Alkaios POV
Although I would like to say that I departed right away the following day, gave a single nod like a wandering hero of legend, and strode off towards Mount Pelion with the wind at my back, Stymphalos was not a story, but my home.
Defeating a monster leaves more than just applause and physical damage; I aimed to heal the emotional wounds the Stymphalian birds inflicted. Their passage resulted in broken roofs, splintered doors, lost livestock, and children who, remembering when wings had obscured the sun, were now afraid of shadows. I could not abandon the people I considered my own, especially when they were in such a state of disarray.
I remained for a month, while news of the Stymphalian birds circulated rapidly throughout the area, spreading like wildfire along every path, and I stayed in the village, choosing to do the least heroic act I could. Instead of going, I took the time to evaluate things, create a strategy, and debate with the craftspeople until my voice was hoarse because I was trying to persuade the older men who believed that change was just a different term for problems. Even with all my strength, hauling the massive stones made my arms shake, so I smiled, pretending the work was easy.
The houses had endured previous attacks, and with the Stymphalian birds' erratic appearances, the townspeople could not fix their homes. Like a patient plague, the birds repeatedly attacked in waves. The villagers had repaired the roofs so many times with layers of thatch and wood that the village seemed to stand only from prayers and stubbornness.
After taking the lives of the birds, I could not reverse the past; however, I could start anew and reconstruct something. Were I to rebuild, I would not rebuild a village that was simply awaiting another destruction.
The goal was to integrate modern engineering into the setting of ancient Greece. It involved the careful deconstruction of vulnerable elements followed by their proper reconstruction, all the while maintaining the Greek architectural style, characterized by whitewashed walls, simple lines, courtyards, tiled roofs, and the strategic positioning of columns. The goal was to build roads that were properly maintained, thus preventing carts from getting stuck, a situation that would mirror the disorganized scurrying of panicked sheep, and this undertaking also involved the strategic placement of wells and cisterns to provide water to the maximum number of people, which further included the construction of drainage systems to stop the rain from transforming a significant portion of the village into a muddy river.
I could already imagine that the ambitious task of rebuilding the village would inevitably draw attention to Stymphalos. Bringing about change could threaten both people and the Gods, who might see it as a hazard. In all honesty, I can say that the matter held no significance for me.
When I first laid out my drawings on Mayor Aster's table, the room immediately became silent — the specific silence that people create when they're attempting to remain polite while simultaneously believing you have gone mad.
"Straight roads?" The mason sounded bewildered. "What's the point? Roads follow the land."
"They go where you let them." I kept my tone calm. "And if we let them go anywhere, carts get stuck, water pools, and fires spread faster."
The carpenter Thrasos, whose hands were like twisted roots, peered at my drawing, squinting. "And this space here. In the center."
"Our agora," I explained. "It needs to be open, planned out. A place for stalls, for meetings, for announcements."
"And the houses?" someone else demanded. "You want to tear them all down?"
I gazed upon faces etched with grief for lost children, men scarred by bronze weapons, and women who remained dressed in their sleep, terrified of being unprepared.
"I will dismantle what's going to fall on you," I said. "I want to rebuild what will shelter you. If you don't trust my drawings, then trust my hands. Give me one house. Let me show you."
At first, they didn't want to, as it was about more than just stone and wood. Pride, tradition, and the fear of creating something that would displease the gods were all factors. I understood, yet I knew that everyone in Stymphalos desperately needed this hope, that they could leave the shadows of past horrors behind.
There was a moment of hesitation from the group when I brought up the possibility of constructing a demonstration house. Nikos offered his family's land, causing an abrupt change in the atmosphere, and everyone looked at him. After the Stymphalian birds had damaged Hermione and Nikos', they stayed at the forge. Ironically, of those present, Nikos was the least affected, as he could live elsewhere, unlike the others.
"You're letting the boy—" began one mason.
Nikos didn't flinch. "I'm letting Alkaios build it," he corrected, his voice hushed with an unfamiliar reverence, which made my stomach clench. "I have faith in the one who eliminated the Stymphalian birds," he confidently stated.
