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Chapter Text

With a sweeping motion of his hand, the Earthshaker commanded the ground to tremble, sending vibrations rippling through the soil as a marble fountain began to emerge. Its intricate design, carved with the images of sea creatures, dolphins, tridents, and curling waves, slowly rose from the depths. The fountain gleamed in the sunlight, its polished stone catching every ray. As the base reached the border of his brother Zeus’s domain, Poseidon raised his hand once more. Water surged forth from the spouts in a dazzling display, each stream flowing and intertwining in a mesmerizing dance. The onlookers, citizens of Attica, gasped in awe, their faces reflecting the wonder of the divine spectacle.

King Cecrops, adorned in robes of gold and deep blue, slithered forward, his movements deliberate yet filled with reverence. His voice echoed across the crowd as he proclaimed, “Lord Poseidon, you have bestowed upon the people of Attica, a gift most precious, a source of pure, clean water to sustain us! I shall honor this blessing by being the first to partake.”

Before Poseidon could utter a word of warning, Cecrops cupped his hands into the fountain’s flow, the crystal-clear liquid spilling between his fingers. With a dramatic gesture, he brought the water to his lips. But scarcely had the liquid touched his tongue before he doubled over, coughing violently, his face contorting with disgust.

Poseidon’s sea-green eyes darkened as he scoffed, his voice rumbling like a distant storm. “This water is drawn from the deepest wells of my palace beneath the waves. It is imbued with the salt of the sea and the power of my domain. It is not meant for mortal consumption.”

Laughter broke through the tension, sharp and melodic. Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, stepped forward, her gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, Uncle,” she said, her tone laced with mockery. “Only you would be so misguided as to offer a gift as impractical as a fountain of salt water.”

Poseidon turned to her, his expression hardening, his towering figure radiating divine power. The two gods stood feet above the mortals, their celestial forms casting long shadows across the gathering. “If you believe you can do better,” Poseidon growled, his voice echoing like the roar of the ocean, “Then I challenge you, niece. Prove your superiority, if you have the courage.”

Athena smiled faintly, unbothered by Poseidon’s mockery. She crouched gracefully, plucking several blades of grass from the earth, their green tips gleaming in the sunlight. With deliberate movements, she began weaving them together, her hands moving with the fluid precision of a master craftswoman. The mortals whispered among themselves, baffled by her actions.

Poseidon watched with mounting impatience, his trident tapping rhythmically against the ground. “Are you weaving a basket, niece? How foolish are you?” His deep voice rumbled, eliciting a few uneasy chuckles from the crowd.

Athena paused her work just long enough to shoot him a piercing glare, her gray eyes filled with simmering annoyance. “Sometimes, Uncle, the simplest actions lead to the most profound results,” she replied, her voice calm but firm. Then, she returned to her task.

The weaving grew rapidly, expanding far beyond mortal capability. Grass entwined with supernatural speed, forming a complex, towering lattice. It spiraled upward, stretching toward the heavens, much taller than any mortal or god present. The mortals gasped as the structure took shape, its form elegant yet sturdy, like a living work of art.

Satisfied with her creation, Athena stood and surveyed it with a discerning eye. She nodded approvingly, then snapped her fingers.

In an instant, the woven structure shimmered, glowing with divine light. From the bottom up, the grass turned to rich, dark bark, and leaves made of silver sprouted from the branches. A magnificent olive tree emerged, its gnarled trunk thick with age, as if it had stood there for centuries. Its silvery leaves swayed gently, though there was no wind, and clusters of ripe fruit hung from its boughs, glistening in the sun.

The crowd stared in wonder, their mouths agape. The air seemed to hum with energy, as though the tree itself carried a piece of Athena’s wisdom within it. The king, Cecrops, moved closer, his awe evident. “Lady Athena, what marvel is this?” he asked, his voice trembling with reverence.

Athena turned to him, her expression serene yet proud. “This, King Cecrops, is the olive tree. Its fruit will feed your people, its oil will light your lamps and anoint your kings, and its wood will build your homes and ships. It is a gift of life, of wisdom, and of endurance.”

Poseidon’s face darkened as he beheld the tree. The fountain’s beauty now seemed trivial, fleeting compared to the practicality and grace of Athena’s creation. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his pride wounded.

The king bowed as low as his snake body would allow him, “Lady Athena, this is truly a gift beyond measure. We, the people of Attica, shall honor you above all others as the patron of our city.”

Poseidon growled, his trident striking the ground and causing the earth to quake slightly. “You would choose her over me, mortal? Over the lord of the seas, the master of storms?”

Cecrops, trembling, raised his head. “Great Lord Poseidon, your power is undeniable, and your gift is awe-inspiring. But Lady Athena’s offering will sustain us for generations. It is her wisdom that shall guide our city.”

Poseidon glared at Athena, but she met his gaze with quiet confidence, the faintest smirk on her lips. The rivalry between them had only grown stronger, but the contest was over. Athena had won, and from that day forward, the city would bear her name: Athens.

Overcome with anger and humiliation, Poseidon struck the ground with his trident, unleashing a violent earthquake. The earth beneath their feet groaned in protest, and the people of Attica screamed as they struggled to remain standing. Buildings trembled, and cracks splintered through the ground like jagged lightning. Some of the mortals fell to their knees, clutching the soil in terror, while others huddled together for protection.

Poseidon’s rage was unrelenting, his power surging through the land. “You dare mock the gift of a god!” he thundered, his voice shaking the air like a storm over the ocean. “You will learn to respect the Lord of the Seas!”

Athena, though angered herself, refused to cower. “Enough, Uncle! Your pride blinds you to reason. Your tantrum endangers the very people we seek to honor!”

Before the argument could escalate further, a streak of light cut through the sky, and Hermes descended from the heavens, his winged sandals gleaming as he landed between the two deities. “Uncle! Sister! Your quarrel has reached the ears of Father!” he called, his voice sharp with urgency. “Zeus commands your presence in Olympus at once!”

But neither Poseidon nor Athena seemed inclined to listen. They continued arguing, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and boasts. Hermes groaned, running a hand through his hair, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Must you always make my job so difficult?” he muttered to himself.

Unnoticed by the gods, the earthquake had loosened a single olive from Athena’s newly-formed tree. It rolled gently down the branches, glinting in the sunlight, until it landed in Poseidon’s fountain. As it touched the water, the olive dissolved, and the fountain began to froth. The bubbling water, now infused with the essence of the olive, sparkled like liquid starlight, flowing more gracefully than before.

The mortals, still trembling from the earthquake, turned their attention to the fountain. Their expressions shifted from fear to awe as the froth began to take shape, swirling and coalescing into something tangible.

At that moment, Apollo appeared in a burst of radiant light, his golden chariot resting briefly in the sky before he stepped down with effortless grace. “Still bickering, are we?” he drawled, his tone teasing as he glanced between Poseidon and Athena. “Really, Brother, how difficult is it to convey a message?”

He was about to continue when a collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Apollo turned his gaze toward the fountain, his golden eyes widening slightly in surprise. The froth had solidified into the delicate form of a young woman. Her skin glowed faintly, like sunlight reflecting off the ocean’s surface, and her long dark hair cascaded like gentle waves. Shy and frightened, she pulled her knees to her chest, trying to conceal herself with the remaining foam that clung to her form.

The mortals fell silent, their awe-stricken faces illuminated by the fountain’s glow. Even the gods stopped their bickering, their attention captured by the ethereal figure. Athena narrowed her eyes, stepping closer with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Poseidon’s anger faltered, replaced by confusion as he regarded the girl with a furrowed brow.

The young woman looked up at the gathered crowd, her eyes wide and filled with uncertainty. Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she gathered the foam around her, trembling as if she wished to disappear back into the water.

Hermes, ever quick to recover, let out a low whistle. “Well, now,” he said, stepping forward with a roguish grin. “This just got interesting.” 

Athena and Poseidon exchanged a glance, their rivalry momentarily forgotten. The girl, still seated in the fountain, represented something entirely new, something neither god could claim as solely their own. 

The rest of the Olympians began to arrive one by one, their divine forms shimmering as they descended from Olympus. The last to arrive was Zeus, his presence overwhelming as the sky above darkened briefly in acknowledgment of the king of the gods.

Zeus strode forward, his thunderous voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “Athena! Poseidon! Your petty squabbling has gone too far! You disgrace yourselves and disturb the balance of this realm.”

He halted abruptly, his gaze landing on the fountain. His piercing eyes flicked to the young woman who sat trembling, her naked form still partially concealed by the frothy water. The corner of his mouth lifted in a predatory smirk, his gaze lingering far too long. “Well, well,” Zeus drawled, his tone shifting to something unsettlingly indulgent. “What do we have here?”

Before Zeus could take another step, Hermes was already moving toward the fountain, “A beauty like this in the mortal realm? I’d say this is my lucky day.” He tilted his head, giving her a sly wink. “Don’t be shy, little one. Why not come out and introduce yourself properly?”

The young woman let out a soft squeak of alarm, scrambling behind the fountain’s central pillar. Her hands clutched at the foam, her wide, sea-green eyes at the Olympians before her in a mix of fear and confusion.

Apollo, who had been quietly observing, stepped forward, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Enough,” he said firmly, snapping his fingers producing a golden cloak. With quick but gentle movements, he draped it over her shoulders, shielding her from prying eyes. She flinched at first but relaxed slightly under his calm demeanor. “Can’t you see she’s terrified?” Apollo continued, shooting an irritated glance at Hermes. “Have some decency.”

Before anyone could respond, Artemis climbed into the fountain without hesitation, her bare feet causing small ripples in the water, soaking her clothing. The mortals gasped, but she paid them no mind. Kneeling beside the trembling girl, Artemis placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe now,” she said softly, her voice soothing and maternal. “No one will harm you. I promise.”

The girl looked up at Artemis, her fear giving way to a flicker of relief. She nodded hesitantly, clutching the cloak around her tightly.

Zeus, however, had been watching closely, and his expression suddenly darkened as realization struck him. He took a step forward, his thunderous presence commanding attention. “Wait,” he growled, his gaze narrowing on the girl. “Her aura… I know it. She bears the essence of both Poseidon and Athena.”

The crowd of gods and mortals alike fell silent. Athena and Poseidon both stiffened, their confusion matching the intensity of Zeus’s growing anger.

Zeus’s expression turned furious as he rounded on Poseidon. “You dare! You have broken one of our most sacred laws, seducing Athena, the sworn virgin! This—” he gestured to the girl, his voice dripping with accusation, “—this is the product of your reckless union!”

Athena’s face flushed with anger, and she stepped forward, her gray eyes blazing. “How dare you, Father!” she snapped. “I have broken no vow, nor have I been ‘seduced.’ Do not insult my honor with such baseless assumptions.”

Poseidon’s expression turned from confusion to indignation. “Brother, you are mistaken. Whatever this is, it is not the result of any union between Athena and myself.” He gestured to the fountain and the tree. “It is clear this girl is born of our gifts, not of… that.”

Zeus’s eyes darted between Athena, Poseidon, and the girl, his anger simmering but his logic slowly catching up. Hera stepped forward, placing a calming hand on his arm. “Think, husband,” she said coldly, her voice sharp with disapproval. “Do you truly believe your Athena would break her vows? Use your mind, not your temper.”

The girl whimpered softly, pressing herself further against the pillar. Artemis glared up at Zeus, her protective instincts flaring. “Enough of your accusations, Father. Look at her! She is frightened out of her wits, and your yelling is only making things worse.”

As the tension in the air lingered, Artemis took it upon herself to ease the young goddess’s distress. She gently placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, her touch firm yet reassuring, and began to reposition the golden cloak Apollo had draped over her. Artemis’s movements were deliberate, each fold and adjustment a labor of care. Her divine fingers wove the fabric into a flowing gown that shimmered like sunlight on rippling water.

Apollo, ever the gentleman (when his sister demanded it), immediately turned his back to the fountain, his cheeks faintly golden with respect for the young goddess’s modesty. He raised his hands in mock exasperation, addressing the gathered gods. “Well, well, isn’t this something! The great rivals, Athena and Poseidon, have somehow managed to create a child together! Perhaps they’ve been hiding their little collaboration from us all this time?”

The gods murmured in amused disbelief as Apollo grinned, his golden aura radiating charm as he deftly kept their attention. He gestured dramatically toward Athena and Poseidon, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Come now, Uncle, Sister. Admit it! Did the rivalry finally turn into something a little more… passionate?”

Athena glared daggers at him, her fists clenched at her sides. “If you don’t hold your tongue, Apollo, I will gladly show you just how ‘passionate’ my spear can be.”

Poseidon growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Mind your words, nephew. You tread on thin ice.”

Apollo smirked but kept his gaze averted from the fountain, where Artemis continued her careful work. While her twin distracted the others, Artemis transformed the simple golden cloak into a gown fit for a goddess. She reached up and plucked several leaves from the olive tree overhead, her movements graceful yet purposeful as she transformed them to real silver. The leaves, imbued with Athena’s wisdom and the enduring strength of the tree, shimmered as she wove them together into a silver belt. Its ends remained untouched, like a laurel wreath.

Next, she fashioned a crown from the same leaves, arranging it into a structural silhouette that pointed upward. As she worked, Artemis softly whispered blessings into the gown and accessories, imbuing them with protection, grace, and quiet strength.

When she finished, Artemis stepped back and nodded toward the young goddess. “There,” she said softly. “You are clothed and ready to stand among the gods. Do not fear them, they have no power over you.”

Encouraged by Artemis’s kindness, the girl slowly rose from her place in the fountain, the soft splashes of water drawing the attention of the gathered gods. Her gown shimmered like sunlight dancing on waves, and the silver belt at her waist glinted in the light. The crown of olive leaves perched atop her head gave her an air of regal dignity, even as her expression remained shy and uncertain.

She stepped out from behind the pillar hesitantly, her bare feet still in the water, and her voice, though quiet, carried a melody that stilled the murmurs of the gods as she spoke her first words, “My name,” she said, her tone steadying with each word, “is Persekrene.”

A hush fell over the assembly as her name echoed through the air. The mortals knelt in reverence, sensing her divine presence. The gods exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued. Even Zeus, who had seemed so sure of his conclusions moments ago, furrowed his brow in confusion and intrigue.

“Persekrene,” Athena repeated thoughtfully, her sharp mind already analyzing the significance of the name. She glanced toward Poseidon, who looked equally puzzled. This was no ordinary goddess, born of ichor or flesh. Persekrene was something new, a union of their domains, forged not through lust but through godly essence.

“She belongs in my realm,” Poseidon insisted, his voice like the crashing of waves upon jagged cliffs. “She was formed from my fountain, nourished by my waters. In the depths of my kingdom, she will be safe, powerful, revered as a princess of the sea.”

