the titans have made themselves known and they are ready to tear the world, and the demigods, asunder. stolen divinity, plots to awaken things better left forgotten, and a cruel reality of the constant threat of being forgotten is pushing the demigods to the brink. and yet, at every turn, they survive. how long can they continue to overcome the insurmountable odds? how long can they keep their heartsong alive?
HEARTSONGHQ : is a mxm, modern day greek demigod rpg. with influences from greek mythos, television shows, video games, and dungeons & dragons, we offer custom classes & kits, backstory integration, and quests to further raise the stakes and develop your characters! what are you waiting for? come join us today !
HEROISM — an 18+, modern day greek demigod roleplay about myth reborn, dangerous legacies, and the powerful decision to rise when the world needs heroes once more. we're focused on the character & relationship development through the writing process. this is NOT a tabletop or d&d inspired roleplay. we are currently still in the process of getting the blog up and running, but feel free to take a look around and ask any questions that you might have.
for centuries the gods of olympus have remained silent, retreating from a world where worship turned from them and new gods arose. they never truly left. no, instead, they were like a distant memory while their children still walked the world, scattered among ordinary lives while something ancient stirs quietly in their veins. they see what mortals can’t: shadows that move, whispers in empty places, creatures that flicker in and out of sight. these are proof that myth never truly died and that the monsters of old only learned how to hide. now, in the modern day, those monsters are emerging once more, breaking through the mist that has covered the eyes of mortals. something calls them from beyond, and as mortals begin to notice the fractures in reality, the demigods must rise together like the heroes of the golden age to uncover what is causing this awakening—failure means one thing: the last remnants of the gods’ age will fade and the world will belong to monsters.
LOCATION: THE TEMPLE.
TIME: EARLY MORNING.
A PRAYER TO HERA
Quinn can still feel the lingering touch of Hephaestus on his shoulders. The buzz of creation that picked at the edges of his mind. His brother had given him a warning, one that the son of Hera would not turn a blind eye too. The God of the Forge was looking out for him, and a part of Quinn hoped that maybe, just maybe, in a weird way it was also Hera reaching out. Not directly of course, but through her children, from one son to another.
"I was warned to stop neglecting you…"
He stands before his mother's visage, awkwardly shifting back and forth as though he were a child about to be scolded. He knows that she's upset. That she's been left waiting. The marble statue looming over him, the weight of her presence heavy even if the Queen herself was not physically there.
"I should have come when I first felt that… That distance growing between us. I tried. I've left offerings, and I've stopped by the temple. I'm sorry if my previous visits were lacking in decorum. Or if seeking out my big brother before coming to see you caused offense. I'm normally better at this… At flattery. At pomp and circumstance. When it comes to you though it feels like everything I know just goes right out the window."
Quinn hadn't meant disrespect, rather he felt like seeking her out would come across as wanting. As being a bother. A burden. A distraction. Perhaps a part of him even thought himself unworthy of seeking an audience. After all she'd already given him so much. From the moment he'd arrived his mother had showered him with gifts. She had given him a palace, power, purpose… What more could he ask for?
"I'm not really sure what to say here, so maybe… Maybe I just talk, and hope that you're listening."
That was the thing about prayers… A prayer wasn't a demand. It didn't have to involve asking for something or bartering. A prayer didn't need to be a deal. A prayer could be as simple as holding a conversation…
"You called on me. You raised me up to be one of your chosen. I took that mantle readily, eager to play hero. I didn't realize at the time the risks. Didn't realize the dangers. Or maybe I did…"
It's here that he kneels. Taking his place at the alter in front of her statue, his hands digging through his bag as he looks for what he had wanted to offer. The first piece is a ring. Ornate and beautiful. The iconography of it is that of a peacock feather. A massive sapphire sits in the center of the ring, smaller diamonds and emeralds surrounding it to give the shape of a feather. This had been the first thing Quinn had ever stolen. Taken from a former business partner of his father's, he'd swiped the ring as penance for the poor treatment he'd witnessed the man give his father. Carefully he places the ring on her alter.
"I've spent months training, sharpening my mind so that I could cut down anyone who stood in my way. I think at first I told myself it was for Adrian. To make sure that no one else ever got hurt like that. To make sure that the family stayed safe. To show you that I'm worthy, to prove myself to you and your cause, to prove that you made the right choice in picking me."
The next item he pulls from his bag of holding is a shield. A replica designed as a trap. It once held a curse inside of it, but has long been purged of any dark corruption. Now it was just a reminder…
"I've made mistakes yes, but I always recover."
