The golden halls of Olympus stretched beyond mortal comprehension. Around the central hearth, the Olympian council loomed like a storm cloud—immortal faces aglow with divine power and ancient judgment.
In the hushed throne room, the gods had gathered in solemn assembly, oppressive and imposing. Pillars of polished ivory and shimmering gold reached toward a sky painted with the light of eternal dusk. The Olympians sat in their splendour, their forms both radiant and daunting, as the heavens themselves brought to life.
There was the High god Zeus—though in the part of the world Troy used to be, they called him Jove— the King who had subtly aided the Trojan people throughout the war and yet had remained aloof for most of the entire affair, his fingers drumming against his master bolt. Beside him was High Queen Hera, his sister-wife, one of the goddesses Paris had insulted all those years ago.
Poseidon sat on his own throne at Zeus' right hand, green eyes full of ancient wisdom, expression pensieve. He knew what this meeting was about—or rather, whom. It didn't matter. Whatever they decided, he would stand by his newly-found son till the end.
Beside him sat Apollo, glowing and seething with silent anger. Perseus just didn't understand. If only he stopped to listen. If only he would stop being so selfish, for once. The sun god was frustrated. He had done everything right. He had made it play out the way it was supposed to. And yet Perseus refused to see it the way he did. No matter. Someday, he would understand, when he was older.
Next to Apollo was the war god Ares, who had been above the battlefield that was Troy many, many times before. It had been the war of the century; full of death, carnage and utter barbarity—sensational. The best he had seen in all his many years if he was to be honest. Ares was bursting with power at the influx of carnage the fall of Troy had caused. It was a pity the Greeks had won, anyway. But it had been fun while it lasted.
The blacksmith Hephaestus—the crafter of Achilles' armour—tinkered with something in his lap, barely giving his family a second glance. It was sad, that so much had been lost with the city and the war. Armour, jewels, and gifts he had crafted himself for both Greek and Trojan families. His fellow gods didn't understand the loss; they didn't appreciate such things. In his own opinion, this entire war had been a very sordid affair, really, something he could not pretend to understand—mortals were always so complex and emotional. Give him a machine any day of the week and he would be in paradise.
At his side sat the god Hermes, the messenger. This meeting was sudden and unexpected, and he impatiently drummed his fingers against his throne's armrest. He had been doing his job—in the middle of spreading the word to all the known world—that the great Trojan War had finally ended—gods and mortals alike. The spillover of the war into the godly realm was no longer to be feared—it had come to an end. The Achaeans were going home. He let out a huff of exasperation, internally grumbling about how difficult his family made it to do a single job these days.
On the last seat was the wine god Dionysus, sipping from a goblet and looking bored out of his mind—he had been a demigod like Perseus about eighty years before and had had mortals worship him a spot on Olympus, quite literally. He understood the fear of his fellow gods—most hadn't appreciated his ascent—though he didn't see the relevance. Perseus wasn't half the menace he had been back in the day.
At the other side of the company, an unfamiliar goddess wearing a wreath of wheat and green gowns the colour of grass sat beside the Queen. The goddess, Demeter. At her feet bloomed flowers of all colours.
Beside her sat Artemis, her silver gaze locked on the mortal realm far beneath them, where she had had to leave her hunters. She hated being away from them for more than an hour, especially in these morbid times. But once the fall of the city had begun it was unavoidable. This meeting was about Perseus, the only mortal man she perhaps, did not outright despise currently (surprisingly, she seemed to find at least one every couple hundred years). She had had male friends before, and both of them had had tragic lives. Perseus was no different. Within her, she held a trace of sympathy, for all he had lost. It didn't help that her mother was always worried sick for him.
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Perseus: Excidium Troiae
FanfictionPerseus. That was his name. Or at least, that was the name he was given. The Destroyer. When war comes knocking on his doorstep, Perseus is more than ready to aid his best friend Prince Hector, and lead the Trojan forces into battle against the Gre...