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Generally speaking, the Chthonic deities do not meddle in the affairs of war. Even Thanatos, god of death, takes his victims quietly and bloodlessly, with naught but silence enveloping his mother’s night. It’s his fang-toothed and bloody-clothed sisters, the Keres, who are tasked with taking the souls of those who die screaming and bleeding and sending them howling towards Hades. If all wars were short and easy, the winged Keres would be the only Chthonic spirits to venture into the maw of battle.
But short and easy wars are a luxury few men have ever enjoyed. Vicious Ares savors his violent scenes far too much for that. For days and weeks and months and years and decades, men fight men with methods both sophisticated and barbaric in battles over religion or land or whatever else excuse kings use to slaughter their own and other people. But wars are more than murder. Wise Athena constructs her strategy like an architect, blessing her generals with the fruits of her divine construction. Quick-footed Artemis guides the arrows of the scouts who forage for food when supplies are low, and steady-handed Apollo guides the hands of those who treat the wounded.
Winning a war is just as much a group effort for the Olympians as it is for the mortals who worship them.
What happens when they are not enough?
It is busy in the House of Hades, as it usually is during war. Shades litter the halls so thickly that the art of weaving between them becomes a wasted craft, and the shock of cold that strikes upon contact with one becomes familiar enough that no one bothers to comment on it anymore, only shivering in silence. It’s difficult for Hypnos to sleep on the job like this, though as busy as the House is, this is likely a good thing.
He’s nearly successfully dozed off when a shade phases through his legs. Eyes drooping, mind slipping into unconsciousness, then a shock of ice up his spine and he’s wide awake again. Hypnos pulls his legs closer to his chest and frowns. He’ll just do all his work like this, then, with his arms encircling his legs to hold the list.
This happens twice more, both times with Hypnos repositioning his body to avoid the cold to no avail. The third time, when he closes his eyes, there is nothing in front of him but a sea of shades; but when cold strikes his shoulder and they snap open, there stands Thanatos, arms crossed and stern.
Hypnos grins ear to ear. “Hey Than! I didn’t think I’d see you before the war ended.” When Thanatos had left for the surface—as he often did—he wasted no time with goodbyes. This was not unusual. Hypnos had wondered since the early days of learning his godly duties why much of his work can be done in the comfort of the Underworld while Thanatos must often venture to the surface. When he prodded his mother with such a question, she simply stated that Death cannot afford to rest, yet Sleep is rest embodied. At the time, Hypnos thought it was unfair. He still kind of does.
“We need you,” Thanatos says, voice hard. He looks none too pleased to be saying it. “On the surface.”
Hypnos’ eyes go wider than obols. “Me?”
“Yes.”
What was the last war in which he fought? Hypnos could hardly remember. Trojan, maybe? Drifting over the city of Troy, languidly pouring his amphora, drowning the streets in his sleep to ensure each and every citizen was in a deep, deep slumber for the ambush. Are the circumstances really so dire once again?
“Fetch your amphora,” Thanatos says. “I’ll handle the conversation with Lord Hades.”
Hypnos nods absentmindedly.
What does it mean to be a god? The answer changes depending who you ask. Once, when he was very young, Hypnos asked his mother this question. What she had said clung to the matter of his mind like nectar upon its own life-giving petals: “Being a god is about control.” Control of your domain, control of the mortals, control of that which you deem lesser. This made sense to Hypnos, for a time. But then he grew older, and realized his domain runs far deeper than mere control.
“I own half their lives,” he’d once murmured to Thanatos, staring deep into the swirling waters of the river Lethe. “A mortal sleeps for half of their life. What am I supposed to make of that?”
Thanatos, who only need worry about one moment in a human life—one decisive, extraordinary moment—was silent for several minutes. “Maybe you’re more powerful than any of us,” he said at last.
Hypnos regarded his reflection in the river and considered this. The small wing that pokes out from the curly mess atop his head did not go unnoticed. Thanatos didn’t have one; neither did Charon, or any of his other siblings. He alone shared this trait with their mother, with their grandparent. What does that mean?
Hypnos dared not speak the naked truth: that Chaos’ blood runs most strongly in him.
He returns to Thanatos with his amphora expertly balanced upon his head. Though the waters of Sleep are bottomless and ever-flowing, great care must be taken to ensure none is spilled where they are unneeded.
“Hypnos,” says Thanatos, his eyes severe. “Are you ready?”
Hypnos meets his brother’s gaze, but not his hardness. “Yes.”
-
It has been a long time since Hypnos has been to the surface, and even longer since he sat among the Olympians at the summit of their divine Mount Olympus. And it’s for war. It’s always for war. Hypnos looks at each one of their solemn faces and wonders why they can’t invite him up for a party for once.
“Ah, Hypnos,” says Ares, with a smile that barely hides his excitement. “Welcome. Happy to see our trump card among us.”
Hypnos beams, but the term strikes him uneasy. The high of being revered so greatly among those who are much more powerful than he is quickly overshadowed by a question that burns at his edges, eats him from the inside: what does it mean? To be the ace-in-the-hole for the God of War in times of war? To be not only thrust into a domain that is not his, but welcomed in it? Him, the god of naught but sleep, barely able to keep his eyes open or say a word not in jest, called upon for help?
Hypnos’ wing twitches.
They discuss their plan and wait for dusk. Victory, Athena says, belongs to the patient.
-
Dusk falls. Their plan, concisely, is an ambush, however in truth it is more complex than that. Hypnos, admittedly, kept nodding off as they had been discussing the details, but he knew the part he must play well enough. Ambushes hinge on the element of surprise, on taking advantage of those unaware. For this scheme to work, the entire enemy army must be asleep. All fifty thousand of them.
Hypnos advances and gazes down upon the quiescent troops. A few are no doubt already dozing, but ‘few’ pales to the whole. It will be tedious work; paradoxically, the God of Sleep must work diligently and meticulously. Slack cannot be given.
Hypnos lowers the amphora to his shoulder and begins to pour. It’s hard work. It takes hours. When the final wave washes over the last slumbering soldier, Hypnos pulls back, and cradles the amphora in his lap. Across the battlefield, he sees Ares command his troops forward, and thus begins the slaughter that he alone enabled.
He cannot help but wonder if Chaos is proud.