winxanity-ii

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 49 Chapter 49 | the weight of waking⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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You woke up with a gasp.

The sound tore from your throat like it had been waiting at the base of your lungs for hours. You lurched upright, eyes wide, chest heaving—air hitting your tongue like saltwater. For a terrifying moment, you couldn't tell if you were breathing or drowning again.

The world around you felt wrong—not dangerous, not deep—but like something was missing. The pressure. The cold. The weight of the sea pressing in on all sides. Your body still remembered it. Your bones did too. It clung to you like seaweed you couldn't peel off.

Your ears rang.

And through the ringing... you still heard them.

Eurylochus' voice—quiet, brittle, bleeding with memory.

"We weren't supposed to eat them."

"She waited too long."

"Tell me... would you have done the same?"

And behind his words, the others.

Five hundred mouths without sound.

A thousand hands reaching out with want and nothing.

You could still feel their stories—curling up your spine like fog. Like if you opened your mouth, their words would pour out instead of yours.

Your eyes darted around.

You weren't in the graveyard.

You weren't underwater.

But your skin didn't know that yet.

Your body was soaked in sweat, sticky against the linen shift you'd slept in. Your hair clung to your neck, matted and damp, like the sea had followed you here in ghost form. Your hands trembled as you lifted them, like you expected to see sea glass instead of skin.

The small room swam around you—familiar, safe, and yet your heart still pounded like you were trapped below.

Then—a soft sound.

A whine.

Lady.

She pressed gently into your side, her nose nuzzling against your ribs, warm and solid and here. When you didn't move right away, she laid her head on your stomach—slow, careful, like she knew you weren't all the way back yet.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand found her fur, fingers curling tight against it, like she was the anchor and you were still floating.

Your breath slowed. Not easily. Not fast. But it did.

In.

Out.

Not salt. Not silt. Just... air.

You blinked slowly, heart still banging against your ribs like it didn't trust what it was seeing. The soft creak of wood under your hip reminded you: a cot. Not a seabed.

The room swayed gently, not with panic, but with the rhythm of waves.

Your eyes shifted to the far wall—where the porthole sat cracked open just a little.

Light filtered through it. Pale and soft, like early dawn. The sky outside was blushing gray-blue, streaks of gold just beginning to wake the world. You watched it move for a long moment—watched the sun come alive again. Watched proof you were back.

Ithaca's ship. On course for Lyraethos.

You were still going.

You were still here.

Then—a small knock.

You startled.

Lady didn't move, but her ears perked.

"Um—?" Eben's small voice came through the door, muffled but sweet. "You awake? I brought some breakfast rolls. And fruit. And I stole a bit of honey but don't tell the cook. He thinks I'm still asleep."

You exhaled. A real breath this time.

"...I'm coming," you called back, voice a little hoarse but steady enough.

There was a pause. Then a soft, triumphant "Okay!" followed by retreating steps and what you were pretty sure was him sneaking one of the rolls for himself.

You leaned your head back against the wall. Closed your eyes.

Lady huffed softly, her tail thumping twice against the floor.

You reached down, brushing your knuckles against her ear. "I know, girl," you whispered.

Three days in a graveyard... and you still hadn't fully left it.

But your body remembered now. The way light felt. The way wood creaked. The way air sounded when it didn't beg to be earned.

And you'd carry that with you.

Right up to Lyraethos.

Right to the start of everything.

.☆.    .✩.       .☆.

You sat cross-legged beside Eben in a small tucked-away corner of the deck—wedged behind a coil of thick rope and an overturned barrel that shaded you both from the early sun. It wasn't exactly a bench or a proper seat, but Eben had called it "the best lookout spot on the ship," so you didn't argue.

Lady dozed at your feet, her chin resting on her paws, tail occasionally twitching at the cries of passing gulls.

The sea glittered bright and calm beyond the railing, waves slapping gently against the hull. It was hard to believe a storm had ever touched this place.

Eben stuffed a bit of dried fig in his mouth and launched into his next round of updates—his seventh, by your count.

"And then—after the storm just stopped, I mean like poof, like someone flipped a switch—After that? Everything went... better. Like weird-better. Fish keep swimming straight into the nets. Wind had been steady. Sun had been out three days in a row."

He shifted, knees pulled up to his chest, eyes bright with the thrill of retelling.

"And then—" he slapped his palms together for effect, "BOOM! One strike of lightning. Just one. Across a totally clear sky. The sails didn't even twitch, but the whole ship tilted like something shoved it. Hard."

You blinked. "And that's when they saw me?"

He nodded quickly. "Floating. Just... there. In a nest of seaweed, like a bird dropped you in the wrong part of the ocean."

You grimaced faintly, rubbing your arm. "Charming."

Eben grinned. "It was kinda scary-looking, honestly. Your hair was all floating around your face. And your eyes were still closed. One of the older sailors thought you were an omen. Like... like a sea bride or something sent to lure the crew."

You raised your brows. "Was that before or after they hauled me aboard?"

Eben snorted. "After. Captain thought we were in some sort of divine trick, so no one moved at first. I mean it. Everyone just... stared. It took another thunderclap to convince them. The second lightning hit the water, and the waves shoved the boat; half the deck dropped to their knees. They didn't even tie you up or poke you with a stick or anything." He paused, then looked thoughtful. "Okay, maybe one guy did, but Lady barked so loud he tripped over a coil of rope and nearly cracked his skull."

Your mouth twitched. "Good girl."

Lady let out a small woof in her sleep, as if in agreement.

Eben leaned back on his hands, squinting up at the sky like it might throw out another miracle just for fun. "Actually, we're ahead of schedule."

You frowned a little, glancing toward the bow where a cluster of sailors had begun shouting to one another—loud and fast. Giving directions.

Beyond that, you the distant outline coming into view over the horizon. A thin stretch of land, green along the edges, with what looked like pale cliffs and a few watch-fires flickering faintly along the dock.

"Did we reach Lyraethos already?" you asked, pushing up slightly. "I thought the trip was supposed to be two, maybe three weeks."

Eben followed your gaze, eyes narrowing at the voices. "Yeah, it is." He stood, brushing off his trousers. "We're not there yet. We're stopping at an in-between island."

You tilted your head.

"Port Telonia," he explained proudly, like he'd studied a map or two. "Named after the messenger god's old port. Or tavern. Depends on who's telling the story. Hermes used to visit there back when gods still walked in sandals."

You blinked. "So... a supply stop?"

He nodded. "Yup. Lots of merchant ships swing through. Easy harbor. Good for fresh water, fruit, sometimes minor repairs. We lost a few fastenings during the storm. Captain figured it's smarter to check everything now before we hit open sea again."

You looked past him, toward the approaching land.

The ship rocked slightly beneath your feet as the wind picked up—brisk and sure, not stormy.

You didn't feel panic this time.

Just a strange sense of stillness.

You rested a hand on Lady's back, fingers brushing through her fur.

Port Telonia.

A stopover.

A place for travelers.

Let's see what you find.

.☆.     .✩.         .☆.

The moment the ship kissed the dock, everything shifted. The hush of sea gave way to the stomp of boots, the hiss of ropes uncoiling, the murmur of orders and greetings.

The crew moved fast—half because they were practiced, half because solid ground meant food, drink, and rest that didn't sway underfoot.

You stayed where you were, perched on the edge of the deck with Lady at your heel and Eben bouncing from foot to foot beside you, trying not to look excited—but failing.

Then the captain found you.

He strode across the planks with a quiet kind of authority, boots thudding with each step. His beard still held salt at the ends, and his sleeve was rolled from where he'd been checking the hull riggings himself. He stopped a few paces from you and gave a short nod—not quite warm, but not unfriendly either.

"We'll be here overnight," he said. "Maybe two if the carpenters need it. Took more damage than we thought near the lower rig." His eyes flicked to Lady, then back to you. "You'll go ashore with Eben and a few others. There's a place near the town square. Decent inn. They'll have a room ready."

You nodded once, keeping your expression steady.

"Rest," he added. "That's an order."

You almost smiled at that. "Aye, captain."

With a wave of his hand, he was off again, barking new directions before his coat had even settled behind him.

A few minutes later, you were descending the gangplank with Eben, Lady, and four other sailors you barely knew by name.

The sun was lower now, warm and gold across the stones of the dock, painting the water in long streaks of orange and glassy blue. The town of Telonia bustled ahead of you—stacked in pale stone and leaning wood, with open plazas and winding alleys blooming with fruit stalls and bright-colored linens.

You felt eyes on you the moment your boots hit the ground.

Not just from the sailors or the children weaving through the crowds—but from the air itself.

As if the island knew.

As if it had been waiting.

You didn't speak right away. Just walked. One hand on Lady's bow, the other loose at your side. Your dagger was hidden beneath your coat, sheathed but close.

The sound of the port grew louder as you stepped deeper into it. People shouted from awnings and porches, voices rich with dialects you didn't recognize. Merchants haggled. Sailors laughed. Dogs barked and children wove between carts like fish through nets.

Then—voices near the fish market caught your ear.

"Did you hear?" one woman said, setting a basket down with a grunt. "{The oracles are leaving at sunrise."

"From Delphi?" another asked, wide-eyed.

"Aye. Whole ship full of 'em," the woman confirmed. "Stopped here last night. Said it was a rest stop on their way back to the temple. Needed the sea to 'breathe on them,' or something sacred like that."

"Pfft," a man nearby scoffed. "They just wanted fresh wine. Always some grand prophecy, but half of 'em couldn't see past the bottom of their goblets."

Another man laughed but then leaned in, muttering under his breath, "Still... might see if one of them has a moment. I've got a question or two I'd pay to get answered. The kind only gods whisper about."

"Good luck," someone replied. "They're guarded tight. Most of 'em won't even look you in the eye unless they're in trance."

You blinked.

Delphi.

The temple.

Your mind ticked through that name like it had teeth. Sacred vows. Pilgrimage. A full ship of psychics. Prophets. Tied to Apollo, no doubt.

You didn't say anything. But you filed the words away in the back of your mind.

Just in case.

The path veered right as the crowd thinned. Eben led the way now, practically bouncing as he pointed toward a three-story building nestled at the corner of a cobbled square. A faded wooden sign hung over the door, carved with the shape of winged sandals and a winding scroll.

"The Quicktongue!" he chirped. "Papa told me how the founder was a priest of Hermes—or a smuggler pretending to be one. Either way, we'll get a warm bed and some stew."

The place looked older than the rest of the town, but sturdy. Smoke drifted from the chimney. Laughter floated from the windows.

The inn creaked as you stepped inside.

Not in a haunted way—more like a pair of old knees. Tired but familiar. The walls were close, the ceiling low, and the space was... cluttered. That was the nicest word for it.

Shelves lined every wall, stacked high with dusty scrolls, chipped cups, coins from islands you'd never heard of, and small statues of gods with varying degrees of artistic skill. One shelf held what looked like a taxidermy owl with a pipe in its beak. Another had a cracked amphora labeled DO NOT OPEN (unless cursed) in three languages.

The smell of roasted herbs and old wood filled the air, along with the tang of whatever someone was drinking at the bar to your left—an open space ringed with mismatched stools and a wall of bottles that looked like they hadn't been dusted since Hermes wore real sandals.

The floor sloped a little.

The lamp near the front desk flickered like it had opinions.

Eben, of course, loved it immediately. "Cool," he breathed, eyes wide as he spun slowly in place.

You were still trying to figure out if that personality would murder you in your sleep or knit you a sweater.

Before you could say anything, a voice called from behind the bar.

"Guests?" it rasped, like the word itself offended him. "No, no, no. I didn't schedule guests. No one books this place on purpose."

You turned.

The innkeeper stepped out from behind the bar with the energy of a man who both owned the building and resented it deeply.

He was tall, sun-touched, with dark curls pulled into a half-tail, gold rings in both ears, and a crooked grin that could sell stolen figs to a fig farmer. His tunic was wrinkled. His sandals didn't match. And his entire aura screamed scheming bastard in the way that made you instantly like him.

"I should rob you all blind," he muttered, hands on his hips. "Unexpected patrons. Traveling with kids and dogs. Probably gods, too. I should triple the rates. I should—"

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

He blinked once.

Twice.

His head tilted slowly. Eyes narrowed. He stepped forward just a bit, as if to get a better look—then squinted like you were the puzzle piece that didn't fit the rest of the picture. "Hold on a second."

You blinked.

"—Παναγία μου**..." he swore under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

He blinked again. Then laughed—sharp, one-note, like something had clicked. His grin stretched wide, teeth flashing as he dipped into a dramatic bow. "Well I'll be," he said, voice sing-song and full of mockery now. "Master told me to be courteous today. Said I'd know why."

He straightened with a flourish and gave you a wink. "Guess I do now."

You stared. "...What?"

But he was already waving you off. "Come on. Come on, little stormbait. Got just the room for you. Don't look so scared—I'm generous when I'm confused."

Eben followed eagerly. You followed because Lady did, and she clearly trusted him. That said more than anything else.

The stairs groaned as you climbed them.

The room was on the top floor—second door from the end.

The man unlocked it with a key pulled from somewhere you didn't want to think too hard about. Then shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped aside.

"Best room in the place," he announced proudly.

And he wasn't lying.

The room was still chaotic, but in a cozy way. There was a real bed—full-sized, wide, carved wood frame with faded linen sheets that smelled of lavender and maybe just a hint of lemon wine.

There were two chairs, a basin in the corner, a set of cracked shutters letting in pale light, and a cluster of wind chimes made of old shell rings hanging just above the window. They tinkled faintly in the breeze.

Books were stacked in uneven towers beside the bed.

A rug covered half the floor.

A wooden tray with honey cakes and figs waited on the bedside table, like the room itself had been prepping.

You stood there, half-suspicious.

"See?" the innkeeper said, grinning. "Almost makes up for the owl with the pipe downstairs."

Eben darted past you, practically vibrating, then plopped into one of the chairs with wide eyes. "This is the nicest room I've ever been in."

You nodded slowly. "Thank you."

The man gave you another look—half-measured, half-curious—and muttered something like "No lightning yet... that's a good sign."  Then he turned, ruffling Eben's curls.

"I've gotta pop back to the dock," he called over his shoulder. "Check in with your crew. If the rest are anything like you, I'm gonna need stronger wine."

"I'm coming too!" Eben blurted, already leaping to his feet. "I wanna help bring the others."

He grabbed a honey cake off the tray and followed the man out the door without waiting for your answer.

The innkeeper paused at the landing. Looked back at you.

"I'll stop by later," he said, voice softer now. "See if you need anything."

Then they disappeared down the stairs together, already halfway into a conversation about goats, storms, or something in between.

You stood in silence for a moment, then flopped onto the bed.

Lady jumped up beside you.

And gods—It was soft.

So soft you might've believed it was conjured. The kind of bed that held you, like it had been waiting just for your weight to arrive.

You lay back slowly.

Closed your eyes.

Lady curled beside you, head resting on your thigh, warm and steady.

You didn't open your eyes.

Didn't move.

Just... let yourself breathe.

The mattress cradled you in a way the sea never could. Like it wanted you to stay. Your limbs felt boneless, your spine finally starting to uncoil.

You could still feel the hum of saltwater behind your ears. Like it had soaked into your bones. Like if you opened your mouth too wide, the sea might come pouring back out.

You exhaled through your nose and sank further into the sheets.

You didn't mean to think about Ithaca.

But your mind wandered anyway.

You imagined the king—Odysseus—sitting behind that massive desk, fingers steepled, jaw tight, staring you down with that low, quiet fury he didn't need to voice. That 'I told you' look. The kind that made your stomach twist even when he wasn't angry. Just... disappointed.

Then Penelope. Her voice. Gentle but sharp. She'd say your name like it was a question and an accusation all at once.

And gods.

Telemachus.

You didn't even want to imagine it.

He'd probably try to lock you in the palace wing. Again. No door left unguarded, no outing unaccompanied. You could see it already—his hands gripping your shoulders, his voice cracking with guilt and something sharper.

"I told you not to go alone."

But what would you even say?

That Poseidon himself pulled you under?

That you survived three days in the deep, surrounded by dead men and half-memories?

No.

You shook your head slightly and pressed your face deeper into Lady's fur.

Stop thinking. It's over.

You were here now. Dry. Breathing. Alive.

And you still had work to do. Answers to find. A city to reach.

But first...

You needed just a little more time.

Just a little.

Well... after a nap.

You curled your fingers gently through Lady's thick fur, soft and warm and smelling faintly of salt and ash and home. She shifted once, letting out a small sigh, and tucked her nose against your ribs.

Your breathing slowed to match hers.

Eyes still closed, your hand resting over her back, the weight of sleep pulling at your bones.

Your face buried in her fur.

And for a little while... the world could wait.

You slept.

Together.

Quiet.

Safe.

For now.

**Παναγία μου - Holy mother... (another way of saying 'No fuckin way' lololol))

A/N: ahhh! everyday i come here and i'm just blow away by the numbers 😭😭❤️ i'm even getting comments from people telling me my lil fic even inspired them to make thier owns 🥹 but yeah thank you all for the support, i hope i can keep the streak up and if not, i'll be forever happy for this lil pocket of fame y'all gave me--like the 12 year old in me is screaming 😭❤️ but yes, i'm not sure which a/n i mentioned it in but i have an isekai fic already planned set in 'godly things' universe!!! like ahh! it's literally the only reason i made this fanfic hahahah, but yes i can't wait! 

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ but before you all continue, i have an announcemtn, after a few lines dashes beneath my regualr fanart submission, i have been sent some nsfw stuff that i'm estatic to share (so plz if you don't want to see it, thats fine, jus scroll along while the rest of us go wild for some drawn tits/pecs 😩❤️) (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii)

from anon0219

HELLOOOO this is absolutely precious 😭🧎‍♀️ I literally gasped when I saw the pose. The hands, the eyes, the subtle little smile—you NAILED that sweet mix of humility and boldness she's been dancing between lately. Also Hermes rubbing off on MC is such a funny but ACCURATE note?? It's giving, "please, but I already know you'll say yes" energy. Which is exactly where she is right now in the story. She's still respectful... but she's learning how to ask without shrinking. AND THE OUTFIT?? I love that you thought about the colors reflecting her growth. That deepening red on the trim and belt?? The way you kept the silhouette simple but clean (and yeah no stress about the historical chiton stuff, she's literally in a myth fanfic LOL we bend rules here) just makes her pop even more. She's becoming dangerous fr 😭THANK YOU AGAIN for blessing me with this🧎‍♀️💕 I adore seeing your interpretations of her. Please never stop.

from simp_0207

NOOOO THIS IS SO CUTE 🥹🫶 The curls??? The sweet little eye sparkles??? The sun tattoo and her soft necklace detail?? I literally squealed. You captured a whole vibe with this, like—this feels like MC on a peaceful morning, post-drama, just smiling at someone she loves from across the garden 🥲The pencil work and shading??? STUNNING. Her curls are so fluffy and full and the sun necklace placement is just chef's kiss. Thank you so much for sharing this—I'm seriously honored every time someone draws her 🥹💛

from fvckcare

OH. MY. GODS. YOU ATE WITH THIS??? 😭🗡️💙💚THIS IS EVERYTHING I NEVER KNEW I NEEDED 😭💍Andreia and MC together?? Serving royal duo-core?? The power, the fabric, the EYE CONTACT??? Like I know this was supposed to be a wedding portrait but honestly this feels more dangerous—like two women who've learned to weaponize beauty and diplomacy and now you should be afraid. MC in Ithaca's blue?? The elegance, the pearls, the soft curls—SHE'S SERVING "I look good because I'm loved and favored, not because I'm trying to impress you." And then there's ANDREIA??? The emerald green, the SNAKE TATTOO, the lazy smirk that says "I know secrets that could end bloodlines"—yeah, she wins. She wins fashion. She wins menace. I would commit war crimes for her. Also the little doodle of the fangirling Telemachus in the corner?? Crying. Screaming. Throwing myself into the sea. 💀 Thank you for blessing my day with this absolute MASTERPIECE. The wedding is canceled, the girls are eloping.

from blasted-bass

NO NO NO THIS IS PERFECTTTT 😭🪈💘 You don't understand���I saw this and immediately heard a panflute and some messy giggling. Like. You nailed his whole aura. I AM SCREECHINGGGG 😭😭😭The little  "grown ahh man" note???? "Teasing MC 101"??? THE PANFLUTE??? No bc this is Callias if you distilled him down to vibes and serotonin. His face in the center??? It's giving "I'm trouble but I'm pretty enough to get away with it." You understood the assignment. Also—please don't say sorry for this 😭 this is like a love letter to chaos incarnate and you executed it flawlessly. You have officially unlocked: ✅ Fluffy menace ✅ Golden retriever bard energy ✅ "Would get punched by Telemachus for being too familiar" core THANK YOU FOR DRAWING HIM!!! I will be treasuring every one of these expressions. And yes. I am hearing panflute noises in the distance now. 😌

from skibidi toilet

NOOOO THIS IS SO STUPIDLY CUTE I CAN'T FUNCTION 😭😭😭Like. "Can I please see my parents?"— WITH THE PUPPY EYES — right next to that cold-blooded resting bitch face?? That's divine duality right there. That's the "Apollo blessed me but I have anxiety" pipeline in chibi form. 😭 The little "May Apollo bless her" note at the top?? No literally. Someone better start lighting incense because this girl is gonna accidentally spark a god war just by existing. And the oversized glasses??? The limp little braid??? The "I'm a silly little girl (with a body count)" energy??? PERFECTION. You succeeded in making her look silly, but like... in that intentionally misleading way where everyone underestimates her until it's too late 💅 She will cry and then win the entire narrative arc. Thank you for this glorious chaos, I love her SO much 🫶🫶

from gigi (wattpad said it was too large so i had to ss 😡🥲)

I actually gasped?? Like this is so delicately powerful it feels like a whispered warning in the middle of spring. This whole gif feels like the calm before someone burns down an altar in your name. Thank you SO much for making this—it's haunting and beautiful and I’m gonna stare at it every time I write a foreshadow-heavy scene 😭💌

from chari

STOPPP THIS IS SO CUTE IT HURTS 😭🎮✨ Not you turning MC into a modern-day gamer girl AU with lore-stuffed background details like it's season three of a show???? The hoodie, the headphones, the slightly-tired stare??? She's been gaming for six hours straight and is one "Divine Intervention pls" chat message away from rage-quitting. 💀 AND THE BACKGROUND DETAILS!!! You were not joking—there’s SO much going on back there and I'm LIVING. Lady head peaking from behind the desk?? The cluttered shelf behind her energy?? Is that a mini plushie weapon beside her hand or Andreia corpse 😭?? I SCREAMED. You said "I'm not good at drawing clothes" and then gave MC the ✨perfect✨ oversized cozy fit and layered accessories like a whole character designer. Be serious 😤 Thank you for this modern AU moment!! I'll now be imagining her whispering into her mic: "Chat… do I romance the moody prince or the god with commitment issues?"

from gab137507

STOP. You just casually unlocked an AU that has NO RIGHT to go this hard 😭🩸The laurels? The expression?? That quote in the background—"I'm done playing games. I am who I am." I felt that in my soul. This is MC if she took everything that was done to her—everything—and turned it into quiet, calculated control. I can already hear Andreia gasping at a dinner party when MC drops a veiled insult too sharp to ignore. I am obsessed. Please write the rest of this AU immediately. 😭🕯️

No because this one hurt. That soft smile in the "before" sketch?? "Never a frown"? And then we see her after—the same face, same features, but weighed down by responsibility, crowned in divine favor like it’s a burden more than a blessing. The "with golden brown..." note??? That made me ache. Like you can literally feel the warmth draining out of her life when she starts to realize the cost of being favored. She looks regal. But tired. A little lonelier. This felt like watching her lose pieces of herself panel by panel. You really captured that tragedy without needing a single drop of color. ALSO—don't even apologize for quality, these sketches are STUNNING. The emotion is loud, and I love the ASoIaF inspo (bc SAME. I was just talking about how Divine Liaison MC is giving "cursed crown" energy with my sis). I will absolutely take more if you're cooking them 🫡❤️

from iconic-idiot-con

NOOOOO BECAUSE THIS??? This isn't just fanart. This is narrative. The way MC's body is already moving away—tense, twisting, resisting—but that golden leash is pulling her back?? And Apollo's face??? That carefree, gleaming expression like he doesn't even realize he's hurting her (or worse—he does and he thinks it's divine affection). The glow, the collar detail,. the facial expressions?? You didn't miss a single note. This is exactly what divine favor in Godly Things looks like: beautiful, blinding, and lowkey horrifying when you realize you can’t walk away. You ATE. Thank you for this absolutely deranged masterpiece, I'm always so happy tp see what you have for me 😭✨

now on to the nsfw... I REFUSE NOTHING BUT PRAISE FOR THESE 😤😤 tr

from iconic-idiot-con [HAD TO REMOVE/EDIT DUE TO WATTPAD 😭💔🥀]

HELPPP 😭😭 Not the way I screamed "GOOD FOR HER" out loud. I don't think I'll ever get over the way you flipped the script by making MC the one in control. The teasing?? The way poor Telemachus is trembling??? No thoughts, just stuttering pleas and repressed dignity. You even drew his hand clenching like he's hanging on to hope and sanity at the same time 😭 and MC looks so sweetly evil?? Like "Aww, baby's flustered <3" energy. She's not even breaking a sweat and he's about to implode. And Telemachus little figure in the corner cursing the gods with his whole soul cuz he's so down mad??? ICONIC.

