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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 53 Chapter 53 | pomegranate promises⌟

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When you reached the inn, the door creaked open under your hand, spilling a wash of warm, familiar noise into the street—laughter, chairs scraping, the low clink of mugs.

You slipped inside, the heavy wood thunking shut behind you.

Lady lifted her head immediately from where she was sprawled near the hearth, her ears perking. Eben popped up from behind the front counter, nearly tripping over a stool in his eagerness.

"You're back!" he beamed. "Did you find anything cool? Did you see any monsters? Did you—"

You held up a hand, laughing under your breath. "One thing at a time," you said, setting the basket carefully on the nearest table.

Eben rushed over, already peeking inside, his eyes going wide when he spotted the little carved boat.

"For me?" he gasped.

You nudged it toward him. "Try not to crash it into anything expensive."

He snatched it up with both hands like it was the finest treasure he'd ever seen, spinning on his heel to show Lady, who thumped her tail once in approval.

You watched him for a moment—this wiry, stubborn boy with salt in his hair and a future he hadn't even dreamed of yet—before turning back to unpack the rest of the basket.

You pulled out the bolts of cloth first—deep red, rich blue, sunset gold. Eben let out a breathy "Whoa," his hands twitching like he wanted to touch but knew better than to grab without asking.

"For Asta," you said, holding up the scarf, letting it catch the firelight. "She'll hate it, but secretly love it."

Eben leaned in so close he nearly bumped his nose against the fabric. "It's so bright! She's gonna look like a flag," he giggled, already imagining it.

You grinned, shaking your head, tugging out a few more things—a polished stone for Kieran, a silver ring wrapped in copper wire for Callias, a braided bracelet for Lysandra that jingled faintly when you shook it.

Eben ooh'd and aah'd at each one, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like a puppy who couldn't decide which treat he wanted first.

You were just draping Asta's scarf across your arms to admire the way the threads shimmered when—

BANG!

The front door slammed open so hard it hit the wall with a crack.

You and Eben both jumped a full foot into the air.

Lady leapt up with a ferocious bark, hackles rising, teeth bared toward the door like she was ready to kill first and ask questions never.

The entire bar went dead silent.

Chairs scraped. Cups froze halfway to mouths. Every head turned in perfect, synchronized horror toward the entrance.

And there, framed by the evening light like some kind of unhinged oracle, stood Thyessa.

She had one hand flung dramatically against the doorframe, curls flying wild, a grin stretched across her face so wide you could see it from across the room. She wore a different cloak now—stolen, probably—and clutched a half-empty bottle of something suspiciously golden.

And she sang.

"____~!" she wailed in a rich, off-key belt, swinging the bottle overhead like a torch. "Where is my little flower? I have come to WATER YOU WITH SIN!"

You slapped a hand over your face.

Eben gaped openly, mouth hanging so wide you could've tossed the boat right into it.

Lady barked again, a warning snarl that turned into a whine of sheer confusion.

Thyessa twirled in the doorway, nearly clipping a poor sailor trying to sneak out unnoticed, and kept singing—louder this time.

"I HAVE COIN! I HAVE WINE! I HAVE TERRIBLE DECISIONS TO SHAAAARE!"

You ducked instinctively, tugging Eben down with you like you were evading enemy fire.

"Don't move," you hissed under your breath. "Maybe she won't see us."

Before her spinning eyes could zero in on you, however—

From the back room, Nico appeared like a demon summoned by sheer annoyance.

He stomped out of the storage closet, wiping his hands on a rag, already muttering, "If that's who I think it is—"

Then he saw her.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

They locked eyes.

Thyessa froze mid-spin, bottle raised like a gladiator about to throw a spear.

"You," Nico said, voice dripping with loathing.

"Youuuuuu~" Thyessa crooned, delighted.

Nico pointed at her like he was aiming a crossbow. "You are fifteen weeks overdue on your last tab! You owe this establishment five hundred and sixty-two drachmas, three goblets, one busted lute string, and a goddamn dignity fee!"

Someone at a nearby table snorted into their mug.

Thyessa clutched her chest with mock offense. "I don't even HAVE dignity! You can't charge me for what the gods did not bestow!"

Nico looked like he might actually start foaming at the mouth.

"You," he growled, storming forward, "are banned!"

Thyessa danced backward out of reach, laughing, her bottle sloshing dangerously close to a group of very alarmed sailors.

You and Eben stayed crouched behind the table, watching it all unfold like a very bad, very drunk play.

Lady still hadn't decided whether to attack or play dead. She was crouched low, ears pinned flat, her whole body tense and trembling like a pulled bowstring.

Meanwhile, Nico was gaining ground.

You watched, half in horror, half in awe, as he ducked under a swinging bottle and lunged forward, one hand snapping out to grab Thyessa by the back of her cloak.

For a second—just one second—it looked like he had her.

You could see it in his face—the wild, victorious glint, the triumphant shout building in his chest.

And then—like a snake slipping through a crack—Thyessa twisted.

She planted both hands on a nearby table, kicked up into a messy, laughing handstand, flipped her legs over Nico's head, and landed—barefoot and grinning—on the other side.

The entire inn gasped.

A mug shattered somewhere near the bar.

Someone muttered, "By the gods," in a reverent whisper.

Nico stumbled after her, arms flailing like a man trying to grab smoke.

Thyessa just fanned him off with her free hand, like he was an annoying gnat buzzing near her wine. "Shoo, shoo," she sang sweetly, the bottle in her other hand swinging dangerously close to a poor sailor's ear. "I'm on important business~"

Nico sputtered something furious under his breath, but Thyessa ignored him, twirling a lazy circle in the middle of the room like she was performing for an invisible crowd.

"I'm looking," she called, voice lilting and syrupy, "for a very special someone."

Her eyes roved across the bar, sharp and glittering.

You froze where you crouched.

Eben stiffened too, clutching the carved boat like it could shield him.

"A little flower," Thyessa crooned, spinning once on her heel. "One that's growing thorns now—sharp, shiny, dangerous ones~"

Lady let out a low whine at your side, as if trying to warn you: It's too late.

"And I know," Thyessa sang, drawing the words out long and slow, "she's here somewhere..." Her voice trailed off as her gaze finally landed on you. She lit up instantly, eyes going wide, smile blooming into something wicked and delighted.

"There you are~" she purred.

Before you could even think about ducking back down, she was already moving.

Nico, who had finally caught up to her again, tried to block her path with both arms outstretched—but she just reached out and pushed his face aside with one hand, sending him stumbling sideways like a scolded dog.

She sashayed past him without missing a beat, her bottle swinging in lazy arcs at her side.

Straight toward you.

You scrambled to your feet, Eben doing the same, Lady barking once as Thyessa closed the distance like a ship catching full wind.

She leaned against your table with a heavy, exaggerated sigh—so close you could smell the wine on her breath—and draped herself across it like you were her long-lost savior.

"There you are, little flower," she whispered, voice all smoke and giddy triumph. "I've been searching everywhere."

You blinked up at her.

Lady growled low in her throat.

Thyessa only laughed, tilting her head at the hound like she found her more amusing than threatening.

Then she reached into her cloak.

Your body reacted before your mind caught up.

Your heart kicked into your ribs. Your hand shot toward the dagger at your hip, fingers curling around the hilt with instinct sharp and cold. If she so much as twitched wrong—if she pulled steel—you'd gut her right there in front of the whole inn.

You'd do it without thinking.

Without regret.

Because you weren't letting anyone, anyone, hurt Lady.

But Thyessa didn't pull a blade.

Instead, with a dramatic little flourish, she dragged out something wrapped in a rumpled piece of cloth—dark with grease spots, the edges damp and curling.

She unrolled it with a careless flick, and the heavy smell hit you immediately—salt, fat, roasted meat, and old smoke.

A lamb leg. Big, browned, still slick with juices soaking through the cloth.

Thyessa tossed it onto the floor at Lady's paws like she was offering tribute to a queen. "For the beast," she said grandly, wiping her hands on her hips. "Good girl. Protecting your little master so fiercely."

Lady stiffened.

Sniffed once.

Twice.

And then—

The betrayal happened.

Your companion—your loyal, growling, terrifying beast—let out a loud, gleeful bark, her whole body lighting up like a bonfire.

Her tail wagged so hard it slapped your shin. Her head tilted in that dopey, sweet way that made strangers fall in love with her. Her hackles smoothed instantly, like none of the past thirty seconds had ever happened.

Without a single glance back at you, she scooped up the lamb leg—grease staining the fur around her mouth—and trotted happily toward the stairs leading to your rooms.

You stared.

Mouth open.

Heart in pieces.

"Lady?!" you called after her, voice cracking with pure, raw betrayal.

She didn't even pause.

Just a happy thump-thump-thump of her tail against the wall as she disappeared up the steps, carrying her bribe like a prize.

You could only stand there, palm outstretched, the dagger still loose in your other hand, absolutely flabbergasted.

You couldn't believe it.

Lady.

Your fierce, brave, battle-tested companion.

Gone over a piece of meat.

Literally.

You were still standing there—arms limp at your sides, brain fried—when Thyessa turned her attention fully back to you.

Her smirk hadn't faded. If anything, it deepened, lazy and pleased, like she'd just won a bet no one else knew they were playing.

"You got a wild one," she said, jerking her chin toward where Lady had disappeared upstairs. "Takes after her owner, I bet."

She let that last word purr off her tongue a little too slow, a little too warm.

You opened your mouth to snap something back—anything—but before you could, you heard it.

A small, high-pitched squeak.

You blinked and glanced to the side.

Eben.

The poor boy stood frozen a few feet away, clutching the carved boat to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His whole face was beet red, his ears practically glowing, and his wide, round eyes were locked—no, glued—to Thyessa.

You heard the softest little breath escape him."Pretty," he whispered, just barely loud enough for the gods—and unfortunately, for Thyessa—to hear.

Thyessa's smile sharpened.

Without missing a beat, she leaned back slightly and sent the boy a slow, lazy wink.

Eben let out another mortified squeak—higher this time—hugged the boat tighter, and bolted like a spooked rabbit, dashing toward the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.

You watched him go, biting back a laugh, then turned just in time to catch Thyessa shaking her head fondly. "Cute," she murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

Then her attention zeroed back in on you.

Predator smooth.

"You~" she purred, reaching across the table, "owe me a drink."

You blinked, still trying to recalibrate. "What? I—"

She leaned in closer, her hands moving like liquid.

One slid up and into your hair—messy from your earlier scuffle and definitely not helped by Hermes' handsy goodbye—smoothing it down slowly, gently, like she was petting you.

You stiffened... but you didn't move away.

Her fingers trailed lower, brushing along the side of your face, her knuckles skimming your jaw in a touch so light it sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

"Had a blast the other night," she said, voice curling low between you. "You, me, good wine, good chaos..." Her thumb traced a slow, absentminded line across your cheekbone. "Feels like we ought to celebrate surviving it."

Your brain scrambled for something—anything—to say.

She smiled wider, sensing your hesitation.

"Oh, come on, little flower," she coaxed, voice syrupy and dangerous. "The barkeep said even better wine came into port this morning. Sweeter than yesterday's. Richer. Meant for royalty, he said."

Her fingers slipped from your jaw, leaving a warm ghost of touch behind.

"And you," she added with a wink, "deserve a royal drink after the day you've had."

You hesitated.

Some tiny, tired, stubborn voice inside you said you should probably be responsible. Sleep. Plan. Lay low after almost getting spirited into the clouds by Hermes.

But another part—an exhausted, humming part—whispered. Why not?

You were already here.

Already tangled in madness.

Maybe one drink wouldn't hurt.

Maybe you needed it.

Maybe, just maybe, you deserved it.

You let out a long breath through your nose, shoulders slumping in defeat. "...Fine," you muttered.

Thyessa beamed.

She reached down, grabbed your hand, and tugged you gently to your feet like you'd just agreed to run away together.

"That's my girl," she said, grin gleaming.

And before you knew it, she was pulling you toward the bar—trouble clinging to her heels like perfume—and gods help you...

You didn't even resist.

You let Thyessa tug you toward the door, her fingers warm around yours, the promise of wine and worse ideas hanging between you like smoke.

The two of you pushed out into the evening air—cool and soft, the edges of the sky starting to bruise purple with the first hints of sunset. The port buzzed quietly around you, the world starting to slow into nighttime.

You were halfway down the steps when you remembered.

You cursed under your breath, digging your heels into the stone.

"Hold on," you said, tugging your hand free.

Thyessa turned back, one brow lifting lazily.

"I forgot," you said, already backing up a few steps toward the door. "I've got to tell someone something. Two seconds."

She gave a dramatic sigh, flopping herself onto the nearest barrel like she was going to die from the inconvenience. "I'll time you, little flower," she teased, swinging her legs idly.

You shot her a look over your shoulder and slipped back inside the inn.

The warmth and noise hit you again, heavy and familiar.

You spotted Nico immediately—leaning against the bar, arms crossed, chewing something between his teeth like he was planning to chew out the entire world next.

Perfect.

You made a beeline for him.

He noticed you halfway across the room and straightened up, grinning wide like a cat catching sight of an unattended stew pot.

"You coming to beg me for a second round?" he called out, waggling his brows.

You didn't slow down.

You planted yourself in front of him, crossed your arms loosely, and said flatly, "Hermes said you're free."

Nico blinked.

You could practically see the gears struggling to turn behind his eyes.

"What," he said.

You tilted your head. "Free. From your 'servitude.' Congratulations."

He opened his mouth, eyebrows slamming down hard. "So—so wait, does that mean...—?"

"But if you want to stay on as Messenger's Assistant, with all the perks and wine and godly favor, you have to accept. Right now. No take-backs."

You started to turn away.

Immediately, Nico leaned after you, snapping his fingers like he was signing a contract only he could see. "I accept!" he blurted. "I accept, alright?"

You paused halfway to the door, raising an eyebrow over your shoulder. "Accept what?"

"The freedom!" he barked, flinging his hands up. "Obviously! Gods—I'm not stupid!"

You barely held back a snort. Poor man. You just gave a vague little shrug, careful to keep your face even.

Nico leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. "Not that it's any great loss, mind you," he muttered. "Between you and me, having Hermes for a boss is like herding cats. Blind, drunk cats."

You hummed, noncommittal, hiding your sympathy deep. If only he knew there was no real 'freedom' to accept—that he'd just walked straight into another leash.

But you didn't say it.

Instead, you snorted quietly.

And then—almost kindly, almost lazily—you said. "Yeah... well. Hope you're good at it."

Something about the way you said it—too light, too easy—made his face falter for just a second.

Like maybe... just maybe... he'd missed something important.

Like maybe deep down, a part of him realized herding drunk cats wasn't just a bad job.

It was his job now.

Forever.

But you didn't stick around to watch it fully settle.

You turned on your heel and ducked through the door just as you heard the shout. "WAIT, WHAT—?!" Followed by the heavy slam of a stool crashing to the floor.

You could hear Nico's voice roaring through the open windows, stomping and cursing like someone had just set his hair on fire.

"REPARATIONS! I DEMAND REPARATIONS!"

The sound of cups clattering. Chairs scraping. A distant bark of someone laughing at his misery.

"I SPENT YEARS BEING PAID IN POMEGRANATE SEEDS! POMEGRANATE!!" Nico howled, the words ragged with betrayal. "HERMES SAID I COULD TRADE THEM FOR DRACHMAS LATER—'ONCE HE CAME AROUND'!"

Another crash. "HE NEVER CAME AROUND!!"

You snorted under your breath, biting down a grin that threatened to split your face in two.

Thyessa glanced up from her perch, grinning as she saw you. "Took you long enough," she teased, standing and dusting her hands off on her cloak. "What, did the barkeep propose?"

"Something like that," you muttered, shaking your head as the sound of Nico's furious shouting faded behind you.

You turned your back on the inn, on the chaos, on everything.

And let Thyessa lead you into the deepening twilight.

☆

Somewhere along the way, the twilight melted into full night—and you found yourself back in the same smoky tavern where everything seemed to happen.

The place buzzed with life again: the clatter of mugs, the crackle of a roaring hearth, the low hum of songs half-remembered by drunken sailors.

You and Thyessa had snagged a booth tucked against the far wall, your backs to the rough timber, your drinks already stacking up dangerously fast.

And somehow—gods help you—Nico had joined.

The man slumped into the seat across from you both about an hour ago, looking like a kicked dog and already halfway into a cup of something strong enough to strip paint.

Apparently, losing one's opportunity as a "godly servant" in a lose-lose situation hit harder than expected.

You spent a good portion of the night there: swapping stories, arguing about who could beat who in a foot race—Thyessa swore she once outran a centaur; Nico called her a liar to her face—making stupid bets over which barmaid could carry the most mugs at once, and occasionally tossing peanuts at a wooden carving mounted crookedly over the fireplace—for the record, you were winning.

Now, on your third pint—definitely feeling it but not nearly as the other night—you wiped the back of your hand across your mouth and leaned heavily toward Nico.

