Chapter 135: Atlantis 1
The waves bowed to him.
That was the first thing Dominic—no, Poseidon—noticed as he walked barefoot across the shoreline of his dominion. Each step pressed not into sand, but into living memory. The waters did not resist him anymore; they sang to him, a deep, primeval hymn thrumming in his blood.
Yet beneath that hymn, something else stirred—darker, heavier, like chains rattling at the bottom of an abyss. Thalorin’s essence.
He clenched his trident tighter, his knuckles whitening. I am Poseidon now. Not a vessel. Not prey. Not a dying boy counting hospital hours.
But the ocean answered differently.
"You are both," whispered a voice like rolling thunder in the deep. "And when the tides turn, you will learn which half drowns the other."
Poseidon shut his eyes, forcing the whisper down. The ocean stretched endless before him, yet no longer felt like freedom—it felt like a cage too vast to escape.
He wasn’t alone.
From the foggy horizon, the first of his newly-forged subjects arrived: nereids with seafoam hair and pearl-sheen skin, tritons armed with coral-forged spears, and leviathans gliding beneath the waves. They bowed as one, voices rising like a storm surge.
"Hail, Poseidon! God of the Sea reborn!"
The sound should have filled him with triumph. Instead, unease tightened his chest. These were his now—an army, a kingdom, a people. But for what? To serve him, or the ancient being gnawing inside him?
He turned his gaze outward, beyond the reach of mortal eyes, where the fabric of the sea darkened. There, hidden, pulsed a rift in reality—a scar left behind when Thalorin’s essence first awakened. It shimmered faintly, bleeding darkness into the water.
The memory of Olympus burned in his mind. Zeus’s thunderous decree, Hera’s suspicion, Athena’s sharp eyes all weighing him, dissecting him. They saw him not as a brother returned, but as a threat dressed in godflesh.
He had little time before their judgment sharpened into blades.
A nereid, bolder than the rest, swam closer, her green eyes glowing with reverence.
"My lord," she said, voice rippling like current, "the seas rejoice in your awakening. The tides obey your command. But shadows stir beyond Atlantis. The deep is restless."
"The deep has always been restless," Poseidon answered, though his tone carried little conviction.
The nereid tilted her head. "Not like this."
As if summoned by her words, the ocean trembled. From the rift, black tendrils of liquid shadow seeped outward, spreading like ink in clear water. The leviathans growled, tritons raised their weapons, and the nereids drew back with fear.
Poseidon felt it too—not just in the water, but in his veins. The rift called to him, hungry, insistent.
"Come home," Thalorin’s voice murmured. "Open the gate, vessel. Drown the world as it was meant to drown."
Poseidon’s trident pulsed, its prongs glowing with azure flame as if resisting the call. The clash of forces inside him—one divine, one abyssal—wrenched at his body. His knees nearly buckled.
"My lord?" a triton barked, gripping his shoulder. "What is it?"
Poseidon straightened, jaw tight. "An intrusion. A reminder that the deep holds enemies even the gods cannot name."
But that was a lie. He knew the truth. The enemy was within him.
He couldn’t let them see it. Not his soldiers. Not Olympus.
"Prepare the phalanx," he ordered, voice firm now. "No shadow passes into these waters unchallenged. Atlantis must not fall."
A roar of approval echoed from his subjects, their loyalty fierce, their faith blinding. They surged away, rallying at his command.
But Poseidon stayed behind, staring at the rift. Alone, the mask cracked. His chest heaved. His hand trembled around the trident.
"You won’t control me," he whispered, though his voice shook. "I won’t let you."
"You think you have a choice?" Thalorin’s laughter was a rolling tidal quake. "Gods are cages too, boy. You traded one weakness for another. And soon... even Olympus will kneel to me, through you."
Poseidon slammed the trident into the ground. The sea erupted in a column of light, severing the tendrils that reached for him. The shadows hissed and retreated—for now.
Silence returned. Only the hiss of surf remained, and Poseidon’s ragged breath.
---
Later, in Atlantis
The city of Atlantis shimmered like a jewel beneath the waves, its towers carved of coral and obsidian, its streets glowing with bioluminescent runes. Once, Poseidon had dreamt of places like this as a mortal boy drowning in tubes and IV drips. He had longed for wonder. Magic. Escape.
Now he ruled it.
Atlantean generals knelt in the council hall, voices raised in fervor.
"The rift grows bolder," one declared. "We have already lost two outposts to its corruption."
"Then strike it down!" another roared.
"With what? Spears of coral? The shadow consumes anything we send."
Their eyes turned to him. Always, their eyes turned to him.
"Poseidon," said a high priestess draped in seashell robes, "only your will can seal the rift. Only a god’s power can withstand what festers there."
The hall fell silent. Waiting. Expecting.
Poseidon lifted his trident, feeling the weight of every gaze.
And in the silence, Thalorin laughed again.
"Seal it? You mean feed it. Every ounce of your power strengthens the gate. Open it wider, vessel. Let me through."
His grip faltered. His throat tightened.
For a moment, he saw himself as they must see him: majestic, radiant, the Sea God reborn. But beneath that mask was a frightened boy from another life, terrified of being consumed by something he could neither fight nor flee.
But he couldn’t show weakness. Not here. Not now.
He rose from the throne, voice like a wave crashing on cliffs.
"I will face the rift."
The council erupted in cheers.
But inside, Dominic—Poseidon—wondered if he had just doomed them all.
---
The Descent
That night, beneath the silent glow of bioluminescent whales, Poseidon stood alone before the rift. It pulsed stronger now, each beat like a heart echoing his own. Shadows bled into the water in thick coils, whispering promises of dominion.
His trident gleamed with power. The sea itself bent in anticipation.
And his reflection in the dark water wasn’t his own.
It was Thalorin.
Eyes like abyssal pits. A crown of black coral. A grin that promised ruin.
"Come, vessel. Stop resisting. You know Olympus fears you. You know they will betray you. But me? I will make you endless. Together, we drown heaven itself."
Poseidon’s chest heaved, every muscle trembling. The weight of choice crushed him. Seal it—and risk feeding the beast. Leave it—and let the shadows spread.
Was he a god? Or was he still the dying boy, clinging to hope that power could save him?
The rift yawned wider. Something clawed at the edge, trying to force its way through.
And for the first time since his rebirth, Poseidon whispered not to the sea, not to Olympus, but to himself:
"I am not your vessel. I am not your shadow. I am Poseidon."
He raised his trident—
The sea roared.
The rift answered.
And in the clash of light and shadow, the fate of oceans trembled.