Chapter 5: That Which Could Be

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’

Into the futureSteve Miller Band, Fly Like an Eagle, from Fly Like an Eagle, 1976, written by Steve Miller, copyright © 1976 Steve Miller Music/Universal Music Publishing Group.

The tunnel of time was holding firm as the elder Cronos seemed quite pleased with the delivery of his plans to his younger self. The younger Cronos did all he could to contain himself, but he was impatient, as most are in their youth, to see what futures Cronos could be talking about.

The elder Cronos turned his attention to the timelines below them. He was searching millenia, maybe even eons, after the defeat of the Titans. He was looking at events with an analytical inspection. Some moments flashed across the tunnel’s wall.

Hera birthing a little violent god. Poseidon attacking Zeus. A goddess bursting forth from Zeus’ head, adorned in gleaning armor. Hades being handed control over a sea monster. Tiny people living in the realms of Greece. Cities rising up. Tributes given to the gods of Olympus. It was all so much, but then, when the younger Cronos felt overwhelmed by those visions, the elder seemed excited.

“Ah! Here we are!” The elder Cronos stopped swiping with one of his hands and raised his other once more. What summoned for was another vision through the swirling void of time. His voice became cold as he spoke. “Now, we shall see possible futures. You wish to conquer Zeus with a single-mindedness? Very well, see where our fury takes us when it is not tempered with experience and power.”

The scene shifted before the younger Cronos’ eyes. This was not a window like the last ones. They were floating above the action, unseen by all but able to take everything in.

There stood Mount Olympus as a magnificent edifice to the union of Gaia and Ouranos, the seat of power for all the Grecian divinities.

The winds howled with fury, lightning cracked in the heavens, and the very earth shook in trembling fear of what was to cum.

The Titan of Time had come to seek his retribution upon the gods. His wayward children had ruled long enough. His face was stern but still that of a champion warrior. His body built was akin to that of a god of strength with muscles straining beneath his crimson greaves and skirt of burgundy. His eyes burned with a fire for vengeance just as his brow was set with determination.

At his back, the Titans of old gathered. They had been freed from Tartarus with their own hatred for the ruling usurpers who had stolen their seat of power. It did not matter how long the Olympians had ruled, Cronos had brought with him an army of primordial power. They had ruled since near the dawn of time. At that moment, they marched toward Olympus to reclaim what was stolen from them.

At Cronos’ side strode Crius. His massive frame towered over most with a brawler’s physique wrapped in a simple tunic. His arms, which had once been broken by their father, were restored to the might of his youth. His broad shoulders flexed with every step to demonstrate that this younger generation may have had power, but it was ones such as him that they obtained his might. His fists clenched for the true brutality that he would unleash to tear apart anyone in his path. He was power personified, raw strength made flesh, and pure destruction by his brother’s side. Titans had later been bred for combat, but they came from his stock. They were pale imitations. He was the root from which the branches stemmed.

Coeus walked with a quiet but imposing presence. His golden eyes glowed with calculating certainty. He had long since thought of nothing but being free and destroying the rebellious gods of Olympus. He wore a toga of black and gold as though the cosmos themselves had settled around his body.

Prometheus followed. The wayward son of Iapetus had come home. After all, Zeus had punished him for helping humanity. Zeus had slain Epimetheus, consumed Metis, nearly destroyed humanity in his selfishness. Enough was enough. With seven and a half feet of height, his body marred with burn marks of bearing the Great Flame, he was more resolute at that moment than he had ever been before.

To speak of the flame, was to speak of Hyperion, who towered even above Cronos himself. His hair shone like molten gold, his eyes were pools of liquid silver, and his skin, gray and weathered from an elongated stay in Tartarus. He had almost become one with the stone wall. He had forgotten what it had meant to be a ruling Titan, but the sun itself reminded him. As such, Helios’ light seemed to dim in comparison to this Titan’s existence. He radiated a light so profound, they knew that victory was assured.

At eight feet tall and broader than a mountain, Atlas followed close behind. He was once the great general for the Titans, but time and Zeus had taken that grand honor from him. His chest was bare and hairy with a muscled frame that had been honed since the first Great War. Still, carrying the sky had granted him with strength comparable to that of Pallus and Crius. His face was as cold as stone. His eyes had a grim determination. His punishment had given him a single thought of destruction: the downfall of Zeus. He was ready to unleash his fury upon the King of Olympus even if it meant the destruction of Olympus itself.