He slumped lower in his chair, chin practically in his cup, looking like he was two minutes from either passing out or starting a full-blown tavern ballad about betrayal.

You squinted at him through the warm haze starting to blur the edges of your vision.

"Hey," you said, poking your finger against the sticky table to steady yourself. "Serious question."

Nico grunted without looking up. "If it's about whether I'd win in a knife fight against a seagull, the answer's no."

You snorted, shaking your head.

"No, idiot," you said, pushing your pint a few inches away so you wouldn't knock it over by accident. "Why're you even here? Shouldn't you be over at the inn's bar? It's like, right there."

You jabbed your thumb vaguely toward the direction of the inn, even though you were pretty sure you pointed at the ceiling instead.

Nico made a noise so loud and disgusted it rattled your teeth.

He lifted his head just enough to shoot you a look—one part betrayed, one part exhausted.

"The inn's bar is trash," he declared, slurring just a little as he waved his hand dramatically. "It's piss. Actual piss. I've watered flowers with thicker stuff."

You laughed, pressing your forehead against the cool wood of the table for a second, just breathing through it.

Across from you, Thyessa cackled, nearly spilling her drink down the front of her tunic.

"No, no," Nico went on, warming up now, slapping the table weakly for emphasis. "You don't understand. They water it down so much that once, I swear, I drank three full mugs and only got a headache. No buzz. No fun. Just betrayal. Betrayal in a cup."

You lifted your head slowly, still laughing under your breath, and gave him a solemn nod. "Tragic."

"The worst tragedy of our time," Nico agreed, stabbing his finger in the air like he was making a formal declaration. "Someone should write an epic about it. Nico and the Quest for Non-Watered Ale."

Thyessa howled with laughter so loud a few heads turned from nearby tables.

You couldn't help it—you cracked up too, your ribs aching with it, the night buzzing golden around the edges.

And gods help you—you were only three pints in.

Thyessa leaned her chin onto her hand, tilting her head at Nico like a curious cat catching a mouse mid-drama.

"So, Nico," she purred, tapping her fingers lazily against the table, "how exactly did you end up being Hermes' personal coffee runner, hmm?"

You snorted into your cup.

Nico froze.

For half a second, he looked like he might answer normally.

Then his whole face darkened like a storm cloud had dropped right on top of him.

He grumbled something under his breath—you caught the words "betrayal" and "unfair advantage"—before scraping his chair closer to the table and grabbing his empty mug with the grim focus of a man preparing for war.

"I'm gonna need a few more pints," he announced flatly.

And without another word, he threw back whatever sad drops were left in his cup, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic, and then—boldly, shamelessly—reached straight across the table and snatched your mug right out of your hands.

"Hey!" you yelped, but Nico was already tossing it back like a man drowning in sorrow, not even tasting it.

And that was how—twelve drinks later (on Nico's end, somehow just six more on yours, and gods only knew how many from Thyessa, who had mysteriously gained and lost several different mugs throughout the night)—you found yourself sitting there, deadpan, staring into your now empty cup.

Nico was sobbing into your shoulder.

Full-on, chest-shaking sobs.

About how Hermes "tricked him," and "stole his freedom."

Meanwhile, across the bar, Thyessa was gone—flirting her way into yet another free round of drinks, practically draped over the poor barkeep, laughing at something you were pretty sure wasn't actually that funny.

You sat there stiff as a statue, one hand awkwardly patting Nico's hair like he was a sad, wet dog, your mind somewhere far, far away.

Somewhere drier.

And quieter.

You sighed into your empty cup, already regretting every decision that led you here.

It wasn't until Nico practically glued himself onto you—half on your lap, an arm slung clumsily around your waist—that you realized how truly dire your situation was.

And somehow, somehow, the man was still drinking.

You stared down at him in disbelief.

It would've been almost comical if you weren't currently the victim. This tall, grown man—who could probably lift a barrel over his head on a normal day—was now slumped across you like a defeated cat, mug wobbling dangerously close to spilling onto your tunic.

He hiccupped pitifully, tears and wine practically pouring from every corner of him.

You tried to shove his arm off once.

It didn't budge.

Instead, he just tucked himself closer, muttering something about "cruel fate" and "lying gods" against your side.

The third time his wild flailing nearly sloshed wine into your lap—and the third time he jolted you with a dramatic sob—you snapped.

"Get yourself together!" you barked bluntly, jabbing a finger into his ribs.

Nico froze mid-wail.

For half a second, he just blinked up at you—red-eyed, sniffling, mouth hanging open like you'd just personally kicked over his sandcastle.

Then, with a loud, wounded noise, he dramatically threw himself off you—flopping sideways onto the bench next to you like some kind of abandoned tragic hero.

His arm draped over his eyes with a pitiful little groan.

You just stared at him.

Dead inside.

Gods.

You needed another drink.

Immediately.

You dragged your hands down your face and sighed—the kind of pitiful, heavy sound that felt like it belonged at the end of a funeral procession.

You shook your head once, defeated.

Then, because you had no better options left and you were already knee-deep in regret, you slumped sideways on your elbow and asked the question you really, really weren't sure you wanted the answer to.

"Alright," you muttered, voice flat, "spill it. How'd you even get roped into working for Hermes in the first place?"

Nico peeked out from under his arm, one bloodshot eye squinting at you like a wounded animal.

He sniffled once. Twice. Then dramatically dragged himself upright, hands flopping in front of him like dead fish.

"It's a tragic story," he announced grandly, thumping his mug against the table like he was about to deliver an epic.

You raised your brows.

He sniffed again, wiped his nose with his sleeve (gross), and launched into it.

"So there I was," he started, voice already wobbling. "At a festival. Mindin' my own business. Lookin' real good, by the way—best tunic I ever wore, hair slicked back, sandals tied right. A vision."

You hummed like you didn't believe a word of it.

"And across the courtyard," Nico said, waving a hand loosely, "I see her. The most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on. Curves like a ship ready to set sail. Lips red as pomegranate seeds. Gods, she was art. She looked at me, and I knew—I knew—this was fate."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Nico thumped his chest, eyes shining a little too much from the wine. "So I go over. I flirt. I charm. I tell her she's got the kind of beauty that could sink islands."

He leaned closer, voice dropping dramatically.

"And it worked. She smiled. At me. Not at the meathead next to me. Not at the prince's cousin sniffin' around. Me."

You nodded slowly, playing along.

"So what's the problem?" you asked. "Sounds like you won."

Nico's face twisted like he just bit into a lemon.

"The problem," he said darkly, "is that apparently, Hermes was flirting with her too."

You blinked.

Then snorted.

"You're telling me," you said, covering your mouth to hide your grin, "you accidentally stole a woman from a god?"

Nico slapped both hands down on the table. "I didn't even know she was his!"

You started laughing, full-on now.

Nico pushed on, undeterred. "One minute I'm chatting her up—next minute, Hermes shows up all shiny and smug, flexing like some half-naked rooster, and she just—" he threw his hands up, exasperated, "—she chooses me!"

He said it like it was the most baffling thing in the world.

You wiped tears from your eyes, breathless. "So what'd he do?" you managed to wheeze.

Nico scowled, rubbing his forehead like the memory physically hurt him.

"He smiled," he muttered. "Said it was fine. Said he'd 'let me have this one.' Then the next morning I woke up tied to a temple pillar with a new life contract nailed above my head."

You blinked. "Wait—seriously?"

Nico nodded grimly. "Signed by him and everything. Divine ink. Couldn't even burn it. Said I'd agreed, in my 'drunken joy.'"

You slapped a hand over your mouth, laughing so hard your sides hurt.

Nico slumped face-down onto the table with a groan.

"And worst part?" he mumbled into the wood. "She wasn't even mortal. She was a dryad passing through. Disappeared into a tree two days later."

You let your head drop onto your arms, shaking from how hard you were laughing.

Gods.

Only Nico could manage to out-flirt a god and somehow lose everything and the girl.

Still half-snorting, you reached blindly for the cup of water a barmaid had set down earlier.

"That's not even that bad," you said between hiccuping breaths, dragging the cup toward you. "Maybe he'll let you go after a few years."

You lifted the cup to your lips just as Nico groaned again, full of tragic misery.

"Yeah," he muttered bitterly, voice muffled by the wood, "and maybe pigs will sprout wings and carry me on their hairy backs."

You pulled the cup away from your mouth, giving him a half-hearted glare over the rim.

"Hey," you said, nudging his shoulder with your knuckles, "don't be that dark. You're what, twenty-seven? You couldn't have been stuck in this contract that long. What—five years? Six, maybe?"

Nico let out a small, pitiful wheeze, slumping even deeper into the table.

Then—still flopped sideways across the table like a dying fish—he lifted his hand and made a vague, lazy wave in the air.

"Yeah, about that," he mumbled.

You squinted at him. "What about it?" you asked slowly, suspicion already curling in your gut.

Nico groaned and flopped onto his back across the bench, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. "I'm not twenty-seven," he said flatly.

You blinked. "...What?"

He sighed loud and long, like a man confessing his greatest shame.

"I'm three hundred and sixty-seven."

Just like that.

Casual. Miserable.

You choked.

Literally choked.

The sip of water you'd just taken went down the wrong pipe, and you coughed so violently you nearly flung the cup across the room.

You doubled over the table, hacking, pounding your fist against your chest as Nico blinked up at you with glassy indifference.

The noise must've been loud, because half the tavern turned to stare.

Including Thyessa—who chose that exact moment to saunter back over, a tray of fresh drinks balanced in one hand.

She paused.

Eyed you choking.

Eyed Nico looking like a corpse in an alleyway.

Eyed the general chaos.

And just shook her head fondly.

"Gods," she said, setting the tray down with a clatter, "I leave you alone for five minutes."

You finally hacked the last of the water out of your lungs, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you croaked out, voice hoarse. "Three hundred and sixty-seven?!"

Nico just nodded miserably from where he was still half-sprawled on the bench.

You stared at him, mouth dry, brain short-circuiting.

Thyessa snorted as she slid into the booth in front of you, already reaching for a cup. "You're really pathetic, Nico. Did you know that?" she said cheerfully.

Then, because apparently you hated yourself, you croaked out, "How—how in Hades' name are you still under that contract? Didn't it have, like, a time limit? A set number of years you had to serve?"

Nico sniffled loudly and gave a half-hearted shrug, like even he thought it sounded pathetic. "Yeah," he muttered, voice thick, "it did... At first."

You squinted at him, confused. "So what happened?"

Nico dropped his forehead onto the table with a dull thunk. "I kept betting them away," he mumbled into the wood.

You blinked, sure you'd misheard. "You—what!?"

He groaned, dragging his arms over his head like a man burying himself alive. "Over the years, I... made bets with Hermes. Dumb bets. Stupid things. Drinking contests. Racing turtles. Seeing who could charm the most women in one festival night—" He waved a hand vaguely. "Trivial stuff."

You just gawked at him.

"And every time I lost," Nico said miserably, voice muffled, "he added the remaining years back on."

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"Wait," you said slowly, like your brain needed extra time to process the stupidity, "you—you bet your years of servitude?"

Nico nodded into the table.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, fighting the urge to scream. "Gods above, Nico—"

"And..." he added pitifully, "one time... I bet my next chance at getting a straight path after death, too."

You stared. "What?" you whispered, already dreading the answer.

He lifted his head slightly, just enough to look you dead in the eye.

"Yeah," he said hollowly. "I bet my next shot at reincarnation."

You sat there, frozen in horror, as the pieces clicked together.

"What—wait—what?!" you sputtered, blinking hard. "When?! How—why would you even—"

Nico winced and gave the saddest shrug you'd ever seen. "May or may not've... wagered away my ability to die properly." He sniffed, muttering, "Was a dumb game of knucklebones. I thought I was winning."

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"So... if Hermes does decide to free you," you asked slowly, each word dragging like a rockslide, "and you die..."

Nico gave a small, pitiful laugh.

"I go straight back into another life," he said, eyes tired. "And all the years I sold off just start over again. Soul already stamped and tagged. Property of Hermes. No detours. No judgment. No peace."

You stared at him, completely deadpan.

Then dropped your head into your hands with a long, agonized groan.

"Gods," you muttered. "You are so stupid."

Nico just nodded miserably against the table.

And for once—you didn't even have the heart to argue. So you just sat there, wide-eyed, one hand clutching your chest like you were about to demand a recount from the gods themselves.

Gods.

You needed something stronger than water.

Badly.

But you didn't even get the chance to reach for your drink because suddenly—suddenly—Nico was on you again.

Sobbing.

Full-body, miserable sobbing.

Before you could dodge, he flung his arms around your head—your head—dragging you straight into his chest with alarming force. You let out a muffled yelp against his shirt as he rocked you back and forth like a grieving widow, one hand awkwardly patting and flattening your hair like you were some distraught child.

You tried to peel yourself free.

Failed.

Tried again.

Still failed.

"You don't understand!" Nico wailed dramatically into the tavern air. "I wanna dieeeee!"

He cradled your head tighter against his ribs for extra pity points, practically keening now.

"I can't even get laid!" he bawled.

The entire booth—and probably half the bar—definitely heard that.

Thyessa almost spat out her drink laughing.

You groaned into his chest, both hands now pushing at him in a desperate attempt to escape.

He just rocked harder, like that would help.

"Don't wanna be celibate 'til the end of time!" Nico howled, voice cracking halfway through.

At that, he actually started shaking you a little—like you were supposed to fix it by force of will alone.

You'd had enough.

You shoved him off with both hands, making him stumble back into his side of the booth with a squeak.

"Gods above, then go get laid!" you snapped, raking both hands through your poor, tussled hair. "I'm pretty sure I passed like, three brothels on the way here!"

Nico moaned—a long, pitiful sound—as he flopped sideways onto the bench again, arm draped dramatically over his eyes like a dying poet.

"I can't!" he whined, reaching blindly for one of the fresh drinks Thyessa had set down.

You stared at him, genuinely stunned. "Why the Hades not?" you demanded.

Nico let out a low groan, reaching for his new drink like it was the only thing anchoring him to this mortal coil. "One of the stipulations," he mumbled miserably, sloshing the wine as he lifted it. "Hermes' trickster bastard self said—and I quote—'You may not partake in pleasures of the flesh lest you wish to resemble it.'"

You blinked.

Hard.

"...What?" you said flatly.

Nico just threw his head back and guzzled half the cup.

"When I try," he went on, voice full of pure tragedy, "when I even try to get close to someone, like—" he clumsily held up two fingers so close they were practically touching, "—this close—"

He wobbled dramatically, almost smacking himself in the face.

"—I start transforming! Not into anything cool like a wolf or a bull or whatever gods usually pick," he groaned. "Nooo. Hermes cursed me to start rotting like a flesh puppet!" He jabbed at his own face wildly. "Skin starts sagging, eyes go bloodshot, my nose droops—droops!—like some cursed melon!"

You sat there, cup frozen halfway to your mouth, just staring.

"Every. Single. Time," Nico moaned, slumping down, banging his forehead against the edge of the table. "Every time, the poor woman screams bloody murder and thinks I've turned into a plague ghost!"

He dramatically slid further down the booth, eventually ending up sprawled on his back like a defeated lizard.

You just stared at him.

Then, you slowly—so slowly—rolled your eyes, and grabbed your drink, taking the longest, most resigned sip of your life.

Apparently, you were now the proud, unwilling owner of a drunk, immortal, touch-starved ex-innkeeper for the evening.

Great.

Fantastic.

Just what you needed.

You knocked back another swallow of wine and resigned yourself to being Nico's personal therapy sponge for the rest of the night.

But before you could even finish drinking, Thyessa reached across the table and grabbed Nico cleanly by the ear.

He yelped, flailing like a hooked fish as she dragged him upright by nothing but sheer spite and knuckles.

"Pull yourself together!" she barked, yanking him forward until his nose almost smashed into his own half-empty pint.

"You don't understand!" Nico howled, clutching at the table for balance. "I was this close!" He jammed his two fingers together again in front of her face for emphasis, looking one heartbreak away from sobbing anew. "This close! And then—then the lady I was with last week shrieked that I looked like a rotted ham hock and ran out the window!"

He actually sniffled.

"Out the window," he repeated mournfully.

You rubbed your temples, already feeling the secondhand shame soaking into your pores.

Thyessa just rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might pop out of her skull. "Zeus save me," she muttered, shoving him backward until he flopped bonelessly into his seat again, sulking like an overgrown child.

You sighed again and leaned back against the booth, staring up at the smoke-dark ceiling. The wood beams overhead looked like they might collapse from the collective weight of too many bad decisions made under them.

You were halfway to daydreaming about faking a faint just to escape when Thyessa slammed her cup down onto the table, sloshing a bit of wine onto the wood.

"Gods above, shut up already!" she barked at Nico, voice rough and impatient. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaned over the table, and shot him a look so sharp you half-expected him to vaporize.

"I swear," she grumbled, grabbing her cup again, "if it'll get you to stop crying, I'll even sleep with you myself."

You choked mid-breath.

Nico's head snapped up so fast you thought he might actually throw something out of place. His eyes went wide—huge, stunned, like someone had just dropped an amphora on his foot.

