Book 2: A Song from the Sirens

The tides were calm, the skies aglow,
As Oceanus prepared to go.
The sea god’s gaze was deep and far,
His mind adrift on realms of star.

"Antioch," he said, his voice like waves,
"I leave the seas in hands most brave."
The trickster laughed, though nerves took root,
For mischief thrives on shifting truth.

"Watch o’er the depths, the currents wild,
Keep chaos tamed, both fierce and mild.
For I must journey far from shore,
To realms unknown, where gods make war."

Oceanus turned, his form immense,
A towering force, vast and intense.
With trident raised, he split the sea,
And left its care to Antioch’s plea.

The god of wit and cunning smiled,
Though nervousness was thinly filed.
To guard the ocean’s deep abyss?
It hardly seemed his brand of bliss.

Yet waves will laugh, as will the skies,
And under them, no truth can rise.
So Antioch took up the task,
Behind his grin, a secret mask.

For while the seas were vast and grand,
Their playful tides he’d understand.
He cast a net of tricks and charm,
To guard the world from ocean’s harm.

With every ripple, he’d spin a jest,
The winds would howl, the waves would crest.
He’d whisper jokes to dolphins sly,
And prank the gulls that flew too high.

But deep below, the shadows stirred,
The depths uneasy, power blurred.
Antioch watched with furrowed brow,
For gods, like seas, must break their vow.

Still, while the master of the deep
Was off to distant realms to keep,
Antioch would hold court and tide,
A trickster's touch, though truth might slide.

So while Oceanus ventured far,
Antioch laughed beneath the stars.
For who but he could tame the sea
With wit, with jest, and mystery?

A few days had passed since the Serpent's Fury had set sail, and the journey had been a mix of restless anticipation and uneasy calm. The crew had settled into a routine, with Harahel and Gadriel sharing the galley with the few sailors who had taken their meals in relative silence. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the faint aroma of the evening meal—stew, bread, and a bit of cheese.

Harahel sat at one end of the long wooden table, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her wooden bowl. Her green eyes were distant as she stared into the flickering light of the oil lamp, lost in thought.

Gadriel sat opposite her, her posture relaxed and her gaze scanning the room with an almost imperceptible smirk. She seemed completely at ease, the contrast between her composed demeanor and Harahel’s unease was stark.

“So, have you considered what you’ll say to them?” Gadriel asked, breaking the silence.

Harahel looked up, meeting Gadriel’s eyes with a questioning look. “Say to who?”

“To your children, of course,” Gadriel clarified.

Harahel’s eyes widened slightly as she absorbed Gadriel’s words. For a moment, the distraction of the conversation pulled her out of her introspective mood. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Harahel admitted, her voice soft but tinged with determination. “I mean, I am their mother. But in a way, I am not.”

“I understand.” Gadriel nodded, then added in an annoyed tone, “This whole three muses in one mortal body situation is maddening, isn’t it?”

Harahel managed a small, wry smile. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Gadriel leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting from annoyance to curiosity. “How much do you remember of your life as the muses?”

Harahel sighed, her fingers pausing in their absent tracing of the bowl. “Just pieces,” she admitted. “But it feels more like a dream than reality.

Gadriel nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the same for me,” she said, her gaze distant as she recalled her own experiences. “There are moments when I feel so connected to Calliope, Clio, and Erato, like their memories are intertwined with mine. But other times, it’s like trying to grasp smoke.”

Harahel nodded in agreement, her eyes reflecting a shared understanding. “It’s a strange existence, isn’t it? Being both ourselves and yet more than that.”

Gadriel sighed dramatically, waving her hand as if to dismiss the weight of their shared burdens. “We all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?”

Harahel chuckled softly, her earlier tension easing just a bit. “You know, connecting with my children might actually help me connect more deeply with Polyhymnia, Euterpe, and Thalia. Maybe understanding them better will bring some clarity to this whole tangled web.”

