![]() He was one of the few Olympians whose hands were soft, whose flesh had never witnessed the violence of battle. There was nothing he could do, of course. Rhys heard what few pleas were directed to him with an uneasy heart. The mortals burned meat, left offerings at every shrine, begging for a ceasefire. ![]() The battles grew worse all across the lands. ![]() Those who survived the encounters came home scarred, missing limbs, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed. When the twin sons became of age, they were introduced to the battlefields and the Olympians were given first-hand demonstrations of their prowess. Easily lost in the lustre of his brother’s glory, but only a fool would overlook the threat he posed. He could cleave through a battlefield like a sharp knife through the flesh of ripe fruit. Tim, who took to the sword as soon as he could walk. Tim, the youngest of his mother’s sons, born minutes after his brother. No one was his equal with the blade.īut there was one who was his better. He was almost certain death at their doorstep. General of the Titan’s army, Jack was more than formidable. Stalemates became victories under his guidance. More than one unfortunate god or goddess had been goaded into battle before their time, and escorted to the gates of Elysium for their troubles. The sharpness of his blade matched only by his tongue. There was Jack, first from his mother’s womb, intelligent and cunning, cruel and ruthless. Stronger, or so it was rumoured, than even the sky god Ouranos, father to us all. Stronger than the sky shaker, Theia, who birthed them on the side of a mountain. Stronger than their father, the mighty Hyperion. Their powers were solid, independent of mortal belief. Both of them rose quickly, besting their elders in combat. They were trained from a young age to be cunning and wise, quick and deadly. The twin sons of Hyperion had the talents of the Titans who had come before them. For a while, the Olympians could sit comfortably in their mortal-made thrones, confident in their status, their approaching victory. But it curled the reach of their influence. They were strong, and stable, without it. Titans had no need for the power of mortal belief. It was to their benefit, but also to their detriment, as mortal regard was a fickle thing. The power of the Olympians flourished under mortals’ tending. They didn’t create temples to their greatness, didn’t leave offerings for their blessings, didn’t contribute to their power by even the smallest amount. The powerful, iridescent flames of their little hearts didn’t burn for Titans. Mortals did not worship them the way they worshipped the Olympians. The power of a Titan was mighty but tempered. Twin sons, an omen or a blessing, depending on your angle. The trouble started with the birth of Hyperion’s latest progeny. The goddess spat fire, her eyes like the sun, and tried to wring blood from a stone, but they could no more give her a clear vision than they could birth a two headed serpent. The future, not for the first time, seemed uncertain. Queen Lilith, she who controlled the slumbering flame at the heart of the earth, had been at the oracles for years now, hounding them for answers. “It’ll come down to strategy, mark my words,” she went on, certain as the sun rising in the east. As the god of union and true love, Rhys liked to think Moxxi might’ve favoured him over Vasquez, the god of ardour. She confided these little insights to Rhys, and not, to Rhys’ smug satisfaction, to Vasquez. She had no gift of foresight-as the matriarch and goddess of love, her power was great but her influence limited. “It’ll get ugly at the end,” Moxxi predicted. The mortals had armed their pantheon with countless warrior gods and goddesses, more than Rhys would’ve thought necessary, but now it seemed like it wouldn’t be enough. It was only Rhys’ bad luck that he should be alive to see it.Įveryone was worried, although no one would admit it. It was as inevitable as the flow of stars across the galaxy’s arm. Foretold in countless prophecies, by oracles long before even Rhys’ time. The war between the Olympians and the Titans had been brewing for nearly a century, animosity boiling over in skirmishes across history. And every time their elders and their betters vowed it would be the last. ![]() Every time those who shook heaven and earth took up arms, the fields ran red with spilled blood. As far as Rhys understood, every war was. It should’ve been the war to end all wars.
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