Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sea had quieted, but the silence was worse than the screams. Odysseus stood at the edge of the cliff and watched his men return to the ships, the name he’d hurled still echoing across the waves: “Odysseus of Ithaca!”

 The Cyclops’s roars had faded, but something older stirred beneath the water now. 

And Athena stood behind him still under the cave's shadow, arms crossed, lips thin. She had watched the whole thing in silence. She had warned him. 

“Odysseus.” she started. No response.

She pulled him into Quick Thought and the air stilled and they were surrounded by blue once again.

“You fool,” she said at last, quiet as a crack of thunder.

He turned, eyes red-rimmed. “Don’t.”

“You should have killed him,” she said. “You were reckless. I told you—”

“My friend is dead.” Odysseus snapped. “And you just watched, and then you just- just tell me to kill again. I’m just a pawn to you aren’t i? Just another mortal you use for unnecessary bloodshed?”

“I don’t act without purpose, Odysseus. I am not Ares.”

Athena’s jaw tightened. She had seen the Cyclops’s lineage long before they entered the cave. She had warned Odysseus, urgently, silently, with every ounce of divine instinct: “ kill him. He’s still a threat. don’t speak, leave no name .” But grief had made Odysseus proud. Grief had made him reckless. “I told you not to speak your name.”

He laughed—a bitter, hoarse sound. “That’s what’s important to you? He killed Polites. My oldest friend. You watched it happen.”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t realise that that one mistake would cost him five hundred of his men and an extra nine years from home.

“I was not meant to stop it.”

“You don't get to say that!” he exploded. “You watched him die and you said nothing . And then what? Kill the Cyclops and sneak away like a coward? I’m just a man, Athena. I grieved- I am grieving! But you’re too prideful to understand that. All you Gods are-”

Athena’s silence was a scream. Because she had loved once and watched that love die in her arms, blade through her chest with her spear. Because when she showed love, they would die. When she stayed too long without caution, they became myths carved into tombs. “Odysseus,” she said, quieter now. “You do not know what you’ve done.”

“I blinded a monster.”

“And you reveal your name and kingdom to him. And then you let him live to tell the world to. Do you think they will not avenge him? That you did not just invite the sea to swallow you whole for your actions? I told you to kill him. To leave. You didn’t trust me.”

“I trusted you my whole life! ” His voice cracked again, raw as a wound. “Since I was a boy. Since I killed your damned boar, and you trained me with your own hands. I followed your voice into war. I listened even when it cost me everything . And now you blame me for what happened?”

“I blame you for not listening when it mattered most.”

“I was grieving!” he shouted. “You don’t know what that feels like. You don’t feel . You’re just—just this voice that only shows up when it’s convenient, and then vanishes when the blood hits the ground.”

She flinched. Not visibly, not to him. But somewhere deep inside, something cracked again. Pallas’s blood on her hands, her father’s voice in her ear: Love is weakness, Athena. You were born for war, not tenderness. The spear slipped from her hand, Pallas falling. 

“I am a Goddess but that does not make me heartless.” she whispered.

Odysseus didn’t hear her. Or wouldn’t. “I needed you,” he said. “I needed you when Polites died. And you were silent. Why do you always wait until it’s too late and leave me to clean up the blood?”

“I warned you the only way I could. I can only intervene so much when it comes to these battles as a Goddess, Odysseus.” she said, but the words didn’t reach him.

“No. You’re just selfish.”

They stared at each other and the wind knowingly picked up, but it couldn’t lift the weight in the air. Something ancient and sacred had shattered between them.

Athena turned first. And only the Fates knew that if she stayed, she’d never leave.

He took a step forward. “That’s it? You’re walking away?”

“I already stayed too long,” she said.

“You owe me more than that,” he said, voice low. “You owe me more than riddles and warnings and walking away when I get too close.”

And she wanted— Fates , she wanted—to reach out and say “ yes, I do .” To place her hand on top of his head like she used to when he was younger, smaller, full of questions and blind trust. But she saw now what he had become. A man forged in fire and fury and the brutality of war. A man she could no longer protect. 

But she was drowning and so she could not speak. 

..

“So that’s it?” His fists trembled. “You’re too scared to care anymore? Too prideful? You’re just going to leave? After everything?”

“I’ve cared more than I should.” And then the glass beneath them cracked.

“This- this is just like you. I should’ve known this would happen soon enough. Why should I be surprised?”

“Odysseus.”

“Fine! Leave. You’ll get what you want. I won’t waste your time and you won’t plague my life and whisper into my ear like it’s supposed to mean something. I should’ve known I never meant as much to you as I wanted-”

“You went against my order. You aren’t looking for a mentor, nor my advice. You don’t need me to guide you anymore. Is that right?”

“No! Why don’t you get it!?” And by now, his words carried more emotion than logic. It was a wound lashing out, not a verdict.

She turned to look at him again. They stood before each other and spat out venom, but no one would win. Only a battlefield of a boy’s fury and a goddess’s quiet regret. She looked at him, truly looked, and saw the lines of grief that had clawed their way into his face. He was no longer the boy who clung onto her hem, who would get away with holding onto her arm, who asked for her advice for the girl he loved, who wept in front of her the night before he was crowned king. 

No. No, he was a man now. One who had learned to hate and one she could not protect.

“Your heart is cold. You fight and whisper wisdom to be known, like the rest of them.” 

Athena didn't have an answer or retort only a handful amount of times throughout her eternal life. And this one was another. Because there were no words for a wound that was cut straight and twisted through her heart and pride.

But he didn’t stop. “That's why you’re alone. You always have been, that’s why you always refused to let me in. And that’s why you’re leaving now. You don't care!"

"You're alone,  Athena! Do you hear me? You're alone!"

And that’s what made her body go cold. For a heartbeat, she wanted to scream at him. But he was right, wasn’t he? Because she couldn’t hold those she loved without breaking them. She couldn’t save them from what terrible fate would take them away from her because she had dared to choose her heart. Because her love for Pallas had killed her. And so she swore to herself to never bound her soul to another again. But then a fourteen year old boy barged into her life and by the time she tried, it was too late. She loved and now she couldn’t save him from her.

But she didn’t say any of that. Because it wouldn’t undo the hate he holds like a dagger now. It wouldn’t erase the words they both had said. And it wouldn’t bring his friend back, nor would it bring him home.

The glass cracked again.

“..You were right.”

“What?”

“But you’re just a man, Odysseus. One day, you’ll hear what I’m saying. Perhaps you’ll understand. But I have nothing else to give you. I hope you make it back home.”

And she turned from him again and in a blink they were back on the island. 

For once, Odysseus didn’t say anything else. He didn’t bite or bark words back. Athena couldn’t tell if it was from realization and regret, or the opposite. Maybe now, after all these years, he finally learnt to resent her. And now, maybe he wants her to leave.

“..Athena-”

“Goodbye, Odysseus.” She cut him off before he could convince her to stay, if he even wanted her to. Because deep down, she knew that all it took was two words, and she would’ve forgotten she ever wanted to walk away. “ Please stay.”

But he didn’t call after her. That was what broke her the most. Not his screams, not his fury- She deserved that- but his silence. Like she had already become a memory.

She heard him grunt, then his footsteps. And still, she waited. For him to yell, to come back, to blame her again. But he did none of it. He simply walked away with his head bowed and with eyes of hatred and he didn’t look back. 

Was this the same curse Orpheus was doomed to? To one day, finally look back, only to be met with a crueller fate than he started with?

But Athena stood right where he left her, she looked down on him from the stars she once guided him by. She could send storms to drown his ships. She could scream and tear the sky down. She could drag him to his knees and demand he understood.

But instead, she let him walk. And she could only do so much as to watch and let him. A pathetically limited action she could do that made her feel impossibly hopeless.

Chapter Text

The ship creaked beneath his feet like it was grieving too. Odysseus stepped onto the deck as if the world had tilted, like the wood no longer remembered the shape of his stride. No one looked at him. No one spoke. They were waiting for orders. For strength. For their leader.

He had none to give.

He walked past them all, his face unreadable, and sat at the very edge of the ship where the sea sprayed up in fine salt needles. He didn’t shake. He didn’t cry. He sat still, like if he moved too fast, the cracks inside him might split all the way through.

He looked at the horizon, but all he saw was her— Athena . Not the goddess. Not the warrior. But the one who taught him how to steady his grip when he first held a sword. The one who whispered into his dreams during Troy. The one who once caught him, gently, by the wrist and said, “Think before you strike.”

He hadn't thought.

He had spoken his name to the wind like it was a banner. Odysseus of Ithaca. Spoken it not for justice, not for strategy, but because grief had curdled into pride and he didn’t know how else to scream.

He could still hear her voice. Not angry, not divine. Just tired. "I’ve cared more than I should." It haunted him worse than any curse.

He clenched his fists and stared down at his palms like the answers might be there. But all he saw were calluses and blood. Not Polites’s. Not hers. Just his own. And it felt heavier than any shield he’d ever carried.

Why didn’t he listen?

He could’ve stopped it. Could’ve left the cave with his name unspoken, the Cyclops dead and the sea quiet. But he’d wanted to be known. He’d wanted the monster to know who took his eye, as if that would bring Polites back. As if naming himself would fill the void his death left behind.

And now he had nothing.

No Polites. No Athena. Just the sea and the crew who no longer looked at him the same.

He glanced behind him, saw the way they spoke in murmurs. 

He thought of calling out to her. Athena. Whispering her name into the wind like a prayer. But he knew better. She wouldn’t answer. Not now. Not after that goodbye.

And gods, he had hated her at that moment. Hated the way she said “goodbye” like it was a decision. Like she had planned it. Like she was always waiting for a reason to leave.

But now all he felt was the emptiness her absence left behind. Like a hole carved into his ribs in the shape of her heart.

"..Captain," Eurylochus called quietly behind him. "What are our orders?"

He didn’t answer at first. He stared out at the waves, and for the first time in years, he didn’t know the next move.

He wanted to say “ I don’t know.” He wanted to say “ She’s gone and I don’t know how to do this without her.” But what came out was, “We sail.”

“To where?”

He didn’t look back. “Home.”

Even as the word left his mouth, it felt hollow. What was home now? Ithaca was a distant shore. His crew was half ghosts. And Athena—Athena was silent. And still, he had to lead.

Because he had no god left to follow.

Only the shadow of one who once loved him like a son.

She didn’t follow the ship. Not exactly.

She stood on the cliffside, half-shadowed by the wings of storm clouds, half-bathed in the fading light of a sun that couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay. The sea was calm now—too calm. It only ever grew still like this when something bigger waited beneath it. She knew Polyphemus would return to his father for revenge. She had felt Odysseus’s fate ripple through the god’s domain the moment Odysseus cried it out, pride-laced and grief-stained. She had known what would follow. That’s why she told him to stay silent. Why she begged without begging. Kill the Cyclops. Leave no name. Walk away.

But he hadn’t.

She could see the ship from here—Odysseus was there, somewhere on that deck, shoulders hunched, eyes cast toward a home he couldn’t yet reach. And she hated how well she knew the way he’d be standing. Both hands clenching the wooden railing and leaning over it with his head tilted down, like he was afraid the wind might catch on his shame.

He was angry. Of course he was. He thought she abandoned him. Thought she was cold, detached, cruel. That was easier to believe. Easier than the truth—that she had loved him. Not as a pawn. Not as a project. But as the closest thing she ever allowed herself to claim as her own.

And she had let him go.

Because that was what the gods did when mortals grew too close. They stepped back before they broke them.

She remembered the first time she found him, a boy of fourteen with eyes too sharp for his age and hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. He had held a blade like it could answer every question. He had clung to her voice like a lifeline. Back then, she thought she could shape him into something brilliant without getting attached. A perfect mortal. A legacy. A prodigy.

But then he laughed. Then he wept. Then he asked her questions like “ Do you ever get scared?” and “ Do gods need to eat? I made this for you!” and “Can you reach those for me?”

She hadn’t known what to say.

And she still didn’t.

She watched the ship push forward. Watched the sails catch what little wind remained. She could feel his pain from here—raw, confused, full of that same desperate longing that had once sat on her chest the night Pallas died.

She’d never spoken of Pallas to Odysseus. Never would. He wouldn’t understand what it meant to love and be told “ Don’t .” To kill the one you loved because your father said she was making you soft. Zeus hadn’t needed to strike her down himself. He only needed to plant the distraction. And Athena had done the rest with her own hand.

She’d sworn she wouldn’t let herself feel again.

Then came Odysseus.

And now she was breaking that promise again—silently, like all her worst betrayals.

A seagull screamed overhead. The wind changed.

She knew what came next.

Poseidon would rise. The sea he loved would turn its back on Odysseus.

She should go. She should vanish into mist and silence like she always did. She should turn her back and remind herself this was necessary. That mortals break. That gods survive.

But she didn’t move.

She watched until the sails vanished. She only left when Selene made eye contact with her from the sky.

Chapter Text

Athena walked through the divine halls and pillars of Olympus. She walked with her back straight, her expression schooled that it reflected nothing. Olympus was always too bright when she came from the mortal world. The lights, the statues, the chattering, the people. It was torture trying to get back to her temple.

“..Yikess.. That did not look good down there, sister,” came a familiar voice, far too chippy for the atmosphere she carried around her.

Athena didn’t look up, “Hermes.” 

