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In the land of the lotus eaters, time dances to a strange beat. The ebb and flow of life in this otherworld remains hidden, its mysteries known only to those who dare to venture there.
Yet, this realm of wonder or terror is not confined to any place. It exists as a weightless entity that rests upon the soul, and its boundaries shift as it is carried by its bearer.
For those who bear it within, the whisper of hours is no longer marked by the motions of shadows around the sundial. Reality bends and twists in their eyes, like a river winding its way through a deep valley. Drops of blood turn grains of gold, death masks bloom into smiles, and the sound of screams only echoes like a distant dream.
In the land of the lotus eaters, if one were to look into the mirror that reflects the monster within, one would be unaware of its presence.
~
In cloud-dark Olympus, the violent one turns towards the spiraling abyss. Under the weight of his scrutiny, the currents cease their dance. In the following calm, a likeness forms, but what awaits him is not the mirrored gaze of Narcissus's pool.
Amidst the deep waters, golden eyes meet his. Their strange luster hints to the nature of the beast: shrewd, unwavering, with neither a shred of empathy nor comprehension, and certainly incapable of forgiveness.
The corner of his mouth twists into a smile of acknowledgement. Without looking any further, he knows that the task is as well as done. He feels a sense of satisfaction, perhaps even pride, and he shatters the silence:
“Kratos.”
The name of his monster echoes across the obsidian halls, reverberating against the colossal pillars like a symphony of stings.
The man in the scrying pool stops suddenly, as if in response to a beckoning call. Despite his master's summon failing to reach him, he searches for the ghost of a voice. This is a familiar ritual; he's accustomed to peering into the darkness, where he often apprehends lurking assassins and other unseen eyes. But this time, he finds nothing.
“What is it, my lord?” a soldier implores.
“Nothing,” he regains focus. “Prepare yourselves.”
The men press on, ascending steps of fine stone, their footsteps echoing loudly in the night as they approach the entrance.
The water shimmers and waves.
From his new vantage point, the god observes flames shaped like serpents strangling the temples and towers of the city. Overhead, tempestuous clouds hang with their edges illuminated by the soft glow of a waning moon. The golden rim in the sky is mirrored by the glint of bronze below, where pieces of armor and shields lie scattered by fallen owners.
After a ten-day siege, their army has gained the hill on which the city stands. Beneath his feet, the earth drinks deeply from the blood of his adversaries. Soon, in the name of his god, he will deliver their spineless king the sleep of the sword.
His gaze sweeps over the palace. Its grand spires and intricate architecture loom against the pre-dawn sky, casting elongated shadows across the sweeping staircase and vast plaza. Imposing statues adorning the walls and gates stand like sentries, their stone gazes watching the city below. Even amidst the sudden stillness, an undeniable sense of power emanates from these solemn, foreign idols.
The reaving and destruction of the kingdom has come to an end, and now as an arbiter, he stands before the final monument, the last unviolated ground.
A dark intensity simmers in his brilliant eyes, like a shadow cast by an eclipsed sun. His underlings do not catch the predatory glint, and only the surveying god discerns its significance.
The god nearly grins. He possesses an eerie insight into the man's mind, it is as if his innermost desires have spilled out into the world and taken hold of a mortal vessel.
They are kindred spirits. The god had willed it so.
He had so painstakingly forged the man into being - a creation of his own design.
He is thinking that the stillness will soon be broken.
Sure enough, here comes the clamor of hastened strides, yet it is not the coordinated rhythm of an advancing army. The guards and retainers, in a desperate attempt to save their lives, hastily flee from the scene. The sight of pillaged buildings and torched homes drives fear into their hearts, compelling them to abandon their posts and seek refuge elsewhere.
There is no shower of arrows, no barricades barring entry behind the great gates, nor even a hollow warning from beyond the ramparts. Men are vanquished before their foes even raise a weapon, defeated by the crushing weight of their own shattered spirits.
Despite their austere exterior, the city’s feeble deities fail to ignite valor within their devotees. Weakness begets weakness, and thus they all shall perish in flames, ushering in the inescapable change of ages - a new god, one worthy of worship.
As the company forces its way to the inner sanctum, they encounter little resistance. The courtyard before dawn is a tranquil oasis, with night-blooming flowers beginning to rest as their airy petals fold inwards. Vines grow on the ancient walls, creating interesting shadows, and the soft sound of trickling water from the fountain is accompanied by screams.