The reverent tone in Nikos's voice enabled me to understand, for the first time, my new significance to them: no longer viewed as a child or a neighbor, but as a symbol of something greater, however, symbols can be perilous because individuals place their aspirations on them, burdening them.
After swallowing with some difficulty, I gave a single nod and replied with the words, "All right. We start tomorrow."
I woke up before dawn and met Nikos at the site. He had a rope and a few sandstone pegs. The moment I lifted the hammer, I felt it. Not in my body, but deep inside. It was like a lock clicking, a secret door opening. The world seemed to agree: Yes, this is also you. A name settled within me, calm and sure.
Divine Protection of Handling.
It didn't explode onto the scene; it was more like everything just clicked. My grip was flawless, effortless. Every swing was at the right angle instinctively. The hammer became an extension of me, just as Reid had been after the blood, the storm, and the fear at the lake.
My CYOA choices had already made me an artisan, but now I also possessed Divine Protection of Handling, and the power surged through me like a pair of unseen wings. Reflecting on the situation prior to getting my new Divine Protection and solely based on the choices I made in the CYOA, my skill set in building was equivalent to having a master's degree, but now, with my Divine Protection, it felt as though I had attained a PhD.
To begin, I focused on preparing the initial setup and the primary framework, meticulously squaring the corners, calculating the measurements using my pacing, and then I double-checked these measurements with a reed rod. Greek houses, constructed with the potential for longevity, were distinct from most village homes, which were not designed to withstand catastrophic events but to endure seasonal changes. I hoped to design something able to persevere and overcome monsters.
Nikos watched me working for a little while, and then he softly asked, "I'm curious, how is it you know all of this?"
I contemplated telling a lie, but I shared the truth, although I made sure it wouldn't seem suspicious.
"I read," I mumbled, not fully paying attention, more focused on my work.
Nikos paused for a moment, then a soft laugh escaped him. "I've met no one who reads a wall into existence."
"You have now," I stated, then grinned to emphasize my point, and showed my expertise by hammering a nail cleanly without splitting the wood, finishing the foundation with perfection.
Nikos's brows shot up in an expression of disbelief. "That—"
"Hold the beam steady." I said interrupting Nikos
I used a Dona for soil compaction, which helped me to create a stable base. The earth seemed to relax and become still, as if it were thankful for the imposed order. With the help of Fura, I shaved down the edges of the stone, carved out channels, and then I refined the crude elements to achieve clean fits.
While Nikos and I were working, the citizens congregated. In the beginning, curiosity was clear as children pointed, women exchanged hushed whispers, and elders watched, their expressions hinting at a sense of caution, as if the ground below might suddenly become dangerous. However, as the week went on, this grew into something quite different, which was Hope.
Hope that things could change. Inspired by that hope, the village men increased their help. The first house felt like a myth: lime-washed walls, windows thoughtfully placed, excellent drainage, a tiled roof. A courtyard. A hearth set right. Beams that were braced.
Once we were done, the craftworkers simply stood there, staring at it. Thrasos patrolled the boundary, inspected beams, checked connections, and grunted.
"I don't like it," he said.
A flutter of butterflies erupted in my stomach, anticipation bubbling up within me.
Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "I love it."
The crowd erupted in laughter, the sound like a dam breaking, as though a hidden truth lit. Following that, the village took action, and we dismantled what would have posed a threat to lives during the upcoming storm. Our efforts resulted in the salvage of whatever we could find. With painstaking effort, we systematically reconstructed each block and then each street, accomplishing the rebuilding. I wanted to build a better Greek city, and to achieve this, I maintained the Greek aesthetic instead of attempting to build something that was a foreign city.
As I continued working, I realized I wasn't simply reconstructing buildings; I was also restoring faith.
Following that, I started the construction of the colonnade, which wasn't intended to be a temple or a palace, but a practical public shelter along the border of the square. People would appreciate shade in the markets because it would offer a place for meetings where the sun's heat wouldn't make it difficult to think clearly and make excellent decisions. Because of the well-executed columns, the village gave the impression that it was a place that would exist in the future.
It was at that place that I first made his acquaintance.