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[winxanity-ii]

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄/𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍:

𝐀 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 (fluff/angst-ish?; between ch.23 (blessings and burdens) -24 (divine liaison)

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧: odysseus gave mc the title 'divine liasion' to kind of bridge the gap between mc and his son, like a lowkey olive branch or a way to give her a role that would keep her close but still protected. 😩 (BTW THANK YOU SANMAO from Quotev for jogging my memory of this lol)

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting soft amber light across the wooden walls of the study.

Maps lay spread before Odysseus like a battle waiting to be fought, inked lines and fraying parchment curling at the corners from years of handling. He sat hunched at his desk, one hand resting on a goblet of wine that had long since gone lukewarm, the other holding down a scroll as his eyes flicked over strategy reports from the western coast.

Across the room, Penelope sat by the hearth, quill in hand. Her writing was smooth and elegant, like the sweep of her wrist was practiced even when her mind was a world away. She was drafting a letter—he didn't ask to whom. Probably a cousin on the mainland or one of the allied queens who still wrote in spirals of gossip and veiled concern.

The only sound was the gentle drag of her quill and the occasional sigh from Odysseus as he reread the same line for the third time without absorbing it.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that came only when a queen and king had learned to share space without needing to speak.

Then—three sharp knocks. Quick. Nervous.

Penelope's quill stilled. Odysseus lifted his head, gaze narrowing.

"Enter," he called, voice low but firm.

The door creaked open, and in shuffled a young servant—barely more than a boy, really—hair mussed and eyes wide like he'd sprinted the entire length of the palace. He bowed, words spilling out before he caught his breath. "M-My lord, my lady—pardon the interruption, but I—I thought you should know."

Penelope sat upright. Odysseus arched a brow. "Well? Speak."

The servant swallowed hard. "People. At the gates. Dozens—maybe more by now. They're saying the girl—the one who healed the boy on the ship—word's spread. They think she's blessed. Touched by the gods. Some have traveled from neighboring isles already—hoping to be healed."

He blinked, clearly rattled, and added, "Should I alert the guards? Or... or send for the priestesses?"

Odysseus exchanged a glance with Penelope, his jaw tightening. He waved a hand. "No. That'll be all. Go back to your post. And... breathe."

The boy stumbled out with a bow, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence returned—heavier this time.

Penelope was the first to speak, voice soft but tinged with wonder. "Gods... it was just yesterday she helped that boy. Word travels fast."

Odysseus didn't look up from the scroll still unfurled before him. His fingers pressed into the parchment like he could will it to say something else. Anything else.

"I heard," he murmured.

Penelope didn't miss the tension in his jaw or the way his hand lingered too long on the page. She leaned back in her chair, eyes drifting toward the crackling hearth, and let her voice fill the silence he refused to break.

"They're calling her a healer now."

He said nothing.

"And a prophet. A siren. A daughter of Apollo." Her brow arched, the corners of her mouth curving into something between amusement and disbelief. "Gods, someone said she was Artemis in disguise just yesterday. And now this?"

"She's not Artemis," Odysseus said quietly, still not looking at her. His eyes remained fixed on the scroll, though the words there had long since lost meaning.

Penelope rose, slow and fluid. "No?" she said softly, a teasing lilt slipping into her voice as she walked over to him with  the kind of grace that made him feel seventeen again. She bent slightly, brushing a kiss just above his ear. "And here I thought you'd tell me she was the Muse of Ithaca next."

Odysseus grunted, shifting in his seat, but the tips of his ears—traitorous as ever—flushed red.

Penelope chuckled, the sound warm and fond, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers were light, barely pressing down, but their presence settled him in a way nothing else could. She glanced at the maps scattered before him, then back to his face.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, voice gentler now.

Odysseus exhaled slowly. "Earlier today... I spoke to her...____."

Penelope said nothing, only waited.

"She asked me what it meant to carry a god's favor," he said after a moment, eyes still on the fire now. "Said she wasn't sure if she was ready. If she'd ever be. I gave her advice, but..." His lips pressed into a tight line. "She's still young. Still unsure."

Penelope hummed, stepping closer. "She's loyal," she said. "She's kind. And clever in a way that doesn't need to be spoken aloud."

He nodded once. "Dangerous combination."

"She reminds me of someone," she mused, her fingers trailing across his shoulder before resting beneath her chin. "Someone I used to know, before the years turned us both into shadows of our sharper selves."

He glanced at her then, eyes shadowed but soft. "That so?"

She turned to meet his gaze. "I was once a girl in these halls too, Ody." A small, secret smile ghosted across her lips. "Weren't you the man who taught me how to wield a dagger hidden in a spindle?"

"I was the fool who gave it to you," he said with a dry chuckle.

"And I was the fool who didn't use it on you when you returned from war, reeking of smoke and half a dozen curses."

They shared a look—wry, exhausted, and full of something older than pain. Something that survived it.

Something that endured.

Odysseus shifted slightly in his chair, the weight of memory pressing into his spine like old armor. He turned the scroll over, finally letting it go, and ran a rough hand through his graying curls.

"I've decided," he said at last, voice low.

Penelope tilted her head.

"There'll be a feast tomorrow," he continued. "A formal one. Public."

Her brow lifted. "What for?"

"I'm giving her a title."

That earned a blink, then a slow smile. "Oh?"

"I'm going to call her the Divine Liaison."

Penelope let out a soft hum, something between surprised and amused. "A liaison?"

"To the gods," he clarified, as if that explained everything. "She sings. She speaks. She listens."

"She also braids linen," Penelope murmured, crossing the room to refill her wine, "and shuffles quietly through the halls when she thinks no one's looking."

"She's not no one," he said, almost too quickly.

"No," Penelope agreed, glancing over her shoulder with a flicker of mischief. "But you're not doing this for her. Not entirely."

He didn't respond. Just stared at the crackling fire.

Penelope returned to stand beside him. "You're doing this for him."

Odysseus didn't deny it.

Her smile widened, voice warming into something teasing. "What, no snarky quip about strategy and optics?"

He exhaled through his nose, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "It'll put the right kind of eyes on her. Keeps her close, but not too close. Grants her place, not power."

"And Telemachus?"

He paused. His thumb traced a line along the rim of his goblet. "It gives him a reason to protect her."

Penelope's laugh was soft—surprised and fond, like the sound of wind through linen. "As if he needed one."

"I'd rather he had a title to point to than a heart to confess," Odysseus muttered, the admission slipping out like a stray arrow.

Penelope's smile faded into something quieter. Her gaze lingered on him, eyes kind. "You think this is love, then?"

Odysseus looked down at his hands. Calloused fingers, faded scars. Hands that had built ships, drawn blood, buried friends. Hands that had once held her, trembling and young.

"I think..." He swallowed. "He looks at her the way I used to look at you. When I didn't think you'd notice."

That silenced her.

Not from surprise, but from memory.

She stood straight, eyes misty with something too old to name. "I did notice," she said after a beat, voice a hush against the crackle of fire. "I just wasn't ready to believe it."

Odysseus nodded, quiet for a moment. Then. "He follows her with his whole chest, Pen. Tries not to—tries to act like he doesn't—but gods, it's written all over him. Like he's always waiting for her voice in the hall, like he counts her footsteps before they reach him."

Penelope let out a breath, touched one hand to her heart.

"He watches her like he's trying to memorize something he knows he doesn't deserve."

She smiled softly. "Then he's your son, alright."

Odysseus huffed a laugh. "And she... she doesn't even see it. Or maybe she does, and she's just scared. Either way, she's in it too deep to leave without bleeding."

Silence stretched again, long and tender.

Penelope's voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "So this title—it's not just for show."

He looked at her.

"No," he said. "It's a tether. A shield. A warning."

"To whom?" she asked gently.

His jaw flexed. "To anyone who'd think to take her from him."

And for a moment, the only sound was the hush of the sea through the window... and the way their breaths seemed to fall in time. The fire crackled low behind them, casting long shadows across the stone, but neither moved to tend it.

Then Penelope whispered, her voice so soft he nearly missed it. "We tried for years, you know."

His head turned sharply.

She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze had drifted somewhere distant—far beyond the parchment, the hearth, the years worn into the lines of her face. Her quill sat idle on the desk, ink bleeding slowly into the paper's edge.

"Before Telemachus," she continued, barely louder than the tide. "We tried, and the gods were quiet. I was beginning to think they didn't listen to women who prayed softly."

"Penelope—" he started, but she kept going, the words fragile and real and unshakable.

"But then... he came...Telemachus... Small and loud and full of everything I didn't know I'd needed." Her voice caught slightly. "And you were gone."

Odysseus reached for her hand. Found it. Held it.

His thumb brushed along the curve of her knuckles, memorizing them all over again.

"I never got to be his father while he was small," he said, his voice rough. "I came home to a boy with your eyes and none of my memories. A stranger, who I loved like he'd always been mine."

Penelope turned to look at him now. There was no judgment in her eyes. Just grief softened by time.

"I can't undo that," he added, a bitter edge creeping in. "But I can give him this. A chance. A way to—"

"Love without losing," she finished, her eyes searching his.

He nodded. "Exactly."

They sat like that for a long time. No more strategy. No more prophecy. Just two parents on either side of a life they tried their best to build.

The fire had nearly gone out when Penelope broke the silence, voice low and wry.

"You're terrible at pretending you don't care."

Odysseus huffed. "And you're worse at pretending you don't hope."

She leaned in, brushing her lips against his knuckles, her eyes never leaving his. "Maybe. But this hope feels... right."

He nodded once. Didn't speak.

Because if he had, it would've been something soft. Something too bare to say aloud.

Something like: Me too

Penelope laughed softly at the silence that followed, not mocking, but something warmer. Something full of understanding. "You know," she said, eyes crinkling with affection, "I think I love her more each day."

That made him glance up.

"She's brave," Penelope went on, voice quiet but sure. "Even when she's angry. Even when she's hurting."

Odysseus smiled faintly. The corners of his mouth twitched upward like he couldn't quite help it, like something small in his chest was loosening.

"She reminds me of you, you know," Penelope added, reaching over to brush a speck of dust from his shoulder. "Not when you're scheming. When you're... trying. When you're trying to be good."

"Gods help us," he muttered. "Two of me."

Penelope smacked his shoulder, light but pointed. He chuckled, and she did too. The kind of laugh that curled at the edges of a long day. Familiar. Worn in like sea-soft leather.

And then—quieter now—she said, "I think she's the closest thing we've had to a daughter."

Odysseus stilled.

His smile faded, not in rejection, but in reverence. Like the weight of those words deserved room to breathe.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The wind outside rattled the olive branches against the shutters, a whisper of the island beyond. The fire in the hearth hissed softly, like even it had gone still to listen.

"I know," he said finally. His voice was quiet. Measured. "That's what scares me."

Penelope's expression shifted. Softer now. She stepped toward him, cupping his face in both hands, gentle and sure.

"She's not a god," she whispered. "But she's ours. And if the gods want her—well, they'll have to go through both of us first."

He closed his eyes.

And smiled.

"...Then let them come."

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: ahhh! im happy you guys enjoyed my other headcanon/drabble oneshot haha tbh i have a bunch of these ranging from pretty much everywhere/anything from 'what if'aus etc, to alternative choices; so like think of things i managed to post for divine whispers but are too much small word count to post haha, but yeah, i'll pretty much might upload these whenever i have time/or someone's comment remind me of a scene i wrote and i'll dig through my docs to fix up, etc. hahahah (but yeah this little chappie is full of stuff i was researching about odypen, specifically the theory of them being married for years before having telemachus 😭😭���) but yeah just a small update, i'll try to update the next chappie tmr/layter today thank you all

[winxanity-ii]

When the fic I so good you wanna write a fanfic of a fanfic. (With ur permission of course). But my brain worms are acting up again so I need to spitball

Ok so I was just imagining, like a reader gets reincarnated into your fanfic, do they have powers? Maybe maybe not but either way the gods notice sooner or later. Hat do they want to do? Find a way home? Try to live as inconspicuously as possible? Shake up the plot? Be an absolute gremlin and troll everyone Cheshire Cat style? Who knows but one thing is for certain. They got isekaid into a fanfiction of epic THE MUSICAL, and they are horrified that everyone randomly breaks out into a musical number at the slightest inconvenience and they CANNOT take anything seriously due to that. Unfortunately they themselves are not immune to this plot device. Isekai comes at a cause after all. (Sorry my English is a but bad it’s not my first language😭)

FANGIRL SCREECHHH YESSS you’re literally psychic because… I lowkey wasn’t gonna say anything, but I have slipped it into a few past A/Ns 👀

Okay so basically—yes. You are 100% on the money. One of the reasons I’ve been so tedious and careful with Godly Things is because I always knew I wanted to write an isekai fic into it later. Like, that’s literally the origin story. Originally I was like “hmm how do I write an isekai into EPIC: The Musical without just yeeting reader in awkwardly,” and then my brain said, “Wait… what if I just build the fic they'd get isekai’d into first.”

So boom. Godly Things was born.

Then it kinda exploded. 20+ chapters later, I’m like “huh. This is no longer a silly setup. This is a full-blown mythological spiral with themes and trauma and divine agendas???”

BUT. Once Godly Things wraps, I’m absolutely going off the rails with the isekai version. Like I’m talking max-level gremlin reader. Fully aware. Mildly unhinged. Possibly cursed by the format. Definitely traumatized by spontaneous musical numbers. Can’t take anything seriously. Gets divine dreams and tries to sleep through them. Tells the gods “no” like that’s a valid answer. Thinks Telemachus is hot but also absolutely NOT going to let that slide without at least three breakdowns. Full fanservice. Meta chaos. You get it 😌

ANYWAY. Long story short: YOU GET IT. You see the vision. When it drops, I’m calling you first.

(Also your English is totally fine, don’t even worry!! I understood every word and loved all of it 💛)

[winxanity-ii]

@k-nayee

📝COMMISSION ME!

[winxanity-ii]

Omg. This just unlocked a whole new fear for me. Like… I know AI will never be able to predict the actual twists and gut punches my brain comes up with, but still. But the fact that my fics/work are online—on multiple platforms—and are probably already floating around in some system?? That's horrifying.

It's so icky and violating to even imagine someone just copying and pasting my words—my blood, sweat, and tears—into a machine like that. Like damn. I wouldn't even know how to feel. Just… gutted. That's my work. It's not a prompt. It's not for practice. It's mine.

This is the worst timeline. (x)

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: THREE MINUTES, THREE DAYS DIVINE WHISPERS: Three Minutes, Three Days | divine whispers: three minutes, three days ⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You thought you'd passed out the moment you hit the water—thought it was over. But your mind stirred like a door creaking open. And when your eyes blinked open, slow and heavy, it wasn't the ship you saw.

It was water.

Endless. Weightless.

The world was quiet—too quiet. Muffled and still, like you'd slipped behind a curtain the sea didn't want anyone else to see past. There was no storm now. No screaming. No lightning. Just... blue.

Endless, dark blue.

Your limbs floated loosely at your sides. Your hair drifted like seaweed, weightless and strange. Bubbles curled from your nose, drifting upward toward a surface you couldn't see. Couldn't feel.

And for a moment—just one—you were calm.

Then the panic hit.

You twisted, kicking hard. Turned too fast. A jolt of nausea spun through your chest as you realized where you were, how deep, how far, how cold—

Your arms flailed once, trying to orient yourself, and your pulse thudded sharp behind your eyes. Up. Up. Where was up?

Your gaze darted around wildly. The world looked the same in every direction. Shimmering and dark and slow. Your own limbs looked distorted against the water. Soft like marble. Distant like they weren't yours anymore.

You kicked again.

Hard.

Your chest screamed.

And then your brain—your dumb, hopeful brain—flashed back to those summers in the palace courtyard.

You remembered this feeling. Not the fear. The movement.

You remembered games—summers in the royal baths when the palace staff would turn a blind eye. You and the other servant children splashing beneath the colonnades, daring each other to hold your breath the longest.

Loser had to mop the hallway. Winner got the biggest fig from the tray.

Telemachus never lost.

You remembered him under the water, eyes wide, cheeks puffed, arms folded like he wasn't even trying. And then he'd break the surface with a grin so smug you wanted to drown him yourself.

You always kicked harder when he was watching.

He used to shout, "Don't come up yet—just a little longer!" And you would laugh underwater, teeth clenched, bubbles tickling your nose as you counted.

One. Two. Three...

Three minutes. That was your record.

Anything past that was dangerous.

Your chest heaved now, desperate. You clenched your jaw. Kicked again.

There.

A glint.

Light.

The surface—so close you could almost graze it with your fingertips.

You kicked toward it. Fought toward it.

But the more you moved... the further it drifted.

Like the sea was teasing you.

Your arms burned. Your legs ached. Your lungs throbbed with the ache of holding back what they needed. You clawed toward that silver blur above—but it slipped again. Out of reach.

It wasn't just the weight.

It was something else.

Something behind you.

You didn't turn right away.

But you felt it.

The drag. The presence. Like fingers brushing your ankle. Like a whisper curling around your ear that didn't need sound to speak.

Not yet.

But soon.

And still—you kicked.

Because you remembered the laughter. The figs. The way Lady used to bark at the waves like they were enemies. You remembered warm sand. Loud dinners. Quiet rooms with a lyre in your lap.

You remembered life.

And gods, you wanted it back.

Even if the sea wanted to keep you.

The surface drifted further the more you clawed toward it.

Like the water itself was laughing.

It pulled you deeper, until it felt like your bones were made of salt. The light above was gone now—blurred beyond recognition, warped into nothing but a whisper of brightness somewhere far, far out of reach.

Your lungs burned. Just a little. Not panic yet. But you knew the countdown had started.

Two minutes.

Maybe less.

You stilled your body, floating limp for just a moment, trying to think. Trying to remember what Diomedes had told you about holding air. What your muscles felt like before they crumpled. What stillness felt like when it wasn't just surrender.

Your chest seized.

You kicked on last time, tried to break the weight clinging to your heels.

Still nothing.

The deeper you sank, the more the sea pressed in.

Until—

A shape moved out of the dark.

Not fast. Not thrashing.

Smooth. Lurking.

It came from your left—gliding like shadow between folds of water. At first you thought it might be a trick of the dark. Your vision was already going fuzzy. The lack of air made everything slow.

The shadow then took shape.

But then you saw the light.

Faint.

Glowing blue.

Not sunlight. Not sky.

But from him.

Poseidon.

First the trident—longer than your body, glowing with veins of water and raw magic, humming like a current in your ears.

Then a chest. Bare, massive, carved like old statues. Broad enough you could've stretched out across it and still not reached the edge.

A tail next.

Not a man's legs—but a scaled, glimmering tail the size of a dock beam, slick with dark indigo and midnight blue. It moved with such ease through the water, each flick coiling the sea like it obeyed him.

He had gills, on his neck. You watched them flutter.

Patches of scale shimmered along his arms. His fingers tipped in dark claws. His hair—long, heavy, tied in braids—floated like strands of seaweed caught in slow tide.

And his face.

His face was... unfair.

Strong. Regal. Cut like something meant to be knelt before. Ocean-dark skin glinted with wet light, and his mouth curled—not with kindness, but curiosity. Or maybe amusement.

His eyes—gods.

Glowing blue. Like deepwater flame. Not warm. Not cruel. Just... ancient.

You tried to swim backward on instinct. Your body barely moved.

He noticed.

Poseidon tilted his head slightly, gaze roving over you like he was sizing up whether you were prey, an offering... or something more.

Then—he smiled.

"Poor little air-breather," he said.

His voice hit you like current. It didn't echo—not like in the stories—but it vibrated. Through your ribs. Through the water. Like he wasn't speaking to you, but through you.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

Your chest was screaming.

He cocked his head again, golden fin on his ear twitching slightly. "Still holding your breath? Brave girl."

Then he moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

One blink, and he was in front of you—so close his hand could've curled around your entire waist.

And gods, it could've. His hand was huge.

You flinched. The water burned your eyes. Panic spiked in your chest, but he didn't strike.

Poseidon touched the side of your face—just one clawed fingertip, cool and smooth—and held you there, like pinning a bubble to glass.

Then he sighed.

"You know," he murmured, "normally, I'd have sunk that ship on the first day. No prayers. No offerings. Not even a blessing of salt. Pitiful."

He turned slightly, eyes drifting upward toward the faint, faint outline of the ship far above.

"I let them sail three days. You know why?" He looked back at you.

You still couldn't breathe.

He grinned wider.

"Because you were on it."

Your heart jolted.

His fingers brushed your cheek now. Still light. Still... curious.

"They said you were a favorite," he went on, eyes glowing brighter. "Apollo's little muse. Hermes' little spark. I wanted to see if you were worth the trouble."

He leaned in, voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.

"But I can't let them all forget. Not forever. If I don't drown a ship or two now and then, the mortals get lazy. They start thinking the gods are myths. That salt doesn't need blood. That tides don't pull back with a cost."

Poseidon's grip tightened—not hard, but enough to make your spine lock.

"You understand, don't you? Rituals are memory. Memory is respect. If I let you live, it has to mean something."

Your throat seized.

Pain bloomed sharp beneath your ribs—burning, desperate, alive.

You reached toward your chest without meaning to, like pressing your palm there would somehow slow the panic, stop the pressure curling inside your lungs.

It was happening too fast now. The dizziness. The stuttering heartbeat. That moment of tilt where your body screamed for air and your mind started to quiet instead.

The sea god didn't blink, he just watched.

Still close. Still calm. Still glowing.

"Most mortals," he murmured, more to himself than to you, "don't make it past the burn. You're a bit stubborn... aren't you?"

Your vision flickered.

Everything felt too far away and too close at once.

And then—he moved.

Without warning.

He swam closer in a rush of current, the glow around him flickering with motion. His form blurred slightly—ribbons of bubbles spiraling from his skin, the shape of him collapsing and reforming. Smaller now. Still huge, still terrifying, but less... god-like.

More human. Or pretending to be.

But before you could react—before your body could kick or your arms could shove—he grabbed you by the jaw.

Firm. Commanding.

And then his mouth covered yours.

You shrieked.

Or tried to.

Your body jolted, bubbles bursting from your mouth and nostrils, floating in frantic little puffs around your head as you thrashed in his grip. Your hands slammed against his chest—solid, cold, god—but it didn't matter.

Because all at once—your lungs filled.

With air.

With breath.

Not water. Not salt. Not panic.

Air.

You sucked in wildly, instinctively, still kicking weakly against his body as the cold became oxygen and your heart stuttered back to life.

