The midday sun of Greece beat heavily down upon the untold thousands, persons from across the face of the world, tourists gathered from near and far to come and marvel at the wondrous spectacle that was the Parthenon perched atop the Athenian acropolis; though it stood but a shadow of its former self, a mere carcass of what it had once been in glory days long forgotten, there was no denying that there was something there that drew all these people to it even after centuries past. Perhaps it was simply the architecture, Ionian columns standing firm and proud, freizes adorning the roof, or maybe it was the sense of history produced when one listened close enough to the stones of the structure? Yes, if you were to listen then you would hear the very breath of the building once dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens - great and wise Athena Pallas herself - or so it was said.

A lone figure could be seen sitting on one of many rocks leading up toward one of the greatest tourist attractions on Earth, like so many others he was dressed for the weather; his mane of curling black hair, tied back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, having a wide-brimmed bush hat perched atop it that also shaded his features, while his ever-watchful eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. Beneath the finely trimmed beard a smile appeared, creasing his middle-aged features, tanned brown by constant sunlight but keeping something of a rugged handsomeness in his face, his toned but not overly muscular body concealed by the world wide travellers favourite clothing of a simple t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, a pair of sandals being all he wore upon his dust dried feet.

All-in-all, were one to look in his direction, they would see a reasonably attractive man of middle age and healthy body, holding in one hand a small notepad and in the other a hiking stick of gnarled wood taken from an olive tree. They might even think that there was a certain something about him, though they could not tell what.

Hermes, known as Mercurius to the Romans, as a messenger angel by the Christians, and who had taken the human name 'Hermon Sostias', had been watching the procession of wanderers advance up the acropolis for hours on end and had oddly not tired from it. Sat here, half-way up the path from the bottom of the acropolis, he eyed the small Christian chapel of stone that had been thrown up nearby with a sigh and the slightest shake of his head. It had been hard for all of them when their time was done, when those that had once believed ceased to call on their favour or give sacrifice unto them, only Mithras and Isis - a goddess older even than Zeus, his father - standing alone against the might of Jehovah when his cult has swollen and bloated into something altogether different from its origins; a sad turn of events caused not by the triple-faced God, but by the hands and minds of men.

There were other, smaller, structures set up by other religions at the sides of the path; a Hindu shrine, one with the contended figure of the Buddha looking out, even one by a group who claimed themselves as modern day worshipers of he and his kindred! Ah, religion...an interesting subject to be sure, but not the reason he was here.

It had been over a year ago that he had began feeling the pull back toward the Parthenon, a focal point for worship in the Classical age and one that still resonated with power, but little had he known then what he must do or why; he had not known that things were being set in motion that could change the course of the world, that could even see his brothers and sisters returned to their full power, something he knew many of them still yearned for. Of course, it would not be without consequences - nothing ever was when it came to celestial matters - and but two weeks ago he had returned to Greece, his ancestral land, even visiting the psychical Mount Olympus; it was not the Olympus, that was far from mortal hands on a different plane of existence entirely, but he could see why many may have thought they dwelt there in a time before advanced science and technology had shattered any illusions.

Now he was here, charged to await those that would follow in his footsteps, being in the unique position of having retained all his powers when others had not. How had he retained them? By finding employ with God! For he was a heavenly courier and deity of travellers, and to have spent the remainder of his immortal life without being able to continue his assigned role, it was unthinkable and he would never have had it so. That, and he was required by heavenly mandate never to use his powers outside of his duties.

Sadly for Heaven, that was precisely what he soon intended to do - the others were coming, and they would be here soon.

What a pleasant flight. On the whole, Edgar wasn't exactly the most fond of airplanes. As somebody who spend almost their entire life on the ground or in the water, hurtling through the air in metal box controlled by somebody else wasn't the most appealing prospect. And unlike those Olympians who sat overlooking the earth, being high in the sky wasn't really his divine M.O. In short, he was scared of flying. Good thing he decided to live in a country positively surrounded by the ocean, then. Plus, it was a new experience for him still. He had taken a boat out to England when he was setting up his life, so flying was an exciting prospect still, if an uncomfortable one.

