May I please have your attention?
Okay, hm. How to say this...I don't have much liking for it; because of the OOCness of the characters is rather apparent...and it doesn't make sense. It's all choppy and whatnot, in addition...I just wish I could've wrote it better, is all.
And the plot's paper thin, sadly. I was intending to show in this story how cold and nonchalant Zeus could be, and then reveal a more emotional side when it concerned his wife; and how he secretly likes her...though I don't know if it came off too well.
And you may ask- why did you upload this story, if you think it is so bad? Good question, thankfully to which I have an answer...I was hoping to get some helpful critique (not flaming; critique. Obviously a big difference in the two...) from some generous folk; because, asides from my weakness at story telling, my Greek Mythology knowledge is rather weak and if I get something wrong about a character -I would appreciate someone telling me what's what, if they will (or if they feel the need to). From there, I will rewrite this story to make it more interesting in a factual way and in a emotional way.
Even if there is no response, however- I will redo this story sometime in the future, hopefully with enough of Greek-wisdom to appeal to the mass...or with just appeal.
So, if there's still anyone daring enough to read this- venture forth, good people! Venture forth!
The proud, almighty Zeus sits on his throne, his posture invigorating and majestic. His eyes are as blue as the shell of a robin's egg, his beard and hair long and luminous like a lion's mane, and his body built from brick, though softened over by flesh. In spite of this portrait of strength, here is where a deity jabs at his chest, and with it; carrying fiery punches of pain at its' tip.
However, he does nothing- accepting the pain as easily as one would a candy bar. He continues to sit, undisturbed by its' endless punctures and stares on ahead over his kingdom, his eyes showing nothing of his turmoil. He was like a unfeeling statue, strong in its' power of resilience and cold.
Indifference.
Gods claim to be free of all emotion, all thought and feeling. There is no conscienceless that their minds beckoned to, no restraint of which they could or couldn't do. No one was to judge them, and if they did, the cruelty of the Gods would shadow their footsteps for the rest of their lives (considering if they were given the privilege to do so).
She had judged him, finding him guilty before having even gone through a trial. She screamed at him, announcing him to be a rapist and a disgrace to his father. Her wondrous green eyes flamed with animosity as she spat out more insults at him, her shoulders stiff and her chin high as her ridicule prospered within her ego.
Were she some human, he would find no problem thrusting down 120,000,000 volts into her heart, and watch her voluptuous body dance in a jerky movements as murderous blue streaks engulfed her control. Perhaps, even, he'd take pleasure from it…were it not for the fact he had the ability to feel little. It was a gift, yet a curse he had in being a God.
This chill; a numbing sensation devoid of happiness and pain, consumed him as a virus would a mortal. From the day he was born, he slowly began to lose concepts of what was sympathy and empathy, stumbling uncertainly towards a trail of apathy. Such things as the dying screams of innocents left him unaffected from that day on, taking in the shrill cries with leisure as if it was wine.
No other God, despite his or her unique personality, was quite different…except maybe her, of course. Like her sisters, she was a stubborn yet selfish goddess; but she had an adverse attitude towards the mortals, or so he thought. He wondered if he was only imagining her cringing when he unbuckled his rage onto unassuming folks villages; or if he had hallucinated when he saw her shadow slipping away to some other place and time.
She was, in truth, actually a very emotional goddess…unlike any of which he had encountered or slept with. She had a dreadful animosity of the women he maintained relations with, and exacted vengeance onto each one. He could recall the crackle of triumph in her eyes when each woman was pushed off their pedestal (whether it be literal or figurative; he meant by both), and the smile that was wide on her rose-painted lips.
Yes, he was sure that she was a hypocrite; but weren't they all? He wondered if there was not one instant, they pledged themselves to aiding humanity, only to turn their backs on them moments later. It was by nature that they were cruel and demeaning to their sensitive creations; and it couldn't be helped.
Nevertheless, asides from her ever blinding jealousy, there was something in his wife that he had once never cared to see. There was this sense of honor about her, a chivalry and kindness that reared its' beautiful head whenever she was called upon to act on her duty. She was the goddess of marriage, and often tended to the needs of women giving birth or married women as a whole….
Although infamous for her deeds of revenge, he thought he noticed nobility of which he never came across before. In some instances, she was loyal, faithful and respectful towards her subjects and worshippers; never casting an icy eye onto them. Her vows to them were (mostly) kept, and favors done (albeit begrudgingly).
Even so, he saw beauty in all of her ever-varying emotions, even in the madness of her envy and spite. Whenever she snarled at him; her gorgeous red hair flaring in the winds and her face contorting to resemble that of a enraged wolf, the ends of his lips had to force themselves down; in order to fight the unconscious pleasure he had in her portrait of ruthlessness. Whenever she was sad, kind, or jubilant-he knew he didn't care much about her mood swings, but in spite of himself, he found himself standing by her side, taking in the emotions that eminated from her essence with little hesitance.
By no means, however, was he in love with her…nor she him. They WERE with each other out of pure necessity, no more and no less. Besides, how could he ever love anyone but himself, seeing, as he was a God?
This was something he reminded himself repeatedly. He was a God. He was indifferent; caring only to sate his needs and fulfill a physical whimsy.
This was an advice that sometimes went unheeded, when he looked to the empty throne besides him casually or by habit. A stab of what felt like a sword would jut itself into the emptiness of his heart, then wiggled around even more painfully…yet in spite of his internal anguish, his nonchalance convinced him that nothing was wrong. He was a God, a proud, single God at that.
Now, with his wife gone, he could get whatever he wanted, without a nagging simpleton in the way…he didn't have to anticipate the excitement of his partner chasing him, nor did he have to see the torment in her eyes anymore. He didn't have to look astonished whenever she laughed with him, nor did he have to listen to her whenever she put up a good arguement. He didn't have to see her give him a rare, kind smile; her eyes benevolent and twinkling with a hidden adoration.
Yet when the sword gave its' final poke, the ghost of its' sharp edge left his passive face unaffected...but his soul cringing.