Chapter Text
Life as Poseidon’s lover had been wonderful. Granted, it came with a very frustrating conversation with your mother regarding the ‘divine messenger’ who had carried you home that one time, but other than that—smooth sailing.
Not a day had passed since your night spent with your god that he had not answered your calls, whether through your shell or in person while you laid down your offerings on Ithaca’s shores. Sometimes, he’d even go so far as to initiate your interactions, the gentle whistle of wind over waves echoing from your conch shell and signaling that Poseidon wanted your ear. You would talk to him for hours when his schedule would allow, captivated by the rich baritone of his voice, and you took special care to memorize every expression that flashed across his gorgeous face whenever you got the chance.
And of course, there was the sex—the mind-blowing, toe-curling, earth-shattering sex. As a lover, Poseidon was just as unpredictable and tumultuous as his domain would suggest. He could be sensual and soothing in one moment then dangerous and domineering in the next, an ebb and flow of passion that only the King of the Tides could master. Despite that, as surely as the seas met the shores, Poseidon was always consistent in his care for you. He never left you wanting before, during, or after you had lain with him, going to great lengths to ensure your comfort in a way that told you that you were more than just fleeting entertainment to him. In a word? He was perfect.
Even with the special relationship you had cultivated with him though, Poseidon was still your god, and you were nothing if not a devoted servant. For as long as you could remember, it had been customary for you and your parents to visit the island’s main temple to offer a sacrifice at the start of each month, asking for the Earth Shaker’s renewed favor. Of course, you knew that now you needn’t ask for such a thing—Poseidon had actually told you off the last time you did during your personal prayer time—but your short pilgrimage to the Ithaca’s southern shore was one of the rare occasions when you got to spend a whole day with both of your parents present. Thus, here you were, walking along the dirt path with a basket of fresh fruit in your arms, your father and mother hand-in-hand beside you, and a leashed ram trodding behind.
“Do you think Asphaleius will be at the temple today?” your mother chimed, leaning forward to make eye contact with you around your father. You groaned loudly, wishing your hands were free so that you could bury your face in them.
“Mother, you have asked me the same question for the past six months now, and I have given you the same answer—I don’t know.” She clicked her tongue at you and huffed, muttering angrily as your father sighed between you two.
“Well I figured one of these days you should know, seeing how often you sneak off to see him,” she nagged.
“I do not sneak off to see anyone,” you retorted, “much less ‘Asphalieus’.” It wasn’t your best work, but your wit always seemed to fail when it came to your mother. The student was a long way off from surpassing the master.
“Oh hush, girl.” You could feel your mother roll her eyes more than you could see it from this angle. “You think I was born yesterday? If you’re going to bed such a handsome man every other day, you might as well get a proper dowry from him.”
“Mother,” you hissed. You really needed Poseidon to stop leaving you with so many marks—at least ones you could not easily cover.
“Ariane, leave her alone,” your father implored tiredly. He yelped when your mother grabbed him by the ear, tugging so that he had to lean away from you while fighting to keep his hold on the ram’s lead.
“Oh no, you do not get to play the neutral party here, Halieus.” She released his ear and pointed at him accusingly. “If you had put even a little effort into finding a single suitor for our daughter that would actually stick around, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Your mother’s words cut deep, reopening wounds you thought you had stitched closed with greater care. To say you had never been courted would be a merciful misrepresentation of the truth. You in fact had gone through several suitors since you came of age, each one withdrawing their dowries within a month or two of knowing you. ‘Too religious,’ ‘too homely,’ ‘too stubborn,’ and ‘too work-oriented’ were among the many reasons you had been given for their broken proposals. You had learned to tell yourself that those men simply could not handle a woman of your caliber, but the dulled dagger of insecurity still poked and prodded you all the same.
You went quiet, face fallen and demeanor dampened, and eventually your mother took notice. “Oh—don’t be like that, lamb,” she murmured with a ‘tsk’. “That wasn’t- I’m not saying that- ugh.” You snuck a glance at her through the corner of your eye and saw her open and close her palms in front of her in wild gestures, as if trying to pull the words to comfort you out of thin air. She sighed deeply before composing herself, giving you enough time to avert your gaze before she could catch it. “None of that was your fault, dear. It is your father’s responsibility to find you a suitable match, and clearly he cares more about picking the right net than the right man.”
