Chapter Text
Pitter.
Patter.
The sounds of dripping water echoed through the room; cold as ice and somber as an abandoned grave. A dark figure of a man sat at the center. He carried the heavy weight of shame and dread, forcing him to hunch over so that no God nor man would dare look at the look of disgrace etched onto his face. He has already lost a limb from centuries ago and had learned to live with this inconvenience by creating a makeshift arm replacement of water with the use of his powers but to add salt to the wound; countless more injuries had been inflicted upon him.
His stomach started to churn, having no desire to eat anything but his own tongue out of self-loathing. It had been days, weeks, or perhaps months, since his last encounter with the Greek man on the shores of Ithaca– since he last showed his face to anyone.
His hand, covered in scratches, laid atop the body of an alcohol bottle as drops of red wine escaped from the mouth and created a small puddle of crimson below. Poseidon’s legs grew weak and numb, struggling to find the willpower to even stand up from his seat anymore, almost as though pine sap had crept up from the chair and glued him down to keep him from leaving and continue to waste away by finding solace in liquor.
The room grew ghastly and dimmer by each second his thoughts spent wandering about the man responsible for the cuts and tears he will be carrying for the years to come until it becomes a scar. A scar to remind him of his mistake on becoming too enamoured with pride and fury combined that lead him to his impending downfall.
Odysseus.
His hand began to tremble as he pried deeper in his hatred towards the man. He took away his son, Polyphemus’ eyes as an act of mercy and to spare him from meeting Hades in the underworld but not only was this a great dishonor on Odysseus’ part to be Athena’s patron but also to Poseidon himself. This gesture implied that The God of the Seas had raised a son who wasn’t fit to be named a worthy and threatening foe to die in the battlefield, his teachings weren’t enough that he had been excused from dying in the hands of mortal men. His poor son.
His heart boiled. Teeth ground against teeth. His breathing grew heavier, as though he were struggling to keep calm—to salvage what was left of his dignity before the brewing storm of rage could erupt from within him.
"Shame on him..." Poseidon growled through gritted teeth, his temple creasing, his brow twitching with fury. His rampant temper surged forward. "How dare he..." His voice, hoarse with rage, rose in volume as his grip around the bottle tightened.
"...A measly mortal like him–"
The words dripped with malice. His breath hitched, uneven and ragged, growing heavier with every second. The God's fury finally reached to his head and prompted him to shatter the bottle of wine into tiny, miniscule pieces, adding more scratches and tears in his hands as shards of glass stuck onto his skin, fresh cuts mixing with the old, but he barely felt it.
“Force me to live my life degraded and to rot!” he screamed, his voice thick with venom. Poseidon knew that Gods such as he were next to impossible to kill by an insignificant man like Odysseus But to be driven to a pitiful, bruised state? To be left battered and soaked in his own blood, sprawled against the grey shoreline, the stone slick with algae?
His temperament grew in the size of a cyclone as he was compelled by his own self-loathing to stand up from his seat aggressively and in a quick motion, violently lifting away the desk then it fell onto the ground as sounds of more breaking shards followed along the jarring racket. “For a millennia, my name alone was enough to strike terror into the hearts of sailors!”
Intoxicated and inebriated for days, not only was his own body the only thing to give him warmth in spite of the ice-cold room he had locked himself in; his head was also fueled with the fiery anger. Poseidon’ fury demanded form– demanded for release and finally he had let himself be carried away by his vengeful and overwhelming emotions. Summoning water by reaching his hand close to the nooks and crannies of the floor to gather the water hidden underneath and take the form of his trident, gleaming and lethal.
“Polyphemus, my boy…”
His free hand was quick to grab ahold of his temple as the inevitable headache from the non-stop drinking came to strike him. The man let out a sharp wince, a low groan of frustration; the unbearable heat wrapped around his being, suffocating, unrelenting.
The ocean stirred.
