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Fairly or unfairly, here he was pinned. The jagged end of the blade cut against his neck, and it seemed as though with the slightest of movement his throat would be slit - even the slightest bob of his neck threatened to bring bloodshed. So, as still as he could keep himself, the demi-god fought not to cower beneath the towering might of Zeus. Not that he thought to cower, though: the whirlpool of emotions roiling within him was proof enough. With each moment this rage threatened to bubble to the surface, to spill out, to consume the almighty god standing above him.
“Enough, Palírr.” Zeus’ voice was as you’d expect: loud, booming, carrying with it all the authority of a revered god. The scowl on his face, plain as his penchant for lightning and power, is evidence of his current mood. In other words, Zeus is not happy. Not at all.
“You petulant child,” the god of gods seethes, beard bobbing with every movement on his mouth. “Still you take advantage of what we gods have given you! Still, you wreak havoc, bringing upon us bad graces!” Zeus’ arm whips back and slams down with pure, unadulterated fury, and the blade he’d been holding lands a hair's breadth away from Palírr’s exposed neck. The demi-god’s lip ripples upwards in a soundless snarl, and it takes every inch of his being to prevent him from leaping upon Zeus and throttling him.
What makes it worse is his father, Poseidon. Despite presiding over the world’s storms, none of the god’s typical turmoil makes itself known. Instead, he stands silent, eyes unfocused and unwilling to meet his son’s gaze. Palírr had already tried to reason with him, to try and find some solution that would rid him of the situation at hand - but no, his father had been unwilling to help. That unwillingness had still not changed, and so the god of the sea stood and watched as his son took the brunt of Zeus’ temper.
Zeus himself had begun to pace, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides, mighty fists seeking to strike. How he wished to smite the foolish boy right then and there, regardless of Palírr being both demi-god and nephew. Blood ties were damned at this point. “We have given you everything a being could wish for, boy,” Zeus is still left seething, eyes reflecting the righteous lightning that sparks at his fingertips. “Power, status in Olympus, access to things only us gods know of. Your father and I raised you here, with hopes that you would become great. And yet you squandered it all.”
After pushing himself into a sitting position, Palírr finally finds his voice. His voice isn’t nearly as powerful as Zeus, but the unbridled rage woven within his words has the potential to rival it. “You think that I have taken advantage of it? Perhaps you have me confused with another half-witted god.” Momentarily his gaze flits over to his father. “Never in a millennium would I ever think of doing so,” Bright eyes alight, Palírr finally lets loose the snarl that had been lurking low within his gut. “Uncle.”
This was the breaking point for Zeus. No longer could he stand being spat at, treated as if he wasn’t the highest power in existence. The lightning explodes from his fingertips, lighting up their surroundings, and several of his accompanying gods raise their limbs to shade them from his outburst. Roaring, all the might he held echoing in his voice, Zeus rounds on Palírr.
“You are no longer considered my nephew, Palírr.” Contrary to his previous eruption, Zeus’ tone has taken on a quiet, commanding edge. He would hear no more, and neither would any of the other gods: the demi-god has long overstayed his welcome. Deaf to the arguments that bubble to Palírr’s lips, Zeus’ voice rises to address the onlookers. “From this moment forward, you are no longer considered a member of Olympus. I strike you down of all your titles, including your presiding over the earth’s tides, and henceforth you shall be known merely as Seonaid.”
Unable to think of anything else, Palírr cries out, “That is a woman’s name!”
Each step thundering as he makes his way to the demi-god’s prone figure, Zeus bends so that their noses are nearly brushing. “You should be grateful that you have been given a woman’s name, and that I am not to strip you of your powers.” There is a moment of absolute silence, where not even Palírr dares to speak. He supposes that a new moniker is the least of his problems, and despite his uncle’s leniency, it does nothing to calm his anger.
Satisfied with his decision and the sudden lack of intervention on Palírr’s part, Zeus stands to his full height, taking but a few steps backward. It is then that the lightning sparking in his grasp takes form, solidifying in a definitive bolt. The bolt flashes a variety of shades before the eyes of all parties, bathing the surroundings in a pale glow of gold, white, and silver. Slowly does the god raise his arm, the sharp edge of his weapon pointing downwards and towards Palírr’s chest.
It is then that the demi-god realizes what his fate is to be. He has seen it once before, and from then he has wished to never witness such an atrocity. And yet here he is, about to suffer the same fate.
Suddenly it occurs to Palírr that he may be able to run. If he makes it to the edge of Olympus in time, he may fall but that would be a far better end than what he is facing. Scrambling to his feet, to the surprised gasps of gods and goddesses all around it, Palírr tenses, ready to launch him from where he stands. He only makes it three and a half strides before a blinding pain strikes his back.