He let go.

You shoved him.

Hard.

Or, well, as hard as you could underwater against a man who could probably bench press a whale.

You kicked away—half-floating, half-scrambling through the weight of the sea until you had a little space, arms up like you weren't sure if you wanted to fight or scream.

Your voice rasped through bubbles, sharp and furious. "What in Hades was that?! Did you just—kiss me?!"

Poseidon blinked once, then arched a brow, deadpan. "Kiss?" he said slowly. "That was not a kiss."

He flicked a finger lazily through the water like the word itself offended him. "I gave you a temporary gift. Air. Breathing. A survival boon. You're welcome, mortal."

You gaped at him. "Then warn me next time! Or—or I don't know—don't make it look like a kiss!"

He tilted his head, smile curling again at the edge. "You'd prefer I blow into your nose next time?"

Your face heated, but your voice cracked with a muttered, "You need to rename that ability or something."

He chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

Low and amused, the kind of sound that rippled through the water and made you feel like you'd somehow said something funny at a royal banquet without realizing it.

Then he leaned back again, not moving, just floating there—arms folded, tail swaying slow behind him like a lazy current.

He examined you the way someone might study a strange creature in a tide pool. His glowing eyes narrowed.

"You're funny," he said softly.

Not mean. Not mocking.

Just... surprised.

Then—his brow lifted again.

"...What's your name, mortal?"

You didn't answer.

Not yet.

Not because you couldn't.

But because you were still trying to decide if this was real—or if death just had a beautiful, terrifying face.

And even now... you weren't sure which one would be worse.

Your lips parted slow, bubbles slipping from your mouth like soft silver coins rising toward the surface. "...____," you said quietly, still breathless, voice wrapped in disbelief.

Poseidon watched the bubbles trail up, and his grin widened. "Pretty," he said, voice curling like the tide. "I like knowing the names of those I save."

His gaze dropped—briefly—to your mouth.

"And those who take my gifts like they mean something else."

Your glare came back instantly, mouth moving before you could stop it. "I will punch you with a prayer."

He laughed again.

A real laugh.

It was low and rumbling, like the tide against hollow caves, deep and dark and rolling all the way through you. And gods help you... the sound made you want to float closer, even though every grain of sense in your body was screaming that he might still drown you.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward, sharkish. His long tail flicked behind him, the dark blue scales catching dim light like blades of obsidian, and for a second, he looked almost too pleased. "Mmm," he hummed, eyes flicking lazily over you, "it seems Hermes' sharp tongue has rubbed off on you.

Your stomach twisted at the sound of his name—Hermes. You could still hear his teasing words in your head, feel the glint in his gaze. Poseidon's smirk deepened, as though he could see straight through your thoughts.

"Luckily for you," Poseidon went on, voice syrup-smooth and curling through the dark water, "I'm in a good mood."

You didn't trust that for a second.

His trident—watery, alive with light—floated beside him like it had a will of its own. He gestured with it carelessly, flicking his fingers, motioning you closer like you were some skittish fish in his reef.

"Come," he ordered.

The water swirled at his command, coiling around your legs, urging you forward.

Your brow pulled tight. "The boat," you said, twisting to glance behind you, heart stumbling in your chest. "What about the ship? Eben? Lady—"

He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "Your little beast will live," he said, amused. "As for the crew..." He tilted his head, studying the distant shape of the ship like it was nothing more than a speck of driftwood caught in his current. "They will survive."

You didn't believe him... not fully.

"Survive?" you repeated, cautious. "That's it?"

Poseidon's smile stretched wider, almost fond. "Their punishment," he explained smoothly, "will be living with the thought that they had a hand in your death. That they failed their divine liaison. That they will return home to Ithaca thinking of all the punishments the king might carve from their bones." His gaze darkened, almost gleaming. "And believe me, mortal... that fear alone will taste worse than death."

His voice turned to a purr, almost a taunt.

"Ask Melanion."

Your breath caught sharp in your chest.

Melanion.

The name rippled through you like cold iron. You flinched. You couldn't stop it. You felt the chill slide down your spine, like some part of you—some quiet, trembling instinct—knew exactly what he meant.

Even here. Even beneath the sea, far from courts and blades and mortal justice.

You shivered, your voice tight in your throat. "What... happened to him?"

Poseidon only smiled.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

But like the question itself amused him far too much.

"Justice isn't the same for all," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "Some souls are dragged beneath the waves. Others... are left gasping at the surface, believing they've escaped. But they have not."

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs.

Because you realized then—Melanion was not gone. Not in the way you'd hoped.

You swallowed hard, bile rising in your throat. The weight of it pressed on your chest like a stone. Not even the strange, borrowed air Poseidon had given you could ease it.

He must have seen it in your face, the way you stiffened and your eyes darted away, because he let out another soft chuckle.

"You understand now," he said. "Good."

Then he turned, trident slicing smoothly through the water.

"Come," he said again, a command this time. No room for argument.

You weren't sure if you could refuse.

Not because he forced you.

But because some part of you—some dark, dangerous part—wanted to know what awaited in the depths.

Wanted to understand the kind of justice that did not end with a clean cut.

So you followed.

Because you had to.

Because you wanted to.

Even if you feared what you'd find.

Your legs kicked weakly at first, still aching from the strain of drowning, still not used to the strange weightlessness clinging to your bones. The water around you pulsed with a quiet thrum, like the heartbeat of some great beast you'd just stepped inside of. Your own heartbeat sounded loud in your ears—a slow, echoing drum, thudding in time with your ragged breath.

You tried not to let the fear show on your face as you swam after Poseidon.

His tail carved through the water ahead of you with terrifying grace, scales flashing dark blue and silver in the dim light, casting ripples that spread like shivers across your skin. He was slower now, almost leisurely, like a predator who knew you had no choice but to follow.

The deeper you went, the colder it grew.

Not a biting cold. No, this was heavier. Older. The kind of chill that sank past your skin and coiled around your ribs like it meant to stay there.

Then you saw it.

A ship graveyard.

Several broken, splintered hulls loomed from the ocean floor, rising like the bones of ancient giants. Mastheads snarled at you with chipped teeth, tangled nets fluttered like shrouds in the current. Rusted anchors sprawled across coral reefs like the remains of chains too heavy to lift.

But it wasn't just any graveyard.

As you drifted closer, you caught it—a flicker of color beneath the silt. Faded blues and weathered greens, torn fabrics clinging stubbornly to shattered masts.

Ithacan colors.

Your breath hitched painfully in your chest. Even worse, you saw the sigils: the owl and quill, half-peeled from a splintered hull.

Your throat went tight at the sight.

The water carried an oily, briny tang now. Mixed with something else—something metallic, sharp, like old blood. You caught yourself blinking hard, squinting past the haze, and the sound of it... gods, the sound.

There was no silence here.

There was the hum of your heartbeat, yes, but layered under it were whispers. Thin, scraping whispers, like voices trying to slip between the cracks of the deep. Faint and broken. You couldn't understand the words, but they clawed at your ears, at your chest, with a desperation that made your breath stumble.

"Do you recognize it?" Poseidon asked, breaking the quiet with a voice smooth as polished stone.

You startled slightly, your gaze jerking to him. His eyes gleamed bright even in the dark, catching the faintest glimmers of light.

"...This is—" You swallowed hard, your voice small against the vastness of the wreckage. "This is King Odysseus' fleet."

He tilted his head, something cruel flickering at the edge of his mouth. "Ah. So he did mention it."

Your chest ached, your pulse thudding a little faster now. "...A little," you admitted, keeping your eyes on the graveyard to avoid his piercing gaze. "He told me about the journey. About the storms. About the men who didn't make it."

Poseidon's lips curled into something like a sneer, his sharp teeth flashing faintly beneath the ripple of his voice. "And when he spoke of this?" He gestured lazily to the wreckage, to the shadows lingering between the beams of the drowned ships. "When he told you of the six hundred men lost to my waters... did he weep? Did he lower his proud head in shame?"

You hesitated, the truth sticky on your tongue. "...He doesn't linger," you said carefully. "The king doesn't dwell on what can't be undone."

Poseidon scoffed, a short, bitter sound that rippled through the water.

"Of course he doesn't," he spat. "The mighty king of Ithaca—clever, slippery Odysseus. Always so good at stepping over graves without looking down."

With a flick of his wrist, the sea around you shifted. You jolted as the water churned, and then—suddenly—you weren't alone.

Figures emerged from the gloom.

Dozens at first. Then hundreds.

Shadowy shapes drifting upward from the wreckage like smoke rising from an unseen fire. They had no eyes, no mouths—but you could feel them watching you. Feel them pulling at your gaze.

Soldiers.

You could see the tattered remains of their armor, the half-dissolved crests of their helmets, the way they still carried their spears and shields as if battle had never ended. Their movements were slow, swaying like weeds caught in the tide, but their presence was suffocating.

You heard them.

The ragged hush of breath that shouldn't exist underwater. The clink of metal brushing against bone. Whispers curling between your ears like a dying prayer.

Your spine prickled.

"These," Poseidon said darkly, "were his men. His loyal crew. His followers. Who followed him across sun-scorched islands and monster-infested waters. And yet, for all their service... this is where they ended."

Your throat squeezed tight.

The soldiers drifted closer, their faces clearer now—blurred, like memories you couldn't fully place. But there was recognition in their gaze, even if they had no eyes to see you with.

"Shipwrecked. Forsaken. Swallowed by the very sea they prayed to cross," Poseidon continued, his voice carrying the weight of thunderclouds. "Did he tell you how they screamed, mortal? Did he tell you how their bones rattled as they were dragged under?"

You flinched, your hands curling against your chest.

Poseidon's eyes glinted as if tasting your fear. "No," he said softly, almost a purr. "He wouldn't."

He waved his hand again, and the currents stirred violently—churning the wreckage and the shadows into a spiral around you. The water throbbed with the heartbeat of something older than memory. Darker than myth.

Your chest burned.

It wasn't just fear anymore. It was weight. Pressure. The terrible, terrible knowing of what came next.

You forced yourself to speak through your tightening throat. "...Why show me this?"

Poseidon's grin sharpened, teeth glimmering like blades. "Because," he said, "Odysseus may leave graves behind him—but I never forget the ones left in my domain."

The shadows closed in around you, and you swore you felt them brush against your skin. Cold. Wet. Wrong.

Your breath snagged, and you shivered down to your bones.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered—

If you weren't careful...

Would I be next?

The thought coiled tight in your chest like a serpent ready to strike.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, louder than the eerie scrape of armor, louder than the dragging drift of those shadowed souls that surrounded you now—too many, too close, yet still untouchable in their emptiness.

Poseidon's voice came low. "They never had a burial," he said, flicking his fingers as if scattering sand. "No rites. No tombs. No final honors. Just the sea's cold cradle."

His eyes cut toward you, blue and burning, holding something ancient behind their glow.

"And so they remain."

Your brow furrowed, confusion rippling through you. "But—" you started, breath catching. "Polites... he said... he said Hermes and Athena led him past the banks. Past the Styx. He wasn't buried either, but he still made it through."

Poseidon's lips twitched at the corners—not a smile. Not quite. "Athena?" he echoed, a hint of mockery laced in her name. "That gray-eyed goddess bends rules whenever it suits her."

His tail curled lazily beneath him, circling you like a reef snake coiling around its prey.

"But that is the horror, mortal. That is the price of war and forgotten dead." His voice grew heavier, pressing on you from all sides. "These souls are not in the Underworld. Nor are they truly here, in your living world."

His gaze swept over the swirling mass of shadowed soldiers, as if seeing them not as they were now, but as they had been in their final, gasping moments.

"They are between."

Your stomach twisted cold.

His words felt like stone dropping into your chest, pulling you deeper even though you weren't moving.

"Trapped," he finished, "where no priest can reach them. Where no god cares to claim them."

You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. Against the weight of that truth.

You looked at the shadows—at their empty eyes, their drifting limbs, their half-remembered armor.

They were nowhere.

They were nothing.

"...So they're forgotten," you breathed, the words slipping from your lips before you could stop them. "Not alive. Not dead. Just... unfinished."

Poseidon's gaze snapped to you sharply.

Too sharp.

For a heartbeat, he said nothing.

He just watched you. Studied you. Something in his eyes flared with a glint of something older than anger, older than pride. Something almost like... recognition.

His mouth pulled into a slow curl of amusement. "You're not what I expected," he murmured, his voice curling like sea mist around your ears. "No... you're worse."

Your breath hitched.

Before you could make sense of his words, before you could ask what he meant, he turned.

Just like that.

Swirling in a twist of bubbles and dark water, his massive form began to drift away, his tail slicing through the current with ease.

Your heart lurched in your chest. Panic bubbled up like salt in a wound.

"W-Wait!" you shouted, twisting after him, your voice shaky, too high. "Wait! What are you—what are you doing?! You can't just leave me here!"

Poseidon didn't slow. He raised one clawed hand, almost lazily, almost like a farewell, without looking back.

"I'll allow you to return to the surface," he said. "In three days' time."

Your chest seized.

Three days.

No food. No warmth. Alone in this graveyard of ships and souls.

Your hands shot forward, like you could catch him, like you could grab the water itself and pull him back to you. "No—wait! Wait! Don't go!"

Your voice rang through the deep like a warning bell, lost beneath the churn of the currents.

But Poseidon only chuckled, dark and smooth as black tide.

"Enjoy~" he said, his grin audible in his tone.

And then he was gone.

Vanished into the folds of the ocean, leaving you adrift among the wreckage and the dead.

The whispers pressed closer, wrapping around your ears like seaweed. The shadows watched you, turning, ever so slightly, in your direction.

Your breath trembled, shaky and thin in your chest.

Three days.

Three days alone in this nightmare.

Your pulse thundered in your skull.

Enjoy.

His parting word echoed in the hollows of your mind.

You drifted there for a long time, too long—lungs tight with stolen breath, limbs floating just enough to remind you they still hurt. Your skin prickled with the cold, with the pressure, with the ache of something beneath your ribs that wasn't panic anymore.

And when you finally looked up—really looked, heart still thudding in your throat—you saw them.

They surrounded you in a loose arc, stretched wide around the seabed like a broken crescent moon. All standing as if they'd been summoned to attention, but long forgotten what that meant.

Not one moved.

Their faces were pale beneath the weight of the sea, soft and slack like their skin had lost the memory of expression. Glassy. Stuck.

Some bore old helms, some nothing at all. Most still clutched rusted spears or shields near-rotted from salt. Their armor didn't shine. Their eyes didn't blink.

They didn't look at you.

They looked through you.

Locked in some place between memory and mourning.

Your breath hitched. Your arms curled tight across your stomach as your pulse skittered.

None of them moved.

Not until something began to shift.

The soldiers near the center began to sway—subtle at first, then deliberate. A parting of limbs, of ghostly shapes. Not like they'd seen you. They shifted without question, like water making way for tide.

And through them, a single figure stepped forward.

Slow.

Measured.

His form passed through the crowd like a blade slicing smoke, and the others bent around him. Not in reverence, but in... familiarity.

You could tell right away he wasn't like the rest. Not completely.

His body was still ghostly—still wreathed in that same sickly, salt-glimmered haze—but there was color in him. The faintest edge of it. Faint bronze beneath the blue light. A suggestion of warmth, long faded.

His hair, shoulder-length and thick, swayed like knotted sea-rope, streaked through with early gray. His jaw bore a faint stubble that hadn't darkened with age, just settled. A long scar forked across his face—lightning-white. It ran from the top of his cheekbone across the bridge of his nose, curling down near his jaw like a crack in weathered marble.

And his eyes.

Gods, his eyes were dazed.

Not clouded—but faraway. Like he was still halfway in a memory. Still waiting for something that never came.

He stopped before you, the other soldiers hanging back, watching, yet not quite seeing.

He stared at you.

And then, in a voice that scraped like it hadn't been used in years, he asked—

"...Who are you?"

You didn't speak.

He blinked. Slow. His brow furrowed like it took effort.

"Are you... one of us?" he tried again, voice almost brittle. "Were you—punished? For angering the Gods...?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came.

Because part of you wondered if maybe—maybe this was what happened to people down here. Maybe after enough time, you stopped sounding human. Stopped being one.

And then your voice found itself.

"No," you whispered. "I wasn't one of you. Not before. I'm not a soldier. I didn't fight. I didn't serve."

You swallowed. "I'm here for punishment."

That last word—punishment—seemed to strike something inside him.

His eyes blinked again—harder this time, like they were clearing; and for just one breath, he looked fully at you.

His shoulders twitched. His jaw set like it remembered what it meant to carry orders. His eyes—sunken, storm-dark—focused for the first time.

He echoed it back to you. Soft. Like the word hurt. "...Punishment."

Then his face twisted. His eyes darted, flicking side to side, like trying to gather something that kept falling apart inside his head.

He looked around, at the soldiers still unmoving behind him, at the warped banners barely clinging to broken poles, and something shifted in his chest.

His voice broke like something small in it snapped loose. "...Captain...?"

The word came out so gentle, so tired, it felt like it didn't belong in his mouth anymore. His fingers twitched like they were supposed to salute. Like they forgot how.

But it didn't last.

Just as fast as it had come—that clarity, that anchor—it slipped.

The fog rolled back over his face like a tide reclaiming its dead. His gaze unfocused again. His mouth twitched, but the words were gone. Like the sea had taken back what it briefly gave. But before he could vanish back into it, you reached out.

"Wait," you whispered, voice rough in your throat. "What's your name?"

The man blinked slow. Like you'd pulled him from the bottom of a dream.

His eyes fluttered once. Twice. Then they found you again—not sharp, not steady, but there. "...Eurylochus," he murmured.

You stilled.

The name struck something inside you. A note, a memory, a piece of a story you'd only half believed.

Eurylochus.

You blinked slowly, trying to place it. The name echoed like a dropped stone in a cave—far off, but familiar. "You... you were with him," you said softly, your words catching as they slipped from your lips. "With the King Odysseus. His second. His brother-in-law."

The man's eyes twitched.

He didn't answer right away. But you saw it hit him.

The way his spine stiffened slightly. The way his fingers twitched like they remembered the feel of rope and salt and war. He blinked again, slower this time—lips parting just a little.

"Odysseus..." he repeated under his breath. Then, firmer, "Yes. I was—"

His breath hitched. His brow furrowed, and you watched something shift behind his eyes. A flicker. Like a candle straining in wind.

"Yes," he echoed, nodding once. "I was—Eurylochus."

But even as he said it, the haze began to curl back around him.

Like the sea had pulled him under all over again.

Like memory was just another form of drowning.

But then—he fought it.

You saw it happen—the way his shoulders slouched again, his mouth twitching with the effort to hold onto the thought. Like the knowledge was a rope slipping through his fingers and he was trying, gods he was trying, not to let it go.

He winced suddenly, hand snapping up to his temple. "No," he whispered sharply, shaking his head like he could throw off the weight. "Not yet. Not now—"

You stepped forward, reaching toward him without thinking, but he staggered back just a half-step, still clutching his head, face twisted in pain. "They forget," he muttered. "We forget. We're made to—"

Then his voice broke off, and when he looked back up, you saw the struggle knit itself into his brow, the way his hand curled slowly into a fist. His eyes, glassy a moment ago, began to clear.

He blinked.

Twice. Hard.

And then... he looked at you.

Really looked.

Not through you. At you. Like a man waking up after being lost in someone else's dream.

"...We were warned," he said, voice low and grainy, but steadier now. "Gods above, we were warned."

You didn't breathe.

"We weren't supposed to eat them," he said. "The cattle. Helios' herd. You remember that part, don't you?"

You nodded once, lips parting. "The sacred livestock. On Thrinacia."

Eurylochus gave a tight smile. It wasn't warm.

"We could've starved... could've prayed... could've waited. But men don't wait well. We thought—" he stopped himself, swallowing, "I thought—it was worth it."

His hands opened and closed slowly at his sides, like he could still feel the ropes, the oars, the sting of salt on his knuckles. "We feasted. Ate like gods. And then..." He looked up, eyes haunted. "Zeus struck the sea."

You knew this part, but hearing it like this—from someone who'd felt the lightning crawl over their ship, who still reeked of stormwater and god-wrath—it felt real in a way words never could.

"He gave Odysseus a choice," Eurylochus said, voice softer now. "Bring home your men... or bring home yourself."

Your breath caught.

Eurylochus turned his head, just a little, and when he looked at you again—there was no bitterness.

No anger.

Just a tired sort of peace.

"I don't blame him," he said. "Not anymore."

He stepped forward. The soldiers behind him didn't move. Still as statues. Still as bone. But he did.

"In the beginning... I was like him. No—worse." A humorless chuckle scraped out of him. "I was a soldier. Just a soldier. Every breath, every fight, every lie—I told myself it was for home... For Ctimene."

The name came out like a breath he hadn't spoken in years.

"My wife," he clarified, quieter. "Her name was Ctimene."

You didn't interrupt.

He swallowed. "Back then, I'd do anything to get back to her. Lie, steal, abandon. I thought if I just lived long enough... it would make sense."

He glanced past you—into the water, or maybe through it. "And then Polites died."

You recognized the name instantly. Your heart squeezed.

"I watched my captain break," he murmured. "He didn't cry. Not where we could see. But he—he stopped being sharp. He started hesitating. Started pulling back when I told him to push forward. To let things go."

His voice twisted slightly. Regret. Shame. You couldn't tell.

"And then we crossed into the Underworld to find the prophet."

He looked back at you again, eyes blazing now—not with fire, but with memory. Raw and bright and full of ghosts.

"I saw them," he said. "All the ones we'd lost. The ones I thought I could forget. The ones Odysseus never spoke of again. They were waiting there. Some still proud. Some angry."

You swallowed, throat tight.

"That's when I understood," he said. "What it cost."

He paused. Looked down at his hands.

"I tried to hold onto that. I did... but then Scylla came."

A shadow passed over his face.

"I thought he'd warn us. Let us choose. Fight or flee. But he didn't. Just... sailed us straight in. Said nothing." Eurylochus shook his head, voice low and bitter. "And six men screamed."

You imagined it—the long shadow of the cliffs, the water churning red, the sound of bones snapping in divine jaws.

"It felt like betrayal," he said. "Not just because of the silence. But because I saw it in his eyes. He already knew who'd die. He'd picked."

Eurylochus looked at you again. And now, truly now, his voice was his own. "Tell me," he asked, not accusing, not demanding—just quiet. "Would you have done the same?"

You didn't answer... not right away.

The question wasn't sharp. It didn't cut like a blade.

But gods, it settled like one.

Heavy. Deep.

You didn't answer. Couldn't.

Because even now... part of you agreed with him... the king.

So, you stood there, mouth parted, but no sound came out. Only the bubbles floating from your lips—soft and unsure—drifting up, up, up.

Would I?

You thought about Polites. The way guilt had clung to him like a second skin.

You remembered Cleo. The servants. The way the castle looked after the return of king Odysseus. The way the halls echoed without them.

You remembered your parents—the way the curse had taken them in pieces. First their minds. Then their names.

You knew what it looked like to survive when others didn't.

You knew what it meant to keep walking when someone else had stopped.

So you didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

Because the silence was your answer.

Eurylochus must've felt it. Maybe he saw it in your eyes. Because he didn't press, didn't prod. Just exhaled through his nose, the sound thick with understanding.

Then, after a moment, his voice changed—softer, quieter, almost unsure. "...Do you know if she's alright?"

You looked up, confused. "Who?"

His lips twitched, something small and sad in the motion. "Ctimene."

Oh.

His wife.

You hesitated, then nodded. "She lives. Still in Ithaca. King Odysseus had a plot of land set aside for her after the removal of the suitors. Small. Humble. But hers."

His brows lifted faintly. His eyes sharpened, like the fog behind them cracked just enough for the light to spill in.

"She's...  she's not well," you added gently. "Never really came back after... everything. Doesn't speak much. Barely comes out of her room. The servants care for her when she lets them."

Eurylochus didn't respond at first.

Then he turned his face away—just slightly. Like the pain of it was too familiar to show you head-on.

