Chapter 5: The Beginnings of Conflict

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

— Thanos (as portrayed by Josh Brolin), Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015). Written and directed by Joss Whedon. Copyright © 2015 Marvel Studios. All rights reserved.

The daughter of Metis and Zeus appeared back in her palace on Olympus. She paced back and forth in her own private quarters until she decided it was best to get fresh air. Like most palaces on Olympus, she had a terrace overlooking part of the grand mountain city.

Athena walked up and stood before her balcony before leaning on it. The clouds above her head were swirling to allow golden light to touch down upon the marble pillars of her palace, almost casting a flow of approval upon her. Was it not always so? Since her birth, Athena had never failed? In her sparring matches with Ares, she always came out victorious. While Artemis was the better show in archery, it was Athena who could defeat her sister in all other forms of combat. Though Hermes was quick, he did not harness that speed for any particular prowess other than to look good.

For all the city’s splendor and for all of Athena’s skillful masteries, there was a hollowing empty feeling within her core. Perhaps the air was too crisp. Maybe she was paranoid from the Underworld, and the shadows were in on her secret quest for truth.

But what did that matter? Her heart and mind were growing heavy with the knowledge that no one would aid her in the deposition of her father.

Hades’ loyalties were bound to his realm, ignoring the problems anywhere else. Hera would rather suffer betrayal than face the destruction of her marriage, or conceivably, Hera understood that without Zeus, she would lose some of her standing on Olympus. Prometheus would follow Zeus to the end of time, so long as his strange creation came into being. Of course that would say the titan from her father’s wrath.

Where was her mother when Athena needed her? Silenced forever. Zeus saw to that. It was one of his many crimes that he would never answer for. That was the truest cold realization that Athena would suffer that day.

Her father’s reign would go unchallenged because no one dreamed of stopping him. Most could not envision such a thing. After the Typhon incident, and consumed Athena’s mother, Metis, his power was entirely unmatched, to the point of having woven his influence into every corner of the cosmos.

That was another problem. This was why this moment in her history was crucial. Zeus would only become more powerful with time. If not physically, politically. Where his body would fail, his charm would succeed in handing him allies.

Nevertheless, Athena could feel the injustice of her father’s crimes. While they did not weigh on him or any semblance of conscience, she felt that they were mounting, accumulating like storm clouds on the horizon.

He had taken many lovers, from her own mother to Leto. Athena was sure there were countless more, and Olympus would drown in his offspring. Regardless of Hera’s pride or absence thereof when it came to their marriage, his betrayals cracked the foundation that was the sanctity of marriage between a king and queen. Athena did not need the power of foresight like the Sisters of Fate to know that such actions would only deepen wounds between Zeus and Hera as time went on.

Her devoured mother was his gravest sin too Athena. She could barely think of the depravity of it. Cronos had nearly been slain and was altogether deposed for such an action. Athena had given a vow to her father not to reveal that information. Only after seeing her father’s other crimes did she realize that this was this deviant degeneracy that might have gained her enough sympathy for the citizenry of Olympus to overthrow her despot of a father.

He had a titaness of wisdom silenced when he consumed her, body and spirit. She could have advised the Throne of Olympus for centuries, millenia more. She could have been there with Athena, to help her make the right choices, but in the end, where was Metis? Athena had this nagging feeling that maybe her mother still existed somewhere, but she could not place where such an idea came from, but the more logical, realistic side of her knew that she was no more. She existed only as an extension of Zeus’ power in order to protect his reign.

The air grew colder as Athena’s mind fell into the thoughts of the past and what it might mean for the future. Unlike the Fates, Athena could not see the congruence of destiny that had been woven into the threads of Fate by the Moirai.

What she did understand about the situation, as she looked over Olympus with a steely gaze, was that all paths would lead to his continued rule somehow. This was, of course, unless someone intervened by defying him.

There could only be one to do it.

