PART ONE: OF THE GODS
1—FOUNDATIONS
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“B
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y Gaea… what have you done!”
Zeus stared at the rubble
of the stone door that once sealed Gaea’s adyton, a sanctum impenetrable even
to the gods, and only the Earth Mother could sanction who entered. Gaea had
informed Hermes so he could bring Zeus. He could see the writhing darkness of
Gaea’s sister scorn him even though she had no face. Zeus could only hear her
in his mind for she had no need to be vocal as a Protogenos, a
primordial being.
“What do you mean I ignored you? And how did
you enter this place? Only Gaea can sanction…”
Amorphous and ever
changing, her tendrils of darkness curled around the Olympian king. Cloudlike,
much like her mother, she roiled throughout the stony chamber, seeming to
laugh, if a Protogenos
could. Zeus, still aghast, examined the wreckage of what once was a set of scales,
those that kept the balance of Order and Chaos in this world and the one
beyond. Swimming through the dusty air, she smirked at him, or he sensed she
did. He, however, was on the verge of tears for the first time in his
existence.
“You destroyed the Hieros Zugos, O
Dark One. Shattered the Sacred Scales as if they were…”
Her voice entered his mind
in a language almost forgotten by the gods.
“Yes, ...'mortal'. ”
The vast tenebrosity
pervaded the cavern, filling each cavity. Cloudlike wasn’t even an appropriate
description for her; she was a living, gurgling mass of nothingness, darker
than even the sky devoid of stars. For her to destroy something so powerful, so
vital… he did not have the words. Or did he.
“Nyx, dark Night, how did I
ignore you that you should do this? Not even
the Moirae
know the consequences of such an act! Keeping the tenuous balance is what
fastens the cosmos together. I do not understand…” His voice trailed off,
trembling before this daughter of Khaos, as he knelt by the debris. It was a
good thing Hermes had told only him of this tragedy and not the other gods. The
winged messenger, the only other witness to the catastrophe, flitted in the
shadows. Nyx’s silent words brought ire to the Olympian king.
“What do you mean you are
not as detached from the gods as I think you are? We felt your detachment,
despite what you say, and one would think that a Protogenos would
have a deeper understanding of the gods.
“Aye, you are correct. I did
indeed seek counsel from Erebos, Aether, Thalassa…
“Aye, I sought the same
from Eros, Phusis, and even Gaea… and I deeply regret not approaching you. But,
this? To have taken the Scales from us? That, O Dark One, seems petty…”
Petty? Filaments of dark,
serpents of shadow, made their way toward Zeus—an attack for his disrespect.
With clenched fist, he summoned his own filaments, of lightning, and protected
himself from her assault. The fires of the sky were enough to repulse Nyx, but
Zeus knew well she didn't want to destroy him, simply to scare him for his
insolence. He had certainly done as she said. In his pride, he had failed to
consult her in the new order after he defeated Kronos and the Titans. Plus,
there was one other indignity. How could he now face the gods? No matter. He
was King of Olympos, of the Skies, and could wield the thunderbolts forged by
the Cyclopes. He would find a way to deal with this. Holding a chunk of one of
the scales in his hands, he closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply,
if gods do indeed breathe. What to do now,
he mused. Nyx began to reply.
“No, I do not speak with
you,” he muttered, “And stay out of my thoughts.”
He had to tell the other
gods. The repercussions of this would resonate throughout time, forward as well
as backward, since the scales were not of this world, but merely in it. Even
creation itself might change, and he would have to wait to see. Patience was
not a godly virtue, however. As he left the bowels of the earth beneath the
great mountain, he turned back to see the shifting form of Night vanish into
the darkness once more, and he heard what he thought was laughter. The shards
of the scales vanished, as well. There was no telling what she had done with
them. But, it didn’t matter now. The gods needed to know. There was something
else, however, that they didn’t need to know, and he wouldn’t tell them.
He had not walked more than
twenty paces when he saw them.
Five immortals stood before
him, Hera in front. His sister queen had led them down into Gaea’s innards with
her consent. Hermes, guilty of letting the others know where Zeus had gone but
not why, darted about in the shadows. Indeed, Zeus would be annoyed, but he
would overcome that soon enough. When she saw his pallid, angry face, Hera
reached for Zeus’ cheek.