The God giggled as he matched her pace midair with his arms tucked behind his head like he was lounging through the air, which he was. “That one was rough, huh? One second he was gouging that Cyclops’s eye out, then the next he’s yelling at you like a lunatic. Him yelling at you? Never thought you’d let that happen, from a mortal of all people! Classic dramatic mortal exit.”

She didn’t stop walking, because if she did, he’d see how much it really hurt. And Athena didn’t hurt. She doesn’t feel. He thought that. The rest of Olympus did too. “Leave it alone, Hermes.” She said after a beat. She didn’t look at him.

They walked— she walked, he flew— through a more secluded garden, hushed and hidden from other passing Gods. It was the pathway that Athena preferred when walking back to her Temple. It was quieter and no one would stare. Except, of course, for Hermes. Apparently. 

He whistled as he peeled an orange. “Ooh you’re actually mad. You used to brag about him nonstop- Odysseus this and that- Got kind of annoying, even for me! Soo.. no more golden mortal boy for you then, I assume?” 

She stopped.

Hermes nearly tripped over air as he paused with her and dropped the fruit in his hand.

“Another word from you and I’ll slit your damned tongue from your mouth. Do not mock this. Have some aidos, you fool.” Her words and eyes were ice, but the strain and subtle crack in her voice betrayed her centuries-maintained composure.

Hermes floated backwards in front of her, his grin faltered slightly and his eyebrows furrowed. And he looked at his sister. The way her jaw was locked way too tightly, the way she held her breath like she’d sob if she didn’t, the way her fingers twitched at her side, like they were searching for something to hold that wasn’t there.

He’d seen her walk off battlefields with blood in her teeth and pride in her voice. He’d never seen her like this before. No one was supposed to. Because she shouldn’t be like this.

He held his hands up, his smile gone. “..Sorry,” his voice was oddly softer now. “Not a good time, huh? I didn’t mean to-”

“I told you to leave it, Hermes.” Her eyes went back to the path ahead. But her throat bobbled too often for Hermes’s comfort.

Athena swallowed the knot in her throat. Gods weren’t supposed to feel regret. That was a mortal aspect. The Gods were supposed to be better. And yet it stuck inside her, bitter and sour and real. She had left him. Because she had to. Because Zeus had told her that attachment was weakness. But leaving him now didn’t feel anything like strength. It felt like failure.

Hermes opened his mouth, then for once, closed it again. Silence fell between them. He shifted awkwardly, the wings on his ankles twitched with restlessness and unease.

“You know.. I’ve never stood this still in three centuries.”

“Leave, Hermes.” 

“Yup, I’m already gone.”

Athena didn’t need to turn to know that Hermes had left already. The gush of air and the small, white feather he left behind was all the assurance she needed. And so she made her way home. 

At least her palace was silent.

Not the holy kind of silence — not the worshipful hush of temples or the reverent quiet of scholars turning pages. No. This was the kind of silence that echoed. That ached . The kind that pressed against your ears until your own heartbeat was too loud to bear.

Athena stood at the threshold for a long time, eyes glazed, unmoving. Her hand rested on the door’s edge like she wasn’t sure whether to enter or collapse. The marble gleamed, flawless as always. Every line was precise. Every statue stood upright. Every spear displayed. Every victory written. Everything exactly where it should be.

And she hated it. She couldn't bear it.

She stepped inside, and the air felt wrong. Too still. Too cold. It smelled like dust and perfection, like nothing had lived inside. She crossed the room slowly, like a stranger in her own house, until she reached the inner sanctum. Her sanctuary. The place no one dared to enter.

And then she shattered. Slowly.

She stood in the center of it all, too still for too long. And then suddenly her body wasn’t her own, it acted without her initial thought, quicker than she could stop herself. Her spear clattered to the ground, her helmet followed and was thrown across the room like it had burned her, like she wanted it gone. 

Maybe she wanted all of it gone. The war, the wisdom, the centuries of being composed and controlled. 

It still wasn’t enough. So her armor was thrown and split the marble when it landed.

And by the end of it, she was heaving. Her breath hitched and she staggered back a step as if the air itself tried to strike her. She gripped a nearby pillar before it cracked under her hands. And she didn’t even think when she slammed her fist into it. 

Your heart is cold. You don’t care. You don’t feel.

And to think he thought it was just like her to be that way?

Once. Twice. Again. Until the cracked webbed out like spider legs through the marble and stone, until her knuckles bled in gold and stone dust clung onto her palms. She could tear the whole temple down if she wanted to. And Fates, part of her wanted to.

“You damned mortal. You koalemos boy.” She shouted to the silence, and her voice echoed and yelled right back at her. And the sound of her own voice horrified her.

Athena didn’t cry. Athena didn’t break.

But she was.

She dropped to her knees in the middle of the room. And her hands trembled and her eyes burnt. She was trying to protect him. That was all. That’s all she’s been trying to do for the past two decades. 

He was supposed to trust her.

But he hadn’t. Because she had taught him not to. Because she had kept him at a distance — always the voice, never the hand. Always the warning, never the warmth. And when he begged for closeness, she gave him prophecy. When he needed a mother, she gave him war.

And she left before she could watch him fall. And that wasn’t protection. Nor was it love. 

Her shoulders shook. Her breath hitched.

She remembered him at fourteen — bright-eyed, dirty, trying so hard to be brave. He had called her ‘ Owl-thena’ once, with a grin too wide for his face, and she had barked at him to be serious and stop being so foolish. But later that night, she watched and guarded him in his sleep and whispered into his sleep, “ you’re cleverer than you look, little owl. ” He always knew when she was near, even when no one else could, even when he himself couldn’t see her. He had smiled in his sleep that night. 

Now she’d never see that smile again.

And it was her fault.

Her hands curled into fists. Ichor welled from where her nails bit into her palms, and she let it drip onto the stone. Maybe it would count as a sacrifice. Maybe it meant she still felt something. Maybe that made her less of a god and more of something else — something broken. Something like a person, one that Odysseus had needed instead of herself. 

“Why did I care?” she whispered. “Why did I let myself care again?”

But she never stopped. Not after Pallas. Not really. She just buried it deeper. She buried him deeper. Until he forced it back to the surface.

She pressed the heel of her palm against her mouth as if it could trap the sob inside, contain it like everything else she had buried across millenia. But her cries came anyway. It came like grief that had waited too long to be named. She bowed forward, forehead against the cold floor and cried.

She had chosen him. She had loved him.

And now she had to live with the fact that her silence, her act of indifference and carelessness , had driven him into Poseidon’s grasp. That he’d think she never truly loved him. That he’d carry that weight through storms and death and ruin.

He would curse her name.

And she would answer with silence.

Chapter Text

The silence returned, but it was different now.

Not the cold, statuesque silence she wore like armor. This one was raw. Wet. Breathing. The kind of silence that feels alive in a room — like it was staring at her, waiting for her to admit what she did.

Athena remained on the floor, arms wrapped around herself like a soldier trying not to bleed out. Her hair hung loose from its braids, falling over her face in dark, tangled waves. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked this human. And she hated it.

All around her, the temple lay in ruin. Shards of amphorae littered the floor like teeth. Her armor left neglected on the floor, her own ichor had dripped on it. And her spear leaned crooked against the wall, its tip bent from where she’d driven it into the stone and left it trembling.

Her hands were still bleeding.

She stared at them, watching the cold well in her palms. It didn’t drip so much as her hand had trembled , like her body couldn’t decide whether to feel or freeze. The crescent marks from her own nails were deep. Deeper than she meant to go. But she didn’t move. Didn’t bandage them. Didn’t heal.

What was the point?

She wasn’t mortal. She wasn’t supposed to break. Her skin could knit itself whole with a single breath, and yet… she didn’t. She let it sting.

Maybe pain was the only thing she had left that wasn’t divine.

Maybe this was the closest she could come to consequence.

Her fingers flexed. The cuts stung. And she didn’t flinch.

This was the cost of control, wasn’t it? Holding it all in until it splintered. She had done this. She let herself love him. Dared to let herself hope that this time, it would be different. That this mortal wouldn’t be torn from her like Pallas.

That maybe, she could protect him. Not as a general protects a soldier. But something closer. And it made her soft. 

She wasn’t made to be soft. 

The blood on her hands mocked her.

She leaned back against the pillar like a defeated animal, knees were pulled up and her arms loosely wrapped around her stomach. Her arm guards lay somewhere across the room, tossed during the frenzy. She didn’t remember doing it. Didn’t remember the way she yelled and cried like it could pull him back to her. 

But her guilt wouldn’t purify her actions. It was already written in her story and no amount of tears could undo what she had stained. 

She shut her eyes.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to return to Ithaca as a legend. Crowned in stories, blessed by her favor, a monument to her wisdom and care. She had built him like a blade. Forged, tempered, sharpened. But she forgot that blades cut both ways when held too tight and pushed too far. And now all her careful distance, all her strategies, all her choices.

Had all led him to curse her name with his back turned.

The sound of something dripping echoed faintly — oil from the ruined lamp discarded somewhere in the room, or her own blood slipping onto marble. She couldn’t tell.

She felt it all pressing in now. The weight of history. Of memory. Of guilt. Her skin crawled with it. Her bones ached with it. She wanted to scream again — but not in rage. In grief . A grief she had no language for. No hymns. No prayers.

Only silence.

Her eyes burned. She covered her face with her bloodied hands, and this time, she didn’t stop the sob that broke through.

It was small. Choked. But it was real .

And in the wreckage of her perfect temple, Athena cried and she did not feel like a Goddess then. 

Hermes heard it before he saw it.

The crash echoed down the marble colonnade like thunder that didn’t belong in the sky. The sharp, ugly shatter of ceramic. Something heavy slamming into stone. And beneath it all, a sound Hermes had never associated with Athena — shouting. Was she shouting?

He slowed mid-flight.

That… couldn’t be right.

Athena never raised her voice like that. Athena didn’t lose control . She was the immovable wall, the war-forged calm, the reason mortals trembled before decisions. If she was yelling — if something broke — it was usually outside her temple, not within it.

He hovered in the courtyard outside her palace for a while, brow furrowed. He couldn’t tell if he should go in or not even though it had been minutes of silence.

More sounds came — not sharp now, but soft. Repeating. Like pacing. Or… weeping? But at least the shouts and crashes had stopped.

“Nah,” he muttered, trying to shake the chill creeping down his spine. “Not her. She probably knocked over a statue. Or three. Or maybe she’s just arguing with herself in twelve dialects again.”

Still, he cautiously opened the door and peeked his head through, calling out lightly, “Hey, Athena? You in there? Did you throw a philosopher through a wall or someth—”

He paused.

The moment he stepped inside, the air changed.

It felt wrong .

The kind of wrong that gods rarely experienced — not chaos or war or anger — but that thick, wet stillness that comes after someone has completely fallen apart.

And then he saw it.

The main hall was in ruins. Athena’s sacred temple — her perfectly ordered, meticulously symmetrical home — looked like it had been torn apart from the inside . Broken urns littered the floor in jagged constellations. Her armor scattered on the floor from when she ripped it off of her. Her spear was embedded in the wall like she’d thrown it with the strength of a dying star.

And in the center of it all, slumped with her back against a cracked pillar like something that had once been whole was Athena.

Hermes froze.

He’d never seen her like this.

She sat on the cold floor, legs folded awkwardly pulled up in front of her like she’d collapsed there. Her auburn hair was loose, spilling across her shoulders like a storm cloud unbraided. He hardly even saw her without her helmet, let alone her hair loose. Her armor was scattered, her gauntlets somewhere behind her. And her hands—

Hermes’s breath hitched.

Her hands were covered in divine blood. Her own.

She didn’t look up when he entered. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. Her fingers pressed against her lips, her eyes red-rimmed, but dry now, like she’d run out of tears before he arrived.

For the first time in centuries, Hermes didn’t know what to say.

“...Athena?” he said softly, stepping forward like he might spook her.

No answer.

He glanced around again — the destruction, the silence, the stillness of her — and everything inside him twisted. “I thought you were just— I didn’t realize—”

“I thought I told you to leave it,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, nothing like the Athena he knew. It cracked on the last word like something fragile beneath armor.

He nodded, almost whispered, “Okay. Yeah. I know.”

He didn’t tease. He didn’t grin. He just stood there for a moment, wings still, mouth drawn in a line.

And then, gently, slowly, he crossed the room. He didn’t touch her — wouldn’t dare — but he sat a short distance away, enough to give her space. Yet also enough to let her not be alone if she didn’t want to be.

“I thought he was just another mortal to you,” Hermes said quietly after a long silence. “The way you talked about him. Always with that smug little tilt in your voice. I thought it was pride. I didn’t think you.. Cared.”

And that was always the problem, wasn’t it? She doesn’t care. She doesn’t feel. Zeus ensured that that’s what everyone knew. But she cared, and she felt so deeply that she sat shattered the way she was now.

Another silence. This one felt heavier. She didn’t reply. If she was thought to be careless, the way she had been for millennia, then let it be thought.

"..You shouldn't be here, Hermes." No one should see her like this at all.

And yet, Hermes stayed. 

The silence had thickened into something sacred.

Hermes hadn’t moved in minutes. He sat quietly, respectfully distant but undeniably there . No jokes, no winged antics. Just stillness. And Athena… sat beside him like a crumbled statue, the divine equivalent of bone and breath and memory all trying to pretend they weren't unraveling.

She didn’t speak. But her mind was loud.