He thinks of the museum. Of the quest for Achilles and Patroclus. He remembers picking up the shield that had been left behind as a trap. It had all been in effort of keeping the item away from their enemies, yet he hadn't looked for traps. Hadn't thought to be cautious. A curse had struck him. Quickly removed, but he had been struck none the less. He'd tried to be more cautious since then. Had worked to overcome that natural instinct to react first and question later. Looking down at the shield he gives a small nod before placing that down on the alter next to the ring. The small collection growing, like pieces of school work a child might hand off to their parent.
"I helped tear down a Tarrasque…"
A cheshire like grin begins to spread across his lips as he remembers the great monster that tore through Athens. He'd always wanted to fight a Kaiju, never thinking that dream would become a reality, that the chance would be presented to him on a golden platter.
"Were you watching?"
Hand dipping into his bag of holding for a third time, he summons the small fragment from the beast. It's minuscule in comparison to the size of the actual creature seeing as it fits in the palm of Quinn's hand. As he pulls the very tip of a claw out his eyes are wide, unflinching, staring up at the statue. Looking directly into those marble eyes as if it was the Queen herself. His own gaze has a hint of mysticism in it, wide and pleading. As if he's begging for her to say yes, that she had been watching, that she had seen it all. Like a child begging for attention, or perhaps a kitten pleading for scraps.
"Did you see when I held back that fucking thing with just my mind. I thought my psyche might shatter, the pressure of it bearing down…" Hysterical laughter bubbles up and out of him, the insanity of it all taking him over. He could have died that day, he could have been swallowed whole. He fought with everything he had to hold the line. In the moment he'd never even considered death a possibility. Never thought that he might lose. He'd been so sure of his survival, of their victory, of his victory. Hubris… Hubris was the downfall of many a demigod.
"I could feel the heat coming off of its nasty breathe as that hungry maw tried swallowing me whole. It didn't get me though, and I made sure to leave my mark. Made sure that it would remember me."
The memory is as clear as day to him. Can still feel the recoil from the psionic bombardment of his sniper rifle. Can see the flash of pure pearlescent energy as he lay waste to that hellish beast. He'd unlocked something that day. If only for a moment, one glorious moment. A power he'd yet to reclaim, a destructive force unlike anything he thought himself capable of. Carefully palming the fragment he'll lay this final offering down next to the others. Touch lingering on the piece for a moment longer as though questioning if he could truly part with it. Just like the last two objects though he lets go, bringing his hands to his lap before continuing.
"I really do think at first it was just about protecting others… I really want to believe that's still the case. That I'm in this to protect. To defend. Maybe… Maybe deep down it's there… But I think that we both know my mind well enough that that answer isn't quite right."
The desire to protect? When it came to his family? Yes. When it came to his friends? Of course. To the man he loved? Without a doubt. But it wasn't what pushed him forward. It wasn't what's been driving him to the point of exhaustion each day as he trained his gifts. It's not the motivation that pushes him to perfection. Saving others, threats lurking at every corner, literal titans waiting to pounce, all of these were factors. The real driving force though? Power. Perfection. Quinn hungers for it. To feel that destructive force in his hands. To wield his divinity like the weapon he knows it to be. That's what pushes him. That's the truth that resonates so clearly.
"Does that worry you Mother?"
She has to know the truth… She has to know what pushes him… A mother always knows.
"Does it scare you like it should scare me?"
Should being the key word there. He wasn't afraid of this hunger. He wasn't afraid of this desperate need to do more, to be more. Quinn Hargrove had always known these pressures. He'd always known the weight of perfection. It has clawed at him since he was a boy. Hargroves don't crack, they endure. For years he has welcomed these feelings in with open arms. Why would that change now? He'd gladly take it all in, and use it to push himself further than ever before. He would harness each and every fragment of hunger until the pressure refined them into perfection… Like diamonds.
"I'm getting off track…"
He'd come here on her request, yes. A warning had been given, a hint to call home. So he prayed… It was an attempt to fix that growing distance between them. But more importantly it was a boy hoping to see that he was on the right path. That his efforts weren't in vain. That he was living up to whatever lofty aspirations she hoped he would achieve…
"Queen Hera… Mother… Mom… Has your little lion cub made you proud?"
When last Hera arrived at the temple at the best of one of her sons, it was with Iris to herald her arrival. The messenger goddess was not present; Iris's commanding voice didn’t echo over the temple’s stones. It was quiet, still, until the only sound was the faint rippling of the candles, the wind over the rafters; the gods did not present themselves for idle prayers, only for intention. For those who supplicated themselves before them, and willed them into an audience.
