Work Text:
Sometimes Elysium truly is glorious.
Patroclus hums as he kisses Achilles deeply. Slowly. Content to indulge during their eternity together.
When Achilles’ hands begin to dance down from Patroclus’ sides to his hips, a sensual slide down a familiar path, Patroclus pulls back. He rubs a thumb teasingly along Achilles’ bottom lip.
“I’m not one to keep a guard from his post.” He says with insincere solemnity. Failing to smother a smile at Achilles’ objecting huff.
“When we were in war you were notorious for making us late to-” Achilles objects.
“Alas,” Patroclus interrupts with a sigh. “I can’t let it be said that I’m a bad host.”
Reaching his arm out he grasps the bare shoulder of Zagreus, who stands a few feet behind him. Zagreus, who up until this point had been happily watching them kiss while mindlessly attempting to put his pauldron on his elbow, leans into Patroclus’ touch. “A parting gift before you go.”
With that he pushes an eager god towards Achilles. Contently watching as they drag each other into a kiss. And then another. And another.
He could, can, watch them forever. Unfortunately-
Achilles pulls back from Zagreus with a reluctant sigh.
“I should go.” He remarks, clearly unimpressed by his own sense of duty.
He pecks Zagreus on the cheek, barely restraining himself enough to keep it brief, and smooths out his rumpled chiton, smiling at Patroclus.
“Until next time.” A rune appears beneath his feet and he disappears in a flash. Heading down to his post.
“Guess we need to entertain ourselves, stranger.” Patroclus grins, beckoning Zagreus towards him.
Zagreus leans eagerly into Patroclus’ waiting arms. “Do I get a parting gift too, sir? I hear there’s a good host here now.” Zagreus says, a mischievous slant to his smile.
“So they say,” Patroclus mutters, drawing Zagreus’ mouth closer to his own. “I cannot imagine how you handled such a poor host until now, stranger.”
“You’re a fantastic host, sir.” Zagreus says sincerely, Patroclus fights to quell a smile. “But,” he continues. “Apparently you’ve been holding out on me. Hoarding the good stuff all for yourself. Care to show me what else is on offer, sir?” Zagreus grins.
“Who am I to deny you, stranger.” Patroclus brings their mouths together in a kiss, swallowing Zagreus’ chuckle.
He tugs Zagreus’ loose chiton off his shoulder. Deepening their kiss as it falls to the ground.
Tick
With a cheerful wave of Varatha, Zagreus departs. Armour properly donned and a flask bouncing cheerily at his hip as he runs on.
Patroclus smiles and sits contently at the bank. Already pondering the next time they shall all be together.
Tick
Achilles’ shift should be done by now.
Patroclus mindlessly tears off a nearby blade of grass, tossing it idly into the river.
Far below, it is at this moment that the River Styx recedes in the House of Hades.
Tick
His stranger has been gone awhile.
In death, he has generally found the Fates less cruel. Less obsessed with making his life a living hell…when he’s in hell. Usually they do not bar this path from the prince for so long. Perhaps they have decided to spite him once more.
Or perhaps Achilles and Zagreus have finally taken his advice and are taking advantage of having time together in the house.
“There’s nothing like ravishing a prince on his royal sheets.” Patroclus chuckles.
Far above where Patroclus sits, the unyielding seal of the gates of Hades’ realm, cracks open.
Tick
It is another night, or day, and Patroclus is still alone.
He strives to ignore the anxious murmurs echoing through the halls. Creeping underneath the doors to his chamber. Kept ajar by the gaps of broken seals.
Despite the murmuring, the chamber itself is noticeably quieter– not just for the lack of smashed pottery. But the River Lethe, the sister of Styx, which had been a constant to him for eons- has receded…
Has left entirely.
Elysium has lost the luxury of forgetting.
Patroclus stares down into the gouge where the river once lay. Into harrowing and neverending depths. It just goes down, down, down, down.
Down.
He fights to stay present.
Tick
The doors are open. All the doors are open.
Shades from lower regions move up from Elysium. They were initially fought off by the denizens of Elysium before Elysians soon realized that they too could rise. The gates of the underworld are left unguarded.
Some shades rejoice, clamouring desperately to the surface. There were rumours that Theseus and Asterius defended the doors at the coliseum for some time. However even the champions of Elysium could not hold their ground and eventually they disappeared. Whether they were overwhelmed by the masses heading up or by the droves of cloaked beings marching downward, Patroclus does not know.