As we were lifting the initial drum, which was a heavy section made of limestone, the thickness of this section was so great that it required four fully grown laborers to strain and curse as they nearly lost a toe when the rollers unexpectedly moved. I, along with the others, brought a rope with me. While I could have easily used magic to make it effortless, if I had used Dona to solve every challenge, Stymphalos would not have learned to stand on their own without my help.
I pulled the drum forward, and with each inch the creaking grew louder until it reached the plinth, at which point a shadow then fell across the stone. The man, whom I did not recognize, moved into the situation as though he had always been a part of the job. However, nothing about him gave a worn-down impression, unlike his dusty traveler's cloth and worn sandals. With his hands positioned beneath the rim of the drum, he lifted its side as if it were a fragile clay pot, having crouched down beforehand.
As the tension in the ropes immediately lessened, the laborers fell silent in that state of shock that mature men sometimes experience when reality ceases to adhere to the principles they have always known.
"Move it," he commanded, his words coming out like a bark. "Before your ropes snap."
The drum slid into place with a dull thunk, a sound of perfect precision as we all moved into place. A cloud of dust swirled near the bottom, and rather than applause, there was only uneasy awe, a quiet response.
The man stood up straighter, his shoulders remaining perfectly still, with no hint of movement. With a casual tone, he looked out at the square, observing the straight road, the trench lines, and the partially constructed walls, then posed his question.
"I must ask, what was the reason behind the killing of the Stymphalian birds?" the unknown man asked.
"For the village," I said, making my statement known.
He replied, "That's what they'll say," and his tone suggested he was presenting a series of potential events instead of identifying people.
"That's what I mean. I had no other reason because it was the right thing to do." I retorted.
He tilted his head. "And what do you mean?"
My jaw clenched, the rope burning in my grasp, and I squeezed it tighter, each fiber a surge of raw, untamed rage. I felt a surge of anger in the presence of this man.
"People were going to die!" I snapped.
"People always die," he said.
Rather than cruelty, there was something far more unsettling — an emotional distance that was even more damaging. It was as if the sentence held no significance or impact on him whatsoever.
"You did it for glory," he said, as if he was trying out multiple theories. "Perhaps it was pride, or maybe it was because you wanted the story to be told; a boy slays monsters, a village erupts in cheers, and a name transforms into a spear that you fling across Hellas."
I retorted, "If achieving glory were my goal, I would have departed a long time ago. I wouldn't be here arguing about rebuilding houses."
"And yet you stayed," he remarked, "Digging, planning, teaching men how to stack stones," as if this was the most interesting part of the entire tale.
"Yes," I stated, "because it was the right decision to make."
He looked at the villagers, who were moving cautiously with their heads bowed, as though they were frightened of using up too much of their personal space. Even though he spoke in a gentle tone, it seemed to intensify their impact.
"They were praying," he said. "They hid and waited."
I replied sharply, "They were being hunted by the Stymphalian birds every day."
"So were you," the man shot back.
"I had a sword." I retorted.
"And they had hands," he replied simply. "Rocks, Fire, Spears, Numbers."
The emotion expressed in his tone was not anger but disappointment, which resembled the feeling one gets when a student consistently cannot grasp a fundamental concept.
I directed my eyes towards him and held his gaze. "Do you hate humanity?" I asked.
Between us, a moment of silence stretched out, heavy in the air. Although the change was subtle, it was enough to notice that his expression finally shifted.
"No," he said. "I love them."
The chilliness of his tone did not match the response, which caused me a different discomfort.
"The songs that they create are something that I truly adore, their feasts." As his gaze continued to drift across the square, he added, "Their laughter when it's earned. I love the stubborn way they crawl forward even when the world tries to crush them."
Then, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
"And I hate how they kneel."
My skin prickled.
"You hate them for being weak."
"I hate lying," he corrected. "The lie that weakness is virtue. The lie that waiting for salvation makes you worth saving."
I felt my heart pounding in my chest. "They're people, not warriors." I said.
"And yet," he said, his eyes narrowing as they landed on my sheathed sword, "you are eight, and you chose the sword."
The words struck me like a physical blow to the chest, carrying the weight of truth, a question I had silently asked myself the day I returned, covered in blood. I was well aware of humanity's potential and all the amazing miracles we could achieve. Yet, despite the situation, everyone seemed to prefer waiting for a Hero to appear rather than taking on the responsibility and becoming one themselves.
