Eons - Various! Hetalia x Reader

Delphi

To a passerby, the cottage appeared as nothing more than a shack- a lopsided assortment of mud, wood, and stone. The cabin stood on a jagged, overgrown plot in the mountainous outskirts of Pythos, and the surrounding land was largely infertile. Still, the old man and his boy-slave sowed the land daily, hoping to produce a yield of barley before autumn.

The night was tranquil; A full moon had cast an ashen glow over the mustard greens and barley patches. The old man sat outside his cabin, holding a ceramic lamp in his right hand, while his left hand cusped the oil-fed flame. While he usually used this hour to watch the crops sway in the Mediterranean breeze, tonight it was his slave who had arrested his attention.

Hercules, as he had named him, exhaustedly swung his hoe, indenting the earth with each strike. Dust clung to his sweat-sodden tunic, washed a pale red from wiping his abrasions. And as the rake slipped from his fingers, he expected that his hands would be spliced one morrow.

"Boy! Did I tell you to drop the tool?" His master rose from his perch, hobbling towards his fatigued slave. He raised his cane— a venerated olive branch— before rapping his fingers and walloping his back.

"I apologize, sir!" Hercules had once cried from these beatings, but now he found himself somewhat aloof.

"Bah, lazy brat," The man chastised. Hercules stood idly, rubbing the strike-mark skin, "Are you inutile? If you're so bootless as to complete your one chore, then I'll give you the easy work, pick these orchards dry!" His employer censured in rage, his slender fingers curled around his loincloth in vexation. Then, the old man breathlessly whispered profanities as he retreated to his cabin.

The lamplight was extinguished, enshourding Hercules in near-complete darkness. There was only the moonlight to guide him through those
long-grass pastures, but he found romanticism in this. The sunlight had made everything too obvious— he found intrigue in the shadow's mysticism. Had he been walking on the overgrown path to the orchard, or was he unknowing embarking on an adventure on a trail to some far-off land?

Unfortunately, it had just been the orchard. Blinded by that maddening, black firmament his arrival was only reminded by the tree's grooves shadows. There was a small notch above him— a rotting plank wedged between two forked branches— a hand offering to support him as he ascended with a grunt. Splinters dog into his fingertips as he mounted the branch, gently rocking to test his weight. Determining it was safe, he began climbing higher to breach the canopy.

He parted the leaves as if breaking water, looking for any olive-shaped silhouettes. However, a different shape intrigued him. Somewhere in the Pleistos Valley, a light was blinking. No torchlight had ever compared to its magnitude, only the projections of unearthly things like the moon and stars. Yet this had not been suspended besides Cronus, but rather much closer.

He didn't want to venture there; rather, he had a spartan mentality, wanting little more than to complete his tasks with the promise of sleep afterwards. He held his head at-level with his working hands, his gaze not daring to tread to that cursed intersection between the plains and hills.

Having lined beneath the trees with baskets, he shook the branches before climbing down. However, as he began stacking the wicker beneath the canopy's refuge, he suddenly found himself unblinded with light. This was not welcomed, though, as a beacon had beamed towards the skies— it's brightness leaking through the thin foliage.

He extended his hand, watching how the light filtered around it and casted odd little shadows onto the ground. Horrified, he glanced over his shoulder, watching as the pillar of light pulsated between red and white before shutting off entirely. His mouth slightly parted, elders had shared tales of the gods descending from the heavens, although they'd always been described as enigmatic in their entrances.