Prologue: Crowned

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

— William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2, Act 3, Scene 1 (1597-1598).

In the Realm of the Great Progenitor known as Chaos, all was silent. This place was Chaos’ refuge as well as the origin of the Primordials. Their creation had begun the cycle for the possibility of the abundance that was life in the plane of Greece.

In this place, the inky pitch black of prehistoric darkness stretched infinitely in the void punctuated by starlit clusters scattered across the depths. Each point was a distant pulse of the Omniverse itself for only Chaos to appreciate.

It was at this site, in this existence named after its creator, where the Great Progenitor Chaos watched events unfolding in the Realm of Greece. To accomplish this feat, their consciousness drifted through the endless cosmic currents toward a scene of treachery, turmoil, violence, victory, and defeat within a window carved into their world’s existence.

The land of Greece was still in its infancy. By stark contrast to where the Progenitor resided, the imperfect domain of the Primordials and the Titans seethed with life and conflict.

This was the start of the reigns. There was the fury of a father attacking, a son betrayed, children banding together, and one generation overcoming another. This all occurred at the same moment for the Progenitor to witness.

In a thousand ways and a thousand times, this might have always happened as the skies gave way to Time and his cohorts. What Chaos knew of the young usurping the old was only coming into play for those that were everlasting and untouchable by time. These Titans had such potential for sagacity and brawn to cultivate a land to rule forevermore.

Whether or not they did was entirely up to them.

Chaos’ gaze fell directly upon Ouranos in the scene, ignoring all others.

Ouranos had been the Last Primordial as well as the bearer of a crown bequeathed to him by Chaos. The metal circlet had been forged from the fundamental, foundational essence of existence within the Realm of Chaos. Further still, the headwear served as a symbol of authority over all in the lands of Greece.

What went entirely unappreciated by the Last Primordial, the circlet was also the king’s link to the very fabric of creation. Its golden lattice glistened faintly even amidst the ichor and dust, proving that this artifact was far more than the Last Primordial gave it credit for.

Chaos’ attention on the unfolding events sharpened with each blow Ouranos suffered from his offspring. The shockwaves rippled through the natural order as his divine ichor spilled. Had this child of Chaos and Gaia not been so arrogantly foolhardy, he might yet have avoided this conclusion, but how could he when he had been given nearly everything. For one such as him, when given dominion over almost the entirety of all he knew, he would want what he could not have with a single mindedness that would ultimately lead to his downfall.

This could only create the sensation known as sorrow for the Progenitor, or as close as one as old and powerful as they could feel.

The world was not old enough for a king to have the wisdom to be satisfactorily appreciative of all he had. And so for one observing these events, like the creator Chaos, Ouranos’ defeat was a foregone conclusion with no alternative whatsoever.

Lightning flashed and thunder rang from the finite domain of Greece to the edge of Chaos’ consciousness to signify the wail of Father Sky’s imminent demise. The details of the battle between parent and children blurred, losing all semblance of focus, as Chaos honed in on the Primordial King.

The struggle swelled toward its fateful conclusion. Chaos felt a wrenching shift that would irrevocably tear all of existence when the scythe in Cronos’ hand struck down the once-king. The moment Ouranos’ flesh was torn apart, separating his head from his body at the neck, his right to be king was lost to the Progenitor as well as the rest of living existence.

Although the Progenitor had crowned the king, and had known this being all of his life, Chaos watched the fall of Ouranos impassively. The Titan’s father collapsed limply into the sea. His head rolled away even as the waves of Oceanus’ sea buffeted away momentarily before swallowing the gigantic being whole.

The crown he wore slipped beneath the waves but not before letting off a glistening flash for the observing eyes of the creator.

Chaos perceptively distinguished the headband that had signified Ouranos’ right to rule.

Moments later, the crown reappeared, materializing atop a faint, spectral image of Ouranos’ fallen form that was being escorted into the Underworld by the young son of Nyx called Thanatos. Its brilliance remained yet somehow was more ethereal in the king’s death.

Chaos continued to watch as the specter drifted into the depths of the Underworld. For the smallest measurement of time, Chaos considered a king who had ruled but never fully grasped the power bound within his reach. What Ouranos might have accomplished had he simply been happy with all he had been given astonished the Progenitor. He might have raised a pantheon so wondrous that for millions of eons, people would have known and praised his name.

For his failings, his name would be rarely recalled by anyone. He would be a piece to someone’s story needed to tell someone else’s story, and the fault was entirely his own. Chaos would sigh if they could only muster enough effort to care more for such a disenchanting dismay.

To the Progenitor, the Primordials were their children, and Ouranos had been made special since he was the Last Primordial, yet Chaos knew that in all of existence, for all the time and space that existence might yet span, Ouranos was but one tiny twig on a greater branch.

That reminded the creator of the greater design of all reality.

When Chaos looked towards that shaping formation, they saw the golden strand that they had come to recognize from the first prophecy. This single strand might yet bind up all of existence. If one king must fall for so many lives to be saved eventually, was it not worth it? Was it not worth all of that and more when the downfall had been brought about by that foolish king’s hands.

There were so many questions to consider when it came to the infinite of all things, yet still, amidst the starlit void, Chaos remained, unmoved and inscrutable. They would ponder the outcome of this clash and what it might mean for the realms beyond Greece, and for generations to come.