The Time of Zeus Book 5: the Coup
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 8: In Silence, We Choose
“Who wills,
Can.
Who tries,
Does.
Who loves,
Lives.”
— Anne McCaffrey, Dragonrider, originally published in Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, January 1968; later included in Dragonflight (Ballantine Books, July 1968) and Dragonsong, Chapter 7, p. 89 (Atheneum Books, March 1976). © Anne McCaffrey.
All was still in the Realm that preceded form, voice, order, and law. In the endless existence, Chaos stood in quietude. There was no throne, for such notions were beneath them, but there were pillars and stars and ever-changing platforms.
Their essence stretched across eternity in a way that was entirely dissimilar to the gods of Olympus. The Progenitor was untouched by the limitations of the cosmos or chronology.
For all their differences that separated them from the petty gods and their squabbles, Chaos stirred.
Ripples danced as a window opened to reveal Mount Othrys. Two brothers were hiding away in its mountainous caverns. Energies from a fractured future were emanating from them.
Chaos did not move, but awareness flowed.
The first window showed a dark haired god. There was the faintest odor on this one that Chaos recognized at their own power. For all of the comparable notions, Chaos saw it akin to starlight trapped in a jar made of smoke.
Were these the remnants of boons yet to be given? That was not even the most important detail to this view.
Beside this black haired god...
Chaos narrowed their awareness on the other deity.
The Fulcrum!
Golden-eyed, thunder-forged, sea-born, death-kissed.
A shiver formed and vibrated up and down the back of the Progenitor. They froze as a vision seen near the dawn of creation was within their reach entirely too early.
However, he was all Chaos had hoped for and more. The Fulcrum carried the scent of divinities long scattered throughout all of the planes of this form of existence.
The thunder of Zeus, the tides of Poseidon, the grave-wisdom of Hades were only the start. Wrapped around him were strands of Hera’s protection, a Babylonian charm woven into the seams of his soul, and a flickering trail of ancient Egyptian spellwork.
Buried beneath all of that almighty mosaic of powers, a mark antithetical to order was blending with the tranquil detachment of another. Both were the powers of Progenitors.
Chaos breathed in contemplative thought.
The One, is it? Chaos mused to themselves. Mmm. A child not of fate, nor defiance ... but of choice.
They observed him to the exclusion of all else. To matter to the Progenitor was a rarity, but this was an uncommon occasion.
Is he the harbinger of the end? Chaos asked. No! Endings are far too linear, but of that subtle design that lies beyond the Fates’ little web. Still, Chaos remarked in solitude. I find him ... fascinating.
Their gaze lingered on this captivating creature. Chaos was not one to influence the fabric of Olympus’ timeline directly. After all, the gods were their descendants and had the right to forge their own futures.
Still, Chaos could test these interlopers. It was entirely too soon for the Fulcrum to be in their existence. Something must be done, but the petty squabbles on Olympus encompassed nearly every part of the Realm of Greece from the Underworld to the godly mountain.
For the purposes of the creator, another window appeared side-by-side with the one of the Fulcrum and his sibling. In this view, Atlas groaned beneath the ever-widening dome of Ouranos’ heavens.
He was the son of Iapetus. As surely as night turned into day, it did not make sense that the contemplative Titan who was worried about mortality would have conceived a son as powerful as Atlas. It had been far more sensical that Pallus might have been the father of Menoetius or Atlas.
Stars trembled slightly over the strong muscled shoulders of the titan. The very mountainous body of the divine man exhaled with strain in every breath.
This titan was surely separated far enough away from the events of the other divinities who were obsessed with their own importance.
A single thought unfurled from Chaos in that particular moment. This very well might be a way to determine the identity of the two temporally displaced beings.
With a wave of a hand, the sky grew heavier, and Atlas found his knees growing weaker. Like breath turning into stone, the very firmament deepened on his shoulders to press down against the titan.
The gods of Olympus might only sense the tension. However, they were so self obsessed that they would not likely notice the shift.
To Atlas, this alteration would be life-threatening.