Athena scoffed, her gray eyes flashing with fury. “Safe? With you? She would be a drop in the ocean, Uncle. Do you even know the names of all your sons and daughters? Or do they blur together like the endless waves of your waters?” She took a step forward, her presence sharp and unwavering. “Persekrene is not a nameless nymph to be lost in your vast sea of children. She is my child, my only child. She will be nurtured in my city, where knowledge and wisdom will shape her, not the tempest of your whims.”

Persekrene stood still in the fountain, silent as their words lashed around her like the very storm Poseidon commanded. The young goddess lowered her gaze, uncertain of where she truly belonged. She had only just come into existence, and already she was the object of contention between two of the mightiest gods of Olympus. Artemis squeezed her hand.

Zeus, watching with an impassive expression that barely concealed his amusement, finally lifted his hand, demanding silence. The air grew thick with his authority, the sky above darkening slightly in response.

“Enough,” he said, his deep voice reverberating through the gathering. “You both make valid claims, but the girl is not a prize to be won.” He cast his gaze toward Persekrene, his expression unreadable. “I will decide what is best.”

A hush fell over the assembly as Zeus stepped forward, his gaze lingering on the young goddess. He stroked his beard in feigned contemplation, but his true thoughts ran much deeper. She was beautiful, radiant with the combined power of two of the most formidable Olympians. It was rare for a goddess to be created in such a manner. She was unique. And he wanted her.

His lips curled into what he hoped would be perceived as a benevolent smile. “She will spend four months of the year in the sea with Poseidon, learning the ways of his domain. Four months with Athena, learning the wisdom and strategy befitting a daughter of the goddess of war and wisdom.” His smirk deepened slightly. “And for the final four months, she may go where she pleases.”

There was a ripple of murmurs among the gods. It was a generous compromise, or at least it seemed so. Persekrene, a newly born deity, was granted a freedom that most young gods never had. But those who knew Zeus well, those who knew his appetites, sensed there was something more to his decree.

Hera’s sharp eyes flickered toward her husband, and though she remained outwardly calm, she was not fooled. She saw the way Zeus looked at Persekrene, the way his gaze lingered too long. Zeus likely wished for the young goddess to be endeared by his generosity, so when her domains were fully established, she may agree to be his concubine. But Hera did not speak. Not yet.

Poseidon frowned, his jaw tightening, while Athena clenched her fists at her sides. Though they had both wished to claim Persekrene entirely, this compromise was perhaps the best they could hope for. But as their eyes met across the space between them, something passed between them, a silent agreement, forged in their shared concern.

Zeus would never touch their daughter.

The King of the Gods turned his attention to the mortals gathered in awe, lifting his arms as his voice carried like thunder. “Rejoice, people of Attica, for you bear witness to the birth of a new goddess! May you honor her as you honor the gods who brought her forth. Hail Persekrene Ptoselaiagenos, the Athenide, born of the fallen olive!”

The mortals fell to their knees, voices raised in reverence. They chanted her name, declaring their devotion, oblivious to the tensions that still simmered among the gods.

…..

The Birth of Persekrene

As told in Myths for Little Olympians

Long, long ago, when the world was still young and the gods walked freely across the land and sea, there came a day unlike any other. On that day, in the land of Attica, two powerful gods, Poseidon, lord of the sea, and Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, each wished to give the people a special gift.

Poseidon struck the ground with his mighty trident, and whoosh!—up sprang a beautiful fountain! Its water sparkled like starlight and sang with the music of the ocean. But when the king of the city tried to drink from it… blegh! It was salty like the sea!

Then Athena stepped forward. She bent down and gently wove blades of grass into a tiny braid. With magic and care, she grew something wondrous, an olive tree, tall and strong, with silvery leaves and fruit that would feed and help the people for generations.

The people cheered, and the city chose Athena as their protector. That’s why, even today, it is called Athens.

The sea fountain and the olive tree stood side by side, two gifts, side by side. They glowed with godly power, as if they were talking to each other. Then, a soft light began to shine from the middle of the fountain. The water bubbled and swirled… and from the foam, a girl began to appear!

She had long dark hair like ocean waves and eyes as bright as new olive leaves. She was shy at first, wrapping herself in soft sea-foam, but her glow lit up the whole city.

The gods gathered around her, surprised and amazed. “Who is she?” they asked.

“She is ours,” Athena said, stepping forward.

“She is mine,” Poseidon said, right behind her.

But someone else, a kind goddess named Artemis, knelt beside the girl and said gently, “You are yourself, little one. What is your name?”

The girl blinked and whispered, “Persekrene.”

And so it was.

Persekrene, daughter of the sea and the mind, was born, from gifts freely given. She became the goddess of loyalty, of erosion, and of demigods, those brave heroes who are part mortal, part god.

Even today, some say that when a demigod is lonely, or a hero feels forgotten, Persekrene is there in spirit, guiding them with kindness and courage. And if you listen closely near the sea or under an old olive tree… you just might hear her laughter on the wind.

Chapter Text

As the murmurs of the gathered gods began to settle, a lilting, melodic voice broke through the tension. “Oh, my dear, you are exquisite,” Aphrodite cooed, gliding toward Persekrene with effortless grace. The goddess of love and beauty studied the younger goddess with open admiration, her delicate fingers reaching out to gently cup Persekrene’s face.

Persekrene, unused to such attention, blushed furiously under the scrutiny. Aphrodite tilted her head, examining every detail of the girl’s face, the soft glow of her skin, the unique blend of features inherited from her divine lineage. “Such a harmonious mixture of your parents… How rare and how wonderful,” she mused.

“I—” Persekrene stammered, unable to meet the goddess’s gaze. “I could never compare to you, Lady Aphrodite. Or to Artemis… or even to my mother.”

At her words, Artemis, who had been sitting on the edge of the fountain, suddenly shimmered with gold and averted her gaze. Athena’s head snapped up, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something more tender.

Aphrodite let out a warm, bell-like laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, darling, beauty is not a competition, it is a presence, a truth, an essence that cannot be given rank.” She tucked a strand of Persekrene’s hair behind her ear and then gave her a dazzling smile. “But how I would love to be your friend.”

Persekrene blinked in surprise. “You… you would?”

“Of course,” Aphrodite said, her tone as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “How could I not wish to befriend someone as lovely and unique as you?”

Persekrene smiled shyly, still overwhelmed but comforted by the warmth in Aphrodite’s voice. It was then that something peculiar caught her attention. The goddess’s honey-blonde hair and striking gray eyes felt oddly familiar, uncannily so, as if it wasn’t truly her appearance.

Aphrodite noticed her staring and gave a knowing smile. “Ah, tell me what you see. My appearance shifts based on the one looking at me. The features I bear are often those of the person they find most beautiful.”

Persekrene hesitated, then spoke softly, “Your hair… your eyes… they remind me of my mother.”

Aphrodite’s expression softened as she traced gentle fingers down a curl of her honey-blonde hair. “You may have been born fully grown but you are just a babe. Most young children see me as resembling their mothers,” she explained, “because for a child, their mother is the pinnacle of beauty. She is their entire world.”

Athena, who had been listening from a distance, froze. Her throat tightened as Aphrodite’s words washed over her like an unexpected tide. She had never considered such a thing before, had never thought of herself as a mother in the way mortals experienced it. Yet here was Persekrene, barely hours old, instinctively seeing her as the center of her world.

Athena felt something she rarely allowed herself to feel. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she realized, with some surprise, that her eyes were welling with tears.

Persekrene, innocent and unaware of the depth of what she had just uncovered, tilted her head curiously. “But I’ve only just been born,” she said, frowning slightly. “I haven’t even spoken with my mother yet. How could that be?”

Aphrodite’s smile grew, radiant yet gentle, as she cupped Persekrene’s cheek. “Because you are still a child, little one,” she said softly. “And you were not simply born, you were conceived through the very essence of your parents. They are part of you in ways deeper than flesh or thought.” She brushed a lock of Persekrene’s silvery hair back behind her ear. “No matter what happens, she will always be in you, just as you are in her.”

Persekrene nodded slowly, taking in the words. There was something profound in them, something warm and comforting. It made her feel… connected.

Aphrodite straightened, an impish glint in her eye. “And should you ever fall in love,” she added teasingly, “my colouring will change again to reflect the one who holds your heart.”

Persekrene blushed again, looking away. “That… that won’t be for a long time.”

Aphrodite laughed, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Oh, you never know, dear.”

The moment passed, and the gods resumed their conversations, moving toward the next topic, but Athena remained lost in thought. She glanced toward Aphrodite, her mind lingering on what had just been said.

Then, something strange happened.

Aphrodite, the goddess of love, no longer looked the same to her. She never met her mother, her father left much to be desired and she never fell in love and so, she had always seen Aphrodite in her natural, radiant form. Her shining, golden locks, sky-blue eyes, ethereal and untouchable. But now, as Athena studied her, the image had changed.

The golden waves had darkened, becoming deep, glossy ringlets, almost as dark as the deepest part of the ocean. Her blue eyes had shifted into a sharp, sea-green. Her face, though still unmistakably beautiful, bore new softness in its features, ones that Athena now recognized with startling clarity.

Aphrodite now resembled Persekrene.

Athena inhaled sharply, caught between disbelief and something deeper, something overwhelming. The goddess of love and beauty reflected the one a person found most beautiful… and for the first time in Athena’s immortal existence, that perception had changed. Athena was not too proud to admit that objectively Aphrodite was among the most beautiful of the goddesses, but now her perception had changed.

Because now, for the first time, Athena had someone she cherished more than anything in the world.

Her daughter.

…..

Poseidon, flushed with pride over his new daughter, lifted his trident high into the air. The ground rumbled as seafoam erupted around the base of the fountain, cascading in elegant arcs. The Earthshaker grinned broadly.

“Let it be known across land and sea,” he declared, “that a new goddess walks among us, and she is mine!”

Before Athena could correct him, or Zeus could intervene, Poseidon plunged the tip of his trident into the earth. Instantly, the ground beneath Athens pulsed with power. A chorus of conch shells sounded in the distance, and from the harbor rose ships adorned in kelp and coral, each carrying gifts, musicians, and food summoned from the depths of his kingdom.

It was an impromptu celebration, grand, excessive, and entirely Poseidon.

He sent a ripple of thought across the ocean’s vast mental current, summoning his queen, Amphitrite, and his children to Athens. Within moments, the waves off the coast grew livelier, until figures began to emerge from the sea itself.

Amphitrite was the first to step onto dry land. Regal and composed, her white robes shimmered like liquid light, her crown of crab claws and pearls resting delicately atop her sleek blue-black hair. Her expression was unreadable; calm, regal, but with a tightness around the eyes that hinted at something more complicated.

Beside her strode Triton, towering and imposing. His muscular torso gleamed like damp marble, his skin tinted green like sunlit seaweed. Two long, powerful fish tails coiled behind him where legs would have been. Black hair framed his angular face, and his sharp dark eyes, so like his father’s, scanned the scene with suspicion.

They approached the fountain, where Persekrene still stood partially immersed, the silver laurel crown still resting on her brow. She watched them with wide, uncertain eyes, wringing her hands together.

Poseidon beamed, spreading his arms. “My queen, my son, come! Meet Persekrene, born of the olive and the tide.”

There was a pause as Amphitrite looked the girl over, her gaze thoughtful. She stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her, then gave a small, reserved smile.

“You are… lovely,” she said gently, though her tone carried a note of surprise. “I had heard of your birth… but I see now it was not through… familiar means.”

Persekrene shifted nervously. “You’re… Queen Amphitrite?” she asked.

The sea goddess nodded and brushed a strand behind Persekrenes ear. “Yes, child. And if you wish, you may call me Mother.” Her voice softened with sincerity, and though there was tension behind it, it was not unkind. “I know I am not the one who gave you life. But in the sea, we embrace what the tides bring us.”

Persekrene blinked, stunned by the gesture, then gave a small, grateful bow. “Thank you… Mother.”

Triton approached next, crossing his arms as he studied her. “So, you’re my sister?” he asked gruffly.

“Half-sister,” Poseidon corrected helpfully.

Triton rolled his eyes, though there was no true malice in them. “You’re smaller than I imagined. But you don’t seem weak.”

Persekrene blinked again, unsure if that was meant to be a compliment.

He smirked faintly. “I’ll show you the chariot races sometime. See if you can keep up.”

That broke the tension, and Persekrene smiled for the first time since they’d arrived.

The music swelled in the background, lyres, conch shells, and drums echoing across the city. Mortals were drawn into the celebration as food and drink flowed freely. Gods mingled with humans under the setting sun, the air alive with song and salt.

Athena stood on a marble outcrop overlooking the square, watching her daughter laugh, shy but earnest, beside her sea-born family. She said nothing. But when Poseidon caught her eye, he lifted his goblet slightly, his smirk notably more genuine than mocking.

She didn’t smile, but for once, she didn’t scowl either.

As the celebration continued around them, Athena stepped carefully toward the fountain, her movements measured and precise. She had faced countless battles, countless foes, but as she approached Persekrene, a strange sense of vulnerability gripped her chest. The young goddess turned slowly, sensing her mother’s approach, her bright sea-green eyes widening as their gazes met for the first time.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Athena offered a gentle smile, softer than she had ever shown anyone. “Persekrene,” she began quietly, her voice strong yet hesitant. “You are even more remarkable than I imagined.”

Persekrene shifted nervously, clasping her hands. “Thank you, Mother,” she replied softly, tasting the unfamiliar word. “I…wasn’t sure if you would be pleased.”

Athena stepped closer, carefully reaching out to touch her daughter’s cheek. Her hand, usually so steady, trembled faintly. “Pleased?” Athena echoed, her voice thick with emotion. “You are my greatest joy, Persekrene. I never thought, never dreamed, I would, one day, have a daughter. Yet here you stand, proof that wisdom can create miracles beyond expectation.”

Persekrene leaned into her mother’s touch instinctively, comforted by the warmth of Athena’s palm. “Will you teach me?” she asked softly. “Everything you know?”

Athena smiled again, this time with fierce pride. “Of course. Everything I am, everything I have, I will gladly give you. And together,” she said, her voice growing firmer, filled with conviction, “we will make sure no one, not even Zeus, will ever harm you.”

Persekrene studied her mother carefully, her voice barely above a whisper. “And…my father?”

Athena hesitated, her gray eyes thoughtful. “He and I disagree on nearly everything, child. But not about you. He will protect you, as will I. Whatever divides us, you are the bridge we did not expect. You will always have us both.”

Persekrene smiled faintly, relieved and hopeful. “Then I’m glad. Glad to belong to you both.”

Athena pulled her daughter gently into an embrace, a rare gesture from the stoic goddess. “Welcome home, my daughter. You are loved more deeply than you yet know.”