In that quiet stillness, an amber light filtered from one of the temple’s windows - wreathing Quinn, the offerings, and Hera’s statue in a warm halo. Iridescent blue-green feathers float like falling embers or motes of dust - drifting - and then fading as they reach Quinn, and the altar. Fading into gold filigree: the ring disappears first, followed by the shield.
There’s the sound of silk rustling, she who bears the crown that crowns all others, she whose word bins vows, whose gaze weighs every oath. Who watches every cradle and every marriage bed, who walks beside every woman from her first breath to her last.
The keeper of sacred bonds, the flame at the heart of law. Queen of Queens, Ruler of Olympus, the High Mother. Now - a woman - just like any other. One who’d been born into circumstances she couldn’t control, forced into a marriage she hated, then made to hold witness as she was humiliated again and again. Reduced by the same church that called her unwed sisters virgins, that claimed her as petty and vengeful because she refused to claim victimhood for a shield.
Their contempt and their fear were not unfamiliar to her, if nothing else, she’d come to make use of these as well. Both to take power and to hold it required the use of every weapon in a person’s arsenal, a goddess was no different - perhaps even more so over her brothers. She understood what it meant to hunger for power, and while the Queen would lower herself for no one, Hera placed her hand upon Quinn’s head instead.
Her thumb brushed the crown of his head affectionately before she began.
“I have watched you from your first breath, and I’ll be there at your last. Whenever it comes time for you to draw it.” There are brief flashes that flit across Quinn’s mind’s eye as Hera draws some of these memories to the surface, fleeting instances of parental pride. Small and great. First steps. First words. In the beat of an instant he felt her irritation in moments where Quinn was spoiled by his father, but the relief underneath that someone was there where she could not. A glimpse of the interior of a trunk, Hera’s laugh as it popped open and Quinn’s kidnappers saw him untied and yawning. Quick and brief.
“You’ve always been entertaining, but even then I knew you’d be great.” The tone shifts, and there’s another memory, one she projects, rather than seeks. She’s looking at Quinn and gathering the corrupted oneiroi in her arms, the love that comforted her through Zeus’s vengeance.
“Back then, my oaths kept me from speaking plainly, but I only wanted you to kill what was corrupting her, so we might have brought Themis’s treachery to light, together.” So much misfortune had befallen the demigods since then. “Instead, you used that power to save Zeus’s heart, to save Ganymede, rather than mine.” Hera’s hand slipped from the crown of her son’s head.
“Understand, I don’t fault you. You’ve grown, changed. I believe that if you were placed in the same circumstances today, things would have ended differently.” She was smaller now, lacking the grandeur that one might expect. And yet, her presence was undeniable: static under Quinn’s skin. “But my own sons took the life of the only romantic love I’ve ever known.” Hera was not ignorant about what was said about her, but there was a gratitude that came with Quinn’s defense that she might be different. It gave her hope, but hope had failed her enough times. She, like him, would choose power.
“You have my pride, my acknowledgment, and my blessing. But my heart is cold, and only my duty remains. As the Queen of the Gods, and as High Mother - war is upon us - so I must be once more what Olympus demands.” She stood at a greater height, a breath from shedding a mortal visage for her true divinity instead. Luminous, regal, poised, and statuesque.
“May you fight with the ferocity of my daughters, Eris and Enyo. With the strength of my sons, Ares and Hephaestus. …and when your power divides you from your friends, when your enemies target those you love because you’re too great a threat, remember me. Remember that I’m proud, and I hope your strength is enough to bring you comfort. In the end, our power is the only thing any of us have.” As she spoke, Quinn would feel her boon, the blessing of his mother; though he’d not come to her with his hands out. Expectant. He’d come with a summon after her behest, but his reverence would be rewarded - as was his due.
She turned from him, stepped through the border of the amber halo, and faded like the motes of peacock feathers and filigree. With a final note, her voice resonated from somewhere within Quinn’s chest, warm within his breast, and the same amber glow lingered beneath his shirt as Hera spoke from the heart.
“Be proud of what you’ve accomplished, it’s more than most will ever claim. My lion is a cub no more: that was all I wished to say.”
at this time, we have no intentions of adding more gods. we have a large roster as it is and while expanding it could be amazing, it's also a lot of work that takes us away from our storylines we're progressing.
well met & welcome dell! your journey to divinity begins now. may the song in your veins sing to the skies and fall upon the ears of the gods ! continue forth, awakened demigod, and follow these next steps to begin your journey in the divine!