"R-Really?!" he squeaked, clutching the table with both hands like it might start flying away without him.

Thyessa just hummed, leaning back with a lazy smirk, her gaze lidded and gleaming with pure, evil amusement. She squinted one eye at him like she was trying to guess how much fun it would be to ruin him. "Mmm, sure," she purred. "I'd give you a good, what... ten minutes?"

Nico's face turned a shade of red you hadn't seen since Eben's earlier squeak-fest.

You tried—and failed—not to burst out laughing into your own cup.

"But," Thyessa went on sweetly, dragging the word out like honey and knives, "you wipe out my entire tab at the inn. Full. Erased. Clean slate."

Nico didn't even hesitate. He slapped his palm down on the table, making the empty cups jump. "Done!" he cried desperately throwing himself across the table, scrambling to sit beside her. "Gone! It's gone! Consider it gone already!"

Thyessa just cackled—low and wicked—and leaned back into her seat, swirling the last dregs of her drink around with lazy satisfaction.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, shaking your head slowly as Nico practically beamed across the table like he'd just won the lottery.

Gods.

You were surrounded by idiots.

And yet... you couldn't help the small, tired grin tugging at your mouth.

Because somehow?

This—this absolute mess of a night—felt a little like home.

Then—a yawn broke free from your mouth before you could catch it, long and dragging. Your eyes watered traitorously at the corners as you stretched, arms raising stiff and slow above your head until your back gave a satisfying little pop.

"Gods," you muttered under your breath, blinking blearily at the spinning tavern lights.

You pushed yourself up from the booth, wobbly but steady enough, tossing your cloak back around your shoulders. "Alright," you said, yawning again, "I'm turning in. Ship's supposed to be ready by morning, and I am not missing it because I was drooling into a barstool."

Nico barely looked up from where he was sat, halfway draped over Thyessa, his elbow propped against the table, a stupid, dreamy smirk on his face. "Go on without us, princess," he said, voice thick with smugness. He tossed something underhand toward you—it clinked against your palm—and you realized it was a small ring of brass keys.

You arched a brow at him.

"Don't wait up," he added with a wink, already curling closer to Thyessa, who was absolutely not discouraging him. She had her boots up on the bench now, one leg thrown lazily over his lap, sipping at her drink like royalty.

You scoffed, tucking the keys into your belt. "What happened to you sobbing into my shirt two hours ago?"

Nico grinned, wide and cocky now, like he'd forgotten how to spell the word sadness. "How could I stay sad," he said brightly, "when I'm about to get laid?"

You barked out a startled laugh, half covering your mouth, half staggering backward from the sheer boldness of it.

Before you could even reply, Thyessa slammed her pint down on the table hard enough to rattle every empty cup nearby. "Barmaid!" she bellowed across the room, startling half the patrons. "Another round—and take your time! I'll be out by then!"

You snorted so hard you almost choked, dragging your hand down your face as the barmaid gave a startled little squeak and rushed to comply.

And then, true to her word, Thyessa grabbed Nico by the scruff of his shirt, hauled him half over the table like a sack of grain, and started dragging him toward the back hallway—toward the kitchens and the bathroom doors beyond.

Nico stumbled after her eagerly, tossing a wink and a sloppy finger-gun at you like he was off to war.

You could only shake your head and laugh.

You turned, weaving a little as you made your way through the now-even-louder bar. The floor felt a little uneven under your boots—tipsy, not drunk, but definitely feeling it.

A/N: i just wanted to say real quick — THANK YOU to everyone who's been so sweet about my updates 😭😭 fr i appreciate y'all so much. but tbh, i feel like i should clear it up a little lol: i don't actually update fast 😭 the only reason Godly Things has been dropping chapters back to back is because i've been working on this fic since like...december 2022?? and i actually just finished writing the final chapters a couple weeks ago. so i'm basically posting something that's already done (or mostly done) lol. most of the time when i'm not posting, i'm either working on different projects behind the scenes, or just being held hostage by whatever my latest hyperfixation is 💀 right now it's Epic: The Musical (greek myths + singing?? yeah i didn't stand a chance lol). i just wanted to put this out there because the new isekai fic i'm planning won't update as quickly, since i'll be actively writing it at the same time i'm posting. (aka: it'll be more of a normal update pace, not this chaos lmao.) anyway love y'all 🫶 and again, thank you for being so kind and excited about my work!! it means more than you know 🥹💖 aslo! though i've said before in passing, whenever fanart is sent to my email, i'll 1000000% ALWAYS use an alias, so no worries my babies, i won't reveal your legal names etc, might give you a nickname if one isnt given though 🤣❤️❤️ also, also (lol) AHHH im so happy you guys like nico! though i planned on holding out, he's actually one of the isekai!reader's love interests hahah like i said last chappie, a lot of characters i described here yet weren't given too much book time/dialogue is cuz they'll be showing up in the isekai book...

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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winxanity-ii · 3 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 52 Chapter 52 | the sacred and the stupidly loved⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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Eventually, the two of you strolled along the edge of the port now, the salty breeze kicking at the hem of your cloak. The water slapped softly against the stone, sunlight winking off the waves like thrown coins.

You found yourself talking—words slipping easier now, warmer.

"And then," you said, grinning a little, "this merchant—this idiot—tried to back me into a corner."

Hermes' arm tightened slightly around your shoulders, his head tilting toward you in interest.

"He got all handsy," you went on, waving your free hand for emphasis. "Grabbed my waist. So I grabbed him and slammed into the nearest wall, and held him at knife point, like I did you earlier. Even knicked him a bit."

Hermes cackled, loud and delighted, like you'd just given him the best story of the year.

"Gods, I knew there was something vicious brewing under that sweet little face," he laughed, bumping his hip against yours. "Proud of you, little musician. Very proud. Apollo's probably writing tragic songs about your deadly elbows already."

You chuckled under your breath, your body relaxing again, the easy rhythm of the walk carrying you forward.

But then, your eyes drifted to the left.

To the sea.

You weren't even trying to look.

It just... pulled you.

The water stretched out, endless and bright, sparkling under the sun like it had never swallowed a single soul. Like it didn't remember.

You did.

Your laugh trailed off.

Your steps slowed until you weren't moving at all.

You stared out over the waves.

And suddenly—

You could feel it all again.

The burn in your chest.

The way the sea pressed against your ribs like iron hands.

The thousand ghostly voices whispering and sobbing in the deep.

Eurylochus' hollow voice mourning missed time with Ctimene.

Your throat tightened.

Your fingers curled into your palms without meaning to, nails digging against your skin just to feel something solid. Something now.

You didn't even notice you'd stopped walking.

Didn't realize Hermes had kept going for two steps without you before he caught on.

He doubled back, still chuckling to himself—until he saw you.

And then he leaned down, ducking into your line of sight.

He lifted a finger and gave a light, playful tap against the side of your head.

"Knock, knock," he sing-songed, trying to break the tension. "Anyone home?"

You blinked, slow.

Pulled back into yourself like waking from a nightmare you hadn't meant to fall into.

And maybe it was the way your feet dragged. Or the way your arms stayed hugged close around yourself, like you were holding something broken inside.

Because his face faltered the second he saw you.

The grin he always wore—lopsided, too much—dimmed. His hand, still half-raised from tapping your head, dropped a little. His golden eyes scanned your face, and you knew he saw it.

The dark.

The heaviness still clinging to you like seaweed.

The part of you that hadn't really made it back to the surface.

Your throat worked around a dry swallow. You tried to smile. Failed.

Instead, your voice came out rough, smaller than you meant."Do you think..." You bit your lip, then forced the words through."Do you think my title lets me help them?"

Hermes blinked. "Help who?"

You looked out toward the sea without thinking. The waves curled lazy against the docks now — soft, gentle—nothing like the graveyard you'd floated in.

"King Odysseus' men..." you said, quieter. "The ones who never crossed. The ones just...waiting." You turned back to him, the weight thick behind your ribs. "Could I help them?" you asked. "Guide them to the other side? So they can finally get peace?"

You didn't even know what you were hoping for. A yes? A maybe? Something to make that ache less useless?

Hermes snorted through his nose, a little grin tugging at his mouth. "Help them? You?"

You stiffened.

His grin stayed sharp, but not mean. "Sweetheart," he said, tilting his head, "a title's just a prettier word for bait."

You blinked.

He shifted his weight onto one foot, tossing a coin up in the air and catching it without looking. "Makes people think you can do more than you ever promised," he said easily. "That's all it is. A trick. A song. Something that sounds good enough to soothe their fears."

He chuckled at first. That warm, lazy chuckle he always had tucked in his chest.

But then his gaze dropped to your hands.

And he saw it. The way you were twisting your fingers in the folds of your cloak. Knuckles tight.

The chuckle died in his throat.

Slowly, he straightened. His voice softened, lost the edges. "Hey," he said, quieter now. "You don't owe the sea anything."

You stared at him, breathing hard. Your hands stayed clenched at your sides.

He stepped a little closer. Close enough that the scent of him wrapped around you. "Just because someone gave you a title that sounds divine," Hermes murmured, "doesn't mean you became something you're not."

You flinched, a tiny jerk of your chin.

Hermes' mouth twisted, almost regretful. "Especially" he added, "when it was a mortal who gave it."

Your throat burned.

He didn't say Odysseus' name.

He didn't have to.

You already knew.

You shifted your weight, hands clenching at your sides, the knot behind your ribs pulling tighter. "I can heal," you said stubbornly, voice low, hoarse. "I healed that boy, back on Ithaca. I didn't imagine that."

The words came out sharper than you meant.

Maybe because you needed them to be true.

Maybe because you could still feel the cold weight of those soldiers back in the deep—their empty eyes, their forgotten hands reaching for you—and the guilt of not reaching back still sat like a stone behind your ribs.

You wanted to help them. You wanted to believe you could fix it. Anything less felt like leaving them there to rot.

Hermes only raised a brow, almost pitying. "And who do you think gave you that little trick?" he asked easily.

You froze. Your mind reeled back—

The lyre.

The golden light.

The way your hands had moved without you calling for them.

Apollo.

Not you. Not ever you.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

Hermes watched the realization bleed slow across your face before he continued, voice lighter but not unkind. "Divine favor isn't the same as divine appointment. Healing? Sure. A blessing, a trick, a party favor—whatever you wanna call it. But shepherding souls?"

He shook his head, a soft, almost amused sound in the back of his throat. "That's different. That's weight. That's authority. And it doesn't get handed out because someone called you a pretty name."

You swallowed hard, the pressure thickening behind your chest.

Hermes rubbing the back of his neck lazily like he was explaining something to a stubborn apprentice. "If you wanted to guide spirits," he said, "you'd need explicit appointment." He lifted a hand, ticking names off his fingers casually. "Hades could grant it. Hypnos, maybe, if you caught him in the right mood. Me, if I was feeling generous—" He winked at that but you didn't smile. He sighed. "But you don't have that. You don't bear the weight of that law. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

You looked away, chest squeezing tighter.

"And as for those poor bastards down there..." Hermes shrugged one shoulder, careless in a way only gods could be. "That's just how it goes, little musician. Some souls get stuck. Some don't. Maybe, in a millennium or two, long after King Odysseus and his golden boy are dust, Poseidon will finally get bored of holding a grudge. But it won't be because of you. Or anything you failed to do."

You flinched at that—hard enough that Hermes caught it.

You stared at the cobblestones, your pulse pounding in your ears, the salt breeze suddenly feeling a little too sharp in your lungs. You twisted your fingers into the hem of your cloak. Pressed your teeth hard to the inside of your cheek.

You didn't trust yourself to speak.

Not yet.

Not without the grief—or the anger—slipping through.

And Hermes, to his rare credit... let you have the silence. Just for a little while.

Then, you finally let out a breath. More a scoff than anything—a crooked, tired thing that twisted up your mouth as you dragged a hand down your face.

You shook your head once, muttering under your breath. "Grudge," you repeated bitterly, tasting the word like it soured on your tongue. "Tell me about it."

Your mind drifted without permission—sliding back into the cracks you tried not to look at too long.

Aphrodite and her damn curse.

The one that clung to your bloodline like oil to skin.

The one that twisted love into something ugly, something hollow, until it wasn't love at all—just longing and loneliness sharpened into knives.

For years, it had shaped your family. Poisoned every hope. Starved every heart.

Until lately.

Until recently.

Until you finally clawed your way free of it.

But still—you knew the weight of old grudges better than most. You wore their scars, even if no one else could see them.

Hermes watched you a little longer. Long enough that the grin he normally wore thinned into something smaller.

More careful.

Then, voice quieter now—almost hesitant, like he didn't want to press too hard—he asked. "...Is it... something you want done?"

You blinked, the question sinking past your ribs before your mind could catch it.

He didn't mean the curse. He meant the soldiers. The wreckage Poseidon left you floating in. The lost voices still clawing at the back of your ears.

You turned your head slightly—enough to glance over your shoulder, back toward the harbor.

The ocean stretched out, glittering under the sun like it had never seen a corpse. Like it had never swallowed six hundred men and let their names rot at the bottom.

Your throat tightened.

Before you could even think about it, your hand lifted—moving on instinct—and pressed lightly against your chest. Right over your heart.

You remembered them.

The mourning soldiers. The way their voices wept without sound. How they crowded around you—not angry, not hateful—just... broken. How they told you their names. Their wives' names. Their children's names. Only to forget them the next breath. Only to tell you again.

You could still feel them. Still hear them.

The ghosts of their grief brushed your ribs, even now.

You swallowed hard. Your fingers curled tighter against the fabric over your heart.

But you didn't answer Hermes.

Not yet.

Because what would you even say?

Yes?

No?

I don't know?

It felt too big. Too cruel to hope for. Too cruel not to.

The words sat heavy against your ribs, pressing until you thought something might crack from the weight.

And then, barely louder than the lap of the sea against the shore, you whispered—broken, shaking, real. "If I could..." Your fingers dug slightly into your cloak, breath hitching against your teeth. "I would."

It hurt to say it. Like it cost you something. Like naming the want made it heavier, not lighter.

Hermes let the words settle—let them breathe.

And then, after a beat, he hummed low in his throat. "...Suppose," he mused, casual as if he were talking about picking fruit instead of bending fate, "I could pull a few strings."

You froze.

Your head whipped toward him so fast you nearly threw your neck out.

Your eyes were wide, stinging, your heart lurching up into your throat.

"You—what?!" you gasped, almost tripping over the words. "Are you—are you serious?"

Hermes just gave you a crooked little smirk, tilting his head in that maddening way he always did when he thought he was being clever. "When," he said, tapping two fingers lightly against your forehead, "have I ever lied to you?"

You opened your mouth—shut it again—then, before you could even think about it, you launched yourself at him. A tiny squeal escaped your mouth, embarrassing and helpless, as you threw your arms around his neck.

Hermes staggered just half a step back, but he caught you easily—laughing, real and surprised, as he wrapped his arms around your waist to steady you.

You clutched him like he was the only thing holding you to the ground. "Thank you," you gasped, your voice cracking against his shoulder. "Thank you, thank you—gods, thank you—"

You didn't even realize you were crying until your face pressed into the warm curve of his neck, your body trembling with the force of it.

You hid there, burying your face against his skin like you could tuck yourself out of sight, like maybe if you stayed small enough, stayed still enough, the hurt would slip away and leave only this—this warmth, this relief, this stupid, stupid hope.

Hermes' hands tightened a little around you—one rubbing firm, steady circles along your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he was afraid you'd fly apart if he let go.

He didn't tease. Didn't laugh. He just held you.

Letting you cry against him under the bright, endless sky.

For the ones who never got to come home.

For the ones who waited too long.

For the ones still waiting.

And for yourself.

You didn't know how long you stood there—pressed tight against him, fists curled into the loose folds of his tunic like you could anchor yourself there forever. The sea whispered somewhere behind you. The sun pressed warm into your back.

And still—you stayed.

Until finally, Hermes shifted.

Not to push you away.

But to tug you back just enough to see your face.

He tutted under his breath, shaking his head with a fake, exaggerated sigh. "Gods, you're dramatic," he teased softly, one hand sliding from your waist to cup your cheek.

His thumb brushed under your eye—catching a tear you hadn't even noticed had slipped loose.

"All this crying over some dead sailors?" he said, voice light but not cruel. "You act like I'm doing something hard." He grinned lopsidedly, tilting his head. "I'm just moving a few souls. No big deal."

You tried to scoff, but the sound wobbled pathetically in your throat.

Hermes only chuckled—lower, fonder.

And then—so gently you barely felt it—his thumb trailed downward, brushing the faint line of your scar.

The one tucked against your jaw.

The one that marked where a knife had once tried—and failed—to silence you forever.

He traced it slowly, like he was memorizing the shape of it.

Like he had every right to.

Like he already had.

Your breath caught without meaning to.

Hermes' smile faded just a little—softened into something quieter, sadder, more dangerous.

His eyes—normally all gold and sly and sharp—turned molten and warm, like honey left too long in the sun.

He looked at you like you were something sacred.

