Archive of Our Own

I could have been a great equestrian, I think, if I hadn’t decided to be a writer. 

It’s funny how life turns out. My parents died when I was five in a freak accident on a plane, and ever since I have been under the care of my very, incredibly wealthy uncle. 

Uncle, erm, Rich, never saw to my growth or my grief, either way. By no fault of his, mind you. He - we - lived in a mansion on the Upper East Side, working as financial advisor to a large company. He was unmarried for his entire life, dedicating his time to providing for the two of us. 

Uncle Rich couldn’t spend time with me, but he made enough money to send me for extracurricular activities. Multiple extracurricular activities. By the time I reached my eleventh birthday I was a grade-seven pianist, champion of my school’s swim team and owned more than a thousand books. 

It was around this time I discovered equestrianism. My uncle owned a ranch in the countryside, and sometimes we would go there to get away from the city. There was a large riding arena just next to the stables behind the ranch. I never took an interest in horse riding, but when my uncle hired a coach to teach me the basics I just had to give it a shot. 

And when I first hoisted myself onto the saddle and felt the wind in my hair as my Appaloosa galloped around the area, I knew that this was my calling. 

I focussed on dressage, by my coach’s insistence, but sometimes I would sneak around the back of the ranch with my dear Rosy to the open pastures, riding as fast as I could over the country horizon. 

Even now, as I’m greying out, I can’t forget how once the Texan wind would ripple against my face as I felt freer than I ever could in a mansion in the greatest city in the world. 

When I was fourteen, my uncle’s company went bankrupt. 

Uncle Rich saw it coming, really. He had been preparing for this day; opening an emergency fund, selling away antiques in our mansion, even cutting down on my dressage lessons. I didn’t notice at first - my uncle, bless his heart, simply was a busy adult man doing busy adult work. But I can never forget the resolve in his eyes the day he came back from work, announcing “The company’s shutting down. We’ve gone bankrupt.”

All at once, my rather lavish life was replaced with a humble one as my uncle sold the mansion for a good deposit and moved into an apartment in Manhattan. 

“We have enough, but we can’t live like we have more,” is what he told me as we watched the moving trucks tow our furniture into the apartment complex. 

I never really minded. Rich or not, I was content with my horses and my books. And my piano. But hey, I can settle for a keyboard. 

My uncle found a job at a candy shop. We lived low-key, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves. That was one trait we both shared - we liked peace. We don’t like drama and gossip. 

I guess he was embarrassed he lost his job and his salary. I didn’t. I did miss the comfort of being able to sleep without worrying about our health insurance or leftover funds, though. 

Yet I wouldn’t have traded it for the world. It was during these years I grew closer to my uncle. The poor soul had enough on his plate, but he would always return home with a smile as he told me about the new and outrageous flavours candies he came up with over some Chinese takeout. I would laugh and tell him about my own day at school, about the annoying kid who always stole my pen and the attractive boy in history that had the worst pickup lines. Sometimes he would sneak a bag of sweets back for me, and we would have them while watching Singin’ in the Rain until we fell asleep on the couch. 

I could feel the stress getting to him though. Everyday I could count new wrinkles on his forehead, new strains of grey in his otherwise brunette hair. 

When I was seventeen, my uncle was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. 

Tragic, really. My uncle had worked his ass off his entire life, lost his job and his wealth, rebuilt his life for his niece without so much as a complaint, and now has to meet his end in an exhausting fight against cancer. But if anything, Uncle Rich is resilient as he is humble. 

I can still recall the defeat in his eyes as he took my hand and begged me to drop out of school to take care of him. 

Our insurance couldn’t cover the chemotherapy. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it - the doctor said he had enough time to go through a few rounds of treatment to ease his pain. Yet I had to work multiple jobs to cover the cost. I knew it took so much for my uncle to ask that of me, I knew how important education was to him, but seeing him in pain was too much. I couldn’t bear to see him under stress, too. 

I dropped out in my senior year of high school. Six months before I was supposed to graduate. 

Whatever happened next is kind of a blur. I took up jobs, as I had said, and worked to care for my uncle who has only ever cared for me. Day by day my uncle’s condition worsened, and the doctor’s prediction became less true. By week four he couldn’t walk on his own. By week six he was hospitalised. By week eight he had to stop his chemotherapy. It wasn’t working. 

By week ten, Richard Benjamin Jackson passed away. 

“I love you. I’m sorry,” was the last thing he said, as his gripped on my hands eased, eyes brimming with tears and regret and love. 

The second last thing he said was a reminder. “You tasted the world of both the rich and the poor. I leave you with enough. Don’t live like you have more. Remember.”  

In his will, my uncle had left me with the ranch, and about fifty-thousand in savings. 

I sold the ranch. 