Back in the first window, Chaos observed the two once more. Would the Fulcrum feel it? Would the champion, cloaked in the fragments of divinities and destined contradictions, rise to this challenge?
Ah... Chaos considered. Let the thread draw itself taut, as it must. I shall not tug. I need not.
A silence stirred around them in this existence. This was unlike them. Interference was a choice that they had long since decided not to do. The problem was that circumstances seemed to merit the need for such behavior.
If he is the one, then ... he will make the morally superior choice, sooner than later.
For a moment, Chaos struggled. This was not like them. They did not hope. They did not fear. They usually waited. This was what they had always done. To do so now would be incorrect.
Whether it was the tapestry of Nyx’s children that chose the shape or rather the decisions of the offspring was immaterial.
For the first time in a long time, Chaos was wanting there to be a certain outcome. It was necessary if the Fulcrum was to be the champion they had long since wanted.
The windows closed from the weight of what was to come.
Chaos did their best not to fret. Instead, they fell back on what they had done for millenia: They wondered.
Hades had given Hera vague direction to where Hypnos was. The House of Hades was filled with so many twists and turns, she was both impressed and annoyed by the design of the place.
If it were not for the fact that Hera suspected that Zeus knew that she could not lay with anyone other than him, she might have taken more time to appreciate what Hades was doing in the Underworld. He had no servants, few gods here, and he was meant to watch over the Titans, yet still, somehow, through it all, he thrived.
The chambers of Hypnos were buried deep within the folds of the stupid palace. The door was open, so she walked right in to find walls of bronze in the light of violet flames that burned on lanterns hung on from the rafters, creating a unique perpetual twilight. Burgundy curtains hung on the walls, and violet-marbled columns rose into ceilings.
Cushions lay in scattered heaps across the floor for anyone to lay on. They had been gently arranged in patterns only the god of sleep could comprehend. A fountain in the corner trickled water into a basin shaped like the crescent moon.
Hera marveled at all of it as it felt akin to a lullaby without noise but also in the very air, so every breath she inhaled, she was closer to dozing off.
She knew she could not stay within the confines for long or else she would fall prey to the lands of dreams.
Hypnos floated lazily above a bronze-framed couch. Most would not have correlated the fact that he was a son of Nyx. However, since the Great War, Hera had never forgotten him. His robes were mismatched and wrinkled. Hera assumed that was the usual for him; though, she could not be sure of that.
As a god of sleep, she momentarily wondered how long his naps were.
Even as such thoughts came and went from her mind, the sleeping god blinked himself awake. Slowly, he fluttered down to his feet, and looked around. His mouth formed a little ‘o.’
“Hera!” Hypnos exclaimed in his cheery way. “I, um, wow, wowie—hello, Your Majesty! Did you come to nap?”
He reached for a pillow before tossing it behind him nervously. He considered to whom he was speaking. While he was certainly the older of the two, that was not how Hypnos’ mind worked. He saw her, and he recognized she was a queen, much like his mother, Nyx. Because of this, no matter his age relative to hers, she was worthy of reverence.
However, if anyone were to press Hypnos to explain any of this, they would be unable to because he could not properly translate what his mind did unconsciously. It was a real barrier for communication.
“Wait, no, no!” Hypnos said, lifting up his hands in explanation of himself. “Not that you nap! You look regal! Well-rested, even!”
The Queen of Olympus stood in front of him dumbfounded by the very being whose help she needed. She was both more impressed by Hades for getting anything done with someone like this assisting him, and at the same time, she judged the Chthonic King for having anything to do with this bumbling oaf.
“I did not come here for idle flatteries or ill-kept cushions, Hypnos,” she said coolly. She strode across the floor. She made her way towards him as if the room were hers and not his. “If you might recall, you owe me a debt, and I have come to collect.”
Hypnos gulped. He was entirely unaware of what the Olympian Queen was referring to, but if she was saying something of a debt, it must be true. Queens, like his mother, did not lie ... Right?
He gave a sheepish grin even as one of his toes idly drew sleepy swirls on the rug.