For those who have accepted the futility of escape, a certain solace must have been ingested to mitigate the foreseen horror. In the verdant gardens, their hurried steps take on a frenetic quality akin to a demented dance, and as the flash of bronze falls upon them, their howls merge with a semblance of mirthful laughter.
A figure lies still along the edge of a pond, having fallen in love with the water. It’s hard to tell in the shadows of the vines, but a smile grows wide as he senses his murderers approaching. And he cries, with his eyes never leaving the surface, one joyous word of recollection for the messengers of paradise, then his own face breaks the face of his reflection.
They move on. Is that disappointment that he detects in the mortal's expression? There is a scowl that he cannot quite place. He understands that they are both unused to such easy prey.
In the desolate heart of the palace, they behold the ruler whose countenance mirrors the dispassionate visages of his gods. There is strangely no ecstasy in the old king's eyes; they remain bright and certain like those of a falcon, even as nauseous smoke rises from censers around him.
Still no satisfaction in this act of killing, but this is to be expected when challenging fools. However, the old man's life lingers for a moment, and his gaze drifts towards the blade impaled in his chest, sparking a moment of unease within him – perhaps a question of where his celestial patrons are and what comes after. The light fades and another corpse falls to the floor.
But why does this not lift the displeasure from his mortal's face? He surely realizes that there are no sober or sane objects in this place.
Then he leaves the mess to his subordinates. As he exits the throne room, he quickens his pace, causing the vacant corridors and rooms to pass by in a blur. What is he running from, or what is he chasing?
At last, he breathes the open air - the comforting scent of charred wood and ash - and he shakes off the poisonous incense and the stench of perfumed wine. The sky before sunrise is awash with a violent shade of red. He steps forth and says to the world, and to no one, “It is done.” And with that, he is at peace.
In his flame-lit chamber, the god gives an amused hum. Nothing has changed. He cannot recall why he was just worried.
Bound by oath, bound by fate...
Why, mortals must revel in such terrifying kinship! They must allow themselves to succumb to its grasp. For what other purpose could their savage, fleeting existence serve?
Never mind that many have tried to pluck the strings of his destiny since the day of his birth.
What matters now is that the man belongs to him.
He had won against the Sisters of Fates, who secretly defer to the will of Olympus; against Hera of the golden throne, who now drowns her sorrows; against his grey-eyed sister, who still hides behind her mask of righteousness; and against their father.
He pauses at the thought as numbness crosses his heart.
Zeus does not know.
The sky lightens and the remaining stars slip away, but behind the blinding chariot seems to lurk a god’s dark wrath.
And he is reminded:
‘Zeus's law is first in all the world.
The law is this: no wisdom without pain.’
A sacrifice will have to be made, yet he is so near victory that the path lies plain before him. In this senseless life, even gods will taste love and death. When the time comes, the Lord of Olympus can try to avoid a bitter end, but he will not fall before his father ever again and swear his loyalty in exchange for a pitiful existence.
Distracted, he looks away from the water.
A pitiful existence…
He still hears the rattling of armor, his mortal’s footsteps, returning to the city, to pillage and slaughter in his name.
He loves, but does not know what or whom.
Just as the water that flows into the sea does not question where it is going or for what cause, all he can sense is the vibration of an unyielding obsession, a relentless purpose coursing through the blades. He is a small fragment within an unfathomable whole. His previous life but a half-remembered dream. The blades have become the extensions of his body, and he has become the extension of someone else’s will.
But this was the life the man had chosen (never mind the tricks he played), and being who he is, what else could he have done? They are kindred spirits, after all. After all, they are both their father’s son.
In a way, he merely revealed a shared fate to a brother, and he is right to expect nothing but gratitude in return. He will have his wisdom, and his kin will suffer the pain.
But a voice startles him. Someone calls his name.
He discerns its origin and turns around.
“Monster,” the voice, a drop in the ocean of chaos, accuses once more.
A woman, face bloody and dress torn, kneels in the dirt. She speaks with her back to him, solemnly, as though in a prayer.
As he approaches her, the other captives cower in terror and whimper in their native tongue. They tug at her arms and beg her to be silent, but from her lips comes a guttural incantation, no doubt some repulsive curse.
He breaks into a grimace at that peculiar sound.