Tough decision? Not really. I had always thought my uncle sold it off when we first moved out. I never knew he kept it. Then again - it was family-owned. Built by my great-grandfather, belonged to my grandfather, passed on to my uncle. Then to me. 

Truthfully I didn’t want to be reminded of what my life used to be, and what it could have been. I loved my stables, and my dearest Rosy, but they were too much for me to handle. I found a young girl, as interested in equestrianism as I had been once, and turned Rosy into her care. At least she’s in better hands now. 

Fifty-thousand was enough, but only for so long. The money I made from the ranch helped, but in the New York City economic climate, with the ever-increasing rent, I had to find my footing sooner than later. But my uncle was right. It was enough. 

I didn’t need to fear eviction, or having to worry about the next meal, but I still worked. It was enough to support one person, probably two if I was a bit more miserly. I took over my uncle’s job at the candy shop, usually taking the closing shift, and in the day I found freelance work in tutoring. I was a pianist, so I taught music to children eager to learn but couldn’t afford to pay for classes taught by professionals. 

It was during this time when I picked up a book again. 

I stopped reading a long time ago, too focussed to do anything other than work and study and work and study. I lost the joy in books, in the castles built by words. I had actually sold most of my books when we moved, making some money off them for myself, but I kept a few. For old time’s sake, I guess. 

I remember the day I came home from work, in the wee hours of the morning, tired and spent from being up all night. I dropped my bag down onto the dining table, slumping heavily into the nearest chair I could find, my eyes heavy. 

I stayed like this for a good few minutes, about to doze off when I saw it. Glistening, like it was tempting me to take it. There, stacked in the furthest corner of the wooden cabinet next to the table, was a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude. 

My curiosity piqued. I hadn’t seen this book ever since we moved out, but I didn’t sell it - it was one of my favourite books I read when I was younger, a copy gifted to me by my uncle on my thirteenth birthday. 

I was tired, but I got up anyway, making my way to the cabinet. Sure enough, the familiar cover greeted me, with the title scrawled out in calligraphy font. Just below was the author - Gabriel García Márquez - printed in bold letters. 

I picked it up. 

To my surprise, there were more books stacked underneath. The Iliad was just below, its corners leafed in, its pages yellow. 

I dragged a chair over and sat in front of this stack of books. 

Cien Años de Soledad. Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. The Picture of Dorian Gray. War and Peace. Crime and Punishment. The Secret History. 

The only thing I could think of is how on earth did I read this when I was a teenager. 

I set the books down, and picked up the first one I saw that day. 

And for the first time in years, I cracked open a book and read. 

Three months later, I found myself seated at my study, with a pen and notebook in front of me, the page empty but not my mind. It first came to me as a scene, like a movie in my head; then the words came out, rearranging and stringing itself into sentences and paragraphs. It was exhilarating. 

So in the dead of the night, on my only leave of the month, I brought the pen to my mind. 

And I 

Began 

To 

Write. 

—

The sun was more or less set on the horizon as I took a walk with the afterglow. The water gently sloshed about, small currents rising and falling against the soft sand. My feet dug into it. 

The year is 1992. 

It has been six years since my uncle passed and I was left alone in this world. After working tirelessly throughout these years, I decided to take a vacation to Montauk, Long Island. 

Okay, it wasn't a vacation. I quit my job at the candy shop and moved into this cabin by the sea. It was quiet, which was just what I needed, if I wanted to see this through. 

I had begun writing, working on my first novel. It was rough, finding time to write in the midst of the routine monotony of my life, so I took a risk. It could work out, it could not, but how would I know unless I tried? 

So I tried. 

The sound of the sea was calming, a gentle lullaby as I walked with my thoughts along the vast shoreline. It was a particularly hard day: I was stumped on this scene and I didn’t know how to continue. So I did what I always do when I’m stuck. 

The waters were inviting, and I wanted to take a dip, but I didn’t want to trot back to the cabin freezing in the night, so I stopped myself from doing so. 

My story was about the Greek myths. I loved them as a kid, and I still do, now as I’m turning twenty-four in a week. In particular, my story was that of the gods, of these escapades with mortal lovers and enemies alike. But unlike the other retellings, I chose to focus on the people, the mortals whose lives were changed for better and worse by the gods for the crime of being too beautiful or powerful. I wrote about Ganymede from the perspective of his sheep (surprised?), the fear and confusion they must have felt to see their shepherd swept away by an eagle and ascended to the heavens. I wrote about Hyacinthus from his point-of-view, his pain as he was caught between the jealousy of the gods which resulted in his death. I wrote about Medusa from the role of Gorgon sisters, the poor girl, raped for her beauty and killed for her protection in appearance granted by Athena. 

You think I was tired? As if. 