“That’s not fair!” you rebutted, head snapping upward. “Both Anteia and Hallie married just fine! You can’t blame dad for everything that doesn’t go your way!”
Both you and your mother froze in place, leaving your father a half step ahead of you. She stared you down, her gaze icy and unreadable, and regret flooded your senses instantly. Unfortunately, she had raised you to be stubborn—just like her—so you did not offer an apology right away.
“Who’s being unfair now?” she finally asked, tone tinged with sorrow. Your breath hitched in your throat and you opened your mouth to respond, but were cut off by your father.
“We’re almost to the temple, family. Let’s not bring our troubles into Lord Poseidon’s holy place, please.” For all your father’s faults, he was oft the voice of reason that spoke into the storm that was your relationship with your mother. His hand was upon his wife’s shoulder, rubbing behind her shoulder blade in the way that always calmed her down, and his firm but gentle eyes met yours with a silent apology. It irked you—he had nothing to be sorry for. You huffed and turned back toward the path, stomping forward without another word.
You arrived at the grand steps of Poseidon’s temple about fifteen minutes later—grand by your standards, at least. Two flights of wide stairs led up to an entryway flanked by several fluted columns that stretched high above. They held up the sturdy entablature like Atlas and the sky, never once resting in their sacred charge. The frieze was sectioned by triglyphs, in between which were reliefs of Poseidon’s emblematic trident. The sandstone was worn and cracked in places, subject to the salty sea winds that blew up and over the cliff the temple rested upon, but you always thought that gave it more character. You interpreted the scars upon the building’s facade as evidence of your god’s proximity, a visible connection to the domain of the Great Flooder. Subconsciously, your hands twitched under your basket as the bruises hidden beneath your ampechone began to ache.
Your parents trailed behind you a few paces—giving you space to cool off, it would seem—so you marched onward and upward without them. Once you had reached the top, you set your basket down and picked up your shell from where it hung on your hip.
“Oh He of All Waters, your servant comes before your temple to lay forth an offering at your feet. I leave all that distracts me at the threshold, seeking only to bask in your unending glory. May you part your tides for your humble follower, if it pleases you.”
You paused after your prayer, cradling your shell close to your cheek as you listened to the gentle push and pull of the waves. Eventually, another sound joined their fold, an abbreviated puff of wind pushed through pursed lips. “Humble? A temple is no place for jokes, girl.” You stifled your laughter with your fist, ignoring the judgemental side eye of a fellow cult member as they passed by. “I suppose it is a place for you, however. Enjoy your visit, little siren.”
With Poseidon’s approval in hand, you retrieved your offerings basket and entered the peristasis. The air chilled as you walked further under the shadow of the roof, the warmth of the sun unavailable to combat the brisk ocean breeze. You bowed your head in greeting as you passed several priests of Poseidon’s order, recognizing a few of them as men your father fished with on occasion. While the sights and sounds of the temple were familiar and comforting, however, even here you could not find respite from your infamy. Hushed, furtive whispers reached your ears and you spun around to lock eyes with a group of women from your hometown. They did not look away when you noticed their stares; in fact, their secretive smiles morphed into cruel sneers which they covered with dainty hands as you glared back at them.
“Do I need to tell the priests you hyenas are gossiping on Poseidon’s holy grounds?” called a voice from behind you. You turned to find your mother approaching, father and ram in tow. She wore a deep scowl with disapprovement that only a mother could convey and the group of women hastily dispersed, shooting you dirty looks as they retreated. You tilted your chin skyward, raising a singular brow at them in challenge.
“Pay them no mind, delfi,” your father encouraged, ruffling your hair carefully so as to not loosen your braid. You pouted at him for a moment, ducking under his hand, before your lips involuntarily spread into an easy smile. That was always your father’s favorite nickname for you—little dolphin. He told you it was because dolphins were by far the most intelligent creatures he had encountered out at sea, far more intelligent than half the men he sailed with. Your mother would make jabs at him sometimes, saying that his only talents were making ships and catching fish, but you knew of a secret third. He always knew what to say to cheer you up.