Her eyes were open, but they weren’t seeing the wreckage anymore. Not the broken altar, not the scattered scrolls, not the blood still drying in the cracks of her hands.

She was seeing him.

Years ago.

Odysseus at fourteen, with half-limbs and untamed curiosity, eyes too big for his face, questions tumbling out of his mouth like water from a cracked jug. He had followed her everywhere in those early days, barefoot and relentless, constantly tugging at the edge of her cloak with questions about war, philosophy, stars, gods, right, wrong, death, life.

She had found it… irritating, at first. But she answered, she never dismissed a curious mind.

But then she found it endearing.

Then dangerous.

She remembered the first time he saw her in a battle — not illusion, not disguise, but her true form, helm gleaming and wings flared and shield burning with Gorgon light. He’d looked at her with such awe and fear that she nearly faltered. Not because he saw her power, but because she saw herself through his eyes , and it scared her because he wasn’t scared. He didn’t call her a monster the way everyone else did.

And then, afterward, he’d said, in that voice still not quite finished growing— “You’re not scary. Just sad and lonely so you try to look scary.”

She had nearly smote him on the spot.

But he wasn’t wrong.

She remembered a simpler moment, now. One that snuck up like a dream.

He had fallen asleep in the shadow of her statue, dusty scrolls curled beneath his head like a pillow. He was seventeen and had worked himself into exhaustion from the relentless demands of his kingdom. The summer air was thick with bees and distant lyres, and for a single breath, she let herself sit beside him. Not as a goddess. Not as a guardian.

Just… there.

She had brushed a strand of hair from his face. Let her hand linger.

And whispered, so low even she almost didn’t hear it: “You will make it far, young king. I’ll make sure of it.”

But of course, he hadn’t heard.

He never knew.

And now he never would.

Back in the ruined temple, Athena blinked — slow, stinging. Her chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with blades or breath. It was that old, deep, aching ache , the kind that started with Pallas and never really ended. Just shifted names.

Pallas. Then Odysseus.

Two people she should’ve protected.

Two people she had failed.

“I remember when he couldn’t fall asleep unless he heard my voice,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Even in war. Even in tents soaked with blood. He’d lie there with his eyes wide open, always paranoid, until I whispered something — anything— and then he’d sleep like a child.”

Hermes turned his head toward her slowly.

Athena stared down at her hands, flexing them like she still couldn’t believe they were hers. “And then he stopped needing me. Bit by bit. Like water carving through stone. He started calling me only when he wanted answers. Not comfort. Not closeness.”

Her voice cracked like a floorboard splitting.

“And I let him.”

Hermes didn’t interrupt.

“I told myself I was keeping him safe by staying distant,” she said. “I told myself I could guide him better if I didn’t love him so much.”

She looked up now. Met Hermes’s gaze. Her eyes were not divine in that moment. They were the eyes of someone mourning the shape of what could’ve been.

“But I did love him. More than I should. More than Olympus ever allowed. I loved him like—” She choked. Swallowed. “Like he was mine.”

Hermes’s brows pulled together. Soft. Sincere.

“He was, wasn’t he?” he said.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

The memory faded from her mind like smoke curling out of a blown-out flame. She was back in the temple again. With her blood. With her silence. With the hollow space where he used to fit.

And for the first time in her immortal life, Athena didn’t feel wise.

She just felt lost .

…

The stillness in the temple had shifted, again.

The silence now was tired, like the breath after sobbing, like the hush that follows a storm when all that’s left is the mess.

Athena hadn’t moved from the floor. But Hermes did, always moving.

He stood slowly, wings flicking off marble dust. He looked around the wreckage with an almost cautious expression, like he wasn’t sure if she’d snap again — throw a spear at his chest or vanish in a plume of righteous shame.

But she didn’t.

She just sat there, hollow-eyed, arms draped over her knees, gaze locked on nothing. 

So, without a word, he knelt down and picked up her arm guards and kept them on a table that rested against the wall and somehow managed to survive amongst all the other damage from Athena’s accidental wrath. Then he lifted broken pieces of ceramics and marble off the floor with a glow of his hand.

He didn’t say anything clever. He didn’t ask for instructions.

He just helped.

Athena blinked slowly, eyes tracking his movement like she couldn’t quite believe it. “What are you doing?” she murmured.

Hermes didn’t look at her. “Helping.”

She scoffed, or tried to. “You don’t help anyone unless it benefits you. And you’re walking.”

He shot her a crooked smile, but it was soft around the edges. “Yeah. That’s how you know this is serious.”

She said nothing.

He kept working, picking up a broken oil lamp with both hands like it was something sacred. He set it down gently near the entrance, then wiped his palms clean on his robes. “You really trashed the place,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“Gods don’t usually… do this.”

“I’m not in the mood for philosophy, Hermes.”

He glanced at her, then walked over slowly — cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. He knelt in front of her and held out his hand.

She looked at it like it was a weapon.

“I can’t.. fix everything,” he said. “But your hands. They should be cleaned.”

“I can heal myself.”

“Hm, but you haven’t for whatever reason.”

She stared at him like he accused her of something she knew she was guilty for.

Then, almost against her will, she lifted one of her bloodied hands into his. It felt unnatural — wrong — to be held like this. Cared for. But he didn’t flinch. He just summoned a soft cloth and a shallow basin of water with a whisper of divine will.

And then, gently, he began to clean the dried blood from her skin.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t mock. He just… helped. In silence. Like a brother should have.

“I didn’t think you’d help. Or even stay and observe the aftermath of my tantrum,” she whispered after a while.

“Yeah,” he said, still focused on her hand, “I get that a lot.”

The silence between them settled again — not heavy this time, but tired . Shared. Real.

He moved on to the other hand. Her knuckles were torn, her nail beds bruised and her palms skin was fresh. The water in the basin turned rust-red.

“I used to envy you, you know,” he said suddenly, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “The way you always knew who you were. What you stood for. I didn’t think gods like you could… break.”

Athena stared at the wall. “Neither did I.”

He rinsed the cloth, then looked up at her with uncharacteristic seriousness. “It’s okay to, though. At least you’re still more composed than Aphrodite,” he paused and his gaze faltered, “then again, Aphrodite doesn’t spiral over.. actual serious stuff. Or do- do.. this.” He winced like he was the one injured.

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.

Hermes set the bloodied water aside and leaned back on his hands beside her. The floor was cold. The room was still half-destroyed. But in this moment, it felt… survivable.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, after a pause.

She turned her head toward him, brows faintly drawn. “For what?”

“For teasing you earlier. For not realizing it wasn’t just… another mortal champion. . ”

Athena looked at her clean hands.. At the mess still around her. And for the first time since the temple shattered, she felt something that wasn’t grief or pain.

It wasn’t peace. Not yet.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Hermes nodded once, then bumped her shoulder with his own — a little too rough, a little too brotherly — but it made her lips twitch.

A flicker. Not a smile. But it was close enough.

Chapter Text

It was simple, really. 

Don’t open the windbag. Odysseus was instructed that by Aeolus, and he had instructed the same to his men

But, as people are, his men got curious, as Pandora had when she opened the box. 

Odysseus spent nine days and eight nights awake with his hands clutching the bag and guarded it with all his might. That also meant eleven days since he last saw Athena .

The sea had stilled to a glassy hush, the kind of calm that sings lullabies in the bones of the tired men. After days of endless sailing and salt-scoured hope, the crew of Odysseus—bloodied and sunburnt—believed they had finally earned peace. Ithaca lay just beyond the horizon, a ghost of home they could almost taste. The sun dipped low, honeyed and golden, drenching the deck in warmth. Laughter returned in shy echoes. Even the oars creaked like old friends.

Tethered tightly beneath the mast, the leather bag from Aeolus pulsed gently. No one touched it. Not while Odysseus watched with that unreadable weight behind his eyes, guarding the prize like a lion guards its last cub.

But now after nights of restlessness and ache, he slept. And he dreamt of the home he had almost reached. 

For the first time in days, his breaths were even. A rare mercy. The shadows on his face softened in sleep, the constant furrow between his brows undone.

And as moonlight bled across the waves, a colder wind stirred—not from the bag, but from within the hearts of his crew. Jealousy crept in like a slow leak. Whispers tangled with the rigging: "Why does he keep it from us?"   and "Gold, maybe. Or treasures of the gods." and "He doesn’t trust us."

Curiosity turned teeth-sharp. Greed prickled like splinters. A hand reached. The knot on the bag that was once held firm unleashed.

The wind changed.

It didn’t shift — it snapped . Like a rope pulled taut too fast, a gut-punch of sudden momentum that made the entire ship lurch sideways. The sails groaned. The ropes screamed. And Odysseus, jolted from a restless half-sleep, stumbled to his feet with his hand already on his sword.

“What did you do? Who did this?! ” he barked.

The windbag. The one Aeolus gave him. Bound tight with sacred cords. Wind sealed like a god’s breath in a bottle. It was supposed to bring them home. But now, Odysseus, through the harsh winds of the storm, watched as it dragged them away from home. 

None of his crew answered him. All were too busy clinging onto the ship in hopes of staying on it for survival, some even attempted rowing the ship to somehow stop it from rushing them away from home yet to no avail, and others in shame.

Odysseus could no longer see the land. And so his rage collapsed into disbelief.

No. No, no, why now?

They’d only just begun to hope again. The wind had favored them, the sun had burned kindly, and laughter—real, free laughter—had returned to the decks. He’d caught Perimedes humming, Eurylochus spoke of Ctimene more often with pure joy in his voice.

Why when they had been so close? Ithaca had been on the horizon. He’d tasted home in the air and the salt in the sea change. And now—?

Now the sky howled and the sea was going to swallow him anēleos.

And somewhere far above on Olympus, past storm clouds and shrieking winds, Athena watched.

She watched from the high balcony of her temple, her hands gripping the cold stone as she stared at the blue illustrations she summoned in front of her. She just wanted to keep watch, just for a while. At least till she knew he was safe from Poseidon's fury.

The storm unfolding below was not natural.

She had known this would happen. From the moment Odysseus shouted his name to the Cyclops, she had known. That that was the name the son of Poseidon had cried to his father. That was the name that the King of the Sea had cursed. And Aelous’s storm was leading Odysseus right into the wrath of the sea.

She could feel her uncle's power and rage simmering in the ocean all the way from her spot 

But she couldn’t stop it. Not fully. Odysseus had chosen pride. He had chosen to walk alone.

And still, She would not let him die.

So she aided him in the only other logical way possible. Giving him strategy.

On the ship below, lightning pierced the sky. The ocean turned black with foam, waves rising like claws. Odysseus shouted orders — tie the sails, brace the rudder, hold the line — but the wind ripped their words from their mouths. One man was already overboard. Another clung to the mast with blood on his temple.

And then, the wind that bent around him.

And a whisper — not sound, not words, but something just beneath the roar of the storm, something that wrapped around his spine like memory.

He closed his eyes. For just a second. And saw her.

Not clearly. Not truly. But he felt Athena. Felt the echo of her voice — or maybe just the ghost of it.

It stung. Like salt in a wound.

He grit his teeth, he didn’t have time for this. He needed to save his men. And coincidentally, he found a solution.

“Close the bag!” he yelled orders out once again. “Eurylochus, help me close the bag!”

“But sir- it’s too late!”

“We can save the remaining wind and put an end to the storm’s source, come on!”

And soon enough, the storm faded and their ships slowly calmed.

One moment the ship was finally calming through the waters, battered and barely floating. The next, the ocean roared , rising up in a great spiral — a tower of water that curved into the sky like a serpent ready to strike in the shape of a trident.

And then he rose.

Poseidon.

Crowned in coral and wrath, trident aglow and powered by pure anger and anger alone. The god of the sea crawled out from the waves with rage that shook the marrow of the world. The ocean bent around him. Sky and water blurred. Everything turned blue with vengeance.

Odysseus stumbled back, sword drawn out of instinct — but what blade could kill the sea?

“ODYSSEUS OF ITHACA,” Poseidon thundered. His voice split the sky. 

How in Gaia's name did the lord of the sea know his name. "..Poseidon?" And was he flipping his hair??

The ship cracked under the pressure of his presence. Men screamed. Water flooded the deck.

“You blinded my son,” Poseidon bellowed. “You carved his name into pain and shouted your own in pride. My son suffers now by your hands because you assumed mercy was a gift! And now you and your men will bleed and drown in return."

The Sea God did so much as tilt his trident and caused waves to violently crash onto the ships. 

“LORD POSEIDON! Please- my lord, we did not know-” he begged into the sky, but the wind ripped the words from his throat.

"Beg for my forgiveness. Before only the sea will remember your name."

Odysseus nearly threw himself off board, that would've been mercy.

“Lord Poseidon, we meant no harm to your son! We only wished to escape for he had killed six of my men. Forgive me, Lord, I’m begging you to choose mercy as I did with your son! Please, spare the lives of me and my men.”

"..The line between naivety and hopefulness is near invisible, mortal. It is by time you learn that ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves."

Then it began.

The waves crashed again, and one of the rear ships vanished in an instant. Just gone—swallowed like a toy into the throat of the sea. Odysseus screamed, but his voice cracked. The men aboard hadn’t even had time to shout. He could still see the look of confusion and terror on their faces before the ocean had claimed them. No struggle. No glory. Just silence.

