AN: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA why
(aka the mythology au that no one asked for, because EVEN THOUGH IM NOT PLAYING THIS ROUND FOR THE QFLC I WROTE SOMETHING. Using prompts 4, 5, and 8.)
Total word count: Somewhere at 2.7k lol
Did you know the gods live among us?
They live and walk among us, see -
The tired person, gorgeous, striking in the the way the light plays across the panes of their face, shadowing and highlighting the contours of their brow bones, the apple of their cheeks. The one with the low cut shirt that still doesn't tell you if they're male or female. That's a deity of sex and fertility, working as a stripper in the nightclub across town.
That one over there. A tired old man sitting at the bus stop, holding a wooden walking stick with a peculiar dog head carved on the top - he is a god of the hunt. His dogs have all died, but if you walk by, you can hear them, sometimes. Their high, faint whines.
In war zones, you'll see gods of war, whatever the religion they come from, dressed in uniform, or in civilian clothes. They miss the days where war was fought with hands instead of guns, someone once told me. It was more personal back then.
And ah, that one there, walking up to the little girl with the peanut allergy - yes, the one eating that cake - that's - oh.
Before Rome was ever built, the god of Life and the god of Death stood together under the shade of a Yew tree. In their full forms, they may have blinded the few cattle animals milling about, and certainly driven the shepherd tending his flock to insanity.
Their full forms were not something for the human mind - they were incomprehensible, shining beings of power, of strength, and their individual aspects would have both terrified the man to the brink of sheer animal instincts of fight or flight, while simultaneously coaxing him closer to them in wonder.
So they stood in the shade of a Yew tree in approximate human versions of themselves: lesser, but still more.
"The times are changing," one of them, the shorter one with vivid green eyes said. He plucked at his simple brown tunic distractedly, staring into the horizon and past that all at once.
The taller one snorted. "Time never changes. You, however," he said, then trailed off. He shook his head, scowling, and then stalked off deeper into the shade. In one instance he was there, and in the next he was gone, as insubstantial as the morning mist.
The one left behind smiled, then wandered off into the sunlight, deciding to take a closer look at the creatures the shepherd was prodding. In his footsteps, tiny shoots of green rapidly rose up from the trodden earth, reaching high into the air, then unfurled their buds to flower into brilliant splashes of colours against the green grass before withering just as quickly, curling up to return to the earth in moments. The most predominant of the transitory flowers appeared to be lilies.
A century later, the one with green eyes says to a young girl inquiring if he would like to come into the temple, "Oh, please, call me Hadrian."
Nevermind him. He's - different. Not very approachable, I suppose. No, I don't know him that well. Or I do, but only parts. Small facets of him that aren't all that friendly.
Let's move on, shall we? Ah. Gods? They've always been around.
Since the start of humanity, when homo sapiens began to think and believe, people have worshipped gods and goddesses, deities and spirits. They've existed since they were made, were given a name.
Major gods in any religion always seem to revolve around the same thing: power.
Those that controlled could reach up from the depths of the sea, or thundered through the sky, or could make men strong and warlike - they were all worshipped and remembered. The tales of their deeds, the story of those they helped or cursed carried along coasts by music, by whispers.
Which brings us to the thing that humans worship more than power.
Stories.
What do you mean? People love stories. The sob stories, the scary ones. Why do you think the Greek gods are still remembered? They're not known for their power, but the things that they have done.
There's this one story that doesn't get told very often. I like it, though.
It's my favourite one.
It is nearing the end of the nineteenth century, and as Hadrian stands still for an aspiring artist to paint his lean figure, his eyes wander to the window, open to let the cooling outside air into the room. On the breeze is the scent of flowers and dry grass due to the coming summer. The sun is half-mast, sailing closer every minute to the distant horizon.
In his position by the window, with his right hand set on the pedestal topped with assortments of flowers in a plain, dark green vase, and his head twisted to the side slightly, so that the artist can capture his three-quarter profile, he can see the property's grounds - sprawling and meticulously cared for.
"I find the structure of your face very eye-catching," the artist told him before they started, "but allow me to paint your eyes as well. They are very beautiful. A very vivid green."
Now, she tells him "Would you like to sit down for some time? You must be tired."
Hadrian blinks, but smiles politely and agrees, careful not to look at the zinnia flower he had given her that she tucked behind her ear in some kind of suggestion. When he glances back out the window he frowns.