"They didn't have my power," I murmured, but it felt insincere.
"They didn't need your strength to hurl rocks," he stated. "Staying home was their choice. They didn't need your power to decide that the next time wings came, they would greet them with fire instead of prayers."
I hated the fact that a part of me understood, and my hatred intensified because the remaining part of me would not accept that fear rendered them unworthy.
"You talk like lives don't matter," I hissed.
Again, his eyes met mine, holding a gaze that was unfamiliar and resolute in its focus. "Their value is realized when they persist," he stated, emphasizing the point.
The way he expressed himself did not align with the concept of love as understood by humans, but it embodied love akin to that of a deity of war.
Attempting to maintain an even tone, I asked, "If you truly care for them, why aren't you providing more help? "
He shrugged his shoulders, as though the answer was self-evident, and said, "The only way they learn is through harsh consequences, and blood teaches faster than I ever could."
The craftworkers, realizing they needed additional help, called for more hands to help lift another column, and the man, without hesitation, stepped in once more, lifting the heavy stone as if the force of gravity was merely a suggestion, and then placed it down with an unwavering calm and perfect control. After wiping the limestone dust from his palms, he turned to depart, behaving as though his presence there had been only temporary.
I paused, and then I asked, "Could you tell me who you are?"
At the edge of the square, he paused, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. For the briefest moment, the outline of his form appeared excessively defined against the sunlight, giving the impression that the world had created him with a level of precision not usually applied to the average person.
"Enyalios," he announced, never once looking behind him.
He left without theatrics, vanishing in a way that was hard for me to follow. He had decided not to be watched. I lingered, standing in place for a time that seemed excessive, and directed my gaze towards the void. It suddenly became clear to me only when the sounds of the ropes creaking, men shouting, and Thrasos complaining, returned.
Enyalios.
The name was not unfamiliar to me; I had not heard it in connection to Stymphalos, but from the various stories I had been exposed to in my former life. The gods and their epithets were something I knew about; I knew the epithets were things that clung to the gods in a manner similar to armor. That which belonged to the owner of the Stymphalian birds, the creatures I had slain, is what I am referring to. People believed Enyalios was the son of Ares and Enyo, or of Cronus and Rhea. However, that name is associated with and belongs to one other God.
Ares Enyalios
My grip on the rope tightened again, not because of necessity, but because I longed for something real to hold, and with that feeling, I returned to my work, placing the people of Stymphalos above all else. I could postpone my worrying about Ares until a later time, as I have things to focus on right now. My problems didn't matter to walls, roads, or clean water, just to whether I finished.
The thing I'm most proud of isn't the walls, the moat, or even the agora. It is a sewage system. The village will endure despite poor roofs. It cannot live if its own waste surrounds it. Diseases claim more lives compared to monsters, and the hazards of polluted water and waste accumulation in play areas compound this, showcasing the invisible threats that inflict harm with no prior sign.
I established a basic network comprising channels purposed for diverting waste, ensuring it moved away from wells, houses, and also the market. It was not a grand aqueduct, which was a concept that was still centuries in the future, but it was enough to allow Stymphalos to breathe freely without suffering from its own environmental issues.
The problem's source was the absence of suitable upkeep. The only way to avoid the necessity of everyone manually cleaning everything in this space was for me to come up with a permanent solution, and it was in this context that my limitations became apparent.
My capabilities extended to fighting, as well as the ability to form the earth and wind into useful tools. However, I found myself unable to accomplish genuine creation, such as crafting a mystic code or an enchantment. The concept of bringing into existence something that would be as complex and enduring as a lasting enchantment was a feat that I deemed to be far beyond my capacity to achieve.
Since the birth of Castor and Pollux was a matter of common knowledge, my mind naturally wandered to Medea, as her own birth would have also occurred. I recalled the accounts of Colchis shared by travelers in my memories of this lifetime; they spoke of a princess whom Hecate had taught.
