𝘚𝘗𝘌𝘈𝘙 * / 𝘓𝘠𝘙𝘌.

Her laugh does not unseat her as she listens. Her laugh is heavy and unfitting to her appearance, yet she relishes in it. She tries to memorise it, so she may listen to it later when in her sanctuary of solitude. Laughter, oh laughter — how he had once engulfed her. 

( Apollo’s twin. )

She felt relief to know it was not he himself, for to feel his wicked mark may be cause enough for Cassandra to fall to her knees. Yet, Artemis was still cut from the same cloth. Twins, siblings, kin, the blood of blood. 

She remains before her with a straightened back and a well-placed shroud, her eyes yet to roll backwards in state of enchantment and a seeking eye as the goddess takes her hand. Her touch is unlike Apollo’s — who reminds her of fire and need — her touch is unfathomable, it almost feels like nature; when her bare toes brush through blades of green when she feels the spit of the river upon her naked legs. She is unlike Apollo in every way… Or so, this is what she hopes. 

“What do you desire from me, goddess? As priestess and princess, I am your humble vassal.” 

The Huntress takes the question in stride, the moment no more heavy than a caress exchanged amidst the trees, than break in the race to gaze over your shoulder at the one that runs at your side —she was never for it, this artificial concoction that Gods makes out of their demands, the purposeful haze they wrap their messages in. Yet—— some encounters are torn from Fate itself. You would not mince words with it; there is naught to do but let them unfurl in all their gravity. ❛  I want a crown upon you, girl. It might be the only head that can bear it. ❜

Such it goes, the ebb and flow of it: the stone tumbling in the crevasse. Every desire she has ever relayed, every glimpse through the fail, had the hard undertone of a war song. No lullaby, no elegy, nothing numinous about it: just the words, and their descent into silence.

❛  I heard Paris was honorable, once, before he felt a goddess’ touch. He’s not to blame, not overly much; braver men than he collapsed to it. It is the asp’s way, after all, the riverbed death: a kiss, a sting, a devouring. You love, and on that love you are extinguished. ❜

Unblinking, her eyes etch Cassandra’s features, the filigree lineament, the geode shine to her eyes. As if someone cut a mountain in half, and opened its soul to the world.

Artemis presses on. There is much more to be said, and Paris, as the whole Ilia will soon bemoan, is only the whipping boy of the whole affair. ❛  I heard Priam was honorable once; some hold that he still is. But guilt snaked its coil around his throat, and when it digs in, there is nothing but repentance coming out. He is a man who will not forgive his own heart for what his mind ordered him to do. There’s no bargain to be had with such men. As for the royal counterpart ? Oh, yes, I heard Hecuba is more than honorable — she is a paragon of all things bright and hard, an ekphrasis of steel. But she is a lioness possessed: she will burn an empire to save her lineage, and it is not a few blunted jewel crowns I mean to save, gemstones that will mean nothing but tavern tales in a hundred years’ time. I want to stop the whole world from dying; or perhaps force it to be born again.  ❜

The Godess’ head tilts, an axis following unheard signals, indistinct voices in the breathless space. Her eyes, however, remain on Cassandra: they center her, ground her. ❛  Even in his wounded pride, which is a monstrous leviathan unto itself, my brother spared you for a reason. But I am half-guessing he adores your brother Hector, and all things he adores, sooner or later  fall to the sword. ❜

A baleful smile, almost teeming with grief, were it not for how the lines around it remain unchanged. ❛ Who else shall remain ? Your siblings, still in the nursery room ? Too young to garner any God’s affection and too old to be consecrated to temples ? Your cousin ? Oh, I have other plans for him; unspeakable things. The truth is as such: Troy is already ensconced in the past. A forgotten torchlight in a corridor no one visits anymore. I want you to carry it forward. No more games, no more holy torture. When all this is over, when all this is begun, I want you as Queen. ❜

with [ anyone ] at the agora

it has been said: to everything there is a time and place; and yet the spartan court, lavish and decadent, seems to be stuck in a moment frozen in time, crystallised in endless revelry and debauchery, acting as if this is how it has always been and always will be. coin flows easily from drunk, common soldiers looking for simple pleasures; dockhands from the ships that princes have set sail out on have flooded the streets. everything turns into a carousel of loud sounds that are composed of bargaining over prices, gossips whispering of the spartan prize, and reverent rumours about the presence of the gods most high come down to earth. there’s various smells, both pungent and fragrant, that pervade the air: the smell of fish and of pigs, the coppery tinge of blood from the butcher’s shop mixing with the fragrance of exotic spices, all sorts of odours from cardamom and agarwood, oysters and musk, the sea-salted air and the undertones of brined meats all mixing together into a cacophony of aromas that seem half-monstrous in its totality.

