~Hades~

There's something inherently amusing about mortals and their perpetual dance with folly. Give them a gift, a chance, or even the barest whisper of hope, and they'll squander it faster than you can blink. Yet, their unrelenting defiance is precisely why I find myself intrigued by Odysseus and his cursed journey.

We were sailing through a stretch of ocean so calm it felt unnatural, as though the gods themselves held their breath. The skies, streaked with pink and gold, hinted at no danger, a rare reprieve from the chaos that had plagued us. That was when we saw it: the Island of Aeolus, a place of impossible beauty that seemed to float in the sky itself.

The ship creaked as it docked, and the crew disembarked, their eyes wide with awe. Towering cliffs of crystal rose from the sea, and waterfalls cascaded into mist that shimmered like liquid gold. At the summit stood a palace of wind, its spires spinning lazily in the gentle breeze.

Odysseus, ever the diplomat, took the lead, his sharp gaze scanning the heavens. I followed close behind, maintaining my guise as Perimedes, though I couldn't help but smirk at the grandeur of it all. Aeolus, master of the winds, had a penchant for theatrics.

We were greeted by Hera herself, draped in silken clouds and adorned with a crown of sunbeams. Her presence was as commanding as ever, a stark reminder that even in her moments of grace, she was still a queen who demanded respect.

"Well, if it isn't Odysseus," she said, her tone hovering between amusement and condescension. "The mortal who thinks himself cleverer than the gods."

Odysseus bowed deeply. "Your Majesty, we seek safe passage home. We have endured many trials, but my men grow weary, and Ithaca calls to us."

Hera regarded him with a faint smile before turning to Aeolus, who stood nearby. The wind god was a wiry figure, his hair a wild tangle that seemed to shift with every breeze.

"Aeolus," Hera said, "grant them your winds. Let us see if their clever leader is wise enough to use them."

Aeolus nodded and presented Odysseus with a leather bag, its surface shimmering faintly as though it contained the very essence of the sky.

"These winds will guide you home," Aeolus said. "But heed my warning: do not open the bag until you reach Ithaca."

Odysseus accepted the gift with gratitude, and we departed the island, the bag of winds safely secured in the ship's hold.

For days, we sailed smoothly, the bag of winds stored safely in Odysseus's cabin, a silent and unassuming object that held our fate in its woven fabric. The sea was calm, the skies clear, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though the gods had granted us a reprieve. But mortals are never content with peace—not when there are questions unanswered, mysteries unsolved.

The whispers began on the second day. Hushed at first, barely audible over the lapping of the waves. The men huddled together in small groups, their eyes darting toward the captain's cabin where the bag was kept. I could hear every word, of course—my hearing, even in this mortal guise, was far sharper than theirs.

"What do you think is in it?" one of them muttered. "It's not just wind, is it? No one goes to that much trouble for a sack of air."

"Gold," another suggested. "Or jewels. Maybe treasures from the gods themselves."

Eurylochus, ever the opportunist, seized on their curiosity like a hawk spotting prey. He was a master of manipulation, his voice low and insidious as he planted the seeds of doubt. "Think about it," he urged them, his tone laced with indignation. "Aeolus gave it to him alone. Why? Why not share it with all of us? We're the ones who've endured the hardships. We're the ones who've fought and bled."

The others nodded, their suspicions growing. I leaned against the mast, arms crossed, a smirk playing at my lips as I watched the scene unfold. Eurylochus had a gift, I'd give him that. He didn't need to shout or rant; his quiet, calculated words did the work for him.

"He says it's wind," Eurylochus continued, his eyes glinting in the lantern light. "But how do we know? Have any of you seen what's inside? No. We're supposed to take his word for it while we starve on hardtack and stale water."

It didn't take much to sway them. Hunger and greed are powerful motivators, and Eurylochus wielded them with the skill of a warrior swinging a blade. By the fourth day, the whispers had grown into murmurs, the murmurs into plans. They waited for the cover of darkness, for the moment when Odysseus would finally succumb to exhaustion and sleep.

That night, the air was thick with tension. The ship rocked gently on the waves, the stars scattered across the sky like diamonds. I stood in the shadows, my presence unnoticed as the men gathered outside the cabin. Eurylochus led the way, his movements purposeful yet cautious. His hand hovered over the latch, trembling slightly—not with fear, but with anticipation.

"What if he catches us?" one of the men whispered, his voice barely audible.

Eurylochus shot him a sharp look. "Then we say we were checking for sabotage. For all we know, the gods cursed that bag. We're doing him a favor."

The others nodded, reassured by the flimsy lie. They weren't brave men, not really. They were desperate, and desperation makes fools of us all.

Eurylochus lifted the bag carefully, cradling it like a precious artifact. His eyes gleamed with greed as he untied the first knot. "It's our reward," he whispered, more to himself than to the others. "For all we've endured."

I could have stopped them, of course. A single word from me would have sent them scurrying back to their posts. But where's the fun in that? Mortals rarely learn from their mistakes, and I wasn't about to rob them of the lesson they were about to receive. So I stayed where I was, leaning casually against the mast, my arms crossed and a faint smile on my face.

The moment they untied the bag, chaos erupted. A deafening roar shattered the stillness of the night as the winds escaped, unleashed with a force that defied comprehension. The sails whipped violently, the mast groaned under the strain, and the ship lurched as though struck by an invisible hand.

