Authors Note:
Hello, and welcome to my multichapter story (also crossposted on AO3). Hope everyone enjoys!
Unknown Location, Unknown Time
She - she was dying. Dying in flames - no, not in flames. Lightning. Crackles of electricity circled around her, while her arms were decorated in lichtenberg scars. She was shaking - twitching - every few seconds, and she wanted to cry or hide or run or -
"Hey."
She whipped her head around, coming face-to-face with a man with golden eyes, burning as bright as the sun. No, they were black, soulless, like the dead of night. Wait, they were gold? Black? Gold? With each transition, her breathing increased, and she could feel something thump rapidly behind her chest.
"Easy, dear. Breath in, breath out. That's it, in and out." With each muttered reassurance, she felt her heart rate slow down. Her fingers stopped twitching, and the pain slowly subsided. She glanced down at her hands, only to find they were clamped around a larger pair. She fought the urge to blush, instead yanking them free from the other person.
She felt a hint of - was that apprehension? Fear? - before it disappeared, replaced by a warm, comforting aura.
"How bad was it?" She fought the urge to sob, instead burying her face into his shoulders. She heard a grunt of surprise before tentative hands gently rubbed her back.
"It's fine." At this, the man hummed, though she wasn't sure if it was disapproving or not. The girl felt her lips move despite her best efforts to stop. "Besides, isn't today your coronation?"
The man chuckled, offering her his hand. "It's our coronation, not just mine. Now let's go." She felt herself smile as she looked into his golden eyes, accepting the hand and hoisting herself up.
The scene around her bent and warped, rippling and splitting apart. A cacophony of voices rang out together in dissonant harmony, crying, pleading, begging for mercy. She felt flames crawling up her back, while simultaneously shivering from the bone-chilling cold. Appendages torn apart, life growing anew, a world of marble built upon the blood of millions. She felt everything, and saw nothing.
She felt her skin wrinkle and crack, felt it stitch and patch back together to the smoothness of a newborn. She felt herself transcend reality, felt herself screaming until her throat parched up and her vocal cords ached, yet heard nothing but the blissful silence of the void.
Then, it stopped. A diadem was placed carefully on her head, and a crowd of thousands cheered behind her. She saw herself, reflected in a pool of darkness. Only it wasn't her, but an ethereal woman adorned in diamonds and emeralds. Cold, murky brown eyes stared back at her. Eyes that weren't hers. A lustrous, silky voice whispered into her ear, forcing goosebumps up her arms, somehow clear in spite of the chaos of the crowd.
"Hail Rhea Ourania, Queen of the Titans!"
Rachel Elizabeth Dare screamed, as the world around her shattered like pieces of glass, and she descended into darkness.
Olympus, Empire State Building, August 18, 2009
There was a time, when Kronos truly loved Hestia. She resembled a near-perfect version of Rhea - with beautiful red-and-brown hair curled up in effeminate ringlets, contagious laughter which would echo throughout the halls of Olympus, and a certain rebellious spark which he secretly adored, no matter how irritating those early days were.
Kronos never thought he would truly hate Hestia, but there she sat - the carbon copy of his wife - glaring daggers at him, almost as if she was analyzing his soul, deciding how much it was worth. She was his first child, and embodied memories of a different, better life. Her eyebrow lifted up ever so slightly, in a judgemental, borderline condescending manner. Gods be damned, she looked so much like Rhea. The familiar sting of heartache and betrayal forced its way up his throat, and Kronos bitterly swallowed it down. Yep, Kronos decided she was his least favorite child.
Judging by her glower, it was clear Hestia abhorred him as well. Not that her hatred mattered to him- there were too many people that hated Kronos for it to truly be a bother. Hestia was just another person in a long line of beings who wanted to kill him - chief among them being his traitorous wife, Rhea.
"Nakamura!" His one-eyed lieutenant lumbered across the throne room, a broadsword clutched in his hand. The boy kneeled at his feet, and Kronos smiled faintly. "Take this annoying satyr away, perhaps to my brother. I assume Hyperion will be itching for some vengeance. I wish to speak with my daughter … alone." With a nod, Nakamura shackled a set of celestial bronze handcuffs on the satyr, before hauling him up and taking him back down to the city.