You watched his jaw flex once.

And then he whispered, "She waited too long."

Neither of you said anything else.

Not for a long while.

And so the days passed.

Three of them.

You stayed where the sea god left you, in that half-sunken graveyard, surrounded by the dead.

They didn't speak much at first. Not to you.

They spoke to themselves.

In circles.

One would float close, whispering about a girl he was supposed to marry. Another would repeat the names of children he hadn't seen in years. One sobbed, over and over, about a brother he'd failed to protect.

Some clutched swords still. Some just floated.

They didn't see you as a stranger. Not exactly.

More like... a tether. A ghost of warmth they didn't have.

And each day, more came closer.

They would drift toward you, slow and mournful, voices curling from their mouths like ink in the tide. They told you things. Secrets. Wounds. Final wishes. Regrets. And then, like a wave resetting the shore, they'd forget.

They'd drift away.

Circle back.

Tell you again.

The same story. The same words. Over and over.

It was like they could only remember their last breath—and nothing after.

The worst part was that they weren't angry.

They were aching.

And you had nothing to give them.

No rites. No songs. No way out.

Just your presence.

Just your listening.

Your limbs ached from stillness, your eyes heavy from never closing—but still, you stayed.

Until finally, your body gave out.

The pressure. The cold. The weight of their stories.

You don't remember falling.

Only black.

Only silence.

Only the slow, soft hum of something rising to meet you again.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch. 48 ┃ 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐲; (this chapter is what occured in those 3 days under water etc.); HAPPY EASTER!!! though i don't celebrate  i do enjoy the way families come together and whatnot ❤️ also... SUPRISE DOUBLE-UPDATE!! since last chappie was so short and i usually double-update with divine whispers, hope you all enjoy~

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[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 48 Chapter 48 | first mate lady⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The next morning came quickly.

Too quickly.

The sky was barely awake, just beginning to blush with early light. A soft fog clung to the edges of the port, curling around ropes and crates and the low murmur of crew voices.

You stood on the stone pier, breathing in the sharp scent of salt and damp wood and tide—sea air heavy with gull cries and possibility. The ocean stretched out ahead of you, slow and endless, the waves lapping against the hull of the small ship like a quiet promise.

Lady sat pressed to your side, her body warm against your calf, tail flicking idly as her nose twitched at every smell. She sneezed once, snorting, then settled again—watchful and quiet.

Your sack was slung over one shoulder, heavy with only what mattered.

A clean set of clothes. Rations. Small, necessary tools. The wrap of your dagger belt, tucked just beneath your coat. And at the very top—cradled in fabric as soft as you could find—your divine lyre, sealed in its case, humming faintly like it knew it was going somewhere important.

You shifted the strap on your shoulder and exhaled slowly, watching your breath fog out in front of you.

Then—footsteps behind you.

Heavy. Steady. Familiar.

You didn't even need to turn before you felt Diomedes stop just beside you.

He didn't say anything for a long moment.

Just looked out at the sea with you.

Then he spoke, voice low and clear, the kind of voice that never needed to be raised to be heard.

"You know," he said, "when Odysseus left for war, he didn't say goodbye to anyone but Penelope. Left in the dark. No speech. No fuss."

You glanced at him, brows raised. "That a recommendation?"

He huffed. "Not at all. I've always found a good send-off matters. Makes the silence after feel less... empty."

You went quiet.

His arms crossed.

He nodded once toward the ship. "This isn't war. But you treat it like a mission anyway."

You opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, eyes still forward.

"I've trained you to react. To hold your ground. To see what others don't. You know how to move now. How to listen. How to survive."

He turned his head and finally looked at you.

"But remember this: You're not a soldier. And you don't need to be."

The wind picked up, tugging lightly at your hair, fluttering the hem of your cloak.

"You just need to live."

You swallowed.

Then nodded. Softly.

"Yes, sir."

His mouth twitched—just barely.

He reached out, resting one massive hand briefly against your shoulder. His grip was steady. Strong. And in its own quiet way, it said more than anything else had.

"Have fun, little blade."

You blinked. The words caught you by surprise. Warmed your chest in a way the morning chill couldn't touch.

Your lips curled. Just a little.

You nodded again.

Then felt another presence beside you.

Odysseus.

He stepped forward with a softer weight than usual. Not as a king. Not as a commander. But as something... quieter. Older.

He didn't say much—he rarely did—but when he looked at you, it was different than before.

Proud. Protective. And something else, too. Something that tugged at the space where a father should've stood throughout your growing years.

"Be safe," he said simply.

Then his hand came to rest on the back of your neck, rough but warm, pulling you in without asking.

You let him.

His chin touched the top of your head for just a breath, and it was all you needed.

A goodbye without ceremony. A blessing without words.

When he let you go, you blinked against the sting in your eyes.

Then Penelope stepped forward.

Her composure cracked the second she reached for you.

"Oh, my heart," she whispered, pulling you in before you could brace. She held you so tightly you thought your ribs might bend, her cheek pressing to yours, one hand smoothing over your back like she was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Then her hands cupped your face.

She kissed your forehead, gently, the way you imagined she once did to Telemachus when he was small and brave and didn't yet understand what leaving meant.

"You come back to us," she said, her voice shaking.

"I will," you promised.

She touched your cheek once more, then stepped back—only far enough to let you go.

Callias was next.

He didn't say anything right away. Just gave you a long, up-and-down look, then sighed dramatically.

"You're going to come back cooler," he muttered. "I hate that."

You laughed.

He stepped in anyway and hugged you hard—muttering something under his breath about how he was keeping your room exactly the same, just in case you forgot what real friendship felt like while surrounded by mysterious sea captains and poetic goats.

Asta saluted with two fingers, her other arm thrown around Lysandra's shoulders, who simply said, "Bring back stories."

Even Kieran—cherry as ever—gave a quiet nod of his head and murmured, "We'll be here when you're back."

The pier behind you was full now—bustling with life and goodbyes.

Sailors moved about loading cargo. Children clung to their parents' waists. Lovers whispered soft promises near the ropes. The air was a tangle of salt and excitement and farewells, wind brushing past your ankles like it, too, was trying to hurry you along.

The ship rocked gently, moored and waiting.

With one last deep breath, you turned toward it.

Lady padded at your heel, her tail swaying back and forth—not fast, not frantic. Just... steady.

Like she knew.

Like she understood that this wasn't just travel.

It was the start of something.

It was time.

Time to go.

Time to see.

Time to begin.

☆

☆

The first three days at sea passed more gently than you expected.

You and Lady shared a small, tucked-away room below deck—not far from the captain's cabin. It wasn't lavish, but it was yours: a narrow cot, a bolt of rolled blankets, a single porthole that opened just enough to let in the sound of waves.

Every night, you slept with the divine lyre wrapped carefully in cloth at your side, and Lady curled at your feet, snoring louder than some of the crew.

It was peaceful in a way you hadn't felt in a long time. No palace routine. No watchful eyes. Just the sea, the sky, and the creaking lull of wood beneath your bones.

By the second day, you'd already made a friend.

His name was Eben—a small cabin boy with salt-stained sleeves, hair that refused to stay combed, and a missing front tooth that made his grin impossibly wide. He couldn't have been older than ten winters, and the moment he laid eyes on Lady, you were forgotten entirely.

"She's massive," he whispered the first morning, crouched near your door with a handful of jerky. "Can I pet her?"

Lady, of course, gave him one sniff, decided he was a reliable treat source, and promptly sat on his feet like they belonged to her.

After that, Eben followed you both everywhere.

He helped show you around the ship, explained the name of every single knot and sail (even the ones you didn't ask about), and would sometimes sneak you sweet biscuits when the cook wasn't looking.

In return, you helped him with chores when you could—peeling vegetables, folding cloths, even sweeping the main deck when his arms got tired.

Lady seemed to thrive on the attention. She let Eben braid little ribbons into the fur behind her ears, accepted kisses to the snout, and growled protectively if anyone teased him too loudly.

By day three, half the crew referred to her as "First Mate Lady."

And you? You were slowly becoming something familiar again.

But the sky was changing.

You first noticed it late in the morning, when the air began to smell heavier. The wind curled tighter, sharper, the way it always did before storms. That's when you remembered what you'd heard the day before—quietly, as you passed near the captain's quarters.

The captain had been speaking low to one of his more experienced men, glancing at a spread map.

"Keep us clear of the slab near Graydeep," he'd said. "Old sailor said it eats hulls clean. Stone's too smooth to climb once you've struck. Ghost current drags the rest under. I'm not testing legends today."

You hadn't thought much of it then.

Until now.

It was nearing lunch, and you were crouched near a crate on the deck with Eben, helping peel a bucket of stubborn potatoes—your sleeves rolled up, your hair tied back, your fingers stained faintly with salt and starch.

Lady sat beside you, tongue lolling lazily in the warm wind.

That's when it happened.

A voice from the crow's nest cut sharply through the air.

"There! Off the port bow!"

The crew froze.

You looked up.

And saw it.

A shape on the horizon—dark, massive, unnatural. Not moving. Not bobbing with the waves like driftwood should. Just there, cutting through the ocean like a jagged tooth.

Storm clouds were beginning to gather behind it, curling in fast, dark and thick.

The sun slipped behind the cover—and the temperature dropped with it.

You stood slowly, potato forgotten in your hand.

Beside you, Lady's ears lifted. She growled—low and uncertain.

Something in the air changed.

Something old.

Something heavy.

It settled over the deck like a dropped curtain.

And then, in a blink—

The sky broke open.

Rain slammed down in sheets, so fast and loud it swallowed the sound of the ocean. The wind howled, sharp and angry, slapping against the sails so hard one of them snapped, tearing down with a spray of salt and canvas.

Crew shouted over one another, rushing to secure ropes, sliding across the slick deck as the ship tilted hard to one side. You grabbed Eben without thinking, tucking him behind you as water lashed your face, your cloak plastering to your skin.

"Gods—what is this?" someone screamed from the upper deck. "Did no one bless the damn ship?!"

There was a long pause.

A chilling kind of pause.

Then came the realization.

"...No one did," a sailor choked out, horrified.

"WHAT?"

It spiraled instantly.

Another sailor stumbled toward the helm, shouting over the roar. "We need a sacrifice!"

"No—we need to pray, offer something now!"

"Something living!"

Voices rose, panicked and rapid, until one voice sliced clean through the rest.

"What about the beast?"

You snapped around. "What. Did. You. Say?"

It was a younger sailor—barely older than you, wild-eyed and soaked through. He pointed at Lady with a trembling hand. "She's not a person. She's not crew. She's just—she's just an animal."

Your blood turned to fire.

"She's mine," you snapped, stepping between them. "I swear to every god listening, I will throw myself overboard before I let you lay a hand on her."

But he didn't back down.

He then looked at you—dripping, furious, a girl clutching a mutt—and suddenly something behind his eyes clicked.

"Wait... You're the divine liaison."

Voices shifted.

They looked at you now—not as a crewmate. Not as a girl helping peel potatoes.

But as something else.

Someone else.

"That's it!" the same man cried. "She counts. The gods already touched her—she's the closest thing we've got to an offering!"

"You lay a hand on her, and the royal family will string you up for treason!" someone else shouted from the mast, slipping as the boat lurched again.

"And if we die now," the man screamed back, "then what kingdom? What rules? We'll be bones at the bottom of the sea, with no one left to care!"

Another crash of thunder split the air.

Lady barked once, low and sharp—body tense, ears back, pressing against your leg like she already knew something was wrong.

You didn't speak.

Not at first.

Because for just one second—you looked at the storm.

Felt it.

The rage of it. The presence of it.

And you knew.

You weren't just in a storm.

You were seen.

Watched.

Tested.

And the sickest part?

You might actually have to do it.

You might have to offer something. Or someone.

And you didn't know if the sea would be kind enough to let you pick which.

Your voice was barely a whisper when you spoke. "...Alright."

Silence. Not from the storm, but from everyone else. The crew froze—lightning still flashing behind them, wind shrieking around the sails—but your voice carried anyway.

"If it's me or her..." You swallowed hard, feeling your throat shake. "Then let it be me."

"No!" Eben's voice cracked.

You looked up just in time to see him push forward, tears already clinging to his cheeks. "No! You can't—you can't—!"

Two sailors tried to hold him back, arms around his chest as he kicked and squirmed and screamed. "You can't let her! She's not—she's not just anyone!"

One man reached toward Lady's scruff—and she snapped. Hard.

Her jaws caught his wrist and clamped, dragging him down with a furious snarl. She was wild, unhinged, fighting the hands that dared try to pull her away from you.

Then Eben broke free.

He threw himself forward—right over Lady's back, arms flung wide as he covered her with his body, shaking with sobs before any of the men could retaliate. "Don't hurt her," he choked. "Don't hurt her, please!"

The sight broke something in you.

But you kept moving.

Your limbs felt numb as the crew parted for you—silent, grim-faced, like watching someone walk toward the gallows.

The rain blurred your vision, ran down your chin, soaked the ends of your sleeves. Your knees trembled with every step as you walked toward the end of the plank, each footfall sounding too loud in your ears.

Behind you, Lady's howls tore through the storm.

She shrieked like her chest was splitting, like she could feel the ocean about to take you. Eben was the only one brave enough to hold her down now—curled around her, sobbing into her fur as she thrashed and whined and bucked.

You didn't look back.

Couldn't.

You stood at the end.

Shivering.

Shaking.

Your arms wrapped around yourself, head bowed, the storm still screaming overhead. You could barely breathe.

Your voice—barely a thread—slipped from your lips.

You were singing.

Softly.

Old words. Broken melody. A lullaby you couldn't place, but your lips remembered it anyway.

Just something to hold you steady.

Just something to hold you.

You shut your eyes.

And stepped forward.

The sea met you with open arms.

Cold. Crushing. Swallowing.

The world went silent in an instant—like the ocean had clapped her hands over your ears. The water folded around you, weightless and heavy all at once. You kicked once, twice, but your cloak dragged. You sank. Light above you blurred, then vanished.

But on the surface?

The storm broke.

Not gradually.

Immediately.

The wind fell flat. The waves stilled. The rain thinned into mist. The ship stopped rocking as if the sea had been caught mid-breath—and let it out in surrender.

Silence rolled over the deck.

Because the storm was never just weather.

And it had taken what it came for.

☆

☆

The first thing you felt was weight.

Not the sea. Not the cold.

But gravity—pulling you sideways, dragging you out of some deep, drowning place.

Then came the voices.

Faint at first, then louder—blurred and frantic.

"—there she is! Gods—get her up!"

"Careful—don't let her slip again—!"

Hands gripped your arms, under your back, under your knees. Someone cursed as you were hauled from the water, clothes clinging like second skin. You gagged, sputtered, coughing up sea brine, your lungs burning raw as air clawed its way back in.

Everything was too loud and too far away.

You felt yourself hit the deck—lightly, but it still jarred your bones. Wood under your cheek. Rain-slicked and warm from the sun again.

Wait—sun?

The sky above was clear now.

Blindingly so.

"Move!" someone shouted. "Give her air—"

"Is she breathing—?!"

And then—Lady.

You didn't see her first. You heard her.

The bark that tore through the air like it had been waiting to escape her ribs. Nails skittering across the planks. Then fur, tongue, weight—her paws scrambled over your arm, her wet nose shoved hard against your temple like she could force you awake.

"Lady—Lady, off—off her, gods, you'll drown her yourself—!"

Eben's voice.

Cracking.

Panicked.

"She's breathing, she's breathing," he said again, over and over, like a spell.

You blinked, vision swimming, lashes sticking together.

Eben was right above you. Pale-faced. Tear-streaked. His small hands hovered just over your shoulders like he was too scared to touch you but couldn't look away.

"Don't do that again," he whispered. "Don't ever do that again."

The captain's boots stomped into your view, kneeling beside you with practiced steadiness.

"Turn her," he said. "On her side—slowly—there."

They shifted you carefully. The deck tilted slightly under you as your body adjusted.

You coughed again, harder this time, voice barely a rasp. "How long...?"

The captain's weathered face squinted at you. "Say again?"

Your throat scraped dry as you tried again. "How long... was I under?"

He didn't answer right away.

Just looked at you.

Then ran a hand down his beard.

"...Three days."

Your heart skipped. "What?"

"You were gone," someone muttered nearby. "Vanished. Lost at sea. We searched. Nothing. The storm passed, and you were just... gone."

Another voice—sailor, hoarse. "We thought you were dead. We held service. We—" he swallowed. "We buried you. In the books."

You stared at them.

Heart still. Chest tight.

Three days?

Not unconscious. Not drifting.

Gone.

The world tilted again—this time inside you.

The captain's hand came to your shoulder—gentler now.

"You're back," he said. "That's what matters."

But your vision was already blurring.

Lady whined and curled tighter at your hip, like she could pin you in place. Like if she touched you, the ocean wouldn't take you again.

Eben clutched your sleeve, his tiny hand shaking.

You didn't mean to close your eyes.

But you did.

And this time—you didn't drown.

You just let the world go quiet.

And slipped softly into the dark.

A/N: happy easter🖤 (read: me lookign for an excuse to update lol) 

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 47 Chapter 47 | she holds ground⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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A month passed.

Quietly. Quickly.

And everything changed.

Your training with Diomedes became part of your routine—not that anyone could know. At least, not officially.

Callias and the others made sure of that.

He was the first to offer help, of course—loudly, dramatically, and with far more enthusiasm than you asked for. But then Asta caught on. Then Kieran. Then Lysandra. And before you knew it, they had a whole system in place.

A diversion here. A fake schedule there. Half-truths for the castle staff, timed walks to pull attention elsewhere. On the days you had bruises blooming under your sleeves, Asta would lend you a scarf. On the mornings you were late returning, Kieran would swear you'd been with the queen.

Sometimes, when they had nothing better to do, Callias and Asta would even come to watch—perched on the fence like smug little vultures, offering unhelpful commentary while you dodged a wooden blade to the ribs.

"Go left!" Asta would yell, snacking on an apple.

"That was her left," Callias would mutter, squinting. "I think."

Diomedes, to no one's surprise, was not amused by the peanut gallery.

He'd made you try everything—polearms, longswords, archery. You even trained with a shield for one frustrating week, nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process. But none of them felt right.

Too slow. Too heavy. Too not you.

Then came the daggers.

Smaller. Lighter. Close-range. They didn't rely on brute strength—just speed, balance, and precision. Diomedes didn't say much when he handed them to you, but his brow lifted slightly after your first practice bout.

You didn't win, of course. Not even close.

But you didn't drop them either.

You held your ground. You moved better. Sharper. Quicker.

Like they'd always been meant for your hands.

Since then, he hadn't taken them away.

You still trained every other day—early, always early. Before the soldiers hit the yard. Before the palace stirred. Diomedes made you run laps in full armor. Practice until your hands blistered. He said little. Corrected often. Praised rarely.

But when he did? You felt it all the way in your bones.

"You're getting steadier," he told you once, as you wiped blood—yours—from your nose.

You beamed the whole walk home.

And sometimes, Odysseus would pass through.

He never said when he was coming, but when he did, Diomedes' face would split into something rare—half grin, half challenge—and the two of them would spar like it was old times. It was old times.

You watched in silence the first few times, breath held as they moved like war-forged shadows, blades clashing with the ease of memory.

You saw how Odysseus smiled through pain. How Diomedes never wasted a step. And how the two of them, even older now, still looked like giants among men.

It made you feel small.

But not in the way it used to.

Not helpless.

Just... humbled.

You weren't perfect. Gods, not even close.

But you were stronger now.

You moved faster. You thought faster. You reacted.

You still flinched sometimes when something came too close to your face. You still woke from dreams where hands grabbed too tight.

But now, your body remembered what to do.

Your hands knew how to swing. Your knees knew how to brace. Your throat knew how to shout.

You wouldn't say you were the best. Or even good.

But you could protect yourself now.

And that was enough.

At least, that's what you told yourself as you left the training yard that morning, sweat still drying at the base of your neck.

Callias walked beside you, humming some tuneless song as he twirled one of your used bandages around his finger like a prize ribbon. He'd sat in on today's spar, lounging dramatically on a hay bale the entire time like it was some kind of afternoon play.

"You know," he started, barely concealing his grin, "you're starting to look different."

You raised a brow.

He gestured vaguely at your face. "You're losing that soft, squishy look. Bit of that baby fat's finally melting off."

You made a noise of protest, swatting at him with your wrist wrap.

Callias just dodged. Barely.

"I mean it," he went on, grin sharpening. "You used to look like you spent all your days nibbling orchard fruit and rich cheese in the queen's solar. Diomedes is working you like you're trying to atone for something."

You tsked and rolled your eyes, tugging your cloak tighter as the breeze swept in. "I'll make sure to cry about it in my next honey bath."

He snorted. "Oh, there she is. Look at you. All mouth and elbows now."

You threw a light punch to his arm.

Not hard. But solid.

He squawked.

"See?!" he cried, rubbing the spot like you'd drawn blood. "It's happening! Diomedes is turning you into a brawler. That and Asta and Lysandra's constant bullying. Gods, you poor thing—next you'll be breaking men's hearts and kneecaps on command."

You rolled your eyes, but your grin peeked through anyway.

He nudged your shoulder as you neared the palace steps. "Honestly, the prince won't even recognize you when he gets back."

Your smile dimmed. Just slightly.

Callias didn't notice. Or if he did, he chose not to press.

You both knew where Telemachus was.

Out visiting the smaller villages along the coast—accompanying his father's advisors on their monthly inspections and goodwill rounds. A royal formality, but an important one.

He hadn't wanted to go.

You remembered the look on his face when Odysseus told him it was time again—how his jaw clenched, how his hands flexed, like he was ready to argue for your sake. Like he wanted to stay.

After what happened last time—after your near-death and everything that followed—he hadn't left your side for days. Not until Odysseus' voice turned final.

"Duties are duties," the king had said, the same way he might declare a border or a battle line. "And if you want to rule one day, you need to know what the people need. Not just the ones inside these walls."

And just like that, Telemachus had gone.

It made things easier. For training. For breathing.

And for pretending your hands weren't always itching to reach for someone who wasn't there.

Still—he sent letters.

Small ones. Folded neatly. Tucked in with your daily linens or handed off with a sheepish look from some poor advisor.

They were always the same.

Short.

Warm.

Always ending in: Stay safe. Wait for me.

You did.

Even if you never wrote back.

Because you didn't know what you'd say.

Not yet.

The hallway was quiet, sunlight slanting low through the palace windows, painting soft gold across the floor.

You stepped into a patch of it without thinking, and glanced down at your hands.

They didn't look like they used to.

Not much. But enough.

The callouses had always been there—earned from years of servitude, hours spent hauling linens, polishing silver, strumming instruments. But now they were deeper. Rougher. Blunter. Like you'd carved your way through the weeks, not just walked them.

There was a faded bruise on your forearm. A healing scrape across your knuckle. A thin line near your elbow you didn't even remember earning.

Your skin wasn't soft anymore.

Not entirely.

You flexed your fingers slowly, watching the way they moved—sharp, practiced. Your balance had changed, too. The way you stood now. The way you carried your weight. Always braced. Always aware.

Callias had been teasing you, sure. But he wasn't wrong.

You were different.

And you couldn't stop the thought—not once it came.

Your voice was soft, like it didn't want to be heard. Maybe not even by yourself.

"Do you... do you think he'd hate it?"

The question slipped out before you could choke it down. Barely more than a whisper, frayed at the edges. Broken.

You stared at your own shadow on the wall—longer now, sharper. Not the shape of a servant. Not the soft figure Telemachus used to find curled by the queen's fire, stringing melodies from an old lyre.

This version of you stood differently. Moved differently. Felt different.

Not a soldier. Not really.

But something closer to one than you ever thought you'd be.

And for the first time... you wondered if Telemachus would see that as strength.

Or loss.

Because you didn't laugh as much these days. You didn't cry as easily either. You noticed exits when you entered a room. Watched hands. Watched eyes.

You were still you—but changed.

And he hadn't seen that version yet.