Thankfully, he had been seated between two young gentlemen who had bought tickets together. Rather than moving to the window seat and allowing them to sit together, he had decided to simply invite himself into their group. Whatever they wanted to talk about, he would also be interested. It was somewhat difficult to follow their conversations, but they seemed intensely passionate about what they called "Best Girl," and their grammar was terrible. Naturally, it was a good opportunity for Edgar to talk to them about his wife, who was clearly "Best Girl." For about half an hour, he had listened patiently to their stories about girls who they seemed to have dated and had fantastic experiences with, although it seemed like sometimes they had both dated the same girl, and went to the same festivals with them, and even went through the same tragedies with these poor women multiple times? Today's youth seemed to have a wealth of life experiences. Not to mention these two were obviously from Wales, and yet they were talking at length about Japanese culture with quite some passion. Edgar was impressed, they must have spent some of their lives abroad together. Perhaps they had transfered schools? Though the strangest thing was that when he had attempted to strike up a conversation in Japanese with them, they seemed dumbstruck. How had they attended a Japanese high school without speaking any of the language...? Truly mysterious.

For the next hour and a half, he had regaled them with stories of events he had gone through with his wife, Marianne, and tossed in useful nuggets of dating advice and lessons about human nature and relationships. The young men seemed politely interested but that was about it. Normally Edgar would have picked up on their social cues, but it had taken his mind off of their altitude, so he just kept chatting away. All in all, the flight had been pleasant, and when they were disembarking, he thanked them properly and went about his business. The boys were silent as he left them, meaning either they were taking his lessons to heart, or else perhaps they had shut their brains off entirely. Either way, he was just happy to be back on solid ground. The rain on the island had turned into a comparatively brutal heat in Athens, but if he removed his coat, he would need to carry it, which would be its own burden. So instead he simply left it on.

Shielding his eyes overtop of his thick glasses, he stared through the bright light, taking in the scenery. It had been some few years since he'd last set foot in Greece, and while much of the architecture was decades or hundreds of years old, it always amazed him how much a place could change over a comparatively short amount of time. Even so, without much difficulty, he located a business class hotel by the airport, dropping his luggage and credit card information there before setting off. It was imperative for him to have a base of operations, but if this turned out to be a research trip, he wouldn't be spending much time there. He moreso got the feeling that his hotel room might turn into a glorified storage unit. That was fine as well, if it came to that.

He had no idea what to expect upon his arrival at the Parthenon - the origin of this feeling he had - but that was fine too. He was plunging himself blindly into a situation that might not even involve him at all, so why should he be worried that he couldn't anticipate what would happen next? That was what adventure was all about, or so it went. If he was being honest, even though he was here at the Acropolis, the pull hadn't gotten much stronger. He couldn't exactly pinpoint where it was he was supposed to be other than a vague 'here.' There were plenty of tourists, religious pilgrims, and even cleaning staff meandering around. somebody had his answers, but nobody really called to him specifically (though a couple people stood out.) It was a bit anticlimactic, but he decided it was best to simply wait and see. Perhaps a group would form that might stick out, or some voice might call out to him. And if nothing happened today, that would be fine as well. He would return tomorrow, and the day after, until he reached his answers. He had time.

Truly, he had all the time in the world.

If anyone nearby could hear well enough, he might be able to discern the source of some thumping bass and unintelligible rapping; if that person knew his pop culture well enough, he might be able to pick out the aggressive, empowering lyrics; and if that person were a god, that person would know that the source of that racket was Adam Pascal. He was a lean, husky athlete — broad shoulders, sculpted muscles, a healthy amount of fat — he had the figure which would make him many men's envy. His skin was supple, fair, and flushed, seemingly glowing, and under gold-rimmed lenses, his eyes were dark chocolate-colored to match his short, thick head of brown hair. To tie his appearance together, Adam wore clothes that matched the typical apparel worn by the Millennial generation: a Prussian blue button-down, tight, dark-gray, waxed jeans, and red, flat-sole sneakers. And had this fellow any consideration for his hearing, he would blast his music quieter through his earbuds, but Adam didn't worry at all.