At first, it was a whisper, a soft lull of waves circling the god that gave off an uncanny sensation. Only the sounds of the ocean filled the room. The God of tides, for a moment, went quiet, thinking the fiery warmth he felt had quickly washed over him. The thought was abruptly broken when Poseidon yelped in agony, the calm was ripped away, replaced by the sudden crack of thunder that shattered the silence. The walls trembled. The room darkened—no, it wasn’t a room anymore.
The walls bled away into water, churning and rolling in deep cerise hues, the walls of the room had revealed themselves to be the ocean casted from the deep freezing sea, shifting, writhing, almost as though it’s mimicking Poseidon’s unprecedented fury. It felt him. It knew.
“He’s not even close to a fraction of my lifespan! And he made me beg for mercy?!” His tone was sharp as a whip, lashing out with every syllable. His leg was still half-asleep, barely functioning. He struggled to stand without the support of the filthy, wine-stained table and pine-sapped chair. His drunken state clouded his thoughts. He blinked hard, but his vision swam. His footing betrayed him, stumbling over his own feet.
Poseidon managed to catch himself in time, using his arms to extend towards the floor and balancing his weight but that meant the trident would slide and slip away from his hands, throwing it against the crimson walls of water, writhing along with his anger. Poseidon exhaled sharply, grinding his teeth. A guttural growl rumbled from his chest, his brow creasing with unbridled rage
“Turning my own words…!” He slowly moved his head to the side, still facing the floor. Plastered, showering in his own sweat mixed with the remnants of wine he didn’t bother to wipe away prior to this moment. Poseidon’s palm was against the cold, hard cobble, trying to will the water to rise from the unseen pocketed cracks of the floor. The water slowly rose, creeping up between his fingers as it twisted and turned whilst he groggily stood up.
The ocean walls that surrounded the God seemed to give off a lighter glow, almost as if it was in sync with his own heartbeat that was so close to tearing itself out from his own chest, the noise fully crawled its way to his ears. As his hand sprung up, it was keen on curling into a ball, leaving a trail of claws from his fingertips. The water gathered once more, taking shape of his one and only weapon– his trident. And it fit perfectly in his clenched fist, coiled with venom.
“Against me—!” he spat, malice dripping from his words. As if continuing his fury, the storm howled; thunder cracked like a beast unchained, lightning slashing through the walls of writhing water.
–
The sharp crackle of lightning was enough to make Circe shift her eyes away from the boiling cauldron she had spent hours on since dusk. Her jaw tightened, locking it in and keeping herself from uttering a single word and a single sound, afraid that might earn her another unwanted strike of lightning from the heavens.
She had a serious look etched on her face as she looked out the window. The waves were violently thrashing against one another, the dark clouds twisted, eerie hues of blue flickered behind the unnerving skies as multiple series of thunder roared throughout.
The witch hadn’t noticed how grim and vicious the weather had been brewing until she heard the jarring lightning that sent her skin crawling itself inside out. “Storms… again. Those usually don’t drop in until after spring…” she murmured to herself, trying to make sense of the situation and its weird weather patterns. Her breathing hitched. Her fingers unconsciously traced the edge of her cauldron as she gazed at the storm-torn sky.
For now, Circe was letting a fizzing liquid to gently simmer within the iron pot, releasing wisps of fragrant steam. She had been in this practice for centuries now but this specific potion she’s concocting is a headache. The woman could only hope that her years of knowledge, experience and skills were enough; she just had to believe in herself: something she occasionally struggles with.
Whilst the tip of her fingers were skimming atop the cauldron’s surface it had been casting a shadow just inches away from the glass-paned window. She was starting to wonder how deep in the night she's in already as she turned her face around to follow the direction the shadow was casted from.
Circe finally set her eyes on the candle, one she had received by one of the nymphs as a small gift. The wax gave off an off-white color and the aroma of mild coconut. The candle was being coated by its own dripping wax before finally settling at the surface of the candle tin and going cold and hard once more.
Then, her eyes took a closer look, shifting her gaze to focus more clearly and noticed there was a small area of wax hanging halfway at the side of the candle before actually dropping onto the tin. The flames looked alright at the front until she would take a step forward to the side and realized the fire had a slight tilt while the candle had stood straight.