“Do not be upset at the
messenger, my husband. Hermes told us where you were out of necessity. What is
wrong? You have been crying?” She had never seen him cry, ever.
Shifting his eyes away, he
pointed toward the inner sanctum. As the remaining Olympians witnessed the
destruction, disbelief echoed, and the lord of Olympos made his way back to the
scene, now devoid of the perpetrator who had undoubtedly skulked back into the
depths of the underworld until Helios’ sun would set. Only light from a lone
torch held by Hesteia shone down on where the debris once sat, and Poseidon
knelt and hung his head. He, too, knew the consequence of such an act.
Creation’s doom, he thought. Hades kept his stoic gaze on emptiness where once
sat the keystone of the world, now splintered beyond recognition, its pieces
expunged. Unable to remain, Hesteia disappeared in a fiery cloud back to
Olympos, ashamed to be in that foul place now. The eldest god, she felt
wrenching guilt for not being aware that something like this could happen, or
would happen. Deep down, she recognized her own impotence.
Hera touched Zeus’ shoulder
and radiant eyes spoke words she need not convey, but he understood nonetheless.
They had had their differences, to be sure, with all of his dalliances with
mortals and immortals alike, but now—at this nadir of their existence—she knew
her allegiance was not only necessary, but also required. What do gods do when
they despair?
2—PERSPECTIVES
Zeus’s brethren, after
witnessing Nyx’s handiwork and realizing how it might threaten their entire
being, took a simultaneous moment to reflect upon that day after Kronos’
defeat during the Titanomachia,
the day when each took dominion over his or her province of power. Unlike them,
Zeus slumped in his throne, the responsibility of Nyx’s actions weighing most
heavily upon him specifically. He knew all too well why, and he wasn’t
convinced of her reason either. The gods would look to him for leadership, for
strength. How could one who had had prevailed over Kronos now sit, wounded,
sulking like a child. His memory of the day after would remain his deep memory,
not brought to the nostalgic surface. His ascendance took place the moment the
scythe pierced his father’s heart, not when he—later—received the blessings of
Aeolos, sovereign of the winds, who pledged his offspring into the Olympian’s
service. Having stretched his hand toward the skies, the newly crowned king of
the gods summoned a thunderbolt as his scepter, and thanked Aeolos for his
service. The prophecy fulfilled, Zeus had plans to bring Mount Olympos to
greater glory than the Titans had. For Humankind, he had much in store,
punctuated by lightning that streaked across the bloodstained heavens, a fading
reminder of Ouranos’ defeat by Kronos that still lingered, but would disappear
in time.
Now came his greatest
challenge—moving forward and keeping his goals of making the sacred mountain of
Olympos the glory of Gaea’s earthly crown. So said Zeus, king of the almighty
gods.
Almighty indeed.
While he brooded, a
conflagration rose in the hearth, its flames erupting, scorching the ceiling. A
voice stemmed from the flames, no… three voices, in unison. Not since their
birth had they spoken directly with any god, so hearing this made Zeus stand at
attention, his fist clenched around a writhing thunderbolt.
“Who speaks to me now? Show
yourself!”
The voices of three
replied, and Zeus at once knew in whose company he stood.
“Kneel, O Wrathful One,
kneel before those who weave thy aftertime!”
Normally, Zeus would refuse
such a command, and would kill the one who demanded such for his impertinence,
but in this moment, he genuflected, extinguishing the scepter of lightning.
“Summon thy siblings, son
of Kronos, for our words have urgency and purpose.”
Normally, he would call for
Hermes to deliver such a message, but in this instance, thunder would do just
as well. Each Olympian appeared instantly; apparently, Zeus’ thunder conveyed
such urgency, as well as the identity of those for whom he called them: the Moirae, the
Fates.
“As the Scales kept the
balance, they also provided us the thread from which we weave the aftertime of all,
mortal and immortal alike. Without such an instrument of equilibrium, our loom
is lost, and a new one has taken its place, and threads of unknown origin
entwine and braid with new direction.” The voices paused. “We know not what the
aftertime brings, nor do we know what the beforetime has been. As such, new
prophecies unfold and will set forth new paths for mortals… and the gods.”
Eyes darted around the
chamber, from one god to the other, expressing disbelief mostly, but also,
perhaps, fear.
“Take heed of these words,
Olympians, if thou hast any yearning to repair what one among has brought.
