theatrical_muse, 245: What's the first thing you remember?
The gods mentioned in this story are not meant to represent any of the gods that may currently exist in the variety of prompt and roleplaying communities on Livejournal or elsewhere. They are gods inside of Athena's universe only, and their actions and personalities have no relation to, or effect upon, any other characters but Athena.
Foundations Made of Clay
Nobody usually calls me Twice Born. That title's reserved for my brother, born of his mother and then our father's thigh. Yeah, thigh. I don't know. Knowing my father, he figured it was the closest thing to his loins, and his loins were where life came from. All life, because he's my father and, at the time, was pretty sure the entire universe revolved around him.
He's much better now, I promise.
Anyway, I'm as twice born as Dionysus, but he gets the epithet and the mystery cults. I'm okay with that.
Pretty much everyone knows the story of my birth, even if they don't know the details. Mother swallowed by father. Father gets a headache. Father gets hit on the head with a hammer or an axe. I pop out.
No need to get boring about it. That's all the important stuff.
I have no memories of my time in either my mother's womb or my father's head. It's strange, because my mother used that time to teach me all sorts of things. She created my armor and spear, and by the time I came out of my father's head I was good to go.
But my first memory is of my father.
"Hello," he said, holding a piece of linen to his still bleeding forehead. Mother, who had sprung out with me (everyone seems to gloss over that) had already wandered off. So much for family bonds.
Still, I was prepared to meet my father and announce myself to my family, such as they were. At the time, that consisted only of my father and my uncle.
This is the part they call pealing to the broad sky. Something about a call of war. How it went was:
"I am Athena, daughter of the King of the Gods, child of knowledge, bearer of the - "
"Yes, Daughter, I know all that. Could you please hold on a moment while my forehead knits back together?"
And that was that.
My father has had different forms over the years, as he pleases. We've all tried to stay up with fashion, especially more recently when we've needed to blend in. But that first image of him is what I'll always remember. He was tall and bronzed, his black hair curling heavily over his ears. He had well trimmed beard, and wore a white linen toga, and when he smiled his wide smile (something I learned later was reserved only for a few of us) his brilliant white teeth poked through the darkness, like a tiny row of stars.
"Athena," he addressed me like a loving father, and reached out with his hand.
I greeted him as a warrior, clasping forearms. "Father."
Nodding, he held my forearm tightly and looked into my eyes. There was still a small line of blood running from his forehead and curving around his nose. I tried my best to meet his gaze instead of staring at the blood.
He's never told me what he was thinking at that moment.
I've never asked.