CHAPTER 6: Obol of Love (⚠️16+)

CHAPTER 6

ΟΒΟΛΟΣ ΤΗΣ ΑΓΑΠΗΣ

Obol of Love

Mēlesía wanted to understand—to grasp how he could be standing here before her, how he could feel so real in ways no god was ever meant to be.

Her elbow straightened inch by inch, her hand hovering blindly, searching.

Then—her palm hit solid.

Nýxios stood hardly an arm’s width away. Her fingers splayed.

Beneath her fingertips, she felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.

The fabric that covered him was impossibly fine—softer than flax, and lighter than linen ... spun from something she didn’t recognize.

Her hand moved cautiously at first, fingers slowly ghosting over the broad plane of his chest, learning the shape of him in ways sight never could.

She hesitated, wary of pressing too firmly against the curve of his shoulders or the sharp ridges of his collarbone—afraid, perhaps, of proving to herself just how real he was.

She should not be allowed this liberty, and yet...

“Does this help you know me?” Nýxios’ voice was lower now, roughened at the edges, as though something was beneath it.

“I’m not sure anymore…” she admitted, trailing off, scarcely above a whisper.

A day ago, she would have answered without doubt, but now, she faltered—realizing how a lack of sight had reshaped her understanding of everything. The world. The gods. Him.

She was comfortable as she was.

She continued, “Before, it seems ... I could not feel.”

His fingertips suddenly drifted from the tip of her shoulder to the hollow of her throat, tracing the lengths of her collarbone. His touch was featherlight; yet, it burned.

Did he know? Was he aware of the storm conjuring beneath her skin? He did not lead her. He did not demand.

Instead, he lingered—always too long—on the dips above her collarbones, pressing too gently on the skin of her arms and neck. He was waiting. Always.

Was she wrong to assume he was waiting for her?

She answered without knowing how—her eyelids closed and her lips relaxed.

What more could she offer?

An offering, she realized, only as sacred as time itself, given between mortal and mortal, and now, between mortal and god.

The space between them collapsed faster than light.

Time and space vanished from her mindset the moment his mouth pressed against hers.

Nýxios’ fingers slipped into her hair, threading through the strands, cradling the back of her head just enough to deepen the kiss, to part her lips beneath his.

Mēlesía responded without hesitation, draping her arms over his shoulders, her fingers playing with the ends of his hair as she pressed her body into his—letting him feel exactly how much she wanted him.

Her breath came faster now, uneven, caught between the rising urgency of want and the impossible patience required to endure the his pace.

Suddenly, he slowed—very deliberately.

His lips moved with a new maddening gentleness, kissing her like he had all the time in the world.

She let out a slow, frustrated sigh against his mouth, confusion blooming under her skin.

His lips curled into a small grin.

His arm at her waist dropped lower, guiding her tighter against him, while his other hand glided upward along her ribs.

He waited.

He made her wait.

It was too much—too slow, too unbearable, too good—as if he had reached inside her and found the exact want within her that would cause her to ache uncontrollably.

His mouth moved against hers in long, slow strokes, deepening the kiss with torturous care, savoring her frustration as though he enjoyed it.

His tongue brushed against hers suddenly—a slow press that sent weakness straight to her knees.

She expected a smirk, some sign of amusement at how her knees had buckled, but instead, his hands tightened at her waist.

He held her steady against his chest, grounding her—like he wanted her right there, exactly where she was.

Just as the heat of him began to consume her, just as her body mirrored the soft, measured press of his lips, he shifted—unraveling into something wilder.

Her pulse pounded. Her mind narrowed, locked entirely on him. Nothing had ever held her in place like this.

At this point, she no longer moved with intention. She was being carried, fully surrendered to the rhythm of his whims. It felt like drifting inside a current he alone commanded.

His kiss deepened again, his chest hot against hers—like their hearts were already intertwined on some unseen plane she could not witness herself.

She gasped into him, breathless; her body moving with his, guided not by thought but by instinct.

A current ran through her nerves.

A moan escaped her—loud, accidental.

Nýxios pulled away instantly.

The loss stunned her.

His presence remained nearby—close enough to sense, yet just beyond her reach.

Her body still angled toward him, unwilling to accept his sudden absence.

She turned her head, searching for his exact location—forgetting her lack of sight.

“Why?” The murmur escaped her lips before she could shrink the sadness in her voice.

“No reason in particular…” he replied, trailing off.

Somehow, his tone told her everything. She could hear the grin in his voice—too flirtatious to be naïve. For a moment, she had forgotten who she was dealing with.

Laughter bubbled out her lips, soft and real.

“Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. “I can’t believe you’re teasing me.”

For the first time, she understood why humanity feared blindness so deeply—because it could seduce as easily as it could destroy.

He made her bold—bolder than she had any right to be.

Though blind, she had never been more aware of him.

She felt him in the space around her, wrapping around her like something long-known.

If she took a chance and guessed where he was, she knew she’d be right.

Taking matters into her own hands, she reached for him—bolder this time. Her arms slipped around his neck with effortless precision.

He tensed.