Patroclus does not want to go up. Especially not with the pressing noisy crowds reminiscent of a siege. Yet Patroclus also does not want to know what prompts the monstrous figures to head down.
Once more, he finds himself frozen within his glade. Thoughts trained solely on Achilles and Zagreus.
The idle numbness burns but the familiarity of the action, or lack of one, provides a nauseating sense of safety.
He is overcome with a familiar despair.
Tick
Everything is untethered.
Nothing is where it belongs.
And Patroclus–
Patroclus has not belonged in this glade – alone with no one stopping by or passing through – for a long time. He stopped submitting himself to that part of the glade, that part of himself, long ago.
Yet, once again, he is stooped and lamenting on the banks of the Lethe.
But even the Lethe has left this glade behind. And while staring at the constant flow, the horrible temptation, of Lethe was torturous…staring into the depths of the empty channel is unfathomable.
He keeps his eyes firmly shut as he curls into himself at the lip of the bank.
He is still. So still that those who passed through, going up or down, hadn’t noticed him. Mistaking his hunched dreary form as part of the scenery.
He could wait another eternity here for his Achilles. For their Zagreus. He loves them enough to do that again.
But waiting had achieved nothing.
His stranger had reunited him and his Achilles. Taking action while they both remained stagnant. So if Zagreus isn’t around to act in his stead, Patroclus will need to facilitate his own reunion.
Reaching into his bag, which had sat dutifully upon his lap for an unknown number of days, or nights, he takes out a piece of jerky. He tears off a chunk of the tough meat with his teeth and he chews. His other hand tightens around the spear at his side.
Silently Patroclus pushes himself to his feet, cognizant of the chasm ahead, imagining the screech of stiff ghostly joints. He spins his spear idly between his hands.
“Find your own glade, beast.” He turns stabbing clean through the cloaked satyr walking through his glade. He shakes the blood, true blood but foul in comparison to Zagreus’, off of his blade.
He removes the creature’s cloak. The deformed body beneath is festering with vermin rotting alongside their lifeless host. Grimacing he dons the putrid cloak and begins making his way down towards the House of Hades
Tick
He strides through Elysium. He salvages what he can from the land. He barters with the few civil shades he comes across. He raises his spear against hostile ones.
It feels strange to wield a weapon alone. Without an army. Without his Achilles at his side. Without Zagreus, who always beckoned them with a grateful grin.
He fights on his own against his combatants and against the cold grip of hopelessness. Loneliness has already firmly settled in his bones. Patroclus is trying to prevent them from stilling his ghostly joints.
He grips his spear tightly. Takes a deep breath.
“My spear strikes for you both. In your presence and in your absence.”
He collects gold from hostile encounters. While the boatman is nowhere to be found some of his wells remain. Patroclus gathers what he can from them before they run dry.
He keeps moving.
Tick
The Elysian fields are, in spite of their alleged immortal glory, wilting. The fragile corpses of butterflies litter the fields. The land itself is swept into disarray by the whirlwind of shades going up and then trodden down by the thousands of feet from the beings descending from above.
Patroclus has trekked through countless Elysian chambers. For the first time, in a long while, he finds himself at the entrance of a new room. There are no fields, trampled or otherwise, to speak of.
Patroclus descends the shining onyx steps of an ornate antechamber. To his left he sees a depleted well of Charon, a disconcerting fountain of blood (that he recalls Zagreus, and only Zagreus, being a patron of), and another dry fountain. Barring the many fountains there is one other thing of note: a large rectangular object.
It is completely boarded up, looking much like an oversized crate standing on short wooden legs. Upon stepping closer, the boards look worn and scuffed. Many of the passing shades had made an attempt to break in. With no luck it seems.
He notices, upon peering closer, a board bent slightly upwards and, driven by a sudden desire to inspect, he wedges his spear tip beneath it. Pressing his weight against his spear he leverages the board which breaks with a crack.
Lowering his spear, Patroclus rips off the board. Blinking curiously at the glass panes and brass handle he finds beneath. On a whim he grips the handle and tugs. The boards all clatter to the ground and dissipate to reveal a display case.
Patroclus peers at the eclectic collection of trinkets inside and on the top row–
On the top row is a Myrmidon bracer.
