Chapter 12: Gold

As the new dawn threatened to break over the horizon, the quiet expanse of the meadow was interrupted by the clash of battle. The shrill ring of celestial bronze echoed across the field, harmonizing with the soft rustle of dirt displaced by frantic footsteps.

Nearby, a campfire crackled and popped, its flickering flames casting an erratic glow that danced over the scene, illuminating the battlefield with an orange hue. Long strands of yellow grass, trampled and kicked up by the movement of combatants, floated gently back to the earth, painting an artwork to the ferocity of the fight. Heavy breathing punctuated the morning air, each breath a prelude to another flurry of movements—parries, thrusts, and strikes performed with a desperate intensity. The sounds of physical exertion melded with the natural chorus of the dawn, creating a symphony of persistence and determination.

As the skirmish continued, the sun began its slow ascent, peeking just above the horizon. Its pale light barely touched the edges of the land, casting long shadows and showering the duelists in a light that seemed to hesitate as if unsure whether to rise fully or sink back beneath the earth. In the midst of this chaotic ballet, Perseus paused, lowering his arms for just a moment to point a lazy finger toward the emerging sun. His brow furrowed in concentration, his face twisting into an expression of deep thought.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up with recognition, and he shouted, "Hermes!"

At his call, Zoë, her shorter silhouette sharp against the dimly lit sky, exhaled roughly. Her dark chocolate brown bangs, looking almost black in the dim morning light, whipped wildly around her face, giving her a wild, practically feral appearance. Without hesitation, she launched herself at Perseus once again, her celestial bronze sword gleaming faintly as it sliced through the cool air toward him.

As Perseus casually dodged another attack from the nymph, a voice boomed across the field from where Prometheus reclined against a boulder, observing the skirmish with a mixture of amusement and interest. "Nay, Your Grace, thou art mistaken!" Prometheus called out, his voice carrying easily over the distance. "The bearer of the Sun Chariot is now Apollo, not Hermes!"

Perseus paused mid-motion, nodding in acknowledgment as he brushed his nose with his thumb, an old habit when corrected or deep in thought. "Aye, I knew that," he retorted with a grin, skillfully evading another lunge from Zoë. "Twas Helios who bestowed the chariot upon Apollo."

Zoë, frustrated by the casual exchange between the two during their intense duel, growled under her breath. She crouched slightly, her eyes narrowing as she prepared her next move. With a burst of speed, she dashed at Perseus, delivering three rapid slices in a well-practiced combo designed to overwhelm. Moving with grace that would make the most remarkable acrobat jealous, Perseus managed to slide back, evading the first two strikes. Anticipating the third, he lightly tapped the bottom of the hilt with the toe of his sandal, sending Zoë's celestial bronze sword clattering onto the ground.

The disarm was executed with such finesse and ease that it momentarily stunned Zoë, who stood wide-eyed in surprise. Smiling broadly, Perseus stepped forward, his expression one of genuine admiration. "I must declare, Zoë, I am most impressed with the swiftness with which thou hast gained mastery of the blade," he complimented, his tone light yet sincere.

His smile held a hint of teasing, but the respect in his voice was unmistakable, acknowledging her skills and the intensity she brought to their sparring. The air was alive with the crisp promise of the day, and despite the seriousness of their training, there was an underlying camaraderie that spoke of deep bonds and mutual respect.

Prometheus's deep, resonant voice once again filled the air, cutting through the morning's calm. "Thou art well-versed in the hierarchy of Olympus, Your Grace, but I am yet to be convinced that thou art fully versed in the matter," he critiqued, his tone of earnest scrutiny.

Responding with a chuckle, the God's demeanor relaxed yet brimmed with confidence. With a mischievous grin, he took a single step forward, then vanished in a blur of movement, reappearing in an instant right in front of Prometheus. The abrupt displacement of air sent a short blast of wind swirling through the area, causing the flames of the nearby campfire to dance chaotically, nearly extinguishing the fire as tendrils of smoke twisted into the air.

The suddenness of Perseus's movement drew a sharp intake of breath from Zoë, who paused to watch the exchange. Prometheus and Perseus locked eyes, a look of competitiveness passing between them.

In the Titan's matte gray eyes, there was a flash, a subtle shift that seemed to reframe his view of Perseus from a prince to a potential rival, perhaps seeing him in a different light that bordered on equal footing rather than sovereign respect. "Sky," Prometheus tested, his voice steady.

Perseus responded promptly, his posture relaxed but alert, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Zeus."

Prometheus continued, his tone more pointed. "Sea."

"Poseidon," Perseus replied without hesitation, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Wisdom."

"Athena."