…..

As the festivities continued beneath a sky painted with streaks of pink and violet, Persekrene stood quietly within the fountain, observing the joyous celebration unfolding before her. Apollo’s music filled the air, a delicate melody woven with sunshine and laughter, inspiring mortals and gods alike to dance. Encouraged by the warmth around her and the kindness she’d received, Persekrene finally gathered her courage. With a determined breath, she stepped forward, water dripping gently from her toes as she took her first steps onto the solid ground of Athens.

The world felt new beneath her feet, stable yet foreign. Poseidon noticed immediately and proudly approached, gently guiding her to a young boy who stood watching her with wide, curious eyes.

“Persekrene, this is Eleftherios,” Poseidon said gently, placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your brother, from a mortal mother here in Attica.”

Eleftherios, perhaps eight or nine years old, shyly glanced up at her, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. Persekrene smiled warmly and knelt to his level.

“Hello, Elder Brother,” she greeted, bowing her head respectfully.

The child giggled nervously, shaking his head vigorously. “No, my Lady! You’re a goddess, and you’re much taller than myself! I can’t be older.”

Persekrene laughed softly, eyes sparkling with affection. “But I was only born today! You’re clearly much wiser and more experienced than I.”

Eleftherios considered this seriously before nodding solemnly, eyes twinkling with newfound pride. “Then I’ll help you, since I know how things work here.”

Persekrene grinned broadly, her heart lightening as she accepted his small hand in hers. They began to play together beneath the warm torchlight, chasing and laughing like any pair of joyful siblings. Watching Eleftherios giggle freely, Persekrene felt moved to ask something that tugged gently at her heart.

“Brother,” she asked quietly, crouching beside him. “May I offer you my very first blessing?”

He paused, his innocent eyes wide with wonder. “Me?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I wish for you to live a peaceful, beautiful life—one without fear, full of laughter and love. Would you accept that?”

Eleftherios nodded eagerly. “Yes, please!”

Persekrene smiled gently and placed a hand tenderly upon his brow. Warmth spread from her fingers as she whispered her blessing, golden energy flowing gently from her being into the young boy. A gentle glow enveloped her, bathing her in a faint, golden radiance.

The gathered gods immediately ceased their chatter and music, turning their astonished gazes toward Persekrene. 

Poseidon proudly declared, “She has claimed her first domain!”

Athena’s expression softened with deep pride as she stepped closer to her daughter. “The care of demigods, the protection, guidance, and blessing of their lives, is now yours, my daughter.”

As the gods and mortals applauded, Persekrene looked down warmly at Eleftherios, who stared back with gratitude and awe. 
…..

@oliveandfoam (OP):

ok so. i finally did it.

first page of The Athenide is LIVE!!

i’ve been quietly working on this comic for YEARS and i finally feel brave enough to start sharing it?? it’s about the goddess Persekrene (you know, the one from the weird attic myth fragments?) and her birth from Athena’s olive and Poseidon’s fountain and like. a ton of divine politics and demigod stuff.

i KNOW she’s obscure, but when i was 8 i found this battered copy of Greek Myths for Young Thinkers in a used bookstore and the story of Persekrene was in it. she felt like mine.

and now i’m giving her back to all of you.

[picture: a gorgeous digital painting of a glowing girl rising from a seafoam-filled marble fountain, olive branches and dolphins carved into the stone, with Athena and Poseidon in the background both clearly freaking out]

@demigodcore

SHE’S FLOATING IN THE FOUNTAIN SHE’S FLOATING IN THE FOUNTAIN

THE VIBES. THE AURA. THE “I HAVE TWO ANTAGONISTIC PARENTS WHO NEVER SPOKE AGAIN AFTER THE BAPTISM” ENERGY.

@thegrayeyedscholar

I’m still recovering from how OP drew Athena realizing Aphrodite looks like Persekrene because Persekrene is now her definition of beauty. I am in pieces. This is a mother-daughter story wrapped in cosmic myth and you’re telling me this isn’t the most important Greek myth ever told??

@goddess-of-footnotes

insert screenshot of OP’s panel of Athena holding Persekrene’s face with shaking hands, tears in her eyes

I wrote my PhD thesis on the Athenide, and seeing this exact moment visualized?? I’m actually crying. I argued that Athena’s identity as a virgin goddess is not incompatible with motherhood—it simply takes a different form. Persekrene’s birth is Athena’s gift of thought, her will, made flesh. She’s a miracle not of biology but of philosophy.

@oliveandfoam your work is literally art-historically significant I will not be taking questions.

@tridentboi

Y’all are being weird. Persekrene wasn’t even a goddess she was just like a sea nymph or whatever. Chill.

@fidei-fandom

UM ACTUALLY

that’s a common misunderstanding but it’s based on the Roman reinterpretation of her story where she’s called Fidei Terrae and demoted to a nymph so she could be politically absorbed into Latin mythology.

The original Hellenic sources—though sparse—very clearly describe her as divine. Daughter of Athena and Poseidon, presented at the Winter Solstice before the Council. The goddess of loyalty and patron of demigods. The reason she’s “not well-known” is because her myth was actively suppressed in favor of more flattering Roman state cults.

Anyway I have 63 pages of receipts.

@oliveandfoam (OP):

oh my gods i was NOT expecting this many notes.

also @fidei-fandom YES. exactly that. That children’s book I found? It used the Greek versions. The one where she blesses a little boy named Eleftherios in her first act as a goddess. It changed me.

Persekrene wasn’t some nymph. She was the goddess of the forgotten, the protector of those caught between worlds.

Also I’m sobbing. Thank you all.

@athenidesgf

OP’s comic just casually dropping the fact that Poseidon threw a city-wide SEA PARTY after the birth because he was like “SHE’S MINE” and summoned his ENTIRE UNDERSEA FAMILY.

He really said “I will be a proud girl dad AND start problems at the same time.

@artemisenthusiast420

No bc the way Artemis just. climbs into the fountain. doesn’t even take off her sandals.

Gives the scared naked baby goddess a hug. Turns the golden cloak into a gown. WOVES HER A CROWN OUT OF SILVER LEAVES???

I love her.

@demigod-of-the-week

What hits different is that everyone was arguing about who Persekrene belonged to and she was just. Sitting in the fountain. Terrified.

And then Artemis touched her shoulder and said “You’re safe now.” And Persekrene BELIEVED her.

@aphroditeaesthetics

“Beauty is not a competition, it is a presence.”

“A child often sees me in the image of their mother.”

“I would love to be your friend.”

Aphrodite’s entire conversation with Persekrene is the single most underrated act of kindness in mythology and I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL.

@saltandwisdom

me, seeing that Aphrodite’s hair literally turned into Persekrene’s because she became the new standard of beauty in Athena’s heart:

[picture: crying cat wrapped in blanket]

“this is what motherhood is”

@ilymymoms 

[photo of two shrines: one with an olive tree charm, the other a small shell bowl with sea salt and a paper figure of Persekrene inside]

I keep them side-by-side. Loyalty is where thought meets devotion.

Thank you, @oliveandfoam, for reminding me of the goddess I never knew I needed.

@ask-the-oracle

Hot take: Persekrene’s blessing of Eleftherios was the most dangerous moment of the entire myth.

She chose a demigod. Named him brother. Gave him peace, joy, a future.

And every god at that party stopped to watch.

That’s not just a sweet gesture—that’s a claim of power. She made demigods HERS.

@seafoamtheology

I don’t think y’all understand how radical it is that her first domain wasn’t conquest or vengeance or fertility or anything “expected.”

It was care. It was demigod protection.

She literally said “my power is love and remembrance” in a pantheon full of ego.

@glowingsketches

me trying to explain why a girl born from saltwater and leaves, who made the goddess of war cry and adopted a mortal child on day 1, is the most important deity in the pantheon:

[picture: Pepe Silvia conspiracy wall]

@oliveandfoam (OP):

this has spiraled so far beyond anything I imagined.

If Persekrene really is the goddess of forgotten demigods, then maybe all of us who found her again are part of her story too.

I promise to do her justice in this comic.

Chapter Text

The sky was painted in shades of soft pink and gold as the time came for Persekrene to depart Athens and begin her first four-month stay in the underwater kingdom of Atlantis. She stood at the shore’s edge, the sand cool beneath her bare feet, waves gently lapping around her ankles as she turned to face Athena.

Athena smiled, her expression softening as she gently cupped her daughter’s cheek. “Four months will pass quickly. Be brave and be wise, my daughter.”

With a final embrace, Persekrene turned toward the sea. Poseidon stood waist-deep in the surf, his powerful form silhouetted against the setting sun. He reached out a hand, his expression warm and inviting.

“Come,” he said. “Atlantis awaits you.”

Taking her father’s hand, Persekrene felt an immediate rush of comfort. Together they stepped deeper into the ocean, water rising around them until it enveloped them entirely. Yet she felt no fear, only wonder as Poseidon guided her effortlessly beneath the waves.

Atlantis came into view, resplendent beneath the sea, shimmering towers of coral and pearl rising majestically from the ocean floor. Dolphins and hippocampi danced playfully around them as Poseidon led her through grand arches and into the heart of his aquatic palace.

“Welcome home, Persekrene,” Poseidon said gently, pride evident in his deep voice. “This, too, is your kingdom.”

As she gazed in awe at the sprawling underwater metropolis, footsteps approached softly across the polished marble floor of the throne room. A figure appeared, a goddess, strikingly beautiful, her dark hair cascading in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were vibrant turquoise, reflecting the very ocean itself.

Poseidon smiled warmly, placing a gentle hand on Persekrene’s shoulder. “Persekrene, meet your sister, Rhode, deity of Rhodos and daughter of myself and my lady wife, Amphitrite.”

Rhode stepped forward gracefully, a gentle smile curving her lips. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Persekrene. Welcome to Atlantis. I’ve been eager to know you.”

Persekrene smiled shyly, feeling an immediate warmth radiating from her older sister. “Thank you, Rhode. I look forward to getting to know you.”

…..

The waters of Atlantis were alive with morning light, refracted into shimmering ribbons that danced across coral pillars and pearlescent domes. In the central courtyard of Poseidon’s palace, a wide space open to the sea, Persekrene stood poised with her feet planted firmly in the sand, waves swirling gently around her ankles. Before her, Poseidon held the Trident of the Sea.

“Again,” he said, his voice deep and patient, but firm.

Persekrene nodded, gripping the sleek training trident he had summoned for her, lighter than his own, but still humming with divine power. She whirled it in her hands with practiced grace, slicing through the water in a series of precise arcs. Each movement sent currents rippling outward, disrupting the natural calm of the sea like thunder beneath the surface.

Triton circled her, arms crossed, his dark eyes appraising. “You’re improving,” he said. “Better control. More focus.”

“She’s better than I was at her age,” Poseidon added with a grin, clearly proud. “But her strikes still lack… intent.”

Persekrene slowed her motion, frowning faintly. “It’s not that I don’t respect it,” she said, lowering the weapon slightly. “The trident is powerful, but it feels… distant to me. Like I’m holding a symbol, not a tool.”

Poseidon tilted his head. “It is both, child. A symbol and a tool. In your hands, it could command the ocean.”

“But I don’t want to command oceans,” she said quietly, her sea-green eyes earnest, “I wish to fight with a blade.”

The sea fell still for a moment.

Triton raised an eyebrow. “You’d rather hold a blade than a legacy?”

She looked him in the eye. “I want to forge my own legacy.”

That, at least, made Triton smile. He swam forward, drawing something from the satchel at his hip. “Then perhaps you should try this.”

He held out a xiphos, a double-edged sword, short and elegant. Its blade shimmered with celestial bronze, and even in the dim blue light, it burned with a quiet, lethal beauty. Persekrene took it reverently, her fingers closing around the hilt.

“Where did this come from?” she asked.

“It was mine, once,” Triton said. “A gift from Father when I first led the sea legions. But it no longer feels like mine. It called to you the moment you stepped into Atlantis.”

Persekrene’s grip tightened. The sword was a perfect fit. Balanced, responsive, alive in her hand.

“It is called Anaklusmos,” Triton added. “It can never be forced from you.”

Persekrene looked at her new weapon in awe, something familiar about the name tickled her mind, “Riptide.” She whispered. 

The sword shimmered suddenly, glowing briefly before transforming, collapsing with a rush of magic into something small and unassuming: a simple bronze hair comb etched with trident-like patterns.

Persekrene tucked the comb into her hair, the weight of it comforting. “It feels right. Like it chose me.”

Poseidon said nothing for a long moment, studying her with a gaze that reached deeper than the tides. Then he nodded. “Then so be it. Train with it. Master it. When the day comes, that sword will protect both yourself and those you deem worthy.”

…..

The day was bright, the sea calm, and the wind carried the song of gulls across the cliffs of Atlantis. High above the shoreline, where the coral crags met the open sky, Persekrene danced barefoot along the edge of a rocky bluff, her teal gown billowing around her like a sail.

Triton watched her from the waves below, his massive form relaxed in the surf, arms crossed over the edge of a submerged rock. “Careful,” he called up to her, half amused, half exasperated. “You’re too close to the edge.”

Persekrene laughed, spinning in place, arms stretched out wide. “I’m not afraid! The sea would catch me, wouldn’t it?”

Triton rolled his eyes. “The sea listens. It doesn’t predict.”

But she didn’t hear him. She raised her arms high, eyes gleaming with joy, and summoned the water with a delighted shout. A column of ocean rose in response, spiraling upward in a dazzling arc of foam and light. The young goddess giggled as it obeyed her, twisting and curling through the air like a dragon made of spray.

“Look, Triton! I made it dance!”

“You made it unstable!” he shouted back, but it was too late.

The wave, still under her influence, slammed too forcefully into the base of the cliff. The rock groaned, then cracked. A jagged chunk of the ledge beneath Persekrene’s feet broke away with a thunderous roar.

“Persekrene!” Triton shouted, launching himself toward the falling cliffside.

But even as she tumbled, the young goddess didn’t scream. Instead, her eyes widened, not in fear, but in awe. Her body hit the water, and the instant it did, a burst of golden light erupted from her, flashing so brightly it lit the depths like sunlight at noon.

The water calmed instantly. The broken stone beneath her feet disintegrated into soft silt as it hit the seabed, melting away like sugar in tea. The cliff edge above had already begun to soften, smoothing into new curves.

Triton reached her in moments, but paused mid-swim, stunned.

She was floating, radiant and laughing.

“What… was that?” he asked, breathless.

Persekrene stretched out her arms, watching the sediment drift from her fingertips. “I don’t know,” she said dreamily. “But it felt right. Like I didn’t destroy something, I just gave it the push to finish what it had already started.”

