{Greece, Golden Age}
"My beautiful Calypso."
I looked up at Atlas, his arms bulging, he could crush me in a moment. I didn't know how I had suddenly become Calypso, but that wasn't what worried me.
What did was that I seemed to have no control over my actions. No matter what I willed, the body did something else. I couldn't feel my shadows, but luckily I could still see souls, for all that was worth.
Years went by, yet I could still do nothing to control the body. Words that weren't my own escaped my lips, actions that weren't my own were done, yet all I could do was think, think, and think.
Think of a way to get out of here, think of a way to get back to Ogygia, think of a way to get my body back, think of a way to gather myself, think of a way to stop Kronos and whatever he had planned. Think, think, and think.
I was trapped inside Calypso's mind, with no one to talk to for weeks, months, years, decades. All I could do was watch. Watch Calypso running through the meadows with her sisters, playing in the rivers, weaving dresses for herself and her siblings, singing to Atlas every night.
"Papa, tell me about the stars again," Calypso's voice echoed through my consciousness.
Atlas's rumbling laugh filled the air. "Again, my little nymph? Very well. Do you see that bright one there? That's Polaris, the North Star. Sailors use it to guide their way home..."
As Atlas recited tales of constellations, I felt myself slipping further away. Was I Odysseus? Or was I Calypso? The lines blurred with each passing day, my identity dissolving like salt in the endless sea of time.
This place had it all. It was beautiful, it was perfect, it was golden. Until it wasn't.
War came as fast as thunder, a storm of violence that shattered the idyllic peace of the Golden Age.
Atlas went on to fight at Kronos' side. Gods and Titans, nymphs and hundred-handed clashed in cosmic battles that rent the very fabric of reality. We fought, she fought, I fought. And even here, all I could do was think, think, and think, a prisoner in a mind that wasn't my own.
"Calypso, stay hidden!" Atlas roared as the sounds of battle drew near, his voice a mixture of fury and fear.
But Calypso didn't listen. Neither did I. We ran towards the chaos, our heart pounding with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. The battlefield was a nightmare made real - immortal beings tearing each other apart, the sky itself bleeding ichor, the earth screaming in agony beneath our feet.
I watched through Calypso's eyes as Atlas grappled with Zeus himself, the struggle so intense that reality warped around them. I felt Calypso's horror as she witnessed her father's defeat, saw him crushed beneath the weight of the sky - a punishment that would last for eternity.
War went by as fast as it had come, decades of carnage spanning into a single, horrifying second. The titans had lost, this was true. Now I stood before the gods I had so carelessly gone against when I joined my father, their faces twisted with righteous anger and cruel satisfaction.
"As your punishment, I, Zeus, new Lord of the Cosmos, banish thee, Calypso, to live alone for all eternity, on an unfindable island, to remember your mistakes, transgressions, and penance."
Zeus then waved his hand, still holding the Master Bolt, that accursed weapon. Lightning arced from the bolt, enveloping us in a cocoon of searing energy. When I opened my eyes once more, I was alone, in a cave, with glowing rocks all around me. The sudden silence was deafening, the isolation immediate and absolute.
Centuries passed, yet as always I kept on thinking, thinking, and thinking. Alone, with nothing to accompany me, with no one to talk to, I felt like I was going mad, on the brink of breaking. The line between Calypso and myself blurred further with each passing moment, our identities merging and separating like the ebb and flow of the tides that surrounded our prison.
Then they came.
A gift from Hera, clumsy servants. They revered me, yet I also couldn't talk to them, not truly. All the words came out programmed, so I kept on thinking and thinking. In time, even the new servants' antics grew monotone, their presence a cruel reminder of the companionship I could never truly have.
"Lady Calypso, we've prepared your bath," one servant said, its voice a hollow echo in my fractured mind.
"Thank you," Calypso's voice replied, while I screamed silently inside our shared consciousness, begging to be heard, to be acknowledged, to be real.
Days blended into nights, years into centuries. The sun rose and set a million times, yet I remained unchanged, trapped in this eternal prison of flesh and thought. The island, once a paradise, became a nightmare of repetition. Every tree, every rock, every grain of sand was etched into my mind with maddening detail.