Why would he, anyway? The privy eyes of gods knew exactly what Adam knew, and Adam knew he was a god. Adam Pascal was just an apparition of Phoebus Apollo, and Phoebus Apollo was carving his path through the crowd of tourists up the acropolis. He met eyes with one of his ilk, and that shimmer of light in the crowd became more distinct to Pascal's eyes. Halfway to the Parthenon, Adam saw a familiar face, and that face belonged to none other than Hermes. Yes, Apollo could see clear through the disguise to recognize the messenger of the gods, and he could never be mistaken. Apollo knew too well the face of the god, from whom Apollo received his lyre. As he made his approach to the messenger, Apollo slid the lyre (presently masked as a guitar) off his back, and he held it in his deft hands.

Looking at Adam Pascal, Hermes and the rest of the gods would see, past the veil, the one they recognized as Phoebus Apollo, the epitome of youth still as physically flawless as he'd been in previous ages if not better as if Apollo had never felt the passage of time, as if Apollo was some constant who transcended even their fall from godhood. Now, that was not to say that eons had gone by since their heyday or that Apollo had not changed at all. On the contrary, rather, it had been centuries, and Apollo's more wild days were behind him. Years of isolation from the pantheon, Apollo was reluctant at the idea of a reunion, but friendly faces like those of Hermes and his sister would be a little warming. Like any tug to the Parthenon, Apollo expected some influx of gods, and that was no incorrect assumption.

Finally, after ages of a droning, ordinary life, Apollo approached an old friend like the sheep and their shepherd, and his voice, low and sonorous, flowed with an intoxicating nostalgia. "It's been a long time."

Among the swarm of everyday tourists and sightseers making their way along the ancient Athenian acropolis, there was a hulk of a man that was gathering quite a few wayward glances and outright stares as he made his way slowly towards the large stone stairway of the Parthenon itself. The man in question was spending the majority of his time either shooing away anyone who attempted to help him or ignoring the bewildered (and far more annoyed) onlookers while he continued to lean almost all of his weight onto his cane. There was one thing Hephaestus refused to do, and that was confine himself to a wheelchair. Fates knew how often he was ridiculed for that on Olympus. If the draw to the archaic temple dedicated to his sister weren't so enthralling, Hephaestus probably would've just made a trip to his own temple at the Agora and called it a day, but alas, he knew exactly where fate wanted him to be, and so he walked, one step at a time.

The Blacksmith of the Gods was quite the sight indeed, it wasn't often you got to see the juxtaposition of a man who looked to be crafted out of metal and fire who had such a glaring imperfection and deformity of body. He'd decided to hide his grotesque left leg with a pair of faded blue jeans to go with his gray t-shirt, a puzzling decision considering the sweltering heat of the Athenian sun, but what was heat to the fallen God of Fire? He gripped the handle of his transfigured hammer of a cane in order to brace himself for the last stretch of the walkway.

He'd pondered what it would be like to meet his extended family once more after what felt like millennia apart. Assuming all of the Olympians were being drawn to the Parthenon like he was, that'd mean he'd inevitably have to cross paths with his vehement brother or contemptuous mother. If there was one thing that could be said of the Gods, it was that they could hold extremely petty grudges for an incredibly long time. Stopping a dozen or so feet in front of the steps of the ancient temple to the goddess of wisdom, Hephaestus reached his right hand into his pocket, a grin flashing its way across his face when he felt the small container within.

It didn't take him more than a few moments to locate his divine relatives. Even if it weren't for their innate ability to recognize one another, Hephaestus could've just as easily singled out Aphrodite's mortal form in no time. She was the only Olympian he had bothered to pay attention to after their fall, checking up on each of her mortal facades whenever she'd changed from one to the next. You could say he had a feeling in his gut, something beyond divinity that transcended their mortal gazes. Granted, she didn't make it easy to forget her existence when she asserted herself near the top of human society.

He didn't pronounce his arrival to his brothers and estranged wife, but rather allowed himself to dissolve into the background after giving his male contemporaries a rudimentary nod in greeting. He was used to being left in the background, and he presumed that wasn't about to change with a once-in-a-millennium family reunion, but even then, he couldn't help but let his eyes linger on Aphrodite with the slightest hint of longing and remorse. He silently hoped she wouldn't notice his gaze and that Ares wouldn't arrive for a few hours, or maybe days, yet.

