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It started as a joke.
Or rather, as a bout of boredom, coupled with a fiery temper and a complete lack of moderation—like everything Poseidon had ever done.
Olympus was stuffy that day. Zeus was once again preaching about proper behavior, Hera was assenting, Athena was pointedly silent, and Ares was loudly chewing ambrosia. Poseidon felt his usual calm (it lasted only a minute, admittedly) give way to a dull irritation, the irritation turning into a desire to smash his trident against a column, and from there into a completely uncontrollable outburst of affection for everyone present.
"Should I hug someone?" he thought, taking a step toward Hermes.
Hermes, having learned from bitter experience, shied away and vanished.
"Well, all of you, fly to Tartarus!" " Poseidon barked, feeling a new wave of resentment welling up inside him. "I'm with them, and they!
And he left. He slapped the sea wave so hard that the throne room floor had to be drained until evening.
He went down to the sea, sat on a rock, and stared at the horizon. His mood plummeted into the abyss of despondency. He wanted to destroy a couple of cities and have someone pat him on the head at the same time.
"And why does no one understand me?" he sighed, looking at his reflection in the water. The reflection was masculine, bearded, with a stern arch of brows. Boring.
And then it dawned on him.
What if...
He'd never bothered much with changing his appearance. Well, he'd transformed into a horse, a bull, a bird—for business, for battle, for seducing mortals (though the latter hadn't been very successful, with more drama and unexpected children). But just for fun, try on a different face? A woman's?
After all, why not? Gods aren't obligated to be frozen statues. And today he felt... different.
Poseidon concentrated. Energy surged through his body, changing his form, softening his lines, removing roughness and adding what mortals call "beauty."
He opened his eyes and looked back into the water.
She was looking back at him from the reflection.
Her hair—the color of sea foam and sunset at the same time—heavy waves fell over her shoulders, framing a face that would have driven Apollo mad (if Apollo hadn't been so preoccupied with himself). Eyes—a stormy blue-green, in which the tempest alternated with calm every second. Lips—swollen, capricious, as if freshly kissed by salt water. Her figure—fluid, dangerous, alluring.
"Wow," Poseidon said in a voice that now rang like a wave crashing against rocks. "Not bad."
He twirled, appreciating the curve of her waist, waved his hand, enjoying the way the air rippled around her slender fingers. He pulled on his chiton, woven from foam and moonlight, straightened his shoulders, and smiled.
There was something dangerous in that smile. But also beautiful.
"I need to test it out," he decided, and stepped toward the nearest harbor.
The port of Piraeus smelled of fish, tar, and sweat. An ordinary evening for mortals. Merchants counted their profits, sailors hauled cargo, and a sculptor named Aristodemus sharpened his chisel in his workshop overlooking the waterfront.
Aristodemus was a sullen and talented man. He sculpted gods, heroes, athletes—everything as expected. But lately, his muse had vanished. His hands worked, but his heart was silent. He was already considering throwing down his chisel and becoming a winemaker.
And then he looked up.
She was standing on the pier, at the very edge of the water. Barefoot. Her hair was blowing in the wind, her chiton clinging to her hips. She was gazing at the sunset and seemed displeased.
"Too orange," Aristodemus heard through the roar of the waves. "And those seagulls... they're screaming, you see, out of rhythm. It's irritating."
Aristodemus dropped his chisel. It landed on his foot, but he felt no pain.
He saw only HER.
For the next three days, he neither ate nor slept, only worked. Marble flew from his chisel like snow. He gave birth to Adonpesia—that's what he named the statue, cobbling together the name from fragments of some inner rhythm. "She who captivated."
The statue came alive. Too alive. It seemed that in another moment she would step from her pedestal and say, "The light is falling incorrectly again; move the lamp."
Rumor of the new Muse spread throughout the city. Sculptors crowded the harbor, hoping to catch a glimpse of Her. Poets abandoned poems they'd begun and began new ones dedicated to the stranger. Sailors, returning from voyages, swore they'd seen her dancing on the waves on a moonlit night.
"Who is she?" everyone asked. "A goddess? A nymph? A mortal?"
"She is inspiration," the sculptors replied. "She is a dream come true. She is Adonpesia."
Hermes, disguised as an old fishwife, sat on the pier and listened to these conversations, barely containing his laughter.
"Well, uncle, well," he thought, watching another young poet faint after briefly catching a glimpse of a woman's silhouette at the water's edge.
