Chapter 4
Kronos is trembling by the time the second quarter of slaves from the stern - the quarter he's in - is rotated out.
He's detached from the oar and chained down near the mast instead, wincing as the movement causes pain to drown his body, as it explodes in his back and stomach. He knows the next two hours are his time to rest, but can't bring himself to lean back against the wood behind him - his back is too painful. The blood - a bright red in the sun's rays - has crusted over on his back, but it cracks with every movement and fresh crimson blood rolls down his back, staining his ragged shirt to replace the broken scabs.
Each breath through his nose feels like his throat is being rubbed with coarse sandpaper, making him involuntarily choke on air. His lungs, in agonising suffering as the fragile organs are pierced with what Kronos now confirms to be a broken rib bone, or two from the amount of kicks he's had in that region.
He'd been rowing for a long four hours. His legs and arms are aching from the extreme exertion he'd forced them through. He can barely feel his fingertips as he tries to clench his fingers in anger, not feeling any blood rush through his veins - he's certain his blood supply has been cut off by the manacles he's wearing. He brings his hands up towards his face, the chains of the manacles rattling their haunting sounds, studying the blisters that have begun to appear on his mangled skin. He vaguely notices his skin smoulders a furious bloody red from being burnt in the sun that's still high in the sky. He sighs, noting that his golden tan would be gone, replaced with raw charred flesh - how unappealing.
A tiny flask containing two mouthfuls of water is dropped on the deck before him, and he's horrified when he realises that they've dropped it just out of his reach. Kronos tries to reach it, knowing that it's for him and watching threateningly as the slave next to him gets his dropped into his lap. Fucking cunts. His stomach rumbles its protests, but he knows there's no point in demanding food - they won't give anything to him until they want to.
Kronos scrabbles for the flask, even trying to flip it closer to him using his feet, but nothing reaches the flask.
It's when an actual godforsaken whimper escapes him that he realises just how desperate he is to get the water, and how much of his dignity he's just throwing away. But he also realises that he doesn't give a shit - he needs the water.
So, when a boot connected to a certain dark-skinned slaver lands on his water flask, he keeps his gaze firmly down and trained on the leather flask. He's not even sure how he'll have the water with the cow shit gag still in his mouth, but knows he'll find a way if he has to.
"Do you want the water, boy?" Malko chuckles, the slaver obviously pleased with Kronos' act.
Kronos nods slightly, pointedly keeping his gaze fixed on the flask.
In response, the slaver grinds his foot down, a cackle bubbling from his lungs. Kronos flinches slightly as he watches the flask burst and his water explodes over the deck. Malko continues to laugh and he simply walks off, leaving Kronos to sag and watch his precious two mouthfuls leech down to the deck below, draining away and evaporating within seconds from the blasted heat of the sun.
Kronos tries to turn his face away from the sun as he sits there slumping, desperate to retreat from the harsh heat beating down on his failing mortal body.
Around him, the slaves slowly sip on their own water, savouring it and taking care to not have too much too quickly. Kronos tries to ignore them, his jaw clenches in frustration when he hears the particular gulp of a slave beside him downing the last of the cool liquid in his own flask.
It's an indeterminable amount of time later - even for Kronos - when he hears a thud in front of him. Kronos cracks open an eye, his other quickly snapping open when he sees the flask in front of him and within reach.
"Stand," Malko orders from above him.
Kronos unsteadily rises to his feet, swaying slightly from side to side as he does. He simply stands still as the slaver unties the gag, working his jaw when it's pulled away. Kronos draws in a sharp intake of oxygen that he's grateful for against the cow-shit stench that stains his mouth and breath. Malko puts the gag on the metal grate beside Kronos before he walks away, and Kronos instantly lunges for the flask at his feet. He twists his torso with a sharp hiss, the sudden movement tugs at the fatalities present on his back and his stomach.
"Two minutes!" Malko roars and Kronos' eyes widen, knowing that the slavers will soon rotate him back in.
He doesn't have time to savour the water, but tries to draw it out as long as possible, counting down the agonising seconds till his hell begins once again. It's disappointing when he finishes the water, draining the very last of the drops from the leather flask, knowing that's the only relief he'd have from the stench of cow-shit plaguing his mouth - it only partly and temporarily soothes his burning throat.
