Chapter 1: The Status Quo of Olympus

“O father Zeus, you who control the cosmos, and oversee the actions of man, his criminal and lawful acts, you also judge the arrogance and trial of wild beasts.”

— Archilochos, Fragment 177 (7th century BCE). Translated by various scholars. Copyright © public domain.

In the five centuries since the ascent of the Olympians, a new status quo had been found for all of the gods.

Artemis fired arrow after arrow at her targets.

Not only did she not hit each with unerring accuracy. She grabbed another and made the shot easily enough.

Behind her, in her gold and bronze armor, there stood her half-sister Athena. She judged the precision and the force after walking from Artemis’ side to the targets. She made sure her inspection was quick but thorough.

“Very well done, Sister,” Athena praised with conscious effort.

Artemis was not one to miss her targets, nor was she one to miss when someone held back. “But?” she asked, prompting her elder sister to respond.

“However,” Athena remarked, refusing to use the same word as the archer. “While your aim is impeccably impressive, I would note that some of your shots were shallow. Maybe you’re unsure of yourself. Perhaps, you are not as strong sometimes. I cannot be sure.”

Artemis looked from her sister to her bow. “Why would I need to improve? There’s no Python to attack, no Titan will harm us.”

“Father thought the same when it came after the Great War. Then, Typhon came, and my mother was taken from us,” Athena said simply.

Artemis recoiled. “I didn’t ... I didn’t know.”

Athena shook her head. “You did not need to know,” she added with a smile. “My point is we never know what is coming. We should enjoy the peace but prepare for the worst war.”

“And I am sure you do not need to improve?” Artemis teased playfully.

“On the contrary. While I am good at planning and tactics, I have improved my close combat by sparring with Ares, and I have been watching your form to improve my own archery.”

Artemis stared at her sister at the more confused and impressed. “You might be right.” Artemis looked at a pair of knives that Athena had brought. “Maybe by practicing with other tools, I might improve my strength.

Athena smiled. “That seems simple enough.”

The fiery chariot of the sun streaked across the heavens. Its golden wheels spun consistently as they were drawn by steeds of celestial fire. Apollo gripped the reins tightly. He was as gorgeous as ever with golden hair whipping in the searing winds. Sweat beaded on his brow from the concentration of the task at hand despite his divine nature.

Behind him sat Helios, the former charioteer of the sun and the titan son of Hyperion who had guided its path long before Apollo’s ascension.

“You’re too stiff with the reins, kid!” Helios barked. “The horses can still feel your hesitation. They’ll take advantage of it if you’re not careful.”

Apollo’s jaw tightened with his grip. He was struggling to find the delicate balance between holding the reins tightly enough to control the steeds, but not so tight that he would break them with his godly strength.

“I’m not a kid!” he snapped, frustrated. “Father Zeus entrusted me with this chariot. I am the god of the sun now.”

Helios let out a laugh, sharp and unimpressed. “God of the sun, are you? Then act like it!”

Helios was the brother of Selene, son of Hyperion and Theia. He was not one to hold grudges or seem ungrateful, but he knew which way the wind was blowing. Zeus was favoring his offspring over him. And why? To ensure the loyalty of his child.

Politically speaking, it was a smart move. Helios could not fault the god king for that, but it did not prevent the blow from hurting his pride.

“Those flames beneath your feet don’t bow to titles, Apollo. You show mastery to the horses or you might light the Realm on fire.”

The chariot jolted violently as the horses surged forward. Their fiery manes blazed trails across the sky as they galloped on the ethereal air. Apollo staggered from their bucking and fighting him. His grip slipped for the smallest moment before he regained control.

For his part, Helios leaned back. He watched, with arms crossed, the son of Zeus and Leto carefully.

“You’re letting them pull you,” Helios said. Condescension mixed with loathing disappointment to create a potent blend in his voice. “Do you think they care that you’re an Olympian?” he asked, motioning to the steeds. “They care only for strength, not lineage.”

Apollo gritted his teeth. Pride in being a god is sometimes a dangerous thing, but for Apollo, it flared. The reins in his hands burned like molten iron; nevertheless, he held firm with his grip and gaze. His eyes narrowed in intense focus. Despite that focus, he could not keep his eyes on just the reins of the horses. The horizon was always coming fast. Beneath them, the Realms of Greece existed. From Gaia’s earth to the mountain of Olympus, it all unfurled in a broad and beautiful landscape.

“Must you taunt, titan?” Apollo shot back. “The muses have sung my praises. My father trusts me with this chariot. I have been with you for five centuries without incident.”