Behind them all, Gaia rose to a height of one hundred feet. She was the Primordial Earth Mother. She had birthed them all. Once she had stood with her grandson in overthrowing the Titans, but on this day, her body of living bark, vines, and stone stood in support of her son’s reign. The very essence of Earth itself had turned on Olympus, and the Titans would rule once more.

At the forefront, Cronos raised his arms. He glared at the godly city that awaited them. All the suffering he had endured was worth it for that moment. All of the pain and destruction was worth this. He would have his revenge. He would have his throne. He would have the battle that declared him not only victor but hero.

“This time,” the Titan King declared loud enough for gods and Titans to hear, “we take it all!”

His voice echoed across the heavens and the earth to the dawn of time and to the end of his reign.

Lightning split the sky as the Titans surged forward, their march shaking the foundations of Olympus itself.

Above, the younger Cronos watched in awe as the army of Titans brough their power to bear against the Olympian gods.

“This,” the elder Cronos murmured to his younger self, “is what happens when we do not compromise. When all that remains is our hunger for vengeance.”

The younger Cronos could feel the weight of his elder’s words. He felt a pit in his stomach. Uncertainty clawed at him. “Do we win?”

“They will resist us,” the elder Cronos answered, almost gently. Slowly, he turned with a sorrow and rage in his eyes that barely affected his tone. “However, we do triumph,” he went on with melancholy. “The costs are great, but we do win, but that is not what matters!”

The younger Cronos stared in utter confusion. He was not sure what point the elder Cronos was making, so he stared in silence, waiting to know what the elder Cronos was keeping from him.

The elder Cronos slapped his hand through the air, moving events forward.

Elder and younger Cronos watched from above as the events before them altered to the most certain future.

The battlefield of Olympus was a wasteland. Broken weapons, shattered armor, and bodies of gods littered the ground. There was dirt, mud, grime, and golden ichor staining every part of the mountaintop.

The once-proud peaks of Mount Olympus were scorched and broken. The air smelled of ash, burnt stone, and divine blood. Lightning flickered weakly across the sky; perhaps that was a remnant of Zeus’ power or perhaps the spirit of Ouranos was displeased his how grandson’s downfall.

The former ruler of Olympus, Zeus, lay still on the ground. His golden crown was shattered into so many pieces that no one could tell where it was entirely anymore, but it no longer rested on his brow. His body was half-buried in the rubble of the onslaught. His master thunderbolt was cold in his lifeless hand despite once having shook the heavens. Poseidon was no better with his trident snapped in half. A death grimace was the only look his face would make forevermore. The seas were no longer his to command in death.

The younger Cronos felt stared at the destruction with both jealousy and excitement. This was the victory he had imagined in his even younger days. However, a coldness crept up his spine. This was his victory, but something felt empty about the entirety of it.

The elder Cronos remained quiet. All of his attention was for the battlefield. His eyes were fixed on the aftermath of the final clash.

Crius stood tall among the wreckage; his body was covered in ichor, but it did not belong to him. His fists were clenched tightly at his side in his victory. Hyperion’s sun-dipped hair was dimmed from the contamination of the innards of others as a side-effect of the battle. He strode beside Crius. His molten silver eyes gleaming with exhaustion and anger. Their victory was cause for celebration, but there was more to be done.

At the center of it all, the Cronos of this timeline stood. Though he was worn, finally, he was victorious. His chest heaved from exertion of the fight, but his eyes gleamed with triumph. He was the ruler of Olympus once more. The throne was his to have again. Or so he thought.

Without warning, Crius turned on him. He struck his brother in the stomach with all of his titanic might. “You,” he spat even as Cronos keeled over. Crius’ voice was low and venomous. “You, Cronos!”

“Why are they doing this?” the younger observing Cronos asked.

The elder motioned for the younger to watch.

‘We have defeated your offspring! But let us not forget that it was because of you that this even begun! Had you not swallowed your sons, we would have still ruled! Mother promised us everything, but because of your selfishness, we were left to rot in Tartarus for eons.”

The alternate Cronos was caught off guard both form the blow and the words. He stepped back weakly, trying to control himself. “What—what are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Hyperion’s voice joined Crius’. He had a vitriolic loathing, lathering every word he spoke. “We followed you in the last way, but to no victory. It was because of you that the Olympians imprisoned us! Our suffering was because ... of ... you!”