Would he still reach for you when he did?

Would he still say wait for me—if the you he remembered wasn't the one waiting anymore?

You didn't realize you'd said it out loud.

Not really.

Not until Callias' voice answered, softer than usual. Like he'd heard the thought before you even knew you'd spoken it.

"He wouldn't hate it," he said simply.

You turned your head, surprised.

He stood just a step behind you, arms folded loosely, his usual grin gone. For once, his eyes weren't teasing. They were... steady. Clear.

He bumped your shoulder with his own—gentle, but firm enough to make you blink.

"And besides," he added with a shrug, "if he did have a problem with it? Screw him."

You gasped. "Callias!"

"What?" he said, already grinning again. "You've got two gods wrapped around your little finger. That's not even counting the entire left wing of Ithaca's military, who would follow you into the sea if you asked politely."

You nudged him hard this time, half a laugh slipping out. "Shut up, don't say that."

He laughed louder. "It's true! Word's gotten around."

You blinked. "Word?"

Callias waggled his brows. "About you. About your training. Some of the younger soldiers sneak up early just to catch glimpses. A few of them saw you spar last week—said it was like watching a shadow strike. Real poetry about it. One of them even started calling you our divine liaison."

You stared at him, horrified. "They what?"

Callias grinned like the cat who'd just tipped over the cream. "I didn't start it."

"I bet you encouraged it though."

"Oh, absolutely," he said proudly. "Look, I'm just saying—if the prince wants to keep up, he better come back with a war story and a sonnet, because you're glowing lately. Fierce. A little scary, in a pretty sort of way."

Heat rushed up your face, but you couldn't stop the smile curling at your mouth. You shook your head, covering it with your hand. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Callias said, walking past you. "You love me. I'm your number-one fan. Your sparring hype-man. Your court jester."

"You're a menace," you muttered.

"And yet," he said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, "you keep me around."

You snorted, and for the first time since the thought struck you—that awful, cold thought about Telemachus and how much you'd changed—it didn't feel as sharp.

Because Callias was right.

You were still you.

Just more.

And you didn't have to be ashamed of that.

You let the thought settle for a moment, warm and slow, like the way sunlight lingers on your skin even after it's gone.

You elbowed him lightly again as the two of you turned the corner, the polished stone floor warming faintly beneath your steps from the waning afternoon light drifting through the tall windows.

As you passed the open arch just before the hallway into the royal wing, the sound of low voices pulled your attention.

Two young servants stood near the linen carts, deep in conversation.

"—they're sending a small ship out tomorrow," one said, adjusting the strap of her apron. "Lyraethos. Just a trade run."

The other girl groaned. "Ugh, that island. Don't remind me."

The first looked confused. "Why? What's wrong with Lyraethos?"

The other turned toward her dramatically, flinging a washcloth onto the cart with theatrical flair. "It's an island of songbirds. Every woman there's got a voice that could charm the gods. One of them's bound to be a siren in disguise. My Nikos is doomed."

Her friend tried not to laugh. "He's not going forever, Ana."

"Oh please, Zoe," the girl moaned. "How am I supposed to compete with island women who sing to fruit and have voices that moves like poetry? He'll take one look at them and forget me entirely."

You blinked at the sheer dramatics, then turned toward Callias just as he turned toward you.

Then, without a word, you picked up your pace.

Callias scrambled to keep up, his hand over his mouth to muffle the snort he couldn't quite hold in.

You threw the door to your chambers open with more energy than intended—and it startled Lady straight off her chaise.

The beast jolted up from where she'd been napping, limbs flailing as she skidded across the rug, blinking like she'd just been woken from a dream. Her nose twitched twice. Then she flopped back down with a huff, clearly offended.

"Sorry, sorry," you whispered, laughing through your breath as you crossed to her and gave her ears a quick scratch in apology.

But then you spun back around to Callias, eyes wide with a grin already pulling at your mouth.

"Do you know what this means?" you whispered excitedly, voice practically buzzing as you grabbed his arm.

Callias tilted his head, blinking. "No," he said slowly, "but I feel like you're about to tell me anyway."

You rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder. "Don't ruin it with sarcasm. The servants said a trade ship's leaving for Lyraethos tomorrow."

He blinked. "Oookkkaaay?"

You stared at him.

Then pointed to yourself. "Lyraethos. Me. My birthplace. My actual, literal origin."

Still blank.

Callias shrugged helplessly. "...Is this like one of those riddles you solve backwards? Because I'm not getting it."

You groaned, tossing a pillow at his chest. "It means I can go. I can finally go there and see it for myself. See if it feels familiar. If it tells me anything about where I came from—who I am."

The smile hadn't even fully finished forming on your lips before Callias' expression dropped.

Your excitement dimmed. "What?"

He stared at you like you'd grown another head. "Do you really think the prince would let you do that?"

You frowned. "What, why wouldn't—?"

Callias threw his head back dramatically and made a noise like a dying goose, complete with stiff-armed flailing.

You smacked his shoulder. "Stop that."

"I'm just saying!" he hissed, throwing his arms up. "After the whole 'I saw your dead body and had a full emotional breakdown about it' episode? I don't think leaving the island is on your approved list of activities."

You crossed your arms, trying to keep the edge in your voice. "Well... he isn't here."

You said it like it meant nothing. Like it wasn't important. But inside?

Inside, you felt it curling soft and sharp beneath your ribs.

Because you knew—gods, you knew—that if Telemachus was here, it would've changed everything.

You'd never get a word in.

He'd have stepped in, gentle and earnest and overprotective, asking why, asking what-ifs, asking if you were sure—saying he just wanted you safe, that he didn't want to lose you again. And even if you said yes, even if you stood your ground...

You would've crumbled.

Because when he looked at you like that—eyes full of worry and a little bit of softness, like you were something he still couldn't believe he almost lost—it made it hard to remember what you wanted before he started speaking.

He didn't even have to tell you no.

Sometimes, all he had to do was be there.

And like a fool who believed in every word he said, you'd have stayed.

You shook your head once, clearing it.

Callias raised his brows at you. "Touché."

You gave him a flat look. "What? I'm serious."

"Alright, alright," he sighed, flopping into your reading chair. "So how exactly are you planning to convince the king and queen to let you hop a ship to a foreign island?"

You turned toward him with a grin slow and wicked.

"Just leave that to me~"

☆

☆

You were on your knees.

Literally.

In the royal study.

Both Odysseus and Penelope sat across from you, positioned like carved statues behind a heavy table stacked with scrolls and missives. You were in full formal beg-mode—hands clasped, back straight, shoulders drawn for maximum visible respect.

Lady, in perfect coordination, sat beside you on her haunches. She raised her front paws just slightly, bent into what could only be described as a canine bow. Tongue out. Eyes wide. Her version of "please."

You'd bribed her with a honey biscuit to do it. No regrets.

"Furthermore," you said—voice steady, dignified, rehearsed—"I believe that this journey could provide valuable personal insight into my origins. Lyraethos is not only my birthplace, but one of the few places left that may hold pieces of who I was... before."

Penelope blinked slowly, her expression impossible to read.

Odyssesus raised one eyebrow and tilted his head, a thumb absently tapping the corner of a wine goblet.

You continued, as if your very life depended on it.

"I understand the risks," you said. "Truly, I do. But I'm not helpless anymore. I've been training. Preparing. I would be traveling with the merchant ship. A full crew. Not alone. Just—observing. Quietly. No fanfare. I wouldn't do anything reckless.

Lady let out a tiny whine as if for emphasis.

Diomedes, who had been standing near the bookshelf pretending to inspect a map, turned slightly. His face betrayed nothing.

But his shoulders were twitching.

You could hear the stifled snort he was trying to hide behind his closed fist.

"I've thought about this for a long time," you finished, voice softer now, looking between the two royals. "I'm not trying to run from anything. I'm trying to understand something."

Silence.

Odyssesus leaned back, hand now cupping his chin.

Penelope glanced at him. Then back at you.

You saw the look they exchanged.

Not cold.

Just... concerned.

Soft. And a little tired.

Penelope was the first to speak.

She cleared her throat gently, folding her hands on the table.

"I hear everything you're saying," she said. "And you presented your case well."

You perked up.

"But... no."

The word hit like cold water.

You blinked. "...Pardon?"

She winced slightly at your face. "No,____" she said again, firmer this time. "You've made incredible progress, and we're proud of that. But we can't allow you to sail out on an international trade ship—especially not alone. It's too far. Too exposed."

You opened your mouth, but the queen held up her hand.

"It's not about doubting you," she added. "It's about timing. About security. And... the prince."

That last part stung.

You sat back slightly on your heels, eyes darting between them.

Lady let out another low, pleading sound, her front paw pawing at your sleeve like should we do the biscuit trick again or... no?

Behind you, Diomedes let out an audible cough.

You turned your head just enough to catch his mouth twitching like he was biting down on a full-bodied laugh.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You'd prepared for this. You had your argument. Your visual aids. A supportive mythical beast. A whole speech!

And still—no.

The sound of it sank right into your chest, a deflating little sting. You hadn't even realized how hopeful your face had gotten until you felt it shift—mouth twitching down, eyebrows pulling in.

A soft, pitiful sound escaped your throat before you could stop it. Something between a sigh and a whine. Honestly, it was only a few decibels above Lady's current mournful yowl, but still.

Penelope's expression twitched—like she was trying very hard not to wince at how pathetically earnest you looked.

"I just—wait, hold on," you said quickly, straightening up. "I wouldn't be alone. The ship isn't some random merchant barge from across the sea. It's an Ithacan vessel. With Ithacan crew. Soldiers, even. It's the safest possible option if I were to go."

Odysseus exhaled through his nose. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table now, which you knew meant you had approximately five seconds before a lecture began.

"You've been through enough," he said, tone even. "Your training is progressing, yes, but that doesn't make you invincible. A month at sea is different than sparring in a yard. Even the safest voyage can turn. Pirates. Weather. Trade conflicts. We don't need to put you in the middle of that."

"I won't be in the middle of it," you argued. "I'm not going there to fight or scout or represent Ithaca's politics—I'm going for me. Quietly. No armor. No banner. I wouldn't even speak unless spoken to. I just want to see it."

"You've seen enough for now," he said, firm.

"And yet here I am," you replied, gesturing to yourself, "alive, functioning, and apparently the talk of the barracks, which you're welcome for, by the way."

Penelope coughed into her hand.

Odysseus narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't a thank-you moment."

"Okay, then here's the next point," you said, forging ahead. "I'm a divine liaison, right? You said—directly—that part of my role is to act as a bridge between Olympus and the mortal world. Don't you think part of that includes understanding where I came from? Or being seen? Even just in a small way?"

He opened his mouth. You lifted a hand.

"I'm not saying I need a parade. But this is a rare chance. You said it yourself—I've come far. I've fought for my healing. For my right to be more than just... someone who survived. Let me do this. Let me choose something."

Penelope's lips parted, her expression softening.

Before Odysseus could try another tactic, you added, low and hopeful. "I can bring Lady. She's good with crowds. Intimidating to strangers. Loyal. You'd be sending me with a bodyguard that howls at shadows."

As if she knew, Lady let out a short, high-pitched bark, followed by a second, slightly off-key yelp. Her tail thumped once, ears perked, like I'm ready. Let's go now. What's a boat? Who are we fighting?

Even Diomedes made a strangled sound that might've been a laugh—or a cough—you're still not sure.

You pressed your hands together, pleading now. "Please. It's not just curiosity. It's... something in me is pulling toward it. I want to know if it's real. If there's something there."

Another silence followed—one thick with shared glances, the weight of your words hanging like a suspended breath between all four of you.

And for once... you didn't back down.

You kept your chin high, hands steady in your lap, even as Odysseus stared you down across the desk like he was weighing every ounce of your spirit on a scale built for war.

He didn't look convinced.

Not fully.

His jaw was set. His fingers tapped once against the wood.

Then—

Diomedes stepped forward.

He hadn't spoken the entire time. Not one word. Just watched—arms crossed, that unreadable expression carved into his face like stone.

But now he cleared his throat.

"She's ready," he said simply. "Maybe not for every fight. But for herself? Yes. I've trained princes. Commanders. She holds ground better than most of them did."

You blinked.

Odysseus didn't turn, but his jaw shifted. The tapping stopped.

"She's alert," Diomedes continued, voice even. "She listens. Moves with intent. And she knows when to act. If she hadn't, she'd be dead. And yet, here she is."

That silence returned again.

Odysseus finally looked down at the table.

Just for a moment.

Then back at you.

"You leave with the morning tide," he said.

Your heart jumped. "Wait, so I—?"

"You can go."

You gawked at him.

Penelope's head snapped toward her husband, her hands bracing against the table. "Odysseus—"

He held up a hand, quiet, but sure.

"She's right, Pen," he said gently. "We can't hold her back out of fear. Not when she's already proved she's more than what we thought. If the gods are watching her this closely... maybe we need to trust they'll keep doing it."

Penelope looked torn—mouth tight, eyes shimmering with worry—but after a long breath, she nodded once. Slowly. Like she was setting down something heavy inside her chest.

That was all the permission you needed.

A strangled little squeal burst out of you before you could stop it.

And then you vaulted over the desk.

Actually vaulted.

Odysseus made a noise like what the—?! while Penelope barely had time to open her arms before you flung yourself into them, hugging both of them at once in a clumsy, overjoyed tangle of limbs and gratitude.

"Oh my gods—thank you! Thank you thank you—"

Then you froze.

Realizing what you'd just done.

You scrambled backward a step, breath catching. "I—I'm sorry, that was— I wasn't thinking, I shouldn't have—"

But Penelope just smiled, reaching out to squeeze your arm.

Odysseus rolled his eyes, muttering, "You'll be on a ship full of sailors tomorrow. I think you're allowed one desk vault."

You laughed, half-hysterical. "Right. Right."

"Go pack," he said, waving you off with a flick of his hand. "You've got a boat to catch."

You grinned so hard it hurt. "Thank you!" you gasped again, turning on your heel and nearly tripping over Lady, who had risen from her dramatic beg-pose to wag her tail like a banner.

"Come on, girl! We've got to get ready!"

Lady barked, clearly taking full credit for your success.

You didn't even care.

You sprinted for the door, laughter caught in your throat, heart light and thundering all at once, calling one last time over your shoulder. "THANK YOU!!"

Then you disappeared down the corridor—giddy, breathless, and one step closer to finally, finally finding the beginning of your story.

A/N: kay i was giggling while re-reading this and said why the hell not leave it on a good note... also just a quick note: first of all—thank you again for the insane support lately. i've been seeing all the comments, theories, and and I'm honestly blown away. you guys are the best fr. secondly, i wanted to touch on something that came up recently (no spoilers, dw): i know not all the characters are acting how we first met them—and that's intentional. this story grew a lot from how i originally planned it back in 2022-2023, and i've kind of just let it evolve naturally as it went. some characters (like hermes 👀) were never meant to stay one-note or predictable. he's still a trickster—but that's not all he is. just like apollo's not just a golden boy. and as for the romantic dynamics in the book—totally fair to say telemachus feels like the most grounded presence right now. he is. he's meant to contrast the divine pull with something very real and very human. that doesn't mean the others don't care—it means they show it differently, or... manipulatively. sometimes too forcefully. sometimes without realizing they're doing harm. plus, now looking at it, this story isn't really just about romance—it's about the consequences of divine favor (i was inspired by all those love stories of mortals and gods). the romance is messy on purpose. the gods aren't supposed to play fair. and our lovely mc  doesn't always have the full picture either—there's stuff happening behind the scenes she doesn't get to see yet. but you will. trust me. 😌 that said—i'm so grateful for everyone sticking with this slow burn of chaos and heartache. i love hearing your thoughts (even if you don't always agree on with what i wrote, i promise!!), and i appreciate every kudos, reblog, comment, and share...everything! seriously. ALSO my sis said thank you all so much for the support for her boo 'WARRIOR' (andf i wanna thank y'a;ll too she been writing and i've been feening for the updates 😭😩❤️)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 46 Chapter 46 | not ready for war⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The next morning broke cold and breathless.

Dawn had only just peeled itself across the cliffs, painting streaks of pink and dull gold over the stone walls of Ithaca.

The world was still quiet—no birdsong yet, no clatter from the kitchens, no bustle of servants or chatter from the suitors. Only the wind moved, brushing gently through the olive trees lining the edge of the upper yard.

And you were already sweating through your tunic.

Your arms ached from holding the blade. Not the wooden practice sword this time, but something slimmer—sharper. A dagger. Twin to another one Diomedes now held lazily in his right hand.

He hadn't spoken much at first. Just handed it to you and gestured you into the dirt again, as if today was no different.

But it was.

You could feel it in the air, in the way the blade sat heavier in your palm. Shorter, faster, easier to lose—but harder to be seen.

Diomedes circled slowly around you now, his own dagger glinting as he twirled it between thick fingers.

"Knives aren't swords," he said, voice low. "You don't swing them like you're leading an army. They're not for battles."

You adjusted your grip, brow furrowed. "Then what are they for?"

He paused just behind you, then stepped in—his hands brushing your sides, firm but not unkind, adjusting your elbows inward.

"They're for what happens after the battle," he said. "For when the fight's already gone quiet, and something's still breathing too close."

You swallowed thickly.

He didn't let the silence stretch long. He stepped back again, pacing slowly. "Hide it here," he instructed, tapping his chest. "Here." His hip. "Here." The base of your back.

You mirrored him, testing each draw, the dagger flipping awkwardly in your hand at first, grazing too high when you went for the shoulder strap.

"Sloppy," he said.

"I'm trying."

"Try less," he replied. "React more. Your size is a gift, little blade. You're small. You're fast. Most of the men you'll face swing like hammers. But hammers don't matter if they can't catch you."

You inhaled, steadying your stance.

Then he lunged.

You weren't ready—never were, not for his speed. But your feet moved before your thoughts could stop them, and you ducked beneath his first strike, the whistle of his blade slicing air just above your shoulder.

Your knife lashed out on instinct, too wide—but not slow. You pivoted sharply, twisting your body away as he turned to block, and for a moment—just one heartbeat—you had an opening.

Your blade caught the cloth near his ribs.

Not skin. But close.

Diomedes stepped back, brows lifted. "Good," he said. "Do it again."

You did.

Again and again. Footwork clumsy, breath burning in your lungs, the knife shaking ever so slightly between your fingers.

He never praised more than one word at a time, but the look in his eyes—focused, measuring—was praise enough.

Until you slipped.

One wrong angle. One loose stone. You twisted just a little too far and lost your footing, the blade jerking outward as your heel gave way beneath you.

Diomedes didn't hesitate.

He surged forward, blade up—not striking, but pressing yours down in an instant. Your back hit the packed dirt hard, shoulder jarring. The dagger tumbled from your grip and skidded to the side.

Then he froze above you.

"You freeze," he said coldly, eyes locked to yours, "you die."

You didn't breathe.

The sun caught on the scar down his cheek as he straightened, stepping back again. Not cruel. Not gloating. Just firm. Like a truth being hammered into place.

You sat up slowly, dirt clinging to your elbows. Your chest heaved.

But something inside you lit up.

You'd lasted longer than you had yesterday. Hit harder. Gotten closer.

You weren't there yet. Not even close. But you were getting better.

"Again?" you asked, reaching for the blade.

Diomedes nodded once.

But before either of you could reset, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the wind. A young servant, barely older than a kitchen boy, rounded the fence at the edge of the yard, chest heaving, curls plastered to his forehead.

"M-My lord!" he gasped, stumbling to a stop. "The prince—he's headed up! With soldiers—training detail. He's coming through the upper yard!"

You stiffened instinctively.

Diomedes didn't move. Just grunted faintly and turned toward the horizon.

"Good," he muttered. "We're nearly done anyway."

You were already reaching for your waterskin, panting as you leaned forward on your knees, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist.

He watched you for a second longer, then gave a rare nod of approval.

"You improved," he said simply.

You looked up at him, breathing hard.

Your face was flushed, your hair damp, fingers curled loosely around the dagger again. You couldn't stop the grin that pulled at your lips—wobbly but proud.

"Thanks," you huffed, dragging your sleeve across your cheek. "Still move like a newborn deer?"

Diomedes snorted. "Less like a deer. More like a wolf pup. All tooth and no weight. But you'll grow into it."

You smiled wider, pushing yourself to your feet just as the wind shifted—carrying with it the sound of familiar voices.

Telemachus.

You turned toward the cliffside gate, heart picking up again.

But this time... it wasn't fear that made it race.

It was something else entirely.

Then the voices got louder.

Closer.

You didn't wait.

Your body moved before your thoughts did—legs already crossing the yard, scooping up your waterskin and slinging your cloak half over your shoulder as you made for the far path. The one that curved behind the olive trees and led straight to the service wing before doubling back toward the palace.

You didn't run exactly. But you didn't linger either.

Behind you, you could hear Diomedes speaking—his voice steady, loud enough to cut across the morning air. "You're late," he was saying. "Sun's been up for hours."

Telemachus' voice followed, a little winded from the climb. "Ah, not too harsh. I'm only but a boy."

But you were already too far down the path to hear the rest.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

You didn't go straight to your room.

You should have. You were still flushed from training, and you knew the servants would be poking in soon to draw your bath, refill the water jugs, check the linens.

But the thought of sitting in that space again—with the silence and the waiting and the constant risk of someone knocking—made your skin crawl.

So you cleaned up quick. Fast wash from a basin. Rinsed your arms. Patted your face dry. Threw on a fresh chiton and combed through your hair with fingers still sore from holding a blade.

Then you slipped out the back.

Quiet. Fast. Familiar.

The garden path crunched under your sandals as you ducked around the edge of the courtyard, past the low wall with the flowering vines and toward the small wooden shed.

You eased the door open.

Cool air met you inside. Still scented faintly of old wood, oiled strings, and worn leather cases. It always smelled the same—like memories.

You let the door fall shut behind you, slow enough not to make a sound.

For a moment, you didn't move. Just stood there, hand on the edge of the nearest table, letting your shoulders sag for the first time all day.

Here, in this space, no one expected anything from you.

No one was watching. No one was calling you brave or foolish. No one was glancing at your hands to see if they were still trembling.

It was just you.

You crossed the room, fingers trailing over the lined shelves, the case of flutes, the old kithara with its cracked bridge, the guzheng that barely held its tuning anymore but still shimmered with a soft hum when you passed.

You sat down.

Picked up the guzheng first.

You didn't even think. Just adjusted the string tension by feel, the way you always did, tuning by instinct more than ear.

You strummed once.

The sound was a little off.

You smiled faintly and reached for the tuning pin, turning it just a notch.

Another strum.

Better.

Your fingers moved slow, drifting from one instrument to the next—plucking here, adjusting there. Not playing anything full. Just touching. Testing. Reacquainting yourself with the pieces of you that weren't tied to blood or bruises or someone else's fear.

This room was quiet.

But not silent.

And for the first time that day, you weren't running.

You were just breathing.

For once, your shoulders weren't braced. Your hands weren't clenched around a dagger or a tray or some invisible thread keeping everything from falling apart.

You were just sitting there, half-lit by the soft sun slanting through the slats of the shed window, the golden glow catching on the dust in the air like it was trying to freeze time.

Your fingers hovered over a small stringed zither. You gave it one more soft pluck—off-key but sweet—and smiled faintly to yourself. Not perfect. But it didn't need to be.

You were reaching for the next instrument... but then you paused.

Your eyes flicked upward, toward the glass shelf.

And you saw it.

Your old lyre. What was left of it.

The crack down the center still ran jagged, clean through the spine. One of the arms hung at a warped tilt, and a few broken strings had been coiled and placed delicately beside it—almost like a tribute.

Telemachus had made it look beautiful when he framed it. Like it belonged there. But even behind the glass, you could still feel the splintered pain clinging to it.

You stood up slowly.

Walked to the shelf.

And opened the case with gentle hands.

It creaked as it opened, soft and careful, like even the wood around it knew this was something sacred.

You cradled the lyre to your chest.