"War," said the Titan of Foresight, eyeing Perseus closely.

"Athena," Perseus repeated, briefly faltering with a short flash of confusion across his features.

Prometheus groaned lightly, waving his hand in a circle, a gesture of mild frustration mixed with amusement. "Nay, the other one," he prompted, his voice tinged with exasperation.

"Ares," Perseus corrected himself quickly, a sheepish grin replacing his momentary confusion.

Just as the verbal exchange seemed to reach a lull, a fierce battle cry shattered the calm. Zoë, having recovered from her momentary pause, came hurdling toward Perseus with renewed vigor. Her sword gripped firmly in both hands, arched high above her head, and slashed downward in a powerful stroke aimed at Perseus.

However, still facing his knowledgeable rival, Perseus seemed to sense her approach without even looking. With a deft flick of his wrist, he extended his pointer finger, pressing it against the dull central ridge of Zoë's sword. With precise application of force, he redirected the blade away from him, utilizing Zoë's own momentum to send her tumbling to the ground.

The spirited game between master and servant continued each question and answer exchanged with increasing joviality. "Mother of monsters," prompted Prometheus, watching Perseus closely.

"Echidna," Perseus replied confidently.

"Father?" Prometheus followed up, a slight tilt of his head indicating the escalating challenge.

"Typhon!"

"Moon," shot back Prometheus.

"Selene," Perseus answered quickly, almost automatically.

At this, Prometheus burst into laughter, pointing at Perseus with a teasing gleam in his eyes. Momentarily taken aback by the laughter, Perseus quickly caught the implication and corrected himself with a sheepish grin, "Ah, Artemis! Indeed, I was aware. I was merely testing thee.."

Meanwhile, Zoë had been grappling with the unfamiliarity of her own mortality. As she pushed herself off the rough, dirt-covered ground, she could feel the sting of small cuts, the red blood a clear polarity to the golden ichor she was used to. Her expression, a mixture of frustration and fatigue, indicated her struggle. As a Hesperide, she was not accustomed to the demands of a mortal-like body—demands like nutrition and rest, which now gnawed at her resilience.

She dusted herself off, feeling the weight of her new vulnerabilities that impeded many of her actions—especially traveling. The notion of being carried by one of her companions, either deity, Primordial, or Titan, was still a bridge too far for her pride. Perhaps it was the nervousness, the possible lack of mutual trust that had yet to be established, or maybe it was a self-conscious concern about her own physicality. The idea of Perseus carrying her, an act so personal and intimate, stirred a whirl of confusing and slightly embarrassing thoughts.

These thoughts nearly brought a blush to her cheeks, but the rising frustration as she watched Perseus and Prometheus engage so easily in their knowledgeable banter, seemingly forgetting her presence, quickly overshadowed her embarrassment. "Foolish Primordial, foolish Titan... foolish weak mortal body," She whispered to herself as she stretched out to grab Anaklusmos.

With a renewed sense of determination, the nymph slowly rose to her feet, her movements deliberate, her gaze fixed on Perseus with an intensity born of a mix of admiration and challenge. Creeping toward Perseus, the grass whispering under her steps, she prepared herself for another attempt to engage, prove her worth, and remind them that she was not merely a spectator. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on Perseus, the target of her mixed emotions and newfound resolve.

Drawing closer, the ex-Hesperide recounted her conversation with Perseus, where she'd earnestly asked him to train her in the art of the sword. Her request was fueled by a desire to become stronger and surpass any man's prowess, particularly those like Heracles, ensuring she could protect herself under any circumstance.

The Primordial had accepted with a bright enthusiasm, reminiscing about a similar pact he once made with his brother Tartarus. That shared moment of bonding through training had sparked a different kind of joy in Perseus, which was why she now found herself sparring with him on this cool morning. Zoë was still reconciling with the idea that Perseus was a Primordial God. To her, he felt more akin to a Titan, like Prometheus; she thought it might be because she had never encountered a Primordial deity before. The stories she'd heard painted them as aloof, almost less touched by other life.

Yet, Perseus, with his easy laughter and approachable demeanor, seemed all too human, unsettling her expectations of what a Primordial should be. These reflections were abruptly shelved as Zoë closed the distance between herself and Perseus. She adjusted her grip on her sword, her fingers rolling along the hilt in the manner Perseus had shown her. Each step was measured, her anxiety a tangible thing that tightened her throat—the fear of being thrown down again looming in her mind. Just as she braced to launch her assault, Perseus's voice cut through the morning air, directed at Prometheus.

"To where reside the Protogenoi?" he asked, his tone carrying a note of intellectual curiosity rather than emotional concern.