Katherine didn’t get irritated by a lot of things, but being “randomly” selected for a pat-down was among one of her many dislikes. She felt naked, vulnerable, and beyond vexed. She nearly snarled as the man smoothed down her thighs – she didn’t miss her powers much, but at moments like these she wished she could hex the hell out of him. When he finally stood up, smiling politely at her and ducking away, Katherine grabbed her shoes from the table as well as bag and passport. At this point, she should be used to it. Hekate was always chosen for random searches. Perhaps it’s just her karma for all the heinous things she did as a god and witch.

The dethroned woman didn’t know what was worse, the flight or the wait for the flight. For two hours she sat in a shoddy, uncomfortable airport chair, her back aching while she was surrounded by screaming babies, businessmen chatting on their phones, and noisy tourists bragging about their travels. At one point, a man turned to her and started a conversation about the wonders of Greece. The conversation only lasted a few minutes and went roughly like this:



And after that, no more questions were asked.

But the flight! Next to her was a noisy, petulant child, and to her right was an ignorant, oblivious mother who stared transfixed at a screen at the back of a seat. The man who was seated in front of her had annoyingly laid back his seat to the maximum and Katherine had to shift multiple times in order to avoid unnecessary touch. The airplane food was tasteless and soggy, like wet cardboard and the only available alcohol was cheap and bitter. It was long, it was tiring, and it was Hell. And so when she stumbled off the plane and into the terminal, she may have been a little bit tipsy.

It was with a heavy stone in her gut that Katherine – no, its Hekate now – made her way to the Acropolis. Seeing Greece for the first time in so long, it made her feel weird. A sense of not belonging, a hollow in her gut. This wasn’t her life anymore; she was no longer Hekate but Katherine. There is no point in reminiscing, in visiting for that brief wind of nostalgia. Because at the end of the day, she was not a god and she was not a witch; she was Katherine. She was no longer a dealer of death, but a mortician; she was no longer a punisher, but a judgmental bitch; she was no longer Hekate.

The once beautiful Parthenon, built for the wise Athena, had crumbled into itself to create a graveyard of memories. Hekate always felt out of place, travelling into Athens when it was in glory. Katherine felt as if she belonged, a carcass next to another carcass. So, for a moment, just a moment, Hekate allowed herself to feel the thrum of the earth and imagine herself gliding, nostalgia possessing her heart. And, with a ruthless jerk of her lips, Hekate severed it and became Katherine, moving forward once again.

As if the Fates hated her, in that single moment of weakness, she sensed them. They stood away from her and she hissed under her breath in anger. Why them? Why not anybody else? Anybody would have been fine, but them? With reluctance, she took several steps until she was once again Hekate. God damn Hekate.

The noonday sun had began to droop back toward the world by the time he felt the first sudden jolt of familiar energy from nearby, and getting closer. It was as if he had suddenly been struck by one of his father's lightning bolts, a swirling blend of emotion and bodily change sparking inside him, setting aflame an ember that had been lying dormant within him since the mass exodus from Olympus. Even those around him, immortal or no, would probably have noticed some change in the way that the bearded traveller now held himself - erect and proud, though relaxed and at ease, as a wild jungle cat awaiting its prey and chance to pounce - his eyes moving through the thinning crowds of assorted humanity, from figure to figure as the feeling, the spark, only grew in intensity.

It would be quite impossible for any mortal to feel what and how he now felt, perhaps the closest being the reuniting of loved ones at an airport times a thousand, even then they could not fathom the knitting of links in both the seen and unseen realities moving about them. True, the Fates no longer used the old methods of the threads and the scissors, having been ousted along with their kith and kin all those years ago, but the feeling which now reached Hermes was very much comparable to the weaving and reconnection of a gossamer web that had long ago been not only broken, but completely and utterly sundered from the centre to the farthest edges; this could only have been possible if, as the servant of both God and Olympus expected, more than one of his brethren had made their way not only to Greece, but to Athens and the Parthenon along with it.

Not only had more than one come, from multiple corners of the Earth, but at least four of them even now drew toward his open and outward position. Yes...he could sense them, the musical, the beautiful, the bitter and - what was that? A slightest blip on the godly radar, weaker than any of the others but older too, far older. This last signature especially made him curious, for as weak as it was it was still there, and it was not one of his family that produced this near imperceptible pulse either.

"It's been a long time."

