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bacon-neko · 6 months

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Nano 2023 Day 0

In which Keraunos has a very exciting birthday!!!!

"Zeus slept with Metis, although she turned herself into many forms in order to avoid having sex with him. When she was pregnant, Zeus took the precaution of swallowing her, because she had said that, after giving birth to the daughter presently in her womb, she would bear a son who would gain the lordship of the sky. In fear of this he swallowed her.”

Bibliotheca by Pseudo-Apollodorus

Chapter 1

Illness in a god was not unheard of. Ingenious Hephaestus always seemed to be fighting off one ailment or another, soot-filled lungs unable to heal as well as they ought, but it wasn’t common. Few even remembered the last time glorious Zeus had taken sick.

Zeus remembered, of course. How could he forget? Hairline fractures cracking through the inside of his skull, a parasite taken host in his brain, gouging through the meat, until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Lofty Prometheus had played executor then, swung the ax and released his king. This time, sharp-sighted Athena leveled the blade against the crown of his head.

He resisted. All day, he insisted that, no, he was fine, he didn’t need help, it would fade on its own, quit fussing.

It didn’t, of course. By the time beaming Helios led his golden-chariot into the western horizon, supreme Zeus could barely speak, barely remember what he was holding back, why it scared him enough to suffer this pain. With what mind he had left, he begged his daughter to end this.

If gilded Athena knew what was to come, she didn’t show it. The warrior settled her grip on her tool, raised it above her head, and swung.

The so-called parasite quaked, roused from his slumber. Light cracked through and the boy screamed.

Suddenly, it was wet and bright and cold, and the boy was tumbling out, his shapeshifting skin instinctively transforming, taking the form of a man. He fell to the ground, soaked in blood, as puffs of air escaped him and his grey eyes flashed back and forth.

Zeus screamed, head split open, white hair soaked in blood, dripping down his face and into his beard. The boy crawled away, choking on spit, as another figure slid into view. She was armor-clad, crowned in bronze, with metallic eyes that pierced from beneath her helmet’s shadow. Grey stared into grey, Athena’s expression flicking between confusion then realization and finally fear. She gaped, jaw moving absently, some question forming on her tongue without coming to realization.

An iron-grip seized the boy’s ankle. Clear-headed, enraged and bloodied, the son of Kronos tore fresh skin as the godling wrenched backwards, scrambled to his feet, and ran.

Athena yelled something. The boy didn’t stop to listen. His feet pounded, naked skin scraping against stone, until a pair of scarred arms wrapped around his chest and a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Gotcha!” the figure said. “Now, quit squirming—”

The boy wrenched his jaw away and sank his teeth into the hand. Bone cracked, tendons snapped, and blood filled his mouth. The figure wrenched back his hand, bits of flesh still stuck between the boy’s teeth, and roared, but the boy didn’t care. He could taste freedom in the cold wind skimming across his skin as he ran, pulling feathers out from his hairline, drawing him into open skies.

Then, in a blur of motion, a new figure streaked ahead and halted in front of him, fluttering mid-air as he waved a winged wand and said, “Bedtime, kiddo.”

The boy jolted and stumbled back like a heavy wave crashed into him. He shook his head, swayed on his feet, and blinked and blinked until his eyelids grew too heavy, and he fell forward, deep in sleep.

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The shepherd god caught the boy with a grunt, winged ankles fluttering with effort. The godling was lanky and thin, but even so, he dwarfed the messenger god, easily a head taller. It took some effort to keep him upright, but Hermes managed.

Beyond the pair of brothers, Athena stood, mouth agape, chest rising fast and heavy, until she noticed Hermes staring and her jaw snapped shut.

“Assist Lord Zeus with his injury,” she said, not even sparing a glance to the handful of servants who swept in to carry out her order, eyes trained on the boy in Hermes’ arms.

Ares interjected. “And muzzle that one while you’re at it,” he grumbled, clenching his bleeding fist. “And tell Artemis she’s got a new hound to train.”

Athena carried on with a shake of her head. “Prepare a room for the new lord.”

“No.” Father rose to his feet, the chunks of his head held together by his own hand, blinking the blood from his eyes. “The dungeon.”

Athena wrenched her eyes away from her brother. “Sir—“

“Now!” he snapped. “Or would you like to join him?”

The whole courtyard froze. There was violence in the evening air, even Hermes could taste it, and Ares—injury and all—cast a glance between his father and his half-sister like he was deciding which side to pick. But Athena held their father’s gaze and hid the tremor of her hands behind her back.

“Your will is mine,” she said. “To the dungeon.”

Hermes’ grip tightened as a servant came and extended their arms for the boy, but Athena caught his eye and offered the slightest nod she could muster, so he shifted to a grin and cheerfully abandoned his brother to their treatment.