Achilles’’ Myrmidon bracer.
Patroclus reaches out reverently, his hands shaking, to grab it. With the bracer firmly seized within his grasp his eyes flicker over the other contents more critically. They are all distantly familiar. He knows the owner of these keepsakes.
His assumption is proven correct when his eyes land on a broken spearpoint. One he had carelessly tossed at a stranger who had gifted him with the drink of the gods.
As he stares at the tangible mementos from those in Zagreus’ life, Patroclus figures he should feel comforted in the fact that Zagreus is so well-regarded and cared about by so many others.
Instead grief and horror rips at his chest.
For as much as Patroclus strove to ignore the whispers…he knows that the House of Hades has fallen.
He looks into the display case and sees all those, including over a dozen gods, who were unable to help Zagreus. The items all reek of neglect and are coated in dust, or at least the aura of it (for some project too much godliness to have true dust). Zagreus has not touched these for some time.
Patroclus breathes in shakily and, taking advantage of one of the sparse advantages of being a shade, does not breathe out. Letting the grief, the panic, and the loss congregate within his chest.
With effort he lowers his gaze, eyes landing on the plush form of Antos. Staring up at him with a discordantly bright demeanor. He pulls Antos to his chest and closes his eyes.
“Achilles.” He whispers, echoing the familiar call of his stranger- to no reply. Naught but a slight expectant tug to his being.
“Zagreus.” The crack of his voice is the only disturbance to the silence echoing through the room.
As he squeezes Antos to his chest he allows the grief to overwhelm him for a few moments more before he finally breathes out. Wearily opening his eyes to contemplate the contents of the display case.
He does not want to take back his gift, the implications of that alone are a bad enough omen, so he shall not touch the broken spearpoint.
While he let go of that piece of his past he is still reliving a similar part, he ponders as he once again dons Achilles armour, Antos snugly pressed into the crook of his elbow.
“Hopefully wearing this will end with less sorrow than the last time.” He sighs.
After a minute of hesitation he nestles Antos back in the cupboard next to Zagreus’ other plush companions.
“If he finds you, maybe he can reunite us all again, hm?” He murmurs softly, lightly stroking Antos’ head in a bittersweet farewell.
As he swings the door closed something small slips through the crack, swirling through the still air. Fresh boards apparate back around the display case as Patroclus leans forward, closing his fist gently around the small item. Catching it a moment before its gliding downward descent would have impacted the ground.
Slowly he opens his fist to find a small leaf. It glows dimly, a vibrant red that softly flickers with oranges and yellows. The edges are rimmed with gold. A divine piece of his stranger’s laurels.
“Hello stranger.” Patroclus huffs fondly, carefully tucking the leaf safely between Achilles’ bracer and the skin of his wrist.
Tucking his arms beneath his stolen cloak, Patroclus descends the steps into Asphodel.
Tick
“Yet another cruelty of the Fates.” Patroclus mutters while wiping sweat out of his eyes.
Patroclus has no point of comparison for the destruction of Asphodel before the House of Hades fell. But it is boiling. He wonders, for a moment, whether sweat glands have stubbornly persisted past death or whether the heat of Asphodel is so severe that it encourages the long dead system back into use.
He steps carefully off the raft of bones. Patroclus had quickly procured a pair of boots upon entering Asphodel. If the magma alone wasn’t enough of a motivator Patroclus soon discovered that he did not enjoy ribs poking the soles of his feet as he sailed around on the grim rafts.
He finds himself in a small abandoned abode.
He steps over music sheets strewn on the ground. Walks past a disheveled mattress with two pillows. Glances curiously at a cold iron stove stacked with pots.
He walks on.
Tick
It is when Patroclus has ventured deep into Tartarus that true terror strikes him.
He had managed to sneak in easily enough, using the cloak to blend in amongst a group of foul smelling satyrs (whose own cloaks had writhed as a vermin squirmed within).
But then he finds the room.
The rooms he has come across thus far have been almost hauntingly silent. Rather than screams of torment the endless halls echo with mechanical clicks and clacks, nefarious chanting, and scratching from the skittering vermin.
Patroclus had had the misfortune of residing in Tartarus before his relocation to Elysium. Whether for involuntary manslaughter committed in his youth or merely one last stab of sadistic cruelty from the gods and the Fates, Patroclus does not know. It does not matter– regardless of the reason the walls in Tartarus spark uneasiness. This room is different.