“You’re really good at remembering things. Like really good.”
Hera raised a brow at this moron. Hermes was far more useful and quicker on the uptake than this one. How in all of Olympus did Hypnos function?
“You do recall the Great War, don’t you? The field of ruin? The moment Coeus turned his rage upon you?” Hera asked, hoping to jog his memory.
Hypnos’ smile faltered at the recollection. Death was not some new concept in the Underworld. After all, Death was Hypnos’ brother, or was it that Thanatos simply escorted the living to the land of the dead? Really? How did that all work?
“Oh,” he said softly. “The bolt that I didn’t see coming. I remember floating and thinking, ‘wow, this is going to hurt’ and then ... nothing. Except there wasn’t pain because there was this arrow.”
Hera’s voice lowered to a dangerous sweetness. “My arrow if you recall.”
The son of Nyx nodded rapidly.
“Yes! Yes! Your arrow! You saved my life, Your Radiance! You were all—zip!—precision and light and—pow!—no more scary death bolt! That was... really cool!” Hypnos exclaimed excitedly. He stopped to consider what had happened next in a war millenia gone by. “I think I fainted afterwards, but that wasn’t your fault!”
He lifted his hands, shaking them, so Hera knew the negative was serious.
“Hypnos,” Hera remarked exhausted. “You told me that you owed me your life back then that you owed me your life. I do not require your life, but I do need a favor from you.”
“I see what you mean,” Hypnos replied. He was unsure what he could do. “What can I do for you?”
“I am in need of your power over sleep,” Hera said.
Hypnos snapped upright. He might have been more awake than he’d looked in centuries. Hera could not be sure.
“Is that all? Right! Right! I’ve got it!” Hypnos said back excitedly.
He floated over to a sealed alcove beard the ceiling. Reaching in past bundles of mist and fabric, he produced a small, velvet pouch. The scent that spilled from it was a potent mixture of poppies, crushed stars, and concentrated moonlight.
“This is poppy seed sand, Majesty!” Hypnos explained. “Puts anyone to sleep. I use the stuff when I have been awake for more than an hour!”
“And this will work on anyone?” Hera asked skeptically when she accepted the pouch.
“Sure does!” Hypnos answered cheerfully. “I used a weaker version to put the Titans to sleep after that whole final battle.” He considered what she was asking. “Come to think of it. I don’t even think a god could fight this off.”
Hera eyed the pouch carefully. When she had heard what she needed to hear, she seemed all the happier.
“This will suffice, then.”
“Is that it?” Hypnos asked when he saw Hera standing for the exit. When no answer came, he did not lose his happiness. “Well, thanks for visiting! You’re terrifying and majestic and, uh ... really cool about not smiting me! Come back anytime!”
Hera did not dignify the sleeping god with an answer. Instead, she walked out. She clutched the sleeping concoction with a joy of success.
Hypnos was completely unaware of what brought the queen joy. He decided it was none of his business and laid his head down onto the comfy pillows. He would get to nap for another three or four days. That would be great. A real productive few days.
Amphitrite was considered the Queen of the Vast Waters or of the Sea. It really came down to who one asked. As she stood at the prow of her seahorse-drawn chariot, her silver-blue hair pendulated like moonlit waves beneath the open sky.
She surrounded herself with the steady surface of the sea in a remote location. The clouds overhead shifted in lazy procession, but that suited her just fine as it allowed her to give silence for her thoughts.
Alone with the sea was a norm for her as she was a child of the Titan Oceanus. He had been made to be the first true ruler of the seas. It had been all her father had ever known until the Great War.
He had stepped away in a sign of neutrality from the forces of Cronos and Zeus. That was not enough to protect him from the new order of the sons of Cronos when they had ascended to their thrones with the blessing of the Primordial Gaia.
She whipped the reins of her horses, so the chariot glided over the swells of the sea. Amphitrite’s eyes drifted to the far horizon where sky and sea touched with a kind of reverent hush. There was something she was looking for, but she could not articulate what that was.
Know? What did she even know for certain anymore?