Only slightly, but she felt it—a flicker of surprise. He hadn’t expected her to find him so easily.

She smiled at that.

His presence remained steady, but now it felt barely contained—as if held under restraint.

Until ... it wasn’t.

This time, he was the one who moved first.

He leaned in—not teasingly, but with urgency, as if the want within him too had finally become too much to hold back.

Just as she felt the heat of him near, just as his intent became clear—she pulled away, mirroring what he had done to her only moments before.

A quiet giggle slipped from her lips.

“Careful now...” he purred; all too soft to be a warning.

“You started it.”

Nýxios’ chuckle bloomed through the darkness. To Mēlesía, it felt like warm light slipping through a parted curtain. The godly sound fastened a smile to her lips.

She might have pressed further, but she felt the airs between them shift.

Unexpectedly, Mēlesía felt something cool and metallic being pressed into her palm.

“A key—to find me.”

At first touch, it felt like a coin. Her fingers turned the object over, running across its surface—thicker, smoother, and heavier than common currency. Most likely silver, she thought. Perhaps bronze, though its weight suggested otherwise.

Normally, coins bore the marks of their history—nicks and scratches, the faint grit of dust, the wear of countless hands. But this one felt untouched, as though it had been freshly struck.

Her fingertips traced the ridge along its circumference, where unknown symbols pressed faintly into the metal on both sides.

A token? A stater of divine dealings?

An obol? To most, an obol was a final payment, a farewell.

Her brow furrowed. “Is this … an obol?”

To most, an obol was a final payment, a farewell.

If ... she didn’t want to part with him; what then?

“The obol of love. My obol of love.” he replied, his voice as smooth as water. “The ferryman grants passage not only to the afterlife ... but also to those seeking their loved ones in this life and the next. It will guide you to me. You’ll feel its pull, like a lodestone.”

Her fingers clasped around it protectively.

“You must keep it unseen,” he instructed.

Her fingers lovingly glided over the golden obol of love resting in her palm, reading its shape through touch.

“No one can see it—none at all?” she questioned deeper, already considering where to hide it on her person if she was required to keep it with her at all times.

“You may choose one or two, perhaps three—but no more,” he explained. “The more mortal eyes fall upon it, the weaker it becomes. It must remain as my nature—unseen.”

“I'll make sure of it.”

“If it ever weakens, I will revive it for you—again and again, for as long as needed,” he said. “You only require it to reenter my domain because of the restrictions of your ... humanity.”

It was the key to reencounter him again.

She would keep it safe.

After this experience, she required no more to convince her into sacrificing her effort.

She felt his fingers gently trace her cheek, before tilting her chin upward, pulling her attention toward him with greater focus.

“You speak as though my return is fated,” she said through a small smile.

“More than Helios.”

Her joy was fleeting. A weight settled deep in her chest, pressing against her ribs. Her grip tightened around the coin as her thoughts turned homeward.

Her father was still waiting—hungry, uncertain.

Nearly two days had passed.

“I can’t abandon my family.”

His tone was understanding. “You have great empathy—but you are mistaken. I do not ask you to choose. You forget—I am not mortal. Time bends around me. What I mean is, I will be comfortable as I wait for you.”

“You will?” she whispered. Nothing else mattered.

“Go home, huntress. Feed your people—your father, your neighbors. Show them you have not returned empty-handed. Let them see your strength.”

Her throat tightened.

“When your tasks are done, no matter how long they take … return to me.” His fingers traced the curve of her jaw, featherlight. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “I have known you before, and I will know you again. Time will not hide you from me again.”

“How long have we been doing this?” she whispered.

“I wonder?”

His lips met hers for what she knew would be the last time until fate wove their paths together again. His hand curled around the back of her neck, drawing her closer. Savoring and slow. There wasn’t enough time in the world.

When Nýxios pulled away from her, it was just enough for his gentle breath to comfort her skin as he whispered goodbye, “I will be near, my golden one.”

Then, he was gone.

Vanished, like before, as if he had never been there at all.

⁂

Sharp and sudden, like being thrust from one world into another, light fractured through Mēlesía's sightlessness.

Colors erupted into her vision.

Mēlesía staggered, her hands flying to her face, steadying herself against the sheer force of her sight's return.

Shapes and shadows poured into focus—so vivid it hurt, but only for a moment.

Her vision sharpened, familiarity rushing back, grounding her.

A world she could now confirm she hadn’t missed.

The first thing she saw with certainty made her frown.

Before her, impossible to overlook, lay a small leather sachet resting atop a large, flattened boulder, its drawstring tied in a neat golden knot.

Impossible.

The leather was purple. It should not exist.

Purple dyes were sacred, rare beyond measure—reserved for kings, gods, and temple cloths. Yet this was not Porphyra, the famed Tyrian dye, but something softer, more violet. It could only be Orchil, the lichen dye she had only heard of in passing.

Even that knowledge was not meant for someone like her. She had not learned of such things in her village, nor from her parents or friends, but from wandering far and listening well—to the traders at Dodona, fisherfolk, and tanners. She had always been a listener, unseen and curious, always gathering what others dismissed as meaningless or simple. This was why.