A large man stands within. Despite the rags on his person and the thick chains with which his hands are bound he is clearly a god. A god with a large and imposing stature. A god with facial hair in the same bizarre pattern as the one on Achilles’ sigil, on every coin in the underworld.
A god with eyes matching Zagreus’ right one.
Patroclus freezes, watches as the god is flayed and stabbed and ripped open. Listens to how he grunts and shakes with rage.
It is not the torture of a god that terrifies Patroclus. He has, alongside Achilles’, struck this same god countless times for Zagreus’ sake. Rather, Patroclus is terrified by how Hades wilts with his entire being. How Hades accepts his sorry fate, resigned and hopeless to oppose his captors.
Patroclus slips away from the crack at the entrance of the chamber. Leaning his back heavily against the wall he presses his palms firmly against his mouth. Shaking. Whatever has taken over can subjugate Hades in his own realm.
It is unrealistic to think that Hades is the only god under pressure.
He peers into the next few chambers with trepidation. Fearing that he will find his god enduring a similar fate.
Tick
He competed in Elysium. He slipped around Asphodel. But he battles in Tartarus. He cannot let his position be known. He does not have the luxury of allowing witnesses. He slays those who cross his path. Banishing their souls to the labyrinthine abyss that the underworld has crumpled into.
When he comes across a room, with warm if not steaming baths and a clean fountain to restore his vitality, he is grateful. It is not just a welcome respite but a necessary one.
As he drains water from his cupped palms he allows himself, briefly, to ponder sharing a bath with his Achilles and his Zagreus.
Tick
The blood of slain enemies stain the stone floor of the chamber, now empty save for Patroclus.
He finds his gaze fixed on the Styx. A sister of the waters he stared at in lamentation for eons. These waters had granted his Achilles, from a single dip as a babe, with near invulnerability in life. These waters which had reclaimed his Zagreus on a regular basis, healing his ailments and stripping him of his boons.
The waters are now still. And they are more viscous– no. They are being displaced. Displaced by piles and piles of sands. A dull facsimile of gold. The land itself is eroding away.
He moves on.
Tick
With a huff Patroclus hefts himself up onto stable ground. Now that he’s gotten up and through the door (or is it a window?) he takes a moment to catch his breath. He glances around and feels himself freeze.
To his left are–
…oddly provocative statues of a skeleton? Is he in the right–
His gaze shifts and lands on a familiar array of weapons, alongside the familiar display case of keepsakes. Some of the weapons are gone but the spear – that fucking spear – is still here. The spear Achilles wielded when he strode towards his demise. The spear he last saw Zagreus wave as he departed into an Elysian chamber and disappeared from Patroclus’ side. In his mind's eye he sees both of them wielding it without fear of consequences, reckless forces who believe themselves invulnerable (in some manner or another).
Varatha reeks of bad omens.
And yet--
Patroclus allows his own spear to clatter onto the ground. He grasps Varatha and yanks it out of the air.
It seems fitting.
In life, Patroclus nearly bore the weight of Varatha when he marched to his own death.
Who's to say what wielding it in death will wreak?
In a stupor Patroclus turns towards the singular doorway, scarcely believing that he has finally reached his destination.
He marches on.
Tick
The room he finds himself in is in disarray. A humongous bookshelf is pulled away from the wall while on the other wall is an empty space in matching dimensions. Piles of books and clothing are strewn across the floor alongside smashed bits of pottery and fragments of cracked skulls. Every remaining surface is cluttered with knickknacks, including the headboard standing without a bed.
In spite of only seeing the ransacked remains, Patroclus knows the owner of these personal bedchambers. As on the wall, above an overturned couch, hangs a portrait of Achilles. Standing triumphant with the glory of life.
Standing in the centre of the room Patroclus stares despondently at the wall scroll. After a minute he shakes himself out of his fugue state, stumbling towards the giant ornate mirror.
It shines like polished obsidian, reflecting Patroclus’ image as he stands a couple feet away while everything else remains warped and dark. The only thing undercutting the darkly ethereal effect is the large crack bisecting the glass.
Patroclus stares at his image, similarly cut in twain. “Bit foreboding, don’t you think?”
