#giantichor

     Bronze  armour  clinks  together  like  bells  above  the  rough  crunch  of  snow  beneath  her  sandals.  A  wind  whistles  through  the  sharp  cypress  fans,  and  they  shiver  to  and  fro.  Vapour  escapes  Athena  Promachos’  lips,  but  her  skin  stays  lush  and  pink  with  the  gold  blood  of  the  gods,  and  she  knows  no  discomfort. 

     A  crack  of  a  twig  in  the  stillness  of  the  Dolopians  has  Athena  reaching  into  the  folds  of  her  thick  cloak  for  her  xiphos.  She  turns  to  the  direction  of  the  sound  and  blinks.  It’s  a  boy;  surprise  flickers  in  her  grey  eyes.  She  lowers  her  blade  slowly,  but  she  does  not  sheathe  it. 

                   nodding     maneuver              /              ghost     of     a     smile  .                   ❛                 should     ragnarok     come      ,             we     will     be    ready  .                     i     will     see     to     it  .          ❜

              “You sure do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

POETRY STARTERS || @giantichor

   He was a specter to his own resolve – a pillar of grief that stood in mute surrender to the mere words of a child, and yet, he had grown callous and unyielding to the emotions that lay only skin deep. Knowing he had damned himself and his kin long before Feya’s passing – the inevitability of his actions haunting him seemed to deepen further with her death. And while undeserving of this life he had come to take, Atreus was a beacon in this shadow of doubt. He, while young, could overcome Kratos’s failures – though, in this, was also his downfall as there was too much of his mother in him and the naiveté of youth. Atreus needed to become a weapon, he needed to kill if the trek to the mountain was to ever be achieved.