Helios leaned forward, his burning visage inches from Apollo’s. “Without incident?” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell that to the crops you scorched two summers ago. Maybe we could discuss the lake you dried up five years ago. If I said it once, I have said it a thousand times: Driving the sun isn’t about glory, Apollo ... It is about precision.”

Apollo opened his mouth to retort but was cut off as one of the fiery steeds reared. As a result, the chariot lurched wildly. Helios reached out instinctively to correct the chariot’s course. For the briefest of moments, the younger god seemed like he might fight the help as his pride was in command, but when he saw that he might lose control of the situation, he acquiesced to the assistance of the titan.

“Your problem is that you think this chariot is some prize to have and flaunt over the other gods,” Helios said, his tone softer now, though no less firm. “It is not. This is a responsibility first and everything else comes second. Can you understand that? Can you see that first and foremost, Apollo?”

“I do understand!” he snapped for a moment. When he saw how much Helios had to fix the trajectory of the steeds, Apollo met Helios’ gaze slowly. That was the only condemnation to destroy the last of Apollo’s defiance, and he nodded. “I will do better.”

Helios straightened, a faint smile flickering across his radiant face. “Good. Then prove it.”

He stepped back, folding his arms as he watched Apollo adjust his grip on the horses’ controls. The younger god’s posture shifted to be more deliberate. Perhaps the son of Zeus would prove worthy, but the titan watched on for the rest of the ride. After all, the day was long, and Apollo was ordered to run the chariot, and Helios had no intention of angering Zeus.

The air in the volcanic depths of Mount Etna was weighed down by an unbearable heat. Prometheus had not been sure what he would face when he went through Hephaestus’ strange doorways that linked two places that were separated by miles. He was not sure what these gates were being called yet, but it would prove incredibly helpful for the gods that could not teleport in an instant.

The forge’s fires were giving off a molten light across the cavern. Prometheus strode into Hephaestus’ sanctum. The son of Iapetus flinched when the rumble came from beneath his feet.

The forge itself was a marvel of Hephaestus’ craftsmanship. Intricate mechanisms spun and clicked all around the fire titan. Anvils the size of boulders lay scattered in an ordered fashion amidst rivers of molten metal, from adamantine to gold to bronze to iron to steel, flowing in carefully crafted channels. Towering racks of tools lined the walls of the cavern forge room.

Near the center of it all stood Hephaestus. Despite his crippling infirmities, the forge master’s hammer struck down in rhythmic fury. Sparks flew from metal, but upon closer inspection, Prometheus realized that Hephaestus was taking the raw essence of storm and lightning into caricatures of Zeus’ Master Bolt.

When the crafter was done with one, he placed the bolts, which looked like electrically charged spears, into a container similar to a quiver.

Prometheus approached with a measured pace. He was careful when coming to any of the Olympians. While he had been there for their rise, and he was personally responsible for Hephaestus’ ascension, the fire titan was aware that their fame and prestige had far outstretched whatever Zeus intended.

“What do you want, Prometheus?” Hephaestus asked, not looking up from his work.

“I am admiring your home. Was this what Zeus gave you?”

“Gave me?” the smith let out a snort of laughter. “He said the mountain was mine, but this place was actually under Hades’ domain. I had to give the Lord of the Dead a sigil that his invisibility powers would latch onto. Then, and only then, was I allowed to have this mountain for a workshop.”

Prometheus whistled to display how impressed he was.

“Life or death,” he began in his smooth voice of molten silver, “might give us much, but you, Hephaestus, are exceptionally gifted. Your craft carries the elegance that Olympus so often touts to have, but rarely achieves. Regardless of how you obtained it, you have done well for yourself.”

Hephaestus paused from his work, glancing at Prometheus. “Flattery is wasted on me, Prometheus. I will ask again: What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Prometheus remarked. “I have come to offer admiration; nothing more. I know you have been busy. Your chariot for Helios and Apollo? Magnificent design. Artemis practically sang your praises for the arrows you provided for her when I saw her last. Though,” Prometheus said with a contrarian tone. “I suspect she’d deny that tidbit if pressed. I recall you have been giving Athena new and better armor than the one she was birthed in. Olympus shines brighter for your touch.”

Hephaestus snorted in derision. “Compliments are wasted here. Only the work matters, and niceties won’t make the work faster, Prometheus.”

Prometheus froze, having once said sentiments similar to what he was hearing.

“Everything takes me time. Too much time,” Hephaestus said, annoyed.

