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It was peaceful in garden.
The flowers grew, bees buzzed, wind whistled, music sang and the sun shone.
Truly, a more beautiful sight could not be found.
Though, these flowers did not grow without help, these bees could not buzz without overflows of honey, where could wind whistle if not a small windmill home, music could not sing without a singer, and why must the sun shine if not for enjoyment?
So a boy was placed within the garden by the Gods, to care for it, to tend for the plants, to look after the animals, and that was his purpose in life.
The Gods called this boy Theseus, named for a hero.
But the boy called himself Tommy.
So by declaration alone he was Tommy, protector of the garden, carer of the plants and animals.
After a time they granted him immortality and godship, declared him Tommy, god of the garden.
And for a time all was well.
He ate the clementines he grew, more than any other plant in the garden, and cared for the generations of animals that he helped nurse.
Then he began to notice an overwhelming amount of animals being forced to retreat into his garden.
The worst was around the time mortals celebrated Easter.
Bunnies and chicks would appear.
Many starved or dehydrated or drowned.
All in the worst conditions.
He wished he could leave his garden. Leave his garden, protect these poor young animals, poor young souls, prevent and save them from coming here to his garden at such tragically young ages.
But he could not leave. He could not leave his garden.
He could only protect those within.
So he did what he could. Every year, he washed the too young animals of the shit and mud in their fluff and feathers, stolen from their parents, he washed and cleaned them with tears in his eyes.
Then he let them run free in his garden, playing with the rest of the animals.
At every meeting with the Gods, he slammed his fists onto the table and begged them to do something, anything about it, begging til’ he cried, begging til’ he bled.
Yet only Artemis, Thanatos and Hades felt any sympathy and support for him and his garden inhabitants.
Every meeting he came back and broke down into tears, broken that every year he would have to face more animals coming into his garden.
All the animals would come over to comfort him, but truly he was…
Alone.
Alone in the garden.
Surrounded by dead animals.
Some dead by old age, some cursed by fate to die a horrific death too early.
And it was truly, truly heartbreaking.
Truly heartbreaking how often he would wash them as they cried, terrified of the water from their early, watery graves.
Truly heartbreaking how often they. Didn’t. Realise.
Truly heartbreaking how often they despised his hands, terrified to come near, wailing cries of fear, no longer seeing him, only seeing bruises and blood.
Truly heartbreaking how often he awoke to cries in the night, cries of memories of their life alive.
Truly heartbreaking how often they begged him to change the world for future generations, and for him to make empty promises, knowing every single meeting would end the same way. Tears and defeat.
Yet what could he do?
If nobody listened, would he truly be able to do anything?
Because what threat did Tommy, god of the garden pose?
God that looked over the animal afterlife?
What threat would he pose?
A strike would not do, for as much as he hated the deaths of the animals, he would not condemn them to a peaceless afterlife, left wandering the earth with their killers.
A war? Yet with what army? The army of animals? As willing as they would be to fight for their descendants, he would not put them through that torture. He would not make an army out of them.
A protest? Would something so mortally mundane work? Maybe but what would he be protesting? Adoption altogether? How many would die on the streets for that rule, as they stare up at humans who did truly wish to adopt them, but are now unable.
Something must be done.
Each and every animal must come in their own time.
But not each time was as early as it was.
So he continued to fight their battle alone.
He would not drag them into this again.
He continued to fight at the meetings.
He continued to join the protests.
He continued to sign petitions.
He did everything he could. Everything that could be done would be done until this war was a battle, and the battle was a stain on history.