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When you're a god, these things don't happen.
You don't get whistled and hollered at when you walk down the road. But then again, that's assuming you aren't dressed in a shabby chiton while coated in dust, coming home after completing the tasks of servants, all of which are things that gods shouldn't have to deal with either.
Unless Zeus, king of the gods, is your father and wants to ‘teach you a lesson’ because you ‘staged a coup.’
Ridiculous. I wasn't even—ugh. Never mind.
Anyway, when closing in on the new wall that's being built on my way back to the palace, a gaggle of fools (men, in case you needed that clarification) appeared ahead of me, also walking towards the wall.
One of the fools excitedly calls out to me to ask where I'm going, his companions giggling and shoving each other over his genius question; I ignore them.
How he thinks I could hear him from there if I were a regular mortal, I don't know.
I'm assuming they don't think I'm a god; otherwise, I doubt they'd be so brave. Not unless they're the king.
They are now making comments on my beauty, how pretty my smile would be if only I sent their way, cackling to each other as they make various offers to ‘help clean me up’.
I clench my fists, my throat burning with the urge to do something. Normally in the utterly rare instances of a mortal bothering a god in this way, their lives are quickly disposed of through one of the many powers buzzing at our fingertips.
I myself have shot down bothersome admirers in the past. (never the ones I really want to.)
So as much as I want to do that—and still could—their clothes look a bit too nice to risk it. For all I know, they could be important enough for the king to be notified about their deaths and possibly even care about them!
Which he might do anyway, if only to make me miserable!
I slow down, hoping they'll continue to go forward instead of squawking back at me.
Oh, no, of course not. They've stopped completely in response, all turning to grin at me like hungry felines, slinking back and forth hungrily.
Had I been an Olympian still, this fleeting sight would have been nothing more than a quick laugh at their patheticness.
But now, with aching muscles and exhaustion pulling me down, topped with a layer of sweat slowly drying across my skin, I all feel seeing them is anger churning in my stomach.
Because now, when I reach into my well of godly abilities, it comes up dry after what feels like a fraction of my power is used.
I grit my teeth, digging nails into the palms of my hands. Maybe they do know who I am, and that's why they're being so insistent. Honestly, it'd be just like that worthless man to encourage his people to behave like rabid beasts.
More self-important barking ensues, though quieter now that there is less space between us: asking me to come over, asking why I'm ignoring them, don't I know that's rude? Continued riveting observations on my appearance, one man remarking that he doesn't mind me looking sweaty and dusty, pulling his lips back to show off teeth.
…What hurts me the most is that I've already heard variations of these statements from nobles who got the privilege of gawking at the king's new divine toys.
Mostly just one.
How I feel both trapped and hollow during this punishment is… tiring. Everything I am is crushed into one form, with some pieces torn away for good measure.
The desperate animals have now switched tactics, from howling and screeching for me to come closer to them as if it were their given right because I look like a slave (which I am one, technically); to whining for it, salivating like their miserable lives depend on it.
Simpering at me from the other side of the path, all pleading and pitiful, like I can't see their obvious agitation. Pacing, glinting eyes, slobbering creatures.
Just so we're clear, I have always been on my little sister's side. No, I have never disagreed with her… but I've also never exactly grasped a full understanding of her perspective of gods and men alike.
Not until this punishment. And just this punishment, nothing else. Anything else would be on me. And even this could be…no, it’s their fault. His fault.
I try to think about what Artemis would do, but it's not helpful when she wouldn't have gotten sent down in the first place. She wouldn't let herself be goaded or tricked or betrayed.
But she certainly wouldn't let this behavior slide, no matter the pompous threat hanging over her head.
I cross the street, walking toward the closest house. The pack of idiots follows me, out-of-breath and chuckling like children successfully sneaking behind their parents back. Disgraces to the kingdom.
I brush my hand against the wall of the building before spinning on my heel to lean my back against it, now facing the four eager imbeciles.
I tilt my head to look up at them through my lashes, running my fingers along the cotton going across my chest. An invitation. One I know they'll buy because men are terribly predictable (no offense.)
There's a quick silent exchange among them when the youngest (twenty-four—if I had to guess) of the group steps up to me.
Planting his offensive hand next to my left shoulder, half-caging my body with his, I move my own hand to clutch the side of his head; feeling the vibrations of his pulse through my hand and down my arm.
Eyes locking onto mine as he leans in, and all I can hear is Artemis's voice ringing in my ears; all I see are green eyes and feathers and shifting appearances and perverse entitlement—her disgust, her suspicion, her violence—it all makes so much sense when you really think about it.
The muscles of my shoulders grew taut in revulsion as he let out a hot puff of air a palm width from my face, and I dug my nails into his head.
Crack.
Fissures spiderweb from where I bashed his head into the wall. Blood runs down the mud-brick, and I face him as I pull him away from the wall to examine the damage.
His eyes are unfocused, legs wobbling only a moment before buckling, and I grab a hold of his garments to keep him upright. Blood trails down his neck from the dark, wet spot in his hair.
There are voices yapping to my left, but they are meaningless to me. No, I'm instead focused on the intense betrayal coursing through my ichor, because really? Really? Is this all I did?
“Unbelievable,” I say to nobody.
The frustration at my own weakness allows my eyes to fill up with tears, against my will (and pride if I were to be really honest).
A hand latches onto my arm, and fury sends pure heat throughout my body, causing it to glow; I shove him away with a snarl, to which he complies, crying out like a wounded animal.
The shame of letting these-these worthless mortals—see me, a god, upset quickly evaporates any and all wetness in my eyes.
I reach down to re-grab the man on his knees in front of me by the hair on the top of his scalp, to hold his empty skull up. Smoke floats off the spots where I'm holding him.
This time, I used my knee to slam his head against the mud-brick. Smash.
I can feel the give happen, skull cracking, wall caving in, screams erupting near me. And it does soothe the anger in me. However, it does nothing to satisfy the sense of sickening wrongness I feel. The betrayal of it all.
I decided to save him from the collapsing structure, by gripping his hair despite the corners and chucks of construction falling on me (the more important person here), and tearing his flesh free from where it was caught in the hole his head made.
I step away, with my light fading, exhaustion slamming into my senses, as I watch him crumble to the ground on his back. Blood and clear fluid leaking from his nose, and ears; his eyes which are partially open enough for me to see dilated pupils, and red taking over the white of his right one.
The upper right part of his skull was completely concave. Leaking fluid from the cuts made from my assistance.
His breathing starts to stutter with a wet sounding quality.
I look up at his three companions. All of them are poised with their hands outstretched, clearly wanting to rush forward, but something stops them. Fear is etched in their faces. Eyes flicking between their friend and me.
Oh…I give them a smile, as previously requested.
This makes one of them turn to bolt, which like, come on. That seems like an exaggeration.
He only gets a few paces before running into a man wearing armor. My smile fell immediately. A palace guard. That…is not good.
The guard pushes past the other two morons, to survey the scene. I unfortunately can't read his expression through that ridiculous helmet, as he looks down at the man who is most certainly drowning in his own vomit by now.
He looks back at me through the slit in his helmet, still unreadable. Shuffle a little on my feet, wishing I could melt into the ground to escape whatever he's about to say.
“Laomedon wants to see you,” the guard stated.
“Oh…” I trail off awkwardly, before continuing, “um. Is Poseidon going to be there?”
He grabs my arm and starts pulling me towards the palace, which is unnecessary because I was literally walking that way already, “no.”
I sigh heavily, and he squeezes my arm pointedly.
Irritation needles me, but there's nothing I can do except suck it up and hope this all ends quickly.
A perfect miserable end for a miserable day.