Prometheus stepped closer. His prodigious mind latched onto that sentiment. With his meeting with Chaos almost a thousand years ago in mind, he could not help but recall the importance of the temporal lining of chronal events. He examined the half-formed thunderbolt on the anvil.

“Time,” he mused, “can be a cruel, unyielding, even unmerciful thing. However, if its passing feels laborious, it’s often because the laborer is unmatched,” Prometheus said. “Perhaps I might offer my services?”

“You think you can help?” Hephaestus grunted, wiping his brow. “You and Epimetheus?”

The willingness to speak so freely was unlike the forge master. Prometheus looked upon him confused.

“No, Prometheus, but your skills lie elsewhere. You’re not a Maker. And your brother? A creator, yes, but creation without discipline is chaos. He’d leave my forge in ruins.”

“I suppose that is fair critique,” Prometheus chuckled lightly. He thought of all of the hardship of making animals with his brother. “My twin is a dreamer, but scarcely practical. As for myself, I have never claimed to be anything but an advisor. Still, if you would not want our assistance, who would be able to help you?”

Hephaestus leaned back from his work. He set his hammer down delicately.

“That was something I have been giving some thought to.” He gestured toward a pedestal nearby. “I could not help but think about needing assistance, but if living people are unworthy to meet my genius, maybe non-living people would do.”

Prometheus turned, his sharp eyes settling on the figure atop it. It was a statue, no more than eight inches tall, but crafted with a familiar artistry. Prometheus knew it intimately well. After all, it was he and his brother who had made the figure of the woman. She was carved with exquisite precision. Every curve, every detail, spoke of the latent perfection waiting to come alive.

All too quickly, Prometheus thought of Chaos’ ambiguous statement about an Age of Man coming. It required all of Prometheus’ self-control not to react with violent excitement. The birth of his creation was near at hand. What that meant for the outline of the future was unclear since, after all, the future was always changing when in motion.

“She’s not alive how you would expect,” Hephaestus said. “But maybe I could make copies of her to serve my whims. They could be workers who follow orders with steady hands while being tireless and obedient.”

“The idea is both brilliant and—how shall I put it?—troubling,” Prometheus admitted. Lifely automatons were not how he envisioned humanity. Hephaestus’ plan would interfere with his own design. However, Prometheus could not override Hephaestus’ authority. He gave up that right when he pushed for the elevation of Hephaestus in his place as an Olympian.

“You must know better than most the dangers of creation. Some new ideas cannot be undone. After all, once a child breathes, it seldom asks for permission to change its purpose. Your workers would be no different.”

“Neither I nor my forge care for philosophy, Prometheus,” Hephaestus shrugged. “Results are what matter.”

“Perhaps,” Prometheus murmured, almost to himself, “but when you craft the inexorable, you should be certain of what they’re shaping. If not, the result may alter the very fabric of what was intended.”

Hephaestus said nothing. He was the blunt anvil. He had told Prometheus that he cared nothing for philosophy, yet still the titan tried. Prometheus’ gaze lingered on the statue in the lava’s light.

In the Mortal Realm, there was a stone palace. It was a unique blend of person-made architecture and natural design. Vines were draped over the stone walls with blooming flowers scattered throughout.

Within the confines of the building was its owner in Demeter.

Hestia strode in excitedly. She was dressed in an ember-hued garment. Her curly auburn hair caught the light like a flickering flame.

“Demeter! Darl-ing!” Hestia exclaimed in a warm melodious sort of way. She approached Demeter, who stood at the far end of the chamber, with a familiarity that only a sister could have. “I love what the nymphs have done with the place! Every time I visit, this place just gets more and more beautiful.”

Demeter turned from the window she was staring out of.

“Greece is bountiful, Hestia,” she said. “It makes their work easier.”

“Thriving, are they? Oh, Hon, you must be so proud,” Hestia said.

She looked to Demeter, wondering if her sister might give her a hug. When it was clear that Demeter would give her no such affection, Hestia settled into one of the branch-wrapped chairs. She hovered her hand over a nearby platter of fruit, taking a ripe fig and biting into it delicately. “And what of Persephone? I hope my little ray of sunshine is behaving herself?”

At the mention of her daughter, Demeter’s eyes softened for a moment before betraying a hint of fear. Regardless of her momentary lapse, her voice remained cool.

“Persephone is well. She’s tending to the flower fields near the western grove. She loves to sit among the blossoms.” Demeter let out a soft laugh. “ She has the run of the nymphs and the flowers as if she owns this Realm already.”