“ROW! ROW, DAMN YOU!” he shouted, but the oars buckled under the weight of the storm. Water slammed across the deck, tearing ropes and splinters loose. Men were thrown like dolls into the sea. Odysseus saw a member on his own ship trying to grab the rigging for balance. But the next wave thrashed the ship too hard. A flash of terrified eyes, and then the white of the waves crashed over him and he fell overboard.

His men screamed his name. But he couldn’t reach them. He couldn’t save them. Arms outstretched, he saw one ship capsize completely, its hull cracking like a ribcage. The crew spilled into the water, trying to swim, to cling to planks, to each other. But something deeper pulled them under. Like the ocean itself had hands. And it did.

One by one, Odysseus watched the Fates cut the threads of 451 of his men. His soldiers, his friends. The men he had shared tents with, the men he led and kept strong through ten years of war away from home. Only to lose them to the sea. Because of a mistake.

Now all that remained was the ship he stood on. 

Odysseus dropped to his knees, choking on seawater and fury. "..What have you done..?" He whispered. To himself, to the Fates, to the Gods. He knelt at the edge of the deck, fingers pressed into soaked wood, watching the waters below writhe with bodies and broken sails. The sea was painting with their lives. The color red stained the blue. 

He could feel Eurylochus's hands gripping his shoulders, for answers, for grounding. It didn't matter. None of them could fix this.

Poseidon stood in front of him, his body casted a shadow over the ship. "Fourty three men left alive still stand by your command." The sea was darker beneath him.

"Know this, King of Ithaca. My son's pain is now endless for as long as he lives. But I take pity on you and your men." The god's voice was smooth, as if he wasn't announcing Odysseus's death in front of him. "Any last words?"

Odysseus didn't speak. He closed his eyes, his chest was heaving and his ears rang. And for a heartbeat, the storm around him seemed to dull, as though time bowed to a whisper.

It lasted only a second, but he felt it. The air changed. And within the storm’s roar, something quieter brushed his thoughts.

It wasn’t a voice. Not exactly. Just a spark—like a hand gently nudging a chess piece inside his mind. The windbag.

Odysseus’s eyes snapped open.

His crew had long since forgotten it, he had managed to hold onto it during the worst of Poseidon's anger, but now it laid on the deck like a curse no one dared to come near. Maybe it was. But suddenly, his mind burned with a clarity that didn’t feel like his own. His fingers fumbled at the reefed leather mouth of the bag before a sudden roar tore through the tempest as the imprisoned winds burst forth. 

"WHAT." Poseidon bellowed in disbelief and outrage.

Aelous swiftly materialized in the eye of the storm on her little cloud before growing larger. She gave Odysseus that cheeky grin and then blew one final time, and the wind sent Odysseus's ship away again. The winds ripping at sails and rigging in a frenzy of power.

Odysseus could nearly laugh in bewilderment and relief as the ship hurled off, hardly escaping. The ship lurched till the winds were all used up, another island came into vision.

The waves were calm again. But he knew that the sea did not forget. That they were no longer safe if the god of the sea himself wanted them dead.

But Odysseus's mind went back. Almost none of his men made it out. He hardly made it out. If it weren't for..

His heart stilled at the sudden whiplash. Great, another thing to wonder about for the next month. Months. ..Years, actually.

Athena’s presence. He shouldn’t have felt it. They had fought just days ago, right outside of Polyphemus's cave. Their voices raised like thunder, neither willing to yield. Yet there she was, slipping through the storm’s veil to guide him. 

Or perhaps he was imagining it. A desperate trick his mind played on him to fool him into believing she would even think about coming back for him. Perhaps he couldn't fathom the fact that home was months away again, that his mind was becoming deluded. 

"Captain?" Eurylochus's voice snapped Odysseus back to the ship. Odysseus looked back. He scanned the ship, the deck was soaked, his men were exhausted and some were even injured. Eurylochus himself looked like he had fought Cerberus, and lost, himself. There was something else in his voice and eyes that Odysseus hasn't exactly seen before. 

"..Yes, brother?" He was startled at how his own voice already seemed dead as well.

"The ship needs to be repaired.. If we land by the island for a while we may find food and repair the damage." 

Odysseus nodded, his eyes were distant and for a second, Eurylochus thought he hadn't understood. It went silent again for a beat before Eurylochus added, "..We're all tired, sir. The men asked to rest on the island and recover before sailing for home again."

He tensed up again. Tired. Weren't they all? And almost bitterly, he thought about how they would've been home by now. They could've been resting in the comfort of their beds with their loved ones if they had trusted him. 

..It doesn't matter. Better they remain tired than dead.

Odysseus exhaled then turned his back from Eurylochus, facing the direction of the island instead. "Alright then. Angle the sails towards the island. We can rest for a week, depending on the damage."

Eurylochus nodded then dismissed himself. 

...It's fine. They'll be home soon. 

The moment the ship vanished from Poseidon’s grasp, Athena exhaled, the image of his escaping ship in front of her turned into dust.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not the kind of relief that made her drop to her knees or cry out in joy. She just leaned forward against the marble railing of her balcony and breathed. 

The wind had worked. The bag had saved him.

She shouldn’t have intervened — not even that subtly. Now that she parted ways with Odysseus, he wasn't any of her business. She had no right interfering, especially with her uncle's so assumed revenge. But she hadn’t twisted fate. She hadn’t broken any proper written law. She’d simply… guided the wind in the right direction. 

Enough to keep him alive.

Enough to give him another chance.

But for one brief moment, Athena allowed herself a flicker of peace.

Then the sky cracked open.

The air in Olympus darkened with presence. A pressure, thick and ancient and wet with salt, pressed against the mountaintop like a tidal wave made of rage.

Athena didn’t have to turn. She knew.

Poseidon materialized behind her with the fury of a tempest. The marble beneath her feet shivered. But what was genuinely the worst part was that he smelt like fish.

“You interfered,” he spat. “I felt your presence, niece.” He addressed her like it was an insult. 

Athena stood straight. Composed again. Mask on. Her heart, already panicked, slammed back into its cage.

“I bent nothing,” she said quietly. “The bag was gifted by Aeolus. He was my student, he earned my guidance in his time of need. Ultimately, he lived by his own resources."

Poseidon’s trident hissed as he stepped forward, dragging it along the balcony rail. It left scorch-marks of steam and salt.

He was in her space now — towering, soaked with sea-foam, beard tangled with seaweed and.. wood. From the sunken ships, Athena did not doubt. His eyes blazed like the deep ocean before a shipwreck. “Do not insult me with riddles, girl. You shielded him.”

Athena’s jaw clenched. “If I had shielded him,” she said, voice low, “you wouldn’t have touched him at all.”

For a beat, neither god moved.

Poseidon’s voice dropped into something colder. Quieter.

“You used to be wiser than this,” he said.  “What’s he done to make you break your own law?”

Athena didn’t answer. She didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t cost her.

Poseidon leaned in, and his voice turned sharp. “You go for such lengths for a damned and foolish boy, Glaukopis? The boy who forgot your name the moment he tasted power?”

Her fingers curled against the railing.

“You think he’ll remember you fondly?” Poseidon sneered. “He curses you, Athena. I heard it in his voice when he dared name himself. He’s your student no longer. Just a man who believes he built himself. A man who blinded my son!”

The words landed like arrows. And Athena didn't even have it in herself to deny. She, frustratingly, couldn't decipher whether that was the truth. She breathed.

"And you drowned his men. It was not his crime alone. He had paid enough." She looked out toward the horizon, jaw stiff. “You’ve made your point, it's enough."

“I’ll make it again,” he hissed. “And again. And again. Until he’s nothing but driftwood. Until the world forgets he ever breathed.”

Athena turned now —slow, deliberate, daring— and met his eyes.

“If you try to take him again,” she said, voice steady, “you’d best pray the winds don’t change.”

Poseidon’s face twisted. He almost raised his trident again — but something in her eyes stopped him. He wasn't scared. But more, he was unbothered. He snarled, turned, and then vanished into a wave of sea mist — leaving salt crusting on her marble floor and rage echoing through the halls.

She didn’t breathe for a long time.

Then, finally, her shoulders sank. Her fingers loosened. And her eyes returned to the horizon. 

Chapter Text

Odysseus stood at the edge of the forest, just by the shore with his hand resting on his sword hilt, sweat clinging to his temples. The heat on this island pressed in like a fever. The air buzzed, heavy with flowers too bright, birds that sounded almost like women. It was.. beautiful actually. It's been three days since their encounter with Poseidon. Since 500 of his men had died. And some of his men gathered fruits from the trees that covered the land.

Eurylochus had been gone too long.

He had sent him to search deeper into the island, and Eurylochus had taken twenty men with him while the rest mended the ship or simply rested. And now the trees whispered, and the birds had gone still, and every second stretched thin as thread.

Odysseus gritted his teeth and squinted to avoid the sunlight as he tried to keep watch of the sea.

And then, footsteps. Stumbling. Fast.

“Eurylochus?” he called.

The man burst through the ferns like he was being chased by death itself — panting, eyes wild, sweat streaming down his neck. His tunic was torn. One sandal missing. He fell to his knees in the sand.

Odysseus rushed forward. “Where are the others? And by the gods, what happened to you?"

Eurylochus looked up. His face was distraught, drained of all blood. “Gone.”

Odysseus’s breath caught. “What do you mean gone?”

“They didn’t die,” Eurylochus choked out. “Not exactly.”

And then he told him.

About the palace nestled in the trees — white marble, ivy-wrapped, glowing like it belonged to a dream. About the woman who greeted them at the door — soft-spoken, her smile sweet and wrong. She welcomed them in like she’d been waiting.

“They thought they were lucky,” Eurylochus whispered. “She fed them. Wine. Meat. Laughter.”

And then, one by one — they changed.

Their limbs twisted. Their backs snapped. Skin turned coarse. Eyes widened with terror as their voices became snorts and squeals.

“She turned them into pigs,” Eurylochus spat. “And she laughed while it happened. Her and her nymphs, as if it was for theatrics." And to them, it likely was.

Odysseus’s hand dropped from his sword. For once, he was too stunned for rage. The ocean had already taken everything from him — and now this island, this cursed, honey-slicked hell, wanted to strip away what little remained.

“I ran,” Eurylochus admitted, shame curling his shoulders inward. “I didn't follow them inside."

Odysseus turned his eyes toward the forest. Something shimmered there, taunting him, floating faintly through the heat like smoke.

He recognized that kind of fog. It was the same one the gods used when they wanted men to kneel.

“I’ll go,” Odysseus said.

Eurylochus looked up sharply. “No. You don’t understand—she’s not mortal."

"Eurylochus-"

"Sir, with all my respect, we've lost so many of our men already. Think about the men we have left now, before there are none. And if you go in there—”

“I know!” he snapped. “Of course, I want to leave. But I can hardly sleep these nights knowing what I've- what we've done." Odysseus paused but he didn't look away from Eurylochus once. "There's no length I wouldn't go if it were you in that palace I have to save. I can only hope you'd do the same. I have faced war. I’ve faced storms sent by Poseidon himself.”

He paused. Jaw tight. Eyes distant.

“And I’ve already lost everything. If she wants to take what’s left—she’ll have to fight me for it.”

Athena stood at her scrying pool — the same one she told herself she’d stop using. The waters rippled gently with the vision of Odysseus approaching Circe’s forest. His shoulders were stiff, his face unreadable, but she saw the exhaustion in his every step. The loneliness. The way he hadn’t prayed in days.

The way he hadn’t spoken her name.

She didn't blame him.

She still remembered Poseidon's fury —his threats, his warnings— and her silence in the face of it. She’d let Odysseus think she abandoned him. Maybe, in a way, she had.

But she couldn’t let this be his end.

Not to a witch. Not in a garden full of bones dressed as blossoms.

Her hands clenched around the edge of the stone basin. A thousand thoughts clawed behind her ribs — ancient logic, divine law, what Zeus would say, what Poseidon would do — but she pushed them all aside.

None of it mattered. Because after everything, she was still watching. Odysseus. Foolish, stubborn, reckless Odysseus. The same mortal she’d sworn to abandon after their bitter quarrel. The same one who’d thrown her trust to the wind like it meant nothing. And yet—there he was, bruised and breathless, trying to survive what no man should.

She cursed softly under her breath. “Idiot.”

“Talking to yourself again?” The soft flutter of wings behind her.

“Hermes, perfect. Go to him,” she said, directed to the figure who had just appeared behind her. Hermes, as usual, was floating in her temple like he owned the air, hair tousled, robes wind-ruffled, grin already half-formed on his face

Hermes blinked. “I didn’t even say hello yet.”

Athena didn’t turn. “Circe,” she said flatly and willed the scrying pool to disappear. “Daughter of Helios. Twists men into pigs and makes them forget their names.”

“She’s pretty,” Hermes offered.

Athena shot him a knowing look. He raised both hands in surrender. "Hey, she's my ex, I miss her okay?—"

“Shut it. He’s on her island. He’ll need help.” 

Hermes lingered closer, concern flickering in his expression. “Athena... you're not supposed to be-”

“I know what I’m not supposed to be doing.” Her voice cut like a blade. “And yet here I stand. Now you will go to him.”

Hermes crossed his arms. “If anyone sees me interfering on your behalf—”

"Oh, have faith in me, brother. This won't attract anyone's attention!"

"Right. Poseidon’s still growling in his seashell. The rest of the pantheon's not exactly granting favors to Odysseus right now.”