Two slavers approach him when the time is nearly over, and Kronos groans when one picks up the gag.
"This really isn't necessary," he protests, his voice surprisingly hoarse. The simple words send a spark of torment down his throat, as if the skin inside has been whipped raw itself, making him partially choke again. One of the slavers moves to stop him from jerking away, not that he will - he's resigned himself to the cow-shit gag - and the other shoves it into his mouth again, tightly tying it behind him.
When Kronos is chained to the oar again, the simple act of gripping the smooth wooden handle sends wraths of agony through his hands, the blisters decorating his hands rubbing raw against the threatening piece of wood.
This time, Kronos keeps an eye on how far the sun seems to crawl over the sky during his shift, determined to know how long the shift actually is. It's too bad that he's lost his domain of Time - it would've been so much easier, but he's not going to lose all senses over time and day.
It's only a few minutes into his shift that sweat starts dripping down into his eyes, caking his forehead and hair in a disgusting ugly sheen.
A few of the demigods that watch Kronos through the screen, involuntarily feeling like gagging at the form Kronos is in - smothered in blood, sweat and tears.
"He needs a bath," Aphrodite cringes at the ugly form of the former Titan.
Kronos figures out that he rows for around four hours at a time, during which the sun drops beneath the horizon of what seems to be an endless sea and a freezing wind batters him. Despite the physical exertion, he soon finds himself shivering, his muscles burning from the grief he's put them through extensively. Briefly, he slows his rowing in an attempt at regaining some oxygen, bringing his hands up to rub away at the sweat dripping into his eyes, but rather predictably promptly gets whipped in the back.
A - fortunately - muffled curse tears from his mouth, the few words nothing to the tirade in his head as he's forced to stop wiping at the sweat and return his attention to rowing.
When his shift ends, he practically staggers over to the middle of the boat and is promptly chained down. Kronos doesn't bother with savouring the water, instead quickly downing it all.
Kronos curls up where he is and slips into a fitful sleep, taking advantage of the little time he has without the gag. Once again his savage dreams take over, even after only a single piece of bread and four mouthfuls of water all day, one would expect him to be drained literally - mentally and physically, yet he still had enough blazing fury within him for sadistic dreams.
The slavers that had tortured him were on their knees in manacles and gags themselves before their King - Kronos. He walks past them as they quiver before him in his wrath, cat o'nine tails in his hand, stopping at a certain dark-skinned slaver, Malko. He sees the former slaver leader cower, whimpering as he snaps his cat o'nine tails against the invisible floor. He crouches down to the slavers height grasping the slaver's jaw in his hand, squeezing his throat.
His gold eyes bore into Malko's brown ones that were clearly intimidated by Kronos' power. A smirk draws across his face when he sees the terrified look in Malko's eyes and he squeezes Malko's fragile neck just that little tighter, cutting off his airway. The slaver is gasping in the wrath of Kronos' clutch, his hands clawing at Kronos' own around his neck, but still, Kronos holds him there until he sees the slaver's eyes roll back nearly falling unconscious. The Titan lets go of him, seeing the meat sack of the mortal plop to its knees once again, chest dramatically heaving for oxygen.
Kronos swiftly walks behind the meat sack, before swinging his arm forward at Malko's back, the cat o'nine tails penetrating deep into his back. Malko screams against the gag which muffles his desperate pathetic cries, making Kronos' mouth twitch in excitement. The other slavers kneeling flinch when they hear Malko's mangled scream - the sound of a dying cow. Kronos urged on smashes his arm once more at Malko, his crimson blood seeping from his body as it collapses to the floor curling up in fear. Malko hisses against the cow-shit gag, sending daggers at the Titan, as he brings his arm up again once more to strike the slaver with the cat o'nine tails-
There's no gag to muffle Kronos' own scream when he too wakes up to a whip cracking down on his back.
"Now that's an alarm clock," Clovis says in awe, watching Kronos' face scrunch up in discomfort.
"Maybe you need one, Clovis." Annabeth fires back at him, momentarily rolling her eyes at Clovis.
"I'm not one to be late, Annie." Clovis glares daggers back at her.