That same evening, a scandal erupted on Olympus.
"What do you mean, 'some mortal draws crowds and is called more beautiful than Aphrodite'?!" Aphrodite thundered and lightning no worse than Zeus. "I demand an investigation! Hermes, do you know anything?"
Hermes put on an honest face (a rare skill for him) and spread his hands:
"Goddess, by the Styx, I saw...". Only shadows and rumors. But mortals truly are going mad. They sculpt, write, sing... It's an unprecedented muse.
Athena frowned:
"It distracts them from true knowledge. We must intervene."
"Wait," Zeus raised his hand, establishing silence. "Let everything take its course. I wonder what this phenomenon is. Perhaps a new goddess has been born?"
Poseidon, sitting in the corner with a stony face (and inside dying of laughter), nodded:
"Yes, yes, let it go. I wonder."
He was incredibly happy. For the first time in centuries, he felt not just like the god of the seas, but like the center of attention. And this attention was pleasant. Not fear, not respect, but admiration. Adoration. Desire.
"There's something to this," he thought, stroking his beard, and then immediately corrected himself: "Well, now I can stroke my beard, and without it... Some kind of bisexual happiness."
--
Three months passed.
The cult of Adonpesia was spreading. Statues of the stranger appeared in Athens, Corinth, even Sparta (where beauty was taken seriously). Sculptors fought to the point of fighting for the right to sculpt her "true form." Poets composed hymns comparing her to sea foam and the dawn. Sailors swore that she steered their ships out of storms (the latter was especially amusing, because the storms, on the contrary, subsided as soon as she appeared on the horizon—Poseidon simply couldn't be angry when he was in such a beautiful body).
But there were also oddities.
Eyewitnesses sometimes noticed their Muse behaving... unusually.
A fabric merchant recounted:
"She came to me for a chiton. I was laying out my finest silks, and she glared! 'What kind of rags are these?' she screamed. I was frightened, I thought she'd kill me with her look. But she suddenly sobbed: 'Forgive me, I didn't mean to be rude, I'm just having a bad day. Let me hug you.' And she did! I nearly died of happiness. A minute later, she was throwing my rolls of silk against the wall and screaming that the seagulls outside were laughing too loudly.
A young poet, inspired by her to write an ode, complained:
"She stood over me while I was writing. Whispering rhymes. And then suddenly she screamed: 'Not that! Not that! I told you it was iambic, and you put in trochee, you idiot!'" I burst into tears. And she hugged me, stroked my head, and said I was a genius and she would never give me to anyone. I still don't know whether to love her or fear her.
But the main evidence that ruined everything was Apollo's observation.
The god of the sun, arts, and prophecies (and also a great spectator of beauty) decided to personally take a look at the one who had driven his favorite sculptors and poets crazy.
He descended to earth early in the morning, just as the sun was rising, and found Adonpesia on the very pier where it all began.
She stood with her hands on her hips, screaming at the rising sun:
"Are you kidding me?! I asked for pink! Soft pink, with gold trim! And what did you give me? Orange, like an orange! And those stupid rays! Take the rays away, they're hitting me in the eyes! And the shadows!" My shadows are so ugly! Who creates light like that?! Where's your artistic taste?!
The seagulls perched on the stilts were chattering, and she turned to them abruptly:
"Will you shut up! Can't you see I'm talking to the sun? Fly left, I said! Everyone left! Didn't you hear me? WELL, WHO DID I TELL THAT?!"
The seagulls shied away in fright and flew left.
Adonpesia watched them go, her gaze full of satisfaction, then frowned:
"It's cold. And anyway, why am I alone? Where are my sculptors? Where are my poets? Where are those who will admire me? I demand attention! Now! Either I... or I..."
She sobbed, sat down right on the pier planks, and covered her face with her hands.
"Nobody loves me... Everyone just watches and sculpts, but to hug me? To caress me? To pour out their souls?" I'm not just a statue! I'm alive! I have emotions! Lots of them! All at once! And you...
And then she jumped up and stamped her foot, causing the waves in the harbor to rise:
— EVERYTHING INCURS ME! THE SEA INCURS ME! THE SUN INCURS ME! THE SEAGULLS INCUR ME! THE SCULPTORS ARE STUPID! THE POETS ARE UNTALENTED! A-A-A-A!
