Enki’s son ARGO built the ship ARGO; Argo-nauts who volunteered for the quest to Asia for the golden FLEECE dallied on Lemnos, impregnating the isle’s women.
Enki’s son, Argo, stands tall with divine presence, gazing proudly at the luminous ship bearing his name. The hull glows with celestial patterns—stars and waves—while craftsmen shaped by starlight work around him. His expression holds a mix of pride and purpose, embodying the divine mission ahead.
By Sasha Alex Lessin, co-author (with Janet Kira Lessin) of ANUNNAKI, LEGACY OF THE GODS
Learn more about this at https://wp.me/s1TVCy-greece
The Greek Hero Jason had his ship, the Argo, built on Mount Pelion in Thessaly, near the port of Pagasae [modern-day Volos].
A passionate, close-up moment on the island of Lemnos. The women of the island embrace the Argonauts, captivated and enchanted. Emotions ripple through the scene—joy, mischief, longing. The atmosphere is lush and sultry, framed by Mediterranean flora and hints of ancient Grecian stonework.
The mighty ship ARGO sails across a mystic, glowing sea under the gathering stars of twilight. With its golden sails unfurled and dragon-head prow cutting through shimmering waters, the ship is both divine and majestic. The crew—heroic Argo-nauts—stand alert on deck, framed by the vast cosmos above and the promise of distant, unknown lands ahead. The atmosphere is an epic adventure, a divine blessing, and a destined exploration.
“Lovers of Lemnos”
This is a close-up of a tender, passionate embrace between an Argonaut and a Lemnian woman. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, his eyes are locked in hers, and between them simmers a mix of longing and warmth. Behind them, Mediterranean flora and soft golden light evoke the sensual beauty of the island of Lemnos, where the Argonauts briefly stayed—and loved. This moment captures the human heartbeat within the myth: love, vulnerability, and fleeting paradise on the journey to glory.
Beneath the warm, golden light of twilight, a Lemnian woman and an Argonaut share a tender, mythic embrace. Her flower-crowned hair tumbles over his sea-worn shoulders as their eyes meet, locked in a gaze full of longing, discovery, and a fleeting taste of love amidst the epic. Behind them, the island blooms with life and memory. This is not just a pause in a quest—it’s a chapter in legend written in human touch.
He and Zeus/Marduk’s daughter Athena had Enki/Poseidon’s son, ARGUS, take wood from an oak or fir tree in the grove of Zeus/Marduk at Dodona—a grove of non-rotting wood that the Greeks said was oracular, able to speak prophecies to the crew.
In the ancient grove of Zeus/Marduk at Dodona, where trees whisper prophecy, young Argus—son of Enki/Poseidon—reaches for the divine. Axe in hand, his gesture is reverent, not violent, as he draws from a glowing oak whose bark pulses with celestial light. Golden leaves shimmer like living oracles. Beside him stands Athena, divine daughter of Zeus, cloaked in wisdom and light. Her hand hovers protectively, eyes fixed on the tree’s shimmering branches. The moment is mythic, quiet, and fate-bound, as the ship ARGO’s heart is born from a tree that speaks.
In this intimate moment beneath the shimmering leaves, Argus stands transfixed, eyes wide with awe and duty as he gazes into the heart of the oracular oak. The tree seems to speak—not in words, but in a divine hum only the fated can hear. Beside him, Athena glows with quiet strength, her eyes locked not on the tree, but on Argus. Her look carries both cosmic knowledge and motherly protection. Between them hangs an ancient truth, spoken in rustling leaves and golden light. This is prophecy made personal.
A close-up of one of the Argonauts at the ship’s prow. His windswept hair and intense gaze reflect the mythic resolve of the journey. The sea sparkles behind him with magical energy. His face glows in dramatic lighting—the look of a hero bound for destiny. The emotion is quiet, determined, and reverent.
On a golden shore, Argus kneels at the ship’s prow, chiseling the serene bust of Hera (Sarpanit) into the wood. The goddess’s carved visage glows faintly with divine energy, her eyes closed in celestial calm. Behind him, the Argo gleams in sunlight—wood, sail, and purpose unified. This is the ship’s soul, born of both craft and reverence.
Argus carved a bust of Hera [Sarpanit?] into the Argo’s bow. Jason named the boat the Argo after Argos, its builder.
Before the gleaming ship, Jason stands surrounded by his mighty crew—Heracles, Castor and Pollux, Calais and Zethes, Tiphus, Nestor, Ancaeus, and Orpheus—each heroic, distinct, and poised. With hands raised and eyes alight, they proclaim Jason their captain. The Argo is christened, the sea calls, and the quest begins: not just a voyage, but a legacy.