Gadriel raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You think so?”

Harahel nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. They are part of me, after all. If I can bridge the gap between us, it might make everything make more sense. Perhaps the pieces will start fitting together, and I can finally understand what it truly means to embody the muses.”

Gadriel considered this for a moment, her gaze shifting from Harahel to the flickering light of the oil lamp. “It’s a noble goal,” she said finally. “Although, I wouldn't expect a warm greeting from our offspring.”

“I don’t” Harahel admitted, “what we did was for the greater good. But our children see it as a betrayal, as being used as pawns in a divine game."

Gadriel’s eyes narrowed slightly, her smirk fading as her gaze settled on Harahel with an intensity that hinted at the gravity of their situation. “For the greater good?” she echoed, her voice soft but sharp. “That’s what we tell ourselves to sleep at night. But for them, it’s not about the grand schemes of gods or muses. They were abandoned. Stranded. Alone.”

Harahel clenched her hands into fists, her knuckles whitening against the rough wood of the table. She felt the sting of Gadriel's words but knew there was truth in them. "They were never meant to be alone," she murmured, her voice heavy with regret.

A wave of guilt swept over her as the memories of their past choices surfaced—how they had stood by Antioch, trusting his vision, believing that by following his plan, they were doing what was best for their children. Yet, that belief now seemed like a distant echo in the face of the reality they were sailing toward.

Gadriel leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "The thing is, Harahel, they don’t care about why we did it. They care about what we did. And when we face them, it won’t be easy to explain away."

Harahel met her gaze, her own determination hardening in the face of Gadriel's blunt words. "Then I won’t explain it away. I’ll face them, and I’ll admit the truth. I won’t hide behind excuses. I owe them that much."

Gadriel arched a brow. "And what if the truth isn’t enough? What if their anger is too deep to forgive?"

Harahel sighed, her fingers finally stilling as she rested her hands on the table. "Then I will accept that too. But I won’t walk away without trying. They deserve that much. Whether they welcome me or not... I’m still their mother.”

The silence that followed was heavy, both women lost in their own thoughts. The ship creaked as it swayed with the rhythm of the waves, a reminder of the inevitable journey ahead. Outside, the wind howled softly, and the distant sound of the crew echoed through the hull.

As the heavy silence hung between them, the soft thud of boots on the wooden floor interrupted their thoughts. Harahel looked up just in time to see Finnegan striding past them, a tray balanced in his calloused hands. The aroma of roasted meat and ale wafted from the plate, clearly intended for Captain Blackthorn.

Finnegan’s expression, however, was anything but pleasant. His sharp, piercing eyes glared at Harahel and Gadriel as he passed, his lip curling in a subtle sneer of disapproval. He didn’t stop to speak, but his disdain was evident, his pace slowing just enough for them to catch his intent.

Harahel shifted uncomfortably, watching him disappear toward the captain’s quarters at the far end of the ship. The crew had been distant, to say the least, their unease around her and Gadriel palpable. She could hardly blame them. They were strangers aboard a vessel that valued loyalty and familiarity, and the crew’s suspicion grew thicker with each passing day.

Later that night, Harahel lay restless in her small, cramped bunk, staring up at the darkened ceiling of her cabin. The gentle sway of the Serpent's Fury and the soft creaking of the wood did little to soothe her troubled mind. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation with Gadriel, to the cold look in Finnegan’s eyes, to the storm of emotions that awaited them at their journey's end.

She turned onto her side, pulling the threadbare blanket tighter around her. No matter how hard she tried to calm her racing thoughts, sleep seemed elusive. But deep down, Harahel knew it wasn’t her thoughts keeping her awake. It was the dream. The one that had haunted her since the day she set foot on this cursed ship.

It was always the same, but always different, too.

Each night, the dream crept up on her, as if lurking just out of sight, waiting for the moment her mind would falter, and exhaustion would take hold. And tonight would be no different.