She was the one who had been born through unorthodox means because of Zeus’ murder of her mother. It was Athena who had her mother stolen from her. It was Athena who was forced to lie everyday for her father.

The power of her pedigreed parentage thrummed within her. She was the daughter of Metis, bearer of wisdom, and a goddess of war.

To stand idle while justice was corrupted was an injustice in and of itself. When wisdom was consumed by arrogant power, it was the righteous duty of those with the will and might to stand in the way of that power. Even as she came to that realization, she knew she would have to stand her ground even if she lost her life.

The decision formed within her like metal in a forge. The swelling indignant rage had been tempered with time by grief and fury, but it was only after it had been honed by her keen mind that she saw a path forward that might yet lead to the downfall of her father while preserving the order that the Throne of Olympus had cultivated.

The sky above darkened as clouds swirled. A cold wind swept through the columns, and Athena wished she had worn a fur over her armor to prevent a chill, but change warmed her within, ensuring she was strong enough for what needed doing.

Athena turned away from Olympus, giving the wondrous city only her back to observe.

Storms were gathering from without and within, and she would be ready to brave them both.

The golden light of Helios’ sun spilled over the valley. The gleaming radiance cast long shadows down upon the earthy ground even encapsulating Prometheus, who remained kneeling at the riverbank. His scarred hands worked with deliberate grace to advance his crafting of the delicate clay figures. Every piece of the models were shaped with the care of a parent, rather than a godly creator.

These were his children after all. They may not have been made through the most regular of means, but they did exist because of him, much like Hephaestus to Hera or Pontus to Gaia.

The air was calm with no breeze to be felt. The river lazily wound its way through the valley. It was the perfect environment for Prometheus to do his best work.

Then, just as Prometheus revelled in his rewarding labor, the air around him shifted with a weak, gentle wind and a crackling energy caused the hair on his arms to rise. Almost immediately after, a commanding shadow loomed behind Prometheus. The titan of forethought felt a worrying sensation run up his spine, causing him to shiver.

The son of Iapetus held his tongue at the moment. He knew that if he were to voice his acknowledgement of the visitor, they would be displeased by Prometheus’ ability to simply be aware of those around him.

“Are you still working on the crafts, Counselor?”

The voice was obviously from Zeus, but it was in a powerfully deep way, so as to carry the weight of a king with an authority over the cosmos. Prometheus did not turn immediately as he knew that would be what Zeus wanted. The youngest son of Cronos always did like when he was showered with attention.

Rather, the Counselor allowed his fingers to linger on the clay doll in his hands for but a moment longer. The fragility of the clay made him realize that when his work was done, by comparison to the gods on Olympus, the little humans would be just as brittle. What the mortals might see as great strength from the divine was truly just weakness from being mundane.

“You know that these are not merely crafts,” Prometheus answered steadily. “These creations might be the beginnings of something greater if we are lucky.”

Prometheus finally looked up to meet the piercing gaze of Zeus. The King of Olympus stood tall and imposing over the titan counselor.

There seemed to be a breeze for his hair of white. Zeus commanded the wind and lightning, so that was not unreasonable to expect, or so Prometheus thought.

Zeus took a step closer to inspect Prometheus’ handiwork.

Upon realizing that there would be scrutiny over his creative craftwork, Prometheus rose slowly. The dirt from the shore and clay from his dolls stained his knees and skirt, so he had to brush some of it off. Regardless of his appearance though, his posture was proud of what he had wrought.

While Zeus picked one model up to look them over with a keen eye, Prometheus felt he needed to explain his work off to his superior.

“Humanity will be like us, as I modeled them after the likes of us like you wanted” Prometheus explained. “But altogether mortal like the beasts of the land. They will be born, grow older, and perish, yet, it is my hope that, in their brevity, each human will be able to grow in one fashion or another.”