Queen was what she was called. However, how often was her counsel dismissed? How often did her husband beat his chest and give orders, forgetting that he had wanted her. He has sought her out, and at one time, he claimed that her words had power.
Poseidon had courted her like a furious tempest, swept her from her father’s sanctuary, and placed a crown upon her brow as quickly as anything. Now that he had wed and bed her, however, she seemed to be more of a nuisance to him than anything of value.
She clenched her fists and narrowed her eyebrows as she looked at the waves ahead. She had been a princess. Sure, she was one of thousands, but she mattered to her family. To Poseidon, she was practically a receptacle for him to get his orgasm.
Even as the thought over her husband’s selfish carnal thought, a glint caught her eye in the distance of the waters. A ripple across the current served as warning to the queen. She moved her chariot towards what she saw. When she felt she was near enough, she dismounted and walked barefoot across the sea’s surface towards the sight.
Petting the horses that pulled her chariot was their warning that their queen felt safe and would return.
There, floating on the waters, was land.
A buoyant isle was great in size and quiet in sound. Its shoreline was soft with moss and pale sand. Amphitrite looked at it curiously. That was not the norm by any means. The edges were tangled with sea-kelp and coral vines like some of the underwater portions of Poseidonus; though, this island seemed to have been made without purpose where her husband’s city had been deliberate in all of its choices.
Seafoam laced the landmass’ borders. Golden-green worms burrowed in the rich, damp loam to create fertile soil far more quickly. Strange flowers bloomed along its inner grove. Again, there seemed to be no design. Everything seemed haphazardly put together. Rainwater pooled in its hollows, creating small lakes.
This place pulsed with life. The sheer size told her that it could support the lives of thousands.
Her breath caught at that thought.
When she saw a searing mark that reminded her of Hera’s magic, Amphitrite recalled the landlocked island of Delos. Not the whole of it. What if when Hera struck the island to make it no longer float, she had left a part to keep floating and it grew?
This was a forgotten piece that had drifted and continued to collect discards of the sea and simply expanded.
Amphitrite stepped further into the island purposefully. Her first thought was this island needed to stop moving. Using her divine power from within, she stopped the island from moving. She linked the land to the bottom of this portion of the sea.
This place could be a gift, she felt.
While she was thinking, a voice came.
Soft and low. It was not male and not female. It did not feel divine in the way she knew of divinity. This was ancient, older than her father’s ocean, Ouranos’ sky, or even Gaia’s stone. The shiver it sent up and down her back warned her that she should heed the voice.
Tell your king.
She froze.
The air did not tremble. The sea did not stir. But something beyond the veil of the world had just spoken.
You have found what was lost. A place outside Olympus. This that was forgotten can take in those that are also unwanted.
The voice did not echo but it rang within Amphitrite.
A queen remembers what kings forget.
Amphitrite’s heart raced, thinking of Aegis and Eletheia.
Silence overtook her.
Amphitrite stood still for a long while, scared to do anything. The voice was so powerful that she had no doubt that she could be picked up and hurled to the ends of the cosmos without concern. Then she turned to where she knew to be the direction of her chariot.
She had found a home for Aegis and Eletheia. This could be her moment. She could make her husband see her, hear her, and finally she could make a difference.
Time is a fickle bitch of a mistress, or so Atlas thought. He had believed that Cronos was the ruler of all temporal functions in existence. Or maybe he was simply using the power and the real creator was the Progenitor.
Atlas was sure his brother, Prometheus would know more on the subject. That much was true. He was the thinker in the family. Menoetius and Atlas had been the muscle. If only they had listened to the mind of the brothers, they might have faired better or at least chosen the correct side.
Atlas breathed in the thin, cold air between the firmament and the cumbersome sky that weighed down upon his shoulders. His muscles flexed at the endless strain of his punishing ordeal. His feet felt as though they were becoming one with the mountain. From time to time, he had to move them to keep circulation in the appendages rather than allow them to go numb.
Zeus would likely be laughing if he had been made aware of what Atlas endured and how the punishment had evolved from what he had originally intended. Instead, he had abandoned the son of Iapetus to torment after sentencing him.