it is disgusting; it is glorious; it is life itself—and for that, theseus finds himself seduced by the endless call of it, as he had been, as he always does, and as he always will be.

there’s the promise of discovery hidden in the stalls, an infinitude of cultures and nations just waiting to be found underneath peddled wares of dubious origins and forged materiel made only as recent as yesterday. amidst the mountains of imitated glory, there’s the odd lure here and there: that moment where hand brushes against something true, something divine. theseus’ fingers curl around a circular device—and he pulls out a golden bracelet, decorated with both opals and emeralds, almost a thing of beauty in its own right. unable to resist, he turns to one next to him, as if boasting about his find.

❛  what do you think ?  ❜  he asks.  ❛  is it a fortunate discovery or yet another dupe ?   ❜

One brow arches, an apse of granite, head canted sideward. She makes to inspect it better, but in truth she is only reassembling the facade, startled in no small amount to be addressed with such casual abandon. For the bauble, Artemis would trust its value only as far as she could —well, not throw it —but wear it, since she’d rather choose Tartarus. She has to amend: in sparse hints, it might well be beautiful. The way it pulses with sunlight in uneven spots, tiger-lines of luster: give unto mirage what mirage is due.

Much the same can be said about the demigod who seized it.

Yet where do they end, these cartilages built by legend, this scaffolding stretched across years and minstrels and tattle ? If she were anyone else ( what a thought to have, how at home in the heat, lulled by inconsistency ) she would’ve liked to see for herself where the man begins.

❛  I would say fortune has retired for the day. It saved you one too many cracked heads in the arena earlier, hm ? Besides—— ❜  her tone is amused, just a short measure of it, as her fingers reach for the makeshift treasure. ❛ Were it anything valuable, the Gods would’ve latched onto it by now, and sent minions to fetch it..You ought to know by now, the vast treasures of earth are nothing but what they deigned to leave on the bones. ❜

the girl did not look old enough to have supped with his parents before he was born, but the son of a sea nymph was not naive to the fact that immortals often walked among those bound for a shorter stint on this earth. 

a goddess, he suspected, for all the knowledge of him and his mother that poured from deadly perfect lips.

a stag in the crosshairs, achilles stood up a little straighter. whichever of olympus’ dwellers this was, an encounter like this usually never boded well for him. he knew all to well the looks of deep-set worry on patroclus’ face every time the name apollo was uttered, and resolved to be on his best behavior. he would not cause them any more strife where he could help it.

it sent a pain through his heart to think that this stranger he had run into in a spartan glade probably knew his own mother better than he did. and all because her blood likely ran gold, while his was mud-red.

“i did not know my mother liked to hunt…” immediately he bit his tongue, letting some of that blood spring to the back of his teeth. already regretting letting this, which so blatantly laid bare to this deity, how little he knew thetis, slip past. “but i am glad to meet anybody who knows her. so few of my world have been granted that privilege.” the words were metallic in his mouth.

“might i know your name, lady of the woods.” though by asking, he wondered if he had the answer already. there were very few goddesses who lurked the woodlands and hunted with sea nymphs. already, he was so sure he was speaking to artemis of the silver bow that he had begun to avert his eyes, sneaking glances only through the thick gold veil of his eyelashes. some hubris could not be shed.

❛  I upset you  ❜  the Goddess assents —no apology to the words, but a kind of odd curiosity, as though upheaval was particular only to mortals, and no deity was ever tried by it. The Huntress brings two fingers together, and she sketches an arrow-tipped motion through the air: a signal, plain for supplicant and demigod alike, its understanding inherited from wiser ancestors, from lines of men who made survival inextricable from piety. The symbol dictactes: you can look. You can see.

❛  You would be in the right if I have. Your mother’s fate, the interference in what her fate should’ve been: it upsets me as well. I loved her, you see. Of course, not like you love your hunting companion—— ❜

A faint, intimate smile hangs from the corner of her lips; a break in the pattern, like the rapid shudder of a loom missing a spoke. ❛  ——but well enough. ❜

The oblique turn to her mouth means to say, oh, I know of your heart.She finds herself revelling in it: the radiance, lonely and unique, carried in Achilles’ bond. So easy to pick apart from all the others, the luster of what they have, the way it singes the night sky even now, miles into the forest. Like the burning stars of yore: beings wrought into legend not through kratos, but through agape. She is no Aphrodite; she finds to delight in love in and of itself. What she had glimpsed in them, however, is something endless, unquenchable and appeased at once. It seems to her brandished holy.