He goes to turn away when he sees a flash of bright red in the mirror. Blinking he turns towards the source, creeping towards a swath of red fabric underneath a book in the corner. Flipping the book aside he stops.
There on the floor is a plush bright red mound lying in a slump. It is an absurd little figure. Four limbs, a torso, a disproportionately long tail, and three heads. Each of the heads is a different size and has a messily stitched fanged smile. The unfinished creation has a total of three button eyes. When Patroclus lifts it the middlemost head droops down between the other two as stuffing slowly leaks out from a gap by one of the legs.
A sense of loss, that is not entirely his own, hits him as he stares at the creature. A gift lovingly and inexpertly made by Zagreus for his baby sister.
Patroclus cannot remember her name, but he does remember when Zagreus learned of her incoming arrival. Zagreus had undergone a mess of emotions; from fear and uncertainty to excitement and hope. He quickly devoted himself to learning how to be a good big brother. Pestering many shades (as well as the countless Chthonic siblings, according to Achilles) with questions about bonding with younger siblings. Not to mention all the time and painstaking effort he had put into this gift.
Patroclus especially remembers the starstruck look on Zagreus’ face when Zagreys had visited his glade after she had been born. How Zagreus had gleefully gushed about how cute she was and how unbelievably small she was and how she’d held his finger and how she had looked into his eyes. How anxious he was to return to her side. Later Achilles had fondly whispered into Patroclus’ ear about how Zagreus had cooed excessively over the newborn godling. How wide Zagreus had smiled. How tears of joy had dripped down Zagreus’ face as he reverently cradled her small form within his arms.
Patroclus grips the toy tightly, causing it to spill more pale guts, and lets himself be overtaken– overwhelmed by sadness.
Staggering backwards he lands hard on the stone floor. Curling into himself as he sobs. He misses Achilles. He misses Zagreus. He misses their life, or unlife rather, spent in each other’s company. He mourns their loss and relents for a moment to the fear that they may truly be gone for good. Thinks in horror about an eternity on his own. An eternity spent knowing exactly what he has lost.
After minutes, perhaps hours, of hopeless melancholy, Patroclus raises his head. Breath shakily coming out of redundant lungs. He drags one of his hands firmly down his face before sighing and leaning back on it. His other hand still clutches the drooping toy.
As he stares at the dopily cheerful expression a watery chuckle escapes his lips. Placing the stuffed animal upon his lap he slides his fingers down its back. Fingertips running over a spine of chunky uneven stitches.
“Never could stay mournful if there was a good dog nearby.” Patroclus mutters, scratching a fingernail under a fabric chin.
For the next few minutes Patroclus continues to pet the small infernal beast, the strange comfort allowing him to collect himself.
Eventually he pushes himself to his feet, staring at the toy in his hands with hesitation. He wants nothing more than to tuck it into the top of his armour (with the heads peeking out, of course, he’s not a monster). To have some company as he strives ahead into the unknown. To steal a gift from not only a baby but a goddess to selfishly provide himself with some comfort but–...he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he destroyed Zagreus’ gift before it was even gifted.
So, with a heavy dose of reluctance, he leaves the toy behind. Tucking it safely behind the frame of the mirror, hoping to shield it from unwanted detection.
Patroclus casts one last yearning glance around the room. Trying with all his might to ignore the wriggling doubt that Achilles and Zagreus will not be in the rooms ahead. That he will discover, once and for all, that they are truly gone when he walks out that door.
Patroclus knows this is his last, his only, chance. He’s risking it all for that chance.
And with that, Patroclus walks further into what was once the House of Hades.
Tick
He steps out into the halls of the house. It is enshrouded in shadows and piles of gold dust littering the floor absorb the few beams of dim light emanating from Zagreus’ chambers. It reminds Patroclus of a desert: devoid of life and utterly ruthless to those that happen upon it.
The incessant ticking and the click of gears has only grown louder.
He finds his eyes inexorably drawn to his right. He stares across the grand hall at the hall behind it. The ceiling above has caved in. Rocks and rubble cover the floor. As he stares at that empty collapsed hall, at the round edge of a blue rug wedged under rubble, he feels a sudden vacancy. Ignoring the sense of loss spreading through his chest he peers around the rest of the space.
To his left is a closed gate, ahead there are large ornate doors. Both are shut.
