

Dove, bee, pig images

Persephone

Asphodel

Wheat

Hades

Pitchfork

Pomegranate

Daffodil

Styrax incense

Dried laurel leaves

Poplar, cypress trees

Mint

Daffodil

Hekate

Saffron

Rosemary

Garlic

Red Mullet

Amphiphon (candy)

Styrax incense

Dry laurel leaves

Oak

Ferret, dog, bull, lioness images

Dear Open Journal,

Made another amulet but this time for @saltandburnsage 's car! Remember an amulet drives things away. A talisman brings in a god(ess)s energy.

Physical Components:

Black Tourmaline to "filter" energy

Spider symbol to house the protective spider she has been working with (any symbol of a protective entity you work with or protection thoughtform you've crafted)

Black leather feather for aesthetics

Gold coin for Charon the Ferryman should she pass away while on the road.

The whole amulet as a whole will be cleansed and then charged with the purpose of protection for herself and for her car while she's driving. It will be a lengthy process to create that will involve sigils and a ritual but at the end she will have a crazy awesome amulet!

Persephone Keeper of the Spring Whose ethereal pulse gives life To the light With a gown laced in blooms The ivy climbs up to greet her

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”