The men screamed, their cries of terror swallowed by the howling gale. Some clung to the rigging, others to the railings, their faces pale with fear. The sea churned beneath us, waves rising like angry fists to pummel the hull. The very air seemed alive, a wild, uncontrollable force that mocked their folly.

I couldn't help myself—I laughed. The sheer stupidity of it all was too much. "You mortals never fail to entertain me," I said, though of course, they couldn't hear me over the gale. My voice was lost in the cacophony, just as their dignity was lost to their greed.

Odysseus burst from his cabin, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. "What have you done?" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

Eurylochus tried to stammer out an excuse, but the winds were relentless, driving us farther and farther from our course. The ship spun wildly, tossed about like a toy in the hands of an angry child. I stayed rooted to my spot, watching it all unfold with a mixture of amusement and detachment.

Before anyone could respond, the sea began to churn violently, the once-calm waters morphing into a boiling cauldron of chaos. The air grew heavy, charged with an almost electric tension, as an ominous shadow darkened the horizon. From the depths of the ocean, a towering figure emerged, rising like a living wave. Poseidon, god of the sea.

"ODYSSEUS OF ITHICA, do you know who I am?"

The sight of him was nothing short of awe-inspiring. His emerald-green hair flowed like seaweed caught in the tide, and his beard shimmered with droplets that glistened like pearls. His eyes burned with an unearthly light, twin orbs of wrath and power, and his trident crackled with energy, each prong glinting like a blade forged by the gods themselves. He loomed over the ship, a deity carved from the very essence of the ocean, and his presence silenced even the howling winds.

"In all my years of living, it isn't very often that I get pissed off. I try to chill with the waves. But damn, you crossed the line when you hurt this son of mine. That's right, the cyclops you made blind, is mine" Poseidon's voice rumbled across the waves, as deep and unforgiving as the sea itself. It was not a shout but a command, a force of nature that demanded reverence. His gaze bore into Odysseus, each word weighted with fury and disdain. "And now it is finally time to say goodbye, today you will die. Unless, of course, you apologize."

The crew froze in terror, their eyes wide as they fell to their knees, muttering prayers to a god who would not hear them. All except for Odysseus. Ever defiant, ever proud, he stepped forward, his drenched cloak clinging to him, his jaw set like stone. The wind whipped around him, and yet he stood tall, unyielding even before a god.

"Poseidon, we meant no harm to him. We only hurt him to disarm him," Odysseus declared, his voice steady, though his knuckles whitened as he gripped his sword hilt. "We took no pleasure in hurting him and were only trying to escape from the island!"

Poseidon's laughter was low and menacing, like the distant roll of thunder before a tempest. It was the sound of inevitability, of a force far beyond mortal comprehension. "The line between naïveté and hopefulness is almost invisible." he muttered, his lips curling into a sneer. "Die!"

With a sudden, sweeping motion of his trident, Poseidon summoned the fury of the sea. The water beneath us surged upward, waves towering like mountains. The ship groaned and creaked as though the wood itself feared what was to come. In the blink of an eye, the skies darkened, thunder cracked, and rain fell in torrents so heavy it felt as though the heavens themselves wept.

The waves came first, crashing against the ship with unrelenting force. Men screamed as they were thrown to the deck or hurled overboard, their cries swallowed by the tempest. The mast splintered, the sails torn to shreds as the winds howled with the fury of vengeful spirits. Lightning illuminated the chaos, fleeting glimpses of men clawing at the air as they were dragged into the abyss.

I stood still arms at my back as I watched the ship and the men just be thrown around like rag dolls. I kept a veil of shadow up to block the storm from hitting me.

With each wave, more men were lost. They clung to the rigging, to the remnants of the ship, to anything that might keep them afloat. But Poseidon was merciless. One by one, they were claimed by the sea, their bodies vanishing beneath the roiling surface. Their prayers went unanswered, their pleas drowned in the roar of the storm.

When the maelstrom finally began to relent, the ship was a shadow of its former self. The deck was slick with blood and seawater, the crew reduced to a handful of survivors clinging to life. Odysseus stood in the center of the wreckage, drenched and battered but unbroken. His face was a mask of grief and defiance, his hands trembling as he gripped the remnants of the ship's wheel.

"We'll not survive another storm like that," he said hoarsely, his voice raw from shouting over the gale. He turned to the surviving crew, his eyes hard with determination. "But we will survive. By the gods, we will."

I stepped forward, my usual levity tempered by the gravity of the situation. "Then use what remains of Aeolus's gift," I said, my voice steady. "Open the bag and let the winds guide us away from this cursed place."

Odysseus hesitated, his eyes searching mine for something—guidance, perhaps, or reassurance. Finally, he nodded. He retrieved the tattered remains of the wind bag from his cabin, its woven surface damp and frayed from the chaos. Loosening the ties, he released a controlled stream of air.

The breeze was gentle at first, a caress against the battered sails. But it grew steadily stronger, filling what remained of the canvas and propelling us forward with surprising precision. The ship groaned in protest but obeyed, cutting through the water as though fleeing the wrath of the god behind us.

As Poseidon's figure faded into the horizon, I glanced back at the sea god. His eyes followed us, his expression cold and unrelenting. This was far from over; I knew that much. Poseidon's wrath was not a storm to be quelled by distance or time. It was a force that would haunt Odysseus for every step of his journey.