"You got some nerve, calling me 'daughter', as if you have any right to call me that!" Hestia spat out venomously, and Kronos inadvertently chuckled at the sheer resemblance she bore to Rhea in that moment. Tracing a finger along the intricate wave-like patterns carved into Poseidon's throne, he hummed nonchalantly. She wasn't wrong, and pretending otherwise would only prove to be futile. "How selfish can you be, to yearn for something which you know you will always remain unreachable for you?! To reach for some semblance of connection to a daughter you never loved, to a family you will never love?!"
"Selfish?" At this, Kronos let out a mocking, acerbic laugh, cutting through the tense atmosphere. "You would call me selfish, Hestia, when you gave up your spot on the council to that old drunkard of a God, just so you could gallivant around the world, free to ignore your family despite their obvious turn for the worse? How could you say that when your hearth forsook the other Olympians for years? You abandoned the Gods for literal centuries! And you, of all the Gods, have the nerve to call me selfish?"
Despite his caustic tone, a smile flitted across his face. At least one of his children managed to inherit his way with words, even if her attempts at manipulation were pitiful at best. Turning his back on her, he studied the glowing Iris message in the corner of the room, where an image of the Hudson River was displayed. Despite Typhon's defeat at the hands of that reprobate of a Sea God and his Atlantean army, the other Gods were knocked out of commission during their battle with him. Meanwhile, here he stood, in the throne room of the Gods as Olympus' executioner. A deep chuckle escaped his throat as he locked eyes with Hestia, who was still glaring at him despite her chained-up form by the fireplace.
"Maybe I am selfish, father; after all, I am your child." She held up her hands, bound together with adamantine chains cutting into her wrists. "Or, I suppose I'm your prisoner, now."
Kronos shook his head, an exasperated sigh escaping his parted lips. He made his way towards Hestia, careful not to step into the puddle of viscous, red blood pooling by her feet. "Wrong, child. You are not just mine," he murmured into her ear, caressing her jaw and coating it with a mixture of ichor and blood, "You're also Rhea's. Moreso than any of my other children. That makes you more dangerous than anyone else remaining." At this, his grip tightened, fingers digging deep into her skin, drawing out droplets of golden ichor. "We wouldn't want you running around, would we?"
"Sir." A new voice piped up from behind him, and Kronos released his grip on Hestia. Patting her cheek, he whirled around, only to be met with one of his men and a familiar, gagged red-headed mortal. Despite some bruising on her skin and scars on her arms, she seemed relatively unharmed … and spirited, if the baleful glare she was sending him was any indication. "Found her hiding in one of the temples. She was screaming and clawing at her throat when I came upon her, hiding in the Sun Gods temple." Kronos paused, shooting an incredulous glance in the mortal's direction. "Sir, I believe … that she can see."
Well.
The mortal muttered something in his general direction with a hint of disgust coloring her expression, but Kronos ignored her, mind already spinning with possibilities. Her face was ashen, and despite her attempts at playing off her tension, she still radiated an aura of uneasiness and shock. If she truly had the sight …
"Rachel Elizabeth Dare." At the sound of her name, the girl's hackles raised, with her fists clenching up and a low, rumbling growl emanating from her throat despite the gag muffling her mouth. Kronos smiled. "Oh yes, I remember you from the labyrinth. Not many people would have the gall to throw a hairbrush at me, and certainly not a mortal." He studied her further, taking note of the faint wisps of yellow and orange flickering in her jade-green eyes. "Yes, yes. It indeed does seem that you'll be of great use to me in the future, Ms. Dare."
With his mind made up, the Titan turned back to Dare's captor. "Torrington, why don't you escort our esteemed guests back down. Keep them bound, and make sure they stay put. I have some … personal business to take care of."
Torrington nodded uneasily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down for a couple moments before dragging the chained hearth goddess to her feet and pulling her to the entrance of the throne room. The doors clanged shut behind them, and Kronos was once again surrounded by silence.
He strolled along the side of the palace, inspecting the various carvings and intricate designs carved in the abalone walls. Image after image of each of the Olympians, depicting their successes and stories, all written into the foundations of the supposedly impenetrable home of the Gods. Finally, he arrived at the image located directly behind the throne of his youngest son. Six small figures were inscribed into the walls, surrounding another figure who was locked up in chains yet still snarling defiantly at the others.