“I don’t need the pantheon,” she said, stepping closer. “I need you to go to him. Bring him Moly, and I know you still carry that narcotic around. He’ll need it to survive her magic.”

Hermes glanced at her, properly looked at her this time. The tiredness in her brilliant grey eyes. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way she hadn’t put her armor back on since the temple cracked around her. Then he groaned and landed on his feet like a toddler being told to sleep.

“..Fine.” He pulled a sprig of something glowing pink and gold, though the roots and stem itself were black, from inside his cloak—its leaves shimmered like starlight, humming with quiet power. “But if I get turned into a goat, I’m blaming you."

“I’ll turn you back,” she said, smirking now. “Eventually.”

Hermes winked and vanished in a whisper of air.

The forest seemed to shift as Odysseus moved through it — trees curling closer, air thickening. The sun barely reached through the canopy trees now, and the path underfoot had changed from soft dirt and nature to something slick and sweet-smelling. Strange birds called overhead, their cries almost seemed human.

He didn't want to linger on that thought much longer. He didn't trust it. Didn’t trust the warmth of the wind or the shimmer of gold between the trees.

Circe’s palace loomed just past the next rise, he could see it on the hill in the distance.

And then— giggling.

Odysseus drew his sword by instinct and turned, his eyes darted towards his surroundings. Then, he heard fluttering. Not like the dramatic and authoritative flaps like Athena's wings, but more hyperactive and stealthy. "Who goes there?"

“Well, well, I must say, that was quite a convincing speech you gave.” A voice came, lazy, amused, infuriatingly chipper:

"I won't repeat myself, who are you?"

“Just a friend, I have good intentions! I could help you save your men." Odysseus could feel the voice moving around him, but every time he looked he found nothing.

"You do realize you’re going to die if you walk in there like that?”

He turned again, blade raised.

And then, he looked up. Hermes sat on a tree branch above, kicking his feet and grinning like a jester. His hair was windswept and his robes were too fine for this cursed jungle, but he looked at Odysseus like he was watching a child walk toward a campfire.

Odysseus didn’t lower his sword. But he must've been visibly puzzled with how the Messenger God snickered at him.

“..Lord Hermes?"

"The only one I know of!" He said as he swiftly glided down from the tree, swimming through the air around Odysseus.

“Relax,” Hermes said, flicking a finger at Odysseus's blade. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let the pig spell handle it.”

Odysseus stiffened. “So it’s true.”

“Yup. Circe’s magic is potent. The men who drank from her goblet are probably squealing right about now. Hope you weren’t too attached.”

"Gods.."

"Thank you." Hermes smirked. “I brought you something.”

Odysseus narrowed his eyes.

"You walk in without protection, and you’ll be snorting slop before you can introduce yourself.” He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a flower, glowing and shimmering in pink and gold.

“Here,” he said, tossing it gently, Odysseus caught it. "Consume one of it's petals. Once you have, you'll at least stand a chance against the sorceress." 

When he opened it, the flower inside glowed faintly against his bloodstained hands.

“…What is it?”

"Within the root of this flower lies the power to mimic Circe's powers. You'll be able to conjure monsters, animals, whatever monstrosity you wish by your will." Hermes said this as he pluck two petals from the flower. He ate one himself before placing his free hand on Odysseus's shoulder.

"And get this—" He giggled, still floating just above the ground. "I call the root- Holy Moly-" And then he cackled and shoved the petal into his mouth. Odysseus nearly choked, caught off-guard, and his face was crumpled in confusion. "Huh-"

The god took nearly five entire minutes, had practically thrown Odysseus onto the ground while trying to stabilize himself and clutched at his chest, before his laughter ceased. All the while, Odysseus stared at him as if Hermes had shape-shifted into twelve different animals combined. 

"Oh Styx, your men might as well have been feasted upon by now-" Hermes said. Odysseus couldn't tell if he should take that sentence lightly. Then, in a heartbeat, Hermes took a step and held Odysseus's wrist—and the world blurred. Trees rippled like a breeze on water, vines snapped aside, and suddenly Odysseus’s feet touched new ground. They were closer, about a three minute walk now. The scent of roasted meat, herbs, and wine wafted through the air like a trap.

Odysseus blinked. The world had returned to stillness, but the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted.

Hermes released his arm with a smile "Put that flower to use, okay? They're endangered, some Gods are starting to refuse making them now." He didn't mention how him and Dionysus steal them from Hecate's gardens.  Hermes flew backwards and turned to leave.

But then, "..Hermes!-" Odysseus called out, to which he had turned with a curious look. "..Thank you." He finished.

Hermes grinned again and waved his hand as if to brush off the gratitude. "Don't thank me, friend! You may as well die. I'll collect your soul myself." He giggled as he said it, so casually that Odysseus almost regretted speaking to him again. 

Hermes floated closer to him again, and with a surprisingly more sincere attitude said, "Good luck, I do hope you make it out. It'd be a shame you die like this." 

"..Thank you." Odysseus said, unsure. But before he could say more, the God was already gone with a gust of wind, vanishing as quietly and stealthily as he arrived.

Odysseus sighed, placing the remains of the Moly flower into the pocket of his tunic. To the witch then.

Chapter Text

By the time Hermes returned to Olympus, the air was thicker. Something stormy in the silence, like the mountain itself was holding its breath. The clouds hung lower.

He had just left Aeaea—after being caught by Circe while he was watching her interaction with Odysseus through her windows with an orange in his hand. And now he stood in front of Athena’s palace again.

He found her in her study. Unlike the rest of her palace or the other temples and grand monuments of the other Gods on Olympus, Athena’s study wasn’t made of marble and overly refined Corinthian pillars, though the rest of her palace was—and her study was within her palace—her study was mostly made of darkened wood. With shelves of never-ending scrolls and xylotheks. 

“Delivery complete,” Hermes said lightly, flying and inviting himself in. “One very alive king of Ithaca. Circe will take care of him, that mortal has a way with words.” As if she weren’t the one who sharpened his wits. Like she didn't spend two decades training him into the man he was. The man she was timelessly proud of.

Athena sat in front of her low desk with cushions all around her, surrounded by scrolls she wasn’t reading and maps she wasn’t deciphering. One hand’s fingers were pressed to her temples, the feathers of her wings unkempt and twitching. Her other hand gripped onto a cushion she kept to her left, almost possessively. 

She exhaled. A whisper of relief, almost invisible. “..Good.” She said moments later when she remembered to respond.

Hermes tilted his head, studying her. “Will you ever admit you care about him directly or should I start tallying each silent victory sigh?”

Athena’s gaze remained fixed on the map in front of her, a map of the Aegean Sea, of course. “I never exactly stopped caring.” She spent the past hour that Hermes left locating where Circe’s island was, how far it was from Ithaca, what the safest route would be for mortals. 

That quiet honesty startled even her. Because it wasn’t like she ever truly admitted to Odysseus, or anyone for that matter, that she cared. Concerned, yes. But never care . Her throat tightened, but she held steady, every line of her posture still composed, controlled, divine.

Hermes actually gave a brief smile at her answer. “Sweet. Olympus really is collapsing now.”

Athena hummed in response. “..You took longer than I thought, did anything go wrong?” 

Hermes dropped onto the carpet, taking a seat beside her and propping an elbow on the table. “No, actually, I was simply.. surveilling them! I’ll say, Odysseus was a bit presumptuous. You won’t believe it—or maybe you will. When Circe asked how he managed to get Moly on his own, he said that he ‘must’ve been a God like she was’—full confidence may I add— ‘because he got the root with his own bare hands’” Hermes giggled, holding the table with one hand to stabilise himself, and misplacing a few of Athena’s documents while doing so. 

Athena, unimpressed, could only stay still with her eyes closed and wait for Hermes to stop. He snorted once before speaking again, “Fates, sister! How did you deal with that for—how long? Ten years? Oh my, I can’t imagine what that monster must’ve been like in his youth-”

Athena didn’t look up. The very mention of Odysseus in his younger years set her to ice. When he was younger. Younger, kinder, more hopeful, trusting. All traits of that beautiful and mischievous spirit he once was that inevitably would have been spoiled and disfigured by war, by life, by her.

Hermes’s face twisted in worry, “Thena?”

Still nothing.

“…Okay, nope,” he sighed, shuffling closer to her and facing her fully even though her head didn’t move to look at him. “Your brain is likely solving twelve minor wars, four possible future outcomes and its consequences, and one emotional meltdown all at once. What’s happening? What did I say?”

She inhaled, sharp and shallow. “It’s not important anymore-”

“Hey, talking about your feelings is important!” He argued, then paused to think for a second. “Is it because of Odysseus-?

“ Not important, Hermes. Its-” Athena stuttered then took a breath. “..Poseidon came to me. He knows.”

Hermes blinked. “Knows what?”

“That I helped.” Her voice was flat, but her knuckles were white. “That I interfered. Took away his revenge in his son’s name.”

Hermes tilted his head. “Well, yes. The divine thoughts and guidance sent from the Goddess of wisdom herself is slightly hard to miss.”

“ Hermes. ” Her eyes snapped up, finally. “What don’t you understand-? He’s going to tell Father.”

That made Hermes pause. His smile faltered. “Ah.”

Athena stood abruptly, pacing now, steps too sharp for the silence of the room. “I told Father that I was stepping back. I’m not supposed to have attachments to mortals. He’d always say that I would be too close, too mortal-bound. And now Poseidon has the perfect excuse to throw me under Olympus and he’ll take it. He literally hunts for opportunities to disparage me!”

Her wings had begun to unfurl, half-trembling, feathers bristling with the pressure of memories she couldn’t shove down fast enough. After Pallas, Athena went to Zeus. For answers, comfort, hope, closure. Whatever he was willing to spare to her. But he only told her that love would only weigh her down and make her weak. That she was to close her heart and only then can she be called wisdom and war in one body.

And for millenia, that was all she did.

“He won’t care that I only helped once. He won’t care that I stayed distant, that I used you instead of helping directly because it’ll always be interference no matter what ." Her fists clenched. “He’ll say I’m selfish. Disobedient. That I’m arrogant and soft and weak, just like Poseidon said I was.”

She was merely rambling now. Hermes didn’t interrupt her. Only watched her with those worried and helpless eyes he always had when she was like this. The same eyes that watched her when she would stand up against Zeus for him and protect him when he was still young—though she was barely two centuries old herself—and the same eyes that watched her fall apart moments after he would punish and hit her for doing so.

Athena looked at him again, eyes sharp and distant. “For the first time in a very, very long time—I am afraid.” She swallowed hard. “I can’t see him. Not clearly. Not like before. Ever since I left, everything’s been hazy. I used to be able to feel his every footstep. Now it’s like trying to find a single heartbeat in a storm. It would be easier to do that. But now I have to rely on chanting visions to see if he still stands.” 

Tears brimmed her eyes. Hermes nearly stood up to stop her when he saw her nails—her dangerously sharp owl-like nails—dig into the palm of her hands till she bled, but then she spoke again.

“And I despise that—because now I can’t protect him. I can’t feel or be there when Poseidon decides to attack him again, or when he needs help and aid, or when he reaches home.”

And there it was, Hermes thought.

The fear beneath the fear. The paranoia wasn’t about getting caught. It was about being punished. About being a disappointment. But more than anything, it was her fear for Odysseus getting involved, getting hurt and harmed by Poseidon, or Zeus, or herself.

Hermes shifted, uneasy at the rawness in her voice. She rarely let anything slip—let alone this much. “Athena… you’re not wrong for wanting to protect him.”

“That’s not relevant to him, Hermes” she said, her tone laced with bitter certainty and her face coated in pain and helplessness. “He’ll call it sentimentality. Weakness. And if Poseidon tells him…” She trailed off, pressing a hand to her temple like the thought itself was a headache. “I can’t give him another reason to question me. Not like after—” She stopped again, swallowing the rest. Pallas.

Hermes let the words hang for a moment, watching how stiff her shoulders had gone. She wasn’t looking at him anymore—her eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor beside him, like she could see the inevitable unfolding in front of her.

He hated that look.

“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping into her line of sight. “You’re not going to lose him.”

Her eyes shifted away but she didn’t reply. She already did.

“I mean it,” he pressed. “Poseidon likes to talk big—half the time it’s because he knows he can’t actually do anything. You think Zeus is going to drop everything just because his salty little older brother came tattling? They can hardly stand each other anyways!”

Athena gave him a look, tired and exhausted and forfeiting, then looked down again. “You don’t understand,” she murmured.

“I do.” He stepped closer again, lowering his voice like it might keep her from retreating into herself. “I know how he looks at you when you make the slightest mistake. I know he’s harder on you than anyone else. But you’ve outsmarted him a thousand times. You think this is where you slip? No chance.”

Her gaze flickered to him, and that little crack in her armor widened just enough for him to keep going.

“I’ll keep an eye on Odysseus too,” he said firmly. “And you know I can run circles around him. Especially with how many souls I’ve been needing to bring over to the Underworld.” Athena didn’t like that. Then he took Athena’s wrist and brought her to sit down with him again. She was too lost to protest him touching her without asking.

“You always think you can fix things,” she said softly.

“I can try,” he countered, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “And if it keeps you from worrying yourself sick, I’ll try twice as hard.”

For a long moment, she just stared at him. She didn’t respond. Not aloud. But then her shoulders eased—not much, but enough for Hermes to notice—and her hands unclenched. Her nails had ichor under them.