You blinked up at him, lashes damp, throat raw.

Your lip trembled slightly, and you hated it, hated how raw you felt, but Hermes didn't laugh. Didn't tease. He just held your face in his hands like he was afraid you'd vanish if he blinked.

Like maybe... maybe you were the only real thing he'd touched all day.

He leaned a little closer, grin going sly.

"Keep looking at me like that," he murmured, thumb still brushing slow over your skin, "and I swear—I'll hand you Olympus by sunrise if you asked."

You stared at him.

Wide-eyed. Disbelieving.

He said it so matter-of-fact, like he wasn't promising you something outrageous. Like it would be easy. Like it was already half-done.

Your throat bobbed, your fingers still clinging to the edge of his tunic.

And he just smiled at you—crooked and golden and too big for one god to hold.

"You want a palace?" he added, winking. "A river named after you? An entorague of nymphs to wait on you hand and foot? Say the word, darling. I'll forge a mountain in your honor before Apollo even wakes up for his morning ambrosia."

You let out a cracked, half-soggy laugh, shoving weakly at his shoulder.

Hermes only laughed again—full-bodied this time, sharp and bright as sun on seawater—and caught your wrist easily before you could pull it away.

He pressed your knuckles lightly against his chest.

Right where his heart would be.

And for one strange, quiet heartbeat—you almost thought you could feel it beating.

Steady. Warm. Real.

Another sniffle escaped you—pathetic and wet—and you scrunched your face up in annoyance at yourself.

"You're always so..." You huffed, cheeks burning. "...unserious."

Hermes just laughed.

Not the loud, teasing cackle he usually threw around like coins at a festival.

This one was low. Warm. Private. Like it was just for you.

He wiggled his brows dramatically, still cradling your cheek with one hand like you were made of spun glass. "Of course I am," he said, voice lilting with fake solemnity. "I'm the god of trickery, darling. It's practically a professional requirement."

You shook your head, pushing your palm into your eye, trying to scrub the tears away like they hadn't happened. "Of course you are," you muttered under your breath, voice hoarse but stubborn. "I forgot—gods don't really get it, huh? Stuff that's a big deal for mortals... probably means nothing to you."

Hermes tilted his head at you, his thumb still brushing faint little strokes over the curve of your scar like he hadn't realized he was doing it.

You went on anyway, not angry. Just... trying to explain. Trying to make him see it.

"You—you don't get it," you said, a small laugh slipping out, watery and sharp all at once. "For you, it's nothing. I get it. You move souls all the time. You see death every day. You can just... 'pull some strings.' Another errand to run between playing tricks and delivering prophecies. But for me—" you pressed your hand to your chest, half-punching your own ribs, "for me it's not just... paperwork!"

Your voice cracked a little, but you powered through it.

"You didn't see them," you said, almost shaking now, sadness turning into anger. "You didn't see the way they—" You broke off, grimacing. "They weren't angry. They weren't monsters. They were just... stuck. Forgotten. Whispering the same things over and over because they couldn't remember anything else... Like they didn't even know they were dead."

You breathed out a harsh sound that was half a laugh, half something sharp and broken.

Hermes blinked at you."Huh?" he said, voice small and almost stupidly confused.

You stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or scream. His face was scrunched up like you'd just started speaking another language.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I mean, you're sensitive, sure," he said carefully, like he wasn't sure if he was walking into a trap, "but why are you—what, did you get too empathetic while I wasn't looking? Crying over a bunch of random spirits you didn't even know? That's a little—" He made a tiny gesture. Like "come on."

You cut him off. "No,"you said sharply. "It's not just me being emotional."

Hermes cocked his head, frowning.

You sucked in a breath, words bubbling up before you could even filter them. "I was down there," you said fiercely.

He straightened a little at that, his grin slipping a bit.

"When the storm hit—when the ship almost went under—the sailors panicked," you started, jaw tightening. "There was no offering, so they wanted to sacrifice something—someone. Lady—" your voice wobbled, and you pushed through it— "Someone tried to grab Lady. They tried to take her. Said she wasn't a real person. I stopped them. Offered myself instead."

Hermes' face blanked completely.

No teasing. No sparkle in his eye. Just a slow, cold stillness settling over his features.

"I jumped," you said. "I hit the water. Sank. And then, instead of letting me die, he showed up. Poseidon,"you laughed under your breath, the sound bitter and brittle."All glowy and smug, acting like he was doing me a favor by not crushing the ship to dust." You flung your arms out. "And—AND THEN—he just grabbed my face and—"

You gagged a little on the memory.

"And he kissed me," you burst out, appalled all over again. "Or—no! Sorry! 'It wasn't a kiss,' he said," you mimicked in a high, mocking tone. "It was just him giving me a 'gift'—air. So generous. So considerate. Like that makes it better!"

Hermes' mouth twitched like he wasn't sure if he should laugh or commit murder.

You pointed at him, still ranting, voice shrill now. "I don't care what kind of ancient, majestic 'gift' he thought it was! He could've warned me! Or—I don't know—literally anything except ambush my face like that! Then he dragged me down to the bottom of the sea and dumped me in a godsforsaken graveyard with six hundred dead Ithacan soldiers for three days."

Hermes didn't move.

Didn't even breathe.

You pushed the heel of your palm into your brow, voice dropping into something more tired than angry now.

"I... listened to them," you said. "All of them. Their regrets. Their fears. Their last memories. Over and over and over until I couldn't tell where my thoughts ended... and theirs began."

You dropped your hand limply to your side.

"And now I'm here," you finished weakly, blinking at him. "Trying not to lose my mind every time I hear waves."

Hermes just stared at you for a long second, his arms slowly crossed over his chest.

"...Poseidon kissed you," he said flatly.

"It wasn't a kiss," you snapped immediately. "He called it a 'breathing boon' or whatever godly nonsense."

Hermes' brows lifted almost to his hairline. His voice dropped dangerously soft.

"Poseidon kissed you."

You buried your face in your hands with a groan, still too mortified to look at him.

"Not on purpose!" you mumbled into your palms. "It was survival. He said it was survival. I hate everything."

Hermes made a noise—something between a strangled laugh and a sound of pure homicidal disbelief.

You peeked at him through your fingers.

His face was a study in blank fury.

Like he'd just been informed the sky was falling and it was personal.

The silence stretched, thick and strange between you. The salty breeze tugged at your clothes. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried out—a long, lonely sound.

Then, finally, low and rough, he said, "I see."

No teasing. No jokes. Just two words, heavier than they had any right to be.

And just as fast as that dark look had settled on his face—it smoothed away. Like a ripple crossing a still pond.

Hermes smiled again. Brighter this time. Lighter.

Too light.

He gave a little hop—effortless—and the next thing you knew, he was floating a few inches off the ground, his winged sandals fluttering lazily under him. The feathers stirred the dust by your boots, kicked up little whorls of gold and gray in the sunlight.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, and before you could flinch away, he reached down and ruffled your hair.

You squawked—actually squawked—trying to duck, but he was too fast. His fingers messed up the top of your head with infuriating precision, then smoothed it down again like you were some cranky little cat.

"There," he said, grinning wide enough to show teeth. "Better."

You shot him a look of pure betrayal.

Hermes just laughed and drifted back a step in the air, hands clasped lazily behind his head.

"Guess I better get a head start on those souls, huh?" he said, his voice still bright, but something... softer hiding underneath it. "Wouldn't want my favorite mortal thinking I'm all talk and no action."

He winked.

And before you could so much as shove him for the hair thing—or maybe hug him again, you weren't even sure which anymore—he spun midair, the wings on his sandals catching the sunlight, scattering it like shards of gold around him.

He was already pulling away, soaring higher, when your mind suddenly lurched back—Nico.

The ridiculous conversation earlier.

The favor.

The promise.

Your eyes snapped wide.

"WAIT!" you screeched, pure panic punching out of you.

Without thinking—pure stupid, desperate instinct—you leapt up, both arms stretching like you could physically drag the god of speed back down.

Somehow, miraculously, your fingers managed to snag his ankle mid-flight.

You grabbed tight around the leather strap of his sandal, your palm half-smacking against the side of his foot—and the second you did, your boots lifted clean off the ground.

Your eyes widened comically, the world tilting as your toes dangled uselessly over the cobblestones.

"Hermes—Hermes!!" you yelped, kicking wildly, the marketplace blurring a little around you.

The god jolted midair, twisting around like a cat yanked by the tail. His sandals fluttered in sharp little bursts as he wobbled, tilted—then cocked his head down at you.

He raised his leg experimentally.

You dangled there—arms clinging stubbornly to his ankle like a barnacle clamped to a ship—feet kicking uselessly above the ground.

Hermes peered at you with a mixture of surprise and wild amusement, one brow arching high.

"Well," he said cheerfully, head still tilted sideways as he studied you, "this is new."

"PUT ME DOWN!" you barked, voice half-mortified, half-terrified you were about to get launched into orbit.

Hermes just grinned wider, like this was the funniest thing he'd seen all month. One hand leisurely scratched at his jaw like he was pondering something very serious.

"Hmm," he mused aloud, voice maddeningly casual. "I dunno. You did grab me without asking. Might be grounds for kidnapping."

Your growl came low and dangerous from your throat, legs flailing harder.

But the bastard only snickered—and floated higher.

You yelped again, clutching tighter as the ground slipped even further away, your cloak flapping wildly around your knees.

In the back of your mind—deep behind the pure panic—you dimly wondered why no one was screaming or gawking.

The market was still bustling. Merchants shouted prices, kids weaved through baskets, and sailors laughed over cheap wine. Nobody even glanced at the sight of a mortal girl dangling from a god's foot like a sack of pears.

You barely managed to piece it together.

Hermes.

Of course.

Probably had some god-trick pulled over the mortals' eyes. Some ripple in the air that made your flailing look like nothing more than a flutter of fabric in the breeze—or maybe they didn't see you at all.

Gods, you were going to strangle him... if you survived.

"HER-MES!!" you screeched again, voice cracking halfway through like a dying gull.

The god just laughed—an actual full, unbothered cackle—and floated in lazy loops higher into the sun-warmed air.

You clung harder to his ankle, teeth gritted, your heart doing little suicidal somersaults in your chest.

Hermes, meanwhile, just peered down at you upside down, his hair flopping wildly in the breeze as he lazily twirled in midair.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, voice bright and merciless. "What exactly are you doing down there, barnacle?"

You spluttered—actually spluttered—trying to scramble your thoughts and your pride back into some kind of order.

"I—I needed to tell you—!" you gasped, legs still kicking helplessly.

Hermes blinked owlishly. "Tell me what?"

You twisted your hands tighter around his ankle. "About the man!" you barked, feeling your face heat from the ridiculousness of all this.

Hermes just floated there like a lazy cloud. "You'll have to be a little more specific, darling," he teased. "I know a lot of men."

You groaned, nearly biting your tongue in frustration. "The inn! Your inn! The Quicktangle—or whatever it was called!" you barked, cheeks burning.

At that, something clicked.

Hermes' face lit up with recognition—and pure mischief.

He burst out laughing, the sound bright and absolutely unrepentant. "I forgot about him!" he crowed, clutching his stomach midair like he was watching the best play of his life.

Slowly—blessedly—he began lowering you back toward the cobbled ground. You could feel the ground pulling at your boots, the dizzy heat in your head slowly cooling as your body stopped swinging like a weathervane.

Hermes floated upside down beside you now, his curls dangling wildly toward the street, sandals fluttering in lazy kicks. His chin was practically at your shoulder level, upside down grin wide enough to split his face in two.

He tilted his head—er, his whole body—sideways and smirked.

"Soooo," he drawled, spinning once like a lazy top, "what does my loyal servant want, hmm?"

You panted, legs shaking, arms still trembling from clinging to him like a mortal lifeline.

You didn't answer right away.

Mostly because you were too busy glaring at him. Trying—and failing—to gather your thoughts back into a straight line instead of the chaotic, tangled mess he'd turned them into.

Finally, you gritted your teeth and barked out:

"He—" you panted, scowling harder, "—he just wanted me to, ugh, mention him next time I saw you. Said he's been a 'faithful and selfless steward of your sacred port' or whatever nonsense."

You waved a hand vaguely at the sky, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Hermes' upside-down grin only grew.

But then—you paused, brows knitting.

"You know," you muttered, folding your arms, still glaring half-heartedly up at him, "why the Hades do you have a barkeep down here anyway? Shouldn't your servants be, I don't know—running temples? Giving blessings? Whispering secrets? Not...selling fish stew and warm beer to sailors?"

Hermes flipped himself upright midair, hovering cross-legged now like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He leaned in close, eyes glinting with that familiar gleam.

"You ever heard of a better way," he said, voice low and conspiratorial, "to hear every single secret of an island than by running the town's drunk tank?"

You blinked.

He grinned wider.

"Mortals," he said, shrugging grandly, "spill everything after two cups of wine and one good plate of food. Births. Deaths. Murders. Gold hoards. Secret love affairs. Half of the Trojan War rumors started in taverns, you know."

You stared.

He floated a little higher, tapping his temple smugly.

"Who needs temples when you have gossip?"

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"...You are," you said flatly, "by far the pettiest god I have ever met."

Hermes threw his head back and roared with laughter, arms wide like he was soaking in the compliment. "And proud of it!"

You just stared at him, hands on your hips, heart still half-pounding from almost getting carried off like a very annoyed kite.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," you muttered, waving a hand through the air like clearing smoke. "Still doesn't explain why you've got Nico playing bartender. And calling you master," you added pointedly, narrowing your eyes. "What is this? Some weird god-servant thing? Is that how you get your kicks now?"

Hermes floated backward a few lazy paces, arms folded behind his head, sandals fluttering without a care. He snorted. "Gods, no," he said, rolling his eyes like you were the crazy one. "I'm no tyrant. Nico's here because he lost a bet."

You blinked once. Then again.

"A... bet," you repeated flatly.

Hermes grinned, all teeth. "A very dumb bet."

You just... stood there.

Waiting.

Hand on your hip. Brow arched so high it could've scraped the clouds.

"...Well?" you prompted dryly. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

Hermes hummed under his breath, tilting his head like he was considering it. Then he waved a lazy hand through the air, brushing the question away like smoke.

"Nah," he said airily. "Takes the fun out of his origin story."

You opened your mouth—ready to protest, demand, argue—anything—

But before you could even get a word out, "Soooo," Hermes said, voice syrupy and sweet, hands folding behind his back as he bobbed there beside you, "you want to deliver a message to dear Nico for me?"

You squinted suspiciously. "...What is it?"

Hermes hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin like he was crafting a grand strategy.

"Tell him," Hermes said, his voice dipping into a sing-song whisper, "that as a reward for his loyal service, I'm officially granting him his freedom."

You blinked, stunned.

Hermes grinned wider, sharp and delighted.

"But—" he added, lifting a finger like a magician revealing the final trick, "if he wants the title of official Messenger's Assistant—with all the travel perks, godly favor, and free drinks at all Hermes-blessed inns—he has to accept. Immediately. No take-backs."

"And... if he refuses?"

Hermes shrugged, almost too casual. "Then he remains exactly what he is now—my servant. Just... without the perks."

You blinked again.

Still processing.

Your mouth dropped open. "That's not freedom," you said, baffled.

"Sure it is," Hermes said cheerfully, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. Your jaw dropped further when he added—oh so casually—"Freedom to pick which leash he wants."

Hermes floated down until he was level with you—still upside down—grinning like a cat about to push a vase off a windowsill.

He reached out lightly with one finger—and gently booped your chin to close your mouth.

"There," he said smugly. "That's better."

You stumbled back half a step, still trying to wrap your mind around the sheer pettiness of what you were being asked to deliver.

"Thank you, cutie~" he teased, voice lilting with laughter.

And before you could grab his tunic and demand more answers—or throttle him—Hermes gave a cheeky little salute with two fingers

Then he blew you a kiss—actually blew you a kiss, the gust of divine breeze sending your hair flying straight back.

And in the next blink, he was gone.

Up, up, up—vanishing into the blue sky like a mischievous star shooting itself home.

Leaving you there.

Alone.

Basket on your arm.

Hair a mess.

Brain completely fried.

And one very, very unfortunate message to deliver.

You stood there for a beat longer. "...I'm going to kill him," you finally muttered under your breath.

But you were smiling.

Gods help you, you were smiling.

You let out a long, slow exhale and bent down to start gathering the things you'd dropped—your basket, a few bruised figs, the little carved boat for Eben now slightly scuffed along the hull.

You brushed the dust off as best you could, cradling everything awkwardly in your arms.

The market buzzed on around you, oblivious. Voices floated on the breeze. Sunlight dappled across the crooked stones. Somewhere nearby, someone plucked a lyre, a slow, wandering melody curling through the air.

You shifted the basket onto your hip with a soft grunt, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Your fingers smelled faintly like figs and salt and the wax of a hundred sun-warmed stalls.

It was... peaceful, in a way.

The kind of peace that didn't scream. Didn't demand. It just was.

Maybe today hadn't gone the way you'd planned.