She knelt, hesitating before touching the foreign leather.

No tanner in Epirus—not even in Athens—could have produced such a thing.

Lifting it, she found the sachet shockingly heavy as she balanced it on her palm.

Slowly, she loosened the drawstring and looked inside.

She immediately felt lightheaded.

Inside lay an array of precious crystals: smoky quartz, blood-red carnelian, lapis lazuli, amethyst, green malachite, and an incredibly rare sliver of heliodor, as golden as Helios’ chariot—minerals she had never seen, crystals only heard of in stories.

This was no ordinary gift. This was something impossible. Why give this to a mortal? Why? Wasn’t this foolish?

Her hands curled around the sachet, her vision blurring for a new reason. She shut her eyes, pressing her lips together, but the emotion swelled too full to contain. A shaky, half-choked, half-disbelieving laugh slipped from her lips.

She lifted her gaze skyward to the sunlit clouds—but her thoughts focused only on him.

For the first time, she wondered if Nýxios had chosen her not despite her nature, but because of it.

Somehow, it was bittersweet.

“You could have simply given me a stag...” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek—her joy soaked with the pain of his absence. “I could have returned to you sooner, then...”

Only … that would change nothing in the end, would it?

Her fingers tightened around the leather pouch, pressing it against her chest. She exhaled sharply.

The vast unknown, the vast unanswering—but she did not need words to understand. Not anymore.

She loved the god of the unseen.

He had always known she could; and she had always known she was capable.

Her resolve hardened.

“No matter what, Nýxios, I will return to you. I vow it.” she proclaimed loudly, her voice fierce with determination.

She rose to her feet, securing the beautiful violet leather pouch against her waist, tucking it into the folds of her belt where it would stay unseen.

Mēlesía had never been given something greater—and now, she would make it even greater.

With such minerals, she could buy enough barley and wheat to last the winter, barter for hardy livestock, and trade for an iron knife sharper than her father’s old copper blade.

She clenched her jaw.

She could not simply return to her village like this.

Who would believe she had come by such riches honestly? Who would not whisper behind her back, questioning what god, or man, had favored her?

If someone thought it stolen, what then? No woman, not even the strongest huntress, could stand against desperate men.

Even if they trusted her, who could afford such wealth? Farmers traded in grain, cheese, or oil. What use was lapis or heliodor here, amongst the poor?

The roads were filled with bandits. Merchants were not always fair. A poor village girl with no family name or patron had no power to demand better.

She had spent her life believing power belonged to the visible—the landowners, warriors, men who stood tall in the agorae.

Alone she could not barter like a man. Alone she could not shape an entire village’s fate.

These words are not the kind that veiled the eyes, but the kind that veiled the mind.

She now understood: power was not material presence alone, but in the silence of what was unseen.

Nýxios had proven to her that within the realm of the unseen, status meant nothing. It was not birthright that ruled, but patience.

This was her task now: patience.

Why had he given her something so difficult to sell? Why not grain outright? Why not a stag, large and well-fed?

It was, of course, a very god-like thing to do—offering a gift wrapped in a trial.

Yet, she didn’t mind.

What is divinity if not the art of placing burdens in mortal hands? What is mortality if not the thrill of taking them?

It was clear. The wealth within her hands could provide freedom—if she was wise enough.

Her home village did not need to see lapis lazuli, amethyst, or green malachite to survive.

They needed full grain stores, rain that came when it was needed, soil that would yield enough to see them survive through the winter.

Humanity required the unseen forces that kept the world balanced—the underground springs that fed the olive groves, and the roots that held the hills together.

She couldn't simply return home and lay these riches at the feet of her village as she wished to—to reveal such assets would invite ruin.

If she was to change her village, to rebuild it from its foundation, it had to be done the way all lasting things were—through quiet, patient hands working beneath the surface.

She would move with patience, like Nýxios, rather than the boldness of Helios.

She would have to leave her village; past the valleys and forests of Epirus she knew. She’d have to find the Phoenician traders in Corinth, the Thracian merchants dealing in silver and dyes, and the men hauling bronze from the mines of Chalkidike.

She needed people who understood the worth of what she carried. She needed those who would trade fairly, who could turn these stones into something real—grain, livestock, tools, cloth.

It would be a dangerous path. She would walk among those who sought to take and deceive.

Zeus did not rule through thunder alone, nor did Hermes rule through words alone, nor did the Fates rule through thread alone—and neither would she.

She would move through the world as he did, ruling with all that was seen, all that was felt, and all that was unseen.

She felt something close to happiness.

For once, her purpose was more than survival, more than the endless cycle of daily duty.

As a mortal, she was never meant to love Nýxios—but she had, without reason, and it had rooted deep, as if it had always been.

Confident, she walked beyond his ring of fig trees, far past the boundary of his domain, ready to face the world.

Her village would eat.

Her father would heal.

One day, when the weight of survival no longer pressed upon her shoulders, when life no longer demanded so much of her, she would return to him.

ΣΥΝΕΧΙΣΤΕΟΝ

TO BE CONTINUED...