Prometheus, who had been eager to continue his mental contest with the God, visibly changed at the question. His playful demeanor faded as he leaned back against the rock, resting his chin in the crook of his arm. His gaze shifted from Perseus to the ground, reflecting the weight of the question asked. With a heavy sigh, Prometheus's countenance shifted into that of a counselor, the levity draining away to be replaced by the gravity of his role as Perseus's advisor and servant.

However, before the Titan could respond to his king, Zoë's voice rang out. "What is Protogenoi?"

Zoë's question sliced through the heavy atmosphere, a sharp, innocent curiosity that jolted Prometheus from his reflective mood. He had been leaning against the side of the boulder, lost in the weight of historical burdens when her voice caused him to leap away in surprise. His sudden movement, an instinctive reaction, contrasted starkly with Perseus's amused response.

Perseus chuckled at Prometheus's startled jump before casually taking the Titan's former spot against the boulder. He slid down into a seated position with an ease that belied the depth of the discussion, his demeanor relaxed and open. As he settled, he caught Zoë's gaze, her eyes wide and reflective, mirroring the campfire's flicker in their dark depths. "The Protogenoi," Perseus began, addressing her curiosity with a gentle voice, "art mine family, the First Gods." His explanation was simple yet filled with a sense of ancient lineage and Primordial power.

Zoë nodded slowly, her mind working to piece together the new information. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes and sat down across from him, the warmth of the campfire creating a small barrier of comfort between them. "So, thou meanst the Primordial Gods?" she asked, her tone reflecting her attempt to align this new term with her previous understanding.

At her question, a hint of confusion flickered across Perseus's face. His gaze drifted to Prometheus, seeking clarification from the younger deity who was now trying to find another comfortable spot nearby to lounge. Prometheus, settling into his new position, clarified, "Aye, the Protogenoi are what thou mightest call the Primordial Deities in the common tongue. 'Tis a translation that came into use around the time the new Olympians rose to prominence."

The Primordial nodded in understanding, turning back to Zoë with a gesture towards Prometheus, indicating his confirmation of the translation. "Foreso," Perseus said, his tone warm and encouraging as he sought to bridge the gap between their realms of knowledge. "We were the first, the foundation upon which all pantheons and powers were built."

Zoë absorbed the information, the firelight casting dancing shadows across her features as she pondered the immense history and responsibility entwined with Perseus's identity. While filled with terms of vast power and ancient lineage, the conversation brought the realities of the divine closer to her understanding.

The peaceful silence that settled over the trio was gentle, punctuated only by the soft whispers of the wind weaving through the grass and the faint crackle of the campfire. Perseus, attuned to the girl's inquisitive presence, couldn't help but notice that her gaze remained fixed on him, her eyes deep pools of curiosity and contemplation. Perseus gave a light snort, breaking the silence with a casual ease as he cracked his neck and stretched out his hand towards Zoë, encouraging her to voice her thoughts. "Speak," he urged, his demeanor open and inviting.

Zoë's lips curled into a brief, appreciative smile as she adjusted her sitting posture, her hands remaining clasped in her lap. After a moment of gathering her thoughts, she cleared her throat and tilted her head slightly, a gesture that underscored her hesitance and reverence. "What were the Primordials— I meanst, the Protogenoi like?" she corrected herself mid-question, eager to use the terminology Perseus had clarified.

Perseus paused, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee as he considered her question. It was a profound inquiry, seeking insight into the very essence of beings like himself—beings who existed at the dawn of creation, whose narratives were woven into the fabric of the cosmos itself. Thousands and millions upon billions of descriptions filled his head as he processed to search for the most meaningful answer he could offer. After a thoughtful silence, he sat up straighter, his expression composed as he chose his words with deliberate care.

"Free," he finally answered, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to echo around them. The word was simple, yet it resonated with a depth that went beyond its syllables. Zoë absorbed it, feeling the layers of meaning behind it.

She found herself captivated by Perseus's gaze, those void-like eyes reflecting the vast expanse of eternity that he had witnessed. They spun with a mysterious depth that seemed harsh, almost alien, yet the gentle smile that graced his lips softened his expression, lending him a nearly ethereal, androgynous beauty. His long eyelashes, dusted with gold, fluttered slightly as he blinked, momentarily shielding those intense orbs from view. In that moment, Zoë felt a profound connection, as if through him she could glimpse the majestic and untamed Era of the Cosmos, where the Primordial Gods roamed freely.