It didn't hurt like it used to. Not the same sharp ache. Now it just felt... heavy. Like carrying a version of yourself that no longer fit.

Your thumb brushed over the cracked crossbeam. A piece of one tuning peg flaked away in your palm.

You sighed. Quiet and slow. Your head dipped.

And that's when the door creaked open behind you.

You flinched.

Too late to hide it.

Callias' voice followed a beat later, casual but with that trademark lilt of amused mischief. "What're you doing that for? Not like it's a secret anymore."

You turned, the lyre still pressed to your chest. Your mouth opened, half-forming something like a smile. Maybe a joke. Maybe a dodge.

But he was already squinting at you.

His grin faded, eyebrows knitting as he leaned against the doorway. "Unless..." he said slowly, eyes narrowing as the words began to settle between you, "...it is."

The shed went quiet.

You shifted your weight slightly, still holding the lyre like it might fall apart again if you didn't.

Callias stepped in and closed the door behind him with a soft click. "Wait a minute," he said. "Besides me and that Bronte brat... does anyone else know?"

You blinked. "Know what?"

His eyes snapped to yours. "That she broke it," he said, sharp now. "That Andreia smashed the queen's lyre. The one you've had since you got here. The one that means something."

You felt your throat tighten. "I—" you started, fumbling. "It's not—"

Callias straightened. "You lied?" His voice was rising now, rougher around the edges. "Are you kidding me?"

"I didn't lie," you stammered. "I just didn't say anything."

He threw up his hands. "Which is the same thing! C'mon, ____, why in Hades haven't you said anything? The king? The queen? The prince??" He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between baffled and furious. "They would've dealt with her. He would've dealt with her!"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

You clutched the lyre tighter. "I just—It would've caused too much trouble. It'd make things worse."

Callias scoffed, loud and bitter. "So what?! You want her to get away with it? Just pretend it never happened? Let her sit there in the dining hall grinning like she didn't break something that mattered?"

"It's not about that," you said, the words tumbling out. "If I say something, it changes everything. It's not just her. It's her title, her father, Bronte's alliance—if I speak up, I'm not just accusing a girl, I'm accusing a princess. And then what?"

Callias' eyes darkened.

"Then she gets her rightful punishment," he snapped. "She learns that cruelty isn't just something you can drape in silk and smile through. She learns you're not just something to step over."

He paused. His voice softened, just a little. "Gods, ____, this isn't just about a lyre. She humiliated you. She hurt you."

You looked down.

The lyre creaked softly in your hands.

"I know."

You didn't say anything else.

You just stood there.

Silent.

Your eyes dropped to the floor, throat tight. You didn't even realize how hard your hands had clenched around the frame of the broken lyre until your arms started to shake from holding it so close, so tight. Like if you just gripped it hard enough, it would absorb all the panic rising in your chest.

Callias didn't say anything either.

Not at first.

The silence pressed in between you both, thick and heavy. The shed didn't feel warm anymore. Not safe. Not quiet. Just close. Too close.

Your fists trembled.

Your arms curled tighter around the lyre as you turned slightly away, as if even meeting his eyes might knock something loose inside you.

He doesn't get it, you thought. He can't get it.

"I didn't tell anyone," you started, voice barely above a whisper. "I know that. And I know that's... bad. Or cowardly. Or whatever you're about to say next. But it wasn't because I didn't want to."

Callias tilted his head, jaw tight, but didn't speak.

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing the rest of it out. "I wanted to. At first, I—I even almost did. I went over everything in my head. Over and over again. How I'd say it. Who I'd go to. How I'd explain it without sounding like I was just trying to cause trouble."

Your mouth felt dry. Your hands were clammy.

"And then... time passed."

You swallowed hard, heart pounding against your ribs.

"And it felt like the window to say something had shut, and if I brought it up now, it'd just be worse. Like it would seem petty. Or calculated. Or—like I was trying to hurt her for no reason. Especially now that everyone's... watching her."

You glanced up at him, your voice cracking a little. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't."

Still, Callias said nothing.

So you filled the space again.

You always did when it got quiet.

"I've heard things, too," you whispered. "Little stuff. Servants talking when they think no one's listening. I wasn't even trying to eavesdrop, but it stuck."

Your throat tightened.

"That soldier who escorted Andreia? The one that left with her, the same night—? I heard he's not in the guard anymore. That he's been demoted. Disgraced. Some say he asked to leave. Others say he couldn't bear to stay. That he was... removed."

Callias blinked.

You shook your head, hugging the broken lyre tighter. "That's just one person, Callias. Just one. And if even a shred of what she said is true—about Melanion, about what the prince did to him, or what the king did—"

You stopped.

Your words faltered. Died in your throat.

Because the memory hit you hard and fast.

Callias' knuckles—bruised. Split.

Telemachus' eyes too quiet, voice shaking after seeing you alive.

And when Hermes had spoken of your death... it hadn't been poetry. It had been real.

You swallowed, jaw trembling.

"I don't want to know what would happen if Telemachus found out what she did to me," you said, the words falling out like you were confessing to a crime. "What if it's not just yelling? What if it's not just exile? What if it's... worse?"

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes.

"I'm scared, Callias."

And for once, your voice didn't hide it.

Not the fear. Not the shame.

Not the horrible truth that despite all the strength you'd been building, all the ways you were learning to defend yourself—you still weren't ready for the kind of war that came with justice.

Not when it meant him.

Callias stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight.

Then, finally—he sighed a heavy, frustrated, resigned sort of breath that felt like it came from the bottom of his ribs.

"Fine," he muttered. "I won't say anything."

You blinked, head lifting slightly.

He looked away, fingers dragging through his hair. "I don't like it, but... I get it. I'll wait. Whenever you're ready to say something—if you ever are—I'll be there. You tell it. Not me."

Relief punched through your chest, sudden and dizzying.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He didn't answer right away. Just gave a quiet little huff and shot you a look that said, you better not make me regret this.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Your heart jumped.

Speak of the devil.

Telemachus stepped into the shed, shoulders still glistening faintly from training, a few damp curls stuck to his forehead. He was dressed in one of his sleeveless tunics, sword strapped loose to his back, the laces on his bracer half-undone like he'd tugged them off in a hurry.

He smiled the second he saw you.

"There you are," he said, soft and warm. "I went by your room but—" He paused. "You weren't there."

His smile dimmed just a little when his eyes slid to the side.

Callias.

You felt the air shift.

The silence wasn't tense exactly, but it wasn't light either. You felt it in the way Telemachus' posture straightened slightly, the way his smile stayed polite—but lost the glint it usually held for you.

Then his gaze dropped.

To what you were holding.

Your arms curled tighter around the broken lyre, instinctively.

He stepped closer. Slowly. His voice gentled. "You brought it down?"

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

His eyes lingered on it. Then flicked to the glass case behind you—the little shrine he'd built for it.

"I never asked you," he said after a moment. "Do you like it? The case."

You looked up, startled by the softness in his voice.

"I love it," you said honestly. "It's... beautiful."

Telemachus smiled again. But there was something else behind it now. A wrinkle of thought.

His eyes returned to the lyre in your hands. The jagged crack. The missing strings. How carefully you still held it, like it was worth more broken than most things whole.

He tilted his head slightly. "You know," he said slowly, "you never did tell me how it got broken."

You froze.

Callias made a sudden, very loud, completely unnecessary cough. "Ahhh—gonna go," he said quickly, already moving toward the door like his life depended on it. "Forgot I... have a goat to chase. Or feed. Or fight. Something goat-related."

Telemachus blinked at him. "What?"

But Callias was already half out the door. "Have fun, you two," he tossed over his shoulder, then disappeared before either of you could blink.

The shed door creaked closed.

And then it was just you.

And him.

He stood there in the quiet, his brow furrowed just a little, his expression gentle but searching.

You could feel his eyes on you. On the lyre. On your silence.

"I..." you began, clutching the broken instrument tighter. "It's not really a big story. It just... fell. A while ago. I left it in the courtyard and someone must've knocked it over by accident. Maybe it slipped off a bench. I didn't see it happen."

His gaze didn't shift.

Didn't narrow or tilt like he didn't believe you, but you could feel the questions building behind his eyes—could see his mouth start to open with something that would poke holes through the excuse you barely stitched together.

So you kept going.

"And then not long after that, I had a new one delivered. Remember? My divine one?" you said quickly, setting the broken lyre gently aside. "It was... from Hermes. For Apollo."

That made him blink.

"I didn't ask for it," you added, unsure why you felt the need to defend yourself, even though his expression hadn't turned suspicious—just surprised. "He showed up. Said it was a gift. That Apollo wanted me to keep playing, even if I couldn't use the one I was given before. So Hermes delivered it. Personally."

Telemachus' brow creased. "He just gave it to you? The lyre?"

You shrugged, but the gesture felt small. "It wasn't like a trade or anything. I didn't make a deal. He just left it here and told me I could use it when I was ready."

Silence settled between you again. Not awkward—but heavy.

Then your mouth moved before you could think better of it.

"Has... has Lady Andreia said anything about it?"

Telemachus blinked again, caught off guard. His posture shifted, just slightly—like you'd set something down between you both and he wasn't sure whether to pick it up or step around it.

"About what?"

You hesitated, then forced the words out anyway. "About the lyre. Or me. Or what happened. I know she's close to the queen, and I'm just—curious. Has she... said anything? About how long she's staying in Ithaca?"

His eyes darkened just a little. His jaw flexed.

He didn't answer right away.

When he finally did, his voice was soft. Careful.

"I'm not sure," he said. "She wasn't supposed to stay this long, but... her father's extended the visit. There's political pressure there. Things between Bronte and Ithaca are delicate. My parents are trying to keep everything... steady."

You nodded slowly, heart sinking. "So she's staying."

He didn't confirm it aloud.

Didn't have to.

You stared at your lap for a moment, tracing the edge of the divine lyre with one thumb.

Then you said it.

The thing you'd been chewing on since her first smug smile, since the broken wood in your lap, since the way no one else ever said her name without it curling in their throat.

"Are you two... engaged?"

The question hit the air like a dropped vase.

You didn't look at him.

Not right away.

But you felt him react—his body stiffening, shoulders squaring like he'd been slapped.

"What?" he said, sharp.

You looked up.

"Are you and Andreia—?"

The words barely left your lips before Telemachus cut in, fast and sharp. Almost like they burned to even hear.

"Never," he said, voice firm. "No. Absolutely not."

You blinked.

He took a step closer, his tone softening—but the flush rising in his cheeks didn't match how steady his words were trying to sound.

"If there's anyone I've ever... I mean—if I've ever even thought about being engaged to someone I'd rather be engaged to y—" His voice faltered.

You saw it happen—his mouth opened, like he meant to keep going, but then it closed again, lips pressing shut as if the rest of the sentence had slammed into a wall.

His eyes widened just slightly, like even he hadn't meant to say that much.

And then the pink in his face turned deeper, creeping from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears.

You stared at him, heart skipping somewhere behind your ribs.

He looked away, clearly scrambling for a way out. "I think—uh—did you hear that? Someone—someone's calling. Probably one of the servants. Or my mother. For... something."

"What?"

He nodded quickly, already backing up toward the door. "Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty sure I heard—uh—'Telemachus, come quick!' or something."

There was no voice.

No footsteps.

Nothing but your stunned silence and the soft creak of the floorboards under his boots.

"Wha—? You called?" he called out weakly, peering outside like someone might answer and save him.

But no one did.

So he cleared his throat and mumbled, "Right. Gotta go. I'll come back. Later."

And then the door closed behind him in a flustered escape.

You stood there, still clutching the edge of the divine lyre, blinking at the space he'd just occupied.

The silence lasted all of three seconds.

Then—

You snorted.

It started small, the corners of your lips twitching... but it didn't stay that way.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, warmth rushing up your face as a laugh bubbled up and burst out, muffled against your palm. Your whole chest shook with it, light and giddy and ridiculous.

"What was that?" you whispered into your hand, your smile so wide it ached.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks and you curled forward slightly, trying to smother the sound—but it only made it worse.

You'd never seen him stammer like that. Not around you. Not with that look in his eyes.

And definitely not when the words "engaged to you" were hovering just an inch from his mouth.

You buried your face in your hands and laughed harder.

Because gods help you, you were blushing too.

You sat down hard on the edge of the old workbench, your knees bumping against a basket of cleaning cloths, your hands still half-covering your face.

You stayed like that for a while—maybe longer than you meant to—until the giddy flutter in your chest finally started to settle into something softer. Something warm.

☆

☆

Hours passed.

The sun crept its slow arc across the sky, slipping past noon and into the mellow gold of late afternoon. You didn't leave the shed.

You couldn't.

Not yet.

There was something about the quiet here—how the air always smelled faintly of wood and old resin, how dust floated lazily through beams of sunlight filtering in through the high slatted window.

The light changed as the hours passed, going from bright and yellow to soft and amber, like the whole room was being tucked in by the sky itself.

You'd spent the time doing everything and nothing.

Rearranged the small shrine of instruments along the shelf. Lit a bit of dried lavender from the market stall Asta liked, letting the smoke curl up toward the ceiling beams.

You even sat cross-legged on the floor for a while, working at a stubborn knot in your sandal strap like it was some sort of divine mission.

All of it helped. A little.

The moment with Telemachus had passed, but it still clung to you—like the taste of something sweet left behind on your tongue.

You hadn't been able to stop replaying it. His voice. His face. The way his words caught like he was trying to stop a thought from getting out too fast.

You knew you should've gotten up. Left. Gone back inside.

But instead, you stayed.

Until now.

You were just beginning to gather your things—tucking the cloth over your lyre, folding up your practice towel, brushing a bit of sawdust from your skirt—when you heard it.

The faint, telltale shuffle of feet that didn't belong to any servant.

Too light. Too purposeful.

You turned before he even spoke.

And there he was.

Hermes.

Leaning against the shed door like he'd been there the whole time, one shoulder braced against the frame, fingers toying with the edge of his traveler's sash like he was half-distracted by his own charm. He looked—per usual—far too pleased with himself.

"Well, well," he drawled, grin sharp as a fishhook. "I leave you alone for a few days and suddenly you're training, brooding in music sheds, and blushing over sweaty princes."

You rolled your eyes, snorting. "How long were you standing there?"

"Long enough," he said with a wink, then pushed off the doorframe, stepping inside. "Apollo's beside himself, you know. Practically glowing through the clouds. Keeps trying to peek in without breaking the rules."

You blinked. "Rules?"

Hermes rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes—Olympus politics, mortal plane boundaries, all that dramatic nonsense. You'd think someone broken his lyre. He can't visit you. Not yet."

You swallowed, unsure what to feel about that.

But Hermes didn't seem to want you brooding again. He leaned casually against the table now, eyeing the shed. His fingers drummed against the wood like he was testing its resonance through the air.

"So," he said. "Tell me everything. Did the prince actually stammer like a schoolboy? Or was that just wishful thinking on Apollo's part?"

You gave him a flat look. "No, he dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him right there in the dirt. There were roses. Choirs. A goat shed as witness."

Hermes burst out laughing. "Oh, you're cruel. I like it."

You smirked, but the moment didn't stretch far. Because as his laughter faded, so did the lightness in your chest. A thought had been coiled in the back of your mind since before dinner. It uncurled now, slow and uneasy.

Your fingers brushed over the curve of the flutebeside you. "Can I ask you something real?"

Hermes tilted his head. "That's new. Sure."

You hesitated.

Then. "Melanion. Is he... is he dead?"

Hermes' face didn't move for a moment.

Not even a twitch.

Then his smile returned—but thinner. Not cold. Just more careful.

"The man's been handled," he said simply. "That's all you need to know."

Your throat tightened. "So... Andreia wasn't lying."

"She wasn't telling the whole truth either," he added quickly, wagging a finger. "She only thinks she knows what happened. And it's better that way. Safer for both of you."

You looked away, jaw tight. "I didn't ask Telemachus," you admitted. "I didn't have the guts. I just—I wanted to know. But hearing it from him... I think it would've hurt more."

Hermes nodded, softer now. "Then you were right not to."

Silence again.

The sun had dipped further now, bathing the shed in dusky orange. The shadows stretched long across the floor, curling around the table legs, casting soft light against the glass shrine behind you.

Hermes shifted his weight, folding his arms. "So," he said, voice lighter again, "how've you been feeling?"

"Feeling?"

"Since your... death," he said offhandedly, like he was talking about a stubbed toe. "I mean, you died, little musician. Mortal bodies weren't built for that kind of rebound. It leaves marks."

You raised a brow. "What kind of marks?"

He hummed, ticking off on his fingers. "You might get cold easier. Slower heartbeat. Sometimes the mind doesn't fully catch up to the body. Mood swings, foggy memories, little gaps. You could feel more impulsive. Untethered. Like something inside you got... loosened."

You stared at him, then gave a weak laugh. "So I'm basically dead. Just upright."

Hermes grinned. "Technically? You're better than dead. You're rare."

You rolled your eyes. "And twitchy. Don't forget twitchy."

He chuckled. "Oh, that's the spirit. I like the edge."

But you didn't laugh this time. You blinked, thinking. Then murmured, "Wait... so it actually changed me? It wasn't just in my head?"

Hermes' smile faded into something gentler. "Of course it did," he said, voice low. "You brushed the edge of the river. Most mortals who go there don't come back. But you... walked away."

That quieted you.

It sat heavy in your chest, settling deeper than the usual divine riddles. Your pulse slowed without your permission, and for a second, you swore you could feel it—that difference he was talking about.

That strangeness you'd been chalking up to trauma or exhaustion or something else that would fade with time.

But it hadn't. Not really.

Until you glanced up again, frowning slightly. "So what—you just didn't mention this before because you thought it'd be funny?"

"I thought it might go over better with snacks," he said innocently, thumping a drum on your shelf.

You rolled your eyes. "Of course you did."

"Oh, don't pout," he said. "You've been strutting around like a soldier lately. Swinging swords. Staring down royals. I figured you'd embrace your little... upgrade."

You scoffed. "Oh, sure. 'Upgrade.' That's what we're calling unsteady heartbeats, ghost limbs, and chills now?"

He blinked, mock-offended. "I'll have you know resurrection symptoms are very exclusive. You're like... Hermes version 2.0."

"Great," you muttered. "Do I get the sandals or just the emotional instability?"

Hermes stared at you.

Really stared.

Then blinked once. Slowly. Like a bird realizing it was being watched.

"Your tongue wasn't quite this sharp before. You've been hiding all this bite behind your meek little puppy act?"

You smirked. "Maybe you just never deserved the bark."

Hermes blinked once—then grinned wide, like you'd just slapped him and offered dessert. "Oh, there it is."

He clutched his chest dramatically, staggering back half a step. "Gods, I love a woman who can break my spirit. I'd give you my staff right now if I didn't think you'd use it on me."

That did it.

You burst out laughing—quick and loud, the kind that shook your shoulders and caught you by surprise.

He beamed at the sound, but you could still see the way his eyes softened around the edges.

Not mocking. Not smug.

Just... pleased.

He stepped back toward the door, dusting off his hands.

"Well," he said, pushing off the bench, "I should be off. If Apollo finds out I had you giggling behind a shed while he's up there composing sunlit sonnets, I might actually get smote. He's very jealous of his muse's giggles, you know."

You gave him a look. "Is that the plural of smite?"

"Don't question my grammar," he sniffed. "I invented grammar."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.

Hermes gave you one last look as he reached the door. "Try to sleep tonight. Favored mortals need rest."

Then he was gone.

Just like that—no flash, no sound. Just an absence.

You stood there in the empty shed, watching the dust swirl through the fading light. The evening breeze stirred through the slats, and outside, someone was ringing a distant bell for dinner.

Still thinking.

Because no matter how much Hermes joked—no matter how much he grinned or teased—you couldn't unhear what he said.

You'd changed.

And you didn't know if that should scare you or thrill you.

But either way... it was already happening.

You gathered your things, stood slowly, and stepped into the fading twilight, heading back toward the palace as the wind whispered softly at your heels.

A/N: ahhh!!! i just checked my accounts and—1.3k followers?! 200k+ reads on wattpad?! almost 600 on quotev and like 1.5k on tumblr?!?! 😭😭😭 you guys... thank you so much. like i know i keep saying this and i probably sound like a broken record at this point, but it's honestly so surreal seeing this much support and traffic on my stuff. i know my writing style isn't everyone's cup of tea—whether it's the dark themes, being overly descriptive, or just plain wordy—but i'm genuinely so grateful for the praise and love. at this point, i've kinda accepted that this is just how i write. trying to force myself to change it or edit every little thing sends me into spirals of stress and perfectionism, and i never move forward. so yeah... i still appreciate the critiques, and i do take them in! but ultimately, i think i've found my groove. thank you again for everything. seriously. 💛 and if there's a double update today, it's purely cuz i found myself trynna be a main character and sat outside on the porch while it's windy/dark editing 😭

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: wattywriter04@gmail.com | tumblr: winaxity-ii)

from tropiccvnt

OKAY FIRST OF ALL—LATIN CLASS FANART??? That's legendary behavior. You didn't just eat—you laid down a whole offering to the gods 😭🔥The stola??? The serene pose??? The "I've seen too much, died once, and now I carry the weight of divine agendas and mortal grief" expression??? You understood the assignment and made it fashion. Also??? The clean lines and soft fabric folds??? I'm OBSESSED. Thank you SO MUCH for drawing her, and I can't WAIT to see more!! 💀💫🗝️

from anon0219

OH. OHHHHHHHH. First of all—HELLO?? This is STUNNING?? You snapped. You slashed. You bled this onto the canvas. I gasped out loud like I wasn't the one who wrote that chapter. Like... the anguish, the body language, the shame curling in on itself—it's so raw. And the little golden thread dragging him up like a puppet?? The divine leash?? The contrast between blood and divinity??? I'm unwell. And PLEASE don't apologize for the lack of injuries—this hits so hard without them. Sometimes the silence in a piece says more than blood ever could.

from NovaSaysHi

No because... I stared at this for like five minutes straight. This is straight out of Chapter 32—the quiet scene between MC and Lady in the river under that star-smeared sky—and it looks exactly like how I imagined it. The reflection of the stars in the water?? The distant waterfall??? It's like someone took a ss of an anime 😩I'm genuinely honored. Thank you for this beautiful piece. I will be thinking about it every time I reread that chapter now.

from The Pr0phet

I'm literally obsessed with how soft yet unsettling this looks?? Like this rendition of him is so vibrant and regal but also makes my skin crawl a little in the best way??? The golden tears, the twin suns blooming off his cheeks, the lyre as accessory?? The glow?? The matching jewelry?? Stop. STOP. You're feeding me TOO well. Thank you so much for this divine gift (get it? because... yeah).

from popcorm

ANDREIA. My disaster diva. My political schemer in heels. The layered jewelry? Check. The infuriated-but-still-hot expression? Double check. The red background like a warning siren?? This is peak "She's about to ruin a dinner party and you're gonna thank her for it." Look at her. That is the face of a woman who just overheard MC coming back to life and that its so outrageous that she physically cannot continue sipping her wine.

from renarurii

This is MC in her essence. That hair??? That gentle, bittersweet smile like she's holding back tears and a sonnet at the same time?? This is the face that inspires odes and wars alike. There's something so classically tragic heroine about this rendition—like she's beautiful because she's hurting idk how to explain it 😩

Renarurii... you just casually handed me a Hermes x MC doujin panel like it was nothing??? Like I wasn't gonna immediately lose my composure and start rereading the scene on loop??? This little black-and-white comic strip has me in shambles. The soft hand. The nickname. And that last panel?? With the hat and the blossoms and the LINGERING EYE CONTACT??? I am seated. I am stunned. I am shaking. "Scared of heights," she says. Girl, you're being lifted by Hermes. He is the fall.

from alucardswifeyy

First of all—don't even start with the "I lack skills" thing because baby... you gave us FEELING. You gave us a whole scene. You gave us Apollo beaming like the sun itself, and MC over there fighting for composure like she's not actively being unravelled from the inside out. The way their eyes don't quite meet?? The delicate little hand on her chest?? The subtle tension in her mouth??😭 This is what it looks like when a god says, "You're safe with me," and you know it's a lie, but it still makes your heart stutter. Stopppp I'm in pain in a beautiful way. Also?? The new MC design is LOVELY. The hair framing the face. The subtle classical nods in her chiton. The vulnerability. I adore it. You really captured their dynamic—and you made it hurt in the best way. 😭✨

YOU'VE DONE IT AGAIN... BUT CHIBIFIED???? NO BECAUSE THIS IS KILLING ME in the best way 😭😭 MC is giving full "mortal who died dramatically but still manages to talk back mid-rescue" energy while Hermes is just there like 🧍‍♂️ "I'm literally escorting you back from death can you not cause a scene." THE SWEATDROP. THE "..." EYES. I'm CACKLING. This is possibly the funniest and most accurate depiction of Hermes dragging MC back from the Underworld I've seen. The energy??? Immaculate.