❛  I give you leave to be cross with me for bringing your mother here, though we both know, her impact is just as momentous in absence. But I do not give you leave to be afraid.❜  

Hades did not scowl, but the slightest shift of expression in his features might have been something close to it. “The business of beauty is beyond my reach,” he murmured, his gaze sinking once more unto the impenetrable sea. He considered the idea of drawing his invisible crown from the depths of his palace, for the next time he might escape from the duty of conversation. “Perhaps I wish to see this realm before it is enveloped by the flames of destruction. Don’t mistake me, I would rather be in my forlorn crags. But here we must be, Huntress, and here we are.” His gaze fell to the basket of disparate flowers he had bought from the marketplace for the goddess that was his wife, and then soon back to Artemis. “Persephone quite likes this realm. I find it difficult to see the appeal, but nonetheless it would not do to see it destroyed.”

Her eyes, too, are drawn towards the hamper, cradled at the God’s feet like an actor’s prop. The gaze sticks there for a long moment, as if trained unto the wicker weave, unto the shards of light cast by the flowers — then, a twitch in her temples. A bite on the tongue.

It tastes like being wrong. Right now, she is forced to entertain the thought, hazardous though it may be, that Hades is... affectionate. Devoted. More than Zeus ( oh, as if it were hard ) but also more than mortal men, or nymphs, or even warmer, less ossified Gods. That Persephone had chosen right all those years ago; and, on top of it, that she had chosen right in spite of Artemis’ foreboding warnings. It’s here, under her eyes, no longer a past transgression she must make amends for, but an all-reaching proof. It caves like a chasm before her.

through form and vessel, you know him and he, you. despite new bodies, there is a familiarity, root to dirt, second skin. 

do you still recognize him? 

“and our actions will have meaning. we are not careless things, artemis. our hunts have always required method, and this is no different.” he knows his bow is drawn to the target, notched and aim true. he knows that it is just a matter of moment, breath-held, waiting. this is what we are here for, he does not say. i have been patient for so long. 

he does not miss how the tips of her words are knifepoints, never sharp enough to cut skin but enough to give him a warning. the step away from him alone is enough, and there is something unfamiliar in the space her words leave between them, echoing. 

( what is your godhood, if not built on remembrance? your fingertips are dipped in the future and still, it is not enough. you have them on their knees and still, you  want to see them bleed. ) 

“they have forgotten what i have given them, my sun. i built the walls of troy, i gave them the life they live today. i know what they will deserve tomorrow. still, they choose to challenge me as opposed to being thankful.” there is a flicker of something raw in eyes, the clench of jaws, the absence of sunlight. “i will dole the reminders needed as opposed to the punishments deserved. do you think me unworthy of the respect demanded by the gods?” 

Like the bubbles they used to blow as children, gauzy & iridescent over the pond's surface, so too Artemis pierces the tension between them. She pops it in a single motion: two fingers rise, and they flick Apollo’s ear as if he were a fox-cub. Gravity disperses in waves of pathos. Whatever they had been approaching, whatever unspoken conflict neared on its haunches, is now rendered powerless, declawed.

The Huntress relents a wide grin.

❛ Don’t be silly, beloved. I think you worthy of everything earthy & celestial, chiefly among which a good thrashing. ❜ From their strategic position, her fingers drift into his hair, tousling the evenly trimmed curls, ruining the gilded band meant to secure them. ❛ You do take to your dramatics like a maiden to the pole. ❜

An arched eyebrow, far less chastising than permissive, a mutual clemency. For now is not the time —and the Moon Goddess, unlike her perennial twin, is bidden to time, to its phases of rightness, its rhythms of justice. She tries to devour the second voice: the one that says, with him, it never is the time. That’s what got you here, drawn in the backwater business of a city you nurse no feelings for. Yes, that second chorus, that onslaught of reason. What was Troy to her ? Nothing. A dynasty’s final stumbling steps, just one more prey fallen to the transition between ages. What did Troy mean, what did it awake ? Nothing, the chorus titters, then furtively, singong melopoeia, a different note sets in: nothing, except—.

Aeneas. Already adept, she drowns that thought as well, crumbles it inside a clenched fist and wills her mind to divest a new course.

