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He finally did it. With the exception of divine intervention, he weakened the god of tides. He lay before him, smirking—tired, taunting. The air was thick, winds blowing relentlessly at the god’s reckoning, though his seas sat oddly still.
”Foolish mortal. You do not understand what you have done.”
A bellowing voice sounds against the storm, staring into the mortal’s soul. The god tilts his head as he jests, his movements filled with conceit.
”For that silver tongue only gets you so far.”
Odysseus once would have spoken back, gull wistfully wrapping around his crew as they took pride in their captain’s stupidity.
Today, he keeps his mouth shut.
The god was trying to provoke him—trying to get something out of him, something that he would be able to hold over him.
Thunder rumbles deep through the clouds, rain drenching him to his core.
Odysseus surveys the area, nothing but steep stones and wet foliage for as far as he could see. Poseidon must take this as desperation—a last resort. But If no weapon were in sight, he would face wrath by his own hand. He would have carved wounds that the most skilled hands could not heal, memories that no time could remedy, that no spell could erase.
“I will not fear you.”
His voice is steady as he casts his glance away from the god, finding something glistening, bright as a star in the rain—His trident.
The strength in which he wields the tides…
Odysseus carefully approaches the trident, a regrettably noticeable distance away.
”You will die here. You opened that bag, and now you are to die a nameless death.”
Odysseus graces him with only a fleeting glance as he picks up the trident. It was heavy, the weight of it straining his arms. This trident held such power, yet the god of tides neglected keeping it at his side. Had he wanted him to pick it up? He muses at the foolish thought, though it would not be entirely out of place, as he stares up at him—unblinking.
Watching the mortal discover this would only widen his grin as he brings his hands to his sides, responding mindlessly, seeming to grow bored of this conversation.
”Neither do I fear you…”
His words trail off as he realizes what the mortal means to do. His eyes narrow as Odysseus turns on his heels, advancing toward him.
“You would dare torture a god, mortal?”
The sky cracks loud, covering the ground in wait.
“It is only fair.”
Odysseus grows closer with heavy feet, Poseidon unaware of his growing proximity to the rocks behind him.
Lightning splits the sea, illuminating his face in a flash—he looked remarkably divine in this light, wielding his own weapon. The sight sent a shiver down his spine.
“As you said: Ruthlessness is mercy.”
Poseidon chuckles darkly. He has not felt such enthusiasm since their first encounter, which he thinks, can hardly stand up to the anticipation he feels now.
”Do you not understand, mortal? You have trapped yourself.”
He looks up as Odysseus readies his trident, fixing his grip above the god. He could not help but flash a smirk at the god’s attempts to flee—this was a fitting revenge. Poseidon catches his wrists as he brings down the pronged weapon, stoping the blow just above his waist.
For a moment the god would stare, perhaps trying to find words. He was not alarmed. If anything, he thought it was gratifying—getting back what he had given.
Odysseus’ hands are firm as divine strength presses the trident closer, meeting his eyes with disdain. The god attempts to raise his tides, but they are weakened by the mortal’s previous attacks. Before his oceans could make contact, Odysseus harshly presses a heel to his gut, causing the tides to melt away.
”I will not cry mercy, but I do say: must this be?”
“Mercy is what you cry, and none is what I have for you. You have made this—
He wretches his wrists from the god’s grip, trembling at the weight of it all.
—this is all I have left for you.”
Odysseus reels the trident back with all his might, watching closely as the god’s face twists eagerly, as if awaiting its arrival.
The master of seas would stop crying out to provoke him more, reciting each of his mistakes—each time he’d evoked the wrath of gods, and every consequence it’d carried. A brilliant yellow flowed through their veins—He knew this, yet seeing the god sprawled out, bleeding golden before him caused his grip to falter. Some distant part of himself was ashamed at the curdling pleasure he felt when hearing Poseidon speak. His voice rang loud through his mind, he sounded wounded, and it was his doing.
His eyes never left him, though—they bore into his own, and looking back might have been his first mistake. Poseidon was not in pain, he could see this much clearly. His body did not move to stop this carnage, and if it did, there would be nothing more for him to do.
He wonders now if this is what mortals have long feared—if this is the terror his men shook beneath. Not the gods and their threats, but how much they could take, and how much they would keep taking.
No matter how much Odysseus could take, Poseidon would always take more.
”You seek a thing of me—“
Poseidon huffs out a sound like laughter, causing more ichor to roll hot out of his open mouth, as well as his nose. A grin is still plastered on his face in undying arrogance, as the words spilled from his lips in a way that would only injure him more.
”—that you will never find.”
He pauses for a moment to breathe through deeply punctured lungs, slinging an arm around his battered waist. Odysseus stares into these wounds with piqued interest and a distant sense of possession, though he pushes these thoughts away, allowing the god to speak.
“Go ahead, mortal. Keep digging for things you will never find, it is what you do best.”
He bares his teeth, now regretful of his leniency. He slowly shakes his head, taking a moment to remember his motives.
He had done this to ensure the safety of his people—
He had done this for vengeance.
He reels the trident back, watching with wild eyes as the god of tides swerves his head, narrowly avoiding the oncoming weapon. The ocean leaps with zeal, beating against wind and the perishing rocks beneath them.
Poseidon sucks in a breath as Odysseus, with a skull rattling clang, plants the trident firmly into the earth just beside his head. Leaning in close, forcing all of his attention to him.
“I am not here to entertain your pride, nor am I here to bargain. This is what you have earned”
The god is unblinking, eyes wide with hunger at this display—at the way their stories now intertwine. A mortal who greets death, yet walks past his gates, a god who creates such mortal rage—such deep passion, and it is all for him.
Poseidon nearly gleamed at this thought, staring up at the mortal as if he were one to be exalted, an unwounded hand trembling toward Odysseus’ own, causing him to grip the trident tighter in defense.
“Has your craving yet to quell?”
He looks up at the mortal, his eyes low as he bows his head—some sort of strange courtesy, a toothy grin covering his face in undying arrogance, and it is with this that Odysseus realizes it will take far more than physical injury for the immortal to free him of this endless captivity.
The trident strikes the earth beneath them with much strain as breaths fall laden from his chest, standing far enough from Poseidon that he might not escape, though it does not even seem that he wants to.
He looks down at the god, lips twitching up at the imbalance as he leans down to meet his eyes once more.
“Has yours? Shall I walk, and you not shadow me—following?”
Poseidon looks up at him, the sight only fueling his shifting intentions—still, he is quick to answer, his tongue darting past his lips to wet them as he searches the mortal through his lashes.
“No, you shall not.”
He retorts, with great amusement. Perhaps he was curious—seeing the defiance of the man-made monster before him, as an odd expression joins his observance.
Poseidon lifts his arm, feeling the many wounds the mortal managed to grant him—dipping fingers into them with a hiss and a chilling sneer. As he draws his hand out, he stares into the mortal’s eyes with challenge, daring him to do something more as his own glow a bright blue, oceans reflecting the gaze with interest, winds whistling in the distance to mimic this.
These wounds will not leave him, he thinks. He will remember the thrill of housing a mortal king’s ruin—all of his desperation, his awe.
Odysseus assesses him, eyes falling onto the many punctures that slowly heal on his flesh—desire swelling deep in his chest. The breath of rage departs from them, replaced by a new flame, for their encounter is long from through. He steps closer, pressing a foot lightly to the other’s abdomen—his faint smile grows colder as the god groans, doubling over while still holding his gaze.
“Then my craving does not quell, I stay.”