Maybe it never would.

But for now, at least—

You were here.

Alive.

Carrying a ridiculous god's message, sure, but also carrying pieces of a day that felt a little too golden to lose.

Small things. Simple things. A handful of bright feathers. A few polished stones. A bolt of blue cloth that caught the light like water.

Gifts for the people who felt like home.

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing over each one.

And for the first time in a long while, the thought that flickered through your mind wasn't what if it all falls apart?

It was I can't wait to see their faces.

You smiled to yourself, small and crooked, and turned back toward the inn.

A/N: lolol not me being psychic, just got calle din for a shift 💔💔 since imma be doign night shift and will clonk out when i get home, here's the double update ❤️ also i love nico so much! you all are gonna love him too~ and its obvious my type are funny people that hide pains/joke alot cuz i swear i love making ocs like that hahaha don't worry i swear i have more personalities in stock the funny-in-pain type just hits fr 😔 btw forgot to mention, a lot of 'characters' you've seen me spend time describing etc, yet not see them again... it's mostly cuz those will be reccuring characters in the isekai book 👀 like i'm so excited y'all i'm already plotting things out, got the first few chappies in skeleton form/blurbs and pulling bits and stuff from here, so imma be rereading godly things to take notes on what i may include in the iseaki. is there any characters/places you guys would like seen in it??? lemme know, y'all know i gotta short attention span/janky ahh memory and need reminders sometimes 😭😭😩 #overlyconfidentwritertrynajugglemulitplethingswhensheknowsshessettingherselfupforfailure💔

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winxanity-ii · 3 days ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 51 Chapter 51 | a rude awakening and a ruder messenger⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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Sleep was peaceful. The mattress cradled you like it meant to keep you. The inn groaned now and then with the wind, but it was soft. Comforting. Like the whole world was finally exhaling around you.

At some point, your mouth even slipped open, your legs tangling into the sheets, as the last tight coil inside your chest unwound and floated away like smoke.

So you slept.

Safe.

Still.

Until—

THUD. THUD. THUD.

You jolted so hard your heart slammed straight up into your throat as you sat bolt upright. The room spun for a second—walls tilting, light swimming. Lady was already halfway to the floor, her hackles raised, a low growl rumbling deep in her chest.

Another trio of THUDs followed right after it, followed by a muffled voice—too blurred to make out, but sharp, impatient. A demand, not a question.

Lady barked once, loud and sharp.

You winced, your hand shooting up to press against your temple.

Gods—everything hurt.

Your mouth was dry, sticky like you'd been chewing wool in your sleep. There was a faint, pulsing throb behind your ears—like your heartbeat had gotten stuck and didn't know where to go. Your head felt stuffed with wet cotton, every sound hitting too loud, too fast. Even the scrape of Lady's nails against the floor seemed to scratch your teeth from the inside.

Another THUD against the door.

"Alright," you rasped, throat dry and cracked. "Alright—I'm up—"

Your body moved before your mind could catch up, legs swinging off the mattress. You stood too fast—and the world tipped.

You fell.

Not gracefully.

Your knees hit the floor with a jolt, hands scrambling at the sheets, the rug, anything. The impact rattled your teeth, sent another hot pulse of wrongness through your skull.

Lady was already circling you, whining now, her body pressed tight against your side like she could keep you from slipping through the floor.

You staggered to your feet, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other fumbling for the dagger still sheathed under your cloak. Your fingers felt clumsy, too slow, like you were moving underwater.

The door thudded again.

You flinched.

You weren't awake enough. You weren't ready. Your mind spun with panic, flashing through all the worst explanations—an ambush, a thief, the gods, the crew turning, something coming for you in the night—

Lady barked again—louder, sharper—then growled low, her whole body braced toward the door like she was ready to tear it off its hinges herself.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, swallowing against the taste of old wine and fear.

Whoever was out there wasn't going to wait much longer.

You dragged a breath deep into your chest, steeled your shaking legs, and fumbled at the latch. The door creaked loud as you pulled it open—loud enough you winced on instinct, the sound rattling through your aching skull like a slap.

You squinted hard into the light.

Standing there, blocking most of the hallway, was the innkeeper. Again.

But this time, he wasn't empty-handed.

He held a tray balanced on one palm—stacked high with bread, a bowl of something steaming, and a little chipped mug that smelled faintly like mint and honey.

He stared at you.

You blinked back at him, half-blind, half-dead.

You must've looked a sight.

Your face was dry and tight, probably streaked with dried spit from sleeping open-mouthed like a beached fish. Your eyes were all puffy and squinted, barely slits against the hallway light. Your hair—gods. Your hair had turned into some half-matted bird's nest during the night, sticking up at angles no comb could fix without violence.

The innkeeper just... stared for a second. Like he was still deciding if you were human.

Then he snorted—a short, rough sound that cracked out of him like he couldn't hold it back.

"Glad to see you up, Sleeping Beauty," he said dryly, giving the tray a little bounce in his hand. Then he added, voice full of lazy mockery, "Or should I say—Chione herself, reborn from a snowbank and ready to dazzle the crowds?"

You could only groan under your breath, dragging a hand over your sticky face.

"Thanks," you grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the tray with both hands before he could decide to add another insult.

The wood was warm under your fingers. The smell hit you fast—bread, butter, salt, herbs—and your stomach gave a small, sad growl that made Lady huff in agreement from behind you.

You didn't wait.

You turned back toward the bed without ceremony, bare feet sticking slightly against the wooden floor, the tray wobbling dangerously in your arms.

You half-dropped it onto the mattress, then collapsed down beside it with a grunt.

Lady immediately popped her head up, sniffing.

You didn't even pretend to fight her. You grabbed a roll—still hot, soft in the middle—and tore a chunk off, tossing it onto the floor near her paws. She caught it mid-air with a sharp snap of teeth and immediately settled down like a queen getting her tribute.

You tore off another piece—some kind of roasted root tucked under the bread—and tossed that too.

She snorted once, then got busy.

You stuffed a piece of bread into your own mouth without thinking, chewing slow and messy. The food was warm and heavy and exactly what you needed. Your mouth finally remembered how to work again, your jaw moving slow but steady.

You sighed through your nose, a low, worn-out sound, and glanced up—

—and froze.

The innkeeper was still there.

Still standing in your doorway.

Still leaning one shoulder against the threshold like he lived there.

You blinked at him, mouth still full of bread.

He just raised one brow, like he was waiting for something.

You swallowed hard, wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and said flatly, "Can I... help you?"

The man's face lit up like he'd been waiting for you to say those exact words.

He chuckled—low and pleased—and pushed off the doorframe like your flat tone had been some grand invitation. He sauntered right in without a hint of shame, hands swinging loose at his sides like this was his room and you were just the lucky guest.

Lady lifted her head from where she was still gnawing her bread, her eyes flicking between you and the intruder, but she stayed put—for now.

The innkeeper stopped a few paces in, beaming like a man about to sell you a ship that was already sinking.

"Soooo," he started, rubbing his palms together. "I heard from some of your Ithaca sailors boys—you know, the ones who can't stop talking even when no one's listening—that you're a Divine Liaison, yeah?"

You blinked at him.

He barreled on, like you hadn't just stared him dead in the face.

"Which means," he said, holding up one finger like he was lecturing a child, "you talk to the gods. Or, y'know, they talk to you. Either way. Same difference."

He clapped his hands once, sharp and eager. "Perfect! See, I'm glad you asked if you could help me, because actually—" he leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "—I do need a favor. Tiny one. Little itty-bitty thing."

You stared.

He grinned wider, like he thought smiling harder might make you agree faster.

"My master," he said, dragging the word out dramatically, "is...well... he's absolutely infatuated with you."

You coughed on your bread.

The innkeeper laughed like he'd been waiting for that, too.

"Yup! Smitten," he said cheerfully, ignoring the way you were now blinking at him like he'd grown a second head. "And I thought—since you're clearly in the mood for charity—maybe you could slip a kind word or two about me, you know, next time you have one of your... divine conference calls or whatever it is you do."

You dropped the roll onto the tray with a dull thud, wiped your hands on your tunic, and lifted your palm in a slow, tired stop motion.

"First of all," you said, voice dry, "I don't even know your name."

He opened his mouth, ready to interrupt, but you cut sharper.

"And second—who exactly is your master?"

The innkeeper blinked.

Paused.

Then his grin stretched even wider—teeth flashing in a way that felt a little too familiar now.

"Oh," he said, like you'd just asked the world's simplest riddle. "You're gonna love this."

But instead of answering, he bent down—uncaring, casual as anything—and reached straight for your tray like it was his.

You tsked under your breath, glaring at him as you yanked the tray closer to your chest, holding it up and out of his reach like you were guarding treasure.

Lady lifted her head again, ears flicking with interest.

The innkeeper—still grinning—straightened up without missing a beat, wiping imaginary dust off his hands like he hadn't just tried to steal your breakfast.

He tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the corners with lazy amusement. "Name's Nico," he said finally, tapping his chest with two fingers like a kid introducing himself to a street gang. "Nico the Magnificent. Nico the Merciful. Nico the Good-Looking."

You just stared.

He winked.

"Twenty-seven years strong," he added, wiggling his brows like that was supposed to impress you. "Like wine, darling. Only getting better with age."

You blinked once, then said, flat as a stone. "If you're wine, you're the kind they leave in the sun too long and sell cheap to desperate sailors."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Nico barked out a laugh—sharp and delighted, like you'd just made his whole morning.

He clapped once, loud enough that Lady gave a small warning growl.

"Gods," he wheezed, grinning so wide you thought his face might crack. "I like you."

You rolled your eyes hard enough to ache and stuffed another piece of bread into your mouth, hoping if you just kept chewing, he'd eventually get bored and leave.

No such luck.

Nico just leaned his hip lazily against the side of your bedframe, still grinning like he had all the time in the world and you were the best entertainment he'd found in years.

You sighed through your nose, wiping your fingers on the cloth napkin and trying very hard not to let him drag you any further into whatever ridiculous spiral he was cooking up.

"Focus," you said sharply, pointing a crumb-sticky finger at him. "You still didn't tell me who your so-called master is."

Nico tsked dramatically, wagging a finger at you like you'd just scolded a kitten.

Then, before you could react, he bent down—fast—and pinched your cheek.

Like actually pinched it. Between his thumb and forefinger like you were five years old and cute enough to get away with murder.

You smacked his hand away instantly, making him yelp and dance back a step, laughing.

"Gods," he teased, rubbing his hand where you'd slapped it, "he's got good taste, I'll give him that. I see he chose one for the looks."

You gave him a glare so flat it could've flattened crops.

He just laughed harder, the sound warm and raspy, like it cracked loose without him meaning to. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry!" he said, still chuckling as he lifted both hands in surrender. "No more touching the sacred Liaison. I get it."

You just grunted and shoved another piece of bread into your mouth in case he got any more ideas.

Nico straightened, cleared his throat like he was about to make a grand announcement—and then, with a ridiculous flourish, threw his arms wide and did a slow, wobbly circle like he was showing off an invisible ballroom.

"My master," he intoned, loud enough that Lady gave a grumpy woof at the noise, "is none other than the swiftest, slickest, most charming pain in the gods' collective rear ends!"

He made a show of pausing dramatically, hand over his heart, nose in the air.

You just stared at him over your mug of lukewarm tea, unimpressed.

Nico grinned—and dropped the act all at once, leaning in slightly like he was telling you the world's worst-kept secret.

"Hermes," he said, tapping his temple with two fingers. "Messenger, trickster, professional meddler... and my one and only boss."

But for some reason... your face stayed deadpan.

You just stared at him, chewing another slow bite of bread, not even blinking.

Then you let out a breath—a long, heavy exhale that practically screamed: Why am I not surprised.

Nico faltered a little, his grin slipping just a fraction.

He clearly expected more. A gasp. A squeak. Maybe a full-on fainting spell.

Instead, he got you—slouched over a tray of stale bread and soup, looking about as impressed as a rock.

"That's it?" he said, almost offended. He pointed at you like he couldn't believe it. "That's all the reaction I get?"

You scoffed, waving a lazy hand at the room, at him, at everything.

"It wasn't hard to guess," you said bluntly. "Eben mentioned earlier that this port was tied to a messenger god. Some 'old shrine' or 'travelers' drinking tavern' or whatever nonsense. I just..." You dragged a hand down your face with a groan. "I naively hoped it was Iris."

Nico blinked. "Iris?"

"Yeah," you muttered, flicking a crumb off your tunic. "You know. Rainbow goddess. Nice. Sweet. Not known for stealing people's goats or turning stolen sandals into personal jokes."

He barked a laugh but tried to smother it behind his wrist.

You leveled a flat glare at him. "And you," you added, narrowing your eyes. "You didn't exactly help."

He pointed to himself, all wide-eyed fake innocence. "Me??"

"Yes, you," you said dryly. "You're just as insufferable. Got that same look about you."

Nico placed a hand over his chest like you'd wounded him. "Insufferable? Me?"

You nodded solemnly. "You talk like someone who should be punched. But somehow, gods only know how, you do it in a way that doesn't actually make people want to punch you."

He blinked.

Then threw his head back and howled with laughter—loud enough that Lady gave another warning bark and you had to reach over and rub her ear to calm her down.

"You," he gasped, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, "really are the funniest mortal I've met this whole decade."

You stuffed another piece of bread into your mouth just to stop yourself from saying something worse.

The bread was dry now, crumbs sticking stubbornly to the roof of your mouth, but you forced it down anyway. Lady licked her chops at your feet, kicking one hind leg lazily against the floor like she was dreaming of second breakfast.

You wiped your fingers clean on the edge of the tray, feeling the last of your energy drain into the wood beneath you.

And just when you thought Nico might finally take the hint and leave—

He cleared his throat loudly. "Sooo," he said, bouncing a little on his heels. "About mentioning me to Hermes...?"

You groaned under your breath, letting your head thump lightly against the wall behind you.

Of course he hadn't forgotten.

You sighed long and heavy, a tired puff of air that probably carried every ounce of regret you had ever felt for opening the door this morning.

"Fine," you huffed, waving a hand like you were granting mercy to a very annoying bug. "Fine, fine, whatever. I'll tell him you're... wonderful or something. As long as you leave me alone after."

Nico lit up like a festival torch.

"Bless your generous little heart," he said brightly, then lifted one hand toward you, palm open, fingers wiggling. "High-five."

You just blinked at him.

For a second you thought maybe he was trying to cast a spell or beg for a coin.

"What... are you doing," you said flatly.

Nico's hand hovered awkwardly in the air, his grin faltering.

"...High-five?" he repeated, a little less confident. "You know. Slap my hand. In victory?"

You stared at him like he'd just asked you to bite his ankle.

Slowly, awkwardly, he dropped his hand back to his side, clearing his throat and muttering, "Hermes said everyone does it. Lying bastard."

You snorted so hard a crumb almost went up your nose.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

The sun hit you the moment you stepped out of the inn.

Warm and steady, no clouds, the whole port buzzing quietly around you like bees moving slow in the heat. The stone streets were full but not crowded—sailors hauling crates down to the docks, women bartering over baskets of herbs, a few skinny dogs weaving through the market stalls like they owned the place.

You adjusted the strap of the small wicker basket you'd slung over your arm—a battered little thing you'd borrowed from the inn's storage closet. Nothing special. Just enough to carry whatever you picked up today.

You exhaled, the morning already blurring behind you.

After your very loud breakfast-slash-lunch (you didn't know what to call it anymore), you'd dragged yourself upright, forced yourself into real clothes—a loose tunic belted at the waist, a fresh cloak slung over one shoulder. You'd left Lady back in the inn's front room, tucked safely under Eben's determined watch.

The boy had been practically vibrating with excitement when you asked.

"You can trust me as always!" he'd declared, puffing out his chest like a tiny soldier. "I'll continue to guard her with my life!"

He'd also, less dramatically, asked if you could bring him back a trinket or two. "Maybe a seashell. Or a feather. Or a sword. Or a small dagger. Or maybe a magic rock."

You agreed to maybe find something that wouldn't get you arrested.

Now, as you turned to pull the inn door closed behind you, tugging the heavy wood into place—

"____~"

Nico's voice rang out from across the bar inside, loud enough that a few pigeons scattered off the roof.

"Don't forget about me, darling!" he hollered, his whole arm waving like a shipwreck signal, half-throwing himself across the bar counter for extra drama. "Tell Master I'm still his favorite servant! Tell him I'm better than all the rest! Tell him I deserve a raise!"

You just rolled your eyes hard enough you thought they might fall out of your head. "Yeah, yeah!" you shouted back without looking, pulling the door shut behind you with a heavy thud.

You adjusted the basket on your arm, shaking your head to yourself.

Gods help you if Hermes and Nico were anything alike.

You didn't think you had enough patience left in you for two of them.

You adjusted the basket against your hip and started walking, letting the warm stretch of the morning pull you down into the town's heart.

The little port was alive in its own quiet way—nothing like the heavy crowds of Ithaca or the stiff markets near the palace.

