I’m Noah (He/It/They/Neops.), a religious person who decided to create a second account as an act of devotion. My main is @writerbumblebee, which I use to publish my original stories, as well as write about Les Misérables and The Picture Of Dorian Gray.
Lucifer is there when hands are clenched into fists at the sight of injustice.
Lucifer is there when you become knowledgeable of something.
Lucifer is there when you choose to stand up against inequality instead of staying silent and comfortable.
Lucifer is there when people protest for their own independence.
Lucifer is there when you choose to spread your knowledge to others instead of hoarding it for yourself.
He is the pride you feel in your chest when you know that you have done the right thing. He is the voice of people who chose to speak up against discrimination and wrongness. He is the knowledge that is passed to others, especially with love and devotion.
I love to think Hermes was the one to find Dionysus as the child was roaming mad through the wilderness.
He must have been so scared, delusional and confused as he was in his surroundings, believing every shadow to be a threat, every sound a death sentence. How could it not be thus, when all his mind could do was try to save him from all the tricks it had made?
Once Hermes found him, it is only natural to believe the child fought for his life, having forgotten the face of the brother who so long ago had carried him as an infant, bringing him to the safety of the fair ladies who would treat him as one of their own. He must have thrusted, pushed, and bitten until his last strength. Still, he would have been picked up gently, as a loved thing, and Dionysus would have let it be, maybe because of the familiar scent of wood in Hermes’ tunic, maybe because of the soothing voice that had calmed him years ago, maybe without a reason at all, completely overtaken by the instinct that told him, for the first time in too many months, that he was save.
And when they finally arrived to Rhea? Would Dionysus have let Hermes leave him? He could, instead, have tightened his grip on the older’s tunic, afraid of being left alone, forgotten just like before. Rhea, motherly as she was, could have let Hermes stay, signaling for a place in which to sit, Dionysus on his lap, hiding his face on his brother’s neck as the old titaness lifted such a cruel curse from him.
And I believe Hermes would not have let go, not for a second, not for eternity.
Hermes Encontró A Dioniso
Me encanta pensar que Hermes fue quien encontró a Dioniso cuando el niño caminaba loco entre lo salvaje.
Debió de haber estado muy asustado, delirante y confundido como estaba en su entorno, creyendo que cada sombra era una amenaza, cada sonido una sentencia de muerte. ¿Cómo no iba a ser así, si lo único que su mente podía hacer era intentar salvarlo de todas las trampas que ella misma había creado?
Una vez que Hermes lo encontró, es natural creer que el niño luchó por su vida, habiendo olvidado el rostro del hermano que hacía tanto tiempo lo había llevado en brazos de bebé, llevándolo a la seguridad de las bellas damas que lo tratarían como a uno de los suyos. Debió de haber empujado, forcejeado y mordido hasta sus últimas fuerzas. Aun así, habría sido alzado con delicadeza, como a una cosa querida, y Dioniso lo habría dejado ser, tal vez por el familiar aroma a madera de la túnica de Hermes, tal vez por la voz tranquilizante que lo había calmado años atrás, tal vez sin razón alguna, completamente dominado por el instinto que le decía, por primera vez en demasiados meses, que estaba a salvo.
¿Y cuando finalmente llegaron a Rea? ¿Acaso Dioniso habría dejado que Hermes lo abandonara? Podría, en cambio, haberse aferrado con más fuerza a la túnica del mayor, temeroso de quedarse solo, olvidado justo como antes. Rea, maternal como era, podría haber dejado que Hermes se quedara, indicándole un sitio donde sentarse, Dioniso en su regazo, escondiendo el rostro en el cuello de su hermano mientras la anciana titánide lo liberaba de tan cruel maldición.
Y creo que Hermes no lo habría soltado, ni por un segundo, ni por toda la eternidad.
Someone: I really like Greek mythology! I love learning about all these myths and how the people created them, as well as how they affected society in history.
Me: Nice! So you understand that...
Someone: Zeus is a bad king and a rapist, Hera hates women, Demeter is an overbearing mom, Persephone actually decided to go to the Underworld, Dionysus is a drunk party boy, Hermes is just a silly goose-
Another reminder that Greek mythology is always somehow symbolic, metaphorical, allegorical, since we are dealing with anthropomorphic personifications and other embodiments of cosmic powers.
For example: Demeter has sex with both Zeus and Poseidon. Something-something about the relationship of the Earth with the Sky and the Sea (or the celestial and chthonian powers). ESPECIALLY since these relationships are said to happen at the beginning of the world, in the primordial times during which the world settled itself for what it is now.
Herakles' wedding with Hebe, the personification of youth, checks in with when he becomes an immortal god (aka, an eternally young entity). What better way to symbolize a hero escaping the clutches of death than by him becoming the husband of the spirit of eternal youth?
