I am hoping for a 2nd time lucky on the re-post of this fanfic. Hopefully, I get to finish posting it this time without too much distraction.

Part of the plot of this story, including the grand title, belongs to Liz. As I mention once before, a way to quickly bring down the lofty greek gods is to provide an achilles heel somewhere. For some who find part of this familiars, parts of this I took from 12 Apostles - that crazy original fic of mine. If you can guess the ending, keep it to yourself.

Written in parts, each between 6-9 chapts:

The first part - Memories of the Past took place in one day - Vanessa's Birthday

The second part - A present of guilt is pure Frank POV, except for the prologue

The third part deals with the Parthenon of gods. Pending how things go, I can end it here.

The fourth part rounds up the mysterious 'god' figure in this prologue.

That's it, the summary of this entire tale.

To Liz - if you're reading, sorry I took that long.

Hope you enjoy it.



Partheois

For Medieval_Liz

Memories of The Past

PROLOGUE:

In a small boutique café on a quiet corner of Paris, a distinguished old Englishman sat alone drinking coffee and typing on a sleek little Sony Viao notebook. Every once in a while, he would pause and his brows furrowed as he contemplated his next words. Then he smiled. He could see the end of another chapter of his little novelette. This is one novelette that would never be published. Not while he lived. It had to be that way.

"Monsieur, we're about to close," the matronly waitress distracted him from his reminiscing. "Would you like another cup of coffee or another pastry before heading off?"

"Merci," he said, and settled his bill. "I've had enough for today."

He sighed and began packing up his little notebook. He had much regrets in his life. And he had spent years putting things right.

The old man watched the waitress surreptitiously as she went off to settle his account. He knew she wondered about him; the old Englishman who sat alone with his little notebook the entire day. She never asked who he was. Some might believed him just a wealthy writer plying his trade in a quiet romantic corner of Paris. But he knew she knew that he was more than that. She had looked into his eyes and had seen what others had not. She had seen the darkness that scarred his soul. She had felt the sadness in his heart. He knew she knew, because he had caught her looking at him, the sympathy and empathy clear in her expression.

Not for the first time, he had considered furthering his friendship with her. Then he pushed the thought aside. It was too risky. He should be contented with what he had now. It had to be that way.

His fingers gently caressed the keyboard before him. He smiled. The notebook contained what mattered in his life. It was a record of what happened disguised as fiction. It was the confession and the atonement of a man who was once a god. He had only tried to set things right the best he could. And he lived the life he had now, in atonement for his past sins.

He chuckled. His novelette was about what mattered in the life of an ordinary man. It was about love. Love in all its wondrous and different forms. Love that only an ordinary man would ever have the good fortune to appreciate, experience and to savor. It was about the bond between brothers. It was about the love the women and their love and sacrifices for their loves. It was about the love that bound families through thick and thin.

In particular, it was about two brothers who loved each other so much they would do anything for each other. Or did they?

It was not improbable that a god should take a peek through his looking glass to see what his creations were doing. His little research had shown him something. And many, many years ago, in a small little town called Bayport, two brothers made a promise to always stand by each other. But a promise that had not been tested was only a series of words strung together.

So the gods had watched the two little boys as they sat in the wooden tree house which they had just finished building. There they had held hands and made a promise: brothers by birth, best friends by choice, and partners by profession … forever.

It was the duty of the gods to test those bonds, and to see if it could withstand the test of time and trials. Would that bond survive what was to come, and emerged a bond forged by the fires of heaven and hell?

The old man smiled. The die was cast, and soon, the end would be made known to all.

The old man closed his notebook, packed it up, and left. There was much work to be done before he could rest. He whistled a haunting melody as he walked down the narrow cobble paved streets little known to most Parisians. Soon, he vanished into one of the many tiny alleys of Paris. And soon, no one even remembered he was ever even there.