But there was more to it. I didn’t just love the Greek myths as if they were tales. Sometimes in the real world…

I glance over at the sea again. This time, a figure caught my eye, standing a distance from me, holding something like a staff in his hand. 

“You seem lost in thought,” the figure called out. So this mysterious man saw me, too. 

“The sea provides some incentive to think, doesn’t it?” I cupped my hands over my mouth and shouted a reply. 

“You are wise.” Then he made his way to me. 

As he approached, I could see the lingering smile on his face, crinkles around his eyes. This man sported a short stubble and short, dark blue hair. He had eyes the colour of the sea. 

But his appearance wasn’t the only thing I noticed. 

Because next to him, in his hand, with three sharp ends and glistening in the dying light, was a golden trident. 

I stared at it. 

“My name is Paul.” he stopped in front of me and extended his other hand. He seemed to have noticed my staring, because his eyes flickered between mine and his trident. 

Sea green eyes. Golden trident. 

“You are Poseidon,” I said. 

“And you can see.” He took my hands. “What is your name, my lady?”

I looked back at him. 

Oh, he is handsome. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Was it a question? I seem to recall a statement.” He winked. My god, he winked. 

“Forgive a woman for not wanting to sound crazy. You. The god of the sea. The Greek god. The Poseidon. Yes?” 

“I cannot confirm nor deny, Ms Jackson.”

“Ah. So it is you, then.”

His eyes twinkled. If I look hard enough I can see the storm in them. 

“So, what are you doing out here, then?” He pressed his trident into the sand, where it stood as he let go of my hands and brushed down his Hawaiian shirt. Only a sea god can pull a Hawaiian shirt off without looking like a certified surfer dude. 

I contemplated his question. Then I realised he probably knows what I’m thinking, so I decided to tell the truth. 

“I’m writing a novel, and I’m stuck on a scene, so I decided to take a walk to clear my head.” 

“Is that so?” his voice wasn’t drowned out by the sea, unlike mine. No, it was as if it was carried by the waves. 

“But you know that already, don’t you?” I countered, my arms crossed in front of me. “You might be a god, but I don’t appreciate anyone reading my mind.”

“No, no,” he laughed. It was a warm sound; mellow and pleasant. His voice reminded me of a cello. 

“You don’t seem fazed by this.” Ah. Deflecting, I see. 

“I’ve grown used to it.”

And it’s true. Since I was young I realised something was off about this world. Monster-like creatures roaming in our streets in a half-hearted disguise of modern clothes that were obviously not tailored to them. Ancient weapons reminiscent of the Middle Ages. Giants walking around in Times Square. I never understood why the other people weren’t freaking out about these… creatures. Until I realised they couldn’t see them. 

I never understood what I was seeing, really. I remember on a train ride where a cyclops sat next to me. I just thought it was someone with a disability, born different from the others, until a fucking centaur boarded the train. No one batted an eye. 

So the creatures of the Greek mythos are real. Surely the gods are, too. 

Poseidon hummed, as if in understanding. I frowned. “Don’t read my mind.” 

“I’m not, I promise you. Just, ah, drawing some conclusions.”

“Well, then.” I smiled this time. “What conclusions do you draw?” 

“That an incredibly intelligent and beautiful lady can see through the Mist and recognise me without going insane.” 

I considered this. 

I remember the tales. Poseidon had, to put it crudely, a big appetite when it came to pursuing mortal lovers. Shameless, really. I guess it was common back-

Wait. 

Is he flirting with me?

“You’re a god.” I pointed accusingly at him. “A god with the sexual libido of, well, a Greek god. If you’re looking to fuck me, I suggest you look somewhere else.” 

He laughed louder this time, thunderous. Beside us, the sea receded. 

“Humour me, then.” 

“Oh?” I couldn’t help it. This man - god - was so alluring. 

I turned and started making my way back to the cabin.

I looked over my shoulder, and saw that man standing there still. 

“Well then, Paul, are you coming or what?”

—

I stayed at that cabin for the entire summer. 

—

We didn’t have sex that first time, actually. We walked back to my cabin, side by side as I bombarded him with questions about his world. That sneaky bastard recalled his tales as if he studied them and not lived them. 

He asked me about my life too. I told him about the stories I was writing - partly the reason why I wanted to extract as much information out of him as I could - and the life I lived up to that point. 

I didn’t know why I opened up to him so fast. Then again, he is a literal immortal being. 

Poseidon - sorry, Paul - showed me some tricks with the sea at my behest. He curled his fingers, and the water rose, like he was pulling it out of the sea. It was mind-bending. 

When we arrived at my cabin, I was telling him about my childhood as I ushered him inside. 

“I do like horses,” he said wistfully. 

“Right. Because you created them.”

“Well, yes - but they are magnificent creatures, are they not?” 

I agreed.

Then I launched into a rant about equestrianism. 