As the gold faded from her skin, she kicked her legs gently, propelling herself in lazy circles around her stunned brother. The cliff above now bore a new shape: smoothed by power, its edges crumbling into miniature landslides.

Triton stared at her. “You just claimed another domain.”

She blinked. “I did?”

“Erosion,” he said slowly. “The slow, steady shaping of the world.”

Persekrene’s eyes lit up, delighted. “That’s beautiful!”

“You fell off a cliff.”

“Yes,” she beamed, twirling underwater, “and now I know how to sculpt them!”

Triton groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, but there was no hiding his grin. “You’re going to give Father a heart attack.”

Persekrene surfaced with a laugh, floating on her back and staring up at the blue sky. “He’s a god! He’ll be fine.”

…..

The sun shone like molten gold over the Aegean as Persekrene soared above the waves, carried by a graceful hippocampus with a mane of seafoam and scales that shimmered like moonlight on water. The wind whipped through her hair, and the scent of salt and citrus filled the air.

Ahead, the island of Rhodos rose from the sea like a jewel, terraced hills blanketed with olive groves and blooming poppies, white marble temples nestled against cliffs, and domed homes carved from coral and stone. The city gleamed in the sunlight, vibrant and alive, reflecting the gentle radiance of its guardian.

At the heart of it all stood Rhode.

Perched atop a columned palace of sea-glass and limestone, the goddess of the island waited with serene patience. Her long dark curls were pulled into an elegant braid adorned with pearls, and her sea-blue chiton fluttered around her in the breeze. As Persekrene descended, Rhode’s turquoise eyes lit with warmth.

“Little sister,” Rhode called, stepping forward as the hippocampus touched down gently on a flat, sun-warmed terrace.

Persekrene dismounted with a grin. “Sister Rhode!”

They embraced like they’d known each other for centuries, not days. Rhode pulled back and studied her youngest sister’s face, brushing away a stray lock of silvery hair.

“You look brighter than the last time I saw you,” she said with a soft smile. “Atlantis suits you.”

“I discovered erosion!” Persekrene declared proudly.

Rhode laughed, musical and rich. “Triton told me you fell off a mountain.”

“It was a cliff,” Persekrene replied breezily.

“Of course,” Rhode sighed. “Come. I’ve prepared something for us.”

She led Persekrene through the halls of her palace, which smelled of lemon blossoms and sea salt. The floors were made of polished shells that clicked gently underfoot, and the windows opened wide to the warm sea breeze.

They arrived in a garden nestled in the hillside, overlooking the sparkling harbor. A table had been set beneath a flowering pergola, laden with sun-ripened fruit, soft cheeses, honey-drizzled bread, and goblets of cool nectar. Sea nymphs moved quietly in the background, tending the blooms and ensuring the breeze remained just cool enough.

“This is beautiful,” Persekrene whispered.

Rhode sat and poured them each a drink. “Rhodos is a place of balance. I care for it as a mother would, a patient shaping of peace and growth.” She offered Persekrene a piece of candied fig. 

Persekrene nibbled the fig, savoring the warmth in it. “It feels different from Atlantis. Softer. Still.”

Rhode nodded. “Atlantis is our father’s domain. It reflects his pride and power. But this island is mine. I shaped it with gentleness. It responds to quiet care, not thunder.”

They sat in companionable silence, watching the harbor below. Children laughed in the distance, and birds wheeled lazily overhead. For the first time since her birth, Persekrene felt something close to peace.

“You belong here, too,” Rhode said after a while. “Whenever you wish it.”

Persekrene glanced at her, eyes shining. “Really?”

“Truly. You will touch many places, but few will stay in your heart.”

Persekrene leaned against Rhode’s shoulder. “This place feels like sunlight in the water.”

The sunlight over Rhodos grew warmer, heavier, like gold turned to fire. Persekrene felt it on her skin first, the way it intensified just enough to draw her gaze skyward.

Then he arrived.

Helios, personification of the sun, descended in a chariot wreathed in flame, drawn by horses of pure light whose hooves left streaks of brilliance across the sky. His form was radiant, almost difficult to look at directly. Golden curls crowned his brow like fire, and his eyes burned with daylight, seeing everything, and revealing nothing.

Persekrene sat up straighter, awed and wary. Rhode, however, remained still, her expression unreadable.

Helios stepped from his chariot with effortless grace. “My shining pearl,” he greeted, bending slightly toward Rhode. “Your island basks in beauty, as always.”

“Thank you, Helios,” Rhode said with practiced composure. “You are generous with your light today.”

He turned then to Persekrene, eyes flicking with mild curiosity. “And this radiant one must be the daughter of Athena and Poseidon,” he said, voice smooth and warm. “Born of tide and wisdom. I’ve heard of your birth. The heavens rarely gossip, and your name has echoed even there.”

Persekrene bowed her head politely, sensing the weight of Helios’s gaze. “It’s an honor, Lord Helios.”

“Be well child,” he said, and without another word, ascended back into his chariot. With a crack of flaming reins, he vanished into the sky, leaving behind only the lingering heat of his presence.

Silence settled between the sisters. The garden, once golden and calm, felt momentarily dimmer.

Persekrene turned slowly to Rhode. “Is he always like that?”

Rhode’s expression didn’t change. “Rarely worse. Occasionally better.”

Persekrene frowned. “But… he’s your husband.”

Rhode leaned back in her chair, her tone carefully neutral. “He is the sun, little sister. It is not in his nature to linger too long in one place. He shines everywhere, sees everything. And he has… many places to shine.”

Persekrene blinked, her voice quiet. “But he chose you. You’re his wife.”

Rhode looked down at her goblet, twisting it in her fingers. “Helios has consorts, lovers, fleeting muses. And he has me. The legal bond is mine, yes, but the loyalty?” She exhaled slowly. “That comes and goes. And if there is a quarrel between me and another—”

“—he would not choose you,” Persekrene finished bitterly.

“He would choose whatever pleased him most at that moment,” Rhode said simply. “He is not cruel, but he is not constant. And I have learned to weather that.”

Persekrene sat in stunned silence, her brows drawing together. “But… that’s wrong. If you are married, if he made vows, chose you among all others, then he owes you something sacred. Even if he cannot give you fidelity… he should at least give you loyalty. His choice should matter.”

Rhode watched her closely, her gaze flicking to the faint glow beginning to bloom beneath her sister’s skin.

Persekrene stood, her jaw tight, her hands clenched into soft fists. “A bond, once chosen, is not a game. You can love more than one person, perhaps. But to abandon your word, to treat your vows as passing light—” she trembled slightly, voice thick with emotion, “—that is not divine. That is abhorrent.”

Golden light poured from her skin like the shimmer of a breaking dawn. Not radiant like Helios’s blaze, but warm, unwavering, like the hearthfire that never goes out. Around her, the wind stilled. Even the ocean paused, listening.

Rhode sat in awe, the barest smile curving her lips. “You’ve claimed another domain.”

Persekrene turned, startled. “I… have?”

“Loyalty,” Rhode said gently. “The kind that stays when no one else will. The kind that does not forget its promises.”

Persekrene’s glow dimmed slightly, but her voice remained firm. “If I ever love someone,” she said softly, “I will not let them doubt it.”

Rhode reached out, took her sister’s hand, and squeezed it. “Then you will be greater than many gods.”

…..

Transcript: University of Crete, Department of Archaeology

Field Recording — Site GR-RD-217 “Athenide Grotto”

Date: June 12, 20XX

Lead Researcher: Dr. Eleni Theodorou

Audio Recording Begins [00:00:00]

[00:00:02]

Sound of footsteps crunching on gravel. Wind whistling faintly. A low hum of waves in the distance.

DR. THEODOROU:

“This is Dr. Eleni Theodorou, field supervisor and epigrapher with the University of Crete. I’m currently standing inside what appears to be a partially submerged late Hellenistic grotto, recently revealed by seismic displacement along the Rhodian coastline. Coordinates and geodata have been logged. We’re calling it Site GR-RD-217, but preliminary evidence strongly suggests this is a secret shrine of the Athenide, or as she was later Romanized, Fidei Terrae.”

[00:00:48]

Sound of a torch flicking on, faint echoes.

“We accessed the site via a natural tunnel recently unearthed by the minor quake on April 23rd. This new passage cuts beneath the original collapsed sea-facing entrance. What’s most extraordinary is that this cave appears not only to have been a place of worship, but also, perhaps, a tomb.”

[00:01:13]

“We found a skeleton near the back wall, just below the main inscription. Female, based on pelvic structure. Mid-thirties. No grave goods, no amulets. Her position suggests she sat before the carving. Possibly she was trapped here when the entrance collapsed, geological analysis suggests sudden erosion and flooding occurred around the 1st century BCE, consistent with the Cassius occupation of Rhodes and records of seismic activity.”

[00:01:42]

“Now, onto the most compelling discovery. The inscription itself. Carved directly into the cave wall, in ancient Ionic script, eroded in several places, perhaps ironically. Partial translation as follows:”

[Fragment begins]

“…She who walked the waters and bore the olive crown… who held the blades of the fallen and kissed the brows of their sons… we gathered beneath her hands, we [REDACTED] when hope was a wave turned to stone…”

“…they came, with fire and coins and foreign tongues… they said the goddess was [REDACTED]… that her name was a lie and her love forbidden… but she slept, not dead, not gone—only hidden…”

[Final surviving line, intact]

“My dear goddess sleeps, and so shall I.”

[00:02:39]

“That final line was etched with significantly more force, likely a different hand. It’s scratched deeper into the stone and slants sharply. We believe it was the last act of the woman found beneath it, possibly the final priestess. There’s no evidence of struggle. No offerings disturbed. If the cave collapsed while she was there, she may have chosen to remain. An act of devotion to the goddess of loyalty.”

[00:03:08]

“This is especially significant given that Cassius, during his strategic purge of divine cults associated with Caesar’s rule, is known to have targeted the worship of Persekrene, or Fidei Terrae, as politically dangerous. Roman accounts, especially in the Commentarii Temporum, portray her as “a ghost of loyalty, whose name rouses regret.” Some texts even record that statues of the Athenide were deliberately destroyed across the Aegean.”

[00:03:39]

“Why? Because her very myth, that of a goddess born of loyalty, divine gift, and the protection of the half-mortal, was antithetical to the aims of Caesar’s assassins. They wanted betrayal to feel justified. To remove her was to remove guilt.”

[00:03:58]

“But this cave tells a different story. Someone, many someones, I suspect, continued to revere her in secret, long after her temples fell. And at least one believed that even if the goddess slept, her memory was sacred enough to die beside.”

[00:04:17]

“The erosion across the inscription is… tragically poetic. As if time itself bowed to her domain. What remains is haunting, hopeful. That perhaps, in some divine way, she is not gone. Only resting.”

[00:04:35]

End transcript.

Chapter Text

When Persekrene descended into the sea, Athena remained behind, her posture rigid, her face unreadable, her gaze fixed long after her daughter vanished beneath the waves.

She did not return to Olympus immediately. As much as she loathed to admit it, the Athenide was probably safest below the sea for now.

Athena had seen it too many times before. Goddesses born without clear patronage were viewed as gifts, trophies, or worse, bargaining chips in the games of Olympus. And Persekrene would draw attention like a flame in a windstorm.

Athena would not allow it.

And so, in the quiet months while her daughter stayed beneath the sea, Athena began her campaign.

Not a campaign of weapons, but of oaths, the most binding force in the divine world. She would ensure that, when Persekrene stepped back onto land, no Olympian or minor god could lay claim to her without meeting Athena’s blade in open combat.

…..

Athena stood before the Hall of Messengers, her armor muted beneath her dark cloak. The sky was painted in strokes of purple and gold, and the cool hush of twilight settled across the divine stronghold. She had been here many times before, but this time, she came not as a diplomat or general, but as a mother, shield raised for her child.

Hermes was waiting for her.

He lounged lazily on the marble steps, a fig in one hand, his caduceus leaning against his shoulder. His winged sandals twitched idly with anticipation. He looked up as she approached, his sly grin already in place.

“Well, well. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get to me,” he said, voice smooth and playful. “I take it you’re collecting vows like trophies?”

“I am collecting protections,” Athena corrected. “For my daughter.”

Hermes raised a brow. “Persekrene. Yes, I’ve seen her. Smart, radiant, powerful, and strikingly lovely. Born of thought and tide… It’s enough to make a god curious.”

Athena didn’t blink. “Then let me remove your curiosity. You will not pursue her. You will not charm her. You will swear.”

He stood, brushing crumbs from his tunic. “And if I don’t?”

Athena’s hand drifted to the spear strapped across her back.

But Hermes chuckled. “No need for all that, Sister. I propose a compromise.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“A contest,” he said. “If I win, I do not have to swear, though I give you my word I’ll remain respectful.”

“And if you lose?”

He gave a mock bow. “Then I swear, by Styx and wing, never to pursue Persekrene in any romantic or desirous fashion.”

Athena tilted her head, considering. “What sort of contest?”

Hermes’s eyes gleamed. “A battle of riddles. You love puzzles. I love wordplay. It’s perfect.”

A pause. Then, slowly, Athena nodded.

“Very well.”

They stood facing one another beneath the open sky. The stars above held their breath.

Hermes began with a grin:

“What cannot be seen, moves faster than thought. Yet weighs nothing, and can tear mountains apart?”

Athena answered without pause. “The wind.”

Hermes smirked, impressed. “One for one.”

Her turn:

“I am not alive, yet I grow. I have no lungs, yet I need air. I have no mouth, yet I consume everything. What am I?”

“Fire,” Hermes said with a snap of his fingers. “Classic.”

He leaned forward. “Your move.”

“I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

Athena narrowed her eyes. “An echo.”

Hermes clicked his tongue, mock-disappointed. “You are good.”

But her next riddle was sharper:

“I am the child of truth, but I wear the mask of lies. I walk beside gods and mortals alike, and disappear when named. What am I?”

Hermes’s grin faltered.

He paced.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Huh.”

Athena waited.

The silence stretched.

“Time?” he asked, cautiously.

Athena shook her head. “Doubt,” she said evenly. “It walks with all of us, and vanishes when confronted.”

Hermes groaned dramatically, collapsing onto the marble step like a fallen hero. “Clever, clever, clever…”

She folded her arms. “The oath, please.”

He sighed, then raised his right hand solemnly.

“I swear,” he said, voice earnest now, “by the River Styx, that I shall never pursue Persekrene as a lover, nor scheme to win her heart or hand. May I lose my cunning if I break this vow.”

A thunderous rumble echoed faintly in the distance, the gods’ sign that the oath was accepted.

Hermes stood again and offered a rueful smile. “She is lucky, you know. Most goddesses would have to fight their own battles alone.”