“Try not to drop him!” he teased, wishing he could add more bite to the order, but settling for the uneasy laugh he earned in return as the servant shuffled away.

Father was laid upon a stretcher and golden nectar was poured over his wound. The healing would go faster if Apollo were here, but this would do in a pinch. Of course, his body would heal on its own with enough time, but gods were hardly known for their patience. In fact, noting Ares’ still bleeding hand, Hermes swiped a jar of nectar and dashed back to his elder brother.

The war god’s hand was punctured, lacerated, and dripping with blood. The teeth marks didn’t even look human—like the boy had shifted mid-bite into something meaner, toothier.

“He gotcha good, huh?” Hermes uncorked the jar and poured a healthy stream onto the bite.

Ares flexed his palm in turn, masking a wince. “He’s a menace.”

“Oh, like you?” said Hermes.

“Fuck off,” he said.

“Come on, you left it right there,” Hermes said. “Easy shot.”

“I’ll give you an easy shot.” Ares swung with his left, but Hermes flew up and around, dodging the blow and perching on top of his shoulders, laughter and another quip on his tongue, before Father interrupted.

“Boys!” he said. “Quit fooling around.”

Ares grumbled low in his throat before swiping the nectar from him and swatting Hermes away. The messenger god pulled back with his palms raised, grinning easily, as he drifted casually towards his father and sister, careful to linger within the war god’s shadow.

The nectar had done its magic. Raw, red lines now held the wound together at the edges and pulled up along the crown, while their father winced as he turned his head and screwed up his brow.

“I want the boy gone,” he hissed.

Athena replied, firm and cool, all her trembling vanished. “I’m sure there’s a tall mountain we can chain him to.”

“No,” said Father. “The Pit.”

Redundantly, she repeated, “Tartaros?”

“Do it before dawn,” Father said. “Before he wakes up. And if he gets out, it’s on your head.”

She nodded, a little tight in the neck, but if Father noticed, he didn’t look it, too absorbed in the blood clinging to his hair to pay much attention to anything else. The servants hovered around him, helped steady him, and drew him back into the palace proper—no doubt towards his chambers for a proper recovery. And a bath.

In their absence, the blood-stained war-god tilted his head towards his better half and asked, “What was that about?”

Athena’s shoulders sank as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ares, please.”

“What?” he said. “It’s a fair question.”

“It’s a question you ought to know the answer to,” she said.

Ares bristled. “What’s the supposed to mean?”

“To be fair.” Hermes leapt forward, feet light and tongue quicker. “Dad hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with information.”

“What information?” Ares asked, voice rising. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Quit yelling,” said Athena.

“Quit hiding things from me,” he retorted.

“No one’s hiding anything,” she snapped. “You’re just too stupid to catch on.”

Hermes clapped his hands. “Okay! Wow, this is great, um, I actually have—uh.” He rummaged in his bag and dug out a roll of parchment. “Here! From your Thracian—”

Ares snatched up the letter and rolled it open against his chest with his uninjured hand, before he paused, sneered at Athena, and stalked off into the palace, leaving his siblings alone in the freezing courtyard.

Hermes whistled. “That went well.”

Athena rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

“No, I mean it,” he said. “You didn’t even punch each other this time.”

She cast him a withering glare and then pushed her hair back from her forehead, removing her helmet in the same gesture, before setting it back atop her head with a steadying breath. “Come on. We’re short on time.”

The strategist turned and sailed out of the courtyard, bronze helm gleaming in the dying light of winter just before she dipped into the palace. Hermes dashed after her, flying ahead and then floating beside her as he kept pace.

With his ears tuned to oncoming footsteps and his eyes flicking up and down the hall, he asked, “So, what’s the plan?”

“We follow Father’s orders,” she replied.

The trickster halted in his tracks—or he would’ve if he left any. As it stood, Athena ducked down a staircase and he hung at the top of the steps, heart in his throat, before he managed to shake it out and chase after her.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“We don’t have much of a choice.”

“You saw how he ran for that horizon,” he said, shooting past her argument. “The boy will hate it down there, you know that.”

“You don’t mind it,” she countered.

Matter of factly, he replied, “I’m weird. And suited for it, you shouldn’t make the same bet for him.”

“And what would you have us do instead?” she asked.

“I dunno, find a nymph for him to hang out with!”

“Oh, yeah, and Father never talks to any of those,” she said, iron voice dripping with sarcasm. “He definitely won’t find out.”

“So, we just leave him down there?”

“Yes!” she said. “That or we go to war tomorrow morning.”

He bristled but bit down the sensation before shifting tactics. “I thought you’d enjoy a good war.”

“I enjoy wars I can win,” she corrected. “We have no definite allies, no defenses, and the boy is entirely untrained.”

“He’s got a mean bite,” Hermes said.