It’s been a while since I thought of that, but I can only recall my old passion fondly. I do miss the feeling of freedom as I rode Rosy through the green pastures back at the stables, the adrenaline pumping through my veins when I was a twelve-year-old and freer than anyone in the world. 

I was halfway into my rant about equipment maintenance when I caught myself. 

“Sorry. It’s probably useless infodumping about horses to the guy who created them.” I blushed a deep red, embarrassment caught in my throat. But he only smiled.

He took my hands. His palms were warm. 

“Never stop for anyone. Ever.”

I looked up to meet his eyes. 

“You are amazing. Don’t let any man tell you otherwise.” 

The corners of his lips curled upwards. 

I stood there, stunned into silence. What are you doing to me, I thought (demanded) in my head. This man who defied all laws of the universe, who is more powerful than everyone and everything on this earth combined, telling me that I’m amazing? 

“You’re a smooth talker, aren’t you,” I gently chided, but no malice in my voice. His eyes did that crinkling thing again. 

“Well, one would associate ‘ water’ with ‘smooth’.”

I let out a snort. 

“How about this.” He let my hands down and sat on the couch. He gestured to the piano against the wall opposite him. “Let me hear you play something. Smooth.” 

“Thought music was Apollo’s domain.”

“Anyone can appreciate good music. And I do like musicians. If you heard that, Apollo, no you didn’t.” He directed that last bit upwards.

I laughed and sat at the piano. 

The keys were a bit out of tune, but I figured it didn’t really matter. My fingers found the notes, and I began to play. 

Satie’s Gnossienne No. 1 filled the room as I recalled the melody. Erik Satie was one of my favourite composers, and I especially loved this piece. Deceptively simple, yet elegant and emotional, reminiscent of classical 20th-century minimalism. I loved the experimental mode of this piece - the free time, the dissonant chords - and how surreal it felt to play it. 

The nature of the piece allowed for various different interpretations every time. There were no two instances where I played it exactly the same way. This time, I decided to go slow, taking my time to let the notes ring, to emphasise the acciaccaturas (My teacher would absolutely murder me if she heard me say that).

I pressed the last chord, letting it echo through the cabin before I smiled and turned to Paul. 

His eyes were closed, a small smile resting easily on his face. He opened his eyes and regarded me. 

“That was beautiful.”

You are beautiful, I thought. 

I got up and went over to stand in front of him. 

He looked up at me with those stupidly pretty eyes, and took my hands. What’s with this guy and taking my hands, honestly. 

“Sally.”

“Paul.”

He hummed. “But that’s not my name, isn’t it?”

“You did say to humour you.”

“Gods, you are so bright.” He pulled me down and kissed me. 

If you asked me what kissing a Greek god is like, I wouldn’t be able to describe it to you. I think I melted a bit when I felt his lips on mine. Poseidon tasted like sea salt and caramel. 

Yeah, I definitely melted a bit. 

He broke away and leaned his forehead on mine. 

“You are bright, like the sun. You shine,” he murmured against my lips. 

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t say much, or do anything other than dragging him to me again, like as if the sea had been calling to me. 

—

It’s kind of weird hooking up with a god. 

I mean, obviously, the sex was goddamn amazing , but I guess the whole notion about banging this immortal, four thousand year old being made me hesitant at first. 

It didn’t matter in the end. A lot of banging had been done. 

—

Towards the end of the summer, I was brought out to the beach. 

This time, while I stood on the shore, Pa- Poseidon stood out on the water. It was a bit unnerving to see someone quite literally stand on water, but if you’re the god of the sea, I guess it’s as normal as standing on hard ground. 

I had no idea what this guy was doing. 

“You want me to walk to you or something? Like a Peter-and-Jesus situation?” I said, the waves carrying my voice. He laughed. 

“I certainly am not opposed to it, but I really wanted to show you something.” I tilted my head to the side. 

“What, pray-tell, are you dying to show me?” 

He grinned - at least, from what I could tell from all the way over here - and raised his trident. 

“Watch.” And the sea began to tremble. 

It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. The waves turned , and rose until it reached a height, then melting away to form…

Ah.

There, in front of the Greek god of the sea, was a herd of water horses. 

I gasped.

All but two melted away back into the sea, as Poseidon made his way back to me, the two following behind. I watched in awe as the water solidified and turned in skin, the water horses morphing into real ones. 

Poseidon stood before me, the two horses obediently waiting beside him. Which, to my surprise, were oddly familiar. I narrowed my eyes, trying to recall when I’d seen… Rosy. My dear Appaloosa.  She neighed gratuitously, to my delight and of my dear Poseidon. He extended his hand. 

“Shall we?”

I grinned and took his open palm. 

—

We rode against the dark canvas of the night, stars and the sea beneath glistening in the moonlight. 

