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I 00. I
𝑮𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑮𝒐𝒓𝒆
❝ ichor ❞
ICHOR RAN THROUGH THEIR VEINS. That was what made them gods.
Their immortality allowed them to stand the test of time. They walked through millennia upon millennia of ruin and rubble, some they had caused, and others they hadn't. They watched as their world was in their grasp and laid on their fingertips. At any given moment, they could let it roll like dice, and toss and move the chess pieces of war.
For years they had seen heroes come and go, fighting battles they fought for their patrons or parents, trying to bring honor and pride to their great, godly beings, but it was mostly all in vain.
Bones and bones. Skeletons and skeletons littered the cold ground, buried underneath blood and gore. They fought for the gods, for Olympus, but nothing withstood the test of time like hate and fighting—and the gods.
Maybe that was why the Olympians felt the need to throw their own children into battle for them, in the name of their honor and their own pride. Because the gods had all the time in the world, and when they time would run out, that was when they would fight. Fighting harder and hard than they ever had before, and maybe, just maybe, they would feel the suffering those warriors had felt so many times before.
Golden blood was never spilled, never dropped, never splashed upon those ancient burial grounds of war cries and rivalries. It had never tasted the fresh winds from the east, or the north, or the south, or the west. It ran through and through the gods like a perpetual wheel, flowing faster and faster as the years passed.
In a blink of the eye, the gods were hundreds of years old, then thousands, than maybe even more. Born from the Titans before them, they laid them to rest. Taking over those marble thrones and standing on those marble steps they watched as civilization flourished under their hands, and were destroyed under their arrogance, their lies, their treachery, and their envy.
Sky fought the sea. Sea fought the ground. Ground fought the sky.
Gates of magic and gold harbored secrets of life and death. Hidden mysteries lied in the hands of all who crossed Olympus, knowing more and more about what was happening in the world around them, and what would soon happen later on.
Red smears lasted on fighter's hands for the remainder of their lives, never scrubbed away, always staining their once precious skin. Those hands would never see anything the same. Eyes once seeing life and boy, saw worry and danger along roads filled with flowers of blue and white. Hands would never grip an object properly without a few minor adjustments, as if readying themself to fight another battle on another day. It was a cruel, cruel fate that many were played upon, and always by the gods.
