The Death of Kings - Chapter One

Mount Olympus has always been a fabled place among our people. It has been said that even when Khaos ruled our skies, before the thought of men and women entered its ruled abyss, it had conjured the image of Olympus upon Gaia. And then when it created her, the endless void shared it with her.1

Through the millennia of the primordial deities, Titans were born and Titans were imprisoned, their children eaten and spat out. Zeus, in the versatility of his youth, overthrew his father Chronos the Titan and set his brothers and sisters free to wander upon Gaia, our beloved land. It was during these times that Zeus locked his father and the other Titans in the cavernous Tartaros among the Hundred-Handed Ones and set the cyclopses free.2

Unrecorded battles and wars were fought between our gods and the spiteful Gaia. Monsters were bloodied among the rivers; giants feel among the trees. Our gods were exhausted, removed of feeling and vigor. They needed a home, for like us they must rest away their aches.3

Upon the final finding of the great mountain, Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, and the rest of their clan took upon themselves their predestined name: Olympians. It was there that they made their dwelling. It was there that Zeus, old and scarred, tried valiantly to watch over a regressing people.4

5


It was but a generation ago.6

Their table was old. From the birth of the rulers, it had been designed and carved. Its legs were thick and its finish was gossamer. Upon its top, uncounted etchings had evolved, parallel to The Three’s tapestry. Stretching on forever in the brightness and darkness, it held the kingdom’s history. And at its end near the farthest wall, a man, large, burly, and in a complete state of thought, sat in the depressive silence. His hands were clasped together, brought up to his lips and touching his graying beard. His eyes, dark and fathomless, were closed. Sighing, he rested his hands on the uncarved part of the table, where history had not yet been recorded. He brushed his fingers against its softness, wishing that it would stay that way, hoping that no more would happen. But history comes, he thought, without us knowing and having nothing to say about it. He cursed that he was retained to the reaches of his people’s kingdom. “If only we had more knowledge,” he spoke softly. Footsteps began to echo in the outside hall, and the man moved to his designated end of the table near the beginning of the recordings.7

The outer doors were thrown open and various conversations swelled in the meeting room, all becoming a mess of sound. The voices’ owners surrounded the table, all taking a chair at their spaces, all continuing to speak and disregard the wanted silence of their leader; ignoring him; shunning him and fighting amongst themselves for what each desired. At his table’s end he began to rub his temples, staring at the pinewood in front of him. 8

“Silence,” the king murmured, trying to withhold energy. None of them listened and his lip began to tremble from the stress of it all. Once more he called for silence and once more was ignored. Standing up slowly, he looked upon the seated others, finally earning half of their minds. “To Tartaros with all of you. Quiet!” he shouted, falling back into his chair. “As always”—he took a breath—“there is reason for holding these meets.” Without turning, he motioned behind himself with his chiseled arm. “My daughter, Athena, whishes to speak.”9

From a dimly lit corner, a woman in simple yet glamorous garb stepped forward. Next to Zeus, her seated father, she stood tall and composed. On her head she wore a headdress of intricate design, meticulously crafted and high on her brow. Her hair fell from underneath it, long golden strands flowing over her shoulders. In the grasp of one hand she held a spear, and upon the forearm of her other arm rested an owl, large eyes spying out from its face. With a calm motion she ran her vision over those at the table, noting one of the attendees absent. “We have a situation in Egypt,” she spoke, her voice thick with the fluency of an orator. “It seems,” she paused, “that an assassination has taken the life of Pharaoh Tepet.”10

Zeus beckoned his daughter down to him and whispered. “How do we know of this?”11

“Apollo.” At her answer numerous murmurs ran across from deity to deity.12

<~>13

The breeze blew strongly, uncaringly upon the palms. Bending to its will, they staggered low over the oasis, dipping their green blades into the rippling water. They went in and out at every other moment, giving the desert pond little rest and then finally dropped their branches into it, splashing the man’s boots.14

Kneeling, he cupped his hands together and took a draught, letting the clear water wet his lips and then travel down his throat, cooling as it went. He sighed contentedly. An ibis waded with long legs to the sand beside him and continued walking past him, drawing his gaze. In between three trees it met the company of four others of its own kind, each with the same slender curve to their necks, sheltered against the wind. “I am too far away,” he said. And taking his brown cloak from the ground he brought it around his shoulders and trudged away. He kept his face angled from the dusted wind. “What a place to control,” he spoke through gritted teeth.15

