Divinity is beauty, you know this. You know the statues of Zeus with his rippling grace, the discus thrower and his delicate strength. It is the shimmering blood that ripples through the skin of gods, that seems to pour out of him through every crack and crevice in his being, this beautiful boy. 

Divinity is magnificence, you know, and there’s no question to it. There’s no doubt when you see his face, when you see him glowing, racing down the tracks. Making every father envious, every son ashamed, and every god just barely, hesitantly curious.

Divinity is breathtaking, you know, when he fights you in that arena and you lay witness to the full beauty of his godhood, of him, for the very first time. When it almost burns you. Oh, oh, so this is why Icarus fell. Oh, you are falling too. But you are falling towards the sun this time, and were the Greeks not known for their tragic ironies?

Divinity is idealism, the greatest and most fragile height of perfection, you know. And divinity is aristos Achaion, best of the Greeks, clutching the fading bronze of your bloody chest in his marred, golden hands and screaming his despair up into the gods. Oh, oh, you understand now, as the sun you once knew for a lover crashes its fury into the earth. Finally, you see. This is what it means to be divine.