Apollon, watching this scene from behind a column, smiled at first, then began to suspect, and by the time she stamped her foot, causing a two-meter wave, he understood everything.
He emerged from hiding, clapping his hands.
— Bravo, Uncle. Bravo. You almost fooled me.
Adonpesia froze. She turned around slowly.
A face of unearthly beauty stared back at Apollo, a war of rage, fear, resentment, and sudden recognition.
"Apollo..." Her voice wavered. "You... what are you doing here?"
"Admiring the show," he chuckled. "Tell me, is yelling at the sun a new way to set the mood for the day? Or is it just... our Olympian way?"
The beauty's mask slipped. Poseidon's shoulders (for it was he, and even in his female form it was obvious) slumped, then straightened.
"Well, I am," he muttered. "So what now? Are you going to hand me over to Zeus? Are you going to laugh?"
"Already laughing," Apollo wiped away a tear. "Oh, Uncle, I can't. You... you've been here for three months... driving everyone crazy... and yet you curse at the sun like you're swearing at Helios at work!" This is brilliant! This... this is a new art form!
Poseidon sniffled. Tears glistened in his stormy, beautiful eyes.
"And me... does no one really love me?" he asked quietly. "I tried for them. I gave them beauty." Awe. And they... they only make statues. They don't need me, they need an image. And I... I am. Just like this. With everything at once.
Apollo stopped laughing. He approached and, after a moment's hesitation, placed his hand on the "goddess's" shoulder.
"Uncle... Poseidon. You've created something amazing. You gave them what they didn't have—a living muse. Who gets angry, hugs, scolds seagulls, and demands perfect light. This... this is you. And it's beautiful. Truly."
Poseidon looked up at him.
"Really?"
"I swear by the cithara."
Pause.
"Well... alright then," Poseidon muttered, and suddenly jerked toward Apollo. "Let me hug you! You're a good man! You understand me!"
Apollo barely dodged the bear hug (or rather, sea hug) that had transformed into a woman's.
"Uncle! Uncle, don't! I appreciate it, really, but let's not get physical!"
"Why does everyone shy away from me?!" Poseidon howled, and the waves surged again. "I mean it!"
---
The news spread quickly.
Hermes, of course, already knew everything and had been secretly choking with laughter for a long time. Aphrodite was about to be offended, but seeing Poseidon, back in his male form but awkwardly fiddling with the hem of his chiton (he still hadn't completely changed), she burst out laughing.
"Brother," she said, "if you ever get tired of shaking the earth, come to me. I'll teach you how to be a woman properly. Without yelling at the seagulls."
"My seagulls understand me!" "Poseidon snapped. "They're just... they're stupid sometimes."
Athena sighed:
"I hope you realize that now mortals will be sculpting you in two forms for centuries. And the priests will wonder who to pray to—the man with the trident or the woman with the sea foam."
"Let them pray," Poseidon waved his hand. "I don't mind. The main thing is that they pray sincerely."
Zeus was silent for a long moment, looking at his brother, and then burst into a roar of laughter—a thunderclap that shook the columns.
"Poseidon! You're something else! I thought I was the biggest joker on Olympus, but it turns out you're also an artist! Okay, brother, live your life as you please. But if mortals start a new religion with you in a skirt, I'll make you come out to them every full moon and lecture them on seafaring."
"Agreed," Poseidon muttered, and after a moment's thought, added, "Can I go out in female form? It's more comfortable."
Hermes fell off the bench and rolled on the floor, choking with laughter.
---
A hundred years passed.
Strange statues can still be seen in Greek harbors—women with storm-raging eyes and a smile that promises both tempest and tenderness. Sailors sometimes whisper the name "Adonpesia" before setting sail—just in case, to ensure the sea is calm and inspiration remains.
Sculptors argue until they're hoarse about the exact shape of her left eyebrow in a moment of anger.
Poets write odes in which they rhyme "foam" and "betrayal," "storm" and "azure."
And on Olympus, in the far corner of the throne room, you can sometimes spot a strange sight: a mighty, bearded Poseidon sits, stroking a woman's long hair (he's grown it out again because "it's prettier this way"), and gazing at the clouds.
"Helios," he mutters sometimes. "Add some light. It's a bit gloomy. And some pink... just a little pink, huh?"
Helios, having learned from bitter experience, adds.
And seagulls, flying past Olympus, for some reason always turn left.