Bright as the Sun, Penitent as the Lost Soul

"Where have you been, you two? Have you found Titan—?" A heavily pregnant woman called as she entered from the back door, carrying another little boy in her arms. And before she could finish, she went still when her green eyes caught the presence of the beautiful stranger. 

At first, the woman felt alarmed by the intruder, but when she looked into those silver eyes, she suddenly felt bewitched by some spell. Her nerves were shaking. Body and mind became numbed by such apparition that it prompted her to lower her toddler and knelt before the maiden, surprising her children. "By the might of Jupiter! I never thought your presence would bless my humble dwelling."

Somehow confused, Athena painted a dubious look on her face while the mother took her hand and kissed it with great reverence. 

"I know those eyes very well. The bright eyes that bore all the wisdom in the world—it was the same eyes that showed me mercy and luck. I may be one of those millions of prayers that rang in your ears, but as your sincere devotee, and with all my heart, I am grateful to you—our dear beloved Lady Minerva."

The name then dawned on her foggy thoughts. "Minerva." She breathily echoed. "Minerva. Minerva—that is it! Are we in Etruria?"

Stupefied by the former goddess's response, the mother was stammering with her answer—still both on cloud nine and in fright, thinking she might look like a fool in front of the ethereal woman that graced them with her presence. "Well, yes, my lady. We—we are in Sy—Syracuse."

"Syracuse." She repeated her words like a maimed little girl who was learning how to speak. "My goodness, we have traveled that far."

But her thoughts were interrupted when an enthusiastic air possessed the mother of the house. "Oh, so the hearsays were true! A goddess with bright eyes had indeed come into this land." She said as she carefully stood. 

"Oh, do be careful, my dear." Athena immediately held her, genuinely fearing for her condition. 

"Thank you, my lady. Oh, I never thought I could gaze upon you in the flesh. Since tender years of mine, I have been a devoted follower of yours, Lady Minerva. Not just me, but my whole family." 

"And I am honored to have met you and your little darlings," pointing at Phoebus, Helena, and Titan. "I have been in a state of wonderment ever since I opened my eyes to this place."

"You did not know you were here in Syracuse, my lady?"

Athena shook her head negatively. "No, I do not. Oh, it is a good thing I have explored the place!" 

"Minerva? The goddess?" Phoebus finally spoke after having his contemplation while carrying his toddling brother. "I thought your name was Athena?" 

"A goddess," Helena whispered in great awe, directly looking at Athena with a burbling fascination. "Pretty lady is a goddess."

Athena giggled and secretly adored such curiosity the children possessed, reminding her when Erichthonius was the same age. She reached her hand out to them, gesturing to come closer as she sat down on the floor, which surprised the mother, who then took a chair for her. "Come here, you three little ducklings." She sweetly called. 

Titan barked, also wanting to be part of the circle. 

"And you too, Titan, come and join us."

"Dear me! Oh, please do not sit there on the floor, my lady. Here you sit—"

"Do not worry, dear mother." Athena smiled, assuring that it meant no foul on her. "It is better that you should be the one sitting on the chair, for you are carrying a human there in your mighty womb."

The woman obliged—still truly in awe of the lady. Not only did Athena have this divine beauty, but she also possessed a soul that was as graceful as a swan on a lake. 

Oh, how the mother could not stop thanking the great Jupiter in silence, seeing how her Lady Minerva embraced her ragged children with no complaints but full of warmth and openness—especially with their questions that seemed to be reaching the heavens. 

"Now, my dearies, I am Athena. But I come with many names from different lands."

"Why with many names from different lands? Like you said, are you a wandering traveler like my father's friends?" Phoebus asked again as he was becoming overly curious. 

"ne—nem?" The toddler mumbled, trying to follow his older brother. 

"Why do you have so many names, Athena? Are you a goddess?" Helena also inquired. 

Beaming with sunshine, she curved her lips and nodded at their questions. 

