Tethys, the goddess of the boundless sea, spoke with unmistakable urgency: "My daughter Tyche, hasten back to the temple beneath the waves. Your sister Electra is near her time."
At these words, Tyche was jolted from her indolent reverie. She bade the Dryads fetch newly pressed honey wine and goat's milk, while she herself returned to her temple to gather silken fabrics gifted by the goddesses of night. Once prepared, she dove into the deep and swiftly made her way to her mother's sacred halls.
Her sisters gathered anxiously around her, voices overlapping in distress: "Electra has lain with Thaumas and now bears twin children. Her divinity cannot sustain two lives at once—none can say what choice she must make."
Startled, Tyche followed them to Electra's bedside. There lay her elder sister, pale and trembling, as Thaumas clasped her hand, channeling his divine essence into her failing body. Fatigue carved lines upon his noble brow.
"Dearest sister," Tyche whispered, taking Electra's other hand gently in hers, "can you hear me?" With careful perception, she reached into her sister's fragile form and felt the restless stirrings of two unborn souls. They writhed within, each vying for strength, heedless of the agony they wrought upon their mother.
Electra could barely muster the breath to speak; her once-luminous sapphire eyes had dimmed, and her flowing tresses, like strands of living kelp, had lost their luster.
"Where is our mother?" Tyche asked urgently.
"She has gone to the River Okeanos to seek aid from Father," replied one of the Oceanids, her voice heavy with sorrow. "If she does not return before the birth, both Electra and the babes may fade into oblivion."
Thaumas' voice cut through the air, cold and unyielding: "Then kill them. Kill the children."
The words froze all present in stunned silence. Tyche turned sharply toward him, their gazes clashing like storm-tossed waves.
In Thaumas' eyes gleamed an iron resolve that brooked no argument. Tyche could do nothing but silently pray for Tethys' swift return. No other god's power could be safely offered—only that of their parents would nourish the twins without harm. Weakened as she was, Electra, a deity of minor might, could not sustain both children. The only options left were to extinguish one soul and let the other thrive, or to strengthen Electra with the primordial essence of the ocean itself—an essence only an Oceanid sovereign could provide.
By instinct, Electra refused to destroy either child, even if it meant parting from Thaumas. And to Thaumas, the birth of twins threatened the life of his beloved wife—thus did he come to loathe them.
Divine birth is a miracle of the cosmos, yet for the mother, it is a trial of unbearable toll. As the twins' consciousnesses grew ever clearer and Tethys remained absent, the Oceanids could offer little more than hollow comfort to their suffering kin.
Tyche stood vigilant against Thaumas' growing fury, ice coiled at the edge of her will. Then, Electra cried out in anguish, sweat drenching her brow, her divine essence fracturing under the strain.
Thaumas' gaze darkened, his misty aura ensnaring Tyche as he moved to unravel the newborn spirits. But a wall of glacial frost erupted between him and Electra. With a sweep of her cloak, Tyche summoned a surge of current that hurled him backward, her voice thundering in righteous wrath: "Son of Pontus, dare you strike within Tethys' own temple?"
The goddess of climate unleashed a storm of icy winds. Clouds churned above the sea, rain fell in torrents, and marine creatures fled the disturbance, sensing the clash of divine forces.
"Stand down!" The ice held Thaumas briefly—but only briefly. With a roar, he shattered it, summoning a vortex so vast the Oceanids scattered in terror.
"This is your final warning!" Roared Tyche, her fury mounting at the desecration of the sacred hall. With a gesture, she quelled the whirlpool, dispersing its force into drifting mist and frost, sapping Thaumas' strength. Pillars of ice formed around him, imprisoning his rage. From his being, the divine essence tied to Pontus' domain was wrenched free, left adrift as unclaimed primordial power. The pain of this severance brought Thaumas momentarily to his senses. Wordless, he shattered the bonds and strode toward Electra.
Before Tyche could intervene, a calming force stayed her hand—Tethys had returned.
Unmoved by the ruined temple, the goddess of the sea went to her daughter's side and placed a handful of radiant cerulean essence into her body. The ancestral oceanic power stabilized Electra's translucent form, merging with her fading divinity.
At last, the twins were born—two radiant goddesses of breathtaking beauty. Their father's divine heritage shone forth in every feature, their forms adorned with iridescent wings and hair that shimmered like liquid light.
Without a word, Thaumas lifted Electra into his arms, bowed to Tethys, and departed, not sparing a glance for his daughters.
Tethys did not take offense at his coldness. Gently cradling the infants, she turned to Tyche: "They have not inherited the ocean's nature and cannot dwell beneath the waves. Take them to your island, my daughter."
Tyche hesitated, long and silent.
Tethys extended her hand, gathering the fragmented sea-wonder essence that Tyche had torn from Thaumas, and offered it to her. "This is your due reward. These daughters shall serve you well."