Falling to his knees, Palírr’s head tips back and he screams. He screams with all the air that his lungs can muster, a high, piercing sound that makes several of the observers flinch. It is a cry of pain; the shriek of a dying animal. Over the ringing in his ears and his own distant screaming, the being can hear someone calling out for mercy, for Zeus to end things quickly. Hera? Artemis? Past his own tears, Palírr could not make out who sought his salvation.
He was pitiful. Truly pitiful. Palírr had never imagined kneeling before those he thought were his peers, figure wrenched in agony and snot dribbling down from his nose. The blinding pain slowly transitioned into a crackling, burning energy that seemed to be frying him from the inside out. Cracks worked their way up his body, skin flaking off and disintegrating into ash. It was as if his very being was being burned away, but Palírr knew better. His soul would not be damaged, instead, it was his physical vessel that was being peeled from him. The process in itself was incredibly painful, as evident by his current suffering, and though it did not damage the soul he was sure it would leave an emotional mark for the rest of his existence.
With the last vestiges of his consciousness, the demi-god turned towards Zeus, mouth agape in uncontained bewilderment. How he wished to swear and to cuss, to blame the god for every bad thing that had led to his banishment. But he had not the strength to say anything, so his expression would have to do. Damn the old bastard for resigning his own nephew to this fate, and damn his father for allowing such.
The scene before Palírr fades away, and with that descended the darkness. The blackness. The void. Whatever one wished to call it.
He was now unmade.
Palírr’s soul, bare for any who dared to peek within this realm, trembled. How it yearned for its vessel, the protection from outside forces. Where would it go from here? Would Zeus leave him here for all of eternity, floating about in aimlessness? Or would he be remade into a different image, a being that would constantly be at war with himself? Perhaps they’d bring him back, only to disfigure him like his cousin, Hephaestus. Of all things, Palírr - now Seonaid, he supposed - knew it would not be a favourable outcome.
Seonaid drifted for what seemed like months, years, or any point in between. Slowly thoughts left them, but the rage and aggravation remained until it was all that they were.
It was the melodious voice of a woman that broke Seonaid from the monotony of their isolation. Soft and low, the woman’s tone was soothing, easing the ache that constantly bombarded the soul. Her words took a moment or two to register, and once Seonaid had grabbed ahold of her implications, a great joy overtook them.
“Another chance I am willing to provide you, despite the wishes of our dear Zeus. The conditions which you have been thrust into are grievous, and every thought of you being stuck here pain me. This chance I am offering may seem akin to a curse to some, but I am sure that you will make a blessing out of it.
“It is that curse of reincarnation, of being destined to die and come back as another. However, your memories will follow you through each lifetime, and I truly hope that you will live a life worth living.” There is a pause, and Seonaid tries to reach out, to keep hold of the voice that has graced them so. “Go, my dear. Leave this place and enter the mortal plane.”
The black around Seonaid shatters into countless pieces, and they can feel themselves spiralling down, down, down. Distantly they see the telltale flash of Olympus, but it vanishes before their very eyes, replaced by the bright blue of mortal skies above. Still, they fall, weightless, searching for something - anything. They are free, freer than they have ever been, and the desire to explore their surroundings is preceded only by their need to find protection. To find a vessel.
As their frantic search continues, stone houses flash by, and so do the inhabitants of the town that they have fallen into. A few times they catch glimpse of towering statues, dedicated to the gods that have since forsaken them. But when they slow to listen from the words falling from the lips of the mortals, the language is different, but not incomprehensible. As all languages have, the meaning of the words comes to them like second nature.
Jupiter. Neptune. Pluto.
The gods had evidently made new names for themselves to accompany this new civilization. Disgust for their innate authority bubbles up within Seonaid’s core, and the soul swiftly resumes their search.
It’s not until Seonaid hears soft weeping that their interest is piqued. Upon drifting through a nearby wall and into a small home, the bare soul finds a mother, babe swaddled tightly in her arms. Another woman lingers towards the door to the bedroom, but her eyes are lowered in silent respect. Misery had permeated the room, and as Seonaid watches, the mother cries - louder, this time. Floating closer to where the new mother is reclined upon her bed, it is with great sadness that Seonaid finds the infant still. Before the mother could even behold his cries, the babe does not draw breath.
With startling clarity, the weightless soul realizes that this is their purpose. Not only will they be obtaining a physical vessel and forging a new path themselves, but they will spare the woman of having to grieve for the lost life of her child. To the keen eye, the wisp of blue that was Palírr and now is Seonaid settles above the baby, glowing brightly - as if in joy - and plunges into his chest.
Throughout the onslaught of sorrow, a tear rolls down the mother’s cheek. As it gathers on her chin and drops, the squalling of a newborn shatters the silence of the room. With astonishment, she looks down and to her son, whose mouth opened in a scream only an infant could muster.
The gods had answered her prayers.