Circe took another step forward, her gaze fixed on the candle light’s shelf. Reaching out, she ran her fingers along the worn wood, her brows furrowing slightly, though her expression remained neutral. “I’ll fix this in the morning,” she murmured to herself.
She wanted to bite her tongue. There were so many things she had promised to fix. The wilting plants, the dulled flowers, the trees and grass losing their luster; each was a quiet reminder of something deeper stirring in Aeaea. It had started years ago, a single deep-indigo flower fading when the younger nymphs played hide-and-seek. Back then, she had dismissed it as some abnormality. Now, the decay was spreading at a faster rate, creeping and consuming more of the land. The nymphs had whispered their concerns to her for years, and she had listened.
Circe, being a witch whose magic dabbled in transformation, had turned deceased trees and flowers back to life but for some reason what she expected to happen didn’t go along as she planned. At one point, she tried to find a mahogany tree (rotted but not infected from the decay) and it received a second chance in life again. Something else was stopping the transformation.
Outside, the storm raged on, its thunder a relentless echo of her own unease. Deep in her own thoughts, Circe was taken by surprise when she felt the sudden presence of small arms wrapped around her waist, making her jump. She looked down only to come face-to-face with a young nymph’s hair whorl.
The surging violent weather must have masked the nymph’s footsteps. A small and worried smile appeared on the witch’s face as she brushed her palm against the young one’s raven hair, trying to keep the nest-like hair under control. The child buried her face even further against Circe’s clothes when another roar from the skies reminded them of its existence.
“Ephyra, darling, why are you still awake?”
The young nymph, Ephyra, didn’t reply to the question back and could only work out the courage to let out a whine, she shook her head and simultaneously rubbed her face against the other woman in a swift manner. Seeing how adamant Ephyra was only made Circe raise her brow in suspicion and concern, raising her another question, “My darling you should be with the others… have they been teasing you again? I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.”
The nymph took her time to gather the confidence to finally speak and Circe was patient enough to let her do so. Trembling pale lips spoke, “...It’s the storm. Why do they keep coming back?”. The woman sighed, relieved that it wasn’t what she assumed had happened. The hand brushing Ephyra’s hair slid down to cup her cheeks. Providing warmth and comfort to the cold skin as Circe chuckled softly and gave her a smile filled with amusement and adoration.
“I’m not sure either… Perhaps the Gods are trying to lure out scared young girls out of their rooms.”
“What?! Circe!”
The child shot her head up with a pout and an adorable display of anger, her eyes watering already prior from the fear and Circe let out another laugh at her reaction before quickly trying to take her concern seriously and reassuring her worries, “I’m merely teasing! Oh, I’m sorry, have you been scared this whole time? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Ephyra’s pouting expression continued to cling onto her face, her grip around Circe tightened. Her eyes were starting to water, almost threatening to fall down at any second now as she sniffed. “... I wanna be like you.” The witch’s eyes widened in surprise when she heard what just came out of the young nymph’s mouth.
For years she had been their sole provider and caretaker. She was casted away and banished to Aeaea but she was fortunate enough to be granted the privilege of having company and the fact that some of the fair young maidens would even look up to her and admire her still catches her off guard. Circe was flattered but this is one of those times where she has to remind the girls, remind herself, that she was not untouchable. That she, too, could be weak.
Perhaps, she thought, she would share this truth with Ephyra.
Circe lifted a gentle hand and brushed away the child’s tears with her thumb before kneeling to meet her gaze. She smiled, tilting her head slightly. “Do you wanna know a secret?” Circe asked and the child seemed curious as she looked at her with doe-like eyes, silently waiting for the answer and trying to stifle out her sniffles.
The witch took that as a sign to continue, “I was scared of the storm too.” The nymph only scowled, expressing her shock and doubt to the older woman. “What?! Circe, don't lie to me!” hearing every reaction from the little one made her let out a hearty laugh and then both of her hands were cupping Ephyra’s cheeks, pulling her face closer to her.