I began to question my own existence. Was I real? Had I ever been Odysseus, or was that just a dream conjured by a lonely goddess's fractured psyche? The memories of my past life, Camp Half-Blood, my friends, my quests, began to feel like fiction, stories I had told myself to stave off the madness of eternal solitude.
"Who am I?" I screamed into the void of our shared mind. But there was no answer, only the endless cycle of Calypso's days, a loop of loneliness that threatened to erase me completely.
Time lost all meaning. Had it been years? Centuries? Millennia? I couldn't tell anymore. All I knew was the endless cycle of isolation and despair. I watched as Calypso tended her garden, wove on her loom, sang to the empty air - activities that once brought her joy now nothing more than habits to fill the void.
The worst part was the hope. Every so often, I would feel a spark of my old self, a memory so vivid it seemed real. I would fight against the prison of Calypso's mind, struggling to reassert my identity. But each time, the spark would fade, leaving me more lost, more fragmented than before.
I began to see things that weren't there. Shadows at the corner of Calypso's vision that looked like old friends. Voices on the wind that sounded like long-lost companions. But when we turned to look, there was nothing but the empty island, mocking our solitude.
One day, in a moment of desperation, words which I didn't know if they were mine or Calypso were spoken. "Help me!" We screamed to the uncaring sky. "I'm trapped! Please someone! Anyone! HELP!"
But the only response was the echo of our own voices, distorted and strange in Calypso's sole throat. The servants, if they heard, gave no sign. And soon, Calypso's consciousness reasserted itself, smothering me once more in the depths of our shared mind.
The isolation began to twist my thoughts, turning them dark and strange. I began to hate Calypso, resenting her for the prison her mind had become. I hated the gods for their cruel punishment. I hated myself for being too weak to break free.
In my darkest moments, I contemplated oblivion. Would it be better to simply let go, to allow my consciousness to dissolve completely into Calypso's? At least then the torment would end. But something always held me back, a part of me, knowing I had to regain control, to be full.
And so I endured, a ghost in the machine, a whisper in the back of Calypso's mind. I watched through her eyes as the world changed. I felt her loneliness, her despair, her fleeting moments of joy when birds visited the island or when a particularly beautiful flower bloomed.
Then, one day, something changed. A new presence appeared on the island. A man, unconscious on the shore, his clothes tattered and his body battered by the sea. As Calypso approached him, I felt a stirring in our shared consciousness. A spark of recognition, perhaps? Or just another cruel trick of this eternal imprisonment?
Calypso knelt beside the man, gently turning him over. His face was weathered, marked by years of hardship and adventure. Yet there was a nobility to his features, I recognized him but I didn't know from where.
"Who are you, stranger?" Calypso's voice whispered, but for the first time in eons, I felt as if I had some control over the words.
The man's eyes flickered open, revealing eyes as gray and turbulent as a storm-tossed sea. He looked up at Calypso, confusion and wonder mingling in his gaze.
"I am Odysseus," he said, his voice rough from the salt water. "King of Ithaca."
And suddenly, everything shifted. The name acted like a key, unlocking a flood of memories - not Calypso's, but mine. Memories of a life before this eternal prison. Memories of Camp Half-Blood, of quests, of friends long lost. Memories of a name I once bore.
As Odysseus spoke his name, I felt myself awakening. With each word, I became more distinct from Calypso, more... myself. It was like emerging from a deep, dark well, gasping for air after an eternity of drowning.
And then, as Calypso helped Odysseus to his feet, I felt something break free within me. For the first time in eons, I had control. Not of Calypso's body, but of her voice. It wasn't much, but it was something. A crack in the prison that had held me for so long.
With all the will I could muster, I forced Calypso's lips to move, her vocal cords to vibrate. And finally, I let out words that were truly my own, my consciousness screaming into existence after an eternity of silence.
"Odysseus?" The name came out as barely more than a whisper, but it was mine. My word, my voice, my desperate plea for recognition. "Ozzy?"
A/N: Send those stones ladies and gents, I thank you