“You, monster. Burden to the earth.” She speaks slowly, spitting out each word, as she’s unfamiliar with his language.
He grabs her by the neck and forces her to look at him. There is nothing special about her eyes, just the usual tears, terror and insolence. He already feels frenzy taking over him, but suddenly, for reasons even unknown to himself, his gaze drifts down.
Her mouth twisted in pain. Her hands clawing at his grip. Her tattered, filthy dress.
And the dead child in her lap.
An ecstasy of rage tears his soul, annihilating all reason and restraint. Every nerve ending is electrified, every muscle tensed to breaking point, as the desire to lash out and destroy consumes all else. This is not a mere emotion, but a divine command.
His mind reaches for the blades.
His hand lets her go.
The woman falls down, breathless and stunned. For a moment she seems relieved, but then she clutches the body of her son.
“My lord,” a young man cries. “What shall we do with her?”
“Do nothing. We are leaving.”
But as he walks away, a chorus of curses explodes behind him:
“Monster, monster, monster!”
The god’s hand hovers over the water, which churns and stills.
Then, for days, he ponders, bored and annoyed, until a visitor lifts his spirit - Hermes, the fool that all the other cowards hide behind.
Like all guests in his domain, the god of travelers seems reserved and somewhat apprehensive, but doubt can only dull a sharp tongue so much: “I see that you are still toying with your champion. I’ve not forgotten. The Ambrosia. Don't you ever...tire of him?”
Champion? he smirks to himself. How little you know.
“But do you really think you should be letting him sack all those cities and desecrate their temples?”
He begins complaining that when did Olympus ever care about far-off lands and savage gods, and if those indolent creatures still have half a brain to remember - he is the God of War.
“That is not what we mean…”
But his attention has waned. He already knows what is behind the words. Oh, 'know that you are not infallible.' But what are the threads of fate intended for, if not to dangle men like puppets?
Who sent you? he thinks.
“We do not want another fall of Troy on our hands.”
He bursts into laughter, but it’s devoid of any real joy or amusement. There is now a palpable sense of discomfort in the room.
So, it’s Athena. He is enlightened. How tiresome, that you pretend to be this blameless, moralizing little thing…
“Very well,” Hermes nods, his face betraying little emotion. “Lord Zeus will hear of this.”
When the messenger god departs, he is still gloating.
Then weeks pass, and he does not think of his champion. It is simply out there, obeying his commands.
Zeus will hear of this?
He’s feeling a sort of joy, but something deeper and more troubling boils beneath its surface.
He feels ecstatic. He wishes to smash something to pieces.
Then, on a dark day of treachery - around the Throne of Zeus, the air nurtures decay, and lightning reaches out like roots. Perhaps it's a form of premonition that urges him to the scrying pool.
He expects to see a ship upon a stormy sea, so that, posed like a doting guardian, he will guide his army to yet-to-be-conquered shores. Instead, he is met with the glow of a hearth fire and the wind's distant sighs. He stares dumbly, confounded, aghast. This is not where he ought to be.
Lightly, his hand caresses her soft hair. In another room, a strange woman hums a cheerful tune.
He had never bothered to learn the names of the toys of his toy.
Injured and poisoned, he can no longer mask his revulsion. A festering contempt boils over, heralding an impending storm. Anger and grief like twin Furies, madness the only salve to soothe the burn. Weakness, a parasite feeding on itself. He begged me. A looming specter of imminent disgrace. He begged me! Vibrations of desire coursing through cold steel. Devotion, a flame once bright, now faltering and fading into a pitch-black void. You begged me and I had rescued you from your fate!
He glances upon the menacing result of his own doing and screams. He will get rid of this illusion! He will get over the bitterness of losing this illusion.
‘No wisdom without pain.’
Only there are the crossed blades hanging upon the wall, cleared of grime and blood. They have become a mirror that casts a shadow over this otherwise peaceful scene. And from the corner of his eye, he sees a flame in the reflection.
His hand pauses in mid-air.
And his lips, barely moving, utters a name:
“Ares?”
And in his lap, his darling child opens an eye and whispers: “Did you say something, father?”
The image of his patron god fades away. Lysandra walks by and plants a quick kiss upon his cheek.
“Hush,” Kratos smiles. “Go back to sleep.”
And in cloud-dark Olympus, Ares stares into the water, seeing only the haunted look on his own face.