"Who was late to the important Counselor's meeting two days ago?" Annabeth says. Her jaw clenches at the distasteful nickname. Clovis opens his mouth to protest, before shutting it, drawing a raised eyebrow from Annabeth.
"Well?" Annabeth presses him on.
"It's fashionable to be late!" Clovis comes up with the only excuse that is deemed reasonable drawing a groan from Annabeth.
Kronos has enough sense in him to curl up tighter, protecting his fragile head from the leather of the whip. He's manhandled to his feet, where the whip cracks against him again, causing him to try to arch his back away from the slaver wielding it. Kronos is dragged over to the oar, struggling to think why he's been whipped when he realises that he's holding up the rowing. The slavers take no time to fuck about, chaining him straight to the oar while another of them shoves the gag into his mouth, tying it painfully tight.
As Kronos starts rowing, ignoring his agonising back, he tastes coppery blood in his mouth mingle with the taste of cow-shit and urine. He'd be quite acquired to the taste of it soon.
Several days pass in much the same routine, effortlessly taking its toll on Kronos' mortal body. He doesn't dare complain too much, since the slavers seem to have an exceptionally short fuse regarding him.
Kronos continues to be gagged, and he finds himself actually getting used to the constant taste of cow-shit plaguing his saliva. His skin blisters under the constant sun, forced to row for a constant four hours at once, with a mere two hours between to sleep for a bleak attempt to regain his strength.
There are dozens of other slaves on the ship, but not a single one of them utters a word to each other; they're all diligent from being whipped into a deathly silence, for god knows how long they've been held captive on the ship.
Kronos isn't used to such silence. It makes him feel utterly alone, out in the open sea, the one thing he doesn't want to feel at the moment - the familiarity reminding him of the centuries from his past. Being in isolation, exiled from his own world where he used to be a King, any other guy would die from it.
He was locked in a room - dark, confined to a compact space where the walls were closing on him in every direction, crushing his very existence. Eliminating him. He had lost his voice of freedom and dignity, stripped from him in a fight against his own desires. He has no emotions, he feels nothing - only the pain that plagues his body, mind, soul and dreams. Haunting him. Taunting him. Consuming him. He can't pathetically scream for help, every time he does, he's pushed further and further back, intoxicated and engulfed in suffering as a punishment for the crime he dares commit. No one cares for him, he knew that a long time ago. Left to rot, shrivel up and die - that was the fate for him. Stuck as a mortal, until he finally gives in to wearing this true personality.
Loneliness doesn't come from no one around you, but from being unable to communicate with the things that seem important to you.
He - dares he even think it - misses the company of his Titaness, Rhea.
Kronos gets whipped dozens more times over the days, leaving lacerations over his back which scab over before promptly bleeding at every movement, causing Kronos to hiss at the suffering he's destined.
Five days after Kronos arrives on the slavers' ship, the gag is finally removed. He opens and closes his jaw, feeling odd being able to move it so much. He's certainly pleased to see the back of the foul gag, and the water he receives all drips down his parched throat, none of it soaking into the gag as it had before. Kronos takes full advantage of the missing gag and breathes through his mouth, able to take in the sweet thick oxygen he needs as he rows - and his nose doesn't ache when he does so.
Two days later, the call to stop goes around for the first time. It takes Kronos several long seconds to comprehend the order, at first thinking that he's hallucinating again, positive that he'll get whipped into action again - but the pain he expects doesn't come. He lets his oar go and sits there, breathing heavily, practically burying his head in his hands.
The slave he shares shifts with lies on his back on the deck, staring up at the sun overhead and breathing shakily, his chest moving up and down with forced jerky movements. Kronos is truly astonished that the man's still breathing at all, yet still alive with how he'd staggered over after his shift.
Kronos watches curiously as the rowboat is lowered off the side of the ship and Malko along with two other slavers step into it. When he catches the corner of a slaver's eyes, Kronos swiftly lowers his gaze to a spot on the deck between his feet - he doesn't want to be whipped again.
He and the other slaves rowing are left chained to their oars as they wait, the sun crawling by overhead. Several other slaves get impatient, shifting slightly where they sit, and the cracks of whips echo around the deck, carried with the waves across the seas, shattering the silence. Kronos considers himself fortunate that he's patient for once.