Harahel sighed, closing her eyes in resignation. She knew that no matter how much she dreaded it, sleep would eventually claim her. Her body, worn from the day, demanded rest, and soon, despite her resistance, she felt herself slipping away into the darkness.

In the dream, Harahel was no longer herself. She was Euterpe, the muse of music and lyrical poetry. Her surroundings felt surreal, yet intimately familiar—an endless expanse of golden fields, swaying gently in the breeze. The air hummed with a quiet melody, as if the very earth beneath her feet was singing. Every note in the wind resonated deep within her, and she felt the music of creation pulsing through her veins.

 She was not alone. Antioch stood beside her, his dark eyes gleaming with their usual mischief but tempered with something gentler. His presence was warm, reassuring. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder as they stood together, gazing out at the endless horizon.

Harahel—no, Euterpe—felt the weight of life growing within her. It was a sensation she had never experienced in her mortal form, and yet in this dream, it felt as natural as breathing. The music around her intensified, as if the world itself was celebrating the impending birth of something new and precious.

Euterpe smiled softly, placing a hand on her rounded belly. She could feel the fluttering movements within, and with it came a sense of profound connection. This child, this creation, was not just theirs—it was a manifestation of their union, of the muse and the god of wit and cleverness, a blend of harmony and chaos.

The skies above darkened, and suddenly, the melody shifted. The gentle, harmonious music was replaced by something more chaotic, more discordant. Euterpe’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in time with the dissonant rhythm. A pressure built inside her, a deep, primal urge to push, and before she could fully comprehend what was happening, the labor began.

Antioch stood watchful, his expression unreadable, yet his hand never left her. He offered no words of comfort, but in the dream, Euterpe knew he was fully present with her, invested in what was about to come.

The pain was sharp, overwhelming, but beneath it, the music of the world continued, guiding her through the process. She screamed, and with that cry came the final push—the culmination of creation itself. In the space of a breath, a wail echoed across the golden fields, and Euterpe held her daughter in her arms.

"Aglaope," she whispered, naming the child without hesitation. The name felt right, the sound of it resonating like a perfect chord, one that fit seamlessly into the music that surrounded them.

Aglaope’s eyes fluttered open, and Euterpe found herself gazing into depths that were too old, too wise for a newborn. There was an understanding in her daughter's gaze, one that unnerved Euterpe—no, Harahel—at her core. The baby, this divine child, was not a mere infant. She was something far more.

Euterpe—Harahel—couldn’t tear her eyes away from her daughter’s face. Aglaope’s small hand curled around her finger, her grip surprisingly strong. The music around them seemed to swell and fade, becoming more distant, as if this moment existed outside of time.

But then, as quickly as it had begun, the dream started to unravel. The golden fields blurred into shadow, and the comforting presence of Antioch faded. Aglaope’s face began to melt into the darkness, her grip loosening until Harahel was left cradling nothing but air.

"No," Harahel whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. "Not again."

The dream shifted, transforming into a nightmare. She was no longer in the golden fields but standing on a cliff overlooking a stormy sea. Aglaope stood at the edge, staring down into the violent waters below. Her expression was unreadable, just as it had been when she was a newborn, but now there was an unmistakable accusation in her eyes.

Aglaope stepped back, closer to the edge. The wind howled around them, and the sea roared below, as if demanding its due.

Harahel’s breath caught in her throat as her daughter disappeared, swallowed by the storm, leaving her standing alone on the cliff’s edge.

She woke with a start, her heart racing. The sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the Serpent's Fury was eerily similar to the roar of the sea in her dream. Harahel sat up, her body drenched in sweat, her mind spinning.

The dream, though always shifting, always felt the same at its core—a reminder of the choices she had made, the lives she had touched and torn apart. And now, as the ship carried her closer to that inevitable confrontation with her children, the weight of her past choices pressed down on her harder than ever.

Would they ever understand? Could they ever forgive her?