Now the spark had become a full and glorious fire, the perfect voice one he had not heard in far too long, but one that he inwardly and outwardly rejoiced to find again addressing him. Before he could reply, unbidden but already within his minds eye, flashes of events of the past came to him, and Hermes could not help himself but smile; images of the stealing of Apollo's cattle when he was still an infant, or when he and the god of music, plague and healing had lain together with the same woman on the same night...what was her name again? Ah, Khione! A rather lovely princess of Phokis, who bore Apollo a son named Philammon, but one his offspring that Hermes had eventually forgotten to question him about. It occured to him that, truly, most deities were terrible parents. Then again he had fathered his fair share of children, including his only immortal son Pan, that hoofed rascal, a child that he still missed - and the only Olympian to ever find his final death.

Although this thought process took no longer than a few seconds of time, the way mortals thought of it, it took considerably longer for Hermes to peer up at the blazing form of his half-brother. Who knew that a god could cry? Indeed, even as he realised that divine tears were forming in the corner of his eyes, he help them back and, with a force of will, finally looked up into the amber gaze of the majesty that was Apollon, his mortal and immortal forms blurring and shimmering through one another and allowing Hermes to see them both as one and the same. To anyone viewing them, it would have appeared as if two old friends were reconnecting, but to those able to see it was so much more.

For that matter, what 'Adam Pascal' now saw looking up at him, or should that rather be who, would be as different as the middle-aged man he had approached...though somewhat more familiar; sitting on the rock would be an adolescent boy, what the modern world called a 'teenager', beardless and with curled tresses of golden colour streaming from beneath a winged cap placed firmly upon his head, his athletic build - more than comparable to that of his older counterpart who now stood before him - barely concealed by a tunic with a golden hem; where would he be without his 'badges of office' though? The winged sandals strapped to feet, and his golden kerykeion, the wand of a herald, where his hiking stick had been before.

With a sharp intake of breath, and a wide smile of perfect teeth, Hermes rose to greet a god he had always been close to.

"Phoibos, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the eddying river Peneios; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel, holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last. And so hail to you lord! I seek your favour with my song."

His smile widened into a grin as he quoted a better known verse of Homeric Hymn at his immortal counterpart, his arms spreading wide to embrace the god of both disease and healing, bringer of death but also of life, in doing so he bought his mouth closer to the others ear and whispered, "it is good to see you brother, but I believe we are not alone in this reunion."

Releasing Apollo from his embrace, one oddly strong for such a youthful god, something they each knew about he supposed, Hermes raised his wand (or hiking stick as it may look) to gesture nonchalantly toward the always identifiable Aphrodite and, some way beyond her, having slipped into the background and shadow in somewhat of a hurry, the limping form of the smith-god.

"It has been too long, my friend. Far, far, too long."

@ravenDivinity

Watching the spectacle brought mixed feelings, once he knew what to look for. Seeing old friends and rivals reunite brought back memories of his own kin, who had largely secluded themselves from the world (they were not all quite so social as he was, or so fond of humans.) It was nostalgic, and neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Beyond that, it confirmed his suspicions. Something was going to happen here, for better or worse.

For someone who spent many hundreds of years studying the Greek pantheon at their prime, it was clear to him what he was witnessing. It was Hermes who had been waiting for everyone here. A suitable position for a messenger, though there was probably something more to the fact that he had been here before anybody. Apollo had come, as one of the most revered deities at the time, he would have felt the pull quite strongly. He was also in a similar standing to Enki himself, so Edgar felt a small amount of solidarity towards him. How mortal life had changed him, however, Edgar did not know. It would simply remain to be seen. Off to the side was Aphrodite and Hekate, a rivalry that must be quite bitter. Still, they approached on friendly enough terms... women were truly a mystery.

Edgar could see traces of their power within them. Flashes, perceptions of their former glory, their divine forms. It made sense that this was a power spot for them, he had occasionally paid visit to some of his own power spots in the past, but it was too late for him now. Those spots held very little of his old prestige, and his mortality had brought new meaning to his life that was missing in the old days.

He had taken stock of the situation. Several deities, all Greek, had gathered here. None of his peers were to be seen, but that was natural. Which meant that his lot was to be thrown in with the younger folk. As the apparent leader, and perhaps the only person who knew what was going on, he made very deliberate eye contact with Hermes. Not wanting to interrupt his greetings with old friends, it was simply a way for Edgar to establish himself on the scene if he had not been noticed. He would join in when it was appropriate, it didn't need to be any sooner than that.