For the first time in years, I felt free. 

—

Poseidon would lay on our bed, recounting tales of his and of the Greeks as I wrote furiously on the small table next to him. 

“Achilles was great, Aristos Achaion. That’s A-R-I-S-T-O-S, space A-C-H-A-I-O-N. That’s what they called him, anyway,” he said lazily. 

I scribbled that down. 

“Is it true that his mother dipped him in the river Styx by the ankle? That’s a pretty popular interpretation now,” I asked, still staring intently at my notebook. Poseidon chuckled. 

“That's what that guy, what’s his name…ah, Statius,” I glanced over, seeing him crinkle his nose in disgust. “Wrote. Never liked him. He had a flair for exaggeration.”

I raised an eyebrow.  

“So…that’s not true?”

“Nah, Achilles was just a really powerful demigod. ‘Is mother’s a Titan. You can’t get any more powerful than that.” 

“Answer this.” I put my pen down. Poseidon turned his body to face me, “Yes?”

“Tell me about demigods.”

“Hmm. That’s a first,” He hummed as he watched me get up from my desk. 

“Am I- Are you-”

“Capable of having demigod children? Yes. Even now,” he said as he pressed a kiss to my forehead and welcomed me into his arms. 

Wait. What? 

I pulled away from Poseidon. 

“Wait. You’re telling me this? Now? After we fucked at least ten times?” I half-yelled, slapping his arms away. He had the decency to look embarrassed. 

“I didn’t think it would be a cause for concern. Unless…”

“No, I’m not, and you better be fucking grateful.”

He decided to avoid my stern gaze. 

I’m not pregnant, thank the gods. I had enough to support one person, and that’s myself. I’d seen how caring for two people broke my uncle. I can’t do that. 

Even if I could…I knew the stories of demigods, gifted with superhuman powers from their godly parentage but cursed with the life-threatening quests and terrible monsters that sought to destroy their very existence. 

What kind of mother would I be to subject my child to such fate?

“There are facilities to support and shelter demigods from monsters, if that’s what you’re wondering. Camp Half-Blood is one. Actually, it’s right here in Long Island.” Poseidon explained. 

“Where?! ” 

“Uh. I can give you the address if you want…”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I’m not pregnant, but I’m not pregnant yet. If anything happens…

Poseidon seemed to have noticed my worry, because he scooted over and held me against his body. This time, I let him. “You will be fine. I’ll make sure of that. No harm will come to you, and if we do have a child, no harm will come to them also. At least, as much as I can help it.”

I frowned. “‘As much as I can help it’ ? I don’t understand.” 

He sighed. “There are rules, ancient laws that we gods cannot break. Far older than us. No matter how powerful we are, we cannot disregard them. The most I can do is bend them just a bit. 

“There’s one more thing I’ve neglected to tell you. If you do end up pregnant, the child will be in more conceivable danger than other demigods. I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” he looked away again. 

“Just tell me. I’m not glass, I won’t break.” I’m not weak. I can handle whatever he tells me. Right?

“In truth, we - as in, my brothers, Zeus, Hades, and I, the Big Three, had come to a conclusion. World War II started because our children fought against each other. We realised that the heroes we sire are too powerful.

So we made a pact. No more children of the Big Three. Demigod kids are off-limits. Immortal kids? sure. Not with mortals. We could still find mortal lovers, though. Just - no more demigods.”

I was stunned. 

“So what you’re saying is…”

“If you do end up with child, I would have broken an oath.”

I stared at him. 

Then-

“Get out.”

“Sorry?” he said, confused. His eyebrows scrunched together, no doubt trying to piece together my words. 

“You heard me. Get. Out.”

“Sally, I-”

“No. You’ve done enough,” I said coldly. 

I couldn’t describe the ire bubbling in me. How dare he, make me fall in love with him and neglect to tell me this “minor” detail. What if I end up pregnant? Whatever will happen to me? To my child? 

And he said that they cannot bend the ancient laws. No doubt this means he cannot care for my kid the way a father does. No. He will be absent. And the monsters… 

I will not put my hypothetical child’s life in danger of these sick creatures. 

“Get. The fuck. Out. I don’t want to see you. Go away. Go!” I almost screamed at him, my eyes burning with white-hot tears. I am standing now, pointing angrily at the door. Poseidon stood back from me warily, hands held up like in slow caution. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this. I’m sure we can find loopholes and work our way around-”

“ LOOPHOLES? ” I yelled this time, shutting that fucker right up. 

I closed my eyes. It’s useless getting angry at a god. They’re used to it, at the very least they’ll feel insulted and smite the shit out of me. 