"My story is as complicated as the Sphinx's riddles." Firmed yet gentle, she spoke with utmost sincerity while she brushed the toddler's hair as he sat on her lap and continued, "I am not a being who had walked on its four feet in the morning, walked on two in high noon, and walked on three at night for many years. I am a woman who came out from the head of a king—a woman who had no tender years except for a hazy memory of darkness and a lullaby from an anonymous singer."

Like listening to tales told by the elders, the mother and children were focused—keenly lending their ears to every sentence that escaped her lips. 

And given such an opportunity, Athena shared all the details with the family. She told them of her origin—why, in many lands, her name changed and how her story morphed to fit the land's tradition and the narrator's belief. Athena told them the good and the bad, the happy and the sad, even the dreading fall of Hellas that the family confirmed to have witnessed when a gigantic dark cloud hovered over Etruria in the past few days.

Everyone was delighted—so eager and so observant. Phoebus and Helena raised their questions between stories, and Athena was heartily open to answer. 

Once her story was out and about, flying in the open like a free bird, the former goddess of wisdom felt lighter. She felt her soul singing, her heart dancing, and her shoulders free from the burdens accumulated for a thousand years. 

***

While happiness nestled inside a little home that sat on the village, inside the large megaron was the opposite of such jubilee. There was Ikarus, running as the sunshine of the golden sun glared into his face from every open widow he passed by on the long hallway. His face beamed with terror and fear. In contrast to the bright rays of tranquility, there was a mood of savagery in him, pushing himself beyond his limits as his mind only thought of Xanthia—worried about what Tanis's lunacy could do to her. 

Reaching the goddess's private wing, the follower of Medusa's cult halted—pausing to calm his pounding heart and painful breaths. 

"I—I hope the goddess will heed us." He muttered between inhales and exhales, laboring his lungs a little more. 

As he slowly went forward, the first two soldiers allowed him entry to the door of the goddess's private wing since he was one of the faces they all grew too familiar with. The large brutes also knew that the cult the young man was part of was under the mercy of the goddess, sheltering them in exchange for their mystical service—not to mention that both parties enjoyed the idea of destroying the great pantheon. With that specific detail, Enyo effortlessly twisted the minds of everyone under Medusa's cult—poisoning their already corrupt thoughts with every word she said. 

As they vowed under her wings, the goddess's words were now the new law. 

But close association would not last long when another two large guards, one specifically a general called Myron of Aetolia, halted the dog-tired Ikarus from reaching the last door to the goddess Enyo's suite. 

"State your business, son." Myron unwaveringly stated, looking down at the rattled occultist. 

"I come here on behalf of my confidant. Tanis is not herself." 

"Again?" The other soldier solicited—complaining with a mockery in his eyes like it was not the first time. 

Myron chuckled, jesting as well to his subordinate's cavil. "Indeed. This is already the nth time she was moaning quizzical sentiments. Tell me, what vision is she having now?"

"Death." Stoic and stiff, Ikarus answered. "She is now telling us about death, general." 

The look on his withered face knotted in confusion. "Death?" General Myron pondered. "What is it this time?"

"Please, general." Ikarus finally pleaded with tiredness and worry in his voice. "I need to see the goddess. Tanis is pointing to something gloomy, and we thought that Lady Enyo could help us." 

Bored and not wanting any more arguments, the guards let him pass and warned him of the idles inside the suite. 

"Fine—" Myron exasperated, signaling the other soldier to open the doors towards Enyo's private room. "I warn you, son—the goddess is having her leisure moment. Just do not be forceful to avoid angering her." 

Ikarus nodded mindlessly, wondering only about Xanthia's well-being while still in the presence of a mad Tanis. 

Once the doors opened, the unfortunate man slowed his pace in reaching the goddess—brooding on thought whether where he was now was the right place to be. He was once a devout follower of the cult—mesmerized by the promises of a better tomorrow, as well as the truth they had always preached about the gods' sins against humanity and why some of these deities had to cease existing. 

Ikarus vowed under those aptitudes, preaching the name of Medusa with earnestness, calling her a martyr under false judgment. But now, doubt began to crawl into the fibers of his body, gradually corrupting him with remorse like a lost soul repeatedly drowning in the river Styx.