Here, everything felt a little crooked, a little tilted, like the streets had been built without a real plan. Vendors called from their stalls with singsong voices, tossing fresh olives from hand to hand. Bright cloths strung between the rooftops fluttered lazily in the sea breeze, throwing colorful shadows across the stone walkways.

You stopped at a few places without meaning to.

A small fruit stand where figs the size of your fist sold for half the price you'd usually see. A cart of silver bangles that clinked together like wind chimes. A woman with a basket of dyed feathers, each one brighter than the last.

Everything was so cheap compared to what you'd gotten used to on the island.

You blinked down at a pair of polished combs—real ivory, maybe fake, you couldn't tell—but still ridiculously affordable. It made your chest warm in a weird, guilty way. You could get so much for Eben. For Lady. For the others.

Callias would want something flashy—something that screamed look at me without actually being expensive. Maybe a ridiculous feathered hat.

Asta would appreciate something useful...maybe a good belt or a knife hilt. Something sturdy.

Lysandra? Definitely jewelry. The gaudier, the better. Maybe something that jangled when she walked just to annoy everyone.

Kieran would grumble but secretly love a new set of throwing stones or a carefully wrapped writing quill.

Even the king and queen drifted into your mind, uninvited but familiar—something soft for Penelope. Something respectful but sly for Odysseus.

And Telemachus...

You swallowed.

Something simple.

Something you wouldn't have to explain.

You kept walking, humming under your breath—a half-remembered jolly song Eben had been singing earlier. Some silly sea shanty about sailors falling overboard after drinking too much wine. The kind of tune that stuck between your ribs and made your steps lighter without asking permission.

You bent low over a table near one of the stalls, eyeing a row of jeweled scarves laid out in messy piles. The fabrics shimmered in the sun—golds, crimsons, deep violets—and you plucked at a few of them carefully, wondering which would match Asta's hair best.

Maybe the deep red...

You were just reaching for it when a voice cut through the buzz of the market—smooth, amused, curling around your spine like a ribbon.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Before you could turn, an arm snaked smoothly across your waist. Fingers brushed the curve of your hip, light but sure, like whoever it was had touched you a thousand times before.

Before you could blink—before your mind even caught up—your body moved.

Pure instinct. No thought. No mercy.

You twisted hard, one hand yanking free from the scarves, the other already reaching for the dagger hidden under your belt. You spun, the world blurring around you—and by the time you blinked again, the blade was already pressed up tight against a throat.

Your heart slammed into your ribs so hard it almost knocked the air from your chest.

It was like your mind hadn't even had time to argue. Your body just remembered.

It remembered the alley. The night the world split open under your feet. The way blood felt hot and sticky between your fingers. The way your skin had burned, torn apart, the way the knife had sunk into your ribs.

It remembered not being fast enough.

So now—now—you didn't hesitate.

Your hand braced steady against his chest, your dagger pressed right under the curve of his jaw, angled sharp and sure.

It wasn't until you looked up—really looked—that your grip faltered.

Hermes.

Standing there with one hand still half-outstretched, the ghost of a cocky grin curling the corner of his mouth. His dark hair caught the sunlight like smoke, those brown curls tousled just enough to look like he'd run here. His eyes—mischievous, electric, stupidly alive—blinked down at you like he was delighted.

Your heart stumbled.

You sucked in a breath so sharp you could've swallowed the wind itself.

"You absolute idiot," you hissed, yanking the dagger back against your side like it burned you.

Hermes didn't even flinch.

If anything, his grin widened—sharp and bright, full of trouble.

"Gods," he giggled, actually giggled, shoulders shaking with it. "You manhandled me."

You gawked at him.

He looked positively thrilled, like getting a knife to the throat was a compliment.

"I liked it," he added, voice dropping into something teasing, almost conspiratorial. "You could've slit me open right there. Would've let you, too."

Your face burned.

Heat jumped to your cheeks so fast it made you dizzy, and you immediately spun on your heel, dropping into a crouch to frantically gather the items you'd dropped over when you attacked him.

"I am not doing this," you muttered under your breath, stuffing things back into the basket. "I refuse to get flirted with by a god I almost gutted in public."

Behind you, Hermes chuckled—warm and bubbling and far too pleased with himself.

"You can," he said lightly. "I don't mind."

You just grumbled and kept fixing your basket, refusing to look at him until your heart stopped trying to kick its way out of your ribs.

Once everything was stuffed back in place—and you were reasonably sure you weren't about to keel over from embarrassment—you stood up, brushing your hands against your tunic.

You risked another glance at him.

Hermes was still there, arms loose at his sides, looking for all the world like he hadn't just been a split second away from getting a free haircut by dagger. Sunlight caught the tips of his hair, his sandals tapping idly against the dusty stones.

You tilted your head slowly, narrowing your eyes at him.

He noticed.

"What?" he asked, blinking at you with wide, fake-innocent eyes.

You crossed your arms loosely over your chest, tapping one finger against your elbow. "Who do you look like?"

He tilted his head the other way, matching you. "What do you mean, darling?"

You scoffed under your breath, stepping past him, adjusting the basket on your arm as you moved.

"Last time you were out in the open," you said over your shoulder, "you decided it would be fun to walk around looking like Telemachus to everyone else. You think I forgot?"

He made a wounded noise behind you, like you'd just accused him of a real crime.

"That was one time!" he whined, trailing after you like a sulky shadow. "And it wasn't exactly him—it was more like... an impression. A tribute."

You shot him a dry look.

Hermes sighed dramatically, kicking a stray pebble down the street.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'm not doing that right now, if that's what you're fishing for."

You slowed your steps just a little, glancing sideways at him. "So what are you doing?"

He flashed a grin—sharp and boyish. "This," he said, spreading his arms out like he was inviting you to take it all in. "Mostly me. Toned down."

You squinted. "Toned down."

"Yup," he said cheerfully. "Still me. Just... less 'holy-blinding-light-strike-you-dead' energy leaking out everywhere."

You stared at him.

"So," you said slowly, "everyone else just sees... what? A weirdo with a satchel?"

Hermes hummed happily. "Exactly."

You hummed back—flat, unimpressed—and kept walking.

You didn't rush, didn't linger either. Just let yourself drift along the edge of the small square, half-listening to the market sounds, half-pretending you didn't have a literal god trailing behind you like a bored dog looking for trouble.

You stopped at a few more stalls, your fingers brushing over bolts of cloth, polished seashells, little jars of honey sealed with wax. Hermes kept pace at your side, whistling under his breath, hands stuffed deep into the folds of his belt like he hadn't a care in the world.

You ignored him for the most part.

Until—

A small stall near the end of the row caught your eye. Nothing fancy. Just a little wooden cart stacked with tiny carved boats—each no bigger than your hand. The sails were scraps of cloth, stitched neatly. The hulls looked smoothed by real sea salt, worn soft at the edges.

You stopped, crouching slightly to look at them.

Eben would love one.

You smiled to yourself, reaching for a little boat painted blue and gold—colors bright but not gaudy.

As you straightened up to hand over the few coins, the old woman running the stall—frail, sun-leathered, with a kerchief tied tight over her silver hair—beamed at you.

"Oh, sweet one," she cooed, reaching over to pat your hand warmly. "Is this for your little one?"

You opened your mouth to explain, but she was already nodding approvingly, her eyes crinkling. "How lovely. My husband made these for our grandchildren. I hope yours will love it too."

You stiffened slightly.

Before you could get a single word in—

Hermes slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side with an obnoxious sigh.

"Our twelve children will love it," he said loudly, like he was declaring it to the whole town. "Poor things! Waiting so patiently back at home while we shop for their treasures."

You froze.

The old woman clapped her hands together, utterly delighted. "Twelve! Oh, bless you both!"

You twisted to glare up at him, but Hermes just smiled down at you, eyes sparkling with evil.

You muttered through your teeth, "I will stab you."

"Mm," he hummed cheerfully. "I love it when you talk dirty to me."

You paid for the boat with a stiff hand, gritting your teeth as you handed the woman the coins.

She waved you off happily, still cooing something about how lucky your children must be to have such loving parents.

You yanked yourself free of Hermes' arm the second you turned away from the cart, clutching the little toy boat so tight it creaked.

He just sauntered along behind you like nothing had happened, whistling again.

It wasn't until you were a good few stalls away—out of earshot—that you rounded on him, eyes narrowed.

"What are you even doing here?"

Hermes blinked innocently, like the question physically pained him. "Visiting," he said, all fake offense. "Is it a crime for a god to visit one of his sacred places?"

You stared at him, deadpan.

He stared back, wide-eyed.

The toy boat creaked again in your hand.

You weren't buying it.

Not for a second.

You gave him the flattest look you could manage, the little boat still clutched tight in your fist.

"Sacred?" you repeated, deadpan, arching a brow.

Right on cue, as if the gods themselves wanted to prove your point, two kids darted into view—skinny, quick, no older than Eben—slipping behind a merchant fast asleep against a cart of dates. One boy crouched low, sliding a hand into the man's coin pouch; the other snagged a roll of cloth from the cart's edge.

You lifted your hand and pointed wordlessly at the scene.

Hermes followed your finger.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then he shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "Hey," he said, voice light, "I am the god of thieves, am I not?"

You scoffed under your breath and turned away. You kept walking—fast, determined, weaving through the bustling market like you could leave his nonsense behind you.

No such luck.

Hermes was right there beside you again, practically glued to your side, step for step.

He let out a long, pitiful whine, dragging the sound out like a kicked dog.

"Don't be mad," he half-begged, half-sang, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. "Come on, how can you blame me?"

You ignored him.

He bumped you again.

"I have to listen to Apollo's wailing all day on Olympus!" he cried dramatically, throwing both hands in the air like you were sentencing him to death. "You know what that's like? Songs about heartbreak, songs about sunlight, songs about why doesn't anyone understand me?"

You kept your eyes straight ahead, refusing to crack.

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice into a stage-whisper, like sharing a sacred secret. "You're my safe haven, ____. The only thing that keeps me sane."

You nearly tripped over a cobblestone.

You yanked the basket higher on your arm, shaking your head hard like you could physically toss him off your trail.

"You," you muttered, "are unbelievable."

"And yet," he said brightly, flashing you a wink, "you still tolerate me."

You muttered something under your breath that sounded a lot like barely.

Hermes just laughed, following you like a happy ghost through the sunlit streets.

But then—something shifted.

His laughter faded into a low hum, almost thoughtful. His steps slowed just a little.

"All jokes aside," he said, voice dipping softer, more serious, "there's something... different about you."

You frowned, but before you could say anything, he stepped right in front of your path, cutting you off.

He bent slightly at the waist to meet your eye level, hands planted loosely on his knees like he was examining you for clues. His brows furrowed. His mouth twisted in thought. He even rubbed his chin dramatically, like some philosopher puzzling over a riddle.

"Hmm..." he mused, narrowing his eyes, "just can't put my godly finger on it."

You stared at him, unimpressed.

Absolutely not in the mood to unravel whatever cryptic nonsense he was hinting at.

You shouldered past him with a dry scoff, muttering under your breath, voice dripping in sarcasm."Oh, I suppose it wouldn't be the whole dying and coming back to life thing?"

Hermes snorted, straightening up again to follow—but the pensive look didn't fully leave his face. "No, not that," he said, jogging a few steps to catch up. "It's... similar. But not exactly."

He trailed off, waving a vague hand in the air like trying to pluck the right words from the breeze.

You didn't press because frankly, you weren't sure you wanted to know.

Hermes gave a little shrug, like deciding it wasn't worth chasing down today.

Then—just like that—he brightened again.

"So!" he declared, clapping his hands once, sharp and eager. "How do you like it?"

You blinked at him, confused. "Like what?"

He grinned wide—raising both arms high, spinning a slow, lazy circle right there in the middle of the road.

"Port Telonia!" he cried, as if the entire market, the sun, the sea breeze, the noise and life of it all was something he'd hand-delivered to you personally.

And the worst part?

You kind of loved it.

Port Telonia wasn't fancy. It wasn't big. But it was warm. It was alive. Everything about it felt easy, golden, safe. Like the air here hadn't been touched by war or gods' tempers in a long time. Like you could actually breathe without checking over your shoulder first.

You wanted to say that.

Wanted to tell him that maybe—maybe—this was the first place in a long while that didn't feel heavy on your skin.

Instead, you sniffed once, looked away toward a line of grape vines strung between two buildings, and muttered under your breath, "It's alright, I guess."

Hermes squawked like you'd just slapped a sacred relic out of his hands.

"Alright?!" he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "Alright?? This is a masterpiece! A divine gem! And you're just—'alright'-ing it?!"

You shrugged, hiding the tiny twitch of your mouth behind your hand.

He huffed, crossing his arms. "You're obviously biased. Too much Ithaca dirt under your nails. It's clouding your judgment."

You snorted.

Hermes, of course, wasn't done.

He snapped his fingers like he'd just had the most brilliant idea ever.

"Alright, new plan," he declared. "I'm officially designating myself as your personal guide to Port Telonia. Congratulations, mortal! You've just booked the best tour in the isles—zero drachmas needed, only mild emotional damage guaranteed!"

You rolled your eyes, pretending to examine the stalls ahead of you, but you could feel him watching you.

Warm.

Steady.

Bright.

When you finally risked a glance back at him, he was already smiling—small, easy, real.

Like the idea of showing you around wasn't just a joke.

Like he actually wanted to.

Your heart skipped a beat without your permission.

You turned away fast, tugging your basket up higher against your hip. "...Whatever," you mumbled, pretending to study a row of fig jars instead.

But your ears were warm.

And from the soft chuckle Hermes gave, you were pretty sure he noticed.

But he didn't say anything.

Instead, he straightened up like a man on a mission, threw out a hand, and started pointing at everything you passed like the world's most excitable—and least reliable—tour guide.

"That," he said grandly, motioning toward a crooked little fountain half-swallowed by vines, "is where sailors toss coins for good luck before setting out. Legend says if you hit the mouth of the fish statue on the first try, you'll come back richer than you left."

You glanced at the fountain.

The fish's mouth was half-broken and dripping moss.

You gave Hermes a look.

He grinned wider.

"And that," he said, pointing at a stack of baskets outside a fruit stall, "is where the famous Golden Pomegranates of Telonia are kept. Very sacred. Very cursed. Touch one, and you'll start singing sea shanties every time you lie."

You snorted out loud at that one, crossing your arms. "That's not even remotely believable."

Hermes just winked. "Believe what you want, little musician."

You shook your head but let him keep talking anyway.

Because honestly? It was... nice.

Letting him ramble. Letting yourself listen.

You passed sun-drenched stone houses with colorful shutters, crooked alleys strung with drying herbs, and a row of old men playing some kind of tile game with coins clinking between their fingers.

Hermes narrated the entire thing like he owned the place.

And maybe he did, in a way.

Somewhere along the winding path, as you both veered around a group of laughing children chasing a dog through the square, he threw an arm casually around your shoulders.

It wasn't rough or heavy.

Just an easy, familiar weight.

Like he'd been doing it for years.

You stiffened at first—instinct, habit—but you didn't push him off.

You just... let it be.

Let the warmth of him soak into your skin. Let yourself match his pace without thinking. Let yourself laugh under your breath when he whispered something ridiculous about one of the flower sellers being a retired siren in disguise.

And gods help you—

You didn't even mind.

A/N: man, idk if it's just me, but i swear i can't even read anymore lol 😭 like i used to devour 10+ fics a day, clearing 26k+ word projects like it was nothing... now? now i open a fic, stare at the first paragraph, and immediately dissociate, thinking about future scenes, new books, random project ideas—literally everything except what i'm trying to read 😭💀 it’s like my brain is permanently stuck in "writing mode" and forgot how to be normal. is it broke?? do i need a patch update?? idk hahahah. hope you all enjoyed this chappie! might even do a double-update lolol we'll see if nun comes up cuz at the end of it all, the universe love throwing curveballs at me ngl 🤣🤣

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | tumblr: winaxity-ii)

from The Pr0phet

OH THIS IS SO CHARMINGGG 😭🪽✨The little smile??? That smug serenity that says "I definitely know something you don't and I'm not telling you yet"? THE EYES??? All gold and glinting, just like how I picture him when he's scheming three moves ahead while acting harmless. And that cloak!! The details on it!!! You understood the assignment—he's not just a messenger, he's a traveler, a guide, a weaver of paths. Ughhhh I love it so much 🥲💛 Thank you for giving me this softer but still cunning version of him!! (And also thank you for making him look exactly like the kind of problem MC would accidentally befriend and regret instantly.) 😭

from emily-r0s3

NOOOO THIS IS SO FUNNY AND SO PERFECT 😭😭 The way MC is just posing so sweetly in Apollo's head, draped in clouds and vibes, like "Apollo...? 🥺👉👈" meanwhile this man is OVER THERE MALFUNCTIONINGGG 💀💀💀 The way you drew his face?? Hand clutching his chest like he;s physically struggling to survive??? Apollo, god of poise and radiance, brought to his knees in broad daylight because someone said his name cute. As he should be. Also the little details—the glinting lyre, the soft cloud background, the laurel pin on his chiton—it's giving divine romance novella cover and I'm OBSESSED. You captured their entire dynamic: she's ethereal and unaware, he's in crisis. 😭🪽Thank you for this absolute GIFT. I will now be imagining this scene every time they meet eyes from across a temple.

from blasted-bass

NOOOO THIS IS PERFECTTTT 😭🪽"Bro is scheming" has me WHEEZING because YES—this is that specific brand of Hermes mischief where you don't realize you're already five steps into the trap until you're smiling back at him. The glinting yellow eyes??? The feathers curling around the crown??? The messy hair like he just casually destroyed someone's afternoon and is thinking about what he'll ruin next??? I LOVE HIM AND I FEAR HIM 😭 Thank you for this absolutely unhinged, perfect portrayal of our favorite trickster.

from fvckcare

NO BECAUSE THIS??? This isn't just Poseidon—this is the sea itself wearing a crown. 😭🌊 The gold and deep blue palette??? The textured scales blending into his skin??? The heavy, flowing sash that looks like an actual slice of the ocean wrapped around him??? Chef's kiss. You didn't just draw him, you summoned him. AND THAT TRIDENT DESIGN—sleek but still sharp like a coral spine?? The seaweed-draped jewelry??? The rippling, stormy hair crowned in driftwood gold?? He looks like he could level a city for fun and then pretend it was just a "small wave." 😭 You captured him so well—the god who is both beautiful and terrifying, the ocean's mercy and its wrath tangled into one. I am now contractually obligated to bow every time I look at this. Thank you for this absolute work of art 🙇‍♀️👑🌊

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winxanity-ii · 3 days ago

Text

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 50 Chapter 50 | a night to be remembered⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You woke up later than you meant to.