Summoning his scythe, Kronos felt a rush of power course through his veins and tingle up his spine as his hands made contact with the worn out leather handle. A warped amalgamation of celestial bronze, with jagged arcs of black weaving through the blade, Kronos could feel the scythe thrumming with power in his hands - small vibrations that pulsated every few seconds. Taking one last gaze at the opulence of the palace, his grip around the blade tightened, and he focused back on the image of the original Titanomachy.
"For me, my brethren, and the next Golden Age." Kronos murmured softly, and swung his scythe like it was a baseball bat. The blade hit, and the world exploded into golden light.
Central Park, Manhattan, August 18, 2009
Several jagged arcs of lightning crackled through the air, illuminating the leaden-grey sky. Hints of petrichor emanated from the grass and filled the nostrils of the young satyr, who stayed hidden in the treeline. Wailing sirens and guttural shrieks echoed across Central Park, mixed in with the occasional growl of a monster devouring some unfortunate mortal. If the satyr squinted, he could make out the ravaging inferno of orange lining the edges of the park.
Over the Empire State Building, Olympus still loomed above the mortal world proudly. Even from such a distance, the satyr could see the wispy green and white glow surrounding the realm. A faint, vertical line of incandescent yellow light cut through the space between the top of the building and the bottom of Olympus - which the satyr knew was the elevator connecting the mortal and divine realms.
Nervously scanning the perimeter, the satyr scurried towards the lake, clutching a decaying set of panpipes in one hand and a small, papyrus scroll in his other hand. He pointedly ignored the pained moans and cries of the dryads laying on the forest floor, still covered in burn scars and ash from the recent battle.
"Hey!" A scarred hand grasped his shoulder, and the satyr bleated angrily, whipping his head around to glare at whoever grabbed him. The nymph in question blushed a dark-green, hastily removing her hand and bringing it to to her neck sheepishly.
"For Hades' sake, don't scare me like that!" He swore, causing the nymph to darken even further. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find my friends!" At this, the nymph perked up, her previous sheepish expression morphing to something more hopeful.
"So it is true? The war is truly over?" The nymph exclaimed, clapping her hands like an innocent child. The satyr ignored her, electing to jog further into the underbrush as the nymph excitedly rushed back to her injured brethren. He shouldn't have let her distract him - the viceroy of Lord Kronos explicitly ordered him to "avoid dillydallying" when carrying out his command, especially since this was such an important task to complete.
Besides, how could he respond to a question which he had no definitive answer for?
The music from multiple panpipes echoed from across the lake, the various different notes harmonizing beautifully in an ethereal melody. Moments later, the ground rumbled, and Woodrow let loose a string of curses under his breath. He was already behind schedule, and there was still no sign of his fellow satyr … acquaintances. He didn't exactly enjoy their company - the majority of them were too bloodthirsty and vengeful, for his taste, especially towards humans - but they did accept Woodrow into their ranks with relatively little issues. They also shared a common goal - to preserve and protect pockets of wildlife while they still existed. Woodrow just wished they didn't have to resort to such barbaric tactics to deal with trespassing mortals.
Trudging deeper into the woods, the satyr softly played a soothing tune on his own panpipes, feeling the tension slowly flow out of his rigid frame. Woodrow couldn't remember the last time he actually got to play his panpipes in a non-life-or-death situation - probably since before he was recruited by the Titan Army.
"Still infatuated with Hillary Duff, I see? What are you doing back here, Woodrow?" A deep voice rumbled from beside him, and Woodrow flinched at just how close it was. Around him, multiple figures emerged from the shadows of the towering pine trees. The voice from earlier stepped forward as well, revealing himself to be a fellow satyr. A bruised, wooden club was clipped to his side, and an assault rifle was strapped to his back. Tattoos adorned his shoulders and snaked down his arms. Towering nearly 2 heads above Woodrow, Linus was a menacing figure to even the children of Ares.