“Yeess! Why's that so hard to believe? I was as young as you were before.”
“Really? I thought you've always been old.”
“... Not quite.”
Circe cleared her throat, not wanting to spend another awkward second with the young nymph’s bluntness– she fears she has given them too much freedom to say what’s in their mind. She’ll talk to them about that in another day but for now she ought to find a solution to her current problem.
The witch stood up, holding onto the nymph’s hand as she guided her out of the room and walked throughout the slightly-dimmed hallway. With a twist of her wrist, a small flame led the way to provide them more light. She figured that she could pass the time on letting the concoction simmer by putting little Ephyra to bed.
Another thunder crackled paired with a sudden flash of white and that was enough to make the young nymph hide behind Circe’s long skirt, tightly holding onto her hand and soft skirt. The older woman hummed in a light-hearted manner seeing her reaction. “But yes I was deathly afraid of a lot of things. Among those were storms.” she secured her grip around Ephyra’s hand in return.
“Mmm… Sorry, I still don’t buy it.” she wasn’t afraid of expressing her answer of doubt and Circe replied with a low and amused scoff, shaking her head with a smile. “Then listen to what I have to say.” the young nymph nodded and bit her lip to keep herself from cutting Circe off.
The storm outside was starting to sound faint and muffled as the witch continued on with sharing her story, “It might be hard to believe but I really was a young maiden as you are– frightened and anxious as you are. The terrifying howl of the wind from my father’s palace? It echoed throughout the hall like some great beast! Despite what people praise of his golden palace I can only remember it being cold and gloomy especially in moments where the storm is around.” Circe looked down to see if the young nymph was still listening and she did, her ears perked in attention and her eyes practically screaming ‘ Yes! Tell me more! ’.
“The sound of thunder was enough to make the hair of my skin stand in fear but the lightning that would follow? Oh, it truly kept me up all night. It felt like an angry God’s spear going through my ears and I was always certain it would strike me if I stood near my window.”
Ephyra’s fingers curled further into the fabric. She was determined that she could get through with just listening to the older woman’s story but her curiosity got the best of her and asked, “What did you do?”
“I hid of course.” Circe answered in confidence, admitting and smiling to herself as she went through the memory. “I was just a scared young girl who thought tucking herself away in the furthest corner of her chamber with hands over her ears was the answer to waiting for it to end. No one came to me nor did I have anyone to go to tell me it was just a storm.”
The witch looked over at Ephyra, her smile still present on her face and brought their enclasped hands into view. “No one held my trembling hands like this to reassure me…” Her voice softened, almost breaking even. “So I had to learn, little by little, that storms eventually pass. And one day, I stopped hiding.”
Eyes shimmered in a mix of awe and sadness, the young nymph was staring at her with pity. “...You were alone?” she whispered in hesitance.
Circe stopped in her tracks. Seeing a child express more concern and empathy than her parents ever showed were more than enough to tear off a piece of her heart. A bittersweet truth and she hoped that it was dark enough to hide the tears forming in her eyes. She refused to look at the other, fearing that it might tether her into crying as she brought up her free hand to press against the smoothened wood.
“Not anymore.” The woman pushed the door open, taking another step closer. “You wanna know why?” and before she could give Ephyra a chance to talk she abruptly lifted her feet off of the floor and carried her in her arms.
Innocent giggles and laughter was enough to completely wipe away the surging roars outside. Even for a moment. “Because I have a silly girl who apparently wants to be like me!” The young nymph yelped in surprise and snorted when Circe was quick on dropping her (safely) onto her bed and brushing her sides to tickle her.
The witch was content and had a huge grin plastered onto her face as Ephyra tossed and turned to stray away from her tickling. Circe eventually stopped to let the young nymph breathe but the giggling stayed. “And ugh, so many girls! To the point that I have forgotten what it’s like to be lonely, my dear.”