Hermes didn’t realise. He smiled a little. “Besides. Poseidon is a sea-bloated man-child with a beard. And I’ll always be right with you. In your corner.”

Athena wanted to smile but her throat tightened. She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. But her voice was quiet. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “Well, someone’s gotta keep the family somewhat functional, and Hestia’s retired.”

She didn’t reply. Hermes’ smile left, but the softness and ache didn’t. Instead he shuffled close to her side again, then nuzzled his head into her neck,—which was only possible because she was slumped on the couch and not sitting straight—his curls prickling on Athena’s neck.

Athena finally turned her head, just slightly. Her eyes were rimmed with, tired and wet and burning. Hermes was just starting to find the sight of her like this familiar. 

Finally, Athena exhaled, heavy and quiet. “...I hate how much he means to me. And how I’m admitting to it.”

A long silence followed. Hermes closed his eyes. One hand shifted to rest on top of Athena’s arm. And suddenly they were children again—not really children. Athena was never a child—but younger. In the same positions they would be in at night after Hermes would be too exhausted from the day. He would sleep by her side. Athena didn’t. But she wouldn’t dare to move. She’d sit there silently for hours and read a scroll or two, but she’d never move or wake him up till he did. She never really slept. Gods didn’t need sleep. But they do get tired, and many did sleep to have a form of a routine. But not Athena. Not when there was so much to do and so much to figure out and plan and solve and think.

But there were times when everything became too loud. She wouldn’t exactly sleep. But she’d go into quick thought, to where she created her own small corner. In the farthest corner tucked behind a pillar, was an alcove she had crafted centuries ago. A sanctuary within a sanctuary. And that was where she would rest, sometimes allowing herself to sleep. 

It was the only place she was really safe. Nothing and nobody could hurt her there unless she allowed it.

Back in Athena’s study, Hermes fell asleep after he whispered that “It’ll be okay. “ He slept just like he would throughout the thousand centuries they’ve lived.

Athena had to admit, out of all her siblings, she cherished and spent the most time with Hermes. Even when most days, she wouldn’t even call on him or ask him to come over. He’d show up unannounced in her study or in the halls of Olympus like he belonged beside her. Even when she wouldn’t try.

She stopped trying after Pallas died. After she was taught that unconditional love was ‘weakness. 

After that, it felt like she only knew how to compete. How to outperform. She thought that being better than them was the only way she could deserve love. From Zeus. And she thought that if she could protect them from their father or monsters or dangers, if she could subtly take care of them and outthink every threat, that would mean something. 

..She loved her siblings. Really , she did. She would watch Apollo with Artemis when she was younger and wonder how they could be so close without performing, without giving or doing something in return for love. And she hated to admit it, but she would envy them. Envy how close they were and how badly she wanted a connection like theirs. 

Sure, she would protect them constantly. She would make excuses for their mistakes for Zeus so they wouldn’t be punished. She would teach them how to do tasks they needed help with—sometimes she would offer to do the task herself so they could rest more. Hermes would come to her and just sleep while she worked—Apollo did a few times as well during the days where Artemis was away and he finally overworked himself to tears. Hermes told her one afternoon that it was one of the few places on Olympus he could assure himself was safe. Athena couldn’t tell why. She settled on the idea of her being able to protect him there. She was always good at that. But not with Odysseus. Not with Pallas. It was too late-

She was there. But she never let herself do the same. 

But Hermes had been a constant. And she allowed herself just that. It wasn’t likely that she could get him to leave anyway. But he will. They always leave.

Athena closed her eyes and shut the voices away. Maybe she’d let herself rest just once.

Chapter Text

Morning found Athena slow as a ruined clock. The lamp on the side table beside the couch had extinguished long ago in the night. Dawn leaked golden sunlight through the windows and landed on Hermes’s hair, making it look like a ridiculous, glorious halo. 

He still slept, cheek sunk into her shoulder, breath soft and regular. For a ridiculous, traitorous second she thought—he looks exactly like he did when he was physically six and stole a sacred lyre and then cried when Zeus yelled. Childish, helpless, hers to hold.

She had slept. That fact alone felt like a miracle and a crime at the same time. She had gone to bed raw and electric, certain the night would be full of images and horrors and fresh edges of shame. Instead, sleep had closed over her like a fragile truce.

She laid still, not daring to shift and accidentally wake up Hermes. She started counting the small mercies. No nightmares that crawled up and made her scream, no memory of storms and lightning or bodies falling into stillness forever, nothing but Hermes’ soft snoring and the distant hum of the palace waking.

And then the rest of her came back, tenfold.

Unfortunately, one peacefully slept night doesn't erase thousands of years of living or her fears.

But there was another thread braided into all the fear and guilt. An old, stubborn protectiveness that felt less like weakness and more like truth. She pictured Odysseus—fourteen, hyper, terrified and brilliant—she saw what she had poured into him—training, counsel, something like affection that she refused to call what it was. She had recommended strategies that saved his men. She had sat in the dark with pride she’d never admit to anyone else. She had, painfully and without permission, taken to feeling like a mother.

There was one incident where Odysseus mistakenly called her mom. It was a common mishap to mortals and gods alike. Even Athena herself had called Hestia ‘mother’—once, when she was delirious from a fever and her aunt had brought her warmth and care. 

But from Odysseus? Athena couldn’t understand what it was that made that experience so significantly different from all others. She didn’t understand what she felt, nor why she had automatically isolated herself for a week after. The word rose like a tide she would never name out loud. She’d coached him until his hands learned every pattern in plank and knot. 

That small, furious, maternal glow made her chest ache in a way the cold rules never would. It was ungovernable.

Her hand, almost of its own accord, moved from where it had been resting against Hermes’ head and flattened on the couch. She felt the faint, warm indentation of his cheek, the residual heat of sleep. For a long moment she did nothing but count the tiny, human details: the slack of his jaw, the way his lashes shadowed his cheek, the rhythm of his breathing keeping steady. Small things that were not orders, not strategies, not obligations—tiny truths that anchored her.

She felt her anger rise then, quick and contained like all of them were. A cold, precise sort that tasted like logic. Poseidon could threaten, Zeus could punish. But what barbarism was it, to punish someone for protecting a boy who had been loyal and brave and human? The rules they enforced were not carved in stone—they were chosen by men—gods, yes, but men regardless—who had the luxury of choosing and ruling. She had outmaneuvered more than gods could imagine. Had she forgotten how to use the sharpened thing in her head for herself?

So, if Zeus thought attachments made her weak, he had not been the one to raise a human boy who could think in riddles and survive storms. Nor did he raise his own children. He disciplined, he praised when necessary. But Athena couldn’t find a significant moment where she was sure that Zeus cared and raised his children. Maybe with her, he didn’t really need to, considering she was physically fully grown. But she raised Hermes more than anyone—she gave complete credit to Maia though, she was an angel.

The thought steadied her like a hand on the back.

But again, Zeus was king. He would do as he wished regardless of how illogical or unjustified it was if he saw it to be right.

She imagined herself being called into his throne room. Zeus at the center with that slow, terrible gaze, and Poseidon by his side. She imagined herself standing small and stubborn. The image made her throat catch. She did not know what she would do if she were to be forced then and there to stop protecting him—it would mean killing him. She only knew she would not let Odysseus be destroyed for her pride.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself feel it all without performing the customary armor. She breathed in the morning air and her heartbeat steadied. For the first time in days, something like resolve settled into the place where panic wanted to live. 

She would not unmake the small and big things she had done. 

Athena looked down at the sleeping Hermes and felt, absurdly, that his weighing on her shoulder made some things possible again. She could be angry and soft and furious and afraid all at once and still move. She could keep both halves of herself—sharp mind and soft heart—without letting either be erased. The thought tasted faintly of victory, and she let herself feel it just for a while.

She smoothed Hermes’s hair back, a motion without thought, and let the morning light pool on her lap like a promise. When he stirred, she would be ready to be his sister, as much as she knew how to be; when Poseidon or her father raked the heavens with his anger, she would be ready to be the strategist. For now she held both roles inside her like armor and shadow, and for once, it felt like enough.

Hermes woke like someone who’d been yanked out of a very good nap by a loud thought—blinking, slow, then all at once. Sunlight had inched across the room and painted his lashes gold. For a panicked half-second he didn’t remember where he was, then he felt the weight of familiar large feathered wings resting and wrapped on his shoulder and remembered where he was—curled up against Athena.

“Good morning.” Athena spoke, slightly startling Hermes as he jolted upright—but didn’t move far as her wing was still around him. It was warm.

He froze, eyes wide and comically guilty. “…Oh. Oh no.” His fingers went to his mouth. There was a very small wet smear at the corner of his lips. He’d drooled. On her. A mute apology across his face.

“Oh, I’m the worst, I just drooled on you.” He tried to sound unembarrassed and failed spectacularly.

Athena’s first reaction was the tiniest flare of annoyance—the one she used when she wanted to be taken seriously by him—but it softened almost immediately. She reached up and, with absolute gentleness, wiped at his mouth with her long sleeve. “You’re insufferable,” she said, but it came out warm. “..and you’re surprised. Why? Don’t you know you drool in your sleep quite often? This isn’t too rare for me by now.”

Hermes clearly didn’t know—a guess Athena took by the look on his face. She found herself smiling at the sight. 

For a moment, he simply stared at her. But then he leaned back heavily into the couch again, covering his face with his orange and yellow shawl and clung onto Athena’s skirt.

Athena, baffled, “I- Hermes.” she said. But her younger brother didn’t respond and simply continued to sink till he overdramatically fell onto the carpeted floor.

“Please forgive me. I have sinned.” His voice came muffled from under the cloth, then his hand tugged on her dress. 

Athena had accepted the inevitable, sighing as she shifted to sit on her knees on the carpet beside him. She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his tunic and then removed his shawl from covering his face. She folded her hands into her lap. “Tuck it away with your other crimes,” she said. “You are forgiven.”

Hermes looked up at her. And when he saw no indication of her lying, he grinned again and sat up straight, leaning forward and tapping the side of his head to hers in a quick, affectionate gesture that they shared together.

Athena gave him one last small smile just before the weight returned. “Right. Now off you go, you have messages to deliver.” She reminded him.

“Diligent as always.” He murmured with a suppressed groan in his throat. Regardless, he jumped up and then—without permission—lifted Athena up to her feet with ease—too much ease.

"How come he never noticed how light she was despite her height?" he thought.

Athena watched as he gathered his satchel with a flutter of endless energy, checking the straps like a kid buckling a shield. He gave her one small, ridiculous salute, and then he hovered in the air just enough so they were the same height. 

“Don’t drown our uncle in his own seas while I'm gone, please! Catch you later darling!!” he said, already halfway through the open window in the room.

..

Athena found herself staring at the window from where he just flew out of. The room fell into stillness and silence again, as it always had. Hermes’s laughter, his chatter, even the restless tapping of his foot against the floorboards—it was all gone in an instant when he slipped out the window. 

The quiet wasn’t peace. It was absence. It was the same kind of suffocating emptiness she had felt after Odysseus turned his back on her and she did the same—the sharp ache of absence, the echo of his voice lingering in her mind until it rotted into memory. 

She had grown used to it, or told herself she had, but it never got easier. She told herself repeatedly that she shouldn’t even need them in the first place. But each departure left her hollowed a little more, like someone was scooping pieces of her out and leaving nothing but the echo.

She knew well enough that the thoughts always came back, with no distractions to guide them away. And now she felt grateful that she was already in her study room.

Because, of course, one of her only other slightly normal coping methods was working. Being busy, occupied, in control . Her duties and work were one of the few things she felt like she had complete control over. So she drowned herself in it till her head was clear again.

Athena straightened, squared her shoulders, and moved to her desk—she had two, one was a low desk on the carpet while the other was a normal-heighted desk in front of the window. She sat in her chair and watched Hermes bump into Apollo in the distance, the two brothers squabbling and pushing at each other in the air before separating again.

She almost felt like laughing till she remembered, and remembered and remembered. All she had was memory.

The world would not run by quiet wishes. It would be saved by action. And so she would act—until the noise inside her stilled, or until she could no longer pretend she could sit upright.

Chapter Text

Apollo sat alone in his palace, the golden light of morning—his own—spilling through the high-arched windows and turning the marble walls into molten fire. His lyre rested across his lap, his fingers idly strumming chords that never fully resolved, each note carrying the weight of unease. He had not slept properly since the prophecy came to him—three nights ago, in the silence between moonset and sunrise.

Prophecy had always been both a gift and a curse for him. It never came when he asked, never spoke in plain words, never explained itself. It bled into his mind in fragments, in riddles that twisted like serpents until he was forced to sit and unravel them. He always had meraki with poetry, but when it came to prophecies, he'd rather not bear the weight of another person's terrible fate knowing he could do nothing to change it.  And this one… had shaken him more than most for the first in so long.

He could feel it tugging at his mind again and it filled him with dread. The moment he had heard it, he knew it was terrible. He didn’t need to analyse it to know that much. And really he did not want to properly understand it at all.

And yet he set the lyre aside and closed his eyes, hearing again the voice that had pierced through his dreams, echoing from somewhere both beyond and within him. The prophecy hadn’t left him yet, and it wouldn’t, not till he fully understood it.

Lucky him. He just loved starting his morning like this.

The thread of the wise lies tangled.