( vinnie hacker, homosexual, male + he/him, fighter ) «—◦—→ well met, holden vance! the divine born child of hecate. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 25 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a/an occupation and were living in new york city. history and myth will remember them for their charisma, independence, and adaptability, but will also magnify their recklessness, emotional avoidance, and quiet bitterness if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.
well met & welcome crow! your journey to divinity begins now. may the song in your veins sing to the skies and fall upon the ears of the gods ! continue forth, awakened demigod, and follow these next steps to begin your journey in the divine!
( taylor zakhar perez, bisexual, cis-man + he/him, fighter (rogue) ) «—◦—→ well met, FELIX ROOK! the divine born child of ERIS. your name sings in our ears! it’s been 27 years and now they have answered the song in their veins. before they answered the song, they were a TATTOO APPRENTICE / ARTIST and were living in BROOKLYN, NEW YORK. history and myth will remember them for their CREATIVITY, JOY-SEEKING TENDENCIES, and MISCHIEVOUSNESS, but will also magnify their IMPULSIVITY, OVER-INDULGENCE, and ROMANTICISM if it causes them to falter. now it is time for the world to sing their name with them.
The temple was quiet tonight. It felt… alive with a low, steady hum that thrummed in Hasan’s heart in time with it's beat. Every brazier along the temple walls burned low and gold, their light pooling gently across the beautiful floors and the statues of the gods and goddesses.
Hasan crept up to his mother's statue and knelt in front of it, the firelight painting his tan skin in amber and rose. His staff of healing rested across his knees. It was a beautiful piece of work that Hasan couldn't help but appreciate and wonder how long it took someone to craft and how much effort they put in it. The temple had such a relaxing atmosphere. That quiet warmth that wasn’t scary or unsettling, but something deeper.
His hands trembled only a little as he pressed his palms together and bowed his head.
“Hey… mom? Hestia? Mother of the Hearth? I don't really know what you prefer to be called." Hasan admitted softly with a chuckle. “It's been awhile, huh? Sorry for not coming here as often as I probably should. Considering circumstances and all.”
The words came slow, deliberate, the kind of prayer meant to be felt rather than heard.
“I’ve been… busy. Trying to do good, trying to help, trying to run a business… but I think I finally hit the point where ‘trying’ isn’t cutting it anymore. I'm sure you heard, but we lost a demigod recently. And I know I'm not the most experienced guy here… I would like to try to keep that from happening again.”
He glanced at his staff, running his thumb over a groove in the wood. “People are dying out there. Good people. And not all of them, or their families, are ready." He gets a little choked up at that last part. A little girl briefly flashing before his mind before he took a deep breath.
He looked back toward the statue, his reflection warped and trembling in the glow from the torches and hearths in the temple. “I want this staff to carry your warmth. To hold that little spark that keeps people fighting and alive. When someone’s right there on the edge… when they can feel death breathing down their neck, or even if death has it's grip on them briefly… I want them to feel what I feel right now. Safe. Home. Like they’ve got one last reason to hang on.”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, then laughed quietly. The kind that cracked with emotion more than humor. “I, uh… I gave something up, too. The Comfort Pot. Signed it over to someone who’ll take care of it. Someone who’ll keep the kitchen open, feed the locals and travelers, make sure that place stays what it’s meant to be. It sucked at first when I considered it… but I realized I wasn't losing a home. I was changing the location of one.”
His smile softened. “That was my home, you know? My little corner of peace. But I can’t split myself anymore. If I’m gonna do this? If I’m gonna really protect people like I want to… I’ve gotta give it everything I got." His throat tightened, but he kept talking, voice low and rough around the edges. “So I let it go. Signed it over to someone I trust. Someone who’ll take care of it better than I could right now. Feels weird, like I just gave away a piece of my heart. But maybe that’s what an offering’s supposed to feel like, right? Not easy. Just right.”
The fire cracked, a single pop echoing through the stone chamber. Hasan’s fingers tightened on his staff. “All I’m asking is… help me make this count. Let this staff carry something more than my hands can give. When someone's close to the edge, or perhaps briefly crossed over it… let me and this staff help me guide them back to us. Back to camp."
the cracks, the hearth at the base of hestia's statue seemingly mulling over hasan's request as he laid his staff before his mother, offered his restaurant, and asked for his instrument of choice to be further blessed. at first, it's only that. but as the flame burns, it goes from warm to... comforting. fire with heat but only enough to ease the bones, not scorch them. she comes with the fragrant scents of comfort, and as the goddess steps from the flames, the rich smell of that which brings hasan the most comfort accompanies her.
the offer was made, and accepted. the comfort pot, whoever it had been signed to, would now fall under hestia's dominion - and those who might serve her. a good thing, possibly. but in the days to come hasan will get the news of the booming success that has come over the restaurant and will - hopefully - be brought a measure of comfort in knowing something so important to him is now in safe hands.