The woman pulled over a thick blanket over the nymph’s body, tucking her into the comforts of her bed as she tried to fluff out the pillow underneath Ephyra and she was happy to lift up her head before laying back down again.
Circe didn’t break her gaze with the other the whole time as she placed her hand over her chest, patting it slightly. “Ephyra.” she called out with a small smile and the nymph fluttered her eyelashes in response, “Yeesss?”
“Can you promise me something?”
“Yes, Circe?”
“It’s reallllyy important and it’s a must that you obey this promise at all times and–”
The little one let out a loud annoyed groan out of frustration, throwing her hands over her head before it quickly flopped back down to the cushion again. “Just get on with it already!”
Circe have always adored trying to tick the young nymph off. She finds her reactions hilarious and it satisfies the need for playful banter within her. The woman let out a snicker as she brought her hand near Ephyra and cupped her cheeks.
“Don’t you ever be alone. Always have someone to keep you company, alright my dear?” the witch looked at her in a reassuring look but there was truth and a serious undertone in her voice. With her magic, she brought the neverending wisp of fire (the one that she had used to guide them all the way to the room) near the young nymph but just enough that she wouldn’t catch it.
“Even if that means the company would be a little light.” She gestured to the fire before booping her nose with her finger. Ephyra giggled and didn’t try to fight back the yawn that dawned on her, shuffling in her bed and trying to find the most comfortable position before closing her eyes.
Circe took this as a sign to leave the girl be. She slowly stood up from the bed; the cushion leisurely went back to its original position, but remnants of the woman’s weight remained.
“Good night, my dear.”
The second the witch stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her, the warmth in her heart disappeared. The storm’s presence was immediate. The trail of hearty, wholesome laughter they had left behind was swallowed by the wind’s howls and the deep rumble of thunder.
She was cold again. A haunting reminder.
She didn’t dare take another step further, instead taking a slow breath and rolling her shoulders in a feeble attempt to embrace herself. The effort was pathetic—so much so that she scoffed in frustration. How disappointing that her own words weren’t as convincing as they had been for the young nymph.
“I pray you don’t end up like me, Ephyra.”
Circe let herself be consumed by the sounds of the storm—just for a while. Guilt gnawed at her. The nymphs she had cared for all these years had been wonderful company, but were they the kind of connection she longed for? For once, she wanted someone she could be vulnerable with. Someone she didn’t have to maintain a front for.
Is that really what she wanted?
The witch clenched her jaw, her gaze fixed on the floor as the freezing air crept into her senses. She let out an angry huff before storming off, her body trembling with frustration. She headed straight for her workroom, her steps echoing through the dimly lit corridors.
Upon arrival, she was relieved to see that the fire was still alive and well despite the violent wind sneaking inside of the palace. Then, she remembered something. Circe quickly shot her gaze at the candle on the shelf; the tilting fire had become even more obvious.
Dread settled deep in her bones. Her brows knit together, suspicion creeping in as she scanned the room. Her eyes landed on the window—the same one she had looked out of earlier. She stepped forward, drawn to it by an unease she couldn’t shake.
Her hands trembled as she pressed her palms against the cold cobblestone. Then, her heart plummeted.
The huge boulder that stood proud in its place was gone. Her eyes were quick to scan and study the water but it didn’t seem to have gotten closer aside from the fact that it was still thrashing about furiously. The waves still thrashed violently, but they hadn’t crept closer. Yet something else caught her attention. Far in the distance, faint clouds loomed, darker than the rest of the storm.
Fog.
Something was clearly wrong.
A chill slithered down Circe’s spine. Cold sweat ran through her system as she froze in place, her breathing slowing down and almost stopping; engaged with anxiety. She didn’t have the courage in her to move an inch away from the window until a sudden flash of lightning attempted to strike near the wall, catching her by surprise and completely falling over.
That was enough to remind the witch how to manually breathe, filled with fear she desperately wanted to stand up again up till she felt something shake. She brought a hand near her face, inspecting it closely and yes it was still shaking but the even so sensation remained. It was deeper. Stronger.