Considering the knowledge I needed, Medea was, without a doubt, the most qualified individual to be my teacher. I remembered Doctor Romani mentioning that Medea was one of the top five mages in the world throughout history. Because Doctor Romani was actually Solomon, one could safely assume that he possessed an exceptional understanding of the subject.
As the month drew to a close, the demanding work below the surface left my bones heavy, as though filled with sand, stemming from the efforts of Dona and Shiha who were busy creating channels, fortifying the walls, and carefully shaping the earth to avert a collapse. The work proceeded slowly, with intricate details, requiring utmost precision, and severely penalizing every error.
Following that, the issue concerning the ocean arose. Disposing of waste somewhere is an undeniable fact. The "somewhere" in question ultimately made its way to waters under the dominion of the God of the Sea, who would likely not be pleased to see his domain being treated in such a disrespectful manner, as if it were a place for disposal.
Hence, I made the smart choice. I spoke to the locals, who were native to those waters. Throughout the month, my encounters included the meeting of Naiads. Behaving much like humans, they possessed a sense of territory, took pride in their standing, and were curious and amused to see a human child repeatedly attempting to negotiate, as if he were a leader of a small nation.
When I first went near the stream, the water level increased rapidly, reminiscent of a spine that was in the process of bristling. A woman appeared, her hair resembling wet reeds and her eyes mirroring the appearance of polished river stones. Introducing herself as Silbe increased my wariness, as I knew the name and the Naiad it referred to. According to certain legends, Silbe had a connection to Aeaea, and it was on the island of Aeaea that Circe made her home.
"What do you want, child?" she asked.
I carefully placed the offerings I had brought, including honey, bread, and herbs, gently onto a flat stone.
With a respectful tone, I requested of her, "My lady, I humbly request your help in ensuring the water that supplies my home remains clean."
Silbe's eyebrow rose, a gesture akin to the expression someone might have after hearing a joke, as she declared, "Mortals have been poisoning water since mortals learned they could."
"Then I want to be the first mortal to stop," I said.
Meeting my gaze with a long stare, she let out a bright laugh and called me "Bold."
"I'm tired," I admitted. "And I don't want my people to die of sickness because I didn't think beyond killing birds."
Her face relaxed, exhibiting an emotion very similar to, though not quite, kindness. After some deliberation, she finally agreed, yet she also requested a tribute as part of the agreement. She didn't care about gold or livestock; what she truly desired was a sanctuary. A real nymphaeum, with clear, running water, constructed out of genuine respect, not as a hollow gesture. A recognition that their existence held value.
I agreed with Silbe's request because I thought it was a reasonable one. Nikos and I built it together on the last day before I left, placing it near the purest spring to create a small stone basin and a channel for continuous water flow, which would prevent stagnation. Although there are no mosaics, I carved basic wave patterns into the stone, and I also left offerings of bread, honey, and a small bronze fish.
As the last stone found its place, the water in the spring moved in circles. For a moment, the atmosphere filled with the aroma of rain, and I heard a voice softly whispering in my ear, like the gentle sound of trickling water, "Child, make sure you keep your promise."
I gave a nod and a promise, stating, "I will," without once glancing back at what was behind me.
The month concluded in a way that was far from celebratory. It didn't include a feast or a song, but it ended with promises that had accumulated like a pile of stones. When I was only eight years old, I made several promises. Some were to people, and others were to spirits, and I certainly should not have been making any of those promises at that age.
On the last day, Aster, the leader of Stymphalos, found me scrubbing the dust off my hands to appear less like a boy who had gone without proper sleep for several days. Aster, a man of slender build, possessed a certain clumsiness that led one to suspect the gods had equipped him with a mind perfectly suited for numerical calculations, while his hands seemed destined to fumble and drop objects. On one particular day, he stumbled over the identical stone twice, and yet, he did not seem to gain any understanding from the experience.
However, he held a deep affection for this village, and his love for it was so strong that he even allowed an eight-year-old to decide about the city's development. It was faith or madness.
"Alkaios!" He called, jogging clumsily toward me, his tunic fluttering. Simultaneously proud and apprehensive. "So, there you are!"
"Aster," I said, straightening up. "Is everything all right?"
"Of course," he blurted, then paused, uncertain whether to smile or look worried. "The village looks… utterly different. Under your—under your guidance, it's—"
"Bigger," I supplied.