Prometheus, having spent the last few minutes shifting restlessly in search of comfort against the hard ground, finally gave up with a resigned grunt. He then turned his attention back to the conversation, unable to resist adding his perspective. "My Lord, thou couldst afford to further specifics," he remarked with a hint of dry humor. "The annals of the Primordials far surpass any meddling wrought by the Olympian Gods."

Perseus laughed heartily at that, his mirth echoing around the small clearing. "Prometheus, thou wert not even conscious for the majority of such an era," he jabbed playfully, poking fun at the Titan's self-proclaimed expertise.

Prometheus opened his mouth to retort, but Perseus quickly cut him off with a light-hearted request. "Fetch us some firewood, wouldst thee? The flame grows dim." His tone was teasing, yet there was a respectful camaraderie in his voice that acknowledged Prometheus's loyalty and long service.

With a nod that was both a bow and a signal of his service, Prometheus crossed his chest with one arm, a gesture of formality. "Heed me, O Lord," the Titan intoned, his voice rich with loyalty. He then turned and made his way toward the nearby forest, his tall figure soon blending with the shadows as he searched for dry branches and logs to replenish their campfire.

Left alone with Perseus, Zoë felt a renewed sense of curiosity surge within her. Perseus turned to her with a smile, his face alight with the warmth of the fire and the enjoyment of their banter. "Is there aught specific thou wouldst inquire about?" he asked, his tone inviting. "Any of the Protogenoi, or perchance something else regarding our ancient chronicles?"

Zoë felt a surge of pressure under Perseus's intense gaze, a sensation that made her palms sweaty and her heart race slightly. Uncomfortable with meeting his piercing eyes, she diverted her gaze to her hands, noticing how the sunlight played against her skin, casting half in shadow, half in light—almost symbolic of the dual nature of the deities they were discussing.

Her curiosity piqued, Zoë ventured a question about the Primordial entities of day and night. "What were the Protogenoi of day and night like?" she asked, her voice soft but earnest.

The question seemed to catch Perseus off guard, pausing him for a heartbeat before he smoothly rose to his feet, brushing bits of grass off his chiton. His movements were graceful, almost distractingly so, as he prepared to answer her query. "Can thee feel the sun, Zoë?" he asked, his voice gentle, inviting her to experience rather than just listen.

Zoë nodded, feeling the warmth of the sun's rays on her skin, comforting and steady. Perseus turned his palm upwards, and the sun's rays seemed to gather in his hand, a visual testament to his connection with the forces of the universe.

"Hemera, the Protogenos of Day, was of this warmth," he began, his voice soft with nostalgia. "She was gentle and compassionate, a Goddess whose heart was as tender as the sun's rays. Methinks she would chide me for putting thee through such arduous training," he added with a chuckle, his smile reflecting genuine affection for the memory of the Day Goddess.

He glanced up directly into the sun, squinting slightly but still smiling. "Fairer than any star I could craft for this realm," he murmured, his voice so low Zoë had to strain to hear.

Watching Perseus, the girl saw a side of him that seemed utterly at peace, lost in his memories and the warmth of the sunlight—a noticeable disparity to the powerful, sometimes intimidating figure he also embodied. It was a moment of pure bliss and adoration, a rare glimpse into his soul. "And Primordial Night?" Zoë asked, her curiosity deepening, pulling Perseus back from his reverie.

Perseus's expression shifted as he pondered her next question, his demeanor becoming more pensive. He licked his lips thoughtfully and began to slowly pace back and forth before her. With each step, he seemed to weigh his words carefully, as if the night required a different kind of reverence.

"Do thou find solace in the stars, Zoë?" he asked suddenly, his question seemingly tangential but laden with meaning.

Zoë hesitated, her mind wandering to the celestial canopy she seldom paid heed to. "I... do not truly care for the stars," she admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of reluctance, as though confessing a personal failing.

"I've always preferred the beauties of the Earth, like the flowers in—," she caught herself, a sudden awareness coloring her tone, "—in your garden, I meanst!"

Perseus halted his pacing, a smile spreading across his face at Zoë's correction and his eyes reflecting the faintest glimmers of starlight. It was clear he found her nervousness and her attachment to the Earth rather endearing.

Feeling a blush warming her cheeks, Zoë quickly diverted the conversation back to the midnight, perhaps seeking a safer topic. "Though I must concede, I do find the moon quite bewitching."

Perseus nodded, his expression softening. "Ah, the moon," he agreed, "'tis truly a work of art."

He glanced skyward, where the first morning light had begun to erase the stars from view. "I must confess, I have ever adored the stars... and the night. 'Tis an endless bliss, where the universe doth twinkle, bestowing upon us gifts from its boundless reaches adorned with the brightest gems."

