The River God of Phaeacia

He has no name. He gets one prayer and one mercy. Odysseus has been swimming for two days, hands sliced raw on barnacles, the cliffs offering nothing but more rock and more blood, when the water changes. A river mouth. The current goes slack where fresh water meets salt. He speaks to the river god, and it is not the prayer of a man accustomed to being heard by the gods. Have pity. Let me land. Let me live. The river stills its current. He crawls through the shallows until his knees hit mud and his fingers feel grass. That is the whole appearance. A small local god in the right place at the right moment, choosing to listen. Most of the divine help in this story is loud and engineered. This one is quiet. A current that simply stops pulling.