Athena met his gaze. “She will. But not yet.”

…..

Athena stepped into the chamber of Ares without hesitation. Her sandals echoed across the marble floor like the calm rhythm of marching feet. Ares, god of war, was seated atop a jagged stone throne, sharpening a blade the size of a mortal man.

He didn’t look up.

“Athena,” he said, by way of greeting. “Come to test your spear against mine again? I’ve been bored.”

“I’ve come for your oath.”

That made him pause.

He glanced up, red eyes flicking to hers with wary curiosity. “Persekrene?”

Athena nodded. “You will swear never to pursue her, court her, or allow yourself to be bound to her in any forced betrothal.”

Ares snorted. “Please. I’m not interested.”

“I know,” she said coolly.

His brow arched. “Then why—”

“Because Hera will be.”

That drew a grunt of annoyance from him. He threw the whetstone aside and stood, muscles tense. “Let me guess: she thinks binding me to your daughter will make me ‘respectable.’ Stop my affair with Aphrodite. Tame me with… loyalty.”

“She’ll frame it as a diplomatic match,” Athena said with disdain. “A union of war and wisdom. But we both know what it really is, an attempt to cage the concept of loyalty within her sphere.”

Ares rolled his eyes. “She’s getting desperate.”

“She’s getting clever,” Athena corrected. “And I won’t let Persekrene be a pawn in her maneuvering.”

Ares walked toward her, sword slung lazily over one shoulder. “Then we agree.”

He raised a gauntleted hand and said without flourish, “I swear by the River Styx, by every battlefield soaked in ichor and blood, that I will never pursue Persekrene as bride, lover, or tool. She is not mine, and never will be.”

The air shimmered faintly, oath accepted.

Athena inclined her head. “Thank you.”

She started to turn, but his voice stopped her.

“And Sister,” he added, gaze steady, “if my mother tries anything… you won’t be the only one who stops her.”

A faint smile touched Athena’s lips, cold, but genuine.

“Noted.”

…..

Athena found Apollo seated upon a dais, his lyre resting in his lap, fingers idly plucking a melody that shimmered through the warm air. He didn’t look up as she entered; his voice carried lazily across the hall.

“If you’ve come to test me like you did Hermes, I fear I’ll bore you. I don’t do riddles before noon.”

“I don’t need riddles, Apollo,” Athena said coolly. “I need your oath.”

He sighed, finally lifting his head, and his radiant eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Persekrene.”

“Yes.”

“I assume this has something to do with the fact that she’s beautiful, young, and powerful.”

“She is also kind, loyal, and still learning,” Athena replied, stepping forward. “I don’t doubt your charm, Apollo. That’s exactly why I’m here.”

Apollo stood, tall and sunlit, his expression tight. “Athena, do you think so little of me? Did you forget it was I who shielded her in that fountain? Who cloaked her with light when others only stared?”

“I remember,” Athena said. “But I also remember your sonnets.”

His brow furrowed. “My what?”

“Your sonnets. Your songs. Your whispers that melt hearts, that romanticize longing and pull emotion like thread from a loom.” She stepped closer. “Persekrene may be a goddess, but she is still young, Apollo. Still romantic. She sees beauty in things. She would hear your words and believe them, believe you. And if you were to lose interest, or stray—”

“I wouldn’t—” he began, defensive.

Athena cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp. “She is the goddess of loyalty. If you were unfaithful, she would not recover.”

The words landed heavy in the golden hall.

Apollo exhaled slowly, running a hand through his gleaming hair. “You think I’d destroy her.”

“I think you’d mean well,” Athena said. “And that wouldn’t be enough.”

A silence stretched between them.

Finally, Apollo raised his hand, palm upward, and said, with a sigh edged in resignation, “Then I swear, on the River Styx: I will not pursue Persekrene. Not in courtship, not in curiosity.”

Athena nodded, but his voice continued, firmer now.

“However, should she come to me of her own will, should she seek me freely, without persuasion or game, then the oath is void.”

Athena’s jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

“It is only fair,” he added, more softly. “You know I’m right.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then finally, with cold precision, she nodded once. “Very well.”

Apollo returned to his lyre. “She won’t seek me,” he said, a trace of something bittersweet in his voice. “She’ll want someone kinder.”

Athena turned, her cloak sweeping behind her as she left him in sunlight and song.

…..

Athena stepped lightly over the trailing vines of honeysuckle and silver ivy. She did not often come here, too much softness, too much perfume and promise, but today she came not as a warrior, or strategist, or rival.

She came as a mother.

Aphrodite sat on a chaise beneath an archway of blooming pomegranate blossoms, her body bare. She looked up as Athena approached, and smiled before a word was spoken.

“You’ve been gathering oaths,” she said airily. “Half the mountain’s talking about it.”

“I imagine they are.”

Aphrodite’s eyes sparkled. “And now you’ve come to me. Should I feel flattered?”

Athena folded her arms, her tone measured but not sharp. “I didn’t think you’d need persuasion.”

Aphrodite tilted her head. “No?”

“You saw her,” Athena continued. “Held her hand. Called her friend. I came to ask if you meant it.”

Aphrodite’s smile softened. “Of course I meant it.”

She rose gracefully, bare feet brushing the soft grass, and walked to Athena’s side. “My friend’s heart,” she said gently, “will remain her own until she gives it freely. And when she does, no one will take it from her. I swear on the Styx.”

Athena met her gaze. “And your children?”

Aphrodite laughed, full of warmth but laced with steel. “They wouldn’t dare.”

In the distance, Eros, lounging in a tree with a plum in hand, raised his free arm. “On pain of Mother’s wrath,” he called lazily. “We get it.”

Aphrodite returned her attention to Athena. “You’ve done well, you know.”

Athena frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re protecting her,” Aphrodite said. “Not with swords. Not just with strategy. But with love. Real, true, unrelenting love. The kind mortals sing about, and we gods so often forget. But never me.”

Athena said nothing, the compliment oddly unsettling. But something in her gaze relaxed, just slightly.

“Then you won’t interfere.”

“I will only protect,” Aphrodite promised, her voice clear. “And I will never send a lover her way unless she calls for them.”

Athena dipped her head. “Then we are in accord.”

As she turned to leave, Aphrodite added one final note, her voice lighter:

“And when she does fall in love, you know, I expect to be told immediately.”

Athena didn’t stop walking. “If it ever happens, you’ll be the first to know. Whether we tell you or not.”

Aphrodite smiled to herself, fingers brushing the petals of a rose. 

…..

The days grew short and the sun hung low in the sky, casting Olympus in a pale golden light. It was a time of convergence, when all the gods, great and minor, gathered in the throne room beneath the celestial dome.

And this year, all eyes would turn to Persekrene.

Her return to the surface, from the sea to the sky, was not just a ritual. It was a declaration. She was no longer a child hidden in the safety of coral palaces and quiet tides. She would now stand on Olympus, walk among the gods, and take her place in the pantheon.

And with that step… would come danger.

Athena stood at the edge of the sea, her grey eyes fixed on the rising mist around the mountain. The world felt sharpened by frost and anticipation. She had done all she could. Nearly every god and goddess had sworn to leave Persekrene’s heart unclaimed unless she gave it freely.

Every god… except one.

The one who would never swear to her.

Because he was the one she could not challenge.

Not yet.

Behind her, the sound of splashing echoed in the chill air as Poseidon emerged from the sea.

“Still staring at clouds?” Poseidon’s voice rumbled with dry amusement.

“I’m thinking,” Athena replied, not turning.

He stepped beside her, the scent of brine and storm clinging to his sea-blue cloak. For a moment, they stood in silence.

“She’s ready,” Poseidon said. “She’s grown stronger. Her domains are stabilizing. The demigods in the isles whisper her name when they offer their first prayers.”

“I know,” Athena murmured. “That’s what worries me.”

Poseidon gave her a sidelong look. “You’ve won your war of oaths, haven’t you? Even Apollo stepped back.”

“I have won,” she said quietly. “But the final battle is not mine to fight.”

He stiffened. “You mean—”

“Yes.” She turned to him fully, her face unreadable but her voice edged in steel. “It has to be you. Zeus won’t swear to me. He won’t even listen.”

Poseidon didn’t speak at first. The sea in his eyes stirred.

Athena’s tone shifted, quieter now. “You’re his brother. You have leverage I don’t. He respects power, not law. He’ll take her. You know he will.”

Poseidon clenched his jaw. “He’s already watched her too closely.”

“And if he sees her on Olympus without binding words, he may think her presentation is permission.”

Poseidon looked away, his trident appearing at his side in a swirl of seafoam. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then: “You’re asking me to protect her from Zeus.”

“I’m asking you,” Athena said, softer now, “as her father.”

The title struck home. Poseidon closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled, long and slow, like a tide receding before a storm.

“I’ll go,” he said at last. “But understand, Zeus doesn’t bow. He bargains. He’ll want something in return.”

Athena’s lips thinned. “Then give him nothing he can use against her. Give him you, if you must.”

Poseidon laughed once, dry and bitter. “You’re not even pretending to be polite anymore.”

“I’m not in the mood to pretend.”

Their gazes met, not in rivalry this time, but in the fierce, unspoken pact that only two true guardians can share.

“She will stand on Olympus,” Athena said, “but she will not stand alone.”

Poseidon turned to the clouds and nodded once. “Then I’ll make sure Zeus knows she is not his to take.”

High atop Mount Olympus, within the Hall of Storms, Zeus reclined upon his throne of black marble and gold, the air humming with static and power. Behind him, the ever-churning sky swirled with clouds, darkening as Poseidon appeared in a surge of seawater and mist.

The King of the Sea stepped forward without bow or greeting. His trident echoed as it struck the floor.

Zeus didn’t rise. His gaze, bright as lightning on a moonless night, narrowed with interest. “Brother,” he said slowly. “What wind drives you inland?”

“You know why I’m here,” Poseidon answered, his voice a low crash of surf over jagged stone. “It’s the solstice. Persekrene will be presented. And I’m here for your oath.”

Zeus arched a brow. “You presume much, Poseidon.”

“I presume nothing,” Poseidon growled. “I remember the way you looked at her.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Zeus’s face. “She is divine. It’s only natural—”

“She is a child!” Poseidon roared, storm clouds suddenly churning outside the windows. “Barely born. Loyal to the core. And mine.”

Zeus stood now, the sky itself reacting to his anger. “You come to threaten me, Earthshaker?”

Poseidon’s voice dropped to a deadly calm. “No, brother. I come to warn you.”

He stepped closer, his sea-green eyes darkening. “I am the father of the Athenide, Persekrene, born not from lust but from divine gift. She is the goddess of loyalty. And you would do well to remember that.”

Zeus narrowed his gaze. “Are you saying I should fear her?”

“I’m saying you should fear what she represents.” Poseidon’s voice echoed like distant thunder. “She is the patron of demigods. Those children you leave scattered across the world, used and discarded, most never knowing your face.”

Zeus stiffened, his eyes crackling.

Poseidon continued, relentless now. “They look to her already. They whisper her name. She blesses them with peace, with power, with purpose. And if you harm her, if you so much as try to twist her future to suit your whims, you may find Olympus isn’t where your real war lies.”

He leaned in, his voice a sharp tide. “It will be your own children, mortal and divine, who turn against you. Because she will be the goddess who finally loves them back.”

A tense silence followed. The air between them buzzed with ancient rage and something more dangerous, truth.

Zeus stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into something colder than a smirk.

“You’ve grown bolder since the birth of your youngest,” he said, voice like grinding ice.

Poseidon didn’t blink. “I’ve grown protective.”

Zeus turned his gaze to the storm-wracked sky and raised a hand. “Then hear it.”

The wind stilled.

“I, Zeus Olympios, King of the Gods, swear by the River Styx that I shall not pursue the Athenide, nor seek to bind her in union or possession, unless she wills it herself, freely and without influence.”

The words struck the heavens like thunder. The oath was sealed.

Poseidon gave a curt nod, his expression still storm-dark. “Good.”

…..

To the Worthy Gentlemen of the Press,

My Father, William Shakespeare, penned many works that made his name beloved. In his latter years, he took solace in a story oft told in myth, of a goddess not found in the loud accounts of Olympus, but whispered of by mortals in sorrow and hope.

Amongst his papers I found this, the first act of a play named “Fair Fountain’s Gift.” It tells of Persekrene, daughter of the tide and mind, and her strange and sorrow’d beginning. Though unfinished, I send it now, for I believe it to be his heart writ in lines of gods and grief.

Yours in modest hope,

Susannah Hall

ACT I, SCENE III — A grove near Parnassus, beneath the olive’s watch

Enter ATHENA, in traveller’s garb, her helm hidden by a veil, armed with spear and reason. She comes to seek oaths for her daughter’s safety. Enter ZEPHYRUS, with garlands in hand, breath light as spring.

ZEPHYRUS

Fair grey-eyed Queen, whose mind doth strike as sharp

As thy bright spear, what wind hath blown thee hither?

If thou seek peace, I’ll bind the hills in sleep

And cool the noonday sun for thy delight.

ATHENA

Wind, thou art false, for peace thou broke afore—

With breath too bold, thou laid’st young Hyacinth low.

I come not here to parley soft with breeze

That murders youth then garlands it in song.

ZEPHYRUS

A wound of time! Sweet Hyacinth is gone,

But years have bled my grief to gentle dew.

What wrong I did, I mourn, and mourn still yet.

Doth not repentance grant the soul some weight?

ATHENA

To mortal souls, perhaps. But I am she

Whose art is proof, whose wisdom guards the young.

And now, new-born from olive’s gift and wave,

My daughter walks the land—a shining bloom.

And thou, who once did blow a petal dead,

Wouldst turn again to play with flowers yet?

ZEPHYRUS

Nay, mighty Queen. I swear—I seek her not.

Nor shall I whisper near her, nor with charm

Attempt to braid her heart into my breeze.

If oath thou crave, then oath I shall bestow.

ATHENA (raising her hand solemnly)

By Styx and stone, by root and rolling sky,

Swear thou shalt never chase nor woo my child.

ZEPHYRUS

By petal’s fall, by west wind’s breath held still,

By Hyacinth whose blood my hands have spilled—

I swear it so. The Athenide shall walk

And never feel me press upon her heels.

ATHENA (lowers her hand)

So let it be. A binding wind is tamed.

Thou may’st be fleet, but I—am ever watchful.

Away. The oath is sealed. Be swift to leave.

[ZEPHYRUS bows low, then melts away with the spring blossoms] .

The blooming gardens of Cythera, beneath a bower of roses and ivy

Enter APHRODITE, reclining upon a swing of woven gold and silk. Around her, her children,EROS, HEDYLOGOS, and PEITHO, play at idle sport, tossing fruit, plaiting each other’s hair, and giggling like windblown fireflies. Petals fall constantly from the sky.