Hestia chuckled. “She gets that from you, you know, Darling? That quiet strength of hers is all from you. I think she’ll need it though, especially when Hera discovers her.”

Demeter’s posture stiffened at the mention of the Queen of Olympus. Try as she might, she loathed the mage and archer. Hera had stolen the throne that had been meant for Demeter. Regardless of that stolen seat of power or not, Demeter lived in an existence of actions and consequences nor did she live in a world void of responsibility, so she was the sort of woman to plan accordingly.

Zeus and Hera ruled on Olympus. Demeter’s position as an Olympian had elevated her and cast her a permanent facet to Olympus, but to defy the king or queen was foolish. She had heard enough about how those two played with the lives of others. Demeter knew this meant it was best to distance herself.

“Why do you think I have prevented Persephone from aging? I do not want Hera, or Zeus for that matter, to know of her existence just yet,” she said with the firmness of bedrock.

“She’s his, right?” Hestia asked for clarity. There was no judgement in her words, tone, eyes, or mannerisms because that did not exist between these sisters.

Hera, Hestia, and Demeter had all been raised by Rhea, but Rhea had showered Hera most of the attention. In hindsight, Demeter supposed that Rhea must have planned for Hera to be queen. Of course that was conjecture, but for one in Demeter’s position, that was more than enough.

However, the upside to Hera being Rhea’s favorite made it so that Demeter and Hestia were fairly close all things considered. While learning to harness their talents, they trusted one another. Even after Hestia’s strange obsession with Hyperion’s Flame, Demeter considered her sister to be her closest confidant.

“She is,” Demeter said with a nod. ‘I heard what happened with Leto and those upstart twins. It might have worked out because of the Fates or maybe just dumb luck, but I will have no such hardships for my daughter, Hestia. The machinations of Olympus will never corrupt my daughter or her life.”

“Of course it won’t, Dem darling!” Hestia exclaimed defensively. “I’d never let that happen either. You know how I adore her.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But you can’t keep her a secret forever. They have a way of coming out, Hon, especially on Olympus.”

Demeter’s gaze lingered on her sister, accepting the counsel. Hestia was not one to lie. She would give all of her effort to anything she was working, but she was not one to halfheartedly care about any single endeavor.

This made Demeter know that her elder sister was just trying to show care. This forced Demeter to look away.

“Not this one,” she said distantly. Demeter had hoped to come across as defiant, but it felt more like a weak prayer.

“Speaking of Olympius,” Hestia said brightly, changing the subject. She knew her sister and cared for her wellbeing, so distracting her sister from her fears mattered more than trying to find a solution. “You won’t believe what Hephaestus has been up to lately.”

“Oh?” Demeter wondered as she picked up a cup filled with fruit juice.

“The palaces on Olympus? He’s completely overhauled them. They all have new decorations and metal adornments. The doors practically sing when they open them now. There are these gears or some such. There is this hot water. Sun roofs. Ugh! I can’t explain it enough. Oh and Athena? She has new armor, naturally. Apollo is obsessed with some new harp bow thing.”

Demeter allowed herself a dry chuckle. The change in subject was just what she needed.

“What other improvements has the forge master made up for you all?”

“Oh, the usual—arrows for Artemis, a chariot for Apollo. You know how they are,” Hestia said, her tone breezy. “He makes thunderbolts for Zeus. I think he made Hera a new crown. Ares got some kind of new sword.”

Demeter seemed bored at the mention of the royal family.

Seeing this, Hestia popped another fig into her mouth and savored the taste. “You, on the other hand, Goddess, seem to be doing splendidly down here. How many nymphs are under your protection now?”

“The number grows,” Demeter replied with a small nod. “Most of you on Olympus do not pay much attention to what is happening down here. With the rivers and forests growing, the naiads and dryads thrive. Chaos’ Greece is alive in ways it hasn’t been for centuries.”

“As it should be, with you doing your work,” Hestia said warmly. She reached across the table to place a hand on Demeter’s arm. “You’ve always been the steady one in our family.”

Demeter gave a small smile. “Thank you, Hestia.”

Before Hestia could respond, the sound of light footsteps echoed through the chamber. Persephone appeared, her wavy, dirty blonde hair bounced around her face, her amber eyes sparkled with curiosity, and her child form was as exuberant with youth as ever. She carried a small bundle of wildflowers. Her hands were stained with soil.

“Auntie Hestia!” she exclaimed. She ran forward, and Hestia enveloped her in a warm embrace.

“Little Sunshine!” Hestia said, holding her tightly. “Look at you, as radiant as ever. Have you been helping your mother today?”