"you don't need to rely on some tool or object, my boy, you are enough." she moved the staff to the side, gently easing his fingers from the grip before she moved into a kneel so that the goddess might bring herself to sit eye level with her son. "i know you carry a burden that few others can understand," her hand found his face, her thumb brushed his cheek, "but if you should ever feel that you are somehow not enough... remember this... you are my son. inheritor of the very flame that prometheus once stole, that fire is more precious than gold." her free hand found his chest and rest over his heart. "you are more precious than any staff, stone, or something so material."
there's a warmth that spreads from the places where the goddess touches, hasan's worried mind, his beating heart, each gets to feel the press of her divinity as her son's own heartsong stirs in response. like reaching for like, warmth comforting warmth.
"a staff can be broken, lost, stolen, or rendered inefficient. but so long as you hold my flame, you and your allies will always find your way home." she stands, the only touch that lingers are the tips of her fingers as they slip from the high bone of his cheek. "you only need to be willing to light the way, be well, my son, and know that i am watching, and i am proud." she steps back into the forge, hands folding in front of her before she seems to tip her head in quiet respect, the flames surge - and the goddess is gone.
HASAN'S CHILD OF THE HEART POOL HAS PERMANENTLY INCREASED BY 25 AND A NEW SPELL HAS BEEN ADDED TO HIS GRIMOIRE!
LOCATION: THE TEMPLE.
TIME: EARLY MORNING.
A PRAYER TO HEPHAESTUS
Quinn starts his journey in the forges of camp. He carries with him stalks of fennel that he had collected from the grove. In one of his classes he'd been told a story regarding the use of fennel in ancient greece. Of how the stalks burned slowly and would be used to transfer fire from one place to another. Of how it would be used to light forges…
Taking the fennel he approaches the flames of the forge, carefully lighting the stalks. Letting the embers catch and start to burn before he picks it back up.
The journey to the temple is not a quick one. The weather has turned poor, with wind and bits of rain threatening to put out the flame. Quinn does his best to ensure the embers stay safe though. Using his powers to create a shield around the makeshift torch as he marches through camp and up towards the temple of the gods.
When he steps inside he looks across the statues. As always his gaze lands first on the statue of his Mother. He smiles at the statue and gives a nod in greeting, but then continues his search until he finds him…
Hephaestus…
"I was told it would be best to seek your aid Lord Hephaestus."
He kneels before the statue. The stalks are still alight, burning brightly even after the long walk. Carefully placing the torch on the alter. He thinks to himself for a moment. How best to approach this. How to explain what he seeks. And in this moment Quinn believes it best to start from the beginning. The God might be busy, but he would need all the details to fix this mess.
"A few weeks ago Athens had nearly been lost. The Chalice of the gods corrupted by Arachne. We hoped that once the cup had been returned to Ganymede that it would be cleansed of the malice it had been infused with. I retrieved the cup myself, and saw it safely returned home. Things seemed fine at first."
They should have checked back in. They should have made sure. A prayer at least, Gany had mentioned how few people came to talk to him. Quinn would change that, he'd made a promise after all. But what was in the past could not be changed, instead he could only hope to do better.
"The other night I spotted Lord Ganymede, he looked ill. Complexion pale. With the briefest moment of clarity through True Sight given by an elixir I was able to spot traces of that same corruption. I acted rashly, not wanting to risk waiting a moment longer. I attempted to purge whatever it was from his body and the cup. My efforts were aided by the Divine, and Ganymede was healed. He regained his strength, but the chalice… The chalice remains sick."
Looking towards the fennel his eyes get lost in the flame. Fire often was associated with destruction. With pain. Yet here in this moment he's reminded of Brad. Of how fire could purify as well. Closing his eyes and taking a calming breathe. He is not sure if the Lord of the forge will hear his call… He can only have Faith that the Gods are with them.