His arms trembled to the bone beneath the weight of the heavens. The weight of the stars and clouds were infinite and more. He did not simply hold it with his arms; he carried it there, sure, but he held it with the very idea of persevering endurance.
For him, his punishment could not be measured in days or night. It was eternals, so there was no point in attempting to proportion or allocate what he suffered through.
Even his memories had become warped from his task. There were times when all he had was his memories of his daughters and Pleione. The problem was that even those recollections had been perverted by Zeus’ punishment.
He thought of the good days after the Great War. He reminisced on being a farmer, having children, and loving his wife, but even those moments had been distorted like a cracked mirror because it always ended with Cratus coming to capture him as one of his siblings killed his wife.
Imagining what he might have done better to win the fight and save his wife haunted him,
He could have sworn that Pleione had screamed. He could not be sure of the memories though. Were they real or was it a simulation of what he should have done to save her. When all he could do is think with the weight of the sky on him, it could only lead to him feeling as though he was simply going mad.
What he knew was that Cratus had come for him on the behest of Zeus like a snarling dog. Cratus’ siblings had taken Atlas’ wife from him. What he could no longer recall was who had done the deed? Was it Bia who wielded a blade? Zelus who held her down? Nike who snapped her neck?
The questions were their own form of delirium. His abandonment by all on Olympus must have been what had led to this mania, and that same mania had stripped him of the memories of his mind. He could no longer know what was true and what was false in terms of his recollection.
That was perhaps the worst wound of all. Zeus’ penalizing punition had taken away even the solace of his mind. He had hoped that while his body was destroyed, his mind could be safe from torment.
Had the Thunderer known this would happen? Had it been accidental? Atlas could not know. There was no way to know. Zeus had counselor like Metis and Prometheus that could expand his imagination and wisdom to think of such cruelties.
His knees nearly buckled under the weight of the ever-present labor and his forgotten truth of remembrance.
Without warning, the sky above him seemed to shift. This had never occurred before in the centuries of his punishment.
Atlas groaned at the alteration. The force of this noise was a deep sound of thunder like a mountain weeping. Why should it not? He was becoming more and more like the rock and stone by his feet.
Above his head, the stars seemed to grow heavier. The celestial dome pressed down as though some invisible hand were pushing down on it in an attempt to test his resolve.
Was this some magic of Zeus?
His breath was quickly becoming short. His lungs fought to expand against a ribcage that seemed squeezed by some invisible pressure. The oxygen was too thin. The need inhale was becoming harder and harder.
The agony of his spine being pulled downward by the oppressive mass caused his arms to buckle. Ichor began to seep from his calloused palms. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like war drums to a final battle.
No god came to gloat in his waning state. No respite came in form of a breeze, shade, or light from the sun or moon. He was truly alone and would falter in silence on this day. While material was ground against stones, so too would he be ground by the sky above and the earth below as if Gaia and Ouranos no longer wanted him in the land of the living.
Atlas snarled at this idea. He had survived centuries here, and for him to lose in solitude and die was a failure on his end. Furthermore, if he died, and the sky fell, would the lands be crushed by the sky? Would his daughters, both the ones as stars and the ones on Olympus, be slain by this cataclysmic event?
The very thought made his eyes burn with tears. Were his daughters even real? Had that been another false memory created by his overthinking?
That was when the simplest thought crossed his mind. Did it matter if they existed? To fai would be to surrender to Zeus. Not Zeus not Cratus nor even Olympus could defeat him.
For all of his determination, the sky answered with its ever present pressing down upon him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to slouch, the sky would win in the end. It was, after all, unalterably ineluctable.
The air inside the cave grew still.
For most, that would not be an issue. For those within its confines were not the average even among the divine. They were kings in the most pure and true sense.
The pressure was off.
Zagreus had been pacing back and forth as they waited for the dawn. After all, Helios or Apollo could see everything down below, but often they missed crucial details because they were busy controlling their chariot pulled by flaming steeds. Selene, however, was a titaness with keen eyes, and in their time, she was not only capable of seeing all that went on under her night sky, she often did.