Daughter—once, twice—she is bound to a plea.

A chain will break, clay will be released,

Yet freedom’s cost is death deferred

Eyes shall darken, it’s flames shan't fade,

And in the silence that remain,

Shadows—thrice is where it ends—risen they become.

Yet death still calls, though, may hearth be found.

Apollo’s hands clenched on his knees as the words unraveled again in his mind. He hated how prophecies could be so confusing and so vague at the same time, how they made him feel both powerless and responsible.

“The thread of the wise”—that was Athena, it could be none else. His sister. His closest ally and rival. His chest ached at the thought. He’d never had a prophecy that focused on Athena and her alone. 

Sometimes, he’d get prophecies on the most ridiculous and trivial situations. Like once he received one about Achilles’ death. Who would care about that? Not him. 

Her thread—the Moirai—meant her life. But how could it be that it was tangled? She is a Goddess. They’re Gods, they don’t die. He'd never seen such a case before. 

To be fair, the prophecy said “tangled”, not “cut”. One’s life only ends when their string is cut, right? Fates, the way he’s even questioning it really shows how terribly this confuses him. And somehow, it felt like it being tangled was just as bad. Or else worse. He just didn't understand it yet.

“Daughter—once, twice—she is bound to a plea.” He closed his eyes at that, he might as well just give up now, because what on Gaia’s green earth did that mean?

Once, twice. Two pleas? From whom? Twice meant repetition. Twice meant choices. And why did it say “daughter”? It didn’t even fit with the rest of the verse? Was it just to emphasize the point and clarify that it meant Athena, or was it just to mess with him for the hell of it?? It was a broad term, it could mean anyone. But Athena had always been a daughter more than a sister. Or at least she pretended to be, and was seen as it.

“A chain will break, clay will be released.” 

Clay—the mortal body, shaped from earth. Athena always had more bonds with mortals than the rest. Maybe it was because she was why they existed. Prometheus might’ve built their bodies, but they would be nothing if she hadn’t constructed their brain. He would’ve called it a soft spot if she wasn’t Athena.

She had countless mortal warriors. But he was sure this line would mean Odysseus—she would never directly admit it, but she favoured him surely. It irritated him, during the years of Troy, how clear her favor was towards him. How fiercely she would protect him and his name, and how prideful she would be after his schemes with the wooden horse.

So surely, it would be him. A chain would break, perhaps that meant the war ending?  It would, metaphorically, release him, so he would return to his kingdom.

That part should have brought relief, that maybe the prophecy wasn’t as twisted and cruel like all the others are, but the following lines soured it horribly. 

“Yet freedom’s cost is death deferred.” Deferred. That word landed in Apollo’s chest like stone. Not avoided, not denied. Only delayed. The cost of freeing this mortal—whoever it was—would be a life pressed nearer to death.

That phrase had dug into him like a thorn. What did it mean? That she would be spared only to die later? Perhaps it didn't mean her life at all. It could be someone else's. Or “death” could be metaphorical or a symbolism of some sort? Prophecies were misleading in that way. 

He’d take any chance and possibility that would mean his sister won’t die. Either way, it's not.. possible. Gods and Goddesses don't—can't—die. And Athena, out of everyone, can’t die. If the prophecy had been about anyone else—like Dionysus or even himself or Hermes—then perhaps he’d believe it. But not Athena, never her. 

..But Apollo had seen too many faces fade from life to mistake such wording for anything else. 

He rose from his seat, pacing across the gleaming floor, his footsteps left light as he moved. The sound of his walking echoed hollowly. He tried to reason through it again, as if it'd change how the outcome seemed like it would be. But, he painfully couldn't see a way around it.

“Eyes shall darken.” To darken could mean blindness, or rage, or madness, or the shadow of death itself.

“It’s flames shan’t fade.” That should’ve been good. Flames not fading meant her spirit would not vanish, apparently, even under ruin. 

He thought of Athena again—her gaze was always sharp as a blade, yet always shadowed by things she never spoke. Apollo could never fully understand where he stood with his half-sister. He doesn’t know her as much as Hermes does, not the way he knew Artemis. But he surely knew her more than Aphrodite or Hephaestus, and a lot of others, did. She doesn’t grimace at him the way she does when she's around Hephaestus, but she doesn’t go the lengths to smile at him either. She was always more.. more confusing than everyone else was. The image she painted herself as was different from what she seemed to be. 

Apollo knows, as a healer, that most people were more open and vulnerable when injured. Athena had come to him for aid many times. And depending on the situation, severity of the injury, or the environment, she would act differently when the scenario was different. 

For instance, during Troy, she somehow had gotten injured—injured was a stretch, she only had a bruise and scratches on her arms and face. In that scenario, she had been cold to him. She hardly looked him in the eye, scowled at him when she did, and hadn’t thanked him after. To be fair, his attitude then was far worse than hers was. Being on the other side of the war caused that division between the Gods for a long, dreadful ten years of grudges and pettiness. Him and Aphrodite have been the more.. petulant and immature ones in those days. All that pride died down once Troy burnt.

But on another day when she got injured—really injured this time—she had been quiet in a way different than she normally was. Her arm was fractured, she hadn’t explained why, and her eyes were distant in ways she doesn’t allow them to be with too many people around—like when she remained silent and not fully there another time she was hurt because the infirmary was full of patients that day, quiet in the same way she was during Zeus’ many grand banquets.

Apollo knew she had a high tolerance for pain, but her eyes were watering then. Surely, it wasn’t because of the broken arm. He’s literally seen her walk off an arena with her leg broken with a smile because she had defeated Ares, again. So if it wasn’t the ache, then what was it?

..She came back to him again the same day, past midnight, with gashes on the same arm. The injuries were simpler, so she could’ve healed them herself if she wanted to, but she decided to go to him instead. Apollo didn’t question it back then, though Fates knew he had a lot of questions, but sometimes he really wished he did. Maybe she just wanted company, as odd as it sounded for her. Or maybe she was just too tired. 

Oh, he really wishes he had asked now. Why was she still awake at that time? Had she eaten recently? Why was her arm broken that day? And where did she get the cuts from? Did she want him to stay with her for longer? A few more minutes even? He always had time for her, it’s only that neither of them had ever asked first. It was always the small things that could bring them closer, that’s how Hermes pried his way into her heart, with his endless questions and consistency.

Maybe if he asked, he could understand the prophecy that’s bothering him now. Maybe he could've changed its lines, into something less cruel and something more warm.

His point is, that she wasn’t who she pretended to be. If he was honest, one word he would use to describe her would be borderline. He can never really classify her into one or two things like he could with everyone else. Like.. Hermes and Dionysus were playful and unserious, Aphrodite and Hera were the more defensive and excessive ones, Ares and Poseidon somewhat had the same tendencies.

But Athena’s behaviour would shift faster than Zeus would create storms. In social events, she was practically not even there. But if she was surrounded by people she was more comfortable with, she’d be more observant and at least participate. And when she was arguing with Poseidon or fighting with Ares, she’d be more prideful and daring and quick with her words. But afterwards, when she was alone, she would end up in his infirmary with wounds she had hid from everyone else—minor or not— and it would only be after Hermes had forcibly dragged her to get healed properly.  When she was worried, she’d be more restless than ever necessary. But if she was collected, it’d seem as if she had never spared a thought on anything or other people.

She was so many different people he could never tell who she really was.

So, when you consider all of that and more and look at the prophecy, it could mean absolutely nothing or a thousand different interpretations and possibilities. And he hadn’t even deciphered the next stanza.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, as though he could squeeze clarity from them. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he muttered aloud, voice echoing in the empty hall. When the prophecies turned towards his family—he somehow had the strength to call them that—he found no peace in the gift.

“And in the silence that remain, shadows—thrice is where it ends—risen they become.” Silence. Silence. That word hurt more than he cared to admit. Apollo could relate silence to Athena. Silence was what filled her when she withdrew into herself, shutting out her siblings, her heart too heavy to voice. 

And the shadows, “risen they become”. Three risings. Three battles? Three deaths avoided—deferred? Thrice could mean cycles, trials, attempts. And each time the shadow rose, it chipped away at her more. Or was thrice a continuation of the previous line—“Once, twice”— and not refer to the shadows at all, instead to that awful line that made no sense to him. 

And why does it end at three? What ends at three? Apollo sighed for the twentieth time in the past hour.

But of course it just has to get worse, right? 

The last line. It should’ve given him more clarity. In some way, for one interpretation, it did. “Yet death still calls, though, may hearth be found.” The final line lingered, its paradox felt bitter. Death could not be evaded—it waited, patient, inevitable. But “hearth be found”… Hearth was warmth, belonging, safety. They were clear opposites.

Hearth. For Athena, what did that mean? Home was never a simple concept. Was her hearth Olympus, though Apollo doubted she ever felt safe under Zeus’ eye. But was it? Despite the chains Zeus wrapped around her? Despite the distance between all the Gods, making the mountain not truly a home for any of them? Was her hearth with her mortal companions—which she took both comfort and duty into guiding? Or perhaps Hermes’ would make more sense? Or could it be more literal, like Athens? Was the hearth even hers, or maybe another’s? 

Childishly, he tried to make it feel like “death calling” didn’t mean her death.

He thought of Athena—her cold poise, her measured words, the way her hands sometimes trembled when she thought no one noticed. His chest ached as he thought of her; alone at her desk, burying herself in scrolls and ink until her hands cramped, as if knowledge itself could cage her emotions.

If he could not undo what was written, perhaps he could at least prepare himself, prepare them, despite not understanding what exactly the message was. Perhaps he could shape the edges of destiny, dull them, make them less cruel. 

It’s terrible, really. To know so much—and so, so little—yet being unable to change anything at all.

He would keep this vision hidden, carry it himself, and hope that when the time came, he could intervene. But prophecy had a way of twisting silence into tragedy. 

Besides, he couldn’t lie. So, if he told her, or anyone else, he couldn’t lie about the lines or their meanings. If he warned Athena, she might break under the weight of it, drive herself harder, faster, until the very act of preparing for death killed her first.

And in some twisted way, he thought that maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe, she wouldn’t prepare herself—wouldn’t try to prevent it. And how cruel was it to even think of that?

...

Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t want to dwell on it any longer.

Later in the day, he would go to his twin sister. He will find her at her favourite spot in the forest. He’ll lay down with his head on her lap, he’d seek consolation without telling her anything at all, and she’d listen to that silence and understand that language which she’s fluent in.

Chapter Text

As a Goddess, Athena was supposed to have better strength than this. So, the amount of headaches she gets so easily is… honestly, kind of an embarrassment.

Athena sat at her desk, quill poised above the parchment, yet the ink didn’t flow. Suddenly, she really wanted to summon Apollo to get rid of this splitting headache of hers.

The scroll before her bore the outlines of routes, with contingencies and numbers carefully inked—but her mind slipped from the structure like water refusing to hold in a vessel and she couldn’t find the cracks. She tried to focus on the lines she’d drawn, predicting the way the armies would move if Troy’s allies stirred again, but each neat stroke blurred into something else.

And it frustrated her endlessly. She really would never get this easily distracted—maybe it was too hot in the room? 

She turned around abruptly—no the window was open, and she realises now that it’s not hot at all. It’s probably because of the headache that she’s—

Oh, there she goes again. Distracted.

..Okay, perhaps she’s fooling herself. It’s pathetic, really, to not even be able to convince herself of something while being the Goddess of Wisdom. What was she lying to herself for anyway? More self humiliation? 

Athena sighed to herself, her jaw tightened and she set the quill down.

Truthfully, she’s been thinking of Odysseus again. Actively now, not the way she did before. It’s only been a day since she sent Hermes to give him Moly, but she was already stressed again. Maybe that is why she’s having a really, really bad headache. Really, she should go see Apollo—

And she was so distressed, for what, exactly? Did he even think about her at all since the Polyphemus? 

Not that she would know anyway. Did she really become this woeful and pathetic that she’s so fixated on this mortal?

Besides, she told herself that detachment was strength, that distance was strategy, that mortal lives were not hers to hoard or protect. But the truth sat heavy in her chest; he was still out there, stubborn as ever, half-dead and still fighting, and she cared.

Fates, she cared.  So much that it made her restless. The ink on the parchment was supposed to tether her thoughts, but the words scattered, fraying into memories. His voice, his insolence, his refusal to listen. His brilliance. His fragility. All things that made him a mortal, that made him him.

No matter how many different roads she travels, they somehow all lead back to him. Her mind, whenever undistracted, instinctively shifts to think of Odysseus. 

And the road not taken sounds really good now—one that might've led her a different path. One where she had chosen to be kinder, even once more. 

If she could change today, she would've been anything if it meant she wasn’t who she was anymore. 

Why is she still doing this?

It’s been weeks since they parted ways, but she still can’t find the strength to really just leave him alone. She knows it’s not healthy, but she doesn’t understand why.

There’s no real wisdom or logic behind it, only feelings and emotion. And that wasn’t her specialty, she doesn’t know what to do with so much of it. So she normally just leaves her thoughts to fester. It’s the same way she doesn’t understand why sometimes she still thinks about what Pallas is doing, even when knowing she’s been dead for thousands of years. And it’s the same way she doesn’t understand why she finds herself wanting her mother, despite only really knowing her for two months—and inside of her father’s head, for that matter—and she’s.. also been dead for thousands of years.

..Maybe, for once, she feels like she can actually do something about it now. 