Kronos watches from the corner of his eye as they return, a man and a dwarf with their wrists tied with them. And annoyance builds in the pit of his stomach when the two are given special treatment, not chained to an oar but left to wander the deck.
"Let's get going!" Malko roars.
Kronos grunts with the effort of forcing the oar through the seawater as they begin rowing again. In astonishment, he realises that they're turning around and heading back the way they came. The other slaves also seem confused with the sudden change, but no one dares to speak up.
When Kronos' shift ends, he's not unchained. The slavers whip the slave who's supposed to take over from him, but there's utterly no response. Whipped to exhaustion and left to desiccate in the sun, Kronos vaguely realises that he's now dead - a way in which he hopes he won't go out of this world in. He watches as the body is simply tossed overboard for the sharks and fish to devour and savour the cooked meat feast.
When the call goes up, Kronos is still chained to the oar. He hesitates, not willing to start rowing - he's not rowing for eight hours in the burning heat without any water or food.
"Hey!" a slaver barks at him. "Are you deaf? Row!"
"I just rowed," Kronos tries, daring to look up at the slaver.
He's not expecting to see the whip be brought back, and before he can turn away, it cracks against his face, scoring a gash diagonally down his cheek. The leather whip penetrates deep into the flesh of his cheek, ripping away the top layer of skin and exposing the raw flesh to the sun. His own crimson blood sprays over his face, waterfalls of it gushing out of the rip in the skin and momentarily blinds him, causing him to flinch back. An atrocious, blood curdling scream tears from his throat, shocking the rest of the slavers back to reality.
"Do I look like I give a fuck?" the slaver snarls. "Row!"
The gods flinch when they see Kronos' inhumane bloody face and a few of them unconsciously bring their own hands up to their cheeks, as if they felt the sting of Kronos' suffering.
"Well there goes his beauty," Hermes coughs out, sending a glance in Hecate's way.
"He's still beautiful you know," Hecate fires back at him.
"Oh, so you've taken a liking to him?" Hermes suddenly becomes interested in Hecate's change of heart for the former Titan.
"Don't push it," Hecate's jaw clenches, not wanting Hermes to start another bloody fight and before some idiot opens their mouth to start chanting.
Kronos' jaw tightens and he grits his teeth, but he can't fight back - both he and the slaver know it. Kronos growls a curse under his breath, hoping the slaver doesn't hear the fate that Kronos wants to put him through, as he begins to row for another long four hours. The slaver doesn't, walking back up the deck whipping a few of the slaves that he passes by for his own sadistic entertainment.
Back up the deck, the two men that had recently been brought aboard the ship eye the commotion, observing the ruthlessness against Kronos. They share a quick glance at each other at opposite ends of the ship, before nodding silently in agreement and continue to walk across the deck.
It was only two hours into the extra shift when Kronos simply couldn't continue. He abruptly stops rowing, his muscles seizing up and simply refusing to respond. His vision is blurry and distorted as his hands tremble.
He looks up, eyes widening when he sees a slaver heading his way, eyes narrowed in his direction. Kronos pulls the oar closer to him slightly, dropping his head down onto it to attempt to support himself. He doesn't even realise that he wasn't whipped, slipping instead into unconsciousness.
When Kronos wakes, chained to the mast as usual, one of the new slaves - unfortunately not the midget, is chained to the oar in his place, giving Kronos undeniable satisfaction at the sight. The few mouthfuls of water that Kronos receives is not nearly enough for his drained muscles to recuperate.
Kronos sags, breathing deeply as he finishes the water, staring at a blemish in the wood panel on the deck between his feet. His collar burns, as do the manacles he's forced to wear against his own will.
Something tugs at the water flask Kronos still holds, and he blinks when another one is shoved into his hand. He peers up at the dwarf who'd somehow snuck to his side without him noticing.
"You look like you need it more than me," the dwarf states.
Kronos blinks, furrowing his eyebrows, staring uncomprehendingly at the flask in his hands. Then he drains the entire thing before any of the slavers notice - any extra water wasn't something he'd turn down in the state he was in.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks. "You too small to row or some shit?"
"Predictable," the dwarf sighs. "I do something good for once in my miserable life and get a dwarf joke in return."
"Miserable," Kronos echoes mildly, his voice low so not to alert the slavers to their conversation.
