Chapter 3: These Three Kings

“No one is truly free except for Zeus.”

— Hephaestus, in Prometheus Bound by Aeschylus, composed c. 479–424 BCE. Translated by E.H. Plumptre. First published in Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes, Prometheus Bound, Suppliants (1868). Public domain.

The radiant light of dawn bathed Mount Olympus in a golden hue that no one could doubt was the highest harbinger of victorious ascendency for Zeus. This was his celestial evidence that reflected the new era dawning upon the celestial city.

The assembly of deities watched in awe of Zeus’ luck, yet decisive, victory, but also of his destiny. After all, good fortune was not random; rather, the Fates weaved what had been, what was, and what would be.

If Zeus had drawn the longest straw, then he had been chosen by the Moirai. Such a fact was the simplest for the masses to swallow.

None of those details mattered to the Lightning Lord. He had trained with guy, liberated his siblings, brought together a coalition of gods and titans to battle his father, and he had (with the help of Hades and Poseidon) bested the despot that was his sire, and so when Zeus sat upon his father’s throne on Mount Olympus, all of his life’s work had finally come to fruition.

This was his rightful reward for all that he had done during the Great War. No one and nothing could prevent him from accepting what was always meant to belong to him.

Who could have sat this throne? Hades? No! He was too serious, so stuck up his own ass with importance and struggling with being trapped in the belly of Cronos that he could never be what Zeus was. Poseidon? Ha! He was a joke. He was too irresponsible. Zeus knew that if he were king, the realm would drown in offspring from Poseidon’s unchecked libido.

There was only one choice: Zeus. The Thunderer, the Lightning Lord, the First Olympian, the last son of Rhea and Cronos. He was worthy because he was the master of the sky. He was the one who conquered the heavens that had been untamed since the death of Ouranos.

The throne of his forebears should be his because it had always been meant to be. Any other conclusion was a perversity of reality.

Prometheus watched with bated breath. Unlike most of the onlookers, he understood the significance of this moment for Olympus deep in his bones. A king ruled without any other to keep them in check; that truth was tried and tested when Cronos acted so heinously as ruler.

Prometheus was one of the most intelligent minds on the mountain. Only Mnemosyne and Metis could ever have dared to equal his acumen. However, in that small moment, the son of Iapetus was not bothered by his contemporaries His concern was focused on a single point in the costume of flesh and ichor: Zeus.

The destiny of all had been decided in the division of the Realm of Greece, and for good or ill, a decision had been made by the most infinitesimal pirouette of chance.

From that lottery for reigning power, existence would be overseen, and this was a land made by Chaos. Prometheus understood this facet of reality as well and better than most; after all, his father was a Greater Titan and child of the Primordial Ouranos, who was a son of Chaos. The Progenitor had not been seen in their existence nary since its begetting, but from the wide array of creation, a certain calamitous havoc had been wrought.

In a world where anything could happen, there was nothing by pain and suffering. Only order could keep a continuance of existence together.

Even as he observed this monumental moment, Prometheus wondered if Zeus could be the king necessary to provide such a structure.

Another Titan child of Ouranos witnessed this event closely.

Of course Mnemosyne would take careful moments to scrutinize this event as the Titaness of Memory. She recalled much of existence, but her view was through the imperfect lens of every living (and dead) individual’s mind. This was her flaw and gift.

On one hand, she was afforded a priceless gift. To see events through the eyes of those that witnessed them was an ability most others might crave but could scarcely replicate. She understood that through her privilege of birth she had an empathetic window into the past events of most lives.

However, this gift was flawed. After all, memories were fallible as they were formed by imperfect people. Clothos weaved the past properly, so the Moirai sister was given a token by Chaos that allowed her to witness events as they happened from every possible angle.

What perfection that ability was. There was, unfortunately, a certain veil between Mnemosyne and the truth of history.

Moments where she could witness history were second to none in her estimation because there was only one person’s point of view she had to consider: Her own. She trusted herself far more than she trusted everyone else.

She let out a small scoff, recalling the event of Ouranos’ decapitation. If one were to hear Hyperion’s telling, Crius had been the hero of the day. Coeus would have said it was a group effort. Cronos and Crius would have said it was Cronos who had done all the work. She knew there was truth somewhere in the garbled recollections of events.

It would have been far more concise if she had simply been present at the battle. This was true of every large moment in Greece’s history.

As she was given the privilege to be present at this moment, she paid the closest attention to every detail she could take in. Her judgment allowed her to understand that her father was made manifest once more in this nephew of hers.

This new sovereign was entitled, powerful, regal, strong in flesh, commanding, but so too was he hungry, exacting, and nearly merciless by her estimation. Nevertheless, he had vanquished the previous king and stood tall over all others on a throne made by Chaos for the rulership of their creation.

There were not six united Titan brethren to slay this king should he come to not show those beneath him his favor. Further still, in the years ahead, he could become even more powerful. If this were to pass, there would never be another person capable of stopping him.

For these reasons, she never moved her eyes away from the Thunderer. After some ages, she would know his other flaws to be weary of and find more reason to keep him under observation.

Metis took in all that Prometheus and Mnemosyne did. To love someone is to know them by her opinion, and she was proud of her lover. That did not allow her to be blinded to the faults he had.

He would be her king, father of her children, and the one male she was loyal to. Through him, all thoughts of peace and stability were possible. Zeus was the chosen one of his generation. Never should another take that position from him.

The daughter of Oceanus would rather wallow away in the Underworld as a jailer before allowing Zeus to lose his throne.

In his inaugural address to the divine assembly, Zeus spoke with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, resonating with authority and grace.

“Olympus!” Zeus bellowed.

None would allow themselves to miss a word of their new king, so all silenced themselves.

“The lots and the Fates may have named me King, but destiny itself placed us here...” he paused to allow everyone to understand his intentions. “Together!”

To this declaration, the audience exploded in rapturous acclamation.

“When my evil father Cronos fell, he did not fall to my thunder alone,” Zeus went on in his booming voice. “Without brothers such as mine, winning the Great War would have been on the dark side of impossible!”

Once more, the people let out a raucous cry. His words were honey and their ears were hungry mouths. So sweet was all he said that they could not help but give into what he provided.

“My brothers have earned their dominions justly!” Zeus cried, clenching a powerful fist into the air.