The Cronos living in the moment raised his hands in defense of himself, but Crius was faster. With a speed that belied his massive size, the Titan lunged forward to throw a combination of punches at his brother. When finally Cronos collapsed from a combination of exhaustion from the battle, the shock of the blow, and the surprise at the betrayal.

When he fell forward, it was Coeus who was wrapping chains around Cronos’ wrists and then body.

“We will not be raising you to the throne, not again,” Crius growled. “You failed us!”

The chains glowed with divine power so it could quickly sap the strength from the once-Titan King. Cronos struggled against it, wriggling against both the bonds and his brothers regardless of the futility of his efforts.

All too soon, he fell to his knees. Gasps escaped him as the chains grew tighter; his power diminished with each moment.

The younger Cronos, watching from above, felt a whole host of sensations within his core. Rage, disappointment, fear, vengeful, and disgust were chief among them. To see his other self fall so completely to his brothers inspired all of that and more. “This is madness,” he whispered. “They ... they were my allies, my brothers. They fought with me in the first war.”

The elder Cronos remained impassive. “And? They are Titans, like you, sons of Gaia and Ouranos. As Titans, they do not bow. They take, like you. Our failures are simply an excuse for them to do so.”

Below, Crius dragged the chained Cronos through the wreckage of Mount Olympus. His scraping body left a trail of red-gold ichor in his wake. Reduced to nothing more than a captive, the chained Cronos wept at the loss and betrayal.

The elder Cronos went on when he was sure his counterpart had seen what was needed. “This,” he said softly, “is what happens when you trust in them. Relying on them allows you to defeat your son, but you are exhausted, so when they betray you, you have no one to blame for your loss but yourself.”

The younger Cronos stared at the older one in confused bewilderment.

“Anyone, even our Titan brethren, will turn against you if given enough reason. This is a future where victory comes, but at a cost that we cannot pay.”

The younger Cronos looked down at the chains around his alternate self. The hateful faces of Coeus, Crius, and Hyperion were etched into his mind.

“How do we stop this?” Cronos the younger breathed.

The elder Cronos turned to his younger self. He gave him the respect to his younger self that he might not have even a few visions ago. He could see the change overcoming the younger version. He was very nearly ready to hear all that would be said.

“We learn from this,” he said. With a wave of his hand, the scene below them began to fade away as if it had never existed.

“As you know, this is one of many futures, so we simply need to learn from our mistakes. The question is: What did you learn?”

The younger Cronos flinched at the thought. “That we cannot trust our brothers...” he guessed, unsure of himself.

The elder Cronos shut his eyes and shook his head. “Trust? Perhaps not, but to take Olympus without allies?”

He started to laugh before stopping himself. He knew what his younger self was thinking, and so he knew what he would need to show him.

“Let us see a future where we go it alone.” Rather than raise or wave his hand, he clapped his hands together.

The air shimmered as the two Cronos’ stood above a battlefield in the Underworld. It was Hades’ Home they saw. Below them, the looming figure of Cronos clashed with a smaller being, a goddess of some kind. The battle echoed through the Underworld.

“You see him?” the elder Cronos began in a low and deliberate fashion. “He is another ... interpretation of us. Look how he moves. Time bends to his will as it bends to us, and he has nearly conquered all in this reality. But...” Cronos the older paused. “He was arrogant, and much of Olympus has empowered his, our potential, granddaughter to battle him...”

The younger Cronos narrowed his eyes, focusing on the battle.

This Cronos towered over the opponent. His lean frame was around twelve feet tall. Dark gray skin, lined with golden scars, shimmered as his wings unfurled from behind him. They were massive, dark, and stretching across the battlefield; they were not even connected to his body. His white hair was combed back neatly, which contrasted against the glowing intensity of his eyes. Adorned in a tunic marked by a golden hourglass, Cronos looked to be an ancient, unstoppably regal force.

His granddaughter dodged an arc of his scythe. Her movements were swift and nimble all while a blue skinned goddess watched from a distance. This goddess’ face was shadowed in concentration in casting spells to aid the other goddess in her fight. The Titan lunged forward, wings spreading wide, and the battlefield shifted as time itself bent under his influence.

“How did he escape?” the younger Cronos asked, intrigued.