The ground itself was quaking.
The unforgiving force of nature didn’t even give the woman a chance to quickly realize what was happening. Within a heartbeat, the room began to violently and aggressively shake. Circe was looking around as she watched everything vibrate fiercely; candles, books, and potions fell off from its place.
The cauldron!
The woman quickly stood up from the shaking floor as she ran over the still simmering concocting pot to try and save it from tipping over. The weather only got worse, the thunder roared louder than ever, the winds blew open the window, and the screaming of a series of lightning strikes were evident.
Then something far worse.
Screaming.
A high-pitched cry echoed through the halls, followed by another. Then another.
And another.
And another.
“Stay calm! I’m coming! I’m coming!” Circe’s eyes were wide with panic, but adrenaline overpowered the terror gripping her chest, bolting toward her nymphs, racing against the storm and earthquake itself.
–
“I’m coming! Ody, wait!” The voice was light—effortless, untouched by urgency. A sing-song melody that drifted through the golden air.
Calypso laughed as she ran, her bare feet barely sinking into the warm sand. Up ahead, Odysseus didn’t stop, didn’t slow. He moved with steady purpose, his back slick with sweat as he carried a bundle of thick coconut logs across his shoulders. The weight would have crushed a lesser man, but he bore it without complaint.
She liked that about him. Rugged as the wood he carried.
The Goddess finally caught up, falling into step beside him, the sun painting them both in honeyed light. She had her hands clasped behind her back as she put on a smile on her face, happy that Odysseus seemed to be in a more ‘tolerable mood’ than he usually should be.
Calypso didn’t break her gaze at the man at all but it was starting to make the other uncomfortable; the disdain was clearly visible in his expression and he wished that the Goddess could take the hint but even so he tried to find the willpower to tell her himself.
“Stop staring…”
“Oh, but I like how you look right now! You look so…” The woman increased her walking speed so that she could be in front of the man, taking in the sight of him and reinforcing it into her memory. She held her chin with her hand as she ran through her head how to properly describe him before it clicked.
“Incredibly sexy.”
Odysseus stopped in his tracks, feeling his stomach churn in disgust as he gave her a scowled look. He was already holding the weight of multiple logs behind his back now he had to hold in his breakfast too. Calypso took notice of his reaction and finally stopped walking, the smile on her face faded at the realization.
They were a couple of meters distanced away from each other. The goddess was hidden underneath the shade the trees that surrounded them had given to her. Odysseus’ scowl never left as his skin stood and was kissed by the sun’s rays.
The atmosphere between them turned awkward, eerie. They both stopped walking; the distance between them, the way the sunlight framed Odysseus while she remained in the shade—it all reinforced how stark and unreciprocated their feelings were towards one another.
Calypso shifted her stance, fingers fidgeting, eyes darting from one thing to another, anywhere but him.
“...Are these one of those times where I should apologize…?” The words came out awkwardly, as if she wasn’t sure what they meant. The Goddess spoke out in hesitance, putting her head down slightly as she was pressing down under the man’s never-breaking scowl. That was enough to convince her that she had to apologize.
Yes, that has to be it.
“S-sorry.” That word felt strange, like she had something bitter on her tongue and her taste buds were telling her to wipe it off.
Odysseus stared at her with an unimpressed look for a while before finally letting out a heavy sigh and continued to walk towards his destination, walking past Calypso.
She let out a sigh of relief, placing her hand atop of her chest. She was learning when and how to apologize. She was learning. That was what mattered to her.
There. That should do it.
The mortal looked straight ahead with a stoic look etched on his face, going full speed. His pace didn’t tether behind him at all as he was filled with the drive and determination to complete whatever task he had to himself to complete.
Calypso could only follow behind, silently admiring him and simultaneously answering her own curious questions that should’ve been responded by the man himself. The Goddess had noticed that he kept coming back to the clearing he made– what was once sprouted with trees were now cut down and turned into planks. The wood stood still and kept at the side, atop the sun-glowed grass.