Sitting down beside Zoë, Perseus continued to share his thoughts, the two of them gazing up at the sky now dominated by the sun's growing light. "Nyx, the Protogenos of Night, was ever the Goddess with whom I took the most delight in jesting. She could prove amusing, yet she also bore an air of haughtiness, rudeness, unpredictability, and, at times, near madness," he recounted with a nostalgic chuckle.

Reaching for a stick from the fire, Perseus began to tend to the flames, his movements careful and deliberate. "Despite all of that, I cherished every aspect of her, even her more discordant qualities."

He cracked one of his fingers thoughtfully. "I once deemed her lustrous, ebony tresses the loveliest of all I had beheld. So deep was their hue that even within the darkest shadows, they outshone all other darkness."

Zoë chuckled lightly, amused by Perseus's poetic comparison. With a playful glint in her eyes, she turned towards him, her eyes briefly closing as she smiled widely. "'Tis akin to the hair of another I am acquainted with, indeed," she teased, drawing a parallel between Nyx's description and Perseus's own dark locks.

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, Zoë turned away, a mix of surprise and bashfulness at her own forwardness flashing across her features. When she dared to glance back at him, Perseus seemed unfazed, his attention still partially on the flames he was tending. His non-reaction left her wondering if her words had even been noticed, or if they had drifted away, lost in the warmth of the crackling fire and the rising sun.

The shift in Perseus's demeanor was palpable, as if the air around him had thickened, charged with an unseen tension. Despite sitting beside him, Zoë felt a sudden chasm of distance open between them. He was still the same in appearance, with the same youthful charm and striking features, yet something essential had altered, leaving an impression of someone cold and unreachable.

Zoë's instincts prickled, a subtle warning that something, or someone, was amiss. It wasn't just the change in Perseus that unsettled her; there was a distinct sense of another presence encroaching upon their solitude. Her obsidian eyes scanned the landscape—rolling hills, the dark wood trees where Prometheus had disappeared, and the distant mountains they had left behind nearly twenty daylight cycles ago. Nothing seemed out of place, yet the unease persisted.

As Perseus stood, his gaze fixed intently toward the mountains, Zoë felt a surge of anxiety. His posture, alert and expectant, suggested he was seeing or sensing something beyond the ordinary, something she could not yet perceive. "Does thy vision ahold something?" Zoë whispered, her voice barely rising above the crackling of the fire.

There was a brief, tense pause, during which the only sound was the fire's hiss and pop. Then, finally, the God nodded slowly. "Aye," he confirmed quietly, his voice carrying a note of caution.

Instinctively, Zoë reached for Anaklusmos, her fingers closing around the hilt of the celestial bronze sword. She pulled it from the dirt, feeling its familiar weight in her hand as her senses heightened. The adrenaline surged through her veins, a thunderous rush that sharpened her focus and readied her for whatever threat might emerge.

Minutes stretched on, each second elongated by the anticipation and the steady beat of her heart echoing in her ears. Then, as suddenly as the tension had risen, it broke with the appearance of a small group of humans cresting the hillside. They were laughing, the sounds of their mirth carrying across the distance, utterly oblivious to the charged atmosphere that had enveloped the two immortals.

Zoë's grip on her sword loosened slightly, confusion mingling with relief. The group approached, still unaware of Perseus and her, their demeanor light and carefree. The contrast between their joviality and the preceding tension was stark, almost jarring. Perseus's gaze softened slightly as he watched them, and Zoë could see the shift back from the distant, almost formidable figure he had become to the more familiar, approachable demeanor. Yet, she remained cautious, her body tense and ready, Anaklusmos still firmly in hand.

As the mortal group drew nearer, their lively banter and carefree laughter floated on the breeze, painting a picture of familial and friendly bonds rather than any threat. The sight of a young woman playfully scolding the man for tickling her while she carried a child softened the atmosphere further. The child's delighted giggles added a layer of innocence and warmth to the scene, diverging sharply from the earlier tension.

The man, feigning a pout, protested lightheartedly about his right to carry his nephew, his tone teasing and full of affection. The other two members of their group, though appearing more formidable with their worn armor and grey-colored swords, maintained a relaxed demeanor that suggested their readiness for combat was merely precautionary.

Observing these interactions, the ex-Hesperide felt the last vestiges of her adrenaline ebb away. The initial instinctive tension that had gripped her upon sensing an unknown presence now seemed misplaced, almost embarrassing in its intensity. She gently lowered Anaklusmos to the ground, leaning on it slightly as she turned her attention back to Perseus.

