Hathor

Some believe the gods fall silent when war begins. But I do not leave. I stay. I walk between tents, sit quietly by the fire. I watch as they sharpen their blades and tuck amulets beneath their armor. I am Hathor – and I do not grant strength to strike. I grant the strength to remain human. — “Are you afraid?” I whisper to a young man gripping his weapon like it holds more than steel. — “Not for myself…” he murmurs. “For my brother. For who I’ll be when I return.” I place a gentle touch on his shoulder. He feels me like a memory – the scent of home, a melody from childhood. — “Do not forget who you are, even when the earth screams in blood.” Beside him, another warrior closes his eyes. His fingers tremble. He has seen death – too closely. — “Do the gods still listen when men kill?” he asks, not to me, but perhaps only to me. — “I do not hear the sword,” I answer softly. “I hear the heart that holds it.” And so I walk with them. Not to save them from death. But to remind them that life still lives within them – even in darkness.