She wouldn’t call herself a child, but it was the closest thing she’s ever been to being one. Back then, she didn’t really know what she was doing. She never realised how easily most things could’ve been avoided, and she never thought over things the way she does now.

So maybe, even when she’s already messed up, she can still help. 

Because, for once, she had some sort of control. For once, she might have the chance to help and save the person she loves, rather than hurting or killing them. Even if said person wants nothing to do with her anymore and is being actively hunted and on her most distant uncle’s death list.

Athena’s hands hovered over the table, lingering for a moment. The ink bled into the parchment, just like he had permanently stained her every move. 

She hated this stillness. She knew she couldn’t do something to help Odysseus right now, helping him too much in a short period of time would draw attention to both of them. And she couldn’t risk Poseidon—or worse, Zeus—potentionally harming Odysseus.

 ..Again, in Poseidon’s case.

Maybe if she finished her other duties she’d feel more productive, and hopefully it’d help distract her too. Maybe if she did something while moving around, she’d be less taunted by her migraine. Or maybe she really was this restless at the moment.

Her hand drifted to her temple, pressing hard as though she could push the thoughts away, but they persisted. Hermes’s voice lingered too, softer, reminding her that she wasn’t alone—but Hermes had left. He wasn’t here now. Only the silence, the kind that crept too easily into her chest, waiting to unravel her.

With a sharp inhale, she pushed herself back from the table while muttering to herself, fingers brushing over the edge. She had to move. She had to see, check, calculate. Work was her refuge—but even work demanded action beyond the quiet of her palace.

If she couldn’t quiet her thoughts here, then she would drown them out with movement. She needed to see Olympus, check its pulse, find things to fix. If she kept her hands busy, maybe her heart would follow.

She took a moment to look into her reflection from the window. She never kept any mirrors in her study room, which was convenient every moment except for this one. Because even in the unclear reflection, she could see she was far too pale from the restless hours indoors, and her eyes had shadows no one should ever see.

She almost felt like groaning at that, instead she waved a hand and glamoured herself to look at least awake. She smoothed the folds of her chiton then readjusted the owl pin of her dark blue cloak. The same cloak and pin she made a duplicate of for Odysseus.

Her hair was already braided back, so that wasn’t a problem. She didn’t bother to wear her armor either, if anything were to happen, she’d summon it on herself on the spot anyway. 

With a sharp exhale, she left her study and walked through her halls. Once she was outside, she debated whether walking or flying would’ve been better. Realistically, flying would take less time but she wasn’t particularly in a rush anyway. And walking might help her focus more too..

Athena walked through the hushed gardens through the path that led to the main plaza of Olympus. She could see the pillars on the uprising area, she could smell the scent of wine, and the sound of laughter and leisure as she continued walking.

She passed through fountains, and statues, and nymphs who carried delicacies, bowing their heads down in respect to her as she walked.

Then she went to the training grounds, observing minor deities, demigods, and chosen warriors sparring. Each parry, each strike, each shift in stance was noted. 

When some noticed her, they became visibly nervous and had faltered movements. Others tried harder than necessary and ended up tripping over air. Authority was a language she didn’t need to articulate; it radiated from her very presence, her posture, and her precise, calculated motions.

Honestly, she didn’t purposefully appear to frighten them. It annoyed her that every visit ended up like this. She was the Goddess of war to guide them, wasn’t she? How would she do that if no one could handle her presence? 

She ignored it, of course. She adjusted minor details silently; a blade angle corrected, a stance altered. Her presence alone sharpened the attention of anyone who dared to glance her way, though she never spoke. 

But even as she moved, the emptiness lingered. Hermes was gone, Odysseus was far away, Poseidon’s shadow was stretched thin but constant, and the silence of her loneliness felt heavier now. She didn’t let it show, didn’t falter. She could afford no weakness, or pause.

There was a common misconception about Athena. Most of the Gods on Olympus mistook her silence and obedience for coldness. All people saw was how she’d never go against Zeus, but be “haught” to everyone else. No one bothered to understand why, or see the way she’d silently make up for her mistakes when no one was there to see it. 

Furthermore, that’s why everyone perceived her to be cold and heartless. 

So the first time Apollo—and Artemis, who was bothering her twin while he worked—saw her awfully frantic over Hermes being physically hurt by their father for the first time, they were stunned. 

Over time, that stigma, along with Zeus’ constant pressure on her, she gave up on trying to change the image people had of her. Instead, she ended up encouraging it in some way. If people didn’t want to consider she was different than they thought, what was the point? She’d just act how they expected.

Thirty minutes later, Athena left the training arena. She did feel a little better afterwards, her mind was more dedicated and distracted with practical work. 

Then—a sudden gold, blinding blur of movement in her periphery. The figure stumbled then crashed into her, but her body reacted before her mind caught up. In one fluid motion, she pivoted, her hand clamping around the figure’s arm and flipping the body over her shoulder, earning a startled yelp from them. Athena’s knee pressed down the side of their stomach in a single, calculated pin before she even looked at who it was.

Athena found herself looking at Apollo, who lay sprawled on the polished floor, eyes wide, hair a long but stupidly gorgeous and blonde sunlit mess around his face and on the ground. He wheezed out a cough, staring up at her with a mix of indignation and awe.

“Athena!” he spluttered from the ground. If he could breathe properly, he would’ve been laughing. “Sister dearest… might I suggest a gentler greeting next time?” He propped himself on his elbows.

She blinked, realization dawning, though her composure didn’t falter. With a sharp exhale through her nose, she moved her knee off of him.

She hadn’t properly properly talked to Apollo since Troy lost. She couldn’t tell, some days he seemed to resent her and be cold t o her, and the other moments were like these.

“…Apollo,” she acknowledged flatly, though her pulse was still spiking. But still she found her lips curving up faintly, dry amusement flickering in her gray eyes. “You should watch where you’re going, vlaka.”

“Hey, what—I’m not—Actually I am mature enough not to answer that.”

Athena raised a brow, her grip still firm on his arm before fully releasing him, standing smoothly as though nothing had happened. 

Apollo sat up, still catching his breath. “And remind me never to sneak up on the goddess of strategy again.” He gave her a lopsided smile, though it was thinner than usual, the kind that masked unease. “Though in my defense, I’ve been searching all over Olympus for you. And it seems the Fates enjoy irony—when I finally find you, you flatten me against the floor.”

“Searching for me, or merely colliding with whatever stands in your path?” She asked dryly. But there was an edge of concern beneath her humor. Apollo rarely looked this flustered.

“Thena, this is serious..” He said with a literal pout; so it was annoyingly hard for Athena to tell if it was actually serious or not.

Athena considered this for a moment, then tilted her head with that owlish tendency that made Apollo smile faintly. 

“Alright. Pray tell, why such determination to seek me out?” She said, then looked him up and down. “And get off the floor, you look foolish.”

Apollo groaned dramatically as he pushed himself up and off the floor, brushing marble dust off his golden tunic. “You know,” he muttered, “most sisters embrace their brothers. You break their spine.”

“You’re still not over this? Tell me what you’re here for.” She mused and started walking again, expecting him to keep up. 

And, of course, he did. The difference in their height was.. ridiculous and humiliating for Apollo. 

But Apollo hesitated to speak. He had rehearsed this in his head; the lines of the prophecy, the warnings etched into his vision like fire across the sky. Every instinct urged him to speak, to place the burden in her hands before it crushed him. And yet—he looked at her now, and saw not the impenetrable goddess the world revered, but his sister, jaw locked against invisible pain, eyes dulled by sleeplessness she refused to name.

If he told her now, he feared she’d throw herself at fate with reckless determination. She’d see death in the prophecy and challenge it, no matter the cost. It was a weird pattern Apollo started seeing in her, that despite being the Goddess of Wisdom, she seemed to put herself in stupid situations that had no aim or gain, or got her hurt.

So instead, he sighed, letting the weight of unsaid truths sink back into his chest.

“I— Zeus,” Apollo said instead. Not a lie, but not what he intended to tell her either. His voice sharpened, almost too quickly, to cover the pause. “He’s in one of his moods. Worse than usual. I thought it best to warn you before you stumble into his wrath.”

Her face hardened, though she betrayed no surprise. “When is he not in a foul mood?” she said dryly, though her steps faltered for half a second. She picked up pace again.

Apollo’s face twisted up. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t dismiss this so easily, Thena, please. I know you’re his favourite, but he’s angrier than usual. Arti was scared of his yelling from the other side of the damn mountain.”

“I know you’re his favourite.” Like that had ever stopped him from anything before. Fates, it enraged her how foolish everyone was sometimes. Did they think she never burdened wounds from his hands because she was praised higher?

She almost felt bitter for even thinking of it, but she was glad she was the favourite out of everyone else. She couldn’t bear the thought of any of her other siblings being constantly pressurized the way she was, being punished for the simplest mistakes because perfection was a necessity for her and not the others. They could get away with slack or delays, but she couldn't. She knew Hermes or Artemis couldn’t handle it. The closest would’ve been Apollo, who was always occupied with healing, or the weight of prophecies, and balancing music, archery, and more.

Athena snapped back when she replayed Apollo’s words. She stopped walking when she felt her skin buzzing like a warning. For a regretful second, she wanted to agree and hide away with Apollo and snatch Hermes from the skies and keep them all huddled safely where no one would hurt them. The annihilated child in her wanted to hide with them. 

Her gaze hardened and her thoughts tangled. Zeus, in a bad mood, so soon after Poseidon’s threats? The timing made her stomach twist. Of course, he gets angered by the slightest mishaps far too often. His anger is common. But still, Athena never stopped expecting the worst. 

Apollo saw how her gaze was drifting again, as though even standing still gave her too much space to think. The prophecy itched at the back of his throat, the words crawling, begging to spill. It was about her. About her thread, tangled and fraying. About death deferred. He wanted to tell her, warn her, protect her. But what good would it do? She’d only throw herself headfirst into danger, as she always did, and would call it strategy.

So instead, he softened his tone. “I just wanted to let you know. I don’t want you to be surprised by his behaviour if you come across him later this week.” he said honestly, then added “..Plus.. I really don’t want to heal another slight zap of lightning again. Ares was enough to deal with earlier.”

Athena stayed silent for a moment. She said, though her tone carried an edge of weariness. “I can handle him.” Poseidon’s words echoed in her memory, threats still ringing like fresh wounds. She wasn’t scared of Poseidon, just more of the power he had at the given circumstances. She is terrified of her father. 

Truthfully, there was no guarantee he would even care about her helping Odysseus or that she cared too much. But there was no real safety when it came to him. You could never know when he could turn against you, when his anger would spike or when it wouldn’t. So she preferred to be prepared.

Apollo searched her face, his own was troubled. For a moment, he almost looked as though he might reach for her, but then he drew back, shaking his head with a small, nervous laugh. “You always say that.”

“And have I ever failed at that?” She sounded almost defensive. Great, Just when he thought he was getting her guard down.

Instead of sighing like he thought of doing, Apollo smiled faintly and shook his head, “No, actually, you haven’t” He agreed.

He looked down again for a moment, sentimentally, then said “I don’t know where this is coming from.. But just don’t be stupid and do something exceptional to protect one of us if Zeus happens to do something. We’re not children anymore, not that all of us ever were, don’t carry everything too hard.”

For a heartbeat, Athena just stared at him. She had braced for mockery, or a lecture, or one of his infuriating riddles wrapped in charm. But not this. Not.. she didn’t even want to say it. Not care.

Athena stood very still, her arms crossed like a shield across her chest, but her mind was anything but calm. Apollo’s words—gentle, steady, and earnest—cut through her like no blade she ever wielded ever could. She wasn’t used to hearing him speak to her like that, not after Troy. Not after the war where every victory and every failure had tangled itself between them.

She had seen Apollo on the battlefield at Troy, guiding arrows to the most fatal areas, sending deathly plagues as warning and for entertainment. She had also seen the devastation in his eyes when the walls fell, when the cries of men and women carried to the heavens. She had seen him bury his grief beneath music and light, the same way she buried hers beneath strategy and stone. And she could still sense the resentment and hatred he felt for everyone on the opposite side of the war. She was sure he hated her as well. So.. why..?

For a moment, she almost didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t like the bright, teasing brother who filled the halls with music and laughter, nor the petty and cruel God he was when his opponents tested him too far and underestimated his ability. This was Apollo stripped back, serious, vulnerable in his concern for her, he was the sharp-tongued healer and brother who scolded her wounds as if they were his own.

Her throat tightened. She hated how it made her feel—cornered, exposed. She shifted her weight, eyes darting past him toward the gleaming avenues of Olympus, as though work or duty might appear out of thin air to rescue her from the conversation. Nothing came.

“Athena.” She heard his voice call to her from miles away.

Her voice, when it came, was softer than she meant it to be. “You make it sound so simple.”

Apollo tilted his head, listening. But she wouldn’t say more now. She inhaled once then straightened again. Apollo couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“Thank you for.. letting me know about father in advance. You should be careful as well.” She said as a dismissal. Apollo tried not to retort on how he didn’t need to be careful when he could very much see the future. 

Instead, he nodded and gave her a well deserved smile before walking away before she could first, quickly occupying himself with a trail of eager and giggly nymphs.

Athena thought of how he always liked having the last say. She didn’t mind, she liked that consistency. She’d rather he stayed that way—grudgeful and sweet all at once—rather than change the way everything else in her life does.