"Lord Hephaestus I pray to you… Not for my own benefit, but for that of Olympus, for our family. Please my Lord, please help fix the Chalice."
at first, there's only the soft hiss of the rain outside the temple's walls and the faint crackle of quinn's fennel torch as it's laid within the basin of various offerings at the base of hephaestus's statue. then, the offering erupts in flames as the brazier is suddenly filled with the molten fire of a forge; the ever-burning torch of creation.
and as it does, the temperature shifts into an almost oppressive haze. something akin to a weighted blanket falling over quinn's shoulders as the miasma of heat, smoke, and incense pollutes the temple completely. the inferno within the brazier continues, suffocating in its intensity - and yet - quinn's breathing is unencumbered, and that weight that he feels is more akin to the hands of an elder brother neatly landing upon his shoulders.
quinn will recall that hephaestus once sided with his mother and was punished for it, brothers born and cut from the same cloth that could not have gone down more different paths.
there's the ringing of an anvil, thunderous and loud.
boom.
boom.
boom.
with each strike the very walls of the temple seem to quiver and shake, as hephaestus from his forge - unseen - strikes at something across the aether. the flames of the brazier burn into something almost scarlet, deep into a crimson with shifting filaments of bright maroon and radiant gold.
again the hammer falls as heat pulses from the altar.
it ceases suddenly, and that weight quinn felt is replaced by the god's own calloused hands as he stands behind the son of hera.
"i created the chalice at my father's command, perfect in its design... this should not have come to pass. you were right to bring it to my attention." the grip is warm, steady, grounding. through it quinn can feel... ideas? little sparks of innovation that crackled in the periphery of his mind's eye - then the god lifted his hands - and those little sparks were gone. "well done."
as quickly as the flames erupted, the brazier went cold, the offerings left within now consumed completely. through the finality of fading smoke, quinn will hear his elder brother's voice once more:
"some advice? do not neglect our mother for much longer. she's not known for subtlety."
well met & welcome b! your journey to divinity begins now. may the song in your veins sing to the skies and fall upon the ears of the gods ! continue forth, awakened demigod, and follow these next steps to begin your journey in the divine!
( Nicholas Galitzine, bisexual, cis male, he/him, Mage ) «—◦—→ Well met, Lord William Whitewood, Earl of WarWick,! The divine-born child of Hephaestus. Your name sings in our ears! It’s been thirty-one years, and now you have answered the song in your veins. Before you answered the call, you were an Earl of WarWick, was his whole job, and you were living in Warwick, London. History and myth will remember you for kindness, loyalty, and quirkiness but will also magnify your stupidity, stubbornness, and ignorance. Now it is time for the world to sing your name with you.
well met & welcome meg! your journey to divinity begins now. may the song in your veins sing to the skies and fall upon the ears of the gods ! continue forth, awakened demigod, and follow these next steps to begin your journey in the divine!
( Michael B. Jordan, bisexual, cis male, he/him, fighter ) «—◦—→ Well met, Dominic Powers! The divine-born child of Nike. Your name sings in our ears! It’s been thirty-eight years, and now you have answered the song in your veins. Before you answered the call, you were an NBA player for the Golden State Warriors and were living in San Francisco, California. History and myth will remember you for your drive, magnetic presence, and the kind of generosity that lingers long after you're gone, but will also magnify your vanity, stubbornness, and the pressure you put on yourself to never miss the mark if they cause you to falter. Now it is time for the world to sing your name with you.
lo! death has reared himself a throne
⸻ in a strange city lying alone
in a chamber dark enough to be a tomb and in a state catatonic enough to be a corpse, prospero sat cross-legged before a small grave stele, eyes distant.
the stele was stone and gem, a blank canvas except for the engravings he had personally inscribed upon it of his father’s symbols: a skull, a helm, and a black dog.
his hands were scrubbed raw and coarse from the handiwork, but a grave marker felt the appropriate arcane focus for this ritual, for this communion. an anchor, but also an entrance. a doorway.
there had been numerous doorways of significance in his life.
the first was the one he’d always remember: the large steel doorway that led to the emergency unit his mother worked at, always surrounded by a flurry of activity, a structure which had witnessed a thousand deaths but also a thousand births. the second was more metaphorical: the doorway between the living and the dead, that amorphous boundary he had crossed twice, once to enter and once to exit, the final doorway amid two worlds – or so it seemed.
he himself served as a door. through his powers, he could gently creak open that doorway between the living and the dead to let a soul pass, for the briefest of moments, feeding it life to reap the deaths of his enemies. the keys to his father’s realm were his fingers, a puppeteer’s.
but prospero had been afraid for a long time that the doorway would swallow him whole. the entrance to the underworld was a door, yes, but it could also be a mouth, a maw, the open throats of a three-headed dog. he had read the stories. eurydice, brought back to the fields from a glance of orpheus’s eyes. spirits trying to escape, all in utter vain. he had also lived the stories. the souls of his mother and his sister, lost without a trace, untrackable through any and all means, and himself, an escaped soul.
that meant hell could demand him back. meant hades could demand him back. he had not reached out to his father with an offering after all this time because he feared it would be a knock on the door of underworld, misinterpreted as a gesture to invite him back in. perry did not want to go back. not to the grave, not to the shadows, not when he had two people and the entire world to live for now.
so he does not knock. instead, as prospero lights the candles around the stele with a flick of his hand, he is cordially inviting the lord of the underworld here to this sanctioned space with an offering. what kind? well, the simplest kind. taking out his misericorde, he cuts a gash across his open palm and lets it bleed onto the grave stele, divine blood upon a holy idol. and he is thankful for the pain, for the blood, both reminders that he is alive.