Perseus, too, had relaxed considerably. His posture, previously taut with anticipation, now mirrored the casual ease of their unexpected visitors. He observed the humans with a faint smile, seemingly reassured by their harmless demeanor. "Ah, they art but mortal wanderers," Zoë remarked, her voice carrying a hint of relief mixed with a touch of amusement at their own heightened alertness. "They likely harbor us no foul."

Perseus nodded in agreement, his gaze lingering on the playful interactions of the group. "Perchance..." he replied, his tone light.

As Zoë observed the group of travelers, her initial tension eased. The interaction among them was familial and light-hearted, a sharp contrast to the threat she had braced herself against. The playful exchanges between the brother and sister, mixed with the evident camaraderie and protectiveness of the two guards, painted a picture of everyday human life — so fragile, yet rich with simple joys and deep bonds.

Her sword now rested lightly against the ground, its tip buried in the soft earth, as Zoë watched the brother hoist the child into his arms, the sister laughing and swatting at him playfully. The guards, vigilant yet relaxed, scanned their surroundings, their hands never straying far from the hilts of their worn swords. Perseus, having relaxed from his previously alert stance, continued to watch the group with a thoughtful expression. The sight of the travelers seemed to prompt a deeper contemplation. "Zoë," he began, his voice carrying a soft but clear tone, "how much do thee know about mortals?"

"Most mortals are quite kind and brave," Zoë remarked, her eyes following the brother and sister as they continued their affectionate teasing. "'Tis a great courage to wander so freely, ever within the shadow of the Underworld. Their lives are but fleeting, yet they seize each moment with fervor and purpose."

Perseus nodded, his interest piqued by her insights. "Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully, his eyes then shifting to the two guards who maintained a cautious distance, their demeanor alert despite the apparent joviality of their charges. "And what of their blades? What kind are they carrying?"

Zoë squinted slightly, focusing on the guards' weapons which glinted dully in the growing sunlight. "'Tis likely that their blades are fashioned from iron or carbon steel, sturdy materials fit for mortal hands," she answered, recalling a past encounter.

"I saw a similar sheen on a blade years ago when a hero ventured into the garden. Those materials are common amongst mortals for their durability and affordability." Perseus's gaze lingered on the travelers, a mixture of curiosity and admiration in his eyes.

Eager to contribute to the conversation and perhaps to validate her understanding of her own weaponry, the nymph delved into more details about the types of swords she was familiar with. "Mine sword, Anaklusmos, is forged from celestial bronze," she explained with a hint of pride.

"'Tis a metal largely ineffectual against mortals, yet lethal to monsters and demigods, and it can even wound Gods or Titans if necessity demands!"

She paused to clear her throat, her eyes briefly glancing at the celestial bronze blade that lay beside her. "There's also imperial gold and stygian iron," she continued, "which have similar properties. Imperial gold is especially revered by Roman demigods, while stygian iron is favored in the Underworld for its ability to absorb and banish souls."

Perseus listened intently, nodding in acknowledgment of the details she provided. "Wound Gods or Titans? Very fascinating... I thank thee, Zoë," he said sincerely, offering a small smile as he turned back to the campfire, using the stick to prod the embers into a brighter flame.

It was then that Zoë realized the irony of the situation. The stick Perseus used to tend the fire was, in fact, his immediate choice of weapon when he sensed the potential threat earlier. The image of the powerful Primordial God, who could wield any divine weapon at his disposal, opting for a simple stick, struck her as hilariously absurd. A giggle escaped her lips, and as she pondered further the image of Perseus brandishing the stick as a weapon, her giggles grew into full-blown laughter. Tears began to streak down her cheeks as she watched Perseus, who looked back at her with a mix of bewilderment and mild concern, clearly puzzled by her reaction.

"What is it?" Perseus asked, the confusion evident in his tone, his eyebrows knitting together as he tried to discern the cause of her mirth.

Zoë pointed at the stick, her attempts to explain why she found it so humorous interrupted by her own irrepressible laughter. She couldn't form words, only emit shrieks of laughter that seemed to bubble up from deep within her. Perseus, while still puzzled, couldn't help but chuckle along, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched her. Although he didn't understand the joke, her happiness was infectious.

He knew that the journey had been taxing for her, and seeing her so light-hearted and carefree was a relief. The weight of their responsibilities and the tensions they had faced seemed to melt away with her laughter, and he felt content to simply share in the moment, happy that she was delighted, even if he was oblivious to the cause. As Zoë's laughter gradually subsided, replaced by the gentle crackling of the campfire, the sound of approaching footsteps alerted them to the presence of others.