✨emotional return to Ithaca??✨ more like MC stomps in with Michael Jackson face, middle finger blazing, and psychic beef toward everyone who slighted her.

No words exchanged. Just vibes and judgment. 

This is the most unintentionally horrifying, wildly accurate depiction of that moment. MC: (trauma, nausea, confusion) Telemachus: (leaning in like it's a poetry recitation) It's giving he's never kissed anyone with trauma before. The lips. The shading. THE SILENCE. I just know MC's blinking up like "this man is about to devour my spirit" and he thinks he's being romantic.

from Axoltley

HELLO this is Hermes in his golden-era rom-com arc. The one where he grins too easy, helps you cross rivers, and absolutely has a dagger hidden behind his back just in case. Before the trauma, before the rot, before he started dragging dead mortals across realms and catching feelings he'll never admit.  The laurels. The red cloak. The little wings. THE SMIRK. You nailed that moment when MC's still thinking "wow, he's cute," and we, the readers, are already screaming "GIRL. RUN." Axoltley, you captured his ✨dangerous golden retriever✨ energy PERFECTLY.  I love him and I don't trust him and that's exactly the point.

[winxanity-ii]

Heyy Sorry if I am disturbing or anything but.. 😨😣😣😭😭 I really really like your Godly Things and like your Chapter index isn't Working :( I am stuck at 45.5 DIVINE WHISPERS And then I checked it was at Chapter 51🥹

Hi! So the thing is I actually completed the book, just pacing the updates and tweaking things etc. but yeah, I just updated the chapter title list/index after I completed uploading it into my drafts here on tumblr, so the lasted updated as of now is 45.5, but I’ll be uploading later though ❤️❤️

[winxanity-ii]

I JUST CANT GET THIS IMAGE OUT OF MY HEADDD

SILLY HEADCANON

ughhhh

Like when the kitchen serve smth that Y/n doesn’t like but she also doesn’t not want to seem like a picky eater she will just take a few bites then play coy and spoon feed it to Telemachus. Mask it as all lovely dovy n stuff, n everyone thinks they are sooooo cute but only Telemachus knows! And after a while he gain weights, like his baby fat returns, yet he still savour every bit of foof Y/n feed him…(he then process to lowkey do the same to Y/n..)

NO BECAUSE THIS??? THIS IS CANON. THIS IS SO THEM 😭😭

Telemachus sitting there, all pink in the face, cheeks full of food he didn't even ask for while Reader's like "oh nooo, I'm just being sweet~ ❤️" when really she's like "if I have to eat another mouthful of this I will simply pass away so YOU handle it."

And the baby fat comeback??? STOP. He's already built like he grew up on war bread and stress, so seeing him soften just a little because of you?? You feeding him with your own hands??? YOU'RE FATTERING THE PRINCE??? I'm about to faint in the name of love and domestic gluttony.

AND THE FACT HE STARTS DOING IT BACK??? I can already hear him all smug like, "Oh, so you didn't like that soup? That's alright, I’ll eat it—open." cue spoon dramatically aimed at your lips like it's war strategy 😩💖

This is the kind of softness that keeps me breathing. I'm clutching my pearls. You are a genius. A menace. A blessing. I want to write this. I want to breath this. I want to experience this in my life 😭

So um. Yeah. Here's a little scene you inspired:

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 (post-move to the palace wing, late afternoon, private dining nook. Fluff overload.)

The stew was… awful.

Not poisonous—just aggressively bland. The kind that clung to your tongue and made your soul beg for forgiveness. A tragic grayish lump of overboiled roots and forgotten ambition.

You took one bite, then another—enough to seem polite—enough to fake it.

Then you set your spoon down with a sweet sigh and scooted your bowl ever so slightly toward the middle of the little table.

"Mm. You should eat mine too," you said, voice honeyed as you leaned your chin into your hand. "It's still warm."

Telemachus looked up from his own bowl, which he had been eating tucked by your window, sunlight catching on the tips of his lashes. He blinked at you, lips parted like he was mid-thought.. "That's the third meal this week you've 'sweetly' surrendered to me," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm starting to think you hate the palace menu."

You tilted your head. "Noooo," you said, much too fast. "I just like seeing you eat. You look happier when you're chewing. Like a thoughtful goat... It's comforting."

You spooned up a bit of your untouched stew and leaned across the table. "Here," you offered with a sweet smile.

He huffed a laugh but leaned forward anyway, letting you feed him a bite. His mouth opened, and he bit down, wincing slightly.

"Mmm," he deadpanned.

"You didn't even chew it all the way," you whispered, scandalized watching as his jaw flexed as he chewed.

"Didn't need to. The pain was immediate." He raised a brow. "Tastes like boiled disappointment."

You giggled, scooping another bite. "C'mon. One more. I'll even give you a kiss if you finish it."

Telemachus froze.

You blinked at him, innocent.

He took it, eyeing you the whole time, before glancing at your down at your bowl. "Wait a second," he muttered. "You hate this stew."

You blinked again, wounded. "I would never—"

"You always get all syrupy with the compliments when the kitchen messes up," he went on, leaning back in mock-revelation. "That soup on Monday. The weird lemon thing on Tuesday. The steamed cabbage loaf yesterday—"

"I was being supportive of the kitchen's dishes and wanted you to try it," you interrupted.

"You made me eat three of them."

"It's character-building," you said, solemn.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

"You're not off the hook, you know."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

Then slowly, he stood from his seat, circled the table, and crouched beside your chair.

You opened your mouth to say something else—but he plucked your spoon out of your hand before you could.

"Say 'ah.'" he murmured, crouching beside you now.

You blinked. "Telemachus, I—"

"I'm serious."

"You're going to make me eat it?"

"I'm going to feed it to you. Lovingly. Like you do me."

You stared at him with narrowed eyes. "That's evil."

He smiled—sweet, smug, soft around the edges. "Say 'ah.'"

So you sighed… and opened your mouth.

The stew was still awful.

But gods, his grin afterward made it easier to swallow.

He didn't comment when you tried to sneak him another bite halfway through.

He just took it. Quiet. Smiling. Watching you like he'd been waiting for this game to unravel.

And so it went—your silly little food dance. You pretending not to hate it, him pretending not to notice, and somehow both of you ending up full, and quietly warm.

And by the end of the week? His jaw was softer. His tunic snugger. You mentioned nothing.

Until one afternoon, when he poked his stomach and muttered something about needing to train more—because his belt was starting to groan when he sat down.

You just grinned.

And handed him another spoon

[winxanity-ii]

hope it’s not too late or annoying to mention this but, I’m super bummed that Washed up won’t be continued💔 your writing is phenomenal, but the reasoning is completely understandable!

wishing you luck, I love your writing!!

not annoying at all—if anything, thank you for being so kind about it 🫂 i promise, i didn't drop Washed Up lightly. that fic meant a lot to me in the moment, but once the spark went, i knew i couldn't force it back. not without it feeling hollow, and y'all deserve better than that.

but hearing that it meant something to you, even now? that matters more than you know. i'm not sure if i'll get the chance to ever come back to it due to all the other projects i'm sitting on, but if i do, i'll be sure it's because the story wants to be told again—not just because i felt pressured to finish it. i always say i'd rather leave a story open-ended than give you something that doesn't feel like me anymore.

but really—thank you. for still thinking about that fic. for even taking the time to say something. it's easy to think people forget when something's left behind, so this? this reminded me it left a mark.

and that means the world 🤍

[winxanity-ii]

Can i get some tips on writing? Im a newbie hehehe... (im so fucking weird sorry)

omg no that's not weird at all LMAO i get it. okay listen tho—i'm no pro or anything so take this with a grain of salt, but here's how i do it:

i usually write out whatever i daydreamed first—it's super messy, basically just me dumping the scene out how i imagined it in my head. i call those blurbs. they're like... skeleton versions. no punctuation. vibes only.

after that, i'll go back and build the scene out for real—adding descriptions, fixing pacing, writing the dialogue properly (a lot of that i actually test out through RP with my sister, so it feels natural).

then for final polish, i'll tweak stuff—swap out repeated words, play with sentence rhythm, add better verbs, that kind of thing. i use Google a lot for synonyms or tone-checking.

also, Tumblr writing blogs are literal gold. some of them have whole lists for describing skin tones, emotion, atmosphere, pain, etc. without sounding like a broken record.

but really?? it's just been trial and error. i'm still figuring it out. you'll get there too. it just takes time & rereading your own stuff and going "ew what was that" and fixing it LOL.

a few blogs i follow so posts pop up on my dash regulary: writingwithcolor.tumblr.com (literally love this one so much!)

Quillology With Haya

Writing with Weasels (this page shares gems!)

[winxanity-ii]

I have fanart for Godly things and I would like to present it to you if you’d allow me 😼

svksbckajsxnlAKX, YESS! PLZ DO you can send them here in my inbox or email them to me at wattywriter04@gmail.com AHHH can't wait to see them 😩❤️❤️

[winxanity-ii]

SDNCKJDSNCKASJNXCS

Hycanith and Apollo sillys

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: SOME ENDINGS NEED TO HURT DIVINE WHISPERS: Some Endings Need To Hurt | divine whispers: some endings need to hurt⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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Olympus stank of roses and leftover wine.

The aftermath of a divine feast was always a mess—but this one looked more like a riot in silk.

Broken lyres leaned crooked against pillars. Fruit rolled under thrones, half-mashed into the gold-veined marble. A trail of someone's discarded sandals lay tangled with silver streamers, and one of the fountains still frothed with pomegranate wine instead of water.

Nymphs flitted through the wreckage in graceful disarray, muttering as they swept the petals off the stairs or carried out trays littered with half-eaten ambrosia and cracked goblets.

But none of them dared go near the center.

Not where he was.

Apollo lay draped across his own throne like a mourning statue—one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, the other trailing to the floor. His head lolled back against the cool gold, curls tousled like ivy. A lyre balanced across his chest, one arm stretched dramatically across his eyes as if to shield himself from the cruel world.

Light clung to him like a second skin.

Even in chaos, the sun followed him.

Soft rays filtered in through the cracked ceiling and bled across the floor, pooling beneath his throne and catching on every golden string, every edge of his laurel crown, until it looked like the very air was bowing around him. It wasn't even noon, but in this one pocket of Olympus, it glowed like dusk.

His voice—clear and golden and miserable—carried above the sweeping and clattering around him.

"She sings no longer, my darling girl, Her hands unstrung, her light now furled— Torn from me by fate so cruel, My muse, my spark, my precious jewel—"

"GODS, WILL YOU STOP."

The music screeched to a halt.

Apollo cracked one eye open. The light dimmed ever so slightly.

Across the room, Dionysus stood by a toppled column, one foot bare, the other still inside his boot. His ivy crown hung crooked over his ear, and his tunic was stained with what looked suspiciously like grape jam. He held a goblet loosely in one hand, the other gesturing wildly as he squinted toward his older brother like he was seeing him through a hangover fog.

"You've been moaning since before the feast started, and now—now—you're turning the cleanup into a funeral?" he snapped. "I invited the River Twins and both of them left early. One said your wailing gave them flashbacks."

Apollo sat up slowly, his lyre thudding softly to the floor beside him, strings still faintly humming from the last sorrowful note.

He glared at Dionysus.

The light around him narrowed into something focused and moody, like a stage spotlight aimed just for him. The nymphs near the columns flinched again, shielding their eyes from the flare.

Across the room, Dionysus didn't even blink. He just raised his goblet in a lazy cheer and took a long sip like this was all part of the show.

Apollo's lip curled. "How dare you interrupt a hymn mid-verse."

"Oh gods, spare me the hymn," Dionysus groaned. "You've turned Olympus into a theater of tragedy. I'm gonna start charging admission."

"I'm in mourning," Apollo snapped. "Real mourning. My muse—my light—is gone."

"She's in Ithaca," Dionysus said flatly.

"Where I cannot go!" Apollo barked. "Where I am banished!"

Before the argument could fully ignite, another voice cut in—quieter, but no less firm.

"You have been... a bit dim lately, brother."

It was Artemis.

She stood off to the side, near the edge of the colonnade, arms folded and brow slightly pinched. Her expression wasn't harsh. Just... tired. Like she'd been watching this play out for days and was hoping—praying—this was the final act.

Apollo turned toward her, wounded. "Dim? You think I'm dim?"

"You're always glowing," she muttered, rubbing her temple. "But lately it's been more... brooding glow. Like a storm lamp. Or a hearth no one wants to sit by."

Apollo gave a scandalized gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "How could I not be like this? My muse and I have been ripped apart. Torn. Severed by cruel fate and stricter gods."

"Severed?" Dionysus echoed. "You're grounded, not exiled."

Apollo let out a strangled cry, flinging his head back. "You mock me. You all mock me."

That's when Aphrodite finally spoke, reclining lazily on her seat with a peach in one hand and absolutely no sympathy in her tone.

"You're only barred from physically visiting the mortal realm," she said, biting into the fruit. "You can still pull her dreams, summon her spirit, whisper in her ear while she sleeps. Honestly, you're being dramatic even by your standards."

"It's not the same!" Apollo wailed, throwing both arms up. "Dreams are just echoes! Reflections! I want her here! In my arms, where I can protect her, where I can feel her breath, where I can—"

"Uggghh," Dionysus and Aphrodite groaned in unison. Aphrodite didn't even look at him anymore—she just reached for another piece of fruit. Dionysus drained his goblet like he was hoping it'd make Apollo disappear.

Then, with a dramatic sigh of her own, Aphrodite stood and dusted peach fuzz from her gown. "I truly can't do this much longer," she muttered. "The wine's gone flat, the poetry's gotten worse, and your voice is starting to give me wrinkles."

Apollo glared. "You don't even wrinkle."

She blew him a kiss. "Exactly. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Dionysus snorted into his goblet.

Aphrodite turned on her heel, golden hair swaying behind her like a battle flag dipped in honey and sin. "I'm going to meet Ares," she purred over her shoulder. "At least when he whines, it's after breaking something... or bending me over it."

"Tell him I said hello," Dionysus called lazily. "And maybe break Apollo's harp while you're at it."

"Gladly," she said sweetly, before vanishing in a flutter of perfume and bare feet that didn't quite touch the floor.

Apollo groaned again, curling back into the throne like the world had personally betrayed him.

Artemis just sighed and rubbed her brow again. "You're going to give Helios a stroke if you keep throwing tantrums in the middle of his route. The sun was late this morning. Again."

The light around Apollo dimmed just enough to cast long, moody shadows behind him.

"Let it be late," he mumbled. "Let the world suffer like I have." He simply let out another long, suffering sigh before draping his arm over his eyes like the light itself offended him.

Then came the sound of sharp sandals on marble.

Precise. Unhurried.

Athena.

She took one look at the throne room—at the plates still stacked on pillars, the nymphs scrubbing peach juice off the walls, Apollo laid out like a poem left in the rain—and sighed through her nose.

"You've managed to turn a minor restriction into an operatic tragedy," she said. "Well done."

"I'm grieving," Apollo replied without lifting his arm. "Deeply."

"You're sulking," she corrected. "And loudly."

He peeked at her, golden lashes opening just enough to squint at her armored figure. "Do you come bearing good news or just more mockery?"

A pause.

Then, finally—finally—Athena's expression softened. Only a little.

"I came to tell you that your punishment will likely be lifted soon," she said. "Two months. Maybe less."

Apollo sat up straighter. "Truly?"

She nodded. "Father's feeling... lenient. For now."

Behind them, Dionysus made a rude noise into his goblet. "Father's only ever lenient when someone flatters his lightning bolt or kisses his sandals."

Athena ignored him, brushing a bit of olive leaf off her shoulder as she glanced again at the chaos around them.

Her brow rose.

"...That said, if he sees this mess, he might change his mind."

Apollo opened his mouth—possibly to blame Dionysus or the wine or the tragic weight of love—but the god of wine got there first.

"Oh, please," Dionysus chuckled, swirling what little drink was left in his cup. "When is Father ever pleased?" He threw a smirk over his shoulder and added, "Well—unless he's got a cloud wife in his lap. Then he's all smiles."

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not again with the cloud wives," she muttered.

Apollo groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Can we not bring up him right now? I'm suffering."

"You're dramatic," Athena replied.

"He's lovesick," Dionysus added, still smiling like he was watching a particularly bad play unfold. "He thinks being banned from the mortal realm is the same as being banished from love itself."

Apollo pointed at him with a half-hearted flare of light. "Because it is. My muse is down there training with that—that mortal man who looks like he chews rocks for breakfast—"

Athena arched a brow. "Diomedes?" she said. "He's a war hero. Trained entire battalions. He's quite respected. The girl's not broken, Apollo. She's training. You've been crying over a ghost, and she's already clawing her way back to life. She'll be fine under his teachings."

"He's too gruff!" Apollo barked. "Plus he's got murder in his beard. He probably tells bedtime stories with blood in them."

"And?" Dionysus snorted. "So do you."

Apollo slumped again, cradling his face in both hands as his glow dimmed in time with his mood. "I miss her," he mumbled.

Athena stepped over a wilted garland, eyes on the far window where the sun hovered obediently. "Well. Then perhaps stop throwing fits and keep the skies running properly. If she sees the sun flickering over her head like a broken lamp, she'll think you stopped caring."

Apollo froze.

Then sat up straighter.

His hair shimmered a little brighter. His shoulders lifted.

"...You think she'd notice?"

Athena sighed again, the sound sharper this time as she gave him a long, almost bored look. "She always notices," she said plainly, with a small roll of her eyes. "You made sure of that."

Apollo blinked. Just once. The light around him faltered—then flared faintly, warming like a hearth on a cold morning.

But before he could bask in the rare comfort of her honesty, Athena's gaze flicked past him toward the doorway. "Have you seen Hermes?"

Apollo scoffed. "Why would I?"

Athena didn't miss a beat. "Considering you've both been enamored with the same mortal lately, I figured it'd be natural for you to share a cloud or two."

Apollo's eyes snapped toward her, narrowed slits of golden heat. "That's not funny."

She raised a brow. "It's not meant to be."

A beat passed. Apollo's jaw clenched.

"No," he said stiffly. "I haven't seen him."

Athena gave a tired exhale, rubbing at her temple with two fingers, like even asking had drained her. "Of course you haven't."

At that, Dionysus perked up like a bored cat spotting a twitching tail. "What's wrong now, big sister? You look like you've just read bad news on a scroll that bites."

Athena waved him off but took a step closer to the window, the olive branch pin on her shoulder glinting in the sun. "Hades has been sending messages," she said curtly. "Notes. Complaints."

"How ominous," Dionysus muttered, raising his cup to his lips.

"He says a soul is missing," Athena went on, her voice edged with quiet frustration. "And Hermes—" she cast a look around the room again, as if expecting him to appear from the wine drapes "—hasn't answered any summons. No trail. No sign. Nothing."

There was a beat.

Small. Barely enough to be called a pause.

But Apollo stilled.

It was quick—so slight that any lesser god wouldn't have caught it—but Athena wasn't lesser. She was a daughter of storm and stone, of wisdom and war. And she didn't miss it.

Her gaze sharpened instantly. "You know something."

Apollo didn't respond.

Not with words.

Just the barest shift of his shoulders. A flick of his gaze toward the floor. He didn't need to speak. The hesitation said enough.

Athena stepped forward. "Where is Hermes?"

"I don't know," he replied too quickly.

"Don't lie to me."

Artemis, who'd been silent since Athena's arrival, finally pushed off the column she'd been leaning against. Her gaze passed briefly over the scene—Apollo slouched in defiance, Athena's armor gleaming like a drawn blade, and the mess of wine-slick marble between them.

She sighed—not dramatic, not cruel. Just tired.

"I'm going to check the moonlight's still rising on time," she said dryly. "At this rate, we'll have nymphs getting lost in the forests again."

She didn't wait for a reply. Just turned on her heel, bow slung over her back, and walked out—quiet, sure-footed, and without a single backward glance.

Her footsteps echoed once, then vanished, like she'd never been there at all.

Apollo huffed, tilting his head back with a dry laugh. "Why would I? He vanishes all the time. That's his whole thing—"

"Cut the nonsense," she snapped, her voice like a sword unsheathing. "I'm not one of your softhearted nymphs, Apollo. I refuse to waste my time playing guessing games with a god who sulks better than he speaks."

Dionysus let out a low whistle behind his cup.

One of the cleanup nymphs looked up, blinked, then quietly swept herself into the hallway.

Apollo's jaw flexed.

Athena's eyes didn't move. "Where is he?"

"I told you, I don't—"

"Where."

The word hit like thunder. Not loud. But it didn't need to be. It rang with authority. With the weight of someone who didn't just command wisdom, but wielded it.

And Apollo—brilliant, burning, petty Apollo—finally deflated.

He exhaled through his nose. "We didn't plan it," he muttered.

Athena narrowed her eyes.

Apollo's fingers twitched, fingers still toying with the empty air where his lyre had once sat. But there was no music now. Only truth. And gods, it soured on his tongue like spoiled honey.

"After Telemachus and Odysseus killed him—the man who hurt her—Hermes and I... He didn't take his soul to the Underworld. Not right away."

"He what?"

"He held it," Apollo said. "Paused it. Stalled it. I don't know. Hermes tucked him away in some crack between realms—one of his backdoor places."

"And why," Athena asked, her voice cool enough to frost the air, "would he do that?"

Before Apollo could answer—before he could flinch and twist it into something poetic—another voice cut through the room, sly and bright.

"Because I can."

All heads turned.

There—just inside the arch of the threshold, like he'd stepped through a joke no one else was in on—stood Hermes with unreadable grin on his lips, looking far too calm for someone who'd been dodging summons from half the pantheon.

"Good to see you all missed me," he said cheerfully. "Especially you, Athena. You look ready to kill something."

And trailing behind him—

No.

Not trailing.

Scuttling.

Something wet and wretched crawled across the marble on four limbs.

Its spine curled like a rat, but its shoulders were too wide—like it was trying to remember being human and failing. Its skin was patchy, gray in some places and burnt red in others, and its mouth was smeared with what might've been wine or old blood.

Pig-like tusks curled from the corners of its lips, and its eyes—gods, its eyes—were human. Just barely. Wide and yellowing. Sick with fear.

Melanion.

Or what was left of him.

He whimpered when Hermes tugged his leash forward—yes, a leash, woven of pale twine and golden thread—and stumbled closer, dragging his claws against the floor with a whine like a starving hound.

Apollo didn't look at him.

Not yet.

His eyes were fixed on Hermes.

Hermes, who just smiled wider.

Athena's sharp breath cut through the thick air like a blade. "What have you done?" she asked, her voice high with disbelief but low with fury, eyes locked on the twisted, half-limp creature at Hermes' heel.

The thing whimpered again—its jaw slack, its limbs bent wrong, like a dog beaten too many times to know anything else. Blood still clung to its face in patches, but it moved on instinct, inching closer to the god of messengers as if he were a master to be obeyed.

Hermes just gave a one-shouldered shrug. "We thought we'd have a bit of fun before sending him down for judgment. You know... prep work."