Argus, son of craft and legacy, leans into his work as his chisel shapes the divine bust of Hera (or Sarpanit). The goddess’s serene face glows softly in the ship’s prow, already alive with purpose. Sweat beads on Argus’s brow, but his eyes hold only wonder—this is no ordinary figurehead; it is the voice of the voyage. Behind him, blurred in golden light, the Argonauts look on in reverent silence. The ARGO is being born—not just in wood, but in will.
Jason recruited 50 men for his adventure, including Heracles, Castor and Pollux, Calais and Zethes, Tiphus, Nestor, Ancaeus, and Orpheus.
The men named themselves after the ship, the Argonauts, and proclaimed Jason their leader.
They sailed off for Asia Minor.
LEMNOS’ STINKING WOMEN MURDERED THE SPOUSES WHO SPURNED THEM & BRED INSTEAD WITH THE ARGONAUTS
Beneath a storm-dark sky, the women of Lemnos stand along the windswept cliffs, faces carved by sorrow and flame. Some grip bloodied blades; others stare toward the distant ship Argo—a new chapter arriving on black waves. Burned-out homes smolder in the distance, and torches flicker in hands that once held love. This is a land purged by betrayal, cursed by Aphrodite (Inanna) for spurned worship, their scent turned foul, and their vengeance unrelenting. This is no paradise—it is a penance.
The Argonauts landed first on the island of Lemnos. Lemnos, off the Western coast of Asia Minor, housed only women who killed their husbands.
Blood flecks her hands. Ash kisses her hair. The woman of Lemnos gazes through storm and ruin with eyes like burning coals—grief and fury intertwined. Her face is streaked with soot and sorrow, her lips parted not in plea but in proclamation. This is no villain—this is a victim turned flame, a cursed soul punished by Aphrodite (Inanna) and driven to avenge love with blood. Behind her, homes burn like memories, and the sea whispers of a ship drawing near.
Her eyes still hold shadows, but they’ve found a new reflection—in the gaze of an Argonaut across the mist. Her hand is no longer clenched in rage, her robe no longer stained by vengeance. The storm in the sky begins to ease, and with it, the burden of Aphrodite’s wrath. This is the first look, the shift from sorrow to possibility. Where once there was only loss, now there is the faint scent of grace.
The Lemnos women had neglected their worship of Argo’s patroness, Aphrodite (Inanna), and as punishment, she’d made them smell so bad that their husbands couldn’t stay near them.
The men then took concubines from the Thracian mainland opposite Lemnos and scorned the women of Lemnos, enraging them.
Fury burns across the island. Lemnian women, once soft with joy, now stand armored in grief and rage. Betrayed by the Argonauts’ scorn, they raise weapons and take vengeance—no man spared. Smoke curls above broken homes. Amid this wrath, a secret act of love unfolds: Queen Hypsipyle, eyes wet but firm, slips her father, King Thoas, into a wooden chest. By sea, she gives him a slim chance at life. Storm clouds churn above, but within this fury, a daughter defies fate with mercy.
The women killed every Lemnos male except their King, Thoas. Hypsipyle was the Queen of Lemnos, the daughter of King Thoas of Lemnos, and the granddaughter of Dionysus and Ariadne. When the women of Lemnos killed all the males on the island, Hypsipyle, who became the Queen of Lemnos, saved her father Thoas. She put him out to sea, sealed in a chest & rescued him later.
Queen Hypsipyle kneels by the shore, her hand resting gently on the chest that hides her father, King Thoas. Her royal robe is stained with ash and spray, her hair tousled by wind and dread. Her eyes flick over her shoulder—part fear, part resolve. Behind her, the island burns, but this moment is quiet, sacred. She is a queen, a daughter, and a rebel against the tide of rage. In this act of love, she reshapes the story of Lemnos—not only vengeance, but mercy survives.
The women of Lemnos lived for a while without men, with Hypsipyle as their queen.
When the Argo arrived on the isle of Lemnos, its shores lay soft under spring mist, and its people—entirely women—ruled without men, their husbands long slain or exiled in vengeance. The queen, Hypsipyle, matriarch of Lemnos, welcomed the strangers with wary grace.
