One Thousand Years Prior
Kronos lifted his torch, staring through sweat-stung eyes at the looming peaks of Mount Olympus. Banks of beech trees towered either side of him like verdant sentries, their leaves whispering in the wind. He drew a deep breath. Bushes of wild oregano clustered between the silver trunks, the herb’s minty, earthen scent carrying on the chill breeze. Beyond the sloping swathes of forest, bare ridges of rock stood free of ice and cloud, silhouetted against a coal-dark sky scattered with stars. Watching, waiting.
‘Father!’
Kronos looked back. His eldest son, Zeus, was climbing the trail behind him, his own flaming torch spilling streaks of light and shadow across his face.
Kronos sighed. ‘You should not have followed me.’
Zeus stood firm: weary yet defiant.
Suddenly, Kronos saw not a man, but a boy. All gangly limbs and wide, sea-blue eyes, the same expression etched across his face as at the injustice of his younger brother, Poseidon, stealing the wooden cow he had lovingly crafted. Kronos wondered how Zeus had grown so fast. Sun-crinkled skin spread from the corners of his eyes, and his jaw was lean and bearded. He was almost thirty. When Kronos was younger people had remarked that they looked more like twins than father and son. He could not recall at what age his body had revealed the truth.
It felt strange now to contemplate the passing of time, when he was about to become ageless.
‘Father, please …’
Kronos turned back to the path with an aching heart.
‘You could save her.’
He froze, his chest constricting as he thought of the last time he’d seen his youngest daughter, Hestia, still only a babe, wrapped in blankets by the hearth, her wan little face looking up at his. He thrust the memory away. He could not allow himself to be drawn down that road. Once he tasted the sacred fruit, he would no longer be a father and a husband. He had been called, and all that he once was must be set aside. It was the greatest sacrifice and the greatest honour a person could ever hope for: to become a Titan.
‘We have spoken on this. Go home, Zeus.’
‘Do you not care?’
Kronos took a couple of steps.
‘Father! Do not walk away from me.’
His son’s words were arrows in his heart as he continued on, fighting the urge to glance back. Eventually, Zeus grew quiet, but Kronos could hear his son’s ragged breath as he followed like a spectre behind him.
Kronos’ progress was slow in the dark with the burden of his pack and torch, and the small stones that slipped under foot. For a while the trees grew so tall, he could no longer see the mountain’s peak above him, only a sliver of star-flecked sky. The way grew tangled, thick roots lying like steps across his path, the vivid green leaves of beeches giving way to the jade spines of towering pines. Owls and other creatures of the night called to one another from the shadows. Then a rustling sounded up ahead. Kronos’ eyes darted between the trees, lingering on a churned patch of earth between two pines.
Wild boar.
He paused, his free hand leaping to the handle of the knife sheathed in his belt. A tusk to the gut could be deadly.
After a while, the noise faded, and Kronos once more resumed his ascent.
He had not gone far when there was a cry behind him.
Despite himself, he spun around. Zeus, still following, had tripped on a root, his torch sputtering on the ground.
Kronos cursed under his breath. Damn the boy’s stubbornness.
Fighting every instinct, he turned away from his son and pressed on.
He clambered over great channels of rock and long-dead trees that had been shaken free by storms to pour like rivers from the peaks. He did not slow as the way steepened and the pines thinned, the tufted earth replaced by loose grey stones. The wind grew fierce, whipping Kronos’ thick woollen cloak and threatening to extinguish his fire. He was forced to scramble up the scree, using his free hand to steady himself on the lichen-stained boulders littering his way. The urge to glance back at his son gnawed at him like the cold air lancing across his skin. All the while the sky paled, the stars fading into the cold blue light that creeps before the dawn.
In the shadow of the highest peak, he came across a flat bank of rocks perched on the edge of a sharp ridge, falling in a sheer drop to the forested valley below. Beyond the trees and the grassy plain and sandy beach stretching away from the foot of the mountain lay the Aegean Sea: a dark foil to the brightening sky.
Kronos set his torch in the centre of a clutch of stones and heaped a few twigs and bracken onto the little fire. For a brief moment he thought Zeus had finally abandoned his pursuit. Then his son emerged from scrambling up the scree to stand at the edge of the light, his clothes smeared with dust, his eyes blazing brighter than the flames.
Kronos could not help the spark of pride that warmed his chest.
‘Sit with me.’