Zeus not not move, but there was a coldness exuding from him. “Like us?” Zeus asked, practically spitting out the words. He shook his head. “No, Prometheus,” he went on with a vitriol to his voice that could not be masked. “There are to be nothing like us, for we are eternal, everlasting.”

“Perhaps,” Prometheus conceded. All too quickly, he realized that for some reason he was on shaky ground with Zeus. “Their mortality might limit them in terms of power and stature like us, but I think it can also help grant them purpose. They will know that any moment could be their last, and that they should cherish each moment.”

“What should occur if your little creations try to surpass us?” Zeus asked as he held a model of one of the females in his hand.

“I do not see how that could be possible,” Prometheus countered quickly. While he said the words allowed, he knew there was a deeper desire for humanity to learn for their mistakes and that of the gods to, over the course of many generations, be better than the gods, Titans, and Primordials before them.

“Even if they find their own greatness, I assure you that both the mortals and their success will be lesser than you, my king,” Prometheus said. “Their legacy will be to entertain you as they strive for a legacy that is only allowed by the likes of yours.”

Zeus’ gaze shifted to the clay toy in his head. “Maybe,” he replied, seeing the feminine form of a mortal woman in the clay. “Legacy?” he went on, both lingering and questioning the word’s meaning. “You would give these lesser beings the power to mate? They could spread across Greece like a horde of insects?”

Prometheus hesitated to answer. He knew the truth would upset Zeus, but a lie would condemn Prometheus to death or worse, Zeus would consign Prometheus to Tartarus.

“Well, yes,” Prometheus replied slowly. “All other lives in the animal parts of the Mortal Realm can procreate. If they are not given this privilege, they will die out in a single generation.”

When Zeus turned, Prometheus could see that the king’s eyes had darkened. His blackened gaze narrowed only onto the model in his hand.

“No,” he said coldly.

Before Prometheus could say or do anything, Zeus’ fingers crackled with divine lightning. First, that power enveloped the female model in his hand, and then, just as quick as light itself, it jumped to all of the delicate clay models of women. One by one, the dolls exploded into dust before floating away on the breeze.

Upon seeing his precious work destroyed by the person where there was no recourse or ability to stop, Prometheus’ breath caught.

“What are you—” Prometheus blurted out.

“Humanity is to be a novelty,” Zeus declared coldly. He stood over a kneeling Prometheus, reminding the son of Iapetus who was king and who was the serving counselor. “Nothing more.”

Prometheus trembled with restrained anger from his shoulders down to his twitching fingers. He bent down, reaching out to the blasted remnants of his perfect creation.

He had spent millenia planning humanity. There was a conscientious thought process put into their making. Setbacks had come and gone in all of that time. Only after he had spoken with the Great Progenitor, Chaos themselves, did Prometheus begin to believe that his dream of a mortal race of godlike beings was entirely possible.

That wreckage of the figures in the riverside told the forward thinking son of Iapetus that there was no future for humanity so long as Zeus held dominion. Though the moment was small, Zeus’ towering presence told Prometheus the truth of the matter.

If absolute authority was personified, the titan realized that it was not Cronos or Ouranos, but rather Zeus had captured the quality.

“I asked you to make these toys for me, Prometheus,” Zeus remarked, turning his back on the titan. He did so not as a sign of disrespect, in Prometheus’ estimation, but rather, as a symbol of his imperviousness. “Never forget, Counselor, that this is for me, not you. I have allowed this creation. Be thankful.”

Prometheus might have responded an affirmative to his king; however, his heart had sunk so low into his chest that he could not find words to reply.

“Design these ones to have a reasonable lifespan,” Zeus ordered. “I wish to be entertained by them for some time.”

With those words having reached the ears of Prometheus, Zeus vanished in a flash of lightning.

Sometimes, people feel a coldness when they are alone. However, there was a billowing breeze of wrath blowing in the absence. Prometheus glared at the remnants of his work before looking where Zeus had only just been.