Enter ATHENA, her cloak drawn tight, her stride measured and grave.

APHRODITE (without rising)

Lo! The spear-queen walks among my roses.

What rare bloom draws thee from thy groves of thought?

ATHENA

The rarest ever born. My daughter walks—

Persekrene, sprung from olive and the sea.

And now, I come to bind thy house in vow,

Lest love make mischief of her untried heart.

APHRODITE (sits up, eyes wide)

Thy daughter? Born of thee and briny flame?

Oh, what delight! A godling new and bright!

Does she walk like thee? Speak sharp, yet soft?

ATHENA

She walks her own path—but she bears my mind.

And thine, I fear, may seek to twist her course.

EROS (leaping down from the bough)

Why speak you so? I shoot no babes for sport.

Unless they ask. Or look too pleased alone.

ATHENA (sternly)

I seek a vow from each of thee, O Loves.

That none shall chase her, nor stir hearts around her

To pine or plot, or turn her peace to ache.

PEITHO (slinking close, with coy smile)

Even with consent? A gentle nudge?

A whisper here, a blush there, nothing cruel…

ATHENA

Nothing, save what she names and names aloud.

APHRODITE (rises at last)

Peace, children. This is no sport. She seeks it true.

And I, who saw her rise from foam and light,

Will swear it thrice. For beauty’s not in theft.

True love is not a trap, nor net, nor hunt.

It is a garden tended, not devoured.

She turns and places her hand upon her breast.

APHRODITE

I, Aphrodite, she whose girdle bends

The hearts of gods and mortals to delight,

Do swear by golden apple and the foam,

By every vow that once did bind a bride,

I shall not stir the winds around thy child.

Nor charm her eyes, nor teach her to beguile.

Unless she calls me friend, and asks it plain.

ATHENA (bows slightly)

Then I accept it, fair. I would believe thee.

APHRODITE (with a gentle smile)

Believe me, grey-eyed Queen, I saw her light.

She looked on me and saw not Venus’ grace—

She saw her mother, woven in my face.

ATHENA (quietly, moved despite herself)

She sees with a child’s soul… unarmour’d yet.

APHRODITE (nods)

Then let us arm her in devotion’s gold.

ATHENA (to EROS, HEDYLOGOS, PEITHO)

And you, bright ones—what say you now?

EROS (kneeling with a mock flourish)

I swear by bow and every smitten youth,

I’ll turn my darts elsewhere. She is sacred truth.

HEDYLOGOS (singsong)

No charm I’ll spin, no sweet deceit I’ll braid,

Unless she bids me dress her serenade.

PEITHO (with a slow, graceful bow)

And I shall still my tongue unless she calls.

She must invite, else I shall haunt no halls.

ATHENA (nodding)

Then I have peace within this fragrant bower.

APHRODITE (tilting her head)

And when she loves?

ATHENA (a long pause)

Then I shall love what she has chosen.

[Petals fall in silence as the scene closes. The children of love fade into laughter and scent. Athena turns to go.]

The Temple of the Sun, Delos

Golden light pours through tall colonnades. A lyre plays itself, each note a drop of sunlight. APOLLO sits upon a dais of polished amber, his fingers tracing chords in the air, his eyes half-lidded, seeing more than sight allows.

Enter ATHENA, alone, her cloak dusted with travel. She walks like thought made flesh.

APOLLO (without looking)

The owl arrives. I felt the weight of steps

That never falter, never fail the mark.

Come, Sister. Speak thy mind beneath the sun.

ATHENA (stopping before him)

Thou seest too much, O brother of the lyre.

Yet still, I come. Not with sword, but with shield.

Persekrene, my daughter—thine eyes have seen her.

APOLLO (smiles faintly)

Aye. She walks like early dawn, unsure

Whether to burn the world, or light it gently.

She is—an ache I cannot name in verse.

And that, dear Sister, is a curse anew.

ATHENA

Then still thy pen, and sheath thy golden tongue.

I come for oath, not ode.

APOLLO (sits upright)

You think I’d harass her?

ATHENA

I think you’d praise her, and in praise plant seeds

Of yearning she is too young yet to bear.

APOLLO (quiet)

She is beautiful, yes. But more—she is whole.

Born not of flesh, but form and force divine.

She draws the future like ink draws the hand.

Even now, her soul collects the cries

Of those not born, but soon to mourn.

ATHENA (tense)

You’ve seen it?

APOLLO (nods slowly)

She dreams in sketches. Not in speech or rhyme.

Demigods not yet shaped in womb or war

Appear beneath her hand. They call to her.

ATHENA (fiercely)

Then she must not be broken by a god

Who speaks in riddles and forgets his flames.

APOLLO (standing now)

Do you think me cruel?

ATHENA

I think you are a poem with no end.

And she—she is a prayer yet to be answered.

APOLLO (after a pause)

Then hear it. I shall not chase her light.

I shall not touch her name in song or dream.

Unless she calls. Unless she begs me speak.

ATHENA

You will not twist the oath?

APOLLO (raises his hand)

By Delphi’s stone, by laurel leaf,

By every hymn sung through my breath—

I swear by light, I’ll hold my peace.

The Athenide shall walk her path, untouched by flame.

A beat of silence. The lyre ceases. The sun dims slightly, then steadies—the oath accepted.

He returns to the lyre, and begins to hum a new melody—soft, unformed, but unmistakably tender.

APOLLO (as she turns to go)

She will not need my songs, but if she ever weeps—

Let her know the sun weeps, too.

[ATHENA exits into the light. APOLLO remains, plucking notes that echo like future tears.]

Chapter Text

It was the Winter Solstice, the appointed time for divine introductions, when new gods and goddesses were formally acknowledged and inscribed into the tapestry of Olympus.

And today, it was Persekrene’s turn.

She stood at the center of the vast hall, cloaked in a gown of sea-silver and olive green, stitched with threads of both ocean spray and war-born wisdom. At her side stood Athena, resplendent and statuesque in gleaming bronze, and Poseidon, solemn but proud, the sea’s deep power humming faintly at his back.

The Council sat on their thrones in a great semi-circle. And all eyes were fixed on her.

Persekrene bowed, as tradition demanded. “Council of Olympus,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart raced like a ship caught in crosswinds. “I am Persekrene Ptoselaiagenos, daughter of the sea and the mind, goddess of loyalty, of erosion, and of the demigods.”

Zeus gave a short nod from his throne, and almost boredom states, “Write your name and burn it, as is custom.”

A table stood before her, carved of white stone and veined with veins of celestial bronze. Upon it: a single sheet of papyrus and a stylus made from olive wood dipped in ink as dark as midnight.

Persekrene stepped forward, took the stylus with calm fingers, and wrote her name in graceful calligraphy;

The Athenide, Persekrene Ptoseleiagenos.

As the ink dried, the papyrus began to glow faintly. She laid it gently on the polished bronze dish at the center of the table.

Flame erupted, not with smoke, not with ash, but with light. A flash of divine fire consumed the name, sending it in a whisper of sparks through the air, streaking upward toward the mortal world.

To the Oracles, who would awaken with the taste of her name on their tongues and speak it into the ears of kings, heroes, and hopeful youths.

Persekrene now belonged to Olympus.

The moment passed. The silence broke.

Zeus raised a hand without ceremony. “The council will now return to matters of vote. Persekrene is dismissed.”

Just like that, the formalities were over.

…..

Athena’s garden was a place of structured beauty, orderly rows of laurel and lavender, olive trees trimmed with precision, and marble benches arranged just so. But in one corner, under a pergola woven with flowering vines, chaos had claimed its gentle reign.

There, Persekrene knelt in the grass, ink-stained fingers smudged with blue and ochre, scattered bits of parchment all around her like petals on the wind. A pot of pigmented ink tipped slightly at her side, a reed brush in her hand. She worked intently, tongue tucked between her teeth, adding one more line to a half-finished sketch.

That was when the wind shimmered with mischief, and Hermes arrived.

Persekrene jumped, scattering a few papers. “Hermes!”

He grinned, holding up a hand. “Don’t panic. I come bearing a message. From my dearest, moodiest sister.”

“Artemis?” she said, eyes going wide with delight.

Hermes offered a scroll sealed with silver. “She says there’s to be a hunt on an island that only appears during a full moon. Tomorrow night. She’s invited you personally.”

Persekrene unrolled the scroll eagerly, scanning the graceful handwriting. Her heart skipped. “A moon-island? I have to ask Mother first, of course, but I’ll write her back right away!”

She darted off toward the villa, trailing ink and excitement like a comet.

Hermes chuckled and crouched near the scattered parchments. He idly picked up a few, flipping through her sketches.

They weren’t scenes of Olympus, or flowers, or the sea.

They were people.

Young faces. Mortal faces.

Some smiling, some weeping, others staring off as though listening to music they alone could hear. A golden haired, smiling boy with a bow standing with a grumpy dark haired child his age. A girl with a brown braid and a beautiful face. A man with ruffles on his collar and a feather in his hand.

And one sketch that made him stop.

A teenage boy, sharp-featured, scarred, tired. A jagged mark split his face from eye to chin, and something in his expression struck Hermes as both furious and deeply, unbearably sad.

Hermes’s hand hovered over the page.

Persekrene returned just then, scroll in hand. “Mother said yes!”

Hermes didn’t look up. “This one,” he said quietly, tapping the sketch of the scarred boy. “Who is he?”

Persekrene walked over and looked down.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, sitting beside him. “They haven’t been born yet.”

Hermes blinked. “What?”

“They’re demigods, I can tell,” she explained. “I draw them sometimes. I don’t mean to. I just… see them. And they always feel like they’re waiting for something. Or mourning.”

“Mourning who?”

Persekrene tilted her head. “I don’t know. Someone important.”

Hermes studied the boy’s face again, especially the scar. 

He pointed to the sketch again. “This one feels… familiar.”

Persekrene smiled faintly. “I think he’s one of yours.”

Hermes said nothing.

His eyes drifted to another sketch, a blonde girl with stormy grey eyes, braced beneath the weight of a darkened sky. She bore a terrifying resemblance to Athena, but younger. Mortal. Straining against something cosmic.

“I don’t know who she is either,” Persekrene admitted. “I think many of them miss the same person… even though they’ve never met her.”

Hermes frowned. “Why would they mourn someone they never knew?”

Persekrene looked out at the horizon, her voice soft, sad. “Because she loved them before they were created.”

Her hand traces over the many faces she drew, each one had a special connection to her, as if they were her own children.

…..

The island emerged at moonrise.

It shimmered into being like a mirage upon the sea, rising from the waves fully formed, an expanse of dense forest and glistening stone paths, tangled vines heavy with silver flowers, and waterfalls that glowed faintly under the full moon’s watchful eye.

Persekrene stepped onto the shore barefoot, her cloak fluttering in the breeze. The air felt different here, cooler, untouched. Sacred.

Artemis stood at the edge of the woods, her silver circlet catching the light. She looked radiant and wild, every bit the goddess of the moon and hunt, yet somehow… gentle tonight.

Persekrene approached, her steps light with excitement and nerves.

“Aunt Artemis,” she greeted with a respectful bow.

Artemis smiled faintly. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” Persekrene beamed. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Behind her, the Hunters of Artemis waited, clad in silvery tunics, their bows slung over their shoulders. They stood in still formation, eyes cool and appraising. Most looked young, mortal girls frozen in time, eternally fierce and free, but they bore the weight of experience in the way only Artemis’s chosen could.

They regarded Persekrene with suspicion, not out of cruelty, but caution. Gods were unpredictable. Tempestuous. And many had come before bearing gifts, only to demand loyalty or obedience in return.

Persekrene noticed but didn’t shy away. Instead, she turned to Artemis with quiet resolve. “Do I need to swear the vow of chastity to join tonight’s hunt?”

Artemis arched a brow, amused. “Is that something you wish to swear?”

“I don’t know yet,” Persekrene admitted, honest as always. “But I respect your laws, and I want to be welcome here.”

Artemis’s lips curved into a small smile. “Your company is all I require tonight. I often hunt with my brother, and believe me, he’d never consider the vow.”

Persekrene laughed, nerves easing.

With a nod, Artemis turned, her voice like a song through trees. “Then let us hunt.”

The moon bathed the island in soft silver as they moved through the woods in silence, the girls trailing behind Artemis like whispers of starlight. Persekrene stayed near her aunt, eyes wide as she watched how the goddess moved, quiet as wind, fast as moonbeams over water.

The night was alive with soft rustles and distant calls. At one point, Artemis raised her hand.

Everyone froze.

Ahead, near a glade dappled with moonlight, a creature stepped into view, a silver doe, so luminous it looked spun from the stars themselves. Its delicate ears twitched. Its eyes met Persekrene’s.

Artemis reached back and handed her a bow, slender, strong, carved from starlight and laurel wood.

Persekrene took it reverently. “Me?”

Artemis gave her a nod. “Every hunt begins with a first shot.”

She nocked an arrow, her hands shaking ever so slightly, and drew the string. Her heart pounded, not out of fear, but exhilaration. She focused. Breathed in.

Released.

The arrow sailed past the doe, harmlessly into the trees.

There was a beat of silence.

Then a soft wave of giggles rippled through the Hunters.

Persekrene flushed bright pink, lowering the bow.

But one of the Hunters, a girl with fiery red curls, nudged her gently. “I missed my first, too.”

Another chimed in, grinning. “You actually got closer than Phoebe did.”

Phoebe sniffed. “I was aiming for a different deer.”

Laughter bubbled around her, not cruel but warm. The tension melted like morning frost.

Artemis gave Persekrene an approving nod. “Missing is part of learning. Only the moon never misses her mark.”

…..

The hunt had ended hours ago.

The silver doe had vanished into the mist, and no arrows had followed after it again. Artemis had simply lowered her bow and nodded. “She belongs to the moon,” she had said. “Let her go.”

Now, the Hunters gathered around a low-burning campfire, the flames reflecting in their eyes like liquid gold. They passed fruit and honeyed cakes between them, and the sharp tang of pine needles lingered in the cool night air.

Persekrene sat cross-legged between two of the younger Hunters, her cloak draped over her shoulders, the borrowed bow resting across her knees. She had only fired once, but no one mocked her now. They talked easily around her, about deer and moon phases and ambush techniques, like she was one of them.

She smiled, warm and content, her eyes tilted up toward the full moon overhead.

Artemis stood and approached her silently.

“Persekrene,” she said, voice low but firm. “Walk with me.”

Persekrene blinked, then nodded and rose to follow.

They walked a short distance away from the fire, toward the edge of a cliff where the sea shimmered far below. The moonlight danced across the waves, and the air pulsed faintly with ancient magic.