Accepting the transformed divine essence, Tyche inclined her head. "I accept them as my attendants. What are their names?"
The goddess smiled. "The elder is Alke, the younger Iris."
Bidding farewell to her mother, Tyche enveloped the two infant goddesses in a veil of mist and returned to her island sanctuary. She entrusted their care to the Dryads before retreating to the edge of her moonlit pool, where she contemplated the unclaimed divine essence of the sea—Thaumas' lost domain.
With resolute determination, she drew it into herself.
The new divine force surged through her being, invigorating her dominions over snow and rain. A brilliant aurora burst forth, spiraling across the night sky in a dance of celestial radiance. The Dryads stood transfixed, gazing upward in awe at this spectacle unseen before.
The aurora spread further, soon painting the entire heavens with its ethereal glow. Even Selene and Nyx, traversing the firmament, dimmed their own light in reverence, yielding to the splendor of the phenomenon.
The cosmic laws rejoiced at this emergence, and thus was born the domain of auroras—a new divine function willingly embraced by Tyche.
Following this pattern, the power of rain, stirred by the primordial essence, gave rise to a radiant arc—a rainbow arching above the island. The domain of rainbows descended from the heavens, but Tyche did not claim it for herself. Instead, she divided it thoughtfully into two halves.
From this division emerged two distinct phenomena: the outer-red-inner-violet arc of the rainbow and the outer-violet-inner-red of the霓虹 (níhóng)—the secondary bow. These twin domains were bestowed upon the newborn goddesses.
Empowered by their new divine roles, Alke and Iris grew swiftly into youthful forms, their iridescent wings shimmering like liquid crystal. Together they approached Tyche, folding one knee to the earth in solemn homage.
"Hail, our exalted sovereign, Lady Tyche!" they proclaimed in unison. "Alke/Iris pledges fealty!"
A smile graced Tyche's lips as she responded gently, "My attendants, by ancient covenant I shall shield you; in return, serve me faithfully and uphold my honor."
They bowed deeply. "We follow your will."
Tyche's voice carried warmth and purpose. "As deities of the rainbow, appear after the rains to signal the end of storms. You shall also be my messengers, bearing tidings among the gods."
Delighted with her newfound aides, Tyche saw no reason not to delegate rainfall duties to them, content to provide only the necessary divine energy while she indulged in leisure.
With her plans set, she tasked the Rainbow Goddesses with building their dwelling upon the isle and returned to her pool. Floating lazily upon its surface, she studied the newly acquired auroral domain—an addition modest in strength, perhaps sufficient only for a minor divinity, yet still a worthy augmentation.
She wove the aurora's essence into her climate domain, bringing it closer to wholeness. Idly drifting, she pondered future avenues of growth. Among all her functions, only temperature retained the potential to ascend to lesser divinity. The path to higher godhood remained distant and uncertain.
Sitting on the shore, she observed the flickering form of the temperature domain within her sacred fire. The acquisition of cold had strengthened it, but heat—the other half—was still lacking. Without the primordial essence of fire or warmth, advancement would remain stalled.
Yet how could she obtain it? As a daughter of the sea, she found little favor among deities of flame and heat. Attempts to barter with such beings would likely fail—water's nature was seldom welcomed among those who thrived in fire.
Frustrated, she rose and plucked a bouquet of white lilies, breathing in their delicate fragrance. Her irritation eased, if only slightly.
With a sigh of reluctant resolve, she summoned storm clouds and called upon the Rainbow Goddesses to aid in the descent of rain. From their playful games with the Dryads, the two sisters took flight, weaving gracefully between the clouds, guiding the mists outward.
When the rain ceased and the skies cleared, twin arcs stretched across the heavens, and the goddesses returned, their laughter trailing behind them like wind chimes.
Tyche was well pleased. In time, they would master these tasks, and she could fully entrust them with the burden of rain.
Back in her temple, she wove the aurora into flowing curtains that hung from the vaulted ceiling, admiring the shifting hues. Satisfied, she crafted a robe from the same light, intending it as a gift for Astraea upon her awakening.
Time passed swiftly in idle pursuits. Boredom led her to experiment with pearl powder and lily extracts, discovering that water's cycle made an excellent tool for distillation and refinement. In time, she gained domains over cosmetics and perfumes—petty powers, too weak even to sustain a minor deity.
Still, these gifts proved useful as offerings and tokens among goddesses, smoothing the way in divine diplomacy.
Encouraged by her success, Tyche embraced a life of quiet cultivation. She spun wool into cloth, peeled bark into paper, and thus claimed dominions over weaving and writing. Long dormant, the craft domain awakened anew with the arrival of weaving, rising unexpectedly to the rank of a minor divinity—a most pleasant surprise.
In this tranquil rhythm, she flourished, her realm blooming into a haven of beauty and serenity.