"It's better," he fixed, and then laughed uneasily. "The walls, as well! By the gods, look at the walls. I didn't expect to say this, but the moat helps me sleep better."
Ah, the defensive barrier. The moat was the most amusing part. It wasn't funny because it was awful, but it made me think of Minecraft. As a child, I'd dig square trenches for hours, giggling at pretend monsters nearby. I was now digging a real trench for actual monsters, and I wasn't laughing at all.
"It was nothing," I said humbly. "We're going to build a kingdom right here. A king must, at a minimum, care for his people."
Upon hearing the word kingdom, Aster's eyes grew wider with surprise and curiosity. He did not challenge it, nor did he express any doubt; instead, he simply accepted it, almost as though a portion of him had been expecting someone finally articulating it.
Then he guided me toward the new gates. We walked the main road—straight, wide, deliberate—past houses with cleaner lines, past the planned market square, past storage spaces and shade structures that hadn't existed a month ago.
As we walked by, some people bowed their heads, while others offered smiles, and I could feel the sensation of their gazes, like a physical weight, pressing against my skin. The new bridge, a structure of reinforced timber with a sturdy railing and sufficient width for carts, spanned the moat, standing prominently at the gates.
A sense of waiting permeated the entire village, extending beyond its immediate boundaries. The gathering consisted not only of the craftworkers and the elders but also of everyone else, including women holding infants, boys carrying wooden swords, old men with their canes, hunters with their bows, and farmers who had dirt under their nails. I noticed Nikos near the front of the area, and he was smiling in a manner that people do when they are attempting to conceal their sadness, with a haversack in his hands.
The crowd murmured gently, gathered closely in a warm embrace, as if they were reluctant to accept that this event was a farewell. When Aster moved away, I unexpectedly stood alone at the front, which gave the impression that I confidently led and fully knew my responsibilities.
Nikos advanced and, in a gesture of offering, presented the haversack, extending it outward. In a raspy voice, he urged, "Go forth, Alkaios Astrea, and bring glory to our home for all of us."
The dramatic nature of the line was so over the top that it caused me to snort, even though I am not easily surprised. Clasping Nikos's arm firmly, I stated with conviction, "That is precisely what I am going to do."
The haversack I took was heavy, loaded with food, a waterskin, bandages, herbs, cord, and flint. Raising my voice, I made certain the crowd could hear me after I had directed my gaze upon them.
"Our village," I stated, the words lingering, "will someday be the gleaming jewel of Hellas."
The speed at which it happened and its exceptionally high strength characterized the joy that burst forth. To silence the people nearby, I lifted my hand, and subsequently, I resumed speaking, albeit in a gentler voice, and stated, "This is not about me, it is because of you, continue to build, continue to train, and uphold the laws, and keep the water clean."
Aster's head bobbed up and down with significant force, and it appeared he was struggling to keep from crying.
I pivoted to face the bridge, and as my feet trod upon the planks, a sense of liberation washed over me, a feeling that I had been holding my breath in Stymphalos for a month, and finally, my lungs were free to expand.
Upon arriving at the furthest point, I stopped and turned around, and because they were all still watching, I simply waved in a boyish, genuine way. A smile spread across my face as I realized that the adventure, since I had woken up in this world, didn't feel like a fantasy, but something more.
It felt like a road.
Adjusting the haversack, I walked, heading towards Mount Pelion, towards Chiron, towards the demanding training that creates legends.
The road was long, yet the miles seemed to melt away beneath my feet. Perhaps it was because my thoughts never ceased, perpetually analyzing, strategizing, recalling, or maybe the wind's invisible push propelled me ahead.
Traveling light and fast, I chose the familiar, safer paths, staying away from the dense, shadowed forests that bandits favored. Whenever I neared a stream, I drank and offered a small prayer—the sound of the water was soothing—not out of piety, but because I'd learned quickly that gods, like storms, were unpredictable. Better to acknowledge them than pretend you could outrun them.
On the third day, I saw an old man with a donkey and a bundle of reeds, and he was a traveler on the road.
