Immortal, of Immortal Fame. Perpetual. Everlasting. Literally, Without Death. Deathless

Beginning and end are you, and you alone rule all. For all things are from you, and in you do all things, Eternal One, come to their end. - Betz, lines 2836-2839 of PGM IV 2785-2890.

Much of what I can say of the perpetuity of the Gods has already been covered in the entry on Aionos. Indeed, functionally, aionos (eternal), apaustos (never-ending), and athanatos (perpetual) are of the same connotative meaning.

By their very nature are the Gods deathless. It is, from a Hellenic frame of mind, the quintessential difference between the divine and the mortal worlds. All Gods are Athanatoi. As such we can refer to every deity, and all the Titans, by this epithet.

Socrates spoke at length about the concept of immortality as it pertains to the soul, with the assumption that it is immortal in nature. Indeed, his description of the soul as told to us by Plato, ‘soul is most similar to what is divine, immortal, intelligible, uniform, indissoluble, unvarying, and constant in relation to itself; whereas body, in its turn, is most similar to what is human, mortal, multiform, non-intelligible, dissoluble, and never constant in relation to itself.’ (Plato, Phaedo, p.31). He later adds, ‘given that the immortal is also indestructible, wouldn’t soul, if it proves to be immortal, be imperishable as well?’… ‘Then when death attacks a person, the mortal part, it seems, dies; whereas the immortal part gets out of the way of death, departs, and goes away intact and undestroyed.’ The Phaedo establishes a dichotomy of body and soul that heavily contributed to the denigration of the physical realm and the body, which influenced much of the later philosophies and ideas of asceticism in both the Pagan and Christian worlds.

A grave in Phrygia mentions a priest who bore the name Athanatos, whose son also grew up to be a priest honoring Zeus, Hekate and Apollon.

Hekate Athanatos,  Your grace spans all realms,  You are the Source,  And the Soul of All.  From you we descend,  And unto you we return.  And our gratitude is poured upon the wide Earth. 

 Sources:

Betz, Hans Dieter. The Greek Magical Papyri in translation, including the Demotic Spells, Chicago, 1996. Dmitriev, Sviatoslav. City Government in Hellenistic and Roman Asia Minor, Oxford, 2005. Plato. Phaedo, Oxford, 1996. Ramsay, Sir William Mitchell. The Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia: Being an Essay of the Local History of Phrygia from the Earliest Times ot the Turkish Conquest, Vol. 2, Clarendon, 1897. Sherman, Daniel. Soul, World, and Idea: An Interpretation of Plato’s ‘Republic’ and ‘Phaedo’, Lexington, 2013.

Images:

           “I suppose I ought to have expected you - or at least one of you.” His collar to lose it’s stiffness, pulled off and far more comfortably away from it’s former hold. An Acolyte’s attire. The Surplice drapes, and he himself dons it beautifully. “But, not you so specifically. Have you come to find true Disciples for your cause?” Hands clasp in front. The youthful masquerade mask to smile upwards to his dear kin. 

            “Or... have you come to loiter, now that I’m here?” 

@athanatoi

          And was it true of a wonder that a sudden approach was made when no one ever would just dare to step foot in the monarch’s chambers such deep at night? They all would not roam nearby. Not even dare to utter single word such close in reach so that the wrathful King could be indulgent to this or that simple whisper [ no matter the reason, no matter the source ], but this man to now direct softened words cutting through the quiet of a deep and dark night, was an exception. A holy one. Such direly reassuringly needed and still only sought if light does grace itself to shine down upon him.

         He would never send him out and away.

         Would never raise voice past that soothing low timbre that reverberates itself as a hum from depths of his throat when his arched spine moves to straighten, soothed and placated mind setting in motion what had just ached and tensed hours and hours in the past. “I find myself mere caught in thoughts.” So he speaks in unassuming tone as well. Mimics it slightly, if not for stark difference of their intonation, for the growling found deeply embed in the warrior’s chest. He sighs that breathless sort of exhale, with the warmth of hand that guides him to sit back upright. To allow and offer muscles to relax, spine to find a more natural position once again, from the one forced upon by this or that trouble flitting back and forth like dancing flame of candle before shimmering blue eyes.

         How quaint to think - that he was surely so important before such an immaculate grace. That he would find Shamsiel visit, speak out, care.

         “I wish not to worry you with any burdens, so be reassured I will stir to rest when the moon has crossed beyond the window—”

         And how long would it maybe take? How long till that clear of the sky would let him finally rest? And how long until the Angel before him might chide for such foolishness in a bargain to behold, when all he’s spoken to about are comfort and concern, not to be so lightly brushed away [ he doesn’t, surely doesn’t ]. It’s enough to smile, to chuckle a moment later when one large hand does lift from quill and ink forgotten on wooden table.

         Would all but move to carefully wrap around fragile wrist [ so surely does it seem, like it would break if touched not with the fervour of worship ], to guide him away in one slow movement and tilt and surely twist the offered palm in strong and unrelenting grasp, until a kiss places itself upon the soft of skin. Benevolent reverencing in ways quite unexpected, from a man of power such inhumane as the Lord’s very own. Silent for a few quiet breaths, for his eyes to flit up, then settle in calm [ quiet, tired gaze to approach the truth of pushed away thoughts ] upon Angel’s very form. From arm, travelling up to crook of elbow, a little higher, to dance across the broad of chest and the attire worn given to him by Vlad himself—

“To kiss a palm is to offer your heart” 

                 Honestly, he wasn’t certain what brought him here (he’s certainly in no such shortage of plants at home) - perhaps browsing, or the natural inclination of being possessed by nature. And, as being in the city which is so sorely absent of it, finding a flora shop is a Godsend. Figuratively speaking, of course. Even if it truly felt ironically like a holy place, or what one would connote to a holy place - and it’s owner seems all the fitting, being so bright and cheery, as this. 

             “Figment.” Eyes had blinked towards it, a glimpse some meters away shown inside the mirror by which Hiraga stands. “Though I’ve yet to muddle you out my mind.” Cuffs are made to pull closed over veiled weaponry. A clasp, a click - prep work entirely for a singular, ongoing deployment. “I suppose by choice of speech, I’ve delved farther into some madness to even speak directly towards the imaginary.” A knelt position, beginning to don the masquerade of an old man’s image. “Even if I’ve seen you time and time again... I suppose, tonight someone will die?” So seems the case, however, he cannot be certain. There are in fact a number of them, drawn-out over the course of his life. Or, rather, over the course of his madness. 

               “At the least, I know a glimmer of what to expect.”