“In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.” -Madeline Miller, “The Song Of Achilles.”


Message to Readers

Oh god, okay, so I'm republishing this because the sight of the first line made me hurt. I just messed around with a few words. Hope it reads better now.

And The Thought of the Sky Can’t Hurt You, If You’ve Got a God at Your Side. #Antheus

March 6, 2020



It is possible, and not an entirely insane thing to think, that you’ve always fallen a little bit more into the wind than everyone else.

Your mother tells you to come in from the field, to stop standing on the fences and disturbing the apple trees. She doesn’t understand that the curve of your eyes hide secrets and that the dirt of your palms belies divinity. You wander into the stone of the house and you take to sitting on the counter tops. She only pulls you down once you start kicking the cabinets.


A friend has their head across your lap and rather than them staring towards the sky and wishing; they are asleep. Shamelessly, you yearn to have such peace and the shallow heave of their chest gets the space behind your eyes all hot. The grass prickles beneath your legs and your other friend, the more magically inclined one, worries after you and your tepid skull sockets.


It is a gloriously rainy day, the one that gifts you him. He is all done up in splashes of his own ichor and perhaps he does lay dying on the ground but your hands, remember? The healing ones. Beneath your touch he becomes whole again and you trace your fingers from his stomach up to his chest. Only when he awakes, vicious mouth gasping, do you jump away. A little ways over, lighting strikes the apple trees. The world alights with colour.


Give it a while and he’s following you places. You don’t know if he’s grateful or simply just terribly confused, but he appears in your field and he appears in your house, all gaslit tears and odes to some hellenistic war. Your mother cannot see him and yes, that is definitely for the best.


One day, you sit, tapping on the tile of the kitchen floor. Now it is he, that throws himself across the countertops, limbs arranged like a wrangled storm and eyes the colour of sea glass. You look up at him and he spills forward with an anthem. The tune is unknowable and the words are even worse. Except for one. He says “Antheus” and your mouth goes dry.


It takes three days of paper cuts and three days of bloodshot eyes and three days spent living in the town library until you find out that he is a god.


And then, weeks pass with this boy god at your side. In the kitchen, you have a complete meltdown. It’s something about you not being good enough again and at your feet, glass shatters, as he takes part in your hysterics, smashing cups to the ground with a blank face and a steady hand. Your mother hates it, she hates it so so much, but the weight in your chest is back and you thought it was gone! You thought it had dissipated for good because a god had glued themselves to your side but some things are too heavy for even the heavens to lift and that sounds so terribly dramatic, but, impossibly, you can only stop crying when there is no breath left in your lungs.

Antheus rests a frigid hand on your shoulder, in the aftermath of your shared chaos.  “Do not be sad forever,” he says. “I am not entirely sure I would be able to bear it.”

And thusly with the echo of your frenetic clanging off the walls of your rib cage, it begins.
I am the self-proclaimed queen of using the same ten character names for every single one of my babies. Also, the hashtag is in the title because I’m like 90% sure I’m going to fuck around and make this a series even if I haven’t finished Destan’s pretty little timeline yet. :)


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  • March 6, 2020 - 2:19pm (Now Viewing)

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  • Anha

    c'mon. you knew i had to put this in my highlights.

    about 1 year ago
  • Anha

    alright, i already complimented the last version, but here's a note to remind you have masterfully crafted all of your titles are? like, wow. i'm always blown away whenever i see this new combination of words capitalised like they're to be hung in the louvre. it's stories like yours that make me wish for divinity again.

    little critique: "thusly" in the last sentence sounds kind of strange. the simpler "thus" would suit better, i think.

    about 1 year ago