Why is Hestia never leaving Olympus? Something-something about her being the literal personification of the hearth, which is at the center of the house/community and does not move.
Why is Ares getting his ass kicked by Athena? Because Athena is civilization, and Ares savagery, and in the Ancient Greek mindset intelligence, wisdom and craft will always be above brutality, bloodlust and random cruelty.
Do I need to spell it out that the myth of Persephone-Hades-Demeter is about the cycle of the seasons, and how the earth renews itself and brings back life after a time of death?
And I wonder why Ares' companions during his mass-slaughters are called Phobos, Deimos and Eris - Fear, Panic and Discord... Why would the goddess that breaks harmony and sows feuds and chaos be depicted as the close sister of the god of the ravages of war and of the brutality of conflicts, what a strange mystery!
And I can go on, and on, and on. Remember, the Greek gods aren't just super-heroes or wizards (that's more in line with more "humanized" mythologies, like the Irish or Nordic ones). They are embodiments of concepts and ideas, personifications of natural forces and cosmic powers, they are living allegories and fleshed metaphors. Zeus wields the lightning because he IS the lightning and thunder. Dionysos is both the bringer of joy and madness because he IS alcohol. Hades is both the name of the god of the dead, and of the realm of the dead. Hestia's name is literaly "hearth" in Greek, Hebe "youth", Nyx "night", Gaia "earth", Eros "desire". You can write "Eris met Helios at Okeanos' palace" or you can write "Strife encountered the Sun at the palace of Ocean" and that is the EXACT SAME THING!
[Mind you to limit the gods to being JUST allegories is also a mistake not to make. Greek deities are much more than just X concept or X idea... But one part of the myths will always be, down the line, some weather metaphor or some natural cycle motif]
Happy Valentine's Day! For this lovely festivity, I decided to write a short story about what is probably my favorite non-canon friendship in all of mythology. Enjoy!
English & Español
Two Best Friends
The walk had taken a few hours to get to the mountains. Narcissus had wandered through the forest, river, and one too many fields with unnamed animals to get there, and now his feet hurt from lifting his weight, his head moved like a heartbeat from the thirst, and his head panicked from the walk upwards.
Letting himself drop on a bed of flowers and moss—he would wash himself later—, he barely had the strength left to rise his voice to call the word of “Echo” into the mountains before him.
This time, she took a few seconds more than usual to come to him—that, of she decided to stand there and watch him silently for a while before coming sit beside him and brush his hair.
“You are late,” he said, his eyes closed.
“We agreed on meeting here three hours ago. I thought you would not come.”
Narcissus turned around in the ground to look at her. “No, we did not. I always come when I am meant to come.”
With a smile, she stared at him before speaking, his voice coming out of her lips. “I promise, dear. Right at midday, not a second before and not a second later.”
Without an argument, he turned around again, offended.
Echo laughed, laying next to him, picking up flowers to braid into his hair. Narcissus let her; even if mad for making both of them waste time, Echo’s touch had a soothing effect on him. He could only guess it had everything to do with mountain nymth magic and nothing else.
They stayed there for a while: Echo braiding his hair while Narcissus walked the fine line between rest and sleep.
It was not until the nymth accidentally pulled his hair too harshly that he stopped half-dreaming about rivers to realize it was night already. He was not surprised. Even if he promised himself to go back home after his meetings with Echo, more times than not something happened that made him lose track of time.
Sitting where he was, he stretched, letting an odd sound leave his throat—he half-heard Echo mimic it.
“I am sorry it is so late.”
“No need.”
“You cannot go back home.”
“Does it matter?”
“You will not sleep on a bed.”
“We both know a bed of flowers is not different or worse from the places where I sleep.”
There was a silence that laste but a few seconds.
“I could stay to protect you.”
“If that is that you want to do.”
Without any other words necessary, both of them laid into the bed of flowers again, staring at the night sky, finding constellations, arguing about their origins, discussing which dots could be planets. At some point, they got too tired to keep thinking.
They were not the best friends other people could have, and sometimes they were not even good friends to begin with, but they were the best friends they had, and that would be enough. For now. For ever.
Dos Mejores Amigos
La caminata había durado varias horas para llegar a las montañas. Narciso había vagado por el bosque, el río y demasiados campos con animales no nombrados para llegar allí, y ahora le dolían los pies por mantener su peso, la cabeza le temblaba como un latido por la sed y su corazón latía con fuerza por la subida.
Dejándose caer sobre un lecho de flores y musgo (se lavaría más tarde), apenas le quedaban fuerzas para alzar la voz y gritar «Eco» a las montañas ante él.
Esta vez, ella tardó unos segundos más de lo habitual en acercarse a él; o bien, decidió quedarse allí de pie observándole en silencio un rato antes de sentarse a su lado y cepillarle el pelo.