“Four
not born of godly word
Two of vessel, two of
sword,
Keep vigil over Gaea’s kin
From Keto’s progeny within.
Lead day’s darkness to
finds its path
Let spirit restore balance
without wrath.
Four for Gaea, four must
be,
For
being lacks uncertainty.”
With that, the voices
departed, leaving behind simply glowing embers in the hearth, and only the
bewilderment on the faces of the gods marked the Moirae’s presence,
and they had questions. Fate never gave a straight answer.
Gods begat gods, and
Olympos grew strong, overshadowing what remained of the Titans’ tyrannical
rule, the promise of a bright future, perhaps, but only the threads of Fate
would truly know.
Nyx’s rash act, the ripples
of which would crash upon the world, however, would change that which should
have happened into what might yet be… or not.
Sample from Task Force: Gaea—Memory's Curse:
PART ONE: Oblivion
1—Age of torment
2009, the Modern Era: inside Gaea’s vault, the adyton.
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“A
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daughter… Zeus
and Nyx?” asked Themis, the blindfolded goddess of Justice, the only Titan not
entombed in stone in Tartaros with her brethren. “How… inconvenient.”
Gaea, Earth
Mother, had given her grandson Apollo and her daughter Themis special
dispensation to enter her adyton, her
most sacred repository deep inside the earth where the Scales existed, and he
had just told Themis a most intriguing tale about how four mortals restored
balance, and only he remembered what happened. The gods both of reason and
justice seemed appropriate in this place.
The sun god, who
strangely took great solace in the darkest parts of the underworld, stared at
the scales that kept the shaky
balance of order and chaos.
“Yes,
inconvenient to say the least. The sky god and Night incarnate. Three thousand
years ago, I had come to this place, if you can even call it that since it has no tangible mortal
dimension, to find solitude and reflection after the gods imprisoned your
brethren Titans after the Titanomachia, the
Great War. In that heavy blackness, when I came here, with Gaea’s consent, I
spied my father and Nyx in an impossible embrace. They shared no words, and
after he seduced her, had been with her as he had been with so many others, he
spurned her—as he had so many others. Alone, her rage festered, and I didn’t
have to be the god of prophecy to know that that wouldn’t bode well.”
Themis’
expression remained unchanged; however, Apollo sensed a question brewing.
“I have... mixed
memories of that day, however. One tells me that I saw this event unfold, that
Zeus saw me, and then used that as a reason to banish me to Gaea, so that I
wouldn’t say anything to Hera. It was during that memory that Nyx destroyed the
Sacred Scales after being scorned, or from being ignored after Zeus, Hades, and
Poseidon established Olympos for the gods. Another memory, if that’s what it
is, tells me that I saw them, but then Zeus returned to Olympos, reluctant to
linger too long in her murkiness, regretting his choice. Not long after, I
chose to live a mortal life for a year, but then the prophecy about Nyx’s
daughter changed everything, and I uprooted my life and lived permanently in
the mortal realm. Regardless, events that followed have not given me peace.”
“How do you know about this daughter of
Nyx? Why wouldn’t others know, too?” Themis asked.
“Within Gaea’s embrace, the story remains
hidden; such is her shame. The Earth herself told me the horrific story of the
birth, and even she shuddered as she told me. This is what I know...”
t
1019 B.C.E. or Ilikía Olympios (Olympeian Age)
A churning blackness,
Nyx shaped herself in ways that would stagger the mortal mind, collapsing into
maelstroms of dark, living clouds, ready to bear her offspring implanted in her
by Olympos’ adulterous king. With the catacombs of the dead for her nursery,
Nyx wanted to bring forth her daughter in the company of the agonized, pitiable
souls of those who had never made it beyond the gates of the underworld;
they had a great deal to offer her child.
Sidetracked by
her thoughts, she almost forgot her role in the cosmos and raced toward the
exit of Tartaros, a cave entrance kissed by the air that mortals breathe.
As she neared the opening, bright Hemera, her daughter—the Day itself,
descended into the Hadean depths, and both Protogenoi, primordial
gods, touched ever so briefly before Nyx bubbled forth into the air, becoming
the blanket of obscurity shrouding part of the earth until Day would rise again—mother and
daughter in a forever dance.
Taking her place in the sky, Nyx felt it
was time: her newest daughter would enter the world in a way no other elder god
had.