After waking up and pushing aside the prone, sleeping forms of several other people, Dynos DeLavigne walked out to the exterior of the ship and looked around. He'd made it to Greece.

He'd started feeling the call whilst attending the private party of a rather famous musician. He hadn't been invited but that was never really a problem for him, and anyway by the end of the night you'd of thought he'd been a lifelong drinking companion of half the people in the room. Still something had seemed amiss, and nothing, not wine, nor other illicit substances, could shake Dynos's feeling that he wasn't where he should be.

A strange compulsion, a feeling of nostalgia perhaps, had led him to look into going back to his Home. It was an easy matter then, to find that the pleasure yacht of some Russian Oligarch's wayward daughter was about to leave for Greece. After a few nights of partying all the mortals save the boat's captain and the staff, were all in varying states of unconsciousness, and they had arrived at their intended destination. Well that wasn't exactly true, their original destination had been a private island a fair distance from the coast, but after several drinks and rounds of...persuasion. Dynos had gotten the Heiress who owned the boat to have the captain plot a course for Athens.

After pulling on his clothes, and tying what few possessions he had brought into a sack which he hung onto his walking stick, Dynos-No, here he was Dionysus, walked into the land of his birth for the first time hundreds of years.

The streets had changed, the waters had changed, even the the people had changed, but somehow the soul of the city remained the same.

He could see in the distance, the looming figure of the Parthenon, rising atop the Acropolis and started making his way towards it. He wasn't sure what he would find there, but he knew that it was somehow important. After a few hours of navigating the city(and stopping for drinks a few times) Dynos made it into the crowds surrounding the monument.

He was still amazed after all these years at the majesty that his sister's temple commanded. Say what you like about her temper, Athena had always had the best architects.

To his eyes, the forms of his Divine brethren stood out like beacons of flame, and speaking of flame, he noticed that closest to him was a heavily built man with a bit of a limp to his gait, watching the proceedings quietly as he always had. Stepping up quietly behind him, Dionysus wrapped one arm around the man's broad shoulders and said quietly, "I guess some things never change, Eh Brother?

While those of his Olympian colleagues that were present apparently commenced catching up with each other after centuries apart, Hephaestus' mind was busy pondering the presence of the only outsider, if one could call him that, amongst them. There was no doubting that the man was more than mortal, but he was certainly no Olympian, and the blacksmith couldn't help but wonder whether or not he had seen him somewhere before. You could meet a lot of people over the course of thousands of years, and that meant forgetting a lot of people as well. He continued to rattle his mind for faces he hadn't seen for hundreds of years, from the Renaissance to the Industrial Revolution, but none seemed to match that which stood before him. He was about to step forward and probe the assumed foreign deity for answers before his sinuses were assaulted with the all too familiar scent of alcohol and depravity.

Hephaestus raised an eyebrow when Dionysus threw his arm around him. The God of Wine was probably the closest thing Hephaestus had to a friend amongst his divine siblings. Or rather, the one who could get him sufficiently drunk enough to pour his heart out to. Perhaps it was their mutual ascension to Olympus or shared torment from the Queen of the Gods that gave them an unspoken bond, but regardless, Hephaestus allowed himself the slightest hint of a grin after Dionysus made his entrance. At least he'd have someone to talk to.

"Evidently they do not. You still smell like someone set a brewery on fire."

For now, Hephaestus would socialize with his siblings, but his mind couldn't help but wander. Who was the curious old man amongst them, and perhaps, more importantly, if the Gods all seemed to be appearing at the same time, where were the children of Cronus and Rhea? The absence of the triumvirate of Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon hadn't gone unnoticed by Hephaestus, even if he was far less concerned with the whereabouts of his loving mother.