Through the blazing and shimmering light of the sun, he looked towards a temple situated on a nearby dune. The stone that formed it was pocked and degrading for it had succumbed early to the constant floods of sand storms. Yet, in wholeness, it stood strong and confident. Something about its presence there seemed rooted, as if it would never fall even though it leaned to the right. As the man pressed up the hill, his golden eyes observed the many pictures and symbols among the temple’s pillars with passiveness. He had seen it before. Too many times.16

Here, in this place, he was isolated. Through the dense wooden doors he traveled and the sights of charred walls and sliced drapes filled his eyes.17

“The temple was different in Greece,” he said taking a fallen torch from the floor. “But of course, it’s mostly my fault.” He strode to oval patch of dirt in the middle of the temple and threw the unlit torch onto it. Blazes of abnormal light leapt up immediately, filling the square. They formed and bent, changing themselves into a miniature form of the temple. Dancing, they grew into further shapes of the outlying lands. Dunes were rippling tongues of candescent glows and buildings stood as blue specs. It was from here that the he, Apollo, had spied the pharaoh’s murder; from here, the time-worn, sand-worn temple of Ra, that he had come to arrive in Egypt.18

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Ever since their separate followings had given birth to them, they had run against each other in the skies, racing each other. Usually, they were evenly matched. However though, there were times when Ra would lead the duo, dragging the sun quickly across the sky and shortening the day. Apollo strove to overcome him. Every day, he’d whip his chariot leads fiercer, driving their sparkling bodies through the heavens. Their hooves thundered over the clouds.20

But Ra kept his lead skillfully. He used all advantages of the sun’s midday strength. His falcon head bent slickly into the winds and his naked feet bounced from sky to sky. Every night, the two would return to their homes, Ra to Heliopolis and Apollo to his homes of Delos and Delphi.21

Realizing that that he, bound by the day’s task, could not catch the beast, he reverted to the treacherous night. Worshippers of Amun-Ra had gathered in the desert, surrounding the oasis and stone-wrought temple where they would great the new year’s sun. In Delos, Artemis, the sister and twin of Apollo, took her brother through the night, pulling the moon along with her. She readied her bow as Apollo readied his.22

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The crowd was large. Brown and bald heads gleamed in the moonlight as the twins circled above in Apollo’s chariot. The night shielded the glints of their arrowheads being pulled back on their bowstrings. At the moment the first two shafts were released, a brilliant streak of sunlight shot forth across the dunes. Ra, with his falcon sight, had seen the twins and was desperately trying to come to their aid.24

Another two arrows fired into the crowd as screams cried out to Ra. Egyptians fell, and the sun god was still too far away. Apollo looked to his sister, motioned to the growing sphere in the east, and grasped a net from the chariot’s bottom. Artemis kept firing arrow after arrow and men and women kept falling.25

“Come, Amun-Ra,” Apollo murmured. His golden curls fell before his eyes, which spied the god in his full falcon form dashing towards the temple. Once more, a dying grunt broke the air. Taking hold of the reigns, Artemis directed the beasts towards the bird. The vessel careened downwards and Apollo threw the net over Ra and gathered it quickly, bringing it back into the chariot.26

The Egyptian god shouted from his beak, trying to rip at the ropes, clawing it with his talons. He beat his wings fiercely, creating gusts.
“Oh, alas, poor Ra, the rope was crafted by Brontes the Cyclops,” said Artemis sweetly. “No manner of pecking will subdue it, nor may you change forms.” Setting her bow again, she let another arrow fly into the crowd. The stench of blood smothered the daybreak aromas.27

After their errand, the twins had flown back to Delos and found a place suitable for the bird Ra. In his central temple, Apollo had placed the falcon in a room of the lower, damp chambers. A cage, also wrought by Brontes, was situated in its center, and he pushed Ra into it and secured it. Then, walking away towards the doors, he turned back, smiled, and slammed the doors shut with a resonating echo. From outside, he listened to the continuous shrieks of the deity. There were no second thoughts.28

Returning to Egypt with the sun following his back, he addressed a second group of Egyptians who had come to inspect the massacre from the day before. 29

“Humble followers,” he called, lacing his voice with a poetic placidness. “I am now your Ra. His time has ended and I will now forever carry your sun.” Furious and astonished faces stared at him. “Do not worry, my friends, I will not betray you. Come to admire me!”30

Back within Greece, upon her mountainous home, Athena informed her father of what had happened, for with her wisdom, unparalleled visions came. She told of how Apollo had overtaken Ra, and of how she approved of it. Trusting his daughter, Zeus bowed his head and agreed. “This shall turn to be promising, Athena,” he spoke in his unconnected tone.31

Now though, in the present time, such promises were aging him. 32