The light in the room had changed—gone soft and golden, the way only early evening could manage. It slipped through the slats of the wooden shutters like honey, painting the bed in stripes of warm light and shadow.

You blinked against it, your lashes sticky with sleep, the corner of your mouth dry from where it had pressed against Lady's fur.

She hadn't moved much.

Still curled at your side, her body warm and heavy, tail twitching once at some distant noise before going still again. She let out a snore—not loud, but stubborn—and you smiled faintly.

Then—right on cue—a knock.

Gentle. Hesitant.

Lady's ears perked. Her head lifted. But when she didn't hear anything dangerous—or particularly exciting—she let out a soft huff and dropped her chin back to the mattress like: That one's harmless.

You dragged yourself upright with a slow groan, stretching until your shoulders cracked, your legs dangling off the bed like you weren't sure if they remembered how to hold your weight yet.

The floor felt cool under your bare feet as you crossed to the door.

You opened it, and there stood Eben with both hands gripping a slightly dented tray, his curls windblown and his cheeks pink from either running or being too near the kitchen fire.

"I got you dinner," he announced, proud. "It's not fancy or anything—they said it was the most they could make for the crew with short notice. But there's meat. And a roll. And cheese that probably doesn't bite back."

You laughed softly and stepped aside. "Bring it in before Lady wakes up and thinks it's hers."

He grinned and slid inside, setting the tray down on the table near the window. You followed, still rubbing sleep from your eyes as you took in the food—small but hearty. Stewed lentils with a chunk of goat meat, a hard roll on the side, and a triangle of some soft, crumbly white cheese. A few olives scattered in a chipped dish.

It wasn't palace food, but it smelled like home.

Eben flopped onto the spare chair with a dramatic sigh. "The others get to go look around," he complained. "They're at the beach or the temple square or the cliff with the rope swing. You know what I get to do?"

You raised a brow, already chewing the corner of the roll.

He pointed at himself with both thumbs. "I get to stay in the inn. Because I'm 'too little.' Which is rude, by the way, because I know how to swim and gut a fish. And I didn't even cry during the storm!"

You tried not to laugh—tried. But it bubbled up anyway.

"Well," you said between bites, "how about this."

Eben perked up.

You leaned your elbow on the table, smirking. "I'll go explore—just a little—to see what all the fuss is about..."

He stared, waiting.

"...and while I'm gone, you get a very important job."

He straightened in his chair.

You pointed at Lady. "Babysit the beast."

Lady made a noise like she was offended, but didn't move.

Eben gasped. "Really?!"

You nodded. "Keep her company, keep her fed, and try not to let her steal your dinner. In return, I'll pick up something sweet for you while I'm out. Maybe one of those honey candies or those cinnamon bread twists the vendors were yelling about earlier."

He gave the most serious nod you'd ever seen, practically saluting with one fist to his chest. "Deal."

You smiled, reaching for an olive from the tray. You popped it into your mouth and chewed slowly as Eben leaned back in his chair, feet swinging just above the floor.

The rest of the dinner passed like that—easy and warm.

You picked at the food in slow bites while Eben filled the room with stories of sea life from a boy's point of view: dramatic tales of getting chased by gulls who stole fish right from his hand, and how how one of the older sailors tied a snake to the rigging once "as a prank."

You tried not to choke on a bite of bread when he mimicked the sound of a sailor's screams.

Lady just huffed and stayed curled by your feet, blinking slowly like none of this was news to her.

By the time you finished the cheese and scraped the last bit of lentil stew from the bottom of the bowl, the sky outside had deepened to a purpling blue, the sun beginning to melt behind the rooftops.

You pulled your cloak from the bedpost and fastened it at your collarbone, the soft wool brushing against your skin like an old friend. Your fingers found the familiar leather strap beneath your arm, checking the dagger tucked safely into place—cool, silent, and comforting at your side.

Eben looked up as you moved toward the door. "Bring back something good," he reminded you, already pulling his seat closer to Lady like they were settling in for a long watch shift.

You gave him a mock salute. "If she eats your roll, it's not my fault."

He nodded solemnly. "Understood. It's a risk I'm willing to take."

You rolled your eyes fondly and stepped into the hallway.

The inn was quieter now—just the low murmur of distant voices, a few clinks from the kitchen and bar, the faint squeal of a violin string being tuned too high before quickly corrected. You slipped through the front door, pulling it closed behind you with a soft thud.

The air outside had cooled, brushing your skin like silk pulled from a stream. The breeze carried the smell of fresh bread, sea salt, and lemon smoke—somewhere nearby, someone was grilling fish over citruswood.

You pulled your cloak tighter and started down the crooked steps of the inn.

The street outside was lit in soft yellows and flickering torches. Oil lamps swayed gently from poles above the narrow alleyways, casting dancing shadows along the stone. The town was quieter now, too—less bustle, more drift.

You passed a pair of merchants packing up woven goods, a young girl skipping stones into a gutter, and an old woman arguing gently with a cat on a windowsill.

You kept walking.

Your boots tapped quietly over cobbled stone as your thoughts circled back—what did they say again? About the ship of psychics? Oracles, priests, on a pilgrimage to Delphi?

You furrowed your brow. It was no use. The exact phrasing was gone now, smeared by sleep and dinner and too many days at sea. Something about vows. Something about leaving at sunrise. Something about a chance.

You slowed near a corner where the path split—one led down toward the docks again, the other toward the town square.

You took the square.

And as your feet moved forward, one name settled quietly in your chest like a coin dropped in water.

Eione.

You didn't know why. Didn't know if she'd be here, or if this had anything to do with her at all.

But still.

She was the first to see your storm.

Maybe she'd see what came next.

So you walked.

Toward the firelit curve of the plaza.

Toward the possibility that someone might be waiting.

You walked a little further, letting the town unfold in quiet pieces around you.

The plaza wasn't large, but it had a kind of charm—worn cobblestones underfoot, vines curling up cracked stucco walls, lanterns swaying from strings overhead like sleepy fireflies. A few musicians played under an archway, low and lazy.

The air smelled of honeyed dough and sea brine, and a fountain gurgled somewhere nearby, half-buried in ivy.

You turned down another winding path between two rows of homes, the night warmer here, the walls trapping the day's heat in stone. Your fingers brushed the rough stucco as you walked, the texture grounding you.

You passed a window where someone was reciting a prayer. Passed another where someone else was laughing through a mouthful of wine.

And then—Voices.

Louder than the rest.

You paused just at the corner, brows drawing together as a girl stumbled into view.

She was crying. Ugly crying. Snot and tears and full theatrical heaving. "I knew it!" she sobbed, voice cracking as she waved a hand in the air like she was swatting flies. "I knew you were going to cheat on me!"

A boy followed just behind her—tall, frazzled, and clearly out of his depth. "I didn't cheat, Myra! I haven't even looked at anyone else—what are you talking about?!"

The girl spun on her heel with the rage of a tragic poet. "Not yet, Pantelis, but you were thinking about it!" She jabbed a finger at his chest, sniffling. "And don't think I didn't see the way you looked at that sailor with the braid! That was a betrayal in spirit!"

Pantelis ran both hands through his hair, pacing. "Gods, this is exactly what I was talking about! You shouldn't have gone to that psychic! They're scams! They just say things you already suspect so you think they're true!"

"Oh," Myra gasped, staggered like he'd slapped her. "So now she's a liar? The oracle who serves the gods themselves? The one whose grandmother dreamt of lightning and predicted the eruption of Mount Pyraios?"

You stood there blinking, not quite ready to move, not quite willing to miss the unfolding performance.

Pantelis held up his hands. "I'm just saying! We make our own futures! It's not written in stone unless you carve it—"

And then he bumped into someone.

A woman.

She'd come from around the bend at just the wrong time, arms full of what looked like scrolls and flower bundles. Everything went flying—paper across the ground, petals fluttering like sad confetti. Pantelis froze.

"Oh gods—I'm so sorry, I wasn't—"

He knelt to help her, hands brushing hers as they reached for the same scroll.

They froze.

She blinked at him.

He blinked at her.

You saw it.

That moment.

The spark.

A soft, stunned pause like the whole world inhaled.

And then—

"TAKE ME NOW, POSEIDON!" Myra screamed.

You flinched.

The woman they'd bumped into flinched.

The entire street flinched.

"I can't!" Myra wailed, turning in a full spin like a windswept widow. "I can't do this—I knew this would happen! The oracle told me my downfall would come wearing sandals and bad taste in linen and THERE SHE IS!"

She ran off, sobbing into her sleeve.

Pantelis scrambled up, shouting after her. "Wait—Myra! I wasn't flirting! I just—she had scrolls! It didn't mean anything!"

He chased her down the alley, glancing once—just once—over his shoulder at the woman he'd collided with.

She watched him go, a flower still in her hand.

You stood there, stunned.

"...Okay," you muttered. "That was... something."

Still not entirely sure what, you stepped around the bend they'd come from.

Half out of curiosity. Half out of instinct.

Because if that psychic had stirred up that, maybe—just maybe—she was still nearby.

Still reading.

Still watching.

Waiting.

You took one more step.

But before you could go further, you heard it—"____." Soft. Gentle. Almost like it had been carried on a sigh.

You turned, slowly, your fingers brushing the side of your cloak.

An old man stood a few paces behind you.

You didn't recognize him.

His hair was snow-white, long and fine, tucked neatly behind his ears. He wore a white robe—loose, trailing at the hem, cinched at the waist by a simple rope. No sandals. No satchel. Just... white.

He watched you with calm, unreadable eyes. There was no smile on his face. No scowl, either. Just quiet.

"I can show you your future," he said, voice low. Steady. Like he wasn't offering something—but stating a fact. Like you'd already agreed.

You hesitated and your throat worked around a dry swallow. "No thank you," you said quickly. "I've already had... more than enough of that."

But something in the way he tilted his head made your stomach turn.

Your fingers twitched at your side. "Wait," you said, frowning. "Do you... do you know Eione?"

The name felt strange in your mouth again. Like it belonged to a different time.

The old man blinked slowly. His mouth opened.

But before he could answer—

A voice cut through the air, bright and wicked with laughter.

"Well, well, well," a woman gasped, like you'd just committed a sin and made her night doing it. "Look who's wandered far from home."

You whipped around.

Thyessa.

She leaned against the corner of a low stone wall like it was the back of a velvet chair, curls wild and full of crushed flower petals, lips smudged like she'd just kissed someone she shouldn't have.

She looked the same. Exactly the same. Violet eyes glinting like grapes dipped in wine, grin wide and wicked.

You blinked, stunned.

When you looked back over your shoulder—the old man was gone.

No footsteps. No parting robe. Just... gone.

Your stomach flipped.

"Mm-mm," Thyessa tutted, sauntering toward you with a mock scowl. "You really ought to be more careful. A face like yours wandering the streets alone? You're begging for trouble."

You opened your mouth.

She grabbed your hand.

"Come on~" she purred, voice silk and smoke. "You owe me a chat. Let's catch up, little flower."

"I—I was actually—"

"Oh, hush," she cooed, tugging you along before you could finish. "You can chase ghosts tomorrow."

You stumbled after her, her fingers wrapped tightly around yours.

Her laughter echoed behind you, curling down the alley like perfume. Sweet. Warm. Dangerous.

And yet, you couldn't help it—

You followed.

She tugged you down winding alleys that smelled like wine and roasting meat, your feet barely keeping up with her lazy, looping pace.

You passed shuttered windows and flickering torchlight, half-heard laughter spilling into the cobbled streets from corners you didn't dare glance too long at. Her grip on your hand was warm, her rings cold where they touched your skin, and her gait was more sway than walk.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a low, smoke-stained doorway half-swallowed by ivy and chipped paint. A wooden sign above it swung on creaking hooks, too faded to read, but the scent rolling from inside told you everything you needed to know.

Spice. Sweat. Sweet wine. Smoke.

And underneath it all—laughter, too loud, and the crash of something wooden hitting the floor.

Thyessa shot you a grin over her shoulder. "Try not to look like you've wandered into someone's bedroom by mistake."

Then she dragged you inside.

The heat hit first. Then the noise.

The tavern was alive.

People packed the floor, spilling out from low tables and curling around kegs stacked in corners. There were sailors—brawny and sunburned—elbow-deep in drinking contests, their cups slamming onto wood like war drums. There were cloaked figures huddled near the hearth whispering about gods or dice or debts.

Smoke hung low across the ceiling like a second roof, thick with whatever someone was burning in their pipe near the bar.

Barmaids weaved through the crowd like dancers, trays balanced on one palm, skirts slung a little high. One was perched in a sailor's lap, her laugh bright and cutting, her hands in his hair. Another leaned too close to whisper something into a merchant's ear. A third tucked a coin into the bodice of a girl you were pretty sure wasn't technically on the payroll.

And there—at the far end—was a band you hadn't even noticed at first. Their music was low and brassy, slipping between the noise like a secret. It made the whole room feel like it was moving. Breathing. Tilting.

Thyessa pulled you to a corner booth tucked along the back wall—half-shadowed, with a crooked view of nearly everything.

She flopped down first, lounging sideways on the bench like she was royalty in exile, then patted the spot across from her.

You sat, breath still a little shallow from the heat and the suddenness of it all.

Thyessa's eyes glittered as she leaned across the table, voice raised just enough to cut through the noise. "Well?"

You blinked at her. "Well, what?"

She gestured grandly at the chaos around you. "What do you think?"

You hesitated, then leaned in to be heard. "I've... never really been to a bar before."

She squawked.

Actually squawked.

A laugh burst from her mouth, loud and delighted, head tossing back as her curls bounced. "Oh, you poor, innocent creature!" she gasped, slapping her palm to her chest like this was a tragedy. "No wonder you're always so tightly wound."

You tried to glare, but your smile gave you away.

She waved a hand. "Don't worry. You're with me now." Her eyes flashed. "I'll take care of you."

Before you could respond, she stood—fluid as a wave—and smoothed her tunic down.

"Stay put, little flower," she purred. "I'm going to go get us something to drink."

Then she was off.

Vanishing into the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged to it.

You leaned back slightly, the wood of the booth creaking under your shoulder blades.

The tavern buzzed around you.

And for a moment��you let it.

So you sat there, back to the wall, cloak pulled loosely around your shoulders, letting the tavern move around you like a current you weren't part of.

You watched the arm-wrestling match two tables over, where a barrel-chested man was clearly losing to a woman half his size.

You watched a bard tune his lyre with one eye closed and a pipe between his teeth.

You watched a barmaid pinch someone's coin purse clean while distracting him with her laugh.

The air smelled like sweat, citrus peel, smoke, and pine resin. Someone had spilled wine. Someone else was bleeding from the nose, grinning about it. It was messy, loud, alive.

Then a shadow cut across the table.

You blinked—looked up.

A man stood a few feet away, leaning against the pillar beside your booth like it had been built for him. One hand rested above his head, the other hung lazily at his hip, fingers twirling a ring that looked far too polished for a place like this.

He wasn't bad-looking.

Not in a mythic way, not like Telemachus or Hermes or even the memory of Poseidon's ridiculous face—but he was tall, sharp around the jaw, and sun-burnished, with curls just messy enough to look deliberate. His teeth were too white. His clothes were too neat. And gods, did he know it.

He looked at you like he was picking from a market stand.

And when your eyes finally met his, he gave a low whistle.