The three of you made your way further into the temple, crossing into the naos after washing your feet in saltwater. Once inside, your father began to prepare the ram while you and your mother laid your fruits out on an auxiliary altar by the statue of Poseidon. You let your eyes wander up toward it as you worked, tracing the blunt edges of the worked bronze with your gaze. You used to love this statue when you were young, when less of its surface was covered with the green patina that seemed to creep ever further up its limbs over the years. You’d admire the imposing figure for hours as your parents and siblings poured forth their libations, marvelling at how the craftsmen had managed to capture so much motion in the folds of the fabric around his hips and in the flowing waves of his hair. You had wondered if the real Poseidon’s skin had the same metallic shine, if his trident was the same blinding gold, or if his eyes were as cold as the ivory beads set in the statue’s face.
The statue was still a magnificent creation—as a seasoned craftswoman yourself, you could see how the artist must have poured their blood, sweat, and tears into it. However, it had lost much of its original allure now that you had seen the real thing. Poseidon’s skin was not a lifeless bronze. It was a rich, golden tan, scarred yet smooth to the touch. His trident was not a rigid gold but an undulating extension of the ocean itself, sharpened to match its wielder’s brilliant mind. And his eyes were not cold—you had never had anyone look at you as warmly as he had with those sparkling, sapphire eyes.
You felt a flush creep up your neck and you averted your eyes from the statue to keep yourself from further overlaying it with Poseidon’s true visage. In your panicked search for something else to stare at, you locked eyes with a young man dressed in a navy blue chiton. His garment was fastened with the golden brooch that you knew must have borne Poseidon’s signature emblem. You realized you knew this boy—he had been one of your customers about two months prior.
“There!” he suddenly exclaimed, pointing at you excitedly. “That’s her!”
You shot up from your crouched position, muscles tensing as the primal war of ‘fight or flight’ waged in your mind. Your mother quickly followed suit, mirroring your alarm with a touch of her own annoyance. “Great, what now…?” she grumbled. Your father came over to see what the commotion was about, just in time for the young man to approach you with two priests following close behind—one male and one female. The three of you fell into a deep bow when you realized exactly whom the boy had brought over.
The woman was the first to speak. “Greetings, brethren. May the tides part for you.” At her cue, the men beside her bowed their heads politely, hands held in a diagonal across their chests. Being the one the boy had intended to approach, you took it upon yourself to reply instead of your father, much to your mother’s chagrin.
“Only by the grace of He of All Waters, High Priestess,” you returned, your tone infused with the utmost reverence. “We are honored to have you approach us.” You raised your head and were met with a kind smile upon beautiful, coppery lips. You resisted the unintentionally disrespectful urge to roll your eyes—of course the woman at the head of Poseidon’s cult in Ithaca would be gorgeous. “How may we be of service?”
“We actually seek your assistance in particular, sister,” the High Priestess explained, much to the surprise of your whole family. “Our brothers here tell me you are an especially talented weaver, one blessed by the hand of the Great Poseidon Semnos himself.” You startled at her praise, amazed that word of your work had reached the highest and most devoted amongst Poseidon’s followers.
“It is true,” the older man beside her chimed. “My apprentice had procured me one of your himations for my latest journey across the sea. We were met by a fierce storm, but each towering wave broke around our vessel and all of us made it to land unharmed, our ship virtually untouched.” He then extended his arms, atop which a deep blue himation was draped. You gingerly lifted the fabric and saw a conch shell embroidered by the hem—your signature emblem of your own.
Beside you, your mother reached into the basket you had brought, procuring the woven votive you had completed earlier in the week. She approached the male priest, comparing the two cloths before looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe. The pride in her gaze had a flurry of emotions welling up within you. She had never been one to dissuade you from focusing on your craft, unlike your eldest sister, but you knew she harbored unspoken doubts of her own. All the warm emotions died in your chest, however, when she mouthed a name to you, as if to ask how you had curried such favor with the Great Flooder. ‘Asphalieus?’