Before joining the Titan Army, Woodrow had only heard whispers of the disgraced protector. Ranging from planning the assassination of the Council of Cloven Elders, to successfully killing off his assigned demigod due to clashing ideologies, there was no shortage of rumors swirling around camp about him. Woodrow never bothered trying to find out the truth - he cared too much about his life to even try. Regardless of whatever rumors floated around, Linus was the leader of the New York faction of Titan-sympathizing nature spirits. That meant Woodrow had to listen to whatever he said. Mustering up whatever bravado he had left, Woodrow straightened and cocked an eyebrow towards Linus.
"I come directly from Lord Kronos' viceroy, with news on his assault on Olympus." To prove his point, Woodrow raised the hand carrying the rolled-up parchment emphatically. At this, flashes of curiosity momentarily flooded the faces of the rest of the satyrs before their expressions reverted back to neutrality. Linus made a waving motion, and Woodrow took a deep breath, before continuing. "Grover Underwood has sworn loyalty to Lord Kronos and our cause." A brief but noisy cheer rang out from the clearing. Despite their dislike towards Jackson's protector, having Pan's chosen one would only serve to aid in their efforts to protect nature.
Woodrow held a sob back, remembering how miserable Grover looked when he appeared from the elevator entrance. A gag covered his mouth, and his hands were shackled in Celestial Bronze chains. One of his horns was cracked, and rivulets of blood flowed down his temple and neck from a particularly deep cut at his forehead. The satyr had a noticeable limp, but still leveled a defiant glare at the one-eyed demigod escorting him away at sword point. It hurt to see his friend (or former friend, to be more accurate) treated so inhumanely, but Woodrow had gulped and kept his eyes down, refusing to meet Grover's betrayed gaze.
"And what of my brother and the demigods, young satyr?" A smooth, baritone voice broke through the excited chattering of the satyrs. Adorned in blazing golden armor and a Spartan-style helmet, the figure easily crossed the eight-foot barrier, looming over even Linus. Flame-filled eyes were trained on Woodrow, and the satyr gulped at the hand resting on the pommel of his sword. A trail of burnt weeds and ashen grass crackled behind him, with embers rising upwards into the heavens. A second group of satyrs cowered behind the figure, a good distance away from the blazing arcs of fire radiating from his armor. Each satyr held some form of panpipes or another instrument in their hands. Woodrow belatedly realized they were the ones sent to free the being. Clearing his throat, Woodrow tentatively fixed his gaze back on the glowering Titan.
"Lord Hyperion," Woodrow murmured as he fell to one knee, clenching his fist in front of his heart. A hush fell upon the crowd, with each satyr and nature spirit following Woodrow's example. The Titan let out a raspy laugh - akin to the ear-splitting sound of a knife scraping against a glass bottle - and Woodrow fought off the instinctive urge to cover his ears in agony.
"At ease, you nuisances." Hyperion intoned, the last part distastefully muttered under his breath even though most of the satyrs heard him. "At least you lot are useful for something. You have my … deepest gratitude for freeing me from my earthen prison." Hyperion growled with grounded teeth. Clearly, it pained the Titan to thank those he found inferior. "Now, Linus was it? Leave us."
Linus bowed once, and studied Woodrow for a few moments. Woodrow didn't know what exactly the other satyr was searching for, but Linus seemed satisfied, and ushered the rest of the spirits away from the Titan.
Beckoning the satyr forward, Hyperion pulled his helmet off, steadily blinking as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings. Golden locks spilled down to his shoulders, coated with dirt and grime from the battle. If the situation wasn't so dire, Woodrow wouldn't have been able to stop himself from giggling at the massive case of bedhead Hyperion had. The Titan led the trembling satyr further into the Central Park forest, dispassionately slicing through errant tree branches with his flaming sword. They continued on in silence until the duo appeared at the edge of the lake.
Now that he was closer to the city, Woodrow could discern the utter chaos New York was in. Mortals shrieked and cowered, as monsters overran the streets and rounded the humans up. Explosions and thick plumes of smoke led Woodrow to believe factions of demigods were still desperately fighting against the monsters in other parts of the city. Even from his relatively distant position by the lake, the pungent smell of cadaverine invaded his nostrils. Woodrow retched in disgust, a stream of tears flowing down his cheeks.
Rubbing his palm against his face, Woodrow attempted to school his expression, forcing his jittery hands to stop vibrating. It wouldn't do him any good to show weakness in front of Hyperion and his strength.