The nymph Goddess was near the pre-occupied man yet she still put some distance between them. She realized that Odysseus was more likely to utter a word to her unless she was at arm's length with him and that was the painful truth to her. Even so, at least she had someone to have ‘conversations’ with beside a coconut she had drawn a face from years ago.
The man brought down the logs he carried onto the pile of untrimmed wood settled close to the planks he previously made. He took a step back to admire the area he had created– all this time he had been gathering as much wood as he could and he was proud and content with the dimensions, area, and the positioning of the wooden pillars he chose to support as a foundation for what he was making.
Odysseus puts both of his hands on his waist before taking a deep breath in and letting out a satisfied exhale. His eyes glanced behind to look at Calypso. Of course, she had already been staring at him the entire time, she blinked and yet it felt like she was making glitters with her batted eyelashes. The man clenched his jaw and pretended he didn’t just see that.
He studied the ground beneath his feet. His eyes were keen on analyzing the soil-covered grass but his mind was thinking of something else. Odysseus realized that Calypso had taken the sign and figured out that he didn’t want to be close with her– even stopping at asking him questions about what he was trying to create.
With a click of his tongue and followed by a grumpy scoff, he pulled out a blueprint drawn on a banana leaf hidden from underneath his collar and brought it out for her. Calypso was confused. Her eyes flickered multiple times between Odysseus and the blueprint presented to her before finally taking the piece away from his hands.
“What’s this?”
The nymph Goddess unfolded the leaf, showing a drawn and detailed image of a building. It was of average size with its height, width and dimensions written at the side but nevertheless the design looked grand. She brushed her fingertips against the makeshift paper, lightly wiping a bit of the char-infused ink before it finally clicked what the building was.
Her mouth left out a soft gasp, eyes widening in surprise. “A house?”
Odysseus only hummed in response, wiping away the sweat from his face using his own clothes. In the moment, so many more questions emerged from the nymph's mind: Why? Why would he go through all this trouble to build a house here, on an island he longed to escape? Did this mean he had finally accepted his fate? That he had decided to stay with her?
Calypso's heart fluttered with cautious hope, but at the same time, doubt gnawed at her. She knew Odysseus too well—his heart belonged to the open sea, to Ithaca, to the wife he left behind. And yet, here he was, creating something permanent.
She traced the lines of the blueprint with delicate fingers once more. “You’re… building a home.” Her voice was softer now, almost afraid to shatter the fragile moment between them.
Odysseus scoffed under his breath. “A shelter,” he corrected, eyes fixed on the pile of wood before him. “Nothing more.”
But Calypso wasn’t convinced. “You say shelter but we already have one just a few walks from here.” she pointed out, her voice laced with curiosity. “Why put so much effort?”
Odysseus let out a sigh, his shoulders tensing. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned away, grabbing another log as if the physical task could shield him from the weight of her question. Finally, after a moment, he muttered, “Because I need something to do.”
Calypso’s lips parted slightly, taken aback. He needed something to do. That was all.
For all his brilliance, his strength, and his cunning, Odysseus was still human. A man trapped on an island he never wished to be on. And now, after years of resisting, of longing for home, he had settled into the reality of his existence—not out of acceptance, but out of necessity.
Calypso clutched the banana leaf blueprint a little tighter, her chest aching with the bittersweet truth. He was building something, but not for her. Not for them. He was building to keep himself sane.
Calypso’s brow knitted as she struggled to make sense of the situation—her feelings toward Odysseus and how he felt about her. But no answer came to mind, and her jaw clenched in frustration.
They were surrounded by golden sunlight, its warmth blending with the rich hues of blue, lilac, and dandelion from the flowers blooming across the lush terrain. And yet, the nymph felt she would find more comfort in the harsh, prickly stone cave she had sought shelter in since first arriving on Ogygia.
Calypso folded the leaf back to its original position and let it fall to the ground, willing herself to unclench her jaw. Odysseus rarely spoke to her for this long. She chose not to pry or question his reasons. “Thank you,” she muttered, feeling it was the least she could do.