—Llegas tarde, —dijo con los ojos cerrados.
—Quedamos en vernos aquí hace tres horas. Pensé que no vendrías.
Narciso se giró en el suelo para mirarle. —No es verdad. Siempre vengo cuando tengo que venir.
Con una sonrisa, le miró fijamente antes de hablar, y la voz de él salió de los labios de ella. —Lo prometo, querida. Justo al mediodía, ni un segundo antes ni un segundo después.
Sin argumentos, él se dio la vuelta, ofendido.
Eco rió, acostándose a su lado, recogiendo flores para trenzarle en el pelo. Narciso le dejó; aunque estaba furioso por hacerles perder el tiempo a ambos, el toque de Eco tenía un efecto calmante en él. Sólo podía suponer que tenía que ver con magia de ninfas de montaña y nada más.
Se quedaron allí un rato: Eco trenzándole el pelo mientras Narciso caminaba la fina línea entre el descanso y el sueño.
No fue hasta que la ninfa le tiró del pelo con demasiada fuerza sin querer que dejó de soñar con ríos y se dio cuenta de que ya era de noche. No le sorprendió. Aunque se prometiera volver a casa después de sus encuentros con Eco, más veces que no ocurría algo que le hacía perder la noción del tiempo.
Sentado donde estaba, se estiró, dejando escapar un extraño sonido de su garganta. Oyó a Eco imitarlo.
—Siento que sea tan tarde.
—No es necesario.
—No puedes volver a casa.
—¿Importa?
—No dormirás en una cama.
—Ambos sabemos que un lecho de flores no es diferente ni peor que los lugares donde duermo.
Hubo un silencio que duró apenas unos segundos.
—Podría quedarme para protegerte.
—Si eso es lo que quieres hacer.
Sin más palabras necesarias, ambos se tumbaron de nuevo en el macizo de flores, contemplando el cielo nocturno, buscando constelaciones, discutiendo sobre sus orígenes, debatiendo qué puntos podrían ser planetas. En algún momento, se cansaron demasiado para seguir pensando.
No eran los mejores amigos que otras personas podrían tener, y a veces ni siquiera eran buenos amigos para empezar, pero eran los mejores amigos que tenían, y eso sería suficiente. Por ahora. Por siempre.
do you think apollo ever gets off that ridiculously long shift at the hospital and collapses into bed, utterly exhausted with blood engrained in his fingertips?
do you think athena ever locks the door to her studio at night, her fingers red and bandaged from the day spent teaching her weaving?
do you think dionysus ever leaves the theater long after dark, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his disheveled hair, his throat aching?
do you think zeus ever wishes he'd bang his gavel so hard it'd splinter for the last time, his patience run through with the state of the world?
do you think ares ever stands outside that unforgiving building, cardboard sign disintegrating in the rain as he screams out for the women behind him?
do you think aphrodite ever wipes at her nose, her golden blood dripping down as her victory is announced throughout her ring?
do you think hermes ever falls asleep under the tree, under the stars, his shepherds hook resting wearily over his legs?
do you think hera ever holds the weeping man, for once her glare turned on the trouble ridden woman?
i think Lord Prometheus should get more attention in helpol spaces,
Lord Prometheus, who formed humankind out of clay, and stole fire from the Gods so that we may use and utilize it. He who went through continuous torture as a punishment for this, his liver being eaten by an eagle every day until he was freed by Heracles.
Lord Prometheus, who taught humans about the use of fire, architecture, astronomy, the art of writing, mathematics, domesticating animals and how to treat them, the art of prophecy, working in metal, among other arts.
Lord Prometheus who cares about humankind so, so much, so much so he tricked the Gods on multiple occasions in favor of humans. He who gave humans hope.
My dear Ganymede. They speak of him as a symbol, a constellation, a prize lifted into the heavens but I see a child standing at the edge of the earth, still smelling of grass and milk and daylight, still belonging to his mother. He is innocence made visible. And worse innocence noticed. No one speaks enough about the moment before the sky opens. No one mourns the seconds when his feet still touched the ground, when his mother could still reach him, when the world was small enough to be safe. They rush past that part, eager for gods and stars, as if divinity excuses the violence of being taken. I think of his mother often. I think of her hands what they were doing when the air tore open above her son. Was she folding cloth? Grinding grain? Calling his name? Did she hear the wings? Did she run? Did she scream until the mountains learned grief? And I think of myself, standing in that place, knowing that no prayer, no scream, no love is strong enough to stop a god who wants.
Once again, I come with yet another self-indulgent myth, because my body dysphoria is strong, but my creativity is stronger... sometimes.
English & Español
What A Marble
It was when the heroes still roamed the earth, when monsters were slain and thrones were claimed, that this story took place. It is not the story of a king, damsel, or god, but the story of a girl who wished to be a boy.