As spring mist drapes the shore of Lemnos, Queen Hypsipyle stands in stately stillness, her crimson gown a flame amid the fog. Behind her, the women of Lemnos—draped in flowing robes and quiet authority—form a solemn, watchful circle. No men walk this shore, only memory and rule. In the distance, the ARGO glides into view, its golden sails like a promise—or a challenge—through the mist. The queen’s gaze is steady: wary, regal, resolute, as myth meets matriarchy on sacred soil.
From the sea’s silver sheen emerges the legendary ARGO, its golden sails gleaming faintly through the veil of spring mist. On the shore, Queen Hypsipyle stands resolute, surrounded by the women of Lemnos—watchful, stately, and solemn. Olive trees bend in the quiet breeze, cliffs peer through the fog, and history holds its breath. The island awaits the touch of myth and the hearts of strangers.
Amid the spring mist of Lemnos, Queen Hypsipyle and Jason meet at the threshold of destiny. Her gaze is regal yet searching; his is bold but tempered by awe. Between them lingers more than diplomacy—there’s a glimmer of fate, attraction, and ancient tension. Behind them, veiled by fog, the ARGO and the silent watch of Lemnian women set the stage. This is not just a greeting—it’s the first heartbeat of mythic
entanglement.
Their faces are close, lit by golden light. A Lemnian woman, her hair braided with blossoms, beams up at her lover. The Argonaut, rugged and tender, draws her near, their foreheads pressed together. Their eyes hold no fear, no doubt—only joy, hope, and the quiet promise of new life. Around them, spring sings in petals and breeze. This is a love not of war, but of healing—a moment when myth becomes memory, and legacy begins with a smile.
In a meadow kissed by the sea breeze, beneath trees heavy with bloom, Lemnian women and Argonauts embrace in love and reverence. There are no children, no signs of pregnancy—only connection, intention, and divine romance. The women wear flowing robes, the men bronze and linen, and all are barefoot in the grass of Aphrodite’s blessing. They walk, rest, touch—not hurried, not lustful, but sacred. In this ancient moment, love itself is the offering. The myth takes root here, beneath the trees.
In a timeless meadow under blossoming trees, the women of Lemnos and the Argonauts gather in gentle reverence. Their eyes meet with warmth; their arms intertwine with peace. Each expression is clear, serene, and joyful—faces glowing with love and the gravity of creation. No children run, no bellies swell. This is the moment of conception, blessed by Aphrodite, when love becomes legacy in the hush of spring and sea. The ritual is not loud, but holy. Here, the island changes forever.
They became Hypsipyle’s militia and took Lemnos women as lovers. Some formed unions of passion, while others formed unions of ambition. Sons would be born of these fleeting nights, but long after the Argonauts had left the isle.
In a glade where sea breeze kisses blossoms, a Lemnian woman and an Argonaut hold each other close. Their faces glow with quiet joy, foreheads brushing, smiles blooming like the petals around them. Her hand rests gently on his chest; his arm circles her waist with reverent ease. They say nothing, but everything is spoken in their gaze. No future is promised—but in this moment, they are whole. The world pauses for myth to bloom in the space between their hearts.
Amid the flowering groves of Lemnos, the world narrows to glances and touches. In small, quiet clusters, Lemnian women and Argonauts draw close, their faces lit with affection and awe. Eyes meet—sparkling, wide, filled with wonder. Smiles curl gently, lips part in breathless pause. Pupils dilate with presence, not possession. This is the moment love becomes visible, not in grand gestures, but in the flicker of connection shared only between two. Here, myth softens into intimacy.
Their foreheads nearly touch, their smiles caught halfway between laughter and longing. Her eyes shimmer like still water, reflecting his gaze; his brows soften with silent awe. In the golden light of Lemnos, time stops. The sacred becomes personal. No war. No quest. Just this: two people who, for a moment, love completely. The trees behind them bloom, but it’s their faces that glow.
Bathed in silver moonlight, couples rest among olive trees and wildflowers, their forms wrapped in flowing robes and soft embrace. No words remain, only breath and closeness beneath the stars. The Argonauts and Lemnian women, once wild with longing, now lie still, peaceful. The glow of Aphrodite lingers like mist. This is the hush after myth, when love has been made, and time forgets to move. No children cry, no futures stir—only the present, perfect and undisturbed.
Resting beneath the quiet canopy of night, a Lemnian woman and her Argonaut lie cheek to cheek, the silver light of the moon softening every line. His eyes are calm, dreamlike; hers shimmer with a love unspoken. They do not speak of tomorrow. They do not need to. In this moment, they are all they know. The olive leaves whisper above, and the gods look down in silence, their work done for the night.