Perseus turned his attention from the fire and found himself looking up into the faces of the small group of humans they had spotted earlier—four adults and an infant. A deep, almost instinctual part of him sparked with excitement at the prospect of engaging with the mortals, curious to learn about their lives and experiences. However, he tempered his enthusiasm, recognizing that this was neither the time nor the place for such interactions.

His attention was pulled back to the immediate situation as one of the hired guards stepped forward, positioning himself protectively between the family and the two immortals, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Sensing the potential for misunderstanding, Zoë quickly scooted closer to Perseus, raising her hands in a universal gesture of peace—a gesture Perseus noted but didn't fully comprehend in its human context.

The armored man scrutinized Perseus and Zoë with a wary gaze; his brow furrowed in confusion and concern. "What in Hades' name art thou doing out here alone?" he demanded, his tone a mix of incredulity and suspicion. "A lad and a lass, scarcely old enough to fend for yourselves in the heart of the countryside."

Before the tension could escalate, the human woman, having just handed her baby to her brother, stepped forward and tapped the guard on the shoulder. She muttered under her breath, her voice laced with annoyance, "Oh, leave them be."

"Nay, m'lady, tis not-"

The woman quickly interrupted him, "Tis quite alright, Ser!"

With a resigned sigh, the soldier stepped back, though his eyes remained fixed on Perseus and Zoë, watching them from a safe distance with an unwavering gaze. The woman, in contrast, offered Perseus and Zoë a warm, reassuring smile as she approached them a bit closer. "He's merely a tad surly from our lengthy journey," she said with a light chuckle, "nonetheless, he speaks true. Ye should be aware that these lands are teeming with monsters, and 'tis unsafe for any soul, especially without the safeguard of knights."

Zoë, lowering her arms, returned the smile with genuine warmth, clearly relishing the interaction. "We thank thee for the warning," she responded graciously.

She let out a small laugh before gesturing toward Perseus, "Yet, I assure thou, the man accompanying me is indeed formidable in his own regard."

Perseus, hearing this, couldn't help but scoff lightly and roll his eyes, though he chose to stay quiet, allowing Zoë to lead the conversation. The woman seemed satisfied with Zoë's assurance but appeared momentarily flustered as she patted the sides of her chiton. "Oh, where are mine manners? I'm Anysia of Filiodona," she said, her cheeks coloring slightly as she realized her earlier oversight. "I beg forgiveness for the absence of a formal introduction."

Zoë bowed her head slightly in respect, waving away Anysia's apology with a gracious gesture. "No need for apologies," the nymph replied warmly. "We art pleased to make thy acquaintance. I am Zoë, and this is Perseus. 'Tis a pleasure to encounter such kindness, particularly in these surroundings.

The aforementioned God leaned towards Zoë, his voice barely audible as he whispered, "Thou art quite adept at communicating with mortals." There was a note of genuine admiration in his tone, acknowledging her skill in navigating the delicate nuances of mortal interaction.

Zoë, a slight blush coloring her cheeks, muttered back in a similarly hushed tone, "Well, I hath had more experience with humans than you, after all!"

Turning back to Anysia and her brother, the nymph quickly apologized for the side conversation. "I extend mine apologies for such," she said with an apologetic smile.

Anysia shook her head, dismissing the apology with a friendly grin. "Oh, 'tis quite none," she assured them. "We heard laughter echoing from yonder hill and felt compelled to investigate. Such mirth is a rare delight amidst these quiet lands."

It was then that another voice chimed in, joining the growing conversation with a light-hearted tone. "The laughter was indeed most boisterous, and being of curiosity, we found the need to see for ourselves," the voice said, followed by a snort and a chuckle. "Mine sister and I art no better than Pandora in that regard!"

The speaker was Anysia's brother, who was gently rocking the baby in his arms, careful not to disturb the child's sleep. As Zoë observed him more closely, the familial resemblance between him and Anysia became even more apparent—the same chestnut hair, warm skin tone, and even their posture echoed a shared lineage.

"I am Elpides of Filiodona," he introduced himself, giving a slight nod. His tone carried a hint of playfulness as he added, "I do hope our small band of adventurers caused no interruption," his voice tinged with a suggestive undertone that elicited a swift reaction from Anysia.

With a roll of her eyes, Anysia smacked her brother lightly on the arm, her gesture conveying a mix of affection and reprimand. "Elpides!" she exclaimed, half-scolding, half-laughing.

Elpides yelped softly, then whisper-yelled back, "'Tis unwise to strike a man whilst he cradles a babe, especially when the child is of thy own blood." His complaint was met with laughter from the group, breaking any remaining tension and drawing them all into a more relaxed, communal atmosphere.