The Underworld King paused mid-step.
“Ani? You feel that?” he asked.
The question was altogether rhetorical, for he already knew the answer. Anicetus had been through many trials. To say he could not sense an alteration in reality would be to insult the High King.
Anicetus stood still. From his expression, it was clear how divided he was at that moment. His golden eyes narrowed at the distance.
His bracers caught the faint light of morning, the crest of Olympus shining on his arms like dawn on steel even as the wings of his sandals bristled from his flexing calves.
Without saying a word, he moved past his brother. He walked to the edge of the cave’s shadowed threshold.
What he saw in the distance made his stomach turn. The sky itself trembled in a way he had only known once.
“Zag...” Anicetus breathed slowly. He was not one to rush into his words anymore. His gaze was fixed on the heavens, so as to be completely certain as to what was occurring.
“Historically, is this supposed to happen?”
Zagreus joined him, squinting against the wavering skyline.
“I ... I...” He stammered uncertainly. “I don’t know. Alex was the best student of us. You know that.”
He paused to recall his lessons from Prometheus and Thoth. After a moment, he slowly shook his head.
“No. Atlas is supposed to hold the sky until the time of Father, but that’s not supposed to happen for millennia yet.”
“If Atlas were to falter ... who could take up the sky?”
He began to list the positions of the gods aloud, not for Zagreus’ benefit, but to trace the constellation of fate that should be:
“Hera will be gathering allies. Athena might be speaking to Zeus—or Prometheus. Poseidon is likely in Poseidonus. What about Hades?”
“Right now,” Zagreus mused, “dad’ll be busy being a miser, and the magic of Erebus and Tartarus will make it difficult for him to leave for long. He should have the strength to keep the sky aloft, but if we grab him, we will have to explain where we come from, and I doubt we could trick him into drinking the waters of Lethe to erase his memory of us.”
Anicetus looked to the shaking heavens again. He was entirely uncertain of what to do especially after his own order to his brother.
“We have to do something,” Zagreus said.
“I know!” Anicetus shot back. “No one will get there in time in order to catch the sky.”
“This might be a blind spot,” Zagreus said, exhaling deeply. His voice was quick as he was trying to measure all of this. “Either our teachers didn’t remember this happening...”
“Or our presence has changed the past,” Anicetus finished in a cold, fearful tone.
The silence that followed was heavier than the quaking sky. The precipice of consequence was upon them, but this was not their fault. They had not intended to be lost to time. Regardless of intent, they knew right and wrong, and they would acquit themselves.
Before any more time could pass, Zagreus squared his shoulders and turned to face Anicetus with an impish light in his eyes that had gotten the three brothers into trouble so many times since childhood. Thankfully, time and maturity had turned this look into one of use in the service of duty.
“That means we have to interfere.”
Anicetus did not answer immediately. Strategy was their third brother’s gift.
Anicetus had always been the powerhouse among them. Zagreus was the incorrigible one. Melinoë was the powerful mage among the siblings. Makaria was more of the pious and principled one.
He would need to act as though all of his brothers and sisters were there. More than that, Anicetus was not a child anymore. He had married, had children, united a kingdom, battled foes from other lands, even other worlds. He had felt the bite of Mjölnir’s swing, been smacked by Ruyi Jingu Bang, and carried a weight only that less than five beings had ever survived under.
He lowered his gaze to his belt, fingers brushing over a bronze clasp. With a flick, he released a hidden compartment. From it, he withdrew a small, crystalline vial filled with a golden liquid that pulsed.
He turned to face his brother.
“Do you still have some Lethe water?” he asked.
Zagreus blinked, then nodded. He reached beneath his cloak, producing a slender flask of dark blue stone capped in obsidian silver.
“You know that you’ll have to dilute it,” Anicetus said. “With water or blood. We don’t want Atlas to forget why he’s on the mountain just that we were there.”
Zagreus swirled the contents of his vial slowly as he nodded.
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