Beneath the silver hush of Lemnian night, two lovers hold each other in stillness. Her eyes brim with unshed tears, shining not from regret, but from love so full it breaks. His gaze trembles, torn between the warmth beside him and the vows waiting beyond the sea. A single tear escapes his cheek as he presses his brow to hers. There is no anger here—only truth, ache, and a love too real to deny, even if it cannot remain.
And yet, most of these men, cast as heroes and quest-bearers, had wives and oaths awaiting them across the wine-dark sea in Thessaly.
Heracles stands firm beside the motionless Argo, the lion skin across his shoulders fluttering in the breeze that refuses to fill the sail. The mist swirls at his feet as his spear pierces the stillness, not in battle, but in speech. In the distance, the Argonauts laugh among fires and lovers, forgetting the vow that brought them to sea. Heracles’ glare cuts deeper than any blade, and his voice carries like thunder:
“You were summoned not for lust, but for legacy.”
Armor gleaming through the sea mist, Heracles stands like a titan of honor and memory. His mouth forms the words that shake the slumbering camp: “You swore to seek the Fleece, not to weave idle blankets in foreign beds.” His eyes blaze—not with hate, but with the fire of forgotten oaths. Behind him, the ARGO waits, silent and still as if listening, too. This moment is a reckoning—when myth reminds men who they are.
Only Heracles stayed aboard Argo, under the flapping sail and unmoving mast. When days turned to weeks, Heracles walked the shore in full bronze, spear in hand, and spoke to the Argonauts: You were summoned not for lust, but for legacy. You swore to seek the fleece, not to weave idle blankets in foreign beds. Do you think your wives in Iolcus sing for you now? They weep.”
Struck by guilt or pride, the Argonauts gathered their gear, kissed their weeping companions goodbye, and boarded the ship again. Heracles did not smile. He took his place at the oar and rowed.
As dawn breaks over Lemnos, an Argonaut stands alone, the soft glow of morning catching the salt in his beard and the ache in his eyes. In his hand: a keepsake from the woman he leaves behind. But his gaze drifts east, to a vision only he can see. There, beyond the waves and years, his wife in Thessaly tends their home, a child at her hip, her gaze turned toward the sea as if she knows. Her love is patient, rooted. He is torn. He loves them both. And so, he sails.
His eyes glisten—not with weakness, but with everything he cannot say. The Argonaut stares east, the sea’s edge catching the dawn and the memory of a life waiting for him beyond it. His jaw is steady, but his gaze wavers. In his palm, a token from the woman he leaves behind. In his mind, the wife who still waits. He is not broken, but he is not whole. The gods called him a hero. He is only a man—loved by two shores, and loyal to both.
No visions surround him now. Only the sea, the rising sun, and the weight of his heart. His face is finely wrought, sorrow-laced, but noble. His eyes reflect more than morning light—they reflect choices, and memory, and a love too large for one life. This is the Argonaut not in action, but in the aftermath—the hero when no one is watching.
Seven faces gaze directly at you—man, woman, woman, man, woman, woman, woman—each one glowing with serene affection. Their expressions are tender, timeless, and united by a quiet, knowing peace. Their eyes do not look outward—they look through, as if carrying the memory of sacred nights, whispered vows, and the legacy of love born under Aphrodite’s stars. Together, they form not a line, but a lineage. These are the faces of myth remembered.
Bathed in golden myth-light, five figures hold their gaze: the woman and the man, side by side, their eyes whispering of memory; the wife, proud and poised, the calm within the story; and the children, bright-eyed bookends of a legacy still unfolding. Their expressions are timeless, not bound by era, but by love. The space between them isn’t silence—it’s the unspoken poetry of shared truth.
But the wind still remembers—
And so do their eyes.
“The Oath Between Shores”
He came for the fleece,
But left with a whisper pressed to his chest.
She wept in the grove.
She waited on the hillside.
And she-she carried him home in the shape of a son.
No map marks these loves.
No bard names the children.
But the wind still remembers—
And so do their eyes.
Adult figures now gaze forward, clear-eyed and warm. The woman and man, united at the center, share quiet understanding. The wife, dignified and calm, completes the story without a word. On either side, the toddler and five-year-old look on—not with confusion, but with the calm of children whose story began before their first breath. This is not a moment—it is a myth made visible, and a love that lives through the generations.
* In this post, I illustrate the story of Jason and the Argonauts with clips from videos on See U in History YouTube.
The Arrival of the Argonauts – The Gathering of Heroes – Ep 2 – The Saga of Jason and the Argonauts