The ground trembled beneath their feet, subtle, rhythmic. A reminder.

The island was fading.

It would vanish by dawn, as it always did, hidden again until the next full moon.

Artemis spoke quietly. “I heard something… curious.”

Persekrene tilted her head. “From the Hunters?”

“No,” Artemis said. “From Hermes.”

Persekrene blinked again. “Oh. The drawings.”

Artemis nodded. “Faces not yet born. Children of gods and mortals. You see them in dreams… or they come to you when you draw.”

Persekrene looked down at her hands. “I don’t try to. They just… happen.”

Artemis watched her closely. “That’s not nothing, niece. It may be more than instinct.”

There was a pause. The island beneath them gave another slow shudder. Trees flickered at the edges, outlines softening like a dream about to end.

“I think,” Artemis continued carefully, “you should speak to Apollo.”

Persekrene blinked in surprise. “But he already swore not to—”

“This has nothing to do with vows,” Artemis interrupted gently. “And everything to do with sight.”

She turned to face the girl fully, moonlight catching in her silver eyes. “Prophecy is rare. But it runs in the blood of gods, especially those born of the lord of the seas. And your connection to the future may go deeper than you know.”

Persekrene’s brow furrowed. “You think I have the gift?”

“I think you might have a thread of it,” Artemis said. “Not the kind that bursts from your mouth in rhymes and riddles. But something quieter. Something woven.”

Persekrene swallowed. “What if I don’t want to see the future?”

“Then don’t,” Artemis said simply. “But understand it may still find you.”

Another tremble underfoot. The edge of the island wavered.

“We need to go,” Artemis said. “The Hunt is moving to the mainland. We have a trail to follow through the Peloponnesus.”

Persekrene turned once to glance back at the fading campfire and the girls already packing their gear.

Then she looked at Artemis. “Will I be welcome again?”

Artemis reached forward and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her niece’s ear.

“You already are.”

…..

Apollo’s Temple pulsed with warmth and light, even in the chill of late winter. The ceiling was open to the sky, framed by columns of golden stone that shimmered like dawn. Music lingered faintly in the air, harps and flutes played without hands, echoing the heartbeat of prophecy.

The Athenide walked beside her mother, the hem of her sea-silver cloak brushing the marble floor. Athena’s presence was calm, but her eyes never stopped scanning, measuring everything, especially the god who waited for them near the reflecting pool.

Apollo stood barefoot on the edge of the water, dressed in a loose tunic of white and gold, his hair bound back in a laurel crown. He turned as they approached, sunlight catching in his eyes.

“She’s had visions,” Athena stated, wasting no time. “Drawings. Faces of demigods yet to exist.”

Apollo raised an eyebrow and extended a hand. “May I see?”

Persekrene reached into her satchel and carefully withdrew a bundle of parchment, edges curled from handling. She handed it to him wordlessly.

Apollo sat at the edge of the pool and began to sift through them one by one.

The room grew still.

He paused on a sketch of a man, older, grizzled, his hands covering his face as he wept beside a set of wax wings. His features were anguished, lined with wisdom and loss. 

Apollo set it aside carefully.

Next: a girl, blonde, strong, her face twisted in pain as she strained beneath the weight of the sky itself. Her eyes blazed grey, like stormclouds at war. 

Then Apollo paused again.

A new sketch, a boy with soft gold hair, his shoulders hunched, tears streaming down his face. He sat alone in a darkened cabin, his hands clenched in his lap. Grief radiated from the image, a sorrow so deep it seemed to echo from the page.

Apollo’s hand hovered over it longer than the others.

Persekrene watched him. “I think he’s yours.”

Apollo didn’t speak for a moment. His golden eyes flicked to hers. “How do you know?”

Persekrene nodded. “I don’t know his name. But he feels… bright. Like the sun. And broken.”

Apollo traced the edge of the page with one thumb. “He hasn’t been born yet.”

“I know.”

Athena finally spoke. “Well?”

Apollo set the parchment aside and stood slowly. “She’s not a prophet. Not in the way we define it. No riddles. No divine trance. She doesn’t channel the Oracle.”

Persekrene frowned slightly. “Then why do I see them?”

“Because you’re not just a goddess,” he said, turning to face her fully. “You’re a patron.”

She blinked. “Of demigods.”

Apollo nodded. “Their hearts beat close to yours. And when they are in pain, when they are desperate for guidance, or comfort, or something they don’t even have words for, they reach out, apparently so desperate it transcends time.”

“You’re not a prophet,” Apollo said with a quiet smile. “You’re a promise.”

…..

“Sketches of the Unborn: The Prophetic Gift of the Athenide and Her Connection to Demigods”

By Cassia R. Loughlin, PhD Candidate, Department of Classical Studies, University of Mississippi

Among the extant fragments and oral retellings of early Hellenistic mythology, the myth of Persekrene, the Athenide, stands out not merely for its unique divine parentage—being born from the mingled gifts of Athena and Poseidon—but for the deeply human themes woven through her mythic narrative. Beyond her birth from the olive and the sea, and the well-documented collection of divine oaths sworn by the Olympian pantheon to protect her, one of the earliest mythic episodes concerning Persekrene is the so-called “Drawing of the Future”, a tale both enigmatic and profoundly impactful in ancient cultic memory.

This episode, which details Persekrene’s visit to Apollo, occurs shortly after her formal presentation to the Olympian Council. In it, Persekrene—already acknowledged as the goddess of loyalty, erosion, and the patroness of demigods—seeks answers about her peculiar ability to draw the faces of individuals not yet born. Her sketches, done in pigmented inks, are presented to Apollo and include emotive portraits of young mortals in moments of deep anguish and quiet strength.

The original myth, preserved in fragmentary form through various Attic and Ionian retellings, describes the drawings in detail, yet curiously never names the figures depicted. This has long stumped modern and ancient mythographers, especially given the accuracy and clarity of the descriptions.

Among the most discussed is the image of an older man sobbing beside a pair of broken wax wings, almost universally identified as Daedalus. The text’s portrayal of him as a “demigod” rather than an inventor or hero has drawn speculation that, in this mythic version, Daedalus was imagined as a son of a minor god, however there is very little consensus as to whom the divine parent would be. This contradicts other myths, but fits a pattern in early Persekrene traditions of linking her to deeply mournful demigods—those defined not by triumph but by sorrow and isolation.

The other portraits, described but unnamed, include:

• A blonde girl bearing the sky, her arms straining and her eyes grey as stone.
• A boy with golden hair, crying in his home.
• Several others caught in moments of silent desperation.

The lack of identification has led to a myriad of interpretive theories. Some argue they were prophetic renderings of future heroes. The Roman mythographers, however, took a different route.

In the popularised Latin version, dated to the early Imperial period, the story of Persekrene—there called Fidei Terrae—appears in a more politicised light. The Roman poet Servilius Italicus, in his Annales Obscura, presents the portrait collection as featuring Romulus himself, depicted as a solemn youth wielding a sword etched with divine symbols. While this version gained traction in Rome and was adopted by early Augustan-era cults seeking divine legitimacy for the Julian line, Hellenistic sources offer no such figure. The Romulan portrait is now considered a Roman interpolation, a political adaptation rather than a canonical part of the original myth.

Another notable divergence between Greek and Roman interpretations lies in Persekrene’s origin. While the Greeks consistently describe her as the daughter of Athena and Poseidon, born through divine convergence and symbolised by the olive and the tide, Roman authors reject this genealogy. Instead, they classify Fidei Terrae as an autochthon, a being born directly from the land of Latium, gifted to the people by Terra Mater as a simple nymph and not a goddess. This localisation stripped her of her divine parents but emphasised her nationalistic purity—fitting with Rome’s mythological ethos.

Finally, Apollo’s interpretation of Persekrene’s gift, as preserved in the Attic myth, remains central to understanding her function in ancient cultic worship. He concludes that while she is not a prophet in the traditional sense, her drawings are echoes of the future, tethered to her patronage of demigods, transcending even time.

Chapter Text

The Aegean stretched out beneath her, sunlight dancing on the sea like a thousand molten mirrors. Wind swept the cliffs of Rhodos, carrying the scent of brine and laurel. Persekrene stood alone on the sun-warmed steps of her temple, barefoot, her sea-silver gown clinging gently to her frame as it fluttered in the breeze.

The temple wasn’t ancient, twenty-six years was hardly the blink of an eye to a goddess, but it had begun to listen to time. And she could feel it. The faintest softening of the marble where countless feet had climbed to offer olives or salt. Hairline fractures beneath the columns, invisible to mortal eyes, but to her, they thrummed with subtle change. Even the rain left its voice behind.

She trailed her fingers along a carved dolphin etched into the stone wall, its eye worn slightly smoother than the others. Children often touched it for luck before prayers. A quiet place of affection in an otherwise precise design. That, too, was erosion.

The mortals who built her temples had done so with intention. They carved stairways from the cliffs down to the sea, knowing they would not last forever. Knowing she would reclaim them, in time. The stone would fracture. Steps would sink. Waves would come. All by her hand, slow and inevitable.

Persekrene had never demanded this. But she loved them for it.

She wandered through the outer courtyard, where clusters of thyme and myrtle framed the temple path. A pair of stonemasons had recently come to make repairs, one of them had stared at her long enough to drop his chisel. She didn’t mind. Their awe wasn’t the grasping kind. Just wonder. She could live with that.

She reached the far edge of the grounds and paused, her gaze drawn down to the trail below. It wasn’t part of the temple’s original design. The proper road curved in long, elegant switchbacks down the hill, winding gently through olive trees and terraced fields. That was the intended way, the way carved and sanctioned.

But below her, another line cut directly across the slope. A narrow track, beaten into the grass and gravel. The footsteps of many had trodden it into being, barefoot children, hurried travelers, old farmers with aching knees. It snaked diagonally, from shrine to village, sloping down like water seeking the lowest point.

She crouched at the edge, peering down the hill. There, where the soft path met stone, the beginning of erosion had begun to whisper. The earth was darker where sandals had worn away the grass. Small divots formed in the soil. Even the bordering stones had started to curve inward.

Persekrene’s breath caught.

This path had not been designed. It had not been offered. It had emerged.

A path of need. Of choice. Of instinct.

She stood and began walking down it, slowly, feeling each shift in terrain beneath her feet. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t even safe. But it was real. Chosen.

When she reached the midpoint, she knelt again, pressing her hand to the worn earth.

A desire path.

Persekrene smiled slowly, the realization settling into her like warm stone.

Erosion was not only the sea gnawing at cliffs or rain smoothing statues.

It was this. The slow, silent reshaping of the world, not by violence, but by want.

And she would honor it.

The next temple, she decided, would not have a prescribed route. Let the mortals walk where they pleased. Let them write their own paths into the earth. In time, she would trace them, recognize them, and let the stone remember.

…..

The marble streets of Athens gleamed gold beneath the late afternoon sun as Persekrene walked once more among mortals. Her hair, pulled loosely back and fastened with a silver olive pin, caught the light like seafoam. She moved without a formal escort, no ceremony, no divine trumpet, only the quiet murmur of sandals on stone and the scent of roasted figs in the air.

She had not planned to stay long.

But the city remembered her.

Children still dropped sea-salt into fountains. Old women still tucked small olive leaves behind their ears as they passed her temples. Even the steps of her shrine on the Acropolis had begun to wear, their edges softened by thousands of quiet pilgrimages. That was erosion, too.

She was standing in the shadow of the Temple of Nike when she heard her name called, not with awe or reverence, but with breathless joy.

“Persekrene!”

She turned, and time folded in on itself.

Eleftherios stood across the plaza, taller now, broad-shouldered, sun-worn, with streaks of silver in his dark hair. His eyes were wide with disbelief and delight. He moved with the hesitant joy of someone seeing a miracle they had never quite stopped hoping for.

She smiled, and opened her arms.

He crossed the distance at a run and swept her into a fierce embrace. They stayed like that for a long moment, silent save for the soft rise and fall of breath and the faint chorus of birds in the distant olive trees.

“You’re taller,” she said finally, pulling back with a grin.

“You’re not,” he teased, brushing a tear from his cheek.

She laughed, and together they walked down the winding streets toward the lower hills, to a small sunlit home tucked between flowering pomegranates and trailing ivy. There, waiting at the threshold, stood a woman of luminous bearing, her gaze warm and curious.

“My wife,” Eleftherios said, voice catching with quiet pride. “This is Axiothea, daughter of Iris.”

Persekrene bowed her head with gentle reverence, but Axiothea knelt, her hand pressed to her chest in respectful awe.

“My Lady Athenide,” she said softly. 

“No need for formality,” Persekrene murmured, drawing her gently upright. “We’re family.”

Axiothea smiled, eyes shining with rainlight, and ushered her inside.

The home was modest but joyful, clay walls painted with swirls of color, hanging pots overflowing with herbs, toys scattered across woven rugs. Laughter echoed from a nearby room.

Two small children peeked out shyly from behind a curtain. The older, a girl of five with a riot of curls and a tunic stained from berry juice, stared openly at Persekrene with the awestruck wonder only children possess.

“You’re very pretty,” she declared solemnly.

Persekrene knelt to her level, smiling. “Thank you. You’re very pretty too.”

The girl considered this, then asked, “Are you married?”

Persekrene blinked in surprise, then laughed. “No, not yet.”

The girl lit up with delight. “Good! Because the priest of Phoebus Apollon at the big temple said he’s the most handsome of all the gods. And you’re the prettiest goddess I’ve ever met, so you should marry him.”

Eleftherios sputtered behind her while Axiothea covered a laugh with her hand.

Persekrene raised an eyebrow, playing along. “That’s very sound logic. But have you met other goddesses?”

The little girl, Taleia, frowned thoughtfully. “No. But you’re still my favorite.”

Persekrene bowed her head. “Then I will take that as a great honor.”

For the rest of the afternoon, she remained in their home. She played with the children, twirling with them in the courtyard, drawing animals in chalk along the floor, conjuring tiny waves in a pond to make them laugh. 

As the sun began to set, Persekrene felt another divine presence in her brother's home.

Apollo and Artemis appeared in a soft light, enveloping the courtyard. The adults stood up and bowed, as the children gasped and hid behind their aunt.

Persekrene laughed, “Children, do not be afraid, they are my friends. How are you both? I trust my brother-in-law wasn’t too harsh in your lesson today, Apollo?”

Apollo groaned, “Helios is a tyrant and critic. You would think I burnt down a city while I drove with the way he was treating me!”

His sister snorted, “You did burn down a city.”

He looked at her with narrow eyes, “That was almost a century ago, Artemis. I’ve grown since then.”

Taleia poked her head out from behind Persekrene and giggled, “You’re not that scary, anymore.”

The twins tilted their heads in confusion, Artemis asked, “And why is that little Maiden?”

