What Do Gods Dream Of?

 What Do Gods Dream Of?

The night was silent under the laurel tree. Its leaves whispered softly in the wind, brushing against each other like secrets that would never reach the stars. Apollo closed his eyes and sat beneath it, his back against the bark that had been her skin. He had long since stopped pleading for forgiveness. Instead, he listened. Maybe the rustling of the leaves would soften into the sound of her voice. The memory of her laughter might return to him with the wind. Never did it.

In his dreams, Daphne’s face was clear and perfect. She was running, as she always was, her feet light on the forest floor, her breath sharp and frantic. He called out to her, but his voice sounded wrong—too loud, too commanding. She stumbled, turning to look at him just once, her eyes wide with fear, and that was the moment he woke, drenched in a cold sweat. It was unbearable, but he did not weep. Gods do not cry. They do not break. They carry their grief silently, like a blade pressed to their chest, sharp and constant.

His immortality, once a blessing, had turned into a curse. Every sunrise reminded him of the moment he had failed to grasp her. Every sunset taunted him with the silence she left behind. He had carved a wreath of laurel to wear on his brow, not out of pride but as penance, a constant weight to remind him of what he could never have. He envied the mortals who prayed to him for love and music. They did not know that love for a god was a punishment.

And something twisted inside him when he saw them, two lovers cuddling hands in a darkened grove. Even though their hearts were quick, delicate, and short-lived, they had the courage to love with a bravery Apollo could never understand. He envied them their fragility, their ability to lose. What could a god lose? Nothing—except for the things they would never be able to hold.

In the distance, Zeus sat in the shadows of Olympus, his throne empty and vast, the weight of eternity pressing down on him. The centuries had darkened his dreams. Initially, they had been brimming with glory—the triumph of creation, the victory over the Titans. But now, when he closed his eyes, he saw only the faces of the mortals who had died by his hand. He could not forget them. Every roar of his thunderbolt and every flash of lightning carried their cries.

And he envied them. The mortals he had struck down died quickly, their suffering short. But Zeus's suffering never ended and went on forever into the empty space of his mind. In his dream, he saw Hera's icy stare and her scornful laughter. He dreamed of his children, their cries unanswered. He dreamed of the Fates, their shears poised over a thread that would never snap, his own. He would live forever, but forever had become unbearable.

Below the earth, where no sunlight touched, Hades stood on the edge of the River Styx. The ferryman Charon drifted silently by, his eyes hollow beneath the shadow of his hood. The dead shuffled on the shore, murmuring their pleas, but Hades could not hear them. His mind was elsewhere.

Persephone. He could see her in his mind’s eye, sitting in the meadow where he had first seen her, her laughter like bells ringing through the air. He had loved her then, though he had not known how to show it. His love had been selfish, an unyielding hunger that had stolen her from the warmth of the sun. Now, she came to him only for half the year, and her smile, when she wore it, was never meant for him.

In his dreams, she stayed. Her hands reached for his. Her lips pressed against his cheek, soft and warm. He would wake from these dreams with a bitter taste in his mouth, the ache of her absence hollowing him out from the inside. He hated the mortals who cursed his name, who lived their brief lives without the burden of eternity. He hated them, and he envied them.

In the human world, a man sat by the fire, his hand clutching a bottle of wine. He had prayed to Dionysus earlier that evening, asking for release, for some moment of forgetfulness. The god had answered, as he always did, and now the man’s thoughts were hazy, his laughter wild and empty. Dionysus stood unseen in the shadows, watching him.

How easy it was for mortals to drown their sorrows. A few sips of wine, and they could forget the faces of the dead, the sting of betrayal, the weight of despair. Dionysus envied them this oblivion. He envied their ability to escape.

He could not forget. He had tried. He had wandered the world, filling it with wine and revelry, but when the music stopped, the silence returned, and with it, the memories. The screams of Pentheus, torn apart by his mother. The pleading eyes of Ariadne abandoned on the shores of Naxos. The faces of those who had worshipped him then perished, leaving him with only their names.

The gods do not speak of their dreams. They do not admit to their envy. But it is there, simmering beneath their perfect façades. They are immortal, yet they are bound—trapped in their roles, their regrets, their endless repetition. They watch the mortals live and die, their fleeting lives burning like fireflies in the night, and they envy them. They dream of the one thing they cannot have: an ending.

For the gods, there is no escape. No death. No peace. Their dreams are haunted, their longings eternal. And when the stars fade and the heavens grow quiet, they wake to a world that is as lonely as it was the day before.