Throwing a cautious glance over his shoulder he heads towards the gate. He grips the bars and peers inside at the withering branches of trees. A tug at the bars is met with firm resistance.
Tick
Turning away from the gates for the time being he instead goes towards the tall doors. They are marked by deep scrapes. An oversized tassel, frayed and uneven, hangs from a doorknob in the centre.
Patroclus looks at the doors, searching for any vulnerabilities, unthinkingly laying his palm against them. He freezes when the door swings inward slightly before stopping.
Slowly he braces his shoulder against the door, pushing steadily. When the gap has widened enough he slips inside. Pushing the door closed behind him.
The room is tightly packed with an assortment of things. Framed portraits lean against the walls. Tables, couches, shelves, and an entire pillar cordon off sections of the room. The rest of the space is being quickly eaten up by crates.
It is mournful to see the evidence of many lives shoved carelessly into a room and left to die.
Patroclus slowly weaves his way around the room. Maneuvering through all the stuff with his eyes darting around intently. A distant sound of scuttling catches him by surprise and he slips on a wayward tarp. Smothering a curse he falls–
…onto a plush surface.
Patroclus blinks, running his hands across the unexpected fabric. By some stroke of luck he landed on a bed. He smooths out the deep red sheets and goes to push himself to his feet when he pauses, his eyes catching a familiar shade of green.
Slowly he peels up the edge of the bedspread, huffing out a laugh at what he finds underneath. Seems he has found the cloak that Achilles had complained about losing what feels like eons ago. Patroclus had suggested he get another in the same style and Achilles had bemoaned about not wanting to yield to that quirk of the House of Hades. Said quirk entailed “having multiples of the exact same outfit, Patroclus, it’s nonsensical”. When Patroclus had then pointed out that in war they’d done the same, Achilles had stared at him in utter betrayal while Zagreus snickered at them both.
For a moment, Patroclus brings the cloak to his face. Breathing in the stale yet familiar intermingled scents of his beloveds. He fights against the urge to submit to his misery and lets the fabric fall from between his fingers.
“I know you’re still here.” He murmurs, pushing himself to his feet.
He is so close. He lets that hope, that belief, drive him forwards.
Eyes sharply surveying the space Patroclus finds himself drawn to the back corner of the room. Where a small collection of things stand shielded by tarps. Patroclus steps up to the nearest one and lifts the tarp to peek at what is beneath. He stands frozen as he stares at an outstretched fleshy arm. Ripping off the tarp he stares at the pale figure with white hair and fierce golden eyes.
Frenzied Patroclus yanks the tarps off of all the nearby figures. Revealing a small herd of people. But Patroclus cannot focus on them. Because there, in the centre, are his Achilles and his Zagreus.
Dropping his spear he reaches towards the closest one first, Achilles. Cupping his hands around the still face of his beloved. His skin feels…abnormal. Unmoving as a marble statue yet it still has the give of flesh. It is deeply unnerving. By some small miracle it does not feel like touching a corpse…but it still evokes a similar sense of wrongness.
Removing a hand from Achilles’ face, Patroclus clutches at Zagreus’ nape and the discomfort increases twofold. Zagreus is still warm. But, much like Achilles, he is oh so still. Like an object made out of a person.
He gazes into their eyes, desperately seeking, dreading, to find some sort of awareness. Their eyes remain faced forwards, in the same direction they have stayed for who knows how long.
He found them. He found them. And he allows himself to feel some relief at the fact that they are not gone. They may not be all here. But they are not gone.
Standing between their outstretched arms, frozen as they are, Patroclus feels comforted. Leaning forward he presses his forehead into Achilles’ shoulder. Leans his cheek against the side of Zagreus' head. It feels like returning home after a natural disaster has barraged it. Not the same but recognizable.
Tick
Behind him there is a shift in the air. The room begins to vibrate with power. He stays still. Pressed between Achilles and Zagreus.
After a beat he springs to action, swiftly picking up his spear he turns and plunges the blade into the figure, the god, the Titan, that was behind him. He bares his teeth in a feral grin at the Titan’s hiss of pain and sneer of annoyance.
“I see the defenses are lacking at the major passageways.” The words reverberate with power and malice. Piecemeal wings apparate behind the Titan.
Ripping his spear out, Patroclus draws back his arms before extending them for another strike. The Titan of Time, Chronos, clenches a fist and everything-
Tock.
stops.