The little girl took her brother's hand and dragged him out from behind their aunt, “You argue like me and my brother.”

Persekrene laughed heartily at this.

Taleia continued, “Plus, you shouldn’t be scary if you are to marry my aunt.”

Persekrene stopped. Both her and Apollo flushed gold in embarrassment. Artemis cackled and began teasing her brother, “Oh! If I knew you were to marry I would have prepared a bride price!”

Artemis wiped tears from her eyes, still grinning. “Taleia, you may attend the wedding if it ever happens. But first—” she sobered slightly, glancing to her brother. “We didn’t only come to be teased by children.”

Apollo stepped forward, tone softening. “Our mother, Leto, is hosting a banquet on Delos. In remembrance of Asteria.”

Persekrene stilled, her smile fading into something gentler. “The fallen star,” she murmured.

“She chose to fall,” Artemis said quietly. “Chose to become the island that bore us.”

“A gift,” Apollo added. “And a sacrifice. Mother wants it remembered properly this year. You’ve walked the edges of Delos often. And as the Goddess of Loyalty, she’d like you there.”

Persekrene looked out past the courtyard wall, as if she could already see the sea roads winding toward that sacred isle. The wind stirred again, brushing laurel leaves against the clay. “It would be my honor,” she said.

Artemis nodded once, her voice touched with something older than she appeared. “It’s tomorrow night.”

Taleia, who had been listening with wide eyes, whispered, “What’s Delos like?”

Persekrene knelt beside her. “It’s an island that sings beneath your feet. The stone remembers starlight. And the sea around it is so still at dusk, you can see the whole sky in the water.”

Taleia gasped in awe. Her brother clung to her hand tighter.

“I want to go,” she declared.

Artemis ruffled the girl’s curls. “Perhaps one day. For now, we borrow your aunt.”

…..

The banquet on Delos was a thing of beauty.

Twilight bathed the island in soft gold as the gods gathered on the sacred ground where Leto had given birth to her twins. Torches flickered like stars fallen to earth, casting dancing shadows across tables laden with honeyed figs, roasted lamb, and amphorae of deep red wine. Musicians played soft lyres while nymphs and minor deities swayed to the music, laughter rising into the night like incense.

Persekrene stood near the edge of the feast, a chalice in hand, her sea-silver gown shimmering in the torchlight. She was smiling as Artemis told a story of a monstrous boar and Apollo debated with the Muses about rhythm and rhyme.

But then—

A chill ran down her spine.

The sea… shifted.

It was not loud, not yet. Not enough for the others to notice. But for Persekrene, daughter of Poseidon, born from the ocean’s will and Athena’s fire, it was deafening.

Her breath caught.

She turned her head sharply toward the darkening horizon. The waves were not singing. They were screaming.

Persekrene dropped her chalice. “Something is wrong,” she said aloud, voice low but urgent.

The others turned toward her in surprise, but she was already moving, barefoot across the stone, eyes fixed on the sea. The tide was pulling back. Farther. Farther than it ever should.

“No,” she whispered, panic rising. “No, no, no—”

The ground beneath her trembled. Just slightly. But enough.

The laughter died. Conversations stilled. Mortals looked around uneasily.

Apollo stood. “What is it?”

“Run!” she cried, her voice ringing across the courtyard. “Get to high ground—now!”

But it was too late.

With a roar like the fury of gods unbound, the sea rose.

A wall of water, taller than the temple columns, surged toward the island. Mortals screamed, scattering like leaves in a storm. Persekrene raised her arms and threw up a barrier of power, salt and stone erupting in a glowing shield to delay the inevitable.

She held it—gods, she held it—but the wave shattered through.

The banquet dissolved into chaos.

Water tore across Delos, sweeping away everything in its path. Statues crumbled. Torches hissed into darkness. Tables and bodies were cast into the surf as if they weighed nothing at all.

She saw mortals clutching their children, priests crying out to gods who could no longer hear.

The wave swallowed them whole.

And it did not stop.

It lasted for nine days.

Across the world, islands sank and cities drowned. Rivers reversed. Mountains cracked. The sea invaded the land like a god returning to claim its due.

And through it all, Persekrene felt herself unraveling.

Not her body, her being. Her essence. Her power.

The temples were gone. The laughter was gone. Her people were gone.

Demigods, those bound by blood and prayer to her, had all perished.

All but two.

Far away, on a mountain of trembling earth and weeping clouds, a wooden chest bobbed in the floodwaters. Inside it, huddled together, were a man and a woman.

Deucalion, son of Prometheus. Pyrrha, daughter of Epimetheus and Pandora.

Mortal still, but demigod enough.

And they were praying.

To her.

To Persekrene.

In that narrow, rocking chest, their voices called out, cracked, raw, soaked with fear and hope. They spoke her name like a lifeline.

She heard it.

Once the waters receded and the land lay bare, Persekrene washed ashore like driftwood on the southern coast of Crete.

The tide left her gently, reverently, as though the sea itself mourned what had been done. Her body was curled upon the sand, her skin grey with salt and sorrow. The silver threads of her gown clung to her like kelp, torn and sodden, and her hair lay matted around her like seaweed dragged in from a storm. The light that once clung to her like a second skin, divine, unwavering, was gone. She looked as mortal as those she mourned. More ghost than goddess.

And then she wept.

Great, heaving sobs tore from her chest, raw and wild, echoing across the barren shore. There were no temples here, no pilgrims, no offerings. Just stone and sand and silence.

Her cries were not poetic. They were not graceful. They were the screams of a grieving goddess who had felt every death like her own ribs shattering.

She beat her fists against the sand. She tore at her ruined dress. She screamed into the wind until her throat was raw, until the sea dared not answer her. They were gone. All of them. The masons who built steps into cliffs. The children who laughed and placed olives at her shrine. The young priest who sang to her in the mornings. The old woman who pressed thyme into her hands for luck.

Gone. All of them.

The flood was not hers. The erosion of cities, of homes, of lives, it did not come from her hand. It came from Olympus.

From Zeus.

From a decree cast down like a lightning bolt with no thought to mercy, no reverence for those who lived gently upon the earth.

Persekrene had felt it the moment the wave struck, not just the loss, but the theft. Something sacred, hers, had been twisted into cruelty.

Her domain had been made a weapon without her consent.

And it felt like hands on her body she had not invited.

She wrapped her arms around herself, curled tighter into the sand, trying to cover every inch of herself, her skin, her shame, her grief, as though she could protect what had already been taken. She felt violated, like strange hands touched all over her.

Her sobs grew quieter, hoarse with exhaustion. The salt of her tears mingled with the ocean’s, and the wind did not dare disturb her.

And then—

She felt them.

One like the endless pressure of the deep sea, coiled power and fathomless sorrow.

The other, sharp and sure as a blade, the scent of olivewood and owls in her breath.

Her parents had come.

Poseidon knelt first, the waves parting around his form like loyal subjects. He looked at his daughter, broken and sand-covered, and his mighty face crumpled.

“Persekrene,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “Oh, my girl…”

Athena stood beside him, her armor dimmed, her helm absent. She moved carefully, like approaching a wounded animal, quiet and respectful. Not out of fear, but out of love.

Persekrene did not speak. Could not. She just shook, her fingers clawed into the wet sand, as if she could hold onto the earth itself and keep from being swept away again.

Poseidon reached out slowly and gathered her into his arms.

She did not resist.

She pressed her face into his chest like a child, and for the first time in centuries, she sobbed against her father’s heart. He held her tightly, his great arms trembling, as if her grief were a current he could not swim against.

“I didn’t want it,” she rasped. “I didn’t… I didn’t make it. It wasn’t mine.”

“I know,” Poseidon said, stroking her sea-matted hair. “I know.”

“It wasn’t mine,” she cried again, her voice breaking like a wave against stone. “But I felt it. I felt it like it was.”

Athena knelt beside them, one cool hand gently covering her daughter’s where it dug into the earth.

“This was not your doing,” she said firmly, voice like flint. “This was the will of a tyrant who mistook wrath for wisdom.”

“He used the sea,” Persekrene choked. “He used what I love.”

“And it wounded you,” Athena said softly. “As it wounds all things touched without consent.”

Persekrene turned her face upward, eyes red and wild. “They’re gone. All of them. All those people I knew. I loved. They trusted me.”

Poseidon bowed his head. “I could not stop it. Not even I. Zeus commanded the tide, and I…” His voice cracked. “I obeyed. And I am ashamed.”

Persekrene did not blame him. Not then. Not in that moment. Her father had always been tempest and lawbreaker, but Olympus had chains even for him.

Athena took Persekrene’s other hand.

“You are not to blame. You are enduring. You were not erased. You were hurt. That is not weakness. That is survival.”

The three of them sat in silence, wind rustling the reeds. The tide touched Persekrene’s feet like an apology.

“I still feel them,” she whispered at last. “Deucalion. Pyrrha. They’re praying. To me. And it’s keeping me… here.”

“Then you are not alone,” Athena said.

“Then the world is not done,” said Poseidon.

Persekrene closed her eyes and let their hands anchor her.

The land was bare. The temples were gone.

But so long as even one prayer remained, she remained.

And from the hollow ache of grief, something new began to stir.

Not vengeance.

Not wrath.

But memory.

She would rebuild. Not with marble and pillars, but with stories, with footprints, with every whispered offering made in the quiet between waves.

Let Zeus see what endures.

She walked.

Through hills washed clean of footprints, through valleys stripped of sound, through forests where not even the birds had returned. Her bare feet bled on the sharp stones. Her silver gown, once gleaming, now hung in tattered ribbons. The wind dragged at her hair, but she did not stop. She walked as if movement alone could hold her together.

The sky was heavy with silence.

The gods watched, but none intervened.

And still, Persekrene walked.

Days passed, though she could not tell how many. The sun rose and fell like a lid blinking over a hollow world. She passed the remnants of old shrines, now toppled, waterlogged bones of temples. She laid her hand on every stone, every altar, whispering, “I remember you,” as if that might be enough.

She felt them. Faint flickers. Threads tugging at her soul like whispers across an ocean.

Deucalion.

Pyrrha.

Her last two.

The only lights left in a world drowned in shadow.

She pressed forward, following the fragile line of prayer that reached up from the earth like a vine, winding around her ribs, urging her onward.

Her strength faded with each step.

Immortality had not protected her, it had bound her to the world’s grief, made her feel it in every bone. The sea no longer rose to meet her. The land no longer offered her footing. She was unmoored.

And then—

She saw them.

Two figures atop a high hill, framed by the broken ribs of a shattered tree. A wooden chest half-buried in the mud beside them. Clothes torn. Faces gaunt. Eyes wide with wonder.

They saw her.

She fell to her knees.

Her legs buckled beneath the weight of survival and sorrow, and she crumpled into the wet earth, gasping.

And they ran to her.

Not hesitating. Not afraid.

Deucalion, tall and gentle, the son of Prometheus, caught her first, his arms wrapping around her in fierce, unthinking instinct.

Pyrrha, red-haired and blazing like the last ember of the world, fell beside them and pressed her hands to the goddess’s face, whispering, “We prayed. We prayed so hard. You came.”

Persekrene tried to speak. Nothing came. Just a sob. 

They held her.

They held her.

…..

New Rome, 21st Century – The Primus Academy, Classroom IV-B

The sun spilled like molten gold through the open windows of the classroom, dancing across the marble floors and polished wooden desks. Birds chirped in the olive trees outside, their songs mingling with the distant hum of fountains and the rhythmic march of legionnaire cadets training on the parade grounds below.

Inside, a dozen children in red-trimmed tunics sat in orderly rows, their satchels tucked beneath their chairs, wax tablets at the ready. The air smelled faintly of parchment and laurel.

At the front of the room stood Magistra Lavinia, a tall, elegant woman with silver-threaded hair tied in a loose knot and a voice that carried the lilting cadence of old patrician bloodlines. She had taught at Primus Academy for nearly four decades, and even the most inattentive child straightened under her gaze.

“Now then,” she said, tapping her stylus against the chalkboard where names had been carefully inscribed in neat, looping Latin. “We’ve spoken of Jupiter, King of the Gods. Of Mars, Father of Rome. Of Minerva, goddess of wisdom. Today, we will discuss a lesser-known figure—Fidei Terrae.”

A few children tilted their heads in confusion. One brave boy, Septimus, raised his hand.

“Isn’t that the Earth’s faith? Like, um, loyalty to the land?”

“Very good,” Lavinia said with a nod. “That is one translation, yes. But in some ancient texts—unofficial ones—Fidei Terrae is named as a minor goddess. Not one sanctioned by the Capitoline cult, mind you. No temple stood in her honor in Rome. No senators offered sacrifices to her. She was a fringe figure, beloved only by rural demigods and fringe communities. And even that love was misplaced.”

She turned to the board and underlined the name.

“She is best known, of course, for the Deluge.”

A murmur ran through the classroom. The Deluge was one of the most feared myths, spoken of in hushed tones even by children who played near the Tiber.

“But I thought Jupiter caused that?” asked Flavia, a clever girl whose braid was threaded with pearls.

Lavinia smiled—gentle, but indulgent.

“Ah, yes. That is what history records. But earlier myths claim that Fidei Terrae tricked him into it. Convinced him that the mortal world was too corrupted, that only a cleansing flood could restore balance. What she truly wanted, of course, was power. She was not a goddess of the sea, but of erosion—the slow, inevitable wearing down of earth, stone, even memory.”

The children looked uneasy. One boy clutched his stylus tightly.

“She whispered lies into Jupiter’s ear. Told him mortals had lost their loyalty, that the demigods were turning wild. She preyed upon his pride—and when he unleashed the storm, she drank the world’s grief like nectar. Some say she even wept for the dead, but those tears only made her stronger.”

“But… didn’t she help the survivors?” asked Flavia hesitantly. “Wasn’t she the patron of demigods once?”

Lavinia’s smile faltered for just a moment. Then it returned, fixed and bright.

“A convenient fiction,” she said lightly. “A Greek invention, most likely. We Romans know better. Demigods thrive in order and discipline, not in chaos and erosion. That is why Jupiter struck her name from Olympus. Why her temples—if they ever existed—crumbled. The Roman Empire had no use for a goddess of decay.”

She paced slowly in front of the board now, hands folded behind her back.

“The true lesson, children, is that Fidei Terrae—if she ever lived—was erased not through war or punishment, but by irrelevance. By civilization. By Empire. Her worshipers faded. Her stories were rewritten. The very earth she claimed allegiance to has forgotten her.”

She paused, letting the silence settle.

“You need not fear her,” Lavinia said, her voice low and sure. “She is long gone. The Pax Romana outlasted her. And here, in New Rome, the only erosion we welcome is that of superstition.”