Odysseus stopped and looked at her with a smile. “You’re welcome, Calypso.” Her heart fluttered at the way her name rolled off his lips. The sound lingered in her mind, pleasant and intoxicating. The ground beneath her seemed to hum with joy. Was the island echoing her happiness? She was filled with hope. Is this it? Is Odysseus finally hers?
Her gaze drifted to his back, where his clothes stuck to his sweat-drenched skin. She had been aching to wipe it off herself since the start—an excuse to touch him, like when he first washed ashore on her island. His smile felt like an invitation, a sign that he wanted her near as much as she yearned for him.
She closed the gap between them.
The moment her hand met his skin, Odysseus flinched. His expression twisted into discomfort, his eyes wide with confusion.
“What are you doing?” His voice was sharp, laced with unease.
Calypso blinked. “I— I was just…”
She stepped closer, reaching out once more, desperate to reclaim the warmth of his smile. But before she could touch him again, he recoiled, stepping back so abruptly that his shoulder hit hers, sending Calypso to fall to the ground.
The ground.
It vibrated beneath her, a low rumble that only grew stronger. Tremors spread through her body as she looked up at Odysseus, who now stood over her, hand outstretched.
“Calypso, what are you doing? Get up.”
What's happening?
Her breath hitched. She tried to rise, but her limbs felt disconnected from reality. When she reached for him, he pulled away.
“Get up.”
The words echoed, but she was already standing. Or was she? She didn't understand. The pillars were gone. The wood Odysseus had gathered, the sun, the flowers— all swallowed by darkness.
“Get up.”
She tried to scream, but it felt like drowning. Odysseus’ grip tightened around her shoulders, pressing her down as she cowered beneath him.
“Get up!”
Calypso jolted upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes desperately studied the room, checking if she was still in her dream or in reality.
The nymph still held her breath when she didn't see the cold and humid sensation of the cave. Then she remembered that Odysseus did, in fact, build them a shelter. Calypso let out a sigh, throwing her head over her shoulders as she sat up with her back crouched.
She tried to wipe her eyes to clear her vision from abruptly being awoken but she felt something small along her waterline. Upon closer inspection, it was just the remnants of her tears from the night before.
The joy in her eyes wilted, her face scrunching up at the scene before she pulled her legs together and covered her face against her knees, trying to comfort herself.
Calypso had been alone on the island for months now. Ever since Odysseus had left their ho– Their shelter in her care the nymph had struggled with trying to keep it intact. With the storm recurring every now and then recently it had been revealing all the faults and mistakes upon creating the building.
Some areas of the wall in the bedroom were cracked, there was water seeping out and dripping from the ceiling and not to mention the door’s hinge had almost come loose. The nymph can't recall what exactly happened when the man was building her the house. Or, if it was actually for her in the first place.
Odysseus had told her that he was the one to build his palace back in Ithaca. His voice was proud and even tried to cover up his confidence by humbly following his praises with, “Oh, but it's no matter since it'll be held high even after generations!”
Calypso couldn't tell if she should be happy or be upset as she looked at the state of her home. Was he really just passing the time? She thought, maybe it would've been better to go back to her old cave before succumbing back into sleep, her eyes dripping with tears once more.
Unbeknownst to the nymph Goddess, she had slept through a furious storm. The remaining vibrations from the earthquake it created was enough to be synced with her dream and woke her up.
The air inside the shelter felt heavier, thick with damp wood and something else; something wrong. The walls, already cracked and weakened, seemed to breathe in the silence. Shadows stretched longer than they should have.
Calypso hugged her knees tighter, her mind swimming between the dream and the present. She wished Odysseus stayed. To fix the house and to fix her. She had spent centuries in solitude but the sounds of her silent tears were the only thing to keep her company now.
Outside, the wind howled like a warning. And far beyond the misted horizon, hidden by thick fog, a foreign island drifted dangerously close.
Aeaea had moved.