“I am not your loophole. Your child is not your loophole. I am not your plaything, you can indulge in for a few months and throw me away to fend myself against monsters as you forget my existence for the rest of your eternity,” I spat bitterly. “I am not with child, you better thank every single one of your deity friends or whatever. Because if I were, you’d be so dead, being immortal won’t stop me from murdering you.”

“Sally-”

“Get out. I don’t have to repeat myself.”

Poseidon took one last look at me, defeat written all over his face, before slipping out of the door and back to his ocean. 

—

Fuck Poseidon. I don’t need him. He can fuck off right back to the sea. I do not need him, no matter how attractive he is or how big h- how nice he treats me. That smooth-talking asshole doesn’t deserve my affection. 

I’m not glass. I won’t break. And I certainly won’t miss him. 

—

I was at the bottom of the ocean. 

Standing on the seabed, I glanced around. I could only see blue, the occasional fish of some variety swimming past me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. But somehow I wasn’t dying. It was as if the water was air, and I had lived here all my life. 

Just ahead of me stood a figure. 

I squinted my eyes. It was kind of hard to see, but I could make out the silhouette of a… woman? 

I walked (waded?) over to her. 

She had long, flowing black hair adorned with small seashells and crab claws, and wore a silver chiton which fell to her knees. Her eyes were a hue of blue that blended into silver, like the surface of the ocean in the moonlight. 

Damn, I thought. Am I gay? 

“You are in danger,” is the first thing she said to me. To which I replied, “who are you?”

“But you know who I am.”

I pondered on this. I didn’t know many people; I had always been a loner. I had a few friends, sure, but none I was really close to. But seashells and crab claws? 

This is a goddess. 

“You are Amphitrite.”

“And you are bright. I see why my husband has taken an interest in you.” I blushed. 

I knew Poseidon had a wife. Amphitrite, queen of the sea and goddess of saltwater. It didn’t make it any easier, though. 

“Don’t you have a wife?” I asked, still not quite believing what was happening. 

“You don’t need to worry. It’s more like…an open relationship.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s not the jealous type anyway. Amphitrite just likes to do her own thing and not care about other people. Kind of like you,” he grinned down at me. 

I snapped out of my reminiscence. 

Looking back at those really pretty eyes, I wondered if this goddess would turn me into a fish for banging her husband. 

“Sorry, hold up. You said I’m in danger? From what? Certainly not from…” I swallowed. “You, right?” I wiped the sweat on my hands off my jeans, if I even could sweat underwater. 

She chuckled. “I’m not jealous, Sally. The sea doesn’t like to be restrained, did my husband not say this? He likes saying that a lot.” 

I shook my head. 

“Is your name ‘Salacia’, anyway? That’ll be a nice touch…” she mused. 

“Sorry, uh, your highness? Your goddessness…ness? Could we go back to the part where I’m in danger?” I think the awkward bow was a bit too much, because Amphitrite was staring at me incredulously. 

But then a soft smile crept up to her face and toyed on her lips. “But you know, don’t you?”

“I…”

“It’s up to you now. But know this, you will have the protection of the sea.” The floor trembled, and the water around her started to fold inwards. “Farewell, Sally Jackson! It was nice meeting you!”

Then I woke up. 

Instinctively, my hand travelled to rest upon my stomach. I looked down, frowning in confusion at my hand. 

Then, it clicked. 

I got out of bed and ran out of the cabin to the sea. It was dark out, and completely deserted. The sand was still soft beneath me, tickling my feet and leaving tracks behind me as I ran. 

“Poseidon! Poseidon! You great fuck come out here!”

Soon enough, the god of the sea materialised in front of me. He looked exactly the same, but with a look of concern scrawled all over his face. “Sally? Wha-”

“I’m pregnant.”

Poseidon, in all his glory, blinked. 

“You’re pregnant,” he echoed. His eyes travelled to my belly, then snapped back up, widening as the realisation set in. 

“Oh my fucking gods, you’re pregnant.”  

Despite everything, I smiled softly. 

“My kid. Our kid.” He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me. 

For a while I could bask in his warmth against his bare torso, his strong arms pulling me closer to him. He still smelled the same, of sea salt and sweet chlorine. 

“What will we do?” I murmur against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to my head and pulled away, my hands still grasping his. 

“Come with me. We can hide you and the baby away from the other gods. They can’t reach my domain, even Zeus’ far sight has its limitations.”

I was at a loss for words. “I…”

If I heard him correctly, Poseidon was offering me a place in his kingdom. Immortality. I could live forever by his side. I don’t need to worry about anything anymore. It was that simple. 

To my surprise, the god of the sea knelt down before me. 

“Sally. I rarely grant this to mortals, but…for you, I will make you my immortal wife. I will build you a palace under the sea, and you can live in my kingdom. Say the word, and I will stop the tide for you.” 

He looked at me with pleading eyes. 

I considered this. 