“father,” his voice rises like smoke from a candle, smooth and sinuous. “i have encountered a city built of death.” athens, blood seeped into every cobblestone. “i have walked her streets as they gleamed with both divine and unholy blood, guided countless souls beyond their mortal agony, and slain the monsters that were wrongfully freed from your prison. i have felt the death of my lover’s brother, a relative of my own in a sense, and mourned alongside the others.”
“i have exhausted all the funeral rites and yet it does not feel enough. there are so many dead, so many we could not save. like … mother, like lorelai.” all the lines lead back to them. prospero’s regret, his dark roots of vengeance. “i cannot let it happen to adam, to stephanos.” he squeezes his hand to a fist, let the blood flow even more vehemently. “i have made a pact in the past, to a dark power unbeknownst to me. i rescind that infernal contract. instead, let there be a new one in devotion of you. grant me your strength of the grave and the borrowed life you gave me will be spent avenging our foes, our enemies, those who wish to harm us.”
prospero opens the doorway.
“hades,” he calls, his stygian aspect flaring, “i offer myself as your discipline, your aspirant, your vessel.”
with the final note of prospero's invocation, the chamber began to tremble with an immediate weight. a heavy, oppressive air bore down with the sounds of a myriad of things that quickly rose into a crescendo. the foundation upon which prospero kneeled, rumbled, the air became thick with the scent of soil - no - graveyard dirt. prospero, a prince of the underworld, a man caught somewhere between life, death, and the liminal spaces between. as the ground shook there was the sound of coins falling, cascading in an array one after another as the flame of each candle sputtered, bent low, and then burned a sickly black.
in the eternal dark, prospero would feel the many hands of death reach for his visage. their cool grip brushing his skin with a malevolent desire to feel, to return, to be given the chance that none before prospero has. hades is not fond of letting any travel in and out of his realm, one cannot hold one foot in the grave forever. you can either step into the abyss, or away from it, you cannot wander its edge for long.
with a sudden halt, all sensation stopped. the rumble, the coins, the scents, the feelings and in their absence came a long silence that stretched with a fathomless weight of its own. then, the click of a pair of boots as they came up from behind, but there was only the sound of him. hades shrouded beneath his cap, one could never know just how close the king of the underworld was at any given time.
prospero, was no longer alone.
with a film that pulled back the shadows, hades' cap was removed and the silhouette of his form loomed over his son. the outline of his features clear, the strength of them cut cleanly by the sharp features of the king. hades stood behind the stele, one hand resting upon it, grip curling around the instrument. he would take this with him when he left. a salt-and-pepper beard, dark hair slicked back, a face that had known wars and losses beyond reckoning. the black of his coat drank in the twisted candlelight; gold gleamed brilliant at his cuffs, worn and understated. a king in perpetual motion, movement, and mourning. the one, of the three, who was never permitted to stop.
for a harsh beat, he said nothing. he looked from his son's blood upon the stone to the man in question, inspecting every detail of prospero's face as if he were holding a mirror and studying his own. "do you know why there are so few temples in my name?" he queried, taking a pace around prospero and the measure of his son, "because the world has always feared death, and what it means to welcome him into their lives. still, in the end, they always beg. there are no deals to be made between death and mortal men."
"but you are no mere mortal, you are my son. too many discard the sanctity of a soul upon its death, as if their wills and desires are no longer deserving of respect. you've helped countless where others would have walked away; the world will never see it as we do, as our family does, but for every war they fight we battle twice as hard, and lose twice as much."
he knelt to eye level, gaze fixed and obsidian, "your pact still holds, if you wish to forge a new one with me then right what you've broken: your mother's soul, lorelai's soul - they are mine by right, but you - my son - bartered them away. let this be a lesson: choose your terms more carefully next time." he stood, there was a displeasure over his son's former actions, but clear hope in the man that the other had become since arrive at camp. "a boon-" hades offered, "and..." a softer beat as he raised his hand and the cold slip of his embrace seemed to wrap around prospero - smoke from the black-flamed candles filled his lungs, lifting the man from his place on the ground as the chamber burned to life.