Two days later, in Megara, Greece, screams
of torment and railing pain cut at the air like talons, ripping apart the peace
of the healer’s tent in the cultist’s sanctuary, a humble place in the
mortal world where those afflicted by madness came to embrace the darkness
of Nyx. A woman, crazed with murderous thoughts and tortured dreams, reclined
on a woven grass mat, her wrists and ankles bound with worn leather straps
anchored to the ground to prevent her from hurting herself or others. Her
eyes as black as Erebos, the darkness itself, she became the ideal choice for
this birth, a living receptacle for Nyx. Her madness would mix well with
the darkness. Ancient primordial entered her human host and the body took on the
pregnant form, bloating the abdomen with life.
Soon, echoing cries interlaced with
unintelligible mutterings escaped the woman’s lips while the healer, his white
chiton stained from years of patient’s blood, knelt ready to extract the
newborn, eager to come forth; he was certainly ignorant of what would come. He
preferred the bloody patches on his garment to help him remember each
forced amputation or sutured wound, usually brought about by a stony fragment
or stick used during an arcane ritual to Nyx. Anarchy bound the cult, it would
seem, and spontaneous fights were commonplace. Night incarnate had selected
well, largely to reflect the chaos within, but also to see what it would
feel like to push her progeny forth as a mortal would. That connection to humanity
would prove so very useful.
Following a pain-induced shriek, a
volcanic spray of blood and placenta erupted forth as the part human, part
primordial being pushed her way into the world of Humankind without
the benefit of the healer’s aid. Wiping the sanguine discharge from his
face, the healer caught a glimpse
of this child, and as he felt his psyche melt, he gouged out his own eyes
with his fingers, mumbling as his intellect fragmented, foaming at the
mouth like a rabid beast. A mortal mind could not comprehend such a
primordial in her true form. Soon, he lay still, and the entity moved over
to the lifeless body, draining it of its soul as a child takes sustenance from
its mother. Not even Hades would want the sack of skin and bones, as it had no spirit
to wander the underworld.
Nyx
exited the woman’s spent body—now a lifeless, vacant, fleshy
shell—and coalesced around her daughter, ready to take her back to
Tartaros where the newborn would mature among the imprisoned Titans, Gaea’s
children buried beneath stone and Zeus’ curse, and there she would feed
off ancient energy originating from Khaos, the mother of the cosmos herself. In
such a place of despair, this child would find solace near yet another
tomb, a place no mortal could ever see, and no god would ever go. She
would grow accustomed to the dead chill of one whose presence no one
spoke, for fear even saying his name would rouse him—Kronos, the
Titan king.
As
the Moirae wove the fate of Humanity
and the immortal gods, so too did they spin the threads of those who came
before them. Part of this tapestry would form a path for the daughter of
Nyx, who would be known by all as the Nebulous
One, for uttering or knowing her true name would bring on madness. Bony
fingers on the loom, bound by duty and a yearning, trembled with each
pass, and the fabric it brought forth for Zeus’ daughter bore the color of
blood.
“That
was all,” Apollo said. “Gaea would tell me no more, but I could tell she knew
more. It was not like her to be fickle. With what I do know, and what every
prophetic bone in my immortal body tells me, I feel my ichor run cold, colder
than the tomb of Kronos.”
“Where
is she now?” Themis asked.
“I
don’t know. But, I need to see Zeus and pray that he believes me.”
t
Gaea
indeed knew more about this child’s early days.
Nyx
waited in Tartaros for the return of Day so she might become the night sky once
more, an eternal cycle she had entered long ago. While the Nebulous One drifted around the Titans’ rocky tombs, she absorbed
even the faintest traces of energy from within the encasements, energy
tainted by hatred of the other Olympeian gods—especially Zeus, her father. She
felt their rage, their unremitting, seething rage against the youngest son
of Kronos. Like mother’s milk, this life force leached through the stone
into her, and her form churned like a storm-battered sea with every
acerbic drop. Each of the Titans remembered the day Zeus’ scythe took
their lord’s life, returning his energy to all-encompassing Khaos. Each
remembered the sacrosanct pact of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, the one that
turned their own mother, Gaea, against them. Mother Earth was nothing if
she was not loyal to prophecy, the very one that foretold of Kronos’
demise by his son’s hand.