He stared at me, his gaze lingering, before he finally spoke: "You're too young to be alone."
"I'm too stubborn to wait," I replied, the words hanging heavy in the air.
His laughter rang out through the air, filling the space around us as we walked and talked. "Where are you heading?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he spoke.
I said, "Mount Pelion," the word hanging in the crisp air.
A look of pure surprise caused his eyebrows to leap upward. "Chiron's mountain?" He asked, his eyes widening in surprise.
"Yes," I replied, my voice calm, as if my destination was nothing more than a casual walk.
He studied me again, a frown creasing his brow, before muttering, "The world really is changing."
"They say a lot," I answered.
"They will," he agreed.
As he rode off, the truth weighed on me like a stone, sinking into my chest. Stories grow, gaining legs to move and teeth to grasp. They grow until they overshadow you—until the Gods themselves repeat them, and you lose track of whether you're shaping the story…
…or the story is changing you.
Yet, despite everything, I still held onto the dream of becoming a hero. My Epic began without fanfare, a story waiting to be told.
Chiron POV
My long life had given me ample opportunity to experience a variety of things. I had trained students, and the gods had trained me; I witnessed boys transform into heroes, only to become ash in the end. I had heard the prophecies, ignored them, and then watched them become reality, fueled by spite.
I had even attended one of Lord Dionysus's parties, a vibrant affair with flowing wine and lively dance.
A low, weary "Ugh" slipped from my throat.
The image of the party ponies' formation still made my head throb, and I wondered what I had been thinking when I formed them?
Even with my memories, this was new: hearing Lady Astraea announce she'd chosen a champion and was sending him for training was a singular experience, even for someone like me. Astraea, the goddess, was not one for frivolous chatter. She was justice personified, a relic of the Golden Age's innocence, shining faintly amidst a world descending into darkness.
Her tone brooked no argument; the pronouncement was clear: it was not a request, but a decree.
Her message, a curt command, read: "Train him, shape him, and ensure he learns to stand straight, before the world tries to bend him."
At only eight years old, Alkaios Astrea, Slayer of the Stymphalian birds, must be the youngest hero Hellas had ever sent forth into the warm sun.
I stood on the ridge of Mount Pelion and gazed down upon the familiar sight of my training grounds. The air here was a mixture of pine, the sound of the wind, and the salty smell of the distant sea. Beneath the mountain, the earth was steady, and the mountain's shadow seemed to call to young boys, urging them towards legend.
The wind rustled through my students' hair as they scattered below the clearing like fallen leaves. Jason practiced his sword-work, the air whistling with each strike, with a frustrated energy emanating from him.
Pollux was aggressive and bright-eyed, always seeking the next challenge as she sparred, while Castor was more technical and restrained, yet he was no less intense. The Spartan upbringing of Ares's warriors taught them not to back down from any challenge, that's for sure.
Asclepius, deep in concentration, sat beneath a tree with herbs meticulously arranged, his absorption in his work verging on rudeness. To Asclepius, the fanfare of heroics faded into the background, as Medicine stood out as the absolute truth. I feared his brilliance would lead him into forbidden research if he lacked restraint.
With a mighty heave, Heracles hoisted the boulder, the scrape of stone against stone echoing, his face set in a mask of determination. He found it easy to be strong, but peace eluded him. He stood away from the group, as if he expected their closeness to be a weapon against him.
It is possible that his viewpoint was justified. Lady Hera's feelings of animosity were clear, and she did not conceal them. Even when the skies were clear, a storm followed him. I had frequently pondered the reasons behind her decision to focus solely on him, rather than including Castor and Pollux in her actions.
Besides just being alive, what specific actions did Heracles commit that infuriated Lady Hera to where Heracles was the sole target of her wrath? That question was more fitting for the realm of gods and not within the purview of instructors.
Upon my initial announcement that a new student would join their ranks, there was a noticeable absence of excitement among them. Young heroes become arrogant because of Mount Pelion, as they become accustomed to being the best in any setting and thus lose sight of the fact that the world is far more expansive than their inflated egos.
However, the instant I informed them of Alkaios's position as Astraea's champion and mentioned that he had slain the Stymphalian birds at eight, they finally became curious.
