Chapter 45 Caelus #2
My grip tightened around Ceraunos’ hilt. The lightning twining around its blade frenzied anew. I no longer heard the clash of steel or the cries of death. I no longer felt the gore-covered ground sucking at my boots, or blood coating my fingers.
All I saw was him — Hyperion. And the debt awaiting him.
He’d cost Nyssa her eyes. He was about to lose far more.
“Have your balls grown back yet, Hype? Or is that swinging dick just for show?”
A dark shape appeared from behind Hyperion’s column, splitting into three. Three figures who were little more than myth; little more than cautionary tales.
Tartarus.
“Ah, I see. You need help. One to hold it and two more to tickle the place your balls used to be.”
Hyperion’s shaft — of light, not that other one — intensified.
The corner of my lip twisted into malicious satisfaction. After all, what use was a big pillar if you didn’t know how to use it?
It seemed Kronos had been busy over the last several months, amassing a force greater than we could have possibly expected; greater than we — at best, a thousand strong — had any right to contend with.
An army filled with demonic creatures, traitorous gods, and manipulated mortals…
as well as Titans long since forgotten. Long since abandoned to the depths of Tartarus for their deeds in the last Titan War.
The questionably absent trio of Koios, Krios, and Iapetos now stood before me: the Titans of intellect — though his own was once again in question — constellations — the stars’ alignment must be skewed today — and mortality, respectively — I wondered how he would enjoy the taste of my blade and his own demise.
Hyperion’s light faded, demonstrating how similar — and yet dissimilar — the quartet looked.
There was the Titan of light with his long, matted hair and matching beard, as though he’d been wrenched from the frozen pits just moments ago.
Then there was Koios with his hair cropped short, in the same salt-and-pepper shades.
Krios came next with locks of a length somewhere between, though it was his waist-length beard stealing the show.
Last was Iapetos with no hair at all — shorn off to reveal pasty white skin and the same jawline as his murderous brother, Kronos.
Lykos grinned in warning — muzzle wrinkling, sharp, glistening teeth on full display. A signal that he was not afraid of beings who were little more than flesh and magic.
We were prepared for the appearance of Titans, however. We had been keeping a particularly spectacular secret, even from those on the council. Nyssa was right to have had suspicions — it always seemed like Kronos was one step ahead, cutting us where it hurt most, forever just out of reach.
There was a spy concealed somewhere in our midst. Someone close enough to feed secrets, whereabouts, strengths, and weaknesses to our enemies.
I only hoped that it wasn’t someone she couldn’t live without; that she could remain trusting of those closest to her, after decades of having almost no one.
I raised my free hand to my lips and, ignoring the vile taste of a trio of mixed blood painting my fingers, sent a short, sharp, staccato whistle into the air.
It cut through all the din of battle, and at my signal, a melody began to weave through the bodies of ally and foe alike.
Sombre tones that chronicled love and loss so profoundly, it was obvious that its melodist had experienced the full scope of human emotion and landed in the devastation of grief.
All who heard his song were powerless to resist the lure.
All except those whom Apollo had blessed with a portion of his power. Those who were able to siphon their hearing with a simple prayer to the god of healing.
Now, Apollo!
And all at once, the battlefield silenced. Just like on Poseidon’s rickety boat, the world was reduced to a wash of colour and a deluge of smells. The crimson barrage of iron; the golden tang of syrup; the ebony stream of ice.
Orpheus stood atop his designated knoll, far enough to avoid an errant blade or spear to the throat, but close enough to wrangle the minds of beings far more powerful than himself.
I knew when his melody shifted from potent loss into something stronger — wilder.
The Titans before us turned on one another, unleashing the full scope of their anger.
Koios and Krios exchanged physical blows — Koios using his mind to predict and evade every possible attack from his brother, Krios attempting to thwart him by summoning stars the size of melons between his hands and tossing them like snowballs.
Iapetos and Hyperion were more measured in their methods. When Iapetos struck, the realm trembled, reminded of its fragile impermanence. When it was Hyperion’s turn, the sky itself rattled in his grip. Clouds fell to the earth, the sun altered its path, and colours prismed across its surface.
These were beings whose very state of existence promised our own — and whose feuds compromised it.
Their duties were not easily replaceable — not as simple as the son of lightning taking over his father’s mantle.
Orpheus had to be very careful in his lyrical intentions in order to avoid urging their destructive natures that one step too far.
To do so could end this war faster than we meant to. To do so would cause the realms to be obliterated as a side effect of sibling squabbles.
And so, we danced on that knife edge of ruin and redemption, waiting to see how the rest of Fate’s hand would tip us.