His curiosity momentarily piqued by the overheard conversation, Elpides turned back to Zoë and Perseus. "I could not help but overhear a trifle," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "perchance, art thou kin to the Perseus? The very hero who did rescue Andromeda?!"

The Primordial shook his head in response, a gentle dismissal that left Elpides's face falling slightly, his disappointment evident. Clearly, he was a fan of the legendary son of Zeus, and meeting a namesake had sparked a hopeful excitement. Noticing the shift in mood, Perseus then turned his attention back to the campfire. He dropped the stick he had been using back into the flames before methodically kicking some dirt over them to extinguish the fire. "It hath been engaging to converse with thee all," he said, his voice carrying a tone of finality, "but we have tarried sufficiently, and now must we press onward in our journey."

Anysia and Elpides exchanged understanding smiles, familiar with the necessities and dangers of taking breaks during a journey. Anysia's curiosity, however, got the better of her, and she quickly asked, "To where art thee journeying?"

Perseus, unsure of the names of mortal settlements and generally indifferent to specific destinations, simply pointed northward—the direction they had been traveling. "North," he stated succinctly.

Anysia nodded thoughtfully and then offered, "We journey in the same direction! Wouldst thou join our company? We have knights for safeguarding."

Perseus's response was immediate and firm, his broad smile belying the bluntness of his refusal. "No," he replied, his polite demeanor smoothing over the starkness of his answer. His quick dismissal might have made Zoë feel uncomfortable, but his courteous smile and the genuine warmth in his tone softened the impact.

Turning to Zoë, Perseus then asked, "Are you ready to depart?"

The ex-Hesperide caught a bit off guard by the rapid shift in plans, nodded, gathering her things quickly. She cast a glance at the group, her expression mixed with a hint of regret at leaving the pleasant company but also anticipation for the continuation of their adventure. "I thank thee for thy gracious offer," Zoë added, addressing Anysia and her group. "It was indeed a pleasure to meet ye all.

As Zoë turned to retrieve Anaklusmos, the celestial bronze blade lay beside her, gleaming subtly in the dimming light of the afternoon. With practiced ease, she transformed the sword back into a hairpin, its intricate details catching the last rays of sunlight as she secured it in her hair. The weight of Perseus's gaze upon her brought a faint rush, causing her fingers to tremble ever so slightly as she threaded the transformed blade into her hair. This minor fumble, however, was quickly corrected, and soon, the hairpin sat securely amidst her dark locks, its presence both a comfort and a reminder of her responsibilities.

She wondered why the God had abruptly decided for them to return to their travels. Perhaps he was still getting used to talking with humans? Or maybe one of their comments had offended him slightly? She wasn't sure but knew that he seemed to always be rooted in reason that she could not comprehend. With the hairpin finally in place, Zoë straightened up, feeling a mix of readiness and anticipation for the journey ahead. She could still sense Perseus's eyes on her, an intensity that seemed to linger in the air between them.

Turning around to face him, she began to speak, her voice filled with a lightness born from the comfort of their recent interactions and the brief respite they had enjoyed.

"I am prepared to—"

Her words shattered mid-sentence, the atmosphere abruptly changing. Time seemed to slow as Zoë's eyes widened in horror. In a heart-stopping moment, a bright bronze sword pierced through the air, its sharp edge gleaming menacingly.

Before she could react, the sword had thrust through Perseus's abdomen, stopping mere inches from her face. The shock of the act, the impossibility of what she was witnessing, rooted her to the spot. From the grievous wound, a shower of glowing gold ichor spilled forth, splattering across Zoë's face and the front of her clothing.

The divine blood of the Primordial God shimmered in the air, droplets catching the light as they descended in a surreal, golden rain.

AN

Hey readers! Apologies for the delay once more. I'm currently trying to balance a part-time job, an internship, and four summer courses. I actually had a majority of this chapter's guidelines finished a few months ago, but I'd like to prioritize quality over quantity! I hope you all are enjoying how I'm deciding to create the characters' personalities. We don't see too much of Prometheus or Early Zoë in canon, so I'm taking the liberty to slowly build them into the characters that they mostly become in the original series.

This chapter was a little difficult to write because, I'm sure, like most people, the whole exposition part of a story is so incredibly boring. I tried my best to spice it up to set the stage for the main plot... hopefully, I didn't do as terribly at it as the Percy Jackson Disney Show. One thing that has caught my attention from this chapter's posting on Wattpad is that some readers believe that Primordial Ichor is silver. I was not aware of this and as of currently, no one has cited where this idea of silver ichor comes from, so I've decided to stick with all immortal ichor is gold!

Please leave your thoughts, comments, criticism, and the like for me to review. Thank you!

- ANAKX

Word Count: 7159