It was plain to see that Pollux was almost visibly excited, practically lighting up in the moment. Even though Castor tried to seem unimpressed, his shoulders tensed, revealing his true feelings. Jason's response caused me to feel the urge to sigh.
Oh, Jason.
While you possess a great deal of potential, the envy you harbor is quite profound, and although ambition can undoubtedly lead you to success, it also can erode your sense of self to where you struggle to recognize who you are. It was apparent to me what he was contemplating: if a boy, who was even younger than them, could get the mantle of a goddess and the admiration of the populace, then Jason's own desire to one day possess a throne seemed not entirely unattainable.
Heracles, after briefly showing some interest, went back to his work — a consistent behavior — while Asclepius remained completely unreactive to the situation.
With a shake of my head, I banished the bothersome thoughts that were bothering me. My job was a simple one: to train them, to prepare them, and to pray that the world wouldn't chew them into bone too early in their lives.
With a stomp of my hoof on the hard ground, I made a deep thud.
"Alkaios Astrea is on his way," I said, my voice strong, certain that my words would carry. "Lady Astraea informed me he completed his business and began his journey," I said.
Mid-thrust, Jason's spear seemed to hold its breath. Pollux smiled as widely and joyfully as if someone had arranged a festival just for her. Castor's gaze, previously soft, became intensely focused. Heracles didn't look up, but the veins on his arm bulged, and his grip on the boulder tightened. Asclepius didn't lift his head from his task, but I saw his ears twitch, so I knew he heard me.
"While it's tempting to make a spectacle of a new champion," I said, my words echoing, "training goes on, discipline never ceases, and pride will always be your downfall."
My eyes swept over them, lingering on each of them for a moment.
"Today, we cover battlefield tactics," I announced, and the trainees filled the training field with audible sighs.
Of course, young heroes love the dramatic strike, the flashing blades and triumphant roars, but the planning that keeps them alive is a different story.
"Jason," I announced, the silence broken by my voice, "you will lead the first exercise."
Jason's posture adjusted itself as he quickly stood up straight, full of enthusiasm for the possibility of leading, and with excitement, he said, "Yes, teacher."
Instructing, I said, "Pollux and Castor—paired unit tactics: I want coordination, and I do not want competition."
Pollux opened her mouth as if to protest, but she saw my expression and immediately closed it while smiling.
"Asclepius," I added, "I must insist that you pay close attention because the tactics people use directly affect the number of casualties, and if you want to see fewer bodies in need of stitching, then you must learn how to end battles before they turn into a slaughter."
"If they would just listen, tactics would be unnecessary," Asclepius retorted, never bothering to look up.
I was very close to laughing. In fact, I almost laughed.
"Heracles," I said gently, "you will act as the opposing force."
Heracles finally looked up, eyes steady. "All of them?"
"Yes," I said. "All of them."
The corners of Pollux's mouth lifted in a bright smile, and Jason swallowed while Castor flexed his fingers, a sequence of events marking the first time this had happened all morning. A palpable sense of excitement filled the clearing, but it was not the frivolous kind; rather, it was the intense, focused joy of young warriors preparing to prove their mettle.
Seeing the joy that appeared on the children's faces, or at least the joy on Pollux and Castor's faces, brought a smile to my face. Jason seemed to have a strong desire to run, while Asclepius appeared to be longing to return to his experiments.
This generation…
Perhaps this generation has unique qualities, and Astraea blessed a young boy somewhere along the mountain path, past the trees, wind, and destiny. As Alkaios approached, he brought with him the dreams and ambitions of his home. I did not know what Alkaios would look like when he finally arrived on the scene.
Hero?
King?
Weapon?
Perhaps even rarer would be someone who could survive being all three without losing his soul, so I looked once more toward the path.
My voice barely audible, I whispered, "Come," which was not meant as a directive, but as a silent entreaty, "Let us witness the remarkable story you are about to create."
Lurking beneath the surface of that thought, and even quieter than the thought itself, was a truth I refused to speak aloud, not to my students, not to any divine beings, and not even to myself unless the wind itself somehow forced the words from my lips.
I have a good feeling about this generation.
Chapter 3: Start of an Epic End