❛ Have you had your closed doors with Hector yet ? Do you know what it is the Trojans plan to do ? They’ll be fought tooth and nail if they stay. ❜

𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨, 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙨 — 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙪𝙢𝙫𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚.

21. 04. 2020.

replies — 40 points.

starters — 10 points. 

if it were another place, another city-state, another market, athena would’ve let her joy overflow– but this is sparta. a city built in the name of war; she has quite the formal fondness towards these streets, these walls, but now it holds the bitterness of a competition that is entwined with her bones. when she visits cities like this, it is usually in the name of astonishment, of city-watch— not for a crown of her own. artemis mentions the contest, and half the joy trapped in the athena-shaped bottle spills. athena collects herself before she turns to the goddess of the wilderness; her smile half-pretense. 

“such an easy way to infuriate aphrodite, is it not?” even the name sounds tiresome on her lips; if hera brings her rage, aphrodite brings her vexation. “let us not anger the goddess of fools so early. i would not want zeus to come berate us as if we are children.” athena does not want to see any of their faces, in any form— zeus reminds her of tyranny, of the past covered in blood. she turns towards the market, and catches the sight of a blacksmith’s apprentice, in his little stall with well-crafted weaponry. amused, athena sends a quick blessing towards his way, and watches as soldiers start crowding the makeshift shop. she turns to artemis.

“there is no shame in watching, however.” it hadn’t been her intention to speak of business so soon; yet the competition seems the appropriate venue to speak to artemis about the crown. athena offers her arm to her companion in elegant fashion; she smiles, enchanting; nods towards the race. “shall we?”

It is an easy thing to witness, how the other’s disposition changes like the lunar tide, how the very ambiance around her trembles & distorts. Artemis has watched it before, always enraptured, always safe in the knowledge that this brimming storm, this intimate disaster, would never prance towards her. ( ❛ let us away, dearest ❜ ).

Athena’s tone is so acerbic that she half-expected her skin to boil. When Artemis grabs her arm, and fingers lace through the underside of the peplos, she has already opened herself to the sting. It doesn’t come. Instead, there is the familiar bend of the elbow, the velvet coldness, like peaches left in snow. Without understanding the why, the how of it, her grip tightens.

She huffs, a half-rousing tsk flitting between her lips, its target nebulous. At first glance, it could be hostility — an impartial onlooker would guess Aphrodite, the contest, the crowds. Delving deeper, it blazes loud as warfare: the things born by Zeus’ mere memory.

❛ Oh, he cares little for what he cannot bed or barter. And say all and sundry on the matter of Aphrodite: she’s not so far gone as to submit to either. ❜ Their steps curl over the cobblestones, concave arcs that bear no burden, and their smiles are crooked in tandem. Several streets shy of it, the arena already swells into view, trading skylight for purposeful shadows, for carefully curated parcels of sight. A note of apology dips into the Huntress’ voice next.  ❛ I would not see you vexed by anyone who isn’t me right now. They just shouldn’t have the privilege. ❜

deathless sentences

This earns a nod, lax with wisdom, with the judgement Artemis so habitually discards whenever the shoe fits, as though they were talking no more than parlor games. There is a meaning twisted inside it, borne by the other’s words. Though full of grandeur, as befits any young girl who deems the world a stage, they also carry an undercurrent. Dangerous. Ravenous. If only half from what she heard across the years withstood the glare of truth, bitterness dappled Sparta like dew on apple-leaves. ❛ Oh, on that, no man or God might doubt it. But even things we have been weaned on in youth must be put aside as we grow. Do you savour it, sweet princess, or are you dependent on the taste ? ❜

deathless sentences

❛ You can sure as hell throw some water on it. C’mmon, adelfé, less metaphors and more common sense. ❜

deathless sentences

❛ Save your sophistry. I never did accede to the inevitable; souls are felled because someone mows them down. Simply because the Fates don’t always interfere does not render their deaths imperative, some cooked-up axiom. The end is seldom a purpose unto itself –– and when it is, you’ll know it, grandiose words or not. ❜

meme roast supreme

❛ I’ve seen cow merchants make up their mind quicker than this girl. Fuck, if we’re at that –– i’ve seen the cows themselves do it. ❜

meme roast supreme

❛ My puppy-kicking days are over. i’m supposed to be protectoress of wild idiots, not accuser. ❜

roast meme supreme

❛ Curse one more mortal and they’re gonna put you in charge of Tartarus. After all, you do need an abyss to fit all that ego. ❜