Marmara, as she was called, lived with his father, a sculptor beloved to all. He made people, gods, and snakes, and his daughter lended him her help. They would work day and night, creating their art with pure delight, for nothing was worth more to them than to let something of theirs forever remain.
However, Marmara had a problem, one that not even her father would know to solve it. In the cold nights of solitude, when the man rested after much ado, she would look at the sculptures of great men, wishing she were one of them. She wished to have flat chest, strong jaw, and that intimate part between her legs; she wished to have their deep voice, arms, and poise.
But a girl she remained, and it was not so much of a hassle in certain moments that came. Those days, she loved her breasts, hair, and round eyes, delighting on the sight of such feminine art, as she adored her grace and beauty, which people in town reminder her of daily. And so, she was content, living half in peace, half in shame. She would not talk of her pains, for she thought of them as something to be hidden away.
Nonetheless, there came a day when the goddess of love, gleeful and elegant as was her nature, came to see the girl’s endeavor; seeing her deep in solitude, she agreed something had to be done soon.
With the grace of godhood on her side, she made one of the blocks of marble divine. “You must sculpt that which you desire to be,” the goddess explained to the girl.
Upon seeing her leave, Marmara started to make that which in her dreams she had seen. Away from her father, she carved and carved, hoping for the day the art would be done. She did not know what would come of the gift, but she knew of her need for faith.
The marble man was soon finished, and her work Marmara looked at dearly. The duty was made, and so the goddess came again: “you desired to be at times a boy, and a boy at times you shall be. It is your nature to love what you are, and so I have made you this present, Marmaros.”
And from that day on, the person was able to change of body by touching the statue’s heart; to be a girl or a boy was no longer a pain, but something to love and preserve.
And so, upon seeing the being inside the blocks, the sculptors are to say “what a marble. What a marvel.”
Qué Figura
Era cuando los héroes aún pisaban la tierra, cuando monstruos eran matados y tronos eran reclamados, que esta historia tomó lugar. No es la historia de un rey, damisela o dios, sino la historia de una chica que con ser un chico soñó.
Marmara, como se hacía llamar, vivía con su padre, un escultor querido por los demás. Creaba a gente, dioses y serpientes, y su hija le ayudaba a este. Trabajaban día y noche, creando su arte con esmero, pues nada les era tan valioso como que algo que crearan se hiciera eterno.
Sin embargo, Marmara no era del todo feliz, pues tenía un deseo que ni su padre podía cumplir. En las noches de soledad, cuando el hombre descansaba después de trabajar, miraba las estatuas de grandes hombres, deseando poderseles parecer. Deseaba tener pecho plano, recta mandíbula y entre las piernas lo íntimo masculino; deseaba tener su profunda voz, fuertes brazos y parecer.
Pero como una chica se debía ver, y no daba tanto dolor en algunos días de trabajo y sudor. Esos días, amaba sus pechos, pelo y redondos ojos, feliz al verse tan femenina al gentilmente moverse, como muchos en las calles le decían al verle. Y así, estaba satisfecha viviendo con una felicidad incompleta. No hablaría de sus penas, pues no había nada que hacer por ellas.
Aun así, llegó el día en que la diosa del amor, feliz y elegante como era, vio la naturaleza del interior de la nena; viéndola en sufrimiento, decidió que debía hacer algo para detenerlo.
Con el poder de los dioses a su lado, creo algo divino con mármol. «Debes esculpir el cuerpo con el que deseas vivir,» la diosa le dijo antes de partir.
Al verla salir, Marmara empezó a hacer lo que en sus sueños había podido ver. Lejos de su padre pudo crear, esperando el día en que su arte pudiera respirar. No sabía lo que la diosa le había regalado, pero sabía que debía atesorarlo.
Al poco el mármol fue terminado, y al hombre allí Marmara miró con cuidado. Con el deber cumplido, la diosa volvió como un suspiro: «deseaste a veces poder ser un chico, y un chico te dejaré ser desde hoy mismo. Está en tu naturaleza amar lo que eres, y por ello te he dejado este presente, Marmaros.»
Y desde ese día, la persona pudo cambiar de cuerpo con un toque al corazón del mármol; ser una chica o un chico ya no era un dolor, sino algo que sentir con adoración.
Y así, al ver el ser dentro de los bloques, los escultores pueden decir «qué figura. Qué hermosura.»
I like to imagine the Theoi appear differently for different people. Their images, their energies, their voices. They appear in a way you imagine them and perceive them. They are deities beyond mortal comprehension even if we can grow closer to them. There is no "correct" interpretation. There is no one design. We can not see their real forms. We can see them as they appear to us, and they will appear to us at the level we imagine them to be.
Honestly, I think some gods can also surprise us in how they feel and are once we get to know them! It's so cool to see how our deities differ from how we picture them.