“We’d lose,” she insisted, dismissing the comment. “It’d be ugly. And then we’d all be in Tartaros which isn’t even square one, it’d be square negative a billion.”

“Oh, good, negative a billion, so glad we’re sending our brother there,” he retorted. “And leave the theatrics to Dionysus, they don’t suit you.”

“Would you just—” Athena ground to a halt, kneading her brow between her knuckles and then stealing her hand to the crest of her shoulder. “Trust me on this. Please.”

Her gunmetal eyes softened into chalk. Her younger brother sighed and scraped a hand through his curls, wracking his brain for the will to deny her. With nothing to offer but a wince and a pang of guilt, he said, “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

She loosened at that, heavy shoulders becoming just a little more light. She started to thank him, but he shook his head and said, “I suppose I’m the one taking him?”

She grimaced but told him all the same, “I trust no one more.” Gently, she added, “I know it’s not exactly in your nature as a shepherd, but there’s no one better for the job.”

“Dionysus could do it,” he said, mostly joking.

Athena smiled in turn. “Dionysus would take him on a bender. Then where would we be?”

“Square zero?” he suggested.

A breathy chuckle puffed out of her as they turned another corner into a dark corridor. Magically-lit torches cast a pale glow over the stone floor, delicately cut and well-swept although the area was so rarely used and certainly not kept around for its aesthetic appeal.

The prison of Olympus had been crafted by the Cyclopes, commissioned by Father Zeus to serve as a holding cell for those accused who could not be trusted to remain for judgment and, perhaps, their subsequent punishment. More often than not, the bars swung free and the torches lay dark with not even a rat to disturb this place.

But on this winter’s night, a godling lay curled up upon the floor, naked and trembling. Barred even the dignity of a bath, blood still streaked across his skin, dried now even at his ankle where Father had seized him and cut into his flesh. Perhaps it will leave a scar or maybe the injury will prove too forgettable to make a lasting mark. After all, the skin of a shapeshifter is a hard thing to permanently alter.

“You know,” Hermes started as the metal bars swung open. “If Dad wanted the boy out of here tonight, he really didn’t need to have him dragged down here too.”

Athena hid a grimace in the shadow of her helm as she propped the door open. “I’m sure he had some point to make. Now help me get him up.”

Getting the boy out of the cell was an ordeal of its own, his lanky limbs causing more than enough trouble as his two siblings tugged and pulled and hushed whenever a drowsy groan rumbled out from his chest, but soon enough they made their way back to the courtyard.

It felt criminal shuffling along in the dark, a limp body held between them, dried blood smearing on their own clothes and skin. Hermes kept hearing things: footsteps, doors scraping open, the animals in the shadowed stable rousing awake at the odd hour’s commotion.

Athena pulled the boy’s arm from her shoulder and leaned his weight against Hermes. “I’ll get a chariot,” she said, already setting off for the stable, but Hermes snagged her arm.

“Just get him onto my back,” he said, wings itching at his ankles.

They shuffled the boy around, adjusted Hermes’ bag to keep it out of the way, and then hefted the boy up across his back and shoulders. With a grunt of effort, Hermes kept himself steady. Ready to take off, he stole one last glance back at Athena, hesitating, hoping, but she raised her chin and tucked her hands behind her back.

Steadier than sky-bearing Atlas and more certain than Fate, she told him, “We’re making the right move here.”

He hoped she was right.

And so the immortal guide flew, racing towards the edge of earth and the underworld beneath. He visited Uncle Hades frequently, shepherding shades and delivering news to his realm, but only a spare few times had Hermes made the full journey to the Pit. There lay the Titans—most of them anyway—forever bound as punishment for their crimes.

It was wrong to take the boy there. So wrong that Hermes kept seeing phantom flashes of burning Furies in the corner of his eye, chasing after him, but he shook his head and tore through the air, wind howling around him.

Then, roused by the bruising wind, the boy pulled away from his slumber.

The boy inhaled—sharp and heavy, drawing thin air into his lungs, pushing himself into full consciousness. His arm and leg were bound, held by something, and a frightened part of him threatened to thrash and claw away, but instead his eyes welled up with stinging tears as he looked out into open sky.

Stars filled every inch of black above him, vast and endless, streaked with clouds and threaded by wind, tousling his hair, sending sparks down his spine. Something red and burning in the distance caught his eye for a moment, but a rough breeze cut across his skin, drawing him back to his sky.

He didn’t dare blink, terrified the vision might vanish, but the tears grew too much and he swiped them away with his spare hand, brushing against the whatever that was holding him.But the whatever flinched, turned his head, met the boy’s eyes, and said, “Shit. You’re not supposed to be awake.”

#wrote this before November #feels like cheating to include it in my goal to write every day #my post #writing

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