"thank you, for services rendered."
another beat, there was more he wished to say, but hades remained silent instead as the rush of power subsided and prospero was released.
and with that, hades vanished - leaving only the scent of asphodel and smoke in his wake. the stele was gone, and prospero was alone once more.
This wasn't the first time Tobias stood in front of the temple of the gods, contemplating. It had never been like him to ask for help. Back when he was a kid with his brothers, they took what they needed, and relied only on each other. They couldn't even expect their own mother pull through for them. For as long as he could remember parents were a nonfactor for him, a fairytale creature that other kids got to have. Protectors, providers, teachers, and guides. He never got that, so now that he was at camp, now that his own father, his blood father invited him home, why was it so hard for him to reach out to him? To talk to him. Perhaps pray for a guidance he'd never been afforded growing up.
With his back pack slung over his shoulder, entered the temple. His heart raced, he hadn't stepped foot in there since... well, since he'd seen his father last. When he drank the ambrosia. Now he was back. It didn't take him long to find his father's statue. With a deep intake of breath, all he could do for a long moment was look.
"So..." he began, eyes once full of pride, of daring and fire, were downcast to the ground. "Long time no see, Dad," he finally said, rubbing at the back of his neck, before forcing his gaze up to meet the stone gaze. "Apparently it's customary to come to these things baring gifts. Can't say I have much but..." the first thing he pulled out was a gold watch. "I swiped this off of a drunk frat guy when I was ten years old. I was going to sell it for rent money, but my brother let me keep it, said even I deserved something with style," he chuckled. "It was the first thing I ever nicked. Assuming the god of thieves would respect that." He let his eyes settle on the time piece, something that reminded him of his brother.
"I'm not sure how much you know about me, Sir, but I'm not really the type of guy to ask for things. As a kid I had to take whatever I could, or just make due. So coming here, asking for help from someone I just met... it didn't feel right." He stopped for a moment, looking around to see if anyone was around. He'd never been the religious type, praying on his hands and knees, submitting himself to a higher power? It was going to take some getting used to.
"Anyway," he reached in his back pack and pulled out something else, a sandwich wrapped in foil with the name "Eddie V's" printed on top. Unwrapping it, he revealed a grilled fish sandwich witch all of the fixings. "Back when I was a kid, my brother's used to always go to this one sandwich spot whenever we were going through something, or needed to hash something out. We'd go, order a sandwich, sit on the side of the street and just eat, and talk." He shrugged, not sure if it was sacrilegious to bring a sandwich into a temple like this. "I figured it would be the kind of a thing I'd do with a dad if..." he shook his head, not wanting to go there. "I got you a grilled cod sandwich because I read somewhere you like fish," he pulled out another one, a chicken sandwich. "I got this for me... but I know it's sacrilegious to eat in a temple. So I'll save it for later."
Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he let out a breath. "I... almost died the other day. At a quest. Honestly I'm ninety percent sure I was dead for a split second. I also almost got the guy next to me killed," he grit his teeth, eyes falling to the ground again in shame. "It was all my own fault. I was useless out there, Dad. For half the fight I was just a sitting duck, getting my ass kicked. For a demigod of speed and traveling, I was stationary." It hadn't been the first time his speed had failed him. "Some of those guys spent the entire fight just to keep me from dying, when they could have been doing other things." Samson, Lochlan, even his own kid brother had to take time out of the fight to worry about him. "I honestly don't know what I want from you, Sir. If anything. I just wish I could be stronger for them, faster for them..." he pinched the bridge of his nose as he got to the thick of it, "More cunning. I don't want to be the reason my team has to slow down, and that night I was. All because I was clumsy and stupid." He'd never thought of himself that way before, "I know I'm not an idiot, Dad, I know that. Guess I could use some guidance from you, if you've got time. Some... help." That last word came out strained, tentative.
The shrine remained silent. No rush of wind through the temple’s stones, no flicker of torchlight reacting to unseen breath. The incense curled upward in lazy, disinterested spirals, the scent of olive and smoke thick but unchanging as the watch and the food tobias had pilfered and procured was left untouched. The statue stood unmoved, the god's likeness watching with unblinking, stone-set eyes - neither welcoming nor cold, simply there. It was not meant as a rejection, but neither was it a comfort. Just silence, one open to interpretation. It was as if the cunning he prayed to had already weighed his words, his offerings, and found no need to speak.