There's a dark shadow stealing away across the grounds, coming closer and closer to the house of his host. It looks suspicious, and in his chest he can feel an odd burning sensation. Unpleasant, and likely not boding well for the occupants of the house.
"I apologise, Ginevra, but did you expect someone other than me to visit you tonight?" He asks.
The artist shakes her head. His frown becomes deeper. "Then, the person outside is not an expected guest. I do not think that he means well, either - he is acting rather suspiciously." Likely a thief, Hadrian almost says. He taps his finger on the wooden pedestal, then draws the hand back to his side.
With a few precise steps, he is peering at the intruder, who is now rushing along the sides of the house, crouched. His hand fingers the heavy curtains that frame the window, the only outward sign of his unease.
"Oh - oh no, they are not. I will inform the household staff immediately." She says, then, "If you would please excuse me," as she leaves the room without waiting for his response. The thick wooden doors carved with intricate carvings thuds shut behind her heavily. Just as well - the man is already prying open a window and crawling into the house, not some distance away.
Hadrian is forced to wait.
He does not wait for long, it feels like. There is a commotion downstairs. Heavy footsteps rushing about back and forth. Quicker, lighter ones in the hall outside, and suddenly the door is bursting open. Hadrian steps away from the window when the man he saw not moments before enters the room, an ugly snarl on his face.
The man is tackled down by someone else behind him, and in the ensuing scuffle, Hadrian backs away, into a corner of the room, pressing himself against the bookshelf. He ignores the wood digging into his back in favour of watching the men wrestle on the ground with rising anxiety.
The thief rolls the both of them, and they knock into the pedestal and it and the vase of flowers on top of it crashing to the ground.
No, no.
The artist was just that, an artist. There wasn't anything between them. Just because he was in a lady's drawing room without a chaperone in the Victorian era doesn't mean there was anything untoward going on.
This god is all subtlety. It's something he learned from humans, see.
You have to remember the flowers. They spring under his bare feet to bloom and die. The translation of his powers from the metaphysical to the physical is less noticeable when he has proper foot wear, but the effect of it is still there, still present.
The flowers - the flowers have meaning.
In a brief moment, Hadrian catches sight of the face of the one defending the house:
The vase tips over as the pedestal sways alarmingly, and flowers spill out of it, falling to the hardwood floor soundlessly. A bright one catches his eyes, a sprig of lilacs slipping out of the vase just as the man fighting the thief pins the other beneath them, a scowl on his face. The sprig falls down, caressing the man's face with purple petals, contrasting with his narrowed maroon eyes, and lands softly on the forehead of the thief.
He raises his arm and punches the thief - a glancing blow along the temple - and the force of the punch knocks the man's head to the side, sending the lilac fluttering once again, but with less of a distance to go before it rests on the floor. The thief's grip on the man with maroon eyes slackens, then the hand lets go entirely of the man's lapels to fall gracelessly to the floor.
The winner of the short match looks up to Hadrian, breathing heavily.
The vase crashes to the floor a moment later. His anxiety crests, high tide under the full moon.
"Hello again," Hadrian says, looking at the god of death in the eye.
The other god smiles.
"Call me Thomas for the moment. The people of this house know this vessel as such." He says, straightening up to stand to his full height. Tall and broad shouldered, Thomas stands almost a full head above Hadrian, and looks far more threatening even with the careful distance they keep between themselves. The unconscious man by his feet, the sharp pieces of the broken vase, and the wet flowers scattered everywhere make for a rather strange image. Contrasting and somehow unnerving. "And what do you go by now, my dear god of life?"
Hadrian purses his lips. "Hadrian. Still."
Thomas tilts his head. "How am I to know if you do not change your name when I do not see you for decades at a time?"
"I was hoping not to see you for a while yet," Hadrian replies delicately.
Thomas smiles, stepping delicately away from the mess that he had made. "A shame, then, that death will always follow after life." He comes closer to Hadrian, eyeing the unfinished painting as he passes it by. Offering a hand to Hadrian, he says, "And I am the head butler here. You chose the wrong person to make friends with, if you wanted me to stay away."
Hadrian takes the hand and lets himself led to the chair in the room, sits as directed.
He watches as Thomas sweeps out of the room and calls the others, putting order to the chaos.
Mm, no. That isn't when it started. That's when they began to consider each other as something more than fellow gods. I can't really tell you how it happened, exactly, just that in that moment the god of life and death began to - understand, I suppose.