Athena's eyes flared. "You what? The mortals already tore him apart after you had your fun. Was that not enough? You're gods—you're supposed to know when to stop!"

Hermes didn't flinch. He stayed silent, gaze never leaving the wretched thing groveling at his feet.

"You're no better than Ares," Athena went on, voice rising with a sharp edge. "Spilling blood just because you can. Because it makes you feel powerful."

Hermes looked up at this, rolling his eyes, a little smirk curling his lip. "Oh, come off it. We'll send him along. Eventually. In a few millennia maybe. What's the rush?"

The creature sobbed again, dragging its knotted hands through the blood-slick floor, one eye still wide and twitching.

Apollo watched it with something cold stirring behind his ribs.

Not pity. Never that.

Disgust, yes.

But beneath it... satisfaction.

The satisfaction that although justice wasn't clean... at least it was real.

Athena's voice softened, but not out of mercy. Out of something else. Disappointment. "Why?" She looked between them. "Why hold him? What do you gain from this?"

Hermes turned slowly, his smile gone now. His eyes, usually dancing with mischief, were still. Quiet. Old.

"Because it wasn't enough that he died," he said simply.

His voice dropped.

"He needed to understand."

And then—just for a moment—he looked at Apollo.

Because the girl they both loved had bled in the street like she was nothing.

And some endings weren't supposed to be kind.

Some endings needed to hurt.

No one spoke.

Not even Melanion—if that twisted, quivering thing could still be called by its old name. He simply whimpered on the floor, snout pressed to the cold marble, golden leash pooling beside his splintered hands.

Athena looked down at him.

Her armor didn't shine as brightly now. Not with the light spilling low and angry from Apollo's corner of the room. She stood still, eyes unreadable. Watching.

Then... she sighed.

Not sharp. Not theatrical. Just tired.

Like something in her had gone hollow.

"All that wisdom between the two of you," she muttered, "and still you behave like children."

Apollo stiffened. Hermes just tilted his head.

"You think this is childish?" the messenger asked, voice light but laced with something sharper.

Athena didn't look at him.

"Yes. And I think you've both decided to sit in the mud, call it a throne, and play gods of vengeance," she said, her voice colder now. "Whatever game you're playing... I want no part in it."

She turned from Melanion slowly—one last glance at the shaking soul beneath her feet, and then away, like it no longer concerned her. As if she'd seen this cycle before. As if she already knew how it ended.

"I won't tell Hades where the soul is," she added over her shoulder, tone clipped. "But I won't protect you either. When he finds out—and he will—I will not be the one arguing your case."

Apollo's mouth opened. Closed.

Athena didn't wait. She stepped over a goblet shattered in the wine pool and disappeared through the nearest archway without another word.

Gone.

The silence she left behind echoed.

Hermes gave a little shrug. "Touchy~"

Then he bent and gave Melanion's leash a playful tug. The creature yelped and scrambled backward on all fours, nearly knocking into a pedestal.

"Careful," Hermes said, wagging a finger. "That's ivory."

Then—"Can I use him?" Dionysus asked suddenly, breaking the tension with the bluntness only he could get away with. "Not in a weird way. Just thinking—if you're not gonna send him down yet, maybe he can pour drinks at the next feast? Give the nymphs something to scream about."

Apollo didn't flinch. He only raised an eyebrow, noncommittal.

Hermes laughed. "By all means," he said, tossing the leash over his shoulder in Dionysus' direction. "He's got two hands. One for the goblet, one for the shame."

It smacked against the wine god's chest and fell to the floor with a soft clink.

Dionysus blinked at it. "Was joking. But... thanks."

Melanion whimpered again, curling low into himself like a kicked dog before crawling pitifully toward Dionysus, dragging itself across the stone floor.

Hermes, meanwhile, floated down beside Apollo, cloak fluttering with lazy grace.

He hovered there a moment, letting the tension settle, glancing at the discarded lyre still lying silent on the floor.

Then leaned in, voice low.

"Well, it was fun while it lasted," he murmured. "But our little truce is over now. No more shared wine. No more shared wrath. Game's back on, sun-boy."

Apollo's fingers twitched where they rested on the carved arm of his throne. Finally, he turned his head, just enough to meet Hermes' gaze.

"I was never playing a game."

Hermes smiled, too sharp for comfort. "And that's exactly why you're going to lose."

The words struck deeper than they should've. Apollo didn't flinch—but his jaw tightened. "She still dreams of me," he said quietly.

Hermes hummed, already beganing to drift away, hands in his pockets, as if none of it mattered. "Sure. But maybe soon she won't."

Then paused.

Over his shoulder. "Let's see who she prays to when the next shadow falls. You... or me."

Then he was gone.

Not in a flash. Not in a clap of wind. Just—gone.

Apollo sat alone.

The cleanup crew tiptoed back in eventually, whisking away goblets and dragging Melanion behind a pillar with only the barest protests. Dionysus wandered off muttering something about "needing stronger grapes," and the sun edged forward in the sky like it, too, was cautious of his mood.

But Apollo stayed where he was.

Alone. Golden. Burning.

The light never stopped following him.

And somewhere—miles below the clouds, in a palace courtyard or maybe a quiet bedroom—he knew you were breathing.

Living.

Training.

Changing.

Without him.

The thought scraped against his ribs like metal.

But even so, the sun rose just a little brighter.

Because if you noticed it faltered... you might think he didn't care.

And that would be the worst betrayal of all.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: CHANGE OF PLANS! I'm updating today cuz i'm working doubles this entire weekened for easter 💔so idk how imma feel and may not have the energy to do so,; kay see y'all soon~ here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.45 ┃ 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞; but yeah just wanted to give a lil more behind the scenes etc, just for fyi, humiliation seemed fitting them to decide what to do to him (lolol that was vague asf but once you read the entire thing and come back it makes sense lol) idk i like how i'm writing gods who feel like men, and men who think like gods. lets me think i'm staying just a tad bit true to myth.) also! for those asking, i try to upload all the fanarts I recieve in chunks etc, so if some were sent and not posted immeditely thats why! recent ones i got shall be present in the next chappie ❤️❤️thank you all they were amazing as always

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 45 Chapter 45 | little blade⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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The sparring yard was quiet.

Not silent—there were always sounds on Ithaca's wind: gulls overhead, the distant thud of practice shields from lower courtyards, the occasional clang of a blacksmith hammering somewhere off near the forges. But up here, where the yard overlooked the edge of the cliffs, it was just the two of you.

The ground was flat and packed with sand, ringed by a low wooden rail and a few practice dummies leaning like drunks along the fence. A weapons rack stood half-stocked in the corner, gleaming in the early morning light.

The sun had only just risen fully, turning the sky pale gold and blue. Your breath still fogged faintly when you exhaled. It was too early for the other soldiers. Diomedes had made sure of that.

He stood beside you now, arms folded, watching with a look that was probably meant to be neutral—but on his face, always came off a little terrifying.

"Alright," he said, voice deep and gruff. "Let's stretch."

You blinked at him. "Stretch? I thought you were gonna teach me to stab things."

Diomedes raised a single brow. "And if you can't bend enough to dodge a blade, you're just giving your opponent somewhere soft to bury theirs."

"...Fair point." you muttered.

You bent forward again, groaning as your hamstrings protested. Your fingers brushed the tops of your boots. Barely.

Diomedes didn't say anything, but you could feel him judging you.

"I've been in bed for weeks," you grumbled. "I'm lucky I still know how legs work."

He snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. I heard you moved like a duck before that."

You straightened slowly, scowling. "Wow. So supportive."

"You want support, ask your prince."

You flushed.

He smirked—barely—but it was there.

You moved through the rest of the stretches with a little more effort, mimicking his motions as best you could. He was annoyingly flexible for a man built like a siege wall.

Every movement from him looked clean, honed, practiced. Every one of yours felt... not.

By the time a full half-hour had passed, your joints felt loose, your tunic stuck to your back, and your arms were trembling with the effort of just being used.

Then he handed you the sword.

It wasn't a real one, of course—just a practice blade. Thick wood, heavier than it looked, its hilt wrapped in faded cloth. Still, the moment you wrapped your fingers around it, your heart picked up.

You held it out awkwardly, gripping the hilt too tight, your stance wide but wobbly. You looked... dumb. You could feel it.

"Don't overthink," Diomedes said from a few feet away, crossing his arms again. "It's a tool. Not a scroll. You don't need to read it."

You huffed, readjusting your grip, then gave your first swing.

The wood whooshed through the air—off-balance, wide.

You stumbled slightly.

Diomedes clicked his tongue. "Too stiff. Again."

You tried. And again. And again.

Each time, he stopped you. Each time, he adjusted something—your elbows, your foot placement, your spine. Each correction came blunt and direct.

"Wider stance."

"Don't lift your chin. You're not admiring clouds."

"Turn your back like that again, and someone will stab you in the spine just to teach you a lesson."

You groaned. "I feel like a newborn deer."

"You look like one."

"Okay, rude."

He didn't smile.

But there was a flicker in his eyes. Something warmer.

You swung again. Better this time. It connected with a dull thwack against the straw dummy, just below where a collarbone might be. The vibration jarred your wrists.

"Closer," he said. "Strike should be shorter. Tighter."

You adjusted. Again.

Sweat was starting to drip from your temples. Your back ached. Your knuckles throbbed. But something inside you buzzed with each swing—like it had been waiting.

Like it had wanted this.

After one particularly sloppy pivot, Diomedes stepped forward without warning and nudged your elbow back into place.

"Odysseus used to swing too wide too," he muttered, eyes scanning your posture. "Broke three ribs on a feint he didn't read right. Didn't stop him from strutting like he won the bout."

You blinked. "Wait... you used to spar with him?"

He didn't look at you, still adjusting your shoulders. "Spar. Bleed. Sleep in the same tent for months. Take your pick."

You choked slightly. "Wait, like—"

"Focus," he snapped, stepping back again. "Eyes forward."

You didn't argue. But you were definitely storing that for later.

You readied yourself again.

And this time—your swing was clean. Not perfect. Not pretty. But solid.

It landed with a satisfying crack against the padded dummy.

Your fingers buzzed. Your arms trembled. But your chest swelled.

Diomedes grunted once in approval.

Then gestured to the dummy again.

"Good," he said. "Now do it again. Forty more times."

You stared at him, slack-jawed. "You're joking."

He didn't even blink.

And so, groaning and grumbling, you stepped back into position.

But beneath it all—under the ache in your muscles, the sweat on your brow, the way your arms already felt like melting wax—you felt something new.

Excitement.

Like a spark under your ribs.

You could almost hear your own voice from before—quiet, certain, still echoing behind your thoughts.

You wouldn't be afraid.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

You weren't.

.☆.      .✩.           .☆.

You sat on the grass, legs sprawled, your arms braced behind you as you tilted your face to the sky.

The sun had risen higher now—warm, but not unbearable—and the breeze off the sea still slipped through the trees and tugged at your tunic.

Your breath was slowing, though your chest still rose and fell with the kind of rhythm that said your body had worked. Your arms ached. Your legs felt shaky in a way you knew would haunt you tomorrow. And your fingers were still curled around the edge of the waterskin, too tired to grip it right, drops of cool water clinging to your chin as you drank and promptly missed your mouth.

"Gods," you muttered, wiping your face with the back of your wrist.

Across the yard, Diomedes moved like a storm contained in flesh.

His sword—real this time, not training wood—sliced through the air with a whistle, heavy and sure. He wasn't just swinging for show. Every movement had purpose. Step, pivot, cut, retract.

The muscles in his arms rolled with each motion, and you could see how the gold bands in his locs flashed when he turned his head, sweat shining along his temple.

He made it look easy. Like the sword was part of him. Like violence was a second language he never forgot how to speak.

You watched him for a moment in silence, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then finally—curiosity winning over soreness—you called out.

"You and the king," you said, sitting up straighter. "You fought together in the war, right? The Trojan one?"

He didn't stop moving. But you saw the barest twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile of his.

"Mm."

"What was he like then?" you asked. "Back when he wasn't... I don't know. A king."

Diomedes barked a short laugh, sharp and fond. "He was still a bastard," he said, slicing down into an invisible enemy, "just a younger one."

You snorted.

He slowed then, planting his sword tip gently into the dirt and resting both hands on the hilt. "But clever. Too clever sometimes. Could talk circles around anyone. Had this grin—" He made a vague motion around his mouth, squinting at the sky. "—the kind that made you want to trust him and punch him in the same breath."

You smiled at that. It sounded familiar.

"But he was brave," Diomedes added, quieter now. "Couldn't leave anyone behind, even when he should've. Took risks. Cursed the gods out loud once and got his tent struck by lightning. Still blamed the storm on bad fish."

You laughed under your breath, but there was a warmth settling in your chest.

You could hear it in his voice.

The affection. The history.

This wasn't just a comrade. This was a man who'd bled beside Odysseus. Who remembered the sound of his voice mid-battle, the way he cursed, the way he fought.

And something about that made you feel... steadier. Closer to the people who shaped the world around you.

Diomedes lifted his sword again, like the memory had passed.

"Break's over, little blade," he said, smirking.

You blinked. "Little blade?"

He didn't look at you as he moved back to the center of the yard. "Fits. You're small. You're sharp. You're stubborn. And you haven't snapped yet."

You blinked once, then again. And your mouth curved into a quiet smile.

"...Little blade," you repeated, trying it out. The name hung in the air like something earned.

Diomedes glanced back over his shoulder, eyes glinting. "Get up before I start counting and make you run laps in full armor."

You scrambled upright with a groan, brushing dust off your knees, arms still trembling slightly. But your fingers curled tighter around the hilt of your practice sword.

Your muscles ached. Your back burned.

But your chest—

It sparked.

He raised a brow. "One."

You lunged forward, feet already moving before your brain could argue.

"Don't you dare count to ten," you called out.

His laugh echoed off the yard.

And you swung.

☆

☆

Your sword clattered to the floor.

Not in battle. Not during a spar.

But now—back in your chambers, sitting cross-legged on your bed, surounded by a low tray of food—you dropped your knife and nearly swore because your arm just refused to lift the way it should.

You winced as you reached to pick it back up, hoping nobody noticed how your shoulder practically creaked in protest.

"You're quiet," Kieran said from across the room, slicing into a wedge of cheese with the kind of focus that made it look like the wedge had wronged him. "That's never a good sign."

"Yeah," Callias added through a mouthful of bread. "You're making that face again."

You blinked. "What face?"

Callias leaned over and flicked an olive directly at your temple.

You gasped, swatting at it a second too late. "Hey!"

"That one," he said, grinning wickedly. "The one that looks like you're trying to solve a riddle while also passing a stone. Are you constipated? Do we need to get the healers?"

You rolled your eyes and reached for your cup. "I'm not constipated."

Lysandra raised a brow. "So you're just making that face for fun, then?"

"I'm just... sore," you muttered. "A little."

"From what?" Callias squinted at you. "You haven't left this wing in a week."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You tried again, halfway through a sip of lemon water.

"I've been..." Your words stalled—and then slipped, too fast to catch. "...Training."

Kieran looked up from his plate.

Callias blinked.

Lysandra sat up straighter. "With who?" she asked, curious.

You blinked back, lips parting. "I mean, it's not—It's just... a little movement. Stretching. Nothing—"

That was as far as you got before Callias, lounging on the floor like a lazy lion, reached up and grabbed your ankle.

"Callias—" you started, only to squeak when he tugged. You yelped, nearly sliding off the edge of the bed, scrambling like a cat on polished tile.

He didn't even flinch—just lifted your leg with one hand, squinting at it like a doctor inspecting a corpse. "Mmhm," he hummed. "Yep. That thigh's seen war. Or something close."

"I hate you," you said weakly, kicking at him with your free leg. He dodged easily, too entertained to be fazed.

"That's fine," he said cheerfully. "You've clearly been through it. The grimace you made when I just sat it down? Tragic. That's not normal person sore. That's 'someone made me lunge until I saw stars' sore."

Asta narrowed her eyes. "Who's training you?"

You blinked. "...No one."

She snorted. "You're a worse liar than Callias."

Callias raised a hand in greeting. "She's right."

Asta tilted her head, brow lifting. "It's not Prince Telemachus, is it? Because he'd rather throw himself into Tartarus than swing a sword anywhere near you. Not that he wouldn't like the idea," she added, slicing her bread with practiced ease. "But gods, the poor boy would drop the sword the second you got sweaty and start apologizing."

"He'd cry if he gave her a bruise," Kieran muttered.

Lysandra giggled under her breath.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop the grin creeping in.

"Okay, fine," you sighed, rubbing your shoulder. "If I tell you, will you stop harassing me?"

"No," Callias said. "But we'll harass you with context."

You tossed a grape at his head.

Missed.

He caught it in his mouth anyway and winked.

Typical.

You exhaled slowly. "I'm being trained by someone named Diomedes."

Silence.

Then Asta's cup clinked hard against the tray. "The Diomedes?" she gasped, practically choking. "Of Argos?!"

You blinked, suddenly aware of how every set of eyes had landed on you like birds spotting a dropped crumb. You shifted a little, reaching for your own cup just to have something to do with your hands.

"I—I think so?" you said slowly. "He didn't say anything like that exactly, but he seems close to King Odysseus? They talk like they've known each other a long time."

Asta nearly launched herself over the tray. "Oh my gods."

She slapped her hand down like she needed to ground herself. "That Diomedes?! The one who conquered Thebes at nineteen? Who took the Palladium right from Troy's walls? King of Argos-turned-battle-wanderer Diomedes?!"

Callias, halfway through shoving olives into his mouth, froze, eyebrows lifting. "...I don't know what most of that means, but it sounds impressive."

"It is!" Asta hissed, eyes wide and shining like she'd just spotted a ghost. "He's a legend. He and Odysseus were like fire and smoke during the war. You never saw one without the other. Anyone who crossed them either ended up running or dead. And Diomedes—gods, he was ruthless. A strategist. A nightmare to enemy generals. People said he drank from his enemies' helmets."

You stared at her. "...That... that sounds unsanitary."

"That sounds mental," Callias muttered, chewing.

Asta waved him off, eyes still locked on you. "But after the war, when he finally went home to Argos, his wife—Aegialeia—she betrayed him. Slept with another man while he was away at war. She said the gods had turned him into a monster."

Lysandra made a quiet noise, like she was putting puzzle pieces together. "And because of that, he lost his kingship."

Asta nodded solemnly. "He was exiled. Cast out of his own palace. He wandered for years—some say he went to Italy, others say he vanished into the mountains—but he never stopped fighting. Became a mercenary-king. Just... shows up where he's needed. Lends his sword. Then disappears."

Lysandra hummed, sitting back slightly with a thoughtful look. "That's... strange. In a way, his story parallels King Odysseus'."

You tilted your head. "How?"

"Well," she said, tapping her thumb against her cup, "they were both kings. Both went to war for a decade. Both left behind wives and kingdoms. But only one came home to loyalty." Her eyes flicked toward the balcony where the sea glittered faintly. "And the other... didn't."

You blinked, the weight of that comparison settling in your chest. It made you think of Penelope and her soft touches, her quiet strength. How different things could have been. How fragile loyalty really was.

Kieran raised a brow, his usual stoicism cracked with curiosity. "So what is he? A wandering war god now?"

"More like a ghost wrapped in bronze," Asta said with a dreamy sigh, clasping her hands. "You should've seen the temple records back home. Pages on pages—drawings, poems, even a few old ballads. My brothers used to try and copy his war stances in the yard."

You sat there blinking, trying to wrap your head around the idea that that man—the one with the voice like thunder and eyes like a blade—was that legendary.

"Wait," you said, voice pitching higher. "He's that famous? And he's here?"

Asta snorted. "His name reaches as far as Bronte. Even our temple scribes wrote about him—he's that important."

Then—Callias, still mid-chew, paused with half an olive in his mouth. Slowly, he set it down. "Okay, but... is he hot?"

Lysandra didn't miss a beat. She reached across the tray and smacked Callias on the arm, hard enough to make him jolt and nearly knock over his drink.

"Gods," she huffed, rolling her eyes. "You are always thinking with your dick."

Kieran, without even looking up from peeling the soft skin off his fig, added flatly, "We could be talking about war, philosophy, or the weather, and somehow you'd still circle back to sex."

Callias just grinned, utterly unbothered. "Can you blame me?" He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the sun bathed the courtyard outside in golden light. "It's Ithaca. It's warm. Everyone's half-dressed. Muscles and thighs and sun-kissed skin as far as the eye can see. It'd be a sin not to appreciate it."

Asta groaned into her cup. "You're a walking plague."

"Correction," Callias said with a wink. "I'm a gift to the senses."

You snorted, shaking your head, but Asta didn't let him hijack the moment.

She leaned forward, eyes sparkling with interest, and steered the conversation right back. "So—what's it actually like? Learning from him? Diomedes, I mean."

Your fingers paused on the rim of your cup. The warmth in your cheeks from all the teasing softened into something else—thoughtful. A little proud.

You shrugged, slowly. "Honestly? It's... good. Hard. But good."

Asta tilted her head, nodding for you to go on.

You glanced down at the callus beginning to form on the inside of your thumb—the skin there sore but not torn.

"He's patient," you said. "Which surprised me. I told him I've never trained before—never held a blade, never fought—and he didn't laugh. Just nodded and said, 'Then we start at the beginning.'"

Kieran's brow lifted slightly, like that had earned some quiet respect.

You smiled faintly. "I still swing like I'm swatting flies, but... I don't know. Today was the first day I didn't flinch every time I moved too fast. I feel a little more steady."

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward—just weighty. Like everyone was hearing the shift in you.

You picked up a piece of bread, tearing it absently between your fingers. "Tomorrow, he's going to teach me how to move with smaller knives. Ones easier to carry, easier to draw if I ever need them."

"Like throwing daggers?" Callias asked, perking up. "You'll be like—whip—and some poor fool drop dead across the room?"

You laughed. "More like trip over my own skirt while holding a butter knife."

Asta's voice came softer than expected, barely above a murmur as she swirled her cup. "What about Prince Telemachus?"

You looked up.

She didn't say it with judgment. Just curiosity. Concern. Her eyes, dark and calm, watched you carefully. "What'll you do if he finds out you're training? With Diomedes, no less."

The question made the warmth in your chest dip into something cooler. Heavier.

You set your bread down, hands folding loosely in your lap.

For a moment, the room faded a little—Callias leaning on his elbow, Lysandra nursing her drink, Kieran picking at fruit, Asta's eyes on you and only you—and you thought about that day again.

The alley.

The silence.

The ache that never really left.

You took a breath.

"I'll just have to make him understand," you said finally, voice even. "This isn't about proving anything. It's not even about revenge. It's about... not being helpless. Not again."

Your fingers tightened slightly around each other. "And maybe one day... if I'm ever in the position to protect someone I love—if I have the choice to act instead of freeze—then I want to be ready. I want to be able to move."

You paused, then smiled softly. "He's trying to keep me safe. I get that. But if he truly cares about me... then he needs to know I care enough to want to fight for him, too."

The words settled into the air, quiet but firm. Steady.

And for a second, no one said anything.

Then, slowly, Callias reached across the tray and nudged your cup a little closer to you.

"That's... brave," he said, voice surprisingly gentle. "And really damn selfless."

He gave a lopsided smile, one that didn't quite hide the softness in his eyes. "You always were more backbone than fluff."

You blinked at him. "Did you just compliment me?"

"I'm writing it off as temporary weakness."

You laughed. So did Lysandra, and even Kieran's mouth twitched.

But Asta?

She just smiled—and reached over to squeeze your hand once, warm and sure.

You squeezed back.

Because you weren't just surviving anymore.

You were becoming.

And soon, you'd be ready.

A/N: omg why are y'all up rn?!?!?! didn't expect to see so much traffic so soon... so i just said fuck it, lemme go ahead and udpate; anywho, is it obvious that im writing diomedes stuff cuz im a whore for him?? so im sorry if it bleed a little into this, i coudlnt help myself 😩 (p.s 45.5 should be coming either friday or saturday---ack so excited!)

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