@Jbcool
Apollo's dear half-brother welcomed the god of music with free verse and open arms, and Apollo rewarded beloved Hermes in kind with a similar shedding of exuberant tears. Within even Apollo's mortal presentation were the eyes so glistering with rapturous starlight and the mind so romping with rekindled vim. Through the felicity and reminiscence which inundated a heart he long thought crippled and stone, Apollo brought himself to reply in like manner with a quotation most revering of his kin:

"In his hands he held his lovely golden wand with which he can lull men’s eyelids or wake them from sleep: and with this wand he called the ghosts and led them, and they followed him gibbering. Like bats that flit about and gibber in the depths of an eerie cave, after one falls from the hanging cluster where they cling to the rock and one another, so they went gibbering behind Hermes the Helper, down the dank way. Past Ocean’s stream, and the White Rock, past the Gates of the Sun and the place of dreams, they soon reached the meadows of asphodel where the ghosts abide, the phantoms of men whose work is done."

He guffawed in awe of himself and of reality, and Apollo nearly had to claw into Hermes's skin to keep from falling head over heels in their filial love. If it were remotely necessary, he would slap himself over and over to verify that what was happening in his very presence was more than a dream. Of course, if it were a dream, Apollo would rather to never wake from it and to be as deep in respite as Hypnos. Soft, soft, Apollo saw through Hermes's little costume to see the same, rascally youth whom he had always known, and Apollo's memory stirred once more as he breathed in the scent of his half-sibling and drank in his presence. Though the rest of the family were likely not far behind, Hermes, Leto, and Artemis were the only family that Apollo ever needed or would ever want.

Apollo released the messenger god from his hands, and they rested firmly then on Hermes's shoulders. Hermes retained the same influence as he always had, and Apollo could feel that power emanating from his half-brother's body just in the touch. Indeed, Phoebus Apollo felt weaker in Hermes's company now, but he allowed that feeling to overcome him and indulged in the moment. His eyes looked up and down Hermes and saw both a wisened man who had persisted through the ages and an empowered youth whose vitality did not wear or fade. An organic, radiant smile crossed Apollo's lips, and he told Hermes in a voice just above a breath, "To cross paths once more and traverse the knit path of fate again brings me delight. It has led me here, but the destination did not matter to me as much as the one I met there." The musician released his beloved partner-in-crime. "I don't know yet what call sounded that brought me here, but I'm grateful for it."

Aphrodite. It was one of the goddesses that Hekate avoided. If anyone was the opposite of Hekate, it would be Aphrodite. She represented everything Hekate wasn’t – passionate, light, beautiful, charming. Hekate was apathetic, dark, hideous (whether it was in personality or not), off-putting. Disliking Aphrodite came easy to Hekate; and so she couldn’t help the slight furrow of her brows upon the arrival of Aphrodite to her presence. Hekate just wished that it was Hades or Persephone that she would have to run into rather than Aphrodite and Hephaestus.
“Hello, Aphrodite.” Hekate said brusquely.

How was mortal life treating her? Hekate didn’t know how to answer that. Living as Katherine, a Medical Examiner, had been easy. It offered the solitude that Hekate once experienced as a god, not having to worry about socializing. The only socialization Katherine received was from detectives and the dead (with the occasion of a corpse’s loved ones, but Katherine conveniently ducked out during those times). However, her past persona’s didn’t live life as easily. Her stripper identity had been treated worse than a dog. And, well, it hurt to think about her life as Rina. The betrayal still stings, though her love for that damned man has faded long ago. In short, mortal life had treated her like shit – but it was a lot better than being the deity she once was.

While she hated to admit it, it hurt Hekate to walk the streets and see mortals cower before her. And it was only with reluctance that she accepted the offerings from those that did it out of fear. She lived with the knowledge that if the mortals understood how to kill her, they would do it in a heartbeat. Hekate, who was destined to protect the balance of good and evil, had been, herself, labeled evil in the process. Terrible lies were spread of her witch-children (poor, poor Circe) and her only friend was captured by Hades (Oh, how she had missed Persephone before Hades reluctantly allowed her into the Underworld).

But of course she wouldn’t tell Aphrodite such things.

“Quite well.” Hekate glanced into the eyes of Aphrodite, taking in the appearance of Calla. “How has it been treating you? Just as well I assume.”

Hekate wasn’t the most confrontational person ever. But god damn, Aphrodite just got under her skin. Maybe it was Katherine talking in that moment, or maybe it was just pent up frustration. However, the fact that Hekate was opening up her mouth without thinking and saying the unthinkable came unwittingly.

“I am more curious, however, as to why you’re talking to me. You’re dear husband is just over there, after all? Or are you still being an adulterous bitch? Because one seems more likely than the other.”