You bit the inside of your bottom lip, a flash of irritation passing over your face before you composed yourself and turned your attention back to the High Priestess you had been so rudely ignoring. “I was not aware the tales were true,” you lied. You knew full well the depth of Poseidon’s self-professed ‘obsession’ with you, refusing to let even your creations come to harm. “I am honored to know my work has pleased the Savior of Sailors.”
“Such craft deserves to be recognized by all Poseidon’s faithful, dear sister,” the Priestess beamed. “It is for this reason that we have sought you out on this day.” You exchanged glances with your parents, your father giving you a quick, supportive smile. You then nodded at the High Priestess, signalling for her to continue.
She returned your nod with a quick bow of her head, gesturing for you all to follow her further into the naos. “As you know,” she began, “Ithaca falls under the gracious protection of Lady Athena—the patron deity of our king.”
You hummed affirmatively. “Yes, I have heard that even Prince Telemachus has found her favor as he’s come of age.”
“Indeed,” she smiled. “And while the crown has served the Goddess of Wisdom since King Odysseus claimed the throne, they have always paid their respects to the whole of the pantheon and encouraged all of Ithaca to do the same. That is, until King Odysseus returned from war…” Her face fell as she spoke and she cast her gaze across the temple floor. A floor—you noted—that seemed to be far less travelled than it had been during your youth.
“You may not be aware, sister—coming from the outskirts of our island—but the reigning King of Ithaca has refused to pay tribute to our temple ever since he came home two years ago.” You whipped your head around sharply, incredulity written all over your face. “The people took notice over time,” she further explained, “and those who count themselves amongst Poseidon’s faithful have dwindled in number.”
“No I… I was not aware of such a tragic decline, High Priestess.” A deep frown settled on your lips, weighed down with worry and confusion. You knew Poseidon loathed King Odysseus, but you didn’t realize the feeling was shared.
“Tragic is correct, sister,” the High Priestess agreed, weariness etched into the lines of her face. “That is why we have approached you, dear weaver. Your hands have clearly been blessed by both Athena Erganê and Poseidon Aglaotraina himself. The temple wishes to commission you to create a grand tapestry to be unveiled at the Haloa later this year, during the procession of Poseidon. We wish to display this art piece here in the naos to inspire a new flock of followers and to show them the true majesty of our lord’s domain.” She gracefully swept her arm in a wide arc, gesturing toward the west wall of the temple you had stopped by. The wall which, conspicuously, was directly behind the statue of your god and lover.
You probably should have thanked the High Priestess for thinking of you for this. Perhaps even denied her offer in a show of decorous humility—not your strong suit, as Poseidon would endlessly remind you, but good manners nonetheless. Ultimately though, you stood there slack jawed and speechless, mind feeling like sludge as you tried to process what had just been asked of you.
“You…want me to weave a tapestry…to display here.” You pointed at the wall without any of your usual astuteness, as if the High Priestess had not given you a very clear and concise summary of her request. “In Ithaca’s main temple. Of Poseidon. Poseidon Soter. Poseidon Gaienokhos. Poseidon Kymothalis. Poseidon Phyt-”
You yelped at the sudden press of an elbow into your ribs, breaking you out of your embarrassing stupor. You turned to find your mother with a strained smile on her lips and utter murder in her glare. Her cheeks pushed up the corners of her eyes for a brief second, the subtle nudge she had used for years to tell you when you were supposed to be responding to something. Oh shit you needed to respond to the priestess-
“Poseidon Phytalmius, yes,” the High Priestess finished for you with a melodic laugh. She smiled at you fondly, thankfully endeared by your floundering instead of put off by it. “Would this timeline work for you? I understand that six months may be too short notice for a commission this grand, but we believe it necessary to have this completed by the winter solstice. The Haloa provides a crucial juncture to convince Ithacans all across the island of Poseidon’s glory and it is imperative that we capitalize on this moment.” You could tell she did not aim to pressure you, but her words carried the weight of the ocean itself all the same. Still…
This was a huge opportunity for you. This was your chance to change your reputation for good, from the village spinster to the weaver behind the art piece nested in the naos of Poseidon himself, the background for all to see as they came to worship in his image.
“I have never known a higher honor, nor a higher calling, High Priestess,” you declared. “Thank you for entrusting me with this charge. In six months time, it shall be done.”