Reincarnated As Poseidon

The marble halls of Olympus glowed gold in the dawn, but Apollo did not see the sun's warmth as a gift that morning. He was the sun, after all, and what streamed across the white pillars was nothing but his own radiance, bent and dulled by stone.

He sat apart from the others, lyre forgotten in his lap, gaze fixed not on Olympus, but on the seas far below. Even from this height, he could feel it—the pulse, the pull, the rhythm that no sunbeam could silence. Poseidon.

The drowned god's influence was no longer creeping—it was asserting. Already, half the harbors of the mortal coast bore witness to tides that bent against the will of nature, to bells tolling drowned warnings. The council had declared him an enemy. Armies were being readied. But Apollo knew better than to believe brute force would hold.

The sea never fought as mortals expected. Neither did gods reborn.

And Apollo… Apollo had his own reasons for watching.

The council chamber rang with discord that morning. Athena's voice cut sharp as bronze:

"Every day we delay, more cities drown. Poseidon claims more mortals. If we allow him to continue unchecked, soon the very balance we guard will collapse."

Artemis frowned beside her twin, silver circlet catching the light. "You argue as though we face only a rogue wave. He is no longer mortal, Athena. He is Poseidon awakened. If you strike without care, you may unleash what even we cannot contain."

Ares slammed his fist against the stone. "Contain, restrain, calculate—words for cowards! Let me march. Let me crush his vessel before he grows beyond us."

The chamber trembled at his fury, but Apollo said nothing. He played one idle note on his lyre—low, minor, a thread of sorrow wrapped in golden sound.

Zeus, sitting in his high seat, growled, "Enough." His thunderous gaze swept the hall. "The drowned one has risen before. He was chained. Banished. Forgotten. He can be so again."

But Apollo did not agree. He had studied the patterns, the whispers of prophecy. He remembered the boy who had walked with mortals, Dominic-turned-Poseidon, carrying something new, something more dangerous than the old drowned god ever had.

The council wanted war. But Apollo sought understanding—and an edge.

When the council dissolved, gods streaming out in thunder and flame, Apollo remained behind. He stood at the marble window, staring out over the horizon where sea met sky. His eyes, radiant and eternal, narrowed.

He is not Thalorin reborn. He is not Dominic alone. He is both, and something more. A tide with memory.

The Oracle's words haunted him, though he had never told the others:

> When the drowned bell tolls, the sun must choose to burn or to guide. Light cannot flee the tide, only decide what it illuminates.

He had kept the prophecy locked in silence, not even sharing it with Artemis. For the council would only twist it to their means.

But Apollo understood. His choice would define not only his own fate, but that of Olympus itself.

That night, Apollo left Olympus. Not in brilliance, but in shadow. His form dimmed, his chariot left untended as he walked among the mortals in a quiet harbor city—one of the few not yet touched by Poseidon's tide.

Here, the air smelled of fish and oil. Children ran barefoot on the docks, singing songs of the sun. And yet, Apollo felt no joy.

A figure waited for him by the pier. Cloaked, hood drawn low, but the aura was unmistakable. The Watcher of Tides. A mortal priest who had not drowned when Poseidon rose, one who now served as the drowned god's herald.

"You shouldn't be here," the Watcher said softly. His voice was like shifting silt. "The others will sense you."

Apollo stepped closer, golden light faintly breaking through his disguise. "Then speak quickly. Why does he linger? Why does Poseidon not strike Olympus itself, if his strength is so great?"

The Watcher's lips curved in something between a smile and a grimace. "Because he is listening. He tests mortals, yes, but more than that—he listens to their prayers. He has not forgotten what it means to be one of them."

Apollo's heart tightened. Dominic's shadow still lived, then.

"And what of Thalorin?" Apollo pressed. "That abyss in him—does it grow?"

The Watcher's eyes gleamed with reflected moonlight. "It grows. But whether it consumes him, or whether he bends it to his will… that is what frightens you gods most, isn't it? That a mortal might master what you yourselves could not."

Apollo said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

When the Watcher left, Apollo remained on the pier, staring at the black water. He strummed his lyre once, the note trembling like dawn caught in fog.

His mind warred with itself.

If Poseidon retained Dominic's compassion, perhaps he could be reasoned with. Perhaps light could temper the tide. But if Thalorin's abyss consumed him fully, then no council, no army, no war could prevent the drowning of all realms.

And so Apollo chose silence. He would neither betray nor protect Poseidon yet. Instead, he would watch.

He would study.

He would prepare for the moment when his choice could no longer be delayed.

When Apollo returned, Artemis confronted him. Her silver eyes were sharp as arrows.

"You left."

"I walked," Apollo replied lightly, though he did not meet her gaze.

"You went to him, didn't you?"

Silence.

"You always were the dreamer," she said bitterly. "The council sharpens spears, and you… you still think light can guide the tide."

Apollo turned at last, his face calm but his eyes burning like molten gold. "And you always think arrows can pierce the sea. Perhaps you are wrong this time, Artemis."

For a moment, twin deities of sun and moon locked eyes, each bearing truths the other could not accept.

Then Artemis turned away.

And Apollo sat once more with his lyre, plucking at strings, each note echoing a question he could not yet answer.

Far below, in the mortal seas, Poseidon stirred, and the tides shifted once more. The drowned bell had tolled, the harbors leaned, and now Olympus sharpened its blades.

But in the midst of gods baying for war, one god of sun remained uncertain.

Apollo, golden archer, radiant prophet, would decide not only his own path, but the path of Olympus itself.

And when the tide came for the heavens, light would either burn… or drown.