With a slow and measured movement, Prometheus stood himself up by the riverbank. Before he clenched his fists, there was a quick look to make sure the other dolls were safe. His king’s intentions or not, humanity would be born.

He looked down at the broken clay next to the intact partners. A prodigious mind, much like Prometheus’, is an intellect that is not vast, but always in motion. When action comes, he must consider reaction. His failing, on this day, was not that he could not envision Zeus harming his children of humanity, but rather, he was so focused on his love of them, from design to their differences to their possibly limitless potential, that he did not contemplate that Zeus would prevent them from existing just one generation.

With one motion, they might be destroyed. And yet, even as he looked at them, Prometheus thought of the sun that had baked them. He appraised them. Zeus never wanted them to be as strong as gods, but what if they were capable of improving? Not by much, but little by little, they could grow stronger, like the gods did during the Great War.

These humans, the ones before him, they could live ... fifty ... No ... Maybe one hundred years, but if just one goddess were to procreate with them, and birth a woman, then humanity could be saved.

He looked out at the river. He did not see the water. He considered the Great Flame of Olympus. He touched the remaining dolls with that inner fire. Their ability to grow would be within them. There was no guarantee with such a gift. Instead, he knew he was creating a chance. The smallest statistical prospect for Prometheus, as it might be for any parent that wanted to see their child succeed in a cruel existence.

The weak fire was absorbed by all of the dolls.

Prometheus continued looking, getting lost into his gifted capacity to humanity. With the Flame on his mind, and a focus on the future, Prometheus saw as he had only truly seen twice before.

His humans wore armor with swords, shields, lances, spears, and bows and arrows. He could see one with a black blade of kings, another with a club, bare hands of a woman, a man on a boat, an invincible warrior with a spear attacking a city.

But then ... only then, Prometheus saw a glimpse of something small. He almost lifted his arm to reach out for it. It felt tangible. This was not a vision like he had before. In the past, he had seen. This was more. Perhaps his powers were expanding. Maybe Chaos was allowing him to see this. It was entirely possible that he was hallucinating what he deeply desired after Zeus had destroyed his hard work.

Without moving himself there, he had been returned to Mount Olympus. The storm clouds churned with crackling lightning above his head. He was surrounded by beings he knew and some he did not.

There was Aphrodite in a dress of pink and lilac. Athena looked pale in the face while wearing some sort of ceremonial cape over her armor. There was a face of a monstrous female on the front of her Aegis shield. She was next to Artemis, who wore a gown of green moss and had a quiver and bow strapped to her back, with a smaller female between them. By his quick analysis, they were protecting that person.

He could not work out why.

Ares was adorned in armor of blacked steel, but unlike how he was, he was not adversarial with Athena. He was not arm and arm with her and Artemis, but he was not standing in their way. While Hades was nowhere to be found, Prometheus saw an older looking Demeter next to a red haired goddess and a black hair god, who had mismatching eye colors. The more he looked at the Olympians, the more he saw them standing against Zeus.

Poseidon was the only one standing side by side with the King of Olympus.

With the one who had only just wronged him in mind, Prometheus looked to examine Zeus. He stood, both majestic and terrible. His tunic of purest white, stormy gray, and godly gold adorned his body. His bronzed sandals shined even with the overcast of the heavens. The golden wreath upon his head glittered with a sheen to inform all before him that he was the undisputed ruler of any on Olympus.

Lightning danced over his fingers with a snapping crackle to warn others that violence would be done even as his eyes flared with his ever-familiar wrath to Prometheus.

There was a sizzling smoke in front of him, telling Prometheus that a blow of thunder had only just been thrown. The son of Iapetus turned his head to look at who might be battling Zeus.

What he saw did not look all that impressive.

Kneeling before the King of Olympus was the opponent. He was a youth clad in a well-traveled, dust-stained tunic that had been covered in the grime of blood, much like the animals Prometheus had made, and dirt. Ragged ox-hide sandals wrapped up his feet and lower legs.