The dwarf winces slightly at that. "Well, it looks like it will be now."
"Let me guess," Kronos says, "they want your little cock."
The dwarf blinks. "Yes, actually. Something like that." He pauses slightly. "Tyrion."
"I think I'll stick with dwarf for now."
The newly named Tyrion scowls at Kronos, before nodding towards the other man who he'd arrived with. "That's Jorah. His company involves long, sullen silences and the occasional punch."
"I really don't give a piece of shit. Let me sleep, dwarf."
"How long have you been here?" the dwarf asks.
"Sleep," Kronos stresses.
"That's not answering the question."
"I will fucking punch you in your little sausage to shut you up," Kronos threatens, his tiredness making him only slightly more irritable than normal.
Tyrion looks entirely unfazed by the threat, probably because Kronos is chained down like a helpless animal and can't actually punch him. "Sure. You smell like shit, by the way."
"You look like shit," Kronos retorts. "A little shit." It's probably his imagination, but he feels slightly better now that he's able to insult someone and not get whipped in return. Tyrion glares at him, looking thoroughly annoyed with Kronos' comment. And, because the dwarf helped Kronos to feel better, he answers his question. "A week." When the dwarf looks rather confused, he continues. "They hate me."
"They're slavers - they hate everyone. It's why they become slavers in the first place."
When the dwarf briefly falls silent, Kronos almost fools himself into thinking the conversation is over.
"You haven't told me your name."
"Fucking dwarf," Kronos growls.
"I may be a dwarf, but I haven't been a fucking dwarf for many weeks now."
Kronos almost laughs at the mournful tone. "I can barely remember the last time I fucked," he retorts. Rhea, of course. And it wasn't a total lie, the last time he and Rhea had fucked he'd been drunk off his ass, so had Rhea. It was really the only reason they even had sex - a few months later Zeus had been born, and everyone knew how that turned out.
Tyrion snorts at that. "If I had wine, I'd propose a toast: to fucking."
"You don't," Kronos says tiredly, "so shut up."
The little shit frowns, but seems to concede to Kronos. Until, "Your name?" he prompts.
"Why do you care?" Kronos rasps out.
Tyrion sighs. "Because at the moment your name is all you have. It's probably the one thing which others will remember about you. A name is who you are, don't forget it."
Kronos turns his head away, staring out over the sea.
Most of the time, people try to forget his name. After all, it was like he had no face in this world - a fresh start.
The little dwarf smiles sadly. "We're heading to Meereen," he informs Kronos. "To where Daenerys the Mother of Dragons is, we promised Malko he'll get a good deal off her for us - and he will. You're just a kid, you shouldn't be here."
Kronos blinks, sure he's heard the name Daenerys before. "The Targaryen?" his eyes flicker over to Tyrion. "And I can fight. Malko… they're going to sell me as a gladiator."
Tyrion snorts. "I can't imagine they'd sell you as a whore, with that gash over your face."
Kronos winces. "No, probably not," he agrees.
"Daenerys is known as-''
"The Breaker of Chains," Kronos finishes for him. "Yes, I've heard." Tyrion lifts an expectant eyebrow at Kronos, and realisation dawns on the boy's face. "Oh."
Tyrion nods. "Oh," he agrees, gesturing to the collar and manacles on Kronos, the length of chain binding him down to the deck. "Those look like some chains to me."
Kronos remains silent for several long moments, considering his words before he rolls over onto his side and shuts his eyes. He hears Tyrion sigh and stand up. Before the dwarf can move away, Kronos answers his question. "Kronos," he says.
"Well, Kronos. I would say it's nice to meet you, but I think the circumstances could be a lot better."
So I'll admit that this was supposed to be up around easter. I really have no excuse other than exams and I sorta forgot about it.
Review responses:
Oddballzebra: Because Kronos screws his plans up. My friend wrote that bit in.
Shincore: You'll see.
Divergent Raven: yeah he really can't.
Lord Nitro: cus they're gods? And because my friend wanted it to
thegoldraven: Kronos will meet Dany in chapter 5 (next chapter). Events will stay mostly the same until around the end of season 7, because then Kronos gets screwed over and it doesn't go well for anyone.
ShadowsClaw: Yeah. Poor dude.