Multiple moments, all leading up to that moment of understanding.
It's like Thomas said. Death chases after life.
I - oh. You want to know how the story begins? That - that's hard to explain.
Harry licks his lips, sucking his bottom one into his mouth as he watches the faces of his friends.
Hermione, goddess of wisdom, and Ron, god of war, both sit opposite of him, glowing underneath the high noon sun. The red of Ron's hair looks like it's on fire: streaks of vibrant red and orange lit up brilliantly. Hermione's hair frizzes up from the heat, but the brown of her eyes look like the earth, and Harry is infinitely fond of it.
The picnic in the middle of the countryside is somewhat impromptu, but nice all the same. The cool lemonade tastes sweet on his tongue.
"So you want to - what, live as a human for awhile? A whole lifetime?" Ron asks, clarifying. "How's that any different from what we do now?"
Hermione rolls her eyes, stirring her tea in its styrofoam cup with a plastic spoon, somehow still looking every bit the proper lady that Harry had first met with her legs tucked delicately underneath her.
"It means, Ron, that he intends to be born as one, live his life as one, then die as one."
Ron pales. "That means you won't have access to your full powers."
Harry nods. It's early in the twentieth century, yet already humans have advanced far faster than he could keep up with. "I want to see what it's like," he muses, "to live as fast as they do."
Hermione and Ron share a look.
"Right then," Hermione says for the both of them. "So where do you plan on being born? We should all stay together if we're going to do this."
Around them, gardenias and casablancas bloom, wither, bloom again.
Hermione brightens. "Oh, hey - did I tell you about those wizards and witches in Britain? They have this really neat spell, 'reducio' - "
Oh, look - here he comes.
Maybe you should leave. Death is kind, at times, but it's best not to risk it.
I might finish my story later. No? Aren't you a brave soul. Okay, I'll tell you one last thing, and then you should go home. It's getting late, anyway. It's winter, and it's starting to snow, and we're sitting on a park bench with no shelter above us. We really should go home after this - we'll get sick. There's a quote "To die would be an awfully big adventure," but I don't want to see if that's true just yet.
But it is beautiful, isn't it? Winter's associated with death, but it's really beautiful in moments like this.
"There's a reason why we're gods and the people you watch aren't," Tom says idly as he inspects a book. It's an old one. The book binding is just about to give way and expose the spine, the paper's yellowed and crinkly under his spidery hands.
Harry looks up from where he's stocking books onto the bookshelves. The smooth plastic cover of the book in his hand reads The Little Prince. He can't see the title of the book Tom holds from his crouched position, but he can guess that it is one of the library's books on religion from the simple cover.
"The people you look at don't have the capacity to understand the things we do." Tom goes on. "They are blinded by their morals, their own limited perceptions. And we -" he puts the book back onto the bookshelf in front of him, glances down at Harry.
Like this, with the fluorescent light behind him and the rest of the library dim in respect to the late hour, he looks every bit like the god he is. His face is shadowed and anonymous, sharp angles of his face highlighted, the sockets of his eyes dark abysses. The curl of his thin lips is cruel as it is neutral. "We are beings unbound by that. Able to carry knowledge and understand it."
"Is this supposed to be one your lectures about our superiority?" Harry interrupts, ignoring the faint ache in his knees. Pain is just a feeling.
Tom hums. "No, not quite."
He begins to walk closer to Harry, measured steps that were as rythemetic as war drums. "If we were truly superior, then you wouldn't be pretending to be something you're not. Humans must have something that we don't," he says, and from the sleeve of his dark dress shirt, pulls out a flower that he tucks behind Harry's ear.
"Good night." He says, and walks away.
Harry watches him for a moment. In one instance he is there, and in the next he is gone, insubstantial as the morning mist.
The flower is a stephanotis.
Listen very closely: some gods live among humans, but some of them are humans.
A/N: SOOO flower meanings:
Yew tree: Celtic symbolism. Power, Honor, Silence, Mystery, Illusion, Victory, Mystery, Worship, Strength, Sanctity, Longevity, Leadership, Introspection
Lily: Hope, Faith, Renewal, Promise, Passion, Becoming, Innocence, Fertility, Remembrance, Transitioning
Zinnia: thoughts of friends
Lilac: first love
Gardenia: joy
Casablanca: celebration
Stephanotis: good luck