The Nebulous
One glided further away from her mother, tumbling over the rock-strewn
floor until even she felt the gelid tomb, the one place in all of creation
not even the gods visit. Surrounding the earth sarcophagus, she waited to
feel that familiar electric sensation of life, but... nothing. Her
frustration subsided, as she slowly comprehended what she had learned from the
Titans: Kronos, the son of Gaea and Ouranos, the king of the Titans, truly
was no more.
After her feeding, she wanted to explore
her new home, like any curious child, and found the path to the place
where she knew she could find the one she needed to meet, the one she
needed to see, the one she needed to kill—Zeus—for he not only had
abandoned her mother, as he had so many others, but he also was despised by the
Titans, and it was their hatred that fueled her. The journey to high Olympos
from Tartaros, even for Nyx’s daughter, would take time. Immune to mortal
constraints, she could not be bound by chain or rope, by solid or ether,
but time had neither shape nor form, neither matter nor mind—and it could
affect her. She would eventually reach the sacred mountaintop, and
she would ensure that Zeus understood what it meant to abandon her.
Making her way through Hades, though, would teach her much, if nothing
else, how nourishing souls could be.
Through the fields of gray asphodel,
she wended her way, rolling like a black tide. Spirits of the dead—pale
mist swirling with no human resemblance—paid her no mind, neither knowing
nor caring who she was, and they wandered through the fields as the
billowing daughter of Nyx wafted around them. Near Hades’ palace of inky
marble columns, striated with wispy bits of white, she stopped, looking
like a storm cloud that had lost its buoyancy. This was Hades, she thought,
the underworld where the dead found their solace or their suffering. She
had already felt the deep, aching torment from the Titans, raw emotions
able to carve into the densest stone, and now she felt at home. Onward
she moved, undulating, rolling across the realm, and finding her bearings,
until she saw her kin. Hovering on scaly black wings behind the Hall of
Judgment, their arms and legs entwined with sleek serpents, three sisters
tormented a soul not yet ethereal, but no longer corporeal. Having
drowned his newborn child, this once-mortal man would spend eternity in
Tartaros, enduring punishments not fit for humans to comprehend. Such was
the will of Rhadamanthys, Aeacos, and Minos, the three judges of the
underworld. Each had been mortal, and a son of Zeus, rewarded for his
good deeds with this post, and so they spoke in one voice, “Tartaros shall lay claim to you, and none
shall discern your screams amid those whose voices you join.”
Despite lacking a body, this former
human felt every talon strike ripping through what was left, every
snakebite and the venom it released, every contemptuous gesture, and he
would never again know peace. One of the three winged goddesses,
Tisiphone, took perverse pleasure in
bringing
anguish to him, the murderer of the innocent; the other Erinyes, Alekto and
Megaera, assisted in his torment. Daughters of Nyx, by Ouranos, and
sisters to the Nebulous One,
they only relented when their cloud-like sibling moved closer. Through
thought, she conveyed her contempt for Zeus and all of Olympos, relaying
how the god of the sky had abandoned their mother. She was going to Olympos
seeking vengeance, to tear down the oligarchy of the gods one by one,
starting with her father who had wronged the Protogenoi. The Nebulous One had few emotions known to
her for one so young, but the Erinyes saw her deep pain, felt her
yearning. To demonstrate what she would do, she swirled around the
tortured soul before them, exacting her own revenge on him for his heinous
crime. None who knew him would ever remember he existed—such was her
power—but his spirit would remember the egregious harm he had done to his
infant girl. How appropriate, the Nebulous
One thought, that he had tripped on a stone after committing the deed,
cracking open his skull. As his blood leached into the earth, Hermes
dragged his soul to the underworld to face judgment. And now what was left
of him would go to Tartaros, to endure whatever agony he deserved, knowing
no one would ever mourn him or feel the finest shred of pity.
The Nebulous
One left her sisters and headed directly for the meandering caverns
that stretched out beneath Olympos. Magaera and her sisters
followed. Others found their path with the Erinyes, too, and those who
inhabited the darkest realms of the underworld saw opportunities to glorious
and plentiful torment with the daughter of Night.
It
would take time to find the right path to Olympos, the new home for the gods;
spirits sometimes wandered from their eternal existence, and it would be easy
for some to find their way beyond the underworld. Blind caverns and
labyrinthine paths meander through the caves, some harboring creatures that
dine on lost souls. It could take eons or seconds to find the Olympeian gods.
Nevertheless, she would find her prey.
