saturn, sleeping at last

SKEGNESS,
ENGLAND.

it is here that he remembers what he lost.

the god of earthquakes, of sea and horses and rain. god of water, of purity and cleanliness and rebirth. the god who could rain terror on his foes, command the ocean with his mind, his eyes—a flick of his fingers. he brought the skies to sunshine, the waters to the shore, the smell of salt through towns. he brought the fisherman their fish, let the nets fall in his land, graced their begging hands with income—watched them stumble back to shore.

he was a god.

now? he is nothing.

he stands at the coast. the salt in the air is not the same: it lacks his touch, the immortal nectar—faint as it is deadly. it lacks the love of the ocean, the singing of fisherman who caught a good stock, who made good income. it is dry and plain, the air is. it weeps for its joy, it weeps for sunshine, it weeps for its god.

he wears a shirt of blue. the wind is harsh in its pursuit to drench him in flecks of water. it pushes his shirt back and forth in protest. he does not move. he is not to be commanded—he refuses it, spits at the thought. pebbles are beneath his feet. they crunch at his movement, prod at the soles of his sandals. auburn hair hangs in front of sea-green eyes. they are melancholy in their observing, weak as they are dull. there is no life in his eyes anymore, no joy or pride or fight.

he is a ghost of his former self.

the sun says hello. it is shy and timid, no longer following the instructions of apollo. it is free—it comes and goes, and with it the warmth. winter rolls in with every second. the sky darkens quicker. rain seems to be angrier. the sea is restless upon the shore. he touches the waters: cold and desolate, no longer comforted by his affection. it is foreign to him, no longer a friend.

he has lost his touch.

he has lost his touch, his friends, his powers, his worth. there, in his days of immortality, he had purpose. his eyes saw all, ears heard even the chattering of fish, the laughter of horses, the joy of sharks. he does not hear it anymore—just splashes, both infrequent and small. fishes stare at his eyes, then swim away. they do not recognise his face. they do not recognise his lifeless eyes.

"the sea is restless today." a voice says, hand upon his shoulder. it is her—the raven haired girl, with skin of tan and warmth. it is her again, the only reason he lets himself be put in front of such misery. he knows when she visits now: everyday, at two in the afternoon. but winter is coming. she has been late on some days. later and later and later.

she will not stay much longer.

"is it not always?" he asks. he likes her voice; it reminds him of the waters upon olympus. soft and tranquil, with the grace of tamed horses.

"i guess so." she crouches now, her body upon pebbles. feet dipped in the ocean, she looks up the sky. her eyes are like the sun: they glow against the dimness of the english grey. she is a beacon of light. she is the sea. he sits beside her. all is calm for a while. the sea is persistent: it engulfs her feet in a hug, then releases it with resistance. she shivers, the cold drawing up her spine. a sad laugh escapes her lips. they are red with life—with immortality and nectar and ambrosia. "i once was immune to this chill."

he freezes. time stops. his eyes are on hers: seaweed against the sun. he recognises her now. he sees her now.

his wife, his immortal beloved.

she smiles, hand on his.

"amphitrite?" his voice cracks.

"hello, poseidon. it has been long, has it not?"