"Well, well, well," he said, voice slick with charm, "either I've had too much to drink, or they let one of the gods' muses slip down from the mountains tonight."

You blinked.

He smirked. "No? Not a fan of flattery? Alright, how about this—if Helen of Troy had your face, they'd have burned two cities."

Your eyes rolled before you could stop them.

He took that as an invitation.

Of course he did.

He pushed off the pillar, sauntering closer, his hand brushing the edge of your table like he was already welcomed. His grin stretched wider as he slid into the opposite seat, not bothering to ask.

You didn't say anything.

He didn't mind.

"Name's Dorion," he said, flashing teeth like that was supposed to mean something. "Merchant prince out of Corinth. Been circling the islands on trade runs for years. Silk. Perfume. Spices. You name it, I've moved it."

You blinked once. Kept your expression politely blank.

He leaned in just a little, testing your reaction like a salesman pushing a second offer. "I've had drinks with magistrates. Sat next to queens. Even took dinner with the high priestess of Hera once—though she pretended not to enjoy herself." His grin crooked. "Bet you're not easy to impress, though."

You weren't.

Your eyes darted past him—searching the crowd for a flash of curls, a glint of violet. Where was Thyessa?

The music thrummed beneath your feet. Someone laughed behind you. A chair scraped loud against the floor.

Dorion didn't stop.

"You from the city?" he asked, tracing the rim of a half-finished wine cup. "Or one of the fancy palace ones from Ithaca? I could tell the second I saw you—you've got that untouchable thing about you. Makes a man want to try anyway."

You still didn't answer.

He chuckled like that was endearing.

Then he reached forward.

Fingers—too confident, too familiar—brushed up beneath your chin. A light touch, almost a caress, as if he meant to tilt your face upward and keep it there.

Your hand shot up and you grabbed his wrist.

Hard.

He froze—startled just enough for the smug to crack.

Your voice came low. Cold. "Don't. Touch. Me."

He blinked.

Then scoffed.

Smirked.

"Feisty," he said, voice dropping into something smug again. "Should've figured."

But you didn't smile. You didn't even look away.

Not yet.

Dorion didn't take the warning.

His grin returned, thinner now—less charm, more teeth. "Come on," he drawled, fingers flexing like he was deciding where to touch next. "Don't be so uptight. You're sitting alone in a bar like this, dressed like that, and you expect no one to look?"

You wanted to scoff at his words. The only thing you were dressed in was a loose tunic and cloak. So you stared, still holding his wrist.

He chuckled. "Tell you what, sweetheart—why don't we go somewhere quieter, and I'll make sure no one bothers you again—"

His free hand moved, slidding low, and wrapping around your waist.

That was it.

In one breathless blink, you stood.

In the next, he wasn't sitting anymore.

You had him against the wall, one hand braced to his chest, the other slipping your dagger clean from beneath your cloak. From the outside, it looked like an embrace—your bodies close, your head tilted in toward his.

But from your angle?

He knew better.

The blade pressed neatly against the underside of his jaw, angled just so—one sharp twitch from slicing straight up.

His breath caught.

"I may have misspoken," you murmured, voice a low hum in his ear. "Because you didn't hear me right."

You tilted the blade—just enough to nick him.

A thin, bright line of blood welled beneath his chin, trailing down toward his collar.

His eyes widened. The arrogance drained quick from his face, replaced by something much closer to panic. "Okay—alright—wait, I'm sorry," he whispered, voice suddenly very quiet. "Didn't mean—wasn't trying to offend—"

You didn't let him finish.

"You're lucky I'm tired," you hissed. "Lucky I've had a long week. Lucky my hands aren't shaking from rage right now, because otherwise—"

You dragged the dagger down slowly. Tracing. Deliberate.

Right down his chest.

Right past his belt.

Until it rested lightly—very lightly—against the seam of his pants.

His whole body locked.

"Next time, I won't warn you..." You smiled. Cold. Sharp. "I'll just take a souvenir."

He whimpered.

You stepped back, tucked the dagger away, and just like that—you let him go.

Dorion didn't wait for a second chance.

He turned and scurried, actually tripped over a chair leg, cursed under his breath, then all but disappeared through the crowd without looking back.

You watched him vanish, jaw tight, chest heaving just once.

Then—

A whistle.

You turned.

Thyessa stood a few steps away, holding two pints of wine in either hand, one brow raised like she'd just watched a live play.

"I think I'm in love," she said, awestruck.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, slipping the dagger back into its sheath with a clean, practiced twist of your wrist.

"I leave for two minutes," she continued, handing you a drink as you both returned to the booth, "and you manage to traumatize a Corinthian peacock. Gods, I adore you."

You snorted as you sank back into the booth. "Yet you did nothing."

"I was going to," Thyessa defended, sliding in beside you with an exaggerated huff. "I had the cups in one hand and righteous violence in the other. But then you went full warrior-priestess before I could even blink."

You raised a brow.

She grinned, slow and dangerous. "Besides, he's lucky you got to him first. If I'd had even one finger free—gods, I'd have hexed his name off every sailor's roster from here to Crete."

You laughed—quiet, into your cup—as you brought it to your lips.

The wine was... surprisingly sweet.

Rich, with a floral finish. Not sharp or vinegary like the cups you'd tasted back in Ithaca. It slid down your throat like syrup and summer. You blinked once, pleasantly surprised.

Thyessa saw it immediately. "See?" she crowed, tapping her own cup against yours with a soft clink. "I told you. Only the best for my delicate little bar-bloom."

You rolled your eyes again but let the smile stay.

It wasn't like wine was a new thing to you—not really. But your experience with it was... sparse. Controlled. Carefully portioned. Usually sipped from a secondhand goblet when Telemachus passed you the rest of his drink at dinner. A quiet exchange. A stolen sip.

But none of it had ever tasted like this.

This was different.

This was warm cheeks and the press of bodies and candlelight stuck in your eyelashes.

This was freedom in a cup. Full and sweet and loud.

Thyessa curled sideways into the booth, one knee pulled up beneath her, cloak bunched behind her elbow like a throne. She tossed her hair back and launched into a story like she'd been waiting all night to have an audience.

"And then," she said, grinning wide, "this idiot priest lights the wrong end of the incense—starts waving the smoke around while the goddess statue is literally upside down behind him. Didn't notice until half the temple was coughing and the other half was trying to figure out if that was part of the ritual."

You sipped slowly as she went on, the din of the bar growing hazier around you.

Her stories rolled one after another, each more unhinged than the last—tales of festivals where men dressed as stags danced through the streets, women who wore masks of woven ivy and kissed strangers with honey on their tongues.

She described fireworks that rained down actual petals, how she once spent a week in a tent with a man who claimed to be a descendant of Dionysus, and how she might've believed him if he hadn't cried when he spilled his wine.

You leaned your cheek into your palm, elbow propped on the table, half-lost in the motion of her voice.

And there, tucked in the corner of a chaotic bar, sweet wine on your tongue and wild laughter in your ear—something in you finally started to loosen.

If only for a little while.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

You were nearly finished with your fifth cup when Thyessa, very dramatically, declared she was going to fetch another round.

She'd been leaning into your shoulder for the last ten minutes, arm slung across your back, her cheek brushing yours every time she turned to whisper something like a secret. She smelled like wine, spiced fruit, and too much heat—soft and dizzying in a way that made the candlelight feel closer than it should.

"I'll be right back," she said now, slurring only slightly as she half-stood. She wobbled.

You caught her elbow.

She grinned at you, eyes all violet and glitter and flushed cheeks. "If I don't come back, assume I've been married off to the wine merchant. He had nice forearms."

You snorted. "Go slow, goddess."

She winked, then half-sang as she swayed off into the crowd—something about olives and sin and being the reason sailors wrecked their ships.

You watched her go, shaking your head. Then leaned back against the booth's wooden slats with a sigh, the edges of your limbs just starting to feel floaty.

This... was nice.

Warm cheeks. Heavy eyelids. Your jaw aching from laughing too much.

You looked down at the table.

A piece of frayed string was there—golden-tan, thin, probably from a broken lute string or an unraveling placemat. You twisted it around your finger, fascinated by the way it curled and bounced.

It was mesmerizing, honestly. Like it knew it was entertaining you.

Then—Voices.

Familiar.

You blinked, tuning your ears toward a table not far off. Two men, seated near the bar's back corner. Broad shoulders, sun-browned skin, the faintest glow of salt still clinging to them. You knew them. They had been on the ship with you. From Ithaca.

Their voices drifted between gulps of ale.

"Hey, have you seen Nikos?"

That caught your attention.

"Nah," one grunted. "Thought he was just ditching duties again. You know how he is. Always finds some reason to 'check the nets' or 'count rations' so he can nap under the sail."

"...What if he went overboard?" the first man asked. Quiet. Unsure. "During the storm. I mean... nobody's seen him since."

Silence.

You could feel it—how fast the table stilled.

"Shit. Ana's gonna be beside herself if she finds out," the grumbler muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was flat, but there was guilt under it.

"She will," the first man added with a sigh. "Gods, she will. She was already worried before we left. I remember how Zoe told me she saw her crying in the food storage. Wouldn't say why."

You blinked, the names sounding familair, but you couldn't recall where.

"Didn't you say the two of you were making progress?" the second man said. "Man, she's gonna drag the whole mood down when we get back."

"Yeah, Zoe's gonna be miserable if Ana's crying the whole time."

You rolled your eyes.

The first one cleared his throat again. "Should we... should we tell her?"

The quiet stretched.

A pause.

A long one.

Then—"Nah. Let's just say he found some girl on Lyraethos. Chose to stay behind."

"...You think she'll believe that?"

"I think it's better than saying he fell overboard and no one noticed."

"True."

They shared a look—one you didn't need to see to feel.

And that was it. They moved on.

Then—

"Miss me?"

Thyessa's voice was a sunburst against your thoughts.

You looked up, startled.

She stood there grinning, cheeks flushed from the heat of the room, curls bouncing as she tilted her head and held out two fresh drinks like a peace offering. She slid one cup in front of you and dropped back onto the bench with a theatrical groan. "The line was ridiculous. The bartender definitely winked at me. I think I might be engaged."

You smiled at her—tired, warm.

And then a yawn tore its way out of your chest, unexpected and sudden, catching you mid-sip. You slapped a hand over your mouth, blinking groggily.

Thyessa gasped, eyes wide with faux offense. "A yawn? In my presence?"

You laughed softly. "I didn't mean to—"

She leaned in close, clutching her cup dramatically to her chest. "You're fading on me, little flower. After five drinks? Gods, I thought you were training to be a soldier, not a snoring dormouse."

You scoffed, still smiling. "I never claimed to be a champion. I just didn't want to pass out on your shoulder mid-story."

Thyessa waggled her eyebrows. "You'd be the third person this week. At least be the cutest."

You shook your head, pulling your cloak tighter around you as another yawn crept up your throat. The warmth of the tavern, the wine, the lull of her voice—it was all getting too cozy to fight.

She noticed.

Her teasing softened into something more fond. "Come on, you want me to walk you back? I promise not to start any fights on the way."

You gave a lazy little laugh, already sliding to your feet. "It's close. I can manage. If I get lost, I'll just follow the sound of your voice yelling at strangers."

"Oh good," she said, rising as well. "That'll be the fourth person this week too."

You reached for your cup, then paused, thinking better of it. "Thanks for tonight," you murmured. "Really."

Thyessa smiled—soft this time. Sincere.

"Anytime. You've got a face I don't get tired of seeing."

You snorted and turned to leave.

But you didn't make it two steps before her voice rang out behind you, bold and booming again like she hadn't just been gentle with you seconds ago.

"Alright—question for the bar!" she shouted, slamming her empty cup on the table. "Would you rather marry a sea god or die dramatically in the arms of a party animal? Be honest!"

A roar of drunken cheers rose instantly from around the room—men, women, barmaids, and one guy already half-asleep at the bar all shouting their answers over each other.

You laughed under your breath, rolling your eyes as the door shut behind you.

And stepped into the night.

The cold hit instantly—crisp and sharp, brushing your cheeks, threading into your sleeves. The sky overhead was dark and endless, pinpricked with stars and the barest edge of a moon curling against the clouds.

You pulled your cloak tighter.

The streets were quieter now. Lanterns flickered low, casting long shadows on the walls. Somewhere in the distance, someone sang off-key. A few stray cats darted past, chasing something invisible.

You took a slow breath. Let it sit in your chest.

It was the kind that settled deep—not rushed, not sharp, just full. The kind that told you the worst was over, even if the best hadn't shown up yet.

The air here didn't taste like storm anymore. It didn't cling to your teeth or sit heavy behind your ribs. It just... existed. Cool, quiet, clean. Like something was finally done grieving.

You smiled faintly to yourself, the night blurring soft around the edges. The wine still hummed in your blood—not heavy, not dizzying, just... warm. Like someone had wrapped a blanket around your ribs from the inside out.

Your boots tapped lightly over the stones as you made your way back through the crooked streets, half-following the paths you'd memorized, half-drifting on instinct.

The inn rose into view before you even realized you'd reached it, its windows throwing out little rectangles of gold onto the darkened road. You pushed the door open with a sleepy grunt, the hinges whining low in greeting.

Inside, the common room was quieter now. A few sailors hunched over mugs, talking in low voices. Eben waved blearily from a chair near the hearth, his hair sticking up in every direction, before tucking his head back down into his arms. A couple of the others grunted goodnights that barely broke the hush.

You just lifted a hand vaguely in return, your movements slow and loose with tiredness. Everything felt a little heavier now—the soles of your boots, the swing of your cloak, even the smile ghosting across your mouth.

Your body found the stairs. Your body found the hall. Your body found the door.

You weren't even sure you turned the latch properly. Didn't care.

Your room welcomed you with the faint scent of lavender and the soft rumpled shape of Lady curled on the bed. She thumped her tail twice in greeting, then tucked her nose back beneath her paw, trusting you to follow.

You kicked off your boots clumsily. Dragged your cloak over your head. Half-fell onto the mattress with a huff.

The warmth of the room folded around you—the fuzzy, honey-thick kind of sleep that came not from exhaustion, but from peace. From safety. From laughing too hard in a smoky tavern and walking home under stars that didn't seem so far away tonight.

You smiled faintly into the pillow, your limbs already boneless, your thoughts too soft to hold onto.

And just like that—

You slipped under.

Warm. Safe. Drunk on more than just wine.

And for once, you didn't dream.

A/N: ya girl almost done with this school year's semester 😩😩also i try not to respond to questions cuz i know if im not cognitive/too exicted imma end up spoiling stuff, but yeah, guys thats why i just be reading comments like 👀 cuz a lot of yalls questions i see make me fangirl cuz im like "OMG THEY COOKIN 🗣️" due to it ending up being answered like 2-4 chappies later 😭😭😭 i love y'all fr, it's like a big book club fr 😩 but yeash, anyways hope you guys enjoyed this chappie~ should be able to update tmr (day-off) ❤️❤️

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winxanity-ii · 5 days ago

Text

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

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

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: [email protected] | 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 · 7 days ago

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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

#xani-writes: godly things drabble #x reader #epic the musical fanfic #jorge rivera herrans #the ocean saga #epic the musical x reader #greek mythology #greek gods #the odyssey #reader insert #telemachus #godly things #odypen x reader #godly things odypen #odysseus of ithaca #penelope of ithaca

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winxanity-ii · 8 days ago

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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 💛)

#xani-responds: goldy things #godly things spoilers #godly things meta #my readers are psychic fr #ISEKAI FIC COMING SOON #yes reader will be a menace #yes there will be musical numbers #and yes they will hate every second of it #tele: breathes #reader: ew don’t make it a duet #they CANNOT take this world seriously #and that’s okay #gremlin reader rights #this fic will be full fanservice #like unhinged #reader will try to gaslight the gods #does it work? not really #but the effort’s there #lowkey cursed #highkey iconic #i’ve been planning this for SO LONG #when i say reader is genre-aware i mean like #they know the fanfic tropes #and they are FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIFE #musical numbers are a magical disease #and reader caught it #“this isn’t an AU it’s a cry for help”#i’m gonna have so much fun writing this #i can’t wait i’m unwell #save me from myself

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winxanity-ii · 9 days ago

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@k-nayee

📝COMMISSION ME!

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winxanity-ii · 9 days ago

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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)

#xani-rambles #writing community #fanfiction writers #this is my villain origin story actually #the audacity of some of yall #do you know what goes into writing??#blood sweat tears trauma coffee and delusion #not a prompt generator this is my soul #AI discourse #pls stop feeding ppls fics to the robot overlords #writing is not content it is creation #feeling very icky and violated rn #protect fanfic authors 2025 #unlocked a new fear thanks #gonna cry into my doc now

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winxanity-ii · 10 days ago

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⌜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 · 10 days ago

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

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

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)

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winxanity-ii · 12 days ago

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

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

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 😭😩❤️)

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winxanity-ii · 12 days ago

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

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

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 😭

also i've been blessed with more fanart, hehehe ❤️❤️❤️ (email: [email protected] | 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.

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