"Woodrow, was it? The former music class instructor at Camp Half-Blood?" At Woodrow's shocked expression, Hyperion flashed a roguish smirk, reveling in Woodrow's discomfort of his past being brought up. "Thirty-three years old, you were the protector of one Silena Beauregard when she first came to camp. You were close friends with that Underwood brat." Hyperion snarled out that last sentence, still clearly harboring a grudge over Grover trapping him in a maple tree. Smoothing his expression to forced neutrality, Hyperion leaned in towards Woodrow. "Our spies informed us on all the inner workings of your precious camp, young satyr. Of course, that was a lifetime ago, and now you are a staunch ally of us Titans, aren't you?"
Petrified at the threatening tone of the Titan and the growing droplets of sweat on his forehead from Hyperion's heat, Woodrow could only nod meekly as Hyperion leaned on a tree, a smug expression plastered on his cruel face.
"Good," the Titan chuckled, "then tell me, dear Woodrow, where is Percy Jackson now?"
And that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? Where was the prophesied hero? From other nature spirits and demigods, Woodrow knew the Son of Poseidon and some other demigods took the elevator up to Olympus in a final desperate attempt to stop Kronos, while the remaining troops formed a blockade around the Empire State Building. However, other than the appearance of Grover in shackles, there was no word on what happened to them.
"I - I don't know, sir." He replied, bracing himself for the inevitable explosion. However, Hyperion only sighed in disappointment, gesturing Woodrow to sit on a tree stump beside the Titan. Tentatively, the satyr obliged, and Hyperion immediately placed a burning hand on Woodrow's shoulder. For a moment, the satyr and Titan simply observed the scene in front of them. Despite the world around him being more broken than at any point of his life, Woodrow felt at peace.
"What is that in your hand?"
Woodrow blushed, mentally slapping himself for forgetting the purpose of his visit. Gently setting his panpipes down on the mushy floor, he meekly offered the papyrus scroll to Hyperion, who was looking down on Woodrow like he was merely a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoes.
Unraveling the scroll with stilted fingers, Hyperion skimmed through the contents of the missive, letting out an approving hum while reading. "So, my little brother wants me to return to Othrys. Maybe I'll finally get to rub my success in Krios' face, that whiny brat … " His voice trailed off, replaced by a mirthful gaze and an inelegant snort.
"Uh, sir? Is there anything I should be aware of?" Woodrow asked, mustering up whatever courage he could summon. Instead of a curt reply or dismissal, Hyperion simply nodded his head to the Empire State Building, before letting out a grunt and rising to his feet. Copying the Titan, Woodrow focused his gaze on the building, confusion evident on his face. Wasn't Olympus under their control? What was the point of that message?
And then he saw it. A slight flickering of the yellow line representing the elevator to Olympus. Like a dying light bulb, the connection point blinked in and out of existence once, then twice, and finally vanished completely. An eerie, grinding sound reverberated through the suddenly silent city, and Woodrow could only watch in shock as the majestic home of the Gods imploded in on itself before detonating in a cataclysmic explosion which left his eardrums ringing.
A thick plume of mesmerizing silvery-blue smoke enveloped the gleaming gold and white opulence of Olympus, with thin wisps of it twirling upwards into the charcoal-black sky. With muted horror, Woodrow caught sight of massive chunks of temples and buildings plummeting into the Manhattan skyline, each one landing somewhere in the city with a resounding boom. Other blocks landed in the rivers, or somewhere behind him. The screaming resumed, but Woodrow wasn't sure if it was him or the voices of the other beings trapped inside the city limits.
Woodrow turned back around only to catch site of the now-desecrated Olympus descending from the heavens in free-fall. Encased in a glowing fireball, the city of the Gods obliterated multiple buildings during its descent before an earth-shattering crash caused Woodrow to lose his balance.
The screams from the city limits stopped, replaced by silence once again.
"He did it. He actually did it." Hyperion muttered, staring at the destruction in awe. "Kronos tore Olympus down, brick by brick." With a sinister edge to his hysterical, unadulterated laughter, Hyperion waved his arms towards the decimated Empire State Building and the rest of the devastated city.
"Olympus has fallen!"
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