Tiresias was not new to strangeness. He had lived as a woman for seven years. He had spoken with gods, seen truths that broke lesser minds, and returned from the underworld twice. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the moment he realized he was pregnant again.
As a man.
It began subtly. An odd fluttering in his lower belly. A warmth, like spring light under the skin. Then came the cravings: fresh figs soaked in wine, olives dipped in honey, lightning-charred fish. He ate snow in the dead of summer and insisted on lying belly-up under full moons.
Hermes noticed the changes immediately.
“You’ve started humming when you eat,” Hermes said one morning, floating upside down above Tiresias’s porch. “It’s weirdly adorable.”
Tiresias glared over a bowl of pickled eggs and pine needles. “Don’t you dare say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it was the kiss.”
Hermes tried to look innocent, but his grin was guilty as sin. “I mean… it was pretty magical. Maybe Olympian seed works in mysterious ways.”
Tiresias dropped a spoon. “I swear to every god—if I start glowing or get wings—”
“You do have a glow. It’s subtle. Parental. Very cute.”
Tiresias threw a fig at him.
When the time came, it was unlike any mortal birth. The stars themselves seemed to shift in sympathy. No pain—just a surge, as though a tide had rolled through his body and left behind a new, impossibly delicate life.
A baby girl. Small as a lily bud. Her eyes opened immediately, like she knew something. Like she had seen the world before even breathing it in.
Hermes arrived seconds later, appearing in a swirl of mist and sandalfeathers. He gazed at the child with wide, astonished eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” he breathed. “I should name her.”
Tiresias, exhausted and holding the baby against his chest, narrowed his eyes.
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
“You named your last pet owl Thunderpumpkin.”
“That was one time.”
“You wanted to name the moon 'Glowy McLightface' in front of Artemis.”
“She overreacted.”
“You’re not naming my daughter.”
Hermes crossed his arms, sulking. “Fine. What’ll it be then, O Wise Prophet?”
Tiresias looked down at the girl, who blinked up at him, utterly unbothered. He thought of crocus blooms. Of seeing what shouldn’t be seen. Of carrying strange truths within a small, breakable frame.
“Her name is Liriope,” he said softly. “For the nymph who bore Narcissus. For flowers, for reflection. For beauty that survives.”
Hermes leaned over and kissed both their foreheads, surprising Tiresias with how reverent he could be.
“Liriope,” he said with a smile. “Okay. That one’s good.”