What he’s offering me…it’s more than priceless. I could raise my child to be a god. I need not worry about having enough food on the table for two mouths to feed. I won’t suffer the wrath of Zeus and the other Olympians. My child wouldn’t be in danger of monsters. 

This, I realised, is the loophole. 

The pact only said that the Big Three couldn’t sire a mortal child. But if they were immortal…

I turned my head to the ocean. 

It was vast, its waves laid resting undisturbed, and the blue was radiant in the dark. Shining, as if it were calling me. This could be my home. Peace and calm forever. 

But when I looked back to Poseidon, I could only see the tiredness in his eyes. Constantly skirting around his brother, avoiding his power. Falling in love with mortals and not being able to do anything as they grow old and he didn’t. To become god was the loneliest achievement of them all. 

I thought about what my uncle said to me all those years ago, “You have enough, don’t live like you have more,” and I know what I must do. 

“Poseidon,” I said gently, “I have enough. I’m content with being just me. I don’t need to live like I have more.” 

“But you do!” he cried, squeezing my hands. “You have me. Amphitrite has taken a liking towards you. You have the protection of the sea. And if Zeus tries anything,” tears began cascading down his cheeks, “I will stand between the heavens and the earth to keep you safe. I will fight my brothers, I will bring war upon them if I must. But if you truly wish…hell, I will become mortal for you.”

I smiled sadly. I didn’t realise I was crying, too. 

“Never stop for anyone,” I whispered, shaking my head softly. Then again, louder: “You are a god. I am just human. We weren’t meant to be. We are worlds apart. If it is my fate to die by your brother’s hand, then so be it. But I can’t hide. I have to face this myself, and I will protect our child for as long as I can. I’m not glass. I won’t break.” 

He closed his eyes, pained as if battling a war in his heart. Then he got up and pressed his lips against mine. 

“Then you will be a queen amongst mortals,” he whispered. 

The sea never felt more lonely. 

—

“I’m still mad at you for lying to me, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

I smacked the back of his head. 

—

I left Montauk two days later. When I took one last look at the shoreline, I could see him in the distance.

I would never return again. 

—

“What is it like, being a goddess?” 

Amphitrite hummed sagely at my question, her hands ghosting over my stack of books. 

The year is still 1992, but fall came and went, and before I knew it winter coated the city with its blanket of snow and Christmas was just around the corner. 

I was vacuuming my house when the goddess decided to pay me a visit. It was exhausting, but at least I had an extendable handle so I didn’t need to bend down. My belly had swelled up by this time, now it was the size of a mango. 

She took one look at me and asked, “how far along?”

“Five months.”

She nodded carefully. 

We were in the living room, with me on the couch at her insistence - “Please sit or I turn that vacuum into a seahorse” - and she was inspecting my bookshelf. 

“Have you found out the sex?” 

“No.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

“No.”

“Have you started getting sore feet? I think walking would be harder around this time.” She flipped open One Hundred Days of Solitude and skimmed over the first page. 

“Artemis would know what to do. I could put in a word for you, if you want. Of course, I won’t tell her whose child it is,” she looked back at me, her eyes twinkling. 

“Tell me something. Why did you turn down my husband’s offer?”

I leaned my head backwards against the pillow. 

“I have enough.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Is that so?”

I didn’t answer. 

Amphitrite strolled up to me and leaned forward, our heads levelling as she scrutinised me. It was here where I could properly see her. Full lips, sharp nose and siren eyes, perfectly arranged. She was more sculpture than she was human. 

Then again, she wasn’t human. 

She sighed, like the weight of the world had just been lifted off her shoulders, and stood up straight again. 

“I have been alive for the past four? Five? Millennia. I have witnessed civilisations rise and fall with the tides. I have seen the rapid advancement of your kind, taking over the world like you are gods.” She said that last bit without malice, just indifference. An astute observation made by an astute goddess. 

“I had only known this way of living. Nothing lasts forever, unless you are forever. Over time, we became complacent. Lazy. Why rush now when we have all the time in the world? We stopped keeping humans in check. Soon enough, they ignored us. Started being more ambitious, more daring. If we were so powerful, why not challenge us to a fight? Surely we could beat them. If not, they would just display their strength and claim our place.

“They challenged us. Fought us. And when they realised they couldn’t win, they forgot us.” To my surprise, she smirked. 

“Fools. You cannot forget the sea.”

I met her gaze. 

Is this fear? I thought. 

This is resolve, she answered. 

The sea doesn’t like to be restrained. 

—

It was a dark and stormy night when I gave birth to my baby.

August 18, 1993. 

Perseus Jackson. 

—

“Perseus?” Poseidon stared at me incredulously. I chuckled. 

“He’s the son of Zeus, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah, exactly.”