What caught Prometheus’ attention most was that the young man’s golden hair fell messily over a cut above his right eyebrow. Cuts were not unusual, but what was unique was that the wound pulsated between the ruby-red scarlet of mortal blood and the brightly radiant golden glow of ichor.

This had Prometheus held captive. He had only just considered humanity intermingling with the gods. He leaned in, trying to get a better look at the warrior youth. He must surely be one of those blendings of the divine and the mundane.

Contrary to his belief, that was when he saw the gold tinge in the fledgling’s eyes. There was a warping encircling of the blackest void that could only be from the dead of the Underworld.

Whether it was power or bravery, the younger being met Zeus’ unstoppable gaze without fear.

In this reprieve in their conflict, water began wrapping around his legs, coiling in a swirl of defiance. A chain of lightning encircled his forearms, mirroring Zeus’ ability.

For all of those unique qualities at his disposal, the youth’s form trembled. He was doing all he could to stand, but it was clear there was no more for him to give by Prometheus’ assessment of the situation.

Zeus held out his extended hand. A net of lightning shot out to keep the younger man down. The elder deity’s power surged through this net, pressing the young man down onto his knees. The ground was smooth and stone-laden, but under the oppressive weight bearing down on him, it was clear that the knees would suffer.

The godly monarch raised his opposite arm to the heavens that spiraled under his command. The sky would surrender him lightning as a sign of its subservience to him. A single bolt of unrivaled energy loosed itself to come to his open palm. The light bounced off his arm, unveiling the golden engravings of Mount Olympus on a pair of bracers on his forearm.

He hefted the bolt to smite his enemy. It was clear, to Prometheus, that this attack would be fueled with so much of his might that it would undoubtedly destroy the younger opponent, but it was not to be. Before the strike could be loosed, the air behind the kneeling youth began to ripple into a pool of the inky coal darkness.

This darkness revealed itself to be a portal as its fierce shades were on the other side. Prometheus knew that much of it. The Underworld was not a common destination for those on Olympus, but Prometheus had helped with Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon putting the Titans into Tartarus, so he knew what the Land of the Dead looked like.

One by one, to the surprise of the audience and the ruler, came figures wearing gray and blackened metals for armor and weaponry.

Two first came, side by side, wielding a single spear each. One had black hair, the other had sandy blond. The blond’s physique was the better of the two. His armor cut off at the arms and displayed rippling appendages honed from a lifetime of conflict. His armor was untouched by any battle, but it did not mean he would balk at the conflict to come.

His eyes were ready for the battle to come. His spear’s tip showed how sharp and deadly it could be. He charged ahead with a swiftly merciless intent. His partner followed, but it was the first warrior that clashed against the god’s bracer with a burst of sparks.

For his part, Zeus was so caught aback by the appearance of the warriors and the gaul that any might ever attack him that he staggered back.

The other shade joined in the flurry and the Chthonic Steel sliced through the flesh of Zeus’ hand. The flowing, golden ichor had the audience gasp.

Prometheus just blanched in confused shock. No single being could ever attack Zeus with such fervor. Yes, Zeus had angered some of the gods with his selfishness, but such abandon for their lives or spirits, such that it was, was not something even a god would risk. After Hades explained to Zeus that a soul destroyed in the land of the living meant that their existence would end had caused a fearful stir among the citizenry of Olympus.

Zeus threw his hand out, knocking back the spearmen, but that did not stop the ongoing onslaught. A feral roar shattered the air as a huntress leapt forth. She had wild, unbound hair of the darkest brown.

She moved with animalistic speed, almost like a bear by Prometheus’ estimation. Her fists pummeled against Zeus’ abdomen with an unyielding combination. Upon closer inspection, Prometheus could see that her hands had been wrapped up in metallic knuckle guards that enabled her to stagger the King of Olympus.