I had just gone through nine hours of agonising labour. Which I resolved by knocking out for the next ten. When I came to, I saw Poseidon holding my baby, rocking him gently in the chair beside my bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Was the first thing he asked when he realised I was awake and staring at him. “I…Ow.”

He shrugged. “That checks out.”

When I had told him the name of my baby, he quite literally jumped ten feet away, clutching on to little Perseus. 

“ Why?”

I let out a full laugh this time. 

“I mean, Perseus was one of the only Greek heroes to have lived to an old age, wasn’t he? Sorry for wanting my illegal kid to be safe and live to an old age.” I put ‘ illegal’ in air quotes, rolling my eyes. 

The god gave me one last stare, then came over to me and pressed his lips against the top of my head. “You did do your research, didn’t you?” Was that pride I heard in his voice, or amusement? 

I gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled him down, meeting his lips with mine. 

“Stay with me?” I asked. 

“Always.”

We both knew that was a lie. 

—

Hera, queen of the gods, wife of Zeus, was a force to be reckoned with. 

To be honest, I was absolutely terrified of her. 

Up to this point, I had only met three gods. Poseidon, obviously, and Amphitrite. And some guy called Fred I am most certain is actually Apollo, god of the sun. 

Whatever. I digress. 

It has been a year since Poseidon left. I was all alone in the world with my baby. Poor Perseus, he’d only begun to speak. 

It was this time when Hera paid a visit. 

As I had always been, I was at home, this time working on my novel, little Percy in the chair next to mine babbling nonsense. I stood up for a stretch, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a woman. I turned to her. 

She had this regal look about her, her black hair gathered in a neat bun and dead seriousness in her eyes. 

Hera, my brain supplied helpfully. 

“My lady,” I bowed. Percy clapped his hands and dropped the toy he was holding. 

Hera regarded me. I could feel her stare, bearing down on me like I was something particularly distasteful. “The boy. Is it true? Is he the one?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said dumbly. She hissed. “The prophecy!”

“There’s a prophecy?” I should really shut up. 

She sneered at me, her eyes burning dangerously bright. “You may very well be lying, woman, about your ignorance. Be very careful of what you say next.”

Her eyes flickered towards my baby. 

“I will be watching you with great interest, Perseus Jackson. If you are truly what they say, you will be the only one who can save us.”

I frowned. “Sorry, ma’am, but all this ‘saving’ business doesn’t make a whole lotta sense. And I don’t appreciate that tone.” I knew I was pushing it, but no one gets to talk to my baby like that. Not even an immortal, all-powerful goddess. 

Hera started smoking, her hardened eyes glazing brighter. “You will regret this disrespect, woman.”

I only managed to grab my baby and dash out of the room before she disappeared in a blaze of light. 

A few seconds later, I peeked into the room. Hera was gone, but she left behind a ring of burns etched into my floor. Everything else was in perfect condition. 

I sighed, letting Percy waddle out of the room. 

“You’re gonna be a handful, aren’t you,” I mused. Percy gaggled. I picked my baby up and he snuggled into my neck. 

One thing’s for certain. They know. 

—

I began writing again. 

The Underworld was traumatising enough, and made me realise I had a whole book to finish. I sold my ex-husband to an art museum in Soho. The art critics ate The Poker Player up, calling it the pinnacle of grotesque realism. I couldn’t agree more. 

I made enough money to pay for the first semester of tuition at NYU for creative writing and a down payment for a private school for Percy. Hell, I even quit my job and started looking for a new apartment. After everything that had happened, I couldn’t go back to my old life anymore. 

And like I said, I had enough. 

It was rough at first. The words didn’t come to me naturally anymore; I had to reach far within to weave them into tales. It didn’t help that there were a thousand variations of each story.  

I used the summer to research and write as much as I could. Percy was safe in camp, and once again I was alone. 

(It doesn’t matter. His safety is everything.) 

So it was like that. I slowly fell back into the rhythm of my life, into writing, into looking out for my baby and any god or monster that insisted on paying us a visit. I didn’t try to process everything. It was too much, and frankly I think I’m just happy with the fact that we were still alive in this fucked-up world. 

I didn’t think about him. It was an open wound, a piece of my past I couldn’t address yet. And never will, probably. 

Once upon a time he meant the world to me. But it is true, we are worlds apart. I can do without him. I have been for the past twelve years. 

So I didn’t think about how Percy has the same sea-green eyes. I didn’t think about how when he smiles I can see him so clearly, on that day on the beach in Montauk. How he’s still changing my life even now. 

And when I met a high school English teacher by the name of Paul, I didn’t think about how Poseidon sent him to me. 

I settled. I have a girl now, my daughter with the same godforsaken eyes and the most melodious laugh. 

And I drowned myself in oceans of paragraphs. 

Fin.